..::A fascination with secret societies and a renewed interest in the esoteric -- both trends reached a peak in the Paris of the fin de siecle -- the milieu of Claude Debussy, Sion's alleged grand master when Berenger Sauniere, in 1891, discovered the mysterious parchments at Rennes le Chateau.
Debussy set a number of Victor Hugo's works to music. And there was also the the enigmatic magus of French symbolist poetry, Stephane Mallarme -- one of whose masterpieces, L'Apres-Midi d'un Faune, inspired the composer. There was the symbolist playwright Maurice Maeterlinck, whose Merovingian drama, Pelleas et Melisande, Debussy turned into a wold-famous opera::..
Baigent, Leigh and Lincoln
Holy Blood, Holy Grail
.............
"I know what. I'll tell you a better Grail story. I'll tell you about Arcadia.' It was Carreras. 'The Catalans came to Arcadia in the 1300s, led by a Catalan count. There is in the middle of the countryside an unexpected Gothic cathedral, supposedly built by Catalans. There was a substantial Crusader influence in the area. The Arcadian cult of 2000 BC mentions Zeus and his three daughters and, before them, a wolf cult...no one goes up to the site. It is said the animals have no shadow.
There is also a well-preserved temple nearby. Also in the middle of nowhere. What is its purpose?' He looked at me. "It was once known as the home of the Grail."
Patrice Chaplin
City of Secrets
+++++++++++++++
Emlyn, Alain and Oncle Maurice were now laying claim to yet another gatehouse; not as cosy as Athena's, it was rather larger. But welcoming nonetheless. It was somewhat austere, Maurice explained, few people came here, but it boasted a large stone fireplace, and a good sized parlor, dining area and kitchen all together in one room sans walls, which were all of knotty pine paneling.
Em chanced to have glimpsed in the distance le maison proper, although mostly hidden by trees; turrets and crenulated high walls were visible above the greenery.
Maurice had explained that the house had been tied up in a family dispute over the will for some years now, and who knew if or whenever it would again be occupied. But he knew the owners, his family had been old friends of their family, and he was free to make the gatehouse and stables his to use, whenever he wished.
'Boarding horses here for people helps keep the place up somewhat,' he had told her earlier. 'But it is falling into ruin, nonetheless.' He looked pained to mention it. 'At least the stables and gatehouse are fairly well maintained.'
Em had noticed that the stables looked every inch top notch. Fresh hay in the stalls, well-mucked out, with plenty of new hay stacked high. She had counted nearly a dozen occupied stalls and was pleased to have been given a neat black half-Arab mare to ride, Ayesha. Maurice rode a larger Arab gelding, also black, Saniib.
She had earlier changed for the ride into a sort of grey riding habit and boots of a style she'd never before seen. The tack was strange to her as well, the saddle an oddity although comfortable enough.
It had been some time since Emlyn had ridden a horse.
It was wonderfully freeing to be out where no one else could be seen, just flying though the scenery, devoid of all thought, feeling only sensation, and enjoying the gallop of the little mare, who was also young and loved to run.
They'd ridden through the hilly countryside until nearly dusk. Em had noted that here, the maples were all bright reds or mostly stripped of leaves already. Winter would visit Montreal before Massachusetts, she realised. And, it was getting late. She was decidedly ready to retire for the evening, it had been an exhilarating but long day.
At the gatehouse there were three bedrooms total, and Alain had already turned in, occupying a bedroom at the end of the hall. Emlyn and Maurice were still up, studying some documents, old scrolls and books that he said he was 'taking a new interest in, since hearing your news...'
Emlyn decided she was weary of prevarication. 'Just what is this particular Holy Grail that St.John, et al, are seeking?' she asked, bold as brass.
Maurice stared at his books, saying nothing at first.
Then, 'Umm. Well, who knows what it could be this time? There is always some fine Quest or other ongoing, you know...'
'Such as?' Em questioned.
Oncle sighed. 'Eh...well, not so long ago, there was all that back in France with Peledan's new Order of the Grail...'
'Qu'est-ce que c'est?' Em queried, en Francaise.
Maurice smiled. 'Actually, it was the "Rose Croix Catholique et Esthethique, du Temple et du Graal" or "Catholic Rose-Cross and the Temple and the Grail"...left nothing out, Josephin Peledan. Oui.' He glanced up, catching Emlyn's eye. 'This was in 1890. So, a decade ago, at least.'
'And? What was the new Order of the Grail about?' And, oh do stay on track, Em silently hoped.
'Oh, posturing mostly. Palling about with Debussy, Emma Calva, possibly Saunier...poets, painters. A salon more than any esoteric 'order'.' He pushed the papers aside, and leaned back in his chair.
'He formed his own theatre company, players. Debussy was behind all this as well. One of the plays was "The Mystery of the Grail".
'While your situation sounds as though they've more practical concerns, I usually find most such so-called occult sects to be more of the same innocuous folly. The Church did not even concern itself with them.'
Emlyn worried about that, that their concern would not be taken seriously. 'Is there a Masonic library at your lodge?' Emlyn decided that half a day of playing nice had been long enough. She needed to steer this ship to port before it floundered.
'Eh?' Maurice had nearly noticed her. 'What's that, a library at the lodge?' He sat back and regarded Em. 'That may be a good idea...later' He frowned at the documents before him. 'I'm not having much luck here...what's tomorrow?'
'This is Saturday evening.' Emlyn informed him. A very very long one, she did not add.
'Yesss...' Oncle M. murmured to himself, staring into the fire now. 'Sunday. Not much open then. I think tomorrow...we should all go to church.'
Emlyn wasn't so sure about all that. 'Oh, I, I really hadn't brought any clothing at all suitable...' she began, when threatened by church, Em began hoping for a good excuse to pop back home and give up this wild grail chase...
Maurice stood, and tossed another log onto the fire. 'Plenty of clothes here...pas de problem.' He waved a Gaulic hand aside any concerns, leaning on the mantle and frowning at the flames before him. 'Pere Francis has a fine library that I often borrow from. I think there may be certain items there that could be pertinent to this...situation.'
Finally, Maurice seemed to be responsive to her reason for being there. It had only taken all bloody day...
Well! If going to church would shake loose some gem of knowledge that will help, Em felt she could bear it. It had only been, what...? She couldn't recall when she had last stepped within the hallowed doors of a real Christoforian chapel. She suddenly felt like laughing, just picturing what Daryl would think, or Jethro, to see her heading into a church! She wondered then if the service were en Francaise? Or perhaps Latin? Or both?
She felt she was being watched.
Maurice was studying her from his great height as though she were an alien species on his planet which had just appeared unannounced in the parlor and he was trying to figure out if she were animal, vegetable or otherwise edible...
'Franc for your thoughts, Monsieur?' Emlyn asked, taking a seat at the simple, rough wooden table. The entire cottage was furnished with a monk's sort of minimalism.
'I like this cottage,' she said. 'It is rustic, but comfortable. One can focus. A good place to...analyze one's thoughts.' Em picked up the papers Maurice had been studying...
'"Legends of Old Arcady", Wolfram von Eschenbach, The Nag Hammadi Library...' Em murmured. These were all available at Daryl's library. Which was now Llew's loft. She wondered briefly how the lad was doing. And what he was doing, specifically.
'Yes, it is a good place to come alone to think.' Maurice moved away from the fire, looked over Emlyn's shoulder. '"Legends of Old Arcady" is tres' interessant.' He began to hum, and then to sing. Emlyn detected both French and Latin in the lyrics.
'That's a beautiful tune,' she said, when he had paused. 'I'm not sure I know it, but it sounds somehow familiar.'
'Yes.' Maurice glanced her way. 'It is the National Anthem of Acadians; Ave Maris Stella, Star of the Sea...
'"Ave maris stella,
Dei Mater alma,
Atque semper Virgo,
Felix caeli porta.
En recevant cet ave
De la bouche de Gabriel
Et en changeant le nom d’Ève
Établis-nous dans la paix"
'The first verse is always sung in Latin. Then we sing en Francaise. You perhaps are familiar with the Longfellow poem of "Evangeline"?' Em nodded. 'The story of Gabriel and Emmeline.' He touched Em's shoulder, 'For that was her real name.' Emlyn blushed, almost tempted to admit it was her real name as well. She didn't wish M. to think of her as...deceitful, though.
She glanced up at Maurice. He was far from being the old dodderer she'd expected, Maurice. Rather a fine looking man, she had to admit, in fact. She was not altogether comfortable with that.
He sighed. 'It is late. My mind wanders...I'll show you to your room, Em.' He took her by the elbow and drew her arm through his.
Stopping at a door off the parlor, Maurice opened it with a key and waved her within. He went to a tall armoire of lovely red wood, cedar she decided; when he swung open the doors, the scent was unmistakable. 'There are night clothes in there. Please help yourself.'
While Emlyn looked through the armoire, Maurice bent to a small franklin stove and lighted a match. He added more wood and, taking a candle from the night stand, lighted that as well then closed the stove door. He turned to find Em now watching him, a bunch of folded white satin in her arms.
'Thank you, Maurice. For the lovely picnic, and the ride...' Em looked about her, 'all this...and taking the time to help --'
Maurice walked over to her, put a finger on her lips. 'Non, it is my honor to serve.' He affected a small bow, then handed her the candle. 'I am...pleased, that such matters are important to you. And Alain, as well, of course. A favorite nephew.' He smiled, tucking a tendril of cinnamon curls behind Emlyn's ear.
'I...' He took his hand away. Then nodded to Emlyn. 'It is a good idea, church, tomorrow...' He went to the door, turned. 'I...my room is just across the hallway there. Eh...good night, Emlyn. Bon soir. Sleep well.'
'Bon soir, Maurice,' Emlyn called after him. But he had already shut the door. Em smiled, wondering about M., as she thought of him to herself. An enigma. Who, what was the man behind the M.? Perhaps tomorrow, more would be forthcoming.
At church. Of all things.
.................
Daryl was becoming quite used to his new routine. Up early, chanting, a frugal but filling breakfast, then work in the gardens, with which he was currently occupied.
Although he missed the Sisters of St.Agnes, and one in particular, he began to appreciate the certain charms of St.Blaise. It was, if possible, even more sequestered deep in forested lands than St.William. The views, especially from the towers and rooftops, were breathtaking. One felt one could see across Canada. One nearly could...once across the mountains, the plains rolled on without a bump for hundreds of miles...
Along with his duties in the gardens, Daryl spent much of his time in the kitchen with Brother Julian learning at the master's side. Yet another of St.Blaise's charms: Sourdough bread. For Julian had worked as a cook in a lumber camp. As well as chef at 4-star restaurants in New York and Montreal. Top to bottom, Julian had done it all.
'You don't miss the high life of New York, then?' Daryl asked, knowing the answer.
'Pas de "high life"...' Julian waved a Gaulic arm and the insinuation aside. 'This, cher brother, is the life of the Most High.' His gaze flew heavenward, as if he dwelt amongst the cherubim in this very kitchen.
'Non. I do not miss all the lies, and back-stabbing, and power plays, oh yes! It is a ruthless business, holding on to one's position in a kitchen at a 4-star establishment! Everyone wants your job. And they are not above dirty tricks to get it!' Julian murmured a few choice French phrases, not asking for excuse.
'D'accord! You are absolutely right, Brother Julian.' Daryl concurred. 'I, too, am beginning to believe that this may be the best of all possible worlds,' he was quite surprised to hear himself say. 'I haven't felt so, so at peace, with myself and with the world, since...I can't recall.' Daryl realised he had indeed forgotten any moments of true peace.
'Well,' Julian slapped his sourdough upon the thick cutting board and began dusting it with flour. 'it is not all just singing praises and baking the pie here, you know. We also do much volunteer work in the community, at hospitals, and in prisons...the poor, you know, feeding the poor...it is more satisfying than stuffing the rich with yet more foie gras'
'-- Soup kitchens,'Daryl supplied.
'Ah, oui,' Julian agreed, cutting out biscuits.
'We donate our time, and produce. The Society of St.Vincent is very active in Quebec. Vincent was one of the most influential and instrumental men who helped to develop a Catholic presence in New France. And do you know what that is, cher brother? Hospitals! Schools! Oui! Good works. We are known for our good works. Sola fide, sola scriptura, non non...that does not help people who are suffering from injury, pain and empty bellies.'
'Ramakrishna said that one cannot teach religion to people who are starving,' Daryl offered, stirring more flour into a new dough.
'Bon. Oui, he sounds like the Pope, eh?' Julian chuckled. 'You know, I have met and spoken with monks of all sorts...Eastern rite, the Buddhists, the Hindus...we get along as long as we feel we are all brothers and here to help! Do not get so involved in dogma and rhetoric! You can argue that until the sheep come home, non? What is of practical use? That is our focus.'
He paused, considering. 'You know...we are heading into Montreal tomorrow. It is Sunday. A couple of times a month we are invited to Notre Dame de Bonsecour. For the chanting, you see.' Julian waved his biscuit cutter. 'Also, we get to feed the people! In the parish hall, there they have the kitchen of the soup.' He motioned about him: 'These loaves of bread, that is where they are headed! Loaves and fishes, mon cher brother!' He threatened Daryl with the biscuit cutter. 'You must come!'
Daryl needed no encouragement from kitchen utensils.
'Brother Julian, it would be an honor,' he bowed to the Maestro. 'Although my Latin needs some work yet.'
'Non, non...' Julian popped his biscuit pan in the oven. 'Pas de problem! You can mumble your way along, some of us do!' He chuckled. 'The main thing we need is a strong arm to lift the soup kettles and ladle out the stew, non?'
'Oui,' Daryl replied, enthused. It would be interesting to see old Montreal again. He hadn't been since...diosa, he simply couldn't recall... 'I can't even remember when I was last in Montreal.'
'Eh. It is the city.' Julian dismissed such. 'I would not trade these gardens, fields and bois for all Montreal! But...Paris, now...' The chef began to whistle as he betook his ample self out into the herb garden. 'Just keep working on the biscuits. Ah, and be ready to meet me here, ready to leave early tomorrow! About 4 a.m.!'
Honor came early in these parts, Daryl told himself. Exceedingly early...
............
It was much too early, Emlyn decided, when she heard a rap upon her door. It was Alain.
'Emlyn? Allez! We are leaving soon...'
What? No tea? Em awoke, feeling last evening's wine a bit. She must have tea... 'Coming!' she called. Followed by, '-- Is there tea?'
She heard the retreat of feet as she hurriedly poured water and washed then looked through the armoire. Plenty of clothes M. said...she grabbed what looked like a dress and ran her fingers through her hair...
-- this was going to be interesting...
She found Alain and Maurice having tea and toasting bread over the fire. Maurice tossed her an apple. 'Come! Have some tea. We are soon leaving.'
Em ventured out wrapped up with the grey cloak of yesterday's ride over her grey dress. It was a bit warmer in the parlor but still rather a grey and cool morning. 'A grey day,' she announced, pouring tea. Earl Grey. Hot.
Alain handed her a green wand with two pieces of bread threaded upon it. 'Good sourdough, Em. And there is honey.'
'Is it from St.William's?' Emlyn asked, spooning honey into her tea.
'Is what from St.Williams?' asked Maurice suddenly.
'The honey,' Em replied. 'They've the most wonderful lavender honey from the monastery hives.'
'The Beekeepers of St.Williams...oui...' Oncle was drifting again, thought Alain. 'I have heard of them. And of their sister-convent, at St.Agnes.'
'Do you think they need warning, then?' Em inquired.
'Warning?' Maurice frowned, standing, stirring down the fire.
'Well, yes, about the Grail?' Emlyn wondered now what she was doing here. Was the man on track or had this train of thought completely derailed?
'We will see.' Maurice smiled.
'We will see,' Alain whispered to her. He also smiled.
Not for the first time, Em felt herself falling down that well-traveled rabbit hole.
...............
Rather a good crowd that chilly morning at Notre Dame de Bon Secours. The reason was soon evident:
'The monks of St.William and St.Blaise are here with Gregorian Chant!' Alain was pleased to announce, as Emlyn and Maurice caught up with him at the church steps.
Maurice turned to Emlyn. 'This will be a rare treat! Sometimes one or the other order of monks will appear here, but not so often both.' He took her elbow and steered her to the side. 'After the service, there is a soup kitchen in the Parish Hall. Feeding the poor. Also, there will be the monastery's fruits on offer, for 'donation', oui? That honey you enjoy is one such. We best get inside, while there is room.'
In the narthex, candles were offered as well, Maurice got three for them, rather larger than the usual votive. These were to be lighted during the chanting, Alain told her.
Standing before the Church entrance proper, clutching her candle with great force, Emlyn was nervous as a cat in a thunderstorm. She'd not attended any church at all, much less Catholic...very rarely she might have gone with Rosa and Manuel to a special service, but, oh, that was ages ago...what to do? She decided to simply watch the others, and dove in.
Between the genuflecting and crossing herself and genuflecting again, Em felt like an orchestra leader waving a baton about, but at last, they were seated.
Em began to remove her hood then caught herself. Best leave that up, so to not tempt the angels.
She studied the crowd then, and crowd it was. People began to line up along the back of the church and some along the walls. Everyone seemed to be dressed in their finest for the occasion and Emlyn found herself enchanted by the handsomeness of the men in their black and white suits and boiled shirts and the loveliness of the women, old and young with children, some in their satins, velvets and lace mantillas, some in simple cottons and scarves. All looked like madonnas to Em. Did she look out of place, she wondered...she hoped she didn't look too protestant. Or heretical.
Emlyn tried to relax and she shut her eyes. A subtle scent reached her. She remembered then: incense. That was what was missing from a protestant service. Em opened her eyes. Statues. And stained glass...it was like an art museum in here, she thought...and what was that odd little ship there hanging from the ceiling...?
All seemed to pass like a dream to Em, (admittedly, she hadn't much sleep the night before), but she caught most of the service, even remembered the proper responses occasionally, and her ears pricked up when the priest mentioned 'Melchizedek'; she'd always liked that mysterious man who spanned both Old and New Testaments...
After the rising and falling to knees and rise and fall again, Em was beginning to awaken with these welcome calisthenics! She found it greatly preferable to having to simply sit on a hard bench, as with most protestant churches. But she had remembered enough to cross her arms before her and not partake of communion.
Before she knew it, Alain had nudged her and was holding a lighted match for her. Deacons were snuffing out much of the church's wall sconces and had opened the doors of the building to allow the smoke out. They then made space between the altar and congregation. Em held her candle to the flame and waited.
Soon everyone quieted as they heard a sound; from without, the monks began their chanting as they seemed to flow in through the back of the church and processed forward and lined up before the congregation. Shortly after, another rise of chant was heard as monks also filed in from either side of the church and the monks of one monastery joined the other brothers there before them.
There, in the darkened sacred space, lighted only by the parishioners candles, the monks sang on with their voices echoing off the vaulted hall of the church. Emlyn relaxed into the droning, and soaring voices of the brothers, as she listened to the old hymns, some she even recognised, like the "Ave Maris Stella" Maurice had sung for her last evening.
Em chanced a glance up at Maurice, who had his eyes closed, and she could just catch his quiet voice, chanting along with the brothers. What an odd man he was, she thought, to have separated himself from the present day, and to have tried to create a space apart from the hustle and hurry of modern life.
The monks then began a hymn that Emlyn recognised, the Magnificat. She sat up and became more aware. As the monks launched into their sonorous Latin, Em studied them; at first seeming to look alike, she noticed that they were quite different upon notice. More older monks than younger, alas, she thought. Most seemed middle-aged, though. And that brother on the end with St.Blaise looked almost familiar...perhaps without the beard...
'Madonna!' Emlyn whispered, eliciting stares from Alain and Maurice and others. She couldn't help it...seeing Daryl here, now, had come as rather a shock.
'-- Daryl...?' She murmured, or thought she had, but no longer caring about what went on about her. How? What? What could he be doing here? Was he following her? And why was he costumed like a monk? This was all most discombobulating.
Just then, Daryl turned and stared directly at her. Oh, yes, it was him. And by the glaring alarm in Daryl's eyes, he hadn't expected to see her here, either.
'C'est fou,' Emlyn whispered.
Ave Maris Stella - Monastic Choir of the Abbey Notre Dame de Fontgombault
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DUcW5NmP2Qo
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