Revelations of the Ruby Crystal

by Barbara Hand Clow

  William was keeping an eye on his daughter. Before Matilda or Sarah had come into the library, Armando, Pietro, and William had shared a drink. William had decided Armando was a smooth Italian roué, and a lazy one to boot. After all, all he did was paint. For his part, Armando dismissed William as a boring American Irishman, an unsophisticated, fat, and pushy man. Even though William was a friend of his father’s, Armando treated him like a boor. William had always felt intimidated by Europeans, so Armando’s rudeness made William extremely uncomfortable. When Matilda had joined the men, proper manners had prevailed and rough edges softened as she expertly steered the conversation between restoring the castle and the older men’s days at Yale. Regardless, the first impression between William and Armando had been a strong mutual dislike. William was less than pleased to see the sophisticated older man lean into his innocent daughter at the dinner table. Matilda might harbor some hopes for her only son with Sarah, but he’s thoroughly distasteful. He wasn’t happy to hear her agree to visit Armando’s studio the next day, but he trusted her.

  As charming as he had been, Armando was the last thing on Sarah’s mind as she changed into casual pants after dinner and crept down the hall to the chapel. She lit the candles and knelt down to pray, crossing herself when the painting of the crucifixion emerged in flickering candlelight. Generations have been married, received Communion, and been baptized here. This is where they came to solve their problems. This is the perfect place to ask: am I losing my faith?

  Closing her eyes to shut out the sickly greenish-white alabaster Jesus hanging on the cross with a bloodied dripping crown of thorns, she wondered, Do I believe he died this way, or was scripture rewritten to support the Church’s agenda too? The fairy tales are dissolving, and I can’t lie to myself anymore. Regardless of who the historical Jesus was, I still feel Christ deep in my heart.

  The brightly burning candles flickered in the fresh air moving through the old walls, having a hypnotic effect on Sarah even through her closed eyes. Her logical mind lost its grip in the blinking light, and her inner skull expanded. She almost jumped when a deep, authoritative, yet incredibly loving voice sounded in the center of her head: Sarah Adamson, follow your heart. I live deep in your soul, within your mind, and I will always be there with you. Tell my story! I came two thousand years ago to open the light in the heart of each person on Earth and many still know me. Now brother turns against brother, sister against sister, all in the name of powerful and cruel men who use my name. Evil lurking in their corroded hearts poisons them. Tell my story! You’ve chosen the right course and nothing will stop you.

  Inner fire rising in her body illuminated the small chapel when the glow from another dimension penetrated her cells. Hot energy rising in her spine warmed her skin and thickened her inner sacrum. She had never felt anything like this before. Tiny pulsations ached in her base of her spine as waves moved slowly up through her sacrum and into her spine. Fire feathered up her back and golden light encircled her head. Is that you, Lord? Are you taking me? Her spine was a rod of fire. She felt energy moving exquisitely from the back of her head down into her lower body and then back up again. The energy popped into her skull as otherworldly bliss flooded her mind. Enjoying the waving warmth, she struggled to open her eyelids, sensing she must orient herself. The inner fire calmed when she opened her eyes. Looking up at Christ on the cross, the most sacrilegious thought of her whole life came into her mind: I will get Him off of it. I will tell His story so that He can be freed from that obscene rack of hatred and abuse.

  8

  The Golden World

  The Pierleonis and their houseguests enjoyed Sunday morning breakfast in the castle kitchen. The harvest table was piled with fresh fruit, homemade biscuits, and raspberry jam from last summer’s pick. The cook served made-to-order skillet omelets. Rich, freshly ground coffee satiated Armando and Sarah before they walked out of the kitchen to head for the ancient tower. Golden rays of light illuminated the Tuscan landscape; everything sparkled. Exuberant farmers came up the back road singing while bringing loads of fruits and vegetables to the pantry. Four strong young men laughed after singing a particularly robust chorus as they balanced a taut burlap square piled high with a perfect pyramid of bright red tomatoes. They nodded discreetly to Armando while slyly assessing Sarah. A girl followed behind them with a large bundle of dark green spinach on her back. It must really be something to run this place, Sarah thought as Armando heaved open the old planked door into the south side of the square tower. She wondered if his studio was on the first floor or if, as she was hoping, they would go up to the tower.

  “This will be quite a climb; however, you have the right shoes,” he said, noting her ankle-high leather boots, tight jeans, and loosely woven white cotton sweater, which fell over her shoulders like a shawl. As they entered the cavernous space, rays of light filtering down from the top flashed on the reflective surfaces of dust particles and penetrated the deep gloom. Armando indicated the way to the stairs by stepping up onto a stone platform, a secure foundation for the open wooden stairs firmly attached to the ancient walls. They rose reversing back and forth, platform by platform, up to the top. Climbing the narrow steps with Armando behind her, above Sarah could see a flat wood ceiling, the floor of his studio. When they’d climbed around eighty steps, thirty feet in the tower, they came to a landing with a slit open to the outside. She stopped to peer out over the red-tiled roofs and gables of the castle to the rolling Tuscan landscape around the tower. Armando stood close behind her on the narrow landing.

  “Is this staircase original?” she asked.

  “The stone platform is original, and we rebuilt the wooden stairs. There once was a rotting wood floor between this landing and the lower area. You can see where the beams were in the square indentations in the walls by the landing below.”

  “And what was the tower used for in the beginning?” Sarah asked, turning to look out the slit once more.

  “A thousand years ago, the family lived on the two upper floors, one of which is now my studio but with a new floor. The lower level was very tall and garrisoned soldiers during the tenth century.” He pointed toward the castle. “When life became safer in the fourteenth century, the early stages of the castle were built, such as the area of our kitchens and servants quarters. The section you are staying in as well as the dining room were built during the Renaissance, a vital period in this region. Even then this tower was occasionally used to garrison soldiers and store supplies. Excepting San Gimignano, this is one of the few remaining early medieval towers in Tuscany, so we restored it. As for me, I like to work in a space infused with the layers of time because it helps me imagine many realities. Come, we’re almost to my studio.”

  They climbed up a dozen more steps to the last landing where he pushed open an old creaking door. They stepped into a bright 30-by-30-foot-square room filled with racks for canvases. Subtle north light from a wide panel of windows in a high dormer streamed down onto a large easel. A few dozen canvases were strewn about, leaning against posts, against a garish red divan, or suspended on hooks. Sarah walked straight to the canvases and began studying them. She had taken several art theory classes, since art was used to express religious devotion for hundreds of years, and had, in the medieval period, been used to convey esoteric ideas through hidden symbols.

  Armando watched her move excitedly from one painting to the next, pleased at how captivated she seemed to be by his work. Sarah’s sense of time and place faded while she soaked everything in. Finally she told him, “I am so struck by your realism, your perfect depiction of your subject matter as color and form, yet what intrigues me is there is something else going on in them, and . . .” She felt him standing very closely behind her right shoulder and detected his aroma, pungent, moist oak leaves warmed by strong fall sunlight. As he moved tantalizingly closer to her body, she smelled lavender in his cologne. Until this moment, she hadn’t really noticed him very much. I felt him watching me last night as I walked
into the library, so I shut him out. Like most truly beautiful women, she was used to people watching her, and she generally ignored the attention because it took away her sense of self. Armando is different from anyone I’ve ever encountered; he’s like an exotic cat.

  “Yes, you were saying—and . . .?” he said in a soft and very silky voice as he moved his body closer to hers. His chest was inches behind her back. She spun gracefully to face him while simultaneously taking a few steps back. Startled by the vibrant intensity in his dark eyes, she tensed her lips, hoping words would distract him.

  “Yes, I meant to say I see another world in these paintings. I wonder what it is and how this could be, since on the surface they are totally realistic. Take this one,” she said, adroitly moving farther away and gesturing to a canvas depicting a rustic Tuscan villa surrounded by sturdy, crude walls with fields receding deep into the background. “The view is of this lovely villa, yet I also see odd touches of color, like over here on this windowsill, a dash of deep red. Or, there on the side of the doorway, a touch of sienna plus these touches of deep blue dotting the stonewalls in front of the house. Something else is happening that is not an element of the realism. These touches suggest there is another world in this painting.”

  Armando was charmed by her earnestness and intelligence as she struggled to express what she saw. He sashayed closer to her. “What do you think this other world might be?”

  Sarah searched his face. “I want you to tell me what you see when you’re painting.” I think what he’s doing is related to a whole lot of things I want to know.

  As her desire to know took over her mind, he was even more drawn to her and then something shifted deep within him: a potent and lusty shining dragon merged into his lithe body while she stood there breathlessly waiting for his reply. Instead of answering, he grabbed her shoulders and kissed her fully and passionately on her lovely mouth while pressing her gorgeous large breasts to his chest. He moved his arms around her back and forcefully pulled her pelvis close.

  Instinctually she rammed the palms of her hands into his shoulders and shoved him backward. “Armando! Stop!”

  He almost fell over, but recovering his footing and expelling air from his lungs, he slurred, “I’m sorry, I am truly sorry. I have never done anything like this in my studio. I apologize; I am terribly embarrassed. I just lost control of myself because you are so beautiful and see so much in my work. Most people think those extra touches are like the extra colors in a Cézanne. In fact, my work has been compared to his. I really don’t know what Cézanne intended, but I know what I intend with my work. I will try to tell you what I’m really doing here if you will just say you forgive me. Please forgive me so I can forgive myself. You carried me away with your delightful enthusiasm! I am excited because you see what I create. This means you think what I do is meaningful!”

  Sarah was shaking. She hadn’t been kissed like that since just after college when she dumped her last serious boyfriend who had annoyed her with knee-jerk seductions. Since then she had buried herself in the world of ideas, deliberately forsaking the physical. This is a new level. That kiss nearly overwhelmed me, and I almost didn’t stop him. I pushed him away only because he startled me. She retreated to the place where she was always safe—words—and said, “Yes, I forgive you if you will tell me what you see, tell me what you really intend with your art.”

  Armando was relieved. He rushed around the studio grabbing canvases and placing them in a row. He put a photograph on a stand and muttered that he always worked from one. As he explained the steps he went through, it became apparent the other world she detected was actually a first painting. Then he layered over it with the realistic landscape in the photo by tying the first painting to the landscape with geometrical color nodes. Sarah questioned him until she really understood his technique. His approach was utterly fascinating. But what is this other world?

  While they were carrying on this serious discussion, a fast and furious train of thoughts assaulted Armando. He struggled to control himself as his breathing intensified, and he realized that her excited mind was incredibly arousing. Here he was, forty years old, and trying to stop an erection! What is it about her? Yeah, she’s beautiful, but when she talks about ideas, she’s amazingly sensual. Does she have any idea how seductive she is? Breathing hard, he searched for words to answer her.

  Sarah thought the struggle to describe his work was what was causing his chest to heave and his eyes to bulge slightly. As he went on more about his technique, she began to feel hot energy in her solar plexus. The fine, sensual, and aristocratic curve of his lips captivated her.

  Responding to her shy eyes on his mouth, he desperately extended his right arm with the elbow facing out down over the front of his loose slacks. I never thought I’d be grateful to talk about ideas to calm myself down!

  Armando continued, the words rushing out, “Even though I work from a photo in my studio, I begin by going back to that same view again when the light is right. I sit and contemplate it for hours and maybe take more photos. As the light comes and goes, I become it as I integrate the various elements—the curve of a wall, a space that suggests emptiness, colors that draw me deep into the Earth. Then finally the moment comes that I’ve never tried to describe to anyone before now. Warmth comes in as energy suffuses me, and I feel crackles in my brain. They produce flashes of light in my inner eye that thicken my body. Viewing the landscape while perceiving this way, I find the elements in the landscape that bridge our world to the other world, the place the Jungians call the golden world. Once I see it, I can paint it.

  “The first painting is sometimes just a cluster of stars, such as the Pleiades or Orion, with connecting lines. Sometimes it is a series of nodal points that require strong colors to express their emergence and intersections, like a 3D hologram on a flat canvas. Then back in my studio, I anchor in the realistic landscape of the photo. That second painting goes very fast, maybe just a few hours, and it is easy and enjoyable, even relaxing. I’m not satisfied until the landscape comes through, so I get it done as soon as possible after I’ve gotten the first image. This has made me very prolific. People always buy my paintings because they take people to another place in the landscapes they’ve already learned to love.”

  While he was speaking, Sarah was discreetly studying his strong, masculine jaw accentuated by prominent, well-formed cheekbones. His intelligent and slightly arched brows drew attention to his dark eyes; his expressive mouth made her feel warm. This good-looking man just kissed me! She returned to examining his paintings, and as he explained she realized she could see even more of the golden world by detecting a magical imprint of the primary light pattern in her own retina.

  Sarah said tentatively, “I’ve always wondered about the golden world. I understand what the Jungians mean when they talk about it, but I never thought someone could depict it in realistic art. Your work makes me wonder if some medieval painters, such as Sandro Botticelli, Allesandro Lippi, or Fra Angelico, also captured that world. I am truly impressed!”

  “Lucky for me, so are my parents as well as a few collectors. It is strange you mention Fra Angelico. Our family has retained a story about him. The rumor always was he fathered a child with one of our ancestral daughters. She was sent to a convent, and our family raised the boy. His name was Armando, my namesake! My full name is Armando Angelico Pierleoni. I’ve often wondered if I’m actually related to Fra Angelico even though the story is from six hundred years ago. I suppose I will always be happy painting as he was.”

  He stopped, his face growing somber. “But what happened today makes me very unhappy. I lost control simply because I am a man. I feel terrible. Will you promise me you forgive me? Can you show your forgiveness by accepting a dinner date with me when we are both back in Rome soon?”

  Sarah was intensely stirred up. Today felt like a turning point in her life, a doorway was opening, an unknown portal. She felt a strong attraction to Armando, the most sensual and potent man
she’d ever met, so she agreed to see him in Rome.

  Before dinner Sarah crept back into the Pierleoni chapel. This time when she knelt at the altar, she fell into deep thought but not about Jesus. She was thinking about the two intriguing men who’d suddenly appeared as if out of nowhere. What on earth is going on? After avoiding men for a few years, suddenly I’m spending time with two older, very sensual men. And that kiss . . . even though I shoved him quickly and hard, his mouth locked onto mine. I can still feel him and taste him; he could have taken me. He reached into me and grabbed me. I am going to have to be very careful because nothing will stop him.

  While Sarah was in the chapel, Matilda entered the library on her way to the dining room to check the table and chairs before dinner. She was startled to see Armando reading in a chair. “Armando! How nice to see you here. I know this is your favorite room, but lately you always seem to be in your studio. How are you, dear? How are you really?” She knew that he often came to the library when he wanted to talk to her.

  “Well, Mother, I suppose I do feel like saying something. I am so taken by Sarah! I don’t think I have ever had such a strong response to a woman. You’ve surprised me with this one. She is beautiful, intelligent, and cultured, yet not in an artsy and superficial way like most of the women I know. She is spiritual like me, something I didn’t think I would ever find in a woman. We’ve agreed to see each other in Rome, which I hope will make you happy?”

  Matilda smiled. This was just what she had hoped would happen. “Of course it makes me happy, Armando,” she responded. “She is a lovely woman from a very good family, and Pietro and I hope you will find someone to love. Your father and I have always been so happy together, so it is hard to imagine you not finding your love. Have you been paying any attention to what your father is doing tonight? We are serving the boar he hunted on the day before everybody came. He’s been roasting it all afternoon, ever since he got back from Siena. He is offering us a Tuscan feast! He called in vegetables, fruits, and desserts from nearby farmers to create a true celebration of spring. Perhaps it will be a celebration of the day you found your lady love!”