Temple of the Grail(7)

We walked past the high altar, crossing ourselves devoutly, and paused for a moment before the rose window as a beautiful shaft of afternoon light pierced the gloom. It illuminated infinite indissoluble particles that, aroused by the daystar’s caress, swirled around us in a dance of joy and gladness. For light we know not only chases away darkness but also death, and so I felt a little better than I had felt all week, following this light which even now waned slightly, directing us, it seemed, to the pulpitum – or screen, that sequestered the sanctuary from the eyes of the lay community. It was behind it, unseen, that monks took their places during the services, in the choir stalls that were made of carved wood on bases of stonework, with high ornamented canopied backs. Inside there were hinged seats, wisely constructed so as to enable a tired monk to sit, thankfully (though unofficially), through a long service. At the eastern end there was a lectern of brass in the shape of an eagle with spread wings on which music books were placed. Here there was also a seat for the master of music and beside it a more ornate seat for the officiating priest or abbot. To the west of the stalls were the presbytery and the high altar, and the shrine. There on the floor before the sacred space a monk, we realised, was speaking to us, but his voice was muffled for he was lying face down as though dead, his arms spread out so that his body formed the shape of a cross. We had not discerned his form when we had stood at the altar, for his habit was grey like the floor, and we had been taken by the daystar’s blessing, and so I was startled.

‘Is somebody there?’ we heard his muffled inquiry. ‘If you are the Devil, be on your way. If you are goodly men help this poor old monk up from this cursed floor!’

My master went to the man, and helped him easily to his feet. He seemed ancient, with a dry wrinkled face whose pale eyes would have been very frightening if they did not also exude a certain gentle warmth.

‘Ohh! My bones ache!’ He squinted, sniffing us. ‘I am brother Ezekiel . . . who, in God’s name, are you?’ ‘I am the Templar preceptor, venerable Ezekiel, and to your right is my young apprentice, Christian.’

He sought me with his hands and, finding my face, at once began to explore it with cold fingers. I tried not to recoil at his touch but was startled out of my wits when he gasped suddenly, feeling for his heart with one hand and reaching into his scapular with the other, retrieving something from it, which he placed in his toothless mouth. It must have had some beneficial effect, for he wiped the sticky residue from his lips, and continued a little calmer than before.

‘A Templar preceptor . . . you say?’ he blinked, peering at me. ‘Your boy is remarkably like . . . Are we in the . . .? No . . . during . . .? Oh!’ he cried exasperated. ‘Where is Setubar?’ Very slowly then, in a circumspect tone, ‘I suppose you have come about the antichrist whose countenance lurks within these lamentable walls?’

My master smiled, ‘No, venerable Ezekiel, we have come to advise the inquiry.’

‘Oh! Inquiry?’ He drew even closer, grabbing my master’s vestments, his sweet breath making feathery phantoms in the cold air. ‘Where is Setubar? Is he about?’

My master narrowed his eyes, ‘Who is Setubar?’

‘Is he about? ‘ the man pressed, wringing his hands.

‘We are alone, brother,’ my master answered.

‘Then I can tell you. That is, if you are a Templar . . .’ He felt for the cross stitched to my master’s habit and brought his eyes very close to it. Immediately he smiled with satisfaction and his eyes filled with tears. ‘It has been many years . . . There is little time, so listen to my words . . . in these sacred walls there are men who . . .’ he paused, squeezing his eyes shut as though to say these words caused him pain. ‘There are men who are wedded to error, men seduced by the Devil! Yes, impossible, you say? But it is true, the days of the antichrist are finally at hand, preceptor . . . We have seen our first martyr.’

‘I saw the new grave,’ my master remarked.

The old man winced and placed both hands over his eyes. ‘The Devil will kill us all!’

At that moment, from out of the shadows of the south ambulatory, the figure of a cowled monk appeared whose bent form moved toward us in a peculiar fashion. After some moments he reached us, and taking the old man’s hand in his he spoke, in a gruff German accent, ‘Brother Ezekiel, you have graced the Lord with your prostrations long enough.’

‘Setubar . . .!’ Ezekiel gasped. ‘I was telling the preceptor about . . . about . . . the antichrist . . .’

‘I see . . .’ the man nodded his head, ‘but he has existed, my friend, for thousands of years, and we have only moments to ready for the service, now come,’ he said. Then, placing the man’s hand on his arm and turning in our direction, so that we only caught sight of a wrinkled chin and toothless smile, he added, ‘If we let him, dear guests, he would lie prostrate all day . . . so dedicated to our Lord is our dear brother.’