The simple walnut urn rested in the center of the cathedral’s immense transept. Filtered through stained glass, the late morning sunlight bathed the scene in a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors — cool sapphire, deep ruby red, and warm gold.

Brown sat off to the side, an outsider. Not family, not friend. Not Catholic. In the packed assembly, gathered together to celebrate a life, to mourn a death, he felt alone. The thunderous organ did not move him, and the beautiful hymns faded into the background of his thoughts. Out of respect, he followed the lead of those around him, standing and sitting at the appropriate points of the liturgy. But he gave no thought to it.

Tilda walked up to read the older scripture passage. Her voice was clear, but subdued, and the words penetrated Brown’s reverie. “‘Having been disciplined a little, they will receive great good, because God tested them and found them worthy of himself; like gold in the furnace he tried them, and like a sacrificial burnt offering he accepted them. . . .’”

A cantor led the Congregation in a psalm, and Brown joined in the final verse. “‘The dying of those who keep faith is precious to our God. I am your servant, called from your hands, you have set me free.’”

Max squeezed his twin’s hand, his message plain. You’ve got this.

Clara shot him a grateful look, then rose and stepped past Kurt and Elsa to get to the center aisle. She walked to the reader’s stand, visibly nervous, trying to be calm and still her pounding heart. Come on, she told herself. You can at least do a fricking READING without falling apart!

“‘A reading from the first Letter of St. John.’” She had to swallow before she continued, easing the constriction in her throat. Dammit! I picked the reading that WOULDN’T make me cry! She took a steadying breath before continuing. “‘We know that we have passed from death to life because we love one another. Whoever does not love abides in death.’”

Clara’s voice wobbled uncontrollably as she fought back her emotions, but the words of the scripture still had power. As she read the conclusion of the epistle, Brown felt the resonance of the words, and bent his head. “‘We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us — and we ought to lay down our lives for one another.’”

As Clara returned to her pew, thankful that she had managed to get through the part she had insisted on taking, the choir sang alleluias and a Deacon carried the Book of the Gospels to the pulpit, led by a young Acolyte swinging a thurible. The sweet smell of incense slowly permeated the area closest to the sanctuary.

Brown let the Gospel words wash over him. “‘When was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when did we see you sick or in prison, and visited you?’ And the king will answer and say to them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’”

After the Gospel, the Cardinal spoke, a smooth baritone that effortlessly carried to every corner of the cathedral by an exquisite and expensive sound system. His theme, it seemed, was the Parable of the Talents. And Quentin Cromwell, graced by God with many gifts, exemplified the good and faithful servant whose industry allowed him to multiply the gift and return double to his master.

Brown gave the homily little mind. It was competently constructed, well-executed, and entirely predictable; he’d heard variations on several occasions. The Cardinal’s remarks had no doubt been carefully scrutinized to ensure that nothing might cause any offense, but it was thin gruel for any soul that held a spark of life.

Darcy came to the inevitable conclusion of his narrative, foreseeable and foreseen, then said, “The family of our dearly departed brother in Christ has asked that a Truth Speaker be permitted to give some brief remarks. In light of Quentin Cromwell’s many, many contributions to this faith community, this country, and our world, we could not in conscience deny the request. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the tradition, the Truth Speaker’s address cannot be seen by anyone else before it has been delivered publicly. The speaker’s views are, therefore, his own, and his alone. Mr. Brown?”

Brown rose and paced forward, walking directly in front of the pews where the principal mourners were seated. He saw each face clearly. Tilda and her family. The twins, Max and Clara. Kurt. Dr. Elsa. Oskar would no doubt be watching the live feed, along with millions of others. The Truth Speaker felt the weight of their grief, their need for consolation.

Behind the family, well-known dignitaries were seated, each place designated in accordance with arcane protocol. Pride of place went to Halsey Barnes, the Second Republic’s Executive Vice President for Domestic Policy. With her reelection campaign in full swing, it was unthinkable that she would not be present and visible at so important a civic occasion.

When he reached the center aisle, Brown paused and laid his hands on the urn; he couldn’t say why. Maybe he sought a blessing. Maybe he sought forgiveness.

Then he turned and walked up the seven broad steps that led to the sanctuary, his pace slow and deliberate. He would speak from the lectern rather than the pulpit; it was not his job to proclaim the Gospel or to preach it. Although Catholic liturgical practices were different from those of his own church, both worshiped the same God, and he was acutely aware that he stood on holy ground. Within the bounds of his oath, he would respect its traditions.

He carefully took an envelope from the pocket of his black suit jacket. Cracking the seal, he removed his handwritten notes and set them on the lectern.

His eyes swept the vast space. The Gothic columns spiraling upwards, ending in the ceiling’s intricate tracery. The stained glass and the marble, the polished and gleaming wood, and the sea of faces. Quiet. Expectant.

Clara Cromwell, sitting with her siblings in the first pew, watched him with dread and excitement. What would he say?

He began with the words he had spoken on hundreds of occasions. The required formal beginning. “My name is John Covenant Brown, and I am here to speak the truth.

“Every human life is a story. Who they are, what they did . . . and were. To understand a person better, when their life is done, we can ask how they achieved what they did — and, perhaps most crucially, why. In this endeavor, the limits of our own human understanding must be clearly understood, for as St. Paul reminds us, we see through a glass, darkly. But there are lessons to be learned from every life — reasons for inspiration, perhaps, or caution. We honor the dead by examining their lives carefully and honestly, and by seeking the truths that their lives can illuminate.

“We gather today to remember Quentin Cromwell, the ‘Little Giant.’ His story is well-known to you all, from his years as a brilliant student, to his flight to Europe, only half a step ahead of the secret police, to his successful career as an inventor and entrepreneur. The man who created the battery and solar technologies that revolutionized not just energy, but power. Political power.

“You know about his return to the United States in 2039, after the fall of the Empire, and his work for the miliary junta. His inspired service in the Constitutional Commission in ‘44, and his dedicated championing of civil and political rights. The Cardinal has spoken eloquently of his philanthropy. These are facts, and facts are truth.

“We come, then, to the question of ‘how.’ Let me start with more facts. Cromwell tested out of high school and entered college at age 15, being given a full scholarship at one of the old republic’s most storied and prestigious universities. He was awarded a Bachelor of Science degree with highest honors three years later. His doctoral degree, at 23, seems slow by comparison, but that was only because he refused, adamantly, to confine his studies to a single field. He studied advanced mathematics, electrical and software engineering and physics . . . but also history, philosophy, architecture and art.

“Cromwell was, in short, a brilliant and gifted polymath who could have made his mark in any number of fields. But beginning in his late twenties, he developed a capacity for intense concentration which was wholly at odds with his prior habits. He became driven — even frenzied. He worked almost constantly. And in this period, he achieved the successes for which he is justly revered.

“And that leads to the final question, which lies at the heart of the task I am asked to undertake. Why.

“Why did Cromwell suddenly become focused and driven? Why did he turn to battery technologies and solar power? Why? As you may imagine, there’s a story.

“Quentin Cromwell’s life was shaped by two people — a couple — who are unknown to history. Their names do not appear on the chyrons of the newpress; no-one makes biopics about them, or studies their words.

“The woman’s name was Hope, and Cromwell first encountered her all the way back in elementary school. They grew up together and were always close. Hope was the sister of Cromwell’s heart – ebullient, passionate, and full of life.

“Cromwell and Hope both attended old Columbia University, where Cromwell did his doctoral and post-doctoral work. It was at Columbia that they met the second person whose life left an indelible print on them both – a man they called ‘Schatz.’ Schatz was disciplined and methodical, where Cromwell was brilliant and intuitive. They became friends, collaborators, and competitors all at once, sharing the common dream of that time – creating something that would bring instant wealth, respect and status.”

In the front pew, Max leaned close to Clara. “You have any idea who he’s talking about?”

Clara was equally bewildered, thinking, what are you DOING? In a hushed whisper, she responded, “You’re asking me?”

At the lectern, Brown continued. “Hope and Schatz were made for each other – their minds, hearts, and bodies shaped and molded to a perfect match. The love that grew between them was deep and profound. It was physical, and spiritual, and transcendently beautiful.

“Anyone who lived through those tempestuous years can guess the next part of the story. The old Republic was on its last legs, and the Purge of the Elites was just beginning. Columbia University was ground zero for the regime’s attacks. Early on, Schatz was arrested, detained, and disappeared, but not before he managed to lead the secret police on a chase that gave both Hope and Cromwell the opportunity to escape.

“They became exiles, and Hope only lived for the day that the darkness that had swallowed her world, and her love, might somehow be beaten back.

“But the darkness only grew. Back home, the last President abolished the old republic and declared himself Emperor. The secret police were augmented by secret prisons and, soon after, by secret courts. Cromwell and Schatz were both tried in absentia by the Imperial Court on Unamerican Activities, where no notice was ever given, no defenses permitted. Where conviction was assured, and the only sentence was death. But Cromwell, at that point living in Germany, was beyond the court’s power.

“The rise of the empire created a rupture in international relations. Alliances shifted. The liberal world order teetered, and a new constellation of powers rose, eager to replace it with an age of despotism.

“Cromwell teamed up with Werner Kaufmann and focused all his energy on revolutionizing battery technologies. The results of his efforts are known to all of you . . . to all the world. What is not known, however, is that Cromwell’s work was inspired and driven by the sister of his heart.

“Though she became a recluse, a name known only to Cromwell and his wife Anna, Hope remained in near constant communication with Cromwell. He shaped his powerful intellect to the fire of her will, her passionate desire to deliver the world from oppression, and her hope – her foolish, crazy hope – that somehow, somewhere, Schatz still lived.”

Elsa and Kurt, seated next to each other on Clara’s right, exchanged puzzled looks. Elsa murmured, “Did Dad ever say anything to you about these people?”

Kurt shook his head and leaned closer. “Maybe Mutter said something to Tilda?” But their older sister was on the other end of the pew.

“The Empire was the last of the despotisms to be established, but it was the first to fall. The Defiance movement was bankrolled, in part, by émigrés, and unsurprisingly Quentin Cromwell was among the largest donors. But he had to watch events from overseas, and was unable to shape them directly. He had no ties to Lemuel Markley, or to the military men who overthrew the Empire in ‘39.

“Everyone knows Cromwell returned to America after the junta established martial law, leaving his family behind. Biographers have suggested that he did so secretly, either to further his business interests, or to make personal contacts with people in the Defiance movement. The assumption is that his presence was discovered, he was arrested and then compelled to work for the junta.”

Brown looked up, scanning the congregation. His eyes lingered on three distinguished looking men, two wearing the formal robes of the National Academy of Remembrance, immediately recognizing Piers Danton, Martin Peske and Lyman Salazar, eminent historians who had written Cromwell biographies.

Brown’s voice took on a harsher tone. “The conventional wisdom is wrong, and does an enormous injustice to the memory of Quentin Cromwell. He opposed oppression in all its forms, and would never have served the junta just to protect his own skin.”

He had their attention now. Max leaned over to Tilda and whispered, “he’s right – that story never made any sense to me.”

“Then why did Mutter tell us it was true?”

Brown turned the page of his notes, giving the silence time to build. “Shortly after they assumed control of the government, the junta turned their attention to the secret prisons that had popped up all over the country during the Emperor’s reign of terror. Deep in the bayous of Louisiana, forgotten by the world, government agents found what was left of Schatz. Through either calculation or bureaucratic incompetence, the sentence of death was never carried out. Tortured, debased, broken – yes. All of that, day in and day out, for over a decade. Yet he still lived.

“The junta was desperate to try to make up for a decade when other nations had leapfrogged American technology and left it in the dust. When they reviewed the secret files on Schatz and discovered his link to the now-famous Quentin Cromwell, they decided he was too valuable to release. Instead, they contacted the Cromwells in Germany and offered to suspend Schatz’s death sentence indefinitely, so long as Quentin returned to the United States and worked for them. It was a decision that Quentin and Anna took together, and she supported him completely.”

Kurt’s “holy shit” was just loud enough for Clara and Elsa to hear, but fortunately no-one else.

“The junta were too insecure and untrusting to give up their leverage. For five years, Quentin Cromwell worked for them, and for five years — five more years — Schatz remained in prison. It was a nicer prison, naturally. No more torture.” Mentally, Brown added, no more rape. “He got decent food and medical care. But it was prison just the same.”

“In April of 2042, Anna Cromwell boarded a flight to Madrid, where her mother had moved after retiring. A software error caused the plane to crash, and there were no survivors. Quentin had no choice but to have his children join him in New York, since he was not permitted to leave the United States.

“Those children — the ones here today, and their brother on Luna Station — are enormously proud of their Father. Of his dedication, his values, and his many achievements. One cannot speak with them — any of them — without feeling the truth of their admiration. Yet, they always knew their father was not theirs, alone. They had to share him with his work, with his vocation. They had to share him, in a sense, with the whole world.

“What they didn’t know, of course, was that they also shared him with Schatz . . . the man who had saved him from the secret police, and the man he saved in turn, by offering to work for the junta. Schatz was only released when martial law ended in the fall of ’45, after the first elected government of the Second Republic was sworn into office. Cromwell took him in, installed him in an apartment building he owned in the city, and devoted hours each week to helping him heal in mind, soul, and body.”

The family members in the front pew exchanged looks.

“He’s at the Brownstone?” Max asked Clara.

“Think about it,” she whispered back. “Father spent a lot of time there, even when we were living in Westchester.”

“But why didn’t he say anything about it?”

She shook her head, her eyes focused at the lectern.

Brown’s eyes touched Clara’s for an instant, then swept outward, as if declining a challenge. “There you have it. The truth beneath the known facts. The ‘why’ that makes sense of Cromwell’s marvelous, brilliant career. A tyrant forced him into exile and destroyed his friend, and thus he spent his life fighting any and all tyrannies. Fighting for dignity, freedom, and the inalienable – and equal – rights of every person. As he told Clara, near the end of his life, Quentin Cromwell kept faith. How could anyone hear this story without being inspired?”

He looked down at his notes, though he knew there was nothing more. Nothing beyond the formal closing. The story was true . . . after a fashion. Not the whole truth, of course, but truer than anything that had been written about Cromwell before. It was truth that the family, the church, and the country could accept without fracturing. Was it enough?

His head said yes; his heart said no.

In his fifteen years as a Truth Speaker, he had addressed mourners at hundreds of funerals. He understood crowds and could get an instinctive feel for their dynamics. And he could tell that the congregation was puzzled, sensing that there was more to the story. Unsatisfied at a causal argument that was clean, neat, and incomplete. They might not know what was missing, but they could tell that something was. They could sense he was holding back.

Outside, the sun broke free from the clouds, sending a shaft of light through the scarlet cloak of Paul the Apostle, frowning down from a high clerestory window. Looking out from the elevated podium, Brown saw the light fall on Delaney Bentham where she sat with a small group of women, and her upturned face flamed red as arterial blood.

Brown could not turn from the sight.

He found himself remembering Lemuel Markley’s famous exhortation to the Church Elders who wanted the Congregation to watch and wait, remaining neutral in the struggle between the Defiance movement and the Empire. “You are right to hope for better days, Brothers, but hope is no reason for hesitation. No excuse for delay. Tomorrow will only be better if we do what we know is right, today.”

Markley’s speech was inscribed on the eastern wall of the Shrine of Remembrance and taught to school children. It had fired Brown’s heart when he’d heard it as a young man. And he realized, as he looked at Delany Bentham, that the Chief Elder’s words were as applicable to the present moment as they had been twenty years before.

Half-truths and evasions today would not ensure a better tomorrow for the women Cromwell had saved. The future was unknowable, but history suggested that left unanswered, bigotry is more likely to advance than recede. At best, a reckoning might be delayed. It could not be avoided.

His best course – his only course – was to do what he knew to be right, today and every day.

Brown had revered Chief Elder Markley and always would. He knew his old mentor, who had a convert’s zeal for the Congregation’s traditional doctrine, would never have approved of what he was about to say. But Markley, of all people, would have understood why Brown had to say it.

I took an oath.

So the Truth Speaker squared his shoulders and laid his palms flat on the lectern. The wood felt more alive than he did. “If I ended the story there, you would leave comforted and comfortable. But there is more to tell, and I am sworn to tell it.”

His words, and the grimness of his tone, caused the family to exchange looks of consternation. Brown couldn’t blame them, but he was committed, now.

“You might be wondering why Cromwell took Schatz in. Why it fell to Cromwell to tend his wounds and bring him back to a semblance of life. Where, after all, was Hope? Where was the woman whose fierce love for Schatz had inspired Cromwell’s crusade against tyranny?”

All eyes were on him now, and the silence in the Cathedral was near-deafening.

“Well, Hope was there. She did come for her beloved. She tended him with infinite love and care. Soothed his heart, eased his mind. Nursed his broken body. It took years, but they were, finally, able to love as they once loved. As any man might love any woman.”

He paused, feeling the tightness in his chest, like his heart hurt. “Oh, yes. Hope was there for her Schatz – her ‘Treasure’ – the man once known to the world as Lukas Wolff. Hope was there for him, and Cromwell was there, too, because they were one and the same. Two names for the same person — an extraordinary transgender woman whose entire life was a testament to the power of her love. Cromwell kept faith, because Hope would not — could not — give up or give in.”

The silence lasted for maybe five seconds before the entire Cathedral erupted in a cacophony of sound.

In the front pew, Elsa was spitting curses at Clara, who stared back, defiant. Kurt had completely lost his usual air of detached amusement. But Tilda, child of Anna’s heart, and Max, ever the scientist, looked quiet. Thoughtful. Brown was struck, in the moment, by how much Max looked like his uncle.

In the VIP section, an aid was speaking urgently in the Executive Vice President’s ear. She bent her head to catch his words, and her expression managed to encapsulate all the conflict of the moment, all the worry that Brown himself had experienced like the tremors that presage a coming earthquake.

Monsignor Calloway slipped next to the cathedra where the Cardinal sat, his eyes dark under lowered brows. “Your Eminence — should I have him escorted out?”

The Cardinal hesitated for an instant, then shook his head. “Too late for that now, Martin.”

The sound grew like a building wave, and Brown faced it without flinching. He knew how shocked they were, because he’d been just as shocked.

When Brown sensed that the sound in the cathedral had reached its crest, he waited a little longer, and then just a bit more, before leaning so close to the mic that he could have taken a bite out of it. Then he let his voice boom across the soaring space, rebounding off the polished stone like thunder in the mountains. “Will you deny the truth, in a house of God?”

In the wake of his roar, the talking ceased, and the congregation stared at him, momentarily stunned.

As Brown intended.

“I have spoken the truth about Quentin Cromwell. About Hope. But the harder truth is the one that his life – that her life – illuminates with the brightness of the sun at its zenith. A truth about you, and me, and our supposedly tolerant society. So I ask you: Are you upset, as I was, to discover that Quentin Cromwell was trans? Are you angry? Disappointed? Are you?”

No one answered, but Brown saw affirmation in a sea of angry faces and a host of scalding glares. Then his eyes slid to where Delaney Bentham sat, weeping. For her, and for those who were beside her, the truth held no sting. No shame. Her tears did not signal condemnation, but communion.

His voice dropped, losing volume but gaining in intensity. “Consider the words of the Book of Wisdom, which Tilda read minutes ago. Wasn’t Cromwell tested in life, like gold in the furnace? Think of the epistle Clara read, from John of Patmos. The Beloved Disciple. Didn’t Lukas and Hope, at different points, lay down their lives for each other?

“And finally, reflect on the Gospel message that we are judged by how we treat the least among us. Prisoners. Refugees. Social outcasts, pushed to the edge, or off the ledge. Quentin Cromwell surely passed that Gospel test. Can we say the same?”

Brown’s eyes blazed in challenge. “Would you reject a life dedicated to the eradication of despotism and the liberation of the human spirit, simply because Quentin Cromwell was transgendered?”

The silence now was absolute. Anger still . . . but also shame.

“Maybe you would not go so far.” Brown modulated his voice, sounding thoughtful and reasonable, like an academic considering both sides of a hypothetical. “Maybe you would just say we should celebrate Cromwell’s achievements, while considering his ‘personal life’ to be regrettable, but irrelevant.”

His voice changed again, harsh as a lash on tender flesh “That comfortable position ignores the central truth of Cromwell’s life! He would never have achieved the things we celebrate today if he had not been driven by Hope, and by her love for Lukas Wolff. Never. Quentin and Anna Wolff married, so that they could raise children to his memory. Quentin discovered ground-breaking technologies to loose the grip of the kind of tyrants who had disappeared his love and condemned his very existence. He fought to break up aggregations of power, and for a new basic charter, because he wanted to protect Lukas and everyone like him.”

Again his eyes searched every face. “That is who Quentin Cromwell was. Who Hope was. All that they achieved, they achieved together. And that, my friends, is the truth.”

Not a single voice answered.

“Like all Truth Speakers, I am a member of the New Apostle’s Congregation. I have been proud — sinfully proud — of my Church’s contribution to the downfall of the Empire. It was my privilege to stand with Chief Elder Lemuel Markley in Lafayette Square on the glorious Seventh of September, and to speak at his funeral fifteen years later. But as I stand before you today, one last truth presents itself, and I cannot evade it.

“The Empire was built on division. On fear of the ‘others’ among us. My own church, and this church, where we now stand, helped to fan those flames of division. It is not enough that we have laws to protect people like Hope and Lukas. The old republic had laws like that, too. Unless and until we can see all of God’s children as our brothers and sisters — including those who experience gender and sexuality in ways that differ from ‘tradition,’ — Quentin Cromwell’s life’s work remains unfinished. The Empire is gone, but its like will rise again.”

Looking to the place of honor where Executive Vice President Barnes was seated with other dignitaries and officials, Brown was reassured to see, in her steady gaze and the firm set of her jaw, that uncertainty had given way to understanding and resolve. She, at least, felt the truth of his words.

Quietly, prayerfully, he brought his remarks to a close. “You came here today to celebrate Quentin, and instead you have found Hope — a transwoman whose life is no less remarkable. No less worthy of celebrating. She is beyond our judgment now, but you and I, and the institutions we support, are not. They can be better. We can be better.”

The Congregation, he could see, was deeply divided. Hostility remained, and anger, and shame, and disbelief. All that. But the family was weeping, and comforting each other, and there were a few faces that showed some appreciation for what they had heard. He had to believe that, with time, the truth would bloom within their hearts, in all its terrible, inexorable, beauty.

His hands gripped the sides of the lectern, and he took a moment to let the silence fill his aching soul. “I am John Covenant Brown, and by my oath I have spoken the truth.”

– The end.

January 25, 2026
Emma Anne Tate

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.