A Lenda do Preste João

Parangimalai The Saint Thomas Mount Chola Kingdom 52 Anno Domini Judas Thomas Didymus had heard every story twice over in the nineteen years since he earned the nickname “Doubting Thomas”, but he also knew he was the first to recant his disbelief and swear allegiance. Even younger, keener eyes will struggle to see a miracle at first glance, he constantly reminded himself all these years later.

Shortly after Jesus ascended to Heaven, some 40 days after his resurrection, some 36 or 37 days after Thomas had felt wounds that had healed over Jesus’ palms and foot, fell to his knees, and uttered the famous words “My lord and my God.” Following this, he received a vision that sent him on a mission to the subcontinent, to bring the glory of God and Christianity to the East. He soon departed Galilee on an arduous eastward journey.

Along that trek, he felt haunted by Jesus’ words. Thomas the Apostle knew deep in his heart that Jesus loved him and he loved thee, but as always, that little inkling of doubt was finding a way to creep back around the edges of his subconscious. He dreamt at night, most nights, that when he went to see Jesus again, wounds from the crucifixion were hemorrhaging blood that couldn’t be staunched. He watched in abject horror as the blood drained from Jesus’ body and disappeared into the cold earth, swallowed up by Lucifer himself.

“Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.”

Doubting Thomas. Those words, that name, rolled around in his head like the murky Arabian sea they had spent nearly a month traversing. That was followed by another full month moving through drylands, and dense jungle before finally coming into the Chola Kingdom. Most of Thomas' time during this journey was spent recounting those words in his head—Jesus’ sweet voice, soft and commanding all at once.

It was in the Chola Kingdom, along modern-day India’s eastern coast that Thomas found himself at home. He preached the word of Jesus and God daily, slowly but surely bringing more sheep under his flock. He knew they were truly blessed because unlike him they had believed without having seen. Despite Jesus’ unwavering forgiveness, it continued to eat Thomas up inside. However, also taking up precious real estate in his mind was that he was making a difference in the Chola Kingdom. He was turning heretics into believers, and what could be better in life than turning souls away from Hell and to the Kingdom of Heaven?

So it was then that he spent many evenings writing letters to find their way back west to Judea and further reaches of the Roman Empire. He wrote of finding a great kingdom of wealth and powerful, devout people. He wrote of a populace that was not the savage natives anyone who had ventured east had returned claiming. He found them lovely people, accepting Jesus Christ as their lord and savior. To him, this meant they were good people. People of faith.

Thomas the Apostle’s letters of this great kingdom would eventually be lost to time, as nearly all things are, but the whispers of a great Christian king in the West would persist for centuries. His legend would live on forever as one of the 12 Apostles of Jesus. Stories of his exploits would be told in stories for centuries, but it took nearly a thousand years for the whispers to get louder. ✞✟✞✟✞ The City of the World’s Desire Constantinopolis, Byzantine Empire 1165 Anno Domini The Most Blessed Emperor of Constantinopolis, the Latin-speaking world claimed of Manuel I Komnenos. He had spent the first twenty years of his reign attempting to reunite western and eastern Rome, the last Emperor to try and do so. His fiercely loyal secretary John Kimmanos wrote legendary tales of Manuel I, calling him nothing short of the Paragon of All Virtues. Manuel himself had been largely inspired by the Western Crusaders of the time, even vowing to protect Outremer and their holds in the Levant, including the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

Manuel I was also a longtime admirer of Thomas the Apostle and a third-century work known as The Acts of Thomas, which were mostly tall tales of Thomas’ mission to the Indian subcontinent. The one story that had stuck with him was the great Christian kingdom in the East, and for years Manuel I had been convinced that it had been in India. Still, countless travelers sent along the Silk Road had turned up empty, and though his faith hadn’t completely waned, he was near enough to give up on this dream completely, until a loud knocking came against the door of his bed chambers.

“Enter!” The Emperor's voice was worn and weary but contained a gravitas that commanded respect.

The door slowly creaked open and John Kimmanos entered hastily, clutching a sealed letter in his aging, gnarled hands. He smiled and trembled with excitement as he handed it to his liege.

“Who is this from?” Manuel I asked, his eyes squinting at a seal he didn’t recognize.

Kimmanos’ lips parted slowly, showing a row of graying teeth. “The courier tells me it is from a man claiming to be John, Christian Sovereign and Lord of Lords.”

Manuel I turned to face his longtime secretary, his weary eyes as big as saucers. “Presbyter Ioannes?” He asked in a hushed tone, almost as if he were afraid the ghosts of Byzantine emperors past would hear the words.

Kimmanos nodded and Manuel I cracked apart the wax seal and opened the parchment. His eyes widened once more as he read about a great kingdom in the Central Asian steppes, a gargantuan palace made of gold and gems, and the claims he led a great Christian nation that extended from Persia to China. Much like the stories in The Acts of Thomas, Manuel I took this letter immediately to heart, never once questioning its source or the veracity of the claims within.

The Emperor began sending small parties eastward into the steppes, and they either came back with no news of the great kingdom, or not at all. The letter was spread west, and translated into numerous languages including Hebrew, and the legend continued to grow, twist, contort, and take on a life of its own. Only a short few years after Manuel I read the letter, Pope Alexander III sent word East himself, but never received a return letter from the fabled Christian priest-king. ✟✞✟✞✟ Further Assorted Legends The Mongol Empire and Ethiopia 1200-1500 Anno Domini The legend of Presbyter Ioannes continued to grow, first stretching to the Mongol Empire, and the safety of that Empire led all sorts of missionaries, treasure hunters, and adventurers to seek out the fabled king in the East. However, no matter how much any of the leading minds of the age wanted to believe, there was no Presbyter Ioannes among the Mongol Empire or the Tatar states.

As the Mongol states began to fracture and become their khanates, the legend shifted southwest to Ethiopia. It had long been known that the great kings of Abyssinia practiced the Christian faith as Coptics, and being surrounded by Muslim states lent a certain amount of credence to the rumors the famed Christian king might be in Africa, rather than India or the central Asian Steppe.

It was the Portuguese who were the most convinced of this legend, going so far as to demand that Ethiopian king Zara Yaqob’s representatives at the Council of Florence refer to their own king as Prester John. They spent time and energy insisting that Zara Yaqob had never gone by such a name, but the Roman Catholics continued to press it. They thought they had found the man from the legend they were looking for in Ethiopia. The Iberians were so convinced, much as Manuel I had been, that the Kings of Aragon explored the possibility of a royal marriage between the two kingdoms.

As all grand plans built on non-existent legends, these relationships eventually fell apart and by the wayside, much like the legend of Presbyter Ioannis, now becoming Prester John across the majority of Europe as Byzantine influence had completely waned and Manuel I’s dreams of finding the king in the Asian Steppe were now just a forgotten footnote to history.

However, not everybody across Portugal, across the Christian realms of Europe had forgotten the name, many were still actively searching, even today. ✞✟✞✟✞ Santa Maria Maior de Lisboa Lisboa, República Portuguesa March 02, 2024 It was late into the night on Saturday as three priests huddled around a small television set watching in fascination as Don Winters was strapped to a makeshift cross by Rob Williams and Anna Daniels. They looked back and forth at each other, crossed their hearts, and spoke in unison.

“Sua Palavra e Luz.” ✞✟✞✟✞ Santa Maria Maior de Lisboa Lisboa, República Portuguesa March 29, 2024 “Ele é a Palavra e não pode ser silenciado.” (He is the Word and He cannot be unspoken.)

“Ele é a Luz e não pode ser extinto” (He is the Light and He cannot be extinguished.)

“Ele é o rei-sacerdote da lenda.” (He is the priest-king of legend.)

Nearly a month after watching Don Winters suffer at the hands of Rob Williams, the priests were now viewing the inverse. Wide, hopeful smiles spread across their faces as they watched The Revelator hit Hallelujah before triumphantly strapping Williams to the cross and claiming victory. He hoisted the Five Star championship above his head before collapsing with exhaustion. The priests were captivated and excitedly whispered between each other. They quickly turned the television set off and sat together in silence, clapping their shoulders and shaking hands.

Frade Azevedo, Frade Barboa, and Frade Rodrigues mostly kept to themselves in the deeper recesses of Santa Maria Maior de Lisboa, three men who were the last vestiges of a secret order determined to seek out the legend of Prester John. They claimed to have the original Acts of Thomas in their archives (The Saint Thomas Christians in India would strongly disagree), and the original letter to Manuel I. They had dedicated themselves and their lives in the pursuit of a legend that most had accepted as nothing more than a story.

Two weeks later they would see the Tropical Turmoil commercial and their minds were made. They were going to find Donovan Winters. ✞✟✞✟✞ The House of His Word and Light Winter’s Port, Guyana June 15, 2024 Mother Superior tapped her fingers restlessly against the top of her cane as she watched the Sisters of Absolution work quickly over a subject lying prone on a table. The Sister worked quietly under Mother’s watchful eye, preparing the woman before them. She was strapped down across the legs and chest, her right arm stretched out fully on the table, tied down at the wrist, and just above the elbow.

One of the Sisters looked up at Mother, who nodded her approval. The second Sister brought forward a small medical tray containing a needle and a small vial of murky liquid. With great care and attention, the needle was filled to satisfaction, before being plunged into the arm of the patient. She did not react as the needle pierced her skin and the liquid was pushed forth, not initially, but slowly she started to convulse. The Sisters held her down as Mother Superior watched on with a wry smile.

As the patient’s body slowly relaxed once again, a knock came at the door to the room the five women (Mother Superior, three Sisters, and one patient) occupied. Mother Superior’s voice rang out in a sing-song motherly tone. “Who is it?”

Muffled, Father Don’s voice came from the other side. “It’s Donovan, Mother. May I come in?”

Mother Superior quickly nodded to the Sisters of Absolution, who hid any evidence of the work they had just done to their prone friend. One of them strode across the room, unlocking the door and opening it inward, as Don Winters stepped through instantaneously. He smiled with courtesy to the Sisters and with reverence to his Mother.

Don Winters studied the woman restrained on the table, a flicker of recognition passing through his eyes. He thought the mulberry-colored hair looked familiar, but he couldn’t exactly remember where he had seen it before. He glanced back to Mother, his smile returning.

“A new acolyte?” He asked innocently as he continued to study her face, trying to spark anything in his memory of who she was.

Donovan Winters might have been the only man on the planet who would have described the smile Mother Superior returned to him as ‘warm’ or ‘loving.’ “You could say that, yes. She’s being given a crash course in re-education, so she may serve the Sisters of Absolution with the right amount of zealotry.”

The Revelator nodded to Mother.

“Was there something you needed from me, Donovan?” She asked sharply. The warmth in her tone was gone.

“I just wanted to let you know I was flying out to Lisbon today. I wanted to spend some time sightseeing in Portugal.” Winters replied.

“That reminds me,” Mother Superior started, her lips pursed tightly. “A couple of days ago I received a call from men who represent the Santa Maria Maior de Lisboa. They would like to meet with you at the church.”

“Alright.”

“I’ll send you all the contact info while you’re in flight. They’re good men. Oh, and Donovan, good luck in your match against Stronk Samson.”

“Godson.” He corrected her.

“God only has one son,” she snapped back.

Winters nodded in agreement while reminding himself that every person was God’s child. There was no use in getting into an argument he couldn’t possibly win, no matter how right he was. He stared down at Mother’s patient once more, trying to remember a name to put with their face. He was sure there was a name swimming somewhere around his brain, it just wouldn’t bite onto the hook.

He turned back to the door to leave and smiled at Mother one last time. “I love you.” Came from between dry lips and she eyed him closely and smiled ever so slightly.

“And God loves you.” ✟✞✟✞✟ Catedral Basílica de Santiago de Compostela Santiago de Compostela, Galego, Reino de España June 22, 2024 Father Don had decided on a diversion to northern Spain before journeying into Portugal. He found himself in Santiago de Compostela, a city that was a protected heritage site for the pilgrimage routes of Saint James. It was places like these, Don himself on a pilgrimage, where he felt most at ease with himself and everything that came with it.

He’d also made the decision to leave Jeremiah Saint in Winter’s Port to train, insisting that they would talk again once Don was stateside after Tropical Turmoil. Don was also consciously avoiding any discussion about Jeremiah’s parentage, and as such had been avoiding Jessica St. Cloud as well.

As he walked the inner cloister at the cathedral, his mind drifted to Mother’s comment about STRONK Godson after he’d corrected his last name. He’d spent nights reading anything he could about the genetic anomaly, a man that somehow seemed to evade logic and God. He reckoned that in a sense, this was no different than Anna Daniels claiming to be a time traveler.

“God’s little miracles.”

Father Don read the reports about how STRONK had crossed the Atlantic - underwater - from the United States to Wales when he showed up at War Games and made Ivan Stanislav look like a cub. The stories defied belief, and yet could not be discounted. STRONK had charged into PRIME, nothing but meat and muscle and rage, and would be the sternest test put in front of the Five Star champion yet. Don knew there had to be a way though, and that’s how he found himself in Santiago de Compostela.

“Actually, it’s Godson.”

The Revelator looked at STRONK and saw a being that was pure and blessed, touched by God. He also recoiled at the Judas that glommed onto STRONK at every opportunity. Memories from the past that should have stayed buried. Don remembered Lowell, barely, but the man had always been a parasite, a tick, a leech looking to suck, and suck, and suck whatever he could latch on to dry.

“He could be useful.”

“STRONK? Lowell?” Don whispered aloud to himself as he walked.

“Yes.” Came the reply.

STRONK Godson seemed unbeatable, indefatigable, and most of all invulnerable. Don searched his mind, and prayed on it and that was why he was walking along the inner cloister, on his way to meet an elder who may have had the solution to the epic problem he faced. Ahead of him, a door swung open and an ancient-looking friar peered out and motioned Winters forward. He followed and entered the small room that contained an even older ornate box.

“You could turn them from Diamonds. You could harness the power of STRONK, but you must show us you can beat him first.”

The friar waved his hand, motioning Father Don to open the box.

“Actually, it’s Godson.”

Winters followed the instructions and his eyes went wide as a warm golden glow fell over both him and the friar. He quietly thanked the friar and closed the box, carefully tucking it under his arm. Winters left that room, which had actually been hidden in a secret wall, and sauntered back out into the warm summer sun, songbirds singing and flitting.

He smiled.

They smiled back.

For the first time in a long time, he heard her voice, and it was comforting because he knew he was on the Path.

“You will soon reap the reward of all your hard work,” Delilah whispered sweetly into the vacuous space of his brain. He smiled contentedly at this.

“Trust in God. Trust in yourself.” He could feel Joseph’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him forward. ✞✟✞✟✞ Santa Maria Maior de Lisboa Lisboa, República Portuguesa June 25, 2024 “What a strange coincidence.” Father Don Winters said to the three men before him as he reclined back slightly. His hands were interlaced behind his head, elbows jutting out to either side.

Frade Rodrigues leaned over the table between them, the smell of galão was heavy on his breath. “It is no coincidence. Your church, your house, His Word and Light is the same as our order: Sua Palavra e Luz.”

“It is divine providence, Father Don.” Frade Azevedo smiled broadly, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. “We believe we’ve finally solved the mystery.”

“The mystery?” Winters was confused.

“Prester John.” Frade Barboa grinned.

“The Christian Priest-King.” Frade Rodrigues’ eyes gleamed.

“They thought he was in the East.” Frade Azevedo began. “But we finally learned he was in the West. We believe that you are…”

All three men spoke in unison. “Prester John.”

“But they had the legend wrong,” Frade Rodrigues insisted.

“Not just East and West,” Frade Barboa continued.

“But also his, your name.” Frade Azevedo finished.

“I’m still not quite sure I understand.” Winters studied the men quizzically.

Together, Os Irmãos de Sua Palavra e Luz stood and backed away from the table before falling to their knees and bowing.

“Prester Don. We believe you are the fabled Priest-King of Christianity and we want to honor you as such.”

They kept their eyes averted. There was a cynic buried deep somewhere in Don Winters’ subconscious, but it wouldn’t be found today. Behind the Frades he could see Mary smiling back at him, encouraging him on. With an almost machine-like precision, he stood, faced the men, and held his hand out to them. In turn, they each kissed it.

The House of His Word and Light and A Ordem de Sua Palavra e Luz had been conjoined together under the guidance of Mother Superior and the Sisters of Absolution.

The House of His Word and Light continued to grow, no matter how little Donovan Winters actually knew. Somewhere deep within The House in Winter’s Port, Mother Superior stood over her newest Sister, teaching her the same hardships Don had once faced. She did it now as she did it then, with devotion to God and a smile.

The Revelator looked down upon his subjects and smiled the same smile.

The Five Star champion.

The Priest-King of Christian legend passed down from Thomas the Apostle to Manuel I, forced upon Zara Yaqob and the Ethiopians, long thought to be nothing more than a story told to entice travelers.

The Revelator will sing his song.

He is risen.