by Lazlo Ferran
“Allo?”
“Ah. Hi. It’s the guy from the library, the one with the anagram problem.” I laughed nervously.
“Oh yes! How are you?”
I lied. “I’m fine. But I am running a little short of time. Have you had any luck with the problem?”
“Well, it’s a bit early but I was up anyway. No I haven’t solved it. Why is it so urgent?”
“That would take some time to explain.”
“I have some time.”
“Well.” I had been about to hang up and then I thought that really, I had nothing to lose.
Here goes.
“My area of research is around the ‘Concilium Putus Visum’. I know them as the Council of Pure Vision. My girlfriend and I called them the... Oh well, never mind that. The reason I am researching them is because my daughter was murdered years ago and I was with her. I can only say at this point that it was something supernatural that took her and I believe the ‘Concilium Putus Visum’ have something to do with it. My wife has left me, most of my friends think I am insane, and the Police are chasing me because they think I killed my own daughter. Sorry, I wasn’t going to tell you that. The thing is, I really need to prove something to turn all this around. Now I think I have only a little time left. On top of all this I have these little statues – in bronze, which I bought in Bulgaria, showing flying wolves called warg and – well, one of them is fighting a snake, and I believe there is a secret cult called Ordo Lupus, and there is a secret weapon to fight these snakes. I know there is no reason for you to help me, and I guess you are thinking that I’m mad as well, but I would really appreciate your help.” I paused, half expecting her to hang up. She didn’t. “I know you know something about the ‘Concilium Putus Visum’.” I stopped again, waiting for her reply.
“Well. That is quite a story. Flying wolves and serpents? We have to meet.” Her voice seemed to have risen half an octave.
“Okay. Where and when? I think I have to leave Paris today. So it has to be soon.”
“Leave Paris! Why? Where are you going?” Her voice was almost a screech.
“I don’t know yet. That is where you come in.”
“Can you meet me now?”
“Yes but where? It has to be quiet. In my car would be best.”
“Your car? Well, where are you?”
“In the north of the City. Can you come north?”
“Yes. I can meet you at the Station on Avenue Victor Hugo in one hour.”
“Fine. I am driving a white Renault. I will drive past the station at five minute intervals and sound the horn and stop when I see you.”
“Okay. Good bye.”
She was there on time. She was wearing dainty little boots, which might have been Victorian, but she was still wearing the green dress. I drove north, out of the City.
“On the back seat are all my notes. There is paper and pens there.”
“Let me read what you have. You say Serpents? And a secret weapon?” Her eyes were like saucers.
“Yes.” While I drove, she read, until two hours later she had finished. I stopped in a picnic area, nestled in some woods.
“You know it’s quite incredible,” she said in careful English, but with a heavy French accent. “I have been studying this obscure subject for years. I did my thesis on it at the Sorbonne. Nobody else has been interested. I have had to make my living doing research on completely unrelated areas of history. But this area interests me the most.”
“Your father I guess?”
“No. Why do you say that? No. The Knights Templar was my first area of interest, and it has grown from there. It seems that you and I are looking for the same thing. I have wondered about these Serpents for a long time although I have never met somebody who has seen one.”
I looked at her and she looked at me. “I have seen one,” I said.
She slowly nodded. “What are they like?” I must have grimaced because she immediately added, “Oh. Sorry. How stupid of me. I can be a little insensitive sometimes.” She gave that shrill laugh again. “Do you have one of those statues with you?”
“No. Wait. Yes I do.” I reached into the pocket of my jacket, lying on the back seat, and pulled out the little statue which I had been carrying around with me for almost a week. Its weight had become so familiar to me that I didn’t even notice it any more. I climbed out of the car to stretch my legs while Ayshea turned the statue on its head to look at the base.
“B’vs IV sk,” she read out loud. “Any idea about the ‘sk’?”
“Not really. A historian friend of mine, Henry de Silva, thought they were something to do with Piere Drang Clenn. Maybe it’s an alias?”
“Maybe. It’s very good workmanship. Do you think it’s original?”
“Well, I’m not an expert but I do have an antiques business and I have been looking at these things since the War. In my opinion that one is genuine, yes. Of course there are a lot of fakes.”
“It would have been very difficult to make in the 13th Century. Only a few craftsman could have made it. I am thinking of all the top craftsmen I know from that period.”
After scribbling for a few minutes she called out, “Piere England rcn.”
After another fifteen minutes scribbling and murmuring to herself she came up with another unscrambling of the anagram.
“Regne clin adn pre. That means ‘reign pre covering joint DNA’.”
Every few minutes she would come up with another one.
“Gendre lancer pin.”
“Cendre rang pin le.”
After nearly two hours she came up with one last one. “Cendre panel ring. That means ‘ash panel boxing ring’ in English” She laughed shrilly. “Oh. I don’t know. It eludes me! Even following basic rules…” She put the pad she was writing on, and the pen, on the shelf formed by the door of the glove-compartment, closed her eyes and leaned back. “Does this chair go right back? I think I need to sleep. My mind is tired now.”
“I’m sure it does. Ayshea. I’m running out of time. I just have this strong feeling that I have to find this secret weapon, where ever it is, very soon, perhaps in the next day or two. And then there are the Gendarmes and also Concilium Putus Visum, although to be honest, I’m not sure if they are chasing me. They were certainly chasing my girlfriend.”
“Why isn’t she helping you? I am not sure if you need a historian. Perhaps you just need a linguist.”
“She is dead.”
“Dead? How? When? Oh, I am sorry.”
“The night before last, Sunday night. She died near the Sacré-Coeur. I still don’t know if it was an accident or not. But we were on the run from the servants of the Concilium Putus Visum.”
“The Gendarmes know about it?”
“Oh yes. I gave a statement. She fell from a bridge. You see it could be an accident. I want to believe that it was.”
Ayshea sat up and looked at me. “You must be very upset, you poor thing. No wonder you haven’t shaved. Or eaten properly. Have you eaten?”
“A little.”
She was silent for a while. Then she looked again at the pad. “You know scholars have probably been trying to decode this for centuries. What makes you think we can do it now?” I was surprised at her sudden change of tack but then I thought it must be tact.
“I don’t know. Because I have to?”
“You! Ha! It’s me that is doing the work.”
I looked around me. The birds were singing in the trees. A few sparrows and a crow hopped around the clearing among the tyre tracks, picking up tasty bits of litter, and sticking their heads inside crisp packets hopefully. The wind rustled the leaves in the trees gently to create that soft summer song of nature. It all seemed so calm and I wished I was in another life and that I could just enjoy it. But I was in the centre of a maelstrom, and soon this moment of calm would be gone. From this moment of reflection came a new determination.
“You know Beauvais is my favourite candidate at the moment for the place wher
e this Temple is?”
“No. Well why do you say that?”
“I didn’t want to mention it because I didn’t want to influence you, but also because I hope it’s not Beauvais.”
“Why?”
“Because I made a mistake. Last night I left some of my notes in a hotel and it mentions Beauvais. If I go there, the Gendarmes might be waiting for me.”
“Well. If that is the correct place, then that is where you have to go. What is your evidence?”
“Well. There was a poem. Here. Let me find it.” I opened the rear door, pulled out the bag and searched for the translation. I read it aloud to her.
Alone upon the wall
With axe, throws assailant in the moat
he who removed the flag,
Again the flag was bright
Our hero’s reward Le Pilon
“Apparently it’s about somebody called Jeanne Laisné, born 1456 who was a French heroine known as Jeanne Fourquet and nicknamed Jeanne Hachette or ‘Jean the Hatchet’. And all this took place in Beauvais.”
“Where did you find the poem?”
“It was hidden in the chapters about Ordo Lupus in a book called the ‘De Secretis Scientia Occultis’.”
“Ah. I have heard of this book, most definitely. It is very valuable, if it exists at all.”
“Oh it exists alright and I own a few pages from it. The rest is in the Richelieu Library.”
“Really! I didn’t know that. I have been wanting to see a copy for years.”
“I will show you gladly what I have, later, but right now, there isn’t time. Anyway, I think that the secret weapon is in a Crypt and that this may be at Beauvais.”
“Beauvais Cathedral is quite famous for its gothic architecture – and its height. I believe it’s the highest cathedral in all of France. Of course it’s been falling down since it was built.”
“When was it built?”
“Mid-13th Century I think. An architect friend of mine, Bertrand, knows much more about it than I do.”
“So who was the architect?”
“Oh I don’t know.” Her words petered out quietly as she seemed to focus inwardly on something. Then her voice started up again, rising in volume. “But I do know one of the artists who worked on the Cathedral. His stained-glass windows were the best anywhere. Now what was his name? Something like England. Yes. What was that first silly decoding of the anagram that I wrote down?”
“Yes! That was England something.”
“Wait.” I could hear the furious rifling of notepad pages from the car. I walked over and leaned in.
“Here. Piere England rcn. Well that’s not right. And I think it’s Engrand but I can’t remember the rest. Oh we will have to call Bertrand.”
“Do we have to? It’s not really safe.”
“Oh it will only take a moment. He will be in his office.”
We drove on to the nearest village where there was a public telephone next to a village shop. While she called Bertrand, I bought a few packets of biscuits and chocolate cake; what girl can resist chocolate cake? I also bought a newspaper and a few cans of Fanta.
Ayshea was smiling when I reached the car. “Engrand Le Prince. Famous stained-glass artist but also, I think, an artist who worked in other mediums. I told you Bertrand would know. He says Le Prince would be working in late 15th Century and did definitely do the stained glass at Beauvais. He also said that Beauvais is one of the first Cathedrals in France which we now think of as Gothic.”
“Here. Eat something. You must be hungry.” I passed her the carrier bag and she peered inside. “That’s great. So Beauvais it is! You didn’t tell him where we were?”
“No. Bertrand is cool. We were at college together. Ooh! Chocolate cake. My favourite. Beauvais means ‘handsome face’ you know.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Let’s go”
“Where?”
“Beauvais.”
“Wait a minute Ayshea. You can’t come with me. This is dangerous. The Gendarmes are after me. Anything could happen.”
“Yes I know. Isn’t it exciting?”
I was busy trying to think of something even direr, to put her off, but she saw what was coming.
“You need a companion, somebody to help you find the Crypt. You know you do.” Her words were slightly muffled because she had a mouthful of chocolate cake. I looked at the flakes of chocolate around her lips and smiled.
“Well okay but as soon as it gets dangerous, you have to step aside.”
She clapped her pale hands together, making a very thin slap sound. “Voila! We are going to find the Secret Crypt of Legend; and the Magic Weapon.” She paused. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of fighting the Serpents.”
Beauvais was only about 50 km north from the picnic area in the woods and Ayshea navigated. As we drove I watched her from the corners of my eyes. She was not unattractive, even with her glasses and hair in a bun. She wore no makeup at all, as far as I could tell, and seemed unaware of her good looks. Her face was very finely chiseled, with pale, almost white skin, and freckles. Her blue eyes darted tirelessly this way and that, taking in all that she saw, but giving little of her deeper emotions away. She seemed to hold these permanently in check, and I guessed she found it difficult to really trust people. Perhaps her bookish nature was a form of defense.
But then she surprised me. I glanced at her just after we had turned onto a main road and were easing into a stream of traffic. She had formed her hands into the roof and spire of a church, as kids often do. When she noticed I was watching her she suddenly turned her hands upside down and formed the batman mask with goggles over her eyes. She looked at me like this and we both laughed. She was very disarming but her childlike pranks seemed to be a form of genuine naivety. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of her. Back at the picnic area, I had, for a moment wished that I could stay there forever, even with Ayshea. Yes, I was slightly attracted to her. But now she seemed so young and naive, I wondered at the attraction.
As if she sensed what I was thinking she asked, “What was Georgina like? Was she very beautiful?”
“Well, yes. She was. Very dark haired and very beautiful.”
“Was she nice?”
I laughed. “Nice!”
“What’s so funny?”
“Well – nice! I don’t think you could really describe her as nice. But she had her good qualities. She was very troubled. Yes, I think it would be fair to say that.”
“Oh.”
She seemed as sad as I was at my answer. We were both silent for a while, the gentle roaring sound of the tyres on the road and the wind around the windows, drowning out my own thoughts pleasantly. After a while I actually felt like talking. I decided to confide a little more.
“I don’t remember much of the Serpent really. What I remember is a sense of enormous strength, it was certainly big, taller than a man. I remember it was like being confronted by a body of fire, and yet at the same time it was completely dark, as if absorbing the light around it. Its surface seemed to shimmer.”
“I see. Can I write that down?”
“If you want to.” I didn’t want to say anything but I wondered if she thought I might not be around much longer for her to record my memories. We were about thirty minutes from Beauvais now, and my thoughts became darkened by the prospect of Gendarmes all over the town. I didn’t know whether Parcaud would equate a stolen Renault in Paris with me or whether he would find the notes on the bed and take a chance I might go to Beauvais, but he might. “We have to lose the car.”
I took the next turn-off to the right and followed the narrow lane until we reached a small village. There I found what I was looking for. Driving through the village, I saw a white Volkswagen Beetle among a row of cars. The owner was probably some distance away and Beetles are easy to steal. A white one was the most anonymous of all. I drove back out of the village. “Can you drive?”
“Not very well.”
“Good. Drive bac
k to the main road and wait for me there.”
I easily broke into the Beetle, hot-wired it, and drove back to the main road. It had all the familiar paraphernalia of a family car; cushions, toys on the back seat, empty and half-full packets of sweets, and colouring books.
“Follow me,” I shouted to Ayshea when she wound down her window.
I turned onto the main road and drove south, back the way we came, through one village, and then turned off onto a lane which led out into open country. I took the next turning to the left, so that we were travelling south again. Ayshea followed in the Renault, until I saw a muddy track. It disappeared under some trees, between two fields. It was not the best place to leave the car, half way to Beauvais, but it would have to do. I stopped and told Ayshea to wait. I drove the Renault into the track. I tried to stick to the side of the road, which was muddy, to make it look like we had been travelling south. I threw some branches over the car to conceal it a bit more.
“Okay. Let’s go to Beauvais.”
Just outside Beauvais I saw what I head dreaded; police cars lining the roads. Fortunately they were only stopping cars randomly at this point, not quite confident that I would be here.
“Quick. Swap!”
We swapped places, with the car still moving, and then I hid on the floor, as Ayshea drove past the row of police cars.
“They hardly even looked,” she said.
Beauvais is a very large town, almost a city by English standards, with the south side laid out in almost a circular pattern of roads, and the north side a more rectangular grid. Most of the buildings are only two-story, so we could see the Cathedral long before we reached it. Somehow we had to drive past the Cathedral before we did anything.
“Wow! It really is quite special isn’t it?” said Ayshea,