Tadeo replied, “We think you have lost more than your clothes, Senor Christopher.”
“Yes,” agreed Kit, running a hand through his beard. “You might be right about that.”
This small convocation outside the church did not go unnoticed for long. A portly man in a brown suit and white shirt appeared from the large pillared building and hurried across the square to join them. “What is this?” he demanded in Spanish. Father Tadeo explained briefly, and the man turned and commanded one of the hunters, “Go and bring Diego. Tell him we have a problem.”
The hunter hurried off, and Father Tadeo said to Kit, “This is Senor Benito. He is Alcalde — the mayor of this town.”
“Tell him I am pleased to meet him,” replied Kit. His tongue seemed to be working better now as it loosened with use.
The man in the brown suit gave a curt, officious nod and spoke again, watching Kit narrowly. Father Tadeo translated for Kit. “Alcalde Benito wishes to know if you are loco — crazy?”
“Please tell him that, so far as I know, I am in my right mind.”
The priest and mayor conferred over this. The mayor shook his head and frowned. He crossed his arms over his paunch of a stomach and watched Kit. A moment later the hunter returned with a policeman in a blue uniform with Guardia on a shoulder patch. He wore a white bandolier to which was attached a holster with a large revolver. He greeted the mayor and priest, and the three briefly conferred in Spanish as Kit sat looking on.
“Ramon and Ricardo have found this man at the river below the cave,” said Father Tadeo.
“It is true,” said Ramon. “We were hunting rabbits, and I found him.”
“We think he is crazy,” added the mayor.
“Has he been making trouble?” asked the policeman.
“No trouble yet,” said Ramon. “But,” he added, “he speaks only English.”
The policeman nodded, then directed a question at Kit, which Father Tadeo translated. “Senor Diego wishes to know why you are living in the cave.”
“Ah,” replied Kit, trying to maintain his placid demeanour despite the stakes, which seemed to be rising by the minute. “Please tell Senor Diego that I was not living in the cave. I was exploring it.” He shrugged and raised his palms. “I lost my way.”
This explanation was duly repeated and was discussed by the five townsmen gathered around the three- wheeler where Kit sat like a dishevelled dignitary conducting an al fresco audience.
“Do you have papers?” asked the priest at one point, to which Kit shook his head.
The men conferred again, with much gesturing and head scratching. “What shall we do with him?” asked Father Tadeo.
“He has broken no laws that I know of,” suggested Diego. “I do not think I can arrest him for getting lost in a cave.”
“Arrest him? I don’t want him arrested,” said the mayor. “I want him gone. Look at him. He is a barbarian.”
“He is an Englishman,” said Ricardo.
“He was exploring and got lost,” added Ramon. To the priest, he said, “You should give him a bath and a meal.”
“Me! I should do this? Madre de Dios! This is none of my affair.” Father Tadeo put up his hands. “It is none of my concern what you do with him.”
“But you are the priest of this town,” asserted Mayor Benito.
“What has that got to do with it?” countered Father Tadeo.
“The duties of hospitality fall to you,” said the mayor.
“No such thing,” replied Tadeo. “You are mayor-hospitality is yours to provide.”
“We must do something,” insisted Ramon. “He cannot live in my truck. I have to go home and feed the cattle.”
“He has no papers,” said the mayor.
“Does he need papers?” wondered the policeman.
“All respectable people have papers,” suggested the mayor. “Another reason he cannot stay here.”
“Where can he go?” asked Ricardo. “He is lost.”
“I know!” said Father Tadeo. “Take him to the abbey. They are always having so many visitors-pilgrims from everywhere. They will know what to do with him.”
“He is not a pilgrim,” said Ramon. “He is an explorer.”
“No matter-it is the same thing,” replied the mayor, making an executive decision. “Padre, you will take him to the abbey, and they will deal with him.”
“Me?” Father Tadeo put up his hands. “I have no automobile, as you know. I cannot possibly take him. I have my homily to compose.”
All eyes turned to the policeman. “Diego, my friend,” said the mayor, putting his hand to the policeman’s shoulder, “this is official business. You must take him in your vehicle.” He glanced at Kit, then added, “Use the siren.”
So it was that Kit was transferred from the back of the three-wheeled truck to the official police cruiser-a dented blue-and-white tin can that spewed acrid smoke as it rattled along. The policeman kept a wary eye on his unusual passenger. For his part, Kit smiled a lot and tried not to make himself appear any more of a problem than he was already.
They passed through another village and another before the highway turned and headed up into the mountains. The road snaked higher and higher, following a series of rising switchbacks into the sharp-angled peaks. The police car chugged ever more slowly, straining at the steep incline, eventually rolling to a halt before a high iron gate overarched by a sign in wrought-iron letters painted white that read Abadia de Montserrat.
CHAPTER 19
With the warmth of a dazzling Damascus sun on her back, Cassandra stood outside a shiny black-lacquered door bearing a small brass plate engraved with the words Zetetic Society in a fine, flowing script. The doorknob was also brass, and both were polished bright. The close little street was quiet and shaded by high whitewashed walls and the grey stone flanks of Beit Hanania, the house of the man known to the western world as Saint Ananias-who first healed and then befriended the murderous zealot Saul of Tarsus and helped ease him into his role as the apostle Paul. A sign on the wall outside the shrine had informed her in three languages, as if she had not already guessed, that she was in the city’s ancient Christian quarter.
The doorway before her, like many Damascene portals, was constructed in the distinctive black-and-white- banded stonework. A small and extremely dusty window, enclosed by thick iron bars, opened onto what appeared to be a pokey little bookshop.
Cass saw unkempt shelves and a table stacked high with books and pamphlets, and her heart sank. A bookshop? Was that all there was to it- some kind of weird cult pushing their odious literature and trying to convert unsuspecting suckers to their occult beliefs? Disappointment turned down the corners of her mouth. How dare they, she thought- pasting up signs promising help as a way to lure in gullible travellers; they ought to be ashamed of themselves. These and other thoughts were riffling through her mind as, thoroughly disgusted-with them for lying, and with herself for letting her hopes get so high on the basis of such flimsy evidence as a handwritten poster-she turned to go.
No doubt all this bouncing around between worlds or dimensions or whatever-finding herself in new places every other minute-had momentarily thrown off her judgement. That could not be allowed to continue. She had to apply the rigour of her scientific mind to the situation at hand, and she would begin this very moment.
With a last disdainful glance at the shop, she stepped away and started down the street when there was a click behind her, and the glossy black door opened. A stout older woman with straight white hair cut in a short bob stuck out her head. “Oh!” she said, “I have company. I thought I heard someone on the step.” Dressed in a
