“To pay for what sins? What could an ARKANE agent possibly have on his conscience?”
The Camino was a thousand year old pilgrimage route through southern France and northern Spain. Morgan knew that the 780 kilometers were traditionally walked on foot as a spiritual journey, culminating at the cathedral of St James in Santiago de Compostela where the pilgrim received forgiveness for their sins. It was the very church they were heading for.
“I haven’t always been so squeaky clean,” Jake smiled broadly. Morgan noticed the scar above his eyebrow crinkling. He opened the map of Santiago de Compostela, and located the main square. His fingers were long, like a piano player’s, less calloused than she had expected but there were also old scars on his knuckles, evidence of a harder side.
“It’s only an hour or so until we arrive and we won’t have long at the Cathedral.” Jake said. “We need to know what we’re looking for. We have to think like the people who’ve protected the stones for all these years.”
“There might not even be physical Keepers for all the stones,” Morgan said. “It’s much easier to track down people than as it is to find a stone that has been buried for millennia, so it’s possible that some were just hidden.”
Morgan was trying to be upbeat about their prospects. One moment she found herself excited about the research and the next bowled over by the enormity of their task, but she wouldn’t contemplate failure. It was easier to comprehend her own pain and death than those she loved.
She opened one of the journals from the package. It was a finely drawn, handcrafted book, with spidery labels and ancient names marked alongside modern cities. The world had changed since those days but the steps of holy men could still be traced, although some had multiple journeys marked and an unclear place of death.
“These diaries are amazingly detailed. Everett’s father was aware of some of the other Keepers and started to track where their stones might be. He had so much information. It’s odd that he didn’t manage to find the stones after all that research.”
“Maybe he just didn’t have the right team,” Jake flashed a grin. She couldn’t help but smile back. They had a long journey ahead of them and she appreciated his attempt at friendliness. They studied the street maps looking for the best route in and out of the Cathedral square.
“Don’t you think it’s strange that the Apostles scattered and never regrouped after Pentecost?” Jake said. “They had such an intense shared experience and yet it seems they never saw each other again. They couldn’t have known their message would spread so successfully throughout the ancient world, even though it meant persecution and martyrdom for most of them and their followers.”
“They had a mission, I suppose,” replied Morgan. “Maybe Pentecost gave them certainty of the authority they held, or perhaps the power scared them and they scattered, knowing it had to be taken to the far corners of the world?”
Morgan went quiet as she considered some of the pictures in the journal. There was a page filled with flames and agonized faces in the midst of dancing fire. The drawings were made up of thin lines with detail of realistic pain, as if drawn from life by a close observer.
“Whatever these stones can do, it’s not all healing and marvelous acts of good. The man who drew these pictures clearly knew the dark side of fire. Perhaps the power of the Pentecost stones is not something to be taken lightly.”
Santiago de Compostela, Spain.
May 20, 11.10am
The ARKANE plane landed outside the city of Santiago de Compostela at a private airport.
“I’m just going to radio in for backup from the Spanish team,” Jake said, reaching for the equipment. Morgan stopped him, placing her hand over his.
“There’s no need for anyone to come with us,” Morgan said smiling, persuasive. “Don’t you think we’ll attract more attention in a bigger group? Why don’t we just go in as pilgrims to touch the foot of St James and have a look around?”
Her voice was light in tone, but her posture said she was ready for an argument. Morgan was determined not to let Jake run this mission. It was her sister’s life at stake and she was still suspicious of what ARKANE wanted out of this. Their help was too readily given, too good to be true. A pause and then Jake nodded. Morgan left her hand on his for just a beat longer.
“OK, we’ll try it your way for now,” he said. “I’m happy to start with the softly, softly approach but we’ll call in the troops if necessary since we’re going in unarmed because of the tourist police. We don’t have much time to get this done.”
They took a taxi to the center of town and walked out into the Plaza de la Quintana where the Cathedral loomed over the bustling square. Spires stood against the city skyline, an ancient bastion of faith in a heaving modern city. From the square itself, two towers rose up high into the blue sky.
“The towers represent James’ parents, Zebedee and Maria Salome,” Morgan explained as they walked towards the cathedral entrance across the square, dotted with pilgrims as it was a popular time of year to walk the Camino.
“I’ve always wanted my own personal tour guide,” Jake grinned back at her. Morgan relaxed. His words seemed like a peace offering and she was already enjoying his easy manner. Working together might even be a pleasure. “So what else do you know about this place?” he asked.
“I love what Santiago de Compostela represents. Like you, it’s actually one of my dreams to walk the Camino.” Morgan looked up at the towers. “I didn’t think I would make it here by plane and taxi though. I had hoped to limp in like the rest of the pilgrims.”
Jake laughed, “I’m sure you’ll manage to hobble through this square one day.”
“It’s on my list,” she said, continuing the story as they walked across the square. “Legend tells that James brought the gospel to Spain and, although he was martyred in Jerusalem, his remains were brought back here. The tomb was abandoned in the third century but was rediscovered in the ninth by a hermit who saw strange lights in the sky above it. A chapel was built to commemorate the miracle of finding the saint’s bones under the stars and over the years the church was embellished to become the great cathedral it is today, as befitting its importance to the Catholic faith. The bones of James are presumed to have rested here for thousands of years.”
“So this should be a good place to start looking for the stone. If it was kept with his bones, that is.”
“If they even are his bones,” Morgan replied. “The Church did an excellent trade in relics, sold as forgiveness for sin to those desperate for a better life after death. Ancient bones of the saints are hardly rare.”
Jake laughed. “The Middle Ages sounded pretty bad. I guess their lives were so miserable on this earth, it’s no wonder they spent their money on indulgences.”
By now they were standing by the stairs leading up to the entrance of the Cathedral. Morgan indicated the statues of David and Solomon, wise Kings of ancient Israel. She pointed out the scallop shell carved into the flagstones, the symbol of St James also worn on the staff of the pilgrim.
“How did he come to be represented by the scallop shell anyway?” Jake asked. “Seems odd for a Middle Eastern Jew. Aren’t shellfish considered unclean?”
As they progressed into the holy place, Morgan replied quietly, “You’re right, it is odd. The legend says that when the body was being transported back to Spain from Jerusalem, a knight fell into the water and emerged covered in shells. But that sounds like a poor cover-up for the more likely version - that the scallop shell was a symbol of fertility carried by hopeful couples and this pagan symbol was taken by the church and incorporated into the legend of St James. The Christians were great at integrating pagan ideas to build their empire. It’s why the gospel was accepted across such diverse cultures and spread so widely.”
Jake touched her arm, guiding her into the church.
“I guess we have to start somewhere. Let’s see what we can find.”
Morgan felt the pressure of his fingers and was acutely aware of how close he was but she didn’t pull away and they continued deeper into the church.
“Put yourself in the shoes of the Keeper,” she whispered. “James was beheaded, and the corpse eventually brought back here. As a disciple of James’ would you have kept the stone secret all these years, or buried it with the body?”
Jake replied close to her ear, his breath tickling a little, making the hairs stand up on her arms.
“We’d better find his body then.”
The cathedral wasn’t too crowded for a week day, although the usual line of pilgrims snaked through the nave. Morgan pointed past them towards the Portico da Gloria in the western façade.
“That’s where the statue of James is. We should go and touch his foot like the other pilgrims, and see what else is there.”
They walked towards the Romanesque Portico. Christ the Judge and Redeemer stood in the middle, surrounded by statues of the Apostles and Old Testament figures with their names on books or parchment. The statue of James was surrounded by pilgrims, some forming a line to touch his left foot where a groove had been worn in the stone over the years.
Morgan looked around her at the glory of the Catholic Church displayed in grandeur, funded by the thousands of pilgrims who visited. Yet she knew it wasn’t the final destination that mattered on the Camino, it was the journey itself. Putting on a backpack each day and heading into the early morning mists of the track, one foot in front of the other for days on end. It was a time of contemplation and healing. People didn’t walk the Camino for physical challenge alone; it was a penance or a way to seek answers. She thought of why she herself considered it, in remembrance of what her life had been or what it could have become with Elian. There was still time for healing her own pain. She wondered why Jake wanted to do it. She didn’t know much about the ARKANE agent but then she didn’t expect this tentative partnership to last long enough to find out.
This type of church was a strange end to a humble walk in nature for hundreds of miles. After living at a level of basic subsistence for weeks, pilgrims emerged from the track to this opulence. Could God be found here in the gold and marble extravagance, or on the Way in the shadow of stone walls and the taste of newly baked bread after a long day’s walk? Morgan thought that faith could better be found in the relief of taking off walking boots, the stretching of calf muscles and the sweet respite of sleep, not the communion of saints and the drowning of incense. Despite the imposing magnificence of the place, she felt there was a palpable sense of emotion, of an overwhelming belief in something, even if that something was not the God venerated in the church. Maybe it was a collective hysteria bred by pilgrims high on lack of sleep, exhaustion and relief, but there was a sense of the end, an accomplishment beyond the feeling in a normal church. She knew that many people found a spirituality on the Way that was denied them in the city. Even if you didn’t find God, it was said that you could find peace on the Camino and right now, Morgan wished for just a little of that feeling.
They reached the statue of St James, and stopped as pilgrims would, looking it up and down. Morgan ran her fingers along the statue, touching St James’ foot but there was nowhere for the stone to be hidden here. Suddenly there was shouting towards the cloister. People turned their heads to look in the direction of the noise. Jake glanced around apprehensively and Morgan knew he was regretting leaving the backup team behind.
“You concentrate on finding the bones,” he said. “I’ll go and see what the fuss is about. I’ll meet you back at the plane if we can’t leave together.”
He slipped off towards the clamor.
Morgan headed towards the main altar, looking around her for any indication of where the stone of St James might be. Near the altar, she found a way down into the crypt where the relic bones of the saint were kept. It was a plain staircase, quite incongruous surrounded by the extravagance of sculpture and fresco. At the bottom of the crypt stairs was a small room with a locked iron gate. She held one of the bars and peered into the gloom. She could make out a silver and gold reliquary on an altar a few meters beyond the gate. The crypt was badly lit and clearly not designed to be part of the tourist attraction of the cathedral. She tried to put herself in the place of the Keepers, passing down secrets across the generations. Did they know the power they protected? Did she even believe in it herself? Only one way to find out here. Morgan tried pushing on the bars, but the lock was solid. Then a voice made her jump,
“Why do you want to go into the crypt, young lady?”
Morgan turned as an old priest shuffled forward out of the darkness behind her, his hand shaking as he indicated the locked door. She smiled in greeting.