Nightbringer (5 page)

“
Nothing,” he shrugged and didn’t seem to want to say anything more. But then, “I was just wondering why everyone paints Him the same way.”

With a studious eye Gina examined the painting once more.

Jesus was, indeed, portrayed more or less as she had always seen Him portrayed—slender, gaunt, long brown hair, dark eyes, a dead expression.

“
I have a minor in humanities,” she said. “So I’ve always had an affinity for art. I’ve probably been to the various Smithsonian art museums a hundred times. Studied in Paris … Yeah, everyone pretty much paints Him in the same tone.”

“
Tone …That’s a good way to describe it.”

Strange, she thought, that she had never considered how the historical Jesus of Nazareth might have actually looked. Because even if He had not been the Son of God, He was still a historical figure and His life was extensively documented.

Gina found herself staring at Michael instead of the painting. “So what do you think He looked like?”

For a moment Michael was silent, but Gina had learned on the bus trip that pausing before answering was his habit.

“I don’t know—He was a carpenter, and that was hard work. He walked over mountains, so he was a strong guy.” He was silent for a second. “I’ve just always wondered why everyone portrays Him as some skinny guy who looks like He needs a handout.”

Gina appreciated new thoughts, even one as strange as this.

“Good question. Come to think of it, I don’t know, either. I guess because everyone else has portrayed Him like this and the artist just followed the crowd.”

“
Followed the crowd,” Michael repeated. “I wonder of all the mistakes men have made … following the crowd.” He paused. “Crowds feed on the fear or the courage of others. They go with this group or that because they’re terrified to think they might be alone in the universe. “They join political groups—religious, cultural, sexual, whatever. They find their own identity in the identity of the group. Then they’re not alone anymore. And if something threatens their group, they attack like rabid dogs.” He paused. “Weakness …”

Michael regarded the painting in his longest silence yet. His words were faint and somehow distant.
“I think the only thing true about this is that He was alone.”

With those last words Michael turned and walked away. Nor did Gina watch him go. Then she realized she was staring dully at the base of the wall.

Blinking, she raised her gaze again to the painting but didn’t see the soldiers or the weeping, moaning crowds. She only saw the truth of it—here was a man who knew the most terrifying, absolute loneliness. In the end He was abandoned by His family, His disciples—His nation. And yet He died with a peace and strength that scorned all those who mocked Him, nor did He condemn them.

Funny, Gina thought, how one man could possess strength as far beyond those surrounding Him as the stars beyond the earth. And suddenly she wished she knew more about Him.

Compline Prayers were upon them more quickly than Gina anticipated, and she sat with Josh and Rachel on a couch positioned to watch every facet of the ritual.

With a solemn pledge to remain quiet until the very end of the service, Josh sat with hands folded, mouth tight. But Rachel was truly enjoying the varied aspects of the abbey
and was, for some reason, undisturbed by Josh’s onerous sense of doom.

Gina was glad she
’d read up on Gregorian chants before arriving. It gave her, if not a deeper appreciation, then a sort of self-satisfaction that she was staying sharp, always learning.

At the thought she remembered the advice of the oldest man she had ever known. When asked how he made it
to such an ancient age he told her it was by staying mentally and physically active. She’d expected the physical, but not the mental. Yet when she thought about it afterward, she understood. Nothing ages someone faster than a hermit’s life or a life without learning – the mind simply stops growing and so their life stops growing.

A
s the monks began the melodious chant Gina tried to decide what type of process they were using. And almost instantly she knew it was the “gradual” because the song began with an operatic refrain, then a verse of psalm in psalm-tone style, and then a repeated refrain.

As she listened she
also studied the twenty-one monks, some of whom she had met during dinner.

There was Jaqual
– a thin, spindly monk with coal black hair. Next to him was the mute Basil, a stunningly tall monk, equally massive in thickness who could not join in the chant and held his cowl over his head for the service. There was a surprisingly small number, only five or six, of the very old, and then venerable Melanchthon.

The monk seemed older than the rest by far, but an unnaturally strong constitution allowed him to move like a man much younger. He also seemed to move with a solemn gravity, as if every
gesture was his last and he wished it to have meaning. Then the chant ended and Father Stephen assigned individual monks to usher them to their rooms. But as Gina departed the Hall, she cast a glance at Michael.

He lifted his coat from a couch and casually cast it over his arm. But when he turned to study the monks, his face was
serious. The thought that he was irritated by the chant flew across Gina’s mind but then she perceived something else—no, no, he was …
searching
.

He turned to gaze at the monk in the wheelchair—Brother Dominic—and Gina moved by instinct. She was grateful, in her first step, that her reflexes were honed to such an edge
else she would have been noticeable when she walked back toward the table, as if she’d forgotten something.

But Michael didn
’t seem to notice and she was close when he knelt before the crippled monk. Brother Basil, unable to speak but ever present to tend to Dominic and move him from place to place, bowed and stepped aside. Michael spoke softly, and Gina saw that Dominic’s eyes did not move.

She caught Michael
’s tone but not his words, and it was a soothing tone. And, strangely, it did not sound like English. Then Michael reached out and placed a hand on the monk’s shoulder, and stood. He nodded to Basil, who was already moving back behind Dominic, ushering him from the room.

Gina was already moving toward the stairway having
“retrieved” something from the table. She was almost startled as Monsignor DeMarco appeared in her path.

“
Permit me to usher you and your children to your room,” the monsignor offered with elegant but casual dignity.

Gina laughed.
“There’s some kind of danger?”

“
Oh no,” he laughed, “certainly not. But I have journeyed to many faraway places and I know the unease that sometimes accompanies the young in the presence of the old. So I wanted to assure myself that you and your children are perfectly relaxed and settled before the doors are locked.”

Gina nodded quaintly.
“Thank you, Monsignor. Somewhere in all that education you must have also learned nobility.”

With a laugh the monsignor replied,
“Nobility, madam, is something that cannot be learned.”

The one called Jaqual led Michael and Molke through the long second-floor corridor of the abbey. The corridor was lined with oil paintings and tapestries but none bore the names or even initials of the artist. Molke stopped before one framed canvas that was almost six feet high and equally wide.

Molke paused, muttering a word of awe.

It was a broad panorama of a single knight riding a wounded white horse across a field spread with the butchered dead. Blood flowed in rivulets through fire-scorched stones as banners dipped drearily in the storm-clouded dusk, and the castle behind the lone rider glowed red with flame. It was the image of pure and bitter war, and yet it did not seem solely the effort of imagination.

“Incredible,” Molke said quietly. “Does no one know who painted this? It is the work of a master.”

Jaqual responded nervously.
“No, sir. Even the old ones don’t know who did it. I once asked, but no one in Rome seems to even know where any of the paintings came from. They say the monastery has always been as it is, and none know why.”

“
Incredible,” Molke repeated and looked at Michael. “Have you determined what culture created this work?”

Michael shrugged.
“It’s similar to the style of European masters of five hundred years ago, but more carefully constructed.” He pointed. “This ridge seems like part of the Carpathians—maybe Moldovia. And the armor indicates the twelfth century when there was some vicious fighting between the Romanians and the Turks.”

“
A hard age,” Molke said.

Michael nodded.
“Yes.”

Jaqual turned and motioned to
individual doors. “These are your rooms, my friends. I think you’ll find everything you need. Also, each room has a telephone, just in case you desire to call one of the brothers, or anyone else.”

“
The lines are probably down with this storm,” Michael stated. “Do you have some other means of reaching the outside world?”

“
Uh, yes, we have a radio. It’s in Father Stephen’s office. Do you wish to use it?”

“
No,” Michael answered curtly. “Just curious.”

Jaqual opened each of their doors, then moved aside and stood with his hands folded humbly in his sleeves.
“Oh, and one more small thing, please.”

They hesitated.

“Father Abbot told me to ask if you might remain in your rooms until morning. Some parts of the abbey are under construction. They are not safe.”

Molke nodded.
“I will remain inside my room.”

With a faint frown Michael gazed at the spindly monk.
“I’ll be in my room until morning.”

As they entered their rooms, the storm shook the abbey to its foundation.

The ubiquitous Melanchthon awaited Stephen when he closed the door to his private quarters. The father abbot did not even blink at the intrusion. Instead he carefully folded his mantle and laid it upon a wooden chair and spoke without looking. “I hope this isn’t going to be the same conversation we had earlier.”

“
No.” Melanchthon frowned. “It will be much worse.”

Father Stephen exhaled tiredly, then sat in a scarlet-cushioned mahogany chair and rested his hands on the arms. He bent his head, exhaled again.
“Very well, brother – begin.”

“
I sense something.” Melanchthon’s aspect and tone were obviously and sincerely concerned, but there was no judgment. “These people, and the brothers as well, must leave quickly.”

Although composed, Father Stephen
’s face betrayed that these vague forebodings of doom were beginning to grate pink against his skin. In a few minutes they would begin drawing blood.

“
Brother,” he said patiently, “why are you so compelled to warn me about this danger you perpetually sense? In all humility, your great mind is not beyond my comprehension. And I do not also sense this … this
thing
you fear.”

“
If I am the only man who smells smoke I will not hesitate to tell others the house is on fire.” Melanchthon seemed equally as weary. “Would you prefer I keep these forebodings to myself when innocent lives are in danger?”

“
The innocent lives of these tourists?”

“
There are many here who are innocent and must leave, and some here who must never leave because of their guilt.” Melanchthon came closer. “We both know the original purpose of this place. It was meant as a prison for priests whose sins against God and man were so great that the only safe harbor for them was within these mountains, all but inaccessible to the world.

“
In times of old, this was known as L’Sheol, and it is still a prison—only in a different form. Now it is where the Church exiles those who speak too boldly against the Evil One.” He smiled grimly. “How terrible it would be for priests to proclaim that they see the devil at work in the lives of men.”

With a sigh Stephen replied,
“In this day and age, brother, yes, it would be an unnecessary occasion for alarm and I am far too practical a man to respond to your visions and dreams. But, then, you have always been far more mystically inclined than I.”

Melanchthon was the purest image of irony. His smile was sincere and utterly without humor.
“That is true, but it does not change the truth. Nor can I remain silent any longer.”

Leaning forward, Father Stephen spoke more pointedly.
“Brother, do you remember the last time you came to me claiming to have seen this ghost and I acquiesced to your demands to search the abbey? Yes, do you remember how we diligently searched the entire premises only to find every door and window locked from the inside?” He paused and clearly couched his words. “What you saw or think you saw was not here, brother. And I am tempted to say that it never was.”

Melanchthon was unexpressive.

“Please,” Stephen appealed, “if you hate it here so much, then why don’t you ask Monsignor DeMarco to re-station you? He has the authority to do so. And this is not the only abbey set aside for safekeeping.”