The Devil's Bed

by Doug Lamoreux

“That's stupid!” Ray shouted. “They're wearing crosses!”

  Trevelyan was appalled. Brandy would have been, but…

  “He is right,” she told the priest. “I ran a shaft of wood through the one in the brown cloak. He was wearing a crucifix – and the pole had one on it!”

  “That isn't a crucifix,” Trevelyan said. “It's a cross.”

  “What?”

  “You're using the terms interchangeably and they're not the same. Ray is right; they are wearing crosses. It is, or was, the symbol of their religious Order. The shaft of their standard, the stick you stabbed the Templar with, was topped with that symbol. But it's a cross; not a crucifix.”

  “What's the difference? I mean, I know one has Jesus on it but, what's the difference for the Templars?”

  “The difference, I think, is the blood,” Trevelyan said, mulling the mystery as he examined his crucifix. “A cross is two intersecting lines; nothing more. A crucifix features the martyred Lord. If this truly is a battle of good and evil then the crucifix is the blood of Christ. It is the symbol of sacrifice for absolute good. They cannot abide it.”

  “What about the one you just chased? If they can't abide good how was it able to enter the chapel in the first place?”

  “Oh, eh, there's nothing necessarily good about a chapel or a church.”

  “Isn't it the house of God?”

  “Eh, yes, but, er, it isn't the church that's holy. It's the sanctuary.”

  Trevelyan pointed to this 'holy' area and, for the first time, Brandy really looked at the sanctuary, from the steps and rails at its approach to the apse (the half-dome wall) at its rear. It featured the High Altar, a table at the apse wall, smaller credence tables on either side and, hanging above, an ornate and intimidating crucifix. The area was adorned in the expected accoutrement; red and white faded palls (hanging like curtains), liturgy books, hymnals and a massive Bible, gold chalices, and candles (alone and clustered in wrought-iron, tree-like candelabra). It looked wrong. As if a movie crew, without knowledge of the church, had been called in to dress a set. Still it felt right. Behind the banners, the unevenly faded wall and empty niches hinted at the icons, paintings, and sculptures displayed there when real worship took place. As the Templar must have, Brandy felt God was there.

  “To put it simply,” Trevelyan said. “The evil creature couldn't come into the holy part of the chapel. He entered the nave, which is not sanctified. It's for the laity.”

  “The unwashed?” Ray asked.

  “In a way, they were. On weekdays the nave served as a marketplace and, probably, smelled of animal dung and urine. Certain evenings it would have been used for political meetings.”

  Ray snorted a laugh. “When it smelled of human dung and urine.”

  Trevelyan lifted his hands in surrender. He tried not to be judgmental, outside of the confessional, and wasn't by nature political. “Instead of the unwashed, shall we agree on the non-clergy? For centuries, churches and chapels, this one included, were built sanctuary first. They could worship immediately and finish the church as they were able.”

  “Why not just get it done?”

  “With unstable government, lack of funds, poor weather, difficulty getting building materials, and the lethality of those materials, it took years to complete the work. Money and war kept this chapel from being finished; which is why it has so many design styles. Cathedrals, like Notre Dame, took centuries. It wasn't unusual for the construction to be completed by grandchildren, even great grandchildren, of its designers.”

  “But I've strayed,” Trevelyan said. “My point was… the sanctuary is the only blessed part of the chapel. And we all saw the reaction of that creature when he reached its boundary.”

  Brandy stared at the ceiling vault, then back to the sanctuary, thinking. Suddenly her eyes lit up. She raced from the rail down the stairs. Ray shouted and, when she didn't reply, followed after her.

  She stopped in the middle of the nave and turned to Ray. “They're wearing away at this building. The balcony makes us vulnerable. We can't baby-sit one door all night. We need to secure it or we can't keep these things out. It's only a matter of time.” She pointed at the crucifix over the altar. “That's what we need.”

  Ray looked from the sanctuary, to Brandy, to the rail above where a grim Father Trevelyan stood.

  “No.” Trevelyan spoke with quiet authority. “You cannot take apart the altar.”

  “You're guarding a hole in our fort,” Brandy said, pointing, “that was secure until somebody broke the lock.”

  “That's enough,” Ray whispered defensively.

  Brandy ignored him. “We've got to keep those things out, Father. You just showed us how.”

  “It's… sacrilege!” Trevelyan screamed, leaning over the gallery rail. It was a startling image, the black suit, the white collar, the crucifix in his hand, and the explosion of fire and brimstone. “It's blasphemy!”

  “Father, don't you understand…”

  “It's blasphemy! Do you understand that! Can you understand that? There are some things you cannot do!”

  Excepting Eve, everyone was watching the pair; even Loup. Aimee looked on in amazement. It was the Landlord and Mimi from La Bohème, Mephistopheles and Gretchen from Faust. “It's like an opera,” she whispered to Luis. “Like an epic novel.”

  Luis nodded but said nothing.

  “Do you want to die?” Brandy shouted at the priest.

  “Some things are worth dying for,” he said. The ice in his voice melted, replaced by a plea for understanding. “Or worth dying to prevent. Some things are more sacred than life!” He kissed the crucifix and disappeared from the rail.

  Ray saw Brandy's exasperation. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I should have taken you to Paris.”

  “It isn't your fault. The trip was my party, remember.”

  “Yes, but I should have made you. I should have insisted on lights and romance before letting you chase the dead.”

  “Letting me…” Brandy paused. What gave offense also offered illumination. She turned to Ray, hazel eyes alight. “That's it,” she said. “Paris.”

  “Yeah, Paris. I said I'm sorry.”

  “No! Paris! The catacombs. The catacombs of Paris.” Ray shook his head – bewildered. Brandy pulled free and called up to the gallery. “Father! You said this chapel had a crypt?”

  Trevelyan reappeared at the rail. “That is the public view of it,” he answered with trepidation. “Yes.”

  “The public view? I didn't think it made any sense. What you meant was the chapel has an ossuary, right?”

  The priest tensed. Even at that distance, Brandy could see he was chewing his bottom lip. “Yes,” he admitted finally. “That is what I meant. Why?”

  “You know why. The ossuary will have the iconography we need. And it won't be a desecration of the sanctuary.”

  The battle was on again, and raged for ten minutes, back and forth, without respite. Trevelyan took the moral high ground, citing his standing with the Almighty, and closed the debate. Which merely opened the flood gate. Brandy denied it to him and demanded to be heard. The others stayed well out of the fight which so intensified the priest abandoned his post and came to the nave to wage it.

  By request, and under duress, Luis took the priest's place in the gallery. He would rather have watched the clash. Truth be told, he would rather have been back in his hay loft with his little worn book of Shakespeare.

  That notion passed like a mist. The estate, his home, belonged to Fournier. The drug dealer had cut Felix off and, certainly, Luis could expect the same. There was no loft, cottage, or family. There was nothing left and nothing would ever be the same.

  Luis was shaken from the sad thought by a strange sound, and stranger feeling, coming from the balcony. He swallowed hard and edged forward, crucifix in hand, to the door. Carefully, he cracked it, to take a peek. A flash, a glint reflecting off metal in the moonlight, caught his attention. One of the Templars had hold of the balcony ra
il and was pulling himself up and over.

  Ten

  Luis flashed the crucifix through the door. The knight growled, let go of the rail and dropped back to the courtyard. A second Templar, on the roof, leaned over the eave at just that instant and gave himself an eyeful. The mummy howled in pain and retreated.

  Luis slammed the door and put his weight against it. Suddenly he appreciated the argument raging below. And he was on Brandy's side.

  “You cannot do this,” Trevelyan cried again. “You cannot desecrate the resting place of the dead.”

  “And you can't have it both ways, Father,” Brandy replied. “We can't lock the balcony door. We're all going to end up among the dead.”

  “Why can't you understand…?”

  “When is the last time you were in the ossuary?”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “When?” Brandy demanded.

  “I've only been once. Thirty years ago.”

  “And when was the last time it was used?”

  “It's not used anymore. Not since I came to Saint Thomas. But I don't see…”

  “You do see,” she barked, cutting the priest off. “I have respect for the dead. But you're practicing religious grandstanding. If you want to be martyred, have at it, but you can include me out. Now, are you going to tell me where the entrance to the ossuary is or should Ray hold you down while I rip the chapel apart?”

  Ray scowled at Brandy. Then he turned it on the priest, giving Trevelyan his most threatening I'm about to hold down a priest look; whatever the hell that was.

  “Er, oh, I'm no match for you, Ray,” the priest said. “Physically, I'm, eh, no match for anybody. I wasn't an athlete when I was a young man, let alone now. But, if I don't stand my ground, I don't stand for anything.”

  Looks were exchanged between the three as Trevelyan waited to be man-handled. The seconds ticked by, filled with silence - and the endless scratching of the Templars. Ray's scowl eased to a frown but he didn't move. The sad, grateful priest said, “I am going to relieve Luis. Do what you think is best.”

  Trevelyan walked wearily from the room.

  “You are wasting your time!”

  Brandy and Ray, Luis and Aimee, traded looks. They looked to the corner to see Felix engrossed in Eve's care. They looked to the gallery's empty rail and knew the priest was guarding his door. Then they looked, as one, to Loup who'd come out of his funk with a vengeance. He was laughing at them, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Pray! Fight to stay alive. You are already dead. As dead as those walking corpses outside.”

  “Thanks, Loup,” Brandy said. “Feel free to go back into your coma.”

  He wandered away, amused, as if he knew a secret they didn't know.

  Brandy had been arguing with Ray when the rapist climbed from the mental cellar in which he'd been cowering and dumped his hysteria atop their already palpable gloom. With Loup gone, she returned to Ray and their fight. He'd failed to back her in her confrontation with Father Trevelyan and she wanted to know why.

  “I really wanted to,” Ray said, the sarcasm dripping, “but I wasn't sure of the best way to hold down a priest. I mean, do you grab the collar? Kick him in the nuts? Or just bulldoze him?”

  “I'm trying to save us,” she insisted.

  “And I'm sure everyone's grateful, Brandy. Who elected you Savior?”

  “I meant I was just trying to do what I could.”

  “Yes. But for you that means demanding everyone else do what you want.”

  “Why didn't you just say you agreed with Father Trevelyan? That you thought searching the ossuary was a bad idea?”

  “Who said I did? I don't even know what the hell you're talking about!” Ray paced away, took a deep breath and returned. “I don't know what's right or wrong, Brandy. I assumed it was a good idea because it was yours. I find you're usually right. That said, I don't want to hold a priest down while you rip his church apart.”

  “This isn't his church.”

  “You're avoiding the point. I object to strong-arming a friend. Get me a priest I don't know; I'll kick his ass.”

  “It never fails. Straight to the smart mouth.”

  “Oh, give me a fucking break!”

  “Followed immediately by the foul mouth. The train's on time.”

  Luis shouted something at Aimee.

  Brandy and Ray, surprised by the outburst and annoyed at the interruption, stared daggers. Ray beat Brandy to it, “What did he say?”

  “He said, the ossuary, it is under the apse.”

  “What's that mean in English?”

  “I have no idea,” Aimee said with a shrug.

  “I know what it means,” Brandy told Ray. Then she pointed at Luis. “How does he know where it is? While we're at it, how does he know what we're talking about?”

  Aimee wondered too and translated their curiosity. His answer left the reporter feeling so foolish she apologized to Luis before passing it on. He smiled his acceptance.

  “He did not know what you were talking about,” Aimee told them. “When Father Trevelyan relieved him, he told Luis why he was upset, and that he felt badly for having had words with you. As to knowing this… ossuary. He says nobody ever listens to him. He already told you, he knows the castle inside and out.”

  Brandy felt foolish herself but didn't allow it to interfere with the smile she cast at Luis. Neither did she, or Ray, allow it to slow them when Luis said, “Venir. Je vais vous montrer,” and waved for them to follow. They weren't positive, but it looked and sounded like, Come on. I'll show you.

  The trap door was secreted beneath the sanctuary floor. Its hinges groaned, dust danced in their candlelight, as Ray lifted and threw it, teeming with spiders, webs and worse open on the floor. Ray groaned, coughed and swore.

  Luis leaned against the altar watching with amusement but little sympathy. He was well familiar with the door and what lay beneath. Besides, Ray and Brandy had gotten exactly what they'd asked for. C'est comme ça.

  Ray aimed the dented flashlight into the hole. “No way!” Brandy started for the trap. “You're not going down there?”

  “Yes, dear. We are.”

  “I'm not going down there.”

  “Yes. You are.”

  Brandy stepped through the opening. Wispy spiders' webs clung, their builders scurried, and cold subterranean air enveloped her as she disappeared through - out of earshot of Ray's grumbling.

  She reached the stone floor and moved away from the mold encrusted ladder making space. Ray followed, ducking and grumbling. He barely fit beneath the low ceiling, and webwork filled the headroom. Then his flashlight blinked out. “Nice.”

  Only the open trap prevented their being plunged into darkness. Brandy produced a candle and made short work of lighting it.

  “God bless the Girl Scouts,” Ray said.

  “And you thought all we did was sell cookies.”

  Ray peered into the darkness beyond the glow of her candle. “What is this?”

  “It's an ossuary.”

  “Yeah, that I got. What is an ossuary?”

  “It's the final resting place for the dead of Paradis.”

  Brandy passed her candle back and forth, shifting eerie shadows across hundreds of grinning human skulls. The light floated over ovoid caps, dashed against jutting mandibles, skipped over stacked craniums, and insinuated itself deep into the rounded orbits of uncountable empty eye sockets staring from the walls. Dead and buried, decayed and forgotten, resurrected, interred here… and forgotten again. Row upon row, layered to the convex ceiling. And spread beneath, the length and width of the floor, the dismantled remains of their skeletons. Layer upon endless layer; scapulas, clavicles, femurs, fibulas, ribs and on, sticks of dull ivory with rotted stains of black riding on a bed of vertebrae, metatarsals, and metacarpals sifted by time and scattered like gravel. An organized chaos of human bones.

  “Graves are temporary in France,” Brandy said. “Burial space is scarce. Bodies are burie
d in rented plots. After a finite numbers of years the skeletons are removed. The graves are made available for the newly dead. The long dead are moved to an ossuary; a permanent mass tomb. In Paris they're called the Catacombs.”

  Candles, melted to their sconces, unused in ages, were situated at intervals about the chamber. Small crucifixes hung from each; others lay intermingled among the remains. And, against the far wall, its painted eyes triumphant in suffering, hung a four-foot-high, faded, crucified Christ. “That's what we're after,” Brandy said pointing.

  “Eh… After?”

  “We need it. We're taking it upstairs.”

  Beneath the skulls, the scattered human remains rose three feet off the floor. The only avenue to the crucifix, Ray saw, was up and over the bones. “I'm not walking on dead people.”

  “There aren't any people here, Ray. There's nothing but bones.”

  “Bones are people too.”

  Brandy sighed, her shoulders sank. A second later, she hitched them back, fixed her mouth in grim determination and started over the piled remains.

  “Brandy!”

  It sounded like she was walking on gravel. The bones shifted, bowed, settled; some smaller, older or more fragile snapped, cracked, and some disintegrated. She lost her balance, teetered and grabbed a skull cap atop the pile to stay upright. Ray swore and went after her. The pile shifted and settled again. Crunch. Snap. A thin skull here, a rib cage there, turned to powder beneath his weight. Thicker bones, the more recently dead, stood the test and held him up.

  “Brandy, I can't do this.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “You can. I can't!”

  “Stop being a baby! We don't have all night.”

  “Would a baby walk over a room full of bones?”

  “They would… if you put them in a room full of bones.” Brandy held her candle to his face. “You can do anything, Ray. Look at the gun thing you did with Loup.”

  “What gun thing?”

  “When you kicked the gun from his hand and caught it. That was more than cool; it was impressive. It was hard. How many people could do that?”