“Possibly. I think it’s a combination of the two, at least. But I’ll tell you something else. I believe with all my heart that Mary wants to be heard. Her apparitions have increased here in McLean over the last decade. She was all but haunting me over the last year, and I knew that I had to paint her in order to find any degree of peace. Once the portrait was finished and displayed, I was able to sleep again. In fact, I haven’t seen her since.”
Back in her hotel room later that night, Maureen swirled the red wine in her glass and gazed absently at it. She glanced up at the television, tuned to a cable channel, trying hard not to let the ultra-conservative talk show host get to her. Despite her outward appearance of strength, Maureen hated confrontation. Even the possibility that they might be discussing her work was painful. It was like watching a devastating car accident — she couldn’t tear her eyes away, no matter how unpleasant the sight before her.
The overzealous host introduced his esteemed guest, following with the question, “Isn’t this just another in a long line of attacks against the Church?”
The identifying title Bishop Magnus O’Connor appeared under the aging face of an irate cleric as he responded in an unmistakable Irish accent. “Of course. For centuries, we have endured the slander of misguided individuals who would attempt to damage the faith of millions for their own personal gain. These feminist extremists need to accept the fact that all of the recognized apostles were men.”
Maureen surrendered. She just wasn’t up to this tonight — it had been too long and emotional a day. With a touch of the remote control button, she silenced the churchman, wishing it were that easy in real life.
“Bite me, your holiness,” she grumbled, as she took herself off to bed.
A beam from the lights outside Maureen’s hotel room shone on the bedside table, illuminating her sleeping potions: a half-empty glass of red wine and a box of an over-the-counter sleep aid. A small crystal ashtray adjacent to a table lamp held the ancient copper ring from Jerusalem.
Maureen tossed restlessly, despite her self-medicating attempt at achieving undisturbed sleep. The dream came, as relentless as it was unbidden.
It started as it always did — the commotion, the sweat, the crowd. But when Maureen reached the part of the dream where she first spotted the woman, everything went black. She was plunged into a void for an unknowable amount of time.
And then, the dream changed.
On an idyllic day along the shores of the Sea of Galilee, a little boy ran ahead of his lovely mother. He did not share her startling hazel eyes and rich copper hair, as his little sister did. He had a different look, dark and intense, surprisingly brooding for such a small boy. Running to the shore, he picked up an interesting rock that caught his eye and held it up to glitter in the sun.
His mother called a warning to him not to go too far into the water. She was without her formal veil today, and her long, loose hair billowed around her face as she grabbed the hand of the little girl, who was a perfect miniature version of herself.
The voice of a man expressed a similar but good-natured warning to the tiny girl who had broken away from her mother’s grasp and now ran to join her brother. The child looked rebellious, but her mother laughed, glancing over a shoulder to smile intimately at the man who walked behind her. On this casual walk with his young family, his garment was unbleached and unbelted, not the pristine white robe he wore in public. He brushed long strands of chestnut-colored hair from his eyes and returned her smile with his own, an expression filled with love and contentment.
Maureen was thrust violently back into a waking state as if she had been thrown physically from the dream and propelled into her hotel room. She was shaking. The dreams always disturbed her, but this was even more disconcerting, this feeling of hurtling through time and space. She was breathing quickly, and made a concerted effort to regain her balance and breathe in a more relaxed fashion.
Maureen was just beginning to regain her bearings when she became aware of a movement across her room, in the doorway. She was sure of a rustle, yet sensed rather than saw the figure that appeared in the doorway of her room. What she actually did see was indefinable — a shape, a figure, a movement. It didn’t matter. Maureen knew who it was just as surely as she knew she was no longer dreaming. It was Her. She was here, in Maureen’s room.
Maureen swallowed. Her mouth was dry with shock and more than a little fear. She knew the figure in the doorway was not of the physical world, but she wasn’t sure if that was exactly comforting. She summoned all of her courage and managed to whisper to the shape in the doorway.
“What…tell me how I can help you. Please.”
There was a light rustle in reply, the swishing of a veil or the blowing of springtime leaves, and then nothing. The apparition vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Maureen jumped out of bed and switched on the light — 4:10 A.M., according to the digital clock. It was three hours earlier in Los Angeles. Forgive me, Father, she thought as she grabbed the phone from her nightstand and dialed as fast as her shaking fingers would allow. She needed her best friend — and maybe, just maybe, she needed a priest.
Peter’s insistent voice, with its comforting Irish lilt, brought Maureen back to earth.
“It is incredibly important that you keep track of these…well,…visions. I hope you are writing them down?”
“Visions? Please don’t go all Vatican on me, Pete.” Maureen groaned loudly. “I would die before becoming some weird cause célèbre for the Roman inquisition.”
“Pah, Maureen, I would never do such a thing to you. But what if these are visions? You can’t discount the potential importance of what you have been shown.”
“First of all, there have just been two so-called visions. The rest have been dreams. Very vivid and intense dreams, but dreams nonetheless. Maybe it’s the genetic madness setting in. Runs in the family, you know.” Maureen exhaled hard. “Damn, this is scaring me. You’re supposed to be helping me to calm down, remember?”
“Sorry. You’re right, and I do want to help you. But promise me you’ll write down the dates and the times of your vis — er, dreams. Just for our purposes. You’re a historian and a journalist. You of all people know that documenting your data is critical.”
Maureen allowed herself a little laugh at this. “Oh, yes, and this is certainly historical data.” She sighed across the telephone line. “Okay, I’ll do that. Maybe it will help me to make sense of it all someday. I just feel like there’s so much happening below the surface, and it’s all so completely out of my control.”
…I must write more now of Nathaneal, who we called Bartolome, for I have been so moved by his devotion. Bartolome was little more than a youth when he first joined us in Galilee. And while he had been expelled from the house of his noble father, Tolma of Canae, it was clear upon meeting him that there was nothing of the incorrigible within him — surely, a cruel and unwise patriarch had misjudged the beauty and promise of such a precious and special soul, a beautiful son. Easa saw this as well, and as immediately.
Bartolome could be understood with a glance into his eyes. Outside of Easa and my daughter, I have never seen such purity and goodness through the eyes. His cleanliness was revealed within them — a soul that is pure and pristine. On the day he arrived in my house at Magdala, my tiny son climbed into his lap and stayed there for the remainder of the evening. Children are the greatest judges, and Easa and I smiled at each other across the table as we watched little John with his newest friend. John confirmed for us what we both knew upon looking at Bartolome — he was part of our family, and would be for eternity.
THE ARQUES GOSPEL OF MARY MAGDALENE,
THE BOOK OF DISCIPLES
Chapter Five
Los Angeles
April 2005
Maureen was exhausted as she drove up to the valet parking area outside her upscale condominium building on Wilshire Boulevard. She allowed Andre, the attendant on duty, to park the car for her and ask
ed him to bring up her bag. The delayed flight out of Dulles, combined with her inability to sleep the night before, had left her nerves in a delicate state.
The last thing she expected or needed was a surprise, but that’s exactly what was waiting for her as she entered the lobby.
“Miss Paschal, good evening. Excuse me.” Laurence was the front-desk manager for the building. A diminutive and exacting man, he fussed as he came out from behind his desk to address Maureen. “Forgive me, I had to enter your unit this afternoon. The delivery was too large to keep here in the lobby. You should let us know in advance when you are expecting something of that size.”
“Delivery? What delivery? I wasn’t expecting anything.”
“Well, it is unmistakably for you. You must have quite an admirer.”
Puzzled, Maureen thanked Laurence and took the elevator to the eleventh floor. As the elevator door opened, she was hit with the heady scent of flowers. The perfume increased tenfold as she opened the door to her condo and gasped. She could not see her living room through the flowers. Elaborate floral arrangements were everywhere, some tall and on pillars, others in crystal vases placed on tables. They all held a variation of the same theme — rich red roses, calla lilies, and lush, white Casablanca lilies. The lilies, in full flower, were the source of the intoxicating scent in the room.
Maureen didn’t have to look for a card. It was present, against the far wall of her living room, in an enormous gilt-framed painting that depicted a classical, pastoral scene. Three shepherds, toga-clad and laurel-crowned, were gathered around a large stone object that appeared to be a freestanding tomb. They were pointing to an inscription. The focal point of the painting was a woman, a red-haired shepherdess who appeared to be their leader.
Her face had been painted to bear an uncanny resemblance to Maureen’s.
Les Bergers d’Arcadie. Peter read the inscription on a brass plaque at the base of the frame, impressed with the excellent copy that stood in Maureen’s living room. “By Nicolas Poussin, the French Baroque master. I’ve seen the original of this painting; it’s in the Louvre.”
Maureen listened as Peter continued, relieved that he had come over so quickly. “The English translation of the title is The Shepherds of Arcadia.”
“I’m not sure if I should be wildly flattered or completely creeped out. Please tell me that in the original, the shepherdess doesn’t look like I modeled for her.”
Peter laughed a little. “No, no. That appears to be an addition made by the reproduction artist, or the sender. Who is…?”
Maureen shook her head and handed a large envelope to Peter. “It was sent by someone named…Sinclair, something. No idea who he is.”
“A fan? A fanatic? A nutcase crawling from the woodwork after reading your book?”
Maureen laughed a little nervously. “Could be. My publisher has forwarded some pretty weird letters to me in the last few months.”
“Fan mail or hate mail?”
“Both.”
Peter removed a letter from a large envelope. It was written in an elaborate hand on elegant vellum stationery. A prominent, engraved fleur-de-lis, the symbol of European royalty for centuries, adorned the parchment. Gilded letters at the bottom of the page announced the author as Bérenger Sinclair. Peter unfolded his reading glasses and read aloud:
My Dear Ms. Paschal:
Please forgive the intrusion.
But I believe I have the answers you have been looking for — and you have some that I have been looking for. If you have the courage to stand behind your beliefs and to take part in an amazing expedition to uncover the truth, I hope you will join me in Paris on the summer solstice. The Magdalene herself requests your presence. Do not disappoint her. Perhaps this painting will serve to stimulate your subconscious. Think of it as a map of sorts — a map to your future and perhaps to your past. I am confident that you will do honor to the great Paschal name, as your father tried to.
Yours most sincerely,
Bérenger Sinclair
“The great Paschal name? Your father?” Peter queried. “What do you suppose that’s about, then?”
“No clue.” Maureen was trying to take it all in. The mention of her father had unsettled her, but she didn’t want Peter to know that. Her reply was flip.
“You know about my father’s family. From the backwoods and swamps of Louisiana. Nothing exalted about them, unless insanity equals greatness.”
Peter said nothing and waited for her to continue. Maureen rarely spoke of her father, and he was curious to see if she would elaborate. He was slightly disappointed when she shrugged it off.
Maureen took the letter from Peter and read it again. “Weird. What answers do you suppose he’s talking about? He couldn’t possibly know about my dreams. Nobody does but you and me.” She ran her finger along the letter as she mused.
Peter looked around the room at the opulent display of flowers and the towering piece of art. “Whoever he is, this whole scenario smacks of two things — fanaticism and big money. In my experience, that’s a bad combination.”
Maureen was only half listening.
“Look at the quality of this stationery, it’s gorgeous. Very French. And this design embossed along the edges here…what are they? Grapes?” Something about the pattern on the stationery was ringing bells in her brain. “Blue apples?”
Adjusting the glasses on his nose, Peter peered at the bottom of the letter. “Blue apples? Hmm, I think you may be right. Look at this; there appears to be an address here at the bottom of the page. Le Château des Pommes Bleues.”
“My French isn’t flawless by any means, but isn’t that something about blue apples?”
Peter nodded. “Castle — or house — of the Blue Apples. Does that mean something to you?”
Maureen nodded slowly, thinking. “Damn, I can’t put my finger on it. I know I came across references to blue apples in my research. It’s a code of some kind, I think. It had something to do with the religious groups in France who worshiped Mary Magdalene.”
“The ones who believed that she went to France after the crucifixion?”
Maureen nodded. “The Church persecuted them as heretics because they claimed their teachings came directly from Christ. They were forced underground and evolved into secret societies, one of which was symbolized by blue apples.”
“Okay, but what is the specific significance of blue apples?”
“I don’t remember the answer to that.” Maureen was thinking hard, but couldn’t come up with it. “But I know somebody who will.”
Marina del Rey, California
April 2005
MAUREEN STROLLED along the harbor in Marina del Rey. Luxury sailing craft, the perks of the Hollywood overprivileged, gleamed in the southern California sun. A surfer wearing a ripped T-shirt and the motto “Just Another Shitty Day in Paradise” waved to her from the deck of a small yacht. His skin was suntanned and his hair bleached by the relentless rays. Maureen didn’t know him, but the beatific smile combined with the beer bottle in his hand indicated that he was in a friendly mood.
Maureen waved back and walked on, headed for a complex of restaurants and touristy boutiques. She turned in to El Burrito, a Mexican restaurant with a patio on the water.
“Reenie! I’m over here!”
Maureen heard Tammy before she saw her, which was most often the case. She turned in the direction of the voice and found her friend sipping a mango margarita at an outdoor table.
Tamara Wisdom was a study in contrast to Maureen Paschal. Statuesque and olive-skinned, she was beautiful in an exotic way. She wore straight black hair to her waist, and streaked it with various vibrant colors that were determined by her mood. Today it was laced with shiny violet highlights. Her nose was pierced and decorated with a surprisingly large diamond — the gift of a former boyfriend, who happened to be a successful independent film director. Her ears were stacked with multiple piercings, and she wore several amulets of esoteric design over her black
lace tank top. She was nearly forty but looked a full ten years younger.
Tammy was flamboyant where Maureen was conservative, loud and opinionated where Maureen was discreet and careful. They could not have been more different in their lives and work, yet they had found a ground of mutual respect that had made them fast friends.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Tammy.” Maureen sat down and ordered iced tea. Tammy rolled her eyes, but was too excited by the reason for their meeting to berate Maureen for her conservative beverage choice.
“Are you kidding? Bérenger Sinclair is stalking you and you think I wouldn’t want to hear every juicy detail?”
“Well, you were very coy with me on the phone, so you’d better own up. I can’t believe you know this guy.”
“I can’t believe you don’t. How in God’s name — literally — did you publish a book that includes Mary Magdalene without going to France for research? And you call yourself a journalist.”
“I do call myself a journalist, which is precisely why I didn’t go to France. I have no interest in all that secret society stuff. That’s your department, not mine. I went to Israel to do serious research on the first century.”
The good-natured ribbing was integral to their friendship. Maureen had first met Tammy during her research; a mutual friend had introduced them after learning that Maureen was investigating Mary Magdalene’s life for her book. Tammy had published several alternative books on secret societies and alchemy, and a documentary she made about underground spiritual traditions featuring Magdalene worship had received critical acclaim on the festival circuit. Maureen had been shocked by what a close-knit network esoteric researchers maintained, because it seemed that Tammy knew everyone. And while Maureen quickly realized that Tammy’s alternative approach was far from what she was looking for in terms of respectable source material, she also recognized the sharp mind behind the heavy eye makeup, the substance beneath the show. Maureen admired Tammy’s raw courage and brutal honesty, even when she was on the receiving end of her needling.
The Expected One Page 6
