The Valley of Silent People is a fable in the tradition of magic realism of Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist (Harper One, 1993). It alludes to the controversial subject of Mary Magdalene from the perspective of an ordinary man, who while experiencing most obscure moments of his life finds himself in the middle of exceptional circumstances.
Based on the legend of Saint Sara, who with Mary Magdalene arrived at the shores of the French Riviera after Christ crucifixion, The Valley of Silent People is an allegory about gaining faith and trust that even the most unexpected and radical discovery has no power to overcome. Though unrecognized as a saint by the Catholic Church, Saint Sara remains one in the hearts of people, especially Roms, who designate her as their patron. Controversy still swirls over whether Sara was Mary Magdalene's and Jesus Christ’s daughter or simply a servant, fascinating millions of readers around the world.
Joe Clatt’s content and uncomplicated life is shattered one evening, when an atrocious accident claims the life of his wife and leaves his only child in a deathly coma. Joe discovers a letter his wife wrote not long before her death, suggesting she anticipated such destiny. Her last wish is for Joe to visit an inconspicuous place located on the other side of the ocean. Against his better judgment, Joe arrives in a distant village on the French Cote d’Azur. The night, after the festival honoring Saint Sara, he meets one person he was certain he would never see again. Guided by his heart he finds himself embraced as a participant in a remarkable journey, no longer a mere spectator.
While Joe struggles to uncover reasons why his wife's final wish led him to France, he experiences phenomenal events—occurrences, he believes, grant confidence that his daughter will survive.
Are these revelations the answers Joe seeks, or is something else veiled in the mists of time?
The Valley of Silent People evokes an enchanted sense of reverie and poignancy, similarly to The Mermaid Chair: A Novel by Sue Monk Kid (Viking, 2005). And while veiling the tale in a magical mist, it lets the reader arrive with its own answer to the question of what is real, and what only appears to be.
Featuring the actual village of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer and the annual festival of Saint Sara, The Valley of Silent People is a one-man journey through the exquisite phenomenon we call life.
Excerpt
Prologue
The ghostly breath slowed its furious dance over the unpaved road. It headed through a gate—a broken link in the pasture fence, unpredictably discarding another layer of pallid snow among the naked trees. Once it finished its last step around the other side of this garden of memories, it departed in perfect silence. Scattered brick and mortar dwellings, bitter gray monuments, and elaborate chapels pierced the paleness of the bare landscape to blend with the muddy horizon, ensuring that the solitude of souls wasn’t compromised. Overshadowing the grounds, a concrete cross kept silent vigil from its lofty station, staring down at those who hurt the most.
The sound of snowshoes whispered over frozen ground in an erratic tap dance, as the small group tightened their circle, making sure nothing ventured out—or in. They stood on the small area of unplowed bare ground listening to the priest, his reddened hand sculpting the sign of the cross in the icy air. But listening to him wasn’t an easy task for anyone, especially for Joe. The priest probably spent the whole morning in his little room at Saint Mary Magdalene Parish, just to ensure a well-received service. It was just his assumption; Joe didn’t know him that well, though they had spoken casually after the few masses he was forced to attend. But those conversations were among the many small talks a priest was supposed to have with his parishioners—nothing special, nor important.
Joe Clatt motionlessly eyed into the bleak stretch of ceme-tery far behind the priest. His mind didn’t react when the ceremony ended, and he was asked to throw the dirt into his wife’s grave. Gradually, he realized that those few people present were waiting for him to make the first move. He tried, but he couldn’t seem to make his body obey. His brain was set to the simple task, but there was no reaction, nothing; his own powerlessness silently cuffed him. Pete, his father-in-law, had to grasp Joe’s hand and force him to take a fistful of dreary soil from the pile that rose next to them. Solid beached black dirt bit Joe’s skin. With a soundless scream, he pulled his hand up and extended it over the grave. A plain pine coffin shone like a light in the endless mournful tunnel of earth. Joe’s tears became hail, bruising his cheeks with the raw force. The thawing grime wrapped around his palm, his fingers reluctant to make the first and final throw. Again, Pete took charge by squeezing Joe’s elbow. Each separate clod hitting the top of the casket sounded like the salvo of an execution squad.
After a while, Pete gently pushed him aside to make a room for the mourners who had come to say their last goodbye to Sally. Even if he could look up, Joe couldn’t identify them anyway. Except his parents and Pete, he barely knew anybody here. Fox River Valley Gardens, a village thirty-five miles northwest of Chicago, was big enough for everyone to know each other, but it wasn’t his place; it was Sally’s. He had been here only a few times since they got married, but those trips weren’t long enough to really get to know anyone. This time, though, it wasn’t just a visit.
Joe remained by the grave with his hand extended to accept condolences while his consciousnesses drifted away into unknown realms. Automatically shaking hands with the people was all he could manage. No words came, and in a brief glimmer of percep-tion, he felt guilty. He should show some gratitude to all those folks who arrived. But it was something Joe was not capable of doing. He could only acknowledge the presence of Pete and the priest who stood right next to him, and who politely thanked every one of the visitors on his behalf. As the last griever departed through the gloomy gate, the priest prepared himself to leave. He reached to place his hands over Joe’s head, but stopped short when Joe took a sharp step back. He spoke no words, or expressed surprise, but a soft sympathetic smile crossed the priest’s face before he turned away.
Joe and Pete witnessed the freshly formed dismal pile within the innocent carpet of the snow. A few candles flickered, but their flames weren’t strong enough to dispel the dimness or warm the heart.
“Let’s go home,” said Pete, taking Joe’s hand again. “There is nothing we can do. Everything is in God’s hands now.”
Joe didn’t answer. He stared at the coal-like dirt that had been hollowed out many hours before the burial. He was trying to find white inserts of snow in the soil he thought he saw earlier, but he didn’t see them anymore. There was only a dark, withered mound covering the place where, only minutes ago, he had seen Sally for the last time.
“Joe? Are you—” said Pete.
“I know.” said Joe.
“What?” Pete’s voice broke. “What did you say?”
“I know that there is nothing I can do.” Joe glanced at Pete’s face. “But there is nothing God can do either. Sally is dead. If there is God, why did He let it happen? If He was somewhere out there,” Joe pointed toward the lifeless sky above, agitation grating in his voice, “he wouldn’t let her die! Would He?” Joe paused, his huffs leaving a heavy fog in the cold air. “So—” Joe pulled his hand from Pete’s grasp and walked away.
Pete chased Joe, heedless of the fact that the curved ceme-tery alley had become even glossier than before, but he couldn’t catch up. Joe was already sitting in the car when Pete approached the gate.
Pete abruptly stopped before reaching the gateway. Once again, he took a quick look at the car, but all he saw was an ice-covered rear windshield. There was no movement, as if no spirit existed anywhere in the vicinity. Just a moment ago, as he turned on the last curve before the exit, he had caught a glimpse of soft light, a gentle beam finding its way through the night, and he just wanted to make sure he was right. Far on the other side of the cemetery, a shimmer of light grew brighter with every second, the view partially covered by leafless trees.
At moments, Pete could see a crowd gathering and slowly moving toward the center. He could distinguish people holding thin candles in their hands marching in silent procession; one tall, heavy candle stole his attention as it radiated its power, soaring out of the sea of light. Pete could swear it was exactly in the center of the pulsating circle formed by all the smaller candles. The waves of light illuminated half of the cemetery and it seemed as if they would rip the darkness from this piece of the land. A weak smile flashed on Pete’s face. He tried to fight off the tears, hidden just below the surface of the strong man façade he had been wearing this evening. Kneeling, he bowed his head, and made the sign of the cross, and then, glancing for the last time at the golden glow rising in the distance, he turned around and sped toward his car.
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