‘Who is Louise Brooks?’
He sighed, feeling ridiculous. ‘Never mind . . .’
‘Shall we get started then?’ she said, and with the philosophical mien of a captain about to enter the field of battle, added, ‘Let’s go!’
49
Le Papesse
‘Then an unconquerable terror seized upon me from which I could no longer get free. I felt that a catastrophe was approaching before which the boldest spirit must quail.’
Jules Verne, Journey to the Centre of the Earth
Rahn followed Eva feeling inept and clumsy, an emasculated hero. Trees hung across their path and their bare limbs stood out against the inky blackness, like bony fingers pointing to a half-worn moon obscured by drifting clouds. The wind carried the sound of an owl and a creature scurried in the undergrowth. That feeling came again, the feeling of peril ahead, and not just that: a pure form of terror began to seize him, not that same panic he felt going into churches but a calm terror that was visceral. No, there was no turning back.
Not far ahead he could see the outline of the hermitage set high over the gorge and the sound of water tumbling and foaming below was louder now. When they came upon firebrands lighting the way he knew they were expecting company. He had a sense for where they would be; Grassaud had mentioned an abbé who had entered the underground tunnels some years before and returned incoherent and lethargic. He had died soon afterwards, without elucidating what had happened.
Rahn’s instincts were proved right when they reached the forbidden grotto of Mary Magdalene. Here a grilled door lay open with firebrands on either side, and beyond it there was a tunnel illuminated by torches. Rahn entered first with Eva following close behind. Soon there were stone steps and a steep descent; after that more steps, followed by more descending. It was cold and damp and easy to lose one’s bearings. Strata and substrata passed by until they began to hear the low snarling and growling of dogs intermixed with chanting. They moved now with stealth until they reached the mouth of a great open gallery.
Eva signalled to a spot behind a high rock and he followed her to a position in the shadows from which they could see into the gallery below.
The gallery was wide and domed and lit by a large fire and black candles. Rahn saw the dogs now, three Dobermans tethered to a rock. A number of people were gathered in the cave, all of them dressed in black cloaks and facing a circle that had been drawn on the ground. Written around the circle at the four cardinal points Rahn could make out the letters ROTA. Inside this circle a pentagram had been drawn and in the middle of that, before an altar, stood a woman dressed in a black cloak, wearing a sword in a red girdle around her waist. When she turned around, Rahn gasped. It was Madame Dénarnaud!
The madame now addressed the group in a solemn voice: ‘Aeons ago the great general council of all the masters was called. Fearing that the Church would destroy their work, the masters who came out of Naples, Athens and Toledo chose from one of them, a man whose name was Honorius, the son of Euclid, master of the Thebans. They gave the Theban Honorius the task of creating an illustrious compendium of magic, a work never seen before by human eyes. Upon its creation, copies were made for safekeeping, and these were given to men who swore an oath to pass them down only to those who had merit. One copy fell into the hands of a man destined to become a pope and so was born Le Serpent Rouge, the Grimoire of Pope Honorius III, the finest distillation of our art – the most infernal grimoire ever written.
‘But now, the time has come for priest to give way to priestess, pope to popess! You are all acquainted with the tarot card le papesse. That is how you must think of me. For I will take the title of Pontifex Maximus and I alone will hold the missing key that opens the way to Hell. This Night of the Dead, I will place that key into the sacred lock and call forth the master of all demons.’ She looked around. ‘Who brings me the blood of le sacrifice humain?’
A cowled man placed a large bowl on the altar.
‘The blood of the English Freemason who used Gaston De Mengel as a puppet will serve us well this night!’
‘Where are the cakes of light?’
Another man brought forth a bowl and Rahn knew this must be the desecrated sacrament.
She looked about again. ‘Who brings the Apocalypse of Saint John?’
A tall, cowled figure came forth and offered her the blue manuscript from Bugarach. The madame took it and placed it on the altar.
‘And finally, who is the guardian of Le Serpent Rouge?’
A rather portly figure shuffled forward, holding a red manuscript. When he removed his cowl a hush fell.
‘I give you Aleister Crowley!’ Madame Dénarnaud said with ebullience.