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  MAGNIFICAT

  a novel of the millennium

  by

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  HIDDEN KNOWLEDGE

  SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA

  1999

  The entire contents

  of this edition

  Copyright © Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  In accordance with the International Copyright Convention and federal copyright statutes, permission to adapt, copy, excerpt, whole or in part in any medium, or to extract characters or any purpose whatsoever is herewith expressly withheld.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, apply to publisher below.

  A somewhat different version of Chapter One appeared in Gauntlet Magazine, No. 6 (November 1993)

  You, the owner, may make backup copies and/or put a copy on a second or third computer or reading device. You may print out a copy for your own use. You may lend the book, sell it, or give it away, as long as you lend, sell, or give away all copies. You may have the text read aloud by reading machines or computers or people.

  You may not distribute free copies, put it on a network, e-mail it to your friends (or enemies or strangers or anyone else), photocopy your printout for someone else, or do any of the other things that you, as an intelligent being, know would be wrong.

  Just treat us the way you would like to be treated yourself.

  — THE PUBLISHERS

  Published as a digital book by

  Hidden Knowledge

  1181 Martin Avenue

  San Jose, California 95126-2626

  http://www.hidden-knowledge.com

  First Edition (Release 1.08)

  15 May 2005

  The Canticle of the Virgin Mary

  called The Magnificat, Luke 1:46-55

  Magnificat anima mea Dominum

  Et exsultavit meus in Deo salutari meo.

  Quia respexit humilitatem ancillae Suae;

  Ecce enim ex hoc beatam me dicent omnes generationes.

  Quia fecit mihi magna Qui potents est,

  Et sanctum nomen Eius.

  Et misericorida a progenie in progenies timentibus Eum.

  Fecit potentiam in brachio Suo, dispersit superbos mente cordis sui.

  Desposuit potentes in sede in exaltavit humiles.

  Esurientes implevit vonis et divites dimisit inanes.

  Suscepit Israeel puerem Suum recordatus misericordiae Suae.

  Sicut locutus est et Patres nostros, Abraham et semini eius in saecula.

  My being extols the greatness of the Lord,

  My soul rejoices in God my savior,

  For He has looked upon His servant in her humility;

  All ages to come will call me most fortunate.

  God Who is mighty has done great things for me,

  Holy is His name.

  His mercy is from age to age for those who fear Him.

  He has shown might with His arm;

  He has confounded the proud in their deliberations.

  He has deposed the great from their thrones

  And raised the lowly on high.

  The hungry He has fed to repletion,

  While the greedy He has sent away with nothing.

  He has upheld Israel His servant, always cognizant of His mercy,

  Even as He promised our father Abraham and his descendants for all time.

  This is for

  my step-brother

  Jack Patrick

  who is Roman Catholic

  and my friend

  Robert R. McCammon

  who isn’t

  This is a work of fiction; I made it up.

  But the premise is consistent

  with Roman Catholic dogma

  doctrine and theology.

  MAGNIFICAT

  Part I:

  ELECTION

  Chapter 1

  As he set the nib of his pen on the vellum, Ottone, Cardinal Folgar, was possessed by a strange dizziness; there was a whiteness behind his eyes, light that was more than light, a fluttering of breath, a sense that something hovered over him, a moment that was suspended in eternity. Then it was gone and he passed a shaking hand across his brow, murmuring thanks to God that He had chosen to leave him on earth a little longer. How ironic, he thought in the next instant as he touched the crucifix that hung on his breast, if he died now, while the Cardinals were gathered in conclave to choose a new Pope: a new Pope for the second time in three years, and with the millennium fast approaching, bringing with it a religious fervor Cardinal Folgar had not encountered before in his lifetime.

  From inclination as much as habit the Cardinal still prayed in Latin, relishing the tolling cadences he had mastered as a child. Now the familiar liturgy took his mind off the peculiar, brief episode that might presage disaster. His brother had died of a stroke, just three years ago. Perhaps this was how it had begun. He continued his thanks to God, shutting out the arthritic ache in his knees as well as his growing irritation with his fellow-Princes of the Church, who, like him, were about to submit their ballots to be counted. He set aside the old-fashioned crow-quill pen.

  Then he glanced down at the vellum and shook his head. He had been instructed to disguise his handwriting, and had certainly succeeded in doing so. Would it be possible to read the name of Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung in that disjointed scrawl? That was not supposed to be his concern. He crossed himself and got up from his knees, impatient to be done. There was another long week of maneuvering, he was convinced, before his own conservative faction and Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme’s radicals would come to terms. Both sides would probably compromise, either with the popular Vitale, Cardinal Cadini, or the Canadian, Dominique, Cardinal Hetre. For the time being, there was a ritual to the politics of the conclave as there was to everything in the Church—hence his temporary support of Cardinal Jung, though he did not want the pompous Swiss to be elected.

  He put his vellum into a foil-lined envelope and began to heat sealing wax over a match. This was one reform of John-Paul II’s he could approve, this simplifying of the presentation of ballots; as he pressed his Cardinal’s ring into the dollop of hot wax, he thought he felt a distant, fleeting echo of his earlier disorientation. He blew out the match and resumed his prayers.

  * * *

  Not far from Cardinal Folgar’s conclave cell, Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha completed his prayers without finding the peace he sought. He had heard that the conclaves were more politics than religion, but he had not anticipated how extreme it would be, with the liberal and conservative elements of the Church so acrimoniously divided. He had attempted to conceal his shock and dismay but knew he had failed. As the newest Cardinal, he was the least prepared for what he encountered here; he almost regretted the knowledge he had acquired in the last thirteen days as the Cardinals feinted and riposted for advantage. How far he had come from the simple faith of his youth, the trust of his ordination. At fifty-one he was becoming a skeptic.

  It was time to vote, he knew, and he could not think of any name to put on the vellum. The last time he had voted for Felipe, Cardinal Pingari, as a gesture of support for the Filipino, but knew that a second such endorsement would be wasted: Cardinal Pingari himself had asked that he not be considered. He admired Vincent, Cardinal Walgren of Los Angeles, who had accomplished such wonders with youth gangs and
drug dealers. But was that acumen enough to recommend him for the Papacy? And how would the world respond to an American Pope?

  He was not aware that he had taken his pen in hand and marked the vellum. It must be the fatigue, he decided as he peered at the scratchings. He had been staying up nights for meditation and prayers; during the day he fasted. Now those disciplines were taking their toll. The writing looked like doodles, he thought, or Chinese. He reached for his foil-lined envelope and prepared to seal his vote, wondering distantly whose name he had written.

  * * *

  When Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme handed over his sealed ballot, he left his cell for Vespers, ready to hear the tally of the votes as soon as the service was concluded. He could not conceal the aggravation that consumed him as he walked down the Sistine Chapel, ignoring Michelangelo’s splendor overhead. If only Urban IX had lived another year! There would have been time to organize the Church liberals against the forces of conservatism which were gaining strength in the Church as the Third Millennium approached. It was hard to believe. In just three years the Third Millennium would begin, and the Church was in as much disarray as the rest of Christianity in anticipating 2001 A.D. Every extremist group was preaching chaos and the Second Coming, and the conservatives in the Church sympathized with this madness. Without the sweeping changes of John-Paul II in the last decade, the Church would be even more hampered than it had become; at least there was a mechanism for change and reform, little as it was used. Inwardly he was afraid that it was too late, for the Cardinals with Cardinal Folgar were entrenched and prepared to resist to the last. As it was, he had tried to rally the Europeans along with the Third-world Cardinals to stand against the reactionaries. The longer it took to elect the Pope, the more he feared the outcome of the conclave.

  His own vote puzzled him, for he had been distracted when he wrote the name of his candidate. It was an effort to make sense of the marks on the vellum, but he supposed that the secretaries were used to that and would make allowances for his attempts to disguise his hand. He stopped walking as he chided himself for his worldliness; the Apostolic Succession, he reminded himself sternly, was the result of the visitation of the Holy Spirit, not the result of Vatican skulduggery. That, above all, must be maintained or the whole fabric of Catholicism unraveled. Very carefully he crossed himself and tried to turn his thoughts to more spiritual paths. As he strove to keep his mind away from politics, he heard the opening words of Vespers—today in German—and he hastened to join the other Cardinals in worship.

  * * *

  It was Vitale, Cardinal Cadini who spoke for all of them when the secretary presented himself to them fully two hours after he was expected. “What is the trouble, Father?” He broke with tradition in asking the question, but Cardinal Cadini had made a career of breaking tradition since as a young Monsignor he had been an aide to John XXIII, and no one was shocked by him now. “Tell us.”

  The secretary, grown old at the Vatican, and seeming to be made of the same parchment as were many of the documents he tended, offered a gesture of apology. “Yes, Eminences,” he said, his voice almost breaking. “I fear there may be a…a problem.”

  “Well, what is it?” demanded Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung, his corpulent, satin-clad body as polished as a Dresden figurine. “Tell us at once.”

  Father McEllton blinked in helplessness. “It is not my sin, Eminences. I am not in error. I thought at first I was, but when all the ballots were examined.… I have done nothing to be ashamed of, but I must ask you to pardon me.”

  “Certainly,” said Cardinal Cadini, his raisin eyes twinkling. “We will all pardon you, every one of us, Father McEllton, if only you will tell us what is wrong.”

  There was a murmur of consent from the eighty-nine Cardinals, and one or two mutters at the delay.

  “Have we a Pope or not?” Cardinal Folgar asked emphatically.

  “Eminences, we have…consensus.” He turned pale. “You have all written the same name. ”

  “All of us?” Cardinal Folgar was dumbfounded that all the Cardinals would support Cardinal Jung.

  A susurrus passed through the men gathered around Father McEllton, and one or two of the Princes of the Church crossed themselves.

  “How is that possible?” asked Cardinal Pingari with a polite nod to the cadaverous Cardinal Lepescu at his side. Both men wore dignity more prominently than their red cassocks.

  “If we truly have consensus,” said the doubtful Dominique, Cardinal Hetre, “then why have we not followed procedure?” He was a stickler for procedure, always.

  Once again Father McEllton dithered. “You see, I didn’t understand at first. I did not see. How could I? What would lead me to think.… I thought it was the handwriting.” He wrung his fingers as if to force the offending words out of them. “I ask your pardon, Eminences. I mean no disrespect. If Father Zirhendakru had not been.… As it was, he identified the…the name.”

  “Surely our handwriting was not that bad,” suggested the older Polish Cardinal, his eyes hard and bright in his wrinkled face. He had supported the controversial Tokuyu, Cardinal Tsukamara, and flatly refused to suppose that all the rest of the College of Cardinals did as well. If only he had paid more attention to how he wrote the name on his ballot; but he had been momentarily distracted when he put his pen to the vellum, an inexcusable lapse.

  “It was…it was all the same,” said Father McEllton at last. “All the same name.”

  “And who is it?” the senior Cardinal from Brazil asked bluntly, glowering at Father McEllton. “What is it that distresses you?” Beside him, Jaime, Cardinal O’Higgins of Mexico City scowled portentously, the expression incongruous in his impish face.

  “We ought not to receive the information you have for us this way, no matter what the awkwardness of it may be,” said Cardinal Tayibha. “There is ritual—”

  “It is not the name of anyone here,” blurted out Father McEllton. Now that he had spoken the dreadful news, he felt suddenly, maddeningly calm. Nothing else would be as appalling as telling them that.

  “What do you mean, it isn’t the name of anyone here?” Cardinal Folgar said in disbelieving indignation. Which of the three celebrated Archbishops had been able to gain the Papacy when they had not yet achieved their red hats? How could there be unanimity, when he himself had not supported any of the Archbishops? Cardinal Folgar began to review all those Cardinals who might be expected to show support for one of the three famous Archbishops, but could not fathom how such a thing could happen, certainly not unanimously. “There has been a mistake,” he said, and saw that most of the Cardinals agreed with him.

  “Yes, precisely. It is a mistake, one that requires correction. The name…it is…it is the name of a foreigner.” Father McEllton folded his hands. “It is not a name I recognize, nor does the computer.” He stared straight ahead. “We have gone through all the registers and we have not found the name.”

  This time a third of the Cardinals crossed themselves and the words that were whispered among them were less indignant than before. One or two of the Cardinals appeared almost frightened.

  “But you say Father Zirhendakru recognized it,” prompted Cardinal Hetre, as much to stave off further distress as to obtain the offending name. These delays were making his headache worse.

  “Not precisely. He knew the language, and he translated it.” Father McEllton had turned bright red, his fair skin taking his blush like a stain.

  “Tell us, Father,” said Cardinal Cadini with his world-famous smile. “What is the name. Who have we all endorsed?” The smile grew broader, so that everyone would be certain he was joking, not commanding.

  “It.…” He took a deep breath, feeling his heart slamming in his chest. If only Our Lady would protect him through this ordeal, he would retire from Vatican service for the rest of his life and devote it to study and assisting the poor, he vowed. “It is Zhu…Zhuang Renxin, or so father Zirhendakru tells me.” He stumbled over the word, unable to pronounce the inflect
ions.

  The Cardinals were silent.

  Then Cardinal Folgar spoke for all of them, shaking with the intensity of his emotions. “What nonsense is this?”

  Immediately the other Cardinals added their questions and demands. The noise grew tremendous.

  “That is what Father Zirhendakru says,” Father McEllton repeated several times, unable to think of anything else to offer them. He had no explanation at all.

  Finally Cardinal Hetre managed to make himself heard over the rest of them. “It is obviously a prank,” he said, choosing the least inflammatory word he could think of. “Someone is trying to influence the conclave or make mock of it without direct interference.”

  This brought nods of agreement and a few condemning outbursts, including one staunch defense of Vatican Security. The growing awe that had possessed the Cardinals now vanished and was replaced by outrage.

  “It had to be the Communists,” said Cardinal Jung at once, certain that they would want to sow dissention in the ranks; and if the name on the ballot was Chinese, it only served to prove his point. “They want to destroy the Church, and they want to promote their godless cause in the eyes of the world. What better way than this?”

  “It has to be the Separatists,” corrected Michon, Cardinal Belleau, referring to the group of excommunicated priests and nuns who had splintered from the Church and now had established their own Vatican and Pope on the other side of Rome near Settecamini, acting in open defiance of the Holy See.

  “Incredible,” murmured Cardinal Cadini, for once unable to come up with a single witty remark.

  “It is obvious that we are being duped,” said Ectore, Cardinal Fiorivi, the most respected legal mind in the highest ranks of the Church and currently Vatican Secretary of State. “Someone, and it does not matter who, is attempting to impugn our credibility, to cast doubt on any Pope we elect. It is up to us to use our best judgment now and not permit this incident to interfere with our task here.” His voice, resonant and deep as a fine bell, quieted the gathering. “It behooves us to withdraw for meditation and prayer tonight, and in the morning we will have to discuss what we wish to do with these ballots. We will have to find a way to keep this information from reaching the public; it will be difficult, because whoever is responsible will certainly do their best to inform all the news media of what has happened, if only to put forward embarrassing questions. We must not permit this to occur, and we will need to counteract the rumors as soon as possible. In the meantime, you, Father McEllton, will announce that we have given the day to discussion and prayer and have not cast votes this evening, to forestall another dead-lock. Perhaps our reticence will cause the ones responsible to show themselves.”