The Shroud Codex Part 20

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.

Friday Turin Cathedral, Turin, Italy Day 30 For days, the staff of the Turin Cathedral worked in a side chapel specially designed for displaying the Shroud in private viewings. With the greatest of care, the Shroud was removed from the case in the cathedral where the Shroud is preserved in an atmosphere of inert gas scientifically designed to preserve the Shroud from deterioration. Visitors to a private showing are permitted to see the Shroud directly in front of them, stretched on a frame built to display it, without the bulletproof gla.s.s covering that is used to protect the Shroud at public exhibitions.

On Thursday, the day before the private showing arranged for Father Bartholomew, the Turin Cathedral museum staff ushered Fernando Ferrar and his video crew into the side chapel. Cardinal Giovanni Bionconi had given Ferrar permission to bring in high-definition cameras to film the Shroud in advance of the private showing planned for the next day.

On Friday morning at 10 A.M. A.M., the hour appointed for the private viewing to begin, the cathedral staff first ushered into the private chapel Dr. Castle and Anne Ca.s.sidy, followed by Father Middagh and Professor Gabrielli.

Castle was amazed at how overwhelmed he felt viewing the Shroud in person for the first time. He had expected that seeing so many photographs of the Shroud since taking on Father Bartholomew as a patient would have jaded him to the experience. But standing in front of the actual Shroud for the first time, Castle was impressed.

To begin with, the size of the cloth made the object in real life appear much bigger than the photographs had suggested. Somewhat larger than fourteen feet long and three feet wide, the Shroud seen in real life was an impressive relic. It stretched vertically along the full length of the display frame that filled the back wall of the specially designed side chapel, with its blacked-out windows.

Castle's next impression was that the image seen in real life was much more subtle than he had imagined. For what seemed like several minutes, Castle had to adjust his eyes and strain to make out the subtle reddish brown lines of the figure's full-length frontal and dorsal images. Then, as he studied the Shroud inch by inch, the image became gradually more distinct.

When he was finally able to clearly make out all the lines in the body, including the scourge marks front and back, Castle was. .h.i.t with the emotional impact of the image. Here in front of him was the full-body image of a man who had been tortured and crucified two thousand years ago. Yet the face looked serene, as if finally at peace in death. The arms crossed modestly in front of what was obviously a nude body reinforced the impression of serenity, at least until Castle allowed himself to appreciate the brutality of the nail wounds on the wrists and the evidence of blood flows along the arms. Was it possible he was looking at a true image of the crucified Christ? Even though he was a committed atheist, the thought still crossed Castle's mind as he looked on the Shroud for the first time in person.

Marveling at the Shroud in front of him, Castle concluded that if the object were a fake, this was very possibly the most magnificent and most subtle painting ever done. He had seen many Leonardo paintings, including the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa and the and the John the Baptist John the Baptist in the Louvre and the in the Louvre and the Last Supper Last Supper in Milan. Yet no Leonardo painting held a candle to the Shroud. The Shroud, if Leonardo truly had painted it, was Leonardo's crowning achievement. in Milan. Yet no Leonardo painting held a candle to the Shroud. The Shroud, if Leonardo truly had painted it, was Leonardo's crowning achievement.

Leonardo's sfumato style required a subtle touch, such that brushstrokes were not evident at all. Leonardo's drawings in his notebook sketches were intricate in their detail and fidelity to nature. But the delicacy with which this brutal image of a crucified man had been left on cloth was breathtaking. Perhaps no artist who ever lived had done more to bring anatomy to life than Leonardo, but the detail of the body of the man in the Shroud defied comprehension. Somehow Castle had the feeling the man in the Shroud was yet alive, only sleeping, or that had just died an instant earlier and the naked body enclosed in the burial cloth would still be warm to the touch.

Anne was equally moved. For her the yellow-straw colors of the linen itself and the subtle brownish red lines of the body created a feeling of warmness she had never before felt looking at art. She felt an immediate attachment to the life of the man in the Shroud as she began to read his struggles and hards.h.i.+ps in the dark shadows that defined the closed eyes and in the blood soaking his brow and hair from the crown of thorns. Yet there was a quiet dignity in the soft but firm line that formed his mouth and the elegant nose that gave his face a look of majesty, despite the obviously cruel death he suffered. Looking on the Shroud for the first time in person, Anne felt certain that Jesus had defied his crucifiers by living even to this day in the preservation of this serene image stretched before her.

Father Middagh crossed himself and said a quiet prayer. He had first seen the Shroud in person during the 1998 exhibition, but the impact it made on him today was double the initial impression. After decades of study, spending every waking hour poring over the available evidence in his attempt to prove the Shroud of Turin was the authentic burial cloth of Jesus Christ, Middagh felt his life was now fulfilled. He thanked G.o.d he was given the chance to see the Shroud one more time in person before the publication of his two-volume treatise. Studying the Shroud at this moment, Middagh felt he had been blessed to proclaim correctly, in the most appropriate t.i.tle he could have chosen for his life's work, Behold the Face of Jesus Behold the Face of Jesus.

After a few minutes, Cardinal Bionconi accompanied Pope John-Paul Peter I into the room. They were joined by a delegation of clerical dignitaries from both the Vatican and the Archdiocese of Turin. Entering the room, each of these top clerics of the Catholic Church hierarchy paused in their conversation as soon as they came into the presence of the Shroud. Castle contemplated that this private viewing of the Shroud had a special feeling of reverence about it. Having toured the Sistine Chapel many times, Castle was always struck at how the Michelangelo frescos on the ceiling and walls had inspired conversation along with awe. Here, in this private chapel, it was different. The Shroud inspired an awe that was heightened by silence as onlookers stood before the centuries-old cloth stretched out full-length for viewing.

The last to enter the room was Father Bartholomew, in a wheelchair gently pushed forward by Father Morelli.

Ferrar's eyes followed Father Bartholomew into the room, waiting to see what would happen. Looking to his camera crew chief, he got a nod of confirmation that they were capturing every detail.

Father Morelli wheeled Father Bartholomew to the front and center of the group. He was speechless like everyone else in the room, soaking in every detail of the Shroud.

Seeing the Shroud in person, even Father Bartholomew was struck by how precisely his body had come to resemble the man in the Shroud. The hair and beard, the square and serene look of the face, the wounds in the wrists and feet, the scourge marks that crisscrossed the body-every mark had been duplicated on his body, with precision. Father Bartholomew realized his long white robe hid from the others in the room the evidence of the injuries that marked the body of Christ as seen in the Shroud. But what he did not fully appreciate was how the robe itself intensified the immediate impression of those in the private chapel with him that in truth Father Bartholomew had become Jesus.

"Father Bartholomew, here is the Shroud of Turin," Pope John-Paul Peter I proclaimed loud enough for all to hear. "Now what is the demonstration you asked us here to witness? You can be a.s.sured you have our full attention."

Rather than answer directly, Father Bartholomew motioned to Father Morelli to lock the wheels of his wheelchair and place up the footrests, so he could stand to his full height in front of the Shroud. Taking his time to lift himself so as not to fall, Father Bartholomew rose from his chair and turned to face the group. "This is the moment G.o.d promised if I agreed to return to life," he said quietly and respectfully to the pope. "I am honored that you and the others are here to share the moment with me."

Then, with his back to the Shroud, Father Bartholomew lifted his arms perpendicularly to his sides, as if he were being crucified on the cross. At the same time, he kicked from his feet his shoes. He stood up from the wheelchair and bent his left knee so he could twist his body just right to lift his left foot on top of his right.

AT THAT INSTANT, Bartholomew's mind tripped and he was back at Golgotha, struggling to take his last breaths on the cross. The pain in his feet and wrists from the nails had caused him to hallucinate. He had screamed out loud, but in vain, to the prophet Elijah, whom he had imagined seeing right there at the foot of the cross, standing in front of him, waiting patiently to deliver his spirit to G.o.d, their Father.

As his last instants grew near, the skies around Jerusalem darkened suddenly, as if a great and unexpected storm had arisen. The light of late afternoon receded instantly into the twilight of early evening. Storm winds swirled the dust around them as an unearthly cool hung in the air at this lonely hill where he was about to die. Twisting on the cross to exhale what might be his last breath, Bartholomew felt a final burst of cold energy shoot up and down his spine. In the corner of his eye, he saw a lone centurion approach his cross with a spear.

IN THE PRIVATE chapel at the Turin Cathedral, everyone in the room felt paralyzed as they stood watching Father Bartholomew's body twist before them into the final death throes of crucifixion. His body, unsupported by any footrest on the cross, sagged, with his knees jutting even more sharply and outward to the right as his body weight s.h.i.+fted down. chapel at the Turin Cathedral, everyone in the room felt paralyzed as they stood watching Father Bartholomew's body twist before them into the final death throes of crucifixion. His body, unsupported by any footrest on the cross, sagged, with his knees jutting even more sharply and outward to the right as his body weight s.h.i.+fted down.

Then in shock, Dr. Castle and the others realized the stigmata wounds had opened again and had begun bleeding profusely on both Father Bartholomew's wrists and feet. The long white robe hid what Dr. Castle was sure were the reopened scourge wounds. His suspicion was confirmed as the bleeding from an unseen crown of thorns began to flow heavily into the hair on the crown of Bartholomew head, with streams of blood pouring down his forehead into his eyes and soaking the long hair Bartholomew wore down to his shoulders.

Then the wound opened on his right side. Seeing this, Castle's mind immediately made the connection. Father Bartholomew had just suffered the final wound of Christ's pa.s.sion and death. The centurion on Golgotha had just pierced his right side with his spear, puncturing his heart to make sure the crucified man was truly dead. A mixture of blood and clear fluid poured from Father Bartholomew's right side, producing a large, b.l.o.o.d.y stain-precisely where the spear mark was also evident in the man on the Shroud stretched behind the priest. Bartholomew suffered in his own body the final death throes of Christ, crucified two thousand years before.

BACK ON THE hill of his death outside Jerusalem, Bartholomew felt nothing form the spear, but he heard, as if his soul were receding rapidly out of his body, another centurion proclaim, "Truly this man was the Son of G.o.d." The earth shook from a sudden earthquake and the sky turned to pitch black as lightning and thunder framed the horizon. The last person Bartholomew saw before his spirit completely departed his wrecked and twisted body was his mother, standing in tears at the foot of the cross. At that instant the veil of the temple was rent in two, from the top to the bottom. hill of his death outside Jerusalem, Bartholomew felt nothing form the spear, but he heard, as if his soul were receding rapidly out of his body, another centurion proclaim, "Truly this man was the Son of G.o.d." The earth shook from a sudden earthquake and the sky turned to pitch black as lightning and thunder framed the horizon. The last person Bartholomew saw before his spirit completely departed his wrecked and twisted body was his mother, standing in tears at the foot of the cross. At that instant the veil of the temple was rent in two, from the top to the bottom.

IN THE T TURIN chapel, Bartholomew's hung body began levitating once again. Castle strained his eyes, but somehow a burst of radiant light that he did not understand began extruding from Bartholomew's wracked body. chapel, Bartholomew's hung body began levitating once again. Castle strained his eyes, but somehow a burst of radiant light that he did not understand began extruding from Bartholomew's wracked body.

Spellbound and unable to comprehend what they were experiencing, everyone in the room was equally frozen in a combination of wonder and fear. Castle's mind raced back to Dr. Bucholtz's comment that the image had been transferred to the Shroud in a blinding flash of almost pure light, s.h.i.+ning brilliantly. Could that be happening again?

Frantically, Ferrar's camera crew made sure they were capturing what was happening, both with the high-definition camera they had brought to doc.u.ment the Shroud and with their mobile equipment. Ferrar's heart beat rapidly. Whatever was happening, he was willing to bet the next few moments would make him famous worldwide.

Levitating now at the level of the Shroud, with his back to the Shroud, Father Bartholomew's body suddenly went horizontal, at a distance of about three feet above the floor. Instantly as he reached horizontal, a plane of pulsing blue light crossed through his body from head to toe, rotating him so he faced outward into the room, still completely levitated, with his back facing the Shroud.

Silently, Father Bartholomew's robe disappeared in a burst of radiance, leaving him completely naked. Bartholomew's left hand folded across his right hand, with the fingers modestly covering his pelvic area. All the wounds were now clearly visible on Bartholomew's tortured body. With Bartholomew levitated against the Shroud like that, the one-for-one ident.i.ty of the two bodies was unmistakable. Slowly Bartholomew's body rotated around the blue light plane that appeared to hold him in midair. The wounds on his backside were equally apparent to everyone in the room, as were their ident.i.ty to the dorsal wounds of the man in the Shroud.

Castle's mind raced to antic.i.p.ate what was going to happen next. Bucholtz had said an event horizon opened up in the tomb where Jesus had been laid to rest. She said the Shroud of Turin had rested above and below a levitating Jesus in the tomb, such that the burst of brilliant light that marked his pa.s.sing into the next dimension would leave no distortions in the image, negating the idea that the image had transferred from contact with the body. Castle realized Bartholomew's body was positioned for the transition.

The radiant light from the blue event horizon line began penetrating every square inch of Bartholomew's body; his body was transfiguring into a light-created being. Rapidly disappearing from sight were his flesh and blood. Almost imperceptibly, a rumbling noise arose as if from a distant horizon. Just then thunder could be heard in the hills outside Turin, and even though the windows in the private chapel had been covered to prevent light from entering, flashes of lightning seemed to penetrate the coverings and burst around the room.

Looking around, Castle could see that everyone in the room, including himself, was being covered with electricity that looked like the luminous plasma of St. Elmo's fire. It surrounded them and danced in a continuous coronal discharge from a source unseen.

Just then, Bartholomew's eyes opened and he called out to Anne what sounded like "Mother, please join me. We are returning home."

Puzzled at what Bartholomew meant, Castle looked to his side, where Anne had been quietly positioned since they entered the room. He was astounded to see her moving forward toward her brother, as if she were in a trance.

Looking at her closely, Castle could see that she too was levitating and that she was walking with her feet about one foot above the floor.

Castle strained his eyes to comprehend what he was seeing, but Anne seemed to have exchanged her twenty-first-century clothes for the veil and robes common to Jewish women two thousand years ago.

Bartholomew stretched out his hand to receive Anne. The moment the two touched, a burst of illumination filled the room. Castle and everyone else in the room felt the pulse pa.s.s through their bodies as if an electric shock had hit them. Forcibly, he and the others were thrown to the ground. The rumble of thunder and the flas.h.i.+ng of lightning filled the private chapel as if all Heaven had burst loose and its energy was pouring forth in waves pulsing through every cell of their bodies. For what seemed an eternity, the vibrations made every tissue of bone and muscle in Castle's body quiver as if he were going to burst apart.

Then, as quickly as the event began, it was over.

Gone was the brilliant illumination.

Gone also were Father Bartholomew and Anne Ca.s.sidy.

Those on the floor, including the pope and the cardinal, moved slowly, their bodies aching throughout from the surges that had penetrated them. Castle was beginning to understand they had been hit by translucent, pure impulses of irradiant energy.

"What happened?" was the inevitable question, with the only answer being the pathetically inadequate "I don't know."

Father Morelli was the first to recover sufficiently to notice the only tangible evidence of the transcendent phenomenon they had just experienced.

"Look," Morelli said, struggling to stand. "The Shroud-the image has gotten brighter."

Castle's immediate reaction was that the inexplicable splendor of pure light had rattled Morelli's brain. But then he looked for himself. Sure enough, Morelli was right. The reddish brown lines that had previously defined the image of the man on the Shroud faintly to the naked eye had darkened decidedly, showing much more definition in the figure. The wounds now stood out in great detail, and the anatomical features were also more visible.

But that was not all that had changed.

"And the eyes have opened," Father Middagh said with astonishment as he weaved back and forth, suggesting his ability to remain upright on his feet was very uncertain at best.

Castle thought Middagh had lost his mind, until he looked. Once again, Castle was astounded. Before, the eyes of the man in the Shroud had been closed. Now the eyes of the man in the Shroud were wide open, looking straight ahead. The once solemn and serene face now looked as if the Christ figure within were about to begin speaking.

Ferrar forced himself to his feet and rushed over to his camera crew. Reviewing the video, Ferrar saw they had recorded everything, including the illumination. "Keep taping." Ferrar encouraged the camera crew, doing his best to make sure the cameras were still running. Ferrar did not want to lose a second of anything that happened.

Positioning himself in front of the cameras, Ferrar began what would be his afternoon newscast a few hours from now, relayed by satellite from Rome to New York and from there broadcast to every corner of the globe.

"You won't believe what just happened," Ferrar said into the camera with a look of disbelief on his face.

Castle was sure that was correct. If it had not been recorded, no one would have believed it.

From what Castle was provisionally putting together, he was beginning to conclude that Father Bartholomew had won his challenge with the pope. What had just happened before them in this small, private chapel in the Cathedral of Turin was unprecedented, uncaptured in human history.

As best Castle could figure, Father Bartholomew had just transitioned into a dimension beyond and he had taken Anne with him. As Dr. Bucholtz had warned him, the Shroud of Turin was a codex into ancient mysteries he and others would have no choice but to decode. Even more than a codex, the Shroud was a portal, an entry point into the dimension beyond.

Looking within himself in those first moments after the event, Castle had to admit that he was now willing, for the first time in his life, to consider the possibility of G.o.d, or at least of the existence of dimensions he had never before contemplated as existing.

Maybe Father Bartholomew was right that creating an experience beyond what we consider the normal laws of nature, in full view of the world, was the mission G.o.d sent him back to earth to accomplish.

But if Castle thought, even for a second, that his religious conversion was going to be immediate, picking up Gabrielli off the floor was all he needed to plant his feet firmly once again on terra firma.

"That was the best magic trick that I ever saw in my life," Gabrielli said, brus.h.i.+ng himself off and rearranging his clothes. "How do you think the pope did it?"

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

Friday night Ha.s.sler Hotel, Rome, Italy Day 30 That evening, Dr. Castle returned to Rome in a daze.

He decided to go to the rooftop restaurant at the Ha.s.sler and have dinner by himself, hoping he would find the quiet time to sort out what he had just experienced.

Twilight was coming and the lights of the Vatican highlighted Rome with a magic that tonight he saw through different eyes. Perhaps Father Bartholomew had been right after all. Castle had always understood that religion could not be achieved by reason alone. Bartholomew was right in a.s.serting that Castle had never gone through an experience that required him to believe in G.o.d. For the first time in his life, Castle was wondering if he had just gone through that type of experience.

As he sipped his wine and tried to decide if he had the appet.i.te for dinner, the maitre d' approached him with a package.

"The signora you had dinner with here earlier this week left this package at the front desk for you today as she left the hotel," he explained. "She said you would probably be dining here alone tonight and she felt certain you would want to have this."

Befuddled, Castle tipped the maitre d' generously and accepted the package, having no possible idea what it might contain.

A purple ribbon bound the contents in wrapping paper Castle recognized from one of the shops he and Anne had visited in the past few days along the Via Condotti, just below the hotel on the Spanish Steps, at the Piazza di Spagna.

He opened the package with haste, finding within it a letter and a photo alb.u.m. The letter was from Anne.

"By the time you read this, I will be gone," Anne wrote. "What you must know is that I am and always was Paul Bartholomew's mother. After his car accident, when we were reunited before G.o.d, I promised that if Paul would accept the mission to return to life, I would return as well, to accompany him. So, you see, I invented Paul's half sister in order to explain my presence back in his life. Seeing me in the hospital, Paul recognized me immediately. But when Paul and I spoke with one another privately in the hospital, I explained to him how it had to be. I could not come back as his mother. Everyone knew I had died of Lou Gehrig's disease."

Castle took a drink of his wine, struggling to grasp what Anne was telling him.

"When the authorities investigate Anne Ca.s.sidy in Canada, they will find that Anne Ca.s.sidy never existed. Obtaining doc.u.mentation such as a pa.s.sport these days is unfortunately easy to do."

Reading this, Castle motioned the waiter over to the table and asked for a double scotch, no ice. "Please bring it immediately," Castle told the waiter. "I need it now."

"Subito," the waiter said compliantly in perfect, crisp Italian, as he rushed off to bring Dr. Castle his drink. the waiter said compliantly in perfect, crisp Italian, as he rushed off to bring Dr. Castle his drink.

The waiter rushed back with the scotch, as ordered. Castle took a strong swig, then another.

He resumed reading.

"The photo alb.u.m is Paul's photo alb.u.m, from when he was a baby. You will see there is no father for Paul in any of the photographs. You will see that the woman you knew as Anne Ca.s.sidy is the same woman that appears in the photos as Paul's mother, Anne Bartholomew. There never was a Vietnam War hero named Jonathan Bartholomew who returned mysteriously from being missing in action. What I portrayed about being Paul's sister also required me to make up the story about Matthew Ca.s.sidy. There also never was a father who took me to Canada when he learned my mother had always loved the soldier who never existed. When you find Paul's birth certificate, you will find the father is listed as unknown. You can search for Paul's father if you want, but that is a secret I plan to share with you in the afterlife, when we are reunited in the presence of G.o.d."

Castle finished the scotch and ordered another. It was beginning to look to him like he might end up drinking his dinner that night.

"I know you do not believe in G.o.d," she wrote. "I am sure it will take you time, maybe even years, to sort out and understand the events of the last month. I only wish I could be there to a.s.sist you."

Thanks a lot, Castle thought, reading that. When he had accepted Paul Bartholomew as a patient, Castle truly had no idea what he was getting himself into.

"Paul's destiny was to decipher the Shroud codex for the world. Paul struggled to find G.o.d in an equation, until he gave up the idea and decided to be a priest. Professor Gabrielli will try to convince the world that my disappearing with Paul was an elaborate trick. Dr. Bucholtz will understand that we transitioned through what she calls an 'event horizon' to another dimension people have called 'Heaven' for millennia, dating back to the writing of the Bible. You will have to decide for yourself what you have seen with your own eyes, from the first moment you met Paul in your office."

For Castle, the idea was beginning to settle in. Anne was either delusional or the entire experience with Bartholomew would have to be explained in mystical terms Castle considered suspect by nature.

"Had things been different, we might have been lovers," she wrote. "If you believe what Dr. Bucholtz told us about parallel worlds, in another time in another dimension, we might yet be lovers. The care you took to include me and provide for my comfort was noticed and appreciated. The affection I saw you express for me, I felt for you in return."

Castle asked the waiter to return to his table. He asked the waiter to bring him one more scotch, but he had also decided to have dinner. "Let me see the menu," Castle asked politely.

Castle paged through the photo alb.u.m. The mother with the baby Paul Bartholomew was unmistakably the woman he knew as Anne Ca.s.sidy.

"Know that I and Paul are eternally grateful for all you have done for us both," Anne wrote in conclusion. "You became part of our destiny the moment you accepted Paul as your patient."

She signed her name simply, in the same firm hand with which she had written the letter.

Castle knew he had a lot of thinking to do, but one thing was certain. He needed some distance to gain perspective. He took out his cell phone and called Gabrielli.

Castle began a little tentatively. "Marco, I've been doing some thinking since we got back from Turin."

"And what have you concluded?" Gabrielli asked, having no idea where his friend and a.s.sociate was headed.

"Maybe you should write that book about the Shroud on your own," Castle suggested. "I'm not sure I'm ready to be your coauthor."

Gabrielli thought quickly. He was not about to let go of the opportunity of a lifetime to debunk the Catholic Church. "Well, I will miss your help," he said, "but I guess that just means more royalties for me."

Castle agreed, said good-bye, and wished his friend good luck.

The next call he made was to Norman Rothschild, the venerated psychiatrist who had brought Castle into the profession. It was afternoon in New York and Rothschild answered the phone when he recognized Castle's name showing up on his caller ID.

"How's Rome?" Rothschild asked.

"A little more interesting than I had antic.i.p.ated," Castle answered.