THE RETURN TO THE MOUNTAINS
CHAPTER 63
Sabarthès Mountains
FRIDAY 8 JULY 2005
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. It 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 for 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 gear 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 café with a couple of tables and chairs sitting outside on the pavement. Deciding it would be good to check she was still heading the right way, Alice went into the café. 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 étang 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-Barthélémy, which stood between the Pic de Soularac and Montségur 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.
‘Madomaisèla 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.’
Nervous, awkward, Alice ducked under the lintel and stepped through the door into the room, still feeling the intensity of his gaze. It was as if he was trying to commit every feature to memory.
‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she said, then stopped.
She was unable to think of anything to say. His delight, his wonder that she had come — mixed with his faith that she would – made ordinary conversation impossible.
‘You resemble her,’ he said slowly. ‘There is much of her in your face.’
‘I’ve only seen photos, but I thought so too.’
He smiled. ‘I did not mean Grace,’ he said softly, then turned away, as if he had said too much. ‘Please, sit down.’
Alice glanced surreptitiously around the room, noticing the lack of modern equipment. No lights, no heating, nothing electronic. She wondered if there was a kitchen.
‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she started again. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. I was wondering . . . how did you know where to find me?’
Again, he smiled. ‘Does it matter?’
Alice thought about it and realised it did not.
‘Madomaisèla Tanner, I know about the Pic de Soularac. I have one question I must ask you before we go any further. Did you find a book?’
More than anything, Alice wanted to say she had. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He asked me about it too, but I didn’t see it.’
‘He?’
She frowned. ‘A man called Paul Authié.’
Baillard nodded his head up and down. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, in such a way that Alice felt she didn’t need to explain.
‘You found this, though, I believe?’
He lifted his left hand and placed it on the table, like a young girl showing off an engagement ring, and she saw to her astonishment he was wearing the stone ring. She smiled. It was so familiar, even though she’d held it for a few seconds at most.
She swallowed hard. ‘May I?’
Baillard removed it from his thumb. Alice took it and turned it over between her fingers, again discomforted by the intensity of his gaze.
‘Does it belong to you?’ she heard herself asking, although she feared he would say yes and all that that might mean.
He paused. ‘No,’ he said in the end, ‘although I had one like it once.’
‘Then who did this belong to?’
‘You do not know?’ he said.
For a split second, Alice thought she did. Then the spark of understanding disappeared and her mind was clouded once more.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said uncertainly, shaking her head, ‘but it lacks this, I think.’ She pulled the labyrinth disc from her pocket. ‘It was with the family tree at my aunt’s house.’ She handed it to him. ‘Did you send it to her?’
Baillard did not answer. ‘Grace was a charming woman, well educated and intelligent. During the course of our first conversation we discovered we had several interests in common, several experiences in common.’
What is it for?’ she asked, refusing to be deflected.
‘It’s called a merel. Once there were many. Now, only this one remains.’
She watched in amazement as Baillard inserted the disc into the gap in the body of the ring. ‘Aquì. There.’ He smiled and put the ring back on his thumb.
‘Is that decorative only or does it serve some purpose?’
He smiled, as if she had passed some sort of test. ‘It is the key that is needed,’ he said softly.
‘Needed for what?’
Again, Baillard did not answer. ‘Alaïs comes to you sometimes when you are sleeping, does she not?’
She was taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. She didn’t know how to react.
We carry the past within us, in our bones, in our blood,’ he said. ‘Alaïs has been with you all of your life, watching over you. You share many qualities with her. She had great courage, a quiet determination, as do you. Alaïs was loyal and steadfast as, I suspect, are you.’ He stopped and smiled at her again. ‘She, too, had dreams. Of the old days, of the beginning. Those dreams revealed her destiny to her, although she was reluctant to accept it, as yours now light your way.’
Alice felt as if the words were coming at her from a long distance, as if they were nothing to do with her or Baillard or anybody, but had always existed in time and space.
‘My dreams have always been about her,’ she said, not knowing where her words were taking her. ‘About the fire, the mountain, the book. This mountain?’ He nodded. ‘I feel she’s trying to tell me something. Her face has grown clearer these past few days, but I still can’t hear her speak.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t understand what she wants of me.’
‘Or you of her, perhaps,’ he said lightly. Baillard poured the wine and handed a glass to Alice.
Despite the earliness of the hour, she took several mouthfuls, feeling the liquid warming her as it slid down her throat.
‘Monsieur Baillard, I need to know what happened to Alaïs. Until I do, nothing will make sense. You know, don’t you?’
A look of infinite sadness came over him.
‘She did survive,’ she said slowly, fearing to hear the answer. ‘After Carcassonne . . . they didn’t . . . she wasn’t captured?’
He placed his hands flat on the table. Thin and speckled brown with age, Alice thought they resembled the claws of a bird.
‘Alaïs did not die before her time,’ he said carefully.
‘That doesn’t tell me . . .’ she started to say.
Baillard held up his hand. ‘At the Pic de Soularac events were set in motion that will give you – give us — the answers we seek. Only through understanding the present, the truth of the past will be known. You seek your friend, oc?’
Again, Alice was caught out by the way Baillard jumped from one subject to another.
‘How do you know about Shelagh?’ she said.
‘I know about the excavation and what happened there. Now your friend has disappeared. You are trying to find her.’
Deciding there was no point trying to work out how or what he knew, Alice replied.
‘She left the site house a couple of days ago. No one’s seen her since. I know her disappearance is connected with the discovery of the labyrinth.’ She hesitated. ‘In fact, I think I know who might be behind it all. At first, I thought Shelagh might have stolen the ring.’
Baillard shook his head. ‘Yves Biau took it and sent it to his grandmother, Jeanne Giraud.’
Alice’s eyes widened as another part of the jigsaw slotted into place. ‘Yves and your friend work for a woman called Madame de l’Oradore.’ He paused. ‘Fortunately, Yves had second thoughts. Your friend too, perhaps.’
Alice nodded. ‘Biau passed me a telephone number. Then I discovered Shelagh had called the same number. I found out the address and when I didn’t get any answer, I thought I should go and see if she was there. It turned out to be the house of Madame de l’Oradore. In Chartres.’
‘You went to Chartres?’ Baillard said, his eyes bright. ‘Tell me. Tell me. What did you see?’
He listened in silence until Alice had finished telling him about everything she’d seen and overheard.
‘But this young man, Will, he did not show you the chamber?’
Alice shook her head. ‘After a while, I started to think that maybe it didn’t really exist.’
‘It exists,’ he said.
‘I left my rucksack behind. It had all my notes about the labyrinth in it, the photograph of you with my aunt. It will lead her straight to me.’ She paused. ‘That’s why Will went back to get it for me.’
‘And now you fear something has happened to him also?’
‘I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. Half the time, I’m frightened for him. The rest of the time, I think he’s probably all tied up in it as well.’
‘Why did you feel you could trust him in the first instance?’ Alice looked up, alerted by the change in his tone. His usually benign gentle expression had vanished. ‘Do you feel you owe him something?’
‘Owe him something?’ Alice repeated, surprised by his choice of words. ‘No, not that. I barely know him. But, I liked him, I suppose. I felt comfortable in his company. I felt . . .’
‘Que?’ What?
‘It was more the other way round. It sounds crazy, but it was as if he felt he owed me. Like he was making up to me for something.’
Without warning, Baillard pushed his chair back and walked to the window. He was clearly in a state of some confusion.
Alice waited, not understanding what was going on. At last, he turned to face her.
‘I will tell you Alaïs’ story,’ he said. ‘And through the knowing of it, we will perhaps find the courage to face what lies ahead. But know this, Madomaisèla Tanner. Once you have heard it, you will have no choice but to follow the path to its end.’
Alice frowned. ‘It sounds like a warning.’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Far from it. But we must not lose sight of your friend. From what you overheard, we must assume her safety is guaranteed until this evening at least.’
‘But I don’t know where the meeting’s supposed to take place,’ she said. ‘François-Baptiste didn’t say. Only tomorrow night at nine-thirty.’
‘I can guess,’ Baillard said calmly. ‘By dusk we will be there, waiting for them.’ He glanced out of the open window at the rising sun. ‘That gives us some time to talk.’
‘But what if you’re wrong?’
Baillard shrugged. ‘We must hope I am not.’
Alice was quiet for a moment. ‘I just want to know the truth,’ she said, amazed at how steady her voice sounded.
He smiled. ‘Ieu tanben,’ he said. Me too.