“You still give me something that has great meaning to you.” He looked around and then back toward the fountain. “Perhaps we should not speak so close to the gate. Come, there are many things here that are quite interesting to see.” He walked casually in the dim light as though he would know this place even blind.
“Do you need to go back through the gate before night falls?”
“No. I am not the same as they are so I can walk this realm as I wish. The crossings are easiest at the dawn and dusk, but not impossible at other times. Well, at least not for me. I think, though, that I shall stay until the dawn. Did you know that a single note played in the church here can last up to three minutes? Come, you should hear it. It can be either perfection or chaos, like Heaven or the underworld,” he smiled.
I followed along in his confident wake. “May I ask you something, Folquet?”
“Anything,” he said. “Don’t hesitate.”
“Well, I know what it is I want to know, I’m just not sure how to ask the question.”
“Plainly would be best. Monks are very simple people.”
“Are you immortal?”
“Have you seen accounts of my death?” he grinned.
“No, not your death, but only that your grave is near Toulouse.”
He took a pitch pipe from his pocket, pushed open a large unadorned door. His eyes swept the small church and the pride showed upon his face. “Remarkable, isn’t it.”
Even the soft words echoed and reverberated back upon us. “Yes. The simplicity itself is art.”
“Ah, pleasing to the eye for sure, but listen!” he said as he breathed into the pipe and hung a single note in the air for so long it’s vibration was nearly visible.”
“Remarkable.”
He inhaled in deeply and sang out a stanza of a canto in a dialect of French I couldn’t decipher, but could feel in both the depth of the notes and the emotion. His voice was strong and deep, his words slow. We both listened to the last notes linger and fade then he motioned for me to try. While I was accustomed to singing in front of an audience and in an acoustically sound studio, nothing could have prepared me for the sound of my own voice in this place of God. My song for Cybilla was alive and every bit of my wished she could hear it.
At last the sound died away and we left that place in its sacred silence.
“I am, as you said, immortal, Oren Gale,” he started. “You know what I miss the most? The bread. Every morning the sun rose and the aroma of the hearth bread greeted me. That’s the thing I miss.”
We entered a small room that had clearly been made into some sort of employee lounge for the people who took care of the museum.
“I was not like you. I would not say I was good man. I lived a luxurious youth, my father was a wealthy man and I was a privileged son. I traveled and sang, and sometimes my romantic words landed me in the beds of ladies above my station, occasionally they were married. Then one day I saw a painting in a Lord’s house of a woman so beautiful I felt I had to write about her. Many days I sat in seclusion in a small grove practicing the lyrics, the cadences, the pitches. Until the day I thought I had it perfected. The sun was setting and the sky burned with clouds streaked like flames, but I closed my eyes and sang. I felt every word in my heart, and though I had been a singer of cantatas amorosos for many years, none had such impact on me. I opened my eyes and there she was.”
“Your muse.”
“No. My Goddess. I devoted myself to her. Like you, I knew I would have to sacrifice things I held dear, but it was more than that, I had to understand her world. I had to understand her place in it. I had to be one with nature. This place gave me that chance. But you see, I couldn’t bring her into this world. She could never live a mortal life. So when the gate opened...”
“She brought you to her,” I finished. “What was your task?”
“My task was simply knowing with all my heart what I wanted. But then I had to be worthy of her, I had to cleanse myself of my past life and I had to serve the Earth, serve mankind in someway. For me it was a penance,” he said, reaching out and putting his hand over my heart. “I don’t think it will be the same for you. You already know with conviction what it is you want and that has made your journey quite short. What remains is finding your gate.”
“Do you know where the gate is?” I asked him eagerly.
Folquet sighed. “I know where my gate is, Oren. I can tell you where of need to go from here, and when you should be there, but your gate is yours alone to find. Perhaps you should rest a while. I will wake you before I leave and you can ask me your final questions.”
“May I ask you one more thing before I sleep? What was it like when your gate opened?”
“It was like the sun burst forth and enveloped me. It was remarkable!”
It seemed like just moments before there was a nudging at my shoulder and Folquet’s deep voice in my ear. “The dawn is nearly here, Oren. You need to go to the place where purity and virtue were prized and the sacred fire burned perpetually. It is at the altar of hearth and family that you must be prepared for your final task. Be there on the seventh day of June.”
He strode away purposely.
My mind was still pondering his words when I realized he was about to leave, to go through the gate. I raced down the corridor behind him. “Folquet! A moment, Please!”
He turned his head and smiled, he motioned me forward, but continued walking.
“I didn’t even thank you for your help. Is there anything...”
“You paid a high price to enter this place. You gave me the story of your heart and you shared the music of your soul. There is nothing else that can match the value of what you have already given. Make haste now. The days are few.
The sun came over the horizon brighter than any sun had ever been. Folquet seemed to walk straight into the heart of it.
IX:
Exhaustion caught up with me shortly after I left the Abbey.
I stopped for a meal, but the full stomach made my longing for rest that much worse. There was no choice but to take a room for the night. Alas, the comfort of a bed did not make sleep come easily. I still did not know where my journey was heading and I had a definite date of arrival that was less than two weeks away. My work had to be done quickly.
I lay alone.
My heart longed for Cybilla as my mind contemplated my situation. Here I was in a modern hotel where I would pay whatever price they asked for the convenience of the Internet, when just hours ago I stood in an Abbey built more than eight hundred years ago, speaking to a man who reportedly passed away just after The Peace of Paris ended the Crusades. The Crusades! I don’t know what I expected at the outset of my quest, but I was presently living between two worlds, or in some sort of window where the past and present, no, that is not really the right description, maybe the physical and the supernatural interacted. I wondered if the lines of demarcation in time were so pronounced when Folquet began his journey.
...
I had hoped that this next task was going to take me to Aix-en-Provence. I knew there was a sacred spring there where a great battle was fought by the Romans. Many myths surrounded that place, and my spirits were high because the distance was short.
Oh hope, you are a fragile thing.
My research said I was going back to Rome. I had to be in the Temple of Vesta on the first day of Vestalia when the sacrifices were accepted. I wondered what I would have to give. What gift could I give the Goddess of Hearth and Family, the Mother Goddess, that would be worthy of what I asked in return? There was no time to worry about it. I had covered that distance to get to Le Thoronet, and I knew for certain it would take eight days of walking without stopping for any rest to get back to Rome. Eating, sleeping or any mishap at all would put me off my schedule.
I had to find another way.
I sat at a table outside a cafe looking over my map. I could re
nt a car and drive, but it seemed like cheating. I could catch a ferry. Somehow that seemed a little better, but I still felt like this was part of the test, like taking the easy trip would get me there, but be my downfall.
Right there I decided I would travel to Toulon. It was only 36 miles, I could be there in less than two days. From Toulon I had more options.
So I began to walk.
The weather was pleasant which kept my spirits up, but my heart seemed to be racing all the time. Toulon was a busier city than I had been anticipating. I guess I just had some idea in my head that cities on the coast were more laid back, probably because vacations to the coast were relaxing. But this was a busy port. The crowds were thick and somehow smothering.
Before I knew what was happening some young thief had a hold of my guitar case. He took his knife and slit the strap along with a good bit of the skin along my arm, and he ran off as I stood bleeding.
I was stunned watching him disappear into the crowd as the blood oozed through the fingers I clamped over my wound. I sat down on the curb, took my spare t-shirt and tore a strip of the cotton to wrap around the gash. I used just a few drops of the water from my flask to rinse the area as I made use of the makeshift bandage then I wiped my hands clean on the remains of the shirt. I looked off in the direction my attacker had gone, but the world had swallowed him and my guitar along with him.
I sighed.
An older man sat beside me. He was speaking to me in French, which was not a language I had any working knowledge of. I was American by birth, but spent very little of my life there due to my father’s military obligations. I spoke German and some Japanese, thanks to the United States Air Force. I lived and recorded my music outside of London. But I learned Italian because Italy was the place that I escaped to, the place I spent the majority of my time when I was not working, or I guess I should say when I was writing music and needed my muse. Italy was the place Cybilla loved, the place she was real in the world of men, and that alone was reason for me to love it.
Still, French was completely foreign, and I probably sat there looking at the gentleman beside me blankly.
He pursed his lips and gave me a good looking over. “Speak English?” he said at last.
“English or Italian, Sir.”
He cleared his throat noisily. “English, then,” he rumbled. “Is your arm alright?”
“Yes, it’s just a shallow cut.”
“Ah, so the ache is for the thing he took, then?”
I smiled a little. “Yes. It’s a funny thing, had he asked me for it, I would have given it without hesitation, but losing it like that, pointlessly, hurts me.”
“Do not think of his action as pointless. A man must have great need to be so desperate.”
I nodded.
“You have some need as well,” he started, but his words were interrupted by a bout of coughing, thick with phlegm. He was struggling to catch his breath. I pulled the flask from my jacket, “take small sips, the water is very cold.”
He recovered himself quickly, looked at the flask for a moment and handed it back to me. “Where are you going, Son?” he asked as he pressed his hand to my chest.
“Rome. I must be there before June seventh. I was hoping I could find a boat going that way and buy passage.”
“Eh, do not buy,” he said waving his hand in the air as though he shooed my words away. “You are young and healthy, you can work as a deck hand. I know a boat leaving for Civitavecchia this day. You want I should bring you to it?”
The odd phrasing made me smile, but hopefully he thought it was a grateful smile as I eagerly accepted his offer.
The walk was short. For a man who could barely breathe a short while ago, his pace was quick. The boat was very old, but meticulously, fastidiously restored. The woodwork must have taken thousands of hours to carve. I stood admiring her beauty as my companion climbed aboard.
“Armon?” he called, and a man very close to my age came to the deck and greeted him kindly. They spoke in French, so much of the conversation was lost to my ear, but Armon said something like, ‘you found him, the one we waited for?’ to which my companion simply answered ‘yes’.
They came back to the dock and spoke to me. Armon was sailing the boat back to its owner now that the renovation was completed. I could not imagine how it would hurt to hand over something that you put your sweat and blood into, but perhaps it was not the first, nor the last and he’d become immune to the beauty and the loss. Or perhaps he did not feel loss giving such beauty back to the world.
He said the trip would take five days on this boat, but the work would be difficult because no modern navigation was added to the restoration. We would be sailing her exactly as she had been sailed hundreds of years ago: navigating by the stars and praying for good winds.
Yes, this was the route my journey was meant to take.
As we made to set sail, I asked Armon what the price was, but he refused my money. He said I had already paid his uncle. I told him I had not given any money. And he said he knew that, but what was given and my hand in help was all he needed.
We loosed the ropes that held her to the dock. The old man stood and watched as we began to drift away. Then he raised his hand and called out; “May the water always be your friend, Oren Gale!”
And I knew that Dia sent him for me.
X:
The day came at last.
Every beat of my heart felt like a fist pounding upon a door. I was showered and clean shaven. I told myself I wanted to look decent when Cybilla came to me. I did not want to think about what it was going to take to get to that moment or the possibility that the moment I was living for might not happen.
I did not want to think about dying.
...
The sky was still so dark it seemed like someone had thrown a cloak over the city and hid it away from all light. The air was humid and still; no whisper of breeze stirred the leaves or whistled through the empty streets.
I entered the Forum near the Arch of Titus and sat to wait on the steps of the Temple of Antonio and Faustina. I couldn’t say why I was waiting. The day was here, I could have gone and sat on the steps of the Temple of Vesta, but something inside told me to wait for the fire in the east. I was humming the tune that I surely would have been playing on my guitar had I still had it. My heart seemed to calm just thinking about the music. And at last I saw that first glimmer of light break through the darkness. My body began moving almost before my eyes registered it.
There upon the temple steps stood a young woman modestly dressed in white. Her long hair was tied back, her hands were folded in front of her, and she seemed to be waiting for me.
“The fire is lit, Pontifex, you should pay your tithe and go make your offering,” she said.
“What does that mean, Pontifex?” I asked.
“You are the bridge builder, are you not? You have come to open the way between the Gods and the Earth, have you not, Oren Gale?”
“Yes, I have, my lady.”
“Then you should pay your tithe, and go place your offering of water by the fire. Be mindful, the vessel must keep the water from touching the earth.”
I pressed the last of the antique coins into her hand, bowed my head in respect and made my way up the stairs. An unearthly fire burned at the center of the temple. Colors not usually associated with flame flickered at it’s heart. The heat was intense, but I knelt before it. I took the flask from my pocket and looked at the engraving that covered the silver surface: lotus blossoms, of course, the symbol of purity, flower of the water. I gently set the flask at the edge of the fire and prayed that the goddess accept my offering.
It was only a moment before the fire began to change. It rose to a great height under the dome of the temple, engulfing all of the dias upon which it burned. The colors twisted and churned until at last they burst into pure white light and from them walked The Mother herself, the Goddess Vesta.
I knelt before her, my head bowed in supplication. “Holy Mother, I do not know how to properly address you to show my respect.”
She laughed lightly. The sound was music to my ears, and my heart felt joy.
“I have been known by many names; Vesta, Gaia, Nut, Nertha, Terra Mater, you may call me any of those or Mother is fine. Rise Oren Gale, let me see the man who stands as Pontifex before me.”
I rose to my feet before her and we stood in silent judgment until at last she smiled. “Say your thought aloud. Let me hear it in your own voice!”
“Forgive me, my lady, I was thinking it was no wonder Folquet changed his life. It is not just your beauty, but your voice is music.”
“And it is no wonder Cybilla longs for you. I think in the world of men, there are very few like you.”
“What task do you ask of me? What can I give that is worthy of what I ask in return?” I asked.
She held up her hand. “There are no more tasks, Oren Gale. You have passed every gate that stood in your way.”
“But I don’t understand. I did not do anything.”
She stepped close to me and placed her hand upon my cheek. “There is almost always something a man is unwilling to give, be it his pride, his tears or his life. You gave Kira your past, your family heirloom. You gave Janus joy. You gave Carmenta your greatest treasure, your memory. You gave Foy passion. You gave Dia perhaps the most important gift, your hope. You had your future stolen from you, but instead of bitterness or anger you turned around and shared the water of life with a stranger. And each of them left their mark upon the gate. The last task is yours. Do you know where the gate is?”
I thought about her words. Each of them left their mark upon the gate. Each of them touched my heart, the place I carried Cybilla with me always. I was the gate, the gate was my heart. “Yes, Mother, I know where the gate is. How do I open it?”