The Quest: A Novel by Nelson DeMille Read Free Book Online Page B

corner. In the dawning light, his features began to materialize, and he was no longer the shadow of a voice. They stared at him as their eyes became accustomed to the gray light. The priest looked like death, but his eyes were much brighter than they should have been, and his face—what they could see through the dirt and the beard—was rosy. But the rosiness, Purcell knew, was the fever, and the brightness of the eyes was also the fever, and perhaps a little madness too.
    Mercado wiped the priest’s forehead. “Father. We will be moving shortly.”
    The priest nodded, then said, “But I must first finish.”
    Purcell looked at him. He had become real all of a sudden. The voice had a body. Purcell became melancholy and felt a great sadness, not only for the priest but also for himself. He saw himself as he was in the prison camp. The priest’s bearded face brought it back, and he felt uncomfortable with that face. It was the face of all suffering. Indochina had settled into his brain again and he could not cope with it so early in the morning.
    The priest breathed softly and continued. “So, we came upon it. In a deep jungle valley. In a million years you would not find it, but this sergeant was a good soldier, and having found it once by accident, he remembered how to find it again. A rock. A tree. A stream. You see? So we approached the black place. The jungle came up to the walls of the place, and hid it from view, but a tree had fallen and exposed some of the wall. We walked in a circle through the jungle and around the wall, which was of black stone, with a shine like glass, and it was constructed in the old style of the monasteries and had no gate or door.”
    Father Armano asked for more water on his face, and Vivian washed him with a wet handkerchief. Purcell was briefly touched by her compassion; he could see why old Henry had taken a liking to her.
    Father Armano said, “We came around to the place from which we started. There was now a basket there on a rope, as in the old style of the monasteries of the Dark Ages. The basket was not there before, so we took this as a sign of hospitality. We called up to the walls, but no one answered. The basket was large and so we climbed into it… all of us. It was made of reeds, but it was strong. And we all fit—eleven—and the basket began to rise.”
    He stopped, took a long, deep breath, then went on. “The men were somewhat uneasy, but we could see crosses cut into the black stone so we knew it was a Christian place and we were not so much afraid, though I remembered the words of the cardinal about the monks. The basket came to rest at the top of the wall. There was no one there. The basket had been raised with a device of stones and gears and it was not necessary to stand by it once it was started. You understand? So we were alone on top of the wall… We climbed out of the basket, over the parapet, and stepped onto a walk.”
    The priest’s face contorted and he grabbed his stomach with both hands.
    Vivian knelt beside him and said in Italian, “You must lie down and rest.”
    Mercado said, “He’s actually better off sitting up. That’s why he sat up in the first place.”
    Vivian said, “We need to get him to the hospital. Now.”
    Purcell suggested, “Ask
him
what he wants to do.”
    Mercado asked Father Armano, and the priest replied, “I need to finish this… I am… near the end…”
    Mercado nodded.
    Father Armano took a deep breath and spit blood into his beard. He stayed silent for a time, then began. “Within the walls of the monastery lay beautiful buildings of the black stone and green gardens and blue ponds and fountains. The men were very happy at the sight and asked me many questions, which I could not answer. But I told the sergeant, Giovanni, about the monks and he ordered his men to keep their rifles at the ready. We called down into the monastery, but only the echoes of our own voices answered us. Now everyone was troubled again.