by Jon Steele
Harper followed.
He saw the execution bell, Clémence, sheltered in the interior timbers. The huge bell was brooding but still. He scanned the shadows in the dark corners. There was no one hiding there. He gave the world below a quick glance. The crowd of partisans stood quietly, listening to the cello. Harper felt a rush of vertigo and turned away. Bloody heights. The door to the loge set between the bells was open. Harper looked in as he passed. It looked the same. The funny-angled ceiling and the wooden beams; the small table in the middle of the narrow room and the bed planted sideways at the end of it. There were tens of small candles hanging from the ceiling and they filled the room with comforting light. Coming to the timbers surrounding Marie-Madeleine, Harper saw the dark shape of the great bell. Seven and a half tons of bronze that could rock the belfry when she called the hour. But like Clémence, the great bell was still.
Hang on.
He listened to the voice of the cello drifting through the belfry. He rested his hand on one of the massive timbers surrounding Marie-Madeleine. The wood was vibrating; all the carpentry was vibrating. He walked by Marie-Madeleine, looked through the carpentry to the east balcony. Ella was sitting on a wooden chair at an angle so the great bell could watch her play. The girl’s lantern hung from the hammer that rang the hour; it cast a veil of light over her. She played with her head lowered, the black floppy hat on the girl’s head hiding her face from him. He focused on her hands as she played. The long fingers of her left hand found the stops with confidence. Her right hand bowed across the strings with grace. She finished the Menuet and began the Gigue, the final movement of the No. 2.
Karoliina signaled Harper to keep moving. She pointed to the shadows in the arches of the southeast turret. From there they would have a clear view of Ella. Harper watched Karoliina step ahead and slip into the shadows. Harper was impressed. He followed in after her.
“Ella doesn’t know you’re here,” she whispered. “It’s a surprise.”
No kidding, Harper thought.
He watched Ella play. Her fiery technique easily mastered the demands of the Gigue. Single-voiced notes were punctuated with deep-throated harmonies in three-eight time; she finished with a series of breathless leaps through an F major chord before touching down in triumph on B-flat major. For a moment the girl did not move, waiting for the final note to fade. Slowly, she pulled away her hands from the cello and rested them at her sides. Harper almost pronounced her name to make himself known to her, but the dream catcher raised her finger to her lips again and shook her head. Not yet.
They waited.
Harper looked out over the railing and down to the esplanade. The hundreds of partisans below were waiting, too. He heard the creak of a chair. It was Ella, shifting her weight and drawing the cello closer to her body. Without looking at the fingerboard, she wrapped her left hand around the neck and her fingers touched the strings. Her right hand bowed a Louré stroke and the cello came to life. It was a simple theme from B-flat to D-natural, then A-flat to C-natural, and she repeated it three times. Slowly she added the harmonies of an E-flat major chord falling to B-flat major. It fell again to an A-flat major, then rose to complete a phrase. The girl’s combination of fingering and bow strokes caused the pitch to slide from one note to the other; slowly the theme became a haunting melody. Harper didn’t recognize it, but he felt himself being drawn into the sound.
“This is something she’s been working on since you told her you’d come,” Karoliina whispered to Harper.
“What is it?”
“It doesn’t have a name. She was hoping you would come up with one.”
“Me?”
“She wrote it for you.”
Harper stared at the dream catcher with disbelief. The dream catcher smiled at his reaction.
“Having fun yet?” she said.
It was then Harper heard voices emerge from the music. Voices that harmonized with the chords from distant octaves. Her fingering added double stops, triple stops, and vibrato to accent the tonic note of theme. It created a droning sound that wound through the timber and echoed off the stones before flowing through the hollows of the bells.
Bloody hell, it’s the bells.
B-flats, A-flats, E-flats, F- and C-naturals from the cello were resonating with the strike notes of the bells and setting off a cascade of harmonics. The ringing sound rounded the belfry and sailed off into the night. Harper imagined the cathedral as some massive radio transmitter broadcasting to millions of souls around the world. Actually, considering the roadie was downstairs with his magic bus/mobile radio station, that’s probably what was happening. Harper hoped so. The music pouring from Ella’s cello was like a mystical thing rising to the stars . . . then it was finished. Ella lowered her hands to her sides. She did not move for long seconds. Harper stepped from the shadows.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” he said.
The girl looked up. “Monsieur, you’re here! I’m very happy to see you,” she said.
“I’m happy to see you, too. I enjoyed that piece very much, mademoiselle.”
“Did you? Did you really?”
Karoliina stepped from the shadows now.
“I told Mr. Harper that you wrote it for him, litla. I told him you hoped he could give it a name.”
“Oh, yes, monsieur,” Ella said. “I would like that very much.”
“All right. How about . . .”
The girl’s emerald eyes sparkled with lantern light. It was a look of great expectation.
“How about Meditation No. 1 by Ella Mínervudóttir,” he said after long seconds.
Harper saw the wheels spinning in the girl’s head.
“That means I must write a No. 2.”
“It does. But I think Marie-Madeleine would like it, don’t you?”
Ella looked at the great bell in the timbers. She tipped her head as if listening. She looked at Harper.
“Marie says she would like it very much.”
“Good. And I tell you what: You can play it for me the next time I visit you.”
“Are you going away, monsieur?”
“That’s why I’m here. I wanted to hear you play before I left.”
“I’m glad you remembered to come.”
Harper smiled. “Me too.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure.”
Ella looked at Marie-Madeleine again, listened intently. She turned to Harper.
“Marie is very sad you are leaving Lausanne.”
“Then you must tell her that I’ll be back, mademoiselle. You must tell her every night.”
The girl stood from the chair and set the cello in a small stand. She rested the bow on the chair and walked to Harper.
“Before you go, monsieur, may I ask you about the princess in the story?”
“The princess?” Harper said.
Karoliina interrupted. “Litla, why don’t you get the story and show Mr. Harper what you mean?”
“Allt í lagi,” the girl said happily.
Harper watched her scurry away in her black cloak and floppy black hat. She ducked into the loge. He looked at the dream catcher. “The princess?”
“Oops—I didn’t see the present thing rising in her consciousness.”
“What present thing?”
“Krinkle told her you wanted her to have it.”
“Sorry?”
Ella came running out of the loge. She dashed to Harper and held up a book with his own handwriting on the cover:
piratz
Une histoire drôle de Marc Rochat
pour Mademoiselle Katherine Taylor
Quick flashes ripped through Harper’s eyes. It was the lad’s storybook about silly pirates, a flying caterpillar, and a cat. He helped the lad write the words. And yeah, there was a princess inside. Harper found the book in the bunker after rescuing Katherine Taylor. The roadie snatched it from him, bagged and tagged it as evidence. Seeing the book in Ella’s hands just now, Harper guessed it
never made it to the evidence locker because . . . because . . . It hit him. Binary star, binary soul. Marc Rochat’s soul is alive and well within Ella; those were the dream catcher’s words not twenty-four hours ago. The book was being returned to its author. Harper blinked himself to nowtimes, stared at Ella’s face. He wanted to scan her eyes, find the lad. He shot a quick glance at Karoliina; the dream catcher read Harper’s intentions. She moved her head slowly from side to side: Please don’t. Harper nodded. He looked at Ella.
“I’m very pleased you like the book, mademoiselle. What did you want to know about the princess?”
“I know it’s a story. And it’s a very nice story. But I imagined the princess is a real thing. Is she, monsieur?”
“Yes. She is very real. Her name is Katherine Taylor.”
“You know her?”
“I do.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
“And the cat?”
“The cat is as real as the princess.”
“Would you please bring her to the belfry sometime? And could she bring the cat? And could we have tea together in the loge, the way it ends in the story?”
Harper nodded. “I’m very sure she would accept your invitation with genuine pleasure, mademoiselle.”
The half-hour bell sounded from Place de la Palud.
“I’ll call the hour in thirty minutes, monsieur. Would you like to watch?”
Harper checked with the dream catcher. Time to leave, sorry.
“I must go now, mademoiselle. I just wanted to stop by to hear you play. And to tell you that all is well.”
Karoliina lowered herself to one knee and took Ella by the shoulders. “Why don’t you play something before calling the hour, litla?”
Ella looked at Harper. “Is there something you would like to hear before you go, monsieur?”
“You choose, mademoiselle.”
Ella smiled and ran to her cello. She picked it up and sat down. She held her hands at her sides for a moment, then began to play the first Largo of Vivaldi’s Sonata for Cello and Continuo in B-flat Major. It was a hopeful, joyful sound. Harper watched the girl until she lowered her head and her face was gone from his eyes. She would not notice his leaving now. He looked at the dream catcher and whispered, “How did I do?”
“Pretty well.”
“You’ll see Katherine Taylor comes with the cat?”
Karoliina stood. “I will.”
Harper walked to the tower steps. He looked out over Lausanne and the moonlit lake and the snowcapped mountains on the far shore. Christ, it’s never the same. He turned to the dream catcher.
“Thanks,” he said.
She smiled. “Don’t mention it. Leave the key with the drummer. He’ll lock up behind you.”
Harper hustled down the tower. The drummer was waiting in the small vestibule and he held open the skinny red door to the outside world. Harper dug the key from his trench coat and tossed it over.
“Here.”
“Kiitos.”
Harper looked outside. There was the bus, there was Krinkle standing on the esplanade. Sergeant Gauer was gone; so were all the partisans.
“Where is everybody?” Harper said.
“Most of them hit the hay, some went for a wander,” the roadie said. “Sergeant Gauer had to report to the cop.”
“And I need to patrol the nave,” the drummer added.
Harper looked at him. “Sorry?”
“I can’t close the door until you leave.”
“Sure. Cheers.”
Harper stepped outside. He heard the door close behind him, heard the key slip into the lock: click. He scanned the esplanade. He saw lamps in tents and silhouettes bedding down for the night. He saw people heading down Escaliers du Marché. He looked at the roadie.
“So what happens now? You drive me to Jerusalem and drop me off?”
“Not quite. It’s complicated.”
“How complicated?”
“The SX geeks are still plotting an infil solution. They should have it sorted by the time we get closer to touchdown.”
Harper thought about it. “Is there an egg timer disguised as a plastic chicken involved with this infil?”
“Nope.”
“Then how complicated can it be?”
“You’ll see when we get there.” The roadie pulled his cell phone from the pouch of his overalls to check the time. It was 01:46 hours. He mounted the steps of the magic bus. “I’ll crank her up, brother. We’re cleared to cross Pont Bessières at the top of the hour. We’re going out with the friggin’ bells.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“If Marie-Madeleine covers our space-time signature through the warp like she’s supposed to, then yeah, we’ll get out of the protected zone and the bad guys will be none the wiser.”
The roadie jumped into the driver’s seat, started flipping switches and waving his hands over screens. The bus’s blue running lights came on and a low-frequency oscillation sounded from the undercarriage.
“If you say so,” Harper said, stepping onboard.
“Not yet, brother. You need to pick up some extra kit.”
Just then a pair of headlamps rounded the corner at Café de l’Evêché and lit up the dark of the esplanade. Harper saw the yellow box-shaped vehicle attached to the headlamps. It chugged its way up the hill, weaving around the camping tents. It was a bread van. A yellow, 1971 Citroën H-Type. Four cylinders, forty-six horsepower, top speed of forty klicks per hour. A bloody antique with Gasca, Boulangerie & Pâtisserie, Avenue Alsace Lorraine painted neatly on the sides.
As the van pulled closer and stopped next to the bus, Harper saw the passengers. Behind the wheel was a large man with black hair wearing gray overalls. Riding shotgun, and almost as large as the man, was a Great Pyrenees mutt. Shreds of time tumbled through Harper’s eyes. The man’s name was Serge Gasca; the dog was called Shiva. They came from Montségur in the south of France. They’d helped Harper during the Paris job. The man made somber angels from scrap iron. Turned out the man’s family had been in the service of Harper’s kind for thirteen hundred years. “Our sacred duty,” Serge called it. Serge was also the last Cathar on the face of the planet. And the mutt was . . . well, it was a dog. Though looking at the beast now, Harper suspected there was a very old soul hiding in there. Presently, the great beast held a leather strap in its slobbering mouth. The strap was attached to a reliquary box. Harper knew the box was from the Middle Ages and he knew what was inside it. One copper sextant with the mathematical formula for prime quadruplets embedded in the arc. That piece of junk was at least five thousand years old. Then there was the one-third of a clay cup and the one carpenter nail with traces of blood on it. Those two items were from first-century Jerusalem.During the Paris job, Serge the last Cathar called them the things of the Christ.
“God save us,” Harper said.
The bread van stopped near the bus. Serge didn’t shut down his motor, he didn’t shut off the headlamps. He engaged the parking brake and got out of the van. He walked to the passenger side, opened the door for Shiva. The mutt jumped down with the reliquary box hanging from its mouth; beast and man walked toward Harper.
“Adieussiatz, noble lord,” the man said. “Nice to see you again. They said I should bring the things you left in Montségur. They said you might need them.”
ii
Katherine had been sitting in the starkly lit room for hours while holding the boy’s hand. There were no clocks on the walls, so she had no idea of the time. There was a measure of change from one moment to the next in the clicks and hisses from the respirator attached to the boy. There were beeps counting heartbeats, too. The boy lay in a coma, unable to breathe on his own, and his broken body was dwarfed by the medical equipment surrounding him. Monitors and controls; a crash cart; banks of IVs containing potions, nutrients, and hydration supplements; a network of tubes, needles, and wires attached to connections extending from the bandages covering his chest and arms. She
could only see half the boy’s face through the bandages and the halo traction brace around his skull. His half face was the only part of his skin exposed other than his right hand. The hand lay limp and motionless next to him.
When Katherine first saw Goose she could only stare at him through the window of the intensive care unit. It wasn’t the sight of the boy’s terrible injuries she noticed first, it was the odd shape of him, made even more odd by the bandages wrapped around him. His legs were too short for his torso; his head was much smaller than normal and it was at the end of a long thin neck. Corporal Mai told Katherine he suffered from a form of paedomorphosis: His head and facial features did not develop with the rest of his body. That’s why Katherine thought him a boy; he appeared too small for twenty-six years old. It was thought the boy was deaf, but his hearing was fine, Corporal Mai told Katherine. After the boy’s mother died from cancer, Goose was left with a mad drunk for a stepfather. The foul man raped the boy repeatedly. In a drunken rage one night, when the boy tried to resist, the stepfather used a pair of pliers to rip the boy’s tongue from his head. He imagined the boy was possessed by the devil and speaking in tongues. His real father, someone called Astruc, murdered the stepfather and ran away with the boy.
“What happened to the father?” Katherine said.
“He is recovering in another part of the clinic,” said Corporal Mai.
“Was he as wounded as his son?”
“His physical wounds have healed.”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
“He comes sometimes. It’s difficult for him.”
“Difficult for him?”
“They are not like you, or me for that matter, ma’am. Emotions and feelings are crippling things to their kind. Also, he isn’t allowed to touch his son.”
“Why not?”
“Father Astruc is awakened. He is bound by the rules and regulations of his kind. They are forbidden to touch locals, even half-kinds.”
Katherine looked through the glass window. A dying boy clinging to life, broken and alone.
