by Ivan Blake
“Don’t think so.”
“You can tell Gilbert I figured out who he is. And if I’m right, he could be very useful.” With that, Paget turned and left the theater.
Oh no! Daddy knows who Chris is! Rose has to be told!
* * * *
Chris had spent Thursday in bed, sweating one minute, shivering the next, as his fever ran its course. The night had been no better, but at least his vomit had become clear, no more mud and slime.
Friday morning, he was feeling well enough to get up. He stripped his sheets, laundered everything, and bathed himself, then bundled up against the chill March wind, Chris set off for the cemetery. His plan was to inventory the graves, in part as a means of detecting any changes in the future, and in part for his term paper.
Invigorated by the fresh air, he ended up spending far longer than intended crawling around the cemetery, but the exercise proved fascinating. He transcribed all twenty-two stories from the ancient and broken stones then charted the locations of each stone inside the boundaries of the cemetery, recorded the dates of demise of the twenty-five Cathars in sequence, and noted the locations of their deaths on a world map he’d hastily sketched.
Only when he was done did Chris realize the graves were arranged around the cemetery in the shape of an Occitan Cross. Death dates indicated the Occitan pattern was being completed in a clockwise direction around the cross. There would be thirty-three locations in the completed pattern. Twenty-two stones bore full inscriptions, three more stones bore full inscriptions along with an additional note indicating the bodies had not been recovered. Three stones bore names only, and five places in the Occitan Cross were not yet occupied. Then suddenly, as Chris stood contemplating the curious arrangement of the graves, the obvious problem with the cemetery struck him. It contained far too few graves!
If several dozen Cathars had arrived in Lewis three centuries ago, and generation after generation of their descendants had supposedly been buried in this graveyard, then their graves should now number in the hundreds, and yet there were only places for thirty-three Cathar deceased. That made no sense.
* * * *
At the abandoned farm, Gilbert posted Sweat by the rusted gate with a rifle. In his pink sweater and orange vest, Sweat looked a most unlikely hunter but it wouldn’t be the sweater that turned intruders away.
Gilbert and Blood poured bleach into the barrels, doused the kindling in gasoline, ignited it, and banked the fires to quickly build beds of hot coals. When the water in the two barrels reached a rolling boil, they dumped garbage bags of remains into them. Each was shortly a bubbling mass of blackened flesh and fat. The smell was horrific.
After three hours, they tipped the barrels down the slope onto the plastic ground sheet. Much of the fat and flesh spilled into the surrounding grass, but most of the bones remained on the plastic. They searched through the boiled flesh and the grass to retrieve even the smallest fragments of bone. The client was not going to be satisfied if even a pinky finger was missing.
Finally, Blood used a deboning knife to carve away stubborn gristle from each bone. Bagged up, the skeletons were once again loaded into the van. The process then began again for two more sacks of remains. At mid-day, the twins switched places so no one missed out on the fun. Well past sunset, they doused the fires and started back to Lewis.
* * * *
Exhausted from his hours in the fresh air and not yet feeling a hundred percent, Chris ate a light lunch and settled by the bay window to read and doze for the afternoon. Again he became swept up in Cathar lore and stories of Cathar treasure.
At first, the various descriptions of the treasure he reviewed all referenced the same theories: the Ark of the Covenant, the Shroud, the Minora from the Temple of Solomon, and anything else the Templars might have found in the Holy Land. Then discussions took an intriguing turn. Several books mentioned the involvement of Mary from Magdale or Mary Magdalene.
“The prostitute of the New Testament?” Chris muttered.
…One possibility was that the Cathar treasure included a gospel written by Mary Magdalene herself, providing her very personal account of her years as the intimate companion of Jesus, and of her years thereafter, preaching and teaching the word of Christ.
Intimate companion of Jesus? Did that mean what Chris thought it meant?
…Another possibility was that the treasure might have included the Holy Grail, the cup from which Christ drank at the Last Supper. Legend had it Mary Magdalene, the beloved companion of Jesus, had brought the cup to the Languedoc.
There was that ‘companion’ business again.
Following the crucifixion of her beloved companion, Jesus, Mary of Magdale had become a refugee in search of solitude and security. Expelled from Palestine in 42 BCE, she was forced to sail westward. Legend has it she’d landed near the mouth of the Petit Rhône at the place now known as Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer in the Camargue. She arrived with a number of early Christians, including two other Maries—the cousins of herself and of the Virgin Mary—along with a young, dark-skinned servant named Sarah.
Purportedly a great preacher in her own right, Mary Magdalene lived a life of piety in the Camargue for years, preaching to the locals and converting many. Toward the end of her days, she was said to have left the coast and trekked into the Sainte Baume, a barren and inhospitable region of limestone cliffs and towering mountains where she’d lived out her days as a hermit in a cave, fed by angels and clothed only by her hair.
…when Mary Magdalene died, locals concealed her remains for a thousand years in the caves of the Sainte Baume until Cathar Perfecti carried away her ossuary to keep it out of the hands of advancing Catholic armies. A cult of the Magdalene emerged among Cathars. They regarded Jesus as an example of true self-denial and as a model Perfect, and Mary Magdalene as the model teacher and spiritual leader. At a time when women had no role in the Catholic world, Cathars believed Mary Magdalene had done more by her preaching and example to establish Christ’s true church of faith and self-denial on earth than Saint Peter and his male-dominated church of excess. As Catholic armies tightened their grip on the Occitan, Cathar Perfecti relocated Mary’s ossuary from the Sainte Baume to the caves below Monsegur for safekeeping.
“Wait,” Chris muttered, “does that mean the Cathars robbed Mary’s grave?” They may have been trying to protect her remains, but does Paradise make such distinctions? Would Rose DuCalice say that Mary’s spirit was still sitting in a cave somewhere in the Camargue weeping over her expulsion from Paradise? And what of the Cathars who had moved her remains? Were they punished for defiling her resting place? Oh right, of course; Monsegur had fallen and the Cathars had been annihilated, so maybe the question of their punishment was moot.
* * * *
Geraldine and Twilight were snuggled together on an old couch backstage. Work and rehearsals had ended hours ago, and the exit light now provided the only illumination in the theater. Geraldine hated to move but was determined to warn Rose her father had identified Chris. God knows what he planned to do with the information, but it was sure to be hurtful to Rose and Geraldine wasn’t going to let that happen.
Slowly, she pried her hand from Twilight’s grasp, then froze as the girl shifted and coughed. Several minutes passed before Geraldine dared move again. Lifting the girl’s head from her lap, Geraldine slid sideways off the couch, and lowered it back down onto the sofa.
Nothing stirred in the darkened theater. Dolli was up in Gilbert’s apartment, Manfred and Caspar in the technical booth, Lassa and Emelia in the projection booth above the lobby, and Wolfram and Wanetta on cots behind the refreshment counter. Doctor Shadow was God knows where, probably with his dirty magazines in the cellar.
Geraldine crept across the stage, grabbed her coat from the hook by the exit, and slipped out into the night. Her watch read 11:40 but she knew Rose would still be up; the woman kept the strangest hours.
She crept along Main Street, slipped into an alley on the far side of the L
ibrary building, and went straight to a door halfway along its length. The innocuous steel door bore no markings, no name or contact information, nothing except an elaborate security camera, intercom and buzzer system set into the wall to the right of the door. When Geraldine pressed the buzzer, a tiny red light flickered on the camera.
“What do you want, Geraldine?” Rose said through the intercom, an obvious note of irritation in her tone.
“I know it’s late, Rose, but I need to speak with you.”
“Oh, Geraldine, who’s been mean to you now?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I need to tell you something, something about my dad.”
Several seconds passed before Rose replied, “All right, come up, but you can’t stay long. It’s very late.”
The door opened with a loud buzz to reveal a dark corridor. At the far end, an elevator had already arrived to meet her.
Rose’s apartment reminded Geraldine of a photo she’d once seen of the reading room in a private men’s club, all soaring ceilings, paneled walls, polished wood floors and oriental rugs. Glass cases displayed all sorts of carved objects and pieces of pottery, gold and silver dishes and goblets, and many sheets of parchment. Geraldine once counted a dozen towering shelves filled with very old books. Near the centre of the room stood a ten-foot long slanted reading table with several huge atlases and a gigantic dictionary open on it.
This was not a room in which to relax. There was no TV, no sofa, no radio, no magazines or cheap paperbacks or games or jigsaw puzzles, no knitting or crosswords or evidence of casual relaxation of any kind. Rose’s place of escape, her private domain, was a place for work, nothing more.
Geraldine was always unnerved to step off the elevator. Opposite the door hung an enormous mirror. It had to be twelve-foot on each side and in an ornate gilt frame that would not have been out of place in the Palace of Versailles. Upon entering Rose’s world, one was immediately confronted by the revolting reality of one’s own image—bulges and pimples, flaws and insufficiencies. Geraldine cringed at the sight of herself, then registered in horror she was still wearing her new Goth garb. She quickly pulled her coat closed across her black leather corset and crinolines, but too late.
“What are you wearing?” Rose called from across the room.
“It’s...it’s my Goth costume. I came from the theater.”
“Well you look...!” Rose started to speak in a reproachful voice, but then paused and began again in a gentler tone. “Geraldine, I know you want to help, and I appreciate it, but if helping me means you must make a fool of yourself or do things that feel wrong or that require you to change who you are, then you must stop. Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” Geraldine replied. Change who she was? Rose’s concern presumed Geraldine had the slightest clue who she was. Which she didn’t.
“So why are you here?”
“Earlier today, my dad stopped by the theater looking for Gilbert but he’s away somewhere on business.”
“Did your father see you?”
“No. But he told Gilbert’s girlfriend he’d figured out who Chris is...and that Chris might be useful to them.”
Rose swore under her breath.
“Rose?” Geraldine asked.
“What?”
“I know Chris was involved in some sort of big mystery up in Maine, but why is he here in Lewis?”
“He’s trying to escape public attention while the State of Maine conducts an investigation.”
“If he’s trying to escape attention, then why is he helping you fight Gilbert and my dad?”
“Because my brother thinks I need Chris’s help.”
“Is your brother right?”
“No, quite the opposite. I seem to be spending all my time helping Chris...and I’m getting sick of it. And I’m going to tell my brother so.”
“So is it a good thing or a bad thing my dad intends to expose Chris?”
Rose was silent for a moment as she weighed the facts. At last she said, “It’s probably not a good thing, not if your father intends to use Chris’s presence in our town to promote his ridiculous festival.”
“So what should I do?”
“Nothing for the moment, not until I can warn Chris.”
“Rose.”
“Yes?”
“I...I know I’m not a guy or anything, and your brother wouldn’t consider me much of an asset, nobody would, but, Rose, you don’t just have Chris on your side. You have me too.”
“I know, child.”
* * * *
The loud banging on the back door startled Chris. He’d spent much of the afternoon reading and napping. His last nap must have been a good one because the room was now dark and cold.
More loud knocks.
Chris turned on a lamp and limped to the kitchen in time to hear the crunch of footsteps in the gravel outside. Someone was walking around the outside of the house. Chris grabbed a ladle from the kitchen counter.
“Chris, are you in there?” someone shouted from outside.
“Gillian?”
He hurriedly opened the door. “What are you doing here?” A second figure stepped out of the dark. “Nigel, you too?”
They were bundled up against the cold, Gillian in a hooded parka, and snow boots, and Nigel Harrow in a dark cashmere overcoat and galoshes. Even so, they were obviously chilled to the bone.
“Come in, come in! This is great. But what are you doing here? I didn’t hear a car. How did you get here?”
“Nigel’s car is back at the gate,” Gillian replied, her teeth chattering.
“Come through to the parlor. Let’s get a fire going. So why didn’t you call to say you were coming? I’d have met you at the road.”
“We don’t know the phone number. Nigel thought he knew where the house was so we decided to take a chance.” Gillian pulled her coat off and rubbed her arms to get the circulation going again. “We hadn’t figured on a gate.”
Chris led the way into the parlor and laid a fire. “You could have gone back into town and asked Rose DuCalice to call.”
“Gillian was too excited,” Nigel said. “She has something to tell you that couldn’t wait. So we parked the car on the side of the road, climbed the fence, and walked.”
Nigel hadn’t seen Chris since he’d delivered the news that Chris would soon be released from the detention center.
“I’m worried, Chris. I thought you’d be a lot better by now,” Nigel said with a look of grave concern. “Was it a mistake to let you come here alone? Is your health getting worse?”
“It’s okay. I caught a chill the other night, but I’m on the mend.”
“And the cuts and bruises, and your hand? All Mallory?” Gillian asked.
Nigel shook his head. “I couldn’t have imagined.”
“You couldn’t imagine a ghost doing all this?” Chris said with a smile.
Nigel wanted to take Chris to a doctor immediately, but Chris wouldn’t hear of it. Besides, he explained, Rose DuCalice had an amazing salve she applied every time Mallory attacked.
“Again with this Mallory. Are you sure she isn’t just a...?” Nigel asked as diplomatically as he could.
“A figment of my imagination? Am I positive I’m not nuts?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I can’t say for sure I’m not nuts, not after the year I’ve had, but I can assure you Mallory’s real.”
“And she’s why we’ve come!” Gillian said. “I’ve heard from Mallory’s father. He sent me copies of the prayers we need, and given me information on a Torajan priest near Boston. Isn’t that great? And I’ve already spoken to the priest.”
Nigel went to the kitchen to make hot drinks and find food while Chris read the Captain’s letter.
“I felt bad when I read the part where Dahlman thanks me for being such a good friend to Mallory,” Gillian said, “but then he writes, Perhaps we could meet sometime when next I’m in Boston, and I could express more intimately my appreciation f
or your kind wishes. I felt so creeped out when I read that.”
The memory of Mallory whispering, “I’ll always be your little girl,” during their lovemaking, made Chris’s skin crawl.
“Anyway, I called the priest in Boston and told him a friend who’d been a follower of the Torajan faith died recently. I said her faith fascinated me and I was looking for guidance because we had been very close. He was pleased to talk. I asked questions about rituals and prayers and stuff, and eventually admitted my friend had committed suicide and her father out in Asia had attempted a walking dead spell and then a cleansing second death ritual to give her spirit peace. But I was afraid the prayers hadn’t worked because I keep having nightmares her spirit is still here and terribly tormented.
“The priest said he’d heard about spells for walking the dead but not about a cleansing death. He was intrigued by the idea and asked for copies of the prayers Mallory’s father had sent.
“Then I asked him if because we’re closer to Mallory’s remains than her father had been, our performing Mallory’s rites might work better here? Perhaps, he replied and that’s when I asked him to perform the cleansing death ritual again.
“He said he might be willing to try if I truly believed the rite might help me get over her loss. He was very frank. He said he didn’t really think the ceremony would make the slightest difference because he considered the very idea of walking dead to be nonsense. But then he also said maybe he’d been living among nonbelievers too long, and the challenge might do him good. That’s when he agreed to perform another cleansing death, once he’d had time to study it of course.”
“Gillian, you’re amazing! When?”
“He teaches in some school of divinity in Worchester, Mass so he can’t until the end of term. But in Mayfor sure.”
“Fantastic!”
They ate toast and cheese, drank hot chocolate, talked about Marymount Cottage, and Lewis, and the Inquiry, and nothing in particular. Gillian gave Chris some of the medicine Rose had left for him, and Chris promptly fell asleep in his armchair.
“Should we move him?” Gillian asked.