by Sarah Rayne
‘“Non omnis moriar multaque pars mei Vitabit Libitinam. I shall not wholly die; large residues shall escape the Queen of Death”.’ He looked at Father Abbott. ‘So he really did claim immortality?’
‘Apparently.’ Father Abbot studied the carved words for a moment, and then said quietly, ‘It’s believed that it was our founders, the ancient Fratres Cruciferi Order, who caused those words to be engraved on the sepulchre.’
Ciaran looked back at the tomb, and felt once more the creeping fear. Non omnis moriar . . . He drew in a deep breath, and held up the candle.
The warm flickering light fell across the stone sepulchre, and the horror reared up and lashed against the minds of the three men.
The immense stone lid had been pushed aside so that it lay at right angles to the elaborate stone sepulchre. Inside was a smaller, more conventional coffin: wooden and unexpectedly flimsy, as if it might have been constructed hurriedly, in immense secrecy.
The inside of the stone tomb reeked of death and despair and agony. The wooden lid of the inner coffin had been flung aside, and a thin layer of discoloured linen lay discarded as if whatever had lain under it had pushed it aside and sat up.
The tomb was empty.
The fire in Father Abbot’s study had hardly burned down at all, but Ciaran stacked more logs of wood on to it before taking a seat.
Cuthbert was glad to see Ciaran replenish the fire because hadn’t the crypt been a nasty draughty place and their experience a very terrible one indeed.
‘And with your permission, Father, we’ll take a little drop of the brandy that the infirmary keeps for medicinal purposes. I’ve fetched it in for us.’
‘I suppose,’ said Ciaran, accepting the brandy gratefully, ‘I suppose that it isn’t all a series of coincidences? Could the lid have been moved by anything ordinary? Settlement in the foundations? Vandals? Have we had workmen in—?’
‘The tomb was empty, Ciaran.’
‘I’m not forgetting that.’ Ciaran frowned, and then said, ‘Listen now, could Ahasuerus – could anyone – have got out of that tomb from the inside? Rolled back the stone? I didn’t mean that to sound quite so Biblical, Father.’
‘The stone wouldn’t be that heavy. And if you were trapped—’
‘Could Daniel have helped him?’ asked Cuthbert hesitantly. ‘Was that why Ahasuerus clawed him?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. If Daniel heard something in the crypt, it’s more likely that he’d go for help,’ said Ciaran. ‘I know I would. I wouldn’t investigate that crypt after darkness unless I’d got at least two other people with me, and certainly not if I thought something was prowling about down there. Isn’t it more likely that Daniel encountered – whatever it was – and was flung aside?’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘I’m beginning to sound as if I believe in all this,’ he said.
Father Abbot said softly, ‘Didn’t you see the marks, Ciaran?’
‘I—yes.’ Ciaran looked at the older man. ‘But I hoped no one else had,’ he said.
‘What—Father Abbot, Brother Ciaran, what marks?’
In a voice scraped raw with pity, Ciaran said, ‘On the underside of the coffin lid were claw marks. Where – whatever was inside – had fought to get out.’
The silence came down again, heavy and stifling, but at length, Father Abbot said, ‘The Fratres Cruciferi believed they had entombed Ahasuerus for ever. They thought Ahasuerus would never walk in the world again.’ He paused, and then said, ‘But as we know, they were wrong. Ahasuerus’s last furious threat came true.’
‘Non omnis moriar . . .’ said Ciaran gently, ‘I shall not wholly die.’
Chapter Six
Ahasuerus had hated the Fratres Cruciferi far more than he had thought it possible to hate anyone.
The Cruciferi had called themselves mission monks but Ahasuerus had known from the beginning that they were nothing more than greedy mendicant friars who had seen an opportunity to bring riches and prominence to their small impoverished brotherhood.
There had been twelve of them in Jerusalem on the day he was sentenced, but only five had been in the Judgement Hall. They had sat quietly listening, and, when the terrible sentence was finally pronounced, they had looked across at him with such self-righteousness that Ahasuerus had thought he would be damned if he would give them the satisfaction of seeing him break. The words of the sentence had struck against his mind so violently that for a moment the Judges and Elders who formed the Council of the Sanhedrin had blurred and wavered and sick dread had closed about him.
And then all of the old arrogance – the arrogance that the Elders had so deplored in him – had come surging to his rescue, and he had been able to stand straight and eye the Sanhedrin defiantly and uncaringly. It had been then he had flung the threat at them.
‘I shall not wholly die . . . large residues shall escape the Queen of Death.’ He heard with delight that his voice held all the arrogance he could wish, and he saw that only a small proportion of them recognised the words of the Roman philosopher and writer, Horace, and this had lent him further courage, for he had always been able to outwit the stupid sheep-creatures.
‘I shall return!’ he said in a low threatening voice, and felt the bolt of fear go through the Temple.
For a moment there was a terrible silence, and Ahasuerus had smiled, because for all their self-importance not one knew how to respond. It had been then the leader of the Cruciferi had stepped forward, speaking into the horrified silence and saying unctuously that if the Judges would permit, he and his brothers would undertake to convey the High Priest’s body to a place of secrecy after death.
The Judges had glanced at one another from the corners of their eyes and Ahasuerus had seen the relief in their faces. They had asked what the monks had in mind, and they had stressed the need for secrecy. The threat to return was a vain boast, of course, but nevertheless—They looked across to Ahasuerus, half scared, half defiant. Nevertheless, they said firmly, the High Priest had consorted with the harlot-sorceress, Susannah – he had actually been caught in blatant and sacrilegious fornication with her on the high altar. The possibility that the threat might not be an idle one must therefore be in the forefront of their minds. Ahasuerus’s coffin must be so well concealed that if he woke his return to the world would be barred by insuperable obstacles. His mutilated body must be lost so completely that the world would never know it had existed.
The monks had appeared undeterred, although Ahasuerus had seen the youngest frame the dread word ‘immortality’ silently, and shiver.
Also, said the Judges, the name of Ahasuerus was to be erased from every chronicle and every annal ever written by the Temple Scribes. Stonemasons were already waiting to begin the task of taking his name from the tablets. It would be as if he had never existed and if he was remembered at all, it would be as the renegade, the rebel High Priest who had been cast out of the Temple.
The monks conferred in low voices and then said they could do what was required. After death had finally taken place, they said, their expressions solemn but their hands curving greedily, they would seal the body into a stone tomb which they would carve with a warning, lest it should one day be found, and which they would also embellish with symbols of light.
‘Christian symbols of light,’ said the Judges, at once, their eyes cold, and the monks had glanced uneasily over their shoulders and said, Christian symbols, certainly. But would the Sanhedrin not consider that the creature, Susannah, the High Priest’s partner in the sinful act, was believed to traffick with gods that owed nothing to the Christian beliefs? Would it not be better – would it not be safer to allow for all eventualities? They would advise that it was so, they said, unctuously.
There was a thoughtful silence, and then the Judges said, ‘You are perhaps right in what you say. And then?’
And then, said the monks, they would take the stone tomb with them on their journey out of Jordan; they could let it be thought that they were transporting the body of a fel
low monk to a resting place with his family. And although their vows naturally prevented them from accepting payment for the small service, if the Temple cared to further their Order’s work, God would surely look kindly on the journey.
Ah. The single syllable was non-committal and the monks exchanged glances. And the journey itself? asked the Judges.
Well, said the spokesman, they had intended to go towards the west when they left Jerusalem; partly across the old Persian and Isphahan caravan routes, but partly by sea. There was no reason, was there, why this was not acceptable?
There was no reason that anyone could think of.
Very well then, that would be the journey, although they would of course avoid Pharaoh’s Egypt and travel north through Turkey and Greece, crossing the Aegean Sea and trusting to the trade winds to be favourable. They thought they would not be challenged.
And the threat made by the doomed High Priest? asked the Judges. The threat to return after death?
The monks permitted themselves small smiles. Surely only an angry boast, they said. The Elders themselves had said it was so, only a short while ago and it could not be otherwise. But they would bear it in mind: they would look for a desolate mountain cavern, or a bottomless pit in a remote forest, or a fathomless lake and they would consign the stone coffin into oblivion for ever.
Ahasuerus, the renegade High Priest of the Temple, the scholar and the sinner and the rebel would vanish from history as completely as if he had never lived.
No one in the world would ever hear of him again.
Isarel had searched Mallow from cellar to attic and found nothing, other than the rather unpleasant evidence of mice in the former and bats in the latter. You could set traps for mice or get a cat, but he suspected that bats might be a protected species. Be damned to that, thought Isarel crossly, going back downstairs, and reaching for the whiskey bottle again. If there’s such a thing as a Pest Control Company out here, it can poison the evil little bastards with my blessing, never mind if twenty Dracula Societies or fifty Preservation Groups set up protest camps on the doorstep!
The tapping had probably been nothing more than the wind in the trees after all. There was a huge old oak whose branches were close to one of the upstairs windows, and it was perfectly possible that the branches had tapped against the pane. It was rather a friendly thing if you looked at it sensibly. Isarel drained the whiskey in his tumbler and resolved to look at it thus.
As he re-crossed the hall back to the music room, he stopped in mid-stride, his heart resuming its earlier thudding, icy sweat sliding between his shoulder blades. This time he was not imagining it. This time there was something outside the door.
Whatever it was, it was standing on the other side of the door, darkly silhouetted against the chequered blue and red fanlight. Isarel stood perfectly still and waited, and as he did so, whoever (whatever?) was outside seemed to gather itself together as if making up its mind to a particular course of action. The brass knocker was lifted and let to fall, echoing with breath-snatching loudness in the quiet house.
Anger rose up in Isarel without warning, because how dared anyone come up to his house at – what was it now? a quarter to midnight, for heaven’s sake! – and rap so peremptorily on the door? Without a thought for caution which ought to have dictated a firm enquiry through the bolted door first, Isarel strode forward and flung wide the door.
On the threshold, his uncovered head the colour of pale horse-chestnuts in the moonlight, a square glossy beard emphasising his lean features, stood the figure of a monk.
Isarel stared and then said, ‘Yes? What do you want?’ And was glad to hear that he sounded ordinarily impatient, as anyone might sound on being dragged away from an absorbing piece of work, or as any householder might sound on being summoned to his own front door on a dark night. The word ‘householder’ gave him unexpected confidence. My house. My fortress. How dare you come knocking in the middle of the night!
‘Well?’ Curiosity was replacing the fear and Isarel held the candle challengingly aloft and said sharply, ‘Who the hell are you?’
There was a silence, during which Isarel had time to remember all over again Mallow’s desolate situation, and then the monk said, not making it a question, but a statement: ‘Would you forgive the lateness of the hour.’
‘Lateness! Jesus God, it’s nearly midnight!’ said Isarel.
‘I know. But I saw you had lights burning in the downstairs rooms.’ A pause. ‘I should like to talk to you, Mr West.’
A madman. Some kind of religious lunatic, probably. This made Isarel feel a bit better, but not much, because if he had to be at the mercy of a madman he would very much prefer it to be within calling distance of help. And whoever the madman was, he was in possession of Isarel’s name. Isarel said, ‘What do you want?’ again.
‘May I come in?’ said the monk, and it occurred to Isarel that he had the soft beguiling voice of so many southern Irishmen, but that his eyes were cool and very intelligent.
And the one thing you never did, the absolute last thing any sane reasoning person ever did was to invite into his house the unknown stranger who tapped on his door in the middle of the night and requested admittance. Wild notions of devil worship, unfrocked priests who had to wait for your polite invitation to cross your threshold before they killed you in some gruesome ritual of their own, flashed across Isarel’s mind.
He said, ‘Who are you?’ and waited, and after what seemed to be a long time, the monk said, ‘My name is Ciaran O’Connor.’
He glanced over his shoulder to the dark countryside and then looked back at Isarel and said, ‘Would you invite me in, Mr West?’
There were a number of things that could be done. The most obvious was to say, ‘Sod off,’ and slam the door hard and then beat it out the back and get help. The next most obvious was to engage the man in polite conversation and edge your way round until you had manoeuvred yourself on the other side, within reach of the car. Isarel tried to remember if he had pocketed the ignition keys and thought he had not.
The worst possible thing of all would be to say, ‘Please come in,’ and hold wide the door.
Isarel heard himself say, ‘Come in.’
And held wide the door.
Chapter Seven
Isarel did not recall offering his uninvited guest a seat; he had not, in fact, asked him to do more than step into the hall, and yet somehow they were both seated in the music room, with Jude’s piano melting into the shadows and extra candles lit and set on each side of the mantelpiece. The fire had been replenished and wine had been offered and poured.
Ciaran said, ‘This is very good wine, Mr West.’
‘If you’re going to drink yourself into oblivion, you might as well do so with style.’
‘Is that your aim? To drink yourself into oblivion?’
‘Possibly. The red stream of life that creates the tide of unknowing. What’s it got to do with you?’ Isarel re-filled his glass and lounged back in his chair, which sagged and was falling to pieces like everything else in Mallow, but which was surprisingly comfortable. ‘And why are you here?’
Ciaran leaned forward. ‘You are Jude Weissman’s grandson, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Have you brought a distraint on the furniture?’
‘No.’
‘Or a writ to possess the house? Or a set of scales to weigh a pound of carrion flesh against three thousand outstanding ducats or even vulgar Irish punts?’
‘I have not.’
‘You never know with Jude,’ said Isarel. ‘Some of the stories about him—Still, if you’re neither bailiff nor tipstaff?’
‘I am not.’
‘Then,’ said Isarel, ‘I admit to being Jude Weissman’s grandson. What about it?’
‘Earlier tonight you played his piano.’
‘May not a man bring forth the music of the gods or even his grandfather? As a matter of fact I did play it, but I don’t see what it’s got to do with you.’
Is
arel drained his glass and re-filled it, and Ciaran said, ‘Should you object to telling me what you played?’
‘Not in the least,’ said Isarel blandly. ‘It was a variation on a theme.’ He regarded his guest unblinkingly, and for the first time, Ciaran smiled.
‘The classic evasion,’ he said.
‘I’m not being evasive, I’m being offensive.’ Isarel drank his wine. ‘I suppose you will tell me what you want at some point, will you? Or do I call the police – what do they call them here, guarda, isn’t it? – and have you forcibly removed.’
‘But,’ said Ciaran, ‘Mallow has no phone.’
‘Screw that, I’ll summon the Pope and a wagonload of Rabbis if I have to—’
Ciaran said, ‘My brother monks and I would like to engage your services, Mr West. We will pay you, of course.’
Isarel’s eyebrows went up. ‘Rome wants me, does it?’ he said, sarcastically. ‘And can Rome afford me?’
‘Rome always affords the things it wants.’
‘So I’ve heard. But,’ said Isarel, ‘I don’t give private recitals to women’s institutes or church coffee mornings.’
Ciaran studied him for a moment and then said, ‘I think I’ll have to tell you the whole truth.’
‘Does anybody in the world ever tell anybody else in the world the whole truth? What is truth? quoth Jesting Pilate. But go ahead,’ said Isarel. ‘Set forth thy tale and tarry not the time – you aren’t tarrying it much anyway, are you? It’s nearly midnight.’
‘Well,’ said Ciaran, ‘it’s a story to harrow up a soul, sure enough, leave aside it being a fragment from the life of dreams.’
He eyed Isarel who grinned and said, with energy, ‘Bested, by God and in my own house, never mind in my cups! Only I am allowed to mangle up the quotations of the great, didn’t you know that, Brother Ciaran? More wine?’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re extraordinarily intemperate for a monk.’
‘So I am. But I think, Mr West, that by the time we have finished, we shall both be glad of the wine.’
