“It’s a map. Menina said we would need it.”
Alais understood immediately. “She doesn’t mean to come with us,” she said heavily, fighting the tears welling up in her eyes.
Sajhe shook his head.
“But why didn’t she tell me?” she said, her voice shaking. “Could she not trust me?”
“You would not have let her go.”
Alais let her head fall back against the tree. She was overwhelmed with the magnitude of her task. Without Esclarmonde she didn’t know how she could find the strength to do what was required of her.
As if he could read her mind, Sajhe said: “I’ll look after you. And it won’t be for long. When we have given the Book of Words to Harif, we will come back and find her. Si es atal es atal.‘ Things will be as they will be.
“That we should all be as wise as you.”
Sajhe flushed. “This is where we have to go,” he said, pointing at the map. “It doesn’t appear on any map, but Menina calls the village Los Seres.”
Of course. Not just the name of the guardians, but also a place.
“You see?” he said. “In the Sabarthes Mountains.”
Alais nodded. “Yes, yes,” she said. “At last, I think I do.”
THE RETURN TO THE MOUNTAINS
CHAPTER 63
Sabarthes Mountains
FRIDAY 8 JULY 2OO5
Audric Baillard sat at a table of dark, highly-polished wood in his house in the shadow of the mountain.
The ceiling in the main room was low and there were large square tiles on the floor the colour of red mountain earth. He had made few changes.
This far from civilisation, there was no electricity, no running water, no cars or telephones. The only sound was the ticking of the clock marking time.
There was an oil lamp on the table, extinguished now. Next to it was a glass tumbler, filled almost to the brim with Guignolet, filling the room with the subtle scent of alcohol and cherries. On the far side of the table there was a brass tray holding two glasses and a bottle of red wine, unopened, as well as a small wooden platter of savoury biscuits covered with a white linen cloth.
Baillard had opened the shutters so he could see the sunrise. In spring, the trees on the outskirts of the village were dotted with tight silver and white buds and yellow and pink flowers peeped out shyly from the hedgerows and banks. By this late in the year, there was little colour left, only the grey and green of the mountain in whose eternal presence he had lived for so long.
A curtain separated his sleeping quarters from the main room. The whole of the back wall was covered with narrow shelves, almost empty now. An old pestle and mortar, a couple of bowls and scoops, a few jars. Also books, both those written by him, and the great voices of Cathar history – Delteil, Duvernoy, Nelli, Marti, Brenon, Rouquette. Works of Arab philosophy sat side by side with translations of ancient Judaic texts, monographs by authors ancient and modern. The rows of paperbacks, incongruous in such a setting, filled the space once occupied by medicines and potions and herbs.
He was prepared to wait.
Baillard raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply.
And if she did not come? If he never learned the truth of those final hours?
He sighed. If she did not come, then he would be forced to take the last steps of his long journey alone. As he had always feared.
CHAPTER 64
By the time dawn broke, Alice was a few kilometres north of Toulouse.
She pulled into a service station and drank two cups of hot, sweet coffee to steady her nerves.
Alice read the letter once more. Posted in Foix on Wednesday morning.
A letter from Audric Baillard giving directions to his house. She knew it was genuine. She recognised the black spidery writing.
She felt she had no choice but to go.
Alice spread the map on the counter, trying to work out precisely where she was heading. The hameau where Baillard lived didn’t appear on the map, although he’d mentioned enough landmarks and names of nearby towns for her to work out the general area.
He was confident, he said, that Alice would know the place when she saw it.
As a precaution, and one she realised she should have taken earlier, Alice exchanged her hire car at the airport for one of a different colour and make, just in case they were looking for her, then continued her journey south.
She drove past Foix towards Andorra, and then through Tarascon before following Baillard’s directions. She turned off the main road at Luzenac and went through Lordat and Bestiac. The landscape changed. lit reminded Alice of the slopes of the Alps. Small mountain flowers, long grass, the houses like Swiss chalets.
She passed a sprawling quarry, like a huge white scar gouged into the side of the mountain. Towering electricity pylons and thick black cabling the winter ski resorts dominated the skyline, black against the summer blue sky.
Alice crossed the river Lauze. She was forced to shift down into second as the road got steeper and the bends tighter. She was starting to feel sick from the constant doubling back, when she suddenly found herself in a small village.
There were two shops and a cafe with a couple of tables and chairs sitting outside on the pavement. Deciding it would good to check she was still heading the right way, Alice went into the cafe. The air inside was thick with smoke and hunched, mulish men with weather-beaten faces and blue overalls lined the counter.
Alice ordered coffee and ostentatiously put her map on the counter.
Dislike of strangers, particularly women, meant no one spoke to her for a while, but finally she managed to strike up a conversation. No one had heard of Los Seres, but they knew the area and gave what help they could.
She drove higher, gradually getting her bearings. The road became a track, and then finally petered out altogether. Alice parked the car and got out. Only now, standing in the familiar landscape, her nose filled with the smells of the mountain, did she realise that she had in fact doubled back on herself and was actually on the far side of the Pic de Soularac.
Alice climbed to the highest point and shielded her eyes. She identified the etang de Tort, a distinctively shaped tarn the men in the bar had told her to look out for. Close by was another expanse of water known locally as the Devil’s Lake.
Finally, she orientated herself to the Pic de Saint-Barthelemy, which stood between the Pic de Soularac and Montsegur itself.
Straight ahead, a single track wound up through the green scrub and brown earth and bright yellow broom. The dark green leaves of the box were fragrant and sharp. She touched the leaves and rubbed the dew between her fingers.
Alice climbed for ten minutes. Then, the path opened into a clearing, and she was there.
A single-storied house stood alone, surrounded by ruins, the grey stone camouflaged against the mountain behind. And in the doorway stood a man, very thin and very old, with a shock of white hair, wearing the pale suit she remembered from the photograph.
Alice felt her legs were moving of their own accord. The ground levelled out as she walked the last few steps towards him. Baillard watched in silence and was completely still. He did not smile or raise his hand in greeting. Even when she drew close, he did not speak or move. He never took his eyes from her face. They were the most startling colour.
Amber mixed with autumn leaves.
Alice stopped in front of him. At last, he smiled. It was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, transforming the crevices and lines of his face.
“Madomaisela Tanner,” he said. His voice was deep and old, like the wind in the desert. “Benvenguda. I knew you would come.” He stood back to let her enter. “Please.”