As I mentioned in the lead in to segment 3, we get into the weeds of some Catholic theology here. However, all of my stories are just about the relationships between people, especially families. So, here, we have a kind of reconciliation between Caillie Pratt (Hartmann) and Clive Barrett, with a call-out to his work in Crosses & Doublecrosses.

A kind-of beta reader thought the last bit was a little too joyous. I overruled her; what is more joyous that knowing you made it? Or, for the long-dead head of both branches of your family to know you made it? Anyway, it is what it is.

Oddly, the next short I’ve in mind is also a kind of purgatorial story. Not sure why I have that rattling about my head these days. I hope to start rolling it out by Wednesday. Thanks for reading.

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“Mrs. Pratt?  Princess?” Who was bothering to wake her up?  Stretching, she was rewarded with a stab of pain from her ankle.  Her eyes flew open.  Dammit, still here with this guy.  The back of her throat was on fire from lack of water and all that talking. 

“I don’t care how much it will hurt,” she growled, sitting up, “I’m crawling back to my… vehicle…”

Besides their little ridgetop, the land about them was covered in fog.  “I didn’t know this happened in the desert…”

“You mistake your position,” the man, Barrett, she finally gave in, said.  “Here, let me carry you.”

“You can’t touch me!  I saw that last night!”

He put his hands under her arms and lifted.  “While I won’t carry you like a princess, you’ll be fine on my back.  Here, lean onto me.  We’ve a long way to go, so you’ll probably be able to walk halfway there.”

Again confused to the point of panic, years in the imperial family accustomed her to take orders.  As he leaned forward, away from her, she put herself onto his back.  Barrett reached back around and put his hands under her thighs, stood, and started down the rocky track she had come up.

Once they were in the fog, the path leveled out considerably.  “We should be to the SUV now,” she spoke into his right ear.  A snort of derision was her only answer from him.

They, well, he, walked and walked, seeing nothing more than a few feet ahead or to either side.  By the time she noticed the wild grasses and bushes, she also realized her throat didn’t hurt anymore.

“Are you really my great-grandfather?” Caillie whispered into his ear.  “Butcher Barrett, who killed a quarter-million, many by crucifixion?”

“Yes,” he replied with no hesitation or guile.  “I did what I thought was necessary at the time to save the new Republic of Texas.  And you left out the nearly twenty-two hundred members of ExComm, my organization, who I had killed on what later was called the Death Ship.”

“How can you be so calm about that?” Something occurred to her.  “And, you said you’re in Purgatory; you should be in Hell!”

He slowed but did not stop.  Around them now were the type of taller grasses you would find closer to the sea.  In fact, some of the ground was a finer sand than the desert.

“Do not be so quick to condemn others to the inferno, Crown Princess Caillie Hartmann nee Pratt,” he said without any anger.  “Did I suffer physically for my sins while alive?  Yes.  Is my soul being purged now, and likely for a very long time?  Yes.”

“You were not the only one who went to Confession before a difficult mission, great-granddaughter.”

More time passed.   She swore she heard a seagull.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.  “God forgive me.”

“Now, then,” he announced.  “We dare only pause a few seconds, I’m setting you down to see if you can walk.”

Hesitant, she slowly added weight to her broken ankle.  “It… it’s fine!”

“Good,” as he took her right hand and with a small tug, got them back into motion.  “You take after your mother’s Min Chinese side.  Was that a problem growing up?”

“Not really.  My last name certainly helped,” she laughed.  “Strangers in the imperium thought I was from a trade mission, the Texans thought me Viet, and in Vienna and Budapest, they had no clue.”

“What about the Russian Empire?”

“Ah.  Reina let everyone who mattered know who I was up front.  A few people on the streets of St. Petersburg, not knowing I spoke Russian, would say something about ‘that Mongolian.’”

He smiled at her which made her happy.  Another short silence fell as they walked on.  Caillie broke it.

“Great-grandfather?  Clive?  Where are we going?” she asked.

“Not as well catechized as you thought,” he chuckled.  “Not much further.  Have you ever been to south Europe?”

“Only Vienna, Budapest, and St. Petersburg.  Diplomatic missions.”

“Then you won’t recognize these ruins about us,” he said with a little shake of his head.

Ruins?  Sure enough, along with the smell of the sea, they were walking between what had once been a not insignificant town.  The brickwork and design looked Roman.

“Unlike my granddaughter, who was not yet human, she could go no further than this.  For me, it’s just a long way back to my proper place.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This is Ostia Antica, the old Port of Rome at the mouth of the Tiber.” He pointed with his other hand.  “Which is just ahead.  Good!  There’s a boat already here.  I had to wait for what seemed like months before my ride showed up.  All part of what I deserved.”

“I still don’t understand, Clive!”

They stopped at the wharf.  Caillie didn’t recognize the design, besides it was old, and saw about three dozen people milling about the wharf and already aboard, most praising God.

“Purgatory is Heaven’s footstool.  Or maybe foyer or mudroom would be more apt?  You are already dead but you are already saved.” He shook his head.  “Your trials will be nothing like mine; I expect you to pass me in no time – not that time makes much sense, here – so rejoice, Caillie.  You’ve made it through the Narrow Door.”

He led her onto the ship.  No one challenged them.

“Glory be to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” he called out.  “You are going to your true Home, great-granddaughter.  Rejoice with me!”