by J. F. Penn
The flashlight flickered again, and they both froze.
It buzzed a little, then flared into brightness once more.
They moved more quickly now, examining each relic box and discarding them just as fast until suddenly, near the bottom of the pile, Jake pulled out a metal casket similar to the one from the Philippines. The lid was loose.
He pulled it off, but only the tatters of a red pillow lay inside as if a rat had made it home.
“There are loose bones at the bottom of the pile. Maybe it fell out.” Morgan raked through the heap, a grimace on her face as she pulled apart the tangle of remains mixed in with rotted material and dead rodents. A glimmer of red caught her eye. A fat finger bone with scarlet wax on the end.
Morgan picked it out of the pile triumphantly, but then her heart sank. The wax was only a smear on one side. The hollow finger bone was empty, its precious contents long gone.
“All this way for nothing,” Morgan sighed. “Worse than nothing now we’re trapped here.”
Jake shook his head. “It’s not for nothing, we’ll take it anyway. It matches the others, so we can still use it for trade.” He picked up the relic and placed it in his pack along with the others. “And we’re not trapped.”
He picked up an ulna, a long arm bone, and smashed it against the wall. It shattered into long splinters on the floor. Jake chose a couple of the shards, thin picks with sharp ends. Walking over to the door, he maneuvered them into the lock mechanism and jimmied them up and down, listening for the click of tumblers in the ancient lock.
Morgan held the flickering flashlight as it began to fade again. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
He grinned. “Martin and I practiced this together after he got stuck in the vault that time. One of my many talents.”
The lock clunked. Jake held the bones in place while Morgan heaved the door open.
They stepped out into the corridor just as the flashlight flared its last and went out.
Jake reached for Morgan’s hand, and they clung to each other in the dark. A skittering sound came from the corridor ahead, the pitter patter of rats. Morgan wondered what they were gnawing on down here, grateful that it wouldn’t be their bones.
If they could find their way out, of course.
“Do you know –” she whispered.
“Sshh, I’m concentrating. I’m trying to recall the map from earlier.”
Morgan remembered the plan of the catacombs that Jake had discovered in the record book. He had traced the lines of the underground tunnels with a finger but could he recall enough to guide them out of here in the dark?
Jake took a tentative step forward, her hand tight in his. Whatever happened, they would be together.
He started walking more confidently, Morgan behind him, one hand on the wall, the other on his belt. When they reached a corner, he turned left with no hesitation, their footsteps echoing through the catacombs as they walked on.
Eventually, a warm glow of light came from up ahead, and they hurried toward it. In a chapel dedicated to the dead, an image of the crucified Savior looked down upon them, lit by an electric lamp representing the eternal flame.
Morgan exhaled, letting out the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. Relief flooded over her and exhaustion began to rise. She leaned against the wall, resting her head against the stone.
“We’re almost there,” Jake said. “This chamber is below the nave of the church. Do you need to rest a moment?”
She shook her head. “I’m OK, and I don’t think we should hang around. Father Alejandro might not be the only member of the Brotherhood here. Besides, it’s night already, and we have to be in San Francisco tomorrow.” She looked up at him. “Unless you want to go on alone. I know I’m slowing you down.”
Jake smiled, the lamplight giving his eyes a tawny glow. “We’re partners. We go together.”
He reached for her hand, and they walked out of the catacombs up into the church above and into the night.
San Francisco, USA.
Jake stood on the pier at the back of the Ferry Building looking out toward the Oakland Bay Bridge, its metal spars rising out of the brilliant blue water. Squat ferryboats chugged back and forth, disgorging passengers into the downtown city area. Raucous seagulls hopped across the ground, pecking at leftovers from the lunchtime rush that eased as the afternoon wore on. The air smelled of salt and vinegar from discarded chips overlaid with fresh sourdough bread from a nearby bakery.
Morgan lay on a bench in a patch of sun near the water’s edge, her eyes closed, a moment of peace in their crazy adventure. She had the military ability of catching zees wherever she was, sleeping easily then waking in an instant, alert for danger. Jake looked down at her, wanting to brush the dark curls from her brow but knowing that if he moved closer, she would sense him there. He satisfied himself by watching over her, giving her a little time to recover. Her angular face was pinched, and she’d lost weight that she couldn’t afford to. It was clear that she carried constant pain in her body and Jake knew how that felt. He wished he could take some of it from her.
He rechecked his phone. The text message had arrived just as they’d landed.
Midnight. Alcatraz. Bring the five relics.
The problem was that they only had four – Toledo, New Orleans, the Philippines, Lima. They needed the last finger to complete the Hand of Ezekiel, and even then, Jake wasn’t sure how it was supposed to work when one was broken and empty.
Of course, they could go to Alcatraz all guns blazing, take Naomi back and forget the bones. But the mission, as always, went beyond saving individual lives. ARKANE’s primary purpose was the recovery and protection of relics, books of ancient knowledge and objects of power that would outlive generations. A human life was but a drop in the river of life, a spark quickly fading in the night, whereas these artifacts could change the course of the river itself.
Director Marietti had made it clear that their first priority was the Hand of Ezekiel. It must rest in the ARKANE vault within the box of bone that Luis Rey held. So they needed to finish the search and go to the rendezvous point, but with a different agenda than expected.
Jake looked down at Morgan. He hadn’t told her of Marietti’s hard line – she had enough problems with the Director’s seeming disregard for human life – but he hoped she would be ready. He needed her on Alcatraz tonight.
But first, they needed that final finger bone.
He pulled out a map of San Francisco, the rustle of paper waking Morgan. She sat up and stretched like a cat, arching her back and rolling her shoulders. Jake caught the tightening in her jaw as she stood, the bandages on her legs shifting as she moved. He turned back to the map, giving her space, understanding that she didn’t want a witness to her pain.
“I’m still trying to decide where we should look first.” He pointed at a green expanse flanking the entrance to the Golden Gate Bridge. “This is the Presidio, a fortified base that the Spanish established and a military area until recently. It’s now a national park, but it still has a cemetery.” He moved his finger down the page to a tiny sliver of green in the Mission District. “This is Mission Dolores, established by Junípero Serra as one of a chain of missions up the West Coast.”
Morgan leaned over the map, her dark curls brushing against Jake’s neck, her breath on his skin. He could smell the coconut scent of her shampoo, and he wanted to lean back against her.
“It’s got to be the Mission first. Maybe the relic is just sitting there, waiting for us.” She shrugged. “You never know. Sometimes it really is that simple.”
They jumped in an Uber, the easiest way to get around the city, and headed inland past high-rises and smart hotels across the city blocks. Morgan noticed how many homeless people begged on the street, the uncomfortable juxtaposition of some of the wealthiest people in America next to the rejected and outcast.
The streets changed as they drove into the Mission District, the sound of Latino music
drifting out of eclectic stores, tattoo parlors and independent shops with handmade gifts next to unusual flavors of ice cream. Morgan found it dislocating to be in the USA, a culture at once so close to Europe and yet sometimes so jarringly different. Yet in this part of the city, she felt a sense of belonging, as if the Spanish heritage called to the part of her that shared a common ancestor.
The Uber pulled up on a corner next to an elaborate basilica, its twin bell towers and facade a faded cream that looked almost golden in the afternoon sun. Elaborate designs covered a vaulted entranceway with columns twisting toward heaven, drawing the eye up to the canopy of blue sky above.
Morgan looked up in confusion. “This can’t be the place. It’s too modern.”
Then she noticed the humble white adobe chapel next door that most would walk past without a second glance. In Spain, she had grown used to massive cathedrals, testament to the riches of the all-powerful Church, but this basic mission house looked exactly as it must have done back in 1776.
Jake walked over to the historical plaque on the wall. “It’s the oldest building in San Francisco, established as part of the California chain of missions, dedicated to Saint Francis of Assisi. Apparently, they even bless animals here at a special service once a year. Very cool.”
An open door led into a tourist shop where a plump woman sat watching a Latino soap opera. She glanced up as they entered and took their entrance fee quickly, waving them through into the Mission.
The modest chapel was empty, its few wooden pews laid out before an altar at the front of the church, flanked by statues of Franciscan friars. Chevrons of terracotta red and mustard yellow marked the wooden panels above the sanctuary, muted colors of the earth that added intensity to the gold statues beneath.
It smelled faintly of incense left behind after a service, but it was clear that the grand basilica further on was the main center of worship now, and this basic chapel had been left behind along with the vows of those who established it. After all, poverty didn’t fit so well with the American dream.
Morgan looked up at the vaulted roof above her head, the dark wooden beams lashed together with rawhide. She could almost hear the hammer blows and the rasping sound of the saw as converts built the church in this new corner of Empire. Their work had changed the course of history, but some claimed that Junípero Serra was behind the mistreatment of local Native American peoples, who saw hard labor, the spread of disease and forced conversions as oppression. The workers had lived in appalling conditions, women raped and beaten, families packed into tight living quarters as they were forced to serve the newly arrived Spanish. One historian had even called the missions, “a series of picturesque charnel houses,” and Junípero Serra was responsible for them.
Such a man could not possibly be a saint, and yet, in 2015, Pope Francis had canonized the friar. Despite the protests against his sainthood, Junípero Serra now interceded with God on behalf of those still on earth.
But it looked like part of him remained.
A reliquary stood next to the altar, an ornate golden cross with a thick central pillar containing space for a relic at its heart. An ivory pillow decorated with scarlet thread lay in the middle surrounding a glass case with a bone of the saint inside.
Morgan called across to Jake as she pointed it out. “Told you. Sometimes it’s just that easy.”
They walked closer to the relic, Morgan’s smile fading as she saw what lay within.
22
Morgan bent closer to the glass. What had looked like a finger was just another vial containing a sliver of bone, such a tiny relic for a place that loomed large over the religious history of the city.
She sighed as she straightened up, looking around the church for any other shrine. There was nothing. “I guess an easy ride was too much to hope for.”
They walked around to the museum behind the chapel on the edge of a peaceful rose garden leading to the cemetery beyond. Old pictures of the Mission over the years sat next to a Franciscan habit, original construction tools, and even a doll from one of the children who had been raised here.
Morgan thought back to the statue of Junípero Serra in Palma, Majorca, where the priest stood with his hand on the head of a Native American boy wearing a loin-cloth. The interpretation of history was on a knife-edge here and as ever, both sides owned a part of the truth. Some children would have benefitted from the Mission, their lives changed for the better. Others would have found it a living hell. The same dichotomy applied to her own home country of Israel, and no single person’s experience could capture the complications of a nation’s past.
Jake stood by the door, ignoring the history around him while he scanned the research material Martin had sent over on his phone.
“This is odd,” he said. “Although Junípero Serra’s body is buried at the Carmel Mission, it seems that over five hundred relics were offered to believers before he was canonized.”
Morgan frowned. “What do you mean?” She went over to look at the pictures.
Expecting more historical black and white images, Morgan was surprised to see a middle-aged woman with efficient short hair and a Bible in hand standing in front of a glass case. She wore jeans and an oversized baggy shirt that hugged her significant figure, and she pointed at the relic with a smile that implied ownership.
“This woman is a theology teacher,” Jake read. “Just one of hundreds of believers who own a Serra relic. They were apparently offered in exchange for donations back in the 1990s – not for sale, of course.”
“Of course.” Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Any clue as to who might have got a finger bone?”
Jake scrolled through the page. “Martin hacked into the Catholic accounts for the area and listed the amount donated for each of the relics. I guess the more money, the more impressive the relic?”
“Makes sense.” Morgan pointed at the screen. “What’s that one?”
An eye-watering sum had been donated by the Woodberry family with a description that was slightly different than most. It listed ‘bone’ instead of ‘fragment.’
Jake zoomed in to read more. “San Francisco stopped burials within the city limits in 1900, moving many dead out to Colma, south of the city. But the Woodberrys kept a vault for the family bones not so far away.”
They headed out into the sun again and called another Uber. It drew up in front of the mission house within a minute, testament to the sheer number of drivers in the city, and they drove back to the north side skirting the edge of Golden Gate Park.
As they idled at a stop light, Morgan looked out the window to see a family cycle past, a toddler in a seat behind her dad, her little face staring back at the strange lady in the taxi.
Morgan smiled and waved, thinking of her niece Gemma back at home on the outskirts of Oxford. They sometimes went for a ride in the Botanical Gardens, the little girl thrilled to smell the flowers and run after pigeons with squeals of delight. Morgan would do anything for Gemma, but would she try to conquer death itself?
She had raged against Father Ben’s death, but she would never consider trying to bring him back. The body was merely a shell, after all, and she had seen enough dead bodies to know that the life inside wasn’t contained by flesh after it had failed them. Her father had believed that a spark of the divine lived within each person and returned to the source at death, but then as a Kabbalist Jew, he also believed in the resurrection of the physical body.
Death was complicated, but it was also certain, and those who fought against that certainty must surely find themselves “raging against the dying of the light,” as the poet Dylan Thomas wrote. The constant pain of her burns on this mission gave Morgan a taste of mortality, a sense that one day her body would fail her, and she would not rise to fight another day. But for now, she would continue on by Jake’s side.
The Uber drove on, pulling into what looked like a residential street, but the houses with their proud American flags masked the true nature of the area. At the end of the road,
a ceremonial archway with a metal-barred gate led into the grounds of the San Francisco Columbarium.
“You want me to wait?” the driver said, looking dubiously at the sign for the funeral home.
“No, we’re good,” Jake said as they left the Uber and walked into the parking lot, looking up at the Columbarium. It was a circular, Neo-classical building with a copper-domed roof surrounded by red and white sculpted rose bushes that reminded Morgan of Alice in Wonderland. Off with their heads, she thought, wondering about the human remains inside.
An old African-American man inched around the building, sweeping every section with great care, his gnarled hands holding the stiff brush like it was a precious object. He wore a tool-belt with pruning shears poking out, clearly responsible for the meticulous upkeep of the place.
He looked up at their approach. “Welcome friends. I’m Horace, the caretaker. Any questions, you just ask.”
Morgan smiled. “We’re looking for a family tomb.”
Horace’s face lit up. “Well, I’ve been here thirty years so I know all of them. Who you looking for?”
“The Woodberrys. We’ve come all the way from England to see their last resting place.”
Horace nodded. “I know them.” He waved them over. “This way.”
They walked along a concrete path flanked by green grass with perfectly trimmed edges. It was a far cry from the higgledy-piggledy graveyards of Britain and felt somehow like a Disney equivalent, as if death should be fastidiously tidy, and grief corralled into something tame.
There were plaques on the walls behind the bushes. One read Dorothea Klumpke Roberts, Astronomer. She loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night. Morgan wondered if Dorothea’s ashes were responsible for the beautiful colors and scent of the roses. She hoped so.