‘May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’
‘Amen,’ the congregation said in unison.
‘Go in peace.’
‘Thanks be to God.’
The priest stepped down from the altar and left the church to go into the sacristy. He was helped out of his vestments by a server, who arranged them neatly on a hanger. Usually after mass he stood at the door, chatting with worshippers and shaking their hands as they left, but today he feigned a headache and sent everyone away.
The light had revealed itself to him again, so brightly that everything and everyone around him had become invisible. Once again, he’d had the feeling that someone had been there, even though he hadn’t seen them.
His throat felt dry, as if he’d just trekked through a barren desert. He poured a glass of water and drank it thirstily. Then he sat down and quietly recited the words that were at the heart of his faith. They seemed to have taken on a new meaning now.
‘Take this, all of you, and eat it.
This is my body which will be given up for you.
Take this, all of you, and drink from it.
This is the cup of my blood,
the blood of the new and everlasting covenant.
It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven.
Do this in memory of me.’
Eating Christ’s body and drinking his blood in order to become one with him …
He stared at the crucifix on the wall, a particularly fine image of Jesus on the cross carved from a single piece of wood. It hung above the prie-dieu on which he usually knelt to pray before and after mass.
‘Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.’
Just as he stood up, there was a knock at the door. He looked at it with irritation as it opened before he’d said, ‘Come in.’
One of his parishioners stuck his head around the corner. ‘There’s someone here who would like to speak to you.’
‘I …’ he faltered. ‘Can’t they make an appointment?’
‘We’ve already asked him to, but he’s refusing to leave. He’s being quite insistent I’m afraid.’
The priest sighed.
‘All right, let him come in, but tell him that I can’t give him much time at the moment.’
Somewhat annoyed, he stood in the middle of the sacristy to wait for the unknown visitor whose need to speak to him was so urgent that it couldn’t wait. He folded his arms.
The door opened again. He was astounded when he realised that the visitor was Ane.
Ane closed the door quietly and came over to him with a broad smile on his face and his hand outstretched. ‘Tiny,’ he said warmly, taking the priest’s hand and placing his other hand on top of it.
The priest mirrored the gesture by laying his other hand on top of Ane’s.
‘I was at mass today,’ Ane told him. ‘Actually, I’ve come to a few. I think it really started today, didn’t it?’
‘Did you see it too?’ Tiny asked.
‘Yes, I saw it,’ Ane affirmed. ‘He who does not eat of my flesh and drink of my blood, so that he remains in me and I in him, shall not know salvation.’
Tiny looked at him blankly, not understanding what he meant.
‘That will come later. Right now it’s like you’re looking through a foggy mirror, but later, you’ll see it for yourself.’
‘See what for myself?’
‘Come,’ Ane said. ‘They’re waiting for us.’
Tiny hesitated for a second but then took his coat from the hook on the wall. ‘We’ll go out through the back door,’ he said. ‘It’s quicker.’
He looked at the crucifix again and bowed his head, as if he was asking for both permission and forgiveness for what he was about to do.
The door that usually shut behind him with a quick click now closed with a soft groan, as though even the unoiled hinges were protesting his departure.
23
Saturday 21 March, 3:45am
Had Paul been initiated into the cult of Mithras? Peter was stunned. That would be an earth-shattering discovery! If it was true, then much of Paul’s known biography would make sense: leaving his home as a Raven to become a tent-maker in Jerusalem … then the journey to Damascus followed by years of silence and withdrawal from public life as a Bridegroom … then back to Jerusalem, full of belligerence and seeking out confrontation, speaking the language of war and wearing military clothing. The Soldier …
And then there were those cryptic words in … something about being taken up to heaven … How did that go again, he wondered.
He took out the phone and typed in ‘Paul third heaven’. The first hit was exactly what he was looking for. Although he doesn’t mention his own name, Paul is clearly writing about himself in the Second Letter to the Corinthians, chapter 12, verse 2 to 4:
I know a person in Christ who fourteen years ago was caught up to the third heaven – whether in the body or out of the body I do not know; God knows. And I know that such a person – whether in the body or out of the body I do not know; God knows – was caught up into Paradise and heard things that are not to be told, that no mortal is permitted to repeat.
The third heaven, fourteen years ago … precisely the length of time that Paul stayed in Damascus. His words were similar to the mystical language of an initiate. ‘… and heard things that are not to be told, that no mortal is permitted to repeat’. The initiate saw and heard things which he was forbidden to share with the outside world.
Peter entered a new search term: ‘lion Mithras fourth grade’.
He frantically clicked link after link but they only led to general descriptions of Mithraism.
The Lion was under the protection of the planet Jupiter. The hands and tongues of the initiates were anointed with honey to keep their hands pure from evil deeds, and their tongues pure from evil words. It is possible that they also underwent a sort of baptism of fire. This may have been done by having flaming torches passed over their bodies, or by leaping over a fire. Fire was believed to have a purifying effect. Afterwards, initiates were considered to be made anew. They had now been promoted to another level in the religion’s hierarchy, one which connected them to the sun, and thus also to Mithras, who was increasingly seen as the sun god, the sol invictus, the invincible sun.
That explained the honey, at least, Peter thought with satisfaction.
Honey, honey …
He tried a new Google search: ‘Honey Leiden’. His screen filled with advertising, links to a review of the annual Leidse Bijenmarkt, the Leiden Bee Market, a shop selling beekeeping supplies … And then he saw it: Hortus, the University of Leiden’s botanical garden, home to the only beehives within the boundaries of the city’s canals.
Not knowing what else to do, he decided to go there.
A short while later he reached the Morspoort. The street was quiet. He walked over the drawbridge next to the De Put windmill and into the Weddesteeg, past the house where Rembrandt was born. He dashed over the Noordeinde, then turned right at the Oude Varkenmarkt. He paused briefly at the Sebastiaansdoelen and looked up. He must have gone through this city gate hundreds of times, but this was the first time he had really looked at what was depicted above it. It’s so easy to become blind to your surroundings in a city you know well.
Above the gate’s arch was a statue of a knight wearing a helmet, sitting astride a horse and fighting a dragon. The creature lay half-dead beneath the horse and was making a last attempt to rise up and avoid the fatal thrust of the knight’s spear. Saint George and the dragon …
Peter continued to the very end of the canal, but found that the wall around this side of the Hortus was much higher than he remembered. And it was smooth, with no protruding bricks that he could use to help him climb over it.
He scanned the street for something that he could lean up against the wall to help him. But he was afraid that it would make too much noise, and besides, he couldn’t see anything that would
be useful.
Then he saw the one-man canoe lying against the wall of one of the houses. He couldn’t help smiling. This part of the canal connected to the Hortus via a short, vaulted tunnel.
He picked up the featherlight canoe and put it in the water. It wobbled precariously, but stabilised as soon as he sat down in it.
He gently pushed himself away from the canal wall with the paddle and with a few smooth strokes of the blades, he slowly moved through the water.
He paddled to the end of the tunnel that ran beneath the thick walls of the botanical garden, then he moored the canoe. The boat rocked heavily, which made it difficult to get out again.
The Hortus was his favourite place for a lunchtime walk or just to get some fresh air. Sometimes he’d chat with the beekeepers, both named Fred, one of whom was descended from the author of the first Dutch book about beekeeping. It was wonderful to see how an enthusiasm for something could sometimes be passed on to the next generation.
He started to walk down the path that ran along the side of the canal. The Hortus was bathed in the light of a full moon that cast long shadows of his body on the ground. He reached the side of a large building that backed onto the Nonnensteeg. There were a few wicker hives here, but no sign of the bees. He pressed his ear against one of them but it was silent. No buzzing, no vibration, nothing.
He warily tilted the hive up.
Empty.
He inspected the other hives in the same way, first checking each one to make sure there were no bees inside. He had hoped that something might have been hidden inside one of them, but he found nothing.
There was one more place he could look.
He followed the path that ran alongside the water of the Vijfde Binnenvestgracht and past the systematic garden where the plants were grouped into families.
Peter knew that there was another row of apiaries behind the building that housed the garden’s offices and equipment store.
He walked around to the back of the building, but before he even reached the hives, he noticed something unusual. Two tiny glass dishes, like the ones found on hotel breakfast buffets, had been placed between two of the apiaries.
He picked them up. One of them contained butter, and the other was full of honey. He held the little cup of honey up in the moonlight but he couldn’t see anything unusual.
Butter and honey … he tried to find a link. What did they have to do with each other? Most of the clues so far had come from the bible.
‘Land of milk and honey,’ he murmured to himself. That was how the Promised Land was always described in the Old Testament. Then there was Samson, he thought to himself enthusiastically. It felt like he was getting somewhere now. As a young man, Samson had fallen in love with a woman and decided to make her his wife. Some time later, on his way to the wedding, he saw a dead lion. He discovered that a swarm of bees had nested in the lion’s carcass and made honey. He took out handfuls of honey with his bare hands, and gave some to his parents who were travelling with him.
Lion and honey … but what about the butter?
He mulled it over as he walked back to the garden’s main path.
As he went around the corner, he saw someone coming towards him. Peter instinctively made himself smaller. He tensed, ready to run, but instead of running, he stared at the person who was walking calmly in his direction.
At first, the figure was half hidden in the shadows of the trees, but when he was just a few metres away, Peter realised who it was.
24
Saturday 21 March, 4:00am
When Judith looked up she saw that the ceiling was made of iron bars, like a cattle grid.
Gingerly, she bent over. The throbbing in her head intensified. She picked the candle up in both hands, then slowly stood up, a little at a time. She watched the flickering flame intently, terrified that it would go out. She held the candle out with her arms extended, like a priestess making an offer to her god in exchange for a miraculous escape from captivity.
Wooden planks had been laid over the bars above her, covering them completely.
Judith put the candle on the ground, very carefully, and pushed it against the cell wall. She dragged the mattress and blanket from the bed, a rickety wooden construction that had been carelessly put together.
If she leaned the bed, or the thing that was supposed to be a bed, at an angle against the wall, she could use it as a ladder to climb up and escape.
The bed wasn’t heavy, but she was so exhausted that it took an enormous amount of effort to turn it onto its side. She bent over, resting her hands on the long side of the frame for support, and tried to get her breath back. Her chest heaved violently, as though she’d just done a hundred-metre dash.
She was overcome by a feeling of such awful desolation that she dropped to her knees and began to cry uncontrollably. She slumped sideways, her entire body shaking. When she had calmed down slightly, a few minutes later, she stayed there, curled up on the ground like a foetus.
‘Mark,’ she whispered. ‘Mark.’ She rocked from side to side.
A little while later, she crawled over to the middle of the cell on her hands and knees.
Her head was still pounding. It felt like she was standing next to a piledriver.
The candle still cast its light evenly over the room. Next to it was a jug of water and a tin mug. It looked like something you’d take on a camping trip. But Judith didn’t even try pouring the water into the mug. Instead, she held the jug to her lips and took big, greedy gulps as the lukewarm water ran down her chin and into her neck.
There was still a bitter taste in her mouth.
She dragged the bed around until the part that passed for a headboard faced the wall. Then she crouched on the floor at the other end and tried to push the bed up with her back. With her knees bent and the bed base resting on her shoulders, she slowly stood up, inch by inch, until she was completely upright. When she had found her balance, she took small steps backwards. The bed angled upwards, like a drawbridge being pulled up.
Now the bed was about a metre away from the wall. She turned around and pushed it away from her with both hands, so that it came to rest against the wall at an angle. It created a steep, broad ladder. She bent down to pull the footboard closer to her.
Her blouse was soaked with sweat now. She felt like she might faint at any moment, but she didn’t want to stop.
She put her foot on the first slat on the bed base. She gripped the sides of the frame with her hands and took her other foot off the floor to see if the bed was sturdy enough to climb. The wood bent slightly but seemed to be able to hold her weight. She brought her other foot up so that both feet were standing on the same plank and pressed her body against the slats.
‘And … that’s … how I … climb … upwards.’ She shivered as she sang the words of the popular Dutch children’s song.
When she had climbed a third of the way, she reached up to see if she could touch the bars. She could. They felt cold and wet.
She climbed up another two rungs. Now she was able to grasp a metal bar with one hand and push at a plank with the other. The plank moved, but only a fraction, and her hope began to fade when no light came through the small gap she had made. The space above her looked even darker than the cell.
She climbed one rung higher so that she could use more force to push on one of the iron bars, but it was obvious that she wouldn’t be able to get it loose. She grabbed onto the bar with her other hand, hoping that if she used two hands, she might be able to make it move.
She felt the wood under her feet start to bow. She carefully slid her feet across the slat to distribute her weight more evenly.
But the slat collapsed with a loud crack. Miraculously, despite landing on the next slat down, she was able to keep her balance. Then she heard a scraping noise coming from below her and felt the bed gradually slide away from the wall. She tried to hold onto it with one foot to stop it falling, but it was hopeless. The bed crashed to the floor.
&
nbsp; Now Judith was dangling from the metal grate like an upside-down bat. She looked down to work out where the best place to land would be, then used the last of her strength to shove one of the bars along the grate so that it was positioned over the mattress instead of the wooden wreck below her.
Just as she was about to let go, she heard fumbling at the door, a bolt being drawn back. A moment later, the door opened.
A man appeared in the doorway holding a flaming torch. His face was hidden behind a balaclava.
He nervously entered the cell with small, shuffling steps. He swept his torch in a wild, wide arc around him. Only then did he look up and see Judith, who used his moment of confusion to drop back to the ground.
If her plan had been to elegantly spring back onto her feet like a cat and then overpower her captor, she failed completely.
She landed on the edge of the mattress, fell on her side and slammed into the wall. A searing pain shot through her ankle. She had lost the element of surprise now, but she wasn’t about to give up. She jumped back up again, but too fast and had to hold onto the wall to stay upright.
The man observed all this in silence.
‘Why am I here?’ she whispered, without meeting his gaze.
She hobbled towards him, but he pointed the flaming torch at her, as though warding off a wild animal.
‘Why am I here?’ she said again, louder this time.
The guard cocked his head to the side as if he was considering whether he should reply.
‘What do you want from me?’ When she took another step closer to him, she felt the heat from the torch and realised how cold she was.
‘Can you tell me why I’m here?’ she asked again in a friendlier tone, hoping he might soften and give her an answer.
‘I’m very confused, you can understand that, can’t you?’ she continued, speaking calmly as if this was a perfectly reasonable conversation with a normal person.
The man looked directly at her. ‘I can’t tell you anything,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
He sounded sincere.
Was this the younger man that she’d met with the old man earlier? His voice sounded familiar.
St Paul's Labyrinth Page 17