The Spirit Well be-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Mina, determined to find out all she could of these mysterious lines of telluric energy flowing beneath the church, immediately hailed one of the monks going about his business. “Scusi, padre. Parla Inglese”

  “Si, signora, a leetle.”

  Pointing to the sign showing the map of the curious lines, she said, “This priest”-she tapped the neatly lettered name at the bottom of the sign-“Fra Giambattista Becarria?”

  “Fra Giambattista, si,” agreed the monk.

  “Is he here? May I speak to him? It may be important.”

  “No, signora, is not possible. Fra Giambattista, he no longer with us.”

  Mina frowned. “He is dead, you mean?”

  “ Si. Many years now.”

  “May I see his grave?”

  “Alas, signora. Is at Abbazia di Montserrat, I think”

  “Montserrat? Is that far?”

  “Si, signora. Is in Spagna.”

  Wilhelmina thanked the priest for the information and continued her exploration of Sant’Antimo. By the time she reached the altar rail she was in the grip of a conviction as potent as it was absurd: the unanswerable certainty that the knowledge she so desperately needed would be found at a place that thirty seconds ago she had never even heard of. Moreover, this conviction entailed an insistence of such urgency that she plopped down in the front pew and stared at the light streaming in through the high, narrow windows behind the stunningly lifelike crucifix, her mind reeling with the single thought that she must drop everything and get herself to the abbey at Montserrat by the fastest means possible.

  At the time, her ley mapping skills did not yet extend to the Spanish peninsula, and she wanted to make no mistakes, so she decided to travel by train. In a typically canny move, Wilhelmina decided that if she was to visit a Spanish abbey, she would present herself as a German nun. In Montalcino, she purchased a plain skirt and blouse, and with the addition of a gift-shop cross of olive wood and a well-arranged dovegrey headscarf, she was a passable sister-if of the modern variety.

  Upon arrival in Barcelona, she found a convent and arranged to join a group of visiting French nuns on pilgrimage to the Abadia de Santa Maria, which was located high in the jagged mountain range northeast of the city. It was a three-day trek on foot, but Wilhelmina enjoyed the fresh air and easy company of the nuns, who sang as they went and stopped in every village chapel and shrine along the way to pray and prepare for their sojourn at the abbey.

  The little party finally arrived late in the afternoon of the third day. They entered the narrow gorge into which the abbey and its various buildings had been painstakingly shoehorned. The soaring peaks of the surrounding mountains rose sheer on every side save one, which gave onto a shimmering vista stretching from the sloping foothills all the way to the coast. As the covey of nuns stood marvelling at the magnificence of the abbey and its situation, the bell for vespers rang, so they followed the general flow of monks and visitors up the steep incline to the church.

  At the top of the esplanade rose ranks of steps that terminated in a courtyard, the end of which opened to a gateway. Beyond the gates was a handsome atrium lined with statues of apostles and saints and paved with inlaid marble of many colours that marked out a geometric swirl of intersecting lines, at the centre of which was a circular mosaic representing the four rivers flowing out of Eden. The courtyard thronged with visitors behaving in a most peculiar way. They stood in a long line snaking back into the courtyard and, one at a time, each waiting patiently for the other, they took it in turn to step forward and stand in the central disc of the mosaic. Then they prayed-some in the classic attitude with hands folded and heads bowed, but many in apparent wild abandon with arms outstretched and faces turned to the clear blue sky above.

  The faithful would stand like this for a time before moving off to join the general population making their way into the sanctuary. This curious activity was not lost on Wilhelmina. How very odd, she thought. Clearly, there was something going on here, and she took it as a sign that vindicated her own decision to come.

  She followed the others as they moved slowly towards the entrance and, upon approaching the centre of the mosaic circle, experienced the subtle but unmistakable frisson of pent energy that she always felt in the presence of an active ley. It was there, marked out in stone in the middle of the atrium where, apparently, pilgrims in their hundreds and thousands also perceived the latent energy in some way.

  Once in the chapel, she sat through the service, listening to the ethereal voices of the choir and wondering how to make sense of it all. The end of the service found her in a pensive mood of rapt contemplation; for overarching all other considerations was a feeling of peace and, if not contentment, then at least a sense of rightness-she felt that all was as it should be.

  She took a light supper in the convent refectory with sisters from a dozen different nations and was given a cot in the dormitory. Wilhelmina slept well and awoke at the sunrise bell to attend prayers with them. As soon as the service was finished, she set off to find the grave of Fra Giambattista and to learn more about him if she could. She waited until most of the congregation had left, then approached one of the monks who acted as usher and guide. “Por favor, habla ingles?”

  “ Lo siento, hermana, no,” he said, shaking his head. He turned, then pointed across the spacious expanse of the sanctuary to a black-robed monk stacking blue service books.

  “Excuse me, brother,” she said, upon approaching him. “I am told you speak English.”

  The monk straightened, turned, and smiled when he saw her. “I have a little. How can I help you?”

  “I am looking for the grave of a former priest by the name of Giambattista Beccaria,” Wilhelmina replied, and went on to explain how she had been directed to the abbey to find it. She watched a thoughtful frown form and deepen on the priest’s smooth-shaven face.

  “I am sorry, sister,” he replied at length. “I have never heard that name. Are you certain he is buried here?”

  “That is what I have been given to understand. He was a former astronomer here-at least, that is what I was told.”

  “Ah! Then you must go to Brother Lazarus. He is astronomer now. If anyone knows about this, he will.”

  Wilhelmina thanked him for his help and asked where she might find this brother. The monk, who had resumed stacking books, shrugged. “At the observatory, where else?”

  She hurried off and, after asking directions, found a signboard painted with a map of the extensive abbey grounds. The observatory was clearly marked. According to the sign it was at the top of one of the peaks soaring above the abbey; all she had to do was climb the winding path leading to the summit. This she did and discovered a small tower with a bulbous top perched on a pinnacle of stone. An iron rail enclosed a circular walkway around the base of the building, and a simple handrail of knotted rope assisted the ascent up a steep flight of narrow stairs leading to the door.

  There appeared to be no one around, but as she started up the stairs she heard the sound of someone humming-low and rhythmically, if not exactly melodically. Mina could not see who was making this sound, but as she mounted to the top step and started around the base of the tower she found a monk in the black robes of the Benedictines down on his knees, surrounded by gardening tools-a small hand trowel, a rake, a pruning knife, an assortment of clay pots, and a sheaf of cuttings. The gardener was clutching a double handful of dirt and humming tunelessly while he worked. As she watched, he placed the dirt in a clay pot and pressed it firmly around a geranium cutting. A canvas bag of soil stood open beside him.

  Wilhelmina cleared her throat. “Excuse me, please,” she said, announcing her presence. “Hello?”

  The priest gave such a start that Wilhelmina was ashamed of startling him. “Oh, I am sorry,” she apologised. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  The gardener’s hand described a strange gesture around his head, and he whipped something out of sight in a fold of his robe. Then, steadying himself
, he rose and turned to meet his visitor. “Que?” he said, rubbing dirt from his hands. “Buenos dias, hermana.”

  “Sorry, no habla espanol,” she replied. Then, out of force of habit, she said, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

  “Ja, tu ich.” His smile widened. A small man, with short snowwhite hair and quick, dark eyes. His face was nicely browned by the sun, his hands made strong by the long hours he spent gardening. In all, he reminded Wilhelmina of one of the Seven Dwarfs. “Guten Morgen, Schwester,” he said in a rich, almost operatic baritone-the voice of a much larger man.

  “Good morning, brother,” she answered in the sturdy German of Old Prague, then offered him a little bow she had seen the other nuns make when addressing a priest of the order. “I am looking for the one they call Brother Lazarus.”

  “Then God smiles upon you, sister.” He bent to brush dirt from the knees of his robe. He straightened again, the top of his head coming only to Mina’s shoulder. “You have found him.”

  “ You are Brother Lazarus?” she asked, unable to keep the note of incredulity out of her voice. “The astronomer?”

  He laughed, and Wilhelmina’s face went red with embarrassment. “Why?” he asked. “Is that difficult to believe?”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” Mina said quickly. “I took you for a gardener,” she explained, indicating the assembled tools and pots.

  He looked where she was pointing. “Yes, well”-he gave a little shrug-“such is a good grounding for stargazing.” He reached out a thickly muscled hand and placed it gently on her sleeve. “An astronomer can only practise his craft at night. What is he to do with the rest of his time?”

  “Forgive me, brother. I meant no disrespect.”

  He swatted away the apology with an impatient flick of his hand. “Now that you have found Brother Lazarus, what do you want with him?”

  “I am searching for the burial place of one of your colleagues, a monk of this order. I have been told that he was once the astronomer here and that his grave is nearby. Can you tell me where it is?”

  “Perhaps, yes,” he replied, turning to resume his work. “If you will tell me his name, I can tell you if he is buried at the abbey.”

  “His name is Fra Giambattista.”

  At the name, the monk stopped, straightened, and went very still. “Fra Giambattista Beccaria?” he asked without turning around.

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “I am sorry, sister,” he said, stooping once more to his tools. “Your search has come to nothing. His grave, if it exists, is not here-not at this abbey.” He made a show of beginning to work again. “Good day to you. And Godspeed.”

  Wilhelmina pursed her lips, alarmed at the swift change in the man’s demeanour. The mere mention of the name had brought about an abrupt and disagreeable transformation-the same as if he had slammed a door in her face.

  “Good day,” she said quietly. “I am sorry to have bothered you.” She took a step backward, but as she prepared to take her leave, a force of will rose up inside her-a determination to hold her ground, come what may. At the very least, she owed it to herself: she had come this far and it would be a rotten shame to go away empty-handed.

  In a moment, the monk, still on his knees, peered back over his shoulder at her. “You’re still here.”

  “I am.”

  “Why?”

  “I think,” she began, feeling her way into it, “that I am waiting for a better explanation than the one I have just heard.”

  “Then you must resign yourself to waiting a very long time,” he declared. “There is no other explanation.”

  “I beg to disagree. I think there is,” she said, and even as she spoke the answer came to her.

  “Oh, you do,” he snapped, his voice taking on a brusque and officious tone. “Since you know, you have no need to ask me.” When she hesitated, he added, “Nothing else to say? Then I will ask you kindly to remove yourself.”

  “There is no grave,” Wilhelmina ventured, “because… ” She drew herself up and, casting all caution to the wind, said, “Because you are Giambattista Beccaria.”

  CHAPTER 10

  In Which False Identities Are Exposed

  "You are him, aren’t you,” Wilhelmina maintained, growing more certain by the moment. “You are Fra Giambattista.”

  “Do not be absurd, young lady,” he scoffed. “What a ridiculous notion!” He gave a choked little half laugh. “Utter nonsense.”

  Wilhelmina said nothing. His protest sounded contrived, and that fine, mellifluous voice had become pinched and tight.

  “The very idea is preposterous,” he blustered, shaking his head. “Absurd.”

  “Why?” asked Wilhelmina. “Why is it absurd?”

  “Brother Beccaria lived in Italy, long ago. If he were alive today he would be”-he paused to do a rough calculation-“well, it is impossible.” The monk made a dismissive wave and offered what was supposed to be mirthful chuckle. “Preposterous. Young people are so credulous.”

  “Yet I do not hear a denial,” she observed. “Why is that?”

  “I insist you go away before we both say something we will have need of confessing.”

  “My conscience is clear,” Wilhelmina told him. “Is there something you would like to confess?”

  The priest became very still, then slowly rose to his feet once more, stood, and turned to face her. He studied the woman before him closely, his eyes moving over her face and form. “Who are you?” he said at last.

  “My name is Wilhelmina Klug,” she said.

  “Fraulein Klug, I think. Despite present appearances, I suspect you are not a nun, nor ever have been,” he remarked. “Am I right?”

  “I believe we are both somewhat other than we appear.”

  “Please, do me the courtesy of a truthful answer. Are you a sister of the order?”

  “No,” Mina told him. “I am… a traveller.”

  “A traveller.” He made a face, dismissing her claim. “You are disingenuous,” he replied. “Traveller… ha!” He raised a hand to her, and Wilhelmina thought he meant to send her away once more but thought better of it. Instead he asked, “How did you learn about Fra Giambattista?”

  “I was visiting the abbey at Sant’Antimo in Tuscany,” she replied. “I saw the name on a placard. One of the brothers told me he had been appointed astronomer here, and that he was buried here.” She cast an appraising glance over the man before her. “But that is not true. There is no grave because he never died. In fact, he is standing here before me.”

  Astonishment, horror, but also relief played across the priest’s round, good-natured face. “But how could that possibly be?” he said, his voice growing small.

  “How could it be that you are that old?” she wondered. “Or how could it be that I know this?”

  “Either,” he mumbled, rocking back on his feet. “Both.”

  “It is possible,” she replied, taking a step closer, “because you are a traveller too-like me. And like me, your travels are not entirely confined to this world.”

  “Madre di Dio!” he said, making the sign of the cross over his chest and kissing his clasped hands. Without another word he darted to the door of the observatory tower, put his hand on the brass knob, and pushed open the door. Wilhelmina expected that, fleeing her presence, he would shut her out. But as he disappeared inside, he motioned for her to follow.

  She mounted the steps and entered a tiny vestibule; a narrow corridor led straight ahead to a pair of doors, and a staircase led to upper levels. Brother Lazarus went to the door on the left-hand side of the corridor and passed through. Wilhelmina followed him into a tidy little kitchen with a simple woodburning stove, a square wooden table, and four chairs. A curtained window opened to a view of the surrounding peaks and the lowlands beyond. The room was tidy and well kept; there were flowers in a chipped pottery mug on the table, and the rag rug on the floor was clean.

  The flustered monk went directly to the little cupboard and removed a short gl
ass beaker, a cup, and a jug of wine, which he carried to the table. He gestured to one of the chairs. “Sit.”

  Wilhelmina obeyed and was presented with a tot of wine. The priest sat down across the table and, taking his cup in both hands, guzzled down a healthy slug. He looked at Wilhelmina, who raised her beaker to him, then sipped, and he took another great gulp. “So! I am discovered at last.” He shook his head slowly. “What is to happen now?”

  “I really don’t know,” replied Mina gently. “I certainly did not come here to frighten you, or harm you in any way.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  She did not know where to begin to answer that-there was just too much. She wanted to know how to manipulate the leys, how they worked, what caused them, where they led; there was the nagging matter of Kit and getting in touch with him again so that she could tell him to stop worrying about her; and then there was the whole business of the Skin Map and the Burley Men, and so on. Wilhelmina decided to skip all that for now and settled for a much simpler, “I came here seeking knowledge.”

  “Knowledge,” repeated the monk. “What do you want to know?”

  Wilhelmina gazed at the wine in her glass. “There is so much-I hardly know where to begin. I have so very many questions.”

  “Pick one,” replied Fra Giambattista. Perhaps it was Wilhelmina’s soft-spoken assurance, or the soothing influence of the wine, but the priest’s fractured attitude seemed to be on the mend. “It does not matter where one starts; it is where one finishes that makes all the difference.”

  She seized on one of the many questions wheeling around in her head like a flock of noisy seagulls. “For an Italian living in Spain, why do you speak such good German?”

  He laughed, some of his former good humour returning. “That is what you have come here to ask? I thought it would be about the Holy Grail.”