http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/south-africa-lion-cubs/

A hush spread among the few gathered observers. They stood behind a low fence under enormous umbrellas that were opened to protect them from the punishing sun. Only an hour after dawn and it was already pushing 90 Fahrenheit. Two distressingly young girls fanned the group with gigantic green palm fronds. It did little to provide comfort, but the two guests of honor thanked them repeatedly anyway. Catholic guilt was a strangely applied phenomenon.

In the pen before them, two lion cubs circled one another. Ears pinned back, their butts rose up in the air as each tried to make himself as big as possible. One growled a low warning, and the other responded in kind.

In a flash, the smaller one leapt at his opponent. They collided with a soft thump. The larger one tried to get his mouth around the other’s neck, but missed. For a moment, they rolled in a pile of golden fur in the dirt. The smaller cub disengaged and hopped away. Both reset, backs arched again, ready for the next attack.

“It’s natural play,” a man with exceptionally dark skin explained in pristine, barely accented Oxford English. “We mostly just observe until a determination is made whether each cub is a fit for our purposes.

His audience consisted of five people, not including the two fan girls. One was his assistant, an older man with a wizened face and a terrifying scar across his neck. Two were expert lion trainers brought to answer any specific questions that might arise. And the last two were visitors to the facility from the Vatican.

Bishop Bartolo Ferrara had wisely agreed to the suggestion that his vestments be left in his suitcase back in town. Instead, he wore an outfit of cream-colored linen, though he’d refused to go without his collar. Given his tremendous height and weight, he would have sweat buckets regardless of his attire. Dressed similarly beside him, Mani Fronsac had looped his supply belt into the linen pants. Next to the massive bishop, his unremarkable stature was entirely unimposing. The contents of the belt’s pouches and the small wooden cross embedded into the underside of each wrist told a different story altogether.

“Every cub is handled extensively from birth to ensure proper socialization with humans,” their host continued. “The most important time in a cub’s life is the first 8 weeks. If you can’t get them accustomed to human interaction by week 9, it’s already too late.”

“Why cub?” the bishop asked, his English good but noticeably accented by his native Italian.

“I’m sorry?”

“Why are they lion cubs? Tiger cubs, leopard cubs? Why not kittens?” It wasn’t an entirely serious question, but he awaited an answer anyway.

“’Kitten’ doesn’t conjure a very intimidated image,” the man answer after a moment’s thought. “Kittens do not grow up to be killers.”

“Do your cubs?”

The man shrugged. “Not on purpose.”

In the de facto fighting ring, the two cubs had just about tuckered themselves out. They stood very close, still growling and swatting at each other, but it lacked the punch of the start of the bout. One stopped to gnaw at an itch on his back leg. And his brother, taking this as an acceptable form of submission, plopped onto the ground to catch his breath, mouth open in a big panting grin.

“Shall we?” the speaker suggested, motioning toward the nearby facility and its promise of some heat relief.

The building was made of packed earth and covered in dried foliage. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside which was entirely the point. To anyone wandering in the area, it would be difficult to see at all. If anyone undesirable did happen to spot it, the plain appearance would put them off investigating further. Of course, people in this area knew better than to get anywhere near the building or its lions.

Inside, the bishop was handed a small jug of water by the host’s assistant. Quietly, the assistant and trainers slipped away. The water wasn’t particularly cool, but it tasted sweet running down his parched throat. He sighed contentedly after gulping the entire jug.

“Grazie. For the water and the hospitality, signor…” the bishop said, hoping for a slip up.

His host smiled. “No names, I’m afraid. You know our family. You know how we work.”

“Yet you know my name.”

“You are our client, Your Eminence. It would be rude of us to know so little about you.” The man smiled, wide and charming. Neither the bishop nor Mani missed the threat laced through the words.

Their nameless host led them down a short hallway. In the rear of the building, there was a large padded playroom. The cubs in here were at least twice as large as their cousins outside. In the playroom with the beasts were two men. Each wore thick hide gloves that ran up to their elbows. One stood beside a hip-high rack of toys. He gave instructions to two cubs about which toy each should grab.  It took a few moments of cajoling, but eventually each cub gripped the correct toy in his jaws and yanked it clear of the rack. The other instructor rewarded them with little hunks of meat.

“How many lions do you raise in a year?” the bishop asked in an effort to move on.

“It depends on how many Negotiators we have come of age. Most years, three or four. Sometimes more.”

“And they are not used for hunting?” This came from Mani, the first words he’d spoken all day. His accent was very odd, and despite his worldly education the host could not place it.

“Certainly not,” he answered smoothly. “We have whole teams of collectors. Young men with a stake in the game so they’re properly motivated.”

“How entrepreneurial of them,” the bishop remarked with pitch perfect sarcasm.

“Your supplies are collected in the field,” the host continued. “Then stored in a secret location before being sold by our Negotiators. If they are the ‘brain’ half of the puzzle, their lion partners are the ‘brawn.'”

Mani nodded. He understood that the materials for his thaumaturgy must come from somewhere. As a practitioner in Rome, it was easy to ignore the supply chain and enjoy the fruits of the work. But now that he was in Africa surrounded by a well-organized, rich, dangerous crime family, he was less enamored of his calling. He thumbed the cross in his left wrist and whispered a quick prayer.

The tour moved on, down one last hallway toward a door that led back outside. The host pushed the door open, and a blast of heat washed over them.

“We have our days in Rome, but this is unbearable,” the bishop said as he stepped outside. “Africa does not suit big men.”

“I think you may be right, Your Eminence. We have just one last thing to show you.”

Off the rear of the building was another sectioned-off area. There were no cub toys here, only an adolescent male and his partner. The young lion was just started to grow a mane, and it had come in patchy. It was much fuller on the bottom than the top. It made the lion appear to have a beard and bald head. Bishop Ferrara had to stifle a laugh when he caught sight of the creature.

“You know why we use these lions, yes?” the host prompted. “Why our thaumaturgical supply business survives where so many others fail?”

“It’s not a supply business,” Mani said with a certain amount of venom. “It’s a poacher’s paradise.”

The bishop tutted. “Mani, now is hardly the time or place.”

“In the den of the beast isn’t the time? When would be? At the gates of Hell, or should I wait until I’m already inside?”

“Father Mage, the crosses in your wrists,” the host said, his tone conciliatory. It was more & more evident that everything this man did was for show. “Would be entirely without power were it not for our business. Our fates are aligned, yours and mine.”

Mani opened his mouth to fire back, but stopped himself. His frustration was surely directed as much at himself as at the host. These were the criminals that supplied him with the ingredients he needed to do the Lord’s work. How could he blame them for his own sins, especially when they had so many sins of their own for which they must one day answer?

“Your Eminence, this has been a startling discovery for me,” Mani said quietly. “I beg apologies.”

“It has been that for us both, Mani. It was for that very reason we came.” The bishop rested a large but gentle hand on the thaumaturge’s shoulder. “We must see the strange ways in which He works. We cannot hope to understand it all, but we can strive to learn why He has shaped the world in certain ways. We can better perform His work with more knowledge, even if that knowledge is upsetting.”

Mani nodded, but did not trust himself to speak. There was both sound and faulty logic in that justification, but he knew this wasn’t the ideal time to continue this argument. He would return to Rome and confess. With a clearer head, he could better process what he had learned.

“Why choose lions?” Bishop Ferrara asked the host.

An unsettling grin blossomed on the man’s face. There was a twinkle in his eye, and the bishop wondered if he had been waiting for that question since they had arrived.

“It is easier to demonstrate than to explain.” He turned to Mani. “Are you ready?” Mani nodded, unsure for what situation he would need to be ready.

The host called to the lion’s partner. He barked a few orders. The young man nodded and gave quick instructions to the lion. He pointed to the visitors. The lion broke from its spot and dashed at the Bishop.

Mani reacted on instinct. He dug his fingers into two separate pouches, one on each side of his belt. Under his breath, he muttered the proper prayer to the proper saint and asked God to open the door between reality and impossibility.

The lion charged closer. His wide paws propelled him across the hard ground at a ferocious speed.

“Mani…” the bishop said, just a hint of fear in his voice. He was a bishop, confidante to the Pope, and one of the family’s biggest buyers. Surely they won’t have him killed on their own property and bring down the wrath of the whole of Christianity. Right?

With a thunderous clap, Mani slammed his hands together. A wide puff of dust surrounded his hands, then sizzled through some unseen chemical reaction.

Not ten yards away, the lion’s pace slowed. A loud whine escape its throat, and it shook its head and still-forming mane. After a moment, it appear to have recovered and stalked forward. Its whine transformed to a deep, guttural growl.

“What the hell…?” Mani wondered in shock. The spell was perfect, designed to wrap its target in unseen bindings. And yet here was the lion, hardly slowed by the effect.

The lion’s tail swished behind it. Mani saw its front legs bend and hind quarters wriggle just a little. It was about to pounce. He dug into another pair of pouches on his belt, but he feared it would be in vain.

From the left, there was a flash. The young lion tried to dodge backward and half succeeded. He was knocked to the ground, and quickly rolled to his back to show his stomach to the newcomer. He whined in submission.

Towering over him was a massive lion, white fur practically gleaming in the sunlight. It let out a deafening roar, and the adolescent awkwardly scrambled to its feet and dashed off back toward his human partner.

The host clapped, and the white lion padded over to him. It mewled, not unlike an enormous house cat, and shoved its head into the host’s offered hand for a satisfying scratch behind the ears.

“They’re immune,” Mani said, connecting the dots.

“Not entirely,” the host replied. “But yes, they’ve been bred down for generations. When dealing with the Vatican, we have no concerns about proper payments and above-board dealings. Not all thaumaturgical clients are as… reliably genteel.”

Bishop Ferrara nodded slowly. His heart thudded in his chest. That was unexpected, but not entirely undesired. Life in Rome had a particular cadence, and his days were strictly regimented. A little excitement, even the manufactured kind, was actually welcome.

“That completes the tour, gentlemen,” the host said. “We hope the Church will continue to enjoy our products for many years to come. Shall I have the Jeep come around?”

Ferrara nodded and thanked him again. As they circled back around the building, he organized his thoughts on how we would spin the results of this visit to the Pope and the Cardinals.

Beside him, Mani rubbed his left cross and pondered, hypothetically, his life without his craft. He would definitely have to confess as soon as he returned. But a little voice in his head wondered if that would be enough.