The Shadow Lamp

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Treating symptoms without addressing the disease is bad medicine,” observed one of the elder Zetetics.

  “You would know, Richard,” sniped another. This comment was met with hoots of derision from other members.

  “Gentlemen, please!” piped Mrs. Peelstick. “Remember your manners. We are all friends here. We are all struggling to come to terms with very difficult information, and we are all doing the best we can. Let us at least be civil to one another.”

  The gathered Zetetics lapsed into bristling silence.

  Kit, slumped and stiff in his chair, felt the tension coursing around the stuffy room and knew its source. Brother Gianni’s brilliant and masterful exposition on the nature of the crisis looming over them had produced an almost giddy sense of camaraderie, of a fellowship of courageous warriors united to repel a stealthy and deadly foe. By turns inspiring and frightening, the priest astronomer had delivered a concise lecture on the nature of time and the glorious purpose of Creation, and the threat that both now faced. He explained that both the Vatican observatory at Castel Gondolfo and the Jansky Very Large Array radio telescope in New Mexico had reported data anomalies indicating universal deceleration. Lest any members wonder at the significance of this event, he defined the hidden connection between the shrinking of the universe—which he likened to a collapsing soufflé—and the unravelling of matter to its constituent parts, a cosmological cataclysm he termed the End of Everything.

  Roused by a clear and urgent call to arms, the Seventy-Second All-Society Convocation of the Zetetic Society had taken up the challenge; they would champion the cause and save the universe and everything in it from total annihilation or die in the attempt. On the heady wave of an adrenaline rush, each and every one had pledged to work tirelessly, faithfully, heroically to restore order to the cosmos. Gianni’s speech had duly ignited the flame. But where dazzling fireworks had been called for, the result was a damp squib. Like the others, Kit had gone to bed in a state of highly charged nervous excitement. Overnight, however, the exhilaration bled away; a dull, numbing dread had settled in its place.

  No one had slept very well and breakfast had been a sombre affair. The morning session had been spent in useless hand wringing, and now the afternoon gathering was proving restive and contrary. Everyone seemed distinctly ill disposed to plunge headlong into another round of gloom and destruction, and thrashing out a solution to what was arguably the most extreme dilemma ever to face the human race seemed more remote than ever. Where did one even begin? Kit could feel the frustration bubbling away beneath the surface, and it was breaking out in petty arguments and bickering.

  Brendan, clearly discouraged, banged his gavel and, when he had reclaimed the attention of the group, said, “This is getting us nowhere. I am going to suggest we take a break to cool off a little.”

  Tony raised his hand. “Perhaps I might make a suggestion? Sometimes when faced with a difficult problem in committee, we split up into smaller working groups to tackle the issues from different angles. It can yield good results.”

  “I agree,” put in Tess. “It is worth a try. We’re not accomplishing anything this way.”

  Brendan passed his gaze around the ring of unhappy faces. “How does that sit with everybody?” Hearing no dissent, he tapped the tabletop with the flat of his hand. “Okay then, let’s give it a go.”

  Thus it was agreed and four groups were formed—each to meet in a different part of the society’s headquarters, and each to work on a different approach to the dual problem of what could possibly have happened to bring about the impending calamity and what, if anything, might be done about it.

  “If we’re all happy with the arrangements, we will gather again this evening after dinner for progress reports from each committee.” He banged the gavel one last time, very loudly. “We are adjourned. Let’s get busy.”

  The various groups drifted off to their appointed locations. Brother Gianni led his crew of four down to the courtyard. Mrs. Peelstick paused on the threshold and said, “You carry on. I’ll just get the tea going—shan’t be a moment.”

  “I’ll help,” said Mina. “I could use a break.”

  The two disappeared into the kitchen; Kit and Gianni continued to the sun-drenched courtyard. Surrounded by its high walls, half shaded by its striped canvas awning and potted palm, and soothed by the gentle play of water in the central fountain, the simple walled garden seemed a veritable paradise: a world away from the creeping horrors they had been discussing only moments before. As Gianni started for the table under the umbrella in the corner, Kit tugged him on the sleeve. “Before we get started, I need to ask you something . . .” He hesitated, then added quickly, “As a priest.”

  “Certainly, my friend. You would like to make a confession?”

  “Something like that.”

  “This way.” Gianni indicated a corner of the courtyard. “We can talk over there.”

  Kit followed the priest and stepped into the shade of the potted palm. “Do you believe in eternal life?” Before Gianni could reply, he corrected himself. “Of course you do. You’re a priest. I mean, do you think it’s possible for people to come back to life?”

  Gianni smiled. “Well, our Lord Jesus came back to life, of course, and he raised others—Lazarus, for example. He showed us that it is possible.”

  “Right,” agreed Kit. “But besides him. Ordinary people, I mean—would it be possible for a dead person to be brought back to life?”

  The priest regarded Kit with a curious expression. “I suppose,” began the priest thoughtfully, “it would very much depend on the particular circumstances. I suspect you have a particular circumstance in mind?”

  Kit nodded. “Your talk last night about time and how it flows—and how the future contains all possibilities and potentials and all that—well, it got me thinking about Cosimo’s untimely death.”

  “Ah, yes.” Gianni glimpsed the connection. “Because of the memorial service, no doubt.”

  “I was there when Cosimo died, see.” Kit went on to give a brief description of being caught by Burleigh and locked in the desert tomb where Cosimo and Sir Henry were already imprisoned, sick and dying. “If Giles and I hadn’t been rescued by Mina, we would have died there too. But I have always wondered if I could have done something about it. Or if there is something that could still be done about it. I remember asking Mina at the time, and she seemed to think that it might be possible to reverse what happened somehow—using ley lines and the Spirit Well and all that. Maybe they could be rescued—brought back to life.” He finished, casting a hopeful glance at the priest. “What do you think?”

  Gianni looked down at his clasped hands. “I think,” he said after a moment’s consideration, “that it would be dangerous in the extreme.” He raised his glance to meet Kit’s surprised expression. “This is not what you expected.”

  “To be honest? No, it is not what I expected you to say at all.”

  “The reason has to do with my belief in the supreme sovereignty of God and His ongoing work to bring His creation to its ultimate fruition in unity with Him.”

  “The Omega Point you mentioned last night,” said Kit.

  “All things that happen to us happen for a reason,” Gianni continued. “No, that is too simple too—how do you say?—ah, like a formula.”

  “Formulaic,” Kit supplied the word. “Why too simple?”

  “Let us say that all things that happen must be somehow woven into the emerging pattern of God’s ultimate design. Even the stray and errant threads can be used—or, perhaps, especially the stray and errant threads may be required for a particular purpose that, because of our limited human view and understanding, we cannot possibly see or know.” He offered Kit a hopeful smile. “Capisci?”

  “I guess,” Kit allowed. There was no mistaking the reluctance in his tone.

  “And yet you doubt,” observed the priest. “I can well understand your wanting to overturn a wickedness and set matters right. But reversi
ng or attempting to reverse what has happened in the ongoing flow of events can have serious and long-ranging effects that we cannot possibly foresee.”

  Kit produced a puzzled frown. “You’re saying that it would be like pulling a thread on a jumper—once you start pulling, the whole thing might unravel . . . Is that it?”

  “Unweaving the tapestry, yes,” agreed Gianni. “Because removing even a small portion of the design creates gaps and holes that multiply and spread as more of the fabric becomes involved. This is one reason, perhaps, why time moves only in one direction.”

  “So even if I could somehow go and bring Cosimo and Sir Henry back to life, it would be wrong to do it,” concluded Kit.

  “Wrong in the sense that it could possibly create even worse problems—catastrophes, perhaps—elsewhere,” Gianni confirmed. “Thus, even if it could be done, I could in no way condone it.”

  “But what about Jesus? He came back to life. He was dead, and God brought Him back to life, didn’t He?”

  “Ah, yes!” Gianni smiled. “What is the expression? It is the one . . . ah, l’esclusione that confirms the rule.”

  “The exception that proves the rule,” corrected Kit. “Okay, but if Jesus coming back to life upset the created order and brought about this cascade of catastrophe for all time and everything . . .” Kit paused as the meaning began to sink in. “Unless,” he continued, “that is what God wanted.”

  “It is beyond doubt what God intended—not a catastrophe, but a eucatastrophe—a glorious upheaval of the created order for the ultimate good of all creation.”

  Gianni caught the glint of understanding beginning to quicken in Kit’s eyes. “Yes, you see it now? The resurrection of Jesus sent shock waves backwards and forwards throughout the cosmos and affected all time—past, present, and future—forever. Because of the resurrection, everything changed. Everything! Nothing could ever be the same again. It was a rescue mission on a cosmic scale.”

  Kit was nodding. “But since we’re not God, we can’t know or guess what changes we might unleash if we tried the same thing.”

  “That is correct most assuredly.”

  “Then I guess Arthur Flinders-Petrie was wrong to use the Spirit Well to bring that woman back to life,” Kit concluded.

  Gianni’s demeanour changed completely. His face froze, eyes wide with horror.

  “What did I say?”

  “You said . . .” Gianni opened and closed his mouth, working at the words. “. . . that Arthur used the Spirit Well . . .” Gianni reached out and clutched Kit by the arm, digging his fingers into his flesh. “What did you mean?”

  “Well, I—I’m not sure I know what—” Kit stuttered, alarmed by his companion’s stricken expression.

  “Tell me what you saw!” Gianni’s grip tightened. “Please, it is of paramount importance. I need to hear it all—every last detail—exactly as it happened.”

  Startled by his companion’s reaction to his innocent confession, Kit swallowed hard. “Okay. Let’s see . . .”

  He collected himself, drew a breath, and began. “It goes back to when I was with River City Clan. One winter they built the Bone House—in fact, I helped them build it—and when it was finished, En-Ul, the clan chief, took me with him. I don’t know why.” Kit shrugged. “Maybe to watch over him while he slept, or maybe just to be there in case something happened.

  “We were there a long time—hours anyway—and something did happen. My shadow lamp woke up. I had it in this pouch I made in my shirt, where I kept the green book too, and I felt the lamp grow warm. When I took it out, the little blue lights were glowing like crazy. I didn’t know what to make of it—after being inactive for so long. It surprised me and I got up. I started to step over En-Ul and fell through the floor of the Bone House.” Kit regarded the priest, who had closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Are you okay?”

  “I am.” Gianni seemed to have mastered himself once more. “Continue, please.”

  “Well, I took a step, and the next thing I knew I was flying through space—not like a regular ley jump,” Kit told him. “This leap seemed to just go on and on. And when I thought it wasn’t going to end, I landed on a beach—white sand, blue water, balmy ocean breeze, all of that. I’d arrived at the most incredible place I’ve ever seen. It was beautiful beyond description—the plants, the colours, even the quality of the light and air was different, more vivid somehow. A paradise—that’s what I thought. It was paradise.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I started walking inland and sort of stumbled onto this path, so I followed it—no idea where I was going. I just followed the path into this awesome jungle and eventually came to a pool.” Kit paused to consider. “That’s the only way to describe it, really—it was a pool in the middle of this clearing. But it wasn’t water in the pool—it was more like light.”

  “Light?”

  Kit nodded. “Liquid light—as if you could somehow distil all the sunlight and concentrate it in a pool, that’s what it would look like.” Kit’s eyes grew slightly unfocused as he remembered the extraordinary experience.

  “What happened there?” prodded Gianni gently.

  “I was just standing there, looking at the light, and heard a sound—someone was coming. I don’t know why, but I decided to hide. It seemed like a good idea, so I ducked down behind some ferny things, and a second later I see this man pushing through the undergrowth. He’s coming to the pool and he’s carrying a body in his arms—a woman . . .”

  “What do you mean—body?”

  “Just that,” replied Kit. “She’s dead—limp as a rag doll. This guy is carrying a corpse in his arms.” Kit gave a firm nod for emphasis. “The man sort of pauses, like he’s taking a deep breath, and then he steps into the glowing stuff. He keeps walking until he’s completely submerged, dead body and all. He was under the surface for, I don’t know, maybe a few seconds, and the liquid light changes colour—it goes from golden yellow to this bright, glowing red-orange—and a huge bubble forms in the middle of the pool, growing bigger and bigger until . . . it breaks. And there is the man again. He’s still holding the woman, only this time, she’s alive!”

  Glasses glittering in the reflected sunlight, Gianni held Kit in his gaze. “You are certain?” asked Gianni at last, his voice soft, trembling. “There can be no doubt?”

  Kit was already shaking his head. “No doubt whatever. I can still see it like it happened yesterday. I saw her move when the man carried her out and put her on the bank. That’s when I saw who it was.”

  “How? What did you see?”

  “The tattoos on the man’s chest. All the symbols—his shirt is open and there they are. In bright blue. The same symbols that are on the map, only they’re on him. It is Arthur.”

  “You are certain of this?”

  “It was Arthur—blue tattoos and all. I don’t know who the woman was, but she was dead going into the pool and alive coming out. And whatever it was he did, it was Arthur who did it.”

  Gianni, head lowered, hands clasped beneath his chin, remained silent.

  Kit watched him for a moment, unwilling to interrupt the priest’s meditations.

  “Tea, gentlemen!” called Wilhelmina from across the courtyard.

  The two men reluctantly moved towards the table where Mina was setting out a bowl filled with mint leaves and plates of tangerines and apricots. Cass followed with a platter of almond, sesame, and pistachio sweets, which she placed in the centre of the table.

  Halfway across the courtyard, Brother Gianni halted in his tracks. He looked up quickly and then slapped his forehead with the flat of his hand. “Stupido!” he cried and dashed for the open doors. On the threshold he paused, flung out a hand towards Kit and Mina as if gesturing for them to stay put. “Uno momento!” he shouted as he dashed away.

  “What was that about?” asked Mina, staring at the door through which the priest had disappeared.

  “We were having a discussion, and it took a bit of an odd turn.
”

  “It must have been a pretty intense conversation. I’ve never seen him like that. What on earth did you say to him?”

  “I just happened to mention what I saw at the Spirit Well. Apparently he thinks it might be important.”

  Mrs. Peelstick appeared just then with a tray containing tea things—a pot, glasses, and a plate of sesame biscuits. “What is important, dear?”

  Kit hesitated.

  “Go on, Kit, tell her,” nudged Wilhelmina. “Tell her what you told Gianni.”

  “Okay, okay,” replied Kit. To Mrs. Peelstick he said, “I told Gianni that I saw Arthur Flinders-Petrie bring a dead woman back to life in the Spirit Well.”

  At first she seemed not to have heard. She continued to the table, then stopped. Her head snapped upright. “Oh, dear Lord in heaven!” she gasped.

  As she spoke these words, time seemed to pause. Its relentless headlong race slowed, the brief duration of a moment lengthened and protracted to a leisurely, lingering dawdle. Kit watched the colour slowly ebb from Mrs. Peelstick’s face, ruddy flesh bleaching by degrees to the pallor of old parchment. Her eyes grew round and wide in apprehension, and the tray in her hands wavered, wobbled, and at last began to unbalance.

  The glasses on the board jiggled and, as the tray tilted from horizontal, the large flowered teapot began to slide—slowly at first, but as friction gave way the heavy container slewed sideways across the surface of the board, contacting the glasses in its path, knocking them down, scattering them like bowling pins. The rolling glasses reached the edge, slammed into the shallow side rail, bounced against it, and, driven by the oncoming mass of the teapot, were forced over the side, first one and then another until all were spinning through the air in free fall.

  The pot came next, crashing into the wooden edge of the tray, increasing the imbalance further. Mrs. Peelstick’s left hand lost its grip and her right hand proved unable to control the weight. The board angled sharply away, launching the pot into a majestic, spinning trajectory. Centrifugal force lifted the lid, which spun clear of the pot, releasing the freshly brewed tea in an orderly, crown-shaped splash. Hot liquid spewed from the curved spout in a graceful arc of disconnected drops, each one forming itself into a perfect brown sphere as it rose, hung, and then fell towards the courtyard floor. The pot itself continued on its downward journey, rotating lazily about an unseen axis, handle over spout over handle, each slow revolution throwing more tea into the air.