The Fire and the Light

by Glen Craney

  Guilhelm captured Pierre-Roger’s elbow to speed their return to the temple before the arrangement could be retracted.

  “Not so fast,” said the Seneschal. “Not that I don’t trust you, Templar, but you’ll provide us with ten hostages as a surety of your good faith. This woman who seems to be so valuable will be one of them.”

  Guilhelm feigned indifference, but his pulse was racing in his neck. “You will need to send your men over to carry her out.”

  “Is she lame?”

  “She suffers from a fever that has rendered her legs useless.”

  The Seneschal and his officers shrank several steps away, fearful that the two Occitan negotiators had also contracted the pestilence.

  “Her flock is riddled with it.” Guilhelm coughed violently and begged a sip of water, but the French refused their canteens. “The bloody flux eats at the flesh like worms. None of our soldiers will go near her. There is a bishop with them named Marti who remains in good health.”

  Otto tightened his collar against the infectious vapors. He would arrange for Esclarmonde’s interrogation to be held at a safe distance, outside that fouled heap of stone. “The bishop, four heretics and five soldiers, all untainted. If I hear even a wheeze, I’ll throw you in a pit with them.”

  On the 15th of March, the inclement weather gave way to the full warmth of spring. The Cathars, who had not been told the reason for the delay in their capitulation, gathered around Guilhelm inside the temple and waited for the solstice sun to break over the clear horizon. When the golden orb crept above the spine, Guilhelm watched with taut anticipation as a shaft of light pierced the archere slit on the eastern parapet. The beam inched toward the center of the bailey and creased the upturned faces of the perplexed Cathars as it passed. In accord with Esclarmonde’s instructions, Guilhelm had ordered a chalk line dusted between the triple crosses that were etched on the northern and southern walls. At last, the solstice ray crossed the chalked demarcation, confirming Esclarmonde’s prediction.

  Guilhelm impaled his sword on the spot. “Dig here.”

  The perfects fell to their knees and clawed at the hard scrabble with their bowls. Moved by their desperation, some of the soldiers came down from the ramparts and joined the excavation with pikes. When they had reached an elbow’s depth, their tools clanged against a metallic hardness. Guilhelm tapped his sword on a smooth surface that sounded hollow. The men unearthed a hewn stone imbedded with an iron handle. He tied a rope to the ring and signaled for the soldiers to hoist it.

  The slab gave way to a tunnel.

  Armed with torches, the confounded Occitans entered the descending corridor while the soldiers carried the infirm on blankets and pallets. After a hundred precarious steps, the passageway opened to a dusky grotto. The circular perimeter was surrounded by branching catacombs with low ceilings blackened from the residue of smoke. Esclarmonde had directed them to a subterranean necropolis. The grotte reminded Guilhelm of the ossuaries he had seen in the burial caves around the hills of Jerusalem and in the catacombs of Cappadocia. Hundreds of skulls lay in neat rows with piles of bones below them, all apparently collected not to exalt the bodily remains, but to hide them from the depravations of the Roman monks. Two bundles wrapped in rotted linens lay in niches that had been cut into the soft rock. Etchings marked them as the burial places of Castres and Phillipa. Other luminaries of their faith had also been interred in this hidden hypogeum.

  Guilhelm hurried up the stairs to the chapel and returned with Esclarmonde’s shrouded corpse. He placed her remains into the empty nook next to Phillipa’s resting place. After several minutes of prayer, the Cathars arose from their knees and reluctantly signaled their readiness to leave the crypt. While the others climbed the steps, Guilhelm lingered to say a private farewell and regain his composure. In the far recesses of the grotte, he saw a crude altar smudged dark from smoke and melted wax, remnants of past ceremonies. He came closer and was overcome by a wave of grief. Fighting faintness, he stumbled and braced his hand against the altar to catch his balance.

  The lintel moved.

  Confounded, he slid the slab a bit more and found a crevice below it. This was not an altar, but a sarcophagus—the same hollowed block of granite that had entombed Esclarmonde during her initiation. He lifted a wooden coffer from the kist’s depths and broke open its clasp. Before him lay the Keramion cup and the Mandylion shroud. Had she hidden the relics here all these years? Why had she directed him to find this place only now, when all was lost?

  Atop the stairs, the Cathars and soldiers waited for him. Hearing his shout, they hurried back down the passageway and were dropped to their knees by the same mystical effluence that had suffused the chapel in Constantinople. Guilhelm then remembered what the widowed Greek empress had told him: The sacred relics always find those who are charged with their protection. After forty years, they had been returned to him. But why now? Inside the sarcophagus lay a sheepskin pouch tied with leather bindings. He carefully unwrapped its dusted covering and found a fragile scroll of great age. Intrigued, the Cathars hovered around him and examined the scroll’s strange Levantine writing.

  “I’ve seen this parchment before,” said Corba. “It is the gospel that Father Castres carried with him in Lombrives.”

  Guilhelm had always dismissed Esclarmonde’s claim that such a lost gospel existed. Could this be the evidence that had been sought by his Templar Master in the excavations at Jerusalem?

  Chandelle ran her hand lightly across the brittle texture of the parchment. “Can you make out its meaning?”

  Guilhelm carefully held a torch over the scroll for light. On one section, the marginalia and spaces between the lines contained miniscule notations in Occitan. Castres must have dictated a translation of the Aramaic to Esclarmonde. He brought the script closer to his aging eyes and read her rendition aloud:

  These words, my dear Nasorean brothers and sisters, were spoken to me by James, our beloved Teacher of Righteousness, on the night before his martyrdom in Jerusalem. This testimony I, Barnabas, verily give that you may find comfort and strength in the persecutions you now endure.

  And on that night I said unto the Teacher, “There are those who say that your brother Jesus arose from the grave in the flesh.”

  The Teacher answered, “My brother taught us how to conquer the flesh. Why would he wish to return to its imprisonment?”

  “But Peter and his disciples saw him resurrected.”

  The Teacher said, “What they saw was my brother’s Robe of Glory, gained not from death, but from overcoming the flesh in life. Did he not admonish Thomas to avoid touching him in his transfigured state? Did not Peter turn away from the emanations? What flesh has ever shone brighter than the sun? Jesus gave us proof by burning an image of his Robe onto the shroud as a remembrance of the blessed Light that awaits us all.”

  I asked, “But did not Our Lord return after his crucifixion to trumpet the victory over the body?”

  The Teacher answered, “He cared nothing for the flesh. He came to fulfill his promise to reveal the secrets to those who had been prepared.”

  I protested, “Saul the Tarsian preaches that your brother was a god who died for our sins.”

  The Teacher lowered his head in sadness. “Did Jesus and I not study at the feet of the same rabbis? Did we not break bread together every day? This Saul is a Pharisee, a Roman citizen who persecuted our people. He never laid eyes upon my brother nor spoke a word to him. Jesus promised that we would all perform the same miracles as did he, and even more. He was no more a god than you or me. And yet he was no less a god than the Father himself, for he knew the precious gnosis that sets us free.”

  I asked, “Why then do these false claims flourish?”

  “The Lords of Darkness chain us with the false creed that claims no salvation is possible outside their synagogues. Their dominion can be exalted only if we falsely believe our bodies will return intact on a Day of Judgment.”

  Stricken by this revelat
ion, I protested, “But Teacher, many of us have not the strength to seek this return to the Light by our own will.”

  The Teacher gently corrected my ignorance. “My brother taught that each of us carries a long-forgotten image of the true Light. We must find within us that flame that connects us to the Father directly. If we abdicate this birthright to self-proclaimed priests and rabbis, we will have failed. Did Jesus not promise that each of us shall know the Father in his own fashion and not all in the same way? If He had given to priests the exclusive commission to tell us what doctrines to believe, why would He have admonished us to constantly ask and seek and find? Remember always: It is the awakening of our Robe of Light, not the earthly authority of false prophets, that offers us hope of the precious rebirth.”

  I said, “But the rebellious ones preach that Jesus rose from the tomb to proffer upon Peter the authority to build his Church and bind believers.”

  The Teacher said, “That is another falsehood. My brother never spoke of forming a church on earth. His Kingdom was not of this world.”

  I asked, “Why are the Tarsian and his followers allowed to pass off contrary accounts as sacred mysteries?”

  The Teacher’s eyes became filled with tears. “There will be as many gospels written as there are stars in the heavens. Those who fail to understand the truth will always seek to destroy it. You must inscribe what I have told you this night and take the remembrance to our brethren at Qumran.”

  When I took up my quill, my hand trembled, for I was given the duty of preserving the only true account of what the Master had taught.

  The Teacher spoke: “To summon the Light, one must spend many lifetimes in preparation. Eat no meat, for the viscera of animals pulls us back into the world. Kill no living thing, for to do so will require recompense. Meditate morning and night to release all binding thoughts. Understand that all corporeal forms are but illusions. Above all else, know this: The Kingdom is not here, or over there, or in the sky; but the Kingdom is within each of us. Beyond this, all is experience and cannot be communicated.”

  As a great heaviness of the heart came over me, I asked, “Is not our mission already doomed? There are so few of us left to tell the truth.”

  The Teacher laid his hand upon my shoulder and said, “Do not lose heart, my son. This War between the Light and the Darkness will never end, just as day will never be without night. The Romans and Pharisees will incarnate in future eons with their rich robes and lofty titles altered only in the fashion of the day. And yet, so long as there are sparks still lost, enlightened souls will return to show others the way back home.”

  Seeing me nearly lose resolve, the Teacher brought his head to mine in prayer. Verily, a brilliant aura of gold surrounded him as he spoke these last words to me: “Take solace, good Barnabas, and know that you have saved many of our brothers and sisters by your selfless incarnation. Know too that the angels and hierarchies watch over you and do constant battle at your side. Together we have fought this war of the spirit many times, and together we shall fight again. Be joyous at the approaching hour of death, for you and I shall soon join hands below the dazzling Throne.”

  The ensuing silence was broken only by muffled sobs. Chandelle had not realized that she was holding her breath, so entranced was she by these revelations. She carefully rolled the scroll and bound it with the ribands. “These relics must not be allowed to fall into the hands of the Dominicans.”

  “We can conceal the entrance again,” said Raymond.

  “They would then be lost forever,” said Chandelle. “Rome is trying to destroy us because we were sent into this world to save these teachings. When we are gone, this gospel, shroud, and cup will be the only surviving evidence of our Lord’s true mission.”

  “The monks are growing more suspicious of our delay,” warned Raymond.

  After all these years, Guilhelm finally understood what the Empress in Constantinople meant by her prophecy: The relics and the scroll share a common truth. No one would believe the claims of this gospel unless presented with the physical evidence of Our Lord’s radiant manifestation. And no one would perceive the true purpose of the shroud unless instructed in the arcana of the Light by this suppressed gospel. Here was the reason why Jesus appeared to the Apostles on that fateful night: To burn the image of His Light Body into the Mandylion. Only His brother James and the Magdalene comprehended the teachings. They must have taken the scroll and relics from Jerusalem to prevent their destruction. How many thousands had given their lives over the centuries to see these relics preserved? He turned to Raymond, who lay soaked in sweat from the burning fever of his festering wound. “Who are your best climbers?”

  “Amiel. Hugues. Paytavi.”

  “Have them ready to leave with me before dawn,” said Guilhelm.

  Raymond struggled to his elbows in protest. “The descent is nearly impossible for a skilled mountaineer with two good arms!”

  “I made a promise to Esclarmonde,” said Guilhelm. “It was the only vow in my life worth the breath. This one I will fulfill.”

  Two hours before dawn, the Cathars gathered their possessions—a few grains of pepper, some family mementos, their worn copies of the Gospel of John—and distributed them to the soldiers. Several of the men tried in vain to convince the Cathars to save themselves by renouncing their beliefs. The perfects gently rejected their pleas and promised that if they reached the Light, they would intercede on behalf of the soldiers’ souls. Those who were able to walk filed past Guilhelm and his three volunteer climbers to offer them the Kiss of Love.

  Embraced by Corba and Chandelle, Guilhelm fought back tears. “I feel as if I am abandoning you.”

  “You are keeping our memory alive,” insisted Chandelle.

  Corba grasped his good hand. “Where will you go?”

  “I will try for Usson. Look for black smoke in the west.”

  During these many years, Corba had delayed taking the Consolamentum. She and the Marquessa had hoped to receive the vow from Esclarmonde, but they had lost courage on the night of her death. Corba was resolved not to let this last opportunity pass. She knelt beside Raymond and kissed him. “My love, you are everything to me. I did not believe that Esclarmonde’s Light existed until I saw it with my own eyes. Now I know it is worth dying for.”

  Raymond tried in vain to rise. “I will take the vow as well.”

  “No!” cried Corba. “I forbid it!”

  “You would condemn me to a life without you?”

  “Your faith is life. God asks no more of you. I remained on this mountain at your behest. Now you must grant my request. Promise me you will leave here alive, or I will break!” When Raymond hung his head in surrender, Corba broke from his desperate grasp and took Chandelle by the hand.

  Chandelle realized that she had been chosen to administer the vow, which was tantamount to a death sentence. “Do not ask this of me.”

  “It is your duty,” said Corba.

  “She will not take it without me!” The Marquessa, sprawled on the ground with the sick and dying, struggled to her scabbed elbows.

  Corba cried, “Mother, no!”

  The Marquessa crawled toward her daughter and granddaughter with a determination fueled by rage. “I have but one desire left in this cracked world! To confront the god who destroyed my family!”

  As the Cathars gathered around the two new initiates, Chandelle placed her hands on the bowed heads of Corba and the Marquessa. “Do you accept the transmission of Light and give oath never to deny your faith, even in the face of fire and death?”

  “I do,” said Corba.

  “And I,” said the Marquessa.

  “May the Light go with you always to the end of your days.”

  A weak voice cried out from the rows of wounded soldiers. “They must have an escort!” Bernard tried to stand on his good leg. When he could not manage the effort, four of his comrades assisted him. He turned to express his gratitude and send the soldiers back to their posts, but they remain
ed at his side, intent on joining him in taking the vow.

  “You have reason to live,” insisted Corba. “Loupe may have survived.”

  Bernard shook his head. “She would have returned by now.”

  “You have done enough for us,” pleaded Chandelle.

  Bernard placed Chandelle’s hands to his forehead. “I do this for me.”

  Resigned to his decision, Chandelle commenced the ritual. “Bernard Saint-Martin, know that you will forfeit your earthly life?”

  “I do.”

  “Accept then the lineage that has been passed from true Christian to Christian since the days of the Master.”

  When the Consolamentum was finished, Guilhelm climbed to the allures and shook the stiffness from his limbs in preparation for the ordeal that awaited him. He had always possessed an astute eye for assaying the weaknesses of an enemy. During his disguised excursion through the French encampment, he had noticed that the greenest conscripts, Gascon lackwits mostly, were stationed on the south section of the cordon. Most military men were conservative by nature and could be counted on to repeat the oldest of strategic errors, that of refighting the last battle. The actions of the French army during these past weeks had given him no reason to think that the Seneschal would act differently. Loupe had succeeded in threading down the north side, which offered the shortest route to Toulouse. Predictably, the most experienced of the French scouts had been moved there. He would take the south face, which offered the additional advantage of being sheltered from the moon’s light.