The Heretics of St. Possenti Read online

  The Heretics of St. Possenti

  Rolf Nelson

  Copyright

  The Heretics of St. Possenti

  Rolf Nelson

  Castalia House

  Kouvola, Finland

  www.castaliahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by Finnish copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental

  Copyright © 2017 by Rolf Nelson

  All rights reserved

  Cover: Steve Beaulieu

  Version: 001

  Contents

  Prologue

  New Mission

  Problems

  Dojo

  Howling Puffin

  Vets

  Dojo II

  Routine Changes

  Talisman

  Gripe Table

  Linguistic Weeds

  First Range

  Inspiration

  Debt

  Research

  Return Visitor

  Check-in

  Shifts

  Spiderlon Habits

  Sales Pitch

  Bulletproof Monk

  Prior Restraint

  Travel

  Move-in

  First Morning

  First Sunday

  Vows

  Commandment 10

  Permits

  Watchers

  Inspection

  Prior Arrival

  Cells

  Cowgirl

  Gas Leak

  ER

  Pipes

  Sleep

  Range

  New Old Guns

  Bayonet Drill

  Submersion

  Spring

  Summer

  Promotion

  Scouting

  Newcomers

  First Day

  Intonation

  The Fifth Bus

  Failed Vocation

  Going to Press

  Election

  Returning Glass

  Raid

  Medallion

  Safe Space

  Recruit

  Congregation

  Blowback

  Hit

  Encounters

  Old Stomping Grounds

  Approval

  Appendix A: There is no appendix A

  Appendix B: The Story of St. Possenti

  Appendix C: The Heliand Bible

  Appendix D: Selected Biblical Quotes

  Dedication

  For people who want the backstory of a story, to Christians who are tired of being the bad guys in pop culture, and to anyone who wants to know how one inspired man can make a difference. It is for all those who need inspiration to get them though the day and who look in unexpected places for unusual ways to accomplish a mission. Those who don’t just think outside the box, but can’t see the box they need so they make an entirely new deluxe box to play in, can accomplish great things. They are people who understand and respect the old ways but know that sometimes a seed cannot grow without splitting the pavement.

  Thanks To

  Paul, Robert, Forrest, Nate, and everyone else that helped with reading, ideas, feedback, editing, and patience with my writing quirks.

  Background

  The first book written in this series of related stories was The Stars Came Back. It had a small but important part played by a somewhat mysterious order of monks, the Order of St. Possenti. It was also said they had a small but significant role in the past as they helped save (metaphorically and physically) the fully self-aware AI aboard the warship Armadillo. It was an unusual order of monks, and it raised more than a few reader questions. It also piqued my own interest: how could such an order of rifle-toting Christian monks come into existence? A fascinating plot device to use as a fully developed entity, but… How? So I set about exploring the idea. I learned much in the process about Christianity, Catholicism, popes, monks, schisms, and more. I hope you enjoy the results of that labor.

  Prologue

  We are, therefore, about to found a school of the Lord’s service, in which we hope to introduce nothing harsh or burdensome.

  —Prologue to The Holy Rule of St. Benedict

  Bishop Thomas Cranberry was having what was easily the most spiritually challenging week of his life. It had started with a homeless man, raving about watching women and children being blown to pieces in Tajikistan, then attempting to kill himself by blowing his own brains out all over the table during a soup-kitchen service. He’d missed, sort of, but made a horrible mess. God only knew how he got the gun. The following day a young man came careening through the door begging for sanctuary because he had been framed. He didn’t really rape the girl, he was sure she was 21. The police had to beat him into submission in the foyer before hauling him away. Three separate parishioners had approached him about divorce or annulment—one in confession, where she had the brass to humble-brag about her adultery, no less! One of his assistants had been accused of fondling day-camp boys, and in a tense phone call, the archbishop implied he had to be transferred… again. That was an issue that was supposed to have been taken care of—firmly—years ago. The list of former parishioners who had ceased attending mass had been even longer than he’d feared—more than three times as many men as women—and there were no any obvious ways to reverse the trend. The charming young lady doing the accounting had apparently been charmed by the collection funds (as if funding wasn’t tight enough, what with falling membership and fewer children every year), and now… this.

  It sat gleaming in the sunlight slanting in through the window.

  He stared at the revolver that the kindly little old Mrs. Mabry had dropped on his office desk. It was her late husband’s. She didn’t know what to do with it, so she’d brought it to someone trustworthy—him, she said so endearingly—to dispose of it. He winced internally even as he said the words, “Yes, I can take care of that for you, Jane.” He hated guns, as much an earthly symbol of Satan and suffering as any in existence. He didn’t want to even touch it, but the elderly woman was more than a little eccentric, and it was not safe to leave it in her unsteady hands. “Anything to help ease your mind at a time like this.” He escorted her out, asking about her grandchildren and making small talk.

  Returning to his office, he sighed. Life was starting to feel like a reading from Job. If he hurried, he could stop by a police station on his way home and drop it off to be dealt with. He carefully picked up the revolver, placed it in his small briefcase, and headed out, calling a tired goodbye to the groundskeeper working in the faint warmth of the evening sunlight as he passed by.

  Nothing happened when he turned the key in his car. Well, nothing except a status light on the dash flashed, indicating an onboard computer error had been flagged and the month-old vehicle needed to be taken in to a mechanic—or more likely, an electronics tech—to look at. Fully charged, but… no joy in car-ville. He debated briefly calling a tow truck but decided God might be telling him he needed the exercise: home wasn’t that far away. It was a beautiful evening, and the precinct office wasn’t far off the route. It would be a pleasant walk. He retrieved the heavier-than-usual briefcase and started out briskly, humming a hymn.

  He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him a block later, but the raspy voice hissing an order in his ear couldn’t be missed. “Hand it over!” Cranberry started and spun ar
ound. “Fast and quiet.” He was looking at a man with a knife. The stench of rotting teeth, alcohol, and the chemical twang of a tweaker assaulted his nose.

  In a flash of inspiration and a moment of weakness about the preservation of his earthly flesh, the bishop acted as though he were complying while he reached inside his briefcase. The revolver slid into his hand as if custom fitted. “Be calm, my son. No need to be–”

  “Now, bitch!” The whites of the man’s eyes were clearly visible, the iris nearly nonexistent because of the drug-enlarged pupils.

  With a shaking hand Bishop Cranberry drew out the shiny hunk of brushed stainless steel. The sunlight flashed evilly off the smooth barrel and sights, its mass filling half his field of view. He pointed it at the man accosting him, and then waved it vaguely as if to send him away. The druggie’s eyes narrowed as he looked at this man in a collar, holding a gun in trembling hands. Cranberry’s attacker laughed—a rattly, tubercular, wet-sounding wheeze.

  “Gimme that, too, bitch!”

  He reached for the gun. Cranberry pulled the trigger. The hammer rose and fell, making a loud metallic clack. His attacker took the gun from his hand, twisting it easily from his grip as he stepped in close. “Guns ain’t much good if they ain’t loaded, bitch!”

  Thirty seconds later, Cranberry had lost everything of possible value he’d been carrying, including the gold crucifix he’d worn since seminary. He’d gained a nasty cut on his head from being pistol-whipped as well.

  Hazily, he watched his assailant run, cut through a hedge, and disappear.

  A moment later a car passed as he lay there on the sidewalk, on his elbow, bleeding and dazed. It didn’t stop. Nor did the next one.

  It was the sixth. The driver rolled the window down a crack, calling out to him “You okay?”

  “I was just robbed,” the bishop replied from the sidewalk, wincing as he gently touched his injured head while his pulse pounded in his ears.

  The driver eyed the surrounding hedges, fences, and hiding places suspiciously. Without getting out, he punched up an emergency call. Cranberry heard the terse words. “This location. A guy on the sidewalk. Looks like he’s bleeding. Says he was robbed…. No, doesn’t look life-threatening….” The driver called out the window, “They’ll send someone. Might be a few minutes.”

  Then the car was gone, leaving him on the hard concrete.

  He sat up, mentally numb, his mind spinning fast but going nowhere. He wasn’t sure how long he sat as the sun sank slowly lower in the western sky. Cars whizzed quietly by, none stopping. No passers-by were walking past to stop. Maybe they saw him from a distant place and took a different path to avoid getting involved.

  An aid car arrived, lights flashing, but silent. Nobody got out. The window rolled down a crack, just like the car. “Gotta wait for backup, mister. Anything other than that cut on your head we need to know about?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “We can start the paperwork now then. Got a name?”

  “Bishop Thomas Cranberry.”

  “Bishop. Unusual name. No ‘Cranberry’ in the database by the name of Bishop or otherwise. You insured, or can you pay cash?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Bishop is my title. My name is Thomas A. Cranberry. I work for the archdiocese. I am insured.”

  “Ah. Let’s see here…. Nope, not in-network. I think that’s AmPaxIns. I’ll let them know. Sorry for bothering you.” The window slid up as the aid car drove away, flashers now off.

  Cranberry stared in disbelief at the retreating taillights. He rose slowly to his feet as the throbbing slowed and his mind started to clear a bit. Another car with flashers on rolled up and stopped next to him. Two officers wearing body armor and helmets exited after long seconds scanning the area. They slung their AR-15 rifles after they got out, clipping the sling to the single-point attachment on the stock. One of them scanned the area, holding the rifle ready, while the other approached.

  “What happened?”

  “I was robbed. And assaulted. I was just walking home, and I was robbed. From behind.”

  “How many?” the officer’s tone was brisk and businesslike.

  “Just one. He looked like a homeless man.”

  “What did he take?”

  “Everything. My wallet, phone, watch, signet ring, crucifix–”

  “Crucifix?”

  “Yes; I work at the church down the street. I–”

  The officer’s eyes narrowed a bit. “What did he hit you with?”

  “He pistol-whipped me.”

  “He had a gun?” The officer who was standing further away, scanning and standing guard with both hands on his rifle, glanced his way, slightly more interested. “What sort?”

  “Not really, but—”

  “Not really?” The officer’s tone turned accusatory. “Did he have a gun or not?”

  “Well, no, he didn’t at first. He took the one that Mrs. Mabry gave me this afternoon, and—”

  The officer’s words were slow and careful. “He took your gun? One you took possession of this afternoon?”

  “Yes, that’s right, he—”

  “Where did you take possession of it?”

  “At St Paul’s.”

  “Did he take your FOID?”

  “My what?”

  “Do you have the gun-permit paperwork at the church?”

  “No, Mrs. Mabry just gave it to me. I was going to—”

  “So you didn’t get a gun sale and transfer form or get a background check?”

  “No, of course not! I am a bishop in the archdiocese, and Mrs. Mabry—one of my parishioners— came by this afternoon to–”

  “A title doesn’t make you above the law, Mister Bishop. And, as I recall, my mother was picked pretty clean by the church before she passed away last year. Two illegal gun transfers in a single day will not go down well with the bail judge.”

  “What?”

  “You took possession of a gun without a background check, or permit, or waiting period, or FFL… in violation of the law. You failed to properly secure it, directly resulting in its theft, a violation of the Safe Storage Act, so you are also liable for the transfer to your robber. I’m sure they’ll be very nice to you in the holding cell.” The officer’s smile was not a pleasant one. The smirk on the second officer’s face was even more obvious. “Maybe you’ll get to play altar-boy.”

  * * *

  In his pressed jacket and slacks, neat hair, clerical collar, generally soft appearance, and bloody face, he drew instant attention when he was pushed firmly into the holding cell. Quiet fell for a moment, while the small crowd sized him up, before they exploded in derisive laughter. They were obviously not regular churchgoers.

  “So, padre… Get caught in confessional with the Communion wine? Or sticky fingers in a collection plate?” asked the first to speak.

  “Nah, looks like he got found by a jealous husband. Looks about right for getting cut on someone’s ring.”

  “Maybe he found a boyfriend, and it was the guy’s wife beating him up. Looks easy enough,” observed a third.

  The comments and abuse went downhill from there. They laughed uproariously when he admitted he had not known the gun was unloaded. Protesting that he wasn’t even sure how he could have checked brought more gales of harsh laughter. Every attempt at further explanation made their opinion of him sink lower. He was not accustomed to being the center of entertainment of such men. While he was used to talking with people skeptical of the faith, he had never been so openly mocked and ridiculed.

  “You expect to get people into your church when you know nothing ’bout nothing? No wonder they only recruit virgins to be priests! Can’t even use the dick God gave you!”

  “Yeah, why call you father when you can’t be one?”

  One middle-aged man with a heavy accent was very pointed in his disgust. “I went to priest once in despair. Caught my squeeze cheating. Damn near killed da’ guy. I didn’t know what to do. He hear my confession
as I pour my soul out to him, hoping he could help me. All he could tell was say three Our Fathers and three Hail Mary’s and get to Mass more often. He was a useless… Useless. Not been back since.”

  The pair of Muslims in the cell made fun of his weakness and ineptitude, mocking the constant retreat of Christianity across most of the world for the previous century and bragging that more churches and false idols had been converted or destroyed for Allah recently than in all of Christendom’s longer history. It was a dying faith, they crowed, slowly coming under Islam’s sword, just as Mohammad had prophesied.

  Another man, fairly respectable looking and clean cut compared to the rest of the crowd in the cell, with short hair, an old scar on his right cheek, and a serious attitude, snarled at him after watching in silence for a long time. “You make me sick! Always asking what we can do for God. Asking what we can do for the community. Asking what we can give you. I’m getting damn tired of it. Got nothing left to give. You ask to support the less fortunate and then want to take what little of my hard-earned money that the tax man, the divorce lawyers, and the bank leave me with, so they can live comfortably on my dime. You are all leeches, every damn last one of you. Politicians, con men, and priests! All cut from the same damn cheap-ass cloth!

  “You tell me to turn the other cheek, and all that got was my buddy burned to death with a Molotov when the little scum came back because we took pity on him and let him live after we caught him sneaking past the wire. I turned the other cheek on my wife cheating while I was overseas, and all that got me was a divorce and child support payments for the next twenty years for her bastard. I followed your laws, didn’t buy a gun to protect the family ’cause her shrink said the flashbacks made me unstable, unreliable; all that got me was my home robbed three times and the kids terrified. You walk a mile in my shoes, and the weight will crush you. You read about Job but don’t understand it. You virgins are giving family advice with nothing but what you read in a book written by some other pathetic virgins and gammas. Your pulpit doesn’t have answers. All you have are platitudes and euphemisms. Prayers won’t drop a man shooting at you from two hundred meters. You want me to listen to your God? Then tell him to send someone with a few answers that actually works in the world I live in. Tell him to send someone whose ass I can’t kick with both hands tied behind my back; a messenger that will stand by my side helping to take care of my problems, not some weak, useless, pale squish like you.”