“They’re not myths.” Father Rye stood up, crossed to a bowl on a counter, snatched up an apple, and tossed it toward Gray. “Does that feel like a myth to you, young man? Maggie’s son picked that from a tree growing on the island just last week.”
Gray frowned down at the fist-sized fruit.
“There is no other apple like it on earth,” Father Rye said proudly. “A few years back, some apples from that tree were taken to the National Fruit Collection in Kent. They tested the Bardsey apple and determined two things. First, that the tree was a new variety never seen before. And second, that the apple was unusually free of any rot or disease. They tested the gnarled old tree itself and found it to be in the same health. Arborists believe the tree may be the lone surviving specimen from an orchard that the monks of Saint Mary’s once planted on the island a thousand years ago.”
Gray stared at the small apple in his hand, sensing the passage of time and history it represented. No matter what one might believe, there did seem to be a long, strange history of healing tied to this island: first the Fomorian queen, then the Celtic legends of Avalon, and now in his hand, something that had been scientifically proved to be unusually healthy.
He looked out the window at the hump of green land.
What was so special about that island?
Apparently Father Rye wasn’t done with his history lesson.
“Moving forward through time, all things must come to an end,” he said. “And the Celts were no exception. The Romans eventually vanquished them, but only after years of fierce fighting. During this time, the Romans claimed that the Druids cast curses upon their troops, just as the Fomorians had done to the Celts long ago. And after the Druids were gone, the Church came here and settled these pagan lands. They set up an abbey on the island in the thirteenth century. The ruins of its tower can still be found there.”
Wallace drew their conversation full around. “But what about the twenty thousand saints you mentioned at the beginning?”
Father Rye sipped his tea, nodding at the same time, but somehow never spilling a drop. “Bardsey is known as the Isle of Twenty Thousand Saints. A name marking the number of persecuted Christians buried there.”
“So many?” Wallace pressed. “Surely there’s no archaeological evidence for such a mass burial?”
“You are right. I imagine the legend is more allegorical than literal. Though local folklore does whisper of a great death that fell on Bardsey, a withering sickness that slew most of the villagers and monks. Their bodies were burned to ashes and cast out to sea.”
Gray recognized the pattern of that story. Just like the highland village. All evidence burned and swept away, leaving only rumor and a cryptic entry in the Domesday Book.
“Either way, the island has been considered holy ground since the Church first came here. Bardsey grew to become a place of pilgrimage, from ancient times to today. The Vatican declared that three trips to Bardsey were equivalent to one trip to Rome. Not a bad deal, if you ask me. And many others thought the same.”
Father Rye pointed in the direction of his church. “The oldest part of Saint Hywyn’s dates back to 1137. Through its doors, thousands and thousands of pilgrims have flowed on their way to Bardsey. Including most of the Irish and English saints of that time.”
As if summoned by the priest’s words, the rectory door burst open and a tall boy pounded into the room with all the verve that only a thirteen-year-old could muster. The boy quickly pulled off his cap to reveal hair so red it looked ready to set fire to the room.
“There you are, Lyle,” Father Rye said and stood up. “Does your da have his ferry ready for our guests?”
Lyle eyed the crowd. “He does, Father. He ran me up to fetch ‘em. Though they’d better be quick. The blow’s kicking up fierce already.”
Father Rye placed his palms on his hips, looking forlorn at losing his guests. “You best be going. You don’t want to be caught midcrossing when that storm hits.”
Gray nodded. “Let’s go.” He got everyone moving toward the door.
“Can my dog stay with you?” Wallace asked the priest. “There’s one thing Rufus can’t stomach and that’s boats.”
Father Rye’s smile returned. “I’d like that. You can nab him up on your way back.”
Rufus looked happy enough with that decision. He lowered his head back to his paws as he lay by the fire.
As Gray headed to the door, Father Rye called out, “Lyle, when you get to the island, make sure you show them the Hermit’s Cave.” Gray glanced back.
Father Rye winked at him. “Where Merlin is buried.”
11:22 A.M.
Rachel eyed the ferry doubtfully. The small boat looked sound enough. It was a double-hulled catamaran, with a covered pilot’s cabin in front and an open deck in the stern. She had been on such boats before when diving in the Mediterranean. They were notoriously stable and reliable.
Still, as she watched it roll and tilt in the chop, Rachel grew concerned. With one hand clutching her coat closed at her neck, she stared into the stiff wind. She could smell the rain. Though dry here, a heavy downpour swept toward the coast.
Her expression must have been easy to read.
“The Benlli’s a good boat,” the ferryman attested. Decked out in a heavy sweater and yellow slicker, he was Lyle’s father, Owen Bryce. His boy bounced over the rolling deck with the agility of a red-haired monkey. His father watched him proudly. “Don’t you fret, miss. We’ll get you there safe. She runs low with a steep deadrise.”
Rachel didn’t know what he meant, but she took confidence in his vocabulary. He seemed to know what he was talking about.
Lyle appeared and offered her his hand. She took it as she hopped from jetty to boat. Gray and Wallace were already aboard, with their heads together. Kowalski followed behind with Seichan.
Rachel kept away from Seichan and took a seat next to Gray. Still, she sensed the woman’s presence—not because she was staring at Rachel, but because she purposefully wasn’t. It made her angry. She felt she deserved at least to be acknowledged.
To take her mind off Seichan and the rocking boat, she focused back on Gray. He had to speak loudly as the catamaran’s twin outboard engines gurgled to a roar.
“Back at the rectory,” Gray said, “I heard you mumble something about not being surprised Father Giovanni kept coming back here.”
Rachel had heard the same. It had been when Father Rye had been talking about the pagan queen.
Wallace nodded. “Aye. As a historian of Neolithic Britain, I’m quite familiar with the Irish tales of the monstrous Fomorians who supposedly first inhabited the lands here. It was said they were giants who ate people alive. But it was the vicar’s description of them as descendants of Ham, a figure straight out of the Bible, that must have pinched Marco’s nose and kept him focused here.”
“How so?” Gray asked.
“To start with, Celtic tales were all told orally. Spread by word of mouth. The only reason we even have them today is because of the Irish monks who survived the ravages of the Dark Ages in seclusion, who spent their days meticulously decorating and illuminating manuscripts. They preserved the core of Western civilization through the Middle Ages. Including preserving Irish legends and sagas by writing them down for the first time. But what you must understand is that the monks were still Christians, so in their retelling, many of these stories took on a biblical slant.”
“Like the Fomorians being described as descendants of Ham,” Gray said.
“Precisely. The Bible never actually denotes a race for these cursed descendants of Ham, but early Jewish and Christian scholars interpreted the curse to mean that Ham’s descendants were black-skinned. It was the way that slavery was once justified.”
Gray sat back, understanding dawning in his face. “So what you’re saying is that the Celts described the Fomorian queen as being black, so the monks made her a descendant of Ham.”
Wallace agreed. “A dark-skinned queen who could cure the sick.”
“And to Marco, she was possibly an early pagan incarnation of the Black Madonna.” Gray looked out toward the island as the boat churned into the choppier open waters. “Perhaps even the legends of the sorceress Morgan Le Fay and Avalon tie back to that same mythology. Another woman bearing magical healing powers.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “No wonder Father Giovanni became obsessed with this place.”
“For that reason, and also the key.” Wallace folded his arms and easily rolled with the boat’s motion.
“The key to the Doomsday Book?” Rachel asked. “I thought you said that was rubbish.”
“I may have thought it was rubbish, but Marco didn’t. All the legends of the key suggest that it unlocked a vast treasure, a treasure that could save the world. Marco believed I was on the right course in studying the places marked as ‘wasted.’ And I’m growing to think he’s right.”
“Why’s that?” Gray asked.
“Father Rye’s stories. He spoke of how the Fomorians battled the invading Celts by casting plagues on them. It was said the Druids did the same when the Romans invaded. So it makes me wonder if the Celts learned something from the conquered Fomorians, something more than just agriculture. A new means of warfare, a new weapon. Maybe there was a core of truth behind these stories. A truth buried in the Domesday Book.”
Rachel began to get a glimmer of where he was headed, but Gray got there first.
“You think that ability to cast plagues survived into the eleventh century. Maybe an early form of biowarfare.”
Rachel pictured the condition of the mummies. Emaciated, with mushrooms growing internally.
“Could someone have poisoned these villages with some sort of fungal parasite?” Gray asked. “And if so, who?”
“As I said before, all the villages noted in the Domesday Book were located in places of friction between Christians and pagans. And I think it’s especially telling that the first place struck was Bardsey Island. Hallowed ground for the Druids. They could not have liked the monks and Christians being here.”
“So you think some secret sect of Druids wiped them out?”
“And after that, they took their war to the mainland of England. I suspect they began casting these plagues in the borderlands in hopes the conflict would spread throughout England.”
Wallace had to catch himself as the ferry hit a huge wave. Once reseated, he continued. “Perhaps the hidden purpose of the Domesday Book was to map these incursions, to keep track of them. The census takers who compiled the book were sent out to all corners of Britain, collecting information from villagers and townspeople alike, surely doubling as spies.”
“Did it work?” Rachel asked, caught up in the story.
“Well, those hot spots never did spread,” Wallace said with a shrug. “Someone must have found a way to thwart the attacks. Then buried it safely away.”
“The key to the Doomsday Book,” Gray said. “You believe it’s some sort of cure.”
Wallace touched the tip of his nose, acknowledging the same.
“And we’re on the right track?” Gray asked, glancing significantly at Rachel. They didn’t have much room for error.
His hand slipped over hers, squeezed her fingers, then let go. She wished he had kept on holding. His skin had been hot, his grip reassuring.
Wallace answered Gray’s question. “Marco certainly believed in the key. And judging from that gruesome little keepsake of his, he discovered something. And we know he started here at Bardsey.”
The professor nodded toward the growing bulk of the dark island. It was buried in the storm. And a moment later, so were they. The winds kicked up, blowing freezing slaps of water across the boat. Then rain suddenly pounded the boat, as if trying to drive them under the sea. Visibility dropped to yards.
“Hang tight!” Kowalski bellowed from the pilothouse, where he stood with the captain. “Swells dead ahead!”
The bow of the boat rose high, pointed at the sky—then dropped like a rock. After that, motion became a blur. The ferry lurched and heaved, rocked and pitched.
Without warning, Rachel’s stomach did the same. A queasy heat swept through her. Her hands went clammy and cold. She didn’t have time to make it to the ship’s water closet. She swung around in her seat, bent over the rail, and emptied her stomach in a single large wrack of her body. It left her so drained she had a hard time keeping a grip on the wet rail.
Below her face, the sea surged up and down, looking ready at any moment to wash up and over her. Her hands slid. She felt herself tipping.
Then strong arms closed around her, holding her firmly but gently.
“I’ve got you,” Gray said.
She leaned against him, her stomach still rolling with the waves. The rest of the trip was no smoother, but he never left her side.
After what seemed like hours, land filled the world ahead. The storm grew less fierce. Rain receded to a drizzle. A long concrete slipway stuck out into the small harbor, next to it a stone jetty. The ferryman slid his boat skillfully beside the dock as Lyle ran and tossed bolsters between the jetty and the boat. Moments later, they were tied up.
Rachel clambered happily off the rocking boat. The solid crunch of stones under her feet had never felt so good.
“Are you okay?” Gray asked.
She had to take some personal inventory before slowly nodding. “I think so. Just glad to be away from the waves.”
Gray touched her arm. Concern shone in his eyes. “Are you sure it was just the waves?”
Rachel wanted to nod again. But she placed a hand on her belly, remembering what Seichan had said about the poison. One of the first symptoms was nausea.
She glanced back to the boat.
What if it wasn’t the waves?
12:05 P.M.
Bardsey Island, Wales
The tractor climbed up the hill from the harbor. It dragged a hay trailer behind it, and its straw-strewn bed held a collection of sodden people. A tarpaulin staked over the trailer shielded against spats of rain, but it offered no protection against the cutting wind.
Gray huddled below the sides of the trailer, trying his best to hide from the more stubborn gusts. The worst of the storm had abated for the moment, but the sky to the west only grew darker, threatening a worse gale to come.
As they climbed the hill, a panoramic view of the small island opened up. Behind the trailer, out at the tip of the island, rose a tall red-and-white-striped lighthouse. It blinked into the storm with a steady turn of its lamp. Between the lighthouse and the hill was farmland. There were only a dozen or so full-time residences on Bardsey Island, mostly farmers and those who rented cottages to visiting hikers, bird-watchers, and pilgrims.
The only roads were dirt. The only vehicles were tractors.
They’d definitely stepped into another era.
As they neared the crest of the hill, the tractor slowed to a halt. The boy Lyle hopped from the back of the tractor to the bed. He was their official driver and tour guide. He crouched in the middle of the bed as a roll of thunder echoed over the hilltop.
Lyle waited for it to fade, then spoke. “Father Rye said you might be wanting to visit the old Hermit’s Cave. It’s off a wee bit on foot. I can show you.”
Kowalski patted his pockets, looking for a cigar. “Not really feeling like paying the hermit a visit.”
Gray ignored Kowalski and joined Lyle. “You said you helped Father Giovanni before and that he spent most of his time at the ruins of the old abbey. Did he spend any time up at the cave?”
“Not really. Just once at the beginning. Don’t think he went back after that.”
Gray knew he had better take a look to be thorough. “Show me.” “I’ll go with you,” Wallace volunteered. “Be a shame to come all this way and not pay my respects to the dearly departed Merlin.” The sarcasm ran thick in his voice.
Gray glanced at Rachel. She shook her head. She still looked a little queasy, but he wasn’t sure if it was from moti
on sickness, toxicity, or something in between.
He hopped out of the bed and was surprised to see Seichan jump out after him. Without a word, she headed after Wallace and the boy.
Gray suspected that Seichan’s interest lay less in the hermit’s cave than in a desire not to be left alone with Rachel. Shouldering his pack, he followed after the others up a side trail.
Seichan slowed enough to come even with him. “We need to talk,” she said, not looking at him.
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“Quit being an ass. Despite what you think, I don’t want to be in this position any more than you do. It wasn’t my choice to poison Rachel. You know that, right?”
She finally looked at him.
He wasn’t buying it.
“The end result is the same,” he said. “You get what you want, and others pay the price.” He let his spite show. “So how was your visit with the Venetian curator’s family?”
Her eyes narrowed. Wounded, angry, she swung away. Her voice grew more brittle.
“Whatever is going on here has the Guild stirred up, from its top brass on down. They’re dispensing a huge amount of resources to find this lost key. I’ve only seen them this mobilized once before. Back when we were searching for the Magi’s bones.”
“Why’s that?” Gray hated to get involved with her, but if she had insight, he dared not dismiss it.
“I don’t know. But whatever is happening over at Viatus, it’s only the head of the beast. I suspect the Guild has been manipulating and exploiting the corporation merely as a resource. It’s what they do best. They’re like a parasite that invades a body, sucks it dry, then moves on.”
“But what is their end goal?”
“To find that key. But the bigger question is why is the key so important to the Guild? Discover that and you may be one step closer to finding it.”
She stopped speaking, letting that sink in. Gray had to admit she was right. Maybe he did have to look at the problem from the other way around, work backward.
She finally continued. “We know that Viatus took those mummies and experimented on them. But the bodies were discovered three years ago. So for years now the project has been running below anyone’s radar. I certainly wasn’t aware of it. Yet just as Father Giovanni makes a run for the Vatican, the Guild rises up. Anyone with an ear to the ground like mine could hear it. In the last twenty-four hours, they’ve exposed themselves more than I’ve seen them ever do before. It was what drew me to Italy in the first place, what made me seek out Rachel.”
The Doomsday Key and The Last Oracle with Bonus Excerpts Page 25