The Sixth Key (19 page)

‘What?’

‘A brain haemorrhage, when it bleeds in the
brain – the symptoms, do you know them?’

She shrugged. ‘Headache, dizziness . . .’ She
didn’t seem particularly interested.

‘I know there’s something about the eyes
– the pupils. They either contract or dilate . . .’

She wasn’t listening. ‘I still don’t
understand how this has anything to do with my uncle.’

‘I think that your uncle is the priest this
man Monti came to see and I also think that the list of priests has something
to do with the missing key. On his return to Paris, Monti—’

‘The man with the notebook?’

‘Yes. Monti grew afraid and for good reason,
since he was soon murdered. I think that Inspecteur Beliere turned up so
promptly, miles from his jurisdiction, because he was watching your uncle.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I saw a car parked on the road nearby the
Maison de Cros when we left for Bugarach and it didn’t follow us. I’ll wager that
was an unmarked police car.’

‘You think my uncle was involved with this
Monti fellow? That’s absurd!’

‘But the list isn’t all that connects your
uncle to the grimoires. Don’t forget the last word he wrote was sator. He gave
that to Deodat as a clue to finding the list.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘It’s part of a very old magic square used in
certain grimoires.’

She raised both brows. ‘Magic square?’

Rahn took a pencil from his bag and drew the
square on the back of the paper with the list.

She glanced at it.

‘
The words are the same up and
down, backwards and forwards.’

‘I see, and that is why it has magical
properties?’

‘I don’t know. I think your uncle knew that if
he gave Deodat that one word, Deodat would be able to figure out not only where
the list was kept but also that it was connected to the grimoires. Deodat’s
house and your uncle’s house were both ransacked because someone was after this
list and they wanted it enough to kill for it.’

‘Do you have any idea who that dead man in the
barn was?’

His conversation with Deodat about the various
groups floated in his head. ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘Yesterday Deodat mentioned a
number of secret brotherhoods, societies and groups that are at cross-purposes
though they sometimes work together without knowing it. I noticed that the man
in the barn had a tattoo. I’ve seen something like it before but I don’t
remember where exactly.’

‘Do you have any idea what nationality or
group he may have belonged to?’

‘No . . . there were no papers in his pockets
but the tattoo was unusual – a snake entwining an anchor. It could be a
Hermetic symbol, possibly the symbol of some order, but who knows? I know I’ve
been followed. Before I left Paris, a man who called himself Serinus contacted
me. He also wanted me to find Le Serpent Rouge but he wanted me to keep it out
of Himmler’s hands.’

‘Who is he working for?’

‘I don’t know, but
Inspecteur
Beliere saw a card from Serinus when it fell out of my
wallet and he said something that I should have known . . . serinus is the
Latin genus name for the canary.’

‘The bird?’

‘Yes, but I think it’s a codename. There is a
man called Canaris, he is the head of Military Intelligence at Gestapo
headquarters. Everyone is afraid of him, including Himmler. He has files on
everyone. He may be the one who contacted me.’

‘So he’s working for Hitler?’

‘Somehow I don’t think so.’

‘But . . . why would he be working against his
own government?’

‘I don’t know.’ Rahn felt nauseated and opened
the window to let the cold air wash over his face. He should have left Arques
yesterday, now it was too late and things were well out of hand. If this was a
script then he wanted to register his complaint: not only was he the most
unlikely protagonist but also the plot was also too complex to be believable!
He rubbed his face, feeling anxious and overwhelmed.

‘You don’t look so good, why don’t you try to
get some sleep?’

He sighed, realising that she was right. He
put his head back and his hat over his face and tried to clear his mind of his
worries, allowing the motion of the car to lull him to sleep.

The light was descending now behind the
cypresses.

‘So, this is true about Le Serpent Rouge?’ I
asked.

‘Of course,’ the Writer of Letters answered.
‘We should move inside, it is getting rather cold.’

At this point I saw a figure. It was the old
monk I had met earlier, the one who warned me to leave, walking towards the
cemetery in the twilight. He looked askance in our direction and continued on
his way hurriedly.

‘He seems frightened,’ I said.

The Writer of Letters observed this with a nod
and said, ‘He’s always afraid.’

‘What does he fear?’

‘I think he has been among the dead so long he fears the living.
Have you heard of the living dead?’

‘No.’

‘They are souls caught between two worlds . .
. vulnerable souls.’

‘In what way are they vulnerable?’

‘There is a mystery about those who in life
either died violently or too early, or those who were connected to particular
groups and had sworn oaths while alive. The living can use these souls because
they retain certain abilities after death, one could say the future is open to
them. This means they can inspire the living in scientific and artistic
endeavours that are ahead of their time, but unfortunately these souls are also
susceptible to being used by evil-minded men during séances or black magic
rituals. Himmler was one of those who sought to use the dead
– he
understood the enormous power that could be harnessed through them. That is why
he wanted Le Serpent Rouge.’

‘The old monk told me no one stays in the
monastery anymore. He said it is prohibited. Is this true?’ I ventured.

‘Of course. To his mind only the dead should
have intercourse with the dead. He sees this intercourse between the living and
the dead and he flees from it.’

‘Why doesn’t he leave here and go somewhere
more . . . alive?’

‘It is too late for him, I’m afraid,’ the man
replied. ‘He has nowhere else to go. In a way, he has condemned himself to this
place, it is his choice, his particular destiny.’ He stood then. ‘Tomorrow is
All Saints’ Day and the day after that is All Souls’ Day, the Day of the Dead.
Two particularly difficult days for him,’ he explained. ‘On the Day of the
Dead, the dead are said to return to visit their families. All day the priests
in Venice wear black, inside the churches the altars are similarly draped and
the faithful pray for the souls of their departed, in the hope of shortening
their time in Purgatory. Our monk usually goes into his cell until it is over.
But we should be going inside, as I said, it is getting cold.’

He led the way back to the library and our
seats before the fire.

‘This brings us to the next gallery,’ he said,
when we were comfortable.

‘The middle ages again?’

‘Yes, we’ve seen the galleries of Matteu and
Isobel, and now it is time to see the gallery of Bertrand Marty. This is now
six years later, 1244, and Matteu is at Montsegur during the siege. He must
safeguard the Cathar treasure and also a child – the child of Isobel.
Shall we begin?’

The siege of Montsegur lasted eleven difficult months and during
it, Matteu had come and gone by the secret route, either bringing them news of
the outside world or escorting soldiery to help them fend off the Catholics.
When their last defence, the eastern Barbican, was taken, it was decided by the
lords of Montsegur to surrender; the Catholics gave them fifteen days to make
their preparations to leave the mountain. Some would choose life in prison and
some would choose death on the pyre. Matteu’s destiny was a different one. He
had the task of taking the Cathar treasure and Isobel’s child by way of the
secret passage out of the fortress to a safe haven. It would be an onerous and dangerous
task in a country full of spies and Crusaders. The fate of the Cathar religion
was in his hands and still it did not sit well with him to leave his friends.
Many of them had decided not to recant their faith and would rather walk with
courage into that great pyre which the Crusaders were constructing for them.

The afternoon before his leave-taking he came
across Bertrand Marty. Over the years he had come to know the shy bishop a
little. He was younger than Matteu by one or two years, and yet he had always
seemed older and wiser. He had often wondered what it must be like to be such a
man, full of the wisdom and the power of grace. When he saw him now he fell to
his knees before him, waiting for his blessing, but Bishop Marty asked him to
rise and told him he was not worthy of his adoration.

‘But you are a Cathar Bishop, a perfect!’
Matteu said to him.

‘Who in the world can call himself perfect?’
The bishop answered and asked that Matteu follow him to the gate, which these
days stood open to the expanse of the mountains. He gestured for him to sit
down on a rock, and there they remained side-by-side, quiet, staring out for a
long time, until the bishop spoke. He told Matteu he would say something to him
about his songs and Matteu, knowing that the bishop had never liked songs of
the Grail, braced himself for one of his invectives.

‘No . . . no,’ Marty said with a laugh,
noticing Matteu’s face. ‘I am not going to rebuke you! I wanted to say that I
have grown some sense of these songs of the Grail that you troubadours sing.’

Matteu couldn’t believe it; his face opened up
in a smile. ‘You do?’

‘Yes, I think I know what it is, this thing
called the Grail.’

‘Well then: is it a stone or a cup?’

‘I think it may mean many things,’ he said.
‘One might say it was Jesus, who came to Earth to be the vessel for the Lord;
or the soul of every man, the soul full of faith in Christ; or the Earth and
all its creatures, for the Earth has taken up the body and the blood of
Christ.’

Matteu fell silent and thoughtful, looking at
it for a long time with his face to the dying sun. These were good answers.

‘Do you know, I dream that it is a woman,’
Matteu said. ‘A woman holding her dead son. Sometimes I think I see it when the
moon is only a sickle. Sometimes, it looks like that to me as well, like a
vessel.’

Bishop Marty nodded as if he were privy to
some knowledge he was not going to share with him. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is a
good likeness.’

Matteu grew full of enthusiasm. ‘You know, I
think after this I shall sing a new song – I shall sing of how once upon
a time a castle of the Grail was threatened by the Devil’s armies. I will tell
how at the time of the greatest danger a dove flew down from the Heavens to
split open the summit of Bidorta with its beak so that Esclarmonde de Foix, the
angel keeper of the Grail, could throw the Grail into the heart of that
mountain to keep it safe! Do you think they will look for it a long time,
thinking that it is in the mountains?’

He smiled. ‘Yes, I think they will.’

‘They may burn all the pure ones,’ Matteu
said, ‘but no one will forget them because of my songs. I will sing how
Esclarmonde turned into a dove and flew from the very top of the keep, towards
the mountains of the land of Prester John. And that is why her grave will never
be found, because she never died.’

The bishop looked at Matteu. ‘But Esclarmonde
has been dead many years . . .’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said, ‘but just between
you and me, I feel her presence every now and again, in the night. Sometimes I
think she whispers songs into my ears – she is so beautiful!’ He
remembered something then. ‘Do you recall how you once told me that when you
were a child you escaped from the Crusaders? How a beautiful woman woke you in
the night and told you to hide in the forest?’

The bishop paused. ‘Yes, I remember it.’

‘Perhaps that was the Goddess herself?’

He smiled. ‘Yes, perhaps it was.’

They sat for a time like that. They could hear
the sounds of the army making revelry below. Matteu realised he must soon go.

‘Matteu, I wondered if I could ask you to take
something else away with you?’

‘What is it?’

‘This.’ He handed Matteu a roll of parchments.
‘It is a wisdom I have learnt while I have been on this mountain. It belongs
with the child.’

Matteu took the roll and put it inside his
pouch.

‘Go with God, Matteu,’
Bishop Marty said.

Matteu nodded full of sadness. ‘And you,
Bishop!’

Afterwards, Matteu took the quiet child and
the treasure and together with four perfects made his way through the Porteil
Chimney to the secret track. They travelled all night over that path with
nothing to guide them but the waning moon, and came to the summit of Bidorta
before sunrise.

While the child rested, Matteu and the others
made a great fire, big enough to be seen from the field below. When the sun
rose over the world, casting its rays over the spines of the dragon mountains,
he went to look to the valley below. He could see one great pyre on which many
of his friends would soon meet their death. He remembered Bertrand Marty and a
deep sadness overwhelmed him. He knew that the bishop would be looking up to
the summit seeking the sign that the child and the treasure were safe and that
when he saw it he would be thankful. Matteu was weary. He had seen too much
death. He would not wait for the Catholics to light the pyre; he did not want
to hear the screams of his friends.

He said, ‘We go!’