“I solemnly vow to keep my mind open during every moment that I sit in this room. Here is our battle cry: History is not what happened. History is what was written down.”
She lifted a hardcover book from the podium in front of her and displayed it to the class.
“Has everyone had a chance to pick up a copy of this book?” A general nodding of heads and a muttering of assent followed the query. The book in Maureen’s raised hand was her own controversial work, HerStory: A Defense of History’s Most Hated Heroines. It was the reason she filled night-school classrooms and lecture halls to capacity each time she elected to teach.
“Tonight, we will begin with a discussion of the women of the Old Testament, female ancestors of the Christian and Jewish traditions. Next week we will transition to the New Testament, spending the majority of the session on one woman — Mary Magdalene. We will examine the different sources and references to her life, both as a woman and as a disciple of Christ. Please read the corresponding chapters in preparation for next week’s discussion.
“We will also have a special guest lecture by Dr. Peter Healy, whom some of you may know from our extension program for the humanities. For those of you who have not yet been fortunate enough to attend one of the good doctor’s classes, he is also Father Healy, a Jesuit scholar and internationally acclaimed expert on Biblical studies.”
The persistent student in the front row raised his hand again, not waiting for Maureen to call on him before asking, “Aren’t you and Doctor Healy related?”
Maureen nodded. “Doctor Healy is my cousin.
“He will give us the Church perspective on Mary Magdalene’s relationship to Christ and reveal how perceptions have evolved over two thousand years,” Maureen continued, anxious to get back on track and finish on time. “It will be a good night, so try not to miss it.
“But tonight, we will begin with one of our ancestral mothers. When we first meet Bathsheba, she is ‘purifying herself from her uncleanness…’ ”
Maureen rushed out of the classroom, exclaiming her apologies and swearing over her shoulder that she would stay after class the following week. She would normally have spent at least another half an hour in the room, speaking with the group that inevitably remained after each session. She loved this time with her students, possibly even more than the lectures themselves, as the lingering few were inevitably her kindred spirits. These were the students who kept her teaching. She certainly didn’t need the pittance that extension teaching provided. Maureen taught because she loved the contact and the stimulation of sharing her theories with others who were excited and open-minded.
Heels clicking in rhythm on the walkway, Maureen picked up her pace, walking swiftly through the tree-lined avenues of the north campus. She didn’t want to miss Peter, not tonight. Maureen cursed her fashion sense, wishing she had worn more sensible shoes for the near sprint required to reach his office before he left. She was, as always, impeccably dressed, taking the same meticulous care with her clothing as she did with all the details in her life. The perfectly cut designer suit fit her petite figure flawlessly, and its forest color accentuated her green eyes. A pair of rather daring Manolo Blahnik heels added some dash to the otherwise conservative outfit — and some necessary height to her five-foot-nothing frame. It was precisely that pair of Manolos that were the source of her current frustration. She briefly considered hurling them across the quad.
Please don’t leave. Please be there. She called out to Peter in her mind as she rushed. They had been strangely connected, even as kids, and she hoped now that somehow he could sense how badly she needed to speak to him. Maureen had tried to call him via more conventional means earlier, but to no avail. Peter hated cell phones and wouldn’t carry one despite her multiple pleas over the years, and he generally refused to pick up the extension in his office if he was immersed in his work.
She ripped off the offending spiked heels and stuffed them into her leather tote bag as she ran the final length to her destination. Holding her breath as she rounded the corner, Maureen looked up at the second-story windows and counted from the left. She let out her breath in a relieved sigh when she saw the light in the fourth window. He was still here.
Maureen climbed the steps deliberately, allowing time to catch her breath. She turned left down the corridor, stopping when she reached the fourth door on her right. Peter was there, peering intently through a magnifying glass at a yellowed manuscript. He felt rather than saw her in the doorway, and when he looked up, his kind face broke into a welcoming smile.
“Maureen! What a wonderful surprise. I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
“Hi, Pete,” she responded with equal warmth, coming around the desk to give him a quick hug. “I’m so glad you’re here — I was afraid you would have left by now, and I desperately needed to see you.”
Father Peter Healy raised an eyebrow and considered for a long moment before responding. “You know, under normal circumstances I would have left hours ago. I was compelled to work late tonight, for some reason I didn’t entirely understand — until now.”
Then he shrugged off his comment with a slight, knowing smile. Maureen returned the expression. She had never been able to account for the connection she had with her older cousin on any logical level. But from the day she had arrived in Ireland as a young girl they had been as close as twins, sharing an uncanny ability to communicate without words.
Maureen reached into her tote bag and pulled out a blue plastic grocery sack, the type used by import shops the world over. It held a small rectangular box, which she handed to the priest.
“Ahh. Lyon’s Gold Label. Beautiful choice. I still can’t stomach American tea.”
Maureen made a face and shuddered to indicate her shared distaste. “Bog water.”
“I believe the kettle is full, so I’ll just plug it in and we’ll have a cuppa right here and now.”
Maureen smiled as she watched Peter rise from the battered leather chair he had fought to obtain from the university. Upon acceptance of his position in the humanities extension department, the esteemed Dr. Peter Healy had been given a window office with modern furniture, which included a brand-new and very functional desk and chair. Peter hated functional when it came to his furniture, but he hated modern even more. Using his Gaelic charm as an irresistible force, he had managed to stir the usually unmovable staff into frenetic activity. He was a dead ringer for the Irish actor Gabriel Byrne, a likeness that never failed to inspire women, Roman collar or no. The staff had searched basements and scoured unused classrooms until they found exactly what he was looking for: a weathered and extremely comfortable leather high-backed chair, and a desk of aged wood that at least looked somewhat antique. The modern amenities in the office were of his choosing: the mini-refrigerator in the corner behind the desk, a small electric kettle for boiling water, and the generally ignored telephone.
Maureen was more relaxed now as she watched him, safe in the presence of a close relative and immersed in the entirely soothing and purely Irish art form of tea making.
Peter crossed back to his desk and leaned down to the refrigerator situated immediately behind him. He removed a small container of milk and placed it next to the pink and white box of sugar resting on top of the fridge. “There’s a spoon here somewhere — wait — here we are.”
The electric kettle was sputtering now, indicating that the water was on the boil.
“I’ll do the honors,” Maureen volunteered.
She stood up and took the box of tea from Peter’s desk, opening the plastic seal with the edge of a manicured thumbnail. She removed two round bags and dropped them into mismatched, tea-stained mugs. The stereotypes about Irishmen and alcohol were dramatically overstated from Maureen’s perspective; the real Irish addiction was to this stuff.
Maureen finished the preparations expertly and handed a steaming mug to her cousin as she sat down in the chair opposite his desk. Her own mug in hand, Maureen sipped quietly for a moment
, feeling Peter’s benevolent blue eyes on her. Now that she had hurried to see him, she was unsure of where to start. It was the priest who ultimately broke the silence.
“Is she back, then?” he asked softly.
Maureen sighed with relief. At those moments when she had thought herself truly on the distant edge of sanity, Peter was there for her: cousin, priest, friend.
“Yep,” she replied, uncharacteristically inarticulate. “She’s back.”
Peter tossed restlessly in his bed, unable to sleep. The conversation with Maureen had disturbed him more than he let on to her. He was concerned about her, both as her closest living relative and as her spiritual counselor. He had known her dreams would come back with a vengeance, and had been biding his time, anticipating the day.
When Maureen first returned from the Holy Land, she had been disturbed by dreams of the regal, suffering woman in the red cloak, the woman she had seen in Jerusalem. Her dreams were always the same: she was immersed in the mob on the Via Dolorosa. Occasionally, a dream might contain minor variations or a stray additional detail, but they always featured the intense sense of desperation. It was this vivid intensity that disturbed Peter, the authenticity in Maureen’s descriptions. It was intangible, something that was triggered by the Holy Land itself, a feeling Peter had first encountered himself while studying in Jerusalem. It was a sense of getting very close to the ancient — and the divine.
After her return from the Holy Land, Maureen spent many long-distance telephone hours speaking with Peter, who at the time was teaching in Ireland. His confident and independent cousin was beginning to question her own sanity, and the intensity and frequency of the dreams was beginning to trouble Peter. He applied for a transfer to Loyola, knowing it would be granted immediately, and boarded a plane for Los Angeles to be closer to his cousin.
Four years later, he wrestled with his thoughts and with his conscience, unsure of the best way to help Maureen now. He wanted to take her to see some of his superiors in the Church, but he knew she would never consent to that. Peter was the last link she allowed herself to her once-Catholic background. She trusted him only because he was family — and because he was the only person in her life who had never let her down.
Peter sat up, giving in to the understanding that sleep would elude him this night — and he was trying not to think about the pack of Marlboro’s in the drawer of the nightstand. He had tried to stave off this particular bad habit — indeed, it was one of the reasons he chose to live alone in an apartment and not in Jesuit housing. But the stress was too much for him, and he yielded to this spot of sin. Lighting a cigarette, he exhaled deeply and contemplated the issues facing Maureen.
There had always been something special about his petite, feisty American cousin. When she had first arrived in Ireland with her mother she was a scared and lonely seven-year-old with a bayou drawl. Eight years her senior, Peter took Maureen under his wing, introducing her to the local children in the village — and providing black eyes for anyone who dared make fun of the newcomer with the funny accent.
But it didn’t take long for Maureen to assimilate into her new environment. She healed rapidly from the traumas of her past in Louisiana as the mists of Ireland enveloped her in welcome. She found refuge in the countryside. Peter and his sisters took her on long walks, showing off the beauty of the river and warning her of the pitfalls in the bogs. They all spent long summer days picking the blackberries that grew wild on the family farm and playing soccer until the sun went down. In time, the local kids accepted her as she became more comfortable with her surroundings and allowed her true personality to emerge.
Peter had often wondered about the definition of the word “charisma” as it was used in the supernatural context of the early church: charism, a divinely bestowed gift or power. Perhaps it applied to Maureen more literally and profoundly than any of them had ever dreamed. He kept a journal of his discussions with her, had done so since those first long-distance phone calls, where he logged his own insights on the meaning of the dreams. And he prayed daily for guidance — if Maureen had been chosen by God to perform some task related to the time of the passion, which he was increasingly certain she was witnessing in her dreams, he would indeed require maximum guidance from his Creator. And his Church.
Château des Pommes Bleues
The Languedoc region of France
October 2004
“ ‘MARIE DE NEGRE shall choose when the time is come for The Expected One. She who is born of the paschal lamb when the day and night are equal, she who is a child of the resurrection. She who carries the Sangre-el will be granted the key upon viewing the Black Day of the Skull. She will become the new Shepherdess and show us The Way.’ ”
Lord Bérenger Sinclair paced the polished floors of his library. Flames from an enormous stone fireplace cast golden light upon an ancestral collection of priceless books and manuscripts. A tattered banner hung in a protective glass case that stretched across the full length of the enormous hearth. Once white, the yellowed fabric was emblazoned with faded gold fleurs-de-lis. The conjoined name Jhesus-Maria was embroidered on the buckram, but was visible only to the rare few who had the opportunity to get close to this particular relic.
Sinclair recited the prophecy aloud and by rote, his slight Scottish accent rolling the “r”s in the sentence. Berenger knew the words of the foretelling by heart; he had learned them while sitting on his grandfather’s knee as a little boy. He didn’t comprehend the meaning of those lines back then. It was merely a memorization game he played with his grandfather when he spent the summers here on the family’s vast French estate.
He paused in his pacing to stand before an elaborate lineage, a family tree spanning the centuries that was painted floor to ceiling on the wide far wall. It was a massive mural that displayed the history of Bérenger’s flamboyant ancestors.
This branch of the Sinclair family was one of the oldest in Europe. Originally called Saint Clair, they had been driven from the Continent to take refuge in Scotland in the thirteenth century, when the surname was subsequently anglicized to its current form. Bérenger’s ancestors were some of the most illustrious in British history, including James the First of England and that king’s infamous mother, Mary, Queen of Scots.
The influential and savvy Sinclair family managed to survive civil wars and political upheaval within Scotland, playing both sides of the crown through the country’s tumultuous history. A captain of industry in the twentieth century, Bérenger’s grandfather had established one of the greatest fortunes in Europe with the founding of a North Sea oil corporation. A billionaire several times over and a British peer with a seat in the House of Lords, Alistair Sinclair had everything any man could ask for. But he remained restless and unsatisfied, a seeker after something his fortune could not buy.
Grandfather Alistair became obsessed with France, buying an enormous château outside the village of Arques in the rugged and mysterious southwestern region known as the Languedoc. He called his new home Château des Pommes Bleues — House of the Blue Apples — for reasons known only to an initiated few.
The Languedoc was a mountainous land filled with mysticism. Local legends of buried treasure and mysterious knights dated back hundreds, even thousands, of years. Alistair Sinclair had become increasingly fixated on the Languedoc folklore, buying as much land in the region as he could acquire and searching with increasing urgency for treasure he believed was buried in the region. The cache he sought had little to do with gold or riches, items Alistair already possessed in overabundance. It was something far more valuable to him, to his family, and to the world. He spent less and less time in Scotland as he grew older, happy only when he was here in the wild, red mountains of the Languedoc. Alistair insisted that his grandson accompany him during the summers, and he ultimately instilled his passion for the mythic region — indeed, his obsession — in the young Bérenger.
Now in his forties, Bérenger Sinclair paused once more in his circuit around th
e great library, this time before a painting of his grandfather. Seeing the sharp, angular features, the curling dark hair, and intense eyes was like looking into a mirror.
“You look so much like him, Monsieur. You are more like him every day, in many ways.”
Sinclair turned to answer his hulking manservant, Roland. For such an enormous man, he had uncommon stealth and often seemed to appear out of the air.
“Is that a good thing?” Bérenger asked wryly.
“Of course. Monsieur Alistair was a fine man, much loved by the people of the villages. And by my father, and myself.”
Sinclair nodded with a small smile. Roland would say so, of course. The French giant was a son of the Languedoc. His own father was from a local family with deep roots in its legendary soil and had been Alistair’s majordomo at the château. Roland was raised on the château grounds and understood the Sinclair family and their eccentric obsessions. When his father passed away suddenly, Roland stepped into his shoes as the caretaker of Château des Pommes Bleues. He was one of the very few people on earth whom Bérenger Sinclair trusted.
“If you do not mind me saying so, we were working across the hall and heard you — myself and Jean-Claude. We heard you speak the words of the prophecy.” He looked at Sinclair quizzically. “Is something wrong?”
Sinclair crossed the room to where an enormous mahogany desk dominated the far wall. “No, Roland. Nothing is wrong. In fact, I think things may finally be very, very right.”
He picked up a hardcover book that rested on the desk, showing the cover to his servant. It was a modern, nonfiction book cover, with a title that announced: HerStory. A subtitle read: A Defense of History’s Most Hated Heroines.
Roland looked at the book, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“No, no. Turn it over. Look at this. Look at her.”
Roland turned the book over to reveal a back-cover photo of the author with the caption Author Maureen Paschal.
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