The Expected One

by Kathleen McGowan

“Do not mind them, Mademoiselle. You are a new face, and a new mystery to be discovered. But now,” he said pointedly, “they will accept you quickly. They have little choice.”

  Maureen didn’t have time to think about Roland’s meaning as he swept her out to the dance floor, leaving Peter behind to watch with growing interest.

  “Reenie!” Tamara Wisdom’s American accent was incongruous in this European setting. She swept across the ballroom floor where Maureen had just completed a dance with Roland. Tammy looked wildly exotic in a gypsy costume. Her extraordinary hair was dyed a shiny raven’s wing black and hung to her waist. Gold bangles covered her arms. Roland winked at Tamara — somewhat flirtatiously, Maureen noticed — before bowing to Maureen and excusing himself.

  Maureen hugged Tammy, delighted to see another familiar face in this increasingly strange land. “You look gorgeous! Who are you dressed as?”

  Tammy twirled gracefully, ebony hair flying behind her. “Sarah the Egyptian, also know as the Gypsy Queen. She was Mary Magdalene’s handmaiden.”

  Tammy lifted the red taffeta of Maureen’s skirt with one finger. “And I don’t have to ask who you are. Did Berry give you this?”

  “Berry?”

  Tammy laughed. “That’s what Sinclair’s friends call him.”

  “I didn’t realize the two of you were that close.” Maureen hoped the disappointment wasn’t obvious in her voice.

  Tammy didn’t have a chance to respond. They were interrupted by a young woman, not much older than a teenager, dressed in a simple Cathar robe. The girl carried a single calla lily and handed it to Maureen.

  “Marie de Negre,” she said, then bowed deeply and scampered off.

  Maureen turned to Tammy for an explanation. “What was that about?”

  “You. You’re all the gossip tonight. There’s only one rule for this annual soiree, and it’s that no one has ever been allowed to dress as Her. And then you appear, the portrait version of Mary Magdalene. Sinclair is announcing you to the world. This is your coming-out party.”

  “Lovely. It would have been nice if I had been informed of this little detail. What did that girl just call me?”

  “Marie de Negre. Black Mary. It’s a local slang for Mary Magdalene, the Black Madonna. In every generation, a woman of the bloodline is given that name as an official title and holds it until death. Congratulations, it’s a very serious honor here. It’s as though she just said, ‘Your Majesty.’ ”

  Maureen had little time to contemplate the chaos that swirled around her. The room was filled to capacity with elaborate distractions: too much music, too many eccentric and interesting revelers. Sinclair was nowhere to be found; she had asked Roland about him during their dance, but the Languedoc giant had shrugged and answered as vaguely and enigmatically as always.

  Maureen was looking around the room as Tammy spoke.

  “Looking for your watchdog?” Tammy asked.

  Maureen gave her a look, but nodded, willing to let Tammy think her concern was only for Peter’s whereabouts. Tammy indicated that Peter was walking toward them, coming up from behind Maureen.

  “Behave yourself, please,” Maureen hissed at her friend.

  Tammy ignored her. She had already stepped up to welcome Peter.

  “Welcome to Babylon, Padre.”

  Peter laughed. “Thank you. I think.”

  “You’re just in time. I was about to give Our Lady here a tour of the freak show. Wanna join us?”

  Peter nodded, and smiled helplessly at Maureen, tagging along as Tammy led them at her rapid pace across the ballroom.

  Tammy led Maureen and Peter through the party, whispering conspiratorially at the various small groupings as they passed. She made introductions as appropriate when she saw friends or acquaintances in the crowd. Maureen was acutely aware that she was the center of scrutiny as they moved through the room.

  The trio passed a small grouping of scantily clad men and women. Tammy nudged Maureen.

  “That’s the sex cult. They believe that Mary Magdalene was the high priestess in a bizarre set of sexual rituals that evolved from ancient Egypt.”

  Maureen and Peter both looked scandalized.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger, I just call them as I see them. But wait, don’t answer yet. Look over there…”

  The most bizarre group so far, dressed in elaborate alien garb replete with antennae, stood in the back of the room.

  “Rennes-le-Château is a star gate, with direct access to other galaxies.”

  Maureen burst out laughing, while Peter shook his head in disbelief. “You weren’t kidding about the freak show part.”

  “And you thought I made this stuff up.”

  They stopped to observe a huddled group of people who were listening intently to a rotund little man with a goatee. He appeared to be speaking in rhyme as his admirers tried to take in every word.

  “Who’s that?” Maureen whispered.

  “Nostradumbass,” Tammy quipped.

  Maureen stifled her laughter as Tammy continued.

  “Claims to be the reincarnation of you-know-who. Speaks only in quatrains. Tedious as hell. Remind me later to tell you why I hate the whole Nostradamus cult.” She shuddered dramatically. “Charlatans. Might as well be selling snake oil.”

  Tammy kept them moving across the room. “Thankfully, they’re not all freaks here. Some of the people are amazing, and I see two of them right now. Come on.”

  They approached a group of men dressed in costumes of the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century nobility. A patrician Englishman broke into a huge grin as they approached.

  “Tamara Wisdom! It is a pleasure to see you again, my dear. You’re looking marvelous.”

  Tammy gave the Englishman a European double-cheek air kiss. “Where’s your apple?”

  The man laughed. “I left it in England. Please introduce us to your friends.”

  Tammy made the introductions, referring to the Englishman only as Sir Isaac. He explained his choice of costume for them. “There is far more to Sir Isaac Newton than the apple,” he said. “His discovery of the laws of gravity was a by-product of his greater work. Isaac Newton was arguably one of the most gifted alchemists in history.”

  At the end of Sir Isaac’s speech, the group was approached by a young American man, tall and looking somewhat uncomfortable in his Thomas Jefferson costume and his powdered wig. “Tammy, baby!”

  His embrace of Tammy was an all-American bear hug, which he followed with a dramatic dip and a kiss on the lips. Tammy laughed and explained to Maureen.

  “This is Derek Wainwright. He was my first guide through France when I started researching this madness. Speaks flawless French, which saved my life more times than I can tell you.”

  Derek bowed low to Maureen. His accent was pure Cape Cod, full of Massachusetts broad vowels. “Thomas Jefferson at your service, ma’am.” He nodded to Peter. “Father.”

  Derek was the first member of the group to even acknowledge Peter’s presence. Maureen noticed, but didn’t have much time to consider it as Peter asked a question.

  “So what is Thomas Jefferson’s association with…all this?”

  “Our great country was founded by Freemasons. Every American president from George Washington to George W. Bush has been a descendant of the bloodline — one way or another.”

  Maureen was taken aback by this. “Really?”

  Tammy answered. “Really. Derek can prove it on paper. Too much free time in boarding school.”

  Isaac stepped forward to pat Derek on the shoulder. He announced grandly, “Paul was the first corrupter of the doctrines of Jesus, isn’t that right, Tammy?”

  Peter shot him a look. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s one of Jefferson’s more controversial quotes,” the Englishman explained.

  It was Maureen’s turn to look surprised. “Jefferson said that?”

  Derek nodded, but appeared to be only half listening. He was glancing around, checking out the party as Tamm
y talked. “Hey, where’s Draco? I thought Maureen might enjoy meeting him.”

  Three of them laughed hard at this. Isaac answered. “I offended him, and he stomped off to find the other Red Dragons. I’m sure they’re holed up in a corner somewhere with their concealed spy cameras, taking notes on everyone. They’re in their colors tonight, so you won’t be able to miss them.”

  Maureen’s curiosity was piqued. “Who are they?”

  “The Knights of the Red Dragon,” Derek answered with feigned dramatic emphasis.

  “Creepy.” Tammy elaborated, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “They wear these outfits that look like Ku Klux Klan uniforms, only in bright red satin. They told me I could learn the secrets of their esteemed club if I would donate my menstrual blood to their alchemical experiments. Of course, I jumped at that offer.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Maureen’s reply was dry before she burst out laughing. “Where are these guys? I’ve got to get a look at them.” She looked around the room but didn’t see anyone who met Tammy’s bizarre description.

  “I saw them go outside,” Newton answered helpfully. “But I don’t know if I would expose Maureen to them just yet. She may not be ready.”

  Tammy explained. “Very secret society stuff, and they all claim to be descended from somebody royal and famous. Leader is a guy they call Draco Ormus.”

  “Why does that sound familiar?” Maureen asked.

  “He’s a writer. We have the same esoteric publisher in the U.K., which is why I know him. You may have run across one of his books in your travels through Magdalene territory. The ironic thing about him is that he writes about the importance of goddess worship and the female principle, yet they won’t allow women into their boys’ club.”

  “How very British,” Derek said, nudging Sir Isaac, who looked perturbed.

  “Don’t include me in that lunatic’s company, cowboy. All Brits are not created equal.”

  “Isaac here is one of the good ones,” Tammy explained. “Of course, there are a number of bona-fide geniuses in the U.K., and some of them are my great friends. But in my experience, a lot of the English esoterics are snobs. They all think they hold the secret of the universe and that the rest of us — particularly the Americans — are new age idiots who do shoddy research. They think that because they can write three hundred pages about the sacred geometry of the Languedoc and create another two hundred pages of mostly fictional family trees, they have it all figured out. But if they would put their compasses down for a minute and allow themselves to feel something, they’d discover that there is a lot more to the treasure here than can be quantified on paper.”

  Tammy nodded to a group dressed in Elizabethan-era costumes across the room. “There are some of them now, as a matter of fact. I call them the Protractor Crowd. They’ve spent lifetimes analyzing the sacred geometry of survey maps. You want an opinion on the meaning of ‘Et in Arcadia ego’? They can give you anagrams in twelve different languages and translate those into mathematical equations.”

  She pointed out an attractive but arrogant-looking woman in an elaborate Tudor-style costume. A gold letter “M” with a baroque pearl hung from a chain on her neck. The protractor crowd gathered around her appeared to be fawning.

  “The woman in the center claims to be descended from Mary, Queen of Scots.”

  As if sensing that they were speaking about her, the woman turned to stare in their direction. She fixed her gaze on Maureen, looking her up and down with pure disdain before returning to her minions.

  “Haughty bitch,” Tammy snapped. “She’s at the center of a not-so-secret society that wants to restore the Stuart dynasty to the British crown. With her on the throne, of course.”

  Maureen was fascinated by the sheer breadth of belief systems that were represented in the room, not to mention the extreme, individual personalities.

  Peter leaned over and quipped, “Freud would have a field day in this place.”

  Maureen laughed, but returned her attention to the British group across the room. “How does Sinclair feel about her? He’s a Scot, and isn’t he related to the Stuarts?” she asked. Her curiosity about Sinclair was increasing — and the Mary, Queen of Scots woman was certainly beautiful.

  “Oh, he knows she’s a nut job. And don’t underestimate Berry. He’s obsessive, but he’s not stupid.”

  “Check it out,” Derek interrupted in his somewhat juvenile, limited-attention-span way. “There goes Hans, and his band of renown. I hear Sinclair almost banned them this year.”

  “Why?” Maureen was becoming increasingly fascinated by the Languedoc and the strange, esoteric subculture it had produced.

  “They’re treasure hunters in the most literal sense,” Sir Isaac offered. “Rumor has it that they’re the most recent group to use dynamite in Sinclair’s mountains.”

  Maureen looked at the group of large, boisterous Germans. Their image wasn’t improved by their costumes — they were all dressed as barbarians.

  “Who are they supposed to be dressed as?”

  “Visigoths,” Isaac answered. “This part of France was their territory in the seventh and eighth centuries. The Germans believe that the treasures of a Visigoth king are hidden in the area.”

  Tammy continued. “It would be the European equivalent of discovering the tomb of Tutankhamen. Gold, jewels, priceless artifacts. Standard treasure stuff.”

  A particularly raucous group of revelers ran through the room, directly past them, jostling Peter and Tammy. Five robed men chased a woman dressed in colorful Middle Eastern veils. She carried a grotesque human head on a platter. The men called after her, apparently addressing the severed head. “Speak to us, Baphomet, speak to us!”

  Tammy shrugged and explained simply as they passed, “Baptists.”

  “Not real ones, of course,” Derek chimed in.

  “No. Not real ones.”

  Peter was intrigued by this religious angle. “What do you mean, not real ones?”

  Tammy turned to him. “I’m sure you know what day this is on the Christian calendar, Father?”

  Peter nodded. “It’s the feast day of Saint John the Baptist.”

  “True followers of John the Baptist would never attend a party like this on his feast day,” Derek continued. “It would be blasphemy.”

  Tammy finished up the explanation. “They’re a very conservative group, at least the European branch is.” She nodded in the direction of the woman with the head. “They’re a parody. A rather brutal one, I might add. Not that it isn’t warranted.”

  Revelers around the ballroom watched the antics with varying degrees of amusement. Some laughed outright; some shook their heads; others looked scandalized.

  Derek interrupted, seemingly unable to stick to one topic for very long. “I need a drink. Who wants something from the bar?”

  Peter had taken Derek’s departure as an opportunity to excuse himself temporarily. His costume was behaving badly, and he was desperately uncomfortable for more than sartorial reasons. He told Maureen he was going in search of a restroom. In truth, he made a beeline for the patio. He was in France, after all — there was sure to be someone out there who would give him a cigarette.

  A Frenchman, incredibly elegant despite his simple Cathar robe, approached Maureen and Tammy. He nodded to Tammy and bowed before Maureen.

  “Bienvenue, Marie de Negre.”

  Uncomfortable with the attention, Maureen laughed. “I’m sorry, my French is terrible.”

  The Frenchman spoke in flawless, if accented, English. “I said, ‘That color suits you.’ ”

  A voice across the room was yelling for Tammy. Maureen glanced over, thinking it sounded like Derek, then back at Tammy, who was beaming.

  “Aha! Looks like Derek has one of my potential investors cornered at the bar. Can you excuse me for a minute?”

  Tammy was gone in a split second, leaving Maureen with the mysterious Frenchman. He kissed her right hand, hesitating just for a moment to look at the pattern
on her ring, then introduced himself formally.

  “I am Jean-Claude de la Motte. Bérenger tells me that we are related, you and I. My grandmother’s name was also Paschal.”

  “Really?” Maureen was excited by the connection.

  “Yes. There are still a few Paschals here in the Languedoc. You are aware of our history, no?”

  “Not really. I’m ashamed to tell you that anything I know I’ve learned from Lord Sinclair these last few days. I’d love to hear more about my family.”

  Costumed dancers in the garb of eighteenth-century Versailles whirled past them as Jean-Claude spoke.

  “The Paschal name is one of the oldest in France. It was a name taken by one of the great Cathar families, the direct descendants of Jesus and Mary Magdalene. Most of the family was eliminated in the Crusade against our people. At the massacre of Montsegur, those who remained were burned alive as heretics. But some escaped, later becoming advisers to the kings and queens of France.”

  Jean-Claude gestured at the couple dressed elaborately as Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI on the dance floor.

  “Marie Antoinette and Louis?” Maureen was surprised.

  “Oui. Marie Antoinette was a Hapsburg and Louis was a Bourbon — both bloodline descendants through different streams. They united two strands of the blood, which is why people were so afraid of them. The Revolution was caused in part by the fear of the two families joining together to form the most powerful dynasty in the world. Have you been to Versailles, Mademoiselle?”

  “Yes, I was there during my research on Marie Antoinette.”

  “Then you know the hamlet?”

  “Of course.” The hamlet had been Maureen’s favorite part of the vast palace grounds of Versailles. She had an overwhelming feeling of sympathy for the queen as she toured the halls of the royal residence. Each of Marie Antoinette’s daily activities, from sitting on the toilet to preparing for bed, was witnessed by noble watchdogs. Her children were born to audiences of nobles crowded into her bed-chamber.

  Marie the Queen had rebelled against the suffocating traditions of French royalty and invented an escape from her gilded prison. She built a private hamlet, a tiny Disneyland of a village surrounding a duck pond with rowboats. A miniature mill and a small farmhouse were the settings for pastoral parties with small groups of trusted friends.