By Wakefield Mahon
The stale crypt air, what there was if it, wrenched Caitlyn’s stomach. “The funk of forty thousand years...” She tried to grin but nausea transformed her expression to a grimace.
“You’re being melodramatic again.” Jean-Marie wrinkled her nose but willed her queasiness into submission. “It’s only been two thousand years and we don’t have a choice.”
“I don’t recall complaining. I just noted that it stinks.” Caitlyn swept the room with her flashlight. Cobwebs and mold, some things had managed to survive down here. “What are we looking for anyway?”
“The most important relic in church history,” Jean-Marie said.
“Alright, but wouldn’t that be with Peter’s remains in the catacombs under the Basilica?”
“Peter was the most important?” Jean-Marie raised her eyebrow. “After all I’ve taught you, you still believe the Church would share the whole truth with the public?”
“So you expect me to believe they just leave them in some unguarded place and hope no one ever finds them?”
An inferno sprung up in front of Caitlyn from the midst of the flames, she saw something like a sword.
“The Master says that I shall not die until he returns again in glory!”
The flames subsided and the sword disappeared.
“I’m so confused. Who are you?”
“Peter and my brother James amused themselves by calling me John because my father nicknamed me Joanna. I guess you could say it stuck.”
“So you are the apostle John?”
“You could say that.” She broke open the cross in the apostle’s hand and removed a simple wooden ring. Somehow it remained undefiled in the moisture and rot. She kissed the ring and placed the ring on her finger. “My proper name, however, was Mary… Of Magdala Nunayya , to be specific. And my wedding day is finally upon us.