—POPE LEO XIII (1881)
—ABBE GEORGES DE NANTES (1982),
on the occasion of Pope John Paul II’s first pilgrimage to Fatima
—POPE JOHN PAUL II (1998)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, lots of thanks. First, Pam Ahearn, my agent, for her ever wise counsel. Next, to all the folks at Random House: Gina Centrello, a terrific publisher who went an extra mile for this one; Mark Tavani, whose editorial advice transformed my rough manuscript into a book; Cindy Murray, who patiently endures my idiosyncracies and handles publicity; Kim Hovey, who markets with expert precision; Beck Stvan, the artist responsible for the gorgeous cover image; Laura Jorstad, an eagle-eyed copyeditor who keeps us all straight; Carole Lowenstein, who once again made the pages shine; and finally to those in Promotions and Sales—nothing could be achieved without their superior efforts. Also, I cannot forget Fran Downing, Nancy Pridgen, and Daiva Woodworth. This was the last manuscript we did together as a writers group, and I truly miss those times.
As always my wife, Amy, and daughter, Elizabeth, were there every step of the way providing needed doses of loving encouragement.
This book is dedicated to my aunt, a wonderful woman who did not live to see this day. I know she would have been proud. But she’s watching and, I’m sure, smiling.
PROLOGUE
FATIMA, PORTUGAL
JULY 13, 1917
Lucia stared toward heaven and watched the Lady descend. The apparition came from the east, as it had twice before, emerging as a sparkling dot from deep within the cloudy sky. Her glide never wavered as She quickly approached, Her form brightening as it settled above the holm oak, eight feet off the ground.
The Lady stood upright, Her crystallized image clothed in a glow that seemed more brilliant than the sun. Lucia lowered her eyes in response to the dazzling beauty.
A crowd surrounded Lucia, unlike the first time the Lady appeared, two months before. Then it had been only Lucia, Jacinta, and Francisco in the fields, tending the family sheep. Her cousins were seven and nine. She was the oldest, and felt it, at ten. On her right, Francisco knelt in his long trousers and stocking cap. To her left Jacinta was on her knees in a black skirt, a kerchief over her dark hair.
Lucia looked up and noticed the crowd again. The people had started amassing yesterday, many coming from neighboring villages, some accompanied by crippled children they hoped the Lady would cure. The prior of Fatima had proclaimed the apparition a fraud and urged all to stay away.
A woman in the throng was shouting, calling Lucia and her cousins impostors, swearing God would avenge their sacrilege. Manuel Marto, Lucia’s uncle, Jacinta and Francisco’s father, stood behind them and Lucia heard him admonish the woman to be silent. He commanded respect in the valley as a man who’d seen more of the world than the surrounding Serra da Aire. Lucia derived comfort from his keen brown eyes and quiet manner. It was good he was nearby, there among the strangers.
She tried not to concentrate on any of the words being screamed her way, and blocked from her mind the scent of mint, the aroma of pine, and the pungent fragrance of wild rosemary. Her thoughts, and now her eyes, were on the Lady floating before her.
Only she, Jacinta, and Francisco could see the Lady, but only she and Jacinta could hear the words. Lucia thought that strange—why Francisco should be denied—but, during Her first visit, the Lady had made it clear that Francisco would go to heaven only after saying many rosaries.
A breeze drifted across the checkered landscape of the great hollow basin known as Cova da Iria. The land belonged to Lucia’s parents and was littered with olive trees and patches of evergreens. The grass grew tall and made excellent hay, and the soil yielded potatoes, cabbage, and corn.
Rows of simple stone walls delineated the fields. Most had crumbled, for which Lucia was grateful, as it allowed the sheep to graze at will. Her task was to tend the family flock. Jacinta and Francisco were likewise charged by their parents, and they’d spent many days over the past few years in the fields, sometimes playing, sometimes praying, sometimes listening to Francisco work his fife.
But all that had changed two months ago, when the apparition first appeared.
Ever since, they’d been pounded with unceasing questions and scoffed at by nonbelievers. Lucia’s mother had even taken her to the parish priest, commanding her to say it was all a lie. The priest had listened to what she’d said and stated it was not possible that Our Lady had descended from heaven simply to say that the rosary should be recited every day. Lucia’s only solace came when she was alone, able then to weep freely for both herself and the world.
The sky dimmed, and umbrellas used by the crowd for shade started to close. Lucia stood and yelled, “Take
