"He was quoting Revelations all the way. The poem was taken from the Book of Revelations."

"From the Eternal Sea He rises .. ." Thorn fought to remember more.

"Here's the point, Thorn," said Jennings, pointing to his book. "It says that the Caucus of International Theological Sciences has interpreted the 'Eternal Sea' to mean the world of politics. The Sea that constantly rages with the turmoil and revolution."

Jennings gazed hard into Thorn's eyes.

"The Devil's child will rise from the world of politics," he declared.

Thorn did not respond, his eyes turning toward the slowly brightening landscape.

The Monastery of San Benedetto was in a state of semidecay, but the massive fortress made of stone retained its strength and dignity even as the elements began to reclaim it. It had stood on its mountain in the southern Italian countryside for centuries and had withstood many sieges. At the outset of World War II, all the monks within were shot by invading German forces who used it as their headquarters. In 1946 it was mortared by the Italians themselves, as retribution for the evil work that had gone on within.

Yet for all of the earthly onslaughts upon it, San Benedetto was a holy place; stark and gothic upon its hill, the sound of religious prayer had echoed off its walls throughout the centuries, rising upward from the very vaults of history.

As the small mud-splattered cab pulled up the road along its half-mile frontage the occupants within were asleep; the cabdriver had to reach back and jostle them into wakefulness.

"Signorir*

As Thorn stirred, Jennings lowered his window and breathed the morning air, gazing across the fresh and dampened landscape.

"San Benedetto," mumbled the weary driver.

Thorn rubbed his eyes, focusing on the starkly silhouetted monastery framed against an angry reddish morning sky.

"Just look at that..." whispered Jennings with awe.

"Can't we get any closer?" asked Thorn.

The driver shook his head.

"Apparently not," concluded Jennings.

Instructing the driver to pull over and get some sleep, they headed out on foot, and were soon waist-high in tall grass that soaked their pant-legs to the thigh. The going was rough and they were not dressed for it; their clothes bound them as they struggled across the field. Breathing hard in the overwhelming silence, Jennings paused and unsnapped his camera case, shooting off a half roll of pictures.

"Incredible," he whispered. "In-fucking-credible."

Thorn glanced back impatiently and Jennings hurried to catch up; together they walked forward, listening to their breath in the stillness, and to the distant sound of chanting that came, like a constant moan, from within.

"There's a lot of sadness here," said Jennings as they reached the entranceway. "Just listen to it. Listen to the pain."

It was awesome; the monotonous chant seemed to emanate from the very walls of the stone corridors and archways, as they walked slowly inside, gazing around in the emptiness, attempting to trace the source of the prayer.