by Ken Fry
Those days had changed his life. He had been chosen as a conduit for a greater plan he dared not imagine, and now the official artist to the monastery. Once, he had been Brodie Ladro, but now, he was Brother Baez. He never lost his sense of astonishment at those events and how they railroaded his life forever. The only familiar thing that remained was his painting, his art. Hardly a day passed when he didn’t think of her.
Ulla, beloved Ulla.
But that, now, could never be.
The next morning, he awoke with a sense of agitation. Something was wrong. He could barely concentrate on his meditations and prayers. In his mind, a strange shape was forming. He couldn’t make it out yet. He decided to pick up his brushes, the charcoal, and attempt to formulate what was troubling him. An hour later, with a drawing pad in front of him, he closed his eyes and tried to visualise what he had seen. It didn’t take long. A rush of shapes shifted in his mind, and they stayed put. His hand started sketching. At first, he couldn’t make out what he had drawn. He stood back and ran his eyes across it … and let out a gasp. He recognised it. It was a sight he hadn’t seen since his earlier days with Ulla.
What in heaven’s name? Why?
It was The White Horse of Uffington. He had admired it ever since he had first laid eyes on it, but after all these years, he had forgotten. Moving his fingers along its unmistakeable outline and form, he felt pleasure run through him. He sat down a wide rock and a broad smile broke out across his face. I’ll be damned. Why has that surfaced?
His thoughts returned to the paintings he had done earlier of a blue robed Mary and the penitent woman. Somebody or something had taken over his brushes. Ulla had become Mary and the other seemed so familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and decided to get some oils he’d left in the Land Rover nearby. Besides, it needed a start up to keep the engine and battery in good condition.
He stood and turned, and received another shock…
The entire area had somehow transformed, and had become awash with Desert Bluebells – bright, magnificent and glorious. He sank to his knees, his mouth agape with astonishment. He realised in a flash that mysterious things were at work around him.
This was no fluke.
There hadn’t been a flower in this part of the world for years, and the last recorded event of rainfall was over six years ago. He bent his head in utter confusion. When he lifted his head, a female figure seemed to appear in the middle of the blooms. He stretched out his hand, reaching for her, but the vision flickered away as quickly as it had appeared.
“No… It’s starting again…”
CHAPTER 3
Santa Fe, New Mexico
USA
His Smith and Wesson, 9mm, M&P M2.0 pistol lay within a hand’s breadth away on his desk. Pastor Shepard never took any chances when he sat alone through the late and early hours. It was five minutes past midnight and the church premises were bolted and barred. Nothing but a tank would be able to break in. The once full bottle of ‘Widow Jane’ was half full, and the pack of ‘Lucky Strikes’ had twelve remaining. He had surrounded himself with piles of books, and printouts from Google. Occupying his attention was a complete treatise by Roy Wallis, entitled The Road to Total Freedom: A Social Analysis of Scientology. Shepard wasn’t interested in whether he believed it or not. His area of interest lay in structure, organisation and how to best get a message of hope across to the gullible millions he could foresee flocking to his church.
He allowed himself a brief respite to light up another cigarette, and a few more gulps of bourbon. His clubfoot ached, and he bent down to massage it. As he stroked it, as he had so many times before, he often wondered why his parents had never had it treated. He guessed they were too busy fighting each other and too involved in their extra-marital affairs to really worry about him. The foot had its advantages. There was no way he could be drafted for military service. He’d been wise, though. To offset his lack of a physique suitable for the military, he had joined in promoting the war effort in the Far East via the USSS. His administrative skills and strategies were brought to the notice of military intelligence. From there, he was seconded into raising the morale of troops and preaching a Christian message, to assuage such war crimes as the Mai Lai massacres in Vietnam. He had no problems about that and soon found himself with a powerful and listened-to voice. When he was discharged, he had a notable group of followers, and without even realising it, it had started a church foundation big enough to form a new denomination. Gospels apart, it kept him in a style of living beyond his wildest dreams. He’d never spoken to his dysfunctional parents since.
The Lazarus story compelled him. What he had heard so far, rumours they may be, dazzled him totally. The healed woman, the broken artist, the succession of painters and the myth, if it was that, stretching back to the time of Christ! The story was too powerful to set aside.
It was brought to his attention… surely, he was meant to do something with this secret.
As Pastor Shepard sat in that small office, amidst bourbon, tobacco, a gun, nude pictures, and his greed and ambition, a revelation descended on him…
The Holy Church of Lazarus. The Lazacrucian movement will be born … and Shepard would be its King.
§
3 months later
All was in place. Without batting as much as an eyelid, Pastor Shepard told his followers that the Almighty had called to him through a vision and that he, Shepard, was to start a true belief system based on the idea of the dead rising, as demonstrated by Christ’s raising of Lazarus. He would be gone for ninety days to meditate, reflect, and structure God’s plan. Afterwards, he would return and reveal what God had planned for them all. That got his followers into a high state of excitement.
True to his word, Pastor Shepard did disappear as he said – into the desert – but not for spiritual reasons. He travelled to Nevada’s Mojave Desert and booked in at a comfortable hotel on the Las Vegas strip. The church’s funds were ample for what he had in mind. To his credit, in between the nightlife, girls, roulette and Black Jack, he did attempt to come up with a viable plan for his new church.
The system would be arranged as a pyramid divided into twelve escalating layers – one for each of Christ’s disciples – before total ascendancy at its peak, where only the chosen few would have access. He, of course, would be at its highest point and known as the Anointed Father, or The Anointed One. There could be no one higher than him. Each member must go through a degree of difficulty in each layer, before access to the next layer could be reached. They would have to prove themselves worthy of the ascension. The degrees of difficulty were to be comprised of scriptural knowledge, intensive doctrinal courses, tests, exams, meditation, severe self-analysis, psychological testing and lengthy community retreats. All would be at ever-increasing expense to the candidates. After all, knowledge and redemption are not free.
There was to be no guarantee of success. A minimum term of one year per layer would be required before access to the next level could be initiated. There would be an escalating fee structure. A postulant, if he ever completed the climb upwards, would have spent thirty thousand dollars, at least, to reach the highest layer.
On top of this, there would be seminars, camps, literature, and any other activity that would earn an income for the Holy Church of Lazarus. Shepard calculated that he could, from the very first year, net an estimated million dollars.
What was needed was a bit of magic, a little trick or two to produce mass hysteria. He thought about this in great detail. If there was truth in the story about the Lazarus painting and he could find it, what a bombshell that would be!
He picked up his Smith & Wesson, balancing it first in one hand and then the other. We will need lots of these and other weapons. No doubt there will come a time when we will come under attack.
The new church would have five thousand followers to begin with. However, an icon rumoured to heal illnesses, even if it
was only a rumour, would attract believers from all over the world.
Everyone feared death. Many needed to believe.
He, Pastor Shepard of the Holy Church of Lazarus, would be the embodiment of what most of mankind dreamt and hoped for.
Life.
He would give them something to believe in … Lazarus lived.
Interesting news was not long in reaching him through Alphonse and Jeremiah. In their investigations, they discovered the identity of the woman of noble birth who lived close to Toledo in Spain, the one who had miraculously recovered from advanced terminal cancer. Some were saying Christ had touched her in a vision. Others said she had seen and believed in a picture of Lazarus being raised from the dead, and that had cured her. Local gossip added fuel to the fire. It was said the bleeding figure of the Holy Virgin had led to her recovery. They were stories he had to investigate as soon as possible.
He drafted a statement to his followers, which will be delivered by his deputy. Of how their leader, Pastor Shepard, was experiencing intense spiritual insights and revelations which compelled him to remain in the desert. Shepard read through his prepared statement and it sounded convincing, humble, and even inspirational.
That should get some interest going and the tills ringing.
CHAPTER 4
Martha’s dreams had become increasingly worrying and strange for her. There was something about them that she was unable to mention to her mother, Ulla. She felt they held a very personal statement, which in some way reached out to her and her alone. Besides, she didn’t want to alarm her.
She had seen knights with red emblazoned tabards, bloody swords and singing a deep guttural chant which she could not understand. A man’s face encompassed the entire scene. She knew it was him – her father, Broderick Ladro. It could be no one else. An enormous rush of love had spread through her and she understood why her mother loved him so. He was alive out there somewhere, and she knew now, like she had never known before, that she was going to have to find him.
In the depths of her mind, he was calling to her and was saying, yes, yes, I will find you.
A panorama of Desert Bluebells stretched out in front of her. She saw a man, his arm outstretched, reaching out for her before the vision faded.
She awoke with a deep feeling of peace and comfort.
That afternoon, with a strong sense of something otherworldly, she took a stroll towards The White Horse. She felt her decisions hardening, but not her heart. She would eventually embark on a university course, embracing archaeology and fine art. A difficult combination, she thought, but one that felt totally right for her. Life was meant for challenges.
She knew Ulla would agree even though it would mean she’d be spending most of her time abroad. More reason why she could not tell her of her dream and visions. It was too similar to what Ulla had told her and what her mother had written in those diaries. It could only resurrect her alarms and fears.
That brief, vague vision of him drove her beyond what was expected from academia. But her direction and compass settings were now clear.
A wisp of fear touched her. For in that, her certainty, was contained all the uncertainty of her entire life.
When Martha returned home, there was an envelope waiting for her. “Look, Ma, it’s got a London postmark. Oh God, I think it’s from SOAS.”
Ulla looked anxious. “Well, open it up then!”
Martha ripped it open and quickly read it through. “Yipes! I’ve been unconditionally accepted. That’s unheard of! It says:
Due to your outstanding performance we are prepared to offer you a graduate course to read both, Medieval European Archaeology and Medieval European Fine Art. Please acknowledge this letter within seven days to hold your place.’”
Ulla gulped. Happiness, for her, was mingled with sadness. They would not see each other for long periods of time. “Come here, sweetheart.” She hugged her daughter close.
§
Monasterio de San José de Nazaret
Nr. Segovia, Spain
For the last seventeen years, as was his custom, Abbot Louis, on this day, every year took special care of his personal hygiene. His attire, his habit, and even his sandals had been repaired and cleaned of candle wax drippings and incense burns. He felt like a new man. On this day, all those years back, it had arrived at the monastery and he had witnessed its power. He had realised his role as a guardian of Christendom’s least known but most potent symbol of Christ’s healing legacy. So secret had it been that even the Vatican knew nothing of it. Nor did his community. Intuitively, he had known that had to be the way, considering what lengths men were prepared to go to get their hands on such potent treasures. He knew of its history and its impermanent nature, which only became apparent when a new artist was about to appear. As far as he knew, only four people – including himself – knew of its existence. The others were Brother Baez – formerly Brodie Ladro – who had been chosen in a mysterious way to resurrect the work, together with his then partner, Ulla Stuart, and the Condesa, who was living proof of its awesome efficacy.
Also, on this day, she would be visiting the monastery, as she had done every year from when the painting was first deposited here. She was a living testimony to what it could achieve, Condesa Maria Francesca de Toledo, he could testify, had not aged a day in those seventeen years. She came in humility and gratitude, forever asking to be forgiven for all her lifelong sins, to which she open-heartedly and freely confessed.
The great wooden gates had opened, and she arrived in her vintage Delage D6 at a leisurely pace. Once alighted, Abbot Louis saw that she had lost none of her grace and bearing. For a woman just over seventy years, she looked like a fresh fifty-year-old. She dropped to one knee before the Abbot and kissed his hand.
“My Lady, you are most welcome. Your timing is, as always, impeccable. Just in time for tea.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Lead on please, Father.”
“This way.” He ushered her into the shade of the cloisters and to his office.
“Nothing seems to have changed since I was first here. That gives me a reassuring feeling, Father Abbot.”
As usual, on these annual meetings, they reminisced about the events that had brought them all together.
“And where is Brother Baez? He’s usually around when I visit, although we never meet.”
“I fear that he is in the midst of another spiritual crisis. He has gone to the desert for a while, to pray, meditate, and produce some works of art for the monastery.”
“Father, I need to speak to you both, but perhaps you can tell him when he returns. I feel the time has come for the work to be displayed to the public. It need not have a special place but one where it would settle in and blend with all your other art works. Its purpose must be fulfilled, and it cannot do so while it is locked away. It must be found by those who are destined to find it.”
“I’ve had similar thoughts. I agree that it’s time it saw the light of day. We need to bring this to Brother Baez’s attention. However, its powers must remain secret, and those drawn to it, in their recovery, should never know why or how.”
“Agreed. Now, may I sit with it for a while?”
“As always. Follow me.”
§
Locking the metal door behind her, Maria placed the key in her pocket and knelt with reverence before a small altar, on which stood a golden crucifix. She lit two large candles and ignited a minute block of frankincense. Mounted centrally behind the altar was the painting – Brodie’s The Raising of Lazarus. Something about it reminded her of an English artist she much admired, Sir Stanley Spencer. Whenever she laid her eyes on it, it never failed to make her catch her breath. She made her implorations and prayers for all those who were party to the entire episode, and even for the soul of the man who had all but thwarted the destiny of it all – Sir Maxwell Throgmorton.
As was her custom, she would at first talk to the painting and then meditate on its deeper meaning. This time, she
found herself staring at it more intently, drawn into its mystery. The faces, the modernish apparel, and the setting that almost looked like an industrial landscape. Lazarus, looking faceless, expressionless, was emerging from his tomb, surrounded in colours of red and blue. Christ was dressed in black, almost like overalls, and not the traditional white, and his face dripping with sweat. He stood tall amongst his disciples, depicted as artisans, and the many people and faces that surrounded him. His arms were raised but vanished in a glow of yellow and greens. The tomb resembled a dark desert cave. The faces of the twelve apostles stared out of the canvas with expressions of wonderment and astonishment,
It was then she heard a voice, loud and clear in her mind. It is almost time. She heard it three times. Her hand flew to cover her mouth and she saw the figure of Christ turn his head for the briefest of moments to look into her eyes. The Condesa passed out in a crumpled heap onto the floor.
Five minutes passed before she recovered.
She sat back up, unafraid and filled with peace. All seemed as it had been, but the realisation was too powerful to dismiss.
Tears flowed.
She reached out and touched the painting with an enormous feeling of gratitude and love.
It is almost time, but she knew no more.
She unlocked the door and headed back to Abbot Louis.
CHAPTER 5
Las Vegas, USA
John D. Bower’s psoriasis was giving him trouble on his back and elbows again, but it had begun in childhood and he’d learnt how to handle it. The irritation required minutes of scratching, which his doctors had told him he shouldn’t do. He was seated behind a massive, twelve-foot marble and English oak desk, surrounded by an extensive array of CCTV screens.
