Temple of The Grail (41 page)

‘Who are these ‘silent ones’?’

‘They are hermits . . . who knows?’
He shrugged his shoulders and winced with pain. ‘No one sees them, I leave food
behind the drapes, I am told to leave
inmediatamente
.’ He looked at me
with his good eye and nodded his head. ‘Because to see one of them is to lose
the sight. That is why Ezekiel was going blind . . . they say also that they
are
transparente
, that the bile and blood in their bodies is seen like
through glass because they have seen no sun, others say that they are older
than this monastery! That they never die!
Maria Santa!
The day you come
something happens that is very suspicious . . . the abbot ordered absolute
silencio
,
forbidding anyone to go out from his cell except for the
officio,
then
the boy disappeared.’

‘How do you know he disappeared if
you have never seen him?’

‘Because I always make him a special
plate, never meat, only a little fish, the best from my kitchen . . .
ese
día
, that day, the abbot told me, ‘Rodrigo, do not make him any more food’,
saying that he was fasting. Everyone knows he is in the tunnel.’

‘Fasting . . .’ my master said,
pulling feverishly on his beard, ‘and what does everyone say he is doing there?’

‘
María Santa!
He is learning
the secret that no man can live who knows it. The secret of the hidden manna!’
As he uttered these words he must have recalled that he would soon give
credence to them and cried, ‘Please you must help me!
Estoy muerto!
I am
dead!’

‘I will see . . . I will see,’ my
master said softly, ‘where is the poisoned honey and wine kept?’

‘In the larder, a clay pot with a
crooked handle on the top shelf. The honey is also there in another.
María
Santa!
You will help me? I tell you everything I know . . .’

‘We shall try, but for now we must go
. . . Come, Christian.’ He pulled at my arm and we left the poor creature
sobbing into his enormous, twisted hands.

‘But, master . . .’ I said as we
braved a battering of hail. ‘How did you know he had taken the same substance
that poisoned the brothers?’

Once in the kitchen, now deserted, he
answered me. ‘Remember when we were in the tunnels I told you about witch’s
potion whose principal element is atropa belladonna?’

‘Yes, it makes those who take it feel
as though they were flying into the arms of Satan . . . I must tell you –’

‘Do not interrupt my thoughts, boy!
Now . . . the day in the kitchen, the herb drying above the fire was the first
clue, when he then said that he flew into the arms of the Virgin . . . a
natural conclusion.’

‘But flying into the arms of the
Virgin and into the arms of Satan are not the same thing, master.’

‘Essentially they are, for if you
will remember our discussion on the suggestive powers of magicians, you will
know why the cook, under the power of such a drug, sees the Virgin, while a
witch sees Satan.’

‘So to understand it a little
clearer, the drug only induces the vision that is sought by the organism using
it.’

‘To put it another way, the effect of
the drug often corresponds to the disposition of its user.’

‘And so I flew into the arms of a
woman. I saw bees flying, and eagles . . . I somehow flew to the encampment
outside,’ I said miserably because this meant that my dreams were no more
prophetic than a sneeze, forgetting how many times they had aided us in our
investigations. I told him then of my suspicions about the wine that I had
taken.

‘That also explains your strange behaviour
. . . Lucky for you, you must not have consumed enough to kill you.’ Seeing
that I was sufficiently contrite, he continued, ‘Yes, the flying symptom is the
physical one, the other effect has its origin in the mind . . . the wine.
Brother Ezekiel drank a great deal of it the night that he died.’

‘But that wine was meant for you,
master.’

‘Yes . . . perhaps someone was as
careless as has happened with you.’

‘May I ask you another question,
master? How did you know that it was the cook who was involved in the murder of
Piero?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘So, he implicated himself because he
thought you knew? But then how did you know that he supplied the food for the
twelve monks of the catacombs?’

‘It is quite simple,’ he answered, ‘even
you would remember how that night we inspected the panel in the transept
chapel, we were disturbed by a monk whom we later observed carrying something
in his hands?’

‘Yes!’ I cried, astounded at my own
stupidity. ‘He went behind the drapes then left immediately, just as the cook
said. But how did you know that it was food?’

‘Think, boy! Think! Do you not
remember our sojourn to the tunnels? When we observed that the twelve ghosts
were indeed as human as you or I? I knew then, as you or any novice except
stupid ones should know, that they must somehow have access to food.’

‘But it could have been anyone.’

‘The only people who have access to
the kitchen between the hours of compline and matins are those who hold the
keys, namely, Brother Macabus or Rodrigo the cook.’

‘But from memory Brother Macabus said
that the cook was to bring him the keys before the service of compline, and we
saw him at the north transept chapel at about the eleventh hour, before the
service of matins.’

‘Precisely and this he does every
night. How many times since our arrival have you seen the cook, or anyone for
that matter, deliver Brother Macabus the keys before compline begins? There
must be times when he keeps the keys. This morning, for instance, Brother
Macabus could not open the aperture for us because he did not have them.
Sometimes, in order to escape suspicion, the cook or – in this case
someone else – simply does not lock the kitchen, as we saw that first
night when we found we could not leave through the aperture, and as we passed
the kitchen I remarked that it was odd to see only the outer cookhouse door
locked, and not also the inner door.’

‘Still, you had very little evidence,
master, a few clues, nothing of substance, and yet when you spoke to the cook,
you sounded so sure of everything.’

‘Yes,’ he reflected, ‘this particular
situation – unlike the situation with the brother librarian –
called for a more forthright manner.’

‘I see!’ I said, suddenly
enlightened. ‘When one knows a great deal, one interrogates with prudence,
pretending to know very little, so that the suspect will be unguarded and
therefore make a slip of the tongue. On the other hand, when one knows very
little, one pretends to know a great deal, thereby intimidating the subject
into admitting things he would not have otherwise because he thinks that you
already know everything!’

‘Yes . . . that is it, more or less.’

I was elated at this splendid insight
into human nature. ‘Brother Setubar must be the killer! He killed all the
brothers with the poisoned raisins and wine.’

‘And yet we still have our poor
brothers Jerome and Samuel whose deaths remain unexplained . . . I am not
convinced on either point. We must not be tempted to draw conclusions until we
are satisfied that we have gathered all the relevant information available to
us . . . on the other hand, what we see with our eyes is very often more
reliable than what we hear with our ears,’ he said as we entered the larder,
hurrying, for we could hear the service ending.

‘Master?’ I asked as we searched.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think it odd that twelve men
live underground? Surely they must come up sometime for air or confession? How
must they survive?’

‘Life is stubborn, Christian, the
more a man punishes the flesh in order to ignore it the more attention he gives
it, and the more he abhors life and longs for death the longer he seems to
live. These hermits must sleep in underground cells, and may even have a chapel
in which to pray. That is not as uncommon as it may appear at first.’

‘I see. But who has been taking their
food to the north transept while the cook has been detained?’

‘That is a good question.’

We failed to find the poisoned
substances, however, and this sent my master into a frustrated rage.

‘By the curse of Saladin!’ he swore
under his breath. ‘Someone has either removed it, or . . .’ He paused for a
moment, frowning. ‘Of course!’ He slapped me on the nape. ‘Why did you not
think of it? It stands to reason . . . he has already killed them all . . .
that is, except himself!’

‘Why should I have thought of it when
you did not think of it either until just now?’ I asked, a little hurt.

‘You are right. Let us go to the
infirmary. Asa, the dutiful student must know where his master Setubar is, if
he is not already dead by his own hand.’

Outside, the inquisitor’s men were
still looking for Brother Setubar, the abbot, too, had sent monks in every
direction. They called the old brother’s name into the wet nothingness, but
there was no answer.

We made our way to the infirmary in
haste. My master ordered the guard to stand aside, and this he did almost by
reflex, and we entered, closing the door behind us.

We found Asa tending to the young boy
whose leg had been so badly broken. He was bending over the young man’s face,
looking into his eyes, checking his pulse. When he heard us enter, he turned around,
a little startled. ‘Preceptor.’ In his hand a strange glass object, on the bed
the velvet pouch that I had seen him replace hastily in the drawer the day that
the cook had started the fire. ‘I hear agitation outside,’ he said, trying now
to hide his implement, though he knew it was hopeless. We both had seen it.

‘How is our patient?’ My master
walked over to the boy and checked his pupils.

The infirmarian shook his head. ‘Unwell,
he has a fever.’

‘Help me to lift him a little then,
Asa, I would like to listen to his chest.’

The man hesitated, looking at us like
a hare cornered by two bloodthirsty hounds.

‘What is wrong? Are your hands full?
What do you have there?’

The other man narrowed his eyes and,
with great hesitation, showed my master. ‘It is a wonderful thing, preceptor.
It measures the temperature of the corpus.’

My master looked at it in awe. A long
cylindrical glass whose base ballooned out a little and whose interior seemed
to hold some substance.

‘How does one read it?’ my master
asked, most intrigued.

‘Well . . .’ the other man became
excited, ‘one places this end,’ he pointed to the rounded segment, ‘in the
patient’s anus, or in his mouth. Inside the glass there is alcohol. When it is
heated the gas expands and it travels up this chamber, indicating the extent of
a patient’s fever.’

‘I am astounded! It is very clever.
Did you devise it? Better still, what do you say is the normal and abnormal
temperature?’

The man looked down shyly. ‘I am not
certain of its accuracy. I have simply marked incremental numbers along its
side, and have come to know, after using it on both the healthy and the sick,
where an unhealthy temperature differs from a healthy one . . . The glass maker
and I have spent many hours perfecting it. You see the glass must not be too
thick or it does not work efficiently. Also there is the added problem of the
alcohol . . .’

‘Why, it is a marvel! You are a
credit to your calling,’ he said with genuine admiration and warmth.

‘I have been hiding it from Brother
Setubar . . . he would think it a sinful tool of the Devil. He would rather see
men die than rely on earthly things to effect a cure. In this way he is not so
different from the inquisitor.’ There was bitterness in his voice, but his
mention of Setubar brought us back to the purpose of our visit.

‘Brother Asa, we are looking for your
master,’ Andre said, in a grave tone, ‘has he been here?’

‘Here? No . . . Why, has something
happened to him?’

‘He is nowhere to be found and we
fear for his life.’

The infirmarian looked down, but he
did not seem upset. ‘It is no secret . . . he did not like me, anyone will tell
you, and yet I have always been, and shall remain, a good student. I must
confess, however, that if he is dead, I will not mourn him,’ he ended in
bitterness.

‘We believe that he has taken the
poison with him that has killed so many. You have not seen him?’

‘You are not suggesting that he was
the murderer?’

‘Was?’

‘I mean,
is
, of course . . .’
Asa corrected at once.

‘I do not know . . .’ my master eyed
him penetratingly. ‘What were you going to tell me about Samuel that day we
were interrupted, something about his last words . . .?’

‘Oh, yes, he said that he was flying.
Those were his words . . . flying, just like Ezekiel . . .’

At that moment the bell tolled the
commencement of the inquiry. Before anything else could be said two archers
stormed in and took Asa away. My master called out to the larger of the two,
ordering that he find Eisik and bring him to the infirmary. I thought he was
about to perform an examination on the patient but instead he walked out of the
dormitory and into the laboratory where Brother Daniel’s body lay on the
examination table, covered and still. I was not accustomed to death, even after
so many years at my master’s side a shiver still ran through me at the sight of
a body covered by a sheet.