FicWad

6.

"Who am I supposed to be," I said, irritated, "the trophy wife?"

We'd left Saint Pol-de-Léon and the coast along with it, settling in Morlais for the night. The next day I discovered that the vaguely louche student, whom anyone might have suspected me of cradle-snatching, had handed me over to this man: a middle-aged, graying gentleman, who walked with a slight but discernible limp. "I think it will speak well of my character that I have won your hand," he informed me, straightening his tie.

"Your character. Right." I have no illusions about my appearance; people are more likely to mistake me for an envoy of the Swedish Bikini Team than an ex-college professor. "Let me guess. Military, retired?"

"Something in that line," he said agreeably. But the lopsided grin was all John Smythe.

"So why are we leaving the suitcases here? Aren't we checking out?"

"We'll need more than one day to do justice to the area, so we'll head back here when it gets dark."

The area in this case was a circuit of churches in rural Finistère made up of Saint Tégonnec, Guimiliau, Lampaul-Guimiliau, Landivisiau, La Roche-Maurice, Landerneau, Le Martyre, Sizun, and Commana; each town had its granite church, dedicated to the town's saint, complete with a bell tower. And all of these churches were characterized by attached /enclos paroissiaux/, those walled parish enclosures found nowhere else in the country. These had been built between the eleventh to fifteen centuries, and they all shared the same basic elements: a triumphal arch over the entrance; a calvary monument, decorated with sculptured figures and topped by three crosses; and an ossuary intended to hold the bones of the local dead, who were dug up whenever the cemetery had reached capacity. The latter had no doubt been a useful feature during the plague years, but most of them were now used to house small exhibits.

But, beyond the basics, all bets were off. Over the centuries, the churches in the area had competed madly, each attempting to outspend and outdo the others in its own special way. Some had higher bell towers, others more triumphal arches; some had extensive porches, others exotic stonework; some had pulled out the stops on their interiors, with complex stained glass windows and elaborate wood carvings, gilded, painted, polished.

Each church was unique, inside and out. And, naturally, I found every one of them fascinating.

"You were right," I said, when we'd only gotten as far as the church at Guimiliau, with its massive porch and baptismal font. "This is going to take more than a day."

"I'm often right," he said, "yet somehow this goes unremarked."

"Hush." I pulled up the rain-hood on my jacket and turned my attention back to the huge calvary in the yard, which had, according to my guidebook, over two hundred separate figures to enact the variety of scenes.

"Ah, here we are," John said, pointing the cane he'd been dragging about since Morlais at one particular group of figures on the lower level. "The just reward of /Catell-Gollet/, a precautionary tale for all women."

"Excuse me?" I said, flipping through my guidebook. I hadn't gotten to that section of the monument yet.

"Allow me to elaborate," he said kindly. "Poor Lost Catherine was indulging in a bit on the side, and lied about that in confession. Then she stole a consecrated host for her lover, only to discover that he'd been the devil himself in disguise. Here we see her being dragged into the mouth of hell by an assortment of delighted demons."

"Wonderful," I said, slapping the book closed.

"In another version," he went on blithely, "she disregards all well-meaning advice about propriety and sets out to the dance alone. The only man who steps up to partner this saucy single wench turns out to be -- ah, I know this will come as a shock -- the devil in disguise. He proceeds to dance her off her feet until she expires, at which point we return to this charming tableau."

"Are you having fun?"

"These gothic horrors comprise your favored period, not mine," he pointed out. "In any event, this applies only to would-be strumpets. A respectable married woman such as yourself is exempt."

I kicked him. I realize that I'd agreed not to, but this was a well-meaning gesture on my part to aid his disguise. He had to put that cane to a legitimate use for a while.

"It's not," he said, "a good idea to disable one's driver."

"I've been paying attention," I told him. I sketched out the motions of shifting of that dashboard gearshift. "I think I can drive it if I have to."

"Ah, mutiny is it?" he asked, sounding pleased. "'My hopes do rest in limits of her grace; I weigh no comforts unless she relieve'." If you'd like to tie me up and imprison me as your abject slave, I won't object too strenuously."

That figured. But I condescended to let him continue ferrying me from church to church for several days, and I'd had my nose buried in a guidebook when he took the turn off the expected route.

"Okay," I said, flipping pages, "so next are the spires to die for. Pleyben, and then . . . Le Faouët? With the groovy rood screen?" Yes, I admit that Schmidt has been a hideous influence on me in some respects.

"Groovy," he repeated, shaking his head sadly. "We'll get to those in good time."

"Detour?" I was staring out the window now, thoroughly confused. "We're off the main route."

We were into the Monts d'Arrée now -- and, I surmised, either inside or near the Regional Natural Park of Armorica. The road had taken a steep climb that didn't appear to bother the car, and our surroundings were rock, rock, and more rock, with the occasional thickets of pines, fields of rolling, high grass, and tufts of something like purple gorse. It was rather lovely in that way desolate places often could be. In a magnificent show of patience that he damned sure better have appreciated, I didn't ask where we were going. Eventually, we descended gently into a valley between the hills with a village. "Trogabr," the small roadsign informed me. In comparison with the others, this town was rather small but otherwise typical. The older homes along the main street had those same thick granite walls and steeply sloping roofs as the others; the newer buildings housed a handful of shops.

"Are those sheep?" I said, pushing aside the window panel to peer up at the dots on one of the far hillsides.

"No," John said, pulling up at a building just before we entered the village. "And here we are."

"This is their church?" I couldn't disguise my disappointment. The squat concrete box with its metal roof and rectangular tower was easily the ugliest example of ecclesiastical architecture I'd laid eyes on since I'd left the United States. Its only attractive point was the granite wall that ran alongside it. "Don't tell me that you brought me here to see that?"

"You might," he said, "consider where we are and what you've seen up to now."

Whatever point he was trying to make here was a mystery to me. Instead of explaining, John put the car back into gear and rolled down the main street. We stopped near the café. Like most such places, it served multiple purposes, both diner and the bar. A small group was already installed at the table by the front window, and, no surprise, an open-mouthed silence reigned from moment we walked through the door. I didn't need psychic powers to predict what everyone's favorite topic of conversation was going to be around here for the next month.

John went straight to the counter, and I listened with increasing disbelief to the rapid babble. If I understood this correctly -- he was asking about the curé? But, how fortunate, the man told him, the curé was here waiting for his lunch. Sure enough, at a table along the back wall, a rail-thin, gaunt man on the far side of fifty clad in the usual black-and-collar was hastily rising to his feet. "C'est le professeur," the proprietor announced loudly to no one in particular, and I felt the attention around us sharpening as the introductions were exchanged.

"An authority but so young," the curé marveled in slow, careful English. "Professeur Bliss, I am most happy to make your acquaintance. I am Father Robert. Welcome to Trogabr." God help me, he did look grimly delighted; I gritted my teeth and wondered what, exactly, my advance publicity department had told him that I was an authority on.

"I'm very pleased to meet you as well," I said lamely. I perched on the proffered seat and vowed to tough this out. Then I'd extract retribution from the guilty party. Slowly. Painfully.

"I am surprised still that you want to see our church when there are the others," he said gravely, as I perched on the offered chair. He couldn't possibly be more surprised than I was.

"But we're interrupting your meal," John interjected smoothly, overriding the subsequent polite protests and my own attempts to get a word in edgewise. Then, to my horror, keys were being produced and handed over the table, then Father Robert was most sincerely hoping I'd have a wonderful visit, then John was squiring me back out the door. The buzz of conversation kicked in before it had even shut.

And I still had no idea what was going on, beyond the obvious: John was acquainted with these people somehow, and he was using me to con them -- again. Visions of Karlsholm and poor Gustaf Jonsson, upon whom John had foisted me as a long-long cousin, were dancing in my head.

"Hold it. Stop!" I hissed at him, as soon as we were out of window-range. The only thing saving him from another healthy kick was my certainty that we had an unseen, fascinated audience. "Explain what the hell that was all about."

"What do you mean? Professor Bliss wishes to see their fine local church, and everyone's more than willing to let her," John replied breezily. "They rarely get visitors in these parts, you understand."

"Why is Professor Bliss the last one to know it?" I demanded.

"Because," he told me patiently, "Professor Bliss promised me in Saint Malo that she would wait for her answers."

Oh. "But those are the keys," I pointed out, feeling dazed.

"Other churches have loaned us keys when a guide wasn't on hand," he reminded me. "And I, for one, didn't wish to interrupt the man's meal on our account. As I'd said."

"No, those are his keys," I insisted. "He handed over the key to his church, to his office -- is that a car key?"

"So it is," he said, examining the ring. "Well, not everyone has your mistrustful, cynical nature, my darling," he told me serenely.

"My god," I groaned, "what have you been telling these people?" I'd heard "Monsieur Bliss" clear as day back there; the only one who'd be left hanging out to dry was me. I'd been led around just as deftly as everyone else, even though I knew better. "You know what? I don't care what's going on. I've had enough." I started jerking at the ring, trying to get it off my finger." Whatever you're trying to pull on these people, I refuse to play your shill, or whatever you guys call it. I am not cooperating. I am going to go back in there and try to apologize."

"Do restrain your impulsive leaps for a moment." His hand closed over mine. "Our car is still sitting back there on the street, so it's not as though we haven't left a suitable hostage in exchange." Before I could ponder the resale value of my toothbrush, he went on, "You're one of those tedious sorts who prefers to see and decide for yourself, rather than simply taking my word for it."

"You're saying we're not here for them/, we're here for /me?" I breathed in, trying to stay calm. "Because there's something I want to see."

"Good lord, whyever else?" He had the temerity to sound a little insulted. "All else being equal, I'd rather be contemplating heathen temples on the temperate hillsides of Greece. Not trudging about in the rain, courting a head cold, to view these endless examples of morbid ecclesiastical excess." He sighed hugely. "To be honest -- and yes, I do have a vague understanding of what that entails," he said, eyeing me, "my sincerest hope has been that a surfeit of cathedrals might induce you to foreswear them ever after."

"Not a chance," I retorted. Well, whatever he was up to, he seemed pretty confident it wouldn't result in me refusing to speak to him again later.

"Well," he said mildly, "it was worth the attempt. Not to mention the unspeakable hardship of enduring over a week in your company."

"I noticed how ill-used you looked last night."

"It has ever been the sad fate of man, to fall into the grasp of insatiable women." He was piffling on with examples that ranged from Calypso to praying mantises, and I was ignoring him, when we came to the wall of the churchyard.

"This is a lot older," I said to myself, running my hand over the granite. Under the moss and lichen, a carving of vines ran the length, about shoulder height; it had to be centuries older than the church. When we'd passed through the wide, uneven opening, it only took one quick glance at the graveled space before me with its tidy patches of flowers, to send my thoughts veering in a new direction. "Was this was another parish close?" I turned and took in the surroundings, comparing it with churches we'd seen. It wasn't nearly as large as the others, but . . . "That shed against the side of the church was the ossuary. That mound over there couldn't be --"

"The tower, yes," John said. "I believe it's relatively intact under all that shrubbery. If you've been longing to snuggle architecture that's normally far beyond your reach, now's your opportunity."

He didn't have to tell me twice. I'd already trotted over to shove aside bushes and tear at vines; I came face to face after a few moments with the nose of a smug ox, one of the four evangelists. The more I pried away, the more I could mentally compare it with the others. "Okay, these additions are gothic, I think," I was muttering to myself, "but this basic shape is earlier than . . . why on earth haven't they tried to fix this?" I sat back on my heels and answered my own question. "They can't afford it."

John settled himself comfortably on a square block of granite that had once been part of a wall; he busied himself with lighting a cigarette. "This isn't the wealthiest part of the country these days, you realize. They set aside the rubble for another day."

"The massive lump over there under all those old tarps could be the calvary."

"No idea, but you may be right."

"So what happened here?" I waved limply to encompass the damaged enclosure and the ugly cement box squatting beside it.

"The region's unlucky proximity to England," he said. He blew a thin steam of smoke into the persistent drizzle. "As for the particulars in this case, I don't know. A demonstration for uncooperative locals, a bit of vandalism by bored troops,' he shrugged, "it hardly matters now. It's not an uncommon tale -- far more important monuments than this have suffered worse fates. You can ask the curé, if you're curious. He did say he'd catch up with us after he'd finished his lunch if we hadn't brought back the keys by then."

I knew that wartime occupations were hell on architecture, but I always found these signs of senseless pettiness disturbing on a fundamental level. This had stood for centuries . . . I gritted my teeth, and wiped my palms on my jeans. "So next up is the ossuary."

The ossuary, which wasn't nearly as large as the others we'd seen, wasn't locked. Inside was nothing but dank darkness, a dusty stone floor -- and in the corner beneath the small barred window, a figure squatting in the corner. I shrieked in surprise and backpedaled right into John.

"Oof, easy," he said, grabbing me before I could knock him over. "Surely you're used to him by now."

"Used to -- what the hell is that?"

"The Ankou," he said, "'Death with his mace petrific, cold and dry'. Our most recent encounter with him was that carving on the ossuary at La Roche-Maurice, as I recall."

"Oh." The local version of death personified. "I've never seen one this large," I said sheepishly. I approached the statue gingerly. This was a life-sized figure of painted wood; the pale skull peering out beneath the flat, wide-brimmed hat had an incongruous pipe hanging from his toothy grin. One bony ankle rested on the opposite knee, and a scythe lay across his lap, clutched in a skeletal hand.

"So another pleasant surprise."

"Not pleasant exactly, but definitely . . . interesting." This figure had another odd feature: It wasn't seated on a chair, but sideways on an animal, mostly hidden by the folds of its cloak. "A donkey?" I wondered aloud, tilting my head for a better view.

John made an amused noise. "You'll know exactly what it is once we've been the in the church, I assure you. More bits to see inside." John smiled agreeably, and held out his arm. "Shall we have a look?"

At first glance, the inside seemed as unprepossessing as the outside, and they'd installed pews here, padded for less austere modern posteriors. But the "more bits" turned out to be many of the wood carvings from the original structure -- they must have had the good sense to tuck them away before the building had been toppled.

"A goat?" I leaned forward to peer at the ledge of the right retable, the decorated panels that flanked the altar. "Okay, that is definitely a goat."

"The legend of the local saint, Henboc'h." John said, looking over my shoulder. "One of the many farm-league fellows hereabouts who didn't make the cut for the majors. Most of them have highly specialized areas of expertise."

"So here's the guy with a goat," I said, following along the tale spelled out by the carvings, "and . . . well, after that, he seems to star in a miniature manual on goat husbandry."

"And one might conclude that the evidence of his sanctity was his unparalleled ability to make them behave."

"But down here it's just the goats by themselves, and they seem to be . . . oh, wow." I'd never seen anything like this in a church before. I blushed. "But that would be a modern misinterpretation of this, ah, symbolic tableau, of course."

"Of course." John agreed blandly. He patted me on the head. "Again, you could always ask about it. A fascinating article just waiting to be written."

"Fascinating," I echoed. I tried to picture Father Robert gravely, painstakingly explaining the symbolic significance. I voted nay.

That was the left retable. The right was devoted entirely to Biblical tales, and all of the figures were, as customary, dressed like typical Bretons of the period -- merchants, farmers, priests, lords. But the goats had strayed over to this side as well; they danced and frolicked in the background or alongside the figures in each scene. Even in the Last Supper, the face of a tiny kid peeped out from under the tablecloth. And I could recognize the same talented carver's hand in all of the other carved pieces as well.

Here's the thing. Manuscript illustrations and architectural decorations from the Middle Ages do have flashes of humor -- or even snide political commentary, as with that send-up of Henry IV on the Saint Thegonnec calvary -- but for the most part they were intended to be beautiful, devotional, and educational. But this church was something else again. This tiny parish hadn't even tried to compete in opulence; rather, they'd wandered down a goat-track of pure whimsy. I'm as passionately devoted to medieval art as any normal person, but one thing I'd never come to associate with it was /adorable/. I had a wistful desire to gather it all up and take it home; instead, I had to content myself with a few photos that couldn't do it justice.

But I could understand why none of this had merited a mention in any guidebooks. The church itself was an eyesore. No one looking at it from the outside could ever guess what it held. I straightened back to my feet. "So if this was built over the old foundations, the crypt should be the basement."

"Deduction correct," John said jingling the key set.

"You already know what's down there." I've never been very fond of underground places; after a taste of being buried alive once, my dislike had edged into a phobia. So this wasn't the time to play games with me. "Was the screaming back there that hilarious?"

"What? No, nothing like that," he assured me. "The reliquary they trot out for the pardon each summer, among other things." He nudged my shoulder. "It's those double-doors over there. Would you like me to go down first?"

He'd offered, so I let him -- the monsters could munch him first, and I might even applaud. But the stone stairs that led downward turned out to be unexpectedly broad and well-lit, and the crypt itself also fell short of expectations. The heavy vaulting overhead was hung with rows of perfectly ordinary fluorescent fixtures, lighting a wide room about the size of the church above us, with thick stone columns down the center. It had linoleum flooring, and plaster walls hung with the pardon banners. It could have been an ordinary church basement in Minnesota.

The wall nearest the stair had a set of deep wooden shelves, one of which held a painted wooden box in pride of place. "This is the reliquary?" I examined the designs. Sure enough, more goats.

"I know you'll be disappointed to hear it, but none of your exotic hearts, or lungs, or other body parts this time," John said. "I understand that it holds a coil of miraculous lead rope that has shown amazing curative properties for livestock."

I was still examining this when I heard the scrape of metal behind me; I turned to see what he was doing and realized for the first time that the far wall wasn't a wall at all. Huge wooden panels were slotted into grooves in the floor, and John was forcing one of them aside. Beyond it was space.

"There's a switch on the wall there," John said. He dusted off his hands. "As you can see, the builders here evidently enjoyed making large holes in rock. Certainly there's a great deal more space underground than above. This goes back quite far, so I'd recommend staying here in the lighted area." He gestured. "So here you are: Everything you need to furnish your medieval rural household, handily collected together in one place. Several households, I would think."

I flicked on the light and couldn't help a small gasp. The space beyond seemed to be filled with furniture and crates. Stacks of large, heavy, dark furniture of the kind I'd never seen outside a museum or a private collection. I stood there blinking at it stupidly. God only knew what was farther back.

"But what --?" To my ears, my voice sounded as cracked and thin as my thoughts at the moment. "What is all this doing down here?"

"Well," he said, "they did use this as a shelter during the war, but I'd hazard that locals from this region have been stowing their valuables down here for quite a long time. Centuries, perhaps. Though, judging from the damage to some of the pieces, the farmhouses they originally furnished are likely long gone." He queried the ceiling plaintively, "But wait . . . where are the usual complaints? The accusations concerning my motives? Could it be . . . this falls securely within her field?"

I spared him an acid glance. For a few more seconds, I hesitated. John didn't normally bother with pieces this large, not when the world was filled with plenty of smaller articles that were easier to turn into profit, but.. . . "Actually," I said, "furniture authentication is a very specialized line of work --"

"As I'm well aware," he said. "To answer the question you're not asking, No, I've made no contributions to this particular pile. Satisfied?"

"Well. Yes, fine." I looked over my shoulder at the stairs guiltily. "Do you think anyone would mind if I --?"

John snorted, clearly amused. "If anyone minded, we wouldn't be carrying around their keys, would we? Have at it."

I found the missing canopy to the baptismal font upstairs behind a stack of chests, and I leaned over to tell John. He was fiddling with something on the lower side of an enclosed bed, a huge, box-like structure standing against the far wall. I walked over and prodded him with my toe, "Hey. What are you doing? And do you think they have any clue what they've really got down here?"

"Well," he said, checking his watch, "you might ask our host more about that. He should be along --" As if he were answering his stage cue, Father Robert was calling down the stairs to us.

"At my age, I am not happy with those stairs," Father Robert told us glumly. He'd settled himself, upright and stiff, upon one of the storage space's carved chests, the wide book he'd carried down with him laying in his lap. I blinked -- in this light, he really did look remarkably like that Ankou in ossuary. The skeleton had had more expression, though. "This church is one of those in my care now. However, it is a secret that I am most fond of this one." His face cracked briefly for the thinnest of smiles. "It is /charmante/, I think."

No argument from me there. "Completely unexpected," I admitted, without elaborating on the full extent of that.

"Hmm." I thought that sounded pleased, but it was hard to tell -- this man could make a killing at poker. "I am happy that you could visit. Monsieur Bliss had told me on his previous visit in the spring that his wife would find this of much interest."

"I try to keep abreast of all my darling's interests," John said artlessly. At that moment, I was genuinely torn between kissing Monsieur Bliss or killing him. I settled for ignoring him.

Father Robert was staring gloomily into the unlighted depths. "I am here since 1968, but one day I retire. I want to do more for this parish before that time," he said. He made a curt wave at the ceiling. "The church in this condition, it was not intended to be permanent, you understand. Also, the Regional Natural Park is recent, and there are the regulations now. Also, the questions of money . . ." He began to drum his fingers on the book.

I didn't want to harp on the obvious, but any one of the enclosed beds down here could foot the bill for a lot of repair work. "Is that the inventory?" I said.

"Ah, yes," he said, handing me the book. The leather was crumbling on the spine, so I opened it carefully. The most recent addition had been a chair, five years ago. "They tried to keep a record of what is down here, but I do not believe it to be complete. The space here, it is very extensive. It dates before the original church, I believe. There is a second entrance on the hill behind. That one has been closed off since the last century."

"Earlier than the church?" I stared at him, turning over the implications of that.

"This has been used to store the crops, and the people have used it for other things also." His deadpan shaded into thoughtful. "I have wondered whether a small exhibit . . . but it has always been the matter of how to go about this."

"I can think of dozens of museums, including ours, who'd love to have a shot at this place for their own collections," I assured him. "But even if you kept everything, I don't see why the museums here wouldn't be willing to advise you on evaluation and arrangements," I said gently. "Another exhibit in this area would be an additional tourism draw, so they'd benefit, too."

He nodded once, curtly. "Yes, I thought that as well. We have made such inquiries." Now I couldn't mistake the irritation. "It is not clear who to approach. They are very busy, it seems."

I shifted my gaze away, disconcerted. Because I knew exactly what he was talking about -- I'm a past master of the brush-off myself. We get calls and letters all the time from people who want us to pick through their trash. Everyone is convinced that the junk in their attic from Great Aunt Gertrude is secretly worth millions. Schmidt has a bad habit of dumping all of those inquiries on me.

I wouldn't have spared this place a glance myself if my chauffeur hadn't shanghaied me.

"De toute façon," he said, "very few of the tourists come to this village, so it has been my pleasure. Also, I have read your articles. /Très intéressant/."

My articles? "Er, thank you very much," I told him. I shot a glance at John, who'd become fascinated with a spot on the ceiling. No pressure tactics here, oh no.

Well, why not? A little intercession on their behalf from the Assistant Director of the National Museum in Munich couldn't hurt. I had a folder in my handbag that was filled with cards from museum staff from this part of the country. It wasn't as though I didn't have the time to make a few calls, not when my job description was "Whatever Schmidt asks me to do -- unless I don't feel like doing it."

That was what I was thinking to myself as I leafed through the book, squinting at the spidery script of the later entries, while John chatted amiably with Father Robert about local agriculture. Or at least that's what they'd been discussing when I'd stopped paying strict attention. Suddenly, my ears were assaulted by a terrifying, wheezing death-rattle.

It was the sound of Father Robert laughing. "Mais je l'ai trouvé très romantique quand même," he told John. "La Passion de l'Ombre, c'est tout à fait merveilleux."