“But your army?”
He shook his head. “They won’t do it except at my command,” he said curtly. “And that is one command I will never issue.” He pushed me from his lap, depositing me gently on the hard floor, and stood up. He reached out a hand, pulling me to my feet next to him. In the strengthening light I could see the tracks of his tears, staining his weary face.
“I don’t understand,” I cried. “Why would God lead you down this fruitless search? Why bury His will in a Prophecy? Why wouldn’t He just tell you what He wants from you?”
His lips twisted into a bitter smile.
“Because he wants me to choose, Hope. Not obey. I thought if anything you’d understand that by now.
“It’s a good thing, Hope,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he said my name. “It’s a good thing that the Fallen will have a chance at redemption. You must remember that when the moment comes. Promise me.” He pulled my hands, still wrapped inside his, up to his lips and pressed a kiss to my knuckles as if to seal a vow.
I squeezed his hand as if in agreement, but my heart revolted. I won’t do it. In my mind, the words were clear and strong. Never mind that my knees were trembling.
Won’t do what? Henri asked.
I froze, horrified. How much had he seen and overheard? I couldn’t bear the thought of his snide commentary intruding on our private pain.
Go away, I ordered silently, my muscles clenched in apprehension, hoping he’d obey.
Michael looked at me quizzically. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Just dreading going down to meet Enoch and Del,” I answered quickly, sinking against his shoulder to avoid his probing gaze. I glanced up at the sunshine that was now filling the lighthouse, flooding down from the windows above. Hours had passed since we first woke up. It gave me an excuse to change the subject and keep our newfound knowledge from Henri while I could.
“I don’t know how to keep it from Enoch, Michael, but it doesn’t feel right to burden him with it. Do you think he knew all along?”
Michael shrugged, caressing my shoulder, every touch sending another wave of comforting heat through my body. “Perhaps. Does it matter?”
“I guess not.”
He shifted slightly then and pulled my fingers to his lips, turning my hand over to kiss the thin skin of my inner wrist. A shiver ran through my body. He trailed his lips along my arm, past my shoulder, to nestle into my neck. I closed my eyes, reveling in his touch. The horror of what we would face once we left this island did nothing to diminish my need for him. All I wanted to do was give myself over to this pleasure and forget about everything else.
“You’re still healing,” he whispered against my skin. “But look at me, now. You’ve left a mark of your own.”
He pulled away and pointed to his chest. Over his heart lay the clear imprint of my palm, marked in red, like a rash.
Tears filled my eyes. I had to look away. Michael pulled me in close, murmuring to me as he planted kisses in my hair.
An expectant silence filled the room. Our time here was over, I knew, but I didn’t want to leave. I clung to Michael, wishing it all away, but I knew it was no use. Eventually, we’d have to leave and face reality. As if reading my thoughts, Michael finally spoke.
“We’d better get going, or they’ll be coming up after us.”
Reluctantly, I extracted myself from his embrace. It was all I could manage to let go of his hand.
Methodically, we pulled on our clothes. In silence, we went about the room, unmaking the bed, folding the sheets and blankets, straightening up, careful to leave no traces of our stay. I focused intently on each task, wanting the monotony of the simple tasks to fill the empty spaces of my mind, crowding out the knowledge of what was to come. Michael, too, seemed preoccupied, giving inordinate attention to tamping out the fire. When we were sure the flames were out, we headed down the ladder and pushed through the heavy door to greet the day.
It was like a new world. The sky was bluer than Michael’s eyes—a bright, expectant color that spoke of birth and renewal. The sun, still rising, shone brightly. The few clouds that were scattered across the sky were like gentle puffs of cotton, floating harmlessly above. Instead of the harsh winds of yesterday, a gentle, warm breeze fluttered across the hilltop. Somewhere, I could hear the twitter of birds. Life had returned to the Skellig.
My heart was dead to it all.
We walked wordlessly away from the lighthouse. Our feet were leaden as we moved down the rock. The path, which seemed so short the night before, now stretched endlessly before us, the distance to the boat a yawning expanse. When we finally came down the last flight of steps toward the dock, we saw Enoch and Del staring at us, knowingly, as we clutched our hands together, but we didn’t care. We just held each other more tightly and slipped silently onto the boat’s deck, ignoring the significant look that Enoch was shooting us from behind his dark glasses.
“It’s like another sea altogether today,” Del said as he busied himself preparing the boat for departure. “Strangest thing I’ve ever seen. But I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. We’ll be leaving now, while the weather is still with us. Help me, Michael, with these lines.”
Michael gave my hand a tiny squeeze before moving quietly to Del’s side. He busied himself listening to Del’s instructions, seemingly absorbed in the discussion of knots and tides and proper technique. Quietly I slipped away to Del’s little lean-to, wanting a moment alone to compose myself.
The shack bore the evidence of a hard night. An abandoned hand of solitaire was strewn across the table. An empty lunchbox had been left in the corner along with a flask—empty, too, I presumed. I was still taking in the scene when the springs of the door squealed in protest. I turned to find Enoch walking into the room. He pulled the door closed behind him and came closer. His presence, and voice, overpowered the tiny space. I felt awkward, cornered, as he leaned in, my own distorted reflection flashing back to me from the lenses of his sunglasses.
“What happened up there last night?” he demanded, his voice full of concern as he hunched over the table. “We were just about to come after you.”
“Nothing,” I said evasively, busying myself with sliding the playing cards into their box, then stacking the numerous maps piled in front of me. “Nothing at all.”
“Did you spend the night together?”
He was so blunt it caught me by surprise. I looked up. He was peering at me intently through his mirrored glasses. It felt for all the world like he was leering.
“No! Of course not!” I stammered. The heat of a blush crept across my face. Desperately, I tried to ward off his curiosity. I held out a hand and pushed up my sleeve, making a sudden realization. “No burns.”
Indeed, my skin showed none of the aftereffects of Michael’s heat. Gabrielle had been right—we were reaching equilibrium.
He scowled, frustrated. “Then what is going on? Something happened on top of the Skellig, and I want to know.”
“You’re imagining things, Enoch,” I said, refusing to look him in the eye.
Enoch thumped his cane, and I jumped.
“You know better than to lie to me, young lady,” he said, raising his voice. He slammed his free hand down on the table for emphasis. Maps and papers scattered from the force.
Enoch? Angry? This was new. His face was almost purple, his eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses. I looked at him steadily, trying to remain calm despite my confusion.
“Nothing happened, Enoch. We went to sleep right after you and Del left last night. We woke up this morning and cleaned up the lighthouse and then came down. End of story.”
“But something happened yesterday,” he said, coming around the corner of the table closer to me. “I demand to know what it was. That huge gash on Michael’s forehead didn’t get there by accident.”
He was leaning too closely to me, little bits of spittle flying from his contorted lips.
“Enoch,” I said, stepping
backward. “Calm down. You’re scaring me.”
Shock, then embarrassment, dawned on his face.
He took a step back and looked away, composing himself. Eventually, his gaze seemed to settle on the table, where his hands fumbled to clean up the papers he’d knocked awry.
“I’m sorry, Hope,” he mumbled as he straightened and restraightened the pile. “It must be this crazy chase we’re on. The paranoia must be getting to me. Maybe that and a little of last night’s whiskey.” He smiled ruefully. “It’s just that … I’ve come to think of you as a granddaughter of sorts. I felt like we understood each other, perhaps when no one else could.”
He took off his glasses. His blind, white eyes were welling with tears. “I couldn’t bear to think you were hiding something from me. Not after all we’ve been through.”
He fumbled with his glasses and slid them onto his face, hiding his disappointment.
I was swamped with guilt. Even if we hadn’t exactly been hiding something from him, we didn’t go out of our way to tell Enoch what was going on. After all he’d done for us, he deserved better. Chastened, I placed my hand on his rough knuckles where they rested on top of his cane.
“I’m sorry if we made you feel that way, Enoch. Of course I trust you; you’ve been a rock for me this entire journey. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have gone crazy long ago.”
He nodded. “I just did what I could,” he said gruffly, staring at the floor.
He paused expectantly.
I took a deep breath and exhaled.
“Gabrielle came with a message. Michael got the wound on his head when they wrestled. Some way of proving Gabrielle’s identity, I guess.”
“Of course it was her,” Enoch said excitedly, squeezing my hand in his, his hurt forgotten. “Nobody else would be foolish enough to confront Michael in one of his own sacred places, especially one as desolate as this. What did she say?”
The door screeched open again, interrupting us.
“Make way,” Del shouted as he burst through the door. “Michael’s about to release the mooring. I need to take the wheel, or we’ll crash on the rocks.”
“He didn’t tell me,” I answered Enoch, pulling my hand free and darting out the door before he could question me any further.
The boat lurched as Del gave the motor gas. I grabbed the side and made my way up the deck to where Michael was sitting among nets and crates.
“It seems so different today, doesn’t it?” he asked without turning.
Giant flocks of white birds were returning to the Little Skellig. The waves were calm, lapping against the boat just enough to leave spray in their wake. Just like that, the sea was transforming to its springtime guise. But I knew it wasn’t the weather that Michael was talking about.
“Yes,” I said simply, resting my hand on his shoulder.
“Enoch suspects something,” I continued quietly.
“He would,” Michael replied, nodding. “He’s just as intuitive as the next angel.”
“I couldn’t bring myself to tell him, Michael. I just … couldn’t.”
Michael reached up to hold my hand. The familiar flow of heat connected us, giving me solace.
“I think we should. After all, he’ll need to take care of you … after … I’m gone. I’ll tell him when the time is right. Once we know where the last stand will be.”
We stared at the water in silence, nothing left to say. I knew both of us were wondering what we would do now. We knew what we had to do, what the Prophecy demanded, but our clues and hunches had run out.
If we had to find the Key, where would we go?
Deep down, I didn’t want the answer. I wanted to stay right here, riding the currents with Michael, until the end of time.
The boat shifted into open sea, Del giving full throttle to her as we climbed the rougher waters. I looked at the endless waves, hoping they’d mesmerize us into forgetting our pain.
“I know you say you aren’t sweethearts, but you sure seem to be so.” Del unceremoniously plopped himself down on a crate next to Michael. “‘Tis none of my business, to be sure. But you should know you cut a pretty picture, the two of you together.”
I smiled weakly. He couldn’t know how his comments cut me to the core.
“Del,” Michael said, shouting to be heard over the boat’s raucous motor. “What happened to the monks who left the Skellig? Where did they go?”
“Oh, they went all over Europe, they did,” Del said, pulling out his pipe and settling into his story as if he’d never stopped. “Many stayed in the inland, in Ireland, to be sure. But most were not satisfied to do so. They’d come to the Skellig for their martyrdom, or at least the closest they could get to it. They’d not be satisfied until they’d punished their bodies and souls with the weariness of travel, the hardships of living on foreign soil. A fair number went to France, they did, forming monasteries of their own if there were none they could find.” He drew hard on his pipe, sheltering the tiny flame in its bowl from the wind. “Some just deposited their relics in churches along the way, I suppose. Probably melted into the crowd, never to be seen again.”
A spark of excitement, of recognition, fluttered in my breast. France. Even as I thought it, I wanted to deny it; I wanted to drown out the very idea of it. I wanted to cry.
Michael leaned in closer to Del. I could tell from the expression on his face that he felt it, too.
“Where in France, in particular, did they go, Del? Does history tell us of their journeys?”
Del crossed his legs and stretched his arms behind his head, pipe clamped in his teeth, enjoying his riveted audience.
“Those were the times of the Crusades, still. They say they went on pilgrimage routes, hoping to bless the Crusaders and the pilgrims who accompanied them. They believed the relics they carried would assure victory in the Holy Lands. But those are only rumors,” he scoffed, sucking hard on his pipe. “Imagine that. All those men, their very names lost to the world, their destinies a mystery only God’s eye can pierce. Only silly tales left behind by which to remember them.”
He slapped his knee and stood up.
“We’ll be in port soon. I’d best return to my post before things get rough again. Ready yourselves for the landing.”
He strode off toward the little lean-to to retake the wheel.
“France?” I asked Michael.
“France.” He frowned, thinking hard. “Like the Wild Geese. And this time, I think I know where.”
Later that night we parked ourselves in the town’s tiny Internet café, huddling over the computer.
Michael spoke as he typed some words into the browser for the search.
“There were four main Crusader routes out of France, starting at Lyon, Marseille, Toulouse, and Metz. There were an additional four pilgrimage trails leading out of France to Santiago de Compostela. In all of these places, there are only two churches dedicated to me. One in Marseille and one in Le Puy-en-Velay.”
He tilted the computer screen to give me a better look. The search for his church in Marseille showed what looked like a traditional cathedral in the middle of an urban setting. Two orderly spires reached into the sky, a crucifix between them. I looked at the photograph and felt nothing.
“Now look at Le Puy-en-Velay,” Michael prompted, clicking the tab to bring up his other search.
I gasped.
It was a tiny chapel, perched high atop a craggy rock that jutted dramatically into the sky. The photographs showed it silhouetted against dark, angry clouds, making the scene all the more striking.
“It sits atop a basalt needle, all that is left of a volcanic plug. In ancient times, well before Christianity, it was recognized as a sacred place.” He paused before adding grimly, “The original dolmens used for human sacrifice are incorporated into the chapel walls.”
Sacrifice.
My soul knew—this was the place. I looked at Michael, and he nodded.
I continued clicking through the photos onscreen.
The rock upon which the chapel sat rose nearly 270 feet, leaving the chapel perched high over the town of Le Puy.
“268 stone steps,” Michael murmured, reading the accompanying text over my shoulder. “And a niche in the wall where relics found underneath the altar are on display.”
We didn’t say anything; we just stared at the screen, letting it sink in. To me, the pretty little church on the screen seemed like a gaping black hole that would suck us in and destroy us. A quiet thrumming filled my brain as I peered at the photo.
“You’re sure?” Enoch asked.
I reached over and took Michael’s hand.
“We’re sure,” Michael said.
He grasped the mouse and with a click shut down the browser.
It was settled, then. Tomorrow we would fly to France.
ten
FRANCE
Paris. Lyon. From there, we abandoned the plane and began the drive to Le Puy-en-Velay.
Through the hills. Winding. Turning. Climbing.
Every mile bringing us closer to Michael’s death.
I froze with dread as we mounted each hill, thinking the end lay just over the summit. But each mount gave way to yet another curve, yet another hill, and still we climbed in silence.
I clung to Michael’s hand from the front back seat, unable to bear any distance between us. Our bodies throbbed with a shared energy that could no longer hurt me, but simply passed between us in a constant current.
Too soon, the pretty town of Le Puy-en-Velay spread out before us, its warren of stone buildings and cobblestoned streets a monument to the rocky soil on which it stood. A statue of the Virgin and Child soared above one end of the city. A few miles away, opposite the statue, loomed the Chapel of St. Michael.
I squeezed Michael’s hand hard.
“It’s early,” Enoch said. “Do you want to go straight to the chapel?”
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