Brotherhood.

O’Malley wasn’t fond of these big Synods. There was something about the opulence of the events that seemed insulting to him, nor was he ever comfortable in Rome. He knew that some of the other Bishops looked on him as a bit of a hick, which was fine, not everyone’s congregation was in Knightsbridge or Manhattan. He preferred his little working-class districts to the futile attempts to darn the rich and famous through the eyes of needles.

It was, despite his guilt, a splendid affair, the wine was superb, the meal had been impressive. He came back into the main room to mingle, which was often where all the real work was done. The room was abuzz, with Bishops from all over talking cheerfully and freely. The Synod had been called abruptly and from the looks of it, the Bishops had been chosen haphazardly. He barely recognised anyone but as he scanned the room it was obvious someone had spotted him, a tall man, short curly grey hair, in his sixties. O’Malley could not recall his name, but walked over anyway, with a welcoming smile.

“Peter,” The Bishop said grabbing his hand. “It is good to see you again.” He had an Italian accent, Northern Italy but his English flattened it with some American hints, California specifically. This was Bishop Giuseppe Carafa, O’Malley remembered, just in the nick of time.

“Giuseppe, long time no see. How are you?” O’Malley asked, as they shook hands vigorously.

“I’m doing well,” Giuseppe replied while looking around the room. “Though I have to say, this all seems very… what’s the word?”

“Impromptu?” O’Malley said with a cheeky smile.

Guiseppe laughed. “Hah, perfect!”

“Yes, I was noticing we had a lot wider representation here than the last two.”

“Different matters, I guess. The last one was about our stance on European Blasphemy laws.”

“Any idea why we are here, Giuseppe?”

He shrugged. “Some faces I recognise, some I do not. There is nothing about this that suggests an obvious answer.”

“Well it must be about something urgent, after all the actual Synod is booked for the end of next month.” O’Malley said but Bishop Carafa was not listening, instead he was looking in the direction of three men who were huddled over in another corner.

“Now there is a thing you don’t see every day.” Giuseppe muttered, mostly to himself.

“What’s that?” O’Malley asked. He noticed that Giuseppe’s look was now pensive, serious and, above all, worried.

“Over by the pillar near the male toilet door, at the left corner, do you see?” Guiseppe asked.

“Three of them… is that Bishop Schreiber?” O’Malley asked. He was shocked, Schreiber was a figure of contention, the last person you’d invite if you were looking for a broad consensus. Schreiber had been a bit too outspoken about the supernatural aspect of Catholicism, which had split the church into two camps. One, the majority who thought he should shut up lest he spook the flock and another, much smaller, perhaps only a few hundred who agreed or had sympathy for what Schreiber was saying.

“Exactly,” Guiseppe said. “Come on, let’s go over, I’ve been wanting to speak to him for quite some time.”

The two of them made their way across the lounge towards the three other Bishops. Schreiber spotted them and said “Ah, Bishop Carafa, why am I not surprised?” The rotund old Bishop said, heartily, with only a hint of a German accent.

“Herman my old friend, good to see you, allow me to introduce...”

“Bishop Peter O’Malley, if I am not mistaken, yes?” Schreiber guessed.

“That’s right,” O’Malley grinned. “Pleased to meet you.”

“So why would the Pontiff want Herman Schreiber at one of his gatherings? I thought you were all but persona non gratis at these things.” Guiseppe enquired.

“It had me perplexed as well, until I noticed who was here,” Scheiber answered. “Did either of you spot it? Either way, I’m being rude. This is Bishop Lybaert of Bruges and Bishop Tishon of Moshi.” Schreiber said introducing the men stood beside him.

Some further greeting ensued and then Schreiber went straight back to the previous subject. “In a way I think I should be concerned. Every single one of the Bishops in this room wrote favourably about my writings. I think you are all of them, yes, with the exception of a couple of the Cardinals his Holiness has sent to oversee things, everyone here wrote a letter or a word of support against my harsh criticism.”

“Perhaps his Holiness has changed his mind, perhaps he is more willing to see things your way.” Guiseppe said.

“That is what worries me.” Schreiber said, screwing up his face.

“I think you should be worried about your vanity, Herman, it is entirely possible that it may be coincidental.” Tishon said, jokingly.

“You may of course be correct, I just find it all very strange. Shall we find some seats? My old legs are not made for standing the way they used to be.” Scheiber said.

Lybaert, a medium man in every sense, directed their attention towards a circular table not far from where they were. They relocated quite easily, which was both more comfortable and, since it was below the general hub-bub of most people who were all standing, a bit quieter.

“So why would the Holy Father take it upon himself to hold a meeting for your fan-club?” Lybaert said.

Schreiber was craning for a waiter. “I would guess because, as Guiseppe mentioned, something has happened that has made him and the others change their view. That is why I say it worries me.”

“Because it means they’ve they’ve decided to do a volte face on the whole “play down the miracles” attitude, yes?” O’Malley added.

“Yes.” Schreiber confirmed.

Guiseppe was puzzled. “I don’t understand, surely you would be pleased that they are taking you more seriously?”

“Of course, but I fear that it is not reason that has driven them to all of this, it is reaction.” Schreiber answered.

This led to a pause for a few seconds as they all thought about that and Schreiber beckoned over one of the waiting staff. Lybaert was just about to say something but stopped when one of the staff arrived, a young woman, no older that twenty five. They ordered three bottles of Red, she recommended the Monferrato, which they all seemed happy with, though Bishop Tishon ordered an orange juice. She smiled and strode off, as she did Lybaert began to speak. “If you are implying something Herman, I wish you would get to it.”

“That is fair, Yanis” Schreiber nodded, “lets wait until we have our drinks, we might need them.” He said and then winked at Toshin. There was a tension in the air, mostly coming from Lybaert. O’Malley tried to cut through it. “So, are any of you looking forward to the World Cup?”

That set them off with the right noises and soon the conversation turned to who was likely to go home with the trophy. Guiseppe was convinced Italy would return to take the championship, but so was everyone else, expect for Toshin and O’Malley, neither of whose countries qualified. Which led to some light mockery of both. O’Malley was happy to take it, at least his gambit had worked and put them all a bit more at ease.

The young woman came back with the bottles and glasses. She placed them down quickly and efficiently and then sped off without a word. “They say young people are lazy.” Guiseppe laughed, shaking his head.

Schreiber poured the wine. “So, Yanis you asked what I was implying so let me make it explicit. It is no secret that I and his Holiness have not always seen things eye to eye on things. He sees me as a throwback, which I think unfair, there are certainly many things we can do with modernising, but it is not on those things where we disagree. He knows perfectly well my thinking is that by lessening our focus on the supernatural aspects of our faith we are not serving our faithful well.”

“You say that, but has his Holiness rejected The Birth? Did he suggest the resurrection was mere metaphor? I don’t get your meaning.” Lybaert insisted.

“I speak of the negative aspects of the supernatural, Yanis. Of Satan and of Hell. I am not suggesting we terrify infants with misguided morality tales of torture and horror but I am suggesting we remember we are still at war.”

“It seems so strange to hear someone say that out loud.” Guiseppe said.

Both O’Malley and Tishon were nodding. Lybaert just looked at them wide eyed. “It most certainly does.” There was no condemnation in his words though, they were genuine and filled with relief.

“I did my research you know. Eighty-one Bishops wrote in support of me, most if not all are here, and most if not all have one other thing in common, don’t we?” Schreiber said.

No one seemed to have any idea what he meant. He shrugged. “It should have been obvious why you all supported me, but I checked the best I could and so, well to be blunt about it, in the last five years all of you have filed reports regarding your belief that there was a negative supernatural influence in your diocese, correct?”

The question led to furtive, embarrassed glances between them. Bishop Tishon nodded though. “This is true, but you make it sound more important that it was. We had a young mother die, her grieving family kept claiming they had seen her ghost in her bedroom. I was asked to attend and so I did. Did I see any ghost? No. There was, however, a terrible atmosphere in that room, it was always cold and no matter how well it was lit, it was always dismal. I gave the room a blessing and thought it was done with. I left the room for no more than ten seconds, to let the family know I had finished, when I heard something like a whispered groan. My curiosity got the better of me and I went back into the room. It was empty but the bed-covers, which had been neatly made. They lay strewn across the floor. I saw nothing else, but decided it worthy of note. After the blessing, the family never had any further trouble.”

Schreiber nodded. “But something you still found strange enough to commit to writing.”

“What does that have to do with your belief that this whole synod is about you?” Lybaert said, cheekily.

“Go on Yanis, tell me and the others what it was you reported.” Schreiber taunted.

Bishop Lybaert folded his arms. “I have no problem telling you exactly what happened, it is a matter of common knowledge, after all.”

“What isn’t in this day and age?” Guiseppe added with a laugh.

“All the clocks stopped. Simple as that, an entire district of the town, all of them stopped at the same moment and some people got a bit too worried. I was asked to write a report on the phenomenon. Why not?”

“I remember that!” Guiseppe exclaimed. “I saw it online. I remember it clearly because I had heard a rumour about a cult in my area. They were linked with drug smuggling and prostitution but no one cared until girls started disappearing at night. It was a tragedy, very sad, they killed twelve girls in less than six months. The police contacted me because the cultists were into black magic, and the cops got concerned and thought I might be able to help them. I wasn’t. My report was about their links to Satanism.”

Lybaert smiled. “Nothing seems to support your assertion Herman, we reported some anomalies, certainly but nothing that suggests we are in the midst of some conflict.”

Schreiber shook his head. O’Malley had some sympathy. “We’re constantly in conflict,” He said. “I don’t understand your protestations Bishop Lybaert, surely you cannot think an entire district’s clocks all stopping at the same instant is mere coincidence?”

“I do not, but I do not accept that his Holiness is neglecting these matters and that Bishop Schreiber is somehow at the vanguard of some group brought here to fix it.” Lybaert said.

“Perhaps not. I hope not, I hope you are correct. I am merely suggesting that is what I see here and that perhaps his holiness has reason to bring in those who are more supportive of the viewpoint that we must publicly be seen to maintain vigilance against the machinations of the adversary.” Schreiber insisted.

Tishon puffed air. “You should be careful of such talk, Herman. Our militant efforts do not have a splendid history.”

“Indeed not,” Schreiber agreed. “which is partially why I’m concerned.”

“Partially?” Tishon asked.

“What if there has been some sign, or escalation, something bad that we’ve not heard about? That is my major concern.” Schreiber replied.

“What do you make of this, Peter?” Guiseppe asked.

“Well it is all conjecture. However I did want to go back to something Lybaert said. You said he had no support for his assertion. Well let me ask you. The day the clocks stopped, was it by any chance, August the 23^rd?” O’Malley asked.

“It was.” Lybaert confirmed.

“Yes, I thought as much. I made my own report around the same time.” O’Malley replied. “It was shortly after I was hunted.”

“Hunted?” they all asked in unison.

O’Malley looked down and nodded. “Yes. We don’t like to think about it do we? However humans are a herd animal, just look at our own flocks, we even call them flocks, and we’re supposed to shepherd them. That doesn’t just mean guide them but protect them. Because just like any large herd, our perimeters are stalked by a variety of predators. So, yes, I was hunted.”

“How?” Lybaert asked, giving a baffled, nervous laugh.

O’Malley sighed. It wasn’t an experience he wished to recollect let alone explain but he felt it necessary. “The diocese where I serve has never been a wealthy place, generations of depravation have left it a grim and foreboding area. One of the local priests came to me with some serious concerns about some of his parish. There had been a series of rapes and each of the women who had come to him for guidance and support had said the same thing, they’d been abused by something they had described as a monster. We consulted with the police but they were of the opinion that this was some kind of mass hysteria. This went on for a while, so eventually I accompanied the priest to the community, just to show some extra support. The place had a grim atmosphere, calling it a slum would have been a compliment.”

The others did not speak, though Lybaert did look somewhat concerned, as if the story were familiar. O’Malley continued. “While we were there we were called to one of the families. A vile bunch, who had prostituted their thirteen year old. Elena, her name was. A tiny thing she was and she was in a terrible state, both physically and mentally. I will spare you the tragic details, but the child was brutally abused. I felt useless, impotent, as if my faith had been ripped from me when I sat in that filthy hovel listening to her. She claimed that three men had taken her by car to a place where upon they served her up to a demon. In that atmosphere of deprivation her story did not seem fanciful at all. The place was a disused car-lot near the edge of the district which had been used as a dumping ground by the locals. It was a terrible place, terrible.”

His mouth was dry so O’Malley reached for another sip of wine, he noticed his hands were shaking as he did. So did the others.

“If this is too much for you, Peter...” Guiseppe offered but O’Malley shook his head.

“It’s fine, thank you.” O’Malley said, almost a sigh.

“Continue, please.” Schreiber said, picking up the bottle and filling his own glass.

O’Malley took a breath and continued. “We, Father Patrick and I arrived at the car-lot in the afternoon, above the place was a cloud of flies, they murmurated in the damp sickly air, like flock of starlings. The area stank of rot and shit, filed with garbage, rusty shopping trolleys, empty fridges and cookers, that sort of thing. We entered with a sense of trepidation, something primal that wormed its way into us, a fear, like the zebra downwind of the lion we could sense the presence of something, something old and dangerous. Around the place were a slew of Satanic symbols. These were not the simple pentacles that rebellious teenagers like to flaunt, but sigils of the iniquitous names. In the midst of all of this was a shrine, a horrid thing, rats nailed to the inverted crucifix. Upon witnessing this I began to feel real dread. It was then the creature revealed itself to me.”

“Creature?!” Lybaert exclaimed, so loudly that it turned heads across the room.

O’Malley sighed, it was hard to express the truth, even in a room full of professional believers. “The demon. It was a big creature, something akin to a hairless bear but with some face resembling that of a human, but not quite. It was no bear, no beast of this world, that I swear. It paced toward me with a sardonic, malicious grin on its face and eyes that glared but not with any recognisable human emotion written on them, other than a hint of cruel, vicious lusts. I stood frozen, paralysed with fear as this thing from Hell walked right up to me. I expected it would kill me, there and crossed myself. I wish I could tell you I was brave, that I confronted the creature, that I managed to sent it back to the pit, but I did not. I am ashamed to say all did was piss myself. It stood in front of me and rose to its full height, until it towered over me and then it leant forward and whispered in my ear. Its voice was oily, a thing that only existed to mock and to flatter and decieve. ‘Non potes vincere, monsignor’ it sneered.”

At this he had expected Lybaert to say something negative but Lybaert just shook his head and took a drink.

“This was last August?” Schreiber said.

“Yes, between the eighteenth and twenty-sixth. It was on the twenty-sixth that I saw the demon. I wish that had been the end of it, but in fact three weeks ago, the child, Elena, was found murdered, gutted in fact, in the car-lot. She had been pregnant, was due to give birth last week. The child, I am sad to say had been stolen, but as yet no-one has been able to find it.”

“Mother of God.” Guiseppe said, crossing himself then kissing his crucifix.

Schreiber was nodding. “And now we are all here. I suspect, dear Yanis, that if you go to any table in this room, you will hear similar stories. I suspect that his Holiness is aware of this and perhaps of more than we have witnessed and I suspect this is why we are all here.”

A bell rang across the room. “And now, we shall all find out, yes?” Schreiber said.

To that Lybaert said nothing.