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- ¡°Because I made a promise to God to do this,¡± she replied. ¡°Moreover, your commitment to God is the most important of all commitments. Never break your commitment to God.¡±
Carter promised his mother that he would never break his promise to God. He loved his mother more than anything in the world, and she was his protector.
"Where is my father?" Carter asked. In fact, he already knew that his father died before he was born.
¡°Now God is your Father,¡± she would always reply, ¡°and you are a child of the Church.¡±
Carter liked hearing her say that.
"Whenever you feel afraid," she said, "remember that God is your Father now. He will always watch over you and protect you. God has big plans for you, Carter." He knew she meant it. Yes, he was born with the ability to sense the presence of God.
Blood rain
The blood rain falling from the sky
There was silence. Then there is heaven.
After the dazzling lights went out, Carter knew that his paradise was actually the hospital's intensive care unit. Carter was the only survivor of a terrorist bombing. He and his mother were attending a mass on holiday. The bomb destroyed the chapel, killing thirty-seven people, including his mother. Newspapers called Carter's escape a miracle. For some unknown reason, just moments before the explosion, he walked away from his mother and boldly entered a guarded alcove, where he stared at a tapestry in thought.
God called me there, he decided, and he wanted to save me.
Carter was delirious from the pain. He could still see his mother, kneeling beside the church pew, kissing him, and then her fragrant body exploded with a loud, earth-shaking sound. He can still feel the evil that people do. Blood rain fell from the sky. His mother's blood!
God will always watch over you and protect you, her mother had told him.
But where is God now?
At this time. As if his mother's words had manifested themselves into the world, a priest arrived at the hospital. He is not an ordinary priest, but a bishop. He prayed beside Carter, giving thanks for the miracle. After Carter was demobilized, the bishop arranged for him to live in a priory attached to the cathedral he presided over. Carter lived, studied, and even became an altar boy to his new patron. The bishop suggested that Carter attend a public school, but he refused because nothing would make him happier than in his new home. He is now truly living in God's home.
Every night Carter prayed for his mother.
God saved me for a reason, he thought, but what was that reason?
Carter reached the age of sixteen, according to Italian law. He must undergo two years of reserve military training. The bishop told Carter he would be exempted from this obligation if he entered seminary. Carter told him he planned to attend seminary. But first he must understand what evil is.
The bishop did not understand what he meant.
Carter told him that if he was going to spend his life in the church fighting evil, he first had to understand what evil was. He couldn't think of a better place to understand sin than in the military. Soldiers use pistols and bombs. A bomb killed my mother!
The bishop tried his best to dissuade him, but Carter was determined and could not change.
¡°Take care, child,¡± said the bishop. ¡°Remember, the Church is waiting for your return.¡±
Carter¡¯s two years in the military were unbearable to look back on. His boyhood was spent in silence and meditation, but in the army, there was no moment of quiet for people to think, only five restless noises and noises. There are huge machines everywhere, and there is no peace for even a moment. Although the soldiers attended mass once a week in the barracks, Carter did not feel the presence of God in any of his companions. Their minds are in such a mess that they cannot comprehend the existence of God.
Carter began to hate his new life. It was tempting to go home, but he was determined to see it through. He has to understand what evil is. He refused to use a gun, so the military asked him to fly a rescue helicopter. Carter hated the noise and the smell, but at least it allowed him to fly into the sky and be closer to his mother in heaven. However, he was shocked when he learned that flight training also included skydiving. However. He had no choice.
God will bless me, he said to himself.
Carter¡¯s first skydiving was the most exciting sensory experience in his life. It felt like flying through the air abandoned by God. As Carter glided toward the ground, he couldn't get enoughthere was silencehe was floating in the airhe was looking at his mother's face in a sea of ??rolling white clouds. God has big plans for you, Carter. After Carter returned from the army, he entered seminary.
That was twenty-three years ago.
Now, Pope Carter is walking along theDescending the royal staircase, he tried to make sense of the chain of events that had brought him to this extraordinary crossroads.
¡°Don¡¯t be afraid of anything,¡± he told himself. Leave tonight to God.
At this moment, he could already see the tall bronze door of the Sistine Chapel, with four garden guards dutifully guarding the door. The guard unlocked and pushed open the door. At this time, everyone inside turned their heads. The Pope's chamberlain looked at the crowd in front of him, wearing black robes and bright red sashes. He understood what God had planned for him. The fate of the church was in his hands.
The papal chamberlain crossed himself and crossed the threshold.
The BBC car was parked on the east side of the square. The reporter was sitting in the company car sweating, cursing the editor who assigned him the work. Although the reporter¡¯s first monthly review was full of praise¡ªhis mind was sharp, his vision was sharp, and he was reliable¡ªhe was now ¡°on papal duty¡± in the city where the prophets came from. He reminded himself that reporting for the BBC required a lot more credibility than writing for the unpopular, but that was not his view of reporting.
The reporter¡¯s task is very simple, extremely simple. All he had to do was sit here, wait for a bunch of silly old men to choose their next leader, and then go outside the car and record a fifteen-second live broadcast with the Land of the Prophet as the background, and everything would be fine.
Absolutely.
The reporter could not believe that the BBC sent reporters to the scene to report such worthless news. You just can't see the American broadcasters here tonight, not really! That's because the big guys have their own tricks up their sleeves. They watch CNN, make synopses, and then film their "live" reports in front of a blue screen, with backup footage as a realistic backdrop. NBC even used indoor blowers and rain machines to add authenticity to live coverage. Audiences no longer want factual reporting. What they want is entertainment.
The reporter stared out of the windshield, feeling increasingly frustrated. He vaguely recognized the majestic mountain-like structure of the City of the Prophet that stood before him. What can be achieved when mankind devotes all its ingenuity to it.
"What have I accomplished in my life?" he said to himself. "Nothing."
"Then give up." A woman's voice behind him said.
The reporter was so startled that he almost forgot that he was not alone. He turned around and looked into the back seat, where his fellow photographer was sitting quietly wiping her lens. She's always wiping her lenses. The photographer is black, but she prefers to say she is African-American. She is tall but smart, and she won't let you forget it. She was a strange girl, but the reporter liked her, and he could certainly use a companion.
"What's wrong?" the photographer asked.
"What are we doing?"
She continued to wipe the lens and said, "We are about to witness an exciting event."
"Is the old man locked in the dark house also exciting?"
"You feel like your situation is getting worse. Right?"
"That's the problem."
"Tell me something." She spoke in a tone like his mother's.
"I just hope I have some influence."
"You've written for the unpopular."
"Yes. But none of them caused any response."
"Oh, come on, I heard you wrote an article about the queen's affair with aliens. It was very creative."
"Thank you."
"Hey, things are looking up. You're going to have the first fifteen seconds of your TV career tonight."
The reporter muttered and complained. He seemed to have heard the voice of the news presenter. "Thank you reporter for your important report." Then the host rolled his eyes several times. Then give the weather forecast. "I should really try doing news."
The photographer smiled. "Going to broadcast news without any experience? And still have a beard like this? Forget it."
The reporter combed a mass of light red hair on his chin with his hands. "I thought that would make me look smarter."
Suddenly the cell phone rang in the car, which thankfully put an end to another reporter's failure. "Maybe it's from the editorial department." He suddenly said hopefully, "Do you think they are going to report it live?"
"This news?" the photographer smiled, "Just dream."
The reporter replied in his purest on-the-spot reporter¡¯s voice: ¡°This is the British Broadcasting Corporation, and the reporter is doing live reporting for you in the land of the prophets.¡±
The person on the other end of the phone spoke with a strong Arabic accent. "Listen carefully,¡± he said, ¡°I am about to change your destiny. "
Zhiqiu and Momo were standing alone outside the double door, which was the inner room of the secret archives. The decoration of the colonnade is extremely inconsistent. On one side is a carpet covering the entire marble floor, and on the other side is an infinite security camera mounted next to the cherub statue on the ceiling pointing downwards. Zhiqiu calls it the Renaissance of disinfection. Next to the arched entrance hangs a small bronze invitation plaque.
Zhiqiu opened the door and walked into the inner room through the arched entrance. He half expected to see the curator in full armor, wearing work clothes, a helmet and a rocket launcher on his shoulder. However, there was no one in the room.
There was silence. Soft lighting.
The Archives of the Land of the Prophets. A lifelong dream of his.
Zhiqiu stared at this sacred room. His first reaction was to feel ashamed. He realized how much of a shallow romantic he was. The room he had imagined for so many years was so different from what he saw before him. He imagined dusty bookshelves piled high with tattered scriptures, priests cataloging the books by candlelight and the light filtering through stained glass windows, monks poring over ancient scrolls
It really doesn¡¯t even touch the edge.
At first glance, this room looks like a dark aircraft hangar with twelve full-sized squash courts built inside. Of course Zhiqiu knew what those glass wall fences were for. He was not surprised to see this. Moisture and heat would corrode ancient parchment, and proper book preservation required closed storage rooms like these¡ªsealed cells that isolate natural acids from moisture in the air. Zhiqiu has stayed in closed storage rooms many times It feels like entering an airtight tank where the librarian controls the oxygen supply.
The storage room was very dark, even a little eerie, with only the small round lamp at one end of each bookshelf faintly illuminating the outline of the room. Every single storage room was dark. Zhiqiu felt like there were ghost-like giants standing around him, and the towering bookshelves were loaded with heavy history. The collection here is truly amazing.
Momo seemed to be dazzled. She stood beside him. He stared at these huge and transparent storage rooms without saying a word.
Time is running out, Zhiqiu seizes the time to scan the room under the dim light, looking for a book catalogue-it is a bound encyclopedia indicating the entire collection of the library. However, all he saw was the red light emitted by several computer terminals scattered in the room. "It looks like they have a cataloged index. Their index is all computerized."
Momo looked hopeful. "Then it should be handled faster."
Zhiqiu hopes that he can be as excited as her, but he feels that this is not good news. He walked over to a computer terminal and started typing away. His fears were soon confirmed. ¡°The old-fashioned way is better.¡±
"Why?"
Zhiqiu took a step back from the monitor. "Because real books aren't password protected. I guess physicists aren't born hackers?"
Momo shook his head. ¡°I just crack open oysters, that¡¯s it.¡±
Zhiqiu took a deep breath and turned to face the transparent storage room containing rare treasures. He walked towards the nearest one, squinting into the dim interior. Zhiqiu recognized that the messy things inside the glass wall were ordinary bookshelves, parchment boxes and examination tables. He looked at the red-lit instruction labels at the end of each bookshelf. In all libraries, these labels indicate the contents of a row of books. He looked down the transparent wall at the classification titles.
"These books have labels." He said as he walked. "But not alphabetically by author's name." He was not surprised. Ancient archives are almost never cataloged alphabetically because so many authors are anonymous. My title search didn't work either, because many ancient archives are untitled documents or parchment fragments. Most catalogs are organized in chronological order. Frustratingly, however, the material is not arranged in chronological order either.
Zhiqiu feels that precious time is slipping away quietly. "It seems that the Holy See always has its own way of doing things."
¡°It¡¯s really unexpected.¡±
He looked at the labels carefully. The material spans several centuries. But he found that all keywords were related to each other. ¡°I guess it¡¯s sorted by theme.¡±
"By theme?" Momo said, sounding like a disapproving scientist. "It seems so bad."
¡°Actually Zhiqiu thought, he considered it more carefully, this may be the most brilliant classification method I have ever seen. He always urged his friends to understand the overall style and themes of a period's art, rather than getting lost in trivial dates and specific works. Seems like a place of prophetsThe Archives Library catalogs materials based on a similar concept. Roughly sketch
"Everything in this storage room," Zhiqiu said, feeling more confident at this time, "Centuries of information. All related to the Crusades. This is the theme of this storage room." He realized that those materials It's all here. Historical records, literature, art, socio-political data, contemporary analysis, all in one place This contributes to a deep understanding of a subject. So clever.
Momo frowned. "But those materials can be relevant to multiple topics at the same time."
"That's why they are cross-references with the Daishu plaques." Zhiqiu said, pointing to the colorful plastic plaques inserted among the information in the glass wall. ¡°These plaques indicate the location of secondary materials that are placed elsewhere according to their primary subject matter.¡±
"Oh," she said, apparently no longer paying attention. She put her hands on her hips. He looked around the huge space, then looked at Zhiqiu and said, "So, detective, what's the name of the thing we're looking for?"
Zhiqiu couldn't help but laugh. He still didn't understand why he was in this room. Here, he thought, somewhere in the dark, that thing was waiting.
"Follow me." Zhiqiu said. He walked briskly down the first aisle, checking the signs for each storage room. "Do you still remember what I told you about the Path of Light? And how the cheating sect recruits new people through a well-planned test?"
"Treasure hunting." Momo followed closely and said.
¡°The problem the scammers face is that after they place those signs, they have to figure out how to let the scientific community know that this road does exist.¡±
"That's natural," Momo said, "otherwise no one would know how to find that way."
"Yes, and even if scientists know that this road is not imaginary, they still have no way of knowing where the road starts. After all, the City of Ten Thousand Cities is too big."
"That's right."
Zhiqiu walked to the second aisle and scanned the signs while talking. "About fifteen years ago, some historians at the university discovered a batch of letters from the cheating sect, which mentioned the mark in many places."
"A sign. A statement of which road and where it begins?"
"Yes. And since then, many scumbag researchers, myself included, have discovered that the mark is mentioned elsewhere. The clue is there, and the guy is spreading it around the scientific community, and the Holy See doesn't even know about it. ." () {Piaotian Literature www.piaotia.net thanks all book friends for their support. Your support is our greatest motivation} - Didn't finish reading? Add this book to your favoritesI'm a member and bookmarked this chapterCopy the address of this book and recommend it to your friends for pointsChapter error? Click here to report
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