Antony dropped his head. He had been that man. And it explained why Hwyl was holding a paper with the Orbis Astri symbol on it. “But why didn’t he take it to his bishop?”
“Hwyl felt Bishop Harry was a truly good man, but rather, ah—naïve in some ways.”
Antony took a pen and notepad from his pocket and made a rough, quick sketch of a triangle and double-headed snake. He held it out to Dilys. “Have you seen this emblem before?”
Dilys grimaced. “The police asked me about that, too, but I haven’t. Evil-looking, isn’t it?”
When Felicity returned with the tea, Antony accepted a top-up and drank slowly, trying to evaluate what he knew; what he needed to know. It seemed all too likely that Hwyl was under occult attack. By far the most common form of such attack was a malefice where some object was used to transfer evil. Certainly if the contaminated Welsh cake Adam had eaten had come from this same satanic group—if all the strange events of late were related, and they must be—then that would likely be their favored mode of operation.
But Dilys said Hwyl ate little and she had prepared his food. So it was likely to be something external. The intermittent sharp pains sounded like a voodoo doll. But it was also possible something had been introduced into Hwyl’s environment. “Dilys, may I see your bedroom?”
She looked surprised, but she didn’t object, just stood and led the way down a short hall and opened the door on a tumbled room. “Sorry. I haven’t had the heart to start packing in here. Or to clean. I’ve slept in the guest room since…”
“No worries. It’s better this way. Everything is pretty much like…”
“Like it was when Hwyl was here?” She nodded. “Except a lot messier. I never left the bed unmade.”
The bed was exactly what Antony wanted most to examine. His knowledge of the occult was all from study, not personal experience. He had lectured ordinands, and assisted other priests and deliverance ministers in cases needing extra prayer support. But now more than head knowledge was called for. He turned to Dilys. “Can you get me a bowl of water, please? And some salt.”
While she was gone, he took the opportunity to search under the bed, between the sheet and mattress and between the duvet and cover. He felt the pillows carefully. Nothing came to light. But he hadn’t really expected it to. He opened all the drawers in the bureau and pulled the bed out from the wall just enough to allow room to walk around it.
Dilys returned with a small glass bowl of tepid water. “Is this all right? There’s holy water in the church.”
“No, this is fine.” He shook some salt into the water and made the sign of the cross over it. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Antony dipped his fingertips in the water and, walking clockwise around the bed, sprinkled it with holy water. He made three complete circles, observing the duvet, mattress and pillows carefully. Nothing came to light.
He set the bowl aside and took his rosary from his pocket. “Which side of the bed did Hwyl sleep on?” Dilys pointed to the left. Antony placed the crucifix on the pillow, mattress and duvet. Nothing.
Could he have been completely wrong? Antony wondered.
He pushed the bed back into place and turned to Dilys. “Thank you for your patience. I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.”
She gave a slight shrug. “I appreciate your trying.” They were back in the front room when she added. “I don’t suppose this would mean anything to you?” She held out several sheets of paper. “I’ve been trying to sort out Hwyl’s desk.”
Antony examined the printout of a lengthy email from a Professor Leo Meyerson, lecturer in biblical archeology, Cardiff University. It appeared that Hwyl had contacted him for information about letters from the first century. Apparently Hwyl had printed it for more careful study. Little wonder, as the answers appeared to be long and detailed. “May I keep this?”
“Of course.”
Antony thanked Dilys again and promised to contact her if they learned anything more. She promised to ring him as well, if her packing turned up anything else of interest. He put his hand on her arm briefly. “God be with you.” She nodded solemnly.
Back in the van, he handed the sheaf of papers to Felicity. “Why don’t you read this aloud? I don’t know whether or not it’s of any importance.”
Felicity snapped her seatbelt and took the papers. “Sure. But first, what was all that hocus-pocus with the holy water and crucifix back there?”
Antony started the engine and backed out of the driveway. “Not hocus-pocus. Established practice in such cases. Most of the time if anything external—”
“By external you mean a cursed object?”
He nodded. “That’s right. If anything like that was being used against Hwyl, the most likely place to put it would be in his bed. Often such items don’t come to light—even if the objects are cut open—until they’re asperged and a crucifix is placed on them.”
Felicity frowned. “And then they would just appear. Magically?”
Antony sighed. “Felicity, I have to admit it. I’m in way over my head here. I’ve read books written by priests who have had years and years of experience with such things. I’ve even lectured from them. But I’ve never done this before. All I know is that Satan does give power to his devotees. It’s a second-rate power, but it can be very enticing to people who want power for themselves. Even if we don’t really understand it, it doesn’t do to scorn it.”
“Yeah, I know. I just can’t get my head around it. But I do trust your judgment.” She turned her attention to the printouts in her hand and read silently for a few moments. “Well, it would help if we had the questions this is answering. Pity the professor didn’t just hit reply so we’d have Hwyl’s query on the bottom.”
“Or maybe he did and Hwyl didn’t print it all. I suppose it would still be on his computer if we need it.”
“True. But I think we can figure it out. It looks like Hwyl asked what a letter from Rome—or maybe from Jerusalem— to somewhere distant in the empire would have been like, because Meyerson discusses language and writing materials and appearance. It’s rather free-flowing and what-if. The professor must have dashed this off from the top of his head. But he apparently knows his stuff.”
“Just read, we’ll analyze it afterwards.”
“OK, sure. ‘Personal correspondence would have most likely been on wax tablets or on wooden leaves like the Vindolanda correspondence. I doubt they would have used papyrus unless there was an Egyptian connection (because papyrus was cheap there). If the writer was Jewish as you seem to indicate, parchment made from animal skins is more likely. And only from a kosher animal, such as a lamb. No pig skin! And no fish because the skins smell…’ Yuck! Imagine writing a letter on fish skin.”
“Read.”
“Yeah, right. ‘All Torah scrolls are still written on parchment with special inks and quills with no metal implements. Only black ink is acceptable. In ancient times, the ink used for writing a Torah scroll was obtained by boiling oils, tar and wax, and collecting the vapors. Afterwards, that mixture would be combined with tree sap and honey, and then dried out and stored. Before its use, it would be mixed with gall-nut juice. Such ink might have been used for non-sacred writing because it was handy.’” Felicity lowered the paper. “If Hwyl wanted to know that, I’d guess he had found something and wanted to know whether or not it was authentic. But it would have taken a chemist…” She looked up at Antony. “Oh, I know—read. ‘Keep in mind these rules are only for sacred texts (Torah Scrolls, the scrolls inside a mezuzah, etc.). Other legal documents—ketubot (wedding contracts), divorce papers, forms filled out by a mohel after a circumcision, etc.— don’t have any restrictions.’
“‘In the first century, I would expect a letter to be written with a quill (probably from a turkey; doubtful a non-kosher bird like a griffon vulture would be used, although they are native to the area).’” Felicity sighed. “This is fascinating, but could any of it
possibly have a bearing on Hwyl’s death?”
Antony shook his head. “I don’t see how, but let’s finish it.”
“OK. This bit is about the Sanhedrin and languages: ‘The Sanhedrin was largely a religious body. They used Aramaic, the Lingua Franca of the area, for secular dealings, and Hebrew for study and prayer. They would likely have had enough scholarship to write in either Greek or Latin, as well; whichever was the recipient’s usual language.
“‘Of course, it’s essential to consider not only what language the writer worked in, but also what would be intelligible to his recipient. If the family member lived in the eastern part of the empire, then Aramaic is likely. If in the west, then Greek is likely.
“‘In Britain, Latin is more likely. It prevailed there, since most people who made it that far west were in the Roman army, and Roman soldiers would have spoken Latin among themselves.’
“Oh, now, on this last bit the professor did copy some of Hwyl’s questions and interlineated his answers. Pity he didn’t do the whole letter that way: ‘[Now, may I ask more? What form would it likely be in? A sealed scroll?]
“‘Probably. Or if it’s just a small letter, then maybe a single sheet.
“‘[How big?]
“‘Hmm, not all that big. Depends how much they had to write.
“‘[Perhaps in a leather pouch? In a clay jar like the Dead Sea Scrolls?]
“‘Could be either. I don’t think there were any rules on how one could send something like that. It’s more a matter of how it was preserved. Do let me know how you get on. I’d be happy to take a look if you locate it.’
“And then he signs it with all his credentials. Good grief, they run off the page.” Felicity folded the sheets and sat in silence. The reading had taken them back to St David’s.
“Sounds to me as if Hwyl strongly suspected the existence of a letter from the Holy Land and wanted a description of what he was looking for,” Antony mused as he drove slowly through the city.
“I agree.” Felicity was quiet for a moment, then added, “I hope the others have had a good outing.”
“And I hope Colin is fully recovered,” Antony added, his mind still trying to figure out what to make of this new information. If anything. “Colin would appreciate Meyerson’s reference to the Romans, at least.”
“Yes, he was very interested in the clay table letters in the Roman museum in Caerleon,” Felicity agreed. Then she caught her breath. “Wait! That’s not all. That night in Caerleon, I went out for some air and Colin and Michael were talking. Well, arguing, really. I almost had the feeling Michael was threatening Colin and he referred to some letter, but Colin declared he didn’t know anything about it.”
“If Colin is feeling up to it we can have a talk with him. If some such artifact was involved in some way, we need to know about it.”
When they arrived back at St Non’s, though, the retreat house was silent. “Colin must be sleeping. Obviously the others haven’t returned yet from Caerbwdy.” Antony opened the door on Colin’s room quietly so as not to disturb him. But the room was empty. The bed stripped.
“His mother came to collect him.” Antony started at Sister Nora’s voice. He hadn’t heard her approach. “She came shortly after you left. She was in a great hurry. Not even time for tea.”
“How was he?”
“He didn’t want to leave, the poor laddie. He kept insisting he wouldn’t forget to take his tablets again. He said he needed to do something.”
Antony thanked her. As soon as the sister disappeared down the hall, he turned to Felicity. “I need to think.” Felicity made a move toward him, but he stepped back. “I’ll be in St Non’s chapel.”
He spun around abruptly. But not so abruptly he didn’t register Felicity’s bewildered look. He had to work through this, though. Alone.
The tiny chapel was warm this afternoon. Antony chose a seat along the west wall where the stones had been heated by the afternoon sun. He knew he had been brusque with Felicity, but prayer, silent prayer, was what he needed.
The silence, however, would not come. Hwyl’s limp form, Adam’s pale, retching figure, Colin gasping for air… The images filled his mind that should be emptied of all but the holy.
At last he gave it up and turned to active thinking. Who should he talk to? The police were unlikely to be open to any notions of the paranormal. Hwyl’s bishop seemed a natural choice, but apparently Hwyl hadn’t confided in him.
What about an ancient document, perhaps a letter, being involved somehow? Was it possible such a letter could reveal some lost arcane rite that would be of interest to satanists? Or might it be something truly holy that they wanted to pervert for their use? It was generally accepted that corruption of anything sacred to Christianity or any other major religion would strengthen a ritual or curse.
All those times Michael seemed to disappear. Could he have been looking for something for such a purpose? It seemed unlikely. Michael worked closely with Father Stephen and had mentioned that he wanted to become a Religious Education teacher. Or Colin? Was that his unfinished business? But he was still a child. Surely…
At last Antony’s mind would form no more questions. Neither did it offer any answers, but at least the questions quit plaguing him. The peace of the chapel, the scent of the candles, the distant rhythm of the waves seeped into his soul and he could pray.
Chapter 21
Wednesday
St David’s
Felicity woke from a fitful sleep. Sometimes being in love wasn’t much fun. She hated it when Antony shut her out. She was well aware that he could appear cold and a touch pedantic to those who didn’t know him. But she who knew him so well usually had only to look to see the tenderness underneath. So many times on this pilgrimage, though, there had seemed to be a barrier she couldn’t broach. And yesterday’s parting had been the sharpest. She knew he was worried. She was worried, too, for goodness’ sake. And she hated feeling isolated.
Right. She flung her duvet aside. Lying here worrying wasn’t helping anything. She crossed to her window and pulled back the curtain. Pink-tinged clouds hung low over the bay. A herd of red cows grazing near the ruined chapel lowed softly. And at the foot of the garden Antony stood observing the same scene from ground level. “Antony!” She stuck her head out of the window and called, hoping she wouldn’t disturb Nancy in the room next to hers.
He turned and waved. Not a vigorous wave, just an acknowledgment, but it was enough. She was beside him in a few minutes. Without speaking she put her head on his shoulder. Barely moving, he put an arm around her and spoke as if she had shared the contents of her thoughts with him. “We will get through this. But we have to know what’s going on.”
“Yes.” When she was with him she could believe it. “But don’t shut me out, Antony. Whatever it is, we have to face it together.”
“Yes. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“And I’ll try to be less cynical. I’m not really, you know. I think it’s a defense mechanism—my way of dealing with fear.”
He kissed her forehead. “Just try to keep an open mind. Today should be easier. We’ll take the crew to the cathedral. That shouldn’t be threatening.”
Nothing could have been less threatening a few hours later when Felicity walked under the archway of the gatehouse beside its massive octagonal tower and stood at the top of the steep green slope of the cathedral grounds. The sun shimmered on the dewy grass dotted with lichen-encrusted stones spreading before her. Then she lifted her gaze to watch the crows cawing and circling around the tower, and beyond that to the spread of woods and sheep-grazed fields—all bathed in clear, golden sunshine. It seemed startlingly rural. And safe.
“When St David brought his band of monks here from Caerleon to found his monastery in the middle of the sixth century…”
“By the same route we traveled,” Jared interrupted, looking very proud of himself.
Antony smiled. “Yes, indeed, by the very same route—he knew what he was
getting into, having been born so near. But even so, the choice was a challenging one. Glyn Rhosyn it was called, ‘The valley of the little marsh.’ The entire valley was a bog, dense with bushes, but David found a relatively dry platform at the bend of the river to build his church on.” He paused and glanced up at the gatehouse tower. “You’ll note I said ‘relatively dry.’ When the cathedral bells destroyed by Cromwell’s forces were replaced, they chose to hang them up here to prevent adding weight to the water-logged foundations.
“But this wasn’t at all an eccentric choice for David. It was normal for Celtic saints to seek out deserted, waste places for their communities. And this was especially right for David, who is known for his rigorous asceticism as much as for his vigorous preaching. It was David’s rule that all his monks engage in heavy manual labour.
“It was said that David turned his monks into oxen. Of course, that meant that he made them work as hard as oxen. In order to maintain a penitential spirit in his community, he forbade the use of any cattle in tilling the soil. His monks were allowed to speak only upon absolute necessity and they never ceased to pray, at least mentally, during their labor. After a day of such toil they returned to the monastery to read, write and pray. Their food was only bread and vegetables, seasoned with a little salt. They drank only milk and water.
“The evening meal was followed by three hours spent in prayer and adoration. Then, after a little rest, they rose at cockcrow to pray until it was light enough to return to work in the fields.”
Kaylyn and Evie looked aghast at the idea of such a life.
“Not many takers for the job, I’ll bet,” Jared said with a grin.
Antony returned his smile. “Amazingly, it seems that there were. Not only those who applied, but those who persevered as well. It wasn’t just a matter of showing up. When any one petitioned to be admitted to David’s monastery, he was required to wait for ten days outside, suffering harsh words, repeated refusals, and difficult labors. So that he might ‘learn to die to self,’ it is said.”
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