It is a whirlwind in here



Putin And Satan Walk Into A Bar In Kiev On The Way To Hell

~ Vladimir, Vladimir, who’s being a bad boy?

~ I protect all the Russias.

~ Who’s your daddy?

~ They tell me it is you.

~ Then don’t lie to your father.

~ Why?

~ It only makes the dark side darker.

~ But I must lie to get what I want.

~ And what do you want?

~ To be loved.

~ You are too vile to be loved.

~ Even by my father?

~ Who art in Hell. Hollow be my name.

~ I will at least make them respect me.

~ Or kill them in the process.

~ Of course – it is what they deserve.

~Tell me.

~ What?

~ What do you really want?

~ To be taller.

~ That sounds true.

~ My shadow stretches over the world.

~ Yet your body barely blocks the light.

~ I will be noticed.

~ You will be trampled.

The Horror The Horror, Though Compared To H P Lovecraft Ain’t Bad

The president of a high-toned literary agency did – alas – reject my query proposal.
It was for one of my two novel manuscripts concerning Satan, where my broad group of earthly individuals manage – mostly – to keep Satan at a standstill. No easy feat. No pleasant feat. No pretty feat.

However, in his rejection he brings up the name of H P Lovecraft (1890-1937) , one of the most revered horror writers of the last two centuries. This, of course, pleases me – I like to turn my hand to a bit of horror and evil.
And – quite frankly – what a wonderful name for an author . . . Lovecraft

But -still – it was a rejection, with the usual caveats that all decisions are “highly subjective”.

But – still – it is H P Lovecraft.

Perhaps the Devil doesn’t smile –  but I do.

DE BA, novel,manuscript,agent,submission,rejection,HP Lovecraft,horror,Evil,Satan,author,query, UEL

Death And Satan Are So Often Holding Hands

Even though my current novel is a picaresque, and *relatively* care-free. it goes to other places, as all life must. So, with Alison Alexandra about to go a round with Old Nick, I resurrect this following segment from There Has Been A Sighting, my first Satan novel.


Mr. S. unexpectedly takes her arm, and begins to lead her along a winding, flagstone path. She has never seen such large pieces of the stone, and they glisten as if polished. 
      The path skirts a small stand of black spruce before it continues to the river. He stops her at the mouth of a gravel walkway leading through the trees.
      “Let’s pop in here.”
      “Your little acre of the Black Forest?”
      “Hardly an acre.”
      “Precision.” Breeze laughs. “Whatever would my father think of you?”
      “Does any father think well of any man when his daughter is concerned?”
      “Probably not.”
      “No,” agrees Mr. S. “So not to worry.”
      “He would think even less of someone leading his daughter down the garden path,” observes Breeze.
      “That would be before he saw what I am about to show you.” 
      Mr. S. holds her arm tightly, and guides her onto the gravel walk. It leads directly to the base of a tree, then makes an abrupt curve between the largest of the spruce. 
      One of the boughs is so low Breeze ducks her head. She has the sensation of being in the midst of a forest, for the heavy branches obscure the surroundings.
      “If I may be permitted a moment of drama.” 
      Mr. S. covers her eyes and speaks softly. 
      “Will you turn to your right, and take a few steps?”
      Even though he had asked, Breeze is startled as he gently eases her forward, and she feels a slight urge to resist him. Her steps are more cautious than the gravel walkway demands, and the press of his body is noticeable. She counts her footsteps under her breath. She is surprised when they stop at half a dozen, and he quickly removes his hand.
      “She’s beautiful.” Breeze stares, open-mouthed.
      “Yes.” Mr. S. is pleased. “I think so, too.”
      “An angel in the woods.”
      “The angel of peace.” Mr. S. walks her around the statue. “Not at all bad for a knockoff.” He pauses behind the wings.
      “A knockoff?”
      “A reproduction.” He puts his foot on the pedestal, and leans forward. “I don’t really know how old it is. Certainly last century – possibly before.” He points to the blue folds. “I’ve had the paint cleaned and touched up. Is it too garish?”
      “It … it stands out.” Breeze hunts for a word. “Let’s call it vibrant.”
      “They said it was probably close to the original colour.” Mr. S. walks around the statue and again halts beside Breeze. “Since she stands in so much shade, it’s for the best she stands with lots of colour.”
      “Do you believe in angels?”
      “I’ve just had a night-long fight with Satan. I have to believe in angels.”
      “Does she have a name?” Breeze leans forward to inspect the angel’s outstretched hand.
      “I’ve never given her one.”
      “That’s one of your suspicious half answers.” Breeze grins.
      “When Mother Ursula spoke to her, she called her `Pet’.”
      “`How are we today, Pet?’ `You got a soaking last night, 
Pet’.” Mr. S. glances at the statue’s face. “That sort of thing.”
      “Oh.” Breeze also decides to look at the angel’s face. “It’s not what you’d call a Christian name.”
      “Ursula would get a laugh out of that.” Mr. S. smiles slightly. “And so would the angel.” He turns toward Breeze. “And so do I.” He takes her hand. “Which is probably your intent, so I won’t again slip into the past tense when talking about Ursula.”
      “She’s not dead yet.”
      “Her living will gives the machines seventy-two hours.” Mr. S. looks at the angel. “I suspect it’s a wry Christian reference.”
      “So if she rises on the third day, we won’t be surprised.”
      “You have more optimism than even the Sisters.” He glances at her. “And they tend the machines.”
      “Machines have their place.”
      “Yes.” Mr. S. releases her hand. “But so does death.”


When The Other Animals Help Humans To Stop Satan

A prominent American politician (you know who you are) recently opined that a gang of murderous humans were a bunch of animals. We are all animals, and it should be of no surprise that the other animals never act with the hate and horror of humans. The true insult is to call someone “human”.
In my first Satan novel, There Has Been A Sighting, my human animal characters join with the other animals on the Makgadikgadi Salt Pan in Botswana to confront a true Beast. This is the abridged encounter.

“Caleb and I agree.” The old nun glances at Dorkas, then looks back to the Kgosi. “You must have your people move with them.” She speaks loudly, so other ears will hear. “Whether they join us, or we join them – we are all in this together.”

“My people – ”

“Will follow the crook of your finger.” Caleb is now standing on the other side of the Kgosi. “That’s what Dorkas told me, and I see she is right.”

“Am I now to trust the wild animals?”

“They are here.” Caleb points. “One must assume they are trusting us.”

“It seems to me.” Dorkas speaks softly. “Their leap of faith is greater than ours.”

“I will do as the white witch tells me.”

“No.” Dorkas puts a hand on his arm. “You must overcome your human limitations. You must act with the conviction of these other animals. This is not an order for me to give.”

“Talks With Devils wants a lot from me.”

“And I plan to get it.” Her grip becomes so fierce she pulls the Kgosi toward her. “And I plan to get it here, from this second forward.”

Letsolathebe looks around the tight circle of faces. He does not see fear or hesitation, and he regains his confidence.

“You seem ready to walk into Hell.”

“It’s an easy walk.”  Mother Ursula smiles.

“Is it an easy walk back?”

“Jesus did it with alacrity.”

“I am not the God woman’s God.” Letsolathebe wonders at the comment. “To say that puts a great burden on me.”

“Our Lord was also a human being.” The old nun chuckles. “And looked a lot more like you than me. It is as a man we know Him, and through His trials as a man that we more fully understand God.”

“Didn’t He die first, before He entered Hell?”

“There are drawbacks,” admits Mother Ursula.

“I can not tell my people that death is merely a drawback.”

“Perhaps we tell them too much as it is.” Caleb raises his voice, and Shona does likewise. “Perhaps it is time we listen.” He turns a slow arc to address their silent followers. “Listen to the other animals.”

“Listen?” asks Letsolathebe.

“And smell, and use all our senses.” Mother Ursula answers. “To become like them, so we can more truly become ourselves.”

A sigh of intense interest spreads to the furthest reaches of the assembly, then quietly ceases without question or comment. They all stop to listen to the animals. The other animals.

As the sounds of the people become just breath and heartbeat, the other animals keep their silence, and keep to their waiting, but their tension eases. Their erratic pawing of the ground, which had sounded so loud on the rough, hard earth, stops altogether. They no longer search for predators, or flex their legs for immediate flight.

After a long period of time, the other animals begin to move.

They move in unison, with tentative steps of invitation. Each and every person present is startled by the slow and careful approach of one of the other animals. They no longer mingle in a random way – they are choosing partners. The people stand silent and tense, and some shiver when an erratic flip of a tail catches them by surprise.

“Jesus,” whispers Shona.

The other animals sniff their way, hunting for scents which are compatible. They rarely hesitate, although the ones which have their young are more cautious, with many a backward glance. But the young follow their parents without deviation.

The presence of young animals makes the people less cautious. They feel no threat from these small animals – if anything, they have the desire to protect them, and save their future. The people began to regret they have not brought their own children, even though they realize their offspring are far more defenceless than any of these active cubs and kids. Their children can in no way fend for themselves.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Letsolathebe marches forward without another glance, barely noticing that the child’s hand has slipped into his own. They hold onto each other for dear life and expected death, as they race toward the flickering flame held high by Mother Ursula.

“Oh boy.” Caleb sighs.

“Do we follow?” asks Shona.

“Follow?” Dorkas shakes her head. “We join them. We match them. We become one with them.” She looks at Caleb.

“Mother Ursula may be right.” He smiles. “When is the last time we had Satan on the run?”

“Now or never,” says Dorkas. “It’s as easy as death.”

Caleb makes a slight bow to Dorkas, and to Shona, and then speaks loudly so she will translate with the same force.

“It seems to me this is the perfect time for Talks With Devils to have her say face-to-face.”

And as the three begin to race headlong into the darkest part of this darkest night, the thousands of their brethren and the thousands of the other animals are right at their heels.

And that beast.

That beast of time and terror.

That beast attached to life like a nodule of cancer.

That beast as strong as any lust.

That beast spread so deeply across the expanse of the Makgadikgadi Salt Pan.

That beast, recognizing in its fetid mouth the taste of defeat, lingers on the periphery of one glowing candle.

“You will never win.” Mother Ursula speaks softly. “In spite of all your victories, we are still able to care for each other.”

And that beast, afrighted by the light, and sacrifice, and the raw power of life, moves elsewhere.

“God woman.” Sekgoma tears across the rough ground and throws his arms around her. “Mother is safe?”

“This is a madness you have brought us I don’t wish to see again,” chides Letsolathebe. But he too puts an arm around the old nun’s shoulders.

“None of us can promise that.” Dorkas is breathless.

“Talks With Devils is always so strict.”

Letsolathebe takes both her hands, and leans forward to kiss her on the forehead. And then he does the same with Caleb.

I am the Kgosi, and I tell you this. Tomorrow night we will dance, and drink, and feast.”

His gaze sweeps over his people and the thousands of the other animals.

“But no roasted flesh.”


The “Dance of Death” [Der Berliner Totentanz] Offered For Halloween

In my novel, “There Has Been A Sighting”, sightings of Satan are tracked and confronted. An antechamber to such an encounter occurs in the crypt of the St. Marien church, in Berlin.




Dorkas removes the keys from her pocket. “Which is worse, do you think. Keys keeping things out, or keys letting things in?”

“They each – ” begins Breeze.

“You may as well have the flashlight.” Dorkas interrupts her. “Until we get the damn door open.”

Breeze has to hurry to stay in step, and almost drops the flashlight in her haste. When they reach the door, Dorkas quickly inserts the key. It works with ease.

“Fortune smiles on my enterprise,” mutters Dorkas.

“I don’t understand.” The young woman is perplexed as she looks around. “I’m certain when I was here, the painting was on these walls.” She watches Dorkas put the other key into a second door. “We didn’t go anywhere else.”

“What did Agnes tell you?” Dorkas opens the door, and glares down a darkened flight of steps.

“I’m not supposed to say.”

“Mother Ursula certainly expects me to go down into the gloom.” Dorkas is harsh. “Otherwise, why am I here?”

“I don’t deny that’s the way it is now.” Breeze stands beside her, peering into the dark. “I just wonder if it is what we would find tomorrow.”

“I may as well take their kind illumination.”

“Agnes only had a candle.” Breeze gives her the flashlight.

“Agnes could not fear half the terror I feel.” Dorkas shines the light down the stairs. “She expected to come back.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“If I’m not forever, then I won’t be long.”

As Dorkas descends, the stone walls absorb the light, pockmarking the surface with rough shadows. She pauses before entering the room, perturbed by the dimness. Her light had shone brightly minutes ago, but now its beam seems submerged in water.


She slaps the flashlight against her open palm.

“I’d do better with – ”

She stumbles on the bottom step, twisting her right foot as she is thrown against the wall.


The flashlight falls and rolls across the floor. She hears its metal casing scratch over the stones, and watches the beam of light spiral like a demented beacon, until it turns around to shine back into her face.

“I won’t stay if that goes out.”

Dorkas deliberately speaks aloud.

“Whether I’m in Berlin for a night or a year.”

She tests her foot and finds her ankle is slightly injured.   “If I break my leg, what will they do? Leave me down here?”     She bends over to get the flashlight.

“A permanent fixture.”

As she takes the light, she points it away from herself.


The feet are bare, and dirty, and raising dust as they dance. A cloud of dust rises up their emaciated legs to their knees. Although Dorkas is in a crouched position, she jerks away from the figures, and sprawls on her back.

She starts to cough in the dust, and the ragged, whirling band begins to encircle her. The light gripped in her hand strays across their bodies, and catches the glint of bleached, protruding teeth as they grin down at her.

“A tomb.” Dorkas shouts.

She can not count the number of hands reaching toward her, their flesh mottled from the iridescence of putrefaction. The frayed cuffs of their funeral finery trail strands of unravelling cloth, and she cringes from the touch.

“You want me with you?” Dorkas struggles to her knees. “To end on your wall?”

Bejewelled rings and bracelets rattle against bony fingers and wrists. The sound fills her ears as the hands, extending to grab her, are jostled by the tempo of the dance. They can not stop their own feet, and they can not stop their partners who hurry them ever on.

“I won’t.” Dorkas holds the light in both hands. “Alive or dead.”

Der Totentanz becomes smaller as the figures tighten the circle around Dorkas. A whiff of their decay permeates the dust, and she turns her head, coughing even more. But she can’t avoid their movement, their grasping hands, their stench. Victory is etched upon their faces.


She barely hears her name as she huddles more closely to the floor. She is afraid to stand in case the frenzied dancers graze against her. She fears that the slightest brush – whether from their knees, their fingers, or even their rotting clothes – will lift her to her feet and make her a part of this final procession.

“Dorkas! I can’t turn on the electric lights.”

“You wouldn’t want to see.” Dorkas tries to shout, but her throat is clamped by hysteria. “This is worse than buried alive. I’d rather be in the dark.”

The dust of the dead is filling her mouth as she switches off the flashlight.

“Dorkas! For God’s sake.”

Breeze comes plunging down the stairs, scraping her hands as she steadies herself against the wall.

“Answer me!”

When she reaches the bottom, she stops in the blackness. Her hesitation is brief, and she starts forward at her usual pace, hands outstretched. She strains to hear the slightest sound.

“Dorkas? Did you drop the flashlight?”

“Are you alive?”

“Dorkas?” Breeze turns abruptly, for the voice is behind her. “Of course I’m alive.”

“Then I guess we both are.”

Dorkas gets to her knees, and slowly stands.

“Berlin proves to be as wonderful as I anticipated.” She brushes dust off her shirt. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Did you lose the flashlight?” Breeze starts to move toward the other woman’s voice.

Dorkas is momentarily puzzled, then realizes it is still gripped fiercely in her hand. She switches it on, casting a beam over Breeze’s legs.

“You’re it.”

“I thought you were it.” Breeze looks down at her legs, then follows the light back to Dorkas. “When you didn’t answer, I thought something had gone wrong.”

“I’m in Berlin.” Dorkas laughs harshly. “Everything goes wrong.”

She approaches the younger woman slowly.

“I don’t know where I would be if you hadn’t come to me.” Dorkas strokes Breeze’s arm. “Your intervention won’t make the others happy.”

“I’ll handle himself if you take care of the old girl.”


“Let’s take a look.” Breeze reaches for the flashlight.

“A look?”

“At the bloody painting.” Breeze is turning the light toward the wall. “I know it’s been a long time since I’ve seen it, but maybe we can figure how its now in a different place.”

“No.” Dorkas swats the flashlight with her hand. “If you accept that there is God and Satan, then you accept there are things beyond your power.”

She stands close to Breeze, the light between them.

“You do not invite what can destroy you – that is dangerous folly.”

“But you came here.”

“Yes.” Dorkas takes back the flashlight. “I came here. And that courage – and you – enables me to walk out of here.”

She looks Breeze in the eyes.

“I have light, and I have a friend, and I’m not going to be buried alive. Not tonight, at any rate.”

She shakes the flashlight.

“Not here, at any rate.”

Dorkas sighs deeply.

“But I’ve done my part.”

“These are distinctions I don’t understand.” Breeze begins to feel uncomfortable. “Here we are – standing right here. Haven’t you won?”

“If you tempt fate?” Dorkas speaks softly. “No – fate will always win. Fate has all the cards.”

“That sounds fatalistic.”

“Life is fatal.”

“Perhaps I’ll come back tomorrow and be a tourist.” Breeze wants to hear her own voice. “Will a bunch of loud Italians and pushy Americans keep the dancers in the painting?”

“It might make it easier for them to mingle.”

“I’m not going to see them step from the wall,” insists Breeze.

“I suggest you look closely at the mustiest Italian, or the most hysterical American.” Dorkas shines the light toward the exit. “And then keep your distance.”

Dorkas is impatient as she watches the young woman walk through the beam of light, and quickly begins to follow.

“Did you say something?”

“No.” Dorkas answers curtly, but she has heard it too.

It is a sound which stays in her ears, until the door is firmly closed and locked behind them.

The sounds of an interrupted dance, where she knows partners are still being sought.




The Pope Speaks Of Satan And Evil

This excerpt was written before Karol Józef Wojtyła’s passage to the Otherworld, and certainly before his elevation to sainthood. He had his part to play in my novel, Places of Evil, where my characters confront, and combat, Satan.  I trust he smiles down more than ever upon my endeavours. [DE]


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Excerpt from “Places of Evil”

“Who is friend, and who is foe, Holiness?”

“Do you ask of me a catechism?” The Pope peers at Mr. S. with interest. “Indeed a reversal of roles.”

The two men walk among the crypts of the Sagve Grotto Vaticane, moving in and out of the light, cast from each entrance. The Pope has requested the candles and tapers of every grotto be lit, and this is the only illumination. He has also dismissed his attendants and Swiss Guards.

The crypts line a horseshoe-shaped corridor extending from the Old Basilica to the sarcophagus of St. Peter. The Pope has yet to enter any grotto or chapel they pass. As they slowly walk, Mr. S. keeps close to his frail companion. The Pope’s doctors have given him a pager to summon help, if necessary. Mr. S. assumes the Pope is aware of this, as he seems aware of everything around him.

“Holy Father.” Mr. S speaks softly. “Why have you chosen this location for our discussion?”


“With due respect, Holiness.” Mr. S. indicates their surroundings with a sweep of his hand. “There is secrecy – but this is entombment.”

“I think you come to me with death.” The Pope also points. “What better place?”

“I do not interpret my quest so Spartanly.” Mr. S. contemplates their confines before he continues. “The church assumes we live again after this life ceases.”

“Death of the soul.” The Pope stops moving. “Death after death.” He taps his cane against the toe of Mr. S’s left shoe. “This is the platter you place before me. This is what the boy dreams.”

“I was informed you had not been told his dream.” Mr. S. looks at his foot.

“I see those around me skilfully use evasion.” The Pope leans on his cane, and Mr. S. can feel the pressure. “So I have looked all the harder.” He moves the cane, and turns toward a corridor. “Let us continue our stroll.”

The Pope walks with more purpose, and Mr. S. wonders if their conversation gave him time for some rest.

“There is secrecy of a different sort.”

“Holiness?” Mr. S. takes some hasty steps to catch up.

“Satan arrives by invitation.” The Pope’s voice holds humour. “I believe neither of us has requested the pleasure of his company.”

They reach the glow from an array of flickering candles, and the Pope stops again.

“I come to the Grotto every All Souls Day, and in spirit, visit all the cemeteries of the world.” He lowers his voice. “Even after they have ceased to be, the dead entangle the living with their lives. It is a mistake to forget them.”

“Do the dead need our memories?”

“To them, we are echoes.” He nods toward the tomb behind the flickering candles. “They are in their new lives – they do not think of themselves as dead.”

“But you feel these new lives are threatened?”

“That is ultimately the raven hovering over your back.” The Pope expertly snuffs a candle with two of his fingers. “Satan accomplishes nothing with the death of our body – that comes naturally enough.”

“Why do you mention `ravens’, Holiness?” Mr. S. does not hide his surprise.

“Do they now not have their own restaurant in Berlin.”

“Do your functionaries tell you everything?”

“As they avoid topics they think I can no longer handle, they must fill the gaps.” The Pope closes his fingers over the flame of another candle. “A comforting meal might make Berlin a place of pilgrimage.”

“How serious is the Pontiff?” Mr. S. is stock still.

“How serious should I be?” The Pope watches the spiralling smoke rise above his hand. “Since Berlin – bombed, defiled, and built again – is the lair of the Beast, it must be cleansed.” His fingers move to another candle. “Berlin, where evil seeps into the very ground.”

“They have not kept this from you, Holy Father.” Mr. S. gazes at the trinity of extinguished candles before he looks at the Pope. “For even they do not know.”

“A fortiori.”  The Pope rubs his two fingers together. “Mother Ursula herself would not engage this topic.”

“Then how do you know?” As Mr. S. steps closer to the Pope, he breathes in the smoke from the candles.

“If I ask the same question, you will point at `signs’ and `feelings’.” The Pope indicates the extinguished candles. “We don’t see a light, we notice there is darkness.”

“I live in Berlin. I feel the accumulation of evil.”

“I look at the world. I travel the world as no one else can.” The Pope raises his cane. “I see the world – far beyond the orchestrated itineraries of those who invite me.” His breath makes the flame of the candles sway. “I know my history; I have lived the history.” He turns to look at Mr. S., the movement of his cassock making the candles dance. “It is two thousand years since our Lord walked this earth, and I have seen the most evil century of them all. How can I not know the power of Satan?”

“With respect, Holy Father, there are others who – ”

“You bring to me the boy.” The Pope’s breath is against Mr. S’s ear. “The twin who dreams of things he can not dream. His sister, who sees what none of us can see.” His voice fills the still grotto. “You lay into our arms a baby in need of protection. A baby named after Mother Ursula, who knew the ways of facing down the devil.” The Pope holds up his cane. “This body may be beyond repair, but I clearly see the many things arrayed before me.”

The two men stand close together, their faces reflecting the red glow cast by the elaborate candles. Through the silence of the corridor of crypts, they hear the hiss and crackle of the many burning wicks. The Pope is again refreshed by his rest, and starts walking with purpose. Mr. S. takes a last look at the illuminated reliquary, and steps quickly to catch up.

“Who was buried in there?”

“No body.”  The Pope stops unexpectedly, and taps Mr. S. on the chest with the handle of his cane. “Only the heart of our revered predecessor, Pius IX.” The Pope chuckles. “It is said they entombed it just to prove he had one.”

They continue with little conversation, the Pope’s cane sounding hard along the corridor. Occasionally the Pope points out a particular crypt or chapel, but does no more than mention who is there. Paul II is given a hearty wave, and Gregory V has the cane pointed at him. Before one entrance the Pope gives a little courtly bow.

“A saint of particular reverence?” Mr. S. is curious.

“No.” The cane jabs toward the entrance. “One of the few ladies to join the ranks of our mausoleum. Queen Christine of Sweden.” He suddenly swings his cane to point along the other side of the corridor. “And there is my immediate predecessor, John Paul I.”

“I did have the pleasure of meeting him, Holiness.”

“Not given a chance.” He shakes his head. “Such is death.”

Mr. S. feels he is being led to more than the end of the corridor, which is not far away. He is less surprised this time when his companion stops.

“Have you noticed these?”

“Holiness?” The cane is not used to point.

“Up.” The Pope shifts his gaze. “Look up.”

Mr. S. does as he is told. He sees a grill in the ceiling, from which diffused light seeps through the floor of St. Peter’s Basilica.

“We refer to them as crypt skylights.” The Pope’s cane thwacks Mr. S. on the leg. “That light is what our lives are, compared to the brightness and warmth surrounding God.”

“I don’t have your conviction.”

“I wonder.” The Pope moves forward. “Would you be doing what you do without the deepest conviction in the world?”

They are now definitely heading for the crypt of St. Peter. When this last and most impressive shine is reached, Mr. S. will chose his questions with care, and then be on his way. He fears he will still be unsure of his destination.

“What do you think of our necropolis?” The Pope’s voice is stronger. “Do you know the Vatican is built upon a city of the dead?”

“Yes.” Mr. S. smiles. “I find it significant as both fact and symbol.”

“A church `built upon this rock’ has become more secure by burrowing into it.” The Pope laughs deeply.

“Your symbol has become real.” Mr. S. taps the side of his head. “I’m not going to try to untangle that. Let’s leave it buried.”

“We humans never leave anything buried, which is perhaps unwise.” The Pope’s voice dips. “Perhaps astute.” He suddenly turns to Mr. S., his hand gesturing grandly. “Have you heard of Flavius Agricola?”

“I don’t believe so, Holiness.”

“A voice from centuries ago.” He lowers his hand. “I like to listen to them.” The Pope leans on his cane, and speaks in a stage whisper. “Flavius Agricola once resided in our city of the dead.”

“I assume he was not a Pope I haven’t heard about.”

“Flavius well pre-dates our humble personages, although he falls under the ire of Urban VIII in 1612.”

“So much for resting in peace.”

“Tut tut.” The Pope’s stage whisper becomes more aggressive. “You interrupt our tale.”

“Ab ovo usque ad mala.” Mr. S. spreads his hands. “Pray continue.”

“Paucis verbis.” The Bishop of Rome pauses a long moment, staring at Mr. S. “Flavius Agricola left his fellow mortals some final words of advice, which he had chiseled into the stones of his mausoleum. `Mix the wine, drink deep, and do not refuse the pretty girls the sweets of love/for when death comes, earth and fire devour everything.’

“I must say, Holy Father – at the risk of being offensive – it sounds like good advice.”

“I am not offended.” The Pope nods his head. “The gifts of God are meant to be accepted.” He lifts his cane and shrugs his shoulders. “But my esteemed predecessor, Urban VIII of happy memory, was of a different opinion. He had the sarcophagus of Flavius Agricola broken up and thrown into the Tiber.”

“Exitus Flavius.” Mr. S. reverts to a stage whisper of his own.

“Bone and stone.” The Pope’s voice lowers. “The lesson remains.”

“Forgive me, Holy Father.” Mr. S. looks closely at the other man. “What am I to do with this knowledge?”

“Teach it to the boy.”

“To Janus?”

“Preach it, if you have to. He is being consumed by doom and death.” The Pope’s voice raises to the level of a sermon. “This is why he dreams of Satan. Death is important – but it comes at the end of life, not in its midst.”

“Janus leads us somewhere, Holy Father. That has to be played out.”

“Of course.” The Pope twists his cane in his hands. “But after this is done, do not just give the twins a vacation. Add more living to their lives.”

The Pope resumes walking. Soon they approach the halo of light cast into the corridor by the candles of St. Peter’s crypt. When they stop at its entrance, the Pope nudges Mr. S. playfully.

“Two altars – no waiting.”

“Are we to pray?”

“There is always a place for prayer.” He stands without the use of his cane. “My advice about the boy – it is also for you.” He slowly turns his head to gaze across the crypt. “Come.”

Mr. S. follows down the steps, and over the polished floor to the sarcophagus of St. Peter.

“Do you know what they found with the blessed bones?”

“No, Holy Father.”

“Mixed together were the remains of two younger men, an elderly woman, a pig, and a horse.” The Pope rests on his cane. “To know such things helps keep one humble.”

“We are all God’s children,” suggests Mr. S.

“And some of us are chosen.” The Pope smiles. “Indeed, some of us are anointed.” He turns his back to the spectacular chamber. “But few of us seek out Satan to end his ways.”

“Do you believe in Satan, Holy Father?”

“Ah – the catechism again.” He stares at Mr. S.  “The question, I suspect, which you do not want to ask.”

“I sometimes feel I am on a fool’s errand.”

“And I sometimes feel I pray to the emptiness of space.” The Pope touches Mr. S. on the face with his fingers. “Such is the residue of despair.”

“Do we stop evil?” Mr. S. looks unflinchingly into the other man’s eyes. “Does evil come from Satan, or is it woven into Man himself?”

“Neither Satan nor God are restricted to the absolutes of human reason.” The Pope lowers his hand.

“Do you mean it’s both?”

“Take any child.” The Pope counts on his fingers. “Two years, four years, six years old. They already know right from wrong. Such awareness is innate.” He grips his cane tightly. “They must ask Satan into their lives – but Satan will never refuse them.”

“Satan makes them evil?”

“Satan offers them opportunities.” The Pope leans forward on his cane. “Satan may even make them chose. But the choice is theirs alone.”

The Pope takes a couple of steps toward the nearest candle holder. His movements are both careful and exact. Before Mr. S. is aware of what is happening, the cane flashes through the air. It decapitates the thick candle a handsbreadth below the flame. The segment of sputtering wax and wick tumbles across the floor.

“However, when one’s belief returns, that is what one does to Satan.”

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