He led them through a winding maze, and they entered a room lit by a few candles and reduced lights. Two golden winged angels were on either side of an elaborate, ornamented gold display box, the top portion forming a triangle. A bone white cloth lay wrapped over a bar in the center — a long shawl on an intricate, bejeweled rack.
“This is what many on their spiritual pilgrimages come to Chartres to see, the Sancta Camisa. It is said to be the tunic of Mary, mother of Jesus, the actual shawl she wore the night she gave birth to Jesus Christ our Lord.”
Marcus stared at the tunic without saying anything, his mind drawing references from the Bible passages he’d researched. Words from Luke 2:34 coalesced in his thoughts as if someone whispered in his ear, the hushed echoes traveling down the arched passageways filling the cathedral with a chorus of soft voices. ‘This Child is destined for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign which will be spoken against…a spear will pierce through your own soul so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.’ Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose, the room suddenly warmer, closer. His eyes met the priest, neither man speaking.
Alicia moistened her lips and said, “It’s beautiful. Do you really think it’s the one Mary wore when Christ was born?”
Father Davon smiled. “No one can say with complete authenticity. Perhaps, like the Spear of Destiny carried by Charlemagne, it is the true tunic. Possibly it is not. What is important is the symbolism, the visual imagery something tangible can deliver to so many who will never achieve what was taught at the School of Chartres, only because it requires a mindset that many will not allow themselves to achieve.”
“What mindset?” Marcus asked.
Father Davon nodded and smiled. “Please, allow me to continue our tour.” He led them through a series of archways and corridors lit with soft light that painted a tawny glow up into the porticos and staircases leading toward the ceiling. They walked to the sculptures of a mother and child, both fully clothed, wearing crowns and each with darker skin. “Some call her the Black Madonna. No one knows how the statues arrived at Chartres. Some pilgrims don’t notice the color of her face. Others do. It’s not so much observation as it is perception. That’s what the School of Chartres was all about, perception.”
“How do you mean?” Alicia asked.
“More than a thousand years ago, in this cathedral, the School of Chartres was, in essence, a seminary — a seminary that looked at the Platonic approach to philosophy, natural science, the arts and the universal mind of a loving God. For almost two centuries, the greatest minds, intellectuals, gifted students all over Europe came here to learn. Most could not achieve the highest standards of admission for acceptance into the school. But for those who could, the enlightenment — the education was nothing short of a life-altering experience.”
“How was that?” Marcus asked.
Father Davon laced his fingers together and closed his eyes for a second. “The teachers, men like Bishop Flubertus, brought in the lessons from knowledge honed by the ancient Greeks and combined them with parables from the Bible, keeping alive the virtues of the Virgin Mary to understand complete faith that is usually beyond our initial power to grasp. The teachers taught the students, the new theologians who would leave here, how to realize the signs John wrote in Revelation, looking beyond, much deeper than the apparent and literal meaning.”
“Are you suggesting an absolute knowledge or wisdom, something that people, such as Isaac Newton, sought to understand?” asked Marcus.
“I think a better term would be a distillation of the soul that aligns as close as humanly possible to God. It’s like stripping away the manmade harnesses, the prejudices, allowing the soul to gain a greater perception, without fear, as it’s fed with the nutrients found in the universality of God’s complete love. That is the arduous path to absolute knowledge, or at least the new discernment that is realized when we learn to love unconditionally — to put our brothers before us. In Revelation, John writes from a higher dimension in which time becomes a visible medium. The past, present, and future are displayed in a non-linear vista.”
Alicia let out a breath. “This is all very good stuff. But in the real world of good and evil, my niece is being held hostage in Iran. Egypt, Tunisia, England, Libya, Syria and other parts of the planet are erupting in civil chaos. How does an ancient school, its teachings, have anything to do with the Spear of Destiny?”
“Because we’re talking about your destiny, the fate of Paul, me and the rest of the world we share with our fellow humans. The Spear of Destiny has been desired and sometimes acquired by those with a keen insight into the times in which they lived. Evil travels a crooked path, but a path nonetheless.” Father Davon looked up at a stained-glass window high in the cathedral. “Come, the time is near, and it is brief. I told you I would show you something. What it means is something no one knows.”
EIGHTY-TWO
After walking for more than a minute in silence, Father Davon stopped. He looked up at a grand stained-glass window and pointed to it. “If you look to the right of the window, about half way up from the bottom, you might make out a small, clear spot. It’s no larger than a nickel. But it’s all that’s needed.”
“Needed for what?” asked Alicia.
“For the light.” Father Davon smiled.
Marcus looked at the window, the reds and blues lustrous from the rising full moon. Then he lowered his eyes to the floor where he spotted a nail protruding from a rectangular stone, the only one of its shape in the entire floor. The stone was the color of pewter, and looked much older than those around it.
Father Davon said, “Some people believe that whoever designed the Saint Appolnaire window did so with the summer solstice in mind.” He stepped toward the rectangular stone. During the summer, June, at the Summer Solstice, there is a period, less than thirty seconds when the sun’s light comes through a clear spot in the window and strikes the nail in that unique stone. No one alive is sure of the significance.”
“But this isn’t June,” said Alicia.
“Indeed. I believe there is more meaning in what happens only one other time a year, and that time is tonight. Each November, when the full moon rises and aligns with the portal, that tiny spot in the window, something happens. Very few people know of it. And no one knows what it means.” Father Davon pointed to the window. “Look.”
The moon inched higher in the sky and a milky light poured through the window in a single shaft, striking the nail.
“Wow,” Alicia whispered. “How’d they ever…?”
Marcus stepped closer, kneeling down. He studied the long shadow cast by the nail. He looked up, the milky light streaming through the small opening, and then he looked in the direction the shadow fell. “It’s indicating due west.”
Marcus measured the length of the shadow using his forearm as a gauge. It went from the tip of his finger to his elbow. He looked back in the direction the shadow pointed, and then he touched the head of the nail with the tip of his right index finger. Warmth, a sense of energy, ran up his arm, transmitting to every part of his body. He looked at the priest, then at Alicia. They seemed distant, as if he was looking at them through opaque water. Marcus heard a whisper. ‘The truth is found fewer than two hundred shadows of the moon.’ His heart hammered in his chest, vision blurring. He stared at his finger on the nail, his hand heavy, his hearing so acute he thought he could hear the photochemistry of the light pouring through the window. The light striking his finger seemed to be encircling the entire room. Marcus couldn’t blink. Eyes wide. He lifted his finger and his vision returned.