The Expected One

by Kathleen McGowan

  “Will you be there this afternoon by any chance? It’s the only free time I have.”

  “I sure will. And I’m just a few miles down the main road. McLean isn’t all that big. It’s very easy to find. Call before you leave if you need better directions. Thanks for the autograph, and I hope to see you later.”

  As Maureen watched the woman retreat from the table, she glanced up at the store manager. “I think I may need a break after all,” she said softly.

  Paris (First Arrondissement)

  Caveau des Mousquetaires

  March 2005

  THE WINDOWLESS, STONE BASEMENT in the antiquated building had been known as the Caveau des Mousquetaires for as long as anyone remembered. Its proximity to the Louvre in the days when the great museum had been the residence of the kings of France gave it strategic importance, one that was no less valid in modern times. The hidden space was named for the men made famous by Alexandre Dumas in his most celebrated work. Dumas had based the swashbucklers in his novel on real men with a real mission. This room was one of the secret meeting places of the queen’s guard after the villainous Cardinal Richelieu drove them underground. In reality, it was not King Louis XIII of France whom the Musketeers were sworn to protect, but rather his queen. Anne of Austria was the daughter of a bloodline far more ancient and royal than that of her husband.

  Dumas would undoubtedly shudder in his grave if he knew that this once-sacred space had fallen into enemy hands. On this night, the cave was the meeting site of another secret brotherhood. The occupying organization not only predated the Musketeers by 1,500 years, but also opposed their mission with an oath sworn in blood.

  Illuminated by two-dozen candles, shadows danced off the walls to reveal the group of robed men in shades and silhouettes. They stood around a battered rectangular table, all faces cast in an interplay of dark and light. While none of their features were discernable in the half-light, the peculiar emblem of their Guild was visible on each of them — a blood-red cord tied tightly around the neck.

  Hushed voices carried a variety of accents: English, French, Italian, and American. All fell silent as their leader took his place at the head of the table. Before him, a polished human skull, resting on a gold-filigreed platter, glowed in the candlelight. On one side of the skull was a chalice, decorated with golden spirals and encrusted with jewels that matched those on the platter. On the other side of the skull, a hand-carved wooden crucifix lay on the table, the image of Christ facedown.

  The leader touched the skull reverently before raising the golden chalice filled with rich red liquid. He spoke in Oxford-accented English.

  “The blood of the Teacher of Righteousness.”

  He drank slowly before passing the chalice to the brother on his left. The man took it with a nod, repeating the motto in his native French and taking his drink. Each member of the Guild repeated this rite, speaking in his native tongue, until the chalice returned to the head of the table.

  The leader placed the cup gently before him. Next, he raised the platter and kissed the skull reverently on the brow bone. As with the chalice, he passed the skull to the left and each member of the brotherhood repeated his actions. This part of the ritual was performed in absolute silence, as if it was far too sacred to be diminished by words.

  The skull completed the full cycle of worshipers, ending at the leader. He raised the platter high in the air before returning it to the table with a flourish and the words, “The first. The only.”

  The leader paused for a moment, then picked up the wooden crucifix. Turning it around so that the crucified image was facing him, he raised the cross to eye level — and spat viciously in the face of Jesus Christ.

  …Sarah-Tamar comes often and reads my memories while I write. She has reminded me that I have not yet explained about Peter and what is known as his denial.

  There are some who judged him harshly and would call him Peter in Gallicantu — Peter in Denial — but that is unfair. What those who pass judgment cannot know is that Peter did nothing but fulfill Easa’s wishes. I am told that some of the followers now say that Peter fulfilled a prophecy made by Easa, that Easa said to Peter, “You will deny me,” and Peter said, “No, I will not.”

  This is the truth. Easa instructed Peter to deny him. It was not a prophecy. It was a command. Easa knew that if the worst happened, he would need Peter, of all his trusted disciples, to remain safe. Through Peter’s determination, the teachings would continue to spread across the world as Easa had always dreamed. And so Easa told him, “You will deny me,” but Peter in his torment said, “No, I cannot.”

  But Easa continued, “You must deny me so that you will be safe and the teachings of The Way will continue.”

  This is the truth of Peter’s “denial.” It was never a denial since he followed the orders of his teacher. Of this I am certain, for I was there and I witnessed.

  THE ARQUES GOSPEL OF MARY MAGDALENE,

  THE BOOK OF DISCIPLES

  Chapter Four

  McLean, Virginia

  March 2005

  Maureen’s pulse beat abnormally fast as she drove the main highway through McLean. She had been totally unprepared for Rachel Martel’s odd invitation, but at the same time she was very excited by it. It had always been like this; hers was a life, connected by odd and often intense events, extraordinary coincidences that would influence her forever after. Would this be another one of those supernatural occurrences? She was particularly curious about any revelation that might pertain to Mary. Curious? Not nearly a strong enough word. Obsessed? More accurate.

  Her connection to the Mary Magdalene legend had been a dominant force in her life since the early days of research for HerStory. Ever since that first vision in Jerusalem, Maureen had a solid sense of Mary Magdalene as a flesh-and-blood woman, almost as a friend. When she was working on the final draft of her book, she felt as though she were defending a friend who had been maligned by the press. Her relationship to Mary was very real. Or, perhaps more accurately, it was surreal.

  The Sacred Light bookstore was small, although it was fronted by a large bay window that displayed angels of every description and in virtually every medium. There were books on angels, angel figurines, and lots of glittering crystals surrounded by artwork depicting the trendy cherubim. Maureen thought that Rachel herself was angelic in appearance: slightly plump with very blond curls surrounding a sweet face. She had even been wearing a two-piece outfit of flowing white gauze at the book signing earlier in the day.

  The melodic tinkle of chimes announced Maureen’s arrival as she pushed open the door and stepped into an expanded version of the window display. Rachel Martel was bent down behind the counter, fishing through the attached display case to locate a specific piece of jewelry for a customer. “This one?” she was asking the young woman, who was perhaps eighteen or nineteen.

  “Yeah — that’s the one.” The girl was reaching out to examine the crystal point, a lavender stone set in silver. “It’s amethyst, right?”

  “Actually it’s ametrine,” Rachel corrected. She had just noticed that Maureen was the one who had sounded her door chime and flashed a quick, I’ll-be-right-with-you smile before continuing the conversation with her customer. “Ametrine is amethyst that contains a piece of citrine inside of it. Here, if you hold it up to the light, you’ll be able to see the beautiful gold center.”

  The teenage customer was squinting at the crystal in the light. “It’s so pretty,” she exclaimed. “But I was told that I needed amethyst. Will this do the same thing?”

  “Yes, and more.” Rachel smiled patiently. “Amethyst is believed to expand your spiritual nature, and citrine is good for balancing emotions in the physical body. All in all, it’s quite a potent combination. But I have pure amethyst just over here, if you prefer.”

  Maureen was only half listening to the exchange. She was infinitely more curious about the books Rachel had told her about. The bookshelves appeared to be categorized by subject, and she sca
nned them quickly. There were volumes on Native American topics, a Celtic section where a less driven Maureen would have lingered on a different day, and the ubiquitous angel section.

  To the right of the angels were some books on Christian thought. Aha, I must be getting warmer. She kept looking and stopped abruptly. There was a large white volume with heavy black letters — MAGDALENE.

  “I see you’re finding everything just fine without me!”

  Maureen jumped half a foot; she hadn’t heard Rachel walk up behind her. The young customer was tinkling the door chimes as she exited the shop, clutching a small blue and white bag with her chosen crystal.

  “This is one of the books I was telling you about. The rest are really more like booklets. Here, I think you should look at this one.”

  Rachel removed a thin booklet, not much more than a pamphlet, from the eye-level shelf. It was pink and looked like it had been printed on a home computer. Mary in McLean, it declared in 24-point Times New Roman.

  “Which Mary is it?” Maureen asked. While writing the book, she had followed up a number of interesting research leads, only to find that they pertained to the Virgin, and not to the Magdalene.

  “Your Mary,” Rachel said with a knowing smile.

  Maureen gave the woman a half smile in return. My Mary, indeed. She was beginning to feel that way.

  “It doesn’t need to specify, because it was written by a local person. The spiritual community in McLean knows it’s Mary Magdalene. As I told you earlier, she has her own following here.”

  Rachel went on to explain that for many generations, residents of this small Virginia town had reported spiritual visions. “Jesus has been seen here on nearly a hundred documented occasions in the last century. The odd thing is that He’s often seen standing on the side of the road — the main road — the one you took to get here, in fact. A few of the visions have actually involved Christ on the cross, also seen from the main road. In some of the visions, Christ has been seen walking with a woman. She has been described repeatedly as a small figure with long hair.”

  Rachel leafed through the booklet, pointing out the various chapters. “The first vision of this type was documented early in the twentieth century; the woman who had the vision was one Gwendolyn Maddox, and it transpired in her back garden, of all places. She insisted that the woman with Christ was Mary Magdalene, while her parish priest was somewhat insistent that the vision had actually been of Christ and the Virgin Mary. I suppose you get more Vatican points if you see Her. But old Gwen was adamant. It was Mary Magdalene. She said that she didn’t know how she knew, she just did. And Gwen also claimed that the vision had completely cured her of a particularly nasty case of rheumatoid arthritis. That’s when she set up a shrine and opened her garden to the public. To this day, the local people pray to Mary Magdalene for healing.

  “It’s also fascinating to note that none of Gwen’s descendants suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, which is, as far as I know, a hereditary condition. I am particularly thankful for this, as are my mother and my grandmother. I’m Gwendolyn’s great-granddaughter.”

  Maureen looked down at the booklet in her hand. She had missed the small print at the bottom of the Mary in McLean pamphlet. By Rachel Maddox Martel.

  Rachel handed the booklet to Maureen. “Here, it’s a gift. It contains Gwen’s story, and a few other details about the visions. Now this other book” — Rachel indicated the large white volume with the bold black MAGDALENE heading — “this is also written by a native of McLean. The author has spent a lot of time investigating local Mary sightings, but she has also done enormous amounts of general research. This book really runs the gamut on Magdalene theories, and I will say that some of them are a little far out, even for my taste. But it’s fascinating reading, and you won’t find it anywhere else because it’s never been distributed.”

  “I’ll take it, of course,” Maureen said somewhat absently. Her mind was in several places at once. “Why McLean, do you think? I mean, of all the places in America, why does she come here?”

  Rachel smiled and shrugged a little. “I don’t have an answer for that. Maybe there are other places in America where this happens as well, and they just keep it to themselves. Or perhaps there is something special about the location. What I do know is this: people with a spiritual interest in the life of Mary Magdalene tend to end up in McLean, sooner or later. I can’t tell you how many people come through this shop looking for specific books on her. And, like you, they had no previous conscious knowledge about the Magdalene connection in this town. It can’t be just a coincidence, now, can it? I believe that Mary lures her faithful here, to McLean.”

  Maureen thought about it for a moment before responding. “You know…,” she began slowly, still composing the thought. “When I made my travel arrangements, I had every intention of staying in D.C. I have a good friend there, and it would have been easy to drive in to McLean for the book signing. D.C. made a lot more sense with the airline as well, but at the last minute, I decided that I had to stay here.”

  Rachel was grinning as she listened to Maureen explain her change of travel plans. “See. Mary brought you here. Just promise me, if you see her while you’re driving around McLean, that you won’t forget to call and tell me about it.”

  “Have you ever seen her?” Maureen had to know.

  Rachel tapped the pink booklet in Maureen’s hand with the tip of her fingernail. “Yes, and this is really an explanation of how the visions have been passed down in my family,” she explained in a surprisingly matter-of-fact tone. “The first time, I was very young. Four or five, I think. It was in my grandmother’s garden at the shrine. Mary was alone that first time I saw her. The second vision happened when I was a teenager. That was a ‘roadside,’ as we call it here, and it was Mary with Jesus. It was very strange; I was in a car full of girls and we were driving back from a school football game. It was a Friday night. Well, my older sister Judith was driving, and as we came around a bend in the road, we saw a man and a woman walking toward us. Judy slowed down to see if it was someone who needed help. That’s when we realized what it was. They were just standing there, frozen in time, but there was a glow surrounding them.

  “Well, Judy was very upset by this and started to cry. Then the girl next to her in the front seat starting asking what was wrong and why were we stopped. That’s when I realized that the other girls didn’t see them. Only my sister and I saw them.

  “I’ve wondered for a long time if genetics had anything to do with the visions. My family had experienced so many of them, and I had real proof that we were able to see visions that had remained hidden to others. I still don’t know, really. Certainly, there have been people here in McLean who are no relation to me who have had the visions as well.”

  “Were all of the visions seen by women?”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot that part. Anytime Mary has been seen alone that I know of, it has been by another woman. When she appears with Jesus, it has been to both sexes. But still, very rarely are the apparitions seen by men. Or maybe they are, but I think men are less likely to talk about it in public.”

  “I see.” Maureen was nodding. “Rachel, how clearly did you see Mary? I mean, could you describe her face in any detail?”

  Rachel continued to smile in that beatifically knowing way that Maureen found strangely comforting. Speaking with someone about visions as if it were the most natural thing in the world made Maureen feel surprisingly safe. At least if she did turn out to be completely nuts, she was in pleasant enough company.

  “I can do better than describe her face. Come over here.”

  Rachel took Maureen gently by the arm and led her to the back of the shop. She pointed to the wall behind the cash register, but Maureen’s eyes had already found the portrait. It was an oil painting; the subject was an auburn-haired woman with an exquisitely beautiful face and the most extraordinary hazel eyes.

  Rachel was watching Maureen’s reaction closely, and waiting for her t
o speak. It would be a long wait. Maureen was speechless.

  Rachel offered quietly, “I see you two have already met.”

  As stunned as Maureen had been by the face in the frame, she was even more shaken by what followed. After the initial moment of shock, she began to tremble just before the sob burst through her body.

  She stood there and cried for what must have been a minute, maybe two, sobs wracking her small frame for the first few seconds before waning into a softer cry. She felt such terrible sorrow, a deep and aching pain, but she wasn’t entirely sure that the sadness was her own. It was as if she were experiencing the pain of the woman in the portrait. But then it changed; after the initial outburst, Maureen’s crying felt more like relief, and she surrendered to it. The oil painting represented a type of validation; it made the dream woman real.

  The dream woman, who just happened to be Mary Magdalene.

  Rachel was kind enough to brew some herbal tea in the back room of the shop. She allowed Maureen to sit in the small stockroom for some privacy. A young couple looking for astrology books had entered the store, and Rachel glided off to help them. Maureen sat at a small desk in the back, sipping chamomile and hoping that the claim on the tea box, “soothes the nerves,” was not just advertising hype.

  When Rachel had finished her transaction at the front of the store, she came back to check on Maureen. “You okay?”

  Maureen nodded and took another sip. “Fine now, thanks. Rachel, I’m really sorry about the outburst, I just, well…did you paint that?”

  Rachel nodded. “Artistic ability runs in my family. My grandmother is a sculptor; she has done several versions of Mary in clay. I have often wondered if that’s the reason Mary appears to us — because we have the ability to express her somehow.”

  “Or maybe it’s because artistic people are more open,” Maureen was thinking out loud. “Sort of a right-brain thing?”