He turned back to the doctor. 'Every day my daughter stays in the womb, her chances increase?'
'Yes.'
'How much longer before she's safe?'
The doctor frowned. 'At least another three or four weeks.'
'How likely is it she'll get that?'
A pause. 'Extremely unlikely.'
'Given Lauren's current condition, how many more days do you think my daughter can stay in the womb?'
'Like I said, every day increases the odds on survival.'
'How many days?'
'It's hard to judge, Ross.'
'What's your best estimate?'
Another pause. 'Two, three. A week maximum.'
'So you want my permission to intervene and deliver the baby as soon as you think it's necessary?'
Gunderson nodded.
'Even though the chance of the baby's surviving undamaged is minimal?'
'Yes.'
Ross took a deep breath. 'Thank you for being so honest.'
Gunderson brushed a blonde hair from her face. 'Have you any more questions?'
'No, thanks. I've been away, and all I want now is some time alone with my wife. I'd like to stay with her tonight.'
Chapter 84.
Sitting in an uncomfortable chair, looking at Lauren and the scan, Ross obsessed about the opportunities he had had to save them. He remembered when he had held Lauren's cure. He recalled the Source bringing him back from the dead when he could have escaped with an abundance of healing crystals. But he had stayed to help the others and stop Torino controlling the Source because he had thought it was what Lauren would want him to do.
Gradually, as Ross listened to the lulling rhythm of the apparatus, his exhausted body overruled his racing mind. He slumped in the chair, exposing the heavy crucifix, and fell into a fitful sleep.
Hours later, he woke with a start, clutching the cross and sweating. In his dreams he'd relived his near-death epiphany and his vow to Lauren. Back then, in his heightened state, he had known Lauren was making him vow to protect the Source and sacrifice her. And in the surreal context of the garden it had seemed the painful but right thing to do. Even at the end, surveying the scorched Eden, ashamed of what man had done, he'd focused on a plan to protect the Source. In many ways he had done more to protect it and its creatures than he had to protect his own family.
At that time, and in that place, it had felt right. Now, in the sober gloom of a sterile hospital room, inches from his comatose wife, his vow to Lauren felt very different. Especially when he considered his daughter, growing in Lauren's belly. What difference would it have made if he'd taken some of the crystals for Lauren? How much damage would he have done to the Source or its ecosystem? He touched the crucifix and could almost hear Sister Chantal's voice: 'A vow is black and white. There's never a plausible excuse or justifiable reason to break it. You either keep a vow or break it. There's no middle ground. A vow is for ever.'
But what about your vow, Sister Chantal?
Sister Chantal had taken him to the garden for the express purpose of saving his wife. The Source was meant to save Lauren so she could become its protector, the Keeper, but instead Sister Chantal had placed that burden on his shoulders. He had become the Keeper. He studied the crude, ugly crucifix she had passed on to him, which Father Orlando had given her four and a half centuries ago, and rage built within him.
He considered all the pain it symbolized. Not just Christ's suffering but all the evil done in the name of religion. He thought of what Torino had done in the name of his church: harming Lauren, destroying the garden, abusing the Source. He thought of how Torino had used Bazin, offering redemption, but merely making him kill for a different master. Ross didn't see the cross bringing salvation to anyone - only suffering and damnation.
In his anger and despair he ripped it from his neck and threw it, with all his strength, across the room. The instant it hit the wall, narrowly missing the clock, he felt foolish and contrite.
The instruments by the bed began to beep.
Shit.
But the cross hadn't hit anything important. Had it?
Within seconds a nurse was rushing into the room.
Panicked but unable to help, Ross went to where the crucifix had fallen. The impact had dented it badly. He picked it up and, as he turned it in his hand, he noticed two things that dried his mouth: the welted seam at the back of the crucifix had buckled, revealing a hollow interior; and the second hand on the wall clock had stopped. Ross recalled Hackett dropping his watch into the pewter goblet, and how the shielding properties of its lead and tin had helped restart the mechanism. Then he remembered the reverence with which the nymphs had treated the cross. Had they sensed something?
With trembling fingers, Ross pulled back the malleable metal seam to reveal a crystalline sliver in the hollow. No larger than a toothpick, it glowed and pulsed with a life of its own. His heart raced. Father Orlando must have concealed it there when he had discovered the Source. He must have learnt somehow that certain metals could contain its magnetic and radioactive properties. The sliver of crystal would also explain how Father Orlando had healed his burnt feet after his first session of torture all those centuries ago, only forgoing its benefits when he realized that the Inquisition didn't regard his cure as proof of the existence of the garden, but as proof of possession by the Devil.
When Father Orlando had given the cross to Sister Chantal and told her to seek salvation within it in times of crisis, she hadn't understood he'd meant it literally. She had remained ignorant of the cross's secret for four and a half centuries. She can't have known about it, Ross thought, or she would have used it on Lauren when she first visited her in hospital.
Unless . . .
The thought sliced through his excitement like an icy draught. Sister Chantal had told him that the crystals in the tunnel only worked if they were of a certain size. This sliver was undoubtedly from the Source, but it was very small. Was it large enough to cure Lauren?
Ross re-formed the crucifix, sealing the seam. The instruments immediately stopped beeping, and the clock resumed ticking.
'That's strange,' said the nurse behind him. He turned and she smiled apologetically. 'Sorry about that. I'm not sure what happened but everything's fine and your wife's in no danger. I'll alert the technical team.' When she'd left the room, he clutched the crucifix to his breast and shifted his focus to Lauren's feeding tube.
Chapter 85.
The next morning Ross awoke in panic. It was six eighteen and something had happened.
Something that wasn't good.
The alarms on Lauren's life support were bleeping more insistently than they had last night, and her vital signs oscillated erratically.
Dr Gunderson tried to appear calm, but her voice was shrill. 'Ross, we must prepare Lauren for surgery now. We can't wait another minute. We must get the child out immediately. It may already be too late.'
He wiped sleep from his eyes. 'What's happening? What's wrong?'
Gunderson and other doctors were wheeling Lauren out of the room and heading for the lift. 'OR nine,' shouted Gunderson. 'Hurry. Hurry.'
Ross followed. 'I want to come.'
'That's not a good idea. Wait here. We'll update you as soon as we know more.'
He stepped into the lift. 'I want to be there. It's a birth. I'm the father. I should be there.'
Gunderson's eyes were cold. 'It's not a birth. It's an operation.
Chances are it'll be the opposite of a birth.'
Ross didn't flinch. 'If this is the last I'm going to see of my wife and child I want to be there.'
'I really don't think it's a good idea,' she sighed, 'but if you insist.'
'I do.' Ross couldn't understand what was happening. After finding the fragment in the crucifix he had taken it to the main washroom and steeped it in a beaker of water, then poured the solution into Lauren's feeding tube. He'd done it three times. The water should have catalysed the Source. It should have worked. But
it hadn't. Not only had the Source not helped Lauren but it had exacerbated her condition.
What had Dr Gunderson said? Every day inside the womb would increase the baby's - his daughter's - chance of survival. So being delivered now, today, was the worst possible outcome.
In the operating room, Ross was given surgical greens and a face mask and told to stand away from the table. He watched them roll Lauren from her bed on to it. Suddenly, a nurse looked up. 'We might not need to do a Caesarean.'
Gunderson called from the scrubbing suite. 'Why?'
'Her waters have broken.'
A midwife, present more out of hope than necessity, stepped forward. She was an older woman and something about her eyes, visible above her mask, reminded Ross of Sister Chantal. Compassionate and wise, they seemed to have seen everything there was to see. She examined Lauren and smiled. Ross loved that smile. It spoke of confidence and possibility. 'Her waters have broken. She's going into labour.'
'You sure?' Gunderson said, approaching the table where her instruments had been laid out. She reached for a scalpel.
'It's happening,' said the midwife. 'She's almost nine centimetres dilated.' She didn't wait for a reaction from Gunderson. She attached sensors to the baby's head and checked the monitor. 'Heartbeat's stable.' She pointed at Gunderson's surgical instruments. 'You won't need those. The mother's having contractions.'
'She's in a coma,' said a nurse.
'Her body appears to be taking over,' said the midwife. 'I think she can do this.'
Gunderson hesitated, then put down the scalpel.
Ross watched in amazement as Lauren's body began to push and, for the next twelve minutes, the midwife coaxed the baby into the world. Eventually she gave a whoop of joy and the baby emerged. She picked her up and, as she handed her to the paediatrician, asked Gunderson, 'How many weeks is this baby?'
'Twenty-six.'
'That's incredible. I've delivered thousands of babies. She may be tiny but she looks full-term to me.'
As the paediatrician examined the baby at the far end of the room, Ross watched Lauren. Her face was so peaceful that he felt an overwhelming rush of love and sadness. When he heard the baby cry for the first time he felt like crying with it. He walked over and she cried again, louder. A nurse handed her to him, and as he held his daughter in his arms he wondered what he should call this miracle of life. Lauren and he had once agreed that if they had a son she would name him, and if they had a daughter he would.
'Ross!' Gunderson sounded pinched and breathless.
He looked back at the operating table. Everyone was white, staring at him, gauging his reaction. His heart sank. It had happened. He thought of the nymphs, how when one was born another died. Briefly, he couldn't bring himself to look at Lauren. Then he held his daughter, took strength from her and turned to his wife.
Lauren's eyes were open. And she was looking at him.
'She opened them when the baby cried,' said Gunderson, testing Lauren's legs. 'Her reflexes are fine, too.' Her voice cracked with emotion. 'This is impossible. It's a miracle.' She stroked Lauren's left sole and the foot moved away. 'She has feeling and she can move her legs.'
He moved closer and Lauren's eyes followed him. 'Where have I been?' she whispered weakly.
He knelt by the table, not trusting his legs to hold him. 'It doesn't matter now. You're back,' he said. He showed her the baby. 'And now here's someone I want you to meet. Our daughter, Chantal.'
Chapter 86.
Six months later
As the plane landed in Lima's Aeroporto Internacional Jorge Chavez, Ross smiled at Zeb. So much had changed since the first time they had flown here with Sister Chantal.
It had been hard to leave Lauren and the baby at home, but this time it was only for a couple of nights and he was excited about joining up with Hackett again - though not as excited as Zeb.
For the last six months, while he had been engrossed with Lauren and Chantal, Zeb and Hackett had been in Peru working tirelessly on the project; however, they had returned to the States from time to time to talk with the New York banks, visit Lauren and admire Zeb's new goddaughter. Last week, Zeb had joined Lauren at Yale's Beinecke Library for the triumphant presentation of their officially recognized translation of the Voynich Cipher Manuscript. It was now accepted in academic circles that the final section, written in a totally invented synthetic language, would never be translated without the author's original notes. In their submission, neither Lauren nor Zeb revealed the author's name or suggested that the document was anything other than an allegory.
Hackett was waiting for them at the airport, tanned and fit: a different man from the pale asthmatic who had first approached them in Cajamarca. Zeb ran into his arms with such enthusiasm that it dispelled any doubts Ross might have had about how serious an item they had become.
Hackett shook Ross's hand, then embraced him. 'How are Lauren and the little one?'
'They're fine.' And they were fine, thought Ross. They really were. Lauren had made a full recovery and Chantal was a delight. Despite her size at birth she was now of average weight for her age and she was going to be tall. 'How are things this end?'
'Everything's prepared. Come. I'll show you.'
Hackett drove them to the anonymous offices he and Zeb had hired in Lima. Inside the main room, pinned to a corkboard behind the desk, there was a large map of the world. On it, a significant section of the Peruvian Amazon had been sectioned off with red pins linked with ribbon. Ross smiled. It stood slap-bang in the path of Alascon's proposed pipeline. The company would have to go round the area now or abandon the project. On the desk a pile of stationery bore the logo of a stepped pyramid, a ziggurat made of gold bricks. Hackett unlocked a drawer, took out a cheque and handed it to Ross.
He looked at it and whistled. Made out to the Peruvian government, it was for an enormous amount of money. 'I've never seen so many zeroes.' Both Hackett and Zeb had signed it, but there was space for a third signature. Hackett passed him a pen. 'It needs to be signed by all three trustees.'
Ross scribbled his name. 'What now?'
Hackett checked his watch. 'I'll drive you to the hotel so you can freshen up. We're meeting the Minister of the Interior at six to hand over the cheque, followed by a press conference. Though we're paying them shedloads of money, the government wants to gain some environmental Brownie points for enabling a large swathe of virgin jungle to be protected in perpetuity.'
Ross studied the cheque, then handed it back to Hackett. He thought of the gold in the lost city, and how it was finally doing what its ancient owners had originally intended when they had stacked it in the ziggurat: protecting their city and the source of the fountain that had once sustained it. 'How many tears of the sun did that cheque soak up?'
Hackett smiled and led him to the door. 'It barely dented the pyramid. There's loads left. And we found more gold there. My contacts can sell it, without alerting the authorities, but I don't know how we're going to spend it all.'
Glancing over his shoulder at the map, Ross considered the endangered areas of the world. 'I'm sure we'll think of a few things.'
The Vatican, the next day
Cardinal Prefect Guido Vasari hurried down the long, wide corridors of the Apostolic Palace to the Holy Father's office. Ignoring the guards, he pushed open the door and strode in. The pope looked up, pen hovering over a pile of unsigned documents. 'Cardinal Prefect, what is it?'
Vasari placed an open copy of Time on the desk. 'It's about the Superior General.'
'Have they found him?'
'No.'
'Then what? I thought this unfortunate matter was closed and that we'd put it down to over-zealousness on his part.'
'Look at the article.'
The pope skimmed it. 'So? The Voynich has been translated but there's no mention of the Church's involvement. No suggestion that the garden exists. What's the problem?'
'The person who translated it, the person in the picture holding the baby, i
s the geologist's wife, the one who was paralysed with a broken neck and comatose, the one who was dying, the one the geologist sought out the garden to save.'
'She recovered. It happens. You're not suggesting . . .?'
Vasari threw a copy of the International Herald Tribune, open at page four, on to the desk. There was a picture of two men and a red-haired woman standing with the Peruvian Minister of the Interior. The pope began to read the article Vasari had ringed with blue ink.
'The man in the left of the photograph is the geologist, Dr Kelly,' said Vasari. 'He and his colleagues have done what the Superior General planned to do and bought a tract of virgin jungle. Their land is now protected in perpetuity and can only be entered with the trustees' permission.' He paused. 'I fear the Superior General's obsession with the Garden of God may have been justified.'
At first the pope didn't respond or react. Then his face changed and Vasari knew the Holy Father had seen what he had seen: the name of the trust that had bought the land. A name that - apart from the missing Superior General - only they were supposed to know.
It was the name of a man their predecessors had burnt at the stake four and a half centuries ago for claiming to have discovered a miraculous Garden of God in the Amazon jungle, a man whose Devil's book had become known as the Voynich Cipher Manuscript: Orlando Falcon.
EPILOGUE:
:
The jungle surrounding the eye-shaped crater is a vibrant lush sea of green splashed with primary tints. The crater, however, is a patch of desert in the forest, a negative oasis devoid of life or colour - only grey and black.
As the sun penetrates its hidden depths, its rays reveal the desolation: white ash and black charcoal. It is said that the purging power of fire can revitalize life, encourage new, more vigorous growth. However, the ash is so thick on the ground it is hard to imagine anything ever growing there again. And the circular black lake in the centre, the pupil of the eye, looks stagnant, blind.
But all is not as it seems in the eye-shaped crater. Some parts of its soot-covered floor are blacker than others, particularly beside the fallen rocks blocking the caves at one end. Ironically, it is in these blackest sections, where a trickle of phosphorescent green water seeps out through the fallen rocks to darken the ash, that the first signs of life can be found.
the Source (2008) Page 31