The Sixth Key

by Adriana Koulias

  The gatekeeper, having sat hours in the gatehouse awaiting their arrival, took no time in allowing them passage. The stable hand took the horses and a monk was fetched to lead them over the white-covered grounds towards the edificium, whose tall shape loomed under that low sky like a reproach from Heaven.

  They entered through a portal leading into dark cloisters and the sound of their footfalls over those damp stones made a resonance that appeared to stir the sleeping creature of the monastery to wakefulness: with each step a candle was lit in the upper rooms and the sound of one more hushed voice was added to the hum of other voices coming from unseen corners.

  Matteu walked behind the monk, hugging his cloak to him to keep out the bitter air, until they came to a large apartment warmed by a great fire. The flames yawned and spat and roared at the darkness.

  A number of cowled shapes were grouped around a canopied bed; their shadows danced on the walls and ceiling to the sound of a low and mystic chant. When Matteu approached the bed, the monks parted like a black sea, allowing him access to a man whose bony frame was overwhelmed by coverlets and sheepskins. Numerous candles barely illuminated the head drowned beneath a skullcap, the face bloated and red with fever, the eyes closed and sunk deep into the lines around them.

  Time passed. Matteu thought he had come too late. The old abbot would not return from his journey towards Heaven and Matteu’s heart gave a lurch then, rent by the weight of responsibility.

  The infirmarian looked at Matteu and shook his head. There was nothing he could do, his face told him. He gestured for the priest to resume his prayers.

  At that moment the soul of the old man made his eyes come open and an expression of recognition passed over the fever-worn face. ‘Matteu? Is that you?’ he said then. ‘Come . . . closer!’ He tried to raise his head and the exertion caused a strangled cough to erupt from his parched throat, leaving a streak of blood over the pale lips.

  Matteu bent his head close, and when those infirm eyes focused on the form before them, they welled with tears and a gasp escaped from the feverish mouth. The old man raised a hand. The brothers, knowing the signal, gathered to them their prayers and moved out of the room in single file.

  ‘Tell it to me quickly – this carcass is impatient and will not last.’

  Matteu leant close and his lips almost touched that hot ear. ‘He is here.’

  ‘Where, where?’ the dying man said, looking about with milky eyes.

  Matteu went to fetch the boy and brought him to the bedside.

  The abbot reached out a hand to touch the boy’s cheek. ‘Praise our Lord! This is Isobel’s child? Oh! He once stood beneath the cross! The reincarnation of Saint John!’

  Matteu led the child back to the others.

  ‘You’ve done well, Matteu. Now, tell me of our cousins?’

  ‘They are all dead.’ Matteu found the words hard to say.

  ‘All? And cousin Marty?’

  ‘In one great pyre . . . at the foot of the château.’

  The old man closed his eyes and began a quiet weeping. He looked away from Matteu and said, ‘Who are these others who have come with you?’

  ‘Four perfects, the guardians, the last of those taught by Marty.’

  He nodded and lay back, exhausted. ‘They have a home here, if they wish it,’ he said.

  ‘I have something for safekeeping.’ Matteu reached into the sack he carried over his shoulder and brought out the scrolls Marty had given him.

  The old man reached out a hand to grasp Matteu’s arm. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Written by brother Marty.’ He reached in again and brought out the treasure.

  ‘Is this . . .?’ The old man looked up and his eyes were full of fear. ‘But you must take it away from here!’ he cried.

  Matteu was surprised. ‘I don’t understand. Where shall I take it?’

  But the old man coughed so hard that he lost his grip on Matteu’s arm. He seemed to lose his breath and his eyes widened and loosened and took one last hold of Matteu’s own.

  A moment later, the old man lay still.

  Matteu waited. His heart fluttered in his chest like that of a frightened hare, his breathing stopped and the blood threaded through his veins in small degrees.

  The old man said nothing more.

  He put a hand to the centenarian’s mouth – no coming and going of breath. His head went into a fog. He must gather his thoughts together. He said a pater noster and took himself to the door of the chamber to call for the infirmarian.

  By the time the bells tolled the abbot’s death, the gates were opening to allow Matteu’s passage out of the monastery. He hesitated a moment. Where was it safe to take it? Where should he go?

  A thought came to him then: his song of Esclarmonde de Foix, and the Grail that fell into the bosom of the mountains for safekeeping. He pointed his horse away from the monastery, towards the mountains and the caves of Lombrives.

  32

  Underworld

  ‘Of the dungeons there had been strange things narrated, fables I had always deemed them, but yet strange, and too ghastly to repeat, save in a whisper.’

  Edgar Allan Poe, ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’

  Rennes-le-Château, 1938

  Rahn slept fitfully. He dreamt that Deodat was inside a dark place. He could hear people weeping; some were reciting prayers. He sensed they were all doomed to die . . . and that Deodat would die with them. Into his dream came these words:

  Jesus, you remedy against our pains and only hope for our repentance . . .

  He woke in a cold sweat. The uncomfortable chair had taken its toll on his body. He could hear Eva sleeping soundly in her bed and looked about in the shadows, trying to remember the dream. There was something about a monastery, and a cave . . .

  Deodat was in peril!

  Years ago, he and Deodat had been to the caves of Lombrives. They had seen the bones of the Cathars who had died in those caves. Some skeletons were arranged like the spokes of a wheel, their heads to the centre and their feet raying out like a sun.

  He sighed. He had to get up and return to that awful church despite his revulsion. He suspected that Deodat’s life depended on his finding out whatever it was that Saunière had discovered, and he wanted to see if the answer lay in the word penitence. He had to find out now – while the village slept and he could look about undisturbed.

  Outside the world was windblown and angry, lit now and again by a waxing gibbous moon peeking out from behind thick clouds. Branches had fallen along the path and leaves crackled under his feet and the elements seemed alive. A feeling of dread passed over him, this was the second time he would be going into a church at night in as many days. Moreover, this time he would be alone; even so, he would have to find the strength . . . for Deodat’s sake.

  It took him a time to reach the church and a part of him wasn’t at all relieved to find it unlocked. Once inside, the feeling of dread was multiplied. The desire to sneeze was overwhelming and, as he passed Asmodeus in the shadows, he was unable to contain it. The sound reverberated around the room as if a bomb had struck it. He paused, his every nerve raw and prickling. The wind whistled. He shivered with cold, he was tired and foggy from a lack of sleep, his eyes watered and there was a pounding in his head.

  Penitence . . . penitence . . .

  He made his way down the nave to the choir enclosures, sniffling. Taking a candlestick from the altar, he bent its light to the relief of the Magdalene. He wanted to see the inscription.

  Jesus, you remedy against our pains and only hope for our repentance, it is by means of Magdalene’s tears that you wash our sins away.

  His dream!

  He tried to reason: repentance . . . a sinner goes to confession to repent and to ask for forgiveness, thereby he becomes a penitent; a penitent by means of Magdalene’s tears. Through these tears, sins are washed away. He looked up. The stained-glass window above the altar had Mary Magdalene anointing Christ’s feet. Magdalene had washed Christ�
�s feet with her tears, and anointed them because she was the Magdala or the tower that connected Heaven with Earth; she had possessed the power of service. Christ also washed the feet of his disciples to make them clean . . . like the soul is clean after confession . . . confessional – the confessional!

  He turned around and looked down the nave to the confessional. It was directly opposite the altar – was this significant? Trying to think of nothing else, he made his way to it. It was a large structure made of oak and above it he could barely see the large coloured bas-relief of the Sermon on the Mount. There were three cubicles: the middle cubicle for the priest and those for the penitents on either side. He let the light of the candle illuminate the small space inside the left cubicle; it was wide enough for a person to kneel on a fixed padded step. There seemed to be nothing here of interest. The other penitent’s cubicle was the same. The old woman had said penitence and the entire church seemed to be devoted to Magdalene and to penitence, but perhaps he shouldn’t be looking for the one who performs penitence but for the one who remedies sins. The priest was the representative of Christ and he took His place during a confession. He was tenet – he was crucial.

  Rahn entered the middle cubicle. On the floor was a worn rug nailed in place. Rahn lifted its edge and it came away enough for him to see that a hatch had been cut out of the floorboards. He tore the rest of the rug away to reveal the entire hatch. He lifted the lid and this released a rush of damp, stale air into his face. He lowered the candle through the opening. He could barely see the curve of a narrow flight of stone steps leading down. He smiled and, setting the hatch lid to one side, squeezed through the opening.

  The steps were slippery with moss and he half stumbled to the bottom step. Still holding his candle, he stood in a large natural cavity beneath the church, only just high enough in places for a grown man to stand without stooping. In the flickering light he glimpsed open tombs, partly submerged in water, their covering slabs discarded. The crypt seemed to follow the dimensions of the church above it. As above, so is below – the old Hermetic maxim came to his mind. He could hear an echo of water dripping. When he stepped into it the water was high enough to cover his shoes and as it seeped into his feet he cringed from cold. He walked, mindful of his step and invisible submerged debris, until he came to more steps – the hatch in the confessional wasn’t the only way into the crypt. He guessed this access must come out somewhere near the pulpit. He continued, feeling in his element, moving with confidence over tree roots and rotted wood beams until he came to another set of steps leading up to the church. These steps must come out somewhere near the sacristry. There were three entrances!

  He also noticed a stain on the wood columns supporting the floor of the church; this crypt was subject to flooding and he could see that the water had reached as high as his shoulder. The old madame told him earlier that Saunière had done some work to shore up the foundations of the church because of the water, now he understood. It also made sense of the network of cisterns that fed the gardens above, as the abbé had mentioned.

  Returning, he approached an open tomb and looked into it; it was full of old bones, dirt and debris. As he inspected it he heard something, a whisper of a sound. A voice. He listened but all was still again. His nerves were on edge – was he hearing things? No, there it was again!

  He put out his candle and crouched down behind the tomb.

  Someone had entered through the hatch and was coming down the stairs!

  He tried not to breathe because in the cold his breath formed clouds of condensation around him – a giveaway.

  He heard a stumble and then a splash.

  ‘Where are you?’

  Eva!

  He relaxed and in a moment his fear was replaced by annoyance. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, stepping out from behind the tomb, feeling less than the courageous hero. ‘Well?’

  She had slipped but luckily her candle had not gone out. Her hair was wet and her cheeks were flushed. She looked exhilarated.

  ‘I heard you leave the room. How do you expect me to sleep? You were calling out “penitence” all night long! I knew you would come back to the church, so when I saw the door to the confessional open . . .’ She looked about her. ‘This is remarkable! How did you figure it out? Is this the tomb of the Visigoth

  – Sigisbert?’

  ‘I haven’t found anything yet to prove it,’ he said curtly, ‘one way or the other. But if there’s ever been any treasure here it’s gone now, ransacked. See the pickaxes and shovels resting against those walls? There’s been a lot of digging and I suspect it wasn’t all just to shore up the church. It looks like Saunière wasn’t only grave robbing above, but also below.’

  ‘Looking for what? Hadn’t he already found something in the church?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘All this water – where does it come from?’

  ‘There’s an underground spring. I suspect this place is practically floating on water.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Again, I don’t know.’

  Rahn lit his candle from hers and in doing so noticed something he hadn’t seen when he had descended those steps. Some distance from the steps leading to the confessional the wall grew darker at one point. He walked through the water to it and discovered a narrow tunnel. He figured it must lead under the church and away from the crypt in the direction, he guessed, of the cemetery. He looked down. The water seemed deeper here and this made him cautious. He couldn’t imagine why it would be deeper. Every potholer knows that rainfall above can end up inundating a cave below in a matter of minutes. But it had been utterly dry when he’d left the house to come to the church, so he surmised that he was standing in a natural depression in the floor of the crypt.

  He resolved to see where this tunnel led and began to make his way into it.

  ‘Wait, I’m coming with you!’ Eva said.

  He turned around, irritated. ‘Certainly not! I forbid it.’

  She laughed. ‘You what?’

  ‘I mean, I beg you to go back up where it’s safe to wait for me. If I don’t come back in an hour send a search party.’ He turned around again, but was halted by her insistent voice.

  ‘No matter what you say, I’m coming.’

  ‘I won’t allow it,’ he said, but it sounded feeble. ‘It’s far too dangerous.’

  She met his look with an unruffled mien. ‘I’m coming!’

  ‘This shaft is likely to lead to another crypt as singularly unfruitful as this one and it’s important that I have someone who can call for help should I run into trouble,’ he said, but something told him that logic would get him nowhere at all.

  ‘I have a hunch you’ll need me.’

  ‘You and your hunches!’

  He wasn’t used to women, let alone potholing with women, and he doubted that their sex was capable of it, considering most of them lacked any sense of direction and had an abhorrence of things that liked to have their abodes in holes. But he sensed she was going to hold her ground and he didn’t have time to argue with her, so he entered the tunnel with her following close behind and hoped for the best.

  ‘Why are the two crypts so far apart? It doesn’t make sense,’ she said, behind him.

  ‘Noble women were never buried with their men, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘I can well imagine that being holed up for eternity with controlling, egotistic, ignorant men would have sounded as unappealing to the dames of yesteryear as it does to the women of today.’

  He paused in his tracks. ‘Are you certain you wouldn’t like to go back and stand guard?’

  ‘Absolutely not! I’m enjoying being your partner in crime.’

  He grunted.

  The ground was drier here and seemed to rise a little. Eva stumbled on something and gasped. It was a skull. Rahn picked it up. It had a gash on the temple. ‘An ossarium!’ he said with glee, showing her.

  It seemed to fascinate her and she took it from his hand for clo
ser inspection. ‘Alas, poor Yorick,’ she said. ‘It looks old.’

  ‘Yes, I think this place is ancient. The Visigoths liked to bury their dead in underground places. Look!’ The flickering candlelight illuminated more skulls and bones, heaped one over the other, lining the walls of the tunnel. ‘Just like the catacombs of Paris! A lot of people died here during the war with the Franks, not to mention the Cathar wars and the Great War. They had to store the bones somewhere.’

  At this point the shaft narrowed abruptly and they had to walk in single file, sometimes having to squeeze through a tight opening. He predicted that they would soon come to a dead end and have to track back since the air was stagnant and oppressively humid. He took off his jacket and carried it in his hands, moving ahead with caution. Above them, the roots of trees and other vegetation poked through the dirt, catching in their hair and clothes. Below, the rocks and debris made their progress slow and tedious.

  Rahn came to an abrupt stop.

  ‘What is it?’ Eva said.

  ‘Look for yourself!’ he said happily, shining the light of his candle on the matter at hand. The girl did not gasp as he had expected and this disconcerted him. The low ceiling and the sides of the shaft were completely covered in a black mass that consisted of a tangle of legs and hairy bodies. Some of the creatures dangled and dropped at their feet, while above whole clusters sat on lacy webs.

  ‘It’s a large nest of spiders, see the egg sacks?’ Rahn said.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ He thought he could hear a smile in her voice and it irritated him.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘back up, and give me your candle.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mademoiselle, you can turn around and go back if you like but I intend to go on and I need your candle for just one moment. If you please.’

  ‘As you wish,’ she said. ‘But you haven’t told me what you’re going to do.’

  ‘I’m going to burn them.’

  ‘You’re going to cremate them?’

  ‘Would you rather walk through them and have them crawling all over you? I assure you that their bite is quite painful.’