Descent into Dust

by Jacqueline Lepore

  I hesitated. “I want to. I am learning.”

  “But you are afraid.”

  It was not a question, yet I nodded. He released my hands.

  “Bon.” Sitting back, he raised his gaze to the ceiling, letting it roam slowly from left to right. “You are mistaken about this place, Madame Andrews. It is not a monastery. It is an archive. I will tell you of its treasures, and some of its secrets. But first”—he layered his hands one over the other on the hilt of his stick—“you must tell me everything.”

  The tale, as I told it from beginning to end to the black monk, seemed like something far beyond reason, even to me. I could not look at Dom Beauclaire, afraid I would see doubt, horror, even disgust on his wizened features—or, worse, that wary, veiled look I’d seen in my father’s eye. The one Roger had worn, and Mary, only days ago.

  When I was finished, he said simply, “The thing imprisoned in your English village must never be allowed to live again.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “In truth, I do not know.” His wise eyes watched me closely. “Take heart, Madame Andrews. There is a child involved, you say. Where there is the heart of innocence, there is always hope, for that is where God lives most.”

  I was hardly reassured by his warm words. Her innocence was precisely why Henrietta was such a powerful draw for the evil gathering on the Wiltshire downs. “When do we begin?” I asked anxiously.

  “Right away, I should think, as time is of the essence. You must have unlimited access to the archive, and to me, for no one knows the collection as I do. Therefore, it is best you stay in the château. Do not worry about seeming improper. Many come to this repository to study, and so it is quite regular. Dom Alliot will help you settle into a room.”

  “Can you help me find a way to destroy Marius? Will that even protect Henrietta, or is it too late?”

  “I will see you this evening, madame. We will have many days, and many questions. Some will be answered. Others cannot be.”

  Alliott sent for my belongings at the village inn and led me through shadow-ridden halls and up a set of stone spiral steps to a barren, chilly tower room. I was brought food. When my portmanteau arrived, I unpacked a few things. That done, I sat by the glow of my lamp against the bare gold-brown stones and took in my surroundings, considering not only the iron bedstead and long table with a chipped, ancient chair, but the remote location, the sturdy lock on the door, and the barred window. I realized this had once been a prison. My imagination twisted. That evening, as I waited for the call from Dom Beauclaire, I thought of long-dead souls who might have occupied this room and the hours they had spent here, waiting for clemency or execution.

  I rushed to the door and tried it, half-fearful it would be locked. It opened. I sighed, scolded myself, and shut it. Then I settled down to wait.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  It was after midnight when Dom Alliot brought me down to the magnificent archive for the first time. If you are not in the habit of visiting a lending library or if you have not perused—as I have—the towering stacks of books in the great country houses, you perhaps would not realize how beyond imaginable was the amassing of materials stuffed inside the Amiens château.

  Room after room, and on into the great hall, I proceeded through stories of shelving, ladders to reach the upper balconies, and free-standing stacks in the open spaces, lined up in militarily precise rows. Glass-encased flambeaus flickered on the walls, illuminating the leather spines. It was a cave of won ders, but unlike Aladdin’s, my treasure was not gold but words. Knowledge.

  The reedy voice of Dom Beauclaire floated toward me. “Madame Andrews, this way, please.” He was seated at a large table, surrounded by open books that revealed cracked and yellowed pages. He’d been watching me, taking in my reaction. “You have a love of books?”

  “Oh, yes.” I lifted my eyes to the tomes surrounding me. “I have never seen so many.”

  “This is a very extraordinary collection. From many lands, from sources banned and banished, these are the books not fit to be housed in Rome. But valuable nonetheless.” His gaze lifted to roam over the various materials. “Some were rescued from the Alexandrian library before it was burned. Some date back further than Egypt, written in symbols and painstakingly transcribed. We understood the hieroglyphic texts long before the Rosetta Stone.” His pursed mouth quirked at the secret. “These are all ancient writings for the most part, for it is an old knowledge we keep here, together with the controversies of our own age. Which is where we start tonight.

  “Sit,” he said, gesturing. “Madame Andrews, there must be trust between us. You must understand why I can believe you, and all the others who came before you, those who were unfortunate to learn that the Holy Mother Church has known for many, many years of the existence of the nosferatu.” His gnarled hands slid a large, leather-bound volume to me. One crooked finger tapped the page. “Start here, madame.”

  I read aloud:

  For here we are told that dead men, men who have been dead for several months, I say, return from the tomb, are heard to speak, walk about, infest hamlets and villages, injure both men and animals.

  I looked up. “What is this?”

  “Go on,” the monk urged.

  Whose blood they drain and thereby making them sick and ill, and at length actually causing death. Nor can men deliver themselves from these terrible visitations, nor secure themselves from these horrid attacks, unless they dig the corpses up from the graves, drive a sharp stake through these bodies, cut off the heads, tear out the hearts; or else they burn the bodies to ashes. The name given to these ghosts is Oupires, or Vampires…

  Dom Beauclaire leaned back, his movements stiff and labored. I was reminded that he was very old, his body fragile, and the hour was very late. “Look to the front piece. Written by Dom Augustine Calmet—a member of my own order—this work, Dissertations sur les Apparitions des Anges, des Demons et des Esprits, et sur les Revenants et Vampires, was published in the last century. Not hundreds of years ago, mind you, when superstition ruled our minds.”

  “I was told the position of the Church is that vampires do not exist.”

  The hint of a smile on his wrinkled face warmed it. “Indeed, it would seem that is not so, at least unofficially. There are some things Mother Church does not permit to be commonly known, for reasons many do not understand. The fact remains Dom Calmet believed, and wrote of his belief in this, an official church document that has never been declaimed by Rome. Moreover, he came to his conclusion after a thorough investigation of the evidence.”

  “Is this related to Father Luke, the priest I told you of?”

  “Ah. Father Luke.” Dom Beauclaire’s sparse eyebrows leapt higher on his wrinkled brow. “And that secret society, with some members of which I am quite familiar. But that can wait.” He pushed a stack of scrolls at me. “Alliot has instructions to assist you while I am gone. My old bones get the better of me these days. As Our Lord so aptly put it: the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.”

  “Dom Beauclaire, I cannot thank you enough,” I said emphatically.

  He rose, leaning heavily on the table. “Good luck, Madame Andrews. I will pray for you.”

  I began my instruction by reading the numerous and varied accounts of the vampire throughout time, and all over the world. Here in France and in much of Europe, these creatures were known by the Roman name nosferatu. In Greece, it was vyrkolakas. The gypsy name was mullo. In India, it was the bhuta. The Scots knew the legends of the boabhan-sithe, the dead that returned from the grave to drink the living blood and lived their cursed existence forever.

  Most legends favored staking, beheading, and purifying fire to kill them. Salt, garlic, and wild rose were frequently named as being aversive to the undead, but not deadly. The ringing of a bell was said to entrance them. Drowning was emphatically stressed by some, while others discounted any effect at all.

  “How will I know which of these methods are accurate?” I asked
Dom Beauclaire one evening.

  “I shall tell you the same as I have told all those like you who have found this place.” He lifted his head to peer at me quite intently. “You will feel your way, madame. There is no instruction in the art of the Dhampir. Your gifts will manifest singular to you, both in the type and in the strength. These skills will follow from both your unique nature, as all gifts and talents do, as well as the magnitude of the vampire that made the one who passed its blood to you.”

  My heart skipped, as it always did at the reference to my mother, and her terrible condition. “But Valerian Fox told me of the woman he’d known,” I said, “who had a connection to animals. Then, when the wolves threatened me, I was able to reach into them with my mind. I would not have thought of it had I not known of Naimah’s skill.”

  “It is a coincidence, yes, but not necessarily instructive. There will naturally be some occasions in which you will possess the same ability as another, but these are cheats, oui? They are not worth the cost. If you model yourself on someone else, you travel a false path.”

  “Then how am I to know what I am, and what I should do when faced with Marius?” I protested.

  “The best way for you to prepare is within, not without.” The old monk reached his hand across the table, grasping mine and smiling bracingly. “You will learn. Do not despair, Madame Andrews.”

  I was childishly sullen, although I saw the sense of what he told me. I was sick with worry for my Henrietta.

  “It is a fearful affliction, as is my impatience. I beg your forgiveness if I seem petulant, sir.”

  He waved away my apology. “Oh, madame, please. I have had swords drawn against me, as well as other interesting threats made against my life.” He chuckled, as if these recollections amused him. “You hunters are an emotional lot. I have known many in my time. Oh, I understand, of course. It is quite natural when one deals with matters of the undead. Trust me, it is your curse that you will never feel up to the task, no matter how many times you have won in battle. You will constantly wrestle with doubts about your abilities and be absolutely convinced at every moment that you do not know or possess nearly enough.”

  I gaped at him, mostly for the nonchalance with which he spoke of what I most acutely felt. When he saw my expression, he shrugged and smiled at me reassuringly. “Ah, I am not insensitive to how these insecurities torment you. I merely observe they seem to be unavoidable, oui?”

  “So you are saying I am normal?”

  He tapped his gnarled finger to his parchment lips. “But after all, Madame Andrews, it falls upon you as Dhampir to face alone unthinkable evil with powers beyond mortal comprehension using means that for unknowable reasons vary in their potency and reliability, and all the time without any training or education other than your own ability to find what you need within yourself.” He lifted a bony shoulder in a Gallic shrug. “If one of you loses your temper with me now and then, I do not mind so much. I have not suffered injury yet. So let us not trouble ourselves with apologies. I have information, oui, but not everything you need to know will be found here. But it will help.”

  With that, he came to sit beside me. “What are you researching at the moment?”

  I showed him the sources I’d collected. “I am trying to educate myself generally, of course,” I explained. “However, I am particularly interested in a reference to a serpent or a dragon. It seems to be a repeated motif in the Avebury area…”

  My voice trailed off when I saw his reaction. I waited until he cleared his throat. “The dragon?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied excitedly. I grabbed a charcoal and quickly sketched the shape of the winged reptile. “It was in paintings in the church, and the gypsy who attacked me had a tattoo of this on his arm. Have you seen this particular symbol?”

  “Oh, yes, many times, many times.” His old face crumpled, exaggerating the lines of age. “I am afraid, however, I will be of no help to you. The information on the Dracula is kept elsewhere.” He lifted his hand in anticipation of my obvious question. “And no, I do not know where. No one knows where. I suspect it sits in the heart of the Vatican, where only a select few can access it.”

  This was deeply disappointing. And troubling. “Do you know the reason for all of this extraordinary secrecy?”

  His eyes glowed. “I do not know, but I can imagine. Whenever I have heard that name…” He paused, then spoke in sharp syllables, “Dracula…It has meant terrible things. For the hunter does not always win, Madame Andrews. You know this. When the Dragon Prince is involved, it goes poorly for mortals.”

  A few days into my stay, I received one of my regular notes from Sebastian, giving me an update on Henrietta’s status. As usual, he reported she remained stable and seemingly well. This was only partial relief, for how long could I expect her to be safe? This increased my sense of urgency and did my patience, so necessary in the tedious research in which I was engaged, no good.

  Sebastian also sent disturbing news, which quickened my pulse when I read it. Miss Harris had gone missing. I could not make up my mind if this was a good or bad omen. I could not help but be pleased she was no longer in proximity to Henrietta, but the question arose: Had Marius simply no longer needed her now that I was out of the picture? The thought soured my mood. Was the lord vampire so confident then?

  Sebastian reported Mr. Fox remained at Dulwich Manor, but his mysterious comings and goings were a growing annoyance to his hosts, and Sebastian feared Mary and Roger might soon ask him to leave.

  I turned broody after reading this. Going to the great atlas which rested by itself on a podium in one sunlit corner, ready for frequent reference, I opened it and turned its crisp pages until I found a map of England. I traced my finger west from London, under Oxford to the point just north of the Salisbury plain, where Stonehenge was located, to the town of Avebury. I frowned, finding the Saint Michael line along which it lay, beginning with Saint Michael’s Mount at Marazion in Cornwall all the way across the south of England to Canterbury in Kent.

  On this map, there were curious notations. Northeast of Avebury, near Royston, was a legend indicating something called Wanderbury Stone Ring. To the west was a similar mention for Hurlers Stone Circle. Outposts, Father Luke had said, along the power meridian. It was then I noticed Glastonbury, and my thoughts sputtered to a stop. Glastonbury was on the Saint Michael’s lay line. Had I known that?

  The proud tones of Mrs. Tigwalt, Father Luke’s territorial housekeeper, came into my recollection. She had told me the legend of Joseph of Aramethea, who, upon reaching England, struck his staff to the ground, causing the Holy Hawthorn to grow. That had been, according to the legend, at Glastonbury. And nearby, at what was still known as the Chalice Well, Joseph was rumored to have secreted the cup of Christ, which was why it ran red with His blood.

  Red with blood…I had not believed her at the time.

  I excitedly searched for everything on Glastonbury I could find, calling on Alliot to aid me. A few hours later, I found in a small pamphlet something that solidified my suspicions.

  The design of the emblem denoting the Chalice Well—two circles intersecting, the center part an oval—was remarkably similar to the fish symbol I’d seen on Father Luke’s ring and the broken seal under Marius’s tree. The pamphlet gave a name for the sign as the vesica piscis.

  My heart skipped a beat. This vesica piscis marked the site of the holy well, which was actually a set of pools fed by a natural spring—hence the twin circles—where the Holy Grail was said to reside. Due to the iron deposits through which the spring flowed underground, the pools of the well were supplied a steady stream of water tinged with red.

  The significance of this reached deep into my bones. Who has not put a cut to their mouth and felt that sour tinge on the edge of the tongue? A stream running with ferrous oxide would taste…

  It would taste like blood. Blood flowing from the very earth.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  When I told this to Dom Bea
uclaire, I was wary he might think my interpretation wrong, even profane. But his eyes glowed with excitement. “Excellent! Come.” He took my arm and leaned heavily on me as he directed me through the old rooms. “Of course, what we need might be housed in one of the other archive locations. I do not recall having much here on the subject.”

  “Other locations?”

  “Oh, many.” He waved his hand as if to dismiss the pride in his smile. “An old Bohemian castle outside of Prague, a Venetian palazzo sinking into the Adriatic—I worry constantly about that one. Some are general, as this one is. Others have their own specialty: curses, witchcraft, hauntings, and of course vampires. The main repository of the revenant manuscripts lies in Copenhagen.”

  I had been stunned by this place, by the vastness of the collection in the hall. The revelation that there was more was almost too much to fathom.

  He chuckled at my gaping amazement. “A network of secret locations scattered across many lands is thought to best safeguard against fire or intentional destruction. There are many who would see the archives, and all the wisdom they contain, lost to mankind forever.”

  We eventually uncovered information in some old journals of an eighteenth-century man obsessed with England’s Arthurian legends indicating he had found evidence that Glastonbury was the actual location of the mythical Isle of Avalon, the final resting place of the legendary King Arthur.

  “But it is nowhere near the sea,” Dom Beauclaire puzzled. “How can it be an island?”

  “It is set inland now, but long ago the area all around it was swamp, and the miles of flatland were under water. The tor is elevated. See this drawing, how high it rises? It would have appeared as an island.” I read on. “Odd, how the legend of Arthur is tied so closely with this place. Both the quest for the Grail, which is at the Chalice Well right there in Glastonbury, and the burial on Avalon.”