Читать книгу The Martyr’s Curse - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 12

That evening before church, Ben sat by candlelight in Père Antoine’s cell. The chess pieces cast flickering shadows across the board as the two of them faced each other, both deeply involved. Their weekly game had become a welcome part of Ben’s routine and he’d felt himself grow closer to the prior, even if the old monk had turned out to be a fiendish player and nearly always beat him. Ben’s black army was in serious trouble again, and he was damned if he could think of a way to thwart those white bishops ganging up on his queen. He pulled her back out of immediate danger, exposing his remaining rook to enemy forces. Nothing he could do to prevent the sacrifice. War is hell.

‘Thank you again for agreeing to drive the truck tomorrow,’ Père Antoine said as he nonchalantly captured the rook and set it down among his growing collection of Ben’s lost men.

Ben shrugged, as if to say it was nothing. He contemplated his losing position for a moment or two, then said, ‘I made an interesting discovery today, Father. One of the passages down below leads into some kind of chamber, but it looks like it’s been walled up.’

The old man’s eyes flicked up from the chessboard, fixed on him for a moment and then lowered again. ‘May I ask what led you down there?’ he asked quietly. His expression was inscrutable.

‘I was just exploring,’ Ben said. He didn’t mention Roby, or the novice’s reason for hiding down there. ‘I wondered what the chamber had been used for, if anyone still knows.’

‘That place has not been used for a long time,’ Père Antoine said.

‘That’s what I thought.’ Ben backed his queen another few steps out of trouble and launched a tenuous offensive against the white king. ‘There’s a lot of dust and cobwebs down there. And other things that I’m sure wouldn’t have been left lying around if it was often visited.’

Père Antoine didn’t ask what other things. Ben wondered if that was because he already had a good idea what they might be.

‘A lot of history in this place,’ Ben said after a long beat of silence.

‘Indeed there is,’ the old man replied, gazing at the board.

‘A whole honeycomb of tunnels. Makes you wonder where they all lead. Maybe there are more chambers you don’t even know about.’

‘No. There is just one.’ Père Antoine looked uncomfortable. He shifted a knight and Ben’s offensive suddenly began to look like another retreat. ‘I would respectfully ask you not to go there again.’

‘In case it’s unsafe? Is that why it was walled up, to prevent a collapse?’

The old man pursed his lips, peering at Ben over the chess battlefield. ‘It is a place we here prefer not to speak of,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

It didn’t seem appropriate to ask why. ‘I didn’t realise. I’m sorry.’

‘You were not to know, my son. Every place has its secrets from the past. Even here, some things remain that ought to be forgotten.’

‘Secrets?’

‘And ghosts. Things that should be left undisturbed.’

‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’

‘Yet they haunt you still,’ the old man said with a faint smile. ‘The ghosts of your past actions.’

‘But God forgives. That’s what you told me.’

‘Yes, He forgives. Even the worst and most shameful acts of man, if we repent fully enough and ask for His mercy.’

It seemed as if the prior was alluding to more than just Ben’s own sordid history. He felt that in bringing up the subject, he’d unearthed something greater, something darker, than a forgotten skull from centuries ago. But it was obvious that the old man had no desire to dwell on the matter any longer. There was a firmness in the monk’s eyes, the closest thing Ben had seen in him to a look of authority. In the gentlest way, it meant ‘this subject is closed’.

‘Check,’ Père Antoine said.

The rain started some time before dawn the next day. Ben watched the spring downpour from the window of his cell as he got ready that morning. Big splashy raindrops burst on the flagstones below and trembled on the leaves of the trees that stood in the courtyard. It felt strange to be putting on his black jeans and denim shirt instead of the robe he’d become accustomed to. The prospect of leaving the monastery and venturing down to civilisation for the first time in six months felt strange, too. Maybe the world down there would be completely different from before. Maybe aliens had landed and taken the place over. From up here, there was no way to know these things.

Ben laced up his boots, shrugged on his scuffed old brown leather jacket and left the sanctuary of his cell, grabbing his green bag on the way out. He walked through the cloisters and out across the high-walled yard to the building where the truck was kept. The tall double doors opened with a creak. The rain was drumming hard on the stable roof and a leak had found its way through the old tiles to drip down to the straw-covered floor. One of the cats, disturbed by his entrance, uncoiled itself from the nest where it had been sleeping, gave him a disgusted look and slunk away.

The truck was parked with its rear end facing the doors. Ben had been too occupied yesterday with the laborious loading process to take a closer look at the vehicle. He circled it, peering critically here and there, pausing to kick the big old knobbly tyres and wondering whether it was still running on the same tankful of diesel as it had been for its last outing several months ago. Diesel didn’t go off as quickly as gasoline. But the state of the fuel wasn’t really his main concern. It was the vehicle itself that troubled him a little. How roadworthy was it? He didn’t even know if it would start.

The truck wasn’t quite as ancient as the monastery, but that didn’t exactly make it modern, either. The long flatbed was made of wooden planks that were crumbling and riddled with wormholes. The dark green paintwork was badly faded with age and the soft tonneau cover lashed in place over the precious cargo of beer barrels had been patched so many times that there wasn’t much left of the original canvas. It was a 1966 eight-ton long-wheelbase Citroën of the type known as a ‘Belphégor’. Ben wondered whether the monks were aware that their only motor vehicle was named after one of the seven princes of Hell, the demon primarily responsible for sloth and laziness and tempting sinners with the lure of fancy new inventions. Maybe that was a deliberate ploy to discourage monks from learning to drive, he thought as he hauled himself up inside the spartan cab.

After so many months spent mimicking the lifestyle of circa 1350, it felt weird to be back inside a motor vehicle. Especially one that officially belonged in a museum. The steering wheel was about the size of a ship’s, positioned almost horizontally above a stamped metal dash fitted with instruments that could have been lifted from a military half-track of fifty years ago. But the old motor cranked into life at the first twist of the key and settled into a steady rumble, dispelling at least some of Ben’s immediate concerns. He depressed the heavy clutch and eased the huge gearstick, a steel bar long enough to lever a wall over, into reverse. There was no grinding, crunching shearing of metal. So far, so good.

‘Here goes,’ he muttered to the truck. ‘Don’t let me down, now.’ He re-engaged the clutch and the scarred old green monster backed rumbling out of the stable building. Ben spun the wheel about a hundred turns to manoeuvre it round to face the tall arched wooden gates, which two monks stood holding open. He found the switch for the windscreen wipers, then lumbered towards the entrance. The monks waved as he passed through.

He waved back, hauled the heavy steering wheel to the left in the direction of Briançon, hit the gas and was on his way.

‘Just you and me now,’ he said to the truck.

If he’d known then what he’d find on his return, he would never have left the place.