by Rob Preece
Zack took the dousing cross from her. “Find more holy artifacts?"
"You're joking."
"Only partially. This land is full of Biblical history. Mosul includes the ancient city of Nineveh where Jonah lived and where the ten lost tribes were taken after the destruction of Israel. Further south is Babylon where the Bible was actually compiled."
He waved a hand toward the snow-covered peaks ahead of them. “In the mountains not far from here is the peak where Noah's ark came to rest. Peter preached all around here before coming to Rome. We're only a couple of hundred miles from where Saul was transformed into Paul. Fifty miles past that and you're in Nazareth where our Lord was born. Just imagine what we could find. Wit a relic-finding tool that actually works, we could unveil some of the most important mysteries in the history of the world."
And it could get them killed. “I've got all the relic I need."
Zack set aside the douser. “I guess you're right. And you're also right that it would also be a good place to hide a tracking device. So, this Cross stays, along with the case itself."
"Just a second.” Ivy pulled out her commando knife and slit at the leather inners of Smith's briefcase.
A handful of gold coins and a plastic bag with a few sheets of paper inside rewarded her effort. “I thought Smith was sneaky enough that he'd have something hidden. Too bad we didn't have time to search his body more completely."
"I don't think I could have made myself slice him up with to find a few more gold coins.” Herrera looked around, scooped the papers and money into the ample pockets in his uniform pants, and stood. “We'd better get a move on."
Five minutes later, another missile flash told them that they'd made the right call. That peaceful glade where they'd dismantled Smith's briefcase erupted into an inferno. Of course, making the right decision only meant that they were temporarily still alive. Alive but stuck in an inhospitable mountain range, surrounded by people whose dreams for independence completely relied on the CIA, and hunted by a mysterious Foundation that seemed able to use magical means to hunt for the Cross.
It wasn't a happy situation.
* * * *
Zack's foot skidded from beneath him as he hit a patch of loose rock that growing shadows of twilight had hidden from his tired eyes. They'd been on the run for hours now, but they hadn't thrown off their hunters. With nightfall, they would be at an even greater disadvantage compared to the militiamen who had hidden in these mountains for decades in their eternal rebellion against the central authorities in Baghdad, Istanbul, Damascus, Constantinople, Rome, or Persepolis.
Running wouldn't help. They were just as likely to be running toward their enemies as away from them. If he and Ivy were to survive the night, they would need help.
The sun descended abruptly behind tall mountains to the west. They'd been going uphill for hours, climbing toward the mountains that formed the border between Turkey and Iraq. High as they were, it was still hot, but Zack guessed that it would cool off quickly now that the sun had set. Unlike the Iraqi lowlands, the thin air of the mountains would hold little warmth.
A soft curse told him that Ivy too had stumbled in the increasing darkness.
"Getting too dark to see,” she admitted. “I'm not crazy about nighttime mountain climbing."
Zack wasn't either. But he was even less comfortable with getting blown up by a Predator missile. And every time they'd stopped for more than a couple of minutes, they'd heard the distinctive whine of the remote controlled drone.
"I'm open to suggestions."
"We need help. Another truck, maybe."
He knew that. What he didn't know was how to get it. “While we're wishing, why not ask for an Abrams. That way, I could knock out those Predators before they could get a shot off."
"Okay, so that wasn't helpful.” Ivy paused. Even in the growing darkness, he could tell she was squinching her nose in thought.
"How about if we pray."
"I'm not much on praying. Asking God for personal favors has always seemed selfish."
"Yeah. Well, it couldn't hurt."
"I guess."
Ivy went quiet as they trudged along, using the last moments of twilight to gain a bit more distance.
Lord, he prayed silently. I don't know what I'm doing, but I know I need help. Anything you can spare would certainly be appreciated.
It wasn't much of a prayer, and he certainly didn't get a sense that anyone up there was listening. But it was the best he could come up with.
"There's someone ahead."
He froze. He couldn't see through the trees, but the attenuated scent of burning wood told him Ivy was right. Someone was nearby.
"We do need help,” she reminded him.
"Whoever is up there is either part of the militia, in which case they'll turn us over to the CIA, or they're innocent civilians, in which case we'll probably get them killed."
"There's a third alternative. Maybe they're the answer to your prayer."
He didn't think the Lord worked that way. But then, it seemed he was learning things every moment.
"We might as well check. If we just stumble on, sooner or later we'll fall off the mountain."
It grated against the code of machismo his father and uncles had beaten into him as a child, but he let Ivy, with her more sensitive nose, take the lead as they searched for the fire.
He wished he had been able to rig up some sort of carrying device for the Cross. Carrying the massive nine-foot timber took both of his hands—which meant he had to keep his confiscated assault rifle slung over a shoulder, inaccessible if he needed it on a moment's notice. But he hadn't thought he'd need a carrier when they still had the truck, and he'd been on the run ever sense.
"It looks like some sort of cave,” Ivy whispered after they'd stumbled through the darkness for at least twenty minutes.
He was standing a few feet from her and he could barely hear her words, but apparently she had spoken loudly enough to alarm whoever was ahead of them. Someone dumped something into the fire, eliminating the red glow that provided the only illumination and sending an herb-rich scent toward them.
He inhaled—recognized the distinctive scent of cannabis mixed with cooking herbs and spices that reminded him of the incense used in the south Dallas church where he'd had his first communion.
Stars blurred, seemed to lurch across the sky. His knees wobbled and he fought for his balance.
"I think..."
Blackness plunged over him before he could tell Ivy what he thought.
Chapter 4
"You bear a heavy burden.” The voice was that of an old woman, but she didn't look like an old woman. Instead, the face of a monster, lit by a flickering red fire, peered at Ivy.
They were in a cave, but rich carpets lined the floor and walls. An altar, with a strangely shaped figure in blue and gold that could only be the Virgin Mary, adorned one wall. A fire, flames moving in slow motion, smoldered between Ivy and the doorway.
She attempted to push herself from the stone floor but gave it up as a bad job. “Am I dead?"
"Perhaps.” The figured moved closer and Ivy recognized the monster shape as a mask. If this was hell, it was a cheap Hollywood version. She couldn't imagine that Satan's imps needed demon masks.
"You drugged us, didn't you?” Ivy couldn't see Herrera but some part of her sensed him nearby.
"Your emotions were too strong, were resonating with the, ah, object. The hunters could pick up on those vibrations. Without meaning to, you were calling them to you. We found a way to take you far away from that."
The woman's voice was strange, each word cutting into Ivy's consciousness and leaving its imprint, but not sticking. She could have repeated the woman's meaning, but not the words themselves. “Are you speaking in English?"
The woman laughed again, her voice ageless. “There is only one true language, the language of the Angels. Those who speak it can be understood by anyone, and can understand anyone. Because it is th
e true language, what is said in it is true, or becomes true. Some people call this magic."
In her drugged state, the woman's explanation made sense to Ivy, although she suspected it wouldn't when she came down from whatever this person had dosed her with.
From somewhere distant, she heard Herrera groan and thrash around. Soon he quieted.
"Is he all right? Where is he?” Why had she regained consciousness while the larger male had not?
"This is not a place where males are welcome. His sleep protects him from forces he could not understand, forces that would destroy first, then discriminate."
But Zack wasn't the only person who needed protection. Ivy wasn't certain how much time had passed, but surely she'd been unconscious for more than a few minutes. The CIA trackers would have had plenty of opportunity to strike. This woman couldn't realize the danger she had put herself into by bringing them into her cave.
"You'll be in danger if you're found here with us,” Ivy said.
"I have already explained that this is not a place that welcomes males. Your hunters are all male. They will not find you. Not here. And not tonight."
As if some crazy hillside shaman would know about the type of electronic surveillance the CIA had available to it. “You don't understand. They have been able to track us everywhere. I think the Cross is sending out some sort of vibration they can pick up on."
Oops. She hadn't meant to mention the word Cross. For one thing, most Kurds were Moslems. For another, the CIA had probably notified everyone in Kurdistan to be on the lookout for a Cross. Even an isolated hermit would have gotten the word by now, if that was what this woman was.
"It isn't only a Cross, you know.” The demon-masked woman brushed her hand against the artifact. “It is the One True Cross, the Cross of Jesus's passion. But the wood was holy before it was a Cross. In times ancient even before Moses, it was a tree, planted by Adam and the all-mother Eve from a seed from the garden itself. When the Queen of Sheba went to Solomon, she found these very timbers built into a bridge, recognized them, and brought the news to the King. When Solomon built his Temple, he built them into the structure, understanding in the wisdom that the great Queen had shared with him, that it would become a critical part of Prophesy.
"Power has steeped into this wood from the moment of divine creation herself. Of course those who seek after power are called to it. Did not El Shaddai himself warn that the tree of life would grant vast powers to man? Powers so great he expelled them from the garden, the mother womb, to prevent them from reaching them."
The old woman, or monster, or whatever, tapped the crosspiece which gave out a ringing chime, like a bell.
Ivy wasn't sure what to make of the woman's claim that she spoke some true language, but she found she could not doubt the woman's strange claims. Smith had somehow found the one True Cross. And now, she and Zack were charged with an artifact of such power that God himself had feared it.
The CIA would definitely want something with that kind of power.
"All of that may be true,” Ivy said. “One thing for sure, the CIA can track it. They'll try to blow you up with their missiles, and they'll send in their pet militia."
"Not here,” the woman repeated. “Here you are safe. Safe from the human searchers, at least."
The old woman's assurance wasn't as comforting as Ivy wished it had been. “So who are we in danger from?"
The woman gestured at her fire and a swirl of smoke rose from it, the tendrils taking bizarre shapes of half-human animals, tortured women, and horn-headed demons. “There is much to fear."
I am so drugged. Ivy forced herself not to react. The woman couldn't know what she was seeing, could she. Ivy didn't believe in magic. Except what, other than magic, had been happening to her?
"Can I ask you a question?"
The woman smiled. “You just did."
"Was I really dead?"
The woman stared at her, round human-style eyes below the strangely shaped eyes of the mask.
"Yes. And may be again. But the tree of life remains strong."
"Ah.” It could be a threat. But the way Ivy figured it, if the old woman had wanted them dead, she could have killed them while they'd been unconscious. Which meant she probably wasn't an immediate physical danger.
"You fear me, but you ignore the demons? They are the real threat. They and the men they ride."
"Are you telling me that the people chasing us are in league with demons?"
The woman considered, then muttered something.
The language was the same as she had been using, but suddenly it was incomprehensible to Ivy although each word hung on the air like a precious gem, beautiful, distinct, filled with power.
As they watched, smoke from the fire reformed into the shape of a group of men sitting around a table. The old woman watched intently for a moment, then waved her hand.
The smoke vanished completely, the fire abruptly gutted down to a few glowing embers.
"They call themselves the Foundation, do they?” Her mouth seemed to have a hard time shaping itself around the English word.
Ivy nodded. “We think so. We don't know much. Just what Smith said, and what we've learned from his papers."
"Yes, the Foundation. A reasonable name for them. They seek to found something new, something complete, something even beautiful in its own way. They are not knowingly evil. In fact, they claim the side of those who would bring virtue to triumph. They are militant in the host of your Christian God."
There was more meaning there than Ivy could stop to analyze. But if the Foundation were on the side of good, then maybe leaving the Cross somewhere for them to find would be the right thing to do.
"So you're saying we should turn the Cross over to them?"
"I spoke of their intent, what they hope to accomplish, not of the path they actually take. Does not your Jesus remind you that goals are not the most important thing? By their fruits, you shall know them."
Ivy wasn't sure the old woman had the Bible's meaning right, but she agreed with the sentiment. Smith's casual decision to assassinate her had made the Foundation's standing clear. Whatever side they wished to be on, Ivy didn't like them.
But that didn't mean this woman was any better. The way she spoke of your Jesus meant she was no Christian, either of Foundation or of Catholic background. Neither was she a Moslem. No Moslem would tolerate that icon in his presence.
"Okay,” Ivy said. “So, tell me what you think we should do."
The old woman fingered her mask. “What do you want to do?"
Ivy thought about it. “Stay alive."
"Alive? Is that all? And the burning city? You'd do nothing to prevent the spread of destruction from the navel of the world throughout its extremities."
"How did you—” Ivy stopped herself. The instant Smith had doused the True Cross, Ivy had left the world of the mundane. Why shouldn't this woman know what she had seen in her visions?
"Obviously I'd like to stop that kind of destruction as well."
The woman shook her head. “It is not so obvious. The burning city does not happen by itself, or through some supernatural force of Yahweh, or the Son, or the Goddess, or the Adversary. It is people who bring it about. It can only be people who prevent it. So, pursue your goal. Continue your search. Keep the holy timbers safe and with you. But do not, I think, take them to Rome. There are those in the Roman Church who maintain the hidden faith, but they are weak in Rome.” Her voice was fading, as if she were walking away from Ivy although she seemed no more distant. “Venice,” she whispered. “Byzantium first. There is something in that city that you will need. And then Venice. In Venice you will find those who can help you. Venice, city of the last Crusades. Venice."
* * * *
"Who were you talking to?"
Ivy opened eyes she hadn't realized were closed and looked around.
The woman was gone although her last word continued to reverberate through the cave. Venice, Venice, Venice.
"What old woman? You were babbling, but there was no one else here."
Although Ivy would have sworn she hadn't slept, the gray light of morning penetrated the mouth of the cave.
She looked around and saw nothing was as it had been.
Rather than rich carpets, stones and ancient straw lined the cave's floor. Lichen and moss, and not tapestries, decorated the walls. The niche where the Madonna had presided was empty and covered with dust.
"She drugged us,” Ivy guessed. “She must have made me see things that weren't there."
"Maybe.” Zack rolled to his knees, then cursed softly. “What the hell—"
He pulled a broken bit of clay from where he'd set his knee on it.
A hint of color so faded and pale it seemed more than a memory than actual pigment promised that it had once held a design. Something about one curve seemed familiar, although it was merely a piece of dried clay, hardly something she would have seen before.
"Can I see that?"
He handed it over. “What do you think it is?"
It crumbled slightly as she touched it. Ancient as it was, though, it held a warmth like what would come from human touch.
"It's a mask."
Despite the residual warmth, no one had worn this mask the previous night, or any night for thousands of years. Time had eroded away the hard-fired colors until only a trace of the demon remained. No wonder the woman hadn't been worried about being found by the CIA. The CIA was hardly a powerful force in ancient Babylonia.
"You know the saying about being careful what you pray for?"
He nodded. “I take it you got something different from what you'd expected."
"We're still alive,” Ivy reminded him. “And we've got a goal. Venice."
"Venice? I thought we were going to Rome, to the Church."
"She told me Rome would be a mistake. Venice."
"I'm not so sure.” He stared at her but she didn't back down. “Still, I guess we can decide that once we get off the mountain. If we get off the mountain."
