The Spirit Well (Bright Empires)

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “What the bloody—” muttered Douglas. He had expected to find the scholar at work in his study, as he invariably was every night.

  Snipe took one look at the boarded-up entrance and uttered a sharp bark, which was his attempt at laughter.

  “Not funny,” growled Douglas. “We’ll have to go back into town and see if we can find out what’s happened.”

  They trudged back up the street, and this time were challenged by the bailiff at the crossroads. “Pax vobiscum,” offered Douglas in greeting. He raised his hand in the sign of the cross, and the town official, seeing the gesture and monk’s habit, raised his pike to let them through. “Benedicimus te, filius meus,” Douglas pronounced in his best clerical tone and passed.

  “Salve, frater” replied the bailiff in rough Latin.

  Douglas nodded and moved on. As the bells for compline had gone, he decided to call in at Saint Martin’s and see if he might speak to one of the senior clerics. With a muttered warning to Snipe to be on his best behaviour, the two slipped into the church quietly to stand at the back of the simple sanctuary. A group of monks in white robes with black scapulas was standing below the altar at the front, chanting the last prayer of the day.

  They soon finished and began shuffling out, some of them yawning, others talking in low voices. Douglas identified one he thought he recognised from a previous visit and, stepping out from the shadows, said, “My apologies for interrupting, brother.” The Latin felt odd on his tongue, but he remembered to dip his head in a slight bow to acknowledge the other’s seniority. “Brother Thomas, is it not? I was hoping to have a word.”

  The monk sent his brothers on ahead, stopped, and turned to Douglas. “Do I know you, brother?”

  “I am Brother Douglas,” he said, smiling, “a visitor from Tyndyrn.”

  “Ah, yes—I remember you. How can I be of service, brother?”

  “Pardon my rude speech,” Douglas said. The other gave him a nod of indulgence. “But as you may recall, I have been engaged in scholarly consultation with Friar Bacon—a question of language and interpretation.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have just arrived in the city and was hoping to find him at work in his study at the bridge, but—”

  Brother Thomas completed the thought. “You have discovered that Master Bacon’s tower is boarded and barred.”

  “Verily, brother. I was hoping you might tell me the reason for this?”

  The senior monk pursed his lips as he thought how best to frame his reply. “Brother Bacon has been placed under arrest and confined to his living quarters.”

  Douglas raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Can you tell me the reason for his arrest?”

  “Pray, permit me a moment’s consideration,” replied Thomas. The monk steepled his fingers and placed them against his lips in thought. “I can tell you that our brother has been charged with attempting to corrupt the students under his care, and has been confined pending the outcome of an investigation into his teachings.”

  “This is a very serious charge, to be sure,” allowed Douglas judiciously. Through his research, he knew Master Bacon had once been placed under house arrest on flimsy charges of heresy—brought, it was thought, by rivals jealous of his patronage by Pope Clement IV. He had, however, not been able to find out when this house arrest began; now he knew. “Is he allowed visitors?”

  The elder monk shook his head slowly and offered a thin smile. “Alas, no. It is a condition of his arrest that until the charges are tried and proven one way or the other, Brother Bacon is not to see or speak to anyone—lest he spread the contagion of his noxious teachings.”

  “Of course,” replied Douglas, sensing an underlying hostility in his informant. “No doubt that is as it should be.”

  “To be sure.” The priest drew himself up. “Now, if there is nothing further, I will wish you a good night.” He raised his hand in a parting blessing. “God speed you to your rest.”

  “And you, brother,” said Douglas, stepping aside to allow the other to depart. The senior cleric joined his fellows, who were waiting for him at the church door. After the others had gone, Douglas drew Snipe aside. “We wait here until everyone has gone to bed,” he said. “You sleep too. I will wake you when it is time.”

  PART FIVE

  Five Smooth Stones

  CHAPTER 27

  In Which a New Recruit Is Canvassed

  The soft evening deepened around them as Cassandra and her two guides sauntered along the quiet streets of Old Damascus, listening to the sound of distant church bells. Cass—a little dazed and dazzled by all she had heard that day—was in a quiet, thoughtful mood. From a minaret somewhere the droning sound of the muezzin arose, echoing through the near-empty streets, calling the faithful to prayer. The purple twilight and the sound of the bells and quavering chant suited her perfectly.

  “I still don’t know why you’d want me to join your society,” she declared finally. “I have zero experience and know next to nothing of any of this. I really don’t think I have a single thing to offer.”

  “My dear,” said Mrs. Peelstick, “you have the one thing we need most—youth. All the rest can be learned.”

  “The plain truth is that the Zetetic Society has been active a very long time and, regrettably, our membership has aged,” Brendan pointed out. “We may age more slowly than our fellows, but age we do. The simple truth is that most of us are simply too old to go adventuring anymore.”

  “It is a fact of life,” agreed Mrs. Peelstick wistfully. “We do all get older.”

  “These days, our best and highest use is to recruit new members and provide support for the active questors,” continued Brendan. “We’re all of us searching for young blood, but it’s not easy. For example, we have several members hoping to pass the baton just now, but hand-offs can be awkward. The travel itself can pose difficulties.” Turning to Mrs. Peelstick, he added, “I’m thinking about Cosimo and Kit.”

  The older woman nodded knowingly, then sighed. “They are in my thoughts constantly.”

  “We mustn’t give up, Rosemary. Until we know more, we simply cannot allow ourselves to assume the worst.”

  “You’re right, of course, Brendan.” She offered a sad, hopeful smile. “Still . . .” Her voice died away, leaving an uneasy silence.

  Cass glanced at Brendan, but he seemed lost in thought. When she could restrain herself no longer, she asked, “Excuse me, I don’t mean to pry—but who are Cosimo and Kit?”

  “Ah,” replied Brendan, coming to himself once more. “Cosimo Livingstone is one of our questors. He has been intent on bringing his great-grandson into the fold—a young man named Christopher— about your age, I should think. Cosimo had tried unsuccessfully to enlist his son and grandson, but in Kit he had found someone who could carry on his life’s work.”

  “Handing such responsibility from one generation to another can be fraught with difficulty,” observed Mrs. Peelstick.

  “Cosimo had high hopes for Kit,” Brendan continued, “and he was preparing the young man to take a full and active part in the society. They were to have attended our last convocation.”

  Again the shadow passed over the two elder members’ faces. They shared an anxious glance.

  “We were looking forward to meeting the young man,” continued Mrs. Peelstick. “But we seem to have lost contact with Cosimo completely. It is feared they may have been taken.”

  “Missing in action,” corrected Brendan. “Our last communication with Cosimo indicated that he and our dear friend Sir Henry Fayth were on a mission, and Kit is thought to have been with them. This is cause for concern, because they are pillars of the society. What has become of them is yet to be determined.”

  A queasy foreboding formed in the pit of Cass’ stomach. “Taken?” she asked. Turning to Mrs. Peelstick, she said, “You used the word taken just now—what does that mean?”

  “I was speaking out of turn.”

  Brendan stopped walking and looked around. T
he dusky sky had faded to inky blue, deepening the shadows on the street. They were standing outside the gate of a tiny church. A sign in English beside the gate read Chaldean Christian Church.

  “Shall we go in? You deserve a full explanation, and it will be best absorbed sitting down.” He opened the gate, and they crossed the courtyard to the door of the church and stepped in.

  The interior was dark and quiet, the air fragrant with spent incense. The only light came from candles, which burned at stands set up beneath particular icons around the sanctuary. To Cass it felt like entering a cave, or perhaps a womb. An altar, with a simple golden cross flanked by two enormous beeswax candles, stood at the far end of the chancel. The short pews were empty; neither priests nor worshippers were to be seen.

  “I come here sometimes to think,” explained Brendan. “It is a safe place, and we won’t be disturbed. Have a seat.” He ushered Cass to a pew.

  Mrs. Peelstick continued towards the front of the sanctuary; she paused, genuflected towards the altar, and then moved to a little stand set off to one side. Taking a candle from a bundle, she lit it from one of the candles already burning and placed it in the holder with the others. She bowed her head, then crossed herself and returned to where Cass and Brendan were sitting.

  Cass remained silent, letting the peaceful atmosphere wash over her. After a moment, Mrs. Peelstick said, “Go on, Brendan.”

  “Where to start—that is the question.” He frowned and gazed down at his clasped hands.

  “Silly man!” sniffed Mrs. Peelstick. “You’re frightening the poor girl with your theatrics. If you won’t tell her outright, then I will.” Brendan nodded. “It comes to this—there are forces that do not care to see our quest succeed. They are against us, and try to thwart us whenever and wherever they can. They pose an extremely potent threat and a very real danger to life and limb.” She concluded with a grim smile. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Cass considered this. “You used the word forces just now. You mean people?”

  “Human agents, yes,” replied Brendan, rousing himself once more. “But spiritual agents as well, lest we forget. As our guide Saint Paul put it, ‘For ours is not a conflict with mere flesh and blood, but with the despotisms, the empires, the forces that control and govern this dark world—the spiritual hosts of evil arrayed against us in the heavenly warfare.’”

  “Now you are scaring her,” chided Mrs. Peelstick. “Honestly!”

  “Do we sugarcoat it, or tell it plain?” replied Brendan. Turning once more to Cass, he said, “On the human level, our principal adversary is a man who goes by the name of Archelaeus Burleigh. He has in his hire several low thugs of varying intelligence, none to match their leader in cunning and ability. He is a clever and resourceful enemy.”

  “And also, it must be said, completely ruthless,” added Mrs. Peelstick. “I have little doubt he is behind the disappearance of Cosimo and Sir Henry—assuming they have come to harm.”

  “And the spiritual forces you mentioned?”

  “The same as have always sought to wreak havoc on humanity and obstruct God’s good purposes in the world,” she replied in a soft voice, as if reluctant to speak aloud.

  “Ancient enemies they may be, but we must never underestimate them on that account,” Brendan pointed out. “They do not grow weak and toothless in old age. Rather, they are particularly active in our special sphere of interest.” He saw Cass’ uncertain expression. ”Do you doubt this?”

  “Not at all,” she answered, with more conviction than she intended. “I was just wondering why these spiritual forces you mention might have any special interest in what you’re doing?”

  Brendan glanced around the church. “It is well we are talking about this here,” he said, lowering his voice. “A church is the one place they cannot eavesdrop, so to speak, on our thoughts and prayers, our plans and intentions. Remember that; it could prove helpful to you one day.”

  “As to why they take a special interest,” said Mrs. Peelstick, “we believe it must be that we are probing very close to a very great spiritual breakthrough, and they know that their time is running out.”

  “The transformation of the universe we talked about earlier—is that what you mean?”

  “Indeed. Whatever form it takes, the fact is that opposition to our efforts has intensified out of all proportion to our somewhat meagre resources. The array of weapons against us is formidable. This leads us to believe that the quest so long and ardently pursued is nearing a critical stage.”

  “The Omega Point you talked about?” said Cass.

  Brendan nodded.

  “And if you fail?”

  Brendan spread his hands. “The world will slide back into the chaos that you see rampant around us already—wars and rumours of wars, nation against nation, brother at the throat of brother, economic instability with the rich growing ever richer and the poor suffering on a scale heretofore unimagined. But it will intensify. The universe will continue on its long, slow decline.”

  “So,” concluded Cass, “Almighty God is not strong enough alone to bring about His purpose for the universe. He needs you and your society to make it happen; otherwise it has all been for nothing. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Brendan only smiled. “Your cynicism is a well-honed tool.”

  “I’m not cynical,” countered Cass. “Maybe a little sceptical, but believe it or not, I want to understand. I really do. I’ve experienced something that two days ago I would have said was impossible, and now here I am bouncing between Arizona and . . . this.” She gave a sweep of her arm to take in not only the ancient building in which they sat but the Old Quarter and city beyond. “So cut me some slack, okay? I want to believe, but you’re not making it easy.”

  Brendan regarded her quietly. Mrs. Peelstick leaned nearer and said, “It is true that as a society we may be small and insignificant, weak in the face of a monstrous and powerful opposition, dwarfed by the towering magnitude of the task before us. But you know, God has always worked through the small, the insignificant, the powerless—it seems to be sewn into the very fabric of the universe.

  “If you consider it for a moment,” suggested the elderly woman, “you will see that it has only ever been that way. Over and over again, we see that when anyone willingly gives whatever resources they have to Him—whether it is nothing more than five smooth stones gathered from a dry streambed or five little loaves of bread and two dried sprats—then God’s greater purpose can proceed. Small and insignificant? Undoubtedly. But on the day of decision, everything depended on those five smooth stones—with them, David killed Goliath and saved a nation.”

  “Five loaves of bread became a banquet for five thousand hungry people,” Cass said thoughtfully, remembering the Bible story.

  Nodding towards the front of the sanctuary where a wooden cross stood on the altar, Mrs. Peelstick concluded, “And one poor, wandering country preacher—homeless, penniless, friendless, and despised by all but a handful of no-account fishermen and a few women—gave himself so fully to God that the combined might of the two most powerful forces in his world—the Roman empire and the religious authorities—could not stop him.”

  “They crushed him and killed him,” murmured Cass, gazing at the empty cross on the altar. “And look what happened.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mrs. Peelstick softly, “they killed him . . . and look what happened.”

  CHAPTER 28

  In Which the Moment of Decision Arrives

  Cass gazed at the simple wooden cross, pondering the depths of this sacred mystery. Five smooth stones gathered from a dry streambed changed the course of history; a nation was saved. And that other lad—given a lunch of five small loaves and a couple of dried fish and packed off to hear the wandering rabbi preach. Before the day was half through he would provide the substance for a miracle. He had been asked to give the little he had and, in the hands of the Master, it became a feast for thousands. Did that boy suspect that would happen?
No—how could he? All he knew was that he had been asked to choose which side he would serve—just as Cass was being asked now.

  “What do you say, Cassandra?” asked Brendan at last. “We have told you about our work and how you can help. It is time to make a decision. Will you join us?”

  Despite all the outlandish claims and untethered assumptions, all the convoluted and eccentric propositions she had heard throughout the day, Cass did feel drawn to the quest. Somewhere, in the core of her being, she knew that what she had been told was true. Still, she hesitated. Joining them meant leaving behind everything she had ever known—her life, her work, her place in the world . . . not to mention her father. The thought of her father waiting for her back in Arizona—frantic over her disappearance—pulled her back to reality.

  “I can’t,” she sighed at last. “I can’t sign up to anything I don’t fully understand. Besides that, I have commitments elsewhere. My father, for one—he must be beside himself with worry, wondering what happened to me.”

  “If I told you that you could return to the place you left within a day or so of the time you left,” offered Brendan, “would that make a difference?” He saw Cass hesitate and pressed her further. “It is true. Travellers have been known to spend years away from home only to return within a few days—or even a few hours—of their departure.”

  “Well, I—”

  “You could join us and still alleviate your father’s worries. Perhaps, if we—”

  “Don’t badger the poor girl,” interrupted Mrs. Peelstick. “She is intelligent, reasonable, and capable of making up her own mind.” To Cass she said, “We will respect your decision, my dear, and consider that it was simply not to be. We will, of course, help you get home again.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Cass. “You’ve been more than kind.”

  The old woman turned and, closing her eyes, drew in a deep breath of the frankincense-laden air. “It is nice here, isn’t it? So peaceful. It is truly a shelter from the storms that rage across the world.”