Atlantis Storm

by Steven Moore

  After checking Megan's knife injury wasn't severe—luckily it was little more than a nasty scratch—she offered to pay Javier for his damaged stall and the loss of fish. In return, he simply laughed, adding a firm refusal.

  "Amiga, amigo, that was best fun here in years. No problemo. Go now, and be careful." He waved them off, and after nodding to a couple of his more burly fishmonger colleagues nearby, the crowd dissipated, and the Edgar brothers were apparently dealt with. How? R.B. doubted he would ever know.

  Half a mile away at Santiago Llorente's workshop, Santi looked up. He thought he'd heard a noise, but he didn't see anything, so he returned to his job, his head deep in the engine house of an old fishing boat. He didn't hear Tommy coming.

  Tommy the chef was a big man, but he was agile and light on his feet, almost gliding through the warehouse, closing in on Santi's position, neither seen nor heard. He was close now, just a few feet away, when Santi suddenly looked up again, surprised at the sight of the big man standing so close to him. Tommy glanced around the deserted warehouse. They were alone. Good.

  "Hello. Maybe you can help me?"

  Santi visibly relaxed. "Si, seńor, I can try."

  "Thank you," said Tommy, taking a couple of steps closer. He held out a textbook, some kind of mechanic's manual he'd picked up from a bench on the way through the warehouse. Hidden beneath the textbook was a knife. He was alongside the unsuspecting Santi now, and he turned so they were facing the same way. "Could you look here?" he said, nodding down at the pages. Santi did. And it was the last thing he would ever do.

  With one sharp flick of his left wrist, Tommy slammed the book up into Santi's face, and with his right, he jabbed the blade hard and deep into Santi's now exposed neck. Blood shot in great arcs across the workshop, covering Tommy and the floor around them, but Tommy didn't care. He was much stronger than Santi, and he pushed hard on the knife, unrelenting with the pressure. Santi's hands flew to his throat in a futile effort to pull out the blade and stop the bleeding. His knees buckled, and he collapsed, Tommy lowering him to the ground, the knife still deep into his windpipe. Grisly gurgling noises emanated from his throat. His skin went pale, and his eyes flickered as his life came to an end. And then it was over. Tommy yanked the blade from Santi's throat and let the body crumple to the floor. He stepped back, admiring his work. His boss and mentor-like father-figure, Arthur Bannister, would be pleased, as would others of the brethren of The Light.

  Santi Llorente was dead. Tommy only hoped the Edgar brothers had been as successful as he was.

  Part III

  Atlantis Storm

  “The heart of man is very much like the sea, it has its storms, it has its tides and in its depths it has its pearls too.”

  -Vincent Van Gogh

  37

  A Good Point?

  With the latest drama now over, and safe in the knowledge that the men who were trying to kill them were out of the picture, and with Megan's injury nothing serious to worry about, they decided to continue their impromptu tour. It was Megan's turn to choose, teasing R.B. that his choice hadn't been one of his best, an understatement to end all understatements. On a whim, Megan decided she wanted to visit The Chapel of Carmen de Bajo de Guía, which although being thirty miles away, she said the drive would be nice. R.B. couldn't disagree.

  They hired a car from a nearby rental company and headed north, following the slower, winding coast road out of Cadiz and enjoying the cool air that whistled in through their open windows. As they drove north the weather closed in again, and just an hour later, by the time they arrived at the chapel, the rain was lashing down in a heavy torrent. R.B. pulled to a stop on the road as close to the beachside chapel as possible, and they ran from the car, hustling under the tall doorway of the boxy, unique-looking building.

  Shaking off the rain from their hair and clothes, they pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside the chapel. The first thing they noticed was the unique style. Strangely atmospheric religious frescoes, some of which gave viewers the distinct impression the subjects were underwater, adorned the white walls. Others represented beach scenes, which was no surprise since the beach was literally just across the road. Fishermen appeared in other scenes, for a moment reminding Megan of the morning's drama involving the kind fishmonger. She put that out of her mind as they moved deeper into the chapel.

  "Good morning," said a voice behind them, startling Megan and R.B. as they gazed up at one of the painted frescoes.

  "Uh, good morning," replied R.B., though their morning had been far from good.

  "What brings you to our special chapel?" asked the man, presumably the priest, who was easily the shortest man either of them had ever seen. Not only was he the shortest, however, but he was almost certainly the oldest. R.B. put him at least one hundred-twenty years old, while Megan was more generous in her guesstimate, speculating the ancient man to be a mere one hundred and ten. With his papery-brown skin, and a handful of wispy white hairs on his head that matched the ones sprouting from his enormous ears, they could have been forgiven for thinking they'd just met a Yoda impersonator.

  "Don't be fooled by my appearance, my friends," he said in a surprisingly strong voice, patting down his withered brown robe that looked as if it was left over from the thirteenth century, which for all they knew, it was. "My name is Lucero Perez, and I would be delighted to give you a tour of our fabulous chapel." His English was excellent, and his thick Spanish accent only added to his mysterious appearance.

  Megan glanced at R.B., whose expression she read as, who the hell is this guy? But R.B. smiled and nodded.

  "Sure, that would be great. Gracias, Seńor Perez," he answered.

  "Por favor, please call me Lucero. Did you know Lucero means light?" They didn't. As the tiny, ancient priest led them around, more sprightly than they'd expected, he informed them that the chapel was a celebration of the sea, as they might have guessed from the many water-themed frescoes. "This old place has many secrets, my friends, and from many years ago. 1896, to be precise," the priest added, and R.B. had to resist the urge to suggest Lucero must have been there the day it was completed, but he didn't say it. Instead he asked a question.

  "Lucero, what are the secrets? Could you tell us?"

  Lucero's smile darkened for a moment, then brightened again. "If I tell you, they will not be secrets any more." R.B. had to concede that was a good point, though he was disappointed. "But I will show you something a little strange. Follow me."

  Megan and R.B. followed Lucero towards the front of the chapel, where he paused at a small statue of Christ they hadn't yet noticed. "Do you notice anything unusual about it?" the old man asked, and both looked at the statue.

  After a few seconds looking, they said they didn't see anything unusual at all about the figure of Christ. The ancient priest smiled, his tiny eyes almost disappearing beneath the crinkles. "Are you sure?" he asked.

  They looked again, this time stepping a little closer. R.B. saw nothing odd at all. But suddenly Megan's eyes went wide, and Lucero smiled even wider.

  "What is it?" R.B. asked, and Megan pointed. Then he saw it too, and his eyes also went very wide.

  The statue of Christ was missing a finger.

  38

  Priest of Light

  R.B. immediately reached into his pocket and extracted the carved digit Barnaby Quinn had given him what seemed months ago but in reality was only a couple of weeks. He and Megan shared a look, and the priest Lucero looked on, a curious expression on his face. R.B. slowly raised his arm and positioned the digit against where the missing part was on the statue. It was no surprise that it was a perfect match.

  "Well I'll be damned," he blurted, then, “I’m sorry for my language, Father,” to which the ancient priest simply frowned. R.B. continued. "What are the chances of us stumbling upon the actual stat—" R.B. looked around, but Megan was already jogging to the front of the building, the direction the finger would have been pointing. R.B. turned on his heel
s and raced after Megan, Priest Perez hustling along close behind with surprising speed.

  They raced outside and stood in the drizzling rain. Megan turned around in circles, getting her bearings. Then her shoulders slumped.

  "What's wrong?" asked R.B., though he had a suspicion. The finger pointed west. They had each secretly believed that the finger corresponded with Barnaby's map, and pointed them to Doñana National Park, home of many Atlantis myths. That was due north from where they now stood, not west. It was a bitter blow.

  They ducked back inside out of the wind and rain, disappointment etched on their faces. Lucero observed them, unsure why they seemed so gloomy. He thought about asking them, but decided against it, instead leaving them alone and retreating to his office upstairs.

  "I'm not sure why I'm so disappointed," said Megan. "It's not like we had any evidence this stupid finger was going to be an important clue. I feel like an idiot to be honest."

  "Don't feel that way, Meg. I thought the same. Well, at least I’d hoped it was something important. It may yet turn out to be something cool. The coincidence of it being so geographically close to the national park can't be ignored, though, can it? I mean, many Atlantis myths originated from that park just a few miles up the road. Heck, we could walk there it's so close. It has to mean something."

  Megan nodded. R.B. was right. The coincidence was clearly there. Barnaby Quinn's map. The artifact he'd given R.B. Some of the things the old fisherman had told him, just before being murdered. Megan's own map, with the intersecting lines that had led them to Cadiz in the first place. Now the statue with the missing finger, just miles from Doñana. Something was definitely odd about all these snippets, this collection of half clues. The frustration was almost unbearable.

  "What the hell's going on, R.B.?"

  Priest Lucero Perez looked down at the two foreigners. They'd arrived at his church in a terrible storm, when most sensible people were tucked up at home or in their hotels. They'd shown a peculiar interest in the water-based frescoes and murals adorning the church walls. They also had what appeared to be the missing finger of the Christ statue, an artifact that had been missing years without a trace, though he couldn't verify it was the genuine missing digit without having it analysed. Who are they? he wondered, and why are they here? Lucero Perez wanted to find out. He needed to find out.

  "I honestly don't know," replied R.B. "But I agree something's up with this picture." He took out the carved finger again and turned it around in his own fingers, as if having missed some vital clue.

  "May I asked where you got that?" It was Lucero, the priest. "I mean, is it not a little strange that two American tourists just happen to have the missing finger of our lovely statue, yet did not know that it came from here? I think it is a little odd."

  Megan looked up at the ancient priest. She'd learned lately that no one was to be trusted. But an old priest who resembled Yoda? Surely not. She answered for them. "I do agree it's weird," she said. "Is there anything you can tell us that might help explain any of this?"

  Priest Perez looked at Megan for long seconds, after which he looked at R.B. for long seconds too. His eyes were focused, as if making a mental decision. Then he nodded subtly to himself. "I think I know what is going on here. But if we are to speak of it ... " He glanced around, as if to make sure no one else was listening. The church was deserted. He lowered his voice anyway. "If I were to tell you what I know, it can not be here. So I am inviting you to tea at my humble home. Would you accept? I do not think you will be disappointed."

  Both R.B. and Megan gazed at the mysterious old priest, but neither saw any malice in his rheumy eyes. They glanced at each other quickly, and both nodded.

  "We accept, Lucero. Thank you very much."

  "Very well then. It is a short drive from here, but due to my age, the authorities in their wisdom have taken away my license. May I have a ride?"

  39

  Guardian

  Much like Priest Lucero Perez himself, his house was the smallest either R.B. or Megan had ever seen. R.B. had to duck under the door frame. Then they shuffled down the short and narrow hallway to the sitting room, his shoulders almost scraping against the walls. In the sitting room, the priest ushered them into bony wooden chairs, and said, "Make yourselves comfortable, I will be right back."

  "Comfortable?" whispered Megan once Lucero had left the tiny room, and R.B. grinned, shuffling his butt on the hard wooden seat. Megan glanced around the sparse space. It was dark, with little natural light penetrating the tiny window, ironic since the priest's name meant 'light'. There were a few shelves laden with books that seemed even older than Lucero himself. There was also a cluster of grainy sepia-tinged photos on the mantelpiece above a fireplace that looked as if it hadn't been warmed by a fire in years. Other than that, there appeared to be nothing of note. But then she saw it.

  On the far wall, which wasn't far at all but only a few feet away, hung a framed map. It was so faded that even when Megan stood and put her face close to it, she could barely make out what it was a map of.

  "I thought you would spot that," Lucero said as he returned into the crowded room, placing down a tray loaded with tea and cake. "And I know you know what it is a map of."

  Megan turned to the map again, and this time R.B. joined her, stooping beneath the low ceiling to get close enough to see. It was just too faded and too dark in the room to make it out.

  R.B. turned to Lucero. "May I?" he asked, motioning to take the frame down from the wall.

  Lucero grinned and nodded. "Of course, my son. Have a closer look."

  R.B. and Megan retook their seats, and Megan snagged her phone from her purse, flicking on its flashlight feature. R.B. scrunched up his t-shirt a little and wiped the glass concealing the map, and what they saw took their collective breaths away. It was indeed a map, almost identical to the one Barnaby Quinn had given them and the one Megan had drawn. It was a map to Atlantis.

  "You see, I said you would not be disappointed. Cup of tea?"

  Megan Simons and Ryan Bodean were speechless. After the disappointment back at the chapel, this was a revelation. Maybe they were on the right trail after all, and maybe the mysterious priest could help them with their quest.

  They accepted a cup of tea each and waited patiently while Lucero sliced them some cake. They didn't know his age and they wouldn't ask, but neither truly believed he was anything less than one hundred. Yet he moved like a man half his age. It only added to the mysterious aura that surrounded him, and Megan was dying to ask him what he knew about Atlantis.

  R.B. broke the silence. "Have you always lived in this area, Lucero, and has that always been your chapel?"

  The priest smiled. He was enjoying himself. "Well, yes and no. I grew up in Cadiz, and yes, I have always lived in this area. But as for the chapel, it has not always been mine. Of course, it belongs to our Father." He winked, and once more his eyes disappeared deep beneath ancient folds of skin. "But I have been the priest there for a long time, almost eighty-five years."

  Megan and R.B. shared a sharp, knowing glance. No harm in asking. "So you must be, what—"

  "I am one hundred and fourteen years old, and I have been priest at The Chapel of Carmen de Bajo de Guía since I was twenty-nine. You could say I know the chapel quite well." He chuckled a little, and seemed proud of his longevity, both in his age and his service to the chapel. "May I ask you a question now? What is your fascination with ... " He paused, choosing his words carefully. "With the many myths that have surrounded this area for centuries?"

  "You mean Atlantis?" asked R.B.

  Lucero sighed. There was no point being coy about it. The two Americans were polite, and he sensed in them only good intentions. "Yes, Atlantis. That is why you are here in Cadiz, is it not?"

  "Yes, it is," replied Megan. "Will you tell us what you know?"

  The priest rose from his chair and approached the bookcase. He pulled two mighty tomes from the shelves and handed one to each of his guests
. "These are just two of the many books I have on the subject. There are dozens more upstairs. In fact, I believe I have every single book ever written on the ... on the myth ... of Atlantis." He stared at them, challenging them to question whether it was a myth at all.

  Megan took the bait. "We were given a map, Lucero, by an old man in Key West. We believe he told us it was a map to Atlantis. But then he was murdered before we could find out more. That's why we're here."

  The priest's face darkened at the mention of murder, but he didn't speak.

  "We came because we believed the old man," continued R.B. "Besides, he also gave us the carved finger. You can't tell me they aren't related?"

  Lucero sighed again. "Let me tell you about the chapel. As you saw, the chapel is adorned almost exclusively with water-based themes. The frescoes, the paintings. They are all related to water. That might seem obvious to most casual visitors, and nothing special. The ocean is across the street, after all. But it is not as simple as that."

  "Atlantis?" asked Megan.

  "Yes, my dear. Atlantis. The chapel was built as a homage to the lost city of Atlantis." He paused again, a look of concern hardening his friendly features. "But I must warn you. If you continue to search for it, if you keep looking for Atlantis, then you will be following an ancient trail that will surely lead you into terrible danger. You are following the path of a great legend, one that so many people have followed before. Many have come. All have failed. No one has ever survived the quest until its conclusion. “Then again,” he added, the hint of a grin curling his thin, pale lips, "no one has ever found the key before."