St James' Rooster: Prologue The First

Click image to enlarge 

As promised, here is the first part of my new novel St James' Rooster the second of The Camino Chronicles. I shall be serialising this over the next couple of weeks or so so if you like it you might want to order a copy from Amazon or the publishers. If you don't, well at least I have saved you some money.

But you will like it ...trust me, I'm a hypnotist...

ST. JAMES’ ROOSTER    A Novel of the Camino

Prologue: The First

“From this moment you will hear nothing outside of yourself except the sound of my voice.”

I hear him and yet not. There is no more present, only the glow of the past which draws me like a lover’s smile. I am drowning in it, pleasantly. It pulls me down, deeper, and deeper down. .I am at peace as he says. I am at home. I have returned…I am both myself, and not myself

…six…five…four……

“What are you wearing?”

“I’m not sure. It’s soft: cotton perhaps. Linen? No, soft wool. My feet? They’re bare.

I am with my people. The lights flicker and toss, caught up with human movement: they are pressing on me in the dance of shadows and fire; it’s all around me. Yes, my feet are bare on packed earth. I feel raised up to the sky: no. Not the sky. I don’t know… there seem to be arms above me…

“Arms? Human arms?”

“No, no. Although they are there too. Trees! They’re the branches of trees. They’re so close above and yet no, not so close beside me. There are others around me…they are chanting, wait, no, they’re singing. Oh, what a song! What singers! What voices from heaven could sing so sweetly and yet so sadly? The angels must be weeping in envy. Wait a minute. Wait… I know this…I know this!

Wait, wait…yes. Yes! Of course… “I am your door, Lord. Open me and let me come home. ”

Of course I know this! It is the song of Priscillian.

Dear Lord of our longing
Let me remove and let me be removed
Let me save and let me be saved
I want to sing; sing with me
I want to cry; cry with me
Adorn me, I crave you
I am a lamp for you,
You who have eyes to see me
I am a door for you, who brings his spirit home…

We are few now, his followers, where once we were thousands. These singers and dancers around my outstretched arms, they are my brothers, my sisters. The lovers of Priscillian who lies buried in our midst. And I feel the supporting souls of those long gone, their bodies arranged around this hill, this copse, this house of the granite of dear Galicia, this tomb of marble from Alexandria, hidden from unfriendly and uncomprehending eyes.

The ceremony is over now. I cradle the Sacred Book in its leather wrappings. I place it back in its box in the stone from whence I have taken it, this time, and before, following in the ritual of those who have done so since the day our Master was brought to this place by Galla, his daughter and his faithful followers who lie sleeping beside him here too. The night of loving prayer is drawing to a close, the torches extinguished; the songs too are packed away in secret. We would not dare to sing them openly now.

Wait…. What is this disturbance? I know this girl, the daughter of Hilderic. They are bringing her to me. Their faces are drawn with anxiety. They are gesturing outside the wood with frantic hands and eyes. She is speaking too fast.

“She has passed the hut of Pelayo the shepherd, close by to here, not moments ago.”

“Pelayo? The hermit? He will not harm us; he is too afraid of the ghosts. He keeps away.”

“Not Pelayo!” 

The girl is speaking, her breath almost spent for running. “The riders! Bishop’s or King’s men. I know not which. Two of them perhaps three. He brings them. They are coming! Quickly! You must all fly! There is no time to waste. Our secret is a secret no longer...”

“Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
One.
Come to!”

St James' Rooster: Prologue The Second...

“I am alone. Cloth. I feel shrouded in it. It covers me from head to foot. No, not coarse, but not soft either. It’s a simple robe of sorts, made of common homespun, but clean. How could I know that? I don’t know. No, not a coffin. I’m on my knees. Wait a minute: coffin? Casket? It is cold to the touch. Yes. No…it is a tomb of some sort, there are walls around me and, I don’t know; walls again, beyond. I am enclosed in some sort of building, a church perhaps? It is not a peasant’s habit. Habit? Yes, that is exactly what it is. It is a monks’ habit, and I am a monk. My feet are encased in felt and leather strips. The air though the wool is cold, my knees are stiff, painful. But I will not move.

I will not move from here. They say he is fearful and terrible. They say he towers to the sky. They say his very breath will petrify, or scorch, like the dragons of old. I cannot say I do not fear him, for I fear for my life as would any mortal man. But I will stay by my Master. It is my sacred duty, not the duty the brothers believe I carry. This is different. A secret known only to me, passed on through the ages from one chosen to another. Now there are very few who even know of its existence.

The walls of the church around this mausoleum are etched in flame, it arches up; it grasps the sky pulling it down so hard that I do not remember if it is day on night. It has no doubt reduced the small settlement of Compostela to nothing. The townspeople and even my own monks expected nothing less from “Almanzor”: Al Mansur, the Conqueror of Córdoba. We knew he would come. We knew he was coming. Those who had possessions to save fled days ago when we first received the news. Those who had none stayed long enough to loot what was left, even chickens, tattered garments from the hedgerow left behind in the flashfire of terror of the Moor and his army. I doubt my monks were any less innocent than the others. They were after all, not the last ones to leave. What was left of their faith? It is not for me to judge them. This fear is that of the devil in whom, in my own way, I do believe.

Now there are two of us left. One is alive so far, though not likely to be for much longer. The other has been dead for six hundred years.

There is flame overhead. The rest of the roof has caught. Within the marble of this sanctuary I am safe, but not from the smoke: that surely will overcome me soon.

He comes. He is riding his horse through the door of the church heedless of the inferno above and around. He stops at the head of the chancel; he moves aside to allow his massive warhorse to drink from the holy water of the baptismal font. O sacrilege! But it matters not for it was blessed in the name of the Apostle James, and his spirit is not here. It is many leagues away in Jerusalem where they took his life so very long ago. He has never been here no matter what has been said in the name of victory and power.

Almanzor comes. It is too late. I am lost. I have one hope only…

Dear Lord of the Truth, please, save me and the earthly remains of your servant, Priscillian.

“Begone!” I say, feinting a courage I do not feel. “These are not the bones of whom you seek.”

“What nonsense is this?” 

He is not as tall as a mountain. But even though he is on horseback I can see he is taller than I by a head or more. His eyes are not those of a man crazed by bloodlust; they are calculating, cold; they are of a man who knows that he has achieved what he set out to do. Almost. Only I stand in his way. And stand I do, rising stiffly from my vigil in front of the sarcophagus, breaking my staggering only with one hand on the pale pink marble. I face him, simply Pedro, Bishop of the Shrine of Santiago de Compostela:

“If thou wilt be observant and vigilant, thou wilt see at every moment

the response to thy action. Be observant if thou wouldst have a pure

heart, for something is born to thee in consequence of every action.”

He stops. He is transfixed. From his towering place atop his horse he says:

“You know the songs of the Blackbird?”

“Abdul Hassan Ali Ibn Naf: Al Ziryab. Of course. My master Priscillian called upon us to read the sacred scriptures of all worlds. Naturally I would teach myself of the great poets of Islam also. Did not the teachings of my master come from the East, and perhaps from the same place as your own ancestors? Certainly, his great words and ideas were not so dissimilar to your own. Nor are they.”

“Who is this master of yours?” 

Almanzor had manoeuvred himself and his horse between where I stood shakily and the sarcophagus. “I will meet him. Bring him to me before this day is over.”

“Ah that I could, great one,” I said. “But your horse is currently leaning upon his body.”

Five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

No! No…wait! There is more. I must stay… NO!

One

COME TO!

St James´Rooster: Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Felix and Laura

Anyone who thought that Laura was quiet and submissive had never taken a good look at her chin. So thought Felix as he watched his bride of six weeks move her way around the apartment, and stand, as she did now, in front of the window with its view of the old city and a glimpse of the cathedral. The old town of Santiago lay beneath and around and for once, it wasn’t raining.

“Do say yes,” she said.

It wasn’t the first they had seen that day. In Felix’s opinion, not the best either. To his mind it was poorly furnished, dark, pokey, and expensive. But it was slap in the middle of the historic centre, and he knew better than argue too much.

“What about the one close to the new university? It was almost half the price and twice the size.”

Laura’s response told him he might as well forget it.

“Yes, but it lacked atmosphere!”

She had him there. This one had “atmósfera” in plenty despite its dark precincts, and ridiculous price tag. Santiago with its pilgrims passing daily, with its strange accents and ancient, poignant charm lay under the window she was leaning out of.

Felix knew he was beaten. Her smile told him that.

And that smile . . . that angelic, quiet determination, that often hidden intelligence had seduced him in its many quiet ways less than a year ago.

On “The Camino de Santiago”. Felix was so taken aback by its unexpected depth and charm that he had proposed almost as soon as they reached Santiago. He had walked 750 kilometres, well almost—there were a few still excused bus rides to be accounted for. She had walked less than 200 but none of that mattered. Once he had thought that love would pass him by forever, especially after Jessie his fiancée had been killed in a car accident. But now he knew it was time to live again, and Laura had taught him how. By being Laura. By being ultimately lovable.

“OK,” he said.

The real estate agent knew his stuff. He had taken them to this place earlier in the day. Even criticised it in some ways: small, expensive, no parking, but just look at that view!

Felix still thought of himself as a bit of a freeloader. After all, they were there because Laura was pursuing her doctorate at the University of Santiago in Medieval History and Felix, though a psychology grad, had only teaching English to offer. But Laura had somehow (was it those long lashes, those big brown eyes?) secured a very desirable scholarship, and, well, after six weeks of marriage, here they were. Back once more in Santiago de Compostela in the wettest part of Spain.

It wasn’t raining today which was a rare condition in itself. As they left the centuries-old building on the Rua do Vilar, the agent said: “Well?”

“When can we move in?” Felix said, accepting defeat with good grace and receiving his wife’s radiant grin as a reward.

“As soon as you wish,” the agent said. “As I told you, the owners live overseas, and it has been, well, somewhat unoccupied for quite a while.

If you want to come over to my office this afternoon, I will draw up the lease. You will be able to give me a month’s deposit today, yes? We keep that until the time you move out as a security against anything being . . .

um . . . missing?”

As if anyone would want it, thought Felix, but he said nothing.

Laura brushed her long brown hair out of her eyes. She was animated.

Ready for action.

“Right, I’ll go back to the Hostal Alameda and tell Antonio that we will be leaving this weekend. Will that be alright?” It was the agent she spoke to, not Felix.

“Perfect,” he said, “and if there is anything else I can do for you . . . .”

Felix was thinking towels, bedding, pots, pans, plates, but decided to leave that for Laura.

* * *

In fact, Felix wouldn’t have cared where they lived just so long as they were together. He was standing outside the real estate agent’s office. It was just five o’clock and a sudden downpour had just swept through and passed on, as rain always seemed to do in Santiago. Felix liked rain. 

He especially liked the smell of the streets after a storm and he was inhaling deeply and thinking deep delighted thoughts. When Laura appeared with their cases—few enough: the Camino had taught them to travel light—he couldn’t quite suppress a smile of complete besottedness just at the sight of her.

“What?” Laura said, seeing his face.

“Nothing,” said Felix knowing that his giddiness in love gave him away.

The paperwork was easy, the fees were handed over, and Felix suddenly found a key in his hand, a big key, an old-fashioned key. He expressed his concerns.

“Oh don’t worry about that. We are an old city. We have old values. Crime is minimal. You two will be safe inside your four walls.

Had he said “lovenest” Felix wouldn’t have been surprised. Romanticism was imbedded in the fabric of Compostela.

.

The simply beautiful and atmospheric painting is by Paco Quirri. I looked for a web address to ask for permission to use it but couldn´t find any reference, so Paco, I hope you don´t have any objection...

St James´ Rooster Chapter One continues...

In fact, Felix wouldn’t have cared where they lived just so long as they were together. He was standing outside the real estate agent’s office. It was just five o’clock and a sudden downpour had just swept through and passed on, as rain always seemed to do in Santiago. 

Felix liked rain. He especially liked the smell of the streets after a storm and he was inhaling deeply and thinking deep delighted thoughts. When Laura appeared with their cases—few enough: the Camino had taught them to travel light—he couldn’t quite suppress a smile of complete besottedness just at the sight of her.

“What?” Laura said, seeing his face.

“Nothing,” said Felix knowing that his giddiness in love gave him away.The paperwork was easy, the fees were handed over, and Felix suddenly found a key in his hand, a big key, an old-fashioned key. He expressed his concerns.

“Oh don’t worry about that. We are an old city. We have old values. Crime is minimal. You two will be safe inside your four walls.

Had he said “lovenest” Felix wouldn’t have been surprised. Romanticism was imbedded in the fabric of Compostela.

* * *

“So you don’t actually have a CELTA certificate?”

The woman on the other side of the desk loaded with CV’s was looking like she had no intention of offering Felix the teaching job.

“No, as I told you, I have a Degree in Teaching English as a Second Language. It sort of trumps a CELTA.”

“Trumps” was not a word in the señora’s vocabulary. That much was evident. “We are looking for someone with either a CELTA or a DELTA certificate.”

Felix was at a loss to explain that a CELTA certificate took six weeks whereas his own degree was a full year’s enterprise. It was the second time that day. The third time that week. He thought, not for the first time, about private teaching.

“We’ll be . . . in touch,” she ended.

Outside at the restaurant next door, Felix looked into his café sombra.

“Shit!” he said.

Once he had been under qualified. Now he was “Over Qualified”. If I had known when I was qualified I would have quit school, he thought.

* * *

Laura, however had good news.

“Guess what!” she said as he threw his portfolio and rain jacket on the rickety (and unsitable on) chair by the door.

He put his arms around her. He felt her littleness against himself. She was of average height but to his six foot two always seemed small when her head met his chest. 

“Tell me,” he said. 

“Well, and this won’t mean much to you . . .”

Try me . . .

“Peter Callaghan is going to be one of my thesis advisors!”

Um, yes . . . ?

“Felix! He’s a genius. A medieval scholar from Trinity College . . . that’s Dublin!”

Yes, I’ve heard of Trinity College.

“He’s here on Sabbatical, and when he heard I was writing about feudal Galicia he offered to tutor me. Isn’t that great? What’s wrong?”

Felix wondered when exactly after he met Laura his poker face had vanished.

“Of course it is. That’s fantastic,” he said. “The job interview: Don’t mind me. Another ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you.’”

Laura smothered his response with kisses. “Don’t worry. They just don’t appreciate your greatness,” she said.

Yep, Felix the Great, he thought with some regret for the past. But not much.

“We have to celebrate! Come on, the best meal Casa Manolo has to offer is on me.” He said and for a moment he reminded himself that nothing could go wrong with this incredible life he had found, or his relationship with this incredible woman he had married.

* * *

“Do you love me?” Laura asked, after they had finished lovemaking in the narrow bed that night.

If I could ever love anything or anyone again, I love you, he thought.

“Don’t be daft,” he said.

* * *

Dear Mr. Stephenson: (The letter said . . .)

We are pleased to be able to offer you the position of English teacher. Your classes will be predominantly First Certificate and Proficiency although we are hoping you will be able to fill in one period weekly for the children’s English teacher who is on Maternity Leave until September.

Yours Sincerely,

CollegeEnglish.es

“Laura! I’m in!”

* * *

Felix didn’t look forward to the dinner party. It wasn’t that he was shy (far from it). It wasn’t even that he doubted his abilities in Spanish (he did). It was more the fact that all six invited were Laura’s fellow graduate students and professors from the university and here he felt a bit at a loss. A lot at a loss.

“What am I going to talk to them about?” he said.

“Oh Felix,” said Laura as she planted a kiss on his ginger beard (did she see the grey hairs appearing?) “No-one expects you to talk “medieval”. What would Miranda say? ‘Be Yourself!”

Miranda and Kieran had walked with them last year along the Camino.

When they started he had known Kieran for many years and he had seen their love grow (almost eclipsed by his own) in the last 100 or so kilometres. Now Miranda was about to give birth at any time and despite the remission of Kieran’s leukaemia, he knew that they must sometimes think of their time together as somewhat borrowed. He reminded himself of that now.

“You’re right. That old Felix charm. I’m sure it’s in there somewhere.” 

But the look on her face told him that both were really wondering at this point.

“Well, whatever,” Laura said vaguely. “Good food to be had though!”

That at least increased Felix’s spirits considerably.