The Shroud - Apocalypsis

By Sébastien Cataldo

Shattered by the death of her son and husband, Déborah has plunged herself body and soul into her work. But every day, despair invades her now meaningless existence.

However, a glimmer of hope returns when she learns that she is the heiress of a thread taken from the greatest relic in Christendom

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sébastien Cataldo
• Release date: Nov 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9791094861110

Sébastien Cataldo

It was in 2005 that Sébastien Cataldo became involved in the study of the world's most studied fabric: the Turin Shroud.After several years of synthesizing scientific, historical and medical research, Sébastien Cataldo writes and co-writes books whose seriousness, objectivity and search for the truth, whatever it may be, have been hailed by the media and recognized in the shroud world.He also created the www.linceul-turin.com website, which rapidly became the reference for information on the Turin shroud in the French-speaking world.Also a lecturer, he has taken part in and co-presented conferences in France, Monaco, the USA and Lebanon.

Book preview

Part One

But who are you?

Chapter One

In a dark tomb . . .

April 3 rd, 33.

---

There is total darkness.

Shadows have invaded this patch of land outside the ramparts of Jerusalem.

There is no breath remaining in this person who gave so much hope, who made so many eyes shine in the face of so much unhappiness and the foreign invasion. Has God once again abandoned them? From now on he will repose in his shroud. Inside this tomb hollowed to the rock bed. His body is still warm, stiff, bleeding. There was not enough time to properly prepare him according to the law. But what difference does it make? He is dead.

The shroud which surrounds him allows the passage of blood which flowed from his side, and certain wounds still oozing on his face mark in an indelible manner this cloth which had just been bought for this funereal occasion.

There is a marriage between this shroud and the relief of this body touched by thousands of people hoping for a miracle, for rescue, for some help. But who will grant him his miracle? Who has come to save him? His helpers, his friends, his road companions, where are they hiding? And for what purpose now that he is dead.

In the distance, outside the tomb, some women are crying. Their sobs and the cries of an inconsolable mother obliterate the calm of the old city which is preparing the feast. She will cry for nights on end for them to give him back to her. This mother is mourning her son and no one can understand her. She has carried him on her breast, and they have mutilated him. There are marks of the invader’s whip on his body emptied of the life which she gave him.

But he cannot hear her. The cries of his mother are muted by the thick stone of his tomb, because he is dead.

Unless . . . unless . . . she sees and she believes.

There is not a single cry from then on. It is as though time were suspended in an unreal expectation, but already one hears in the distance the sound of approaching footsteps.

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Chapter Two

You also, Mary?

Spike heels rapidly approach the side portal of the church, which, in the middle of the week, does not have a soul in it.

The immense crucifix with a life-sized Christ facing this side door is suddenly lit up by the sun, which penetrates the darkness when Deborah opens with hardly a pause the door that separated her from her favorite place of worship.

Following imaginary furrows in front of this cross where she habitually prayed, she kneels before her Christ, her head lowered, finding herself on the same level as the feet of the statue of the crucified one.

Impregnated with the same love as the mother of the man from two thousand years ago, Deborah caresses with her hand the bloodied feet of Jesus. The coldness of the statue reminds the young woman that there is nothing concrete or material in her faith. But her pain is too great for her heart to be invaded by reflections of this nature. Tears invade her eyes and fog the vision of the face of Christ, whom she implores to come and soothe her. But in vain.

Deborah rises and her glance guides her toward a pietà, very close to this large cross.

Her footsteps resound in the small church. She goes through the same ritual as before the crucifix: she kneels, her hand caresses the feet of the supine Christ, dead and in the arms of his mother. She is looking toward the sky, invaded by the incomprehension and the abominable raw truth of a tragic conclusion of life.

In a low voice, coming from the most profound level of her innards, Deborah confides some words to Mary:

‘Mary, Mary . . . you also . . .’

Some tears fall on the cold floor of the church. Again, with a separation of 2000 years, shadows invade the souls of women who surround Christ, whether these women be made of stone or of flesh.

Deborah’s fingers slide slowly on the foot of Christ and then approach the nails of the crucifixion . . . one . . . two . . . then three.

Deborah’s brow becomes slightly troubled. She gets up in one motion and looks at the other wounds in the body of Jesus with attention. Her hand explores the body of this statue, stopping at each wound. A hole in each hand, a gaping wound in the side . . . two holes in the feet . . . and only three nails!

She hurries to the life-sized cross.

Her hands remember having touched the feet of Christ and counted . . . two nails.

Yes, that’s the right number, two nails for the wrists and two nails for the feet. Four nails in all for this human sized crucifix.

With a hardened expression, as though to reproach Jesus for this lack of precision, she becomes accusatory, no longer understanding what she should believe. Vexed by a truth that she considered established, she slams the door as she leaves.

Jesus, his face again in darkness, his feet pierced by two enormous nails, his head lowered slightly to one side, says nothing . . . he is dead.

Chapter Three

Deborah

Deborah Mallay lives in the countryside of Burgundy in a farmhouse that she inherited when she was a student upon the death of her parents. Despite the centuries old stone construction, this house breathes well-being. Perfectly integrated with nature, situated a slight distance from the road that leads to the communal village which her hamlet belongs to, the house provides every modern comfort. There is a veritable symbiosis between the walls filled with history, the stones pointed with local lime and sand lightly rose tinted, the walls thick enough to support immense oak beams which support a roof covered by flat tiles, and the latest modern techniques for heating combined with the independent production of electricity and hot water, thanks to solar panels situated on the south facing roof of the sheep pen transformed into a laundry room.

The days are becoming shorter and shorter. It is autumn and the penetrating cold is just beginning. Deborah reaches her home. She takes her coat off and hangs it behind the entry door. The house is calm and silent. Her dog greets her with a joy that is constantly renewed. But how does he manage to be so happy every time he sees her? More from habit than necessity, she adds some logs in the open fireplace. She loves feeling this natural warmth while looking at the flames dancing around the recently arranged pieces of oak catching fire above incandescent embers. In any case, the warmth automatically produced by her wood pellet stove suffices to remove the chill from the air. But physical comfort is not her only preoccupation. Something deeper and much more painful haunts her. She must know, no matter the cost. The first reflex is obviously to look on the Internet. She picks up the iPad which she had left the previous evening on her sofa. She sits down and begins her Google search: ‘Good, let’s see . . . the crucifixion.’ With a dexterity worthy of the greatest programmers, her fingers slide, type and pivot on the screen of her tablet. Atrocious sketches of reproductions of Roman crucifixions parade before her eyes. One web page leads to another, but there is nothing precise, nothing sure, many claims, but very little archaeological proof. And above all, this is not what she was looking for. She turns her tablet off, puts it down beside herself and buries her head in her hands, pressing lightly with her fingers, as though she had a shooting headache. ‘It’s not that, it’s not that.’ Then she goes to sleep.

Chapter Four

The dream

He is here, he has returned, this man dressed in white, but whose face she cannot see. Is she drunk? Is she dizzy? What she sees slowly pitches and tosses. Everything is blurred, bathed in an intense light which is not blinding. And this odor, what is it? And what is the meaning of these words? How beautiful this music is, but these are not instruments, they are . . . voices. She manages despite his slow movements to approach him:

‘David, David . . . it’s you?’

The man holds his hand out to her, he is going to say something, she senses it.

‘David?’

Chapter Five

Awakening

The raised hand in front of her, the images of this man stream rapidly by without her being able go grasp anything. Her eyes wide open, she now looks at the ends of the fingers . . .

It was one of her dreams again, one of her hopes which slowly disappear from her memory.

She rests her hand on the table where she had fallen asleep.

Outside it is night. But what does it matter. A glance toward her dog is enough for this ten year old labrador to understand that the two of them would go out to the forest, because she anticipates a long night of work and she needs fresh air. Not to forget, but to engage in another activity, to occupy herself while waiting for her next dream.

Chapter Six

The mini-lab

A call rings out on Deborah’s computer.

A click on the icon with the green telephone and the video conference begins:

‘Hello Deb, how are you?’

‘I’m alright, thank you Andrew.’

‘I called for your report from last week concerning samples D5, D6 and D7 sent by the London Lab via Fedex.’

‘Good, Andrew, I see that your French is getting better everyday, my dear friend.’

‘Well, yes, people learn quickly when they eat the wonderful French cooking.’

‘Ah! I see that Madame Patterson hasn’t changed her ways, even though she ‘s living in a different place.’

‘Oh no, darling, a Burgundy Buff is always very good.’

‘Aha! You just need a little work on your pronunciation. Un boeuf bourgignon!’

‘Oh, a thousand pardons, my dear madame. Un boeuf bourgignon.’

‘Now you’ve got it. Good, let’s return to the meaty part of our conversation.’

‘Which meat?’

‘I see you are a little rusty on expressions in any language. I mean let’s get back to the subject we started with.’

‘Aha! Okay . . . the meaty part then.’

‘I discovered in sample D5 a weakness in the resistance of the fibers. I think the method of weaving has a lot to do with it. On the other hand, there’s no problem with D6 and D7, unless you take an evaluation by touch into consideration. That gives the impression of a worn fabric.’

‘Yes, I know, but we’re in the process of improving the test by sensation. We’ve only reached the stage of testing for resistance.’

‘I know. I’ve also made a few proposals in my report concerning the weaving and the association with carbon.’

‘I saw it. Well done. You did very well. Patrick will send it to you as soon as possible.’

‘OK. Thank him for his promptness. I’m going to have to sign off. I’m working on some other analyses that are just now in the course of finishing.’

‘Right. We’ll talk again soon.’

‘Yes, bye now, and greetings to your wife.’

Deborah hangs up and turns her chair to look at her mass spectrometer.

Deborah is a chemist, a specialist in new textile materials, and she analyses the quality of samples that are sent to her from all over the world. Her reputation, due to her name recognition and her role in the most important French chemical firm, coupled with her scientific rigor, allows her to work at home the majority of the time. The development of tele-commuting and the infrastructure of telephone and satellite networks allow the exchange of voluminous data over the net, and have accelerated the creation of a true mini analytic laboratory in Deborah’s home. The new technologies, permitting a considerable reduction in the size and cost of machines for analysis, allowed her employer to profit from de-localizing into small autonomous units which are very efficient, in France as well as other countries. All are continuously interconnected and the data flows along securitized web networks. By distributing interconnected units all over the world while developing telecommuting, there is always someone somewhere in the world working for the firm. In fact, it is the slogan of Deborah’s enterprise: Everywhere, all the time, someone, somewhere, is working for you. No more problems with transport, delays because of illness, pollution. There is always in France a city, a village, ready to sponsor a firm of this type which wishes to create a micro unit. Schedules are flexible. In fact, there are no schedules; what matters is that the results be delivered by the required time. And if one unit has broken down, which rarely happens, another will continue the work, since the totality of the data is transmitted day and night on the screens of every mini laboratory.

Deborah’s days are always full because there is no lack of work even in these times of global competition.

But at times, in the midst of making an analysis, her eyes riveted to her microscope, she stops and becomes pensive. Her look becomes unfocussed, as though the fibers had become transparent and the controls of her equipment no longer permit her to see the innards of the fabrics. There is no longer anything around her that perturbs her; she is immobile and her respiration slows and is irregularly interrupted by long sighs. Even her hearing plays tricks on her.

She is startled out of her torpor. A cry, it’s the cry of a child she has heard. Yes, it’s definitely a cry.

Her eyes reconnect her immediately to reality. She is no longer in her chair, but standing before the window and the mechanical sounds of her measuring equipment bring her back to this present that weighs so heavily on her. It is not him. It is not his laugh. It was not the laugh of a child . . . just a vague memory.

The weather is so calm outside. It’s normal, at two in the morning the countryside has been asleep for a long time . . .

Chapter Seven

Relaxation

As always when her mind is seething, it is Deborah’s hands that take command to prevent the flagship of her sanity from drowning in endless hours of work. Carried along by an innate artistic sense inherited from her mother, Deborah joyously plunges her hands into the fresh clay and begins to sculpt the face of Christ. For sculptural pieces are a veritable lifebuoy to her spirit. Deborah has reserved a room for works of art that she has either bought or sculpted herself. There is only religious art: icons, crossers, paintings of biblical scenes. However, she has always found it difficult to sculpt the face of Christ. The eyes of Jesus and the features of his face have always intrigued Deborah. Moreover, she has an immense passion for The Holy Face of Christ, as designated by Saint Theresa. A source both of comfort and of fulfillment, this visage of the man has always eluded the the hands of Deborah. How can one sculpt the beauty of God, His most beautiful masterpiece, and how paint his look, a reflection of the soul, the soul of God made man?

It is this that she seeks in the paintings of the great masters. To understand how they succeeded in penetrating this mystery, or, indeed, whether they really have. As usual, she does not finish her masterpiece. For the moment the face of Christ is only an assemblage of clay . . . without the breath of life. Deborah rises and moves toward her favorite icon of Christ. It is the Christ Pantocrator ¹ of the monastery of Saint Catherine of Mount Sinai. With her finger she follows the contours of the face of Jesus. He is so serene, so beautiful, his regard reflecting his majesty and his power. With an almost amorous look, she contemplates her future.

But for some time she has asked what her future might be. Does she still feel that a lifeline is traced for her? Her face becomes worried, then anxious. But she cannot allow herself to be shaken again; she must know if this future exists. She needs proof. With a decisive gait, she moves to her telephone and dials the number of her parish priest. She wants to meet him, because only he, she feels, will be able to guide her on this path, towards her future.

Chapter Eight

Something concrete, my father!

Deborah arrives at the meeting to speak of the resurrection. It’s a few days before Easter. Sketches done by the children cover the walls for the most important Christian celebration. Deborah looks at them with a feeling of tenderness.

She focuses on one sketch. She hears a child’s laugh and a man speaking in the distance, then the screech of a tire. She is startled when the priest calls for her.

Deborah follows the priest to his reception room. She was accustomed to meeting with him during pastoral meetings for the ill and handicapped. Along with many other parishioners and in coordination with the local hospital, Deborah visited those who made the request. Even though the primary goal was to provide a Christian presence and to offer communion, most often the the ill were old people whose only visitors, besides the caregivers, were the birds who perched briefly on the windowsills and quickly escaped out of fear that they too would be locked up in this medicalized cage. Above all, these people simply wanted human contact, someone to listen to them in their despair and distress during their troubled wait for death. Deborah’s Christian response did not always suffice, even if her look and her sweetness were enough to bring momentary peace during this morbid period of waiting.

But today it was Deborah who was ill, it was she who needed a response in her absolute doubt, that night of faith known to all mystics at some moment in their lives, this question that all believers and nonbelievers confront during a moment in their lives in the face of death. For Deborah it was only Father Andre who could give a response. Even if she already