He Who Walks in Shadow (19 page)

“According to the information I have received, the staff would be buried beneath the catacombs themselves. Have you heard of anyone digging?”

Nassim leaned back and stroked his beard. “There are always stories, but about several months ago, word spread among those who work the trade that it would be ill-advised to venture into the catacombs for the foreseeable future. Others spoke of large groups of men descending into the tunnels. And then, of course, there were the murders.”

I glanced at Guillaume and saw the same fear in his eyes that I was trying to hide in mine.

“Murders?”

“Killings of the most devious kind. The police have done everything in their power to keep information out of the press, but the street has many ears. Sacrifices. Women, cut from stomach to throat. Gutted alive.”

It is a cliché, I suppose, to say that I felt my blood run cold. But I can think of no other way to describe it. The signs were clear. The cult of Nyarlathotep was not only searching for the staff, but they had attempted to raise their master, to bring him into our world, once again. And unlike that day in the Louisiana swamps, there was no one to stop them. Our mission had become all the more critical, and all the more dangerous.

“Whatever is going on in the catacombs,” Nassim said, “it is no coincidence that it began at the same time as these murders. You are taking your lives into your own hands, my friends.”

“Well,” I said, “I suppose we had better get started then. Shall we?”

Diary of Rachel Jones

July 25, 1933

The train carried us from Paris into the bright countryside of endless French fields and blood-red poppies. Away from the danger my father was facing. Away from Guillaume. I’m embarrassed even to write it down, but my heart aches when I think of him. This schoolgirl crush is maddening. But at least the feelings are returned.

The tension with Margot has reached a level of discomfort I have rarely experienced. It is palpable. Even poor Henry feels it, though he, of course, is utterly unaware of the source. Though I have known the girl only a short while, the sense of friendship I felt with her had grown to a quiet intensity, sealed by our shared encounters with danger and possible death.

That bond is broken now. She knows. As surely as if someone had told her. Call it intuition. Call it paranoia that happens to be right.

I’m not sure exactly what I should do. I know that I owe her nothing, that she has no claim over Guillaume, whatever her feelings towards him might be. And after waiting so long for happiness, I cannot surrender it because of misguided courtesy. Besides, Guillaume made things clear to me. She is a friend to him, and a friend only. Though I am beginning to wonder whether such a friendship can last. It would have been better for her if she had remained in Berlin.

We arrived in Abbeville-la-Rivière a little after five o’clock. The station was no more than a depot, and I was sure this tiny, idyllic village rarely saw visitors. In fact, there were no cars to be had.

“I suppose we walk,” Henry said.

And walk we did, down the narrow, paved lane from the station. It did not take us long to find the town, not that there was much to find. Just a few shops and a government office, where Henry asked if anyone could direct us to the abbey.

“It’s a mile down the road,” Henry said. “Unfortunately there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of cars for rent, so I guess we walk some more.”

At least it was only a mile. If we’d had to go any further, Margot’s eyes might have burned a hole in the back of my head. I tried to think of something to say, but nothing seemed sufficient. And so silence it was.

We reached the Abbey as the sun had already begun to set. Behind a simple cottage stood the remains of an ancient monastery that, in its day, must have been a majestic monument to the living God. But now it was a ruin. The central nave more or less remained, but other than that, there was only one great, towering wall that bespoke the glory of its past.

An elderly man was on his knees in a garden in front of the cottage, pulling weeds and tying off vines. He glanced up as we entered the abbey gate and smiled.

“Bonjour,” he said. “Bienvenue, mes amis.”

Henry spoke a greeting to the man in French. His smile never faded.

“Ah, my friends. You are Americans? We don’t get many visitors this far from Paris.”

“Oh, you speak English?” Henry said.

“Of course. I spent five years in a diocese in Maryland. I speak it passably well, if you will forgive my stumbles. My name is Father André, and it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He stood, wiping his hands on his apron, and we introduced ourselves in turn. “So,” he said, “what brings you to our corner of the world this evening? The sun is setting, and it is not wise to travel rural roads at night, even in a place such as this.”

The gathering shadows were indeed lengthening, and for the first time I considered that we would be making the short walk back to the village in darkness. It shouldn’t have bothered me. Not at all, really. But there was much truth in the words of the priest, which also seemed to contain more than a bit of a veiled threat. But there was no such threat in his pale blue eyes or in his smile.

“Come, my friends. I was just about to make supper.” He held up a bag of vegetables from the garden. “It is rare I have guests.”

I glanced to Henry and then Margot—though she immediately looked away. There seemed to be little reason to say no. Perhaps we would learn something of the staff. “Of course,” I said. He nodded once and walked into the abbey, the rest of us following behind.

The interior was sparse, with a modesty befitting a man of God. And yet there was a certain beauty in its simplicity.

“I apologize for the lack of accommodations,” the priest said as he brought an extra chair in from another room. “As I said, it’s not often that we receive guests. I have some soup on the stove, but it’s not yet enough for us all…”

“Oh that’s all right,” I said. “We don’t want to be trouble.”

“No, no, no,” he said, holding up his palms. “It will only take a moment. Please, just wait here.”

“So,” Henry whispered as the man disappeared into the kitchen, “what’s the plan?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I hadn’t really thought it through.”

Margot rolled her eyes. “It’s obvious,” she said, “that this was once a place of great honor. But that was a long time ago. There is a story to what happened here, and he will want to talk to us. He will want to share with us the history of this place. It is only human nature. He is like a man whose child has died. If you ask him, he will talk. But respect him. Don’t play games.”

I don’t know if Margot and I will ever be on friendly terms again, but I certainly couldn’t argue with her. There was something about the priest that spoke to me. He was a stranger, and yet he seemed as though he had known me all my life. If there was one thing my father taught me when I was young, it was to always trust my instincts. And my instincts told me that this man was a friend, not a foe.

He returned with a smile, a tray, five bowls of soup, half a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine. “Please, my friends, gather around. So, tell me about yourselves and your travels,” he said as he passed the soup around.

Margot and Henry both turned to me, and so it seemed the duty of explaining was mine.

“We were hoping that you could help us with something. Have you ever heard of the Staff of Dzyan?”

My words froze the old priest in his place. He looked at me with an intensity that I would not have expected from a man of his age. He seemed to be studying me, studying all of us, looking deeper into our souls than should have been possible. After what seemed like an eternity but couldn’t have been more than a few moments, he nodded once. Then Father André sat down and began to stir his soup. “You should eat,” he said. “Then we will talk. I find in such matters it is better to have your strength before you begin.”

The soup was delicious. Hearty and earthy, like something my grandmother made when I was a child. The wine was dark and rich, and I felt its potency from the first sip.

“From the vineyards beyond the old abbey,” Father André said. “As there is power in the blood, there is also power in the wine. Treat that one with particular respect, and it will respect you as well.”

I smiled. “Indeed.”

It wasn’t until our bowls were empty and our stomachs full that he spoke again. “Now,” he said, as he gathered up the dishes and arranged them on the tray, “I suppose we can talk.”

The sun had long set on the French countryside when the four of us gathered in the sparsely furnished main room of the cottage. Father André looked at each of us, but now with a caring, almost concerned, visage. “I can hardly imagine,” he said, “what would bring ones such as yourselves all the way here, looking for the staff. And I wish you would turn away now from your quest and go home. For few who seek the staff find it, and all who find it leave it with a heavy heart.”

“So you do know of the staff?” Henry asked. The priest merely nodded. “Then let us assure you that we do not seek it for our own ends.”

“Then why seek it at all?”

“To protect it,” I said. “From those who would use it to do evil.”

“There are already men who have sworn themselves to that sacred duty,” he said. “From beyond the shroud of time and memory, the Tzadikim Nistarim have protected the staff. And, when need be, used it to hold back the darkness.” He sighed. “But if what you say is true, you certainly bring ill tidings. If agents of the strange dark one seek it, much blood will be spilled before this story is done.”

I looked at my companions, but I found no comfort there. Margot had fixed the priest with her gaze and did not look away. Henry’s eyes were downcast. In his experience, what the priest had promised would undoubtedly come to pass.

The priest’s kindly, blue eyes turned to me. “And tell me, my child, what do you know of the staff?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s hard to say, I’m afraid. Legends, mostly. Rumors. Nothing concrete. My father told me once that some believed Christ Himself made it.”

The old man laughed. “Yes, I’ve heard that story. That he twisted it together in the desert from cedar and pine and cypress wood. The same construction, incidentally, as the true cross. It’s not surprising, really. Holy scripture,” he said, gesturing to a beautifully illuminated Bible that sat open on the table, “tells us that those who believe without seeing are truly blessed. And yet, mankind wants proof, don’t they? So whether it be the Holy Grail, or the Spear of Destiny, or the Shroud of Turin, the believers look to something concrete to cling to. For the men who wrote that legend, the staff was just another relic, something else to prove the divinity of Jesus.”

“So you don’t believe the staff really existed?”

“Oh no, no, no, my dear. I know the staff exists. I just believe it had existed for centuries before Christ was even born.”

He reached over and picked up the Bible, flipping through it, almost all the way to the beginning. “Ah, yes,” he said. Then he turned the book towards us.

There was an illuminated page, an image, as exquisitely rendered a piece of art as any that might find a place of honor in the finest French museum. It showed a great column of people trailing into the distance. They carried all their belongings with them on rickety carts pulled by beasts of burden. The great caravan traveled through a mighty canyon, but its walls were not made of stone. They were sheer cliffs of churning water, a sea piled upon itself in defiance of all laws of nature. And in the foreground stood a man, his arms raised high, holding a staff above his head.

“Moses,” whispered Margot. The old man smiled.

“Yes, at the parting of the Red Sea.” Then he began to read. “‘And the Lord said to Moses, “But lift thou up thy rod, and stretch forth thy hand over the sea, and divide it: that the children of Israel may go through the midst of the sea on dry ground.’”

Henry leaned forward in his chair. “But how did Moses come to possess the staff?”

“The Bible tells us it was given to him by God when he charged Moses with leading the Israelites out of Egypt. But Moses was a Prince of Egypt, so it’s certainly possible that he found the staff among the treasures of Pharaoh. Whatever the case, the staff would become the emblem—and perhaps the source—of his power. It was the staff that turned the waters of the Nile into blood. It was the staff that served as the sign of authority in the Kingdom of Israel for a thousand years, until it was lost when the Romans invaded Palestine.”

“But not lost to you?” I said.

There was a twinkle in the priest’s eye. “No, my dear. Not to me. And not to my order. When Rome fell, the staff was taken here, to this abbey, for safe keeping.”

Henry gasped. “Then the staff was here? All this time?”

“Perhaps if you had visited a few centuries ago. For all things that rise must fall, even a religious order. So when the Revolution swept France, the rationalists launched a crusade, if you will, against religion. This was one of their targets. The ruins you see behind this cottage are all that remain of the old abbey. It was burned to the ground, the brothers who lived here, slaughtered. No, I am here to tend a small flock in the village, not to guard a precious relic. When the crown fell, the staff was moved once again, hidden beneath The Directory’s very nose.”

“In the Catacombs.”

“Precisely.”

“So that’s that then,” said Henry. “The staff is in Paris.” Father André chuckled and shook his head.

“You should have learned by now, my friend, that the staff rarely remains in one place for very long. In the Great War, when the Germans came within sight of Paris, my order decided that it was no longer safe buried beneath the city. And thus, it was moved again.”

“But,” I said, “if the staff’s not in the Catacombs any more…”

I looked at Henry and he at me, and our voices rang as one.

“They’re digging in the wrong place!”