by Bear, Robert
Joseph turned to Jesus. “I am so sorry for bringing you this way. Your parents entrusted me with keeping you safe, and I have put you in great danger. I will come this way no longer.”
“No, Uncle. Only God can keep me safe. Ever since we started down the Liger, I have felt the warmest feeling in my heart. I feel that God intends for you to prosper. I will pray tonight to ask him to show you how this voyage can be made in safety.”
As the sun rose the next day, a rainbow appeared. It hadn’t rained that night. And only Jesus and Joseph could see it.
“Uncle, that is the sign you need from now on. Sail out on the blue waters away from land only when you see the rainbow, and God will keep you safe.”
Interlude
St. Hilary’s Parish, Cornwall, A.D. 1932, during the reign of King George V of England
“Bernie, I really do think it’d be best to keep it in storage—it’s such a rare old thing, and best kept safe under the tarpaulin.” Annie’s tone was insistent, although she never raised her eyes from the white doily she was crocheting.
The vicar leaned back in his chair in the parlor and set aside the letter he’d been reading. No one knew when or how the old stone cross depicting the boyish figure of the Christ child had ended up in the vicarage cellar. Legend was that it had gathered dust there for several hundred years. “Well, it has lasted these centuries. I very much doubt it will wear away all that soon with a bit of rain and air, my dear,” Bernie responded. “Besides, it’s such a beautiful cross, displaying Our Lord in his childhood. Tunic crosses such as that are rare and shed light on an aspect of Christ that not many know about. It will be an excellent addition to our churchyard.”
Bernard Walke had been vicar of St. Hilary’s for some twenty years, and his parishioners had grown accustomed to his High-Church practices. He celebrated mass frequently and with reverence. He used the Book of Common Prayer, but emphasized all the sacramental elements of the service. He introduced incense and icons. To some outsiders the Anglo-Catholic orientation made the place unrecognizable as Church of England. He liked to think of himself as a gentle soul—a peace advocate both during and after the Great War. And his mail attested to a national following of the broadcast of his devotional plays from the parish on BBC radio.
Being on the wireless was all well and good, but the beautification of the church was a greater pleasure. After a parish-wide cleaning, he had come up with the idea of resurrecting the tunic cross from its dank cellar tomb and displaying it prominently along the path leading to the entrance of the church.
How troubling that his wife and greatest ally did not share his enthusiasm.
“Yes, but why are they rare, Bernie?” The question was rhetorical.
“Now Annie—”
“You know as well as I do that religious intolerance still exists, and those bands of sectarian zealots out of Plymouth—the ones that call themselves ‘Kensitites’ and ‘The Protestant Truth Society’—are still doing everything they can to fight what they call your Popish ways.” She shook her head, as the flicking of her wrist drew up loop after loop of white cotton thread. “They still come by to disrupt the services. They say they have a judgment authorizing the removal of the things you worked so hard to restore in the church.”
“That case in the Consistory Court is nothing to be concerned about. They have no proper jurisdiction over the church. They just got some woman who never attends our services to claim that she is aggrieved by what she calls our stone idolatry.” He turned to the next letter in his stack.
“You cannot keep ignoring the writs. The officer has been by several times this week trying to serve you.”
“It’s a matter of principle, Annie. The Consistory Court employs the language and forms of the old spiritual courts, but that continuity was broken and its spiritual nature lost when it began allowing appeals to the secular courts on spiritual matters. I will not plead before such a court or accept its judgment on such things.” He sighed. “But I see your point about keeping that tunic cross in the safety of our cellar, at least for now.”
The next afternoon, Father Walke—as everyone but his wife called him—mounted his horse to take a pleasure ride up Tregonning Hill and treat himself to a view of the vast Cornish countryside. On clear days, one could see all the way to Land’s End and Bodmin Moor. As he settled into the saddle, a young woman from the town ran up to the vicarage gates, shouting, “They’ve come, Father!”
He turned back. “Who has come?”
“The radicals!” she shouted. “They are in the church itself!”
Father Walke went pale as he realized who she meant. He ran to the church with a parishioner—the bell ringer—and attempted to enter the main door of the church. They found it barred from the inside, so they made their way around to the priest’s door leading to the Lady Chapel. Father Walke pounded on the door and shouted, “Open up, this is the priest!”
The door cracked open, and the two were admitted—only to find themselves at the mercy of a thuggish bunch in workmen’s clothes. The bell ringer made a dash for the belfry to ring for help, but three ruffians quickly restrained him.
“Oh, dear God!” Father Walke howled. Several men were pillaging the church, smashing the statues at the side altars. A pair of them toppled the image of the Blessed Virgin. All was a blur of havoc and desecration. Closing his eyes, he tried to take himself elsewhere, but could not. The crash and clatter of brass and shattered pottery assaulted his ears.
The only privilege the pillagers allowed him was that of taking the Blessed Sacrament to safety in the vicarage. As he walked by, a few parishioners, seeing what was going on as they returned from school or work, lined the churchyard path, kneeling and praying.
As I pass from the tumult of passion, the world of quiet faith is now out here with the people.
Crowbar Raid on a Church
Kensitites at St. Hilary
Ornaments Carried Off
Vicar a Prisoner
Dreadful headlines blazed across the front pages of the London papers. People countrywide and even overseas responded with a wave of donations in solidarity with Father Walke and his ravaged church. Postal money orders and checks began arriving in the mail within days. Throughout the week, the people of the parish used the funds to restore the church. Carpenters and masons repaired the building. Other images were brought in as replacements for those carried off.
On the following Sunday, Father Walke led a Mass of reconciliation. Once again, the church was made cheerful with flowers. “We are eternally grateful to everyone from near and far who gave money or lent a hand to help restore our parish home,” Father Walke declared during the sermon. His voice cracked with emotion, and he paused to recover himself. “It is surely the work of the Spirit that in a few short days our church is restored, nearly to what it had been. But I fear that the peace we have enjoyed these past years may be at an end. We must stand strong during this difficult time. We must not be afraid of those who despise us, and as Our Lord taught us, we must love our enemies as we love ourselves.”
A special meeting of the parish followed the service. All semblance of order was dashed in the anger and frustration of the members. Many demanded a police investigation and prosecution of the outsiders. Others pointed out that prosecution would be difficult in light of the order of the Consistory Court that backed the raiders with some color of law.
“And what about poor Father O’Donoghue’s headstone?” asked Matilda Lawrence. The frail gray-haired lady, the matron of the parish, hardly ever spoke. The pews fell silent, and all turned to listen. “I still remember him from when I was a girl. What did he ever do to deserve having his grave defaced?”
“She’s right!” declared Tom, a burly miner. “They smashed his headstone to pieces. Surely, that Constancy Court—what is that anyway?”
“The Consistory Court,” corrected one of the parishioners. “It’s an old ecclesiastic court from the Middle Ages, run by the bishops. It doesn’t do muc
h of anything nowadays.”
“Humph! Surely a court would not authorize grave robbery!”
“The court only authorized the removal of the listed objects from inside the church,” said the lawyer. He was a vestryman from Penzance and a longtime friend of Father Walke. “The court only has jurisdiction over the interior of the churches; it has no authority over graveyards. I wouldn’t call it grave robbery—a good case for grave desecration, though.”
“My friends, we are losing sight of why we are here.” Father Walke rose. “This is a house of peace. We come here to reconcile all men to God, even those who despise us. Besides, I’m sure that ruining the headstone was an accident. I saw the motor coach back into it while trying to turn around. The driver got out and apologized for the damage.”
Father Walke’s words only partly quieted the anger in the pews.
“At least they ought to pay damages,” Tom muttered.
A number of people agreed.
Annie took a turn to speak. “Let’s use the tunic cross from the basement of the rectory as a new headstone for Father O’Donoghue.”
Bernie looked at his wife, a bit shocked. “If it had not been for you speaking up before the raid, that old cross could have been smashed to bits. These radicals despise anything that smacks of idolatry. I am so glad I listened to you in keeping it safe where it is. Why are you changing your mind now?”
“Too much has been destroyed,” Annie replied. “It brings me to tears to think about it. They didn’t just destroy our things. What we lost were symbols of our Christian faith that no money can replace. The tunic cross shows Christ as a child. Now most of all, we must be as children, and without fear, we need to trust in our Father. It is important to show this symbol to the people of our parish. We mustn’t hide it!”
Bernie smiled. His wife’s wisdom and sense of calm never ceased to amaze him. She was right.
A few parishioners spoke up, dead set against the idea, afraid of what might happen to the precious artifact if the raiders came back. Others were more interested in pursuing retribution. Nonetheless, the idea of using the tunic cross gained support as others chimed in.
“I can certainly keep an eye on the churchyard,” the constable said.
“Besides,” added the lawyer from Penzance, “the exterior is beyond the power of any future writ from the Consistory Court.”
Some of the raiders came back to disrupt the services by singing their own hymns in an attempt to drown out the voices of the choir. The second Sunday on which this happened, the police came by to take names, and some were later convicted of brawling and violating an order of the King’s Bench obtained by the lawyer from Penzance.
The raiders never returned after that. Maybe they feared the law was now on the side of the parish, or perhaps they finally realized that they would only be stirring up public sympathy for the church, along with a fresh outpouring of donations, if they made the papers again.
The new plaque of polished stone to mark Father O’Donoghue’s grave had arrived a week after the Mass of reconciliation. Father Walke, wanting to wait for all the fuss from the raid to die down, held off from affixing it to the tunic cross. Parishioners still distraught from the raid and its aftermath called on him for more pastoral support. But Annie was not to be put off forever, and she kept reminding Bernie that he needed to get on with it. On the appointed day, it took three burly men to carry the tunic cross up from the vicarage cellar. Father Walke wanted to help, but the men said he would only be in the way.
Slowly but surely they carried the cross up the cellar steps, down the hallway, and out of the front door. The lead man carrying the base suddenly lost his footing, and the bottom of the cross fell to the pavement with a thundering crash. His scream rang out.
“Are you all right?” asked Father Walke.
“It only just missed my foot. What’s this?” The man reached down and pulled out a loose chunk of the stonework. “I’m afraid my clumsiness broke the statue, Father.”
“At least you still have your foot. I hate the thought of you being laid up and unable to work. Are you sure you are unhurt?”
The man nodded.
“In that case, can you chaps turn it over? Let’s have a look at it…It’s not so bad. The stone must have cracked over a period of time. We can cover the hollow in the base with the plaque when we cement it on.”
The men took up the cross once more and carried it to a cart to be pulled by a donkey to the churchyard. The usually docile creature chose this day to be ornery. It made quite a sight and entertained the women watching as they hung out their laundry, to see the men try to cajole the beast along. Not even Father Walke’s prayers seemed to help. It took a little girl running up and holding out a carrot to entice the beast forward.
It was the middle of the afternoon before they reached the churchyard. The men laid the cross on the ground face up and started mixing the cement. They were about to start applying it when Father Walke stopped them. “Can you men come back to finish up after you get off work Saturday? I’ve just remembered something I must do, before I…before I consecrate this cross, and I need to pray about it.”
The men exchanged glances. They seemed to take the request as something strange at first, but they agreed to come back and finish the job.
On Saturday they returned as promised. They did not seem to notice that someone had already cemented the new polished stone plaque over the lower front side of the base. They planted the cross upright in the ground and poured fresh cement around the base to keep it stable.
Father Walke thanked the men. Once they were gone he looked over the monument. The new plaque bore the words from the old broken gravestone: “F. T. O’Donoghue, Priest, died March 18, 1881.” The tunic cross itself, with its poignant image of the Christ child, looked beautiful, even after so many centuries.
Alone with the relic, Father Walke knelt and felt around the edge of Father O’Donoghue’s plaque. The seal had to be airtight, and it was. Months before, he had come across an ancient paper that one of the parishioners had found in a sealed bottle, in a box, in the cellar at the bottom of the old thirteenth-century tower. The writing was faded but still legible. The Secret of the Lord, it read in an antique script. Below that, a rubbing showed five horizontal lines intersected by dozens of cross marks. He had vaguely remembered seeing something like it, years ago, in an Irish museum—an old Celtic script called Ogham that dated from the time of Saint Patrick.
He had tried to track down a scholar to translate the writing, but with St. Hilary’s being such an out-of-the-way place, he’d had no luck. And now, with the news his doctor had brought him the evening before the men hauled the cross to the churchyard, he was rapidly running out of time. Tuberculosis, the doctor had told him. The diagnosis meant that within a few days Father Walke would be in the sanitarium, forced to retire.
I pray I made the right decision. I felt the Spirit guide me to keep the secret safe again. Whatever the secret was, concealed in that ancient writing, he felt that it belonged with the carving. The hollow was just big enough to form the receptacle. Folded now into a small stoppered bottle and covered under the plaque and cement, the paper was safely ensconced within.
The fading light of dusk still illuminated the stone figure of the boy with his outstretched arms. Father Walke felt as if the boy, newly entrusted with the Lord’s secret, now yearned to share it.
The Holy Spirit knows best. The secret will be revealed when the world is ready for it, even if I do not live to know it.
Chapter 5
The Tin Finder
Near the Celtic village of Carn Roz, A.D. 9, during the reign of Augustus, first Emperor of Rome
Kendrick
Kendrick guided his ship slowly westward along the southern coast of Britain. Fair winds had taken them swiftly past the hostile shore inhabited by the Durotriges, and they had finally reached the land of the friendly Dumnonii tribe, who inhabited the long peninsula known as Belerium that stretched weste
rly from the south side of Albion. It was still a long sail to Ictus, which lay close to Belerium’s very western tip, and the prevailing wind had turned. Now it was from the west. The lug sail rig allowed for some progress to be made into the wind, but the ship sailed much more across the wind than into it, tacking from one direction to the other.
With a friendly shore to the north, it was no longer necessary to stay several miles out to sea. They caught a few glimpses of the shy natives when the boat stopped briefly for water at the mouth of the River Plym.
They proceeded slowly westward until midmorning of the sixth day from their launching across the Oceanus Britannicus. As he brought the boat around onto the other tack, Kendrick noted with satisfaction that he would be able to make the entrance of the River Fal.
Pirro came over to join Kendrick at his station on the steering oar. “It is a foul business sailing a ship into the wind, forever going this way and that.”
“Aye,” growled Kendrick. “It’s like crawling up a slippery slope. And now we battle the tide, too. If I did not play the wind shifts to the best advantage, we would not make any progress at all.”
“How far to Ictus? Can we get there by sundown?”
Kendrick pointed to the right where the coastline curved off into a distant mist. “You can almost see Lizard Head from here. It is about ten miles ahead, all of it upwind and against the tide. From there we will turn more to the northwest, but it will be another twelve miles to Ictus. If the wind veers to the left, we may be able to sail in directly on one tack once we pass Lizard, and make it to Ictus…oh, sometime tonight at the earliest.”
Joseph had approached, listening. “That will not do,” he grumbled. “The Sabbath begins tonight at sundown. I cannot conduct any trade until sundown on the morrow.”
“It would be best not to arrive while my partner is indisposed,” said Pirro. “The native merchants will not understand his devotion and will take it for rudeness. Besides, we are all weary of the sea and long to spend a day on dry land.”
