THIRTY-SEVEN
Brother Thaddeus led his night visitors behind the chapel to the kitchens and refectory; both were dark and quiet now. Beyond the kitchens stood two large ovens shaped, Murdo thought, like great bee hives. The ovens were still warm from the day's use, and Murdo felt the heat on his tender skin as they passed between them. Thaddeus brought them to a small stone structure which appeared to be a shrine, built against the wall separating the monastery from the Church of Saint Mary.
'Wait here a moment,' the porter said, and disappeared inside. He returned bearing two torches which he took to the nearest oven and lit from the embers. Returning to where the others were waiting, he handed one of the torches to Ronan, and indicated that they should follow him into the shrine.
The single room was bare and without windows, and Murdo soon discovered the reason why: it was not a shrine, but the entrance to an underground chamber; a wide flight of stone steps led down into the darkness below. Passing one of the torches to Ronan, Thaddeus instructed them to have a care for their heads, and started down.
Murdo, hobbling on his sore feet, leaned on Emlyn's arm and the two of them followed Fionn; Ronan, holding the second torch, came after. The steps went down and down, ending at last in a fair-sized room carved out of the stone of the Holy Mount itself. Hundreds of niches, large and small, lined the walls, and in many of these Murdo could see dull grey lumps of bones-given a shadowy life by fluttering torchlight, which made them seem to quiver and shake in their little stone stalls. At the far end of the room stood a low door, its stone posts and lintel framing a black void beyond.
'The entrance to the catacombs,' Thaddeus told them, and led them on.
Cool air wafted over them like a chill breath as, stooping low, they entered a narrow corridor which ended in a short flight of steps. The stone ceiling of the corridor was black from the smoke of torches, and Murdo, bent almost double, descended the steps and emerged to stand upright in a long subterranean gallery. Row on row, and tier on tier, box-like cavities had been cut into the rock walls of the gallery. Some of these were sealed with stone rubble, but most were open, allowing the occupants to be viewed: shrunken dust-grey corpses whose withered brown leathery limbs showed through the ragged holes in their rotting shrouds.
Brother Thaddeus led them along the gallery, through another door and into another gallery identical to the first. They crossed this and entered a third, turned, and passed along this one until they came to yet another door and entered yet another gallery. This last was like the others, except that it was not yet finished; for, at the far end, ladders and tools lay against a wall of half-carved nooks amidst piles of stone-chippings and rubble. From the fine stone-dust which lay thick on everything, it appeared no one had touched the tools for many years.
They came to a row of empty niches. 'I believe one of these should serve your purpose,' Thaddeus said. 'If you wish, I will summon brothers to help you move the bodies.'
'You are most thoughtful, brother,' Ronan replied. 'But we have disturbed everyone enough for one night. We will undertake this duty ourselves.'
'That is your decision,' Thaddeus replied, manifestly grateful that his offer had not been taken up.
He led them back the way they had come, and upon reaching the end of the first gallery, Ronan passed his torch to Murdo, saying, 'Perhaps it would be best if you waited here to light our way.'
Murdo accepted the torch, and watched the others disappear up the passage leading to the crypt above. He heard their footsteps fade quickly, swallowed by the great stillness of the catacombs. He stood for a while, looking around, and his eye fell on a nearby niche; there was an inscription carved into the side of the box-like hollow. Holding the torch closer, he made out the curious scratchings of Greek letters; the inscription on the next one was Greek, too-as were most of the others. He did, however, find one or two in Latin, and of one of these he was able to make out the name and the year of death: Marcus Patacus… Anno Domini 692.
Here was a man who had lived and died more than four hundred years ago. Murdo could not comprehend such a vast amount of time, but the discovery sparked in him the desire to see if he could find another, perhaps older still. He began hobbling along the gallery, holding his torch to the carvings. Upon coming to the end, he turned and entered another room which he had not seen before. This room was filled with columns and pillars of various kinds supporting a high, many-vaulted roof. As in the other galleries, there were many hundreds of corpse niches, but also a goodly number of larger, more ornate tombs, some carved into the walls, others free-standing. Most of the tombs boasted flat-featured carvings of men and women in flowing robes, seated or reclining, their faces serene and dignified.
He was examining his sixth or seventh tomb when he heard the patter of footsteps in the room behind him, and remembered that he was supposed to be waiting for the others. Turning quickly, he started limping back the way he had come and, upon reaching the doorway, saw the reflected glow of torchlight moving along the gallery beyond.
'Here I am!' he called, shuffling forward as fast as his sore feet would allow. He ducked through the door and came face to face with a tall, dark-haired monk robed in white. The monk carried a torch which burned with a bright light which seemed to fill the gallery. 'Oh!' Murdo said in surprise. 'I thought it was… I was just-'
Murdo's explanation died in the air as the realization broke upon him that he had seen this priest before. 'You!' he gasped. Upon saying the word, his mind instantly returned to the little chapel he had found when wandering the streets of Antioch trying to find his way back to the marketplace and citadel.
'You were in Antioch,' Murdo said. 'I saw you there-in the chapel. You showed me how to find my way.'
'Did you find the way?' asked the white priest.
'I did,' answered Murdo. The air seemed to have become heavy and difficult to breathe. He stared at the monk, and noticed the torch burned with a silent flame which inexplicably produced no shadows. 'Are you the one called Andrew?'
The priest regarded him, his quick dark eyes gleaming with a disconcerting intensity. 'I am,' he said. He held his head to one side, as if listening. After a moment, he said, 'Night is far gone, and time grows short. Will you serve me, brother?'
Murdo swallowed hard. 'Forgive me, lord,' he said, 'I fear I must disappoint you, for I have no wish to become a monk.'
The priest laughed at this, and his voice echoed among the tiered ranks of bones and shrouds. Murdo felt a shock at the strangeness of such mirth in the silent realm of the dead. He glanced around quickly, as if fearing the sudden onslaught of that joyful sound might be enough to rouse the dead.
'I have monks enough, my friend,' the priest told him. 'But I need kings also.'
'I am no king,' Murdo replied, 'nor ever likely to be. Indeed, I am but a farmer.'
'A farmer without a farm?' Andrew mused. 'That is something new. But then all the world is turned upside down.' Holding Murdo with the strength of a gaze which pierced him to the quick, he said, 'But tell me now: when the king seizes the farmer's fields, may not the farmer assume the king's throne?'
Murdo shifted awkwardly under the intense scrutiny of the man's gaze.
'All you possess was given you for a purpose, brother. I ask you again: will you serve me?'
The question hung between them, demanding an answer. 'I will do what I can,' replied Murdo.
'If all men did as much,' the white monk declared, 'it would be more than enough.' He raised a hand to Murdo's shoulder. Murdo, fearing for his sunburn, winced in anticipation; yet, the touch was so gentle it caused no pain. Instead, as the monk's grip tightened on his shoulder, Murdo felt as if he were held in place by a mighty and exalted strength. Moreover, he sensed an ardent vitality of purpose flowing through the touch. Powerless to move or speak, Murdo could only watch and listen.
'Build me a kingdom, brother.' Brother Andrew gazed upon him, urging him, willing him to accept what he had heard, and believe. 'Establish a realm where my sheep may safely graze,' the earnest cleric continued, 'and make it far, far away from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striving. Make it a kingdom where the True Path can be followed in peace and the Holy Light can shine as a beacon flame in the night.'
Before Murdo could think what to say to this extraordinary request, a voice called out from the catacomb entrance in the room beyond. 'Murdo! – are you there? We need the torch!'
'Ronan!' gasped Murdo. 'I forgot.' He turned towards the sound, and found that he could move again. He ran two steps, remembered himself, and looked back.
The priest was gone, the gallery lit with the light of Murdo's lone torch. The radiance of the vision had already vanished.
