The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring

by Agustín Bernaldo Palatchi

  126

  Lorena and Mauricio, armed with wooden staffs converted into torches, followed Michel in his descent to the nether regions. The rest of the men wanted to know nothing of the adventure and had preferred to sit around in the warmth of the fire and drink from their wine skins.

  The entire mountain resounded under the thunderous din of the storm. Water filtered incessantly through the rock, falling drop by drop. As if the cave walls were made of clay and could dissolve, thousands of sharp columns of stone descended from above, forming fantastical shapes. Lorena hardly paid any attention to such portents, because she was forced to walk very slowly, so as not to lose her balance by stepping inadvertently on some slippery rock or crevice in the ground. It was impossible to keep their feet dry, as the ground was soaking wet and covered in puddles. At certain moments, Michel recommended they walk on all fours and other times they were obliged to crawl through narrow tunnels. Lorena thought she could perceive dark, bottomless chasms, dimly lit by the feeble light of their torches. Without Michel’s guidance, Lorena would have fainted or sunk into despair. Yet just the sound of that man’s voice, so full of vitality and confidence, made any fear seem childish. The darkness that enveloped them was limitless and every shadow seemed to hide some ominous threat, but Michel knew how to lighten these moments of tension with a joke or precise instructions. “We have reached the cathedral!” Michel announced triumphantly. Lorena took Mauricio by the hand. Outside the pool of light made by the torches it was impossible to see anything.

  “Even the largest church in the world would fit into this enormous space, which is over three hundred feet high. I shall light three small bonfires so that you can appreciate something of what I am telling you.”

  Michel, lit by the torch he was carrying, walked on alone for a while before stopping at some distance and lighting a fire with some dead leaves and brushwood he took from his leather pouch. He then repeated the exercise in various places, a good distance from each other. In this way, the three modest bonfires were able to reveal the enormous extension of the stone dome that nature had carved without the helping hand of any human architect. The majority of the cave was obviously still sunk in darkness and it was impossible to see the roof with such a feeble light. Yet imagining the sheer magnitude was awe-inspiring, as they contemplated the enormous white rock face picked out by the light of the fire and tried to guess what lay in the vast spaces that remained in darkness. This was quite simply an entirely different world from the one which existed outside.

  Michel returned to where they stood and proposed they sing a trova, or ballad. He was endowed with a deep, sensitive voice and intoned the first stanza. The sounds echoed throughout the cave and soon Mauricio joined in. They were a formidable duet. Lorena, moved by the magic of the moment, made up the third voice. The result was amazing. She stood there between her father and her husband, their hands intertwined, and felt that the three of them were merging with the music into one single melody.

  Once they had finished, they continued their voyage into the depths of the earth. By the flickering flame of the torches, they glimpsed red and black marble that would have filled the artists and architects of Florence with awe. Lorena thought that even the best Florentine sculptors would have found it difficult to improve on some of the creations wrought out of the rock face by the water. By the light of the torches, all sorts of startlingly realistic stone figures started to emerge: devils, witches, miniature virgins, monks’ hoods, turbulent waterfalls, animals of all kinds … Nature was certainly not without imagination.

  “And this,” said Michel Blanch, pointing to a great white rock on the ground in the shape of an ancient sarcophagus, “is the tomb of Princess Pyrene. Legend has it that Hercules fell in love with Princess Pyrene, daughter of the god Atlas, who, for his part, hated the irascible hero. It was an impossible love. Desperate, Hercules separated with a great club the strip of Earth that then joined the north of Africa with the south of the Iberian peninsula. As a result, the sea currents changed their course and flooded Atlantis. The fantastic civilization on the island disappeared and only a few inhabitants managed to survive in fragile boats that took to sea at the mercy of the storms. Pyrene, one of the few survivors, took refuge in this cave after a journey full of incidents. Unfortunately, even here she was unable to find protection against the curse that had been cast over the inhabitants of Atlantis: a great white bear, fierce as Hercules himself, fell upon the princess and tore her apart with his claws. An ancient civilization disappeared and a new world was about to be born. The Pleiades, Pyrene’s companions in the firmament, erected this tomb to her memory and deeply mourned her sad death, weeping. Ever since then, this mountain range has been called the Pyrenees. The tears shed by the stars did not fall in vain, for from them a beautiful lake came into being. Come, and I will show it to you.”

  Lorena saw a great pool of water that she nearly mistook for a mirage in the middle of the rock-strewn desert.

  “It is a magic lake,” Michel told them, “because the tears shed by the Pleiades allow those who drink from the waters to remember the past.”

  “In that way, Atlantis and Pyrene can remain alive in the memory of those travelers who reach this place,” Mauricio said.

  “A lovely thought,” conceded Michel, “but there is only one way of finding out if the story is indeed true, apart from being beautiful: by drinking the water from the lake. Would you dare?”

  “Why not?” said Lorena. “We are weary. It will do us good to drink and rest awhile.”

  “An excellent idea,” said Michel enthusiastically.

  Lorena did not want to fall asleep, however after drinking she rested her head on Mauricio’s chest and her eyes closed after a few moments.

  “Rest both of you,” said Michel. “I shall wake you in due time.”

  Vague images, a prelude to deep slumber, incoherently wandered through Lorena’s mind. She thought it dangerous to abandon consciousness in such a place, with only Michel Blanch to watch over them. What if she had made an error of judgment about him? If he stole the ring and disappeared, they would never find their way back. It might have been safer perhaps to reveal that she was really his daughter. However, after a short while her logical mind stopped thinking and helplessly accepted the delicious darkness that was slowly overtaking it.

  127

  Lorena woke up within the dream as she slept. She had already experienced this sensation before, but only for a few brief moments, which usually ended as soon as she became aware of that strange anomaly and started to stretch and slowly wake up on her soft, feather mattress. Unlike those other times, Lorena continued dreaming in a conscious way, as if she were someone watching, fascinated, at some enthralling play.

  The place where the drama was unfolding was situated very close to the cave where they had taken refuge, although the scene belonged to some remote past, buried away three centuries ago on the heights of Montsegur. There, in a small fortress set on the very top of the mountain, the last of the Cathars had resisted the Crusader armies with the help of the winter cold. In the dream, Lorena was one of the women taking refuge in that inaccessible eagle’s nest, suspended between the sky and the earth.

  In the story unfolding in that strange dream, winter was coming to an end, and with it, all hopes of holding back the enemy. For that reason, the men and women gathered there had made a pact to give themselves up peacefully within three days, during the spring solstice. The Crusaders had offered to save the lives of all those who renounced their faith. The rest would be burned at the stake. When this happened, only Pierre Blanch would survive, the master chosen to save the stone of initiations, the Holy Grail of good men, and keep it in a safe place. The besiegers, aware of their imminent victory, had relaxed their vigilance and dulled their senses with abundant quantities of wine. Making the most of the thick fog, Pierre Blanch was clever enough to evade the control posts and go silently down through hidden paths.

  In her dream, Lorena heard the
footsteps of a young man for whom she felt a deep affection. “Are you ready to die?” asked the youth with sad eyes.

  “In keeping with the teachings,” answered Lorena, “the world is only an illusion, a trap in which we remain caught up in the spider’s web woven out of the thread of our own desires. Dying like martyrs in the spring solstice, after having received the consolamentum will offer us the opportunity to free ourselves forever from matter and thus avoid falling again into the painful cycle of reincarnations.”

  “That is not what I asked you,” the young man reproached her tenderly, as an understanding smile lit up his face, a smile that did not judge her, a smile so loving that it could not deceive her.

  “I know,” admitted Lorena, ashamed. “In truth I have no wish to leave this life. On the contrary, my heart so wants to satisfy all my unfulfilled desires, even the most shameful. Sadly, I am not sufficiently pure, for in the very depths of my being I am not longing for salvation but for another opportunity to dare and truly be myself.”

  “In that case,” he asked her, with a look that laid bare her soul, “what would you do if you were to be born again?”

  “If that were to happen I would not be so sensible,” she answered. “I would bathe fully dressed in a pond and would dry myself naked under the rays of the sun. I would not marry to please anybody except myself. I would often commit sins, but only in the name of love. I would refuse to submit to rules that made no sense. Instead of hating sex, I would invite God into my bed chamber. I would learn to read, in spite of being a woman. Instead of keeping silent, I would sing trovas in the woods, mountains, and caves. I would only surrender my heart to the one who knew how to love me. I would often make mistakes but I would find my own truth amid my many errors. And even though I might not have satisfied all my yearnings, I would die happy for having tried. But what about you? If you were born again, what would you do?”

  “Me? I would travel the world over until I found you again,” answered the young man, and the sound of his voice was identical to that of her husband, Mauricio Coloma.

  128

  The first thing Lorena saw as she woke was the glint of light produced by a knife striking on a flint. The sparks born from steel and stone fell on a bed of dried leaves and brushwood. Michel blew softly on the fire to coax it into life. Soon enough, a small bonfire was blazing and lighting up the darkness.

  “Good day to you,” he said jokingly, as Mauricio and Lorena woke up and stretched. “They say that traveling broadens the mind. If that is so, your incursion into the land of dreams might have prepared you for the incredible truth concerning the ring. A truth for which we have to go back to the good people who lived here centuries ago.”

  “Do you mean the Cathar heretics?” asked Mauricio, his mind still confused by remembering so vividly a strange dream in which he had been one of the heretics under siege on the mountain of Montsegur.

  “‘Cathar’ was a contemptuous term used by the inquisitors in order to stigmatize them,” Michel explained. “They identified themselves simply as Christians, although they were also called ‘the Good Men and Women,’ ‘True Christians,’ or even ‘Friends of Goodness.’ Their number and influence grew constantly from the twelfth century onwards in French Occitania both among the common people and the nobility. There were many reasons for such a rapid growth, but the key to their success cannot be understood without taking into account the invisible energy radiating from their masters after being initiated in these caves with the help of an emerald you know very well.”

  The humidity of the cave, the darkness in which she felt enveloped, the enclosed yet fathomless space, the dream in which she had traveled to a remote past … Lorena had the strange sensation of having returned to the maternal womb and of being born again. The explanation of the inexplicable, if there was one, was inscribed on the gem her husband was carrying.

  As if he had heard her through the silence, Mauricio extracted the ring from a leather pouch concealed beneath his shirt.

  “What secrets lie hidden within this precious stone?” he asked, showing the jewel in the palm of his hand.

  Michel Blanch looked at it reverently, touching it lightly with the fingertips of his left hand before answering.

  “There is a legend that would claim we are in the presence of the emerald that detached itself from the forehead of Lucifer during his fall. Another ancient Persian tradition claims that the stone comes from the Great Crystal, the object which started the great war among the stars. Although all myths and legends contain hidden truths, the only thing I can assure you is that the Good Men considered it to be their most valued possession.”

  Michel was silent for a while before continuing.

  “According to the Persian tradition, the emerald comes from an ideal universe described in Plato’s dialogues: there, time would be similar to a two-dimensional object that could be contemplated in its entirety seen from a higher level. If this were so, conscience, with the help of the emerald, would be capable of reaching that superior plane and travel back to the past and even into the future … ”

  “To travel into the past of my family history would allow me to unravel many mysteries,” Mauricio broke in. “What nexus could have linked the Cathar heretics with a Jewish rabbi and place the emerald in the hands of my ancestor Abraham Abulafia?”

  “The ways of the Lord are mysterious, Mauricio. At the beginning of the thirteenth century, Pope Innocent organized the first Crusade against Christians, alleging that the feudal lords of French Occitania tolerated the growing number of Cathar heretics among their subjects. The burning sword of the Crusaders, little given to subtle analysis, started a massacre without distinguishing between beliefs, gender, or age and left God the tiresome task of having to recognize His own at the gates of heaven. The Occitan nobility were defeated in all the battles and even the king of Aragon, who had come to their defense, was killed at Muret. Despite all this, from the heights of Montsegur, the forbidden church protected the sacred emerald and reorganized its clandestine flock in the hope of better days to come. Years of heroic resistance were only to end in a huge disappointment. Following a long siege, the spring of 1244 brought the surrender of the last, safe mountain. The Good People, opponents of violence against human beings and animals, gave themselves up peacefully. Not one of them abjured his faith hoping to avoid being burned at the stake.”

  “However, a Good Man called Pierre Blanch escaped from the siege, carrying the emerald with him,” continued Lorena as she remembered her dream. The world of dreams and the real one intertwined in that cave, like a tapestry of reflecting images.

  “Indeed,” said Michel. “The carrier of the emerald, who had a good knowledge of the mountain’s secret paths, managed to cross the Pyrenees and looked for the anonymity of a large city like Barcelona. But danger surrounded the holy stone. The Resplendent Ones, a secret society devoted to Lucifer, were following the trail of the stone that had formerly belonged to Lucifer, the most luminous of all the angels. Soon, obscure predators, under the guise of honorable citizens, started making enquiries concerning emeralds, Cathar heretics, and newly arrived foreigners with French accents who might have settled lately in the city.

  Rabbi Abraham Abulafia lived in Barcelona, but did not have a French accent and as a practicing Jew could hardly be a Christian heretic. Therefore, feeling that they were closing in on him, Pierre decided to escape from the city and protect the emerald with an unexpected sleight of hand: he gave it for safekeeping to Abraham Abulafia. The Resplendent Ones, he thought, would never suspect that the ring had passed into the hands of the rabbi.”

  “It was also quite a risk to entrust such a precious jewel to a Hebrew Kabbalist,” Mauricio pointed out.

  “Yes, but Pierre was convinced that the rabbi was a man of God, for they had both realized, after many conversations together, that beyond personal religious beliefs their mystical experiences were in essence no different from each other. For his part, Abraham Abulafia promised und
er oath to return the emerald as soon as it should be required. Many years later, when the danger had passed, Pierre returned to Barcelona to claim it back. Abraham Abulafia, gravely ill, asked his elder son to return the ring to its rightful owner. Blinded by avarice, his son did not respect his father’s last wish …

  “Since then,” continued Mauricio, gathering his thoughts, “the emerald has passed from one first born to another, throughout each generation and, with this secret gift also inheriting a curse that they took with them to the grave.”

  “You can now break the circle of ancient tragedies by fulfilling at long last the promise your wise ancestor made,” said Michel firmly.

  A tremor ran through Mauricio as his father’s parting words in prison echoed again in his mind.

  As for Lorena, she was unable to distinguish the most extraordinary events from miracles, but she was convinced that the past was making itself heard in that cave. It was for that reason perhaps that her words burst out with such uncontainable force, all the more for having been silenced for so long.

  “But of course,” Lorena broke in, looking at Michel Blanch, “you are the descendant of Pierre Blanch. You are the person who you were supposedly going to introduce us to in Ornolac. But above all, you are my father.”

  Michel had been for Lorena a mirror capable of reflecting different images with each change of expression. Yet nothing had prepared her for the overwhelming wave of emotions that appeared on her father’s tearful and crumpled face.

  “Are you sure?” he asked at last in a trembling voice.