Saint Anselm underscores the fact that the intellect must seek that which it loves: the more it loves, the more it desires to know. Whoever lives for the truth is reaching for a form of knowledge which is fired more and more with love for what it knows, while having to admit that it has not yet attained what it desires: “To see you was I conceived; and I have yet to conceive that for which I was conceived.” – Fides et Ratio, Karol Wojtyla, Saint Pope John Paul II 

“Edward, I need you down there. Mr. Thorsten is persistent. He seems quite concerned that this unpleasantness will adversely impact him. Apparently, he has connections to some of the groups involved in these disturbances. Perhaps some good work as an emissary for peace can deflect these difficulties with the government people.”

Ed kept his face neutral at the admonishment. He knew exactly the nature of Mickey’s connections. He kept his eyes on the screen as the Bishop continued.

“There will be other groups seeking to broker an arrangement to avoid hostilities. Since the creature appears to be part of the disturbance, and now you have some standing with them, find a way to intervene. I’m told that the video showing the captive creature is very provocative and that there may be an unpleasant response.”

Ed knew that the Bishop had access to better information, even all the way down in Boise. Ed’s street level contacts shared that the mobilization of the tribal militias already prompted an exodus of refugees now showing up in Sandpoint. The Kootenai Guard called up their members. Other militias were crossing the Canadian border as well as reinforcements from the Blackfeet in Montana. The rumor was that the separatists around CDA intended to finish the push to secure the entire perimeter of the lake and take full control all the way down to St. Marie’s.  The Salish Confederacy wasn’t going to let that happen without a fight.

“This is important, Edward. I’m counting on you,” the Bishop concluded and signed off. No sooner had he returned to Bonner’s Ferry the Bishop called with this latest directive. The worries about his entanglement with the creature and its religious explorations now took a back seat to the accelerating civil unrest.

It was his work with refugees right after seminary that resulted in his posting here after the car crash. Though the region had many good people trying to keep the peace, the combination of some people’s racial and religious intolerance with the separatist aspirations of the anti-government groups were potent ingredients for frequent conflict. It was a synergy of hate and paranoia that also proved useful to outside forces willing to continue funneling money into conflicts destabilizing the fractured U.S.

He left instructions at the parish, then drove south to Couer d’Alene to meet with Mickey. He made his way east of town, past Fernan Lake and up into the hills. The West Coast wealthy continued building retreats here, despite the turmoil. The architecture of their garish mansions borrowed extra features from the preppers and survivalists, willing to gamble that their vacations or retirements would be unbothered by discord.

On the approach to Mickey’s compound two military vehicles partially obstructed the entrance. Heavily armed guards waved him past, and he announced himself at the intercom, then followed the directions for the camera to register his face for identification. The gate slid open and he proceeded up the wooded drive, noting the security features along the way. Some were discreetly concealed, others less so, like the communications and observation towers. More men patrolled the wooded perimeter. Mickey also installed fixed and robotic sentries, more menacing than the humans. Someone up in a tower tracked him with a mounted machine gun as he approached the large circular drive at the front of the mansion.

Compared to others in the area, Mickey’s house was understated; dark, modern architecture and low slung, fitting into the hillside. A line of black vehicles blocked most of the drive, surrounded by more guards.   A drive to the right lead uphill behind the house, to the entrance of the bunker. He deduced that after a prior visit when he made a wrong turn and was confronted by armed men. Two more menacing guards stood at the front entrance. They turned and opened the door without greeting. A servant rushed past carrying luggage out to one of the cars in the drive. Mickey met him in the foyer.

“I am so glad to see you, Father. We’ve got quite a mess brewing, don’t we?” Mickey called out as he hurried toward Ed across the marble of the spacious foyer past another pile of luggage. He clasped Ed’s right hand with both hands, almost in supplication. “Please, come in. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine.” Mickey’s hospitality was legendary, but Ed learned long ago that everything with Mickey came with some kind of string attached, sometimes very long, but always an obligation that someday would come due. Today was most likely one of those days.

Mickey led him through a sprawling living area. Servants lowered heavy shutters over the expanses of plate glass, creating a metallic clanking sound. They crossed through a spotless modern kitchen, into a darkened den illuminated by video screens, all displaying different news feeds or views from security cameras. The news coverage featured footage of the armed groups around the region. One showed the video from the group with the captured creature.

“What a mess. I just don’t see what they think they will accomplish. And now, everyone with a grudge has taken to the streets. Did you see the drone activity?”

Ed hadn’t. Up north by the border, the local situation wasn’t as tense. The presence of the tribal militias on both sides also kept skirmishing there to a minimum. Not having to look up all the time was one of the advantages of living in a relatively remote area.

“Not really. I did notice several convoys, though. And it looked like some group is setting up a checkpoint out on 90.”

Mickey nodded. “They’re preparing for the possibility that the Flatheads will push west to support the defense of St. Marie’s. But this is what I need you for, Fr. Ed. Do you know Father Pierre at St. Paul’s?”

“Of course.” Ed knew him well because of the Bishop’s push to maintain good relations with all Catholics in the region, even the ones openly defiant of the Vatican in almost all matters.

“Best to have them close enough that we can at least keep an eye on what they are doing,” the Bishop counselled during one of their many conversations about why Ed had to keep trying to collaborate. The “challenge” with Fr. Pierre was that he openly railed against the very people who made up so much of Ed’s ministry: the outcasts, the immigrants, the criminals and what they considered social deviants. But what was Mickey’s connection? As if reading his mind, Mickey responded.

“Fr. Pierre has some measure of influence with some of the groups who appear to be mobilizing. It’s very important that we contain this situation, before it spirals. Think of the suffering, Father.”

There’s that “we” Ed was dreading. “We” don’t have the business dealings with those groups that risks exposure with open conflict. Ed maintained his expression of grim neutrality while Mickey continued.

“The bishop also tells me you have some influence with the creatures?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that…”

Mickey cut him off. “If you could intercede, draw attention away from the other issues, maybe buy some time for other truce efforts to bear fruit, perhaps we can avoid a wider conflict. I’m concerned that there’s a lot of miscommunication happening, that several parties are misconstruing events and using them as a pretext to settle old scores or seek some other advantage.”

What else is new, Ed thought. That seemed to be the story of world events during his entire life, malicious actors creating confusion and misunderstanding, and others using that chaos to further their own, usually criminal, always suspect, private agendas. It seemed to wrap all the way around the globe.

Then a thought struck him: what if Astyanax’s “other duties” had something to do with this? The creature shown on the news did not look like Astyanax. It was too small, but how likely was it that two contacts between grendels and humans in such a short period of time were not somehow connected? From everything he knew before this, the grendels were essentially invisible, both literally and metaphorically, as he saw in his own interactions. If they didn’t want to be seen, they weren’t, but now two contacts, in the same area, at roughly the same time? There had to be a deeper connection.

“Do you have any suggestion as to how to proceed? I don’t know those people holding the hostages.” Mickey lit up at Ed’s apparent acquiescence to the mission. 

“That’s where Fr. Pierre can help. Because of his associations, I am certain he can put you in touch with those groups. That is my primary interest, to let Fr. Pierre know, so he can communicate with others, that this is about the creatures, not other grudges they may want to settle.  Maybe you and he can collaborate on this. I would get involved myself, but as you can see, we have urgent travel plans.”

The opportunity to possibly help Astyanax was eroding Ed’s reluctance to deal with Fr. Pierre. The conservative priest’s disdain and literal holier than thou attitude would have to be endured. He remembered the time Fr. Pierre lectured him about the important work his parish was doing saving the soul of the Church and returning it to its true, sacred traditions while Ed “dithered” in the wilderness. Ed had come to him to complain about the busses Fr. Pierre’s parish sent to Bonner’s Ferry to carry his parishioners to “special events” at St. Paul’s, thinly disguised recruitment programs, enticing his parishioners away with flashy music, carnivals, then proselytizing about how only the Latin mass was the true Mass, and any other liturgy was heresy. The fact that St. Paul’s used the very techniques of popular culture to entice, no, steal, his parishioners, and their financial support, was what really irked Ed. Preach your traditionalist philosophy, but don’t hide behind the glitz of pop Christianity to impoverish other parishes. Ed resigned himself to the unpleasantness, if only to assist Astyanax.

“I’ll reach out to him. I think you are right, maybe I can help.”

Mickey was visibly relieved. “Good. Oh, good.” He reached again with both hands, clasping Ed’s hand, almost lifting it as if to kiss, then he stopped and pumped it like he did at the front door. “Good, good. I greatly appreciate you assisting with this. Unfortunately, I am called away on other business. My family and I are going to visit some relatives, and I have some other interests to attend to.”

***

Walking back to the car, Ed looked up, and now that he was paying attention, he saw many drones in the air, most hovering silently over Mickey’s property, a few transiting slowly back and forth. In the car heading back toward CDA, he watched the sky and saw what Mickey alluded to. Everywhere, aircraft of different sizes, some hovering stationary, other zipping to and fro. Some small, some large, some bristling with weapons. Approaching the on-ramp to I-90, there was definitely a roadblock underway. They made no effort to stop him, but Ed saw the heavy guns and armored vehicles parked on the shoulder, surrounded by groups of men with weapons. Local police and the National Guard were conspicuously absent.

Once on the highway, it was a brief twenty-minute drive to the west side of town. Ed looked down at a message from his friend David Scanlan.

Good news from Viale Vaticano. Your adventures have gotten the attention of some important people. Very little chance of laicization or excommunication. Keep up the good work. Seriously, Spadolino’s report to the DDF kicked off a big debate. Hang in there. 

He needed that encouragement. Another interaction with Fr. Pierre was not something he relished.

There was very little traffic except the occasional black pickup truck loaded with armed men, or a military vehicle with militia markings. He arrived at St. Paul’s without incident.

Fr. Pierre greeted Ed at the rectory door dressed in his severe traditional cassock.

“Fr. Ryan,” the other priest said with a formal nod. Ed entered the rectory, but Fr. Pierre made no effort to lead him beyond the foyer. Ed stood there awkwardly. Fr. Pierre looked at him expectantly. The silence lasted a few beats longer until finally Ed couldn’t restrain himself.

“I need your help,” he blurted out.

Fr. Pierre smiled tightly. “Of course.”

“The people on the news, the ones holding the grendel, the creature.  Stamm?  Do you have any contact with him or his church?”

Fr. Pierre pursed his lips, a guarded look on his face. “I may be able to get some communication to him. Why?”

“The Bishop, well, actually Mickey Thorsten too, want me to intercede to try and broker some sort of peaceful resolution.”

“Mickey Thorsten? The arms dealer?” Fr. Pierre’s smile didn’t match the sarcastic tone of his voice. “I don’t have any dealings with Mr. Thorsten,” Fr. Pierre continued, apropos of nothing.

Ed considered how to respond to this denial given Mickey’s obvious knowledge of Fr. Pierre and the widely known connections between some of the militias and Fr. Pierre’s parish. Fr. Pierre continued before he could think of something to say.

“But for the Bishop, of course I will assist. What do you need?”

“Contact information and introductions to people who can put me in touch with Stamm, or those close to him, as soon as possible. The idea is to refocus attention on the fate of the creature and reassure others that this isn’t a time to engage in conflict about other issues.”

At that moment, a younger priest rushed in.

“Excuse me, Father. The news. Something is happening. You should come see.” They walked quickly to a living area with a large screen on the wall. The image displayed an industrial area crowded with a mix of military, police, and EMS vehicles, creating a carnival of flashing lights. Armed men in military gear outnumbered the local and state police. The scene looked tense.

“A mass casualty event on the north side has the Inland Northwest on edge once more. Militia groups are trading accusations and mobilizing, as the community braces for another round of the seemingly endless violence….” the reporter droned on in the familiar litany.

Fr. Pierre turned to Ed.

“It looks like you are too late.”

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