by K. T. Tomb
“Yes, but that was then. That was at a time when she was still alive, as were her descendants. How many people do you think know about the rosary now? You said so yourself: you're Spanish, and even you have doubts about its existence. In that case, how could all those people who went mad have known about the rosary? They had to be admitted to mental institutions nevertheless. If there is a cognitive bias involved, it is one that has skipped centuries to manifest itself now. Why?” Chyna said.
Tacho looked like he was considering her theory, but not believing it entirely. He had a deep frown on his face, and when he spoke, it was a question Chyna had been wondering about. “So, If we accept that, for now, the rosary is real, what next?”
She shrugged. “We will investigate some more. We need to find someone who can confirm whether the insanity is caused by the rosary as I suspect, or refute it; at which point, my interest in the case will end. What about you?”
“I am actually heading into Granada later today. I want to look into the happenings there. I was going to ask you whether you would be interested in coming along. I think witnesses and victims will give you much more solid information than museums or the local police.”
Chyna considered. Tacho had made a strong point. If the rosary was on the move through Spain, then someone must have seen or heard something. As the happenings were only recent in Cordoba, she knew there would not be much to look into, at least until the afflicted parties had been either booked into an asylum or released by the local police. Excusing herself, Chyna called the team together. She explained what Tacho had said and what she thought about it, and when she put forward the idea of going to Granada, everyone agreed readily.
“Okay, Tacho.” Chyna approached the reporter after five minutes. “We'll go with you.”
Chyna didn’t even realize that she was still holding the pamphlet he had given her in her right hand.
***
Queen Isabella of Castile and Leon
(1451-1504)
QUEEN ISABELLA, surnamed la Catolica “the Catholic,” Queen of Castile, was the second child and only daughter of John II of Castile by his second wife Isabella, granddaughter of John I of Portugal (thus being through both parents a descendant of John of Gaunt), and was born in Madrigal on the 22nd of April 1451. On the death of her father, who was succeeded by her brother Henry IV (1454), she was withdrawn by her mother to Arevalo, where her early education was conducted in the deepest seclusion; in 1462, however, along with her uterine brother Alphonso, she was removed by Henry to the court, where she showed a remarkable example of staidness and sobriety.
Already more than one suitor had made application for her hand, Ferdinand of Aragon, who ultimately became her husband, being among the number; for some little time she was engaged to his elder brother Charles, who died in 1461. However, in the face of very great difficulties, she was married to Ferdinand of Aragon at Valladolid on the 19th of October 1469. Thence forward the fortunes of Ferdinand and Isabella were inseparably blended. For some time they held a humble court at Duenas, and afterwards they resided at Segovia, where, on the death of Henry, she was proclaimed Queen of Castile and Leon on December 13, 1474.
Spain undoubtedly owed to Isabella's clear intellect, resolute energy and unselfish patriotism much of that greatness which for the first time it acquired under “the Catholic sovereigns.” The moral influence of the queen's personal character over the Castilian court was incalculably great; from the debasement and degradation of the preceding reign she raised it to being “the nursery of virtue and of generous ambition.” She did much for Spain by founding the palace school and by her protection of Peter Martyr d'Anghiera. The very sincerity of her piety and strength of her religious convictions led her more than once, however, into great errors of state policy, and into more than one act which offends the moral sense of a more refined age; her efforts for the introduction of the Inquisition into Castile, and for the proscription of the Jews, are outstanding evidences of what can only be called her bigotry.
But not even that briefest sketch of her life can omit to notice that happy instinct or intuition which led her, when all others had heard with incredulity the scheme of Columbus, to recall the wanderer to her presence with the words, “I will assume the undertaking for my own crown of Castile, and am ready to pawn my jewels to defray the expenses of it, if the funds in the treasury should be found inadequate.”
She died at Medina del Campo on the 24th of November 1504, and was succeeded by her daughter Joanna “La Ilca” (the “mad”) and her husband, Philip of Habsburg.
***
The sun was setting by the time they exited Cordoba. The city was far gone now, as were the clustered streets and concrete houses. The narrow roads gave way to winding paths, and the flanking stone structures were replaced by rolling fields and grasslands painted orange by the sun's slanting rays.
In the end, they had chosen to ditch their car at the hotel and ride with Tacho in his minivan. Chyna wanted to fill everyone in on her conversation with Tacho and didn’t want to waste time by explaining it a second time. She told them in detail of the theory she had about the rosary being moved around the country, which in turn was causing the madness to move.
Plans were immediately underway of deciding the best course of action. Oscar was sure that with Tacho's assistance, they would be able to talk to some of the people close to the victims, thus getting them a great deal of help.
“What good would it do, talking to the victims? I mean, they're not going to make any sense, right?” he said.
“Maybe, maybe not, but we might be able to find some clues as to how it started,” Chyna replied.
“I'm beginning to think that these people have to have something in common. Considering your theory is true, and the rosary is being moved around the country, I doubt that such a precious—Dios Mio!”
Whatever Tacho had to stay came to an abrupt halt as he swerved the car from its path and brought it to a screeching halt. The brakes whined and tires smoked. He didn't wait to explain, just opened the door and ran out, leaving the engine still running.
“Tacho! Tacho!” Chyna called out, leaning over the console to see what was wrong.
“Chyna!” It was Lana's voice that made her shoot straight up. “Look!”
And she did. The Found History team piled out of the car in Tacho’s wake, only to be met by the journalist standing over something in the middle of the road, near the corner they had just passed.
Dead bodies: three dressed exactly the same from what she could tell, with hessian sacks over their heads and blood pooling beneath them.
Foreboding came over Chyna as she walked toward Tacho, with Oscar and Mark in tow. From the sound of their shuffling feet, Chyna could tell they were both drawing weapons. The orange traces of the Spanish sun were gone, and there was not much light on the road save from a spare lamp that was shining dimly. She reached the bodies with cautious footsteps, and didn’t need another clue to know as to who they were.
“It's them,” Oscar muttered. “It's those three from the Mezquita.”
The team didn’t know what had happened to them after they had been carted off, but judging by the looks of things, it hadn’t ended very well for them. There were rope marks on the hands and legs of all three victims, and multiple bullet wounds in each. Clearly, they had not had an easy death.
Chyna felt sick to her core. Mark knelt unsteadily on his less injured knee and drew back the sack on one corpse.
“Double taps,” he said, “two to the chest, one to the head. Looks like powder burns on the clothing too. These guys were executed with some extreme prejudice. Usually one bullet to the head is enough for most killers, but it’s not unheard of that people survive. These poor bastards had no chance.”
There was the incongruous sound of a cell phone ringing that felt to Chyna like it had just gone off at a funeral. Tacho swore and answered the device that was in his jacket pocket, speaking in rapid Spanish. When the call ended he spoke w
ith excitement, tempered with fear.
“That’s a call from my boss. He just told me there has been another incident, another reporting, just north of Barcelona. The victim is suffering from the same symptoms these three were.”
Chyna could only nod, and was surprised at that. She had always been a brave woman, able to stomach more than what normal people could. It was uncharacteristic of her to be shocked by the presence of dead bodies. Maybe it was the way they had been murdered, or their sheer bad luck.
Or maybe, it was the fact that Chyna knew she could have been one long ago, in a remote cathedral in Dresden.
Chapter eight
RSS feed. Lana Ambrose, 2014
Civil Unrest: In 1481, Isabella and Fernando set out to do what no other monarch had done. The Moors, Jewish and Muslim people from North Africa, had settled in the Iberian peninsula in the 8th century A.D. Being devout Catholics, Isabella and Fernando led the Reconquista, the Reconquest, to take the land from the Moors, known as Granada. Isabella planned and funded campaigns, even selling her jewels, while Fernando led the troops. One by one, the Moorish lands were added onto Castile y Leon. In January of 1492, the Reconquista was complete.
***
Before the team and their journalist ally could move on to Barcelona, there had been a long wait as identifications and statements had been taken by the local police. All three bodies were identified as the last three victims of the madness, and the initial inclination of the garda civil had been to take all of Found History and Tacho back to Cordoba to make statements due to the violent nature of the crimes that had been committed. Fortunately for them, Tacho proved to be an excellent negotiator, and evidently knew the sergeant who took their statements on a personal level and they were soon north bound once again.
As Chyna sat in the passenger seat in front, with Tacho by her side, her mind was a maelstrom of emotions and logic at constant war with each other. She had a growing suspicion of Tony being the mastermind behind the whole scheme, which made her plan infinitely more difficult than it already was, as it meant that he was already in possession of the rosary. Why was the rosary being moved? More to the point, was it being tested? Could it be Tony?
The catch, however, was that Chyna was slowly starting to believe Tacho's theory herself. Even though Lana had found the links between Isabella and the Inquisition, there had been no mention of a rosary anywhere. While waiting for the police to release them, Sirita had called up the national museums dedicated to Spanish history and found out that none of them had ever been in possession of a 16th century rosary of any kind, particularly one that might have been related to Isabella. For an item that was wreaking havoc all over Spain, the Rosary of Isabella was surely hard to find.
Chyna felt exhausted and drained as night drew in. The after-effects of the long day were wearing on her. She wanted to evade sleep, but her eyes were drooping of their own accord. Chyna evaded sleep as much as possible now. Even two months in Alaska had not cured her of her dreams. And there was no way she'd take a pill in front of all the people in her present vicinity. She looked toward the driver's side and saw a wide eyed Mark, driving the car as if it was the easiest thing in the world. She wondered what the reason was behind his insomnia. Maybe he had nightmares of his own, though they would be very different than hers.
“What are you thinking about so hard over there?” Mark's voice brought her back.
“Nothing,” she murmured, and then decided to take the chance. “I was wondering what kinds of nightmares haunt you.”
Mark's grip on the steering wheel tightened, and his lips pursed into a thin line. “That's a pretty morbid thing to think about at this hour of night.”
“That's exactly the kind of thing—”
“Many.” He interrupted her. “I have many kinds of nightmares. Let's leave it at that.”
She nodded. A light in the distance broke their gaze from each other. Both of them looked through the windshield toward the blob of red and blue they were moving toward and found it was a police car.
“Patrol?” Chyna mumbled.
“At this hour of night? I don't see a checkpoint.” Mark stared hard at the van as they approached it. Just as the car stopped inches away from a policeman waving his hand, Chyna reached in and retrieved the necessary papers. She looked over her shoulder to see everyone rubbing their eyes because of interrupted sleep.
“Officer.” Mark smiled at the man, who leaned in and shone a light on both his and Chyna's faces. They spoke to each other, one in barely functional Spanish and the other in a native dialect. After a few moments, Mark turned toward Chyna and relayed what the officer had just said. “He wants to open her up—the car.”
Having dealt with all kinds of security officers, Chyna knew this was a pretty unusual request to be made, especially by a night patrol officer. She frowned and reached for the overhead light. As she flicked it on, she heard Oscar groan from the back. She shushed him and turned to face the officer who was leaning in through the window.
Her mind clicked.
Chyna Stone had never been one to forget faces because she knew how useful they could be. There was no way she would forget who this one belonged to. This cop had been one of the four men who had carted off the last three victims from the Mezquita. Why would a guarda civil officer make runs as a night patrol highway policeman? Why would they stop only Chyna's and her team's car as it was leaving town?
Her bewildered eyes met Mark's, who looked confused, but alarmed nonetheless. She knew if need be, he would shoot first, ask questions later. She hoped it didn’t come to that.
“What is wrong, Chyna?” It was Tacho who asked her the question.
She needed to stall for time to put it all together. Whether the cops meant harm or not was another mystery that had yet to be unfolded. However, it could also have dire consequences. If these men had carted the crazies off and eventually murdered them, chances were that one little slip could result in the team meeting the same end. Nevertheless, Chyna decided to take the chance.
“Tacho, ask them to show their identification,” she asked the journalist. She tried to convince him silently, using only a flick of her eyelids and the hope that the implication inherent in the minute gesture would carry across cultural lines. It seemed to work as he turned toward the officer and asked for his identification in Spanish.
The cop who had interrupted their journey looked flustered. He said something in Spanish, which was followed by him flailing his arms about in anger. Chyna heard Tacho trying to placate him and repeat his question.
They got the answer in the form of a bullet whizzing past Tacho's ear and hitting the window, shattering the glass over Sirita and burying itself in the headrest of Mark’s seat.
“Damn it!” Mark stomped on the gas, hitting one of the cops with the minivan. He rolled up the hood of the accelerating vehicle and off to the passenger side. Chyna came face to face with the fake policeman as he slid down the side of her door, grasping helplessly for purchase on the side mirror. They sped away from the red and blue and toward an even darker night. Another bullet sounded and the side view mirror on Chyna's side was gone. Mark tried to fight the pain in his leg, bearing down on the accelerator like his life depended on it.
Chyna looked toward the back and saw that the impostor’s police car was closing in. She knew exactly how much they had gained when another bullet grazed past their car almost instantaneously, whoever was firing at them was a crack shot to aim so well from a moving vehicle and at a moving target to boot. With the way the man who had shot at Tacho from point blank range had missed, she had been thinking they were a group of amateurs looking for their fifteen minutes of fame, but their marksmanship so far had had her backtracking on her criticism. She looked toward the driver's side to see Mark holding on to the wheel. She knew the pressure on his foot would get increasingly worse and could potentially damage it. He was already straining the engine and they had barely hit a hundred kilometers per hour. Chyna thought that maybe s
he should have taken the driver’s seat despite her exhaustion, but realized that self-criticism over her past mistakes was counterproductive.
Her decision was made.
She reached into the glove compartment where Tacho had told her he kept the gun. It was a small nine millimeter, but she was skilled enough to know that it would do the job. She rolled down the passenger side window, stood up and leaned halfway out.
“Chyna!” Lana screamed at her. “What the hell are you doing?!”
“Sit back. I need to ward them off!” Chyna aimed the gun at the car following them, but couldn't get a good shot due to the darkness.
“Chyna, this is madness!” Oscar protested.
Chyna ignored him and turned to Mark.
“Can you slow down a little? I need to get a good shot.”
Mark was slow to act at first, but as Chyna saw his foot ease up off of the pedal, she knew he was with her. The team protested at the sight of the men gaining on them, but Chyna steadied her arm and aimed loosely at the approaching headlights. As the car following came closer, the full beams fell on the back of Tacho's minivan and illuminated the faces of the occupants in the rear vehicle. Allowing the driver to see the pistol pointed directly at his face for a moment, she saw his panicked eyes widen, and the steering wheel gave a jerk to the left as he tried to get out of the firing line. This only presented Chyna with her real target, her bullet flying true and tearing into the right side front tire, ripping a hole and causing the driver to lose control of the high powered police car, spinning once, twice and coming to rest facing the wrong way on the road.
