Labyrinth (2 page)

Alice looks down.

Her legs start to tremble. The pale flame in her hand flickers. Shock steals her breath. She is standing at the edge of a shallow grave, a slight depression in the ground, no more than that. In it there are two skeletons, once human, the bones picked clean by time. The blind sockets of one skull stare up at her. The other skull, kicked out of place by her foot, is lying on its side as if turning its gaze away from her.

The bodies have been laid out, side by side, to face the altar, like carvings on a tomb. They are symmetrical and perfectly in line, but there is nothing restful about the grave. No sense of peace. The cheekbones of one skull are crushed, crumpled inwards like a mask of
papier mache.
Several of the ribs of the other skeleton are snapped and jut out awkwardly, like the brittle branches of a dead tree.

They cannot harm you.

Determined not to give in to fear, Alice forces herself to crouch down, taking care not to disturb anything else. She runs her eyes over the grave. There is a dagger lying between the bodies, the blade dulled with age, and a few fragments of cloth. Next to it, there is a drawstring leather bag, big enough to hold a small box or a book. Alice frowns. She’s sure she’s seen something like it before, but the memory refuses to come.

The round, white object wedged between the claw-like fingers of the smaller skeleton is so small that Alice nearly misses it. Without stopping to think if it’s the right thing to do, quickly she takes her tweezers out of her pocket. She stretches down and carefully eases it out, then holds it up to the flame, softly blowing the dust away to see better.

It’s a small stone ring, plain and unremarkable, with a round, smooth face. It, too, is oddly familiar. Alice looks more closely. There’s a pattern scratched on the inside. At first, she thinks it’s a seal of some kind. Then, with a jolt, she realises. She raises her eyes to the markings on the back wall of the chamber, then back to the ring.

The patterns are identical.

Alice is not religious. She does not believe in heaven or hell, in God or the Devil, nor in the creatures that are believed to haunt these mountains. But, for the first time in her life, she is overwhelmed by a sense of being in the presence of something supernatural, something inexplicable, something bigger than her experience or comprehension. She can feel malevolence crawling over her skin, her scalp, the soles of her feet.

Her courage falters. The cave is suddenly cold. Fear catches in her throat, freezing the breath in her lungs. Alice scrambles to her feet. She should not be here in this ancient place. Now, she’s desperate to get out of the chamber, away from the evidence of violence and the smell of death, back to the safe, bright sunlight.

But she’s too late.

Above her or behind her, she cannot tell where, there are footsteps. The sound bounces around the confined space, ricochets off the rock and stone. Someone is coming.

Alice spins around in alarm, dropping the lighter. The cave is plunged into darkness. She tries to run, but she is disorientated in the dark and cannot find the way out. She stumbles. Her legs go from under her.

She falls. The ring is sent flying back into the pile of bones, where it belongs.

II

Carcassonne

Southwest France

A few miles to the east as the crow flies, in a lost village in the Sabarthe`s Mountains, a tall, thin man in a pale suit sits alone at a table of dark, highly polished wood.

The ceiling of the room is low and there are large square tiles on the floor the colour of red mountain earth, keeping it cool despite the heat outside. The shutter of the single window is closed so it is dark, except for a pool of yellow light cast by a small oil lamp, which stands on the table. Next to the lamp is a glass tumbler filled almost to the brim with a red liquid.

There are several sheets of heavy cream paper strewn across the table, each covered with line after line of neat handwriting in black ink. The room is silent, except for the scratch and draw of the pen and the chink of ice cubes against the side of the glass when he drinks. The subtle scent of alcohol and cherries. The ticking of the clock marks the passage of time as he pauses, reflects, and then writes again.

What we leave behind in this life is the memory of who we were and what we did. An imprint, no more. I have learned much. I have become wise. But have I made a difference? I cannot tell.
Pas a pas, se va luenh.

I have watched the green of spring give way to the gold of summer, the copper of autumn give way to the white of winter as I have sat and waited for the fading of the light. Over and over again I have asked myself why? If I had known how it would feel to live with such loneliness, to stand, the sole witness to the endless cycle of birth and life and death, what would I have done? Alaıs, I am burdened by my solitude stretched too thin to bear. I have survived this long life with emptiness in my heart, an emptiness that over the years has spread and spread until it became bigger than my heart itself.

I have striven to keep my promises to you. The one is fulfilled, the other left undone. Until now, left undone. For some time now, I have felt you close. Our time is nearly come again. Everything points to this. Soon the cave will be opened. I feel the truth of this all around me. And the book, safe for so long, will be found also.

The man pauses and reaches for his glass. His eyes are smudged with memory, but the Guignolet is strong and sweet and it revives him.

I have found her. At last. And I wonder, if I place the book in her hands, will it feel familiar? Is the memory of it written in her blood and her bones? Will she remember how the cover shimmers and shifts its colour? If she undoes the ties and opens it, careful so as not to damage the dry and brittle vellum, will she remember the words echoing back down the centuries?

I pray that at last, as my long days draw to a close, I will have the chance to put right what once I did ill, that I will at last learn the truth. The truth will set me free.

The man sits back in his chair and puts his hands, speckled brown with age, flat on the table in front of him. The chance to know, after so very long, what happened at the end.

It is all he wants.

III

Chartres

Northern France

Later that same day, six hundred miles to the north, another man stands in a dimly lit passageway under the streets of Chartres, waiting for the ceremony to begin.

His palms are sweaty, his mouth is dry and he’s aware of every nerve, every muscle in his body, even the pulse in the veins at his temples. He feels self-conscious and lightheaded, although whether this is down to nerves and anticipation or the after-effects of the wine, he can’t tell. The unfamiliar white cotton robes hang heavy on his shoulders and the ropes made out of twisted hemp rest awkwardly on his bony hips. He steals a quick glance at the two figures standing in silence on either side of him, but their hoods conceal their faces. He can’t tell if they are as edgy as he or if they have been through the ritual many times before. They’re dressed the same, except their robes are gold rather than white and they have shoes on their feet. His feet are bare and the flagstones are cold.

High above the hidden network of tunnels, the bells of the great Gothic cathedral begin to chime. He feels the men beside him stiffen. It’s the signal they’ve been waiting for. Immediately, he drops his head and tries to focus on the moment.

“Je suis pret,”
he mumbles, more to reassure himself than as a statement of fact. Neither of his companions reacts in any way.

As the final reverberation of the bells fades to silence, the acolyte on his left steps forward and, with a stone partially concealed in the palm of his hand, strikes five times on the massive door. From inside comes the answer.
“Dintrar
.” Enter.

The man half-thinks he recognises the woman’s voice, but he has no time to guess from where or from when, because already the door is opening to reveal the chamber that he has waited so long to see.

Keeping step with one another, the three figures walk slowly forward. He’s rehearsed this and knows what to expect, knows what is required of him, although he feels a little unsteady on his feet. The room is hot after the chill of the corridor and it is dark. The only light comes from the candles arranged in the alcoves and on the altar itself, setting shadows dancing on the floor.

Adrenalin is coursing through his body, although he feels strangely detached from the proceedings. When the door falls shut behind him, he jumps.

The four senior attendants stand to the north, south, east and west of the chamber. He desperately wants to raise his eyes and take a better look, but he forces himself to keep his head down and his face hidden, as he has been instructed. He can sense the two rows of initiates lining the long sides of the rectangular chamber, six on each side. He can feel the heat of their bodies and hear the rise and fall of their breathing, even though nobody is moving and nobody speaks.

He’s memorised the layout from the papers he was given and as he walks towards the sepulchre in the middle of the chamber, he’s aware of their eyes on his back. He wonders if he knows any of them. Business colleagues, other people’s wives, anybody might be a member. He can’t help a faint smile reaching his lips, as he allows himself for a moment to fantasise about the difference his acceptance into the society will make.

He’s brought sharply back to the present when he stumbles and nearly falls over the kneeling stone at the base of the sepulchre. The chamber is smaller than he imagined from the plan, more confined and claustrophobic. He had expected the distance between the door and the stone to be greater.

As he kneels down on the stone there is a sharp intake of breath from someone close to him, and he wonders why. His heart starts to beat faster and when he glances down he sees that his knuckles are white. Embarrassed, he clasps his hands together, before remembering and letting his arms drop to his side, where they are supposed to be.

There is a slight dip in the centre of the stone, which is hard and cold on his knees through the thin material of his robe. He shuffles slightly, trying to get into an easier position. The discomfort gives him something to focus on and he is grateful for that. He still feels dizzy and he’s finding it difficult to concentrate or to recall the order in which things are supposed to happen, even though he’s gone over it time and time again in his mind.

A bell begins to ring inside the chamber, a high, thin note; a low chanting accompanies it, soft at first, but quickly growing louder as more voices join in. Fragments of words and phrases reverberate through his head:
montanhas,
mountains;
Noblesa,
nobility;
libres,
books;
graal,
grail…

The Priestess steps down from the high altar and walks through the chamber. He can just make out the soft shuffle of her feet and imagines how her golden robe will be shimmering and swaying in the flickering light of the candles. This is the moment he has been waiting for.

“
Je suis pret
,” he repeats under his breath. This time he means it.

The Priestess comes to a standstill in front of him. He can smell her perfume, subtle and light under the heady aroma of the incense. He catches his breath as she leans down and takes his hand. Her fingers are cool and manicured and a shot of electricity, almost of desire, shoots up his arm as she presses something small and round into the palm of his hand, then closes his fingers over it. Now he wants – more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life – to look at her face. But he keeps his eyes down on the ground, as he has been told to do.

The four senior attendants leave their positions and move to join the Priestess. His head is tipped back, gently, and a thick, sweet liquid slides between his lips. It is what he is expecting and he makes no resistance. As the warmth sweeps through his body he holds up his arms and his companions slip a golden mantle over his shoulders. The ritual is familiar to the witnesses and yet he can sense their unease.

Suddenly, he feels as if there is an iron band around his neck, crushing his windpipe. His hands fly up to his throat as he struggles for breath. He tries to call out, but the words won’t come. The high thin note of the bell starts to toll once more, steady and persistent, drowning him out. A wave of nausea sweeps through him. He thinks he’s going to pass out and clutches the object in his hand for comfort, so hard that his nails split open the soft flesh of his palm. The sharp pain helps him not to fall. He now understands that the hands on his shoulders are not comforting. They are not supporting him, but holding him down. Another wave of nausea overwhelms him and the stone seems to shift and slide beneath him.

Now his eyes are swimming and he cannot focus properly, but he can see that the Priestess has a knife, though he has no idea how the silver blade came to be in her hand. He tries to stand, but the drug is too strong and has already taken his strength from him. He no longer has control over his arms or legs.

“
Non
! ” he tries to shout, but it is too late.

At first, he thinks he’s been punched between the shoulders, nothing more. Then a dull ache starts to seep through his body. Something warm and smooth is trickling slowly down his back.

Without warning, the hands let him go and he falls forward, crumpling like a rag doll as the floor comes up to meet him. He feels no pain as his head hits the ground, which is somehow cool and soothing against his skin. Now, all noise and confusion and fear are fading away. His eyes flicker shut. He is no longer aware of anything other than her voice, which seems to be coming from a long way away.

“Une le
c¸
on. Pour tous,”
she seems to be saying, although that makes no sense.

In his last fractured moments of consciousness, the man accused of giving away secrets, condemned for talking when he should have kept silent, holds the coveted object tight in his hand until his grip on life slips away and the small grey disc, no bigger than a coin, rolls on to the floor.