She had nodded. “A location surrounded by the seas.”
And now here we are.
The village of Mellieha sat at the edge of the bay pointed out by the spinning diamond-shaped orb. Months of further study had refined their search, pointing to this parish’s ancient church.
She studied the stone façade, rising into a tall belltower. Several clues suggested this might be the best location to begin their search. The Sanctuary of Our Lady of Mellieha had been a stable presence on the island going back to the fifteenth century, built into a massive cave. Geological studies also showed the whole region was burrowed with additional caverns. And only steps away from this courtyard, a revered grotto held a freshwater spring that was said to have healing properties.
It seemed the perfect location to hide the Temple of Water.
But am I right?
77
11:08 a.m.
Sharyn pushed through the main doors of the church and entered a hall lined by petitions, prayers, and votives. As her group passed through in respectful silence, she noted the walls were a mix of masonry and natural limestone. She ran a fingertip along the chipped stone, noting its similarity to the handiwork found inside the Dolomite bunker.
It was a reminder that the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Mellieha had started out as a natural cave. According to legend, the grotto had been a place of worship for Calypso, the nymph from Homer’sOdyssey. Then in AD 60, St. Paul and St. Luke were shipwrecked here and consecrated it as a Christian site, with Luke painting the image of the Madonna and Christ child on the cavern wall.
No one had proof of such stories, but the site had remained a place of Christian worship for centuries, with the church itself going through many renovations, while still rooted in the original sacred cave.
“We’re already late,” Archie warned, leading the way.
They were scheduled to meet the parish priest in the church’s main sanctuary. Archie’s father had arranged a special dispensation to allow them to explore the deeper reaches beneath the church. The Vatican—already humbled and seeking to atone for a certain cardinal—had facilitated matters.
Archie waved them brusquely through the door into the main nave. Wooden pews lined both sides. Overhead, high windows in the barrel-domed roof shone with sunlight, which reflected brightly off the marble walls.
Ahead, a figure dressed all in black with a clerical collar stood by the altar. He lifted an arm in greeting.
“That must be our guy.” Archie set off to meet him, drawing their group with him. Once close enough, he called to the priest. “Monsinjur Vella, grazzi talli akkomodajtna.”
Sharyn looked to Duncan. “He speaks Maltese, too?”
Duncan shrugged. “Only because he knew we were coming here. He’s a quick study.”
Archie made their introductions, then conversed quietly with the monsignor, finalizing their arrangements.
Sharyn used this moment to study the sanctuary. With Easter approaching, the altar had been decorated with lilies and palm fronds. Candles burned everywhere. The scent of frankincense and myrrh lingered in the air. She had always found the smoking censers used in formal Masses to be cloying, but now it stirred memories.
During her winter break, she had returned home to Tulsa and attended a midnight service on Christmas Eve with her mother. It was a ceremony full of pomp and singing and moments of quieter contemplation. Following everything that had happened, Sharyn found solace and comfort in such rituals, something she had never felt before.
Afterward, as a light snow began to fall, she and her mother had visited her father’s grave in the neighboring cemetery. Her mother had gripped Sharyn’s hand, both to hold her there and to thank her. Sharyn had never visited this spot, not since the funeral. But it was time. She was ready. She asked her mother for a moment of privacy. Once alone, she placed a single red rose on his gravestone, the crimson petals stark against the white snow.
The gesture was not an act of forgiveness, or even an offering of thanks for giving her the tools necessary to survive. Instead, the gesture was simply a start, the first step toward peace—for herself.
“We’re ready,” Archie said, drawing her attention.
She focused back on the altar, noting the curve of raw rock framed behind it. It was part of the church’s original cave. A Byzantine-style fresco adorned its wall, depicting the Virgin Mary holding the Christ child. But it was not the one painted by St. Luke. This one dated to the twelfth or thirteenth century. Still, many miracles had been attributed with it.
Let’s hope it can spare one more.
78
11:22 a.m.
Duncan followed Monsignor Vella, a middle-aged man with sparkling eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. He led the group out a side door, through a sacristy, and into a maze of small chambers cut into the limestone.
Vella waved as they passed through, switching to English. “Back in the eighteenth century, Manuel Pinto da Fonseca, the sixty-eighth Grand Master of Malta, had this excavated to accommodate his visits to our parish. Many other pilgrims also sought such quiet spaces for contemplation.”
