The Seventh Stone

by Pamela Hegarty

  CHAPTER 16

  Christa keyed in the last tweak to her translation of Salvatierra’s letter. Now she had to figure out how, or if, it would lead her to the seven sacred stones that could restore the Breastplate of Aaron. She drew in a deep breath and pressed print. With a rhythmic whir, the printer churned out a five hundred year old letter that challenged the conventions of New World history, and dug into the very roots of Judeo-Christian beliefs. Not to mention her relationship with her father. A desperate man. Desperate enough to forge a letter that so conveniently proved witness to his story.

  Percival entered the room. She hadn’t noticed he left. He had shaved and changed from his pajamas into navy slacks, worn at the hem, and a wrinkled oxford shirt.

  “This letter tells quite a tale,” she said. “It certainly looks and reads authentic, but it can’t be real.” Even if she wanted it to be. Even if she clung onto that last thread of belief.

  “I believe it is,” he said. Percival was not a religious man, not by a long shot. He constantly argued with Helen, their family’s token fanatic, about the Bible passages that were mathematically impossible. And he only tolerated Dad’s obsession with the Breastplate because he loved Gabriella. He crossed to the open Fed Ex box on the table by the window, pawed through the Styrofoam curls, and extracted what looked like a faded blue-bordered scarf tied into a small bundle. “This came in the package with the letter and your father’s journal.” He placed it on her open palm.

  The cloth was soft with wear, faded by the sun, the border an intricate geometric weave of blues on white. Whatever it held had heft to it, weight and substance for such a small package. As she untied the ends that knotted the bundle, a familiar scent escaped. It was the earthy hint of the desert, the red sands of Morocco, and the salty tease of a far-away ocean coast.

  Percival leaned in closer. “Even with my rudimentary Latin,” he said. “I recognized the word.”

  Swallowing her trepidation, she spread open the scarf. “Crucifix,” she said aloud. But not just any crucifix. The gold gleamed even in the dim light of the library. The Christ figure was intricately detailed, His expression one of pained acceptance. Beneath His feet, the unusual skull and crossbones, carved from ivory, grinned at her ominously. She turned over the cross. The bright red, blue and golden enamel, indicating 16th century Iberian roots, was inscribed in gold with two words, Lux et Veritas. Latin for Light and Truth. “Juan Jaramillo de Salvatierra’s crucifix,” she said. He had embarked to the new world with little more than this crucifix and his faith. His crucifix was evidence that the letter was authentic. “All this time, Dad was right.”

  Percival frowned, adjusted his glasses. “I don’t know if I’d say that,” he said. He took the crucifix from her and clasped the chain at the back of her neck. “But it’s clear he wanted you to have this.”

  “This is the proof,” she said, “that I’ve been searching for all these years. The 1755 Lisbon earthquake and resulting tsunami and fire destroyed the city. I thought, maybe, the historical record of this expedition could have been lost. But to find no reports, no passing references, no captain’s entries about the Breastplate in any other cities, nor libraries, nor texts. Even a leap of faith didn’t account for that.”

  “Leap of faith,” he echoed. He twisted his wedding band, a nervous habit. “As I said, my Latin is a tad rusty, but before that intruder grabbed the letter from me, I saw a name, in darker ink, bold-faced in today’s vernacular. Contreras.”

  “The name Dad has been searching for, Alvaro Contreras,” she said, pointing to the name in the letter, “the conquistador. He was the one who brought the Breastplate to the new world.”

  “The villain, so to speak.”

  “Returned to Spain in chains,” she said, “according to Salvatierra’s letter.”

  “The head of NewWorld Pharmaceuticals,” his eyes met hers, “his name is Baltasar Contreras.”

  “NewWorld Pharmaceuticals,” she repeated. “Gabriella’s company. Gabriella’s boss is named Contreras?”

  “I was computing the odds whilst I was upstairs shaving,” he said, “and, well, it simply cannot be a familial connection. It’s just a peculiar coincidence. Baltasar Contreras is no villain.”

  “What does he look like? Stout, pale skin, pudgy face, contrived wardrobe, like wearing a safari suit into the remote Arizona desert?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Percival had plenty of smarts to puzzle out fifty-page mathematical proofs, and none for social skills. “You don’t know what Gabriella’s boss looks like?”

  “He’s a recluse,” he said. “Won’t even allow a photo of him online on their website. Gabriella and the children met him once, at last summer’s company picnic. Bit of a miracle that he showed up at all. Rich people are eccentric, you know, not crazy.”

  Crazy, like a self-proclaimed prophet. It would explain how that thug this morning found out so quickly where Gabriella lived. “Lucia and Liam met him?” Panic clawed into her gut. She handed him the phone and fished out her cell. “Call the school. See if Helen’s picked up Lucia. I’ll try Helen’s cell.”

  No answer. She left a message, trying to restrain the desperation in her voice.

  “I spoke to the principal,” Percival said. He replaced the handset in its cradle. “Lucia is fine, just finished rehearsing for her part of angel in the school play. She’s out at recess.”

  It still didn’t feel right. “I couldn’t reach Helen. And she never turns off her cell phone.”

  “She’d have to turn it off at the clinic. Liam receives excellent care there, you know. The campus clinic is state of the art, thanks to Baltasar Contreras. He’s quite the philanthropist. And he’s done well by Gabby. Her holiday bonus was generous, to say the least. He even sent a gift for the children.” His face paled.

  “Percy, what is it?”

  “His gift to the children,” he said. “It was a Trojan Horse.”

  She handed him the printout. “Read this,” she said. “We both need to get up to speed, fast. I’m going to pick up Lucia.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Letter, written by Juan Jaramillo de Salvatierra to his brother, Pedro Alonso de Salvatierra, Vatican City. Vissilus Ruins, Morocco, February 14, 1586.

  My dear Pedro Alonso,

  Pray for me, brother, that I have earned everlasting peace, for my death is nigh, and I go to my grave in a heathen land, without the benefit of last rites. Yet it is oddly fitting. I lay in a remote village, Muslim tents erected in the old, forgotten Roman ruins of Viscillus. God’s breath blows through the abandoned streets this night, beating upon the tent walls, reminding that when man aspires to rule the world, then his empires surely will crumble.

  I pray that you have received the missive I sent to you via our sister ship, the Espiritu Santo. It is a faster vessel, and its captain determined to return his prisoner in great haste, without making further stops. You know by now that I could not complete the mission for our Holy Father Sixtus V which carried me to the New World and, ultimately, my earthly end, but I believe, with all my soul, that our Supreme Creator, in His wisdom, called me to the path I followed. I ask your forgiveness, and pray that you believe, after you read this final missive, that I have acted only by God’s hand, in service to Him and no other.

  I was not without doubt, especially when Our Lord sent a mighty storm to wrack the San Salvador even as we neared home, safety and victory. I could have endured this storm with less anguish if my life alone had been in danger, not only because I know that I owe my life to the Supreme Creator, but also because deep in the jungle I had seen death only a hair’s breadth away. What caused me infinite grief and anxiety was the thought that after our Lord had deigned to enlighten me with faith and certainty in this enterprise and had crowned it with victory, abashing our nemesis and sending him back to Spain in chains, his Divine Majesty should now seek to hinder this with my death—a fate that I could have borne more easily had it not also threatened the people on board w
ith me, who sought only treasure, with no aspiration to our sacred enterprise.

  By the third day of this ravenous storm, all men aboard had made our vows to the Supreme Creator, no longer relying on lots cast by the officers. Every crewman, from Captain to Able Seaman, swore to make pilgrimage, barefoot, to the first shrine of the Virgin that they might encounter if saved by our Lord from the wrath of the seas. Yet the storm grew more violent. I, for my own part, clutched my crucifix to my breast and created my own secret pact with the Lord, that if He should save me, I would then tell you of our enterprise, and what had come to pass. If I should drown, then my secret would be buried with me in my watery grave.

  This vow, I humbly propose, is what saved me from being swallowed by the sea that so did open its gaping maw and gulp down our caravel San Salvador and all souls aboard save one, being myself. For even as the storm raged, the men’s cries of fear and anger barely audible above the din of the crashing waves and angry wind, Our Lord’s hand reached down from above, pushing a mighty wave across the gunwales of the ship, cracking the mast like a stick, and wrapping a line around my torso like the fearsome snakes of the New World jungle. The sea water coursed over me and I knew at that moment I should be drowned even though I lay lashed tight to the deck of the San Salvador and not thrashing in the ocean. Yet then, Our Lord’s hand came down once more. A wave, even mightier, ripped the decking I lay lashed to clear from the San Salvador. I know not what happened next, but when I awoke, I and my small plank of decking was all that was left of the San Salvador, the ship and all its souls gone.

  The storm abated, but the sun, equally harsh, burned me like a demon’s tongue. I lay trapped, lashed as securely as any treasure barrel, to the planking that I feared would only prolong my death, not save my life. I could not sink. I could not swim. I could choose neither life, nor death. And yet, the Supreme Creator saw it fitting to save me. His wave carried me to the shore of this heathen land. I now pen this missive to you, for my physical body, the earthly vessel of God’s will, lays crushed and broken in this foreign land. I can only surmise that Our Divine Majesty offered these last days to me so that I may keep my vow and share with you the outcome of my mission.

  It is with this urgency that I stave off death. The heathens have sent to me a man who speaks a rudimentary Spanish. I have requested that he deliver this missive to you at the Vatican, and have given him my cherished crucifix as payment in good faith. It pained me to proffer such intimate and holy treasure to a Muslim, especially with my being so close to God’s judgment at my death, yet I pray that the gold and jewels of the crucifix will be his reward. The information I am sending in this letter is of utmost importance. It is God’s will.

  In one part, I have accomplished the mission which you, under the auspices of the Vatican, assigned to me. Alvaro Contreras is in chains, returned to Spain on the Espiritu Santo to stand trial for treason. He will most certainly be damned. But I swear to you, brother, I shall not be damned.

  As for the golden Breastplate that my earthly words so inadequately described in my last missive, I could not, as a man of God, follow the order of the Vatican. The Lord opened my eyes to bear witness to the destruction that the Breastplate could cause in the possession of an evil man. God’s hand brushed the stench of death through the jungle lest I forget. If you had been with me, brother, you would know. Whole villages were destroyed, every savage dead. A mother had strangled her infant child. An old man had bashed in the heads of young women. Contreras had promised to give them an elixir to cure their madness, but he broke that promise.

  Through this hell, the Lord led me to the clearing lorded over by Demon’s Wings, the rock outcropping that towered above the trees. Demon’s Wings watched over the pyramid temple that Contreras enslaved the locals to defend, blocking access to the Oculto Canyon. The temple’s eyes, above and to each side of the stone lintel, gave warning to all who dared enter. But the temple’s mouth, which had once poured forth life-giving water, Alvaro Contreras had strangled dry.

  In its inner sanctum, the very heart of Satan, the Lord pierced it with a beam of sunlight, sending His true wisdom. I saw the golden Breastplate with the twelve sacred stones, worn by Aaron, brother of Moses, that God designed and built by man’s craft. The Breastplate truly is a conduit between the Lord and His Earth, for it was our Supreme Creator who commanded, Salvatierra, destroy the Breastplate!

  Contreras tempted me. “The gems of the Breastplate reveal the secret to my domination.” He enticed me. “Don the Breastplate. Stand upon this platform. Call God’s light to shine upon you. You will hold the powers of the Heavens in the palm of your hand.”

  I refused to submit.

  My heart pounds. Each breath is a stab of pain. I lay close to death. I had prayed to tell you in person the end of my adventure, for I dared not risk anyone learning of His divine plan, but this missive shall be my testament. After I wrenched the seven stones from the Breastplate, as the boulders rained down around me, I buried the Breastplate deep beneath the heads of those who had once claimed dominion over its power, knowing the Indians will not touch it. Escaping the temple, our ragged crew returned through the jungle to our ships. At the port before we disembarked from the New World, I learned that natives had ruled Contreras’s pyramid to be kept strictly secret and forbidden.

  As for the seven sacred stones, God showed me clearly His divine plan in a dream. I compelled my most trusted allies, our Circle of Seven, to each become a guardian of a sacred stone. I bade each one to embark on a voyage of opposing directions, to the far corners of God’s Earth. My hands were steadied only by the will of God as I entrusted to our noble astronomer and my dearest friend, Tristan de Luna, the Turquoise, to carry north into the desert wilderness. The Sapphire headed east to England, Babur’s Diamond west to Asia. The Urim and Thummim, and the jacinth, secreted to distant lands. My Circle of Seven risk execution for desertion, and can never again return to their homeland. They are the first generation of guardians, but can not be the last.

  I, for my part, took custody of the Tear of the Moon, locking it away in my strongbox with my Bible. Both sacred stone and sacred words now lay at the bottom of the sea with the San Salvador and all her souls. God has relegated the power of the Emerald to a place that no mortal may reach. If it is God’s will, then the other stones have met a similar fate.

  I now seal this letter and my fate. I kiss my crucifix and my life goodbye. I pray that Our Lord and His Holiness will judge that I have served well. And I pray with my last breath that this heathen will deliver this missive to you and fulfill my destiny.

  May the Lord have mercy on my soul, Juan Jaramillo de Salvatierra

  CHAPTER 18

  Christa slowed as she passed the statue of the Virgin Mary whose open hands and perpetual calm welcomed all comers to Rose Hawthorne Catholic School. Just let me get Lucia home safely. And I will believe. Really. After all, Mary was the miracle maker, not the least of which was that Gabby sent Lucia and Liam here. Ever since she returned from Colombia last summer, Gabby had grown more spiritual, more afraid that she wasn’t raising her children with some kind of religious foundation. If I don’t, they might never meet Mom, after, you know, she admitted late one night.

  Christa knew, all right. That’s what this was all about. What her life was all about. The letter was the evidence she’d searched for. The letter answered so many questions, and raised so many more. It named several of the seven sacred stones that Salvatierra removed from the Breastplate. The Urim and Thummim were pivotal in ancient Judaism, and were used to translate the Book of Mormon. Babur’s Diamond, now known as the Kohinoor, and Edward’s Sapphire, were two of most famous gems in world history. Real enough. She’d seen them in the British Crown Jewels. Was it possible that they went missing for a gap of time, in the mid-1500s, secretly placed in their original mounts on the Breastplate?

  The letter told of Luna, the astronomer and Salvatierra’s friend. He had to be the one who left behind the armillary sphere as a
clue to the location of the Turquoise. It even recounted what Salvatierra had done with the Breastplate. He’d buried it beneath the heads of those who tried to claim its power, whatever that meant, in the New World jungle. Most significantly, Salvatierra named the conquistador who had possessed the Breastplate, Alvaro Contreras.

  The kids were out for recess. She parked in the nearest spot to the playground, its primary reds, blues and yellows inviting and happy. The children ran, swung and slid. They didn’t care about the storm clouds darkening the sky. They shouldn’t have to. Maybe she was being paranoid. She shouldn’t drag Lucia away from this innocence. She might scare her, for nothing. She had no proof that the Prophet was Baltasar Contreras. Sharing a last name with a long dead conquistador and a propensity to give educational toys shouldn’t condemn him. Like Percival said, the man was a scion of the community, a well-known, if little seen, philanthropist. None of that alleviated the vise tightening around her heart.

  She got out of her car, hugging her arms across her chest to fend off the biting chill and hide the hole the bullet had sliced through the sleeve of her leather jacket. The blood, thankfully, hadn’t seeped through. She scanned the swings first, Lucia’s favorite activity. Not there. She looked to the monkey bars, the slides. She tried to fix on each child’s face as they raced in every direction, in their plaid uniforms, screaming with delight. Nothing. A growing panic gripped her. “Lucia!” she called, stooping to peer in the “hut” beneath the slide.