Luck (almost)

[Patricus I]

He was always in a bad mood the day following dreams. Perhaps the interruption of sleep for divination was the reason, but Philip was a light sleeper at the best of times. The next morning he often woke to find himself in the exact same position in which he laid down the night before where not even a wrinkle appeared in the blankets. As such, he was not in a mood to tolerate the arguing and petty discussions of the Cardinals. In the afternoon, he laid on a plastic chair in the middle of the Vatican garden grasses, sunglasses perched on his nose with a wide-brimmed hat shaded his face. Although his hands were folded carefully on his waist, movement was absent, and his eyes were closed, an hour passed in the same position. He’d spoken with God for hours following the dream until someone was sent into his bedroom to see if he’d died in the night. The conversation was fruitful, and now, the mind was contemplating the significance. He’d never acted on the dreams occupying the many pages of his journal. Not once. Not until today.

Of the symbols, a great tree that imparted vision and knowledge, the cherubim guarding the way, and Philip, the recipient of a deep need he did not know dwelled within, it was the flow of floodwaters that disturbed him the most. The rising flood was the tsunami that swept aside a million souls, and more would come if the need was not met. Out of the floodwaters rose a woman, an angelic way finder that bestowed wisdom and innocence simultaneously.

When Philip finally moved, it was to curl a finger in beckoning.
“Yes, Holy Father?” a voice replied.

Philip cleared his throat and said a name. “There is a girl with a scar on her palm in the shape of an ancient rune. Find out where she is,” he said.

“Is she a Catholic? Holy Father?” the priest replied. “A congregant?”

Patricus murmured an answer in the back of his throat, and the city that was spoken to his mind bubbled from his lips. “Tartu. Call the Parish and send one of the priests to search their river-towns for an artist producing paintings of Pope Patricus I.”   He did not know where in the world Tartu was located, only that he understood that a girl with paint on her fingers and a brand on her palm would be there. 

With a sigh, he finally sat up. “Tell them I desire to see these works of art.”

“Right away, Holy Father.”