by J. F. Penn
As Fabienne led them through the gate and down a pathway through the trees, Jake noticed that the young woman was different out here. Her expertly applied makeup had been removed, but it was more than that. She played the forward-thinking city girl with ease back in the French Quarter, but it was clear that the bayou was her real home.
They were soon out of sight of the car, walking under live oak trees hung with a tangle of Spanish moss down a winding path to the water’s edge. Fabienne pointed to a wooden shack with boarded-up windows.
“That’s it. I hope you’re ready for a paddle.”
She unlocked the door to reveal four kayaks hung on racks, battered but useable. They each lifted one down and carried them out to the bayou.
Fabienne quickly launched hers and waited out on the muddy-green channel. She leaned her head back and looked up at the swirling clouds above.
“The storm is close now. We should get moving. We have a ways to go.”
Naomi struggled to get into her kayak. Jake went over to help her steady it.
“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” she whispered, her eyes darting out to Fabienne. “I’ve only kayaked once before. I won’t be able to go very fast. Are we really going to trust her to lead us through the swamp? What if we get lost? What if –”
Jake put his hand over hers. “It’s OK. You’re going to be alright. I’ve done a lot of kayaking, and this will only be calm water and smooth paddling, don’t you worry. This might be our only chance to find out more about the relic and the history behind Marie Laveau and Père Antoine. But you can stay behind if you want to. I’ll go with Fabienne.”
Naomi shook her head. “No, I want to come. Just … don’t leave me behind.”
Jake leaned in and gave her a quick hug. “Of course not. We’re partners on this mission. Partners don’t leave each other behind.” He chuckled. “Remember, you were bored in the office, and this is about as far away from paperwork as you can get.”
Naomi paddled out hesitantly to join Fabienne and as Jake watched her go, he thought of Morgan, remembered how she had never left him behind. Even when he had been near death from snakebite in the Negev desert in Israel, she had made sure he was safe. He wished that she were here now, rather than half a world away.
Jake swiftly launched his kayak and pushed out onto the slow-moving waters. The air was damp, and he found himself quickly soaked with sweat as they paddled out along the bank and into the labyrinth of channels that led into the heart of the reserve. The Louisiana bayou was a unique ecosystem made up of tidal waters and sluggish rivers, marshy lakes and wetland areas. The water was brackish, a mix of salt water and fresh, and the faint smell of the sea was just noticeable under the stink of rotting vegetation and the heavy perfume of tropical flowers. It was entropy in action, life and death cycling ever faster as the creatures of the bayou lived out their allotted span.
“Climate change and human development have ravaged this area,” Fabienne noted as they paddled on. “Hurricanes and tropical storms as well as agricultural runoff and chemical spills have led to the destruction of nearly two thousand miles of Louisiana's coastal wetlands.”
She paused, her paddle motionless on her lap as she listened to the birdsong around them – the ascending call of the Northern Parula and the warble of the Yellow-breasted Chat. “It’s a mixed blessing, I guess. The constant shifting of what is earth and what is water means there will be no new development since it could all be destroyed so quickly. It keeps those who want stability, an unshifting foundation, away.”
“And your grandmother?” Naomi asked.
Fabienne shrugged. “She understands that nothing stays the same, and she’s closer to life and death out here. Closer to the loa, the spirits. Those who came from Africa, and those native to this area. She listens to them all.”
Jake saw a flicker of longing on Fabienne’s face, perhaps a desire for such surety in faith.
She led them out into a channel past low-lying islands, under twisting limbs of cypress trees with canopies of gray-green Spanish moss that trailed into the water. Fabienne lifted some up with her paddle.
“It’s not actually moss and it’s not from Spain, although it was named after the beards of the Spanish Conquistadors. It’s not a parasite, either. It grows on healthy trees in tropical swampland, and both live and thrive together. The way we should live with the land.”
The call of birds filled the air as dusk fell. A blue heron stood at the water's edge fishing, picking its way through the shallows on long, spindly legs. A sudden splash of frogs jumping.
“You can live well in the bayou,” Fabienne said, as they paddled on through the bright green expanse of duckweed dotted with deep purple flowers of Louisiana Iris and the white fronds of the Spider Lily. “Crawfish, shrimp, catfish, alligator sometimes. The tourists pay handsomely for what we ‘poor folk’ get out of the swamp.” She laughed. “Life has always found a way here. The Choctaw Native American people inhabited the Louisiana bayou for centuries, then slaves escaped out here, outlaws, immigrants who couldn’t find another way to live. They all came. Sometimes hiding is the best way to protect yourself.” She paused and then said softly. “Those who practice voodoo understand this, and so the true rituals are performed here, away from the prying eyes of the city.”
“I thought this was a protected area?” Naomi asked, more relaxed now she was into the rhythm of paddling. “How come your grandmother lives here?”
“Jean Lafitte is a nature reserve, but there are hiking trails, and kayaks are allowed through the hardwood forests, swamps and marsh. Ecotourism companies bring money to the area, but they only venture into certain parts. We’re going further in. To the secret places.”
Fabienne looked over at Jake, and he saw a dark promise there. Of what, he was unsure. She paddled on, her lithe figure moving as one with the kayak. “I don't know what Grandma sees in you, but I sure hope you're ready for whatever she chooses to reveal.”
They reached a narrow channel where the waterway turned more into swamp and clouds of mosquitos hung over stagnant water. In places, they had to jerk the kayaks forward with their hips, unable to even paddle in the shallow water. Jake angled his kayak around the cypress knees jutting out from the water like severed limbs clutching for the sky, surrounded by choking duckweed. He pushed on through the tight passage, staying close to Naomi to make sure she wasn’t left behind. Her paddling had slowed, but she persisted, her jaw set with determination.
They were deep into the swamp when Jake sensed a shift in atmosphere. The sky was purple with streaks of gold and scarlet, turning the reflective waters around them to the color of blood. The encroaching storm crackled around them and as night fell, the hunters emerged.
He looked up to see the silhouette of a huge barred owl dive down to snatch a small rodent from the water’s edge. He could almost feel the rush of air from its wings and imagined its sharp beak ripping into the tiny body.
Although the bayou was a long way from the plains of Africa where he had grown up, Jake sensed the same thrill of nature here, the fine line between life and death. He understood why Fabienne and her grandmother, Albertine, would spend their time out here away from the city. It was so close and yet so far away from the tourist thoroughfares of the French Quarter, where partygoers drank to escape their mundane lives. The carnival spirit raged, whirling in ever-faster turns, but out here, the energy was slow-moving, yet far more powerful. This land was hard-won and could be taken back by the gods of storm and chaos in a heartbeat. Death walked close with life here. Maybe that’s why he felt so at home.
They rounded a bend in the channel and emerged into a wider stream. For a moment, Jake thought it must be full of logs.
Then he realized what they actually were.
Scaly bumps of alligator backs in the water. Some small, only as long as his arm, but others were several feet long.
A colossal head pushed up through the duckweed, green petals caught between its scales as re
ptilian eyes focused on potential prey. Its gigantic tail thrashed in the water, propelling the beast toward the kayaks.
13
Palma, Majorca, Spain.
The plane banked over the ocean as it came into land at Palma on Majorca, the largest island in the Balearics off the east coast of Spain. The Mediterranean Sea glistened turquoise and silver in the early morning sun, and the white sails of yachts dotted the harbor below. Morgan could just glimpse the high walls of the old city in the distance.
Tourists streamed into the port city every day, some heading for the cheap resorts packed with holiday-makers drinking and partying. But it also attracted the rich, who stayed in the city itself, or traveled out to luxury fincas, Moorish-style villas that dotted the island.
Morgan and Martin left the airport and hailed a taxi into Palma. It wound through the streets of the old city, the driver edging between closely packed stone walls, finally pulling up at the end of an alleyway. He pointed around the corner, indicating that it was too narrow for cars and they needed to walk the rest of the way.
Leaving their bags at the hotel, Morgan and Martin set off to explore the old city. The temperature was balmy, the sun harsh in direct light but they walked under the shade of cypress and palm trees through the sleepy streets. The sound of water drew them onward, and soon they emerged onto a promenade with sunken ponds and fountains in the Moorish style overhung with trees. The atmosphere was so different to Madrid. The bustling capital was all about rushing around achieving great things, but here the sense was only of languid relaxation.
“We should probably start at the cathedral,” Martin said. “They have historic objects related to the early missions.”
The promenade curved around in front of the Royal Palace of La Almudaina and up to the Carrer del Mirador, an open courtyard in front of the southern wall of the cathedral with a view out across the ocean toward North Africa.
Morgan looked up at the magnificent Gothic cathedral with its sandstone walls and flying buttresses that rose into the stark blue sky. Spain had a palpable sense of history and ancient faith that lived and breathed in its monuments. Even after living in Israel so long, Morgan felt that somehow Spain enmeshed itself more deeply into Catholicism, far more than the Holy Land ever could with its complication of triple faiths.
They walked around to the northern side and entered the main nave through a series of archways.
“I’ll go find the archivist.” Martin hurried away, barely restraining his enthusiasm for the quest.
Morgan remained in the nave, surprised to find that, despite its size, Palma Cathedral was warm and inviting. It was almost diametrically opposed to the dark chill of the cathedral in Toledo that had almost physically repelled her. This place felt alive, full of vibrant worshippers and tourists with broad smiles on their ruddy faces.
Perhaps it was the difference between the cities of Palma and Toledo themselves, one on the Mediterranean Sea, open to cultures sailing in from North Africa and other islands. Whereas Toledo shrunk inward, protecting itself, surrounded by high walls, Catholic doctrine and academic reasoning, shutting out those who might try to enter. Both were walled cities, but Palma felt welcoming, its walls more decorative than functional.
The cathedral was in the Levantine Gothic style with one of the largest rose windows in the world, known as the Gothic Eye. Arches supported the coffered ceiling, with different shades of stone and brick blending with dappled light streaming in through stained glass above.
Morgan sat down on a wooden pew at the back of the church looking down the nave toward the dramatic main altar. The architect Antoni Gaudí had adapted the cathedral at the start of the twentieth century, bringing an edge of modernism into the Gothic space. He created an ornate baldachin, a canopy over the altar in the shape of a crown of thorns. It was intricately designed with twisted wrought iron and glass panels in shades of amber and sunflowers, decorated with reeds of gold that sprouted toward heaven. Lights hung down from the edges in their own little canopies, and from afar, the baldachin looked weightless, suspended in space like a crown of gold as the crucified Savior hung on a colorful cross above.
Some hated Gaudí’s modern take on religion, but Morgan remembered visiting the architect’s still-unfinished masterpiece in Barcelona, the Sagrada Familia. That day she and Jake had tried to figure out Gaudí’s numerical puzzle before the explosion that had begun the race to the Gates of Hell. That seemed so long ago now, and yet here she was in Spain again, on the trail of a Christian relic once more.
But this time without Jake.
As much as she enjoyed spending time with Martin, ARKANE’s brilliant librarian was no field agent. Morgan thought of the Latino man and his team who followed in their footsteps, and the relic of the finger bone in her bag. She wouldn’t be able to keep Martin safe as long as they had it with them.
She shifted on the pew as her burns itched, pain lancing through her as they rubbed against her jeans. For so long she had taken her body for granted, trusting her ability to fight her way out of trouble. But now she felt the weakness these injuries gave her, sapping her physical and emotional strength. Perhaps she couldn’t keep Martin safe anyway right now.
Morgan sighed and leaned into the pain, pulling herself upright. She walked around the edge of the nave, past the chapels, trying to distract herself. At the Capella de Sant Benet, she looked up at the ornate altar with its golden columns and life-size statues of saints. At first glance, it looked similar to all the others – another martyr, another over-the-top shrine. But then she looked up and stopped in surprise, putting her face against the metal bars to see inside the sanctuary more closely.
A life-size skeleton climbed the wall of the chapel, its wings stretched out behind. Of course, there were often skeletons in these cathedrals, but Morgan had never seen a winged one. This was an unusual place indeed.
“There you are.” Martin's voice startled her and Morgan turned around quickly. “Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost.”
Morgan shook her head. “I’m just surprised by this place. It’s … interesting.”
“We’ll have to explore it another time. I spoke to the archivist. He said the records of the missionaries are not here but in the church of the Franciscans a little way on through the city.”
As they left the cathedral, Morgan glanced back at its high walls. She knew that she would come back here. The city felt so welcoming, and part of her simply wanted to sit at one of the cafés on the front overlooking the ocean with a gin and tonic enjoying the view and the sun on her face. But Martin walked swiftly on, fixed on their goal, determined to solve the puzzle of where the next relic might be.
It was only a ten-minute walk to the Plaça de Sant Francesc, and as they rounded the corner, Morgan spotted a larger-than-life statue of a friar in front of another massive church. The monk held a cross high with one hand, the other rested on the shoulder of a Mexican boy wearing a loin-cloth. They walked to the sign in front of it.
“Junípero Serra,” Martin read. “Could this be the man we’re looking for?”
Morgan examined the historic plaque. “He was born in the interior of the island, studied here in Palma and then went to New Mexico as a missionary, before founding the missions up the west coast of what became the USA.” She looked up at Martin. “I’d say he's a prime candidate. Let's go inside and see what else we can find.”
In any other city, where there were not so many monuments, this church would have been full of tourists. But Morgan and Martin were the only people in the ornate thirteenth-century church of Sant Francesc de Palma.
It was large, as big as any provincial cathedral, with niche chapels around the sides and an altar display of brilliant gold that shone in the sunlight streaming in from stained glass windows.
Morgan spotted a picture of Junípero Serra holding a crucifix as he preached to natives in the New World, next to a menorah and a replica Ark of the Covenant with angels on top, their outstretched wing
s protecting the tablet of the Ten Commandments within.
A darkened niche beyond contained a glass coffin with a full-size body inside. The crucified Jesus lay on a bloody shroud, the crown of thorns on his head, his face pallid and ashen, frozen in the agony of death. Morgan shuddered as she looked at it, the wax figure somehow more disturbing than the tortured saints around her.
“Look over here.” Martin pointed out a sign commemorating a powerful sermon given by Junípero Serra in 1749 in honor of the blessed Ramon Llul. “Ramon was a medieval mystic, a wise man of the Franciscan order. His sepulcher is here. But more interesting is the fact that Junípero Serra preached here before he went to New Mexico.”
“How do we know that he was the one who hid the finger bone?”
Martin smiled in triumph. “The text of his speech is printed here. He uses the metaphor of the Valley of Dry Bones to illuminate the need to spread the gospel to the New World. It must be him.” He pointed to a map beside the printed text. “It also says that the relic of Serra himself is in San Francisco.”
Morgan’s heart sank a little at his words. Part of her wanted to continue the search, and now it seemed that she could just hand what they found back to Jake and Naomi in America. There was no reason for her to be involved in the search any longer. Martin would be relieved to go back to ARKANE HQ in London, and she could continue her Spanish holiday. Maybe even stay in Majorca, explore the island, drink that gin and tonic she’d been dreaming about before. It would be idyllic, relaxing.
Totally not what she wanted to do right now.
The mysterious relic had piqued her curiosity, the glimpse of the rugged Latino man gave her a sense of danger, and even the pain of her burns seemed to lessen while her mind was distracted by the mission.
Morgan shook her head, smiling at herself. She was an ARKANE agent, through and through. She just hoped that Director Marietti would allow her back and that Jake hadn’t found himself a new partner in the meantime.