by Ken Fry
“What’s going on, Ma?”
“I don’t know, but it worries me. This is how Brodie started. Wonderful in its way, but it broke our relationship. I don’t want that to happen again between us. If it does, I will curse the name of Jesus Christ forever more.”
“There’s nothing religious here, Ma. It’s a place we both love.”
“Just wait and see.”
Martha returned to her painting and with a few more strokes using a Flake White hue to suggest the oldness of The White Horse, she produced a beautiful impression of what lay beyond their windows.
Ulla could only gulp. The speed and accuracy of Martha’s brushstrokes mesmerised her. How is that possible? “It’s been a long time since you picked up your brushes. Why now?”
“I can’t answer that. It’s been nagging away at me ever since those flowers arrived.”
“I should have known.” Ulla’s sigh was one of gathering depression.
“Ma.” Martha’s voice sounded tremulous. “I’ve been thinking...”
“I can see that, and I know what you’re going to say. I am not surprised but it will upset me, I guarantee it. You’re going to postpone SOAS, aren’t you?”
There was a long pause as they stared quietly at each other.
“Yep. How did you guess?”
“It wasn’t difficult. The vibes around you are so potent a child could read them. Are you going to try and find him?”
Martha, her shoulders quivering, began to gently sob into her two hands as she covered her face. “Yes, I am. I have to. He’s calling me, Ma. He doesn’t know me, but he needs me. He may die without us ever knowing each other. Ma, I have to go to him. Please!”
Ulla, in one moment, felt her heart lurch as it gave a sorrowful, agonising jump. “Listen to me, Martha. No one has a clue where he is. If they have, they are keeping it secret. All I know is that he went back to Spain and entered a monastery somewhere and became a monk. Where, I don’t know. But there’s one person who might know, although I haven’t heard from her since your father disappeared. I had written to her on several occasions, but she never replied. Her name is the Condesa Maria Francisca de Toledo. She has several addresses. We found her in a small place south of a town called Guadamur, a short ride from Toledo. It’s written in those diaries. That’s all I have to give you. If you go, promise me you will return to me. And if you find him…” Ulla’s voice broke off, her head dipped, and then she turned and rushed from the room.
CHAPTER 7
Sacramento, USA
The flight was proving uneventful. Shepard was impressed with his newfound colleague’s wealth and hospitality. Nothing seemed to be too much bother. There was Bourbon and Champagne galore and the interior of the plane was opulent and extravagant. Shepard nurtured a secret thought that things could only get better. John D. Bower must surely be a gift from God.
Not dissimilar to his own, he could see the subtle bulge of a shoulder holster beneath Bower’s sky-blue sports jacket. Clearly, he was not a man to mess with.
“Well, if what you have been hinting at is true, then there could be substantial rewards for us, eh?”
Shepard hesitated. He hadn’t made plans to share anything, but in this situation, it was best to go along with it. Bower was going to be useful.
“We have to find it first, and everything I know points to Spain. Two of my men are out there right now checking out a few things.” Shepard paused as he felt the plane begin its descent and approach run. It was time to be direct. “How do you see yourself helping me?” He noticed Bower nod at his two bodyguards.
“There are ways and means. I have money, rather more than you could stump up. I also have strength, muscle power if you like. Those two,” he pointed at the two meat cleaver types nearby, “are just two of many I can call on. Look, I don’t piss about, Pastor. You lost an armful of cash the other night. That’s how stupid you are. You’re never going to pull this off on your own, which I think you’re thinking of doing? What’s been passing through that tiny brain of yours? I bet it’s along the line of, ‘I’ll use him, then lose him.’” Bower smirked as he slid his M19 Beretta from its holster and tapped Shepard’s hand with it. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed your own pea shooter under that jacket. Whilst you were sleeping, I had my guys run scans and checks on you. There isn’t much we don’t know, Pastor. I know where you were born, what schools you attended and all your exam results. That dodgy foot of yours held you back here and there, and for a time, you worked for the USSS. They fired you and you were lucky to escape a treason charge for sexing about with Russian men and women. What a naughty boy you are. You then set up a church, ‘Thomas Reborn,’ is it? You don’t mind spending their money, do you? How long do think you can get away with that? You study Scientology and you think you can emulate it. But without my help, you won’t have a chance in hell. The IRS will declare your new Holy Church of Lazarus as dissident, and you won’t get it off the ground. Now, you see big opportunities with this Lazarus thing. I see the same, too. Let me tell you a few things.”
Shepard could feel sweat beginning to trickle uncomfortably across his back and down the crevice of his ass. This wasn’t going to plan.
“We’ll be at my place soon and then I’ll show you what I’m about. We’re about the same age and yet our styles are so very different, but we can be useful to each other. I grew up in a shithole basically, and everything I learnt, I learnt there. Others were busy playing tough guys and muscle men, but I used my head and got into the betting and gambling game. Not to play, mind you, that’s for mugs like you. I did a three stretch for small time laundering. They couldn’t prove the other millions that passed via my setups. Even in jail, I made more money than the staff put together. I saw things you wouldn’t want to see or hear about. But there’s an odd thing about me in the middle of all that shit … I was interested in the odd, the paranormal, miracles, and religious events. Yes, I even went to Lourdes to see for myself. I think your God is looking after me. Just when I’m wavering, you come along as if you have been sent especially to me. That’s how I see it.” His next words came out as more menacing. “And that’s how it’s going to be, preacher man. Got it?” He tapped him again with the gun barrel, but this time with more pressure.
Shepard wrestled with a reply. He was beginning to regret his decision to join the flight. He didn’t speak, but nodded, and was glad to note that the plane was about to touch down. It did so with the gentlest of bumps, before slowing and turning in a wide arc to where two large black sedans were parked. Bower put on a very dark pair of Raen ‘Parkhurst’ sunglasses.
“You’re in the front one, Pastor, with my two men to look after you. I’ll be following behind. It’s about a thirty-five-minute drive from here, so behave yourself. You might be in for a surprise later.”
§
El Desierto de Tabernas
Brother Baez shifted uncomfortably in his sleeping bag. He had had many dreams that night, but The White Horse fed his mind more potently than any other. Riding close across its back, he saw her. Her fair hair flowed from her and he could make out a smile. There was a connection … but he couldn’t nail it. Her face was so familiar. So close … so known … but so unknown.
He sat upright. The light of the first dawn waved a weak flutter on the horizon. He reached for his water bottle and gulped rapidly on it. As he wiped his lips dry, memories began passing through his mind like an old movie. He could never free himself from them. He understood that now. Once again, the sword-brandishing knights whispered into his ear and into his mind. They had been absent since he had joined the monastery.
Why is this stirring once again? Oh God, leave me alone! I did what you asked of me. Is that not enough for you?
A sudden blast of moaning wind blew across the barren earth, sending up small pockets of dust all around. Baez pulled his sleeping bag tighter around himself. The air chilled him to the bone.
His mind went back to Ulla and the last time he had seen
her, and that last letter she had sent. He knew that he would never see his child. He let out a sigh. Just then, the air appeared to shimmer.
YAAAH!
Without warning, the clash of swords and armour, and the shrieks of terrified horses surrounded him. He leapt to his feet and grabbed a large hammer from the floor close by. He swung it wildly in all directions, but it only swished through empty air. The cacophony of noise ceased as abruptly as it had started, and all he could hear was the panting of his breath and the beating of his heart.
Then he heard it, loud and clear, her unmistakeable voice in his mind chanting the old refrain.
In desert march or battle’s flame
In fortress and in field
Our war-cry is thy holy Name.
Deus Vult! Beauséant!
He dropped the hammer as his body crashed to the ground. He covered his ears, but the chant persisted. Finally, after several minutes, the chanting subsided, but it was immediately followed by someone weeping.
That voice … the accent … I know it … I haven’t heard it for over seventeen years! It’s her. Maria, Condesa Maria Francisca de Toledo. Where is she?
CHAPTER 8
Close to Village 14
Sacramento, CA
“Well, Preacher, what do you think of my little place?” Bower waved his hand expansively across one of the biggest houses in the surrounds. “It’s my smallest, actually. I’ve got three more in various parts of this wonderful country of ours. This happens to be the nearest to Vegas, so I often come here. It’s got everything I could possibly want. A fully equipped gym, Olympic-size swimming pool, Jacuzzis, six bedrooms, all en suite, and next to the tennis courts, I’ll be building a running area complete with woods and a track. Do you like it?”
Shepard couldn’t think. He had become overwhelmed at what he was looking at. It was huge. Built in contemporary style, it was more massive than any house he had ever seen up close. It exceeded his wildest dreams. This is the smallest of three more? For a moment, his ideas of a new church and a cult following evaporated, but that didn’t last long. Right there and then, he realized what real money could achieve. Scientology had done it and so could his Holy Church of Lazarus. This is what I can look forward to in a few short years.
“Impressive, John, most impressive.” He scanned the property from left to right and back again. The garage, from what he could see, was housing a bright red Ferrari Portofino. There was enough space for at least another six vehicles, with room to spare.
“Well, I haven’t brought you here to gawp. It’s time to give you a drink and tell you what I have in mind. Let’s go to my library.”
Several minutes later, Bower was pushing the door knobs on each side of the imposing wooden doors. They swung silently open, and in doing so, they activated an automatic lighting system that lit up the windowless room with a low glow.
“This is my collection, Pastor. There’s no natural light here as it causes damage to the books, especially ultra-violet. But it's hard to see the books in a pitch-black room, so the compromise solution was to install diffused lighting, but even that is allowed only for a limited amount of time. It still causes damage, and that can be cumulative, but the alternative is never looking at the books. If that was so, what’s the point of collecting, eh?” He pointed to a spacious quilted armchair. “Take a seat.”
The library resembled a museum collection. Shepard sat down with care and continued to swivel his eyes around the room. It was about fifteen feet in height and what walls there were, amounted to shelf upon shelf of leather-bound volumes – some of which looked incredibly old. The odd oil painting interspersed the monotony of shelving.
“You look surprised, and so you should be.” Bower paused for a moment to dislodge the Beretta from its shoulder holster and placed it on the table in front of him. “Why don’t you do the same? Please, Pastor. It will show an element of trust between us.”
Shepard didn’t hesitate. As he unstrapped the holster, Bower pressed a concealed button.
“Don’t get nervous. Your Bourbon is on its way.”
Thirty seconds later, the door swung open and a pretty, young, Mexican-looking woman came in with a silver tray. Without asking, she placed ice in Shepard’s cut glass tumbler and poured his drink. She left the Champagne.
“Thank you, Valeria. We may need you later. I’ll let you know.”
She smiled and scuttled from the room with a polite nod of her head.
Bower then directed his stare at Shepard. “I’ve brought you here for a reason. It’s not because of any great liking of you. What you told me about the painting figured exactly into what I’ve been looking for several years. I want to show you something and you are not to touch it.” Opening a drawer, he pulled out a pair of surgical gloves, put them on, and walked over to a wall ladder. He pushed it along a bit, and then climbed to the top. With a slight grunt, he heaved a large volume from the rack and with the greatest of care, descended the ladder and placed the book on the desk. “I repeat, do not touch this. You may regard me as a brash and disreputable casino owner but there is another side to me that few know of, hence, this collection of mine. It’s what I spend my money on. No disrespect, but I doubt that you’d know anything of what I am about to show you. This is the jewel of my collection.
“Listen carefully. In 1552, a strange and copiously illustrated book, entitled, Augsburg Book of Miraculous Signs, appeared in the Swabian Imperial Free City of Augsburg – then a part of the Holy Roman Empire – located in present-day Germany. It exercised, in remarkable detail and with wildly imaginative artwork, Medieval Europe’s growing obsession with signs sent from God. A testament to the basic human yearning for magical thinking, which we often use when explaining feelings and phenomena beyond the grasp of our logic. Known now as The Book of Miracles, it first surfaced some years ago, and was auctioned off at great cost, finally making its way into an undisclosed American buyer’s private collection. It was one of the most spectacular new discoveries in the field of Renaissance art.” He paused. “I was that buyer, and this is the book.” Bower caressed the book like a lover.
Shepard thought it odd for such a man to value anything more than money.
Bower continued. “Facsimiles have been produced since that time. There are a few omissions and gaps within its content. Before you ask, it’s composed of 169 pages with large-format illustrations in gouache and watercolor, depicting wondrous and often eerie celestial phenomena, constellations, conflagrations, and floods, as well as other catastrophes and occurrences. It deals with events ranging from the creation of the world and incidents drawn from the Old Testament and Christ’s miracles in the New Testament. It portrays ancient traditions and medieval chronicles of events that took place in the immediate presence of the book’s author. With illustrations from the visionary Book of Revelation, it even includes the future end of the world. Absent, most notably, with only captions remaining, are three missing depictions of the raising of Lazarus.” Bower paused to wipe a bead of sweat from his top lip. He was clearly animated, if not moved.
“I want this corrupt world of religion to be shaken to its core, and the truth of it revealed, no matter what is required to do so. What you said to me back in Vegas fits in with my plans. A painting or two of Lazarus would complete this priceless work. Your proposed church would make Scientology and the Catholic Church look like long-lost cousins at a wake. The world and its riches would be ours to command. This is not something one man can achieve alone. You will need me and my resources, and I have many. Now, look at these.” He began to turn the pages, jabbing his index finger at the various and most amazing examples of medieval artwork Shepard had ever seen. He didn’t even know such things existed. It needed no explanation. He saw it clearly. This Book of Miracles and the alleged miraculous painting of Lazarus would cause a global revolution, and panic, most definitely panic, amongst mankind’s most established religions. The possibility of cheating Death, in this life, had a powerful allure.
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br /> Shepard gulped heavily on the Bourbon as Bower sat back and eyed him with what was now an impassive expression. “You’d better start telling me all you know. Before you do, there’s something I haven’t told you about The Book of Miracles, which I think you should understand. I suspect it runs close to what you have in mind.”
In spite of the Bourbon, Shepard’s hand trembled. Events were beginning to move at an unexpected pace. “What’s that?” he managed to answer. Not certain whether he wanted to hear what’s next.
Bower leant forward. “When the manuscript was discovered, it was found amongst a collection of small jewels, weapons, goblets, and so on. I’m sure you can imagine what it might have looked like. Together with these were a number of documents inscribed in Latin. None had any real significance to us in the twenty-first century, apart from their age. There was one manuscript that was worthy of note, and it’s in my possession. I have here an enlarged copy of it. How’s your Latin, Pastor?” He reached into a drawer and pulled out an A4 sized sheet, inscribed in a beautiful example of medieval calligraphy.
Et cum Lazaro quondam nos coniungit cum magis, et sic falsum est summum hominis ideas et religionum.
“It translates easily, preacher man, but I expect that in your crew of clappies you don’t go in for Latin too much. It says: When Lazarus unites with us once more, so will end mankind’s false ideas and religions. You can read what you like into that, but what is significant is that the painting or paintings of that event are missing from this profound work – all of which must have been known to the compiler of the Augsburg work – which commenced in the sixteenth century. Then along came you, who knows nothing about this, but has a story that matches up to what I have here. Like a carpenter’s dovetail joint, a missing piece ... and what’s more, you’re attempting to find it and base a religion on the whole premise. In my world, synchronicity is a fact of life. That’s why I’m extremely wealthy. The thing I want to do most is to find that painting or whatever is missing from the book. But until now, I had no clue where to start. Tell me, how rich do you want to be, and how much do you want to run your own worldwide show, eh?”
