He shook his head. “You tell me what you see,” the shopkeeper countered.
I bent closer. A drawing that looked like a tiny piece of wood, stained red and dripping, loomed into view in the glass. I could barely make out the tiny script next to it.
“Sanctum Crucem. The True Cross,” I breathed. I jolted upright, shocked, accidentally head-butting Raph. He grimaced, rubbing his head as I murmured my apology. “It’s a picture of a piece of wood labeled ‘The True Cross.’ Is that what I think it is?”
The man beamed, taking the magnifying glass from me. “What you have is a map of old Constaninople, showing where all the important relics were housed, at least the ones people knew about and could venerate. The piece of the True Cross, discovered by Saint Helen—the Emperor Constantine’s mother—was one of the most important ones. But we had hundreds of them.”
He shifted the book around to face him and began scanning and pointing. I noticed the signet ring on his finger, a stylized Maltese cross. “Moses’ staff. A thorn from the crown of thorns. A piece of hay from the manger in Bethlehem. The Virgin Mary’s girdle and her veil. A tear wept by Jesus. They were all here.”
His hand stopped and rested on the delicate vellum of the book. We were all eyeing the map, desperately looking for any sign of the rock. Before we could find it, the shopkeeper carefully closed the book’s cover and put it away under his desk.
Sadly, he shook his head. “And then the Crusaders came and stole them all away from us.”
I stared at him, confused. “What? That doesn’t make any sense. The Crusaders marched against the Muslims who had overtaken Jerusalem. Not to fight Christian cities and kingdoms.”
The man’s face turned bitter as he looked at me. “You do not even know your own history in the West, do you? Yes, Byzantium was Christian. But the greedy Crusaders missed the good weather they needed to sail to the Holy Land and were forced to linger here for months. As they dallied, they were drawn into local politics, backing a pretender to the throne on the promise of reward. They were paid for their efforts, but they were dissatisfied. As my Turkish grandfather used to say—Kumasini verince, astarini ister—if you give him cloth, he’ll ask for the lining. When the hoped-for additional booty did not materialize, their leader, the Doge of Venice, allowed them to sack the city they had sworn to defend. They slaughtered Christians, the same way they slaughtered the Muslims who violated the holy ground tread by Jesus. And they stole from us. A great exodus of wealth, and of relics, never to be seen again. Carried out of the city on your pilgrimage routes. Spirited away to your monasteries, your libraries, and your palaces. Stolen.”
He was jabbing his finger at us now, accusing us of somehow being complicit with this ancient crime.
“That’s horrible,” I breathed, stunned.
“Does that mean there are truly no relics left in the city?” Enoch asked, ever practical.
The man grunted, disgusted by the story he had told. “Some in the base of that pillar, they say. Maybe a few in a church here or there, or in museums. Nothing like the glory we had. We have the reliquaries,” he answered, gesturing about. “My shop is full of the less beautiful, cheaper ones and the ones that were too heavy to carry away. If you want a reliquary, I can sell to you. Everything else is gone.”
I looked at Michael and knew we were thinking the same thing. The rock had to have left Constantinople. From here, it could have gone anywhere. How would we ever find it?
“Where were things taken? I mean,” I said, stuttering as I tried to analyze my way through the story, “if this was during the Crusades, it was, what … the 1100s?”
The shopkeeper grunted again at my poor grasp of history. “It was the Fourth Crusade. The city fell in April of 1204.”
1204. The Barbarian raids on Europe were in a lull—I was digging deep into my memories of AP history—so it had been a relatively safe period. Stolen relics could have gone anywhere. I turned to Michael, hoping he had some ideas, but he just shrugged.
“Who knows?” The man continued, angrily wiping at the leather top of his desk. “The Crusaders came from all over. They scattered to the winds afterward, taking their spoils with them. The safest place for such treasures would have been a monastery cut off from all people. A place that Viking and pilgrim alike would struggle to attain. That is, if the thieves cared at all about keeping such a holy object safe. But I doubt that was their aim.”
“But if it was your aim? Where would you have taken a relic, if you had been the one to steal it?”
I blushed, embarrassed by my ignorance and boldness as he looked at me with shrewd appreciation, startled by my question.
“Sormak ayip degil, bilmemek ayip, as my grandfather would have said. It is not disgraceful to ask, it is disgraceful not to know. Your question is a good one. But I am afraid I would not have done such a thing.”
I tried another tack. “Well, let me ask you this. In the early thirteenth century, what were the most inaccessible places that were dedicated to the Archangel Michael?”
His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, confused by my non sequitur. “I don’t understand.”
I willed myself to be patient as I tried again. “You seem to know a lot more than we do about history. What monasteries and shrines to St. Michael were established by 1204?”
The flattery helped. He paused, tapping the bridge of his glasses while he thought.
“It makes no sense to me to be focused on the angel Michael, you see? For there were no Crusaders fighting under his banner that year.”
“But if they had, and they had wanted to hide away relics in his honor …?” I prompted, hoping he’d buy into the scenario.
“If they had, they might have had many choices of where to hide something taken in his name. Already at that time, there was Castel Sant’Angelo, Monte Gargano, Mont Saint-Michel …” He paused as a burst of insight seemed to come upon him. He began nodding—suddenly pleased with himself, clapping his hands with delight, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly.
“Yes, that is it. That is where I would hide it away, if I had been a Crusader interested in my soul and fearful that Barbarians would come back.”
“Where?” We all asked at the same time.
“The remotest of them all. Skellig Michael.”
I felt a strange chord of recognition sounding throughout my body.
“That’s it,” I whispered. “That’s where we need to go, Michael,” I said, turning toward him, the shopkeeper forgotten. I was in his arms, pleading, knowing I was right. I just had that feeling.
“You’re sure?” He asked, his eyes filled with doubt as he looked down at me.
I nodded, my mouth too dry to speak. I didn’t even know where Skellig Michael was, but I was certain it was the place.
He squeezed my shoulder. “Then that’s where we will go,” he whispered back, his eyes warning me to speak no more of it while we remained in the shop. He turned me around, still keeping me close, while offering his hand to the shopkeeper. “You’ve been an enormous help. And your shop is fascinating. I wish there was something we could buy, to thank you for your time, but we are traveling light …”
The man scowled.
“I do not know what you are searching for, but if it is relics, you have my wishes for good luck. You will need it. As for a purchase, the young lady might like an ancient burka?” he said, snidely. When he found his suggestion met with a stony stare, he continued, “No? Then you can buy this book.” He rummaged around under his desk until he managed to find an old paperback. “It talks about the other things stolen from Byzantium by the West.”
He held it out, cover first, to face me. “Doorways of Christendom,” the title read. I reluctantly took it, knowing it would be on the bottom of my reading list.
“There was nothing like our bronze doors in all of Europe. They forced our craftsmen to sell these works of art for a song, at the point of sword. That is, when they didn’t just plunder them right off the front of
our churches. They even stole the hinges,” he sniffed. “Always thieving, the West. And if not stealing, cheating us out of a fair price. No respect, ever since you split the Church in two.”
Michael ignored the implicit invitation to dogmatic debate, pressing some money into the man’s hand and thanking him again.
We tumbled out of the shop and onto the street, to find my little dog waiting patiently. The city had grown dark again while we were inside the shop. I was exultant at our discovery and couldn’t hide my exuberance as I skipped down the street, laughing, the puppy trailing at my heels.
“Why are you so quiet, Enoch?” I teased. “I thought you’d be as excited as I am to have our next lead.”
“Are you sure it is a lead, and not grasping at straws?” Enoch asked somberly. He looked at Michael, who pursed his lips and barely shook his head.
“What do you mean?” I asked, confused and worried they were thinking this was another crazy idea, much like the search for the Michaelion had turned out to be. I wrapped myself in a façade of confidence and continued. “Of course I am! We’re just lucky we came upon that shop. See, everything works out in its own way,” I smiled, trying to forget all the turmoil of the afternoon. “But where is this Skellig Michael? It seems like you are familiar with it.”
“It’s off the coast of Ireland,” Michael answered vaguely. “It’s an ancient monastic site, very remote. We’ll have to hire a boat to get there.” He shot another warning glance at Enoch and Raph. “We’ll figure out the logistics tomorrow. Tonight, we’ll celebrate with a good dinner,” he said wearily, making me think that perhaps our celebration was premature.
“What is it?” I demanded, turning to look into the skeptical eyes of Raph. “Come on, tell me.”
Raph’s face had fallen back into that familiar, haughty mask of condescension I found so irritating. “I don’t know what you mean,” he sniffed, pushing by me to stride up the street. Any understanding between us somehow had been lost.
Enoch scratched his chin. “Dinner will be good, Michael. This human body, for one, needs recharging, as I suspect is the case for all of us. Come, my dear,” he continued, looping an arm through mine. “You have done enough detective work for one day. Let’s get you home and cleaned up for a proper meal.”
We climbed back down the hill, following the tracks of the city tram to make our way back to Sultanahmet, trailing behind Raph who walked in stony silence. I turned the day’s events over in my mind, examining each conversation, each word, like a jewel in its setting, trying to ferret out the reality of my situation. Were we prisoner and guards? Victim and protectors? The lines were increasingly blurry as we rushed headlong into our chase for the rock, leaving me feeling confused and exposed—most of all when it came to Michael.
As if he could read my mind, he looked over at me and smiled.
I blushed and looked down at my shoes. I so wanted to believe him. Believe in us. Believe that we could win this race to the finish.
Ever hear of Stockholm syndrome? Henri hissed at me as the darkness of night enveloped us. I almost started to argue with him before I caught myself, remembering where I was. In the back of my mind, I heard Henri’s self-satisfied harrumph. Be on your guard, he warned.
My puppy barked, as if he were in on the conversation. I turned and scooped him into my arms, grateful for the distraction. He wiggled and licked at my throat. I buried my face in his fur, trying to ignore Henri’s words for the rest of the way home.
Out of thin air, once again, I found a change of clothes waiting for me, laid out with careful precision on my bed. I trailed a finger against the turquoise turtleneck sweater, noting the weight of the cashmere. The long woolen skirt had a fine weave to it, and the riding boots were made of buttery leather. Cozy and appropriate, suitable for a girl going to dinner with her grandfather, I thought, silently thanking Enoch.
I looked at the bed longingly. My new pet was already curled into a ball at its foot, sleeping soundly. I wanted to climb in and join him. I was exhausted, caught between the fatigue of jet lag, my injuries, and the forced march through the city. But I knew I was expected for dinner; indeed, I suspected the whole thing was for my benefit.
Why bother? I thought, giving in to despair and the growing doubts, lovingly cultivated by Henri, which were re-sprouting in my brain.
Why bother? He needs to keep you close and contented. He needs you to find the rock. You’re the Bearer, after all.
“As if I could ever forget,” I whispered back at Henri, my hand moving to trace the tattoo-like pattern that spread across the back of my neck. “But once we find it, what will he do?”
The question hung in the air.
Once you know where it is, you must not tell him until the absolute last moment. It’s the only way for you.
“Wait? Does that mean it’s not in Ireland? What do you know, Henri?” I asked, suddenly afraid.
My question went unanswered, for he had disappeared once again.
If only I could disappear, too, I thought bitterly. But then, where would I go? What could I do? They would always find me—always come for me to take them to the relic they needed to access Heaven’s Gate.
I sniffed at myself, absentmindedly noting that I needed another trip to the baths. Resigned to being trapped here, as well as remaining stinky, I pulled off my shoes and began changing for dinner.
When we gathered to go to the restaurant it was evident that the confusion I felt about our situation had overtaken all of us. We stood in awkward silence, unsure of what to say or do, unclear if we were truly celebrating or simply taking a break to stoke the fires of the human machines in which the angels had willingly trapped themselves.
“You look nice, Hope,” Michael said, gruffly. His ears turned a little red as he spoke. “We have a bit of a walk, so we’d better get going.” Quickly, he moved to the door and led us shuffling down the narrow staircase to the street. As we departed, I scattered a handful of kibble I’d managed to scrounge up for the absent cat, wondering idly if she’d be back to reclaim her territory.
We took the tram and then wound through the back alleys toward one of the main squares, huddling together as we walked into the wind. I’d expected normal people to have been driven inside by the cold, but the streets were packed, clusters and clumps of them pirouetting around tattered umbrellas that struggled to resist the sudden gusts. The sparkling lights stood out against the velvety black sky, creating an almost festive atmosphere that was accentuated by the occasional outburst of laughter drifting over to us across the wind.
“Tourists?” I shouted my question to be heard.
Michael shook his head. “Saturday night.”
We turned off the square into a side street that was less congested. The contrasting quiet just made the howling wind seem that much fiercer, its shrieks echoing off the silent bricks and stones. I pulled my rain jacket around me, grateful that Enoch had thought this far ahead when he made his angelic arrangements for clothing. We walked several blocks in silence, the mist from our breath entwining our heads like halos as, bit by bit, the other revelers fell away, leaving us alone in the street.
“Michael!” Raph had trotted up, coming even with Michael. Even the brewing tempest couldn’t disguise the warning growl in his voice. “We’re being followed.”
I looked over my shoulder. There was no mistaking whom Raph was talking about, for there was only one other group behind us. They were brawny men, about a block and a half back, walking four abreast down the street.
I thought I’d only taken a second to glance backward, but in the time I did, the angels had responded to the threat, subtly shifting into defensive positions. Enoch was taking point. Raph had fallen back; he’d be the first line of defense should the men advance. Michael was now right next to me. I looked down as he locked an iron grip on my arm.
“Faster, now, but act as if nothing is going on.”
As one, the angels accelerated, pulling me along with them. Enoch was breathing h
eavily, but that was the only sign that anything was amiss. I, on the other hand, was practically running to keep up with their long, urgent strides.
“Are they Fallen?” I asked, feeling the pit of dread in my stomach growing bigger.
Michael looked at me sideways, shaking his head. “No. They’d be handling this differently if they were. I think one of them may be one of your traffickers from earlier today, but they’re too far away to tell for sure. Just keep looking straight ahead.”
“They’re closing in. Why don’t we just deal with them here?” The urgency in Raph’s voice scared me, and I darted a look over my shoulder. They had gained another half block and were jogging. No mistaking, now, that they were after us.
“No.” Michael said roughly, his jaw squared. “We can’t draw attention to ourselves. There is too much at stake. Eyes forward,” he barked at me, yanking on my arm. “Take this right,” he commanded, and we all swerved around the corner into another tiny side street. As we rounded, we broke into a full run. Enoch tossed aside his cane, leaving it to clatter against a pair of dented garbage cans as he picked up speed.
The panic welled up inside of me. I could taste it like steel in my mouth. Enoch, Raph, and Michael closed ranks around me, the space between us gone, their bodies a forbidding wall that would protect me from this new threat.
“Down there. We’ll go into that club,” Michael shouted over the wind. “We’ll lose them inside.”
Three blocks away, we could see the line wrapping around the corner of the club and hear the throbbing music. I looked over my shoulder again. The men were still a block behind us. We’d never get through the line fast enough … if we could even get in at all.
Nobody else seemed to worry about anything but getting there.
I focused on the pounding of my heart, trying not to notice that its beat was echoed by the ever-closer footfalls of the men chasing us.
“On my count,” Michael ordered as he pulled us to a sudden stop. “One … two … now!”
Dark Rising Page 13
