The Da Vinci Code

You are as white as a ghost, the inmates ridiculed as the guards marched him in, naked and cold. 
Mira el espectro! Perhaps the ghost will pass right through these walls!
Over the course of twelve years, his flesh and soul withered until he knew he had become 
transparent.
I am a ghost.
I am weightless.
Yo soy un espectro... palido coma una fantasma... caminando este mundo a solas.
One night the ghost awoke to the screams of other inmates. He didn't know what invisible force 
was shaking the floor on which he slept, 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 

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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."

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"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 caught. He jumped from his 
bed. Where do I run?
"The Book of Acts," a voice said from the door.
The ghost turned, frightened.
The young priest was smiling as he entered. His nose was awkwardly bandaged, and he was 
holding out an old Bible. "I found one in French for you. The chapter is marked."
Uncertain, the ghost took the Bible and looked at the chapter the priest had marked.
Acts 16.
The verses told of a prisoner named Silas who lay naked and beaten in his cell, singing hymns to 
God. When the ghost reached Verse 26, he gasped in shock.
"...And suddenly, there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken, 
and all the doors fell open."
His eyes shot up at the priest.
The priest smiled warmly. "From now on, my friend, if you have no other name, I shall call you 
Silas."
The ghost nodded blankly. Silas. He had been given flesh. My name is Silas.

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"It's time for breakfast," the priest said. "You will need your strength if you are to help me build 
this church."
Twenty thousand feet above the Mediterranean, Alitalia flight 1618 bounced in turbulence, causing 
passengers to shift nervously. Bishop Aringarosa barely noticed. His thoughts were with the future 
of Opus Dei. Eager to know how plans in Paris were progressing, he wished he could phone Silas. 
But he could not. The Teacher had seen to that.
"It is for your own safety," the Teacher had explained, speaking in English with a French accent. "I 
am familiar enough with electronic communications to know they can be intercepted. The results 
could be disastrous for you."
Aringarosa knew he was right. The Teacher seemed an exceptionally careful man. He had not 
revealed his own identity to Aringarosa, and yet he had proven himself a man well worth obeying. 
After all, he had somehow obtained very secret information. The names of the brotherhood's four 
top members! This had been one of the coups that convinced the bishop the Teacher was truly 
capable of delivering the astonishing prize he claimed he could unearth.
"Bishop," the Teacher had told him, "I have made all the arrangements. For my plan to succeed, 
you must allow Silas to answer only to me for several days. The two of you will not speak. I will 
communicate with him through secure channels."
"You will treat him with respect?"
"A man of faith deserves the highest."
"Excellent. Then I understand. Silas and I shall not speak until this is over."
"I do this to protect your identity, Silas's identity, and my investment."
"Your investment?"
"Bishop, if your own eagerness to keep abreast of progress puts you in jail, then you will be unable 
to pay me my fee."
The bishop smiled. "A fine point. Our desires are in accord. Godspeed."
Twenty million euro, the bishop thought, now gazing out the plane's window. The sum was 
approximately the same number of U.S. dollars. A pittance for something so powerful.
He felt a renewed confidence that the Teacher and Silas would not fail. Money and faith were 

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powerful motivators.