The Spirit Well (Bright Empires)

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “I am Father Tadeo.” Waving an expressive hand at the patchwork of furs Kit wore, the little priest said, “De dónde—ah, where came you from?”

  “Where did I come from?” echoed Kit. He paused, considering how to answer. “I am from England. I have been, um . . . I have been exploring.”

  “Explorar?” echoed the cleric. Turning to the others, “Es un explorador,” he explained.

  The gun-toting hunters nodded. “Explorador,” they murmured. The second one loosed a volley of rapid-fire Spanish at the priest, who then turned to Kit and said, “Ricardo wishes to know why you dress like this.”

  Kit glanced down at his shaggy, handmade trousers. The fur was matted and ratty-looking, his stitched-together shoes caked with mud. He stank, and his hair was a mass of wild tangles, his beard a bushy thicket around his face. He suddenly felt very silly wearing this ludicrous outfit. “I lost my clothes.”

  The priest relayed this to the hunters; one of them answered, and all three men laughed, whereupon Father Tadeo replied, “We think you have lost more than your clothes, Senõr Christopher.”

  “Yes,” agreed Kit, running a hand through his beard. “You might be right about that.”

  This small convocation outside the church did not go unnoticed for long. A portly man in a brown suit and white shirt appeared from the large pillared building and hurried across the square to join them. “What is this?” he demanded in Spanish. Father Tadeo explained briefly, and the man turned and commanded one of the hunters, “Go and bring Diego. Tell him we have a problem.”

  The hunter hurried off, and Father Tadeo said to Kit, “This is Senõr Benito. He is Alcalde—the mayor of this town.”

  “Tell him I am pleased to meet him,” replied Kit. His tongue seemed to be working better now as it loosened with use.

  The man in the brown suit gave a curt, officious nod and spoke again, watching Kit narrowly. Father Tadeo translated for Kit. “Alcalde Benito wishes to know if you are loco—crazy?”

  “Please tell him that, so far as I know, I am in my right mind.”

  The priest and mayor conferred over this. The mayor shook his head and frowned. He crossed his arms over his paunch of a stomach and watched Kit. A moment later the hunter returned with a policeman in a blue uniform with Guardia on a shoulder patch. He wore a white bandolier to which was attached a holster with a large revolver. He greeted the mayor and priest, and the three briefly conferred in Spanish as Kit sat looking on.

  “Ramón and Ricardo have found this man at the river below the cave,” said Father Tadeo.

  “It is true,” said Ramón. “We were hunting rabbits, and I found him.”

  “We think he is crazy,” added the mayor.

  “Has he been making trouble?” asked the policeman.

  “No trouble yet,” said Ramón. “But,” he added, “he speaks only English.”

  The policeman nodded, then directed a question at Kit, which Father Tadeo translated. “Señor Diego wishes to know why you are living in the cave.”

  “Ah,” replied Kit, trying to maintain his placid demeanour despite the stakes, which seemed to be rising by the minute. “Please tell Señor Diego that I was not living in the cave. I was exploring it.” He shrugged and raised his palms. “I lost my way.”

  This explanation was duly repeated and was discussed by the five townsmen gathered around the three-wheeler where Kit sat like a dishevelled dignitary conducting an al fresco audience.

  “Do you have papers?” asked the priest at one point, to which Kit shook his head.

  The men conferred again, with much gesturing and head scratching. “What shall we do with him?” asked Father Tadeo.

  “He has broken no laws that I know of,” suggested Diego. “I do not think I can arrest him for getting lost in a cave.”

  “Arrest him? I don’t want him arrested,” said the mayor. “I want him gone. Look at him. He is a barbarian.”

  “He is an Englishman,” said Ricardo.

  “He was exploring and got lost,” added Ramón. To the priest, he said, “You should give him a bath and a meal.”

  “Me! I should do this? Madre de Dios! This is none of my affair.” Father Tadeo put up his hands. “It is none of my concern what you do with him.”

  “But you are the priest of this town,” asserted Mayor Benito.

  “What has that got to do with it?” countered Father Tadeo.

  “The duties of hospitality fall to you,” said the mayor.

  “No such thing,” replied Tadeo. “You are mayor—hospitality is yours to provide.”

  “We must do something,” insisted Ramón. “He cannot live in my truck. I have to go home and feed the cattle.”

  “He has no papers,” said the mayor.

  “Does he need papers?” wondered the policeman.

  “All respectable people have papers,” suggested the mayor. “Another reason he cannot stay here.”

  “Where can he go?” asked Ricardo. “He is lost.”

  “I know!” said Father Tadeo. “Take him to the abbey. They are always having so many visitors—pilgrims from everywhere. They will know what to do with him.”

  “He is not a pilgrim,” said Ramón. “He is an explorer.”

  “No matter—it is the same thing,” replied the mayor, making an executive decision. “Padre, you will take him to the abbey, and they will deal with him.”

  “Me?” Father Tadeo put up his hands. “I have no automobile, as you know. I cannot possibly take him. I have my homily to compose.”

  All eyes turned to the policeman. “Diego, my friend,” said the mayor, putting his hand to the policeman’s shoulder, “this is official business. You must take him in your vehicle.” He glanced at Kit, then added, “Use the siren.”

  So it was that Kit was transferred from the back of the three-wheeled truck to the official police cruiser—a dented blue-and-white tin can that spewed acrid smoke as it rattled along. The policeman kept a wary eye on his unusual passenger. For his part, Kit smiled a lot and tried not to make himself appear any more of a problem than he was already.

  They passed through another village and another before the highway turned and headed up into the mountains. The road snaked higher and higher, following a series of rising switchbacks into the sharp-angled peaks. The police car chugged ever more slowly, straining at the steep incline, eventually rolling to a halt before a high iron gate overarched by a sign in wrought-iron letters painted white that read Abadia de Montserrat.

  CHAPTER 19

  In Which a Sisterhood Is Joined

  With the warmth of a dazzling Damascus sun on her back, Cassandra stood outside a shiny black-lacquered door bearing a small brass plate engraved with the words Zetetic Society in a fine, flowing script. The doorknob was also brass, and both were polished bright. The close little street was quiet and shaded by high whitewashed walls and the grey stone flanks of Beit Hanania, the house of the man known to the western world as Saint Ananias—who first healed and then befriended the murderous zealot Saul of Tarsus and helped ease him into his role as the apostle Paul. A sign on the wall outside the shrine had informed her in three languages, as if she had not already guessed, that she was in the city’s ancient Christian quarter.

  The doorway before her, like many Damascene portals, was constructed in the distinctive black-and-white-banded stonework. A small and extremely dusty window, enclosed by thick iron bars, opened onto what appeared to be a pokey little bookshop.

  Cass saw unkempt shelves and a table stacked high with books and pamphlets, and her heart sank. A bookshop? Was that all there was to it— some kind of weird cult pushing their odious literature and trying to convert unsuspecting suckers to their occult beliefs? Disappointment turned down the corners of her mouth. How dare they, she thought— pasting up signs promising help as a way to lure in gullible travellers; they ought to be ashamed of themselves. These and other thoughts were riffling through her mind as, thoroughly disgusted—with them for lying, and with h
erself for letting her hopes get so high on the basis of such flimsy evidence as a handwritten poster—she turned to go.

  No doubt all this bouncing around between worlds or dimensions or whatever—finding herself in new places every other minute—had momentarily thrown off her judgement. That could not be allowed to continue. She had to apply the rigour of her scientific mind to the situation at hand, and she would begin this very moment.

  With a last disdainful glance at the shop, she stepped away and started down the street when there was a click behind her, and the glossy black door opened. A stout older woman with straight white hair cut in a short bob stuck out her head. “Oh!” she said, “I have company. I thought I heard someone on the step.” Dressed in a longsleeved blouse with a large jade brooch at the throat, a green tartan skirt, and sensible brown shoes, she peered at her visitor through small, wire-rimmed glasses, offering the thin smile of a strict elder aunt or a Scottish school mistress á la Miss Jean Brodie who, in her prime, tolerated no nonsense in her classroom. The woman opened the door a little wider. “You must come in, dear.”

  “You speak English,” Cassandra observed with some relief. “I mean—that is, I was looking for the Zetetic Society.”

  “And you have found us.” The lady stepped to one side. “Please, this way.”

  “No, I—I was just leaving. I think I made a mistake.”

  “If you have come all this way,” the woman said, her enunciation precise and slightly clipped, “it is certainly no mistake.”

  She said it with such simple conviction that Cass was persuaded to agree. “Well, just for a moment, perhaps,” she allowed.

  Cassandra crossed the threshold and entered the bookshop. The interior was muted—the only light came from the window, and that was filmed with age and dust. But the shop itself was reasonably clean, and the soft furnishings of sofa and overstuffed chairs gave it the feel of an old-fashioned reading room or private library. The woman shut the door and regarded Cass over the top of her glasses. Cass caught a whiff of lavender water.

  “What brings you here, if I may be so bold?”

  “To Damascus?”

  “To the society,” corrected the woman, stressing the word for emphasis. Before Cass could answer, a shrill whistle sounded from another room. “There’s the kettle. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Um,” Cass hesitated.

  “I was just going to have one myself. Please, make yourself comfortable. I shan’t be a moment.”

  She hurried away, leaving Cassandra to gaze around the little shop. In addition to the bookshelves lining the walls, there was a round brass table of the kind much favoured in the Middle East, consisting of a tray balanced on a carved olive-wood stand. Two large easy chairs sat on either side of the table and, between them, a floor lamp with a purple silk shade. There was no counter or cash register, which Cass thought odd for a bookshop, nor any other accoutrements of commercial enterprise.

  Cass moved to the nearest shelf and took in some of the titles. The History of the Assyrian Empire . . . A Walk in Old Babylon . . . Life in the Ancient Near East . . . The Lost Treasury of Nebuchadnezzar . . . and other tomes of history, their leather spines creased and cracking with age. She moved along to a section of religious writing: The Habiru of Palestine . . . The Collected Writings of Josephus . . . The Desert Fathers .. . A Sojourn in the Carpathians . . . Sumerian Culture . . . Who Were the Hittites? . . . The Tombs of Catal Huyuk .. . and so on.

  Presently the woman returned carrying a wooden tray laden with a brass teapot, glass beakers half filled with fresh green leaves, and a plate of tiny almond cookies. She placed the tray on the table and invited Cass to join her. “I hope you like it with mint,” she said, and began pouring the hot tea over the leaves. “It is a local custom of which I’ve grown quite fond.” She passed a glass to her guest, settled back in her chair, took a sip, and sighed, “There, that’s better.”

  “Mm,” Cass remarked after an exploratory sip. “Delicious.”

  “There is sugar, if you like.” The woman nudged a tiny china bowl. “Where are my manners?” she said, replacing her cup. “I am Mrs. Peelstick.”

  “My name is Cassandra,” replied Cass.

  “What a pretty name. I’m very glad to meet you, Cassandra. I don’t believe I heard your answer when I asked what brought you here today.” She blew on her tea while waiting for a response.

  “Well, I guess I was just curious.”

  The woman nodded and said, “‘Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.’”

  “Pardon?”

  “A scrap of old poem.” She stirred sugar into her tea, swirling the green leaves around and around. “After all, we are pilgrims—are we not? Help yourself to biscuits.”

  Cass reached for one of the small round cookies. It was a relief just to sit and do something normal for a moment—if one considered taking mint tea with an English ex-pat in Damascus in any way normal. “Thank you.”

  The two sipped their drinks for a moment in silence. From somewhere in the next room a clock chimed the hour. “I hope I’m not keeping you from anything,” said Cass. “I was only curious about the society.” The old woman made no reply, so Cass, to fill the silence, continued, “Zetetic is an odd word. I don’t believe I have ever heard it. What does it mean?”

  “It comes from the Greek zetetikos—to seek. The Zetetic Society is a society of seekers.”

  “What do you seek?”

  “Ah, that is the question.” The old woman smiled and sipped her tea. At first Cassandra did not think she would answer, but the woman put down her glass and said, “I suppose one could say something pompous and embroidered. If Brendan were here he would no doubt offer up a phrase such as . . . ‘We seek not the treasures of knowledge, but the treasury itself! ’” She paused to frame a more considered answer. “Perhaps the simplest way to put it is that we of the society seek answers to life’s biggest questions.”

  “Which questions are those?”

  “The usual questions. Why are we here? Where are we going?” The woman paused, leaned a little forward, and regarding Cass meaningfully, added, “What is the true nature of reality?”

  “I wish I knew,” sighed Cass under her breath. The woman’s continued gaze made her uncomfortable. She seemed to be expecting Cass to say something, so she asked, “These books—are they for sale, then?”

  “Oh, dearie me, no,” the woman replied, retrieving her tea. “They are resource materials.”

  “I see.” Cass nodded, sipping thoughtfully. “But you do have some literature?”

  “No, I’m very much afraid that we do not.”

  “Nothing about the society—its aims, beliefs, membership requirements?”

  “You make us sound very grand—very grand, indeed. No, I’m afraid we’re just a small congregation of oddballs and eccentrics dedicated to the quest. There are no formal requirements.” She hesitated, again regarding Cass with that direct, appraising look. “No formal requirements other than finding your way to our door.”

  “That’s it? That’s all? A potential member only has to find his way to this shop?”

  “What made you think this was a shop?” she asked, picking up the brass teapot. “More, dear?”

  Cass offered her glass. “Thank you.”

  “As I was saying, there are no membership requirements because, you see, we find that only those who wish to become members of the society would bother inquiring at all.”

  “Your membership is self-selecting,” mused Cass. “Then I suppose it must be a very large society.”

  “Why would you think that?” wondered the woman. “True seekers are very rare. Those willing to pay the price to join the quest are rarer still.” She shook her head. “No, we are a small, rather exclusive group. But the exclusion is not on our side, I assure you. People either choose to join us or not. Mostly, we find, they do not.”

  “That’s a shame,” quipped Cass. “At very least they’d get a nice cup of mint
tea.”

  “They would indeed, dear.”

  Cassandra finished her cup and placed it on the tray. She stood. “Thank you for the chat, and for the tea. You’re very kind, but I really must be going. I didn’t intend to take up your morning.”

  “Didn’t you?” wondered the woman. “Then why did you come?”

  “The poster,” explained Cass. “I saw the poster—the orange one?—at the entrance to the bazaar. I thought it sounded interesting, so I came.”

  The old woman placed her glass on the tray and faced her visitor, her gaze pointed and uncomfortably direct. After a moment she said, “Would it surprise you very much if I told you that not everyone can see that poster?”

  “Because it’s written in English, you mean?”

  “I did not say they could not read it,” replied the woman, adopting a pedantic tone. “I said they cannot see it. Our little advertisement is effectively invisible to all who are not ready and willing to see it. You, my dear, are ready—otherwise you would not be here.”

  Cass felt a queasy apprehension squirm over her. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  “I mean exactly what I said. No more. No less.” Her smile became tight and sharp. “Do you think I cannot tell who and what you are?”

  Anxious now to terminate the interview and leave, Cass said, “Well, I really must be going.” She rose and stepped backward, edging towards the door. “It was nice meeting you.”

  “And you as well.” The old woman rose and followed her. “But I have a suspicion that we shall be meeting one another again very soon.”

  Cassandra nodded. Moving quickly to the door, she fumbled with the doorknob, twisted it, pulled open the door, and stepped outside.

  The woman followed her as far as the threshold. “There is a convent not more than a hundred paces farther on. It is run by the Sisters of Saint Tekla, and they offer beds and simple fare to pilgrims of all faiths or none.” She gestured vaguely farther along. “If you have no place to stay, I recommend them without reservation.”