The Mark of Gnosis

By Tom Kane

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 8, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469111490

Tom Kane

As a child, Tom Kane's family always insisted he was born in the corner of the living room, behind the TV. That strange assertion, true or false, seems to have set the tone for the rest of his life.  Kane's mother inspired him to write. Science Fiction, in the form of Doctor Who and Isaac Asimov inspired his love of the genre. Monty Python inspired him to be silly and he continues to blame Billy Connolly for his infrequent bursts of bad language  In the corner or behind the TV, what is officially known about Tom Kane's birth is that it took place in England on a dark and stormy night.  

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

As soon as young Brother Anselm saw the body, he knew he didn’t want to become a monk in this abbey. The blood rushed from his head to his legs and arms. The boy dropped the garbage bag he was carrying, its contents spilling over the ground. Moving closer to the edge, he peered down again into the bottom of the ravine.

There far beneath, sprawled out on the refuse heap like a fallen blackbird, was the robed figure of a monk. The young novice scanned the area looking for someone who could help. Why had he come to this abbey with its strange occupants? It was not what he expected. And now this! Excited and agitated, he darted along the rim, back and forth, wondering what to do. Finally, finding a place to scurry down, he entered the bowels of the darkened ravine. On his descent he fell several times, then moved more cautiously, trying to compose himself. The dust billowed around his feet as he cascaded to the bottom. He leaped over the refuse and finally reached the fallen body.

The air was still. A prairie dog, sniffing nervously, scurried away, frightened by his sudden appearance. He approached the figure hesitantly.

The stricken monk lay face down, his body twisted into a grotesque position. It lay in the heap as if it was a discarded piece of garbage. Anselm found himself yelling with full voice, Help! Help! He was startled by the sound of his own voice; it echoed off the walls of the ravine. He didn’t care if he was breaking the rule of silence. How strange it felt to yell when he had not even spoken for weeks.

Then he realized that he must see if the monk was dead. He crouched down, listening for breath. There was none. He looked closer at the partially hidden face. Who was it? Grasping the back of the monk’s cowl, he lifted the body so he could see the face.

Brother Bertrand! He gasped in horror. The evening before he had waited on him at table. Bertrand, using Trappist sign language, which Anselm was still learning, asked for something but Anselm couldn’t interpret. With a gesture of annoyance, Bertrand returned to his meal of soup and coarse, black bread, the only fare permitted by the harsh Trappist rule.

With his other hand Anselm felt the forehead. It was as cold and damp as the dead steer he had discovered in the field just three months before. With a shiver, he wiped his hand on his coarse habit. He had never seen a dead person before, not even at a wake.

Suddenly, a voice echoed off the walls of the ravine above his head, startling him. For an instant he couldn’t find its source. Then, he caught sight of the heads of two monks looking down from the edge of the rim where he had parked the dump truck.

Come down, quick. It’s Brother Bertrand. He’s dead, Anselm yelled.

Feeling faint, he sat on a wooden box. Strange that the novice master had just delivered a sermon on death that very morning. The novice master said that the mark of a true monk was that he held the moment of his death ever before him. To a monk, death is beautiful and should hold no horror. Anselm found the idea repulsive.

One of those descending was the infirmarian, Father Dennis. Though he disliked the stern priest, he was glad to see him.

My God, what have we here, boy? What went on here? Dennis said.

The tall, gray haired monk glared accusingly at the youth, the whites of his eyes prominent in his large face. Dennis towered over the small postulant. The stern priest’s arched brow, penetrating eyes and sharp-hooked nose conveyed a severity that Anselm found intimidating. For a few seconds, Anslem didn’t respond in deference to the rule of silence.

Why are you hesitating, boy? Answer me!

Nothin’ went on! he blurted out. I didn’t do nothin’. I just found him that’s all. Why’d you think I did somethin’? The distraught youth burst into tears.

Anselm, fighting back tears, described what happened.

This is a pestilence! Dennis said, turning to other monk. Another one!

Another one! Anselm turned and looked at the infirmarian and the other brother in shock. Another one! What other one? Another dead monk? He was tempted to ask him to explain but Father Dennis interrupted his thought.

Go, run for the abbot, boy, tell him to come quickly. Brother and I will take care of things here. Run boy! Run!

Anselm clambered up the steep slope, tripping several times, grasping branches of brush to steady him, realizing half way to the abbey that he should have taken the truck. Bursting through the side door near the kitchen, knocking over several garbage cans in a clatter, he dashed down the darkened corridor past startled monks who turned and gaped at him, up the staircase to the door of the abbot’s cell on the second floor.

Without knocking, Anselm flung the door open upon the startled face of the abbot who sat at his desk writing.

Abbot… . Abbot! Brother Bertrand is dead … In the dump! Father Dennis said to come quick! The youth darted out the cell door with the alarmed abbot after him, ran down the stairs, out the side door of the abbey to the road leading to the dump. Other monks who saw the abbot rushing after the youth began following.

Stop! Young man. Stop! the abbot commanded, gasping for breath, grabbing Anselm by the sleeve of his gray work habit.

The two of them stood facing each other on the road, breathing heavily while members of the community clustered around them. You’re leading me to a quick end. Tell me where you’re taking me. Who did you say was dead?

CHAPTER TWO

With as much control as he could muster, Anselm spared the abbot nothing and even added some details of his own as he led him to the rim of the dump. The old man still clutched his sleeve as if to prevent him from bolting. A wake of black and white-robed monks trailing behind.

Father Dennis met the old man at the top.

Father Abbot, it’s Brother Bertrand. I’m afraid he’s dead, Dennis said. The two stood in silence staring at each other while the full implications of the words sank in. One weak gasp was the only sound from the group that stood around.

Dear Lord! Not another! the abbot said. Bertrand! … Lord have mercy on his soul! And on us as well! What can this mean? Three years ago we found the body of Brother Andre in the same place … and under the same circumstances. What can this mean, Dennis?

Father Dennis did not answer.

There’s evil at work in this abbey, the abbot whispered more to himself than to anyone. Three years before, he had had a premonition of evil delivered in an unorthodox fashion two weeks before Brother Andre’s death, but he dismissed it. This time, another warning occurred just a week ago in a similar fashion—a veiled message of impending evil. But he was at a loss what to do about it.

The abbot had finally admitted to himself that he must be a mystic. How else could he explain the unexpected and unusual messages he received from time to time? In his meditations, he was tapping into an unfamiliar brotherhood with the spirit-world. Nothing in his theological training had prepared him for it. One spirit-guide took the shape of a friendly wolf first encountered four years before while the abbot was walking on the prairie. The ferocious animal stared at him with a penetrating eye—a sympathetic eye—that soothed him, fascinated him and put him under a spell he realized later was hypnotic.

Another took the form of a red-tailed hawk that perched on his windowsill and focused another hypnotic gaze on him. During these meetings, the abbot heard a voice in his head that he knew came from the animals. Not all their messages had been about evil. Often they spoke to him of matters dealing with his soul, with the souls of his monks. But when they spoke of evil, the warning was clear. What wasn’t clear was what he should do about it.

The old man insisted that he view the body. With surprising agility, he descended into the ravine with his monks behind—10 of them, still clutching Anselm’s arm. Painfully, he went down on his knees as he reached the body. The monks in imitation all knelt down.

Did you remember to give an absolution, Dennis?

No, Father Abbot.

Tracing the sign of the cross in the air with his hand, he uttered the absolution. Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.

Amen, the monks responded.

Anselm recalled Father Isaac saying that a soul can sometimes hover over a body for a number of hours before leaving and an absolution could still be imparted. The youth looked around fearfully. The wind whistled an eerie dirge around the group. As a postulant—someone who was a candidate for admission to the abbey—he could leave this abbey whenever he wanted. He resolved to do so at his first opportunity.

What do you make of this, Dennis? the abbot said as he struggled to stand up, looking more haggard than when he knelt down.

To all appearances, it would seem a repeat of three years ago, Dennis said. Several of the monks shook their heads in disagreement.

Never! Not Bertrand, an old monk said, looking at Father Dennis and then at the abbot. Wrinkles covered his ancient face, his shoulders stooped with age.

The infirmarian ignored the remark and continued. I was looking for him all morning since he didn’t appear at Matins, Mass or breakfast. Brother William and I searched the building and then the grounds. Just as we arrived here I heard Anselm yelling for help. You will recall my telling you a few weeks ago how distressed brother was of late. I never suspected that he might be suicidal. He is on a psychotropic medication. We never know what the side effects will be. Suicides are extremely rare though they do happen in some few cases. It’s hard to say if it was the drug or if it was his distressed state.

The old monk who had disagreed stepped towards the abbot. I’ve known Bertrand for years, he said. He would never commit suicide … Unthinkable!

Well, Father Lucian, the alternatives are equally unthinkable, the abbot replied. Turning to the infirmarian, he said, I respect your knowledge of such things. As a psychiatrist, you know more about this than I, certainly. However, I find it hard to defer to these new chemical substances, no matter what the Synod of Abbots has said on the subject. It seems to me better to rely on the power of prayer. When you don’t, look at the result.

Just then, the prior of the abbey, Father Thomas, arrived, shepherding his considerable dignity over the garbage in a flurry of perturbed movements. Somehow garbage and Prior Thomas did not go together. He held the skirts of his black and white habit close to his body, wanting to avoid contamination. His face was twisted in revulsion.

Dom Lawrence, I came as soon as I could, he said. What has happened? Who is that on the ground?

We don’t know what happened, Thomas. Bertrand was found dead, the abbot said.

Why was I not informed of this? he asked the infirmarian. Why did I have to learn of it after seeing the entire abbey running across the field? I am the last to know.

There was so much confusion, Father Prior, that I …

You needn’t trouble the man, Thomas, the abbot said. I myself should have sent for you. I’m sorry.

The prior liked it when the old man had to apologize to him. With each apology, the prior exercised magnanimity and patience as a true abbot-in-training should, for he lusted after the office and was sure he would be tapped to replace the old man after his death which he knew would be soon. Perhaps sooner than expected with this new shock.

As prior, Father Thomas had ruled supreme when the building was only a monastery until it achieved the required number of professed monks—twenty-four—to become an abbey. Then Abbot Lawrence arrived and deposed Thomas.

Dom Lawrence endured with equanimity the universal scrutiny of the prior who spied around every corner, craning his neck to see every gesture and straining his ears to hear every comment the abbot made. Dom Lawrence treated the prior’s solicitude with the utmost respect and consideration, seeking his advice on numerous occasions—though he rarely followed it.

Though Dom Lawrence Talbot, now in his late 80s, was dying of prostate cancer, his energy and spirit were of a man 30 years younger. The skin stretching over the gaunt bones of his face had the texture of an ancient parchment, translucent and delicately shaded. His fine features, strong mouth and prominent chin gave his face a regal bearing. He walked with a slight stoop as if carrying the sins of the world, but with good grace and a ready humor. Clear blue eyes hinted a playfulness uncommon in sober abbots. Despite his years, he possessed a replete head of white hair that flowed in the breeze.

Father Abbot, we mustn’t move the body until the authorities get here. Brother William has already called them, Father Dennis said.

Oh! Sweet Mother! Quite right! No one move anything! We were excoriated the last time by that officious undersheriff because someone moved the body … contaminating the evidence, it seems. Yes, don’t move anything. Please.

He turned to leave. If the police wish to talk to me, I’ll be in my cell.

Dom Lawrence, in all candor, I think you should stay, Dennis said. Remember the last time? They’ll ask questions that only you can answer.

Oh dear, I suppose I should, the abbot said. I hope the nasty one doesn’t appear. Lord have mercy on us. We will all kneel and pray for the repose of the soul of our dear brother Bertrand and await the arrival of the police. With that, he knelt and all his monks did likewise.

CHAPTER THREE

What’s the problem, Charlie?

Detective Lieutenant Emil Dutch Elmaer of the Wyoming State Police strode through the heavy double doors of the county medical examiner’s lab, his eyes squinting in the bright light.

What ya makin’ me come down here for? You know I get sick on the smell of formaldehyde. His handkerchief went to his nose. You makin’ this a homicide, are ya?

Yes I am, the examiner said. The gray-faced, slightly built doctor stood over a cadaver which was lying in a drawer pulled out of a refrigerated wall cabinet, only the head uncovered. The examiner was dressed in a surgical gown smeared with blood. Heavy, thick spectacles perched near the end of his nose, looking like they would fall off at any moment. In a gesture he repeated hundreds of times a day, he pushed the glasses higher on his nose with his forefinger.

You don’t much like the morgue, do you, Dutch the doctor said.

It’s the smell that gets me, Dutch said.

But it wasn’t the smell at all. What he didn’t like was that massive, steel refrigerator on the wall that held the bodies. The thing reminded him of the time his father was cremated. He was eight years old. The furnace in which they burned him looked just like it – shiny steel. His mother was now a widow and he was the eldest of five children. She brought him with her to the crematorium for support. Life without his father, the breadwinner, had turned out to be a nightmare of anxiety and poverty. He had to shield his mother from creditors who came to the door trying to collect. He developed into quite a liar, telling them his mother was not home when she was, in fact, hiding in the back kitchen. The sight of the refrigerator brought it all back.

Charlie, Dutch said. Don’t this place ever get to ya?

I just love this place, even the dead bodies, he said. It’s what I do, Dutch. I don’t expect you to understand.

He hunched over the body and readjusted his glasses again. Once I get on a case, I’m a bull dog; can’t let go of it until I answer it. That’s just the way I am. If it takes me till 1 a.m., then it takes me till 1 a.m. Or if it takes me a year, then it’s a year. And this case here has got my wheels spinning.

So why are you sayin’ homicide? Dutch said. The police report at the scene says suicide. Dutch sat down on a stool out of the view of the body and began agitating the air in front of his nose with his handkerchief.

It says ‘apparent suicide.’ I want you to look at something. Come here. See this yellow color in the mouth and on the tongue? It’s faint. Look closely or you’ll miss it.

Dutch reluctantly got up from the stool, took a deep breath and made the few paces up to the slab. The gruesome mouth was agape, like a door that had been torn open. The inflamed tongue protruded like an infected, swollen finger. The eyes were wide open, staring out at the room in a look of horror. Feigning a cough, Dutch turned away.

This guy’s a monk? From that monastery up north?

It’s an abbey, not a monastery. Come, look closer.

I did look closer. How’s an abbey different from a monastery?

But you didn’t see it.

I saw it. It’s yellow. Yeah.

No, come on. Look closely.

Dutch held his handkerchief to his nose and bent his frame over again to peer into the horrid gap, crinkling his eyes

Yeah … so? he said, moving away as quickly as he could.

Dutch was an uncommon mixture of a callous homicide detective and a devout evangelical Lutheran of the Missouri Synod, one of the most conservative Protestant denominations. He pursued both his detecting and his worshiping with the intense passion of a true believer. He tried to keep religion and policing in separate compartments of his life but with mixed success. One fault from his police work that he attempted to keep from his church-going was a tendency to use coarse language, though he often failed.

Do you remember the last monk, the one that was ruled suicide?

Hell, Charlie, you ruled suicide. Yeah, I remember. That was a year ago, wasn’t it.

It was three years ago, three years ago to the exact day. The very day! Looked it up. Curious thing, don’t you think? That fellow had the same yellow coloring on his tongue and throat and the same …

Maybe monks eat yellow food, Dutch said. The Bible says manna was yellow, I think. Did ya find any evidence of poison?

No, nothing that I could detect but …

You’re the expert, so what’s the problem, then? Dutch said, turning away and moving towards the door.

Come back here, Dutch. What’s the matter with you? There’s something else. Look here, take a gander at this. He pulled the drawer out from the cabinet, pulling the cover back further. Dutch didn’t like this at all.

See this strange tattoo on his chest over his heart? Fascinating damned thing!

Dutch looked at the hairy, sallow chest. Thank goodness it wasn’t torn open, he thought.

Yeah! It’s a tattoo. On his chest … So?

Look more closely at it. Recognize it?

He stooped closer. A tattoo the size of a small saucer. Yeah, it’s weird. What the hell is that? A dragon? He grew more interested. No, it’s a twisted snake; tail’s in its mouth.

Yes, it’s clearly an image of a snake. The image is called an euroboros. It was originally a pagan image, my research tells me.

A pagan symbol on the chest of a Christian monk! Crazy!

Don’t you remember?

What? Remember what?

This exact tattoo was on the other one.

Dutch looked down and then back up at him. On the other monk, ya mean? Three years ago?