by J. F. Penn
“Don’t you think it’s strange that the Apostles scattered and never regrouped after Pentecost?” Jake said. “They had such an intense shared experience and yet it seems they never saw each other again. They couldn’t have known their message would spread so successfully throughout the ancient world, even though it meant persecution and martyrdom for most of them and their followers.”
“They had a mission, I suppose,” replied Morgan. “Maybe Pentecost gave them certainty of the authority they held, or perhaps the power scared them and they scattered, knowing it had to be taken to the far corners of the world?”
Morgan went quiet as she considered some of the pictures in the journal. There was a page filled with flames and agonized faces in the midst of dancing fire. The drawings were made up of thin lines with detail of realistic pain, as if drawn from life by a close observer.
“Whatever these stones can do, it’s not all healing and marvelous acts of good. The man who drew these pictures clearly knew the dark side of fire. Perhaps the power of the Pentecost stones is not something to be taken lightly.”
Santiago de Compostela, Spain.
May 20, 11.10am
The ARKANE plane landed outside the city of Santiago de Compostela at a private airport.
“I’m just going to radio in for backup from the Spanish team,” Jake said, reaching for the equipment. Morgan stopped him, placing her hand over his.
“There’s no need for anyone to come with us,” Morgan said smiling, persuasive. “Don’t you think we’ll attract more attention in a bigger group? Why don’t we just go in as pilgrims to touch the foot of St James and have a look around?”
Her voice was light in tone, but her posture said she was ready for an argument. Morgan was determined not to let Jake run this mission. It was her sister’s life at stake and she was still suspicious of what ARKANE wanted out of this. Their help was too readily given, too good to be true. A pause and then Jake nodded. Morgan left her hand on his for just a beat longer.
“OK, we’ll try it your way for now,” he said. “I’m happy to start with the softly, softly approach but we’ll call in the troops if necessary since we’re going in unarmed because of the tourist police. We don’t have much time to get this done.”
They took a taxi to the center of town and walked out into the Plaza de la Quintana where the Cathedral loomed over the bustling square. Spires stood against the city skyline, an ancient bastion of faith in a heaving modern city. From the square itself, two towers rose up high into the blue sky.
“The towers represent James’ parents, Zebedee and Maria Salome,” Morgan explained as they walked towards the cathedral entrance across the square, dotted with pilgrims as it was a popular time of year to walk the Camino.
“I’ve always wanted my own personal tour guide,” Jake grinned back at her. Morgan relaxed. His words seemed like a peace offering and she was already enjoying his easy manner. Working together might even be a pleasure. “So what else do you know about this place?” he asked.
“I love what Santiago de Compostela represents. Like you, it’s actually one of my dreams to walk the Camino.” Morgan looked up at the towers. “I didn’t think I would make it here by plane and taxi though. I had hoped to limp in like the rest of the pilgrims.”
Jake laughed, “I’m sure you’ll manage to hobble through this square one day.”
“It’s on my list,” she said, continuing the story as they walked across the square. “Legend tells that James brought the gospel to Spain and, although he was martyred in Jerusalem, his remains were brought back here. The tomb was abandoned in the third century but was rediscovered in the ninth by a hermit who saw strange lights in the sky above it. A chapel was built to commemorate the miracle of finding the saint’s bones under the stars and over the years the church was embellished to become the great cathedral it is today, as befitting its importance to the Catholic faith. The bones of James are presumed to have rested here for thousands of years.”
“So this should be a good place to start looking for the stone. If it was kept with his bones, that is.”
“If they even are his bones,” Morgan replied. “The Church did an excellent trade in relics, sold as forgiveness for sin to those desperate for a better life after death. Ancient bones of the saints are hardly rare.”
Jake laughed. “The Middle Ages sounded pretty bad. I guess their lives were so miserable on this earth, it’s no wonder they spent their money on indulgences.”
By now they were standing by the stairs leading up to the entrance of the Cathedral. Morgan indicated the statues of David and Solomon, wise Kings of ancient Israel. She pointed out the scallop shell carved into the flagstones, the symbol of St James also worn on the staff of the pilgrim.
“How did he come to be represented by the scallop shell anyway?” Jake asked. “Seems odd for a Middle Eastern Jew. Aren’t shellfish considered unclean?”
As they progressed into the holy place, Morgan replied quietly, “You’re right, it is odd. The legend says that when the body was being transported back to Spain from Jerusalem, a knight fell into the water and emerged covered in shells. But that sounds like a poor cover-up for the more likely version - that the scallop shell was a symbol of fertility carried by hopeful couples and this pagan symbol was taken by the church and incorporated into the legend of St James. The Christians were great at integrating pagan ideas to build their empire. It’s why the gospel was accepted across such diverse cultures and spread so widely.”
Jake touched her arm, guiding her into the church.
“I guess we have to start somewhere. Let’s see what we can find.”
Morgan felt the pressure of his fingers and was acutely aware of how close he was but she didn’t pull away and they continued deeper into the church.
“Put yourself in the shoes of the Keeper,” she whispered. “James was beheaded, and the corpse eventually brought back here. As a disciple of James’ would you have kept the stone secret all these years, or buried it with the body?”
Jake replied close to her ear, his breath tickling a little, making the hairs stand up on her arms.
“We’d better find his body then.”
The cathedral wasn’t too crowded for a week day, although the usual line of pilgrims snaked through the nave. Morgan pointed past them towards the Portico da Gloria in the western façade.
“That’s where the statue of James is. We should go and touch his foot like the other pilgrims, and see what else is there.”
They walked towards the Romanesque Portico. Christ the Judge and Redeemer stood in the middle, surrounded by statues of the Apostles and Old Testament figures with their names on books or parchment. The statue of James was surrounded by pilgrims, some forming a line to touch his left foot where a groove had been worn in the stone over the years.
Morgan looked around her at the glory of the Catholic Church displayed in grandeur, funded by the thousands of pilgrims who visited. Yet she knew it wasn’t the final destination that mattered on the Camino, it was the journey itself. Putting on a backpack each day and heading into the early morning mists of the track, one foot in front of the other for days on end. It was a time of contemplation and healing. People didn’t walk the Camino for physical challenge alone; it was a penance or a way to seek answers. She thought of why she herself considered it, in remembrance of what her life had been or what it could have become with Elian. There was still time for healing her own pain. She wondered why Jake wanted to do it. She didn’t know much about the ARKANE agent but then she didn’t expect this tentative partnership to last long enough to find out.
This type of church was a strange end to a humble walk in nature for hundreds of miles. After living at a level of basic subsistence for weeks, pilgrims emerged from the track to this opulence. Could God be found here in the gold and marble extravagance, or on the Way in the shadow of stone walls and the taste of newly baked bread after a long day’s walk? Morgan thought that faith could better be found in t
he relief of taking off walking boots, the stretching of calf muscles and the sweet respite of sleep, not the communion of saints and the drowning of incense. Despite the imposing magnificence of the place, she felt there was a palpable sense of emotion, of an overwhelming belief in something, even if that something was not the God venerated in the church. Maybe it was a collective hysteria bred by pilgrims high on lack of sleep, exhaustion and relief, but there was a sense of the end, an accomplishment beyond the feeling in a normal church. She knew that many people found a spirituality on the Way that was denied them in the city. Even if you didn’t find God, it was said that you could find peace on the Camino and right now, Morgan wished for just a little of that feeling.
They reached the statue of St James, and stopped as pilgrims would, looking it up and down. Morgan ran her fingers along the statue, touching St James’ foot but there was nowhere for the stone to be hidden here. Suddenly there was shouting towards the cloister. People turned their heads to look in the direction of the noise. Jake glanced around apprehensively and Morgan knew he was regretting leaving the backup team behind.
“You concentrate on finding the bones,” he said. “I’ll go and see what the fuss is about. I’ll meet you back at the plane if we can’t leave together.”
He slipped off towards the clamor.
Morgan headed towards the main altar, looking around her for any indication of where the stone of St James might be. Near the altar, she found a way down into the crypt where the relic bones of the saint were kept. It was a plain staircase, quite incongruous surrounded by the extravagance of sculpture and fresco. At the bottom of the crypt stairs was a small room with a locked iron gate. She held one of the bars and peered into the gloom. She could make out a silver and gold reliquary on an altar a few meters beyond the gate. The crypt was badly lit and clearly not designed to be part of the tourist attraction of the cathedral. She tried to put herself in the place of the Keepers, passing down secrets across the generations. Did they know the power they protected? Did she even believe in it herself? Only one way to find out here. Morgan tried pushing on the bars, but the lock was solid. Then a voice made her jump,
“Why do you want to go into the crypt, young lady?”
Morgan turned as an old priest shuffled forward out of the darkness behind her, his hand shaking as he indicated the locked door. She smiled in greeting.
“Buenos dias Father, I’m a scholar from Oxford University researching the bones of St James. Do you know how I could gain access to the crypt?”
The old man hobbled forward with a cane. His breath wheezed with chest infection. Morgan moved to help him to a marble bench by the crypt door.
“We don’t get many people wanting to look at the crypt any more. I’m the Custodian. What are you particularly interested in?”
He patted the seat next to him. Morgan felt odd talking to this stranger but she was running out of time and there was a long way to go in the next few days. Her father had always believed in honesty. He trusted people implicitly, believing, when it came down to it, that people sought to do good in the world. It hadn’t saved his life, but she knew he would still stand by those values. She made her decision.
“I’m looking for a stone,” she said, sitting down on the bench next to him. “It was with St James when he died and may be here in the church.” The old man went pale and clutched at his chest, the wheezing growing worse. “Are you alright?”
“Who are you really, child?” he asked, taking Morgan’s hand and squeezing it tightly.
“Truly, I’m just a researcher. My name is Morgan Sierra and I work at Oxford University.”
“You must know more than you’re telling me. I need to know about the stone you seek.”
Footsteps on the stairs down into the crypt made them both fall silent. Their conversation was not one to be shared in public. As Morgan saw the boots and then black jeans of the man descending, she tensed, aware that she was trapped down here with no backup. The man ducked down to enter the small crypt. It was suddenly crowded in the tiny space. Morgan bent her head, hoping the man was just a tourist and that he would pass them by. Putting her hands behind her back, she felt around the back of the bench for anything that could be used as a weapon, just in case. She was regretting the decision to come unarmed. The priest called out,
“Can I help you, my son?”
“Yes, I think you can,” the man said as he turned towards them. In that instant Morgan saw the pale horse tattoo on his left arm.
Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, Spain.
May 20, 12.32pm
Leaving Morgan by the pillar of St James, Jake walked towards the cloister, his steps quickening as the noise escalated. The cathedral was hardly silent, but raised voices were attracting attention even amongst a multitude of pilgrims. The cloister was a large quadrangle that led to the cathedral relics and the Library. Its stone tessellated floor was surrounded by buttressed arches and opened out to the azure Spanish sky. Jake stood behind one of the arched pillars and watched as three men argued with a gesticulating priest. He recognized them as ex-military operatives like himself from their stance and the faint shapes under their clothes indicated that they were armed. One had the pale horse tattooed on his arm. They were from Thanatos. He would have to create a diversion long enough to allow Morgan time to find the stone, and then they would both get out of here.
The largest man was holding the priest’s arm and pointing into the church, clearly demanding that he show them the bones of St James. They weren’t going to waste time looking for the stone discreetly, they were going to use brute force. Pilgrims and other priests were moving closer, but the threat of the three men was enough to keep them at a safe distance. Pushing the priest in front of them, the men started to head towards the church entrance and Jake’s position. He still wore the original stone that he had shown Morgan. He quickly weighed up his choices, then unhooked the stone from around his neck. He stepped out in front of the men, who were now only a few meters away.
“Father, I found it!” he shouted as if talking directly to the priest, holding the stone in front of him on its leather string. The mercenaries started running towards him, pushing the priest to the ground. Jake sprinted away from them into the main body of the church. The three men, weapons drawn, followed close behind.
Jake ducked low behind a group of pilgrims as they entered through the main door. They were huddled together, an emotional group intending to finish their journey at the statue of St James. Jake stayed with them, head bowed yet watching as the men scanned the room, their weapons concealed again. They couldn’t risk having their guns out in a such a crowded place. It would be mayhem within seconds and the tourist police were nearby in the square below. Jake moved with the group towards the main altar, aware that Morgan was somewhere close and that he didn’t want to lead them to her. He needed to create a diversion. Looking towards the main altar, he saw a heavy rope hanging down and knew just what he could do to bring everyone’s attention onto him.
He had read that the cathedral held one of the most famous Botafumeiro or Incensory in Christendom. It was the largest censer in the world, weighing over 170 pounds. On holy days and high mass, the Botafumeiro was filled with incense and swung over the crowd of pilgrims who crushed into the cathedral for a blessing. The heavy smoke from the incense settled over the gathered faithful, a heavenly scent to some, and a choking, cloying stink to others. The smoke curled its way up, taking prayers to God, bridging the gap between the spiritual and physical worlds. Jake also knew that one of its purposes was to mask the stench of pilgrims who had rushed to the church after days on the trail without washing. The heavy rope that linked the pulley system for the giant thurible was tethered near the main altar. It went right up into the dome above the main crossing of the church, the highest place to swing the incense over the faithful.
One of the men spotted Jake and shouted. He saw them rushing towards him, hands on concealed weapons and they spread out to trap him
near the altar. Jake sped towards the rope for the Botafumeiro, drawing a knife from his leg holster. He grabbed the attachment end of the rope, wrapped it around his waist and leg. He slashed the stable line that held it in place and the pulley system hoisted his weight high into the church. One of the men reached for his arm but the rope whizzed Jake away up into the dome. Nearby pilgrims watched in wonder as he was taken into the air high above the altar. Priests started to run towards the sight, shouting at him and waving their hands. They were appalled at the sacrilege, calling urgently for security.
Jake laughed at the sight of them all rushing to stop him, for by then he was flying in the dome, swinging above them. It was indeed a marvelous view from up here. With the cross of the church below him and the flash of cameras lighting the scene, he rocked his body back and forth causing the pulley to swing as it would do with the incense. The three men faded back into the crowd, obviously waiting for security to bring him down. At least their attention was now on him and not on looking for the stone. They thought he had it up there with him. The only question remaining was, how would he get back down?
Crypt of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, Spain.
May 20, 12.41pm
Morgan saw the man’s hand move inside his jacket and knew she couldn’t let him fire a gun in here. Her Krav Maga close combat training kicked in, and her anger exploded. She launched herself at him, springing up and jabbing an elbow into his gut. As he doubled over, she rammed her knee into his face. He didn’t go down easily and as his eyes widened in surprise at her attack, he grabbed to catch her as he pulled a knife from his boot with the other hand. There was little room in the crypt but Morgan ducked under his arm, just as the old man rushed in to separate them, unaware of the danger he was in. The attacker’s knife connected with the priest’s body and he sagged with a faint exhalation of surprise as crimson blossomed on his white cassock. Time slowed for Morgan in that moment. She had to finish this now. Grabbing a heavy Bible from the bench, she swung it into the attacker’s face, smashing his nose, driving him backwards as he gasped in surprise. She kicked his wrist and the knife dropped to the floor, leaving a skid-mark of blood. Seeing a silver candlestick on a ledge just behind him, she ducked under his clumsy punch and whammed her elbow up under his chin. As his neck snapped back, she jumped onto the bench, grasped the candlestick and swung it hard, connecting with the side of his head in a dull thump. He collapsed to the floor, and she followed him down, weapon held high to strike him again. A moan from the old priest stopped her. He whispered, “No more, please.”
