The Doomsday Key (Sigma Force 6)

The church was empty, but she found herself unable to move any deeper into the nave. Suddenly tired, Seichan slipped into the closest pew and sat down. She stared over at the cross. She was not religious, but she recognized the pain in the crucified image of Christ.

She knew that agony.

Her breathing grew heavier as she stared. Her vision suddenly blurred. The tears came suddenly, welling up from somewhere deep inside. She covered her face as if trying to stop them, hide them, deny them.

For a long moment, she remained bent in the pew, unable to move. A pressure built inside her chest. It grew to an excruciating point, something large trying to squeeze out a small hole. She waited for it to pass, prayed for it to end—and eventually it did, leaving her both hollow and strangely disappointed. A shudder shot through her body, just once. She then took a long trembling breath, wiped her eyes, and stood up.

She turned her back on the cross and headed out of the nave and out of the church. The cold wind struck her and slammed the door behind her. It reminded her of an important lesson.

People should keep their doors locked.

Gray tried not to scoff. “You’re saying Merlin is buried on Bardsey Island?”

Father Rye smiled and sipped his tea. “Of course, we all like to tell that story around these parts. It’s said he’s buried in a glass tomb on the island. It’s surely fanciful, but it makes for a fine story, don’t you think?” He winked at Rachel. “Though many do believe, including a few historians, that the Arthurian legends of Avalon arise from Bardsey.”

Kowalski spoke around a mouthful of scone. “What’s Avalon?”

Gray nudged him under the table. They didn’t need the old priest rambling off the subject. They had to find out more about Father Giovanni.

But he was too late.

“Ah, according to Celtic legend,” Father Rye explained, “Avalon was an earthly paradise. It was where King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur, was forged. Where the enchantress Morgan Le Fay ruled. It was an island of rare apple trees, granting the place its name, from the Welsh word afal. Avalon was considered a place of great healing and longevity. And at the end of the Arthurian cycle, it was where King Arthur was taken to be healed by Morgan Le Fay after the Battle of Camlann. And of course, like I said, it was where the magician Merlin was buried.”

Wallace’s face grew more sour with the telling. “Bollocks,” he finally burst out. “Everyone thinks Avalon or Camelot is in their own backyard.”

Father Rye took no offense at the professor’s outburst. “As I said, it’s only legend. But like Avalon, Bardsey Island has long been considered a place of great healing. Even a travel book from 1188 attests to this claim. The writer described the people of Bardsey as being uncommonly free of disease and ‘scarcely any die except of extreme old age.’ And then, of course, we must not forget our magical apples.”

“Apples?” Kowalski asked.

“Maybe we should move past myths,” Gray commented, trying to redirect the conversation back to Father Giovanni.

“They’re not myths.” Father Rye stood up, crossed to a bowl on a counter, snatched up an apple, and tossed it toward Gray. “Does that feel like a myth to you, young man? Maggie’s son picked that from a tree growing on the island just last week.”

Gray frowned down at the fist-sized fruit.

“There is no other apple like it on earth,” Father Rye said proudly. “A few years back, some apples from that tree were taken to the National Fruit Collection in Kent. They tested the Bardsey apple and determined two things. First, that the tree was a new variety never seen before. And second, that the apple was unusually free of any rot or disease. They tested the gnarled old tree itself and found it to be in the same health. Arborists believe the tree may be the lone surviving specimen from an orchard that the monks of Saint Mary’s once planted on the island a thousand years ago.”

Gray stared at the small apple in his hand, sensing the passage of time and history it represented. No matter what one might believe, there did seem to be a long, strange history of healing tied to this island: first the Fomorian queen, then the Celtic legends of Avalon, and now in his hand, something that had been scientifically proved to be unusually healthy.

He looked out the window at the hump of green land.

What was so special about that island?

Apparently Father Rye wasn’t done with his history lesson.

“Moving forward through time, all things must come to an end,” he said. “And the Celts were no exception. The Romans eventually vanquished them, but only after years of fierce fighting. During this time, the Romans claimed that the Druids cast curses upon their troops, just as the Fomorians had done to the Celts long ago. And after the Druids were gone, the Church came here and settled these pagan lands. They set up an abbey on the island in the thirteenth century. The ruins of its tower can still be found there.”

Wallace drew their conversation full around. “But what about the twenty thousand saints you mentioned at the beginning?”

Father Rye sipped his tea, nodding at the same time, but somehow never spilling a drop. “Bardsey is known as the Isle of Twenty Thousand Saints. A name marking the number of persecuted Christians buried there.”

“So many?” Wallaced pressed. “Surely there’s no archaeological evidence for such a mass burial?”

“You are right. I imagine the legend is more allegorical than literal. Though local folklore does whisper of a great death that fell on Bardsey, a withering sickness that slew most of the villagers and monks. Their bodies were burned to ashes and cast out to sea.”

Gray recognized the pattern of that story. Just like the highland village. All evidence burned and swept away, leaving only rumor and a cryptic entry in the Domesday Book.

“Either way, the island has been considered holy ground since the Church first came here. Bardsey grew to become a place of pilgrimage, from ancient times to today. The Vatican declared that three trips to Bardsey were equivalent to one trip to Rome. Not a bad deal, if you ask me. And many others thought the same.”

Father Rye pointed in the direction of his church. “The oldest part of Saint Hywyn’s dates back to 1137. Through its doors, thousands and thousands of pilgrims have flowed on their way to Bardsey. Including most of the Irish and English saints of that time.”

As if summoned by the priest’s words, the rectory door burst open and a tall boy pounded into the room with all the verve that only a thirteen-year-old could muster. The boy quickly pulled off his cap to reveal hair so red it looked ready to set fire to the room.