World War S 2

Chapter 5

But suddenly, like a huge glow, like a second sun, light poured on the top of the sanctuary. Oliverio staggered back, slipping and tumbling down in the mud. He held his hands in front of his eyes because he was blinded by the phenomenon. He mumbled something in fear, striving to get a foothold on the slippery surface because he wanted to run as far as he could. His heart was pounding.

“I am the proclaimed Virgin,” the phenomenon said at that moment as Oliverio stood up and drew back towards the trail. An all-pervasive light surrounded the devotional object standing in the middle of the sanctuary, and he could see the contours of what looked like the statue. But this figure—which definitely resembled Mary, the mother of Jesus—seemed to be moving. Oliverio had seen the sanctuary many times before, when he crossed himself passing by, but this time he felt fear.

“Don’t be afraid,” he heard from the statue, “pray for the city and encourage others to do so!”

That was the last sentence he heard, receding, as he struggled to keep himself on the muddy path back to the missionary school. He unintentionally headed that way instead of towards home. The slush was already running down the side of the hill, but he made a desperate effort to drag himself along by the roots of the trees. And he prayed all the way.

He ran into old Tom about halfway, and the man took him back to the school. The missionary came after him because he thought the boy must have gotten into trouble, that he would not be able to cross the slush stream. He gave Oliverio dry clothes and listened to the boy’s account.

“She said I have to pray. She stood in a huge light, she had a halo, like you can see on the altar of the San Francisco Church,” the boy said, drawing a circle around his head with his hands, like a bubble.

Tom rubbed Oliverio’s hair and stroked his shoulder.

“I know what you’re talking about, my son. I’ve heard accounts like this before. But I have to warn you against believing this apparition. What you have seen did not come from God.”

“She said herself,” Oliverio tried to convince Tom, “I’m the Virgin. Mary became pregnant with Jesus by Immaculate Conception—we learned that in the church.”

“That’s not the problem,” Tom said gently, placing a glass of milk into the boy’s hand. “But Mary is not a mediator between God and us. God send his revelations through the Holy Spirit and not through Mary.”

“Then why did this happen? She said I need to pray for the city and I need to convince others as well. What’s wrong with that?”

“There is nothing wrong with that. But this revelation turns you away from God.”

The boy struggled to believe Tom. The vision had a big influence on him.

“I don’t believe you!” he said suddenly, though he would never have said anything like that to old Tom before because he had respected the teacher so much for his great knowledge of geography.

“I have to go. They must be worried about me at home …”

“Wait!” the missionary said, and he stood up. He walked to the window to check the clouds breaking. “Don’t go alone, I’ll see you home.”

They didn’t speak on the way. The silence was broken only by Tom’s moaning as he struggled on the edge of the chasm. Then they suddenly stood in front of the statue at the clearing.

Tom watched Oliverio’s face. The boy didn’t take his eye off the ceramic statue with the fading blue sash. The rose painting on her face was splintered in a few places, and in her closed, praying hand there was a dry, wilted flower, which a wanderer could have placed there long ago. It looked like a totally average statue.

Then Oliverio suddenly fell to his knees. Tom looked at him, then to the statue, and back to the boy again, but he didn’t see anything special. On the other hand, Oliverio was still staring at the Virgin, his hands clasped in prayer.

“Oli, what do you see? Tell me what is there!” said Tom leaning towards the boy, but Oliverio didn’t look at him. He lifted his tantalized eyes up, an unearthly smile on his face.

“Oli, you have to tell me what you see! Is the revelation still there?”

The boy nodded silently, continuing the prayer.

“In the name of Jesus, show your real nature!” shouted Tom towards the sanctuary when Oliverio sprang up and ran in the direction of the village.

“Oliverio! Stop!” Tom tried to stop him, but the boy quickly ran on the hillside, sometimes skidding on the muddy road. Tom watched desperately as he disappeared in the distance. He was worried; he didn’t want to lose the friendship of this sensitive and talented boy.

Tom turned back to the sanctuary, but there was nothing apart from the ceramic statue. He was ready to face the revelation, but there was nothing left for him apart from the painted idol.

Two days after, the road leading to the valley became lively. People from the city climbed up to see the wonder—the speaking Blessed Virgin. They brought flowers, fruits, and other presents. They often gathered around Oliverio, who—like a naive and enthusiastic kid—told his story about the stormy day. He described the events in such rich detail that many from the audience fell on their knees and turned to the statue with devotion. But the revelation didn’t appear to anybody but Oliverio.

On the third day, the news reached the leadership of the church. Archbishop Garza came in person to investigate the case. The audience took hours as the archbishop and two cardinals questioned Oliverio closely.

“Tell me, my son, who else has seen the revelation?” asked Archbishop Garza with a kind smile. The archbishop had already read about the case of the Virgin of Guadalupe, who appeared to a farmer five hundred years before asking him to erect a church in that place. In that instance, a man saw the miracle, but the archbishop only believed him when there was another miraculous appearance; the farmer had poured rose petals in front of the archbishop’s feet, and they resembled the face of the Virgin Mary. And there was the case in Honduras, in Suyapa, when a miracle happened with a boy who had worked in the fields all day and slept on the side of the road. When he woke up, he felt something prick his side and found a miniature statue of the Virgin Mary below him. If that miracle could happen with that boy, it could also have happened with this very intelligent and honest boy. His eyes had such a pure and genuine look, the archbishop thought.

“No one else, just me.”

“Were you alone up there in that big storm?”

Oliverio looked thoughtful. “Yes,” he answered quietly.

“So there is nobody who can prove your story?”

Here there was another long pause. Archbishop Garza had heard about the Lourdes Miracle on one of his previous missions to Rome, where a nun saw a divine apparition that called herself the Immaculate Conception. There was nobody around who could confirm her vision, but a few years ago the Vatican started her process of beatification, they even exhumed her body. So it was clear that a personal experience did not necessarily mean disqualification from the official recognition of the miracle’s process.

“No one else saw it,” said the boy, and he looked as truthful as at the beginning of the audition.

“I think the spontaneous pilgrimage and the miraculous healings entitle the ecclesiastical court to pronounce that it was truly the Virgin Mary who appeared around the statue,” said one of the priests.

The archbishop slowly nodded and gave the final verdict, “I agree. I pronounce constat de supernaturalitate. The appearance has real supernatural origin. I’ll recommend to the Holy Father to make this place an official place of pilgrimage.

The archbishop and his helpers stood up, indicating that the audition had finished.

“You have to pray for the city …” Oliverio’s words were barely audible.

All members of the court turned towards him. The strident noise of the thick cowls and heavily decorated archiepiscopal vestments filled the freezing silence.

“She said we need to pray for the city …”

The archbishop looked to his helper surprised.

“We will, my child, we will,” he answered, smiling. He was not only surprised but confused as well—why should this boy need to remind him to do this? He, who was the head of the Church.

The door opened suddenly, and a man in a long cowl entered the room.

“We have to leave. Disturbances have broken out in the city. The president came back from Europe, and the people jailed him. The criminals have taken control.”

The archbishop glanced to the boy in fear. Pray for the city … the boy’s sentence flashed across his mind. It’s a sign.

“Go to the countryside, you’ll be safe there!” one of his advisors asked him, or rather gave the order. The Church Potentates left Oliverio alone and stormed out of the room.

The events escalated to violence in the city, which finally justified the truthfulness of the Pichincha apparition. In this way, it entered into the list of officially registered miracles of the Catholic Church. This was all the demon of deception needed.

He was the best at this. He knew the Scriptures and the Cult of the Virgin Mary as well. As he was the master of all kinds of illusion—including when he transformed his energy into visible material—he led many well-meaning believers down the wrong road. His lord, Satan, often placed himself in the role of the angel of light. So he, as his faithful servant, took the most suitable figure to deceive people.

Vrangol didn’t remain inactive either; he tempted Ignazio Valdarez again. After the unrest, a mighty mob leader assumed power in the city. He executed the president and ordered his men to drag the dead body through the city. Ignazio’s cousin, Fausto, rose in the hierarchy of the organized criminals; he became responsible for the district where Ignazio was living. After gaining control over the city, he exacted a ransom from all house owners, and he had no mercy on Ignazio despite their family connection.

Karnelo voluptuously enjoyed the cruelties in Fausto’s body. Vrangol had only waited for the right moment to possess Ignazio, who was weakening beneath the oppression of his own relative—the cruel Fausto.

Vrangol was the one who inspired Ignazio to team up with Fausto. Those pilgrims who walked up on the side of the volcano to see the newly built sanctuary could mean big money for both of them if Ignazio were able to convince Fausto of his idea. Then Fausto would probably leave him alone …

“We have to build a factory where we’ll reproduce the statue. We’ll sell them for a few sucre, and everybody can take a copy of the Virgin home,” he suggested that afternoon when Fausto, the quickly risen local potentate, visited his home with his gang men.

Karnelo knew he had to convince his man, Fausto, to accept the offer. This would open the door for Vrangol to totally take over Ignazio’s body. And then there would be no more obstacles to their dark plans. Men of God were in defeat.

“All right,” Fausto nodded arrogantly, “but the only reason I agree is because we’re cousins. Who the hell would buy your stupid statues?”

Fausto was not a bright man. He didn’t count on the hunger of the pilgrims, which they thought would bring them closer to God. The business did well, and Ignazio was saved from further ransoms.

Over a few years, they produced weeping and bleeding statues. The demon of deception didn’t need to use magic to get this result; Fausto found a way to make the small clay figures imitate tears after a while. These statues stood in thousands of family altars, pouring tears to the owners, inspiring them to worship the idols.