The Lafayette Sword (25 page)

94

Nicolas Flamel's Journal

April 2

I
t has been raining for four days. I've taken refuge in a cave in a chalk cliff. It must have been used once to age wine. I saw vines not so far away, but they were uncared for and growing all over the place. The whole region is rank with poverty and fear. I hear commotion in the valley at night, but I don't know if it's bandits or wolves, nor which are more
dangerous.

I stopped building fires, for fear of being seen. I'm living like a hermit, sleeping on a pile of old hay and eating stale bread. There's a spring at the back of the cave, so I have water. That is also where I pray that God will not abandon me and will give me the strength to carry out m
y mission.

April 4

All the days resemble each other. The rain hasn't stopped. I have no food, and I'm living like the farmers, who have no more wheat to grind or pigs to slaughter. I go into the forest and collect w
hat I can.

Unable to continue my journey, I fill the solitude by rereading the book. I unstitched my cloak, unrolled the pages, and assembled them. I've been meditating on both the words and the illuminations. I believe I have now distinguished the main phases of the great work. I felt joy at first, but it was followed by uncertainty. The transmutation, the passage into gold, can only be done if one possesses the stone, the powder of projection that one needs to mix with a v
ile metal.

And unfortunately, the book says nothing about this mysterious
substance.

Now my soul will not rest until I have found that subli
me secret.

95

Somewhere under the Upper Bay

Present day

T
he two pillars stood as silent witnesses to a past that was still unclear. Marca
s frowned.

“Well, this doesn't get us very far. We've got two Masonic columns built for some unknown reason. They're covered with inscriptions that would take days, if not longer, to decipher. Jachin and Boaz, one symbolizing strength, the other stability, but I don't see any connection with alchemi
cal gold.”

“What if there's another interpretation?” Joan said, looking at the two men. “Haven't you ever heard
of Noah?”

Robinson laughed. “Of course: God's anger, the flood that destroyed the earth. Noah built the ark and saved all the species. Everyone knows the story. You want us to believe we've found the lost ark? Yeah, right, and my name is India
na Jones.”

“What exactly are you thinking?” Mar
cas asked.

“There's a legend about Adam. It's said that when he left paradise, he didn't go empt
y-handed.”

“Don't tell me he took a bag of apples,” Robinso
n cracked.

“Ray, let
her talk.”

Joan continued. “According to this legend, Adam had some valuable secrets, which he eventually passed on
to Cain.”

“The
outcast.”

“Exactly. It's said that this was the real reason for God's anger. He didn't want Cain to have the secrets. Fearing that God would one day curse them, Cain's descendants decided to preserve them. So they engraved the secrets on two columns. But then the flood
happened.”

Robinson walked around each of the columns. “And what became of these
columns?”

“According to the legend, they resisted God's anger, but after the flood nobody knew where to f
ind them.”

Marcas was watching Joan. Once again, she was fiddling with the buttons on
her shirt.

“Ever since, people have been searching for the two
columns.”

“You have to be making this shit up,” Robi
nson said.

“Not at all. You'll find the story in
Antiquities of the Jews
by Titus Flavius Josephus. It was written about two thousand y
ears ago.”

“And you read this yourself?” Robin
son asked.

“My father
told me.”

Marcas was still staring at her. “I thought you weren't interested in those stori
es, Joan.”

Joan spun her head around. “Why do you
say that?”

“I just find it a bit odd. When we met, you had nothing to say, and now here you are, telling us stories ab
out Noah.”

Robinson, who was examining one of the columns, interrupted them before Joan could respond. “Well shit, it
can't be…”

“What?” Marc
as asked.

Robinson waved them over. “If ever you want to impress someone with cultural references, I guarantee that this will have them all falling on their asses. You want to know wher
e we are?”

“Well, considering how far we've traveled, I'd say we're either right back in Manhattan, or we're in another state,” Ma
rcas said.

Robinson grinned. “Well, that's a matter of debate. Governor Chris Christie would like us to think we're in New Jersey. Actually we're in New York. But you won't believe where we are in New York. Take a look.” Robinson aimed his light at the pillar on the left, illuminating a six-foot-tall woman in bronze. The incredible detail rendered her identification unque
stionable.

“That can't be,”
Joan said.

“Really?” Ma
rcas said.

“Yep. We're under Liberty Island. And the Statue of Liberty—she's right
above us.”

96

Nicolas Flamel's Journal

May 7

I
needed a whole month to cross the Berry and Limousin regions. There was nothing but poverty. I saw my reflection in a fountain yesterday and didn't recognize myself. A gray beard covers my face. I have dark circles under my eyes, and my body floats in my town clothes. It has been a long time since I've eaten enough to dispel t
he hunger.

I haven't seen a soul in a week. I only walk at night now and not very far. I don't know where the inhabitants are. Most likely hiding in the forests. The monks, who usually give the pilgrims food and shelter, have closed their doors. Some have abandoned their monasteries al
together.

I recently learned to hunt. I made a bow out of chestnut wood and an intestine I found in the carcass of a dead lamb. The crows hadn't touched the entrails, so I took them, washed them, and braided them into a rope. I used ashwood for arrows, hardening the tips
in a fire.

There is plenty of game, as nobody else seems to be
hunting.

May 9

I arrived in the Causses. My left leg has been in pain for three days now, and I'm limping. I don't know if it's some invisible injury or just fatigue. I'm so exhausted, I no longer look for shelter to sleep, but just lie down under the trees and fall into a deep slumber. It has been so long since I've spoken, I fear running into other people. I would not know wh
at to say.

May 11

My leg is hurting more and more. Without care and rest, I might not be able to continue. For two days I've been walking along the rim of a cliff, and I haven't been able to find a way to down to the valley beneath it. May God come to my assistance, because the sun is scorching my body, and I no longer have eno
ugh water.

May 12

I didn't pray in vain. I found a donkey trail into the valley. With every step, I gave thanks to our Lord. I stopped praying only when I heard a sound I couldn't identify. I left the trail and made my way behind some bushes. I discovered a large river flowing through cultivated fields. Just downriver there was a large mill, with its paddles hitting the water. I leaped with joy, even though my leg hurt more than ever when
I landed.

The miller, a good Christian, offered me shelter and food. Without being aware of it, I have arrived near the sanctuary of Rocamadour, a holy place where our Mother Mary is honored. The miller told me a large number of pilgrims stopped here, and the monks welcomed them. He said I'm not far from the monastery. The news renewed my energy and faith in the future. I will leave
tomorrow.

97

Under the Statue of Liberty

Present day

T
he silence was absolute in the gigantic chamber. Marcas sat down and peered at the top of
the vault.

“To think that above us there are thousands of tons of rock and iron. I don't understand why this is here, under th
e statue.”

Joan sat down ne
xt to him.

“My father told me that the Freemasons played a key role in designing and building th
e statue.”

“I only know that it was a French sculptor who designed it, Auguste B
artholdi.”

“Richard Morris Hunt, the American who designed the pedestal, was a Mason,” Robi
nson said.

Marcas took out the piece of paper containing the rest of t
he puzzle.

“‘From the carved cube, the light will rise.' What does t
hat mean?”

Joan had stopped fidgeting with her buttons, but she was loo
king pale.

“Are you a
ll right?”

“I'll be fine. I ha
ve to be.”

Robinson was still next to the pillar with the woman in bronze. “Look,” he called out. “Right under
her feet.”

Marcas went over. There was a perfect cube, and on top of it there was the relief of a box surrounded
by light.

“Of course,” Robinson said. “The cor
nerstone.”

“I don't get it,” Ma
rcas said.

Robinson walked around the columns. “This is incredible. Unbe
lievable.”

Marcas gave him a ritual tap on the right
shoulder.

“Okay, okay. I'll explain,” Robinson said, taking a deep breath. “There was a Masonic cornerstone-laying ceremony when the first stone of the statue's base was put in place. A Freemason buried a box in it. According to tradition, the box held ritual objects. The cornerstone-laying for public buildings has been a tradition in America for some time. I've seen a mural in the Capital Building of George Washington in one such ceremony. He was an engineer before he was a general or the president,
you know.”

“Interesting,” Marcas said. “But could you focus
, please.”

“For the statue's centennial in 1986, the Freemasons organized another cornerstone-laying ceremony. I've read that it was ver
y moving.”

This triggered Marcas's memory. “The year 1886,” he said. “It's the date on the Lafayette sword. Do you know what was in the box the
y buried?”

“I don't know, but we should look for it. On the column engraving, there's a small ladder next to the cube, and it would seem that the position of the cornerstone would coincide with one of the angles of t
his room.”

“But which one?” Mar
cas asked.

“
The west.”

They all turned to the tunnel from which they ha
d emerged.

“Does that mean we need to go back in there?” J
oan asked.

“The rats are far away. Besides, if there's some passage to reach the cornerstone, it would have to be arou
nd there.”

Joan looked at the two men and took off, reaching the tunnel be
fore them.

They found a metal ladder leading up the wall to a trap door. Joan went first, climbing about ten meters before sticking her head through a dark hole in th
e ceiling.

Once through the hole, they found themselves in a sloping concrete tunnel about three feet in circumference. Joan started crawling through it, and the two men followed. It led to a closet-like space. There, in a niche, they found a c
opper box.

“The box in the cornerstone-laying ceremony,”
Joan said.

They took the box and returned to the large room with the pillars. Robinson opened it. All they found was a mallet, the symbolic mallet used by a worshipf
ul master.

Marcas picked up the mallet and held the four-sided head to the light. There were names on three sides: Lafayette, Archambeau, and Cenevières. On the fourth side, a flame extended all the way up t
he handle.

“Do you suppose it's a representation of the Statue of Liberty's flame?” Robin
son asked.

“It sure looks like it,” Ma
rcas said.

When Robinson didn't respond, Marcas looked up. His brother was staring at Joan, who was pointing a pisto
l at them.

98

Nicolas Flamel's Journal

May 15

I
spent the day at the monastery. There are many pilgrims, as it's no longer possible to cross the Pyrenees. The Kingdom of Aragon has been in a state of bloody havoc, as if the misfortunes affecting France have spread beyond its
borders.

Like the other pilgrims, I am disappointed that my journey has been disrupted, but little by little an idea has been forming in my mind. I realized that I would not be able to reach Saint Jacques at the same moment that a monk told me that the Château de Cenevières is no more than a day or two away on foot. I saw the hand of God in this proximity, because God alone knows the real meaning of m
y journey.

Shortly thereafter, I arrived at the sanctuary at Rocamadour, which hangs on a cliff like a flower blossoming in a desert of rock. Right away, I went to the refectory, where I ate my fill for the first time in months. The large room was full of pilgrims, and the conversations were deafening. After so many days of solitude, the noise greatly disturbed me. Fortunately, silence fell when the abbo
t entered.

He confirmed that the border between France and Aragon was closed. A hubbub rose in the room. He quickly silenced it by pounding a wooden bowl a table. The abbot was clearly a man of authority. If Saint Jacques was not attainable, then Rocamadour was the last large sanctuary on the pilgrims' route. This was a gift from God for the
monastery.

The abbot was already praising his priory and its centuries-old relics, including the body of Zacchaeus, the tax collector in Jericho whose house Jesus deigned
to visit.

Many pilgrims clamored in joy, as they wanted to go pray at the man's tomb. The monks opened the doors, and the crowd flowed out. I remained behind with a few other pilgrims. Right away, I saw the abbot's malicious smile. The donations would soon pour in, and the abbot would be enjoying his rich food and fi
ne drink.

At that moment, I swore that if God gave me life and revealed the secret of the stone, I would make gold for my fellow humans to ease their poverty and raise their awareness, but never to make mysel
f wealthy.