Ernest Dempsey
The Cleric's Vault
For my sweet Megan.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to the librarians at Dalton High School for all your support and friendship through the years. A special thank you goes out to my editors: Madonna Fajardo Kemp, Susie McClarty, and Billie Moehn. I’m also extremely grateful for my awesome design consultant, Lori Wilson, for helping create the cover of the book.
Epigraph
And the LORD God said, "The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever."
Prologue
“Padre, donde esta la chiave?”
The young priest rushed his words in Spanish, standing over a bed of plain white linens. An awkward look of desperation covered his face. He’d been trying to comfort the older man, who lay there dying, with words from standard prayers and parts of scripture. His efforts though, were clearly halfhearted, a way of going through the motions.
The question about the location of the key betrayed why he was really there.
A pale half-moon seeped through the few clouds that dotted the night sky and cast an eerie glow into the small dormitory. The air was cool and somewhat soothing.
Carlos Crespi was racked with fits of coughing that shook his rickety, metal bed. The old man was sure the end was near but uncertain of the moment. He clutched the bed sheets with a firm grip, fighting away the creeping pain that seemed to grow incrementally with every passing moment.
His bald forehead was wrinkled from the struggle with death, his bushy gray eyebrows furrowed in a combination of frustration and agony. The once jovial, dark eyes squinted against the pain.
The young apprentice watched with a stoic face as he continued repeating the prescribed lines, reaffirming that the padre would be assured eternal life in heaven. The dying man knew the words were simply a formality to rub him into give up his secret.
Father Carlos was no fool. He knew the real reason why this eager young man had been sent to his aide six months prior. His constant and pressing questions about the vault gave that motive away far too easily. He had taken the young priest to the vault only one time. When he had turned on the single light in the storage room, the man’s eyes had betrayed his real intent.
The collection.
For years the Vatican had tried to peel away the secrets of Padre Crespi’s mysterious vault. Somehow, they’d always come up empty. Revered by the locals, the old man had given them nearly his entire life in service. And in return, they watched out for him and the antiquities they had gifted him. Whenever outsiders would ask the people where he had gotten such wondrous relics, they simply replied, “the forest.” Now, though, on death’s door, the old priest would surely have to pass on his treasures to someone. After all, he couldn’t take them with him.
Another fit of coughs racked him and the bed shook violently. The young priest reached down to brace the crude, metal frame that squeaked loudly with each movement. When the coughing ceased, he could hear a rattle in Father Carlos’ chest. It wouldn’t be long now. And he needed an answer.
“Padre, I beg of you, where is the key to your vault? It must be preserved in the name of the church, for the glory of God.” The heightened desperation filled the man’s voice. He was afraid what would happen if Crespi did not bestow the key to him.
Two other monks stood by the door, pesky witnesses that would prevent him from simply breaking into the vault and taking what he believed rightly belonged to the Vatican.
The sentence seemed to snap Crespi out of unconsciousness and his eyes opened slowly, to narrow slits. He lay very still and turned his head towards the young man, gazing at him with a curious look. “The glory of God?” he asked.
The young priest nodded. “Si, father. For the Church and God.”
Father Carlos laughed, careful not to arouse another round of coughs. Then he smiled a gentle smile that the entire city knew so well. “I’ll give you my key,” he hesitated. “But you must carry this message to the church.”
“Of course,” the young priest said and smiled at the old man. “Whatever you ask.”
The coughs returned violently and a thin red line eased its way out of the corner of Crespi’s mouth. His eyes went wide momentarily then he laid his head back down on the pillow.
“Father, tell me your message,” the apprentice urged.
Crespi looked at him again and slid a frail hand inside the tattered brown garment he wore. A second later, he produced a simple key. The long piece of brass had an odd design on the end, what appeared to be a spider inside a circle. As the assistant reached for the key, Father Carlos grabbed him with his other hand and with surprising strength and pulled him close.
“The treasures of the kingdom are for the righteous,” he paused, raising the strength to finish his message. “The lights shall guide them as beacons in the darkness. Only the righteous shall eat of the tree of life.”
A sickly rattle came from deep within the padre’s chest. He released his grip and eased back into the bed, unconscious.
The young priest looked down at the man and placed his hand under Crespi’s nostrils.
Still breathing but not for long. What did the message mean? He didn’t care. He had the key and access to all of the fabled wealth that the old man had been hoarding for years. It had been given willingly and the two Ecuadorian monks would bear witness.
He would certainly make sure the Vatican received most of the wares. Would anyone notice if a few pieces went missing? The young man doubted it.
Satisfied that the sick padre was unaware, he slipped out of the room and into a dark hallway lit with a few candles along the walls. The black iron candle holders were covered in wax that could have been from a decade before.
Another nurse was waiting outside and glanced questioningly at the young priest. He simply shook his head and walked by quickly.
He made his way through the labyrinth of halls and portals until he found himself in a courtyard in the center of the monastery grounds. Directly in front of him was a large, wooden door. He’d seen the enormous door many times and had asked Father Carlos to show him what was within but the older man had refused every time, save for once. The only time he’d been allowed to see the vast treasure was for mere minutes. Now he had it all to himself.
He rushed over to the door and slid the key into a large, silver-looking lock. A quick look around confirmed no one was watching. He’d suspected as much at this hour of the evening. The few monks that helped run the modest compound had retired for the night hours ago, except for the two in the room with Crespi.
With a quick twist of the wrist, the inner workings of the lock were undone. He tugged on the old, metal handle, swinging the large door out slowly.
The inside of the room was dark with no windows to provide any sort of illumination. Fortunately, he’d prepared for that contingency. His hand removed a small flashlight from within his robes and he switched it on, ready to take in the majesty of the vast treasure of Father Carlos Crespi. Instead, he was greeted by a vacuous chamber of empty wooden shelves, cobwebs, and dust.
The vault was empty. Impossible. Where was the gold, all the ancient relics? The young man ran his hands along the empty shelves and searched the entire room for several minutes. He found nothing.