Temple of The Grail (33 page)

‘If, as Sacar says, this organ runs
on the water channelled beneath the abbey, it may have some connection to the
tunnels. A switch of some kind must divert the water to the pump that drives
it, as our brother intimated. The question is what to look for?’

I watched him for a time, a slow
feeling of tiredness overtaking me, and to keep awake, I asked him if he
believed there was something magical about this ‘Final Work’. Perhaps, I
ventured, it was a relic endowed with special powers, a stone or a cup, as
portrayed in the romances.

‘Romances fill your head with
nonsense and are not recommended reading for monks. Relics, on the other hand,
exist, that is quite natural, and the way of the world,’ he answered.

‘But it must be something of great
significance, valuable, even holy, to be secreted in such a way, master, with
so many tiresome puzzles and traps to protect it?’

‘Relics are usually highly venerated,
but we must not speculate on what we are to find, nor on its efficacy,’ he
said, looking up from his work. ‘You think too much, and too much thinking
often leads to error.’

‘And so you do not believe in magic?’

‘I believe in the magic of science,
mon
fils
, and in the magic of nature, but never in the magic of men. Very often
the language of magic is merely a symbolic language for something else.’

‘But you do not deny that a potion
made from dragon’s blood destroys devils?’

‘Firstly, I have never seen a dragon,
have you? Secondly, have you ever wondered, as there are so many potions to
kill and ward off devils, why their population never seems to decline? Remember
what I have told you about knowledge and opinion.’

‘But –’

‘What you call magic,’ he
interrupted, ‘is nothing more than a clever suggestive art, that uses fear and
superstition as its loyal agents. Of course, much can be accomplished by its
use. Let us say that you come to me (the magician) because you want something
very badly. I would tell you that you must pick a certain herb from a cemetery
every night at midnight.’ He paused for a moment to inspect beneath the keys of
the large instrument.

‘And, where was I? Yes, I say you
must pick a certain herb at midnight and lay it on the steps of a church. If
you were to follow my instructions precisely as I have told you, getting up at
midnight, going to the cemetery, pulling out the herb, and so on, it is more
than probable that your longing for achievement and your faith in such
instructions will bring about what you desire. If you omit even one night of
this ritual then I, the magician, cannot be blamed in the event of failure.’

‘So you say that magic is only in the
mind?’

‘A man is so constructed that when
his desire is strong enough, Christian, he will find the means of realising his
objective. This is quite natural, and not in the least magical. In many cases
it is science that is mistaken for magic because, you see, even learned men
have not yet lifted their minds out of the dung heap of superstition.’

‘But a physician is a scientist as
you have often told me.’

‘And that is why a physician must be
as prudent in his cure as he is in his failure to cure.’

‘So you say that it is better not to
cure an illness if it will be seen as something diabolical?’

‘No, that is not what I said.’ He
stood, and straightened his bad leg with difficulty. ‘What I meant was that a
cure often engenders more suspicion than a failure to cure, and so it must be
approached with care. Do you know that there are several ailments that can be
healed almost immediately? If one does so, however, one risks many things, not
the least of which may be one’s skin! So one must bring the patient to health,
so that his state of wellbeing comes about gradually. One chants many prayers,
one cauterises, and bleeds the patient, advising him to visit his priest very
often for confession. In this way after a few weeks he is cured and believes it
to be God’s grace, and so, quite natural.’

‘So you keep your secrets to
yourself, like Brother Setubar seems to keep much from Brother Asa?’

‘Here is another thing . . . When we
surpass the world with our knowledge, we must be careful whom we allow to share
in this knowledge. This is the art of prudence.’

‘But this art you call ‘prudence’
sounds like avarice, master, covetousness. Surely the world should have a share
in a wise man’s accomplishments. Those who imparted their knowledge in the
books we have just admired must have felt this way.’

‘They are truly wonderful books, and
deserve praise to their authors, but as you have seen, they are hidden from
public view, and quite wisely, for there is more wisdom in a prudent silence
than there is in a thousand books.’

‘But I thought you loved books, I
thought you believed in knowledge?’ I asked, confounded as always.

‘I do ... I do ... but it is
important to know when and how information is to be distributed. In this way
something good cannot be mistaken for something evil, and also misused by those
of evil disposition. Look around you at this abbey, whose cures have brought it
to the attention of the pope. Need I elucidate further?’

‘But is that not in essence what the
abbot said on our first day here, about drawing a veil over things not
understood . . . but then you disagreed with him?’

‘I disagreed with him because there
is a distinction between the arcana – the mystery – of nature
(whose celestial seal must not be broken irreverently) and the arcana of men,
whose accidents may lead to heresy, and as we have seen, to the death of
others.’

‘So what you are saying, master, is
that there is no magic at all, only science, but that we must not allow others
to know this,’ I said sadly.

‘I am afraid so . . .’

‘There is not much use in looking for
something that has no magical or holy powers, is there?’

‘And yet we cannot discount that
whatever lies beneath all this intrigue may indeed be something magical.’

‘But you do not believe in such
things!’ I was becoming annoyed, believing that he was taunting me.

‘That has nothing whatever to do with
it!’ he replied, astounded at my ignorance. ‘The fact that others believe is an
important tool in solving our riddle. It is the riddle that concerns me, as it
should interest you if you are to be a good physician. A good physician must
first and foremost have a strong desire to solve riddles.’

‘What riddles do you speak of? There
seem to be so many.’ I looked at him boldly, and he seemed pleased. He moved
around the organ, with a curious smile on his face, and I heard his voice echo
from various points behind it.

‘The greatest riddle of all . . . the
riddle of man! The complex mystery of the universal human being as he stands
within the threshold of universal laws. This is the most fascinating puzzle!
Every riddle starts with a question. For instance, one might ask: does this
organ exist?’

‘Of course it does. I can see it and
touch it.’

‘So you say because to satisfy any
inquiry in a scientific way we must first hypothesise, and we do that by either
affirming as you have or by denying, as I shall . . .’ he said, moving around
to the front of the organ, knocking some musical papers from their place over
the keys and onto the floor. ‘But our inquiry does neither alter its existence,
or its nonexistence, it serves as a starting point from which we set about
proving our postulation. As the Greeks tell us in their profound wisdom, ‘the
beginning is everything’. You saw me pacing the graveyard on our first day,
after our conversation with the abbot. You were as annoyed with me as you are
now . . . am I right?’

I lowered my eyes. How could he read
me so well?

‘At the time, Christian, I was asking
the ‘first question’ . . .’

‘So what was the answer?’

‘I did not say that I answered my
question, I resolved to let the nature of things speak their truth to me, even
if at first I denied an absolute truth.’

‘But why would you want to deny an
absolute truth?’ I asked, because such an idea seemed ludicrous.

‘Because there are no absolute
truths, except the existence of God, and because sometimes a man must begin
with doubt, in order to end in certainty.’

‘Oh,’ I said, no further enlightened.

‘In any case, as Hippocrates tells
us, observation holds the key to success in all such cases, and so observe we
shall, and reserve our judgements. By the son of Apollo, boy, what has got into
you today? You are taxing my mind! Now I have forgotten what we were doing!’ He
picked up the papers, and holding them in his hand, uttered his thoughts aloud.
‘Some device, some key, redirects the body of water, and I believe that was the
sound we heard, the loud sound in the last chamber. Someone diverted the water
flow in preparation for entering the tunnels and that is why we heard footsteps
coming from the direction of the church . . . Perhaps the same monk we caught
the other night sneaking behind the curtains?’ my master said pensively. ‘Where
would the clue be? Where to place a formula? Somewhere you would readily see
it. If I was about to play this instrument . . .’ He sat down on a stool before
the complicated conglomeration of pipes, keys, and knobs. ‘I would need to
simply see it . . .’

This could take forever, I thought
dismally, yawning so hard that I almost displaced my jaw.

‘Look here, boy, for your eyes are
better than mine, to the spot where these papers reside. What does this say?’
He pointed to an engraving on the wooden surface, barely distinguishable in the
dim light. It read in Latin,
Cantus Pastoralis
– the shepherds’
songs – and beneath a set of Roman numerals.

CL: IV

CIII: XIX

CXLII: IV

CXLIII: VI

XC: XII

CXLIV: IX

CVII: XXXIII

That was when the bell rang for
matins, rhythmic and peaceful. I noted down the numerals on the back of my map
and replaced it hastily within the folds of my habit. Soon there was the sound
of many footsteps coming down the night stairs, and the long procession of
monks made their way, cowls drawn, into the church.

We took our place in the darkened
stalls before anyone could see that we had been inspecting the organ. Brother
Sacar intoned
Domine labia mea aperies
, and we replied
et os meum
annuntiabit laudem tuam
. My master noticed Brother Daniel missing from his
place beside Brother Setubar in the choir and whispered in my ear that I should
expect the worst. Later, when the reader announced that the homily would be
lectio
sancti evangelii secundum Mattheum xxi,
and began the words
in illo
tempore
, and there was still no Brother Daniel, we saw the abbot call a
monk to his side, and after some anxious whispers the brother hastily left by
way of the south ambulatory.

After the prescribed lessons we did
not sing the
Te deum
because of the proximity of Easter when songs of
jubilation are not appropriate. Instead we prepared to intone the previous
responsory by replacing our cowls and standing. My master and I, noting that
all the others had their cowls drawn and could not observe us, glanced in the
direction of the organist, Anselmo, as he prepared to play the instrument. He
sat down and placed his hands over the keys but we could see nothing else
because of the angle of our seating.

I heard my master utter some terrible
thing under his breath and I sang a little louder so as to disguise his
indiscretion, ‘
Domine Deus auxiliator
’, praying not only that my master
might be wrong about Brother Daniel, but also asking God to release me from the
bonds of all my doubts and anxieties when, at that moment, the monk entered the
church, his face struck with terror.

He made his way to the abbot who
calmed him with a gesture, but on hearing what the man whispered in his ear,
his face, too, became very pale, and he rose, rushing out of the church.

The singing stopped abruptly, and my
master pulled me to my feet, but by now others had done the same, and we found
ourselves pushing our way through a group that seemed on the verge of hysteria.

On our way up the night stairs Andre
pushed me past many monks until we were beside Brother Macabus, and asked him
if he knew what had happened.

‘Brother Daniel of Carcassonne,’ he
whispered loudly as we neared the last step, and the landing, ‘dead!’

My master shook his head. I felt my
stomach tighten into a knot.

We were at once in a darkened
hallway, dotted with apertures leading to small individual cells. Arriving at
an open door, we followed the librarian, the inquisitor, and the abbot, leaving
the others, including the members of the legation, outside.

The room was bare and small, though
the ceiling was high, having a large inset window facing east. We could see
very little until a monk entered with a lamp. As soon as there was light, a
terrible sight assailed our eyes. There on the floor lay the poor brother, in a
pool of blood, his face contorted in a horrible grimace. His head had been
badly beaten, but there seemed to be no weapon about. The circa was telling the
abbot with a trembling voice, that his last round had been at the tenth hour
and at that time he had helped Brother Daniel to the latrines and back to his
room. Thereafter he had neither heard nor seen anything suspicious.