Wednesday, August 14, 2024 - 11:40 AM
The Cathedral of St. Francis Xavier in central Meijing was designed by local artists 120 years ago. The church’s towering twin orange-tile steeples, topped with Christian crosses, were constructed with multi-layered roofs with upturned corners that invoked the design of Buddhist temples familiar across the region. Beneath the roof, wide eaves protected deep verandas that surrounded the front and sides of the church, keeping rain at bay from the large open windows, bracketed by typhoon shutters. Stone staircases rose from the street to ornately painted French doors that opened into the foyer and nave. Inside, the center and side red-carpeted aisles led worshipers to a regimen of mahogany pews and kneelers with green cushions. Centered in the sanctuary was an ornate gold-leaf altar, above which hung a 3-meter-tall, hand-chiseled wooden crucifix accented in subdued amber and blue tones. Behind the altar, on an elevated platform, sat a 1-meter gold tabernacle, flanked by 2-meter-tall, turbaned seraphims carved from white jade.
Sabriya, her head covered in a black lace veil, hurried into the church to pray, with Hannah close behind. Near the front, Sabriya knelt in a pew, while Hannah stood in a side aisle watching the entrances and the few others scattered in the pews, presumably praying.
Inside, Sabriya’s mind was a jumble of what-if thoughts. Should she be confused or frightened? Was Kia Kun hurt? Was she alive? What of her daughter’s friend, Dao? The news was staggering.
Before coming to the St. Francis church to pray, Sabriya sat with Jack, Hannah, and Landon, the Embassy’s intelligence officer, as David called the local police and even the Palace for help in searching out and tracking the kidnappers. While everyone was sympathetic, especially the person David spoke with in the Palace, they all said the best course was to work with the district constable’s office, where Miwu Cun was located. The police gave David the number.
When David called the district constable’s office, the response was even more depressing. Yes, Miwu Cun was in their district. Still, there was only a single constable assigned to six villages in the region, and his responsibility was to settle territorial and property disputes, not investigate criminal activity. Who was then delegated to investigate crime? The answer rocked the Ambassador: The Palace, but the Palace had never shown any interest in the western village district beyond collecting taxes. David insisted that the district police contact the village constable, a task that could only be done by radio. They did, and, as expected, the constable was miles away in another village at the time, although the district said they would direct him to go tomorrow to Miwu Cun and see what could be discovered.
Sabriya was desperate. By then, the kidnappers would be miles away. David then called a security officer at the Palace, but the man had no idea what he could do as district policing was not his responsibility.
Sabriya couldn’t help but wonder if Jia Kun's kidnapping was a revenge for her speech at the Queen’s banquet. But who would know she and Jia Kun were related? .
Every day for years, Sabriya sat with the nuns at St. Mary Elias in prayer and adoration before the Blessed Sacrament. But today, chanting the Divine Office was far from her mind. Instead, without much thinking, and in tears, she found herself softly singing Salve Regina in Latin.
Queen, mother of mercy:
life, sweetness, and hope, hail.
To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve.
To you we sigh, mourning and weeping
in this valley of tears.
Turn then, our advocate,
those merciful eyes
toward us.
And Jesus, the blessed fruit of thy womb,
after our exile, show us.
O clement, O loving, O sweet
Virgin Mary.
Earnest prayers of petition for Jia Kun and Dao erupted from her heart like a stiff Wing Chun elbow to her chest. She closed her eyes, and a sudden vision rushed upon her:
Jia Kun and Dao lay unconscious, bound hand and foot, a full head mask drawn over their innocent faces with little holes to breathe. They bounced as the van navigated the rutted road, their school clothes awry, their arms bruised and muddy, headed for a brothel.
Sabriya quivered when the vision hit her, and a chill ran down her spine as if a leopard had clawed her spine open, draining her blood. Her eyes snapped open, gaping at the tabernacle… O Lord, see their pride, send forth your fury upon their heads. Put a sword in my hand.
At that moment, the Sanctus bells rang, and a priest, preceded by two altar servers, entered the sanctuary from the side sacristy to begin the noon Mass. She had forgotten that there would be a noon Mass, but all the better, she concluded, considering the reason she had come to the church in the first place. She missed attending daily Mass at the monastery, where the Traditional Latin rite was celebrated. Here at St. Francis in Meijing, they seldom celebrated the old Latin Rite, but tried, mostly in vain, to make the new order Mass reverent. It was never to Sabriya, reverent that is, but she supposed it was better than nothing. The lay lectors distracted her—they were too easy to judge—diction, wardrobe, posture. Priests and deacons in liturgical vestments, in the sanctuary, were proper, she concluded.
But after Mass, while walking back to the Embassy with Hannah, Sabriya wondered if a miracle hadn’t occurred during Mass. A female lector, wearing an immodest, gaudily colored dress suitable for a circus acrobat, read the Old Testament reading. There was no equivalent reading, especially by a layperson, in the Traditional Latin Mass. And yet, here it was: an idea…no, a vision that was both startling and dangerous. She felt guilty during the celebration of the Eucharist because all she could think about was what had stormed into her mind during that reading from the book of Judith.
She knew the story of Judith: a holy woman and unconventional warrior who saved Israel from the Babylonian army. Judith was Sister Linsim’s biblical hero, and during Sabriya’s Wing Chun kung fu training, sensei Linsim often joked that kung fu was really useless unless God was in charge. “Imagine,” Sister Linsim would say, “if Judith had known kung fu, the story of Holofernes’ decapitation might have been a finger jab or an elbow to the throat. Not nearly as dramatic, and might not even have made it into the Bible.”
“Trust God, not kung fu,” Sister would say. But then, jokingly, she would always add, “But Wing Cun is different. God loves Wing Chun.” Whereupon, Sensi Sister would surprise Sabriya and pretend to punch her student mercilessly, sweep her legs, and take her down. Sabriya smiled at the memory.
After Mass, as she and Hannah walked back to the Embassy, Sabriya thought back to a previous time when God had answered a prayer she had never prayed.
Flashback - May 2013
Pangina and Kolinggar Mountains, Pellagore
Sabriya cried when she left her one-year-old baby girl, Jia Kun, with Busaba; it was heartbreaking; she didn’t know if she’d ever see her baby again. But if the child was to be safe from the thugs chasing them, Sabriya had to keep moving and disappear…somehow, somewhere. What would she do? Where would she go? Her enemy’s network of degenerates and assassins ran throughout Pellagore, and she could not think of a place where she would not eventually be recognized and reported back to her wannabe executioners. She couldn’t go to the south into North Vietnam, she had no passport; nor would she return southeast into Meijing, the capital, from which she had just escaped; nor to the northeast, which was her home village that had been burned to the ground by the same malevolents. She was left with only one direction, due north, into the rugged, underdeveloped western range of the Kolinggar Mountains. But, where would she find sanctuary there? At least she had some money left, and food and extra clothing in Busaba’s backpack.
Sabriya headed north, walking along jungle paths between villages and backcountry roads used by trappers, farmers, and the vilest of society from which she was convinced she had not yet entirely escaped. Stopping by a mountain stream to freshen herself, she removed the Kasden charm. Could it help her again? Protect her? Give her direction? She slipped the charm over her neck, kissed it, and prayed. “Lord Kasden, or whatever god of angels might surround me, where do I go? Protect me. I need to disappear and be safe…and please protect Busaba and Jia Kun.”
And so, Sabriya started on foot, hitched rides on farm trucks and donkey carts, sojourning her way into the mountains, talking with villagers, and hoping something was guarding her path.
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