The Book of Love (47 page)

While the exterior of the package was addressed very simply to Maureen, the interior was filled with two smaller boxes, each individually addressed. One was to Maureen, one was to Bérenger.

“You first,” Maureen said, handing Bérenger the small box with his name on it. It was the same size as a gift box for a small jewelry item, and when he opened it, he saw that it was very definitely something rare and valuable, like a jewel. The box contained a small silver reliquary, oval in shape and made like a locket, but with a cover that slipped over the top, like the lid on a tiny box. The lid covered the red wax seal that is used to both protect and authenticate religious artifacts. In this case, the seal was so ancient and deteriorated that it was impossible to determine what the original image looked like in its entirety, but there were tiny stars visible in what appeared to be a circular pattern, embedded in the wax.

While smaller than Maureen’s thumbnail, the casing was, conversely, highly detailed and well preserved. Embossed into the silvered cover was a miniature crucifixion sequence. At the foot of the cross, a long-haired and kneeling Mary Magdalene clung to the feet of her dying beloved. Strangely, the only other element—carefully crafted—was a columned temple perched on a hill behind them. The temple looked distinctly Greek, resembling the Acropolis in Athens, the shrine built to honor feminine wisdom and strength.

Bérenger recognized it immediately. “It’s a temple that symbolizes the Sophia element in spirituality,” he said. “Divine feminine knowledge. Artists affiliated with the bloodline used it when painting Magdalene to indicate that she was the keeper of the knowledge, as have the secret societies affiliated with bloodline traditions for centuries. You can identify the Sophia temples specifically, as they have rounded rooftops representing female curvature.”

Maureen looked at the image and nodded. In her research into Magdalene art, she had seen a number of Italian depictions of the crucifixion with similar configurations: her Mary at the foot of the cross, usually clutching it. In several cases, there was a structure that resembled a classical Greek temple in the background. Some artists depicted the temple in ruins, symbolic of the loss of the divine feminine wisdom in their contemporary spirituality.

Bérenger turned the case over to see the relic itself. It was minuscule, so tiny as to be nearly invisible, but it was there. A speck of wood was held in place by some type of resin, glued into the center of a golden flower. Beneath the relic was a sliver of paper, handwritten in painstaking script:
V. Croise
.

It was an abbreviation that both understood, even in the antiquated French,
Vraie Croise
. They looked at each other and said in tandem, “The True Cross.”

There was a time, even in the last week, when Bérenger Sinclair
would have scoffed at any relic that claimed to be a portion of the True Cross, particularly if the provenance of the item could not be established. But given recent events, and Maureen’s presence in Rome, he knew there was no room for skepticism. The minuscule splinter’s tiny size gave credibility to the authenticity. If a villain were going to create a forgery for the sake of a black-market relic sale, wouldn’t he at least create a splinter that was wholly visible to the naked eye?

Maureen jumped suddenly and let out a little squeal.

“What is it?”

She had been holding the reliquary in her open palm. When she jumped, it fell on the bed. Bérenger leaned over to pick it up.

“Feel it,” Maureen said.

Bérenger’s eyes grew wide as he picked it up. “It’s hot.”

Maureen nodded. As she had held the relic in her hand, the metal had begun to grow warm, finally heating up to such a degree that she dropped it.

It was cooling now, so Bérenger returned it to its resting place in the box.

“Bérenger, look. My paper cut. It’s…gone.”

She held out her hand to show him. She had held the reliquary in the same hand that was injured. The cut, an inch in length, that she and Bérenger had both witnessed just minutes before, was gone.

He nodded silently, then reached for the accompanying card on the now familiar stationery with the strange monogram, the A tied to the reversed E, and read it aloud to Maureen.

For the first time in their relationship, Maureen saw Bérenger Sinclair at a loss. The blood had drained from his face and he looked stricken. Haunted.

She reached out and took his hand, gently. “What’s wrong? What does it mean?”

He reached up and kissed her hand to soften the blow of his evasiveness. “It means…that there is something I need to tell you. But not quite yet. Let’s look at the other items in this mysterious Pandora’s box first.”

Maureen didn’t want to let it go, but she would respect his wishes for the moment as she was equally curious about what was left within the treasure box. Reaching in for her own package, Maureen extracted another container designed for jewelry, larger than the one addressed to Bérenger. Hers was lined with an exquisite indigo-colored satin, a rich fabric and hue falling somewhere between deepest blue and violet. Sitting atop the satin was an ancient-looking medallion of hammered copper. Bérenger recognized it instantly.

“The labyrinth in Chartres Cathedral.”

Inscribed on the reverse, in what appeared to be a more modern engraving in French, were the words:

Bérenger, who was fluent, translated it aloud quicker than Maureen could have, although both recognized the passage immediately. “Mary hath chosen the better part, which no one will take from her.”

“Luke ten forty-two,” Maureen replied simply. All devoted students of the Magdalene knew this passage by heart. It comes after Martha complains that she is doing all the housework while Mary sits at the feet of Jesus and listens to him. Jesus replies in support of Mary with this enigmatic phrase.

“What do you think it means?” Maureen spoke first. “Because we both know it’s not going to be an obvious, scriptural interpretation.”

“Of course not. It’s on the reverse of the Chartres labyrinth image, and it’s in French, so those elements are obviously connected. Read the card.”

Maureen extracted the card, not bothering to disguise her shock as she read.

While the first line had significant impact—could it really be possible that the Book of Love was in Chartres Cathedral?—the lines that followed left her speechless.

The words were verbatim to those spoken by Jesus in her dreams about the Book of Love. Was the author of this card, this Destino, a messenger of divine providence? Or was he the thief who had stolen her laptop and notebook, taunting Maureen with her own notes?

Following the sacrifice of our Lord on the Black Day of the Skull, the honorable Joseph of Arimathea, along with the most blessed Nicodemus and Luke, collected all the items that were instrumental in his destiny. The beams of the cross, the nails, the thorns, and the titular written by Pontius Pilate were removed to the property of Nicodemus, where they were kept in hiding by the Order of the Holy Sepulcher in a subterranean chamber. Following the resurrection, the holy shroud that once wrapped the body of our Lord was also taken by the Order to this protected place. The chamber was sealed by enormous boulders that required the strength of many men to remove them. These most sacred relics were highly protected, as their power
was deemed too great and intense for the average man or woman to gain exposure to them.

Most sacred of all were the beams of the True Cross, for the wood carried the entire history of our people within it. It represented the spirit of Asherah entrapped and downtrodden, and it symbolized the persecution of all who would restore her, and the truth, in the form of our Lord who came to show us the Way of Love, which is the Way of El and Asherah.

Access to the relics was granted only to the closest members of the Order, the family, and the original followers once a year, on the commemoration of our Lord’s sacrifice, which is the Holy Friday, through to the day of his resurrection. The relics were carefully concealed at all other times.

When the blessed Saint Luke came to Italy, he presented a detailed map to the brothers of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher in Calabria, a guide to the exact location of the relics. As there was great unrest in Jerusalem, Luke was afraid that the relics would be endangered, or perhaps forgotten by future generations if the surviving members of the Order were forced from their homeland. And as it happened, the wicked Titus destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem and attempted to eliminate both the Jews and the earliest Christians in the year 70, and the relics were abandoned as the people fled for their lives or died fighting.

Two and a half centuries later, the map created by Saint Luke was entrusted to the mother of the emperor Constantine as a gift for her generosity and protection of the Order. Santa Helena enlisted a noble group of warriors and converts to take an unprecedented journey to the Holy Land on an expedition to find the treasures of our people. Utilizing the map drawn by Luke, the members of Helena’s troop were able to identify the cavern that held the treasure by the large letter
X
that was carved on the exterior.
X
has since been used to mark the location of the treasure that comes with enlightenment. In addition to the relics of the Passion, the crèche that once held both the Lord and his holy daughter in their sleep as infants was also recovered from the cavern.

These sanctified relics of our Lord Jesus Christ were carried back to Rome and preserved by the great lady. However, in honor of those who protected them, splinters of the True Cross were given to the leaders of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher in Calabria, Rome, and Lucca. These are the most holy and potent items in the history of mankind. As such, the relics of the True Cross were divided into tiny splin
ters in order to share their sanctity with the many families in Italy who preserved the true teachings of the Way. These fragments contain the wisdom of Asherah, the breath of Adam, the tears of Sheba, and the blood of our Lord.

While the nonbelievers may scoff at the validity of such relics, anyone who has had the joy of holding even the smallest piece of the True Cross will never forget the holy experience. The healing powers are miraculous and should only be placed in the hands of the worthy.

For those with ears to hear, let them hear it.

T
HE LEGEND OF THE
T
RUE
C
ROSS, PART TWO
,
AS PRESERVED IN THE
L
IBRO
R
OSSO

Vatican City
present day

P
eter stopped working as he was interrupted by Maggie Cusack. A courier had delivered a package for Father Healy, telling her it was urgent that he open it right away. Maggie placed the parcel, wrapped in plain brown paper, on his desk. She left the room shaking her head. The return address on the package was blank, except for one word scrawled in the upper left corner:
DESTINO
.

Peter opened his own package, unaware as he did so that Maureen and Bérenger were experiencing their own version of Christmas across the Tiber. Peter’s box contained a small statue of a madonna and child, carved out of a very dark wood. This madonna, while somewhat rustic, was enthroned, crowned, and commanding. In her right hand she held the globe of earthly dominion. The infant was delivering the sign of the benediction confidently from his mother’s lap. The front of the base of the statuette was inscribed “Notre Dame de Montserrat”; the back of the base was carved with a Latin motto,
Nigra sum sed formosa
.

Peter recognized the Latin. It was a much-debated line spoken by the bride in the Song of Songs: “I am black but beautiful.” It was significant in what was known as Black Madonna worship throughout Europe.

He opened the enclosed card to see what further clues awaited him. It contained a single line.

WHY DID YOU BECOME A JESUIT?

He considered the question for a moment. It did not ask, Why did you become a priest? It asked, more specifically, Why did you become a Jesuit? And this madonna was also specific. It was the madonna of Montserrat, the mystical monastery high in the mountains north of Barcelona. Peter had been there on several occasions. Like many of his brothers before him, he had taken the funicular, rather like a large version of a ski lift, up the steep rise to the monastery. This was sacred ground for members of the Society of Jesus, who were better known as the Jesuit order. Sacred for many reasons, but chief among them was that their founder, Ignatius Loyola, had discovered his faith in this very monastery and in the presence of this very same Black Madonna.

I am black but I am comely, O daughters of Jerusalem.

So sings the Shulamite woman in the Song of Songs. For she is the springtime bride, the representative of Asherah’s grace in human form. She shares with the women of Jerusalem her secrets and welcomes them into her fold. Those who enter become priestesses in the Nazarene tradition, which is to say the hidden tradition. They become known by the sacred name of Mary. The leader amongst these women, the one who is perfected in her wisdom and grace, is the tower of the flock. One woman alone shall be given this title of the Magdalene, whilst all the other Marys shall serve at her side.

Black is the color of her wisdom, as it has been obscured and hidden behind the veil, made completely unavailable to the uninitiated.

My beloved is the Black Madonna, the hidden lady. Yet she hath chosen the better part, she is the embodiment of compassion on earth, she is the Comforter. My bride is trapped in the enclosed garden, her wellspring of wisdom dammed and sealed by the closed minds of men who have turned their hearts away from the Holy Spirit, the Sacred Dove. It is not until she is released that there will be peace on earth.

This is the
apocalypsia
that is approaching, which means most literally
the unveiling of the Bride.
To save ourselves, we must understand the true interpretation of the apocalypsia. And we must welcome it.

The veil must be lifted, and the face of the Bride revealed. For She is Asherah, the beloved of El, as she returns through time in all her guises, to unite with her Bridegroom. She is Sheba, she is Maria Magdalena, and she is all women who would stand for the harmony that comes with reunion: male and female, on earth as it is in heaven.

It is the charge of all men who would serve the Lord God with all their hearts and all their minds and all their souls to lift this veil. It is upon us to allow the Bride to show her lovely countenance and let her voice, which is a melody of union, be heard. We must awaken while in this body for everything exists in it. We must allow the Bride to open to us, to receive us, and to share her perfected wisdom through our reunion.

The Song of Songs, our gift from Solomon and his beloved Sheba, is the salvation of mankind. It contains within it the joyous reunion of our Father and Mother in heaven, through their cherished children on earth. It contains within it the ultimate seeds of wisdom and love.

Rome
present day

I
T WAS
well after midnight, and the Piazza della Rotonda was quiet. The vendors had packed up their wares an hour or so earlier, and the tourists were back in their hotel rooms. From time to time, a few younger couples strayed through the plaza on their way from a late meal, but overall it was quiet save for the eternal gurgling of the central fountain. It was here that Maureen and Bérenger sat, alone now in the moonlight. They were settled on the stone steps, backs to the obelisk and facing the majesty of the Pantheon. Bérenger made his explanation softly and reverentially.

“What is the one thing we have all learned in following this magical path, with the Magdalene as our guide? She has taught us so many things, but for me nothing is as important as the lessons about balance and harmony. And I believe that is what he was showing us too, wasn’t it?”

Maureen nodded but said nothing, not wanting to interrupt him.

“Think about this for a moment. There is a prophecy that is left to us from Sarah-Tamar, who is the perfected child of two perfect prophets. You know this prophecy intimately, as it has shaped your life. It is the prophecy of women who will come at various intervals and perform important spiritual functions in order to ensure that the truth of our people does not die. It is the legend of The Expected One, but it also incorporates the philosophy of the time returns, doesn’t it? Now,
remembering what we know of harmony and union and balance, let me ask you something. If there is a prophecy about a woman who must come and restore harmony, what must exist to counterbalance that?”

Maureen didn’t have to think about it. She had already come to this conclusion while they were still in the room. She just wanted to hear it from his own lips, with his explanation. She replied, “A prophecy about a man who will do the same thing, who will complement her own work.”

He smiled at her, not at all surprised that she was already there with him. “Yes,” he replied quietly. “It is called the prophecy of the Poet Prince, and it also comes from our little Sarah-Tamar.”

“Will you recite it for me?”

He nodded, took a breath, and gave it a poetic recitation, allowing the Scottish burr of his accent to roll over the words of the prophecy. It made Maureen’s spine tingle.

He looked at Maureen pointedly as he completed the final line of the prophecy, and they said the closing, which had become so familiar to them of late, in unison.

“For those with ears to hear, let them hear it.”

They sat in the silence of it for a moment before Maureen asked, “The realm of the sea goat?”

“Capricorn,” Bérenger explained. “Those who know little about astrology think of Capricorn as just a standard farm goat, but it is, in fact, a mythical creature. A sea goat is a spirit of both the earth and the water.”

“Like the male version of a mermaid? Which is one of Asherah’s symbols, and later the symbol of the bloodline?”

“Right. And the prophecy is specific about other astrological elements as well. A predominance of planets in earth signs and water signs. And submerging the influence of Mars is believed to refer to that planet in a water sign, specifically Pisces. So you see, like The Expected One, the Poet Prince has to fulfill certain qualifications of birth and blood.”

Maureen was taking it all in, awestruck by the impact of this revelation. Her reply was just above a whisper. “All of which you have.”

“Yes.”

“And I am assuming, that like The Expected One, you have a number of historical brothers who have fulfilled this prophecy? Destino’s note said that your True Cross relic was once owned by the greatest Poet Prince.”

“Yes, and I am trying to figure out which one he is referring to. I’m guessing it refers to René d’Anjou, as he was the king of Naples and Jerusalem, and the count of Provence. History refers to him as Good King René as he was the quintessential fairy-tale prince, and also Joan of Arc’s mentor and benefactor. And he was the father of Marguerite d’Anjou, who was also an Expected One, and a very powerful woman in history. His baby Marguerite grows to become the queen of England and the champion of the Lancaster faction in the War of the Roses.”

“Really? You mean there were two women at one time who fulfilled The Expected One prophecy, Joan and Marguerite? Good King René must have had his hands full.”

Bérenger laughed. “Quite. The other aspect I have observed is that each of the men who fulfilled the Poet Prince prophecy were sur
rounded by very headstrong—but also highly inspirational—women, women who changed their thinking and their lives while shaping their destinies.”

“So…are The Expected One and the Poet Prince always alive at the same time?”

“From all the examples that I know of, that seems to be the case. But they have different relationships. Sometimes they are father and daughter, sometimes brother and sister, other times not connected by family, but there is a mentor relationship. Of course, the most legendary tend to be the lovers, but it is not the only blueprint. I think it is God’s way of showing us the many guises that divine love can take. They are from the same family of spirit.”

“Whatever is necessary to get the work done, I think. Keeping the promise?”

“Yes. And in the fifteenth century, there was certainly much to get done. It was a very powerful period of history, truly an era that embodied the concept of
the time returns.
God was taking no chances in the fourteen hundreds, it seems.”

“Who was the other Poet Prince at that time?”

“Lorenzo de Medici, the godfather of the Renaissance.”

Maureen considered this. “Was he one of us? Really? I never would have guessed.”

“I believe he had to be, if he inspired men like Sandro Botticelli and Michelangelo. But I confess I know far more about the French side of the family. Perhaps this Destino will fill us in as it appears we are going to meet him—or someone—on the summer solistice.”

They had discussed this earlier with Peter, and all three had agreed that they would travel together to Chartres, and meet Roland and Tammy there as well. If all of them were together, the chances of anything unsettling happening were lessened. There was safety in numbers. It wasn’t lost on Bérenger Sinclair that “Destino” was emulating his own actions. Two years earlier Bérenger had enticed Maureen to meet him in precisely the same way, requesting her presence at a church in Paris on the summer solstice. Clearly, Destino, whoever he was, was
well versed in their history together. It was as intriguing as it was disconcerting.

Maureen remained focused on the revelation of the latest prophecy. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because I was waiting for the timing to be right. But obviously Destino made that determination for me, forcing my hand. Yet I’m glad he did; I’m relieved that you know now. I don’t feel like I’m hiding anything from you anymore.”

Maureen swallowed hard, but the words she was going to speak would not come out. Her eyes filled with tears, glittering emeralds in the moonlight that reflected off the marbled Pantheon.

He took both her hands in his, gently stroking them with his thumbs as he spoke. “And so, my dear Expected One…I just want you to know that I understand all that you are, and all that you’ve been through. As I too know what it’s like to live in the shadow cast by such a potent prophecy.”

“How long have you known about the Poet Prince?”

“All my life. I was the golden child as a result, you know. My grandfather’s prized possession. That’s why I spent so much time in France growing up, while my siblings stayed in Scotland. Old Alistair watched me closely until the day he died, to see what I would accomplish, if I would fulfill his prophecy.”