Ancient Shadows
Ancient Shadows
Joanne Pence
Quail Hill Publishing
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Part II
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Note from the Author
Plus …
About the Author
Part I
The Visitor
Chapter 1
“The demon does not physically inhabit the body; it possesses the person’s will. We have to compel the thing to reveal itself and its purpose. It can be slow and difficult, with the demon taunting, scorning, abusing you - speaking through the mouth of the possessed, but not in his or her Voice. In the end, though, it does come out - and when that happens you experience the sensation we call ‘presence’. At that moment you know you are in the company of the purest evil.”
—Father Malachi Martin
“An Article on Exorcism”
* * *
Florence, Italy
Michael Rempart pulled the collar of his jacket tight against his neck and side-stepped black, grit-filled rain puddles. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and cold. He hurried along the narrow city streets unable to shake the feeling of being watched, of being followed.
A high forehead over intense brown eyes and jutting, angular cheekbones gave him a severe demeanor, while jet-black hair without a single strand of gray despite his forty-one years swirled and slapped against his face in the blustering wind. Murky yellow lights from street lamps shimmered on the wet cobblestone. Florence was colorful and charming in sunlight, but in rain it became dank and shadow-filled. Michael first arrived here in the spring to recuperate after badly injuring his left arm and shoulder in a bizarre incident in Idaho. Florence suited his mood then, colorful, green, and lush with flowers, light showers and gentle mists. The summer was brutal with heat and wall-to-wall tourists. He nearly left, but the locals encouraged him to stay, saying the gaggling crowds would soon be gone.
Autumn wrapped itself around his heart, with its waning warm days, cool night breezes, and opulent harvests—fresh fruit, vegetables, cheese and wine, the abundance of Tuscany in all its glory. But far too soon the bone-slicing winds of the approaching winter would hit. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would stay in Florence. But if not here, where? He was an American, but no one waited for him back in the U.S. No one particularly cared what he did, or where he went. Nor did he.
He was a solitary figure, friendly but a mystery to his neighbors who were quick to notice that he seemed to have no close friends or companions, male or female, and spent most of his time pouring over books. That night he had gone, alone as usual, to a lecture at the Uffizi Museum given by an archeologist who had recently unearthed a sealed Etruscan tomb not far from Florence. Although Michael’s Italian wasn’t very good, he found the slides interesting. He, too, was an archeologist—or had been. Currently, nothing captured his interest sufficiently for him to pursue a new dig. He wondered if anything ever would. He had become almost a hermit, burying himself in studies of the Middle Ages and Renaissance. Instead of the tanned, well-toned, outdoor-loving traveler he had once been, he hardly recognized the pale, gaunt figure that looked back at him when he shaved.
The hour was late, and this part of the city still and quiet. A dark, covered walkway off a side street led to the dimly lit courtyard of the nineteenth century building where he rented an apartment. He walked up three steps to his front door, unlocked it, and switched on the light. As he turned to shut the door he was startled to see an elderly stranger standing in the courtyard just a few feet away. He was small of stature, with olive skin, long salt and pepper hair and a scraggly gray beard that reached his chest. Dressed completely in black, his unbuttoned overcoat revealed a large silver crucifix on a heavy chain over his heart.
“C’è qualche problema?” Is there some problem? Michael asked.
“We must speak.” The stranger’s deep, raspy voice sounded harsh and determined. He spoke English with an accent Michael couldn’t readily identify. As the man stepped closer, the light from inside the apartment showed a cadaverous face with a waxy, yellowish cast, and thin, painfully tight skin. His brows, a thick mixture of wiry white and gray hairs, shadowed dark, red-rimmed eyes that never left Michael’s. “My name is Yosip Berosus. I am a Chaldean priest. Time is running out for me.”
A dark chill rippled through Michael at the priest’s odd statement. He was familiar with the Chaldeans, one of the ancient Eastern rites of the Catholic Church, found mainly in Iraq, northwestern Iran, and southeastern Turkey. Their leader was the Patriarch of the diocese of Baghdad. The priest sounded desperate, but not dangerous. Michael nodded and stepped back, opening the door wider by way of invitation.
As the priest entered the dimly lit apartment, he rested an emaciated, pale hand against the burnt ochre wall and took several deep breaths to steady himself.
Michael moved closer to help him. The old man reeked. Not the usual stink of sweat and filth, but a sour, musky odor, one of rot. An odor that reminded Michael of death. He gripped the priest’s arm, so fragile it felt like no more than bone, and led him to a chair at the wooden dining table. Shelves overflowing with books and research papers lined the wall behind the table. A desk, sofa, coffee table, and television on a stand made up the remaining furniture. The tiny bedroom was upstairs.
Michael crossed to the alcove that served as a kitchen, its appliances old but sufficient for his solitary purpose, and poured one glass of Chianti and another of water and set them before the priest. He drank the water first, then reached for the wine. “I’ve heard about you,” Berosus said. “Everything. I know you have been to Mongolia, and what you discovered there.”
Michael had wondered why the old man sought him out, but hearing those words, the door to any sympathy he might have felt for the priest slammed shut. A year earlier he had opened the two-thousand year old tomb of a Chinese governor and his wife who had died in Western Mongolia. The wife had been a practitioner of alchemy, and finding her led to a change in Michael’s life from which he still hadn’t recovered, and most likely never would. He didn’t like it that this stranger referred to those unnerving events. “Anything I may have discovered in Mongolia is now lost to the world.”
“So be it.” The priest’s gaze was hard and flat. “You remain the only person I dare give this to.” With a shaking hand he reached into his coat pocket. The edges of the sleeves were frayed, the elbows worn thin, and one of the buttons on the cuff hung by a thread. In his hand he held a wadded up cloth, yellow with age.
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br /> Placing the cloth on the table, he unfolded it. Michael gaped at the object revealed. Berosus gestured for Michael to pick it up and inspect it.
The bronze vessel was small, with a lid, and stood on three legs. Michael had spent a great deal of time in the Orient with archeological projects and had more than a passing familiarity with China’s past. The bronze appeared genuinely old and cast with a monster design that the Chinese call t’ao t’ieh, a mask with large round eyes, c-shaped horns and an s-shaped mouth. The design had been prevalent in the late Shang dynasty but its meaning was no longer known.
Only tests could determine the exact age of the piece. The workmanship was primitive, but it seemed far too well preserved to be from the Shang, a dynasty so ancient that for centuries Westerners believed it was mythological. Archeological finds proved it did exist, however, from about 1600 B.C. to 1050 B.C.
Michael tried to lift off the lid, but it seemed to be stuck. Gnarled, brown fingers snatched the vessel away.
“You must not open it.” Berosus scowled. “Inside is a pearl, a red pearl. Were you to look upon it, you might think it beautiful and harmless, but it is not. It is evil. It will look back at you and know you. From that time, you will be under attack. It has the power to do irreparable harm to you, to destroy your life.”
Michael fought the urge to laugh at the irony of the words, considering what a mess he’d made of it. “I don’t need a red pearl for that.” He would have thought a priest was above such superstitious claptrap. That many significant archeological findings contained “something evil,” yet none were ever said to contain “something good” was nothing but an irritating publicity stunt in hopes that the resulting attention would translate into more funding. Not one of the warnings stood up to serious scrutiny. The red pearl wouldn’t either.
Berosus frowned. “The pearl was guarded by Nestorian Christians when Marco Polo stole it from them and brought it to Venice. It has been a curse to the Western world ever since. I, alone, have saved the world from its wickedness. Now it is your turn.”
“Did you say Marco Polo?” Michael all but spit out the name. This old priest thinks he saved the world? If so, he’s done a piss-poor job of it.
He wished this visit was a sick joke, but he knew no such jokesters. His onetime assistant, Li Jianjun, Michael’s last remaining link to his past, worried about his increasing melancholia and withdrawal from people. He could almost see Jianjun coming up with something like this. Almost, but not quite. This priest was no actor, and Jianjun was currently home with his wife in Vancouver, Canada. “You don’t really expect me to believe any of this, do you? What do you want? Money? Do you expect to sell this to me? Where did you get it? If it’s truly as old as it appears, it should be in a museum, dated and catalogued.”
Berosus’ face tightened with anger. The light over the dining table and the one in the kitchen area flickered. The storm, Michael thought, must have gotten much worse. “I am trying to warn you!” Berosus shouted. “I don’t want your money. I have no use for it. And you cannot give this to anyone, especially not to some fool at a museum.” He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. “I’ve spent my life, every waking hour, controlling it, fighting it. But now, my time is short. I came to you because I believed you would not only understand, but if anyone could do what must be done, it is you. Others want the pearl for its power, but they must not get it. You must keep it from them. The red pearl is the only means to control certain demons loosed upon us.”
“Demons?”
“Yes! The pearl must not be destroyed or the demons will be set free. The way to stop them is to return the pearl to the Nestorian monastery on the Silk Road, the monastery from which Marco Polo stole it. Only there will the demons be stopped. I tried to get it there, but I failed. You must not.”
Michael shook his head. Demons, what rubbish. The old priest was not only sick, but delusional. Perhaps insane. “I’ve spent a lot of time in China, Father, and studying its history, so I know a bit about the Nestorians—that they went to China after their split with Rome, but were eventually thrown out of the country. It’s said they no longer exist anywhere.” As he spoke, he sensed the turmoil in the old man, his fear and anguish, and Michael was softened by them. Even if his story was no more than a feverish delusion, the priest’s desperation and sorrow were real. Michael’s voice turned gentle as he added almost pleadingly, “Even if I wanted to take up the task, Father, it’s impossible. I’m sorry.”
“The most learned among us are often the least willing to listen. I know what I speak of.” Instead of responding to Michael’s sympathy, Berosus sounded bitter, his gaze more desperate, fiercer. “You must do as I say. I pray my faith in you was not unfounded.”
The priest’s black eyes bored into Michael and seemed to look into his very soul. It bothered him; he had buried too much there to be easy with its revelation to the padre.
Berosus began to tremble. He sipped some wine and when he spoke his words came slowly, his voice thinner and more quavering with each syllable. “For years I attempted to return the pearl to the place where it would do no further harm. I left my order and tried to travel deep into Central Asia, but I was always turned away. I took to hiding, trying to sneak through the area to search for the monastery that most people believe no longer exists. I lived in shadows, a figment of the darkness the pearl cast on the earth. Ultimately, I failed.” Increasingly agitated, he added, “An evil lurks about the pearl. Remember, it can read your thoughts. You must hide any thoughts from it. Don’t forget. Don’t …”
Berosus shut his eyes, needing to catch his breath after saying so much. “I am too tired to fight it any longer, and I cannot give this burden to one of my fellow priests, not when there are too few priests and the people desperately need each one of them. And sadly, I cannot think of a single priest who would believe my tale. I fear what will happen upon my death, the evil that will walk the earth. As I weaken, it grows stronger each day, each hour. I believe you feel it as well.”
A hacking cough interrupted him.
The air became heavy. Michael’s skin prickled. He had walled himself off from others, from emotion, from passion, ever since he learned what he was capable of doing. And now, this old priest threatened the peace he had found here. “What if I refuse? What if I say you’re crazy and I want nothing to do with you or with this false Shang dynasty container?”
“You are not as foolish or skeptical a man as such words would have me believe,” Berosus said. “I sense your ability. Your power is stronger than my own. I was right to come to you if only you can be made to see, to believe, what your heart tells you is true. You have seen things most men would never believe. But I believe them. You must take up my task, I beg you. Return the pearl.”
“But if there is no monastery,” Michael insisted, stopping when the old priest’s color turned even more ashen.
Berosus stood up, his eyes wide as he faced the window. “There! Begone! Leave me in peace!”
“Calm down, Father.” Michael stepped to the priest’s side and placed a hand on his back to steady him.
Berosus groaned, raising his fist towards the sky, bending over, his arms tight around his stomach.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asked. “Is there someone I can call? A doctor?”
“No, no. I don’t need anyone,” Berosus said. His hands gripped the tabletop for support. “Not anymore. But I warn you—”
“Sit, please.” Michael took the priest’s arm. “You aren’t well.”
“They are stronger now. They must not find me here.”
“Who must not find you?”
Berosus clutched Michael’s sleeve. “Think! Why did you come to Florence? You knew no one here, yet you remained. Alone. Restless. Waiting. For what?”
Berosus let go and walked shakily to the door. Michael opened it, and as he watched the priest cautiously descend the front steps, a black disquiet crawled from the pit of his stomach up to his brain. The priest’s words echoed
the questions he’d asked himself. Why had he stayed in Florence? Something held him here, something he had never been able to articulate.
The old man’s gait steadied as he crossed the courtyard. Michael abruptly shut the door, relieved to see the man’s back. But in the living area he saw the bronze vessel sitting on the dining table, its monster-design S-shaped mouth mocking him. He grabbed it and ran out to return it to the priest.
The priest was no longer in the courtyard. Michael hurried to the street where the rain now fell in heavy sheets, but didn’t see him there either. Berosus must have fallen, perhaps was lying in a doorway. Michael rushed up one side and down the other.
Berosus had vanished.
The words the priest had said to him reverberated as he went back indoors, drenched and chilled. Was this the reason he had been drawn to Florence? He grabbed a towel to dry his hair and wipe his face. He glanced at the clock. It was midnight.
He should go to bed and forget the strange visitor, but he couldn’t The Chinese bronze called to him.
The priest had warned him against opening it. As an archeologist, he had often been warned not to open tombs, chests, sarcophagi. The popularity of “the curse of King Tut’s tomb” only added to common perceptions of the dangers of tampering with ancient objects, despite the fact that all the men who opened King Tut’s tomb had died of natural or easily explained causes.