The bell’s clang resonated over the gorges and it seemed a long moment before they saw a monk in a coarse grey cassock making his way along the overgrown path to them. When he arrived, puffing for his efforts, he revealed himself to be young and friendly and when Rahn told him whom they had come to see, he smiled.
‘Ah yes, the abbé is here. But it will soon be time for the service, and if you want to talk to him we had better hurry.’ He looked at the girl fleetingly, fearfully, and bent his eyes to his sandals. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t possible for a woman to enter. I’m sorry, but women are welcome during Easter and the time of pilgrimage only.’
Rahn looked at the young man gravely. ‘It is a delicate matter – the mademoiselle is Abbé Cros’s niece. Unfortunately, he died yesterday and she has come to tell Abbé Grassaud the news. You see, they were good friends.’
The monk looked a little embarrassed. ‘How sad. I’m sorry for your loss, but it does not change things – we must abide by our rules.’
‘Go on, I’ll be all right,’ Eva said, emphatically. ‘I’ll just wait here.’
Rahn hesitated. ‘You’d better stay out of sight then, mademoiselle. I won’t be long.’ He didn’t like leaving her; so many strange things had happened these last hours and no matter how annoying she was, she was still only a woman and therefore vulnerable. Seeing no other way around it he relented, following the monk over the narrow rocky path while looking over his shoulder now and again until they reached a series of buildings that seemed to be built into the mountain, penetrating deep into the natural caves behind them. Rahn needed a brandy, his head hurt and the bee was resting, but he thought that now and again he could hear the occasional buzzing through the novice’s commentary on the history of the hermitage.
‘We believe that a hermit found these caves in the seventh century,’ the man was saying, ‘he saw that they had everything he needed to survive: shelter, water from a spring, vegetation, roots and herbs and quiet from the world. Eventually others joined him. The original grotto is dedicated to Mary Magdalene, who was also a hermit. We Franciscans only came here in the fifteenth century. A long time later, in the eighteenth century, an epidemic struck the town of Saint-Paul-de-Fenouillet, so the townsfolk placed themselves under the protection of Saint Anthony, the patron saint of hermits, and there was a miracle.
The epidemic was cut short. The townspeople, full of gratitude, built the chapel inside the large cave.’
‘So that’s why a hermit leads the procession during Ash Wednesday at Bugarach?’
‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘Saint Anthony is revered in these parts.’
They descended further until they entered a building in which a large vaulted grotto had been converted into a chapel formed out of the existing rock. It was cool, and sparsely lit by votive and altar candles. The monk gestured for Rahn to take off his hat, which he did, reluctantly. The chapel was essentially a cave and so when Rahn made his way down the nave to the altar he felt no anxiety at all; in fact, the fog was lifting and behind it his instincts were becoming sharper. On the left near the steps that led upwards to the sacred space there was a sculpture of Saint Anthony but when Rahn looked to the right he was stopped in his tracks. A stone tablet like a large grave marker stood against the grotto wall. Inscribed into the stone he was surprised to see the Sator Square. Above it the sculpted head of a man screamed in terrible pain, his jaws open wide.
‘Oh!’ the novice said. ‘Do you like it? No one knows how old it is. We think it may even be older than the original hermit who lived here. Some say it is older than a thousand years. The inscription, Sator Arepo Tenet Opera Rotas, means the Great Sower holds in His hand all works – and all works the Great Sower holds in His hand. In other words, God is the sower and He inspires all the creative work of man. Man should not think himself greater than God. In fact even here in this hermitage we have an example of how small we are in the presence of God’s designs. The cavities in this mountain go deep into the Earth and there is another gallery even larger than this whose access, in the grotto of Mary Magdalene, is now forbidden. There was a priest who decided to explore these cavities—’
‘That’s right.’ An old monk entered the chapel now. Rahn guessed he must be somewhere in the vicinity of eighty years. His face was a landscape of wrinkles whose folds had overcome what had once been a cleft chin and nearly buried those squinting eyes whose gaze was suspicious and wary. ‘It was Albert Fonçay,’ he said. ‘He ventured into our network of tunnels . . . they say he was accompanied by a nun, Marie-Bernard Brauge. No one knows what happened to the nun but Albert Fonçay was discovered coming out of the grotto three days later, gravely injured. He had no recall of the events. He lapsed in and out of consciousness and when he woke he could only manage to utter incoherent phrases. He died three weeks after his ordeal, delirious and in terror for his soul. Since then the entrance has been closed. The sub-earthly ethers,’ he said, ‘are dangerous. In the Earth lies the potential for the greatest evil and this tablet is placed here to remind us of this. Now, who are you and what do you want?’