She carefully replaced the flag in the drawer. As she did she noticed an ink blotter sitting on the desk top of the secretaire. She touched it with her fingers, feeling its uneven surface. Small indentations she recognised. Words, embossed into it as someone wrote upon a sheet of paper. She lifted it close to her face, trying to decipher the loopy scrawl. To her immense excitement, she saw that it was in English. Olivia’s heart started thumping. This was the first evidence she’d seen proving that the American had been in the farmhouse. She picked up a pencil and began to cover the imprinted white letters with light pencil strokes. Soon she could read what had been written pressed against the ink blotter.
‘The Purple Rose, rue de la Huchette, Latin Quarter.’ It had to be August’s handwriting.
The sharp sound of a man’s whistle and the clattering of hooves coming from outside cut through her thoughts. She glanced out of the window. Beyond the back of the house a small herd of cows was trotting towards the farm. She had only minutes to get out. She pulled out the page of the blotter and slipped it into her pocket, then ran out into the corridor.
Olivia ducked out of the barn door and down the other side of the farmhouse towards a cluster of trees and beyond that forest. She moved quickly into the green twilight of the woods, then concealed herself behind a trunk and watched as a youth of about fifteen, with a dignified beauty to his face, herded a group of cows and calves into the barn, whistling and tapping them on the haunches with a switch. Stretching all her senses out towards him, she tried to get a reading. To her astonishment, she met resistance immediately. The youth’s mind was a fortress; unimaginable in one so young. Amazed, Olivia stepped forward, not quite believing what she was sensing, and it was then that she heard the whisperings behind her, faint at first but definite. She froze then swung back to the forest to concentrate all her energy onto the thicket of oak and beech, the canopy of branches and leaves. Yes, the whisperings were definitely beyond the trees, lower down the valley. Fine threads barely audible except to someone like her. Pain, violence, terrible tragedy, buried under the birdsong, the nearby buzz of a bumblebee, the rush of a distant stream. But they were there, tiny wisps that caught at her hair, her throat, like fish hooks, speaking of the past, speaking of the dead.
She began to follow, taking care not to stumble or break branches, as the threads thickened and wove around the trunks, trailed down small moss-covered paths, then stopped, only to start again a foot away behind some rock. Her body tipped forward, her eyes half-shut, she drew all her senses into a sharp torch beam of listening. Soon she found herself on a narrow path, the gossamery strands converging and overlapping until she was following a rope, a shimmering silver rope, the pain of which she couldn’t bear to touch or open herself to completely. It was enough to know she was walking in the right direction.
Finally, with the trees closing in, she stopped and looked back. The farmhouse and any sign of the village beyond had gone. If one wanted to bury a secret, this would be the place. But again, the whisperings, now voices, broken fragments of violence, pleasure, lovemaking and murder, audible shadowing of times past, tugged at her, urging her forward. Her hand slipped into a pocket and clutched at an amulet she had of the Goddess. It was foolish to feel fear, she told herself, the dead, even the murdered, cannot harm the living, but they can disturb. And she could sense, as much as someone or something wanted her there, there was another force that did not. She had to protect herself, if not her life, her sanity.
The path abruptly opened onto a ravine, the ground falling unnaturally away by a few feet. Olivia stopped at the edge. Facing her was the wall of what looked like an old Roman ruin and it was from this wall that the voices were pouring.
She jumped down, then, dizzy, rested against an old tumbled tree trunk. She now saw that she was standing in a natural clearing, one that would be completely hidden unless one knew of its existence. She lifted her eyes and forced herself to look at the wall again. Made of large, roughly hewn stones, it was ancient, far older than most of the architecture of the village, which was medieval. But the voices were far more recent – a cacophony of men shouting, and there was a woman among the cries. Olivia walked closer, not daring to touch it. She became aware of someone standing at the far side of the clearing between the trees. She glanced up and saw a flash of long black hair, khaki, a sliver of sunlight on metal – gun, bayonet? Gone in a flash, nothing material, nothing that was living, that could physically harm her.
She looked back down at the ground and slowly began to walk around the wall, concentrating on the event that had happened there: eight shadows, raised voices, a struggle, men in uniform, several different uniforms, the outline of someone else. A man still living, the leader. Olivia reached the edge of the wall, and with her eyes still downcast, as if not to give offence to the watching ghosts, turned the corner and began to walk the other side. She stopped halfway and shut her eyes, concentrating on the outline of the man who had given the order, concentrating on him because his energy was familiar. She knew him. She’d felt the shape of that evil before. In her mind’s eye it wavered, tantalising her, forcing her to draw all her strength to a single point that bored into the memory-shadow of the man, his impact still burned on the fabric of time. Who was he? Why was he familiar? Now she could see the blurred outline lifting a gun, yelling orders, commanding others to herd eight figures against the wall, fury and disbelief shooting across them in sharp jagged colours. And she could see that all were now dead except this leader, this Judas, some in the next moment and the others, the ones carrying out his orders, shortly after, months or years, she couldn’t tell. But this man was still living.
Now the whispering grew around her and she began to shake. Determined to envisage the whole scenario, she kept her eyes closed, concentrating until she thought her head would split or she would faint. She could see the shadowy figures begin to materialise in the outline on the wall, a row of them staring out, some terrified, others disbelieving, the woman in the middle raising her fist defiantly, and the deafening report of gunfire. Olivia’s body shook as if she were taking the bullets herself; crumpling down to the grass, she covered her head with her arms and lay there with her eyes closed until the whisperings had faded away and all she could hear was the rustle of leaves as the scent of lavender drifting across filled her senses like honey. She opened her eyes and got up. It was then that she saw the maze – small and neat, the purple and blue-green hues of rosemary, a sudden enigma in the centre of the grassed clearing. But she wasn’t high enough to see the actual layout of the maze. She glanced along the ridge the wall sat upon. About ten feet along, growing just behind the wall, there was a tall tree – tall enough for her purposes. Even from this distance she could see scuff marks up the trunk and one of the lower branches was broken. As if someone had climbed it recently.
She straddled the thick branch and steadied herself against the trunk then stared out over the clearing down at the maze. The perspective was perfect. The American had chosen well, she thought as she gazed down. From this height she recognised the design of the maze immediately: five circular bases visible along one side. The Tree of Life made manifest in hedge. So, Olivia thought, the legend was true. There was more than one. Ruiz de Luna had left a string of clues – botanical puzzles. But what did this first maze mean and where had it directed August Winthrop? Rosemary symbolised sun and fire and was considered a protective herb – one that could ward off evil, or any unwanted visitors. Closing her eyes for a moment, she absorbed the sudden tranquillity of this upper world of swaying branches and rustling leaves, then climbed down.
She walked up to the maze in wonder, stretching out her hand to touch it. It was extraordinary to think this had been planted and tended for over three hundred years. She knew Shimon, who understood enough about the mystical symbolism of herbs and plants, would have left a message hidden in the maze – each plant choice carried a meaning on several layers: mystical, spiritual and astrological. But by planting within a depicti
on of the Tree of Life – not only was it audacious, it was transgressive. Had Shimon the alchemist known he risked spiritual annihilation through such irreverence? She doubted it, as a converso, he was removed from the teaching of his people, his interest was more academic than esoteric or spiritual. And yet he had finally been annihilated, executed by the English for the trumped-up charge of spying. Such courage from such naivety, it was almost admirable. Almost, Olivia thought to herself. Only a desperate man would have resorted to such measures, or a man so convinced of the importance of what he was hiding that he felt secure in challenging the power of God himself.
In her world such a design would indicate the first step to an integration of time – past, present and future. But why construct the Tree of Life here? What had Shimon wanted to leave as a message to those he must have known would follow in his footsteps searching for Elazar ibn Yehuda’s legendary treasure? Perhaps the secret lay in the centre. Olivia stood before the maze and trembled. Even to enter such a design automatically meant surrendering the amulets and shield of protection she always carried with her. Yet if she were to discover the next step and possibly what August had discovered, she would have to go into the maze.
She felt in her pockets and pulled out a witch’s charm of bronze, crystal and gold inscribed with Celtic symbols and her goddess amulet. She placed them both carefully on a stone just outside then stepped under the bower of hedge that arched over the entrance of the maze. The scent of the rosemary intensified immediately, lulling her into further disorientation, a deliberate ploy, she knew, to befuddle the seeker. She made a mental note to stay alert. She was halfway down the first path when she heard the click of a gun being cocked behind her. She froze. A second later she felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed against her head.
‘Don’t move.’ The youth she’d seen earlier stepped out from behind a leafy wall holding a hunting rifle. Olivia held up her hands, more shocked that she hadn’t sensed his presence at all than frightened. How did he get so powerful? she wondered, now studying the gawky youth, who, despite the noble cast to his features, was still in the throes of a pimply adolescence.
‘I’m just a tourist,’ she said, in English, and tried smiling. It didn’t work. The youth was incredibly tense and she was sure he would have no trouble pulling the trigger if he wanted. Now she deeply regretted abandoning her amulets. Glancing ahead, she calculated they were about ten feet from the entrance of the maze – once she got him outside, she would stand a chance of disarming him.
‘This is pri … pri … private property. How did you even find this place?’
His English was good, she noted, despite the stammer, and he seemed to have a slight American twang over the Spanish. August’s influence? she wondered.
‘I visited your mother yesterday. I’m looking for someone, an American, a friend.’ She watched his face for any minute tell-tale signs of emotion. There was a tiny flicker but not where she expected.
‘There is no American here. You must go.’ The barrel of the gun hadn’t moved.
‘But she isn’t your mother, is she?’
‘And you’re not a tourist.’
‘Lower your gun.’
‘No.’
‘Lower your gun. You’re a strong young man. I’m an old woman. How can I harm you?’
Instead he pressed the gun harder against her temple. It hurt and she pulled away.
‘Move,’ he commanded then made her walk in front of him out of the maze, the barrel of the rifle now in between her shoulder blades.
‘Gabirel, isn’t it?’ she ventured, remembering a cloth nametag sown carefully into a christening gown she’d seen in the chest of drawers in the bedroom in the farmhouse.
‘What of it?’ To her astonishment, he didn’t even sound surprised she should know his name. This disturbed her. This wasn’t the response of a normal man.
‘So, if she’s not your mother, your aunt perhaps? And where is your aunt? Not at the house, right?’
‘¡Calla! ¡Bruja! Stop talking, witch!’ His voice now held an edge of real violence and she knew she had to be careful, very careful.
They walked on back through the maze, Olivia a metre in front of Gabirel, the round stones pushing up under her soles.
‘How long have you known you’ve been different, Gabirel?’ It was a calculated guess and a risky move on her behalf, but everything she’d seen of the youth confirmed her hunch. They had reached the entrance of the maze. She stepped out and faced him; he still hadn’t lowered his rifle.
‘Wh … wh … what are you talking about?’
Now sensing a weakness, she pounced. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. How long have you seen things others haven’t? Heard voices? Had friends who weren’t entirely of now?’ She indicated everything around her. ‘Of this earthly plane?’
‘You think I’m some ki … ki … kind of fool? Some kind of primitive idiot?’ His voice became more aggressive. She stepped back; had she gone too far?
‘To the contrary, Gabirel, you’re not alone. I can help you.’
‘I know what you are, if that’s what you mean, and this sh … sh … shape you have, you have made yourself look harmless, innocent. But you can’t trick me.’
‘Because you have the sight. Isn’t that right, Gabirel? But what I want to know is how?’
Gabirel lifted the rifle and she saw him squeeze the trigger.
‘If you don’t leave, I will shoot you,’ he announced, calmly.
‘You wouldn’t kill me, not one of your own kind.’ She kept her voice steady, confident. In truth she was quite convinced he would if pushed.
‘I am not one of you.’ But his voice faltered.
Olivia decided to push her advantage. She bent her knees and while she did she scanned the ground nearby. There was a hidden drop a few yards ahead, where the original foundation of the ancient villa lay a couple of feet lower than the ground around them. Olivia noted the direction in which it lay then picked up her amulets. Already the colours and shapes of her world had come pulsating back. Already she felt her powers returning.
‘Wh … wh … what are you doing?’ Gabirel demanded, and for the first time she could see he was frightened. And by the way he was looking at her, he could see the transformation in her himself. She stepped away from the maze. He followed, gun still pointing.
‘Tell me about the wall.’ She kept her gaze locked to his.
‘Shut up!’ But he was still allowing her to move towards it.
‘It was the wall that enticed me here, Gabirel. There are voices.’ She kept her gaze fastened to his eyes, drawing him forward. ‘One of them is calling out for you, Gabirel.’
Horrified, he moved after her, unable to pull away. Walking backwards, Olivia felt for the drop with her feet. They were close, only a yard or so away.
‘There are no voices,’ he insisted, but his voice was weaker as if he couldn’t help his fascination.
‘Who are you lying to, Gabirel? Yourself or me? You hear them as loudly as I do. She is screaming out your name, or should I say “screamed out your name” because this moment happened many years ago, didn’t it?’
‘I told you not to sp … sp … speak.’
They were now only inches away and Gabirel still hadn’t dropped his eyes to the ground. Instead he stumbled after her, the rifle held up, still pointing directly at her chest. Olivia inched backwards feeling blindly with the heel of her shoe, calculating how far the drop was.
‘But nobody heard her crying out your name because of the gunfire, isn’t that right, Gabirel?’
Furious, he lurched forward. ‘I said stop —’ But before he had a chance to finish he stumbled heavily. As he struggled to his feet, Olivia was off, running towards the forest. He fired wildly in her direction, but the strange Englishwoman had disappeared into the thick forest.
Painfully and slowly, he stood. His right ankle was already swelling – it looked twisted. Cursing, he stared across into the cluster of trees, looking for
movement between the trunks, a ripple among the bushes. Nothing appeared disturbed except for a shock of birds rising from the top of the trees. How could a woman of her age move so fast? he wondered. It was unnatural. He shivered, then crossed himself, praying silently that his aunt and his new American friend would stay safe in France. He was interrupted by the sound of his cousin calling his name across the valley.
As the train headed south the wheat fields gave way to vineyards and then to hamlets and villages. August pulled out the list of contacts and safe houses Jimmy had given him. He found Avignon, with the name ‘Edouard Coutes’ written beside it. A huge wave of relief swept through him. Edouard was an old colleague from the Civil War, who’d fought in the Marseillaise Battalion. They had met at Tarazona, where August had first been sent to train. Edouard, ten years older and with combat experience in the First World War fighting for the French, had been allocated rifle training for the Lincolns. A short man with an infectious energy and a short temper, always immaculately dressed even on the battlefield, he’d given August, then a young recruit, with no rifle experience except duck shooting on the Charles River back in Boston, a punishing time until he discovered they had a shared love of Dostoevsky. After that Edouard, a hardened, self-made Anarchist, had forgiven August’s elitist upbringing and August had forgiven the Frenchman his constant jibes about the lack of American culture.
The train rushed through a short tunnel then emerged into bright sunlight. August looked across at the window and was distracted for a moment by the passing landscape, an old graveyard beside a small Gothic church, the grey tombstones poking up between the bright scattering of yellow and blue wildflowers. He was surprised Edouard had survived. If anyone could keep them safe, it would be a seasoned fighter like him.
The Map Page 34
