Pearse stood there, staring at the small fountain at its center. All was forgiven.
The square itself was perhaps thirty yards in either direction, the buildings along the perimeter sagging under the weight of ancient stone and wood. No more than four stories high, they looked to be resting against one another, squeezing out what little support they could as they peered out into the courtyard. Two trees stood at the opposite corners, wide branches filled with leaves to blanket the square in even deeper shadow. A group of children was playing soccer in front of one of the more ancient houses, its decay helped along by the constant thumping of the ball. None of them seemed to notice as the small family neared the fountain.
Drawing to within ten feet of it, Pearse stopped again. He was hoping that, with the “Hodoporia” so close at hand, he might reclaim that same sense of wonder he had known at Photinus; instead, all he felt was a strange kind of ambivalence. Not that he was any less drawn to the promise of clarity, but somehow it seemed tied to a part of himself that sought release in isolation. And that no longer made any sense to him.
He placed Ivo on the ground, took his hand, and together they began to circle the fountain. A second memory of Photinus fixed in his mind-Gennadios scooping handful after handful of water to his soaked neck-a thought that perhaps Ribadeneyra had chosen the fountain not for its reminiscence of home but for its uncanny resemblance to the one on Athos. The only significant difference was that this one hadn’t seen water in quite some time: cracks lined the inner pool; once-green algae deposits had turned an inky black; and, at the top, where the Photinus spout had sported a monk in prayer, here the figure was a man looking back over his shoulder. Pearse noticed that, at one point, the water had streamed from the top of his head, a fitting stain now on his cheek, perhaps the last tears for a country he had been forced to leave behind.
Pearse couldn’t help but wonder if he might be looking up at old Ribadeneyra himself.
Compelling as it was, there was nothing to indicate where a Manichaean might have chosen to hide his stash in the stone. And given its contents, Pearse couldn’t imagine that the Spaniard had picked a spot anywhere near the water. He crouched down and began to examine the underside of the fountain. Ivo did the same.
“What are we looking for?” the boy asked, forced to bring his skirt up over his knees so as to avoid tripping over it.
“Not really sure,” said Pearse.
Ivo nodded and continued to scrutinize the stones.
“It might be something you’ve seen in your book,” Pearse said, busy with his own investigation.
Again, Ivo nodded, now on hands and knees, crawling in the opposite direction around the fountain.
“He’s getting filthy,” said Petra.
As one, Ivo and Pearse looked up at her, the expressions of annoyance identical.
“Wonderful,” she said as she sat on the fountain’s ledge. “Now I get it in stereo.”
Crawling to within a few feet of her, Pearse located the date of the fountain’s completion: 1521. Ribadeneyra had evidently been here for its construction, further confirmation that they were in the right place. He was just moving past her when Ivo popped his head up from the other side.
“I found it! I found it!” His reaction was enough to warrant a momentary break in the soccer match.
Pearse jumped up and moved around to him. “Great, great … but remember, we have to be quiet.”
“But I found it,” Ivo answered, no less excited.
Again, Pearse crouched down. Immediately, he understood why Ivo had called him over. Where the rest of the stones along the fountain’s base were rectangular, Ivo had found one made up of two distinct triangular pieces. More than that, each triangle had a lighter and darker side, hardly visible from a distance, but there nonetheless.
Not only had Ribadeneyra been around for its construction, he’d obviously taken part in the stonework. Pearse glanced up at the figure again. They really were a very clever bunch.
“Excellent,” he said, shooting a finger at Ivo and winking. Ivo’s eyes lit up; he returned the gesture, then gave a little giggle as he looked over at his mother.
“See, I told you Americans do that.”
“Yes, you did,” she said, then looked at Pearse in mock appreciation.
Her reaction was lost on him as he was already busy with the stone. Placing his hand on it, he tried to move it. No chance. He pulled back and stared at the surrounding area. Ivo immediately placed his hand on the stone and pressed against it. He, too, shook his head and pulled back.
“What do you think?” said Pearse, still trying to locate something else on the stone face that might hint at a way through. No acrostics, no levers.
Ivo shrugged and again pressed at the stone. “It’s pretty hard.”
“Yup,” Pearse said, his eyes wandering along the strips of mortar. “Pretty hard.” He began to feel around the surrounding stones. Not so much as a crack. Remarkable craftsmanship, he thought, except that, as he now stared at it from ground level, Pearse saw that the fountain leaned a few inches to one side. Or if not leaned, then at least sat on an uneven foundation. The closer in he looked, however, the more it struck him that the stones had just settled over time. Which meant that whatever Ribadeneyra had left for the “disciple” to discover might simply have gotten buried as sections of the fountain had sunk deeper into the ground.
Taking that as his cue, Pearse began to run his fingers along the spot where stone met dirt, the soil coming away with a bit of effort. Within a minute, he’d created a little gully, enough to use a small rock for digging. Ivo, of course, had begun to help with a rock of his own. Meanwhile, Petra was keeping an eye on the passageway into the courtyard; she was also monitoring the soccer players, each of whom was becoming more and more interested in the group by the fountain.
“You have an audience,” she said to Pearse under her breath.
He glanced over at the children, then turned back. “Hopefully, it’ll be a short show.”
A few more inches, and he began to make out tiny markings chiseled into the stone. Brushing aside the excess dirt-but with no angle to read it-he began to trace his fingers across the symbols. It took him nearly a minute to figure out what they were. Letters. Four of them. Greek-???? “earth.”
Not terribly helpful, but at least it was a start. Another few inches, and a second word. This one, three letters. His old friend??? “light.”
Pearse realized that Ribadeneyra had returned to the original “Perfect Light” scroll for his final message. Once again, everything was flipped on its head. Earth above light, the mundane over the sacred. And, as with everything having to do with the Manichaeans, he was meant to take it literally. The earth was covering the light.
He continued to dig.
By now, the soccer quartet had moved closer, still keeping their distance, though with the ball wedged under an arm, the sure sign that their interests had shifted. The biggest of them, a girl of maybe twelve, tried to peer past Pearse to see what he was doing. “Did you lose something?” she asked.
Pearse looked over his shoulder, then at Petra. Before he could come up with an answer, she said, “My husband’s a stonemason. He wants to see what kind of stones were used on the fountain.”
The girl nodded and continued to stare. After another few minutes, she asked, “Is there something special about our fountain?”
“It’s very old,” said Pearse, repositioning himself so as to dig wider and deeper. “Strong stone.”
Again the girl nodded. It seemed enough to satisfy her curiosity. The children returned to the wall, the digging once again accompanied by the thump-thumping of the ball.
“Did you hear that, Ivo?” Pearse said, pulling up another handful of loosened soil. “I’m Rade the Mason of the great Turkish Empire.”
Ivo giggled, more eager to get his hands as mud-filled as possible than to remove the dirt. “‘So went the wood and the hay and stables,’” he sang, “‘the inn tumbled down by the Grand Mehmed Pasha.’”
“‘Say good-bye to the wood and the hay and the stables,’” Pearse answered, “‘when the inn tumbles down-’”
“Noooo.” Ivo laughed. “You got it wrong.” And then in a tone he could have borrowed only from his mother, he said dismissively, “You Americans.”
Pearse stopped digging. He began to laugh as he looked up at Petra. “I wonder where he heard that?”
She couldn’t help but smile. “I wonder.” She reached over and planted a kiss on Ivo’s head, a quick muddy paw up to discourage her.
“Mommy, we’re digging. You can’t interrupt our job. Me and Ian. It’s very important.”
