“No matter.” Abbot John waved a hand. “I want you to watch Brother Leo for the next several nights. You will be able to do so from your cell across the hallway. If he leaves his cell, come to me immediately. You must stay awake the entire night, until the monastery awakens for the day. I will have coffee sent to your cell. Remember: Come to me immediately if Brother Leo leaves his cell. Awaken no one else in the monastery. No one.” Abbot John turned again toward his cloister.
Brother Peter rose and left, pulling the abbot’s door closed silently.
Abbot John lifted the phone and called Allen Walker. “Take your men off guard from the cemetery immediately and leave them off guard for a few nights,” he said. He listened for a few moments, then repeated his order. “I must know what danger there is,” he added. “Then I shall know what to do.”
Brother Leo wanted to pray for guidance. But he was not sure to whom he should pray regarding this matter. Perhaps Saint Anthony, patron of lost causes. He truly did not want to draw any of the other monks into danger, but he had little choice. He had to talk with Brother Joseph. He had to know if Brother Joseph knew or suspected anything about Brother Luke’s death. At the same time, he had to be careful to tell Brother Joseph as little as possible.
Perhaps, he thought, he should wait and think for a few days about what to do. But matters really could not wait. Besides, this evening presented the perfect opportunity for him to question Brother Joseph. He and Brother Joseph had the duty this evening of cleaning the refectory room.
Brother Leo laid his hands on his desk and pushed himself firmly up. Yes, tonight. He would enter the old cemetery tonight.
He rose, went to the wall with the loose brick, and retrieved the paper he had hidden there. He tucked it into his robe, touched his picture of Saint Michael, and put the pyrite into his robe for luck. Fool’s gold, he thought, for quite possibly a fool’s errand. As he left his cell, he stole one more glance at Saint Michael slaying the dragon.
He headed for the crypt church, but turned first toward the garden. He wanted to bring inside some delicate cuttings from the pear tree. The desert was threatening a very cold night. He stepped outside, then moved quickly back against the monastery’s white stucco wall. Even in the duskiness of the desert evening, his keen eyes had spotted movement in the cemetery. He watched for a few moments, puzzled.
Abbot John stepped slowly from place to place in the cemetery, bending down, picking up something, examining it, then tossing it. Bits of something. Brother Leo could not make it out.
From the hill above the cemetery, something gleamed: the eyes of a coyote, perhaps, or a bit of moonlight glinting from some exposed crystalline quartz deposit.
Brother Leo shivered. He walked quickly to his cuttings, picked them up, and retreated into the safety of the monastery.
The evening meal finished, the monks filed out to go to the crypt church for prayer and evensong. Brother Leo and Brother Joseph began cleaning the table.
Brother Leo cleared his throat. “I do miss Brother Luke,” he said. “I remember well how much he loved this old ironwood table. I believe he knew every scratch, every nick in it. He used to say it held the history of this monastery, old and enduring, like our Arizona ironwood and caliche.”
Brother Joseph piled plates into a plastic container. “Brother Luke did love the table and the monastery. I miss him too.”
“I wish now,” Brother Leo said, “that I had talked to him more about the history of the monastery. Surely he knew a good deal. Why is it one always thinks of plumbing the depths of an elderly person’s knowledge when it is too late to do so.”
“We live in the present, don’t we. As if our short time here were the most important time of all. And to us I suppose it is. But not to Brother Luke. He wrote down as much as he could of the history of the monastery.”
Brother Leo stopped polishing the table. “He wrote down the history? I did not know. Are his notebooks in the library?”
Brother Joseph stared down at the mop with which he had begun to clean the floor, then looked up at Brother Leo. He shook his head. “They are there no longer. Abbot John removed them some time ago.”
Brother Leo and Brother Joseph stood in silence.
“Why?” Brother Leo whispered.
“I do not know.” Brother Joseph mopped at the floor vigorously.
Brother Leo stepped forward and grasped his arm. “What happened to Brother Luke? You tended him, as I did, before his death. But you were with him in his last days. What happened?”
Brother Joseph stood still, his hands tight on the handle of the mop. “I do not know what you mean, Brother Leo.”
“I mean, how did he die?”
“He died of congestive heart failure. The doctor was sure of that.”
“Yes, yes. Congestive heart failure. I do not mean to suggest otherwise.
Only that Brother Luke had been full of curiosity and joy and love: those things that keep a man alive. He had been, except for a few weeks before his death. Something wore him down, Brother Joseph, did it not?”
Brother Joseph set the mop gently against the table and sat down. He motioned to the seat across from him.
Brother Leo sat.
Brother Joseph took a deep breath. “I will try to be as clear as I can. But you understand that Brother Luke was old and not very clear at all in his last days. I often urged him to rest quietly, not to wear himself out, but he wanted to talk.” Brother Joseph sighed. “I confess, too, that sometimes I . . . I did not exactly urge him on, but I listened and not always out of compassion, but out of curiosity.”
Brother Leo nodded. “A very human feeling. Whatever your feeling, I think that Brother Luke wanted to tell you something.”
Brother Joseph sighed. “Yes. He clutched at my sleeve at times, and moved his lips rapidly. Urgently, I think. He spoke about the old cemetery. He said the burials were special. He used the word ‘special,’ and ‘treasure.’ He said the cemetery was the golden treasure of the monastery.”
Brother Leo caught his breath. Jim Cheetal had talked of legends of treasure in the monastery, treasures from far away, treasures from another world. “But,” Brother Leo said, “there are many legends of treasure in this part of the country: lost gold mines; the cities of gold for which Coronado so fruitlessly searched.”
“Yes. But Brother Luke had little interest in such myths. He loved the Indian beliefs, their stories of wise animals and sacred rocks and rivers. I think that he cared little about such riches as Coronado dreamt of.”
“Yet he believed that the old cemetery held some secret treasure, did he not?” Brother Leo said.
“He said the treasure was not the gold of the conquistadors, but the ways of the native peoples. He said the cemetery had much to tell us. Much to tell us, he said, of the old and the new. Then he spoke of saving them. ‘We must save them,’ he said, again and again.”
“Save the coffins? The old coffins?”
Brother Joseph threw his hands up. “I asked that of him, Brother Leo. I asked. ‘Save them,’ he repeated. ‘Save the cemetery; save the monastery.’ Then he repeated over and over ‘Save the monastery. They belong to the monastery.’”
Brother Leo nodded. “They . . . I see. If we had Brother Luke’s notebooks, perhaps we would know for sure.”
“Brother Luke tried to write something for me, but he could not manage. His hands shook so.”
“Write something or draw something?”
Brother Joseph frowned. “I do not know. I thought that he wanted to write something, but perhaps he was trying to draw.”
Brother Leo sat quietly, his head down. Then, he reached into his robe and drew out the sheet he had shown to Jim Cheetal. “Did he try to draw something that looked like this?” He handed the sheet to Brother Joseph.
Brother Joseph studied the picture. “What Brother Luke wrote or drew came out as merely a scribble, lines curving back and forth over each other. I could make nothing of it. This is is a pot. Indi
an pottery?”
“I do not know for certain.”
“But where did you get this? From one of Brother Luke’s notebooks?”
“No. The very day that Brother Luke became so ill that he needed your special care, he drew this. I came into his room just as he began coughing so badly. I turned to find you, but Brother Luke pulled at my robe. He held the drawing out to me. He hand shook badly, even then, and he could not speak. But he managed the strength to take my hand and put the sheet into it.”
“What do you think it means?” Brother Joseph whispered.
“I am not sure. I showed it to Jim Cheetal. He said the shape of the pottery was that of the O’odham Indian design. He said the pot in the drawing was different, unusual. But then the drawing might not be an accurate rendering.”
“Indian pottery can be very valuable. Do you think this is the treasure Brother Luke spoke of?”
Brother Leo shook his head. “I do not know. Much Indian pottery, as Jim said, is not valuable. Yet if Brother Luke had found such pots in the old cemetery, they would most certainly have aged. That might make them valuable or simply of interest to archeologists. We cannot tell from the drawing if the pots were of high quality or not. We would have to see an actual pot, if indeed one exists. All of this may be only the fevered illusions of Brother Luke’s illness.”
“I do not think so.”
The monastery bell rang out.
Brother Joseph jumped. “Evensong,” he said. “We must go.”
Brother Leo stood up, folded the drawing and tucked it into his robe. “If we cannot see the notebooks,” he said, “we must find a pot.” He turned to the door of the refectory.
Brother Joseph clutched Brother Leo’s arm. “You must know another thing Brother Luke said. He said the old cemetery was dangerous. ‘Do not go there,’ he said. ‘Not alone.’ He repeated that. ‘Not alone.’”
Brother Leo nodded. “Evensong,” he said. “We will be missed if we do not hurry.” He left the refectory.
Brother Joseph blessed himself and followed.
The evensong of the monks sounded to Brother Leo more heavenly than ever. The notes seemed to flow like sweet air over the Gothic tiles, then rise up to the rounded ceiling of the crypt church’s ceiling, then fall again to the floor in a cycle, echoing the cycle of the monks’ lives. The young learning the skills of the old: the cooking, the baking, the gardening, the farming, then touching what remained of the monastery’s statues and paintings, created over two centuries ago by the O’odham Native Americans.
Brother Leo lowered his head into his hands. What would happen to this cycle if he went into the cemetery tonight? He could destroy it. He could destroy the monastery life itself, destroy the home of the older monks who had been here for so many, many years. Most assuredly, he would destroy Abbot John. All a heavy, heavy price to pay.
But perhaps Brother Luke had already paid that price. If he chose to do nothing, Brother Leo thought in agony, would he not betray Brother Luke? And betray those Native Americans and the Jesuit priests, Eusebio Kino himself, the founder of the Arizona missions?
Brother Leo felt himself torn apart.
He lifted his head, hoping for some sign, some way out of his dilemma. He wanted this burden lifted from him.
His eyes fell on the spot where Brother Luke’s coffin had rested. He averted his eyes quickly. But they fell, almost perversely, on the pew where Brother Luke had sat for evensong.
For a moment, Brother Leo thought he saw the fevered and glaring eyes of Brother Luke, just as they had been when he had placed the drawing into Brother Leo’s hand.
Brother Leo gripped the top rail of the pew in front of him. He held tightly, steadying his hands and his spirit.
Gradually, he loosened his grip. He had gotten hold of himself. He would enter the cemetery tonight.
A javelina thrashed its way through bushes toward the cemetery. In the distance, a coyote howled.
Brother Leo slowly opened the door of the monastery and stepped out and into his garden. Just above the mountains, Venus glowed, and higher in the sky, a large moon shone down on the desert. The trunks and arms of saguaro cacti cast long shadows.
Inside the monastery, Brother Peter skulked along the wall. He flattened himself against a column and watched.
Brother Leo took a deep breath and turned toward the cemetery.
Brother Peter turned and headed to Abbot John’s cell.
Brother Leo retrieved the shovel and pitchfork from his cache of garden tools and made his way carefully toward the cemetery. The night desert was populated with rattlesnakes and other dangerous creatures.
Inside the monastery, Brother Joseph tossed on his bunk bed. The monastery and the cemetery had secrets. Brother Luke had known that, and it had perhaps cost him his life. But the secrets had not died with him. They were still here, in the monastery, still dangerous, and perhaps about to claim another life.
Brother Joseph pushed himself upright. He had to think. Next to Brother Luke, he knew more of the monastery’s history than any of the other occupants, except, he thought for Abbot John, who now possessed Brother Luke’s notebooks.
Brother Joseph put his head into his hands. Think, he told himself. Brother Luke had loved the native culture. He had studied the O’odham Indians. He knew their customs: birth, burial, celebrations of spring, devotions to the desert spirits. He knew their culture: their beaded dress, their vases.
The vases must be the treasure he was so sure the monastery held. Brother Luke would most certainly have thought of the vases as treasure, treasure because they had been lovingly made by the O’Odhams. He would have valued them for that fact alone. But perhaps others valued them for what price they would fetch from collectors.
Brother Joseph pulled his hands over his face. Were the vases the secret of Abbot John’s ability to obtain things he valued more: the Gothic tile of the crypt church, the antique stained glass, his cloister, his carved ivory cross? If so, and Brother Leo knew, he was surely in danger. He would walk into danger, perhaps naively. Abbot John was intelligent, educated, and ruthless. Brother Leo was intelligent, too, but with too much of the milk of human kindness to realize fully the ruthlessness of others. Brother Leo, who loved his fruits and flowers, his little bit of fool’s gold.
Brother Joseph gasped.
In the corridor, Brother Peter bit his lip, then knocked lightly on Abbot John’s door.
No response.
Brother Peter knocked again, louder this time.
The door opened. “Well?”
Brother Peter took a step back. Abbot John had on a black robe, more like the old flowing black robes of the Dominican Order, the teachers of the Church, the one-time inquisitors who had struck fear in the hearts of many centuries ago, than the brown robes of the missionary Franciscans, the order of the gentle Francis of Assisi.
“Speak,” Abbot John commanded.
“He has left the monastery,” Brother Peter whispered.
“Return to your cell.”
Brother Peter turned away immediately, and scurried down the hall, breathing hard, but greatly relieved to escape the shadows, the secrets, the danger, all of which seemed to seep out of the very walls of the old monastery.
Brother Joseph stood in his cell with clasped hands. Could he be right? The Arizona monasteries had been founded by a Jesuit priest, Father Eusebio Kino. Only two monasteries remained active: San Xavier, the White Dove of the Desert, and this monastery, Mission San Paolo, here in the southeastern corner of Arizona, so near the Mexican border. All the others had long since disappeared or were in ruins, like Tumacacori, now a tourist attraction. But even at Tumacacori, the cemetery remained, as it did here: the old cemeteries, around which swirled stories of ghosts and treasures.
The O’odham Indians had not always taken kindly to the missions. They had burned one and martyred the missionary priest there. They had peacefully built other churches under the direction of their priests, but they had clung to old ways,
practicing Catholic customs and O’odham customs in a strange fusion, in childbirth, in marriage, and in burials.
They had harbored resentments at the intrusion on their lands and ways. They remembered the conquistadors who had brought with them guns, disease, terror; the conquistadors who had come north from Mexico and South America seeking gold, believing the tales of fabulous cities of gold. They had thought to plunder as they had plundered and murdered the Indians in South America and Mexico, grabbing their treasures and sending them back to Spain. Except for the treasure brought here, brought by a few Indians from South America, holding tightly to the belief in the sacredness of their treasure.
Many Indians had died for that treasure.
Now Brother Leo might die for it.
Brother Joseph flung open his cell door and hurried down the corridor toward Brother Leo’s cell. He berated himself. He should have gone to Brother Leo’s cell earlier and done his thinking there with Brother Leo. But perhaps he was not too late. Perhaps Brother Leo had not gone out yet, if he intended to go out tonight at all.
Brother Joseph turned a corner and stopped dead. He saw Brother Peter hurrying back to his cell.
Brother Joseph frowned. “What is he up to?” he whispered. He stood for a moment, then turned. He’d heard footsteps. He went back to the intersection of the two corridors and stopped again. A black-robed figure disappeared through the monastery door.
Brother Joseph hesitated for only a moment and then decided. He headed back up toward his cell.
In the cemetery, Brother Leo stopped near a grave that had already been partially dug out. He picked up his pitchfork and began working away the hardened soil. He banged away and the caliche broke up. He set aside his pitchfork and reached for his shovel. He did not relish having to open a coffin, but he knew he must.
Something crackled, and the buzzing of the insects stopped. Brother Leo looked toward the edge of the cemetery. He saw nothing. Perhaps it had been a javelina, dangerous but not prone to attack unless crossed. Brother Leo shoveled out the caliche. At his feet, something glinted in the moonlight.
Brother Leo set down his shovel and stooped down. He arose. In his hands, smooth and hard, was a vase: black with white figures dancing around the surface and red-gold copper rings separating the rows of dancers. It was exquisite. The native artists had made wonderful use of the copper so abundant in the area and mined even to the present.
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/10 Page 10