Pope Pius XIII sat across from Father Peter in the quiet rectory, the faint smell of cedar and incense lingering in the air. The pope’s white cassock seemed to glow in the dim light of the burning candles.
“Peter,” he said gravely, “these fires consuming wooden churches across Canada… we must admit, it is our own fault. The sins against the children of the First Nations were not just crimes of the body, but of the soul. We failed to protect innocence — and innocence does not forget.”
Father Peter lowered his head. “Holy Father, the people are angry. They say we deserve the flames.”
Pius XIII nodded slowly. “Yes… but justice must not become vengeance. Trudeau gives them words — truth and reconciliation, he says — but what truth is spoken when his lips still drip with politics? The people do not want speeches, Peter. They want repentance. They want action. They want someone to stop talking moistly and start cleansing the rot.”
The old priest sighed, his fingers fidgeting with his rosary. “They came here last week, Your Holiness. They wanted to spray graffiti across the church doors — ‘No forgiveness without truth.’ But… they stopped. It’s as if someone calmed them.”
The Young Pope smiled faintly, his eyes fierce and knowing. “I did, Father. I am the vicar of Christ, and I whispered into their hearts that this house, though flawed, still shelters souls. They saw that your church — unlike the others — is not made of wood but of rock. The Freemasons may have laid its foundation, but God preserved it from the flames.”
Father Peter looked up, astonished. “You mean… divine protection?”
“Divine irony,” Pius XIII corrected. “The Freemasons, once condemned by the papacy, built a church that endures while our own wooden idols crumble. Perhaps God is telling us something — that truth, not pride, is the real cornerstone.”
He stood, the candlelight flickering across his solemn face. “Let the wooden ones burn, Peter. Let the lies turn to ash. Only stone can survive the fire — stone, and the truth.”
