Authors: Gilliam Ness
Los Picos De Europa, Northern Spain.
Only when the last throbbing beats
of the rescue helicopter had faded away did Isaac Rodchenko at last regain consciousness. Before him, precariously perched on a cliff’s edge, and set high in the midst of a sweeping mountainscape, lay the wreckage of the chartered floatplane. Trapped in it were the lifeless bodies of Father Franco Rossi and Professor Agardi Metrovich –as well as the plane’s pilot– all inaccessible to the Spanish Civil Guard’s retrieval team, due to the high winds.
After many failed attempts, the team had at last been able to hover long enough to lower a paramedic down to confirm that there were no survivors. The man had picked quickly through the wreckage, finding the bodies of the dead, but failing to locate Isaac Rodchenko. Having secretly stowed himself away on the plane, Isaac had not appeared on the plane’s manifest, and as he had been thrown clear of the impact zone, he had gone completely unnoticed. As it was, he lay pinned beneath a section of fuselage, battered and delirious, yet miraculously still alive.
Earlier that day, and much to the surprise of the Professor and Father Franco, Isaac had listened attentively to their strange request, and had granted them permission to conduct a special burial ceremony for his son on the island where he had been conceived. Given his faltering mental health, it had been agreed that Isaac would not attend this ceremony, but unbeknownst to the Professor and the priest, Isaac had secretly boarded the floatplane and hidden himself in the cargo area, where the coffin had been stowed.
The sun was low in the sky when Isaac began to slip once again into unconsciousness. His face was badly bruised, his dark grey suit torn in places but amazingly free of blood. Overhead a rushing mass of cloud sped past like a giant floating landmass, lulling him into a delirious half sleep.
Below the crash site, the jagged mountains of
Los Picos de Europa
stretched out like a mouthful of teeth, each peak a mountain unto itself. It was here in this wild place, far from the world of men, and surrounded by death on all sides, that Isaac witnessed something that defied all the laws of physical nature. To his utter horror, he could feel the corpse of his son jerking and twitching at his feet.
“Dear Father in heaven,” he prayed, his eyes wide with fear, “deliver me from this evil. Bring peace to the body of my child.”
Isaac tried in vain to move his foot away from what he knew to be an abomination, all the while battling with his guilt for wanting to do so. This was his beloved son; his own flesh and blood. But like a frozen stone, the malformed cadaver seemed to be drawing the life from his body. Through the sole of his shoe he could feel its malignance. This was no longer his poor and helpless son. It had transformed into something utterly evil. He looked down to see the body twitch and jerk with the force of a recently severed limb. His son was dead; he had watched him die. What lay at his feet was no longer his child. It was a beast; a cold corpse that somehow still lived.
Rome, Italy.
The rain was coming down
in torrents as Gabriel’s cab pulled up to the old stone church. It was 6:30 a.m. and Rome was just waking up. In the distance he could hear the siren of an ambulance cutting through the humid air, the wet cobblestones at his feet reflecting the erratic flashes of headlights as a growing number of rush hour cars rumbled past.
“Grazie,”
he said, handing the driver a fifty euro note.
With a nod of thanks, the cab driver passed him his luggage; a single leather pack, travel worn and battered.
Navigating his way through an obstacle course of puddles, Gabriel made his way into the shelter of the monastery’s arcade, much like a child playing hopscotch. Before him a towering wooden door barred his way.
He shook the rain from his equally battered leather flight jacket, sounding a great iron knocker that hung at the centre of the portico. Within moments a little door had opened within the larger door, and Gabriel had to duck low to get through. An old Christian Brother waited on the other side, and he shut the postern behind Gabriel after he had entered, the clank of the deadbolt echoing through the empty chapel.
“Good morning, my son,” said the old Brother, embracing him heartily. “The Bishop is presently at his toilet. He will be meeting you for breakfast very soon.”
Gabriel released him, but kept hold of his shoulders.
“Thanks, Fra,” he said warmly.
He was always amazed by the strength in the old man’s body.
“It’s good to see you.”
“And it is always good to see you, my dear boy. I see that you have not yet discarded that decaying pack of yours.”
Gabriel held up the leather duffel bag. The old Brother was right. If it were not for the meticulous reparations he had made to it, the thing would have fallen apart then and there. As it was, it was fully serviceable.
“It’s hard to part with an old friend,” he said, and he thought it funny that within such an old and battle scarred pack could be one of the most important artifacts he had ever come across.
They made their way along the aisle of a dark chapel, passing a large bank of burning candles that flickered in their little red cups. They sent up plumes of vapor that mingled with the incense that burned. Gabriel breathed deeply. He loved the smell of an old church, and although an unbeliever himself, he had always basked in the profound sense of peace that seemed to accompany that smell.
Up in the rafters, the sound of the pounding rain could be heard on the chapel’s roof. It echoed through the space, giving life to the stone statues that looked down at him from their niches above. It was a familiar feeling to Gabriel, being under their gaze; something that had always comforted him as a boy. His eyes scanned their familiar faces.
A man made fantasy to explain the inexplicable.
He had never been able to understand how anyone could dedicate their entire lives to a myth, but at the same time, he respected their so-called faith. It was to him a testament of the power of the human mind, be it sane or delusional.
Fra Bartolomeo made a quick turn into a small alcove, and within moments they had passed through a concealed door that led into a narrow passageway. With the arched ceiling only inches above his head, Gabriel found himself having to duck at regular intervals in order to avoid the naked light bulbs that stretched out before him. He could see a long line of them ahead, emerging from a conduit that ran the entire length of the tunnel.
Where did this tunnel come from? I thought I knew every inch of this monastery.
“Please pardon my detour,” said the Brother over his shoulder. “This way we can avoid getting wet from the rain in the cloisters. His Excellency’s chambers are just up ahead.”
Gabriel had to rush to keep up with the old man’s pace.
“That’s quite alright, Fra,” he replied cheerfully. “I’ve only just been in much tighter quarters.”
Gabriel shuddered at the memory of his harrowing escape. Not a day had passed since he had made his way through the Moorish sewer pipe. It had been a hell he would soon make every effort to forget. For two hours he had squeezed his way through the entrails of the castle, caked in raw sewage, starved of oxygen, and beleaguered by rats and insects of every kind.
On two separate occasions he had been forced to cut through iron bars using the mini acetylene torch he had thankfully packed among his equipment, the choking fumes nearly making him lose consciousness. With the stench of sewage still trapped in his olfactory, Gabriel followed the old Brother, reliving the final moments of his trying ordeal.
Deep under the Moorish castle, when he had, at long last, reached the end of the tunnel, he found that the passage plunged into a reservoir of sewage water. In his pack was a breathing apparatus containing just ten minutes of oxygen. It was meant to have been used to cover the short distance underwater that had been part of his original escape route. On this occasion, however, he had no idea how long he would be required to stay submerged. With no other options available to him, Gabriel donned the mask and proceeded downward into the fetid water.
“It won’t be long now,” said the Brother, but Gabriel was too lost in thought to reply.
Nine minutes had already passed when he came upon a second set of iron bars. He knew that he only had a minute of air left and was unsure as to how much acetylene gas remained in his torch. Gabriel did not waste time finding out. In the murky light of his flashlight he could see that two of the three bars had already rotted in their mounts. He shook them and they fell away easily. The middle bar however, was anchored quite firmly. In a moment his torch was blazing, cutting through the old iron effortlessly. Even still, Gabriel wondered how much tunnel remained on the other side. His air had run out sometime ago now, and he had only been able to half fill his lungs. Suddenly the bar broke loose and he was through, feeling the surrounding water drop in temperature almost immediately.
With burning lungs Gabriel pushed his way upward, moving freely for the first time in two hours. After what seemed an eternity he reached the surface at last, sucking in the night air hungrily. Somehow he had done it. He was out, and he was still alive.
“Boss, is that you?” came the whispered call.
A large inflatable river raft appeared suddenly, and a strong hand grasped Gabriel’s shoulder strap and pulled him out of the water.
“Amir,” said Gabriel as they landed on the river’s edge, “if you had shaved this morning I’d probably be kissing you right now.”
Amir stuffed the raft under a grouping of bushes and covered it with twigs and dried leaves.
“Not smelling like that you wouldn’t,” he said, pushing aside his dreadlocks to get a better look at him. “Where the hell have you been anyway?”
Gabriel smiled and shook his head in disbelief.
“That was far too close.”
“I thought it was quite far,” said the Brother, and Gabriel remembered how sharp the old man’s hearing had always been.
Arriving at the end of the tunnel they approached a small wooden door that swung out effortlessly. Ducking low, Gabriel emerged into a large stone room. It was warm, and the furniture was plush and velvety.
“Wait here, Gabriel,” said Fra. “The Bishop will come down soon.”
Gabriel made his way into the waiting room as Fra disappeared back into the tunnel. He had always loved this room, but he had never entered it as he had just done today.
“Who would have thought,” he muttered, looking back at the section of bookshelf as it swung closed. “A secret passage I didn’t know about.”
He walked into the carpeted room. Above him the vaulted ceiling rose solidly, with four gothic arches curving up to meet at a circular stone bearing the cross of St. George. Around him hung an assortment of detailed tapestries depicting great historical scenes. He approached his favourite one. It was a large work depicting the famous
Burning of Savonarola
in the Piazza della Signoria of Florence.
In the centre of the composition the puritanical priest could be seen chained to a great iron cross, with two of his supporters crucified to his left and right. At their feet, great flames licked upward. Savonarola had been a priest vehemently opposed to the Renaissance movement, and was infamous for his rampant destruction of what he considered to be immoral works of art, and heretical writings. Below the scene, on the tapestry’s ornate border, was an inscription quoting the executioner who had supposedly lit the flames.
The one who wanted to burn me is now himself put to the flames.
“I see you are reliving one of the greatest victories of the Florentine artist,” came a familiar voice from behind.
“Marcus!” said Gabriel turning. “Have I got something to show you!”
“Well,” said the old man smiling. “I certainly hope it can wait until after breakfast.”
The two embraced as they always did. A great love existed between them, and although the retired Bishop had no blood relation to Gabriel, he had been a lifelong friend of his father, and as a result, had always been like an uncle to him. Throughout his life, Gabriel had spent so much time in the old monastery that it was like a second home to him. He was familiar with the entire grounds, the bedroom he had always stayed in as a boy having had a set of doors that opened directly onto the main cloisters. Many a night he had sneaked out to explore the countless mysteries the old building had to offer.
Walking side by side, the two slowly made their way to the
breakfast room
, as the old Bishop liked to call it. In truth it was a small overgrown greenhouse that opened into the monastery’s private gardens. They arrived to find a little table set for two, complete with a linen tablecloth and full silverware. It sat in amongst copious plants, and beside it, a mossy fountain gurgled, silenced almost entirely by the rain that pounded the panes of glass high above. All around them finches chirped and fluttered.
“Your father and I breakfasted here quite often, as did you, my son,” said the old Bishop, sitting down slowly. “I can remember you as a boy, taking your sausages into the ferns, and feeding your crumpets to the birds on the sly.”
Gabriel remembered too, and for a moment, a deep sadness took him. He missed the big man dearly.
“Marcus, I’ve got something I want to show you.”
“Tut tut!” interrupted the Bishop. “I know, my son. We have much to speak of, but first, we old men must have our nourishment. You forget the hour at which you come. I would normally still be sleeping.”
“I’m sorry. I came here straight from the airport. I didn’t think.”
“Not to worry,” said the old Bishop with a reassuring smile, and just then, Fra Bartolomeo arrived with a large silver tray.
“Ah yes!” said the Bishop, rubbing his old hands together. “God bless you, my friend, and thanks be to God. We have been graced with one more meal. Let us enjoy it. It could very well be my last!”
“If you continue to say such things I will take this away and bring you lent rations,” scolded the Brother lovingly.
“God forbid such cruelty!” came the immediate reply.
Even the most perfect stranger felt a warm affection for the old Bishop. It would have been impossible not to, and Gabriel smiled, knowing the Bishop’s encompassing love for the gastronomical delights. Looking down at his plate, Gabriel welcomed the hot food. As always, it had been lovingly prepared by Suora Angelica, a very competent Italian nun whom Gabriel had also known since his childhood. It was the regular breakfast fare. Poached eggs, bacon, sausages, potatoes, fried fish, baked beans, fresh croissants and coffee in a French bodum. The perfect continental breakfast, and the eighty-five year old Bishop showed Gabriel that he still had quite an appetite. By the time he had finished his meal, Gabriel was dizzy with sleepiness.
“Let us now retire to the library,” said the Bishop, noting Gabriel’s fatigue. “There we can discuss your Compostela Cube.”
“But how did you know?” said Gabriel, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
“I’m not as dumb as I look!” said the old Bishop with a wink.
He scrubbed at his beard with a napkin, loosing a fragment of egg that had clung there the whole while.
“That is to say, I am much smarter than I appear!”
When they arrived at the library, Gabriel could barely keep his eyes open. The food was settling into his stomach, and his body was beginning to respond.
“Take off your shoes and lie yourself down on that sofa, my boy,” said the Bishop from the threshold. “I’ll be right back. We’ve got a lot to talk about, you and I.”
Finding himself alone in the room, Gabriel decided to take the Bishop up on his suggestion. Wearily he kicked off his shoes and stretched himself out on the soft leather sofa. Beside him, thin orange flames flickered lazily behind the glass doors of a cast iron stove, the familiarity of the room instilling a feeling of peace and security in him. As his eyes wandered around the paneled library, roaming dizzily from bookshelf to bookshelf, Gabriel began to feel a deep slumber take him.