by Ken Fry
He let out a desperate cry. “It is enough! Enough! It is finished. I am finished. For pity’s sake, release me.”
The gigantic White Horse of Uffington gazed down upon him.
“My God. Did I paint that?” He heard it snort.
On its back, she sat. It was the female who had been infesting his dreams. He saw her clearly, but he knew her not.
Riding like the wind, she carried a white shield with a red cross and was waving a sword.
“Ulla? Is that you, Ulla? Or are you Maria?”
There was no reply.
“Who are you?” His tone was edged with desperation. The vision did not answer but faded from view, leaving him with a feeling of despair. However, its edges were fringed with a hopeful note of familiarity. The vague outline of a female figure, warrior-like in her bearing, was all he could discern.
He knew that the time had arrived for him to return to the monastery and the reassuring presence of his old friend and mentor, Abbot Louis. He was being called back. He gazed at the cave, his temporary home. He glanced at the bluebells. Their heads had begun to sag and droop in what seemed like a gesture of farewell.
Even the bluebells are now fading as I’m packing to leave. It’s as if they know.
He cleaned up the area of his detritus. If anyone came by, they would not know that someone had lived there for such a time.
The Land Rover fired up for the first time. Before he drove away, Brother Baez, or Brodie Ladro, knelt and gave thanks to his solitary place of refuge. He sensed that something was happening, and it involved himself, but he could not, as yet, get beyond that point. He could only wait and see.
The drive was hot and sticky. He badly needed a warm bath. He could smell his own body odour as his stained, rough-haired cassock stuck to him like a soldier caught on barbed wire. All this seemed trivial to what whirled around in his mind. What was emerging from his thoughts made him edgy. Concern coursed through him from head to toe, although he knew not its source.
Unknown to him, Broderick Ladro, Brodie, aka Brother Baez, was undergoing a rebirth. Like a gigantic Attacus Atlas moth, re-emerging from its cocoon. Once again, forces beyond his understanding were summoning him to do his duty. Only, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do yet. His wings began to flutter.
He brought the Land Rover to a sudden halt and switched off the engine. Clasping his hands around his forehead, without warning, he immediately fell into a deep and troubled sleep.
The end had just begun.
On waking, Broderick Ladro had been reborn.
§
Abbot Louis shielded his eyes with the palm of his hand. Far in the distance, a chalky, yellow plume of sand was heading at speed towards the monastery. He didn’t doubt who was driving it. Certain things were about to change. He knew it. Something was amiss. Brother Baez’s foray in the desert was more than a search for Christ. It was the man’s effort to grasp the circumstances that had propelled him into the monastic life. Brodie Ladro had been deeply shocked and humbled by his experience and had surrendered totally to God. His life had opened up to a miracle that would not let him go. Since he’d arrived at the monastery, his retreats had become more frequent as the years passed. But this one seemed different.
Too many things were converging, and Louis felt he was being drawn into it. God, he thought, was calling him. If anybody asked for what purpose, he would be unable to define it.
The sand cloud plumed higher as the vehicle drew closer. A couple of minutes later, the Land Rover skidded to an uncharacteristic halt outside the main gate.
From it leapt a bustling Brother Baez. Abbot Louis stretched his limbs and went to greet his enigma.
They stared at each other. Nothing was said. Their mutual embrace registered their common understanding.
“Time is pressing upon us, Brother Baez?”
“No longer, Abbot Louis. I’m back. Broderick Ladro is alive and well, older and no wiser. As clandestine monk Baez, with your permission, I wish to remain … maybe. But at this moment, I feel that my former self may soon be needed.”
“We sense that, too. When the time arrives, you will have the grace and blessings to do what you must. Your painting, The Raising of Lazarus, now hangs with the others in our gallery.”
Brodie ignored the implications of what his superior had said.
The Abbot continued, “I see that you have been busy for us.” He indicated the assortment of rolled canvases in the vehicle.
“It was difficult, Father. I was besieged by a recurring vision. Known in my country as The White Horse of Uffington, it was always one of my favourite ancient artworks. Are you familiar with it? Its gigantic white form is carved deep into an English hillside. On it, but only in my dream, there was a woman mounted. At first, I thought it was my partner, Ulla. Then again, it could be my mentor, The Condesa Maria. But it was neither of them. I have no idea who it could be. Father, all around me in a waterless desert, bluebells in the thousands literally sprung up – out of nowhere?” Brodie was babbling, but he needed to share all that had happened to him with someone before it drove him insane. “Look.” He unrolled The White Horse painting.
The Abbot looked startled and studied the work for a short while. “That’s amazing. Is that the woman in your dream? You have painted her with her hair covering her face. Who could she be?”
“I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”
“You haven’t seen the Condesa since the day you arrived here with your secret, although each year, on a certain date, she comes to visit. That is the way you both wished it to be. While you were in the desert, the Condesa came here. Like you, she has been having very similar disturbances and visions. We both agreed it was time to move the painting from where it was hidden from general view. It may now continue the work it was meant for. You two are, in some God-given manner, linked … and I don’t understand it at all. What do you think is happening? I can feel a stirring here in the monastery as well.”
“I have no idea. It’s out of our hands. I have done paintings of various scenes for the monastery. Please take a look at them, Father. I have more stories to tell you, but right now, I’d like to see the painting.”
Together, they walked into the shady coolness of the gallery. Soon they were both standing in front of it. Brodie reached out to touch it, and as he did, a thousand memories poured into him. It was like yesterday. His hand remained as if glued to the paint. Deus Vult! Deus Vult! The words were real, booming and desperate. He heard the voices and there were men with guns. He fell to the floor, his face creased in pain and his teeth bared.
He returned to consciousness to find himself lying in the shade of the cloisters and a small collection of concerned monks tending to him.
“How long have I been here?”
“About five minutes,” one monk answered.
“We need to talk urgently, Brother Baez. If you can stand, let’s go to my office.” Abbot Louis helped haul him up and together, they lurched to his private quarters, leaving a small collection of puzzled monks staring after them.
CHAPTER 12
They sat together in a small tapas bar used only by locals. They held hands, unable to articulate, both stunned and speechless by the enormity of the synchronicity that had manoeuvred them together.
Martha Stuart and the Condesa Maria spoke freely, as if they had known each other for years.
Like a mesmerised goldfish, Maria began to speak, in a low hesitant voice as if she was translating from Spanish as she went along.
“Martha, I don’t know what to say. I’ve always suspected the story was incomplete and I wasn’t wrong. How did we meet at the Cathedral? How did you walk into my life like that?” She snapped her fingers. “It was meant to be, I feel.”
Martha then reiterated the story around the bluebells arriving each birthday. She mentioned the note, ‘Be happy, for it is almost time!’ She wove this in with her strange compulsion to find her father and the odd dreams she had been having.
“I’ve also experienced the same things.”
“I’m not surprised. I have to tell you, Maria, I know most of the story concerning the Lazarus paintings; from the days of Annas Zevi, all the way through to my father, Broderick Ladro, and your connection with him.” Martha paused, aware of a growing affinity with the proud, but sad-looking woman in front of her. She felt she’d known the Condesa all her life. “My mother, Ulla, who you knew, kept a meticulous record of events, and I suspect that we were meant to find each other. You know where he is. Don’t you?”
“Martha, like you, I haven’t seen him since he became a monastic and the guardian of his work.”
“Where is he?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“But you know?”
The Condesa nodded.
“I have the right to know. For Christ’s sake, he is my father!” Martha’s grip tightened on Maria’s hand.
“Martha, in the grand scheme of things, you have no right. None of us do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I cannot speak here. Come and stay with me at Guadamur and I will tell you all you need to know.” She stood upright with a speed beyond her years and pulled Martha with her. “Follow me.”
§
The GSM Audio Bug, attached to a nearby table, picked up every word of their conversation. Silas Shepard shrugged his shoulders as he looked across at John D. Bower. Behind that look was an appreciation that at the most dangerous moment, just a while back, the trigger had not been pulled.
It had taken surprisingly little to discover through local gossip that a local Condesa had somehow miraculously recovered from cancer many years ago. It seemed the entire city knew the story. Locals had only been too willing to point her out and give them all the information they needed to find her. She had been spotted entering the cathedral. The rest was easy.
The Condesa, it was said, was a very private person. Although news of her recovery had spread, she had steadfastly refused to divulge one scrap of information and rejected every request for an interview. All anybody could deduce was that after touching a painting of Lazarus being raised from the dead, she made an instantaneous recovery.
The bug had confirmed most of these details and it was obvious that the girl called Martha was the daughter of the two Britons who were rumoured to be part of the whole affair.
Bower spoke. “C’mon, we’re going to follow them and see where it leads us. That old bat is the key to everything. Your new Holy Church of Lazarus would have to play a role in this … soon.” He beckoned to his two bodyguards sitting further away. “Stay close but out of sight.”
Thirty minutes later, they came to a halt by a narrow track that twisted its way through the rocky hillside. George switched off the engine, and for a moment, they were lost in the silence of the location. They saw the back of the Condesa’s vehicle disappear around a ridge.
“There can’t be much up there. She must live a solitary existence. That should do nicely.” Bower looked thoughtful. “It’s too early to muscle in. Let’s go slowly up there and see what the set-up is. It can’t be far.”
George restarted the car and set off at a slow pace, careful to keep out of sight. The house came into view and they backed up behind a clump of large boulders.
Shepard shielded his eyes to stare at the manor. “Parts of it look like a converted monastery.”
“You should feel at home then, because it won’t be long before you’ll be paying a visit to the dear lady.”
“What?”
“That’s right, Pastor. Lazarus and your Church are a match made in heaven, you might say.” He sniggered at his own joke. “We need a plan of action and without this painting, your church will lose steam and die. She’s the only one who can tell us where this painting could be.”
“What about the girl?”
“Not sure, but from what we heard, she’s a vital link to this whole process. I’ll have them watched round the clock. We need to know where they are going and what for. We have plans to make so let’s get on with it. The sooner we do this, the sooner we’ll make unheard of sums of money. I think I’m preferring this to running the casinos.”
Shepard remained silent. He bit on his lip. The thought that his territory was being invaded gave him cause to fret. This development was okay up to a point. But now that Bower had subtly taken over, he would have to watch what happens more closely.
The London launch of the Holy Church of Lazarus had been a huge success, earning comments from the national press and across the internet. It was moving on the assumption that a miraculous artefact connected to Lazarus was in existence, just as he had envisaged. Bower would be useful, but Shepard knew he could do it on his own. Getting involved with the hooligan had been a mistake. Somewhere in the process, Bower’s involvement would have to be terminated.
§
They sat outside in comfortable wicker chairs under a pergola covered in red and blue bougainvillea. Her maid, Luciana, served iced tea in long, cold glasses. Maria was quiet, saying nothing and just staring at Martha, letting a flow of thoughts take her over. Her eyes began to water, and she barely managed to stifle a sob.
Martha reached out to her. “This must be very painful for you.”
“I don’t know what to think.” She wiped another tear away from her cheek. “He sat in that same chair just as you are now. You are so alike. You sit as he did and you speak like he did, too. It’s uncanny. You haven’t even met him.”
“Is this where he had those strange visions and experiences?”
“Yes. We had a very unusual connection. When he experienced what I had, I knew I was not going mad. He seemed so full of life and I knew at once he was going to be part of my own destiny. When I was healed, it nearly finished him. It seemed like all his vitality had been drained from him like fuel from a tank. He never recovered from the events and had chosen to become a monastic. It was all too much for any man to endure. If only I could give back to him all that he’d lost, I would.” The Condesa paused, lost in her memories. “My dreams and visions stopped at that point, and I suppose, that also happened to everyone involved. Yet of late, after all these years, they have returned. Then, you arrive to confirm my deepest feelings and thoughts. That tells me business is unfinished here, and I know now that you are part of it. Our meeting was too remarkable.”
Martha gulped on her drink. She had a burning question. “As I said earlier, I’ve been having dreams too, ever since my birthday. Most strange, and Ma has been getting concerned. Like you, she said it’s happening all over again. What visions or dreams have you had?”
“It’s difficult to describe. I don’t know exactly what I was seeing. It appeared as a strange shape and would only show itself when I get tired. At first, I only saw it occasionally, but now, it’s happening several times a week.”
“Maria, I paint a bit too and I brought my sketch pad with me. Can I show you something? I had tried to capture what I saw, which is something close to where we live.”
“Of course. Luciana, can you get Martha’s bags, please? Thank you.”
The bags were brought to them and Martha quickly rummaged for her A3 pad, which contained her sketches and artwork. Flicking the pages, she found what she was looking for. She placed her swirling watercolour of The White Horse of Uffington in front of Maria, with several bluebells surrounding it, and off to one side, the figure of a faceless man reaching out with arms outstretched.
Maria stared hard and long at what was in front of her. Her face dissolved into whiteness, like a nun experiencing a spiritual dilemma. Her hand covered the tightness of her mouth. She lifted her head to stare into Martha’s enquiring eyes.
“I can’t believe it. Identical! Identical!” She repeated the word several times more.
“You’re telling me you’ve had the same dream?”
“Almost exactly.”
“Oh, my God! This is unbelievable. What does it mean?”
“I don’t know, Martha,
but we were led to each other. That, I’m convinced of.”
“I must tell Ulla.”
“You must. She also has a part in all this. Let me think for a moment.” She called Luciana over. “Two large wine glasses and a bottle of my best Rioja Blanco, Luciana. Thank you.”
Luciana was quick, and produced a magnificent chilled bottle, from which she half-filled each glass. Without asking, she laid out a plate of olives, prawns sautéed in chilli and garlic, and dishes of small cheeses and picos.
“Martha,” continued the Condesa, “enjoy the wine for we have much to discuss. Your painting has stunned me, and I cannot deny that. I need to speak to Abbot Louis, urgently.”
“Who is he?”
Maria paused, uncertain of how much she should reveal to the young woman in one sitting. She realised it had to be done in easy stages.
“He is the head of a monastery I know of. I told him I had been troubled by dreams and as he is my spiritual mentor, I trust his advice. He’ll know what I should do with these developments. If you don’t mind, I’ll call him now.”
“Use my phone.” Martha handed her phone across.
Again, Maria hesitated and stood behind her chair. “It’s personal. I’d rather go inside, if you don’t mind.”
Martha, never short on confidence, responded, “You’re keeping something from me, aren’t you?”
The Condesa had seldom felt wrong footed, and certainly never by a young girl. Her eyes flashed with a quick glint of anger. “What?” An exasperated sigh followed. She turned her back and gazed upon the rocky landscape stretching as far as the eye could see, trying to regain her composure. Running a hand through her hair, a rush of thoughts and emotions went through her mind and body. The place whispered to her, as it had all those years ago, and she knew at once that she had to share the secret, because this situation was meant to be. It was no accident, and Martha had every right to know. She swung around and saw Martha standing with her arms folded. She looked uncomfortable.
