“Mary,” came the simple answer from behind her, spoken in a voice that was unmistakable. She froze, afraid for a moment to turn, unsure of what she would see behind her. “Mary, I am here,” he said again.
Mary Magdalene turned as the earliest rays of morning sun illuminated the beautiful figure before her. Easa stood there, clothed in a pristine white robe and perfectly healed from his wounds. He smiled at her, his beautiful smile of warmth and tenderness.
As she moved toward him, he held up his hand. “Do not cling to me, Mary,” he said gently. “My time on earth is gone, although I have not yet ascended to my Father. I had to give you this sign first. Go to our brothers and tell them that I will ascend soon to my Father, who is also your Father and theirs, in heaven.”
Mary nodded, standing in awe before him and feeling the pure and warming light of his goodness radiating all around her.
“My time here is gone. It is your time now.”
Chapter Twenty
Château des Pommes Bleues
July 2, 2005
Maureen sat outside in the garden with Peter. The fountain of Mary Magdalene gurgled softly behind them. She had to get him out into the air and away from the others. Her cousin’s face was white and drawn with the sleeplessness and stress of the week’s events. These past days appeared to have aged him by a decade. Maureen even noticed that there were gray streaks at the temples of his dark head that had not been there before.
“You know what the hardest part of all this is?” Peter’s voice was barely a whisper.
Maureen shook her head. For her, this was the most exhilarating of all possible circumstances. But she knew that much of what Peter believed, even lived for, was challenged by things he had read in Mary’s gospels. And yet, her words confirmed the most sacred premise of Christianity, the resurrection.
“No, what? Tell me,” Maureen responded.
Peter looked at her, his eyes red and bloodshot as he tried to make her understand what he was thinking. “What if…what if for two thousand years we have been denying Jesus Christ His final wish? What if that was what the Gospel of John was trying to tell us all along, when Jesus appears first to Mary Magdalene — that she is his chosen successor? How ironic would it be that in His name we have denied her a place, not only as an apostle, but as the leader of the apostles?”
He paused for a moment, trying to sort through the challenges that had been presented to his mind as well as his soul. “ ‘Do not cling to me.’ That’s what He says to her. Do you know how important that is?”
Maureen shook her head and waited for the explanation.
“The Gospels are not translated that way — they translate the words as ‘Do not touch me.’ Arguably the Greek word in the originals could have been ‘cling’ rather than ‘touch,’ but no one ever sees it that way. Do you see the difference?” This whole idea was a revelation to Peter as a scholar and linguist. “Do you see how a translation of even one word can change everything? But in these gospels the word is definitely ‘cling,’ and she uses it twice as she quotes Jesus.”
Maureen was trying to follow Peter’s intense reaction to the single word. “There certainly is a difference between ‘Do not touch me’ and ‘Do not cling to me.’ ”
“Yes.” Peter was emphatic. “That translation of ‘Do not touch me’ has been used against Mary Magdalene, to show Christ pushing her away from Him. What we see here is Him telling her not to cling to Him when He is gone because He wants her to stand on her own.” His sigh was heavy with exhaustion. “It’s huge, Maureen. Huge.”
The ramifications of Mary’s story were only beginning to set in for Maureen. “I think the depiction of women as leaders in the movement is one of the more important elements of her story,” she said. “Pete, I hate to make matters worse for you right now, but what about this perspective on the Virgin? She calls her the Great Mary and refers to her clearly as a leader of their people. Mary is obviously a title given to a female leader. And then there’s the red veil…”
Peter shook his head hard as if doing so would clear it. “You know,” he answered, “I once heard the argument that the Vatican declared that the Virgin would be depicted only in white and blue as a way of diminishing her power, of hiding her original importance as one of the Nazarene leaders — who, as we have seen, wore red. Honestly, I always thought that was rubbish. It seemed obvious to me that the Virgin was shown in blue and white to show her purity.
“But now,” Peter said, rising wearily, “nothing seems obvious to me anymore.”
Cape Cod, Massachusetts
July 2, 2005
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC on Cape Cod, real estate mogul Eli Wainwright sat staring out the window across the lawn of his sprawling estate. He hadn’t heard from Derek in almost a week, which deeply concerned him. There was an American contingent in France for the feast day of John the Baptist, and the leader of that group had telephoned Eli when Derek did not join them in Paris.
Eli wracked his brain, trying to think like Derek. His son had always been a bit of a maverick, but the boy knew how important this was. All he had to do was stick to the plan, stay close to this Teacher of Righteousness and learn as much as he could about his movements and motivations. After they had a full intelligence report, the Americans could begin to plan their coup to wrestle the power structure of the Guild away from the European contingent.
At their last meeting here in the States, Derek had been displeased with the lengthy timeline Eli proposed to achieve their goals. Eli was a strategist, but his son did not inherit the qualities of patience and planning that had made the Wainwrights billionaires. Was it possible that Derek had done something rash and stupid?
The answer, of sorts, came to Eli Wainwright that afternoon as his wife’s scream tore through the tranquil sea air of the Cape. Eli sprang from his chair and ran into the entry hall, where his wife was collapsed on the floor in a shivering heap.
“Susan, for God’s sake. What happened?”
Susan could not answer him. Her sobs were hysterical, her attempt to speak a gibberish as she gestured toward the international Federal Express box on the floor beside her.
Steeling himself for the contents, Eli slid a small wooden casket out of the box. He opened the lid to reveal Derek’s class ring from Yale.
The ring was attached to what remained of the severed index finger from Derek Wainwright’s right hand.
Château de Pommes Bleu
July 3, 2005
EVEN UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, Maureen was a light sleeper. With so many issues pertaining to the scrolls rattling around in her head, she found sleep elusive despite her overall weariness. She heard footsteps in the corridor outside her room and sat up in bed. The steps were very light, as if someone were trying hard not to be heard. Maureen listened carefully but didn’t move. It was a huge house with many rooms and servants she probably didn’t even know about, she rationalized.
She lay down and tried to go back to sleep, but was disturbed again by the sound of a car engine outside the chateau. The clock said it was nearly 3:00 A.M. Who could it be? Maureen got out of bed and moved to the window that faced the front of the house. She rubbed her eyes to be sure she was seeing clearly.
The car driving past the window and out the front gate of the château was her rental car — with someone who looked like her cousin, Peter, at the wheel.
Maureen rushed out her door and down the hallway to Peter’s room. A flick of the light switch confirmed the absence of Peter’s things. His black bag was gone, as were his glasses, his Bible, and his rosary beads, all items he kept out next to his bed.
Maureen looked frantically for another minute to see if he had left any information for her. A note? Anything? But her search turned up nothing.
Father Peter Healy was gone.
Maureen tried to sort through the events of the last twenty-four hours. Their last conversation had been the one by the fountain when Peter explained the importance of the words “Do not cling to me.�
�� He had seemed distressed, but Maureen had attributed that to the emotionalism and sleeplessness of the week. What caused him to bolt in the middle of the night, and where did he go? This was entirely out of character for Peter. He had never deserted her or even let her down, ever. Maureen felt panic creeping in. If she lost Peter, she would have no one. He was her only family, the one person on earth whom she trusted implicitly.
“Reenie?”
Maureen jumped at the voice behind her. Tammy was standing in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her own eyes. “Sorry. I heard the car and then I heard movement up here. Guess we’re all a little jumpy at the moment. Where’s the padre?”
“I don’t know.” Maureen was trying not to sound frantic. “The car was Peter leaving the château. I don’t know why or where. Damn! What does it mean?”
“Why don’t you call him on his cell phone and see if he answers?”
“Peter doesn’t have a cell phone.”
Tammy looked at Maureen, puzzled. “Sure he does. I saw him on it.”
It was Maureen’s turn to look confused. “Peter hates them. He has no time for technology and finds cell phones particularly distasteful. He wouldn’t carry one even when I begged him to for emergency purposes.”
“Maureen, I have seen him on a cell phone twice. Come to think of it now, both times he was sitting in the car. I hate to say this, but I think there’s something rotten in Arques.”
Maureen felt like she was going to be sick. She could see from the look on Tammy’s face that the two had the same thought at the same time.
“Let’s go,” Maureen said as she turned to run through the château corridor and down the stairs toward Sinclair’s study. Tammy followed behind her by a half step.
They stopped at the door. It was ajar. Ever since the scrolls had been in the study, it had been closed and locked, even if one of them was in the room. Maureen swallowed hard and braced herself as she entered the dark room. Behind her Tammy found the switch that illuminated the study — and revealed a bare study table. The mahogany surface gleamed in the light. It was empty.
“They’re gone,” Maureen whispered.
She and Tammy searched through the room, but nothing remained of Mary Magdalene’s scrolls. The yellow legal pads were all gone as well. Not a scrap of paper was left, not even a pen. The only proof that the scrolls existed were the clay jars that remained in the corner, where they were out of the way of traffic. But the jars were empty. The real treasure was gone.
And it appeared that Father Peter Healy, the most trusted person in Maureen’s life, had taken them.
Maureen moved on wobbly legs to sit on the velvet sofa. She couldn’t speak, didn’t know what to say or what to think. She simply sat on the sofa, staring straight ahead.
“Maureen, I need to find Roland. Will you stay here? We’ll be right back.”
Maureen nodded, too numb to reply. She was sitting in the same position when Tammy and Roland returned, followed by Bérenger Sinclair.
“Mademoiselle Paschal,” Roland said gently as he knelt by the sofa, “I am sorry for the pain this night will cause you.”
Maureen looked at the big Occitan, who leaned over her with concern. Later, when she had the luxury to remember this time in detail, she would think of what an extraordinary man he turned out to be. The most valuable treasure of his people had been stolen and his primary concern was for her pain. Roland, more than anyone Maureen would ever meet, taught her a great deal about true spirituality. She would come to understand why these people were called les bonnes hommes. The good men.
“Ah. So, I see Father Healy has chosen his master,” Sinclair said calmly. “I suspected he would. I am sorry, Maureen.”
Maureen was confused. “You expected this to happen?”
Sinclair nodded. “Yes, my dear. I suppose it must all come out now. We knew your cousin was working for someone. We just weren’t entirely sure who it was.”
Maureen was incredulous. “What are you saying? That Peter betrayed me? That he planned all along to betray me?”
“I cannot claim to know what Father Healy’s motives are. But I did know that he had motives. I suspect that before the end of the day tomorrow we will know the truth.”
“Will somebody please tell me what is going on?” This was Tammy, who Maureen now realized was also out of the loop. Roland sat calmly beside her as she looked at him accusingly. “There’s a lot you’ve been keeping from me, I see,” she snapped at the big man.
Roland shrugged his huge shoulders. “It was for your own protection, Tamara. We all have secrets, as you know. They were necessary. But now, I think, it is time for us to reveal ourselves to each other more plainly. I believe it is only fair for Mademoiselle Paschal to know everything. She has proven herself more than worthy.”
Maureen wanted to scream in her stress and confusion. The frustration must have shown on her face as Roland reached over and took her hand. “Come, Mademoiselle. I have things to show you.” Then he turned to Sinclair and Tammy and did something she had never seen before — he gave them orders. “Bérenger, have the servants bring coffee and then join us in the Grand Master’s room. Tamara, come with us.”
They walked through the winding corridors and into a wing of the château where Maureen had never been.
“I must ask that you be a little bit patient, Mademoiselle Paschal,” Roland said over his shoulder. “I must explain a few things first before I can answer your most important questions.”
“Okay,” Maureen said, feeling a little inadequate as she followed Roland and Tammy, not really knowing what else to say. She thought of the day back in southern California when she had met with Tammy at the marina. She had been so naïve then; it seemed like two lifetimes ago. Tammy had compared her to Alice in Wonderland. How apropos that comparison seemed now, as Maureen felt as though she had walked through the looking glass. Everything she thought she understood about her life had been turned completely around.
Roland unlocked the enormous double doors ahead of them with a key he wore around his neck. A piercing beep sounded as they stepped into the room and Roland punched in a code to shut off the alarm. The activated light switch revealed a huge and ornate hall, a beautiful meeting room fit for the kings and queens of France. In its elegance it resembled the throne rooms of Versailles and Fountain-bleu. Two matching carved and gilded armchairs stood on a dais in the center, each sculpted elaborately with blue apples.
“This is the heart of the our organization,” Roland explained. “The Society of Blue Apples. Everyone who is a member is of the royal bloodline, traceable through the Sarah-Tamar line specifically. We are the descendants of the Cathars, and we do our best to keep their traditions alive and in the purest form possible.”
He led them to where a portrait of Mary Magdalene hung behind the thronelike chairs. It was similar to the painting of the Magdalene by Georges de la Tour that Maureen had seen in Los Angeles, with one important difference. “Do you remember the night that Bérenger told you that one of de la Tour’s most important paintings was missing and not on view to the public? That’s because it is here,” he said. “De la Tour was a member of our society, and he left this painting to us. It is called Penitent Magdalene with the Crucifix.”
Maureen looked at the portrait with awe and admiration. Like all of the French artist’s work, it was a masterpiece of light and shadow. But in this painting, Mary Magdalene was posed differently than in any other Maureen had seen. This version depicted Mary resting her left hand on the skull, which she now understood to be the skull of John the Baptist, and in her right hand she held a crucifix and gazed at the face of Christ.
“The painting was too dangerous to leave in public. The reference is clear for those with eyes to see — this is Mary doing penance for John, her first husband, and looking with love upon Jesus, her second husband.”
He guided both women to a huge painting on another wall. This depicted two elder saints sitting in a rocky landscape having what appea
red to be a spirited discussion or debate.
“Tamara can tell you the history of this painting,” Roland said, smiling at Tammy as she stood beside him. Maureen looked to her for the explanation.
“This is by the Flemish artist David Teniers the Younger,” Tammy said. It’s called Saint Anthony the Hermit and Saint Paul in the Desert. That’s not the same Saint Paul who wrote in the New Testament, but another regional saint who was also a hermit. Bérenger Saunière, the infamous priest at Rennes-le-Château, acquired this painting for the Society. Yes, he was one of us.”
Maureen looked closely at the painting and began to see elements that were now becoming very familiar. She pointed to them. “I see a crucifix and a skull.”
“Right,” Tammy replied. “This is Anthony here. He’s wearing that symbol that looks like a letter ‘T’ on his sleeve, but it’s actually the Greek version of the cross, called the Tau. Saint Francis of Assisi popularized it among our people. Anthony is looking up from his book, which is a representation of the Book of Love, and gazing at the crucifix. And look at Paul over here, he is making the ‘Remember John’ gesture with his hand and debating his friend about who the first messiah was, John or Jesus. There are books and scrolls scattered around their feet to indicate that there is much material to consider in this discussion. It’s a very important painting — in fact, these two are arguably the most significant paintings in our tradition. That village represents Rennes-le-Château up on the hill, and over in the landscape — look who’s here?”
Maureen smiled. “It’s a shepherdess and her sheep.”
“Of course. Anthony and Paul are debating, but the shepherdess looms behind them to remind that The Expected One will one day find the hidden gospels of Mary Magdalene and end all the controversy by delivering the truth.”
Bérenger Sinclair entered the room quietly as Roland said, “I wanted to show you these things, Mademoiselle Paschal, so that you would know that my people do not bear any ill will to the followers of John, and they never have. We are all brothers and sisters, children of Mary Magdalene, and we wish we could all live in peace.”
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