“Your husband was a special guy, Julia . . .”
Nick Allen caught me off guard, bringing me back from my daydreams. It was the first time he’d ever called me by my first name.
I know he was trying to console me, as if Martin had been killed inside that glacier and he were offering his condolences. But that’s not what I believed. On the contrary. I looked back at the colonel serenely, because strangely enough, I felt no pain or loss at being without my husband. I didn’t have the words to express how deeply being submerged in that exquisite light had affected me. That whatever ill will I’d felt over the way Martin and his companions had used me had turned into something different, a feeling of acceptance and joy. Even gratitude.
I understood so much more now: That our call to the heavens had been answered. That the destruction that had threatened to rain down on us had been channeled away just in the nick of time, thanks to that celestial connection. And that for the first time in four thousand years, the heavens had lowered Jacob’s ladder to take Martin and his people home. The exiled descendants of traitorous angels had redeemed their ancestors’ misdeeds through this one act—and saved mankind.
Maybe this won’t make sense—I admit it’s hard to fathom. After all, my mind was still cloudy from everything I’d lived through. But at that moment, all I felt was peace.
“Julia!” Ellen shook me as if I’d forgotten something. “Don’t you think you should thank the colonel? He saved your life!”
“It was nothing. Really.” Allen seemed uncomfortable at the attention.
“Nothing?” Ellen said. “You should’ve seen what he did. He tucked a pair of fiberglass skis under your gurney and slid you out like a toboggan.”
“I just figured if I put some kind of insulator between you and the ground, it’d be enough to break you free of the electricity. Really. It was no big deal . . .”
Ellen bragged for him: “You wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him.”
“I’m just sorry I couldn’t help Martin,” Allen said, dropping his gaze to the snowy ground. “I’m really sorry. I had a lot of things I wanted to ask him, like I’m sure you did.”
“You, help Martin?” I smiled from ear to ear and that seemed to rattle him. “Why would you try to ‘help’ him?”
“Doesn’t . . . doesn’t it bother you that he’s dead?”
“Colonel, don’t you know the story of Enoch and Elijah?” I asked him.
“Of course . . . of course.” The veteran military man immediately saw where I was headed with this. “They were both ascended into heaven . . . without having to die . . . Wait. You don’t think he and those people did the same—”
“Yes, Colonel. That’s exactly what I believe.”
102
SANTIAGO DE COMPOSTELA, SPAIN
THREE DAYS LATER
“God, you’re gullible, Antonio! You’re completely blind.”
Marcelo Muñiz’s cheeks had reddened after his third beer. He picked at a plate of Galician-style octopus with his friend Inspector Figueiras. Figueiras’s jeweler friend was maybe the only person Figueiras felt he could vent to about the Faber case.
Muñiz pressed on. “Don’t you see what’s going on here? You come in and tell me how upset you are that Julia Álvarez got back from her little adventure and met with the old priest, Fornés, before meeting with you.”
“Right. So what?”
“So . . . that woman’s taking orders right from the authorities, that’s what!”
“What are you talking about? I am the ‘authorities.’”
“You’re missing my point. She’s a restorer at the cathedral,” Muñiz said. “Her loyalty is to them, not the cops. God knows what she saw during her kidnapping. But you can bet she’ll never tell you about it unless her ‘bosses’ give her approval first. And, honestly, I can’t blame her,” Muñiz said with a chuckle. “If you looked any scruffier, I wouldn’t trust you either.”
“Hey! What’s wrong with the way I look?”
“Look in a mirror, my friend. You haven’t shaved in days, you’ve got bags under your eyes and even your skin color is off. This case is going to kill you . . .”
“Pfff! There is no case anymore, Marcelo,” Figueiras said, taking a swig of beer.
“Oh, come on, you can’t give up now. That lady’s got a story to tell. Just give it a couple days, then take another run at her.”
“I did. I tried again this morning—the fourth time I’ve talked to her. That’s when she told me about the meeting with the dean . . . ,” Figueiras said, glancing at his watch, “which should be going on right now.”
“Well, then, you’re going to have to make her talk,” Muñiz said, munching on another tentacle. “Little Miss Innocent is a witness to the murder of five men in Noia. Four American soldiers. Navy SEALs! Just put out an arrest warrant on her, and that’s that.”
“I wish it were that simple. NATO’s taken over the investigation and kept us completely in the dark.”
“So that’s it? You’re just going to lie down and take it?”
“They told me to keep my nose out of it. Order came straight from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I can’t do a damn thing about it, Marcelo.”
“Damn it . . .”
“The US government is going to pay for the restoration of the Santa María da Nova church and make a ‘generous donation’ to the town. They even offered a settlement to the widows of the two young cops who were killed. In exchange, they say they can’t tell us anything about the case until it’s resolved. It’s all ‘top-secret,’ Bastards . . .”
“And you don’t find all of this odd?”
“It is what it is, Marcelo. I’ve got no case. But that’s not even the strangest part of this whole mess.”
“So what is?”
Figueiras chugged the rest of his beer as if trying to drown all the worries on his mind—and burped loudly. “You know the first thing Julia Álvarez did the second she returned to Spain? Went to the police station inside the airport and canceled the missing-person report on her husband.”
The jeweler tapped his fingers nervously on the table. “Did she say why?”
“The report said she found her husband in Turkey, and they agreed to part ways.”
Muñiz tugged absentmindedly on his bow tie, as if trying to figure out what it all meant. “So . . . do you believe her?”
“Man, I don’t know what to believe,” Figueiras grumbled. “I can’t figure women out. They’re a bigger mystery than all your stories about symbols and talismans.”
“Hey, now that you mention it, what ever happened to the stones?”
“He kept them, I guess. Who knows? Apparently, that’s another taboo subject with the Americans. Nobody’s saying anything . . .”
“Did she at least tell why they took her to Turkey?”
“Oh, you’re going to love this one. Now she’s saying they didn’t kidnap her at all. That she went of her own accord. And the ministry agrees! And get this, the US embassy asked for all our files on the Fabers—and we’re handing them over!”
“Well, she must have at least told you what she did in Turkey. No?”
“She had a story for that, too: looking for Noah’s Ark. Can you believe this woman?” Figueiras said, shaking his head. “She could’ve had the decency to come up with a better lie.”
103
I’d never known I meant so much to him.
Father Benigno Fornés’s clear blue eyes filled with tears as I recounted all the details of the last couple of days. But his was not a sad, desperate cry. These were different kinds of tears, as if, through my story, he had found a kind of comfort he’d been searching for, for years.
It was easy to say yes when he asked to meet with me. He was, after all, the only person who’d been interested in me—and not my adamants—from the moment I set foot back in Santiago. He’d left a kind note in my mailbox and I was immediately thankful for that tender gesture. Especially after the odyssey I’d endured
just trying to get home. I had to convince the officials at NATO Air Dispatch No. 6 that I didn’t have any kind of ancient technological treasure to hand over to them. And don’t even get me started on the three separate flights it had taken to finally get back to Spain.
And then there was that sensation—that I’d left everything important to me back in Ararat. Including my husband.
Fornés had asked me to meet him outside the cathedral entrance a few minutes before eight, just before it closed to the public. Clearly, he wanted to know all the details of my adventure, but he never pressured me. I could tell he empathized with all I’d been through and I appreciated that he respected my feelings enough not to pry further than I could bear. Talking about it felt good. It helped me sort through all of the feelings I’d had from the night of the shooting at the church to my final moments inside the glacier. It seemed like no matter what I said, none of it was too far-fetched for him to believe. Not even when I broached the subject of the descendants of angels and their obsession with returning home. He even agreed with me that the force I’d felt inside the cavern sounded a lot like Jacob’s famous ladder.
What I really didn’t expect was for Father Fornés to make a confession of his own.
“I’m an old man, Julia, not long for this world. And I don’t think I can afford to keep this secret to myself any longer,” he said.
The stillness of the old cathedral imparted a sense of awe.
“What secret, Father?”
“It’s not so much knowing what it is,” he began, “but how to use it. Do you know why I’ve always been such a big proponent of yours during the restoration of the Pórtico de la Gloria?” he asked as we headed toward the spot where I’d left my scaffolding and computers five days ago. Everything was just the same, as if time had stood still and all I’d lived through had just been a horrible dream.
“You’ve always been one to stick up for what you believe in, my child. You always insisted some kind of telluric force was to blame for the Pórtico’s deterioration, some kind of invisible Earth energy that—like faith itself—can be felt but not seen. Every time I saw you take on the Barrié Foundation’s scientific committee, I’d ask myself when would be the right time to tell you what I know. To help you show them that all discoveries can’t always be weighed and measured . . . And I think now is that time.”
Father Benigno labored as he walked down the hallway, holding my hand. The cathedral had emptied out and only the private security guards remained as they began making their rounds before turning on the motion sensors.
“See that marvel?” he said, gesturing toward the Pórtico. “It should have never been there, Julia.”
“But, Father—”
“Never, Julia. Master Mateo was commissioned to build it in 1188, as you know, as a way to draw even more pilgrims to Santiago. The diocese was so motivated by money then that it allowed the true meaning of the Way of St. James to be distorted. There was a backlash, Julia. The city was divided. So a group of priests who were against the trivialization of the Way secretly decided to preserve this place’s entire reason for existing. Amazingly, it has a lot to do with what you just lived through. And I think it’s time you know about it.”
“They’re connected?”
“Yes. Back in the twelfth century, those who traveled the Way—also known as the Jacobean route—were well aware that their journey was a metaphor for life. And if you ask me, it’s still the most brilliant one ever conceived. They began their journey at the base of the French Pyrenees, surrounded by lush vegetation and fresh springwater, perfect symbols for the beginning of life. Over the course of a few days, they came to the fertile open fields of La Rioja or Aragon, images that evoked the abundance and promise of adolescence. And as they reached Castilla, they saw the world literally turn to dust. The dry and rough terrain of Burgos and León was a reminder of old age and, eventually, death. But all the pilgrims knew the journey did not end in León, Julia. The road to paradise still awaited them. With renewed energy, they forged ahead, crossing through O Cebreiro and coming to the lush trees and flowing streams of Galicia. Their eyes wide at all the new life, they pressed on to Santiago, and finally, after nearly five hundred miles on foot, they came to this church. To this very place where . . . the final miracle awaited.”
I felt the chills as Father told his tale.
“It all happened at this Pórtico, this very spot, my child,” he said, tapping the floor with the heel of his shoe. “Except that back in those days, before the master Mateo built his pórtico, there stood another designed by the pilgrims who made this trek. And it had nothing to do with the apocalypse or the Second Coming. No, this was a commemoration of something much more . . . transcendental: the Lord Jesus’s transfiguration and ascension into heaven from the last place where his disciples saw him on earth, Mount Tabor. It was a replica of the place where the risen Jesus left behind his earthly body, transformed into pure, divine light, and returned to the home of God the Father. The pilgrims completed their trek, from birth to death, and continued on to this place, where they were reminded that one day they, too, would become pure light . . . and live on.”
“Father . . . what ever happened to the original Pórtico?”
“It was broken up and the stones were scattered all over Galicia. And that relates to the secret I want to share with you, Julia. A secret the deans of this sacred cathedral have passed down over the centuries for one very important reason. A reason that I think will help you understand why you had to endure everything you did the last few days, only to return to this place where it all began.”
Father Fornés smoothed his cassock and stepped toward the center of the sculpted figures.
“Long before the birth of Our Lord and Savior, long before a single Christian church was ever built, this place was already long considered sacred land. The Celts—and actually, even before them, the seafaring peoples of the world—were drawn to energy that emanated from this hillside. Their legends tell of a giant named Tubal who claimed to be the father of Noah. And he declared that he would make these hills a holy ground. He built a tower over the very holiest of earth and told the nearby townspeople to honor this place, warning them to come here only when they sought to pray to God. Others built similar structures around the world. In Jerusalem. Rome. In the plains of Wiltshire. Paris. And they were built long before we gave any of those cities their modern names. But the goal was always the same. People from around the world believed if they climbed to the top of the towers, they could communicate with God. Later, humanity dared to build a taller tower, the Tower of Babel. And that incurred the wrath of God, the Great Flood and the destruction of the ancient world. Humanity lost its way. It forgot about that golden era when the children of God shared their wisdom with us. And soon, all that remained of that knowledge were myths and stories in ancient books.”
Father Fornés turned toward the center column of the Pórtico de la Gloria.
“People didn’t build those towers around the world on a whim. They truly believed they could send messages from Earth to a supreme being. However, they could only establish that communication with two equally important keys: a ‘physical’ key, a celestial stone or lapsis exillis, which, during the Middle Ages, they called the Holy Grail; and a ‘spiritual’ key, a sacred invocation, a name that must be uttered precisely. The secret to using those stones in Santiago was written in an ancient tome that the church of the Inquisition chased tirelessly: the grimoire of San Cipriano, which, legend says, would somehow be connected to this church. But those are just symbols that the ancients used for lack of a proper vocabulary to describe all the treasures of the Golden Age, the time before the Great Flood.”
“Father, why are you telling me all this?”
Father Fornés stood up as straight as he could. “Because, Julia, for you, those are no longer just symbols. Your mind has managed to see beyond the confines of the secular world. You have seen stones that speak. Stairways descending from heaven. Heave
nly creatures to guide your path. But still, there is one more symbol left for you to learn. The very last one. One that, I guess, it is my responsibility to show you, here, in the very place where your adventure began . . .”
“Which one, Father? The one the Armenians discovered the night of the shooting? The mark over the Platerías door?”
“No, no, my child. After hearing your story, it’s clear to me that was just part of the Yezidi and the Faber clan’s research. They’d spent half their lives searching for hidden symbols at these ancient towers, trying to learn which symbols made up part of the spiritual keys. The ones that had to be pronounced correctly to tap into its energy. No, there’s another symbol I’m referring to.”
“Which one, Father?”
“How long have you been working on the Pórtico, Julia?” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Six months? Maybe more?”
I nodded.
“And yet, you’ve never asked yourself who the mysterious figure is at the base of the column that holds up the Pórtico de la Gloria?”
“Well, of course I have, Father. Every historian who’s studied the Pórtico has written about it. Well, for starters, it’s no one from the New Testament, that’s for sure,” I said, bending down and reexamining the sculpture.
I knew this figure well. I’d wondered about it every time I walked into the cathedral.
“Curious, isn’t it?” he said, caressing it.
At the base of the central marble column that held up the Pórtico was the carving of a man with a thick, curly beard subduing two roaring lions with his bare hands. The sculpture was a completely different style from the rest of the art there. And yet, this sculpture held up the entire Pórtico.
“It’s a very important symbol, Julia. The first thing you notice is that the sculpture is made of a material you just don’t find anywhere else in Galicia. Second, the column is a depiction of the family tree of Jesus Christ, tracing all the way from Adam to our Lord and Savior. For eight centuries, everyone who has made the pilgrimage here has placed his hand on the column and said a prayer of thanks. And even today, it’s the symbolic gesture that signifies the end of the religious trek—the moment the traveler is born again into a more spiritual life. But I want you to take another look at the base, my child. The Christian religion is, quite literally, based on a perfect stranger . . . Would you like to know who he is?”
The Lost Angel Page 35