The Expected One

by Kathleen McGowan

  Maureen walked outside the gates, around the cemetery’s perimeter, until she arrived at another set of burial plots. These graves were overgrown with moss and weeds, neglected and pathetic. This was the misfit burial ground.

  She walked slowly, carefully, and reverently. She fought back tears as she climbed over forgotten graves of individuals who had been abandoned even in death. Next time she would bring more flowers, flowers for all of them.

  Kneeling, she pushed aside the weeds that covered a battered grave marker. The name revealed was Edouard Paul Paschal.

  Using her hands, Maureen began to rip at the offending growth with a vengeance. Debris flew as she cleared the area, oblivious to the dirt and mud that accumulated under her fingernails and splattered her clothing. She smoothed the area with her hands and rubbed the grave marker to give more definition to the letters of the occupant’s name.

  When she was satisfied that she had cleaned the area as well as she could, Maureen set the flowers on the grave. She removed the picture frame from her handbag and looked at the photograph for a moment, allowing the tears to come. The image showed Maureen as a child, no more than five or six years old, sitting on the knee of a man who was reading to her from a storybook. The two were smiling happily at each other, oblivious of the camera.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she whispered softly to the photo, before placing it against the headstone.

  Maureen lingered for a moment, eyes closed, lost in her attempt to recall her father in any kind of detail. Outside of this photograph, she had very little to prompt memories of him. After his death, her mother had forbidden any discussion of the man or his role in their lives. He simply ceased to exist for them, as did his family. Maureen and her mother had moved to Ireland very soon after that. Her past in Louisiana was relegated to the dim memories of a traumatized and grieving child.

  Earlier that morning, Maureen had thumbed through a New Orleans phone book looking for residents named Paschal. There were a number of them, some that may have been familiar. But she had closed the book quickly, never really intending to make any contact with potential relatives, not after all this time and certainly not now. It had been more of an exercise in remembering.

  Maureen touched the photograph in farewell, then wiped the tears away with a muddy hand that smeared grime across her face. She didn’t care. She rose and retraced her steps without looking back, stopping outside the main entrance gates. Inside the cemetery proper, a pristine white chapel crowned with a polished brass cross gleamed in the southern sunshine.

  Maureen stared at the church through the bars, an outsider looking in.

  She shielded her eyes from the glare of the light shining from the brass cross, then turned her back on the church and walked away.

  Vatican City, Rome

  June 2005

  TOMAS CARDINAL DECARO stood up from his desk and looked out the window onto the piazza. His aging eyes weren’t the only thing that needed a break from the stack of yellowed papers on his desk. His mind and his conscience needed to rest and ruminate on the information he had received this morning. There was an earthquake coming, that much was certain. What he wasn’t sure about was just how much damage this particular cataclysm was going to inflict — and who its victims would be.

  He opened his top desk drawer to look at the item that gave him strength at such times. It was a portrait of the Blessed Pope John XXIII under the heading Vatican Secundum — Vatican II. Beneath the image was a quote from this great and visionary leader who risked much to bring his beloved Church into the contemporary world. While DeCaro knew these words by rote, it fortified him to read them:

  “It is not that the gospel has changed. It is that we have begun to understand it better. The moment has come to discern the signs of the times, to seize the opportunity and look far ahead.”

  Outside, summer was approaching, and it was promising to be a beautiful day in Rome. DeCaro decided to play truant for a few hours and take a long stroll through his beloved Eternal City.

  He needed to walk, he needed to think, and above all he needed to pray for guidance. Perhaps the guiding spirit of the good Pope John would help him to find his way through the coming crisis.

  …Bartolome came to us through Philip, another of our tribe to be misjudged — and I will confess here that I was the first to misjudge him. He was long a follower of John, the Baptizer, and I knew of him from that association. Because of this, it took some time before I learned to trust Philip.

  Philip was an enigma as a man — practical and educated. I was able to speak to him in the language of the Hellenists, in which I was also schooled. He came from nobility, having been born in Bethsaida, yet he had long chosen to live a life of utmost simplicity, denying himself the trappings of noble life. This trait he learned first from John. Philip was difficult and quarrelsome on the surface, but beneath this he was light and goodness.

  There was nothing in Philip that would harm another living thing. Indeed, he was most severe about his eating habits and would not consume food that caused the suffering of any animal. While the remainder of our tribe fed on fish, Philip would not hear of it. He was unable to bear the idea of the tender mouths being torn by hooks, or the agony he felt they must suffer when trapped in nets. He had many quarrels with Peter and Andrew on this dilemma! I have thought about it often. Perhaps he was right, and his commitment to this belief is just one of the reasons I admired him.

  I sometimes felt that Philip was much like the animals he so revered, those that protect themselves with spines or armor on the exterior, so that nothing is able to pierce the soft creature underneath. Yet he took Bartolome into his protection when he found him on the road and without a home. He saw the goodness in Bartolome, and brought that goodness to us.

  After the Time of Darkness, Philip and Bartolome were my greatest comfort. They made the initial preparations with Joseph to quickly take all of us to safety in Alexandria, away from our own land. Bartolome was as important to the children as were the women. Indeed, he was the greatest comfort for little John, who loves all the men. But Sarah-Tamar adored Bartolome as much.

  Yes, these two men deserve a place in heaven that is filled with light and perfection for all eternity. Philip became concerned only about protecting us and seeing us safely to our destination. I think he would have stopped at nothing, no matter what I asked of him. Had I told Philip that our destination was the moon itself, he would have tried everything in his power to get us there.

  THE ARQUES GOSPEL OF MARY MAGDALENE,

  THE BOOK OF DISCIPLES

  Chapter Six

  Paris

  June 19, 2005

  The sun sparkled on the Seine as Maureen and Peter walked along the river. Paris was bathed in the warm light of early summer, and the two were content to relax a little and enjoy the sights of the world’s most beautiful city. There would be opportunity enough to worry about the meeting with Sinclair in two days’ time.

  They were enjoying ice cream cones, eating rapidly before the confections could drip in the sun and leave a sticky rainbow trail in their wake.

  “Mmm, you were right, Pete. Berthillon just may be the best ice cream in the world. This is amazing.”

  “What flavor did you get?”

  Maureen was practicing her French. “Poivre.”

  “Pepper?” Peter burst out laughing. “You got pepper-flavored ice cream?”

  Maureen turned red with embarrassment but tried again. “Pauvre?”

  “Poor? You got a poor flavor?”

  “Okay, I surrender. Stop tormenting me. It’s pear-flavored.”

  “Poire. Poire is pear. Sorry, I shouldn’t make fun of you. Nice try.”

  “Well, it’s obvious who got the linguistic talent in our family.”

  “That’s not true. You speak beautiful English.”

  They both laughed, enjoying the lightness of the moment and the beauty of the day.

  The Gothic magnificence of Notre-Dame dominated the Île de la Cité as i
t had for 800 years. As they approached the cathedral, Peter looked reverently at the looming exterior, with its mixture of saints and gargoyles.

  “The first time I saw it I said, ‘God lives here.’ Want to go inside?”

  “No, I’d rather stay outside with the gargoyles, where I belong.”

  “It’s the most famous Gothic structure in the world and a symbol of Paris. You’re obligated as a tourist to go inside. Besides, the stained glass is phenomenal, and you have to see the rose window in the midday sun.”

  Maureen hesitated, but Peter grabbed her arm and pulled her along behind him. “Come on. I promise the walls won’t tumble down as you enter.”

  Sun streamed through the world-famous rose window, illuminating Peter and Maureen in azure light streaked with crimson. Peter wandered, face elevated to the windows, enjoying a perfect feeling of bliss. Maureen walked slowly beside him, trying her best to remind herself that this was a building of enormous historic and architectural significance, and not just another church.

  A French priest walked past them, nodding a solemn greeting. Maureen stumbled slightly as he passed. The priest stopped and held out a hand to steady her, addressing her with mild concern in French. Maureen smiled and put her hand up, indicating that she was fine. Peter returned to her side as the French priest went on his way.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just a little dizzy all of a sudden. Jet lag, maybe.”

  “You haven’t had much sleep in the last few days.”

  “I’m sure that hasn’t helped.” Maureen pointed to one of the side pews that was in line with the rose window. “I’m just going to sit down here for a minute and enjoy the stained glass. You go look around.”

  Peter looked concerned, but Maureen waved him away. “I’m fine. Go. I’ll be right here.”

  Peter nodded and went off to explore the cathedral. Maureen sat in the pew, steadying herself. She didn’t want to admit to Peter just how unstable she was really feeling. It had come on so fast, and she knew that if she didn’t sit down she would fall. But she hadn’t wanted to tell Peter that. It probably was just a combination of jet lag and exhaustion.

  Maureen wiped her hands over her face, trying to shake off the dizziness. Kaleidoscopic beams of colored light from the rose window shone on the altar, illuminating a large crucifix. Maureen blinked hard. The crucifix appeared to be growing, looming larger and larger in her sight.

  She grabbed her head as the dizziness enveloped her and the vision took over.

  Lightning ripped through the unnaturally dark sky on that bleakest Friday afternoon. The woman in red stumbled up the hill as she scrambled to reach the crest. She was oblivious to the cuts and scrapes that were accumulating on her body and shredding her clothing. She had only one goal, and that was to reach Him.

  The sound of a hammer striking a nail — metal pounding metal — rang with a sickening finality through the air. The woman finally lost her composure and wailed, a singular sound of unredeemable human despair.

  The woman reached the foot of the cross just as the rain began. She looked up at Him, and drops of His blood splashed down on her distraught face, blending with the relentless rain.

  Lost in the vision, Maureen had no sense of where she was. Her wail, a perfect echo of Mary Magdalene’s despair, rang through the cathedral of Notre-Dame, frightening the tourists and sending Peter toward her at a full run.

  “Where are we?”

  Maureen awoke on a couch in a wood-paneled room. Peter’s grave face hovered over her as he answered. “In one of the offices of the cathedral.” He nodded to the French priest they had encountered earlier, who entered from a concealed door at the back of the room, looking concerned.

  “Father Marcel helped me to bring you in here. You weren’t going anywhere of your own volition.”

  Father Marcel came forward and handed her a glass of water. She drank gratefully. “Merci,” she said to the cleric, who nodded silently and retreated to the rear of the room to wait discreetly in case further assistance was required. “I’m sorry,” she said lamely to Peter.

  “Don’t be. This is obviously out of your control. Do you want to tell me what you saw?”

  Maureen recounted the vision. Peter’s face grew whiter with each word. When she finished, he looked at her very seriously.

  “Maureen, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think you’re having divine visions.”

  “Think maybe I should talk to a priest?” she quipped.

  “I’m serious. This is out of my sphere of experience, but I can find you someone who knows about these things. Just to talk, that’s all. It might help.”

  “No way.” Maureen was adamant as she sat up on the couch. “Just get me back to the hotel so I can get some rest. Once I’ve had some sleep, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  Maureen was able to shake off the vision and walk on her own out of the cathedral quarters. She was relieved that she was able to use a side exit and wasn’t required to traverse the interior of that great icon to Christianity once again.

  Once Peter saw that she was safely settled in her room, he returned to his. He sat for a moment, contemplating the telephone. It was too early to call the States. He would go out for a while and come back when the hour was a little more decent.

  Farther down the Seine, Father Marcel walked back through the candlelit interior of the world’s most famous Gothic cathedral. He was followed by the Irish cleric Bishop O’Connor, who was attempting to ask questions in very bad French.

  Father Marcel took him to the pew where Maureen had had her vision and gave his explanation slowly, attempting to bridge the language barrier. Though it was a sincere effort to communicate with the Irishman, the French priest sounded as if he were speaking to an idiot. O’Connor dismissed him with an impatient wave, settled into the pew, and looked up at the crucifix over the altar, deep in concentration.

  Paris

  June 19, 2005

  THE CAVE OF THE MUSKETEERS was less ominous by day, lit as it was by an unforgiving fluorescent bulb. The occupants were dressed in their street clothes and without the strange red cords that identified them as the Guild of the Righteous tied around their necks.

  A replica of Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait of John the Baptist hung on the rear wall, a mere block away from where the priceless original resided in the Louvre. In this renowned painting, John looks out from the canvas with a knowing smile on his face. His hand is raised, right index finger and thumb pointing toward heaven. Leonardo painted John in this pose, often referred to as the “Remember John” gesture, on several occasions. The meaning of that hand position had been debated for centuries.

  The Englishman sat at the head of the table as usual, his back to the painting. An American and a Frenchman sat on either side of him.

  “I just don’t understand what he is up to,” the Englishman snapped. He picked up a hardcover book from the table and shook it at the two men. “I’ve read it twice. There’s nothing new here, nothing at all that could be of interest to us. Or to him. So what is it? Do either of you have any thoughts on this at all? Or am I talking to myself?”

  The Englishman tossed the book onto the table with obvious disdain. The American picked it up and thumbed through it absently.

  The American stopped at the inside cover and looked at the photograph of the author. “She’s cute. Maybe that’s all it is.”

  The Englishman scoffed. Typical ridiculous Yank, missing the point. He had always objected to American members in the Guild, but this idiot was from a wealthy family connected to their legacy and they were stuck with him.

  “With Sinclair’s money and power, he has far more than ‘cute’ at his beck and call, twenty-four hours a day. His playboy exploits are legendary in Britain and the Continent. No, there is something other than a romp going on with this girl, and I expect the two of you to figure it out. Fast.”

  “I’m almost certain he believes she’s the Shepherdess, but I’ll know soon enough,” a
sserted the Frenchman. “I’m traveling to the Languedoc this weekend.”

  “This weekend is too late,” snapped the Englishman. “Leave no later than tomorrow. Today would be preferable. There is a time element here, as you well know.”

  “She has red hair,” observed the American.

  The Englishman growled. “Any tart with twenty euros and an inclination can have red hair. Get in there and find out why she matters. Fast. Because if Sinclair finds what he is looking for before we do…”

  He didn’t finish his sentence; he didn’t have to. The others knew exactly what would happen then, knew what had happened the last time someone from the wrong side got too close. The American man was particularly squeamish, and the thought of the red-haired author without her head made him very uncomfortable.

  The American picked up the copy of Maureen’s book from the table, tucked it under his arm, and followed his French companion out into the glaring Paris sunlight.

  When his underlings were gone, the Englishman, who had been baptized with the name John Simon Cromwell, rose from the table and walked to the rear of the basement. Around the corner and out of view from the main room was a shallow alcove. Within the space was a heavy cabinet made of dark wood; a small altar sat to the right of the fixture. A single kneeler made room for one supplicant before the altar.

  There were wrought-iron fixtures on the doors of the cabinet, and the lower compartment was protected by an oppressive-looking lock. The Englishman reached into his shirt to find the key he wore around his neck. Kneeling, he applied the key to the weighty lock and opened the lower cabinet.

  He extracted two items. First, he took out a bottle of what appeared to be holy water, which he poured into a golden font that rested on the altar. Next, he removed a small but ornate reliquary.

  Cromwell placed the reliquary gently on the altar and dipped his hands into the water. He rubbed the water into his neck with both palms and said an invocation as he did so. Then he held the reliquary at eye level. Through a tiny window in the otherwise solid gold box, a glint of what looked like ivory was visible. Long, narrow, and notched, the human bone rattled in its casket as the Englishman peered at it. He clutched the bone to his chest and said a fervent prayer.