The Omen (14 page)

"So the Jews have returned to Zion," concluded Jennings as morning neared, "and there has been a comet. And as for the rise of the Holy Roman Empire, scholars think that could well be interpreted as the formation of the Common Market."

"Bit of a stretch . . ." Thorn pondered.

"Then how 'bout this?" asked Jennings, opening one of his books. "Revelations says: 'He will come forth from the Eternal Sea.' "

"That's the poem again. Tassone's poem." Thorn squinted trying to recall. "From the Eternal Sea He rises ... with armies on either shore. That's how it began."

"He was quoting Revelations all the way. The poem was taken from the Book of Revelations."

"From the Eternal Sea He rises .. ." Thorn fought to remember more.

"Here's the point, Thorn," said Jennings, pointing to his book. "It says that the Caucus of International Theological Sciences has interpreted the 'Eternal Sea' to mean the world of politics. The Sea that constantly rages with the turmoil and revolution."

Jennings gazed hard into Thorn's eyes.

"The Devil's child will rise from the world of politics," he declared.

Thorn did not respond, his eyes turning toward the slowly brightening landscape.

The Monastery of San Benedetto was in a state of semidecay, but the massive fortress made of stone retained its strength and dignity even as the elements began to reclaim it. It had stood on its mountain in the southern Italian countryside for centuries and had withstood many sieges. At the outset of World War II, all the monks within were shot by invading German forces who used it as their headquarters. In 1946 it was mortared by the Italians themselves, as retribution for the evil work that had gone on within.

Yet for all of the earthly onslaughts upon it, San Benedetto was a holy place; stark and gothic upon its hill, the sound of religious prayer had echoed off its walls throughout the centuries, rising upward from the very vaults of history.

As the small mud-splattered cab pulled up the road along its half-mile frontage the occupants within were asleep; the cabdriver had to reach back and jostle them into wakefulness.

"Signorir*

As Thorn stirred, Jennings lowered his window and breathed the morning air, gazing across the fresh and dampened landscape.

"San Benedetto," mumbled the weary driver.

Thorn rubbed his eyes, focusing on the starkly silhouetted monastery framed against an angry reddish morning sky.

"Just look at that..." whispered Jennings with awe.

"Can't we get any closer?" asked Thorn.

The driver shook his head.

"Apparently not," concluded Jennings.

Instructing the driver to pull over and get some sleep, they headed out on foot, and were soon waist-high in tall grass that soaked their pant-legs to the thigh. The going was rough and they were not dressed for it; their clothes bound them as they struggled across the field. Breathing hard in the overwhelming silence, Jennings paused and unsnapped his camera case, shooting off a half roll of pictures.

"Incredible," he whispered. "In-fucking-credible."

Thorn glanced back impatiently and Jennings hurried to catch up; together they walked forward, listening to their breath in the stillness, and to the distant sound of chanting that came, like a constant moan, from within.

"There's a lot of sadness here," said Jennings as they reached the entranceway. "Just listen to it. Listen to the pain."

It was awesome; the monotonous chant seemed to emanate from the very walls of the stone corridors and archways, as they walked slowly inside, gazing around in the emptiness, attempting to trace the source of the prayer.

"This way, I think," Jennings said, pointing down a long corridor. "Look at the mud."

Ahead of them, the floor was marked with a path of brown discoloration. The movement of feet over the centuries had actually worn down the rock, creating a spillway where water flowed during times of heavy rains. It led toward a huge stone rotunda, sealed off by heavy wooden doors. As they slowly approached, the chant grew closer. Opening the doors, they gazed with awe at the sight before them. It was as though they had entered the Middle Ages, and the presence of God, of spiritual holiness, could be felt as thought it were a physical, living thing. It was a huge and ancient room; stone steps led to a spacious altar on which stood a massive wooden cross, the figure of Christ upon it, chiseled from stone. The rotunda itself was made of stone blocks laced with vines that joined at the center of a domed ceiling which opened at the top to the sky. At that hour, a shaft of light streamed down through it, illuminating the figure of Christ.

"This is what it's all about, man," whispered Jennings. "This is a place of worship."

Thorn nodded and his eyes scanned the chamber, coming to rest on a group of hooded monks, kneeling amid the benches as they prayed. The chant was emotional and unnerving; rising and falling, it seemed to renew itself each time it began to fade. Jennings unsnapped his light meter, trying to get a reading in the dimness of the chamber.

"Put that away," Thorn whispered.

"Should 've brought my flash."

"I said put it away."

Jennings glared at Thorn, but obeyed. Thorn was deeply upset, his knees trembling as though insisting he kneel and pray.

"Are you all right?" Jennings whispered.

"... I'm Catholic," Thorn replied in a quiet voice.

And then his face froze, his eyes riveted on something in the darkness. Jennings followed his gaze, and he saw it too. It was a wheelchair. And in it was the hulking figure of a man. Unlike the others, who were on their knees with heads bowed, the one in the wheelchair sat stiffly upright, his head tilted and arms bent as though paralyzed.

"Is that him?" whispered Jennings.

Thorn nodded; his eyes were wide with apprehension. They moved closer until they could see better; Jennings winced as the priest's features came into view. Half of his face was literally melted; the eye was opaque and stared blindly upward. The right hand was also grotesquely deformed, protruding from a sackcloth sleeve like a smooth, glistening stump.

"We don't know if he can see or hear," said the monk who stood over Spilletto in the monastery courtyard. "Since the fire he's not made a sound."

They were in what was once a garden, now fallen to decay and littered with broken statuary. The monk speaking had pushed Spilletto's wheelchair from the rotunda at the end of the services, and the two men had followed him, approaching only when they were out of earshot of the rest.

"He is fed and cared for by the brothers," the monk continued, "and we pray for his recovery when his penance is complete."

"Penance?" asked Thorn.

The monk nodded.

" 'Woe to the Shepherd who abandons his sheep.

May his right arm wither and his right eye lose its sight.' "

"He's fallen from grace?" asked Thorn.

"Yes."

"May I ask why?"

"For abandoning Christ."

Thorn and Jennings exchanged a quizzical glance.

"How do you know he's abandoned Christ?" Thorn asked of the monk.

"Confession."

"But he doesn't speak."

"Written confession. He has some movement of his left hand."

"What kind of confession?" pressed Thorn.

The monk paused, "May I ask the nature of your questions?"

"It's vitally important," replied Thorn earnestly. "I beg you to help us. There's a life at stake."

The monk studied Thorn's face and then nodded.

"Come with me."

Spilletto's cubicle was bare and boxlike, containing only a straw matress and a table made of stone. Like the rotunda, it had an open skylight that let light and rain in; a pool of water remained from the rains of the night before. Thorn noticed that the mattress was wet, and wondered if they all suffered such discomfort, or if this was part of Spilletto's private penance.

"It's drawn on the table," the monk said as they entered. "He wrote it out in coal."

Spilletto's wheelchair clattered as it crossed the uneven stones. They gathered around the small table, seeing the strange symbol the priest had drawn there.

"He did it when he first came here," the priest said. "We left the coal here on the table, but he has drawn no more."

It was a grotesque stick figure, etched unevenly :n a childlike scrawl. It was bent and misshapen, its head surrounded with a semicircular line. What immediately caught Jennings' eye were the three numerals surrounding the semicircle above the stick figure's head. They were sixes. Three of them. Like the mark on Tassone's thigh.

"You'll notice the curved line above the head," the monk said. "This indicates the hood of the monk. His own hood."

"It's a self-portrait?" asked Jennings.

"We believe so."

"What about the sixes?"

"Six is the sign of the Devil," the monk responded. "Seven is the perfect number, the number of Jesus. Six is the sign of Satan."

"Why three of them?" asked Jennings.

"We believe it signifies the Diabolical Trinity. The Devil, Anti-Christ, and False Prophet."

"Father, Son, and Holy Ghost," observed Thorn.

The monk nodded. "For everything holy, there is something unholy. This is the essence of temptation."

"Why do you consider this a confession?" asked Jennings.

"It is, as you say, a self-portrait. Or so we believe. It is surrounded, symbolically, by the triumvirate of Hell."

"So you don't know, specifically, the act to which he confesses?"

"The details are unimportant," replied the monk. "All that matters is that he wishes to repent."

Jennings and Thorn exchanged a long glance; Thorn's face was gripped with frustration.

"Can I talk to him?" Thorn asked.

"It will do no good."

Thorn glanced at Spilletto and shuddered at the sight of the glistening, frozen face.

"Father Spilletto," he said firmly, "my name is Thorn."

The priest stared mutely upward; unmoving, unhearing.

"It's no use," advised the monk,

But Thorn would not be stopped.

"Father Spilletto," Thorn repeated, "There was a child. I want to know where it's from." "Please, Signor," entreated the monk. "You confessed to them!" shouted Thorn. "Now confess to me! I want to know where that child is from!"

"I'll have to ask you to . . ."

"Father Spilletto! Hear me! Tell me!"

The monk attempted to reach Spilletto's chair, but Jennings blocked the way.

"Father Spilletto!" shouted Thorn into the mute, unmoving face. "I beg you! Where is she?! Who was she?! Please! Answer me now!"

And suddenly they were jarred, the very atmosphere thundering around them as bells in the church tower began to peal. It was ear-splitting; Thorn and Jennings shuddered as the sound rebounded off the stone monastery wall. Then Thorn looked down and saw it. The priest's hand was beginning to tremble and slowly rise.

"The coal!" shouted Thorn. "Give him the coal!"

Jennings' hand moved quickly, grabbing the lump of coal from the table and thrusting it into the trembling hand. As the bells continued to peal, the priest's hand jerked stiffly across the stone, forming crude letters that wavered with each impact of the deafening sound.

"It's a word!" exclaimed Jennings excitedly. "C . . . E . . . R . . ."

The priest was shaking in every fiber as he struggled to continue, the pain of exertion plain as his disfigured mouth stretched open, emitting an agonized animal-like moan.

"Keep going!" urged Thorn.

". . . V . . » read Jennings, "... E ... T .. ."

And suddenly the bells went silent; the priest dropped the coal from his spasmed fingers as his head

fell back against the chair. Exhausted, his eyes gazed upward, his face bathed in sweat.

As the echo faded around them, they stood in silence, staring at the word scrawled out on the table. Cervet. . .?" asked Thorn.

"Cervet," echoed Jennings.

"Is that Italian?"

They turned to the monk who looked at the word, and then to Spilletto, with confusion in their eyes.

"Does that mean something to you?" asked Thorn.

"Cerveteri," the monk replied. "I think Cerveteri."

"What is it?" asked Jennings.

"It is an old cemetery. From Etruscan times. Cimitero di Sant'Angelo."

The stiffened body of the priest trembled again, and he moaned as though trying to speak. But then he fell silent, a relaxation settling over him as he surrendered to the overpowering limitations of his body.

Thorn and Jennings looked at the monk who shook his head with dismay.

"Cerveteri is nothing but ruins. The remains of the Shrine of Techulca."

"Techulca?" asked Jennings.

"The Etruscan devil-god. The Etruscans were devil worshippers. Their burial place was a sacrificial ground."

"Why would he write this?" asked Thorn.

"I do not know."

"Where is this place?" asked Jennings.

"There is nothing there, Signor, except graves . . . and a few wild hogs."

"Where is it?" repeated Jennings with insistence.

"Your cabdriver will know. Perhaps fifty kilometers north of Rome."

The cabdriver was hard to awaken; then Thorn and Jennings had to wait until he defecated in the field alongside the road. He was disgruntled now and sorry that he had taken the job, particularly when he heard where they now wanted to go. Cerveteri was a place that God-fearing men avoided, and they would not reach it until after nightfall.

The storm that hung over Rome had spread outward, heavy rains slowing their progress as, in darkness, they swung off the main highway onto an older road that was washed out with mud and potholes. The cab faltered, its rear left wheel slipping into a trench, and they all had to get out and push. When they got back inside, they were drenched and shivering; Jennings checked his watch and noted it was close to midnight. It was the last thought he registered before falling asleep; awakening several hours later, he realized the cab was no longer moving, and all was silent within. Thorn was asleep beside him, wrapped in a blanket; all that could be seen of the driver were his mud-caked shoes as he lay snoring in the front seat.