by Helen Grant
I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. Slowly I turned to face Michel, uncomfortably aware of my red eyes and puffy face. If anything could make him stop looking at me the way he always did, as though I were some particularly tempting delicacy he was dying to devour, it would probably be the sight of me at that moment. Somehow this did not make me feel any better. I supposed I should say sorry for making him the butt of my fury, but the truth was I wasn’t sorry – I was still angry with him for witnessing it.
‘Why are you here anyway?’ I demanded in German. ‘I thought you’d gone.’
‘I had,’ said Michel. He looked at me seriously. ‘I came back. I came to tell you that my father’s going to Prüm tomorrow.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The next day when I awoke Polly was already gone. I guessed that she had gone running again, though whether to work off more calories or to avoid talking to me I could not say. The morning at school dragged by. When I went downstairs at breaktime, Father Engels was standing in the foyer talking to a man I recognized as the headmaster. Involuntarily I slowed my pace. It was impossible not to look at Father Engels. He was so perfectly good-looking, with his dark eyes and sleek black hair. How I wished we were Catholic, so that I could sit in the front row of his Reli class and feast my eyes on him for a whole forty-five minutes each week.
‘Hey, don’t bother looking at him,’ said a voice.
I turned around. One of the blonde girls from my class was coming down the stairs behind me. I couldn’t remember her name.
‘I wasn’t looking at him,’ I said hastily.
She stared at me, her expression not unfriendly but rather too knowing, shifting her piece of gum from one side to the other.
‘Everyone has a crush on him,’ she told me. ‘But it’s a waste of time. He’s a drag.’ She ducked past me and hurried down the rest of the stairs, leaving me standing open-mouthed.
After school Michel drove me back as usual. I badgered him to take me straight to the mysterious church in the woods – Tuesday and my father wouldn’t even notice that I hadn’t come home, I pointed out – but Michel was adamant; he was not taking me anywhere until he was sure his father had left. I spent the rest of the journey looking out of the window and imagining how much more interesting it would be if Father Engels were driving me around. I thought if I could just sit next to him in silence while we drove along the forest track, with the sun filtering down through the trees, that would be enough; it would be heaven. This pleasing idea sustained me through a late lunch with Tuesday and Ru (neither Polly nor my father was to be seen) and a very dull hour of schoolwork.
Michel turned up at three o’clock, much to Tuesday’s disgust. ‘I thought you could look after Ru this afternoon,’ she complained. ‘Can’t you stay here?’
As far as I knew she had nothing particular to do. The thought of staying indoors for the rest of the afternoon with Ru when I was bursting to see the glass was too much; I said no.
‘It’s all right for you,’ she grumbled as we were leaving. ‘Gallivanting around with your boyfriend.’
I didn’t bother to tell her that Michel was not my boyfriend, would never be my boyfriend in a million years, and nor did I tell her that we were not going gallivanting. I simply made my escape as quickly as I could and hoped that Ru, who was having his nap upstairs, would not wake up. Judging by the look on Tuesday’s face, he would have a hard time of it if he did.
‘Are we taking the car?’ I asked Michel as we left the castle.
He shook his head. ‘No, you can’t take the car up there.’ He sighed. ‘I’m still not sure this is such a good idea. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘You’re not backing out now,’ I told him. ‘Anyway, I said I wouldn’t tell anyone.’
Michel looked at me for a moment without saying anything. Then he turned and headed towards the edge of the forest. I had to trot to keep pace with him and even then he turned round impatiently to see where I was.
‘Come on. I want to get under the trees before someone sees us.’
It was sunny now, but it had rained that morning while we were at school and the ground was unpleasantly soft and muddy, sucking at our feet as we walked. Before long my shoes were caked in mud and the legs of my jeans were spattered with it. In places it was so wet that it was difficult to move quickly without slipping. Michel moved with a stealthy confidence that was hard to reconcile with his usual offhand behaviour. I did my best to keep up.
We followed the track I had taken the day I met Michel Reinartz Senior and his dog. As I struggled along in the mud, I could not help looking around me with a kind of wonder at the wet tree trunks and straggling undergrowth. It was staggering to think that I had already had my feet on the path which led to the church. I had wandered along this very track, blissfully ignorant of the secrets hidden deep within the forest. No wonder Michel’s father had reacted with such hostility; he probably thought I was snooping on purpose.
We came to the St Hubertus shrine and once again took the right-hand path. It was narrower here and it was impossible to avoid brushing against the overhanging branches and bushes which lined the track; it was unpleasantly like running the gauntlet through a host of feebly clutching hands. Soon my jacket was wet.
‘Yeuch,’ I complained, trying to shake off the droplets of water spotting the sleeves like tiny crystals.
Michel gave no sign of having heard me; oblivious to raindrops and mud, he simply ploughed onwards. After a while we came to the trodden-down fence. It was still down, but clearly someone was in the process of mending it – a little bundle of stakes lay on the ground nearby, ready to prop the wire up again. I guessed that if we tried to return this way in a day or two the fence would be blocking the path. I stepped carefully over the crumpled wire.
For a while we followed the path towards the farm. I trudged on in my damp shoes, watching Michel’s back as he strode along. It occurred to me that here in the woods, where he felt at home, he moved just the same way his father did, with a long stride and an air of self-assurance. This was not comforting. With a sudden stab of doubt I wondered whether he was stringing me along, paying me back for getting him into trouble with his father. Perhaps there was nothing in the forest at all and he was simply going to laugh his head off at me, the idiot he had taken in so easily.
Suddenly Michel looked round at me, caught my eye and then stepped sideways off the path. He beckoned to me. ‘Come on.’ There was no drainage ditch to negotiate here but the undergrowth lining the path was full of brambles and it took me a few moments to struggle my way through it. My jacket caught on something and there was an audible rip.
‘Mist.’ Michel came back and began to disentangle me from the branch.
There was a tiny scrap of fabric left clinging to it and he was very careful to pick it off and put it in his pocket. He was covering our tracks, I realized, and a thrill of excitement that was close to fear ran through me – he would not go to all this trouble if he was playing a practical joke on me.
‘Is it far?’ I asked, but he would not reply.
He set off again, weaving his way between the tree trunks and bushes, careful to keep to the drier patches of ground or those covered with fallen leaves, where we would not leave footprints.
We had been picking our way through the undergrowth for about five minutes when we suddenly stepped out on to a path again. It was hardly a path at all; more a rabbit’s track. Michel indicated that we should go left along it. I looked to the right but in that direction it appeared to peter out altogether among the trees. I was starting to feel slightly disoriented; which way was the castle? The small patches of sky visible through the thick canopy of trees were a uniform grey. I could not even tell where the sun was. There was no way to work out where we were in relation to the Kreuzburg or even to the farm.
I had the uncomfortable feeling that we had strayed into hostile territory. With no houses, not even a path, to create a sense of scale, the trees seemed enormous. As we tru
dged on, I gazed up at the trunks of pines which seemed to stretch endlessly upwards, their crowns lost in the distant sky, and felt myself diminish. I felt as though I were a little child again, as though Michel and I were Hänsel and Gretel, wandering hopelessly along winding tracks which led inexorably to the witch’s house. Were the woods always so still? All I could hear was the rustle of our footsteps, the sound tiny in the vast auditorium of the forest.
Once we passed an object carved in rough red stone, half-hidden by drooping branches. For one shocked moment I thought it was a gravestone and then I realized it was some sort of religious monument. There were figures carved into the front of it, but they were so eroded by the passage of years and the work of the elements that the figures had a strange leprous appearance. It was impossible to tell what the scene might have been. I could just make out a large nine in Roman numerals.
‘It’s a Calvary stone,’ said Michel, seeing me hesitate in front of the object.
‘A what? Why does it have nine on the front?’
‘It was the ninth stone. There were probably twelve, but only one or two are left now. They showed the whole crucifixion story, you know, Jesus stumbling and St Veronika and all that stuff.’ Michel laid a hand on the crumbling red stone.
‘But what is it for?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘They lead to the church. You start with number one and when you get to twelve, well, there it is.’ He spoke casually and I wondered at his nonchalance; to me there was something sinister about this single stone half-hidden in the undergrowth, like the last decaying tooth in a rotten jaw. How long had it been here and what had happened to the others?
Michel turned and started off down the path again. With one last look back at the red stone, I followed him. I was oblivious to my damp jacket and muddy shoes now. My whole body seemed to be seething with suppressed tension, as though I were not a single being at all but a swarm of insects, thrumming to the beat of blind instinct. I was afraid, for the atmosphere of the wood was undeniably hostile, but I was also excited almost to the point of jubilation. I trotted after Michel as fast as I could, almost falling over him in my eagerness to see what lay ahead. In fact when he suddenly stopped I ran into him and would have sprawled headlong into the mud if he had not grasped me by the arm.
‘Where is it?’ I panted, scanning the trees.
‘There.’
He pointed. I stared in the direction he was pointing and for a few seconds I could not see anything at all. I felt an echo of the vertiginous feeling I had had before, that perhaps Michel was simply stringing me along, there was nothing at all in these woods…
Then finally I saw it. My first thought was, No wonder no one has ever found it. At first glance the little church was almost invisible. Closely surrounded by trees and bushes, it was hidden in shadow, but at that moment the sun came out and I was able to see it clearly. The front wall, which was all I could make out from where we stood, was obscured with some dark growth, moss or lichen, and almost blended into the surrounding vegetation. I could see the shape of a door, the wood blackened and spotted with damp, and a small window above it, opaque with filth. There was nothing to attract the eye; even the metal door handle was tarnished to a dull and dirty black. Anyone who came through this part of the woods might easily miss the church altogether. I imagined the forest animals passing it unheedingly, not smelling human beings but the more reassuring scents of damp wood and stone, wet leaves and moss.
A moment later I was running towards the church. I was already wrenching uselessly at the door handle when Michel came up beside me.
‘Stop it,’ he hissed in an urgent voice. ‘You’ll never open it like that and if you break the handle Dad will know someone’s been here.’
‘Well, open the door, then.’
With what seemed like agonizing slowness Michel knelt down at the side of the door and reached towards the bottom of the wall. I saw that there was a rough slot there, where probably there had originally been a brick or a ventilation grille. Michel put his hand right inside and drew something out. He showed it to me. It was a key, of a rather old-fashioned design, heavy and speckled with tarnish.
‘Open the door.’ I was almost beside myself.
Michel slid the key into the lock and with a little difficulty twisted it. There was a click as the lock drew back. He turned the door handle and pushed the door so that it swung open with a long arthritic groan from the hinges. I needed no further invitation. I pushed past him and stepped inside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
‘But it’s dark! I can’t see a thing!’ I wailed.
The interior of the church was almost pitch-black. The only light came from the open door and all it revealed was a couple of square metres of floor covered with old-fashioned tiles decorated with a repeating design of diamonds and quatrefoils, and the dim shapes of wooden pews. I put out my hand and touched one of them but instantly drew my fingers away; the wood had an unpleasant encrusted feel, the residue of cobwebs, dust and the dry corpses of dead insects.
‘Can’t you put the light on?’ I snapped.
‘There isn’t one,’ said Michel’s voice very close to me.
I felt his hand touch mine and instinctively pulled away, but too late. He took my hand in a very firm grasp and began to pull me down the aisle into the black heart of the church. I tried to drag my hand out of his.
‘Let go of me! What are you doing?’
‘I’m showing you,’ said Michel calmly.
Abruptly he stopped. He let go of my hand, but before I could move he had grabbed me by the shoulders. For one moment I thought he was going to take advantage of the darkness to try to kiss me. Before I had time to react he had spun me round so I had my back to the door.
‘Stay there. Shut your eyes and don’t open them until I tell you to.’
‘What for? Where are you going?’
I stared into the darkness and felt the first stirrings of panic. I envisioned Michel hurrying to the door, slamming it shut and turning the key, leaving me here in the darkness, fumbling my way to the doorway and thumping on it uselessly, screaming myself hoarse as he walked away, pocketing the key and secure in the knowledge that nobody else would pass this way for weeks…
‘Just wait,’ I pleaded.
‘No. You stay here.’
He gave me a little shove and I stumbled forward. By the time I had recovered my balance and turned round he was out of the church. A second later my worst fears were realized and he closed the door behind him, shutting out the light.
‘Michel?’ My voice was rising but I made an effort to sound calm. If he thought he had really scared me it would only make matters worse. ‘Michel, that’s not funny. Let me out.’
Michel called something from the other side of the door, but it was impossible to make out what he said. It might have been, ‘Wait,’ but I wasn’t sure. I stood still and listened, my heart thumping painfully in my chest. I willed myself to breathe deeply and suppress the rising feeling of panic, but the thick musty smell that I inhaled with every breath was a pungent reminder that I was trapped in a place virtually never visited by a living soul.
‘Michel?’
As though in answer to my cry there was a sudden thunderous crack! and instantly a triangle of light appeared in the blackness, bright as a laser, as brilliant as a jewel and stained with the tints of gemstones – the flaming crimson of rubies, the glowing green of emeralds. For several seconds my brain failed to process what my eyes were seeing and then mingled wonder and relief flowed through me. I knew what Michel was doing. I stood perfectly still, a smile on my lips, and closed my eyes.
It must have taken him about ten minutes altogether to remove all the boards. Even with my eyes shut tight I could tell that the church was bathed in light where before it had been plunged into darkness. Orange spots hovered behind my eyelids. I longed to open my eyes but stuck to my resolve and kept them shut. At last I heard Michel’s footsteps behind me. A hand touched my shoulder.
>
‘Lin? You can open your eyes now.’
I didn’t, though; not for a few seconds. I wanted to savour the moment before I saw the truth. So often the things we long for are a disappointment. I wanted to taste that moment of anticipation, the expectation of seeing something wonderful. And it was wonderful. I opened my eyes and found I was standing in a rainbow.
Only a handful of living people have ever seen the Allerheiligen glass and it is hard to describe something which so transcends the usual vocabulary of beauty. It was as though the eye of heaven had opened and its glory streamed out in every colour of the spectrum. Rich golden yellow mixed with vivid cobalt blue, with the scarlet of a cardinal’s cape and the flaming orange of an autumn sunset. Figures of men, saints and angels strode and gestured in robes of dazzling coloured light. Among them moved strange creatures and beasts whose fur glowed with the radiant tints of butterfly wings.
I recognized some of the scenes. Here was the Garden of Eden, with an apple tree growing up through the centre of the picture, its leaves and curling branches forming a canopy at the top under which a paternal God extended His hand to Adam and Eve. Here was Moses, dressed in crimson and blue, gazing in wonder at the burning bush, while in the background sheep grazed in the shadow of a castle. I picked out the Fall of the Angels and Abraham preparing to sacrifice his son Isaac.
There were others which I did not recognize. ‘Who’s that?’ I asked Michel, pointing at a scene depicting a figure submerged in a flowing river, the running waters a fabulously clear cornflower blue.
‘It’s Naaman bathing in the River Jordan,’ said Michel.
I took a step nearer to study the picture more closely. ‘How do you know that sort of thing?’
He shrugged. ‘The name is in the picture – look.’
He was right. The name NAAMAN was picked out in Gothic lettering on a fluttering scroll above the figure’s head.
