Ethan Gage Collection # 1 (83 page)

S
O WE PUT TO SEA, AND IF THE SHIP HAD ONCE STOPPED
heaving up and down so distractingly I might have had the presence of mind to leverage my secret knowledge into a fortune. Instead, I had to listen to the fairy tales of Magnus, who like all fanatics seemed to live as much in his imaginary world as the real one. He displayed that unwavering conviction that always accompanies meager evidence, because to admit
anything
might be untrue would be to undermine his entire edifice of belief. He was entertaining, but eventually I had to interrupt his yarns about drunken gods and sly elves.

“Enough, Magnus!” I cried. “I've been assaulted in a wine cellar, nearly incinerated by fireworks, forced to flee to America in weather that could sink a continent, and am allied to a lunatic who babbles about a mysterious map. What is going on?”

He looked about. “What lunatic?”

“You!”

“Me! The man who saved you at Mortefontaine?”

“Magnus, you said those were your enemies, not mine. I have
nothing against Denmark. I could barely find Norway on a globe. I don't care what the numbers of a roulette wheel add up to, or coincidences in 1776, and I'm not entirely certain what we're supposed to do when we reach the United States.”

“Uncertain? You, the famous Freemason?”

“I'm not a famous Freemason. My late friend Talma took me to a lodge meeting or two.”

“Do you deny the significance of October 13, 1309?”

“The significance of what?”

“Come, Ethan, don't be coy. Let's agree that the events of that black Friday the Thirteenth were momentous for world history.”

Now I remembered. That was the night the French king Philip the Fair had arrested hundreds of Knights Templar, two centuries after the order's founding in Jerusalem during the Crusades. My old jailer, Boniface, had told stories about it. Grand Master Jacques de Molay, unrepentant at the end, had gone to the stake in 1314, vowing correctly that both Philip and the pope behind him would follow him to the grave within a year. Philip had allegedly tried to plunder an organization both mysteriously rich and annoyingly independent, and found frustratingly little to steal.

“The Templars were crushed. Musty history.”

“Not to true Masons, Ethan. While some Templars died or recanted their order, others fled to places like Scotland, Ireland, Scandinavia…and perhaps America.”

“America hadn't even been discovered then.”

“There are Viking legends of exploration, and rumors of just such a Templar escape. Legends tied up with stories about Thor and Odin. And then, eight months ago, in a secret crypt below the floor of a Cistercian abby on the island of Gotland, exploring monks found a map and the legend became truth.
That
is what is going on.”

“This map you claim to have.”

“The Cistercian order was founded by Saint Bernard of Clairvaux,
you may recall, nephew of André de Montbard, one of the Templar founders.”

Now I felt a chill. I'd found the tomb of Montbard—or some Christian knight, anyway—in a subterranean chamber beneath a lost city in the Holy Land, and with it the Book of Thoth. Despite my best efforts, the villain Silano had used the book to help usher Napoleon Bonaparte to power. Now Napoleon called the Tuileries home, and I was on a ship to America. My lost love, Astiza, who had returned to the sun of Egypt, would agree with Bloodhammer that it was all foreordained. For a world in which everything is supposedly predestined, life seems awfully complicated.

“You know what I'm talking about,” Magnus went on, watching me. “Saint Bernard was a mystic who saw holiness in geometry and inspired the greatest of the Gothic cathedrals. His monasteries became some of the most prosperous and powerful in Europe, rising hand-in-hand with the secular power of the Templars. Was it coincidence that some of the persecuted knights fled to Gotland where the Cistercian order was particularly strong? The monks succeeded in winning Norse pagans over by blending some of the old beliefs with the new, or rather in recognizing a continuity of religious belief as old as time. Not so much one true God as that
every
god was, in its own way, a manifestation of the One. And not just God, but the Goddess.”

Damnation. Pagans pop up on me like pimples on a youth. And if you get involved with one or two of them, as I have, the others seem to seek you out.

“You're saying Saint Bernard and the Cistercians weren't Christians?”

“I'm saying Christianity allows more freedom of thought than many denominations will admit, and that Bernard recognized that devotion can take many forms. Of course they were Christian! But both the knights and the monks recognized the many paths the holy have walked, and the many manifestations of their power. It's rumored
the knights brought some secret back from Jerusalem. That's why I wanted to meet you at Mortefontaine, to learn if it is true.”

It was gone, so why not tell him? “
Was
true. It was a book.”

I could hear his sharp intake of breath even over the roar of the sea. “
Was
a book?”

“It burned, Magnus. Lost forever, I'm afraid. I could hardly even read it.”

“This is a monstrous tragedy!”

“Not really. The scroll caused nothing but trouble.”

“But you believe me, then? If the Templars found and hid a sacred book, why not an important map? Correct?”

“I suppose. The book was in a crypt, too.”

“Aha!”

I sighed. “What led to the discovery of your map?”

“Snow and thaw. It was a bad winter, water penetrated the foundations, and cracks developed in the masonry of the chapel floor. A bright young monk realized there was a cavity under what had been assumed to be a solid foundation, and when it was excavated for repair they found the tombs. Curiously, the entrance had been sealed so no one could spot it. In one sarcophagus of a monastery leader, dated 1363, a parchment map was encased.”

“I don't suppose it was in a golden cylinder?”

“Gold?” He looked surprised. “Now that would have gotten our attention. No, a leather tube, sealed quite effectively with wax. Why do you ask?”

“My own book was encased in gold. Splendid piece, carved with figures and symbols.”

“By the steed of Odin! Do you still have it? It could be of incalculable value in understanding the past!”

I felt sheepish. “Actually I gave it away to a metallurgist, probably to be melted down. I'd cost him his home, see. There was this woman, Miriam…”

He groaned. “Your brain is in your breeches!”

“No, no, it wasn't like that. I was going to marry her, but she was engaged, and her brother was laughing at me…” It sounded puzzling even to me. “Anyway, it's gone too.”

Magnus shook his head. “And to think you have a reputation as a savant. Are you an expert in anything beyond the female form?”

“Don't act superior to me! Don't
you
like women?”

“Aye, I like
them
, but they don't like
me.
Look at me! I'm no dandy.”

“You have a certain, umm, mutilated, bearlike charm. You just haven't found the right one.”

Instantly, he was gloomy. “I did, once.”

“Well, there you go then.”

“And if she
does
like you, and then you lose her…well, there's nothing more painful than that, is there?”

It was the kind of confession that makes you realize someone has the potential to be a friend. “It hurts, doesn't it?” Yes, I'd been in love, too, and with far better women than Pauline Bonaparte. “You've had your heart broken?”

“Not in the way you think. I lost my wife to illness.”

“Oh. I'm sorry, Magnus.”

“It's not so bad, I think, never to know joy, never to see paradise. But to have it, to see it, and
then
lose it…. After Signe's death I dedicated myself to learning the truth of legends I'd first heard as a boy. I've searched libraries and archives, sailed to mines and hiked to dolmens, lost an eye and offered my soul. While Signe has gone on, I remain in our earthly purgatory, trying to get back in.”

“Get back in what?”

“Paradise.”

“You mean another woman?”

“No!” He looked offended.

“What, then?”

“Suppose it didn't have to hurt?”

“What do you mean?”

“Imagine there was a place, a way, where bad things didn't happen? Or where bad things could be reversed, corrected?”

“What, heaven? Valhalla? Not in the world I've seen, Magnus, and believe me, I've looked.”

“Suppose there was a better world we've lost? A real place, in a real time, not a legend.”

“These myths you talk about aren't real, man. They're stories.”

“Stories like Templars escaping to America, more than a century before Columbus. Stories about secret books, and underground tombs in lost cities.”

He had a point. The planet seemed fuller of inexplicable oddities than I'd ever imagined. I had, after all, scooped treasure beneath the pyramid, found a secret chamber beneath the Temple Mount, swum in a secret well to a Templar's grave, and gotten help in the middle of a dire fight from a long-dead mummy. Who's to say what's impossible? “Let's see your map, then.”

So he pulled it out of that tube he carried. I noticed the map case was longer than the scroll, and wondered what was at its hidden end.

“There are stories of other maps. The Earl of Orkney, Prince Henry Saint Clair, is said to have taken thirteen ships west at the end of the fourteenth century, nearly one hundred years before Columbus, and come back with a map showing Nova Scotia and perhaps New England. But this one is earlier, and better.”

The chart was on some kind of skin parchment, not paper, with the coastline of Europe clearly visible and what appeared to be Iceland and Greenland at the top. There was a crude compass rose, which meant an origin no earlier than medieval times, and Latin inscription. But what drew the eye, of course, was the map's left-hand side. It appeared to show the northeast coast of an unbounded land mass with a large, almost circular bay. From this, squiggly lines, like
rivers, led south into a blank interior. In the middle of nowhere was a curious symbol, like a squat, fat
T.
Near it was a little peak.

“What's this mountain here?”

“That's not a mountain. It's a Valknot, the knot of the slain.”

I peered closer. The mountain was actually a cluster of overlapping triangles that intersected like a knot, as Magnus had said. It created an odd illusion, like an abstraction of a mountain range. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“It's also called Odin's triangle,” Bloodhammer explained. “It connects the battlefield dead to Valhalla, like a power lifting them up.”

“So why is it on this map?”

“Why indeed?” Now his eye was bright.

Near the symbols were what appeared to be rivers leading away in the four cardinal directions, as if the symbol were near a central spring.

“That tomb had not been opened since 1363,” Magnus said. “The crypt itself had apparently been closed at least since 1400—well before Columbus and the other explorers sailed. And yet what does that bite in the continent look like to you, my skeptical friend?”

There was no denying it. “Hudson Bay. But the 1300s…”

“Were two centuries and better
after
Vikings were rumored to have reached a mysterious Vinland to the west,” Bloodhammer said. “And two and half centuries
before
Henry Hudson found the bay that bears his name, and where he was marooned to die by his own mutinous crew.” He stabbed the parchment. “Norsemen were in the middle of North America a century and a half before Columbus sailed. How about
that
, eh?”

“But what the devil has this to do with Knights Templar?”

“Here we have speculation. The Templars are crushed, politically, beginning in 1309. Some flee to Gotland. This map is generated half a century later. We know that famine racked Europe in the 1320s, and that the Black Plague came next, reaching Norway about 1349. The
church was continuing its persecutions, fearing the disease to be God's judgment. Suppose descendants of the knights, sheltered by the Cistercians, who do not see eye-to-eye with Rome, decided to seek refuge in a New World first discovered by pagan Viking explorers a few centuries before? They would escape persecution, famine, and disease. In 1354, there is a record of one Paul Knutson setting out to check the colonies of Greenland, which had fallen silent. Suppose our medieval Norsemen went even farther, into this vast bay? And then inland? We know Hudson's crew was trapped by ice for the winter, prompting their mutiny the next spring. What if Norsemen, more comfortable with winter, decided to strike south on the frozen rivers instead of waiting for the thaw? Or perhaps they did wait for spring, and ascended the rivers you see once they were free of ice. The rivers on my map correspond closely to the rivers today's Hudson's Bay Company uses to access the Canadian interior for furs. Might they have penetrated to the center of North America? Might they have seen sights and made claims hundreds of years before any European?”

“But why?” I pondered the map. “Even if these Templars, or monks, or whatever they were, decided to go to the New World, why would they go north to a place like Hudson's Bay? Why not the eastern coast of the United States? There's a line for it right there.” I pointed. “No Viking is going to paddle or march to the middle of America.”

“Not Viking. Medieval Norse who are descendants of the Knights Templar, or Templars themselves.”

“Medieval Norse, then. It still makes no sense. What did they expect to find?”

“Not just find. Hide.”

“Hide? What?”