The Power of Five Oblivion (58 page)

“OK.”

Pedro followed Carla back into the kitchen, where a man in his mid-thirties was sitting at the table with a mug of hot liquid; judging from the smell of it, some sort of herbal tea. He was wearing a dark suit and a black shirt with a clerical collar – Carla had already told him that her son was a priest. His hair was thick and wavy but it was turning grey. He had a face that looked tired and lined, and the eyes of a man who spent too much time thinking about things but never found a happy answer. The two of them did not look like each other, Pedro thought. There was nothing at all, not even the way they sat, that suggested a mother and son.

“Good evening, Pedro,” the man said. He also spoke Spanish.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Please come and sit down. And you can call me Silvio. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please.”

Silvio nodded slightly and Carla went over to the kettle. “You may be wondering how it is that we speak your language,” he went on, “My mother and I lived for many years in the city of Barcelona when I was choirmaster at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross and Saint Eulalia. That is why we are both fluent in Spanish. But that is not where you come from…”

“I am from Lima.”

“When did you come to Italy?”

“A few weeks ago.”

The priest nodded very slightly as if Pedro had just told him a lie, that he knew it was a lie, but was prepared to accept it anyway. “You flew?”

There was no point in lying. Pedro made the decision even as he began to speak. “No. I was in Hong Kong. I came through a door. It brought me to a church but I don’t know where that was. I was taken prisoner and locked up in a place called Castel Nuovo in Naples.” He hadn’t said anything about Scott. Pedro didn’t want to think about him.

“That is what Emmanuel told me,” Carla muttered. She had made a second mug of tea and set it down in front of Pedro.

The priest nodded again, but this time there was a crease of annoyance across his brow. “Are you saying to me, Pedro, that you entered a door in one city and came out of another door here?”

“Yes.”

“You know what you are telling me is impossible?”

“I am answering your questions, Signor Rivera. I am telling you what happened.”

“Describe the door to me.”

“I can’t really. I only saw it for a moment. There was a typhoon in Hong Kong. The temple was being destroyed…”

“The door was in a temple?”

“All the doors are in sacred places. There was another one in Coricancha, which is where the Incas worship, in Cuzco.”

“There are no Incas any more, my child. And when they did exist, they had no true religion. They were pagans.”

Pedro knew full well that the descendants of the Incas had survived to the twenty-first century. He was one of them. And as to their religion, he had personally seen one of their most sacred objects, a gold disc with a portrait of Manco Cápac, son of the sun god, Inti. The face that he had been shown looked remarkably like his own. Nonetheless, he thought it better not to argue with what the priest had just said. “The doors all look the same,” he went on. They’re quite small, made of wood.” Pedro thought for a moment and suddenly remembered. “They have a star printed on them. A five-pointed star.”

The woman turned excitedly to her son and spoke quickly to him in Italian. He listened to her for a moment, then held up a hand for silence. It seemed strange to Pedro and somehow wrong that she should do what her son told her, rather than the other way round.

Silvio turned back to Pedro. “I will tell you what I know,” he began. “I know who you are. I have read some of the pages from the diary of Joseph of Cordoba. There was a copy made many years ago and it is kept locked up in the Vatican. It is a forbidden text … and with good reason. What this man writes is impossible. It is blasphemy.

“He writes about the Old Ones. This is the name that he gives to creatures … what shall we call them, demons? … who have come into the world simply to cause evil, to destroy mankind.”

“They are here now,” Pedro said.

“I do not believe that is true.”

Pedro stared at the priest. “Of course they are here. They kept me prisoner in Naples. They took my friend Scott and made him bad. They caused the volcano to erupt…”

“All these things may have happened. But have you seen the Old Ones?”

“They tried to kill me twice. The first time it was condors that came out of the sky in the desert. And then they sent people who were dead, who came out of the grave.”

“I asked you if you had seen the Old Ones themselves.”

“No.” Pedro couldn’t lie. “But we have to fight them,” he went on. “The five of us must be together. That’s why I have to find my friends.”

“Now you are talking about the Gatekeepers. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes. Matteo, Scarlett, Scott and Jamie. And me.” Pedro was ignoring his tea, which was getting cold in front of him. “Why is nobody allowed into St Peter’s Basilica?” he asked.

Silvio spread his hands. “There are too many people in Rome,” he explained. “The authorities are afraid that it will become overrun. A few pilgrims are still allowed in and out but they have to have special permission and must show their identity papers first.”

“Is it because there is a door inside? Is it because they want to stop me?”

Silvio looked as if he was about to deny what Pedro had just said but before he could speak, his mother leant forward and there was an excitement in her eyes that he had not seen before. “There
is
a door,” she said.

Silvio glowered at his mother but she wasn’t backing down. He shrugged. “It is true that there is a door such as the one you describe,” he admitted. “It is beneath the tabernacle, in the grotto. But I have opened and closed it myself. It leads nowhere: a short corridor and a solid brick wall.”

“It only works for us,” Pedro said. For the first time in many weeks he felt a surge of hope. “If you can get me inside the church, I can leave Rome. I can go anywhere I like.”

“We can do that for you, Pedro,” Carla said. She continued quickly, before her son could interrupt. “There is a secret passage that runs from the Vatican to St Peter’s. Very few people know it is there. You are right when you say they are waiting for you. The basilica has never been closed but now there are soldiers, twenty-four hours a day. Silvio may not agree with me but I am certain they are only there to stop you.”

“I do not believe in this door!” Silvio brought his fist crashing onto the table. He turned angrily on his mother. “St Peter’s is at the very centre of our faith. It has existed in one form or another since the fourth century and today it is unquestionably the greatest church in Christendom. Saint Peter himself is buried beneath the altar. Are you going to tell me that it also houses a magic trick … a door that opens into a Buddhist temple in Hong Kong or a ruin in Cuzco?” He forced himself to calm down, then turned back to Pedro. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am sure you have been through many troubles. You are not alone. Sometimes even I find it hard to understand what has happened in the world. But I find the answer in my prayers. It is not the Old Ones who cause volcanoes to erupt, Pedro. It is part of a greater purpose, a testing time for humanity, but in the end, if we have faith, we will be better and stronger. That, I believe with all my heart.”

“But you don’t believe what I say,” Pedro muttered. “You don’t care who I am or why I’m here.”

The priest fell silent and looked away.

“What is wrong with Maria?” Pedro asked.

At that, Carla started in her chair. “Why do you ask?” she demanded.

“Please, Signora Rivera. You told me that she was your daughter.” He glanced at Silvio. “Your sister. She is in the opposite room next to mine. Why is she ill?”

Neither of the adults spoke, as if they didn’t dare to put it into words. Then Carla nodded. “She has cancer,” she said. “It is in her pancreas. It is the very worst kind. She has been slipping away from us for many months. We have tried everything but the doctors say there is nothing more they can do. Fortunately, she has little pain …”

“That is God’s mercy,” Silvio muttered.

“… but she has only weeks left to her. She is much younger than Silvio. Only twenty-four. She was the joy of my life.” Carla bowed her head.

“She’s not dying,” Pedro said. “She’s better.”

“That is not true.”

“It is true,
signora. I
have healed her. I’m only telling you because I need you to believe what I am saying. All five of the Gatekeepers have powers. If you have read the diary, you must know this. We can read minds. We can change the weather. But my gift is the power of healing and before I came down here, I went into Maria’s bedroom and I took her illness away. Go upstairs and see for yourself.”

Silvio had gone very pale. He looked at Pedro with something close to anger. “You are wrong to say this,” he rasped.

“Please,
signore…
”

“No!”

“I will go!” Before anyone could stop her, Carla Rivera pushed her seat back and stood up, then strode out of the room. Pedro watched the priest. For a brief moment, he struggled with himself, then rose and followed. Pedro came last. The three of them went back into the hallway and up two flights of stairs. The door to the sick woman’s room was still closed, as Pedro had left it. Carla stopped outside, as if gathering strength, then opened it and went in, with Silvio and Pedro right behind.

“Maria…!” Pedro heard the mother gasp her daughter’s name.

Maria was sitting up in bed. Her eyes were open. She still looked weak and tired but there was absolutely no doubt that the illness had passed, just as a shadow will move on as the sun rises. She was still attached to the various pipes and tubes and was examining them as if she was trying to work out why they were there. As the door opened, she looked round and saw the three of them.

“Mama…” she said.

Carla rushed over to her and took her in her arms. There were tears streaming down her cheeks. She took hold of Maria and buried her head in her shoulder. At the same time, she looked back at Pedro. “It is a miracle!” she said. “She has not spoken a word in three weeks!”

Silvio looked stunned, rooted to the spot. He had seen his sister that morning, before he went to church. He went in every morning and spent an hour with her, praying beside the bed. And now…? His mother was right. All the doctors had said the same. There was no hope for her. What he was seeing was a miracle indeed.

“You must take Pedro to the door,” Carla said. “You must do everything you can to help him.” She was still embracing her daughter, smoothing her hair with one hand.

Silvio nodded. All the blood had drained from his face. “Yes,” he muttered. “Of course we must help him. We will leave tonight.”

FORTY-FOUR

They slipped out of the house just before midnight. Carla was waiting at the front door with a coat, which she handed to Pedro. She had spent the past two hours with her daughter. Maria had spoken a little. She had managed to eat some soup, the first food she had tasted in weeks. Now she was asleep – and her breathing, which had been ragged and painful, came easily.

“Where will you go?” Carla asked Pedro.

Pedro had already thought about this. He knew that the doors would only work properly if you decided on your destination before you went through them. “I’m going to Antarctica,” he said. “That is where Matt is waiting for me. That’s where I’ll find my friends.”

Carla helped him put on the coat, then took him in her arms. “I will never forget you,” she said. “And I will never be able to thank you for what you have done in this house. You have given my daughter back to me!”

“I’m glad I was able to help you,” Pedro said.

“We should leave,” Silvio muttered. “The guards are going to be suspicious. They will want to know why we’re entering the Vatican at this hour. The later we leave it, the more suspicious they will become.”

“Take care, Pedro.” Carla hugged him again. “Maybe one day in happier times we will meet again.”

She opened the door for them and they left together. For a moment, Silvio stood next to his mother and he gently kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t wait for me,” he said, in Italian.

“Of course I will wait for you. I won’t be able to sleep until you’re home. Look after Pedro.”

The priest was wearing a dark coat over his suit and as he hurried through the garden he was suddenly shrouded in night. He and Pedro reached the gate on the other side of the fountain and passed through into the street. This part of the city had been quiet when Pedro first reached it, and it was practically deserted now. A single man, wearing too many clothes, limped down the pavement, looking hopefully in the dustbins. A family lay curled up together in the doorway of a block of flats. Otherwise there was nobody to see them as they hurried away from the house, turning down one of the many streets that led them to St Peter’s Square.

Their destination was not the church, even though it was part of the Vatican City state which surrounded it. Vatican City itself was a huge walled area inside Rome with its own police and government. It contained churches, museums, offices and official residences set within a beautifully landscaped garden. Silvio Rivera could have chosen to live inside the walls but had preferred to share a house with his mother and sister – even so, he was no more than ten minutes away from the entrance that he used every day. This was an archway with a small sentry box. It was guarded by two men wearing the most bizarre costumes Pedro had ever seen: orange and blue striped tunics with trousers that were tight at the ankles but ballooned out around the legs, black berets, slashes of red in their sleeves and around their cuffs.

“They are the Swiss Guard,” Silvio explained. “It is their job to guard the Holy Father. Do not say anything, even if they try to talk to you. I will explain to them that I am looking after you and hopefully they will let us through.”

As he approached them, Silvio took out a badge with his photograph and identification number. It was almost half past twelve at night but he walked confidently, as if he was simply on his way to work. Even so, the Swiss Guards were suspicious. Despite the fanciful costumes, they were hard-edged, well-disciplined men. One of them examined the badge carefully, while the other snapped out a series of questions, which Silvio answered quietly and with complete confidence. Now the guard was examining Pedro. He asked something but Pedro didn’t speak, as he had been instructed. Silvio continued with a torrent of words in Italian, waving one hand at Pedro while resting the other on his shoulder. Eventually, the guards seemed to be satisfied. The badge was handed back. They were allowed through.