Free The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown Page B

nor what mighty hand was trembling the mortar of his stone cell, but as he jumped to his feet, a large boulder toppled onto the very spot where he had been sleeping. Looking up to see where the stone had come from, he saw a hole in the trembling wall, and beyond it, a vision he had not seen in over ten years. The moon.
    Even while the earth still shook, the ghost found himself scrambling through a narrow tunnel, staggering out into an expansive vista, and tumbling down a barren mountainside into the woods. He ran all night, always downward, delirious with hunger and exhaustion.
    Skirting the edges of consciousness, he found himself at dawn in a clearing where train tracks cut a swath across the forest. Following the rails, he moved on as if dreaming. Seeing an empty freight car, he crawled in for shelter and rest. When he awoke the train was moving.
How long? How far?
A pain was growing in his gut.
Am I dying?
He slept again. This time he awoke to someone yelling, beating him, throwing him out of the freight car. Bloody, he wandered the outskirts of a small village looking in vain for food. Finally, his body too weak to take another step, he lay down by the side of the road and slipped into unconsciousness.
    The light came slowly, and the ghost wondered how long he had been dead.
A day? Three days?
It didn't matter. His bed was soft like a cloud, and the air around him smelled sweet with candles. Jesus was there, staring down at him.
I am here,
Jesus said.
The stone has been rolled aside, and you are born again.
    He slept and awoke. Fog shrouded his thoughts. He had never believed in heaven, and yet Jesus was watching over him. Food appeared beside his bed, and the ghost ate it, almost able to feel the flesh materializing on his bones. He slept again. When he awoke, Jesus was still smiling down, speaking.
You are saved, my son. Blessed are those who follow my path
.
    Again, he slept.
    It was a scream of anguish that startled the ghost from his slumber. His body leapt out of bed, staggered down a hallway toward the sounds of shouting. He entered into a kitchen and saw a large man beating a smaller man. Without knowing why, the ghost grabbed the large man and hurled him backward against a wall. The man fled, leaving the ghost standing over the body of a young man in priest's robes. The priest had a badly shattered nose. Lifting the bloody priest, the ghost carried him to a couch.
    “Thank you, my friend,” the priest said in awkward French. “The offertory money is tempting for thieves. You speak French in your sleep. Do you also speak Spanish?”
    The ghost shook his head.
    “What is your name?” he continued in broken French.
    The ghost could not remember the name his parents had given him. All he heard were the taunting gibes of the prison guards.
    The priest smiled. “
No hay problema
. My name is Manuel Aringarosa. I am a missionary from Madrid. I was sent here to build a church for the Obra de Dios.”
    “Where am I?” His voice sounded hollow.
    “Oviedo. In the north of Spain.”
    “How did I get here?”
    “Someone left you on my doorstep. You were ill. I fed you. You've been here many days.”
    The ghost studied his young caretaker. Years had passed since anyone had shown any kindness. “Thank you, Father.”
    The priest touched his bloody lip. “It is I who am thankful, my friend.”
    When the ghost awoke in the morning, his world felt clearer. He gazed up at the crucifix on the wall above his bed. Although it no longer spoke to him, he felt a comforting aura in its presence. Sitting up, he was surprised to find a newspaper clipping on his bedside table. The article was in French, a week old. When he read the story, he filled with fear. It told of an earthquake in the mountains that had destroyed a prison and freed many dangerous criminals.
    His heart began pounding.
The priest knows who I am!
The emotion he felt was one he had not felt for some time. Shame. Guilt. It was accompanied by the fear of being