The Cardinal was lost in a sea of running, shouting figures. And still they poured across the narrow bridge and fought their way through the gate.
Father Benoir saw a blurred flash of a red skullcap, near the edge of the crowd close to the ark.
‘The Cardinal!’ he shouted to Bishop Vitroletti. The Bishop seemed speechless. Father Benoir seized him by his arm and pulled him towards the place where he had last seen the scarlet cap. People seemed to hurl themselves against the priest. He put down his head and, still half-dragging the Bishop behind him, rammed his way through the crowd battling for the rapidly-dwindling food stocks. Father Benoir found Cardinal Flamini on his knees, his head bent and protected by his arms. He let go of the Bishop and pulled the battered Cardinal to his feet.
‘Over there,’ shouted Father Benoir. ‘Get him to the church.’ The Bishop took hold of the Cardinal’s other arm, and together they managed to reach the church. Colonel Lorraine met them and they half-carried the bemused Cardinal to safety.
‘This is your madness,’ shouted Father Benoir at the Bishops. ‘Look at them.’ He pointed down into the square. The crowds were still forcing themselves through the gateway. It was not possible to see either the food stocks, or the villagers who had tried to distribute them. Every inch of the village square not occupied by the ark was solid with people. Those at the back pushed to fight their way to the front, and the noise was indescribable. The shouts, cries and groans were magnified by the caverns under the village. Somewhere, there was a shattering of glass, then the splintering of wood.
‘Oh, dear Lord,’ said Bishop Orsolo. ‘Go back, go back,’ he shouted at the people still trying to enter the square, but no one heard.
Barbusse and Josephine appeared on the steps of the church.
Barbusse’s head was bleeding. Josephine was almost naked from the waist upwards. Barbusse shook his fist towards the crowd.
‘Father Benoir,’ he shouted, ignoring the Cardinal and Bishops. ‘They’re breaking into our houses. They are taking everything. My bar is wrecked.’
‘Where are the others?’ Father Benoir had to put his mouth close to Barbusse for him to hear.
‘Over there,’ Barbusse pointed to the far end of the square. ‘All of them. In d’Arle’s shop. D’Arle has managed to close the shutters and he’s keeping people out with his cleaver.’
‘Oh, dear God,’ breathed Father Benoir. ‘Go and fetch them,’ he ordered Barbusse. ‘Bring them here to the church. They’ll be safe here. Hurry!’
Barbusse hesitated, then he turned, made his huge hands into fists and hurled himself into the crowd. Father Benoir watched him fighting his way forward, until he was enveloped by the horde. Father Benoir swung towards Mayor Lorraine. ‘The Church, Colonel Lorraine. Open the doors for our villagers and no others.’
The Mayor nodded. Father Benoir hustled Josephine and the two Bishops, who supported their wilted Cardinal, through the heavy carved oak doors. Colonel Lorraine stood guard, his hands on the huge oak beam that barred the door from inside. The church was almost silent after the turmoil of the square.
The Cardinal turned to Father Benoir. ‘Do you see? Do you see where you have led us all? ‘ he asked. His two Bishops nodded as they brushed dust from the rich robes, and wiped the grime from his hands.
Father Benoir was amazed to find that his feelings were only of loathing and contempt. He didn’t answer. There was a hammering at the oak door.
‘Let us in ... it is us ...’ Father Benoir recognized the voice of Henri Laplace.
‘Open the door, Colonel.’
The Mayor swung the oak door. It burst open as the villagers pushed their way inside. They were dishevelled, their clothing tom. Most of the men and some of the women showed signs of a battle. Barbusse, who was carrying Madame d’Arle in his huge arms, was now completely soaked in blood.
The Cardinal covered his face. Father Benoir’s mouth opened. Barbusse shook his head and then lowered Madame d’Arle on to a pew. Barbusse tried to wipe away some of the blood from his chest with indecisive and vague hand-movements. ‘Yves d’Arle,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t do anything. Just as I got there, someone killed him with his own axe.’
Behind him, some of the women were sobbing.
There was a scuffle amongst the villagers. Edouard Ravelle’s wife burst out of the group. She hurled herself forward at Father Benoir and struck him with her clenched fist on his face. He stumbled. She struck again. Henri Laplace pushed her away from the priest.
‘You have ruined us ... killed us...’ she screamed.
‘Stop!’ shouted Mayor Lorraine. ‘There is enough insanity outside. Ravelle . . . take your wife and calm her. Barbusse, is everyone else here?’
Barbusse looked round the villagers. ‘No, Colonel. Not all, but as many as I could find.’
‘The others?’ asked the Colonel. Barbusse shrugged. There were louder wails from the women.
Farmer Joliot pushed his face close to Father Benoir’s. ‘You bastard. You crazy bastard,’ he hissed.
There was a sudden change in the noise of the crowd outside. ‘Be quiet, listen,’ ordered Mayor Lorraine. He lifted the oak beam and eased open the door a little until he could see through the crack. The shouts of those outside were turning to screams of terror. ‘Oh, Holy Virgin,’ gasped Lorraine.
From their sanctuary, the villagers saw a terrified mass of humanity in the cobbled square. The villagers stared. The ark, once a shell of almost antiseptic new timber, seemed fouled by the hundreds of people who now crammed it. It seemed to writhe under the weight of the unwelcome load of those who had forced their way on board. At the top of the gangplank now stood a man. He flailed a baulk of timber above him like a club and screamed indistinguishable words at those still trying to climb aboard. Chickens and ducks, somehow released from their crates, fluttered in spurts of feathers from the sides of the vessel. Animals, escaped from the pens, fought for survival with the crowds. Even as the villagers viewed the scene in horror, there was a sudden gust of flame from the lower part of the ark. They saw an hysterical group who had been repulsed in their attempt to board the ark feeding scrap wood and tins of paint to the pyre.
The eager flames sprinted along the summer dry wood, soaked in rich resin, and snatched at the dry pine and pitched seams of the ark. Yellow slivers fused a path along the joints. The smoke thickened.
There were cries from those who had, only seconds before, triumphantly claimed their bloodstained places on the ark. The cries became shrieks as planks in the hull twisted with the heat and ignited. The crowd in the square chorused the screams as they fought to retreat from the clutching fire.
Flames hurdled the gaps between cabins, splitting, rending, tearing in increasing fury. Blackened figure threw themselves from the decks, and were lost among the flames that seemed to support the whole length of the ark like an orange sea.
The crowd surged, moaned, shrieked, cried and whimpered, mesmerized by the sight of the burning vessel.
‘Murderer . . . murderer . . .’ screamed Bishop Vitroletti at Father Benoir.
At the head of the gangplank, the man with the club seemed oblivious to the flames at his feet. He stood, unmoving now. There was an awesome crash, a cloud of sparks and a revitalized column of flame - and the man was gone. The people screamed in greater terror as the ark now seemed to explode. The tall mast became a tree of fiery blossoms, and swayed above the now petrified crowds. It moved slightly, then, with hypnotic slowness, it swung down, like a golden sword, to sear a terrible path where it smashed through the thickest mass.
The screams of the crowd grew even louder. Quite suddenly, the blue-grey smoke that hung above the town like a shroud darkened. The mid-day sun was blotted out. Father Benoir looked upwards, startled. Above the smoke were rain clouds so black they made the smoke seem pale by comparison. They thickened rapidly and choked the light from the square until only the flames of the ark lit the scene.
Then there was a spine-jarring crash. And another.
And another. Lightning stabbed down through the smoke, and hit the village battlements. It began to rain.
At first it was just small drops. Then, within seconds, a downpour. Father Benoir stepped from the church doorway until he could feel the rain falling on his face. He looked up again at the sky. The rain increased. It became a torrent, then a waterfall. Great sheets of droplets, each big enough to fill a wine glass.
The crowd fell silent, cowed. The flames of the ark spluttered and hissed, the smoke turning to steam. And still the rain grew heavier, until the people in the square covered their heads and crouched for shelter. The ark collapsed into a heap of muddy, black ash, its charred ribs now a line of grey stumps. Thunder roared and crashed over the darkened village. Lightning speared the clouds to the mountain tops until St Pierre-des-Monts seemed to be imprisoned in a cage of fury. Then the earth began trembling.
Father Benoir stood in the open. The rain beat his cassock to shiny leather. He still looked upwards, his eyes wide, raindrops splattering and running off his cheeks. Lightning flashes illuminated him. The villagers, sheltering under the arch of the church door, watched him lift his cross to his lips, then press it against his chest. There was a slight movement among the crowd. Morry Cohen and Claire stepped forward, until they were standing beside Father Benoir.
The Cardinal and his two Bishops, huddled apprehensively together, stared in wonder at Father Benoir. The young priest’s, serene face was again tilted towards the deluge from Heaven. And he was smiling.
Saint Peter watched, then shook his head. ‘Three ... only three people from four thousand million? ‘
God smiled. ‘It’s two more than I started with,’ He said.
Beyond The Rainbow Page 19