The gentle hissing of the oxygen machine kept Silas awake all night standing watch in the Intensive Care Unit of Saint Paul’s Hospital in Addis Ababa. As if he needed an excuse to stay awake, anyway.
Snaking out of Celeste's nose and mouth, arms and chest were wires and tubes of oxygen and fluids. Earlier that morning she had been downgraded from ‘extremely critical' to ‘critical, but stable.' It was a significant milestone in her recovery from the gunshot wound and loss of blood, but she wasn't out of the woods yet.
When they had left the Church of Our Lady Mary of Zion, the SEPIO medical operatives were able to staunch the flow of blood and give her the oxygen she needed to stabilize her vitals. They flew her to the second largest hospital in Ethiopia where surgeons were able to find the bullet and extract it, but her femur wasn't as lucky. The bullet had fractured it, requiring a rod to stabilize it and fuse it back into position. She was weak from the blood loss. Not critical, but enough that the doctors were concerned, keeping her sedated to allow her body to heal and replenish itself.
Not waiting for the extraction team, Silas had returned to their car and sped toward the Aksum airport once the chopper had lifted. When he eventually made it to the hospital after catching a flight to the city, he practically tore off his shirt to give blood, as amazingly he was a match. He had tried to push his way into the surgery room to check on her condition, but was forcefully told to remain in the waiting room with everyone else.
Hours ticked by as they worked to repair her body, but he remained in vigil for his fallen comrade. Four hours later, a nurse came out to get him, telling him the surgery was a success and she was stable, but still in critical condition. He had been at her bedside ever since.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, Silas mumbled, praying a prayer he had memorized in Catholic primary school, You invite all who are burdened to come to you. Allow Your healing Hand to heal Celeste. Touch her soul with Your compassion for others; touch her heart with Your courage and infinite Love for all; touch her mind with Your Wisdom. I reach out to You with all her needs, asking for you to heal her. May my mouth always proclaim Your praise, may I help lead others to You by my example.
Most loving Heart of Jesus, bring her health in body and spirit that we both may continue serving You with all our strength. Touch gently her life which you have created, now and forever.
“Amen,” he said as the door gently opened.
A nurse slipped in, short and stout and wearing a kind smile.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
He smiled and sat back. “No problem. How is she?”
“Sure is a fighter.” She went through a routine of checking the wires and tubes, making sure nothing had become detached or blocked; checking the computers attached, ensuring all was in order; gently moving her limbs to ensure they were best positioned.
She smiled as she left, shutting the door gently behind her.
He sat forward and sighed. “What am I going to do without you, Celeste?”
The thought caught him by surprise so that he leaned back in his chair to consider what he had just said. What did he mean, what would he do without her? He had never needed anybody, much less a romantic companion.
It had always been difficult for him to form bonds with people. Women had been no different. As near he had figured, it stemmed from some sort of subconscious abandonment issue going back to his mother's death after giving birth to his brother Sebastian and him. And with being a military brat and moving around the world with his dad, he had always had to defend himself against the townie kids and stationed families who had far deeper roots than he had ever had. That rootlessness created a tough, outer shell and aversion toward connection. Even with women.
But there was something about Celeste that had struck him differently than any other relationship he’d encountered, something that had drawn him toward her, rather than compelled him to turtle inside his shell and look out for himself.
Maybe it was the self-assured demeanor that came from running operations for high-level governmental and ecclesial organizations. Maybe it was the way she carried herself: stand-offish, yet present; reserved, yet bearing a degree of openness; a woman of faith, yet earthly; physical, yet intelligent.
He rubbed his eyes with both hands, and then his face. This was silly. He had barely known her a year. He was allowing himself to be carried away like a runaway stagecoach. Care for her, yes, her health and healing and outcome. But as a person, not as a woman.
Yet, as he continued to sit next to her eyes-closed, still form, watching her chest gently rise and fall with each breath, listening to the machines around her as they monitored her vital signs, something was stirring within him. Something he sensed had been slowly emerging since the spring when she had dragged him from the ruins of Georgetown University’s chapel, and then when they had fought alongside one another for the memory of Christ's resurrection. Then he recalled her showing up at his lecture hall earlier in the week. He thought his heart literally skipped a beat when he saw her standing there, holding that umbrella and wearing that nice-fitting raincoat. He was actually happy to see her. Thrilled, even.
She was a remarkable woman. But what did she matter to him?
What did she mean for him?
He was cut off by the vibration of his phone, paired with an audible ping letting him know a text had arrived. Probably his brother checking in on him again.
He reluctantly brought out his phone. Instead, it was an email.
From Dean Brown, Princeton.
He sucked in a chest-full of air, chased by his elevating pulse. He swiped his phone to life, summoning the email in the process. He scanned it quickly.
Not good.
Professor Silas Grey,
We, the Committee on Tenure at Princeton University, and I, as Academic Dean, are writing to inform you of the suspension of the recent proceedings to reinstate your tenure, voting unanimously to deny you a tenured, full-professorial position at Princeton University.
Your willful neglect of your pedagogical responsibilities, notwithstanding your unprofessional conduct, is unbecoming of the legacy of Princeton University and duty as an instructor.
Furthermore, you are hereby suspended without pay forthwith until a hearing of your peers, later to be established, evaluating your academic and fraternal competency to continue teaching at this hallowed institution.
Please submit your response to Dean McIntyre post haste.
Sincerely,
Michael Brown
Dean, Academics
Princeton University
Silas sat in stunned silence, the whiplash-change of professional events too remarkable to even register a reaction.
Had he just been fired?
He reread the email, grinding his teeth in anger and agony, trying to control his heavy breathing through his nose.
What a load of crap.
A feeling of rejection crashed inside of him. Everything he had been working for the past decade had just become unraveled in one email.
They have no idea what they are doing. They have no idea what I just did! What I uncovered. What I discovered. What I accomplished.
His throat caught itself as he tried to swallow, emotion begging for release.
“Knock, knock.”
Silas’s head jerked up, caught off guard by the sudden interruption to his rage.
Rowan Radcliffe furrowed his brow and raised a hand in regret. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No, you’re fine.” He smiled weakly, happy to see a friendly face after such a painful blow. He motioned for him to come in.
He looked down at Silas’s phone as he entered, taking a seat in a chair across from him. “Anything interesting going on in the interwebs?”
Silas smirked, then turned off his phone and stuffed it back in his pants pocket. “Just a Dear John letter.”
“Dear me. Trouble on the home front?”
He sighed. “You could say that.” He looked at the floor, not really wanting to talk about it. “It looks like I’ve got a fight on my hands back at Princeton when I leave here. Probably going to be fired. Seems like they’re not too happy with my little…side project.” He glanced at Radcliffe and smiled. “And other things, probably mostly my own doing.”
Radcliffe nodded. “I see. Hope the Order hasn’t caused you too much trouble.”
Silas said nothing. He hadn't regretted helping SEPIO, both in the spring and over the summer, and then the past week. But it certainly was coming to bite him in the butt.
The silence was punctuated by the continued sigh of the ventilation machine and the occasional beeps from the other machines monitoring Celeste’s vitals. Radcliffe looked from Silas to her, his face sagging at the sight of all the provisions of modern medicine guarding her life and helping her heal.
“Were you able to get everything back in order in Aksum when we left?” Silas asked.
“For the most part. As you can imagine, the Ethiopian Orthodox Church is none too happy with the attempt on their relic. Whatever it may be they're storing in that stuffy stone square of theirs. Speaking of which,” he leaned forward toward Silas. “What did you see inside? Did you catch a glimpse of anything, anything at all?”
Silas considered his question, then simply smiled. “Nothing I can talk about.”
Radcliffe nodded slowly in recognition. “You know, that’s what’s interesting about this line of work. Not only does what we do go mostly unnoticed by the outside world; we’ve designed it that way. Most of what we do and see goes unspoken, as well. Very different than the academy, that’s for sure.”
Silas sat in silence, wondering what Radcliffe was getting at and still brooding over the email. It seemed life was about to take a radical turn.
“What about Pryce?”
Radcliffe turned from Celeste to him. “Pryce?”
“Last I saw he was being dragged and beaten by a mob. Any word on his final fate?”
Radcliffe frowned and shook his head. “No. Which doesn’t surprise me. The Ethiopian Orthodox Church has had a way of dealing with people over the years who’ve come seeking their relic in unholy ways.”
“But nothing on his whereabouts?”
“We’ve gotten unconfirmed reports of his death. Someone else thought he saw the man in Yemen, though that seems unlikely. Either way, he won’t be causing the Order any trouble soon. And once again, the memory of the Christian faith is safe from Nous. For now.”
Silas caught his subtle emphasis on for now, as if suggesting it might not be safe from Nous in the immediate future, which would require someone at the helm of SEPIO.
He remembered Celeste’s ask before she faded.
Promise me you’ll take my place.
He swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the strong woman whose body was fighting to survive. Lord, the Great Physician, hear our prayers.
Radcliffe said, “So what are your plans, in the coming weeks and months?”
Silas turned toward the man. “My plans? You mean if Celeste doesn’t survive?” His response had a sharper edge than he had intended.
Radcliffe sighed, then said softly, “I didn’t mean it like that. Celeste spoke very highly of you after the mission to rescue the Shroud and secure the Holy Sepulcher, and then again after the apostolic relics debacle this summer.”
“She did?” Silas asked eagerly.
Radcliffe smiled. “She did. She jokingly made me promise that if she was ever taken out that I should move mountains to get you to take her place.” He looked back over at the bed. “I never thought I would have to follow through on that request.”
Silas considered this. Never would he have planned his life this way, being forced out of the one profession he had wanted since he was a kid and the only life that fulfilled his ambitions to make his mark on the world. Joining the Army after 9/11 was just an angsty way of dealing with his father's death. Through it, he had dealt with his demons and picked up some more. But God also used the experience to draw him back to himself, rekindling a faith that had burned down to cold embers. It was that ignition that had propelled him forward to pursue his studies in theology and religion, and a profession in making a difference in both areas.
But if he was honest with himself, the motivations were far more surface than substance. He wanted the prestige that came from publishing and public speaking, from discovering and uncovering.
So what would be his motivation for joining the Order and signing on to Project SEPIO?
Sebastian.
The word came out of nowhere, a divine name-drop from Heaven itself that was immediate and compelling.
His brother’s agnosticism or atheism or spiritual-but-not-religious state had been a motivating factor for much of his study and academic pursuits. And the world was filled with plenty more who were just like him, not to mention his own backyard in the U. S. of A.
Nones they call them, a rapidly growing body of people who claim no religious affiliation, many who are former Christians who became disillusioned with and doubtful of their faith. Twenty-five percent who don’t hold to a particular religious creed or go to a regular religious worship service or have any particular interest in God. They’ve turned away from, and in many ways against, Christianity and are increasingly hardened toward religion generally.
Just like his brother.
If there was one motivating factor to join the Order and make SEPIO his own project, it was him. Perhaps the Lord had prepared him for such a time as this through his military and academic training.
He breathed in deeply, then looked at Radcliffe. “I can’t promise anything right now. I’ve got to go back and mop up the mess I’ve made and figure some things out.”
Radcliffe raised his head, his eyes twinkling with hope. “Certainly. I understand.”
“And I'm not sure what the heck I'm getting myself into…” Silas looked at Celeste, thinking about the promise he hadn't voiced to her, but had secretly made in his heart. “But let's talk in a few weeks.”
Radcliffe smiled and nodded. “Sounds good.” He got up from his chair and touched Silas’s shoulder. “And, Silas.” He turned toward the man. Radcliffe continued, “She’s a fighter. She’ll be fine.”
Silas smiled weakly and nodded. Then Radcliffe patted him on the shoulder and left.
Leaving him alone with Celeste, with his thoughts, and with his future.