The Roman Peter II: The Last Pope?
By Jorge R. Araujo-Matiz

CHAPTER 1
In the year of our Lord, 1139               
Dover 
The grayish-white cliffs of Dover, enormous as they rose over the waters 
of the Channel, presented a beautiful view to Malachy and Christian as 
they gazed at them from the deck of the small boat that had taken them 
on as passengers. It had involved the exchange of silver pieces to 
arrange for the crossing of the Channel to France, but it was worth it. 
Several families with children were on board as well, and though some 
were French, the majority were English. The elders of their numbers 
celebrated the presence of the two priests as signs of good luck on 
the voyage. 
They sailed out with a soft breeze on a rather calm sea, but the fog 
was thickening even as the shoreline slipped from view. Malachy knew, 
though, that his was not unusual at these latitudes. Here, the daily 
drizzle contributed to the intense green of the whole English country, 
but it also obscured it into fog. 
As the wind that had carried them out to sea intensified, the fog 
thickened. The waves swelled, and the sound of them crashing against 
the wood of the ship frightened the passengers. Children cried and 
men and women alike could be heard praying.
Malachy had crossed the channel several times, and he had never found 
it to be calm from beginning to end. He had prepared himself for any 
sudden change in weather, though that did little to calm his stomach 
as the ship rolled again. The passengers gathered outside tried in 
vain to see beyond the fog that encircled them.  
Just as suddenly as the fog had sprung up, however, it dissipated. As 
the misty wisps fled on a shifted wind, it revealed a sky totally 
obscured by dark, gray clouds.
Lightning lit up the skies. The sailors scrambled to secure the ropes 
and knots that held the sails aloft. There was a violent upsurge of 
water. It splashed across the deck, sending passengers scuttling to 
the ship’s hold. 
In their monks’ robes, Malachy and Christian were the focal point of 
the passengers. Unaccustomed to sea voyages, they sought God’s 
protection. Any god, Malachy thought, as he suspected that none of 
them had ever seen a Christian altar, but rather a mixture of pagan 
rituals and Catholic liturgy. 
He and Christian did what they could to comfort the terrified 
passengers as the ship roiled beneath them, bringing moral support 
and reassurance to those who approached them — in itself a difficult 
task as it was almost impossible to walk the short distance between 
the tables and the benches firmly secured to the floor boards without 
zigzagging from one side of the ship to the other. 
The waves lifted and dropped the ship with the force of the wind. The 
water gushed continuously under the door cascading freely down the 
simple wooden ladder. The racket of the wind and the waves and the 
crackling of the ship’s boards, together with the dry knocking sound 
of the sails, muffled the cries of fear and hurried prayers of the 
passengers.  
After what felt like and endless hour, the wind calmed and a blue sky, 
washed clean by the rain, shown through. White clouds circled lazily 
above the sea, as detached from the storm as a dream for reality. With 
the calming of the sea, the fear of death fled. The monks found only a 
few faithful Catholics interested in their presence.
Slowly, the passengers once again climbed the ricket ladder to the 
deck, lulled into a curious calm by the now-gentle rocking of the ship 
and the soft, white crests of the waves. Malachy and Christian went 
with them, watching from the sunlit deack, washed clean as well by the 
storm, as the dark mass of the French coast rose up from the Channel.

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