Silvio had gone very pale. He looked at Pedro with something close to anger. “You are wrong to say this,” he rasped.
“Please, signore…”
“No!”
“I will go!” Before anyone could stop her, Carla Rivera pushed her seat back and stood up, then strode out of the room. Pedro watched the priest. For a brief moment, he struggled with himself, then rose and followed. Pedro came last. The three of them went back into the hallway and up two flights of stairs. The door to the sick woman’s room was still closed, as Pedro had left it. Carla stopped outside, as if gathering strength, then opened it and went in, with Silvio and Pedro right behind.
“Maria…!” Pedro heard the mother gasp her daughter’s name.
Maria was sitting up in bed. Her eyes were open. She still looked weak and tired but there was absolutely no doubt that the illness had passed, just as a shadow will move on as the sun rises. She was still attached to the various pipes and tubes and was examining them as if she was trying to work out why they were there. As the door opened, she looked round and saw the three of them.
“Mama…” she said.
Carla rushed over to her and took her in her arms. There were tears streaming down her cheeks. She took hold of Maria and buried her head in her shoulder. At the same time, she looked back at Pedro. “It is a miracle!” she said. “She has not spoken a word in three weeks!”
Silvio looked stunned, rooted to the spot. He had seen his sister that morning, before he went to church. He went in every morning and spent an hour with her, praying beside the bed. And now…? His mother was right. All the doctors had said the same. There was no hope for her. What he was seeing was a miracle indeed.
“You must take Pedro to the door,” Carla said. “You must do everything you can to help him.” She was still embracing her daughter, smoothing her hair with one hand.
Silvio nodded. All the blood had drained from his face. “Yes,” he muttered. “Of course we must help him. We will leave tonight.”
FORTY-FOUR
They slipped out of the house just before midnight. Carla was waiting at the front door with a coat, which she handed to Pedro. She had spent the past two hours with her daughter. Maria had spoken a little. She had managed to eat some soup, the first food she had tasted in weeks. Now she was asleep – and her breathing, which had been ragged and painful, came easily.
“Where will you go?” Carla asked Pedro.
Pedro had already thought about this. He knew that the doors would only work properly if you decided on your destination before you went through them. “I’m going to Antarctica,” he said. “That is where Matt is waiting for me. That’s where I’ll find my friends.”
Carla helped him put on the coat, then took him in her arms. “I will never forget you,” she said. “And I will never be able to thank you for what you have done in this house. You have given my daughter back to me!”
“I’m glad I was able to help you,” Pedro said.
“We should leave,” Silvio muttered. “The guards are going to be suspicious. They will want to know why we’re entering the Vatican at this hour. The later we leave it, the more suspicious they will become.”
“Take care, Pedro.” Carla hugged him again. “Maybe one day in happier times we will meet again.”
She opened the door for them and they left together. For a moment, Silvio stood next to his mother and he gently kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t wait for me,” he said, in Italian.
“Of course I will wait for you. I won’t be able to sleep until you’re home. Look after Pedro.”
The priest was wearing a dark coat over his suit and as he hurried through the garden he was suddenly shrouded in night. He and Pedro reached the gate on the other side of the fountain and passed through into the street. This part of the city had been quiet when Pedro first reached it, and it was practically deserted now. A single man, wearing too many clothes, limped down the pavement, looking hopefully in the dustbins. A family lay curled up together in the doorway of a block of flats. Otherwise there was nobody to see them as they hurried away from the house, turning down one of the many streets that led them to St Peter’s Square.
Their destination was not the church, even though it was part of the Vatican City state which surrounded it. Vatican City itself was a huge walled area inside Rome with its own police and government. It contained churches, museums, offices and official residences set within a beautifully landscaped garden. Silvio Rivera could have chosen to live inside the walls but had preferred to share a house with his mother and sister – even so, he was no more than ten minutes away from the entrance that he used every day. This was an archway with a small sentry box. It was guarded by two men wearing the most bizarre costumes Pedro had ever seen: orange and blue striped tunics with trousers that were tight at the ankles but ballooned out around the legs, black berets, slashes of red in their sleeves and around their cuffs.
“They are the Swiss Guard,” Silvio explained. “It is their job to guard the Holy Father. Do not say anything, even if they try to talk to you. I will explain to them that I am looking after you and hopefully they will let us through.”
As he approached them, Silvio took out a badge with his photograph and identification number. It was almost half past twelve at night but he walked confidently, as if he was simply on his way to work. Even so, the Swiss Guards were suspicious. Despite the fanciful costumes, they were hard-edged, well-disciplined men. One of them examined the badge carefully, while the other snapped out a series of questions, which Silvio answered quietly and with complete confidence. Now the guard was examining Pedro. He asked something but Pedro didn’t speak, as he had been instructed. Silvio continued with a torrent of words in Italian, waving one hand at Pedro while resting the other on his shoulder. Eventually, the guards seemed to be satisfied. The badge was handed back. They were allowed through.
Pedro waited until they were out of earshot. “What did you tell them?” he asked.
“I said that you were a chorister and that you were singing a solo at tomorrow’s mass but that you had forgotten your words. I said I was giving you a lesson.”
“After midnight?”
“It is not so unusual for the choirmasters to come here with boys at strange times of the day and night. The mass has to be perfect.”
It was too dark to see very much. Pedro was aware of the lawns and shrubbery opening up around them. He heard the tinkle of water and smelled recently mown grass. It occurred to him that even if the rest of Rome was overcrowded and grimy, this garden must be a beautiful place – if only he could see it. A building loomed up ahead of them, handsome and solid. It did look like somewhere a choir might have practised, something between a school and a small museum. A flight of about ten white marble steps led up to the front door but Silvio took them another way, using a key to open a door at the back.
A long corridor stretched out in front of them, with low-voltage electric bulbs hanging above. Pedro could tell at once that the building was empty. Everything was silent apart from their own footsteps on the tiled floor. The walls were lined with black-and-white photographs of people – all of them men, many of them in clerical dress. They passed a series of doors, marked with numbers but not names. They could have led into classrooms, but when Silvio finally opened the door at the very end, Pedro found himself in a comfortable, cluttered office and guessed that this was where the priest worked.
There was an antique desk with a chair and, behind it, two windows that might have looked out onto the garden but were closed off with shutters. One whole wall was given over to books … heavy volumes bound in red and gold leather and with titles mainly in Latin. On one side stood a table with a vase of flowers. The desk itself was groaning under the weight of papers and files, and there were more of them piled high all over the carpet. An ornate gold mirror with old, speckled glass hung between the windows. The remaining walls were covered with oil paintings. There was an image of the Virgin Mary, looking down with
a great halo behind her head, another of the Three Wise Men on their way to Bethlehem. Pedro knew the stories. When he had lived in Lima, he had gone to church occasionally, if only to steal from the congregation.
Silvio closed the door. The two of them were alone.
“Is this your office?” Pedro asked.
“Yes. No one will disturb us here.”
“Why are we here? Where is the secret passage?”
“It’s not in this building, Pedro. It leads from the Cortile Borgia…”
“What is that?”
“It is a courtyard, part of the Vatican Museums. But we can’t go there until eight o’clock in the morning, just before it opens.”
“I don’t understand.” The guards hadn’t stopped them. They had made it safely inside. But even so, Pedro was feeling uneasy. “Why have we come here?”
“It would be too dangerous to come here in the day. It’s better for us to wait here until sunrise. When we cross the gardens tomorrow, nobody will stop us. I’m sure you’re tired, but trust me. It is safer this way. I will get us both something to drink…”
Silvio walked over to an elaborate wooden sideboard inlaid with mother-of-pearl, opened it and took out a bottle of wine and two glasses. He stood with his back to Pedro, talking all the while. “You have made my mother very happy,” he said. “Maria was a very late arrival in her life but she has always adored her.”
“What happened to her father?” Pedro asked.
“Our father died.” Silvio turned round. He carried two glasses of wine over to the desk. “Please, sit down, Pedro. I want to talk to you.”
Pedro did as he was asked. He was aware of the various saints in their gold frames, watching the two of them.
Silvio passed him a glass and raised his own. “I want to drink to the miracle that you have performed. I want to thank you for giving me back my sister.”
He raised his glass. Pedro did the same. There wasn’t a lot of wine in the glass and he drained it in one gulp. He felt its warmth immediately. It had a deep, heavy taste – not just of grapes but of every other summer fruit. He wondered if he was doing the right thing. He would need all his wits about him when the morning came and he made his way to the courtyard. The Cortile Borgia, that was what it was called. From there he would find the door that would take him just a few short steps to Antarctica. The thought would have made his head spin if it hadn’t been spinning already. He couldn’t believe how much the wine had affected him. He already wished he hadn’t drunk it.
He lowered his glass. Silvio had also drunk his wine. He was looking at Pedro very strangely. His face was filled with sadness.
“I must explain something to you,” Silvio said. “I want you to understand what I have done. I am a good man. At least, I try to be a good man. I have been a priest since I was twenty years old. I have given my entire life to the Church.”
Pedro was sitting opposite him, the two of them facing each other across the desk. His arms and legs were feeling very heavy. It was almost as if they had become part of the chair on which he sat.
“As I told you when you were in our house, I have read the diary of Joseph of Cordoba. For a long time I have known about the Old Ones, about the five Gatekeepers and the fight that will take place for the survival of the world. But I never believed it.” He gestured at the bookshelves. “The library here is full of the writings of prophets and visionaries across the ages. They have been visited by devils and demons and have given them many names. Some have claimed they have seen into the future. Many of these texts are ridiculous. Others are frankly blasphemous. We do not let the public read them because, in the wrong hands, they might even be dangerous. At the same time, we study them because they are instructive. They give us an illustration of what can happen when people take a wrong turn in their faith.
“St Joseph was exactly that … deluded, ignorant, wrong! At least that was what I believed. So I wonder if you can begin to imagine how I felt when I returned home this evening to be told by my own mother that one of the Gatekeepers had come to Rome and that he was upstairs, staying with us. My mother believed in you completely, Pedro. She once studied theology at the University of Rome and, like me, she had come across the stories about the Old Ones. When she told me about you – you were still asleep upstairs – I felt emotions towards her that I had never felt before. I think I actually hated her for believing you. I must ask forgiveness for that, Pedro. A man should never hate his mother.”
“What have you done?” Pedro asked. The words only came out with difficulty. He wanted to get up and run out of the room but he was suddenly very tired. He could still taste the wine on his lips, but now there was something else – a bitterness that the fruit had disguised. His eyes were getting heavy. The room was shifting slowly, losing its focus.
“If only I had been right. If only you had been a street beggar trying to get food and shelter by tricking his way into our house. That was what I first thought. But then, in front of my eyes, you performed a miracle. My sister had been seen by the very best doctors in Rome. We had talked about surgery and different sorts of therapy, but in the end we were forced to accept that there was nothing more we could do and that she would die. The cancer was too far advanced. She had not spoken or eaten for weeks before you arrived. We knew that the end was very near.
“And yet tonight, thanks to you, she was sitting up in her bed. She spoke to us. I can see in her eyes that she is well again.”
“I saved her.” It was an effort speaking the three words. Pedro was aware of time slowing down. He felt as if there were a huge hole in the room and he was slipping into it. The priest was watching him intently.
“Yes. You saved her. You have an extraordinary power and I am grateful to you. I hope that God will have mercy on you. I hope He will have mercy on both of us.”
“What have you done?” Pedro demanded a second time. He didn’t try to disguise the anger and contempt in his voice.
“The wine you drank was poisoned, Pedro. I have poisoned you. You have only three or four minutes left.” He raised a hand, the jewelled rings on his fingers sparkling in the light. “Do not be afraid. I have taken the same poison myself. I could not commit the sin of murder and allow myself to live. We will make this last journey together.” He paused to catch his breath and Pedro saw the dreadful pallor in his face and knew that he must look the same. “I have done evil,” Silvio went on. “But I had no choice. I hope you will forgive me. I hope God will forgive me. He will understand.”
No.
Pedro refused to die. He had been fighting all his life – in the village where he had been born, in the shanty town where he had lived. He was furious with himself for having sat here and taken the wine in his own hand. He remembered now that Matt had tried to warn him when they were together in the dreamworld. How could he have trusted this man who was still talking to him so reasonably, trying to make sense of what he had done?
“These are terrible times, Pedro. It seems that the world is coming to an end. The whole of the south of Italy has flooded and now Vesuvius has erupted, causing more death and destruction further north. The cities are overrun with refugees escaping from war and famine in eastern Europe and there is no longer any room to feed or house them. The government has responded with measures that we cannot think about. They are being killed … tens of thousands of them. Even the Holy Father has been forced to turn a blind eye. What can we do?
“And there are worse things happening all over the planet. In India, in China, in America, in Africa. Whole countries have disappeared. Some of them have retreated into the Dark Ages. Terrorists and fanatics have killed millions. Have you ever read the Bible? The kings of the earth and the great ones and the rich and the strong hid themselves in the caves and the rocks of the hills and said: ‘Fall on us and hide us from the wrath of the Lamb because the great day of wrath has come and who can stand?’ That’s from the Revelation of St John. The end of the world. That’s what’s happening now.”
But Pedro had one advantage over him. He was a healer. For years he had lived in a slum that was filled with poison … that had even been its name. Poison Town. But he had never fallen ill. Without knowing it, his power had kept him safe. It could do the same now. He could turn it on himself.
“Maybe you and the other Gatekeepers could save us, just as you saved Maria,” the priest continued. “But don’t you see? I could not let that happen. We have to accept all the things that occur in the world as the will of the Almighty and it is only through our faith that we will survive them. If five children suddenly turn up and use ungodly powers to save humanity, what do you think will be the result? It will be the end of the Christian church. We will have failed! All the faith, everything that we have constructed over the last two thousand years, will come tumbling down. Do you understand? There can only be one Saviour and it is not you.”
First, Pedro had to get some of the poison out of himself. That was the important thing. He needed water but there was no tap in the room. Then he remembered. There it was, right in front of him … the vase of flowers. It took all his strength to reach out and grab hold of it. With one hand he dragged out the flowers. They were already dying. Like him! The water inside the vase was green and slimy. That was good. Pedro tilted it back and poured the contents down his throat. It tasted revolting. A few pieces of slime caught between his teeth.
“What are you doing, Pedro?” the priest demanded. His voice was a whisper.
Pedro ignored him. The filthy water had done exactly what he wanted. He felt nauseous and a moment later he twisted round in his chair and was violently sick. He actually felt all the contents of his stomach empty themselves. Surely they must have taken at least some of the poison with them.
Raven's Gate Page 46