The Twelfth Ring

by Sam Clarke

  The receptionist grunted and produced four keys. The simple act of lifting them from their hooks generated a series of grimaces. She wasn’t pretty to begin with, her facial gymnastics didn’t help. Viggo counted the keys and raised three fingers in the air. ‘Three adjoining rooms with bathroom,’ he repeated politely, returning the fourth key.

  ‘Three rooms,’ said the she-Manolo, pushing three keys back to him, ‘with bathroom.’ She then pushed the fourth key.

  It took me a couple of seconds to realise that the fourth key unlocked our shared bathroom. Isabelle wasn’t going to settle for a communal bathroom without a fight. She slammed her hand on the desk and demanded to see the manager.

  ‘Manolooooo…’ howled the she-Manolo. I doubted she was invoking her own name. The door creaked again and, this time, revealed a moustached man in his fifties, an off-white vest stretched across his abundant paunch. He remained stationary under the No Smoking sign, a lit cigarillo in his left hand and a beer in the other. I coughed, he sneered. The Manolos exchanged a few words in Spanish, Miguel translated. ‘He’s saying it’s Viggo’s fault. He should have asked for three rooms with bathrooms.’

  ‘Bathrooms? Plural?’ said Viggo in disbelief. ‘Is it even grammatically correct?’

  My father dusted some paint peel off his shoulder. ‘It’s just for one night, we’ll make it work.’

  Nobody showed us to our rooms – three adjoining cupboards separated by very thin walls. I was careful not to lean against them in case they collapsed. Viggo and I were allocated a wobbly bunk bed with concave mattresses. I had slept on sturdier hammocks. He went for a shower. I heard him unlock the bathroom door and gasp. I joined him on the threshold. The bathroom was a potential hot-bed for mutant life-forms. Mould patches as big as continents floated on the uneven walls and the taps dripped constantly, as if they were in tears. A lonely cockroach – I prayed it was the only specimen – scuttled across the sticky linoleum floor. Viggo took a cautions step back. ‘Dude, are cockroaches carnivorous?’

  ‘No, but there’s no way I’m setting foot in this contamination chamber. I’ll skip showering.’

  ‘I’d do the same, but I’m out of deodorant.’ He winced. ‘I guess I could rub the car’s air freshener under my armpits, but the last time it gave me a hell of a rash.’

  His resourcefulness was on a par with his idiocy. ‘Leave the Magic Tree alone, you can borrow my deodorant.’

  #

  Viggo had gone to the nearest petrol station to fill up the van. I had stupidly forgotten to pack my phone and he was letting me play with his while he was gone. I was busy destroying an enemy spaceship when it began to ring. The caller ID displayed a withheld number. ‘Hello?’ I answered.

  ‘Who is this?’ asked a polite voice.

  ‘Noah. Are you looking for Viggo?’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello?’ I repeated.

  ‘May I speak to Magnus?’

  He hadn’t introduced himself, but I instinctively knew who he was. My voice quavered. ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘This is Knut Larsson.’

  I froze. Just then, Viggo returned. He chucked the minivan keys on the night table and pointed at the phone. ‘Hope?’ he whispered.

  I shook my head. One look at my face and he understood. He took the phone from my trembling hand and rushed next door.

  Minutes later, I could hear my father through the thin MDF walls that separated our bedrooms. Viggo was sitting next to me on the bottom bunk, elbows on his knees, hands cupped around his face. I assumed the same disheartened position. ‘I messed up big time,’ I said. ‘I’ve handed my father to Knut on a silver plate.’

  ‘It’s alright, dude, they had to talk sooner or later.’

  ‘Why are they speaking English instead of Swedish?’ I asked, mildly curious.

  ‘Knut wanted Magnus to be bilingual and always spoke English to him. The habit stuck.’

  I hated feeling resentful, but I couldn’t stand that Viggo knew my family better than I did. I also struggled to believe that my grandfather and I had spoken for the first time and he had intentionally ignored who I was. Next door the conversation changed tack. Sparks were beginning to fly.

  ‘I will not send him back now. I told Katie he could stay,’ yelled my father. A brief silence followed. ‘I’m not trying to defy you, or the organisation, you know I wouldn’t do that! My loyalty shouldn’t even be questioned! This is a personal matter!’

  ‘Which organisation are they talking about?’ I whispered.

  ‘Um… Alvastra, Knut’s company,’ mumbled Viggo.

  Did he really think I was that stupid? I couldn’t challenge him – not without missing my father’s conversation – so I kept quiet. My father didn’t. ‘That’s unfair and you know it,’ he roared. ‘Do not talk to me about sacrifices. I’ve always done what was expected of me.’ There was a long pause. ‘Well I’m not as perfect as Fredrik! Never was, never will be! Sorry to disappoint you! I’m in Mexico on a personal project right now, nothing you’d be interested in. I’ll bring you up to speed when I return to Valhalla.’

  Fredrik was my uncle – unsurprisingly, I had never met him either. Mum had mentioned him once, branded him as a total idiot, and promptly returned him to oblivion. The paper-thin partition shook like a loose sail in a strong wind. Viggo buried his face in his hands. ‘Dude, he smashed my phone against the wall!’

  I hardly reacted, too shaken by the conversation that had just taken place. I bit my nails. This couldn’t go on, I had to find out why Knut hated me so much. My father stepped in and handed Viggo his newly cracked phone. ‘I’ll get you a new one,’ he muttered.

  Gadgets hate being replaced: the phone rose from the dead with a loud ring. My father snatched it from Viggo’s hand and slid his finger across the screen. ‘What now?’ he growled, then his tone mellowed. ‘No, this isn’t Viggo Gustafsson, this is Magnus Larsson.’

  He had unintentionally pushed the speaker button and we were able to hear the caller.

  ‘Magnus Larsson?’ echoed a female voice in an American accent. ‘This is Professor Madison.’

  I recognised the name. She was the lady my father had stood up on Valentine’s Day in favour of the sea serpent. He sounded happy to hear from her. ‘Linda, long time no see!’

  ‘Not long enough,’ replied Linda Madison. Her frostiness reminded me of mum. ‘Your assistant sent me a high-resolution image of a scroll for palaeography testing.’

  ‘That’s right. I truly appreciate you taking the time to—’

  ‘I didn’t do it for you, Magnus.’ Her iciness could have sunk the Titanic. ‘It’s my job. You’ll be invoiced for my time.’

  ‘Of course, I never—’

  She interrupted again, keen to end the call as quickly as possible. ‘There wasn’t much information for a full palaeography test, but I wanted to flag that the words “Nuestra Señora de Begoña” have been tampered with.’

  The conversation had just got a lot more interesting. ‘Tell me more,’ said my father, eyes alive with curiosity.

  ‘The words “de Begoña” have been added subsequently. The handwriting is similar to the rest of the map, it’s a decent attempt, but it has been done in a different hand and with a different writing implement. I would love to see the original, I’m sure an ink analysis would corroborate my theory, if there is enough ink, of course. Where did you get it from?’

  My father hesitated. ‘Maybe it’s best if you don’t know.’

  Linda Madison lowered her tone. ‘Are you still purchasing artefacts on the black market?’

  His silence spoke volumes.

  ‘You’re beyond help,’ she said, with a loud sigh. ‘I can’t believe I dated you for three months. Whose name should I put on the invoice?’

  ‘Kraken Limited.’

  ‘Kraken?’ she spat. ‘As in the legendary creature rumoured to dwell off the coast of Norway? You should stop playing with your imaginary zoo and get a real job!’

  The line wen
t dead.

  CHAPTER 14

  We couldn’t stomach breakfast at El Castillo, so we bought some sweet rolls from a bakery and ate them on the way to the monastery. Isabelle couldn’t stomach breakfast in the car either. She was sitting between Viggo and I and her sense of smell was in agony. The deodorant I had packed in a hurry had turned out to be a sun protection stick and no amount of UVB protection could mask the fact that we hadn’t showered. She inched towards Viggo and bravely inhaled. ‘Is this you?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course this is me,’ he replied. ‘Who did you think I was?’

  She was temporarily disarmed by the stupidity of the answer. She inhaled again. ‘Do you stink like this?’

  ‘Like what? To provide you with an accurate answer, I need a reference value.’

  I swallowed a smile. He had the power to deliver the most imbecilic answers with the utmost dignity. They bickered about smell benchmarks all the way to San Alejandro. The monastery was a pretty disappointing sight – it was old and crumbling. As I stepped out of the van, the sound of the church bells sent a shiver down my spine. A toll, a pause, a toll, a pause, the unmistakeable soundtrack of a funeral. Inside, a simple coffin lay in front of the altar. The pews were packed, as if the whole village had congregated to say their final goodbyes to the departed. Arriving late for a funeral is never respectful, arriving late and dressed in beachwear takes the bar to a new low. I had never been on the receiving end of so many disapproving looks.

  ‘We shouldn’t be here,’ whispered Isabelle. Oddly, we were in agreement. Viggo casually dipped his fingers in the holy water, crossed himself and squeezed into a pew next to a large Mexican lady, forcing her to shuffle along. A priest in funeral attire was addressing the congregation and I was able to follow. My decent grasp of Spanish was all down to Carmen, mum’s South American cleaning lady. She streamed Mexican soaps while she ironed and we religiously watched them together every Tuesday afternoon. Our tradition was a well-guarded secret. The priest began extolling the virtues of the deceased. ‘Brother Felipe will be sorely missed,’ he said. ‘San Alejandro couldn’t have wished for a better abbot.’

  I felt queasy. Brother Felipe had agreed to show us the book and now, less than a day later, he was dead. I had an inkling his sudden departure wasn’t accidental. Miguel and my father exchanged a few worried words and ushered us outside. In under ten minutes, Viggo had somehow worked his charm on the large Mexican lady. He excused himself in broken Spanish and she offered him a mint, which he readily accepted. He seemed completely unware of his effect on the female population and later claimed that Mexican funerary traditions include sharing mints with strangers.

  Outside the church, the temperature was hotter than Death Valley. ‘I wonder what happened,’ said Viggo, slurping his mint and attracting a disgusted stare from Isabelle. ‘Brother Felipe seemed fine when I spoke to him yesterday.’

  ‘Can I borrow your phone?’ I asked him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To check the local news. The church is at bursting point. Brother Felipe’s death must have made the headlines.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said my father. He then bumped Ariel’s elbow. ‘I told you he had a brain!’

  My tutor didn’t look convinced, but let it slide. Cheesy as it sounds, I felt absolutely overwhelmed. My intellect – along with everything else about me – often went undetected. Viggo handed me his cracked phone. According to the Diario de San Juan, Brother Felipe had been murdered in a botched burglary. The perpetrators had fled the scene. ‘They buried him pretty quickly,’ I said. ‘I mean… he only died yesterday.’

  ‘They had to,’ said Isabelle, twitching her nose. ‘A decomposing body in this heat would stink more than you and Viggo put together. Did you shower last night?’

  I pretended not to hear. Luckily, my father had no interest in my personal hygiene. ‘Our timing’s terrible,’ he said, ‘but we’re not leaving without seeing the medieval book. Let’s look for the library.’

  #

  We entered the monastery via an unlocked side gate. The library was as disappointing as the rest of the building: it housed books, various species of spider and the occasional mouse. The books had been allocated their space on a first come, first serve basis and it was impossible to make sense of the place. ‘There’s an old computer here,’ squealed Isabelle, studying a prehistoric monitor. ‘It must contain the library’s catalogue. What was the book called again?’ My father opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t let him. ‘Thank goodness you brought me along, you’d be lost without me!’

  Undaunted by the obvious lack of keyboard or computer tower, she switched it on. The familiar faces of Amor Prohibido, Carmen’s favourite soap, appeared on the ancient TV screen and exchanged honeyed words. Isabelle was mortified, Viggo laughing in her face didn’t exactly help. ‘The monks never disclosed the name of the book,’ said my father, switching the TV off, ‘but this place is filled to the brim with cheap paperbacks. Finding a medieval volume shouldn’t be too hard. Let’s check every shelf for ancient-looking books, ideally in Latin.’

  We split in different directions. I started from the bottom shelves, Isabelle climbed a rickety ladder and studied the top ones. Time flew by. She was trying to dislodge a particularly stubborn volume when she lost her footing and fell backwards. Viggo happened to be right behind her and caught her in his arms. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, with genuine concern.

  She clumsily leant against his chest and failed to answer. Colouring aside, she was in a state of pure bliss. She didn’t even notice the puffy-eyed monk entering the library. At first, I thought that a hairy caterpillar was crawling across his forehead, but it was just his bushy eyebrows joining together above his nose. The two monks that followed him couldn’t have been more different: the first, a young man with a mop of curly hair, the second, the clone of Emperor Palpatine – hood included. Viggo’s career as a superhero was short-lived. He dumped Isabelle on the floor without batting an eyelid and rushed to shake the hand of the uni-browed monk. ‘Hi, we had an appointment with Brother Felipe. Since he’s… um… unavailable, we were hoping that someone else could assist us.’

  ‘I’m Brother Ignacio, prior of San Alejandro,’ said the monk, returning a limp handshake. ‘Brother Felipe was looking forward to your meeting. He saw it as a chance to atone for his sins.’ We exchanged puzzled looks. Brother Ignacio continued. ‘I will do my best to honour his last wish. Which one of you is Magnus Larsson?’

  ‘I am,’ said my father. He ditched the book on feathered serpents that he had been perusing for the last hour and stood up. ‘Please accept our sincere condolences for the loss of your brother.’

  ‘Thank you,’ murmured Brother Ignacio. ‘I understand you had a few questions about the map.’

  My father nodded. ‘That’s right. Forgive my bluntness, but I’ll get straight the point. The map you sold us has nothing to do with the Nuestra Señora de Begoña. The wording has been tampered with and the dating doesn’t add up.’

  Brother Ignacio didn’t seem surprised. He let out a soft sigh. ‘If I tell you what happened, can you guarantee that no harm will come to me or my brothers?’

  ‘You have nothing to fear. As I’ve told Brother Felipe, our intentions are good. All we want is the truth.’

  Brother Ignacio invited us to sit down. Isabelle was still on the floor so I offered her my hand. Her cheeks were back to a normal colour, but her ego was likely to be as bruised as her backside. We joined Viggo on an uneven bench that would have made a passable see-saw. Brother Ignacio introduced Palpatine as Brother Fernando and the curly-haired monk as Brother Cristobal.

  ‘Brother Cristobal has only recently joined us,’ said the prior, ‘and has been tasked with reorganising our library.’

  The librarian reaped a few sympathetic glances.

  ‘A few months ago,’ continued the prior, ‘he came across an old book of Latin prayers dedicated to the Virgin Mary. The last three pages were not part of the original volume. Two
were in Arabic, the third was a map showing the resting location of a ship called Nuestra Señora.’

  An excited Viggo elbowed me in the stomach and nearly winded me. While I gasped for air, Brother Cristobal took over: instead of informing the dioceses about their discovery, the monks had put the Nuestra Señora map on the black market to raise funds for San Alejandro’s much-needed repairs. The scroll had piqued the curiosity of a Bahamian buyer, who wanted to know if it was linked to the Nuestra Señora de Begoña. ‘We had never heard of the ship or its treasure,’ said Brother Ignacio to my father, ‘but you were our only buyer and we couldn’t afford to lose you. We retouched the scroll and added the words “de Begoña” to the existing “Nuestra Señora.” Our intermediary finalised the deal and flew to Nassau to meet you. On the day of the exchange, out of the blue, another buyer made contact. He was after the original map and was willing to pay a premium for it.’

  ‘The original?’ asked my father.

  ‘Yes,’ said Brother Ignacio. ‘Yuri had no interest in the Nuestra Señora de Begoña.’

  The sweaty hair at the back of my neck stood straight. The namesake was too much of a coincidence. ‘Yuri? Russian? Dark hair, brown eyes?’

  The caterpillar curled into a frown. ‘That’s right. How did you know?’

  My father scrolled through his phone until he found Yuri’s picture. ‘This Yuri?’

  Brother Ignacio crossed himself, puffy eyes wide with terror. ‘That’s him. He struck some sort of deal with our intermediary to stop the sale of the map at the last minute, but you snatched it and ran.’ The prior clasped my father’s hands into his. ‘Mr Larsson, I don’t know what the map means to you, but I beg you: forget you ever came across it.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You must. Yuri will stop at nothing to get his hands on it. Nothing.’