The Healer, page 12
“Okay. First, what’s happening with the police?”
Llewellyn cocked his head to one side. “The police?”
“Yeah, you know. What happened after I escaped out the window? Am I still a fugitive of the law?”
The vicar took a measured sip of his tea and placed it on a stand next to him. “The good detective waited another five minutes before insisting that he come in.” A smile played across his face. “You can imagine his surprise, can you not? The doctor’s too, only she didn’t seem as upset like. I think she likes you, Christian, yes?”
Chris snorted. “Hardly. She was just being thorough.”
“And stalling the police in the process? She did, you know.”
Chris shrugged and sipped his tea.
“Of course they asked where you were,” Llewellyn continued. “I told them you decided to take in some night air. The detective ran to the window and called for reinforcements on his radio. He asked where you went; I told him I didn’t know exactly.”
“You lied to him?”
“Not at all, Christian. I am a vassal of Christ. I do not lie.”
He smirked. “But you knew where I was headed.”
Llewellyn feigned innocence. “How was I to know you would follow my instructions? You are an accused gunman from a foreign country with connections to organized crime in the UK. Men of your ilk rarely listen to a ward of the church, let alone follow his instructions, now do they? Besides, I didn’t remember the name of the chippee, and there are a score of them about Monmouth. You could have ended up at the wrong establishment, yes?”
“So they still think I’m involved with the mob,” he said flatly.
“It seems so, yes. I was interrogated by the detective for a time. I told him you were not connected with the mob, but I do not think he believed me. Then he said since I had allowed you to escape I was an accomplice.” He paused to select a scone from the cart.
“And . . . ?”
“I told him that I felt threatened like. That my life was in jeopardy and I had no recourse but to allow you to leap from the window.”
Chris gawked. “You mean he thinks I threatened to finish what I started, that I’d kill you if you didn’t let me escape? Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t be angry, Christian. I did it for your own good, lad. See, if I was incarcerated like, I wouldn’t be able to help you, now would I?” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “But I also told the detective I would sign an affidavit attesting that you did not shoot me, that it was a Mr. Rafe Collingswood who did. And I hinted that your confessional bore out your innocence, yes?”
“But I didn’t confess anything.”
Llewellyn took a bite of scone and chewed slowly. “Not in the literal sense, you didn’t. But I did glean a great amount about you from our wee conversation, didn’t I? Aye, a very great amount.”
“So . . . am I still wanted by the police?”
“I would assume so, yes. That Westcott chap asked that I call him immediately if I saw you again. I do not know why. I swore to him you are not a criminal. Whether he accepted that testimony or not, I do not know.”
“Great,” Chris grumbled.
“Now then,” the vicar said sharply, as if the topic of Chris’s innocence was closed. “What say you to getting cleaned up, yes? I had Michael purchase fresh clothing for you early this morning at yon haberdashery ’round the corner. Nothing fancy, mind, but they’re less conspicuous than the blood-stained rags you’re sporting now, yes? Perhaps a shower is in order too, I should think.”
Chris couldn’t argue. “Sure. Thanks.”
“Right. Excellent. Now, if you’ll just follow Michael, he’ll take care of you. Then we can chat over breakfast, yes?”
“Chat?”
“Of course, lad. About our beloved St. Nicholas.”
Chapter 22
It always amazed Chris how a hot soak could make him feel human again. He believed that it was long, hot showers, more than the ability to reason, that separated us from the animals.
Linebacker Michael had prepared a spread of poached eggs framed in toast and thick bacon along with some tea. It was delicious.
“Do you think I’m safe here, Father?” Chris asked after finishing his meal.
“Safe from what, son?”
“The police, of course. I’m still a wanted man, and your chapel is still a crime scene. It’s likely there’ll be investigations done on site. And if they still suspect I shot you—even though you told them I didn’t—as long as I’m on the run, they’ll assume your life is in danger.”
Llewellyn waved the thought away. “Balderdash. Collingswood shot me, pure and simple, yes? But he didn’t shoot me out of hatred or to rob me. I don’t believe he even intended to kill me. He shot me to make a point, did he not?”
Chris fidgeted in his chair. “Yeah. About that . . .” He rubbed his neck, thinking, not sure where to begin.
After a long silence, the vicar chuckled, “You are an open book, Christian, lad. You should just come out and ask me. You want to know if you actually healed me, yes?”
“Okay, yeah. Because I’m not sure I did.”
“I’ve been pondering on that very perplexity, my son. And my answer is yes, you did heal me.” He took a sip of tea and smiled. “Next question?”
Frustrated at how quickly that topic was closed, Chris grumbled, “What about Collingswood calling me a Vovnik when I was trying to . . . um, after he shot you? Could he be referring to the old Jewish legend of the Righteous Thirty-Six?”
Llewellyn set down his cup and interlaced his fingers. “I believe so, yes. ’Twould make sense if you were. Some folk believe St. Nicholas were one of the blessed Thirty-Six, you know.”
“Well, yeah, it would make sense he was. But not me.”
The vicar again smiled softly. “Oh, aye? Let’s cogitate on that, shall we? The legend basically says there are thirty-six goodly men who are righteous enough to prevent God from destroying the earth, yes? It’s akin to the story of Abraham asking God to spare the wicked city of Sodom if he could find just ten righteous souls there. The Thirty-Six don’t necessarily ask for this blessing, but the outcome is the same. It’s a Jewish legend for sure an’ certain, but being rooted in the Old Testament, it’s one that rings true in all religions, does it not?”
“Yeah. But what does it have to do with me? I’m not evil per se, but I certainly don’t qualify as someone righteous enough to stay the hand of God,” Chris said with a forced chuckle. “And I’m definitely no saint.”
“Aye. But then you wouldn’t have to be, would you. I believe the legend states there are always thirty-six compassionate men; not saints necessarily, nor men who are so righteous they qualify for sainthood, yes? And I know myself, you’re a man of deep compassion.”
“Really? How?”
“You healed me, Christian—a complete stranger. You gave me another chance at life.”
Chris didn’t know what to say. He wanted to deny it, but he wasn’t sure he could. Something miraculous had happened. And whether he admitted it or not, he had been part of it. “Did Dr. Ingledew say anything about your gunshot wound?”
Llewellyn laughed. “She said the bullet must have glanced off my belly. Like I’m the ruddy Man of Steel, or some such nonsense.” He patted his belly. While not rotund, he did have a solid paunch. “If I do have abs of steel, they’re happily insulated under a depth of lard.”
“So . . . did it?”
“Glance off my belly? Nay, lad. Collingswood’s bullet bore right through the skin, the lard, and the muscle. I know it did,” he said, his eyes again filling with gratitude. “I have a frock and shirt covered with my blood to prove it, don’t I?”
“But Dr. Ingledew thought otherwise?”
“She called it a ‘flesh wound,’ yes? Said it cut me but never entered. Said the emergency chaps must have misdiagnosed it when they first called it in.”
“So . . . where’s the bullet?” Chris wondered aloud.
“Constable Hart took it for evidence. He claimed he found it on the floor of chapel study, right beside where I lay.”
“Ah.” So maybe it had just been a flesh wound, Chris reasoned. Maybe he hadn’t healed the cleric. Maybe it had caused so much pain that it only felt like it’d pierced his belly.
“Which makes it that much more of a miracle, doesn’t it now,” Llewellyn added with reverence. “Finding the bullet, I mean.”
Chris stared blankly at his plate, seeking assurance that seemed impossible to obtain. This whole mess had gone from intriguing to unbelievable to ludicrous. “Father Llewellyn, I appreciate your confidence in me, but please listen: I am no miracle worker. I am very glad you’re doing well, that your wound wasn’t serious. But I had nothing to do with it, I assure you.”
The vicar’s gaze bore into him with tempered censure. “My son, whether you think you did or no, I believe you did. You laid your hands upon me, and I was made whole. You are destined to follow in the path of St. Nicholas; of that I can testify.”
“But I didn’t choose this path. What if I don’t want it?”
“Don’t know as that matters, Christian, does it now? It seems to me the path has chosen you.”
That’s exactly what Nick said, Chris remembered. It’d frustrated him then too. “And if I choose not to follow the path?” he retorted, a little more forcefully than he intended.
A worried frown crossed the vicar’s brow, but love still radiated from his eyes. “Do you like the color of your hair, my son?”
Chris blinked hard. “Excuse me?”
“Do you like the color of your hair?” he repeated, patting his own scalp.
“Uh . . . yeah, I guess. It’s average, just like me,” he said with a lame grin.
“And if you didn’t like it?”
He shrugged. “Then I’d color it. Why? I don’t understand.”
“Aye. You could go blond or black or even purple—like some of the youth nowadays, yes? But would that change its true color? Or would it grow back the way God meant it to be?”
Ah. Trick question. Nice. “So what you’re saying is that I may not choose to be a healer, but it’s what I am, no matter how much I try to deny it.” It was more of a statement than a question.
Llewellyn nodded solemnly.
“What if I opt not to act on it because I don’t believe I am supernaturally gifted?”
“Still doesn’t matter, son, now does it.”
“Somehow I think it does.”
The vicar steepled his fingers and thoughtfully tapped them against his lips. “Did you know that engineers have determined that a bumblebee is aerodynamically unable to fly? And yet he flies around anyroad. Now, you have to wonder how, yes?”
More trick questions. Chris gave the vicar a look of open frustration.
“Because he sees a need and just does it,” Llewellyn explained. “He doesn’t think about it like. He doesn’t question his abilities. He just ups and goes about his business when he needs to, yes? It’s the same with you, my son. When you saw the accident near Cardigan, you didn’t stop and wonder what to do, now did you? Nay; you just acted. Same as when the Reaper were calling my name. If you see the need, don’t be questioning your abilities, son, just do it.”
Not surprisingly, the vicar had talked him into a corner again. Chris stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You sound just like Nicholas Tewdrig. He said the same thing to me two days ago. Arguing with you is just like arguing with him.”
Showing no indication of surprise, Llewellyn calmly took another sip of tea. “Perhaps that’s because I’ve read his journal.”
Chris whipped around in surprise. “His what?”
Chapter 23
Without further word, Llewellyn rocked to his feet and stepped into the great room. Sliding the brass fireplace implements to one side, he took a steel letter opener from the mantle, knelt, and began digging along the grout line of a wide, flat stone.
“Do you need some help?” Chris asked, coming up behind him.
“Thank you, no,” the vicar said. “I have Michael for that, yes?”
When he had cleared a sufficient amount of grout, he called to his manservant. The big guy rounded the corner almost instantly.
“Yes, Father?”
“Kindly lift this stone from its roost, if you please. There’s a good man,” he said, settling into his wingback chair.
“Yes, Father.”
Michael knelt and wedged his fingers along one side of the stone. They barely fit. With minimal effort he pried the stone from the floor, as if it weighed next to nothing. In a hollow beneath the stone sat a small wooden box. The box was roughly the size of a thick phonebook, secured with a hinged metal clasp. Michael withdrew the box and handed it to the vicar.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, Michael.”
The big man stood and, after a quick nod, returned to the kitchen.
“He could have snapped Collingswood in half like a twig. Too bad he wasn’t around when we first met in the chapel study,” Chris commented.
“Good heavens, no,” Llewellyn gasped. “One of the two of them would’ve ended up dead; if not Michael from Collingswood’s bullet, then Collingswood from Michael’s hands.”
“That I believe.”
The vicar used a handkerchief to dust off the box then held it out to Chris. “Be gentle with it, Christian. It is very old, ay?”
Chris gingerly accepted the box. The metal clasp had a locking t-pin where the flange met the hasp. They were cankered with a patina of rust. He twisted the pin until it lined up with the slot then laid back the flange. Opening the lid revealed a rectangular parcel wrapped in yellow oilcloth. Chris removed the parcel and set the box on the floor.
“How old is this?” he asked without taking his eyes from it.
“Hails back to the 1700s . . . maybe even earlier. There are only a few dates mentioned. When the beloved saint wrote, he rarely used annotation like.”
Chris carefully unfurled the heavy oilcloth. Inside lay a softbound book filled with thick, time-yellowed pages. The tome was redolent with the smell of leather, vellum, and the dense, acrid odor of India ink.
Looking up, Chris asked, “Are you sure about this, Father?”
Llewellyn nodded. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you to come, my son. A long time.”
Chris marveled at the very words that Nicholas Tewdrig had uttered to him. He wiped his fingers several times before slowly peeling back the thick, gnarled cover. The heavy vellum pages—malleable at one time—now felt dry and in danger of flaking apart. The writing on each page, blotchy and erratic, looked to have been made with a worn quill. Most of the cursive penmanship was nearly illegible.
“You say you’ve read this?”
“Aye. Many times. It were handed down from headmaster to headmaster, time and time again to this very day.”
“What’s it say?”
“Oh, a great many things,” the vicar said, again steepling his fingers. “But the beloved saint was very cunning in his writing. There are some plain verses of text describing villages he ministered to and such like. The account of him blessing Virtuous Well is in there. Most are in the King’s English, but some are in Welsh and Cambric, some Latin. He also drew some characters that I have nary a clue about.”
“You mean you’ve never had them translated?” Chris was astonished.
“Nay, lad, nay. Weren’t meet for me to do so, were it. And why would I anyroad? Weren’t me that was given the stone, now was it.”
“The stone,” Chris said, swallowing hard. “You know about the Dial?”
Llewellyn grinned. “Aye.”
Returning his attention to the ancient manuscript, Chris spoke in hushed tones. “This is absolutely incredible. Look at all this undiscovered history. If it’s as old as you say, it really should be in a museum, kept under low oxygen to preserve it.”
“I suppose. But that wasn’t the charge I was given, now was it.”
Chris cocked his head. “Charge?”
“I was told to protect this journal, wasn’t I. Was given custody of it, swore a solemn oath not to let it fall into the wrong hands.”
“Swore an oath? To whom?”
The vicar gave a wink and tapped the side of his nose.
Chris flattened his palm on the journal. “So this is what Collingswood was after?”
“Among other things. Aye.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say, lad. It’s a pleasure to show it to you. You’re free to come study it anytime you like. I will instruct Michael to always allow you access.”
Chris looked up sharply. “What—you mean I can’t take this with me?”
The vicar’s eyes bore a fatherly look of warning. “I was given custody, lad, wasn’t I. Part of that charge was to never let it leave the churchyard. It never has. And I intend to keep it that way.”
Frustration welled inside Chris. “Father Llewellyn, surely you can see the historical significance of such a treasure. I have a PhD in history, in Welsh Mythology to be exact. I know how to care for ancient artifacts and manuscripts. This has inestimable value of a historical nature. I’m not going to sell it. I promise.”
“No, Christian. I’m sorry, but the answer is no.”
“But you said you had something to give to me,” Chris cried, knowing he was close to whining.
The vicar sighed heavily. “I said I had som’et to show you,” he corrected. “And there it is. Examine it all you like, my son.”
“Here? Right now? With the police still after me? I can’t possibly begin— I don’t have my references or notes or—”
“Best return it to the box then, Christian,” Llewellyn cut him off gently.
“But—” Chris’s rebuttal was again cut off, this time by a large hand on his shoulder. Michael stood directly behind him.
He shrugged it off. “Look, if I truly am this healer you guys keep claiming I am, how am I going to learn how to do it if I can’t study the book?”
“I told you, son. My door is always open to you, come rain or shine, snow or blow.”
