Quest (Changes)

I work in the library of a rather large university in New York. Part of my job involves going through the stacks periodically to pull volumes to bring down to the archives.

I was rolling my little cart down the aisle when a man, a priest by the look of him, stepped into the other end of the aisle. He had a small brown book in his hands. He looked at me, then casually strolled back around the corner. When he passed across the end of the aisle again, I noticed the book was missing.  

I wondered if he had just been reading it and was putting it back. Curious, I went into the next aisle and found it. I pulled the book from the shelf. It looked ancient, the edges of the soft leather cover worn and the pages thin from being paged through. It was written in Latin; I knew a little of the language. Knowing the book likely did not belong in the library, as there was no label on it, I decided on a whim to take it home and try to translate it.

One of the first things I found out was that the author of the journal was a Benedictine monk named Brother Johns who lived in Glastonbury Abbey during the 1400’s; he had included a title page to record his name, the commencement date and end date of the journal, and the abbey where he lived. As I translated, it was clear that the monk was deeply devoted to his vows:

“For there is for me no other path than to serve the Lord. Indeed, this is my true calling, to live my life and eventually my eternity in the glorious presence of God.”

Then there was an entry about a man who had come to the monastery seeking sanctuary with an interesting story. He told this monk, and he alone, that he held the secret to finding the most holy relic in the world. He claimed that he was dying of consumption and had to pass on the knowledge to a holy man who knew what to do with it.

“I knew he spoke the truth. I could see no deception in his eyes. He was clearly not long for this world. His flesh was deathly white and his body emaciated. He described for me a map, which I diligently recorded. The relic, he said, was hidden in a cathedral. Then he took one last breath, and was still.”

The man had sworn the monk to secrecy, telling him that only one man could know the relic’s location. There didn’t seem to be much of an explanation as to why. The monk had gone to the relic’s location and found it right where the man had told him. At this point, things got a little weird.

“Blessed am I beyond measure, to have seen something so beautiful. More than God, I now have faith in something greater.”

Rather than leaving it where it was, he brought it back with him and hid it in his monk’s cell, presumably to keep it safe. But he soon found an even better place for it. The abbot passed away in his sleep and was to be buried in the tombs beneath the monastery.

“I shall venture down tonight to the catacombs and place the box in the abbot’s sanctified hands. Surely those hands will preserve this holiest of holy artifacts for all time.”

That was the last entry. Glastonbury Abbey was still in use. Getting there would be something of a trick with no funding. I went to find the head of archeology.

“Roger, I need funding for a fact-finding mission in England. I found an old diary written by a monk and he claims to have hidden something of great social and religious import.”

“Does it specify?”

I wondered how much to tell him. “No, but I think it’s worth checking out.”

“How long and how much?”

Ah, the negotiation phase.

“Maybe about ten thousand. I don’t expect it to take much more than a week.” Oh, please!

“We can do no more than nine,” he replied.

“Fine. Nine thousand for flights, hotels, and necessities. I’ll find a nice boarding house somewhere.”

Booking all the travel arrangements was, of course, a gigantic nightmare, but finally I had an itinerary that worked for me. I took off for Britian two weeks after my talk with Roger.

Glastonbury was clean and full of abnormally friendly people. It took some getting used to, as did looking in the right direction when crossing the road. After asking around, I found out where Glastonbury Abbey was and how to get there. Apparently, a bus ran out to it three times a day.

The last run for the night had already departed, so I went back to my tidy little room at an immaculate boarding house and retired. My dreams were full of visions of vessels filled with light and mystery.

The bus ride was uneventful, so I pulled out the journal again and paged through it. Only a few riders disembarked when I did, but I wasn’t paying attention to them. I was on a mission.

It was in between prayer sessions at the abbey, but the doors were open. I walked in, trying for confidence. I’d already cooked up a cover story for the abbot whom I could already see in a small side chapel, fingering his rosary beads and facing a painting of the Virgin Mary.

“Excuse me?” I said quietly.

The abbot finished his prayer and turned to face me. He was a kindly-looking fellow, somewhat plump but full of energy. He looked about forty, but the clean living of a monk probably made him about fifty.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m an independent journalist and I am putting together an article about catacombs in Britain. Would you mind if I went down and took some photos?” I showed him my press badge, which had expired five years ago, and held up my phone.

“You may. Just do not touch anything,” he replied. He led me to a door tucked away behind a pulpit. Beyond the door was a set of stone stairs leading down. The air smelled somehow ancient, a combination of dust and dry bones. Using my phone as a flashlight, I made my way gingerly down the steps.

It was clear that maybe one or two people ever came down here, and even then only rarely. The floor was covered in sand, the individual alcoves holding stone coffins with intricately carved crosses gracing the lids. On the lintel of each alcove was carved the monk’s name and his years of birth and death. I found the abbot’s tomb about halfway down the second corridor I came to. His name had been Abbot Bailey, and he died in 1484.

I felt the moment deserved some gravitas. “Abbot Bailey, I apologize for disturbing your rest, but you are in possession of something I just have to see. I have to. I hope you understand, being a holy man.” Then I put my hands on the sarcophagus lid and pushed. It didn’t budge.

“A job for two people, I think,” said a man’s voice from the darkness to my right.

I turned, startled, and peered into the shadows. “Who are you? Show yourself.”

The priest I had seen on the bus stepped forward. “My name is Father Rivera. I am but a humble servant of the Lord, but also a scholar of ancient relics. I know what you are here to find, and I want to help you. I want to see it.”

“How did you find me? Have you been following me?”

“Only since you got off the bus. I was coming here, anyway. I saw you holding Brother Anthony’s journal and I knew it was a sign from Our Father in Heaven that I should follow you. How did you come across it?”

“Some priest hid it in my library between a book about Buddhism and one about Taoism. Then he disappeared. What does the journal have to do with you?”

“I inherited it when my predecessor went to be with God. There were a few journals, but the secret hidden in this one caught my attention. Unfortunately, it was stolen from me before I could finish translating it.”

“Do you know what the relic is?” I asked.

“Well, since the journal doesn’t specify that it’s a Christian relic, we can rule out a piece of the One True Cross or the Holy Grail. Beyond that? There are thousands of religions in this world. So the question becomes: Who would find this relic holy?”

“Who stole the journal, and why?”

“I confided in another priest, Father Gomez, who took the journal because he never wants the relic found. He believed it would cause the Church to collapse. If that’s so, then I want to see it even more. He must have hidden the journal there, thinking nobody would notice another book in a stack of books.”

“And how did you find out where it ended up?”

“I didn’t. I’ve been searching every abbey and monastery in Britian, hoping to come across the right tomb. I haven’t seen the book since Father Gomez made off with it.”

“You said you were here to help. Let’s do this thing.”

I put my hands on one side of the sarcophagus lid and he put his hands on the other. We pushed in unison, pivoting the heavy stone to reveal the bones beneath. There was a simple wooden box where the abbot’s heart would have been.

Our eyes met. Gingerly he lifted the box out of the stone coffin and set it on the edge. We opened it. We looked inside. I started to feel tears prickling in my eyes, and I let them fall, knowing this was a perfect time to weep in awe. When I looked back up with some reluctance, I saw that Father Rivera was crying, too.

“Blessed are we beyond measure, to have seen something so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I know what Father Gomez meant, though. Revelation of this relic would bring down every organized religion in the world.”

“Is it safe here?”

“I’m afraid not,” Father Rivera replied. “Father Gomez may have followed me, or at least managed to narrow it down, as I have. He’d find it eventually.”

“I think I know where it will be safe. Back in New York, there’s a wall of lockers inside a train station, to hold your gunna while you explore the city. I could hide it in one of those. I’d have the only keys, and I’d be the only one who knows what’s in there.”

“Keep it hidden,” he told me, somewhat unnecessarily.

Back in New York, I took a cab to the train station and picked a number at random. 15. Rather than a key, I had gone with a combination lock; key-opened locks were subject to lockpicks. The task accomplished, I went home.

It would be safe for a long time.