Capcir Spring (4 page)

The thought of Derek had an instant and startling effect on John's mind. It was as if at that moment the atmosphere of the room changed. Derek was the presence that he had been living with for a very long time. Derek was the one always at his shoulder, watching, occasionally encouraging but more often condemning. Derek was the steely hard man of authority who had real power over the lives of many men and knew how to use it most effectively. It was as if John saw him in a fresh light and in the same instant dismissed him for all he was and all he meant.

"I will survive" John said out loud to the mirror in the empty room. He gritted his teeth and thought of Derek laughing at his weakness and said it again "I will survive. And I will show Derek I can survive. I have made mistakes but I will not make the same mistakes again. I am going to learn from them. I might not have much wisdom but those few insights I do have I will need to use, God help me."

He splashed water quickly in his face and went out into the living area, picked up his breviary and started to read through the daily office as if his life depended on it. At that moment it seemed to him that it did. The familiar words flowed off his lips and out into the bright morning light of the pine clad room without touching his heart but they seemed to calm his racing thoughts. Words used by priests for generations brought him back into control of himself and his emotions and dispelled the dreams of the night, at least for a while.

2

Mary thought how good it was to be out in the cool of the early morning sun as she drove up from the village to the place where the track to the ruins started. She had found this area almost by accident through a footnote in a little read book borrowed from the University library. Some searches on old maps confirmed her suspicions and then she searched the university databases and the Internet for details of any other research projects undertaken in the area. Her French was good enough to trawl through the abstracts of the S.H.D. (Societe Historique Departmental) as well as the international listings and she had found that although the site was known, no one had ever properly investigated it. There had not been a clumsy nineteenth century archaeological excavation. There were no infra red aerial photos available which would have helped with the plotting. Perhaps they did exist in the files of the French military but they wouldn't release them to foreign researchers. She saw this as her chance to complete one really big piece of original research.

As she parked her car in almost the same place as she had used the day before, she was surprised to see the actual spot occupied by a battered rusty Citroen. The French didn't have very stringent tests of their old vehicles she thought. Staring at the rusty holes in the bodywork, she wondered what it was doing out there so early in the morning.

The walk to the chapel ruins seemed to get shorter the more days she covered the familiar track. It was early. It was good to be out in the crispness of the morning that the sun had not yet warmed. Birds were singing loudly in the trees and the pines heady scent filled the air.

Today there would be no interruptions. The surveying would proceed as planned. Her mind was dreaming of the work ahead. She still had the ruins to finish. She was measuring the levels in precise cross sections across the whole site. And these all had to be individually plotted. Even with the laser theodolite, which linked directly into her personal computer, there was still much use to be made of a tape measure and clipboard. It would be difficult given the amount of brushwood on the site but it must be done and she didn't want to expose more than she had to at this stage, especially with the summer coming up. There would be no point in stripping away the undergrowth to encourage holidaying French families to trample all over the precious site with their picnics and barbecues and leaving behind their cardboard, tins and bottles.

The whole site would be cleared next year. The year of the big dig. When the research is published she could bring a party of archaeologists and undergraduates to excavate the site and prove her theories with hard evidence. All this pre dig work was essential as the cost of a dig had to be justified to the university projects committee in a thoroughly convincing way. She would have to convince them that there was something here to be found. She knew that if the big dig went well her name would have be made. She had lied to John the previous day. She already had her PhD. And she was employed as a researcher and part time lecturer. This new and original find would ensure that she got the senior lecturers job when Jenny retired next year and then when Professor Taylor retired in seven years time she would just walk into his post. It was the title professor that particularly appealed: a dispenser of wisdom. Not that she was a snob. No she would never think of herself as that. This ambition was about being recognised as having made a significant contribution to human understanding in her own right and winning the approval of those whose opinion she valued. It was also about moving out of the shadow of a man.

When she arrived at the ruins she noticed at once that there was something different. A large rucksack lay beside the track. The still dewy grass was pressed down in a new path where someone had forced a way through to the chapel ruin. A strange sensation came over Mary. She felt as if her personal space had been invaded. That English fellow from yesterday, John, perhaps. Not content to see her scream he had returned to continue his boring conversation. She recalled that she had invited him to her dinner party tonight. A sudden thought came into her mind. There was something not quite right about him. She couldn't put her finger on what it was. She momentarily wondered if she had made a serious mistake about the invitation.

She stared down at the Rucksack. It was big, modern framed affair and red contrasting with the little old karkhi one John had carried. It must belong to a different person then. She dismissed and forgot John in an instant. Her mind flashed back to the Citroen Dyane. It was French. It had a big "No Nuclear Power" flower sticker on its driver's side door. Could there be a French archaeologist interested in her ruins. It certainly could be an eccentric academics car. She took a deep breath and then caught a hold of her self. She was becoming paranoid. Probably just a hiker had stopped to look at the ruin as he headed up the valley to the distant peak. She was in a public national forest park and it was not her ruin.

She walked on to her own well-worn track through the undergrowth that brought her out at the far side of the ruin. She made directly for the gap in the low wall but on the threshold paused in surprise. On the floor facing what would have been the sanctuary end of the chapel was seated a solitary figure. He was cross legged in a yoga style lotus posture in meditation. A soft rhythmic chanting was coming from his barely open mouth. He was in his thirties and his long hair, blond going grey, was tied back in a ponytail.

Perhaps he heard he footfall or perhaps he sensed her presence for slowly he turned his head towards her and the equally slowly opened his eyes. He stared at her in silence his long bony face impassively taking in all that he saw before him. At length he said,

"The aura here is just fantastic. These stones are so close to the spirits. I have not found another place where channelling is so easy. Do you meditate?"

"Actually I'm a historian and these stones have a different interest for me." she said quickly hoping that if he was mentally unbalanced he wasn't dangerous. Perhaps he was a left over hippy or a new age traveller away from the new age trail. A though suddenly struck her. Suppose new agers pagans tried to take possession of Cathar holy sites for their rituals and ceremonies as they tried to take over ancient monuments such as Stonehenge. The site would be ruined completely if there was a new age encampment here.

"This must be one of the most peaceful and special places in this whole valley." he continued after a sleepy pause.

Mary smiled to herself as she had a sudden flashback to her childhood. Something about this guy reminded her of Brian, the sleepy hippie snail from the “Magic Roundabout” television programme of her pre-school days. He unfolded himself from his sitting position and stood up. He was very tall and thin. His arms looked too long to belong to his body. In some way he was strangely long and out of proportion. "I really believe in the power of places. And this is a powerful place. Every time I come up to this part of the valley I come her to meditate for a little while."

He lolloped across to her.

"Please excuse me if I seem a little strange but after I have been communing with the spirits it takes me a little while to get back to earth bound courtesies." He held out his hand. "My name is Andre Laporte. I am the area representative for the ADDSN"

Mary looked blank. The string of initials meant nothing to her.

"You are not from these parts. If you were you would instantly recognise Association Departmental pour le Development du Ski Nordique. ADDSN. You probably don't realise on a beautiful day in early summer like today but this is one of the best regions in the whole of France for cross-country skiing. As you can see all around you it is a high forested plateau, dissected with gentle valleys, with lots of tracks and trails. We are looking at the possibility of extending and realigning the Iglessiates trail in this part of the valley. It takes its name of course from these ruins. What are you doing here? I detect an English accent don't I?"

Mary 's ears pricked up at the mention of ski development in the immediate area of the chapel. She had seen the way that the main mountain slopes above Les Angles had been bulldozed and engineered to provide the right gradients of slopes.

"Yes, I'm English. I'm an historian analysing these old ruins, especially what is believed to be the chapel. I am very concerned about your plans for a new ski trail in this area. It would be a disaster if you were to disturb the land around this historical site."

"I could no more damage this site than I could cut off my own nose." He looked affronted. "Ski du fond is environmentally friendly. No ugly ski tows or lifts. No energy wasted except for the human energy of participants. Just trails way marked through the woods where people find peace amid the beautiful winter scenery. We are very careful not to destroy anything."

"Where then are you working on this trail?"

"In the woods about two kilometres beyond here. I am surveying a new track to be cut to join two existing tracks so that we can extend the circuit by almost half again. The gradients have to be selected carefully as this is a blue piste, that is an intermediate level so we do not have long or very steep descents nor sharp corners."

"And you'll not touch this site"

"My dear girl, I am mortally affronted to think that you could even think such a thing." His long arms waved about dramatically as he spoke and his exaggerated facial expressions gave the impression of a bad actor hamming up a part. “If only you could meditate and channel the spirits of this place. You'll then find the peace that exists here. You can discover the purest of pure joy. Then perhaps you would trust me more. Today my spirit guide introduced me to one of the old priests who was here centuries ago and he was communicating with me. He was a bent man with a completely bald head and long wiry fingers and very pale skin. He stood in front of me and beckoned. He was a giver of peace. He was Holy, and just looking at him I felt bathed in the warmth of his holiness."

Mary was cold. The sun from the bright morning no longer penetrated her cotton summer clothes. The air was icy. She gave a shudder. This creepy beanpole of mystic hippy was re telling her dreams.

*****

Small oil lamps on shelves casting a dim and flickering light over the proceedings lighted the chapel. He was up at the front. The altar was there, a resting-place for the holy books as the mass formed no part of the rite. He was old, very old. Stooping and bent with a completely bald bare head, shining in the reflected lamplight and his long wiry fingers being used as he gestured wildly as he spoke. His thin dark veins showed clearly though his very white skin in the way that only happens in those of a very great age. He was dressed in a simple blue robe that looked somewhat like a monks habit.

I could not make out his words, save that they were sweet and melodic, flowing smoothly and gently settling on the air and creating an atmosphere of calm. His presence didn't come from his physical appearance. That was an irrelevance. But he looked strong, solid and real in comparison to the lesser forms around him. Here indeed was an example of the Perfect, The Katharoi. He was a cleansed and purified one; one who symbolised in himself all that the Cathars stood for. He had received the only sacrament that the Cathars accepted, the consolamentum, a spiritual baptism administered by the laying on of hands. Here was one who had received through this sacrament the Holy Spirit and had his original sin removed. That was why he seemed so different to the other people. He was one of the few, who as a result of this sacrament would pass on through death into the pure world of spirit and be united with the good god.

As one of the perfect, he must be the leader of this chapel conclave. The rest were only believers, who although devout and holy, would be unlikely to ever receive the consolamentum. They were not of the same spiritual stature as one of the perfect. His eyes burned with a fire that I found hypnotic. It was beautiful and repulsive at the same time. I now knew or sensed that he was speaking of his direct communications with God.