by K. T. Tomb
The rest, however, was brought to a cease halfway through lunch when Sirita came back from the restroom with a worried expression on her face.
“Hey, listen, I have news,” she announced before she even sat down.
“What is it?” Oscar leaned in to hear. The family sitting behind him was loud, and he had been straining to hear over their din all through their time in the café.
“I just heard some locals talking, and they were talking about something... unusual. It reminded me of that story you told us, Chyna, and I thought it might be significant to our case.” She raised her eyebrows in emphasis.
“What is it?” Mark urged her on.
“Wait, can you get those locals whom you saw talking?” Lana said. If they were the ones talking, they would be the best source of information.
Sirita looked around the place, mumbling to herself about not being so sure, but then spotted a pair of ladies walking through and took off with a dash. She came back with two obviously Spanish women, judging by their fluent Spanish and heavily laced English accent.
Sirita introduced them to the team, and they increased the party's number to seven, mumbling 'Hola' to everyone. Sirita asked them something in Spanish, and they seemed pleased to have a foreigner speak in their tongue so perfectly. There was a short conversation, and then Sirita turned to the team.
“They're talking about a place here, popularly known as the Mosque Cathedral of Cordoba. They say that there have been strange rumors from the site, similar to what Lana inferred from all those news articles. These people, or victims, or whatever you would like to call them, have been experiencing religious visions and have begun preaching the word of God or something, they say,” she explained.
“Ask them what the doctors say. Do they know that?” Mark piped up.
Sirita translated the question for the women. “They say that the doctors have been left baffled. Not particularly at the symptoms though, but at the frequency of the occurrence. They're beginning to think it’s a mental epidemic of sorts. All the victims have thus far displayed similar symptoms.”
Chyna asked the next question. “Ask them whether they have heard anything about Isabella yet.”
No sooner had Sirita asked the question than the women jumped in surprise. Clearly, the rosary had not been mentioned anywhere in the papers, but seeing from the fast responses they were giving Sirita, Chyna thought they might be getting somewhere.
“They say that there has been no mention in the papers, but now that they think of it, it makes more sense. But they've added that the rosary of Isabella has been lost for centuries. No one knows where it is.”
After that, Sirita bid the women a polite goodbye as the team looked at each other in contemplation. Their plan was set already, as was their destination.
***
The Mosque Cathedral of Cordoba was one of the strangest buildings that Chyna had ever seen, and also one of the most symbolic. For two religions who had been locked in the Crusade Wars at one point in time to come together in one place to pray—the finer interpretations of God’s will being a fundamental cause of the bloodshed in the first place—was an idea that Chyna was immensely interested in.
As the name went, the structure was a cathedral in the center, but a mosque ran on all four sides of it, dwarfing the Christian constructions in every scale. The Islamic Spanish of Cordoba and Spain had been petitioning to pray in the inside cathedral for quite some time now, but their requests had been denied by both the Vatican and the Spanish authorities. How man had divided this world Chyna failed to understand.
She would have loved to dwell in the place for long periods of time, probably trying to find answers to questions that had long been ignored. But as the team got out of their car, their attention was captured by a large throng of people that had gathered in the center of the square directly in front of the Mezquita.
The team looked at each other and cautiously approached the group. It wasn’t immediately clear what the subject captivating the attention was, but Chyna could hear raised voices from the center. People surrounding the subjects were looking around in amazement, anger, confusion and fear, a panoply of human experience.
As Chyna reached the throng, she pushed through the lines, using her elbows and arms as resistance and clearing people out. Mark and others followed suit and soon they were in the first ring of the ten deep circle of bodies. So, Chyna thought, this was what the Spanish ladies in the café and the news had been talking about.
Three people, dressed in shabby and muddy white and gray clothes were sitting in a circle in the middle of the square, holding hands and swaying their heads about in a wild motion. Their fingers held on to each other tight, providing roots to their moving bodies, but not to their praying lips. Chyna listened for some distinct roots in the language being spoken, but couldn’t find any. She looked over to Sirita, whose face was writ with concentration, head cocked to one side, listening.
“What language is that?” She had to lean in and speak directly into her ear for Sirita to hear her, as the trio in the middle was rising in octaves and the crowd truculently refused to lower their voices in response. Spanish insults and cat calls flew thickly in the air.
“I don’t know! I've never heard anything like it! There aren't any words that I can identify!” she hissed back, covering her ears to block out the din.
Chyna nodded and turned to witness again. She knew she needed to talk to these three, and fast.
“O ye!” Someone yelled from the back, and before they knew it, people started rushing about. Suddenly, the debacle in the middle of the square was forgotten. The crowd started parting fast, and it was only when Chyna strained to see toward the back of the group that she groaned internally. There went her opportunity to talk. There were many things she wanted to do, but engaging in a heated discussion with the local police was not one of them.
“Damn it, they have come to arrest these three,” Mark muttered from next to her, trying to hold on to his case while shuffling along with the crowd. They saw four officers trying to break the trio up, but when the latter refused, they picked them up by the arms, escorting all of them away and into the back of a van. It happened faster than anyone could blink, and a minute, life in the Mezquita had returned to normal again. Well, as normal as it could get in the wake of such a heretical display.
“That's too bad. We could have gotten some valuable information,” Sirita said, bemoaning the loss of the strange people as one would a broken heel of a favorite shoe.
“Excuse me?” A voice called out in English to the five of them as they stood watching the spot where the police van had been parked only moments ago. “Excuse me!”
Chyna turned to see a short man running toward her, about five feet six and stout, he was wearing black rimmed wayfarers, and his olive skin was capped by black hair that seemed like it had not been cut in months. A look at his clothes told her he was overdressed for this place. He was wearing dress pants, a shirt and a waistcoat that was missing a button. All the other tourists were in casual attire.
“Are you Chyna Stone?” he panted as he reached her. Chyna picked up a strong Spanish accent in his tone.
“Yes,” she replied politely. “I'm sorry, I don't think we have met.”
“Yo soy Tacho Villanueva.” He pointed to himself, still heaving from not having caught his breath fully, “I am... el periodista... journalist. I am investigating this extrañeza of the Mezquita and the madness.”
“Hi.” Chyna was still cautious in shaking her hand with this man. “How do you know me?”
“Oh, I read about your papers and adventures. I have done features on some of the pieces you have discovered all around Europe. I recognized you from the hair, though I had my doubts.”
Chyna felt a little more relaxed, but having been burned in the worst possible way recently, she was now going to blow even on water before she drank it. “Oh, thanks, I guess. You are investigating this case?”
“Si. I have in
formation you might need. Can we talk somewhere?” Tacho nodded, and even though she knew it was a chance, it was a risk she had to take.
Chapter Seven
RSS feed. Lana Ambrose, 2014
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
“Mad Hatter: “Why is a raven like a writing-desk?”
“Have you guessed the riddle yet?” the Hatter said, turning to Alice again.
“No, I give it up,” Alice replied: “What’s the answer?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Hatter”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
***
Walking through the halls of the Mezquita de Cordoba with Tacho, it was becoming increasingly hard for Chyna to concentrate on what he was saying, reveling in the beauty of the red and white columns inside the Mezquita, topping the building in all their double arched glory.
“You like?” Tacho smiled at her.
He began telling her how the church and the mosque came to be, clearly not ready as yet to disclose the information he had gathered. Patiently, Chyna decided to let the little man get what he had to say off his chest before pressing him.
“It is one of the most accomplished structures ever built by the Moors. It was originally a mosque, but after the Visigoths were defeated by the Muslims, it was divided between them and the Christians. There used to be a temple here earlier, dedicated to the two faced Roman God, Janus, but the exiled prince Abd al-Rahman—who wanted to build something that would rival the mosques in Jerusalem, Baghdad and other places— decided that a mosque should be built on this very spot. He bought the land from the people of Cordoba, whom he had conquered after defeating Yusuf Al-Fahiri, the governor of Al-Andalus. The church in the middle is dedicated to St. Faustus, St. Januarius and St. Marcellus.” Villanueva puffed out his chest a little as he spoke, either through his body requiring more oxygen to keep his speech going or through pride at the constructive endeavors of his people.
“The construction is said to have been started in 784 A.D. and spanned over a period of two centuries, carried on by al-Rahman's descendants after his death. Rahman named the mosque after his wife. Do you know one of the most unusual things about this mosque? The mihrab in this place faces south. Conventionally, Muslims pray facing toward Mecca, which lies east-southeast of the Mezquita. Mihrabs of mosques all over the world face Mecca, but not the one in the Mezquita.
“The work itself—you can see, Ms. Stone—is exquisite. Emperors made numerous changes to the plan. Metals were dug out and imported from all over the world, and hard stone and marbles were brought in Sierra Morena. There is a distinct Gothic style evident in the building, and ivory, gold, brass, jasper and many other metals have been used in the decoration. These panels that you see are made of scented wood and have been fastened with nails of pure gold. The red columns that we are walking beneath are said to be the work of God himself. The Mezquita truly is a dazzling, amazing building, Miss Stone.”
As he wound up his history of the Mezquita de Cordoba, Chyna could hear Tacho's voice laced with reverence. He was clearly passionate about history, and deeply affected by the threads that bound two very different religions together in a marvelous place like this. Who could bear to not like it? Chyna looked over to her team, who were roaming listlessly through the pillars.
“Yes, you're right. It is an amazing building,” Chyna agreed. “It's too bad, though, all that has been happening lately,” she said, subtly steering the conversation to more contemporary matters.
“Not for the tourism companies, it seems. They are making a mockery out of it, using it to attract customers.” Tacho snorted, handing her one of the most popular pamphlets used by the local tour companies.
“They could attract much more than just customers.” The words were out of Chyna's mouth before she could help it, and she groaned at having possibly given away important information. She looked down at the paper in her hand and feigned interest in the words on it. But Tacho nodded at her words.
“Exactly my sentiments,” Tacho said, almost as if he was sad at the state of affairs, “Anyway, I called you here to talk about the investigation.”
“Yes, what do you know about this whole thing?” Chyna was interested in what this man had to say.
“I have been on this case from the start. My newspaper, in fact, was one of the first to encounter the happenings and report a pattern among them. There has been no proof or conclusion yet as to how this starts, but the afflicted people gradually turn mad over a period of time. During this time, they report of hallucinations of a religious nature and claim that God has been talking to them.
“The first incident was in Valencia. Seven people went mad over a period of two weeks. Then came Abacete, where nine people had to be admitted into a mental institution. Six people from Granada and four from Cordoba, including the three we saw today. I have been observing all the cases for a while now, and I can tell you that the afflicted people are somehow drawn to places of religious influence across the country—cathedrals and mosques to be specific. You saw those three in the square. There haven't been any more cases since, but I'm not really sure of the time frame. For all we know, it could be moving on.” Tacho shook his head. Clearly, he was frustrated at the broken links.
“I could have an explanation.”
Chyna knew she shouldn't, but she decided to share her theory about the rosary with him and see what came of it. For all she knew, he could have detected an anomaly that could lead them to the rosary and to the bottom of this whole matter.
“Are you serious?” Tacho's eyes lit up, and he leaned in to her what Chyna was about to say.
“Have you heard about the Rosary of Isabella?” Chyna asked him, and was less than pleased at his reaction. His peaked ears dropped, as did his shoulders. Disappointment shrouded his features.
“I thought about that at first; everybody who has an interest in Spanish history knows of Isabella, but there seems to be nothing to it. There is not even concrete proof that the rosary actually existed. It's just a legend.” He shrugged. “I think perhaps what we are witnessing is some kind of hysteria, or occultism.”
“You're not me, though, no offense.” Chyna held her hands up. “My team picked up on the same things you did: religious visions, hallucinations, growing madness and so on. I put that together that with my theory about Isabella of Spain. Although that rosary never drove her to the point of madness, it is known that she was deeply religious. It is also said that only her direct descendants could wear the rosary, that is, those she shared blood with. All the others would not be able to handle its virtue, and go mad.”
“You make some strong points, Chyna, but that doesn’t eliminate the fact that the rosary is supposed to be a myth. I mean, I live in Spain, I have a great interest in our historical past, and even I have never encountered proof of the rosary ever existing. And even if Isabella did have a rosary, all those who were not her direct descendants could be experiencing the placebo effect. If it was as famous as you say, people must have known what it would do to them. They must have been under the thought that the rosary could have adverse effects. Maybe that was what drove them mad: the impression that they could go mad,” Tacho countered.
“Yes, but that was then. That was at a time when she was still alive, as were her descendants. How many people do you think know about the rosary now? You said so yourself: you're Spanish, and even you have doubts about its existence. In that case, how could all those people who went mad have known about the rosary? They had to be admitted to mental institutions nevertheless. If there is a cognitive bias involved, it is one that has skipped centuries to manifest itself now. Why?” Chyna said.
Tacho looked like he was considering her theory, but not believing it entirely. He had a deep frown on his face, and when he spoke, it was a question Chyna had been wondering about. “So, If we accept that, for now, the rosary is real, what next?”
She shrugged. “We will investigate some more. We need to find someone who can
confirm whether the insanity is caused by the rosary as I suspect, or refute it; at which point, my interest in the case will end. What about you?”
“I am actually heading into Granada later today. I want to look into the happenings there. I was going to ask you whether you would be interested in coming along. I think witnesses and victims will give you much more solid information than museums or the local police.”
Chyna considered. Tacho had made a strong point. If the rosary was on the move through Spain, then someone must have seen or heard something. As the happenings were only recent in Cordoba, she knew there would not be much to look into, at least until the afflicted parties had been either booked into an asylum or released by the local police. Excusing herself, Chyna called the team together. She explained what Tacho had said and what she thought about it, and when she put forward the idea of going to Granada, everyone agreed readily.
“Okay, Tacho.” Chyna approached the reporter after five minutes. “We'll go with you.”
Chyna didn’t even realize that she was still holding the pamphlet he had given her in her right hand.
***
Queen Isabella of Castile and Leon
(1451-1504)
QUEEN ISABELLA, surnamed la Catolica “the Catholic,” Queen of Castile, was the second child and only daughter of John II of Castile by his second wife Isabella, granddaughter of John I of Portugal (thus being through both parents a descendant of John of Gaunt), and was born in Madrigal on the 22nd of April 1451. On the death of her father, who was succeeded by her brother Henry IV (1454), she was withdrawn by her mother to Arevalo, where her early education was conducted in the deepest seclusion; in 1462, however, along with her uterine brother Alphonso, she was removed by Henry to the court, where she showed a remarkable example of staidness and sobriety.