The Tenth Chamber (14 page)

They thirstily cupped handfuls of pure cold water into their mouths and decided it was perhaps a sign the way forward was propitious.

The going was slow and the ledge a bit treacherous but they were committed to finding their shortcut and both were silently glad their bodies were up for the task. Months earlier, they had been so feeble they could hardly rise from their beds. They were thankful and trudged on.

A second waterfall graced their path allowing them to drink their fill again. Bernard wiped his hands dry on his habit and craned his neck. ‘Just there,’ he pointed. ‘If we go a little further I believe that is a place we can safely climb to the top.’

At the chosen spot, Bernard put hands to his hips and asked Abélard if he was prepared for the ascent.

‘I am ready, though it does seem a long way up.’

‘Don’t worry. God will keep us attached to the firmament,’ Bernard said cheerfully.

‘If one of us is to fly, pray it be me, not you,’ Abélard replied.

Bernard led the way, searching for a route that best approximated a stairway. Sweating heavily, his chest heaving from exertion, he pulled himself up to the next level and stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Abélard!’ he cried. ‘Take care on that loose rock there but come! There is something marvellous!’

There was a gaping hole in the cliff face, as wide as a man’s bed, as tall as a child.

Bernard extended a hand to help the older man up. ‘A cave!’ Abélard exclaimed, gulping air.

‘Let us have a look at it,’ Bernard said excitedly. ‘At least it will cool us down.’

Without fire, they had to rely on sunshine to see anything within the vault. A yellow glow extended only a few feet before tapering into blackness. After crawling inside they found they were able to stand easily. Bernard took a few tentative steps forward and saw something at the edge of the light. ‘My God, Abélard! See there? There are frescoes!’

Running horses.

Charging bison.

The head of a huge black bull overhead.

The creatures disappeared into the darkness.

‘A painter has been here,’ Abélard sputtered.

‘A genius,’ Bernard agreed. ‘But who?’

‘Do you think it is from antiquity?’ Abélard asked.

‘Perhaps but I cannot say.’

‘The Romans were here in Gaul.’

‘Yes, but these do not appear as any Roman statue or mosaic I have ever seen,’ Bernard said. He looked out over the valley. ‘Whatever its age, it is a spot of majesty. The artist could not have found a better tablet to paint upon. We must return with illumination to see what lies deeper.’ He clapped his hands on Abélard’s shoulders. ‘Come my friend. What a marvellous day this has been. Let us get back to the abbey for mass.’

Bernard encouraged Barthomieu to return to the cave with he and Abélard, and in turn, Barthomieu recruited Brother Jean who was learned about and fascinated by the natural world. The four men set off from the abbey in the morning after the Terce service. They aimed to return by the Sext service at noon. They would have to hurry, but if they missed Sext, they would do penance. The world would not end. If Bernard had been the abbot at Ruac, attitudes would not be so lax, but that bright day he felt more explorer than cleric.

The men arrived at the cave by mid-morning, with the giddiness of boys on a lark. Barthomieu was buoyed by his brother’s improved vigour and good cheer. Jean, a tubby, good-natured healer, the oldest of the group by a few years, was eager to see these frescoes for himself. Bernard and Abélard for their part, happily nurtured their growing bond.

They brought good torches with them, lengths of larch with ends wrapped in fatted rags. On the ledge below the cave, Jean knelt down, not to pray but to open his pouch of fire-making materials: a flint, an iron cylinder which was the broken shaft of an old abbey key and some powdery linen char cloth, prepared and dried in his own special way.

He worked fast, sparking the iron on the flint and had the kindling going in moments. After his torch was lit, the others set theirs blazing too. Soon, four men were standing in the mouth of the cave, hoisting burning torches, staring wordlessly at some of the finest art they had ever seen.

Inside, they completely lost track of the hours; by the time they would return, Sext would be long over and they would be fortunate to attend the next service at Nones. By the light of hissing torches, they marvelled at the menagerie. Some of the animals such as the bison and mammoths seemed fanciful, though the horses and bears were realistic enough. The weird priapic bird man startled them and set their tongues clucking. And when they came to crawl through the spider hole at the rear of the cave they were dazzled by the red-stencilled hand prints that encircled them in a small chamber.

From the first moments, they had been discussing who the artist or artists might have been. Romans? Gauls? Celts? Other distant barbarians? Lacking an answer, they turned to the question of why. Why bedeck a chamber with hands? What purpose would be served?

Jean wandered into the last chamber and exclaimed, ‘Now, brothers, here are things I can better understand! Plants!’

Jean inspected the paintings with a keen eye. He was an avid herbalist, one of the most skilled practitioners in the Périgord, and his abilities as an infirmarer were unrivalled. His poultices, rubs, powders and infusions were legendary, his reputation reaching all the way to Paris. There was a long history of herbalism in the region and knowledge of plants and medicaments was carefully passed down from father to son, mother to daughter and in the case of Ruac, monk to monk. Jean had a particular gift at embellishment and experimentation. Even if a poultice for wheezing worked well enough, might it not work better with the addition of stalk of cranesbill? If loose bowels could be staunched by the usual brews, might the infusions be made more potent with the added juice of poppies and mandrake?

With his companions hovering over his shoulder, Jean pointed his torch at the paintings of bushes with red berries and five-sided leaves. ‘To my eye, that is the gooseberry bush. The juice of those berries is good for various lassitudes. And these vines, over here. They look to be in the family of possession vines which are said to remedy the ague.’

Barthomieu was inspecting the large bird man on the opposite wall. ‘Have you seen this creature, brothers?’ He poked a finger at the figure’s erect cock. ‘He is as felicitous as the other one. That said, even I know the type of vegetation surrounding him. It is meadow grass.’

‘I agree,’ Jean sniffed. ‘Simple grass. It is of limited value as a medicament although I will use it from time to time to bind a poultice.’

Bernard slowly moved around the chamber, inspecting the walls for himself. ‘I almost tire of saying it but I have never seen a place as singular in all of Christendom. It seems to me . . .’

There was a crunch underfoot and Bernard lost his balance. He fell, dropping his torch and scuffing his knees.

Abélard hurried over and held out his arm. ‘Are you all right, my friend?’

Bernard started to reach for his torch but retracted his hand as if a serpent was about to strike back and crossed himself. ‘Look there! My God!’

Abélard lowered his torch to better see what had so startled Bernard. Against the wall was a heaped-up pile of ivory-coloured human bones. He quickly drew the sign of the cross against his chest.

Jean joined them and began an inspection. ‘These bones are not fresh,’ he observed. ‘I cannot say how long this poor wretch has lain here but I believe it is no short time. And look at his skull!’ Behind the left ear hole, the back of the vault was crushed and deeply depressed. ‘He met a violent end, may God rest his soul. I wonder if he is our painter?’

‘How can we ever know?’ Bernard said. ‘Whoever he is, it is incumbent upon us to assume he is a Christian and give him a Christian burial. We cannot leave him here.’

‘I agree, but we will have to return on another day with a sack to carry his remains,’ Abélard said. ‘I would not wish to disgrace him by leaving some of his bones here, scattering others there.’

‘Shall we bury him with his bowl?’ Barthomieu exclaimed like a child.

‘What bowl?’ Jean asked.

Barthomieu stuck his torch out until it was almost touching the limestone bowl, the size of a man’s cupped hands, which was lying on the floor between two piles of foot bones. ‘There!’ he said. ‘Shall we bury him with his old supper bowl?’

Long after the bones were interred in the cemetery and a mass for the dead held in the church, Jean revisited the flesh-coloured stone bowl he kept on his reading desk by his bed. It was heavy, smooth and cool to the touch and cradling it in his hands he could not help but wonder about the man in the cave. He himself had a heavy mortar and pestle which he used to grind his botanicals into remedies. One day on an impulse, he retrieved his mortar from the infirmary bench and placed it alongside this man’s bowl. They were not so different.

His assistant, a young monk named Michel, was watching him suspiciously from his corner perch.

‘Do you not have work to occupy yourself?’ Jean asked irritably. The hatchet-faced youth was incapable of minding his own affairs.

‘No, Father.’

‘Well, I will tell you how to bide your time until Vespers. Change all the straw in the infirmary mattresses. The bed bugs have returned.’

The young monk shuffled off with a sour expression, whispering under his breath.

Jean’s cell was a walled-off space within the long infirmary. Usually, by the time he would slip off his sandals and lay his head on the straw, he would be asleep, oblivious to the snores and moans of his patients. Since the day he visited the cave, however, he had slept fitfully, dwelling on the images on the walls and the skeleton in the chamber. Once, in a dream, the skeleton rearticulated, rose and became the bird man. He awoke in an unpleasant sweat.

On this night he lay awake staring at the small candle he left burning on his desk between the two stone bowls.

A compulsion overtook him.

It would not be quieted easily.

It would not wane until he dragged Barthomieu, Bernard and Abélard out with him into the dewy meadows and succulent woodlands that surrounded the abbey.

It would not wane until they had collected baskets overflowing with meadow grasses, gooseberries and possession vines.

It would not wane until Jean had mashed the berries, chopped and ground the plants in his mortar then boiled the stringy pulp into an infusion.

It would not wane until the night the four men sat together in Jean’s cell and one-by-one swilled down the tart, reddish tea.

‘That’s it?’ Luc exclaimed.

Hugo had stopped translating. He closed the email attachment and turned his palms upward in a gesture of apologetic futility. ‘That’s all he’s decoded so far.’

Luc impatiently stamped his foot, shaking the portable building. ‘So they made a tea from these plants. Then what?’

‘Hopefully, our Belgian friend will have more for us soon. I’ll send an encouraging message. I’d hate for him to get distracted by something like a
Star Trek
convention and lose interest.’

‘There was a skeleton, Hugo, and artefacts! But now, no surface finds in the tenth chamber or anywhere else. What a loss!’

Hugo shrugged. ‘Well, they probably did what they said they were going to do. They gave the pre-Christian cave man a Christian burial!’

‘It’s like finding an Egyptian tomb cleaned out by grave robbers. An in situ skeleton from the period would have been of immense value.’

‘They left the paintings for you, don’t forget that.’

Luc started for the door. ‘Send an email to your friend and get him to hurry up with the rest of the manuscript. I’m going to talk to Sara about the plants.’

‘If I were you, I’d do more than talk.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Hugo. Grow up.’

Sara’s caravan was dark but Luc still rapped on the door. There was a muffled ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Luc. I’ve got some important news.’

After a few moments, the Spaniard Ferrer opened the door, shirtless, and cheerfully said, ‘She’ll be right with you, Luc. Want a drink?’

Sara lit a mantle lamp and appeared at the doorway, flushed with embarrassment like a caught-out teenager. Her blouse was one buttonhole off and when she noticed it, all she could do was roll her eyes at herself.

Ferrer gave her a peck on the cheek and took off, remarking without a touch of bitterness that business came first.

Luc asked if she’d be more comfortable if they talked outside but she invited him in and lit the lamp in the sitting area. Its hissing sound broke the silence. ‘Seems like a nice fellow,’ he finally said.

‘Carlos? Very nice.’

‘Did you know him before Ruac?’

She frowned. ‘Luc, why is it I’m feeling like I’m being interrogated by my father? This is a little awkward, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Not for me. I’m sorry it’s awkward for you. That wasn’t my intention.’

‘I’m sure.’ She sipped from a bottle of water. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

‘Our plants. I think they were put to specific use.’

She leaned forward, unwittingly exposing glistening cleavage. ‘Go on,’ she said, and as he repeated the story gleaned from Barthomieu’s manuscript she obsessively twirled strands of hair over and over, tightly enough to make her finger blanch. It was a nervous habit he’d forgotten until just now. During their final night together she’d done it a lot.

He wasn’t sure if it was his presence that was causing her stress or Barthomieu’s story. Either way, when he was done and they had both made eager comments about the work that lay ahead, he told her to take it easy and get a good night’s rest.

From her quizzical expression, he suspected his tone carried more admonishment than advice.

The second day of the excavation quickly unspooled and knotted up like a tangled fishing line.