CultOfTheBlackVirgin (12 page)

As she dressed she thought about what she’d be missing if she passed on the afternoon trip Luc had planned. Yesterday he’d been excitedly talking about a cave recently discovered near Lascaux.

“It’s really a remarkable find,” he’d told the group. “And of particular interest to anthropologists because of a painting of a bison found on one of the stalactites.

“My good friend, Armand, is an amateur spelunker, and he’s convinced that prehistoric artists used a spitting technique to
paint
this image. Some people think these artists didn’t paint with a brush but actually sucked pigment into their mouths and then spat it onto the rock. They might have used reeds or leaves to control the shape of the image.”

Jo found the idea interesting, but had other things on her mind.

He continued. “You should all come and have a look for yourselves. Then you can decide whether or not the spitting theory is valid.”

So far only Duncan, Edward and Sarah had signed up. They planned to drive out to the cave after lunch with Marc and Luc. Everyone else would have the afternoon to themselves.

But before that, they were going to walk the
Chemin de la Croix
, the Stations of the Cross. It was a pilgrims’ path that zigzagged up through Rocamadour to a small church, the
Chapelle Notre Dame
, home of the famous Black Madonna. Then they would visit the grounds of the fourteenth century
château
at the top of the village. After that, Jo would be on her own.

Jo willed herself to relax and give nothing away as she went down to breakfast on the patio, and to her relief she learned Luc was out jogging. She chatted comfortably with a few of the others before he came in, late, throwing his dazzling smile around the room. He quickly ate a small meal, paying no special attention to her. She didn’t know if she felt disappointment or not.

She wondered if he was embarrassed for the way he’d behaved in the turret last night. He didn’t look embarrassed—he and the rest of the spelunkers seemed in high spirits, and most of the conversation was about caves visited, past and present, and those to be explored in the future.

After eating, Luc excused himself to leave, but stopped beside Jo on his way out.

“Good morning, Joanna. I trust you had sweet dreams?” Although there was a subtle smile on his lips, he could never know how sweet her dream
had
been. She felt herself blushing, and nodded.

“Thank you. I did.” She took a beep breath, wondering if she could smell him. But he wasn’t close enough.

“And have you decided to accompany us to the caves this afternoon?”

He was all professionalism, now. But those beautiful eyes sparkled.

“Ah. I don’t think I will. But thank you. I need to take some time for myself today.”

“Fine. Fine,” he said as he turned to walk away. “No problem.”

No problem?
She felt her heart sinking in her chest.

Smarten up, you idiot
.
Eat your breakfast and stop thinking so much. What exactly do you want, anyway?

She was afraid to answer her own question.

As Luc was leaving, he was intercepted by the proprietor of the hotel and his wife. It was apparent they were old friends, for they embraced each other and began to converse in warm and animated tones. From where she was sitting Jo could just make out some of their words, even though they were speaking rapid-fire French.

She’d always been good with languages, speaking Spanish fluently as well as a little Italian and German. Her French was more problematic, for she’d studied French literature rather than conversation. Nevertheless she was able to translate enough of what she heard for her face to pale.

The hotel owner, his arm around Luc, asked him about his son. Luc answered that his son was very well, and the man then asked about his girlfriend. Was he going to
something something
get married
something
? Luc laughed and replied he was working too much and
something
about time being scarce.

Then the wife wrapped her arms around Luc’s neck and pulled his head down to kiss both cheeks. She said she wanted to marry him if
something something
. Her words caused her husband to chuckle and slap her wide behind in mock outrage.

As the three of them laughed together at the joke, Luc looked up and caught Jo’s eye. His expression didn’t change, and she couldn’t tell if he knew she’d understood most of the conversation. Confused and exhilarated, she quickly looked down at her lap and got up to leave.

If he
was
telling her the truth last night—if he really
wasn’t
married—then he was right.

Everything
had
changed.

As promised, the day was going to be very hot, and by the time the group was assembled outside the hotel lobby, Jo could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down between her breasts. She knew she would be really uncomfortable once she got to the top of the village. Yes—today would be a good day to spend underground. But she wasn’t going. Now she had even more to think about.

Luc took them along to the pilgrims’ walk, stopping at each Station of the Cross to explain its iconography. Each sharp turn in the path featured a small stone chapel that served as a Station, each Station depicting one of the twelve events in Jesus’ crucifixion and burial. Jo absent-mindedly took a photo of each one but she was too much lost in her own thoughts to concentrate. Again, she couldn’t stop looking at Luc. But now she was looking at him in a different light.

He was wearing the red bandana again. On anyone else it might have looked affected, but on him it emphasized all that was best in the coloring of his hair and skin and his confident, carefree manner. It suited him, somehow.

When they reached the final Station, which depicted Christ’s Entombment, she thought again about the pilgrims who had passed along this way for hundreds of years. The discomfort of their journey was a type of insurance, she supposed. If they suffered enough from the rigors of travel, they believed they would atone for their sins and earn a place in heaven. They sacrificed in their mortal life for a promise of a sublime afterlife.

Of course most of them lived dismal lives of pain and privation, she thought. It was important to ensure a good afterlife. It made their mortal sufferings bearable.

But this was the twenty-first century, and people like her led exquisite lives, in comparison. They lived for the present because they could—their mortal lives were full of good health, full bellies and pleasure. And they expected their lives to continue to be long and comfortable. There was no need to prepare for an afterlife when the present was so good.

So like many people of her time and place, Jo didn’t spend much time thinking about the afterlife. But now she pondered mortality. The image of Christ in his tomb caused her to appreciate how lucky she was to be alive, healthy and happy. And at no time was she more alive and happier than when she thought of Luc. Death was forever, and life—whatever life had to offer her—was but a blink. Shouldn’t she grab at whatever joys it offered her while she could?

And life is offering me a prize. A perfect prize.

How could I possibly refuse it?

The group pushed on and when she reached the top of the path and the ancient
Chapelle,
Jo was completely drenched with perspiration. The sun was merciless and the dim, dank interior of the tiny church welcomed her.

Mopping his wet forehead with his bandana, Luc invited everyone to crowd around and get a close look at the church’s most famous treasure—a tiny Madonna carved of dark wood. A skinny Christ child perched uncomfortably on her boney knees. He told them the faithful believed that when a miracle was about to take place, the ninth century bell hanging from the ceiling over her head would ring. She had been credited with one hundred and twenty six miracles, he said. Jo stared hard at the tiny roughly hewn face and wondered what constituted a miracle, and how the story had begun.

Through no intention of her own, she soon found herself standing beside Luc as he told the group about this Black Madonna, in particular, and Black Madonnas, in general.

“Black Madonnas, or Virgins, have been found all over the world. No one can really explain their popularity, and their dark color. But there are many different theories to explain their prevalence throughout Europe and South and Central America, and their color. Most people believe that the hands and faces of the Madonnas and their children have turned black with time. Or that the artists were either Moors or influenced by the Moors.”

“Quite so,” interrupted Professor Arnold. “Sunlight, soot, wax, and grease are other possible explanations for their dark coloring.”

“Yes. Thank you, Professor. This particular example,” Luc said, “is carved of black walnut. So it was already dark to begin with.”

Recognizing that Thomas Arnold was the specialist, Luc graciously invited him to share more of his expertise on the subject.

At first Thomas supported what Luc had already said. “Because this carving is dated to the twelfth century, it is reasonable to believe that over seven hundred years the wood has naturally darkened.”

Everyone murmured assent. This theory made sense. As Thomas spoke, Jo noticed Ellen nodding her head rhythmically in agreement with her husband.

Thomas went on. “Another explanation is that some of these artifacts had been buried, possibly for centuries. Marauding bands of infidels pillaged churches like this one, and burying the most sacred objects kept them safe. Sometimes objects like this were lost, or forgotten. Remaining buried for hundreds of years would certainly affect the wood.”

More murmurs and nods of agreement, especially from Ellen. This, too, made sense.

But the Professor wasn’t done. “Yet another theory holds that such carvings were ritually bathed in wine. It is easy to see how such a practice could darken the color of the wood.”

Peter chortled. He liked this idea. He said that everything and everyone would benefit from a wine bath now and then.

“These three theories, then, are generally seen as traditional Christian explanations for the dark color of such figures,” Thomas continued, “but they do not account for the vast numbers of dark Madonnas that have been found—especially those depicted in paintings. So some people, especially in recent years, have discounted these traditional explanations and looked for broader ones.”

Glenda asked, “Isn’t it mostly feminist historians who are re-evaluating these traditional beliefs?”

Thomas said, “Yes, you are partly right. But different academic disciplines have become interested in the images for many different reasons.

“Because there have been so many pictures and figures of Black Madonnas, or Virgins, found around the world, many scholars believe they depict a pre-Christian mother, who was naturally dark-skinned. She is the original mother figure then, who was most certainly black. A Moor, perhaps, as Luc has said. For, as anthropologists argue, we all evolved from African ancestors. Therefore, she can be seen as an archetypal mother, the eternal life-giver, who was worshipped by pre-Christians. And,” he added, “she could also be seen as a universal symbol of the
dark
female forces operating in the natural world.”

Ellen’s grey head was bobbing up and down more emphatically now.

Thomas’s words fascinated Jo and she hung onto every one. She slid down his cultured English accent to imagine sitting in his lecture theatre at Oxford where she’d once taken a summer course. He was really a very good speaker, she thought, and she loved the idea that Negroid Madonna figures were found scattered all over the world. They must have been very important at one time.

The idea that pre-Christians worshipped a black female figure seemed thrillingly subversive. She had never seen a Black Madonna before, even though she’d studied art history. Why? Maybe she’d just never looked all that carefully. Religious art didn’t interest her until the Renaissance.

Glenda piped up again. “Yes, I remember now that the Virgin Mary is likely a Christianized pagan goddess. What we now call
the Cult of the Virgin grew wildly during the early Middle Ages. She became so popular because people believed she would forgive any repentant sinner, and so was worshipped in her own right. Some even though she helped women in particular by lessening the pain of childbirth, and even taking their place in bed so their husbands wouldn’t discover their adultery.”

This last tidbit caused everyone in the group to respond at once as laughter and lewd jokes filled the tiny chapel.

Jo was astounded, and amused. It was one thing to imagine early Christians calling on the mother of God to forgive their indiscretions. But to believe the Virgin aided and abetted adultery! That she covered for women who wanted to cuckold their husbands! What a fascinating idea! Talk about subversive!

She laughed, along with the others, as her mind and her blood raced to think of the possibilities for sinning and salvation.

* * * *

“I am indebted to you both,” Luc said sincerely to Glenda and Thomas. He was surprised to have learned a thing or two about the Virgin himself. “Thank you.”