by Ken Fry
Brodie stopped talking and his breathing came in shallow spurts. His eyes opened and he lowered his head.
Total silence.
The agitation of his skin lessened. He looked first at Ulla and then Sister Agnes. “What happened?”
“You don’t know?” asked Ulla.
“Did I black out?”
Sister Agnes made the sign of the cross. “God be praised. You spoke every word I was about to say. In fact, as you spoke, I was repeating what you said in my mind, and no, you were fully conscious. I swear I believe you have been sent to us.” She crossed herself again. “My mother told me what happened to you, and now I have seen it myself. There is something very strange happening around you. For my mother’s sake, I want you to find this painting.”
“Hey, are you okay?” Ulla reached out to him.
He didn’t answer. He placed his head in his hands and shook it to and fro. “We’re close. We’re close.” He couldn’t say anymore. His head became full of a kaleidoscope of whirling colours moving first one way and then another then intermingling with an array of images and suggestions of a million faces moving up and towards him first slowly and then at speed … faces he thought he knew but changing into a ghastly broken diseased ugliness. Then they ceased, replaced by a golden aura of immense calm and peace that descended and filled him.
“Stop! Stop!”
It finished as fast as it had started.
He sensed Ulla’s worry and Sister Agnes’s mounting expectancy that his behaviour was causing. “Don’t ask me, I don’t know,” he shouted, not knowing what else to say.
There was a long pause. Sister Agnes broke the silence. “It’s time I showed you the brushes, do you agree?”
Ulla stood. “That’s a good idea, Sister.” She hauled Brodie to his feet. As he stood the colour came back into his face.
“Let’s go. I can’t wait.” In his mind played an image of what they would look like and couldn’t wait to see how accurate he was. “And Ulla, stop looking at me as if I was some sort of circus freak.”
Sister Agnes led them through a series of heavy doors that descended to progressively lower levels. The route became more twisty and the space between the walls narrower. The way was lit by what Brodie thought looked like emergency lighting with bulbs strung every twenty feet from an endless cable fixed to the walls. The air became dry and colder. He could see their breath had become visible.
The Sister called out. “Mind the steps.”
The passageway took a sharp turn up some well-worn stone steps that broke into a small semi-circular room with a low vaulted ceiling. The lighting gave an occasional flicker. Brodie could see they had reached the end of the route. In front of him he could see a small altar adorned with one simple crucifix, and in front of this, mounted to the floor was a prayer stool with a small balustrade.
Sister Agnes bent one knee and made the Sign of the Cross. “This is where Sisters who transgressed in some way were sent or others wanting solitude came; to reflect on the reason they were here. Sadly, those days have passed, and this sanctuary is now rarely used. Let me show you the brushes.” She moved across to the side wall and pulled back a heavy, purple brocaded curtain.
Ladro gasped. “Wow.” He looked at an oblong glass case in which had been mounted a velvet support and a gold bracket. Resting on this was a series of brushes in differing lengths and thicknesses plus what looked like a palette knife. “Oh my, are these really them?” Brodie pressed his face close to the glass and ran his hand across the top. The feeling he was getting, he reckoned, had to be like an archaeologist making an unprecedented discovery.
“Wonderful, aren’t they? They were received by this monastery not long after an earthquake that destroyed many buildings and homes in this region. Fortunately, we survived. With the brushes came the story of Cortez and Lazarus.”
“Yes, it is true. Ulla and I’ve read Cortez’s diary that gives an account of his original vision in Toledo’s Cathedral plus the date. We know of Abbot Covas, Salvador Méndez his tutor, Paloma his lover and of his banishment but beyond that we have come to a dead end.”
Ulla nudged Brodie. He looked up and saw that Sister Agnes was on her knees at the altar. Ulla held onto his hand. “Sssh! Wait until she’s finished.”
The wait was short. She rose and turned to them. “Ulla and Brodie, while we talk and discuss these remarkable events, my mother is dying. I believe she can be saved. You also believe that a painting may exist that can save her, and I believe you have been sent to find it. What happened to you back there gave me the evidence I needed. I am breaking my oath by showing you the brushes and I am now going to go further.” She took a deep breath and stared at Brodie. “God forgive me, but I do this to save a life. Brodie, I want you to lift out the brushes.”
He gave Ulla, a querying look before nodding to Sister Agnes. “Okay, but in structure they don’t look a lot different from my own.”
With a petite key that hung behind her personal crucifix she located the small brass lock and lifted open the glass lid. She pointed, “Brodie, please.”
He hesitated. It seemed extraordinary and he didn’t know how he should touch them. The brushes were of hair, he guessed at miniver, derived from stoats, but he couldn’t tell. The heads varied in shape and thickness and were bound together with a discoloured wax thread. Each performed a separate function just as his own brushes did at home. The palette knife, made from horn, looked discoloured from age. Otherwise, it had been cleaned.
He reached in and grasped the handles with both hands.
CHAPTER 48
Unbelievable! He had blown out an innocent woman’s brains all because the stupid Condesa had for some reason crashed to the floor.
For the first time in his life, he experienced panic. This was not what he had planned. The bonds lay scattered around the room and the Condesa looked unconscious, sprawled out on the floor. He picked up the bonds and counted them out. There were five million pounds worth. Next, he placed the painting back in its chest together with the bonds.
What am I going to do with her?
He nudged the Condesa with his foot, but she didn’t move. I could kill her now. He looked at the gun and then back at the Condesa and pointed it at her. Yet he couldn’t bring his finger to squeeze the trigger. One’s enough and that’s too much! It doesn’t look like she’s got much longer anyway.
He reasoned she wouldn’t go to the police and there wasn’t going to be a body to be found. Calling in the police would get Ladro and the woman arrested ... more delay in finding her painting and she couldn’t spare the time. I could get up and vanish with the money. For just a fraction, he paused. The vista was tempting. Another form of excitement struck him; it was the excitement of danger, a challenge he needed to experience.
If that painting exists, I want it. Whether it’s true or not, there’s a fortune here and there has to be a story to tell. The gullible will flock to it in droves and pay good money. It could take over from Lourdes and with a few decent bribes, I’ll have a whole host of those attesting to a miracle. De Witt’s painting, as good as it is, could be discovered for what it is – a fake. No, I need the real thing. Once those two meddlers find it, I’ll take it from them one way or another.
An hour later, he drove deep off road into the desert wastes. What impacted on him was how little he felt ... a small panic maybe, but that was to be expected ... to be forgiven even ... a small weakness that would diminish in time.
Donna’s body, wrapped and tied inside several thick sheets and rolled up carpeting, was bundled into the back. He’d stripped it of clothes, identity marks, rings, ear rings and all jewellery. He came to a halt, and in front of him was a narrow but almost bottomless gulley, impossible to climb either into or out of. of. He pulled out her lifeless body and dropped it to the ground. Minutes later, he’d dragged it to the edge and with one last heave propelled it into the shaft.
He never heard it hit the bottom.
§
She took stock of herself and had no idea how she came to be on the floor. The coolness of the flagstones connected with her hands, letting her know she was alive. She couldn’t be certain, but had she heard a shot? The pain stabbing at the back of her neck caused her to raise her head with caution. She turned her gaze left and right.
“Throgmorton, you bastard, where are you? Donna! Damn it, where are you?” She pushed herself into a sitting position and saw the room was empty. No painting, Donna or Throgmorton. There was a shot. I know I heard it.
“Donna! Donna!” Her cry was feeble, but Donna had always answered it wherever she was.
Silence.
The shocking realisation that she was gone, hit her. No, he hadn’t abducted her. That shot meant he had wounded or killed her.
She got to her feet and ran as fast as she could to the telephone.
§
The old wooden handles had remained untouched across the centuries. They felt little different from what he was used to. He held up the brushes in both hands.
Sister Agnes and Ulla watched him.
“If you two are expecting a miracle or some bizarre event, I’m going to have to disappoint you.” He waved at them with the brushes. “I’ve had some strange experiences getting to this point, but this is not going to be one of them. What did you expect or want to happen— a revelation? The brushes are hardly Holy Relics, are they?” He put the brushes back.
Sister Agnes looked disappointed and chewed on her bottom lip. “From what my mother told me, I confess, I was hoping.”
Ulla gave a wry smile. “I’m sorry too, Sister.”
“Where to now?” Brodie looked thoughtful.” If the brushes were given to your Abbey and they came from that ruined monastery, either the painting was destroyed, or it’s hidden hereabouts. We know the year Cortez vanished and we know the date of the earthquake and of the collapse of the monastery where the Condesa has built her home. We’ve got Evita’s shortlist. Ulla, show Sister Agnes.”
Ulla handed her the list.
The Sister studied it. She looked thoughtful. “These names have to be strong possibilities.”
Ladro moved back to the brushes. “It would have saved a lot of time if these bad boys could have short-circuited up an answer. Nothing happens as you would like it to, does it?” He reached out to pick up the palette knife.
Firm and tactile, it fitted his hand like a glove. He passed it across in the air as if he was at home painting.
He couldn’t prevent the colours from invading his mind. They were unstoppable.
Beginning at a slow pace, his pace quickly picked up as the greens, greys, blacks, browns, red, yellows and dark blues overwhelmed him. They danced in an array of motions that circled and whirled faster and faster, interweaving and plaiting strands that formed visions he couldn’t grasp ... faces arose and vanished at speed, animals, scenery, towns and villages. His arms and hands began to move as if he had a canvas in front of him.
Using the palette knife, he made fast bold strokes, first one way and then other, adding delicate touches to counterbalance the dramatic thickness of colour that rushed by.
Brodie finally stopped, gasping for breath. It was finished.
He knew who it was. He knew where to go.
His knees hit the floor with a thud. The palette knife fell to the floor with a clatter that was too loud. His head tilted back to reveal the whites of his eyes. The skin around his mouth stretched wide to expose his teeth. Bolts of a sensation, nothing less than ecstasy, climaxed and blasted through the marrow and sinews of his mind and body.
It ended like a flashlight beam switching off.
He bent his head low as if he were hearing somebody. Inside of him was clarity and resolution. It had become so clear.
Breaking the stunned silence, he heard the piercing tones of a phone ringing.
§
Ulla glanced at Sister Agnes who looked confused.
“Sister, answer your phone. Brodie’s not harmed. This has been happening ever since we arrived in this area. He’ll be fine, I promise.” She nodded rapidly at her. Sister Agnes appeared more confused, uttered ‘thanks to God,’ turned and headed in the direction of the phone.
Once the Sister was out of earshot, she asked, “Brodie, what on earth was that? What’s happening to you?” Her voice was urgent. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t look at her. “I wish I knew. Ulla, I saw him.”
“You saw him, who?” She knelt beside him. “Who did you see, Brodie?” She watched him take in a lungful of air before letting it out between pursed lips.
“I saw Cortez, Ulla. I saw Francisco Cortez.”
Her arm went around his shoulders. “I believe you,” she whispered as colour returned to his cheeks.
“Ulla, I saw him as clear as you are sitting here. I could have counted the hairs on his head. I saw where he lived; the countryside, the buildings and Toledo Cathedral as it was. I saw Paloma, his lover. There was another, and I knew he was their son. He looked like a monk and wore a tabard with that black cross on it. They were smiling at me. Everything Cortez had ever drawn or painted was running through my arms and fingertips. Then, two other men appeared. One was his tutor and the other was a monk, his Abbot, the one we saw the rough drawings of. Other faces passed by, and again, I knew who they were, starting with Borgoña, the artist responsible for Cortez’s transformation. Ulla, I saw him, that’s unbelievable! The others were former painters. They had all painted Lazarus being raised from the dead and they all belonged to the Knights of the Order of the Resurrected Lazarus. I know the history of how it began. I am astonished, Ulla. It’s unbelievable.”
“I think you’d better start from the beginning. Slow down some and we might discover where we should go from here.”
“How long did it go on?”
“Several minutes.”
“It seemed like hours.”
“Spit it out, Broderick Ladro. This involves me as well and I can’t wait to hear it.”
“It began with Lazarus.”
“What … the Lazarus?”
“It began with a man named Zevi, who painted the first ever work. He lived in Bethany and worked as an artist and potter. He had even done work for the Romans and for the governor, Pontius Pilate.”
“What!” Ulla blurted out.
“Zevi witnessed Lazarus’s resurrection and when the people had departed, he went inside the tomb. Inside, he picked up the wraps of cloth that had been around Lazarus. He knew it was important and when he returned home, he was compelled to paint the event, to record it. Cortez said Zevi had painted like never before. When he had finished the work, he covered it with the winding sheet that he had brought from the tomb. It must have contained the power of Christ. From then on, believers who were sick or ill could look into the eyes of Christ and be healed. That tradition has carried on to the present day, although the painting changes, as does its covering.”
Ulla began to interrupt. “But...” That was as far as she got.
Brodie stood. A wave of his hand indicated her to shut up
“That inheritance was broken at the time of the First Crusade, in its attempt to recapture Jerusalem under Pope Urban II. Nothing was known of the painting. It was discovered by accident as the Crusaders rampaged across the lands leading to Jerusalem. Spanish involvement was under Prince Sancho of Spain who later became King but died in 1072. He had one devoted follower, known by all as El Cid, famous for his heroic battles. Amongst his men was a poor soldier named Gil Diaz, devout in restoring the city back to God, but suffering and dying with dysentery and scurvy.”
Ulla listened and watched Brodie. It wasn’t him speaking. The voice was disembodied, and he seemed to be staring at some non-detectable object in the far distance.
“Brodie?”
He carried on. “Diaz, determined to live and die by his sacred oath, found the work in a small alcove in the abandoned ruins of a long disused church on Jerusalem’s outskirts. Bodies were strewn ever
ywhere. He had no idea who owned the painting. He removed the covering and immediately was overcome by what he saw. When he regained consciousness, he had become whole and well with no trace of disease. In great joy, he took the painting back to his master, El Cid, who promptly made him his personal servant.”
“Brodie ... please.”
He paid no attention.
“After Sancho died, Alfonso the Brave conquered Toledo and proclaimed himself Emperor of Spain and El Cid presented him with the Holy Painting. The painting vanished during the Valencia wars and only when Peter the Holy was about to be executed did he reveal he knew of its whereabouts and that he was the artist; one of a sacred succession. His biggest secret, he declared, was that the painting never remained the same. It was periodically and mysteriously destroyed when a new era dawned. He never disclosed its situation and was killed, and his secret died with him. There was no one who remembered what it looked like, but the next artist must have gazed upon it. This may sound crazy, but I was told that Cortez was the successor to Borgoña’s healing work hidden in full view of all. His work has reached its time. A new painting was imminent to usher in the next epoch. Each work draws closer to the end of all things. Those who gaze upon it, believe in it, will not only be healed of their sickness but will not perish when the world as we know it comes to an end. The painting is...”
His words were cut short. The door flung open and Sister Agnes rushed in.
Something was wrong, very wrong.
CHAPTER 49
“They left in a hurry you say?” Throgmorton spoke to Ox who sat leaning his ponderous bulk frontwards on the back of the chair and staring at an unseen panorama of violence in the depths of his fingernails.