Origin

His previous life seemed a world away now, having ended in a fiery flash in Seville. Fate was a cruel and unpredictable mistress, and yet there seemed an eerie equilibrium about her now. The same fate that had torn out his soul in the Cathedral of Seville had now granted him a second life—a fresh start born within the sanctuary walls of a very different cathedral.

Ironically, the person who had taken him there was a simple physical therapist named Marco.

“A meeting with the pope?” Ávila had asked his trainer months ago, when Marco first proposed the idea. “Tomorrow? In Rome?”

“Tomorrow in Spain,” Marco had replied. “The pope is here.”

Ávila eyed him as if he were crazy. “The media have said nothing about His Holiness being in Spain.”

“A little trust, Admiral,” Marco replied with a laugh. “Unless you’ve got somewhere else to be tomorrow?”

Ávila glanced down at his injured leg.

“We’ll leave at nine,” Marco prompted. “I promise our little trip will be far less painful than rehab.”

The next morning, Ávila got dressed in a navy uniform that Marco had retrieved from Ávila’s home, grabbed a pair of crutches, and hobbled out to Marco’s car—an old Fiat. Marco drove out of the hospital lot and headed south on Avenida de la Raza, eventually leaving the city and getting on Highway N-IV heading south.

“Where are we going?” Ávila asked, suddenly uneasy.

“Relax,” Marco said, smiling. “Just trust me. It’ll only take half an hour.”

Ávila knew there was nothing but parched pastureland on the N-IV for at least another 150 kilometers. He was beginning to think he had made a terrible mistake. Half an hour into the journey, they approached the eerie ghost town of El Torbiscal—a once prosperous farming village whose population had recently dwindled to zero. Where in the world is he taking me?! Marco drove on for several minutes, then exited the highway and turned north.

“Can you see it?” Marco asked, pointing into the distance across a fallow field.

Ávila saw nothing. Either the young trainer was hallucinating or Ávila’s eyes were getting old.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Marco declared.

Ávila squinted into the sun, and finally saw a dark form rising out of the landscape. As they drew closer, his eyes widened in disbelief.

Is that … a cathedral?

The scale of the building looked like something he might expect to see in Madrid or Paris. Ávila had lived in Seville his entire life but had never known of a cathedral out here in the middle of nowhere. The closer they drove, the more impressive the complex appeared, its massive cement walls providing a level of security that Ávila had seen only in Vatican City.

Marco left the main highway and drove along a short access road toward the cathedral, approaching a towering iron gate that blocked their way. As they came to a stop, Marco pulled a laminated card from the glove box and placed it on the dashboard.

A security guard approached, eyed the card, and then peered into the vehicle, smiling broadly when he saw Marco. “Bienvenidos,” the guard said. “¿Qué tal, Marco?”

The two men shook hands, and Marco introduced Admiral Ávila.

“Ha venido a conocer al papa,” Marco told the guard. He’s come to meet the pope.

The guard nodded, admiring the medals on Ávila’s uniform, and waved them on. As the huge gate swung open, Ávila felt like he was entering a medieval castle.

The soaring Gothic cathedral that appeared before them had eight towering spires, each with a triple-tiered bell tower. A trio of massive cupolas made up the body of the structure, the exterior of which was composed of dark brown and white stone, giving it an unusually modern feel.

Ávila lowered his gaze to the access road, which forked into three parallel roadways, each lined with a phalanx of tall palm trees. To his surprise, the entire area was jammed with parked vehicles—hundreds of them—luxury sedans, dilapidated buses, mud-covered mopeds … everything imaginable.

Marco bypassed them all, driving straight to the church’s front courtyard, where a security guard saw them, checked his watch, and waved them into an empty parking spot that had clearly been reserved for them.

“We’re a little late,” Marco said. “We should hurry inside.”

Ávila was about to reply, but the words were lodged in his throat.

He had just seen the sign in front of the church:

IGLESIA CATÓLICA PALMARIANA

My God! Ávila felt himself recoil. I’ve heard of this church!

He turned to Marco, trying to control his pounding heart. “This is your church, Marco?” Ávila tried not to sound alarmed. “You’re a … Palmarian?”

Marco smiled. “You say the word like it’s some kind of disease. I’m just a devout Catholic who believes that Rome has gone astray.”

Ávila raised his eyes again to the church. Marco’s strange claim about knowing the pope suddenly made sense. The pope is here in Spain.