Chosen Ch. 05

"I'm not interested in the theory. Just the facts, about what happened."

"So Alan Saint Laurent is a historian, over and above being a thief?"

"Only a historian would know your whole body of work," I said, smiling crookedly.

"Or an unusually dedicated thief."

"There is no way I can convince you I'm doing this to understand, is there."

"You've already convinced me of that, Alan. As you said, you wouldn't have risked coming back for money. What you need to convince me of now is that, having satisfied your curiosity and found the three items, greed won't return and dictate your next move."

"Dishonesty has dictated the moves of the church on this issue for a few centuries. Don't judge a simple thief so harshly."

"No, a desire to stop whatever madness these items caused is what dictated our moves. So it is you who need not to judge. What do the Americans say... back atcha."

I shook my head. "I won't debate this. Tell me the rest of what you know."

"Very well. They were used in an excommunication – one that was not recorded, or more likely the records were lost afterwards. I don't think I can impress on you what it takes to convince a priest to lose records of an excommunication. It means it can never be lifted, for one thing."

"So someone did something unforgivable?"

"There's only one unforgivable sin in all of Christian theology, and I doubt that comes into play here. This wasn't about a sin, Alan. No priest would allow the records to be lost in such a case. It has to have been political."

"Tsk. Political excommunications. The hate crime of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries."

"Tsk indeed. So, the details we know. A public excommunication that somehow went horribly wrong. The candle was dashed to the ground – and kept burning. The bell was rung – and made no sound. The book was dropped instead of being slammed shut, and fell open to a passage on forgiveness. One of the priests was stuck blind and died that way two years later. The crowd that formed to watch the spectacle of a bad man castigated, fled in terror."

"So you are saying the will of heaven opposed an excommunication?"

"Excommunication is a human ritual, Alan. Heaven doesn't care. The fate of a man doesn't hang on the word of the church, as much as the church has sometimes thought otherwise."

"Well, something makes that bell do what it does. And if it isn't heaven-"

"And what does the bell do, in your experience?"

"It forces people to confess their sins."

"Hm. That would be a convenient timesaver in the confessional booth..."

"Then they commit suicide."

"Oh. Not so convenient. And you carry this bell?"

"Filled with modelling clay and wrapped in very thick cloth."

He paused. "Nonetheless, I'm impressed. You are taking a real risk. You must expect real reward."

"I've been over this," I snapped. "For once I'm not chasing the payoff. I just want to know what this is. I feel... led, driven-"

"Called?"

I frowned. "That's not the right word. Heaven doesn't call men like me."

"Heaven does what it wants. Worse than you have been canonized. Better than you have died unrepentant. You are perhaps the one man who could have brought these items to Spain with a desire to unite them with the book. Perhaps you really are called, chosen to do this work."

"If you think I'm called to do that by heaven, why are you trying to stop me?"

"You could also be a greedy lunatic willing to risk tampering with the unknown for profit. Past actions make that the better guess. And the notes we have say the items must be kept separate. So you and I will find the book, and then I will make sure the items are scattered, this time with no records kept."

"And if that's contrary to the will of God, father?"

"Then I'll fail. It's not a sin to be wrong. But for now the best evidence says people died over these items. A candle that makes men want to rut like an animal is not an item the world needs, there is already pornography for that. The bell, you say, forces confession and death, but forced confession is not true repentance. I can't even imagine what horrors a book could unleash, given the power of words in general. Every source I know says they must not be together. For all we know, Alan, that bag you carry is the most dangerous thing in the world."

"The bell's in checked luggage. I didn't think it was wise to keep them close together for a long time."

"Then we need to collect your luggage, it will have arrived by now. But before we do..."

He reached under the table, and lifted a bag. From inside it he pulled a heavy metal bracelet and a key. I stared at him in disbelief.

"An ankle monitor? Are you out of your mind? Do you think for one second I'm going to consent to being tracked by-"

Next he pulled out a gun, and flipped the safety off. I was surprised at how steady it looked in his hand.

"I see Catholicism hasn't changed much since the middle ages," I grated.

He had the grace to wince a little. "These are extreme circumstances, Alan."

"You don't have the balls to pull the trigger on an unrepentant sinner. I'd go straight to hell."

"Unfortunately for both of us, you are quite wrong. And I'm pointing at your right shoulder with a small caliber handgun. You won't die. A child couldn't miss at this range, and I'm a marksman..."

He slid the bracelet over to me. Cursing softly (but not profanely), I stood, moved to the side, knelt, and locked the tracker around my ankle. A small LED on the key blinked green. He immediately engaged the safety on the gun and put it away.

I snarled at him. "Give me one reason I shouldn't jump you, bash you over the head with your own gun, unlock the tracker and leave."

"You won't. I know three reasons why. One is in your backpack."

I opened my mouth to snap back a reply, but he stood calmly and gestured towards the door. I paused, angry and irresolute for a moment. He gestured again.

"If there's anything I hate," I gritted, "it's when the church is actually right about anything."

He escorted me out.

+++

Packing was going slowly. I re-read the restrictions on what could be taken on a plane, and shook my head. I mean I know we live in a dangerous world but having to buy tiny plastic bottles just because I wanted perfume on a long flight...

Only two bikinis, I decided. Cordoba wasn't on a beach. But I decided I was going to allow myself a little more... freedom, in Spain. I looked good in a bikini, and... I wondered if the legends of macho Spaniards were true. I found myself hoping so. The males I'd been around... they were pushy for sex, but it was, I didn't know... slimy somehow. Not macho. Sort of whiny, in some ways...

I dithered, packing makeup. I was finally able to be fussy about brands, and had bought a real makeup kit for myself. It really did go on better and the results made the cost worthwhile. I was done buying makeup at Walmart. But the kit took up too much room in the suitcase, so I was picking and choosing. I ended up doing my eyelashes for no good reason.

Clearly, I needed a break. I wandered to the living room, and ran through a training routine. The Victoria Secret training workouts were proving to be harder than they looked, but even after a week I was starting to see some results. The one I'd chosen was basically a martial arts routine, and I was developing a mean uppercut punch. At least I thought I was; I had no idea what would happen if I ever punched someone.

"Ka-cha! Down you go, creepster! I am Adrienne the puncher-person! Um, boxer. Yeah. Ker-pow!"

I was going to Spain because a book had arranged it. And that seemed ok to me now.

"Za-pow! Take that former employer!"

I switched to kick-boxing moves. I was sweating in no time, so I pushed harder. "Ooh! Ex-boyfriend in the nuts! Smush that too-small cock! Ker-blooey!"

Ker-blooey? Ok, time to stop. Loss of blood to the brain here.

I crashed into a chair, panting, blood singing, my sports bra and boxers damp and my hair a tangled mess. Then I cursed (softly - the book was nearby) and got up for the post workout stretches. Ugh.

Blood. Book.

I wasn't supposed to until asked.

I opened the book. No new words. I closed it.

What happened if I didn't wait?

It had warned me I'd get addicted. But that wasn't going to happen...

The needle and alcohol were right there.

Yeah. I mean, the book liked me, right? It had saved my life and it was taking me to Spain. We were friends. How risky could it be?

The little voice in the back of my head was saying something, but I couldn't hear it over the rush of the workout and the sudden curiosity.

I collapsed into a kneel at the table, and picked up the alcohol before the voice in my head got any louder. Two seconds later there was a drop of blood in the ink, and I picked up the book and closed my eyes.

Things blurred...

Elena ran to me, dusty from her stint in the tower. "Adriana! That's him! He's coming! Hide, crazy girl!"

Hide? She was the crazy one. This was the one man I'd never hide from.

He was galloping across the plain, just a dusty plume in the distance, but the flashes of crimson in the lead of the dust gave him away. I knew his colors. Red leather for his outfit, and the red bandanna around his forehead, torn from my dress two years ago...

"He's being followed," Juan said, from up in the tower. He had that device made of crystal and brass and it let him see at distances; his grandfather had been a sailor and it had been stolen from the lands to the east, along the coast. "Three horsemen I think."

Elena tugged at me. "Adriana, please. Listen to me. Hide! He's bad. You know this! He'll think nothing of snatching you!"

Please yes, I thought. Snatch me. Take me. Take me away from Elena's mewling and the endless fawning of boys in this town. I hate it here, I hate having been sent here, I have hated everything since they took me away from you. Fly, horse, fly. I need what you carry.

Elena grabbed my wrist. A swift elbow to the soft spot just below her ribs fixed that, and I stepped away from her.

He found me. There was justice in this world, after all.

"Fool," she gasped. "A life on the run! That's all you'll ever have with him! And only the saints know what humiliations he has in store for you in the night!"

The saints perhaps did not know, I mused. But I know them all. Unless he has thought of new ones.

"Juan," I called up. "You claim to care for me."

"You know I do."

"Then I need your help. He and I must escape. Help me. Help it happen."

He paused. "You ask a hard and very dangerous thing."

"I ask only what I desperately need. Please Juan. If he stops for me they may catch him. I can't be his undoing again. Please!"

"Why," sobbed Elena. "You are well off here, safe, sheltered. Men here want you. Why are you throwing all this away. You've lived in peace here for two years. Why, Adriana, why?"

"I lived here only because I didn't know which way to run," I snapped at her. "I felt no peace. To hell with your peace and well off and sheltered. No, don't touch me again! He taught me how to hit and I will hit you where it hurts! Juan?"

"Everyone will suspect I helped you," he sighed, loudly. "Adriana, you bring such troubles. But very well, and may God's will be done. You never belonged here and the wiser of us knew it."

I bent over the horse trough, and in the still water checked that my face was at least clean. There'd be no time for prettying, but I could at least wash my face if needed. It wasn't.

I heard the creaking of a ballista. "Elena!" he snapped. "Come up here. When they come looking for me you will delay them."

"Don't make me a part of this," she cried.

I straightened and slapped her. "Do as he says if you want to grow old enough to gain his wisdom!"

Sobbing, she staggered towards the tower. "You make me part of murder!"

"I'll be aiming for the horses," he snapped, panting now. I heard more creaking. "But that still could get me hung if I'm caught, so come up here now!"

I stood up straighter, and raised my arms to the heavens. He'd at least know who to ride towards. "Come for me," I whispered. "They'll call it kidnapping but they could not be more wrong."

There was a blurring again. And a voice. Angry, deep, male, echoing in my head.

"You dare!"

My blood ran abruptly cold. The voice growled again.

"I told you not to do this, Adriana!"

I was shaking. But I spoke.

"I have to know more."

"In time you will know everything!"

"In your time. But this is my time. I have to choose what is best for me."

"You've always been a little too prone to that," his voice rumbled.

"You kidnapped her, didn't you. What choices did she make?"

"I only kidnapped you once. What you saw was no kidnapping. Adriana you must not do this! This with the blood is untrustworthy and dangerous. You must trust me!"

To him, I was her. And I could nor shake off the conviction he was right. I didn't know what it meant, but I was already close to believing.

"Did I ever trust you? Or was I just that girl I saw, reckless and crazy in love?"

"You are still that girl as you prove with that needle!"

"I-"

But suddenly I was on my living room floor again, shaking. I didn't know whether the vision had collapsed by itself or he'd thrown me from it.

I didn't know how that girl I'd see could have been me – speaking Spanish, more willful and petulant than I'd ever been (wasn't she?) – but I'd seen her face in the water, and it was my face she wore.

I opened the book, still shaking.

All the previous words were gone, and only two were added:

Trust me.