The Lost Angel

by Sierra, Javier

  Father Fornés silently walked the length of the church, shining his flashlight toward the Platerías door and back toward the altar. The fiery-looking cloud had left no traces of smoke or ash on the walls.

  “What if it was a sign from God?”

  The old priest had meant it as more than a mere question when he spoke to the archbishop. It was a warning. But the young theologian who had been made head of the Catholic Church in Santiago just a year ago had disappointed him again. The old ways were foreign to him, too. He was more concerned about the apparent gunfight than about the mystical storm that had gathered in the sacred old church. But that was to be expected from Archbishop Juan Martos. Take away the robes and the ring, and he could pass for any cold and calculating corporate CEO. He was—unfortunately, as Father Fornés saw it—more concerned with managing the mundane than with caring for the eternal souls of their flock.

  “A sign from God?” the archbishop had asked. “How do you mean, Father Benigno?”

  “Your Grace, remember that this cathedral was founded in the ninth century when mystical lights signaled the presence of a sacred object to Pelagio, the old hermit. He told your ancient predecessor, Bishop Teodomiro, about the sacred object. And the bishop came here to find one of the greatest treasures of the Christian faith.”

  “The ark containing the bones of the apostle St. James,” Archbishop Martos said flatly, as if reciting the words to a fairy tale.

  “Precisely, Your Grace. We mustn’t forget that our Lord has used these mystical lights as signs to His people. To open our eyes.”

  Archbishop Martos didn’t seem to pay much attention. He was, after all, too young, too much of an outsider to Santiago and its rich history to understand the old dean’s concerns. That’s when Fornés realized his archbishop wasn’t aware of the cathedral of Santiago’s hidden function. He wasn’t “a man of the tradition.” Otherwise, he would never have ordered the church closed until the police finished their investigation.

  No, he wouldn’t expect Martos to understand Father Fornés’s role as the keeper of the cathedral’s secrets. And maybe that’s why he went against his superior’s orders and entered the cathedral to examine it with his own eyes that night. He was the one whom Divine Providence had chosen to keep watch over this house. And nothing was going to keep him from fulfilling his duty. Not even the archbishop.

  The church was still that night.

  Its darkest corner was the main entrance, which housed the Pórtico de la Gloria, so Father Fornés decided to start vigil there. Scaffolding, makeshift tables covered in notes and computers and chemicals were positioned all about. But that sacrosanct place seemed just as Julia Álvarez—the prodigy—had left it.

  Julia was special. Fornés had noticed it the first time he met her. And it wasn’t just her intellect; it was her fire, her will and her open mind in the face of the others working on the restoration. Without knowing it, when she suggested that what was affecting the stone was some other force—some kind of underground, seismic invisible energy—she was never closer to the secret of Compostela that he so closely guarded.

  A stray beam from his flashlight lit the whiteness of the intricately carved stone column at the center of the doorway, bringing the priest’s mind back to the task at hand—he needed to finish his rounds. If only people knew that the very reason for Compostela’s existence was hidden in that historic column: Images of different people seemed to climb a representation of Jesus’s family tree, beginning with the figure closest to the ground, a bearded man grabbing two lions around the neck. The carvings stretched upward like a climbing vine, like an ancient DNA double helix tracing a path through the ages, through St. James and, above him, to Jesus Christ himself.

  The priest looked around. Everything seemed to be in its place. The gunshots had not damaged any of those splendid sculptures, thank God.

  Feeling more at ease, he made his way to the center of the church, where the gunfight had taken place. The police had cordoned off the area with yellow crime tape, but the priest slipped beneath it for a better look. Even with the thin beam of his flashlight he could begin to see the damage. The projectiles had chipped several handrails, littering the floor with centuries-old splinters. Several of the holes were numbered by police, shell casings still lay where they came to rest and fingerprinting equipment sat where police would return to it in the morning. Fornés dodged the evidence as best he could and headed for the area that interested him the most.

  And that’s when he saw it.

  A smaller perimeter had been taped off near the Platerías doorway, just below the monument to the Campus Stellae. He knew better than anyone else that that was the oldest section of the cathedral. Only a handful of scholars were aware that the spot marked the birthplace of the world’s oldest and most important Christian temple after St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. And even fewer would recall it as the site of any number of miracles. Most important, it was the very spot where Bernardo the Elder, magister admirabilis, placed the cathedral’s foundation stone in the year 1075, guided—according to tradition—by a chorus of God’s angels.

  So when Father Fornés saw police tape cordoning off that sacred area, his pulse immediately quickened.

  “My Lord . . . !”

  Embedded in that ancient wall was one of the bullets.

  The impact had split the stone block, pulverizing part of its surface. Fornés crossed himself at the sight. That, he knew, would definitely call for the restorers’ attention. But that wasn’t all. The impact had also chipped several of the surrounding blocks, revealing a strange shadow beneath the stone. To the priest, it looked like some kind of inscription. The remnants of old paint. Maybe a quarry mark. Whatever it was, it only made the old priest’s heart pound harder.

  It looked like this:

  Father Fornés inched closer for a better look. He shone his light on it and traced the mark with his fingertips. It looked to have been freshly made and seemed to have been scored into the wall. It was recessed a bit and stood out from the surrounding Compostela granite because it shimmered with iridescent gold flecks. And if he wasn’t mistaken, it was still warm.

  Good God! he thought. I have to get the monsignor right away!

  25

  It’s said that when someone dies, the soul begins its most difficult journey. Just before crossing over, it comes face-to-face with a sort of ethereal “black box,” a flight data recorder for every experience the soul has had while living in that body, from the very moment the umbilical cord is cut and the lungs take in their first breath. What the soul experiences at that moment exceeds anything it has known in the physical world. For the first time, it is able to see the entire life it has lived from the outside, from the viewpoint of others. Despite what the major world religions might say, at that moment, there are no judges. No trials. No outside voices to validate or reject what it is experiencing. The soul becomes pure energy and is able to judge for itself all the good and the bad it has lived through in that earthly body. Only then will it be able to follow its path to the afterlife.

  The only positive of this whole process is learning that there is, in fact, an afterlife. But whether the soul ascends to heaven or descends into hell is nothing more than a state of being, how the soul feels attuned after experiencing the summary of its life inside that earthly form: Is the soul buoyed by its successes on earth, its virtues, its spirit? Or is it anchored by the weight of its failures, its errors, its darkness?

  No matter what religion we grew up in, we’ve all been told about that moment. The moment of final judgment. And although the world’s religious leaders have confused the issue, predicting an actual celestial trial or great absolution or even a resurrection of the dead, all I know is that this final review of our lives is real.

  I learned it that night at La Quintana café when I found myself lying facedown just inches from a motionless Colonel Allen.

  I was surprised at how easy it was for me to die. What I first thought was a pai
nless fainting spell soon became a torrent of memories flashing before my eyes. And I’m not sure why, but I was convinced that I had died the way Uzza from the Bible had after placing his hand on the Ark of the Covenant, as if ten thousand volts had rushed through my body. And now that jolt had launched me into a sea of images and thoughts.

  I tried to make sense of everything around me: Why hadn’t I felt any pain when I hit the ground? What had become of the café? And Nick Allen? And the waiter?

  There was just nothingness.

  It was as if I was slowly dissolving into a soothing calm. I wasn’t cold anymore, and little by little, I could feel the life force peacefully draining out of me. It made it easy to watch the memories of my lifetime play effortlessly, randomly, beneath my closed eyelids.

  My first memory sprang to the surface in a powerful burst.

  It was my wedding day. I figured that came to mind first because the colonel had me rooting through those old emotions just before my death.

  I could see Martin and me arriving in Wiltshire. It was Sunday morning, the day after I’d had my first encounter with John Dee’s adamants, and we’d spent the rest of the evening rushing to get the details of the wedding in place. Our emotions were on edge. We hadn’t managed to sleep all night. As a matter of fact, we argued.

  I’d almost forgotten about that . . .

  Our quarrel started the day before, after I met Sheila and Daniel. And it was all because of those damn adamantas.

  The first sparks came when we got to our hotel room.

  “Hasn’t this been the most eye-opening day of your life?” He sighed as he fell back on the bed.

  “Oh, I’ll say,” I said, stewing in a slow simmer. “I realize you know more about me than I ever imagined.”

  “You mean because of your—”

  “Yes, because of that!” I said, cutting him off. “You fell in love with me because you thought I was a psychic. Isn’t that right? Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  Martin cocked his head. “Aren’t you, though?”

  “No! I certainly am not!”

  “Are you sure?” he said, biting back. “You were the one who told me you used to speak with your dead great-grandmother when you were a little girl. And didn’t you tell me your mother saw that ghostly procession of the dead, the one people claim to see around your home . . . what did you call it?”

  “The Holy Company,” I muttered.

  “Right. That’s it. And weren’t you the one who offered up that you were descended from a long line of Galician witches who know all about medicinal herbs? You even told me you brew a rum that’s supposed to cure arthritis!”

  Martin tried to confuse the issue, but I wouldn’t let him.

  “So why didn’t you tell me about the seer stones?” I said, now in a full rage.

  “W-well,” he stammered, “until now, the stones have been a family secret. And since from tomorrow on you’ll be part of the family, I thought you should know. Didn’t you like the surprise?”

  “Surprise? I felt like your goddamn guinea pig! A circus freak! And what about those . . . those friends of yours?”

  “Daniel is an expert. And Sheila . . . well, she’s someone like you—”

  “What do you mean, someone like me?”

  “Well, until today, she was one of the few who could get the adamantas to react. But not like you did. Right away, I knew I was right about you. You can make them speak! You have the gift!”

  “Make them speak? Martin, do you really think a pair of rocks can talk?”

  He leaped off the bed to stand next to me. “These can. Look, Julia, in twenty years, no one has seen the adamants react the way they did with you today. It’s like they were alive! You should have seen Sheila’s face. You have the gift,” he said again. “The same gift as Edward Kelly, John Dee’s favorite seer. You could look through them and make them vibrate, at your will. You are their medium!”

  At that moment, it was as if I didn’t know Martin at all. “You’re scaring me, Martin, you know that?” I said, my eyes filling with tears. “I thought you were a scientist, rational. I’ve put my whole life in your hands and I don’t even know who you are!”

  “Julia, please . . . You’re scared,” he whispered. “But you have nothing to be scared of.”

  “I’m not so sure, Martin . . .”

  “After our wedding, you’ll have time to learn how to use the adamants. And you’ll see that I’m still the scientist—the man—you’ve always known. We’ll study them together. I promise. You’ll breathe life into them. And then I’ll interpret them.”

  I stayed quiet.

  “You’ll understand everything. Even though this may look like witchcraft now, you’ll see there’s a very scientific explanation to all of this. Sheila and Daniel just want to help you understand.”

  “And what if I can’t trust you anymore?” I said, looking at him as sternly as I dared. “I feel lied to, used . . .”

  “Please, Julia. You’re not serious.”

  I looked down at my hands. His big, strong hands were now holding mine, squeezing them, as if trying to reassure me. But I was unsure about everything now.

  “No. No, I guess I’m not.”

  26

  Something strange was going on.

  How was Antonio Figueiras supposed to protect the witness when everything seemed to be conspiring against him? The power was out. So was the radio. Even the damn cell phone network was down. There was no way to get a team in place. So Figueiras didn’t waste any more time. He jumped into his own car and plotted the quickest route to the Plaza de la Quintana. Julia Álvarez would probably still be talking with the American. Thankfully, he’d left some of his best men in charge, and a helicopter at the ready, to make sure no one got anywhere near her. No Kurdish terrorist, no matter how resourceful he was, would dare try to kidnap Julia with that kind of protection around her.

  Thank goodness, he thought as the rain finally started letting up. It had eased just enough so that the first rays of morning sunlight reflected off the cathedral’s baroque spires in the distance.

  But if Figueiras had bothered to look at the clock on the dashboard as he sped through town, he would have seen it was far too early for daybreak.

  27

  My second postmortem memory came without warning.

  A man dressed in gray, his face weathered by time and the elements, stared at us unflinchingly. Martin and I had just arrived in Biddlestone, the town where we were to be married, and Father James Graham, his family’s longtime friend, couldn’t believe his ears.

  “This is an important decision,” he murmured. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  We both nodded. We had arrived early in the morning, having left the hotel while it was still dark because neither of us could sleep.

  “And when did you decide this?”

  “She agreed the day before yesterday,” Martin answered with a half smile.

  “I’m not surprised . . .”

  Although the priest sounded disapproving, he said nothing else. He sat next to us and invited us to breakfast. Somehow, his mere presence was comforting. And I soon understood why.

  “How long has it been since we’ve seen each other, my son?” he asked Martin.

  “Not since my first communion. Thirty years!”

  “As long as it’s been since I’ve seen your parents.”

  “I know. I’m sorry it’s been so long since they’ve visited.”

  “You know, deep down, I’m actually flattered that you chose me. Because I know you still trust me. Because I know they still trust me,” he said, brushing aside any hurt. Martin didn’t flinch either. “So tell me, son, do you still want that reading included in the ceremony? Your phone call the other day worried me, frankly. These kinds of requests are rare. Especially in a Christian church.”

  “I understand, Father,” Martin said, taking the old man’s hand. “But there shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

  “N
o. Not as long as she doesn’t object.”

  “And why should I?” I smiled. “It’s our wedding.”

  “My child . . . Your fiancé has asked me to include a particular reading in your wedding ceremony that does not come from the Bible. Did he tell you that?”

  “Uh . . . actually, no.”

  Martin shrugged his shoulders as if this were another one of his surprises.

  “He’s as stubborn as a mule,” the priest said. “He wants an ancient parable read during the ceremony, but the story doesn’t exactly paint women in the best light. That’s why I was wondering whether you, as a Spanish woman who I assume is a little hot tempered—”

  “Is that right? Temperamental, are we?”

  I looked over at Martin, amused.

  “You have to agree, Martin, it’s not your average text,” the priest said. “Maybe even inappropriate for a wedding.”

  “Inappropriate?” I asked, soaked in curiosity. “And how is it inappropriate, Father Graham?”

  “Oh, don’t listen to him, Julia,” Martin said, trying to make light of the priest’s comment. “This man has married the people in my family for generations and he always grumbles about the same thing. I think he’s just trying to sabotage our tradition,” he added with a wink.

  “But what kind of reading is this?”

  “It’s a very ancient text—and very important, mind you—but it’s definitely not part of church canon. It’s just my obligation to let you know that. Martin told me you’re a historian and an art expert. Let me show it to you, so you can judge for yourself.”

  The old man got up and walked over to a bookcase in the kitchen filled with precious leather-bound books and pulled out a large, thin book.