Chapter 2 – The Bookbinder’s Signet
Piedmont Region, Italy
Early August, Current Year
The Anarchist felt, more than heard, the words: “Find it. Finish it.”
The voices swelled inside at his next turn as he realized he was lost. He felt the ruin and confusion. “It’s not here!” The Anarchist screeched.
He had been assigned to the Piedmont region, and mainly in the Pellice Valley. He was possessed by the same longing that drove all who formed The Anarchist: a consuming passion to rid the world of anything that spoke of the God of the Bible. The voices in his mind consistently manipulated him during his assignments; at times, a mind-dominating oppression better described the relationship. His mind bordered on insanity without the voices; but when they spoke, he focused. He couldn’t imagine life without the voices and his soul’s craving was to do their will; they demanded both success and obedience. At the moment, the voices screamed and pressured him to prevail.
“Find the road…the gate…the church! It has to be here…You have remove the gift on the wall away from eyes so gullible… so easily deceived,” they urged.
His long face and wide lips twisted in his fury. He was used to the dialog by now. The voices inside demanded subservience; but he knew they were right. “The message in the canvas cannot, it will not see the light of day,” the voices resolved. “What the enemy depicts as Good News must not be exposed to the gullible again, ever. Bury it…bury it all!”
The Anarchist rehearsed the steps he took to get to this village. He tried to find where he became lost. The message in the text last week mapped it all for him; which side streets to take, where to park, how to enter the church in the dark. He’d gassed up the Mercedes-Benz box van in preparation for this night. The drive into the little no-name village was easy. What was it called? Pradi? Prali? Yes. That was it. Prali. Such an insignificant place, he thought, for the enemy to display his wretched pictures. But the message was everywhere he went. Especially in the buildings they infest. The voices insisted he find this church. This building that The Anarchist knew was so void of meaning. They were wise, the voices; and he listened. They made him strong. Bold. Heroic. Unconquerable.
The next turn narrowed as it coiled around ancient buildings. The GPS lost signal. “What was the street? Ghigosomething?” He asked the voices. Panic intensified. Then he found it. Frazione Ghigo. He cut the lights and eased to a stop just beyond and across from the side security gate.
“They trust too much, these Christians, these curators of their message,” he said aloud as he snuck beside the unlocked gate. It was unguarded. “Well-done,” the voices drove him on. The latch clicked open, the gate hinges barely creaked. If it was a treasure like they boasted, they would secure it. But not here. Not in this village. Their carelessness was another reason to reject their fairy stories. “It’s why we must succeed,” he thought. “We will succeed…it will be taken. Destroyed. The story…destroyed. Silenced. Forever.” The voices reinforced his instructions, “Shroud it in darkness. Bury it for all time, never to be seen, never to deceive anyone again. And then we will rule. In the end. We rule what’s left.”
The veil of darkness gave him the confidence to slide through the gate, around the hedge of bay laurel and quickly past the garden’s single overhead light. He was sure he could go anywhere. He looked both ways, then tested the door. It was the oldest door and oldest lock he’d ever seen, old and weak. Just like the tired and puny messenger they claim for their god. Locks didn’t matter though. He took the glass cutter from his pocket and scratched a line into the window to the left of the door. He pulled out the plastic packaging tape and followed the line etched into the glass. Then, with a thin pry-bar, he tapped the outline until, with a few clinks, it broke. The sound of the breaking glass meant he was all but inside the museum. He felt a surge of excitement, followed by panic.
Fear rushed in. He listened, for what? An alarm? A random villager? Someone just beyond the shadows? All was quiet except the rapid pounding in his ears, and the voices: “Well done, so far.”
He was destined to succeed. He knew the voices were pleased. He reached through the gaping hole in the window, toward the door and the lock. He cut his arm on the sharp glass. Blood. No matter. Blood for the cause. Blood for the victory. After four turns of the bolt, the door opened, and he was in.
He found the room with the repulsive art upstairs just like the message earlier instructed. Mostly ancient maps and old portraits filled the walls. Then he saw it. The frame that held the drawing was to the left. His head tilted as he stared. He forced memories from the past deep inside. “Go deeper,” he demanded of the feelings. Beyond remembering. He paused before the artwork. He saw the three faces at the table. He knew these faces, or who they represented: the deceiver and the deceived. And there was his hero, Judas, looking on, with his hand on the supper table.
Anger raged just below the surface as he hesitated, torn in his soul; then he ripped the ancient artwork from the wall. He wrenched it from its frame and folded it roughly along the ancient lines long fixed and he turned to go. Halfway to the door, the voices shouted. “Go back,” they said. “Let them know. Leave the mark. Let them fear who we are. Declare the war. Say the name with the sign. We are Anarchist.”