The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  The driver braked the Bentley, as people spilled out into the street in front of them. “Merde,” he slapped his hands on the wheel.

  “Is there a problem, Georges?” The passenger in the back looked up from the document he was studying.

  “Forgive me, Monsieur De Vaux, it is Friday and the square up ahead is a makeshift mosque for the day. It makes the surrounding streets almost impassable.”

  “I thought these gatherings had been banned.”

  The driver shrugged his huge shoulders. “These people, they just ignore it, they go ahead just as before. The police stand there and watch, and as for the authorities, the courts, they pass these laws but then do nothing.”

  People tapped on the smoked glass window as they moved past, some trying to look in, to see who was inside. Such a fancy car had to have a celebrity inside. Others banged on the roof, seeing it as a symbol of wealth and power and all they did not have. But they moved swiftly on. Across the road, gendarmes watched everything.

  Dominic de Vaux shook his head and allowed a smile to break across his tanned, handsome face. “Don’t worry, Georges, just go round it. Let them enjoy it while they can.”

  6

  Isle de Sainte Bernadette.

  The island, with the Abbey at its crest, appeared much less daunting in the bright morning sunshine. Fagan drove out across the causeway. The tide was out more than a mile, and he could see groups of people out on the flat sand, digging for cockles and mussels, at least according to the tourist brochure he had read the night before.

  Halfway across, he spotted what he was looking for. He stopped the car and got out. The barrier had not yet been repaired. Black and yellow, police tape was stretched across the gap in the flimsy wall, flapping noisily in the wind.

  The police report had added little to what he already knew, except to tell him, the monk, Brother Thomas, had been walking back in the late evening from the village where he had attended choir practice at the local church. It appeared that a car had struck him on the causeway. Brother Thomas had died instantly. The driver, a reformed alcoholic who had fallen off the wagon quite spectacularly, had then smashed through the seawall into the fast rising tide and had died from a combination of enough whiskey to fell a horse, a severe blow to the head, and two lungfuls of Atlantic Ocean. There was no explanation why the man was driving out to the monastery at that time of night, but then with that much booze inside, who needs a reason.

  Fagan checked his watch. It was almost noon. Luca had sent him a text earlier saying he had arranged a meeting with the Abbot at twelve. He climbed back in the car and drove on. As he got closer, he could see the local buildings and the Abbey beyond were surrounded by sturdy medieval battlements, giving the place the look of a fortress. He passed through an arched main gate into a small courtyard surrounded by low stone buildings with steep slate roofs.

  He parked the car and followed a narrow street that weaved its way between the buildings, then narrowed to a footpath and rose steadily upwards in a series of flat pavings and flights of stone steps. A cold wind assaulted him as he reached the top, blowing straight in off the Atlantic. A pathway ran off ahead following the battlements along the cliff top. To his left, the steps turned abruptly and climbed steeply up to the Abbey. He made his way to the top and stepped through the open door.

  A monk materialized out of the gloom as he entered. “Father Joseph?”

  Fagan nodded.

  “The Abbot is expecting you.” The monk spoke in accented English. He turned and set off into the Abbey. Fagan followed him along a wide passageway, down one side a set of windows looked out across the ocean. The window openings were original, but they had been filled with modern double glazed glass, presumably to keep out the weather. It made for a magnificent viewing platform. They reached a large wooden door, the monk knocked and entered.

  Another monk rose to his feet as Fagan stepped into a small but surprisingly modern office.

  “Father Joseph,” the man held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you. I am Brother Fabian, Abbot of the Abbaye de Sainte Bernadette.”

  He spoke English with barely an accent. He was dressed in a traditional monk’s habit, but beneath it, he wore a pair of tan trousers with polished brown shoes and at his throat was a collar and tie. The Abbot put a hand to his tie and straightened the knot. “I am a little like this place, a mixture of ancient and modern.”

  In the tie was a gold tie pin. Fagan was sure he recognized it from somewhere. It appeared to be a simple crown of thorns affixed to the pin.

  “That’s an interesting tiepin,” Fagan said.

  The Abbot’s fingers went to the pin. “The Legion of Jesus, an organization close to my heart.”

  Fagan recognized it now, and the Legion of Jesus, an organization with a somewhat questionable reputation, but he didn’t comment.

  The room was sparse with a few religious artifacts on the walls. A slim computer screen stood on an antique wooden desk with a Bluetooth keyboard and a mouse in front, and a modern printer beside it. On the desktop was what appeared to be the latest model of iPhone.

  “Surprised that we have such modern facilities?” The Abbot smiled. “You have to remember, though the monastery is almost a thousand years old, we have one of the most advanced and modern Scriptoriums in the world. And we have some of the world’s experts on ancient scrolls and manuscripts residing here. We may be in a remote monastery on a tiny island in the Atlantic, but we are connected to the whole world via the World Wide Web. Many of our ancient scripts have been digitized and are available online.” The Abbot’s smile broadened. “You should try to Google us some time.”

  Fagan let his eyes run over the photographs and certificates displayed across the wall. One, in particular, caught his attention. The Abbot saw him looking.

  “Your old seminary?” Fagan recognized the Boston Catholic college.

  “Yes, my old Alma Mater.”

  “You’re a Jesuit? I thought this was a Benedictine Monastery?”

  “These are modern times, and we are as much an academic institution as a monastic one, perhaps more so. We are sponsored by the De Vaux International Foundation, and I guess you could say I was appointed more on my academic credentials than my religious ones. Besides, the old antagonism between the Jesuits and the Benedictines is long since gone.”

  He gestured towards a chair in front of the desk.

  “Please, take a seat.”

  The Abbot sat down himself and steepled his fingers, pondering Fagan across the desk. “So, an emissary from the Holy Father himself. We are indeed honored.”

  Fagan shook his head. “Father Abbot, this is a discreet request from His Holiness. He and Brother Thomas were at seminary together. They became friends and have remained such ever since.” Fagan gave an apologetic shrug. “His Holiness feels a little guilty that he has not stayed in touch with his old friend these last few years.”

  The Abbot shook his head. “It was very sad. Brother Thomas was an extremely talented scholar and a most devout brother. But surely, his holiness has no reason for guilt. He has many duties and serious issues to deal with. He has to put the Church first, before any personal matters.”

  “Of course, but the Holy Father would just like a view of what happened in the last days of Brother Thomas’s life. He asked me to come here and talk to his friends and colleagues, his brother monks. So he can have a final picture of his old friend.”

  “Of course.”

  The Abbot looked up at a knock on the door, and a tall, middle aged monk entered.

  “Ah, Brother Cedric here will give you the guided tour.” The Abbot stood and held out his hand. “There is much to see. I hope we can be of service to the Holy Father.”

  Fagan shook the Abbot’s hand. “Thank you. I’m sure the Holy Father will be most appreciative.”

  The Abbot’s face became serious. “Brother Cedric will introduce you to Brother Lucien, Brother Thomas’s assistant.” He paused. “A word about Lucien. He is
a somewhat fragile soul. A brilliant academic and he was devoted to Brother Thomas. However, when he came here, we were challenged to, how shall I say, keep him together. The work seemed to give him focus. The loss of Brother Thomas has hit him hard. Please, be very gentle with him.”

  Fagan nodded. “I understand. I’ll take great care with him.”

  “Can I see where Brother Thomas worked?” Fagan decided he should get straight to it as they stepped out of the office.

  “Of course.” Brother Cedric led the way. They passed through a large hall with tall Romanesque pillars and a high vaulted ceiling. A wispy kaleidoscope of colors seemed to hang in the air, ancient dust illuminated by the daylight filtering through the tall stained glassed windows at the far end of the room.

  They passed through into the cloisters, surrounding a perfectly cut green lawn and on into a long passage. Brother Cedric gave a running commentary on the history of the Monastery as they went.

  “Building of the monastery started in 1072 we have documentary evidence of that. The first phase of the building was completed shortly before the start of the 12th century, in 1098. The Scriptorium is almost as old as the original building.”

  They passed a stone staircase running down into the depths of the building, illuminated by a series of flickering candles.

  Brother Cedric pointed below. “The Crypt. Every Abbot and notable Brothers since the very first, Abbot Frederick de Nantes, are interred down there. I could take you down. I am sure you would find it interesting.”

  “Maybe later,” Fagan said.

  At the end of the hall a short flight of stairs rose upwards, and beside it, another ran down into the darkness. Fagan stopped and looked down. He could make out an iron grill blocking the way.

  Brother Cedric smiled. “The dungeons.”

  “Dungeons?”

  “Yes, during the French Revolution the monks were forcibly removed from here, and the place was converted into a prison for political prisoners. Unfortunately, some of the monks, who protested too much, found themselves down there as well. It has an interesting feature. Well, interesting from a geological perspective.” Brother Cedric walked to the window. There was no glass in it. “Down there.” He pointed to where the ocean crashed onto the rocks below. “The sea rushes into an opening in the rock. The locals call it The Devils Cauldron. At the bottom of these steps is a large communal cell, cut from a natural cave. Legend has it that prisoners were taken into the cell and chained in place. At high tide, the water rushes in and fills it. Apparently, when the tide is on the turn, the undertow is so strong it will suck out anything inside, including a body chained in place. The undertow runs out into the Atlantic for miles. Anything caught in it is never seen again. A convenient human disposal system. Used extensively back then.”

  “I can see why you have it blocked off.”

  They climbed a set of steps and entered another long passageway. At the end, Brother Cedric opened a wooden door, and they both stepped inside. It was like stepping forward in time a thousand years. They were in a modern reception area, with a polished wooden floor. In front of them, a large glass window ran from floor to ceiling, giving a view of the Scriptorium beyond.

  “The Scriptorium itself is almost as old as the monastery. But as you can see, we have made a few changes.” Brother Cedric gestured towards the glass window. “Hermetically sealed glass. Inside, the temperature is carefully controlled to enable the preservation of our precious contents. We even have some special rooms in which we can open ancient scroll jars and examine their contents in the safest environmental conditions.”

  Beyond the glass, a tall, emaciated looking figure appeared, dressed in the same drab grey habit as Cedric.

  “Ah, there is Brother Lucien now.”

  He tapped on the glass, and a face like a startled rabbit looked up. Cedric gestured for him to join them.

  “Brother Lucien,” Cedric called out as the glass window slid open and the young monk stepped out. “This is Father Joseph. He is a special emissary from the Holy Father. He would like to ask you some questions about Brother Thomas.” Brother Lucien gave Fagan a barely perceptible glance and a nod but said nothing.

  “Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?” Fagan asked.

  “Shall we go down to the pantry?” Brother Cedric said.

  They made their way down through a series of passages and stairways, finally into a cozy room with long wooden tables and bench seats at either side.

  “Please sit, I will arrange some tea.” Brother Cedric disappeared through a door at the far side of the room.

  Fagan sat down, and Brother Lucien sat opposite, his eyes fixed on a point on the table top.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Fagan said. “I believe you and Brother Thomas were very close.”

  Brother Lucien stared at the table in front of him. He made a slight nod of his head but still said nothing.

  “I’m sorry. Parlez vous Anglais?”

  Lucien continued staring at the table. His voice when he eventually spoke was so soft as to be barely audible. “Yes, I speak English.”

  “I realize this is hard for you. I know Brother Thomas was your friend. He was also a friend of the Holy Father. They were at seminary together and have remained friends all these years. He would be grateful if you could tell him about Brother Thomas’s final days.”

  The young monk seemed not to hear him. He appeared to be doing meditation breathing. It came as a shock when he spoke. Fagan wasn’t even sure he’d heard it.

  “He was not just my friend.” His voice became stronger.

  Fagan held his breath.

  “He was my teacher, my mentor.”

  Fagan exhaled slowly trying not to disturb the moment. “What did you and Brother Thomas work on here?”

  The voice remained soft but clearer this time. Lucien’s eyes continued to stare down at the table. “Brother Thomas was a world renowned expert in paleography.”

  Fagan gave Lucien a blank look. “Sorry?”

  Lucien gave him a furtive glance then returned his focus to the table top. “An expert in ancient writing, specifically biblical languages - Aramaic, Ancient Greek, Hebrew. He was also an expert on the Dead Sea Scrolls and many other ancient texts. He was often sought out to translate ancient documents and manuscripts. I was his researcher and general assistant.”

  “It sounds fascinating.” Fagan tried to catch Lucien’s eye, but the young monk’s gaze remained rooted in front of him.

  “I understand the pain you must be feeling right now, but often to talk can help.”. He reached out and put a hand on Lucien’s arm. “Lucien, I’m a priest. You can trust me.”

  A flush of guilt spread through Fagan. Did he really mean that or did he just want him to talk?

  Brother Lucien seemed to be debating whether to say anything.

  “It’s all right Lucien.”

  “He had been so happy.”

  He spoke so low that Fagan had to struggle to catch what he was saying.

  “He said we were going to work on something that would change the world.” Lucien seemed to be talking to himself.

  Fagan didn’t push him. He just sat back and waited.

  “But on that last day, somehow he was different.”

  “How was he different?”

  Lucien glanced towards the pantry door. “You start out for all the right reasons, but in the end, it is still wrong.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Lucien finally looked at him. “That is what he said.”

  “Do you know what he meant by that?”

  Lucien shook his head.

  “Was that all he said?” Fagan asked.

  Lucien’s face seemed to crease into a faraway smile, but his eyes had a look to them that saw something different. There was fear in there. Fagan had seen that look before, in a past life. It wasn’t a good sign.

  “He told me, if they asked, I was to say I knew nothing.”

  “Lucien, did he say who? Who
would be asking.”

  Lucien slowly shook his head. “He never said. He went out that day and never came back.”

  Fagan leaned in closer. He put a comforting hand on his arm. “Lucien, listen to me. Did they ask?”

  Lucien’s smile broadened as if it was a secret game. “Oh, yes.”

  Fagan gently squeezed Lucien’s arm. “Who are they? Who asked?”

  There was a clatter from inside the kitchen, and Lucien lost the smile.

  “Lucien, just relax. Who asked?”

  Something bumped against the kitchen door, and Brother Cedric appeared with steaming mugs on a tray. “Here we go.” He placed the tray on the table and sat down. “Now, how are you getting along?”

  Fagan glanced across at Brother Lucien. The young monk’s eyes were rooted straight down again, and he was now rocking slowly back and forth.

  “Brother Lucien was just about to tell me about the work that he and Brother Thomas were doing.”

  Brother Cedric pursed his lips and made a slight sucking sound. “Hmmm, a bit of a problem, that.”

  Fagan gave him an enquiring look.

  “Did the Abbot not say?”

  “What’s to say?”

  “Typical,” Cedric said with a shake of his head. “Leave the dirty work to me.”

  Fagan still had no idea what he was talking about.

  “The problem is, much of the work we do here is sponsored by the De Vaux International Foundation. You may have heard of it. It is funded by the international publishing billionaire, Dominic de Vaux, and it provides financing and resources for religious research throughout the world. We have a confidentiality agreement with them that doesn’t allow us to divulge any information about our work without their express permission.”

  “But I was assured that the Holy Father would be given access to all the information he required.”

  “As I am sure he will be. We just need to follow the rules. We need to obtain consent from the Foundation. I am sure we can do that within the next twenty-four hours.” Cedric looked across at the young monk. “I fear we may have taxed Brother Lucien a little too much. The doctor has prescribed medication, but I think he should take some rest.” He reached out and squeezed Lucien’s arm. “Lucien, I think you should go back to the dormitory.”