Martyr's Fire

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Was it fear, or did he imagine they in turn studied him?

  Thomas also wondered at his own lunacy. How much trust should he have placed in Gervaise? Had the blows to the old man’s head addled him? What could exist beneath the altar? And how would the altar be reached—and kicked—without the notice of the four Priests of the Holy Grail?

  Yet Thomas moved forward. He had no choice. Those behind him pressed heavily.

  And even if I could turn away, what good would it do? There was no place to hide in Magnus, and if he bolted now, surely the watchers would then decide he had been more than a cruel-hearted beggar sent inside by Gervaise to seek alms.

  His heart pounded harder and harder as step by step the line advanced to the priest at the front.

  Closer now, Thomas recognized him as Hugh de Gainfort. The priest, garbed in royal purple robes, dipped his hand in the liquid.

  “Partake of the water of the symbol of the Grail,” the scar-faced man intoned, “and henceforth be loyal to the Grail itself, and to its bearers. Blessings will be sure to follow. Amen.”

  The woman kissed his hand.

  The line moved ahead.

  The next person moved up.

  Hugh spoke the same words.

  Would the puppy in Thomas’s arms remain quiet? Or would he draw unwanted attention?

  “Partake of the water of the symbol of the Grail …”

  Thomas wondered if the priest would hear the thumping of his heart long before he reached the front. Only ten people stood between him and Hugh de Gainfort, and Thomas could see no way to reach the altar beyond without drawing attention.

  What trouble had Gervaise cast him into?

  “… and henceforth be loyal to the Grail itself, and to its bearers. Blessings will be sure to follow. Amen.”

  The light of the sun through the reds and blues of the stained-glass windows cast soft shadows upon Hugh de Gainfort, so that if Thomas did not look closely, he did not see hatred glittering in those eyes—the same hatred Thomas had felt during their brief audience earlier in the castle keep.

  Would he be recognized during the blessing? If not, how could he reach the altar unseen? What truth could there be in the old man’s instructions? And even if the passage revealed itself, how could he enter unnoticed?

  Thomas swallowed in an effort to moisten his suddenly dry throat. This was madness, and he was only one step away from a blessing that …

  It was his turn.

  “Partake of the water of the symbol of the Grail”—de Gainfort’s hand dipped into the water, and wet fingers brushed against Thomas’s forehead—“and henceforth be loyal to the Grail itself, and to its bearers. Blessings will be sure to follow. Amen.”

  Thomas started to turn away. The movement drew Hugh’s eyes briefly. Suddenly those black eyes widened.

  “It is you!” the priest hissed. He opened his mouth to shout.

  Thomas reacted with a move Robert of Uleran had taught him—a move he had practiced hundreds of times but had never been forced to use. He twisted his shoulders away from the priest, then spun back to drive forward his right hand in a shortened swing. In that blink of an eye, Thomas managed to hit his target with his clenched fist, middle knuckle slightly protruding. The point of the knuckle found its target, a small bone between the ribs, just above the priest’s stomach.

  The air left the priest’s lungs with an audible pop. He clutched himself and began to sway, wind knocked out thoroughly.

  It happened so quickly that those behind Thomas were not sure what they had seen.

  Before Thomas could decide how best to flee, a terrifying crash overpowered the cacophony of whispers. One of the arched windows fell inward, burying a nearby priest. White light from sudden sun flooded the church and danced off rising dust.

  Hugh de Gainfort dropped to his knees, still winded so badly he could barely breathe, let alone draw enough air to shout.

  Then another crash as the window farther down tumbled inward.

  It could only be Gervaise!

  Thomas did not hesitate. Whatever sacrifice the old man had just made to create the diversion must not be wasted. Thomas darted to the altar.

  What had the old man said? The panel beneath the candles was to be kicked sharply near the bottom. Twice.

  Thomas glanced to see if Hugh de Gainfort had seen him, but the priest had sagged into a limp bundle. All others stared in frozen horror at the destruction. If a passage truly existed, Thomas might escape without witnesses.

  Thomas kicked once. Twice.

  Soundlessly, the panel swung inward, revealing a black square beneath the altar wide enough to fit a large man. A spring hinge ensured that it would snap shut.

  Then a scream from outside the building. What price was Gervaise paying to buy Thomas these extra moments?

  Thomas bit his lower lip. The old man’s sacrifice should not be made in vain. Thomas ignored the pain in his leg and sat quickly, so that his feet dangled over the edge. He pulled Beast from beneath his arm.

  “Gervaise, my friend, if you go to your death, so do I.”

  Thomas put both arms around the puppy to shield him, then let himself drop into the darkness.

  Death arrived for neither.

  Thomas dropped through the air for half a heartbeat. He closed his eyes and braced for the crush of impact, splattering him against the black unknown.

  Then, incredibly, it felt as if arms began to wrap him tightly. A great resistance began to slow his fall.

  Those arms grew tighter, then brushed against his face. In the same moment, Thomas felt growing friction against his body and realized these were not the arms of a savior, but a giant cloth sleeve, tapered into an ever-narrowing tube.

  It slowed him almost to a standstill as the tube grew so tight that the fabric squeezed against his face.

  Then, just as it seemed he had more to fear from suffocation than from splintered bones and shredded flesh, his feet popped into open air, and he slid loose from his cloth prison.

  Even though the final drop was less than the height of a chair, Thomas was not able to see the ground in time to absorb the impact; the jarring of his heels against hard ground forced loose a grunt of pain.

  He recovered his breath quickly and strained to see around him.

  “Wherever we are, Beast,” Thomas said, “we can assume it is a better alternative to what was in store for us above.”

  Thomas was glad in this darkness for the company of his furry friend. Except for his own voice and the whimpers of the puppy, there was silence. It told Thomas that the Priests of the Holy Grail had not seen him escape. They did not know, then, of the passage beneath the altar.

  He felt his heart begin to slow. Without immediate pursuit, he could move slowly and thoughtfully.

  Thomas reached around him to explore for walls. In the darkness, he could not even see the movement of his own arm. He pulled his eye patch loose. It did not help his vision.

  “What is this place?” Thomas asked, then forced himself to smile. “Ah, Beast, you do not answer. That is a good sign. For if I were mad or dreaming, you would speak.”

  The puppy whined at the gentle sadness in his master’s tone and squirmed in Thomas’s arms. He offered comfort with well-placed licks.

  “Enough!” Thomas said through a laugh. “Next, you’ll try to soothe me by wetting yourself!”

  He set the puppy down but felt a wave of panic when Beast snuffled away from his leg. He had no idea if the ground gave way to holes or rifts. He or the puppy could break a leg. Yet what could he do but explore?

  Thomas sobered immediately.

  So much had happened so quickly. Only yesterday, he had ruled the island castle of Magnus, and by extension, the kingdom around it. Today he was a fugitive, marked for death or worse by the offer of a brick of gold for his head. Because of him, his friends had suffered equally.

  Robert of Uleran’s fate was unknown.

  Gervaise might have paid the ultimate price for his sacrifice
of distraction.

  Tiny John could only wander the streets and hope the Priests of the Holy Grail would not place any importance on his freedom.

  And now?

  Thomas took a deep breath to steady his nerves.

  Now he was in pitch blackness, somewhere below Magnus in a pit or passage he had never known existed.

  To return to Magnus, even if possible, endangered his life. Yet how long could he remain, blind, within the bowels of the earth?

  A new thought struck Thomas with such force that he sucked air in sharply.

  Gervaise knew.

  Gervaise knew of the trapdoor below the altar.

  More thoughts tumbled through Thomas’s cluttered mind.

  Warnings of evil within Magnus. Whispered secrets that had plagued him since first conquering the kingdom.

  Surely this must be part of the mystery of Magnus. Yet if Gervaise knew, why had he not revealed it much earlier, before the arrival of the Priests of the Holy Grail? Thomas strained to remember the old man’s words. “After sixty steps, you must make the leap of faith. Understand? Make the leap of faith. You will find the knowledge you need near the burning water.”

  Somewhere in this darkness, he would find the answer.

  Despite darkness so deep that even a quarter hour of adjustment had failed to show the faintest light to his eyes, Thomas spoke in a conversational manner, as if he and the puppy were in bright sunshine, sharing the warmth of the spring day outside. “Well, Beast, he was right about the altar panel and provided for our escape. But what am I to make of this ‘leap of faith’ Gervaise has instructed me to make?”

  The puppy whined in response.

  “I would ask him if he were here, silly dog! Knowing Gervaise, he’d probably say something such as, ‘Thomas, faith is difficult to explain,’ ” he said, imitating Gervaise’s deep, calm voice. “ ‘But with it, prayer eases the mind much.’ How do I know He listens? That I cannot explain either.”

  A light patting reached Thomas as the puppy’s tail thumped the ground to reflect contentment. Then a yip.

  “Well, that’s just the way he talks. Gervaise is not known for addressing the situation in front of you. He’s a more subtle man.” The puppy remained pressed against his feet. Thomas tucked his chin into his chest and mimicked the old man’s voice. “You have a mind, Thomas. How can you remain so unwilling to learn? Just because some men have twisted this religion for their own purposes is no reason to cast away faith. Because the monks in your boyhood abbey showed such little faith is no reason to apply their falseness to the essential truth.”

  Thomas squatted and scratched the puppy’s head. He reverted to his own voice and spoke almost absently, because his mind was already on the problems ahead. “As much as I do not want to believe, puppy, I cannot deny that twice I faced death, and twice I cried to the God in whom I did not want to believe. Explain that. We are here now because false priests seek to obscure the truth. And we must apply that to our situation—the darkness is obscuring our path. We cannot rely upon our eyes now, just as the people should not trust what they see performed by the Priests of the Holy Grail. We can only rely upon that which we know to be true, and in our case, that is Gervaise. And, as always, he speaks to me about a leap of faith.”

  Instead of answering, the puppy shifted his weight and settled for a nap.

  “Not so soon,” Thomas warned his small friend. “We can’t let this time go to waste. He no doubt pays a great price for our freedom.” Thomas shook off the memory of Gervaise’s scream outside the church above. What had happened to the old man? Was he still alive? Nothing would come from worrying. Better to honor the man and his sacrifice by following his instructions.

  “Our journey begins.”

  Thomas took his first halting step with courage, the result of three things: the calm from realizing the priests above did not know where he had vanished, the promise of an explanation when he found the burning water, and, strangely, from the puppy blundering into his legs each step he took. A companion, no matter his size, made the eerie silence easier to bear.

  Thomas took his next step into a rough stone wall. His groping hand prevented any injury to his face, yet Thomas recoiled as if he had been struck. Any sudden contact, gentle or not, created awesome fear in this pitch-dark place.

  Thomas pushed himself away, then thought again, and brought his right shoulder up to the wall.

  “I’ll feel my way along,” he told the puppy, simply as a way to break the tension that brought sweat in rivers down his face despite the damp chill. “It will give me warning of twists and turns.”

  Thus, his fingers became his eyes.

  Thomas patted the wall as he followed it, grimacing at real or imagined cobwebs. He stubbed his fingertips raw against outcrops of stone and stumbled occasionally against objects on the ground. Twice he patted empty air—as much a fright as the original contact against stone, and each time discovered another turn in the passage. He counted each step, remembering the strange message about a leap of faith. The puppy stayed with Thomas and did not complain.

  Upon his sixtieth step, Thomas paused. There was nothing to indicate a leap of faith. What had the old man meant?

  Two steps later, Thomas reached for the stone wall ahead of him and found nothing.

  “Another turn,” he muttered to the puppy. “This cannot be what the old man meant. Then why not warn me of the previous two? The shock of many more will kill me more surely than those priests.”

  He slowly began to pivot right, when a low, angry noise froze him.

  It took a moment, but Thomas identified the echoes as growls of the puppy at his feet.

  Thomas relaxed.

  “Hush,” he spoke downward, then moved to take his step.

  The puppy growled again, with enough intensity to make the skin ripple down Thomas’s back.

  “Easy, my friend.” Thomas knelt to soothe the puppy. The growling stopped.

  Thomas stood and moved again. This time the puppy bit Thomas in the foot and growled louder.

  “Whelp! Have you gone crazy?”

  Thomas reached down to slap the puppy for his insolence, but couldn’t find him in the dark.

  He groped farther, patting the ground. First behind him, then to his side, then—

  Ahead! The ground ahead had disappeared.

  Thomas forgot the puppy. He patted the wall on his right, found the edge of the corner and slid his hand downward, finally kneeling to reach as low as possible. Where the corner met the ground, it was no longer a corner, but a surface that continued downward below the level of his feet.

  The skin on his neck now prickled in fear.

  “Beast,” he cried softly. A whimper answered him.

  Thomas, on his knees in his blindness in the dark, crawled backward two more paces, then eased himself onto his stomach.

  Feeling safer on his belly, Thomas inched forward again, feeling for the edge of the drop-off with his extended right hand. When he reached it, he kept his hand on the edge, but shuffled to his left, determined to find the width of the unseen chasm.

  Seconds later, he found it, joined to the left wall.

  Thomas was too spent with the jolts of fear to react with much more than a moan of despair.

  “How deep?” he asked the puppy. “How far ahead to the other side?”

  Thomas crawled ahead as far as he dare. With his dangling hand, he reached down into the blackness. After all, perhaps this drop is a mere foot or two, he thought. I could be stuck here forever, afraid to step downward.

  His exploring hand had found nothing. Even after drawing his sword and extending it to reach farther, he could not prove to himself that the drop was only a shallow ditch.

  Long minutes later, he raised his head from the ground again. He knew he had three choices. Leap ahead and trust the chasm was narrow enough to cross. Drop into the chasm and trust its bottom was just beyond his reach. Or retrace his steps.

  Thomas called the puppy closer and t
ried to find his ears in the darkness. The puppy found his hand first and gently licked as though cleaning his master. Thomas suddenly realized the puppy was licking away blood from his damaged fingers. He’d been so tense he’d not noticed when his skin went from raw to broken.

  How could he possibly overcome this barrier?

  Thomas shouted and listened for an echo. Would that tell him anything? Not enough to make any kind of decision about how deep or wide the chasm was.

  A tiny flicker caught his eye.

  Thomas almost missed it, so much had he given up on using vision to aid his senses.

  He blinked, then squinted.

  Five minutes passed.

  Another minute. There! The flicker again. It brightened, then dropped to nothing. Thomas strained to focus and pinpoint its location. Ten agonizing minutes later, another flare, hardly more than a candle’s last waver before being suddenly snuffed.

  It dawned slowly upon Thomas.

  A flame.

  Burning water?

  He was seeing the light of a far-off flame, light that flared rarely and softly. Light that reflected and bounced off the passageway across the chasm.

  Thomas raised himself and sat, knees huddled against his chest. The puppy leaned against him, whining occasionally, growling for no apparent reason in other moments.

  A phrase echoed through his head. “Make the leap of faith.”

  Why had the old man been so urgent with those five words? Why had he repeated those words and no other part of his instructions?

  “Make the leap of faith.”

  It reminded him of part of a conversation he’d once held with Gervaise. To pass time, Thomas spoke aloud to the puppy.

  “During the quiet of an early morning,” Thomas said, “Gervaise told me this: ‘No matter how much you learn or debate the existence of God, no matter how much you apply your mind to Him, you cannot satisfy your soul with a decision based on proof.’ ”

  The puppy rested his chin on Thomas’s upper thigh.

  “The old man said there must come a time at the beginning of your faith when you let go and simply trust, a time when you make the leap of faith, something much like a …” Thomas faltered as he suddenly realized the significance of Gervaise’s repeated words.