Bes and Mara lean in.
“What do they mean?” Mara wonders.
“I don’t know…” More etchings above the stones appear to be written in German, which I say aloud, hoping someone will translate: “Die Wahrheit wird herauskommen.”
Cec responds immediately. “Truth will out.”
Okay, truth will out.I move back to the symbols. The top three, from left to right, are: a cross with a crown in the middle, a crescent moon with a star beside it, and a triangle pointing to the right with three horizontal stripes.
I mutter: “These are about Saint Nicholas.”
Cec groans. “Are we honestly trying to solve a puzzle about Santa Claus?”
I gently slap his arm with the back of my hand.
“Does it matter?” Mara asks, an impatient bite to her words. “Why can’t we pick a symbol, and if it’s not right, choose another one?”
Bes shakes his head. “We have no idea what’ll happen if we choose incorrectly.” He takes a step closer and narrows his gaze on the symbols. “How did you manage to guess Saint Nicholas?”
“This is his church, after all,” I argue. “Saint Nicholas was born in Turkey, and he died in Turkey”—I point to the crescent moon and star—“but he was actually Greek.” I point to the cross and crown. “And he famously lived for a time in Palestine, in a crypt near Bethlehem.” I gesture at the sideways triangle. “They’re not the flags from his time, but they would be the flags of those same nations during the Great War, when this tunnel was built.”
“Brilliant,” Bes breathes. Despite all that’s going on, pleasure warms my cheeks.
“Given the focus on flags, the truth of it must be where he was born, not his ancestry.” I push the Turkish symbol—the square rock gives and something clicks in the wall, but no key appears, nor does the door unlock on its own. I pull on the handle, but it doesn’t budge.Worth a shot.
“Truth will out,” I repeat, moving down to the bottom three symbols.
These appear to be the shapes of countries, which it would’ve taken me a lot longer to figure out if not for the boot of Italy clearly being the one on the very right.
My hand hovers over the shape of what I recognize to be the country of Turkey on the very left, while also noticing three wave-like symbols between them. “Saint Nicholas was the Bishop of Myra in Turkey. That’s where he doled out most of his so-called miracles, and his tomb has been there for centuries.”
Bes cuts in. “But his bones were stolen by Italian merchants and brought to Bari, a seaside town near the heel. Without that, his fame would’ve never spread through Europe.”
I didn’t know that.“And what about these waves?”
Cec chimes in. “I’ve got this one: when he traveled to visit Bethlehem, his ship ran into an awful storm and was nearly destroyed. Legend says he sent the waves away by praying to God. That’s how he became the patron saint of sailors and travelers.”
“What’s the truth, then?” I wonder.
Mara leans in. “It must be Turkey. The waves feel like a distraction from the other two, and Turkey is where he spent most of his life. Some of his bones were even left behind in Myra.”
Odd, but good enough for me.“Turkey, then.”
“Wait.” Cec holds up a hand. “Once the remains were entombed at Myra, they supposedly exuded a substance thought to have the ability to heal. The miracle stayed with the remains that were transferred to Bari.”
I press my thumb into the center of my forehead. “That muddies things.”
Mara cuts in. “My understanding is his bones didn’t secrete anything until they moved them to Italy.”
“Then the truth must be in the miracle of his bones… Italy, it is?”
I take no answer as a yes. My hand presses into the shape of Italy—but nothing happens.
I growl. “Dammit.”
Then, something else clicks in the wall, cranking and whirring. I still, pulse pounding as I wait for a booby trap of some kind to be set off. But nothing happens.
Just when I think the only consequence of hitting the wrong symbol is having to take the time to choose again, another mechanism clangs loudly elsewhere within the tunnel.
