The Magdalene Legacy

By Stephen C Norton

After barely surviving a replay of the Exodus plagues, Jeanne wanted nothing more to do with ancient scrolls or Magdalena legends. Too bad, because the Magdalene still has business with Jeanne.

She'd planned on taking a nice relaxing vacation. Instead she finds herself thrust into a complicated and confusing game of cat and mouse with church fanatics, Second Coming madman and a mysterious Sisterhood. Old friends may be new enemies while some old enemies may just be new friends.

But Jeanne may not survive to translate any more scrolls, because someone has her in their sights and they're about to pull the trigger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen C Norton
• Release date: Aug 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781927343753

Stephen C Norton

Stephen started his career as a marine biologist, later switched to managing computer support and development teams, and is now a full time author and artist. He lives on the West Coast of Canada with his wife and one crazy cat. He has sixteen books currently available in both paperback and e-book formats, including four novels, two guides on Soapstone Carving, one on Stained Glass Art, and multiple guides to various self-publishing topics. While currently working on a forth novel he has at least five other books planned for the next few years. An artist for most of his life, he's worked in many mediums, from oil painting to blown glass. For the last 20 years he's focused on carving soapstone sculptures and writing.He can be reached via his web site at www.stephencnorton.comTo purchase any of his books please go to his author pages atwww.amazon.com/author/stephencnorton on Amazon and www.smashwords.com/profile/view/northwind on Smashwords. His books are also available on Apple iBooks, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and other resellers.

Book preview

1 - Jeanne - Returning to Marseille

Somehow, without even thinking about it, I found I had taken the secondary road from Marseille heading out towards Aubagne. It’s not like I was in a rush to get anywhere, but finding myself heading back there took me slightly by surprise. The place didn’t exactly have great memories for me.

After landing at the airport and navigating my way through customs and car rentals, I’d headed out to the waterfront of Marseille. Walking along the Plage des Catalans, watching the surf roll in as the boats headed out to sea, was surprisingly calming. The chaos and the pain that had been Egypt still clung to me, but here in France I could almost convince myself it was beginning to fade a bit. Thoughts of ancient galleys docking in the first century port city the Romans named Massilia held better memories and emotions than did the images of the plague and pestilence that had been Luxor. I hadn't really intended to come back to France, but something drew me, almost against my will. Something about Marseille simply called to me.

I'd finally decided to return here, justifying it as a desire to collect the few odds and ends I'd left in storage. Most of it was junk, but I’d realized I had left Luke’s jacket here and that I truly did want back. Of all the memories of my long-lost brother, that oversized leather jacket meant the most to me. It had been large on him, and down-right huge on me when I inherited it. Over the years I'd grown into it somewhat, but it still hung on me, a couple of sizes too big. Still, that left lots of room for a sweater or two underneath.

From the port at des Catalans I wandered south along the Pointe Rouge and on to the Plage de Prado. After an hour or so I found myself getting chilled so I returned to the rental car. Shedding my newly re-possessed jacket I pulled on a roll-necked sweater, then shrugged myself back into the jacket. Ah, warmth, comfort. I could imagine it hugging me, as Luke had occasionally done when he’d felt affectionate towards his little sister. I got into the car, started the engine and pulled out into traffic.

I had planned to head up to Paris but somehow I found myself going elsewhere. The Avenue du Prado led me away from the beach, and before I realized quite what I was doing I was on the Boulevard de la Valbarelle, heading east toward Aubagne, instead of north to Paris. Forty minutes later I was turning up the road that led to the cliff face, a few hundred feet below the cross that sat atop the peak of the Massif du Garlaban. The cliff that until recently had hidden a cave full of scrolls for some two thousand years. Scrolls which almost got me killed. It seemed it had all happened so long ago, though it had actually only been a few years. I knew I was tempting fate by going back there, but it just seemed the right thing to do at the time. Odd how the most innocent of impulses can turn out to be so dangerous.

~~~~~

In Paris there is an old and barely used building which had once housed a monastery, and in the basement is a room. The room is quite small, dim and almost silent, though dozens of computer screens flickered as the displays constantly updated themselves. The lone occupant is dozing in his chair. Dozens of screens hung on the walls surrounding him, all showing maps. Every map had a red dot on it. Many of the dots were static, but some were moving at various speeds across the maps. Some displays had a yellow dot close to the red one, mirroring the movements of the red but never meeting. The only sounds in the room are the hum of the computers and the man’s soft, regular breathing, interspersed randomly with an occasional stuttered snore. With little to do but watch monitors and wait for an alarm to sound indicating that something required attention, there wasn't really much to keep him awake. You could only drink so much coffee and read so many books. He’d once thought he would bring in a tablet and play computer games, but all foreign electronics were strictly forbidden.

The alarm was quite soft when it did chime, but it was more than enough to get his attention. He rubbed his face briskly several times, endeavoring to wake himself up, then rolled his chair over to one of the computer keyboards arrayed on the table. He tapped the enter key on the keyboard to silence the alarm. Clicking on the flashing red icon on the main display brought up the screen which had alarmed and he zoomed in on the map. It displayed a city, indicating roads, street names, directions and buildings. One building was unique in that it had a red dot flashing on it. The young man watched as the dot moved out of the building and onto the street. He touched several more keys and a screen recorder started. It was likely someone would want to see the complete route the red dot was taking. The young man watched the screen for the next few minutes as the dot moved along several streets and then seemed to stop on what appeared to be a road overlooking a harbour. He clicked on the display to get the name of the person who had initiated this particular tracer, then shoved his chair again, guiding it from the screen to another desk where a single old-style rotary phone sat. Picking up the phone he dialed a number, the finger of his free hand reaching up to ease the fit of the cleric’s collar where it encircled his throat. He was a novice, and the collar still bothered him occasionally. A cold voice answered his call.

Yes?

Please contact Father Dominique immediately. His tracer in Marseille has gone active.

Very well. Start the recorder. Someone will be there shortly. The phone clicked in his ear before he could say anything further.

He rolled his chair back to the monitor to double check the recorder was running properly. It was. Curious, he watched the red dot for a while as it drifted slowly along the coastline.

I wonder who they're watching, he thought to himself. Must be someone important.

He checked the log for that monitor. The tracer showed it as having been stationary for over two years. That was interesting. They didn't normally keep a trace active for that long. He wondered who this Father Dominique person had been waiting for, why the trace had been kept for so long, but knew he’d never be told. He never received any explanations for what the tracers were for or who they connected to. Still, he had done his job, and the rest was really none of his business. He had asked once, and been told very succinctly to simply do what he was told and don’t ask. He rolled back to where he had been dozing and picked up the book he'd fallen asleep over. Life went on, even if it was boring.

~~~~~

I parked the car on the grass alongside the rough track on the hillside, as I had done so many times before, and hiked up to the crevice which opened into the cave. The crevice was still there, though all the loose rock which had once covered Koisis' body was long gone. I wondered if he'd been properly interred as the true believer in Jesus that he'd been, or whether his mummified body was now interred irreverently in some cabinet somewhere deep below the Vatican. I dug out my phone, enabled the flashlight and walked into the crevice. The secondary opening at the very back was still there. I followed it to it’s ending. The cave of the amphorae lay before me. Empty, of course.

I waved the flashlight around. The last time I'd been here the cave had been filled with bright lights and excited archeologists. By then they knew the amphorae contained scrolls. Knew the scrolls were ancient; first century AD and earlier. Knew they were part of an excavation which would make worldwide news, change much of what we knew about first century Christianity. Knew that it would provide PhD thesis papers for them all and for dozens, probably hundreds of other students after them. Now, cold, grey, rock walls gave nothing back. Coarse gravel still covered the floor, but no longer formed a bed for the amphorae to lay on. Now it was simply broken rock scattered haphazardly across the floor. The amphorae were gone, vanished as if they'd never existed. The scrolls they had once contained had disappeared into the Vatican’s secret archives, the Archivum Secretum Apostolicum Vaticanum. Simply the latest addition to that massive and secretive library the Church had compiled over the last two thousand years. Writings the Church had no wish to see the light of day, but for various reasons were loath to destroy. I hoped the scrolls from this cave still existed, but I wasn't sure. Dominique had assured me they hadn't been destroyed, but he'd lied to me too many times, both before and since. Now, here, there was no sign that there had ever been anything in this cave except rock and dust. The scrolls had endured two thousand years of waiting, only to be buried again within a few months of being discovered.

The cold and the dark did little for my mood and it wasn't long before I wandered back to the car. From there I drove as far up the Massif as possible, hiked the rest of the way up to the crest and found myself a rocky seat on the stones just below the large cross which stood on the mount. La Croix du Garlaban. Another Christian symbol dominating a once pagan landscape.

I remembered standing here with Professor Desjardins almost four years ago, gazing out over the hills towards the sea. We’d talked of ancient times, Roman galleys, first century transit times from Tyre and Alexandria here to ancient Gaul. Back then Marseille had been called Massilia, a city founded by the Ionian Greeks from Phocaea, decades before the founding of Rome. Old emotions flared. The excitement of finding first century scrolls in the cave just down the hill from where I sat. The thrill of translating the scrolls, opening a window onto the past, learning new things. Learning a new interpretation of ancient history. The anger when the Church took it all away from us. The fear of possible reprisals, fleeing to Canada, hiding out.

In the rocks below me a red squirrel appeared, a fairly rare sight in this area. Cautiously he poked his nose out of a hole between the rocks, paused for a moment to look around, then scampered to another crevice. He darted around the rocks and in and out of crevices for a while, obviously looking for something. Every now and again he’d stop what he was doing and his head would pop up. He’d look around in all directions, nervously checking for possible enemies or predators. Then he’d bob back down again and continue rooting around in the crevices. I watched him for a while. Tall spiky ears and a long bushy tail which he twitched occasionally, as if in agitation. Suddenly he scampered down the hill to another crevice, dug there for a moment and then scampered back up to the original crevice. From out of nowhere a name popped into my mind. ‘Ratatoskr’, the red squirrel from Norse mythology, who runs continually up and down the world tree Yggdrasil, carrying messages between the eagle at the top and the serpent far below. I had to smile, watching him run from the crevice, down the hill and then back up again. The messenger of the gods, always busy yet accomplishing nothing.

I heard his voice then, but it took me a moment to realize it was a real voice, not just another fading memory.

Hello Jeanne. It's been a long time. How are you?

I leapt to my feet and turned to face him, staring in disbelief as he lowered himself carefully to a seat on a rock a foot or so away from me. He’d changed a lot since I’d last seen him, only a few years ago. His hair was much greyer and many more wrinkles scored his face, aging him cruelly.

Dominique! I gasped, looking nervously around for any sign of his ominous and seemingly ever present assistant Alexandro. I couldn't see anyone else, but that really wasn't very reassuring.

You bastard! What are you doing here? How the hell did you find me? What do you want? No, scratch that. Just get the hell away from me! I took a step up the hill, intent on leaving immediately, but the cold had made my legs stiff and I stumbled.

He grabbed my arm to stop me from falling, then immediately released me and held up both hands in surrender.

I'm completely alone Jeanne, I assure you. Please, stay a moment. Sit back down. I mean you no harm.

Yeah, sure. Just like you were my best friend last time!

Ah, Jeanne. You really have no idea how much I was your friend last time. You could have ended up dealing with dear Alexandro, you know. I was supposed to have been on a plane back to Rome that night. Instead I came to your apartment.

Yes, and took everything I'd worked on for the previous fourteen months!

But you found my little parting gift, didn't you? I read your book. I found it quite interesting. It was very entertaining and I must say I enjoyed it immensely

Yes, and what of all the other scrolls you took, the one’s I never got the chance to translate. What of their stories?

"Ah, Jeanne. You must learn to accept fate, especially when you have no other option. Imagine what could have happened if I’d caught my flight to Rome that night, and Alexandro had come to your apartment alone, with instructions to take everything from you. Sadly, I can assure you that you would definitely not have enjoyed his attentions.

But that is all in the past. Tell me where you have been for the last few years. You look well, though that jacket still doesn't fit you any better than it did four years ago. It was Luke's originally, wasn't it? Ah, he was such a fine young man. I miss him so."

I snuggled down into the warmth of the jacket, looking for a comfort I knew I would not quite find.

Yes. I inherited it after he drowned. I've had it ever since. It’s all I have left of him.

He nodded.

Yes, I know. I always thought you'd come back for it.

What? Reality dawned on me. You bugged it! That's how you found me. That’s how you managed to be here. Could find me here. Not a coincidence at all! You… you bastard!

I couldn't think of anything else to call him. I would have used fouler language, but he’d been my pastor and father confessor during my adolescent years, and childhood respect tends to linger, even in the face of harsh betrayal. After Luke drowned Dominique had practically become my father. My own father had deserted me completely, retreating into his grief and almost holding me responsible for Luke’s death. Still, ‘Bastard’ pretty much said it all. I made a mental note to go over the jacket with a fine toothed comb and find his damn bug as soon as I got back to the car.

Come now. How else could I have known you were all right? Now, tell me what you've been doing.

I gazed at him, angry, relieved, frustrated. Puzzled and confused by my own feelings. Strangely, I found I was actually a little pleased to see him again and I found I did want to talk to him. That was just too damned weird. He had betrayed me to his Church, but after Luke drowned his had been the only sympathetic voice in my life. My father had no longer had the time for his useless daughter, a daughter saved at the cost of his only son. His pride and joy. My mother was lost too, crippled by her own grief, and by my father’s heavy, righteous hand. Only Dominique had been there to console me. He’d been my rock, my island of calm in a maelstrom of chaotic emotion when I most needed it. Pain, loss, grief, survivor’s guilt. I’d poured it all onto him and he’d simply held my hands and helped me deal with it all. I really wanted to hate him and I simply couldn’t. Talking to him just came naturally. I shrugged to myself and gave in, found a rounded rock to sit on.

Well, after you shut down the Marseille project I went back to Canada. Stephen and I produced the book based on the notes you left me and then I went into hiding, expecting your oh, so loving Church to initiate some form of reprisal. When nothing had happened after a year, by which time my money was running out anyways, I took a job in Egypt. That got scary when the earthquakes hit and then turned into a real nightmare when the quakes were followed by the plague. I lost a lot of good friends there.

I paused, swallowed. It was still so very hard to talk about Egypt. The emotions and pain could still take my breath away, and thoughts of Thomas were still just too raw and painful.

I've just kind of drifted for the last few months, a bit aimlessly I’ll admit. Then I remembered I had left some stuff here and came back to get it.

So it really was you who wrote the Exodus Scrolls. I wasn’t at all sure if it was entirely true or just heavily embellished by the author’s overly vivid imagination. I found it to be another interesting book. And sadly, once again the authorities tried to silence you.

At least you weren’t there. You and your damn Church didn't get the chance to cover up another truth, did you!

"I have to admit that officially, both my Church and I were sorely vexed at what you accomplished there. Unofficially, I was entirely overjoyed to finally learn the truth about Moses and the whole parting of the Red Sea myth. You did excellent work there.

I'm very glad you were able to find the cure for the plague, and so very sorry you lost so many of your friends to it. I’m also glad the Egyptian authorities were more concerned with hushing up the plague issue, and not so concerned with stopping you from exposing the true history of Moses. They probably liked the fact that a great Jewish and Christian leader turned out to be nothing more than a callous and egotistical young Egyptian prince."

We sat in silence for a few moments. Finally I turned to him.

Why do you care about me, Dominique? What am I to you?

He looked at me for a moment, then sighed somberly.

"I really do look on you as my daughter, Jeanne. After Luke died, I thought we had formed a deep connection. I had no family of my own and somehow you carved yourself a little niche in my soul. Filled a hole I hadn’t realized I had in me. Since then my life has changed quite dramatically. Much to my regret I’m afraid. Lately, my work with the Church has sometimes become, shall we say, difficult? At first I thought I was truly doing God's work, but as time passed and I helped to conceal more and more of the ancient truths, I began to question what I was being told to do. Then you came along with the Marseille scrolls and I found myself torn. I faced a dilemma of the soul which I’d never anticipated.

If I had allowed you to publish everything they would have harmed you. Certainly they would have destroyed you professionally. It was quite possible they would have simply had you killed. Probably along with several others from the project team as well. If I helped them block you, well you would still be damaged, as everyone else was, but at least you would all live to see another day, another excavation. The damage we did to the Professeur was completely unexpected and entirely unintended. Being suppressed so abruptly and harshly by the very people he trusted most simply broke his mind. I would like to think he’ll recover one day, but I have trouble convincing myself of that.

So, yes, I've done things that I'm not proud of. You, the Professeur, the project. That, and other things before. I guess I am looking to you for…, well, I don’t know, some sort of absolution. Perhaps some forgiveness."

I looked at him in silence. Is this for real, I wondered? Was he telling me the truth, or was he simply setting me up for another fall, another con job? I just could not tell. At one time I’d thought I’d known him. Now I knew I did not.

Forgiveness. Huh. That's a lot to ask from me.

Yes, I know.

We sat quietly for another few moments, though this time it was almost comradely. I knew what he wanted from me, but after some thought I also knew I could not give it to him.

I'm puzzled. Why did you give me that USB plug with my translations on? Why just the translations and not all the scanned images so I could prove they existed.

That was all I could give you without revealing myself. You managing to retain a single USB memory plug despite everything I did was conceivable, possible enough to be believable. Having you successfully retain a multi-terabyte drive with everything on it would have caused my superiors to question not just my abilities but my loyalties as well. If I had left you anything more than the bare minimum, you would have had a second visit at some later time, from Alexandro or someone else like him. I can assure you it would not have been at all pleasant, though it would definitely have been permanent. Even the plug raised eyebrows and suspicions with my superiors. Dear Alexandro has even been given a secret mission by the Holy Bishop. He is to keep his eye on me and report any further misdoings. Isn't that hilarious? That hulking ignoramus checking on my every move. Ha!

We sat in silence on the rocks, looking out towards the Mediterranean Sea. The sun was warm, but it was getting low in the sky. The shadows of clouds kept passing over me as the time passed and I was getting chilled. I shivered, and hunkered down into my jacket. I wanted to go, but part of me didn't want Dominique to leave. Strange. Amid all the feelings of betrayal and distrust, this old man was still dear to me.

He finally broke the long silence with an odd question.

What do you know of the Cathars?

I looked at him, puzzled. What on earth was this about?

Not much. They were a religious group in southern France. Based in the Languedoc, wasn't it? Somewhere around 1200 AD? From what I remember they were Gnostics, believing in a personal access to God. Didn't they also view the Catholic Church as evil? And didn’t the Catholic Church launch a crusade against them with the intent to wipe them out?

Yes, he smiled at my sparkling display of knowledge and lack thereof. Something like that.

Why do you ask?

Oh, no particular reason really. Just thinking out loud. It's just I know how much the Gnostic beliefs interest you. Thought the Cathars might be of interest to you as well. Something for you to do in your spare time perhaps. Seeing as you’re just ‘drifting aimlessly’ as you put it, of course.

We sat in silence for a while longer and then he levered himself slowly and seemingly painfully to his feet.

"Well Jeanne. I must be going. Thank you for your time. I really wasn't sure you would be willing to talk