TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel

by Adriana Koulias

  My master had drawn, by calculating the directions given by the doors, the remaining unknown portion of the tunnels and the whole thing was indeed shaped in a star, the star of David.

  Following my master’s calculations, we emerged from the chamber, descending once more, entering another, only to leave through the door facing east, above which I could just make out the mark of the last letter, ‘Laodicea’. After making an abrupt turn to the right, we were, as my master had earlier foretold, headed in a southerly direction.

  ‘Ohh . . .’ Eisik was muttering to himself, ‘I am an old man, my feet hurt, and my bones ache with the damp! Must I take with me to eternity the sight of dead monks and ghosts? Why must I follow you, Andre, in your hungers and raptures, in your thirst after a knowledge that has little to do with a righteousness that we can scarcely formulate because we are covetous! May the God of our fathers forgive me. I should have stayed safely in my bed, with the Torah, and the sounds of animals to lull me to sleep.’

  ‘Firstly, Eisik, you are not so old, and secondly, you came here because, like me, you are a curious man.’

  ‘May God forgive me.’ Eisik bowed his head.

  We entered a passage whose walls and floors were lined with bones and skulls piled up, one over another in a gruesome collection.

  ‘This must be the ossuary,’ my master said, fascinated, picking up a skull and inspecting it before setting it down casually and continuing on.

  Just then, as if prompted by the toothy grins of those long dead, Eisik’s lamp went out, having run out of taper, and we were forced to proceed with only two lamps.

  ‘Soon the catacombs,’ my master commented almost to himself and in a reassuring way to me said, ‘Do you know that the first Christians worshipped below the ground in catacombs to hide from the Romans? They buried the bones of their dead there too, and so the divine services were held over graves. Now you see why there are the relics of the bones of saints in our altars.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, wishing to talk of anything but dead bones.

  ‘The Christian prays over the forces of death and destruction,’ Eisik commented, ‘which is a fitting thing since that is their foremost occupation.’

  My master gave Eisik a black look. ‘Bones cannot hurt you, Christian.’

  ‘As I believe in the rebuilding of Zion so too do I believe,’ Eisik repudiated, looking around him with a grim expression, ‘that deep in the earth lie spirits whose existence is tortured by demons . . .’

  ‘Eisik!’ my master admonished.

  ‘Listen, if you will, to this old Jew whose race is prepared for every effort of evil! We are told there are powerful forces in the nether regions. Here forces of ancient ethers, frustrated in their efforts to find the light, smoulder, calcified and crystallised. The sages tell us of ground where the bodies of the dead, Andre, are rejected, and one hears strange rumblings coming from the bowels of the earth when one disturbs the soil, because in doing so one releases elemental creatures, whose natures have been trapped for thousands of years. Evil is their function, and I feel it in my bones, as I am sure they felt it in theirs.’ Eisik pointed to the heaped skeletons.

  I shuddered, uttering a formula against the evil eye that annoyed my master.

  ‘This powerful force of which you speak, Eisik, is merely the force of attraction, or magnetism. It is . . . scientific,’ my master asserted.

  ‘Scientific or not, it is evil. One does not change a thing by denominating it,’ Eisik said dismissively, as he walked.

  ‘And yet,’ my master argued after him because I suspect he always desired to have the last word (even as death loomed above and below in the way of corpses and ghosts), ‘this science has been useful to many, including mariners who have used it since the beginning of our century to navigate to many countries of the far East and West by using the compass. A force that attracts iron to it, enabling one to find the northerly direction and therefore other directions as we have done. However, there must not be much of this stone in the earth around us, or we would not be able to use the compass as it would spin round and round . . .’

  Near the forthcoming shallow tunnel, there was the false door from which we had seen the twelve ghosts. We thus followed in their footsteps, as my master had said, penetrating into the earth before entering what we presumed was the last chamber.

  This time, the door behind us was marked ‘Aer’, to our right we read ‘Aqua’, to the left ‘Ignis’, straight ahead ‘Terra’, that is, air, water, fire, earth. No Laodicea!

  ‘This is the last antechamber,’ my master remarked. ‘This must lead us to what we are looking for, but which door?’

  ‘Behold I stand at the door and knock,’ Eisik said, ‘if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him. Revelations Chapter 3, verse 20.’

  ‘Surely you are not suggesting that I knock on the door?’ my master said, pulling at his beard.

  Eisik smiled. He often showed the greatest wit at the most awkward moments.

  ‘Let us think,’ Andre said, almost to himself, ‘what did Daniel say that day? He who follows the seven letters in number and order will enter the kingdom of heaven, remember the words of the hymn for they will baptise you with the nine resonances of water . . . Water!’ He moved forward in an agitated fashion, and opened the door to our right, which read ‘Aqua’. It was appropriately named, for now we could see the source of the water that we had heard and had felt through some of the tunnels.

  It sounded like an underground river, but I believe it was the echo resonating from the walls in the narrow cavity that gave one this impression. My master lifted the lamp that was, I noticed, running out of taper. It illuminated a channel of fast-running water, lined with stone on either side, effectively forming a kind of purpose-built conduit. It continued into the darkness, barring our way to the door on the other side of it that, as luck would have it, read ‘Laodicea’.

  ‘And he showed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb,’ Eisik said.

  ‘How deep would it be?’ I asked.

  ‘I do not know,’ my master said, vexed, ‘and, as I cannot swim I will not venture to find out. Brother Sacar told us the builders redirected the stream to suit the purposes of the monastery, flowing through channels diverted here and there. Let us not forget that the organ is operated when the water is diverted,’ he said absently, ‘perhaps when it is diverted further up the channel, one is able to pass over to the other side.’

  I was about to confess to knowing how to swim when I was gratefully interrupted by a terrible sound whose thunderous roar echoed through the narrow passage. We hastily withdrew into the antechamber, not knowing what this sound would bring. Another sound, a haunting, terrifying screeching, had us rushing out the door through which we had only moments ago entered. Seized by panic, fearing the legions of hell, I ran, holding the parchment to my breast with one hand, and the compass in the other. I could hear Eisik panting behind me. My master carried the lamp ahead of us. We turned sharply to our left, not knowing what we might find ahead of us, and continued for quite some time past the tunnel lined with skulls, making another left turn until we were back in the previous chamber. My master’s taper was almost at its end, so with great agitation, lest we find ourselves without light, we proceeded, according to my map.

  When we finally returned to the antechamber where we had left a rock in the way of the door, hoping to light the torches we knew were hung upon the walls, my master’s taper ran out. Thus we were in utter darkness with no possibility of light, and with the antichrist at our heels.

  We heard footsteps coming from the direction of the tunnel behind us, but also (alas!), from that which led to the north transept, namely, ahead of us. We were trapped. My first instinct was to try another door, maybe there was a tunnel beyond it in which we could hide? Images of the inquisitor followed by his archers danced before my eyes, and I believe this prospect was infinitely more frightening
than whatever might be lurking behind any door. We stood together in the centre of the room. From memory I knew that somewhere to our right lay the false door but that we had not tried the door that must be to our left. I mentioned this to my master and after a moment of deliberation, in which the sound of footsteps seemed closer and indeed louder, he cautiously felt to the left and found the door.

  A strange smell like that of putrid eggs came from this entrance, but seeing that we had no other recourse, my master once again felt with his hands and found, after a quick inspection, that there was a flight of ascending steps.

  With a stone once more in the way of the mechanism, we crossed another tunnel. We seemed to be going up, and perhaps would soon surface again at another point, but we made laborious progress in the darkness, not knowing if we might come upon a chasm or a shaft. I tripped several times, one such time dropping the compass, that – thank our Lord – I was able to find before my master noticed. If the tunnel diverged it was difficult to tell without light, for I could not see the compass, and so we proceeded at the mercy of the passage. It would lead us wherever it desired.

  We arrived at another, this time very small aperture, measuring only three or four paces in height. My master felt with his hands.

  ‘A skull marks its centre, with the words, ‘Procul este profani’ carved below it. Keep far off you uninitiated ones,’ my master said, ‘and Aer, or air. Now, to open the aperture, as Archimedes has said, ‘Give me but one firm spot on which to stand, and I can move the earth’.’

  He pushed, but it did not come away. ‘Ahh the Devil take you!’ he exclaimed, and in a fit of temper hit the door or rather, as he was to tell me later, the skull. Suddenly there was a snapping sound and my master began to push it open, and this occasioned a terrible creaking that echoed loudly and made us jump.

  ‘Master, we shall be heard!’ I said alarmed.

  ‘Nonsense, we are too deep in the ground, besides, we either go through this door, creak or no creak, or we take our chances and go back the other way. Which do you prefer?’

  I knew he was right and said nothing. A moment later my master slipped through the opening, and we behind him, not knowing what we would find.

  We entered into a room of generous proportions with five sides. Only one lamp, much like the ones that we had brought with us, stood on a bracket, illuminating the darkness, casting long shadows along the pentagonal apartment. We saw that four out of five walls were of a red colour, and covered in shelves holding hundreds of bound codices or books. In the centre of the room two long wooden benches, one longer, one shorter, formed the shape of a cross, or tau, and on this various curious items could be discerned in the dim light. Receptacles of glass, held by metal brackets so that they were perched over unusual lanterns, were placed here and there and beside them unfinished parchments and other assorted paraphernalia; quills, pumice stones, and inks. Also, glass receptacles filled with liquids and powders, vials, and ampoules, mingled with large volumes that had been haphazardly scattered about. There was no other door that we could see ahead of us.

  Eisik, who until now had been muttering unintelligible things under his breath, became even more morose. My master, conversely, became exceedingly excited. He found some tapers on the table, lit his lamp, and began inspecting volumes, one by one.

  Numerous books resided side by side, denominated by the classification of Ars Aeris, Ars Aquae, Ars Ignis, Ars Terrae. I wondered, as I walked along the shelves, how many hands had leafed through these countless pages? How many tired copyists had laboured, sometimes an entire life, so that the knowledge of one book could be passed over to one more generation!

  ‘I will wager that many sins have been forgiven here,’ my master remarked, reading my thoughts.

  ‘Sins?’

  ‘In order to keep monks from tiring, Christian, they were told that God would forgive them one sin for every line they copied. In fact, Ordericus Vitalis informs us that one monk escaped the fires of hell by the narrow margin of one single letter!’ He paused, looking around. ‘Marvellous!’

  I was taken a little by his contagious excitement. And, perhaps because knowledge is a seductress that promises a man false comfort and security, or perhaps because there is something wistful, even familiar and friendly about the smell of books, we felt immediately at ease, completely forgetting that moments before we had been in peril of our lives if not our souls. Eisik was right when he admonished us to beware of learning’s artful ways, for very soon we would come to regret our carelessness. But I speak prematurely. Instead I shall tell how presently my master took a large book off a shelf from the Ars Aeris denomination and cried out in ecstasy,

  ‘Here there are several works on Greek astronomy . . . and one on Arabic mathematics. Very fine specimens . . . and,’ he cried once again, ‘an astronomical text written by Abu’l Fraghani of Transoxiania, this is a treasure! And another, in which we find the measurements of planetary movements, and the study of the spots on the sun!’

  Moving along to Ars Terrae my master brought out a manuscript. ‘A book of plants written by Abu Hanifa al Dinawari, a Moslem biologist whose works were based on Deioscorides, Christian, but adding many plants.’ My master’s face was afire with excitement and I wondered, looking at him, if my sin was any worse than his. He seemed to experience as much pleasure from discovering such repositories of the intellect as another man would draw from undressing his wife! A moment later I felt truly ashamed and humbly asked God’s forgiveness for my foolish thought, reminding myself that there was indeed a great difference.

  ‘If the infidel is so learned, master, why does he not believe in the highest wisdom?’ I retorted, because I was angry with myself.

  ‘He believes his own wisdom to be higher, that is all.’ He paused, replacing the book and taking out another. ‘Oh! Ten treatises on the eye by Hunain ibn Ishaq. And Liber continens, the Latin translation of Kitab al Hawi!’

  ‘Arabs may be infinitely wise in the healing arts,’ Eisik moved towards us, drawn, despite himself, by the medical books, ‘but very often, even you have to admit, Andre, they do not follow strict principles.’

  ‘I disagree, many times their methods have proved successful,’ my master retorted. ‘Such as the case of Jibril ibn Bakhitisha, who is said to have cured his Arab ruler of a persistent illness by prescribing that he should learn to play chess.’

  ‘Impossible!’ I said sceptically.

  ‘It is a mystery . . . but in a few days the man discovered that his cure was commensurate with his propensity to win, which was considerable. It is true that he felt such relief that he rewarded the physician 800,000 dirhams! But the man also had to teach many of the Arab’s servants how to play the game, making sure that they always knew discreet ways to lose.’

  ‘I see!’ I marvelled. ‘The power of mind over matter.’

  ‘No Jewish physician would ever have prescribed such a treatment,’ Eisik sniffed.

  Now in an excited state, I browsed through other books. ‘Here is another by that same author,’ I said, taking an enormous volume from the shelf, ‘Why Ignorant Physicians, Laymen, and Women Have More Success than Learned Medical Men.’

  ‘Ahh yes,’ he said, taking it from my hands with a smile, ‘no one could say that the man did not have a genial side. Come, Eisik!’ he waved a hand to the old Jew. ‘So many treasures!’

  But Eisik was lost in thought, inspecting the articles to be found on the table.

  ‘Look here!’ my master cried in jubilation, bringing a large manuscript down off the shelf. I wandered over, and peered inside at a page containing a frightening illumination of the human body dissected, revealing the inner organs being attacked by devils. I winced and my master, seeing the cause of my distress, laughed a little. ‘Medicine is not for the faint-hearted, my young squire. Now, what do we have here,’ he continued. ‘A treatise on drugs used to induce sleep . . . hashish . . . mandrake . . . aha! Poisonous herbs . . .’ he gasped, ‘in this treatise, mandrake is denote
d for being a subtle poison. The victim, it says, agonises for three days before dying. Here we see the antidote which consists of all these together, honey, radish, butter, oxymel, rue, sweet wine, castorium, dill, borax, leaves of watermint, absinthe, assafetida . . . Then, if all this were not enough, the victim should have his head bound, and rose oil poured into one nostril. Furthermore, it goes on to say, should this fail to restore him, a tea of mint and leaf of almond is poured hot over his head while he sits in a bath.’

  ‘I would consider it preferable to suffer the poison!’ I said, and my master laughed.

  ‘But wait,’ he continued, ‘here we have a number of concoctions which use poisonous herbs, and a mention of a substance used by witches. By my sword! Now I remember!’

  ‘What, master?’

  ‘Devil’s ointment! That’s it! At the time I was in Paris, Christian, attending university, I heard the trial of a Cathar woman accused of communion with devils. It was a terrible, public affair!

  The woman, after many days of questioning before the judges of the tribunal, and also much humiliation, and many nights of horrible torment, was persuaded to confess to flying into the arms of Satan with the aid of an ointment. I do not know if she really used this ointment, but when asked what was contained in it, she gave a perfectly scientific explanation for her symptoms. It was a compound of atropa belladonna, and wolfbane mixed with wheatflour, and (so she said) the fat of a stillborn child.’

  I cringed, ‘Surely not?’

  ‘That might explain Ezekiel’s last words, and the cook’s delirium . . . atropa belladonna!’ He walked over to a shelf denominated Ars Ignis, still mumbling to himself, and came upon another discovery. ‘Look here! Several volumes devoted to musical subjects; Al-Kindi, al-Farabi, Avicenna, and others! A treatise, Ars cantus mensurabilis by Franco of Cologne, laying down a system for indicating the duration of musical notes. He opened another book and I heard him say with veneration. ‘Ah . . . Guido of Arezzo . . . here . . .’ he pointed to a passage, ‘he names the first seven notes of a musical scale by taking the first syllables of each half-line of a hymn to John the Baptist. Ut queant laxis, Resonare fibris, Mira gestorum, Famuli tuorum, Solve polluti, Labii reatum, Sancte Johanne . . . Ut or do, resonare or re, mira or mi, famuli or fa, solve or sol, labii or la and sancte or si!’ he explained.