The Watchers

by Jon Steele

‘And the grate and key each have one spike a tad longer than the rest. So line them up to match and … which direction is it pointing?’

  ‘East.’

  ‘So the cardinal point of the well’s compass is east.’

  ‘Where I stand when I begin to call the hour.’

  ‘And where first light comes from.’ Harper leaned over the well again, looked down into the dark. ‘How deep is it?’

  ‘Twenty-five metres.’

  ‘What’s the well used for?’

  ‘Monsieur Buhlman says they used to pour holy waters down there when they were old.’

  ‘Does anyone ever go down there?’

  ‘It’s forbidden.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Monsieur Buhlmann. He said the well is very old and the walls could cave in.’

  ‘I bet he did. Who is Monsieur Buhlmann anyway?’

  ‘He taught me to hold the lantern and say the words.’

  ‘The words?’

  ‘C’est le guet, il—’

  ‘—a sonné l’heure.’

  Rochat stared at Harper.

  ‘You know the words too, monsieur?’

  ‘Yes, I know the words.’ Harper tugged at the grate. ‘Look, we have to get down there for a look.’

  ‘But Monsieur Buhlmann said—’

  ‘—the walls could fall in, I know. But the key was hidden in the well for a reason. We need to see if the reason is down there.’

  ‘Because you’re a detectiveman trying to solve a mysterious mystery.’

  ‘Exactly, and I’m sure Monsieur Buhlmann would understand.’

  ‘D’accord.’

  They set their shoulders under the grate and heaved, once, twice, till the heavy thing slid off the well and hit the dirt with a dull thud and a cloud of dust filled the cavern. They covered their mouths, waited for the dust to clear. Rochat held the lantern into the well.

  ‘I don’t see anything, monsieur.’

  ‘Hard to tell from up here. Any rope down here?’

  ‘The workermen keep tools in an empty cave under the north transept. We can get there through the tunnels.’

  They hurried through the tunnels and graves to a small cave stuffed with shovels and picks, timber, coils of 5-metre-length rope. They carried six coils back to the well, lashed the ropes together and secured one end to the iron grate. They laid the heavy length of timber across the grate to weigh it down. They eased the rope down the well. Harper lifted his legs over the top and climbed in. He braced his feet against the crumbling bricks, lowering himself a metre. Bits of dirt and brick broke from the inside of the well. He stopped and waited.

  ‘So far, so good.’

  ‘Wait, monsieur, you’ll need light to see things.’ Rochat reached in his overcoat and pulled out a spare candle. He handed it to Harper. ‘And I have matches too.’

  ‘Cheers—’ The stones under Harper’s feet broke loose, the rope slipped from his hands. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Monsieur!’

  Rochat heard Harper hit bottom.

  Boom, boom, boom.

  ‘Monsieur, are you all right?’

  Harper’s voice called up through the dusty dark.

  ‘I’m all right. I managed to grab the rope and break my fall. But I can’t see a bloody thing. Toss me the matches.’

  Harper heard them hit the dirt. He felt around and found them. He scratched a match alight, touched the flame to the candle’s wick. He did a slow turn, saw nothing but the inside of a very old well. He pulled and pushed at the stones, everything solidly in place.

  ‘Is there anything down there, monsieur?’

  ‘Nothing that shouldn’t be here. We must be looking in the wrong place.’

  ‘Pardon, monsieur, but what are we looking for because I can’t remember.’

  ‘Not really sure. A door, another lunchbox, who knows?’ Harper blew out the candle, grabbed the rope between his hands. ‘Keep the rope steady, I’m climbing up.’

  ‘D’accord. I’m very glad you’re not hurt, monsieur. It sounded like you fell down a very deep tunnel because when you hit the ground it made a very big echo.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘When you hit the ground there was an echo like you fell down a very deep hole.’

  ‘It did, didn’t it?’

  ‘Oui.’

  Harper jumped back to the floor of the well. Boom, boom, boom. He relit the wick and lowered the candle to the floor of the well. Nothing but the hardened ground of centuries-old dirt. He picked up one of the fallen stones, got to his feet and let it go. Boom, boom, boom. The sound sinking deep, deeper, till it faded away. He looked up and saw Rochat leaning over the top of the well, lantern in his hands.

  ‘Could you go back to the cave with the tools and bring a shovel?’

  ‘I can bring a shovel.’

  Harper sat in the dirt, staring at the burning candle in his hands. Almost trembling with excitement before reminding himself it was only the phantom of a dead man. Or maybe it was something else. The earth under these stones was sacred to our kind, Gabriel had said. Didn’t know why, couldn’t know why. Been sent to this place two and a half million years ago. Lost all contact with the creator. As if the creator himself had disappeared and they were truly a pack of lost angels. Hiding in the forms of men so long that all memory of where they’d come from was gone. And the only knowledge they had of themselves was from the legends and myths and religions of men. Stones are sacred to our kind. This is all that is left to us. What the hell is down here? He laughed to himself, thinking how much he was acting like one of the locals: so this is what it feels like to be like them.

  ‘Monsieur, cover your head. I’ll put the timber over the well and come down.’

  Harper looked up, saw the lad leaning into the well.

  ‘No, I need a shovel.’

  ‘It’s in my coat.’

  Bits of dust and stone jolted free as Rochat mounted the top of the well, slung his lantern over his shoulder and twisted down the rope, touching the ground quiet as a cat. Harper nodded.

  ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘I was first in my school in rope-climbing because I’m very strong from the legs up.’

  ‘I remember. Where’s the shovel?’

  Rochat turned in the cramped surroundings and handed his lantern to Harper. He pulled the shovel from the back of his overcoat.

  ‘I’ll dig, monsieur.’

  Harper blew out his candle and slipped the stub in his pocket. He squeezed up against the stones of the well to get out of the way.

  ‘Go right ahead.’

  The same hollow sound sinking deep and falling away each time the shovel hit the ground. Boom, boom, boom … boom, boom, boom … boom, boom, boom … thunk. Harper brushed away the dirt with his hands and saw lantern light glint on metal. Rochat cleared more dirt with the shovel. A rounded iron door in the centre of the ground. Barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through.

  ‘It looks very old, monsieur.’

  ‘Older than the cathedral, a lot older.’

  Harper pulled at the handle, Rochat pried the shovel under the edge. It opened with a shrill cry falling into utter darkness. Fresh air seeped out. Harper lowered to his knees, peered in with the lantern. A round shaft, metre and a half wide, carved from solid black rock. Iron rungs running down one side and stretching into utter blackness. Harper pulled himself up, rested his back against the stones of the well. Rochat looked at him with curiosity.

  ‘What is it, monsieur?’

  ‘A hole in the ground. And it’s deep.’

  ‘How deep is deep?’

  ‘Good question, hold this.’

  Harper handed the lantern to Rochat, dug in his trouser pockets and found a coin. He held it over the centre of the shaft opening. Rochat grabbed Harper’s sleeve.

  ‘Monsieur, wait.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s five francs. Don’t you have anything smaller?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Harp
er let the coin fall. They held their breath and listened. Nothing, nothing, nothing. As if the earth swallowed the coin. Harper looked at Rochat.

  ‘Like I said, deep.’

  ‘Who made this place, monsieur?’

  ‘That is the question.’

  Rochat quickly hooked the lantern over his shoulder and scrambled for the iron rungs. Harper grabbed him by the shoulder.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing?’

  ‘It’s my cathedral.’

  ‘Right. After you then.’

  ‘Merci.’

  Harper checked his watch. Mark at fifty-five. He followed Rochat into the shaft. They worked down the iron rungs, the lantern light reflecting on the carved-out rock. Tiny flecks of light sparkled in the black stone and there were flashes of green and red and blue. Deeper and deeper down. Harper heard the lad mumbling to himself as they climbed. He checked at his watch, ten minutes on. Looking up, no longer able to see the open iron door above, just blackness. Deeper. Twenty minutes, losing all sense of perspective. Like sinking through a void with nothing but the lad’s lantern to separate them from darkness.

  ‘We’re at the bottom, monsieur.’

  Harper looked at his watch. Forty-five minutes down. He noticed the second hand stuck in place, he held the crystal to his ear.

  ‘Is something wrong with your watch, monsieur?’

  ‘It’s stopped.’

  Harper stepped from the last rung on to a solid rock floor, squeezed around to face Rochat. The lad with the lantern in one hand, a small well-dented coin in the other.

  ‘Here’s your five francs, monsieur.’

  Harper smiled.

  ‘Tell you what, mate, you keep it for the both of us. For good luck.’

  ‘D’accord.’

  They looked up. Nothing beyond the glow of the lantern on the black walls, as if all the world had disappeared.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, monsieur, except when I’m in the nave at night and playing space captain.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Sometimes I sit at the organ and pretend I’m flying through outer space. It feels like that down here. Like we’re floating in outer space.’ He held up the lantern and made a slow pass along the black stone wall. ‘And all these little colours look like stars.’

  Harper watched the reflecting colours appear and fade in the passing light. His eyes separating the light from dark and seeing the patterns.

  ‘They are stars.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Look here. Andromeda, Virgo, Taurus, Cepheus, all of them. And up here, constellations no one on earth could know, and all the stars … Bloody hell, it’s a map of the entire universe.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means you’re one hell of a space captain.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rochat slowly waved his lantern again, studying the points of light. ‘What’s this one here, monsieur?’

  Harper saw where Rochat was looking.

  ‘Taurus. And this small group of stars in the constellation is Pleiades, the seven sisters.’

  Rochat stared at the tiny cluster of stars, tipping his head from one side to the other.

  ‘Like the bells.’

  ‘Bells?’

  ‘In the tower. There are seven bells in the belfry and they’re sisters too. Is that a clue?’

  ‘This stage of the game, mate, nothing would surprise me about this place.’ Harper looked up. ‘How the bloody hell did they do this? It’s so far down.’

  ‘Two thousand four hundred and forty-nine steps.’

  ‘You counted them?’

  ‘Oui.’

  Harper looked at the iron rungs in the black stone wall. A metre of separation between each. Another metre from the last rung to the ground. Two and a half kilometres down.

  ‘Same as the depth of the well times one thousand. Exactly the same as Christ the Saviour Cathedral in Moscow.’

  ‘What’s a Christ the Saviour Cathedral in Moscow?’

  ‘A cathedral on the other side of Europe. Someone found a shaft like this, that’s where the key was found.’

  ‘Does that mean we found another clue?’

  ‘I don’t know. Unless … hold up the lantern again. Let’s push against the wall, see if it opens up anywhere.’

  They circled back to back in the confined space, pushing against stone. It was solid.

  ‘Nothing, monsieur.’

  ‘But there’s fresh air down here. It’s coming from somewhere.’ Harper sank to the floor, felt around the lowest iron rung. ‘Here, the air’s seeping through here. Bring us the lantern.’

  Rochat lowered the lantern close to the iron rung. Harper touched his palms to the stone, felt air seeping through microscopic holes drilled through rock. He pulled at the rung, it shifted a bit.

  ‘This is it, give us a hand.’

  Rochat set the lantern on the ground and scrunched down next to Harper. They grabbed the rung.

  ‘One, two, three.’

  They pulled hard, a metre-square section of stone separated from the wall. A gust of sweet air rushed at their faces. They leaned down, saw a small iron gate set back in the rock face.

  ‘It looks much older than the door in the well, monsieur.’

  ‘And there’s not a nick on it.’ Harper saw a multi-pointed slot cut in the door. He patted his pockets. ‘Bollocks, I forgot to bring the key.’

  ‘Pas grave, I imagined we’d need it.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Rochat pulled it from inside his overcoat and handed it to him.

  ‘That’s damn good imagining.’

  ‘Merci.’

  Harper held the key to the lock.

  ‘It fits, but all the slots in the lock are of equal length. Which way does it go?

  ‘We can guess because that’s what detectivemen do.’

  ‘True.’

  Harper slipped the key in the lock, jiggled it left and right, nothing. He refitted the key, tried again, nothing. He held the spiked end of the key close to the lantern, saw the one spike a half-centimetre longer than the rest. The iron compass atop the well flashed through his brain, cardinal point of the compass pointing towards first light, not north.

  ‘Bloody hell, I’m such a dolt. Which way is east?’

  Rochat rose to his knees, held his elbows close to his sides, extended his forearms as best he could and twisted from side to side five or six times before pointing in the direction of the iron door.

  ‘That way.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Oui.’

  Harper leaned down to the lock, sat back up.

  ‘Just out of curiosity, how’d you figure that?’

  ‘When I was coming down the rope, I counted how many times I twisted around and added it to which way the ladder was.’

  ‘You like to count things, don’t you?’

  ‘It helps me imagine other things.’

  ‘Right, I’ll give it a try sometime. Because so far your imagining is a hell of a lot better than mine.’

  Harper turned the key till the longest spike pointed straight up, east as north. He slid the key into the lock and turned … kaklack … He pushed against the door. It opened with the greatest of ease and another rush of sweet air hit them in the face. This time it was moist and came on waves of rushing sound.

  ‘What’s that noise, monsieur?’

  ‘Sounds like water, lots of it. Didn’t you say Lausanne has its own underground source?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘I think we just found it.’

  ‘Is that why they made the tunnel?’

  ‘Probably one of the reasons they made it here.’

  ‘What’s the other reason?’

  ‘Let’s find out. Care to have a look with your lantern? Your cathedral and all.’

  Rochat didn’t even wait to answer. He twisted to all fours and crawled through the door. Harper heard his voice calling back.

  ‘It’s another very long tunnel going sideways, monsieur, and it’
s very narrow. We need to crawl on our stomachs.’

  ‘Swell. And it’s dark, I bet.’

  ‘Oui.’ Rochat pulled himself from the tunnel. ‘But there’s a light at the other end.’

  ‘You must be joking me.’

  Something bright fell across her face. She opened her eyes to a luminescent shaft of colour passing slowly over her. Her eyes followed it to the crossing square of the transept, where a raggedy old man stood in the coloured light amid the hundreds of candles set about the flagstones.Katherine sat up and looked him over. Pockmarked skin, yellow teeth, worn-out clothes, coughing up phlegm into a filthy handkerchief. He turned to her.

  ‘Be not afraid.’

  ‘I’m not, but who are you?’

  ‘A messenger.’

  She looked at the altar, saw the maquette of the cathedral, the book.

  ‘Where’s Marc, where’s Harper?’

  ‘They’ll soon be back. And I want you to tell them something, I want you to tell them, “una salus victis nullam sperare salutem.”’

  ‘I’m dreaming, aren’t I? That’s why I’m not afraid.’

  ‘Sí, you are dreaming. So the words will be easy for you to remember. “Una salus victis nullam sperare salutem.”’

  ‘That sounds like Latin.’

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘I’ll never remember it.’

  ‘You will, because this is a dream.’

  Katherine looked around the nave, saw people standing shadowlike and faceless, but she could feel them watching.

  ‘What … who are they?’

  ‘Undying souls waiting to be born into another life.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘That is how it is done.’

  ‘How what’s done?’

  ‘Never-ending life on earth.’ He walked towards her and held out his hand. His skin was cracked and there was dirt under his nails. ‘Come, walk with me.’

  She looked up to his face. Scraggly stubble for a beard, his hair hanging in greasy clumps, the brightest eyes. Still she couldn’t help but feel a gentleness from him.

  ‘Your eyes, they’re so green. The same as Marc and Harper.’

  ‘Then you know you’re safe with me.’

  She gave him her hand, he led her through the burning candles on the flagstones to the centre of the crossing square. He turned her to the south transept. She raised her eyes to the rose window. Each piece of stained glass seeming to ignite like sparks of coloured fire.