by Ray Deeg
Gwen looked at Tom and then back at the window. “Did you just make that up?”
“Pretty much. It’s my pregame pep talk. Did it work?”
“It did, actually—the whole enlightenment thing,” she replied.
“Good. Well then, here we go again.”
The cathedral was quiet. A few worshipers sat scattered in far distant pews. As Tom and Gwen walked toward the high altar, the holiest part of the cathedral, they stopped again to take in the sight. The carved wood choir boxes were breathtaking, resting against marble arches and rising granite pillars. Stained glass surrounded the altar and shone brightly overhead. Like a pirate’s chest teeming with treasures, the high altar sparkled with golden crosses, angels, candle holders, railings, fencing, and holy symbols. A beautiful white cloth was draped over the altar, golden stitching across a subtle inlaid pattern; it felt sacred. This was certainly not the Museum of Natural History. You’re in a church; you have no right. God is watching now. Tom stopped walking, and the guilt took hold. You should be ashamed of yourself. What are you doing? The weight of this place came down on Tom, and visions swirled in his head—Church, Sin, Confess, Priest, Bible, Temptation, Crucifix…Lucifer.
He thought about the four years he’d spent in Catholic school and the strange love affair he’d developed with God. He overthought everything he’d been told; it was a sick kind of torture. He remembered the love, the fear, the confusion. He laughed, thinking about how confused he’d been as a child. Should he love God? Worship him—or her? Talk to him? Fear him? What he most remembered, though, was the guilt—and he was feeling it again. It was coming on like a noose tightening around his throat, weighing him down like an animal’s yoke. That never-ending cycle of guilt and forgiveness, shame and redemption. The guilt could manifest itself into a physical thing like a thick, itchy coat he was forced to wear in the scalding heat of summer. There was no doubt the guilt caused an endless cycle of confusion even Rube Goldberg would find ludicrous. Of course you feel guilty: you’re planning to vandalize a church. Who are you? And then Tom remembered. Listen to the voice as it speaks, and listen to your responses. The squatter was a little demon spouting sewage, and it was clogging up his mind with all that muck. But he realized it this time. He stopped and listened.
The coil doesn’t belong to you, and it’s not your place to take it. Ed and the board were right to fire you. You’re not worthy; you’re not responsible. You’re a thief, a common burglar. You have bad intentions. You’re a…
He listened as the voice spread his self-worth out on a cold metal table like a cadaver to be inventoried, scrutinizing all he was in the humiliating florescent light of a live autopsy. But as he listened, it became clear that that cruel voice was not him. It was something separate. As he concentrated on putting distance between himself and that terrible thing, a strange lightness washed over him and the voice went silent. The noose loosened, the yoke lifted, and his thinking became clear. He was freed. Hallelujah! Feeling a sense of renewal, Tom inhaled deeply and followed Gwen.
She led them into the ambulatory, a rounded passageway behind the high altar leading to the Chapels of the Tongues. These seven individual chapels surrounded the east end of the cathedral, and Tom and Gwen hoped to use one of them as their next covered canoe. “The Chapel of Saint Ansgar is the one we want,” Gwen said.
The chapels were arranged geographically, with the Spanish-inflected Chapel of Saint James on the south side, proceeding through Italian, French, Eastern Mediterranean, British, and German chapels to the Scandinavian Chapel of Saint Ansgar on the north side.
“These chapels reflect the turning tides of American immigration at the turn of the century,” Tom said in passing. He noticed that each chapel was equipped with a rather intricate metal gate. “What if the gates are locked at closing?” he asked in a near whisper.
“We can climb over them,” Gwen said.
Tom studied the top of the nearest gate. The ornate pointed metal reminded him of the concrete property walls he’d seen while traveling through Mexico. It was common for builders there to embed glass bottles into the tops of walls while the concrete was still wet and then break the tops of the bottles, leaving the wall topped with a deadly row of jagged glass. The message was clear: excruciating pain and injury to anyone who dared attempt passage. The chapel’s gates were a tad more subtle but still clearly intended to deter. Each chapel’s gate featured a deterrent with a slightly different design, and when they came to the Chapel of Saint Ansgar, Tom began to giggle. “Spears! There are golden spears on our gate. I wonder if we’ll wind up impaled and on display as a warning to others.”
Gwen strolled past Tom. “An elevated focus, remember,” she whispered.
The Chapel of Saint Ansgar was the size of a small church, but far more grand. Not a soul was inside. The marble and granite pillars were mesmerizing, the ceiling superb. This one small chapel, just by itself, was an enormous amount of workmanship to behold. Four stained-glass windows provided ample light. The partitioned room they’d spotted online was just as they expected.
“Good afternoon,” a man’s voice echoed.
Gwen spun around, inhaling panic. A tall, slender black man stood smiling at them. He wore a black cassock, black pants, and black shoes, and he held a large ceremonial candle with both hands. If it weren’t for the white clerical collar, he might easily have been mistaken for a ninja. “So sorry to startle you, my dear,” the priest said.
“That’s OK. Good afternoon,” Gwen replied.
“And where are you visiting us from?” the priest asked.
“Nowhere. I mean, we aren’t visiting. We live here in the city,” Gwen replied, still flustered by the man’s surprise entrance.
“I had you pegged for tourists,” the priest said with a cagey grin.
Gwen shrugged.
“Your backpacks,” he said as he motioned with his shoulders. “I assumed you were tourists because of the backpacks.” An awkward silence loomed until finally he spoke again. “But we’re glad to see you here in God’s house no matter where you’re from.”
“Thank you for saying so,” Gwen replied. “The cathedral is just lovely; it makes me feel like I’m…”
“Closer to God?” the priest asked.
Gwen nodded. “I think that describes it nicely,” she replied.
The priest turned toward Tom. “How does it make you feel?” he asked.
Tom stared back at the priest. “Safe—protected,” he said, feeling a growing sense of karma. The two men stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment.
“You should never feel afraid to move closer to God,” the priest finally said. “Never hide in the shadows; always move closer to the light. And the closer you get, the easier it will be to attain the thing you seek.” His words flowed as if he were a game-show host reading a cue card, but his tone was sincere. It was tough to know whether his words were wise or merely glib, but when a priest speaks, one listens.
“Thank you for your advice, Father,” Tom replied with a slight bow of his head.
“I hope to see you again,” the priest said as he walked out of the chapel with his large candle in tow.
“You too,” Gwen replied, but he’d already disappeared around the corner.
Tom stared at Gwen, and they both began to giggle. As the laughter subsided, Tom turned to the front entrance where the priest had just left. “Plan B,” he said and then walked out. Gwen followed.
CHAPTER 41
GWEN AND TOM left the small chapel and rounded the ambulatory, following the priest. They arrived again at the high altar just in time to see a small wooden door close behind the priest. The door was nearly hidden behind the choir boxes. A moment later, the priest reappeared on the cathedral’s much higher second level. The top of his ceremonial candle bobbed up and down, revealing his position as he walked. They watched as it progressed across the cathedral toward the Rose Window.
“C’mon,” Tom said.
They came to the
small wooden door. Locked. “Always move closer to the light,” Tom whispered.
As they heard the priest returning down the steps, Tom cracked his knuckles. Gwen’s eyes grew wider as the footsteps drew closer. Tom pushed himself against the alcove wall just behind the small door. The door opened, and the priest turned right, toward the high altar. Just as the door was beginning to swing closed, Tom grabbed its handle. He was afraid that the priest had noticed his movement from the corner of his eye, but the man kept moving and disappeared around the corner. Gwen entered the stairwell first, as if reading Tom’s mind. The pair ascended circular stone steps reminiscent of a real castle—dark, cramped, and smelling of wet stone.
The view from the second level was breathtaking. The Rose Window was even more glorious from this vantage, and the cathedral appeared to sweep upward without walls. “This place closes in twenty minutes,” Tom said, checking his watch. “Let’s stay up here.”
Gwen took off her backpack and squatted down. “How long are we going to hide?” she whispered.
“Forty-five minutes, maybe less.”
“Where exactly is the coil hidden?” she asked.
Tom opened his backpack and retrieved Loomis’s journal. “He actually names the spot,” he answered. After flipping through some pages, Tom began reading.
Saturday, June 4, 1932—Ellen and I attended the horse show in the park yesterday. We had the misfortune of sitting next to two socialites called Joan Blair and Catherine Sturges, whose incessant gossiping was altogether maddening. It had been my intention to pass the time with our host, but hearing these women speak wore at my enthusiasm, and I deemed it proper to take leave. I’ve asked Landon to make sure Bonbright’s books are well in order, as tax evasion has become the new way for our government to throw anyone in prison. Surely ending up cellmates with a gangster like Al Capone would be hell on earth. We held a meeting at Split Rock this afternoon in order to choose science exhibits for the Chicago World’s Fair. The committee chose a damn good theme with an equally appropriate title: A Century of Progress. Robert and I are in complete agreement on the science exhibits to be displayed. William had lunch with us. I was feeling playful and just for fun tried to get him to put on my brain-wave electrodes. But as we have told him of our troubles with Tesla’s machine and the accident, I don’t blame him for refusing. William informed me that his cathedral’s rose window was recently completed. He’s concealed the machine’s third coil inside a dark-colored brick that he personally ordered installed. The brick was placed at the four o’clock position of the window’s outside bevel. William assures me it will stay well hidden for five hundred years, but I received his news rather peevishly. The world is simply not ready, and five hundred years isn’t nearly long enough. Perhaps five thousand would do nicely. Landon is having a party next weekend in Hilton Head, and we are to discuss new financial laws being enacted by Congress.
Tom shut the journal and placed it in his backpack. “He goes on about financial laws, utility companies, the America’s Cup, the yachts they raced…My God, Loomis had an extraordinary life.”
“He was clearly an intelligent man,” Gwen said. “And I keep hearing certainty in his words. The world is not ready. It was his intention to hide the coils, but here we are undoing that work, undermining his considerable intent. I can’t help but wonder if we should let it be.”
Tom looked toward the Rose Window to ponder Gwen’s words. “I’ve always found taking action the better option,” he finally said. “And if not us, then who? It will surely be someone, and they may not have a moral compass as well tuned as our own. The modern world doesn’t let treasures stay buried very long. History has been very clear about that. And the world is better off when men of character find these pots of gold.”
“Men of character?” Gwen repeated doubtfully. “Anyway, what history?”
Tom acknowledged that this was a strange place to be defending his thoughts on morality or pondering the virtues of right and wrong—he was a stowaway in God’s house, about to take liberties with church property. But he had an answer. With a gentle voice, he began his campaign. “For hundreds of years, dozens of Egyptian pharaohs hid their tombs in the Valley of the Kings. Even back then, looting and raiding tombs for treasure was big business. When the tomb of a king or pharaoh was discovered, it was often by common bandits—pirates, really. They looted, vandalized, plundered, destroyed, and then sold off the goods to the highest bidder. Seldom were those archeological and cultural treasures preserved, studied by experts, or showcased for the world to know and understand.
“But good people do come along, and the result is different. In 1922, an archeologist named Howard Carter discovered King Tut’s tomb after searching for thirty years—almost half his life.” Tom looked toward the cathedral’s ceiling. “Even though Carter was methodical and disciplined in his search, perhaps destiny favored him. Maybe it chose him as the discoverer for a reason. You can imagine the importance of a find like that. It was the last undiscovered tomb of a pharaoh, and it had been completely undisturbed for over three thousand years. What Carter found inside captured the imagination of the world. Thousands of priceless artifacts told the story of Tutankhamun, the Boy King, and the people and culture of Egypt from thousands of years ago. So many treasures, so much history, so much of who the Egyptians were—who we, as humans, are. And all of it could have been lost. So thank history that Howard Carter, a man with a moral compass, got there first. Loomis may have thought this thing should stay buried, but we know others are looking. It’s us or them.”
Gwen eyed him without blinking. “Yes, it’s going to be someone,” she whispered. “But when it happens, will the discovery make the world happier or satiate people’s need to belong to something good?”
Tom thought on Gwen’s words, confused.
“What I mean is that with every new discovery or advancement, it’s not like God comes down from the mountain and bestows joy onto the world. The wheel; the light bulb; penicillin; the computer; that particle thing, the Higgs boson—none of those things saved us—or condemned us. We’re still alone. It’s like being in this incredible cathedral but realizing it’s just a structure. Religion is like being in church but thinking about climbing a mountain. Spirituality is climbing a mountain but thinking about God. I worry about all the people who see all the cruelty and ignorance in this world but secretly hang on to some thread of hope that God does exist. I can imagine a sad day when science proves beyond any shadow of a doubt that there is no God. Or proves that God is something we didn’t expect or is far—less, maybe—than we’d hoped for. And then all those stories told by all the great religions will just be fairy tales—like the one about the earth being flat and ships sailing off the edge. Billions of people, even the self-proclaimed atheists, might be crushed under the weight of a new proven truth, and dismayed by their own disillusionment.”
Tom nodded in agreement. “That’s a lonely thought,” he said. “But what if this new truth is something astonishing? Wasn’t it incredible for humanity to realize the Earth was round instead of flat? Didn’t that explain so much about what we’d been perceiving? And what clarity must have come when we realized that we were revolving around the sun. How humbling it must have been to realize that we were not the center of the universe but on one of many planets in one of many solar systems. That must have taken some pressure off. And in just the last hundred years, we’ve learned that there are billions of solar systems in our galaxy—and it’s one among billions of galaxies. Each of these emerging truths expanded the universe, and with it our minds. The farther the universe’s edge was pushed, the larger our sense of possibility grew. Perhaps one day we’ll realize we don’t need to find the edge; we just need to keep searching for it. Maybe searching is the edge. And the farther we see, the farther the edge becomes.”
Gwen was quiet. “Promise me we’ll be careful, that we’ll do the right thing.”
Just then, a loud click echoed, and the inside of the cathedral f
ell into darkness. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” Tom said as he stood up.
He walked to the balcony’s edge and peered over. He saw a group of cathedral workers, including their helpful priest, exiting the cathedral’s main door. He heard the click of the heavy lock. “We’re clear,” he whispered.
“Then why are you still whispering?” she asked.
The idea that Gwen was seeing him in this adventurous light appealed to Tom’s need to be something more than a glorified office manager. His life wasn’t flying gliders or attending exclusive art exhibits. It wasn’t dating girls in runway shows or traveling to exotic places—well, not usually, anyway. He’d long settled into a life of board meetings, e-mails, responsibilities, and stress. Of firing people who weren’t getting the job done, who were caught stealing or working other jobs while on his payroll. He’d been to court many times and was deeply involved in various lawsuits. He’d seen the best in people, but he’d also seen the worst. He was constantly jumping from stone to stone and felt them begin to sink each time and so was forced to keep jumping. He saw people like Conrad, who did the same thing every day, year after year with none of his stress. The real stuff of running a company is anything but romantic.
Gwen dislodged herself from under the pew. The pair moved toward the Rose Window and saw the city’s lights shining through. “I’ll go to the other side and throw the rope,” Gwen said.
“I can throw it to you if you want,” Tom replied.
“No, I’ll do it,” she said.
And in that moment, he saw her life of patients telling her the old complaints. He saw her paying the bills, being an adult, doing what we’re all supposed to do. He saw this as her chance to be something else, to do something exciting—to get away, if only for a small time. He could feel her excitement. “OK,” he whispered back. He scanned the lower portion of the cathedral, and although it was nearly pitch black, his eyes slowly adjusted. Gradually, he began to make out various shapes. Pews, pillars, choir boxes.