Temple of The Grail (18 page)

Sacar beamed, his face almost radiant with pleasure, ‘I
believe, dear brother, that everything natural has its supernatural
counterpart, do you agree? Even here in our modest church . . . The door which
faces east is none other than Christ, through whom we enter heaven, the pillars
are the bishops and doctors who uphold the Church, the sacristy is the womb of
Mary, where Jesus put on human flesh. You see everything physical, has its
spiritual counterpart.’

‘A reflection of the order and number of the universe.’

‘Music,’ Sacar continued, lost in thought, ‘music and
prayer, the marriage of two complementary gifts.
Omnem horam occupabis,
hyumnis psalmis, et amabis
. . . Music, being the greatest expression of
the diversity of God through man and prayer ...
tenere silentium
,
super
hoc orationem diliges et lectionem nutricem claustralium
. . . the
expression of man’s unity with the saints who, on our behalf, deliver our
lamentations at the foot of the Christ and through him directly to God. Could
there be anything holier?’

‘Indeed.’

My master seemed far too amiable, and it struck me
that he was biding his time before tackling unpleasant matters.

‘Tanners invoke St Bartholomew, as we know. St John,
plunged into a cauldron of burning oil, is the patron of candle-makers. Our St
Sebastian is well known to be mighty in times of pestilence. St Apollinia heals
toothaches, St Blaise cures sore throats, St Corneille protects the farmer’s
oxen, St Gall his chickens, St Anthony his pigs!’

My master smiled. ‘Yes, though I have to wonder, dear
brother, if these sainted men had intended their torment to be the vehicle by
which a chicken lays a greater number of eggs, or indeed, the obesity of a pig
is profitably increased.’

I knew my master frowned upon the ritual worship of
saints which, in most instances, only replaced the worship of pagan gods, and
tended to exceed veneration for the Lord himself.

The master of music seemed to miss Andre’s point,
however, and looked around him, absently motioning his pupil to his side. The
boy stepped down, and made his way to his teacher. He was no older than me,
though shorter, with thick black hair encroaching upon his tonsure. He did not
smile, but fixed me with an unusually intense stare; perhaps curiosity, perhaps
dislike.

‘This is Anselmo de Aosta, our monastery’s voice.’

The boy bowed humbly, crossing himself devoutly with
his left hand.

‘He is also not without talents as a translator. It is
a fact that I may lose him to the library. Obedience . . .’

‘Anselmo,’ my master bowed his head with respect, ‘you
are named after one of the finest doctors of the church, may you honour him. So
you are not only a fine singer, but also a translator?’

‘I am also composing a new mass in honour of our Lady,’
he said in his lilting voice.

‘Exceptional!’ Andre exclaimed, obviously impressed
and I, God forgive me, felt a twinge of jealousy.

‘I saw some of your works this morning. Your
translation of Aristotle is enlightening! Where did you learn Greek?’ my master
asked, cunningly.

‘My mother is Greek, and I have studied the classic
pagans since I was old enough to read.’

‘I see.’

‘We have been fortunate to have had two young
geniuses,’ Brother Sacar added.

‘Two! That is fortunate indeed, in such a small abbey.
Who is the other?’

‘The other . . . is unwell I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, the novice! Yes of course.’

The monk gave him a blank look, ‘Novice?’

‘The young boy who was not at the dinner
last evening.’

‘Oh . . . yes, yes,’ he hesitated a moment.

‘Is he also a fine singer?’

‘Well . . .’ the brother trailed off, ‘he was a very
special child, weak, but gifted.’

‘You say, was . . .?’ my master asked. ‘Has
he died?’

‘Oh, no!’ Brother Sacar explained, in an anxious way, ‘I
mean, he was special as a child. He is now a young man, not much older than
your scribe, though his qualities remain exceptional, even as a young man. That
is what I meant.’

‘Yes, I see,’ my master said, then hastened to add, ‘perhaps
I might have a look at him in a medical capacity?’

‘Oh, that is indeed a most generous offer,’ he
appeared ruffled, ‘one that is sure to be welcomed by Brother Asa of
Roussillon.’

‘The infirmarian?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Of course, Asa. Well then, I shall seek him out,’ my
master concluded, rubbing his hands together. ‘Where may we find him at this time
of the day?’

‘In the infirmary or the herbarium. Sometimes he goes
out in search of plants in the forests around the abbey. Other times you may
see him tending his garden. Here in this abbey we are never idle, preceptor.’

‘Thank you, brother. I have enjoyed our conversation,
and may I end it by saying once again that I believe your music to be truly
remarkable.’ In a grave tone, ‘May God see fit to end this inquiry quickly and
expediently in your favour.’

The monk nodded, ‘Thank you, preceptor. No one knows
the ways of God, but God himself. However, I must tell you that your words
soothe my uneasy spirit.’ He moved in the direction of the south ambulatory but
something stopped him because he turned around as though he had forgotten
something. ‘Preceptor,’ he said, ‘the death of our dear Brother Ezekiel has
shaken our community, but there have been other things . . . no doubt the abbot
has told you.’ At this point he sent the boy away, watching him leave before
continuing more desperately than before. ‘Perhaps I am committing a sin against
the rule, but I am afraid. I am afraid for the future of our community.’

My master was intrigued. ‘What is it, brother?’

‘Before you arrived, preceptor, another monk . . . in
fact,’ he lowered his eyes, ‘my predecessor, Brother Samuel, was found in the
church. He had been . . .’ he swallowed hard, as though these words were bitter
in his throat, and his eyes welled with tears, but my master, whose interest
had increased ten-fold,

cared
little for sensitivity.

‘He had
been what, brother? Murdered, perhaps?’

The other man blanched and his eyes widened as though
he had seen a devil. ‘You know?’

‘Tell me!’

‘He was in the church. He was found dead.’

‘Who found him?’

‘Brother Daniel of Albi, they were
inseparable.’

‘Another old monk?’

‘Yes, he found my master lying at the foot of the
virgin, near the entrance to . . . Go speak to Brother Daniel, you may ask him
anything about the abbey, he knows it
very well
.’ He looked down for a
moment. ‘I have to go now, God bless you and keep you safe.’

With these words the master of music left us, with
many questions unanswered.

I asked my master how he had known that the young
novice had been missing from dinner.

‘If you will remember, the hospitaller told us on our
first day that the abbey had only two novices, and since I could see only one
at dinner I assumed that was whom he meant. I simply made a hypothesis,
assuming the English and not the Greek interpretation of the word.’

‘The English interpretation?’

‘The English understand a hypothesis to be something
that may be true, but needs testing whereas the Greek say it is something
assumed for the purpose of argument.’

‘I remember now. The hospitaller was very suspicious
of the novices, saying they drank too much and ate too much.’

‘Yes, it is the curse of the old that they
conveniently forget they were ever young.’

‘And the curse of the young, master, that they don’t
always remember what they should,’ I said a little dejected.

‘Very good, Christian! We’ll make a philosopher out of
you yet, even if it kills you.’

H
e searched the abbey, but it was not until
later in the afternoon that we found Brother Daniel in the north transept
chapel. A slight figure in grey, he was almost indistinguishable from the stone
around him. He lay in profound meditation at the foot of the Virgin of our
sorrows, and did not turn at the sound of our footsteps as we approached. It
was only after we had been kneeling beside him for a very long time that he
raised his head and cast a bewildered gaze upon us, like a man alighting on the
shores of some distant and unfamiliar place.

‘She is purity and serenity,’ he said finally.

‘The countenance of virtue, brother,’ my master
answered.

‘You have good eyes! One whose eyes look upon the
virgin with love and adoration will want for naught else! I am glad of your
presence, preceptor, it has been many years . . . How are things in the holy
land? Have we lost Jerusalem? Oh, I am a senile fool! I remember now . . . yes,
perhaps better than I remember what I ate this morning.’ He smiled warmly, and
taking my master’s hand in his, stood with difficulty. ‘Youth is beautiful . .
.’ he touched my head only slightly with warm, nervous fingers, ‘but this world
grows old with ugliness! Poor brother, he was a man who could see. There are so
many who see and yet are blind. Am I the last now, I wonder?’

‘How do you mean the last, brother?’ my master asked.

‘The others are . . . but that is another matter. What
year is it? No, do not answer, it does not concern me.’ He began to pray, ‘
Dominus
illuminatio mea, et salus mea, quem timebo? –
The lord is the source
of my light and my safety, whom should I fear? – but what was I saying?
Oh my feeble, feeble mind . . .’ He shook his head.

‘You were about to tell us, venerable Daniel, in what
way you were the last.’

‘Was I?
Should
I tell you? I am old, and I
therefore distrust everyone and everything. Perhaps that is why I am old?’ He
laughed a little. ‘I am the last of the first, and yet, no, I am wrong, Brother
Setubar was also one of us, though much younger . . . thank God for Setubar,
the milk of human kindness runs through his veins . . . Did you know he was a
fine physician once? He cured me of phlegm! In any case, that is all you need
know . . . shhh!’ He looked around him. ‘I sense his presence. Somewhere in
this abbey
he
waits!’

‘Who? Brother Setubar?’

He looked aghast. ‘No, the antichrist, of course! He
is everywhere . . . he is stubborn, and so he is patient.’

My master nodded gravely. ‘Where have you seen him in
particular?’

‘Do you not know?’ he searched my master’s face
closely. ‘Why, in the human soul, in the soul, my sons, and in our midst, in
this abbey, though disguised.’

My master paused, wording his reply, ‘Is he in human
form, venerable Daniel?’

‘Of course, how else? He has chosen a monk, perhaps
there are two . . . tarnished with unmentionable crimes . . .’ in a soothing
voice then, ‘Oh, now I have frightened you, my child. I know, I know, but do
not fear unwisely, fear is only a good thing if it instructs us to be attentive
and uneasy. Ease is his servant as you know, the love of comfort, his willing
vassal.’

‘Who is
he
, venerable master?’ I asked because
I saw in his kind eyes that he had given me this sanction.

‘
He
is old, older than time, and wiser still . .
. he is infinitely persistent, he follows a design and is easily recognisable.
Our dear brother, now gathered to God, had the
arcanum
! He knew the
secret of the evil one who will come again in the second
millennium.
’
The old man placed a milky hand over his forehead as though this thought taxed
his mind. ‘We must prepare, for the battle is nigh! But I am weary, so weary.’

My master said humbly, ‘You mean the first
millennium
,
brother, that is yet to come?’

The old man looked at him as though he had not understood
his words. ‘No, not the first, but the second!’

‘Venerable master,’ Andre said softly, throwing me a
look that conveyed his pity for the older man, ‘some days ago you found a
brother dead in the chapel.’

The old man’s face creased with pain. ‘No! Must I
speak of it? Who told you?’

‘Brother Sacar.’

‘Sacar has a good ear, but a loose tongue! Yes, he was
choked, his face was blue – the Devil sucked out his soul. Oh . . .’ he
convulsed, ‘mortify the flesh, rid it of sin and make your souls transparent for
the love of Christ, or he will find you also.’

‘Where was Brother Samuel when you found him?’

‘Here, at the foot of the lady. Please, I do not wish
to speak of it again, I am tired, so tired.’

My master continued with tenderness, ‘Before Brother Ezekiel
died, he spoke of a holy one, whom he said the antichrist and his followers
awaited, something about a sacred jewel?’

‘Yes, yes,’ he replied, ‘they are cunning . . . but
they will not find him. Oh, Lord! Have I not tried to escape the world beyond these
sainted walls? Have I not sought freedom from the dominion of worldly things?
And yet,’ he raised his eyes to heaven, ‘in penance, in exile, it continues to
seek me out.’

My master changed his tack, ‘You have been at this
abbey for many years?’

‘Years?’ he looked amazed. ‘ I do not remember years .
. .’

‘Where did the first founding monks come from,
brother?’

‘Founding monks?’

‘The ones who built the abbey?’

He shook his head. ‘We must not speak of such things.’

‘I only mean to praise their work, for this is indeed
a fine abbey. Were they all Cistercians?’

‘Cistercians?’ He looked a little confused.

‘The brothers who built the abbey?’

‘Cistercians. Yes, white monks. Oh! They were brave
men, but there are no longer brave men in this world, only cowards. In times
long gone, men were full of wisdom, now they are filled with egoism, in the
past they were vehicles of grace, now they are merely empty vessels.’ He sighed
deeply, ‘The church falls into the pit with each new day, distorting the
teachings of the sainted fathers, so that they have become a pale shadow of a
brighter vision.’ He looked at me, his eyes veiled with tears. ‘The sun rises
on the genius of man, but at the same time it sets on the living spirit, and my
heart longs to be gone from this place. I remain only for him. When he departs
this mortal prison, I will pray for the moment of death, be it quick and
painless, or agonising and martyred, only death will be my final absolution.’

‘You say, venerable brother, that you remain for him.
Do you mean Brother Setubar?’

‘Good heavens, no!’ he chuckled, as though Andre were
out of his mind.

‘Someone else in the abbey, then?’

‘Of course! Have you not been listening? That is why
they have come! Naturally.’

‘You mean the pope’s men.’

‘They are learned men, but they believe all manner of
erroneous things, all elucidating . . . none
knowing
. All seeking paths
that lead them to the abyss. The poor want to be rich, the rich want a simple
life, the church condemns them all, because she places money and power on the
altar of God! Transformed into a harlot who will lay belly to belly with the Devil
for a sackful of gold.’ At this point I blushed most severely, but the old
brother seemed lost in this vision and did not notice me. ‘They know that he is
here, the synagogue of Satan has found the little rose!’ I gasped, and he
turned, mistaking my gasp for fear of his words, but it was his reference to
the rose that had astounded me. ‘Do not look so alarmed, my dear . . . sinning
is not a privilege of the weak and ignorant. Some day you will come to know
that the line that divides wickedness from saintliness is often more indistinct
than that which separates erudition and stupidity . . . the inquisitors, my
sons, smell of luciferic dung! Ahh but then one sees the Virgin! Though she is
marred by my feeble sight she remains the object of all things beautiful and
noble, and once again I am almost prepared to believe that there is goodness in
this world. The pious little mother whose daughter is the church and yet the daughter
mocks the mother with her temerity, offering to feed her the daughter’s milk .
. . but was it the patriarch who said it or was it the pope?’ He became a
little vague, growing tired, then he spoke in a fragile voice. ‘In any event
you are faithful, praying to her for guidance.’

‘We pray
for peace, venerable master.’

‘Ahhh, peace!’ he nodded and then added, a little
astonished, ‘but you are a man of war?’

‘I pray for inner peace from which, one hopes, sprouts
the seed of the outer.’

‘Yes, yes, one hopes! If peace be your request none
other can intercede on your behalf with as much influence as our lady.’

‘Venerable master, you are a wise and prudent man.’

‘I should be prudent! My life has taught me many
things, but we old ones desire most what we need most urgently, and what I need
most urgently now are some raisins. My mouth tastes of death. Perhaps I am
dying, perhaps I am dead? If only Jupiter would bring back the years. And yet
soon . . .’ He was suddenly exceedingly lucid and I marvelled at the convenient
frailty of his venerable mind. ‘So you want to know about the tunnels?’ he
said. ‘I know this is why you have come.’ He looked around him. ‘He told me not
to tell . . . but the world will soon know everything, is that not so?’

‘Who told you not to tell?

He lowered his eyes, like a little child caught
stealing sweet cakes. ‘That I cannot say . . .’ Looking around him once more
suspiciously, ‘What do you want to know?’

‘The catacombs, are they reached through the tunnels?’

‘That is common knowledge, preceptor. The secret does
not lie in
where
they are reached, but rather
how.
In any case,’
he narrowed his eyes, ‘what do you want with the catacombs?’

‘The abbot,’ my master said patiently, ‘has asked me
to investigate the recent terrible murder.’

The old man looked at my master anxiously. ‘You know
then that the evil one works through a monk who has ignored

the
interdictum
– the prohibition?’

‘You mean someone has entered the tunnels?’

The man nodded, closing his eyes.

‘How do you
know, Brother Daniel?’

‘I know because it is the duty of every monk to guard
his fellows, to keep them from sin. Had this been observed perhaps much would
have been prevented. In any event, the crypts are unsafe . . . a labyrinth of
tunnels and channels of water. Anyone going there would never return. Only the Devil
could find his way out, that is why this monk must be the Devil himself!’

‘But how does one enter it, brother?’

‘There are many entrances . . .’ he grinned and
answered in Virgil’s words, ‘
Facilis descensus Averno
– that is to
say, easy is the way down to the underworld . . . but to retrace one’s steps
and to make a way out to the upper air, that is the task, that is the labour.
It has only one exit.’

‘Perhaps I should have asked regarding its exit.’

‘But there is the abbot’s prohibition . . .!’

‘I understand but the monastery is endangered,
venerable Daniel, by many foes. The inquisitor will make a judgement, perhaps
not favourable – more monks may die . . .’

The man fell silent. Indeed, I thought that he had fallen
asleep, for he hung his head on his chest and made snoring noises. He then
spoke, lifting his eyes to meet my master’s with gravity. ‘I will tell you,
only because I fear for those brothers who are innocent, but I will tell you
without telling you,’ he said with a sigh, ‘so that I do not sin against the
rule. The combinations you must calculate for yourselves. I am old, my mind is
weary . . . the signs . . . the time of day . . . it is too difficult . . .’ He
pointed to an area to the right of the Virgin, near the exit to the graveyard. ‘There,
Procul este, profani!
But you must not enter!

Spirits guard the tunnels. They follow the seven
letters in number and order, but he who would seek to go against the seven
churches . . . he will perish!’ Drawing his cowl, he said, ‘Look for vanity in
the one who commits these heinous crimes, this one sin begets all others. You
may pray for Brother Samuel, my dearest friend, for Ezekiel too, and also for
me if you wish . . . but you must be vigilant.’

‘Thank you, brother, we will use this knowledge
wisely.’ My master prepared to leave, but at that very moment Setubar entered
the Lady Chapel. It seemed to me that he was following our every move,
listening in on our conversations. Such was the feeling he instilled in me when
his eyes cast their hot, piercing gaze on us.

‘There you are, dear one, I have been looking for you.’
He removed his cowl. Fixing Daniel with a stern look, he handed the old man
something.

Daniel beamed like a little child. ‘Ahh, you
remembered.’