Valley of Dry Bones

by J. F. Penn

  Pushing aside the pain, Morgan paddled quickly back to the cross. Jake helped pull Amado's body out onto the platform and started CPR on the young man.

  A few breaths and Amado coughed, vomiting seawater as he rolled over on one side, retching it all up.

  Morgan sat next to him. “It's OK, you're alright. Just rest now.”

  When he had finally stopped coughing, Amado sat with his back against the cross. His eyes slowly focused on them and the man lying prone nearby.

  “What happened?”

  Morgan pointed at the motorboat. “Two men came in that and dropped an explosive device on the dive site. You’re lucky to have made it back. Didn’t end so well for them.”

  Jake went round to the body and turned the man over, so he lay face down revealing a tattoo on the back of his neck. A cross with the wind blowing around it. “These men were Brotherhood of the Breath.” Jake looked up at Morgan, hope in his eyes.

  “This must be the right place,” she said.

  “I found something down there.” Jake scooted back round to his catch bag, opened it up and pulled out the casket from the church.

  Morgan examined the patina of age on the surface. “We should probably wait until we’re in a protected environment to open it.”

  Jake shook his head. “We need to know now. If the relic’s not in here, then we have to keep looking.”

  He grabbed a dive knife and edged up the side of the box. It was filled with a dark red chunky liquid. They all leaned back, coughing as the noxious stench of decay wafted out. Jake slammed the lid back down.

  “Guess that answers the question. It’s Spanish cadaver soup.”

  Morgan leaned forward again. “You can't be sure. We need to pour out that liquid, check underneath.”

  Amado grimaced. “Seriously. That's gross.”

  Jake put the box on the edge of the platform and tipped it, with the lid held against the side, so the foul-smelling liquid dripped down into the sea. The sharks beneath went into a frenzy at the smell of death in the water.

  As he poured, Jake felt something hard clunk against the lid. He turned the casket back up and took the lid off again. An object lay inside coated in fetid slime.

  A finger bone, stoppered with red wax.

  Morgan looked up at Jake, her eyes wide. “It must've been buried with a corpse all those years ago. But the water got inside.”

  She put on a dive glove and picked out the finger bone, sloshing fresh water over it, examining the seal. It didn't look like it had leaked.

  “That's what you wanted?” Amado said, confusion in his voice. “I thought you were hunting for gold or treasure.”

  Jake looked over at him. “It's valuable to us.”

  Amado smiled. “Well, now you’ve found it, I can take you to the hot pools. You can have that glass of wine. I certainly need a drink.”

  Jake hesitated, and for a moment Morgan thought he was going to agree. But he shook his head. “Sorry, the party’s over. We need to get back to the airport. We have a long way to travel tonight.”

  20

  Lima, Peru.

  Morgan looked up at the Spanish baroque towers of the San Francisco Basilica as the warm sun of the morning blessed her skin. The air was cooler here, sweeping onto the Peruvian coastal plain from the Pacific and she felt dislocated, as if her soul were still back in the Philippines while her body was here, thousands of miles away.

  Martin had managed to get them on a military transfer, not the comfiest of rides but certainly the fastest. She had snatched some sleep, aided by a handful of painkillers, fresh bandages and industrial earplugs. The roar of the engines still filled her ears, now overtaken by the capital city waking up. Cars on the highway, the chink of coffee cups and scrape of chairs from nearby cafés, the shouts of street vendors. She could understand them, the Spanish slightly different to her father’s native country, but still similar enough.

  Like the language, the church in front of her seemed strangely familiar. It was a slice of Europe in a far-flung land, testament to the extraordinary empire that brought death to so many as well as a new way of life that still shaped the culture hundreds of years later. Lima had been founded by the Spanish conquistador, Pizarro, in the sixteenth century, an important city that was home to the oldest functioning university in the Americas and still remained an important trading hub.

  “The cathedral is dedicated to Saint Jude,” Jake said as he walked up, handing Morgan a cup of steaming black coffee.

  She smiled. “Patron saint of lost causes. Seems appropriate.”

  Morgan took a sip, allowing the bitter black to restore her energy drop by drop. She could travel the world, fight demons and evil men alike, but she couldn’t go long without her coffee. She looked up at the two bell towers of yellow stucco over stone flanking an ornate sculptured door into the compound. Pigeons roosted in the cracks between the levels, their soft cooing a welcome for weary travelers.

  “This place has an ossuary and a world-renowned library. If we’re going to find any trace of the relic, it has to be here.” She looked at her watch. “Martin’s librarian contact, Father Alejandro, should be ready for us now.”

  They walked around the back of the main entrance to a tiny door designed for those who worked in the complex and delivered to the building. Father Alejandro stood watching two little wrens darting in and out of the branches of a Cinchona tree on the edge of the Parque de la Muralla, their sweet song filling the air. He wore the habit of the Franciscans, a simple brown robe with a humble cincture of rope belted around his slim waist. It had the customary three knots representing the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, but with one difference. A bunch of keys hung down, some elaborately fashioned and others more modern in style.

  He turned at their approach and stretched out his hands, a smile on his weathered face. “Welcome, you must be the friends of Martin.”

  His gesture of friendship made Morgan’s heart glad. Despite what she and Jake had experienced at the hands of people of extremist faith, most believers welcomed the stranger. They all shook hands.

  “Martin told me that you seek the records of any friar who came from Spain back in the days of Empire. I have taken the liberty of getting those records for you. They wait in the reading room. This way.”

  Father Alejandro led them through the corridors of the monastery, hung with paintings of dour monks and scenes from the old country in between decorative tiling and carved wooden panels. It was a long way from the humble beginnings of the Franciscan monasteries of Europe, and every inch recalled the lost grandeur of the Spanish Empire. They emerged into a brightly colored passageway with deep ochre walls, planted on either side with bright geraniums, and walked onward to finally reach a giant wooden door, carved with images of books intertwined with leaves and flowers.

  Father Alejandro pushed open the door and gestured for them to enter. “Welcome to our library. I try not to commit the sin of pride, but every day I thank the Lord for allowing me to work here.”

  A luxurious array of books stacked in several levels on wooden shelves reached from the richly carpeted floor to the ornate coffered ceiling above. Spiral staircases led to the upper levels while intricate glass chandeliers cast a golden light over two straight-back chairs waiting for curious readers in the center. The library smelled of musty old pages with a faint undertone of furniture polish.

  Morgan felt like she was back in Oxford studying in the Radcliffe Camera, a wealth of knowledge just waiting for her to open the pages and read. While she had wanted to stay in the Philippines to relax and recover, she now wanted to sink into this place for the love of research, delving into obscure parts of history and human knowledge, indulging in the addiction of learning.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. Her eyes darted around the room, lighting on cracked leather spines, reciting the words in her mind like an incantation. Perhaps here she was the true devotee, the real believer, whereas in front of religious icons, she felt nothing.
Her father had sought God amongst the Hebrew letters of the Kabbalah. Perhaps she also found the divine in learning and knowledge.

  Father Alejandro led them to the second level, up a spiral staircase with wooden beams that creaked as they walked.

  “I know your friend Martin would love to get this collection digitalized, but that is a way off as yet. We have some rare books, religious chronicles from the priests who came here, as well as unique incunabula brought over by the Spanish.”

  Jake turned to Morgan, whispering his question. “What’s incunabula?”

  “Books or pamphlets printed in Europe before 1501.” She stopped by one of the shelves, her fingers trailing across the gold etching of a Bible in Spanish.

  Father Alejandro turned and caught her, his previously kind eyes suddenly flashing with possessive anger. Morgan jerked her hand away sharply as he composed himself, once again the genial monk. Jake examined another shelf of books and missed the glance, but Morgan found herself alert now, wondering whether the monk really welcomed them into his sanctuary.

  “This way.” Father Alejandro led them to a small room at the back of the library with wooden paneled walls. Four piles of record books lay on the table, each with sewn spines and leather covers, each as thick as the medieval table they lay upon. Two pairs of white gloves lay next to them.

  Father Alejandro pointed at the books. “I know you don’t have much time, but I trust you will find what you’re looking for in these.” He nodded to them. “I’ll be down in the main hall. Please call if you need anything.”

  He turned and walked out, leaving Morgan and Jake looking down at the daunting pile of records. They put on the gloves, gearing up for the search.

  Jake opened the first one, then the next. “They’re in Spanish.”

  Morgan laughed. “What did you expect?”

  “Maybe a computer with excellent search capability.”

  “If that had been available, Martin could have done this remotely, but this place doesn’t welcome digitalization. Makes you wonder what’s in here.” Morgan sat down at the table and pulled the first tome toward her. “Spanish for finger is dedo, and bone is hueso. That should get you started. Or just look for anything around the right date.”

  They began to page through the record books, the finger pads of their white gloves soon dusty and discolored.

  The minutes ticked away. The sun slowly moved across the windowpane until the shadows lengthened.

  Jake opened one book and pointed out a map of the catacombs that lay beneath the cathedral. “How cool is this.” He traced the corridors with a careful finger. “Just think of the monks carrying bodies back and forth down there for centuries.”

  Morgan sneezed, turning away as she did so. Then she pushed her chair back and stood up, stretching her back. “This is ridiculous. We don’t even know if the right records are in here.”

  Jake held a hand up. “Wait a moment. This inventory records several hundred finger bones kept in the catacombs. Any of them could be the one we’re looking for.”

  “Or none of them.” Morgan went over to join him and looked down at the list. “Looks like relics from minor saints are all kept together in one shrine. Maybe it would be easier to go have a look?”

  She walked back into the main library and found Father Alejandro bent close to a manuscript, examining an illuminated figure under a magnifying glass.

  “Father?”

  He jumped at her approach, startled from his reverie. Then his smile widened, as welcoming as ever. “What can I do for you?”

  “The relic we’re looking for might be part of the collection of finger bones held in the ossuary. Can we see them, please?”

  A moment of hesitation and then Father Alejandro nodded. “I can take you down there. Although, of course, you can’t touch the relics themselves, only pray at the shrine.”

  Jake walked out of the study room and together they descended into the main library. Father Alejandro led them to the back where a heavy door opened into a stone corridor beyond. It was almost dark outside now, and the small windows above let in little light, but the monk didn’t falter, his footsteps sure in the shadows.

  “The monastery is closed to tourists now, so we must be quiet as the monks ready themselves for evening prayer. I’ll take you to the relics and then go join my brothers. Quickly now.”

  The monk scurried ahead, pulling the set of keys from his belt as they reached a heavy iron-bound door. He unlocked it and swung it open revealing a stone staircase winding down into darkness. A line of skulls stared back at them, empty eye sockets filled with the dust of the dead.

  Morgan remembered waking in the catacombs of Paris surrounded by thousands of plague skeletons. She shivered a little at the thought of entering the winding corridors of bone below, but with Father Alejandro guiding the way, they would be out of here soon enough.

  The monk reached behind the thick door and clicked on the light switch. They descended into the cool of the catacombs.

  “The burial crypts were used for the dead as the city grew during colonial times,” Father Alejandro explained as they walked. “They had mass burial pits for the common folk, but the nobles were buried separately until the early 1800s. Over 25,000 bodies were buried down here, their bones arranged in decorative ways. Curious to many in New Spain, but commonly used in Europe.” He pointed into one chamber. “Have a look.”

  Morgan and Jake ducked inside and looked down at a circular pit ringed with long femur bones and skulls in concentric circles, spiraling toward a central mound of the dead.

  “No finger bones,” Jake whispered, his voice echoing through the halls.

  “There are chambers filled with individual bones further along,” Father Alejandro replied, his footsteps clicking on the stone as he moved on. “The relic shrines are beyond that.”

  Morgan and Jake ducked out, hurrying after the monk as he moved swiftly down the corridor, turning this way and that as the catacombs forked into new passageways. Morgan lost her bearings after the eighth or ninth turn, and soon they were in narrow tunnels far beyond the well-lit tourist route.

  Father Alejandro finally stopped at a thick wooden door with a barred window. “These cells were used by early monks for their time of solitude, and now we keep some of the less popular relics here. No one comes down here anymore. You are the first in many years.” He gestured into the cell. “Perhaps you will find what you seek inside.”

  Morgan entered the cell first and sure enough, arrayed in front of them were finger bones of all sizes, some wrapped in silk, some in reliquaries, others in crumbling piles.

  Jake came in behind her, and the cell felt tiny with both of them in it. “Let’s hope it’s in here somewhere.”

  A metallic scrape on stone.

  Morgan spun around as the monk slammed the cell door shut, locking them both inside.

  21

  “What are you doing?” Morgan pushed past Jake, hands on the metal bars, shaking at the door.

  Father Alejandro looked at her, his eyes blazing with anger, all sense of friendliness gone now. “You have brought this on yourselves. You’ll rot down here with the relic you seek.”

  As he walked away, his robe shifted, and Morgan caught sight of a cross tattoo with the whirling wind on the back of his neck.

  She tugged at the bars, shouting after the monk, her voice echoing down the stone corridor as he turned out of sight. “You can’t leave us. Martin, our archivist, knows we’re here. He’ll send someone.”

  The monk’s voice floated back to them. “You left hours ago, I helped as much as I could. You insisted on leaving, last seen headed to the most dangerous area of the city. By the time anyone finds you, your bones will be part of the relic shrine …”

  His voice faded away.

  Then the lights went out.

  Jake clicked his flashlight on. “We should have known the Brotherhood was here. That guy was way too friendly.” He bent to the pile of bones. “But he did say we’d rot
down here with the relic we seek, so it might be in here somewhere.”

  He began to sift through the pile, examining each bone within its case, intent on checking the ends for a wax seal, seemingly oblivious to being locked inside.

  Morgan looked around the cell. It was only a few meters square with walls of thick stone blocks. One door of thick wood with an ancient lock. No windows, unsurprising given how deep below the earth they were.

  She bent to the mortar between two of the wall blocks. Perhaps they could chip it away, get into the next room, escape that way. She picked up a small bronze reliquary, dusty with age but with a sharp edge and used it to scrape at the grey mortar. A little bit flaked off but the walls were well built, and it would take forever.

  Morgan sighed and went back over to the door, squeezing past Jake as he hunkered down. She examined the hinges. They were firmly embedded in the stone wall, impossible to break through. She slammed the heel of her hand against the lock mechanism, rattling it, but it stayed firm.

  Jake’s flashlight suddenly flickered, like a candle blown by an unseen wind.

  Morgan spun around, panic rising within her at the thought of being down here in the dark. She imagined those finger bones coming to life, scratching away at their boxes, scraping away their silken wrappings, curling across the floor like skeletal worms. It made her flesh crawl.

  She knelt by Jake as he shook the flashlight. “Do you have any other batteries?”

  “No, but don’t worry, we’re going to make it out of here. Help me look through the rest of the pile. We’ll find the relic, then we’ll make a break for it.”

  Morgan shook her head in disbelief at his calm demeanor, but she sat down cross-legged and began to search through the pile of bones, recognizing that this self-doubt was unusual for her. The pain of her burns was a dull ache that sapped her strength, both physical and emotional. She was tired and more broken than she liked to admit and she hadn’t allowed for it on the mission. Down here, she felt like more of a liability than a help to Jake. Perhaps he’d be better off with a new partner after all.