William Bell - Fanatics

“It’s really quiet here at night,” I said to Raphaella.

Sip, from Mrs. Stoppini. An eye-roll from Raphaella, which told me what she thought of my disarming questioning technique. She took a different tack.

“Mrs. Stoppini, do you mind if I ask what will happen to the library collection when Garnet and I have finished our work?”

“Not at all, Miss Skye. The more valuable volumes, the late professor’s academic papers and the manuscripts of his published works, are bequeathed to his former employer, Ponte Santa Trinita University in Florence. The balance will, I suppose, be sold to a dealer. Mr. Havelock has already kindly advised me to have them appraised first.”

I saw my opening. “You said ‘manuscripts of his published works.’ What will happen to any un published manuscripts?”

“I have read no such papers. But should something be discovered, it will go to the university. They may do with it as they see fit.”

“So,” Raphaella said, “eventually the library won’t be a library anymore. It will just be a room.”

Mrs. Stoppini replied firmly, “That is correct. It will be an empty chamber, closed up and unused.”

Abruptly, she stood and began to gather our empty bowls. I wanted to ask her if she knew about the cross and medal, but I let it go. Our hostess had obviously had enough chit-chat for now.

Before getting back to work, Raphaella and I went for a walk along Wicklow Point Road. The trees on either side were wreathed in mist so thick it obscured their tops, forming a clammy tunnel. We walked silently, holding hands, putting off our return to the mansion.

“Do you still think we’re close?” I asked.

“Yes. Soon-maybe even this afternoon-everything will be clear.”

WITH ONLY TWENTY PAGES or so left to read, Raphaella went back to the Savonarola chapter in the prof’s manuscript. I started on a new column of books. We had opened the windows again to freshen the room as much as possible, but no breeze crossed the foggy grounds of the estate.

I was replacing a thick old volume on somebody named Dante Something when I heard Raphaella sigh behind me. I turned to see her slumped in her chair, her arms dangling, like a rag doll. I went over to her, not sure if I wanted to hear what she had discovered. I stood beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. She looked up at me, her eyes tired.

“The cross,” she said, tapping the manuscript. “It’s mentioned in here.”

I pulled a chair close to hers and sat down.

“What do you mean?”

“He talks about it.”

An insistent buzz broke into our thoughts. The tabletop vibrated.

I started. “What the-?”

Raphaella suppressed a smile. “My cell,” she said, pushing books and papers aside and picking up the PIE.

“It’s Mother,” she said, thumbing a button to activate the speakerphone. “Hello, Mother.”

Mrs. Skye’s voice was curt and hurried. “I’m reasonably certain it’s an atlas. The bone, not the book. But the transverse processes-the projections on each side-are missing. Broken or maybe worn off. Got to go. Mr. Tremblay is waiting for his arthritis prescription.”

“Thanks, Mother,” Raphaella said, but the connection had already been cut.

“Hmm,” Raphaella mused.

“I didn’t really follow what your mom was saying,” I told Raphaella.

“Hang on a second.”

She thumbed more buttons, and after a few moments she handed me the PIE.

“Take a look.”

There was a photo on the screen. “It’s like the picture you took,” I said after a quick glance. “The thing I took off the cross. But different.”

Raphaella nodded. “I went online to an encyclopedia site and looked up ‘atlas bone.’ You’re looking a picture of one.”

I paid more attention to the image. This one was lighter in colour and there was no black along the edges. And as Mrs. Skye had said, there was a bump, like an ear, on each side.

“Never heard of an atlas bone . A book of maps, yes. A god from Greek mythology, certainly. Atlas holds up the world. But a bone?”

“Scroll down a bit.”

I read the brief description below the illustration. The atlas is the topmost bone in a human spine, the one that cradles the skull. I handed the PIE to Raphaella and sat back.

“Why is this bone embedded in the base of that cross?” I wondered.

“It’s a relic.”

“We know it’s old, an artifact, but-”

“Not relic as in ‘artifact.’ A holy relic is something owned or maybe worn by a dead holy person. Or a part of the person’s body. It’s an object of veneration. People pray to it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Pray to a fingertip or a scrap of cloth?”

“Or to an atlas.”

“Wow.”

“And the place where the relic is kept is called a reliquary,” Raphaella continued.

“Which is what the cross is. But what did the prof want with it? He wasn’t religious in the formal sense. We know that.”

“It’s all in his book. And your old pal Savonarola is at the centre of it.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised.”

“Get comfortable. I need to tell you a few things.”

I settled back in my chair. “Okay, shoot.”

“IN HIS RESEARCH into the after-affects of Savonarola’s life and death,” Raphaella began, “the prof discovered the existence of a sort of underground cult that started right after the friar’s execution. A few of Savonarola’s supporters continued to meet secretly and to work toward putting his ideas into practice by influencing the government through whatever means they could. This cult kept going for over five hundred years, and still exists. From then until now, one thing bound the cult together and ensured its continuation-a relic.”

“ ‘Let there be no remains to tempt the relic hunters,’ ” I murmured.

“Pardon?”

“In my vision-dream of Savonarola’s execution three men shovelled the burned remains of the gallows and the dead Dominicans into a cart and dumped them into the river. At least, that was what was supposed to happen. But I saw one of the men sift through the ashes and pick something up before they got to work. I didn’t realize until now what I had witnessed. The hangman had specifically ordered the men, ‘Let there be no remains to tempt the relic hunters.’ His bosses in the government and the Church were afraid that Savonarola would become a martyr. That’s why they dumped the ashes in the river-no grave, nothing to dig up and worship. But they missed a piece! The atlas!”

“Of course!” Raphaella exclaimed, energized again. “Everything you’ve said jibes with what the prof wrote.”

“Finish the story,” I said, pointing to the manuscript.

“The cult continued down the years, held together by the belief that the friar was an unacknowledged martyr who had died for a Christian theocracy-Savonarola-style, of course. They continued the commitment to influence government in that direction whenever and however they could. The prof wrote that he couldn’t pinpoint when the cross was made, but it’s been dated by experts to within a hundred years of Savonarola’s death, which makes it more than four hundred years old. How he got his hands on it, he doesn’t say.”

Raphaella paused and pulled her backpack toward her, rummaged around, and came up with a bottle of apple juice. She offered it to me.

“You first,” I said.

She took a long drink and handed the bottle over. I finished it as Raphaella took up the story.

“Anyway, the prof’s book is a warning that there are always people at work, in democratic countries as well as undemocratic ones, pushing to set up a theocracy of one kind or another. He calls these people fanatics, hence the title of his book, because they only see one side of things and close their eyes to other viewpoints, and that leads to intolerance and persecution of any who disagree. A theocracy is an enemy of democracy.