Capcir Spring Page 2
Les Angles is both ski resort and a summer holiday centre. The traditional stone built mountain village has, in recent decades, been surrounded and enlarged with the development of hundreds of new apartment blocks and chalets. These holiday homes are unoccupied for most of the year with the exception of the ski season and the months of July and August. In the centre of the village is a large modern swimming pool, sports centre and ice rink, but being early May, the centre was closed. There was a post office and supermarket that also acted as bakery for the all year residents but the restaurants, ski shops and boutiques were all closed. John had rented the chalet for two months. Here was a peaceful place. The village was deserted. The locals had finished making money from the skiing season and were taking a break before the July influx from the cities.
John had heard that the Capcir plateau and hills were excellent for walking. There were gentle hills and forests in all directions from the village with well maintained way-marked tracks. And there was sunshine. The advertising literature said this was the sunniest region of France. Indeed it was very close to some huge solar furnaces that John saw advertised in the tourist office and made a mental note to visit. Here he thought, was a place he could relax and be himself. If only he could find out again who he really was.
He could survive in French and he knew that he would be very unlikely to meet any English speakers. The language barrier should protect him from becoming involved in any significant relationships for the duration of his stay.
*****
Regain control. The light has overcome the darkness and the darkness will never overcome it. The cloud that had hung heavily inside John's head lifted as suddenly as it had appeared. No alarm bells were ringing now.
"I'm here for a long break as I've had problems with my health." John found himself saying. It wasn't so much a lie he consoled himself, as a slight twisting of the truth.
The path curved away before them through the trees back towards the village. They spoke to each other sparingly after the bland introductory small talk, each unsure of how much to reveal to the stranger so recently met.
"What line are you in?" Mary asked, turning her head slightly towards him as she spoke.
"Social work most recently," John added perhaps a little too quickly, "But I'm interested in your subject. I studied some theology and church history in my youth." Why he thought couldn't I have said I'm a priest? Is it something I'm ashamed of? Or am I ashamed of my failure to live up to such a calling? Or am I preparing myself to say I was once a priest? But before John could continue this line of thought she said,
"The Cathars? You've heard of them?"
"They were some sort of heretical sect weren't they, many centuries ago. They were concentrated in the south of France. The inquisition finally wiped them out as it did most of the early heresies. That's all I know"
"Impressive. The first Englishman I meet for three weeks has a basic knowledge of the subject I've dedicated the last two years of my life studying."
"What's the connection here? I thought they were concentrated in towns like Albi where they built some huge Romanesque cathedrals."
"When in 1208 Pope Innocent iii launched a crusade against the Cathars in Southern France I believe some of the most fervent groups went up to the hills, bringing with them their most prized manuscripts and possessions. The place where you found me is called Iglesiettes. You will probably have seen the name on the map. Iglesiettes means little chapel in Catalan. There once was a settlement here with a small stone chapel. I'm trying to prove that this was one of the mountain refuges where the Cathars escaped from the crusade. The Pope attempted to force the local ruler Raymond, count of Toulouse, to join him in putting down the heresy, but this ended in disaster. The pope appointed Pierre de Castelnau, a Cistercian, as his legate and inquisitor against the Cathars. He had the mission to persuade Count Raymond VI of Toulouse, who was allowing the heresy to spread throughout his domain, to recant. When Raymond was less than cooperative Pierre excommunicated him, placing the whole Languedoc region under interdict, which aroused grave opposition. Pierre was assassinated in January 1208, supposedly by Raymond's instigation, and in response to this act Pope Innocent launched the Albigensian Crusade, a holy war in which Toulouse was ravaged and its inhabitants, Cathar and non-Cathar alike, were massacred. This crusade involved an army led by a group of barons from northern France ravaging and massacring throughout Provence. This was followed by a more orderly persecution sanctioned by St. Louis IX, in alliance with the Inquisition, and was more effective in breaking the power of the Cathars. In 1244 the great fortress of Montségur near the Pyrenees, a stronghold of the Cathars, was captured and destroyed. The Cathars had to go underground, and many of the French Cathars fled to Italy, where persecution was more intermittent. The Cathar hierarchy faded out in the 1270s but traces of the heresy lingered through the 14th century and finally disappeared early in the 15th century."
"So was the crusade and the inquisition successful in destroying the heretics?"
"By 1250 Cathar political power and influence was destroyed completely. This also had the effect of destroying the civilisation of the region at the same time."
"Were they really heretics?"
"Oh yes. Some have suggested that they were just very early Protestants but that is quite wrong. They had some similarities in belief to the Gnostics. Have you heard of them?" John nodded and she continued. "They believed in two gods. A good god who created the invisible spiritual world and an evil god who created the visible material world. All matter, including the human body was evil and was ruled by the evil god whom the Cathars identified with the Jewish God of the Old Testament. They claimed that he had imprisoned the human soul in its earthly body, and death merely caused the soul to migrate to another body, human or animal. For them salvation could only be attained by breaking free from this miserable cycle and Christ the son of the good god had been sent by him to reveal to the human race the way of this salvation. Christ was a life giving spirit whose earthly body was only an appearance. The Cathar doctrines of creation led them to rewrite the biblical story and they devised an elaborate mythology to replace it. They had severe reservations about much of the Old Testament and some of them rejected it altogether. The orthodox doctrine of the Incarnation was rejected. Jesus was merely an angel. His human sufferings and death were an illusion. They also severely criticized the worldliness and corruption of the Catholic Church - and that was the only similarity they had with the first Protestants many centuries later."
"In many ways, Catharism represented total opposition to the Catholic Church, which they basically viewed as a large, pompous, and fraudulent organisation which had lost its integrity and sold out for power and money in this world. The Cathars could also not accept the orthodox beliefs regarding the Eucharist, and other sacraments of the church. To accept them implied that Christ would have actually lived on this earth in the flesh, been crucified, and resurrected from this evil, material world - something that they felt a divine, good Being like Christ could never do in the first place. They could not accept that God or Christ, in the orthodox Christian view, would never exist in this material world, only in Heaven. So, they rejected a fundamental tenet of the Orthodox Church: the Incarnation. "
John wondered if he agreed with them on many of their criticisms of mother church. The phrase large, pompous and fraudulent resonated in his subconscious.
They rounded a corner and the track widened out and became a rutted track used by farm vehicles. At the side of the road they saw parked the familiar shape of a dark blue Metro with English number plates.
"Do you want a lift back to the village?" She asked as she pulled her car keys out of the pocket of her jeans. "There's lots more to tell and I love having an attentive audience." She smiled. It was the first time John had really seen her smile. It was a huge explosion of a grin opening out her perfectly shaped teeth, and widening her crystal blue eyes. But John noticed the lines at the edges of the blue and t
hought he recognised suffering in her eyes.
"I'll accept a lift on one condition." She looked quizzically at him.
"When we get back to the village you let me take you into the bar and get you a drink."
Mary hesitated, staring at him for a moment with the car door open as she seemed to be weighing up the option in her mind.
"Sorry I've other plans for this afternoon. I have a date in a reference library." After a pause she added, "but I can do better than that. I'm having a little dinner at the flat I'm using here tomorrow night and I've invited a local man and his wife who are interested in local history. Would you like to come and make up a foursome? I'm afraid the conversation is likely to be mostly in French but I'll try to make it easy for you."
"That would be delightful" John replied with an even bigger grin now on his face.
The car journey was silent. The bargain had been struck and they were both, in their own way, considering the consequences. Both, too, were reflecting on how little each knew about the other and being perceptive and sensitive people each had recognised in the other a reluctance to be open and direct. Indeed, as they considered their conversation, they realised that neither had revealed much of themselves at all.
*****
The village square was deserted. It was just before dawn. The silence was broken by a clatter of horses’ hooves which came to a halt on the stone cobbles. A group of richly dressed riders dismounted in the square. Shouts echoed around the deserted streets announcing their arrival. Other shouts came from different parts of the village as people roused themselves. From doorways sleepy villagers, young and old, men and women emerged. The people were only just awake and recently dressed for a day working in the fields. All were curious about the identity of the early morning arrivals. A crowd began to gather around the strangers. The tall one in the centre pulled the hood of his heavy cloak from his head and revealed a craggy, dark face with a thick heavy jaw. He climbed onto something to raise him a shoulder's height above the folk around him and he started to address the crowd. He was not speaking. He was preaching. This was hell fire preaching. He was haranguing the people who were attentive to his every word.
"I come to warn you good people of a great heresy that we have heard is alive and living in this village. Are you not aware of the danger to your immortal souls from falling away from the one true faith? The fires of hell are waiting for the guilty. Our holy Mother, the Church, is looking for those who have perverted her teachings have led her little ones astray. Do you know of anyone that you suspect of heresy? Is there anyone who behaves oddly at night? Do any of your neighbours go to a secret place under cover of darkness to do secret things? We want to hear your suspicions. We want you to save yourselves by giving the truth to us. As out Lord said, “The truth will set you free”. We are here to help you and free you from this curse. We come to bring salvation." He looked round and pointed to the men who were with him. "These are my clerks. They are here to help me to gather evidence. Come on now good people. You have nothing to fear from us. The truth will be found. We will have the truth from you. We are waiting for your evidence for there will be no work done in the village today." No one moved. All eyes were alert for movements in other people. He paused and looked slowly across the faces of the entire crowd. All the faces were staring at him in a terrified silence.
Then he started another line of attack." Does anyone feel heresy within himself or herself? Now is their chance to come forward and confess. Is there an evil gnawing away inside you? Come forward now and find release. We are here to help you. The Bishop wants you, the sheep of his pasture, to be assured of his loving care for you all. Come to us and repent. The keys of the kingdom, the gateway to salvation is open to you. Escape the fires of hell and come to us now and confess."
I felt myself being pulled forward by something within me. It was as if I had no choice. I was compelled to go forward to the front of the crowd. And I was moving. One foot in front of the other: each step a deliberate impulse towards my goal. All faces turned and looked at me. The crowd parted on each side to let me through. It is as if am a leper and they were pushing me to the front. But I go forward, proudly and defiantly, until I am right at the front and looking up at the big man. Unknown hands from behind me propel me forward and force me down onto my knees at the feet of the inquisitor's vicar. I whisper "I want to confess." No one seems to hear me. I say it louder and then I scream "I want to confess" at the top of my voice. And all at once hands are pulling at me from all sides and it is getting so hot and I am writhing from side to side. People are closing in on me. I am grabbed and manhandled. And all around me the crowd is screaming and hissing and shouting. And I look up and see above me this very dark, heavily lined face staring down, eyes lacking pity and full of hatred and anger and I remember where I have seen such eyes before. And I joined in the screaming.
*****
Mary suddenly opened her eyes and relief flooded into her heart as she saw the familiar room about her. Her bed was soaked with her sweat and the sheets and blankets twisted in an unrecognisable heap around her. She sat up and looked at the alarm clock. It was 5.50 am. She was soaked. The bed was unfit to be in. She looked towards the window of the flat. A slight tinge of daylight was brightening the night sky. It was no use trying to get back to sleep. It would soon be light. She gave up on the idea of further sleep and went into the small bathroom to take a shower.
The flat was small. It was only one room for living and sleeping with an attached bathroom and toilet. The bed folded up to a sofa for daytime use. It was designed for couples who wanted an economy base to sleep while they skied and nothing more. But it was all Mary needed.
She pulled off the now cold and clammy night-shirt and walked naked across the room and into the shower. The forceful cascade of near boiling water tingled and burst onto her skin and woke and refreshed her all over. As she washed the gentle sweet smelling shampoo all over her soft body, her eyes caught sight of the red scar, not yet old enough to have gone white, running from her shoulder down to her right elbow. Not a straight line, but a jagged slash that was exactly what it was.
She shivered as she saw it and stared mesmerised for a few seconds recalling the particular moment of horror when it had been etched onto her flesh. But she quickly told herself sternly that she had finally dealt with that and, determined not to think of it, thrust her face straight into the centre of the jet of water and tried to wash the half formed reminiscences from her mind. She knew there was a matching scar on her back but that thankfully was always out of sight.
Mary climbed out of the shower and pulled a large, soft white towel completely round her body. She walked across to the window, wrapping her hair in a smaller hand towel as she went. She pulled the curtains fully open. The light was getting brighter now, even though it would still be some time before the sun rose over the distant hills. As she looked down and there was the village square, just as she had so recently experienced it in her dream. Today there was litter scattered outside the post office and a large, green painted, glass bottle recycling container sited where the tall rider had stood.
*****
John woke early. He had slept fitfully and now, as the first shreds of sunlight flooded into his room, his mind was racing. And his thoughts were not the sort that he would have been happy for Derek to know about. It was certainly not part of Derek's plan that he should wake to consciousness with his mind full of images of young, blonde historians working in the sun. No this would not do. This had all happened before and now it seemed that it was starting again.
Pull yourself together. I am here to relax and get away from 'all that' he told himself. But then his other self chipped in reminding him that the 'all that' that he was running away from is within him. He hauled himself up out of bed and stumbled across to the window. The chalet was one of many prefabricated wooden buildings stretching out along the roads newly cut into the wooded hillside above the village. It was built entirely of wood except for the
stone feature fireplace. The interior was finished in a bright, lightly varnished pine finish. John was used to older, harder and more mellow woods. There was something about the brashness of the pine irritated him.
He had left the shutters open last night and as he looked out the window he could see the mist was clearing from the floor of the valley below. The sun seemed to rise higher in the sky as he watched it. Something was different today than yesterday. It wasn't anything about the chalet or the village or the view. It was something that was connected with this Mary. He shuffled back across the room and into the bathroom where he paused to stare at himself in the full length bathroom mirror. He examined the figure he saw before him. A forty five year old man, still with a full head of hair all in its original colour, in worn Winceyette striped pyjamas. His face looked haggard and his eyes were bloodshot. But that he knew was just the result of the bottle of cheap local red wine he had taken with his meal last night. More worrying was the widening of the waist that he could no longer pretend was a trick of the light.