‘Very funny, Deodat!’
Rahn concentrated on keeping calm and stepped inside. Once across the threshold all his symptoms returned: his mouth was dry; his hands trembled; sweat formed on his brow; and his knees weakened. He looked about. The church seemed redolent of decay, the flickering candles made shadows loom over the walls. Shadows and shadows of shadows created sinister demons of those saints upon their high stations. His mother’s words rang in his ears.
Don’t be afraid, Otto, there are only angels in churches.
‘Yes, but are they good angels?’ he whispered out loud, making Deodat turn around.
They had made it to the choir enclosures without Rahn passing out, which was a relief to him, and now Deodat showed him the tabernacle. Rahn forced his mind to turn away from imponderables and focused his thinking to the moment. The bronze box was built into the front of the altar directly beneath the crucifix, whose hideousness was lit by a perpetual flame. Rahn tried the lock. It wouldn’t give. He took a candle behind the altar, which to him seemed less sinister than the front. He thought that the sacristan or the abbé may have left a key here for convenience but he found nothing more than a little bottle of oil, a box of matches and a couple of dirty rags. He opened the matchbox – it was full of matches but no key.
Deodat whispered his name and Rahn placed the matchbox absently in the pocket of his pants and went to him. Deodat was trying to open the sacristy door under the Grail plaque but it was also locked. Rahn went to the opposite door but he too had no luck.
‘What now?’ Deodat whispered harshly.
‘We have to break into it.’
‘How?’
Before Rahn could reply, they were interrupted by a noise.
‘What in the devil is that?’ Deodat whispered.
Rahn, who was facing the length of the nave towards the west, paused. The door was groaning. He brought out his old Swiss Army knife, knowing it would be no use at all against a man holding a gun. Without another thought he gestured for them to move behind the altar.
The footsteps were slow, light and deliberate.
A small man, Rahn thought, was headed in their direction. Whoever it was had already come past the enclosures. Rahn’s breathing grew rapid. His heart was pounding. Had they been followed? Perhaps it was the same person who had killed the sacristan, perhaps one of Serinus’s men, or the inspector, or worst still the Gestapo . . . Who knew how many people were after him by now? Another noise pierced the gloom – the sound of metal against metal and a click that reverberated a little in the church.
Rahn understood. Whoever it was had opened the tabernacle, not having yet reckoned their presence. He had to act now. The element of surprise would give him an advantage. He figured he would come from behind the altar, allowing the moment to dictate his actions and whatever came after that, he did not dare contemplate. He looked at Deodat and pointed in the direction of the altar, suggesting that they move to attack.
He sprang vigorously from his position in the darkness into the space in front of the altar, his every muscle and sinew straining into action. What came next was a blur of images and sounds: he saw a figure in black, he heard a gasp and then something heavy came down and turned night into day in a spray of stars. The ground then opened up beneath him and he felt himself falling . . .
. . . he was falling into a fissure in the volcano of Bugarach, redolent of sulphur and crowded with sibyls.
ISLAND OF THE DEAD
17
Prospero
‘Who?’ replied Don Quixote. ‘Who can it be
but some malignant enchanter . . .’
Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote
Venice, 2012
There was a pause. I was suddenly no longer in the church of Bugarach with Rahn; I was in the library on the Island of the Dead with the Writer of Letters, who seemed to me like a modern version of Shakespeare’s Prospero.
‘So, what do you think of it?’ he said, sitting forwards, looking at me probingly.
‘It has the makings of a decent mystery, so far. I like the way you’ve interpolated the inscription into your plot.’
‘My plot?’
‘Yes.’
He smiled. ‘This is your story, remember?’
‘Right.’ I nodded, returning his smile. ‘So, does the church in Bugarach exist?’
‘Of course! All of those things that Rahn saw are there. You could see them today if you wanted to; not much changes in little villages like that.’
‘All those clues?’
‘Indeed. The interesting thing about clues is that you can find them everywhere – but are they an illusion? For instance, one can add two and two to make four, but four of what? You see, you have to know what you are adding before it can make practical sense. Sometimes knowing the number is not enough.’