

# COMPOSTELA

## By Gisa W. Slonim

For Clif and Toby who spent their day in Compostela twenty years ago, taking an entire roll of film to show me the buildings, the streets and all points of interest and for Eli who pushed me into the twenty-first century. Thank you for having made this voyage of faith possible.

1.

He had been hiding in one of the smaller mausoleums that lined the graceful avenues of the Alyscamps. It had been child's play for him to pick the heavy iron lock with which the miniature Roman dwelling had been secured against trespassers and, once inside the somewhat musty-smelling interior, discovered it to be much roomier than imagined from the outside.

There was easily enough space for him to put down his bedroll and, utilizing his back-pack as a pillow, covering himself with the Scottish shawl. Originally the whole interior had been taken up by a cumbersome and ornately chased sarcophagus with marble panels depicting scenes of epic triumphs, as surely befitted an officer in the Roman army of occupation so many hundreds of years ago, but it had either been carted off by tomb robbers to be sold profitably to private collectors or taken to a museum by the city to preserve it for posterity.

The end result was the same: ample space for him to lie low until the minions of the Arles police force would get tired of the unforeseen exercise that had kept them running pantingly along the crisscrossed paths of the ancient cemetery for at least an hour by now. But with the advent of night plus the approaching mistral, they would be forced to call it a day and return to the safe chairs in front of the safe desks of their safe police stations.

Then, and only then would he move.

It was one of the last days of May and they had expected blue skies, a benevolently smiling sun and tender breezes, for which this area of Southern France was famous, but were disappointed to see the heavens a blur of shimmering silvery white pierced by rays of light that changed pattern and direction with ever-increasing frequency as the day advanced.

The up-to-now mild gusts of wind grew hourly stronger and, by late afternoon had begun to apply increasingly violent pressure on grasses, bushes and lofty tree branches, forcing them to bow down until they approached ever closer to the ground.

John and Derek had spent part of that day exploring the city and, as the afternoon began to close in, found themselves in the ancient Alyscamps, graveyard to the Romans who had been masters of all they surveyed when Rome ruled what was then believed to be the entire world.

Their richly carved sarcophogii had long disappeared and there was nothing older on display than early medieval tombs. Still, it was a unique site and they were not sorry they had made a detour to visit it.

Père Jerome looked up from the contemplation of his small prayer book as the door creaked open, letting in a blast of the escelatingly fierce wind that was making itself felt as it swooped down the paths of the Alyscamps and swirled around the 12th century church of St. Honorat.

"How may I help you, my son?" He asked the man in the black habit facing him. He wondered if he was a pilgrim bound for Compostela or merely someone who had taken the wrong turn on the Blvd. des Lices and hoped for directions on how to find his way back to the center of Arles before nightfall.

"How may I help you?" He reiterated, when no answer was forthcoming in reply to his first query and was startled to see the indistinct figure fall to its knees in front of his table.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned." He whispered. "It is a lifetime since my last confession."

"Mistral's coming," John observed. "by evening for sure. We'd best be indoors by then."

"We have about two hours." Derek wetted his finger by putting it into his mouth and holding it up to check the wind's direction and speed. "Let's sign up first."

They began to walk more rapidly down the main thoroughfare until they saw the outline of the church.

"Père, Père!" Keith called out softly as he thrust the door open and veered to the right. The rising storm slammed the portal shut behind him but not before a small gray terrier had slipped inside and, barking excitedly, tail wagging, ran to the elderly white-haired priest sitting in a straight-backed chair in front of a small, battered wooden table.

Feeling the little dog scrabbling at his legs, he donned the rimless glasses which he had removed in order to rest his eyes, and smiled warmly down at him and then up at his master.

"I've brought coffee and some home-made pate sandwiches. And Lucienne instructed me to remind you to be on time for her ragout."

"Ah!" The priest glanced at his pocket watch, then evinced surprise at the lateness of the hour. "It does seem to be way past my lunchtime, but I didn't want to leave. Someone might have needed me." And did, he thought to himself. Praise heaven I was here for him.

Keith opened the small basket he had brought and extracted a cup, a thermos and two neatly wrapped sandwiches which he began to arrange on the table in front of Père Jerome. The priest murmured a hasty blessing and began to eat avidly while the little dog sat at full attention, waiting patiently until he too was offered a few snippets of bread with a dab of pate.

"You should not be sitting here, day after day waiting for pilgrims who don't come. Let a younger man take over."

"No, Keith. It is the least I can do. If this arthritis did not have me in its grips I could still have looked after the people of our village, but..." he raised one hand, the fingers swollen and deformed. "I must do something to serve God. Thanks to Him I can still hear confession..." here he stopped to gaze into the distance, a worried frown on his face and quickly added, "and stamp the certificate for the pilgrimage. I am not yet useless."

"What is this place?" Tom muttered, leaning into the increasing pressure exerted by the force of the mistral bearing down on them as he and Mavis followed the Blvd. des Lices to the church.

"It's an ancient cemetery." She raised her voice to be heard above the stormy gusts that spat leaves and sand into their faces as they battled the elements in their bid to move forward to their destination. "Greek and Roman." She added.

"I don't like it; it's spooky. There's nobody around and it's getting dark." He began to walk more rapidly. "Why did we have to come all the way here?"

"For the church; to sign up for the pilgrimage."

"We shouldn't have come." He sounded morose and angry at the same time.

"Tom!" She stopped in her tracks and, placing both hands on his shoulders, forced him to look straight into her eyes. "We promised! There's no going back on that."

"She wouldn't know," He mumbled, lowering his head. "Not where she is now."

"But we would know." She answered, gently brushing back his wind-tossed hair. "Could you live with that?"

She had barely finished her question when a hubbub of voices, shouting and resonating over a pounding of feet on the pavement, interspersed with the high-pitched shriek of shrill whistles approached and confronted them.

"Where did he go?

"He was here! I saw him!"

"What did you do with him?"

The hitherto unoccupied path erupted with life as a dozen determined policemen swarmed down on them clutching truncheons, bull horns and guns and, surrounding them, fired off one question after another.

"What do you want with us?" Tom placed himself protectively in front of Mavis.

"We want the fugitive!"

"He's dangerous. Did you see him?" An officer demanded, waving his gun under Tom's

nose.

"What are you doing here? Where are you from?"

"Passport! I.D. Card! Come on, we don't have all day."

Muttering under his breath that the police were the same everyplace and hoping the poor sod had gotten away, Tom handed over his passport, as did Mavis.

"Irish! Aha!"

"Why aha? What the shit is this all about?" Tom reacted angrily.

"Shut up! We ask the questions here! Are you armed? Frisk them!" The officer ordered, then demanded again, "Why are you wandering around here?"

Left to himself Tom would have challenged them to prove that being at one of their city's most important tourist sites was a breach of the law but decided, after Mavis had made a minute negative head movement urging him to answer less belligerently, to lower the tone of his voice.

"We're on our way to the church to sign up for the pilgrimage."

"To Compostela." Mavis added helpfully in case they didn't know.

"You'll always be needed, Père Jerome." Keith poured the coffee from the thermos and looked lovingly at him. "But you mustn't stay longer today. The mistral is rising and we have to get back."

He had barely finished his warning when the small inner door creaked open and, looking up, they saw two men approaching. One was tall, slim and fair, the other shorter, dark and younger.

"We would like two documents for the pilgrimage, mon Père." The older of the two addressed the priest.

"Ah," Père Jerome sighed, "with pleasure. "Here you are. Fill them out and I'll be happy to stamp the first of, hopefully, many such indications of your progress. From where do you intend to begin your journey?" He leaned across the table to peer at them over his glasses.

"Why from here... from Arles of course. It is after all one of the major starting points of the road to Compostela."

"Walking? All the way?" Père Jerome looked troubled.

"Oh yes, otherwise it's cheating."

"Perhaps you should reconsider?" Père Jerome urged. "You only need 200 km to qualify, not 2,000! It's not so easy to walk for two months, 8 or 9 hours each day. Is it wise?"

"You've noticed," The older man sighed. "Yes, I've been ill but God will give me strength and Derek here will help." The younger man nodded in silent agreement.

"Compostela?" The senior policeman repeated, suddenly galvanized. "I've been. I walked. What an experience! You will never forget it. But mademoiselle is also going?" He looked at Mavis, taking in her very slender build, her soft blonde hair, her general air of fragility. "It is not an easy road, and it is long."

"We promised." Mavis replied firmly.

"To our mother," Tom added. "when she was dying."

"Ah..." the officer murmured, "that is another matter. That is a sacred undertaking and you must go." His entire demeanor had altered when he heard the reason for their pilgrimage. "The good Lord will surely help you. The church of St. Honorat is just ahead and I'll send someone to escort you. But yes, yes, I insist for if that murdering swine is anywhere about, it might be dangerous for you. We're not here for our amusement you know; he is a killer. Ludo!" He called, "Accompany them! We'll keep looking. Good luck!" He bowed over Mavis's hand and signaled with his gun to fan out and start searching the side paths that veered off from the main road.

"There's a mistral coming..." Keith began helpfully.

"We know," Derek hurried to reply. "I'm from Avignon and John lives near Aix."

"Ah," Père Jerome nodded his head. "That's good. Newcomers to the area are sometimes foolish."

"Don't worry, mon Père, we'll go to ground soon. But we want to light a candle first."

And, as they turned to the front of the church the small door screeched open again, admitting a blast of warm air as a lone woman entered. She was compactly built with short, light-brown hair, wind-tossed from her walk, a rucksack on her back and a pleasant yet determined expression on her face.

"Compostela?" She asked, looking from Keith to Père Jerome who was in the act of putting the napkin, cup and thermos back into the basket.

"Over here. You see, Keith I was right to wait." He turned to the newcomer. "Please fill this out. It will be as important as your passport. I'll stamp it with the place and date of your departure... Arles. And you will continue to do so in every town where one of the Road's representatives is on duty. That will serve as proof of how far you have walked. It's a long way," he hesitated, then added, "especially for a woman."

"I'm a senior hospital nurse." She laughed. "The Road can't be tougher than what we go through every day as part of our duties. My name is Deborah Winter."

"Oh!" Derek had drawn closer, "Which one? I'm from the Misericorde in Aix."

"Royal Infirmary, London. Do you specialize or are you stuck with everything like me?"

And the two moved aside to compare notes.

"A sick man on a pilgrimage and two hospital nurses. Who says God does not provide?" Père Jerome murmured.

*

I don't know how I shall find him, Père Hippolyte thought as he hurried down the street towards the station. The wind swept him forward, giving the impression that his feet were barely touching the ground. Hopefully, he worried, we shall be back and under cover in an hour. He will not be used to such a strong wind. Pray God he is sturdy and not ailing elst how shall I get him from the station to the chapter house? Oh dear, there is always something to worry about, and now that odd phone call from Père Jerome. I wish he had said more but of course the seal of the confessional would not allow him. Just that there was something. Hm, yes, trouble. But then there is always trouble. Still, isn't that why Father John was coming? All the way from Ireland? Ah, thanks be to heaven, the station!

*

"Is this where we get our passports?" Mavis called out as she and Tom entered the church and saw that several persons had gathered near the priest's table and seemed to be exchanging names, nationalities and professions.

"Yes, yes. Step this way." Père Jerome indicated. "Come and sign in for the mistral will be upon us soon and we must leave here before then; it's too exposed in the Alyscamps."

"Mistral?" Tom asked.

"A very bad wind." Derek explained.

"An ill wind that blows no good." John interrupted, laughing. "It's best to be indoors when it strikes."

"Here you are. Fill these out." Keith passed the forms over to Mavis.

"Do mine too, Mave. I'm Tom O'Brian and this is my sister Mavis. We're from Dublin." He added, shaking hands with Keith and then with the others who all introduced themselves.

"Well, if we're complete I'd suggest moving." Keith began, to be interrupted once more by the creaking of the door that opened to admit an extraordinary figure propelled into the church on a gust of wind that caused the candles to gutter and the spare papers on Père Jerome's table to take wing and fly into the four corners.

*

"Arles! Next stop Arles!" The attendant shouted, moving swiftly from one car to another along the length of the train as it began its gradual descent to its final destination.

Disembarking passengers put aside their books and newspapers or looked up sleepily, gazing dazedly around. Buttoning jackets, combing tangled hair, they reached for their hand luggage or bulky packages thrust at them by aged relatives before having boarded the train.

"I don't see any lights yet." Deirdre said as she tried to pierce the swiftly flashing darkness rushing past her window.

"We're on time." Bernard glanced at his watch. "Five more minutes."

"Oh God," she mouthed. "let it only be true."

"Did you tell your father?"

"Oh no, no Bernard. He only recently began to take an interest in the business again. After twenty-five years! Phil told me. If I would have..." she broke off to blow her nose. "I could not tell him what our priest said; he would begin to hope again. The tension, the desire, oh no, no, Bernard. Even I cannot bear it. What would it do to him at his age and after so many years? If we truly do find my brother...I can't even bring myself to hope." And she stopped to burst into tears.

"We will. I feel it. Father Hendryk would not have spoken to us if he were not certain. He could not have. We must believe and we must hope."

"Yes, yes..." She smiled at him, dashing the tears away with her hand. "Oh yes, I do hope and I do believe."

*

Some of the candles were extinguished by the fury of the wind that caused the doors to rattle angrily, threatening to tear them off their hinges and, in the insufficient light of this late afternoon, he appeared to them as if he had just stepped out of an illustration in a history book, subtitled: Pilgrim, France, 15th Century.

He was tall and thin with a bandit's dark mustache and chin beard and was clad in brown sacking from his head to his bare toes in heavy leather sandals. One hand held a knobby wooden staff, the other was outstretched in an oratory style worthy of Cicero and, as he caught sight of the assembled company, he bowed, threw back his wild, dark, curly shoulder-length hair and addressed them in a resonant baritone voice:

Give me my scallop shell of quiet,

My staff of faith to walk upon,

My scrip of joy, immortal diet,

My bottle of salvation,

My gown of glory, hopes' true gage,

And thus I'll take my pilgrimage!

He placed the flat of his hand over his heart and continued, "Some attribute these appropriate lines to Sir Walter Raleigh, some claim they are anonymous. We shall have two months to make up our minds about that."

He came to a standstill in the middle of their circle so everyone could admire his long, cowl-bedecked homespun gown and the easy smile with which he greeted them.

"My name is Peter-Paul Paulson, a seeker of salvation."

And lowering his head, he extended his right hand again as if waiting for applause, but before anyone in the church had a chance to react to this outrageous newcomer, a gray furry fury, barking madly, hurtled out from behind Père Jerome's chair and began to attack the hem of the brown, homespun gown.

"Woofy MacAllister, heel! Heel, I say!" Keith entered the fray, reaching for the bright red collar around his dog's neck, but the small bundle had sunk his teeth in firmly and would not let go until a goodly portion of the circumference at the base of the gown had been torn off and worried into a rag.

"Sorry about that," Keith apologized, attaching the red leash to Woofy's collar and tying it firmly to a leg of the table. "He was probably frightened by a monk when he was a puppy."

*

Momentarily blinded by the bright lights inside the station, Père Hippolyte stopped to get his bearings and tried to pinpoint the passengers who eddied and flowed all around him. He felt for an instant as if he had stepped into the sea and was being buffeted by shoals of brightly colored fish that, miraculously, avoided bumping into him by some innate form of radar. Here and there he saw one that stood out because of his all-black habit and, hoping this was the guest he had come to meet, veered off in his direction only to find his quarry making off determinedly for a specific exit or some other welcoming stranger.

After several such false starts, and with an awakening panic, Père Hippolyte began to doubt his ability to carry out the simple task assigned to him. Where among this swirling and colorful throng would he find one Irish priest?

"Is this yours, mon Père?" A voice close to his right ear asked, as a dusty, faded-looking shawl or small blanket was held up for his perusal.

"Of course not!" He pushed it aside, afraid he might have missed his objective, and, for the first time noticed that a large, stolid policeman had materialized next to him.

"Well, it must belong to someone and it was caught on your habit."

"I tell you officer, I never saw it before. Someone from the train probably lost it." He continued to ignore both the shawl and the representative of the law in a frustrating attempt to locate the guest from overseas.

"Eh, mademoiselle..." the policeman had stopped a woman in black whom Père Hippolyte had mistaken at first for the priest, so androgynous did she look with her short hair and the almost male attire she was wearing. She did not even glance at the piece of cloth the stolid policeman offered her and, waving him aside, made purposefully for the exit. He had no better luck with several couples who followed in her wake and then, thinking to fold the piece of fabric up, discovered that one corner was firmly hooked to the bright metal clasp of an old-fashioned doctor's bag held by its handle by a small, rotund, good-natured looking priest who had come to an abrupt standstill and was staring at Père Hippolyte.

Bless my soul," he murmured, "and am I looking into a mirror?"

"You might as well be." The policeman laughed, gazing from one small, round priest to another. "You might be twins."

"Father John?" asked Père Hippolyte hopefully.

"Aye! Art come to meet me?"

"Yes, oh yes indeed. Welcome, welcome."

*

"Since we are now truly complete," Père Jerome began, rising to his feet to address them. "I would suggest we leave, for weather-wise it would be foolish to remain here any longer than necessary. Let us then depart and take shelter for the night. Keith will guide you." He announced. "Yes, I insist. We have women present and one of your group is not strong. At our disposal is a small van. We can all fit in and after Keith has dropped me off he will take you to a decent hostel for the night. There you will be safe from the elements and will get a good night's rest to start your big adventure off refreshed and alert for whatever the Road has to offer each one of you.

Your aim tomorrow will be to reach St. Gilles which, in itself, was a pilgrimage site in the 12th century. You will find it much changed, I'm afraid, from those far off days when l,000 pilgrims fitted in comfortably to hear mass but try to see past the damage caused by time, fire, countless wars and man's ever-present need to destroy, and perhaps it will speak to you of... I will not call it a better time, but one in which belief was still strong and ruled our lives.

Today, as in those long gone days, the Road of St. Jacques is a permanent creation; the privileged route of the spiritual quest in the Middle Ages where everything was translated by religious motivation.

Like the pilgrims of those long-ago days, you will find yourselves lifted out of your daily lives, routines and thoughts by the very meaning of the Road. And at the end of your adventure, in Compostela, you will be reborn."

After Keith had dropped Père Jerome off, he drove the little band of pilgrims to the Hospice des Pelerins close to the church of St. Blaise and left them knocking on the brightly painted emerald green door, then headed back to the home he shared with Père Jerome and his housekeeper, Lucienne.

He was surprised when she opened the door for him before he had a chance to insert his own key in the lock, as if she had been on the lookout, for she was usually to be found at the rear of the house.

"Good! You're back!" she greeted him, "Père Jerome wants to see you right away. He's fretting something awful. Best go to him or the ragout will be burned."

"Of course, but what can it be? I was with him in the church and on the ride home and he didn't say a word."

*

Only a few steps away from the bright lights and the bustle of the terminal, darkness and silence prevailed and, except for the soughing of the wind, not even one errant footstep could be discerned.

The side streets were empty and, if there was any movement at all, it was only at the exit of the station where taxis knew to wait for arriving passengers, especially on such a stormy night.

A dark shape scuttled along the boulevard, keeping close to the buildings, bent over, face well hidden, as it battled the strong gusts that caused light poles to sway and a shower of leaves from the plane trees to come hurtling down.

So far he had been lucky. The police had indeed given up and departed the Alyscamps frustrated. And a little while later he had seen the van that had been parked in front of the church drive off, after the priest had carefully locked the large front door of St. Honorat for nobody would think to look for sanctuary among the ancient dead, especially not tonight.

Seeing that the coast was clear he had at first thought to remain where he was, snugly hidden in the mausoleum but decided it most likely for the law to come snooping around the following morning which would hamper his plans, so he too had departed once he had felt himself to be alone and far from prying eyes.

He would have to find a hostel for the night as he could not take the chance of a hotel or bedding down in a field under a tree. The former would demand identification and the latter was too dangerous on a mistral night. But a hostel was another matter. There was surely something near the Blvd. des Lices, and he had proof that he was on his way to Compostela as part of a group accompanying problematic teenagers who had been ordered to go on the Road by the authorities in charge of juvenile crime. The Road, together with the en route counseling supplied by monks and priests used to dealing with young men in trouble, seemed to be working better than reformatories, jail terms and psychiatric treatments.

*

When Keith entered the study, a prancing Woofy at his heels, he found an agitated Père Jerome pacing up and down the length of the room nervously picking up and laying down his prayer book, the rosary, a small Bible, and fussing with the documents strewn over the top of his desk. He evinced such a state of agitation and turmoil that Keith did not know what to think.

"Sit down, my boy. A problem has arisen. I don't know how to begin..." and he broke off, allowing himself to drop into his favorite chair.

"Your health?" Keith's heart skipped a beat.

"No, no. I'm fine, physically. It's in my mind that I am sorely troubled and I do not know what to do." He looked up at Keith and, seeing the fear and distress on his face, forced himself to smile in order to reassure him. "I'm fine. Fine! Sit down, please. I am going to confide in you, as much as I am allowed, because I need your help." He sighed deeply, staring into space and then, as if girding himself, continued. "I don't know how to put it but this time God will forgive me, the danger is too real." He glanced down at his hands, clasped tightly together in his lap.

"Today, before you arrived at the church, before the first pilgrim appeared, someone came for confession. You will appreciate the fact that I cannot tell you what he said, poor soul. So lost, so bewildered and...well, I hope perhaps his confession will save him from eternal damnation. That in the end it will weigh in his favor. But in passing it on to me he has put me in a quandary. If I speak out I break my vows and if I keep silent the lives of others are at risk."

"I see." Keith murmured, recognizing the gravity of the situation. "Could a warning in the right quarters be issued? Anonymously, perhaps?"

"I have already done that. I spoke to Père Xavier who hinted that they were expecting a guest, an Irish priest on a similar mission. Slowly a network of information is making its way, perhaps to Arles, perhaps to the Road itself, for it concerns the Road, and when the various pieces will be in place, like a jigsaw puzzle, we shall know what to do, but at present our hands are tied and our picture is incomplete. And I have already said much too much."

He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes while Keith gazed long and wonderingly at him. How much it must have cost him to relate even this, the young man thought. What can I do to ease his burden? He cannot tell me more and will probably spend all night in prayer.

"May I suggest something?" Keith asked, and seeing Père Jerome nod his head, continued, "A small group, comprising 6 pilgrims whom you signed up today, is starting out tomorrow to walk the Road. They will reach Compostela on July 25th, the Saint's Day. And I shall go with them. Yes, yes!" He interjected as Père Jerome raised his head and began to remonstrate with him. "I have walked it before, as you know. Once completely and once only from Spain. I know the way and all its vagaries for I kept copious notes. Early tomorrow morning I shall join them at the hostel. I have everything here at home that I shall need for the trip, including medication and anti-blister remedies. You will sign my certificate. Let's see, what else? Oh, money, credit cards, cell phone, food for Woofy..."

"You'll take Woofy?"

"I did before. You know he'd pine away, not eating, if I'd be gone for two months."

"Yes, he's very much attached, as are Lucienne and I. We shall miss you."

"It's only two months and then we shall all go back home to the Jura for summer vacation. And I shall keep a sharp lookout for trouble, never fear. Perhaps the penitent was exaggerating?" he suggested hopefully.

"No, on the contrary. The danger is very real and it drove him to the confessional, for he is living every day as if it were his last and wanted to be forgiven in case..."

"Yes, I see," Keith murmured. "Well, now that we've decided what to do, let's go and eat Lucienne's ragout or she will never cease to remind us how we ruined her good cooking. And then I'll have to pack. Stay! I thought of something. There is safety in numbers and they say two heads are better than one! Can you call Père Xavier and suggest he send his guest to join us? Perhaps he could appear accidentally in St. Gilles?"

"Perhaps, yes, perhaps indeed." And a slow smile of relaxation suffused his features at the thought of some form of action that might make a difference, just as a loud knocking was heard on the study door and Lucienne's voice rang out to remind them that the ragout would be dry and inedible if they did not come to the table at once!

*

Under the amused eye of the massive policeman the two priests shook hands, staring at each other in astonishment.

"Let me help you." And Père Hippolyte made as if to aid his guest with the doctor's bag he clutched so firmly in his hand.

"No, no. It isn't heavy. Thank you, thank you..." this to the policeman who, still smiling amiably, was proffering a travelling rug of some vague Scottish clan design to Father John.

"Now where did I get that? I don't remember bringing it with me." He looked confused and abashed. "Perhaps I inadvertently..." but he could not complete the train of thought that led him to believe he might have taken the rug from his compartment by mistake.

"Never mind, never mind, Father John, we'll ask the reverend father's advice when we get to St. Jude's. He will know what is to be done."

And with the broad smile of the policeman following them, the two priests left the station, chatting amicably together.

By now full darkness had enveloped the city. The last remaining passengers had departed and the only signs of life were evinced by the tall, swaying street lights and the whispery sound of rubber-soled shoes making their way down the street to stop at a bright green door.

He knocked loudly to be heard above the voice of the wind.

"You are late, friend." The door swung open.

"I was delayed by the train, then the weather." Came the reply.

"Lucky for you we have one bed left. On a night like this..." the man at the door did not complete his thought. "And as if the mistral wasn't enough the police have been all over the place. Looking for someone dangerous, they said." The hospice attendant glanced curiously at this late guest.

"I don't envy them their job on such a night." The latecomer replied and, throwing back his hood revealed thick, light hair cut in the old-fashioned bowl style which, when he lowered his head to remove the knapsack straps from his shoulders, showed a tonsure on the crown.

"Wouldn't have taken you for a monk myself." Surprise showed on the attendant's face. "Thought you didn't have to look the part anymore. New laws; some years now."

"That's true, but in the end it's always up to the individual." The young man smiled, straightened up, grasped his bag and glanced around trying to ascertain the direction of his bed.

"Yeah, guess so. Here! You'll be wanting to lie down. This way." And the attendant led him to the rear of the building, dark and musty-smelling. "Don't know how much sleep you'll get with all that howling. Me? I never got used to it, though I'm Arles bred and born. Here you go..." He opened a door leading to what might at one time have been a storage room, now containing a narrow cot and a low straw stool.

"It's 40 Euros the night. Payable in advance, if you please. Showers down the hall. Musty smell's from there. Drains. But it's clean. Oh, and there's decent coffee and rolls in the morning. Not such a bad deal."

He seemed disposed to linger, partly out of natural curiosity and partly at the thought of the long and lonely night with only the wind's song for company.

"Doesn't your order have a place to kip down gratis?"

"Probably." The young monk answered politely, remaining outwardly calm although a touch of irritation had crept into his self-control. "But this came first." He swept his hand in an arc, taking in the room the building and the attendant. "It's way too bad a night to wander around." And with that he pointedly turned his back and heaved his rucksack onto the cot.

"Yeah, I 'spose so...well...g'night."

The door closed reluctantly behind him to open abruptly, without any warning, two minutes later.

*

Père Hippolyte and Father John sat at the long refectory table, two large cups of tea in front of them and, spread out like a meager and inadequate tablecloth on the bare boards – the Scottish rug.

"The Reverend Father's suggestion is the best."

"Yes, yes. It is the only solution but it does not answer my question. Why did I have the rug? When did I acquire it? I never saw it before that nice policeman helped me with it."

"Could it have become entangled with your bag? Caught on the lock perhaps? And in your hurry to leave the train, trail after you? The policeman found it just as I got to the station but nobody claimed it and then..."

"Yes, yes. It was most probably an accident, but the puzzle remains and with it the fear of having committed a sin. Theft, you know, even if not contemplated, is after all..."

"No, Father John! You must not think in those terms. The Reverend Father absolved you of the sin of theft. It was an accident."

"But sometimes a so-called accident has some hidden germ of truth to it."

"I truly do not believe, Father John, seeing this shabby rug that no true Scotsman would ever identify as belonging to any known clan, as enough of a prize to lure you into committing the sin of theft, consciously or not."

The two priests stared at the faded shawl and its dubious plaid design.

"Yes, yes, you are right. And thank you for your honest and outspoken words. We shall do as the Reverend Father suggested and take it to the lost and found department of the station. We may think it a poor thing but someone may be needing it."

*

"Did I say the showers are down the hall?" The attendant's ferret-like features peered through the crack in the door.

The young monk had begun to empty his backpack and several items were already strewn on the cot. As he turned swiftly toward the door and his unwelcome visitor, the latter could see the usual changes of underwear and T-shirts, the usual maps and documents and, as the monk turned, a small travelling rug of Scottish design in his hands.

"What's this then? You won't be needing that. There's a good blanket on the bed."

"Thank you for reminding me about the showers." The man forced a smile to his face and, swiftly tossing the rug down, went to close the door. "You've been very helpful. Good night."

As the attendant's footsteps retreated and disappeared, the smile on the monk's face vanished to be replaced by a hard yet worried frown.

How much had he seen? Would he be able to describe the rug? Very nosy, very sly. He might just talk to the wrong person. Impossible to take chances. Too much depended on him. And the others? What if this little weasel put all of them in danger?
2.

Morning brought relief from the mistral, although gusts of wind still played up and down the streets, around corners and littered sidewalks with yesterday's newspapers, torn leaves and broken branches ripped roughly during the night from the trees.

The air remained murky, heavy, gray and gritty.

The group in the hostel rose later than planned. No ray of light penetrated the cracks in the heavy shutters that had protected them against the storm during the night. No sound of feet moving in the hall outside their rooms heralded a new day. No welcoming clink of cup on saucer as morning coffee made its promised appearance. A complete and desolate silence reigned.

It was closer to mid-morning when the small coterie of pilgrims, dressed for the road, their backpacks at their feet, huddled together in the hall, unable to decide on the next move.

"Breakfast?" Derek suggested to no one in particular.

"We were promised coffee." Complained Tom angrily.

"He isn't here," Mavis remarked vaguely.

"With rolls!" Tom was vehement, "We paid for it Mavis. In advance. It was part

of the deal."

His sister only shrugged as if to remind him that there was no one about from whom to demand either food or a refund when the unlocked front door suddenly flew open and Keith, dressed and outfitted for the Road, entered with Woofy at his heels.

"Good morning," He called out, smiling at their glum faces. "I hope you won't mind, but I'm joining you on the trip."

"Isn't that kind of sudden?" John wondered. "You didn't say anything last night."

"Yes, maybe, but then I'm a sudden sort of guy and seeing you all last night put an itch in my feet to also take to the Road now that spring is here. And, of course, to light a candle at the end and ask for Grace." He was not sure this rather lame excuse would be accepted by the more astute in the group, so continued, "I would have gone in any case," he added seriously, "you see, I've come to a bend in the road of my life. Do I continue as I have up to now or do I take the plunge and opt for the priesthood?"

"Oh, but that's..." began Tom.

"Yes, there's no going back in that case. And while it is what I have always wanted, there are a few doubts so I decided some time ago that I would let St. Jacques make the decision for me at the end of the pilgrimage."

"You mean if the candle burns brightly and purely until it is extinguished naturally it is one sign and if it goes out almost immediately it is another?" Asked Peter-Paul

"Yes."

"It's as good a way as any," he conceded, "I could read the Tarot for you. I'm something of an expert." He added apologetically, "And it is as valid an omen as any other."

"Well, yes, perhaps I'll let you. You are Roma?"

"Half," he laughed. "but if you don't trust me we shall at one point on the road meet up with four of my cousins and they are l00% so perhaps you'd rather wait for their predictions?"

"Perhaps." Keith smiled. One Roma, two Irish and probably hot-headed, a man who had been ill and his nurse. The man looked familiar. Another nurse. And he and Woofy. Knowing the camaradery of the Road he was certain their numbers would be augmented. First of all, in St. Gille there was Father John, another Irishman and a priest at that. A priest who knew something, like Père Jerome, but would he share his fears?

"But what about coffee?" demanded Tom angrily.

"Look, let's forget it." Deborah intervened. "The breakfast the missing attendant promised us would have been awful, in keeping with everything else here. The coffee weak and the rolls stale, so let's pretend we didn't pay for them," and here she paused to glare at Tom "and go to a nice clean café to start our first day on the Road off in the proper way. Let's celebrate it. Then we'll buy food for the night and be on our way, what do you say?" She smiled winsomely at the glum faces around her and was pleased to see answering smiles beginning to spread on all sides.

"Woofy agrees with every word." Keith declared. "He's wagging his tail."

There was general laughter in which they all joined and, much relieved at having resolved the first problem of their pilgrimage, they picked up their belongings and marched out of the bright green door and into an overcast and melancholy morning.

Carefully and silently they closed the door behind them.

After a well-deserved breakfast they began a brisk walk on a road leading away from the center of the city. A sickly sun was attempting to break through the haze and not making much headway.

"Not a very propitious beginning, is it?" Derek muttered as he dexterously slipped an arm through John's and propelled him along easily at the pace that had been adopted. Somehow, ambling out of this dense atmosphere did not seem the appropriate speed.

"Bad beginnings make for felicitous endings." Peter-Paul seemed determined to continue quoting ancient lore but, this morning, had doffed his gown for an old and very worn pair of jeans and since the brown robe was not there to tempt him, Woofy MacAllister paid no attention to him anymore and ran circles around all their legs.

The air began to clear and when they found themselves on their way out of the city, the sky turned blue and the sun finally greeted the day.

*

In the western sky a ball of fire sank slowly behind the trees and long, glowing fingers of light stretched into the distance as if trying forcibly to hold the onslaught of night at bay. The air was fresh. A frilly breeze played in the deep grass and curled itself around their ankles as they wearily approached the façade of the St. Gilles church.

Woofy lay limp and sleepy in Keith's arms, swaying gently in a hammock fashioned from an old green scarf slung across Keith's chest. Feeling him come to a halt, the little dog looked up and whined to be let down. A quick trot to several nearby trees to relieve himself, to sniff and snuffle at the woodsy odors and faint spoors of animals and he was ready to come running happily back to Keith.

"This portal is our first link with the ancient pilgrimage." Peter-Paul intoned as they stood staring at the exterior of the once resplendent pilgrimage church.

"We can surely now say that we are standing in the footsteps of all those of good faith who preceded us." Added John.

"But it doesn't look old. Most of it has no sculptures and is patched up with bricks." Complained Tom. "I know Père Jerome told us to look beyond it and imagine how it must have been then...but I don't have that kind of imagination, and as it is now it does not inspire me."

"Tom, don't be so pragmatic! You must have some kind of visualization, use it! Here, let me try something. Look at me!" Peter-Paul commanded.

"What for?" Tom did not sound co-operative.

"Just do as I say. And trust me."

Tom raised his eyes and looked at Peter-Paul.

"Now, do you see the medallion I have around my neck?" He pulled it out of his shirt to show the younger man a smooth gold disc, full-moon shaped, on a gold chain.

"So?" The young man muttered petulantly, then was caught, his eyes fixed to the point where the glistening gold winked and blinked as several late flashes of daylight struck the bright metal.

"Now!" Peter-Paul whispered, "Now look at the church."

"Oh! Wow! Oh my blessed Saints!" And, not taking his eyes from the façade of St. Gilles, Tom remained still and awestruck at the sight he beheld. The whole experiment lasted barely seconds but to Tom they seemed a lifetime, and he knew he would never forget it to his dying day.

"How did you do that?" He muttered when, sight restored, he once more beheld the barren face of the church with its spattering of saints, their features blunted by weather, destroyed by man in the countless wars of religion that had, over the centuries, wreaked their own havoc, and the very modern bricks that filled in three-quarters of the walled entranceway where bas-relief sculptures once held sway.

"Are you a hypnotist by profession?" Deborah wondered.

"No," Peter-Paul laughed, "that's just a sideline; part of my gypsy's stock-in-trade. I'm a journalist."

"Does it work on everyone?" Derek queried. "Hypnotism, I mean."

"No, only the susceptible. For instance your friend John...no way. Much too difficult a subject to put under. The same goes for Keith or Deborah, but I'm glad I succeeded with Tom. He was so disappointed."

"Yes, but what did he see?" Mavis whispered.

"Whatever came to his imagination," Peter-Paul replied quietly. "I am not a wizard; it all has to come from within the individual."

"I understand. Thank you," she murmured. "Without that glimpse of what it's all about he might have decamped. He never wanted to come in the first place." She sighed at the thought that without Peter-Paul's special gifts she would have had yet another argument with her brother. That would undoubtedly still come, at some other venue and some other date, but for the time being he had been given a taste of paradise which might last for the first week. And once on the Road with, she hoped, the camaraderie of the others in the group...well, time would tell and she would do everything to make him carry out their mother's last request.

"I know it's difficult to ignore the damage, but let's try." Keith suggested. "Let's pretend we're in the l5th century and have just reached our first goal on the road to repentance. We arrive, we stop, happy to have made it to this famous church and we look at the familiar sculptures on the outside, familiar to every Christian at that time and, reading it, we feel reassured that our road is the right one and, in following it in true humility, forgiveness will be ours."

"What do you mean by using the word 'read'?" Mavis questioned.

"A pilgrim of the Middle Ages, seeing the figures carved on and all around the portals read them in the way you read your morning newspaper. Each bas-relief represented a different saint standing for different virtues which the pilgrim was reminded to emulate and, of course there were representations of those who were evil and bent on luring the penitent away from the true path of righteousness. All the devils who urge us to go fishing on Sunday rather than to church; to fiddle with the scales so that they show one weight to the customer yet end up being much less; to give change for a purchase and keep one penny back. I could go on but you realize that these are the small, paltry devils for small, paltry sins. Then, farther down..." and here Keith traced his finger, hovering in the air, from top to bottom, "we have the truly harrowing sins. Those of the Ten Commandments, the Seven Deadly Sins and the great evil that stands behind them to tempt us, to force us, to push us directly into one of the circles of hell and eternal damnation."

"These sculptures, then, were a reminder to the penitent to keep to the path of righteousness." John added, "For the alternative was very real indeed to the people of the Middle Ages, and in fact, well into the 20th century."

"And even today!" Peter-Paul interposed, "For many, in many parts of the world, the devil is as real as he was way back then."

"Yes, that's true," Keith stated. "We think of ourselves as modern but evil does exist, the devil does still tempt and people still succumb. We have seen the results of that in the banking crisis." He stopped suddenly, continuing to gaze at the portal as the final feeble glimmers of light slowly and steadily dimmed to allow the shadows of night to advance.

"So"...he continued softly, "we have Christ enthroned at the apex next to the Heavenly Father, among all the blessed saints and angels personifying the beatific after-life of a sin-free man."

They stretched their necks in order to identify the remnants of the pertinent figures, by now partially erased through the ravages of time or swallowed up by the advent of the ever-encroaching nocturnal shades.

"And..." John murmured, "the fallen angels, the realm of darkness where Satan reigns and the dire fate in store for all sinners." His finger followed an invisible line down, down, down.

"After that reminder," Keith pointed out, "the pilgrim would enter the church jolted into awareness as to why he was on this journey. He would attend Mass, go to confession and donate liberally for the upkeep and survival of the religious orders. But as this was also a tour, like the guided tours of today, he would make certain to take in all the sights. And there were sure to be many, for the various religious establishments vied with each other for the...well, I'll call them 'tourist attractions'...of the day. As some examples there might be a crypt housing the bones of a saint in a rich coffin; the finger-bone of an apostle in a jeweled reliquary and of course, best of all, a tiny sliver of dark, ancient wood purporting to have come from the True Cross. All objects of awe to be gazed at with veneration and to be described in great detail later when the pilgrim would have returned to his home, his village, his family and friends who would have awaited his arrival eagerly in order to hear all the traveler had done and seen while absent for so long."

"Hey, it does sound like one of those guided package deals today." Tom interrupted. "Only today we fly, sightsee by comfortable bus and do much less walking."

"But there was an added plus for our pilgrim. At the end of his trek all his sins were forgiven." Peter-Paul added earnestly. "The slate was clean and he could return home with a light heart. While our modern-day tourist goes on a trip with the express purpose of sinning in mind."

"Might there still be a crypt here?" Derek wondered.

"Indeed there is!"

The answer came from a short, elderly man who had approached the group while they were absorbed in their conversation.

"We have just been exploring it."

"But there is very little light." An attractive young woman had joined him.

"Bernard Van Der Gilden; my wife Deirdre." Names were exchanged, hands shaken.

"There's a young monk somewhere about." He looked around at the new faces surrounding him in the semi-darkness, "Oh, here you are. Come and meet our co-pilgrims, if I am not mistaken."

A slender young man of just above average height wearing black woolen trousers and a matching, zippered jacket with many pockets smiled shyly and bobbed his dark head up and down as he repeated his name with each introduction.

"Guillaume. Brother Guillaume."

"Wasn't there someone else, Bernard?" Deirdre frowned as her eyes searched the group.

"Eh? Yes, yes of course. A woman wearing sunglasses. I don't see her..." he looked around enquiringly.

"She didn't remain down there, I hope?" Deidre voiced her concern and also glanced from one face to another in the ever more advancing dark. The fiery streaks had faded long ago, swallowed up by the lowering clouds of evening until only one last, faint green line flared on the horizon and darkness engulfed them.

"There was no lock on the door of the crypt," Brother Guillaume volunteered, "she must have managed to..." and cut his conjecture short as a slim, shadowy figure suddenly appeared and joined the circle.

"Oh, here you are." Deirdre moved towards her, relieved. "We were beginning to be worried."

  1. "Hm? How kind of you. I remained behind in case the saint wished to confide in me." She admitted.

"And did he?" John asked, barely managing to hide his smile.

"No. The atmosphere was wrong." And with that she turned around, hugging herself against the evening chill and stood staring off into the distance.

"Ah, well, yes..." Bernard raised his voice, "my wife and I, and of course Brother Guillaume here, have been inside the church. Not much remains of what it was once and the crypt is better not explored at night."

"Yeah, O.K.," Tom chimed in, "but if you walk for hours and it's all modern, every-day like all around you and then you finally come to something that can hook up to the past," here Tom jerked his thumb at the church. "but it's too late, too dark or too dangerous to see the Saint's bones, well, what I want to know is where does the uplift come in? Isn't this supposed to be more than just sight-seeing? I was told it was special: To give faith to those of little faith, strength to the weak, succor to the ailing and a belief to last a lifetime."

"Whom are you quoting, young man?" Bernard was astonished by the passion in Tom's voice.

"It is very apt, very well expressed." Murmured Brother Guillaume.

"Yeah, well," Tom ducked his head, embarrassed. "It's something I heard once. Someone said it to describe..." He waved his hand, taking in the clearing, the group, the church. "but..." and his tone of voice became belligerent again. "I don't feel it!"

"Slowly, young man, slowly. It will come. You have just begun your pilgrimage. Instant gratification is not the answer. That does not last. The old mysteries do." Bernard intoned while Brother Guillaume wisely nodded his head.

They had been standing in pitch darkness for the several long moments it took for their sight to adjust, when the Stygian gloom was relieved by the appearance of a luminous and deeply golden moon accompanied by a radiant entourage of sparkling stars. The breeze died and all was still. Woofy barked once then made a woofling noise as he buried his nose in Keith's backpack resting on the ground.

"As usual, Woofy is right. Food!" Keith laughed and began to gather twigs and branches, in plentiful supply on the ground after the mistral. He was joined by Derek while John and Deborah rested their tired feet and sank down on top of several rounded boulders by the wayside.

"If this is part of a saint's grave, may he forgive me." John voiced. "My need tonight is greater than his."

"Amen." sighed Deborah.

Under the willing hands of Keith, Derek and Bernard a good-sized pile of faggots had been gathered and stacked expertly in a large circle and soon a small flicker of flame began to make itself seen around the base.

"I have brought water." Whispered Brother Guillaume.

"Oh, good, good." Bernard looked up from tending the fire.

"There is a standpipe and the pot is Keith's. Soon we hope to have coffee." The young monk added.

"And food!" Called Mavis across the ever more cheerful-looking blaze.

"To work!" Deborah groaned as she stood up.

"And this is only the first day." Mavis reminded her.

"I hear you get used to it."

"Bernard and I trained for a whole month before this trip," exclaimed Deirdre proudly.

"So did I!" Deborah laughed.

"Oh!"

As they chatted, packages appeared from backpacks. Plastic plates and cups were unwrapped and distributed. Keith and Brother Guillaume held a conference as to the amount of coffee to be added to the pot, then placed it carefully among the glowing embers, well to one side so it would not boil over.

Cold meats, already sliced, pates, cheeses, small glistening green and black olives, a jar of Tapenade, a large slab of creamy yellow butter and fruit appeared and was attractively displayed on the largest of the plastic plates. Peter-Paul cut thick slabs of country bread and soon they were all sitting in a circle getting ready to do justice to this impromptu feast.

"Wait!" Bernard called out, "We forgot. Brother Guillaume, will you say Grace?"

"Thank you, an honor!" The young monk lowered his head, "But we should say it all together."

"For what we are about to receive, Oh Lord, we are truly thankful." They chanted in unison, adding a resounding "Amen!" at the end.

"Here, Woofy! Food!" Keith placed a white plastic bowl on the ground filled to the brim with dry dog food and stirred into it snippets of meat and pate. "Dog stew," he explained as he looked up. Woofy did not wait for a second but pushed Keith's hand away with his black shoe-button nose and buried it in the middle of his bowl making small clicking noises and snorting loudly when his teeth chomped down on a particularly tasty morsel.

"He sure likes his food."

"Don't we all after so many hours of walking." Replied Keith, raising a large slice of country bread covered with pâté to his mouth and biting into it joyfully.

"Isn't there anything for a non-flesh-eater?" The low, plaintive voice came from the slight figure, which had slipped unnoticed into the circle between Keith and John and now gazed forlornly from one to the other. She was still wearing her sunglasses.

"Bread," Deborah passed the woman a large, thick slice, "olives, cheese and there's fruit for afters."

"Oh, thank you. No salad?"

Nobody bothered to reply and Mavis muttered something in Gaelic under her breath that did not bode well for this most unwanted addition to the group.

"Salad's so healthy..." she continued not heeding the warning signals, "while all this...well, it's full of cholesterol and the bread..." she tasted a few crumbs, "is not fresh."

"Are you walking all the way to Santiago?" John hoped she was only going to be with them for the necessary 200 km but was disappointed when she replied in the affirmative.

"Of course. I am looking forward to communicating with all those throughout the centuries who paved the way for us." She glanced vaguely into the darkness beyond the fire as if she expected one of the ghosts from the past to materialize at her side. "They will have much to tell me."

"Perhaps they can also feed you?" Mavis suggested and was quickly hushed by a frown from Deirdre.

"I'm sure this cheese is much too fat." She continued, swallowing several large pieces with her slab of bread. "You will buy lo-cal tomorrow." And with that she stood up and drifted away from the circle barely paying attention to Peter-Paul who called "Monica!" sternly after her retreating back.

"Oh dear, I wonder if I ought, as a Christian..." Deirdre began to rise but was pushed back down firmly into her seat by Bernard.

"In this case, my dear, you are not your sister's keeper."

"Should say not," Tom muttered, then turned to Peter-Paul. "Say, do you know her?"

"Our paths have crossed," he admitted, smiling. "An irksome woman but..." here he hesitated, "she does have hidden talents." And he grinned at the group. "Give her a chance."

"Has anybody a tale to tell?" John asked suddenly, hoping to divert the conversation from what he felt was getting a bit too personal.

"What?"

"A tale, as in a story." John explained.

"I don't understand." Deirdre looked confused.

"Ah, but I do," Bernard chortled.

"What does he mean by a tale, please?" Brother Guillaume wondered, perplexed.

"I was just thinking of the past, as well as the present. Here we are, a motley group of pilgrims sitting by a blazing fire. Tonight we could even imagine that this fire is located in a corner of some comfortable inn and we, transported magically back in time some 500 years are not so different from our pilgrim ancestors. We share the same mental abilities as well as the physical; the same passions drive us, the same hopes for ourselves and those dear to us, and like them we now find ourselves on a quest for redemption. And, of course, treading the same road. To truly make it all come to life and to link up directly with our past there ought to be TALES!"

"As in The Canterbury Tales?" Derek asked.

"Exactly!"

"Capital! Capital!" Bernard interrupted, "But only one tale, please. It is getting late and soon it will be time to go to farmer Benoit's, two steps from here. He just happens to have a large, spare barn. Clean and dry. Divided down the middle by drapes with cots lined up on either side." He informed them as they listened to his words without interrupting, "I have already reserved places for myself, Deirdre and Brother Guillaume but he has enough room for all of you."

A buzz of excitement greeted this information, for they had almost succeeded in talking themselves into a positive attitude about spending the rest of the night in a thin sleeping bag around the fire.

Talk became general; voices were raised in laughter and the day was deemed a great success, especially as the beginning, that morning, had proved such a disappointment.

"And now for the tale!" Bernard called out, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

"A happy one, please," Mavis demanded.

"A happy ending," Derek amended.

"Nothing allegorical or mystical, not tonight," added Deirdre.

"Fine, fine! Who will begin?" Bernard looked pointedly at every member in the circle.

"I will."

A strange voice, soft and lilting, answered him. They turned, astonished, to stare beyond the fire, beyond the circle, where a figure had suddenly materialized out of the night, silent and unobserved.

He was small and rotund, dressed in shabby black, holding an old-fashioned doctor's bag in one hand and smiling at them kindly through round, thick-lensed glasses.

Father John set the old, well-worn black bag on the ground next to Bernard.

"Might there be a bit of tea? Strong and sweet?" He queried as he subsided on top of his bag so everyone could see him. "It's dusty, dry work, telling a tale."

A cup was passed to him and all in the circle waited patiently until he had finished it and sat smiling at them over his circular glasses.

"That's better. And now, to pay for that excellent cup of tea I shall tell you a tale. How true it is I do not know, but the man who first told it to me swore it was; and he was a saintly man."

The firelight grew dimmer and the circle grew tighter as the group moved, each one closer to the other, in order to be nearer to Father John and not miss a word of this, the first of the pilgrimage tales.

My story takes place in the not so distant past in a village I shall call Abbot's Field, for in former times an Abbey had actually stood on the site.

The residents of this village were all reasonably wealthy, reasonably healthy and perhaps a little more than usually contented.

There were some married couples, with and without children, admirable spinster ladies busy with good works and innumerable cups of tea. There was also a sprinkling of retired elderly bachelors in cottages named 'Mon Repos' 'The Rookery' and the ever popular 'The Laurels' and 'The Elms' although no such tree grew anywhere nearby.

There was a high street with its post office that also sold dry goods, pitchforks, seed catalogues and Wellington boots, for all the villagers were avid gardeners. There was a fishmonger, a butcher, a greengrocer and one of those small, poky shops that carries dress patterns, bolts of fabric and woolen yarn and thread for knitting and embroidery at which all the good ladies of Abbot's Field were expert.

There was also a manor house with reduced grounds, seat of the Maberly family, also much reduced by death duties, and a church presided over by the vicar, David Bishop. The villagers referred to him affectionately as 'Our Bishop'. And indeed, he would have made a fine one, being tall, portly and imposing in physique, but happily for everyone his views were homely, his sermons easily grasped by a ten-year old and lacking all the fine literary analogies and long Latin phrases so beloved of the higher church order.

All this little world lived in perfect harmony, passing their time doing good work for the poor, visiting the old and ailing, attending church services, bring-and-buys, bazaars and whist and bridge evenings in each others' homes while gossiping mildly when doing their morning shopping in the High Street.

## Into this pleasant and kindly community there fell one day the eye of the devil!

He would never have noticed Abbot's Field at all if he hadn't been so bored with everything. There were no longer any challenges in this world. Thousands stood in line every day to sell him their souls and everywhere he looked he saw malice, spite, anger and evil intentions without having to lift a finger.

Flying over Abbot's Field one day on his way to a busy metropolis he was suddenly made aware of harmony, content and kindliness such as had not come his way in several hundred years. And decided then and there to sow thorns among the roses.

Disguised in comely human form, fashionably garbed and driven about in the very latest product of the automaker's craft, he arrived in Abbot's Field. Faster than the telling of it, he had persuaded old Mr. Cranston to rent him 'Taj Mahal' and take himself off to imbibe the curative waters at Tunbridge Wells.

Such a glamorous addition to the community was of course cause for much excitement and speculation and he was soon an integral part of all the homely activities of the village. Only one place did not see the newcomer...the church. He let it be known that it was not 'high' enough and the vicar's sermons not what he had been used to.

Stung by these rumors, vicar Bishop began to preach longer sermons. And even longer ones, more erudite, more obtuse, bristling with Latin phrases that kept him so busy grubbing about in learned tomes from one Sunday to the other that he no longer found time to visit the sick, the old, or to officiate at christenings, weddings and funerals. Luckily for the village there was a conscientious young curate who carried out the vicar's duties, not himself being concerned with the composition of sermons.

By this time attendance had dropped to a few elderly ladies for whom it would not be a Sunday without a church service, but I am sorry to say that they might have been present in body but their thoughts were so far away they actually fell asleep and snored lightly through the vicar's two-hour diatribe.

In everyday life, on the high street, at whist and bridge evenings, high and low teas, fights broke out and tempers flared. Half of the village did not speak to the other half and malice, envy and evil thoughts reigned.

And everyplace he went, the newcomer was seen to be trying to restore calm, harmony and brotherly love.

The culmination arrived at the annual spring jumble sale held in May on the reduced grounds of the Manor House.

Booths and stands had been erected to sell the handwork of the good ladies of Abbot's Field. There were the usual felt pen wipers, knitted scarfs and bed-socks, embroidered samplers and a fine selection of home-made cakes and jams. Several elderly gentlemen had even contributed chutneys according to age-old recipes handed down from an ancestor's stint in India.

The day was overcast, cloudy and promised rain, nevertheless everyone had turned up for the event dressed in their very best. But unlike previous years, when harmony had prevailed, ill feeling, hasty words and just plain wickedness broke out everyplace, to culminate in a most public brawl between two church-going ladies when one accused the other of having purchased her famous so-called 'Viennese Torte' in the adjacent town of Parson's Field and the other retorted with the barb that the home-made quince jam the other lady had brought had never seen home nor quince since she very much suspected it had been bought just that week at the Woolworth's in Abbot's Parva.

Seeing these two admirable churchgoers at such loggerheads caused the scales to fall from the vicar's eyes. 'The Devil is among us!' he shouted loudly and sent his wife to bring him his Bible and a candle. But before he could open the former or light the latter, the good people of Abbot's Field were treated to a strange sight.

The tall, suave stranger suddenly shrank to the size of a five-year old child. His admirable dark blue suit fell off and he was revealed to all in red tights and, as he turned to flee, everyone could see the flicking, pointed tail that swished behind him as he was swallowed up in a final puff of smoke.

And neighbor embraced neighbor as smiles broke out among the good people of Abbot's Field once more..."

"Ah, thank you my dear, thank you. I could do with another cup. 'Tis thirst-making work to talk of the Devil."

Have mercy upon us miserable sinners,

Neither take thou vengeance of our sins,

The crafts and assaults of the devil,

And keep us from Envy, Hatred and Malice

And all uncharitableness.

Peter-Paul intoned slowly and solemnly to everyone's amazement.

Several "Amens" followed his quote of the Litany.

There really was nothing left to add.

3.

After having had the good luck to be picked up at the side of the road by a succession of motorists, the blond monk found himself near a rustic wooden lodge in the Baron forest about 15 km. from Lunel. Here he adopted an arm-swinging, jaunty gait, plying his staff joyfully and giving every appearance of having walked many hours. He raised a hand in greeting as he approached the sizeable group of young boys augmented by several older men, all well equipped for the Road.

"Well met!" He called out while still several feet away. "I'm frère Marc."

"Welcome," he was greeted by the shortest and oldest in the group of adults. "But wasn't Brother Guillaume supposed to join us?"

"Yes indeed, but he had an unexpected problem with his left knee and Père Anselme sent him to the hospital for X-rays. So I came instead."

"His knee?" The priest repeated, "Isn't he too young for that sort of problem?"

"I understand he had injured it several times playing football with the boys under his care."

"Oh, in that case of course. Football will do it every time, still, it's a good way to show our young charges that we're their friends. Nothing like sport, the outdoors! Yes, yes, well," he added. "I'm glad they've sent someone. These boys," here he lowered his voice, "well, they're not what you're used to but we hope the Road and all it stands for will work wonders. It often does. Heaven knows, everything else has been tried."

The tall young monk smiled pleasantly at the priest, who, looking worried, suddenly asked, "You can stay with us the entire time, I hope?"

"Of course, eh, unless Père Anselme decides to change me, or that he needs me someplace else, but I do believe everything will arrange itself."

"I hope so, I hope so."

"Are we moving on today?"

"No, no, a suggestion has been made..." here the priest lowered his voice. "By one of our Fathers who is also a psychologist." And he paused importantly to let this information sink in. "That it would be good for the boys not to think of this as a test or as if they were on probation but to make it feel like a normal outing and to give them the impression that we're going camping!" He came to a triumphant halt. "Isn't that a splendid idea?"

"Indeed." The monk smiled at the priest's naïve belief he would be fooling this group of tough-looking delinquents.

"So we decided to build a bonfire, roast potatoes and hot dogs, sleep out. Yes, just like the boy scouts!"

"Are there any arsonists in the group mon Père?"

"Eh, well, I don't know. I think Père Thomas has all the records. That's him there, the rather muscular-looking young man." And he pointed to a cleric with short red hair and a snub-nosed, open face.

"If there are, we'd be courting a very big misadventure indeed. One that could backfire on us, and of course on the other boys." Brother Marc warned, then continued to give voice to his thoughts. "Frankly, I do not believe a bonfire at this early stage is such a felicitous idea, Père...? " and here he hesitated, for the small priest had not identified himself.

"Theodore," he supplied, offering his hand. "And of course you are right. Oh dear, what now?"

"I would suggest moving on at a goodly pace to the next town which, according to my map is Vendargues. There we'll eat...indoors!...and see about the night. It would be best to keep this lot under lock and key." The monk added, looking them over yet again. "It may be possible to procure an empty barn from one of the farmers."

"I'll leave the arrangements to you, frère Marc. This is really not my...well, I'm an educator, not an administrator and someone else was supposed to be here to do all that, but..." his voice trailed off as he flapped his hands in the air, looking vague.

"I'll take care of it," the young monk assured him.

"Heaven be praised."

*

After their first stop at St. Gilles, the daily treks became longer and more arduous, especially for John, and, even with Derek's expert help, the going was undeniably slow and frequent halts had to be called for extended rest periods. Their morning departures also deviated from the norm, as rising with the sun proved daunting to everyone after a 9-hour walk over difficult terrain. But the weather was glorious and continued sunny yet cool, warming up gradually until mid-afternoon, then dropping off again as the sun began to sink.

Leaving Arles that first morning, their route had taken them deeply into the spring-awakening countryside and finally on to the ancient university town of Montpellier, home of Rabelais. Here they voted unanimously to allow themselves the pleasure of a hotel rather than the less expensive hostel or bed-and-breakfast they had chosen up to now for there was a universal longing for a good long soak in a proper bathtub. The kind with clawed feet where the hot water, liberally laced with soothing emollients, would allow their bodies to submerge, letting muscles and tendons relax completely before the following day's exertions.

Montpellier also provided the opportunity to drop off underwear, T- shirts and stained jeans at a nearby laundromat and the meal that evening was, for the first time since the pilgrimage began, in a restaurant where several tables were pushed together by the waiters to make it possible for them all to sit together and eat as a group.

Another such arrangement had already been assembled for a large family gathering that was celebrating the birthday of the guest of honor, a very old and very deaf gentleman whom the entire table addressed very loudly as "Uncle".

The proprietress assisted her staff in serving and joined in the general hubbub at the "Uncle's" table, especially when a cake, ablaze with dozens of candles made its appearance. Everyone helped to blow out the flames and there was much good-natured banter, revelry and affectionate wishes for many more years in health, happiness and togetherness for the aged guest of honor who ended up in tears, quite overcome by all the love showered upon him by his relations.

*

It was early evening in Arles. The air was still balmy even though the sun had completed its travels across the heavens and was getting ready to bed down in the Western reaches of the night. There was still enough daylight left to obviate the need for the tall light poles that would illuminate the city the rest of that evening and all through the darkling hours.

Père Hippolyte left St. Jude's just after 7:00 P.M., having first discussed his mission with the reverend father. Now he was on his way to the railway station, specifically to their Lost and Found Department.

Again, as on the evening of the Mistral a little over a week ago, he found himself in the large waiting room of the terminal but contrary to that night, there were very few travelers. Those in evidence were waiting to depart and the arrivals could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Nor did he see the tall, impressive policeman. Perhaps he was not on duty every day. He did however, locate the Lost and Found Department, clearly marked, and confidently approached the counter where a young woman was busily moving tagged items from one shelf to another.

"Ah, excuse me, miss," he murmured.

"Yes?" She turned to face him, smiling. "How may I help you?"

*

The group's own drawn-out table, seating twelve with Woofy under Keith's chair making a thirteenth, was also lively with much speculation centering around the one absent member.

"Where does she disappear to every evening?" wondered Deborah.

"I think she's got a car following her." Tom mumbled, his voice indistinct, for he had just taken a large spoonful of a rich vegetable soup.

"Where did you get that idea?" asked Keith, perplexed.

"Well, I noticed that she's much in evidence in the daytime. I mean, you can't miss her in her blacks. And at night, when we start to discuss where to eat and so on, well, she's gone. Didn't you see that she hasn't had a meal with us since St.Gilles?"

"And you think she just steps aside, raises her hand to flag down a cab and it stops smack bang in front of her as if she were on 5th Avenue?" John sounded doubtful.

"Not exactly, but it all boils down to the same thing; she's got transport laid on with orders to pick her up every evening and take her to, well, a good hotel; anyway, a better place than the one we choose. And I call that cheating!" Tom was adamant.

"There's nothing in the rules against it as long as she walks 200 km of the Road, and so far she has." Peter-Paul objected, "Walked, that is."

"But it is cheating!" Tom insisted. "O.K. she does the walking but being together in the evening to break bread, to say Grace, well, it's all part of the..." he stopped, not knowing how to put his feelings into words.

"It's all part of our submission to the Saint, his road, his belief and martyrdom in the name of Jesus Christ and the Heavenly Father, and meant to change us, our outlook, our faith and point us in the right direction for the remainder of our life." Peter-Paul finished for him with a friendly smile.

"Yes, oh yes. How well you've put it." Deirdre's eyes were shining.

"Careful! The plates are hot!"

The waiters chose that moment to bring in the main course: a mixture of charcoal-grilled cuts of beef together with platters of small, round potatoes roasted to a golden brown, large bowls of crisp salad and bottles of a dark red and full-bodied wine.

A small bowl of the meat, cut into cubes and mixed with rice was ushered in ceremoniously and placed on the floor next to Keith's chair where, with barely a glance from his shiny black eyes, the little dog fell to and did not stop until he had licked everything clean.

All speculation ceased as knives and forks were deployed, wine was poured and not till the inner man had been assuaged, did the group look up from the table to see Peter-Paul push his chair back, get to his feet and, taking a position in the center of the room, raise his glass and begin to chant.

Bring us in no brown bread, for that is made of bran

Nor bring us in no white bread, for therein is no gain,

But bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no beef, for there are many bones,

But bring us in good ale, for that goes down at once,

And bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no bacon, for that is passing fat,

But bring us in good ale, and give us enough of that;

And bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no mutton, for that is often lean,

Nor bring us in no tripes, for they are seldom clean,

And bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no eggs, for there are many shells,

But bring us in good ale and give us nothing else;

And bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no butter for therein are many hairs,

Nor bring us in no pig flesh for that will make us boars,

But bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no puddings for therein is all God's good,

Nor bring us in no venison, for that's not for our blood!

But bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no capons flesh, for that is often dear,

Nor bring us in no donkey flesh, for they slobber in the mere,

But bring us in good ale!

There was a stunned silence from the pilgrims and even the boisterous birthday feast came to a grinding halt. Then, as if at a signal, everyone broke into joyful applause, except for John who shouted:

Swans sing before they die!

'Twere no bad thing

Should certain persons die before they sing!

A shower of loose change was tossed in Peter-Paul's direction as payment for his efforts and he deftly caught most of it before it scattered all over the floor, laughing, joking and performing an improvised jig all the while.

On that bright note the group called the evening to a halt with the assurance of a good night's sleep in clean rooms and comfortable beds and the open road waiting for them on the morrow.

*

"We were called. On the telephone..." here Père Hippolyte paused as if such an event occurred in his monastery once in a millennium, "...at St. Jude's, I mean, that an item deposited by us in this office over a week ago, actually just after the mistral, has remained unclaimed."

"Oh yes?" she interrupted, explaining," We can only keep articles one week, you see."

"Are there many such items?" Père Hippolyte asked, looking at the full shelves in wonder that people would not come to pick up their property. It seemed such a waste to him.

"Oh yes. This is a railway station which means we are dealing with people on the move; people from outside of Arles. By the time they notice that they have lost something they are usually in another city, perhaps even in another country. It is much cheaper to replace the object than to return to try to find it."

"Yes, yes, I see. And what happens to those not picked up?"

"We donate them to charity."

"Ah, that is good. You seem to have quite a few umbrellas."

"Oh yes, at least twenty," she laughed, "I hope we called you about one of those.

"No, I'm sorry, but no."

"Oh that is too bad. I'd dearly love to get rid of some of them before the cleaners find another ten in the waiting room to bring me."

"I've come for a large scarf or shawl."

"Oh yes, it's right here. It's the only one we have." And she handed père Hippolyte a brown paper- wrapped package. He opened a corner, tweaking out enough of the Scottish rug to show her the design and asked:

"Eh, ahem, Miss, you seem to know about these things. Could you hazard a guess as to who might carry such an item on a train?"

"A woman!" Came the prompt reply. "Not a young woman. It would have to be someone who was used to train travel in the l940s or 50s when the heating was inadequate and many passengers, even men, took something like this along to put on their knees or drape around their shoulders."

"Someone elderly then?"

"Oh yes. Actually, someone very old because it's many years now that we have good heating and air-conditioning on all the trains. And there are no drafts to guard against. But," here she hesitated, "some people do object to the air-conditioning so it might be that."

"Not a young traveler, though?" Père Hippolyte guessed.

"No, it would have to be someone older and most likely a woman. Women seem to be more susceptible to climactic changes."

"I see...well, thank you for your help." And with that, Père Hippolyte tucked the package under his arm and left the empty and well-lit station for a night-shrouded city where most of the inhabitants, as well as the tourists, found very little to do after hours except to eat and retire early.

*

Montpellier, being an ancient university town, continued lively much beyond the advent of darkness and even the group, fatigued though it was, did not seek its rooms immediately after the meal. The sights beckoned and, of course, there was still the laundry to be collected. But finally the exertions of the road and the effects of the wine they had drunk at supper achieved their aim, and one after the other, yawning mightily, they retired to their rooms where they soon fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Only one did not close his eyes in slumber. He sat up for a long time in his room staring at a copy of a regional newspaper, several days old, he had absent-mindedly picked up in the hotel lounge before dinner.

The caption over the leading article on page two held his full attention: Who Killed The Hostel Attendant? It asked in large letters and went on to relate the discovery of the body of the porter at the Hospice des Pelerins in Arles. He had been found strangled and hung up in one of the shower cubicles, the plastic curtain drawn shut and the cold water left to trickle down onto the body to keep it from smelling and being discovered too soon. At least that was the conjecture of those investigating the case.

The murder had been perpetrated some time during the night of the mistral.

There seemed no reason for the crime. Robbery had been ruled out, for his pockets contained money and, as occupancy had been almost full the day before, there was ample cash in the drawer of the small reception desk. He had been a bachelor in his early 50s and was not, to anyone's knowledge, involved with either drugs or those known in the small criminal world of Arles. He was conscientious in his work and those who were in daily contact with him said that aside from a certain tendency to pry, there was nothing against him and no reason in the world why he should have come to such a violent end. And, as usual, the police were baffled.

Father John dearly wished for someone with whom to share his worries, someone like Père Hippolyte who had calmed his fears just recently in the matter of the Scottish rug. Would he have been able to make sense of this problem as easily?

*

By now the sidewalks were empty and very few cars passed by on the streets as Père Hippolyte left the well-lit environs of the station and headed back to St. Jude's, the paper-wrapped package under his arm. Here and there he encountered small groups of visitors to the city on their way for a last stroll or heading for a wine bar that kept late hours, but on the whole the streets were bare.

As he bustled importantly along, feeling he had wasted enough official time on such an irrelevant errand and his mind already on what he would relate to the reverend Father, he sensed someone just behind him, someone who was walking much too close on such a deserted stretch of the road and suddenly, without knowing how it had occurred, found himself pushed off the sidewalk, flat on his face, in front of the oncoming cars that screeched to a halt in their efforts to avoid running over him.

He felt, rather than saw, the badly-wrapped package wrested from his arms, heard someone screaming and knew no more.

*

"Yes," he thought, putting the paper down. "Someone like Père Hippolyte; based in Arles, he might just know what is going on. I need to talk this over, if only to clarify things for myself. But with whom? Someone in the group? The younger men are too callow, half-baked; the women of course not. John or Peter-Paul? Yes, one of them would do. Tomorrow he'd attach himself to...wait, why not Bernard? A man of belief, much older. No, an unknown quantity, although emitting all the right signals. Still, one had to be careful what one said or even thought. A long route again tomorrow, another 9-hour hike and difficult if one were to believe the maps, easy to attach himself to John, let's say, during a break and then..."

There was a light rap on his door, almost hesitatingly, as if asking: "Are you still awake? May I come in?"

"Yes?" He called out, getting to his feet and dropping the newspaper.

"Could I speak to you mon Père?" a voice asked softly.

"Certainly," and he opened the door.

*

The next stimulus to filter through the haze of Père Hippolyte's consciousness was of people, all seemingly talking at once and, as if in a fog, he saw a large policeman waving at cars to bypass and an elderly woman stooping over to reassure him that he had not been hurt but that, to be on the safe side, an ambulance was on the way.

He wanted to tell them not to fuss so. That he would be all right as soon as he had reached St. Jude's, but the siren of the approaching ambulance grew ever louder, ever closer, till it stopped next to Père Hippolyte sprawled in the gutter.

He felt himself lifted tenderly and placed in a sitting position in a well-padded chair, then strapped in, raised and rolled into the back of the vehicle where a doctor stood waiting.

At this point he remembered the package and struggled to search his right side but the attendant had chosen that moment to raise the metal railings of his improvised bed so he would not fall out and cause himself further injury, then rushed to the front of the ambulance, got in next to the driver who immediately activated his siren and pulled away from the little crowd of onlookers at the accident site.

"There's blood!" The attendant turned in his seat to shout to the doctor in the rear. "He's been hurt; there's too much blood!" He stared at his hands, red and sticky with the little priest's blood.

"My God!" The doctor called out as he bent to examine his patient, "Step on it. He's been stabbed! Now who would want to stab a priest?" But there was no reply over the siren's wail.

*

When he opened the door Father John saw Keith, hair tousled, pajama-clad, and for once without Woofy, leaning against the doorframe and looking both anxious and apologetic at the lateness of the hour.

"Might I have a word with you, Father John?" He asked.

"Of course, my son," and coming to a sudden decision, he added in a low voice, "I think I need to speak to you too. Have you seen this paper?" And Father John handed the by now read and reread sheet over to the younger man. Keith glanced over the article without uttering a word, then sat down, placed the paper flat on his knees and stared straight at the priest.

"So that was the reason there was no coffee in the morning." And seeing the questioning look on the older man's face, he explained. "When the group checked into the hostel the night of the mistral the attendant assured them, boastfully, that the cost of their overnight stay included coffee and fresh rolls in the morning, as if to reassure them they were getting a bargain by staying at the hostel he oversaw."

"And when morning came?" prompted Father John.

"He wasn't there. And of course there was no sign of coffee or rolls. That's about the time I arrived to join them and I remember Tom getting angry, the way he does when he feels he's been taken advantage of and telling his sister he wanted a refund..." Keith's voice faded. "It was Deborah who saved the day by urging us to go to a café in order to start the pilgrimage off on the right foot."

"Clever woman. Would you know when the others saw the attendant last?"

"Oh...the night before. They discussed it all thoroughly over breakfast in the café. It seemed so odd, you see, that he wasn't there when we left and another puzzle: the front door was unlocked. I just walked in and when I asked about it they all swore they had not unlocked it. Anyway, there was no key."

"Did he seem in any way strange to them?"

"No. Oh, just nosy. They all commented on that. Especially the women. He sort of hung around; asked questions, tried to chat them up."

"That was probably his undoing." Father John mused. "Nobody mentioned hearing anything during the night?"

"No, and with the mistral blowing I doubt they'd have heard anything in any case. I certainly didn't at home."

"Yes, yes, of course."

They sat in silence, mulling over all the aspects of the inexplicable murder of an innocuous hostel attendant, with no gangland connections and his pockets full of money until Keith roused himself, shaking his head as if to clear it, and addressed the priest.

"Father John, when I knocked on your door and said I wanted to speak to you I didn't know about this murder." He raised the paper from his lap, smoothing the pages and laid them down again. "I have a problem and I don't know what to do about it and in whom to confide."

"How may I help you?"

Keith sighed, ran a hand through his already tousled hair, then smiled at Father John.

"I don't know. I'm used to going to the clergy for help, but in this case...I'm expressing myself badly. Perhaps I'd better tell you about myself first. I hail from the Jura Mountains, a very small hamlet. That area of France is close to Switzerland, to the Alps." He added in explanation as Father John nodded his head.

"I was abandoned there as a baby, 25 years ago. The priest of the village was Père Jerome. He took me in and he and his housekeeper raised me. The entire small community became my family and I owe everything to them and to the guidance and love of Père Jerome. When he was transferred to Arles because of the arthritis he contracted in the cold winters of the Jura, I found work with church organizations in the area in order to be near him.

The day the members of the group signed up for the pilgrimage in the church of St. Honorat in Arles, someone came in to see Père Jerome. For confession. Whatever was said under that sacred seal upset my godfather very much. I have never seen him so disturbed before but of course he could not tell me what had been said."

"Naturally," Father John nodded in agreement.

"He hinted at some great evil having to do with the Road and he seemed glad that you were coming all the way from Ireland." Keith gazed sharply at the small priest whose expression remained calm, yet questioning. "He had spoken to Père Xavier and voiced his concern."

"I see...yes. And is that when you decided to join the pilgrimage?"

"Yes. I had to give you the background of my relationship to Père Jerome so you would understand that my trust in him is implicit, but the problem remains that I do not know what to look out for. Something that is not quite right, not as it should be? Or a person? Well, off - hand I am very curious about the so-called Brother Guillaume but isn't he a bit too obvious to be a villain?"

"Ah, so you noticed?" Father John sighed.

"Did you?"

"Oh yes, just as you did."

"He avoids all religious discussions; won't or can't say Grace on his own; doesn't know the Lord's Prayer, why Peter-Paul knows more psalms and the litany and how to behave religiously than this so-called monk."

"Yes, you are right."

"Furthermore, he answers me in English when I address him in French and claims it is to improve his fluency in that language because he hopes to join a Benedictine monastery in England."

"Ah yes, you are French of course. The Jura, yet your English is very fluent and there's your name...?" Father John let the question hang in the air as if not only Brother Guillaume's bona fides were at stake.

"I studied English. And my name is not what I was born with; that I do not know. When I was found, Père Jerome says, my clothes had English labels so when it came to my christening it was decided to give me an English-sounding name. The postmistress contributed Keith after a character in an English detective novel she had just read and the butcher said ete in English was the word 'summer'. I was found in July, so I became Keith Sommerville, but that monk..." here Keith barely managed to hide his scorn, "at best only allows the word merci to pass his lips! Why? Who is he?"

"He might be on the side of the angels."

"Somehow I doubt it and if it comes to that, is there anyone we can definitely swear to or is everyone suspect?"

4.

The fine meal and comfortable beds contributed to everyone's relaxation so effectively that they all awoke in good time and, after a substantial breakfast, felt well-fortified to face a challenging road. There were, in fact, two possibilities that day consisting of a choice of dual routes: one easier, one more difficult but both taking a good nine hours to traverse.

John was all for attempting the more taxing way but was persuaded that one beneficial night's sleep did not add up to a miracle cure and that it would be wiser not to risk the outcome of the rest of his pilgrimage by committing follies so close to its inception.

Keith, because of Woofy, had also decided on the less demanding path but was urged to change his mind by Father John who hinted that he would feel much happier about the safety of the more adventurous party knowing he would be among them.

In the end they split up. Keith with Woofy, Peter-Paul, Monica or Jane Doe, as the group had dubbed her since she had not thought it important enough up to now to introduce herself, Mavis, Tom, and, surprisingly, Brother Guillaume who had murmured something about 'penance' went to the right and Father John, Deborah, Derek, John, Bernard and Deirdre to the left. They would meet nine hours later when the two roads joined at Saint-Michel de Grandmont to continue the last lap of their day's journey to Lodeve together; there to spend the night.

The right-hand approach led them through abundant woodland at an altitude of close to 700 meters. The trees, primarily conifers, were green and bushy even after the rigors of the winter, while other species along their path were just beginning to unfurl their leaves now that the snow, ice and sleet had been vanquished by the change of seasons.

Deer, seen from afar, munched on the first shoots of sun-kissed tender grass and leaves, and a cornucopia of tiny green spikes and leaf interlaced by minuscule white and lavender flowers covered the ground as far as the eye could see. Birds swooped low to tweak at the tiny petals that had opened overnight, their colors shimmering in the sun while venturesome bees searched avidly for pollen among the hedges where the buttercups grew.

The left-handed and less scenic way also had much to recommend it. The path was smooth and well packed. There were no sudden ruts, potholes or swerves nor did the vegetation encroach upon the way but confined itself neatly in the form of small shrubs and stunted trees at either side of a wide enough passage to allow three pilgrims to march along comfortably and abreast. Since they were not forced to keep their eyes downcast for fear of stumbling, they were able to take in more of the roadside be it a curious old, weather-beaten cross or crooked signs pointing in erroneous directions to lead the traveler astray in his search for ancient churches, shrines or points of habitation long fallen into ruin and hidden under the tangled shrubbery that framed the clear thoroughfare only a few steps from its well-tended and open center.

Both John and Derek made good time, as did the others who were all fit and able and enjoying the near perfect conditions.

"What was Peter-Paul wearing today?" Bernard asked suddenly, "Were those really Austrian Lederhosen?"

"Yes indeed," John laughed, "I wondered when his ebullience would get the better of him."

"Why?" Deirdre queried, "Is he troublesome? He seems..." she did not complete her thought.

"Aside from quoting obscure medieval poetry there doesn't seem to be anything..." Bernard trailed off. "His hair of course, but well, that's his business."

"Ah yes! You weren't with us on the first evening, when we got our passports in the Alyscamps in Arles." Derek laughed. "That was quite a scene."

"What happened?"

"John and I signed in first, then I think Deborah came and finally Mavis and Tom. Keith was already there with Woofy." And he laughed again.

"Mustn't forget Woofy!" John guffawed.

"That'd be impossible!"

"And?" Bernard prompted.

"The last one to enter the church was Peter-Paul. We were all stunned to see him. He looked like a pilgrim from the Middle Ages come to life today. Long, brown gown, belted in; heavy leather sandals, barefoot, a whopping big stick, some kind of leather satchel-type thing strapped to his body, flowing elfin locks, mustache, beard and smack bang in the church he began to strut around, twisting and turning so we could appreciate him in his full medieval glory while reciting one of the poems of the period. We were, of course, dumb- struck! But not so Woofy who had been sitting quietly next to the priest who had registered us." And here Derek began to laugh uproariously so that John picked up the story.

"Woofy took one look at this addition to our group and ran to Peter-Paul, barking and snarling and attacked the long, brown gown."

"Mind you," Derek continued, "he did it scientifically, gnawing a good 6 centimeters all around the hemline, leaving it frayed. A rag to wipe the floor with."

At this Bernard laughed so hard he even managed to stumble on a perfectly clear path. Then he stopped, wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to become more serious again.

"It is not in the Christian spirit to make fun of another person's misfortunes but I would not be human if I were to tell you I wouldn't have enjoyed being with you to see it all."

"And then? What happened after that?" Deirdre wondered.

"Oh, he dug out some old jeans and the gown disappeared."

"Until today." John grinned.

"Yes, but why Lederhosen?" Father John wondered.

*

"Yes, but why Lederhosen?" Tom asked Peter-Paul.

"Why not?" Was Peter-Paul's insouciant reply.

"Because this is the more difficult road," Keith's voice was sharp, "full of vegetation...bushes, brambles, hedges, sharp twigs and thorns. You need something to protect your legs, not expose them to every nettle, splinter, sliver and snippet just looking to wedge itself under your skin. Not to mention the ants, gnats, mosquitos, wasps and other insects waiting to drink your blood. That's why we're all covered up!"

"I hadn't thought of that."

He looked so crestfallen that Keith desisted, only adding, "I have some lotion against bites and, well, let's hope for the best."

"Snakes?" whispered Brother Guillaume to Keith.

"Probably." And with that he let the subject drop and remained silent.

*

They had all accepted him, even the younger priests, and such was his power of persuasion that they had fallen in with his suggestions and instead of dawdling at camping sites around bonfires, had steadfastly moved forward to their goal. Moreover, he had set the older boys to watch the younger and had instigated a chain of rewards and demerits to cover all matters of behavior from helping each other to the strict obedience required for such a large and dissimilar group to attain its aim. The perks ranged from small amounts of money, cigarettes, or a surreptitiously transferred joint, smoked at night under the covers. None of those in charge could understand how the miracle had been wrought, but this disparate body of youngsters, so troublesome at the beginning of their penance, now moved as one, good humored, obedient and seemingly well set on the path of righteousness.

*

The group on the right-hand path continued to make slow progress. The way was narrow, allowing them to move forward only in single file. There were odd twists and bushes that encroached ever more on their route, pushing them slowly and resolutely closer to the edge from which there was a sizeable drop and all the eye could discern was the color green rising up to the line of the horizon.

They were forced to use their staves for the first time on this pilgrimage, not against fierce dogs, bears or wolves which had abounded in the area in olden days, but to aid them in finding their way through spiny underbrush and giant ferns.

"A good place for snakes." Keith thought, and before he could voice a warning, Tom called out loudly, "Snake!"

They came to an abrupt halt and raised their sticks threateningly.

"Stand where you are!" Keith ordered, taking command. "Woofy, snake! Go and get it!" And Woofy's small, firm wooly body hurtled forward as he began to root in the under-growth, yelping and growling fiercely.

"Stop him! Oh stop him!" It was the first time they had heard 'Jane Doe' speak aloud for she usually murmured plaintively. Her voice was deep and well projected.

"Don't be daft; you want to be bitten?" Mavis pulled the slight, hysterical figure back.

"It's harmless, sin free. We're the intruders; we shouldn't be here." She wept openly, wildly. "It's one of God's creatures."

"So are we," came dryly from Peter-Paul.

"We are his mistake!" She retorted angrily.

"God does not make mistakes!" Brother Guillaume admonished.

"And what would you call the human race? A triumph?" She continued to weep. "Oh, let the poor snake live."

In the meanwhile Woofy kept up his hunt for the intruder and, snarling fiercely, seemed to have clamped his sharp little teeth into something solid and refused to let go.

"O.K., O.K., I give up!" A voice rang out. "call off your dog."

And a disheveled figure made its appearance, as if by magic, emerging from a green background to materialize into a tall, slim young man wearing a solid green outfit. Seeing him, Keith rushed over to pull Woofy away. The little dog put up a fierce resistance at having his prey removed in such a high-handed manner, and continued to growl and bark, unsure if this stranger could be trusted.

Now that they were face to face with him, they saw that he was open-faced, blue-eyed with blond hair, clipped very short, and like all of them, was equipped with a backpack from which a cockleshell dangled merrily while a stout cudgel was clasped tightly in his hand. His face wore a bemused expression as he stepped forward to greet them.

"But where is the snake?" Brother Guillaume wondered aloud.

"We all saw it." added Jane.

"I don't think we did, you know." Peter-Paul murmured. "It was a trick of light and we were primed to expect a snake, then this gentleman moved..." he waved his hand at the figure in green, "and the illusion was complete."

"And the snake was not hurt?" Jane whispered.

"She's got a one-track mind." Tom mumbled to Mavis.

"But there was a snake, wasn't there?" She continued urgently.

"Perhaps there was," Peter-Paul spoke soothingly as to a small child in need of reassurance. "but it's gone now."

"There should have been one."

"Instead we have a fellow pilgrim."

"I'd better introduce myself: I'm Steven Freeman and I seem to be lost."

"But we are not, so welcome to the Road." Mavis smiled as Tom looked perplexedly at his usually taciturn sister.

"Are you sure? I followed the path and was then swallowed up in all this." He waved his hand in the direction of the dense vegetation out of which he had emerged when Woofy had attacked him. "We should be going South. Does anyone have a compass? I lost mine rappelling the other day."

Peter-Paul and Keith conferred hurriedly, then extracted their compasses from their rucksacks and began to study them.

"You're right. We're off course. Not by much, but still, how come?"

"We followed the path," Tom growled angrily.

"So did I," Steven shrugged.

"Snake!" Mavis shrieked as something moved swiftly through the ferns away from them.

Instinctively they all stepped a pace backward, and as they did so, a strident scream tore through the air. They whirled around in a body just as Keith attempted to calm them by saying, "It's just a porcupine."

But before they could make sense of what had happened, they saw the lithe, black-clad figure of Jane Doe go crashing through the hedges to their right to hurtle off the path and go flying down the steep hill.

There was a sudden sharp silence and then Woofy began to bark frenziedly.

*

The small clearing, invitingly placed in a bay off the path to the left, was ideally suited for a brief halt. Several trees had been felled here, perhaps as a result of severe winter storms or rampant lightning bolts, creating excellent improvised stools and tables.

Derek padded two stumps with the fringed, dark blue plaids which had been tightly rolled and strapped underneath their backpacks and John sank down on one immediately, sighing in relief at being able to rest. This was a sign for Deborah and Deirdre to unpack a selection of sandwiches, while Bernard added two bottles of mineral water to their meal.

"We could use Keith and his coffee pot." He said.

"Wonder how they're doing?" John murmured, raising his face to the sun and closing his eyes.

"Well, I imagine," Deirdre replied, at the same time removing her jacket. "My, it's warm. Yes, I'm sure they're fine. They're all young and in good shape."

"It's supposed to be a difficult route." John reminded her.

"How difficult can it be, for goodness' sake? We're not in the Alps or a jungle." She scoffed.

"Do sit down, Father John," Deborah invited, but the small priest seemed nervous and could not relax, "Don't you feel well?" She probed, concern evident in the tone of her voice as she automatically worried about possible heart problems.

"I...ah yes, yes. I feel fine, no, it's that I'm worried in my soul."

"I can see that, but you must rest. We've been walking for 4 hours."

"You must also drink!" Bernard was already filling a plastic cup.

"Here, come sit next to me Father John and let the sun warm your bones." John invited, patting the padded tree stump near him. "It's good for the soul. And will you tell us another tale soon? Perhaps even tonight, when we shall be resting after the long day?" John persisted, hoping to divert the little priest's mind with a pleasant topic.

"Tonight? Ah, no! Someone else'll have to do that. Mayhap I'll give you a tale again but we have many evenings ahead of us before my turn comes around once more."

"Someone else?" repeated John, "Would any of you have a tale all ready? We have quite a few hours still to go 'till we're in Lodeve; plenty of time to make up a good story."

"Let's ask Peter-Paul," Deborah suggested. "he looks as if he could come up with something."

"It's sure to be set in the Middle Ages," Derek laughed. "and will feature a fair princess and a wandering minstrel. That's his style."

"Let it not be about love." Deirdre begged.

"Why ever not?" Bernard stared at his wife, amazed.

"It's a subject open to so much pain and we have pain enough in this life."

"What would you suggest instead?" John wondered, taking her odd request very seriously.

"Hope."

"Ah yes," John sighed.

"The only thing left to us poor humans after Pandora opened the box and unleashed all the ills of the world." Deborah murmured softly, "And even hope is not free."

"What do you mean?"

"Hope implies success as well as failure. It is a double-edged sword. In some ways it is more negative than positive, keeping us in nervous thrall. Will the die be cast to the left or the right? No, no I reject hope for certainty, as black as that may turn out to be."

They did not speak after this, realizing that they too would have reacted to 'hope' in the same way had they thought about it as Deborah had. Silently they nodded their heads in agreement.

"But there is after all something else," Father John said softly. "Faith."

"For some people it is the same." Deirdre pointed out.

"It should not be. Hope is shapeless, not solid while faith is a rock. One is weak, the other strong. One is vague, depending on whims and a toss of the dice while the other is a certainty."

"Not for everyone Father. By profession I am a hospital nurse." Deborah stated. "Most of my cases have been in the cancer ward and I have seen both hope and faith at work. In the end, and I mean that literally, neither one comes out the winner. It can never answer the question they all end up asking, 'Why?' " And she kept her eyes lowered to the ground and said not another word.

"I do believe in hope." Deirdre murmured.

"And I in faith." Bernard added.

"And I, now, in nothing," John was forced to say. "Or," he added, "perhaps just a tiny spark of hope."

"Don't be so sure yet, my son," Father John's expression softened. "for you have no way of knowing what will still be demanded of you in this life."

"In the shape I'm in?" John laughed. "I wouldn't be much use to anyone."

"That will come to all of us in one way or another with the passing of the years but before that final leap you have no way of predicting if you may not be called upon. Not for any kind of action but perhaps your mere presence someplace, somehow will make a difference. Think of a man on his way to commit a terrible crime. He crosses your path and although he does not know you, you remind him of someone who once rescued him, or did him a kindness. His mind is distracted from his evil deed. He stops; he remembers. And he is saved. And you know nothing of this and never will."

"Could such a thing happen?" Derek asked.

"It could and it has. I've had a feeling about just such an event ever since the night of the Mistral. That by just being someplace at the right time I might make a difference for another human being or alter the outcome of an action."

"What?" Derek asked, bewildered.

"Let me explain. That night I experienced great difficulty praying. I was staying in Arles, at St. Jude's among the good brothers who had made me welcome and comfortable but I could not sleep. My dreams were disturbed by strange images and I arose and had recourse to guidance but it was as if some lowering otherworldly force was bent on thwarting me, to keep my prayers from ascending, from giving me peace."

"Ah yes," Bernard bowed his head as if he too had spent the night contemplating his soul.

"That night of worship led me to this pilgrimage and it also led me to a very strong and real sense of evil on the march and to a conviction that at some time and some place just by being present I could and would make a difference in the age-old fight between good and evil. So, as it came to me...as a revelation...I say to you, John, you do not know what might still be demanded of you, what your involvement in this pilgrimage might not change and what the future will hold just because you are in it."

"I don't think it will be for long." John lowered his head.

"That also is not for us to decide." answered Father John.

*

Jane's fall had been so unexpected that it had taken the others several long moments to realize what had occurred.

"She fell!" Steven was the first to rush to the edge and peer over.

"Oh, oh, no!" Mavis wailed, swiveling her head from side to side in the expectation of still seeing the black-clad figure among them.

"What shall we do?" Brother Guillaume breathed, "Heavenly Father, help us in our hour of need." He began, and rocked back and forth from one foot to the other, wringing his hands in an agony of indecision.

"Woofy, quiet!" Keith ordered the still hysterically barking dog. "We have to think. Can anyone see her?"

"Being all in black she should be visible against the green." Steven muttered, inching, prone on his belly, as close to the edge as he dared.

"Help! Help!" Came faintly from below.

Peter-Paul threw himself on the ground next to Steven and, clutching a strong shrub on either side, pulled himself forward to scan the mountainside, the upper part of his body projecting into the void.

"I see her! She's on some sort of ledge." He called to the others, then shouted down to the dot of black clinging to the small escarpment on the flank of the hill. "Hold on! Don't panic! We'll get you out!"

"We've got to call for help," Tom brought his cell phone out and handed it to Brother Guillaume. "Stop your blathering and call the emergency rescue services. I don't speak French."

"I don't know the number." Came the weak, breathy reply.

"Give it here!" Keith grabbed the instrument and punched in a number, after consulting a small notebook. "Hello! Hello! We've had an accident! Your battery's dead!" He shouted at Tom and threw the phone at him, then dug into his backpack to pull out his own, stabbing angrily at the numbers. "Hello? Emergency Rescue Service?"

After a heated discussion he snapped the cell phone shut angrily. In the background he could hear Brother Guillaume mumbling his prayers and Mavis calling down to Jane that help was on the way.

*

Father John rose nervously from the tree stump and began to insert his scattered belongings hastily into the backpack at his side.

"What is it?" John wondered.

"Something is wrong." He replied, continuing his preparations for an immediate departure.

"It's the others?" Derek asked, also rising to his feet.

"Yes." Came the terse response.

"And is it fey you are?" Deborah wondered.

"In this case I seem to be."

"Well, let's try to get through to them and find out before rushing off." And Bernard pulled his cell phone from his pocket. "I have Keith's number, but maybe..." he did not complete his thought as he began to stab at the buttons. "No, there's no connection. We're really in the wilderness here."

"Oh dear, oh dear."

"It won't help them if you worry yourself into a state of nerves." Deborah admonished. "We still have at least 4 hours of walking to get to the meeting point. And you've already lost water and strength, so please sit down again and eat and drink even if you're not hungry or thirsty. It won't do for you to get sick. We can't carry you and now we can't even call for help."

"You are right my dear. I have let my imagination run wild." And with that he made an effort to sit down again, to drink the water and, unwrapping a sandwich, attempted to appear normal.

"What is it you fear?" Deirdre wanted to know. "I mean, what could possibly go wrong?"

Father John did not reply, only shook his head from side to side, frowning.

*

"They couldn't promise me any help for at least another five hours. They've had several calls from hikers in trouble and are overstretched." Still holding his phone, Keith had turned to the others, a grim expression on his face.

"She won't be able to last that long, lying in one position on that small ledge and without water." Peter-Paul pointed out fiercely.

"Any suggestions?" Tom demanded.

"We could waste our time praying like that fool," Keith nodded in Brother Guillaume's direction, "or we could get her out ourselves."

"How?"

"We need to hoist her out on something." Steven stated firmly.

"On what?"

"Your Lederhosen!" Keith crowed jubilantly.

"Brilliant," Steven was smiling at the thought of action.

"I knew there was a reason I put them on this morning."

"Rope! We'll need rope!" Tom reminded them.

"We'll make some." Mavis determined.

"From what?"

"Think of that old standby, the knotted sheets in elopement stories." Mavis insisted, grinning.

"Mave, we don't have any."

"No, but we do have T- shirts, jeans, underwear. Tear them all into strips, knot tightly, attach to the Lederhosen...yes, you'll have to strip," this to Peter-Paul, "and we lower it down. She steps into the pants, ties the belt tightly and we haul."

"Lucky she's so thin."

"The leather will hold, like a seat, but the knotted strips will have to be reinforced." Peter-Paul thought out loud.

"To work!" Tom began, opening his knapsack, "Mavis tell her our plan. Shout."

"You won't have to sacrifice your clothes," announced Steven quietly. "remember my mentioning that I went rappelling?"

"And you're going to tell us you have all the equipment with you?" Keith asked hopefully.

Steven was already pulling several sets of professional climbers' ropes from his bag and holding them aloft.

"Hooray!" Tom executed a little victory dance. "You were sent by heaven."

"Not so fast, Tom." Steven couldn't help but be amused at the younger man's ebullience. "It's still a tricky job, but much safer than knotted underwear."

"Peter-Paul, strip!"

5.

"Please be reasonable Father John, we must continue as planned." Urged Bernard, leaning forward as if to will the little priest into a better frame of mind. "We have to get to our meeting point, St. Michel de Grandmont. If everything is all right and they end up waiting for us then they will be upset and worried about our safety. And if we get there and don't find them, we shall be in a better position to help. There is a village nearby I believe?" He looked up for confirmation and saw John nod his head.

"Saumont," he offered.

"Yes, Saumont. We shall be able to contact them from there, or perhaps call a rescue service. But there may be no need at all and we shall end up finding them already on the spot, having made good time to the meeting point, for despite our easy road we are not covering the distance as fast as I thought we would."

"And if they aren't there?" Father John demanded.

"We try to call; we wait some more..."

"And?"

"There must be emergency rescue services, or the police. The people of Saumont will undoubtedly know." Deborah emphasized.

"Everything will be clear once we reach the meeting point or the village. After all, we are not the first group of pilgrims to have come this way and until we have more information we should keep calm, stick to our route and time-table and mainly, not panic!" Insisted Bernard. "There is no reason."

"It isn't only the group," explained Father John as they began to slip their backpacks onto their shoulders. "I keep thinking of Père Hippolyte. His face has flashed before my eyes several times lately and I cannot but fear that something is wrong."

"Should we pray?" Bernard asked, standing still, ready to take up a seemly pose.

"We can pray and walk at the same time." Came the curt reply from the little priest, already suiting action to words and stomping off, his lips moving silently.

*

"Oh yes," she replied with a smile, "we have several travelling rugs. May I ask which one you left with us?"

"It had a sort of Scottish design," mumbled Père Hippolyte.

"Oh yes. They're all Scottish. I do hope one of these is yours for there are at least ten here and they do take up a lot of space."

With that she threw shawls onto the counter until there was no room for any more. They were all the same color and design.

Père Hippolyte gaped, aghast at this explosion of shawls, quite uncertain which had become entangled in Father John's bag and, as he stared, they began to change shape and grow, some to double in size, then triple, until they threatened to take over all the space in the small lost and found department. He raised his eyes to the attendant to ask what was happening and saw that she too was becoming more massive in outline and was aging with the passing of every second.

"Can I help you?" She croaked, leaning over the counter and extending her body like a goose-necked lamp, while glaring at him threateningly over half-moon glasses. Père Hippolyte uttered a hoarse cry and began to tremble while attempting to flee but ended up gasping for air and tossing from side to side.

"It's all right, mon Père," whispered a soft, melodic voice rife with the accents of the South. "Breathe deeply, relax, you are safe."

"Am I in heaven? And are you an angel?" He asked wonderingly as he stared up at the large face with its rimless glasses and the starched, winged cap.

"I've been called many names by my patients but never an angel before." She laughed.

"If I'm not in heaven, then where am I?"

"You are in the hospital. In Arles," she emphasized, "after a bad accident in which you were wounded." She did not want to tell him he had been stabbed. "You are still confused but it will all come back to you bit by bit. Don't worry." She checked his pulse, popped a thermometer into his mouth, removed it and busied herself writing on the chart at the foot of his bed.

"Oh miss, eh nurse, eh..." he did not know what to call her and did not wish to offend.

"My name is Sister Agnes."

"Thank you. Sister Agnes, do they know at St. Jude's? Has someone informed the reverend Father?" He worried that Père Xavier might take his long absence merely to fetch a shawl from the station as a dereliction of duty.

"But of course," she smiled at his concern, "He came to visit you."

"Here?"

"Of course. He was greatly relieved that it was not life threatening and that you would be much better in a few days. Oh, he said to tell you when you awoke that everyone is praying for you."

"Thank you," he sighed softly, "Thank you." And he closed his eyes and slept. This time a deep sleep without Scottish rugs or young lady clerks who turned into harridans and harpies.

*

While Peter-Paul extracted his old jeans and changed swiftly, Mavis was already cutting off the decorative leather suspenders of the Lederhosen with a Swiss Army knife while Steven stood by with his ropes.

"We can't attach them to the waistband," he said.

"No, it'll tear." Mavis held the pants up, "We might have to use two sets of ropes forming a big V in front and back, like a double sling. Do you think that will do?" And she held up her handy work for his inspection.

"They'll have to be clipped in place," Steven stepped forward, "like this, and then some padding under the ropes or they will cut into the groin and upper thigh area."

Mavis nodded her head and tucked underwear, folded up, beneath the ropes to cushion them.

"Will that do?" She raised the Lederhosen again so he could inspect them.

"It looks O.K."

The Lederhosen were now suspended from the ropes like a sturdy playground swing with legs.

"I hope she'll be able to get into it," Keith pointed out, a worried frown on his face.

"She'll have to stand on one leg while putting the other into the pants and then repeat the maneuver. Is the ledge wide enough and, most importantly, is there something to hold on to?" Brother Guillaume pointed out.

"It's hard to judge from up here." Peter-Paul frowned.

"Even if she does manage, and we haul her up, the pines growing on the hillside will tear her to pieces. We'll have to find something to cover her head and back."

*

During the darkest hours of the night he awoke, covered in perspiration, heart pounding, mouth dry. "Where is the rug?" Père Hippolyte whispered, "It was under my right arm before the accident. I remember now trying to see if it was still there just as they put me into the ambulance. Would it be with my clothes?" He wondered, trying to think back to that evening. "Or did someone steal it?"

He attempted to sit up, with some idea of getting out of bed to search for it but found himself too weak and fell back gratefully onto the deep pillow. There was a dull pain in his back and he had trouble breathing. He wondered if he dared ring for help. The bell was hanging just over his head but he hated to make a nuisance of himself, then half raised his hand and, changing his mind, let it drop to the sheet.

"Are you in pain, mon Père?" A soft voice asked, and he could make out faintly the familiar form of an angel's wings protruding from the cap on her head.

"Sister Agnes?"

"I'm Sister Therese, the night nurse." She began to straighten sheets and check up on the drip in his left arm. "Can I bring you something to drink?"

"Yes, yes, thank you," he murmured, adding, "I'm sorry to be such a nuisance," for he felt guilty about making her run back and forth on his account. He should not have agreed to a drink for she surely had more seriously ill patients to tend.

"You? A nuisance? You're an angel." She laughed lightly and left the room to return almost immediately with a plastic beaker and a straw which she bent at a precise angle so he could sip easily while lying down. The contents were cool, slightly sweet and very soothing.

As he relaxed he suddenly had a mental image of Father John. He was sipping water from a disposable cup, not finishing it and getting to his feet while urging someone outside his line of vision to make haste.

"Father John?" He thought. "Why should he be so perturbed? What has happened?"

And then, just as suddenly, he had another image... of himself lying in the gutter, the cars sweeping past, and a large policeman directing them away from his prone body as the siren of the ambulance drew ever nearer. And there was something very familiar about that strapping figure.

*

"How about this?" Tom brought over an old, shabby raincoat with a hood attachment.

"It might do." Mavis mused, holding it up. "It'll have to be clipped to the Lederhosen and sent down."

As she set to work, Steven threw himself full-length on the ground closest to the edge and, cupping his hands around his mouth, called down. "Hallo, hallo! Can you hear me?" There was no reply. "Hallo! Hallo!" He called again, inching dangerously closer toward the void.

"Yes?"

"She heard me." He turned his head momentarily towards the others behind him. "We're going to try to get you out. Can you stand?"

"No," came the swift reply, "ankle's twisted."

"That's torn it." Tom muttered.

"What do we do now?" Peter-Paul wondered.

"I go down." Steven announced. "I'll put her into the Lederhosen harness, you pull her up and then I come up under my own steam. Don't worry," he added, seeing the doubt on their faces. "I do this all the time."

"But you can't carry anything..." Mavis began.

"No, of course not, but I'll get to her first, then you let the Lederhosen seat down with the raincoat attached. I dress her and we proceed as before."

"O.K. but you'd better tell her you're coming or she'll fall off the ledge in fright. It will hold two, I hope?" Peter-Paul added.

"It has to."

While Steven got ready, Mavis clipped the raincoat in place on the improvised seat as the others stood tensely nearby. Then, his equipment slung around his body, Steven sank a spike into the ground at the top of the crag, flicked the end of his coil of rope over it several times and began, by slow and careful stages, to descend to the ledge some 250 meters below. The ends of the ropes on the improvised seat had been attached to another spike and Peter-Paul, Tom and Keith had taken up their positions next to it, ready to hoist as soon as they got an O.K. from Steven.

Mavis flung herself to the ground, trying to peer over the bushes. "He's making good time," she reported, "Oh!..."

"What's wrong?"

"It's the trees, all those pines on the hillside, they're getting in the way. He seems to be hacking off branches with something as he goes." There followed a long silence while all they heard was the lone song of a distant bird and the violent beating of their own hearts.

"Lower the seat!" Steven shouted.

"He's made it!" Mavis cried as the Lederhosen seat hurtled down the hill the moment Keith released the ropes.

"She's not standing up." Mavis gasped after she had thrown herself down onto the verge once more.

"Her ankle's bad." Tom reminded everyone.

"He's getting her into the seat as she is...sprawled. Now he's got her upright, but she's leaning against the cliff-side. Tie her up well!" She called down. "He's got the raincoat on her... Steven, Steven, pull the hood all the way to protect her face."

"I wasn't going to take it along, Mavis, remember? You even said 'Oh, that old thing.' " Tom reminded her.

"Pull!" Came the order from below and the three young men rushed to grasp the rope whose ends were tied to the spike set into the ground, and began to haul.

"She's dangling above the ledge, hanging in the air." Mavis informed them, "Pull! Harder! Brother Guillaume, get in there and help. Now!" And she rushed to the figure of the monk who had, as usual, fallen to his knees in a prayer-like attitude and dragged him over to the others to help raise Jane slowly, slowly, meter by meter up through the dense pine-needle branches to the top of the hill and over the spiky hedges she had crashed through close to two hours before.

Mavis grasped her shoulders and helped ease her as gently as possible over the summit and to safety.

Peter-Paul, Tom and Keith collapsed, still holding on to the rope while Brother Guillaume scuttled off to the side.

Jane lay on her back, eyes closed, gasping and shuddering. Mavis quickly brought her a bottle of water, forcing her to drink and peeled off the now shredded raincoat. It had done its job but the slim figure in black had lacerations on her shoulders, arms and hands.

"Nothing on her face, thank God," Peter-Paul sighed, "we'd never have heard the end of it if that had..." he stopped, not wishing to expose Jane's name, "but to be on the safe side, is there anything with aloe vera in anyone's backpack?"

"Here, I was just bringing it." And Keith thrust a tube at Mavis as she began to cut away the ruined T- shirt in order to apply the lotion to her skin.

"Get a shirt from her bag," she ordered Tom who hurried to obey. "and turn your backs, please. She doesn't wear a bra."

"Think of us as doctors," Peter-Paul insisted, leaning forward and wiggling his eyebrows in mock lewdity so that she was forced to abandon her patient and turn him around bodily.

"She O.K.?" Steven had suddenly appeared, having just finished his climb to the top.

"You'll need some of this too." Peter-Paul handed Steven the ointment.

"I'll say, those pine boughs cut like razors."

"How bad is she?" Tom wondered, handing his sister a black Tee shirt.

"She can't walk."

"Should we try to call the security service again?"

"Don't bother, we'll make a stretcher," Keith sounded determined, "and before you ask me how, think of the two longest staves with a webbing of Steven's ropes."

*

The group of teenagers and their escorts continued to make good time much to the satisfaction of Père Theodore and the other accompanying Brothers. It seemed to them that a miracle had taken place among them and that a ragged, hostile crowd had, overnight, been molded into a well-trained and politely behaved party of what could only be called in the full meaning of the word as "gentlemen."

They were well aware that the change had been wrought by the newcomer, frère Marc, but how he had accomplished this when everything they had tried before had failed so miserably they could not fathom and finally put it down to some form of holy intervention having to do with the Road.

The blond monk spent time getting to know all the boys in their charge, learning what had brought them to the attention of the authorities in the first place. Their misdemeanors ranged from petty thievery to actual break-ins and included a certain level of violence. This was primarily found in some of the older offenders who had had recourse to a range of weapons including cudgels, knives and in several cases even guns.

As far as the others could see frère Marc spent a considerable time with the hardened offenders trying to show them the error of their ways, and the counselling he offered seemed to be bearing fruit. It seemed almost as if he willed them into a form of better behavior or, as one of the Brothers put it, as if he had given them something else to think about or to look forward to and they turned their footsteps resolutely towards Compostela with an almost urgent desire for the culmination of their journey. As if some special dispensation had been promised to them by the blond monk.

*

The tall, burly man made a roughly contrived bundle of the policeman's uniform and the small black wig that had contributed so greatly to altering his appearance and subtracting at least twenty years from his real age. Weighing it down with a rock, he threw it into the pond and, watching it sink to the bottom, breathed a sigh of relief. Now there was nothing to link him to Arles and the events that had transpired there. It was time for him to move on. What would his next impersonation require? He was to make contact the following day; then he would know. He hoped the financial reward would be all he had been promised for he needed it, but at the same time he would also pursue another path. One that was sure to offer an even bigger recompense, if he could pull it off. And if his information about the Van Der Gildens had been accurate. Time would tell. And now to get as far away from Arles as possible.

6.

The sun had swept the heavens clean like a new broom in its travels from East to West, and by now not even one ephemeral feathery crest could be seen overhead. Only the deeply saturated blue of early evening shimmered down on them while a last ray, beaming over their shoulders, lit up the endless path they had been following for far too many hours.

Once more they called a halt, laid down their burdens and clenched and unclenched their hands, rotated shoulder muscles and stretched necks from side to side.

Jane lay quietly, her bandaged ankle raised by several pine boughs at the bottom end of the stretcher, one on top of the other, and covered by Tom's torn, old raincoat.

The stretcher had been cobbled together from two of the longest staves with a webbing of Steven's climbing ropes, well padded by underwear, shirts and jeans. Turns had been taken by all the men in the group to carry it while Mavis plied them with water, by now severely rationed.

Those not carrying at the moment had the added burden of the backpacks belonging to Jane and the stretcher bearers. The brief, silent halt brought about a change of shift with Steven and Peter-Paul taking over from Tom and Brother Guillaume.

Keith, who had been toting his own knapsack and a tired Woofy lying in the green sling across his chest, stepped forward to take up the extra load of Peter-Paul's bag.

"I'll take Woofy." Mavis offered.

"I'm not sure he'll let you carry him."

"Let's try."

She leaned over and patted Woofy gently on his head, then searched and found a certain spot near his ears which she scratched lightly and rhythmically, crooning, "Woofy, will you let me carry you? Keith has to take over another of those big bags for a while. It's only for now, for today. I promise not to make a habit of it, hm?"

Woofy rubbed his head against her hand and woofled deep in his throat, a sound of acquiescence and contentment.

"That's a yes." Keith affirmed and passed Woofy and the green-scarf sling over to Mavis, who assumed her burden cheerfully.

Tom hoisted Steven's backpack and the group began its slow, tortuous march once more. By now the last ray of the setting sun had vanished and soon, they feared, even the dim outline of the path would be swallowed up by the relentless descent of night.

Keith wondered how the others were faring and if they had reached the meeting point yet. What would they think at not finding them there? How long would they wait? Would they realize that something serious must have happened to detain them like this? Would they try to call for help? He himself had attempted to reach Bernard but there was no connection. They were totally isolated now; completely on their own. Eventually they'd get to Lodeve. Was there a hospital in the town? Perhaps not; it looked pretty small on the map, but surely there would be a doctor. He didn't like the way Jane looked. Too quiet. Was she perhaps in shock or pain from some unknown injury?

"I hope there are no internal injuries." Mavis whispered so Jane would not overhear, putting into words his worst fears. "She's so very quiet."

"We shouldn't have split up," Tom muttered.

"For once you're right." Mavis retorted. "Deborah's a nurse. We could have used her."

"Aren't we ever going to get out of this...this abominable, cursed jungle?" Brother Guillaume sounded peevish and sullen.

"You said something at the start of the day about 'penance' didn't you?" Keith snapped. "Well, I hope the sin that called for it was a big one because this 'penance' certainly is. What I don't understand is why we all have to have a part in what should have been a strictly private act between you and God."

"It is a sign! A sign from heaven that you are all sinners, not only I." Snarled Brother Guillaume. "You wouldn't be on this pilgrimage otherwise." He added waspishly.

"Whom are you calling a sinner you damn phony you!" Tom's face was red with anger.

"Please remember that there are ladies present." Steven admonished in a bid to calm the mood.

"Ladies don't count. They're prime sinners. The first to tempt us and get us cast out of Eden!"

"Oh heavens! A fundamentalist monk!" Peter-Paul gasped, torn between anger and frustration. "Don't we have enough trouble already?"

"The trouble, as you put it, stems directly from sinful women!" Shouted an enraged Brother Guillaume

"How dare you!" Keith gasped. "Have you forgotten your prayers? They too are to a woman: 'Hail Mary, full of grace...' get out your rosary, if you have one that is, and fall on your knees to ask the Blessed Virgin for forgiveness, you are speaking with the devil's tongue."

"Who the hell are you to tell me what to do? You're not a priest."

"Nor are you a monk!" Came the prompt reply.

"Nor a Frenchman!" Added Peter-Paul.

Brother Guillaume's face showed his fury. He dropped Jane's rucksack on the ground and stepped over it.

"It's not my job to be a porter for a sinful woman."

Silently Keith picked it up, adding it to his already doubled load.

"Now who's doing penance?" Demanded Brother Guillaume sneeringly.

"This is not penance, it's simple courtesy."

"I've had it with this smooth-talking Jesuit." Brother Guillaume hissed and hurtled forward, jostling the stretcher on purpose as he passed so that Jane was tipped out onto her right side upon the path and, unable to stop herself, rolled over several times coming to a full halt, sprawled on her belly.

The others rushed to her as Brother Guillaume continued his mad dash down the path until he was lost to sight and even the sound of his passage through the hedgerows could no longer be heard.

"Let him go," Steven muttered, "we're better off without him. He was no help and with him gone there's more water for the rest of us."

Mavis was already kneeling next to Jane, feeling for the pulse at the side of her throat, while Peter-Paul and Tom righted the stretcher, piled the pine boughs back onto the lower part and covered everything with the clothing that had been tossed off at the monk's attack. Then they lifted Jane carefully and arranged her ankle at the correct height and angle to cause her as little pain as possible.

"What's this?" Mavis wondered, pointing to the pink and swollen patches on the wounded woman's hands and arms. "Were these here before?"

"It itches, hurts." Jane mumbled.

"Let me see," Keith stepped forward, "is it on her legs too?" He asked sharply.

Mavis pulled the black jeans up to expose Jane's calf. "Yes."

"Dump the pine branches. Quick!" Keith ordered as Peter-Paul hurried to comply. "Shake out all the padding, all the clothing." Small, furry caterpillars fell out of the raincoat and scuttled off the path. "Shake and beat everything on the stretcher, even the ropes. I'm going to spray."

Keith delved into his backpack and brought out a small can. He used the entire contents on the clothing and climbing ropes, fully unravelling the latter first and while Steven and Peter-Paul restrung the improvised stretcher, Mavis applied a soothing lotion to Jane's legs and arms before they picked the stretcher up again and returned to their route.

"What was it?" Tom wondered.

"Vermin!" was Keith's answer. "These caterpillars nest by the thousands in pine trees and emit a highly toxic cloud to anyone passing nearby. The result is those typical red blotches and itching. I don't have any cortisone-based drugs or ointments. That's the only thing that helps. I have something to soothe but, well, let's hope for the best." His voice petered out. "The woods here are probably infested."

"We'd better make sure to stick to the middle of the path and not go near any trees." Steven muttered as they started off once more.

*

"It's close to 7:00 PM." Bernard looked up from checking his watch. "How much longer should we wait?"

Bernard, Deirdre, Deborah, John, Derek and Father John were gathered disconsolately in front of the ancient priory of Saint-Michel de Grandmont. At any other time this meeting point would have aroused everyone's liveliest interest for it was a well-preserved Cistersian monastery dating from the llth century. But instead of examining it closely they were sprawled on top of their backpacks, facing away from the monument and staring off onto the distant and dark path, hoping to catch a first glimpse of the rest of the group and praying that all was well. John did not even make a pretense of looking for the others, but, fatigued beyond caring and longing only to lie down, had fallen forward, holding his head in his hands while Derek massaged his neck and back.

"May I make a suggestion?"

They all looked up as Father John's voice broke the silence into which they had fallen.

"I will remain here..." he began while a hubbub of voices broke in to assure him that they would not think of leaving him to wait alone.

"I really must insist," he continued. "John has to lie down and I think Deirdre has also reached the end of her strength. No, no, I will not change my mind. Look..." he added, "you still have quite a bit of walking ahead of you until you reach Lodeve. Then you'll have to find a hotel, eat, wash. It's much too long a day. I insist that you go on and I'll keep watch here. If you want to help, get them to send someone out to be with me. A car perhaps for we may need to transport someone. There must have been an accident of some sort or they'd never be this late."

"I'll stay with you." Bernard volunteered.

"No, that you won't! You'll take care of all the formalities at Lodeve and see to it that everyone eats and goes to bed right away. And, as I already mentioned send a car. It's the only way you can help."

The group looked at each other, then nodded in agreement.

"Will you be all right here, all alone?" Deborah asked worriedly.

"Yes, yes my dear. Don't fret. God will look after me."

Reluctantly they got to their feet, assuming their burdens. Bernard whispered to Deirdre and Deborah then joined Derek in helping him get John to his feet and, supporting him on both sides, they once more set out on their route, this time with the aim of reaching Lodeve, finding a hotel and forming a search party for the others foremost in their minds.

Father John remained where he was, seated atop his old doctor's bag. He had taken his rosary out and lost himself in prayer.

Although his thoughts were on the familiar words, his mind refused to be stilled and was alert to the snap of every twig, the rustle of every branch in the nearby trees. The night breeze had started up and it was gradually getting colder. Sounds reached him from afar. Sibilations, scurried movements of small animals, the chirr-chirr of a lone cicada and the crackling of leaves slapping against each other in the ever-increasing insufflation of late evening.

Over these pinpoints of sound a heavier cadence made itself heard.

"Feet. Movement." Father John's eyes were closed, his mind concentrated on the faint changes of intonation that reached him. "Some jiggling and clinking. Cockleshells banging against the plastic tabs of a backpack perhaps?" He wondered, striving to recognize the auditory stimulus coming his way. He rose from his seat, slipped the rosary into his habit and opened his bag. Rummaging around, his hand closed on a small but powerful flashlight. He snapped it on.

Father John pointed his flashlight in the direction of the exit turn from the right-handed path. If they were on their way, no matter how delayed, this was where they would appear.

Father John moved several meters towards the path, waving his flashlight from side to side as a signal, a beacon for whoever was racing towards him. He saw a black-clad figure pounding along the path, stopping short at seeing the light, executing a half turn and falling down in one fluid crumpling movement at the little priest's feet.

The beam of the flashlight played over his body in its tattered blacks, up to his face which, pasty and sweaty, showed eyes swollen shut, mouth agape and gasping for air. Red blotches stood out on his brow and hands, swollen and scaly. He lay in the circle of white light, wheezing, moaning, unable to stop the twitching of his limbs.

"Brother Guillaume!" Father John called out, astonished. "What has happened?"

"Horror! Horror!" came the barely whispered reply.

Father John burrowed into his bag and extracted a small bottle of whiskey which he opened and forced between the clenched teeth of the monk. Some of the liquid dribbled down his chin but enough found its mark and Brother Guillaume swallowed gaspingly and painfully, breathing hard the while and finally opening his mouth for more. Then he fell back onto the path, trembling, his swollen red-rimmed eyes opened and he could look his savior in the face.

"It is you." He breathed.

Father John was by this time fully alarmed, but controlled himself to a semblance of normality in order to calm the already terrified man sprawled on the path. As he shone his flashlight on him he saw tens of furry caterpillars crawl out of the monk's clothing and make off into the bushes.

"What were those worms?"

"The devil's own," he wheezed. "Thousands of them back there." He lay quietly, unable to move or help himself to get up, too exhausted to speak. "Horror," he whispered again.

"Where are the others?" Father John's tone of voice was urgent. "How far from here?"

"Don't know. I ran. They're slow... stretcher." His voice faded as Father John plied him with more whiskey.

"Stretcher? Who's hurt?"

"Woman." Came the faint reply as he slumped into unconsciousness.

As the little priest bent over Brother Guillaume he heard the sound of a car approaching and was soon outlined in its headlights. A door was flung open, there was a flurry of footsteps and Bernard and Deborah were at his side.

"What's going on? What happened?"

"Who is it?" Deborah wondered.

"Where are the others?" Bernard wanted to know.

"Why it's Brother Guillaume. I can hardly recognize him. He's so swollen! What...?"

"I don't know." Father John sighed, looking down at the crumpled figure. "He came pounding out of there," he pointed to the dark path, "gasping, panting, fell down in a faint and talked of horrors."

"He looks dreadful," Deborah knelt down and opened her first-aid kit.

"I gave him whiskey."

"What are all these welts?"

"I don't know. He was full of caterpillars. When he collapsed they deserted the sunken ship."

Deborah opened Brother Guillaume's jacket and shirt and began to apply an ointment although she did not think it would help. It seemed to her that the young monk was beyond anyone's help.

"He was hallucinating, making no sense at all, except...well, from what he managed to say I believe that one of the group has been hurt, which is why they are so late."

"His clothes are in shreds." Bernard whispered, shocked at the sight. "What of the others?"

"I hear something." Father John moved forward in the direction of the path and shone his torch, waving it up and down as a signal.

"Hello! Ahoy! We're here." Boomed Bernard.

A faint bark reached them. "That's Woofy. They're coming." Deborah ran forward to get a better view.

"Hello! We're here! We've got a car!"

"We're waiting for you." Bernard roared into the night.

"God be praised!" Keith's voice reached them from a distance.

Father John and Bernard waved their flashlights in the air and then aimed them at the exit from the path.

Framed in the full circle of light there appeared a strange, almost medieval procession. It was headed by Steven, a strong cudgel in his hand, beating down slowly and rhythmically all bushes, ferns and hedges on their path and at either side of it. Behind him came Tom, eyes searching the ground at his feet for potholes, arms stretched behind him holding the staves of the improvised stretcher. They could not discern who was on it, but saw, at the other end of the stretcher, the tall, impressive figure of Peter-Paul.

Bringing up the rear was Keith, burdened and hung about by several backpacks and, at his side, Mavis carrying Woofy in the green sling across her chest. They all looked exhausted, their clothes filthy, ringed with sweat stains, shoes daubed with mud and slime.

The form on the stretcher was most worrisomely immobile.

Father John and Bernard surged forward, took over the poles of the stretcher and brought it into the clearing near the car. They made the others sit down, passed around water and whiskey while Deborah moved swiftly from one to the other with her first aid kit, only at the end casting an eye at Jane, who had not moved.

"The doctor, I think..."

"Is there one?" Keith asked.

"Oh yes and he has agreed to wait beyond his usual office hours."

"Then you'd better get her to him fast."

"O.K. We'll take her now. Put her in the back seat."

Steven and Peter-Paul lifted the lithe form and arranged her in a supine position on the rear seat of the taxi, then belted her in so she would not fall.

"Mavis, we can take you too."

"I don't like to leave..." she began but both Tom and Keith pushed her forward to the cab.

"Take Woofy. Feed him." Keith insisted and saw them settled in. The doors slammed shut, the driver executed a U turn and hurtled off as Deborah leaned out the window to shout, "We'll send two cars for the rest of you."

Keith, Tom, Peter-Paul and Steven threw down their knapsacks and collapsed on the ground.

"This is Steven, who..." Tom mumbled to Father John and Bernard, aware that they must be wondering who this stranger was.

"We'll talk later," Bernard interrupted, "here, drink!" And he passed cups of strong, sweet, hot tea around which he had commandeered in the hotel and had brought with him in two large thermoses. "I have sandwiches too." He offered.

"Tea...more..." They all gasped.

"The water gave out hours ago." Tom gulped down his third cup. "Had to use some to make a compress for her ankle. Swollen like a football."

"I think Brother Guillaume will have to be taken to a hospital." Muttered Father John as he looked down at the recumbent figure, barely breathing now.

"Cortisone," Keith offered, "he'll need it in shots."

"But what happened?" Bernard finally asked.

"Everything." Peter-Paul answered slowly, trying to gather his thoughts into a concise narrative that would convey the events of the day. "We strayed off course. The way is tortuous, clogged with vegetation, all of it nasty, on the crest of a hill. There was a snake scare. Turned out to be only Steven here, also off course. Jane Doe got too close to the edge when there was another snake scare and she went over."

Both Father John and Bernard gasped.

"Lucky! She was lucky. Landed on a ledge 250 meters below. Hurt her ankle in the fall."

"And the cell phone didn't work?"

"It did, then...there." Keith replied. "We'd have had too long a wait. She wouldn't have lasted. So we decided to get her out on our own."

"How?" Bernard wondered.

"You'll laugh...all a matter of luck, of God's protection...Peter-Paul's abominable Lederhosen and Steven's climbing ropes. He did all the work by the way. Got down to the ledge, put her into the harness oh...let it keep for later, much later when we can look back on it as a lark. It's all much too real, too close."

"And Brother Guillaume?" asked Father John.

"The less said about him the better." Was Keith's curt rejoinder.

"He's no brother and no Guillaume and not French and...oh, let's not waste our breath on him. Nasty bit o' goods." Tom growled. "I'd just leave him where he is."

"That we cannot do." Father John demurred. "You would not abandon an animal in such a condition."

"An animal no! Brother Guillaume yes!" came Tom's quick reply.

"Oh dear, so bad?"

Their ruminations were cut short by the headlights of two cars approaching the clearing and coming to a halt next to them. Deborah jumped out of one.

"I've brought plastic gloves and a big sheet. Two of you wrap up Brother Guillaume and put him on the back seat. Don't handle him without gloves; it may be contagious. Bernard and Father John can sit next to the driver. He'll take you straight to the doctor and we'll be behind you. Wait for us. The rest of you in my cab. Backpacks in the trunk. Let's get out of here!"
7.

The breakfast room of Le Petit Cedre Hotel in Lodeve was a sunny, square room to the left of the lounge. It boasted several round tables decked in crisp white cloths and exuded an air of welcome and cleanliness, especially when the enticing aroma of freshly prepared coffee hovered over everything.

Tom, Keith and Father John were seated at one of the tables while a fresh-faced, plump waitress dressed in shiny black, embellished by a starched white collar, took their orders.

"So that's three coffees, rolls and croissants."

"I would also like two eggs, fried, please." Added Tom, and, turning to the others mumbled that he was very hungry this morning.

"Two fried eggs," the waitress murmured.

"For me too." decided Father John.

"Two soft-boiled eggs..." she stated, under her breath.

"No, not soft-boiled, fried please, miss."

"For the young man, yes, but for you mon Père? I would not advise it."

"Why ever not?"

"It is too heavy for the stomach after you have not eaten all night, much too heavy. That one, he does not have such problems yet but you mon Père, fried eggs will sink in your stomach like the Titanic and you will feel it the rest of the day. Now the nice soft-boiled egg, it slides down by itself and digests gently and quietly."

And with that pronouncement she whisked herself off while the three breakfast seekers remained frozen in their seats, mouths slightly agape, as if they were about to argue the point but suddenly burst out laughing uproariously instead, just as Bernard entered the room to join them.

"What's the joke?" He asked but could get no clear answer as laughter shook them so hard, the tears began to roll down their faces.

"The waitress..." Keith began.

"Just try ordering eggs..." gasped Father John.

Bernard sat down with some trepidation as the waitress appeared, carrying a loaded tray. Cups, saucers and plates were distributed and a large, heavy coffee pot was placed in the center of the table to be followed by a jug of hot, foaming milk, a tray holding small pottery bowls with a selection of home-made fruit jams and a stone crock of honey. This was followed by a sugar bowl, a thick slab of yellow butter and two baskets filled with rolls and warm croissants.

"Et voila!" She announced, smiling happily. "The eggs are on the way, Sir?" She turned to Bernard with a wide smile.

"Eh, eggs?" He ventured timidly, not knowing what to expect.

"Two eggs, scrambled..." she murmured as she wrote.

"I, ah, I had thought perhaps an omelet?"

"Not for breakfast," and she was gone.

Tom, Keith and Father John looked at each other, then at Bernard whose bemused expression caused them once more to burst out into a storm of laughter.

"See what we mean?" Tom pointed out.

"But the coffee smells heavenly."

"That it does."

Keith poured out, baskets were passed, the jam and honey were tasted and pronounced superb when suddenly their waitress returned with three large portions of eggs.

"If you wish for anything else, please call me. But what you have is sufficient for the breakfast. In a few hours you will be desiring to eat a big meal so it is not good to overload the stomach now." And with that same well-meaning smile she twirled around and left the room.

"I know!" Bernard pronounced, "She is studying medicine with a view to becoming a gastroenterologist!"

"Is Deirdre up yet?" Keith inquired.

"No, poor girl. She took it all so to heart last night that she is shattered and keeps to her bed. She will have tea and will read her Bible this morning. It will strengthen her."

"We are of course not going on today." Keith assured him.

"I did not think so, not with John still so poorly and that woman, Jane Doe, in the hospital and Brother Guillaume...where is he?"

"In Toulouse by now. Good morning." Deborah seated herself at a neighboring table, leaning over to speak to the others.

"I see you have recovered and are your bright self this morning." Father John complimented her.

"It's years of practice. No matter how devastating and grueling the work of the day before, a nurse has to appear the following morning in full control of her feelings and carry on."

"That makes sense," Tom interrupted. "there will be tens of new patients needing her care."

"That's it in a nutshell."

"And what of Brother whoever he is?"

"Yes...him!...oh thank you," she looked up at the waitress. "I'll have coffee, please. Oh, that looks so good." And she smiled as she saw the jams, honey, butter and the deep, doily-frilled basket of rolls and croissants. "The doctor took one look at him last night and said very stiffly that he could not help and sent us to the hospital. Fast, I might add. He felt too much time had been lost already between Brother Guillaume emerging from the path and being brought to him and, I think mainly, he did not want to touch the case. It's very complicated and he didn't know much about it so we took the patient to the hospital where the doctors and nurses, all young and eager to help, also had had no previous experience with his symptoms. They tried everything, including cortisone shots of course, but as nothing seemed to ease his condition it was decided to airlift him to Toulouse to the Institute of Tropical Diseases." Deborah buttered a roll and poured herself a second cup of coffee.

"Tropical diseases?" Both Keith and Tom voiced their consternation. "How did that get to an obscure wooded area of southern France?"

"Nobody knows. It's much more than an allergy to those little pests in the pine trees."

"We know nothing of Brother Guillaume as I still call him for want of his real name...but he might be from anyplace, even Africa or the tropics." Father John thought out loud.

"Mission accomplished!" Announced a new voice as Mavis and Steven entered and flopped down next to Deborah.

"How many loads?" asked Keith.

"Eight. Everything will be ready by tonight." Steven replied, signaling to the waitress who came over with her habitually pleasant smile.

"Coffee or tea?" she asked.

"Tea please, strong, for both of us." Steven ordered.

"That comes with croissants, rolls, our own jams and lavender honey."

"Fine, oh, no croissants, please." Mavis ordered while the waitress smiled more broadly.

"Anything else? Eggs perhaps?" And she waited with bated breath for the reply, as did the others at the adjacent table.

"No, no eggs. That's too much protein on an empty stomach." Steven swept the idea of eggs away as if on a giant tidal wave.

"Yes sir!" She almost bobbed a curtsey and took herself off at a trot to bring the tea.

"Well, you've certainly made her day!" Tom grinned at Steven who looked confused.

"But you'll have to get your own shoes." Mavis interrupted the talk of food and turned to Keith and Tom.

"We thought to do that this morning." Keith replied.

"Where is Peter-Paul?" Mavis wondered, looking around at the bare tables.

"Went to buy shoes. He said not to wait for him, he'd grab a bite in a café."

"And how did you leave Jane?" Mavis turned to Deborah.

"She's better and so is the ankle. Not broken, thank God."

"And her mood? She was very low last night."

"No wonder, after such a fall, but today she was ticking the staff off about her breakfast." Deborah sighed.

"Did she also order eggs?" Bernard wondered.

"Heavens no! Cholesterol! No, no, it was the croissant. Saturated fat, greasy and to add insult to injury it was stone cold. Do the nurses have any idea what a stone-cold greasy croissant can do to one's insides, to one's blood? I left her giving them a lecture on nutrition."

"Well, she won't be going with us tomorrow. We are continuing tomorrow, aren't we?" Tom sounded worried, "One day lost won't matter will it? We'll still make it to Compostela by the 25th won't we?"

"We should, but there's no denying that we're behind schedule." Bernard signaled to the waitress for more coffee. She approached reluctantly. "More coffee, please, and don't tell me I shouldn't at my age, too much stimulant and not enough this or that; it's just this morning, we had a bad time of it yesterday."

"Yes sir, I know." And she went off without another word to fill the order.

"If we fall behind, we will have to do part of the trip by car. There is a precedent for that and one can still get the full certificate stamped." explained Keith. "But we might still make it in the accepted manner, perhaps by skipping a few sites, or at least taking less time over them."

"We'll have to check the maps," Bernard suggested, "and see what we can salvage. A great deal of time is wasted getting in and out of cities. If we could bypass some of the bigger ones...Toulouse and Pau, for instance, we might catch up."

"But how can we just walk away and go on with our private pilgrimage, our own bid for salvation, and leave Jane behind?" Tom suddenly asked.

"Since when did you start to worry about her? Not so long ago you were down on her for choosing her own, and better, hotel and not sticking with us." Mavis stared at her brother as if seeing him for the first time.

"I guess since she fell off the cliff. It sort of brought us all closer together. I mean, not just as if we're a group of people who just happen to be going in the same direction but as if we were linked together like a chain and therefore responsible for each other. I mean, like we should all look out for each other and make sure we'll all make it to our goal." Tom didn't glance at the others and lowered his head, embarrassed at having revealed so much of his inner thoughts.

"Tom, if your truly harrowing experiences yesterday taught you that, then it was all worth- while and part of God's grand design." Father John smiled at the younger man. "On the road that is our brief life we are not alone, others travel with us and we are meant to help each other on that trek so that we shall all be able to reach the end in love and harmony and go on to meet our maker, our souls pure white, our good deeds shining golden and our thoughts shored up with love for all mankind as we serenely face out own final verdict. If you have learned that, my boy, the gates of paradise will be standing wide open to receive you."

"Amen." Bernard whispered.

"Peter-Paul would have quoted something appropriate at this point." Mavis joked.

"Just in time! I heard my name mentioned," and Peter-Paul, carrying several packages, entered, a wide smile on his face.

"I think we need something from The Pilgrim's Progress," hinted Keith.

"I could quote at great length from that inspiring work but I think one simple line is all we need to keep us on the right path: 'So he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.' And smiling brightly, he sat down next to Steven. "I've had an interesting talk with someone in Arles," he continued, as the group sat up, their attention aroused. "There is much news, most of it bad, which I will gladly relate."

"Père Hippolyte!" burst out Father John.

"Yes!"

"I knew it."

"But what I want to know first and foremost is..." and here he turned to look at Steven, "who are you Steven Freeman?"

Everybody stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses and both Tom and Mavis leaped to Steven's defense.

"What kind of question is that?" It was the first time anyone had seen Mavis angry. "He's Steven, without whom we'd never have gotten Jane out and who helped us all the way on that hell-hole of a path!"

"And he pulled more than his weight yesterday. And he wasn't even one of the group and owed us nothing." Tom added belligerently. "What's gotten into you anyway?"

"I'll tell you. I said I'd spoken to someone, well that someone is the editor of a paper in Arles and a friend of mine and I had quite a chat with him on the phone this morning...about our adventures and then he told me some of his."

"And now you're going to tell us all about the murder, aren't you?" Keith sighed with exasperation.

"How did you know?" Peter-Paul's suspicions had now switched to Keith.

"Murder?" Bernard goggled. "What murder?"

"It was written up in a newspaper I picked up in the lounge of our hotel in Montpellier and discussed fully that very night with Keith." Explained Father John,

"We decided not to tell any of you..." continued Keith, "fearing it would put a damper on our pilgrimage. And there was, after all, nothing we could do about it."

"But who was murdered in Arles and why should it concern us?" demanded Deborah.

"The hostel attendant," answered Father John.

"He was strangled and hung up in one of the shower stalls, the curtain drawn and the water left running." added Keith.

"So that's why there was no breakfast in the morning." Mavis breathed, "How awful! And you..." here she turned on her brother, "were making a fuss about refunds while that poor little man...it doesn't bear thinking of!"

"But what has all this go to do with Steven?" Voiced Bernard in consternation.

"Someone passing the Hostel Des Pelerins close to midnight came forward to tell the police that he had seen a tall young man, dressed in green or blue, a hood pulled over his head and the upper part of his face ringing the bell and the door swinging open to admit him. That would have been when we were already in our rooms and asleep."

"And you think that was me? Do I look to you like a psycho who goes around killing hostel attendants for the fun of it...or, please excuse me, was it the night of the full moon? Then perhaps I'm some sort of werewolf and simply can't help myself?" Steven could hardly credit the flimsy charges on which he had been accused, tried and convicted by one of the group. "All right, when was this supposed to have occurred?"

"The night of the mistral"

"What mistral?"

"There was a very bad storm the night we reached Arles," Bernard explained, "we barely managed to get from the station into a taxi, it was blowing so hard. I had to hold on to Deirdre or she would have been knocked over."

"Fierce it was," Father John agreed, "and went at it all night like a banshee."

"That means nothing to me. Where I was there was no storm. What was the date?"

"May 22nd." answered Peter-Paul.

"Ah, now we're getting someplace! Here, look at this." And Steven rummaged among his papers and tossed over his certificate stating that he was a pilgrim on the road to Compostela. It was dated May 22nd, 5:00 P.M. and signed Père Thibault of the church of Notre Dame in Le Puy. "And now tell me how I could have gotten from Le Puy to Arles in time to murder a hostel attendant and why?"

Peter-Paul looked abashed but even as he scanned the pertinent information on the certificate he was not convinced. "These things can be faked..." he began.

"Oh for heaven's sake, drop it and admit you made a very big mistake."

"But the description fits and we know nothing about him. Wasn't it suspicious how he suddenly showed up among us?"

"What description?" Mavis was angry. "A tall young man in green or blue with the hood pulled over his head and part of his face at midnight when the Mistral was blowing sand, dirt, grit and leaves so one could not see one's hand in front of one's face? On that so-called evidence you hang a man? The description could fit anyone here except Father John. Shame on you!"

"I still want to know who he is and how he came to be on that path!"

"As to who I am, here's my passport. You'll probably tell me that's fake too." He passed over a British passport and Peter-Paul checked it out carefully.

"It seem all right," he muttered, "still, it's less than 200 km from Le Puy to Arles. You could have made it from 5:00 P.M. to midnight."

"Walking?" asked Tom.

"No...but let's say he stole a car or got a lift..."

"That borders on the fantastic." Father John shook his head from side to side.

"It just so happens that I have a receipt from a hotel where I spent the night of the 22nd."

"How convenient," murmured Peter-Paul.

"Here...dated May 22nd, the night in question."

"Conques? Where's that?" Tom asked, staring at the hotel receipt.

"Below Le Puy."

"Someone else could have stayed in that hotel signing in as Steven Freeman while you..." began Peter-Paul.

"Without my passport?"

There was no reply as Peter-Paul shrugged.

"Why are you so determined to pin it on Steven?" Bernard demanded.

"Because I've been suspicious of him ever since he suddenly popped out of the bushes on the road. He was alone, not part of a group, he claimed to be off course, he claimed to have lost his compass and of course under such circumstances he joined us. It makes a good cover story for just about everything. For any kind of shady business."

"Shady business?" Keith stared at Peter-Paul as if seeing him for the first time. "You were accusing him of murder and now I suppose it's gun running and dope smuggling? Man, y'er daft."

"There was a big manhunt on that night in Arles. The night of the mistral. The police were chasing a suspected murderer and they lost him."

"And he was tall and slim and in green or blue with a hood over his head and face?" Mavis sneered.

"Either blue or white...the police weren't sure, however..."

"This is a farce!" Deborah interposed. "And it's time you dropped it. Steven is Steven and that's all. We owe him a lot and he certainly does not deserve this third degree. Better still, give us your other bad news. You did say you had more to spoil the day for us?"

"Ah yes, it concerns Père Hippolyte."

"Who's he?" Tom and Mavis asked together.

"He met me at the train station the night I arrived." explained Father John. "He is a member of St. Jude's where I stayed while I was in Arles. What has happened to him?"

"He had a grave accident about a week after we left Arles. He seems to have been attacked in the early evening in the street, stabbed and pushed off the sidewalk into the oncoming traffic."

"How awful," murmured Deborah.

"But he is alive? He is all right?" Father John demanded in some agitation.

"Yes. By now."

"Who would do such a thing to Père Hippolyte? And why?" The little priest had turned as pale as the tablecloth on which he was leaning.

"He was heard to say something about a missing rug and a large policeman."

"Is there any more?" Deborah wondered, "Or are you now going to accuse one of us of having stabbed, pushed and robbed a priest in some psychic out-of-body manouver that you will attempt to explain, hm?"

Peter-Paul had the decency not to reply and hung his head, refusing to meet their eyes, yet a certain stubborn, mulish expression remained on his face boding further trouble for Steven.

"May I clean up, or..." the waitress had waited till the heated discussions had died down in order to approach the table.

"Oh, sorry, we're keeping you." Bernard sprang to his feet, "Eh, this is for you, thank you."

"Thank you sir." She blushed as she accepted the tip.

"I'll go see how Deirdre is feeling. Perhaps a little walk in the town will do her good." And with a wave of his hand Bernard bustled off, distancing himself from a discussion that had instinctively made him more than uncomfortable.

"Does anyone feel like walking today?" Keith grasped at this change of subject matter.

"No, only to buy shoes and I hope there's a shop nearby." Tom answered.

"Just around the corner," Peter-Paul mumbled.

"A propos my name and antecedents, let me tell you a story. Shall we remove to the lounge?" And Steven got up to lead the way to the adjoining room where he made himself comfortable in an easy chair, the others following suit

"The time spent in relating this tale will help us digest our breakfast and we shall then be quite fit to go off to replenish our wardrobes. I have been told that Father John is the teller of tales on this pilgrimage," Steven turned to smile at the little priest, "and so I beg his pardon for fishing in his waters."

"No, no 'twas only once and we decided then that everyone must take his turn."

"Good...well, then let me start with a quote." Began Steven

We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage

And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die,

We Poets of the proud old Lineage

Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why

What shall we tell you? Tales, marvelous tales

Of ships and stars and isles where good men rest.

Thomas, Steven, James and John have served the Earls of Ayereshire since time immemorial. They have built their fortified castles, their follies and their mansions. They have looked after their horses, their armor, their farms, their boots, their sabers, their guns, their cars and their interests. The Earls, in turn, protected them and their families, saw to it that they had food in times of famine and safety in times of war. And finally, in an era when the feudal system began to look very outdated, they were made free men and adopted the name Freeman.

Now they were finally equal and although they continued to work for the Earls of Ayershire it was for good coin of the realm. All went well until one Earl of Ayershire so forgot his place in the natural order of things that he fell in love with one of their womenfolk.

Annie was 12 years old and an orphan raising seven younger siblings. The responsibility of this task had forced her to grow up fast. And she was bonny. The then Earl, Black Hugo as he was called due to his coal-black hair and eyes, saw her one day as he charged past her cottage on his hunter.

There and then he decided he had to have her.

Had he been a subtle man or a man of cunning he might have dissimulated his lust and succeeded but like many of his lineage before him, he thought himself all powerful and his wishes a foregone conclusion. And so he talked. And the word was passed on from Thomas to James to John to Steven who were determined he should not succeed. In the dead of night they spirited Annie away, dressed as a page and sent her off with the saintly widow Hermia who had vowed to make the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela to pray for her late husband's soul. Into the weir the subtle Steven had thrown a young girl's slipper and the tie belt of a blue home-spun gown.

Great were the lamentations on the morrow among Annie's kin when this evidence was discovered. Drowned she surely was, her body swept down past the weir, the river and thence out to sea never to be seen again.

There was much wailing and keening and then everyone bethought themselves of the seven children under her care. What would become of them? The Earl was appealed to and delivered a judgment of Solomon. Thomas, Steven, James and John were to divide the orphans among themselves and take them into their households for which good deed the Earl would augment their wages by one pence per annum. He would also have a small monument erected next to the weir where Annie's last traces had been found.

Not long afterwards it was learned that the Earl was affianced to the only daughter of the Duke of Whitlaw, a capricious beauty and an heiress and he forgot all about Annie.

Annie had been the greatest help to the saintly widow Hermia on her pilgrimage. Without her, she stated even years later, she would not have arrived at her destination. Not only was Annie a wonderful companion, ever cheerful, always smiling and with great common sense, brushing aside all the problems of the road, but practical in matters such as lodging for the night, proper food for an older woman, comfortable means of transportation when needed, and as if that weren't enough, also someone to talk to, wise beyond her years, soothing in time of stress, in fact, a veritable ministering angel.

At the end of the pilgrimage the saintly widow Hermia took her protégé to London where she owned a large and comfortable house and adopted her legally. She had her taught all a young lady should know and decked her out in the latest gowns, then launched her in a most spectacular way in the London season.

All of this was not accomplished by a fairy godmother with a magic wand in one night but took the better part of three years. So it was not until Annie was fifteen that she made her first appearance in the polite world which knew her under the name of Aramintha.

And what of Black Hugo during those three years?

He had married Claudia of Whitlaw in a sumptuous nuptial ceremony that was the talk of the county and had brought her to Pomfrets, his Ayershire estate, a magnificent palatial mansion with so many rooms and wings that nobody had ever managed to catalogue them all. In fact, an army of servants was employed just to keep them clean and another army of clerks to keep track of them in case someone should steal a few rooms or perhaps an entire wing. It was all so vast that if this were to happen it might take several generations to realize that the West Wing had been purloined by an envious and acquisitive visiting potentate.

Claudia of Whitlaw and Ayershire took it all as her due. Was she not ravishing and rich? Was she not envied by every beauty and heiress in the land? Were such estates and rooms and furnishings and servants not meant for her? And she stalked through all the stately apartments in order to count them, inscribe them, redecorate them and gloat over them with the idea of inviting acquaintances (she had no friends) for long visits replete with stately dinners and even more stately, and stodgy, entertainments where she could wear her 365 silk and satin gowns.

And what of Black Hugo in all this? Well, he had wanted beauty, a pedigree and money. And he got it!

He also got haughtiness, spitefulness, coldness, heartlessness, selfishness and worst of all, no heir. That is how matters stood after three years of wedlock it was impossible to dissolve. The church would not like it. The King and Queen would not like it. And worst of all, Claudia would not like it. And when she was not pleased she made Black Hugo's life a misery. Her temper tantrums could be heard in all the rooms and wings of Pomfrets. Her hysterics caused the 1,000 chimneys on the roofs to list to one side and all the glass in the conservatories to crack. It curdled the milk in the stillroom and etched black lines on all the mirrors. It broke every crystal goblet in the cupboards and felled trees in the 2,000 acre park while completely drying up all the ornamental pools and lakes.

In the deepest and darkest hours of the night Black Hugo often thought of those ornamental lakes. How deep were they? Would a well-weighted body remain hidden for ever? And what of the vast park? Wasn't there one little corner where a body might be buried never to be discovered? But when the dawn came he knew he could not do it, for despite his name he was not a violent man.

As Black Hugo contemplated his choices, Claudia of Whitlaw and Ayershire planned her most lavish entertainment yet. A Venetian extravaganza! It took close to six months to dig canals in the park and fill them with water, import gondolas, procure elaborate costumes for the hundreds of servants and devise menus celebrating piscatorial glories.

Invitations had been sent months before until, finally, all was ready by mid-June to receive the hundreds of guests, all of them famous, titled and wealthy.

Claudia, in a gown of pale green darkening to deepest blue, as befitted the theme, stood at the foot of the grand staircase, ready to greet the princelings, dukes, duchesses, sheikhs, emirs and ordinary billionaires whom she had invited.

She stood proud and tall, like a statue, at the foot of the grand staircase. And she stood. She stood. Alone.

The canals gurgled, the gondolas sighed, the servants whispered, the elaborate fish dishes collapsed, the champagne lost its bubbles, the thousands of candles on the tables guttered and the rare flowers in their golden vases drooped but no guest appeared.

Claudia of Whitlaw and Ayershire turned on her high heels and hurtled up the stairs, tearing at her dress her hair, her jewels.

The servants headed for the deepest cellars.

And then the storm struck. In her mortification and fury Claudia let loose with the wildest, loudest, most ferocious tantrum even she was capable of. It was a matter of sheer luck that nobody was hurt and that most of Pomfrets remained intact as Black Hugo surveyed the damage and the servants began to leave the safety of the deepest cellars.

But the West Wing was gone. Collapsed in one fell blow. Toppled, overset and ground to pulp by Claudia of Whitlaw and Ayershire's hysterics. All that was found of her were a few wisps of green and blue silk wafting in the breeze of morning.

The rubble was used to fill in the canals and a new West Wing began to rise from the ashes in a matter of weeks.

Black Hugo left all the reconstruction in the able hands of the Freemans and took himself off to London, there to distract his thoughts from the hundreds of Venetian-themed party invitations he had burned at the dead of night in the furnace the day they were supposed to have been sent to the guests.

In London, in the meanwhile, there was only one ball left to end the Season that had seen fifteen engagements, ten understandings (should the dowry prove large enough) and five very tentative maybes and perhapses among that year's debutantes. Those who had not succeeded, hoped the final ball might work its magic and procure a husband for them after all. Consequently competition was very keen and the costliest gowns and most elaborate toilettes had been reserved for this event.

The saintly widow Hermia had sent emissaries to far-off Paris to procure Aramintha's gown. It was of spun gold and silver, tiered and flounced and be-bowed and when she tried it on Annie was so beautiful the very angels wept.

Looking into the mirror on the night of the final ball the young girl did not recognize herself. A goddess was staring back at her, not she, Annie Freeman of Ayershire and with a firm shake of her head she carefully stepped out of the gown and hung it back into the cupboard.

From the depths of that same cupboard she took out a blue home-spun dress and donned it.

Without its belt it fell in long, graceful folds to her ankles and molded itself to her taller and fuller figure since she had worn it last three years ago. The blue brought out the velvety-pansy blue color of her eyes with their long black lashes and through the tumble of her dusky curls she threaded a blue ribbon.

" _I am ready." she announced to the saintly widow Hermia and returned two handfuls of diamond and pearl jewelry to her adopted mother._

She entered the ballroom, ablaze with the light of one hundred crystal chandeliers, filled to capacity by ravishingly-attired debutantes, their escorts, their mothers, aunts, and duennas who guarded them, in her plain blue gown, not a single jewel sparkling anywhere on her person. There was a sudden hush among the chattering throng as all eyes swiveled in her direction.

Seeing her standing there tall and proud, encircled by the breezes and perfumes of the fields and forests of her native Ayershire, every damsel present felt suddenly overdressed, over coiffed, overly made-up and bedizened and only wished she could tear all this artifice off immediately.

All the young men stopped dead in their tracks. Those who were already affianced wished they were not; those who had still not made a choice goggled and one man who had dropped in having nothing better to do that evening, walked slowly and steadily forward to the girl framed in the entryway.

" _Annie!" gasped Black Hugo, his hair turning white in one fell swoop as he stared at what was surely a vision from the other side. "Annie!" he repeated._

" _Good evening Hugo." she replied politely, then looking up at him through her long lashes asked, "What kept you?"_

8.

A round of applause and laughter greeted the end of Steven's tale. If he had set out to put them in a good mood after the tribulations of the previous day and the storm of accusations hurled at him by Peter-Paul that morning, he could not have done any better than this humorous, sly and wise little tale.

Looking around the lounge at the smiling faces, Steven was pleased he had remembered, just in time, an old story he had once read in a collection of witty tales and had adapted, in the telling of it, to Ayershire and the Freeman family.

He did not think anyone would challenge him as to its authenticity as it was so very obviously a fairy tale and he hoped it and the better mood among the group would muzzle Peter-Paul and deflect further inquiries from him to the others.

They had not been taken in by Peter-Paul's ravings but he had noticed a slight reaction from Father John and Keith when the subject of Père Hyppolyte had come up, especially in the matter of the rug. Those two knew something the others did not, but they were keeping very quiet about it, admitting only to the facts that had been reported in the newspaper Father John had read in Montpellier.

It gave him pause to think and wonder about them. Was it possible that Father John was not who he claimed to be? Not a priest at all? Impossible! He seemed so very much in character. Perhaps too much? No, that would be Bernard, always adding an "Amen". And of course the so-called Brother Guillaume. Was anyone else masquerading under an assumed name and profession? He thought not, but then he had not as yet met Deirdre, John and Derek who were keeping to their rooms. The one they called Jane Doe had looked familiar to him and he wondered where he had seen her before. Strange eyes, like a doll's that she had hidden behind dark glasses, lost in the fall. A trained voice. The way she had thrown it to reach them when she was so far below on the ledge. An actress? Perhaps. Again someone who seemed to be hiding behind another persona. And one of the group did know: Peter-Paul, but he was silent.

Mavis and Tom were all right, brother and sister from Ireland but Father John continued to bother him. The brightest and most piercing eyes were his. He would steer clear of him, he thought, and his mind turned again to the three he had not yet met.

He had had no intention of joining the group and had chosen the right-hand path to Lodeve with the idea that nobody else would when an easier route was so readily available. He had liked the challenge of the more difficult way for it appealed to his sense of adventure and he was certain he would be alone. So, when he had heard them approaching he had hidden himself, a simple thing to do while wearing green among all the trees and giant ferns. He had not expected a dog and when Woofy attacked him, he had had to reveal his presence and join them once one of their party had fallen over the edge.

He might have made it out of there earlier on his own, but in the end the route had been so unpleasant and difficult that he had been glad of the company. Now that he was accepted...at least by most of them...it might even prove to be a boon.

*

"Are you rested my dear? Have you eaten anything?" Bernard entered their room and saw Deirdre seated in a well-padded armchair near the open window, her Bible on her lap, staring unseeingly into the distance.

"Oh yes, yes."

"You still look very tired. I thought we might take a little stroll in the fresh air, but..." Bernard began.

"What a good idea," she smiled at him.

"...but not if you're not up to it. We're staying over tomorrow too so we can postpone it easily." he added.

"Are we? I thought we'd have to move on tomorrow."

"Neither you nor John are fit yet for another seven or eight hour hike. And to tell the truth, neither are the others."

"But won't it play havoc with our schedule?"

"I'm going to go over the maps with Keith and see what can be done. And if worst comes to worst we can hire some cars for part of the route."

"It won't be the same."

"No, but we didn't expect it to be quite so difficult nor did we think there would be all that drama we had last night."

"How is she? Does anyone know?"

"Deborah visited her this morning in the hospital and says she's better. Ankle's not broken but she won't be well enough to continue even day after tomorrow."

"And Brother Guillaume? I've been praying for both of them." She sighed.

"He had to be airlifted to Toulouse. Nobody here could help him."

"Poor man. I shall pray." She murmured, leaning her head against the back of the chair.

"There's a new member in the group."

"Oh?"

"A young man named Steven Freeman. He was also on the other path and was a great help in getting Jane off the ledge when she had her accident. The others have nothing but praise for him."

"Will he remain with us?"

"It looks like it. He was doing the pilgrimage alone. Signed up in Le Puy."

"Alone? How awful. Of course he must join us."

"I think he will and he'll make a welcome addition. Nice open-faced fellow."

"Oh Bernard, maybe...?" She sat up and gazed at him with shining eyes.

"No, no, I don't think so my dear."

"I pray every night, every morning every time I see or hear of a young man of the right age..." tears filled her eyes. "I pray for a sign."

"He's British all right but he talked of his family in Ayershire. Deep roots in the countryside; been there for generations. No, no it's not him. Can I get you anything? More tea?"

"No my dear. I'll rest till lunch. I suppose we can eat here? By tomorrow I'll be fine and we'll take that stroll in town. Now go and sit with Keith over the maps and see how we can still remain on schedule and don't worry about me. It's only fatigue and when one is physically low one gets fanciful."

"We should never have believed the rumors!" Bernard's anger was palpable.

"The source was impeccable my dearest, as you yourself reminded me not so long ago."

"We should not have listened. Yes, yes I know, I'm guilty too for allowing him to convince me, but..."

"But it came from our own priest Bernard, and he would not have told us if we hadn't spoken to him about the pilgrimage."

"Yes, I know, I know. Well, we shall see. If God wills it. But don't be disappointed in case..."

"No, of course not. We are here for the pilgrimage and for our souls and our belief. I will be patient and wise." And she smiled at him, "Now go...go and study the maps. We must be there by the 25th."

Bernard bent over her, kissed her gently on the brow and left the room. Deirdre sighed, stared into space, shook herself and, opening her Bible bent her head over it and began to read. A light rap at the door recalled her to the present. The maid, she thought, probably wanting to fix the room. "Come in, it's open."

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" Deborah smiled as she pushed the door ajar.

"Not at all; do come in."

"I just thought I might be able to help, that is, if there's anything I can do."

"Not really. I was simply exhausted. Not so much physically. It wasn't the walking, it was a feeling of tension that didn't leave me the entire day."

"Yes, I know what you mean. Everyone seemed to be on edge, especially Father John."

"Well, he did turn out to be right, didn't he?"

"Yes, yes he did. A very strong sixth sense."

"Sit down, Deborah. Here, pull out a chair." Deborah arranged a second, smaller armchair near Deirdre's and sank into it.

"Whew, I'm beat. Late night and all that excitement on top of the 9-hour walk, back and forth to the doctor, the hospital. Then, this morning I went to see Jane...I'm going to imitate a vegetable for the rest of the day."

"So am I and I don't have your excuse. But my exhaustion is mental rather than physical and for that only the Bible will help."

"In John's case it's physical. He's not getting up at all today. Hopefully tomorrow will see an improvement."

"Bernard is with Keith, going over the maps to see what we can do to make up for lost time."

"Well, I had a look too and it seems to me the only thing to do is cover some of the distance by car. All that talk of going around cities doesn't make sense because one has to cover a certain number of kilometers no matter what, in order to get to Spain. The only way to skip over things is to drive past them."

"I hear we have a newcomer to the group?"

"Steven, yes. Nice enough fellow. And he was such a help to them when Jane fell."

"She'll be all right won't she? I've been praying."

"Yes of course. Her mood was back to normal this morning. Of course the ankle will take time to heal."

"And Brother Guillaume?"

"I don't know, Deirdre. He was taken to Toulouse. Something is very wrong there, not just his health."

"You mean he may not be a monk?"

"I'm almost sure he isn't, from what I've been told of his behavior yesterday."

"But why would he pretend such a thing? Did he really believe nobody would notice that he knows nothing of the rites or prayers? This is a religious pilgrimage, did he think he could get away with faking the part of a monk and nobody would...?" Deirdre was so upset she did not finish her sentence. "Whoever he is, he is very ill and I am definitely including him in my prayers. Perhaps he repents now, and, like one of the thieves crucified with Our Lord says 'Lord remember me when thou comest into thy Kingdom.' and Jesus will answer Brother Guillaume as he answered the thief, 'Verily I say unto thee, today shalt thou be with me in paradise.' "

"Oh Deirdre, I wish I had half your belief." Deborah turned her head aside so the other woman would not see the tears that had formed in her eyes and were fast rolling down her cheeks.

"It is the only thing that keeps me going. My belief and Bernard. I would have given up long ago if it were not for them."

Deborah turned her tear-stained face to stare at Deirdre. What did she mean? Up to now she had seemed so normal, cheerful, granted very devout. Did she too hide a secret and was that the reason for her pilgrimage? Perhaps she was ill.

"I have been reading the story of Joseph for the last few days. It has made me very sad and also very hopeful. Please don't pay any attention to my odd mood; it is nothing. I sometimes take the stories of the Bible too much to heart. I know..." she changed the subject, "let me get dressed and I shall come down with you. I am longing to meet the new addition to our group."

"Steven? Yes. Mavis, especially, is very much taken with him."

"Oh? Is he very good looking?" Deirdre asked as she removed her robe and donned a straight dark blue cotton skirt and a white long-sleeved T- shirt. "See? I'm ready. My bag? Ah, here it is. Shall we go?"

Deborah got up, wiped her face with the back of her hand and headed for the door.

"No, no use the bathroom, do."

"I'm fine now. Let's go. Oh, you asked about Steven," she continued as they exited the room and walked down the hall to the stairs. "He's not really handsome. But tall, well built, light hair, shorter even than Keith's, blue eyes. He has a calm manner, very controlled. Pleasant enough."

"You don't like him, do you Deborah?" Deirdre stopped at the bottom of the flight.

"No, I don't and not because of what Peter-Paul said either."

"What?..."

"Bernard didn't tell you?"

"He was in a hurry to get to the maps and only stopped by to make sure I'd breakfasted and was a bit stronger. We didn't talk about the group. Well, yes we did but only how everyone was feeling."

They walked slowly in the direction of the lounge.

"Peter-Paul has taken a dislike to Steven and has accused him of being a murderer and a drug smuggler, at least!"

"Is he mad?"

"Probably, but I noticed a certain reticence in both Keith and Father John."

"Oh let's not sit in this stuffy place." Deirdre had opened the door to the empty lounge and closed it again immediately. "Would you like a little stroll in town?"

"That would be most pleasant."

The two women headed towards the front of the hotel, passing the reception desk where Deirdre left her key and continued to the entrance door and out into the mid-morning sunshine.

"Oh, I'd better leave a note." Deirdre did an about-face, approached the desk and scribbled a few words on a sheet of paper which she handed to the receptionist. "Bernard would worry if he were to find me gone from the hotel." She explained to Deborah. "Now, let's explore the town a bit and you must tell me all about Peter-Paul."

After less than an hour they had taken in most of Lodeve, had spotted a church that looked promising and had dawdled in front of several fashionable dress shops.

"It's always such a temptation to go in and buy an outfit one does not need, isn't it?" Deirdre was contemplating an airy dress of honey-colored chiffon with long puffed sleeves and an overall pattern of either ferns or seaweed in the same shade as the dress.

"Somehow I can't see that coupled with stout walking shoes, thick socks and wide-brimmed khaki hats. Not to mention the backpack, the stick..."

"Yes, yes, Deborah, you've made your point. Still, it is attractive. Hm, what's this?"

"Bric-a-brac."

"It looks as if the owner has put his entire stock in the window, doesn't it? I've never seen so much, well, what shall I call it? It isn't really antiques, is it?"

"Junk."

"Probably. All those old irons using coal, who would buy that nowadays?"

"They're used as doorstoppers."

"Really? Oh, here's something nice, an old teething ring. It's ivory you know, with a silver ball and chain attached, very collectible."

"I don't know what the Victorians were thinking of to give that to a baby," Deborah was incensed. "The kid could have put the ball and chain in his mouth and choked to death half swallowing it."

"No, no. I've seen these before. The chain was usually attached to the buggy or bassinette and the baby was only able to use the ivory ring. Much too big to try and swallow."

"Did you have them in your family?"

"As a matter of fact we did. Oh! What about that shawl?"

"Where?"

"There, behind the little table with the broken chess set. It's Scottish. Odd to see a Scottish design in a small Southern French town."

"It's not bad; seems to be in good condition."

"Shall we go in?" Deirdre asked, her hand already on the doorknob. "I was quite taken with the ones John and Derek had. Eh, bonjour, combien pour cette echarpe Ecossais?"

Bernard and Keith had commandeered two tables in the dining room and had spread all their maps out on them. In complete silence, their eyes trained to the many twists and turns of their route, they marked the maps with red and blue pens in the hope of being able to cut down on the daily treks but as their demeanors remained glum, there was not much sign of success.

"It won't work." Bernard muttered.

"No. Anyway, there is a lot to see. We really shouldn't miss it."

"What about cutting Spain?" Bernard suggested. "It seems to be less interesting somehow. Of course I've never been to any of these little towns, just the major cities, so I may be wrong."

"According to what I read in the guide books you are right. Let's slog ahead. On foot through the rest of France and then hire some cars to skip those towns in Spain that don't have much to offer, although each and every one of them has a connection to Saint James and his history, especially as it refers to El Cid."

"A lot of that is surely myth, but of course it is part of the pilgrimage and ought not to be ignored."

"What did you make of Peter-Paul's tirade this morning?" Bernard asked as he busied himself in folding the maps.

"You'll think I'm being fanciful, but it looked like a dog defending his territory."

"What do you mean?" Bernard stared at Keith, the map of Spain unrolling from his suddenly lax fingers.

"Dogs, actually most animals, are territorial. A certain area is theirs. The backyard, the front garden, that special spot near the fireplace and they will fight off any intruder who thinks he can muscle in on it. Dogs, in fact, are that way about their owners too and many a promising courtship between the master and a possible mate has been broken up because the dog refused to share."

"You're right there!" Bernard laughed. "We have a bulldog at home. Even when he was just a puppy he managed to ruin several promising courtships for me. Didn't like the ladies. You know, he was more clever than I. Those ladies were not right for me. Then Deirdre came along," Bernard smiled to himself, "and he was all over her. Couldn't get enough of her company, and he was right of course."

"Well, as I was saying about Peter-Paul...he's a bit like your dog. He has adopted the group; we're his property and he resents anyone else coming in and taking over. Up to now Peter-Paul has been the talk of the group: his clothes, his poetry quotes, he's sort of the star turn of our pilgrimage. And suddenly someone comes along who gets everyone's attention because he's braver, more knowledgeable, and can even tell a good tale. In other words, he's poaching on Peter Paul's reserve. The result is blinding hatred and a lashing out in all directions to destroy this new challenger for position number 1!"

"A sort of sickness?"

"Yes. As Shakespeare put it, 'Beware of jealousy the green-eyed monster'."

"Is there anything we can do? After all, such an atmosphere will not make our pilgrimage more pleasant or put it on the correct footing."

"We can only wait and see, and perhaps deflect whatever barbs Peter-Paul will still think up to throw at Steven."

The maps had been tidied and put aside, yet the two men did not move, thinking over the unpleasant events of the morning and what they augured for the rest of the pilgrimage.

"Either they will learn to live together. A truce, so to speak, for the period of the pilgrimage, or one of them will have to leave the group." Keith mused. "It will be interesting to see which one of them that will be."

9.

"I'm very pleased with my purchase." Deirdre clutched the awkwardly wrapped package under her arm as the two women left the shop. "I do hope Bernard will like it too."

"We really ought to give it to Woofy." Deborah laughed.

"Oh? Why?"

"The man in the shop claims it's the MacAllister clan design and that is Woofy's full name. He's Woofy MacAllister."

"I've never heard of a dog having a last name. Isn't Keith a bit silly about him? I mean, he's a bright and capable young man but he treats that little dog as if he were human."

"Apparently for Keith, he is." Replied Deborah while Deirdre stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.

They had come to a halt, as if by common consent, in front of a florist's display and were staring at a window filled to bursting with all the blooms of early summer.

"Oh let's go in. I'd like to get some flowers for Jane. I've been so selfish and have bought myself a present and haven't given a thought for that poor woman all alone in the hospital."

"How kind you are Deirdre. I only hope she doesn't turn out to be allergic to every flower ever known to mankind."

"Don't be mean! We know she's difficult, but I'll find something harmless to bring her."

"Maybe they have plastic flowers?"

"Deborah!"

When they finally left the shop Deirdre was carrying a lovely bouquet of deep purple irises, yellow daffodils and several sprays of miniature pink gladiolas, all guaranteed to have no odor whatsoever. They were loosely wrapped in hot pink tissue paper.

"Is the hospital far?" Deirdre was trying to keep the badly wrapped rug from slipping out of its paper while holding the bouquet carefully so the flowers would not be crushed.

"Give me the shawl. There, that's better. No, the hospital is just up this side street, at the end. You can see it from here."

"Oh yes, let's hurry. I can't forgive myself for not having thought of this sooner."

The small, slight figure lay very still on the high bed, her head raised by several banked pillows. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be asleep. The blinds were partially lowered, allowing the sun to filter in from a small garden just outside the window.

"What lovely flowers," she murmured, opening her eyes when she heard them enter.

"All guaranteed without odor in case you might suffer from allergies." Deirdre assured her. "No pollen either."

"How very thoughtful of you and yes, I do have allergies."

"We thought you might have." Deborah muttered drily.

"Do forgive me for not having visited you before." Deirdre apologized. "I've been rather under the weather myself.

"Oh? Did someone attack you too?" Her eyes opened wide to stare at her visitor.

"What do you mean?"

Deirdre and Deborah stood stock-still, as if turned to stone, the former still holding the bouquet and the latter in the process of taking an empty vase from a small table near the window.

"I thought...never mind."

"But you just asked...what did you ask?"

"I'm a bit muddled after yesterday. Forget what I said."

"I don't think we can," Deborah moved closer to the bed. "What are you hinting?"

A small sigh escaped the prone figure on the bed. She raised her bandaged leg and wiggled it. "See? Much better already."

"What were you hinting at?" Deborah insisted.

"All right! I didn't fall! I was pushed!"

"Who and why?"

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know you were pushed and didn't just fall?" Deborah insisted.

"I was told you had taken a backward step at the time of the second snake scare," Deirdre insisted, "and that this caused you to go over the edge."

"I did step back, yes! But my legs were up against the thick hedge that grows on the precipice. It would have stopped me from going over. I never would have fallen if someone hadn't hit me, with the stave I imagine. On the back of my knees."

"Oh heavens!" Deirdre gasped and sat down.

"Yes. It made my legs buckle and over I went."

"Why didn't you mention this before?"

"I haven't been able to." She sat up, trying to push the pillows together so she could see them more clearly.

"Here, let me do that." Deborah arranged the pillows with an ease born of long practice.

"I can tell you the truth," Jane continued. "because you were on the other path and are therefore above suspicion."

"I see," murmured Deirdre. "you suspect everyone who was on the road with you."

"Yes, except Peter-Paul." And when they stared at her in wonder, she added, "I used to know him intimately. He's out of it."

"You don't either of you act as if you had even met before, not to speak of anything else." Deborah challenged.

"Well, it's rather embarrassing to run into a former lover on a religious pilgrimage, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know," Deirde laughed. "it's never happened to me."

"So, who do you think it was? Who was closest?" insisted Deborah.

"We were all bunched together, except Keith and Steven. They were on the opposite side of the path, away from the edge of the cliff."

"You can't really accuse Mavis or Tom and since Peter-Paul is out that leaves only the so-called monk." Deirdre was appalled.

"It was probably him." Deborah nodded her head. "I've heard some terrible stories from Keith about his attitude to women and his behavior in general."

"It's possible." Jane mumbled, then roused herself to continue. "After Steven got me out and I was on the stretcher I was so confused, exhausted and frankly scared of saying anything, that I didn't. And anyway, in whom should I confide? What if I inadvertently tell the very person who had tried to kill me?"

"But why would anyone try to kill you?" Deirdre demanded.

"I don't know."

"You must either have seen or noticed something about one of the group..." Deirdre began.

"But I'd tell you if I did. I didn't notice or see anything. It was all, well... as usual, except for finding Steven on the path and I'd never seen him before in my life. I did, of course, commune with the pilgrims who had gone before, centuries ago, but they would never have harmed me."

"Let's just forget about them, shall we? And stick to the living." Deborah's voice showed her impatience with Jane's known fancies. "Are you implying that there's a maniac loose in our group?"

"I'm not implying anything. I don't know. The only thing I'm sure of is what caused my fall. It was not an accident."

"If you didn't see anything and have no idea who or why anyone would do this to you, then perhaps it was aimed at the group as a whole." Deborah murmured, gazing into the distance.

"What do you mean?" Deirdre sat up straight as the enormity of Jane's accusation sank in.

"Well, if someone wanted to detain the group or scuttle our pilgrimage completely, what better way than a sudden 'accidental death' leading to a lengthy police inquiry. The entire group would be suspected and detained while the investigation takes place. And French investigations are notorious for their slowness. We would be stuck here, on suspicion, for months! And we'd never reach Compostela. Do you see what I mean?"

"Yes, oh yes, that's it!" Jane sat up, her face glowing. "That makes sense. It wasn't against me personally; that really rankled! I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and someone took advantage of it."

"But that means that whoever he is, he'll try again. Because the plan didn't work." Deirdre shivered at the thought.

"Perhaps he already tried once before," Deborah thought out loud, then added as she saw the puzzled looks turned her way. "The murder of the hostel attendant in Arles."

"Who is he?"

"Murder?"

"Oh, that's right, neither one of you knows, well, our first night as a group was spent in a hostel in Arles. There was someone in charge. We paid him and he assured us the price included rolls and coffee in the morning. However, the following day there was neither breakfast nor attendant and we went to a café. Sometime later, in Montpellier I think, Father John picked up a regional newspaper in the hotel where we were spending the night. It headlined a gruesome murder in Arles, of a hostel attendant who had been strangled and hung up in one of the shower stalls. Had one of us decided to have a shower in the morning and found him the result would have been the same as I outlined for the attack on Jane. The police, an investigation, probably ending in our having to give up the pilgrimage."

"You're right, someone is trying to stop this group from reaching Compostela."

"But why?"

Deborah and Deirdre left the hospital in some confusion, not sure what to believe. Jane had been very convincing. At least she believed in what she had told them. And she had eagerly adopted Deborah's reasoning that someone was out to stop the group attaining its objective and reaching Santiago de Compostela by July 25th.

This new way of thinking also put the murder of the hostel attendant into perspective so that instead of a pilgrimage of faith there now hovered over them the shadow of a great evil bent on threatening them all.

On the way back to the hotel they decided not to say anything to the others. Let them continue to think that Jane had lost her balance and had fallen during the snake scare. Perhaps it was even true. And if not, the one who had attacked her would know in any case. No need for him to be aware that not only Jane, but now Deirdre and Deborah knew what had really happened. It might prove safer for all of them to keep quiet. Certainly at this stage.

When they reached the hotel they found most of their group gathered near the reception desk discussing whether to eat there or go out. Deirdre excused herself and went up to her room to leave her package, comb her hair and wash her hands. By the time she had descended Bernard had arrived and the decision to eat out had been taken for they would surely have dinner in the hotel so as to assure an early night.

Only John was not with them, having opted to stay in his room and rest. Derek had arranged for a snack to be brought to him but joined the group as it made its way back to the main street to a small establishment the receptionist had recommended. It had a blackboard outside the entrance listing the specialties of the day which they stopped to peruse and entered after having made their choices.

They settled themselves at two round tables, ordered and talked desultorily of the weather, the coming days' treks, their chances of reaching their goal on time and the bad luck that had caused Jane to drop out not to mention the malady that had struck down Brother Guillaume.

Derek and Keith compared shoes; Tom volunteered that he'd gotten a bargain in jeans and had bought two pairs for the price of one and although it would make his backpack heavier he thought he had better be prepared for any eventuality, adding that he had never imagined a religious pilgrimage would be frought with so much danger.

"I'll have to renew my first-aid stock." Keith remarked as Deborah agreed that she too thought she would take advantage of access to pharmacies to add to her supply, for, as she put it, one never knew when the next emergency might crop up.

"We'll need help in picking the clothes up from the laundromat. That's tonight." Mavis reminded them.

"I'll come." Tom offered.

"So will I." Steven volunteered.

"Ah, here's the first course." Keith was evidently hungry. "And for Woofy too."

"Why did you bring him along?" Deirdre wondered. "I mean, it's difficult enough for us, but then we're motivated but this poor little dog doesn't really know what is going on. All that walking, unknown surroundings, new ones every day. Isn't it cruel to take him or didn't you have anyone to leave him with? Family, for instance?"

"Oh yes, I could have left him in Arles with Père Jerome. He would be safe and happy there. It is as much his home as mine, but not for such a long time. We have never been separated for more than a few days. He would stop eating after a week. I did once go away and leave him in safe hands like that and had to curtail my trip and come rushing back. He would have starved himself to death if I hadn't."

There was silence at the table and everyone looked down at Woofy eating bits of chicken in a small dish on the floor next to Keith's chair.

"If I were to go away for a week without you, Bernard, would you starve yourself to death till I had returned?" Deirdre suddenly demanded in all seriousness, turning to face him.

"My dear, my dear, you cannot compare the situation. I would know that you would be gone only one week and were returning. The dog does not know this. He thinks he has been abandoned, rejected and he pines."

"But if you did not know. If I suddenly disappeared without telling you where I was going and when I would be coming back. And if I would be coming back at all?"

"I would die." Came Bernard's prompt reply.

The table broke into applause as Deirdre bent to kiss her husband.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Too bad that not everything in this world can be resolved so speedily and so pleasantly with a simple "thank you" and a kiss, Deborah thought, at the same time replying to some medical question Keith had just raised. As she answered him automatically, she thought over yet again what Jane had told them and of her sudden insight into the matter that had put it on a much bigger scale than just a group of modern-day pilgrims taking to the old, old road in the hope of salvation.

If she had been correct in her surmise, then they were harboring a murderer in their midst. One who would stop at nothing. As she looked around at them she could not think of anyone who could possibly fit that description now that Brother Guillaume was gone. And he had seemed to her less a murderer than a hand-rubbing, cringing Uriah Heep. A slimy specimen whose actions might lead to murder, but in some devious and roundabout way. Not the typical picture of a murderer stalking his prey. That might fit Steven. He had the physique and the mentality for such a venture, such a plan.

But why? What was it about this group in particular that would cause someone to keep them from reaching their goal? If, as she suspected, the murder of the hostel attendant was part of the plot to detain them it boiled down to a very few. The original nucleus in fact: Mavis and Tom, Keith, Peter-Paul, John and Derek and she herself. The others had joined them after Arles, and of the original group she could think of none who might be a threat to anyone. They were all what they seemed to be which was not true of those who had joined later...Brother Guillaume, Jane, Steven and perhaps even Bernard.

Her hypothesis must be incorrect. The first murder had nothing to do with them but with something the hostel attendant had known and for which he had had to be silenced. Jane had imagined the attack on herself. Either she had simply lost her balance and fallen or she was mistaken or, most likely, she was making herself more interesting in being a victim of some invisible attack, just as she conversed and communed with invisible pilgrims dead for several centuries. I wonder, she thought, if I dare speak to Father John about this.

"Oh, sorry, I was wool-gathering. What did you say?" She looked up from her empty plate to smile at Steven.

"I was only inquiring about John whom I have not yet met. What exactly is wrong with him?"

"Perhaps you had better ask Derek. I'm not in John's confidence and I would not presume to guess."

Just then the main courses arrived and talk ceased as knives and forks were brought into play.

Derek and Father John ate sparingly and Deborah pushed her plate aside saying the first course had been so plentiful she had no room left for even one more mouthful. Deirdre seemed to be forcing herself to finish her portion.

"Aren't you hungry, my dear?" Bernard looked up from his plate.

"The first course was sufficient."

"I'll finish it then. We mustn't let food go to waste. There are many in this world who would be thankful for these leftovers." And he exchanged his empty plate for hers. "Were you out in the heat today?"

"Yes but it really wasn't hot, just pleasant."

"You must wear a hat." He admonished as he bent over his plate.

"Oh Bernard, I found the loveliest plaid in a small shop and couldn't resist buying it."

"Um?"

"You know, like John and Derek have. So sensible in case one has to sit down on something hard for any length of time." Then she looked up at Keith and smiled, "You'll be interested to know that the plaid I got is said to be the MacAllister tartan, or so the shop owner informed me."

"Well, we'll have to let Woofy see it."

"He can sit on it too." Deirdre offered.

"Is anyone going to have dessert?" Peter-Paul asked.

"I, for one, am." Replied Bernard.

"Only if there's something with fruit, and I don't mean Tarte Tatin." Deborah made a face.

"We could buy some fruit on the way back. "Deirdre suggested.

It was finally decided that part of the group would stay and have dessert and coffee, while the others opted to pick something up on their way back to the hotel. Deborah, Father John and Keith settled their bills and left, promising to get grapes, if possible, for Deirdre who remained only to keep Bernard company.

*

"I recall seeing a small shop on the way," Deborah assured them as she took the lead. "They carry fruit. I saw it this morning when we went to the hospital to visit Jane. Ah, here it is. And they do have grapes. White Muscat I believe. Wonderful."

"I'll have the same. How about you, Father John?"

"Definitely."

Soon they were strolling towards the hotel, dipping into their packages and savoring the perfumed flavor of the grapes, glad they had not stayed for dessert.

"And how is Jane?" Father John asked.

"Better. The ankle is healing but I don't believe she can stand on it yet."

"And her soul?"

"Ah, that does not heal so fast."

"I did not want to interfere, as I was not asked." He murmured.

"Perhaps it is better you did not come as the conversation became somewhat..." Deborah hesitated, "well, shall we say frank?"

"Peter-Paul?" Keith asked.

"How did you know?"

"He seemed to know her when she first appeared at St. Gilles; it was obvious."

"Yes, well, it's their business so I won't repeat what she said, but I do want to tell you something else. Jane claims that she was pushed over the edge of the path."

"Ah!" Keith sighed, looking up from the small bag of grapes in his hand, "I did wonder."

"Why?"

"The hedge at the top was dense. It would have stopped her. I noticed it after the accident when we sprawled on the ground trying to see where she was. I couldn't figure out how it could have happened in the first place."

"Did she know who had pushed her?"

"No, Father John, she didn't see. She only felt someone hit the backs of her knees with a stick or a cudgel and it caused her knees to buckle and..." Deborah did not need to tell them any more. Keith and Father John nodded their heads.

"So that's how it was done."

"But why? And why Jane?" Keith wondered aloud.

"I had a theory that the attack on her, which was meant to kill...after all, the attacker did not know she would land on a ledge...."

"Yes, that's true."

"Well, the attack on her was like the murder of the hostel attendant. Its sole purpose was to keep our group from completing the pilgrimage."

"That's an original idea!" Father John stopped to stare at her. "Why?"

"I don't know but had we discovered the body in the hostel, by taking showers in the morning, let's say, we would have had to call the police and would have ended up embroiled in a lengthy investigation that would have kept us in Arles for weeks. And goodbye to our pilgrimage and the July 25th deadline. The same would have been true if Jane had been killed in her fall."

"Yes, yes, I see."

"But why?"

"And it must have been aimed at the small, original group of myself, you Keith, Mavis and Tom, Peter-Paul and John and Derek."

"Because of the hostel attendant, you mean?"

"Yes."

"It's as good a theory as any and it makes sense." Keith muttered.

"But you do see the real danger, don't you?" Deborah demanded.

"Yes," asserted Father John. "whoever he is he did not succeed...twice! The group was not stopped so he will have to try again."

*

The phone call came in the early hours of the morning. Luckily they were in an open and accessible area and not buried in a deep forest, he thought. At least that much, even if the news was bad. He would have to leave at once. Transportation was no problem. The network, like a gigantic spiderweb, had its tentacles everywhere, but of course he would have to notify Père Theodore that he was needed urgently someplace else and would catch them up easily once his task had been accomplished

He would have to impress on them not to deviate from the treatment he had meted out to the boys and of course not to change their route so he would be able to join them later. He would assure Père Theodore that he would most certainly be back in less than a week. Yes, as long as Père Theodore remained in charge all would be well. The older man had come to rely on him in all matters, not only in his handling of the boys, and, while he would at first be upset at Brother Marc's departure, he would have to assure him that as long as they continued to follow his precepts all would be plain sailing until he caught up to them in a matter of seven days.

There would be no problem, unless one of the others, feeling the void his absence had created would attempt to fill it. He had better warn Père Theodore, in a roundabout way of course, that such an attempt would unravel all the good work and the positive results they had achieved so far. But he had to get away. Brother Guillaume had to be silenced, and along with him anyone who had been too close to him in his unconscious state. He might have said something; it might have been overheard and he was taking no chances.
10.

The meal had been so copious and the weather so warm that when Deborah had returned to her freshly cleaned room, the wooden shutters partially closed to keep out the light, she could not resist tossing aside her shoes and splashing her face with cold water, then sinking down onto the inviting bed. Before she knew it she was asleep so deeply that when she came to herself with a start, it was to find the room in deep shadow and the sound of feet rushing back and forth in the hall. These noises were interspersed with the opening and closing of doors and voices raised in conversation punctuated by great gales of laughter.

Rubbing her eyes, she looked at her watch and saw that it was close to 6:00 P.M. She rose hastily from the bed, showered, got dressed and opened her door to see Mavis and Tom coming out of Keith's room down the hall, both of them giggling and Keith's laughter following them above Woofy's excited barking.

"What is happening?" She called out.

"Oh Deborah," Tom hurried over to her. "Lucky you didn't give us your laundry to take in but did it yourself."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"All our laundry went into the machines together...it was cheaper that way instead of everyone having a separate machine..."

"Yes?"

"And someone had a dark red shirt, or blouse..."

"Oh?"

"It bled! When we arrived at the laundromat, the lady in charge had everything spread out on the counters and she was close to tears. How could it have happened, she lamented on and on; how could anyone have included a dark red blouse that dyed off, include it knowingly? It was criminal! It was not her fault. How could she have known? And on and on. And there we three stood staring down at the ladies underwear, T- shirts, men's Y-fronts and boxers, socks... everything dyed a glowing rose-blush pink! Everything, but everything is pink!"

"Steven has gone out to get new underwear for all the men." Mavis added, laughing.

"What a disaster! What did you do?"

"Well, we saw pink everywhere; we saw the look of worry and confusion on the face of the attendant as she tried to explain endlessly that it had not been her fault. She was afraid we would blame her, threaten her, make her pay for the ruined clothes, and what did we finally do? We burst out laughing. We laughed and laughed until the tears rolled down our faces and we couldn't breathe anymore and were bent over with pains in our stomachs, unable to keep from gasping, whooping and almost collapsing on the floor in sheer merriment. It was a wonderful antidote to the horrors of the road and it made the day for us."

"The woman thought we had been driven mad by the tragedy that had struck our clothing." Chortled Mavis.

"And Peter-Paul got so huffed at the sight of his pink boxers that he accused Steven of having done it on purpose!"

"He should have stuck to the brown gown!" Deborah giggled.

"But what if that had turned pink?" Mavis laughed.

"I wouldn't go on a pilgrimage with a man in a pink dress!" Tom growled.

"It's not any worse than pink underwear," Mavis replied, "On a man, that is. Think of you all going to a hostel where other groups are spending the night and you all go to the showers together only your group is in pink. There'll be a riot. Are you going down to dinner?" Mavis inquired, looking at Deborah.

"Yes, we had all planned on an early night, hadn't we?"

"Definitely. We'll join you. Oh, here's John." Mavis turned as one of the doors in the corridor opened and closed. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you, much better and quite hungry too."

"Where's Derek?" Tom asked.

"He's already downstairs."

"Isn't your shirt pink?"

"Indeed. I have a feeling we'll all be in pink tonight, except for Father John."

"And me." Deborah pointed to her dark green suit.

"Steven is going to buy men's underwear for everyone but you'll have to get your own shirts tomorrow." Mavis reminded John.

As they chatted they made their way down the stairs to the room in which they had breakfasted that morning, now suitably lit for the evening meal. Several places were already occupied when they arrived and were shown to one of the round tables draped in a midnight-blue cloth, a few small yellow flowers in a glass vase and a fat red candle in a squat silver-colored candlestick.

"How nice!" Deborah sighed as she sat down.

"Civilization..." countered John.

Tom and Mavis took their places at the same table as did Derek, arriving at a run, afraid he might be late. He too was wearing a pink shirt. Bernard and Deirdre strolled in together with Father John and sat down at the adjacent table to be joined almost immediately by Peter-Paul and Keith who had Woofy on his red leash.

The last to arrive was Steven who made a brief halt at the second table to say something, then slipped into a seat next to Mavis and repeated his message.

"Mission accomplished. I bought enough underwear for all the men in the group. They're up in my room."

"Thank you Steven," Tom turned to him. "I can't wait to change. I know nobody can see through my jeans, but..."

"I know just how you feel," John smiled. "You're Steven? I'm John and we haven't met as yet." He leaned forward to shake the younger man's hand.

"You don't have to tell me. I know your face very well, also your fame. I have quite a few CDs at home. Pleased to meet you Mr. John Ashforth."

"So that's why you looked familiar to me." Deborah murmured and blushed. Silly to feel suddenly so shy. But she too had several CDs featuring John Ashforth. One of Debussy's "Suite Bergamasque" that was a favorite of hers and the incredible Seventh Sonata by Prokofiev not to mention Bach, Mozart, Beethoven and a Liszt "Mephisto Waltz" that sent shivers down her spine whenever she listened to it.

"Well, you've blown the cover." Derek sighed.

"We tried and for a while I thought we'd gotten away with it. Win some, lose some." John shrugged.

"And how may I help you tonight?" The same friendly waitress who had served them breakfast appeared smilingly at their table. "Shall I tell you what we have or do you want to see menus?"

"Please tell us." Mavis suggested.

"I think in the evening you will not want to eat too heavily, yes?"

"Yes." Tom agreed, mesmerized by her smile and her approach.

"Fine! To start I would suggest a light, oh so light soup. Vegetables, but very fine, very delicate. Then may I offer chicken, done in the oven, with rosemary. No fat, very soft and easily digested. I would recommend rice with it as you have vegetables in the soup. There is a salad for those who wish it and to end, a feathery-light crepe with caramelized apples and of course a nice white wine and at the end perhaps a tisane. Voila!"

Both tables applauded her.

"So? Is it all right for everyone?"

"Yes!" Came the unanimous reply.

"That girl is a jewel." Tom stared after her admiringly. "Do you think she would relocate to Dublin? I've been thinking of opening a small guest house once we sell mam's..." he stopped, embarrassed to be contemplating the sale of their mother's home.

"She's probably the daughter of the hotel owner here and will inherit." John tried to dampen the younger man's enthusiasm.

"Ah, in that case do you think she would marry me?"

"Tom!" Mavis gasped, "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, I think I am."

"It's a first for you."

"Are you leaving the pilgrimage?" Deborah wondered.

"Ah...no, I cannot."

"Well, make it the aim of your venture, be extra pious, good and kind and perhaps your wish will be granted." John suggested.

"Unfortunately that's not how it works."

"And here you are." Their waitress had returned. "I have brought the whole tureen. Plates, ladle, there...shall I help you or would you like to help yourselves?"

A large earthenware tureen was thumped energetically down in the center of the table, almost upsetting the small vase which Mavis rescued at the last moment.

"And the wine. It is a local wine, light and only slightly fruity." She uncorked a bottle, nicely chilled, and poured a small amount into John's glass. He tasted it carefully, deliberated, then nodded his head.

"A hint of apples?" He wondered aloud.

"Very good, sir, yes indeed." She poured him a full glass and proceeded around the table, ending with Tom who continued to gaze at her, mouth agape. She then brought another bottle which she opened efficiently and left so they could help themselves.

Deborah picked up the ladle in one hand, a soup plate in the other and began the task of serving her co-diners as their waitress returned yet again with a basket of bread.

"Now don't fill up on bread and soup!" She admonished, "There is a tender chicken to follow."

"No, no." Tom muttered, staring at her in fascination as, with a whirl of her skirt, she swept off to see to the needs of the adjacent tables.

Bernard, who was seated next to John and Derek, although at the neighboring table, leaned sideways and backwards to observe to them that he hadn't dared to ask for the menu but had acquiesced to every suggestion made by their waitress, having learned his lesson over eggs that morning.

"The soup is lovely." Deirdre added.

"From what we've seen so far I'd say this is a much superior establishment over the one at lunchtime."

A loud woof emanated from the floor at Keith's feet, followed by slurping noises.

"Is he having wine or soup?" John wanted to know, craning his neck to catch sight of Woofy's gray, wooly body.

"Soup with bread." Father John answered, "And he seems to approve."

A sense of ease and relaxation settled on the diners. Deborah forgot about Jane's revelations, her own fears for the future of the pilgrimage and talk of murder and evil. Deirdre's thoughts turned to home, their priest and his strange omen of hope. She felt calm and willing to accept anything that might come her way. Was it truly possible after so many years? And if it should prove to be true and we do find him, would he even want us? He might have a family of his own, whom he has thought of as his own all these years and now these strangers have come...and would he believe them? All these infernal "ifs". Best not to dwell on them and certainly not tonight which has turned out to be such an unexpected antidote to the horrors they had had to face when they went to visit Jane. She had not even told Bernard of that yet and thought, now, that she would not. He looked so happy tonight, why spoil everything with tales that might very well have no basis in reality.

So now they will all know who I am, thought John. I had hoped to avoid that. I don't want to be deferred to, treated with respect or differently from the others in the group. He had already felt the change from their previous relationship. The easy camaraderie had been replaced by a subtle reverence. Well, nothing to be done about that. Perhaps once more on the road, in their accustomed positions, everything would fall back into place. In the meanwhile, I shall enjoy this evening when I feel well and have a good appetite for a meal that seems to be designed for me.

Deirdre is looking especially lovely tonight, thought Bernard as he spooned up the last of the soup. It was good for her to go off on her own with Deborah this morning. I wish she could find a nice friend at home. The more friends she has the easier it will be when disappointments arise, as they surely will. Especially this wild tale of Father Hendryk's. Perhaps the pilgrimage, when we finally complete it, will work its magic and give her peace as I cannot although I would do anything in the world to see her happy.

Keith and Father John chatted idly of the day's events, filled each other's glasses with the deceptively mild wine and studiously avoided any talk of murder, conspiracies and evil at large.

At this point their waitress returned, removed plates and tureens and brought the main course. The rice had been mounded into a half-moon shape onto their plates, abutting the chicken which had been sliced into long strips, a light sauce spooned over and sprinkled with fresh rosemary. A large salad bowl filled with the tenderest of lettuce leaves in a vinaigrette dressing was placed in the center of the table and the bread basket was refilled. She did not forget Woofy who also had a dish of chicken mixed with rice and gravy.

Good food, thought Peter-Paul as he added salt and pepper to his plate. Perhaps catering a bit too much to older people and invalids. He glanced at Bernard, Father John and John at the neighboring table. He could have done with a nice rare steak, but had not wished to call attention to himself and be singled out yet again. That business with the red blouse had sounded rather lame to him. Just the sort of trick someone like Steven would pull and then once again play the Good Samaritan by rushing out before dinner to get underwear for everyone. By now the cuckoo was so well settled in his nest that nothing would get him out. And he's a wrong one...I can smell them.

I do like him awfully well, thought Mavis, trying not to look at Steven and forcing her eyes down to her plate. He's so considerate, helpful and so handsome. I haven't felt this way ever, not about someone I've just met. He's been to school too, not like me. I may have common sense but he can get someone much closer to his class. Funny to be thinking of that...class...in a classless society, but it does still exist, and what am I after all? A girl who works in a beauty shop doing other women's hair. Sometimes I wish...

She's very much aware of me, Steven thought under the light banter sweeping around the table. I can feel her thoughts. Oh well, it's all part of the game. And so now I know who John is. One of the greats. Wonder what's wrong with him. Deborah knows but she won't talk; very clever woman. Derek and Tom are no problem but I don't like the way Father John and Keith have banded together. The others don't pose a risk. Peter-Paul? Have I neutralized him? Shrewd of him to have picked on me and the debacle of the red blouse. He was just lashing out once more and nobody believed him, but...hm, I wonder if I can get him to tell a tale tonight after dinner. He might just be flattered enough to put his foot in it.

Their waitress returned several more times, once with their lovely crepe and apple dessert, then with tisane and coffee, accompanied by a selection of small jewel-like pastries and sweets and two hours after they had entered the dining room they rose happy and replete from their seats.

Tom collected tips from both tables and, blushing awkwardly, slipped them to their young waitress, muttering thanks in the name of everyone.

"You're wonderful," he whispered so only she could hear, "Are you engaged?

"No." She replied, amazed at his question. "I am still at school and papa says I must first finish my studies."

"And papa is...?" Tom waved his hand around the dining room, encompassing it and the small hotel.

"But naturally," she replied, smiling.

"I have nothing to offer you. I don't even have a decent job or a university education but I...I like you." He stumbled over the words. "I'm a good Christian and I'm loyal. I would never look at another woman..." He could think of nothing else to say and his voice petered out.

"Complete the pilgrimage. It is still some months to go, yes?"

"Yes, around two."

"You may feel very different then. Me? I am always here, even at the end of July and August. It is when we are the most busy, you understand."

"I can return?" Tom was suddenly hopeful.

"After the pilgrimage you will know what you want to do with your life." And she put out her hand and shook his as if they had just signed a contract. "My name is Mathilde."
11.

"What shall we do now?" Tom asked looking at his watch. "It's only 9:00. Too early to go to sleep." The group had left the dining room and were standing in twos and threes just outside the door. "I don't suppose there's anything doing in Lodeve itself at night?"

"Why don't you consult your girl-friend?" Mavis joked, then quickly regretted it as she became aware of his discomfort. "Just kidding. I think we'll have to go to the lounge. We could have a nightcap there and make it last till bedtime. It's not tonight that worries me, it's tomorrow. We planned on an extra day here and by now we're raring to hit the road again."

"Let's sit down and talk it over." Suggested John.

Slowly the group broke up, its members gravitating to the lounge where Steven had told his tale. They sat down and soon a tall, thin, elderly man approached them asking if they wished for anything to drink. Bernard, John and Peter-Paul ordered cognac, Father John whiskey and the others were equally divided between port, Coca Cola and tea.

"I, for one," John stated, "don't know what we'll do tomorrow. We accomplished all our tasks today."

"Well, we could replace our pink T- shirts," suggested Derek.

"All we seem to be doing on this pilgrimage is shopping for clothes; it's getting rather expensive." Complained Peter-Paul.

"You can keep appearing in pink if you want," Derek snapped, "but I'm buying white for John and me first thing tomorrow."

"And then what? After the shopping I mean?" Peter-Paul made it sound as if the others had joined the pilgrimage only to invest in French luxury goods.

"I'm going to replenish my first-aid kit, as will Keith," Deborah countered in a voice that would make him understand the non-frivolousness of her purchases. "and then I'll see how Jane is doing. Then it'll be lunchtime. I'll eat here. Then to repack the rucksack...well, the day will go."

"I'll join you when you'll go to the hospital." Deirdre offered.

"So will I," added Mavis, "I should have gone today; it's just that I don't really like her but that's an uncharitable thing to say when she has been through so much."

"She doesn't try to be liked, does she?"

"No, John, I'd say she's quite self-contained."

The waitress brought Peter-Paul another cognac, straightened some chairs, emptied ashtrays and, as she did so, pulled a face when the odor of stale smoke reached her.

"You don't hold with smoking?" Father John asked.

"No, mon Père. It is ruinous to the lungs. Why, when people know this do they not immediately stop?"

"We tell people that to lie and cheat and steal and covet their neighbor's goods as well as his wife is in the end bad for them. And still they do it. It seems to be some inborn flaw in humans that makes them want what is bad for them physically and spiritually."

"Yes, mon Père, there is much evil in this world." She sighed, then perked up and smiled. "Well, if there is nothing else I can get you, I'll say to you all a good night and pleasant dreams."

And she was gone before they could reply, but Tom had managed to leap to his feet in order to hold the door open for her which earned him one of her brilliant smiles.

"Papa?" She called softly as she opened the office door. The tall, slim, elderly man looked up from the accounts on his desk. "Yes, Mathilde? Have you finished? Then go to bed. You have worked hard today. A full house and Marie-Claude ill, of all times."

"It's all right Papa. I can do the work. And the big group stays only one more day." She leaned against the corner of his desk, twisting her hands together, not meeting his gaze.

"What is it, my little one?"

"Papa, you know how I have always told you everything and have not kept anything back?"

"Yes, my treasure."

"Something has happened. If maman were alive I would have consulted her..." She broke off, not knowing how to continue.

"What's wrong?" He looked alarmed and quickly rose to his feet as if brisk action could deflect some harm from his child.

"It is not what you think. Please, it is only that I need advice."

He relaxed visibly and allowed himself to subside into his chair again.

"You do not usually need my advice. You are the wisest of my children."

"They are all doing well, Papa. They are no discredit to you."

"Yes, yes, but none of them wanted to follow me in the hotel business, only you. And you will be very good at it."

She dimpled prettily at the compliment then became serious once more, "Papa, a young man has proposed to me."

"You are only 16. You have to finish school."

"And so I told him, but he hopes. I think he will return."

"Who is he? Someone at school?"

"No, papa, one of those in the pilgrimage group. The youngest one; his name is Thomas and he does the voyage of faith with his sister."

"But he does not know you; he has met you only this morning, what nonsense is this? And what do we know of him? Of his family?"

"I am not foolish like other girls of l6, Papa, is that not so?"

"Yes my dear. You are the wisest of my children."

"He is good. He is a Christian...see, a priest goes with them on the trek...I have told him to complete the pilgrimage and if he is still of the same mind at the end of it, to return. I have a premonition, Papa that he will come back but he will not be the same person he is now. Perhaps he will be a better one. We shook hands on it." She added, sealing the deed.

Seeing her so young and resolute and full of hope he remembered her mother, for she had been the same at her age. And hadn't they had a perfect union until the good Lord saw fit to take her from him. He sighed deeply at the remembrance. I must trust Mathilde's judgement in the memory of her mother.

"Is he willing to learn the hotel business?" He asked sharply.

"I believe so, Papa for I think he has no other vocation and we can teach him."

"So be it. After the pilgrimage. If he returns."

"He will," she replied, smiling, and left the room.

*

"I think we need a tale to finish the evening with a flair." Steven suggested. "After that it will be time to go to sleep."

"Hm? Yes, a tale would be just right now." Bernard leaned back on the couch, his arm around Deirdre, a glass of cognac in his hand. "Does anyone have a good one?"

"Something entertaining, like the one Steven told." Mavis demanded. "Peter-Paul, you're usually the first to come up with a poem or a song, how about a story? I bet you know some."

Peter-Paul sat up, cleared his throat and looked from one to the other in the group. He just did happen to have a tale; it was taken from his experiences as a journalist but it might be misinterpreted. He took a quick survey of the room from under his lashes, keeping his eyes on the coffee table in front of the couch on which he was sitting. His tale pointed to Mavis and Tom and it was problematic.

Was this one of Steven's traps? Was he playing cat and mouse with him, expecting him to fall into the abyss? It was quite possible that at the end of the tale Tom would attack him physically. It would please Steven no end if he were to see Peter-Paul and Tom come to actual blows. But the only other story or tale, he did know that would pass muster was too similar to the one Steven had related and he would then be accused of aping him. So, he would tell the first story and hope for the best.

"All right! Yes. I do have a tale to wind up our evening. It is a true story in part, and it is set in the Ireland of the Troubles. I want to state categorically that the characters do not represent anyone alive today, that, although some of the facts are true, others have been adapted to make a better yarn, so please do not take it as Gospel but with a grain of salt, as the saying has it."

He leaned forward, looked around at the others, some relaxing and leaning back, others tense and huddled, all with their eyes focused on his as he began to narrate Pilgrimage Tale number 3.

The photo in its narrow black frame had stood on their mother's night-table as long as they could remember. It was not a large picture, only a little bigger than passport size, and it showed a young man smiling lopsidedly into the camera, his thick, fair hair blowing in the breeze.

There was nothing special about him or the snap. There were undoubtedly many such photos of many such young men in albums, loosely tossed into desk drawers, tucked between pages of books no longer read, or, cherished, as this one was, and given pride of place on the mantelpiece, the sitting room occasional table or next to the bed to be looked at just before the lights were put out.

They had been told that this was their father. The father they had never known.

Some tragedy had stalked that one-sided grin and cut off the winsome, happy-go-lucky smile for ever. But no matter how many times and how many different ways they asked, their mother never answered them.

When did he die? Where did he die? How did he die? What is die? And the big question: why don't we visit his grave on All Soul's Day the way we do with the rest of the family in the church graveyard?

That last question haunted them and they asked it each year as October rolled around.

" _Tis_ _not in our town; tis far."_

" _Too far to walk? We could take a bus," they suggested._

" _Tis farther than that. You haven't asked that friend of yours, Billy Dogherty, over to play for a long time. I'm making roly-poly pudding for afters. He might like to come, eh?"_

And so the moment passed, diverted to Billy, a day of games and roly-poly pudding for afters.

How far was this "farther than that"? Where was he buried? What did "buried" mean in this case? Was that devil-may-care smile gone too? Or did it hover over the grave and would they recognize it if they ever found the place?

She was a few years older than her brother and tried to answer his many questions when their mother diverted their attention with a "Whisht! Have ye done yer homework for today? Do it now; get it over. I've the supper to see to."

Once a year, in the hot days of August, friends dropped in. Always on the same day, the l8th.

They never came at any other time of the year, only on that one day and their mother expected them. She put on her best summer dress. Always the same one, a thin black cotton. She set out glasses in the front parlor and some bottles, unopened, she had bought the day before.

The friends arrived. They too wore black. They opened the bottles and they drank. Sometimes they spoke...softly and with many a sigh and sometimes a tear rolled down a face that was growing older and more lined as year followed year. Until the year when only two friends arrived and the bottles remained closed "I'm no longer allowed." said one."Doctor said it's bad for the blood pressure." said the other.

And all three sighed at the passing of the years.

And the next year there was nobody in the small front parlor. No glasses set out, no unopened bottles, no friends, and their mother was in a high bed in the county hospital, her once creamy, soft skin yellow and puckered, her eyes closing, not aware that it was THE day. Aware only of pain and a great weight holding her down and keeping her from soaring to where she wanted to go.

The children were grown, still living at home, still together, working. Still not knowing but no longer asking and the photo in its black frame still stood on the night table next to the now empty bed.

" _She can't last much longer," the doctor said, "have you sent for the priest?"_

The two nodded; "Yes."

" _Look," he whispered,"she wants to say something."_

" _Can we prop her up? So she can speak?" she asked_

" _It can't hurt her, not now."_ _came the reply as he left them alone._

" _Mam, we're here. Is it something you're wanting to say?" they whispered._

" _Yes." Her voice was surprisingly strong. "Yes."_

They waited for her to gather her thoughts, afraid to hear the footsteps of Father Devlin. Just let him not come now.

" _Tis about your father. That photo. Tisn't him. A cousin. Never had a photo of your dad." She sighed as if her strength was failing. "They might have recognized him. Safer for him if they didn't know what he looked like."_

There was a long silence as they knelt by her bedside.

He was a hero, so everyone said. He'd ambushed and killed this or that Britisher, or this or that collaborator, had blown up bridges, houses, buses. He was a hero to those who knew him and those who only whispered his name. He was a hero to all the friends who came August l8th to toast his memory, to talk about his deeds and to remember him. But even they didn't know. 'To his death he went' they'd say,'with a smile on his lips, declining the last pull at a cigarette or the blindfold he'd been offered. And shot he was shouting aloud the name of a free Ireland. Even the enemy had to admire him then.' "

Her voice faded and she sank back against the pillows. The two youngsters remained motionless.

" _That's why there's no grave. No place at all. And the story's wrong. I had it told me." She whispered. "You have to promise me now, here, while I can still ask and receive."_

" _Anything, anything," they wept openly._

" _To go to Santiago, in Spain 'tis, on foot and once there to pray for your father's soul, to light candles, to give to charity and the church and to pray that your father's soul will be at rest." She sighed, wept, and with tears running down her face whispered, "He is in Limbo, all these years, I know, I can feel it." She paused, inhaled deeply and continued. "He betrayed them, you see. He was tortured and he was not the brave, devil-may-care fighter of legend. He was a kid and scared and they hurt him. And he talked, gave everyone away hoping to save his life. Others died because of him, but then so did he...blindfolded, stinking of shit, screaming, weeping, howling, he was dragged to the courtyard pleading for his life. The last thing he heard were the shots. I could never go...to Santiago...I had to work, to raise you, but you can go. I've put some money by. Use it to go to Spain to pray for your father's soul. Pray for him at Compostela so he will be forgiven. His name was Danny. He was all of 24 years old." Her voice faded and softly, softly she added: "Santiago de Compostela, I'm told, is a place that gives faith to those of little faith, strength to the weak, succor to the ailing and a belief to last a lifetime. Pray for us at Compostela!"_

A profound silence greeted the end of the tale. Peter-Paul, fearing the worst, afraid to look at the triumph on Steven's face tensed his muscles in expectation of the attacks, verbal or physical, he felt sure were to follow. Tom, for one, looking like a thunder cloud, had leaned forward in his seat, ready to leap up and pound him to a pulp. Mavis was so white he feared she would faint dead away. He was a fool to have told the story, knowing what he did, he thought, and braced himself for what was to follow when salvation appeared from an unlikely source.

"How very sad," Deirdre murmured, barely controlling her tears. "And at the same time how human and uplifting in our quest for salvation and forgiveness. A truly inspiring tale, Peter-Paul."

"Ah yes, the Troubles!" Father John sighed. "Many a misguided youth fell in what he thought was the line of duty. Not knowing that our merciful Lord does not ask for such acts of barbarism, that he wants us to love and forgive each other: 'Forgive them, father for they know not what they do.' And our Lord forgave all those who harmed him. That is the true lesson of the Cross, the best lesson to learn and the only path to follow. Yes, yes, those two youngsters, brother and sister, if they exist, will do well to observe their wise mother's advice and go to Compostela, to pray not only for their father but for themselves so that the hatred and bitterness will finally be laid to rest."

"Amen." Whispered Bernard, "A very good tale Peter-Paul. It sets our minds back on the right track after the past few days of what I would call 'Sturm und Drang'. With so much happening we began to lose sight of our aim...Compostela, the road, our souls and our Lord. You have put it all back into perspective for us so that we can now continue our trek through the rest of France, into and across Spain and arrive at Santiago de Compostela in the proper, humble yet elated spirit."

"Thank you," was all Peter-Paul could find to say as he plucked triumph from disaster.

12.

When they awoke the following morning the sky was overcast, the sun had hidden itself behind dark, billowing clouds and a threatening wind had arrived from the North to make them shiver and add sweaters and windbreakers to their usual summer gear. Their "good mornings" were subdued, nobody had a ready joke about eggs and many a frown line appeared on an otherwise smooth countenance.

It was one thing to take to the open road when the day was balmy and the sun smiled benignly down on them and quite another when they knew they would have to slog through puddles of water and potholes of mud trying to remain dry under raincoats, their backpacks covered by plastic sheeting and hat brims allowing cold wet drops to trickle down necks and splash on noses.

All they could do was hope this aberration was merely temporary and that tomorrow, when they once more set out, the day would be as bright and shiny as an invitation to a voyage.

The following day would see them heading for Lunas, six-and-a-half hours of walking, and they had already decided to stop for lunch in Bernagues near the Croix Lucide and then continue on to their destination. Lunas had a hotel, some camping sites outside the town and guest rooms. They chose not to commit themselves and would wait to see what the weather would bring.

The road itself meandered through forests, past an artificial lake and through areas where uranium had been discovered, as well as many dinosaur prints made over l90 million years ago. Remains of churches, cathedrals, ancient crosses and forts abounded, most of it, according to their guide books, reduced in stature and grandeur by the passage of time, weather and warfare.

It would take them over a week to reach Toulouse where they planned on spending two days as there was so much to see in that city. Another ten days after that would find them finally in Spain, if all went smoothly and according to plan. Once in that country they could decide if to walk or ride part of the way, depending on how the road struck them and if the searing heat of a Spanish summer would have made its appearance yet or would hold off long enough for them to reach Compostela. There seemed to be so many small places of little interest, several extremely long stretches to cover on foot, ten hours each, and some only three of four hours in duration.

They decided to worry about France first and let Spain take care of itself once they got there.

The European Federation of the Road of St. Jacques had representatives in many of the towns they were going to visit and it would be wise to consult them as they went, so as not to make the mistake of deciding on a difficult route that would prove too daunting for them.

So, today, after breakfast and despite the bad weather, some would be shopping to replace the items ruined in the wash, some would consult the representative of the Road of St. Jacques, Deborah and Keith would replenish their First Aid kits and then the three women, Deborah, Deirdre and Mavis, would visit Jane in the hospital. Lunch and a brief rest would follow, with another walk, weather permitting, and finally a good dinner in the hotel and an early night so they could start for Lunas refreshed in the morning. A day to calm the nerves in preparation for a positive frame of mind on the morrow.

Their waitress at breakfast was a redhead in her early 30s with absolutely no desire to safeguard their stomach functions and did not say a word when fried eggs were ordered except "Certainly, sir." And although she was both efficient and polite something was definitely missing from their morning meal that had been there the day before. And it was not only Tom who felt Marie-Claude was no replacement for Mathilde.

Of all those in the group Tom was the most affected and confused that day. Without meaning to, without realizing it, without having thought the matter through, he seemed to have become engaged to a girl he had seen only two times in his life and those briefly, as she waited on them in the dining room. He knew nothing about her except her first name, that she was still at school and that her father owned the hotel. Conversely she knew nothing about him as well. It was surely a bizarre situation, yet deep inside himself he had never been as calm about a decision, nor had he been more content. In fact, it had been a very long time since he could truly say "I am certain of what I am doing; I am happy."

He did not even need to see her again before leaving, although it would be something to hold on to during the long, daily treks and the longer and more lonely nights. He knew he would return. Lodeve would become his home. Her family would become his and together they would eventually take over the hotel and make a life for themselves. Somewhere at the back of his mind there was a plan for this hotel, taking into account the strong views on nutrition held by Mathilde. Her knowledge could be utilized to form a new and healthy, as well as tasty and visually exciting, cuisine. A sort of spa, something like the famous Eugenie les Bains. On a smaller scale of course, as they would not have the means for anything grandiose, but the rooms would be redecorated to feature both comfort and charm and the cuisine would coddle the stomachs and livers so beloved of most of the citizens of this country.

In time, perhaps, there would arise a real spa with all the fashionable massages using only products from the Dead Sea. These had been much in demand in London and Dublin lately. Health products from the Holy Land. Yes, it could certainly work if they were careful and prudent and did everything cleverly and in slow stages. He would speak to her about it eventually, after he had learned the business. She was both wise and knowledgeable and would put her finger at once on what was right and could be made to turn a profit in this part of the world.

He would spend part of his morning searching for a token, a ring, to give her before his departure. So, after only a few days on a voyage he had not even wished to take, he found himself anything but the callow youth he had been at its inception. He had become a man overnight, ready and willing to accept responsibilities, to bind his life to that of another after having seen her only twice.

The pilgrimage had created its first miracle.

Borrowing umbrellas from the hotel, most of the group set out to accomplish their various morning tasks in the town. Father John joined Keith who wanted to speak to the representative of the road of St. Jacques in Lodeve in the hope that he might point out the best route for them to follow. Father John also hoped there might be a letter for him with this individual, himself a priest, from Père Hippolyte. He had not yet received the full report of how the good father had ended up in the hospital and how serious his injuries had been.

Mavis joined Steven, Derek and Peter-Paul to buy shirts to replace the ones ruined in the wash. Seeing the bad weather, John decided to remain in the hotel, eventually gravitating to the empty lounge and its old, upright piano that drew him like a magnet.

Deirdre remained in her room, then she too headed for the lounge to allow the maid to do her work. She took her Bible with her and was deeply engrossed in the story of Joseph when the opening bars of the Schubert Sonata in A minor penetrated into her consciousness. She lowered her book and gave herself up to the unexpected treat.

Deborah went to the pharmacy with a lengthy shopping list for herself and Keith and Bernard slipped into an empty church, keeping to the back rows, and knelt down in silent prayer, begging the Almighty for a sign that their quest would be resolved.

Tom made his way to the principal shopping street of Lodeve where every second store seemed to sell watches, pendants and rings but nothing he saw in the windows spoke to him, announcing "Mathilde will love me." They simply weren't good enough. At the fifth and final shop he entered, and stated his problem: "I am looking for a ring but not just any ring. I don't want a bit of gold or platinum and a small dubious diamond. I want a ring that will speak for me. I want it to tell her all I would if I weren't too shy to say it myself. That I love her. That she is beautiful and wise, that for me she is the miracle of my life and that I hope she will not laugh at me, but smile upon my hopes and make them all come true."

As he finished, even he was amazed at his fluent audacity. Love, it seems, had brought about some unusual changes.

"Ah, young man, we are not wizards here. We only sell jewelry. I have nothing in my shop that would even approach what you desire, but I can send you to someone who might be able to help you. He is a little bit off the beaten track, on a side street that leads to the hospital. From the outside it looks like a junk shop, a bit of this and a bit of that and everything tossed into the window any old way but if anyone in Lodeve can help you, it is Monsieur Cotte."

Guided by hope, Tom sped to the shop indicated, stopping to stare at the goods displayed in the crowded window. There was a gilded bergere with a blue Chinese carpet tossed over it, a small escritoire with a roll-top front, tall, shiny, patent-leather hatboxes, hangers with ruffled velvet covers, a green-marble-topped table holding a silver tea set of great antiquity and Christening mugs, heavily engraved. Half a portiere hung seductively at the back of the window, offering a glimpse of the many wonders one would find if one would only cross the threshold into the shop.

Tom breathed in and out deeply several times, balled his hands into fists, stretched his fingers, and reaching for the doorknob, entered the shop.

"Hello?" He called out, "Is anybody here?"

"But of course young man. I'm open for business."

A short, elderly man appeared suddenly from behind a very tall urn. His hair was a white halo surrounding a round face with child-like, wide open blue eyes, a bit like a baby's that could not decide if to smile or frown.

"I'm looking for a present. A ring. It must be a ring."

"And what must the ring say?"

"How do you know that a ring has to speak?"

"That's self-evident. A ring that does not say what you want it to say is not worth buying is it?" And he smiled kindly at Tom, his head wagging from side to side.

"Yes, oh yes. It must tell her everything I want to say but can't. It must convince her of my undying love, of my never-ending devotion and respect. Of my sincerity. Of all that a man in love for the first and last time needs to say but doesn't know how."

"Ah!" said the small man, beaming broadly, and disappearing as if the earth had opened at his feet and swallowed him up.

It seemed to Tom that he had vanished like the genie, in a puff of smoke. Smoke there certainly was, as the little man had put a lighted cigarette down on the edge of the counter where it was now in danger of setting the entire premises on fire. But before Tom could reach over to stub it out, the proprietor had materialized again.

"Never fear!" he called out and tossed the butt into a cup which held dregs of tea and which was conveniently placed near that part of the counter which served as a resting place for his cigarettes. "So..." he began, smiling, "...is this what you are looking for?" And he opened a small gray suede box. Inside, the velvet folds were in pale blue and nestled in their midst was a ring of gold with an eight-sided flower. The elongated petals alternated in white and yellow diamonds in a tear-drop design with a small, glowing ruby heart in the center where they met.

"Oh!" Was all Tom could say.

"It does talk doesn't it?"

"Oh!"

"The stones are real. Diamonds in two colors, white and yellow. There is a small ruby and an l8k gold band. I believe she will understand everything you want her to when you give her this."

"Oh yes! Only..." Tom was pulled back to reality as if someone had suddenly jerked on an invisible leash. What was he, Tom of Dublin with no profession, job or prospects doing buying diamonds, rubies and gold for a girl he did not even know? What madness had possessed him to enter this shop and spout poetic nonsense about rings that talked?

"Of course there is a special price for such a ring." The little man confirmed as if Tom really was a customer with thousands to throw around on such a bauble.

"Of course. Well, it's very kind of you to show it to me but I mustn't take up any more of your valuable time." Tom began to turn to the front door.

"Not so fast. I haven't mentioned the price yet."

"You don't have to. I can tell you that whatever it is, it is beyond my means.

"Don't be so hasty young man. How much would you have paid for a small diamond ring in a jewelry shop on the high street? And you were going to so don't pretend you weren't." His cherubic features twinkled at Tom.

"I never got around to talking price with them. I didn't like what I saw."

"Of course you didn't. A bit of gold and a diamond chip. That's all they know here. It's all the girls know here too. But you have something better in mind for a girl who merits it...isn't that so?"

"Yes."

"I will sell you this ring for the price of that simple diamond in the high street if you will promise to do a favor for me."

"What kind of favor? I won't do anything illegal."

"Don't worry about that. You are one of the pilgrimage group aren't you? Staying at le Petit Cedre hotel?"

"Yes. And?"

"I am old. Too old to do the pilgrimage myself. And I am not well. When you get to Compostela could you light a candle for me, in the name of Marie-Therese Cotte. She was my niece and she died young."

"I'll do it gladly without the lure of a special price for your treasure. You could sell this for much more."

"The candle lit in remembrance at Compostela is worth more than all the gold I could amass in selling the ring. Come, is it a deal?"

"It's a deal!" Tom put out his hand and the small man shook it heartily.

"Here is your ring. Now the price: how much money do you have on you?"

Tom rummaged in his pockets, extracting every bill and coin he had and, after counting it all carefully, handed the sum over. Mosieur Cotte did not even look at it but gave him the box. Adhering to the business-like atmosphere, Tom asked for some paper and wrote: IOU one candle at Compostela and signed his name.

"I wish you luck." The little man nodded at the small gray box.

"And I wish you peace."

"Thank you...it is the best wish anyone could have given me."

They shook hands one last time and Tom left the store, closing the door silently behind him.

*

"That's where I bought the plaid yesterday." Deirdre remarked to Mavis, pointing at the show-window of the shop on the side street as the three women headed for the hospital and their planned visit to Jane. They had stopped at the small store along their route and had purchased some Muscat grapes for the invalid.

"Oh, he's changed his display. Yesterday there was a chess set and old-fashioned coal-burning irons and all sorts of other collectibles."

The three women drew closer to the window.

"The theme today seems to be weddings," Deborah exclaimed.

"It's beautiful." Mavis sighed.

"1920s I'd say. Shorter in front, longer hem in the back. And what a veil!" Deirdre added.

"The veil makes it. I've never seen such exquisite lace." Mavis stared with longing at both dress and veil. "If I had a Hope Chest..." she did not continue her thought and started to walk away in the direction of the hospital as if wishing to distance herself from temptation. Deirdre and Deborah exchanged glances, both thinking of Mavis' very evident partiality for Steven.

"Should we go back and price it?" Deirdre suggested as they caught up with her.

"Heavens no! Not if you're thinking of me." Mavis added, "I'm not about to be married. Although I may be invited to a wedding once the pilgrimage has been completed, if I read the signs right, that is."

"Your brother?"

"Yes," and she laughed. "can you imagine him falling like that? For a girl he's seen only once or twice? If anyone had told me at the beginning of our pilgrimage that such a thing could happen and in such a way..." she did not complete her sentence.

"He has changed a great deal, Mavis, since we all first met in Arles. It is not only now and here...it started some time back. It's as if he has matured in front of our eyes."

By this time they had reached the hospital and were pushing open the doors and approaching the reception desk to inquire if Jane was still in the same room she had been in the previous day. Great was their surprise when they were told that she had checked out.

"When?" Deborah asked.

"How? She could not have walked out of here." Deirdre appeared confused and looked around, expecting to see Jane materialize at their side.

"Early this morning. A big foreign-made car with a chauffeur in full uniform came for her. He settled her on the back seat, fur rug and all! And off they went. She didn't even say thank you to us." The receptionist was bursting to tell her tale and to point out the injustice of it all.

"Did she pay or does she expect us to?" Mavis demanded.

"Oh no, everything was paid. In cash! By the driver. But snooty? The two of them!"

The three women did an about turn after having thanked her and left the premises.

"So she's gone." Deirdre muttered.

"Skipped." Deborah added.

"I told you I didn't like her. She sure is odd."

"Do you think we'll see her again or has she given up on the pilgrimage?" Wondered Deirdre.

"I have a feeling we'll be seeing her again." Deborah voiced.

"Oh...oh...look!" Mavis squeaked, pointing to the window of the fascinating little store which they had just reached on their return from the hospital. "He's changed the display again."

"A crib, an old wicker-work baby buggy and baby clothes." Deirdre gasped, "What can it mean?" And she burst into tears.

13.

Lunch was a quick affair partaken at the hotel in ones and twos. Nobody thought it important enough to wait for the others so they simply entered the dining room to have something to tide them over till evening. Father John opted for an omelet and a salad, the letter from Père Hippolyte tucked into the pocket of his jacket more important than the food, and waiting to be read. Keith and Deborah were in a hurry to divide the various first aid items into two equal parts so that each one would be well supplied in case the parties became separated again for some reason. Deirdre had no appetite at all and took to her room where she ordered some tea and toast. The sight of the old baby buggy and the tiny clothes in the window of that odd shop had upset her more than she dared reveal to Mavis or Deborah. Come to think of it, Mavis had herself evinced signs of nerves and eyes swimming in tears. Of the three, only Deborah had remained calm and efficient, refusing to be side-tracked by wedding gowns, baby clothes and disappearing fellow pilgrims.

Peter-Paul and Derek came back laden with packages of men's furnishings. Light blue for the former and white for Derek and John. Steven decided to grab a bite in town where he had some items to send from the post office as there did not seem to be an internet café available.

Bernard had not returned and John had once more taken to his room where Derek found him, low in spirits due to the inclement weather, and ordered toast and a coddled egg.

Tom was the only one to eat lunch with gusto, ascertaining from Marie-Claude that Mathilde would be serving their evening meal. He was by turns elated, blushing bright red when his thoughts turned to the ring, paling to dead white in depression and fright as he cursed his foolishness for having bought such an ostentatious present. She would think him a spendthrift, a man who could not be trusted with money and certainly not with business, out only to make an impression, not stable, and she would return the ring to him disdainfully and talk of the folly of grandeur.

What had he done? In the throes of his first love, wanting only to please, to cover her with all that was most precious, he had compromised his character. And seeing the flighty, callow youth that he was, she would reject the ring, all it stood for and with it also reject his love and hopes for a future with her. He decided not to give her the ring after all.

Once safely in the privacy of his room, Father John locked the door, sat down and took out the letter Père Antoine had given him that morning. It came from St. Jude's in Arles. He opened it carefully, checking to make sure that nobody had tampered with it. No, it seemed intact and there were no signs of the flap having been pried open and re-glued.

He read it through thoughtfully, then re-read it again to make sure he had grasped every nuance. Père Hippolyte had been attacked in the street. He had been stabbed with a very thin-bladed knife and pushed off the sidewalk into the traffic in the hope of a car running him down. His death and the injuries sustained, including the knife thrust, would then be attributed to the car accident. The shawl had been stolen from him before he was placed into the ambulance because it was not found in his possession upon his arrival in the emergency room.

The large policeman who had appeared to direct traffic at the attack site did not exist. The police did not have anyone of his description on the force, nor was there anyone like him on duty at the Arles train station in the evening, or at any other time of the day or night.

The attendant at the Lost and Found office at the station remembered Père Hippolyte, the rug and the conversation but had no further information to offer. She thought the shawl had strange colors and the lines were not symmetrical. She had noticed nothing else.

There was much food for thought in that letter but Father John was unable to come up with any concrete answers. That there was definitely something wrong about the shawl was certain but how it tied in with the murder in the hostel and the attack on Jane was another matter. And thinking of her, it seemed to him that it was much better she had taken herself away, especially in the light of Père Hippolyte's information.

As he leaned back in his chair mulling over all the pertinent points and trying to form them into some kind of narrative, there was a discreet knock at his door and a whispered, "Father John?" He opened it to see a flustered Deborah standing in the hall, wringing her hands, a look of extreme concern on her face.

"Bernard is still not back from church and Deirdre is frantic."

Father John glanced at his watch, saw that it was already 4:00 P.M. and pursed his lips in a sign of concern. "He left the hotel this morning when we all did."

"And he said he was only going to the church to pray."

"I don't like this. I'll just get my coat, wait."

The rain continued to beat down and the day was drawing to a close as they approached the church and entered from a side door. At first they could not discern anyone in its gloomy interior but then heard voices coming from the area of the altar and saw two ladies wearing suits, arranging flowers in tall silver vases and trying to smooth the wrinkles out of the freshly ironed altar cloth.

"It's the humidity."

"Yes, the cloth was perfectly smooth when I brought it."

"If we stretch it and then put it back and weigh it down at the edges it ought to be all right."

"Oh! Visitors! How can we help you? Service isn't till later, dear." She informed Deborah.

"Thank you but we're actually here to ask if you happened to have noticed one of our group, a gentleman in his 60s. He stopped in this morning to pray and has not returned to the hotel."

"Oh my, that'll be the poor man who was wounded"

"What?" Deborah and Father John exclaimed in unison.

"We found him when we came in to do the silver. About noon it was."

"Yes, it was before lunch."

"He was just here." She motioned them away from the altar down the aisle to a spot about two rows from the entrance door. "Here, here, and all slumped over. We thought he'd fallen asleep on his knees, so to speak, until we saw the blood."

"Blood?" Father John shivered.

"Yes, all over his head, poor man," the first woman confirmed.

"We called the ambulance and when they saw him they called the police."

"Where did they take him?" Father John asked.

"The hospital. He never came to while they put him on the stretcher."

"We have to go to the hospital, Father John, this looks serious."

"Aye, so it does; should we bring Deirdre?"

"No! Not till we see how he is, then we'll be able to reassure her, I hope. She'll take it hard."

When they reached the hospital they were shown into a private room similar to Jane's. Bernard lay propped up in bed, a large bandage like a turban wound around his head, his eyes closed. A nurse had just finished checking on various drips and tubes and was entering figures on the chart.

"How is he?" Father John whispered.

"Are you family?" she asked.

"Indeed."

"Good. We hoped someone would miss him; he was alone in church."

"He stopped in to pray."

"Was he robbed?"

"No. He had money on him when they brought him in."

"Then why was he attacked?"

"That's what the police asked."

"I'd better call Deirdre." Deborah reached for her cell phone. "That's his wife and she's frantic with worry." She explained to the nurse. "Is there any trauma?"

"Yes, but considering the nature of the attack, it isn't bad."

"Ah, one of those wounds that bleeds and looks worse than it actually is."

"Exactly. But you can speak to Dr. Revel about that."

"Deirdre, love, can you get to the hospital right away? Yes, yes, it's Bernard. No, not heart. He was attacked. Yes, in church. I don't think so. Oh? He did? All right. Take a taxi and Deirdre, be careful."

Less than fifteen minutes later Deirdre entered with Keith. She looked so pale that Deborah immediately pushed a chair under her.

"How did it happen?"

"We don't know. Two ladies doing the flowers in the church found him and called an ambulance."

"He had no I.D." The nurse volunteered.

"He left everything in the safe in our room." Deirdre explained. "He only carried his certificate from Arles."

The nurse looked confused.

"The certificate that he had signed up for the pilgrimage and was a bona fide pilgrim on the road to Compostela." Deirdre elucidated.

"It was not in his possession when we undressed him and went through his pockets to try to establish his identity."

"Someone attacked him to steal his pilgrim's certificate?" Keith wondered aloud.

"It does look that way," replied Father John.

"But why? Anyone can sign up."

"You have to show an I.D."

"I see, yes, I see..."

"We'd better tell the police," decided Father John, "Deborah, can you remain with Deirdre? Keith and I shall go to the police."

"And I want to speak to the doctor. Deirdre, will you be all right for a few minutes while I do that?"

"Don't worry about me. I shall remain right here."

Father John leaned over Bernard and softly whispered a few words in prayer, then murmured quietly to Deirdre and left the room with Keith and Deborah. At the reception desk they parted, the men to go to the police station and Deborah to try to find out how badly Bernard's injuries were.

At the station a senior detective inspector took Father John's statement. "Thank you for coming in. We had no idea who he was and what had happened. I was about to send several of my men to cover hotels and hostels to see if anyone was missing. You say he belonged to your group?"

"Yes." Keith and Father John replied in unison.

"We're ten in the group," Keith volunteered, "Actually eleven now, with Steven."

"Not counting the dog!" Father John twinkled.

"All right, let's get this straight. How many are you and what's this about a dog?"

"Sorry...it's sort of a joke. We're eleven and I have a dog with me as well." Keith smiled.

"On the pilgrimage?"

"Yes."

"Walking?"

"Yes." Keith refused to go into long explanations with a policeman.

"Wasn't there a ditty once about mad dogs and Englishmen?"

"Go out in the noonday sun! Yes indeed, but I am French."

"We have always known that things were different on the other side of the channel but now that the channel is so close it seems to have reached our people as well...ah, yes...so, these eleven...can I have their names? Oh, first the name of the unfortunate man who was attacked. In church!" The inspector sounded scandalized.

"Certainly. He is Bernard van Der Gilden and he is Belgian. His wife, Deirdre, is also on the pilgrimage. She is British. At present she is in the hospital with her husband."

"Then we have Deborah Winter, a senior hospital nurse from London. Peter-Paul Paulson, also British, is a journalist and I believe he has a program on television of a political nature, then there is John Ashforth, the concert pianist..."

"Ah, we have of course heard of him."

"Derek Lefebre, a nurse from Avignon is helping him on this pilgrimage as Ashforth has been ill."

"There were rumors; he was forced to cancel most of his last performances." The inspector added, then apologized, "I am very fond of classical music."

"Mavis and Tom O'Brian, a brother and sister from Dublin, Steven Freeman, whom we met on the road to Lodeve. He's from Scotland. We don't know much about him except that he is young and a good ally in a tight corner."

"Which I believe you had on the way here?"

"How did you know?"

"The whole town was talking about it when the taxis brought you in. That road should be closed; it's not the first time there's been trouble about it."

"And this is Father John from Ireland and I am Keith Sommerville from the Jura but residing in Arles with Père Jerome. My dog answers to the name of Woofy."

"We did have two others..." began Father John.

"Oh?"

"Brother Guillaume who had to be airlifted to Toulouse..."

"Yes, yes, I heard about that; a sad case."

"And a young woman whose name we never knew. We called her 'Jane Doe'. She hurt her ankle and was in your hospital until today. She seems to have checked herself out and has disappeared."

"Any chance she would have attacked Mr.Van Der Gilden?"

"None. She would have no way of knowing he had gone to the church as she left Lodeve some time before Mr. Van Der Gilden even got there. No, no, she just wanted to get out, get away, and fast." Father John stated.

"You see, we are in a quandary about the attack on your co-pilgrim. He had quite a bit of cash on him, yet it was not touched. So robbery was not the motive as is usual in such cases. The other motive would be personal but as nobody in Lodeve knew him we are completely at a loss."

"Yet something was taken," Father John told the Inspector, "his pilgrim's certificate."

"That is curious."

"Not as curious as you may think," began Father John, glancing at Keith. "I think we can safely confide in this gentleman..." he peered at the name plate on the inspector's desk, "Inspector Lemoine."

Keith nodded his head, "We'll have to. We don't seem to be doing so well on our own."

"May I tell you a story, inspector?" And Father John handed over the clipping he had cut from the newspaper that related the discovery of the hostel attendant's body in Arles as well as Père Hippolyte's letter. "I must add here that several of the group members spent the night at the hostel in Arles, seeing the attendant when they checked in but of course not in the morning when they left. He too had cash in his pockets and nothing was stolen."

After Inspector Lemoine had read the article and the letter and Father John had explained about the shawl and the large policeman both he and Père Hippolye had seen, it was Keith's turn to relate the attack on Jane and the theory put forward by Deborah.

A long silence followed these revelations in the small, stuffy room at police headquarters. The Inspector read the article and the letter again, asked some searching questions, especially about the pseudo Brother Guillaume and promised to have him checked out in Toulouse. He also listened earnestly to the story put forth by Jane that she had been attacked and that her fall had not been accidental.

Of course there was no proof to any of these assumptions. But a lightly woven web of coincidences and accidents which were impossible to explain rationally, began to take shape without leading to a solution. And now, this latest attack. Was it random? Some madman after all? Then why was the certificate stolen? Or had it slipped out of Bernard's wallet when he had extracted money to pay for something?

"What about Mr. Van Der Gilden's passport?" The Inspector wondered.

"He left it in the safe in their room, along with train tickets and other documents."

"I wonder if any of these items would have been taken had he had them on his person in the church," mused the Inspector, "well... I shall do my best to try and find some answers. I'll get in touch with Arles and I also want to speak to someone in Compostela as well as to counter-terrorism authorities. If I learn of anything relevant by the time your group is ready to leave tomorrow morning I'll be in touch. In the meanwhile here is my personal cell phone number and I'll take yours," he said to Keith, "so I can be in touch after your departure. I'm worried about your group. Too many near misses. Don't take any chances. Stick to clearly marked roads. Consult the representative of the Road of St. Jacques whenever you can. Try to double up in rooms if you trust the other person. The women should definitely not sleep alone. Lock doors and push a heavy piece of furniture in front of them. Is your dog a good watch dog?"

"Yes."

"All to the better."

"In other words," Father John added, "take all precautions."

"Yes."

"And what of the shawl?"

"Coincidence?"

"I don't think so." Reiterated Father John.

Inspector Lemoine sat silently at his desk after the departure of Keith and Father John. He had much food for thought and while it was still fresh in his mind he made copious notes for himself in an old ledger he preferred to use rather than the computer on his desk. But he did consult the latter in an attempt to learn something more about the murder in Arles, then decided to call in one of his men, an expert at ferreting out information of this nature.

"Thomas, we have a problem..." And he proceeded to tell him all he himself knew up to that morning. "I think we shall have to investigate every member of the group. Get in touch with the relevant authorities here and in Britain, also Ireland...three of the group are from there. We know nothing of the mysterious 'Jane Doe' but Sommerville thought her accent American but since we don't know her name it won't be easy to find one very thin dark-haired woman who favors sunglasses even at night and who seems to have a trained speaking voice. Well, do the best you can. I personally think you can skip Ashforth but to be on the safe side at least try to discover what was wrong with him. He was in a hospital in Aix, near where he lives. And, I'd like to know a great deal more about the victim of the attack, Van Der Gilden. And his wife."

When Keith and Father John entered the dining room it was to find a very different atmosphere from the warm, festive one of the previous evening. Their two tables were the only ones in use and, although all the others had been set, they seemed to be the only guests that night, and even their numbers were much reduced. Keith, Father John, Derek and Peter-Paul were at one table and Tom, Mavis, Steven and John at the other. Of them all Tom was the most subdued, staring blindly at the few pink flowers in their small glass vase in the middle of the table.

"Where is Deborah?" Mavis suddenly asked.

"And Bernard and Deirdre?" Derek looked expectantly at the door. "We can't start without them."

"They won't be coming tonight." Father John murmured.

"Are they ill?" John sounded concerned and wondered to himself if they would still be able to leave the following morning.

"No, not exactly, and before you ask, they will not be joining us tomorrow either when we depart."

"What has happened?" Mavis looked frightened.

"When Bernard went to church this morning, to pray, someone attacked him, beating him quite badly about the head. He is in the hospital with a deep wound and of course a concussion. Deirdre is with him and Deborah opted to stay with her to give her moral support, although she will join us on the Road tomorrow."

The group at both tables remained stunned, then a babble of voices broke out, questioning, commenting, exclaiming, but other than the bare facts already stated by Father John there was no further concrete information, just more conjecture.

"We are going on tomorrow, aren't we?" Mavis asked, "I mean, even without them?"

"Yes," Keith replied, "we have to stick to our schedule. When Bernard will be well enough to travel, he and Deirdre can go by car or rail and catch up with us. I have given her the schedule, my cell phone number...we'll be in touch." He looked grim and very much unlike himself.

"How awful!" Mavis shuddered, "It seems like such a pleasant, safe little town."

"Was it robbery?" Tom asked.

"Probably," answered Keith, hoping to end the conversation. Covertly, he looked at each of them in turn, but none seemed to have the stamp of 'murderer' printed on his forehead. They were 'the group'. Pious, well-meaning people on a very special walk in search of salvation. He could not think of them in any other light.

As they sat silently and dejectedly staring at the tablecloth, Mathilde suddenly appeared at their side, her pad in her hand, smiling and ready to take their orders.

"You are all looking so sad today. It is the weather, but tomorrow the sun will shine. I have heard it on the television, so all your spirits will lift." She smiled brightly at them. "And what will you have tonight or will you like to see the menu?"

"What can you offer us?" Peter-Paul prompted.

"Yes, well, if you leave tomorrow early it is again best not to eat heavy food that will keep you up all night groaning, is that not so? I would again suggest a soup because that is good in this rainy weather. Today's soup is bouillon with little stars in it for a good night. The stars are of noodle dough of course. Then we have veal in the oven, or if you like, sole veronique and a fresh fruit salad to finish. It is all digestible and will not give you nightmares."

Peter-Paul was the only one to ask for the veal, everyone else opting for fish and Mathilde departed to place their orders in the kitchen and to bring the wine. Again a white, this one even lighter and with a hint of wild berries in its bouquet.

Although they tried to resume their usual conversations and trivial banter the going was heavy and a pall seemed to have been cast over the tables so that at the end of the meal even the usually sunny Mathilde began to feel a certain lethargy and could barely conjure up a smile and a thank you as Derek offered her the combined tip. Tom had already left the room, accompanying Mavis and Steven as they made their way to the lounge.

Here they sat gloomily, uttering a word every five minutes, sipping cognac and tisane, waiting for the time to pass so they could go upstairs and to sleep.

Tom knew he would have to speak to Mathilde, tell her something, anything, but not just run off tomorrow morning without a kind word. She would think that he had changed his mind and did not love her any more, perhaps never had...that it had all been one big mistake and, in fact, it might be better for her as otherwise she could become involved in a police inquiry and he wanted above all to keep her safe. Yet to see her so downcast, not daring to glance in his direction was even worse.

He could not leave her like this, he had to explain, but in the light of what had been happening he truly felt it would be better for her not to wait for him for by now he did not know what the future would hold.

After she had removed all the glasses, cups and ashtrays and asked them if anything else was required that night, she took herself off to the kitchen. Here Tom found her, seated at a large plain wooden table, her head on her crossed arms looking almost asleep if one did not notice her heaving shoulders under the shiny black dress.

"Don't cry, please, please don't cry." He put his arm across her back and pulled her into an upright position. She looked at him, her face blotched and wet.

"What have I done?" she whispered.

"Nothing, my love, nothing. It's nothing to do with you. I'm trying to protect you, and doing it so badly." He knelt next to her chair so his face was close to hers, "I don't want you to get hurt."

"What is it? What has happened?"

"Listen, Mathilde, something is wrong in our group. There have been accidents, there was a murder, and now one of us...Bernard, the older man, the one from Belgium. His wife is with him on the trek, you know who I'm taking about?" She nodded, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. "He went to church this morning to pray and someone attacked him there. Hit him on the head very badly. It was not robbery for his money was not taken. He is in your hospital and he and his wife will not be able to join us when we leave tomorrow morning; we don't know if they will be able to join us at all before the 25th."

"How awful, but why should it involve me?"

"The police are asking questions, they will inquire. We, our group that is, are involved. If it is known about you and me then you too will be questioned. I don't want you to be in danger, don't you see?"

"Oh yes, yes Thomas," And she smiled happily through her tears. "You still like me; that is all that matters. And let me deal with the police."

"Mathilde, I don't want you to get mixed up in whatever this is!"

"Leave it to me. We and our hotel have no part in such things – do not worry – Inspector Lemoine knows my father, he knows we are honest people."

"I want..." he began, not knowing how to continue, "I bought something for you today. Please don't be angry. I am not someone who does not know the value of money. There was very little in our house when I was growing up. My mother had to raise us alone; my father was dead. We worked hard, always, so please don't say that I am wasteful and will make a bad husband and a bad hotel owner. But once in one's life there comes a time when...I can't put it in words, my Mathilde, so I will give you this to speak for me."

And Tom pulled the little gray suede box from his pocket and gave it to her. She looked at it curiously, her mind not registering its portent so taken up with tears and sorrow that the sudden swerve to joy and expectation had her at a loss and it took many long moments for the reality of the small box to dawn before she opened it. And gasped.

A sigh of sheer bliss passed her lips as she gazed at the yellow and white flower, sparkling and winking at her as it fanned out from its ruby heart. Gently he removed it from the box and slipped the ring on her finger.

"Oh Thomas, what will papa say?"

"I hope he will say, 'Bless you, my children.' "

14.

The following morning saw them assembled early in front of the breakfast room, already dressed for that day's march. When the doors were opened by Mathilde and good mornings had been said, they took their places for the last time at the round tables to do full justice to the excellent fare provided by Le Petit Cedre Hotel which had taken such good care of them in the two days they had spent in Lodeve, recovering from the strain of their adventure-packed trek.

It seemed as if they had been there longer, for so many things had happened during a period they had set aside for idleness and recuperation which had turned into one of doubts, recriminations, accusations and finally to a full-fledged attack against one of their group.

Bernard would not be going on with them and they already missed his kindness, concern for others and even his comical and very individual way of uttering "amen" at the slightest provocation. Deirdre had not come down yet. Neither had Deborah. It was assumed that the latter was giving her some last-minute instructions. Deirdre was not used to handling things on her own, as Bernard had always seen to everything, but now with him in the hospital she would have to learn to manage by herself.

Both Mathilde and her father had assured Deborah and Father John that they would help Deirdre in every way possible and would make sure Bernard was fully recovered before allowing them to travel on. Inspector Lemoine was also going to keep in close contact with the Van Der Gildens.

With so much concern and care centered on Deirdre and Bernard they felt much more reassured about leaving them behind and hoped to see them soon, healthy and happy, if not in France, then certainly by the time they would have reached Spain.

Deborah entered the breakfast room some minutes later to report that the news from the hospital was encouraging. Bernard had opened his eyes, had spoken, had asked for Deirdre and the others. The Inspector had hopes of being allowed to question him later in the day.

"We've been so comfortable here that getting into the proper spirit of the road will take a bit of doing." John admitted.

"I, on the other hand, am raring to go. One gets soft sitting around being waited on." Replied Steven.

"Ah, you're young. The open road calls. I felt that way for years, going from taxi to train to plane during the hectic concertizing years. Each new venue brought its own challenge. The hall itself, the acoustics, the audience, the expectations on both sides, the buzz. It was like a drug. Now, even if I were well I do not know if it would be the same. One longs for one's own chair next to the fireplace and displacing oneself all the time becomes a burden - despite the adulation of the crowd. So, one makes more recordings, just you and the studio and the music. The money's the same and you stay home. 'Home'... 'Domus' becomes a precious word." He stared sightlessly into his cup.

"Do you live in England?" Steven asked.

"No. In France."

"Where do you live, Steven?" Mavis' voice was low. There was so much she wanted to know about him but he wasn't an easy person to question.

"In Edinburgh."

"Oh, I thought you'd say Sussex...the Downs, someplace like that."

"Why?"

"I sort of picture you outdoors. Edinburgh is so civilized and a bit uppity."

"Not when you live there; it's like any other place you call home. And I love the Scottish countryside. Lots of places to climb, great fishing too. Well, you were right about the outdoors in relation to me."

Keith's cell phone went off suddenly while he was lifting his cup to his lips, almost causing him to spill his coffee. He had become used to it not ringing at all ever since he had started the pilgrimage. The sound now was an intrusion into what had become an almost computer-less world for him.

"Yes? Ah yes, we'll be leaving after breakfast. Half an hour or so. Yes of course I can. Goodbye."

He turned his attention to his food, finishing quickly, rising, nodding to the others and then leaving the room with Woofy. He paused to thank Mathilde and hurried from the hotel.

"I believe," remarked Father John "that that was the representative of the Road of St. Jacques. He had some maps he wanted to give us and promised to obtain copies. There is one trek, a short one of between four to five hours he wanted to warn us against. 'Better go by car; it's worse than the road you had to Lodeve.' He said."

"Well, we're not going through another experience like that!" Tom growled.

"I'd quit the pilgrimage now if that were the case," muttered Peter-Paul.

"We all would." Mavis stated firmly.

"That's why we'll take cars." Father John emphasized, "Oh, how are you this morning? Here, do sit down." He welcomed Deirdre, who had just come in.

Everyone was most solicitous. Chairs were pulled out. Mathilde rushed over with fresh coffee and questions were again asked about Bernard.

Keith entered the police station where Inspector Lemoine awaited him.

"Here are the maps. That'll make it look as if you just came from Père Antoine. So...I've spoken to Arles and to Compostela. The former has nothing to add on top of what was stated in the paper and what you learned from Père Hippolyte. Compostela is always on the alert, especially with such a mob expected on July 25th. Counter-terrorism has heard rumors but then they always do. ETA may be planning something but then they always do too. Or it might be Islamic militants against a Christian holy site, especially a Christian who, as legend has it, together with El Cid, drove them out of Spain. So, take your pick!"

"But nothing definite?"

"No."

"The only reason, Inspector, that I am on this pilgrimage at all is that my mentor, Père Jerome asked me to go. He stands in locus parenti to me as he found me in his hamlet in the Jura where I had been abandoned, in the fashion of all melodramas, on his church steps. He and his housekeeper raised me and formed me. Consequently, when he tells me he has heard something, perhaps in the confessional for he would not reveal the source, that something big was brewing and that it had something to do with this year's pilgrimage and specifically in the culmination on the Saint's day, I obey his request. I attached myself to a group making the pilgrimage in the hope of learning more and eventually communicating my findings to the proper authorities. So far there have been some strange events but no finger being pointed at one group or individual. The only thing that worries me is the story of Père Hippolyte and the attack on him in order to steal a bit of textile in the shape of a not new nor very exciting nor valuable pseudo-Scottish shawl. All the other events could be put down to accidents, or, as in the case of the hostel attendant, something after all in that individual's past that has not yet come to light. But the attack on Père Hippolyte was very real and very much aimed at him. Meant to kill and the rug he had just picked up from the Lost and Found Office was stolen. Why?"

"Yes, yes, I see. You do have a point. Perhaps the answer lies in Arles after all. Four pilgrims alighted from the train in Arles: the mysterious 'Jane Doe' who was attacked on the road to Lodeve and who has subsequently vanished, Father John, whose bag became entangled with the rug and who actually brought it into the city and Deirdre and Bernard Van Der Gilden. The same Bernard now in our hospital after having been assaulted in church where the object seems not to have been the usual robbery as a motive, not for money that is, but for a certificate with his name on it describing him as a pilgrim on the road to Compostela. Again, all the signs point to the pilgrimage, the group, the route and of course Santiago de Compostela itself. It is as pretty a puzzle as those posed by our cleverest detective and mystery story writers. Only I don't see the solution and as this is not a book, I can't turn to the final pages, cheating a bit, to discover 'who done it' how and why?"

"Exactly, Inspector. So what is to be done now?"

"We have to stay alert. There are still some avenues for me to investigate; fringe groups, crazies although I have a feeling a much more dedicated and intelligent organization is behind this, but it does not pay to ignore any possibility. If I do find something I will let you know, wherever you are, if only to warn you."

"I wish Père Jerome had been able to tell me more," Keith sighed, "but the seal of the confessional..."

"Yes, yes, it is too bad." The Inspector added, "It puts him, you and your group, not to mention the pilgrims in Compostela itself, in very grave danger.

"Yes." Keith murmured, staring at the floor.

"We shall just have to find out what is going on with the few clues we have at our disposal and try to stop it before a major attack takes place. My bones tell me something big is being planned. Well, take care, keep prudent, be in touch, as will I. Oh, I'll pretend to be Père Jerome when I call, worried about you after that last difficult trail, is that all right?"

"Perfectly."

"And that's the dog?" The Inspector motioned to Woofy, lying with his nose between his paws next to Keith's chair.

"Yes."

"Well, a good pilgrimage and a safe one." And with that they stood up, shook hands across the desk and Keith returned to the hotel.

The maps clutched ostentatiously in his hands, and perusing them as he entered, he ran right into Father John. "It's about six treks away, including today's. To avoid at all costs." He drew out his backpack, ranged with the others in a corner near the reception desk and slipped the maps into one of the pockets.

"Deirdre's down"

"Ah, good. I'll go and say goodbye." And he disappeared into the breakfast room.

Mathilde and Tom were in the kitchen where a young boy was washing up and the chef was sitting at the big wooden work table, dunking a croissant into his bowl of café au lait as he read the sports pages of his morning paper.

"You will be careful, my Thomas?"

"Yes, truly. I'll try to call you. If I can then always at the same time, after dinner. I know when you are free."

"Not too often, please, or I will become used to it and when I will not hear if you are unable to call, I shall worry."

"You have a funny way of putting it." Tom smiled down at her.

"It is a practical way so I will not break my heart."

"Oh Mathilde!"

"I have not a big engagement present to give you but here, this is to keep you safe." And she handed him a silver St. Christopher medal on a thin silver chain. "He is the saint who protects travelers." She murmured. "And he will guard you and watch over you until you return." She slipped the chain over his head and kissed him bashfully on the cheek.

"We shall have a wonderful life." He promised and bowed his head to kiss her tenderly and lightly on the lips.

"Be very careful, please." She whispered so the two men in the kitchen could not hear. "As you yourself have told me, there is something wrong in your group."

"Yes." His expression became serious. "I shall trust only Keith and Father John. I shall try not to remain alone, day or night and I shall think of you waiting for me." He fingered the medallion around his neck. "And this will keep me safe."

They kissed again, longer and deeper, then pulled apart, looked into each other's eyes, locked hands and left the kitchen together.

"We're ready." Derek called.

Monsieur Fournier, Mathilde's father, came out of his office to bid them "God Speed," shook them all by the hand, had a kind word for each of them and assured Deborah and Father John that he and Mathilde would take the best care of Deirdre and hoped to see them all one day again.

"You'll see me after July 25th." Tom reminded him.

"Ah, you of course. But you are family." And he smiled warmly and patted his future son-in-law on the shoulder. He had some plans for his hotel he very much wished to discuss with Tom once the boy had learned something of the business.

Deborah, Mavis and Deirdre hugged, cried and kissed and, finally, those who were leaving strapped on their backpacks, picked up their staves and stepped out of the hotel for the last time to head down the street and out of town onto their long, winding road.

Deirdre, Mathilde and Monsieur Fournier waved after them for as long as they could still be seen.

*

The tall, young man stood at the side of the road, his backpack at his feet, hoping someone would stop to take him, but in the more than an hour that he had been waiting, not a single car had even slowed down.

Although he was the only one at this particular bend in the road, he knew that there were ten more at every corner, byway or crossing with the same hope in their hearts. All holding up signs saying expectantly Pau, Sarlat, or Avignon in the opposite direction. His sign said Toulouse and he had some difficulty keeping it aloft because his ankle hurt so badly he was forced to stand on one leg, the other folded backward like a stork, while leaning on his pilgrim's stick and wiggling the cardboard sign up and down.

Just when he had almost decided to lower himself and collapse onto his rucksack, a small van stopped, the door was flung open and the driver called out to him to get in. He would take him as far as Toulouse.

"Thank you." He sighed, delighted to feel that luck had not deserted him completely. "I was beginning to despair."

"Where shall I set you down in the city with that leg? Is it broken?"

"No, I think it's only sprained. I'll go to my brother. He works at the Institute of Tropical Diseases. He'll know what to do."

15.

Since they had arrived at night and by car, the road to and from Lodeve was not familiar to them and they were surprised to see that the rue de l'Hotel de Ville had paving stones designed and laid out in a stylized shell pattern. It was a clear indication that they were following the ancient pilgrimage route.

Soon, too soon for some, they were out in the countryside with its meadows and fields and the distant straight line of trees marking off large areas of farmland criss-crossed by lanes down which the occasional tractor or loaded farm wagon lumbered.

The group was easily recognizable to all as pilgrims of the Road of St. Jacques, such as this area was used to seeing year in and year out. Their staves in their hands, full packs on their backs and sturdy hiking boots on their feet left no doubt as to who they were and caused many a laborer in the fields to pause in his tasks, to straighten up and to hail them as they went past.

Elderly men on bicycles waved and all wished them a successful pilgrimage, for everyone along this route had come to recognize the faithful as they wended their way through France, to Spain and on to the culmination of their voyage.

To put themselves in a good mood and to help the hours pass, someone started a round song, picked up one after the other in turn, which became louder and more boisterous until the end was finally achieved amidst great gales of laughter.

Peter-Paul was the only one with a grave and contemplative look on his face as he reviewed yet again all the events since the beginning of the pilgrimage when they had first met in the Alyscamps in Arles. His gypsy blood told him that something was wrong and his instinct as a journalist added that it was something big. Much more than an attempt at robbery gone awry in the case of Bernard and, if one were to pay close attention to the actions of Keith and Father John, one could not but deduce that it had its roots in the pilgrimage and was undoubtedly connected to the murder of the attendant in Arles.

The little priest and Woofy's master were as thick as thieves and if they did not know all the answers yet, it was not for want of trying. He was glad Monica was out of it and he looked forward eagerly to catching up with his cousins on the Road. They would lay out the Tarot together, study the stars of a summer sky and perhaps come up with a few important answers. The Road needed them this year. And there was to be a newcomer, a redoubtable ally in the peaceful outcome of the pilgrimage.

"I'm not happy about that development." Tom admitted in a low voice to Keith, nodding his head in the direction of his sister, chatting to Steven at the head of the line.

"She seems O.K. with it."

"He's not the right man for her."

"How can you tell?"

"You don't know her," he sighed, "She seems strong and capable which in a way she is, but at the same time she is vulnerable. She needs reassuring, cherishing. She often feels inferior to others..."

"Why?"

"Oh, to those who've been to school, who know things. She doesn't have much book learning. We had to go out to work to help our mother. Our father died before we even knew him and at best of times he wasn't much of a provider, so Mavis left school as soon as the law allowed, to learn a trade and..." his voice petered out, "I'm not putting this in the right way, I know."

"Yes you are, Tom. You've changed a lot since we first started out. It's as if you've grown up in front of our eyes, and in such a short time. You show depth, insight, you don't fly off the handle any more. Lodeve has been good for you."

"It has! I've known so little happiness in my life but now I'm bursting with it and it makes me see everything in a different light. What I see between my sister and Steven is not good. He's not the right man for her. He's the type to care for ideas, not people and not even a dog."

He looked down at Woofy strutting along next to Keith, head raised, sniffing out new odors, his eyes bright and shining, his fur standing on end in the gentle morning breeze.

"Well..." began Keith, not quite knowing how to reply, "you know best. She seems to be steady, carrying her part in a crisis and she's stable. Not the type to go off the deep end over anything, certainly not a man. But of course you're the best judge. It won't help to warn her, you know. She's got a mind of her own. And, anyway, in matters of the heart it never does help to interfere. Some people just have to learn it all themselves."

"Yeah, you're right. I'd just like to save her all that heartache and see her happy." Tom hung his head, put his hand up to the neckline of his shirt and fingered the chain of his medallion, a fleeting smile crossing his face.

Funny, thought Keith, he's grown up all of a sudden, in two days. No, there were hints before. When he didn't want to abandon Jane just to seek his own deliverance. That was the awakening. Mathilde only completed the process. He'll do well with her in Lodeve, and with the hotel. I envy him. He'll have a family again. Her father was a nice man and she has older brothers and sisters. Good luck to him. I have Père Jerome, the good people of our village and Woofy but there are times when I too would have liked one small place on this earth to call "home" and a group of people to call "kin". Still, I mustn't complain. Oh dear, is that a sin to remember at my next confession? Yes of course it is and it's called "envy". Just a very, very little bit of envy but a sin nevertheless. Still, how nice to have parents, aunts and uncles, cousins galore and a corner, a very small insignificant one to call home. Would I give up everything else for this dream? Père Jerome, the village and its people? No, of course not. But why does one have to choose? Can't one have both? The best of both worlds? Is that also a sin? Of course! Gluttony! But...

*

Père Hippolyte was pleased to be back with the Reverend Father and his fellow priests and monks in the familiar surroundings of his monastery. Just smelling the beeswax polish they used on floors and furniture helped dispel the medicinal odors of the hospital and place him again in the environment he knew and loved. But even after a long and serious talk with Père Xavier, covering every phase of his undertaking that fateful evening, there was no clear explanation why he had been attacked so viciously nor why that banal-looking shawl had been stolen. He had looked at it for such a long time when it had lain on the table in the refectory that he was easily able to recall all the details and reproduce it on a sheet of paper at Père Xavier's request.

The reverend Father had decided to have it sent by Fax to Inspector Lemoine and to the Toulouse police station, there to await the arrival of Father John. Perhaps those two would spot something neither he nor Père Hippolyte could and thereby come up with some answers.

Père Hippolyte kept one copy for himself, to study over and over whenever he had a minute free from his usual duties. This rug had almost cost him his life and if the dear Lord in his wisdom saw fit to spare him there had to be a reason. Since he hardly ever left Arles it could not be to aid the pilgrims on their road so it had to be for something much closer to home. And that left only the rug and the puzzle it represented. It was like a code, he mused, "Well, the Enigma Code, daunting though it had been, did get deciphered. What I need now is some help. Let's see, frère Paulus is a mathematician and perhaps frère Aloysus who is a scientist of some kind...hm, yes, if we put our heads together we just might come up with an answer."

The road rose steadily but so gently they did not even notice it. Eventually they would reach a height of close to 700 meters. Already, in the distance, they could make out the thick masses of leaves atop tall, sturdy chestnut trees that crowned the peak of their route on that day's journey.

Father John marched along stalwartly and silently, his mind centered on all the problems brought up by Inspector Lemoine. He and Keith had discussed it thoroughly in the hotel before their departure that morning but had not come to any new conclusions, just more questions.

Deborah had attached herself to John and Derek. At least with John there was a chance of some intelligent conversation. Peter-Paul was by turns thoughtful and taciturn or bursting out in some ancient marching song and both Father John and Tom seemed to be deep in thought which she did not dare interrupt. And while she had no reason to dislike Mavis there was no real affinity between them as there had been between herself and Deirdre. The less said about Steven the better. Odd how she and Peter-Paul had taken a dislike to him, for different reasons and truly without any justification for his behavior had been exemplary throughout the ordeal on the difficult route and the rescue of Jane. Then why did she feel such animosity? Did he remind her of someone?

He had done nothing wrong, made not one incorrect move and she mistrusted him and everything he said.

She remembered suddenly a nursing sister who had worked with her at the beginning of her career. Yes, she too had been all that was correct. Soft-spoken, polite, friendly, caring but hiding a core of iron when her principles were engaged. Not willing to make allowances, not accepting human foibles, her letter-of-the-law attitude never taking an individual's frailties into account to the point of causing the suicide of a trainee and the death of one of the patients.

They had transferred her but had not reprimanded her conduct since she had the precisely worded law on her side. And that was Steven to a T! Not a good choice for Mavis, she thought, and felt that Tom had already evaluated the situation in a like manner and was not happy.

It seemed as if they had barely begun that day's route when a signpost announcing their approach to Bernagues was sighted.

"Already?" John exclaimed.

"Would you believe it, we've been walking for three hours!" Voiced Mavis, checking her watch.

"Don't we wish all the stages along our route were as easy and pleasant as this one?" Sighed Keith to be seconded by Woofy, who barked sharply.

"We'd soon get bored if it was all the same." Steven pointed out, "There'd be no challenge in it."

"Well, I for one am happy...it's lunchtime and here is Bernagues; anyone for food?"

"It's a small place, isn't it?" Mavis sounded unsure.

"Yeah," her brother replied with a grin. "They won't have a three-star restaurant for your highness but I'll settle for a sandwich and a Coke."

"Let's go!" John suddenly put on a burst of speed and, taking the lead, raced them to the hamlet.

Several hours later and still in the same good humor, found them entering Lunas. It boasted only one hotel, located across from the church. All the less expensive options required another three kilometers of walking to attain but on the other hand, staying every night in a hotel was an unheard of folly and while none of them was actually needy, over two months of hotel bills could wreak havoc with anyone's budget.

"Perhaps, after all, only tonight?" John mused, for although that day's walk had not presented any problems, he was now longing to lie down. In the end it was decided to split up. John, Derek, Deborah and Tom going to the hotel and the others walking the extra few kilometers to find a Bed and Breakfast. None, even the most intrepid, was as yet ready to camp out as the nights were still cold and the lure of creature comforts remained strong.

The hotel was smaller than the one in Lodeve and had no kitchen although breakfast would be brought to the rooms in the morning. There was someone at the desk who agreed to brew tea when they checked in and then showed them to modern, pristine rooms overlooking the church and its tower. The beds looked comfortable for which John was very grateful and when tea made its appearance and it was both strong and hot there were smiles all around.

"There's a lot to be said for comfort, a full stomach and a soft, safe place to lay one's head." Deborah murmured as she, John and Derek sipped their tea in John's room. Tom had disappeared, muttering something about a phone call but said he would join them later.

"Think of the millions of people in this world who are unable to offer themselves any of these amenities. Sometimes not even once in their brief, hard and unhappy lives." Whispered Derek, his eyes suddenly awash with unshed tears as he imagined his own life had the rabbi and his family not decided to adopt him. "We are the lucky ones," he added, "and we never think how much different it could have been had God, or fate, led us in another direction."

"I've never taken my life for granted." John stared off into space remembering the good years. "I have thanked God for every favor, every attainment, every gift. I don't even blame him now or ask him 'why?' And as Bernard would have put it: Amen; so be it!"

"That's a wonderful philosophy. Most of us would rail against..." and she did not complete her thought, "but you do still hope? Otherwise you would not have taken to the pilgrimage." John laughed, a happy sound. It was the first time she had heard him actually laugh aloud for up to now he had only allowed himself a bleak smile or two.

"I am not going to Compostela to beg for miracles. I am going in order to give thanks to God, through the intercession of the Saint, for the good, full life he has given me. For a life of music, for adulation and success, for ease and luxury and all my heart desired. Or almost. I never did find that certain one-and-only meant for me. But aside from that, what do I have to complain of? It's been a fantastic life and with God's help it will continue that way." And he laughed joyously again just as Tom knocked on the door and entered.

"Well, here's a fine kettle of fish!" Were his opening words. "I spoke to Mathilde and she told me that Deirdre's Scottish wrap, which she just bought in Lodeve, has been stolen from her room. The entire hotel is in shock for there has never been a theft of even one towel within living memory of the place."

"The rug? The Scottish rug?" Demanded Deborah, leaping to her feet and upsetting her cup in the process.

"Yes."

"Oh heavens. I must call Keith or Father John; at once!" And she rushed out of the room to the reception desk, requesting the young man in charge to call all the B and Bs in the area in order to locate her co-pilgrims.

*

Evening had fallen and the van driver, who had volunteered his name as Jean-Charles Pelletier, pulled into a wayside stop. Here he filled up the car and, waking his sleeping passenger, asked him if he was hungry.

"Now that you mention it," The young man smiled, "I could eat the table itself."

"Fine, fine! I'm sure they can give you something more palatable than a piece of plastic. Do you need any help in getting out?"

"No thanks, I can manage." And he extricated himself from the cramped quarters of the front seat. "The meal's on me, by the way." He announced, hobbling to the nearest table of the modest standard roadside eatery and sinking into a chair, then getting up again to drag himself over to the toilets in the rear. When he reappeared, his benefactor waved a plastic-coated menu at him.

"It's frites with everything but it'll hold you till you get to your brother."

"If you knew my profession you wouldn't say that."

"Some sort of stomach doctor?" The older man hazarded.

"No," the young man laughed, "Chef! Head chef at that, at le table d'amis in Toulouse." And he laughed heartily, as did Monsieur Pelletier.

"So, why aren't you tending to your ovens instead of running all over the country spraining your legs?"

"I've always wanted to do the Road but in my business there's never any free time so when the boss gave me two weeks off because he decided to redecorate the premises, I grabbed the chance. Two weeks are better than nothing and so I set out. Unfortunately, this is the result of an injudicious step into a pothole. Oh, it will mend but my big worry is that I may not have a job to go back to."

16.

"Keith? It's Deborah. Can you talk? Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"Tom phoned Mathilde just now and she told him the Scottish plaid rug Deirdre bought in Lodeve has been stolen from her room. The entire hotel is up in arms as they've never had any thefts before."

"Are there newcomers in the hotel?"

"No. Some are expected tomorrow but since we left Deirdre has been their only guest."

"I never saw the shawl, what did it look like? Is it drab?"

"Oh no, not at all, most colorful. That's what attracted Deirdre to it. Red and yellow with strong black lines."

"That is odd. The one in Arles was all soft gray and muddy beiges."

"Then what is the connection, if any?"

"I don't know."

"Where are you staying?"

"At a B and B. I'm in with Peter-Paul. It's causing some trouble with Woofy; also with Peter-Paul of course."

"And Mavis?"

"She and Steven are at a different place."

"Oh?"

"Separate Rooms. Father John's there as well."

"Good."

"We'll wait up for you tomorrow and go on from here together; it's on the way out of town."

She went upstairs, not stopping at John's room and going straight to her own quarters where she locked up and moved a heavy chair in front of the door with the back wedged firmly under the handle. Then she took a bath, laid out her clothes for the following morning and fell asleep immediately, to be awakened by an unholy din right outside her window that caused the panes to rattle and the room to vibrate. She leaped from her bed, visions of terror attacks in her mind and warnings issued by Father John, Keith and Inspector Lemoine shrieking into her soul.

She flew to the window, pulling aside the heavy drapes but before she could open it, she saw a huge clock floating almost inside her room, its hands pointing to midnight. The clock tower of the church across the way faced directly into her room and the bells in the tower, marking off the hour blared and tolled so loudly that the floorboards vibrated and the crystal drops on the wall sconces clinked and clanked in unison.

She groaned. It needed only this! Well, hopefully, there was a solution of sorts. She rooted among her first aid nostrums to find some plain cotton wool, tore off two large balls and stuffed them into her ears. She closed the curtain and fell back into the bed and a sweet and silent sleep until a persistent knocking on her door told her morning had arrived and with it the promised breakfast.

The receptionist, doubling as floor waiter, took in her disheveled appearance and the tufts of cotton wool sprouting from her ears, raised his voice and said "Ah, the bells! After some months here I no longer notice them." He put the tray down on the coffee table as Deborah hastily removed her improvised ear plugs.

"Of course you don't! You're probably deaf by now."

"It's a living." He smiled, adding "Ta-Ta." and left her to it.

In slightly more than half an hour she was washed, dressed, packed and ready to leave the hotel. Outside in the hall she met John and Derek just closing their door and they descended together to see Tom at the reception desk awaiting them.

"Did you sleep well?" She inquired.

"Like a stone!"

"And you?" She turned to John and Derek.

"Very well"

"You weren't disturbed by the bells?

"No. We put plugs in our ears before going to bed. Didn't you?" Derek asked.

"Not 'til I almost had a heart attack when they went off at midnight."

"Didn't you notice the clock tower when you first entered the room?"

"Yes, but I thought it just showed the time, not tolled it every hour!"

The others laughed heartily and stepped out of the hotel, turning right and heading to the meeting point to join the rest of the group a few kilometers out of town.

"Good morning!" Mavis called as she saw them coming. "Lucky we didn't camp out."

"Why?"

"About one hundred juvenile delinquents are working off their misdemeanors by taking to the road and begging God's forgiveness for their sins. They filled up the entire campsite. They, their teachers, social workers and some young and tough-looking priests to keep them in order."

"A mob!" added Steven.

"And noisy on top of it. Lots of hymn singing as well." explained Peter-Paul.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"Not much. We envied you the hotel."

"Really? Then let me tell you about our clock tower!" Deborah began as they started along the path into the beckoning countryside.

Most of that day's trek meandered along paved roads meant for cars not pilgrims and even these did not follow faithfully the old pilgrimage trail. There was very little to see other than vehicles, farms, a tree or two and their mood plummeted as the spiritual aspect of that day's march turned into an exercise of getting from point A to point B in the cheapest way possible, by walking.

Naturally Peter-Paul was the most vociferous in his complaints and no amount of reassurance about the delights still to come would stop his frowns and grumblings. He thought that such an uninspiring walk would have been better served by riding and thereby arriving at vistas and ruins more in keeping with the nature of the petitionary wanderings of the group. However, the sight of a wayside cross of great antiquity put him in a better mood so that suddenly in a complete reversal of his previous frame of mind, he burst forth in song.

We in our wandering,

Blithesome and squandering,

Tara, tantara, teino!

Eat to satiety

Drink with propriety;

Tara, tantara, teino!

Laugh till our sides we split,

Rags on our hides we fit.

Tara, tantara, teino!

Jesting internally,

Quaffing infernally.

Tara, tantara, teino!

Craft's in the bone of us,

Fear 'tis unknown to us!

Tara, tantara, teino!

When we're in neediness,

Thieve we with greediness,

Tara, tantara, teino!

Brother catholical,

Man apostolical,

Tara, tantara, teino!

Say what you will have done

What you ask 'twill be done!

Tara, tantara, teino!

Folk, fear the toss of the

Horns of philosophy!

Tara, tantara, teino!

Here comes a quadruple

Spoiler and prodigal!

Tara, tantara, teino!

License and vanity

Pamper insanity.

Tara, tantara, teino!

As the Pope bade us do,

Brother to brother true:

Tara, tantara, teino!

Brother, best friend, adieu!

Now I must part from you!

Tara, tantara, teino!

### When will our meeting be?

Glad shall our greeting be!

Tara, tantara, teino!

Vows veledictory

Now have the victory

Tara, tantara, teino!

Clasped on each other's breast,

Brother to brother pressed.

Tara, tantara, teino!

As he sang and marched briskly to the rhythm of the strain, Peter-Paul's mood brightened visibly until, having achieved the final "Tara, tantara, teino!" in which, throughout, he had been joined by the others, his usual good humor asserted itself and he ended up with a broad grin on his face which was echoed by the little group as a whole.

"Whew! It's gratifying to know that a tune sung by itinerant students hundreds of years ago can still pull it off!"

"Have you made a study of the Middle Ages?" Mavis asked, impressed despite herself.

"Yes, yes I have. I have a doctorate in studies of that period. I sometimes wonder why, but at a certain time in my life it was a period that interested me greatly."

"Then how did you become a journalist?" Derek wanted to know.

"Because of my expertise. And quite accidentally." He added. "I work for 'The Latest News'. No, not in the same league as 'The Times'. Much more popular and sensational. Well, about twelve years ago...I don't know if any of you will remember...there was a serial killer on the loose. The murders were truly horrible. Very young boys, most of them homeless, runaways, were either enticed or kidnapped off the streets, then tortured so dreadfully even 'The Latest News' refused to publish the full details. The poor victims were finally strangled. What made these killings different from others of the kind was that the victims were decked out in pseudo-Middle Ages costumes as pages of the time, including the page-boy hairstyle."

"I remember now," John interrupted. "they were dubbed 'The Monastery Murders' and there was much talk of mad monks, of gothic romances, Mrs. Radcliffe and so on."

"That's right."

"And you reported on these crimes?" Keith asked.

"No, not at all. I was appalled at all the mistakes in the papers from the hairstyles to the articles of clothing to the so-called medieval settings in which the pitiful victims were posed in their death throes. So I started to write letters to the papers pointing out all the errors, the misnomers, and the biggest offender in that line was of course the sensation-seeking 'Latest News'. And they printed my letters, I'll say that for them."

"Wouldn't they have tried to suppress their ignorance?" John inquired.

"I think they saw the publicity potential. It kept the story alive. You may not remember, but after three or four killings they stopped, for a while. The killer may have been temporarily sated. Of course later they started up again but in the meanwhile my criticisms, remarks, etc. kept the subject matter alive and other people wrote in. That sort of thing sells papers. Well, finally they asked me to come in, made me an offer...not one I couldn't refuse...but one that really interested me. And so I became a journalist, priority these Monastery murders which later on led to a column on architecture, mores, life in general, that covered quite a hefty period in English history. It even reached into the 1500s and Henry VIII and his dissolution of the monasteries."

"Did you tackle music too?" John wondered.

"Of course, all the arts, even of the table!" and Peter-Paul laughed.

"That's quite an amazing tale." Father John smiled. "As good as any we've heard on the pilgrimage so far."

"Are you still writing about your specialty?" Mavis asked.

"Well, yes, but not exclusively. For this pilgrimage of course, but I do regular news stories too."

"How come you're only now covering the pilgrimage? It would have been a natural for you right from the start?" Steven sounded suspicious.

"Oh, I've walked it before. Years ago, when it wasn't so popular but I only wrote a short article about it for a magazine. My newspaper claimed it was not what the reading public wanted...then."

"And that's why you were dressed so inappropriately when we first met?" Deborah accused.

"Of course." .

"Why did you put on such an act in the first place; and the Lederhosen?"

"Hell, even a pilgrimage has to have its moments of fun; two months of sin and redemption can put a damper on anything." And skipping lightly out of the way he burst out in the opening of Gaudeamus Igitur.

"Let us live then and be glad

While young life's before us!

After youthful pastime had,

After old age hard and sad,

Earth will slumber o'er us."

"They never caught the 'monastery killer' did they?" Steven wondered aloud.

"No." Peter-Paul replied.

Brief is life, and brevity

Briefly shall be ended:

Death comes like a whirlwind strong..."

17.

Inspector Lemoine stood in the middle of the crowded shop and peered about him at the damage. Chairs had been overturned, cupboards had been emptied, chests opened, their contents spilling out onto the floor, drawers in the counter had been pulled out, wall hangings ripped off hooks, carpets raised. Someone had been searching desperately for something specific and, from the turmoil, it did not look as if he had found it.

The proprietor, Monsieur Cotte, had had the misfortune to have opened his premises early, and had surprised the prowler at work. He could not describe him, other than saying that he had been of medium height and had worn a Santa Claus mask, like those sold every year at Noel. That is all he could remember for he had almost immediately been attacked by this intruder, beaten mercilessly and left for dead on the floor of his own shop, to be found two hours later by the postman making his rounds. He was now in the local hospital in very serious condition as his heart had been failing for the past few years.

What could they have been searching for, whoever they were? What did Monsieur Cotte know? Or have secreted in his shop? And did this tie in with the information he had garnered from Keith and Father John? Was it connected in some way to the attack on Bernard in Lodeve and Père Hippolyte in Arles? The rug! Wasn't there another reported theft? The shawl belonging to Mrs. Van Der Gilden! It was purloined from the hotel! He'd better go over and see her for the two incidents might be connected.

Perhaps once, whoever had stabbed Père Hippolyte and had stolen the shawl, he had gotten it home and looked it over carefully, he had discovered it to be the wrong one. Then, learning of another such item, in Deirdre's possession, had decided to steal that one as well? No, this was bordering on the fantastic. But to be on the safe side he thought it a good idea to get in touch with all the police networks throughout the country and see if such items were being reported as stolen. But on the other hand, who would bother to call the police about a missing shawl?

He found Deirdre as she was about to leave the hotel on her way to the hospital to visit Bernard.

"Oh, good morning inspector, have you any news about the attack on my husband?"

"No, no, I'm sorry, nothing yet. I'm here to see you on another errand. Your shawl, the one that was stolen..."

"I didn't think an inspector of police would concern himself with something as minor as a hotel theft." She laughed. "Although it does rankle. I was very fond of that plaid."

"When did you see it last?"

"The morning the group left Lodeve. I had been in my room with Deborah and it was still there. Then I went down to breakfast and afterwards, together with Monsieur Fournier and Mathilde saw the group off. We waved to them from the hotel steps till they were out of sight and then I went to the hospital to see Bernard, returned to the hotel for lunch and went up to my room to rest."

"And?"

"Everything looked normal. The room had been cleaned. I was fatigued...more mentally that physically, but I felt the need to lie down. I slipped off my shoes and stretched out on the top of the bed, thinking only to rest my feet for a while and then I thought I'd get the plaid just to throw across my legs, and it wasn't anyplace. I searched the cupboard, drawers, even the backpacks. So I thought perhaps it was on the bed, together with the blanket and under the spread. Nothing. It was not in the room. By then I was truly fatigued and decided I'd look for it later and settled down for a nap. Afterwards I went through the room again and finally rang for the maid assuming it had inadvertently been sent out with the dirty sheets and towels but the maid denied having done such a thing and I must add that I believe her. She did not make a mistake and she is not the type to steal anything from a guest."

"You're right, she is not. Lodeve is a small place and we know everyone. She is as honest as Mathilde and her father."

"I never doubted that."

"May I ask if you have had the shawl a long time?"

"Oh no, I bought it here in Lodeve."

"Here? Where and when?"

"The first day of our stay Deborah...she is the British nurse...and I passed a small shop simply bursting with wonderful, tempting things. More like a wizard's lair than a store. And there it was, in the window. Two of our group, John and Derek, carried plaids to pad tree stumps and rocky outcroppings, in order to be able to sit down for a while on the trek. And I thought this such a good idea that I was sorry I hadn't brought one from home when suddenly, there it was in the window of this Ali Baba's Cavern of a shop. So we went in and I bought it. After that we visited one of our group who was laid up in the hospital with a twisted ankle after a bad fall."

"That was Monsieur Cotte's shop? On the road leading to the hospital?"

"I never learned his name but that's where the shop is. He's a short, elderly man with hair like candy cotton, white. And he smoked too much." She added, remembering Deborah's remarks at the time.

"Yes, yes that is he. Oh!" And the inspector remained quiet, his face grim.

"Is anything wrong?"

"Yes, Mrs. Van Der Gilden, it is. Monsieur Cotte was attacked very early this morning when he opened his shop. By a burglar who was already inside. He was very badly beaten up and his shop ransacked."

"Oh that poor, poor man. Is he..." She did not complete her query.

"He has a heart condition so the doctors can't say anything at this stage. They are keeping him as quiet as possible and on various monitors, of course."

"But why do you connect his assault to my shawl?"

"Because we have two strange things happening at the same time, three if we add the attack on your husband. Lodeve is not exactly known as 'crime city'! So there must be some kind of connection. None of the incidents make sense..." and here the Inspector thought of the attack on Père Hippolyte in Arles to steal an old, faded Scottish rug of no possible value. A rug, moreover, of no known clan design, badly made and worthless, according to Father John. "What did your shawl look like?" he asked her suddenly.

"It was beautiful. Brilliant colors, reds, yellows and black."

"Oh." The Inspector had hoped for a different answer. This was absurd.

As he stood outside the hotel with Deirdre his cell phone rang.

"I've only now been able to get away from the others to call you. When Tom spoke to Mathilde last night he was told that Deirdre's plaid had been stolen." Keith told him.

"I know. I'm just talking to her now. Another strange occurrence: Monsieur Cotte was attacked and beaten senseless when he opened his shop earlier than usual this morning. The place had been turned upside-down and the thief wore a mask. Yes, she bought it from him but it was gone from the hotel before the thief searched the store. Where are you now? Are you spending the night there? Oh, at the chapelle de St. Eutrope? Is there enough room for all of you? There used to be only a little...oh well, make sure so you won't end up sleeping under a tree." And he rang off.

"That was Keith?"

"Yes."

"Is everyone well?"

"I imagine so. He didn't say."

"Somehow I'm always surprised to hear him speak French. He's more of an English type isn't he?"

"A throw-back perhaps. Parts of France did belong to England hundreds of years ago."

"Yes. Where are they now?"

"Below St. Gervais sur Mare."

"I'll check on my map," she smiled, "that way I can pretend I'm still with them and that everything is normal. Bernard marching along, enjoying every minute of it..." her eyes filled with tears, "both of us talking and thinking of our goal, not left behind to worry about stolen rugs and poor Monsieur Cotte in the hospital fighting for his life." She started to cry. "Coming on top of the attack on Bernard I just can't bear it."

"But Deirdre, what is wrong?" Mathilde had materialized at her side and swept her up in her arms, holding the older woman tightly as the storm of weeping racked her body. Mathilde clasped her firmly and patted her back as if soothing a hysterical child. Looking over Deirdre's heaving shoulders she glared at the Inspector.

"What is going on, Inspector?" She demanded in a fierce voice.

"I wish I knew." He replied sadly.

"Because we just heard from Marie-Claude who had it from Chef that Monsieur Cotte is dead!"

"What?"

"Help me!" Mathilde called to the Inspector as Deirdre's full weight fell on her in a dead faint.

*

By now the sky had turned a deep purple blue and, as if coated by an iridescent and luminous screen, gave an unearthly glow to the road they were traversing. Soft moss was underfoot - so dense, their footprints left only a momentary trace before disappearing a heartbeat later as the springy velvet paving shot upright again, erasing any spoor of their passing along this age-old and magical route. From somewhere in the near distance a silvery voice could be heard singing softly to the accompaniment of twittering strings.

Sur les march' du palais

Y a un' tout belle fille

Lon la

Y a un tout belle fille.

As they reached the end of the path they could see the lowering outline of St. Eutrope

towering above them in the silent twilight and, seated on a hillock, they could just barely discern a slim figure bent over a guitar, backpack at her feet, her head a riot of golden curls catching the final rays of daylight. She was bowed over her instrument and raptly engrossed in her song.

Elle a tant d'amoureux

Qu'elle ne sait lequel prendre,

## Lon la

## Qu'elle ne sait lequel prendre.

They remained frozen, gazing at this unexpected apparition, afraid to speak in case she should vanish, so otherworldly did she seem. It was John who came to life first and, taking several hesitant steps in her direction, addressed her:

"Helen, whose beauty summoned Greece to arms

And drew a thousand ships to Tenedos."

She glanced up from her strumming, smiled captivatingly at him and replied in a voice surprisingly low and husky.

"Come closer, famed Odysseus, moor your ship on our coast

So you can hear our song."

"Ah," John sighed, "I am lost."

"As was Odysseus."

"No! He tied himself to the mast while I, fair siren, go willingly to my fate."

"How did you recognize me?" She smiled teasingly at him.

"Your face! 'A face like this did launch a thousand ships and burn the hapless towers of Ilium! Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!' ''

John had taken her right hand from the guitar and had raised it to his lips. He kissed her fingers and pulled her to her feet so that she stood next to him. She was tall, slender and as pliant as a reed, dressed, as they all were, for the rigors of the road. In a thrice she had both her backpack and guitar slung on her body and had joined John on the path.

"Are you staying here, tonight?" His voice trembled.

"Of course."

"Ah..."

Darkness fell with such sudden force, it left them stunned and unprepared, their flashlights in the bags on their backs. As they stooped and began to fumble with tabs and buckles, small winking sparks appeared beneath their feet and all around to encompass them, pointing the way and indicating the black bulk of the chapel of St. Eutrope. Proceeding carefully they followed the ear-marked path to find themselves in a clearing surrounded by lofty trees which formed a natural setting for the slender columns, in appearance very like the trees, that on closer inspection showed themselves to be stone turrets, two stories high. There was one at each corner of the open space with a slightly taller one in the center.

"I do believe these are our quarters for the night." Keith said, advancing to the nearest one. "Indeed...reserved for the St. John Group." He raised a card hanging from a door handle of the lower floor.

"Are we the St. John Group?" Tom stepped forward to study the writing on the card.

"Since we have two pilgrims named John that's how I registered us when I called ahead." Keith laughed, "Woofy Group, my first choice, seemed a bit frivolous."

"What a brilliant, magical place." Peter-Paul was enchanted.

"There was a small rocky cabin here, able to accommodate two at a pinch and it proved so popular that some stunted ruins among the trees were added to, converted, and this is the result."

"Did someone tell you about this? Is it in the guide book?"

"It was Père Antoine in Lodeve, the representative of the Federation of the Road of St. Jacques, who told me about it and I reserved immediately."

"I think we'll vote you in as road leader, my boy. Brilliant!" Father John smiled. "Now, how many does each of these miniature towers of Babel sleep?"

"Only two."

"But there are two floors!" Tom exclaimed.

"Yes. Upper floor for sleeping, lower floor for relaxing, eating, the bathing facilities...there are some."

"So, we'll double up. Mavis and I can share." Deborah staked her claim, divorcing herself from the newcomer.

"O.K. Mavis and Deborah in #1, first one on the right. Derek and John in #2, on the corner." Keith pointed again to the right but at the rear. "Next, in #3, back left: Father John and Peter-Paul. Then we have a problem, we'll have to put three persons in #4, left front. I, Tom and Steven, is that OK?"

"Fine with me." Steven agreed.

"No sweat."

"I understand that although they prefer only two to a tower there is a possibility for one of the ground-floor couches to be pulled out as a bed."

"And the middle tower?" Peter-Paul asked.

"A bit unexpected, but now that she is here, what better location for Helen of Troy?" Keith bowed low to the young woman clutching her guitar, who had so far not uttered a word.

"No," she murmured in her low, husky voice. "Odysseus and I in #5, then you do not have to triple up."

"He can't be without me!" Derek stepped forward determination etched in every line of his body. "He needs me!"

"He will not need you tonight." She moved closer to the young man, the full concentration of her golden lynx-like eyes on Derek's face. "Don't fight me. I promise not to harm him." She extended her hand and took both of his, smiling her brilliant smile and saw Derek capitulate as, with lowered voice, he mumbled "There are some pills, I'd better get them..." He turned away, then swung back to her "If you harm him I'll kill you!" She pulled back at his vehemence, then leaned close to him again so he could smell a faint, subtle perfume compounded of woodland flowers, mosses and a tang of the sea.

"I won't harm him. I'm here because he needs me, Derek, just as he needed you up to now. But from tonight he will need me. Finish the pilgrimage in peace and know that all will be well."

"Don't!" Derek whispered, "Without him I have nothing; you don't know what you are doing." He lowered his head so the others would not see the tears that had formed in his eyes. "Go, go..." and he turned his back on her calling out, "Steven, shall we share?"

"Fine." Steven picked up the backpack he had removed to ease his shoulders and headed for tower #2 while the others all hoisted their bags and made for the enticing quarters allotted to them. Flinging open the entrance doors they were enchanted at the sight that met their eyes. Lux lamps glowed invitingly illuminating the snug, comfortable furnishings in warm, intimate shades reminiscent of autumn foliage.

"A hot plate!" Mavis rejoiced. "Oh, for a nice cup of tea."

"You need say no more." Deborah laughed, "I'm a British nurse, remember? I'll have it ready in no time,"

"Meanwhile I'll take our bags up."

"Thanks."

"There's a shower too. What luxury."

Similarly delighted cries emanated from all the towers except the central one where John had only now unlocked the door, his hand trembling. A few days ago he had told Deborah how grateful he was to God for having given him everything during his lifetime, except for that "certain person meant for me". And here she was, two days later, as perfect and perfectly suited to him as he had always imagined she would be. But wasn't it all too late? No, God was not known for his sense of humor, not his God, so stern and demanding. Was it then a trap of the devil's making? How should he react?

"You hesitate; are you afraid? Or do you long for Penelope and home?"

"No!"

"Then why so coy? Come..." She took his hand and led him over the threshold. The one lamp placed strategically on a shelf jutting out from the raw wall shed a golden light on the small room. The couch was soft, deep and cinnamon colored. It faced a small, round table made from the bole of a tree and behind it steep stairs led to the second floor.

"Will you drink something?" She busied herself over a spirit lamp, producing tea, and removed cold chicken and salad from a built-in cupboard that housed a small refrigerator. She knelt in front of the table, poured his tea and unlaced his shoes. He leaned back against the cushions of the couch that smelled strongly of soothing wild herbs and closed his eyes.

"Oh Helen, where were you ten years ago, five? Even two. Now it is too late. Your beauty unmans me."

"I tried to come to you but you did not want me...then."

"I've waited for you all my life."

"No, John. There was no room in your life for me. You had more plans than ten men in your position and they did not include me. Now, when there are no more plans and all the outside distractions are gone as if they never existed, there was a small chink in your armor to let me through."

"It is all too late, my lovely one."

"We shall not let it be." She replied and, leaning over, kissed him on the lips, a long searching, lingering kiss.

"Awake Odysseus, for Helen of Troy is nigh and loves you."

"Not Helen," he whispered, "You are Circe and I am overwhelmed."

In one fluid movement he rose from the couch and took her in his arms, burying his face in the bright, perfumed spirals of her hair.

"O, thou art fairer than the evening's air,

Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.

Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter,

When he appeared to hapless Semele;

More lovely than the monarch of the sky,

In warm Arethusa's azur'd arms,

And none but thou shalt be my paramour."

18.

Father John, Keith and Woofy shared tower #4. After having fed the little dog and taken him for his last late night ramble, noticing the while whose lamps were still lit and on which floor, Keith returned to the small principal room where the little priest was enjoying a final pipe and staring off into the distance. Woofy immediately jumped up onto a low hassock, curled himself into a ball and fell asleep while Keith busied himself brewing two last cups of tea, brought one to Father John and suddenly, not able to curtail himself any longer, fell upon his knees.

"Father, forgive me for I have sinned. Will you hear my confession?"

"Here? I don't have anything..." Father John began, then, seeing the younger man's tormented expression sighed. "Very well, my son, very well. We shall have to pretend there is a grill and that I am wearing the proper vestments. God will forgive us." And it seemed to him that on this pilgrimage so far God would have had to forgive many lapses from the norm so that yet another one could scarcely matter.

Keith moved closer and allowed it all to spill out...envy, greed, false humility. He blamed himself for every sin except murder, rape and theft. Perhaps these would have been added as well had he thought of them beforehand.

At the end of the recital, Father John forced the smile that had risen to his features into a frown and muttered sternly about Hail Marys and Keith's soul and finally allowed a slight twinkle to appear in his eyes as he added, "Now you will sleep the better for having gotten all that off your chest."

"Yes, yes. I feel better already even without the penance. Odd, how just putting ones fears into words can make all the difference. But I must watch myself in the future." He admonished himself sternly. "Father John, I've wanted to ask but...well, why did you come to Arles in the first place? Oh, I know it had to do with the Road and the pilgrimage this year but how did you or your superiors become suspicious that all was not as it should be. If you are not allowed to answer, please forget that I asked."

"Ah, I did wonder when you would come around to that..." He puffed on his pipe, took a sip of tea and leaned back in the all-embracing couch. "To answer that I have to tell you something about my part of Ireland and of course about my monastery. We are located in the wildest, bleakest part of the country. On the coast where nothing grows; just rocks and dunes and poor bleached grasses with a tough cutting edge sprouting among stunted trees. It is not land to farm, nor a land where sheep can graze, with the wind blowing and soughing day and night. It is empty, unloved and its wildness grinds rocks, trees and men into grotesque stumps, good for nothing, sustaining nothing.

Here is our monastery whose beginnings are shrouded in the history of our land. Perhaps it was not always like this. Perhaps the sea, centuries ago, was farther from the shore, the clime more favorable to growing things. Who knows? All we do know is that the brothers chose this desolate spot to build their church and the monk's quarters. So desolate and poor was it that no marauder ever came our way to disturb us, be he highwayman or King.

And so we survived as did our treasure. For treasure we had. Not gold to fill the king's coffers nor even lead from our roofs, for all was stone; but treasure we had. A stone from the sea! The foundation stone of our order.

Nobody knew who had brought it ashore. Perhaps the sea threw it out after a night's storm and one of the monks found it at the water's edge. We have no records and there are no legends attached to it. One day it did not exist and one day it did. What made it special was its color. It was blue, like the sea itself on a calm day. Large and flat and of a pale, light blue.

It was brought to the monastery and placed in the middle of a small herb garden Brother Apothecary was coaxing into being in order to grow the herbs for his elixirs and nostrums. It was he who noticed, as he worked among his plants, that the stone changed color: light blue to dark purple to inky black. And he further noticed that these changes of color corresponded to certain atmospheric changes having to do with the forces of good and evil.

The colors moved from calm, soothing light blue when times were good and there was peace and plenty in the land to deep purple and black when calamities threatened our little corner of the world. The plague years, the countless wars, the Great Depression, the l918 flu pandemic, AIDS and so on.

Our blue stone foretells these events to warn us so we, on our far off coastline, are always prepared. Some weeks ago it was noticed that the stone, up to then a pleasant blue, had turned to deep purple, then veered back again to blue then once more to a flash of black. A strange warning sign we deemed it, an evil omen of malediction. But we had no idea where or when. Until late one evening when we found that it had started to move from its crossroads in the herb garden to one of the paths. It was pointing South. The following week it slewed West and then steeply North. Learned tomes were consulted and archaic maps to no avail until the morning of the first month since the stone had taken to perambulating, when we saw it glowing jet black in the sunlight with a cockleshell crowning its highest point. Then we all knew and several of us were deputized to those sites where the faithful sign up for the pilgrimage. I was given Arles and almost immediately strange manifestations appeared. I have no idea what my fellow monks found at their sites. I found a strange shawl, a false policeman, and Père Hippolyte and decided to follow the trail to wherever it would lead me."

"But how did the cockleshell...?" Began Keith.

"The birds. They often fish them out of the sea and to open them, drop them from a great height onto the rocky coast. That breaks the shell and then they can get at the flesh But this one, although dropped onto a rock, did not break and the bird abandoned it where it lay. On our stone. Simple? Yes. But there must have been a guiding hand; there always is."

At this point Keith's cell phone rang and, answering it, he held a terse monosyllabic conversation consisting of "yes," "no," and "I see". After he had signed off he remained seated, the instrument in his hand, then put it down, sighing deeply.

"That was Inspector Lemoine. Monsieur Cotte has died as a result of the attack on him."

"May his soul rest in peace." Crossing himself, Father John lowered his head.

"Amen."

They sat quietly for some moments, allowing their thoughts to gather, from grief at the passing of a human soul to the present confusing situation.

"I've got to find some answers!" Keith leaped to his feet. "I'm going to ask Mavis, Deborah and Tom to join us now. I'm hoping they can help to build up a picture that may give us some pointers."

In less than five minutes the others made their appearance in the small sitting room on the first floor of tower # 4.

"What's up?" Tom wanted to know, leaning against the wall as the two women sat down on the couch and Father John moved to a small, straight-backed chair. Only Woofy did not stir, tired out after the long day.

"O.K. I need to ask some questions and I hope you have the answers." Keith began, "What do any of you know about Monsieur Cotte?"

"Who?" Mavis looked puzzled.

"Why? What's wrong with Monsieur Cotte?" demanded Tom.

"Have you met him?" Keith turned to Tom.

"Yes, I bought Mathilde's engagement ring from him."

"But who is Monsieur Cotte? And why does he matter so much that you had to drag us out of our beds to ask about him?" Deborah sounded peevish and very much unlike her usual helpful self.

"I'm sorry Deborah, we'll leave a bit later tomorrow so you can all get your full eight hours but this is important. If it weren't I wouldn't have bothered you. Monsieur Cotte was the owner of a shop in Lodeve where Deirdre bought her shawl."

"Oh him. Yes. I was with her the day she made her purchase."

"The one who kept on changing his window displays?" Mavis wanted to know.

"Yes." Deborah remembered the impact made by the wedding dress.

"Why are you referring to him in the past tense?" Tom honed in on the pertinent phrase.

"Because he's dead."

"And?"

"He surprised a burglar in his shop early this morning, was badly beaten and I just learned that he has died."

"He was not well. He told me when I bought the ring."

"Heart." Keith muttered tersely.

"He must have had a foreboding." Tom sighed.

"Why?"

"When he showed me the ring I told him I could not afford it and started to make excuses to leave the shop, but he insisted. He wanted me to have it and he offered it to me at the price of a standard diamond engagement ring in any shop in Lodeve if I would do him a favor."

"Tom, what did you get yourself into?"

"Nothing, Mavis, honest. I said I'd gladly do him a favor but only if it was legal."

"So what did he want?"

"That at the end of the pilgrimage in Santiago de Compostela, I would light a candle in the memory of his niece: Marie-Therese Cotte. According to him, and in his own words: 'she died young'. When he said this his face became so sad, even grim, that I told him I'd light a candle for him gladly and he didn't have to bribe me by lowering the price of the ring but he insisted, saying he wanted me to have it. So I paid, got a receipt and...oh yes, as a joke I gave him a receipt too. I took a scrap of paper and wrote 'IOU one candle at Compostela' and signed my name. It's almost as if he knew..." Tom's voice faltered.

"His niece?" Keith asked. "It must have happened long ago, her death I mean. Why did he never go before, when he was healthy? Why now?"

"Maybe it was more recent and he was already ill?" Mavis suggested.

"No, no, he was close to 80 and any niece of his who died young would have died a long time ago. I don't understand."

"Perhaps something happened to focus his mind on her death after all these years? And perhaps it had to do with our group appearing suddenly in Lodeve to remind him?" Deborah suggested.

"Why our group? There must have been hundreds of pilgrims on their way to Compostela and passing through Lodeve in all the years that have gone by since his niece died? Why now?" Tom insisted.

"Because he had gotten much older, much more ill and was suddenly aware that he could die any minute."

"And did," Father John murmured.

"And did," stated Deborah. "I think," she continued, "it did have something to do with our group. In fact with me, Mavis and Deirdre or he would not have changed his window display and Deirdre would not have wept."

"What are you talking about? What window display?" Keith demanded.

"It happened on the second day of our stay in Lodeve." Deborah began. "On the first day Deirdre and I took a walk and discovered Monsieur Cotte's shop. Deirdre insisted on entering and pricing a shawl she had seen in his window and of course she bought it. She had been impressed with the plaids John and Derek had. Well, we were actually on our way to the hospital to see Jane and it could have waited but Deirdre had already entered the shop so...in all fairness to him he did not overcharge her or try to interest her in any of the other items that cluttered the premises so you could not see the trees for the woods." She laughed, "What a wealth of treasures for such a small place in such a small town. He must have been collecting them for many years and I wondered at the time how he made a living, for it did not seem to me that the inhabitants of Lodeve could possibly need any of that. But perhaps there were tourists passing through during the season who would."

"And the window display?" Keith insisted.

## "Yes, I'm getting to that. We took the plaid and went to buy some flowers for Jane. At that time the window of the shop held a jumble of items...an old table with a chess set, some cane-backed chairs, those old heavy irons that used coal, teething rings in silver and ivory, half a fancy silk drape with fringes, a vase as big as a giant and on and on..."

"You didn't buy anything else did you?"

"Of course not. We hurried to the florist and then to the hospital to see Jane and forgot about the shop and its owner till the following morning when, together with Mavis, we passed it again, once more on the way to the hospital to visit Jane. His window display was arresting...gone were all the items that had crowded the place the day before and instead there was a wooden seat, a velvet cushion on the ground and some tall silver candlesticks that conjured up a church interior, and, using invisible string or twine, arranged as if in a standing position, an ivory-colored satin wedding dress and a hand-made very long lace veil. It was stunning and we stopped to stare. We saw him peeking from the back of the window, sort of over the display, to see how we liked it but we were in a hurry to get to Jane and did not linger. As you know, when we got to the hospital we found her gone, so we left, went back down the street and once more passed the shop. And he had changed his display again!"

"About how long did it take you to get to the hospital, learn the news about Jane and

return?"

"Around half an hour." Deborah replied.

"And what was in the window now?" Tom asked.

"An old-fashioned pram in wicker-work and old-fashioned baby clothes."

"Well, it's logical. After the wedding come the babies." Father John smiled.

"You smile, Father John, but Deirdre wept. We hustled her away from there, and again Monsieur Cotte could be seen, but only just, in the background of the window, peering out at us to see our reactions. Mavis and I probably just showed amazement at this quick change but Deirdre wept and seemed very badly affected."

"I wonder why?" Said Keith slowly. "What did the baby clothes look like?"

"Small."

"Of course, but color, style?"

"Oh, for a little boy, in light blue."

"A tiny sailor suit," Mavis interposed, "it looked very English to me."

"And Deirdre didn't explain why this upset her?"

"No."

"All this tells us," Father John began, "is that Monsieur Cotte was just a little too interested in his fellow human beings. That he liked secrets and enjoyed knowing things about others that might cause discomfort to them. He enjoyed the knowledge for its own sake I believe, not with an ulterior purpose in mind. A lonely man, perhaps, who noticed a bit too much. A classic case for a murder victim."

"How do you?...oh, I see, Deirdre...and a child. He did it on purpose, knowing she'd be coming back that way and would have to see it. But then he must have known something about her and her reaction to such a display." Deborah mused.

"Not a nice character." Tom muttered. "And I promised to light a candle for him."

"For his niece, Tom. She is innocent and she died young. Also," added Keith, "you signed an IOU."

"What we do have to take into consideration is the character of the victim," Father John added. "And we should ask ourselves if we haven't already met someone with similar traits." Father John busied himself, emptying his pipe, waiting for a reply but when none came he looked up at the others and hinted, "Think back to Arles."

"The hostel attendant!" Keith gasped.

"Yes, the hostel attendant. A lonely man, a bit too interested in those who stayed at the hostel. Chatting everyone up, his eyes running in all directions. If he had surprised someone's secret he too would have made use of it...not to his financial advantage, not to blackmail, just to have some power over another human being. It would have bolstered his ego. And, being nosy for the sake of nosiness led to his murder."

"Just as it led to Monsieur Cotte being attacked?"

"Perhaps. Even the fact that the store was torn apart as if someone was searching for something was also so much dust in the eyes of the police." said Tom. "That they should look for a thief when the aim had been to beat the owner up so badly that he would die, knowing the condition of his heart perhaps?"

"It is very possible." Father John acknowledged.

"That would make it murder, stemming from the character of the victim." Deborah mused.

"It looks like it." Keith acknowledged. "I shall suggest it to Inspector Lemoine. It might get him searching in a different direction. Well," he smiled at them, "we did manage to come to some conclusions after all thanks to Father John. And now to bed.

"Remember you promised us the full eight hours, so don't blow reveille under our tower!" Mavis reminded Keith, linking her arm in Tom's and left the tower with Deborah right behind her. As a matter of course they all glanced up at the central edifice, completely dark and silent.

"Well, they're asleep." Deborah's voice was almost unrecognizable in its ironic inflection.

"Or something." Mavis mumbled in an undertone.

"Night." Tom called and went on his way.

"Night." Mavis replied while Deborah remained frozen to the ground, her head raised, staring at the upper floor of the middle tower. A shaft of moonlight stole out from under dark clouds and lit up her face for a split second, enough for Mavis to see the tears on her cheeks.

"Shall I say something?" she thought, "or is it better to pretend I didn't notice? What does one do in such a situation? I had no idea she cared. Bed time!" She sang out in her most guileless voice. "I'm beat."

"I hate her!" Deborah whispered, "Hate her. Why did she have to come on the pilgrimage?

We were getting along so well, John and I. Oh, I know, I know, I can have no claims or hopes but for a while, for the period of the pilgrimage I could have fooled myself."

"Deborah, he's a world-famous man; he's not in your league."

"Don't you think I know that? And here I am on a pilgrimage trying to make up for past sins, for having loved someone I shouldn't have and instead of mending my ways I fall into the same trap all over again." She was crying softly.

Mavis put her arms around the older woman and held her close, patting her on the back and muttering soothing words.

"Love is hell isn't it? Isn't it? I know what you're all saying behind my back; he's not for her. About Steven, yet I love him as much as you love John and John too is not for you. He has found his love, as Steven probably will too and it won't be me. Only Tom has been lucky, or, as I should say: has won God's grace. He will be very happy and he deserves it after the life we have had so far. Do you remember Peter-Paul's tale about the Irish terrorist, his wife and their two children? We were the children. I don't know where Peter-Paul got the information..."

"He's a journalist."

"Yes. I was so afraid that at the end of the story he would suddenly unmask us. He's got a quirky sense of humor and one doesn't know what to expect. But thank God he didn't or we would have had to leave the pilgrimage. Perhaps that was his consideration; who knows?"

"So what, Mavis? You weren't a terrorist nor was Tom. From his story it seems as if your mother tried to shield you all your life, only at the end, when she wanted you to pray for your dad did she speak up. Drop the load. It isn't yours; you never did anything bad."

"Thank you, thank you..." the rest of her words were lost in tears as the storm, held in check for such a long time, burst forth and the two women stood in the woodland clearing, the moon shining down on their embraced figures, shoulders heaving, eyes streaming in a cleansing catharsis that left them once more in control and calm but not happy.
l9.

True to his promise Keith did not wake any members of the group when he himself began his day. The events of the previous night had weighed heavily on his mind so that sleep eluded him and he waited eagerly for morning so he could call the Inspector and discuss Father John's theory with him. The more he mulled it over in his mind the more sense it made. It even tied in with the attack on Bernard, and thinking of that poor man, still hospitalized, brought him to the revelation about Deirdre. Why had she wept on seeing the buggy and the tiny clothes? Was there a secret in her life or was it more mundane? The problem faced by many women...an inability to conceive? Perhaps that was her reason for going to Compostela? A last hope, a last prayer? Perhaps Mathilde could find out, no, he didn't want to involve her or Tom. Monsieur Cotte either knew the answer or had guessed it or was aware of some other secret or he would not have changed his display. He had counted on the three women passing his shop on their return trip from the hospital. The subject matter of the new display had not been a random choice. It was done for a purpose and he had hidden himself behind the window in order to observe their reactions. Even Deirdre's obvious distress had not caused him to move. On the contrary it had drawn him closer to the display. But what had he known or guessed and how did he come by the information about someone he had never seen before she had stepped into his shop to buy the plaid? It seemed to him that the Inspector would have to search the deceased's home and life, for therein surely lay the answer.

Tom and Steven were the first up and about after Keith and Woofy. They had not eaten yet and were doing some stretching and limbering-up exercises outside their tower in anticipation of the day's walk.

Keith left the door of his tower open while he busied himself over the hot plate, keeping an eye on Woofy sniffing and snuffling in the deep grasses near one of the trees, then barking sharply and repeatedly.

"What did you find there?" Keith squatted next to his dog and parted the long, green shoots. "Oh, you clever, clever boy." Extracting a small folding knife from his pocket, he cut a black, knobby shape from the ground and searched the area carefully for more. But there was only the one. "Well, I guess we'll eat it. If there were more we could have sold them. Still, for this time of year it's a miracle. The third one of this pilgrimage after Tom and Mathilde and John and Helen."

Steven and Tom came over, curious to see what Keith had uncovered, and were joined by a yawning Derek.

"Shall we all have eggs this morning?" Keith asked. "I'll hop from tower to tower and shave bits off with my knife, right into the pan."

"That's a pretty big truffle." Deborah remarked, using her towel at the same time to dry her hair, trailed by Mavis, blinking sleepily into the sun. "Aren't they found in the fall?"

"Almost always! There are some summer ones but I'd say that this is a miracle."

"Well, is it eggs with truffles for all?"

"Yes!" Came the unanimous cry and those who were awake scuttled to their quarters and started scrambling eggs as Keith made the rounds, shaving generous portions onto each pan.

"Woofy found it, did he?" Father John nodded at the little dog who was wolfing down his finder's share of this rare fungus.

"Yes. His mother is a renowned truffle hound. Probably the only female in existence, for a good truffle hound is always male. But he will tell you all about it when it will be his turn to relate a tale."

The others pretended not to hear or understand what Keith had said, only giving him rather searching looks.

"I've saved a bit for John and..." Keith's voice trailed off.

"Are they up yet?" Asked Tom, glancing at the very silent central tower.

"I believe I heard some movement."

"I'll take it over." Derek stretched his hand out and Keith dropped the remainder of the truffle into it. "John shouldn't have much; it's heavy on an empty stomach." He warned.

"I know." Derek walked to the low doorway and knocked. It was opened immediately by Helen, immaculate in white. "Oh, a truffle? At this time of year?" She smiled, "Come in," and she pulled Derek inside. "I was just scrambling eggs."

"John doesn't eat a big breakfast."

"Today he will." Came the calm reply.

Keith checked his watch and returned to the small sitting room to call Inspector Lemoine in privacy. Here he unburdened himself fully of the conclusions they had reached the previous evening, listened to the Inspector's report on Deirdre's fainting fit upon learning of Monsieur Cotte's death and the further report that the home premises of the late shop owner had not been disturbed. But so far there were no clues as to why he had been attacked.

His apartment was almost Spartan in content compared to the store and there did not seem to be anything missing or hidden. This was also the opinion of Madame Pompe who came every week to clean and do some cooking so Monsieur Cotte would not have to go out evenings in search for his dinner.

"A photo album?" Inspector Lemoine repeated Keith's request. Yes, there had been one in the apartment on a special stand in the sitting room. He'd get it right away. Did Keith want him to call back as soon as he had it?

"Yes." Keith replied.

Several moments later the Inspector was back on the line. "I have it. What did you want with it?"

"Could you look through it please, and tell me what's in it; the sort of photos it has."

There was silence on the phone as the Inspector turned the pages of a large, maroon-colored embossed album, bound by two tassels, then his voice could be heard loud and clear.

"The usual old-fashioned family groupings one finds in this type of album. Parents posed stiffly with children, uncles and aunts. All wearing their best suit or dress. Lots of beards and bushy side whiskers. Children with hoops, balls or bicycles. What are you looking for?"

"Either a place where a photo has been removed or a snap of a young woman who might be dressed as a maid or nursery help. Perhaps holding a baby or near a pram with a baby in it. This is just a hunch having to do with his last window display."

"Nothing seems to be missing but there are some shots of younger women who might fit what you are looking for."

"Listen, can you send me the album? We'll be leaving here pretty soon on our way to Murat. Tomorrow we'll get to Salvetat and the day after that we're hiring cars to Angles as the route is very bad. The 4th day will find us at Castres. We should be there by Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest if we have problems. Could you send the album to the central police station at Castres? There is a SNCF but I don't trust them, not after Arles, so a police station might be safest."

"It'll be waiting for you although I don't know what you're aiming at."

"You see Inspector, I'm bothered by that quick change in the window display. Monsieur Cotte had gone to great lengths to create a church atmosphere for his 1920s wedding gown. Why rip it all out and in less than half an hour to produce the baby carriage and baby clothes instead. And he completed the work in that short time without knowing that because Jane had left the hospital the three women would be returning and passing his shop much sooner than expected. All this quick change in order to see one woman's reaction? Why? He must have known a lot about her to be so sure that his new display would get a rise out of her...much more than we are aware of. Can you do some research on her as well? Her maiden name, for instance, date and place of birth also if there is anything unusual or spectacular in her background or her family's. There must be something. And it may tie in with the attack on her husband and of course with the attack on the shopkeeper. And, as Father John pointed out, the hostel attendant in Arles and Monsieur Cotte had similar character traits which perhaps led to their deaths. However, I cannot connect the attendant to the Van Der Gildens since they did not stay in the hostel, but on the other hand they were in Arles that night, arriving on the train together with the mysterious shawl."

"Yes Keith, but they went straight to a hotel, and as the mistral was already blowing, I doubt they went out for a stroll in the direction of that green door. And I also don't see the attendant braving the elements, which he is known to have feared, to go to a posh hotel in order to run into the Van Der Gildens, recognize them as being something other than what they are and getting killed for his pains. No, no, that is all much too far-fetched."

"Inspector Lemoine, you are forgetting the false policeman at the train station. He was there when the Van Der Gildens arrived. One phone call is all it takes."

"Yes, you are right. I had forgotten him. You do have a point but I still can't make head or tail of it all. I'll send you the album in the hope your hunch, whatever it is, will pay off and blow away some of this fog."

"Or smoke screen."

By the time Keith had completed his call Father John had brought the backpacks down and was ready to start the day's trek. Woofy was out in the clearing, running happily from tower to tower to greet those of the group he had come to know and trust. Although Helen made friendly advances to him he refrained from reciprocating as she had not been with them long enough for him to be certain of her. He was a very cautious dog.

When everyone had descended and gathered near tower number 4 it was time to start the day.

On the exit path Keith stopped, faced them and raised his hand for silence.

"Since last night, when I brought you to this spot Father John has been complimentary enough to make me honorary tour leader. Of course I'm not taking that seriously as it is just one man's opinion and my finding this place was really due to chance. When we went to see Père Antoine, who is the representative of the Federation of the Road of St. Jacques in Lodeve, he arranged all of this for us as well as some other surprises still to come. They are not to be laid at my door because I think the sight of Father John on pilgrimage did more to loosen Père Antoine's lips than anything I could have said. He gave us much sound advice, many tips that I'll pass on when we get to the significant sites, good places to stay overnight, what we must not miss on our way and also certain routes to be avoided. Had we known him before taking that hazardous route to Lodeve it would have been much easier for us and in two cases would have avoided grave injuries."

"Hear, hear!" Peter-Paul called out.

"But we wouldn't have met Steven." Mavis added, blushing.

"You're right," Put in John. "we would not have Steven among us now. On the other hand, and there are always two sides to a coin, and as Father John said just recently: 'You never know when you will be needed, when your just being there may make the difference between life and death for someone. You may not even realize what your mere presence has done for that other person.' And I add: God works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. If we, and here I use the term loosely as I was not on that path...if we had all opted for the easier path, perhaps Steven would not be with us or anyplace else for that matter...now. As much as you needed Steven on that section of woodland road, to save Jane, to help all of you get out of that hellish place, so inversely, he needed you to get out of there safe, sane and whole himself."

It was the longest and most profound speech John had made up to now and they listened carefully, nodding at every point he brought up.

"Yes, we saw Brother Guillaume, as I still call him," added Father John, "who had taken that particular road by himself, without the solidarity of the group to aid him." And he made the sign of the cross and lowered his head. "I doubt very much if he is still among the living." Someone gasped, and when he looked up he saw only grave faces. "It was as if an evil force had sucked all the living spirit out of him. His soul was gone and I doubt if his body could have survived any length of time."

They shifted silently from foot to foot until Keith once more took up his address to them.

"God rest his soul." He muttered. "So, since I do have some tips to share, and taking into account that road to Lodeve, we have been well warned in advance by Père Antoine of another road to avoid. It's a short trek, four or five hours, but from the description it sounds like something out of a Brothers Grimm fairy tale, or even worse than the road we traversed to get to Lodeve. It leads from Le Salvetat sur Agout to Angles and we have decided, if you all agree, to switch to mini vans that will detour the place, driving us on proper roads to reach Angles safe and sound. The expense for such a ride is not much, less than hotel rooms for everyone, and we can economize at the next night's stopover or later in Spain when we can camp out as it will be much warmer at night by then. Are you all agreed?"

"Yes!"

"Anything to avoid the horrors of another road like the one to Lodeve." Peter-Paul shuddered.

## "All right then, that's cleared up, so let's go." And Keith, with Woofy trotting next to him

led the way from the clearing, back over the mossy walk, under the shadow of the Chapelle de St. Eutrope and on their route to the main road that would lead them to the summit of l'Espinouse at a height of 1124 meters to Faulat and gradually down to Murat sur Vebre, a trek of at least six hours.

It was warmer now. They were starting out later than usual, but, as their road rose steadily, cooler breezes played around their heated faces until, without even noticing the ascent, they had reached l'Espinouse where they paused to look around and rest. It was a bleak outlook almost bereft of vegetation and no place was there a tree with branches wide enough to offer them shade. They therefore drank great quantities of water from the bottles they carried, rested their feet and, as soon as they felt they were able to continue, arose and went on their way, reaching Faulat at ll09 meters not long after. Here there was a rude forester's house and a few scattered abodes, several of them closed and shuttered, but one open and willing, for a fee, to serve them some soup and bread to which they readily agreed.

The proprietress of the small dwelling was herself so tiny, the group had at first taken her for one of the children of the area until they saw her face, brown and wrinkled like an apple left in a dry attic all winter for use in pies and pasties until the new crop would appear on the trees. Her head was bound in a drab scarf and her skirts trailed behind her in the dust, yet her welcome was genial and her smile wide as she bade them be seated while she tended to the soup.

"You'm be for the pilgrimage?" She asked in a high-pitched voice.

"Indeed, yes." Peter-Paul answered her in French

"Him be priest?" And she pointed at Father John.

"Yes."

"I'm needing to confess. No priest comes up here 'n we have no church less'n we go all the way to Murat."

"Father John!" Peter-Paul shouted, "Can you hear confession? I'm afraid we won't get any soup if you don't."

"The only problem is where?"

Peter-Paul conveyed that aspect of the problem to the tiny, shrunken form which laughed, crooked her index finger, then made waving and moving motions with her hand urging Father John to follow her to a small lean-to where a few goats, at present munching the plentiful grass of the meadow, spent their nights. Here there was a wooden grill that separated the main stall from a smaller one, padded with straw, which at present contained two sleeping kids and a tiny milking stool. She pointed to the stool and rapidly, for someone her age, slipped to the other side of the screen. After fifteen minutes the small shape scuttled out of the lean-to followed more slowly by Father John. He had a serious expression on his face and looked distracted.

The clattering of china could be heard in the principal room of the small house and soon everyone in the group had a bowl or mug of hot, steaming, savory vegetable soup in their hands. Strongly flavored with mountain herbs and accompanied by big slabs of country bread, crusty from the open oven, it was a meal they all did justice to and enjoyed even more than a sophisticated taster's menu in a three-star restaurant.

Helen reached for her guitar and began to play and sing a lilting and rather naughty old folk song that set their hostess to cackling with laughter and slapping her stringy thighs. Then she insisted on treating them to a rather powerful honey wine she had brewed herself to keep out the chills of winter.

So pleasant had this impromptu stop and al-fresco meal been that they were loath to buckle up and continue on their way but, eventually, rested and sated, with no more legitimate excuses to linger, they bade their hostess goodbye, not forgetting to leave generous tips on the unevenly tilted windowsill of the one aperture in the little house.

Long after they had started their descent from Faulat and could hardly see it any more they were aware of a drab-colored scarf being waved up and down to speed them on their way.

They marched on happily, downhill most of the way, pausing only to drink water or to readjust the straps on their backpacks. Almost everyone was in a good mood after the meeting with their tiny hostess and some were in an especially lively frame of mind from the honey wine which had proved to be more potent than expected.

Only Derek looked depressed, walking by himself, and Father John, while not depressed, had a thoughtful expression on his face, the same one he had evinced after having heard their hostesses' confession. He walked forward more rapidly to catch up with Keith who was having a discussion with John about literature. Especially English literature in which Keith showed great interest and which he had studied at the University. Helen was content to walk silently beside them, interpolating a word here or there. Her knowledge of the classics was deep and wide. Hearing them thus engaged in what seemed a favorite discourse, Father John decided not to intervene, hoping to speak to Keith later, perhaps in the evening once they had settled down for the night in Murat sur Vebre, where due to the lack of accommodations they would once more be divided between the sole hotel and the B and B.

*

"Well, here you are." The driver tilted his head to indicate the rose-brick building. "Hope your brother'll help you. Looks pretty swollen to me. Can you get out on your own or do you need help?"

"I'll manage, and thank you again. I don't know what I would have done without you."

"Someone else would have stopped for you. Probably the police, eventually, seeing as you're injured."

"Yes, perhaps, but this was more pleasant than the police. I can't thank you enough. We're redecorating now but next week stop in at 'le table d'amis' to have a meal on me."

"I'll have to bring the wife."

"She's welcome. Here's the card, see? Address and phone number and my name: Luc

Castres; that's me. Call ahead and I'll have a good table for you."

"Well now, I don't mind if I do. The wife'll be thrilled. Good Luck, eh...sorry about The Road though."

"Yeah, next time maybe I'll go all the way. It's been my dream for a long time."

The young man swung himself out of the car, careful of his injured leg. He leaned on his pilgrim's stave and waved as his savior waved back and drove off rapidly to pursue his own concerns. Luc watched him until he was out of sight, then hobbled to the entrance of the Institute of Tropical Diseases and pressed the weight of his body against the door to open it.

*

When they straggled into Murat sur Vebre it was close to 6:00 PM, for although it had only been a 6-hour walk from their point of departure, they had lingered longer than expected over their lunch and now found themselves not the only group of pilgrims in the small town. One, made up of at least 25 souls and their priest from a church in a Chicago suburb had already taken over all the cheaper overnight venues. The other group was even larger and of mixed French and Belgian origin. They had reserved every room in the lone hotel of the town.

Up to now there had never been a problem in finding lodgings for the night and there had been no need to call ahead and reserve. But here they were at the end of a long, tiring day with no place to lay their weary limbs. As a man they turned to Keith who, with a sleepy Woofy in his arms smiled at them reassuringly.

"Don't worry, I have a small secret up my sleeve."

"Another tip from Père Antoine?" Deborah guessed.

"No. From our genial hostess at lunch today. Now let's just see if she was right. Follow me."

And he set off at a smart pace back the way they had come, veered to the left when they arrived at the entrance to Murat sur Vebre and alit onto a dirt path that ran along the bank of the river Vebre. Here they could just discern the outlines of several barges moored at the quai.

"Ahoy there, captain?" Keith had stopped at the first barge and called out through cupped hands. He was rewarded by the appearance of a tousled head of dark hair set atop a burly body emerging from the lower level of the boat.

"And what will you be wanting there?" He bellowed at them.

"Shelter for the night. The town's full." Keith answered.

By now the stalwart individual had reached the upper deck where he stood legs spread, arms akimbo, looking them over.

"Who told you about me?"

"The goodly dame of Faulat where we had lunch. I've brought you some honey wine as a present from her."

"Aye, she be a goodly soul. Come on, there's a ladder over there. Mount. There's room for all of you. Don't leave the wine behind."

One by one the members of the group, holding fast to the bars on either side of the straight up-and-down ladder, made their way to the top deck.

"How many be ye?"

"We're nine."

"No problem; I have two levels. And you'll be wanting supper too. That I also have as well as breakfast tomorrow morning. It'll cost you 50 Euros a head but the food's worth it alone."

"Fine. Well..." and here Keith turned to the others, "will this do?"

"You've saved us again Keith. Father John is right you really are the group leader. While we enjoyed the soup and the view you didn't let the grass grow under your feet, did you?" Peter-Paul looked around the spacious lounge they were traversing on their way to the lower decks.

"It's always good to ask the people who live in the vicinity, especially when the guide book lists only one hotel and a possibility for a B and B in the town you aim to spend the night."

"Down this way," The captain called out, "mind you heads."

They descended a short flight of stairs and found themselves in a narrow corridor with several closed doors on each side. The captain flung them open to reveal small but scrupulously clean cabins featuring bunk beds.

"And this one..." he again opened a door, "is the washroom. Showers; there's hot water.

Will it do?"

"You bet." Tom looked pleased, especially at the thought of the upcoming meal; soup and bread did not go far enough to hold his inner man together.

"Great! Thank you; shall we pay you now?" Keith asked.

"Well, seein' as you come from the good woman of Faulat..."

"No, no exceptions." And he turned to the others, collected the sum required and handed it over to their host.

"Thank'ee. I'm Captain Ferreol and I'm known far and wide as 'the three-star barge chef' so don't dawdle choosing rooms and washing and when you're ready come up to the top deck for yer supper. I'll be in the galley. Your dog eat just about anything?" He asked Keith.

"Yes."

"Good. I like dogs. Better'n most humans they be." And he stomped off leaving them bemused.

Once the cabins had been chosen, the gear stowed, the day's grime removed in brisk showers and T- shirts changed, over half an hour had passed and a bellow from the galley told them they had better stir themselves or the promised 3-star dinner would be ruined.

When they climbed upstairs they were surprised to see a long trestle table and wooden folding chairs arranged down the length of the deck. There were candles in deep bowls to keep them from being extinguished should there be a breeze, rough pottery plates and cutlery at every setting. Silently they took their seats and bowed their heads as Father John said Grace.

A large basket of bread was placed on the table and out of a massive, black cauldron, on the old black stove, a savory fish stew was ladled into deep bowls. Rouille in a pitcher was passed from one to the other. Bread was torn and tossed into the mixture and then full silence reigned as spoons dipped and dipped again into the unctuous saffron-flavored dish. Bottles of chilled white wine made a welcome accompaniment to the fish.

When they had wiped their bowls clean with the remaining pieces of bread, two large serving platters made their appearance on the bare table. Leg of lamb, roasted to pink perfection and surrounded by small summer vegetables, perfumed with fresh rosemary accompanied by rice constituted the main course. The captain busied himself carving the meat and had already prepared a plate of remainders for Woofy which he gave to Keith who immediately placed it on the floor next to his chair where the little dog eagerly awaited his supper.

Everyone ate with gusto and avidly for it had been many hours since their lunch of soup and bread and the fresh mountain air had given them all a keen appetite. Even John dug in and did full justice to the fare while on previous occasions he had barely picked at his food. This was not lost on Derek whose demeanor reflected dissatisfaction and jealousy, for John had hardly eaten a thing while under his care.

When the plates had been emptied captain Ferreol set a large bowl of mixed berries on the table with a pitcher of crème fraiche next to it and handed out plates as well as cups for the freshly brewed coffee. Short work was made of the dessert and when the coffee had been drunk Peter-Paul rose to his feet to address their host.

"We thought we had seen it all, tasted it all and could not be surprised by anything. In the name of all of us here tonight we have to admit our error and vote you the best chef we have met on this trip and many others. The meal was superb! A true Michelin 3-star and we thank you for it and for the accommodations and for having saved our poor bones from having to go to sleep on the hard ground. Hip, Hip, Hooray for Captain Ferreol! And now, while we sit here digesting this excellent repast, how about a tale to keep us amused and awake until it is time to go below to our much deserved rest?" And he gazed thoughtfully at each and every one of them as his eyes searched the perimeter of the table.

He was met by a long silence as one looked at the other until, and most unexpectedly, a soft, husky voice came out of the darkness.

"I have a tale to tell that may amuse and amaze you," Helen began, to be stopped by John who, reaching for one of her hands and kissing it, added "As you amuse and amaze us all."

She had the grace to lower her head and blush and begin her tale immediately lest Derek disgrace himself and bring down John's wrath on his head in an ill-advised remark.

"It is, I understand, Tale number 4."

Victoria Fitzallen went to work for Longmans at the age of twenty.

Many young girls only dreamed of such a job and made do instead with temporary office stints or second assistant sales person in a dress shop instead. Victoria was lucky in that she had among her numerous relations an elderly uncle by marriage in the antiques business with connections to Longmans. Not only was it more pleasant to work in a world-famous auction house than in an office or shop but the possibilities of meeting the right man among the exciting, interesting, famous and rich people who frequented the sales added that extra certain something to the position.

Never mind that for the first few years she only dusted and arranged the items that would be auctioned off every month. It helped her learn the differences between Dresden, Meissen, Coalport, and Capo di Monte. Names she had never heard of before coming to London.

As for the famous and rich, she saw them only from a distance on the day of the sale and often not even then as they usually had their man of business phone in their bids once the auction itself had begun.

By the time she was twenty-five she was knowledgeable enough to be sent to the client's home to inspect the items and tag them for the movers who would pack them carefully and convey them to the sales rooms.

One day Mr. Debenham, senior vice president in charge of consignments called her: "Victoria, please go to this address and check out the items the client wants to sell. It's mainly furniture, I believe."

" _Mr. Belman," she read, "Notting Hill?"_

" _Yes. It's a private house so there are sure to be servants to let you in. I understand that Mr. Belman himself is abroad."_

She arrived at the three-storied house less than half an hour later and ran up the five black steps to the front door. It was opened by a man in his mid forties, just beginning to show some gray in his dark hair. He wore a severe dark suit.

" _You are the Longmans representative?"_

" _Yes," she replied and entered the hall. "Oh, how lovely!" The hall was round and daylight filtered in from some hidden and diffused opening in the ceiling._

" _The objects Mr. Belman wants to send to Longmans are in here." The man in black opened a door to the right of the entrance hall and ushered her into a well-proportioned sitting room, comfortably furnished, with a large fireplace at one end. She looked around and began to put down her handbag but the man gestured to her to follow him._

" _Back here," he said._

Another door was opened and a long, narrow room overlooking a rear garden was revealed. The garden, although small, had brick-lined walks, a miniature gazebo, lawns and a tree in bloom. "A cherry tree?" she wondered and then turned to look at the rectangular table and chairs of black wood that, together with a sideboard against the rear wall, took up most of the space.

" _But this is Mackintosh!" she exclaimed as she stared at the eight black chairs, their red padded seats, the swoop of the wooden slats, the shiny black table and matching buffet with small red lozenges encrusted into the wood._

" _Yes, miss."_

" _And he wants to sell it?"_

" _He has been looking at something more contemporary." came the prim, low-voiced reply._

" _Ikea?" she wanted to ask but stopped herself in time. It was none of her business what a client wished to do, still, to sell this exquisite Mackintosh set which went so beautifully with the flowering cherry tree in the garden and replace it with something of extreme banality seemed to her to be verging on madness._

She opened her handbag, removed several tags and attached them to the chairs, the table and the sideboard, gently running her hand over the smooth shiny surfaces. If this were mine, she thought, I should never let it go.

Turning to face the garden she stared out at it without seeing it, thinking of J.M. Belman and the whims and ways of the rich.

" _I've prepared some tea in the sitting room, should you wish it." The man in black had entered so quietly she had not heard him._

" _How very kind, thank you," and she followed him out of the door to where a fire blazed merrily in the grate and tea and small cakes were waiting on the low, round table and its starched cloth._

He poured, handed her the cup and drew aside.

" _Oh, please join me."_

" _But I am..." he began._

" _So? I'm not the lady of the house. I work for a living, like you."_

" _If you put it that way," he smiled, sat down, poured then searched his pockets and brought out a pipe. "Do you mind?"_

" _Not at all."_

And so they sat in companionable silence until the tea had been drunk, the cups refreshed and the last of the cakes eaten. Only then did he light his pipe and sit quietly smoking, staring into the ebbing flames. Although she would have liked to remain longer she knew that they would be waiting for her at Longmans and, regretfully, she began to gather up her belongings, glancing around once more at the pleasant room. Her eye was caught by a small photo in an ornate silver frame of a young man with a quirky, lopsided grin.

" _A cousin of Mr. Belman's," volunteered the man in black. She nodded silently, smiled, and stood up to leave. Immediately the pipe disappeared and he moved quickly to see her out. Once again in the round entrance hall, she turned to him: "The men will be here tomorrow, around mid-morning. They will take care of everything, there will be nothing for you to do. Just show them to the dining room and they will do the rest. And thank you."_

She smiled again and extended her hand. He hesitated, then he too smiled, gripped her fingers and said goodbye.

The Mackintosh dining set was scheduled to be sold that very month and much interest had already been aroused among potential purchasers. The entire set...long table, sideboard and eight chairs...was on display in the sales rooms and she noticed that it drew quite a following.

## Nobody seemed to be able to pass it without running a hand over the rich, dark wood; nobody

could resist trying out one of the chairs. But strangely enough, those who stroked the wood complained of splinters in their fingers; those who sat down said the chairs were stiff, unbending, uncomfortable and several rather loud-voiced would-be purchasers actually lost their balance when they sat down and slid off.

Mr. Debenham tripped over one of the chairs, landing heavily against a corner of the table and bruised his hip so badly he had to take the rest of the day off to go to the doctor.

Miss Volpi, in charge of Longman's decorative arts department, checked the underside of the table and rammed a 4-inch splinter under the nail of her index finger.

Mrs. Price, whose specialty was silver, slammed one of the sideboard doors on her left hand and broke several small bones.

And the general buying public continued to grumble about the Mackintosh set.

That evening after everyone had gone home and just before the night watchmen began their rounds, Victoria, stung by curiosity, approached the chairs. She sat down at the head of the table and rested her arms on its top. It was smooth as satin, warm and welcoming as only the finest wood can be. The chair enveloped her, supported her, eased the ache in her back brought on by all the standing and stooping she did at Longmans every day. The feeling was almost as if the Mackintosh set was clutching her, begging her and saying, "Don't sell us; keep us; we were happy overlooking the garden." "I would," she whispered, "but I can't afford you." And hastily she rose and fled the room.

It took her at least half an hour to find a taxi at that time of night and all the way to Notting Hill she prayed her trip would not be in vain

A light drizzle had started as she rushed up the five black steps and began to ring the bell. Again and again she rang but nobody answered.

" _What shall I do? How can I stop the sale?" she was close to panic, crying in earnest now, her tears mingling with the rain so she did not see that someone was approaching the house and she ran right into his arms._

" _They don't want to be sold. They want to come home! Get in touch with him, with Mr. Belman. Please, please stop him!"_

Gently he eased her back up the steps, unlocked the door, ushered her into the sitting room and lit the fire while she continued to sob out her story of the table, the chairs and the sideboard, rambling on about attacks, stabbings, people being thrown out of their seats by the chairs until a hiccup put a halt to her tale and she sat silent, drained, defeated and mute, looking up at him.

" _Did you sit in any of the chairs?"_

" _Yes."_

" _And?"_

" _She leaned back, closed her eyes, smiling at the memory but did not reply._

" _I shall withdraw lot number 461, one Mackintosh dining table, a sideboard and eight matching chairs from the sale and bring them back home if you will promise to come and sit in every chair at least once for eight days running so we can get to know each other."_

.

The following morning found half the group on deck where a large square of oatmeal-colored burlap had been stretched on four poles to make a shelter against the sun over the table and chairs, still in place from the previous night. Captain Ferreol welcomed them and began to set up for breakfast.

"I'm thinkin' ye'd best have a proper meal. More in the English style than the French as who knows when next ye'll eat."

"Thank you, that would be lovely," Deborah said, adding, "may I help?"

"I'll not let no woman in me galley but ye can set the table. Here!" And he waved his hand at plates and cutlery piled onto an upended crate. Meekly Deborah complied and set out plates, cups and saucers, knives and forks. By the time she had completed her task, the others had arrived on the top deck and were taking their places. Keith clambered up the ladder from the quay-side where he had taken Woofy for his morning outing.

"Here!" Captain Ferreol bent down and put a full plate of the previous night's lamb and rice leftovers down for the little dog who fell to with gusto.

"And now..." he began, bearing down on them, one large black frying pan in each hand and, moving from one to the other, offered eggs and fried sausages for the taking.

"You...woman!" He called to Deborah. "Put the bread on the table."

Smiling to herself at this sudden trust in her abilities to handle such a duty, Deborah seized two large baskets with bread already sliced, and followed the Captain around the table, then, placing the baskets at each end and sitting down next to Mavis, she began to eat her breakfast. The captain busied himself in supplying coffee and jugs of hot milk, then returned to his stove to fry more eggs and sausages.

The conversation had been intermittent, tending to concentrate on the previous day's events, the good sense shown by Keith in being prepared for the preceding night's debacle in the town, and in wondering what the day's trek would bring. They were due to walk through an area with a lake and some of the group, Steven at the forefront, had hopes of being able to stop for a swim.

Peter-Paul had seated himself next to Captain Ferreol and was interrogating him about his cooking skills. Where had he learned? Did he often rent out his rooms? How did he decide whom to let on board and whom to turn away? Was he aware of the barge cruises on France's waterways and that many well-heeled tourists had seen large parts of the country in this most pleasant way of travel? Finally he admitted to the Captain that, with his permission of course, he would like to write an article about him to be featured in his paper, The Latest News. The Captain was flattered, especially when Peter-Paul promised that the sobriquet "3-star barge chef" would be printed under his picture which Peter-Paul proposed to take with his cell phone.

"I'll send this to my paper from Castres. And it'll go into the Sunday vacation supplement. It's just the right story for the right time of year. I guarantee, captain, you'll be swamped with tourists in no time."

"I don't want none o' your English football hooligans here."

"Don't worry about them; they only go to the games. They're not pilgrims or the ordinary run of tourist you'll be getting. And if you don't like their looks you can always say they've got the wrong address."

At this point Father John rose from the table, cleared his throat for attention and said that while it was pleasant to loll over coffee on deck, they must start to think of moving on.

Regretfully, one after the other, the members of the group arose and began to gather their belongings together in preparation for taking to the road once more. Deborah helped the Captain clear the table, then too went downstairs and soon was on deck with the others, ready to move on.

"After such a lovely and civilized respite, it's often difficult to remember why we are here in the first place." She murmured as they began their descent from the barge, first thanking the Captain again, shaking his hand and blessing him for having come to their aid the previous night.

"One more thing..." the Captain bethought himself, "I'd suggest spending tonight not in La Salvetat but at La Moutouse. They've got guest rooms and it's a nice place, countryfied. Better than being in a small town."

"We would gladly," Keith looked rueful, "but in order to avoid the bad road from Salvetat to Angles we have ordered mini vans and they'll expect to pick us up in the town."

"Ah...the van drivers? They're Boiron et fils?"

"Yes."

"I'll take care of that. I know 'em well; they're kin. They'll pick ye up at La Moutouse and I'll also call there so your rooms'll be reserved and not snatched by other groups. Get there by dinner time. The chef's a woman but despite that her food's good. She's a cousin of a cousin."

Keith looked around at the others, his brows raised in silent query and, seeing heads nodding at him, turned back to the captain to say, "Done!"

"Well done!" The Captain voiced. "Ye'll be pleased."

"All right...on our way! Again, many thanks!" And, one by one they shook hands with their host and clambered down the straight ladder to the quay and started their march in the direction of Candoubre, the next town after Murat sur Vebre which they rejected, as the town had rejected them the previous evening.

19.

Having left Candoubre behind, they were soon passing through open countryside. So far they had not seen any of the groups who had taken all the available rooms in Murat sur Vebre. Perhaps they had left very early and they would catch them up along the way. The road seemed to be easy, no woods and no mountains to climb. They were eagerly awaiting the first sight of the lake with the hope of a halt there for an invigorating swim. There was even a small island in the lake and the area was safe for bathing as several vacation sites dotted the shore.

"Would our medieval ancestors have stopped to swim in this lake?" Mavis asked Peter-Paul.

"Only if they were very young and the day was very warm. People then didn't really swim for the fun of it. Life was pretty grim and there wasn't much time left over for sports. Games yes; they did enjoy games. The children would have gone swimming, the young lads. Come to think of it there are some visuals from the period in the paintings of Breughel showing children at play and another one of skaters in the winter, as I recall, but I've never seen any bathing going on and considering the sanitary facilities of the time they could certainly have used it."

"Oh look, there it is! It's lovely." Mavis exclaimed, pointing ahead.

"We are stopping, aren't we?" Steven asked.

"Of course," Replied Keith. "Now that we're not going to Salvetat we have plenty of time."

"How's this?" Derek pointed to a pleasant beach-like area almost jutting into the waters of the lake and overlooking the island to the left.

"Fine. There's a hamlet nearby, Narjac. We could get something to drink there." John suggested.

"Would you like some tea?" Helen proffered.

"Where?"

"I have a thermos and the good captain filled it for me before we left."

"You are a wonder! Yes, I would dearly love some tea."

"Here, sit down." She removed her backpack, unstrapped his and helped him doff it, placed the blue plaid on the ground with both bags behind it, leaning against an outcropping of a low hill and pulled him down next to her. Then she poured the tea.

Father John had found a place to sit some feet away while contemplating the younger members of the party who had pulled bathing costumes out of their bags and disappeared with them in a nearby thicket.

"Not going in?" he turned to Keith.

"No. Woofy would follow and then he'd be wet for hours and it isn't summer yet. I don't want to hold up our pilgrimage while we search for a vet. And mainly, I have a feeling you have something on your mind and now is as good a time as any to get it off your chest."

"Let them go to the lake first." Father John murmured.

Wild laughter, shrieks and much loud banter followed hard upon Father John's words as one after the other of those meaning to bathe burst from the thicket, now attired in swimwear, and stampeded in a wild race to the lake in order to be the first to dive in. The winner of course was Steven with Peter-Paul a second and Mavis, surprisingly coming in third before her brother and Derek.

"Wouldn't you like to join them?" John asked Helen as he caught a wistful look on her face.

"No, of course not; how childish they seem."

"Helen! Look at me! I will not allow you to become a martyr; it doesn't become you. Get into the water," he ordered.

"Well..." she murmured, smiling at him, "...if I'm ordered to..." and she stood up, stepped out of her jeans remaining in white bikini panties and pulling her T- shirt over her head, threw her clothes down next to John, pirouetted once on tip-toe and fleet-footedly raced across the beach to plunge head first into the welcoming coolness of the lake. Dazzled, John's gaze followed her. Even Keith, bending all his attention to Father John, was not immune.

"Some women have that effect, starting with Mother Eve. But she's good for John so I'm for her."

"You're very modern Father. I thought you would admonish her."

"No, no, she'll save him. She already has. And they will wed. I have another problem that worries me much more."

"Something to do with the confession of our hostess at Faulat?"

"Yes. She told me that someone had stopped at her place, the way we did. He claimed to be a monk travelling to Compostela. He mumbled Grace before drinking her soup, made some swooping, mystical signs she'd never seen a man of God make, raised his hand in blessing that reminded her of some bas reliefs on Cathedral walls and entrances but not of any living priest she had ever come across and when she tried to find out where he came from he said St. Jude's in Arles. She had not urged him to stay on and rest, as she had done with our group, and she worried lest she had committed a sin against a saintly person. Her doubts about him were very strong. And taking into account Brother Guillaume's mumbo-jumbo of religious remarks and gestures, I am very confused. How many pseudo monks are wandering the road to Compostela and how many will we find there and what do they mean to do once they arrive?"

"What did he look like?"

"Tall, slim, light-haired with a tonsure. He wore blue."

"Doesn't that fit the description of the man who had been seen gaining admittance to the hostel in Arles at midnight on the night of the mistral?"

"Yes it does."

"Another worry."

"As you may recall, Keith, I stayed overnight at St. Jude's and I did not see anyone of that description among the monks but, to be certain, I shall call Père Hippolyte. I have a feeling the man the good woman of Faulat saw had no connection to St. Jude's or any other religious order."

"I'll notify Inspector Lemoine. He's sending Monsieur Cotte's photo album to Castres and I'll speak to him after we see what's in it."

"And ask him at the same time if he has any information about the so-called Brother Guillaume. I have a strong feeling that he did not survive his ordeal, but perhaps I'm wrong. Anyway, whatever the outcome, I want to know if the Inspector discovered anything about him. Who he really was, for instance. Because he was not Brother Guillaume."

"Yes, I'll also ask him if he got the information about Deirdre."

While they had been consulting in low voices, the younger members of the group were disporting themselves in the cold waters of the lake, swimming, floating, treading water while chatting, climbing up onto the island to play tag and run around wildly letting off extra energy and high spirits. There was nobody about to see them. No campers, walkers or vacationers. They had the entire area to themselves when suddenly, in the distance, voices could be heard raised in song.

Through the night of doubt and sorrow

Onward goes the pilgrim band,

Singing songs of expectation,

Marching to the Promised Land.

"One of the groups from last night!" John shouted to Keith, who had leaped to his feet, kicked off his shoes, dropped his jeans and, tearing off his T- shirt which he tied around his neck, hurtled to the water's edge, threw himself in and swam strongly to Helen. In a thrice he had pulled his sopping shirt over her head, helped push her arms into the sleeves and faced the shore to see what was approaching.

When the band of 25 faithful circumnavigated the lake, still singing lustily and bearing a large wooden cross at their head, Helen, decorously covered in a large wet T- shirt that enveloped her like a blanket, and the others suitably attired in bathing wear, waved and cheered them on.

John and Father John lounged, fully dressed, on blankets and shouted "Forward!" raising cups of tea into the air to add to the picture of a family outing while Woofy barked merrily and it only needed a few tow-headed toddlers with their nannies to complete the picture of a bucolic holiday.

"What luck," Keith gasped as he collapsed near the little priest, "that we are spending the night in Moutouse and not Salvetat."

"Do you think that someone should tell them about the road from Salvetat to Angles?" Peter-Paul wondered as he dried himself

"They won't even notice it." Deborah replied, emerging from a thicket dressed for the road, her wet bathing suit in a plastic bag. "They'll march like that, singing hymns, the cross held high and they'll trample all the hedges, ferns, trees, caterpillars and anything else that breathes, underfoot. All of nature will get out of their way wherever they go and they won't have paid attention to anything but their goal."

"Still, I'm happier we're not staying near them in Salvetat," Mavis murmured, "they looked terribly grim and determined."

"Like a conquering army on the march." John shivered.

They gathered their belongings together and made ready to move on, however, the beauty of the lake and the feeling of private ownership that the lack of tourists had given them imbued the site with a special magic. Other locations had also cast their spell on them but they were linked to people they had grown fond of like Mathilde and her father in Lodeve, the tiny woman living alone with her goats at Faulat, blunt Captain Ferreol and his cuisine, but this area was so reminiscent of a model summer vacation site that it proved difficult to remember the chief aim of their pilgrimage.

They were ready to forget it entirely and remain near the lake for a week of bathing, hiking, carousing till all hours of the night and then returning to the cities where they lived to pick up their daily routines once more.

It took will-power and a strong desire to awaken from the enchantment to make them grasp again the objective of their trip and set their minds into the correct mood and train of thought in order to continue on their avowed route.

20.

"Do you think this lake is bewitched?" Mavis asked Deborah, casting a last lingering look behind her.

"Yes, I do," she replied, "it even made me like Helen."

"It did?" Mavis could hardly credit the change in her friend.

"She is so completely natural it's hard to resist her. I imagined her affected, scheming. No!

She just is! Completely natural." She repeated.

"Don't you mean completely au naturel?"

"Well, that too." Deborah laughed. "But oh my, if I stripped to such advantage I'd be the same. Did you see those breasts and legs? Lucky John!"

"But is he well enough? Do you really believe he can...I mean, do they? I mean..." Mavis broke off embarrassed.

"You bet. He is besotted and she looks...well, I was going to say like the cat that swallowed the cream but that's a bit gross isn't it? Let's just say she looks satisfied."

"So he got his heart's desire and perhaps she too. It's turning out to be a strange undertaking, isn't it? You know, when Tom and I signed up for the pilgrimage, for our mother's sake...it was never our choice you see..."

"Yes, I know."

"I never imagined it would be like this. That first evening in Arles I had second thoughts as did Tom and if we could have, we would have taken to our heels and headed for home on the first available plane. That hostel! The smell from the drains! And the drabness! The only thing they'd ever painted there for years was the front door! Not at all what we'd imagined, hoped for. Too much like our home environment and, excuse me for saying so, our co-pilgrims except for Peter-Paul, also reminded us of our corner of Ireland.

From what our mother had always told us we expected miracles to blossom at every quarter. That did finally happen with Father John's unexpected appearance at the bonfire and the first magical tale, but before that we would have bolted, except for our promise. Tom felt it very strongly and begged me to give it up and go home. And look what happened to him! He found himself, his love and his future. It's all turned around for him, as it will for me. I do feel that now."

It was the first time Mavis had spoken so openly and so emphatically on any subject since she and Tom had first signed up for the pilgrimage and Deborah began to have warmer feelings for this young woman.

"Perhaps your mother, in her dying moments had some foreknowledge of this? God does work in mysterious ways, as John reminded us not so long ago."

"Yes, perhaps. I'm truly happy for my brother. I have worried so much about him and the future. A spotty education at best, no profession, what would become of him? And always the fear that a life centered on his mates, the pub and a motorcycle would eventually lead him in the wrong direction. To a prank or a dare that could turn deadly...to himself or someone else. I was so afraid. And now, suddenly, a whole new life has opened for him. I do hope mother knows; do you think...?"

"Yes, I do. And to make sure, you must light a candle for her as well as your dad. And you will tell her. I only wish you could tell her some good news about yourself at the same time." Deborah's voice trailed off, then bethinking herself, she continued, "What was Steven's reaction to Helen running into the lake in only her bikini panties?"

"I don't think he even noticed."

"He's not interested in women, or men either, Mavis. Sex doesn't turn him on. Ideas do, and that's dangerous. Now he's leading Derek in the same direction, whatever it is, because Derek has lost his idol. John was everything to him; he worshipped his genius and therefore idolized the man. But John was never taken in by that sort of idolatry and has bestowed himself, body and soul, on Helen for whom he has waited all his life. He is lost to Derek and I fear that at some point Derek will take his revenge, or, even worse, turn it all upon himself."

"John is lost to you, Deborah."

"He was never mine, even if I longed for it."

"The same applies to Derek."

"Yes, but Derek isn't as honest as I am."

"Does anybody know where we're going?" Peter-Paul called out from the head of the line.

"To Moutouse."

"We'll get there too early; and there's lunch to think of." Tom reminded them.

"We just had a huge breakfast," Mavis chided. "You'll get fat."

"That was hours ago and I spent a lot of energy at the lake. Isn't there anyplace along here where we could get a bite to eat?"

"Why don't you ever check your maps Tom?" Keith sounded exasperated.

"I need to know only one way, well two actually. Straight ahead to Compostela and straight back to Lodeve. And on the return trip I'll let the French train company figure it out."

"O.K. O.K. there's Villelongue up ahead and to the left of the lake; they'll have some eating places for sure."

"But what if we find those hymn-singing cross-bearing fundamentalists there, spread out all over every eating spot in the place?" And Tom came to a sudden halt, facing the group. "I refuse to become friendly with them."

"I have an idea..." Derek offered. "I'll sneak into Villelongue, spy out the lay of the land, send up a pre-arranged signal if the coast is clear..."

"That sounds like the spies in the Old Testament story, checking out the Promised Land." Helen laughed.

"Exactly!" Father John smiled at her.

"You're becoming paranoid Tom," John admonished. "If they're in the town we'll just ignore them, that's all."

"Yeah, thanks John, you've put it into the proper perspective. Come on! We'll just snub them if they're here."

When they entered Villelongue there was no sign of any group of pilgrims whatsoever and they found a pleasant small café to have a light lunch, taking care not to over eat, for dinner would be early and if the captain's relative resembled him in the culinary department they would have to leave plenty of room to do justice to the evening repast. And he had recommended her highly "though she be a woman!"

"Now that they aren't here," Deborah mused. "I wonder where they do have their meals."

"They're Americans. You can be sure they have all the means with them to whip up a meal anyplace they find themselves. Portable stoves, folding stoves, disposable stoves, special rations used by the army or the astronauts. Everything in tubes and so on." Peter-Paul decided.

"Pills!" Steven waved his fork in the air. "Pills that you drop in water and hey presto you've got bangers and mash on your plate."

"Oh, I know. I saw some stuff in a pharmacy. It came in a round tin and when I asked about it the pharmacist told me it was a protein drink, vanilla or chocolate flavored. You just add water or milk to a few spoons of the stuff, stir and drink. Fills you up and gives you all the vitamins, minerals as well as proteins you need."

"They might go to one of the designated picnic sites and do a barbecue." Derek suggested, "They're very big on barbecues in the States."

"Yes but that requires steaks and chops and ribs and they're certainly not carrying hunks of meat in their backpacks!" John demurred.

"Who knows what Americans are capable of doing?" Steven hinted darkly.

"I wouldn't put anything past that group." Tom muttered, buttering another piece of bread.

"Tom! Enough! You won't be able to eat a thing tonight if you continue to stuff yourself like that." His sister admonished him.

"Don't you believe it, I'm still a growing lad and need my calories."

"That reminds me... remember that when we get to Spain we'll be staying mainly in camping sites," Keith warned, "The type of accommodation we've had in France up to now is not so readily available there; not in the areas we'll be traversing. So part of the daily chore will be not only walking but getting to the markets or some small town grocery store in time to stock up on what we intend to eat at night and the following morning."

"Are there arrangements for boiling water for coffee or tea?" Helen asked anxiously, thinking of John,

"Bound to be," Tom assured her. "We're not the only ones to use these facilities."

By late afternoon they had reached the turn-off to Moutouse, which seemed to be a hamlet aspiring to small town size. There was a main street, a city hall, a church and pleasant homes but they suddenly realized that Captain Ferreol had neglected to tell them the name of his relative, the name of the establishment and its precise location. And, since he had made the suggestion at the last minute as they were about to clamber over the side of his barge and leave, nobody had thought to question him. At that time the phrase "stay in Moutouse" had been sufficient. Now, however, when it was after 4:00 in the afternoon and they had reached Moutouse, they did not know how to find their billet.

"I don't see anything here that looks remotely like a country inn or even a bed and breakfast." Complained Tom.

"Why oh why didn't we think to ask the captain?" Wailed Mavis.

"Do you think his cousin's cousin is also named Ferreol?" Derek wondered.

"I'll find out." Helen volunteered as she disappeared through the grilled doorway of a small shop with large jars of hard candy in the window and a neat metal sign attached to the entrance spelling out POSTE. When she returned she had a paper cone in her hand which she passed around, and told them that the "Mas Ferreol" was just at the entrance of the town and to the right.

"Yum. Sugared almonds." Tom pulled his hand out of the cone and popped several pink and white sugar coated nuts into his mouth.

"They're only available in the spring and summer," Helen explained, "for weddings."

They had turned around and reached the town entrance, then took a narrow one-car lane and followed it for half an hour until they came to an area of tall trees, well-tended lawns, gravel walks and a two-storied rough stone house with a red tiled roof. Several broad steps led up to a wide and heavy wooden door. It was standing open.

"I do hope this is the right place," Keith led the way with some trepidation. "There doesn't seem to be a sign."

They entered a pleasant, low-ceilinged entrance hall leading to an L-shaped sitting room with rustic furniture and a fireplace that took up an entire wall. A baby grand had pride of place but there was no reception desk.

"What do we do now?" Tom whispered.

"Why are you whispering?" Peter-Paul asked.

"What if we're in the wrong place? Maybe this is a private home and we're trespassing."

"That'd be fun." Steven grinned. "Sort of like the man who came to dinner, only we're nine plus a dog...feed us!"

"Get out o' me kitchen!" A voice shouted from the next room. Frantic footsteps could be heard rushing about in the adjoining area. A door suddenly burst open and a young man with bright red hair wearing black trousers and a white dress shirt flew through, followed by a barrage of small apples some of which found their mark, bouncing off the youngster and rolling all over the floor.

Steven and Tom scrambled to pick them up as the boy veered to a staircase at the opposite end of the room and disappeared. The group remained standing as if glued to the floor awaiting further developments. These were not long in coming.

"Out! I said out. I'll have no interference in my domain!"

And again the sound of running feet could be heard getting closer. It suddenly seemed to them that they were watching a rerun of the same film, for a young man with red hair wearing black trousers and a white dress shirt scampered into the room just out of the reach of a handful of small apples. He dashed past the group, murmured "Pardon!" and disappeared up the staircase.

Once again Steven and Tom bent to pick up the apples and deposited them, together with the previous load, in a decorative pottery bowl on a small end table next to a broad couch.

"I think," said John. "we're in the right place. That was a woman's voice and I have a feeling she just might be related to our Captain."

"There's something about the style..." mused Keith.

"Indeed," replied John and, raising his voice, called out: "Madame Ferreol? Ahoy!"

He was rewarded by the far door opening slowly, slowly, one small crack at a time. The group craned forward.

A petite woman, dressed in black, her hair a mop of fiery red curls, tripped into the room smiling enchantingly at them.

"But come in, do! Welcome to the Mas Ferreol. You are my cousin's lot, eh?"

"If your cousin is the captain, then yes we are." Peter-Paul bowed over her hand and raised it to his lips. "Let me introduce everyone. I am Peter-Paul Paulson. Here is Père John, Mavis and Tom who are brother and sister, Deborah, Helen, Steven, Keith, Derek and John. And of course Woofy."

"Ah, monsieur Ashforth, you of course I recognize. Welcome. And monsieur Paulson, I know you too from the English television news program. Undoubtedly all the others of your group are equally illustrious." She smiled warmly at them. "You do not need to sign in. I shall have someone show you to your quarters. You are very welcome. And so, you do the pilgrimage?" She became serious, "I too would like one day to go. It is most important for the soul, but who will run my Mas and who will cook? It is my living. My husband he does not like to work so I have 'shown him the door' as you say in English." And she smiled at Peter-Paul. "And of course summer is the season for tourists. In winter, when we are not open I could not walk the road."

"No, no, of course not, madame."

"Roger!" She shouted suddenly, "Jean-Claude, Sophie!"

The two young men appeared at a run, sliding to a stop in front of Madame Ferreol.

"Sophie!" She bellowed and a young girl in a black dress and bright red hair hurtled down the stairs to take her place next to her brothers.

"Yes, maman."

"Here are our guests and friends of cousin Louis. Show them to their quarters. Dinner is promptly at 6:00." She turned to the group, "We have others staying here as well but I shall so manage it that you do not sit near them. They say they are bird watchers and they are German but, well, how shall I put it? Ah yes – 'they are not at all the thing.' " And with that she turned on her heel and disappeared through the door.

"Please, this way." The twins and their sister led them out the front door down the steps and into the rapidly descending dusk. They traversed the wide lawn, past an inviting swimming pool and on to several small stone houses on the order of a mas in miniature with red-tiled roofs, and broad steps leading up to the heavy wooden door.

"Please, Father John..." Deborah motioned that he should be accommodated first. Keith and Woofy joined him and entered the small house, complete with living room, bedroom, bathroom and sizeable kitchen with all the amenities.

"Well, this is nice." Keith looked around.

"And here is the key." Sophie handed it to Keith. "We do not have crime as a rule but it is better, my mother says, not to tempt people."

"Your mother is very wise." Father John smiled at the girl.

"There is a mas with a _lit matrimonial..._ you would say 'a wedding bed'?" One of the twins attempted to translate into English.

"No, we say 'double bed'." Steven corrected with a smile.

"Double bed? Oh yes, I see, well, I do not know if..." He did not complete the sentence, obviously embarrassed to ask who might be married to whom in the group.

"Madame and I will take that." John stepped forward, took the key as he and Helen went off to inspect their cottage.

"Remember, please. In the dining room at 6:00. Mother is very particular about punctuality, especially at meal times."

"Not to worry." Deborah laughed. "We spent a night on Captain Ferreol's barge and we know the drill in your family."

"Shouldn't your mother have your father's name instead of her maiden one, or did she show that to the door too?" Peter-Paul wondered aloud.

"But it is her married name. She married a cousin." Came the prompt reply.

"Father John," Keith called.

"Yes, my boy?"

"Didn't Captain Ferreol talk of rooms? I mean, I got the impression when he recommended this place that it was a big farmhouse and they rented out rooms. Instead we have small private houses. I mean, Father, this really isn't in our budget."

"He did speak of rooms. Maybe they're in the main building and booked by the bird watchers."

"But the captain knew we're on a pilgrimage and he himself took a reasonable amount for our stay plus dinner and a whopping big breakfast. I hope the others won't blame me for this. I'm as taken in as they are." Keith was upset for the first time since he had joined the group for he did not want his co-pilgrims to accuse him of throwing their money around.

"Deborah?" Mavis called through the partially open bathroom door as she toweled herself off, "How much does this cost?"

"Just what I was wondering. I thought we'd be getting rooms in some house in the country. You think Captain Ferreol even knew what kind of set-up his relative has here?"

"John?" Helen exclaimed from the bedroom.

"What it is?" He put his head out of the bathroom door. "Do you think jeans are all right for dinner? It's all I have."

"It's all the others have too so it'll have to be all right. I'm a bit confused at this luxury. I was expecting...well, I don't know what I was expecting but it certainly wasn't this," she motioned with her hand. "This will cost."

"Don't worry about it." John emerged from the bathroom a towel tied around his waist.

"I'm worried about the others."

"I can foot the difference."

"John, no! They'll be offended and anyway, that's not the point. We've been conned by the Captain."

"Are you getting dressed? If not, I have a suggestion for the next half hour," and he pulled her over to the large bed.

"What is this set-up Peter-Paul?" Tom stopped Paulson from shaving and followed him into the bathroom. "We're not Rothschilds. What was the captain thinking of to send us here?"

"Maybe he didn't know. He's probably never been here and thinks his cousin's got a small farmhouse with some spare rooms in the attic."

"Well, you know what I think? I think we've been had."

"I wish my place in Edinburgh were half as nice." Steven admitted, looking around at the amenities.

"Wonder what the tab'll be."

"Looks as if the bluff old captain pulled a fast one on us." Steven muttered, "Place like this, a house all fitted up plus dinner and breakfast well, even in the countryside it'd be over l00 Euros a night."

By the time they had foregathered some three-quarters of an hour later to go in to supper, the muttering and accusations had turned the formerly amiable, laid-back group into a sour, sullen mob capable of lynching the hearty captain should he suddenly appear among them.

"Let's skip dinner," Derek suggested. "That'll save some money. I mean, she can't charge us if we don't eat it."

"Oh yes she can." John pointed out. "In this sort of set-up one has to cancel way ahead not to be charged."

"We might as well eat if we have to pay for it," Tom grimaced at the waste of money. "but what gets me is how we fell for it."

"Did anyone see a price list in the little house? On the back of a door or in a cupboard; there must be one by law." John offered.

## "You're right! I'll go and look." And Mavis ran back to the small house, unlocked the door

and, hurrying from room to room finally let out a whoop of delight. "Found it!" she returned to the group, grinning from ear to ear. "We're off season...yes, it's June and the season begins on the 1st of July. Well, off season it's 50 Euros the night with meals at double occupancy. In other words 2 people each one spending 50 makes for l00 Euros the night, all inclusive. A bit more than the price of that miserable, smelly hostel in Arles.

"And we got no breakfast there." Tom reminded everyone yet again.

"Well, what are we standing around and gassing for? Let's go and eat!" Peter-Paul picked up his stave and led the way around the now illuminated swimming pool to the main building and the dining room where they were shown to their tables by a demure Sophie who had added a frilly white apron to her plain black dress. It was precisely 6:00 PM.

*

Rachel Piper swept up the cards for the third time, stacked them together carefully and put them aside. She looked disgruntled. Although she had laid the Tarot out three times, hoping for some variations in the overall pattern, they steadfastly refused to alter by so much as a single interpretation.

And she was not pleased!

According to her reading, all her four sons were heading straight into danger and she wished she could talk them out of it but if their cousin Peter-Paul was involved there would be no holding them. It was a strange message the cards relayed. There was great danger from so-far unidentified elements and there was also a great love for two members of the group: Peter-Paul himself and Jacob, her eldest son. How strange.

There were indications of strong allies, one a priest and one a wizard, a worker of miracles, whom they would meet at the end of their sojourn in France. And there was much more that was nebulous. Much too vague. She wanted facts and decided in this case she would resort to what for her had always been the ultimate test. She would cast lead.

She prepared ice water in an old, heavy pot, then withdrew from a small drawer the lead cap of a venerable bottle of wine, a Pauillac-Medoc, l980s vintage, which she had carefully saved throughout the years for just such an emergency. What was being used now to seal corks, when corks were still used in wine bottles that is, was so inferior it could not be employed in this form of divination.

She folded the cap up, forcing it into a tight shapeless wad and placed it into the bowl of an old, blackened silver serving spoon.

Then she lit a red candle and held the spoon over the flame, rotating it carefully, until all the lead had melted and there was no sign it had ever been wrapped around the neck of a bottle. The liquid was viscous and silvery gray which, with a flick of her wrist she threw into the icy water where it immediately solidified, as it fell, into a spiky abstract shape.

The lead had thrown out tentacles from a solid, central core. These had shaped themselves into stick-like human representations. There were four interconnected forms and a fifth for their cousin, Peter-Paul. Two of the figures had smaller, twig-like shapes appended, testifying to the Tarot's interpretation that her nephew and one of her sons would find love amidst all the turbulence into which they were heading.

She wished the rest of the lead had not spread as it did...in brittle, spiky incoherence like the aftermath of a cataclysmic bombardment, but she continued to concentrate on the stick figures. They were whole, entire, standing. No matter the danger they would face, her family would escape safe and sound. And that, after all, was what counted.

She sighed deeply and wished she could dissuade her boys from going, but the Road and the church at Compostela were sacred to them, even to the twins who had converted, one to Judaism and the other to Islam but the Road towered above all personal beliefs. It just was, it existed and it must always remain. God keep them safe, she prayed as she cleared away the spoon, the candle, the pot and slipped the spiky, silvery blob of lead into an envelope to show her husband Dragan, later in the evening when they would be alone.

*

"This isn't a hospital, young man." The guard directly inside the main entrance to the Institute of Tropical Diseases in Toulouse stopped him as soon as the door had slammed shut behind him.

"I know, I know. I'm here to..." Luc began but the guard refused to listen and continued to argue, barring the way.

"You need the general hospital's emergency room for that leg."

"No! It's my brother I need. Robert Castres. Doctor Robert Castres!"

"Oh, Doctor Castres? Well, you're out of luck. He's on vacation."

"Vacation?" Why hadn't he told him, Luc thought, then answered himself: because I was walking the road!

"Here, seeing as you're the doctor's brother I'll call a taxi for you. It'll take you to the hospital; there's really nobody here to help you."

"Yes, I know. I was counting on Robert not the medical staff."

"So? I'll call a taxi?"

"Yes, yes, please, and tell them to make it fast...the pain..." but Luc did not finish his sentence as the hours of agony since the accident finally proved too much for his fortitude and he fell to the marble floor in a dead faint.

21.

After a meal that proved to be so exquisite and subtle that even attempting to convey something of its impact on them later to friends became impossible, they headed for the large sitting room. Although it was June, a fire blazed in the grate, as evenings were still chilly in the countryside and the leaping flames contributed greatly to the genial post-dinner atmosphere.

Helen whispered briefly to John as he sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs, then ordered a tisane for him from one of the twins doing duty as an after-dinner waiter, and left the room. The others requested cognac or a soothing aid to digestion like Fernet Branca and chatted of nothing in particular in order to make the time pass more quickly so they could finally announce that it was bedtime and retire to their delightful quarters.

Helen returned, guitar case in hand, and joined John on his deep, wide chair, taking a quick sip of his drink and pulling a face at the strong herbal flavor. One of the twins was immediately at her side and she asked for tea.

The German bird watchers, who had remained in the dining room, deeply immersed in conversation, now joined them. They certainly made a strange-looking group. One was very tall and very thin with a small head that bobbed awkwardly on a long, stalk-like neck; the other was short and almost square with a large and perfectly circular cranium, like an inflated balloon set firmly on his shoulders obviating a neck.

They were hung about with binoculars although what could possibly be observed in the sitting room at night nobody could imagine. Perhaps it was such expensive equipment that they were loath to leave it in their rooms unattended.

They entered majestically, moving from one member of the group to the other, announcing their names stridently and bowing from the waist while clicking their heels together. They seemed to be called Herr Schlotten and Herr Schnapps.

## With them, to complete a classic triangle, was a female companion. She ignored the group

completely, stalking into the room wrapped in several diaphanous garments that looked like tired and faded curtains and made herself comfortable in a deep, low chair across which she sprawled, supporting her chin on the palm of her hand and, adopting a contemplative position, stared blankly into space with unfocused watery blue eyes. She had short and startlingly yellow hair and very large feet in flat shoes.

Her Schlotten and Herr Schnapps discoursing nonstop in German, ordered several rounds of drinks and ignored their female companion who looked as if she had imbibed a glass or two too many already and was fast falling asleep where she sat.

Helen had taken herself and a straight-backed chair to the center of the room, her guitar in her hand, and sat down. She strummed several soft chords, tuned the instrument and strummed again.

"Are there any requests?" She looked up at the others.

"Something French, please. You do it so well," begged Peter-Paul. She smiled at him, nodded her bright, curly head and sang in her husky young boy's voice:

Trois allumettes une a une allumees dans la nuit

La premier pour voir ton visage tout entier

La seconde pour voir tes yeux

La derniere pour voir ta bouche

Et l'obscurite tout entiere pour me rappeler tout cela

En te serrant dans mes bras."

"Ah..." Peter-Paul sighed over the spontaneous applause, "Prevert, an all-time favorite. Could we perhaps have 'Barbara' next?"

"Much too long, but I do have something else by him which is shorter. Mustn't bore the audience."

Des milliers et des milliers d'annees

Ne sauraient suffire

Pour dire

La petite seconde d'eternite

Ou tu m'as embrasse

Ou je t'ai embrassee

Un matin dans la lumiere de l'hiver

Au parc Montsouris a Paris

A Paris

Sur la terre

La terre qui est un astre.

She continued to strum aimlessly, picking out one tune after another and suddenly swinging into The White Cliffs of Dover. Hearing that all too familiar tune the others joined in and finally achieved a rousing climax with the final beloved line: "Tomorrow, just you wait and see!"

"You!" Herr Schnapps asserted himself belligerently. "Woman! Why do you not give us a good German song? Why only French, English?"

"I'm sorry," Helen turned to him, "but I don't know any."

"If it's German you want..." John had risen from his chair, outwardly affable but inwardly fuming, and stepped over to the baby grand piano that took up that section of the room closest to the dining room. He sat down, raised the lid and ran his hands over the keys to test them and make certain they were in tune. Then he broke into a rousing version of "Deutschland Uber Alles" which caused consternation among the group, and just as suddenly switched to Beethoven's Sonata Opus l06, The Hammerklavier and played through all the movements so brilliantly that when he had finished he was rewarded by a complete silence, which spoke volumes for his genius; much more than a thunderous ovation.

"I think it's time for bed." He announced, rising and taking Helen by the arm. "Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy, until I labour, I in labour lie..." and with that he grinned at the assembled company, adding "I won't continue; it might cause a few raised eyebrows." And led a willing Helen from the room.

"What is done is Donne!" Peter-Paul called after him to be rewarded by a loud laugh.

The Germans looked confused, some of the group giggled, notably Keith who knew his English literature, and, whistling to Woofy who had fallen asleep, assisted Father John to get to his feet from a very low couch and made for the exit.

"Night," he called out cheerfully.

"Wait," Deborah admonished, "we're all going." And in less than a minute the room was empty, except for the Germans who were heard by the Ferreol children to mutter "Englander" and they thought, although their German was nonexistent, "Schweine!"

"Keith, wait!" Steven called, running after him. "Did you see those binoculars?" He asked when he had caught up with him and Father John outside their front door.

"Yes, we wondered why they took them in to dinner and decided they're afraid of thieves."

"No. They're night vision."

"You sure?"

"Yep! I've been on enough night-time rescue operations in the mountains to recognize that."

"They go bird watching at night? What can they see, except maybe an owl?" Keith mused.

"They can see atomic installations, military installations...there's quite a bit of that about

here. Atomic plants producing electricity, all perfectly legal and above-board, but...?"

"I see what you mean." Keith was thoughtful.

"You'd better pass that on to Inspector Lemoine, my boy. It's really out of our league and although as a priest I should not say it, it's a long time since I've met a group I have disliked more."

"You can say that again." Steven concurred.

"Aren't they a bit overly German?" Derek had come up silently. "More of a caricature, or what people used to think Germans were like during the second world war? Sort of like a Peter Sellers imitation, or that BBC program, 'Allo, Allo.' "

"You think they're faking?"

"Yes."

"They could be Russians pretending to be Germans or, for that matter, real Germans in the pay of some Islamic country. Anything in the realm of espionage is possible." Steven thought aloud.

"I wonder if any of you noticed the feet on the woman?" Keith remarked thoughtfully.

"Very big," answered Steven promptly.

"She was pretty tall," Derek countered.

"Not that tall, about Helen's height, and she stooped a bit." Keith screwed up his eyes trying to visualize the woman.

"I think she wore a wig." Father John added.

"How could you tell?" Derek wondered.

"It never moved; her hair didn't move."

"Spray?" Steven suggested.

"Wrong type for hair spray. She's the type to have lanky, thin and wispy hair; fussing with it all the time."

"Ye-es...yes! I can just see it if I close my eyes and imagine her. You're right Father, it was a wig." Steven sounded excited.

"We can't draw conclusions about her just because she has big feet and wears a wig." Keith demurred. "She can't help the feet and as for the wig, who knows what illness she may have had that caused it to fall out, or perhaps it is thin and straggly, or..." he could not think of another example.

"Or an Indian scalped her!" Steven laughed. "It won't work, Keith; she's a man in disguise. Ask the Inspector to find out if there are any spies making the rounds in threes: Mr. Tweedeldum, Mr. Tweedeldee and something out of a bad production of A Streetcar Named Desire."

"That's just what bothers me. They're too obvious to be spies. The way they look, the super pseudo- Germanic way they acted. It really did seem like watching an old Peter Sellers movie."

"Maybe that's what we were meant to think," suggested Father John.

"Sort of a double negative or something?" Derek had grasped the idea. "Making the whole thing so obvious that we cannot accept it, brush it off and it's actually even more deadly than we can imagine?"

"Yes. It would be a very sophisticated ploy," Keith muttered. "Well, I'll pass it on. This has turned out to be the strangest pilgrimage one can imagine."

"Hasn't it just?"

"Well, goodnight." Steven and Derek took themselves off.

"Good night. Lock your windows and doors!" Keith called after them.

"You bet!"

"The oddest thing of all, Keith," mused Father John as they entered their Mas and switched on the light, "is the change in John. From a human wreck who had to be aided to walk, for whom frequent halts had to be made for rest periods, who stayed in bed whenever possible and ate toast and tea instead of meals, we now have a champion hiker, a man who relishes his food, who is up and about with the group and who spends his rest periods and nights in...how shall I put it...the perfumed arms of Helen of Troy rather than the cocooning cradle of Morpheus. What happened? The man was gravely ill. I swear it was not an act."

"It isn't only Helen, although she is a big part in the healing process, but I have a feeling she is not giving him the pills Derek forced on her that first evening at the towers. Which makes me wonder what they contain and why, if they are bad for him, Derek insisted that John take them."

"Yes, yes. Another problem for the Inspector. Information on Derek. Where did John find him, is he a friend or acquaintance of long standing or someone he hired for the pilgrimage? Is he an orderly or male nurse or just an admirer? He claims to be a nurse, from Avignon. What are his political affiliations? When you speak to Lemoine ask all the questions that were brought up tonight. I have a fey feeling again that there are plots and subplots and that they have something to do with the pilgrimage and its culmination."

"The end of the pilgrimage worries me the most, Father. Thousands of people in one small town, in one large church. What a magnet to draw the forces of evil."

They sat quietly in their little drawing room and envisaged the implications of some kind of terror attack under the above-named conditions. Hundreds would die. Having come to demonstrate their belief in God and in the power of religion through the saintly James, they were to be rewarded with death and destruction. What an appalling scenario. And what could they, a young man and an old priest and an Inspector not even on the spot do to stop it?

*

The tall young man, his face partially shaded by the visor of his black cap, closed the front door of the small, two-storied square house with its neat front garden, and, whistling cheerfully, sauntered down the path to the street. He did not look back but continued to march briskly in the direction that led to a more commercial area of Toulouse and, once there, changed his head gear to white and boarded a bus going to Carcassone.

*

When Deirdre was not visiting Bernard in the hospital, she frequented the church, took sedate walks in the town or remained sequestered in her quarters at the hotel. She ate all her meals in the by now empty dining room, for there were no tourists after their group had departed, and she sometimes had the feeling that even she was no longer a real flesh and blood person but the phantom of a young woman who surely deserved better in life than the shadow world she inhabited. This sensation had been overpowering her entire being for some time now, even before they had set out on their pilgrimage.

It was no longer sufficient to let her husband make all the decisions for her or to sit reading her Bible in the modest manner acceptable to him, for over the years of this strange marriage there now hovered a new specter. One of irksome dissatisfaction, of vague, insubstantial longings for something to happen to pull her out of the shadows and into the light and to all the experiences of life she ought, by rights, to have been enjoying already. And not to have been hypnotized into a fossil-like rendition of the type of wife Bernard had envisaged for himself.

The metamorphosis had begun on the Road and had crystallized in becoming acquainted with Mathilde, a girl of 16 with the determination and maturity that she, Deirdre did not possess at 28. In the end it had tipped the scales and removed the blinkers so that she saw her enslavement for the first time as what it was: a penance!

Without having been aware of it she had taken all the ills that had befallen her family upon herself in a bid to pay for the sins which were certainly not of her making. Yet she was paying the price for the catastrophes that had struck them when she was only 4 years old as if she had been the prime mover behind her brother's disappearance, her mother's death and her father's withdrawal from life.

Had she felt guilt as a small child? Had anyone ever accused her? She did not think so. Then why would she have to wear a hair shirt and kneel in atonement for so many years, relinquishing the normal life of a child, a teenager and finally a beautiful young woman ripe for love in order to throw herself away on a man who might be her grandfather. Who rarely, if ever, approached her as a lover or true mate, and then only with the lights out, fumblingly and in their night clothes.

A psychiatrist could probably have pointed all this out to her and perhaps steered her in the right direction but all efforts within the family circle had been for her father and nobody had noticed her distress until she had married Bernard in a bid at escape. Bernard...older than her father, more manipulative, molding her to conform to what he felt as acceptable and appropriate in a wife. Even one of his own age would not have acquiesced to his restrictions while she had allowed it all to happen. Why? A sense of guilt that had to be expiated again and again?

But after the attack on Bernard, his long stay away from her orbit, the permeation of the empty space at her side by Mathilde, the examples set by the others in the group, the chat and interplay with so many her own age and so independently different from her, had awakened her to the reality that she too was a person with her own ideas, needs and feelings and that the time had come to wake up, shake off the guilt that had never been hers and start living her life as any normal young woman would. And with that feeling came an extreme urge for flight and freedom. But how?

*

In the little spare time allotted them from their usual duties, Père Hippolyte and frères Paulus and Aloysus met to discuss the problem of the Scottish shawl. First Père Hippolyte had to fill them in fully on the background and history of the wrap and the problems it had caused in his own well-ordered life. Then he showed them a rough sketch he had made of it, remembering the intricacies of the black lines, some thick and prominent, some mere traces, as they had decorated the drab background. They seemed to form a pattern. Was that the secret or was it the composition making up the basic properties of these lines, of their essence...be it wool or cotton or some as yet unknown fiber? Since the rug was not physically available to them, much of their theories were mere conjecture and after an hour of such a futile exercise they decided that at their next meeting they would stick to what they knew for certain, if Père Hippolyte's memory was to be trusted that is, and put all their energies to work on the patterns of those black lines.
22.

Having consumed a leisurely breakfast and settled their accounts, they waited patiently in the sitting room for the minivans Captain Ferreol had promised to reroute to Montouse. Promptly at 9:30 the cars arrived at the front door of the Mas and waited patiently while the group said a final thank you and goodbye to their hostess and her children.

The Germans were still asleep and Madame Ferreol assured them that she intended to ask these so-called bird watchers to leave on the pretext of a large party arriving that very evening and that, unfortunately for them, she would need every room. Guests who consumed large quantities of liquor in the evening, making it impossible for them to get up for breakfast by the strict 7:00-8:30 AM schedule had no place in her establishment.

In slightly more than an hour they had reached Angles where they found accommodations at reasonable prices in a small hotel tucked into a cul de sac at the end of a narrow street. It had been cited favorably by one of their minivan driers who had assured them that, as it was owned by yet another member of the good Captain's extended family, it was certain to be comfortable, clean and, most importantly...and here he had leaned forward to whisper: "Bug free!"

"I wonder," Peter-Paul mused, "if it would be possible to crisscross France and manage to stay every night in a different establishment owned by the Ferreol clan and its myriad branches? Wasn't there an oversupply of Ferreols? Or was it just a coincidence? Eat in Ferreol-related restaurants and ride in a cousin of a cousin's Ferreol bus? I shall certainly include this phenomenon in my article. I'd better go and write it up for we'll be in Castres tomorrow." And with that thought in mind he made for a small lounge that boasted one elegant dark brown writing desk with a green felt blotter and bronze inkwells left over from the days when travelers spent half their time touring and the other writing endless letters home telling everyone what they had seen and what they thought of it all.

The desk reminded him of Henry James visiting France, Mark Twain voyaging just about everyplace, hating everything and saying so scathingly, and wasn't there something by Dickens as well with sketches by Boz? Well, he'd jot down a few ideas and work it up in Castres, then send his copy from the offices of the principal newspaper of that town.

He had not expected to be writing from the Road or he would have taken his laptop with him. He had been so certain it would be a news-less slogging through the French and Spanish countrysides without any human interest stories and full of complaints about inedible food, dirty hostels and camping sites, invaded by flies and fleas in equal number.

Instead he had a rousing adventure story on the road to Lodeve, a daring rescue down a mountain-side by a mountaineer who had appeared miraculously just when he was needed. Many colorful characters like old aunty at Faulat, as he had dubbed her, her goats and her potent honey wine; larger than life Captain Ferreol, the 3-star barge chef, his bluffness, his cuisine, his extended family, the delightful Mas Ferreol and its miniature Provencal houses instead of claustrophobic hotel rooms, the magic of the St. Eutrope towers and, finally and most importantly the religious inspiration of the Road itself. If it continued in this vein, he thought, he could easily work it up into a chatty travel book with an inspirational message at the end.

Character studies of those encountered could include the hymn singing and Bible-thumping crowd from Chicago, glimpsed only once but not forgotten. Mathilde and her father as an example of true Christianity in their kindness and concern for their guests. Really, there was a great deal to report. Oh, he almost forgot the most important deviation from others walking the Road: the custom their group had initiated in relating a pilgrim's tale at the end of a long day and thereby emulating that delightful work by Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales.

He would of course not mention the murder of the hostel attendant, still unsolved, the attacks on Père Hippolyte, Bernard and little Monsieur Cotte, all unsolved as well. The thefts of two completely different shawls, the disappearance of Monica, the identity of Brother Guillaume, the odd so-called bird watchers and their even odder use of night-vision binoculars and the feeling he had, vague but persistent, that an even greater evil awaited them as they marched resolutely onward along their chosen path.

He might just hint, he thought, reverting once more to the article, about three miracles, all to be firmly laid at the Saint's door. The first was the uncanny appearance of Steven on that path to hell, arriving at the very moment when a climber and his equipment were needed. The second was the miracle of St. Mathilde, as he had dubbed her. Single-handedly, in a matter of one day she had turned a callow, feckless youth into a man of quality and responsibility. And the third was undoubtedly the appearance of Helen at the towers of St. Eutrope who, in less than a heartbeat had cured John of whatever had ailed him up to then.

Was it the Road, the Saint or was love the cure?

Suddenly he too felt that life on one's own for the past 38 years was not all he had so far thought it to be. There were moments when his existence, so exciting, varied and adventurous had begun to pall. When it would be comforting to return home and find someone waiting, not just the voice mail, the e-mail and all the electronic gadgets this century had substituted for human contact. To be able to say "Come, Madame, all rest my powers defy; until I labour, I in labour lie." Done as Donne. And nobody had ever said it better than he. Yet, after having expressed the act of love so explicitly the man did an about turn, became religious and wrote sensuous poems about and to God.

John seemed to be reversing the procedure, but then it wasn't given to everyone to be the paramour of Helen of Troy. Nor would he want to. He would have to be a demi-god himself to approach someone of her caliber. No, give him Hera...a comfortable homebody, sensible, an equal partner who was wise enough to see through his play-acting to the lonely and sometimes frightened man hiding behind the persona of the famous journalist and TV personality.

He could indeed be worldly and suave, take charge and be relied upon but sometimes he just wanted to rest his head on a warm, soft breast, feel loving arms holding him tight and crooning nonsense words to keep "the things that go bump in the night" at bay.

But where was she? Of all the myriads of stars in the firmament wasn't there one, small insignificant one meant for him? If he looked up, would he see her? And what would she be like, this woman he suddenly needed as much as his daily bread to survive? What had brought this on? Up to now he had been happily self-sufficient, creating interchangeable characters for his amusement whenever he felt bored or playful. That also kept "the things that go bump in the night" at bay.

But during the pilgrimage so far, doubts had begun to creep in, small dissatisfactions had appeared, irritableness and minor occurrences usually ignored loomed large, a feeling of being uncomfortable in his own skin, a longing for something intangible which he could not describe and which made him dissatisfied with his life and himself, but for which he was unable to find an explanation.

Was this the small illness that presages the longing for love, for the "other"? Was that what had brought John to his knees before the appearance of Helen? And was he, Peter-Paul, now also thus afflicted? John had known her immediately. Would he too recognize his salvation when she appeared, or should he say "if?"

This cogitation was taking him ever farther from the stimulating and witty report he had planned to write; it was leading to philosophy and melancholy and would not do! Away with these thoughts! And to work on an informative and colorful article, the kind his readers expected of him. He sat down and began to outline an amusing, light-hearted essay of the pilgrimage so far, highlighting adventure, cuisine, unusual accommodations, colorful characters and congenial companions, all of them born story tellers who made the time between the end of yet another sumptuous dinner and going to sleep pass more quickly with an exciting, entertaining and moral tale.

"Here you are!" Keith called out breathlessly. "I've found him!" he shouted to someone outside the small lounge. "You're needed; we're all needed...put your writing on hold."

"What's happened?"

"It's those Americans, the ones with the cross. They've sent an SOS, then all communications ceased. They're on that road, the bad one." Keith's words fell all over themselves in his rush to tell Peter-Paul what had occurred.

"I don't understand a thing. Take a deep breath, start over and for God's sake speak slowly."

"The American group, the ones we saw near the lake...well, they're on the road we avoided by taking the minivans...from Salvetat to Angles, remember? And they're in serious trouble."

"Isn't there a rescue service? What could we do to help? We don't know the area at all."

"A rescue service is going out and may even have left already, but we're going too!" Keith sounded determined. "They're near a big lake and someone has already been drowned."

"Keith listen to me! I understand your desire to help but we don't know the terrain at all. You yourself were warned about this road by Père Antoine. Our going out there completely unprepared will end up causing more trouble than there is already. We'll just be in everyone's way, we'll be a liability to those who know what they're doing and they'll end up having to rescue us as well. You won't be helping the American group; you'll be hindering the rescue effort."

"You're a coward, for all your gypsy posturing!" came the terse reply from a Keith hardly recognizable in his fury.

Peter-Paul's answer to that taunt was a quick jab with his right fist to Keith's chin which connected so sharply that the younger man found himself on the floor without having taken in the steps that had led up to it.

"I hope that's sufficient as an answer, but if you want more I can provide it. Now get up, leave Woofy with Mavis and we'll be on our way."

He strode out of the lounge, left his writing equipment, changed clothes, took some emergency provisions, checked to see if his silver hip flask was full and descended to the lobby to await those of the group who were joining the rescue effort.

One after another they assembled near the exit door, until they were five: Steven, Derek, Peter-Paul, Keith and Deborah. Tom refused out of a personal dislike of the Americans and Mavis and Father John were in charge of Woofy who whined at being kept behind when it was obvious to him that Keith was leaving. John and Helen were not in the hotel.

Peter-Paul tried to dissuade Deborah and got a stony look in reply.

"Why not? Because I'm a woman?" She snapped.

"No, no!" He replied hastily, identifying all the signs of militant feminism about to land crashing on his head. What was the matter with everyone today, he wondered. First Keith, usually so polite and well-controlled and now Deborah. It just wasn't his day and he'd better shut up and follow the heroes. Oh well, it'll make some more good copy, I suppose, he thought.

"They may need a qualified nurse. I'm sure the rescue service did not think to include a medical person." Deborah stated, choosing to forget yet again that Derek too was a trained nurse. But of course, she would reply if asked, how could some French backwater hospital compare with London's Royal Infirmary?

"Pride, Deborah? Tsk, tsk," he admonished silently, "that's one of the Seven Deadly Sins, and this is not the first time you have exhibited it."

As soon as they had set foot on the path from Angles to Le Salvetat sur Agout they became aware of a change in the topography. It was similar to their route to Lodeve and just as overgrown. The difference was that when they had emerged from that passage it was night and now they were starting out at mid-morning which, on their path, looked like evening so obstructed had the area become. The trees were not pines and consequently appeared both taller and denser. Not a ray of sunlight penetrated to the barely marked road they were traversing. The sudden change from the bright sunshine of Angles to this crepuscular environment where only slimy creatures and toadstools could survive made them shiver, although they all forbore to say so aloud. They walked in single file, Keith leading and stopping from time to time to consult a map. To lose one's way here would be a disaster and they had cast themselves as rescuers.

"How far do you think they are?"

"Near the lake, here..." Keith stopped to show them the point on the map. Lac de Raviege they read.

"It's all of 13 km. long." Derek exclaimed. "They could be anywhere. Will we have to leave the path to spot them?"

"I don't know. I was hoping to run across some of the rescue team. That would have given us a clue, but I haven't seen anybody at all." Keith looked worried.

"Are you sure they're coming?" Steven asked.

"That's what they said."

"Maybe they were held up or are already at the lake. Let's just keep moving." Deborah suggested grimly.

"Hey!" Peter-Paul called out, "I see the beginning of the lake. How high up are we?"

"880 meters, why?"

"It's just on the edge, but our path is far from the lake-side."

"La Gruasse and Gieussels are the nearest to the lake without leaving the path." Keith assured them. "But that's already close to Salvetat and I had the feeling they were someplace in the middle of the path, between Salvetat and Angles."

"Well...keep going! Keep looking to the left."

"Shouldn't we call out now and then?" Derek wondered.

"Yes."

"Hello, hello, where are you?" They all shouted in unison but not even an echo answered them.

The path was so little marked and tended to veer off in several directions at the same time that great care had to be taken not to wander onto some side road that led ever deeper into the silent, oppressive wood, or culminated in a dead end where they would have to retrace their footsteps and start all over again. But by fits and starts they finally reached an area of the forest that corresponded to a mid-point in the length of the lake and there they were suddenly faced with the sight of a fiery cross beckoning to them in the distance.

"Is that a mirage or a sign from God?" Keith gasped, pointing.

"Neither." Peter-Paul replied, looking grim. "They've set fire to their cross as a signal for the rescue team. Come on! Make straight for the cross."

They stopped, veering sharply to the left and, cutting through distorted bushes, tangled hedges, snarled undergrowth and enormous tree trunks, they reached the site of the burning cross. Two human bodies were lying at its base; of the rest of the group there was no sight.

"Are they alive?" Steven asked Deborah as she bent to check pulses, her face grave. When she raised her head she shook it.

"They've been dead several hours."

"Where are all the others?" Steven whispered. They had all taken to lowering their voices at this sight of death.

"They are with God, and the cross is illuminating their path!" A deep voice intoned and they looked up to see a very tall, cadaverous priest almost next to them. They had not heard him approach.

"What happened? And where are the others?" Peter-Paul demanded.

"You sent an SOS?" Derek queried

"I sent no such message." The priest stated flatly.

"Let's go and find them." Deborah ordered and jerked her head in the direction of the lake, away from this very odd priest who continued to stand next to the burning cross, staring down at the two bodies at its foot.

As a man, the rescue group turned and, walking swiftly, charged through the foliage that hindered their path, until they were at the lakeside where they found about l0 of the group immersing themselves, fully clothed, in the waters.

"What are they doing?" Derek wondered at this strange sight.

"A form of baptism?" Peter-Paul thought aloud.

"Washing away their sins, I think." Keith replied softly. "Some sects go in for that."

"Is that how those two back there died?" Deborah whispered.

"No!" The deep voice of the priest replied. Unnoticed, he had followed in their footsteps. "They were so evil their sins weighed their bodies down and when we told them to float, the waters of sanctity took them. As they shall take all sinners." He intoned, staring straight ahead.

"Indeed? May I ask, reverend, where your church is located and to which denomination you and your group belong?" Peter-Paul could hardly disguise the contempt in his voice.

"Our church is the true church and we have our quarters in every city of the United States. Our own personal branch is in the great capital of a great State, in Springfield. We have single-handedly eradicated sin in that great city which was home to the sin-free Abraham Lincoln of blessed memory. I was privileged to communicate with him and he approved most highly of my work."

Peter-Paul was, for the first time, speechless and did not even attempt a reply.

"Ah, here are two more whose sins proved too weighty for them." There was a touch of satisfaction in the older man's voice.

Peter-Paul and Deborah remained frozen in place as Steven and Keith between them brought two more bodies from the lake to lay at the foot of the cross. Derek was using his cell phone desperately and succeeded in making contact with someone in charge in Angles.

"They're coming finally. In all-terrain cars." He announced breathlessly, his face a mask, the tears starting to form in his eyes.

"There's something in their pockets." Deborah exclaimed, pulling out a flat, heavy metal bar and staring with questioning eyes at the priest.

"Oh yes, of course. Those are the sins. When they prove to be too numerous, too strong, they will pull a man under to hell-fire and brimstone. Like these four." He spoke matter-of-factly as if all was surely self-evident.

"Do you mean to say you weigh your people down with metal bars and shove them in the lake and see if they will float? As they did with suspected witches in the Middle Ages?" Peter-Paul gaped at the tall, calm figure.

"Of course. If they float they are sin-free. If not, it is all in the hands of God."

"And they don't try to save themselves? Toss the metal out?" Peter-Paul persisted.

"But that would defeat the whole purpose of the exercise." Replied the priest calmly.

"Let's get out of here." Steven urged. For the first time since he had joined the pilgrimage he had lost his even, calm manner and looked equally sick and as if about to commit justifiable homicide in order to rid the world of a man, a priest at that, who was either evil incarnate himself or just simply mad.

"Amen! As Bernard would have said." Keith replied and the small rescue group as a whole turned on its heels and left the site just as several jeep-like vehicles began to arrive.

"The rescue group." Peter-Paul pointed in their direction. "We leave them to you!" he called out, "there is nothing a man of good will can do here! And yet..." he turned to the others, "someone did send an SOS. I'm hoping he is still alive and not one of the four who took part in an experiment from hell."

"Oh hurry please, please. Let's get out of here." Deborah was so pale she looked as if she would faint.

"Here, drink this...quick," Peter-Paul proffered the small silver flask.

She sipped gratefully until a touch of color had returned to her cheeks. "Thank you. Let's get back to the sunshine, the others in the group, normality! I cannot deal with such evil, such madness." And, face awash with tears, she pulled herself together, forcing her feet to move forward, left-right, left-right, breathing deeply in and out until the rhythm took over automatically and they were once more on the road, forging ahead, almost at a run to get back to Angles and sanity.
23.

"I need tea. Do you think they could serve it in that back parlor?" Deborah turned to Peter-Paul.

"I need something stronger," Steven muttered and followed Deborah.

Keith, who had not uttered one word on their return trip went off to find Father John and Woofy. Derek, still looking pale, trailed after Deborah and Steven. When Peter-Paul joined them in the small lounge he brought a waiter with him who took their order for tea and whisky, departed and returned in record time to serve them. Deborah drained two strong cups, one after the other, very hot and very sweet. The others gulped down half their drinks before some semblance of their former selves began to return to their white and pinched features. Just as they were about to order seconds, Father John and Mavis entered and Deborah, seeing that kind, concerned and humane priest suddenly burst into great racking sobs. It was Steven who turned to her, holding her tightly, murmuring, "That's good, that's good, let it all out. I wish I could do the same but men aren't supposed to cry."

Father John quickly crossed the room to Deborah's side, shocked to see this woman, usually so much in control, suddenly in a flood of tears. "Whatever has happened, God will help; and crying is good...it washes all the guilt away." He began to speak softly to her so only she could hear while Mavis, shocked beyond words at the sight of Deborah, the strong one, the one to lean on, dissolved in tears, sobbing and wailing, until, with many a pat on her back and a repeated, "there, there" the storm gradually subsided.

"It was all my fault." Keith whispered, with an ecstatic Woofy in tow. "It was the sin of pride that drove me. To be the first to find the lost group, to save them, to be dubbed a hero. I should have listened to Peter-Paul. He warned me that it wasn't our business, that we didn't know the terrain, didn't know what we were getting into."

"But even I didn't know what we'd run into; I only thought of the physical surroundings." Peter-Paul admitted.

"It was my idea." Deborah admitted, "I convinced Keith; he didn't want to go...I only wanted to help, truly I did." And she burst into another fit of weeping.

"And what did you find?" Father John asked, casting anxious glances at a Deborah he did not recognize. She, who had up to now been a rock to lean on had fallen apart completely.

"We found such evil, Father, that I cannot bring myself to speak of it." Keith sighed.

"You must or you will never be free of it."

Keith looked around at the others, his face a study in misery and whispered again, "I can't."

"I'd better tell you." Peter-Paul began. "We found the path and the lake. I won't go into details about physical surroundings, that's not important. What is important is that we spotted a fiery cross in the direction of the lake. They had propped up that big cross they were carrying and set fire to it. We were sure it was a beacon for the rescuers and of course headed straight to it. At the base of the cross we saw two bodies. They had been dead several hours and were fully clothed, although sopping wet. While we were considering what to do and also wondering where the rest of the group was, we were confronted by their priest. He didn't think anything was odd...neither the cross nor the bodies. He further informed us that it was the custom of the group to burden themselves with metal bars, which they slipped into their clothing, before entering a body of water and attempting to float. If they succeeded they were sin-free; if they sank and drowned then their sins had proven to be too much for them. The metal bars, of course, were their sins. The priest, who explained all this to us found it all perfectly normal and told us his sect had branches throughout the United States. There was some nonsense about Abraham Lincoln, but by that time Steven and Derek had brought two more bodies from the lake to lay at the foot of the cross." he sighed deeply, "And then the rescue crew arrived and we ran away."

The silence in the small room lasted several long moments while the facts of that morning's events penetrated their minds.

"Oh merciful heaven," murmured Father John.

"Those poor, poor people," Mavis whispered and threw her arms around Deborah.

"But who sent the SOS?" Keith wondered.

"What will happen now?" Derek asked.

"The French authorities will investigate and then, because it concerns Americans, it will be handed over to their embassy." Keith floundered "But what can they do? There was no crime. If anything it was suicide while of unsound mind."

"You mean that madman will get away with it?" Deborah was appalled. "He's completely crazy. He ought to be locked up."

"Yes, of course," Father John nodded, "but he did not force those people to put weights into their pockets and attempt to float in a lake at the point of a gun. They were free to refuse. The group followed his edicts willingly."

"How awful, how awful!" Mavis was rocking back and forth in her chair, hugging her body with her arms.

"Ah, here you all are," Tom called from the doorway. "What's awful?"

"That American group, oh Tom!" And Mavis ran to her brother, threw her arms around him and rained kisses all over his face.

"Hey, hey, cut it out. What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing," her voice faded and the tears began to roll down her cheeks. "Nothing, just that you're here and well and...and alive!" The last was almost a whisper and she smiled at him through her tears and placed the palms of her hands at either side of his face, kissing him resoundingly again.

"What have you been drinking?" Tom noticed the glasses on the table and thought he knew.

"I haven't had anything."

"Mavis!"

"She hasn't, really Tom." Steven broke in. "Those are our drinks. The heroic rescue team.

Merciful God, I can deal with everything but madness."

"Is that what you ran into out there?" Tom wondered, sitting down and allowing Mavis to cling to him. "I could have told you. They didn't look all there to me when we saw them marching past with their cross."

"It's even worse than you can imagine." Deborah sighed. "I can't wait to get out of here and get on the road again tomorrow. I want to leave it all behind me and let the fresh air blow it away."

"Hello, still together?" A soft, vague voice addressed them from the doorway and they looked up to see a familiar figure in black insinuate her head into the room. The dark glasses stared out at them.

"Jane!" Deborah called out, happily diverted from their grim conversation. "How's the ankle?"

"Fine! As you see, I'm back. Drinking?" she stared at the tumblers as Tom had done.

"We've had a terrible shock."

"A soothing herb tea is much better for the nerves than alcohol which is a stimulant."

She perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair. "Hello!" she smiled at Steven "What has been going on since Lodeve?"

"Too much," replied Steven, "certainly too much for a pilgrimage of faith and we didn't need to witness today's horrors."

"More trouble?"

"Four deaths..." Deborah sighed, "due to a mad priest leading a hellish sect to destruction."

"Oh," Jane turned pale, "I don't think I want to hear about that."

"Bernard was attacked and badly beaten while praying in church. On the day you left Lodeve." Tom related. "But he is due to be released from the hospital and will be in for a long recuperation period in the hotel. And Monsieur Cotte was badly injured by a burglar whom he surprised in his shop. He has, unfortunately, died of his injuries."

"I don't think I know who that is, but it sounds awful. I'd rather not know any more of your news if that is all you can tell me."

"Do you think we could have more tea?" Deborah asked of no-one in particular.

"Certainly. I'll order. Jane, would you like anything?" Peter-Paul got up and looked inquiringly at her.

"Tea will be fine, thank you." She murmured and he left the room to carry out their requests. They heard him speak to someone in the hallway and a moment later Helen entered the lounge and, glancing at the others suddenly noticed the newcomer.

"Monica?" She stopped and gaped at the figure in black.

"Helen?"

"Monica, what are you doing here?"

"I'm on the pilgrimage, with the others in the group."

"What are you talking about? I've been with them for a week, where have you been?"

"Bad ankle...it's a long story. But you?"

"I came to be with John." Helen replied as John came in and stood next to her.

"Is he Menelaus or Paris?" Monica laughed.

"Both! And all men rolled into one, the only man of my life and my husband."

A strangled cry broke from Derek as he turned his head aside so nobody would see the expression on his face. His shoulders heaved in silent weeping.

## "We were married this morning at the Mairie by special license." John announced, smiling

delightedly at the assembled group.

"Not in church?" Father John murmured.

"We're never long enough in one place to arrange a church wedding but we thought that at the end of the pilgrimage we might be able to find a little place in the country. I guess it'll have to be in Spain, some village church, and perhaps Father John can conduct the service." She turned to include them all, "Long tables outdoors at night, after the ceremony in the morning and everyone invited to join us when the sun will have set. Lots of food and drink. Actually, our last evening together as a group before we go our separate ways. What better way to end a pilgrimage?"

"It sounds lovely. Congratulations." Deborah rose from her seat to wish them well and the others followed suit only Derek remaining seated, his head lowered as if contemplating the floor.

"I'm going to cry." Jane whispered and removed her dark glasses.

"Monica Quiller!" Steven gasped. "That's who you are. I thought those round doll's eyes were familiar when you lost the glasses after you fell."

"So why the Jane Doe?" Tom asked.

"Would you, in my position, want to be followed around by an army of reporters watching my every step on the pilgrimage? Issuing daily bulletins about my progress, my blisters, photographing me when I'm hot, tired, covered in dust or mud? I'm still Jane Doe in case any nosy outsiders come snooping around, all right? Please?"

"Sure, we won't blow your cover but be warned, we have a journalist in our midst." Steven nodded grimly in Peter-Paul's direction. "And he is not as much of a gentleman as the rest of us."

"Oh him! He knew right away, but he is a gentleman and would never do anything to harm me. I've known him for years." Her smile included Peter-Paul who pretended he did not quite know what to make of her statement. "Are we sleeping here tonight and moving on tomorrow?"

"Yes. We'll have to start early because it's close to a l0 hour walk to Castres." Steven warned her.

"I'd better check in for the night then." And she got up to go to the reception desk, certain of finding a bed.

24.

"According to today's paper five bodies were found yesterday by the rescue team." Keith sighed, lowering the morning newspaper he had been reading. "Another poor soul attempting to float after we left, or perhaps actually when we were still standing there."

"Maybe it happened before our arrival and he sank so we did not..." Deborah could not complete her thought.

"Possibly."

"Isn't there anything more cheerful to talk about?" Steven sounded disgruntled.

"Sure! Today's outing should make you all feel good. Close to l0 hours but no real problems and Castre's a big town. You can at least get your laundry done."

"Do you know where we're staying?"

"Yes, Deborah, a bed and breakfast in an old house overlooking the water. The houses there look a bit like Turkish homes on the Bospherous. Balconies, some enclosed like boxes. Père Antoine suggested the place."

"Easy to toss a body out a window, weight it down and hey presto, another pilgrim bites the dust."

"You are morbid this morning." Deborah chided.

"It's the leftovers of yesterday," his grin faded. "It'll take quite a bit to make me forget that."

"Yes, yes it will," Deborah sighed and looked sad, "I'm trained to save lives...anyway..." she sighed again, more deeply "after years of work, my kind of work, when we see what we see in the hospital every day, how people struggle to stay alive, just one more day, just for another hour. They fight..." she began to cry. "...their limbs move incessantly. When they finally lie still we know they can't fight any more and it is only a matter of hours, minutes. But until that moment, oh dear God how they try, how they want to live, and those murderers who belong to that fiendish sect throw it all away because someone brainwashed them. I can't bear it. It's against all my beliefs!" She covered her face and wept silently, her shoulders heaving.

Steven jumped to his feet, rushed to her, embraced her and held her tightly as Keith suddenly began to babble about inconsequential matters "Doesn't Monica Quiller look ordinary off-screen; I'd never have recognized her even without her dark glasses."

"Most of the stars do. The glamor's all for the films and premieres. In private life they walk around without make-up and in jeans and you'd never recognize them." Steven replied, still hovering over Deborah.

"And Helen, who is Helen?" Keith wondered.

"She's Helen Troy McArthur which is why everyone kids her about Menelaus and Paris. She's the top Hollywood set designer, lots of Oscars, according to Jane, as I shall continue to call her." Steven sat down.

"And she came on the pilgrimage for her sins, her soul?"

"Well, film people do have souls, and sins aplenty from what one reads." Father John smiled. "In fact, with all that goes on in that world it seems to me they need the pilgrimage more than a lot of others."

"She really did come for her soul; she had no idea she'd meet John. Although being an admirer she recognized him immediately." Steven offered as the others wondered where he had acquired this information. "Jane told me." He added.

"I wish..." Peter-Paul interrupted as he joined them. "I wish...never mind. If everybody's here, let's get going. To Castres and the mysterious houses on the water!" and with that he buckled on his backpack, picked up his stave and led the way out of the hotel into the sunshine of a perfect early summer day.

*

"Why are you crying? Bernard is much better. Soon, Deirdre, he will be able to recuperate here in the hotel with you." Mathilde knelt at the side of the big armchair in the Van Der Gilden's room. "And you know," she continued, stroking the older woman's hand as it gripped the armrest, "that we will do our very best to see that he is comfortable and mainly that he gets his strength back so you can rejoin the pilgrimage."

"Oh, Mathilde, I know, I know, it's just..." she began and suddenly fell silent.

"What? I thought it was Bernard but it seems to be something else, am I right?"

"Yes," she sighed and continued in a flat, low tone of voice, "I want to leave him." And she turned fiercely to the young girl at her side. "I have to! I...I can't go on this way any longer." She paused, seeing the distress in Mathilde's eyes. "I am not guilty of my brother's abduction, my mother's death, my father's resignation from life. I am not!"

"Of course not." Mathilde began to stroke her hand, clenched so tightly on the arm of the easy chair, wondering what this was all about. "Of course not, of course not." She crooned soothingly.

"I have to get away!" Deirdre suddenly sprang to her feet and began to pace the room. "He'll be all right here. You'll take care of him. I'll hire a nurse before I leave." She stopped and stared out the window at the plane trees and their rustling leaves. "I owe him that much. But I have to leave!"

"Where?" The young girl had risen, and, confusion overspreading her features, began to wonder if the attack on her husband had not affected Deirdre so badly that the symptoms of a more than mild aberration were only now evincing themselves.

"I'm sorry," began Deirdre, stopping her incessant pacing. "you don't understand, do you? Mathilde, help me."

"I want to but I don't know why you are having this sudden change in mood, in plans."

Seeing the young girl's confusion Deirdre stopped her perambulations, faced her directly and, bracing herself, began to tell her a story in the only way she knew how, as a fairy tale, replete with a king and queen, a princess, an heir and an ogre.

*

"That's a bad ankle. You should have come right away." The young doctor in the emergency room of the Toulouse hospital had cut away Luc's shoe and was snipping off his sock. "We'll X-ray it of course, but offhand I'd say you broke something."

"I couldn't come in; I was on the road, not even close to Toulouse. Lucky someone gave me a lift. Ouch!" He groaned as the last of the sock was peeled away.

"O.K. I'll get an orderly to take you to the X-ray department and then we'll see. He'll stay with you and bring you back. Castres?" He asked, glancing at Luc's admittance slip. "Are you related to Robert?"

"My brother. That's why I went to the Institute first, but he's on vacation, worse luck."

"Don't worry, we'll take care of you. Robert's one of my closest friends, but let's get that X-ray first."

*

The relief at leaving Angles behind was universal. For even those who had not attempted to aid the misguided group at the lake felt the full weight of their madness and only wanted to flee to what they knew best: the Road!

The familiar routine of their trek offered them hope, belief and sanity. The sky was blue and the sun shone down benignly. There were no hazardous trails, no dark forests and even darker deeds. As Deborah had said, "Let it all blow away."

"It's going to be a very long slog to Castres." Mavis reminded them. "We'll have to stop more than once."

"We'll stop at Bouisset and at Boissezon, which is a bit more than half way to Castres. If we find it too tiring to continue something can be arranged in the village of Boissezon and we'll move on tomorrow to Castres. That's the good thing about this route," Keith explained, "that we have the possibility of cutting the trip in half if need be." To himself he thought it most probable that they would have to do just that. John might be feeling stronger but a march of over l0 hours at one stretch? No, neither John nor Father John would be capable of it. In fact, he doubted if any of them would find it easy. It would be better to plan from the outset to stay overnight at Boissezon. Now what had Père Antoine told him about the place? If he had. All he could recall was the bed and breakfast overlooking the water in Castres. If he were alone he would have pushed on, as he was anxious to pick up the material Inspector Lemoine was sending to central police headquarters in that city, but he had to consider the older and weaker members of the group. Let's see, Boissezon was very old and had been a fortified and walled village. Parts of the wall were still standing and there was a church. Wasn't there something between the wall and the church? An old hospice? When they called a halt for refreshments at Bouisset he'd check his notes. He definitely remembered something. Was he getting old? No, it was the effect of yesterday's mistake. Rushing to the rescue when they were not wanted or needed. How much pain he could have saved those who had gone with him if he hadn't insisted that they try to help. But wasn't that what being a good Samaritan was all about?

He had not wanted to be a hero, he had only wanted to help. But he had stampeded the others into the relief effort, so to redeem himself he must find them a decent place to spend the night. If he could just remember.

Peter-Paul started a round song, this one Shakespearian, something about spring and shepherds.

It was a lover and his lass,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino.

That o'er the green corn field did pass,

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.

Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

Those pretty country folks would lie,

In spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.

Sweet lovers love the spring.

This carol they began that hour,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

In spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.

Sweet lovers love the spring.

And therefore take the present time,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

For love is crowned with the prime.

In spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing hey ding a ding, ding.

Sweet lovers love the spring.

The pace was easy and fluid. Not too fast so that they would get out of breath nor too slow to be accused by the more sporty of dawdling, but just right for such a pleasant day. Steven, who turned out to have a fine baritone voice, now began to sing about a young man wandering in the countryside and meeting a Miller's daughter. John brightened up at this sign of musical knowledge and joined in to the mutual satisfaction of both.

Monica, for once smiling and animated, was talking shop with Helen. Deborah and Mavis walked together and Tom joined Father John where the subject under discussion seemed to be poor Monsieur Cotte. Peter-Paul was so wrapped up in deep thoughts that he stumbled several times on a perfectly clear road. So far Woofy was keeping up well, enjoying the outing and making frequent attacks on the white butterflies that hovered over the wayside bushes.

Only Derek marched on alone, head lowered, despondent, having no role to play in this pilgrimage any longer and wondering if he should not slip away altogether in Castres. It would be easy, he thought, just to step out of the hotel after checking in, leaving his backpack behind. Nobody would miss him till dinner time, if then. He had been a fifth wheel, the invisible man; time to split. Nobody in the whole world needed him. John had been the last and the most exciting to be with but now...he did not complete his thoughts; they were much too painful.

"I'd like your advice, Derek," began Keith, seeing the glum look on his face and the traces of tears under the dark sunglasses

"Yes?" Derek's face brightened at the idea that he still counted enough for someone to be interested in his opinion

"I'm thinking of spending the night in Boissezon instead of pushing on to Castres. Over l0 hours of walking is really too much, even if we call frequent halts."

"You're right. John is better but still, l0 hours...? And then we have Jane, I guess I have to get used to calling her Monica now. Her ankle might not stand up to that much punishment."

"My ideas exactly, so, we'll stop for the night?"

"Definitely. It's also important psychologically."

"Why?"

"Well, after yesterday's horrors...and here I'm mainly thinking of Deborah who took it very hard, well, we all did in our own way. A pleasant ramble of 2 days in healing surroundings, a good, deep natural sleep with no nightmares now that we have put enough space between us and what happened, will benefit everyone before we get to a town like Castres. Cities, you know, tend to bring out problems. There are decisions to be made all the time. The open road liberates man; cities enslave him."

Keith stared at Derek. It was the first time this usually taciturn young man had expressed his opinions and he was surprised at his depth. He had heretofore given the impression of a robot, a sentimental one perhaps because he had a tendency to cry at the slightest opportunity, but maybe his eyes were weak.

"That's very observant of you, Derek. Tell me, where are you from?"

"I don't really know."

"What do you mean? You must have been raised someplace on this planet unless you're an ET?" Keith smiled at his own feeble joke.

"No, of course not, but I'm an orphan. I was abandoned on the steps of a church in Avignon. Well, actually it wasn't the church but the synagogue of Avignon. And the caretaker found me and called the rabbi. The rabbi's wife took me in and pulled me through the first few weeks when it was touch and go because I was underweight and ill and everyone was afraid I wouldn't make it. But I did, as you see, and I grew up in the rabbi's house with his own children..." his voice drifted off in remembrance.

"Why didn't they take you to a hospital?"

"My mother...for so I think of her...said no hospital could give me the kind of care she could and did."

"So you're Jewish?"

"No. Oh I know all the holidays and rituals of course but when I was found I had not been circumcised as yet, although the doctor the rabbi called in said I was about two weeks old. Well, nobody knew if this was because I was from a Christian home or because I was so small and ill. Well, perhaps I wasn't healthy enough so the rite had to be postponed. In the end nobody knew what to do and so they did nothing rather than inadvertently turn a Christian into a Jew."

"But what do you yourself consider your religion to be?"

"I don't have one. It's the main reason I wanted so much to go on the pilgrimage. I had a crazy feeling that if I just let myself and my feelings float for two months somehow God would decide for me and by the end of the pilgrimage the truth would be handed to me. On a silver platter!" he laughed, "naïve, eh?"

"It's as good a way as any, Derek. I suppose that's not your name either?"

"Well, it is because it's legal, but what I was named at birth, if they ever got around to it, I have no way of knowing, do I?"

"What about the clothes you were wearing when you were found? Was there no clue?"

"No. An all-in-one sort of thing, in blue. Good quality, oh...and a fuzzy blanket also in blue. It was winter."

"How did you meet John?" Keith wondered.

"In the hospital at Aix, you know, Aix-en-Provence."

"Ah, he was a patient?"

"Yes"

"And you too?"

"No!" Derek laughed. "I'm a nurse, only I don't rub everyone's nose in it the way Deborah does." He raised his voice in a good imitation of the British nurse: 'I have to go with you; they may need a nurse. I brought my first-aid kit, I'm a nurse, you see. I'm a nurse and I've seen patients struggle to live another day, another hour. That's why it has affected me so badly, because I'm a nurse!' Sorry, it's catty I know, but I'm also a nurse and I don't push it into people's faces all the time."

"How did you come to choose such a profession?"

"Well, I looked around for a vocation where I would always be employed, no matter what the financial climate might be. Nursing may not pay much but there is always a demand. My parents said one always needed nurses and undertakers." Derek laughed aloud. "It was a family joke. But of course they were right. As I didn't think I'd do well as an undertaker, I opted for nursing. Male nurses are always in demand, mainly because there are fewer of us than women, all the young men going into high-tech. You see, we're stronger, we can handle the bed-ridden patients more easily, so we're needed in the orthopaedic departments, for patients after stroke, everyplace where the traditional work of a nurse is allied to strength, to muscle power. And somehow that also helps us earn extra by taking vacations from our regular hospital work and caring for someone privately at home; an elderly man after a hip or knee replacement, for instance. So, all in all, it was a good choice.

"And that's how you met John?"

"Yes."

"What was wrong with him?"

"Nothing physically. He had simply lost the taste for life. He no longer wanted to concertize, to travel, to be involved, to meet and mingle with people. There were days when it was a major effort just to get out of bed. So his doctor sent him to the hospital in Aix for a slew of tests. Well, he was run down; he hadn't been taking care of himself the way he should, but the main problem was mental. Nothing interested him any more. He had simply given up."

"Not even his music?"

"Not even that."

"What did the doctors do?"

"Oh, once they saw it wasn't physical, they weren't so interested and fobbed him off on the psychiatrists for Prozac-type pills, psychologists to talk about it all and then he asked me to take a long vacation from the hospital to come to his home. He had taken a liking to me."

"Where does he live?"

"Outside Aix. It's an estate. Really huge house with a studio, heated and covered pool, large wild gardens. Very quiet. Oh, it was wonderful. All the books and the music. He has servants who do everything. A wonderful cook. I was so happy there. He talked a lot to me and I began to feel as if I belonged there, as if I was an old friend or a member of his family. And he's so knowledgeable! He's been all over the world and has met everyone of importance. It all sounded so glamorous. I loved him! And he was always so nice to me, not like an employer; like a friend. So, last winter we were sitting after dinner in front of the fire...it was New Year's Eve and we talked of wishes for the New Year. So I told him of my wish to go on the pilgrimage in the crazy hope that it might resolve things for me and he began to ask me all about the road to Compostela. It fired his imagination; he took down books from his shelves, traced the routes, began to read up on the history of the Road with the result that he decided we'd go together. He would give thanks and I, hopefully, would find some answers. And that's how we came to Arles. It was like a dream come true. And then Helen appeared," his tone was bitter, "and I was thrown out of the Garden of Eden."

"Derek, listen to me! She saved his life. If, as you say, you love and venerate the man you have to be happy for him. He is cured. Now it's your turn and I intend to help you find what you're looking for."

"What can you do?"

"First of all I understand you for I too am an orphan. I too was abandoned on the steps of a church, not in Avignon but in the Jura. I too have struggled with demons and I'll help you fight yours. Will you trust me?"

Derek gazed at Keith's open countenance, his warm smile, his air of command and made the second fateful decision of his life.

"Yes."

"Good! We shall be brothers bound by a common past and perhaps a common future. We'll be like the story of the gypsy brothers separated at birth...oh!" Keith stopped abruptly.

"What's wrong?"

"Gypsies! I've remembered! Whoopee! I had forgotten something very important for tonight. My mind was a blank and now I've got it, we'll have a great time. When we get to Boissezon we have to buy food for a grand cook-out, gypsy style because I have remembered! I must say a prayer of thanksgiving. Hosanna!"

And here Keith executed a jig and began to dance down the road followed by a barking Woofy.

"We're off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz!" he warbled, then turned to his companion, "Come on Derek, smile! We're going to be gods tonight!"

25.

Bouisset turned out to be a very small hamlet nestled in a dense forest setting and, as it was still too early for lunch, they treated themselves to hot, strong coffee and rested before continuing to le Rialet which boasted a few scattered houses, a church, a café and an inn surrounded by the same expansive breadth of woodland. They chose the inn, where they were able to refresh themselves by washing faces and hands and where a hearty table d'hote luncheon was served to all who trod the Road.

The long, plain wooden tables were arranged on a sunny veranda in the midst of a forest clearing and a blackboard at the entrance listed the day's menu. Since it seemed plentiful and not costly they entered and took their places. They didn't have long to wait as several sturdy tables were placed near the doorway by two young men who then proceeded to bring in deep casseroles and large platters from the rear of the inn. When they had assembled everything to their satisfaction, they stepped back from the buffet tables and motioned to the group to help themselves.

For very little money indeed they were invited to choose from a plentiful selection of salads, main courses, vegetables, bread, dessert and of course the inevitable pitcher of wine. The food was wholesome, abundant and tasty and appetites, after tramping through the crisp woodland air, were keen. They made fast work of their choices and by the time they were approaching the end of their repast had been joined by other passersby, some also bound for Compostela, some living in the area, some just wandering through on their way to even more insignificant places.

It was a pleasant pause in the day and even Deborah began to show not only a healthy appetite but a tinge of color in her pale face after the trauma at the lake. But Mavis' features had by now settled into a glum mask of tragedy as she could no longer ignore Steven's very evident partiality for Monica. Aware of this new development, Peter-Paul exerted himself to entertain her with wildly implausible tales, jokes and even some pretty compliments so that by the time the meal had been consumed, there was a slight, shy, smile on her face.

At the same time that he was attempting to put her in a better frame of mind he also sized up every woman who entered the small restaurant for it had suddenly become a challenge to him to discover the one the gods had set aside for him, and if he did not find her on this holy pilgrimage, where would he find her? After all, everything was possible if one truly believed and prayed every day to the Saint and to God for guidance. And Peter-Paul was a believer.

After the last of the wine had been drunk, they rose to their feet, assumed their burdens and waved merrily to the others who cheered them on wishing them luck and giving them last-minute advice about the monotonous treks they would be facing once they had crossed over into Spain. One well-wisher had lowered her voice to warn them of fleas, rife in all Spanish hostels and camping grounds, and urged them to purchase sprays before leaving France.

And so, with accompanying kind words and smiles, they stepped out into the forest again where Keith raised his hand for a quiet word.

"Today's route is much too long but six hours from now should find us at Boissezon, a medieval village replete with fortified walls in a forest setting and a comfortable and unusual place to sleep. I'll give you a hint: we have to get there before the shops close in order to buy necessities for a gypsy cookout. You choose the menu."

For the rest of that day's route Deborah, Mavis, Monica, Helen and Tom walked together trying to decide on a selection of dishes that would please everyone.

"How about Irish stew?" Tom finally suggested.

"How long does that take to cook?"

"When are we getting to Boissezon?" Mavis wondered.

"Around 4:00 in the afternoon." Tom replied.

"And then we have to shop! We'd only be able to put all the ingredients together after 5:00 PM and cooking time is at least an hour. Well, at a pinch it can be done." Mavis calculated.

"So Irish stew's OK?" Tom demanded.

"Yes, but let's make it more meat and less potatoes, not the usual way around."

"Fine with me."

"What else?"

"Soup?" Monica proposed.

"No, too much like stew."

"We'll also buy meats, pates, cheeses, bread and fruit," Helen added, "and coffee, tea, milk, sugar and rolls and butter for breakfast. It seems to me Keith is taking us to one of his well-guarded secrets again and there will be neither room service nor restaurants. Next time," she continued darkly, "I shall insist that the men will do the cooking and we'll look on and do the criticizing!"

"If we leave it to them we'll end up looking like high-fashion models!" Mavis laughed, "You should see Tom in the kitchen. Lucky you found Mathilde," she continued, turning to him, "and a hotel with a good restaurant to ally yourself to or you'd end up living on sandwiches and ale!"

"I wonder if John can cook?" Helen mused.

"I doubt it," Monica sniffed, "but Steven can; he told me so and I believe Peter-Paul does very well. He has hidden talents," she smiled as Helen stared at her questioningly, then continued, "but I don't believe any of the others can."

"Well, Keith certainly knows about truffles," Helen reminded them, "and Derek surely makes sublime tea."

"Does he work in a café?" Deborah wondered.

"No, Deborah. You have a tendency to forget don't you? He's a male nurse!"

"Is he?" Deborah frowned, "Oh yes, yes, I do keep forgetting. He never mentions it and never offers to help when help is needed."

"He's shy." Was Helen's terse reply while she thought to herself that Deborah never gave the young man a chance. As far as she was concerned there was only one nurse on this pilgrimage and that was not Derek.

"Was that how he met John?"

"Yes."

"Keith seems to have taken him under his wing." Tom nodded his head to where the two young men were walking along at the head of their group.

"Bless Keith!" Helen smiled, "I wanted to but Derek doesn't approve of me and now that John and I are married his resentment knows no limits."

"Is he gay?" Deborah queried.

"I don't think so. That's not why he loved and revered John. It was more a need to cling to someone he could admire and perhaps belong to. A little like a stray dog who has been lost and maltreated who suddenly finds a good, warm home and a loving master. Well," she laughed," I'm not a psychologist, but..."

"No, you're not." Deborah snapped. "But you're right."

When they finally reached their destination it was late afternoon, closer to 5:00 than the projected 4:00 PM. The village was nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains and looked inviting and picturesque with the last of the sun's rays illuminating part of the old fortified wall and the stone houses. Keith led them along this wall to a thickly wooded area at a point beyond the last of the dwellings. Here he stopped.

"From here on it's men only." He announced. "The women will leave us in the company of Derek to go to the center of Boissezon in order to buy provisions for our feast. He won't desert you and he'll bring you back and help carry the purchases. Leave your backpacks here; we'll take care of everything." He smiled mysteriously at them as Derek stepped forward to take charge of Mavis, Deborah, Helen and Monica.

"Is it one of your surprises?" Mavis asked.

"Yes."

"Oh good." Helen smiled, waved at John and joined the others who were already on their way to whatever shops the village had to offer.

"And now...forward!" Keith led the way, carrying Deborah's bag.

They penetrated deeper into the woodland and came to a halt at an opening between two venerable oak trees which stood like sentinels protecting the gateway to a small clearing.

A collective gasp went up as they saw what awaited them here. Parked in the small glade, surrounded by tall trees and taking up almost the entire area, were brightly painted and imaginatively embellished gypsy caravans arranged in a large semicircle. Each was different from the other and, sitting on the steps of one, was a young boy who, on seeing them, rose and approached Keith, the obvious leader.

"What's the password?" He demanded in a low voice.

"Golden Earrings."

"Right! You're eleven? Do you have the money in cash?" He shifted from one foot to the other, obviously in a hurry to get home now that evening was closing in on them.

"Yes." And Keith turned to the all-male group and collected the required amount to hand to the youngster.

"Oh, just one thing...there's someone here already," the boy mumbled as he turned to leave.

"Who's that?" Wondered Keith.

"It's a she, and she found the place on her own so I let her have a small caravan...that one." And he pointed to the far right where a dim light could be seen shimmering through one of the windows. "She's all right. English, I think. You mind?"

"No, no of course not." Tom muttered as the boy began to move away. "She's a pilgrim?" he called after the youngster's retreating back.

"Yep!"

"Well...?" Keith looked questioningly at the others.

"Courtesy of the Road." John reminded them.

"Let's take possession and light lamps."

Avoiding the obviously occupied caravan, they paired off, climbed in and set about making themselves comfortable, and of course lit the lamps, for by now dusk had turned to night. Keith helped Father John mount the four steps and put him at his ease, then sat on the top stair smoking one contemplative pipe before chasing away the thoughts that had come unbidden to frighten him and, rising, began to forage for firewood, wishing not for the first time that some of the other able-bodied males in the group would help him and not take it for granted that he would do all the menial work himself.

"Oh no," he thought, "not pride again."

"I wish! I wish!" Peter-Paul repeated for perhaps the tenth time, spreading out his belongings in his part of the caravan.

"What's that you're going on about?" Tom looked at him askance.

"It's my own private Mantra."

"Mantra? Is that Christian?" Tom frowned.

"It's a Christian Mantra. Forget it, OK?"

"OK. Say, where does Keith find these places?"

"I don't know. He's a genius. We're probably the only pilgrim group to wallow in so much luxury and enjoy so many surprises. You aren't complaining are you?"

"Me? Oh no. This is just great. I only wish Mathilde were here to see it too." He added wistfully.

"You must miss her very much," Peter-Paul looked kindly at him.

"Oh, I do. If I hadn't promised mum when she was dying I'd skip the whole thing and rush back to Lodeve...but I promised."

He looked so downcast that Peter-Paul envied him. He had not promised anyone and nobody was awaiting his return.

"If not for your mother and her last request, Tom, you would never have met Mathilde." He reminded the boy gently.

"Yes."

"So hold on to that and see it through. You have your whole life ahead of you to be with her."

"That's true but I just thought the time would pass more quickly."

"You're right. Despite the good company and the sights and our share of adventures, time is moving very slowly, slower than it should. I wish...I wish...oh!"

Once they had stowed their belongings, had washed and changed, they naturally gravitated to the steps of the caravans or moved a small chair into the clearing.

Keith had already gathered enough wood for two good-sized fires and had set them alight. Lamps glowed magically from every window of the rolling homes and the clearing began to take on the look of a stage set as the curtain rises and just a fraction of a second before the stars step into character and appear before the footlights.

"Here they are!" Tom called out, hearing raised voices and laughter in the near distance. "Boy, will they have a surprise!"

The voices grew closer and in an instant the shoppers pushed through the encircling trees and appeared in the clearing.

"Oh..." Monica gasped, coming to a dead halt.

"Oooh..." echoed Helen.

"It's a fairy tale." Mavis called out while Deborah laughed aloud in delight.

It was worthwhile all the bother just to hear Deborah's laughter, Keith thought, and marveled again at Derek's perception. The small group was laden and hung about with packages of all sizes while Derek clinked musically as well. He toted bottles of wine in two large carrier bags.

"I feel as if we should burst into song." Helen enthused, "It's like a set for 'The Gypsy Baron'."

"There was a film with Marlene Dietrich..." began Monica.

"Golden Earrings." Peter-Paul supplied.

"That was the password." Keith laughed. "And you're all dating yourselves by admitting knowledge of The Gypsy Baron and Golden Earrings."

"But we're in Hollywood! We know all the old films!" Helen chortled.

"Password?" Monica wondered aloud.

"For the caretaker when we arrived. Oh, that reminds me, there's someone else here. She's also a pilgrim." Keith announced, to be interrupted by a clear voice asking, "May I join you?"

Framed in the glow of the campfire her short, curly hair gleamed copper. She was as tall as Helen and as slim and her smile was wide and triangular.

"I'd better introduce myself..." she began and they could discern a Scottish intonation in her voice.

"Edinburgh?" she replied.

"Don't tell us your name!" Peter-Paul commanded, stepping close to her as if mesmerized, his gaze never leaving her face. "Let me guess."

"All right," she laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her head thrown back, "three guesses, as in all the best tales."

"Ooh, a game! I love games!" Monica gurgled. "Let's bet on it. Who's for Peter-Paul and who against? The losers will have to stoke the fires and do the washing up. I'm for him." she added.

"Not in a month of Sundays!" Tom called out.

"Yes." Derek was animated for the first time since Helen had crossed his path.

"No!" Deborah voted.

"OK, let's get organized here. The ayes to the right and the nays to the left."

Everyone moved to the indicated position and took up their stance with many a ribald jest and much good humor. They formed a circle around the two protagonists, the girl and Peter-Paul, who remained in the center, near the fires.

"Try Annie," hinted Steven.

"No, Elizabeth," Derek called out.

"Quiet! No prompting!" John admonished, "All right, Peter-Paul, give us name number one!"

"Fiona?" Suggested Peter-Paul, moving ever nearer until he was standing directly in front of her and within touching distance, his eyes warm and caressing.

"No," came the clear denial.

"Try Mary," Mavis prompted.

"Kate?" essayed Peter-Paul.

"No. Two down, one to go." She laughed.

"This is not to be counted as a guess because of course it is ludicrous but I hope your name isn't Rumpelstiltzkin?"

"No-o-o..." She broke into laughter which was echoed by the others, "be serious!"

"Go, go Peter-Paul, we are for you one and all!" The pro group, led by Monica chanted.

"Hiss, hiss Peter-Paul, you are riding for a fall!" The anti group set up a cacophony of boos.

"Quiet!" John shouted, "We have to play fair and give him a chance."

A hush settled immediately over the clearing as Peter-Paul turned first to one group, then to the other, smiling broadly, arms outstretched as if to embrace them all.

"Not to worry," he assured them. "I know the answer." A heavy silence descended on them as Peter-Paul fell to one knee at the stranger's feet. "On my mother's side I am descended from the seventh son of a seventh son of a great gypsy tribe. On my father's side I come from an even longer line of savants, alchemists and kabbalists. From all of them I have inherited traits, genes, knowledge and piercing intuition. What boon will you grant me, fair vision, if I know, and I purposely say 'know' not 'guess'...your name?"

She took a nervous step backward, for the intensity of his request had shaken her. Here was more than just a game.

"My full name?" She negotiated craftily.

"Your full name," came his prompt reply.

"A boon?"

"Yes, it is customary."

"You kenna know it." she whispered.

"And if I do? What will you give me in return?" He pressed.

"A handkerchief."

"For one name? Perhaps, but for two?" He bargained.

"A handkerchief and a silk scarf to tie around your lance when you go to joust." She laughed shakily, realizing suddenly that what she had intended as a medieval allusion might be interpreted by this flamboyant stranger as a sexual innuendo, something she had desperately hoped to avoid.

"But I am going to reveal all three names!"

"A ring!" She called out.

"In the springtime, the only pretty ring time." He warbled, "Ah fair maiden...it is not

enough."

"But I have nothing else to give you."

"Oh but you do. Yourself!"

There was a combined gasp from the group while the young woman remained silent, almost as if she had expected such a request.

"Has he gone nuts?" muttered Tom in an undertone.

"Maybe it's a joke?" Mavis whispered.

"I don't think so." Helen laughed, "I think he's very sane and has just taken a leaf out of John's book." She slipped her arm through her husband's and grinned up at him, "Eh, love?"

"Eminently sane, and if I didn't have you she'd be a big temptation."

"You are cured, aren't you?" And she kissed him.

"What is going on?" Derek asked Father John.

"Tis the mating season and much as I'd like to see the outcome, it isn't seemly, so I'll retire to the caravan and come out when supper's ready." And with that he turned around and stomped off, leaving the others rooted to the spot, their eyes glued to the well-matched couple in the circle of light cast by the two bonfires.

"I wager to tell you your three names. Know that we have never met before and that we are complete strangers. I have demanded a boon, as is my right in case I succeed and have rejected a handkerchief, a scarf and a ring as too paltry for such a feat that very few could emulate. What I demand is you. Come, is it a wager?"

She recoiled as if faced by a viper. Seeing her reaction, Helen called out from the sidelines: "Oh, go on. Be a sport. We've already laid bets on the outcome."

"I can't take such a step just because you're betting one way or the other. You heard his preposterous demand. I don't even know him. I don't know any of you. Perhaps you're in league with the devil!" She cried out.

"On a holy pilgrimage?" Helen intervened, "You're beautiful, the setting is romantic and Peter-Paul is in love, or should I say lust?"

"What?" The young woman stared at Helen aghast.

"Take a chance," John seconded, "if I weren't married, and I must here add 'recently married'..." he paused to kiss Helen, "I'd fight a duel with Peter-Paul and anyone else for the chance of guessing your name and winning your hand."

"Can't say fairer than that." Keith laughed.

"Come on, Scottish lassie," Steven joked, getting into the spirit of the bet. "He won't harm you. I, an Edinburgh man will see to that."

"Oh for goodness' sake, say yes and let him guess. Let's get this over with or we'll never eat tonight." Growled Tom who was beginning to feel the first pangs of hunger.

"Yes, do! We women have to peel vegetables, cube meat and put an Irish stew together before it gets any darker." Deborah called out.

Her words acted on the young woman as if she had pressed some secret spring. A smile engulfed her features and she took several hasty steps forward almost falling over Peter-Paul in her eagerness to reach Deborah.

"I'll do you a Scottish broth, a cock-a-leekie on these fires if you have the ingredients."

"Hey, what about the bet?" Keith called out.

"I'm a professional chef!" The girl declared proudly.

"Well praise be to heaven!" Shouted Tom, "Halleluja! Come on and get cooking."

"No, no! First the wager," Peter-Paul looked stunned.

"Oh all right, but hurry up." The young woman's entire demeanor had changed as the subject of cooking had reared its head and she no longer seemed to be afraid of either Peter-Paul or the group.

It took Peter-Paul a few moments to collect himself and try to re-establish the former romantic and mystic mood. "Ah, fairest of them all, I must now prove my mettle..." He rose to his feet, raised his face to the clear sky and called aloud: "I invoke all the seventh sons, the alchemists, and the kabbalists to come to my aid." He threw his head back, closed his eyes and stood stock still for precisely one minute while total silence reigned in the woods around him. Then he lowered his head and spoke:

"The first name is a novel, the second a measure and the third an author."

"Are we going to have another guessing game now?" Monica interrupted. "Because if so, I quit. There is the supper to see to and if you don't get a move on you can cook it yourself, Peter-Paul!" She snapped.

"Monica," he turned to her, "this is meant to be romantic, what are you doing?"

"It won't be at all romantic if we have to go to bed on an empty and rumbling stomach tonight. And, knowing you as I do, you'll do the most complaining!" She retorted.

"Yes! I second that. Get cracking." Deborah shouted.

Peter-Paul turned back to the young woman who had lost all her fear of him and the game. She was grinning, staring into his eyes and, before he had a chance to pronounce her names, had thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him long and unhurriedly on the lips.

"You've won," she murmured, "We have a date later but now..." and here she turned to the group, "to work!" She sidestepped Peter-Paul nimbly and joined Deborah, Helen, Mavis and Monica who, along with Derek, had been guarding the provisions. "Let's see what you've bought."

"To work!" Mavis called.

"To work!" Echoed the others.

"Who won?" Tom asked, confused by these fast-moving events.

"Peter-Paul won. The still nameless young lady has won, and if she's truly a chef we have won most of all!" Keith replied, bent over in gales of laughter.

With the newcomer's help the work moved forward more rapidly, especially as she elected to do some of the more difficult tasks herself while instructing the others. When asked what they should call her she replied, smiling, "Scottie."

"Is that the novel, the measure or the author?" Monica mumbled, peeling potatoes.

"I think it's time for Peter-Paul to come clean." Deborah stated, pouring chopped onions

and cubed vegetables into the cast iron pot hung over one of the fires. "If he knows, that is."

"He does." Scottie stated flatly.

"Are you a chef in Aberdeen?"

"No. I work in London. I'm from Aberdeen but we don't have any Michelin-starred restaurants there," she sighed wistfully, "or I'd never have left."

The men had opened the wine and were already sipping it when the meal was declared ready and bowls were filled to capacity with the hot and pungent stew.

"Come on, Peter-Paul," Steven insisted, "give us the answer now."

"No. I shall only tell her later when we're alone." He sounded huffed.

"Don't be offended," Scottie left the fire, sitting down next to Peter-Paul and throwing her arm around him. "Do tell them. You don't have to keep it for me; I know you guessed it somehow."

"I didn't guess. One can't guess a name. I knew. All right, let me introduce you to Catriona, Marianna Stevenson."

"How did you...?" Tom remained open-mouthed and speechless.

"And how does that translate to novel, measure..." began Derek.

"Wait!" John interrupted, "Catriona is the name of a novel by Stevenson."

"Full marks, John!" Peter-Paul agreed.

"And Stevenson is of course the name of an author, as in Robert Louis." Added Helen.

"But what about 'measure'?" Monica wondered, "Her second name isn't 'gallon'!"

"No, but it's Marianna, as in 'Marianna of the Moated Grange' one of the female protagonists in Shakespeare's 'Measure for Measure' " Explained Peter-Paul, smiling as they groaned aloud. "And therefore Catriona, Marianna Stevenson."

"But how did you guess...oh, excuse me...know that?" Deborah stared at him.

"I just knew it. Look, it's hard to explain but I am descended on both sides from some extraordinary ancestors and I sometimes have these flashes of insight. My mother, by the way, is a witch."

There was no reaction to this bare statement from any of the others; it was as if Peter-Paul had not spoken at all or had mentioned, as an aside a propos of nothing, that his mother had just joined the country club.

"Let's talk about something else," he continued. "I think it's going to rain."

"Nonsense! Why it's pleasant and balmy." Deborah snorted, looking up at the full moon and the stars in a perfectly clear sky.

"Let's clean up anyway." Decided Father John, "Tis getting late."

When everything had been stowed away and the fires carefully extinguished, Keith remarked to the others that they ought to have had a tale. "The setting certainly calls for it."

"I think we witnessed a tale tonight, one we will tell our grandchildren in years to come."

Helen replied quietly.

"Yes, that guessing game came straight out of all the fairy tales we have ever read and loved." sighed Mavis longingly.

A slight breeze began to set the branches in the tall trees aflutter. The ashes, remnants of their fires, blew away and the caravans creaked as they swayed on their land-locked wheels. It turned noticeably cooler. The sky, which had cleared up after nightfall, became overcast again and, moving swiftly, the dark clouds engulfed the moon and the stars. The first heavy drops fell slowly and hurried them all to the steps of their caravans.

"How did he know? There wasn't a cloud in the sky!" Tom wondered.

"I'm beginning to think he's more than just a gypsy," Steven ventured grimly. "we'll have to be careful around him."

"Good night all." Helen called as John pulled her into their quarters, adding softly, "Now, what was that about grandchildren?"

The rain began to fall more heavily, causing everyone to rush for shelter.

"I hope these things don't leak."

"Come on Mavis, don't dawdle," urged Tom.

"I was just wondering..." she began.

"Later!" Deborah exhorted as she pounded up the steps while Keith again helped Father John then followed with Woofy.

Nobody paid attention to Peter-Paul and the girl. And it wasn't until the rain had turned into a deluge that Tom realized he would have the entire caravan for himself for Peter-Paul had gone to collect his boon.

26.

"Such good news today, my dear." Deirdre bent to kiss Bernard on the cheek as he rested in a comfortable armchair in his hospital room. "Aren't you curious to learn what it is?" She cajoled.

"No." He replied in a toneless voice.

"Why so glum this morning? It's a red-letter day." She persisted.

"Every day here is like the day before."

"Oh Bernard, stop it!" She sat down on the bed. "When you were first brought in you were badly wounded, all bloody and unconscious, but now, thank God, you are able to walk, sit up in a chair, the tubes have been removed, the bandage on your head is gone. You are well." She sighed inwardly at the uphill battle to put him in a better frame of mind for what she would have to tell him. "And," she continued, "you're being discharged. Today!"

"I can go home?" A hint of his once brilliant smile flashed over his features causing her heart to lurch at the memories of their shared life and what she intended to do to them and to any future he had complacently envisaged with her.

"No, my dear," she smoothed his thinning hair, "there's a fairly long convalescence period before the doctors would allow you to travel." And when he looked up questioningly, she continued, "But I can move you and so today we shall return to the hotel. And I've hired a nurse. A friend of Mathilde's; her name is Yvette. You'll like her. She's competent, pleasant, nice to have around. She'll take the best care of you, as will Mathilde, her father and the staff of the hotel until you will be strong enough to go home." She smiled tenderly at him, catching hold of his hands and clasping them tightly between her own. "I'm going on, Bernard." and when he did not respond, she repeated her statement. "I'm rejoining the pilgrimage."

"But what about me?"

"I've arranged everything; you will be well looked after, better than if I were to remain behind and do it myself." Then, when he did not reply, she added, "I came on this trek for one purpose: the hope of finding my brother. It is the first time in 25 years that there has been word of him, Bernard. Think of the lives that have been ruined by that one ignoble act a quarter of a century ago. My mother died, my father became a recluse and I? Well, I never had a life, not the life of a normal child or young woman. If I can still find him, as Father Hendryck predicted, then all of our losses and sacrifices will not have been in vain. This is my only chance, Bernard. If I do not grasp it now I shall never forgive myself or you for trying to stop me."

"Yes, yes, I see. Go! I'll manage although...I've had something on my conscience...maybe it's too late to tell you and anyway, I'm not sure and perhaps it is too late and in the end what difference does it make? But still, I have to get it off my chest. It has been nagging at me."

"What?"

"It is very possible that my brother had something to do with your family's misfortunes. Before he was killed in the conflagration at his apartment. He was a deeply flawed being, God rest his soul." And Bernard sighed, lowered his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "Go Deirdre, find your brother. I'll be all right and God willing, we shall meet in Spain."

*

The sky was leaden, overcast and the air heavy with moisture. The roads were wet and honeycombed with puddles. It was not a joyous day to be tramping five hours to reach their goal, especially after a breakfast without a hot beverage as no dry firewood could be found.

Everyone was subdued and for once they did not have Peter-Paul to put them in a jovial mood by singing a medieval student ditty or leading them in a round song. He too was restrained and hardly spoke at all, mulling over in his mind everything that had transpired the previous night. It had all been so different from what he had expected. Attracted to her undeniable beauty set against the background of a romantic site he had made a big show of guessing her name and demanding her as a boon. He had, in fact, been his usual self: Peter-Paul basking in the limelight. And he had certainly succeeded there. A nice new game to play, he had thought at the time, although she was so lovely he was aware of the danger. But he had not counted on how great that danger might turn out to be until he had gone to her caravan at night to collect his boon. Everything had gone according to plan, and most delightfully he thought, until she began to speak. It was then he discovered that they did not have one single solitary thing in common except perhaps food which seemed to be her only topic of conversation. Knowing him to be in journalism, television, familiar with the rich and famous, she proceeded to outline his usefulness to her in the future when she intended to open her own restaurant, to be called "Scotties" and then began to enumerate the cost of such a venture, which she took for granted he would bankroll, if not by himself, then through his connections. This information was imparted to him so guilelessly that he suddenly wondered if she were not mentally deficient.

Patiently he began to point out to her the folly of such a venture in today's political and financial climate and how she should count herself lucky to have a steady position as head chef at La Goulue, without risking her entire future at this time by opening yet another eating establishment that would fold after a week for lack of customers.

"What we'll need soon, if this mess continues," he had told her half-jokingly, "are soup kitchens."

But she would not listen. In fact on the subject of food and restaurants she was hardly rational. He had, therefore, returned to his own and Tom's caravan much, much earlier than planned and now wondered how he would be able to disentangle himself from her in such a way that she would be the one to break it off. It would leave her with her self-esteem intact and would let him off the hook. Try as he might he could see no solution and, having been to bed with her, he now knew that she did not take such acts lightly and joyously, as he did but in a heavily serious and dour Scottish manner.

He would have to find a way for her to break it off and feel completely justified in doing so. Monica! Yes, that might do. They'd had fun when she was in London and they had done some crazy things. Hm, it was taking a chance as Catriona was proving to be unpredictable, but on the whole he respected his insight and felt it might just do the trick. He would continue to be courteous to her but would put her to the test as soon as possible...when they had reached Castres.

"I have a feeling Peter-Paul is having second thoughts." Monica observed.

"Why? Because he's not his usual boisterous self?" Mavis wondered. "He's probably tired."

"He's never tired," replied Monica dryly.

"How do you know?" Queried Helen, skipping over yet another puddle in the road.

"I met him a few years ago when I was filming in England and he came to interview me."

"And he never tired interviewing you?"

"Not exactly," she replied vaguely

"So the two of you...?" Mavis hinted.

"Yes."

"And?" Helen urged.

"And nothing. One doesn't elaborate on these things."

"What one doesn't do, Monica," Helen interrupted, "is begin to talk about it and then clam up. That's a no-no. What's he like?"

"Considerate and quite amazing."

"Amusing?" Helen wondered.

"That too...he took me to a...never mind." Monica had a far-away look on her face and a half smile that made Helen and Mavis exchange curious glances.

"Well, that should give us 'furiously to think' as Poirot always says. I think I'll join John. This conversation isn't going anyplace."

"OK, Helen, you want to call a spade a spade, so without all the romantic trappings, under those extravagant costumes he calls clothes he's gorgeous and he knows how to use what he has..." Her voice trailed off.

"And?" Helen persisted.

"And he knows exactly what a woman wants and feels and supplies it to the mutual satisfaction of both. And he never seems to tire. Is that enough for you?"

With that, her eyes behind her dark glasses riveted to the road, her whole demeanor showed that she had divorced herself from such a conversation as not befitting a religious pilgrimage.

"Well, now you're talking!" Helen guffawed.

"Steven does not have Peter-Paul's imagination although his...hmm." Monica suddenly coughed and changed tack. "What a miserable day for walking."

"When did you and Steven...?" Helen tucked her arm through Monica's and walked along in step with her, excluding a visibly upset Mavis. "Don't make that poor girl jealous." She whispered.

"Oh no, I wouldn't. I'm not like that." Monica was all contrition. "I forgot she was there. She's sort of well...the type one does forget." she mumbled, "Please, let's drop it."

"Only one more thing. What about Peter-Paul's imagination?"

"He's fun. Would you believe it, he once took me to a whore house for the night?" And Monica glanced sideways at Helen, raising her eyebrows and wiggling them suggestively, causing Helen to burst into peals of laughter, slap her on the back and sprint up the path to John's side where she buried her face in his sleeve to laugh and laugh and laugh.

"Will you let me in on the joke?"

"Later, love...just one question, would you take me to a cat house to make love if I expressed such a decadent wish?"

"In a flash. Is that your desire?"

"It just might be." And they both succumbed to a fit of the giggles that had them stumbling all over the path.

*

"You have never talked about your brother, except to say that you had one and that he had died." She remarked, wondering why Bernard had brought him up now.

"Yes, well, he was no credit to the Van Der Gilden name. Had he still been alive, my dear, I would have had to introduce you, or at least...well, it's better this way. He was close to ten years younger and because of that badly spoiled by our parents. Or, perhaps he was rotten from birth. I blame him for putting our mother in an early grave and even...yes, even that!...causing the mysterious and unexplained death of our father for he stood to gain a fine inheritance when that happened and he always needed money."

Bernard leaned his head back, his lips a thin line, his expression grim.

"But he is dead, or so you always told me."

"Yes, yes, of course but nothing was ever that simple where he was concerned. His name was Theodore. He could be very charming, a consummate actor, a veritable chameleon but yes, of course, he was killed in a fire that swept through his new apartment at the time renovations were in progress. It happens. But there was not much left to identify you see and I always wondered...and at the time tragedy struck your family in Juan les Pins, he was living in Nice."

*

They came to Castres in the late afternoon and took possession of rooms where time seemed to have come to a standstill in the early l900s, although the houses overlooking the river were built in a much earlier era. The St. Jacques was a cross between a bed and breakfast and a small hotel. Perhaps more on the order of a boarding house because aside from the rooms, it also offered breakfast and a light evening meal.

Keith and Father John stowed their belongings and made up some plastic bags to take to the laundromat, then took transportation to the central police station, curious to see what inspector Lemoine had sent. They were soon seated before a computer while policewoman Madeleine Thibault ran it for them. Inspector Lemoine had sent all the information requested in this fashion and soon there passed before their eyes the entire contents of Monsieur Cotte's photo album. As the inspector had told Keith over the telephone already, the first part comprised pictures from the late l880s to the early part of the 20th century. Here were the couples in their Sunday finery, here were the children with hoops, wooden rocking horses and balls. Then came the proudly posed photos of young men off to war, smiling, confident and eager and both Keith and Father John wondered aloud how many of them had returned. And finally they arrived at the end of the album and more modern times. Gauging by the clothes these dated from 25 to 30 years ago. There was nothing later. It appeared to them that Monsieur Cotte's pictorial life had ended in the l980s.

"There are two possibilities. This one, or the last photo in the album." Keith looked thoughtfully at the pictures in question. Both were of the same young woman. In the first snapshot she appeared to be sitting on a park bench, She was young, rather plain and dumpy, her hair pulled back and up onto the top of her head, wearing a serviceable dark coat and equally serviceable shoes. Her left arm was outstretched, apparently grasping a dark metal bar. In the other picture she was sitting on an ornate boudoir chair while a little girl, aged about three or four, with a large bow threaded through her shoulder-length wavy hair, stood next to her, pulling the full skirt of her obviously expensive dress out to its widest and attempting to smile for the camera. She had a small gold crucifix around her neck. Under both pictures, in barely legible pencil, were the initials MTC.

"What would that bar be that she's holding on to?" Father John wondered, pointing to the first photo.

"Part of a fence?" Keith guessed.

"It's the handle of a pram." Policewoman Thibault stated firmly.

"Is it now? Thank you." Father John turned to her. "Can we deduce anything else from the photo?"

"Of course. Please notice her hands. There does not seem to be a wedding ring. In fact, no rings at all. We can gather from that, that she was not married, so if there is a baby in the pram it was not hers. From the way she is dressed, taken in conjunction with all the other family photos in the album, she seems eminently respectable in a small-town French way. So no illegitimate babies. I also think it psychologically incorrect for your Monsieur Cotte to have had photos of a relative with an out-of-wedlock baby in her life prominently displayed in his family album. It was on display, wasn't it?"

"Yes indeed, officer Thibault." Keith replied. "Inspector Lemoine said the album was on a special stand in Monsieur Cotte's home."

"That denotes pride in the family," continued the young woman, nodding her head. "and for a man of Monsieur Cotte's generation family pride did not include illegitimacy. Now, if we move on to the second photo we see the same young woman with a little girl. We do not know if this is the same child, now grown out of the baby stage, or if this child is in no way related to the child we must assume is in the pram. What we can see is that the little girl is very well dressed. Her clothes are expensive and she wears a gold chain and cross yet the young woman sitting next to her is as plain as in the first photo, this time in a shapeless outfit made of some material meant to last many years. The supposition we must make from all these visible facts is that the young woman was not related to the little girl as she was probably also not related to the invisible baby in the invisible buggy either. Therefore she was undoubtedly someone hired to take care of these children."

"That's a first-class analysis; thank you." Keith was amazed at how much she had managed to deduce from two rather banal snaps.

"It's all part of the training," she replied seriously.

"Brilliant." Father John added his congratulations, then turned to Keith. "Why exactly do we have to know all about this young woman and her profession?"

"Because of Monsieur Cotte's window display." Here he addressed the policewoman and in a few terse sentences explained the problem to her.

"Yes, I see," she mused, "Why do you assume the buggy and the baby clothes were meant for Mrs.Van Der Gilden and not for one of the two women who were with her?"

"Because neither Deborah nor Mavis broke down and burst into tears at the sight of the changed window. Only Deirdre did, consequently the buggy and tiny clothes meant something to her." Keith replied.

"I see...well, the easiest would be to ask her."

"First of all she is not here to ask as she remained with Bernard in Lodeve and, depending on the progress he will make, we may never see either of them on this pilgrimage again. And secondly, well, if the sight of that window upset her so much, how can I question her about it?" Keith replied.

"You cannot, but Inspector Lemoine is in Lodeve and he has every right to investigate anything having to do with the attack on Monsieur Cotte, anything of a suspicious nature." The policewoman reasoned.

"Did the inspector send any information on the Van Der Gildens?" Father John asked.

"And the two Germans, Herr Schlotten and Herr Schnapps and their woman companion, if she is a woman that is. And the so-called Brother Guillaume?" Added Keith.

"If he did, it will be here." She inclined her head at the computer. "Here are the Van Der Gildens. She was born 28 years ago in Manchester and her maiden name was Braithwaite. Mr.Van Der Gilden is Belgian. A wealthy man. Hm, antiques, father a banker and something odd about his death. Never fully explained. Let's see now...married three times..."

"Three?" Keith looked surprised.

"He does not seem to be a philanderer who divorces, marries, divorces." She laughed. "Bad luck. His first wife died. The second ran off with the chauffeur and the family silver. He married his present wife four years ago. He is reported to be an astute businessman and deeply religious."

"Braithwaite? Braithwaite?" Father John repeated. "The name is very familiar. It is allied to the manufacture of something in the line of apparel, men's apparel I believe. Some patent that made the family fortune."

"Yes Father, it seems to have been a new type of stud for men's garters. That would have been the great-great grandfather of Mrs. Van Der Gilden. Then they manufactured specially constructed corsets for men and women suffering from back problems which led eventually to all sorts of underwear." She looked up from the screen at Keith and Father John, then back to the computer. "Let's see...hm, nothing is known about your German group, but further inquiries will be made by the security forces. At least, the names you mentioned do not seem to exist, even if the people do. Brother Guillaume also seems to be nonexistent, at least under that name. He was flown to Toulouse and has since disappeared from the Tropical Diseases Institute. Ah, here's a bit more on Mrs.Van Der Gilden. She had a younger brother who was kidnapped and never found. That seems to be all."

She printed the information out and looked at them inquiringly as if to ask what else she could do to help.

"Does it state anyplace how old the brother was when the kidnapping occurred?" Keith wondered.

"No."

"That might be the reason for her distress at seeing the changed window display." Suggested Father John.

Keith nodded his head, "Yes, I think so too."

"But how could Monsieur Cotte have known about it?"

"Well," began Father John as they rode back to the St. Jacques, "we are not any closer to solving the mystery of the quick-change window or any of the other odd occurrences to come our way. And on top of it I heard all about Bernard's second wife and her scandalous behavior. How shall I look him in the face when we meet up in Spain?"

"After all his work Inspector Lemoine will be disappointed. I will, however, suggest he question Deirdre and perhaps he can also investigate her family more thoroughly, especially the story of the kidnapped brother. Perhaps the answer lies there, although if that is the case, how did Monsieur Cotte know about it? And whatever happened to Brother Guillaume?"

"There was no information about Derek either."

"No, but I know all about him," Keith murmured, "a very unhappy young man." He sighed and, looking out the window, saw that they had arrived at their destination.

#

# "Hello John." Keith called as the entered the St. Jacques. "Did you take in the sights?"

"No, no, please, we do enough walking. I sat on my butt and played the piano. What a glorious change that made!"

"Where did you find a piano good enough for you in this town?" Keith wondered.

"In a piano showroom." John laughed, "I played and the proprietor sold two on the spot."

"You mean you demonstrated pianos?"

"Yes." He laughed again. "I was actually quite proud that my playing proved good enough for the prospective purchasers to shell out quite a bit of money for those pianos. Then they wanted to know if I was a teacher and how much I would charge to teach their children."

"What did you reply?"

"I told them the truth, that I was on the road of St. Jacques and was just passing through. And oddly enough that pleased them even more than my playing. They wanted to know how far we'd come, if we'd really walked all of it and how much more we still had to go." John gazed into the distance remembering the truly nice people he had met that afternoon. "I am so very thankful I came on this pilgrimage, Father. I have been reborn, before even reaching Compostela. God has surely showered me with blessings far beyond what is my due and I intend to honor my commitments. I want to do something for Derek. If not for him I would not be here. The pilgrimage was his idea. And now he is so very hurt and disappointed, but I don't know what to do for him; that is the problem."

"I've wondered the same," Keith replied in a thoughtful voice, " but there is unfortunately no way he can trace his real parents. I understand his problem for it is my own but I have accepted the fact that I have Père Jerome, his housekeeper and the good people of my village as family while he has not accepted the loving people who saved his life, cared for him, raised him and surely hold him in great affection. It would take more than my trying to reason with him to get him to realize how lucky he has been."

"All I can do at this stage is offer him my friendship," added John, "I can of course help him financially but that is not what he needs and wants and since I am now well and also married, my life will be so very different from what it was when he came to take care of me, that there is no longer any role for him to play." John shrugged, put his hands into his pockets and stared off into the distance, as if seeing into the future. "I intend to concertize again." he continued, "We'll be living a very busy and full life, travelling constantly between Hollywood, Aix and my concert venues. There may be children. It's all still vague but there is truly no place for him in my life as it is today and will be in the future." Here he broke off not knowing what to say or do.

"Let us wait until after the pilgrimage." Advised Father John. "Let us leave it in God's hands."

*

Luc sighed with relief as he sat down in the small room's single chair and leaned back, taking his weight off his heavily bandaged leg. Thank God it was not broken, he thought, but it was bad enough and Robert was away. Where had he gone?

"Now what have we here?" A deep voice wondered, "And how did you manage to hurt yourself?"

He looked up to see Père Jonas in the doorway of the austere monastic cell and attempted to rise.

"No, don't try to get up, Luc. We thought you were on the Road. Did you have a fall?"

"No, a pothole. I didn't see it. And then there was a long wait till a Good Samaritan stopped to give me a lift. People tend not to do that any more. Too much crime I guess. Anyway, it was a small car, a cramped ride which didn't help and I was in a pretty bad way when I got to the Institute. And then Robert wasn't there." Luc concluded, flexing his knee to keep the circulation going.

"He isn't in Toulouse; in fact, he isn't in France."

"I know that now. I'm afraid I fainted...there. And the ambulance they called took me to the hospital and when I realized I'd be unable to get home to Pau, I came here." He leaned back, exhaustion and pain etched into his features.

"You should have come to St. Vincent's straight away."

"I only thought of Robert," he sighed. "If you have a brother who is a doctor, well, it did seem the smart thing to do."

"Are you in much pain?"

"Yes."

"I have already notified frère Barnabe. He has some efficacious nostrums that he brews up to facilitate healing and alleviate pain. And of course you will stay with us until you can manage on your own."

"Thank you. And Robert? Where is he?"

"He probably sent you a letter to Pau and of course you would have read it upon your return from the Road. You see, there was an opening to spend a few weeks at our mission hospital in the Congo. He has long wished to use his expertise in helping the people of that part of Africa."

"Yes," Luc laughed, "that desire dates from when we were children. Will he be gone a long time?"

"No, no. Two months perhaps. He has his work here but as that ties in with whatever aid he can give the people there, it is also an important exercise for the Institute."

"Of course. His help will be invaluable. Oh..." Luc made as if to get up, winced in pain and sat down again abruptly.

"Stay quietly for now. If there is something you have to regulate one of our brothers will gladly undertake the task for you."

"It's the restaurant. Jerome is in charge of the renovations but I want to be kept informed how they are progressing and when he intends to open." He looked worried. "I hope by then to be mobile again."

"Of course, but take it one day at a time. Ah, here is frère Barnabe." The Abbot smiled as a slight, deceptively youthful-visaged monk entered, bearing several narrow bottles filled with a brownish substance.

"He'll need someone to help him wash," the apothecary murmured, "at least in the beginning. Yes. And crutches."

"I'll leave it all to you." The Abbot agreed. "Oh, and Luc, tonight you will get your meal in the room."

"I can't put you to so much trouble." Luc began and once more attempted to rise only to fall back into the chair, perspiration standing out on his brow.

"Now, now, no backtalk. It has been decided. We'll see how you are tomorrow." And Père Jonas raised his hand, placing his bunched fingers on Luc's forehead and murmured, "May you go into the night blessed, sheltered and protected."

"Amen."
27.

"It's pouring." Helen made a face. "I had hoped we could go out for dinner." She leaned closer to John. "This place is so dreary and it smells!" She wrinkled her nose and tightened her lips.

"Smells?" He raised his head and sniffed. "Well, maybe; musty and damp?"

"That and overlaid with several generations worth of meals, all heavy on the cabbage." She asserted.

"You do have a way with words. But seriously, if you want, we can eat out."

"We don't even have umbrellas," she sighed, staring through the glass entrance door at the dark street and the rain streaming down in slanting sheets.

"There are taxis in Castres, remember?" He suggested as the door suddenly flew open and a drenched Monica and Peter-Paul stumbled into the small foyer, dripping water onto the floor. They were both clutching large plastic bags from the laundromat.

"It wasn't this bad when we left," Monica gasped, shaking herself like the fastidious black cat she resembled.

"Did you get our things too?" demanded Helen.

"Yes. Peter-Paul has them."

"A-a-atchoo!"

"Bless you."

"Better go up and get out of those wet clothes," urged Monica.

"Good idea," and, handing John the laundry bag, Peter-Paul disappeared up the dimly lit

staircase.

They heard him stumble, curse and kick the inoffensive step in an outburst of rage before continuing, as another faint sneeze floated down to them.

"Oh dear, now he'll infect us all." Monica frowned, "Mega doses of vitamin C and oscillococcinum ought to do it." And she remained staring in the direction he had taken.

"Where's Scottie?" Helen wondered aloud, making a subconscious connection between Peter-Paul and the young chef.

"In the kitchen," snapped Monica, still staring up the dark flight.

"Where?"

"Here, in the kitchen. Aren't you too young to be losing your hearing?"

"My hearing is so good, Monica, that I can tell you where Peter-Paul went just now, and it wasn't to his room on the second floor."

"Oh?" Monica tore her eyes away from the dimness of the narrow access to the upper regions of the hotel. "How do you...?" She began, then paused, looking vague.

"He stopped on the first. Aren't you on that floor?"

"I'd better go up and change," and with that Monica rushed to the staircase, taking two steps at a time.

"Oh dear."

"Complications?" John wondered.

"Not if Scottie doesn't find out or doesn't mind, or both."

"And what is Scottie doing in the kitchen?"

"She's cooking our supper," Tom retorted as he approached from a dim passage at the rear of the hotel. "It seems," he continued "that chefs aren't happy away from their stoves any length of time. Sort of like actors resting too long! And she got kind of antsy so she introduced herself to the owner and wondered if she could cook the evening meal. Madame, who usually mans the ovens, was delighted to have the night off and turned everything over to Scottie."

"Oh? So we'll be getting decent food? In that case there is no need to go out to eat."

"I thought it was the smell that got you down," John chided.

"That too. Plus the thought of some horrid brown soup thickened with flour." Helen laughed. "It has all turned out rather well."

"Except for a certain complication?" John inclined his head in the direction of the staircase.

"I thought Monica had more sense," Helen grunted, "but she knew him some years ago... intimately, I might add...and old memories must have proved irresistible. It really is too bad of her."

They heard Woofy barking before they saw his rain-plastered body come hurtling through the door the moment Keith managed to pull it open, for now, on top of the rain a fierce wind had arisen to make holding an umbrella upright impossible. The small dog shook himself, spraying everyone in sight, then sat up, tongue lolling and grinned at them in delight. Keith followed, a plastic poncho covering him from head to toe.

"Hi, everyone... I hate to spoil your evening but the forecast for tomorrow is more of the same. And we have a route in open countryside lasting over eight hours 'till we reach Revel." He removed the poncho, disclosing the familiar laundromat bags and a small package from the pharmacy.

"Can we cut it in half again?" Helen appeared worried. "Peter-Paul is already sneezing and we don't need him to start a chain reaction."

"There is a place, sort of half-way. It's quite small and there's no hotel, or hostel. I'll call ahead to be on the safe side should the weather prove to be too much for us."

"Did you buy aspirin?" Tom indicated the package from the pharmacy.

"No," Keith laughed. "bug spray. I'm much more concerned by reports of fleas rampant in the Spanish hostels and camping areas. Once they settle into your belongings you have to burn everything to get rid of them. They hide in the seams of backpacks, it's a scourge."

"Perhaps it would be wiser to stick to hotels?" suggested John.

"Yes of course but the trouble is that most of our resting sites in Spain don't have any."

"Well, we'll face that problem when we get to it." Stated Helen philosophically. "First things first. Supper's at 7:30 I hear and Scottie is cooking it."

*

"Everything will be all right, Deirdre, please don't fret." Mathilde assured her for at least the fifth time as they paced up and down on the platform next to the Toulouse train. "We shall take care of Bernard better than you and the hospital staff combined. I promise you."

"Oh yes, of course you will, of course you will. I have no doubts on that score. It's just that I've never taken such a big step on my own before and I'm anxious. Will I manage on the train? Will I get off at the right stop? How will I find a hotel? What will I do until the group gets to Toulouse? I've never been on my own before; I've never made decisions for myself before."

"Deirdre, stop it!" Mathilde grasped her shoulders, shook them, then steadied her and stared straight into her eyes. "You're making problems where there aren't any. This train goes to Toulouse. Granted, it makes stops along the way but the final destination is Toulouse. Even if you don't see everyone getting out and from that deduce that you have arrived, the porter won't let you stay in your seat. He'll shoo you out. The station has a big sign that says Toulouse and I'm sure there is a desk that welcomes visitors to the city and helps them find hotels. It will surely have a sign saying Welcome in several languages or Hotel Reservations! You speak French, they will speak English. There is no way you can get lost."

"I'll have to ask them to recommend an inexpensive hotel, at least less expensive than what I would normally take. Because of the group; when they get to the city."

"Yes. Don't take any of the big chains. Even for yourself it's better. Request a family hotel. When you'll be on your own you'll feel more secure in one until the others arrive. Oh, and look for a lawyer. There are sure to be many in such an important city."

"How will I know who is the best?"

"Do you trust your lawyer in Manchester?"

"Oh yes. The same firm has been taking care of my family since the 19th century."

"Then get in touch with him and he may be able to recommend someone."

"Yes, of course. How do you know all these things, Mathilde? You're only 16 and here I am a married and well-travelled woman ten years older and I can't do anything for myself."

"It's because you always relied on others; you never thought or did anything for yourself. Actually, Deirdre your real, spiritual age is probably around 10 or, the psychologists might say you remained 4 years old with a nanny to tell you what to do, just after the disaster hit your family."

"Yes." Deirdre sighed, staring unseeingly at the busy throng on the platform around her and squared her shoulders. "I'll have to grow up. I think the process has already started and this escape to Toulouse is the first step. No, that was when I decided to leave Bernard and join the group. The lure of finding my brother and righting a terrible wrong done to our family is more important than playing nursemaid to Bernard. And that's as it should be." She turned to embrace Mathilde. "Thank you. I won't fail you and your belief in me. Time to move on. Please..." she hesitated a beat, "please take care of Bernard. For all his bluster and man of the world stance he is frightened. He doesn't want to die and he doesn't want to lose me. Let us at least prevent one of these inescapable facts of life."

And with that they hugged, kissed again and parted. Deirdre to board the train and Mathilde to hurry back to the hotel. Neither one noticed a small, slight non-descript looking man in blue overalls wielding an elongated floor mop over the tiles of the waiting room and the access platforms.

*

"Well, this is cozy," murmured Deborah as she, Mavis, Tom and Steven entered the dining room and began to take their places around the large, rectangular table, covered with a stiff white cloth. High-backed chairs, upholstered in dark red velvet stood at attention on all four sides and red and white flower-patterned plates marked each place setting. The cutlery was massive, polished to perfection and an array of squared-off thick glasses waited to be filled from the heavy decanters assembled at both ends of the table.

A soft, yellowish light beamed down from an ecru-colored, deeply ruffled lampshade that hung low from the high ceiling on a long, thick, apricot-colored silk cord casting most of its illumination onto the table and highlighting here and there, the large, square, still-life paintings in their ornate dark gold frames that covered almost all of the red damask wallpaper around the room.

On any other night, and especially at this time of the year, it would have been a depressing venue, but with the gusty blowing of the wind and the thrumming of the rain, an illusion of mid-winter turbulence had been created and the saturated colors and deep shadows formed an all-enveloping atmosphere of solidity and safety into which the group allowed itself to sink for the length of this strange and unexpected night.

Father John, entering with Keith, closely followed by Helen and John, stopped short momentarily and smiled, then proceeded to one of the high-backed chairs. The room and its furnishings reminded him forcibly of the home of one of his favorite aunts which he had enjoyed visiting when he was a boy. The walls of her dining room too had been red and her drawing room had glowed bright green. There had been a time in Ireland's history when strong colors predominated as much as highly seasoned foods and outspoken opinions, to be replaced by neutral colors in everything...to go with the watery potatoes that had become the mainstay of his country's diet. And the opinions found other, more deadly, outlets.

Looking at the walls, he hoped the young chef cooking their meal tonight might have found inspiration from her surroundings and that, perhaps, he would discover himself transported completely and in all respects to a time in his life when everything had seemed straightforward and completely familiar.

When they had taken their places, a hum of conversation filled the room as they began to relate the events of their day, while those closest to the decanters helped themselves to the rich, red wine and passed the crystal vessels forward on their journey around the table until all had been served. Only then did Deborah remark that they had seen the bird watchers as they had emerged from the Cathedral into the surrounding gardens.

"What are they doing in Castres?" wondered John, "surely not looking for birds."

"We didn't speak to them," Mavis replied, "in fact, we pretended not to have seen them and went deeper into the park."

"Was the woman with them?" Keith probed avidly.

"No, they were alone."

"Were they wearing binoculars?" Father John took a sip of wine.

"No, no binoculars," replied Steven, "they looked different too."

"How?" Keith enquired.

"They were informal; no suits." Deborah wrinkled her brow in concentration. "Jeans, wind breakers, very casual. You'd never imagine, seeing them, that they would be capable of bowing stiffly and clicking their heels."

"Perhaps it was all an act after all; but what happened to the woman?" Keith murmured, "And why the elaborate camouflage in the first place?"

*

"Yeah, I'm sure." The weasel-faced man in his blue coverall held the cell phone close to his face and twisted his body away from the milling crowd. "Well, you showed me her picture, didn't you? Yeah, yeah, but she wasn't alone. There was another one with her, much younger. No, I don't know. Well, they were standing and yacking near the Toulouse train. 'Course there are other stops along that line; it's not an express. Yeah, well, for what it's worth." And he signed off and began to wield his mop again.

*

"Ah, the soup!" Father John rubbed his hands together and looked expectantly at a subdued Scottie as she appeared under the circle of light cast by the chandelier and deposited a large, deep tureen at one end of the table, causing Derek and Keith to shift sideways in order to make room for her.

"Scottie," Monica called as she rushed in, "I'd like a really big bowl for Peter-Paul. It's all he'll have; he caught a bad cold."

"He's not joining us?" Keith asked.

"No. He doesn't want to infect anyone else...oh, thanks." She smiled, as Scottie handed her a medium-sized salad bowl and warned her that it was hot. "I'll be down in a jiffy. I'm starving."

"Don't you want any soup?" Helen indicated the tureen.

"Oh no, it's meat." And with that she hurried from the room.

"Did you remember that she doesn't eat meat or poultry or fish or, well much of anything else?" Helen queried.

"Yes," Scottie grunted, "I've made her a carrot soup and a quiche." And she began to ladle out the unctuous off-white liquid.

"What is it?" Derek wondered.

"The Queen of soups!" Murmured Scottie, finally smiling, "A creamed bouillon, garnished with puff-paste half-moons and slivered, lightly toasted almonds. Enjoy. No seconds!" She warned, "It's filling and there's more good food to follow."

"I could make a meal of this and skip the rest," Helen murmured, raising the large spoon to her lips.

"Wait till you see the rest." Tom advised her.

"How do you know?"

"I stuck my head into the kitchen a few times when she was cooking." He grinned and rolled his eyes. "Just wait!"

"I'd like some more soup," announced a sniffing Peter-Paul from the doorway, his long hair more than usually tousled.

"Sit at the end of the table." Commanded Deborah. "We don't want to catch whatever you have."

"It's better." But he sat down as indicated while Monica disappeared into the kitchen to bring him another full bowl. The banging of pots and pans attested to Scottie's presence there but she did not emerge from her sanctuary until all the soup plates had been collected and removed from the table. Then she appeared, a large silver tray in her hands, containing individual dinner plates. On each one there sat a deep, dark-brown-roasted duck quarter, the steam still rising into the air. She hurried to place a portion in front of each member of the group and, clutching a pitcher, deftly poured a rich red sauce around each segment.

"Eat it immediately or the crispness will go." She urged them, returning once more from the kitchen with platters of gauffered potatoes, piled high.

"Oh, my!" Helen gasped, taking her first bite, "cherry sauce and roasted duck. What a combination!" Then lapsed into silence in order to enjoy the subtle flavors and textures.

"Hm, this is good, the best I've had on this trip." Monica mumbled, after having spooned up all of her thick carrot soup and moving on to the light and flavorsome spinach quiche studded with pine nuts.

"Lucky we didn't go out to eat," murmured John in Helen's ear. "think of missing all of this!"

"All's well that ends well?" She laughed.

"Wait!" Steven called down the table, "we don't know what's for dessert yet."

"I'm more than satisfied with what we have so far received and a plain apple would do to round off the meal." Father John smiled as Scottie returned with individual plates of a simple green salad.

"So, the bird watchers seemed altered?" Keith returned to the topic that had been worrying him and stared pointedly at Deborah, Mavis and Steven as if willing them to dredge up some more information.

"Yes indeed. They looked completely normal; well, as normal as one tall, thin small-headed man can look ambling along with a short, stout large-headed one. But no formal clothing, no oddly outdated Teutonic manners, just two men strolling along and chatting. Well, till it started to pour. Then they ran for shelter as we all did."

The carafes were empty, plates so clean they did not look as if they had been used. Mavis arose and began to collect the dishes, glasses and cutlery as Scottie returned once more with narrow, tall-necked bottles of a light, fruity white wine which she set down in a straight line in the center of the table. John pulled one over to examine the label and nodded appreciatively while Deborah laid dessert forks, knives and spoons at each place setting and Scottie once more emerged from the kitchen at a run, individual plates lined up on the tray in her hands.

"To be eaten immediately!" She ordered.

When they sliced into the puff-balls of meringue, still sizzling from the boiling oil into which they had been plunged, the inner filling remained frozen. It proved to be a lemon-rich pastry cream which melted in their mouths together with the charred meringue, dotted with chunky sugar granules and grated lemon rind. The hot and cold mixture merged, releasing a plethora of flavors that made them gasp and turn to look at each other in amazement. Even Monica had dessert although she was usually the first one to point out the evils of saturated fats and sugars.

Small red and white demitasse cups appeared, surrounding a large copper pitcher with a long, pointed snout, filled with strong and aromatic coffee and several plates of assorted small pastries and biscuits, each one merely bite-sized, that completed the meal.

Nobody spoke and so far nobody had complimented the chef for they were all still under the spell of a meal they had never expected to eat on this holy road. Only Peter-Paul looked uncomfortable and did not raise his head when Scottie finally abandoned her kitchen to receive the praise of the group. He had been so wrong in thinking her a novice, an apprentice chef, a dabbler. She was brilliant and more than qualified to own her own restaurant and make the illustrious name for herself that she surely deserved. There was no way he could now atone for his uncharitable and churlish behavior. He would have to do penance or God would never forgive him and at the end of their pilgrimage his request would not be granted.

"Now..." began Scottie, "who will have cognac or perhaps some port?"

"Would there be any Fernet Branca?"Monica wondered.

"There would indeed."

"Wonderful! Yes, please."

"OK, one Fernet and cognac for everyone else?"

"Indeed!" Father John nodded his head, "it's just what we need on such a night. And since it isn't bed-time yet, and anyway, this wonderful meal should take its time digesting, would anyone have a tale? It seems to me that on a stormy night like this and we replete and snug definitely calls for a very special tale." And his eyes swept around the table in anticipation.
28.

Père Hippolyte and frères Paulus and Aloysus had been concentrating on the almost life-sized sketch of the shawl for at least half an hour without uttering a word. They all had blocks of paper on their knees and pens in their hands but only frère Paulus had so far made a few lines on the empty page at his disposal. He had then stared at it a long time, turned the paper upside-down, sideways and had ended up shaking his head.

"It's not a code," he stated, "even if the lines are uneven which in a true tartan could never occur."

"I at first thought there might be something under the lines," began frère Aloysus, "but as we don't have the original, we can't tell and anyway, what can one hide under woolen threads?"

"I read about a terrorist who was, thank the Lord, apprehended aboard a plane as he was about to blow it up using just his shoe laces...would that?" Père Hippolyte did not complete his query but glanced questioningly at his two fellow monks.

"No, that makes no sense for they could easily arrange some self-igniting and exploding material on a different shawl yet they wanted this one so badly they almost killed you to get it."

"You know," frère Aloysus murmured, "when one looks at the entire piece spread out as it is now, albeit in a copy, it rather reminds me of a map. Crude perhaps, but still a map."

"Yes, that's it!" Père Hippolyte leaped to his feet to stare at the large sheet of marked paper more closely. "Oh yes! Like a pirate map in the old books we read as children, sketchily drawn with X marks the spot at a crossroads or under a tree, but...?"

"Could it be?"

"It could; of course it could." Père Hippolyte almost jumped up and down in his excitement.

"Not so fast," frère Aloysus warned, "if it is such a map then where is the X? There isn't any. Not as you have drawn it from memory and you did claim that you had looked at it so long you had memorized it."

"We don't even know which side is up," muttered frère Paulus, "how can we tell which is North, South, East or West."

"There must have been another shawl or rug that is the key," Père Hippolyte added, "and we don't have it. Someone, someplace, however does have it but without this shawl the location for him was incomplete which is why they moved heaven and earth to obtain it."

"What location?"

"It must be a location, a place, an X-marks-the-spot, where something someone wants is to be found or where something will happen. It has not happened yet or the miscreants would not have been so eager to get hold of it."

"But they have it now," interjected frère Paulus.

"Yes, yes, so they do." sighed Père Hippolyte.

"And when the two shawls are joined together...?"

"Something will happen," murmured frère Aloysus, "something big, if they were willing to kill to put their hands on the original of this sketch."

"But what? And more to the point when and where?" Demanded Père Hippolye fiercely.

"I think," began frère Paulus, "we shall each of us make a copy of these lines in our notebooks and mark them N.S.E.W. and study them minutely, overlaying them with cities and natural sites of renown in let's say France, Spain, Portugal, Belgium to start with. Then compare. See if we can find roads, rivers, streets, highways and other configurations, natural or man-made, which will include famous, national or religious sites. If the lines fit then perhaps we'll have a clue as to WHERE and after that, perhaps with police help, we'll have a clue as to WHY, HOW and WHEN!"

"And WHO?"

"That is the least important at this stage." Stated frère Paulus decisively.

"Now then," Reiterated Father John, "who can entertain us with a tale 'til we have to retire for the night?"

"I can," Monica had raised her hand as if she were still in school and answering her teacher's question.

"First though," interceded Deborah, "does anyone require tea or coffe or water or..." she looked around and only Peter-Paul mouthed "more tea" at her. She nodded, hurried to the kitchen and returned with a steaming cup which she put down in front of him, then signaled Monica to proceed.

*

"My story has no title. Perhaps after you have heard it you will be able to suggest an appropriate one to me." She smiled at each of them in turn and then began:

"They say there are only a handful of truly original stories in the world so please do not look for exclusiveness in mine. It is just a story to while away the hour between the end of supper and bed time, nothing more. And of course the same goes for the opening sentence. Here once again there are only a few that can be dubbed unique. Do you know what they are?" She glanced around the table to be met with blank stares. "Oh, you must surely know some of them. Let me remind you. There is the famous 'It was a dark and stormy night' ". She laughed as she saw the recognition mirrored in their faces. "Another one, a bit more complex goes: 'It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.' Another and also short one, 'Damn, said the Duchess!' and, to my mind, the most famous, only 4 words long and resounding in our collective memories as loudly, brightly and instantly recognizable as the four mighty chords that begin Beethoven's 5th symphony: ONCE UPON A TIME."

A collective sigh made itself heard in the dim room, followed by a word here, a light chuckle there, a shifting of bodies to assure a more relaxed position, as the magic words cast their spell and settled their minds into the proper channel for this, the Fifth Traveler's Tale.

Once upon a time in the city of St. Petersburg, there lived a family of master goldsmiths. Their fine work was renowned throughout Russia and rivalled the master: Faberge. In one respect they even surpassed him and that was in the fabrication of men's gold watch-chains.

To own and proudly display on one's waistcoat from pocket to pocket, one of these status symbols immediately elevated the wearer onto a higher echelon and caused waiters to offer their best tables and prospective business associates to quickly recalculate and revise estimates.

As generation succeeded generation, the oldest son always entered the business after a lengthy apprenticeship, so it was not to be wondered at that when Albert Goldsmith reached the age of l8, his father Isidor proudly ushered him into the family workshop and assigned him bench #18 where, it was assumed, he would spend the next thirty years of his life only to be succeeded in time by his eldest son.

While Albert showed aptitude for the family profession from the first day, he also evinced a tendency to stray from the rigorously round shapes, in two sizes only, of the famous Goldsmith chains and began to improvise, slipping in an oval link or one that had begun life as a narrow rectangle and had two of its sides slightly staved in, towards the center. Somehow he got away with it, nobody noticing until he decided to add a touch of verdigris to this one, unusual link. And then he was, of course, severely reprimanded and a decision was taken to put him to work exclusively on ladies' watch chains. These were smaller, thinner and much longer as they had to be looped around the neck, attached with a special pin to the upper lapel of a jacket, then allowed to dangle below the waist. The small, closed watch, usually round, was cleverly fastened to either an upper or lower pocket or held in place by the lady's gown.

Albert studied the watch and chain carefully for several days, inquiring as to the popularity of this item and discovered that while sales were steady it did not seem to have the appeal of the men's watch chains and he began to wonder why. In order to find out, he questioned his aunts and cousins and learned that while men preferred tradition, women liked novelty, vying with each other who among them would sport the latest fashion item first.

With that in mind he went to work and first of all fashioned an extremely elegant and fancifully curlicued capital letter: an A, B and C to start with. These were devised of white gold and highly ornamented with a clip on the back to hold it in place. From a corner of the nethermost part of each letter a long chain, fashioned of miniature a,b or c embellished with tiny semi-precious stones, snaked down to end by gripping the small, plain, round ladies watch in a fist formed again by the letters A, B or C. He envisaged using the entire alphabet so that a prospective purchaser could easily choose her own initial and thereby not only show off her name but boast of a different shape and jewel color than, let us say, her best friend.

Having shown his work to his mother and sisters, he was certain he had a winner but while the women praised him, assuring him that his hands had been blessed by the Almighty, the men in the family were appalled by these new-fangled innovations and ordered him to return to his bench and continue to turn out gold links, in two sizes only, and forget about flights of fancy.

But forget is what he could not do and, unable to awaken his male relatives to the dangers of over-specialization in a fickle world, he decided to leave his native city and try his luck elsewhere. The only one he admitted to his plan was his mother, whom he went to see late one evening, a small valise at his side. She had always understood him and rose to the occasion this time as well as she placed her hand flat over the top of his head to recite a blessing and a prayer for a safe voyage and a happy life. Then she kissed him one final time and sent him on his way.

He waited until everyone in the large, luxurious house was asleep before venturing down the back stairs and through the kitchen and its various storage rooms to the rear door.

" _And now..." Monica turned to look at each and everyone around the table, "All together, please."_

She raised her arms like a conductor facing a full orchestra and with the first word, gave the downbeat in which they all joined loudly and excitedly: IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT! Her hands swung out rapidly, cutting off the final T and she lowered her voice to continue:

Softly and carefully, without making a sound, he opened and closed the back door and tiptoed around the alleyway to the main street leading away from the city. The streets were never well lit at this time of night and certainly not in the residential districts where the townspeople retired early, unless they were celebrating a special event. Thus, as soon as Albert found himself only a few feet from his front door, all was dark and still. The rain, that had threatened all day, had started to fall and by now a strong northerly wind whipped it up into a spray that rivalled the foaming flecks spattering the shore from an incoming tide.

Windows, not well closed, rattled from the cellars of every mansion he passed, while tree branches swung low to the ground in an attempt to trip him as he made his way rapidly in the direction of the forest.

Nobody was about; everyone with a bit of sense had taken cover on such a night and over the swell and crescendo of the wind a lone dog could be heard barking frenziedly. He shivered, pulled the fur collar of his astrakhan coat closer together and, lowering his head, marched ahead towards the Stygian darkness of the forest. Here there was a narrow, pale path marked by patches of sandy stretches lightly sprinkled with pine needles that slid and slipped under his sturdy felt boots. Above him the boughs of hundreds of dense trees swayed and swooped as the wind tossed them from side to side.

Once forged, the forest would give way to small wooden sheds and the decorative railroad-station where he hoped to board his train for far-off and exotic Constantinople and a new and exciting future.

He knew the forest well for he had been taken there on numerous occasions by his nanny as she taught him and his siblings which berries to pick and which mushrooms to sever carefully from the ground with a sharp knife and collect in the small baskets they all carried on these excursions.

He remembered that at the halfway point of the woodland there was a sizeable crossroads...the path veering off not only straight ahead but sideways in two directions and that he must continue firmly forward to reach his destination.

When he arrived at this junction, he discovered that one of the huge trees had been felled by a storm and lay sprawled across his path, blocking his way. He could circumvent it but as there was no light he was afraid of what he might find on either side of his up-to-now straight and narrow road. Perhaps there was a ditch hidden by the massive branches of the fallen tree, perhaps a well. He might trip; he might fall; he might break something. But how was he to continue?

" _Well, so you're finally here!" A voice addressed him from somewhere around the region of his knees._

" _Who are you?" He asked fearfully, "And how did you know I was coming?"_

He was answered by a rustling sound, then felt rather than saw the man get to his feet and heard him slap one open palm against another as if to brush soil and pine needles away.

" _Not a phantom then." He thought, "Is he perhaps a robber lying in wait for travelers on their way to the station and hoping to unload them of the ready cash they carry?"_

" _I knew you were coming because I know everything about you." The stranger continued, "Even to where you are going and what you plan to do but I had expected you earlier. You'll have to run to catch that train now."_

" _How...?" Albert began, then asked again, "Who are you?"_

" _I am your double."_

" _What?"_

" _Everyone has a double. The Germans even have a word for it, 'Ein Doppelganger'. You must have heard of that."_

" _Yes."_

" _So...I am yours. Usually, when one sees one's double it is a bad sign, or so the story goes, but not always; certainly not in this case. I set out today in order to meet you. On purpose. To propose something to you. It suits me and it will certainly suit you. And most of all, it will make your family happy. Since I am your double I shall sneak back to your home, your room, your bed, and tomorrow I shall be at bench #18. I shall live your life here in Russia while you will go off to seek your fortune abroad. The next time we meet we shall compare notes and, as it will be many years from now, we shall have much to tell each other of our lives. Only then will we be able to decide who did the better deal. Well, what do you say?"_

" _But what do you get out of this?" Albert wondered._

" _A life! With you continuing to live your life with your family here I am relegated to a shadow, an onlooker. Yours is a good life and if you leave I can step into your shoes and have a real life, like everyone else and, conversely, if I take your life over you are free to follow your dreams to the ends of the earth."_

" _Yes! Yes! It is a good way for us both. Come! Let me pass so I may catch my train and you go straight to the house and into bed. Kiss my mother for me tomorrow and tell her you had second thoughts. Shall we shake on it?"_

" _Yes."_

And there, in front of the fallen tree on the road where two paths cross, in the middle of a stormy night, two identical hands gripped each other and two identical-sounding sets of footsteps led away from the site, one going East one West and both certain their choice had been the right one.

After several long but exciting days and nights on the train, Albert reached Constantinople and immediately fell in love with the colors, patterns, sounds, smells and exciting new impressions that pressed in upon him from all sides. It was all so different from St. Petersburg that upon first stepping forth from the station he remained transfixed, staring and breathing it in, allowing passersby to jostle him and remonstrate with him to move out of their way as they ran past, a large flat tray of pastries balanced on their heads or clutching copper jugs holding a dark orange liquid they sold by the glass to passersby.

He would have remained glued permanently to that one step at the entrance of the station if an elderly, well-dressed and dignified man sporting a thick mustache had not pulled him aside and, addressing him in German, wondered what he was doing in Constantinople. Out poured Albert's story...in full. All his frustrations and adventures, except his meeting with his double poured forth and were displayed for the stranger's perusal. When Albert's tale finally ground to a halt the stranger put a hand on his heart and introduced himself. "I am Ali Ikmet sent by Allah to keep you safe and steer you in the right direction. Come," He tucked his arm through Albert's, "let us get away from all these thieves, pickpockets, spivs and whores that haunt the railway station waiting to pounce on the unwary traveler. First I shall take you to my hotel for you are in luck in having met me. I am the owner of the Family Pension, a modest, clean and honest place where you will soon feel at home."

And with that he led him through many side streets to a pleasant three-storied building festooned by plump, rounded balconies, much ornamental metal scrollwork, a cool inner courtyard, the entire façade painted blue.

Here Albert soon found himself in possession of large comfortable rooms overlooking the inner garden whose quiet was broken only by the plashing of a fountain and the raucous call of two peacocks.

" _Now, my Russian friend," Ali began, "first things first: you will bathe, change and rest. In the evening you will join the others for dinner and only tomorrow will we talk for I have much to propose to you." In fact, it all waited for an entire week while Albert familiarized himself with the city and with the new and exciting business venture his landlord and future partner had suggested._

" _Is it not a fact that Russians enjoy fruit compotes for dessert. and fruit-filled double-dough tarts called pirogues for afternoon tea? And isn't it true that for most of the year, excepting a few summer months, the vast country of Russia is ice and snow and no fresh fruit is available?"_

" _It is true," replied Albert wondering where his host was leading him._

" _Then how do you make your desserts and your pies?"_

" _We use dried fruits. They are first soaked then cooked and sweetened and not only made into pastries and desserts but also jams and jellies."_

" _And where do these dried marvels come from?" Ali persisted._

" _Oh, I imagine the cooks dry the fresh fruit in the summer months, leaving them on shelves in the attic, just as they make a potent cherry brandy by putting fresh cherries covered in sugar in a basin with alcohol and letting the mixture stand in the sun."_

" _No! And double no, my young friend. Come with me." And Ali took him by the arm and bundled him out the door to the nearest bazaar where, among all the fabrics and bangles and spices and foodstuffs he came to a halt in front of mountains of dried and glistening cherries, dates, plums, pears, apricots, raisins in all sizes and colors and paper thin slices of apple._

" _There!" He flung out his hands. "There! These are your Russian winter fruits, prized by cooks and housewives all over the realm." He leaned closer to Albert, "Forget about jewelry! Here is the real gold. Exported in wagon-loads, together with halva, another item prized in Russia, it will make our fortunes."_

And so, with Albert's connections among his far-flung family, bankrolled by Ali, the first freight wagons made their way back to his homeland, well-guarded by Ali's men, received and distributed by Albert's friends and relations, the company of A & A was formed and bore as much fruit in gold coins as was shipped in raw materials by the ton.

Two years slipped by in this pleasant and lucrative manner. Albert now owned his own house overlooking Bosphorus the meal and much talk of the future until it came even to the young man's attention that 'IT IS A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED THAT A SINGLE MAN IN POSSESSION OF A GOOD FORTUNE MUST BE IN WANT OF A WIFE.'

Having noticed the wistful glances Albert cast at the contents of baby buggies or at toddlers clutching their mother's hands as he took a walk on the shores of the Bosphorus, his good friend and partner, Ali, took him aside and suggested most strongly that it was not good for a man to be alone. A man was not complete unless he was part of a couple and Albert, at 21, had certainly reached that stage.

" _Yes, I agree," replied Albert, "but how do I go about it, I, a non-Moslem in a Moslem land which I have made my own."_

" _Easy, my friend. You marry into my family then we shall truly be brothers as well as partners. What do you say? Shall I make all the arrangements?"_

" _Oh yes, Ali my brother, please..." and he found his eyes filling with tears that he pretended had been caused by the smoke rising from the grill of a street vendor hawking kebabs._

A week later he found himself wed to the l6-year old daughter of one of Ali's many relations. A girl he met for the first time on his wedding day and whom he saw unveiled only after all the papers had been signed. She was slender, quick-moving, gentle with long black hair and a smile that lit up her face and from the first moment they fell in love. His house on the Bosphorus, he felt, was now complete. And, when a year later a son was added and another one the year after that, Albert felt truly blessed.

But during this time, that in the telling seems to have consisted of one long blissful summer, the forces of evil rife in the world were very much awake and determined to show their powers. Just as everyone thought life could not get any better, an assassination plunged the entire continent and finally the whole world into one of the most savage conflicts man has unleashed upon himself. Not a country was spared, nor a city nor a household that did not see the arrival of a fateful letter starting with the words: "we regret to inform you..." and ending in tears, in dashed hopes, in entire families destroyed.

Under such conditions it was no longer possible to continue calmly exporting dried fruits. The route had become dangerous and, anyway, people no longer had money for such luxuries. But Albert and Ali had profited well during the good years and knew they would be able to weather the storm. So, they settled back to wait and see.

Nobody thought the war would last as long as it did and when the Armistice was finally signed and the remnants of the great armies began to make their weary way home it was to discover their native countries ruined, destroyed, bereft of hope as it saw its own dreams for the future...its golden boys... return old, broken, shattered invalids, choking with every breath they took, blind, lame, helpless and nobody's thoughts were on business.

And then after war came pestilence in the form of an influenza outbreak that killed, in a matter of weeks, 18 million souls: the mothers, wives, sisters and children of those who had already paid the ultimate price.

Among them were Albert's young wife and their two sons.

Ali watched his friend and partner grow more withdrawn and silent as the weeks passed. He too mourned his young relative and her children and so many others among his wide circle of relations and friends who had succumbed to the same malady but, after a decent interval, life had to go on.

Life was, after all, for the living.

" _If we only had an all-consuming business to keep us occupied." He thought. "But nobody needs the luxuries of dried fruits in this new and suddenly poor world and while I have the hotel and a large family to keep me busy and from brooding, my brother has nothing. It is breaking my heart to see him cloistered in his home, barely setting foot in the street or the market. It cannot continue like this."_

One morning there was another shock to the world order; another bitter pill to swallow: the Tsar had been overthrown; he and his family murdered, the revolutionaries had taken over Russia and people of means were desperately fleeing the country.

Albert prayed his family was safe, had somehow escaped and also wondered what his double now thought of the fortuitous transaction he had struck in the middle of a storm-tossed night ten years ago.

This revolution and the resultant worries about his kin culminated in a positive decision for Albert who finally realized it was time to move on. He would transfer his wealth to Switzerland and relocate to Europe. Somewhere, someplace, the remnants of the Goldsmith clan must have taken refuge and if he could find them and ease their life in exile, without their knowing of course, his life up to now would not have been in vain.

It proved even more heart-wrenching to say goodbye to his adopted family and to his "brother" Ali, to go one final time to the cemetery for his wife and children, to gaze long and lovingly at the glorious view from his house on the Bosphorus and then reminding himself that he was a man, to pack the small valise he had brought from St.Petersburg and, without a backward glance, board the train for Europe.

*

He settled in Berlin and began to look around in order to decide what to do and which business to follow.

Here Monica paused so that her fellow pilgrims raised their heads to give her their undivided attention.

She leaned forward, her face bathed by the golden light emanating from the ruffled chandelier, opened her eyes wide and whispered. "And here comes another truly original opening line. Can anyone tell me its provenance?" She inhaled deeply and almost whispered the words, "IN THE BEGINNING..."

" _Ah!" Father John sighed._

" _Not you Father. Someone else?" Monica laughed, repeating: "In the beginning...?"_

" _The first line of the Bible, the Old Testament." Keith murmured, "In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form and void; and the darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters."_

" _Full marks to Keith!" Father John called out._

" _Yes indeed. So," Monica continued, "in the beginning he spent his time wandering around the city checking out the shops and what they offered to sell, eating in restaurants, cafes and wine bars in order to gather some insight into what might tempt the inhabitants of this city to put a hand into their pocket and part with the little money they had._

Most of the pre-war businesses had collapsed; the war had decimated the young men of the country and the influenza epidemic took the elderly, the very young and the women. Life was bitter indeed and the only moments of relief came when one had a full glass of forgetfulness in one's hand to while away an evening.

Albert decided to open up wine bars in strategic locations throughout the city. But while there were quite a few of these already, his were different. He furnished them like British gentlemen's clubs, not like saloons. There were comfortable, overstuffed armchairs, low tables and soft lights. Small and tastefully decorated sandwiches were available to go with the wine, schnapps or beer and the ambience was such that a man could sit back and sip and dream of better times.

He made it a habit of visiting the bars most evenings, never more than two in one night, just to make certain nothing else was going on than a quiet drink in comfortable surroundings and the enjoyment of relaxing for as long as the contents of the glass lasted.

On one such evening he noticed an elderly man drinking by himself. He was not sipping wine. An ice-cold bottle of vodka stood on his table and he continued to fill up his glass, one after another, until almost the entire contents of the bottle had been transferred from it to his stomach.

Albert sat down across from him and, addressing him in Russian, warned him that he had imbibed enough for one night. Seen close up, the man was large and rangy with a full head of white hair, a red face and watery blue eyes that fixed Albert with an imperious gaze, as if daring him to admonish a thirsty man. He assured him that he was not in the habit of drinking a full bottle of vodka every evening, not even once a month.

" _But tonight I am celebrating the ghost of an anniversary," he announced._

" _Marriage, Birth?" Albert wondered, then added in a low voice, "Death?"_

" _You might say so, yes," the older man murmured, "Twenty years ago today I distinguished myself in a famous battle and came to the attention of the Tsar. He made me a general. General Piotr Rostrovski at your service, sir."_

And he rose to his feet, raised his glass and downed the last of the vodka at one gulp, then fell back into his seat, remaining upright by sheer will-power.

" _Ex-general Rostrovski," he added, "serving out the rest of my life here in Berlin as a dvornik in a large apartment building that is smaller than my palace in Moscow."_

" _Have you any family?"_

" _One daughter," he sighed, "her mother died of the influenza and she has taken over the running of our insignificant quarters although she is only eighteen. She should be going to balls, she should be courted by noblemen, she should..." He ceased speaking and brought his fist down in a heavy blow on the table. "She should..."_

" _She is alive and so are you." Albert reminded his compatriot. "How much do they pay you for being a janitor?"_

" _A few marks a month. enough for bread, potatoes, a bottle of vodka once a year to remember but..." he laughed derisively. "Not for fine gowns and coaches and swift horses and seats at the opera and all a young and beautiful general's daughter ought to have at the age of eighteen."_

" _General Rostrovski, I shall pay you 25 marks a month plus expenses if, for several evenings each week you will visit my wine bars scattered throughout Berlin to see that everything is as it should be in a well-run and honest establishment. I believe you will know precisely what to look out for, but do not try to rectify any irregularities by yourself; it could be extremely dangerous. Report to me and the matter will be deal with by, how shall I phrase it? By specialists, yes, by specialists. Is it a deal?"_

Slowly the general got to his feet, pulled himself up ramrod straight and clicked his heels together. He saluted smartly and murmured, "Orders received, sir."

For Albert there now followed a life of ease and pleasure. Of course here and there he did make lightning-like forays on his establishments to assure himself that the General was earning his salary and, on the whole, he was reassured that all was well.

As time passed and memories dimmed, life once more seemed sweet to him, especially when he looked more than glancingly at the beautiful blonde and blue-eyed eighteen-year old daughter of the Russian general. He approved of her modesty, her loving gestures toward her father and her sweet smile full of promises which he imagined aimed at him exclusively. In fact, so certain was he of her feelings for him that he approached her father to suggest a closer alliance between himself and the small Rostrovski family, and, despite the General's longing for a more noble son-in-law, he was accepted.

When the young girl was told of her fate she seemed to acquiesce and the plans for a modest wedding were put into motion only to be overthrown on the festive day itself when the bride failed to appear and a frantic search brought to light the indisputable fact that she had eloped the previous night with her lover, a Polish laborer, who had whisked her off to Hamburg, there to board a ship bound for America and a new life.

With this further blow to his happiness, Albert signed his entire business over to the General, packed the small bag that had accompanied him from St. Petersburg, and boarded the first train for Paris.

Here he immediately instigated a search for members of his family and although he discovered many Russian immigrants in the capital, there was nobody belonging to the Goldsmith clan. Nor was there anyone who could give him any information as to their fate.

Albert liked the city and settled down in a luxurious apartment in the seventh district. Looking around for something to do he chanced to taste the mustard and pickles one day as he lunched quickly at a neighborhood bistro. They were not to his taste and, upon inquiring, learned that condiments, especially mustard, were manufactured exclusively in Dijon. He therefore paid a lightning visit to that city, purchased a small factory, hired workers and began the task of concocting these items to emulate as best he could recall the taste of those he had enjoyed in St. Petersburg.

This new venture kept him occupied and shuttling back and forth between Paris and Dijon until the precise formula had been achieved and he could leave the manufacture in the hands of his foreman and devote himself to the pleasures on offer in the capital.

Here he discovered the richness of the city in its concerts, operas, theaters and art exhibitions and he was soon a familiar figure at all these events. After a few weeks he began to notice the regulars who attended the cultural opening nights and, among them, a striking-looking woman, always dressed in the height of fashion. He wondered who she was and how it might be possible to meet her when chance lent a hand and placed her in the seat next to his at an opera performance where they soon fell into the sort of light conversation that can occur when two persons find themselves locked in adjacent seats for a period of several hours. She proved to be witty, erudite and well established in the city. She had strong opinions on the arts, politics and primarily in the realm of the women's movement, for she was a rabid advocate of votes and equal rights for her sex. He found her fascinating and refreshing and they were soon seen everywhere together so that it was no wonder to anyone when they made it official and wed.

Their home became a meeting place for the famous in all the fields of art as well as politics and their select dinner parties were the highlights of the social season. These continued even when Albert had to be in Dijon on business and soon stories began to make the rounds of there being more than a fine roast on display for the entertainment of the guests.

These stories did not reach Albert's ears until much later. And so life continued most pleasantly until one night, when Albert returned earlier than expected from Dijon due to a slight fever and a bad cold, to enter his home and discover his wife in their bedroom with two leading poets of the day. It was then that he also found out her profession and how she had managed to live so well before her marriage to him.

The confrontation between them tipped the scales in her fragile psyche and she fell into a state of catatonia from which she never emerged and was confined to an institution for the remainder of her days. Under these conditions it proved to be impossible, by law, for Albert to divorce her and with that blow all his hopes of marrying again and founding a family vanished.

He devoted himself to business, the continued search for some member of his family and the succor he could extend to his brother Ali who, due to the war and the depression that followed had fallen on hard times.

And so the years passed. Faster and faster until even Ali was gone and he, Albert had reached his nineties with Monsieur Louis, his butler, chauffeur and friend to help him weather the final years. Years where events had not stood still until one morning the world awoke to the fact that Russia had once more opened its borders to welcome visitors from abroad to its enchanting cities, its vast countrysides and its culture.

" _This will be my last trip, Louis," Began Albert. "I long to see it all just one more time. The woods, the path, the city, the house. I want to make my peace with all my memories and with the remnants of my family, should I find someone still alive. I have longed for this for far too many years. Please take care of all the details and don't put it off as I do not have much time left."_

" _ONCE UPON A TIME..." Monica whispered, "there was a family of master goldsmiths in St. Petersburg and while they fashioned their golden chains history advanced upon them and many, many years passed until an old man slowly mounted the stairs of his ancestral home once more. When he had completed the climb to the second floor and its large and comfortable salon he pushed open the door to see that the lamps had been lit, the table set, the samovar put to singing, and, as he stepped across the threshold, the figures seated on their straight-backed chairs turned to look at him. They too had aged, yet he recognized them one and all as they nodded to him and motioned to the one obviously vacant place at the table._

' _Everything all right in the workshop?' murmured one while the other leaned forward to_

whisper, 'That great-grandson of yours is a bright fellow, but you'll have to curb some of

his ideas, Albert. I mean, plastic instead of gold? No, no, old chap, it won't do. Why it

reminds me of the time you yourself had some newfangled ideas till you settled down...

oh, so many years ago...do you remember?' "

29.

Seen from a distance through the downpour, the long line of humpbacked figures shimmered silver-gray as it moved slowly forward into the wind. They looked like miniature mutants of some deadly race of dinosaurs, long extinct, resurrected by a mad scientist bent on conquering the world.

The strong gusts caused ropes of rain to slant down on heads turned to the ground in order to try and keep the path in view. Their usual bouncy pace was a single-filed shuffle, for unseen obstacles were an ever present danger to fragile ankles.

They had been tramping like this for over two hours without speaking, keeping their minds firmly on thoughts of the road of St. Jacques, the aim of the pilgrimage and prayer in order to distance themselves from the discomfort of the day.

Nobody had expected such weather in June in South-Western France and some of them had, when packing for the trip, debated the wisdom of adding waterproof ponchos to the contents of their backpacks. Luckily sense had prevailed and even Woofy was covered up except for his face.

They were once more eleven. Scottie had disappeared from the hotel at dawn, leaving a brief note to explain that she was needed in London at her restaurant earlier than expected due to the illness of two of the regular staff. She was therefore catching an early-morning train from Castres and would continue eventually by channel tunnel to England. She politely wished them a successful pilgrimage.

One member of the group brightened noticeably, his cold vanished and he even sang a few medieval students' songs to himself as he squelched through the open countryside. The danger to his person was gone and he could not but be glad. However, his innate kindness and chivalry had taken a severe beating. Yet another sin to confess to the Saint when they would have reached their goal, he thought, and sighed heavily.

Once in Toulouse he had intended to instigate some inquiries back in London about this so-called chef, for he doubted her abilities and looked askance at her self-aggrandizement. It was his intention to expose her for the dilettante he imagined her to be, until she had cooked and presented their evening meal in Castres. Its scope and brilliance had silenced him and had made him feel abysmally ashamed to the point of muzzling himself completely for the entire evening. He had behaved abominably but there was no way for him to make amends now. He would just have to do extra penance and hope God and the Saint would accept his remorse for what it was: "I am but mortal, Oh Lord, forgive me."

True to his original plan, once they had arrived in Castres, he had played the part of the love-smitten admirer. He had been all solicitude, helping her settle in and making a big show of taking his copy to be sent to his newspaper. He used his time away from the hotel to instigate some inquiries among fellow journalists, especially those covering crime and vice.

When he returned to the hotel he was full of contrition at having left her so long to her own devices and hinted that he had gotten in touch with several wealthy contacts who were desperately searching for a sound investment now that banks and stock markets had betrayed them.

They had shown great interest in the restaurant venture if prices could be lowered so as to undercut the current eating venues of the rich, yet retaining high quality and attention to detail. That, allied to the young and beautiful female chef would certainly lure customers from far and wide.

She began to mull over in her mind products and costs and, realizing the value of all the points he had raised, became enthusiastic, insisting only that the restaurant itself had to be handsomely designed and must certainly have fresh bouquets of flowers every day, but could of course feature cheaper cuts of meat and fish allied to favorite home-style foods such as bread-and-butter pudding, treacle tart and fish and meat pies. An emphasis on nostalgia and old favorites would in all probability be a big drawing card in these rootless and turbulent times. These would instantly remind the clientele of the more stable eras when such cooking was the mainstay of a nation that had triumphed over bigger hardships than the present financial crunch.

Yes, the idea was growing on her so that she had no suspicions whatsoever when he suggested they go someplace else to discuss all the details, which he intended to write down, for the dreary atmosphere of the St. Jacques, allied to an incipient head cold was putting paid to his creative powers. She would have accompanied him to Hades and back for the bait he dangled before her eyes but refused to enter the third-rate brothel in this provincial French town and, as soon as she saw that the café he was taking her to turned out to have an old-fashioned red light over the door with a large and hirsute Madame at the entrance to hand them a key she had slapped him hard and had run off into the rain and back to the safety of the St. Jacques.

The first to cross her outraged path had been Monica who, regaled with his perfidy, had extracted the location from her and had appeared at Peter-Paul's side just as he was attempting to apologize to the Madame who was on the point of calling the police, reiterating over and over that she ran a decent establishment.

"Maitre Poisson! Please excuse the delay...the rain!" Monica gushed, smiling at an astonished Peter-Paul and the proprietress. "Could we have a room for an hour?" She begged. "My husband has just taken his secretary to her apartment. I saw them with my own eyes and, for proof, photographed them with my cell phone!" And here Monica proved her star quality by bursting into tears. "Madame," she turned to the woman, "it is my inheritance that has set him up in business. I have given him two sturdy sons and he repays me with his secretary!"

"Ah, la canaille! This way, room number 12 is yours for the afternoon. But have a care, this gentleman came here with someone else too."

"He is not my lover; he is my lawyer. I cannot go to his office for my husband has spies everyplace."

"But he brought a woman!"

"His secretary."

"She followed me; I had to get rid of her for she must not know that Madame here is consulting me. I believe her to be in the pay of the husband." Peter-Paul added wildly, wondering how long he would be able to keep this up.

"Ah, bien! Good luck!" And with that she stomped off.

"Poisson?" He asked as soon as they were alone.

"I couldn't think of a single French name."

"Thank God she didn't notice."

"How could you have taken Scottie here?" Monica demanded fiercely, glaring around at the damp wallpaper and the stained carpet.

"It was all I could come up with to get rid of her." He sighed, collapsing onto the wide and sagging bed.

"I thought you wanted her," Monica stood next to him, hands on her hips, looking down, "what was all that name guessing about if you didn't want her?"

"I don't feel well." He moaned.

"I bet you don't. What's going on?"

"Yes, she's beautiful and desirable but all she can talk about is food and the high-class restaurant she imagined I would establish for her if she played her cards right. I didn't know how to get rid of her. Explaining and reasoning didn't even make a dent and then I remembered our time in London..." here he waved his hand at the surroundings, "and I gambled she'd be so shocked she'd back off."

"You were right there; she's leaving in the morning."

"Thank God!" Peter-Paul sighed, raising his hand to his forehead "I think I have a fever."

"Too much cerebral activity and not enough physical will do it every time." was Monica's verdict as she began to undress.

"What do you call walking up to 9 hours a day? Cogitation?"

"No, darling," and with that she landed on the bed next to him and began to tug at his buttons. "but you're not the outdoor type. Copulation is much better for your health."

"Oh Monica, now you're talking!" And he turned to her, a happy smile on his face, his arms outstretched to gather her close.

*

"I cannot sit here and do nothing and contribute nothing while you all wait on me hand and foot." Luc struggled to his feet and stood leaning on his crutches.

"It's only been two days, Luc." frère Barnabe murmured. "Patience. That ankle has been badly mauled about; it will take time and in the meanwhile you cannot do anything anyway with the restaurant undergoing renovations."

"That worries me too. Why, in these bad times, is he sinking so much money into fancy decorations? He cannot mean to raise prices. We already didn't have enough of a clientele to make much of a profit. I have a bad feeling about this."

"Put it all aside for now. The main thing is to get well so you can stand and cook again, no matter what the restaurant will look like."

"Yes of course, and to keep in practice I'll do kitchen duty here." Luc rose to his feet, and, grasping the crutches tightly, began to propel himself to the door.

"Wonderful!" frère Barnabe laughed. "See what you can do with our stew and the potatoes. The worst, however is the lumpy cereal in the morning. frère Arsene means well but he started life as a carpenter!" And he laughed joyfully.

*

"Why did you ever make that big play for her?" Monica wondered, zipping up her black jeans.

"She was unexpected. And beautiful. The setting was romantic. It stirred my gypsy blood. I don't know...why does one do certain things and not others?" He slipped his shoes on, bent to tie them and fell back onto the bed. "Oh my head!" He groaned.

"Here, let me," and she raised his legs onto the bed and tied the laces carefully. "There!"

"I think I was jealous of John." Peter-Paul continued, "He had found his Helen...oh, not that I imagined that I could win the hand of someone like Helen of Troy! I, a mere mortal. You'll laugh, I wanted Hera."

"But darling, that's exactly what you got. Never, ever ask the gods for what you really want. It's fatal for they have a perverted sense of humor and will give you your heart's desire...with knobs on!"

"She was Hera?"

"Of course. Hera, wife to Zeus. Keeps Mount Olympus clean, cooks! All that ambrosia, remember? And nags Zeus so much he has to keep running off to other women, in fancy dress at that, to escape the sound of her voice."

"Oh God! Catriona to a T!"

"Next time ask for Venus or perhaps Hebe, a very pleasant girl as minor goddesses go, and see what you'll be given. Hera, forsooth! And now up." She reached out, grasped his hands and pulled him to a standing position. "Better?" She murmured.

"I suppose so," he replied shakily.

"Come on love, back to the hotel. I'll take care of you. Just keep remembering that you're rid of her and you'll already feel much better."

*

"Where are we going to stop?" Helen demanded.

"To eat or for the night?"

"Both."

"Is it John?" Keith turned to her anxiously, as the rain fell in slanting lines all around them.

"No, no, I'm concerned about Father John. He really shouldn't be tramping in all this."

"Father John is much tougher than you think. He comes from an even worse climate and even more rigorous conditions than what we have been experiencing but I am more concerned about Peter-Paul who had a bad cold yesterday and of course the women in our group. Well, the rain is unexpected but we have a possibility of avoiding it, if it keeps up that is. First of all, we sleep at Dourgne. It's not even a village, just an old church surrounded by small summer homes, most of them owned by artisans. I did phone ahead and they're expecting us. And when we get there I want a council of war."

"Whatever for?"

"Well, if this weather continues I thought we might resort to a barge. We're approaching the Canal du Midi which will take us straight to Toulouse. But I have to get your OKs first before going to the expense of a barge."

"You'll get that like a shot. Nobody is relishing this. And it truly won't do for us to fall ill and not make it to Compostela in the end."

"That's why I thought of the barge. It'll also give us more time in Toulouse. There are some wonderful old churches in the city and Father John wants to make inquiries about Brother Guillaume whom you did not meet. He seems to have disappeared and he was very ill."

"John told me about him." Helen nodded her head. "Can I tell John? About the barge, I mean."

"Sure. We'll talk it over tonight."

"How much more of this?"

"About three hours."

"Do people actually choose to go on the Road in the winter when it rains every day?" She wondered.

"Oh yes. While it does take longer, it is said to have a special beauty and atmosphere absent in the summer."

"I didn't think martyrdom was a requirement for the Road of St. Jacques." She muttered, barely avoiding a deep puddle.

"You're exaggerating," Keith laughed. "It's just a bit of rain."

"For us Californians this is the monsoon season." She replied as Keith continued to laugh.

Precisely three hours later they saw the welcoming tip of the church spire at Dourgne, but when they reached their destination, they found the door locked. While the rest of the group took whatever shelter there was in the overhang of the doorway, Keith knocked on the nearest cottage door. It was opened by a young man wearing a paint-spattered smock, clutching a bowl in one hand and a brush in the other.

"Yes?" He asked hopefully. "You would like some hand-painted pottery?"

"No, I'm sorry...we called ahead for possible lodging in this inclement weather. I believe the person I spoke to was called Alain?" Keith's statement was more of a query as he hoped they had not gotten their signals crossed.

"Ah yes, yes. Please do come in." And he stepped aside to allow Keith to enter. "I am Alain."

"I'd better not. We're all very wet. If you could just help us settle in we'll doff our ponchos and won't drip all over your floors."

"It doesn't matter. Get in, the wind is blowing the rain into the house."

"Thank you."

"How many are you?"

"We're eleven which includes one married couple and three single women; the rest are men. Among those there is a priest and since he is not young, the first accommodation should be his."

"I'll gladly take charge of him myself. I have two spare rooms." He led the way to the rear of the house. "They are for my family but at present only I am here. It is not quite the season yet, as you will have noticed." He opened two low wooden doors. The rooms were small and contained a large bed, a cupboard and a chair all fashioned of the same honey-colored wood. There was a brightly colored hand-woven rug on the floor.

"May I bring him in?" Keith asked, "His name is Father John and he is Irish."

"Of course; and the second room?"

"I'll first see the others settled, then I can decide if to take it myself or opt for the least attractive and give your room to someone else."

"They're all more or less the same here." Robert stated.

"Then I will take this one so as to be near the good Father in case he needs me. But first I'll see to the others. Oh, there is just one more thing...you're not allergic to dogs are you?"

"No, but why do you ask?"

"I have my dog with me...oh, he's quite small, a terrier."

"He's welcome, especially as he is on the pilgrimage and must therefore be very pious." Alain laughed.

"And we shall be no problem to anyone. We all have provisions with us, having bought food this morning in Viviers-les-Montagnes."

"Oh? You don't happen to know how to cook?" Alain asked hopefully. "When my wife isn't here I live off cans."

"Well, you're in luck for I do know how to cook. So forget the cans for tonight and I'll cope."

Once Father John had been brought out of the rain and settled, Keith hurried to seek arrangements for the others. There were several women artisans already in residence, as well as a young married couple who plied the loom and had made all the bedspreads and occasional rugs in use by the others. These were so attractively designed and brightly colored that Mavis began to discuss costs, production possibilities and shipping to Dublin, with the result that she remained to sleep in their spare room while they hammered out a partnership in which the weavers would supply the products and Mavis would sell them, first in Ireland and later, hopefully, all over Britain.

She had planned a move of this sort for some time but had been loath to set out on her own while her mother had been so ill and Tom's future was not arranged. Working for an upscale beauty salon had given her a basic salary augmented by tips that had kept their home going and Tom in pocket money while he grew up and decided what to do with his life. Now that their mother was gone they would sell the house, divide up the profits and Tom would head for Lodeve and his new existence. He did not need her anymore and she would rent a small flat and open a shop selling the lovely things she had herself always admired, longed for and could not afford.

These unusual, vibrantly-colored hand-woven articles would be the first of many hand-picked treasures she hoped would appeal to buyers as they had to her. She intended to check out the other artisans in their cottages huddled around the church. Her hosts had spoken highly of a lone woman who made unusual creche figures with expressively carved wooden faces and exquisite clothing. She hoped her pious fellow citizens at home would be impressed enough with their beauty and originality to purchase one or two to display under their trees during the festive season and wondered if she might not discover many more items for her shop along the Road of St. Jacques and her mood lightened as her thoughts veered from blankly contemplating Steven's marked preference for Monica to the hunt for specialized merchandise for her projected boutique and a better life.

Before returning to Robert's cottage and Father John, to cook the promised evening meal, Keith settled everyone and took the opportunity to ask them if they were amenable to the idea of taking a barge on the Canal du Midi to Toulouse instead of walking, since the weather forecast did not bode well for the slightly over 100 km needed to reach that city on foot.

They were all delighted at the suggestion and it only needed finalizing, which meant hiring a barge.

After having prepared steaks, fried potatoes and a salad all washed down with a palatable wine contributed by their host, and ending the meal with two kinds of goat cheeses and coffee, Keith phoned Captain Ferreol, their gruff host on the Vabre river. The 3-star barge chef had just finished serving one of his generous meals to a group of tourists who were staying the night and was free to help Keith find a means of transportation from le col de Narouze to Toulouse with a barge owner who just happened to be related to him in some complicated manner, comprising a kinship involving second cousins once removed on the good captain's mother's side of the family and, as a relative, of course to be relied upon absolutely. The call was made then and there and an approximate time given when Captain George Dufresnes could expect them.

"Now I can relax." Keith sighed, holding a replete Woofy on his lap and petting the sleepy little dog.

"It is a good move, that!" Alain nodded his head. "To go by water...but what of your certificate? Will you have walked enough?" He frowned as he suddenly bethought himself.

"Oh yes, and we still have all of Spain to traverse."

"That's fine then. It will serve no purpose if you all get sick and have to call off the pilgrimage and go home."

"Indeed not," Father John concurred. "I must say God has looked after us so far. Only Peter-Paul succumbed to a head cold but he is already much better, now that the reason for the cold has left our group." And the good father smiled slyly at Keith.

"For a clever man he has made some unfortunate choices." Keith nodded his head.

"Many pilgrims have to renounce the trek due to bad falls, Alain continued. "Broken bones or sprains are not unusual on the way. In summer the problems are usually not colds or the flu but then I don't remember such rainstorms at this time of year either. It's all due to the atmospheric changes causing trouble everyplace in the world." He sighed. "We have ruined this beautiful world the good Lord gave us and if we do not come to our senses soon we shall not survive. It is already too late." He sighed again. "I do not care so much for myself, but that my children's children shall not delight in seeing the swallows playfully chasing each other in their game of tag around the church steeple or hear the high-pitched 'kee-kee-kee' of the kestrel as he calls to his mate or catch a glimpse in the early hours of dawn when the dew glistens on the grass, of the shrewd, slanted eyes of the fox as she heads to her burrow...the result of her night's hunt in her jaws. A regal breakfast for her cubs. All that makes me very sad." And he took a sip of cognac and sighed again.

"Ah yes, yes," murmured Father John, "it is the same in Ireland. My monastery is steadily sinking. Each year more headland is lost. It will eventually cover our herb gardens, our outbuildings and the church itself. These have withstood time, tide, wars, the plague years and Henry VIII for over ten centuries. I am glad I am not young any more and will most probably not live to see it. The old ways are truly disappearing and we with it." And Father John also took a sip of cognac and sighed, "And you, Keith, you seem preoccupied. What are you thinking?"

"I am wondering about Père Jerome's warning, about Deirdre's kidnapped brother and Monsieur Cotte in all this." He looked grimly at the little priest. "I have an idea but it is perhaps too melodramatic. First I must speak to Deirdre or ask Inspector Lemoine to do so for me. Well, tomorrow is another full day on the road to reach Revel. And from that city we have about 30 km to cover to the col de Narouze and the Canal du Midi, so...I suggest we go to bed and get as much rest as we can and not forget to thank God for a safe, dry and comfortable place to lay our weary bodies and for the good food we have eaten. Are we not fortunate to be so blessed when so many millions of our fellow men have nothing?"

"Amen." Added Alain, finishing his drink. "Leave the dishes; I'll do them. To bed and a good night."
30.

"I have been speaking to Inspector Lemoine," Keith admitted to Father John as they climbed the stairs of their hotel in Revel after another miserable day spent trudging through the rain.

"Was he disappointed?"

"Yes and no. He was excited at officer Thibault's analysis of those photos in the album, but..."

"But they did not bring us any closer to finding the reason for the attack on Monsieur Cotte and all the other curious incidents of the pilgrimage such as the theft of the Scottish shawl. Catriona was from Scotland; might there be a connection? Her departure was so very sudden...?"

"Her departure had to do with Peter-Paul, not shawls," Keith laughed. "and if being from Scotland makes one a suspect then we still have Steven among us whom we could question."

"No, no my boy, let's drop it. There must be some other reason or connection and now that Deirdre is to join us in Toulouse we might have some more important information. I must say, to change the subject..." sighed Father John, as they reached their landing, "I'm relieved that another day of tramping through this inclement weather is over. It is lowering everyone's morale. We have only tomorrow and then we can enjoy the barge trip and plan our strategy for Toulouse."

"There are many churches,..." began Keith to be cut short by the priest.

"Undoubtedly, but the most important is to find out what has happened to Brother Guillaume. I have been praying for him ever since he collapsed as he came out of the path at the meeting point."

"Yes, Father, but I fear the worst."

"As do I."

"I am also concerned about the figure seen gaining admittance to the hostel in Arles on the night of the mistral. The figure that was missing the following morning when I opened the unlocked door to join the group. We have rather lost sight of him in our need to clarify later happenings."

"Tomorrow's a long route and more rain is predicted." Sighed Deborah, for once looking around for some company.

"Yes, but at the end of it we shall be boarding a barge," concluded Derek, delight evident in the tone of his voice. "for two whole days of leisure and no walking before we see what is to be seen in Toulouse."

"Why didn't you ever mention that you are a nurse?" She suddenly turned on him.

"But I did. That first evening in the church in Arles when we all signed up. We even discussed our various duties and positions. You either chose to forget it or events led you to." He concluded.

"I hope these are not the first intimations of senility but I truly do not remember such a conversation. If I have hurt your feelings, please do forgive me."

"Forget it, please," he murmured, turning red.

"Well, you got over your cold fast!" She called out to Peter-Paul in order to change the subject.

"It must have been the Oscillococcinum Monica gave me. It worked like magic."

"Osc...what?"

"It's homeopathic. Some crystals that dissolve under the tongue; and it works!"

"So I see...amazing!" She was not at all certain that she approved of such an efficient remedy she had never heard of before and which was not prescribed by the doctors in her hospital.

As the others entered the hotel from the town where they had gone to eat, they congregated in a knot in the black and white checkered hall at the base of the staircase. Mavis had discovered a glass blower in an artisanal section of Revel and was extolling his works with great animation to Helen and John, who both thoroughly approved of her plans for the future. From an almost mute companion on the road, constantly riveting her gaze to Steven's tall form, she had changed, almost overnight, to an enthusiastic champion of French handworks and was looking forward confidently to finding more in Spain.

By the time she would be coming home to Dublin much of her stock for the boutique would already be on order. She envisaged a very busy time. First to sell the house then to look around for an apartment for herself and of course a small shop for her newly acquired treasures. She was so deeply involved in thoughts and plans that she wished the pilgrimage was already coming to its completion so she could get on with her life.

Now she understood Tom's eagerness to return to Lodeve, and aside from his new vocation, he had the added incentive of Mathilde fervently awaiting him. She must not forget to tell her mother all these stirring events after having recited the appropriate prayers for her soul. Surely the miracle of Santiago would allow her mother to hear all of this and to continue on to Paradise in the happy knowledge that her children were safe. And suddenly, despite these auspicious thoughts, Mavis began to cry.

"What's wrong?" Derek approached her, looking concerned. "Can I help?"

"No, no, it's nothing. A temporary weakness." She sighed and wiped her eyes.

"He's not worth it, you know."

"Who?" She stared at him, astonished.

"Why, Steven..."

"I wasn't crying because of him."

"Oh...sorry, I'm sorry, I thought..."

"That's all right and thank you for caring."

"If there's anything I can do...I'm a nurse you know." And here he wickedly mimicked Deborah's intonation, smiling at her playfully.

"I didn't know; are you really?"

"Yes. So, why are you weeping?"

"I was thinking of my mother, of the prayer I'll say for her soul in Santiago and wondering if she will be able to...oh, how shall I put it? If I tell her what has happened in Tom's life and now in mine, well, if she will know?"

"Bound to in a holy place like Compostela, and on the saint's own day."

"That's what I felt too and thinking of her I missed her so very much. Sorry, but thank you again. I just...well, I had the feeling I had as a child when something good had happened at school and I'd rush into the house to share it with her; you probably know what I mean." She blew her nose vigorously.

"Yes and no. I'm an orphan so...well, I was adopted and they were wonderful but my real mother, well, I never knew her so..." His voice petered off and he looked at the floor.

"But you did share things with your adopted parents, didn't you?"

"Yes, oh yes..."

"Derek! It does not matter who gave birth to you, what matters is who raised you, pulled you out of all the childhood diseases, stood by you until you were an adult and could manage on your own. The people who sat at your bedside when you were ill, who praised you when you got a good grade, to whom you turned in times of trouble, these are your real parents, your family. Anyone can give birth! The trick is to raise the child, to give him a proper background, to start him on life's path with a suitcase full of blessings and values so he can journey onward and reach the end as happily and honestly as possible. When I learn of your profession and gauge your life so far, as I can gather from the short time we have been together, I know your adoptive family has done a great job. There is no need in the the world to go chasing after phantoms."

"Nobody has ever pointed these things out to me so bluntly before."

"And?"

"And I am partly offended and partly convinced."

"Stick to the convinced part."

"There is another problem, having to do with religion, you see..."

"Accept the one first, the other will follow naturally." She replied, hoping she had somehow helped this complicated young man. He did not reply but continued to look thoughtful.

"I wish I had your brother's outlook." He finally said enviously. "He is so sure of himself and of what he wants."

"He wasn't like that until he met Mathilde. She is the best thing that could have happened to him. With no profession and no interests not centered on the pub and his mates his future would have been bleak indeed had fate or our dear mother in heaven not intervened. It is the only way I can explain the miracle of Lodeve."

*

"I am not supposed to notice such matters, but does it seem to you frère Barnabe that the porridge has a different consistency and a different flavor this morning?" And Père Jonas spooned up another portion from his bowl.

"Indeed, mon Père."

"I know I am not supposed to speak but is it possible that all our brothers around the table are smiling?"

"Indeed, mon Père."

"Is this a new brand of oatmeal?"

"No, mon Père."

"Ah, don't tell me any more. Blessed be his hands." And Père Jonas actually licked his spoon clean, then checked himself for the sin of gluttony.

*

The room was small and cramped. The sheets on the bed wrinkled and dingy and the one armchair covered with stained, dirty clothing. A plain wooden table, draped in an old beige and brown oilcloth, was awash with badly chipped plastic mugs and plates that had not been near water in many days. Several large flies made frequent landings on the remains of a stale sandwich. A large man stood at the one window and stared unseeingly out at the car-park below, thinking.

So she was rejoining the group and leaving Bernard on his own. Perhaps she had finally seen through that pious phony and had up and quit him for good. No, not Miss goody two-shoes, not her. As bad as he! Both of them mealy-mouthed do-gooders. But, on her own it will be easier to get at her.

First to find out where the others are at present, then track them down and make sure she goes with them. Then scout out the territory they mean to cover. And find the best place for an ambush. Hire some local riff-raff. It'd be easier if she could be decoyed and separated from the rest of the herd but with the right group of toughs the others could always be put to flight. But first things first...where are they now? Has she arrived and if not, when? Where are they going next? And where would be the best place to try to grab her?

He'd need a house, large and furnished, a garden with a sandbox and most of all the right assistant. And money. Well, the monk still owed him but it wouldn't be enough. Hm, he'd better smarten up if he'd be going house hunting. New stuff, yes the first investment would be in some nice, well-cut clothing, then a good haircut, ah yes, he could already feel his luck changing.

*

They spent two more miserable days shambling and shuffling on water-logged roads under a sullen sky with the added discomfort of a northerly wind that slanted the sheeted rain into their faces. Relief came only at night when they stopped at Les Thoumases, much too close to Revel, but the alternative was St.Paulet which was much too distant to reach in such weather and their hope was that the following morning would see an amelioration of the situation so that they might cover the 27 km to the canal du Midi under more favorable conditions.

Their hopes were dashed by yet another inclement day that took them only to St. Paulet and, finally, on the third morning to the Canal and the barge that awaited them. Having already had recourse to several of Capt. Ferreol's relations they were confident of their welcome and of Capt. Dufresne's amiability and were therefore taken aback when they arrived at the barge, le requin, to see no resemblance to anyone of the Ferreol clan so far encountered.

He was tall and as cadaverous as Capt. Ferreol had been round and solid. No sign of bonhomie made itself evident on his long, lugubrious face. Eyes, eyebrows and the corners of his long mouth all slanted downward and he addressed them without actually being aware of their presence.

"I don't allow no women on my boat. Women on boats are bad luck!" And he hacked and spat violently into the canal. "And what is that?" he scowled at Woofy.

"My dog; he's house trained."

"Don't allow no dawgs neither," And he spat again.

Keith was taken aback. For the first time one of his lodging arrangements had backfired on him and he did not know how to handle the situation, when Peter-Paul suddenly came to his rescue.

"If we have to find another barge to convey the ladies in our party and the little dog, which would of course include his owner you will be losing quite a bit of money as we shall of course have to deduct from the amount promised you. That's six persons less: three ladies, a married couple, for you would not separate a husband from his wife and force them to seek alternate transportation and of course, the owner of the little dog. That will leave you with only five passengers. Hardly worthwhile the bother of going to Toulouse for only five, is it? Eleven was a much better number; it always is and would have brought you in a nice fat purse for very little trouble."

He had counted on Captain Dufresne's avarice to do the trick and, after having put the case to him so succinctly, saw that his conjecture had been correct. Slow comprehension began to spread itself over the man's mournful features as the truth of Peter-Paul's words sank in.

"Well now..." he began, plucking at three long hairs that sprouted from an ugly mole on his chin.

"I'm glad you see it my way." Peter-Paul smiled good-naturedly at him. "Which way to the cabins? Down here? Fine! Ladies first!" And with a flourish of his wrist he motioned them to descend.

When they saw what Captain Dufresne called a cabin they were dismayed. Bunk beds were one thing but the small spaces were musty and grimy and Deborah claimed she smelled the presence of bedbugs.

"For they have a distinctive odor." She insisted. "Someone once brought the infestation into the hospital and we had a terrible time getting rid of them."

"Look, the places in Spain won't be any better and there we'll be in hostels and camping sites." Keith warned. "Probably without water too. We've been lucky so far but for most pilgrims this would be luxury."

"Then I guess we're not most pilgrims." Monica muttered. "And I draw the line at bedbugs."

"In the Middle Ages..." Peter-Paul began on an insouciant note.

"Thank God we're not in the Middle Ages." Monica interrupted. "This is the 21st century and there is no reason to put up with dirt, bugs, bad smells and surly captains. And what of the food?" She put both her hands on her hips, leaning forward and glaring, "That woman hater certainly can't cook, not that I'd eat anything prepared in his galley if it's as dirty as his cabins." She added hotly, "We'd probably catch that other great standby of your precious Middle Ages: Plague!"

"Monica has a point." Conceded Derek. "Maybe not quite the plague but we could spoil our stomachs so badly we'd end up in the Toulouse hospital instead of seeing the churches and continuing on our route."

"I second that! Dysentery is no joke." Added Deborah.

"So what should we do? Leave?"

"Yes."

"Definitely."

"O.K. who'll explain it to him?" Steven asked.

"I will." Keith volunteered. "I got you into this in the first place."

"You couldn't have known," John soothed. "not if he was recommended by Captain Ferreol."

"So, we leave?" Peter-Paul demanded, already half-way out the door.

"Yes."

"You bet." Tom added, vehemently.

"Aren't there any other barges available?" Wondered Steven out loud.

"Must be. Let's go," And Tom took the stairs to the top deck two at a time in his hurry to quit the barge.

There was a general exodus as the others followed. One by one they reached the deck and plunged down the ladder to the quai where, seeing another moored barge, they headed for la mouette and hailed it as captain Dufresne stood aboard his craft staring after them, a confused expression on his face. When he finally came to life and shouted "Hey!" they had already boarded the other boat and were engaging the owner in conversation.

"Sorry to intrude like this," began Keith as spokesman for the group.

"We want to go to Toulouse." Steven interjected, when he was cut short by the Captain, a man in his early 50s with a round, good-natured face and large blue eyes that gazed openly at the group. "You wouldn't be from Captain Ferreol, would you?" He wondered, looking them over.

"Why yes, how did you know?"

"Because you spoke to me, on the phone. I'm Captain Dufresne."

"You?" Keith could only stare, then swiveled his head in the direction of le raquin, "But what about him?"

"Oh him! We call him Don Quixote. You know: the knight of the mournful countenance." And he broke into a hearty laugh. "Well, don't stand there getting wet, come aboard and welcome. We'll cast off at once."

"All's well that ends well." Derek sighed as they clattered down the stairs to the cabins. Here too there were bunk beds but the small spaces were clean to the point of sterility and boasted touches of blue in sheets, blankets and towels stacked on top of a stool.

Up on deck there were comfortable canvas-backed chairs, tubs of green plants trailing their leaves over the sides and a coal-black cat with green eyes that made playful advances to them when they emerged from the lower floor.

Captain Dufresnes had already started the engine and soon la Mouette was gliding smoothly down the waterway while they lounged in their seats or leaned against the sides of the barge watching the grassy verges float by. The rain had changed to a light mist and it was not unpleasant in the open air but eventually they ambled down to a spacious lounge where the cat followed them and attempted to make friends with Woofy by taking several flying leaps at his tail but soon desisted as Woofy refused to join in the sort of mock warfare cats launch at movable objects. He felt himself infinitely above such frivolousness.

Tom's cell phone rang as soon as he sat down and, muttering under his breath that Mathilde never called at this time of day, answered with some trepidation. A smile of relief soon settled over his features, however, as he listened closely to his fiancee's plans, nodding his head occasionally, and then with a fond, "Bye love." turned to the others.

"Deirdre is joining us in Toulouse. Mathilde has just finished putting her on the train."

There was a general hubbub of excitement and eagerly voiced questions, mainly about Bernard's progress and when everything had been explained they began to amble out of the lounge to unpack a few necessities. Only Keith and Father John remained behind, tossing bit of crumpled paper to the little cat as she batted them back.

"Inspector Lemoine won't be able to ask Deirdre any questions now." Father John pointed out.

"No, but we will." Replied Keith as he threw yet another improvised ball for the cat.

*

"There are some rumors, Luc. In town." frère Arsene murmured as they finished clearing up the large, subterranean monastery kitchen.

"Something that concerns me?"

"You might say so." He stacked the identical thick, white pottery bowls on an etagere. "You don't think it odd that Jerome is redecorating?"

### "Of course I do. If I could hobble over there I'd already have..."

"Père Jonas did not want you to until you would be well and that's still a good while to go."

### "I understand. I should say I understood...I just didn't want to..."

"No, no, I wouldn't have said a word now but you have to know. You'll have to make plans. And this is the best place for that. You have time on your side, you are safe here; you can think. And we are all here as well to help and advise, should you wish it."

"Yes. I'm safe, secure and I'll heal. I'll pray...and..."

"And God will provide. Never doubt that."

*

Gliding slowly down the canal for two blissful days proved a most pleasant antidote to the many hours of tramping through the downpour and, as they approached their goal, the sun began to emerge shyly from the curtain of dark clouds that still hovered overhead, waiting to make its grand entrance in Toulouse itself.

By the time they had reached their goal, the city was glowing rose-red and gold as lowering skies were dispersed and the pure beauty of a summer's day painted streets and buildings alike in a rush of hot, vibrant colors. When they disembarked, their amiable captain accompanied them to point them in the right direction, to offer last-minute advice and to explain yet again how to reach the small hotel he had recommended most highly as being clean, comfortable, inexpensive and, of course, owned by yet another kinsman. "The food is good there too," He had added, "for my cousin-in-law's wife is descended from les meres de Lyon!" There could be no higher recommendation.

As soon as they had settled into small, cheerful rooms in the Hotel de Soleil, Tom phoned Mathilde to find out if Deirdre had arrived safely to Toulouse and if she had already called to say where she was staying. Upon learning that she was in a small family-run hotel on the opposite side of the city, Tom, Mavis and Deborah decided to go over and help her move and, of course welcome her back to the group. Keith and Father John were going to see the representative of the Road of St. Jacques and took everyone's certificate with them to be stamped, leaving the others free to explore the sights at will.

Their first stop was the church of Saint Sernin, a major stage of the St. Jacques pilgrimage, where the bones of the martyred St. Saturnin had found their final resting place in the year 402.

They marveled at the size of the edifice which, with its 15 meter width and 64 meter length, was the typical pilgrimage church of the Middle Ages, built to receive thousands, to display countless relics and to provide prayer sites for all. This style of church served as a model for all which were built afterwards in the south of France. The sculptures of St. Sernin, vibrant and rich, were also copied extensively throughout the region.

From here it was a short walk to the church of St. Pierre, then to the Jacobin church and monastery, begun in 1230 and not completed until 150 years later when it also had the distinction of being the first university of the city, created by the Dominican order.

After that they visited the Cathedral of St. Etienne, begun in l073, and afterwards crossed the Garonne River on the Pont Neuf to cast a quick eye over the l7th century hospital of St. Jacques, originally two hospitals dating from the 12th century and which, from its name and the statues of the Saint set into niches on the façade, gave full evidence to the succor afforded the ailing pilgrims on their weary road to Compostela during the pilgrimage's heyday.

Sated, after the greediness that had led them to visit 4 churches and a hospital in one morning of sightseeing, they collapsed thankfully onto the chairs of a pleasant sidewalk café, as much to rest their feet as their minds after attempting to absorb all they had been exposed to in a few brief hours.

"I was truly hungry for something to rest my eyes on other than more fields, trees, farms and the road under my feet." John sighed. "Now, if I could find a piano I would put Toulouse at the top of my favorite-cities-in-the-world list."

"And there's more to see tomorrow," Steven assured him. "Three more churches and we mustn't miss the rue St. Jacques aside from just wandering around the older quarters of this lovely city."

"And we'll be 12 tomorrow."

"You haven't met her yet." John turned to Helen. "She's a lovely person and very devout, as is her husband Bernard."

"Hopefully he'll be well enough to join us soon but he is not young and he was badly injured. And a head wound at his age..." From the glum expression on Derek's face he did not believe that Bernard would be fit to join them for a very long time to come.

"Deirdre's character is not so easily defined," mused Peter-Paul, inhaling deeply on a small cigarillo. "She's a bit unstable, nervy. Bernard has a calming effect on her and I hope she'll manage on her own without him."

"Deborah will see to her. They were very friendly." Stated John firmly.

"I felt an aura of suppressed excitement when in her presence. Um, well, excitement isn't quite the correct word, more like trepidation, yes, as if she was waiting for something to happen but didn't know when or where it would be." Monica mused, looking at Helen. "See what you make of her. Oh, and Keith either knows or suspects something."

"You're getting to sound more and more like an oracle, Monica. Did your spirits not give you answers about Deirdre?" Peter-Paul guffawed.

"Their minds are too lofty to give way to low gossip." She replied curtly, adding "And you're poisoning us with that...that smoke!" She waved her hand vigorously, trying to disperse it.

"There was a time when you liked the aroma." He reminded her bluntly, stung despite himself into an angry retort.

"I was young and innocent." She cooed sweetly as he choked on a retort, turning it into a cough at the last moment.

"Children, children," Steven admonished in a sudden falsetto. "You're beginning to sound as if you're still in the nursery. Stop the squabbling at once or Nana will have to give you ten of her best."

"What is he going on about?" Demanded an exasperated Monica.

"Not being British you wouldn't know..." Began Peter-Paul to be interrupted abruptly by John.

"Come on, let's get back to the hotel for lunch and see if Deirdre and her entourage have returned. You'll only come to blows if we stay here." And, getting to his feet, he motioned to Helen to follow him out of the café and back to their area of town.

*

"Hello, I'll be right with you." The cheerful young man in the impeccable white lab coat called out. "You must be Father John and eh, Keith Sommerville?"

"Yes."

"Indeed we are."

"And this?" The young man nodded his head in Woofy's direction.

"My dog Woofy," Keith replied, smiling at the good humor of the doctor facing them.

"I was given to understand that you are on the pilgrimage. Am I wrong?" He seemed confused.

"No, I mean yes...we are on the Road of St. Jacques. My dog goes wherever I go."

"I am sure he has no sins to be forgiven. My name, by the way, is Dr. Felix Lauragais."

"But that's the name of..." Began Keith.

"An ancestor. I was named for him, yes."

"I don't believe Father John is too well-versed in the sad story of the Cathars, are you?" Here he turned to the small priest and continued. "No, I see from the expression on your face that you have heard the name but that the details themselves have escaped you. For some time now we have been walking on the border of the Cathar country. We passed close to Puylaurens but there wasn't enough time to make the detour to see it. I'll tell you about it all later and though it was branded a heresy and, to their way of thinking it was. But, they were nevertheless, brave men and women." Keith's eyes were shining as he spoke of the martyrs who went to their fiery deaths rather than relinquish their view of a religion and a pope they felt had been corrupted.

"Yes, Keith, later. We must not take up the doctor's time."

"Oh, of course. Sorry. What can you tell us about Brother Guillaume?"

"Not very much, I'm afraid. As you know they did not know how to treat his condition in Lodeve and air-lifted him to us. They sent him as fast as they could because it was feared he would choke to death. He was terribly swollen, both inside and out and no amount of cortisone seemed to help. When he arrived he was moved immediately to an isolation room. We did not know what he had contracted or where, so we wore protective clothing, including masks, boots, gloves, as if he had Ebola fever."

Father John and Keith nodded.

"He was unconscious so we could not question him. Naturally we ran tests right away, basic ones and others that would unfortunately take time in order to discover which vital organs had been affected. We then left him in intensive care with all the proper equipment for someone in his condition. The red light was on outside his door. That's a warning to everyone not concerned with the patient to refrain from entering. And of course he was monitored during the rest of that night, but in the morning he had disappeared."

"But how?" Father John was shocked.

"We don't know. He could never have walked out on his own. He was not conscious. Someone monitored him and three other intensive care patients all the time. There is a central desk with access to closed-circuit television filming every move the four patients make. Nothing unusual appeared on any of the footage and we have no explanation."

### "I see; that does complicate matters." Sighed Keith. "The Lodeve hospital did not send any

material of what had happened to cause his illness? Of his having walked a very bad road to Lodeve through pine woods infested by caterpillars?"

"No, they didn't. So that was it. An extreme allergy to their vapor. He was so far gone I do

not believe we could have saved him even if we had been aware of the cause. I do hope the

other monk was also not affected." Doctor Lauragais added.

"Which other monk?" Keith demanded.

"Why the one who arrived with Brother Guillaume on the helicopter from Lodeve."

"But there was no..." Began Father John.

"He was young, tall, blond and of course very worried."
31.

The midday meal at the Hotel Soleil was a joyous affair for everyone. The discomfort of the endless rain was a thing of the past and the sun was once more beaming down on them, imparting a buoyancy to their step and a gleam to their eye, far too long dimmed by worries of the road and its inclement weather.

Monica and Steven were flirting openly and outrageously. So much so that those who had insisted that Steven was oblivious to women and to sex were forced to reconsider their hasty words.

Mavis was regaling everyone in sight with her new acquisitions for the projected business venture while Tom spoke at length, and with evident adoration of Mathilde's cleverness in devising and carrying out the arrangements that had brought Deirdre to Toulouse to join them.

Peter-Paul sang sotto voce madrigals with John while Helen became acquainted with the newcomer. Deborah and Derek brought Deirdre up to date on all she had missed, overwhelming her with stories of Captain Ferreol and his extended family, of the traumatic effect on them in attempting to save the Americans, of Helen's appearance and its subsequent effect on John, and so much else.

Father John and Keith helped the lone waitress pass overflowing platters, making certain everyone was well provided for. In true Lyonnais style they feasted on a first course of baby leeks in a vinaigrette sauce, the vegetables still slightly warm, followed by home-made saucissons accompanied by potatoes Lyonnaise washed down by a sprightly white wine and rounded off with large slabs of apple cake and strong coffee.

At the conclusion of the meal there was a general exodus to stretch out and grab forty winks upstairs before continuing their sightseeing. At this juncture Father John and Keith sought out Deirdre and begged a few words with her before she too retired to her room for the afternoon. She acquiesced graciously and followed them to the sitting room, completely deserted at this time of day.

"I'm sorry to drag you away from your nap," began Keith apologetically, "but I have some questions that will not keep."

"If it concerns the attack on Bernard, then Inspector Lemoine has already asked me everything he could think of."

"No...no...these are some questions he did not get around to and was going to ask you the day you left for Toulouse. And they aren't connected with what happened to Bernard...at least we don't think so, although..." He did not quite know how to complete that thought.

"You see..." Father John interrupted, "we have several mysteries on this pilgrimage, right from the beginning I might add. One concerns the murder of the hostel attendant in Arles, a vicious attack on Père Hippolyte, a friend and fellow priest also based in Arles, the attempt on Bernard's life and the murderous frenzy that cost poor Monsieur Cotte his life."

"I intend to pray for him at Compostela." She murmured.

"Deirdre, why did you cry when you saw the changed window display after your return from the futile attempt to visit Monica in the hospital?" Keith suddenly demanded.

"Because I was reminded of our reason for coming on the pilgrimage this year. I was reminded of my long-lost brother and I thought Monsieur Cotte had changed the display on purpose to hurt me. Although why he should have had such an intention, I..." She did not complete her thought.

"We don't understand." Father John leaned forward in his armchair. "Could you please explain it to us?"

"Everything! Don't leave anything out for it might prove important." Added Keith, also leaning closer to the young woman.

Deirdre stared off into the distance as tears gathered in her eyes, then she pulled herself together, sat up straight, and, gripping her hands together, began: "Once upon a time..."

She stopped and stared at them with open, pleading eyes. "Please excuse the opening line, for only in distancing myself from the events in this fairy-tale way can I even contemplate relating those happenings that killed my mother, broke my father's spirit and changed my life by turning me into the fearful and lonely creature I have become." They both nodded their comprehension to reassure her and signaled for her to continue.

"All right...once upon a time," She reiterated, her hands even more firmly entwined in her lap, and they were reminded of Monica's tale told in the intimacy of the dimly lit dining room in Castres one cold and rainy night. "Once upon a time there was a little girl. She was English and she was three years old. Born to wealthy parents in Manchester she had everything money could buy but she longed for a brother or sister who would be her best friend, always, and who would play with her, for it was no fun playing with the countless servants in the house or with her rather strict governess. Her father also wished for such a happy event, hoping for a son and heir to groom later on to take over the family business. Only her mother dreaded another pregnancy. She was fragile and had never fully recovered after the birth of her daughter.

When the little girl was about four years old she was told that she would soon have a sister or brother who would be her best friend and playmate and to be extra obedient and quiet during the coming months so as not to cause her mother any needless distress. Her mother had never taken care of her or played with her but her gentle presence was felt throughout the large mansion the family called home. Now, however, she was most often to be found propped up in her wide bed or reclining on a chaise longue, seeming to become more and more withdrawn and listless every day until her doctor advised sternly and most forcibly that she must be removed from the cold and dank atmosphere of Manchester and taken to Italy or the South of France to await the birth of the child.

A great hubbub ensued as locations were scrutinized, discarded, re-examined, rejected until finally Juan les Pins was chosen as a fine, temperate climate with competent doctors and all the comforts the small family would need to await the happy event.

By easy stages, with many a stop and start, they finally reached their destination and the villa Miranda was rented for half a year. Since money was no object, they were soon settled in, had hired a competent local staff and a young woman to care of Deirdre.

"What was her name?" Keith interrupted the flow of information.

"Marie."

"What did she look like?" He murmured, leaning forward eagerly in his chair, "Do you remember?"

"Of course. Oh, rather nondescript. A bit plump, no make-up, plain. She had a lovely smile and she smiled often...at first..." Deirdre had a far-away look in her eyes. "Not later on. Then she was sad most of the time and she cried. Funny, I haven't thought of her for years and had forgotten that part. She was also unwell. Food no longer seemed to agree with her and she seemed to exist on the many cups of tea she would get the cook to make her."

"What happened next?" Prompted Father John and, without noticing it, Deirdre began to speak in the first person.

"My mother had the baby. It was a very difficult delivery. The baby was not in the correct position and my mother screamed and screamed. I can still hear it..." She pressed the palms of her hands over her ears, lowered her head towards her knees and shuddered.

"Why wasn't she taken to the hospital?" Keith sounded angry.

"They tried; they called...the ambulance had an accident on its way to the villa. My mother was already in labor and the doctor was there. By the time the second ambulance was sent it was decided that the danger of moving her in such a condition was greater than having her go through with it in the house. If needed, they would take her afterwards. Marie took me away. We wandered the streets, we sat in a café where a man at the next table started to talk to us. He was sort of jolly, as if life was one big game and he laughed a lot. He made me a toy out of his napkin. A head and arms and with the fingers of his hand he manipulated it, throwing his voice like a ventriloquist. You know the sort of thing, 'Ho, ho, ho, little girl, why so sad?' " She looked up at them as they nodded for her to continue.

"Marie seemed to know him and told him of the trouble at the villa and her having removed me from there to which I remember him saying 'Quite right too! Don't bring her back until it's all over.' Until what was over, I wondered but didn't ask. It was warm in the café and, mainly, it was quiet. I relaxed. We sat for some time and Marie and the jolly man spoke while I began to fall asleep in my chair. Then we went someplace else...a house. There were many stairs to climb to the top and it was almost dark. There was a room with a bed and a dresser. No bathroom, just a place to sleep and Marie and I shared the bed till morning. I lay close to her, clutching her dress for safety. Then we washed in cold water from the pump in the courtyard and returned to the villa Miranda."

"It was blessedly still. The servants were up and tiptoeing around. They were smiling and made us a good breakfast and told us that mother had had a son and that both were well. My mother was worn out and was sleeping. We crept into our quarters and stayed there so as not to be in anyone's way."

"The following day we were allowed to see the baby and my mother. My father was, of course, delighted. He had given a bonus to all the servants and was much in evidence around the house when he wasn't writing letters and faxes to everyone back home."

"After a week, and when the weather was sunny, Marie began to take the baby out to the park."

"Did you ever encounter the man from the café again?" Keith wondered.

"Oh yes. He would join us in the park on our outings. Marie seemed to like him and had bought some scent in a dark blue bottle that she sprayed on herself before we went to the park. She had never used any before. Then, later, she cried. I asked her what was wrong, fearing it was my fault, but she would always reply that some dust had gotten into her eyes and was making them water. She cried every day after that first time and I wondered how come the dust only went into her eyes because nobody else seemed to be weeping. And then she disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Demanded Father John, moving nearer to Deidre not miss a single nuance, a single gesture or change in the tone of her voice.

"Yes. She was gone, and so was my baby brother." Here Deirdre broke down and sobbed bitterly. "My mother took to her bed in the complete collapse of an already enfeebled body. My father rushed around, the police came, men shouted and the servants went around silent and grim-faced. I was frightened and there was no Marie to care for me. I recall a young under- housemaid coming to find me and take me to her tiny room at the back of the villa one night."

"Did the police question you?"

"Yes. They asked about Marie. Did she have a room someplace; did she ever meet any men outside the villa?"

"Did you tell them about the room she had taken you to and the jolly man?"

"No. What does a 4-year old know about such things? Even if I had told them about that room I had no idea where it was and I didn't connect the jolly man with Marie. I thought he was my playmate."

"And then?" prompted Father John.

"I didn't learn the rest until I was grown up." She sighed and stared into the distance, the tears trickling down her cheeks unheeded. "A ransom note arrived. A great deal of money was demanded and against the advice of the police, my father decided to pay and began to make arrangements for the funds to be transferred from England. Then..." she swallowed painfully at the memory. "Marie's body was found in the river. She had heavy stones in the pockets of her suit and had been dead for two days. My mother's collapse was sudden and complete and three days later she was dead. No further ransom demands were made and to this day my father and I have searched for my brother to no avail." She wept bitterly "My father became a recluse overnight, old before his time. I am only 28; he would have been in the prime of life with an heir of 25 to take over the business. As it is, some cousins run the firm. They are, thank God, fine people and they truly care for us, but..."

"So..." Keith sighed. "That's it. And the pilgrimage? To ask the Saint's help in finding your brother after all these years?"

"Oh no! Our priest at home, Father Hendryk, intimated to me that if I were to go on the pilgrimage this year I would find my lost brother. 'He who was lost will be found.' he said. So we came, with hope, not truly believing, wanting desperately to believe and afraid to allow ourselves to believe."

"How were we to find him now so many years later and among so many pilgrims? It seemed a hopeless task! So, when I saw the old-fashioned buggy and the baby clothes...a little sailor suit... I almost fainted. I intended to question Monsieur Cotte but Bernard was attacked and I had other priorities. Then, Monsieur Cotte too was attacked and when Mathilde told me and the inspector that he had died, it was too much for me. I had pinned my hopes on his having known something about my brother and his fate, otherwise why change the window display half an hour after we had passed by and had seen the one with the wedding dress?"

"Deirdre," Keith prompted. "did Marie have a second name? In France we often hyphenate two names into one."

"Like Peter-Paul?" Deirdre smiled. "Only he's English."

"Yes, like Peter-Paul."

"She did, but everyone just called her Marie."

"Do you remember her second name?"

"Marie...? Marie...Oh, Marie-Claire? No, that's a magazine. Marie-Claude? Oh, that's the waitress at the hotel in Lodeve...Ah, yes, Marie-Therese. Why? Does it matter?"

"It may." Keith and Father John exchanged significant glances.

"If I were to show you a picture, would you recognize her?" Keith persisted.

"Of course."

"Was she dark or light-haired?"

"In between. Actually no color. Mousy. She wasn't pretty but she was very kind and she loved children."

"Deidre, please don't faint on us. We'd have to call Deborah or Derek as we are not used to women at all and certainly not swooning ones." Father John warned with a twinkle in his eyes.

"I promise not to embarrass you."

"All right..." Keith took a deep breath. "take a look at this computer print-out please. Is this Marie-Therese?"

Deirdre turned to look at the photo and retained her seat by sheer willpower. She swallowed, then, in a low voice asked, "Where did you get this?"

"First tell me," Keith insisted. "do you recognize her? Then I'll show you another picture, but first this one on the bench."

"Yes, that's Marie-Therese. I was there when the jolly man took the picture. My brother is in the pram she's holding onto. She used to rock it to calm him when he cried. It's out of the shot."

Keith sighed deeply, as did Father John. They did not need to glance at each other or speak aloud, for each knew what the other was thinking.

"Now, look at this picture. And Deirdre, remember our agreement? No fainting!"

She smiled at him for the first time that afternoon and nodded her head as he held up the indoor snap.

"That's me!" She gasped. "Oh, I remember when that was taken. It was my 4th birthday and I had a new dress and we were going down to the dining room where there would be a big cake and some girls from the English colony wintering in Juan les Pins like us, had been invited. They were all around my age. And the cross and chain were a gift from my father, and...yes of course, that is Marie-Therese. But where did you find these and what does it all mean?"

"Brace yourself...they come from Monsieur Cotte's family photo album and Marie-Therese was his niece."

"Was he then involved in my brother's kidnapping all those years ago? Did he somehow recognize me? But how? I was a small child and my name was Braithwaite not Van der Gilden and, anyway, I never mentioned my name to him when I bought the plaid. Was this somehow the reason he was attacked, like Bernard? Is there a link? And how do you know so much about it all?"

"Oh Deirdre..." he sighed deeply, "It's a long story but I do believe I might just be your long-lost brother."

"You?" she gasped. "Are you an orphan?"

"Yes," He nodded his head. "I was abandoned 25 years ago on the steps of Père Jerome's house in the Jura mountains. I was about two weeks old. My clothes were English..." his voice faded.

"A little sailor's suit?" she ventured.

"Yes," A gasp of joy escaped her and she threw her arms around his neck and rained kisses down on his hair, his eyes, her tears threatening to suffocate her.

"What is my name?" Keith whispered.

"Kenneth, Frederick Braithwaite."

"And we are Church of England?"

"No, Catholic"

"Ah, thank heavens. That way there is no conflict of interest with Père Jerome. Had there been I could not have assumed my true identity you see. I owe him my life and undoubtedly my future vocation."

"But how did you get to the Jura? Did Marie-Therese take you all the way there and why? Had she some connection with the place? And who was the jolly man? What did Monsieur Cotte know and why was he attacked? And how does this relate to the attack on Bernard? And Marie-Therese's suicide? Or was that murder?" Father John enumerated, raising one finger after another and marking off the points. "There are still so many unanswered questions and we are not out of the woods yet. In fact, we have just entered them."

32.

While Deirdre kept her promise not to faint and, in fact, never stopped smiling at everyone and everything around her, Keith was much subdued. At one stage of the pilgrimage he had wished to discover his real parents, had realized the conflict it would cause with Père Jerome and the people of his village and had committed the sins of envy and gluttony in wanting to retain the best of both worlds, but now that his desires had materialized, he regarded it all in a different light...not as a boon but as if someone had handed him a poisoned apple.

That he must, at the end of the pilgrimage, meet his father...that unfortunate man, broken in spirit and old before his time...was a task he did not relish. He disliked extreme emotions, and a father he had never known, in the throes of violent agitation did not appeal to his even-tempered nature. Deirdre was excitable enough - veering from outbursts of tears to spurts of euphoria and kept on a more or less even keel by a husband old enough to be her father was one thing and none of his concern, but his biological father? Ah, that was a different kettle of fish and one he truly did not want.

And if he had to have a sister then why couldn't she have been more like Deborah, a woman with two feet on the ground, someone to talk to, sensible...why Deirdre? Her mother, according to the story she had told, had also been of a nervous disposition, so where did he, Keith, come into the family? Perhaps, after all, there had been a mistake and it would be discovered at the end of the pilgrimage, when they would all meet and get to know each other.

This undertaking was turning out to be even more complicated and unexpected than he had imagined and much before they had reached the end, had in fact not even set foot on Spanish soil, it had already produced four miracles, among them his own although he would rather call it a malediction.

He thought the first one had been finding Steven on the path to Lodeve just when he was needed to save Monica after her fall. By themselves, without his ropes and his expertise, the outcome would have been very grave. The second one was undoubtedly the meeting between Tom and Mathilde which, overnight, turned a callow youth into a man. The third miracle was certainly the arrival of Helen, seemingly dropped from heaven onto their path at the towers of St. Eutrope to affect an awesome change in John's health and life, and finally, here in Toulouse, miracle number four. What he had wished for, and also dreaded, had come to pass. He had a family, tied to him by birth and blood. He had a name, an identity, a being, a father and sister, cousins and a history. And he did not want any of them.

He had no intention of changing his life, of taking over a factory in Manchester. He did not require riches to fill his days, and having heard Deirdre's terrible story he wanted no part of it. His having been born to these people, these strangers, had resulted in the death of his mother and the young woman hired to care for him. It had warped his sister's character and caused his father to retire from life. It was a poisoned legacy he did not need.

His father would undoubtedly be prudent and would demand DNA testing and afterwards there would be no joy at his having been found, for the past and its horrors would always lie between them like a wide and turbulent sea too dangerous to cross...but there was now no way to reverse the process; the damage had been done.

Keith felt revulsion, resentment and just simply wanted to sit down in a corner and cry. Without noticing where his feet were taking him he had wandered out of the rear of the hotel into a small square of green. The back garden, compact and welcoming on this hushed summer day, took him back, far back to his village in the Jura and without thinking he looked up, hoping to see the snow-covered Alps in the distance, a sign of continuity and stability for the people of the village. Only some tall modern buildings met his gaze and he felt the tears begin to roll unheeded down his face.

"What is done cannot be undone and must be borne, my son." Father John counselled, seeing Keith's white, strained features. "You will have to accept the added burden and deal with it. But do nothing now; plan nothing now; we have many weeks still to go and God in his wisdom will surely show you the way."

*

Troubled by all they had learned in Toulouse about Brother Guillaume, Keith phoned Inspector Lemoine for added information. The facts, as related by the policeman, were that the seriously ill monk had been air-lifted to Toulouse only in the company of the helicopter pilot and an orderly from the Lodeve hospital to ensure that all the drips that were keeping the monk alive, would remain in place during the short flight. No tall, young, blond monk had been part of their entourage. Yet, as soon as the orderly had departed and the medical team in Toulouse had taken over, the young monk had been present, showing grave concern and asking questions. They had shunted him to the waiting room while they examined Brother Guillaume and had promised to keep him informed once they themselves would know what was wrong with the patient.

Several hours later, when someone recalled the young man who was surely still awaiting the verdict, it was discovered that he had disappeared. To their knowledge, he had not returned.

Keith was adamant in his belief that this was the same man spotted entering the hostel in Arles the night of the mistral and for once Father John had to agree with him. He was most probably also the monk who had, by his odd behavior, aroused the suspicions of the good woman of Faulat. Was he also the one who had attacked Bernard and Monsieur Cotte in Lodeve? Who was he and why was he circling around their group, always in the vicinity but not part of it, like a wolf following its prey, waiting to strike at the feeblest of the herd?

"I'd like to speak to Dr. Lauragais again." Keith confessed to Father John. "Something about his story has set up a warning signal in my brain. He is at the institute at present so I'll run over there and can meet you at the church of St. Sernin later."

"No, I'll come with you." Father John retorted calmly, getting ready to leave the hotel.

"But Father, you have seen nothing as yet of the city and its most famous sites...the churches..."

"They have existed for centuries without me, Keith, and they will assuredly continue to exist after I am no longer on this earth. They were built by faith, they will be sustained by faith and they do not need me. But Brother Guillaume, may his troubled soul rest in peace, does need me, if only to solve the mystery of his ultimate fate. For someplace, someone is wondering what has happened to him." He lowered his head. "He was young...there must surely be parents, siblings and friends who will go through the rest of their lives not knowing what has happened to him."

"Forgive me Father. As usual I spoke without thinking. Of course a site or a relic are nothing compared to a human life. Shall we go?"

As they approached the entrance of the hotel they saw Peter-Paul pacing slowly back and forth, a large thin beige shawl draped around his neck and shoulders and crisscrossed across his chest, the ends encircling his waist and tying in front. His arms were folded and one hand caressed his small chin-beard. "Ah," he sighed, when he saw them. "Father John, I need your advice..."

"Yes, certainly, but can it wait for an hour or so? We have some leads to follow up."

"Of course, no hurry. I shall go with you." And with that, and unbidden, he joined them in the taxi taking them to the Institute of Tropical Diseases and Dr. Lauragais. "You did not wish me to join you?" He suddenly asked, noticing their strained faces. "I shall not repeat anything you might learn there to the others, or to anyone else for that matter."

"That would be appreciated." Keith muttered.

"I can keep my own counsel. What is it? Are you only now making inquiries about Brother Guillaume?"

"No, of course not, but I had a thought..." Keith shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to tell Peter-Paul what they had learned the previous day.

"I see. And only now, 24 hours later you have come to the conclusion that the nurse monitoring the intensive care cases ought to be questioned? You've left it a bit late my friend for I doubt if there is anyone around to interrogate."

"Well, we don't all have your expertise in crime cases and I had some rather shocking news of a personal nature to contend with."

"Are you to be congratulated?"

"You know about it?"

"Deirdre has been chattering about nothing else since yesterday. She has phoned Bernard, her father, her cousins, her priest and all the world's newspapers for all we know."

"Oh God!"

"And you're finding it a double-edged sword? Have you told Père Jerome"

"I haven't even told Woofy." Keith whispered.

*

"Dr. Lauragais, please forgive us for intruding on your routine again but we forgot to ask you something yesterday," Keith began, "Is it possible to speak to the nurse in charge of the intensive care unit the night Brother Guillaume was admitted?"

"Certainly. I'll just check to see who it was, shall I? Please wait here." He indicated a small waiting room to the left of the entrance.

They sat in silence, immersed in their thoughts. Peter-Paul had drawn his legs up onto the chair in a lotus position and had, to all intents and purposes disassociated himself from his surroundings. His head was lowered in silent meditation. Father John's thoughts turned to his native Ireland and the tranquil routine of the monastery. How far that all seemed now. When he had first set out into the world again, had assumed the task apportioned him, he had no idea it would take him so far, through twists and turns of an intrigue he did not really wish to follow but which, once undertaken, had to be pursued to the bitter end. Whatever the outcome!

Keith hoped his hunch would pay off. Fool that he was, he berated himself, for not having thought of it yesterday. Precious time had been wasted; if only he had asked the question earlier. Peter-Paul had put his finger on their lapse of attention immediately; hopefully it would not be too late.

"The nurse on duty that night was Pierre Durand, one of our senior male nurses. Most capable and most reliable. When he is in charge we never have to worry." Dr. Lauragais assured them.

"May we speak to him?" Keith asked hopefully.

"Yes of course, but there is a small problem..." the doctor began.

"He has not been seen since that night." Peter-Paul interpolated, his eyes wide open and staring straight ahead.

"He took his vacation a week earlier than planned, but..." the doctor hastened to assure them.

"And he has not yet returned?" Keith wondered.

"He had two weeks and there are still some days to go and he had long planned a trip to Morocco." The doctor replied defensively.

"Where does he live?" inquired Father John.

"In Vielle Toulouse."

"May we have the address and phone number, please, also for his cell if he has one?"

"Of course. I'll get it for you." And the doctor departed at a run to return with the information. "I'm sure there's nothing wrong. He has been with us for years and is most dedicated to the patients and of course to the Institute."

"That is not what bothers me." Peter-Paul uncrossed his legs and arose.

"Shall we try to phone him first?" The doctor suggested.

"Yes, yes, of course."

"There will be no reply." Peter-Paul walked resolutely to the entrance of the Institute. "I suggest we take a taxi." And, spying one near the front door, hailed it. He opened the door and stepped aside for Father John to take his place, then Keith and finally slipped in next to the driver, telling him where to go.

When they had reached their destination, they discovered it to be a small and very old private house. There was a front garden that ought to have been a riot of colors but seemed sadly neglected and in bad need of watering with many of the summer flowers drooping and dying.

"I don't like the look of this," Father John murmured. "A man who plants a garden will not go off on vacation without arranging for someone to tend it in his absence."

"Exactly." Stated Peter-Paul, folding his arms across his chest and stroking his mustache. "There is an unpleasant odor here."

"Oh no..." Keith looked stricken. "We shall have to call the police. But what can we tell them?"

"We shall tell them the truth. That we learned only today who had been in charge of our fellow pilgrim and we wanted to ask him what had happened on the night that he disappeared. Do you know the number for the police?"

"Yes, Father, I am already calling."

After much arguing, pleading and explaining, a police car finally arrived outside the small private dwelling. The two young officers who emerged were barely able to contain their scorn at these foreigners who had built a worst-case scenario based on the feeble contention that no home owner would leave for an extended vacation without providing a source of water for his garden.

The obviously bad smell they attributed to a stopped up drain or the demise of some small animal, hidden at present under a bush. Still, as one of their number was a priest they forbore to remind them that phoning the police for a whim, constituted a crime in itself and might make them subject to a fine at the most or a stiff reprimand at the very least. The priest's presence had them listening to a story more suitable to a TV detective series or a page-turning thriller novel rather than the mundane matters that were their usual duty to investigate.

"Well..." began the taller of the two young men, "let's just take a look at the front door and if that's secured we'll check the windows." He ambled up the neat stone path and put his hand confidently on the knob which, to his amazement turned easily, allowing the door to swing suddenly inward.

"Hello, what's this?" He motioned for the second officer to follow him. "The rest of you stay back." He ordered as he drew the gun from its holster.

Slowly and carefully the two crossed the threshold as Father John, Keith and Peter-Paul drew back. There was a powerful and throat-gripping odor.

As if in simultaneous co-ordination, the officers removed large handkerchiefs from their pockets and tied them over noses and mouths, then moved forward into the cramped entrance hall and beyond to check out the living area, the kitchen with its L-shaped dining section and the door to the back garden. So intent were they on their search that they did not notice Peter-Paul who had followed them into the small house. He had pulled his shawl up to cover the lower part of his face and, after having briefly glanced around the ground floor, had started to mount the stairs to the upper regions. For a moment he disappeared from view, then returned hastily, retching and coughing and rushed down to the main floor.

"Upstairs, upstairs!" He gasped and waved his hand in the direction he had investigated, then sank down onto the bottom step holding his head in his hands and taking deep gulps of air to calm himself. Dare he light a cigarillo? It would allay the stench but could it alter something in the crime scene? He'd better go outside to the others. No need to get the authorities' backs up.

In the relatively fresh air of the small garden, and facing Father John and Keith, he took his time lighting up and drawing furiously on the small cigar, wishing it were a cigarette so he could inhale and clear his lungs of the foul air he had absorbed inside the house.

His two companions were standing stock still, staring at the open front door. Behind them, near the curb, they could hear the static crackling of the police car's radio reporting on stolen vehicles and minor road accidents. Sounds seemed magnified in the grip of a silence rarely encountered within the perimeter of a city.

"Was it...? Father John ventured, not completing his question, his features strained and pale.

"I don't know. Whoever it is he's been here about two weeks. The forensic team will have to decide." Peter-Paul looked anyplace except at his co-pilgrims.

"The clothes...?" Keith suggested.

"I suppose so." He did not wish to continue this line of thought for aside from swollen, putrefied flesh he had caught only a flash of white. It might be the male nurse's uniform or Brother Guillaume's hospital gown. Dark hair, he thought, glimpsed above the writhing, dancing mass of pale maggots that covered almost everything in sight. He began to retch and quickly extracted the silver flask from his inside jacket pocket and took a deep swig, then wiped the top and proffered it to Father John who shook his head, as did Keith.

Glancing up he saw the two officers leaving the house, closing the door carefully behind them and walking towards them, pale and sweating.

"I've called for back-up. There are two." The taller officer announced. "Thank you. I'm not supposed to drink on duty but I'll think of this as medicine." He said to Peter-Paul who held the silver flask out to him.

He swallowed deeply, passed it over to his fellow officer who finished the contents and, grinning sheepishly, said, "Sorry, I seem to have drunk it all."

"No problem; I'll refill it...and you needed it."

"There are two." The first policeman repeated.

"Two what?" asked Keith.

"Bodies."

"Two? Oh heaven!" Whispered Father John.

"The patient and the nurse." Peter-Paul stared off into the distance.

"O.K., now let's get the whole story before the rest of the team gets here. What's this about a nurse and a patient?"

*

They gave concise replies to their interrogators from the moment they had first encountered Brother Guillaume at St. Gilles to the events that had transpired on the path to Lodeve, his parting from the rest of the group, his flight through the caterpillar-infested pine woods and his final collapse at Father John's feet. His evacuation from the Lodeve doctor to the local hospital and finally on a helicopter flight to Toulouse and the Institute where he had been placed in intensive care. Throughout the greater part of this odyssey he had been unconscious and once in intensive care, had been monitored by a trusted male nurse.

Queries as to his condition at the Institute had elicidated the reply that he had disappeared so, when the group had finally reached that city, they had gone to speak to Dr. Lauragais to try and discover what had happened to their unfortunate co-pilgrim. There seemed to be no clear answer and this morning they had decided to interrogate the nurse in charge of the intensive care patients which was how they had finally come in person to the nurse's home to see if he was in and if they might question him.

"We still don't know what happened and why." Father John concluded.

"And you've all been on the road... all this time since Lodeve, I mean?"

"Yes." Peter-Paul assured them, "Here is my certificate, my passport as a bona-fide pilgrim. Marked, stamped, dated. All the towns we've passed through since Lodeve...actually since Arles. Look!" And he handed over the travel document every pilgrim on the road of St. Jacques carries on his person in order to receive the final recognition in Santiago itself of having truly walked the ancient route as a penitent.

Father John and Keith tendered their cards as well. Towns had been entered and dates and times stamped and signed by the many representatives of the Road of St. Jacques whom they had visited and often consulted while making their way to Toulouse.

The officer scrutinized them carefully, grunted, handed the certificates back and remarked that they seemed to be in order, when the sound of sirens could be heard getting ever closer till the cars stopped outside the house next to the lone police vehicle already parked at the curb. The forensic team had arrived.

Road blocks were set up, the team entered the crime scene dressed in white coveralls, boots, hats, masks and gloves and, clutching their equipment, headed up the path and into the house.

Peter-Paul, Father John and Keith took sanctuary in the police car at the request of the officers. Time dragged by as more equipment made its way through the small front door. White-garbed figures moved back and forth between the house and the cars and the hours seemed to pass very slowly for the three pilgrims.

Father John sat silent, not stirring, only his lips moving in quiet prayer while Keith gazed dazedly at the floor between his feet and Peter-Paul, wrapped up in the beige shawl, had forced his mind to rid itself of all he had seen in the house and focus instead on a far-ranging meditation he hoped would remove him from his surroundings and put him on a more positive and spiritual plane.

*

After the debacle with Catriona, which had lead, in a roundabout way, to the renewal of sexual ties to Monica, Peter-Paul had begun to have violent feelings against all women who used their powers over him to lure him from the way of abstinence and purity of thought and deed which he had marked out as his path, at least for the two months of this holy pilgrimage.

To walk the road in sanctity, to give his thoughts up to higher matters, had been his aim and at the first sight of a pretty face all his good intentions had been overthrown. But there was still time for penance, for true humility in the hope that the final month, at least, would find him celibate, in keeping with the holy endeavor. If he continued to sin how could he possibly receive grace at the hands of Saint James once he had reached his destination?

So, to aid him in his resolve he not only counted on the saints but on an age-old method of meditation he had stumbled upon and had adopted in his travels in far-off lands, in a Lamasary high up in the mountains which had sheltered him, instructed him and almost succeeded in keeping him for ever. The moot word was "almost". Peter-Paul was not of the fabric of martyrs nor would it ever occur to him to become a monk or priest and thereby abandon all the pleasures of this world, but for the period of this pilgrimage, of walking the road of repentance, it seemed a necessary adjunct to reaching Santiago de Compostela in the proper frame of mind to receive all its blessings.

He pulled the shawl well over his head, lowered his chin and eyes and gave himself up to non-thought, voiding his mind, especially of the ever-intruding flashes of a body seen for a split second, enough to realize it had been there much too long to even count as human any more.

He shuddered at the thought that this was all that remained of God's creation, a being that moved and thought, that talked and smiled, that planned and schemed and yes! that prayed and worshipped and hoped for eternal salvation. Casting his mind even farther back to erase all memory, all speculation, he lost himself in a world unknown, unseen, uninhabited...a world that existed only "In the beginning"...to give him peace.

*

The police car deposited them some two hours later a few blocks from their hotel. They had not wanted to arrive at the front door with a police escort in case any of their co-pilgrims were in the vicinity to see them and to start asking questions. Since none of the others really cared about Brother Guillaume's fate and for the sake of the many days still ahead of them, it would be better that they should be saved such horrors.

The police had no intentions of questioning the others, as Father John, Keith and Peter-Paul were able to vouch for the whereabouts of the rest of the group since the monk's removal from Lodeve and none of them could be the tall, blond young man who had arrived at the Institute in Toulouse to show concern in the sick man's condition. That description fit only Steven and Keith and both had walked the road to Lodeve, had remained in the town for two days and had continued on to Toulouse with the group.

The three decided, therefore, not to say anything to the others and hoped none of the group watched local TV news or read French newspapers. Anyway, by the following morning they would be gone, on the road again. To Colomiers through the forest of Bauconne to L'Isle Jourdain, a trek of over 8 hours.

"As tomorrow's route is again a long one and the day after, from L'Isle Jourdain to Gimont is relatively short, only a bit over 5 hours, I thought to stop in the forest of Bauconne for the night." Keith made every effort to resume a semblance of normality as they strolled back to the hotel.

"Is that yet again one of your surprises?" mused Peter-Paul, darting a sly glance at his co-pilgrim.

"Yes," Keith smiled. "I did reserve with the proviso of cancelling in case of further bad weather but as it continues fair and sunny..."

"Good." Peter-Paul voiced. "It'll take our minds off things and elevate them to a proper level."

"You don't know how right you are!" Keith laughed.

"No, don't tell me..." Peter-Paul stopped and smiled. "Let me guess. My famous ESP tells me tree houses."

"How did you...?" Keith gasped in amazement.

"Well, we've had everything else so far and it was only a matter of time..." and he laughed.

"My boy," Father John had come to a sudden halt so that passersby were forced to sidestep the threesome. "Oh, I'm sorry." He effaced himself against the side of the building. "What I want to point out now, before we get there in the evening, is that I do not feel myself capable of climbing a tree."

"I understand there is a hoist for those unable to ascend the planks nailed into the trunks."

"And I will not be hauled up like a piano from the street to the third-floor balcony doors!"

"No, no, of course not; it doesn't work like that. And it will be dark with no-one to see, in any case."

"I'm not at all certain of tomorrow night's arrangements but I can tell you for sure that I intend to go to church today." Father John remarked, changing the subject. "Will you join me?"

"Gladly." replied Peter-Paul.

"Of course." Keith added. "Let's go back to the hotel and see if anyone else is around who night want to come."

"Deirdre will."

"Yes..." Keith sighed. "She's very devout."

"Mavis and Deborah?"

"Probably." Keith mumbled. "It's Monica who should..." he stopped short, embarrassed at having thought aloud about something that was none of his business.

"She certainly should but she's a law unto herself. Hollywood you know." Peter-Paul explained as if they weren't aware.

"Well, we can but tender the invitation; it's up to the individual to look after his own soul."

When they reached the hotel, none of their group was on the premises and, as it was already lunchtime they decided to eat and wait a while in the hope that someone would show up to join them in church later in the day.

"For they can't have gone far." Keith added. "Mavis took Woofy with her." He looked around, slightly forlorn without his little companion. "I do hope she remembers to feed him."

"Oh, I'll be going to early mass before we leave in the morning." Peter-Paul announced, cutting into his steak and looking up expectantly.

"Excellent. Keith?" Father John asked, turning to the young man at his side.

"Yes, Father, gladly. Heaven knows I need it." He looked so glum that a rueful look passed between the little priest and Peter-Paul.

"Sometimes..." Peter-Paul began, then cleared his throat in embarrassment. "I mean, from personal experience, Keith, sometimes it is better not to be granted one's heart's desire. It often backfires. Let me explain..." here he paused to chew and swallow. "I must confess to the sin of envy. After John found Helen and coming hot on the heels of Tom and Mathilde, our first miracle, here was another one and if I was not precisely jealous and asking 'why them and not me?' I was no longer happy with my lot in life. I had been content in my own outrageous way, playing one part after another when I was suddenly faced with the realization that as nice and comfortable as my life had been up to now, there was something missing. And that was love in the form of 'the other' who must surely exist someplace on this earth to complement my life. Which is why I made that big play for the first female to come along thinking that God's grace had descended on me as well." He stopped, pushed his plate aside and sighed, "But God does not reward us equally and my turn had not yet come. I found myself with a woman who did not see me for what I am behind the façade of the clown. She saw only opportunity that, if played correctly, would gain her her heart's desire: a restaurant of her own. And nothing I could say about today's financial climate, the lack of investments, the dangers of failure... nothing would make her relinquish her dream."

He raised his glass and drank the contents at one gulp, then filled it up again from the bottle, still half full and on the table.

"I resorted to a very low and ungentlemanly trick to rid myself of her. An action I deplore as a man and a human being and one I shall have to pay for in prayer and fasting for some time until I can look myself in the eye again, but there seemed no other way to rid myself of this 'gift of love' I had longed for and believed was my due. This was a rather sorry confession, and sordid as well, Keith, but I wanted to point out to you that God's design is greater than ours and we should not interfere but allow the Almighty to make the decision for us. He does, after all know us better than we know ourselves and he has also had countless years of practice at it."

"Amen." added Father John, with a twinkle. "As Bernard would so ably have said."

33.

"Here we are!" frère Paulus heaved a sigh as he unburdened himself of several large volumes, spreading them out on the wide, wooden table. "I borrowed them from the library."

"We'll divide them up." Père Hippolyte decided. "And pass the transparencies around. I traced all the lines on some old onion-skin paper, in three sizes, so, depending on the map in your atlas it ought to do. And although I marked North, South, East and West, if it doesn't fit that way, move it sideways, upside-down and so on. Try to get the lines on the onion-skin paper to fit the lines on your maps, if possible. Maybe, just maybe, we'll get lucky."

They sat down to their tasks, each one opening an atlas to a city and placing the page of transparent paper over it. The black inked lines replicating those on the Scottish shawl, superimposed onto the main arteries of city after city depicted in each atlas, hoping to find one that matched the strange longer, shorter, wider and thinner ones on the rug.

After over an hour of diligent work they had to admit to defeat.

"We must have been wrong." frère Aloysus muttered. "Or we'll have to try it on all the smaller towns as well, not just major centers."

"It's going to be impossible to check every small town in Europe." Murmured Père Hippolyte.

"And who's to say it's in Europe and not the Middle East or Russia or even America? Terror, if this is part of some terrorist plot, is everywhere nowadays and is not confined to the cities in our vicinity."

"Let's think a bit." Père Hippolyte urged. "Let's imagine we are terrorists."

"God forbid." Both brothers exclaimed.

"No, I mean to say let us enter into the mind of the terrorist we suspect. We don't even know if it's a matter of international terror or a sophisticated bank robbery or an attempt to steal a famous painting from a museum or..." here he lost himself in conjecture, "someone attempting to purloin some of the windows in the Sainte Chapelle."

"God save us." frère Paulus breathed.

"Anything is possible." Père Hippolyte voiced gravely. "So, as I said, let us pretend we want to create a diversion to confuse the forces of the law in order to 1. steal; 2. maim and kill. Where would we do it? A major city comes to mind, crowds come to mind."

"Only if this is truly a terror attack, otherwise crowds would get in the way, wouldn't they?" frère Aloysus suggested.

"No, not necessarily. Crowds could cause a diversion, getting in the way of the police. One can hide in a crowd, toss off a disguise and blend into the background." Père Hippolyte began to wonder at this new aspect of his mental processes. It was like a game of chess, he thought, and started to warm to this unusual activity. "One can be faceless in a crowd, so, on the whole I would say the more people there are the better for our perpetrators, whatever they may be up to."

"Ah well, in that case it narrows itself down to a city or town where, for some reason, crowds will have assembled."

"New Year's eve," frère Paulus murmured. "on the Champs-Elysees in Paris or Times Square in New York..."

"Yes, that night in every city and town and village in the main square. It's no good."

"A papal visit perhaps?"

"An Olympic event?"

"The queen of England reviewing the troops?"

"Well, those are enough to keep us busy with our onion-skin maps for the rest of the morning. To work brothers!" And Père Hippolyte turned once more to the front of his atlas.

As his leg healed, Luc moved around more within the confines of St. Vincent's, making it a point of not only helping in the kitchen but also in brother Barnabe's beautifully arranged herbal garden. The days were gloriously sunny and warm and instead of fretting about what was to come, he gave himself up to the heavenly quiet and peace that surrounded him in the full knowledge that his future had already been decided and that he would follow it come what may. But in the meanwhile he would benefit from everything this tranquil place had to offer and in turn shower them with his culinary expertise by firmly and lovingly teaching the very inept kitchen staff that the products of the earth had to be approached with as much love and reverence as a prayer.

*

Early the following morning the entire group assembled before breakfast in the small foyer and ordered taxis to take them to St. Sernin for Mass. Even those like Helen or Monica, who were not deeply religious could not resist the temptation to pray in that most exalted of edifices which had served as a model for all the great pilgrimage churches throughout the southern regions of France.

Taking part in the age-old solemn rite gave them a feeling of kinship with the millions who had, through the centuries, walked the same road to salvation before them.

Peter-Paul, Deirdre, Keith and Father John attended confession. Mavis and Tom lit candles for their mother and father and Tom added one for the soul of Monsieur Cotte and another one for his niece.

"For although he only asked me to do so in Compostela, I feel I should take advantage of our being here with a prayer for both of them so they will not feel that they have been forgotten."

"Oh Tom," his sister breathed, "our mother must be so proud of you." And she began to weep tears of joy and hope and deepest thanks for the miracles of this pilgrimage.

Derek recited his own prayers in every side chapel and lit a candle at the foot of every statue of every saint, hoping for a special sign that he was actually doing so in the religion of his birth. He had to admit that while he had enjoyed the rite, he did not feel in any way different than before and wondered if there was a synagogue in the city where he could continue the experiment.

Deborah remained in her pew, bowed and thoughtful for a long time before sighing deeply, genuflecting and crossing herself. Whispering under her breath she murmured, "Wizard come; we need you."

"Did you say something?" Inquired Steven, bending towards her.

"No," She smiled. "Just asking for help."

"We can certainly use that. I was wondering if anyone had ever tried to climb the interior walls." He waved his hand at the stones and brick-work surrounding them.

"That's usually not what one thinks of when one visits a church." She reprimanded him.

"It's probably because I'm not Catholic." He grinned at her. "Church of England has a lot to answer for."

She looked confused for a moment, then, seeing the glint in his eyes burst out laughing, stifling it into a hacking cough at the last moment.

They returned to the hotel for breakfast and to change into their usual gear before settling their bills and starting out on the day's route that would take them through the city to its outskirts and on into the countryside once more.

Deirdre tried to engage Keith in conversation but found that aside from the pilgrimage and religion, they did not seem to have much in common so that soon, by mutual consent, they relapsed into banalities and finally into total silence.

"I waited all my life for this moment...when my brother would be returned to me," she confided to Deborah, "and now that it has happened, there is nothing to say. We have led different lives; we have different priorities; we are strangers. I almost wish it had not occurred at all and I could continue to live with hope. For now there is neither joy nor hope. My poor father will be devastated. Think of the jubilation, the euphoria of having the son he had imagined lost for ever, restored to him and then discovering that he has no intention of relocating to Manchester, of taking over the business and of forging familial alliances. Keith is devastated at the very idea of leaving Père Jerome, Arles, and his village in the Jura so that what should have been a period of overwhelming rapture has turned into a prolonged period of mourning. Oh Deborah, I am so unhappy." And Deirdre burst into tears.

They stopped at the side of the road long enough for Deirdre to compose herself, pick up her stick and trudge on, Deborah's arm around her waist for comfort.

Seeing her so overwhelmed, Derek wondered how he would feel if he were in Keith's shoes. For he too had longed all his short life to find his birth family and now, putting himself in Keith's position, realized that he would also find it difficult to relocate, render up the existing family loyalties to his adoptive parents and siblings and hand them over to complete strangers who might not understand or appreciate the values and moral outlook of the people who had raised him. How could one switch allegiances just like that, at the snap of a finger, at the sight of a DNA report? Impossible. Mavis had been right in saying that the real parents were the ones who had reared him, cared for him, provided him with a warm home, love, an education and the knowledge that whatever might happen in life they were there, at his side, should he need them.

Although they were, for the most part, happy to be on the move again, the long plain they were traversing proved more and more monotonous after the splendors of Toulouse and the delights of their recent barge trip so that they were happy to call a halt at Pibrac to visit the church and view the miraculous remains of Saint Germaine and, finally, to enter the forest of Bauconne.

Dense and majestic, it abounded in royal oaks, chestnuts, heather, ferns, rush and broom. Here and there they glimpsed paths veering off into the thick underbrush and noticed a curious, narrow and yellow road which they had no time to explore as shadows had started to lengthen and the day began to wane.

Aside from the sound of lone birdsong and the rustle of their footsteps as they plunged through low-lying bushes, all was silent and the air was heavy with expectation.

Three-quarters of the way into the depth of the forest they stumbled upon a clearing. An area overshadowed by mighty branches but completely circular and bare. It was covered in a dense, bright green moss on which about ten large white boulders had been placed at some distant time in a perfect round, tracing to consummation the outer rim of the velvety circumference.

"Shall we stop here for a bite?" Steven asked, waving his hand in the direction of the area. "It looks inviting."

"But will it let us go?" murmured Monica.

"What?" John stared at her, wondering, not for the first time, at her insistence on the paranormal in everyday life.

"Those who arranged the stones like this, of course; it might be a trap." Monica gazed into the distance and shivered. "There is an eerie feel to this place. I like it not." And she turned her back on it and made ready to move on.

"For once I agree with your fancies." Peter-Paul added "It would be healthier not to remain here." And he took himself briskly away from the site, searching for the continuation of the narrow path they had been following.

"Odd. There are no animals here." Steven had raised his head to look around, a frown on his face. "Not even a bird is singing."

"We'd do best to leave." Father John turned to follow in Peter-Paul's footsteps. "This is no place for us."

The group moved rapidly out of the area and, glancing behind them, saw the moss change color...from emerald green to blood red.

"Quick!" Derek warned. "Run!"

Several minutes later they came to a halt, panting, under a spreading chestnut tree. Deirdre had collapsed on the ground at the base of the trunk and was sobbing wildly while Mavis plied her with water, wishing she had a good slug of Irish whisky to give her instead and wondering if she dared ask Peter-Paul for the loan of his silver flask.

"Where's Woofy?" Keith shouted frantically, cutting through her thoughts and causing the others look up and all around for a sight of the little dog. "He was with us!"

They peered back along the path they had just travelled and to the low hedges surrounding the circle, hoping to see the familiar gray, furry shape come trotting happily up to join them but only a vast emptiness met their gaze.

"Woofy! Woofy!" Keith leaped to his feet and pelted down the path. "Woofy!"

Steven paused long enough to extract one of his climbing ropes from his backpack and sprinted down the passage on the heels of Keith and Peter-Paul. All three burst out of the woods and onto the edge of the circular clearing, panting, frenziedly swiveling their heads to rake the by now once more bright green moss for sight of the little dog.

"Here! Here he is." Peter-Paul called out, bending down to a gray triangular tuft emerging from the seemingly soft and velvety blanket covering the ground. He plunged his bare hands into the viridescent depths and pushed frantically at it, trying to come to grips with something solid.

"Woofy, oh Woofy!" Keith scrabbled at the area around the small triangle and, between them, he and Peter-Paul managed to uncover the head and face of the little dog.

"He's stuck! Solidified! I can't get under his body." Keith was panic-stricken.

"Here...let me." Steven knelt beside him and, by degrees, immersed his hands, forcibly feeding the rope into the viscous depths until, lying prone, he had passed it several times under Woofy's body, the ends sticking up firmly above the squelching emulsion.

"Now...help me!" he shouted to Keith and Peter-Paul. "All together. Grab hold and pull! Hard...One, two, three!" Holding tightly to the ends of the rope they heaved firmly backwards until a soft sucking and plopping sound signaled the release of a begrimed Woofy from the verdant adhesiveness that had sought to bury him alive.

His coat was matted and caked, a sickly grayish-green color that hardened as it was exposed to the air. But he was alive. Keith quickly extracted a bottle of water from his backpack, wet his handkerchief and cleaned the dog's nostrils, eyes and ears.

"The rest will have to wait till later." He sighed. "Hope we'll find a good warm shower someplace tonight." He then wrapped him in a large, soft T-shirt and, cradling him in his arms, finally raised his head to the two others. "Thank you," he murmured, "someday I'll tell you his story and..." he did not complete the sentence.

"Well," Steven muttered, rolling up the muddy rope. "let's get back to the others; they'll have gotten worried."

A mighty shout of joy arose as they joined the anxious group awaiting their return with trepidation. Everyone was relieved to see Woofy safe and sound, albeit filthy, in Keith's arms. Everyone except Deirdre who had, by degrees, stumbled from sobs of fright to outright hysterics which even Deborah's expertise could not relieve. She was by turns laughing, screaming, wailing and rolling on the ground in a frenzy of humors none in the group had ever encountered before.

Keith was visibly appalled at the sight. He had not accepted their relationship before, but seeing her in the throes of a full-fledged attack of what he could only describe as madness, set the seal on his resolve to repulse her, her father and their combined legacy.

"You should be ashamed of yourself!" His voice cut like a knife. "When you have managed to pull yourself together I expect you to apologize to everyone for your abominable behavior. And if you cannot control your outbursts of dementia better in the future, I would advise you to get on the first train back to Lodeve and Bernard who seems to know how to handle you. We do not need a madwoman slowing us down on our pilgrimage. Is that clear?"

He turned from her without awaiting a reply and, signaling to the others that he was ready to move on, walked briskly up the path and set them all a spanking pace in his eagerness to reach their quarters for the night so he could bathe Woofy and offer the same hospitality to Steven and Peter-Paul who had saved his dog's life.

All thoughts of lunch faded after this and, making do with deep draughts of water they forged swiftly ahead under the lengthening shadows cast by the heavy branches over their heads, putting as much space between themselves and the moss circle as possible. What it had been they did not know. Part quicksand certainly, but of a kind none had ever heard of before, for real quagmire would have swallowed the white boulders long ago, yet there they were, set out in a circle to lure the unwary traveler into thinking it an ideal spot to sit down and rest.

"I wonder how many unfortunate visitors this has buried over the years." Murmured Helen, shuddering and casting one last glance backward as they quickly moved ahead.

They followed the well-marked path for another three hours until they finally began to notice that the forest was beginning to thin out. The trees here were less densely planted and more light and air filtered down on them. At this point they came upon a crossroad and took a turn to the left onto a smaller path paved in yellow bricks laid out in a tweed pattern. Giant ferns luxuriated at either side as far as they eye could see while birds sang riotously overhead.

### "It may look very beautiful but I don't like this any better than the circle." Muttered Deborah

"Yeah," Tom mumbled, "Hey, guys..." he called down the line. "let's speed it up." And he began to move at a half-trot, followed by the rest of the group.

"Better not take any chances in this wood." Confided Father John to Derek, as he raised his hand holding a small crucifix aloft to lead the way.

"Keith..." Steven called. "Were you thinking of spending the night here? In this forest?"

"Yes," came the tight-lipped reply.

"We'd better reconsider that."

"I agree, but that means continuing to the next town which is very small and may not have room for us. We'll have to push on to L'Isle Jourdan after all. They have several hotels."

"I would suggest we do that." Added John.

"From what I have read of French history," Helen offered. "it seems that King Charles VI went mad wandering in this forest."

"14th century!" Peter-Paul informed them..

"Right, well," Helen continued, "now we know why."

"I would like to wash Woofy." Keith sighed aloud, for once not in control of the situation.

"All right, this is what we'll do." Stated Tom firmly, taking the initiative. "We'll continue to the site you chose and we'll check it out carefully. Then we'll decide. If it looks safe..."

### "Do we pass it in any case?" Peter-Paul demanded "Or is it a detour? Because if it is..."

"No, no, it's just off this path."

"O.K., let's look it over and then make up our minds."

They moved on rapidly, as if speed alone could solve their problems, and soon found themselves at the edge of the forest where the trees were exceptionally tall. Evening had fallen and brought with it a change in the weather so that instead of the agreeable temperatures they had delighted in before, there now appeared an icy wind and the smell of imminent rain in the air. They stopped to extract sweaters from backpacks and added windbreakers which they zipped up tightly, then headed onward once more until they finally came to a halt at several broad oaks set close together, their branches dipping and swaying in the storm-tossed air.

"This is the place." Keith nodded his head at the pitching and dancing outstretched and twisting arms of the mighty trees all around them. "The houses are up there." And he pointed heavenward. "But in this gale..."

"I'm not keen on seasickness," Monica stated flatly. "and frankly, to spend the night retching and heaving into a chamber pot, if there even is such a thing, is above and beyond the call of duty." And she turned firmly aside.

"It was supposed to be pleasant and summery." Keith defended himself, adding, "I think we'd better forget about it and move on. There's a forester's house just at the edge of the wood. I'll stop to tell him we're cancelling."

"Was he your contact?" asked John.

"Yes."

"Well, then perhaps he can recommend something in the vicinity."

"I'll ask."

They turned their faces resolutely to what appeared to be the end of the wood where a long, low building, light streaming from its windows and smoke rising from the chimney, could be seen. When Keith knocked on the door it was opened immediately by a tall, stout, ruddy-faced man clutching a wide-bowled pipe in his hand.

"Excuse me, are you for the forester?"

"That I am, and you'll be the group for the trees but you'll have changed your minds and will want to know if I can offer you something closer to good old 'terra firma' eh?"

"How perceptive of you." John murmured with a touch of sarcasm.

"Well..." he laughed heartily. "it's hardly the weather for sleeping in trees, is it? Although it was fine till about an hour ago, but please, please...come in." And he stepped aside while Keith, John and Peter-Paul entered.

"This..." and he waved his hand around the premises, "is the new house. For the forester. But we also have the old house that's been fixed up as a sort of bed and breakfast. It's not at all bad in a pinch...would that do?"

"Yes," John answered resolutely. "if it can house all of us for the night."

"You're 12?"

"Yes. And I hope there's someplace we can wash because we had a bit of an accident on the way."

"Oh yes, showers. There's 4 of those and hot water. Bunk beds in the big room and my wife and I'll provide supper and breakfast, but in our house. Same rate as the tree houses. Will it do?" He blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling.

"Perfectly."

"O.K. Follow me." And he strode ahead, out the door and across the road where, tucked away among tall bushes, a roughly-hewn log cabin could be seen. The forester unlocked the heavy portal, switched on an adjacent light and stomped purposefully over to a broad, low fireplace which took up almost the entire rear wall. It was well stacked with heavy logs which he now proceeded to light.

"That should take the damp out of the place by the time you'll be ready to go to bed." He explained. "Supper in an hour?" He asked, adding, "Bet you're hungry!" as he let himself out of the cabin.

By common consent Keith washed Woofy first, using one of the sinks, then brushed him well and put him down on a dry towel in front of the fireplace while Steven, Peter-Paul, John and Derek made good use of the showers.

Despite Deborah's insistence, Deirdre refused to do more than sprinkle some water on her face and hands stating that she refused to enter a shower that had been used by others and not scrubbed out well afterwards.

"If that's how you feel now, what will you do in Spain?" Mavis reprimanded her sharply. "With luck we may be able to wash at a standpipe with 50 others, or, most probably, have no access to running water for days at a time."

"I don't think I'll get to Spain." Was her soft reply.

"Are you returning to Lodeve?"

"No, no." She answered automatically, staring straight ahead.

"So? Back to Belgium or perhaps Manchester?" Mavis pressed.

"I don't know."

"Maybe when Bernard will join us things will become clearer for you?" Deborah murmured soothingly.

"He won't come." She replied as they filed out the door and made their way along the path to the new house and the welcoming light wavering behind the small, square windows.

"What did she mean by that?" Mavis whispered.

"I don't know, but I'm worried. She's heading for a major breakdown. We'll have to keep an eye on her or she may do something foolish."

"Look, Deborah," Mavis grasped the older woman's arm "I came on a pilgrimage, not to take care of a lunatic."

"One of the creeds of this pilgrimage is that we are not alone in the world and that we have to look out for and take care of each other...certainly while walking the holy road."

"I know, I know but I have a problem. I can deal with bodily illnesses: bring countless cups of tea, cook soups, make sure they take their medicine, give sponge baths and tender bed pans. Nothing disgusts me, but I cannot and will not deal with madness. It frightens me."

"Yes." Deborah sighed. "I understand. Many people have that reaction. I'll speak to Derek, maybe between the two of us we can keep her from doing herself an injury. She's reaching that stage now."

"What stage? Are you talking of suicide?"

"Yes."

"Oh God in heaven! But that is a Mortal Sin!"

"It is. And if we do not prevent it, suspecting what we do, the sin will not only be hers."

"Oh dear God..." Mavis sighed as they entered the warm, brightly lit room where supper awaited them. "Forgive me for having said 'no'. I'll do whatever you tell me to."

"We can only do our best but in the meanwhile I do believe we shall have to get in touch with Bernard."

34.

Since they had had to go without the sandwiches they had brought along from Toulouse for their lunch, they were more than ready for the evening meal and intended to do full justice to it. Keith begged some bread soaked in milk for Woofy and brought it over to the old house to feed the little dog as he recuperated in front of the still brightly blazing fire.

"I don't suppose he'll care if his only sister will have something to eat tonight or not." Deirdre voiced bitterly.

"You didn't fall into the bog but poor Woofy almost died." Mavis reprimanded her. "And why shouldn't we call Bernard? He may be fit enough by now to join us and that would be much better for your state of health at this point." And for our health as well, Mavis added to herself.

"He won't come, not yet. Maybe when we reach Compostela."

"Why are you so sure? Is he still so ill?"

"On the contrary, Mavis. He is almost too well. He is taking too much interest in Mathilde's friend who is nursing him. She is very young and very pretty." Deirdre replied bitterly.

"Oh, I don't believe you; he loves you! One just has to see how he worries about your going outdoors into the sun without a hat and all that 'I would die!' bit if you disappeared for a week and he did not know if you would be coming back. What has put such morbid thoughts into your head?"

"I know him much better than you. You see, he was married twice before..."

"And here you are! I hope you like cassoulet!" Smiling broadly, the forester's wife entered the room carrying an enormous oven-proof dish brimming over with baked beans and duck confit, which she placed at the end of the table and began to fill one plate after another from the stack at her side to send down the line to the other end of the dining area. "I'm from Castelnaudary, the home of the original cassoulet." She explained. "Enjoy! It's just the ticket for such a blustery night."

An outburst of excited babble greeted her statement as platters were passed and the forester made the rounds, an uncorked bottle of wine in each hand.

"Eat, Deirdre, you'll make yourself sick! Eat!"

"What does it matter? Please, Mavis, please let me tell my side of it before you judge me. There were two wives before me. One died. The circumstances were never explained and there was a strong suspicion of suicide."

"No!"

"The second was said to have run off with the chauffeur and the family silver. Neither one was ever heard of again. As to the family silver, well, rumor had it that it had been sold years before."

"What do you mean?" Mavis had put her fork down and was all attention.

"I mean that while Bernard's father had been a well-to-do man, none of that passed down to Bernard. He had a younger brother, Theodore who inherited everything and Bernard was left to pay the debts."

"But isn't it usually the older brother who...?'

"Oh yes, but the father preferred the younger one and left an odd will."

"Didn't Bernard try to contest it?"

"No...it would have brought shame on the family name, he said, and proceeded to recoup his losses on the stock market and in various business deals, without too much success until he met me and we married. I had inherited in my father's lifetime, you see, and suddenly Bernard had access to real money. I must admit that he did invest wisely and doubled and trebled the initial sum. That is the basis of his wealth! Without it and what was mine he would be eking out a miserable existence now. And then his brother died suddenly, killed in a fire that swept an apartment he was having renovated and all his money went to Bernard as well."

"But I would swear he loves you."

"I used to swear it too. Acting runs in the family. Theodore was almost professional."

"Oh Deirdre, I am so sorry." Mavis embraced her, the ready tears of sympathy springing to her eyes.

"Do you think I might just have a cup of tea?"

"I'll see to it." Mavis rose and headed for the kitchen where she explained that one of their group was a bit unwell and might she just brew a cup of tea for her, but their kindly hostess would not hear of it and made the tea herself, adding freshly toasted slices of white bread and brought it to Deirdre in the dining room.

She always has to be different, Keith thought, aware that Deirdre was putting their hostess to the trouble of making tea and toast. No consideration for anyone else, and all done with such helpless ladylike airs. No beans, please, just a spot of tea, smiling wistfully. How could Bernard put up with it? And, ashamed of being connected to such a person, he buried his face in his plate.

Wonder what's wrong with Deirdre now, Peter-Paul mused, as he tucked into his food. I hope she's not going to enact us the mad scene from Lucia di Lammermoor every day. I swear I'll leave the pilgrimage if that happens. It'd be better for my health in the long run anyway. Attacks, murder, thefts and now madwomen hardly elevate my spiritual needs, nor the need to find Hebe, oh well, at least the food is good today.

I shall speak to Deirdre, Father John decided, glancing up at her from lowered eyes. Yes, a long talk about faith and how it can move mountains. Trust in the Almighty and the intercession of the Saints which have in the past worked miracles. She must continue to pray, to believe, and, in the end of course, God's will be done. He, in his infinite wisdom will know what is right for these two unfortunate siblings who had longed for each other all their lives and now abhorred the sight of one another. They still had more than half of the pilgrimage to cover before reaching their goal and he was afraid one or even both would drop out before Compostela had been reached, too disappointed and stressed to continue. That there was danger on the road this year was now a certainty. Even the forest had been against them. And that reminded him of the deadly trap awaiting the unwary traveler in a bucolic setting.

"Tell me, sir," He addressed the forester who was just making the rounds again in order to replenish the wine in their glasses. "in your work in the forest, have you come across a clearing...perfectly round, covered in moss and strewn with boulders?"

"Oh yes, mon Père, it is a favorite with all who visit our forest. A pleasant place to rest and eat a sandwich. Pretty, isn't it?" and he smiled guilelessly.

"Have you ever had any trouble there?" Father John pressed.

"No, no, of course not. Whatever do you mean?"

"Does the moss ever change color?"

"In winter of course, and if there is a dry spell in the summer it turns brown. Why?" He had begun to look slightly worried.

"Has anybody ever started to cross the forest and not come out?" Steven demanded, picking up where Father John had left off.

"No, of course not. The paths are well marked and we keep the underbrush from choking everything."

"But you wouldn't necessarily know everyone who enters the forest, would you? So you couldn't say for sure if all those who entered have emerged?" Monica pressed.

"Have you been reading about King Charles VI? That's just a legend. He really went mad and died someplace else entirely, not even the same year as attributed in the old tales."

"Of course," murmured John soothingly. "We all know how legends and superstitions start."

"Exactly! Here, more wine, drink up!" And he refilled their glasses with feverish haste.

"The forest is safe, then?" Steven persisted. "No bogs or quicksand?" He noticed that the forester had paled visibly, then attempted to bluster it out.

"No, no, of course not. What an idea!"

"I'm surprised nobody has complained before, but perhaps there was nobody left alive to do the complaining." Peter-Paul added conversationally. "You see we had a near miss at the moss circle. After turning red, it swallowed our friend's dog. It was just luck that we got back in time to save him. Don't you think visitors to the forest should be warned? Detour signs and a stout fence perhaps?"

"Oh God!" The forester collapsed, sinking into a chair while the entire table stared at him. "Please don't say anything, please! I'll lose my job; I'll never find another one. Not at my age...where shall we go?" He pleaded.

"But how many people do you intend to sacrifice to that place in order to keep your position?" Monica demanded sternly. "They do demand that, don't they?"

"No, of course not! Are you crazy? It's just a swamp. We've tried to fill it in. I and the foresters before me but it's bottomless. Whatever we've poured into it as landfill disappears. There's no way of getting rid of it." He mopped his brow, his hand trembling.

"Then you have to get the proper authorities onto it. At least to fence it in, block it off from the surrounding area." John admonished sternly.

"It's been tried." The forester's wife replied in a low voice. "As fast as barriers go up they disappear into the ground and the circle becomes larger. That goes for signs to warn the people and detours."

"Have you tried an exorcism?" Demanded Deborah.

"What?" The forester raised his head.

"Exorcism. A priest." She stated firmly.

"No, I can't say we have." He mused.

"I advise you most strongly to do so."

"And while you're about it you can also exorcise the area of the yellow brick road where the giant ferns are growing." Monica added.

"But that's a well-known beauty spot."

"Nevertheless, it is not healthy and is as evil as the circle." Monica insisted. "Bring a priest."

"This gentleman is a priest, isn't he?" The forester indicated Father John. "Perhaps he could...?"

"No, no I have no jurisdiction in France. You have to apply to your own Bishop I imagine, and he will send someone, unless you are well acquainted with your local priest and can explain things to him."

"You don't understand. I will be blamed for not having asked the proper authorities years ago, for having hushed it up. I was afraid for my job. I am even more afraid now in the financial climate of today. What if I am fired, where will we go? Who will hire me at my age, and to do what?"

Their genial host of a few hours ago was so distraught he was almost weeping, and, at this final outburst collapsed, covering his face with his hands and rocking back and forth in a paroxysm of grief and fright.

"You should have thought of that years ago and done something then. Now it will be impossible to explain away." John admonished him. "But it cannot continue; you will have to act no matter how high the cost."

"A priest you say?" The unhappy man repeated, clutching at any straw that might yet save his position.

"Yes."

"I'll speak to someone first thing tomorrow."

"Good. Well, I think we should go to bed. We have an early start in the morning." Father John rose to his feet. "A fine meal, Mrs." He said to the forester's wife who smiled in gratitude, then immediately looked grave again.

One by one they all filed out into the darkness and hurried to their cabin which, as the fire had continued to blaze during their absence, was pleasantly warm and invited them to lie down and rest after their adventure-packed day.

Deirdre was still so upset that Mavis insisted they take a bunk bed together, she upstairs and Deirdre on the lower level. Once again the unhappy woman refused to wash and said she would not be able to sleep in any case in this large, dark and unfamiliar room, causing Mavis to place her own flashlight near the bed in case Deirdre should need the toilet at night and, confused at her unfamiliar surroundings, not find it.

The younger woman sat next to her for the coming hour, murmuring soothing nonsense until she finally heard her deep and regular breathing and knew that Deirdre had fallen asleep. Only then did she hoist herself up to the top tier and, sighing deeply, wondered how long she and Deborah could cope, then dropped into a deep sleep almost immediately.

Two hours later Deirdre awoke with a start, her heart pounding, bathed in perspiration after a nightmare in which mortal danger threatened and she screamed and screamed without, however, uttering a sound. The screams remained locked in her body, her throat aching and tight, her thoughts fixated on one image: the circle of soothing green moss. If she could find it, if only she could find it again it would solve all her problems. Her doubts about Bernard, her unhappy life before she had met him, her bitter disappointment about Keith. Nobody truly needed her. Neither her husband nor her brother. And she was not so self-centered as to have overlooked Deborah's and Mavis' exasperation, Peter-Paul's disdain and even Father John's usually benign expression had altered.

Not only was she not needed or liked by her co-pilgrims, they now looked upon her as a liability that would slow them down and hinder them from reaching their avowed goal. Better to end it all and get out of their way.

She would disappear. There would be no messy body to hold them up with a lengthy police enquiry. Nobody would know what had happened to her and they would assume that she had returned to Manchester and could continue their pilgrimage without her. Her father would not expect to hear from her until after the 25th, thinking her with the group and Bernard had already forgotten her. Only Mathilde might show some concern, but that too would wane as soon as Tom had returned to her. Yes, it was a good plan and the only solution.

She arose from her bed as quietly as possible so as not to awaken Mavis asleep in the upper part of their bunk bed, and made her way to the bathroom clutching her clothes and the flashlight. Afraid to call attention to herself by switching on the light, she entered the dark room, showered, dried herself and got dressed. She thought of it as a purification ritual before going out to meet her maker.

Silently, and on tiptoe, she crossed the large room still warm from the fire which only now had reduced itself to glowing embers, opened the front door and slipped outside. Caution prevented her from switching the flashlight on so close to the cabin and, stumbling forward, hands outstretched to keep from bumping into the thick shrubbery, she soon found herself on the path that would lead her to the heart of the forest.

She clicked the beam of her flashlight into life, keeping it lowered to shine on her feet, and began to walk swiftly in the direction of the bog. She imagined it would take her at least three hours to reach the clearing and its shimmering green moss. Perhaps longer as it was the middle of the night and she had to watch every step so as not to fall. It would hardly do for them to find her in the morning with a broken leg, still alive, and an added burden. No, she must reach her goal and disappear.

"Where do you think you're going?" A voice close to her right ear demanded. Her heart stopped, her breath caught in her throat and she almost fell to the ground. A strong arm around her waist was all that kept her upright while the voice demanded again, "Where are you going?"

"Fresh air," she gasped. "I was choking. A nightmare. I needed air."

"I think you've had enough; I'm taking you back."

"No!" she raised her voice, "No!" And she began to struggle but his grip was firm and she could not free herself.

"You were making for the circle weren't you?"

"No! What circle? No!" And she continued to resist in a bid to free herself.

"It won't do. We've been watching you. Deborah and I decided to take turns. I took the night shift. Come!" He began to lead her back in the direction of their quarters.

"No, please let me go. Please! I want..." she began to sob uncontrollably.

"I know what you want but that is a mortal sin for which we shall all have to pay if we do not stop you. Do you really think nobody will notice your absence in the morning and not start a search that will end in the police being called and ruining our chances for the continuation of our pilgrimage? If you want to commit suicide, well, go ahead, but don't ruin everyone else's life as well. How selfish you are, Deirdre! Come!" And he pulled her in among the bushes surrounding the cabin and pushed her up against the trunk of a tree. His arms went around her and he bent his head to her face.

He had not intended to kiss her, had only done so to keep her quiet yet when their lips met all restraint vanished in a frenzy he did not know he was capable of. He began to struggle with her clothing, opening a button here, a zipper there. Had he gone mad? Deidre? That devout, lady-like creature, surely older than he? What was happening to him? Whatever it was, he could not stop it now.

And, with the moon hiding behind a cloud, Deirdre and Derek slid silently to the ground.
35.

"I haven't spoken to Derek yet." Deborah greeted Mavis as she came out of the bathroom. "But do you know if Deirdre slept?"

"Yes. She must have been exhausted. And it did her good, she even deigned to use the shower." Mavis chuckled.

"Now, if she'll eat something..." Deborah began.

"Oh, she told me something shocking about Bernard." Mavis interrupted and continued to relate all she had learned the previous evening.

"I can't believe it; he's always so concerned about her, so courtly! She must be mistaken, imagining things, perhaps trying to divert us from her attacks of madness in finding excuses for them which do not exist."

"She sounded very convincing. Did you know that she is wife number three? And that there was something fishy in the death of the first one and that the second, said to have eloped with the chauffeur, has never been seen since?"

"Not really?"

"Oh yes, and that it was Deirdre's money that set him up in business plus inheriting his brother who also died in suspicious circumstances?"

"My goodness no! Could we all be mistaken about him?"

"I'm beginning to believe it."

"Well...perhaps I am too...it would surely drive anyone mad to be rejected by one's husband and then by the brother she had so hoped to find. No wonder she finally cracked; poor woman." Deborah murmured. "Oh, here he is! Derek, a word with you." And she went over to discuss what they had discovered about Deirdre with the young nurse who had just finished shaving and was stowing his gear away. He had cut himself in several places and daubed ineffectively at his chin and jaw.

"Tired this morning?" Deborah laughed, helping him to stop the bleeding with a septic stick.

"I think I'll grow a beard." He muttered.

"Was she asleep all night?" Deborah lowered her voice. "I don't want to embarrass her by having everyone know that we're keeping an eye on her."

"Yes, she slept. Tossed a bit two hours after Mavis left her. Perhaps a nightmare, but otherwise all right."

"Good morning Deborah...Derek! I'm starving. Is breakfast included?"

"Good morning. Yes. Next door. You seem in a good mood today."

"This place agrees with me. I've never had such a good night's sleep, not for a long time. Shall we go?" And smiling at Derek, Deirdre linked arms with Deborah and sailed out the door.

Oh God, Derek thought. Does she know it was me last night? I've been petrified at the idea of meeting her this morning. There was no light among the bushes, the moon had disappeared. Will she tell Mavis and Deborah what happened? Women always tell their friends, in full detail at that. Oh heavens, what if she accuses someone else? Steven perhaps...not Peter-Paul or she would have felt the mustache. Then I'll have to own up. What happened last night? The full moon! That's it. As children we had a nanny who always drew the drapes shut on the nights of the full moon for she said it would drive us mad if we were exposed to it. Deirdre did not have the look of a woman who was practically raped during the night. Not that I had to use much force, in fact none at all once we were on the ground. In fact, as I recall, she unzipped my...well, I'll be damned!

"We may all be damned but why you in particular?" Peter-Paul asked as he joined Derek at the door of the forester's house for breakfast.

"Did I say that out loud?"

"Yes."

"Anything else?" Derek sounded worried.

"Something about a zipper."

"Oh yes, the zipper on my windbreaker has started to stick but if the forester has some chalk I can fix that."

"As good a story as any, Derek." I wonder what he's been up to. He looks scared to death, Peter-Paul mused. Oh well, we'll find out eventually. What a pilgrimage! And what a book it will make once it's all over and I get back to London to write it up, especially if I find Hebe.

After the long hours spent in the forest, the hike to L'Isle Jourdain proved disorienting for the group. They passed through many non-wooded areas as well as tracts of farm land under cultivation and slowly turned their backs on Languedoc in order to enter Gascony. As usual, Keith and Woofy were at the head of the little band of pilgrims with Tom and Mavis close at hand. Deborah and Derek were in deep conversation while Monica berated Steven and John for having eaten cassoulet at night. Not that she thought it was fit to be eaten during the daytime either, but at night? She was surprised they were able to function at all this morning. Peter-Paul and Father John speculated on who had killed the male nurse. Brother Guillaume, if the second body was his, they imagined must have died a natural death as a result of having been disconnected from all the machines that were keeping him alive artificially but in any case, there had been almost no hope for him from the beginning. And who was the blond so-called monk and how did he fit into all of this and why? There were certainly many possibilities and they could have built a scenario out of any of them but in the end none made sense. Not when taken together with the theft of a miserly piece of textile, fake policemen and the attacks on Père Hippolyte, Bernard and Monsieur Cotte.

"What do you make of the turnabout in Deirdre?" Peter-Paul wondered.

"I was just pondering that myself. Last night, at supper, I had made up my mind to have a long talk with her, hoping to be able to lead her into a more serene and accepting mood by citing God's bounty and grand design and thereby giving her poor confused mind a lodestar to follow, at least until Bernard would join us. And today she is a different woman."

"Yes. There is a miraculous improvement. To tell you the truth, Father John, after her display of frenzy in the forest and her sulks at supper I had come to the conclusion that if she were to remain with us and continue her hysterics I would be forced to disassociate myself from the group, if only to save my own sanity. And here we are, the morning after, and she is a smiling and amiable companion. Something must have occurred."

"Could Deborah have talked some sense into her after all?"

"She wasn't successful as of last night when we all went to bed. In fact, it was Mavis who was at her bedside until she finally fell asleep."

"Should we still get in touch with Bernard?"

"No. I've heard some odd stories about him and their relationship. But since they come from her, I do not know if to believe them. On the other hand, in case there is some truth to them and she is better after all, perhaps it would be best to let matters take their course. But...we'll have to keep an eye on her."

"Well, I'll leave it to your judgment," and they walked on in companionable silence.

Derek's thought were also on Deirdre and Bernard but, in the light of what he knew and had experienced, they were quite different from Father John's and Peter-Paul's.

She had greeted him this morning with studied indifference, as if he were merely one of the group and had shown no interest in him beyond a friendly smile, nor had she by word or deed alluded to the events of the previous night. Had she forgotten what had passed between them? Perhaps she thought their encounter had been part of the nightmare she had experienced several hours after going to bed and did not realize what had taken place. She did not seem to him the sort of woman who would have relations with a man and then forget about it. Would he have to remind her? If only to keep her from imagining that it had been Tom or Steven, the only other possibilities in their group. Keith, after all, was her brother and John had Helen and for that matter, Tom went around mooning about Mathilde and couldn't wait to phone her as soon as they had settled in someplace for the night. And Steven, well Steven was involved with Monica which should be enough to keep any man busy. There could be no mistaking Peter-Paul, even in the dark with his mustache and beard so that really left only him. Would Deirdre figure it out? And what of her relationship with Bernard? Was the problem sex, or the lack of it? He was in his 60s and seemed virile enough but his treatment of her was less of a husband as lover and more of a husband as grandfather.

She was a lovely woman, Derek thought, glancing towards the head of the line. All that wavy auburn hair, in her late 20s, maybe three years older than he, slim and graceful with large blue eyes. Everything else was pretty nice too, as he recalled from last night. Not that he had seen anything since it was so dark but it had certainly felt good to the touch. He had let his hands do quite a bit of roaming and at the thought, still following her silently with his eyes, he knew that he was blushing.

At this point in his meditation, he suddenly realized that Deirdre had dropped back, letting Deborah catch up with Keith and Tom and that she was, in fact, standing still at the side of the path they were following, waiting for the end of the line to catch up.

"Probably wants to consult Father John." Derek thought and was surprised when she let the priest and Peter-Paul, still deep in conversation, pass her by.

"Hello, Derek." She murmured, falling into step next to him. "I think we need to talk."

"About what?" His voice sounded completely unlike itself to him, and clearing his throat, he pitched it lower and repeated: "About what?"

"A certain incident in the bushes." She whispered, smiling at him.

"What incident? Which bushes? I don't know what you're talking about."

"What do you think Deirdre wants from Derek?" Mavis wondered aloud to her brother.

"Why should she want anything from him? She's probably just passing the time of day."

"No, no, she's got her hand on his arm and she looks determined."

"Well, he's a nurse, isn't he? Maybe it's a private health problem."

"She'd consult Deborah."

"Yeah, well, as long as she's in a good mood what do you care?"

"I just hope she doesn't want drugs...you know, to end it all or something like that."

"No, no, Mavis, she's a changed person today. Wonder what happened?"

"Derek, stop squirming! I know it was you. There was a full moon and I saw your face when you stopped me from going into the forest."

"Oh..." All avenues seemed to be closed to him now and he wondered if he dared to beg her not to embarrass him by telling the others. He would leave the pilgrimage on some pretext or other and save both their reputations. If he only could find the words to convince her.

"Derek...thank you; thank you for stopping me and thank you for making love to me. I had no idea..." Her voice trailed off helplessly, not knowing how to continue.

### "You're not blaming me, accusing me of..."

"I have to accuse myself. You kissed me, yes, but I did all the rest. Don't you remember?"

"Well yes, but I should have stopped."

"Bernard hasn't...doesn't, well, it's been at least a year and even then. I can't really talk about it but our marriage isn't about THAT. You understand?"

### "But you're beautiful, desirable..."

"Not to him, but thank you." And she smiled brilliantly at him, still holding onto his arm.

"I mean it." He mumbled, blushing and lowering his head.

"Would you..." She asked in a low voice, leaning even closer. "repeat the experience, perhaps in more civilized surroundings, such as a bed, if I were to get a hotel room to myself, for instance...sometime?"

"Would I? When?"

And Deirdre laughed out loud, the first happy, normal reaction the group had ever heard from her.
36.

The tall man, immaculately dressed in a discreet dark suit, pushed open the door of the small shop and stepped inside. Seated at a modest desk in the center of the premises, a young clerk glanced up and laid down that morning's paper to murmur a low-voiced welcome and regarded his visitor with a slightly quizzical air.

"Ah...good morning, good morning. I do hope I have come to the right place for my needs." The tall man nodded his head in greeting and subsided onto the straight-backed chair facing the desk. "I should like to rent a house. It must have a large garden, preferably in the back...more privacy that way."

"Oh, certainly sir, please...may I offer you a cup of coffee?" The young man leaped to his feet and gesticulated with his hand, pointing in the direction of the coffee maker.

"Thank you, I accept with pleasure." And he sat back and allowed the clerk to prepare a cup and bring it to him. Only after he had taken a small sip did the tall man look up, smile, and continue. "Yes, a house. Not too big nor too small; two flights, and of course, it would be a plus if it would be fully furnished, or perhaps partially. I can bring some things from my home. You see..." he sighed, put the cup down and continued, staring directly at the other man. "I am a widower. My wife and I were very happy, very close. We had celebrated our 40th anniversary and were planning a cruise to the Far East when she suddenly fell ill. She, who had never had a day's sickness in all the years we were together. Unfortunately it proved to be more than just a flu or a cough and fever that would have been cleared up by our family doctor in no time. It proved to be fatal. Ever since I am at loose ends, not knowing what to do with myself or which way to turn. Oh, we do have children but one is well-established in Australia and the other in America so for all intents and purposes I am alone, except for a dear niece who has my interests at heart. And as much as I love my home, now that my wife is no longer with me it has become more and more difficult to continue to live there alone...with everything reminding me of her every day. So...I thought a change of venue might affect a cure and put my mind on another plane. I come from the north and thought that by removing myself to another area, to the southwest...well, a different climate, different views, house styles, vegetation, everything in short that would be the opposite to what I had been used to all my life would help me, oh, not to forget, that would be impossible, but to bear it with fortitude and somehow get on with my life."

"A very wise decision and, sad to say, but with today's financial woes, you are in luck because there are more than the usual two or three houses on the market; there are too many." The clerk sighed. "And not only for sale but also for rent which is what you are looking for." He glanced at a sheaf of papers he had extracted from his desk drawer. "Here you are, ten in this area alone and several that would meet your specifications."

"Excellent." The tall man stood up. "Could we see them? Today?"

"Certainly. I shall just fetch the keys and then we can go."

"Oh, I failed to introduce myself. Here is my card." And the older man handed over a small white visiting card.

"Oh," The clerk murmured, "Frederique Marechal d'Albans. Oh, well, certainly sir. I am sure we shall be able to accommodate you."

*

The weather was favorable, the sun smiled down, warming their backs, putting color in their faces, and before they were even aware of it, they had reached that curiously named town of l'Isle Jourdain. Here there was no isle and no Jordan river but the memory of a noble family named after their ancient chateau of l'Isle. Three outstanding members were Raymond IV of Toulouse, Raymond of l'Isle and Bertrand of l'Isle who became Saint Bertrand de Comminges.

The two Raymonds had fought in Jerusalem during the Crusades of l099 and the son of Raymond of l'Isle had been baptized in the Jordan River, adding a further appellation of l'Isle Jourdain to the town in France situated closest to the family chateau.

They stopped for lunch in the small center where they went to see the ancient Hospice St. Jacques, now a retirement home. It revealed many outward signs of its former use, primarily the carved cockleshells on its façade and a sculpture of St. James dating from the 17th century.

There was even a Compostela Square, but of its former glory only the name remained, as its rather neglected air hardly conjured up thoughts of the inspirational age of pilgrimage.

Since they had not walked much the previous day and had had a good rest in the forester's house, the decision was taken to push on to Gimont where there were several hotels as well as a few outlying farms providing rooms and sustenance at a cheaper rate than in town.

Once more on the road, they had looked to Peter-Paul to entertain them with a burst of song on such a lovely day, but were disappointed to see him deep in thought, the beige shawl draped across his shoulders, lost in some world far removed from the one in which they were wandering. Had they been able to read his mind they would have been surprised to discover that he was not bent on prayer or meditation but was setting out a methodical and minute schedule of all the strange and upsetting events encountered since the original nucleus had first met in the church of St. Honorat in Arles. To this he added what they had learned of the others in the group...those who had joined them later, discounting Monica and Father John as being above suspicion and ending up always with Steven and Bernard as odd men out.

In the light of Steven's behavior since their departure from Lodeve, he was prone to alter his first impressions about him but that he was more than just another wanderer on the Road was as certain to him as the fact that night followed day. Yet, after several weeks of the close proximity engendered by tramping the same path, he began to have the feeling that Steven might be on the side of the angels after all. But in what capacity?

Could he perhaps have something to do with the security services, ever on the alert for a magnet luring so many thousands into one small area and therefore a most attractive target for any organization bent on killing as many innocent bystanders as possible to glorify their bloody cause...be it independence, religion or simply hatred for anyone unlike themselves?

Steven's undoubted air of authority, the extremely short haircut, the emphasis on physical fitness, the chilly gaze in his blue eyes that overlooked nothing, were all part and parcel of the make-up of a security operative, no matter which country's.

But if that were the case, then how come the sudden affair with Monica? Surely Steven's superiors would not condone such behavior in one of their operatives unless information needed to be extracted by any means. But Monica Quiller was an unlikely candidate for that part for she was surely not affiliated to some warlike, hostile group bent on taking over the world. Vegetarians and health fanatics were not militant to the point of murdering thousands at a religious site. So, if Steven was employed by a security network, then he had either strayed from the straight and narrow due to his own libido or as a cover-up to his real identity. Peter-Paul wished he could find out for certain. Leaving it to time was no longer an option for soon, very soon, they would have to cross the mountains into Spain and once in that country and approaching their destination, it was imperative to know who was who in order to be able to count on those on one's side when facing an unknown enemy.

And now there were also doubts regarding Bernard, a man they had all taken for granted as part of their God-fearing little band of brothers. Could what he had learned from Deborah and Mavis by true? Or was Deirdre justifying her fears and hysterics of the past few days? Odd how she had altered once she had related her version of her life with Bernard. She was a different woman. Quite attractive too, now that her anxious and shuttered expression had been replaced by a winsome smile. She seemed to have it trained on Derek most of the time and he...oh no! Not another complication. Was that what that muttered soliloquy on damnation and zippers was all about? Bernard would strangle the pup, if he ever rejoined them. Deirdre thought the new attraction in Lodeve would keep him away for the remainder of the pilgrimage but even if he no longer wanted her would he allow her money to slip away so easily?

If what Deirdre had told Mavis was true then he might be very dangerous. Wife number one, wife number two and now wife number three...having gotten away with it before, his ego would tell him he could get away with it again. Deirdre would have to be protected. Yes, Peter-Paul thought, someone watching all the time. Daytime was easy. They would take turns keeping her in sight, walking with her, not letting her wander off on her own, but at night? Neither Deborah nor Mavis could tackle Bernard if he were to enter a room either one of them shared with Deirdre. They needed a man and since Derek seemed to be involved already he might as well be useful. Perhaps he could trade off with Keith. It was certainly proper for a brother and sister to share a room. Well, I did predict danger for her and none of Father John's manoeuvers will alter a gypsy's warning. Ah me, what a nice, pleasant, religious trek this has turned out to be. To work!

"Derek!" He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "I have something to discuss with you!" And Peter-Paul began to set forth his case.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Derek blustered. "Of course I'll help if there is danger but why should it be me? How about you or Steven? You'd be much more effective in a tight place."

"Because if I've read the signals correctly you're already involved while we are not, and where you found the time and place for it makes even my head spin. But I thought you'd jump at the chance of spending the night in her room, all quite legitimately, hm? With nobody even raising an eyebrow. You and Keith would take turns. All perfectly proper. Because if Bernard really did get rid of his first two wives, what's to stop him getting rid of the third, especially as she is rich and has probably made a will in his favor. Would you know?"

"Yes, and she did when they were first married. She's changing that and has already contacted her lawyer in Manchester." Derek admitted.

"When will she sign the new will? After the pilgrimage?"

"No, before. As soon as it's drawn up it'll be sent on to her at a law office, either in Auch or Pau. She's also demanding a divorce."

"Good for her. Has she named a new heir?"

"Yes, Keith."

"That's not so good, now he'll also need protection. And knowing him, he will hate it and blame her even more than he does already."

"Look, as long as Bernard remains in Lodeve with his new love interest..." Derek began.

"Yes, all right, but we have to know where he is at all times. Tonight, when Tom calls Mathilde I'll have him tell her what's been happening. She can keep an eye on Bernard and let us know the moment he decides to leave. Also, Keith should get in touch with Inspector Lemoine. Yes, he'd better tell him what we have come to suspect about Bernard."

"And if we're all wrong? I can't help thinking that maybe Deirdre made it up in order to justify her odd behavior. I've had some patients like that...it's never their fault." And Derek looked worried, wrinkling his brow and staring down at his feet.

"It's possible. That's why I'm relying on Mathilde. She's very bright and she's on the spot. If she says there's nothing between her friend and Bernard we'll have to accept that Deirdre's story may have been manufactured to put her in a better light. But if Mathilde has noticed something..." and here Peter-Paul did not have to finish his thought.

"Then we'll have to accept Deirdre's story and see about protecting her, certainly until she signs the new will."

"Exactly!"

They tramped on in companionable silence, glancing now and again at the view, their fellow pilgrims and each other when Peter-Paul bethought himself and turned to Derek.

"Something else is on my mind," he began. "perhaps you'll remember. When we came to help that American group at the lake..."

"Yes?"

"We found four bodies. Is that correct?"

"Yes. Two and two and only then did Deborah discover the metal bars. Yes?"

"Later on, in the hotel...I think it was the following morning before we checked out, someone read in the paper that a fifth body had been found. Am I right?"

"I don't remember or perhaps I wasn't there." Derek wrinkled his brow. "Keith or Deborah may."

"Yes." Peter-Paul frowned. "I'm trying to recall if the paper mentioned the sex of that fifth victim."

"Does it matter? It's all part of the same religious mania." Derek made a face.

"It might matter a great deal if what I'm beginning to suspect is true."

"What?"

"Well, I was thinking of the man seen knocking on the door of the hostel in Arles after midnight, of someone resembling him wandering the hills near the good woman of Faulat, of a fair-haired monk assumed to have accompanied Brother Guillaume when he was air-lifted to Toulouse and asking anxious questions about his condition at the Institute of Tropical Diseases and in my mind's eye comparing him with the woman accompanying the bird watchers at the Mas Ferreol."

"Oh! Yes! Yes." Derek turned to his companion, enlightenment and astonishment overplaying his features. "You're right. But why? Why the disguise?"

"This phantom, who has been dogging our footsteps since Arles, seems to be a master of disguise, if he truly is the same person. And as to why, well, perhaps he needed to get from point A to point B and not be seen, even glimpsed, by anyone. How easy to become a fussy, older lady accompanied by two respectable bird watchers, then doff his disguise and assume the one he had been playing since he disappeared after Faulat. As to where he was and under what new identity we cannot know. Except for one thing...we know he must be on his way to Compostela. Under an assumed name and in some new profession, perhaps still in a religious capacity but not the same one as before."

"Yes, but why would he need to have the identity of a woman at all? Why not just change his hair color and of course his clothes and take to the road or rent a car, or...?"

"Identity, Derek. He had to have an identity. You cannot walk the road for any length of time without meeting fellow pilgrims. The road makes for good companions, and easily, at every hostel or cheap eating place and if the others check in and have their passports stamped and he does not, suspicions would be rife so he needs a passport and thought to get Bernard's but then it proved too difficult to make himself up to look like a man in his 60s with a burly build, so he looked around for something else and perhaps found it in a woman, a German tourist with a slim, wiry body, taller than average for her sex and age and so he killed her and threw her into the lake where she was later found and assumed to have been part of the American group. Then he arranged for two co-conspirators and the threesome assumed the guise of bird watchers. Who knows what he looks like now and where he is."

"And what he means to do!"

"Yes. But whatever it is, it cannot be good. Hm, I think I'll ask Deborah if she can recall that article." And he took himself to the head of the line to question Deborah and Mavis but neither could remember if mention of the fifth body had been identified as male or female. Deborah was certain only the nomenclature of "victim" had been used and Peter-Paul decided to try to find a back copy of that paper on a computer once they would have reached Auch.

"You hair is getting way too long." Mavis pointed out as they walked on in companionable silence.

"I don't exactly have the time to visit a barber," he replied testily.

"I can cut it."

"You?"

"I'm a fully licensed beauty operator."

"For women!"

"Well, what would you call all that, that..." she waved her hands in the air.

"Hm, well, I suppose so, but I don't trust a woman with scissors in her hand."

"Mavis isn't going to slit your throat." Deborah laughed.

"No, of course not. I had a different scenario in mind. Remember Delilah and the haircut she gave Samson?"

"And does your strength also depend on the length of your hair?" Mavis chortled.

"It's the idea...ever since Delilah, men have been afraid of women with scissors, or was it a knife? I doubt if they had scissors in those times, so..."

"Oh stop it! Forget I offered. I wouldn't touch your hair. You probably have lice."

"Mavis! How dare you! I'll wash it first."

"No, I'll wash it. I'm the professional. When we get to Gimont and then I'll trim it. How about the facial fungus?"

"I'm not sure. A barber is needed for that. But please don't take offence. If you have small scissors, well...and maybe if I tell you exactly how I want it..."

"O.K., I'll take care of that too. Anyplace else?"

"Mavis!"

"Just asking. We had a woman in one day who wanted me to trim her pubic hair in the shape of a heart to surprise her lover."

Both Deborah and Peter-Paul looked at her without uttering a word, pretending they had either not heard at all or had misinterpreted her words and all three continued on their way in a rather confused silence.

37.

"Elsie, hello...how are you and specifically, what are you doing?" The tall man listened intently, the receiver to his ear. "And where is Artold the Magnificent these days? Really? Fully booked for the coming months? That certainly is good news. So you'll be going on the road with the magic show? Hm, yes, yes, of course it's lucrative work, but you won't be off until the end of summer, will you? Ah, yes I see, well but that isn't till next month and...well, I have a little job for you. I'll pay well of course. Yes, yes. No, not as a magician's assistant." the tall man laughed, "But, perhaps in a way it is. I need you for an impersonation and I think a week will suffice. Do you think you could play the part of a young, rather plain woman of solid small-town respectability making her living taking care of babies and small children? I'll guide you as to clothes and hairstyle."

*

"We're in Gimont," Tom greeted Mathilde on their nightly telephone chat. "we'll be going down to eat soon. All's well. I love you." He then listened to all she had to relate, smiling happily at some of the hints she had already let fall in her father's ear about the hotel and the plans she and Tom had for it. At first her father had not been convinced but when he read the papers, saw custom falling off and even heard some rumors that a large commercial hotel chain was going to build something in their area, he began to find her plan very attractive. They would be the only ones for many miles around to offer healthy food, diet plans, massages and rejuvenation programs. He was already longing for the pilgrimage to be over so Tom and he could, together with Mathilde and the family auditor, discuss the venture in greater depth. If prices could be kept reasonable he foresaw a fully booked hotel and a handsome profit while other establishments were struggling or going under. The important thing now was not to tell anyone their plan in case Mathilde's ideas were stolen and some other establishment beat them to it.

Both Tom and Mathilde glowed at the thought of their project and were certain success would follow. Tom would invest his share from the sale of his mother's house in Dublin and Mathilde had a legacy from her late mother. They were young, in love and certain that their future together could only be crowned with all they wished for.

After they had dreamed aloud of all these matters, Tom suddenly asked about her friend and Bernard.

"Oh, Yvette is no longer here. She went on vacation with her family. Bernard is much better and does not need a nurse. Papa and I and the rest of the staff can look after him perfectly well on our own."

"Is he well enough to join us on the Road?"

"No, not that. He would not be able to walk up to l0 hours a day, oh no. But he takes little strolls in town, sits on the front veranda in the sun and goes three times a week to a good physiotherapist, Louis, who works with all the football players around here. He is strengthening his legs, slowly of course. After such a head wound one must not hurry it, Louis has said."

"Mathilde, did you notice anything between Bernard and Yvette? Perhaps only on his part?"

"Oh no. It was all most proper. Is Deirdre worried? He speaks only of her and frets as to how she is managing and chafes at the idea that he is still stuck here and not at her side to ease things for her."

"Do you feel it is real? Might it be an act? I do trust your judgment, but Deirdre has told Mavis that he is a very good actor."

"I have not thought so but I shall pay closer attention now and I will let you know." she promised.

*

Keith's call to Inspector Lemoine bore fruit in the news that the Inspector was sending one of his best men to stay two days at the Petit Cedre Hotel where he would impersonate a travelling jewelry salesman making the rounds of the shops on the main street hoping to fill his order book. As he would be the only other guest at the hotel it was assumed that Bernard would not be able to resist a new face and new conversation and perhaps something might be gleaned from that. Charles, for that was his name, would not remain in Lodeve but would take the first train in order to join the group, hopefully before they passed over into Spain, and would remain with them until Compostela. Among the pilgrims he would appear in the guise of a childhood friend of Keith's from the Jura. Here the Inspector paused to add that Charles knew the area well and, even if not much was learned immediately, the protection of a professional, might make them all feel more relaxed. And, of course, a trained police officer might see what the amateurs had missed and recognize it for what it was.

*

"I'll be staying two or three days." Said the young man in the neat dark suit as he stood at the reception desk of the Petit Cedre Hotel in Lodeve. "Perhaps less...I don't know yet, it all depends on how soon I complete my business here. Is it all right for me to let you know later, perhaps tomorrow?"

"Certainly, sir. Although this is usually high season for us..." his voice trailed off and he shrugged, glancing down at the almost empty registration list.

"It's beginning to hit almost everything isn't it?" The young man muttered thoughtfully. "I travel in medium-priced jewelry, primarily engagement and wedding rings. "And he held up a squat, square sample case. "In previous years the order book was full but I am worried that this summer will be very different."

"Well, we have quite a few jewelry stores on the main street, but who knows? Couples may have to end up without an engagement ring for a few years or at least less expensive ones. But, good luck to you. Now, would you like just the room or with half or full board? It does come out cheaper if you have your meals here and in all honesty, the food is excellent."

"How much is it with?"

"About a quarter less if you take full board."

"That's an excellent incentive. Definitely full board." And he signed the register as Charles Thomas, traveler in fine jewelry, representing a company in Lille.

*

"I have a job for you, but first of all, where are you located?" The voice was smooth and pleasant but it caused shivers to run up and down the tall man's back and he was sorry he had allowed himself to become involved in whatever the monk was planning.

"At the old address but I might be moving." He fervently wished he could simply disappear and follow his own plans which featured Deirdre and Bernard and which promised a much more lucrative profit than anything the monk could offer him.

"The job I have in mind would require you to relocate to a smallish town with a goodly supply of older and gullible women...widows would be best."

"Oh?" He wondered what scam the monk was up to now.

"You'd have to rent a house and establish yourself as a widower yourself. Not a difficult job for someone with your acting abilities."

"And what would I have to convince the dears to buy? A gold brick?"

"No, nothing so obvious, just to take a little tour to Compostela in the luxury coach of a travel company that specializes in religious pilgrimages."

"And if the dears can't afford it?"

"Instigate a lottery. And, by the way, you could pretend to be an executive in the company or at least the tour guide in order to travel with them. I'll send you ample funds and something else I will want you to foist on them in the guise of a 'gift' from the company."

"Ah, and that's the moot point."

"Indeed."

*

Although they were meeting once again Père Hippolyte did not hold out much hope that he and the two brothers would have a breakthrough and was thus pleasantly surprised when frère Paulus entered briskly to declare that he had found the site of whatever was being planned. He waved a map and the transparent sheet of paper with its odd lines under the noses of the other two.

"It's Compostela!" he announced grimly. "And I'd bet anything that whatever is being planned, it will be for July 25th." He placed the map on the table and put the tracing over it so frère Aloysus and Père Hippolyte could see how well the black lines matched the streets of the small town.

"Yes..." Père Hippolyte sighed, "I'm afraid so. I will inform Père Xavier and ask him to get in touch with the inspector. It is all we can do."

"No, there is much more we can do." frère Paulus stated solemnly.

*

After having made a tour of the town with the sample jewelry case in his hands, Charles checked his watch and, seeing that it was already after 12:30, hurried back to the hotel and entered the dining room where only three tables were set up for the noontime meal. The others, although decked in starched white cloths, had no flower-filled vases or sets of condiments.

One of the fully bedecked tables was occupied by a plump and ruddy gentleman of over middle age who was having a serious discussion with the waitress about the day's fare and, having come to a decision, dismissed her with a big smile and a pat on the hand at which the young woman turned and exited swiftly, casting a glance at Charles and indicating that he should sit down and she would be with him directly.

Charles sank into his chair and smiled tentatively at the other diner who bowed and rumbled "good appetite" then stared at his empty plate.

"Excuse me, please," began Charles deferentially. "my name is Charles Thomas, travelling in medium-priced jewelry. Eh, I noticed that you seem to be an habitue here and I wonder if you could advise me what to order. I took full board for it does come out cheaper and a penny saved is a penny earned in these trying times." he managed to look sad as he said this.

"Yes, yes, young man. Trying times, trying times indeed, but we will weather it, God willing. The food here? Excellent, excellent. Eminently digestible with an emphasis on organic produce and a minimum of fats and of course nothing saturated. Nothing fried. Meat is mostly chicken or veal, lots of fish and of course vegetable dishes."

"That sounds most excellent." Charles commented, cleaning his horn-rimmed glasses. "I have to be careful. My doctor suspects an incipient ulcer."

"Oh, then put yourself entirely in the hands of our waitress. That is Mathilde and she is the daughter of the owner. Listening to her lecture on nutrition you would not believe she is only 16. Yes, yes, still in school but more knowledgeable than someone twice her age. Tell her about your ulcer and let her decide what you should eat. You won't be sorry."

"Why, thank you, eh...?

"Sorry, my name is Bernard Van Der Gilden." And the two shook hands.

"Here you are...the soup. Careful, it is very hot. I will not have the chef start your trout till you have finished every spoonful."

"Thank you my dear, thank you." And Bernard fell to with a will.

"And how may I help you, sir?"

"I have the beginnings of an ulcer..." Charles began diffidently.

"Not another word! No roughage, not fat and no spices. I will take care of everything." And she hurried off to the swinging doors in the rear of the dining room.

"She is certainly efficient." Charles marvelled.

"Indeed she is. I have told her that any time she might wish to change jobs I shall gladly find a managerial position for her in one of my companies." He looked up from his now empty soup plate and felt the younger man's speculative gaze upon him. "You are wondering what I am doing here, talking big about my companies? Have you heard of the road of St. Jacques and the pilgrimage to Compostela?"

"Yes, yes of course."

"Well, my wife and I were on that pilgrimage until a few short weeks ago. We had joined forces with a most congenial group and were looking forward to the culmination of our journey when bad luck struck me and I fell ill, necessitating a hospital stay. My wife, of course, remained with me; the others continued. After I was well enough to be released we settled in here where I was well looked after and slowly I began to heal. But I saw that my wife was fretting, wishing to rejoin the group. I could not and still cannot walk up to 9 hours a day. So, it was that clever little Mathilde, a girl of l6 mind, who arranged everything. Put my wife on the train for Toulouse to meet up with the others who were spending two days there, got a friend of hers, now in her second year of nursing school, to come and care for me, found a physiotherapist...in short, she smoothed the path so successfully that I have full confidence of being able to rejoin them all when they will be in Spain. She is wasted here. She ought to be running a large concern. She would do well in a national catering firm, for instance. Yes, yes, you can safely leave your stomach and incipient ulcer in her hands."

"And here we are. The trout for you Bernard, with a lightly creamed spinach on the side. It should not cause you trouble and, as it has masses of iron to strengthen you it is worth taking a chance. And for you sir, I have a pureed soup. We use only organic vegetables and fruits and of those only the youngest on the market. So, the soup is carrot, sweet potato and pumpkin. No spices, no seasoning and no fat. It is very soothing and wraps itself around the budding ulcer like an eiderdown to soothe it to sleep. After that I shall give you a lightly steamed trout and with it some rice, cooked soft for easier digestion. No potatoes as they might bloat you. And for dessert a baked apple, without the peel. Et voila!" and she flitted off to bring the heated platters of food.

"Oh my," Charles smiled at Bernard. "I seem to have come to the right place. You have no idea how I have suffered until late at night in my hotel room up to now."

38.

They had been walking for several hours and were in high spirits. Only Mavis remained pensive and silent, her thoughts centered on a small bathroom in the early evening hours and a male presence she had barely acknowledged before, certainly not in those terms.

When Mavis had offered to trim Peter-Paul's hair she had only thought to make him look a bit more conventional although if they were truly to go back in time and take to the road in the Middle Ages he so loved, he would have fitted right in. Still, this was the 21st century and she did not think wild, curly hair past one's shoulder blades were appropriate for a pilgrimage of faith. So, that same night and before they were due to go down to dinner, she had invaded his quarters, two pairs of scissors and a comb at the ready.

"O.K., off with the shirt. Ah, I see I can drag the shower hose over but you'll have to dunk your head into the sink. That'll make sure I'll get all the shampoo out. Better drape a towel around your shoulders. Here, come on, come on, we don't have much time before supper and knowing you, you'd sulk in your room if you ended up looking like a drowned rat."

"Can't I keep the shirt on?" He had asked wistfully. They were quite alone, she had scissors and he had become nervous of women lately, even of Mavis.

"Should I call someone in to chaperone us?" She burst out into gales of laughter.

"Certainly not; what an idea!" and Peter-Paul removed his shirt. "It's just like our swim at the lake."

She pulled the towel across his shoulders and thought, 'Yes, but then I had eyes only for Steven. I didn't even glance your way but now in this small bathroom, oh my! I had no idea how appetizing you were, like a young lion taking his ease in the tall grasses, aware of his power and gazing sleepily out at the world from half-closed amber eyes. If I were to say so aloud,' she thought, wetting his hair with the spray and adding shampoo, 'you would run for your life. What a waste.' She scrubbed vigorously, then rinsed thoroughly until the hair squeaked in cleanliness, brought another towel, draped it over his head and began to dry it forcefully.

"O.K., now sit." She pulled up a straight-backed chair, rearranged the towel and began to comb the long, curly hair out. "At least two inches too long if you want it down to your shoulders."

"All right; but no more than that."

"Why do you wear it so long?"

"All gypsies have long hair." He replied, smiling at their reflection in the mirror.

"Don't you make too much of that? Of having gypsy blood?"

"If I don't, others will assume I'm ashamed of it and trying to hide it. Then they'll delight in outing me. This way I forestall them."

"Is that what Tom and I should have done?" Mavis asked in a low voice, plying the comb and scissors.

"Are you also gypsies?" He continued to smile at their reflections in the mirror.

"You told the tale, so you know." She met his gaze straight on.

"In my book, Mavis, the sins of the father are not visited on the children. And that's enough of that! Keep your attention on my hair or you won't earn your fee."

"Yes sir, thank you sir." And she lowered her head to her work again her thoughts and desires now centered on this most inappropriate choice.

*

"Have you heard from them, Mathilde?" asked Bernard anxiously at dinner that evening. "Have they reached Auch?"

"No. They stopped in Lussan for lunch and ended up at one of those places that gives you a prix-fixe meal of great quantity and no quality or taste. Just vast amounts." And she grimaced.

"I ate such a meal once," Charles began, having overheard their conversation "and I swore never again to be lured by quantity over quality. I was ill for several days."

"Indeed." She nodded her head sagely. "What could have gotten into them? Well, if it taught them a lesson there is no harm done."

"It certainly did that for me." Charles affirmed.

"Well, the end result was that they were so full and felt so unwell that they were forced to lie down and let it all digest. They ended up in a small wooded clearing nearby and fell asleep. When they woke up it was evening, cold and damp and they were lucky to find some rooms for rent right there or they would have had to tramp the road to the next and larger town which is Martigut, about 8 kilometers away."

"Is Deirdre all right?" asked Bernard, a worried frown on his face. "My wife..." he explained to Charles. "she is delicate."

"Yes. She was more prudent in her luncheon choices."

"Good! Good!" He was manifestly relieved. "Well then, how about our fare for tonight, my dear. What can you offer us?"

*

"Ah, Keith, just the man I've been waiting for." A smiling Peter-Paul hailed the younger man as he and Woofy entered their hotel in Auch in the late afternoon. "I've already waylaid Father John who is waiting for us in the sitting room."

"Is there further trouble?" Keith had a slightly non-focused air but followed Peter-Paul to the rear and a small room over furnished in couches and deep, low armchairs. There were antimacassars on all the backs and arms of every available seating facility and table tops abounded with crocheted lace-like doilies. It only needed an aspidistra to make them feel they had strayed into an English sea-side boarding house of the early 1930s.

"This rather takes me back." Father John smiled as he took in the décor. "Most of my female relatives had sitting rooms like this."

"So did some of mine." Peter-Paul agreed and subsided onto one of the wide-bottomed, bow-legged chairs.

"What's wrong now?" Keith sighed as he too sat down while Woofy curled up at his feet and went to sleep. "He's very subdued after that near miss at the moss circle." Keith pulled the dog's ears lovingly.

"Something has come up, but first of all...did everything go all right at the lawyer's?"

"No, no, it didn't."

"But why ever not?" Father John sat up straight to stare at Keith questioningly. "Wasn't the new will all right?"

"Oh, the new one was fine, although had I known she was making me her heir I never would have accompanied her. I want no part of that." He muttered.

"Then what was the problem?"

"She hadn't bothered to tell us or her lawyers in Manchester that the will she had made out in Bernard's favor when they got married was irrevocable." Keith stated, exasperated yet again at Deirdre's inability to run her life.

"Had she forgotten?" Peter-Paul wondered.

"She claims she never knew." Keith continued to stare down at Woofy.

"Could Bernard have insinuated a clause and not have told her?" Suggested Father John.

"It's possible."

"And how did it come to light now? Surely her Manchester lawyer should have been aware and told her a new will was an impossibility under these circumstances. Why then did he send a new one?"

"Oh, the old lawyer died. His son took over and was as yet not conversant with all the paperwork pertaining to the old clientele. It can happen. He just made out a new will and didn't check the old one."

"And then he caught the error?" Father John asked.

"No, the French lawyer caught it. Here. Today. You can imagine the consternation that caused." Keith smiled grimly. "For my part I couldn't care less but Deirdre was in shock. And now we know why Bernard has not come rushing to join her, has made no attempts on her life...as yet...he has plenty of time to formulate his plans. If there is a plot brewing against her that is. Don't forget we have only her word for all this."

"And the divorce papers?" Peter-Paul leaned forward. "Problems there too?"

"Which divorce papers?" Keith asked, astonished.

"Derek told me she was going to demand a divorce."

"No, no, there was nothing." Keith continued in some confusion. "So that's why Derek inquired about 'the other papers' and looked puzzled when he was told there was nothing else."

"Another one of Deirdre's lapses?" Suggested Peter-Paul, then laughed. "Whom should we trust?"

"But why would it have upset Derek?" Keith wondered. "It's none of his business."

"Oh but it is." Peter-Paul smiled sardonically.

"In what way?" Father John wondered.

"You mean you two haven't noticed anything?" Peter-Paul leaned back, and taking out his case, extracted one of his cigarillos and lit up, staring at the ceiling.

"Stop talking in riddles. What's going on?" Keith demanded.

"There's a hot romance between your sister and Derek. Begun, I'd say, at the time we were at the forester's house." He blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.

"What?" Both Keith and Father John were aghast.

"But she's married..." Keith did not conclude his thought.

"From what she's told everyone she doesn't think much of her husband. If it's true well, we don't know..." Peter-Paul waved his hand in the air, describing circles within circles. "And age is relative. If she could have married a man old enough to be her grandfather then Derek can ignore a four-year difference easily."

"But this puts a whole new complexion on her story about Bernard!" Father John argued.

"How can we trust what she says about him? Trust in her accusations?"

Peter-Paul blew a smoke ring into the air. "Just so much smoke if you ask me."

"I don't know what to say." Keith mumbled. "To think I should be burdened with such a sister."

"Well, you're not your sister's keeper."

"That's not true, Peter-Paul. Unfortunately I am. Oh, how I wish our relationship had never been discovered."

"It is turning into quite a dilemma. What really worries me now is Bernard's role in all of this. Do we trust him or not? Did Deirdre tell the truth about him or is it some wishful thinking on her part? To turn the whole world against him so she can be rid of him and go her own way. How stable is she?" Peter-Paul took a final drag at his cigarillo and extinguished it.

"And do we continue to guard her or not?" Wondered Father John.

"I think we'll have to, just in case we're wrong." Peter-Paul reasoned.

"Is that what you wanted to discuss with us?" Keith asked, happy to change the subject.

"No. Not at all, until you reported the day's astonishing events. I have been mulling something over in my mind for some time now. It concerns the tall, blond monk seen entering the hostel in Arles, or, I should say the assumed monk because he was only described as being tall, slim, young-looking. Nobody actually saw his face or his hair. But the good woman of Faulat did have a young, tall, fair-haired monk as a visitor. And she mistrusted him. A tall, light-haired monk said he had accompanied Brother Guillaume on the helicopter flight from Lodeve to Toulouse and was seen by the staff at the Institute of Tropical Diseases there, then disappeared. A fifth body was fished out of that accursed lake on the road from Salvetat to Angles. Someone of the group belonging to the American sect sent an SOS. We never discovered how that message was sent. I was bothered by all of this as well as the fact that in Castres when some of our group members spotted the German bird watchers they were without the woman who had been their companion at the Mas Ferreol. Of course she might have been tired or unwell and had elected to remain in whichever hotel they were staying yet...they and she remained an unsolved riddle in my mind. They had been so overly Teutonic, as we said more than once. A caricature that went out with the war. Well, the problem niggled and refused to go away so I did some research here. The article in the newspaper regarding the discovery of the fifth victim did not mention its sex, however, a further article in a week-end write-up of the whole affair plus an expose of such sects, did. It was a woman! She had been in the lake several days. There were rocks in the pockets of the jacket she was wearing, not metal bars and she was certainly not a member of that community of religious maniacs. She had been submerged and was discovered only because of all the floating, splashing and swimming in the water around her by the sect members which might have been instrumental in allowing her to surface. She was described as taller than average, thin, in her late 50s and had wispy light hair cut fairly short. Does that remind you of anyone?"

"The odd German woman at the Mas Ferreol."

"Exactly."

"But if she was submerged and in the lake for several days, whom did we see at the Mas?" Keith pondered.

"A man in disguise?" Peter-Paul responded to the question with one of his own.

"As we conjectured that evening in a rather macabre fashion." Father John added. "All those remarks about the size of her feet and the possibility that her hair was a wig."

"And that's why she didn't speak? Just sat staring into space pretending to be drunk?" Keith wondered.

"I think so. He might have been able to get away with looking like a tall, elderly, fussy sort of woman but was probably not a good enough actor to mimic the voice, the inflection and, of course, might not even have been German. Which would give the impersonation away."

"So you think the woman we saw was the figure spotted gaining admittance to the Hostel in Arles and later disguised as a monk in Faulat and in Toulouse?" Keith pondered.

"Yes, yes I do."

"Which means that those so-called bird watchers are also part of some kind of conspiracy? They are certainly involved or at least are witnesses to the murder of the German woman in their company...if she was German and if she was even in their group, for we saw only the male impersonator." Keith rationalized. "And why was she killed in the first place?"

"I believe the same person who was seen entering the hostel in Arles at midnight on the night of the mistral and the monk seen by the good woman of Faulat and the staff at the Institute in Toulouse are one and the same person. And I further believe that he is a killer. A killer with a mission that will eventually lead him to Compostela hidden in and among the faithful now making their way to the Saint's shrine and as such he had, and still has, need of a bona fide identity. Not his, which might be known to the authorities ever watchful for any sign of danger in these dangerous times. I also believe that he was instrumental in the attack on Bernard in order to steal his pilgrim's certificate...until he read the details. A short man in his early 60s and plump to boot. Not so easily impersonated by someone tall, thin and young. He therefore had to look around for someone else's identity to steal. And he found it tailor-made in a woman."

"Should we get in touch with Inspector Lemoine and urge him to put out the alarm for a woman like the one we saw at the Mas?"

"No. I'm certain he has already jettisoned that persona as well and what the new one might be, well... he could be anything and anyone at all."

"But perhaps the two so-called bird watchers could be pulled in and made to talk. They were distinctive enough to be spotted." Father John suggested.

"Of course, but I doubt they are anywhere near the Road. In fact, they are probably not even in France any more."

"So, in the end, there is nothing we can do." Keith sounded glum.

"Only to be careful of anything that is not what it should be and to keep going on our chosen path."

They sat in silence, allowing their thoughts to roam through the weeks they had already spent tramping the Road, evaluating every sight, every encounter for the slightest hint that might give them a clue as to the danger and from where it would strike, but nowhere in their collective memory was there even a glimpse of something not quite as it should be except the obvious events already discussed among themselves and with the good inspector.

"I have a problem to bring up now as well." Keith looked grim, "Do we continue to allow Derek to guard Deirdre at night in her room, knowing what we know now about their relationship?"

"I think we'd better. There would be too much conjecture if we stopped it and either I or Steven or Tom, say, would take over. And we don't want any talk. If Bernard is innocent of her accusations then no harm is done but if by chance she was telling the truth and he gets some hint of what is happening it could have dire consequences for her. So let's pretend we are the three monkeys...see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil. We'll go on as before."
39.

"We have two possibilities for today's route," Keith began once they were all assembled outside their hotel in Auch. "One to the north, one South. The former is less related to the pilgrimage but very beautiful, less built up with remarkable monuments but it is also much longer. And difficult, which means that we would have to cut it in half and sleep at Ordan-Larroque. The southern route comprises 28 kilometers which we could cover in about 7 hours. It is almost continuously near or on the pilgrimage trail and we get to spend the night in Montesquiou where there is a hotel, a camping site and free lodging if we phone in advance. We can buy sandwiches before leaving Auch and have an al fresco lunch or stop at Baran where there is sure to be some kind of café. It's up to you to decide."

A hasty conference was called and the decision to take the shorter way was adopted by all.

As usual, Keith and Woofy were in the forefront but there was, this morning, a subtle change nevertheless. Monica, Mavis and Deborah made up a new threesome. Father John had joined Helen and John. Deirdre and Derek walked together under the open sky for the first time, discussing herbal remedies and alternative medicines aloud. What they said to each other in an undertone nobody could tell.

Peter-Paul, draped in his thin beige shawl, head raised to the elements and seemingly enjoying himself, was having a chat with Steven about Scotland, climbing venues, the Himalayas and conditions in Tibetan monasteries where Peter-Paul had once spent close to a year.

"But why Tibet? And why a monastery?" He wondered, staring at Peter-Paul's very long curly hair and trying to imagine him among all the bald-headed chanting monks.

"I shaved it off." Peter-Paul laughed. "It was worth it. I learned a lot...about the world and about myself." His voice dropped and he seemed far away.

"Were you always attracted to other religions?"

"I was attracted to Tibet, not necessarily religion. As a boy I had a hero, a role model." He laughed again. "You'll find that funny too. It was Sherlock Holmes. I emulated him in everything, except the cocaine habit and that only because I was unable to get hold of some. I even took up the violin. Well, if you know your Holmes you will certainly remember the fight to the death between him and Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls. Which was Conan Doyle's way of ridding himself of a creation he felt had taken over the creator and which kept him from writing the great and significant novels he believed he could still produce. Not realizing that it was the creation of Holmes that would keep his name alive long after he and his other scribblings were so much dust."

"Yes, and he had to resurrect him." Steven recalled.

"Exactly! The public outcry was so great that his publisher forced him to bring Holmes back with a story of his having lain low someplace...and that someplace was deemed to be Tibet where he had further adventures. Well, that exotic name 'Tibet' haunted me. I saw pictures of the location, high, high in snow-capped mountains. Saw the monks, the monasteries, the white scarfs fluttering, the wayside offerings of rocks and stones mounting skyward and I too wanted to soar. So I shaved my head, took a begging bowl and set out on my travels."

"With a begging bowl? No credit cards?" Steven stared awestruck at this fastidious figure and tried to picture him robed as a Tibetan monk, squatting by the wayside.

"Yes. I hoped a 'chelo' would appear, as in Kim, my other formative book. There were a few...quite a few...who helped me on the road during that year." And he smiled wistfully in remembrance.

"Why didn't you remain?"

"The lure of Satan proved too strong. I am too enamored of the trivialities of life and of course of sex. That's been my downfall many times when I have aimed high. But then I console myself with the reminder of my gypsy heritage. One cannot overcome what's bred in the bone." He smiled roguishly at his companion. "Can you remain celibate for long periods?"

"Yes," came the terse reply. "and I have."

"In fact, Steven," Peter-Paul continued to smile, "I would say it is what characterizes you most and I wondered at the sudden lapse with Monica." He glanced slyly at his walking companion. "Of course it makes a good cover."

"And Derek? And Deirdre?" Steven opted to change the subject.

"You noticed?"

"It's obvious. And Bernard in all this?"

"We're sure to find out...eventually." And they continued to walk along in a companionable silence.

Tom was the only one that day to remain alone, deeply immersed in thought. I had better consult Father John tonight, he mused as he once again recapped his conversation with Mathilde. He and Keith had said they wanted to be kept abreast of any changes, even if only slight ones, and this remark was certainly outside the norm. If they too decide that it is significant I shall advise Mathilde to take a vacation, perhaps to her sister's. Anyway, as far from Lodeve as possible. I don't like this at all. And he decided to approach the others as soon as they could talk things over without being overheard.

And so, chatting idly or pondering deeply, they continued through the picturesque countryside that opened to their view in all its sumptuousness be it a small forest or a glimpse of the Chapel of Castagnere far to the left, until their feet took them over the remnants of a moat through the ancient fortified gates to Baran. Here they followed the main street past the church with its oddly twirled steeple and near the Place des Halles they found a pleasant café to sit down and have lunch.

John chose the moment of seating, as he pulled out a chair for Helen, to murmur:

Helen, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicean barks of yore,

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,

The weary, wayworn wanderer bore

To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long want to roam,

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

To the glory that was Greece,

To the grandeur that was Rome.

"Poetry is all very fine in its place," Monica expostulated. "but the true test of a man's love rests in his ability to find a taxi on a rainy night in any theater district in the world after the final curtain has gone down."

"The real man..." Peter-Paul could not refrain from countering. "is the one who does not have to run out in the downpour to try to find one but who has had the foresight to order a limousine to pick him and his guest up after the performance, no matter what the weather."

"Touche!" Murmured Steven, smiling to himself in appreciation.

*

Uttering a heavy sigh, Charles sank into an armchair in the sitting room of Le Petit Cedre hotel after yet another superb dinner had reached its conclusion. He watched as Bernard unwrapped a cigar and cut the tip, then proceeded to light it, turning it round and round between thumb and index finger.

"No luck today either?" he asked the younger man.

"No, No. You'd have to be crazy to order new stock when the old hasn't sold. And it won't be, if I read the situation correctly."

"What will you do now?" Bernard asked as he smiled at Mathilde and motioned that he would have a small drink. "Are you having anything?" he asked Charles.

"A tisane. I already told her at supper. What will I do? Well, I'll try the bigger towns and cities...Toulouse, Auch, Pau. But I have a bad feeling about it all. Look at this hotel, for instance. We're the only guests, and it is the season. Vacation time; it ought to be full. The town too is way too quiet. I've seen proprietors of shops or sales staff standing in front of the open door to get some fresh air and to chat with passersby. Nobody is buying or travelling. It's dead. Thank you."

He looked up as Mathilde brought him his tisane, then watched absent-mindedly as she plumped up a few cushions from force of habit and left the room. "How can they afford to keep this place open? There are expenses to be met...the staff. Reception..." Charles counted them off on his fingers. "At least one maid. Mathilde is the owner's daughter but there is another girl who waits at table, a chef and probably someone to wash the dishes. Why it must cost them more than they can possibly earn from two guests to keep even such a minimum staff going. I'd say they're adding money every month for salaries rather than earning." and he sipped his herb tea with a gloomy face.

"You're probably right, but what can they do? Even if they would want to nobody would buy this place. They'll have to try to weather it, as we all will. I'm in antiques and art auctions at home and I was doing very well. I specialized in Russian art of the l9th century. Ever since the Russians got rich it's been the best business and I've made my pile, yes indeed. But now? It's hit them too and they've disappeared like the smoke of my cigar." He blew at the cloud that hovered close to his face and it evaporated into the air. "Isn't there something else that you could do? This salesman business doesn't really suit a young man like you. Didn't you study something?"

"Computers." Charles answered bitterly. "I worked for a good firm but they overstretched themselves and folded two years ago so I was happy to get this job. Now..." he shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, I see. Well, I might have something for you. How would you like to go on a pilgrimage, all expenses paid and an extra 5,000 Euros in your pocket at the end of it?"

"What would I have to do? Smuggle Russian art across the border?" asked Charles jokingly.

"Of course not. Listen...and I'll tell you."

*

Tom knocked on the door of the hotel room in Montesquiou shared by Keith and Father John.

"Hello Tom. Come in, come in." Father John invited.

"Is Keith in?"

"Yes, yes. Do sit down; don't stand skulking in the hallway," and he pulled the young man into his room. "A bit small but bigger than a monk's cell and here's a chair. Sit. Keith is taking a shower. Do you want to wait?"

"I guess so." And Tom sat down, fiddling with the fringes that decorated the padded arms of the chair.

"Evening Tom." Keith came out of the bathroom still drying his short hair. "Anything wrong?"

"It's something Mathilde said last night," Tom blurted out. "You have to know that the hotel is empty. Business is bad all around but of course Bernard is still there as well as a young man travelling in medium-priced jewelry. He and Bernard have become friendly...well, they're the only guests in the hotel and take their meals in as well. Last night, while Mathilde was serving them she overheard Bernard tell the young man...his name is Charles...that he had been widowed twice and was most concerned about the deteriorating mental health of his present wife."

"That's torn it!" both Keith and Father John leaped to their feet.

"Yes...that was my reaction too. But what do we do now?"

*

"Well, Charles, what's the news?" Inspector Lemoine motioned for the young detective to sit down. "Did you check out?

"Yes. And I've said my goodbyes and tipped and thanked the staff. That young girl, Mathilde, is a jewel beyond price. And that reminds me, here's the jewelry sample case. You'll have to return it. I'm boarding the train with a dummy I'll have to ditch it someplace...just in case Bernard is keeping an eye on me."

"And what do you think of him?"

"An affable scoundrel at the least, a murderer at the worst."

"Hm, well, we'll see. What did he want you to do?"

"Go on to Toulouse, Auch and Pau and if I don't manage to fill my sales book, as we both supposed, to get rigged out for the pilgrimage. Sign up, join the group and of course his wife, in Spain to keep an eye on her and report back to him."

"That's all? Sounds innocent enough."

"Yes, but..."

"But?"

"He wants to know full details of her health, hinting that she is teetering on the brink of a bad nervous breakdown. In fact, he made it sound as if she was losing her mind to the point of having to be institutionalized or...and here he lowered his voice although we were the only ones in the lounge...committing suicide! For this small service he will pay all my expenses plus 5,000 Euros in cash in Santiago where he hopes to be able to join the group!"

"Whew!"

"Indeed. Do I continue?"

"Oh yes. And I'll fill you in on everyone in the group. I think the cover story will be that you are a friend of Keith's. I'll tell you all about him. And due to lack of time you're only doing Spain on foot. You will have to know all about Père Jerome, the Jura and Woofy. We'll work out some story."

"I know the Jura well, Inspector. I used to go there every winter to ski. Which part do I come from? One of the smaller villages?"

"Yes. I'll coordinate with Keith. Do you think you can carry it off?"

"Oh yes."

"It's not your usual group, Charles. There are some pretty sharp eyes there."

"If this Keith will help me..."

"Oh, he will as will his friend Father John, an Irish priest. We have to chance it. I feel guilty enough about Monsieur Cotte and of course also Mr. Van Der Gilden even if he turns out to be a villain himself. So, if there is some kind of conspiracy I simply cannot ignore it and hope someone else will solve the problem for me. And Charles, it all started in Arles. Let me tell you about it so that you will be prepared. I have a very strong feeling that we have two parallel conspiracies marching along the pilgrimage trail to Compostela and that one of them, for sure, will turn out to be a most dangerous game.

40.

"Young man, do you think you could put your case in the upstairs compartment?" The thin, elderly woman in the seat next to Charles sounded exasperated as the square, black box nudged her arm for the third time.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry." he mumbled. "First of all there is no room up there. It seems to be full of packages already and..." but she did not allow him to complete his sentence.

"If you would move some of them over I am sure there will be room for one not so large box."

"I am not allowed by my firm to put this case in a baggage compartment." He stated firmly, staring straight ahead.

"Why ever not? It's just a jewelry sample case, isn't it?"

"The case is. The contents aren't."

"Whatever do you mean?" she eyed him warily.

"I am not allowed to discuss it but since you seem to be an honest, upright citizen I shall only hint that it is secret, governmental, and that I am going to the Institute of Tropical Diseases in Toulouse." Charles removed his horn-rimmed glasses, blew on the lenses and polished them thoroughly, staring straight ahead. When he had put them on again, he noticed that his neighbor on the fast train to Toulouse had left her seat and moved herself, her capacious handbag and a large brown shawl to a place at the end of the compartment leaving Charles in full possession of both seats. He put the case on her vacant place, stretched his legs and closed his eyes. He would stay one full day in Toulouse, move on to Auch, then Pau where he would dismantle the sample box and dispose of it, then take transportation across the border to Jaca. He would phone Bernard from Auch, saying that business was so bad he had no hopes for Pau but was carrying out his firm's instructions not to jeopardize that month's salary, then would await the fateful words that would mean no more work for him. So, if Bernard's offer was still open he would be more than delighted to be of use to him.

As soon as Bernard would give him the go-ahead, he would phone Inspector Lemoine to see if there were any further instructions and would then continue on to Jaca and his erstwhile childhood friend, Keith.

He wondered what was going on. From the Inspector's briefing it seemed to him that they were in way over their heads. Lodeve simply couldn't handle it. Oh, well, perhaps they could manage Bernard and whatever he was up to but not the other thing. He was longing to have an in depth talk with Keith and perhaps Father John and had some photos to show the latter. It was just possible that one of the mug shots was of the large policeman at the Arles train station and again on site when Père Hippolyte was stabbed.

It was quite an illustrious group to be tramping the road, he mused. Monica Quiller and John Ashforth in one pilgrimage! That didn't happen every day. Ashforth's wife was also famous, something in Hollywood. And there was a journalist and TV personality, a mountain climber who just might have something to do with some country's security services and of course Bernard's wife, a millionairess, and from what he had gathered, in great danger.

How would Bernard go about arranging a suicide? There were no lakes or deep rivers in the area of Spain the group would be traversing so drowning was out. Would he himself appear before they had reached Compostela, perhaps hiding someplace, or showing up guilelessly and brazen it out? There were no mountains either, so an accidental fall could not be arranged. If he was aiming for a suicide while of unsound mind verdict there were sleeping pills, poison, slit wrists or hanging. What a choice! Well, he'd have to play it by ear. First to get to Jaca, integrate with the group as Keith's boyhood friend and then take it from there.

"Papa?" Mathilde opened the door of her father's office after having served Bernard his cognac in the lounge. He had asked if he might put on the television set in the corner since Charles was no longer in the hotel to talk to and he needed something to while away the time until he could finally go up to his room to sleep.

"Yes my dear, what is it?" Monsieur Fournier looked up from his accounts and sighed. "It's not good, my pet."

"No. But we'll weather it, Papa, and when Thomas returns we'll make some serious changes. I have been speaking to the Valbert brothers and getting estimates. They are eager to begin and have promised to lower their rates for us. It will be all right." She stepped behind the desk, strewn with ledgers, computer print-outs, notebooks and hastily scribbled calculations and put her arms around his shoulder. "Trust me, Papa. Everything will be fine. We just have to wait out the month until Thomas returns."

"I'm putting money in instead of earning, but I can't let anyone go. What will they do? Marie-Claude is supporting her mother...I can't tell her to go, I can't!" He stared at his desk top, his eyes blurred with unshed tears.

"Use Mama's money to tide us over."

"Never! That is for you."

"It is for the hotel."

"I have enough in savings. It's just that I don't see a way out...I don't see the end and I'm afraid we are in for a long and very difficult period. Well, well, we shall weather it...did you have something on your mind?"

"Yes. You will have to do without me for a week or so. Marie-Claude will be happy to take over. I'm going to join Thomas in Spain."

"Mathilde, no! I forbid it!"

"Papa, something is wrong there and I am going."

"You are not of age, you..." he began.

"It is vacation time and I am taking my vacation in Spain. I shall first consult Inspector Lemoine, then I'll go. I promise to phone you every night but you cannot stop me."

He kept quiet and lowered his head so she should not see the grief and the tears. They sprang to his eyes more readily as he got older. If he should ever lose her...no, that was foolishness, she knew what she was doing.

"Why don't you visit Monique for a while instead? Or Albert or Raoul and Virginie. You don't see enough of your siblings as it is and Thomas will be here in less than four weeks."

"Papa, I have made up my mind." She kissed the top of his head and slipped out of the office.

"Just like her mother!" He sighed and then smiled.

They were well received everywhere in Montesquiou, a town that had always prided itself on welcoming the true penitent on the Road of St. Jacques with admiration and care. Thus in the one small hotel of the hamlet they were treated to every courtesy and amenity, including a hearty dinner. Not only the other guests, but the staff as well, were eager to question them about their route, how far they had come on foot, what they had seen and experienced and how much farther they still had to go.

They vied with each other to give them advice about the coming stages of their journey, from the weather forecast to their nightly resting places, and all were most careful to warn them of the hardships they would have to face on the other side of the border.

The Spaniards native to the area they were to traverse, were neither welcoming nor helpful. They would have to rely on their maps and on each other. As for hotels or clean and decent places to sleep, they had better forget about it. Everyone hinted, as usual, strongly about fleas and worse and the general lack of bathing facilities. Those that existed were primitive in the extreme.

The only one to brighten up at this worrisome news was Peter-Paul.

"For," as he put it, "my readers must be wondering what sort of pilgrimage this is when all I seem to talk about are pleasant country inns and one superb meal after another. Even I am beginning to feel ashamed when writing about yet another feast. I haven't even been able to describe a small blister or a heat rash."

"Well, I did have a blister coming, but..." Derek began.

"Yes, that's just it...but!...we've been pretty lucky."

"Well, I haven't!" Monica complained loudly. "I had a very scary fall, a twisted ankle, a bad reaction to the caterpillars, a hospital stay. You could have written about that, without mentioning my name!" and she shot Peter-Paul a venomous look. "You're making this sound like a Sunday stroll in the park."

"With George?" he laughed.

"What?"

"It's a musical, Monica." John explained.

"Oh...yes of course. But really, you should make your readers understand that we're walking with a heavy backpack for up to l0 hours a day. That the sun beats down, the road is not always good, in fact, it's usually rotten. That we had days and days of miserable weather, sleeting rain when one began to feel that another step, just one more and one would explode, toss everything aside, quit, leave and return to civilization. You're not being fair to your readers or to all the many pilgrims who walk the route every year without the money we are able to spend on creature comforts if you glorify it!"

Peter-Paul had the grace to look slightly abashed, then rallied. "But we have always had a warm, dry and safe place to lay our heads at night; thanks to Keith." He nodded at the young man feeding Woofy snippets of meat. "That's what will change in Spain, except it'll be hot and searingly dry on top of everything else."

"We have six more stages to cover in France before we hit the border. That's six more days, then another three weeks in Spain will bring us exactly to the 25th with a day or so to spare if we don't hit any snags." Keith reminded them. "There's a top-notch hotel in Santiago itself, a Parador. It seems to me we should reserve our rooms now for we will surely want to check in the day before, if only to make use of their undoubtedly good bathrooms. There might even be a hotel spa. I'll ask. We'll need it after three weeks in Spain. And...should we truly become flea infested, we'll have to jettison our backpacks, clothes, everything we have and make a big bonfire at night just before we reach Santiago and then buy everything new from the skin on out."

"You're right." Deborah replied. "I would not want to light candles, go to confession and mass, view the church and the saintly remains unwashed and vermin-infested."

"God, my child, does not make such a distinction. In fact, the opposite is true." Father John chided.

"Yes, Father, I know, but I personally would feel better."

"We all would." Steven smiled at her. "And Keith is right again. We shall do everything possible to carry out your very sensible plan." He turned to Keith. "You'll make a wonderful priest."

Silence fell over the long table as all eyes swiveled to stare first at Steven, then at Keith.

"Is that a prophecy?" John enquired. "A wild guess or a foregone conclusion?"

"Or do you know something we don't?" Father John murmured.

"It's an observation." Steven replied.

"It's a gypsy's prediction." Peter-Paul added.

"I don't know; not yet anyway." He turned red and lowered his eyes. "To change the subject, I want to tell you all that in Spain we will be joined by yet another pilgrim."

"Bernard?" Deirdre mouthed tremulously.

"That too is a possibility...but no...a friend of mine from childhood, from my village is coming. His name is Charles Thomas. He only has time to walk the Spanish side and will join us in Jaca. I hope you'll like him. He's capable and can be relied upon in a tight spot, which is where we may find ourselves eventually."

"What are you hinting at?" John queried.

"You all know that there have been some unexplained occurrences on this journey right from the beginning in Arles. Even before we met at the church, but of that you will have had no inkling. I do...know, that is. And it is one of the reasons I am here on this pilgrimage. Since Arles there have been several odd sightings, odd happenings, some of them of a violent nature and none have been satisfactorily explained. It is very possible that the closer we get to our final destination the closer we shall find ourselves to mortal danger. A danger whose direction we do not know, whose perpetrators we do not know and if it will affect us or others now tramping the road to Compostela. I just want...tonight...finally...to warn you all that there is danger, that it is affiliated to the Road, that its direction is an unknown factor as are the perpetrators and those affected but it will become clearer to us, as well as more threatening, the closer we get to our final goal. And only in Compostela itself will we know the scope and the direction. That is why I am so glad Charles is joining us. For the coming three and a half weeks we shall have to know who our friends are and if we can safely turn our backs on them; or if everyone is suspect. If any of you feel at this stage that this is turning into a bigger adventure than you had bargained for I'd advise you to drop out now...before we cross the Pyrenees."

"Well God knows I'm not a hero but for me there's no going back. I promised mom." Tom murmured, and looked stricken.

"So did I." Mavis echoed.

"If she knew her children were walking into danger she would absolve you of your promise." Helen argued.

"I would not be able to live with myself if I broke a promise to a dying woman, and that one my own mother." Mavis stated firmly. "I'm going on."

"So am I. Mathilde would never forgive me for going back on my word." Tom argued. "And she would never marry a coward. Nor would I forgive her if she did."

"Well said, Tom!" Father John nodded his approval. "We continue!"

"And we take an oath." Peter-Paul declared.

"An oath?" Derek wondered. "What kind of oath?"

"We are traversing Gascony, the country of d'Artagnan, the counts of Armagnac and of course of the Three Musketeers so..." Peter-Paul smiled, rose from his chair and, raising his glass on high, proclaimed: "One For All And All For One!"

The others, suiting his action, stood up straight and with glasses held aloft repeated: "One For All And All For One!"

41.

That very evening Keith consulted the staff of the hotel about the continuation of their route and if they should spend the night in Marciac, a mere 5 hour walk or should push on to Auriebat, adding another 2 hours to their daily route but at the same time bringing them ever closer to that important crossing of the Pyrenees and the beginning of their adventures in Spain.

The former had a choice of several hotels while the latter offered only a farm that doubled as an inn. Keith did not think this a bad choice as it would start to accustom the group to other surroundings more in keeping with what they would have to become used to in Spain. Perhaps he would make it a point from now on, until they crossed over, to steer away from hotels and go in for more mundane accommodations.

.

With this thought in mind, he cornered some of their group in the lounge and told them of his decision to lengthen the following day's route so as to advance them along the trail, making a slightly more than 7-hour trek rather than the 5 they had originally planned.

He noticed that there seemed to be a certain coolness between Derek and Deirdre and wondered if it had to do with the non-appearance of the divorce papers in Auch plus the realization that they might not stop in Pau but continue on to spend the night in Lescar. He wished devoutly that someone would take Deirdre off his hands and didn't care if it was Derek or Bernard. There was too much doubt his mind regarding her accusations and, until proven otherwise, he would continue to believe his brother-in-law innocent of her slander. Hadn't he been the object of a vicious attack in Lodeve? That surely proved him to be innocent of wrongdoing. He had been at his prayers, for heaven's sake! Would a villain kneel in prayer? Actually, as much as it pained him to answer that question...in all honesty he had to admit that quite a few villains throughout history had knelt most fulsomely in prayer, among them quite a few crowned heads.

He wished Charles were already here. One other able-bodied person to rely on, a detective, a trained expert. Perhaps he would be able to make sense of all their problems and the snippets of information and hearsay they had accumulated over the many days of their wanderings. It was bad enough without Peter-Paul having dredged up yet another body. An elderly woman, drowned in the lake a few days before the arrival of the Americans. Who was she? The original companion of the so-called bird watchers who was then replaced by a man? Or a poor, lonely soul who had truly killed herself for some unknown reason? Just because the Germans had a tall, thin woman with them at the Mas Ferreol did not mean that the one discovered in the lake had anything to do with them. It was not wise to jump to conclusions.

"It has been several weeks now, it seems, that we have not been regaled with a nice tale. Not since Castres, I believe." Father John suddenly remarked.

"We were probably tired from the events of the day." Deborah murmured, leaning back in a deep, comfortable chair.

"It was an innovative and pleasant part of our pilgrimage and it would be a shame to discontinue it. Perhaps someone can rectify that tonight?" Helen suggested, looking pointedly at Deborah.

"Me?" she sat up. "Well, I'd have to think about it." She cast her mind back to all the years spent in the hospital wards, her early days filled with study and the excitement of learning her chosen profession. Yes, there surely were tales, even miraculous ones of recoveries where all hope had been abandoned but what came to her mind first was an event from her student days when she had still been living at home. It concerned the family across the way, in the building next door. The ones the entire neighborhood had wondered about. It was actually her mother's story, her observations which she had shared with Deborah and her father, but she would relate it in the first person. It was after all just a story and could be arranged to suit the situation.

"Yes," she said to the others, sitting up, "I do have something and it really happened. And it is sad. I have no title for it, it's just something that could occur anyplace and at any time."

The shutters of the apartment on the second floor had been closed for several years. So had the windows behind them.

She wondered how they could live like that, without light or air day after day, almost buried alive.

In the over forty years they had been neighbors...for their apartments faced each other although they lived in adjacent buildings... they often exchanged nods and smiles or commented on the weather. Usually when she was hanging the wash on the lines outside her kitchen balcony and the heavy-set woman across the way was checking up on the progress of her own laundry, still spinning merrily in her machine. Sometimes she saw her instructing a new cleaning woman what to do. They never lasted long over there, for a fresh face would appear every few months.

She saw the husband now and then in the local supermarket, where he filled up the cart with enough provisions to last them several weeks They never exchanged greetings. He was small, thin, desiccated and silent.

Silence was the word that described this small family best. There was a son in his 20s, short and thin like his father, blank-faced, always at home. Idly she wondered if he had ever studied anything or even went to work. Sometimes she met him in the street, carrying a large, flat leather-like folder favored by artists and architects but she did not believe him capable of either profession.

One year she saw her downstairs, speaking to a neighbor and gesticulating wildly. When she approached, she learned that the husband was dead, run over by a bus.

After that the son began a reign of terror in the immediate neighborhood. His aim? To drive away all the pigeons, doves, crows, sparrows and any other winged creature that sat, strutted, cooed or cawed on the flat rooftops of the buildings.

He claimed they brought eye diseases. That his father had contracted one and could barely see which caused him to be run down by the bus and he, the son, did not want to be struck by the same illness.

He erected poles as deterrents, sprayed window sills, closed every chink in the masonry of the buildings and covered everything with aluminum foil.

This campaign lasted close to a year, then he began to complain about the noise of the air-conditioners in adjacent buildings and finally began to put out poisoned food for the birds and the feral cats in the rear gardens.

At this point someone called the SPCA, someone else the police and both he and his mother disappeared from sight behind the closed windows and the tightly closed shutters that hid them.

Sometimes she saw the woman downstairs, sitting on a bench in the small park near the house and once, several years later, she spoke to her.

There was no more money. They had gone through it all. Now there was only the apartment. They were going to sell it and with her share, she said, she'd go to a retirement home. She said she wasn't yet 70. She did not know what he would do and from her tone of voice it was easy to see that she did not care.

Another year passed. The apartment across the way remained closed, silent. She no longer saw the heavy-set woman or her son.

One early summer night she glanced out of her kitchen balcony and something had changed. All the shutters stood open, the windows had been pushed back. Torn, thin drapes fluttered in the light evening breeze.

She saw the son, moving through the rooms, opening everything up...doors, windows, shutters. Their glances met. He did not say a word and then he was gone.

All night the apartment stood bare...she had no idea when he had emptied it, had seen no moving van. Where had it all gone? Where had he gone? That one, last defiant gesture...to open it all up..."Here, look all you want! It's open now. There's nothing more to hide in our lives."

The following day the workers came and ripped out doors, walls, floors, in the first stages of reconstructing the apartment for those who had bought it and released its former owners from the prison they had themselves erected around their stunted lives.
"Somebody tell a joke, quick!" Monica's face puckered up. "That's an awful story. It's the stuff of nightmares...and before bedtime too!"

"It is sad." Helen murmured. "And the saddest part is that it must happen much more frequently than we think."

"If they had gone to their local church, perhaps..." Keith began.

"The church should have come to them!" Father John stated flatly. "Did this event take place in a small town, a small community, or...?"

"No, it was a large city and nobody really cared." Deborah replied. "Oh, they would have, the neighbors would have done something but the son's behavior had put everyone off, you see. When he finally retreated behind the shutters we were all was thankful not to have to put up with his abnormalities anymore. I suppose the neighborhood was as much to blame as this strange young man."

"Well, I think I'll order a quick drink after that one." Peter-Paul stated, taking himself over to a small bar in the corner of the room.

"Eh, me too." Steven joined him.

"I'm going upstairs." Monica rose to her feet.

"So am I." Mavis was already outside the door.

"I'll just call Mathilde first, then I'm for bed myself." Tom pulled out his cell phone.

"That was a quick way to empty the room." Deborah mused. "I do hope it isn't an omen for the day to come," she too stood up. "Believe me, it's a jollier tale than any I could tell that took place in the hospital."

"Hey, Father John, Keith!" Tom called out as he disconnected the phone. "Mathilde is leaving Lodeve. She's taking the train and will meet us in Pau. Were we going to stop there?"

"No, we weren't but we'll have to now."

A little knot had formed around Tom who was still clutching his phone anxiously.

"If we continue to double up our route, doing time and a half each day, there'll be no problem in making a detour into the center of Pau to pick her up." Steven suggested.

"What could have happened," Keith wondered, "to make her leave her father and the hotel?"

"It's partly my fault." Tom admitted. "I was worried about her being so much in Bernard's company...and with the hotel empty too...so I suggested she take a vacation. But I wanted her to go to her sister or one of her brothers, not join us on the road."

"She'll be safer with us." Deborah stated firmly. "If, of course, Bernard really is dangerous."

"I suppose so," Tom frowned. "and she won't go all the way to Compostela with us. She's planning on 2 weeks, then she'll go back."

"By that time either Bernard will have joined us or we will have a better evaluation of him and it may be perfectly safe for her to return home." Father John added. "Well, Tom, you must be happy."

"Yes and no. I was willing to go into danger knowing she was safe...but now?" He looked very upset.

"We'll all guard her, don't worry." Steven reassured him.

"But we don't know what to guard against or whom." he complained. "If only we knew!"

"Journey into the unknown!" Peter-Paul murmured, testing the phrase as a possible title for his book.

"Why don't you write it first. I'm sure the title will come to you when you will write FINISH on the final page."

"But often a catchy title at the start can give the writer a proper slant on the entire outline." Peter-Paul demurred. "It spurs one on, so to speak."

"Two Months On The Bummel?" Steven offered, keeping a straight face with an effort.

"Some Men On A Road, Not Forgetting The Dog." Deborah murmured as both John and Steven whooped with laughter.

"The Wizard of Compostela." Tom added quietly.

"Wait! Wait! I've got it!" Peter-Paul grinned. "That's it! Pray For Us At Compostela." And he executed a few heel-pounding flamenco steps. "Ole!"

"Hey, that's good," admitted Steven.

"An excellent title." Father John smiled. "And original. Well done. We shall certainly need all the prayers we can accrue...at Compostela and before if we are to discover what is going on, who is doing it and how we can stop it."

"My friend Charles will be a big help there. He's had some experience at solving such riddles." Keith explained. "Until he shows up in Spain and I can put him in the picture we shall just have to keep our wits about us and keep our eyes open."

"For a tall, slim, youngish man, light-haired and probably blue-eyed who seems to be most capable at disguising himself." Father John added.

"Ye-es," Keith qualified. "he managed as a wispy, fluttery elderly woman but was not good enough as a monk to fool the good woman of Faulat. The same sort of gesturing and pseudo-religious posturing as Brother Guillame."

"For that matter," John pondered, "Bernard has the same tendency with his 'shall we pray?' and 'Amen'."

"Anything seems to be possible. I have a feeling all the time..." Keith continued. "as if we are walking around in circles in a thick fog, arms outstretched. That here and there we grasp something before it slips away from us in the miasma in which we are travelling, leaving us with a handful of smoke, a blur, a fleeting shadow that should, if we apply it correctly to the other information we have stored in our subconscious, add up to a solid whole, but..." he broke off, confused.

"We may be missing the common denominator." John postulated.

"The missing link." Tom explained.

"Yes." Peter-Paul nodded his head. "But what is it and how do we go about finding it?"

"We ask the Wizard." Deborah announced, getting out of the chair into which she had sunk once more.

"In Compostela?" Steven queried. "It'll be too late."

"I have a feeling we'll find him even before we cross over into Spain."

"Do you know something, Deborah?" Father John frowned at the sudden change in her.

"No, not know but I feel something. Odd. I'm not at all a fanciful person but I am certain we shall meet him soon and in most unusual circumstances."
42.

"Too bad we don't have more time." John murmured, looking up from his guide book. "Marciac is characteristic of a Bastide of the period. A rectangle with rounded corners, the streets vigorously checkered with a vast central square bordered by houses with covered passages and a 14th century church. It would have been nice to have stayed there, even if only for one night."

"For me the worst part was missing all the Cathar fortresses." Keith admitted. "And of course we're not getting to Carcassonne at all."

"If we were to see all we would want to in France we'd have to spend several more months tramping her roads." Helen laughed, "I do have hopes for the future." she added, slipping her arm through John's. "Since we'll be living here part of the year it ought to be possible to make a list, in order of importance and preference, take the car and go and see it."

"I find that one always sightsees in countries one visits and never so much as stirs an inch to see something worthwhile in one's own back yard." Monica stated flatly.

"That's true. It's probably because one can do it any time. Tomorrow or next week...after all, it's just around the corner and it's been there for ever, so why rush?" John mused. "I imagine there are many places near my home that tourists have come long distances to see. Places I've never bothered about and may not even know the name of."

"Well, that will change." Helen vowed. "All I've ever seen is Paris."

"I guess I'll have to read up on things and show you, but not right away, eh? After two months of walking I'd like to emulate a hibernating bear for a while."

"Speaking of bears..." Steven began.

"We weren't!" Monica snapped.

"Figuratively speaking of bears," Steven tried again. "might there still be some in the Pyrenees?"

"No, I'm sorry but no." Keith sighed, "All of them hunted to death or driven out by encroaching civilization. The same goes for wolves."

"We're going to have a very tame crossing. In the Middle Ages, however..." Peter-Paul began.

"Spare us your infernal Middle Ages!" Monica snapped.

Silence fell on the group. Steven and Peter-Paul slowed their steps and attached themselves to the rear of the line, joining Father John and Mavis, deep in conversation of what the economic downturn would mean in concrete terms for Ireland and its people.

"Speaking of bears..." Steven murmured, "someone's got a sore head today."

"Mmm."

"Wonder what this Charles will be like."

"Even if he'd be interested," Peter-Paul muttered, "he's only joining us at Jaca."

"We'd better pretend we're invisible for a while."

"I'd face an angry bear anytime rather than a woman with a grudge." Steven grunted.

"I've been wondering why you ever started with her?"

"She's Monica Quiller." he replied as if that explained everything. "I was flattered that she even looked my way, not to speak of..." he did not complete the thought.

"Yes, there's that of course. She's not a bad sort, Steven. You could do worse."

"But I don't want...I mean, not yet. Oh, some day I suppose when I'm your age..." he glanced slyly at Peter-Paul. "then I'll settle down, but now? I'm better off alone and I certainly won't tie myself to a celebrity. I'm Steven Freeman and have no desire to be labeled as Mr. Quiller or Mr.- whatever-other-celebrity."

"How about Mavis?"

"You are determined today. No, no," Steven shook his head. "a good sort but not..." he did not complete the thought.

"Ah, you're waiting for someone special. The one and only."

"Who would that be?"

"The one meant only for you." Peter-Paul explained.

"Doesn't everyone want that?"

"Most people settle for second best."

"You didn't; John didn't."

"John and Helen are a miracle. One of the truly amazing events of this pilgrimage but it is not given to every human being to be blessed like that."

"True. But we can dream." Steven sighed as Peter-Paul gave him a surprised look.

Two more days, thought Tom, taking long strides and deep breaths as if to shorten the distance, turn two days into one and a half, then one, then tonight! They would meet in Pau and spend two whole glorious weeks together. Much, much more than they had had up to now. It was a shame that she had missed all the best bits: the stone towers, the gypsy caravans, the individual and miniature houses at the Mas Ferreol, the barges. Maybe Spain would offer some delights after all, although they were all dreading it subsequent to the dire warnings they had received from everyone. Well, no matter how basic the accommodations were, it was far better than remaining alone in the hotel with Bernard. Perhaps by the time of her return home they would be wiser. Either Bernard would have joined Deirdre and the group and would pose no threat to Mathilde in Lodeve or they would discover that all the stories about him had been a figment of Deirdre's imagination.

He had rather liked Bernard and hoped he would prove to be the able, cheerful and religious man they had all come to appreciate. He could tell that Keith felt the same and had his doubts about his sister's accusations. Yes, time would tell but until it did he would not leave Mathilde unattended for one moment. At night? Well, perhaps Deborah and Mavis could take turns sharing her sleeping quarters, unless they were in an outdoor camping site where it would be quite proper for him to place his sleeping bag close to hers.

Derek was the quietest of a rather subdued group. His eyes, behind their habitual dark glasses, were moist and his sight swam so that he stumbled several times, although the road was smooth. He did not notice the small country lanes crisscrossing the green valleys, the birds swooping low and rising in flowing arcs as their group approached, the colorful butterflies and a lone dragonfly, its rainbow-hued luminous wings whirling it to an unseen presence of water behind a small clump of trees.

Once more... he thought, I have been made a fool of. Once more been disappointed, discarded. I trusted her. I was the only one to believe her version of Bernard's character. Oh, of course, at first they had all believed her but then doubts began to creep in. They had all liked Bernard. He had been a solid rock of faith...courteous, even-tempered, reliable while she had been inconsistent, prone to tears one minute, euphoria the next, fragile in mind and body. They still guarded her but not as wholeheartedly as before. The will had been a shock and the non-appearance of the divorce papers an even bigger one to him. Was she just playing with him? Could he have been wrong to trust another human being again? Should he say something to her? She was very quiet today. Perhaps she was having second thoughts about him too.

I don't understand it. I never signed such a will. Deirdre tormented herself. I have never even heard of an irrevocable will. Where did that word come from? How could Mr. Coalchester have drawn such a thing up in the first place? He never consulted me. What am I to do now? His son wouldn't know although he has taken the practice over. Was there a clerk in the office who might have been bribed? I remember initialing pages but I signed only the last one. Had something been placed over the word "irrevocable" so that I did not see it? Could Bernard have bribed someone? Certainly not old Mr. Coalchester, but someone else in the office? It is possible, or, maybe the word "irrevocable" was added after I signed everything...again by someone who was bribed and who worked in the office. How can I find out? And I specifically demanded divorce papers! I'll find a lawyer in Pau now that we're going to that city after all. Yes, I'll consult the best lawyer in Pau!

She turned to look at Derek walking nearby, silent and despondent.

"Derek, I must consult you." She whispered and bent her head to his.

*

"But of course my dear." Bernard agreed. "At a time like this your sister needs you. Of course you must go."

"I'll only be gone for a week or so and you are getting so much better that I can safely instruct Marie-Claude to take care of you. It is also..." she leaned forward to lower her voice although the room was empty. "that the hotel has no guests. If I am on duty there is no work at all for her and she will feel, rightly so, that Papa does not need her. He has spoken to me, and only to me, of cutting down on the staff and if I am here she is the one most at risk. Where will she find work in these times? Her mother cannot walk, you see, and Marie-Claude is the only breadwinner. So maybe if I leave for a short while she will feel more secure and perhaps, also in the meantime, some tourists will come?" Mathilde fiddled with the small pots of confiture, arranging and re-arranging them, looking down, her face drawn and anxious.

"Of course, of course. Without hope there is no life. But Mathilde, I am very much afraid that we are only seeing the beginning of the hard times. Much harder ones are on the horizon and you will not be able to save Marie-Claude the next time."

"Yes," she sighed, "there is no alternative. The whole town has suddenly been beggared." She looked away and out the nearby window at the bright sunshine and its promise of all the lovely summer days still to come.

"Is your friend Yvette back?" he asked.

"Yes. Would you like her to come? Do you feel ill again?"

"No but now that the young salesman has left and I am the only guest it will be very lonely for me."

"It is only for a week." she reminded him. "Until my brother-in-law returns and can help my sister with the babies. Twins are not that easy to take care of you know."

"Of course, of course, still...I must have someone to talk to and a bright face to look at or I shall develop morbid thoughts which might lead to a relapse. If only I were well enough to walk the 7 or 8 hours a day again!" he grumbled. "I would give anything to be with Deirdre and my good friends in the group once more. Curse my bad luck!" And Bernard pounded the table with his fist, his eyes focused on a point above Mathilde's head.

*

"So you see Derek, I don't know what to do."

"Can you get in touch with someone in Manchester you trust?"

"One of our cousins perhaps..." she frowned in concentration, "yes, the youngest, Alex, yes, he would help me. And have him speak to Mr. Coalchester's son?"

"Yes, he should. In all honesty he must tell him of your doubts, and of course he must try to discover how such a will could have been drawn up in the first place. And if there was a clerk in his father's office at the time who might have been bribed. Also, of course, why he himself forgot to send the divorce papers to Auch."

43.

As if time seemed suddenly to have become of the essence, they forbore to make a lengthy halt for lunch and ate the sandwiches they had bought in Montesquiou. It was perhaps only the second time in their close to four weeks of walking they had done so. Monica, as usual, grumbled that she could not do without a salad but as nobody paid attention to her she soon subsided into a very heavy silence.

Immediately after having crossed the embankment of the Arros River, they entered the area of the High Pyrenees and, forging onward past row upon row of vines, stumbled across the remains of a Roman villa followed by another river to finally glimpse their destination: the town of Auriebat.

Here they were forced to walk in single file to enter the narrow streets which led them past the fortified l5th century church...a Gothic spiral perched on a solid and earlier dungeon. It was embellished by the sculptured crowns of archways with dwellings adhering to every surface as if huddled together for comfort. So crowded and overbuilt was the area that the entryway to the small town hall bridged over the street. At this point they called a halt to make inquiries regarding the location of the farm where they intended to spend the night and were soon forging straight ahead to the outskirts where, in the near distance, set among the curling vines, they were afforded the view of a long, low white house with dark brown shutters standing open on either side of the numerous windows adorning its façade.

As they approached, they were pleased to note a large, paved terrace under the rustling plane trees, where long tables covered in rough blue cloth stood awaiting them. A small white enameled sign with "bureau" printed on it in black led Keith to knock on a low door to one side which was opened almost immediately by a very young woman in jeans and a white T shirt with an all-enveloping pale blue apron. She had indeterminate brown hair pulled back in a pony tail and a pleasant smile.

"My name is Sommerville," Keith began. "I phoned earlier for reservations. We are 12."

"On the way to Compostela, yes?" She took in the cockleshells and staves.

"Yes. We would only stay one night and," he hesitated, "if we could arrange for something to eat?"

"Of course. Dinner will be here..." she indicated the tables on the terrace. "We eat at 7:00. I do the cooking. Local specialties." she stated proudly. "My name is Hebe."

"Hebe? Here, let me take a look at you my girl!" Peter-Paul stepped forward his eyes strafing her up and down. "Oh no!" he sighed. "You won't do at all. You're probably a very nice girl and all that but oh no! Monica!" he called to her, "As usual you got it all wrong. We should not suit." and he turned away to stare at the rows of grape vines just beyond the terrace paving.

"What do you mean by that? Why won't I suit? I'm a jolly good cook and if you don't hold with women in the kitchen you can go eat and...yes!...sleep someplace else." She had turned slightly pink in the face and tears of rage made her eyes blaze. "We have two guests already and even if they're Germans they're more polite than all of you put together." she stamped her foot in anger.

"Germans?" Keith and Peter-Paul asked softly, the latter doing a sudden turnabout and, taking hold of her arm, pulling her closer to him. "Germans?" he asked again. "What kind of Germans?"

"Let go, you're hurting me!"

"Ssh, be quiet. This is important. Are they bird watchers?"

"No, they're tourists."

"One short, one tall?" Keith demanded.

"No, both tall."

"Old? Young?" Keith persisted.

"Young, both young. What is this all about?" She was beginning to look worried.

"Maybe nothing and maybe..." Keith did not continue his thought. "Look, Hebe, it's very important, please don't ask any questions and don't tell them that we're interested in them...are they dining here?"

"Yes."

"Good. Don't say anything and don't look at me as if I'm mad. I can't explain but..." here Keith lowered his voice, "we're security. Two Germans travelling together are wanted for questioning. I'm fairly sure they are not your guests but we have to be certain, so please don't say anything to them until we've seen them, all right?"

"All right," she agreed grudgingly "but I think you are both insane." And she threw Peter-Paul an angry look and stomped back into the office, slamming the door.

"What was that all about?" John asked Peter-Paul, laughingly.

"Ask Monica!" came the disgruntled reply.

Despite the infelicitous beginning, once settled in low-ceilinged, pleasant rooms, tempers cooled so that by the time they took their seats at the long tables, moods had lightened and harmony once more prevailed.

A different young woman approached them announcing the evening's fare and aside from the usual grumbling by Monica about what the meal would do to corrode their insides, everyone looked forward to it and to the pleasant evening outdoors on this balmy summer night.

Father John led the group in saying grace and when the final "Amen" had rung out they glanced up to see that they had been joined by two tall young men who stared at them amazed at this display of piety.

They bowed before taking their places and stated that they were Kurt and Wolf and had driven a rented car all the way from Paris.

"We shall return the vehicle and continue on foot just before crossing the mountain." Wolf explained. "Then we'll walk the rest of the way in Spain to reach Compostela. We should have more than the required 200 Km by then."

"But you, I hear," Kurt continued, "have come all the way from Arles. That is certainly a feat! How long have you been on the road?" he asked.

"Close to four weeks." Steven replied.

"And the little dog? He also walks?"

"Oh yes." Mavis smiled. "When he gets tired we carry him."

"Ah yes...the English they like dogs." Kurt managed to look superior as he announced this bit of lore.

"I'm Irish." Mavis stated in a flat voice to the confusion of the two young men and added, "And the dog's owner," here she indicated Keith "is French."

A hubbub of conversation broke out to counter the acerbic tone of her voice. Tom glanced at his sister, wondering why she had taken a dislike to two young men who seemed pleasant and were only trying, with great difficulty, to make some kind of conversation.

"I see you have a guitar with you." Helen remarked brightly in a voice even John did not recognize. "Do you play? Sing?"

"Ach ja...for ourselves. To pass the time." Wolf answered modestly. "We are not very good."

"I'm sure you're being too modest." Helen replied politely. Ye Gods, the going was heavy with these two.

"Give it up, love." John whispered. "You're out of your element." and turned to chat with Peter-Paul about the roads still left until Pau and the meeting with Mathilde.

The meal wound its way to its conclusion. Coffee was poured, a tisane of fresh herbs from the garden was much praised, Peter-Paul smoked and Father John leaned forward to tinkle his spoon against the empty water goblet. The conversation ceased and heads swivelled to give him their full attention.

"Has anyone a tale tonight?"

"A tail?" Wolf asked, astonished. "The little dog has, Pastor. Why should you wish for a tail? I do not understand."

The table burst into such a fit of laughter and merryment that it was a good few minutes of irrational and gasped explanations before the two young Germans understood the vagaries of English expressions that seemed to use the same word, aside from the spelling, for two completely different objects. All attention, now that the subject had been clarified, the two looked around the table in expectation of what was to follow.

"I have a tale, Father." Mavis volunteered. "I call it Maggie's Way."

And with a sigh, they all settled back in their chairs under the starry evening sky to give her their full attention.
When Maggie was small she had a nanny called Bridy.

Bridy was big and solid with rosy cheeks and thick, light-brown hair that waved and rippled when it was let down at night from its tight bun at the nape of her neck. She laughed frequently, showing large white teeth and had a good word for everyone she met.

In that most secret part of her heart, of which she never spoke aloud, Maggie loved her more than her own mother.

Bridy helped her wash and brush her teeth. She untangled her hair and braided it. She took her for walks and never flagged when pushing her on the playground swing. She taught her to eat with knife and fork and gave her her first lessons into the mysteries of the alphabet.

But most of all Bridy told her stories.

Many were variations of the fairy tales her parents had read to her from the big book of dark colors that was kept in the small, white-painted cupboard in her room. But somehow when Bridy related these same tales, the hideous witches and ogres were not scary at all but smiled and winked at her as if to say "You know there'll be a happy ending!"

Aside from these old tales Maggie enjoyed the ones Bridy told her of her native Ireland which included not only the leprechauns Maggie searched for eagerly under her bed at night before going to sleep, but also the every-day events of life in that enchanted land.

As Maggie grew older she began to notice that while Bridy was one person, cook was another and she herself, Maggie, a third, most people came in twos like Mama and Papa and all their relatives and friends.

" _Bridy," she asked one day "why aren't you a two? Or cook? And what about me?"_

" _Ah, I wondered when you'd notice that and ask." And Bridy took out the sewing box and settled down to do the mending. "Cook is one because her two was killed in a war. But don't start fretting about that. It was long ago and sad thoughts are not good for a little girl like you. Every sad thought means you grow an inch less and we want you to be as tall as Mama, don't we?" She plied her needle rapidly in the small tear of the pillow case she was repairing._

" _Yes Bridy." Maggie answered automatically. "Was your number two also...?" she did not complete the thought.._

" _No, no." Bridy laughed. "I never found him." Looking down at the confused expression on Magggie's face, she rested her hands in her lap and, leaning forward, began to explain._

" _Before a baby is born it lives a full life up in a special part of heaven set aside for the children that will come to earth, eventually to become the babies of the women and men who want them. They live there happily, they play all day long, they grow up just as they do on earth...some more rapidly, some more slowly all depending on when their turn to be born comes. And they fall in love...that, Maggie, means they like each other very much and never want to part."_

" _Just as I never want to part from you?" Maggie asked._

" _Yes..." Bridy laughed. "but up there it is between a little girl and a little boy. You see, up there the knot is formed of who in the life down here will be a two...a girl and a boy, later a man and a woman like your Mama and Papa."_

" _And?"_

" _And then the day comes when their turn to be born arrives and they must part."_

" _But they do find each other here on earth, don't they?" Maggie's eyes were fixed on a Bridy she had never seen before. Non-smiling and very quiet._

" _There's some that do and some that don't"_

" _Why?"_

" _One may be born to a family in Ireland and the other, the one that's meant to be the second half, is born in Australia."_

" _But how do they find each other?"_

" _Oh, they search. When they get older. But you see, Maggie, when they're sent down from heaven to be born all memory of their former life is erased. They start over as babies with a clean slate. They retain only the knowledge that they must search for the one they loved up there but most times they don't find each other."_

" _So what do they do?"_

" _They settle for second best. Like you eating a slice of apple cake because there is no chocolate cake that day."_

" _I never do that Bridy."_

" _No, my pet, you don't but most people do._ _They have forgotten."_ _She smiled at Maggie and_ _picked up her mending again."_

" _Is that what happened to you?"_

" _I didn't forget. I didn't find him and if I can't have chocolate cake I'll do without."_

" _Oh, Bridy, how will I find him? How?"_

" _There was a sign when you were born...maybe that'll help you." Bridy lowered her mending again and gazed off into the distance. "Yes, it'll guide you. Surely it will."_

" _A sign? Like the word 'Exit' on the bus door?"_

" _In a way, but it has no words. The night you were born, I was told, there was a shower of stars in the sky. All the great scientists studied it through their powerful telescopes and all the newspapers wrote about it. So, finding him will have something to do with the stars."_

" _Maybe I'll find him under a star the way we find mushrooms under the moss in the park?"_

" _Maybe."_

Maggie was not aware that she had passed the same bench facing the river a third time in that many days. She had photographed the area thoroughly, thinking it a good setting for the planned photo shoot that would feature the famous actress caressing the equally famous initialed handbag. Yes, just here, lounging on the bench, with the river in the background. The green grass in front was fine. The bench would have to be painted red. The actress would be in red as well and the bag in its shiny black with gold initials would stand out like a beacon.

The clients would be pleased, she thought. Now she had only to convince the producer, the photographer, the star and probably the bag would have something to say as well, she thought. What a profession! But she had chosen it carefully over all the others because it gave her the best opportunity to travel the world; to be where she had never been before and to search.

She had been seeking for six years like this, ever since she was l8, holding fast to Bridy's tale and not settling for second best. She thought apple cake was insipid!

She packed up her equipment, returned to the office, argued, stated and re-stated her case, displayed photos, indicated the lay-out and finally convinced the producer, the photographer, the star and the clients so that the following day the area in the park was cordoned off and swarmed with assistants, gofers, caterers, make-up and styling experts, caravans and enormous reflecting projectors.

The entire paraphernalia necessary to take a picture of a sleek young woman lounging on a red park bench caressing a black handbag.

Except, that when she got there, someone was already lounging on that same bench, reading his morning newspaper and sipping coffee from a take-away container. And nothing any of those in charge of the photo session said to him would make him move.

" _Plenty of benches in the park." He stated flatly. "Use those."_

He refused to listen to explanations, reasons, bribes and the blandishments of the star fell on deaf ears.

" _I was here first." He reiterated. "And until I finish my paper I have no intention of moving."_

" _Maggie!" The photographer screamed._

" _Maggie!" The producer shouted."_

" _Maggie!" The star burst into tears and fled to her caravan._

" _He won't move!"_

" _He's ruining the shoot!"_

" _What do we do now?"_

" _Time is money!"_

" _This ad is due in over l00 periodicals."_

The complaints burst around her as each one concerned in that morning's enterprise voiced his frustrations and all eyes turned accusingly her way for having placed their careers and reputations in such a deadly position.

_Gingerly Maggie approached the man on the bench, still engrossed in his paper. Seen close up he was older than she had thought. Nearer to 40 than 30. Black hair worn long, blue eyes that looked up warily as she neared, and in moving into his orbit she could suddenly see the title_ _page of his paper and the logo of a cornucopia pouring forth a shower of stars, just above_ _an article of a scientific nature that headlined: Shooting Stars And Other Heavenly Signs._

In front of at least 20 persons expecting a miracle she sat down. Close, next to him, a glazed far-away look in her eyes and asked: "Michael? Is it you?"

" _Yes." He replied, confused at her question. "We've never met. How did you know my name?"_

She sighed and, reaching out, took his hand. "Would you like a slice of chocolate cake?"

44.

The tale had been a big success with everyone and was much discussed by Kurt and Wolf. It was the first time they had met grown-up people relating "Marchen" to each other, and although it seemed unusual, they could not help falling under the spell of what John had dubbed "The Sheherezade Factor". He went on to explain to the newcomers that everyone in the group had undertaken to spin a pilgrimage yarn for the edification and entertainment of all on pleasant evenings after their meal and before retiring.

So far there had been seven such stories and they still had to hear from Deirdre, Bernard, when he would join them, Derek, Keith, Tom, two newcomers: Charles and Mathilde, John himself and of course Kurt and Wolf should they decide to cast in their lot with the group for the pilgrimage in Spain.

The two young men were most enthusiastic at the idea and said they would begin to think of tales immediately so as to have something new to contribute.

Keith questioned them, without actually seeming to do so, about the bird watchers encountered twice along their route and the mysterious woman seen with them only once, but they could offer no information except to doubt the veracity of their purported hobby.

"Bird watchers," they stated, "at least in Germany, are either young ecologically inclined citizens or elderly spinsters or widows who are very keen on their gardens and the birds that visit them there. But not men in their late 50s and certainly not travelling with binoculars around their necks even at dinner! The true bird watcher either goes on a nature hike or chooses one area in which to hide himself from dawn to dusk to clock in and note down every bird species that visits this particular site. The people you're talking about do not sound right to us." They concluded.

"They didn't sound right to us either." And Keith went on to describe their hand-kissing, heel-clicking and demand for German music and their overall bad manners.

"You know..." Wolf began.

"Yes. You are right." Kurt continued, glancing at his friend. "They do sound like a bad spy movie of the l940s."

"That's what we thought." Keith admitted. "But who and what are they?"

"Would it make a difference?" Kurt wondered. "Or are you just being curious." He looked penetratingly at Keith.

"Of course I'm curious. It was all so much out of character." Keith laughed so they would not take his interest too seriously.

"And it might make a difference." Peter-Paul suddenly added darkly.

"There has been trouble on the Road?" Wolf glanced sharply at him, lowering his voice.

"Yes."

"I see. So! We shall ask around, very discreetly." he hastened to add. "We might have some answers for you the next time we meet. In Jaca?" Wolf stared firmly ahead. "Or earlier?"

"We plan to stay the night at the Lake of Peilhou, just before the border. Of course you would have to return your car." Keith suggested.

"That would suit us as well as Jaca. Are there accommodations for the night?"

"Yes. There is the Auberge de Peilhou as well as something unusual." Kith smiled but would say no more.

"Keith is our lodging wizard." Peter-Paul twirled his hand in the air, conjuring up hot air balloons shooting to the stars and wild-maned horses pulling golden chariots over the crystalline waves of a wine-dark sea.

"Ach so!" Wolf smiled. "And there would be then something special at Peilhou?"

"Indeed!"

"Then we shall meet you there. And hopefully with some answers for we do not like such a slur to be made upon what seem to be compatriots."

"They may not be." Peter-Paul warned.

"Even more important that we discover the truth." And with that they shook hands and retreated to the farmhouse for the night.

"If they join us, on top of Mathilde and your friend Charles, our group will have swollen to 16."

"They do say there is safety in numbers." Keith murmured "And strictly between us, and of course Father John whom I would trust to the death, Charles is not a childhood friend from the Jura, although he knows the area well and will have no problem playing the part. He is a young police detective sent by Inspector Lemoine to help us."

"Ah!"

"Yes," Keith glanced at his travelling companion, and, slipping his arm through Peter-Paul's, ambled vaguely, expounding on nature, away from the vicinity of the house. "he impersonated a travelling salesman in Lodeve where he stayed a few days and became friendly with Bernard who, at the end of his stay offered him the job of joining the group in Spain in order to keep an eye on Deirdre whom Bernard portrayed as slightly subnormal in intelligence, fragile and to be watched and taken care of like a very small and dim-witted child. As you know, I am not happy with the relationship between myself and my newly-discovered sister but to confide in a complete stranger that his wife is a half-wit doesn't make me like Bernard any better either. And...on top of everything, he hinted that he feared she might commit suicide."

"Ah...that does put a different angle on it."

"Yes. You do see my problem. And this Charles, although I have never seen him, will be a very welcome addition to those whom we can trust as we begin our descent over the Col du Somport into Spain and all that the future holds."

"The future is getting nearer every day, Keith. For the last few weeks it's been like a beckoning mirage...our goal!...the Emerald City... shimmering away all by itself in the very far distance. Now we begin to see its outline, its lures, its dangers and suddenly everything takes on a new reality."

"And the wizard? Who will he be, where shall we run across him and of course, primarily, how can he help"

"You actually believe Deborah? She of all people to dredge up a wizard, conjuring him out of thin air!" Peter-Paul laughed lightly.

"If level-headed Deborah believes in him then so do I."

"There's something in that, I suppose." And having come to the end of the terrace, they turned around and strolled back to the house.

The evening was balmy and redolent of sweet-scented honeysuckle, lavender and newly-mown grass. It seemed a pity to go indoors to small, confined quarters and sleep this star-studded night away. Much better to make it last as long as possible.

Helen was persuaded to bring her guitar and regale them with the old French love songs she interpreted so well and the hours sped by in relaxation whether, eyes closed, they leaned back in their chairs or strolled up and down on that island of light that was the terrace, afloat like a spaceship, gleaming and glowing as it cut a swathe through the murkiness of the galaxies.

"On nights like this..." John began to say to be interrupted by Peter-Paul.

"Yes!........ Behold what quiet settles on the world.

Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.

In hours like these, one rises to address

The ages, history, and all creation.

#### "Oh, that's beautiful," Mavis had an awe-struck expression on her face. "What is it?"

"Mayakovsky. The final poem. Found on his body after he shot himself. There are, however, rumors that he was killed, the poem altered by one key word...we will never know." Peter-Paul was surprised that Mavis had reacted so overwhelmingly to those haunting lines. Decidedly, there was more to her than one imagined at first sight. Or was it the pilgrimage and mingling with the others that had forced her to open up, grow and realize her potential? "Yes," he exclaimed, "A poem tailor-made for a night like this."

"Could we hear all of it?"

"Gladly." Peter-Paul leaned back in his chair, raised his head and focused on a string of simple words which had always bewitched him.

Past one o'clock. You must have gone to bed.

The Milky Way streams silver through the night.

I'm in no hurry; with lightning telegrams

I have no cause to wake or trouble you.

And, as they say, the incident is closed.

Love's boat has smashed against the daily grind.

Now you and I are quits. Why bother then

To balance mutual sorrows, pains and hurts.

Behold what quiet settles on the world.

Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.

In hours like these, one rises to address

The ages, history, and all creation.

Nobody moved or spoke for several long moments, then a low murmur of appreciation made itself felt. The air became heavy with unspent thoughts as vague feelings wrapped themselves around the night-blooming flowers, and those mythical beasts...the unicorn, the griffon and the manticore... hidden from mortal eyes among the scented phlox, shyly raised their heads to peer at these ungainly creatures taking their ease on a stone-flagged terrace momentarily awash with the final legacy of an inspired poet.

For a stop-gap in time the Golden Age had them in their thrall, then someone inside the house laughed and dropped a dish. The spell was broken. There was a summer night, a terrace, the remains of a repast and a handful of sleepy pilgrims dreaming of bed.
45.

Although the weather remained warm there was a haze over the landscape that was difficult to dispel, even with sunglasses and, after they had crossed the bridge over the Alaric Canal, a strong breeze came up from the south that blew earth, twigs, leaves and miscellaneous bits of the countryside into their faces.

Peter-Paul twisted his beige shawl around, raising it to cover his chin, mouth and nose. The others followed suit, tying scarfs and large handkerchiefs from noses downward and continued to move ever forward, leaning into the wind. Headway was slow and unpleasant and nobody had any inclination for conversation. They longed to reach Anoye where they were to spend the night.

The usual country scenery was on view...fields, trees, lone farm houses, the crumbling remains of some ancient monument and the ever present wayside crosses. The soughing, whistling wind accompanied them until they finally reached their destination. This was probably the smallest village they had ever crossed and was a good foretaste of what awaited them on the other side of the Pyrenees.

Here there was no inn, farmhouse receiving paying guests, barn, artisan's homes or even a church porch. A few small, single-storied dwellings with flat slate roofs, some outbuildings housing a horse, chickens, indeterminate and fiercely protective dogs and a dovecote or two, but no place to rest or pay for a meal. Moreover, the inhabitants seemed to be either in the fields, asleep in their houses or away for the day.

The wind continued to blow and, as daylight waned, it grew ever cooler.

As a man, they all turned to Keith.

"I have nothing to offer, sorry." He stated flatly, continuing, "Anoye was not originally on our schedule. We're just trying to gain time. Now Morlaas has some hotels but it's another 3 to 4 hours from here and it's already getting dark."

"It won't hurt us to fast a bit." Monica declared airily. "We've been stuffing ourselves for weeks. The body needs to rest."

"Speak for yourself!" Tom growled.

"We do have emergency rations." Steven's voice was soothing. "Raisins, dates and nuts are excellent for the constitution. Vitamins, minerals and quick sugars galore. And we're all provided with sleeping bags. I don't see a problem."

"Ah well," John sighed, "Life's been too easy up to now. A little mortification of the flesh won't harm us." And he removed his backpack and began to unstrap the bed roll as a silent Helen followed suit.

The wind continued to blow and the humidity rose as darkness descended and a neat circle of sleeping bags began to take shape in a field devoid of trees. Keith and Tom foraged for dry twigs and branches and piled their harvest up in the clearing at what would constitute the extremities of their beds.

"Will it catch?" Tom frowned. "Everything's a bit sticky with damp." he looked glum.

"You've all gotten soft." Steven laughed. "Time to toughen up; Spain will be worse." He busied himself with his bedroll and dug deep into the pockets of his backpack to extract foil-enclosed envelopes of trail mix and other instant pick-me-ups to tide them over until breakfast could be begged or bought, although as it looked now, they would have to tramp to their next stop, Abere, for that.

It too was a village but looked slightly larger on their maps.

*

Charles entered the office of Inspector d'Albret in Toulouse and presented his credentials.

"Sit down, sit down. And how is Inspector Lemoine?"

"He could be a lot better, sir, if we had some answers."

"So could we all, so could we all. Well, well, we'll just have to put our heads together won't we? I say we'll just have to put our heads together." And he smiled jovially at Charles. "We have some putrefied bodies and no answers...I say we have some putrefied bodies and..."

"Yes sir, so I understand." Charles interrupted.

"Harrumph, yes, yes. Bodies. Never had such a case in Toulouse. Smuggling, now that we know all about but bodies festering in a respectable neighborhood, no, no. We don't know what to make of it. Another odd point. Yes. Odd. Bit of a cut up shawl or travelling blanket in one of the rooms. Who'd want to do that and why?"

"Travelling rugs? What color?"

"All sorts. Purple, green, then snippets of a beige washed-out sort of pattern, some red and blue. Odd."

"And black?" Charles asked, sitting up and remembering the description of Deirdre's shawl.

"A few threads of black. And some gray. Some fringes."

### "Odd, hm..."

"Everything about this case is odd. I say everything about this case is..."

"Yes! Yes." Charles interrupted, having become well versed in Inspector d'Albret's speech patterns. "Now why would someone remove the black lines and fringes from the Scottish

plaids and leave the rest? You did say the colorful parts had been left intact?"

"More or less, more or less...odd, yes, odd."

*

"I'm just glad Mathilde isn't with us today." Tom struggled into his sleeping bag. "I promised her such delights."

"After a delight like this I wouldn't blame her if she boxed your ears!" Mavis muttered.

"Into each life a little rain must fall." Peter-Paul warbled and ducked quickly as Monica threw her shoe at him.

Munching trail mix, they crawled into their bags, shivering in the damp night air, the fire giving off a sullen flicker and swirls of dark gray, acrid smoke.

"If we doubled up we might keep each other warm." Helen suggested.

"Oh no! Never!" Peter-Paul recoiled at the thought of sharing his bag with Monica who would leap at the chance.

"Is it better to catch pneumonia?" Helen insisted.

"Pneumonia is a germ." Deborah announced in a flat voice. "A little cold won't hurt anyone. Except perhaps Father John."

"No need to worry about me. Our monastery is colder than this."

"Keep your minds on a hotel with all the comforts...at our next stop: Pau." Steven suggested

"Then what?" He turned his head to ask Keith two sleeping bags distant.

"Oh, a place called Sarrance I believe..." and here Keith yawned and opened the top of his bag to let Woofy crawl in, then laughed. "The original hot water bottle." And he hugged the little dog.

"No, no, that was Abgail, the maiden brought to warm King David's aching bones in his old age. Those ancient Hebrews sure had the right idea!" Peter-Paul chuckled.

"But after that we have something special at Peilhou." Keith continued.

"Where we may be joined by Kurt and Wolf."

"Oh, not them!" Helen complained.

"Yes, I know." Keith yawned again, "But later on, when Peter-Paul and I had a talk with them about odd German bird watchers they made a lot of sense."

"And they promised some answers."

"About those music hall Teutons?" John queried.

"Yep."

"Are these two new ones also not what they appear to be?" Father John wondered.

"I wouldn't be surprised." Keith answered slowly. "Somehow, their dumb 'no-speak-or-understand-English' vanished, didn't it, Peter-Paul?"

"Yes. They were very sharp, very much on top of things."

"Is nobody on this road what he's supposed to be?" Tom wondered angrily, "Do we have to be afraid of our shadow?"

"Yes, I'd say so." Keith replied.

The smoldering firelight sputtered and dimmed. The wind died down. Small country noises ceased and weariness overcame them finally, so that one by one they closed their eyes and gave themselves up to the night-healing rest.

So soundly did they sleep, they did not hear the faint padding footsteps approaching as a fantastic figure, tall and very thin, wrapped in a deep blue cloak moved cautiously among them, bending down closely to scrutinize their features. Passing Deborah, he heard her sigh, "Wizard, help." before dropping into a deep and dreamless sleep once more.

He bent low over her exposed features and whispered, "In Spain! We'll meet in Spain."

Then he was gone in a swirl of silk before Woofy had a chance to raise his head from Keith's chest and look around. Something had awakened him but, not seeing anything to alarm him, he yawned hugely, then snuggled up against Keith's heart and dreamed of his mother and brother in the wide and open spaces of the Jura mountains and home.

46.

A surly morning dawned. The sun was a pale translucent disk, appearing and disappearing behind rapidly swirling gray clouds against a white and cheerless sky. The bedrolls were damp from early morning fog, stomachs were empty and growling, faces wan and strained after a night of discomfort and nightmare-threatening dreams. Only Deborah seemed calm, her usual efficient self, for, as she voiced it: "The wizard will help. Soon. I can feel him. He is near."

This new aspect of Deborah's character caused eyebrows to be raised by those who had, up to now, considered her the most level-headed of their group. To have her turn into a soothsayer and a believer in wizards made them shake their heads and wonder if there were some hidden side to her, up to now unknown, or something completely new and foreign, such as a malignant possession that would require a priest with bell, book and candle.

Seeing them eyeing her prediction askance, she assured them of her sanity, only adding that all would be revealed in Spain and that they were not to worry.

"For he has promised to help and, being all powerful, we shall be in a better position to take on the dark forces that may await us when we reach our goal."

"Where...eh...where did you come across him?" Keith ventured to ask as Father John looked uncertainly on.

"In a book, in a dream, during meditation, in prayer! What does it matter? Actually, he appeared first in the long watches of the night, on duty in the hospital, when all is still except the struggling breath of the dying." She had rolled up her bedding and was about to tie it to the bottom of her backpack. "I worked the hospice that quarter. Only four months. Never again. It seemed like four years." She sighed and stared unseeingly at the murky countryside.

"I was at the bedside of a child that night. Eight years old with the wracked body of a three-year old and eyes that filled his face so no other features were visible. He still smiled when he saw me but no longer spoke, as if every word were fashioned of lead and could not be extracted, even by force. I had made him as comfortable as I knew how. Padded everyplace against his poor, sharp bones. I knew he was not in any physical pain for the morphine pump was in place and I had activated it several times to ease him, yet he continued to look at me out of those huge dark eyes from which all the lashes had fallen out long ago and he seemed to be asking me: 'Why? When? How? And then what?' "

"But I had no answers and no way to reassure him. All I could offer was to keep the pain from snatching at his feeble chest and worn-out organs. And I was reminded of some lines read late at night in a book illuminated by a flashlight as I held a vigil at yet another death bed:

'The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling

that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to him

alone, and is, therefore, absolutely and irretrievably lost.'

"And suddenly, amid all this grief and my anger at the family that rarely came to visit him...too traumatic, they claimed, and his mother expecting again...I could have killed them!

As I said, suddenly from some hidden source within myself I whispered the words: 'Wizard! Help!"

"I have no idea why; no idea who this wizard was supposed to be and what he could do to help, but instead of turning to God as I usually had...well, I just couldn't. In this situation he was not my solace and salvation. I was at odds with him and I called for the Wizard."

"I was ashamed at my lapse and closed my eyes partly not to see the child anymore and partly in some confusion that God would not notice me. When I finally opened them the child was disconnected from the pump and had quitted his bed. He stood in the middle of the room, grinning for all he was worth and snapping his fingers to a rhythm and music only he could hear."

"Next to him was a very tall, very thin figure wrapped in a dark blue silk cloak. On his head there sat, at a rakish angle, a dark blue formal top hat and he hopped and hipped, jogged and jived to that same music only he and the child were able to distinguish, for the little one, all bones akimbo, emulated the strut and shake of the man to the tempo of a heavenly marching band that led them both out of the room, down the long darkened corridor until they were lost to sight."

"I stared after them for a full ten minutes, then returned to the ward, the small bed, and slowly pulled the sheet up to cover the so very still form lying crumpled at the foot of the barred resting place like an abandoned bundle of old clothing."

"From that day, when things around me have become too difficult to bear, when life is a muddle, a shambles, a one-way street, I have called for the Wizard. It was he who, seeing what a mess I'd made of a very unwise love affair, told me to go on the pilgrimage...for my soul and to help others. So you see, my invoking his name and presence is not so surprising after all. For he and I are old friends and I shall look to him with joy when my turn to leave will come."

"A benevolent spirit, then?" Father John asked.

"Oh yes." Deborah smiled.

"Good; good! We shall need all the help we can get."

Talking, they had begun to walk, and, after crossing the Lees on a wooden bridge that resounded their footsteps, they found themselves in Abere, a village similar to Anoye but large enough to boast a small café where they enjoyed an ample breakfast and several cups of strong, hot coffee and then made preparations for the continuation of their voyage. This would take them through Morlaas, where they hoped to have lunch and on through two forests, one small, one dense, and then into Pau for the night.

"We'll have to cover about 30 km today in order to reach Pau." Keith remarked as they assembled, ready to depart. "Which means we'll reach the city at night. Some time will be lost stopping for lunch as well, so Tom you'd better let Mathilde know and have her give us the name and location of her hotel so we can join her immediately when we get there." He glanced at Tom who nodded his head. "And Deirdre wants to conduct some business in Pau, am I right?" Here he looked over at the young woman standing next to Derek. His sister about whom he still had too many reservations. She agreed silently, then added, "Yes, yes. I wonder if Mathilde could put in some detective work and find me a reputable law firm used to dealing with foreign clients, especially the British? It would save a lot of time."

"I'm sure she could." Tom added proudly. "She can do anything."

"Well, then if all is settled we'd best get moving. It'll be a long and..." here Keith glanced up at a sullen sky, "unpleasant day."

They strapped on their backpacks, picked up their staves and filed out the door to begin the route that would take them eventually to Pau where Mathilde awaited and where, perhaps some answers to several very worrying questions would be found.

As they made their way out of the small café, their smiling waiter held the door open and murmured "au 'voir" until the last of the group had departed the site, then his smile vanished and, making certain the group was truly out of earshot, hurried to the telephone behind the counter and placed an urgent call.

"Well!" He burst out. "Took your time answering! O.K., O.K. Well, they just left. On their way to Pau. Oh, by evening I guess. They have a good 8 hours of walking plus a lunch stop. No, I don't know, they didn't say. Someone called Mathilde is there and they'll stay wherever she is. But get this, the rich dame is looking for a lawyer with savvy in international cases, 'specially British! That any good to you?" he listened carefully. "She didn't say. The only place they can stop to eat is Morlaas. Yeah, I know it's relatively big. Might be anyplace, still, a group of 12 or so pilgrims should be easy to spot. But maybe you'd have better luck in the woods. The Bois des Bastard for instance. O.K. Same here." He replaced the receiver and began to polish the bar.

"Did I leave my cigarillo case behind?"

The voice made him jump and he looked up to see one of the pilgrims facing him...the one with the long hair.

"Wasn't nothing on the tables." He muttered.

"Ah! Here it is." The traveler bent under a side table and, righting himself, held up a black leather case, waving it triumphantly in the air.

"Didn't look on the floor." The waiter growled, expecting to be accused of stealing.

"Why should you? The main thing is I found it. Bye!" and he was gone.

Running lightly to catch up with them, Peter-Paul fell into step next to Keith and Steven at the head of the line.

"I was right," he murmured. "The waiter was on the phone when I returned. He didn't hear me. Someone is planning an attack against us in the wood...before Pau. Their main prey seems to be Deirdre!"

"Ah." was all Steven said while Keith bit back an oath intimating that her presence was causing more trouble than she was worth. "There's an alternate route from Morlaas to Pau," he offered, "shorter too and it bypasses the forests."

"We'll take it?"

"Yes. I'll tell the others only after Morlaas, and, as an added precaution, perhaps we'll split up. Deirdre, Derek and a few others will go straight on to Pau and some of the younger and tougher contingent will go through the forest."

"Good plan." Steven agreed. "I'm for the woods, especially if a fight is brewing."

"So am I!" Peter-Paul grinned. "Aside from a few murders it's been a very tame pilgrimage and I'm longing for some action."
47.

News of an imminent attack spread fast and lines were drawn as to who would take the safe road and who the way that led through the forest and its dangers to Pau. Helen, Monica, Keith, Steven, John and Peter-Paul elected to go straight ahead and face the enemy awaiting them in the woods. While the others, with Woofy in tow, took the alternate route. Both Derek and Tom wanted to be in the thick of it should an attack truly materialize in the bois de Bastard but realized that Deirdre, Deborah, Mavis and Father John must be protected as well in case their enemies would learn of the change in plans.

Still together as a group, however, they crossed two rivers, stopping in Gabaston to refill their water bottles and continued on their route, traversing two more rivers, the Souye and the Biarre before finally reaching Morlaas, a sizeable town, part residential, part rural which boasted the reconstructed church of Sainte-Foy in the principal square. It was festooned with arches, sculptures and a curious depiction of ducks, representing Faith, which can overcome difficulties...just as ducks can cross a river without getting wet.

Here they also found a pleasant restaurant large enough to seat them all and, while resting, made short work of a copious meal.

As far as they could ascertain, nobody seemed interested in their movements and it did not seem possible that the pleasant, middle-aged and billowing owner, who waited on them, could be part of a nefarious conspiracy. The chef, who made his appearance at the end of the meal to chat with them, and whose girth equaled his lady wife's, also did not display the mien of one bent on mayhem and murder, but outside the front door there were many passersby and some of these did have a lean and hungry look more in keeping with assault and homicide, or so it seemed to the little band of faithful pilgrims as they glanced up from their plates to notice one of these staring through the window at the diners.

They're probably just hurrying to their own meal, Keith thought, but tried to remember every face that peered in at them. Too bad they didn't have any weapons, but the staves could be used to good advantage.

"I think some of my spikes might give them pause to think twice." Steven murmured to Peter-Paul. "I'll give some to John as well. Keith claims he can do quite a bit of damage with his stick. You?"

"The stick every time. It's part of my Far Eastern training. A redoubtable weapon if used as it should be." And he smiled fleetingly to himself, causing Steven to wonder when and on whom Peter-Paul had used it last.

With polite words and friendly nods the group bade their hosts farewell and again praised them for their fine cuisine. One after the other they filed out the narrow door and headed for the road that would take them through two wooded areas, zigzagging here and there past fields and minor highways to Pau. At the last moment the group split up with Deirdre, Derek, Father John, Deborah, Mavis and Tom veering suddenly to the East to follow a well marked but narrow road meant for cars while the others continued along a path more in keeping with the original way of St. Jacques and were soon crossing fields and small streams in the countryside. Here they paused in a spinney and doffed their backpacks while Helen showed them how to fashion a dummy figure made of stout twigs, firmly attached through a very small slit at the extreme right or left of their rucksacks. The twigs were draped in a T shirt and a spare hat surmounted this stick figure, giving the appearance from a near distance of two persons walking closely together.

Hopefully their attackers would not realize they had been duped until they were actually face to face and by then it would be too late for them to chase after Deirdre, especially as they could not be expected to know which of the women in the group Deirdre might be and also where they might catch up with her once they realized she was not part of the team they had assaulted. Getting at her in a city like Pau would be more difficult. And there they would all guard her.

With some trepidation, the sham pilgrims bobbing up and down on their shoulders, they exited the Bois de Baricoumbes and continued in an almost straight line to the Bois de Bastard, a densely planted forest on the outskirts of Pau, where they paused imperceptibly to ready their weapons of staves, spikes and sharp nail scissors.

The other group, walking rapidly, left Morlaas, Labourie and Paraguette behind, crossed an industrial zone and the autoroute La Pyreenne to continue through a military camp on the outskirts of the city and from there into the heart of Pau. They were never out of sight of a well-travelled road and the industrial zone and military installations gave them a much needed sense of security.

Mathilde had given Tom precise instructions, street by street, in finding the hotel where she was staying and assured him that there seemed to be nobody even vaguely suspicious around, although she thought she had spotted Charles Thomas, wearing large horn-rimmed glasses on one of the main streets of the city leading to the chateau but she was not sure, so altered did he seem from the diffident jewelry salesman who had just recently stayed at le Petit Cedre Hotel in Lodeve.

An open guide book in his hands, Charles studied what it had to tell him about the city and its chateau dating from the l6th century, where a festival relying heavily on theater and performed in the courtyard, drew tourists and citizens alike.

"The English liked this city."

Charles glanced up at these words spoken almost in his ear, to see a tall, thin elderly man wearing a blue suit at his side.

"Ah yes?"

"Yes, yes, Wellington's men! They made it their headquarters for many years. And it prospered." He waved his long arm around, from left to right, sweeping up streets, parks and buildings in one graceful movement. "It was they who built and planted all the gardens."

"Ah yes?" Charles adjusted his glasses by pushing on the nose-piece with his index finger.

"But then the war came!" here his interlocutor peered at him. "The Great War! And they left. And the Second World war didn't help Pau much either." A sad expression flitted across his features. "But I'm happy to say there's a revival. Yes, yes. Good University. The army base brings in quite a bit of money. Commerce. Things are looking up."

"Ah yes? I mean, good, that's good."

"Fine place to live." The man continued. "Good climate. Some crime of course but that's everyplace these days. But a capital police force. Not looking to settle down, are you?" He inquired hopefully as if Charles had only to say yes and he would produce the snug home and the bride to go with it.

"No, not yet...financial climate being what it is."

"Yes, yes indeed. Bad times, but we have to hope. Well, enjoy your stay." And with that he was off leaving Charles to wonder if he was just an idle chatterbox or...? He must really stop this. By now he was seeing conspiracies under every rock. That woman on the train? Well, she had carried a shawl or travelling rug. In summer! It had not looked like a tartan but it did have some black lines in the design. Oh nonsense! She wasn't young, the train was air-conditioned and she might suffer from arthritis compounded by anemia. He really must learn to...and the old wind bag just now? No, no, just a lonely old man.

He, Charles, did not look important enough to have so many spies on his trail. Impossible! Still, it paid to be careful, especially when contacting Mathilde. He was taking a very long and roundabout way to her hotel to look her up and there await the arrival of the others. Better to play it safe. He had no way of knowing, at this stage, if all was well with them or if they had run into trouble on their way to Pau. And most of all he wondered about Bernard's wife, Deirdre. Pictured by her husband as frail, in constant need of reassurance and help, what was she really like?

As Charles' thoughts reached out to them, the group, which had taken the safer route, was already in Pau, making its way through the side streets to Mathilde's hotel on a small cul de sac off a main thoroughfare. As they entered the reception area Mathilde erupted from an inner room and rushed to embrace them, ending up by throwing herself into Tom's arms and bursting into tears.

"Hey, hey, what's this?" Tom was shocked to see this poised girl he remembered from Lodeve in such a state.

"It's been terrible..." she wailed, "just sitting in the hotel and worrying about you." Here she raised her head from his shoulder to include them all.

"All of you! I'm sorry." she sniffed, dabbing at her eyes. "I have been so fearful for you."

"Well, you can see we're O.K. so stop with the water works." And Tom kissed her lightly but held her close.

"But where are the others?" She asked, craning her neck to search behind them for the rest of the group.

"We split up. It's a long story and I'll tell you later." Deirdre replied.

"When we're more private like." Father John hinted. "Is that a sitting room behind the reception area?"

"Yes, yes, but register first, then I'll order tea, or..." she hesitated.

"Tea will be fine." Mavis smiled. "And a dish of water for Woofy, please."

"But where is Keith?" The little dog without his master? Mathilde stared at the front door of the hotel, willing Keith and the others to enter but there was only the opaque glass and the golden sunshine of a summer day.

"Later, later." Tom pulled her in the direction of the sitting room as the others approached the reception desk.

"It's very dark here." Monica whispered as they entered the Bois de Bastard.

"Yes. The trees have spread out and grown quite tall." John craned his neck to see if could make out a patch of blue beyond the thick branches and extensive foliage that kept this wood in permanent shadow.

"Not much underbrush though. Almost no bushes." Peter-Paul looked around. "Gives us room to manoeuver if we're attacked." He seemed pleased and grasped his stick horizontally.

"Let's put Helen and Monica in the middle." Steven counselled. "One of us in front, back and at the two sides."

The improvised cross-like formation took shape and with a firm, albeit slower step, they moved forward, their choice of weapon at the ready, their eyes searching through the gloom for the first sight of danger.

When the attack came, about half an hour after they had entered the forest, it came as a complete surprise. Still searching the four corners of the area through which they were moving so silently, for no one spoke, they were startled to find their enemies dropping down on them from above, while they had been expecting to see them appear from behind the massive tree trunks.

Both sides were shocked and surprised by the ambush when it came, so unexpected was it. The little band of pilgrims because they had not expected a breach from the sky and the marauders because their first attempt to engage the group ended in them sprawling on the ground, having grasped not a solid body but twigs, a T shirt and a hat that came off in their hands causing them to lose balance and either stumble about, an easy prey for stout staves and spikes, or fall to the ground where the two women stabbed them mercilessly with their sharply pointed nail scissors.

Luckily the would-be abductors, numbering eight, were not armed with pistols, only knuckle-dusters and small coshes which were no use once they were supine and, seeing that they had been out-manouvered, they took to their heels and fled, followed by taunts of "Cowards!" "Stand and fight" and "Who sent you?" hurled after them as their feet propelled them crashingly through the woods to where a tinge of daylight and safety beckoned.

Realizing they had beaten the ruffians off with not much of a fight and no damage to themselves, the small coterie roared loudly and jumped up and down in a victory dance, then, out of breath but still beaming, they fell into formation and set off at top speed to Pau to join the others and report on their success.

48.

"Tom..." Mathilde turned to him, then, not wishing to have addressed only him, smiled broadly to include them all. "Please forgive me; I've been so tense." Her face lit up as she saw them safely ensconced in the small back parlor sipping the tea a gaunt-faced and silent woman had just brought them. Not until she had left, however, did Mathilde lean forward to speak again, dropping her voice in case someone might be listening in outside the door. "I have been very nervous about you all...ever since I thought I saw Bernard on the train that brought me here from Lodeve."

If she had dropped a bomb onto the low table that held the tea pot and a plate of tired looking biscuits she could not have caught their attention in a more forceful way.

"Has he left Lodeve?" Father John queried as he stopped in mid-air while pouring a second cup.

"Yes." Mathilde nodded her head emphatically, then continued: "I phoned Papa as soon as I arrived and he told me that Bernard had departed the very day I did. He told Papa he was returning to Brussels, for with me gone the hotel would be completely empty and so too dreary for words. He needed cheerful company in order to heal and..." she did not conclude her sentence.

"So he left?" Derek queried, "But he could not have caught your train without knowing your destination in advance. Did you tell him? Did someone in the hotel?"

"No, of course not and I have told everyone I was going to visit my sister in Sarlat. Not a mention of Pau."

"And if he was really going home," Tom interrupted. "he'd be heading North not South. Did someone take him to the train station and perhaps see him on board?"

"No. He insisted he didn't need any help and that's why I was so upset when I thought I had spotted him. Because he truly was not well enough to handle his backpack and take care of tickets and... and I know you will say I am imaging it but I began to wonder if he had an accomplice."

"You probably saw someone who looked like him." Mavis reached out to grasp Mathilde's hand. "And an accomplice? Well, that sounds like a conspiracy and I just can't think of Bernard, the Bernard we have known and liked, in that light."

"You're right. I was just so worried about all of you that I built up a case that has no basis in fact. Nerves, I imagine. But now I see you here and you are well and so it all begins to seem silly...but where are the others?" She looked around the small room as if expecting the rest of them to appear suddenly from the backs of chairs and from under tables.

Putting his arm around her to reassure her, Tom related the events of the past few days and the decision taken after Peter-Paul had overheard a mysterious phone conversation, to split up in order to bring Deirdre to Pau by an alternate route.

"And we still don't know what happened to them." He concluded.

"Can't you call?"

"Won't work in the forest and if they're on their way to Pau we'll see them soon enough."

"True. Don't you have to see a lawyer?" Mathilde turned to Deirdre.

"Early evening," she affirmed.

"If the others are here by then I'd take Steven or Peter-Paul along." Mavis suggested.

"Safety in numbers?" Deborah spoke for the first time. Her thoughts seemed to be far away from the small hotel, far from Pau.

"Yes, we thought of that."

"I do hope nothing has happened to them."

"Mathilde!" Tom reproached her. "I've never seen you so nervous. You've always been so calm, what's happened?"

"It's the not knowing." she replied firmly. "When you know what you're facing you can handle things but not knowing the direction of the danger, whom to trust and from whom to flee makes every move unexpected and frightening." She shuddered and clung to Tom's hand as to a lifeline. "I don't like it."

"None of us do!" A strange voice announced from the doorway. "Even when we're so-called professionals. I'd better introduce myself." And Charles Thomas stepped into the already crowded room.

"I thought it was you!" Mathilde jumped to her feet. "Near the chateau. But sit down, here..." She found a small chair and inserted it between Deborah and Mavis. "I'm sorry," she looked at her friends in the group. "I'm the only one who knows him. He was sent by Inspector Lemoine..." here she lowered her voice in case anyone might be listening. "He is a detective in our local police and to be trusted. His name is Charles."

"Don't trust anyone!" Charles replied with a warning frown, glancing from one to the other. "Especially if they have an innocuous background and are full of bona fides. And you've just blown my cover. I was supposed to have been a childhood friend of Keith's from the Jura."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know. Do you mean we shouldn't trust you either?"

"We have to trust someone." Father John interrupted. "We're all in this together. If we can't trust each other there is no use going on."

"Yes Father, you are right of course. But weigh everyone carefully," he amended, "and make your own decisions accordingly, but take no risks!"

Total silence descended on the gathering around the small table with only the tinkle of a spoon as sugar was stirred or the sound of tea being poured to refresh a cup attesting to the eight persons trying to absorb this latest information in order to extract some working arrangement for the days to come.

"I had an odd encounter on the esplanade just now." Charles continued, absent-mindedly eating three meager tea cakes. "An old duffer engaged me in conversation. He was a mine of information about the history of Pau, yet he managed to slip in a few questions about my being in the city although I was holding my guide book open all the time." He nodded at the Baedeker he had put aside when entering the parlor. "Yet he did not immediately, or for that matter even later, assume I was a tourist."

"Isn't your suspicious nature working overtime?" Father John wondered. "Probably just an old man with time on his hands and a natural garrulity."

"Perhaps, but there was something about him..." His voice trailed off as he took stock of the dry biscuit in his hand which he then replaced carefully on the platter before continuing. "And the woman on the train who sat next to me..." He shook his head, then realized that he was still wearing glasses and removed them, for, although fitted with non-prescription lenses they were beginning to weigh rather heavily on the bridge of his nose.

"What about her?" Deborah asked, fixing him with a steady stare. She did not think much of him as a detective. In suspecting everyone, no matter how innocuous, he was blinding himself to the source of the real danger.

"She wore red shoes!" Charles threw the sentence at them as if it were a live grenade.

"And?" Deborah continued.

"A woman of a certain age, clutching a travelling rug and obviously afraid of the air-conditioning on a climate-controlled train in summer does not wear red shoes."

The small group had no answer to this for it lay outside their sphere of expertize but they did cast some curious glances at each other as if to inquire into the perspicacity of Charles' thought processes.

"And the old gasbag had blue shoes!"

"Did he now?" Deborah sat up and fixed him with an all-encompassing gaze. "And his clothes?"

"Oh, blue, a blue shirt. Quite natty in fact."

"Hat?" She persisted.

"No."

"Your old acquaintance?" Father John suggested.

"It's very possible." Deborah stared off into space then turned again to Charles. "Tall and very thin?"

"Yes."

"Ah, don't worry Mr. Thomas. Not everyone crossing your path is a villain. There are good influences at work as well." And she relaxed, smiling and called out gaily, "More tea?"

"With pleasure." Helen sang out, skipping into the room and doffing her backpack. "Just what the doctor ordered."

"Is there room for me?" Monica cooed as she pushed into the parlor right behind Helen. "Bit small in here, isn't it?"

"We'll make room, just a sec." Tom moved the table to the center of the room, re-arranged chairs and a small sofa in a circle, then went in search of more straight-backed seats to accommodate them all and finally loped off in search of their waitress.

One by one the rest of the party made its appearance and greetings were exchanged as if they had parted at least a month ago rather than just that morning.

"Well?" Derek leaned forward eagerly. "Out with it. What happened?"

"We were attacked!" Helen and Monica answered simultaneously.

"But we had six extra pilgrims to help us and routed them." John laughed out loud.

"Who were they?"

"Where are they?"

Questions rained down on the new arrivals as the maid brought in more tea and cups and actually smiled when John rose to help her and slipped a bill into the pocket of her apron with the result that she excused herself, removing the plate of biscuits and returned on the double with a selection of small individual lemon tarts and bite-sized tea sandwiches filled with pate, egg salad and smoked salmon.

"That's more like it." Tom helped himself while Helen explained the ruse she had used to make their assailants believe there were actually 12 in their party and how, in dropping down from the trees they had grasped what they thought was a solid body only to have the twigs come loose in their hands upon which they lost their balance and either fell to the ground or stumbled around in confusion. An easy mark for staves, spikes and scissors.

"Oh well done!" burst from Father John.

"How I would have loved to have seen it." Deborah laughed.

"But who were they?" Mathilde wanted to know.

"Ruffians," Replied Steven, biting into a sandwich.

"Hired to do the job," Peter-Paul explained, "Small fry."

"They should have been arrested and interrogated." added Charles primly.

"Oh," Mathilde recalled that the new group did not know him. "this is Charles Thomas. Sent by Inspector Lemoine. I'm sorry, Keith, he can't be your friend from the Jura now...I didn't know and I gave his profession away."

"Never mind; it probably wouldn't have worked anyway. And..." here he turned to the young detective... "we had no authority to arrest them." He explained patiently, stroking Woofy who was ecstatic at having found his master again. "Even if we could have caught them - they ran very fast." He smiled at the remembrance of 8 hefty bodies hurtling out of the woods as rapidly as their legs would carry them.

"Mr. Thomas," Deborah turned to him. "what has been your training in the French police? Dog catcher?"

Silence filled the small parlor. Nobody had ever heard Deborah use that tone of voice before nor speak so bluntly and impolitely.

"I ah, I ah..." he stuttered, "I am a fully qualified detective."

"Who qualified you? Did you take a correspondence course? I have not heard one word that even makes sense from your lips since you joined us. Are you mocking us?"

"No." His tone of voice suddenly changed and he sat up straight, fully alert non-smiling and no longer amiable. "Only checking you out. I had not met any of you before, except for Mathilde. How was I to know if you were not harboring a criminal among your group? Even Inspector Lemoine did not know you. He had met only Keith here and Father John; the others were hearsay. Why even the famous John Ashforth might have been a fake, a substitute while the real one continued ill and languishing in his estate in Aix. We are dealing here with a very big and dangerous conspiracy. A petty criminal would never be able to muster 8 ruffians to attack you at a moment's notice."

"But we thought that was Bernard." Derek interpolated.

"Eight? Would Bernard Van Der Gilden be able to find eight in the Morlaas-Pau area? At the drop of a hat? At a phone call from a waiter in a café? Think of it carefully. How would he have the connections...he, a Belgian business tycoon? Where is he and where is Morlaas? Would he deign to speak to a waiter in a provincial café? No, no. He might have found 1 or 2 ruffians for hire through some underworld connections perhaps in a larger city. Toulouse would have been good for that yet nothing happened there. Pau perhaps as well, but in Morlaas? No! Don't go anyplace alone." he warned Deirdre. "No, it was not Bernard, or if it was then he is in league with someone playing a much deeper and more dangerous game of which the removal of Deirdre might be just a small aspect, a sideline to make some fast money perhaps. But it is not the main danger facing you and others walking the Road this year. I would like..." he continued, looking at each one of them long and searchingly, "to go back to the beginning in Arles. For that is surely where all this started. And for that I need to question only Deirdre and Father John. I believe they may have seen something at the train station..." he hurried on aware that they were about to deny any knowledge of what they had seen in Arles. "Something they do not even know they saw."

"Mr. Thomas," Peter-Paul interrupted. "You don't need an interrogator, you need a hypnotist and I happen to know just the man who can help you."

"Who?" Charles glared across the room at the amused smile under the bandit's mustache and the unmistakably gleeful expression in the clear amber eyes.

"Me."

49.

"Mr. Paulson, you are a man of many parts." Charles grinned at Peter-Paul. "Glad you're on board. How do you propose to begin, and where?"

"Right here and now will do." His eyes searched the small room. "Derek...move." He pushed the young man aside, leaving the two-seater sofa to Deirdre. "Someone draw the curtains, please. And Father John, I believe you have a flashlight? Please sit here, in front of Deirdre, but a bit to the side. I shall hold up the medallion on its chain while you direct the beam of your torch on it at all times. Deirdre, please face me. I think we are ready. And complete silence, everyone. Oh, someone lock the door or put a chair in front of it in case the waitress decides to return."

He held the illuminated golden disc perfectly still, about two feet from Deirdre's eyes.

"Now...Deirdre! Concentrate! It is night... dark and velvety and enticing. A gloriously golden and full moon has just sailed up into the sky. See how round and glowing it is. Isn't it a wonder of nature? Don't you want to look and look at it? Open your eyes and gaze your fill; it might never be this perfect again. Concentrate." And slowly Peter-Paul began to swing the medallion on its chain from side to side, retaining always the same minimal arc. Left-right; left-right; left-right. "Keep your eyes on it as it slows down." Left-right; left-right; left-right. "It is slowing even further as it reaches its zenith in the night-time firmament and...finally... finally...it comes to a full stop."

The small parlor was so quiet it might almost have been on the moon itself. Nobody moved, nobody breathed.

"Your eyes are heavy. You have had a very long and tiring day walking...walking. One heavy footfall after the other; tiring work. You are walking more slowly, one step, another one, you are slowing down just like the train began to slow down as it approached Arles and the station. Invisible brakes are being applied lightly, more urgently as the station comes into view. Everything slows down...slower, slower, slower, heavier. Your eyes are getting tired from staring out into the darkness. They want to close. They are losing their focus. How wonderful it would be to fall asleep and not to have to think any more. You want to float like the full moon, slow down like the train. It has almost come to a halt. What do you see? What do you hear? Can you tell me?"

As Peter-Paul spoke his voice dropped ever lower, the intonation softer, the uniformity of his tone dull and droning until not only Deirdre's eyes glazed over but Tom and Monica seemed on the verge of dropping off as well.

"You are still on the train..." Peter-Paul murmured, "but from the slowing of the carriage you know you are in a built-up area, approaching your goal. What do you see?"

"I see Bernard. He is in the seat next to me. He is happy. We are finally reaching Arles and the beginning of our quest. I stare out the window. It is dark. Here and there I see a light in a house near the tracks. Our train is still moving. It is taking us closer to our hopes. Finding my long-lost brother. Bernard and I recite a prayer. The lights outside seem to be closer; they are brighter and then suddenly they are cut off. All is dark." A frown overspread her features and she raised her hands, holding them straight in front of her, palms pointing outward as if pushing something away from her. "Where are the lights? The train has stopped. People are all around us, crowding us, pushing to the exit doors. Where is Bernard? I don't see him!" Her voice rose to a shrill cry, "Bernard! Bernard! I'm afraid. Where is Marie-Therese? She should be here; how will I dress myself?"

Steven, Charles and Deborah exchanged glances as Deborah mouthed "Who is Marie-Therese?" Peter-Paul hastened to place a finger on his lips as a warning for silence, his eyes never leaving Deirdre's white, strained features.

"Bernard?" He questioned in his even, low tone of voice. "Where is Bernard?"

"We've been separated! I'm being propelled out the door by the pressure of the others!" Her voice rises in desperation.

"Calm, keep calm... you are safe...where are you now?"

"On the platform. It's badly lit. I hear a lot of commotion outside. Footsteps pounding on hard concrete, chatter, voices, a sighing and soughing sound, rattling of metal. I'm all alone. Who will help me wash, undress, hear my bedtime prayers?" Her distress becomes obvious as the tone of her voice escalates into anguish.

"Calm, calm. Breathe in deeply and take ten steps. That's right. Slowly, slowly. One...two...three steps. Stop. Where are you now?"

"At the front of the train. On the platform. There is light ahead and a doorway. People are swarming to it and to the light. I too am moving forward..."

"Four...five...where are you?"

"In the light. A large hall. Noisy; busy."

"Six...seven... do you see people?"

"Yes."

"Can you describe some of them?"

"How odd!" she laughs sharply. "A woman all in black with large black sunglasses. I thought it was late evening. It must be daytime." She sounds bemused.

"Eight...nine...and?" Peter-Paul prompts in his low, even tone, making signs to Tom who had involuntarily gasped "Monica!" aloud, to remain silent.

"The jolly man! Oh, the jolly man! How glad I am to see him. He will tell me where to find Marie-Therese. No! I don't want it...take it away! Go away!" Deirdre suddenly flailed her arms around in a movement of rejection.

"What were you given?"

"A shawl. I dropped it. Nasty, ugly thing. Dirty too."

"Did you recognize the person who gave it to you?"

"No."

"And...? Nothing?...ten..."

"There's Bernard. I must get to him. He is fighting the crowd to reach me. Oh, stop pushing!" Deirdre shouts angrily. "Ah, thank heavens, here we are outside. Oh, Bernard find a taxi, this wind, I'm keeling over." And with a sigh Deirdre collapsed sideways onto the small sofa.

"Can I go to her?" Deborah glanced anxiously at Peter-Paul.

"Certainly. She will wake up slowly and feel fine." Turning to Charles and the others, a half smile on his lips he asked, "Will that do?"

"Oh yes, yes indeed." Charles looked pleased. "That answers quite a few questions."

"And raises others." John added.

"Yes, such as where Peter-Paul learned this trick." wondered Father John. "In Tibet?"

"No, no." Peter-Paul laughed. "Stock-in-trade of my gypsy heritage."

"Now...who is the jolly man?" Charles brought the conversation firmly back to the problem at hand.

"The one who led Marie-Therese astray 25 years ago." Keith replied slowly. "He instigated my kidnapping and caused Marie-Therese to commit suicide. He provided the room where Deirdre and her nanny spent the night when I was born. He must be an old man by now." Keith's voice petered off.

"Not necessarily." Peter-Paul rebutted. "If he was around 30 then he would be 55 now. Younger than Bernard."

"You're right. I wasn't thinking."

"So..." Charles intervened, "What did we learn?" and quickly answered himself. "We learned that someone thrust a travelling shawl into Deirdre's arms which she rejected, dropping it or pushing it away from herself and, in her haste to reach Bernard, she forced her way through the crowd to his side and out of the station without a backward glance.

What happened next, I believe, is that the rug caught on Father John's bag. You must have been just behind Deirdre, Father. But you were busy looking around the crowd for a priest. The priest sent to meet you and escort you to St. Jude's, so you did not notice it until the large policeman...who does not seem to exist...called your attention to it."

"It would seem so."

"Shall we try to pinpoint 'le flic?' " Peter-Paul raised his hand and swung the golden moon languidly from side to side.

"My son, I would rather not tempt the devil with..." Father John began when he was interrupted by a languid voice making itself heard in the small room.

"Why is that big oaf in my way? Get out of here. You don't interest me!" Monica's precise intonation resonated through the lounge as all heads swiveled in her direction. "I don't want your nasty shawl! Horrid thing! Well used too." She raised both hands to push at something invisible, sweeping it out of her path. "Oof! For some fresh air...all these people smell! Since when does a policeman use perfume?" Her eyes were fixed at a point over their heads and a mulish expression overspread her features. "That's hardly after shave, not at night. I smell Bergamot, a heavy dose of musk and yes, mimosa, of all things! On a man? Plus ca change and all that rot. Ah, fresh air. I'm out of the station. Taxi. There's the devil of a wind. Hey, Hey, Taxi, stop. Ah...Hotel Jules Cesar s'il vous plait. Hm, not too clean. Germs everyplace."

Total silence greeted these words as Monica slumped sideways into her seat, seemingly exhausted, causing Charles and Keith to sigh deeply.

"Thank you Mr. Paulson. Indeed you have some very useful gifts. Today's revelations have given us answers and a most graphic view of the events that evening at the Arles train station."

"But there are nevertheless too many questions." Keith muttered.

"Yes of course. The so-called jolly man seems still to be in the picture and there's the highly perfumed policeman. Eh, Father John, did you notice how he smelled?"

"No. I can't say I did but maybe Miss Quiller is especially sensitive to odors."

"Maybe.".

"Was it on purpose to incriminate her or was it just a random choice?"

"He also tried to force it on Deirdre, don't forget. What the devil is it about those shawls?" Charles' exasperation gave expression to all that the others were thinking to themselves as they wondered what to expect next on a more and more daunting pilgrimage.
50.

"You could stay on longer, Luc. Nobody is throwing you out. On the contrary." Père Jonas smiled.

"My leg has healed, thanks to frère Barnabe, and I can't impose on your good will any longer."

"With all the work you have put into the garden and in the kitchen you have more than paid your way."

"It was my pleasure. Working kept me from brooding and worrying about the restaurant and the job. Just being here put everything into the proper perspective for me."

"Come back any time, if things don't turn out and, of course, even if they do. You're always welcome. Anyway, it is always good to take a break and sit back to think and feel and believe, especially in these hectic modern times. We need to take time off and distance ourselves from the every-day pressures we are subjected to in order to realize what is important and what not."

"Yes, I learned that here. I was so fixated on my job that I had lost sight of the vital issues in my life and now that I know the worst...that Jerome is truly closing the restaurant...although he tried; he really did try everything. But he could not beat the bad times. Well...if I hadn't hurt my leg, if Robert hadn't been away and I would have stayed with him I wouldn't be so calm and certain of the future. It was all God's grand design. Being here is the best thing that could have happened to me. I know God is with me and will provide."

"Bless you and thank you again for everything, especially..." Père Jonas leaned forward and lowered his voice, "the cereal in the morning. Before you taught them how to prepare it, it was truly the stuff of martyrdom. Ssh, I didn't say a word." And Père Jonas laughed out loud.

*

"Oh, look at the time!" exclaimed Deirdre, jumping to her feet. "I have an appointment with the lawyer. Mr. Thomas, Peter-Paul..." she turned to them "can we postpone the hypnosis till I get back?"

"Sure, no rush." Peter-Paul grinned and bowed. "Oh, take Steven with you."

"I'll protect her." Derek bristled.

"As everyone here will tell you...there is safety in numbers." Deborah admonished.

### "Well..."

"Come on, we'll be late," Steven urged. "We'd better call a cab." And they hurried from the room.

"She didn't remember being hypnotized?" Mathilde looked at Peter-Paul in wonder.

"Nobody ever does," and he added, "it's better that way."

"Would someone try to get at her in Pau after having failed in the forest?" Father John's brow furrowed in lines of worry.

"They might..." Keith sounded doubtful. "but it will be more difficult in the city while the woods..." he did not complete the thought as John interrupted.

"I would imagine the city the easier for mischief. Something could be dropped from a building or a shove and she's under the wheels of a car..."

"Yes, yes. Look what happened to Père Hippolyte. He was walking on the sidewalk when someone pushed him into the road and the oncoming traffic after having also stabbed him in the back to make sure. And it was not even dark outside as yet. And all for a mangy shawl. No, no, the city is certainly more dangerous. There are so many opportunities for mischief."

"Well, let's hope it doesn't happen, with Derek on one side and Steven on the other." John muttered while Keith remained quiet in the hope that nobody could read the thoughts that had thrust their way into the forefront of his mind, insinuating that if something were to happen to her it would be a rather felicitous event for Keith. He shook himself mentally and vowed to atone heavily for such sinful longings, then arose, motioning to Woofy to follow him and headed for the doorway.

"What should we do now?" Helen wondered, turning to John.

"I know my suggestion will seem tame after Peter-Paul's mesmerism but we could look around for a laundromat that keeps late hours and wash our things."

"The others won't be back in time to add their stuff."

"No, Tom, but they did leave their backpacks behind." And Monica was already opening Steven's.

"Oh, I don't think you should do that." Mavis admonished.

"Why ever not? I won't go through everything." She laughed. "Steven keeps the dirty clothes in an old pillow case."

"Oh, well, that's all right then." Mavis sounded relieved. "I'll do Deirdre's and one of the men can see to Derek's stuff and Keith's if he doesn't come back soon."

"My God, Mavis, listen to you! You sound like a Victorian maiden aunt finding a package of condoms! What difference does it make if the opposite sex goes through our things in this day and age?" Monica snorted.

"But it does...make a difference that is. There is such a thing as privacy."

"I'll do it." Charles put a halt to the impending argument by opening Derek's knapsack and riffling through the contents rapidly and professionally, extracting a net-like laundry bag with carefully rolled up T- shirts and underwear and taking advantage of the moment to go through the rest of the items. His hand paused, hovering over something tucked under spare jeans and he smiled, "Speaking of maiden aunts..." but he did not finish the sentence.

"We don't want to know." Mavis and Helen both exclaimed in unison.

"Well...everything seems to be in order. Shall I do Keith's too?" He glanced up to see Keith and Woofy in the doorway.

"What exactly were you intending to do?" Keith's voice was icy.

"We're getting the laundry together to take in before we do anything else." Mavis explained, rising from her chair. "I did Deirdre's and Charles here..." She did not complete the thought.

"Are you looking for an excuse to go through our belongings, Charles?" Keith turned to the young detective.

"It might prove instructive."

"What do you expect to find? We hardly have room for the necessities of the road, much less for shawls or submachine guns. Or are you hoping to find a secret code fashioned from every third letter of The Lord's Prayer?"

"No need to get huffy; it's not personal."

"Oh but I think it is. You've got an axe to grind and I'm going to call the Inspector and ask him to recall you and either send someone else or leave us alone to handle things as we see fit. You are not the right man for the job."

"What do you know of 'the job' as you put it?"

"The job is to help us, not suspect us." Keith raised his voice as weeks of doubts and frustrations threatened to overpower his equanimity and Woofy responded to his master's confrontational tone by barking furiously.

"Hey, hey, cool it." Peter-Paul stepped smoothly between the two antagonists. "Calm, relax. I know our nerves are frayed but there's no need to go to war over a misunderstanding. We're all on the same side after all."

"You're right." Charles had the grace to look abashed. "I'm sorry. I'm trying desperately to make some sense of all the Inspector told me and..." he shrugged, "there doesn't seem to be any sense to any of the incidents. Either we have several conspiracies, several malefactors or all the events have one core, starting in Arles when you first met or perhaps even before."

"Did what we heard from Deirdre just now help?" asked Father John.

"Yes and no. It added 'the jolly man' to the confusion. Now who is that?" Charles stated impatiently as yet another line of enquiry opened up before him.

"I've already explained him." Keith's voice showed his impatience with the detective. "We actually thought he was out of the picture because he has not been heard of for 25 years. Why should he surface now?"

"Perhaps because of Monsieur Cotte?" John suggested. "If Monsieur Cotte recognized Deirdre he might also have recognized the so-called jolly man as the one who had led his niece Marie-Therese astray and was responsible for her suicide. It is possible that he once saw his niece with her lover. I doubt if at the time the so-called jolly man would have made himself too visible to her family."

"Yes, you do have a point." Charles murmured. "So we have to assume that he either came to Arles and Lodeve or that he was and is based in Arles and then the question arises as to what he was doing there and why. Did he come to the railroad station the night of the mistral and if he did, whom was he meeting? Is he involved in some shady business again and does that business concern the Road or the pilgrims or all of it together? And why did he disguise himself as a policeman?"

"Probably all of it." Tom agreed.

"If we are to trust Deirdre's recollections from her childhood he was certainly instrumental in my abduction." Keith reasoned. "And there is therefore a good chance that he continued a life of crime, perhaps even serving several long prison terms, to surface now, involved in another nefarious plot."

"Highlighting Scottish rugs?" Peter-Paul laughed.

"Those shawls might be very important or highly dangerous Mr. Paulson and then, of course, there is Deirdre, but we had assumed the danger came from Bernard not the jolly man."

"That would mean that Bernard was plotting against her from the very beginning, or as soon as they came to Arles?" Mathilde spoke up for the first time. "It does not seem possible, taking into account his behavior on the Road before you all came to Lodeve and in Lodeve itself, until he was himself struck down. We could not all have been fooled by him; nobody is such a good actor. If he wanted to rid himself of her he had four years to arrange a plausible accident and could easily have found some way in Brussels. Why wait until he would be surrounded by a large group of fellow pilgrims to kidnap her or kill her? He would be taking a big risk of being discovered by one of you. Much bigger than having something happen at home when only the two of them and probably a few servants would be around."

"Because of Keith! Kenneth, I mean." And Peter-Paul indicated Keith sitting on the small sofa with Woofy at his feet. "As long as the so-called 'lost brother' remained lost there was no danger that Deirdre would find out she had been tricked into signing an irrevocable will and could be disposed of at any time Bernard felt like marrying someone else or was in need of money but if her brother should surface there was the risk of discovery. In fact, precisely what did happen. Due to Monsieur Cotte's window display Deirdre mentioned the little sailor suit and the pram and Keith recognized the description of what he had been wearing when he was abandoned on Père Jerome's doorstep 25 years ago. This in turn led to the revelation that he is undoubtedly Deirdre's long-lost brother Kenneth. If that is really true then Deirdre would certainly wish to change her will and include him among her heirs, no matter that he would certainly be their father's beneficiary as well. And what would happen then?"

"Exactly what did happen," John replied. "Deirdre as well as Keith, discovered that the will she had signed when she married was irrevocable, although she had never been told it was or she would not have signed it in the first place. And naturally, suspicions fell on Bernard...the beneficiary!"

"Yes." Peter-Paul nodded emphatically

"And Bernard has returned to Brussels?" Charles asked.

"That's what he told me...and Papa. Yet I thought I saw him on the train that brought me to Pau." Mathilde exclaimed. "And now I'm sure of it. But I do so not want to think of him as a villain."

"Shall we test your belief?" Charles reached for his cell phone. "Inspector Lemoine gave me all your names and addresses at home as well as phone numbers. I have Bernard and Deirdre's in Brussels. Shall I try?"

"Yes." Mathilde replied firmly. "I'll speak to him."

"No, that you won't." Tom admonished. "If he's a wrong one I don't want you mixed up with him, especially as he believes you to be with your sister in Sarlat."

"Precisely," Charles agreed. "I'll speak to him in my character of the travelling jewelry salesman. You see, he asked me to keep an eye on Deirdre and report back to him in Lodeve."

"How will you explain that you have his home phone number?"

"I'll say I phoned Mathilde's papa to get it." and turning to the young girl, he added, "Call your father first and get the story straight. Bernard is no fool and he might check up on me."

After Mathilde had spoken to her father she handed the phone to Charles, adding that she was certain he would draw a blank in his call to Belgium. But several seconds after he had composed the number the receiver was raised at the other end and Charles recognized the deep, even tones of Bernard's voice answering him.

By the time Deirdre and her two escorts had returned to their hotel the dirty wash had been deposited at a laundromat that kept late hours and the rest of the group was preparing to go out and eat.

"I could eat a horse!" Tom muttered, glancing at his watch and noticing the lateness of the hour.

"In France that's what you're liable to get," replied Monica dryly.

"Oh no!" Mavis groaned. "Monica, I'm turning vegetarian!"

"It's about time!"

"Mavis," Mathilde leaned towards the Irish girl. "please don't worry. Nobody eats horses any more. I think it was just a habit picked up during the war when all meat was scarce and rationed."

"Don't you believe it," Peter-Paul announced. "A nation that can eat snails will stop at nothing."

"No, no," Mathilde asserted. "We do not eat snails...we eat escargots."

"Oh, oh, Mathilde..." Helen laughed merrily. "vive la petite difference!"

"I don't understand." began Mavis slowly, "I thought escargots were snails."

"Drop it Mave." Tom ordered. "Or you'll be told escargots are slugs. Ugh!"

"In point of fact," Charles proclaimed somewhat pedantically, "Escargots are snails. You see the shell which slugs do not have are needed for the butter, garlic and..."

"O.K., O.K., drop it before we go on a fast." Tom ordered. "Shall we go?"

"Do you think we could have a salad and eggs?" Helen tucked her arm through John's as they exited the hotel. Only Monica was smiling in anticipation of her meal, for a salad was the only thing she had intended to consume that evening in any case.

51.

Early the following morning they backtracked from the city to join their road and, once Lons had been passed, continued on to Lescar where they stopped for coffee and a sandwich and where Deirdre's eye was caught by the small and crowded window of a shop selling bits and pieces. A sort of miniature 'establishment Cotte'.

"Oh look! A mourning ring," she exclaimed. "I think I'll price it."

"What is a morning ring?" Derek wondered. "Is it to be worn only in the morning?"

"No..." she laughed. "The same pronunciation for two totally different words. Morning, spelled m-o-r-n-i-n-g means before noon but mourning spelled m-o-u-r-n-i-n-g means deuil in French."

"Ah, I see, but what does a ring have to do with sorrow and death?"

"It's those awful Victorians," Steven elucidated. "They made a cult out of death. One wore unrelieved black for a year after someone in the family had died, then switched to purple or lavender for another and since the ladies under their dark veils would not give up some form of jewelry, they invented the mourning rings and brooches to replace shiny gold and sparkling stones."

"Yes, but what made them different?"

"Well, the gold was muted and instead of diamonds there were seed pearls and jets and some had hair collected from the deceased woven or looped into fancy patterns. These were usually brooches or rings...so, the ladies retained some form of jewelry and had a keepsake of the departed about their person at all times."

"How perfectly beastly!" Derek shuddered. "You don't want that ring, do you?" He looked aghast at Deirdre.

"Yes, yes I do. I collect them. I'm going in to price it. Wait for me." And with those words she was gone.

"You think you can live with such a collection?" Steven asked, an enigmatic look in his eyes.

"No."

"Second thoughts?"

"Yes." Derek stared down at his shoes, shuffling his feet nervously. "She's lovely but..."

"You want a girl on your own level."

"That's it. Someone like Mavis." Derek announced, adding hastily, "Oh, not Mavis herself. I mean that sort of person."

"Two feet on the ground and no nonsense?"

"Exactly. I'm not meant for the high life. A mansion, servants, and..." he did not complete the thought but Steven voiced it for him.

"Mourning rings!"

"Exactly. And she's too religious. If it was the religion I was raised in I wouldn't worry so but, you see, I was adopted and raised by a Jewish family." A worried frown marred his smooth forehead. "A Rabbi."

"Oh, I see."

"She wouldn't fit in at all. I mean I don't know what religion my biological parents were but I was raised in a Jewish environment." He looked suddenly so lost that Steven felt like patting him on the head like a stray dog. "And of course the rabbi and his family keep strictly kosher."

"Of course." Steven echoed.

"And if Deirdre would invite them to dinner she'd serve a ham or pork chops or a dessert with cream after a meal featuring a roast! Or seafood!" Derek seemed aghast at the very thought. "Well, I wouldn't be able to supervise and correct her all the time, nor would I want to..." his voice faded and he looked more miserable than ever. "You wouldn't be interested, would you? She's quite lovely and..." he contemplated his shoes again, "...and very passionate."

"No, no thank you. I like a quiet and orderly life myself. As for passion, well, that's nice now and then but not as a steady diet. To change the subject, does she still want a divorce? Bernard is really the best husband for her."

"She absolutely insists on a divorce. She mistrusted him before but now that she has discovered the duplicity in her will she is more than ever determined to be rid of him."

"If I were you, Derek, I'd skip the rest of the pilgrimage and lie low someplace for a while. Maybe Keith could hide you among the villagers in his native Jura. He's not so keen on her himself and would understand."

"Got it!" Deirdre erupted from the doorway, waggling her hand, the ring on her finger. "Good price too."

"Where is the hair?" Derek wanted to know, peering at the raised rectangle of crystal flashing in the sunlight.

"Here, see?" She twisted her hand around so he could see. "It's black and looped rather than braided."

"It looks like horsehair to me." Steven joked.

"Oh no, it's human hair." Deirdre sounded shocked at Steven's levity.

"Too thick to be human; definitely horse." Steven insisted. "Probably from one of those the French ate during the war."

"Steven!" Deirdre tore the ring from her finger and flung it out into the street where it rolled under a car parked at the curb.

The two men remained transfixed until Derek broke the silence by asking, "Why? You were keen on that ring, on acquiring it for your collection, why did you throw it away?"

"Because Steven denigrated it." She replied in a surly tone.

"What?"

"Because he cheapened it by claiming the hair is from a horse."

"And human hair from some corpse is O.K.?" Derek was shocked once more at the way her mind worked.

"Of course, then it would be a true mourning ring and worthy to be included in my collection."

"Well, I'd rather have horsehair than hair cut off from someone after his death. Moreover, someone whom I didn't know, who was not related to me and for whom I have only revulsion." And with those words he turned on his heel and ran off, leaving Deirdre and Steven standing in front of the small store.

Joining the others on the road leaving Lescar, it became obvious that Deirdre and Derek had had some kind of misunderstanding, if not an outright quarrel, for they not only did not speak to each other, they did not even walk side by side. Derek electing the company of Steven and Deirdre seeking the solace of someone who would understand her, chose to attach herself to Deborah who, for the second time during the pilgrimage, was having difficulty in hiding her impatience with the younger woman.

Having crossed the Saligue, a plain bisected by the Gave de Pau, one of the many mountain torrents typical of the Pyrennees, they began the climb into the hills. The first such ascent since their approach to Morlaas. It was different from anything they had so far encountered in that the even alternations of areas set aside for agriculture and those dedicated to forests was over. Also over were the sun-drenched gentle slopes. Instead, the outline became tormented, abrupt rather than fluidly smooth and flourishing in vast areas of woodland. Amidst all these changes the group began to sense the approach of the mountain, looming ever closer like a beast of prey.

The few domiciles they passed were large and massive, crouched behind stout, high walls and crowned with weighty roofs covered in rugged slate, pierced here and there by small apertures. Despite their fortified aspect the houses did not feel any less fragile. In fact, they noticed more than one ruin enveloped by ivy and other climbing plants attesting amply to the power of the mountain against man's futile attempt to live as one with it.

They called a halt at the village of Lacommande to rest, to replenish their water supply and to visit an astonishingly beautiful Romanesque church. At Keith's urging they also purchased provisions for an improvised evening meal. A surprise was planned for the night but Keith would say no more until, after having crossed two rivers, they saw the dense forest of Laring looming ever closer as the sun began its Westerly dip before disappearing from the heavens.

Once inside the woods they were forced to remove sunglasses and adjust to the sudden darkness that enveloped them like an old fashioned photographer's cloth. The path under their feet was narrow and slippery with pine needles. There were conifers, magnificent oaks and chestnut trees and the silence was broken by rustling sounds in the underbrush and the hushed footfall of the timid deer that hid at their approach.

"There truly aren't any bears left, are there?" Helen asked.

"No, unfortunately." Steven sounded sad.

"Well, it's one less problem for us." Monica mumbled.

"This forest is enormous." Tom peered ahead trying to gauge its size.

"The largest we've traversed so far." Agreed Keith.

"So, where do we sleep?"

"Oh well, that's a surprise."

"We haven't had any of those for some time." Peter-Paul was smiling in anticipation.

"What does he mean by surprise?" Charles demanded of no-one in particular only to have Mathilde break into a big smile and come to a sudden halt.

"Tom has told me about the wonderful places you have stayed, are we going to...?" She did not have time to finish her question as she saw Keith nodding and holding his finger up to his lips to warn her not to ask any more at present so as not to spoil it for the others. "Oh yes, of course, of course." She giggled and, grasping Tom's hand firmly, began to walk more rapidly into the depths of the ever darker and more tangled forest.

"I demand to know where we are going!" Charles suddenly chose to assert himself.

"Relax, young man, relax." Father John patted him on the arm. "Keith knows what he is doing. Forward!"

"Just not gypsy caravans again, please. They proved very bothersome in the end." Peter-Paul pleaded.

"It wasn't the fault of the caravans...it was you and your libido!" Monica grumbled.

"There were extenuating circumstances." Peter-Paul retorted haughtily.

"Children, children." John clapped them both on the back. "Avanti! Con brio!! To our slumbers, wherever that will lead us."

And laughing and joking they penetrated ever deeper into a now almost completely stygian wood.

Keith consulted a small, hastily sketched map in the notebook he carried, checked his compass and seemed satisfied.

"Well," he smiled, "Here we are."

"Where?"

"This is the middle of nowhere." Deirdre complained.

"Yes, indeed it is. If you look down but I'd advise you to look up." And Keith pointed aloft into the trees all around them. They were oaks, ancient, venerable and mighty. Their branches stretched out almost touching each other so that any vestige of the sky was completely obliterated. Staring upward they saw small lights sparkling in every tree as the boughs shifted and swayed with the nightly breeze.

"Take your flashlights out. That's right, shine them up the trunks..."

"Oh!"

"Tree houses." Monica whispered. "Instead of the ones we missed in the other forest."

"Same way of getting up too. Yes, Father John there is a good stout hoist for you. It's safe."

"Does everyone have a full supply of water and food?" Deborah demanded. "If not, parcel it out and share now."

Hurriedly they checked their supplies, traded items, made sure of water and, having decided on their choice of tree house partner, began to climb.

52.

The tree houses were so artfully hidden that if one did not know where to look, or merely walked past under the thick branches, one would not know they were there at all. In winter, when the leaves were stripped from the limbs, they must have stood out like pieces of sculpture and one could truly appreciate the work that had gone into building them; for each one was different.

Some were fashioned of wood and formed into miniature Swiss chalets with window boxes and gabled, gingerbread-embellished roofs. Others were white plaster-board cottages, still others woven of wicker-work that gave the appearance of an integral part of the verdure with only an oval entryway to indicate that this was not some aberration due to a change in the tree's metabolism. As these were less solid than the wood or plaster-board, they swayed and dipped more readily with every current of air. Consequently only the more adventurous and physically fit chose them for their night's lodging.

Tom, who said he would share with Charles, insisted that Mathilde be in with his sister and although Derek tried every excuse he could find not to end up with Deirdre, the doubling up went so rapidly that both he and she found themselves as odd men out and were forced to face the night together. Only Steven knew what this must cost Derek in equanimity and peace of mind.

Once again the young man contemplated leaving the pilgrimage, as he could see no way out of his predicament. Deirdre was dead set on divorcing Bernard and once free...well, she had not spoken of remarrying but he assumed that this would be her aim. Unfortunately Derek's ardor had waned as he became better acquainted with her character. And since he did not seem to be able to persuade her of his change of heart, the easiest course open to him was flight.

Steven had some inkling of the turmoil in Derek's soul and could only commiserate with him, but he too saw no honorable way out for the young nurse, except to run. A coward's ruse? Perhaps, but what else could the boy do? What would he, Steven, do in such a situation? Run for his life! Yes indeed.

But for tonight the doubling up remained the same, at least for the two mismatched lovers. Perhaps with the dawning of a new day a new solution could be found.

When dawn did arrive and with it another long day of walking, it was discovered that Derek had been drugged and that Deirdre had disappeared as if the forest had swallowed her up.

As soon as the rays of the sun had penetrated the tree houses, the group members began to stir from their beds. After a rudimentary toilette, a slice of by now stale bread had been consumed and some of the cold coffee left over in a thermos swallowed, they were once more ready for the road that would lead them ever deeper into the vastness of the forest. It was then that they noticed the absence of Derek and Deirdre and Steven clambered up to their tree house to wake them. What he discovered was Derek deeply asleep and Deirdre gone, although her backpack, its contents strewn around the room, remained. He immediately raised the alarm and lowered Derek to the ground where Deborah, raising a closed eyelid announced that he had been drugged and began to try to rouse him.

"But where is Deirdre?" Mavis whispered, "Did she run away or has someone kidnapped her?"

"She has probably run away." Charles voiced stiffly and began a minute search of the area, tree by tree and blade of grass by blade of grass until, with a muttered oath, he raised his hand. Clasped between two fingers he held aloft something that glittered and glistened in the early morning sunlight.

"The ring! The mourning ring!" Steven identified it. "It was Deirdre's; she bought it yesterday."

"It either slipped off her hand or she dropped it on purpose as a sign to us. Search the entire area carefully and in ever-widening circles." Charles ordered the others. "She may have managed to leave some other clue for us."

They fanned out, heads lowered, scanning the ground under every bush, every clump of grass.

"Was she wearing blue?" Tom called.

"Yes...blue jeans and a blue shirt."

"Blue thread, caught on a bush. Here!" He brought it over for the others to see.

"Could be." Steven muttered. "Of course that might have happened when we got here, not during the night or very early this morning."

"But if it was this morning it would have had some dew on it." John offered. "And it is dry."

"Yes, you're right, and taken together with the ring and Derek's condition I would say she has been abducted." Charles stated grimly.

"Except for one thing," Steven interrupted. "When she bought the ring and showed it to us I jokingly insisted that the hair embedded in it was from a horse and not human hair at all. She became furious and threw it away. She tossed it into the road and under a car parked at the curb, so how did it get here?"

"Maybe she went back to get it?" Father John suggested.

"No, because I stayed with her and we returned to the hotel immediately."

"Yes, that is odd. Are you certain it is the same ring?"

"No. It looks like it but then I only saw it once and perhaps these rings all look alike."

"She might have had another one with her, in her backpack. We don't know."

"What should we do now?" Mavis looked hesitatingly for guidance to Keith and Father John but neither had an answer.

"We'll have to go on." Charles finally decided. "Once out of the woods our phones will work, or we'll find a phone at the next town. I'm for calling the Inspector."

"And what can he do?" John demanded. "Up to now he hasn't been of any help at all."

"Send out a description. Alert all the police stations which will in turn alert their forces, on foot and in squad cars. And they will all start to comb the entire area." Charles insisted.

"That's impossible." Keith interjected. "Too big an area, too many places to hide or, they may already be out of this part of France entirely."

"Well, have you anything better to suggest?"

But as nobody could think of a better plan they began to hurry along the path that would eventually lead them to the opposite side of the forest. Peter-Paul and Steven supported Derek, half dragging, half carrying him along and by the time they had begun to notice a thinning out of the trees around them, he was able to navigate under his own power but did not speak.

Approximately two kilometers after they had burst out of the thicket they reached the very small grouping of houses which went by the name of Haut d'Estialescq and where they found a café able to seat them all on a small terrace and supply them with a belated breakfast.

After two cups of very strong coffee Derek was finally able to tell them what he could recall from the previous evening.

"We did not speak much. I mean, I didn't have anything to say and what I wanted to, I couldn't. I mean, how do you tell a woman you've made a mistake and to forget about it? After having...well, I won't go into it. I didn't know what to do or how to behave. She talked a lot. Very bright...chatty and going over what the lawyer in Pau had said."

"What did he say?" Keith wanted to know.

"Oh, that he'd have to see the original will, not a copy printed out from the computer, but the actual original. His theory was that something had been deleted, whitened out, then most artfully filled in to read: Irrevocable. That this was done after Deirdre signed a correctly worded one, probably by the clerk who had worked for her lawyer. That he had undoubtedly been bribed and that it had of course been done by Bernard. So, Deirdre decided that if that were the case, she would have to wait until after the pilgrimage and take it up with her lawyer's son. She could not take care of this from the Road because we were not long enough in any location to instigate a thorough examination of the original and that it might even have to be taken to a special facility for investigation. A forensic lab, for instance."

"Did she notice your loss of interest?"

"Oh yes. We shared our provisions, eating without speaking...well, I didn't but she didn't stop chattering. And when it was time to go to bed I divided the blankets, one for her and one for me, rolled up in mine and went to sleep with my back to her. Just before dropping off... somehow I was suddenly very tired, I heard her crying, then there was total oblivion until I found myself on the ground at the foot of the tree with Deborah bending over me."

"Did you eat or drink something we did not buy for this part of the journey? Did Deirdre give you something, perhaps?" Deborah queried.

"No, of course not."

"Was there an odd or unusual odor in the room?" She insisted.

"No, well...only Deirdre's perfume. She sprayed some around the room, claiming it smelled musty and probably hadn't been aired for a long time."

"Could someone have introduced a soporific into her perfume" Keith wondered.

"It doesn't sound likely. Where did she usually keep her scent?" Deborah asked.

"In her backpack, in one of the outer pockets."

"And did she take the backpack with her to the lawyer and to the shop where she bought the ring?"

"No. Of course not. She left it in the hotel and only took money, credit cards and her passport."

"Then anyone in the hotel could find her room number and have access to her bag?"

"Yes, of course. I left mine there too."

"That's how it was done." John stated firmly.

"Yes." Charles nodded. "But the victim was supposed to be Deirdre. The person who doctored her perfume did not know she wouldn't use it on her person but to freshen up a musty smelling tree house."

"Then how come only Derek was affected and not Deirdre?"

"Oh, that's easy." Derek replied. "She sprayed and immediately went into the little bathroom next door and closed the door, calling out that she'd wash and join me shortly. And that's all I can remember."

"There's your answer. Derek remained with the odor in the room which rendered him insensible but by the time Deirdre had joined him the air was clear again." Charles stated, satisfied that at least this part of the mystery had an explanation.

"Yes, all right," Mathilde chimed in. "Now we know how it was done but still not by whom...still Bernard?"

"I imagine so." Charles replied tentatively. "Who else would be interested?"

"Deirdre herself?" Peter-Paul suggested.

"And are you suspecting that poor girl?" Father John stared at Peter-Paul in surprise.

"And isn't it as valid a supposition as any other?" came the soft reply.

"Yes..." Father John sighed. "Yes, she is misguided."

"But we still have to treat it as a possible abduction." Charles insisted. "At least until we know the truth!"

"You know what I am wondering?" Keith looked around at them all, "Why Woofy did not give the alarm. If a stranger had approached any of us last night he would have sensed it and barked lustily. He is a very sharp watchdog. That means only one thing: he recognized the intruder and did not fear him."

53.

Although they were no longer within the vastness of the Laring forest, their cell phones still refused to work and they were forced to use the café owner's private one to contact Inspector Lemoine.

Charles did his best to explain the new situation in such a way that the proprietor of the cafe would not understand and spread the news within his small community. One never knew who might gain by such knowledge, as they were fully aware from a previous halt at just such a café and before their penetration into the bois de Bastard.

Having passed the problem on and not knowing what they personally could do to help find Deirdre, they shouldered their knapsacks and headed for the road that would take them across a river, another forest...the bois du Goes, and to Oloron Ste. Marie where they intended to have lunch, view the famous cathedral of St. Marie and continue on to Lurbe or Escot.

Of the entire group Keith was the quietest and most thoughtful and Woofy, sensing his mood, brought him fallen twigs from the grass verges to toss, so he could fetch them back, believing in some doggy fashion that play would lighten Keith's frame of mind.

Deirdre had been a thorn in his side ever since she had made herself known to him, and although he had wished her far away from the pilgrimage, he did not desire any harm to befall her, just as he would never want anything bad to happen to anyone in the group. He had been prepared for the fact that walking, day after day, over varied, often rough, terrain for a period of two months would surely take their toll physically and mentally with them all and, if he had thought in terms of danger, it had been of spills, wrenched joints and even broken bones. He had not envisaged murder, attacks, fatal allergies and abductions. Where was his sister now? Had she staged her own disappearance or had the failed attempt in the bois de Bastard succeeded in the bois de Laring? If so, then someone must have been following their trail very closely to arrange the doped perfume, discover their route, their shelter for the night, even peering at them through the bracken as they paired off and chose their tree houses. And of course it was odd that Woofy had given no sign that strangers were around.

Binoculars? Perhaps...yes! High-powered, night-vision binoculars. Employed from a distance, they would not be noticed by man or beast and Keith knew of two men who had worn such binoculars day and night slung around their necks. Soon they would be meeting up with Kurt and Wolf who had promised to see what they could uncover. By now it was more important than ever to locate and question the two suspicious men last seen in Castres without their female companion.

Other than that there was nothing he, the group, Charles and even Inspector Lemoine could do to find Deirdre if...he did not to complete the thought...if! Pray God she was still alive! He would take a vow right now to throw off his churlish attitude, accept her as his sister, help her to focus her mind on essentials and assume the burden for her mental and physical well-being; something their father in his sorrow at the loss of both his wife and baby son had failed to do.

And, that oath taken, his step lightened, his mood lifted, and he joined Father John and Peter-Paul at the head of the formation.

*

"Dee-Dee, time to get up." The cajoling tones reached her from afar so that at first she did not know where she was or who was calling her. She stirred. Her head ached and she moaned as she opened her eyes and beheld the light. It was coming from a small window whose thick drapes of heavy light blue brocade had been pulled back to allow the daylight to filter into the shadowy bedroom. "Come, dear, time to wash and have breakfast." The voice continued while firm hands pulled her up into a sitting position.

"Oh, Marie-Therese, it's you, it's really you!"

"Of course it is my sweet little cabbage. Who else would be taking care of you?"

"Is mama still ill?"

"Yes, yes my dear, but she is better each day and soon she will be completely well again. You'll see. Let's get up now and wash, all right?"

"Did I sleep a long time?"

"You were tired my little one. And no wonder!" Deirdre smiled up at the young woman with her plain but pleasant features and her light brown hair piled high on her head, as she helped her to sit up.

"We'll go to the park today. That'll make you feel stronger, and you know who will be coming as well?"

"The jolly man? The jolly man!" Deirdre clapped her hands together.

"Yes. And he has a new puppet for you!"

"Ooh, yes, let's hurry, let's go!"

"Slowly, slowly. First we say a little prayer to thank God for a good night then we wash and then a good breakfast to give you strength for the day."

"Is there hot chocolate this morning?"

"Of course. Come, up!"

A happy smile on her face, Deirdre got out of bed and, assisted by the young woman in her plain but serviceable tan dress, went to wash.

*

After having left Estialesq, the countryside opened up completely, so that the eye was able to view the entire plain as if offered to their scrutiny on the palm of a giant's hand. It gave them a feeling of heightened security, for despite having to cross another forest...the bois de Goes... the very expansiveness they were encountering strengthened their resolve that in defiance of dangers, attacks, kidnappings and murder, nothing would dissuade them from reaching their final goal and, having arrived at the city of Oloron-Ste Marie, they were rewarded by not just one remarkable church but two. In the annals of history, and long divided by the mountain torrent of Oloron, this had originally been two towns but was now joined into one.

The cathedral of Ste Marie, erected in 1102, offered them a view of life at that time, sculpted in relief on the marvelous portal's vaulted areas which depicted the 12th century version of the preparations for the wedding at Cana. Represented here were all the stages for a feast of the period which did not differ from the fare offered in restaurants of the area today. From sauce bearnaise to the soup named garbure, to grilled salmon, a ham and of course the galette for dessert and a cheese made of sheep's milk. All were recipes that have not changed much in a thousand years.

Across the way, and dominating the citadelle of Oloron for a millenium, they saw the severe and authoritarian church of Sainte-Croix.

It was a great temptation to remain here for the rest of the day and night because the town was interesting historically. There were several ecclesiastical sites still to explore and also numerous pleasant hotels which, after the romantic but poorly equipped tree houses, beckoned strongly to them. But their schedule and the aim of their voyage called to them and, casting a last lingering glance at this attractive site they knew they would never visit again, they resolutely took up their long staves, turned their backs on a comfortable night and set foot on the Road once more.

They followed the long mountain torrent of Aspe, which led from Oloron Ste Marie all the way to Osse-en-Aspe, a matter of 31 km. but they intended to call a halt for the night either in Lurbe or in Escot, probably the former as, being a thermal station along with the town of St.Christian, it boasted a hotel.

This was perhaps the most beautiful part of the Road so far traversed, for wherever the little band of pilgrims turned their eyes, they were aware of the mountain bearing down on them and straight ahead...black and powerful, it drew them like a magnet.

The mood that day was subdued. Nobody spoke unless absolutely necessary and the pace was more rapid than usual. Charles, who was not used to so much walking, though young and seemingly fit, was finding the going hard. He had not become inured to the daily routine of a pilgrim of the Road of St. Jacques but he forbore from complaining and had stopped speaking altogether to preserve his breath for the fast pace set by Keith and Steven at the head of their little procession. The rush to reach the mountain, to put France and its problems behind them, infected them all. Whatever Spain would offer was still shrouded in anticipation, but everyone in the group hoped the following weeks would bring some clarification to the events of the past month in which they seemed to have been caught as if on an infinite leash that could be pulled back at some supreme command at a moment's notice and for which there was no explanation.

54.

"I'm going to try for Sarrance by tonight. There's a choice of hotels and a monastery that receives guests as well but I imagine that after the tree houses we shall want proper bathrooms." Keith remarked to Steven and Father John who were walking closest to him.

"It'll be a long route, then?"

"Yes, Father, about 30 km."

"I'm not so happy about Charles. Although he hasn't said anything, he seems to be struggling to keep up." Steven murmured in a low voice.

"Yes, I noticed...well, let's first get to St. Christau and Lurbe. Then we'll decide. I'm finally getting nervous." he admitted. "Too much has happened and I'd at least like to cross the border. That'll take another two days."

"And what will change when we do cross?" Father John looked at Keith searchingly. "Will we be any wiser as to what has so far occurred and still will? Are the answers lying etched in stone at our feet after we cross onto the other side?"

"The closer we get to Compostela the bigger the danger. And the bigger the danger the more chances that someone will slip up and we shall find out what is going on. Don't forget, whoever is plotting something is also getting more nervous as D-Day approaches."

"You think there'll be a slip-up and that will give us our chance?" Steven mused.

"It's been known to happen." Keith replied quietly, then turned to face him. "Do we have any other choices?"

"Of course not. The police seem to be powerless, if one can judge by Charles and the inspector, and as for us...we couldn't even protect Deirdre!" He sounded bitter at their failure to safeguard her, then was sorry he had mentioned her name as he saw Keith flinch. Idiot that I am, he thought, she's his sister and he's carrying enough guilt as it is. "But I do believe we should let Bernard know before he meets us in Spain, if he still intends to that is. If he is a villain, the knowledge that she is missing will not surprise him but if he is innocent it will be a terrible shock not to find her among us."

"Of course, you're right." Keith sighed, "I'll call him tonight." And he fell into silence for the next kilometer, then added. "I'm pinning a lot of hope on Kurt and Wolf. We'll meet them at Peilhou the night before we cross over. They seemed very capable after their masks slipped and they dropped the comic-book style tourist bit."

"Another two who aren't what they seem to be?" Father John muttered. "Is everyone playing a part on the Road?"

"Well, 'all the world's a stage' as a great poet once put it." Steven laughed.

"Even you?" Father John looked up at him from lowered brows.

"And you?"

"No, no, my boy, I am who I am."

"Yes but which one are you? Father John or Father Brown?"

"Mayhap a bit of both." And he chuckled as he leaned more heavily on his staff.

The day was warm, slightly overcast and unpleasantly humid. By the time the sun was directly overhead they had all removed windbreakers and light sweaters, unbuttoned shirts and rolled up sleeves, yet still felt no relief. The road underfoot was also proving to be unpleasant as the vegetation became more dense and spiny, snaring at clothing and exposed arms.

Their road led them almost entirely along the verges of the mountain torrent of Aspe, still water-filled after the spring rains, and by lunch time they had reached the Lurbe-St.Christau area and the latter's thermal station where the waters were said to heal skin disorders ever since the Middle Ages when they had cured a villager of the dreaded disease of leprosy.

Here they halted at a likely eating place and, silently for once and for such a large group, ate. More because they had to rather than that they needed or wanted food. The events of the night plus the mystery of Deirdre's disappearance had cast a shadow over their usually boisterous fervor and the spiritual joys of the Road. Only Deborah retained her uniformly calm manner with an added anticipation that soon, very soon they would be in Spain and her personal friend, the Wizard, would manifest himself as a force for good to help them on their way. The rest of the group was not too sure what he could do, if he existed at all, and continued muted and hesitant, wondering if this year's pilgrimage was not one big mistake.

The going would get tougher by afternoon and so they lingered at their tables, ordering yet more to drink, absorbed in desultory chatter, almost wishing someone would have the courage to say, "Stop! This is where I get off!" allowing them all an excuse to find the nearest transportation back to home and sanity.

So low had their spirits sunk that neither Monica nor Mathilde had uttered a word of admonition when some of the group had ordered heavy meat dishes or items saturated in fat or drenched in creamy sauces. In fact Monica had even forgotten herself to the point of requesting a dessert, merely mumbling that the sugar content would probably give her a headache but as she had one in any case from the humidity, it no longer mattered.

The general mood seemed to have hit rock bottom when Father John spoke up.

"Dear friends," he began, "and fellow travelers walking in the holy footsteps of the thousands who have preceded us, let us not lose heart. Remember all the souls who point the way for us and who over many hundreds of years have walked the Road in hope and faith under conditions fraught with suffering and danger. Who set out on the Road with high expectations, taking leave of homes and loved ones, not knowing if they would ever return. For the Road then was filled with dangers bigger than the ones we are encountering. There were bandits in every thicket, there was disease of every description, there were accidents, wild animals such as wolves, bears and mad dogs, there were no maps, no cell phones, no medicines, no comfortable hotels. The best one could hope for was some meager straw scattered on the floor, to be shared with another pilgrim for the night and perhaps a bowl of thin soup at the very best of the Cluniac hospices...and you can just imagine what the worst was like.

Many of our brothers seeking forgiveness and salvation did so by taking to the Road barefoot so that their penance might be more severe and their forgiveness more effective. We, in contrast, in the 21st century, are having an easy time of it. Especially constructed shoes for long marching, as is all our clothing. All of this century's latest medications for everything from blisters to high fevers in easy to carry tablets and pills and tubes. Phones which most of the time can reach competent help in seconds, eating and sleeping sites of great comfort, hot baths, laundromats and all of this available in every small town along our route. And yet we grumble. How would we have fared on the Road in the year 1432? We are the same people; our aims are the same but our belief has weakened as our minds and bodies have been coddled by the innovations of modern living.

We have gained ease and comfort at the expense of faith. We no longer respect piousness, honor, loyalty, benevolence, faith, duty and charity to our fellow man, nor fear, love and humbleness before God. No wonder we are afraid of our own shadow and prefer to shirk our duty and head for our safe homes rather than stick to our resolve and continue. Follow the Road no matter what...and to the end. For we have been chosen out of all our other brothers on the Road this year to intercede in whatever is being plotted against the very meaning of the Road. Ours is the oldest story...the fight of the forces of light against the forces of darkness that threaten to destroy everything of value on this earth.

And we chosen few are the only ones aware of this and able to stand up to the evil that threatens the pilgrimage. Are we going to give up? Throw in the towel and head for our safe havens when we have the knowledge of what may happen and, with God's grace, will have the means to avert a major disaster? Is that the spirit of the Road? The spirit of St. James? Have we been put here on earth to live small, safe lives, avoiding all peril by running away from it, by hiding, by shifting our duties unto others, by doing everything that stands against our Christian doctrine? Is that how we shall reach heaven?

Well, I for one say 'No!' a resounding 'No!' and a resounding 'Yes!' to the pilgrimage, to the Road wherever it will lead us with God's help, guidance and grace, and to the immortal words of El Cid, whose valiant deeds are intertwined with St. James: 'When there is no peril in the fight, there is no glory in the triumph!' We will triumph! Who will join me?"

As he neared the end of what had at first been a few random thoughts on their behavior in the face of adversity and which had by now reached a battle cry, Father John rose ever higher in his chair, until he found himself standing on it, waving his hands in the air, exhorting them onward and was, at the end, greeted by a mighty roar of praise for the Saint, the sanctity of the pilgrimage, and their firm involvement in its safeguarding now and for ever.

In the late afternoon, as they continued their march, all the while still following the mountain torrent of Aspe, Charles confided to Peter-Paul that he was confused about something Deirdre had said while under hypnosis. He now wanted to ask Peter-Paul if he had any ideas of his own to contribute. It concerned Deirdre's recognition of the so-called 'jolly man' at the Arles train station.

"Yes?" prompted Peter-Paul.

"As I understand it, the so-named 'jolly man' figured in her memories of when she was four years old. And that that was over twenty-three years ago."

"Yes?"

"Then how did she recognize him? Look," he hurried on, "let's say the man was in his 30s. He was probably older than the nanny who was about 25 or 7 at the time. He had a bad reputation even then and he was certainly older...perhaps even 35. Deirdre was a child, a small child. In her memory he would remain eternally as she had known him then, a relatively young man, who, if he were truly still alive now is well into his late 50s. Years do affect a face. Sagging, wrinkles, hair loss and color...and yet she recognized him. A child would retain the image of the past and would not be able to add the havoc of time to still recognize an old friend, the way we do when we get older and of course see our friends aging around us as well. It is a puzzle."

"Yes, you have something there. Might she have seen him through the passing years without knowing that he was her old friend 'the jolly man' thereby making the transition from 30 something to 50 something more easily?"

"You mean he was within her orbit all those years and she was only subconsciously aware of it, so that when she did see him much older it was not a shock?"

"Something like that."

"In Manchester or in Brussels?"

"Either one...perhaps he came to deliver the weekly groceries, was a clerk in some office or shop, drove the taxi she took frequently from the same station...or, worked in a lawyer's office?"

"Did she ever describe him?" Charles wondered.

"No. She seems always only to have called him 'the jolly man'." Peter-Paul stated.

"So his aspect must have been attractive to a child, a benign expression. Smiling. I wonder if one of our police artists could come up with a few psychologically sound sketches of what would attract a 4-year old into calling a physiognomy 'jolly'."

"I'm sure they could. Get the Inspector onto that. It'll at least give him something to do. He must be fretting."

"He is. As am I." Charles admitted sadly.

"Courage!" Peter-Paul clapped him on the back. "Tonight I'm going to try a little experiment on Father John. Yes..." He nodded at Charles' look of understanding. "But without his knowledge. He's dead set against such jiggery-pokery as hypnotism. I'll only suggest something. It may do the trick. You see, he was there. In Arles, at the station. He must have seen something. And we have to find out what it is and why he was chosen as a recipient of the rug after it had been offered to Deirdre and Monica. It almost looks as if someone knew those three would be going on the pilgrimage, doesn't it? And they wanted the shawl to be on the pilgrimage as well. Why?"
54.

Having doggedly followed the Aspe torrent throughout the late afternoon, they came to Sarrance during that hour of twilight when the lengthening shadows adopt a blue-ish tinge while the harsh light of day has already veiled itself in preparation for the night.

By the time they had checked into one of the two available hotels, a beclouded sky had obscured the few early stars and overshadowed the two feeble yellowish lanterns marking the nondescript entrance screened by shadowy bushes.

The aura of Sarrance at this time of day, which the French call most appropriately 'l'heure bleue' was one of melancholy expectation, heavy and pressing, as if the mountain were gaining possession of the very elements and flattening everything within its orbit into the deep ground.

So strong was this sensation of density that the lowering sky forced itself ever deeper into the landscape until no demarcation line could be distinguished. How were they to climb it, cross it? When it already had them pinned to the ground, making every step feel like twenty as they fought with a psychologically induced gravitational pull that held them in check.

Once indoors and caught up in the by now familiar pre-dinner routine, sanity returned and by the time they had descended to the hotel's small dining room, all thoughts of the mountain had been relegated to imagination and fancy and, without consulting each other, they opted not to discuss any of their many problems. At least not tonight; and although they had taken Father John's homily to heart they did not have his fixed belief or strength of character to fall back on and evinced feelings of unease, discomfort, and serious doubts that night.

As they were a large group and the hotel small and not used to such a crowd all at one time, the kitchen staff...a chef and his helper plus one waiter...were hard pressed to render the kind of smooth service they would have liked for their establishment. It was at this point, still early in their meal, that Mathilde laid down her napkin, rose to her feet and headed straight for the kitchen. Ten minutes later she returned to draw Tom and Mavis out of their chairs and pulled them into the service area as well. With the result that Mathilde was aiding the chef, Tom was putting finishing touches to the individual plates before they left the kitchen and Mavis had joined the lone waiter in seeing to it that everyone received his plates of food hot and on time.

Not for nothing was Mathilde her father's pride and joy.

Peter-Paul had managed to obtain a seat next to Father John and, as they chatted between mouthfuls of the obligatory garbure, absent-mindedly played with his soup spoon, allowing it to catch the rays cast by several fluttering candles that graced the table.

By the time the main course of salmon had arrived, Father John was deep in recollections of his long voyage from his monastery in Ireland all the way to Arles and how tired he had been when he had arrived in the evening, although the seats were comfortable, stewardesses and stewards went through frequently with carts of food and drink, even better than on a plane, but at his age, well, it had been a long trip and he was looking forward to his meeting with Père Hippolyte and relaxing at St. Jude's.

The station, he added, had been over-brightly lit, too modern to his taste as well. Ah yes, the great age of railway exploration was over wasn't it? Ah, that had been something! A train journey then had been a real adventure, from the terminals that were like Greek or Roman temples to the carriages, their shining brass reflecting the ornate crystal lamps, the plush seats with starched antimaccassars, the call for first or second service in the restaurant car...ah well, we have to go with the times. And Peter-Paul nodded agreeably, playing with his clean soup spoon after having finished his garbure.

Yes, yes, Arles station was modern. Too much light. Made everyone look ghostly. That policeman, for instance, was very pale. Big, strapping fellow. Jovial too. Not a bit of color in his face as if he had powdered it. Come to think of it, lots of black around the eyes too...thick lashes or sleepless nights? Almost like make-up for the stage. Odd. He'd had two gold teeth and wasn't all that young either, not close up. "Ah, a galette for dessert. I must admit to a bit of a sweet tooth, Peter-Paul but I watch it, I watch it. 'Tis easy to overdo and then diabetes sets in. But I'll allow myself tonight, and you?"

"Yes indeed. Do you realize, Father John, that we are eating the same foods depicted in stone on the church of Ste. Marie in Oloron-Ste.-Marie? The meal for the wedding at Cana?"

"So we are! How very reassuring to see that nothing has changed here since the 12th century."

"Will you have coffee?"

"Yes indeed. I had tea with Père Hippolyte when we came to St. Jude's and we wondered what to do with the shawl. I usually prefer coffee but it seemed to be an evening for tea to soothe the nerves as ours was a knotty problem. In the end we of course did what the reverend father suggested and left it in the lost and found department of the station. And later that had dire results for poor Père Hippolyte. Well, well, he is all right now and we are on our way." He glanced up shrewdly at his table companion. "Well, my boy, did you get what you wanted? Was I able to help?"

"What do you mean, Father John?"

"Ach! Man, do you take me for a fool? Fiddling with that big shiny spoon, catching the glare from the candles and asking me about the policeman? I wasn't born yesterday."

Peter-Paul looked abashed. He had been certain the little priest would not notice the manipulation of the spoon. He sighed deeply..."Your large policeman wore stage make-up. Even the two gold teeth may have been part of the 'face' he created for himself in order to play the part. And I have a hunch he is also perhaps the one Deirdre called 'the jolly man' but I have no idea who he is, what he is after and why he tried to force that shawl on Deirdre, Monica and you. Except for one unusual coincidence: all three of you were heading for the Road."

*

"But this isn't the park." Voiced Deirdre disappointedly, looking around at the small garden area with its green bench in one corner, nestled in among some stunted bushes.

"This is our corner of the park; and here is our bench."

"But the park is big," she insisted.

"The gardeners of the city are replanting and we have been asked to use only this section until they will be through. Shall we sit down?"

"All right." Deirdre agreed reluctantly, only half convinced that this small patch of green with its mishapen trees was truly the spacious park of her memory. "You didn't bring Kenny out today?"

"It's a bit chilly for him, but there's the sandbox, Dee-Dee, you can play."

"All right." She headed for the modestly squared off area but in attempting to sit down and play with the little red bucket and shovel, found that there was no room for her legs at all.

"It's shrunk! It's shrunk! I can't play here!" she wailed unhappily.

"Never mind, dear, the jolly man will come soon and he'll arrange everything. Oh, here he is now." Marie-Therese giggled excitedly.

"Where? Where? Oh yes, here he is and he has a new puppet in his hand. Oh, what fun!" Deirdre burst out laughing. "I shall name him Derek." She paused, hesitated and turned to the young woman. "Why? I never heard that name before."

"It's a nice name, little cabbage. It'll do."

"Ho, ho, ho, who do we have here?" the dark-haired puppet waggled its head as the tall man manipulated the hand doll in wide, expansive gestures. "A pretty little girl, but why are you crying?"

"Because it's all changed and you don't love me any more," and Deirdre burst into tears.

"Oh don't cry. Of course I love you. Come, come, cheer up. Let me embrace you." The puppet cast its arms wide, approached her face and made to envelop her. She looked up through her tears, first at the doll then at the face of the man behind it and shrieked piercingly. "Don't, oh don't, who are you? Go away!" She shrank away from him as the young woman stepped forward to put her arms around her. "No, get away from me. You're not Marie-Therese. This isn't Derek and you're not the jolly man."

"Of course I am my dear. Remember how we met at the café and I turned my napkin into a puppet for you?"

"No! No! You're old. The jolly man is young. You're the horrid man in blue who tried to push a shawl on me. I want Bernard. I want Bernard. Go away, oh go away! Oh Bernard!"

And she broke down and sobbed her heart out.

*

Their departure the following morning was earlier than usual. Nobody desired to linger more than absolutely necessary in these lugubrious surroundings...and the mountain called them like the song of the sirens. They covered the ten kilometers to the Orcun-Jouers-Accors area speedily and stopped for a snack, then continued on to Cette-Eygun for lunch. Here Keith phoned Brussels, reached Bernard and finally told him of Deirdre's disappearance and what she had revealed under hypnosis in Pau. When Bernard heard that she had identified someone as the 'jolly man' of her childhood he showed grave concern.

"I thought he was dead," he told Keith.

"Do you know who he is?"

"No, of course not. Just that he belonged to a period of Deirdre's childhood and was undoubtedly responsible for her brother's abduction and the death of her nanny. But as the police were unable to find him at that time, I suppose he is still listed as 'wanted'. I imagined him long gone and no threat to her."

"Well, she did recognize someone at the Arles train station as the 'jolly man' so he may still be around and still a danger to her."

"Yes, yes, I see." Bernard sighed. "I'll call the inspector as well and see if I can do anything to help and I'm coming to Spain to join you. That way I'll be on the spot for any new developments."

"And he did not sound at all the man Deirdre has led us to believe he is." Keith added to Charles later. "I don't know whom to trust."

"Nobody!" Charles replied firmly. "Not even me." He added with a smile, "This is a most remarkable case," and he lowered his head. "Well, to the Road. We still have a long route to cover until evening." and he arose, sighing, grasped his stave and left the café. The others followed at a smart pace, everyone suddenly galvanized as their goal seemed every hour to loom closer.

*

This morning there was an urgency in their step not felt since their mad dash from the bois de Bastard and their encounter with and rout of their attackers. Now it was less a flight than a rapid forward surge as if everyone was being pulled onward by a gigantic magnet, so strong was the force of the mountain, almost within their grasp, yet still a day and a half away.

Part of that day's route took them to a high tableland, giving them the foretaste of the mountain in miniature, then gently, in gradients, settling them once more on the plain where they passed houses, farms, vines growing upright towards the sunlight, but no sign of a human being.

Although this was her first time on the Road, Mathilde had easily held her own since Pau and showed no signs of faltering while Charles found the day's long marches ever more daunting and was not able to accustom himself to the new, for him, conditions. He decided he was probably meant for a desk job and was not at all talented in physical endeavors, although outwardly he looked strong and fit.

"Weak legs," he thought. "Like mother who always has to sit down. And her mother too. Runs in the family. Oh well, let's hope this won't be a case needing physical strength but brains and even there I haven't done so well. Peter-Paul, Steven, Keith and even Father John seem way ahead of me. Pull yourself together! Look sharp! The danger is very real and there isn't much time left. We've already lost Deirdre, but what of the shawls, what of Compostela? I don't think I can handle this." And keeping his eyes glued to the road at his feet, he continued moving forward.

"I think we were misled about Bernard." Keith remarked for the third time.

"So you already said." Peter-Paul sighed.

"Deirdre warned me that he is a very good actor" Derek reminded them, "Perhaps you were taken in?"

"Perhaps." Keith muttered.

"We'll see for ourselves when he joins us." Steven soothed, "I'd like to leave you for a few hours and catch you up at night, if that's O.K?"

"Do you have something in mind?" wondered Peter-Paul.

"No." Steven laughed. "It's the Fort of Portalet area that is to blame. It is cut into the solid rock as is the road called Mature, begun in the l8th century, and now a first class climbing school."

"Ah! We understand," laughed Father John, "That's too big a temptation to throw right in your path."

"Fine. Catch us up at the Lake of Peilhou where we'll spend the night. We'll eat at the Auberge de Peilhou, just across the way and sleep in the lake."

"In the lake?" Derek demanded.

"Well, on top of it would be more correct," and Keith smiled mysteriously, then added, "The last of my special places and very romantic, I understand. We'll have to make the most of it for Spain doesn't bode well, not for such treats."

"Do you expect Kurt and Wolf at the lake?" Peter-Paul wondered.

"Yes, yes I do. They said they'd be there and they seemed reliable. Unless there was an accident. We haven't seen a newspaper or watched TV for a long time so we have no way of knowing what befell two typical German tourists. We shall just have to reach our destination and see."

"And then there's the wizard," interjected Father John.

"Do you believe her?" Steven wondered.

"Not really. It's more like a wish fantasy."

"I believe her." Peter-Paul stated flatly.

"So do I." Derek seconded. "I have glimpsed him, or something like him under similar conditions in the hospital, and always at night." His voice dropped and an uncomfortable silence ensued.

By now they had reached the Chemin de la Mature, a road cut into the solid rock-face running along for over l,000 meters. Here Steven bade them all goodbye and set out at a double pace on his own, promising to catch them up later in the evening.

The rest of the group, bypassing the Fort du Portalet, made for Urdos where they called a halt to rest and drink and from where Charles phoned Inspector Lemoine hoping to hear some welcome and positive news about Deirdre but there was nothing. Nobody had seen her, nothing was known and they had no idea where to continue their search. With a fast car she could have been taken anywhere in the country and even out of it, if she was still alive, that is.

Tired and dispirited they approached their goal in the late afternoon and sank into the welcoming, all-embracing rattan armchairs of the Auberge de Peilhou.

Of Kurt and Wolf there was no sign.
55.

At a word from Keith they doffed their backpacks and piled them up in a far corner of the reception area and went to the public toilets of the inn to wash, comb their hair and make themselves as presentable as possible before going to the dining room to eat. They would dearly have liked to bathe and change but Keith told them that due to the location of their rooms, that would have to be arranged before going to sleep. And, not wishing to spoil the surprise in store for them they refrained from questioning him.

The dining room was installed on a veranda-like addition to the façade of the hotel. There were small hurricane lamps on the tables and candles flickered in the branched wall sconces around the long, narrow room. The large glass wall facing the exterior was already dark, with pinpoints of glimmering light as yet more small, shaded candles marked the path to the front door.

###

### "This is lovely." Helen sighed, sitting down and blowing John a kiss.

"It almost looks like a stage set." Monica murmured, "Imagine finding something so romantic on top of a mountain between France and Spain."

"I think I can hear the rustling of a stream." Helen added, putting her head to one side and listening intently.

"Piped in?" John asked, adding, "Artificial? Sound effects?"

"No, please John, don't spoil it. We live in a world of make believe all the time." Helen pulled a face. "I want this to be real."

"Then real it is; as real as this kiss," and he put his arms around her and kissed her.

"We seem to be complete," Keith counted heads, "Except for Steven and the two Germans. Of course they may not show up."

Charles fell into his chair gratefully, not even noticing the romantic décor. He was profoundly thankful not to be walking anymore and now, once sitting, began to think how agreeable it would be to lie down.

A waiter appeared and announced that as they were an inn and not a restaurant the fare would be the same for everyone and began to serve the soup, that old standby they were already used to: garbure.

"Plus ca change, etc." Monica remarked, sighing.

"Enjoy it," Mathilde warned her, "from tomorrow it will be gazpacho twice a day."

"Monica..." Peter-Paul called over to her, "you use that phrase quite frequently: plus ca change..."

"So?"

"What did you mean by it when you used it after having seen the large policeman at the Arles train station?"

"Did I say that? And how do you know?" She asked suspiciously.

"You told me, quite a few kilometers back." He lied.

"The large policeman? I don't recall anyone like that." She frowned.

"You said he had used an odd scent...for a man."

"Ah, yes, I do recall now. Yes, the odor was feminine in the extreme. And, of course! He wore make-up. I know you'll claim I was blind with my dark glasses but that is something I am not wrong about. I've been around the stuff for some years now and I can spot anyone wearing more than the touch of lipstick, rouge and mascara. He was full of it. Base, eyebrows, hair dye...the works. A policeman? Weird."

According to Father John and Monica the large policeman they had both seen at the Arles train station had been wearing full make-up, Peter-Paul thought, absent-mindedly cutting into the food on his plate. Monica also claimed that his hair had been dyed and he had reeked of an odd mixture of scents. Certainly not the norm if he were really in the force. Could he have been 'the jolly man' trying to look the way he had in his 30s? But why? Had he been on tap that night to lure Deirdre? And therefore all the make-up so she would think him as he had been so many years ago or was it to confuse any other witnesses, like Father John and Monica, on whom he had been trying to foist the rug? But why disguise yourself into the likeness of a man who was still wanted in the case of the abduction of a baby and the death of his nurse? Who just might be recognized by someone remembering the crime, or did he think the description of a man wanted over 20 years ago would confound and confuse the police completely? It didn't make sense. Unless the man's ego was so inflated that he was doing it on purpose to show the forces of law and order that he could get away with anything? And a criminal with such a big ego would be more dangerous than a cobra. But what does he want?

"Am I still in time for the garbure?" Steven's voice rang out as he entered the veranda, straight from the road, a happy smile on his face. "I'll sit here next to Derek. Ah!" He sighed and stretched his legs as the waiter hurried over with his soup. "What a great day, but I am very hungry." And he fell to with a will.

"How was the climbing school?" John called out to him.

"Fantastic! State-of-the-art equipment, excellent instructors, wonderful places to learn and practice. Quite a few young people although there was even one of 75 and a woman, of all things! Everyone very enthusiastic. Well, it made a great change from our problems," he buried his face in the bowl. "They offered me a job...instructor."

"Oh? Will you take it?" Monica enquired.

"I might. It's tempting. I liked the place and the crowd. Yes, I just might." He stopped talking as the waiter brought him the main course.

"You're back much earlier than we thought." Keith looked surprised. "It's quite a walk."

"Yes, it is but I didn't walk. I got a lift from a supply van and so did two other seekers of salvation. They've gone to wash and here they are now." He smiled and nodded his head at the entrance of the dining room where two slender young men still carrying their staves, had just entered.

"Am I glad to see you!" Keith sprang to his feet at their approach. "Remember Kurt and Wolf, everyone?" He turned to the group and hastened to seat the newcomers, eager to learn if they had discovered anything.

They took their places at the foot of the long table and greeted those to the left and right of them, then did justice to the soup, the main course, a big salad and only when they were facing large slabs of apple cake, did they look up and indicate to Keith that they were ready to speak.

"How has the route been for you, my friend?" Kurt asked in a low voice.

"Good and not good," Keith replied. "We lost one of our group, a woman. She seems to have been abducted and it has been impossible to find her." He did not add that Deirdre was related to him. "I am even more than ever interested in the two German so-called bird watchers with their night vision binoculars because only in using those would it have been possible to find out where she was spending the night in order to get at her."

"Well," began Kurt, "those two you mentioned do not seem to exist. At least under the names they gave you. They are unknown...in all possible avenues." And he raised his eyes from the cake to look directly at Keith. "Also, nothing is known of a group of three middle-aged Germans which includes a woman."

"But..." added Wolf, "A German tourist, a woman in her 50s, was found to have drowned in a lake, lac de Raviege. She had been erroneously identified as an American sect member. As she had several heavy rocks in the pockets of her suit jacket, it was assumed that she had killed herself."

"Yes, but..." Kurt interjected, "there seemed to be no reason for her to have done that. She was healthy and well off financially. Of course one does not know if she had other problems, perhaps a love affair? She was a widow."

"So," Keith muttered, "the woman we saw with the two Germans in La Moutouse was a man, as we thought. Was the woman who was found drowned travelling alone, with friends or family, or with a group?" He turned to question Kurt who had signaled to the waiter that he wanted coffee.

"She was with a man. Tall, slim, light-haired. She said he was her brother, according to an innkeeper where they stayed. He was the only one who remembered them. But the German police, after having investigated, say she does not have a brother."

"And the two bird watchers? Schnapps and Schlotte?" Peter-Paul had been listening intently before asking his own question.

"Don't exist. Certainly not under those names." Wolf replied. "There was a children's book in the 1930s about the comical doings of two men, one a hunter and one a butterfly collector who were named Herr Schnapschuss and Herr Schlotterbein. It would seem that they adopted their false names from these. But neither the police, checking on lists of criminals, nor the security forces doing the same in their orbit, could come up with such an easily identifiable twosome."

"So now we have not only a non-existent French policeman but two non-existent German bird watchers." Father John sighed, "And a man who can masquerade as almost anyone."

"They had night-vision binoculars, those two." Steven interposed, "And only someone so equipped could have known which tree housed Deirdre...our co-pilgrim who disappeared." He added in explanation.

"We slept in tree houses in the forest of Laring." Keith added, "and there was no way of knowing which tree would house which pilgrim for the night without keeping watch over the area when we arrived. Furthermore, my dog did not bark, and he is a good watchdog so the surveillance must have been carried out from quite a distance for him not to have caught an alien scent."

"Ergo the night-vision binoculars." added Peter-Paul.

"It sounds reasonable," Kurt mused. "But why kidnap this woman? Does she know something?" he glanced around.

"I doubt it." Derek answered. "The only one to gain by her disappearance and eventual death is her husband who is the sole beneficiary of her will."

"And she has something to leave?"

"Yes indeed," replied Peter-Paul. "A very wealthy woman who has been showing signs of ridding herself of a husband over twice her age."

"Ach so..." Wolf murmured, "that is almost a classic case."

"And there would be a great deal at stake, then?" Kurt was thoughtful. "Yes, well, I can see why you would suspect the husband. Is he here?" He lowered his voice and glanced at the group around the table.

"No. He returned to Brussels about a week ago, where, I might add, he still is. I reached him by phone easily there." Keith looked thoughtful. "I somehow don't think it was him. Something else has happened." And he proceeded to tell the two young Germans all that had been keeping them guessing for most of their pilgrimage, certainly since the events on the path to Lodeve, their stay in that town, the various attacks there and all that confused and confounded them afterwards.

"As you say..." Wolf summed up. "there are two conspiracies. We are most interested in the international of course, as being more of a threat to the multitudes and bringing danger and disrespect to the Jacob's Weg...the route of St. Jacques, but the threat to one of your group cannot be ignored either. Yet what can we do about it, other than what is already being done by the proper authorities, well, that is something else!" he concluded, sighing. "I do not know."

"Neither do we." Father John muttered. "It all seems so futile and we are so powerless."

"Bernard may..." began Mavis, only to be interrupted by Deborah reiterating calmly, "The Wizard will help."

"Yes, yes," Keith interjected quickly. "Let's see about our quarters for the night now. Attention everyone!" He called out and tapped his spoon against his water glass as all talk ceased. "If you want a bath, please take it in the inn; if a sketchy shower affair is OK, without use of soap or shampoo and with cold water, then you can wait to reach your rooms for the night. Please decide."

Most of the group decided on a bath with soap and shampoo, only Steven, Peter-Paul and Tom choosing what sounded like an adventure.

The table broke up as they went to extract what they needed in order to wash, reappearing half an hour later, ready for a good night's sleep...but where?

Keith led them out of the hotel and into the soft breezes of the gentle summer night alight with a celestial display of fireworks in a sky so low they felt they could touch them. A night fashioned of heavenly luminosity, refreshed by bursts of scent from pungent grasses and a silence so complete they could discern faintly a soft lapping murmur from somewhere in the very near distance.

They crossed a narrow white path picked out by the miniature oil lamps flickering in the night-time breeze, over a token lawn, across a two-lane road, through bushes, scrub and fragrant meadow grasses to face what seemed to be pinpoints of light disappearing into the distance from the area just in front of them and at the height of their feet. These seemed to be the same diminutive hurricane lamps used throughout the inn and there were many more clustered together in some sort of formation, aping the bright display above their heads, spread out about fifteen meters in front of them.

"We are 15 tonight, so one of you will be alone. Who is it to be?" Keith asked.

"I prefer to be alone." Charles spoke up.

"Fine, the rest of you pair up. That makes seven sets of two and a single. There are, I am happy to say, 8 rooms. So, this is the time to take out your torches and shed a little light on what is at your feet. Click on!"

Fifteen flashlights flickered to life and were pointed downwards causing a unified gasp to erupt from fifteen bedazzled pilgrims as they saw the wooden slatted plank-and-rope suspension bridges fanning out in front of them, marked intermittently by the small, flickering lamps.

Sweeping their flashlights farther and following the swaying footways laid out like a spider's web over the waters of the lake, they saw them come to rest on minuscule outcroppings, fashioned of large, smooth boulders welded together by earth in the form of a hillock and topped with symmetrically rounded clumps of greenery which, at the apex of these "isles" transfigured into an umbrella-like tree whose gossamer foliage swayed and hovered in the night-time breeze over the petal-strewn soft couches covered in a deep pink cloth.

"There are two beds on each island." Keith informed them when they had gazed their awestruck fill. "The shower, which is on a slightly lower section of the islands, uses lake water. Cold of course. Make your choices and a very good night." Keith turned to the little priest, "Please, Father John, go first. I will follow right behind you. Fear not, the bridges are safe."

Father John smiled and nodded, placing one foot firmly on the swaying bridge, grasping the rope rails on either side and, turning his head so everyone could hear, said: "My Lord ventured forth on the Sea of Galilee without a bridge; why should I fear?" And, facing forward, he stomped across to one of the jewel-like islands afloat in a small, clear lake on the top of a mountain somewhere between heaven and earth, France and Spain.

So as not to be exposed to the elements during the night they discovered that there was a deep pink canvas roof over the beds that could be pulled into place by ropes and adjusted to admit as much of the starry sky as one wished.

There was a small, round table where breakfast would be served at 8:30 AM sharp, unless it rained when they would have to return to the dining room of the inn. The weather forecast, however, was favorable and, in any case, the lake was not large so there was no fear of being swept away by a rogue wave or attacked by sharks. Everyone laughed dutifully at this bit of information, everyone but Charles who always expected the worst and was, in any case, not interested where he slept as long as he could take the weight off his feet. However, as soon as he had slipped off his shoes and had fallen onto his extremely comfortable accommodation, someone wished him a good evening. Startled, he sat up to see a tall, very thin man dressed in deep blue, doffing a top hat and making himself comfortable in a hammock slung between two small trees.

"We meet again, eh?" the apparition remarked.

"I don't believe I know you."

"You know me as well as most people know each other who have met only once before." The man in the hammock replied.

"Have we met before?" Charles wondered.

"Of course. In Pau. I related a bit of that city's history to you while you were pretending to be a tourist."

"But I was! I had never been there before."

"The latter part of your answer is true, but you were not in the city as a tourist. My name, by the way, is Magian. I will be joining the group and will be appropriately dressed. Tomorrow I shall change but tonight, ah tonight...in such a setting and under such a sky only full formal wear seemed possible."

"Do you mean to say you carry a midnight blue tuxedo and top hat in your backpack on the off chance that it may be needed to suit a certain ambience?"

"Indeed. It is always wise to be prepared."

"Does Keith know you are coming along, or that you are here?"

"No, but Deborah does. And now, so do you. Well, a good night," and with that he tipped his hat to cover his eyes. "How bright the stars are." He murmured and fell asleep.

"Magian? Magian?" Charles sighed and knew no more.

*

"Oh Mavis, have you ever seen a more romantic place?" Mathilde exclaimed. "Tom has told me of these special places, the ones Keith surprised you with during your travels, but I had no idea they would be so wonderful!"

"They have all been original, exciting and most of all, unexpected. Romantic? Yes, that too but this one is truly the utmost. What a place to come with a lover." Mavis sighed, suddenly envisaging Derek's dark features...Derek? How come?

"Or for a honeymoon?" the young girl murmured. "Oh, I shall ask Tom if he would like to come here after our marriage. I know I would love to."

"When do you plan your wedding?"

"After the pilgrimage at the end of August. It would still be warm, no rain either so that staying here would be possible. Oh, he must agree."

"I'm sure he will," Mavis laughed, "he would never say no to you."

"That is not the sort of marriage I want, Mavis. We are to be equal partners but even he must be able to see the magic of this place."

"Yes indeed. Did you notice that there are different petals strewn on the beds than those adorning the tablecloth?"

"Oh yes. Being in the hotel business one tends to spot all the little touches not seen by others. The guests would take it all in of course but aside from saying that it is romantic and special would not be able to pinpoint the small details that make up the whole."

"I suppose so. Do you want the roof open a bit to see the stars?"

"Yes, yes, do you?"

"Oh yes." Mavis breathed awestruck as she opened the canvas just enough over the deep couches for them to be under a veritable shower of luminosity.

*

"Ah Helen, on a night like this even I could write deathless poetry to you." John's voice broke as he stared up at the heavens. "I wish..." he went on, "that this were our last night. That all the doubts and fears and the turbulence were behind us and we could give ourselves up to a future as dazzling as the display above our heads, but as of tomorrow we approach ever closer to a darkness no bright summer night will be able to eradicate. I truly fear for what is to come."

"Then let us make the most of what there is tonight." She whispered.

*

"The signs are there for all of us to read," Peter-Paul murmured, sprawled on his back and staring up at the heavens.

"Is it written in the stars?" Voiced Steven quietly, patting himself dry after a cold but invigorating shower.

"It is, for those who can read them."

"And you can?"

"Perhaps not as well as my ancestors, but well enough. This will be our last night of ease and calm. As of tomorrow the agitation increases and confounds our senses. We are getting closer. Doubts attack us from all sides as we enter the dark tunnel. And there is a newcomer already among us." He continued to peer at the luminous display above their heads.

"There are two newcomers among us," Steven corrected. "Kurt and Wolf."

"Not them. There is someone else."

"If you say so," Steven shot him a glance as if to say: but what do you know?

*

"Does this remind you of an old Dorothy Lamour movie? Or something romantic with Grace Kelly?" Monica was already on the bed, her head raised to see the stars one hand languidly tossing rose petals over herself.

"No." came Deborah's curt reply. "It's very lovely but sleeping practically in the lake can lead to serious rheumatic and arthritic problems."

"Oh, Deborah, be romantic for once; forget your medical training."

"How can I when we're courting all sorts of aches and pains not to mention fevers by sleeping almost in the water an entire night?"

"Well, I for one would like to come here with a special lover." And Mavis closed her eyes, the better to envisage the man of her choice. "Peter-Paul," she finally sighed. "Deborah, you have no idea as to his creativity in making love and also, how utterly gorgeous..."

"I'd rather not know," the nurse interrupted, "I have to spend another four weeks with him, on a day-to-day basis and I don't want every time I look at him to have your graphic description in front of my eyes. Shall we go to sleep?" And with that she turned over and settled herself for the night.

*

"I'm sorry Deirdre isn't here." Tom began. "I mean, I'm sorry she's been kidnapped, but I'm also sorry she isn't here with you." he looked at Derek, slightly ill at ease.

"Thank you, but although I'd give anything to have her back safe and sound, I am no longer involved with her. Not romantically. She's just not the type of woman I want to be with the rest of my life."

"I can understand that. You too need someone like my Mathilde."

"Exactly," Derek agreed heartily. "Someone I can build my future with."

"You know, I've been thinking you and Mavis could hit it off." Tom hinted broadly, "She's a brick. The best pal to have in a tight corner. And that's what life's all about, isn't it?"

"Yes Tom, it is but your sister doesn't think of me in such terms and for all I know I may be Jewish. And she's Catholic."

"Yeah, but you'd have it made in Ireland. The Catholics are so busy hating the Protestants and the Protestants are up to their necks hating the Catholics they don't have any time left over to take it out on the Jews."

"But what will happen when the Catholics and Protestants call a truce?" Derek laughed long and loud.

The little group slept deeply through the night. The stars continued to shine down, the breezes to waft and the water to lap, and during the deepest, darkest hours of the night Deborah awoke, her heart pounding from a dream of unutterable carnage, to see above her a shattering arc of crystal fragments drop from the sky to disappear into the deepest waters of the lake without making a sound.

"The Wizard!" she gasped, "He's here. Oh thank God, thank God." And Deborah began to weep.
56.

The morning dawned in full sunshine and the promise of a clear, warm day marked by fresh, intermittent breezes from the north-east. After a brisk cold shower and a delightful breakfast served on their petal-strewn tables, they reluctantly dressed for the road, buckled up and, taking a last, lingering and loving glance at the most ingeniously romantic hotel they had ever seen, regretfully set foot once more on the narrow, swaying bridges and regained the shore where, without looking backward, took themselves to the front of the inn and the road that would lead them to the border.

Here they discovered that instead of the l5 wayfarers they had been the evening before, they were now 16. For a stranger to almost the entire group had joined them at some stage during the previous night. It was Charles who introduced him and Deborah who claimed his attention in order to walk to the Col du Somport in his company.

The others could only see that he was thin and tall and wore a cap with a deep visor well pulled over the top of his face against the sun. He seemed to be Father John's age but strong and agile, despite his extreme leanness. He was uniformly dressed in navy blue, including his knapsack.

"Wonder who he is," Tom voiced. "Another ineffective detective?" he muttered to Mathilde.

"He doesn't look it," she replied, studying him from lowered eyes. "He's sort of other-worldly, Tom." she added softly. "As if..." and she did not complete her thought.

"Yes?" he bent his head to hers.

"Magian is an odd name, isn't it? Doesn't it remind you of magic, of the Magi? There is something puzzling about him. I wonder why he attached himself to us." she mused. "Oh Tom, have you ever slept in more exquisite surroundings?" She grasped his arm and they stood still at the side of the road while she poured her idea of spending the first night of their married life here, out to him, hoping that he too would see the desirability of such a gesture. He only smiled and remarked that he had not been aware she was so romantic.

"How ever did you guess?" Steven caught up with Peter-Paul who was helping Father John on a rock-strewn dirt path.

"What?" he barely looked up, busy in keeping the little priest from stumbling. "At the top of the next rise it's all paved again, Father."

"Good, good. I don't want to slip and break something just before the border, having come so far."

"No, of course not," Steven agreed. "and you won't. I was just wondering about the newcomer."

"Ah yes," the little priest murmured. "Mr. Magian! Well, Deborah seems to know him and that should give us a clue." he chuckled.

"You mean that's the Wizard?" Steven suddenly tripped awkwardly and remained upright more through sheer luck than prowess.

"Indeed yes. Yes."

"Peter-Paul looked up at the stars last night and announced that we would be one more today. I didn't believe him."

"I'm beginning to think our fourth estate friend is himself entitled to the name of Magian."

"Only tricks, Father." Peter-Paul replied. "Not real powers, but they come in handy. Unfortunately not enough or deep enough to truly peer into the future and affect a change. Some of my ancestors were able to do that but they were so afraid of being burned at the stake that they couched all their prophecies in quatrains nobody could understand, thereby causing the authorities of the day to turn a blind eye deeming them only fools and dreamers and no danger to the prevailing doctrine. But those who held the key could unlock their words to retrieve the hidden meaning and warn others and thereby avert disasters and alter history. I have often thought that Columbus was one of these...who had a key, who read the warnings...and that it was this that led him to search for a new world for mankind. The way space scientists are now searching and dreaming of a way to save our civilization by discovering new homes for our endangered species."

It was one of the longest remarks Peter-Paul had ever made regarding his own beliefs and both Steven and Father John were deeply affected by it.

"Yes," Father John sighed, "We are doomed if we do not return to God." And here he added in a low voice, "To a merciful God."

"I am a believer, Father," Peter-Paul continued. "But for most of mankind it is already too late. We have to face the fact that man is imperfect, ever since his expulsion from the Garden. He is not what God had hoped for when He created him. And although he struggles against sin and eternal damnation, that struggle is bound to fail. Man is not satisfied to live according to the laws of God; he wants to be God. Ergo, more and more inventions for power which means power over other men, which means wars which equates as weapons of mass destruction until the final destruction of everything and everyone.

Perhaps a few will escape to a hospitable planet, there to start the whole cycle all over again. The ancient kabbalists and seekers after the truth knew this and they tried to warn mankind in hidden and mysterious ways that very few could unveil but even if they had been courageous enough to speak outright of these matters, they would not have been believed and we would still be facing the problems we have today. Ah," he exclaimed, "that's the railway tunnel over there." he pointed, "It's called the International Tunnel and is very long. It enters the mountain in France at a place called les Forges d'Abel, nothing to do with Cain and Abel, and 7 kilometers later it emerges at Canfranc in Spain. I wouldn't be surprised if we run into Bernard there. It's the logical way for him to join us. And that reminds me of what we are going to tell him about Deirdre."

"But he knows. Keith phoned to tell him that she has been abducted." Steven wondered that Peter-Paul was not aware of Keith's call to Brussels.

"Not that!" Peter-Paul flapped his hand as if he were chasing away a persistent fly. "No, what I mean is her involvement with Derek. How does one tell the husband his wife has been sharing a tree house for 2 with a man and not with one of the women in the group?"

"Oh." Was all Steven could find to say.

"Oh indeed!"

"He was guarding her." Father John stated firmly. "We all took turns guarding her ever since the incident in the forest." and he peered at them from under his brows. "I don't believe in lying, of course, but it will serve no purpose to reveal his wife's infidelity to Bernard when he arrives. If he is a villain, well, we'll see but if there is an off-chance that he is innocent of her slander, why distress the man even more than finding his wife abducted, not knowing her fate...it is too cruel, and, at this point, not necessary."

"As usual, Father John, you are right." Peter-Paul agreed. "And it is not a lie, for not so long ago we were guarding her day and night...against Bernard of course but that we don't have to tell him."

"If we aren't held up at the frontier for too long," Keith began, "we could make it to Jaca by tonight; in fact, we will have to as the other sleeping locations are in Canfranc and Villanua which is much too close to our departure point and which leaves us too long a route tomorrow. Also, after tonight the hotels stop, at least for the next three stages of our route."

"We are now also too big a group for any B and B along the way." John added, "Sixteen is practically an army."

"In any case," Helen retorted, "I checked the guide book and there is really nothing until Sanguesa and they have only one hotel."

"We'll have to reserve in advance then." Monica advised, "It's the problem of water of course."

"Yes, where to wash will become more important even than food." Deborah interposed, "We can always buy bread and bottled water but keeping clean is important against diseases and our habitual bane...blisters."

"There are rivers along the route." Helen offered.

"We can't know how polluted they are." Deborah warned, "It might be worse than not washing at all. There was a true case some years ago. I don't recall where, but a group of people crossed over just such a polluted river and the bridge collapsed. Several people died and several were made ill for life from the pollutants in the water. If necessary, we can buy bottled water and wash faces, hands, feet and privates only. It's better than nothing and at least not life threatening."

"And we can pray," Monica advised.

"It is always advisable to pray," Mr. Magian agreed, "If it is to God of course."

"We'll need our passports and perhaps also our cards from the road of St. Jacques when we get to the border. Charles, you will have very little inscribed as yet." Keith worried.

"I have another piece of I.D. for them. It'll be O.K."

"I forgot." Keith agreed and turned to the newcomer. "Mr. Magian, as you are new to the road..." he began.

"Don't worry about me young man. They know me." And with that the slim, tall form moved to the head of the line.

One by one they passed through the border checkpoints, tendering identification, opening backpacks and being welcomed in Spanish with smiles and bows, almost as if they were holy persons bent on an errand of piety. Which of course they were, for they were treading the ancient Road of redemption, the Road of St. James, Santiago, the warrior Saint who, together with Spain's hero El Cid, had driven the infidels from that country. And as such they were very welcome.

Charles' credentials were examined more closely but Mr. Magian was waved through without having to show any documents whatsoever, and he was, moreover, almost fawningly received.

"The second half of our journey has begun," Keith intoned, "and I should like to stop off at Canfranc station which is just before Canfranc itself, on the chance that Bernard will have arrived. He is not here at the border but we might find him at the station. It's on our route and will not detain us." He added and moved to the head of the line to continue on the well-defined road.

"Keith does not seem to believe that Bernard is a villain," Derek murmured to Peter-Paul with whom he was walking.

"Perhaps it's because he isn't exactly a fan of Deirdre's."

"Maybe if he had been raised the way she was instead of by Père Jerome, he too might be more volatile, less serious, less reliable. I often wonder what I would have been like had I been raised by my biological family. Mavis pointed out to me that I ought to think of my adoptive family as my real kin for they did care for me and made sure I would get a good education... both intellectually and morally." He glanced at the younger man and wondered if there might not be an awakening interest after all. She would be better for him than Deirdre.

"I think I made a bit of an ass of myself." Derek admitted.

"It happens to all of us at one time or another. The main thing is to draw a lesson from it and not repeat the mistake again and again, as some people do." He saw Derek shudder at the very thought of a future filled with one Deirdre after another. "Oh, God, no!" was his fervent plea.

Kurt and Wolf had crossed the border point easily as part of the group and were now in the rearguard, walking along fluidly, absorbing their surroundings for signs of the change from France to Spain but so far the mountainous scenery continued stark and daunting and not until they were beginning the descent to Canfranc station did a certain aridity make itself felt.

When they finally reached it, the Estacion itself turned out to be much larger than they had expected, certainly much larger than a railway station at the foot of the Pyrenees serving a sparsely settled rural area of Spain ought to be.

"It's the size of a town!" Monica exclaimed.

"This is the sort of thing one sees in India, left over from the days of the Raj," Peter-Paul added, "and not much more modern."

"Not only that, but it seems to have more corridors than a labyrinth." John pulled Helen back. "No, love, that's a dead end."

"But where is the train itself?" Kurt wondered as the group went up then down another set of halls leading to yet another seating area.

"Plenty of refreshment booths." Tom noticed.

"Toilets everywhere too." Monica added.

"But no embarkation or disembarkation platforms." Father John muttered. "Are you sure this is a station?"

"Yes, yes. It's written all over the place." Keith laughed. "I'll ask. Por favor..." He began as he spotted a small man in some sort of official uniform who, upon hearing the question, smiled and began to explain, using both hands to show Keith that he first had to descend an escalator, then traverse several halls to go up a staircase, backtrack through two tunnels and there he would find the train. Having gone through the manouver twice to be certain Keith had understood he sent them on their way with many a wish for a safe journey.

When they finally saw it they stopped, stared, turned to search along the track and behind them for a sleekly modern bullet train or a large snorting steam engine pulling high wagons but there was nothing, only this small vehicle looking as if it had been put together by a child playing with his Lego kit; a minute and charming toy-like highly colorful little train more at home taking visitors on a short ride across some stately home thrown open to the public a few times a week than a train that came roaring through a 7 km. tunnel from France to Spain.

And there, at the foot of one of the brightly painted cars was Bernard, sitting on his backpack, winding his watch.
57.

Having finished winding his watch, Bernard looked up and saw, hurrying towards him, a group of modern-day pilgrims clutching long staves. Had they worn full-length, loose robes they would have looked like the Israelites wandering in the desert, Moses at the forefront. But here the mirage ceased, for in the lead position of this group there appeared the smiling face of Keith, Woofy ever faithfully trotting at his side. And behind him Bernard could make out the others he had come to know and love: Peter-Paul, Derek, John, Father John, the women among them, next to Tom wasn't that little Mathilde from the hotel? And wasn't she supposed to have gone to her sister? The sly minx. And Charles? What was the jewelry salesman doing here, dressed for the Road like the others? And the very tall, thin, elderly man and two other faces he could not place? Newcomers? And Deirdre? Still missing?

In some confusion Bernard rose to his feet just as the group surrounded him on the platform, eager questions at the ready, so that other passengers disembarking, were forced to circumnavigate the by now sizeable party.

"Well met! Well met!" Bernard pronounced over and over as he embraced those he had gotten to know so well before the attack in the church had put him out of commission.

"How did you get here so fast?" Keith wondered.

"I flew to Pau and took the train from there. Quite a good connection. But enough about me, is there any news?" He looked agitated and hopeful at the same time.

"No, I'm afraid not," Keith replied in a muted tone. "We're in touch with the Inspector but she could be anywhere, even out of the country. He was not very hopeful the last time I spoke to him."

"But why? And who? And what has Deirdre got to do with anything? I don't understand."

"We'll discuss it on the way, Bernard." Father John interposed. "Shall we get out of here?"

"We want to reach Jaca by evening," Keith explained.

"They have hotels." added Monica. "After that we'll have to camp out for several nights."

"Are you sure you're up to doing around 30km a day?" Derek looked worried.

"With God's help, yes." He shouldered his backpack and, getting into step next to Father John, followed the others through the endless twists and turns of the corridors into the outside world of warm air and sunshine.

"We'll have lunch in Aruej," Keith called out. "and make Jaca by nightfall."

"Who are the newcomers, Father John?" Bernard wanted to know.

"Well, they're two German students, Kurt and Wolf. Yes, those two. We met them way back at a place where we stopped for the night but then they continued on their own and joined us just before we crossed the border. The night before to be exact. Then there's the tall, thin man. His name is Mr.Magian and he too joined us at the same time the Germans did. And Charles is a young fellow who showed up in Pau. All seem on the up and up and none of them could have been responsible for Deirde's disappearance. I mean, why kidnap her and then join us? It makes no sense." Should he reveal Charles' profession? No, not yet.

"None of this makes sense to me." Bernard muttered. "Why Deirdre? Is she some kind of threat to someone? But she wasn't even on the trail with you for most of the time, having stayed with me in Lodeve. What could she possibly know that might cause someone to kidnap her? And it wasn't for ransom because nobody has applied to me!"

"Have you told her father?" the little priest queried.

"Heavens no! He never recovered from the abduction of his son. Just the word would put him in the graveyard! No, no, he must not hear of this; it would kill him. I hope most fervently that if it is a kidnapping for gain...to hold her to ransom...the malefactors will come to me and not to him."

"Did you know that Deirdre had made out a will when she married you?"

"Yes, of course. We both did. I left everything to her in case, as I assumed at the time, being so much older, I would go first. And she made out a will in my favor. Why? Does it have any bearing on her abduction?"

"It may have." And Father John fell silent, plodding steadily onward, staring down at the road that ran straight and endless under his feet.

The day was warm, warmer than those they had experienced on the other side of the mountain, with a warmth compounded of the odors of earth rather than vegetation with hints of water, which had been the norm up to now.

"Drink more than usual," Deborah called down the line. "Even if you don't feel thirsty! It's very dry and you'll dehydrate faster here."

Dutifully they followed her advice, remarking that at this rate they would have to replenish their supply in the next town, especially if they were to pour it over their heads as Tom had just done most exuberantly.

The dryness was not only in the air but under their feet and all around them. They had become accustomed to the color green wherever their eye had happened to alight, be it in the shape of vast, towering forests, row upon row of thickly planted vines, tracts of farmland rife with sun-ripened crops or clumps of brushwood, underwood, hedges, heath and scrub. Here there were only two apparent colors: tan and brown. Even the small plots of farmland contained less green than the predominant earth tones, attesting vividly to the region's lack of water although their route took them alongside a sizeable river as they crossed the plain of Aragon.

"Did you know," Father John continued in a mild, conversational tone of voice, "that Deirdre's will is irrevocable?" He glanced shrewdly at the heavily perspiring man next to him.

"What?" Bernard seemed stunned. "What do you mean by irrevocable? And how do you know?"

"Deirdre discovered it when she consulted a lawyer, first in Toulouse and then in Pau."

"Why would she go to a lawyer in France? She only trusted some old family solicitor in Manchester. What is this all about?" Bernard turned a confused face to Father John.

"Oh, something about her brother; it's not important." Father John had no intention of telling Bernard about Keith.

"But irrevocable? I didn't know one could have such a will. I don't understand. Wills are made to be changed, I always thought."

"Yes, so did I. Tell me, Bernard, aside from yourself, who could benefit from such a will?"

"Nobody. We have no children. And of course if we had, the will would have had to be altered somehow, or I could have added a codicil to mine leaving everything, in case I inherited Deirdre, to our offspring. I imagine..." He looked worried and confused.

"Nobody else? Didn't you have a brother?"

"Yes, a few years younger. But he is dead... before my marriage. He was...well," here Bernard sighed and slowed his pace. "I'm not used to walking so much and it's a bit tiring. What was I?...oh yes. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but my brother was not so steady or reliable. Yet our father preferred him and made him his sole heir. Although at the time this looked strange to me; my father's will that is and I always wondered. I truly hate to bring this all up again for it serves no purpose except to smear my family," and he crossed himself. "My brother was not honest. Unfortunately he possessed great personal charm and everyone was always taken in by him, including my father. I do not know if it was this or he somehow falsified my father's will, which, knowing his character, was not beyond him, but, the fact remains that he walked away with a fortune when our father died. It didn't do him much good. He only had time to buy a very expensive apartment in the best part of Brussels where he began extensive renovations that, one night, as he went to inspect progress, killed him. There was a fire...some chemicals being used on the site. Perhaps he experimented with them himself? It had to do with wall covering having to be stripped or something like that. There was a lot of paint thinner and other flammable stuff around and the fire took hold everyplace at once, it seems."

"How did the police establish who it was? Or did you know he would be there that night?"

"No, of course I didn't know. The police checked with his dentist. There was nothing left. He was burned beyond recognition, you see."

"And who inherited the apartment and whatever fortune he had left?"

"I did." Seeing Father John's stern face, he added apologetically, "Well, there wasn't anyone else."

"And did it make a difference to you. Socially? Business-wise?"

"Of course. That amount of money always does."

"And this was after your marriage?"

"No. Before. I would not have dared to approach Deirdre had I not had an equal fortune. It would have made no difference to her but to me...yes it would have. People talk and I was in a position where that would have hurt my various business enterprises. It was bad enough that she was so much younger."

"You're in galleries and art auctions I believe?" Father John stopped and pulled a breathless Bernard over to the side of the road to rest.

"Yes. And real estate and various investments. Oh, of course I've been hit like everyone else, but at least I never fell for some of those fancy schemes the banks were offering and I never trusted private investment firms that somehow always seemed to be making money for everyone. So, all in all, I'll weather it and come out all right. Father John..." he turned to the little priest, "could Deirdre's abduction have something to do with finding her brother? You know perhaps that our priest at home had urged this pilgrimage on us, assuring us that we would either find him or at least hear news of him on the Road this year. And that is why we came. She didn't find him, did she?" He looked hopefully at the little priest but Father John's expression remained vague as he answered that he did not know.

God forgive me the lie but it is all too dangerous, he prayed silently and vowed to go to confession at the next church.

*

"Come, Dee-Dee, we'll go back home. I see you don't feel like playing in the park today. And your Papa will be waiting for us."

Deirdre had turned her back on the 'jolly man' and was pouting.

"Shall we go home?" The young woman asked her again, raising her eyebrows in frustration at the man over Deirdre's bowed head, as if to say 'this will never work.'

"Yes." Deirdre nodded and allowed the 'nanny' to lead her away without a backward glance.

"Is papa at home?"

"Yes, my poppet."

"Why isn't he at work?"

"Have you forgotten you're not in Manchester now, but in the South of France?"

"Oh, oh yes. Is it time for tea yet?"

"By the time we shall be back from the park it will be."

"Good. I'm longing for my tea. And Bernard?"

"Who is he, my sweet?"

"I think he's the chauffeur."

"Yes, he might be. Are you friendly with him?"

"Oh yes, he's very kind." And she skipped down the alleyway, across a driveway and

through a low rear doorway into the shadowed house.

"Is tea in the green salon?"

"No, no, it's the servants' day off so we'll have it in the kitchen. I'll have to make it."

"The kitchen? I will not have my tea in the kitchen, Marie-Therese! I am not a skivvy!" And with that Deirdre stomped defiantly up the stairs to a room at the top of the house.

She entered, looked around and wrinkled he nose in disdain at what she saw.

"Please bring the tea up when it is ready." She called imperiously, and, coming to a decision, quit the room, closing the door very quietly behind her and tiptoed down the stairs and out the front door.

Once clear of the house she began to run. She did not know where she was or who the people were who had been taking care of her but they were certainly not Marie-Therese and the jolly man and Bernard was not the chauffeur; his name was Thomas.

She would walk. Somehow she knew she could walk well and far. Did she have any money? Time to check on that later. First she had to put as much distance between herself and that house as possible.

She looked at her hands, then at her feet hurrying along. They were large and capable. Certainly not the hands and feet of a small child in need of a nanny. And she was wearing jeans. As a child she had always been in dresses, often of silk. There was some money in one of the pockets. Was it enough to get on a bus? Had she ever travelled by bus before? Probably, she thought, or the word would not have sprung to her mind.

Up ahead, she thought. There's a line of people near the curb. They must be waiting for a bus. I wonder where it goes. I'll ask. The false Marie-Therese had said we were not in Manchester but in the south of France, so I'll speak French to them.

"Pardon, Madame..." she began as she came to a halt at the end of the line and was told the bus was leaving for Pau. As she mounted she thought the name 'Pau' seemed familiar and sank back into her seat wondering how long it would take to reach Pau and what she would do there.

*

By the time the group had reached Aruej the sun was straight overhead, small and searing in a hot and empty sky, while the dust stirred up under their feet irritating eyes and nostrils. Under such conditions they were more than happy to sit down to eat and, primarily, to drink whatever was on offer and buy water to take with them for the rest of that day's circuit. Here they also met other wayfarers of the Road, a small group banded together and several on their own.

Names and countries of origin were exchanged as well as reasons for the pilgrimage and discussions about the difficulties already encountered and thoughts of what still lay in store. Everyone was already suffering from the heat, although several, having come from Brazil said the aridity was worse for them while a young couple from Israel stated that when it came to weather they were used to everything and whatever the Road would throw at them could not possibly be worse than what they had to contend with at home.

The afternoon proved even more difficult than the morning, especially for Bernard who was badly out of shape after the attack on him and his long recuperation period. He was forced to make frequent halts to sit down and catch his breath. Consequently their progress was slower than expected and they reached Jaca later than planned. But, as there were quite a few hotels in the town, there was no problem in finding where to stay. Dinner was late, in the Spanish style and Monica grumbled that going to sleep on a full stomach after consuming too many tapas and then a heavy meal would mean that they would not be starting out the next day until close to noon.

Yet, despite the unexpected change of the night before, Father John was up very early the following morning and, after having questioned the concierge of the hotel, followed his directions to the Cathedral of Jaca to attend mass and confession, only rejoining the others later at the hotel for breakfast.

On their way out of town they too stopped at the Cathedral to admire the many chapels replete with rich sculptures of which there was one of St. Jacques as well, and to take in the museum where at least a dozen frescoes dating from the 12th century cloister were on display.

58.

Deirdre took a window seat on a bench for two in the middle of the bus. The place next to her remained vacant, but three stations after she had gotten on she heard someone addressing her.

"Is this seat taken?"

"No."

She turned her head from contemplating the view outside her window and found herself staring at a tall, fair-haired man with even, well-chiseled features and large blue eyes which examined her curiously, taking in her disheveled hair and the tightly clasped hands in her lap.

"Going to Pau?" He enquired, a slight frown beginning to spread over his face. No handbag? She did not seem the type to be travelling light. Late 20s, well-cared for hands, something odd here. "Nice town, Pau."

"Yes."

"Do you live there?"

"I don't think so."

"Don't you know?" Odder and odder, he thought.

"I'm not sure. Oh, of course I am." she laughed. "I'm visiting someone. Yes, I'm going to visit Bernard."

"Ah!" definitely odd. "Are you alone?"

"Oh yes. Now, that is." She frowned, as if trying to remember something. "Until I find Bernard."

"And Bernard is...?"

"A friend."

"Of course. Well! Until you find him you can count me as your friend. I have a thermos with tea; may I offer you a cup?" And he pulled a red Chinese thermos with a large white flower stenciled on its side from the backpack at his feet and unscrewed the top.

"Oh yes. Tea is just what I was longing for."

"It's lucky then that I came along, isn't it?"

They sipped in silence for another two stops.

"This is a very slow bus, isn't it?"

"Yes. It's a local but it'll get you to Pau. Eh, do you know where your friend lives? I mean Bernard. Pau is pretty big."

"Oh yes, he'll be at Maitre Lefarge's."

"A lawyer is he?"

"I'm not sure. He may be. He's not the chauffeur. That's Thomas."

"Are you quite certain of that?" Was she perhaps insane?

"Oh yes. She thought it was Bernard but then, what does she know?"

"May I refresh your cup?" He raised the thermos, ignoring her latest garbled revelations.

"Why thank you. How very kind you are. Perhaps you can advise me, please?"

"I'll do my best." She's very pretty, he thought. Too bad she's...has she escaped from some kind of institution?

"Are there hotels in Pau and would you know a cheap one? I find I don't have much money on me and in case Bernard is not there..." she looked appealingly at him and did not complete her thought.

"Well, off-hand I'm not sure but we can find out when we get there."

"I might also have to phone England, but I don't remember the number. Of course Bernard knows and probably so does Maitre Lefarge."

"Of course." Should he take her home with him? Can one just take a young woman home the way one would a stray dog? And what if she is dangerous, or wanted by the police? Her jeans were a good make; no jewelry. Should he call the police? He'd much rather take her home.

After a night spent at Jaca the by now large group had stocked up on water, dried fruits and nuts, bread and any durable goods that caught their eye for it was doubtful if they would find anyplace to eat along their way to Martes, and, in fact, for another three days when they would also have to sleep outdoors. A hotel was available only in Sanguesa and they phoned ahead to reserve almost all the rooms for themselves for the third day.

"There are several very old and certainly worthwhile churches near our road," began John, who had been studying the guide book, "but this route is difficult enough without taking a detour, so I guess we'll have to skip it."

"Is all of Spain going to be like this?" Monica asked through clenched teeth, her face set and appalled.

"No, of course not." Keith assured her. "We're going through a bad patch, that's all. Come! This is a pilgrimage, Monica. It can't all be a bed of roses. We're meant to suffer a bit for our sins in order to be forgiven and so far we haven't done much of that."

"The main problem is water." Derek echoed Deborah's warning. "We must drink a lot. It's more important than eating and we can't carry that much with us."

"I have some pills with me." Mr. Magian offered softly. "They can be added to the water from the river to purify it for drinking."

"Enough to go around?" Keith asked anxiously.

"Yes. I'm surprised you did not bring any with you, but yes, we'll manage. Your friend, the one who joined us at the station in Spain?"

"Bernard?"

"Yes. He does not look well. He should not have come. I fear..." he did not complete the

thought and moved off.

"There is water here, the Aragon River and a big canal. Why is it all so dry? Desolate?" Charles wondered aloud.

"The river could be utilized for irrigation pipes." Tom remarked, staring at the tiny plots of land where the inhabitants of the few homes they passed were trying to grow tomatoes and peppers. "Don't they know about that?"

Nobody replied. It did not seem worth commenting on and, with set faces and squared shoulders they continued on their way barely speaking, conserving all their strength for the difficult way ahead and at least two nights spent on the bare ground.

*

"Pau. End of the line. All out!" The bus driver called to hurry the stragglers off his vehicle. "Don't forget your packages. The company's not responsible for anything you leave behind." He reminded them good naturedly.

"Come, it's Pau." The young man rose to his feet and picked up his backpack, motioning to Deirdre that she should follow him. Once on the street he turned to her and noticed the vacant yet slightly frightened look on her face.

"Do you know where that lawyer has his office?"

"I think I could find it," she hesitated.

"How much money do you have?"

She put her hand into her jeans pocket and, pulling it out, spread her palm wide.

"Not enough." He remarked, casting a quick glance at her open hand. "Not for a hotel. You'd better come with me. What's your name?" He asked as they walked down the street.

"Deirdre."

"A pretty name. You're not French, are you?"

"No, I'm English."

"Your French is very good."

"Where are we going?"

"Home."

"Oh," She seemed to be thinking deeply, wrinkling her brow. "Is it my home?"

"Well, it will be until we sort you out. I'll look up Maitre Lefarge tomorrow and we'll go to see him, and maybe through him you'll find Bernard. But tonight it's best if I take you home and feed you. Perhaps after a good night's sleep you'll remember the English phone number." He hesitated as they continued to walk up a quiet street of small homes. Was he doing the right thing? But when she suddenly took his free hand and, looking up at him, said, "I'd like that, thank you," he knew he was.

*

"Bernard, you should not have come." Deborah knelt next to him as he rested by the wayside. "Drink some more water." She took his wrist to check his pulse. It was much too rapid and the color in his face was bad, hovering between a congested red and dead white, while his chest rose heavily up and down. "Do you have high blood pressure?" She probed as he nodded his head. "And have you been taking medication for it?"

"Yes," he whispered, "Of course."

"A blood thinner?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"I don't remember."

"Have you any nitroglycerine pills with you?"

"No. Of course not. Whatever for?"

"Don't agitate yourself. Here, put one of these under your tongue. Come on, open up." she cajoled. "That's fine. Just let it melt."

Deborah watched him carefully as he relaxed, a healthier color suffusing his features and a slight smile on his face.

"Better?"

"Yes. Magic? Was that a magic pill?"

"Oh yes. It's been known to work wonders. No, don't try to get up. Rest. We'll go at a slower pace and I'll make you compresses of cold water to wrap around your head, until we can get to some kind of civilization." She smiled at him but a worried frown suffused her features. Heart and blood pressure, a blockage of some kind. He needed a hospital. He should not have come. Oh dear God, and here they were in the middle of nowhere, not even a hotel in the offing. Perhaps it would be wisest to turn back, if he would agree. Jaca had at least 20 hotels; they would undoubtedly have a hospital.

"Father John," she called. "will you keep an eye on Bernard, please? I have to speak to Keith urgently." And with that she put on a burst of speed and hurried to the front of the line.

"Keith, a word please. Yes. Privately." And she pulled him over to the side of the road to explain Bernard's condition.

"He'll have to go back to Jaca. There's nothing ahead."

"He can't go alone," she demurred.

"Who can go with him?" Keith followed the group with his eyes.

"I will," a soft voice intruded.

"You, Mr. Magian? But you have just joined us. Remember, you may not be able to leave him and we shall make every effort to get through the next two days' stages as fast as possible in order to reach some kind of civilization at Sanguesa." Keith looked worried.

"Nevertheless, it is I who shall go. I have a foreboding he will need me,"

Hearing these words Deborah began to cry.

"Tears are expected," Mr. Magian whispered to her, "but there is also rejoicing."

"Is it sure?" Keith paled under his tan.

"Almost completely."

"Can you get him to Jaca...before?"

"Yes." Mr. Magian retorted in a low voice.

"Then God speed and God's grace and mercy go with you. Come Woofy." And Keith hurried to catch up with the others to reclaim his position at the head of the group.
59.

As soon as Bernard felt better, Deborah helped him to his feet and, taking over his backpack, turned her face toward Jaca. She slipped her arm through that of the older man's and urged him back onto the path to the town they had left behind not so long ago, while the rest of the group continued resolutely on its way to Martes.

"I'm fine now," Bernard insisted, "I can go on; it was just the heat."

"Of course it was, but Bernard, it won't get cooler and for the next few nights there isn't even a hotel or a B & B in sight. You should not have come. Why did you?"

"It was Deirdre. Her abduction! I could not sit still in our so empty home and twiddle my thumbs."

"But coming on the pilgrimage does not help her."

"Of course not but it helps me. I feel I'm closer to her this way. That when she reappears it may be here, with the group. I guess I'm a bit muddled...perhaps I only wanted your company, all of you, to keep me sane, to keep me from thinking of her and what has happened to her." And Bernard began to cry in deep, racking sobs.

##

*

"This is not a very big house," Deirdre remarked, looking around at the small vestibule of her benefactor's home.

"No. But I don't need much space. And it's all paid for." He motioned for her to enter the living room to the right of the tiny entrance hall. "Are you hungry?"

She hesitated as if consulting her body before replying in the affirmative.

"Will steak and salad do? It's all I have."

"Thank you. Shall I help you?"

"Do you know your way around a kitchen?" He sounded unsure.

"Enough to make a salad." She bridled at the doubt in his tone of voice.

"O.K." And he motioned her to the back to a large and modern kitchen, after dropping his rucksack on a convenient chair. "Here we are...lettuce. Do you think you could take care of that while I heat the grill? Rare or medium?"

"Rare, please." She separated the lettuce leaves and took them to the sink. "Do you have a spinner?"

"No. There's a folding wire basket. You shake it."

"I can't shake it all over the floor."

"There's a back door and a small garden..." he jerked his thumb in that direction. "And swing hard. Eh, can you make a vinaigrette?"

"Yes."

"Hm, better and better. Wine?"

"Yes, please." She bent her head over a small bowl into which she had put some mustard and, stirring with a wire whisk, proceeded to add olive oil, drop by drop.

By the time they were ready to eat it was completely dark outside and very quiet in this suburban neighborhood.

"My name is Luc," The man volunteered.

"Luc? I don't believe I've ever met anyone by that name." She smiled at him. "You make a perfect steak. How nice this is. They did not treat me very well, you know." She added, her voice shaking as she remembered.

"Why not?"

"I think they wanted money. Why else would they have taken me from the group? At first I didn't care, because of Derek and the hateful things he said." She chewed thoughtfully.

"Derek? What happened to Bernard?"

"Oh, he went home to Brussels. No, it was Derek who made me cry. And then...I don't know...I'd sprayed my perfume around the room. It smelled musty, you see. Well, I don't suppose tree houses are aired very often, do you?"

"I shouldn't think so." Who the hell is Derek and why is she talking about tree houses, he wondered.

"I think someone added something to my Chanel. Derek went out like a light and I felt sick and dizzy. When I woke up I was in a bedroom in a house I'd never seen before. Not the tree. A young woman was by my side. She said she was Marie-Therese and we'd go to the park. Without Kenny. Only it wasn't the park and she wasn't at all like Marie-Therese except for the hair-do. And neither was the jolly man! So..." she breathed in deeply. "I ran away when she went to make the tea. Do you think I should go to the police?"

"No. First we'll find that lawyer you mentioned. He may be able to identify you and he could advise you if you should go to the police or not." She still wasn't making any sense and he was in an even deeper fog with all the new names and facts she had dredged up. "Do you have a last name?"

"Of course. Van Der Gilden. Deirdre Van Der Gilden and I live in Brussels."

"I see," where had she found that name? "What were you doing in a tree house?"

"Spending the night."

"Naturally. And Derek?"

"A friend. We had to double up for the night. The tree houses were in the forest of Laring."

"That's close...just after Lescar." What had she been doing there? At night?

"Yes, I know. You see, they thought it was safe after they routed the bandits in the bois de Bastard." She took a deep sip of the wine, then added, "But it wasn't."

"Who routed the bandits? Derek? Bernard? The jolly man? I'm sorry, Deirdre, I'm a bit confused."

"If you're confused, can you imagine how I feel?"

That was true enough, he thought and, despite all the new information, which ought to have helped he had the feeling of having entered a carnival funhouse filled with mirrors replete with images that both frightened and distorted.

"Is there dessert or cheese or both?" She asked hopefully.

"Cheese. I don't eat dessert." He got up to bring the remains of a brie and some chevre together with butter and finely sliced dark bread.

"Oh good. I find I am very hungry," and she buttered the bread liberally.

"Tea or coffee?" He inquired without sitting down.

"Tea, always."

"So, to get back to the woods..."

"I'd much rather not."

"But what were you doing in a tree house, doubling up with Derek?"

At this point the kettle boiled and he busied himself in wetting the leaves in a small brown ceramic teapot, then allowed them to steep and poured the dark essence into a cup, adding boiling water and placed it in front of her.

"Oh, lovely, just the way I like it," she smiled lazily up at him. "You're very nice, Luc. I'm glad you sat next to me on the bus."

"So am I." He poured himself another glass of wine. "Do you still want to see Maitre

Lefarge tomorrow?"

"No. It's not important."

"And Bernard? Your friend?" He moved a little closer to her.

"He's actually my husband, and no, I don't want to see him. Anyway, he'll be in Brussels by now."

So she had a husband. What was she doing, then, with this Derek in a tree house? Her stories had begun to have some meaning but now, once again, he had the feeling he had experienced in trying to read 'Alice in Wonderland.'

*

"There's Jaca!" Deborah exclaimed breathing a sigh of relief that Bernard had lasted long enough for them to be in sight of this town, for he looked more and more ashen with each step he took and her fear was that he would collapse before help could be reached.

"Will we check into a hotel?" he asked. "I want to call Brussels in case there is any news of Deirdre. I am so worried about her."

"Don't think of that now. You need to rest. Everything will be fine. The entire French police force is out looking for her." And she glanced up at Mr. Magian who was leading the way as if he had always lived in Jaca and knew every side street intimately.

When he came to a halt at the entrance to a square white building, they were both holding Bernard, one on each side, or he would have crumpled to the ground. He was breathing so heavily his mouth hung open continuously and he did not seem to know where he was.

"We'll have you in bed in no time." Deborah promised, as, with great difficulty, they mounted the three deep steps to the front door.

"I'm afraid this is an emergency..." she began to say to the receptionist who had already risen to her feet at their entrance, but had no need to complete her sentence before an orderly came rushing up with a bed on which they placed Bernard just as a nurse appeared to take his pulse and, together, they whisked the by now semi-conscious man to the emergency room. Mr. Magian followed and Deborah went to the desk to give them Bernard's name and vital statistics, taken from his passport which she had found in his backpack.

She could barely read the required information, for her eyes had filled with tears that flowed over and she had neither the willpower nor the courage to stop them.

*

"Deirdre, please, now that you have eaten, please explain a few things to me." Luc leaned closer in order to get her full attention. "Who is Derek and why did you have to double up with him? Why tree houses? Who is Marie-something or other and a jolly man?"

"Where will I sleep tonight?" she demanded suddenly, "and can I have a bath?"

"You'll sleep with me. I have only one bed and I refuse to kip down on the floor. Gallantry goes only so far. And of course you can have a bath."

"Oh, when you say I'm to sleep with you, what exactly do you mean?"

"We'll discuss that later. What about some answers to my questions in exchange for feeding you?"

"Oh all right! You are persistent. Derek is a male nurse. He's one of the group and we always had to double up for sleeping arrangements. Marie-Therese was my nanny when I was four years old and she had a friend I called 'the jolly man'. He was probably responsible for kidnapping Kenny. That was my baby brother who was never found. All this happened in Juan les Pins. So now you know."

"Help!" Luc clapped his hand to his forehead and lowered it to the table.

"What's wrong? You wanted to know."

"Forget it, forget I asked. What group were you a part of that you had to double up?" And why am I questioning this beautiful nitwit? It'll only make my head spin.

"Pilgrims. We were all on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. We started out in Arles."

"Ah, now we're getting someplace. So you and this male nurse were..." he began.

"No! Bernard and I came to Arles, by train and when we got to St. Gilles the next evening, we met this group and joined them. It's better to go with others, you see. So we ended up being 12, not counting the dog."

"Dog?"

"Woofy. He belongs the Keith who turned out to be Kenny. And then Bernard was injured so Derek and I..." she looked vague, then stopped. "If you don't know the people it's not so interesting, but..." she continued eagerly, "we had Monica Quiller with us as well as John Ashforth."

He wondered if she was making this up but her face was beaming and innocent.

Well, Luc thought, even famous people go on pilgrimages but ye Gods what an imagination. Just like him to have picked up a...well, he never knew to keep his mouth shut. "Shall we go upstairs?" He suddenly blurted out, unable to stop himself.

"Oh yes, I'd like that." Her smile was dazzling and Luc got to his feet with alacrity to lead her up to his deep, wide bed.

*

When Deborah entered the emergency room she saw doctors and nurses crowded around Bernard. He was attached to several machines that surrounded him and she could hardly recognize him from where she stood. This was perhaps due to the tears that continued to roll down her face. Uncontrollable, unstoppable, until she felt a strong arm around her shoulders pulling her away from what she knew was Bernard's death bed.

"I can't leave," she whispered.

"Come. You'll only make yourself ill."

The young orderly led her to a chair in a small alcove. "Is he Catholic? Shall we call the priest?"

"Yes, oh yes, please. He's very, very devout."

"You sit here. I'll bring Padre Miguel." And with that he was gone at a run. Deborah bowed, clasped her hands and began to pray.

### When she raised her head some minutes later she hardly dared trust her eyes. At Bernard's bedside was a small, round priest who could have been Father John's double.

At first she thought there had been a miracle and Father John had somehow materialized here in the Jaca hospital's emergency room but, brushing aside her tears, she saw that his face was rounder and his eyes a dark brown, almost black, under heavy brows.

"Go with God my poor Bernard." she prayed. "He will keep you safe until the resurrection. A poor solace for your dreams of a meaningful pilgrimage. You surely had not envisaged this when we first met at St.Gilles. That ferocious attack in Lodeve...why? The long recuperation period, the hope of being able to join us later. Then came Deirdre's abduction...oh, you should not have come but perhaps you felt that your wife had already left you? Derek...yes, and now she is truly lost. She ought to have been here. I don't think I can..." She was unable to complete her thought and buried her face in her clasped hands, mumbling, "For yours is the power, the kingdom and the glory, forever. Amen."

When she finally raised her head she experienced a shock, for she found herself completely alone. The nurses, doctors and aides had disappeared. Bernard's bed was still there, the sheet pulled up to cover the-oh-so-still form underneath. And all around was silence.

"Come," a soft voice urged her "We shall have tea and return to the Road." Mr. Magian was bending over her.

"Is he..?."

"With God. There is nothing for you to do here. You are needed elsewhere."
60.

Deborah and Mr. Magian retraced their steps rapidly, soon leaving Jaca behind and continuing on a trail they had already traversed once. Since the terrain was vaguely familiar they seemed to be making better time and by nightfall, had begun to close in on the group. But not wishing to chance a fall in the dark and, seeing a small bonfire at the side of the road, they decided to investigate. If these were fellow pilgrims it might be possible to join them until morning.

Approaching the fire they saw, just behind it, a medium-sized bright blue panel truck, doors standing open and several figures squatting and lying near the blaze, over which a cast iron pot swayed in the night-time breeze.

At the sound of their footsteps the dim shapes began to rise.

"Do you speak English?" Deborah began and was amazed to see that four young men had sprung to their feet and were signaling them to approach.

"Welcome," one called softly.

"You are very welcome." They were addressing Mr. Magian and had adopted an almost reverential attitude to the older man. "Please join us. We are about to eat."

They motioned for Deborah and Mr. Magian to sit down on a large, frayed oriental carpet on which brightly colored cushions had been tossed.

The shortest and slightest of the four then went to the back of the truck, jumped in, and emerged with bowls and spoons which he brought over to the fire and handed, one after the other, to another young man who dipped a large ladle into the iron pot and filled a bowl. This was brought first to Mr. Magian and a second followed for Deborah.

Another of the four cut a large country bread into thick slices and passed them around while the last one of the group poured wine into thick, hand-blown unevenly shaped green glasses.

"Do join us," the first motioned towards the cushions and both Deborah and Mr. Magian sank down among the pillows on the once proud and gaily patterned rug.

"We are very happy to see you, magister," the tallest of the four addressed the thin man.

"There is great need for your wisdom on the Road."

"From whence come you?" the shortest one asked.

"From across the mountain."

"And?"

"There are only rumors."

"There are always rumors."

"But they are louder this year." Mr.Magian said.

"I have heard of a blond monk who is as deadly as a viper." The small man offered.

"There was also a dark one but he has been eliminated." The tall, young one added.

"Yes, yes. Ah, Deborah, you must be wondering...these are friends." Mr. Magian turned to her. "This is Jacob," he pointed to the shortest of the four. "And Joseph," who was the tallest, "David," a dark young man of medium height, "And his twin, Ibrahim." He turned again to Deborah to add "I had hoped to find them on the Road but thought it would be closer to Compostela. Eat up, eat up, you need the strength." he ordered. "These four are all related to a member of your group."

"Really? Who?" Deborah laid her spoon down in surprise.

"Peter-Paul."

*

"Oh Luc!" Deirdre sighed softly into his hair. "Where did you ever learn that?"

"Instinct," he replied tersely, slightly out of breath, and rolled over onto his back, stretching his arms over his head. "You're quite a woman!" he finally murmured.

"And you're quite a man! My husband never...well,...the least said about that the better. And Derek was shy. Mmmm." her voice faded at the thought.

"Are you truly married? To Bernard? I want to know all about you. It'd odd but you're like a chameleon, changing constantly. On the bus you were like a small child, then, bit by bit, you seemed to grow up in front of my eyes. Am I right?"

"I think they drugged me."

"Who?" he leaned on one elbow and looked down into her face. "What happened to you?"

Slowly and painstakingly, as if speaking to someone with limited mental resources, she told him about her past. About Manchester and Juan-les-Pins, her father's apathy, her marriage to a much older man, their priest's hints and their decision to go on the Road. The attack in Lodeve, Monsieur Cotte's window display and the discovery that Keith was probably Kenneth and finally about her involvement with Derek. Here she paused to kiss him until desire once more swept them into different channels so that her final revelations did not reach his conscious mind until dawn was breaking.

*

"Peter-Paul?" Deborah reiterated. "Then you are also Roma?"

"Of course," Joseph replied, smiling brilliantly at her amazement, "what did you think when you saw us camping near a bonfire at the side of a road in Spain a black iron cauldron bubbling away in front of us?"

"Do you like our stew?" David questioned.

"Yes, yes indeed. It's excellent, what..." she began to be stopped in mid-sentence by a laughing Mr. Magian.

"Deborah, don't ever look a gift horse in the mouth and never, ever ask a gypsy what is in his pot."

Quickly Deborah put aside her still full bowl, looking troubled. "I'm not sure..." she began.

"Gracious lady..." Jacob bowed to her, "do not take fright, but eat your fill. We may be travelers of the Road but we are not cannibals. I will not deny that we are adept at, shall we say, 'finding' the ingredients for our stew pot but there is nothing in it to disgust a Christian or for that matter a Muslim or a Jew, for our brothers David and Ibrahim converted, so we never poach what is haram or non-kosher."

"Poach?"

"Well...," he shrugged.

"Eat, Deborah! You're hungry and God is not looking. It is dark." Mr. Magian smiled.

"I suppose so. This has been a harrowing day." And she returned to the contents of her bowl which was indeed well-prepared and succulently spiced. "How are you related to Peter-Paul and does he know you are here?" she turned to Joseph.

"We're first cousins. On his mother's side. And yes. He does know. We sense it when one of our family is in the vicinity. But we are actually here for Mr. Magian who had let us know that trouble was brewing."

"Yes, I see." Deborah took a big sip of the wine in her glass and found it both refreshing and strong. "This is just what I needed after Bernard." And she fell into a brown study, to be roused by Mr. Magian's lowly murmured words.

"I asked at the hospital to have Bernard's remains sent to Brussels. His lawyer will see to the rest. He was well organized, Bernard, and had all the pertinent information on him, including the persons to contact should anything happen to him."

"Oh thank you. You have no idea how I have been worrying about funeral arrangements ever since...and did not know..." here she stopped suddenly to wipe her eyes. "And no word of Deirdre."

*

"And Bernard in all this?" Luc asked softly into her ear as they lay entwined on his bed.

"I intended to leave him. I wanted a divorce. I wanted...how can I explain it? I wanted to live! He was the right man for my mental state at the time we met. I needed the father who had been denied me ever since my brother was taken and my mother died. But after four years I was healed and I wanted to live...and yes, love and have all the experiences I did not get to have because of the horror that struck my family. Can you understand that?"

"Of course. And you are afraid, aren't you, that he instigated the abduction?"

"Yes, yes I am. To keep me from divorcing...perhaps to keep me from finding out about the irrevocable will...to make me dependent on him again, to make me a child again."

"What do you propose to do about it?"

"I don't know."

"Since your abduction a few days ago your fellow pilgrims must have called the police as well as your husband. Your description will have been circulated. It will be difficult to keep you hidden here in a city, where you might be spotted on any street. Do you want to go to the police?"

"No, I want to stay with you. I've never felt so right with anyone."

"Then we'll have to disguise you."

"How?"

"A very short haircut; dyed black; a different name and, let's see, different clothes. Yes, then as husband and wife we can take to the Road and go to Compostela. I have a feeling all will be resolved there."

"I like the husband and wife bit," she laughed and hugged him, holding him close. "but I do not want to rejoin the Road or the group, not until the end of the pilgrimage in Compostela. Could we go someplace else until then?"

"Yes. We can be a normal couple taking their normal summer vacation and go in the opposite direction."

"What would my new name be?"

"Martine Castres."

"Castres? Isn't that a city in France?"

"Our family stems from there...many generations ago we were de Castres, but we dropped the de."

"You're noble?"

"Haven't you noticed? A real chevalier servant!"

*

The group had reached Martes at sunset. True to the warnings they had received there was no hotel, hostel or even camping site. Nor anyplace to buy a meal. Consequently they found an area off the side of their road where a few meager trees were trying to sustain a feeble existence and settled their sleeping bags under them in a wide circle. The used some of their precious water to moisten a wash cloth with which they refreshed faces, hands and hot, aching feet, wishing they could immerse their bodies in bathtubs, showers or lakes. Then they settled down to their evening meal of dried fruits, nuts and various cereals, a form of muesli without the milk. They washed this repast down with water then sat staring at the small fire they had kindled, not for warmth or to cook their food but as a warning sign to others that this was their enclave for the night and not to approach.

Although there was a light breeze, the air remained oppressive, weighing down on them like a too heavy blanket in the summer, and this, together with the discomfort of sleeping on the bare and very hard ground in thin sleeping bags made it a disagreeable experience for all. Except for Father John who had evidently accustomed himself to spending his nights on bare boards in his monastery by the sea. Peter-Paul, too, seemed to be completely at ease, as if he had dropped into a feather bed, only draping his beige shawl over his head and face to block out all light.

Close to 3:00 AM he suddenly awoke, frowned and sat up, his eyes searching the deep darkness, for the fire had burned itself out some time before. His ears, attuned to the night-time sounds of soughing winds and faint rustlings were unable to locate the feeling of unease and immense sorrow that had welled up in his soul prior to his awakening.

All seemed calm. The pilgrims in their sleeping bags had not stirred, exhausted from the road and the harsh conditions. But Woofy was awake, his head raised from Keith's chest, watching, listening.

"You heard it too?" Peter-Paul whispered and the little dog whined once in reply. "A soul has passed." He muttered, rose carefully not to awaken the others, and quietly built up the spent fire again.

"My cousins are near. But someone has passed."

He sighed deeply and, sitting down, tucked his legs under him and closed his eyes. He emptied his mind and then let it wander at will until the smiling face of Bernard flashed in front of him, fading slowly and leaving only a velvety deep blue glow behind.

Peter-Paul's eyes flew open...wide, startled and staring straight ahead into the fire, an expression of infinite sorrow sweeping over his features and he began to chant softly, rocking gently from side to side in harmony with the cooling breeze that had arisen in the earliest hours of the new day.
61.

When morning came it brought with it the full fury of the sun so that by 8:30 it already felt as if it were high noon. Again they moistened a rag and washed in rudimentary fashion, then breakfasted off yesterday's bread and a few grapes they had managed to buy in Jaca among their other purchases.

Conversation was desultory, as if they were loath to expend energy on idle chat and hoped to

retain it for the difficult day ahead. Of them all, Peter-Paul was the quietest, hardly replying

when addressed and sinking into meditation and some strange chant if anyone attempted to

speak to him. Father John sighed deeply and frowned at his co-pilgrim's vagaries, then went

to consult Keith who was discussing Deirdre's disappearance with Charles.

"Has Deborah gotten in touch?" he asked Keith, cutting into the conversation.

"No. And her cell is off." He replied, a worried expression on his face. "Perhaps she's still in the hospital. I don't like this."

"Neither do I. Do you think we should wait?"

"No. We must move on. Today's stretch is worse than yesterday's and at the end of it, in

Ruesta, there is no relief at all. The town may be on the map, but it is deserted and nobody has

lived there for years."

"We should have arranged for transport for these three difficult days." John interrupted. "We have logged up enough on our certificates to allow us to ride."

"You're right. I did not think it would be quite so bad, but there is nothing we can do about it now. There are no mini-vans for hire in this desolation."

"My cousins will be among us in less than an hour and they have a panel truck that could take you, Father John, and perhaps some of the women." Peter-Paul had joined them so silently they had not heard him approach.

"Cousins?" John asked, "Are they also going to Compostela, or should I say riding?"

"Eventually, yes. They are here for Mr. Magian, not at my request, but they can be trusted."

"How do you know they are in the area?" As usual, Charles was suspicious.

"I had word." He would say no more and continued to stare, wide-eyed, into the distance, a stern and mournful expression on his face.

"What we need is a joyful song from you today to keep our spirits up." Keith suggested,

feeling that there was something strange about Peter-Paul this morning.

"Not today, Keith. Today, all I hear in my head is the Dies Irae." And with that he left them to join Mavis and Monica, taking them both by surprise by embracing first one and then the other before stepping out onto the road once more.

"Odd," Charles muttered as Keith looked on in wonder.

"No," Father John too stared after the three figures. "No, he knows. As of this morning for sure; perhaps even earlier."

"What are you talking about?" Both John and Charles looked for an answer from the little

priest, who had lowered his eyes and buried his face in his hands.

"Don't you understand?" Keith whispered to them, "Bernard is gone. May God have mercy

on his soul."

*

Having made certain that their campfire was properly extinguished, for in this heat even one

errant spark left unnoticed, could cause a disaster, the four brothers rapidly and methodically

transferred the folded-up rug, the many cushions and the cooking pot to the bowels of the blue panel truck. Then aided Deborah and Mr. Magian to mount in front with Joseph who was

driving and clambered into the rear on narrow benches that ran along both sides, and closed

the back door. The truck took off in a spurt of dust heading towards Ruesta.

If anything, this day's route, a relatively short 22 km., was more austere and bleak than the one they had traversed the previous day. The ground upon which they walked was so badly burned by the elements it was unable to support a blade of grass, much less a tree and, while the Aragon river continued to flow on their right, all around them was emptiness and desolation.

Perspiring freely and setting one foot in front of the other using sheer will power, they forged ahead, meter by meter, heads lowered like oxen straining at the yoke, counting every step and, when they had reached l00, starting all over again. Today's procession proved daunting and slow and the extreme monotony of the scenery gave it a timeless air, as if all their exertions were merely futile exercises in walking in place.

They drank, but sparingly, afraid their supply would run out and not wishing to add to the misery of the day by detouring to the river and using Mr.Magian's pills.

As they were beginning to feel that things could not possibly get any worse, they saw a bright light ahead in the distance, with smoke billowing up into the sky.

"Fire!" Steven called down the line.

"But what is there here to burn?" Kurt wondered, "There is nothing."

"Might be up ahead, though." Steven warned, "We'd best approach carefully."

*

"Martine, my love," Luc murmured, "you are even more delectable with black hair. You should never go back to your own color."

"I have to get used to it." She stared into the mirror amazed at what a change of color and style could do. "What about clothes? What can I alter there? Everyone wears jeans."

"Of course they do. It's the shirts. Yours was too baggy. We'll change that to tight, molded to your body and more with-it walking shoes. Yours are superb quality and because of that a bit frumpy. Also...I'm not sure if we should have backpacks or suitcases. Perhaps backpacks and one roll-on case in the car. It's the image I'm thinking of...a young couple off on vacation, perhaps even a hiking vacation in the mountains?"

"Then of course backpacks."

"I'll buy everything used. It would look odd if we had all new clothes and luggage. I know a store that will have everything we will need. And while I'm at it, give me your left hand."

She stretched her hand out to him and solemnly he placed a narrow gold band on her ring finger.

"In the words of your English rite: 'With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship...' I like that part!" he grinned at her. "You are now Madame Castres." and then he kissed her.

"Oh Luc," she sighed, "why, if I am committing bigamy, does this feel so right?"

*

Flames and smoke continued to rise ahead and they hurried forward, wondering if someone would see it in this desolation and would call the fire department, and if such a service even existed here. When they drew closer they saw that the conflagration was not on the path but to one side, closer to the river and that the flames were erupting from a small dwelling, typical of those already encountered on this side of the mountain.

They hoped fervently that nobody was trapped inside for there was no way they could have helped. They could only stand by uselessly and wonder how the blaze might have been started. The extreme heat and searing dryness had undoubtedly produced a spark and in this wasteland it needed only that to burn down an entire town.

"This is not the best place to meet," remarked Mr. Magian as he descended from the front seat of the small truck, followed closely by Deborah.

"Was anyone inside?" she asked.

"If they were it's too late now." Tom grumbled. "It's not as if we could have helped."

"No, of course not. Oh, Father John!" And she rushed to him. He embraced her, patting her on the back.

"I know, I know."

"How?"

"Peter-Paul." Was all the little priest would say.

"Ah yes, I should have guessed." She turned, and seeing him, called out, "Your cousins are here."

"Of course," he smiled. "There's no way of getting away from family, is there?" And with that he kissed the four young men who had quietly joined them, one after the other.

The fire burned itself out, leaving behind a blackened frame, reeking and smoldering, adding to the bleakness of an already vacant outlook.

The group continued to stare at the smoking remains and, subconsciously expected to hear the clang and siren of fire engines but there was not a sound. Not even of bird-song.

"Who would like to ride to Ruesta?" Peter-Paul called out. "My cousins can take you. Monica?"

"No, I'll stick it out."

"Good girl."

"Isn't that what one says to a dog after a particularly clever trick?" She challenged him but he only laughed in reply.

In the end John sat next to Joseph in the front while Helen with Mavis and Woofy rode in the back. Keith felt the route was too much for the little dog and since he himself would not desert the others, that left only Mavis to take care of his pet. Woofy would not have gone with anyone else.

"We'll set up camp." David promised Peter-Paul. "See you in Ruesta."

"We have to talk." Joseph added.

"Yes, yes. Later. Count the stars," Peter-Paul added, "there's one missing." And with that cryptic phrase they kissed each other once more and the blue panel truck took off into the distance, making for a ghost town.
62.

"That was arson, plain and simple." Charles muttered. "It was all concrete and stone, yet the

fire took hold everyplace at once."

"An accident," Tom protested, "The heat, the dryness."

"No. In that case it would have been in one section only. There was no wind to whip it up. There's hardly any furniture, most of it was probably built into the walls. Somebody set that fire and left, or arranged a timer to be activated after he would be well out of the area." Charles insisted.

"Let me get this right," Father John stepped forward to ask. "If a fire starts in an enclosed space in every area of that space, it is suspect. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Father. Fires, spontaneous ones...due to a spark, faulty wiring, a cinder dropping on the hearth rug from a badly protected fireplace, to name a few causes, will burn initially in that area and once having consumed what there is in the vicinity will either burn itself out or move on if there is more for it to devour. But if a fire burns in all corners of the room, house, area, from the inception of the blaze then it has most likely been set. For instance...gasoline or paint

thinner in the four corners of a space with plenty of crumpled newspapers to keep it going. That's a typical arson scene. And that's what I think we have here."

"What would you say if a badly charred body, impossible to identify except from dental records, were found at such a scene?" Father John persisted in his line of questioning.

"My first thought would be who will profit from this accidental death? For, you see Father John, that's almost a classic way of disposing of a body where by other means murder would be suspected."

"But let's say this happened in an apartment where renovations were taking place, so of course there would be paint and turpentine and all sorts of other chemicals. The fire took hold in all areas at once and the new owner of the apartment, having dropped in at night to check on the progress, was suddenly caught in the conflagration and perished. He was, of course, unrecognizable and was identified only from his dental records."

"Well, Father John, I deduce that this is an old case and a real one. No, I don't want you to break the seal of the confessional for me. It is certainly an old case for DNA would solve the identification problem nowadays, even with a badly burned body. You see, dental records can be faked. A break-in at the dentist's and a switch of the cards or if the body had plates or bridges, well, those can be altered and nobody would wonder at it if they no longer fit the badly burned mouth. I would definitely say that what you are proposing is a crime of murder and a cover-up. Someone wishing to disappear, to be thought dead and perhaps drugging a homeless man of the right body build, then burning him together with the apartment. The dental records match and hey presto, the murderer is assumed dead in the fire and is free to have plastic surgery to alter his face and start a new life someplace else. Does that help?"

"Oh yes," Father John sighed, "but it raises a whole lot of other questions and, unfortunately, there is now nobody left around to answer them. But I am afraid. Yes, afraid. And I fear now even more for Deirdre."

"Deirdre?" Steven gasped. "Does this have something to do with Bernard's death?"

"In a roundabout way, yes. She is a double heiress now and I'm afraid Bernard's unsatisfactory brother is still very much alive."

*

After Luc had departed to go shopping for the essentials of their trip, Deirdre also left the small house and, vaguely remembering their route of the night before, hoped to find a more commercial street that might have a supermarket or at least some food shops, for she had a sudden urge to surprise Luc with a home-cooked meal. Odd, she thought, I never thought to do that for my father or for Bernard.

Having asked a woman who, from the size of her shopping cart also seemed to be heading for the stores and being told that there were excellent ones just around the corner, she was pleased to discover not only a supermarket but a butcher shop which also carried a fine selection of fish. Then, her choices made, she hurried back to the small house and began to wash and slice some vegetables before tackling a very fresh St. Peter fish.

By the time Luc returned she had had time to change the sheets and towels and was in the process of whipping up some home-made mayonnaise for the fish, which she decided they

would eat cold with an array of baby vegetables lightly sprinkled with herbs.

"Smells good. Have you been cooking?" He asked with a grin as he kissed her and put down a large package with the logo "Retread" in bold red letters on it.

"Yes. Are you hungry?"

"I wasn't but I am now."

"Oh," she colored slightly and lowered her eyes. "I borrowed some money from what you left on your night table...for the groceries. I'll pay it back as soon as I can get in touch with the bank in Brussels."

"That's not advisable at this stage. We don't know if Bernard had anything to do with your kidnapping so it's best if nobody knows where you are until we are sure who is a friend and who a foe. I'll foot the bills."

"Whatever you say. Come and eat and then I want to see what's in the bag."

*

From a distance Ruesta beckoned them on, giving all the appearance of a well-developed small town with a center and an old church, replete with bell-tower but, as so much in this shimmering landscape, it too was a mirage. The buildings were there but no sign of life could be discerned, neither human nor animal, in its narrow streets. And the silence amidst this illusion of civilization was disturbing.

Joseph parked the truck in the center and he and his brothers descended, helping the others to alight.

"We could sleep inside some of the abandoned houses tonight." Helen suggested, peering into the half-opened entranceway of one.

"Yes, along with the poisonous snakes and spiders." Mavis sounded disgruntled. "No Woofy, heel! I don't want you to be bitten by something."

"Snakes, skinned and marinated then fried makes a most nourishing dish. Tasty too." Jacob suggested.

"Don't you dare!" Mavis warned as he smiled guilelessly at her.

"Well, maybe there are fish in that lake although it looks very muddy to me. But I'll check it out; we'll need something for the pot tonight."

"Does Peter-Paul eat any of these delicacies?" Helen wondered out loud. "He looks very fastidious to me."

"He's a gypsy," was all Joseph would reply.

By that time they had made a tour of the town. It was intact, except for broken windows and doors that sagged on their hinges. There were indications of many inundations which had left heavy deposits of mud on the facades of all the small houses.

"It was the lake of Yelsa overflowing year after year and depositing mud on the fields that caused the inhabitants to finally desert their homes and start over someplace else." John informed them.

"Couldn't they have built barricades?" Helen asked.

"They did. But the lake was stronger." John replied.

"It's sad." Mavis murmured. "Well, let's find a relatively vermin and snake free house for the night." And with that they started to examine each option, then decided the abandoned church would be their best choice and began to undertake some rudimentary cleaning operations before the rest of the group would join them.

The four young men contributed their worn carpet, the cushions, and found a place for the iron pot in the area before the entrance to the former church.

"Well, it'll have to be soup," they decided. "No place to catch a hare or stray hen here. We have plenty of vegetables and a water tank. It'll do."

And they went to work peeling, chopping, slicing and cubing so that by the time the rest of the group could be heard approaching, the pot was bubbling most appetizingly. Even without a hare, a chicken or a snake.

*

"These are lovely, Luc, and they're a perfect fit." Deirdre sounded surprised as she tried the shoes and the colorful T shirts Luc had bought in the second-hand shop. "However did you guess my size?"

"I saw enough of you last night to give me a very good idea," he seemed pleased.

"Well, everything's brilliant. Oh, the backpack is better than the one I had. Please do keep track of all the expenses."

"Of course." He was amused to hear the concern in her voice. "I shall also start calling you Martine from now on. At all times. Even in bed so we won't make any mistakes in front of people, all right?"

"All right. You don't have to change your name, do you?"

"No. I'm not on anyone's wanted list."

"I never asked but...what do you do? For a living I mean?" She looked up from the contemplation of her new wardrobe.

"I'm a chef."

If he had told her he was a professional hit man she could not have been more surprised.

"A real one or just an amateur?"

"A real one. Why? Does that seem odd to you?"

"Well, yes, but it does explain the poky entrance hall and living room and the state-of-the-art kitchen. I did wonder." She smiled at the thought of her own culinary efforts.

"And you're probably wondering what I'm doing at home taking care of your problems and intending to spend several weeks on an extended holiday."

"Well, yes, that too."

"I was working in a very nice restaurant in Toulouse. And before you say anything else, yes, it was a nuisance to come home only Saturday and Sunday when the place was closed, but it had a fine reputation and we did well. We even got one Michelin star, and then..." he shrugged.

"The world-wide crash?"

"Yes, of course. I had already cleared out most of my stuff when we met. Those were the last bits I had in my bag when I got on the bus." he looked glum.

"What now?"

"I've got severance pay and savings and something coming in each month from unemployment insurance so I can afford to take off a few weeks to straighten out your problems. Then I'll have to look around. Hearing my prospects you might decide to return to Brussels and Bernard after all."

"Never, Luc, but I do have an idea."

"And I won't be bankrolled by a rich woman," his face was set. "I'm the breadwinner in this family or it's no go."

"You're making a mistake, my dear." She caressed his face with her hands, smiled, then became suddenly very serious. "But just listen to my story of a town called Lodeve, a hotel called Le Petit Cedre and a very determined sixteen-year old businesswoman named Mathilde."

*

It was still daylight but the fierceness of the sun had been blunted by the approach of evening and a light, cooling breeze began to make itself felt as it wandered through the empty streets of the town, poking into open doorways and smashed windows to swirl sand into dust devils and to reverberate the knocking of one window frame into an echoing clatter of long-lost feet on stone as if the inhabitants had suddenly returned to take possession of their once proud wellspring.

An hour later, when the heavens had darkened they were made aware of the sound of marching feet, becoming louder and louder as if an army was advancing on the town. Woofy barking sharply, leaped up and hurtled to the entryway of the church to throw himself into Keith's arms.

"Yes, yes, I'm here. It's all right, it's all right." He hugged the little dog and stood up, holding an excited Woofy in his arms. "Well, this does look nice." He remarked approvingly looking around at the still brightly colored rug and the cushions in all colors strewn across it. "And whatever's in the pot outside adds to the feeling of home."

One after the other the rest of the group straggled in...hot, dirty, tired and disgruntled but at the sight of the gaily decorated church their spirits lifted and they collapsed happily onto the large carpet.

"I'm afraid our soup is vegetarian." Joseph stepped forward to announce.

"There aren't even any..." Jacob began.

"If you're going to talk about snakes I'll hit you." Mavis warned.

"No, no, I was going to say doves or pigeons."

"Oh God!" Monica covered her face with her hands, then shouted: "Cannibal! And don't think I didn't notice you sizing up Woofy!"

"I've never eaten a dog in my life, Madame!" Jacob thundered "That surely is haram and non-kosher and anti-Christian! You defame my character. If you were a man I would call you out...to the death!"

The words echoed and re-echoed through the church until a smiling Mr. Magian stepped forward and raised his hand.

"Peace! I have been doing some exploring in this ghost town and have made a pleasant discovery. Next to what was perhaps the city hall there are steps going down to what looks like

an old, disused quarry. It is filled to the brim with clear, sweet water. I would not advise drinking it," he added at the delighted exclamations that greeted his statement. "but one can surely bathe in it."

An excited hubbub greeted his words as Steven leaped to his feet.

"I'm as good under water as on a cliff side, Mr. Magian. Let me make a quick survey before we all dive in to wash. It may not be safe." And with that Steven, with Derek and John in tow, headed for the pool.

"See if there are any fish." Jacob called after them, although he rather doubted it and thought the soup, together with a large slice of bread, would certainly be enough for them all for the night.

63.

When Steven returned from his visit to the water filled quarry he was still wet, his jeans over his arm, and smiling from ear to ear.

"Well?" the group clustered around eagerly.

"Wonderful. And safe. Like a swimming pool."

"All right!" Keith shouted. "Ladies night at the Turkish baths! Take towels and a change of clothing. Enjoy."

Deborah, Helen, Mavis, Monica and Mathilde jumped up excitedly and began to burrow in their rucksacks then made a mad dash for their impromptu baths.

"No peeking!" Monica admonished as she sped off.

"Surely God is looking after us." Father John smiled, "He is even providing water in the wilderness."

"Amen." Peter-Paul whispered as he thought of Bernard, who had so often used that word to end an important statement. So be it.

"We'd better bathe in two shifts afterwards. Without the women we are now l5!" Derek counted and wondered if Peter-Paul's cousins would...or would not take advantage of the water. He didn't know much about gypsies. As if sensing his hesitation, Peter-Paul adopted a serious expression and said he thought they should divide it up in order of seniority with first option given to Father John and perhaps Mr. Magian, but the latter decided to remain with the four cousins as did Peter-Paul himself so that as soon as the women returned, beaming, Father John, Keith, John, Derek, Tom, Steven as well as Kurt and Wolf headed for the pool. To be followed upon their return by Peter-Paul, the four cousins, Mr. Magian and Charles. And finally even Woofy had his turn as Keith took him back and let him paddle around after he had washed the little dog thoroughly.

So it was that slightly more than two hours after the group had arrived at Ruesta to be faced by a ghost town, they now sat down on the threadbare carpet among the pillows and judicially placed candles to disperse the gloom, clean and happy, dipping their spoons into a thick vegetable soup and taking large bites out of slabs of a dense light brown bread.

*

"Do we have everything?" Luc asked as they made ready to leave the house.

"Yes. I've checked and double checked. Clothes, sleeping bags, cosmetics, extra shoes, IDs."

"Then we'll get started. I'll lock up," he suited action to words. "Now, I'm going to take both backpacks. The neighbors are used to me lugging all sorts of equipment around. I'll go to the nearest bus stop. Do you remember where we got off last night? And do you think you can find it?"

"Yes. Straight ahead then right and left. I went that way this morning for my shopping."

"Great!" He kissed her briefly. "I'd prefer no witnesses to our leaving together. I'll even make sure to call attention to my departure...alone. And you will just disappear. Yes, you look different now, but let's play it safe, at least until we have some idea who is trying to harm you. Now...go on down to the main street and get on bus #5. Stay on until the end of the line. It will take you to the edge of the city and I'll be there to meet you. Here, take some more money."

She hesitated, afraid to leave him. "Martine...trust me. I'll be there." She looked up into his eyes, nodded her head and began to walk briskly straight ahead then turned right without a

backward glance.

"You stupid bitch! How could you let her get away?" the tall man shouted.

"I told you! And stop calling me names. I went to make the tea for her highness and she sneaked out. It wasn't my job to give her the right amount of dope...you fucked up!"

"Didn't you hear her leave?"

"No, I told you. She refused to have her tea in the kitchen. 'I am not a servant' she said or some such shit. A real stuck up bitch. And she went up to her room and demanded I bring it to her as soon as it was ready. When I brought it she was gone. Skipped."

"I've looked everyplace. Where could she have gotten to?"

"The police, that's where. And if they've been alerted I'm not sticking around. I'm leaving." She picked up her handbag and headed for the door. "You can do your dirty work by yourself from now on. I'm not getting mixed up with the police."

"Wait, Elsie, wait. I'll make it worth your while." He grasped her arm to detain her but she shook herself free.

"No way. Go peddle your rugs, you washed up has-been. It's all you're good for."

"What did you say?" His hand grasped her roughly again.

"Let go of me! You said there'd be big money to be had out of that girl. Her husband'd pay; her father. And you had a sure-fire way of keeping her docile. Well, she's flown the coop and I'm not sitting here and waiting for the cops to come and get me. You lied to me!"

"Listen, I know her. She's rich; so's her old man and her husband is rolling. We have to get her back."

"You do it alone. I'm outta here and you'd be better off peddling your rugs!"

"What do you know about that?" He grasped her tightly while she struggled. "What did you see? What do you know?" He shook her back and forth like a rag doll until he heard something snap and she fell forward, limp in his arms.

"Elsie!" He shouted and shook her again, then removed his hands and watched in horror as she slid to the floor and lay there without moving.

*

The bedrolls were spread out on the carpet. Bowls and spoons had been washed and stowed away, the candles were guttering as their lifespan decreased and the group conversed softly, yawned and began to think of sleep.

Peter-Paul and his cousins sat in a circle and exchanged news, views, interpretations of omens and the knotty problem of a missing star in the night-time sky.

Overhearing some of this, Mr. Magian just smiled, pulling the visor of his cap down over his face and settled himself for sleep.

Keith entered the church, having taken Woofy for his last outing, and made his way over to Father John who indicated that he wished to discuss something with him. He sank down onto the carpet at the little priest's side and gave him his full attention.

"Something has been nagging at me for a while now," Father John began, "but with Deirdre's disappearance and then poor Bernard's death, I never got around to talking to you about it, and anyway, it was rather vague. Not until tonight could I finally put my finger on the real problem...so..."

"Yes?"

"The evening you came to my room in Montpellier, we discussed the article in the newspaper that reported the murder of the hostel attendant and we also talked about your reason for being on the pilgrimage and of course the so-called Brother Guillaume's bizarre behavior. You also gave me the full background about your life. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, Father John. I wanted you to know the reason for my automatically turning to the clergy for help in anything and everything."

"Yes, yes, well, when you related the story of how you were found, as a baby, on your mentor's doorstep, you also spoke of your christening and the name that was chosen for you. You said, if I am not mistaken, that someone had read an English detective story and contributed the first name of Keith because you had been wearing a tiny sailor suit with British labels so they thought you might not be French. Am I right?"

"Yes, Father. It was the postmistress who felt I ought to have an English name."

"And then someone else suggested the last name of 'Sommerville' because the word 'summer' is English for ete and you had been found on the steps of Père Jerome's house in the summer?"

"Yes, Father."

"Then how can you possibly be Deirdre's brother? He was born in the middle of winter! Remember the reason for the removal from Manchester to the South of France? The doctor said the cold winter in Manchester was bad for Mrs. Braithwaite in her condition. Her son Kenneth was born at Christmas-time and you were born in high summer. Ergo, you are not and could never have been Deirdre's brother."

There was total silence as Keith came to grips with this new reality and all its ramifications.

"You're right, Father...I just assumed, I didn't think...because of the outfit I had been told I was wearing, but it truly was July and not December."

"There are other discrepancies as well, the most glaring of all being the question of why the Jura? Why so far and in a part of France Marie-Therese did not know? A distance requiring rail travel and most importantly several changes of clothing for a week-old baby. If Deirdre says her brother was wearing a little sailor suit when he was kidnapped he could never have arrived in the Jura in the same outfit; babies have to be changed frequently. And if you were really Deirdre's brother and were kidnapped in winter there would have had to be a heavy, warm blanket as well or you could not have been left on anybody's doorstep and survived."

"Of course; what a fool I've been!"

"Not a fool...you just didn't think it through after you heard about the sailor suit, but you are not Kenneth. Deirdre will have to look much closer to Juan les Pins. Marie-Therese was kind, Deirdre said, and she loved children. She would have taken Kenny to the closest and safest place and not leave him like an unwanted package on someone's doorstep. She would have gone to a church, a convent, a religiously run orphanage and that place would have had to be very close to Juan les Pins. It is in these establishments that Deirdre should search for a baby boy abandoned at Christmas time 25 years ago. They have records and these are now open for both those searching and for the children now grown-up, who were brought to these places in order that they can find their true kin. She'll find him, I'm certain, in the Riviera area. Probably Nice but she and you can be certain that you are not Kenneth Braithwaite."

*

Deirdre entered the bus, paid her fare and sat down near the driver. It gave her a sense of security to be close to someone in command, even if he was merely a bus driver. If anyone tried to speak to her or question her she could appeal to him for he was, after all, in charge, like the captain of a ship.

She had not been frightened when she had gone shopping that morning but that was because it had been in full daylight and her mind had been focused on what she would buy to cook for their meal and thereby surprise and, she hoped, please Luc. At night, however, the old fears assailed her and she began to wonder why Luc had decided on this roundabout way of leaving Pau. Why had they not waited until morning, rented a car, and departed in the normal manner? Why was he taking her to the edge of the city? Was he in league with her kidnappers after all?

No, she could not be that wrong. He could have drugged her at any time and either kept her prisoner in his house or taken her someplace else without her even being aware of it. She had to trust him, at least until she got to the end of the line.

*

"From whence comes yon maiden?" Jacob whispered to Peter-Paul, inclining his head in Mavis' direction. She had kicked off her shoes and, petting Woofy absent-mindedly, was conversing in a low voice with Keith. "And..." he continued, "is she affianced to the leader of your group?"

"Jacob, can't you speak English? As far as I remember you came down from Oxford with a pretty impressive degree."

"My dear boy, can you imagine the embarrassment on people's faces if they think they're condescending to speak to a lowly Roma and I answer them in my plummiest accents? No, no, that won't do at all. They'd never forgive me."

"And snakes? When did you ever eat a snake?"

"In China...well, almost. Frankly I gagged at the thought and only ate rice the whole two weeks we were there. That did lead to certain difficulties as well."

"I can imagine!" Peter-Paul laughed. "Well, I lived off rice and buttered tea for a year in Tibet."

"Now, cousin, please...the maiden, hm?"

"Her name is Mavis O'Brian. She hails from Dublin. Yon youngster designated as Tom..." here he came to an abrupt halt, glared at Jacob and continued..."God! You've got me doing it now. That's her brother Tom. He's engaged to Mathilde, the girl at his side. And Mavis is not involved with anyone, although for some time she had a crush on Steven, the tall, blond fellow." And on me when she cut my hair, he thought but forbore to say so aloud.

"Ah, so she is not attached?"

"No. I think Derek is interested in her." And Peter-Paul indicated the male nurse who was in serious discussion with father John. "But I did not notice that she reciprocates his feelings. Why? Don't tell me you like her?"

"Yes. She has spirit and she is comely." Jacob let his eyes travel over the young woman. "A man might do worse."

"Jacob! She's taller than you, she's street smart and she's opening her own business after the pilgrimage. And I don't see her allying herself to a Roma! Excuse me for speaking so bluntly. Aren't there more available women in your orbit?"

"There are always women in my orbit, cousin, but I've been thinking of settling down."

"With Mavis? Well, it wouldn't be my choice."

"What would be your choice? If that day ever comes!"

"Ah, Jacob, I dream of a woman who is tall, pliant like a palm tree, raven-haired, blue-eyed who will love me to distraction and never put up with my nonsense but match me temper for temper, storm for storm and so much more..." he turned his head aside and threw his lean body backward among the pillows.

"You're not asking for much, are you?"

"Oh, cousin, one day when I'll least expect it I'll find her. I hope it won't be too late, but until then the world is boundless and there are so many beautiful and desirable women in it that waiting is not a problem for a man like me."

"Introduce me."

"To whom?"

"Yon maiden. We got off on the wrong foot."

Peter-Paul sighed, pulled himself together and stood up.

"All right, but it's your funeral. And don't tell your mother I was in any way involved! An Irish colleen...she'll put one of her famous curses on me and turn me into a frog or worse... make me impotent. I shudder at the thought of Aunt Rachel on the warpath."

Mavis was feeling drowsy even as she chatted with Keith. They had touched on his feelings for Deirdre and, after she had said all the right things about her abduction, he finally told her what Father John had revealed to him less than half an hour ago. What he said sent a wave of shock through her which at first she could not place. Not until she remembered what Derek had confided to her did the penny drop and, alarmed at the thought, she quickly shared it with Keith.

"Derek was found on the steps of the synagogue in Avignon in mid-winter."

"Oh no!"

"A coincidence?"

"We must hope so."

"The nanny could have taken him to Avignon. It's not that far from the Nice area and he was wearing a blue one-in-all outfit which might mean that she changed him on the way..."

"Oh no."

"I won't say a word."

"Neither will I."

As they were contemplating this frightening turn of events they noticed Peter-Paul and one of his cousins looming over them.

"I don't quite know how to put this but my cousin Jacob has requested my services in affecting an introduction. He feels he has gotten off on the wrong foot, so, eh, Mavis, this is my cousin Jacob Piper and Jacob this is Mavis O'Brian."

Jacob smiled brilliantly and extended his hand which, after some hesitation, Mavis took to shake only to find that Jacob placed his other hand over hers as if to hold and warm it, then raised it, removing his left hand and kissed hers lightly, expertly bowing to her and looking straight into her eyes.

"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance and look forward to telling you all about myself for I have a feeling we have gotten off to a very shaky start. And I do not like misunderstandings. Come, I have much to relate." And still keeping a firm hold of her hand, he raised her upright and led her to a quiet and dim corner of the church where he eased her back down onto the carpet and lay down next to her, leaving both Keith and Peter-Paul gaping with astonishment.

*

"End of the line. Everybody out!" The conductor called as the bus came to a halt at the edge of the city in an area of garages and warehouses with some tumbled-down shacks in between.

Deirdre rose to her feet and followed three passengers who were also alighting. They looked like workers going to an evening shift but aside from them, the bus driver and Deirdre, there was nobody around. A surge of fear struck her. Had she perhaps gotten on the wrong bus and was Luc waiting for her at a completely different station in another part of Pau? What should she do? She turned and caught the driver before he too descended.

"Is there a bus back to town?" she asked.

"Twenty minutes." He muttered and went on his way to a parking lot on the other side of the road.

"Martine! Here!" Luc came hurrying up, carrying the two backpacks in one hand and two containers of coffee in the other. "Come! There's a bench over here; we can have our coffee first." And he led her across the road to sit under a plane tree. "We're checking into a big motel a few blocks from here. I chose it for two reasons: they have a car rental office and also access to all the rooms from the parking lot which will make us practically invisible. Even the checking-in is done by phone and I shall be seen only for the time it takes to rent our car."

"We're spending the night here?'

"Yes; and leaving first thing in the morning. Oh, I bought sandwiches for tonight and tomorrow we'll get breakfast on the road...I don't even want to use the motel's eating facilities in case someone might remember us."

"You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you?"

"I think I could write a murder mystery by now."

"Why don't you try? It might open up a new career for you," and she laughed.

"Yes, well, maybe I will have to."

64.

For the first time in his life the tall man did not know what to do. Elsie was lying very still on the floor. She was not breathing. He would have to hide her body

There was no way he could dig a big enough trench in the garden. The ground was too hard. It was summer and nobody had watered there for months nor had there been any rain. Where then? The cellar? Should he just take his things and leave? Someone would find her eventually. Damn! He had rented the house, of course not under his real name, but still...he had wanted her to do it but she had refused saying it wasn't her job and she wasn't sticking her neck out so he had gone to the estate agent. But he'd been in disguise...older than his years and using a cane but still, it paid to be cautious and avoid having the body discovered as long as possible so he could put as much space between himself and this town. The sand box! Yes, that would do. He had chosen the house because of the children's play area with its sand box, to remind Deirdre of the play area in the park of her childhood. Perfect. But in the end it had backfired on him when she had been unable to sit in it and this had contributed to her awakening suspicions that had led to her ultimate flight.

He would wait a few days, make his plans, then return the keys, explaining that the house did not after all suit him, and disappear. In the meanwhile he'd have to get in touch with Brother Munk as he called himself, and agree to work for him. Damn! Every time he had a sure thing going it fell through. That was the third good plan that had crashed...and the third time the plan had concerned Deirdre, or at least her family.

She must have gone straight to the police and by now would be back with Bernard. Curse his luck. How much money did he have left? He checked his wallet...not so bad. He hadn't paid Elsie yet and now didn't have to. Nor the agent for another month's rent. Yes, he would disappear but he'd have to get in touch with Brother Munk and he had hoped to avoid that. International terrorism or whatever it was, was not his game, not at all! But it was now being forced upon him.

And what was he to do about the body?

*

Sleep descended sweetly on the little band of pilgrims in the safety of the abandoned church at Ruesta. After the rigors of their passage in Spain so far, the sadness at the death of Bernard and the continuing unease at the disappearance of Deirdre, it was good to find a safe haven, if only for one night, and to feel that all was still possible.

Monica noticed that Peter-Paul had moved his rucksack over so as to be in close proximity to his cousins where, once more, they had formed a circle and were busily arranging outsize playing cards in some complicated pattern which they stopped to consult and discuss profoundly.

"Tarot," she thought, "I wonder what they're trying to discover. Hm, one's missing, the shortest of the group. Wasn't he talking to Mavis? Oh God, I'm so sleepy." And she yawned and turned over without noticing Jacob sprawled on the carpet in a dim corner next to Tom's sister. He was slowly and rhythmically stroking her hair, her face, her back and speaking in a low, even voice to calm her. For suddenly, as he had begun to explain himself to her she had realized that the odd flashing image of a man's dark features which had come unbidden to her mind on the island in the Lake of Peilhou and which she had at first thought was Derek, was really Jacob whom she had not even met at that time. How could this be? How could she have seen the likeness of a man she had never encountered?

This form of psychic telepathy had frightened her so much that she had uttered an involuntary gasp and Jacob, wondering what was amiss, had been given a terse and nervous reply. After which, in great confusion, she had burst into tears to be gathered up in his arms and soothed the way he would have calmed a frightened animal.

When he finally learned the reason for her agitation he smiled to himself in satisfaction and took it upon himself to kiss her so thoroughly and so passionately that all thought fled from her mind in the knowledge that here, unexpectedly, at last and against all odds was the man of her life.

"Eh, lass..." he murmured, "will you go a-gypsying with me? For I fain would have thee."

"And I thee," she could barely answer him.

"Then come. We shall go to the truck. 'Tis too congested here and too many eyes, pretending to be shut, are turned upon us." And, taking her by the hand, Jacob rose, pulled her to her feet and silently stole out of the church to the blue panel truck parked near the entrance. Peter-Paul glanced up from the Tarot deck to see, out of the corner of his eye, his cousin making off with Mavis and wondered once again at the odd bedmates this pilgrimage had created.

The following morning they once more took advantage of the improvised bathing site in the abandoned quarry and returned to the church to find the cousins preparing coffee and hot cereal over the fires they seemed to produce without the trace of a tree and its supply of old, shed branches.

The route today was another protracted journey through desolation, although there were some wooded areas and several rivers. At the end of the day they would reach Sanguesa, a hotel and several important holy sites, but until then the going would once again test everyone's mettle.

As they were congratulating themselves on the advent of that lone hotel, Steven quoted from his guide book of the Road in Spain that the true pilgrim never set foot in one, preferring the hard ground and lack of sanitary facilities in order to fully re-create the ancient pilgrimage in all its aspects.

"They cannot seriously expect us to walk over two months while sleeping on the ground and never washing. We'd all come down with plague." Monica mumbled darkly.

"There are no hard and fast rules," Peter-Paul agreed, "You do the Road as your own speed and in your own way. The main thing is to walk it, to pray, to arrive at your destination, and to have those important 200 km. marked on your passport."

"I'm not sure I'll be able to go on like this much longer," Charles suddenly announced shamefacedly. "I thought it was all a matter of training. That my legs would accustom themselves but I find that this is not the case and instead of becoming easier it is getting more difficult. And I don't quite know what to do about it."

"You'll ride." Peter-Paul decided, "You can go with Mr. Magian and my cousins. There's room. The route does not have to be too easy but it also must not kill. That is not its aim."

"Would they take me along?"

"Of course. You may be more useful in their company, for they are going on ahead to see how safe it is for us and what the rumors have to say about the dangers we fear are still to come."

Charles brightened up at the thought of avoiding the long, dreary, difficult and bone-breaking stages still ahead of them all in Spain until they would reach their goal, but Peter-Paul dashed some of these hopes by adding, "We'll meet on the road at sites we decided on last night. To keep in touch and to share information. By then you might be feeling stronger and could join us, for only in actually walking and meeting up with others on the road may we be able to learn something of importance."

When they were finally all gathered together in front of the church, the brothers helped Mr. Magian take his accustomed place next to Joseph and then indicated to Charles to get in.

At this point Mavis picked up her backpack, kissed Tom and Mathilde and, without a word, hopped into the panel truck to be joined by Jacob who closed the door as Joseph took off.

As the others looked on in amazement at this turn of events, Peter-Paul broke out in great gales of laughter and called after his cousin: "Beware the eye of Rachel!"
65.

Late at night and with only a small flashlight placed judiciously in the deep grass surrounding the sandbox, the tall man began to dig. There was not as much sand as he had thought, nor was the overall area large enough to hide a fully grown and not so small woman. What had at first seemed a perfect solution was turning out to be more complicated. Again he cursed his bad luck and wondered what to do with the body. There were no other hiding places on the property and, come to think of it, even if he did manage to bury it someplace the danger remained of its being found and if the house stayed untenanted for a considerable length of time, someone might just recall the elderly gentleman who had rented it for one month in the summer.

He switched the flashlight off, sat down on the edge of the sandbox and began to ponder where to dispose of a body so that it would have no connection to him.

*

The business community of Brussels awoke to its morning papers with yet another shock. As if the financial repercussions were not bad enough, here was a long article on the sudden demise of one of the most famous and socially prominent men in the city, Bernard Van Der Gilden. The funeral was scheduled for the following day. Oddly enough he had died, suddenly, in Jaca, Spain while walking the Road of St. Jacques to Compostela. It was well known that he was devout but also rather foolhardy, thought those who read it, for him to have attempted such a feat. Not at his age. Well, another widow and a young one at that. Some even hinted, with a leer, that this may have contributed to his early demise and everyone now wondered if she would take over all his companies or sell out and return to England. For it was well known that she had never really integrated herself in their way of life.

*

Under the all-encompassing cover of night, the tall man made his way along the narrow street, from one parked car to another, surreptitiously checking if they were locked. When he finally found one that yielded to a bit of manipulation, he smiled to himself in satisfaction and, marking the site in his mind, hurried back to the house.

Once there, he pulled out the old-fashioned baby buggy he had brought as a prop to remind Deirdre of that long-ago winter in the South of France, lifted Elsie's body into it, folded up, and returned the way he had come, to the one car that had given way to his touch. He raised the roof of the trunk and, with an effort that cost him loss of breath and tested all his strength, he lifted Elsie's body from the pram to the interior of this compartment, brutally twisting her stiffening limbs into position. Then he closed the top quietly and, trundling the buggy back to his house, replaced it in the cellar. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief and checked his watch. It was the middle of the night. Too late to call Brother Munk. He would remain in the house for another week, the end of his rental period, so as not to call attention to himself and then would clear out.

With that thought in mind he poured himself a stiff drink, feeling he had earned it, and sat down in an easy chair in the comfortably furnished salon, to plan for his future.

*

"Do you have a driver's license?" Luc asked.

"Yes, but not in the name of Martine Castres."

"We'll have to chance it. From here to our vacation site...I never did get around to telling you where we are going, did I?" He did not wait for a reply but continued. "We're going to the Jura. It's far from here; it is not popular except to those who have come to know and love it and we shall be safe there."

"The Jura? How funny. That's where Keith is from; my brother."

"The one who was kidnapped?"

"Yes. I did tell you that I found him...or, to be more exact, we found each other on the pilgrimage. I was so happy, Luc, to have a brother, to be able to tell my father that Kenny had been found but Keith himself was devastated. It was one of the most awful moments of my life to discover that the brother I had looked for all my life wanted no part of me or my family. It is something I shall still have to deal with after the group will have reached their final destination. I don't want to think of it now because I am so happy with you, but in a few short weeks I shall have to inform my father, arrange a meeting between them and of course get in touch with Bernard and ask for a divorce. But not now. Now we are Mr. and Mrs. Castres off on a nice vacation in the mountains and concerned only with scenery, good food, comfortable inns and a great deal of love making."

Luc drove the nondescript rented car at a moderate pace along the highway. Their rucksacks were stored away in the trunk and the back seat contained shopping bags with bottled water and maps, neatly stacked to one side. They gave the appearance of thousands of other young couples out on the road, traveling East, West, North and South on their annual summer vacation.

They stopped at a filling station, ate and drank on the road and discussed with great anticipation what they would do once they had attained their destination.

"Since I just mentioned my brother's kidnapping, well...there is something that is not quite right. Something that always bothered me after I learned about Keith and where he was found. It does seem as if Marie-Therese, before she committed suicide, took Kenny all the way to a village in the same Jura Mountains where we are heading. She left him on the steps of the priest's house."

"And?"

"And I wonder how she managed to go all the way from the Riviera to the Jura with a week-old infant. Why the Jura? Why so far? If she had decided not to go along with the kidnapping scheme she could have left him on the steps of a church on the Riviera or in front of a police station...and almost immediately her body was found in a river near Juan les Pins with rocks in her pockets. Something about the timing is not clear to me and never has been. Not since, it seems, Keith is Kenny and he was found where he was."

"Yes, I agree with you. It's quite a way, but of course there are fast trains. Did they exist 25 years ago, or did she take a normal train for those times? That would have made her choice even more extraordinary. Are you certain this Keith is your brother?"

"All the facts fit, Luc. He's an orphan and he was abandoned. He's the right age; he's got my father's coloring and he was wearing an English-made baby outfit, a baby's sailor suit which is what my brother was wearing when he was taken. But something bothers me in all this." She sounded perturbed.

"Only DNA will give you the answer, Martine, and that's what you'll have to do at the conclusion of the pilgrimage. Is it only your father's coloring that makes you accept him or is there also a physical resemblance?"

"Well, as I said, he's blond and blue-eyed, tall and lean but my father has sharper features, more defined, a longer nose." She sounded doubtful.

"Blond, blue-eyed and tall does not make him your brother. The description applies equally to me."

"Of course, but there was the added proof of the English-made sailor suit which Kenny had on when he was kidnapped and which Keith says he was wearing when he was found on the priest's doorstep." Deirdre re-stated.

"And?" Luc hinted.

"And what?"

"What else was he wearing? He could not have been placed on the snow-covered steps of the priest's house in a Jura winter without being bundled up in many blankets...a week-old baby?" He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye wondering that she had not put two and two together in something that seemed so obvious to him. "You did tell me that you removed to the South of France because your mother's doctor claimed she needed to be in a warmer climate to await the birth of her child, which is why Kenny was born in Juan les Pins. At Christmas time."

"Oh, what an idiot I've been. Of course! He was born just after Christmas. Why didn't I think of that?" She turned eagerly to him, "And Keith was born in summer. He told us all about that because it had something to do with the name he was given...oh yes, someone said ete in English was summer and so Sommerville was chosen. So he could not be my brother although he too was wearing an English-made sailor suit for a baby."

"Perhaps those little suits were popular for newly-born infants at that time?"

"Perhaps, yes."

"You're assuming your lost brother would look like your father but what did your mother look like?"

"She was slight, very thin. She had never been strong. And she had dark brown hair, thick and wavy and green eyes. On her good days she liked to play with me and she laughed a lot, but unfortunately there weren't many good days." Her voice faded at the memory.

"I have a very strong feeling, my lovely Martine, that Kenny looked like your mother and that he is still missing and still to be discovered, perhaps after all on this pilgrimage."

"But I left the group. I left the pilgrimage. I thought only of myself and my own happiness. Now I'll never find him, not if our priest in Brussels was right. Oh Luc, what have I done?" And tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. "I can't start all over again. I want to be with you. Oh, how selfish I am."

"Don't darling, don't. Come, we'll pull over and have some tea and then we'll talk. Did you see anyone of the correct description, dark, green-eyed, slim, the right age and also a foundling? Was there anyone like that on the pilgrimage?"

"Only Derek. He too had been abandoned. In Avignon, on the steps of the synagogue, but I don't know if it was summer or winter and...oh no, God forbid, oh no, it can't be Derek. I slept with him. Oh no, no, oh no!" And Deirdre began to shake in fright until Luc put his arm firmly around her and held her tight.

"Stop it! It's not Derek. It's somebody else whom you have not met. Your brother is still waiting to be discovered. Trust me, Martine, I love you and I will help you find the truth. What we have to do is check up on orphanages and religious institutions in the Juan les Pins area and go through their records of 25 years ago. We shall find the answer there. Your nanny was part of the kidnap plot, then she changed her mind and, in a fit of remorse, killed herself. Her body was discovered not long after the abduction. She could not have gone far from the area so she must have left Kenny nearby. Just don't give up; we shall find him."

*

"Keith, my boy, I'd like a wee word with you."

"Of course, Father John. Let's slow down so we can talk." And walking at a more leisurely pace, Keith moved over to the little priest to learn what he had to say.

"I am very troubled about Deirdre. Oh, I know, I know, there is nothing we can do to help but I have some information that is worrying me and I believe we shall have to tell Inspector Lemoine about it."

"Yes?"

"When Bernard rejoined us in Spain I walked with him along part of the route to Jaca. He talked about that brother of his, a few years younger than he. That same brother Deirdre had described as having been in his father's good books and therefore becoming his heir although he was not the eldest son. She made him out a paragon of virtue while attributing to Bernard all manner of underhanded deeds. Well, in speaking to Bernard only a few days ago, he also mentioned his brother and intimated that he had great personal charm that took everyone in, including their father, and that there was some doubt later on as to the validity of his will. Bernard had not put it past his brother to have forged it. I questioned him rather closely but he stuck to his story...adding that he himself was already doing well in business at the time and had no need of the inheritance."

"And?"

"And then the brother bought a luxurious apartment and was redecorating. One evening, as he went to check up on the progress, there was a fire; he was caught on the premises, was unable to save himself and died. His body was burned so badly they had to identify him by his dental records."

"Ah, I see."

"There is more. The fire did not take hold in one place only but in all areas of the site."

"Oh dear."

"Yes, my boy, oh dear indeed. And that was the reason for my queries to Charles who, even though not my idea of what a detective ought to be, certainly knows the ABCs which, in this case, include arson and murder."

"So you think Bernard's brother set the fire, got hold of a body...some poor fellow as a stand-in for himself...and disappeared, having arranged his own death?"

"Exactly! And Keith, if that is the case he is still alive and now that Bernard is gone might resurface to kidnap Deirdre and either browbeat her or drug her to make a will in his favor... because she has just inherited her husband, although she may not know anything about it as yet."

"But how would Bernard's brother learn of his death? It happened in Jaca, not Brussels."

"The body was sent to Brussels for burial and I am sure that the papers there will have something on it since he was an important man in the business community of that city."

"Should we tell Charles?"

"I think we can go over his head and speak to the Inspector himself. He could also get information from the Belgian police about that old fire in the apartment and if anyone thought there was something fishy about the body found at the site."

"I'm only glad mum isn't alive to see her daughter running off with a gypsy." Tom mumbled to Mathilde as they plodded ahead on the road to Sanguesa. "What about her plans for a shop? And the goods she ordered? I don't understand her."

"Leave her be, Tom. She'll be all right." Mathilde counseled.

"But a gypsy? She'll spend her life travelling around the country in a blue panel truck!"

"Oh, Tom!" Mathilde laughed and reached over to kiss him on the cheek. "He's Peter-Paul's cousin. He has a first-rate degree in cybernetics from Oxford. The brothers own a highly successful media information company. Travelling around is just their form of fun and relaxation. And, in this case they wanted to help when they discovered that there might be trouble on the road this year. So they took the time off to come."

"Where did you learn all this?" Tom was amazed.

"I spoke to David last night. One of the twins."

"And the snakes? Doesn't Jacob eat snakes? Our mum would die again if she knew this."

"And Jacob would faint at the thought," she giggled, "It's all a show."

"But he is a gypsy?"

"Oh yes. Don't worry so, my dear. Your sister has made her choice, or it's been made for her and she won't regret it. They'll do well together."

*

"But what about Monsieur Cotte's window display?"

"And who is he?" The story seemed to be getting more and more confused and reminded him of their first evening together.

"I see I'll have to explain, yet again." And Deirdre began to tell him all about the events at Lodeve.

"Yes, well..." he mumbled after she had finished "he may have known something but it still does not turn a baby born in summer into one born in winter. Keith remains Keith and Kenny, wherever he is, remains Kenny. You will either find him in Compostela or you won't. But for the next few weeks I want you to put him out of your mind completely. We are going to enjoy a leisurely honeymoon in the mountains where we are going to breathe the clear, crisp air, gaze awestruck at the wondrous sunsets, treat our tastebuds to the purity of basic foodstuffs, bask in the calm and quiet and spend long, voluptuous hours in bed where I promise you will do very little sleeping. How does that sound to you?"

Impulsively she leaned over to kiss him, causing him to swerve for a second, then realizing where he was and gripping the wheel firmly and mouthing "Later." he put his foot on the accelerator and took off in the fast lane, suddenly spurred on to reach their final destination as rapidly as possible.
66.

Early morning saw the group, without Mr. Magian, Charles and Mavis, once more on the arid road, moving imperceptibly from Aragon to Navare and clinging to a route that led them along the Lake of Yesa where some shade was afforded by the remnants of a long dead forest. A junction to the left led to another ghost town and yet another detour to the birthplace of St. Francis of Xavier in 1506 but the heat was already so stifling that all thoughts of sightseeing fled from minds bent only on ending the day's march and taking advantage of the one hotel Sanguesa had on offer. As for the town itself, it too seemed to be nonexistent, for stare into the distance as hard as they might, there was no sign that anything was on the horizon.

When they saw the San Xavier Missionary Center looming up ahead they called a halt and, seeking the shade of several trees, ate a sandwich and drank some of their precious water. Both Monica and Helen had removed shoes and socks and were rubbing their feet, stretching and rotating at the same time. Kurt and Wolf were also exercising in order to achieve more suppleness and strength. The others just sprawled wherever they had landed when they first sat down, staring without any expression into the distance and wondering, not for the first time, how they were going to get through the next few weeks.

*

The tall man kept up the pretense of enjoying his stay in his rented home. He shopped for groceries, bought the newspapers and tut-tutted over rising prices along with his neighbors. He continued to speak about his late wife and the need to get away from his usual surroundings in order to come to grips with this new life on his own. Hadn't he had a companion or housekeeper the first few days, a sharp-eyed woman wondered to which he replied that she had been a dear niece who had helped settle him in and had departed soon thereafter. And no, his children did not live in France so, although they were in touch, he was to all intents and purposes on his own. This had led to a few dinner invitations from lonely widows which he had deftly sidestepped by talking about his grief.

Through it all he wondered why there hadn't been a hue and cry about a body discovered in the trunk of a car parked along one of the streets and congratulated himself that the owner had probably been a visitor and was by now in another part of France and might be several hundred km. away when Elsie's remains would come to light.

He had finally been forced to call Brother Munk only to discover that he was less than delighted to hear from him and had fobbed him off with vague promises of work, perhaps in a few weeks, which had left the tall man wondering what to do next. Perhaps he ought to take the house for another month after all and check out the widows who had showered him with invitations. It might not be such a bad move if one of them had been left well off. He could do worse.

*

The blue panel truck ate up the kilometers from Ruesta to Sanguesa to Monreal and finally came to a halt at Puente-la-Reina where, just outside of town, they set up camp next to several other small vans parked in the traditional circle. Pots were soon bubbling and the four brothers together with Mr. Magian joined one group after the other to shake hands, kiss, and discuss the events of the day. Most were going on to Compostela for the Saint's day in order to receive the blessing in the main square, to attend services at one of the over 40 churches of the town and to give their womenfolk time to tell a few fortunes among the credible in the throng that this special day always drew to itself. They too had heard rumors that something was not as it should be this year, had noticed a star missing in the night sky, had laid out the Tarot and had come to the conclusion that danger from an unknown source threatened the peaceful pilgrimage.

Mr. Magian listened solemnly to all they had to say, adding that the danger was coming from a false monk but that so far nobody really knew any details and without that knowledge it would be very difficult to set up some kind of defense mechanism.

Charles kept to one side, mainly listening and hoping someone would drop a hint that would help to tie up some of the varied strands of information, at present only floating loosely in the air. Almost afraid to interrupt, he nevertheless decided to call a few elements to their notice.

"What do the shawls have to do with the assumed conspiracy? Who were the two pseudo Germans calling themselves bird watchers and why was a small and poor Spanish house set on fire on our path? These are some of the elements of the plot...some were aimed at the group of pilgrims we have just left. Why? Why this particular group? And who is doing it? And does the abduction of one of our group, a woman, have something to do with the coming events at Compostela? She too had a shawl, bought in France and stolen. And the shop keeper from whom she had purchased it had been beaten mercilessly on his own premises and had later died. Could that have had something to do with her disappearance?"

They all had ideas, in fact too many and some bordering on the preposterous but since nobody had any confirmation for these flights of fancy they did not feel that they had anything tangible to show the police and were afraid that by the time a recognizable pattern would emerge, as in a colorful and whirling kaleidoscope, it might be too late.

*

The cell phone rang insistently and the tall man reached out his hand automatically to answer, then hesitated. Who could possibly call him? Who knew him? Knew his number? Knew he was here? He decided to ignore it and make ready to leave the area as soon as possible when curiosity got the better of him and, imagining it might just be the estate agent from whom he had rented the house, wondering if he was going to stay on, answered with a sharp "Hello?"

"Munk here." The soft voice sounded bright and clear, as if the man was in the adjoining room. "I have a job for you." Taken by surprise the tall man did not immediately answer and the tone of voice on the cell became sharper, "Are you there?"

"Yes, yes of course. Just surprised. Delighted to be of service, eh, what must I do?"

"Just listen. You will be supplied with an official-looking tourist bus for a party of elderly, religious-minded women, preferably widows and spinsters, to be taken by easy stages to Compostela for the July 25 celebrations. Many of the expenses will be paid through a vaguely Christian-affiliated charity. You can make up any name you want and a complete background picture as well as a mythical headquarters-site will be sent to you, fully documented in brochures and some subscription-based literature. You just get the women to take the bait. The trip would take around a week by luxurious tourist bus, first rate hotels where needed and of course meals. Well, I don't have to teach you how to bait the trap."

"Why do you need old ladies?"

"For their travelling shawls. As an extra incentive from the agency they will each be given a lovely mantilla to wear for mass and a light-weight travelling shawl in a fancy design in case the air-conditioning on the bus causes an outburst of arthritis." The Munk laughed, "The rugs will be collected, along with extras in the luggage section of the bus the night before you are due to reach Compostela. There you decamp and disappear."

"That's all? How much?"

"A cool 5,000 in your pocket. Oh, there'll be extras for hotels, food...get some kind of kickbacks from en route accommodations and you'll have another nice sum to add to what I'm giving you."

"What is it with those shawls?"

"That's none of your business and the sooner you forget about them the better. Now, are you in? Can you get some old dears to take the trip?"

"Yes, I just might be placed in the very spot where that is possible. I accept your offer."

"Good. You have one week to get the bus filled with the right human merchandise."

*

"Well, we meet again but..." Père Hippolyte sighed, "I must admit that I am thinking of giving up."

"It is certainly a knotty problem and we are hampered by not having one of those shawls to examine, however...I have thought of something." Frere Aloysus announced as the three gathered together once more in the small spare room where they had spent so much time with their maps. At his hopeful words the others looked up at him questioningly.

"Yes, I know time is of the essence as it gets closer and closer to the 25th but we cannot hurry this. It is only an idea, mind! And we shall need the help of the authorities, for without an actual physical examination we cannot come to any conclusions. Still, I believe there might have been a slip-up and it may be possible to find out the truth about those puzzling Scottish wraps."

They gave him their full attention.

"I want you, Père Hippolyte, through the kind efforts of Père Xavier, to get in touch with any and all working in the police, and other perhaps secret governmental agencies, to see if in their encounters with the 'enemy' something tangible might not have been forgotten and left behind in whatever hiding place or safe house these people used. I am hoping, you see, that some snippet of those shawls might have caught on a piece of furniture or a nail in the wall and that we could examine it...physically. You see, I have a theory but without a bit of those rugs in the material sense, I cannot prove it. What I need primarily are a few threads of the black sections, the thick lines. Do you think that would be feasible?"

"I shall make it my penance and my aim, frère Aloysus. If that is what you need to solve our riddle, you shall have it. Too much depends on the outcome not to do everything in our power to help safeguard the thousands at Compostela and, of course, the Saint himself!"

*

"I have a feeling, Keith, that you've forgotten the promise you made me some time ago in France." Derek complained.

"What promise?" Keith tried hard to recall what, where and when he had ever promised Derek anything.

"That you would help me discover my origins, remember? Just after that you suddenly recalled the gypsy caravans for the night, which you had forgotten, and as of that time you never returned to my problem."

"Yes, yes. I haven't forgotten and I will try to help, truly. I'm sorry Derek. It's just that this pilgrimage has turned out to be much more complicated than I envisaged and it has taken all my thoughts and efforts to keep the group together and continuing on the road."

"That's understandable. It's hardly been a normal pilgrimage with murders, attacks, abductions, not to mention natural death and this hellish route in Spain. I have had serious thoughts of dropping out and going back to the sanity of the hospital routine in Aix.

"So have I, but to Arles." Keith countered.

"It's a bit more than we counted on, isn't it?"

"Yes. But we shall have to see it through."

"And then what? Will you go to Manchester?"

"No! Definitely not!"

"Why? Don't you even want to see what your father and the other relatives are like?"

"No! Those people could not be related to me; it was all a mistake. Their baby was abducted in winter while I was found in the summer. There is no possibility at all that I am Deirdre's brother, thank heavens."

"But I was found in the winter, just at Hanukah time...that is close to Christmas, usually. Oh God in heaven, don't say that I am..." he stared at Keith aghast as the full impact of his affair with Deirdre hit him.

"I doubt it, Derek, take it easy...it will probably be someone the nanny placed in an orphanage in the area closest to Juan les Pins. She did not have much time between the abduction and her suicide and could not have gone far. And why should she when a large town like Nice was so handy and so close? It is there that Deirdre and her family should have looked years ago. It is not me nor is it you. Relax," he added as he saw the horror and fear that had overspread the young man's features.

*

"You drive well, Martine. We've made good time today."

"I'm glad I do something well. I seem to have been a failure at everything else."

"I wouldn't say everything." Luc smiled to himself as he recalled the events of the past three nights. "Let's stop here. It's getting late and we should be planning for the night." He motioned towards a two-storied hotel set back from the road. "It looks clean," he added.

"A double room for tonight?" the brisk, plump woman nodded her head. "Yes. That'll be number 219. It's a corner room facing the back. It's quieter. Just up the stairs; here's the key. Oh, we do serve supper, if you wish. A set menu of course but...?" her voice rose in a query and she smiled at them hopefully.

"That's fine," Luc had already started to climb the steps. "What time?"

"Sevenish. It includes wine."

"Even better. I was just wondering what we'd do about food."

"That's why we offer it. There's nothing here except fast-food places on the highway and that's garbage. And going farther afield after a day behind the wheel...well, it stands to reason one would end up skipping the meal completely. And that surely isn't healthy."

"You're right," Deirdre smiled. "I wonder the other hotels haven't thought of it."

"Too much bother and a short-term view," the woman replied, waving her hand to point them in the right direction, "to the left at the top of the stairs."

"Thank you." Deirdre's voice floated down as she hurried to catch up with Luc.

*

The tall man heaved a sigh of satisfaction at this unexpected job offer and began to think of a good name for the Christian organization that would attract some of those elderly widows and single women who had invited him to dinner. He would have to get back to them with some kind of an explanation to take the edge off his earlier rejection. Business? Yes, that was the ticket. He was in the process of finalizing the deal with the Christian Pilgrimage organization and did not know when he would have to leave. He had, he would explain, of course, worked with them before but on a voluntary basis and now that he was alone felt that he ought to do more. As a good Christian and also because time hung heavy on his hands. What did Marie, Jeanne, or Danielle think of that? He, for one, would enjoy the travelling, the company of course, and, as a man of faith, it would help him accept his wife's demise.

There were pilgrimages to Rome, to Lourdes for those who were ill, to that place where three youngsters had seen the virgin...was it in Poland? He'd have to look it up. Mustn't get the facts wrong. These old biddies were sharp. And then he'd have to drop the bombshell: the tour to Compostela, absolutely free, all expenses paid to the ones who knew where it was located, how it had come to be named. A little quiz to bait the trap.

He was certain that most of them would know the details, living close to the Road itself, and for those who hesitated he could always drop hints, adding that he particularly wanted her along as he found her most sympathetic...and practically giving her the answers. He would begin the following day. Tonight was for sitting back, relaxing, feeling on top of it again and knowing that his luck had finally changed.
67.

"I am hungry." Deirdre remarked as she and Luc descended the stairs to the small, square room just off the reception area of the hotel.

"Let's hope it's edible." Luc grumbled, seriously doubting that such a modest and insignificant place adjacent to a major highway could serve up more than soup out of a carton and canned peas accompanying a few dry pieces of grilled chicken.

Deirdre tucked her arm into his and rubbed the side of her head against his shoulder.

"Forget you're a chef just for tonight, hm? Whatever it will be it's better than pizza in some fast-food place. Come on, darling, think of it as an adventure."

He half smiled in reply thinking that the pizza was probably a better option but he too did not feel like taking the car and going to look for a place along the road. He opened the door to a pleasant room with four square tables immaculately decked in white starched cloths. A young couple was already in possession of one, sipping their wine, and before Luc and Deirdre had even taken their places an older man with a neat salt and pepper beard had entered and placed himself at the third table, playing expectantly with his napkin.

The second time the door swung inward it was to admit the plump woman who had spoken to them at the reception desk. She was wearing an ample white apron over her clothes and carried a large tray on which reposed soup plates which she proceeded to place before her guests.

"Our first course is cold in honor of the summer."

Luc gazed at her questioningly, lowered his head and inhaled the aroma of the white mixture in his bowl.

"Crème au lait d'amandes," she announced, noticing the frown on his face.

"Aha!" He dipped his spoon reverently into the mixture, raised it to his nose, sniffed again, then tasted one drop, allowing it to coat his tongue and closing his eyes. "Ah, yes." He sighed and began to eat. If he would have dared, he thought, he would have licked the bowl clean like a cat, so exquisite was the flavor, but all he could allow himself was a smile and full silence in homage to such an unexpected opening course.

They waited in mute anticipation for about fifteen minutes when their hostess returned with large platters announcing Les filets mignon de veau au citron vert avec pommes purees. And she continued her circle of the room, pouring wine into empty glasses and offering a fresh carafe of water before leaving them to their enjoyment of a perfectly cooked piece of meat, slightly tart from the lime and accompanied by the creamiest, richest and smoothest of whipped potatoes.

A green salad appeared, followed by a cheese platter and a sorbet a la framboise and finally small cups of strong coffee accompanied by a tray of miniature lemon tarts.

Luc could not give credence to what he had eaten. With each course his eyes seemed to grow larger. That such cuisine should be available in a small hotel at the side of a public highway went against everything he had imagined possible in the realm of cooking, as he had understood it up to now.

*

Seated at his kitchen table, a pad of paper in front of him, the tall man printed in careful block letters: Mount Tabor Tours Questionnaire.

  1. Are you a believer?

  2. Do you attend church?

a. every Sunday

b. Holidays only

c. Rarely

3. Where is Santiago de Compostela located?

a. France

b. Spain

c. Yugoslavia

4. Have you heard of the Road of St. Jacques?

5. If you have, please relate what you know about it.

That seemed to him an adequate and professional-looking document. Of course it would have to be printed up with a well-designed logo of the Mount Tabor Tours Organization. He thought he could draw something appropriate which would incorporate the rough outline of a crag, a cross and perhaps some loaves and fishes. Or a hint of the Sea of Galilee? Slightly abstract with an emphasis on the cross.

He would let Munk take care of that as he did not want the widows and spinsters to discover that the brochures and questionnaires had been printed up in their area. It must all look as if it came from a reliable and well-established company, preferably in Compostela itself or, of course, from Paris. At the same time he would have some calling cards made up with his name

and the company logo. Unfortunately he could not add abbe or monsignor but his discreet de as in Marechal d'Albans should do the trick.

And he'd better add to his wardrobe as well. Understated and black, a small silver cross in his lapel and a straw hat with an extra wide brim. A touch of the countryside and a wink in the direction of a lichen-covered stone church and its tidy row of family tombs and effigies well rooted in the history of the area and the landed gentry of which he, of course, was an offshoot. Yes, he thought, that was a part he could play well and, in fact, would enjoy playing, surrounded by his adoring audience of elderly and, hopefully wealthy, ladies.

*

"Well," began John, studying his guide book. "we weren't able to taste the cuisine of Aragon as there was no place to eat on our route but perhaps we'll have better luck in this area which is Navare and, as we are already descending from the mountainous region to the plains, we'll have to forget pollo a la chilindron which is chicken with a sauce of tomatoes and onions cooked in oil and seasoned with peppers and pimientos rellenos, or stuffed peppers. And of course if we find a tapas bar there will be countless of local specialties to try."

"I thought we'd have seafood galore." Helen sounded disappointed.

"In Galicia, as we come closer to our goal and the coast," Peter-Paul told her. "On the other hand we should have loads of fresh salads, heavy on tomatoes and olive oil, until we reach our goal."

"Good," Monica added. "It will counteract the sandwiches we have been living on for far too long."

The day was extremely warm, stiflingly so. The sun beat down on them mercilessly and seemed to have done so for many more hours than the five since they had taken to the road. There were no other pilgrims in sight, not to mention locals on foot or any moving vehicles.

"It's the siesta," Kurt pointed out, "It's too hot between noon and the very late afternoon so people go inside. To eat, to lie down as they wait until it is again bearable to venture out."

"August must be hell here," Tom mumbled, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. "Does anybody walk the Road at that time?"

"Oh yes," Father John answered, "As you already know, the Road is walked at every time of the year. Some penitents have no choice because August is the only month they can take their vacation. Others feel the extra burden the heat imposes adds to their discomfort to the point of creating more of a load for them to carry along on their road to forgiveness and salvation. Somewhat on the order of what one frequently sees in Italy or Greece when women...it seems usually to be women... climb flights of stairs to a shrine or church on their knees. I am not for such acts of outwardly visible demonstrations of one's faith as I do not believe in hair shirts and self-mutilation. It all seems to me a 'show' aimed at others, not a test of one's own belief."

"What do you mean by that, Father?" Wolf wondered, "Which others?"

"Oh, the community, the neighbors, church members. To show how religious one is, how dedicated, how good. But for me it is always an outward affirmation, to call attention to oneself and a true believer does not need to do that. He or she does not need to have the entire neighborhood saying, "Did you see how holy she is? Crawling all that way on her knees?" or "I know for a fact that they had to take Father X to the doctor to dress the wounds he inflicted on himself just before Easter." What pious folk these be! No...not unless there is a case of religious mania, which alas, occurs now and then, the true believer lives his life modestly, calmly, offering an example to others...in the way he lives...humbly, quietly and steadfastly advancing on life's road helping all those who travel with him, succoring those who fall by the wayside, assisting every living creature to reach the same goal, simply and without calling attention to himself, with no thoughts of self-glorification but with full love and understanding for all those who walk with him. And if he manages during his three score and ten on this earth to bring one, and only one, with him to the gates then he will have fulfilled his destiny and his duty in the name of our Savior."

By the time Father John had pronounced the last word they had all come to a standstill and surrounded him, listening silently to a belief in human dignity and respect that eased the tensions within themselves and lessened the load of discomfort and fears for the future of the pilgrimage with which they were so heavily burdened.

*

Deirdre and Luc were finishing their breakfast and Luc had just begun to open the map to point out the day's route when they were startled to hear piercing screams from the exterior of the small hotel. Leaping to their feet, they were joined by the older man from the adjacent table and hurtled out the door to join the proprietress. All together they rushed over to the young couple who had eaten supper with them the previous evening. They had just opened the trunk of their car and stood frozen to the spot, staring down, unable to tear their eyes away, he in silent horror and she screaming, screaming, screaming.

"Don't look!" Luc grasped Deirdre by the arms and attempted to turn her around but she had already seen the bloated body, twisted and folded up upon itself to fit into the cramped space, covered in a mass of buzzing black flies and collapsed instantly into his arms. The older guest began to retch and turned aside to a grassy verge where he promptly heaved up his recent breakfast while the proprietress stood by, paralyzed, mouthing, "My God; my God." over and over to the accompaniment of the hysterics that continued unabated from the young woman while her companion remained transfixed, the keys in his hand, staring hypnotically at what had been revealed when he had raised the roof of the trunk.

Luc laid Deirdre down on the grass, dashed to the small red car, slammed the trunk shut, turned to face the still hysterical young woman and slapping her smartly across the face, picked her up and carted her back to the hotel, where he pushed her unceremoniously into the downstairs toilet. He opened the cold water tap, wet a small towel, rubbed her face with it, then wrapped it around her brow as he pushed her into a sitting position on the closed toilet seat, leaning her back against the wall.

"I'm going to be sick," she announced.

"In the sink," he heaved her body over and held her forehead while she retched and coughed, tears streaming from her eyes, then wiped her face with the towel and, once more leaning her back against the wall, left to run to the telephone at the reception desk.

The proprietress was already there, her hands shaking as she held the receiver and asked for the police.

Luc nodded once to her and took himself off outside to see if Deirdre had recovered. She was just getting to her feet, aided by the elderly man, when Luc appeared.

"Martine!" He called out. "Come inside, come, you have to sit down. You too, sir," he turned to the man. "The police have been called and we'll have to wait."

"Yes, yes, of course, oh my God! Oh!" Deirdre wept and her body shook uncontrollably as Luc held her tightly and led her back to the dim interior of the hotel there to await the arrival of the police.

68.

The police appeared almost immediately and asked everyone to wait for them inside. The proprietress herded her guests into the small room that had done duty as the dining room and urged them to sit down. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with steaming cups of tea and glasses of water.

"Put plenty of sugar in the tea." She ordered, setting the cups down noisily. "It's good for shock. And here's lemon in case you're still feeling queasy."

The sat quietly, sipping dutifully, staring straight ahead... waiting. Deirdre was icily calm and the young woman had leant her back against the chair and was staring into space, ignoring her hot beverage and the others in the room.

"All right now," a rasping voice called out, "how many guests did you have and which ones are the owners of the Renault?"

"In here, I put them in the breakfast room. Please..." the plump woman opened the door admitting a medium-sized stocky man with grizzled hair. He glanced once at the five persons awaiting him, pulled up a chair facing them and sat down in the middle of the room. "I'm officer Bretet...now then, let's take it one question at a time. To whom does the Renault belong?"

"To us. I'm Henri Duchene and this is my wife Suzanne." Beginning in a low tone, his voice gained strength and evenness when stating these mundane facts.

"Fine," the policeman wrote the name down in a medium-sized notebook. "Now, Monsieur Duchene, were you coming from home or from a vacation site? Please tell me all you know."

"No, no, we're from Montpellier, that is, we live in Montpellier and we left home over a week ago to see my parents. They live in St. Ange sur Orde, beyond Pau. My father had suffered a mild stroke as a result of the losses sustained in what he had thought were solid investments. For his retirement," Henri added. "My mother wanted me to look into things...the shares, the bank, and hoped I'd be able to reassure my father that not all was lost so he could concentrate on getting well."

"I see. So you drove down over a week ago. Did you open the trunk before leaving Montpellier? Did you stop along your route to spend the night? Was the trunk locked?"

"I opened the trunk when we were stowing our suitcases. In fact we put them there. And yes, it was locked. We did not stop after leaving Montpellier but took turns driving and got to my parents in the evening. Oh yes, we did stop to eat, fill the tank, but when we arrived we opened the trunk and took our things out. There was nothing there that shouldn't have been." Suzanne nodded her head in agreement, then was sorry she had done so for the room began to spin around in a most disconcerting manner.

"And during the week you spent with your parents, did you use the car?"

"No. It remained parked on the street where they live." Henri leaned forward. "It was not a pleasure trip. He was beside himself. He was ill. He was frightened and he was angry. At the bank, the government. It was a full-time occupation to look after him and try to show him that while yes, there had been some damage, all was not lost and he and my mother would not starve, would not lose their home. Of course I went to the bank, to his place of business. He is an accountant. But it's a small town and much easier to walk than take the car, so we just left it where it was. It was well parked."

"I see. Now, do you have an alarm system in the car?"

"Yes of course."

"And did you set it after you had removed your belongings from the car?"

"I think so. It's an automatic gesture, but of course I can't be sure."

"Can you, Madame?" The policeman turned to the young woman, still looking very pale and ill.

"No. I really don't remember. We were in a hurry to take our things and get into the house. I recall slamming the roof of the trunk down." she leaned forward. "It sometimes doesn't catch until you do that. Well, it's an old car."

"And during your week in St. Ange, did you have occasion to open the trunk?"

"No. It was empty. That is, we had taken our bags out so there was no reason to open it." She changed color as the thought hit her suddenly. "Was it there all the time?"

"We won't know that until the forensic team have done their work," the policeman sighed. "and even then it's more of an approximation. Now, when the week was up and you were leaving, where did you put your bags?"

"On the back seat." Henri answered.

"Why not in the trunk?"

"Because we were leaving in the afternoon. So we wouldn't be able to drive straight back home. We'd decided to stop overnight someplace. Have some time to ourselves after the stress with my father. We can't afford a vacation this year so, it was a make-do. One evening, one night." Henri replied, smiling wryly.

"And since we'd need the bags for overnight," his wife continued, "we decided to just dump them on the back seat. We'd be in the car, we'd take them into the hotel so there was no need to lock them in the trunk."

"And this morning," the policeman continued, "you decided to put them in the trunk after all?"

"No," Henri answered, "we noticed a bad smell." Here he turned slightly paler than his naturally ruddy complexion. "I checked the tires first. Thought we might have driven through something but..." He did not complete the thought. "I knew the trunk was empty...I don't know why I decided to open it. I'm almost sorry now I did." He added in a low voice.

"It's better that it happened here," Suzanne suddenly spoke up. "We have an underground parking at home. In the building. The neighbors would have been appalled and they would never have believed us that we knew nothing about it."

"There's that." The policeman agreed, knowing full well the gossip in a small community. "Now, sir, we come to you." He looked sharply at the older man with the salt and pepper beard and mustache. "Which is your car?"

"The silver Citroen."

"And can we have your name, address and from where you are coming."

"My name is Roger, Thomas Allart. I live in Biarritz and I am a dentist. I am on my way to Nice to visit my brother and sister-in-law, Vivienne and Jean-Jacques Allart. It is also my brother's 50th birthday. We shall celebrate it, as we do every year though he will know nothing of it. He has advanced Alzheimer and is in a home."

"I am sorry." The policeman murmured as Monsieur Allart inclined his head in acknowledgement. "And you decided to stop the night here?"

"Yes. It is a long drive. I am not so young, and," he paused to sigh, "I was putting off my arrival and all it would imply. Childish perhaps, but it gets more and more difficult to see each year. Last year he still knew who I was but from what my sister-in-law has told me I did not hold out any hope of his recognizing me, so I broke the trip out of sheer funk."

"If you take their hand and stroke it..." the proprietress leaned forward to the older man. "...use words familiar to them from the past, a nickname perhaps, speak slowly and with love, it does penetrate. It does. I too have had your experience. Some of the words do register and you see it in their eyes."

"Yes, I imagine you are right." He acknowledged but in a tone of voice that meant he did not really believe it would work in his brother's case.

"Did you notice anything odd about the Renault when you parked your car?"

"No, I didn't even see it. My thoughts were someplace else and in any case I wouldn't have noticed another car, oh, unless there was something unusual about it, such as broken lights or signs that it had been in a bad accident. I mean, one does expect to see cars in a car park next to a hotel."

"Of course. Now, you are Martine and Luc Castres, right?" He turned to the last couple.

"Yes." Luc answered.

"And you hail from?"

"Pau."

"Going where?"

"The Jura. For vacation." Luc replied.

"And your profession?"

"Chef. I was head chef at Le Table D'Amis in Toulouse."

"Was?"

"It closed last week. Although we had l Michelin star and a devoted clientele, but..." he shrugged.

"It was not enough in these times, eh?" Monsieur Allart asked.

"No. The owner tried to keep it going. I'll say that for him. He economized, he took a loan from a friend to redecorate...I think he was planning on turning it into a more...well, I won't call it a fast-food place, but close to it...something on the range of molecular foods or perhaps comfort foods which are all the rage now. I don't know if he himself had as yet figured out what to do with the premises, but in the end he had to give up, so Martine and I decided to take a much overdue vacation and let the future take care of itself."

"So, you live in Pau and you worked in Toulouse?"

"Yes. The restaurant was closed the weekend so I could be home. It wasn't so bad."

"And now?" Henri asked.

"There is a possibility in Lodeve. Something new for me, rather exciting. We'll see, but first of all that vacation. It's been much too long since we could get away."

"Did either of you notice anything in the parking lot when you arrived?" The policeman asked.

"No. Only cars. That's expected, of course, so one doesn't pay attention." Luc shrugged.

"Yes, that's the trouble...to try and discover when the body was introduced into the trunk. In St. Ange before Madame and Monsieur Duchene left or here in the parking place next to the hotel last night."

"Oh not here." Deirdre remarked swiftly.

"How can you be so sure?" The officer looked up, startled by her remark.

"The flies. So many of them; thousands and quite a few dead ones. I saw that when the trunk was open." She closed her eyes and shuddered at the memory.

"A very clever observation. So," he continued, "the body came from St. Ange. Would you know if anyone went missing while you were there?" he asked Suzanne and Henri.

They looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads.

"Not as far as we are aware." Henri replied.

"Not while we were there," his wife answered.

"It's a smallish place," Henri offered, "and people know each other. If someone were missing it would have been talked about."

"There are many elderly and single women living in St.Ange." Suzanne leaned forward. "You know, widows, unmarried ladies of a certain age. They see everything, know everything. If someone were missing they'd be the first to raise the alarm. They're always going on about the gypsies who drive through or if somebody's daughter is brought home by her young man after an evening out an hour later than they think is proper. They're more efficient than security cameras and they haven't said a word."

"Yes, I see. Well, she had to come from someplace to end up in your car."

"Is it a she?" Henri asked.

"Probably."

"How can you tell?" Luc wanted to know. "All I saw was flesh and millions of flies."

"Very long hair," he muttered in reply, not wishing to go into details.

"Some men..." Monsieur Allart began, then stopped.

"Not that long. Please believe me when I say we know our business."

"What now?"

"Well, there isn't much we can do. Take your names and addresses and get back to you after the autopsy."

"But our car..." Henri began.

"I don't think I want it," his wife interrupted, taking a big sip of water.

"But how will we get home?"

"We'll take you." Luc offered. "It's on our way. No problem."

"Thank you. Even if they'd release it I couldn't...I mean..." Henri sighed.

"I can understand that."

"Are we free to go?" Monsieur Allart asked, rising to his feet.

"Yes, yes. I have all your particulars in case...well, a good journey home." He nodded to Suzanne and Henri. "Pleasant vacation and good luck. And Monsieur Allart...well, courage!"

"Thank you, that's very kind."

"Bring your bags over to the car. The dark blue Peugeot." Luc hurried to open their rented car. "And thank you," he called to the owner of the hotel. "Oh!" he stopped suddenly, turned around and returned to her side. "With all that happened this morning I almost forgot something important. Please, who cooked the meal last night?"

"My grandson," she replied proudly.

"Could I see him? I'd like to congratulate him, indeed I would."

"Certainly," she smiled and called, "Pierre, Pierre, come!"

The small group of five travelers and the policeman glanced to the rear of the hotel where a door swung open and a tall, gangling figure with a long white apron tied around his waist appeared. "What is it gran?"

"There's someone here who wants to say a few words to you."

"Coming." And he ran up to meet them, holding out his hand in greeting. "I'm Pierre."

"And how old are you, Pierre?" Luc asked, grasping it and staring at him amazed.

"Sixteen," he replied proudly.

"My God! Sixteen! And he gave us a meal last night worth dying for. Here, take this card. It has my name and address on it and I want your phone number, how to reach you at any time. I may have a lot of work for you. A well-paying job fit for a man of your abilities."

"Thank you but what will gran do without me?"

"Your sister is shaping up, young man." His grandmother admonished him. "We can spare you."

"She's a woman and she's only 14."

"If you've got a real job for him, sir," the proprietress turned to Luc. "we'll part with him. It's his future you see, and he lost his folks."

"Oh yes, I've got a real job for him. Something new and exciting. I'll be in touch right after our vacation. That's a promise." Luc shook hands all around, helped the Duchenes with their bags, slid behind the wheel and steered down the drive to the highway to join the throng of cars already out on the road heading for Montpellier.

69.

At each stage of their descent along the Malpaso Road they expected to discover a glimpse of their goal, the city of Sanguesa. In vain. Hidden from sight until the group was almost at her front door, she revealed herself to them only after they had crossed a bend in the Aragon river, the last twist and the last view they would have of that waterway.

All too suddenly they found the up to now open spaces disappearing in order to immure them between high and richly crowned facades whose impressive arches banished the faded blue of a nondescript sky and gave them the feeling that they were bathed in air filtered of its usual properties, in order to tender the momentary illusion that they were floating in the upper reaches of the sea where the watery blue light reached them through the richness of the stone. All of it, they saw, as they came closer, dedicated to the Saint. Their Saint, the one whose path they had been following for so many hope-filled weeks

Having finally reached Sanguesa they forged straight ahead to their hotel, leaving the splendors of its many churches, palaces and convents for much later in the day, after they would have had a chance to wash and rest. They knew they would not dine until late evening, in the accepted Spanish manner and that therefore time was no longer important, at least for this night. They were also pleased that they had had the foresight to order their rooms well in advance because of a sudden demand from other pilgrims who now had to fall back on the hospitality of the townspeople or one of the several convents that did accept bone-fide pilgrims of the Road.

The first thing Mathilde did upon arriving was to call her father, as she feared he would have become worried after not having heard from her for several days. With the hotel empty he now had too much time hanging on his hands and without her presence and her optimism might easily sink into lethargy and despair.

Later that evening as the group descended to the lounge refreshed and changed, Mathilde had astonishing news for them.

"My father had a phone call from Deirdre!" she announced excitedly. A flurry of questions engulfed her, causing her to raise both hands, palms open and spread, as if pushing their enquiries aside. "Wait! Let me get my breath back; I am still so excited at what he told me."

"Sit down, sit down!" Father John patted one of the cushions of the couch on which he was reclining. "Tell us everything."

"She does not remember much about her kidnapping. She did say that her perfume must have been drugged. It did not smell right. As soon as she sprayed the room Derek fell asleep. And she was affected when she came out of the small washroom. The next thing she knew was when she came to herself. Not in the tree house but in a bedroom in a villa. She was being taken care of by her old nanny, Marie-Therese."

"But that's not possible." Keith interjected.

"Marie-Therese committed suicide over 20 years ago!" added Father John.

"It was someone dressed like her and with her hair style." Mathilde explained. "This is what papa told me..." and she proceeded to relate all that had befallen Deirdre in the villa to which she had been taken.

"Even the so-called 'jolly man' was there?" Peter-Paul grimaced, "They were well informed."

"Yes. And all this was done to make her think she was four years old again, but by then she did not take the pills the false nanny was giving her, and only pretended to, so she slowly began to be herself again. Well, enough to see that the two other people in the house were only acting and while Marie-Therese went to make the tea that Deirdre had demanded, she slipped out the door, ran down the street and got on a bus for Pau."

"Pau? So she was near Pau?" Steven leaped to his feet, "We were close by...had we but known!"

"It was not in Pau itself but some place not far away."

"But where has she been all this time?" John wondered.

"And why has she not gone to the police?" Helen demanded.

"She still will not go to the police, she told Papa, but she wants to meet us in Compostela on the 25th, or before, and she will not be alone." Mathilde announced calmly and stared back at the faces turned towards her, some blank, some confused.

"Does she know about Bernard?" Deborah interposed softly. "Has any news reached her of his..." she did not finish her query.

"No. She did not know. My father told her. He hesitated because he was afraid she would take it very badly. I never told him any of the things she confided in me and he always believed them to be a most devoted couple."

"And what was her reaction?" Keith asked.

"She was silent so long that Papa thought she must have fainted but when she finally spoke her voice was strong and firm. 'I'm sorry,' she said 'but in the end it is all for the best.' And then she added a message for me that she intended to invest in the new hotel venture and had also found for that purpose a wonderful young chef, whose one-star Michelin restaurant just closed because of the bad situation. He was most interested in our ideas for food and for the hotel and wanted to be part of it and would bring with him a fabulous sous-chef who could be trusted to handle anything on his own. And with that she hung up."

"And what are we supposed to learn from that?" Derek wondered. Except that she has found someone else, he told himself in silent relief tinged with regret.

"Yes, but she did not say where she was?" Father John demanded "Is she safe? Is anyone looking after her?"

"She did not say." Mathilde replied. "And my father was so startled by her call he forgot to ask. Oh, there was something else. He was not sure he got this right but she told him to let me know and that I must tell Keith..." and here Mathilde turned to look pointedly at him, "so here I am telling you! She said you could not be Kenny because he was born in the winter. Does that mean something to you?"

"Oh yes. Father John had already figured that out so it does not come as a surprise to me. I am not her brother because I was born in summer."

"But then what was all that to-do with Monsieur Cotte's window display?" Deborah demanded. "It must have been aimed at Deirdre because it meant nothing to either me or Mavis and only Deirdre reacted. Did he make a mistake?"

"I was born at Christmas time and I too am an orphan." Derek sighed, staring into the distance.

"Oh dear," Peter-Paul grimaced and looked down as the rest of the group riveted its eyes in wild conjecture on the young nurse.

*

"How do you do, Madame? And how is your husband feeling today?" The tall man doffed his wide-brimmed straw hat and bowed to the smiling, plump woman as they both entered the small general store.

"Oh, how kind of you to inquire. Much better. Much better indeed." Her smile turned to a frown as she leaned closer to him. "His doctor did not hold out much hope, but now he claims it is a miracle. A miracle! Well, it was our son's visit of course. He explained everything to his father. Showed him where things were quite all right. No need to worry. We won't lose our home." she took a big breath. "Yes, it's all so positive now. If only..." and here she hesitated.

"If only?" He prompted.

"There are no grandchildren yet. Oh, I'm not thinking of myself, although...well...but my husband's health would improve immediately if he could look forward to such a happy event."

"Have you tried prayer, Madame?" The tall man murmured, managing to call her attention to the discreet silver cross in the lapel of his jacket.

"With Hubert so ill I..." she did not complete her thought.

"Of course, of course, you've had such worries. But perhaps a friend, a lady who might be single or a widow could undertake the task for you. A candle lit in your name with your request, hm?"

"At Lourdes?" She frowned.

"Of course, but an even better site is Santiago de Compostela, on the Saint's day. I know for a fact that several such requests have been granted."

"I could not..."

"Of course not, but a close friend...? Ever since my dear Evelyne has left me I have looked for a way to be of use to others and my prayers have been answered. A friend heads a fine tourist travel company. Religious sites only. First class coaches and hotel accommodations and one of their tours is to Compostela. I have agreed to act as guide. Well, of course it gives me something to do and it is so worthwhile after all. Perhaps you have a friend who would like to join us?"

"That would not not have been a problem before all this dreadful business with the banks and the Euro but now we are all in the same boat and nobody has anything extra to throw away on vacation tours."

"That's why I might be able to help. The Mt. Tabor Tourism Company, taking into account the new financial restrictions, has come up with an idea for some of its pilgrims. A small, not too difficult quiz...here, I just happen to have a copy with me. If the lady you have in mind answers all the questions correctly she can win a completely free tour to Compostela and back with 3-star hotels, fine restaurants, a guide...ahem, my humble self! To explain everything. Mass and confession, of course at Santiago. Why don't you take this with you? Perhaps your friend will be lucky. Then she can light a candle in your name on the Saint's own day, July 25th. A most propitious day for having one's wishes answered. Take it, take it. You never know. Ah, Madame Courcelle, may I please bother you for some nice ripe tomatoes, a good piece of cheese and a baguette. It will do me nicely for my lunch."

*

"Well, it's good that I called." Deirdre stopped pacing the hotel carpet and turned to Luc relaxing with a drink in an all-enveloping easy chair.

"Did I say anything?" He murmured.

"No, but by now I can tell when you disagree with me. And in the matter of this call you do."

"It's just that after what you told me about yourself I thought it much wiser to avoid everyone who knows you."

"You can't seriously suspect Mathilde's father of having instigated my kidnapping! He is the mildest and most inoffensive of human beings. Why he doesn't even run the hotel. Wait until you meet him. And Mathilde is above suspicion. I did not call her, you notice, because I can't be certain of all the members of our group." She sat down next to him and took his hand. "I think they're all what they say they are and I knew they'd worry about me so I thought to get word to them in this roundabout way. It's all right, you know. Truly. And I did learn something important." She rubbed his hand against her cheek. "Mathilde's father told me that Bernard is dead. He had a heart attack after he joined the group in Spain. Deborah...that's Deborah Winter who is a hospital nurse, and another man in the group, took Bernard back to the town of Jaca to a hospital. That's just after the border crossing..."

"I know where Jaca is."

"Well, he died there and Deborah gave the hospital all his particulars so that his body was sent back to Brussels where he was buried. We could get married," she suggested hesitatingly. "I'm a widow now."

"You'd need proof of your identity and you might have to contact your lawyer in Manchester who would arrange matters with the Belgian lawyers..." he leaned forward to kiss the top of her head. "And that's not something we can do as yet. Not until all this is over. July 25th, your group, whoever kidnapped you and so on. You did not feel yourself able to trust the new solicitor, did you?"

"Not entirely; not after he sent me that irrevocable will. Of course he probably did not know anything about it as he was not the one who drew it up but still...I don't really know him, not as I did his father."

"And I'm afraid to take you to Belgium. You see, now that your husband is dead you have inherited him and are an even bigger prize to anyone bent on kidnapping, extortion and murder."

"We wait?"

"We wait!"

"I did ask Mathilde's father to get her to tell Keith that he is not my brother. He'll be so relieved." She laughed, "He did not approve of me as a sister. That was all right, wasn't it?"

"Yes of course. As long as nobody knows how you look now, your name and where we are going."

70.

Night had fallen on Puenta La Reina. The gypsy campfires still glowed although the contents of the black iron pots had been consumed some hours ago and the air was soft and balmy.

The children slept, as well as most of the women but here and there groups of men lounged at their ease, smoking and conversing quietly about events long past that might shed some light onto the future.

Mavis was one of the few on the distaff side to be still up and about. She had no duties in the all-male world of the blue panel truck. They did not even trust her to chop the vegetables for their nightly stew and, as there were no children to take care of, she found herself with much time on her hands, which in turn led to thoughts of the group, the pilgrimage into the unknown and what still awaited them at journey's end.

For the first time in her life she had the feeling that what she had always believed to be solid ground under her feet might at any moment shift, allowing fissures to appear or that the earth might disappear altogether leaving her suspended over endless chasms or falling, falling, falling, never to reach the bottom, as in a bad dream.

The only sure value she could cling to was Jacob. He was determined, straightforward, capable and absolutely trustworthy. Under her breath she quietly murmured prayers of thanks to all the saints for having put her in the path of such a man for, although she never would have admitted it to anyone, the thought of losing Tom and turning herself into a shrewd and independent businesswoman had frightened her. Up to a few months ago there had been a familiar home, their mother and she and Tom. Each concerned with and caring for the other. Suddenly, in one night, after the death of their mother, she had found herself alone, in charge of her brother, rudderless and anchorless on the sea of life.

She still clung to the vision of a small, exclusive shop filled with the lovely items she had discovered on their pilgrimage, but it could no longer be situated in her native Dublin, not if she tied her life to Jacob's. She would have to relocate to London and see what the chances were for yet another gift shop succeeding in a city rife with well-established boutiques. When she had timidly broached the subject of an apartment to Jacob and had offered him her half of what she and Tom would realise on the sale of the house as her dowry, he had laughed hard and long, then embraced her lovingly and told her not to be daft. And did she think she would manage in a loft overlooking the Thames, comprising close to ten rooms on two levels or would she want something a tad larger? And did she want a diamond, ruby or emerald as an engagement ring?

Silenced for a moment, she turned to stare at him as if he had taken leave of his senses then, pulling herself together, gave him a blistering outline of what she expected from a future husband. And wasteful extravagance was definitely not on the menu. They would live in the apartment since he already owned it but the only ring she wanted was a thin gold band after they were married and, seeing his penchant for throwing good money around, she would be in charge of the family finances or she would find herself in a few years, like so many other women she had known back home, pennyless with four children to feed and a husband who wasted his salary on drink and the ponies.

"Ah Mavis," he sighed. "you were meant for me." and he grinned, "I was teasing. Don't worry, I won't be beggared but I'd like to give you a ring just the same to show you I am serious. So what do you want?"

"No ring, my dear, just you."

"All right, all right," he laughed, "A diamond it is. You can always flog it if I lose it all."

"Seriously," she continued. "I don't want anything." Then, remembering, she continued. "Yes, I do...an explanation, please. You and your brothers and Mr. Magian and the men here..." she waved her hand at the caravans, "as well as Peter-Paul, have been talking about a star. A star that is missing from the sky. What does it mean? How can a star be missing from the sky?"

"Ah!" He sighed and leaned back against the side of the truck. "Yes, hm, I'll try to be brief and simple about it. So, let me go back many, many hundreds of years, when we first started to roam the world, to travel from our lands in India. We followed old roads and forged new ones, mainly on land but some of us ventured out onto the seas as well. In those days there was no radar or any of the sophisticated instruments of navigation available today so we followed the stars. We knew precisely what the map of the sky looked like at all the seasons of the year and we never, or hardly ever, got lost. As long as there were stars above us we knew where we were. During the centuries however, we noticed that in times of great upheavals, often threatening us or the world order, a star would disappear, as if to stop us in our tracks and force us to take cover in order for us not to lose our way. It was a star upon which we were dependent for our route and it became a warning sign we learned not to ignore."

"But how can a star disappear?" Mavis wondered. "Does it get swallowed up by a black hole?"

"No, no. It does not disappear for ever. It returns after the danger is past. But," he sighed. "one of our stars...one of those we have been counting on...has suddenly been lost. It's gone! Peter-Paul realized that at the Lake of Peilhou. We saw it was missing in Spain when we met up with your group, as did Mr. Magian. And all our friends here..." he motioned with his head in the direction of the circle around them, "...well, they have noticed it for at least a week as they followed the Road."

"But what does it mean? For us and for our group which is still behind us in Sanguesa?"

"It means trouble. And danger."

"And...?" she prompted.

"It warns us to turn back," his arm held her firmly. "And..." he continued, then stopped.

"Yes?"

"We can't. We have to go on, take our chances and see it through."

"Why?" Mavis insisted. "Why not turn tail and go home?"

"Because it is Santiago de Compostela, Because it is holy. Because we are believers and if there is a threat against the Saint we have a duty to defend him."

"Can he not defend himself?"

"He will. He was not a warrior saint for nothing. But we cannot abandon him to fight alone. We would never be able to hold up our heads in pride again if we did. We'll send the women and children away. That was decided tonight. So, this will be our last night until after the 25th. Let's make the most of it."

"I'm not going." Mavis insisted. "The other women all have children to look after but I have only you, my dear, and I will not leave you." And with that she kissed him long and hard as if sealing a vow.

*

The tall man hurried to catch up with the two sprightly but elderly ladies as they concluded their shopping for the day.

"Ladies!" He called, doffing his large straw hat gallantly as he approached him. "Ladies!"

They stopped, turned, perceived him and smiled in response.

"Good morning!" They called out.

"A good morning indeed that brings about such a felicitous meeting. I was hoping to see you today, Madame Duchene...because of your friend." He indicated the other woman.

"Madame Lafayette?"

"Yes indeed. If she is the one who filled out this questionaire?" And he held up the sample questionaire he had himself composed the previous week.

"Oh yes, eh...I did take a chance," she confided. "My husband passed away last year, you see..." she began.

"My deepest sympathies."

"Thank you, yes, well...I thought if I should happen to be lucky and win a trip I would light a candle and, well, it would be wonderful to be able to do so at Santiago." She sighed as her eyes filled with tears. "And of course I could do so for Louise as well." She indicated her friend.

"You are a truly good person, Madame, and so very right." The tall man interrupted eagerly. "It is the surest place for anyone's wishes to ascend to heaven and I have the honor of being the first person to inform you that you have won a tour, all expenses paid, to Santiago de Compostela with the Mount Tabor Religious Sites Tour Corporation leaving St. Ange on July 20th and going by easy stages to arrive in the town on the 24th in the evening in order to partake of all Compostela has to offer on the Saint's day, the 25th." He smiled broadly and bowed amidst the excited exclamations of the two women.

"Since I shall also be your guide on the excursion I will personally see to your every comfort." And with that he tendered her one of his discreet visiting cards. She took it, held it at arm's length and read out softly, "Frederic, Marechal d'Albans, vice presdent, Mount Tabor Tours."

"Oh my, you're a 'de'. Look Louise," She showed the card to her friend. "So distinguished."

"Oh Janine, what luck!" Madame Duchene fluted.

"Thomas must be looking out for me from above," and she dabbed hurriedly at her eyes. "Louise, you'll have to help me decide what to pack. How much luggage does one take?" She wondered, turning questioningly to the tall man.

"One medium-sized suitcase, with wheels if possible," he advised. "I see you are not in the habit of travelling. Comfortable clothes are best and low heeled shoes for sight-seeing. And of course make certain you have all your medications if you have to take something every day."

"Oh, what fine advice Monsieur d'Albans. I would have completely forgotten." And she smiled and smiled until the tall man began to believe he truly had endless wisdom and charm to carry out this rather odd undertaking.

*

Charles Thomas had accepted Inspector Lemoine's assignment eagerly. He enjoyed disguising himself and playing a part. The days he had spent posing as a jewelry salesman in Lodeve had been exhilerating, as had his little chats with Bernard in the evening but he had not relished joining the group where he found himself just one of many and no longer in a leadership position. He was, moreover, constantly challenged by Peter-Paul and Keith. And on top of it all, the daily treks, lasting up to 8 hours had had serious consequences for his skeletal and muscular structure, never at their best in any physical activity, until he was forced to own up to his feebleness and accept a ride in the blue panel truck.

And now he had a feeling that by giving in to his body's inadequacies and leaving the field of action he had also taken himself completely out of the center of events and would not be one of the major players if it came to a show-down in Compostela...ending up enfeebled and only able to sit by and watch passively from the sidelines. This did not at all suit his ego but he could not for the life of him see how he could fit into the bigger scope of the pilgrimage.

He therefore waited until half the night had passed and he was as certain as he could be that everyone around him was asleep, before silently collecting his belongings and creeping away from the encampment into the town of Puenta La Reina itself where he was able to find private transportation, at quite an elevated price, to get him to the nearest bus station where they had met Bernard. From there he would travel to France and eventually back to his home, after which he would call the Inspector and report on his failure.

*

Mr. Magian and the four brothers had been fully aware of Charles' departure but had given no sign of the fact. Thus it was only Mavis, who had slept deeply throughout the night, who was surprised to find him gone.

"But why?" She asked as the twins began preparations for their breakfast. "Why sneak off like a thief in the middle of the night?"

"He was ashamed." Mr. Magian stated.

"Ashamed?"

"Of course. First his legs gave out and he had to ride...he, a detective, a sturdy minion of the law, a person who thought himself superior to everyone in the group, who constantly challenged Peter-Paul, Keith, even John for expertise in deduction. And who was more often than not wrong! He began to feel inferior intellectually and physically. Why you and the other women in the group could walk an entire day, and every day at that, and not even notice it. While he, instead of gaining strength with the passing of each day, ended up by becoming even weaker until he was reduced to riding in the truck, outside the group, outside of the action. What else could he do but leave?"

"Yes, I see. Poor man." Mavis sighed.

"It's better this way, love." Jacob assured her. "He would have held us up."

"We'd be seeing to his needs instead of being of use in an emergency." David added.

"We'd have to save him instead of the Saint." Mr Magian pointed out as he took his place at the tail-end of the truck and accepted a mug of coffee from Ibrahim.

"And in any case," Joseph continued. "neither he nor Inspector Lemoine have come up with any answers to the many questions raised by this pilgrimage. Much of it is conjecture and much of it is incorrect. And while the Inspector trusted only to facts, Charles had a tendency to add two and two and force that into becoming five, if it suited his personal version of events. Our cousin told me that." He explained as the others looked at him in wonder. "And he has a first class mind so I accept his judgement implicitly."

"Of course," Jacob agreed, "It runs in the family." His brothers nodded their assent in all seriousness at the same time passing around plates piled high with scrambled eggs, freshly cut salad and slabs of bread.

"We will travel faster, lighter and more pleasantly without him." Ibrahim concluded.

*

"There has been one positive reply to our request." Père Hippolyte told the two monks as they met again in the small room set aside for their research. "It is from Toulouse."

"Ah, from the house where the two bodies were found?" frère Aloysus asked.

"Yes. The Inspector in Toulouse did not know what those snippets of fabric were, but as it was a crime scene every item was photographed, itemized and saved. He will send us what we want as nobody in the Toulouse force has any idea what they could have been, or what they could have been used for and if we do, well...so much the better."

"Good. It was a long shot but it might just have paid off." frère Paulus drummed his fingers on the table. "We'll run some tests and see if we can discover what this is all about."

"With God's help." frère Aloysus added.

"Amen." The two others intoned.

71.

Since they had over an hour before they could expect to be served dinner, the group decided to make a quick tour of the town and its points of interest. They hoped that some of the sites might be open and if not, they would at least be able to view them from the outside.

So it was that they stepped out into the velvety night heading for the 6 churches, 13 hospices and numerous convents, but first of all they turned to Santa Maria La Real the pride and joy of Sanguesa. When they reached her portals they came to an abrupt halt, stunned and awed as they stared at the 12th century doorway, richly embellished from every angle by sculptures in high relief...the heavenly inspiration of the master sculptor of San Juan de la Pena. They stood transfixed for many long minutes trying to discern all the characters gathered together around scenes of the Creation, the Crucifixion and the Resurrection.

"That's St. Michael over there," John stated firmly.

"How can you tell?" Derek wondered.

"Can't you see that he's weighing the souls on their way to Paradise or Hell?"

"Ah!"

"And that's Judas," Keith announced, pointing to the sculpture of a hanged man.

"How.." Kurt pondered.

"There's an open bag at his feet and the thirty pieces of silver are spilling out."

"Ah yes," Wolf murmured, "Oh, I don't believe it!"

"What?" Father John prompted, hastily identifying several minor saints.

"It's Siegfried! Look you...Wolf...Siegfried piercing Fafner, the dragon. How did that get in among the disciples and saints?"

"Are you sure that's not St.George?" Monica wondered. " What would Siegfried be doing on a church in Spain?"

"Oh, perhaps a German pilgrim told the sculptor the tale at one time." Wolf suggested.

"It's possible. What a jumble."

"But a joyous one." Peter-Paul smiled. "I almost expect to see Madonna brandishing her Kabbala books."

"If this were being sculpted today," Tom added, "she'd probably be there."

"Yes, yes," John laughed outright. "it's infectiously joyful. Birth, death, judgement, resurrection, all flung about helter-skelter in the frenetic dance of life, death and the hereafter."

"Tis a treat for the eye and the subject of many a sermon. Indeed!" Father John was smiling. "How good to live in a place where one can see this every day."

"Unfortunately the doors are locked so we can't view the rest." Deborah announced, "But there's the church of Santiago, also from the 12th century and several others. The former has a statue of St. Jacques standing on a gilded cockleshell while two pilgrims kneel in veneration on either side of him. Shall we go?"

They turned and continued to explore that church as well as the one of San Francisco with its 13th century cloister, the church of San Salvador, the Carmel convent and its Gothic chapel and cloister and the 3 palaces : the 15th century palace of the dukes of Grenada, the royal palace of the Princes of Viane and the palace of the Marquis of Vallesantoro.

At the second palace Peter-Paul turned around and left the group to examine a small, squat church that for some reason had caught his eye at the beginning of that evening's explorations.

It was lucky, he thought, that most of the churches were open. They don't lock their doors here as they do in Western countries. I guess we have too much crime and too many homeless to leave even a church door ajar. Here, with one exception so far, portals stood open wide day and night in case life suddenly became unbearable and there was no one to turn to except God. The people in this small town certainly know to whom to turn, he thought. Something else we have lost, living our lives in the soulless big cities all over the world. Instead of going to the priest we go to the psychiatrist.

He bowed at the altar, knelt for a quick prayer he had been too self-conscious to recite when the others had been around and moved to a side chapel to light a candle, slipping some coins into the slot of a charity box attached to a nearby wall.

Can I have two wishes for the price of one? He thought suddenly, then smiled wrily and shook his head.

"What troubles you, my son?" A soft voice asked.

Glancing up Peter-Paul saw a tall, thin, erect figure. He seemed old and young at the same time. Long white locks descended to his shoulders and he wore a cassock, a cockleshell attached to an upper pocket and a wooden cross on a long rope. He stood behind the flickering flame of the candles, partly shadowed by a side chapel.

"Everything..." he sighed in a barely audible voice. "I am afraid of the outcome of the pilgrimage this year," he admitted faintly, putting into words the thoughts he had supressed up to now, "so very afraid."

"Yes. There is danger but you and your friends are aware of that and have not turned back."

"The Saint needs us..." Peter-Paul began.

"He will defend himself!" The retort was sudden and sharp.

"Of that there is no doubt but as believers we have to help him and I am afraid...the risk is so very great."

"He thanks you for your care," the old man inclined his head, "as to your other wish..." the priest chuckled as Peter-Paul looked at him surprised.

"I had not voiced it aloud, nor even thought it," he replied, confused.

"Nevertheless, I know. Wait until after the 25th. You will have an answer two days after the events at Compostela." He stretched his hand over Peter-Paul's head in a gesture of benediction. "Good luck and may God's grace go with you."

And with that he disappeared as silently as he had appeared.

Peter-Paul rubbed his eyes, wondering if he had not conjured the man up out of thin air and stared into the flickering flames of the candles in front of him. He gathered his stray thoughts together, knelt, then crossed himself and stood up to go. As he began to exit the church he noticed a short, elderly priest walking towards him up the aisle.

"Excuse me, father," Peter-Paul ventured, "are you one of the priests here?"

"I am the only priest of this church. Did you wish me to hear your confession?"

"Then who was the other priest?"

"There is no other priest. I am the only one."

"But I spoke to someone...just now. He was tall, thin and had long white hair. He wore a cockleshell."

"Ah yes...him!" The priest's face lit up in a warm smile. "Look." And he pointed to a smoke-blackened statue of wood in one of the chapels, a carved image of St. James. "Was that him?"

Peter-Paul tried to answer but found that the sudden lump in his throat prevented him from speaking, so he nodded as unbidden tears veiled his sight.

"He sometimes honors us with his presence."

*

The tall man sat at his ease in the comfortable chair and counted the names on his list. So far he had only 5 winners of the quiz. Hardly enough. Munk had asked for over 20. He thought he would have to point out, diplomatically of course, that the very sharp ladies of the town would begin to smell a rat if so many women would be taking the tour free of charge. They would ask themselves how the tour company could hope to turn a profit if it gave away so many free places, not to mention footing the bill for hotels and meals. And then someone might become very suspicius indeed. Best perhaps to offer some places at a reduced rate, the difference being made up by a grant, donated by a deceased believer and philanthropist who had left specific instructions in his will. Yes, he would have to raise the problem or the astute females of St. Ange would soon begin to gossip among themselves and word might just leak out to the authorities.

*

After breakfast two caravans and one dusty green truck containing women and children, colorful blankets, pillows and enough water and provisions to last two weeks left Puenta la Reina and began its long trip back to France. There they would wait until the men would join them at the end of the month. Only Mavis refused to leave.

"I'm not just with you," she told Jacob, "but I also belong to the group. If you will feel better about it I will wait here till they catch up with me and then continue in their company. I will not abandon my brother and the others. We started out together and we shall see it through together."

"Would you rather be with them?" Jacob asked hesitatingly, thinking that he and his brothers would certainly be in the thick of the action, whatever it proved to be, while the group might be kept out of it.

"You know I'd rather be with you but not if I hold you back in some way. If because of me you will feel that you have not fulfilled your duty to the Saint."

"I want to keep you out of harm's way." He began, putting his arms around her and holding her close, then added shamefacedly. "I want to keep myself safe too. For you, for us as a couple. We've only started to get to know each other and it hurts to part."

"Then we won't part. We'll go on together in the spirit of the ancient pilgrimage when each traveller on the Road, after having made his vows, also left behind a testament that stated : 'Nothing is more certain than death and nothing is more uncertain than the day and the hour of its coming.' "

*

Early morning in Sanguesa saw the group already assembled near the doorway of their hotel, rested and ready to tackle the road again. It would take them slightly more than 6 hours to reach Monreal where there was only a hostel to accommodate them. Part of the road promised to be devoid of vegetation, and, if they got a head start on the sun, they might make good time because of that. Later the scenery would change to offer them some shade from a plenitude of trees and bushes that, if not actually keeping the heat at bay would at least give them the feeling of having penetrated to a cooler phase of that days' journey.

*

s

The tall man was pleased. He had managed to persuade the Munk to his way of thinking and under the ruse of a fictitious will left by a religious benefactor had brought in l0 ladies who could still afford a minimum tour cost which, augmented by this benefactor, meant there were now l5 ladies who had committed themselves to the trip. Another 5 might be found to pay the full price. Some might want to leave the town for a while now that a full-scale murder investigation seemed to have exploded among them. The small local police force had been augmented by an Inspector from Pau and several acolytes who were going from street to street and home to home asking questions about an old red Renault.

"Oh, Madame Duchene, a moment please," He called when he saw the familiar figure, a straw shopping basket over her arm, hurrying to the store before closing time.

"It's you, Monsieur...I must simply get a few things for our supper," and she pulled the door open.

"So must I. No, please Madame, after you." He bowed her into the small, crowded space.

"Have you heard?" Madame Duchene hissed at him.

"What?"

"Murder!" And she trembled with excitement.

"What? Who?"

"Indeed yes!" The owner of the shop leaned across the counter. "A body has been found!" She stated emphatically.

"Where?" He stood as if nailed to the floor, suddenly petrified.

"Oh not here," Madame Duchene laughed," I swear you big men are more easily frightened than us feeble women, eh, Madame Courcelle?" and she turned back to the tall man glowing with excitement. "It was a woman," she elucidated.

"But not here?" The tall man paled visibly, his mind shrugging off the play-acting and picturing Elsie's body as it had looked the last time he had seen it.

"No, no, not in St.Ange. Don't be frightened. There, there...did you ever see such a reaction Madame?"She turned to the proprietress. "My husband was the same."

"So was mine." And the two women laughed uproariously.

"It was found far away... in a car, in the trunk..." Madame Duchene began to explain.

"Parked in a parking lot at a wayside hotel on the road to Montpellier. It was covered in maggots!" Madame Courcelle stated with relish, adding as an afterthought, "And flies!"

"It had been there for at least a week," Madame Duchene added in a whisper, arching her brows to indicate the extreme state of the body.

"Montpellier? That's not anywhere near here. Why then are the police snooping around?" the tall man wondered.

"Oh they're checking all the towns and cities along the highway I understand."

"All of them? Somehow that doesn't sound right for a police investigation. They must have some clue we are not aware of." The tall man insisted as the worry that someone would connect him with the victim surged uppermost through his mind.

"It must be all the places along a certain route otherwise why would they be here?" Madame Courcelle reasoned, "There's nobody missing after all. We'd be the first to know if there were."

"And the car?" The tall man prompted.

"And old red Renault." Madame Courcelle stated firmly, nodding her head up and down in emphasis.

"Renault? Red?" Madame Duchene's hands grasped the edge of the counter tightly."Oh no! I wasn't aware of the make of the car. Oh heavens, oh no!"

"What is it? What is wrong? You don't look at all well."

"Sit down, sit down." The tall man pulled forward a wooden stool. "Please, you are looking very pale."

"My son has an old red Renault." She gasped as the tall man and the shopkeeper stared at her aghast.

*

When the group was well on the road from Sanguesa to Monreal, Kurt and Wolf nodded to each other, put on a burst of speed and moved to the front of the line in order to approach Keith. They murmured good morning in a low voice and, looking at each other, nodded to indicate that it was Kurt who had something to relate.

"I have been in touch with some people back home..." he began, hinting strongly that these were personages in the know.

"Ah..." Keith sighed, "finally."

"It does not get us much farther, but you did wish to know."

"Yes?"

"The telephone call...you did mention that, among other matters that needed clearing up. Well, there is the one regarding the phone call about the fifth victim of drowning. It was made from the town."

"So it was not one of the sect that called from the forest. I thought not."

"No, it was not. It must have been someone who knew a rescue party was on the way and wanted information of that other body to be made public." Kurt stated.

"Moreover, we know who she is, finally." Wolf added.

"Her name was Anna Muller and she was 45 years old. Slightly taller than middle height, short and curly blond hair, married with 2 daughters. A researcher working for a laboratory manufacturing medicines. She was last seen on her way to do shopping for a hiking and camping trip she and her husband and the children had planned for their summer vacation. She never returned and for a while the husband fell under suspicion because he had not been exactly faithful and so it was thought...well..."

"I see," Keith muttered.

"But then," Wolf added, "she also had someone. Someone at work. The husband knew about him and both 'others' had alibis so it seems it was not that sort of crime, if crime it was. Perhaps she had remorse and killed herself? But why in that lake so far from home? We have enough lakes in Germany for that purpose. But she was seen in France with a younger man, tall and light haired."

"She went off with a lover and did not even leave word for her children?" Keith was shocked.

"She was not...how can I put it?...well, she was not very maternal or domestic."

"Still..." Keith objected, only to remember his own reality where some obviously non-maternal woman had put him on the steps of Père Jerome's house 25 years ago. So who was he to argue about a woman skipping out on her two older daughters, as well as a husband and another lover. He sighed deeply instead and added, "I see. Well, she probably is the 5th body but is she the same person we saw with the birdwatchers at the Mas Ferreol or was that already an imposter as we thought. And was she singled out and killed for her identification? And how did the new lover persuade her to go away with him to France? Did he kidnap her while she was doing her camping shopping? Something does not fit. We must be missing some vital pieces of the puzzle. You will have to dig deeper. And, you know, the age is also wrong. The woman we saw was at least l5 years older, if not more. Maybe the missing woman has nothing to do with the one we saw with the birdwatchers...I mean, of course we assumed that it was a man in disguise, but if he is a young man he could have made himself into a younger woman, not one in her 60s which would not at all be in line with any identity papers the killer might have stolen from his victim."

*

"I pity that couple, Luc. Think how awful it must be to have a decomposing body found in one's car. They will never be able to drive it again, even if the police finally release it to them."

"They'll have to buy a new one, that's all." Luc heaved their backpacks on top of the bed in their hotel room in Aix-en-Provence and opened them. "Tell me what you need for the night and for tomorrow. I don't want to take everything out."

"Well, let's see..." she wandered off to the bathroom, "just underwear and a T shirt. Are we eating here tonight?"

"Yes, but there's no need to change. One of the sidestreets off the Cours Mirabeau will do. Lots of eating places where one can sit outdoors."

" I'm already looking forward to it. It's a lovely evening."

"So it is." He put his arms around her, kissed her and mumbling endearing words, led her out of their room and into the lavender haze of a Provencal summer night.

*

"But there must be many old red Renaults on the road, Madame, many," the proprietress soothed, "It need not be your son's."

"But if that is so, then why is the police checking out our street?"

"They have been checking all the streets." The tall man murmured reassuringly. "And all the towns between where the...um, well, body shall we say? was found and Pau, in both directions. Or so I believe. Well, they don't know; I mean they have no identification, no clues so they look. It is after all, what the police do." His voice was calm, low and soothing.

"Yes of course, you are right. I'm so easily upset these days what with my husband, and...Madame Courcelle, I need some soup, Leibig will do and a bit of crème fraiche and cheese..."

Her voice droned on in its soft monotone, a background to the tall man's turbulent thoughts: Why were the police searching this town? Had he really put Elsie's body in the trunk of Madame Duchene's son's car? And when it was found the police of course discovered that it had been parked for a week on a street in St. Ange, which is why they were snooping around here. Should he pack up and disappear? No, it would immediately call attention to himself. Something he must, at all costs, avoid.

"Oh my, have you heard the news?" A voice called out and the door of the small shop banged shut.

"What now?" Madame Duchene clasped her heart.

"The body of course." Came the swift and breathless reply from the third woman, a shopping bag over her arm."Good evening all." She smiled fleetingly at them.

"What has happened, Clotilde?"

"I must have some crème fraiche! That awful niece of Robert's has come for dinner. Why she can't stay in her own home in Toulouse is beyond me. Now, what was I...?"

"What about the body?" Madame Courcelle leaned across the counter, agog.

"It was in the car over a week! It is unrecognizable, and..."

"Stop it, I'm going to faint." Madame Duchene moaned, her face suddenly white and damp with perspiration.

"Allow me." The tall man pushed Madame Duchene's head forward and down until it rested between her knees, then raised it again gradually. "Better?"

The older woman barely replied but her color seemed rosier and her breathing less erratic.

"Please," the tall man whispered, "don't talk any more."

"Oh..." Clotilde was taken aback, "Of course. Crème fraiche, please."

"Certainly Madame d'Epine. I have some nice fraise de bois?" She offered temptingly.

"Just the thing for dessert, so make that two cremes please and may her arteries clog up on it."

And with that she hurried from the premises, turning at the door at the last moment to drop her second bombshell. "Oh, monsieur, monsieur, the description of the body fits your niece, you know, the one who settled you in when you first arrived and then disappeared." And with that she was gone as the women in the shop stared at the tall man in some confusion.

*

"Do we have to get an early start or can we sit here a bit longer?" Deirdre leaned back and gazed up at the clear night sky.

"No rush," Luc poured the last of the wine into their glasses. "We're on vacation."

"What a lovely word. I feel it for the first time tonight."

"Well, up to now it's been either driving on crowded roads or dealing with bodies."

"Don't talk about it; I'm trying to forget."

"Hm, someone's left a newspaper..." He leaned over to the adjacent table and took a hastily folded copy of that morning's paper from one of the chairs. "Haven't checked up on the world for days. I wonder if it's still here." He laughed, straightened the pages and began to glance through them. "Hello, what's this?"

"Anything interesting?" Deirdre yawned lightly. "It must be the wine, I'm getting sleepy."

"Hm? Oh, we'll go back to the hotel soon. There's an article on missing women. I don't like this." He looked up. "I'll just pay and..." he reached for his money.

"What's wrong?" Deirdre felt his shift in mood and her pleasure at the evening evaporated.

"It's this article. Well, they do have them now and then. A sort of 'Where Are They Now?' " He looked sharply at her, "Your name is in it."

"What? But why?"

"I don't know."

"Read it to me."

"All right...'Where Are They Now? These Women Have Been Missing As If They Dropped Off The Globe!'...blah, blah...big build up of mystery and then their names. Number 1 is Marie du Prez, 60, blond, brown eyes, short, well dressed, divorced, from Clichy, profession hair dresser. Left home to go to work four years ago and never arrived. Number 2 is Marcelle Veron, 35, married, two children, curly red hair, blue eyes, last seen at pre-Christmas gathering in her office (Weber and Co.) and looking forward to a vacation with her family. Left the building with others, saying she would take a taxi as she was late and never arrived. Missing eight years."

"How awful," Deirdre sighed, thinking of the children.

"Probably ran off with a lover." Luc grunted, "Number 3, Elisabetta Jardin, 25, medium height, slim, light brown hair, brown eyes, magician's assistant. Was scheduled to go on tour with Artold the Magnificent. Missing for a month from the Artold home where she rented a room. And now we come to Deirdre Braithwaite Van der Gilden, heiress to British Braithwaite Ltd. and her late husband's Van Der Gilden fortunes. Last seen two weeks ago on the Road to Compostela in France; 28 years old, light auburn hair, blue eyes, tall, slim, speaks English, French and German."

"Thank God I contacted Mathilde's father. At least the group isn't worried any more about my disappearance but my father never knew of my kidnapping and if he reads this..." she looked frightened.

"You'll have to call him. He won't be reading a French newspaper but the story might get picked up by an English one and reported. So, we'll go back to the hotel and you'll call."

"It's too late now. He'll be asleep."

"Will he? It's an hour earlier in Manchester, don't forget."

"Oh, yes, oh please, let's pay and get back to the hotel. Hurry."

*

"That's the second time someone's made odd remarks about my niece." The tall man sounded angry. "Why should they imagine something has happened to her?"

"She was here with you at first," began Madame Duchene, "and then she disappeared."

"She did not disappear," he declared in an irritated tone of voice. "she helped me settle in and returned to her husband and children. She could not stay with me for ever. As it is she has been most kind to me after...well...most kind! I never expected her to remain with me. She is not a paid companion nor my daughter and even a daughter has a life of her own. Of course once she saw I was comfortable she returned to her family. The children are small; they need her. There is no mystery about it."

"Well..." began Madame Courcelle, "nobody saw her leave. And she did not have a car."

"Madame, she happens to live in Lyons. I took her by bus to Pau where she took a train. I'm sorry I didn't make a photocopy of her tickets!" And with that the tall man turned on his heels and firmly and emphatically left the small shop, allowing the door to slam shut behind him.

72.

It was just before noon when the good ladies of St. Ange were hurrying home to prepare the midday meal that they noticed an unidentified car making its way down their small neighborhood's principal street. It moved slowly, hesitatingly, as if the driver was not certain of his route. It then turned into a side street of large shady trees and pleasant homes, set well back from the road. They watched as it came to a halt at the fourth house on the left, find a parking place and back expertly into it.

The driver, a young woman, opened the door and got out, followed by two small children, a boy and a girl. They were chattering excitedly and running up the path ahead of her. The front door swung open before they had a chance to ring the bell, as if the occupant of the house had been wating anxiously behind it and on the look-out all morning for his visitors.

"Elsie, children! Welcome, welcome!" He called out excitedly and opened his arms wide to embrace them all in a bear hug, then ushered them into the house, closing the door firmly upon the avidly curious eyes and faces that watched this tender scene from a distance.

"It's his niece." Madame Duchene murmured. "I'd recognize that hair-do anyplace. So old fashioned!"

"It seems to be," admitted her friend.

"And with her children too." Madame Duchene added.

"It seems to be, but..." she began.

"Yes?"1`

"No husband?"

"Working of course. Clotilde, he won't have time to go gallivanting all over the countryside."

"But it's the vacation period."

"Not for everyone. My son is not taking a holiday this year either. Times are difficult."

"Well, perhaps."

"Look! the door is opening again."

Forgetting the husbands awaiting them at home in the hope of lunch, the two friends settled their baskets more comfortably on their hips and, moving several meters closer to the tall man's house, stared avidly at the entrance. They were rewarded by the sight of Monsieur d'Albans exiting his front door, a small suitcase in his hand, his niece at his side. They proceeded to the car where the trunk was unlocked and the valise neatly deposited. Glancing up the tall man noticed the two ladies observing his every move and bowed a trifle stiffly.

"Are you leaving us, Monsieur d'Albans?" Madame Duchene called out.

"Only for a week. My dear niece has come to fetch me to the family vacation home in Mougins, but I shall return in time for the tour." He hesitated a moment before following the young woman back up the path. "A pleasant holiday period to you both and please remember me to Madame Courcelle." With that he bowed stiffly as if to indicate his displeasure then once more closed his front door.

"Well! And what do you say to that, Clotilde?" Madame Duchene demanded. "She's not the dead body in the trunk of the car after all, is she?"

But her friend did not reply. She remained staring after the man, woman and two children who had disappeared into the large and already shuttered house, a curious expression on her face.

*

The fiery red clouds were sinking slowly into the deep purple line of the horizon when the group came within hailing distance of the gypsy encampment on the outskirts of Puente la Reina. A combined shout of "Hurray!" went up at the sight of the caravans and trucks, the cheerful fires burning like welcoming beacons under large iron pots and the handful of figures standing upright, some on their front steps, to wave them onward.

A slight figure detatched itself from the welcoming committee to hurtle forward and throw herself on Tom's broad shoulders, showering kisses on his face and hair as if she had not seen him in months, rather than just a few days.

"Hey, hey. Steady, Mave! Mathilde'll be jealous." He laughed and swung her into the air.

"Oh, I have missed you." She hugged him tightly.

"Well, it wasn't me who ran off with the gypsies-oh!" He carolled while she had the grace to blush. "And speaking of that, where is my future brother-in-law?" He looked around at the men of the encampment who had come forward to welcome them.

"Preparing for your arrival of course. You are staying with us, aren't you?"

"If you can manage somewhere to bathe we'll be delighted." John answered for them all. "But I warn you, hot water is what we need and not for tea either."

"We've arranged showers and there's plenty of hot water." Mavis assured them.

"Then of course we'll stay," replied John, "Where do we go?"

"Here are David and Ibrahim. They'll settle you in." Mavis waved her hand in the direction of the two young men who had stepped forward.

"And food." Steven gasped. "No breakfast. Lunch was a stale sandwich. If we don't get proper nourishment we won't be able to go on."

"How does a grand paella sound to you?" David laughed.

"The nearest thing to heaven on this earth."

*

"I'm not saying it wasn't his niece, Louise. I'm only pointing out that since we all saw her last, a bit over two weeks ago, she seems to have grown quite a lot taller and also heavier."

"But Clotilde...the hair, all that wavy, wispy light brown hair pulled up on the top of her head...that's the same, I swear it is! And the nondescript sort of dress, floaty and puff-sleeved. Exactly the same."

"That can be copied. What I want to know is how a young woman who was on the short side and who seemed almost anorexically thin could suddenly grow by at least a head taller and heavier by 20 kilos? And achieve that metamorphosis in two and a half weeks!"

*

There was to be no sight-seeing that night in Puente la Reina. In fact, they were not even going to enter the town but remained on the edge in the gypsy encampment. Perhaps they would spare the time to look at the bridge erected to facilitate the way for pilgrims by a benevolent queen of long ago and still very much in use today. Yes, of course they would see it and walk it as well but they would bypass the carved wooden and life-sized statue of the saint in the church and would pay only lip service to the town itself. Days were slipping by at an alarming rate and somewhere a deadly foe was crouching in his spiderweb pulling in all the threads...slowly, slowly... to a lethal conclusion. They had no time to play the tourist. There was serious work to be done and the sooner they reached their goal the better the chances of uncovering the conspiracy and of foiling it. The 25th was approaching fast and they were still clueless. Perhaps tonight, together with the gypsies and Mr. Magian, they could decide upon a plan of action for all eventualities...to be faced together in Compostela in less than three weeks' time.

*

"Elsie my dear, for so I shall continue to call you, you have saved my life." The tall man smiled at the young woman driving her car smoothly down the main street of St. Ange and out onto the highway.

"I was happy to oblige. What harpies!" she remarked, laughing. "How did you ever get into their clutches?"

"You won't believe it, I know, but just by being polite. Holding the door of the corner shop open for them and letting them sail in first, asking after their gardens, their dogs and their husbands. In that order!" And he burst out laughing.

"And they repaid you by sticking their pointed noses into your private life?"

"Exactly! Elsie, my niece, did settle me in, but of course she couldn't stay and I never expected her to, but when a body was found in a car on the highway, not anywhere near here I might add, they decided it was she. And they began to spy on my every move. I cannot tell you the stress I have been under."

"Well, couldn't your niece just come back to show herself...very much alive?"

"No, she couldn't because she and her husband and the children have gone on holiday all the way to Australia and New Zealand. They will be gone at least a month. I can't very well tell them to cut their vacation short and rush back, can I? At the end of summer, when they will have returned, she will undoubtedly come to visit. I am the only uncle she has and we are close. But these women were making my life hell on earth this month and would not listen to reason."

"Oh, you do manage to complicate your life. It's your fatal attraction, that's what it is." And she laughed.

"How right you are. Eh, whose are the kiddies?" He lowered his voice.

"A nighbor's. I promised them some ice cream. We'll return them and then we can decide your next steps."

*

By the time night had advanced, the moon had risen and the sky was awash with glimmering stars, the pots and bowls had been washed, the fires blazed on merrily and the pilgrims, clean and replete, were chatting softly to each other, unwinding before heading to their well-earned rest.

After not having been in the mood for many days, Helen reached for her guitar and played and sang to while the time away. Seeing her shining curls bent over her instrument, the gypsies dove into their caravans to emerge with guitars and a small hand-held zither to provide entertainment of their own in the guise of age-old melodies whose provenance nobody by now could recall. Yet despite the balmy night, the cooling breezes and the star-filled sky, there was a feeling of unease, of jitteriness, of a trembling movement across the shoulder blades as if an arctic wind had penetrated the veil cast over the softness of this summer night.

They were all affected by it, some more than others, and wondered if it was a warning sent to divert them from their course or if, imagining the worst, they had themselves unleashed some force whose cautionary signs were making themselves felt on this dreamy and scented night when their thoughts should have been concentrated on peace and harmony which their belief in God and the saints had brought them so far.

Almost abuptly and, without consulting each other, the music ceased. The group rose, quitting the golden atmosphere around the fires, and disappeared into their appointed trucks and caravans for the night, without speaking to each other and without making a sound.

David and Ibrahim remained behind, dousing the flames and retrieving abandoned cushions, then they too blended into the landscape until someone stumbling upon the site by accident would swear it was abandoned and deserted of human habitation and shiver at the thought, wondering what cataclysm had caused this void.

73.

"It's here; it's here!" Père Hippolyte greeted the two monks excitedly as he scurried into the small chamber under the eaves they had been using as a makeshift laboratory. "Let's see." He ripped the padded manila envelope open and carefully removed its contents. These consisted of several sealed transparent folders, each one revealing faint, thready fibers ranging in color from light gray through muddy beige to black. There were only two of the latter.

"Hm..." Frere Paulus raised the glasses from his nose to his forehead to peer closely at this collection as frère Aloysus and Père Hippolyte crowded around him. "The naked eye does not discern anything unusual, so we shall have to run tests after all. I had hoped..."

"Yes, yes, the devil does not make our work any easier." Murmured Père Hippolyte.

*

For Deirdre and Luc the long, idyllic days in the Jura seemed like one eternal and glorious summer and, living together, they were firmly convinced that in finding each other they had truly been blessed. But after a glorious week of hiking, swimming, exploring and clearing their minds of the horrors they had witnessed, Deirdre began to chafe. Something was missing, she felt, and, thinking it over, she came to the realization that her mind seemed to have turned more and more to the group, the road and the conclusion of the pilgrimage on July 25th.

"You're going to think I'm crazy, I know but..." she did not know how to tell him.

"You want to rejoin your friends before the end of the pilgrimage, don't you?"

"Yes, I was always going to but I don't want to drag you into danger, if there will be any."

"Isn't there something in the Scriptures that says: 'Whosoever shall save his life shall lose it; and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.' "

"Oh yes," she sighed. "And there is also the story of Naomi and Ruth. Yes, a grand precedent. Would you mind terribly if we cut our stay here short and go to Spain?"

"No, not as long as it will make you happy."

*

The searing heat of a Spanish summer descended on them the following morning as they set out once more on their road. Gone now were the delights of innovative sleeping quarters, welcoming cafes and charming restaurants appearing as if by magic to blossom at every step along their way. And the constant need to provide themselves with the day's necessities seemed to drain the pure joy of the road out of their systems.

The hostels and other nightly shelters, often makeshift affairs, were crowded, dirty, and, as they had been warned, lacking in water and other basic amenities so that if they chanced on a sparkling river they took advantage of this boon in order to bathe.

They traversed Estella, named for the miraculous shower of stars in 1085 which had led to the discovery of the statue of Notre Dame de Puy and which was also the site where Jean d'Albret welcomed the Jews who had been expelled from Castille in 1492 as "gentle and wise people."

Although the town was rich in monuments such as San Pedro de la Rua, the Real Palace and San Miguel as well as the church of Rocamadour and the convent of Santo Domingo and Santo Sepulcro, a 12th century church with a noteworthy Gothic portal, they passed these by, too exhausted and drained by the day's demands to do more than eat and lie down.

"Maybe you should start thinking of going home?" Tom felt guilty that Mathilde had joined them for this, the most difficult part of their trek.

"No, my Thomas, for I have told Papa I would be away for two weeks and the time is not yet up. Please...do not worry so. I did not think to join you only to be frivolous After all, this is a voyage of faith, not the Club Med. Is that not so?"

"Yes of course, but we have had so many wonderful events in France when I wished you were with me and now it is so much the opposite that I want to spare you from all the heat and the discomfort."

"Oh? Wonderful events indeed? What of the murder of the hospice attendant in Arles? The mysterious monk, the attempted murder of a priest...father John's friend? The American sect, the sinister bird watchers, Brother Guillaume's horrible fate as well as that of the nurse who was taking care of him and the attack on Bernard and on Monsieur Cotte, not to mention the attempt on Monica's life when you were on your way to Lodeve. Do you call these wonderful events?"

"Well, if you put it like that, I guess you're right. And there was Deirdre's abduction too. We still don't know what that was about." Tom admitted, "Not that we know anything about all the other happenings."

"You see?"

"And who is the mysterious stranger Deirdre hinted at? The one she said would be accompanying her when she would finally join us?"

"I have a feeling he is the same as the mysterious chef she has found for the hotel and if her behavior with Derek is anything to go by he might also be something more."

"Ah no, Mathilde, not another involvement!"

*

"May I speak to the detective in charge of 'the body in the car' case?" The elderly woman inquired of the sergeant manning the police station in St. Ange sur Orde.

"Do you have any information, madame?"

"Yes, yes, I believe I do."

*

They continued to trudge ever onward, doing their best to avoid the very busy highway under which their Road flowed to emerge some distance to the forefront in order to join a narrow foothpath until it disappeared once more under tarmac and rumbling pantechnions. The exhaust fumes and the further heat engendered by hundreds of vehicles rushing past did nothing to ease the already irritating conditions and stretched inflamed nerves to the breaking point. They had tried to alleviate this situation by frequent breaks in order to rest and drink quantities of water but discovered that it took even more fortitude to get up and start walking again than by not stopping at all. And so they swept past Los Arcos, Logrono, Najera and Belorado until they finally reached San Juan de Ortega. Here they discovered a small restaurant where they were able to taste the specialities of the region and made short work of the "sopa cana," or white soup with garlic, the "caracoles" or snails and the "perdiz estofada" or partridge in onions and oil as well as the very famous locally grown asparagus and of course the wines of the Rioja, well known the world over. After such a meal they began to feel much more tolerant about their trek through this part of Spain and when they approached the Monastery of San Juan de Ortega, perched at an altitude of l,000 meters, and discovered that there were indeed quarters to be had here for the night which, although situated in a corridor, boasted pristine sanitary facilities, their moods skyrocketed to the point where Helen was persuaded to play and sing for them and John offered to entertain them with a Tale. "For..." as he put it, "we have not had one for many days by now and, as this was a unique aspect of our pilgrimage, it should not be neglected. So, here goes... "

Mr. Lancelot Gibbons was a very punctual man. If his middle name had not been Archibald, it might have been Punctilius. In fact, most of his friends and acquaintances claimed they set their timepieces according to the hour of the appointment they had with him, so it was not surprising that when Augustus "Gussie" Edwards hurried to meet him at their favorite pub at precisely 6:00 P.M., he automatically checked his watch. This gesture had become a habit. Not to see if Lancelot Gibbons would be on time but if his watch was functioning properly.

It seemed to him that today it was running fast for it clearly stated that the time was three minutes past the hour and of Lancelot Gibbons there was no sign.

When the hands pointed to 6:20 he knew he would have to take the watch in to be repaired first thing in the morning and wondered how this could have happened. But when he saw the hands standing at 7:00 and checked this with someone sitting at an adjacent table, he almost had a heart attack. For it was inconceivable that Lancelot Gibbons could ever be an hour late. Something momentous must have occurred, something requiring an ambulance and the hospital emergency room. There could be no other explanation.

He rose to his feet determined to take a taxi over to his friend's apartment immediately. Perhaps he had collapsed at home and was, in fact, lying unconscious on the sitting room Axminster too ill to call for help and hoping against hope that someone would come along to save him.

Hurriedly, he paid his bill, picked up his neatly furled umbrella and rushed to the door where he bumped into someone just entering the premises.

"Hello! Leaving already?"

He reeled, and would have fallen if he had not held on to the doorframe, for the man hailing him was none other than Lancelot Gibbons

" _Come have a drink; the night is young!" And, taking his arm, Lancelot propelled him over to the bar where he sat down to order a tankard of ale!_

Augustus Edwards gasped, coughed and began to breathe in and out rapidly, his heart palpitating, his mind racing. Not only was his friend one hour late, he had taken his seat not at a discreet table but at the bar and had ordered the unthinkable, a tankard of ale! What had happened to him? He was known to have voiced his pub-crawling rules more than once; in fact, it was almost a battle cry. "No sitting at the bar and no ale! Only the finest single-malt whisky to be sipped at a discreetly placed table and embellished by lighthearted and witty conversation." And here he was, perched at the bar with a tankard in his hand. The world must be coming to an end, Augustus thought, as he allowed himself to be enthroned on the lofty stool.

"Ah!" Lancelot smacked his lips and returned the tankard to the bar. "That hit the spot. I had quite a thirst. Well..." he turned to Augustus, "How's life been treating you?"

" _Oh, fine, fine. As usual."_

" _Good, good." And he savored a few sips._

" _And you?"_

" _Topping. I've been thinking of going on a cruise. Perhaps to the Caribbean. The weather in London these days is simply too depressing."_

Augustus could not credit his ears. Had Lancelot not told him time and time again what he thought of "cruises"? Of the crass multitudes jammed into a ship in search of sunshine and cheap sexual thrills! The foolish, braying crowds devoting their days to mindless splashing in the pool, strutting around at inane costume balls and gorging themselves at buffets that would have given a Roman partygoer in the year dot a pause for thought. It was simply inconceivable that he should now contemplate joining in on all he had derided before.

"But, but...but you always sneered at cruises. At the horrible sight of the masses throwing themselves on the buffet tables, at the juvenile entertainments offered up in the evening after another stultifying formal dinner. And when did you start drinking ale? It makes me almost believe that you are not yourself and have perhaps been taken over by an alien!"

" _I have not been acting like myself?"_

" _No, no, no!"_

"Where have I erred? I mean..." he amended hastily, "where have you noticed a change?"

"You were late. In fact, you were an hour late! Why, we all set our watches when you appear, for your punctuality is a byword."

" _Ah, I see...well, there were some unforseen circumstances today."_

" _No! For the Lancelot Gibbons I know there are no unforseen anythings! Unforseen or unexpected is not in his vocabulary."_

" _Is there anything else?"_

"You always wear a waistcoat. Even in summer. You never unbutton your shirt You never drink ale or sit at the bar and you would not go on a cruise if hell froze over. I do not recognize you."

" _Yes, well, you will just have to get used to the new me I'm afraid. Hey..." and here Lancelot Gibbons so forgot himself as to poke his friend in the ribs. "Just look at that tootsie, will you..._

hubba, hubba!"

At which point Augustus Edwards fell off his bar stool in a dead faint.

The discussions among Augustus's friends centered on only one subject matter: the new Lancelot Gibbons and his outrageous doings. He had been spotted at the races with a stunning six-foot beauty; encountered at the opening of a new restaurant with a ravishing brunette; at the first night of a popular musical with a pulpous redhead. His by now famous retro crow of "hubba, hubba" was copied by all those wishing to be thought among the "in" set...in short, he cut quite a swathe in society. Other members of their group suddenly broke loose and, from men one had hardly noticed before, except for their exemplary manners, there now poured forth a riotous mode of living encompassing all the vices they had so thorougly frowned upon in the past. It seemed to Augustus as if a plague had struck all those in his immediate orbit. All those, that is, except himself, for as his friends' excesses became ever more outrageous, he retreated deeper and deeper into gentlemanly behavior and the strict conduct set down by his ancestors from the time of Henry VIII.

As the rot spread, and more and more young men about town discarded their waistcoats and unbuttoned the top fastenings of their shirts while throwing away their wristwatches proclaiming that time was, after all, relative, chaos began to make itself felt in every aspect of their up to now well regulated lives. Dentists and doctors appointments necessitated at least an hour-long wait, restaurant reservations required one to stand in line patiently for almost as long, theater and concert performances might begin at a time when, previously, one had been in the habit of getting ready to go home. Trains and planes seemed to have no schedules at all and the obligatory dress code had vanished completely so that even the Queen noticed it when she set out to knight two industrialists who had made themselves famous by producing several impressively designed but completely useless bits of sanitary equipment and who presented themselves at the august ceremony in jeans and blazers.

It seemed to Augustus that if they were ever to get back to the life they had enjoyed before the debacle, they would have to not only set the clock back but they would have to uproot the problem at its base. That is, they would have to kill Lancelot Gibbons. With this thought in mind he began to read all the latest thrillers available at his neighborhood bookstore. Some of the solutions were so outrageous he deemed them impossible but there were a few plausible ones and, in fact, one that struck him as perfect. In the novel it had been the mere fact of the detective showing up wherever the suspect put in an appearance and smiling knowingly at him which, in the end, broke the criminal's iron nerve and caused him to make an error whereby the minion of the law was able to arrest him. Augustus decided to add a knowing leer to his physiognomy which, he hoped, might invoke a sense of guilt in the other man and perhaps cause him to return to his old ways or leave the city altogether. It was easy to keep track of Lancelot Gibbons for the gossip columns were full of his past, present and future doings and at all of these, it was soon noticed that whenever Lancelot appeared there also appeared another man, an anonymous individual with a knowing smile on his lips. This he turned relentlessly upon the hero of the hour until, by gradual degrees, he had so unnerved Lancelot Gibbons that this most copied and envied man about town began to be seen less and less until, in fact, he disappeared from public view altogether. And, as if by magic, everyone woke up to the fact that clocks kept time, appointments were made and carried out, young men met in pubs at a given hour to down a single malt whisky with like-minded friends and contemplated a night on the town that included a fine and leisurely meal with enough time to spare to catch the latest show. And nobody thought to ask what had happened to Lancelot Gibbons until he strolled into the pub one day to take his place at his favorite table at which everyone on the premises automatically checked their watches, nodded, beamed, and sighed in relief that God was in his heaven and everything was once more all right in the world.

"But what was the reason for Lancelot Gibbons' strange behavior?" Monica wanted to know.

"Ah," John replied with a laugh, "that we don't know. Perhaps he really had been taken over by an alien with the idea that if he succeeded then others would follow him from outer space and settle on earth; or, perhaps he had a slight nervous breakdown, or he just wanted to live it up. You must admit that his previous way of life was pretty stultifying for a young man about town."

"But..." she insisted.

"Monica, it's just a story. Leave it."

"It does raise some questions." Father John added, "But as it is amusing, I'd just let it stand."

"Well, under the circumstances of our present stage in the pilgrimage, I'd say it's a pretty good effort on John's part to entertain and divert us." Peter-Paul smiled his thanks at the normal atmosphere created by the relating of this tale.

"That it is, and therefore to be blessed."

"And so to bed. As someone much greater than I once said."

74.

"What a perfect day to begin our voyage." The tall man greeted the group of elderly ladies arriving at the site where a sparklingly clean blue and white tourist bus awaited them. "I see you all have suitcases with wheels. That will make our job easier too and you will be able to gain your quarters for the night so much more rapidly. Now..." he paused significantly as the women came to a halt and looked up at him. "I have a surprise for you...or, as I should say the Mt. Tabor Tourism Company has a surprise for you. Here is a selection of authentic Scottish shawls, a present for each and every one of you, in case the air-conditioning on the bus brings on a twinge of arthritis, or if we are suddenly caught in a cold wave or perhaps a thunderstorm. One can never know when setting out, even in summer, what the weatherman may bring and it is better to be prepared."

The ladies nodded their heads up and down in delighted agreement.

"And that isn't all. On behalf of the Mount Tabor Tourism Company I am also empowered to present each and every one of you with this genuine hand-made lace mantilla which I am certain you will enjoy wearing for mass and confession and will treasure even afterwards, when you will have returned safely home with all your prayers answered." And he bowed his head.

"Amen!" They sighed in unison.

*

"Are you certain? It's easy to make a mistake about such things as height and weight, especially about a person you never saw but once or twice." Officer Bretet leaned towards the very determined elderly lady sitting across the desk from him.

"I would swear to it on the bones of all the saints. I am not mistaken. The niece who settled him into the house was never taller than medium-sized and very, very thin. Her fussy dresses floated on her body. The one who came to take him away on vacation was over a head taller, buxom with hips that strained the fabric of that outfit so that it no longer floated but packed her very obvious curves in as tightly as the casing in a pork sausage. It was not the same woman. I would stake my life on that."

"That is very interesting. Well, Madame d'Epine, we shall have to look a bit more closely at this so-called Marechal d'Albans about whom nothing seems to be known, not even his name!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that there are no records of anyone of that name. He is not listed anyplace, so...well, it does raise some questions."

"Oh heavens, a friend of mine joined the tour!"

"Which tour?"

"Why the one which Marechal d'Albans is guiding...to Compostela." And seeing that the officer still had not understood, she leaned forward to tell him all about the Mount Tabor tourism company, the quiz, the ladies who had won free trips and the fact that the bus had already left their town.

*

The following day's long route added nothing to lighten their mood of stoic determination as it forced them to clamber to a plateau over l,000 meters high which, when reached, did not beguile with charming sites but forced them to cross a military zone, an area devoted to aviation, two major highways, an autoroute and a railroad track but it did offer, in one of the eating places they discovered along their path, the food of Castile which consisted of roasted suckling pig, "quarter-hour soup" redolent of garlic, a ragout with chickpeas and various cheeses upon a base of sheep's milk.

They were intent on reaching Burgos before nightfall and, if possible, taking in most of the sites that very evening. Rich in monuments, it tempted them to leave their hotel rooms despite the exertions of the day, and compelled them to visit the llth century hospital of San Juan Evangelista, now a house of culture, the ravishingly beautiful Gothic cathedral begun in 1221 and only completed in the 15th century whose treasures included a sculpted portal and the Santo Cristo, both dating from the l3th century, the chapel of Santiago and the statue of Saint-Jacques in the nearby museum.

In the morning they picked up their staves and took to the road once more. An interminably mind-numbing route of denuded plateaus and immense high plains covered in fields of wheat, still green from the spring, but turning more and more yellow under the broiling sun. Although this stage took only about six hours to complete, the very monotony of it made it seem much longer so that when Fromista was reached they were more than ready to check into their quarters for the night, wash, and go out into the town to find something to eat, not even glancing at the church of Saint Martin or Santa Maria del Castillo.

They remained two interminably boring days in Fromista, staying in a Fonda, a modest establishment that more than filled their requirements, in order to rest and gird themselves for the stages to come. These all comprised more than 10 hours to complete. The first stretched

from Carrion de los Condes to Sahagun and embraced slightly more than 40 kilometers, traversing one of the immense plateaus they had already encountered on this stage of their journey. It was ablaze with the familiar yellow fields and presented the eternal, and vast horizons that were attractive only to someone bent on stoic meditation. And taking the rigors of their route into account, they once more decided to spend two precious days of their schedule on rest and tranquility. Entering Sahagun they bypassed the camping site, the monastery and the convent, all of which welcomed pilgrims, in favor of another modest Fonda that catered to their needs. This consisted primarily in a plentiful supply of running water.

Temperatures had by now reached the mid 90s in the shade and everyone they came in contact with complained that it had never been so hot at this time of year before. They strongly advised them to hire a minibus to take them across their next stage for in all that empty plain there was not even one tree under which they could shelter and, as there was a limit to how many bottles of water they could carry they would surely be dehydrated by the time they had made it to the other side. And although this made sense, a feeling of mulish stubborness suddenly swept through the group causing them to dig in their heels and determining them on their chosen path in the way they had come so far. On foot!

"We've never been beaten yet." Tom exclaimed. "Not even when Monica fell, or when we were faced with days of sodding rain or at any other time. We always plowed ahead...on foot."

"Yes, somehow we always had God's protection." Derek added.

"Because we continued. We did not give up and went on in the way we were meant to." Peter-Paul asserted. "As real pilgrims of the Road. Except for the minivans and the barge of course. But two deviations should not make a difference for we have slogged along on foot much longer than most pilgrims who only cover the required 200 km. By the time we shall reach our goal we shall have walked close to 2,000!"

"Yes, yes, but it is true that we can't carry enough water, that there is no water anywhere in all that desolation, that we cannot take the chance of falling ill before having reached our goal. Not only for our sakes but for what might lie ahead for others once they reach Compostela. As we get closer we have to stop thinking of ourselves and start thinking of the innocents forging their way to salvation who, without our help, may be going to their doom." Keith urged.

"Our big obstacle is the sun," Steven murmured, "So, the solution is to bypass the obstacle."

"By riding?" Kurt wondered. "Yet you do not think it the thing to do for a pilgrim. So how can you bypass the sun?"

"Not by riding but by walking at night. When the sun will come up we shall already be on the other side and getting ready to bed down in whatever hotel or inn is on offer."

"Ten hours on foot at night, without light, without being able to see what is in front of us? At our feet? It is dangerous in the extreme." John murmured.

"We all have flashlights. We'll buy several sets of batteries to take along. It should not be a problem." Steven insisted.

"It is a possibility."

"As I said not so long ago when I planted my feet onto that swaying rope bridge to walk to an outcropping in a lake, 'My Lord stepped forth onto the waters of the sea of Galilee, why should I fear?' "

"All right?" Keith turned to the large group assembled around him.

"All right!" Came the answer from all sides.

That evening they ate sparingly, provided themselves with as much water as they could carry and a few sandwiches and by sundown, as other pilgrims in the town were getting ready to head to the few eating venues of Sahagun, started out on their long journey into the night.

The route seemed even and effortless. Straight ahead, with no obvious impediments, but after close to two hours and with full darkness all around them, disorientation set in. The road, up to now smooth and uninterrupted, began to alter and diverge from its even and forward-moving trajectory as it rose ever higher, until the loftier altitude of the high plateaus had been reached. They had already traversed such areas in the daytime, when, with their eyes taking in the slow elevation, this transition had been a smooth one. At night, with only the small circle of brightness illuminating their feet and the road under it, the gradual ascent proved confusing.

"Have we reached the top yet?" Tom called from the head of the line.

"It looks like it." Keith pointed the beam of his flashlight as far as it would go to brighten the area through which they were walking. "It's smooth sailing from now on; right through the fields. Too bad we can't see what's at our feet with all this wheat around. Be careful where you step!" he warned them.

"Is there anyplace we can call a halt to drink?" Monica complained.

"I don't know. We'll just have to move on and see. The first place we get to that isn't covered in crops will do. In the meanwhile, keep your flashlights aimed at the ground."

*

"Brother Marc, brother Marc, there seems to be a tourist bus in trouble at the side of the road. As good Samaritans we should help." Père Theodore called as he pointed out the blue and white bus, its wheels in a ditch and listing sideways as the driver and guide clambered out to see what they could do.

The large group of teenagers came to a halt while brother Marc and several other monks and priests joined Père Theodore close to the crippled vehicle. High pitched voices raised in fright emanated from its interior.

"I had better soothe some ruffled feathers." The tall man in his black suit remarked as he forced the front door open. "Ladies, ladies. Nothing to be worried about. Just remain calmly in your seats. Help is at hand and with the aid of the Almighty we shall soon be on our way again."

"Oh dear, oh dear, what can be done?" Père Theodore wrung his hands in anguish as he contemplated the extreme sideways tilt of the tourist bus and the frightened faces of the elderly ladies peering out of the windows.

At a sign from the blond monk the band of youngsters moved in a body to the rear end of the bus, and grasping it from all sides like an army of ants, they counted to three and heaved the vehicle onto the tarmac again. The ladies shrieked as they fell back into their seats and the onlookers gasped but the coterie of jouveniles cheered and jumped up and down in an outburst of high spirits at the success of their manouver. The blond monk, smiling from ear to ear, was seen to go from one to the other, patting them on the back and giving praise where praise was due.

*

"Stop!" Keith commanded. "There's a circle here. One of those mysterious circles one finds in farmlands the world over. See?" He flashed his torch around.

"We could sit down for a while and eat something," Deborah suggested.

"Are these circles safe? Weren't they supposed to have been made by aliens?" Tom wondered.

"No, no, the theory is that they were made by man to signal to aliens. Sort of like a landing field." Derek explained.

"I do not feel anything of the supernatural here but if you wish me to I can ask some of the pilgrims who have gone before us, centuries ago that is. They should know and they are all around us." Monica offered in all seriousness.

"I'd dearly like to take her up on that." John muttered as Helen giggled.

"What are they talking about?" Kurt asked.

"It must be that famous English humor so if you do not know how to react, just laugh." His friend murmured.

"It is quite safe." Mr. Magian remarked with a smile, "Shall we sit down?"

They subsided within the large circle and, placing their flashlights all around them, began to remove sandwiches and bottles of water from the backpacks they eased off their shoulders.

Who would true valor see,

Let him come hither;

One here will constant be,

Come wind, come weather.

There's no discouragement

Shall make him once relent,

His first avowed intent

To be a pilgrim.

Who so beset him round

With dismal stories,

Do but themselves confound,

His strength the more is;

No lions can him fright;

But he will have a right,

To be a pilgrim.

Hobgoblin nor foul fiend

Can daunt his spirit;

He knows he at the end

Shall life inherit.

Then fancies fly away,

He'll fear not what men say;

He'll labor night and day

To be a pilgrim.

Peter-Paul intoned resoundingly as several in the group added a heartfelt Amen.

"We should make that our 'theme song'." John laughed.

"Is that again from the Middle Ages?" Derek wondered.

"Seventeenth century." Steven offered. "Pilgrim's Progress."

"It is one of your English poems?" Wolf asked. "We too have fine poets, you know."

"Of course you do." Keith soothed, "This work, however, is unique. It is entitled Pilgrim's Progress and was written by a man from the lowest classes who was practically illiterate, at a time when highflowing prose and poetry were the repository of the educated or titled. It also became one of the most widely known, beloved and highly thought of works of that time and in the ages to follow down to this very day when it is often performed, almost like a play, with actors and incidental music."

"A man who suffered for his faith yet remained steadfast." Father John added.

"Yes...how petty and mean-spirited rulers can be when they are thwarted." John pronounced bitterly.

"To this day and in our enlightened and tolerant age." Father John whispered. "Man does not learn."

"Look! What is that?" Helen pointed straight ahead in the direction they had been heading. "Smoke?"

They rose from their positions on the ground and peered ahead into the inky distance where something that resembled a swirl of floating darkness appeared to be making its way toward them.

"It is the column of smoke that led the Israelites through the desert! It is the Almighty himself." Derek gasped and fell to his knees mumbling prayers in a language nobody expected to hear emanating from a co-pilgrim's mouth.

"No it isn't!" Monica shrieked, rising to her feet. "It's a tornado. Just like the one in Kansas. I don't want to go to the Emerald City."

"What is she talking about?" Kurt asked as Monica burst into tears and threw herself onto Peter-Paul's chest.

"Perhaps they spray the fields with pesticides at night rather than in the daytime?" Steven suggested. "If they do it does not bode well for us for we seem to be right in their path."

"Take the ponchos out of your backpacks, wrap yourselves up in them and fall to the ground!" Keith ordered, as he began to burrow through his in order to find the plastic wrap he had last worn in Castres and on their road to the Canal du Midi.

Barely a few seconds elapsed as the others copied his actions and threw themselves, as if by magic, into the center of the circle until anyone passing by would swear the site vacant even if he were to scrutinize the area with night-vision binoculars. They remained like that, curled up in a ball, their faces pressed into the earth, not daring to draw breath and waiting for the mysterious shape to pass them by. Would they feel it? Smell it? Was it truly some sort of spray for the crops, or something more sinister?

Time passed and nothing happened.

Cautiously they raised their heads, turned their faces in the direction of the mysterious substance bearing down on them and discovered that it had come to a halt just in front of their hiding place. It was lighter than the surrounding darkness and slightly luminous, almost like the screen in a movie theater and as this thought flickered through their minds, shapes began to appear on the surface of this dense mass. They seemed to be human and they crowded a long horizontal area that resembled a public square with, all around and in the background, the outlines of baroque-styled edifices. It appeared to them that the figures were celebrating something as they surged forward to the central structure. But just as suddenly as they had appeared they disappeared behind swirling columns of a dense and heavy smoke. Here and there they could discern shapes detaching themselves from the others and racing to a portal, beating down any resistance from the crowd with a stout cudgel, until they had disappeared from sight into one of the main entrances. And then the explosions went off. These were formulated by sudden bursts of light that sent the humanoid forms flying skyward to come crashing down, one on top of the other, and lie there motionless until several small hillocks had been formed to dot the once smooth stones of the piazza. And with that the light dimmed, the images disappeared and the smoke-like column reverted to its original aspect.

Still they did not dare to move and, hiding under their ponchos, only raised their eyes to what was being played out in front of them. Everything was quiet with a vast and all-engulfing silence none had ever experienced before, when a figure suddenly appeared in front of them. It portrayed a man with a beard and flying white locks, seated on a white horse. In his hand was a sword. In the crook of his other arm a pilgrim's staff and around his neck on a rope, a cockleshell. At his side another rider manifested himself, dressed in armor, his cape flying behind him, he was mounted on an exceptional white steed and brandished the sword Tizana. Several in the group crossed themselves as they gazed with awe and veneration upon these manifestations of their Saint and El Cid coming to the aid of the pilgrims who had been attacked by some nefarious force bent on death and destruction within the very borders of the saint's shrine.

And just as suddenly as these scenes had been acted out for them, they ceased. The mysterious column disappeared and the sky burst its boundaries in a display of low-lying stars that surrounded them on all sides to light the way of the pilgrim and lead them safely to their destination.

75.

"Yes, and I want you to put out a call for all police in the area to be on the lookout for a blue and white tourist bus with The Mount Tabor Tourism Company emblazoned on it. They are to stop it and take the driver and guide into custody for questioning. Don't harm the passengers. They are all innocent. Well..." Chief Inspector Bretet turned to his subordinate, "that should get results."

*

"Ladies, ladies, may I have your attention please." The tall man hurried to catch up with the group of elderly travellers as they entered the pleasant country inn where they were slated to spend their first night. It had already been an adventure-packed day what with the accident that had caused their vehicle to slip into a ditch at the side of the road but, as they all agreed, God, taking into account the very nature of their voyage, had intervened and kept them from harm, even bringing along at the opportune moment a priest, several monks and some young students from a religious college to right their bus and set them on their route once more. They were still discussing this sign of grace when they pulled their new, wheeled suitcases past the reception desk and were hailed by their guide, Marechal d'Albans.

"Tomorrow, when we once more set out on our travels, we shall be boarding a different bus. Our driver is not happy about the way the present one is responding after the slight accident we experienced, so, as not to endanger anyone, the company is laying on a different vehicle...just as comfortable. It is red and white and so new it still does not display the Mount Tabor logo but I shall steer you to it and will do my humble best to make up for the fright you experienced today."

*

"And how do I explain this to Inspector Lemoine?" Keith asked in exasperation.

"What?" Tom turned to gape at him.

"What we saw last night."

"Or dreamed we saw." Steven muttered.

"We saw it all right."

"Yes, but why do you have to tell the Inspector about it?" Tom demanded. "It's none of his business."

"Oh but it is. What we saw was what is going to happen. It's sort of like the spirit of Christmas to come in 'A Christmas Carol'. It foretells the future and it showed us graphically what to expect on July 25th. All the faithful assembled in the square in front of the church, then the unexpected manifestation of smoke. Thick, dense and choking and under cover of all those billowing gray clouds there suddenly appear, from among the faithful, a group of men who will stop at nothing to achieve their aims. We saw them detaching themselves from the worshippers, beating any resistance with clubs and fleeing to the church entrance. We saw previously set explosions going off and bodies piling up in the square. We saw the horror of it all. And we also saw Our Saint, together with El Cid, swords in hand, entering the fray to rout them. How can I warn the inspector precisely and in order of events of what is to come? What to look out for? He will think that I have gone mad if I tell him we were offered a vision...in the middle of the night, in the middle of a wheat field? He will say that I have succumbed to a fit of religious mania. Now do you see my problem?"

They had reached Manzanilla de las Mulas early in the morning, had checked into a rather grand hotel, had bathed, eaten and gone to sleep for a few hours and, as there was nothing of note to see in the town, they took some clothes in to be washed and remained near their quarters, trying to absorb what had been revealed to them during the night crossing.

Their appearance that morning had been noticed by all and several of the citizens had come to speak to them, wondering how they had arrived in Manzanilla De Las Mulas at that time of day. When they were apprised of the fact that the group had crossed the high plateaus at night they became a marvel for all and were forced to explain more than once how they could have done so. No pilgrim had ever attempted such a feat and it was assumed by everyone that this group had been placed under divine protection and that the completion of their endeavor was not only under a holy sign but that their presence in Compostela on July 25th was a necessity.

Now they were put into the position of acquainting those who needed to know what had been shown to them at dead of night, in the middle of a vast field of wheat, and to prepare for the eventuality of the attack they had witnessed.

"Hello Inspector." Keith began. "I hardly know how to explain this to you but I am in receipt of some information that may help you and those in charge at Compostela." He listened as the Inspector voiced his pleasure at the fact that there had finally been a breakthrough and assumed that Keith would now tell him of some phrases overheard in a taverna or of a sighting by a fellow pilgrim encountered at a camping spot in Spain. When he finally took in what Keith had to relate and learned in detail what would happen on July 25th, he was struck dumb, not knowing if to attribute these visions to dementia brought on by trying to pass over the vastness of the high plateaus at night, or if, by chance, a divine revelation had truly been granted this extraordinary group.

"I don't know how I can explain this to my superiors or the counter-terrorism people or...any of the others who are responsible for safety at Compostela."

"An anonymous, but reliable tip-off ?" Keith suggested.

"I suppose so. It's the usual line one falls back on, but I'd better make is stronger and suggest that the information comes straight from the horse's mouth."

"That won't be a lie, Inspector, for it does." Keith laughed, remembering the vision of the Saint and El Cid, both mounted on their steeds as they had appeared to the group just the previous night.

"If you say so."

*

A busy day today, Père Hippolyte thought as he headed for the small room under the eaves. The Reverend Father had had a message from a senior policeman. No, not a message, a consultation. Some searching questions had been asked. Was it about the problem at Compostela or was there some news about his attacker, or about the false policeman or...well, there were so many unanswered questions that it could be about anything at all but he had the feeling that the consultation had been about religious matters. Well, well, they'd find out in time if the reverend father thought they ought to know about it. But now to see what the two scientists had uncovered.

"Any news?" he wondered as he entered.

"Yes and no," Frere Aloysus replied calmly, "The light beige thread linked to the lighter gray when lit gives off a thick and acrid smoke. We have not discovered what the black is for."

"So, we have a heavy smoke...well, that reminds me of the phrase 'smokescreen' and that might be what it is for. Smoke can hide a great deal."

"Oh yes, if the criminals have enough of these threads they can easily cover the entire square in front of the cathedral in a dense and impenetrable cloud."

"And under cover of that they can move about freely and do most anything." Frere Paulus added gloomily.

"Yes, but what are they planning on doing? It does not sound like a terrorist attack, you see. You would not need to hide behind smoke for that. You would just have to plant some bombs." Père Hippolyte thought aloud.

"A kidnapping? Is anyone of great importance scheduled to attend? Someone like the Pope?"

Frere Aloysus worried.

"Not that we know of but perhaps the appearance of a great public figure will be kept a secret until the last moment in order to safeguard against just such an attack."

"Undoubtedly," Frere Paulus sighed. "All we can do is let the proper authorities know, through the reverend father, that there might be a very thick smokescreen, as you so aptly put it. And we shall go back to our testing to see if we can come up with something using the black threads."

*

They were looking forward to visiting Leon where there was, for once, a great deal to see and which, moreover, could be reached in 5 short hours in the daytime but as they advanced steadily toward their goal the prevailing mood shifted from lighthearted banter and the expections of viewing yet another awe-inspiring cathedral or palace with references to their saint to the remembrance of the warnings they had been issued. Had that truly been a foretaste of what was to come in Compostela? And what could they do to avert it? Who were the men they had seen running from the large open space to the doorway? Was that the square in front of the cathedral and were the perpretators making for the entrance into the sacred shrine? What were they hoping to achieve? And for those in the know there was the added question: what did this have to do with all the incidents already encountered during their long journey on foot through France and Spain?

For the second time of their 6 weeks on the Road, Peter-Paul retreated into a mood of deep contemplation and could not be prevailed upon to lead them in a rousing song or to brighten their day with a fanciful tale. He did not even reply when addressed, leaving Steven to explain that their co-pilgrim had removed himself spiritually to another plane in a deep meditation and that, when asked about the future had only murmured "If we are going in the right direction, we only have to walk straight ahead," with which Father John heartily agreed. He did, however, wake up when they reached Leon and checked into an inn housed in a small edifice abutting a public building where they washed and then went out to explore the town.

After having viewed San Isidoro with its 23 royal tombs and the Cathedral which, although built two centuries later, turned out to be a marvel of Gothic art overpowering the viewer with the luminosity of its 125 windows, they also paused to scrutinize the Hostel of San Marco where they could still make out one building as having belonged to the ancient hospital located next to the 12th century church. They then found it was time to head toward a restaurant where they hoped to be regaled with the food of the region which they had been told was similar to that of Castile. It consisted of various casseroles such as tripe or lungs with beans or stuffed peppers, frogs' legs and for those with a sweet tooth there were Mantecadas or buttered cakes and chocolate Maragate.

If Peter-Paul had been abstracted as he continued his pilgrimage, Derek was in shock. The revelation of the circle in the wheat field during their night journey had been a revelation in more ways than one. Not only did he now know what would be happening at the end of their pilgrimage, he also knew that the Lord was with them, as he had been with the Israelites in the desert on their long trek out of Egypt to the Promised Land, and that that Lord was surely Yaweh, the Jewish God. He had seen the column of smoke, just as the Israelites had seen it, and he had fallen to the ground to worship. And he now knew what his true religion was. For that night, with his face buried into the depth of the circle, he too had had a vision. Not of the crowds at Compostela but of a woman with dark hair and a sorrowful expression bending over him and, with tears running down her face, kissing him for what would prove to be the last time. She removed him from her breast and placed him on the steps, murmuring, "Schlaf mein Teirinker. Here is a rabbi; you will be safe." Then she had rung the bell and disappeared into the darkness.

76.

The road from Leon to Hospital De Orbigo was once more a long and daunting one. Vast and endless, the countryside appeared determined to defeat them and keep them from reaching their goal. It seemed to them that they were slated to wander in great and empty spaces, devoid of trees, houses, humanity, and hemmed in by infinite yellow fields until the end of eternity.

Only the sight of the irrigation canals of Orbigo gave them some hope that this proof of human habitation might yet still save their pilgrimage.

The following day they entered Astorga and crossed the Roman bridge that spanned a canal. They could not but marvel that this route was still in use after well over l,000 years.

"What we're building now won't last even two hundred, despite all the new innovations and techniques." Derek remarked.

"Oh yes, and this will not only outlive us but our children's children as well." Wolf added.

"Sometimes I think we are regressing rather than advancing, certainly in music." John snorted.

"In spirituality for sure, for sure." Father John murmured sadly.

They cast a last glance at this remarkable structure and continued into the town where they were looking forward to viewing the Cathedral, which although built in 1471 was fashioned of several styles: Gothic inside and baroque outside with the added plus of a statue on a portal depicting St. Jacques as a kneeling pilgrim. They were also eagerly awaiting their first glimpse of the Episcopal Palace which had been conceived by Gaudi in a delirious sweep of wild romanticism.

When they checked into their modest quarters for the night they noticed several other small bands of pilgrims either heading out to see the sights or to go up to their rooms. Their group was by far the largest and while they waited patiently to be assigned their keys, they saw a young couple making its way toward them with purposeful strides. He was tall, lean and blond and she slender, above average in height with short, curly black hair. She was smiling widely and heading directly towards Mathilde, her arms outstretched as if intending to embrace her.

"Mathilde, oh thank God we've found you! We tried several other places on the route and were afraid we somehow missed you."

"Martine was going to try every town in Spain; she is certainly determined." The man added as Mathilde looked at them questioningly, not knowing where she might have met these strangers before.

"But don't you recognize me?" The young woman asked, laughing.

"I think you must have mistaken me for someone else." Mathilde replied politely.

"Well, here we are again!" Mavis smiled broadly at the others as she, the brothers and Woofy rushed in from the front door of the hotel.

*

"Nobody has seen a blue and white bus with Mt. Tabor Tourism Company emblazoned on it. Either our informant was wrong or the bus is taking some devious route, well off the beaten track." Officer Bretet sighed, "It makes our job even more difficult."

"Our informant did give us a valuable clue, sir." His subordinate insisted.

"And what was that?"

"The passengers are all elderly women. That ought to make it stand out from all the other vehicles making their way to Santiago now."

"Yes, you're right. I mean, how many buses could there be carrying only old ladies? Send out an alert for a bus of any description at all with only women passengers, and old ones at that."

*

Père Hippolyte was on his way to the small room they had been using as a laboratory when a thunderous blast rocked the hallway and the stairs. He fell to his knees, saving himself from injury at the last minute by clutching the banister of the staircase he had been about to mount. A high-pitched bell began to toll violently and some of the younger monks who had been at choir practice burst out of the rehearsal room on the ground floor in a bid to protect their monastery against what they deemed to be an attack by anti-clerical forces, just as Père Xavier rushed out of the conference room where he had been in deep consultation with the Arles police chief. They had been evaluating the news from Lodeve and Inspector Lemoine's report of some very disturbing information regarding the upcoming events at Compostela.

"It is all right; do not fear." A deep bass voice floated down to the alarmed crowd. "We have been experimenting." frère Paulus called, as his soot-begrimed features appeared from the upper floor to look down on the little group, by now huddled together for safety, gaping up at him. "We have unlocked the secret of the black threads." He announced happily.

"Wonderful! And...?" Père Hippolyte could hardly contain his excitement.

"A most efficient and powerful explosive when used in conjunction with..." he was not allowed to complete his sentence for almost immediately a cutting "Quiet! Not a word!" issued from the chief of police to muzzle him into silence. "We cannot be careful enough about this matter. I shall come up instead."

"Everybody back to their usual tasks." Père Xavier called out. "Nothing has occurred and nobody is harmed."

*

"I'm Deirdre." The young woman announced, laughing all the time as Woofy kept up an accompaniment of delighted barking and threw himself into Keith's arms. "And this is Luc, your new chef."

"Deirdre? I would never have recognized you. What has happened, where have you been since you called papa? Oh, we were so worried!" Mathilde hugged the older woman as Deborah, Helen and Monica gathered around.

"It's a long, long story! And so much has occurred, some of it miraculous and some of it frightening and...oh well, I shall keep it for after supper like one of the tales. It sometimes feels to me as if I have truly been living in some kind of fairy story, complete with a prince and a villain. Oh,..." here she turned to Keith, "you did get the message that we are not related?"

"Yes, but I knew even before because Father John had figured it out. Yes, yes, Woofy, it's all right, it's all right." He held the little dog, squirming in his arms and licking his face in an outburst of joy, soothing him by stroking his fur lovingly.

"And we have just spent a week in your beautiful Jura mountains," she added, as Keith and Luc shook hands.

"But why have you come to join us? Would it not have been better to remain quietly hidden away until the end of the pilgrimage, just in case someone might still surface to cause you harm?" John wondered.

"Perhaps, but I was part of this group, I worried about all of you and somehow I had a feeling that because I had been walking the Road, because I had bound my life to that of the Saint...I don't know if this will make sense, well...as if I was under his protection and that I owed him my freedom, my life and my new happiness." and here she tucked her arm under Luc's, "And as such I needed to rejoin you in order to show him my deep gratitude in helping to defend him at journey's end."

*

"Nobody is blaming you," Inspector Lemoine assured Charles who, having returned to Lodeve much earlier than planned, now sat across from his superior, his head bowed, his usually assertive attitude at an all time low as he reported on his failure. "One can only do one's best and if, for some reason, you were unable to complete your task because of a physical failing, that cannot be laid at your door. It is God's will."

"I should not have given up, but I would have been a liability to them...at the end...they would have had to worry about me rather than the evil they were determined to combat. I would simply have gotten in their way. They are a big group by now, around 20 or so, and very brave, very set on defending the Saint and of course all those who will converge on Compostela on the 25th. They will need help and I was thinking, if you will permit, that I would join them on that day. I cannot tramp the road with them but perhaps my experience in police work will help them for I might just spot something they would miss."

"Yes...that is not a bad idea and I have some very interesting new information that could help you. Let me tell you about it. And don't ask me the source for it is preposterous beyond belief yet I have a feeling that it is true. Now..." and the Inspector leaned forward over his desk, lowered his voice as if the very walls had ears and in a muted tone narrated all Keith had related to him.

*

The group of young men, with their attendant priests and monks made good time and soon found themselves within sight of their goal as they commandeered their quarters for the night near a hospice. They had elected to sleep out in the open, around small bonfires, for the night was warm and mellow. Finally, to Père Theodore's delight, activity was centered around these beacons of light as hot dogs were roasted and potatoes baked in the embers. Some hard liquor also made the rounds but of that he was unaware as he assimilated the healthy atmosphere created by the sight of the fires and the young men behaving like the boy scouts of his own youth and therefore forming a most comforting picture.

*

Hoping to take advantage of the cooler morning hours, the pilgrims rose early, persuaded a lone waiter to serve them well before any of the others in the hotel had risen, and set out on their way to El Acebo. It was again a long route, taking 9 hours to complete and while the brothers with Mavis and Woofy resorted to the truck, Mr. Magian elected to go on foot, as did Luc and Deirdre.

After what proved to be a mind-numbingly boring trail, they finally reached an area of uneven elevations that rose ever heavenward and, at an altitude of 1490 meters they saw the Cross of Iron rising into the sky. It measured 150 meters and was at the summit of a lengthy pole planted into a cairn where each pilgrim added a rock to attest to the fact that he had truly been there and had passed by on his way to salvation.

"How touching this is," Peter-Paul murmured as he added his own stone. "I saw so many of these in Tibet. It is an avowal of faith, a visible formulation of the words: I was here; I walked past; I too existed and I have marked the way for you who follow. The Hebrews place small stones on graves to signify that they have visited and have not forgotten those who lie under the ground. This is part of the same ritual, of man's need to assert his claim to life, for long after his body would have rotted the stone would remain, a small substitute for that pilgrim's brief span on earth but a sign for all those to follow: life is brief, flesh is weak, stone remains, and faith prevails."

There were no hotels in the small and picturesque town of El Acebo but a local bar and a restaurant did offer rooms to the pilgrims and, as they had gotten a headstart on all the others who might be on their way from Astorga, they were soon pleasantly housed and delightfully near revivifying drinks and tasty local cuisine.

It was here that Keith finally formulated into words some vague thoughts that had run through his mind for some time now and, by early evening, just as they were all thinking of their supper, he knocked on the door of the room occupied by Deirdre and Luc.

"I'm sorry to bother you but I've had some ideas of the events in Lodeve...those which didn't make sense to us then but which with hindsight might be explained by now. Could I...?"

"Of course, please come in," Luc pulled the door open. "Sorry I didn't invite you in right away but I take the job of bodyguard very seriously."

"And so you should, knowing what we all know by now. Deirde, oh excuse me, Martine," he turned to her. "I think I've figured out several things that took place in Lodeve and I'd like to tell you to see what you feel, O.K.?"

"Yes, of course. Here, sit down." She hastily moved some clothes from a small armchair to the bed.

"Well, first of all I believe the abrupt change of window display...from wedding gown to old fashioned baby buggy and baby clothes was simply a fluke. It never meant anything. Monsieur Cotte simply changed his window on a whim. I won't say he was innocent of other things but he did not know who you were and he did not therefore design a new display in order to cause you heartache. He was, however responsible for the attack on Bernard."

"How can you know that?"

"Because of his character and because of the fact that the pilgrim's certificate Bernard had on his person was stolen. Our earlier idea that someone took it in order to have an identity does not make sense as the assumed thief was much taller, much thinner and much younger and therefore would not be able to change himself to a less than medium-sized, burly man in his 60s."

"Interesting," Luc straddled the only other chair. "elucidate."

"Monsieur Cotte, as we have already noticed, was a man beset with curiosity. He liked to know things about people. Not to use against them, just to amuse himself. It was his only vice and he could not resist prying. He had seen the group members about town and knew all about them. In fact, all of Lodeve had an interest in this group as the story of their adventure on the trail made the rounds: a dreadful fall down a steep incline, a miraculous ledge, a mountaineer on hand to effect a rescue, a young monk unconscious from a mysterious ailment. Well, I don't have to tell you that a quiet place like Lodeve must have been buzzing with speculation at such news." He paused to look at them as they nodded their agreement. "So of course Monsieur Cotte, with his need to know everything about those around him, would be the one most affected. He watched them from a distance, learned their names from other townspeople or, perhaps, from the maid of the hotel where the pilgrims were staying, or from the young boy who washes the dishes. Everybody knew Monsieur Cotte and it would not be wondered at that he would show an interest in these people because everyone in the town was interested in them after what had happened. It was at this point that he learned some of their names and that one couple was Belgian. He was particularly interested in Belgians ever since his beloved niece had become involved with one and had taken her life because he had left her. He wanted to get a good look at this particular Belgian and when he did he had the shock of his life. He had seen his niece's seducer only once but his features had been burned into his mind, so that when he saw Bernard he knew him for what he was, and decided to take revenge for her shame and sorrow which had ultimately led her to take her own life. If he noticed that Bernard was much shorter he would have put it down to Bernard's age. People do shrink when they get old and of course their features alter as well and he might have reasoned that perhaps his own memory was at fault. After all, he had only glimpsed that man once and that was 25 years ago, but he was as certain as he could possibly be that this was the same man and he was determined to avenge her death. So he followed him and when Bernard entered the church to pray he was right behind him. And he struck. As an afterthought he looked for some identity papers, found the pilgrim's certificate, took it and left. We never asked Bernard, but I'm asking you now, Deirdre...did Theodore look like his brother?"

"Yes. He was taller and of course younger but there was a strong family resemblance. I never saw him but that is what Bernard had told me when I wanted to know all about this brother who had died young in a rather horrible way."

"But wasn't this same Monsieur Cotte beaten up so badly in his shop that he died of his wounds some time later?" Luc asked.

"Yes, he was and the Inspector could not understand why, nor could Monsieur Cotte who had not seen his assailant's face as he had been wearing a mask. Well, it could just have been a robbery gone wrong. Someone broke in early in the morning, much before the time the proprietor usually opened his shop. He was going through the merchandise, looking for something valuable. Probably a drug addict hoping to find something costly to sell in the next town and knowing that Monsieur Cotte never opened before l0:00 A.M. except...on that day the unfortunate man reached his premises at 9:45! I do believe that this is the banal explanation for the attack which cost him his life." And Keith sat back in his armchair.

"I would call it divine justice," Deirdre whispered. "or payment in kind for his vicious assault on Bernard."

"Yes, you could look at it in that light."

"I did want to leave him, Keith. I was not happy, but I would never have wished him harm. He was a good man, a caring man and an honest one. Let that be put on his tombstone."

"Amen. As Bernard himself would have said." Keith sighed, lowering his head.

77.

The following morning saw them on the trail once again, delighted to have Deirdre along, with the added attraction of Luc for, as they all knew, there was safety in numbers and they were now a formidable force to be reckoned with should anyone attempt to attack them. They did feel, however, that the women ought not to become involved in the murderous events at the piazza and hoped to be able to dissuade them from being present at that time. Moreover, there was much speculation, as they continued to walk the Road, of what exactly the attack on the throng outside the church was meant to produce. Was it simply an act of barbarism? Did they only want to kill as many of the devout as possible? Was it a statement of some kind against religion or was there some ulterior motive they were so far unaware of? Did the authorities have any answers or were they also puzzled and confused? And why, after having assaulted some of the onlookers, had they rushed off to enter the church? What were they looking for? What were they planning to do, as those still in the square stumbled around in the dense smoke and tried to avoid the explosives that went off everywhere? Set fire to the cathedral? First despoiling it of its riches? There were some fine silver and gold pieces on display but it did not seem to them to be worthwhile to hire so many criminals, have them murder innocent pilgrims and all for a few bowls, plates and ewers. The miscreants must be after much bigger game.

"Is anyone supposed to be attending this year important enough for a gang of criminals to have mounted such a sophisticated operation? To perhaps kill him or kidnap him?" Father John wondered.

"I have heard nothing to that effect." Mr. Magian murmured.

"Perhaps there is and it is being kept very quiet in order to prevent just such a scenario as we are contemplating." Steven suggested.

"It is certainly possible but if that is the case how come the criminals knew about it if Inspector Lemoine did not...and he asked around, believe me he did." Keith told them.

"And who would be important enough to have so many hit men on his trail?" John wondered. "This is a very well planned operation involving many people and that means big money is being spent on it, so the money to be gained must be tremendous. I can think of only one person who, if he were kidnapped for instance, would indeed be worth a king's ransom and that is the Pope."

"But the Pope is planning a voyage to Africa. It has been well advertised everyplace." Derek asserted.

"Perhaps that is just a smokescreen and he will suddenly appear here on July 25th instead?"

"That too is feasible but somehow I don't quite see it..." Keith sighed. If only the revelation in the wheat field had been more specific, he thought, but perhaps the powers that be do not know any more themselves. The vision had been so vivid that they had all believed what had been revealed, had accepted it for the truth but perhaps what they had been shown had not been God's work but the devil's? To confuse them and set them off on the wrong track? Only time would tell and time was swiftly running out on them as they moved ever more rapidly towards their goal.

"What, other than the Pope's abduction or murder, could be worth such a complex and costly operation?" Steven asked. "Think back on what we were shown that night in the mysterious circle."

"We saw smoke, we saw human shapes appearing out of that dense smoke to attack those around them, then fleeing to the safety of the church." John said slowly as he recalled the event in the wheat field.

"Did they carry anything in their hands such as sacks or bags in which to place their loot?"

"No, no, some had what looked like cudgels, heavy ones." Kurt answered.

"If they were after ewers or bowls they would have had something in which to carry them." Helen thought out loud as she began to realise where Steven was heading.

"Yes."

"So, that means what they were after would not be heavy, but light enough for them to make off with by utilizing only their bare hands."

"If not gold or other precious metals, then what?" Luc wondered as he too became caught up in this problem.

"Think!" Steven persisted. "What does the church house that is lightweight, easily carried in one's hands, or in a plastic bag tucked into a pocket and is worth more than a king's ransom. In fact it would take the coffers of the world's richest countries plus the Vatican to ransom such a prize...and ransom it they would!"

"The Saint!"

"Santiago!"

"Oh heavens," Monica cried out. "they are planning to steal the sacred bones!"

"Yes," Steven replied grimly. "the prize of prizes for a kidnapper. The entire Christian world would go mad with shock and money would flow in from everyplace."

"A masterful plan indeed and evil beyond credence." Father John murmured. "I do believe that you are right, Steven."

"We shall have to tell the Inspector immediately." Keith reached for his cell.

"But aren't they housed in a special room behind bullet-proof glass through which only one tourist at a time can look?" John reminded the others. "They are surely well protected."

"We cannot know what devilish devices they have for bypassing such security and, as it is well known about the bulletproof glass and so on, the evildoers will have found something that can penetrate all obstacles to reach what they desire." Father John declared.

"And that will have something to do with the shawls." Keith added. "Which makes my getting in touch with the Inspector even more urgent."

*

By the time they had arrived in Ponferrado, a mere four and a half hour walk, they had discussed all the possibilities of an attempt to steal the Saint's bones with so many worshippers milling around and the outburst of violence that would follow if anyone were to try to foil it. The authorities would have their work cut out for them with such a dense mob and, in attempting to apprehend the criminals, might place many innocent lives in danger. But what else were they to do in such a situation? And what could the group do to help? They spent the rest of that day talking over various possibilities but could come to no satisfactory conclusion.

"If we try to stop the criminals and if security forces are already in place, they might think that we too are part of the robbery attempt and would react accordingly, putting us in danger from them as well as from the thieves we will be trying to apprehend." Luc argued.

"Yes, I had already thought of that but we will have to take our chances nevertheless." Peter-Paul insisted. "We would never forgive ourselves if we allowed such an outrage to be perpetrated against our Saint."

"In that case, what we'll need is some identifying mark that will let the authorities know immediately that we are on the side of the angels." Steven suggested.

"And that would be what?" Monica wanted to know.

"How about a very brightly colored ribbon on which we have hung the cockleshell around our necks?"

"It would have to glow in the dark with all that smoke around." Helen added, thinking of the black swirling mass they had seen engulfing the square.

"Would it be possible to find something like that along our route? In one of the towns we pass through?" Derek wondered.

"I'm sure it can be arranged. I'll call the inspector and see what he can do. It should be easy to find..all we need is something road workers use when they are out at night so motorists don't run them down in the dark."

"Will you see to it, Keith?" Peter-Paul asked.

"Immediately."

"Remember that it'll have to glow by itself, not reflected light 'cause there won't be anything to reflect." Tom reminded him.

"That may be a problem...yes, well, let's hope for the best." And he left them to make his call.

*

The elderly ladies on their brand new bus had had a most exhilerating day seeing the sights. Most of them had never been in Spain and the view of the small villages, with their plots of tomatoes and peppers delighted them as well as the visits to churches and convents which lay along their route. They were less pleased when they went to dine, however, for they had to wait until long past their usual supper time in order to relieve their hunger pains and when the food did arrive, it was disappointing as it lacked finesse and was too heavy in its use of olive oil, but on the whole they were not sorry they had come for it certainly made a change from their usual routine and they were, of course, awaiting the end of their journey most eagerly.

The tall man continued caring and courtly and was a great favorite with them all. If they had any kind of problem, no matter how small, he was certain to have a solution and he aided them with his usual good advice and courtesy so that more than one began to think that perhaps, after the tour, they might tender a dinner invitation again and be successful. It was, therefore, a full busload of happy passengers which made its way steadily onward, using back roads, to its final destination.

*

After breakfast Keith went from one to the other, assuring them all that he had indeed spoken to the Inspector the previous evening and that everyone concerned with the events of the 25th had been apprised of the great danger and of the probable reason for it. As they had all foretold, once the realisation of the aim of the conspiracy had been discovered, the difficulty in preventing it became almost insurmountable. The Inspector had eased their burden somewhat by promising that the square would be swarming with counter terrorism units in disguise and that he was sending Charles to them because no matter what they thought of his skills, he was more versed in these matters than they were and would certainly be a help. This was not something with which they could agree. Having been exposed to the detective's logic they already knew his thought processes and were less than complimentary about them. How he would behave under fire and in the dangerous situation they had been shown in the wheat field, was also a moot question. They did not believe him to be as fanatical in his desire to safeguard the saint as they were and consequently no help to them if the situation evolved into one of harrowing violence and mass slaughter in order for the criminals to achieve their goal. Silently, and to themselves, they vowed not to come to his aid should he suddenly find himself in a dangerous situation. He was police, he had wanted to be in at the kill...well then, let him take care of himself. They knew what they had to do and they would carry it out to the best of their abilities in order to save their saint. Failure was not an option.

"I also want to take this opportunity to tell you something about today's route and some changes I would like to make." Keith addressed them outside the hotel as they were getting ready to start. "First of all we have to cover 40 kilometers which means at least l0 hours of walking, much of it through mountainous terrain. It would be wisest to cut that in half, especially as over l8 kilometers of it is buried under the National 6. I'm not sure how you feel about that but the thought of slogging along on a major highway chock-a-block with heavy traffic for several solid hours is not the idea I have of the road of St. James so I'd like to suggest an alternative route. This meanders through sleepy, old-world villages and if it does not precisely follow the true path, it will lead us through a countryside that would have been immediately recognizable to a penitent making his way in, let's say the l4th century. And, from time to time we do join up with the correct way as in the very beautiful ascent of Herrerias au Cabreiro. However, the itinerary I have suggested, although more aesthetic, is also more taxing for it is longer and also mountainous so, before setting out it might be well to think of where to camp for the night since finding a place to spend that night will be difficult. Especially as we are such a large group. On the other hand, at Cabreiro, an 11th century village, which marks the frontier of Castile and Galicia at an altitude of 1300 meters, an inn awaits us."

"Oh, definitely the more interesting road," John rejoined.

"Let's take a vote," Tom raised his voice. "Aye in favor and nay against. One, two, three...!"

The emphatic "Aye" resounded in the room from everyone.

"There you have it and a big Yes it is!" Tom added, embracing Mathilde at his side. "How does an 11th century inn sound to you?"

"Will the food be of that century as well?"

"It just might be, you know," Peter-Paul replied. "Not very much has changed here, not in food I imagine and recipes were undoubtedly handed down through the generations and are still very much in favor although they might have been adapted to more modern cooking techniques."

"It would be wonderful and I might learn something for the hotel," Mathilde smiled.

"Well, I for one am going to check out everything we eat along this route. We should already be starting to sample the food of Galicia...well, if not here then by the time we get to Portmarin and that is only about two stages away. It is rich in seafood and also renowned for its innovative sauces. " Luc announced enthusiastically.

"I didn't say the inn dates from the 11th century, only the village." Keith corrected. "At least I hope so for by the time we reach it we shall be in need of plenty of hot water and comfortable beds and I doubt if either of those commodities were readily available in an 11th century inn. I understand that this one has been completely restored and was in its heyday a monastery hospital when the area was under Benedictine rule which lasted until l854."

"What exactly should we look out for in the way of food in Galicia?" Tom asked Luc. After all, he thought, a chef ought to know.

"Ah, seafood, as I already said but specifically there is 'pote gallego' which is a ragout and mountain trout, usually en Escabeche as well as many sorts of sea fish and let's see...oh yes, stuffed eel, ham with turnip leaves and 'viera' which of course are scallops. Ah, and green wine. You won't go hungry, I can assure you."

"Could some of that be transferred to a Lodeve hotel kitchen?" Tom wondered.

"Of course. And it would fit in with the philosophy behind that venture for these dishes are truly well rooted in the history of this part of Spain and eminently healthy. In Spain the use of olive oil over butter is universal, as well as vine-ripened tomatoes, peppers and many other vegetables. And in Galicia, fish and seafood reign...again something that fits in perfectly with the idea of a sane and healthy cuisine. So, keep your tastebuds open to all these new flavors and remember them for later, when we shall be recreating and adapting the dishes we are eating now for the needs of Lodeve."

*

"Ah, here you are. I am very thankful to all of you. Please sit down." Père Xavier nodded at Père Hippolyte, Frere Aloysus and Frere Paulus as he made himself comfortable in the straight-backed chair he favored and beamed at them. "I must admit that when Père Hippolyte came to me with the idea of trying to discover what that shawl was all about, I was sceptical, but then I reminded myself that he had been viciously attacked in order to steal it. Who, now, would want on obviously old and faded wrap when a new one is readily available in the shops and not so expensive either, as I was told by our police chief who investigated the stabbing. So, I encouraged you all in the attempt to discover, if you could, what it was all about. I never believed, however, that your success would be so brilliant and so all encompassing." He nodded his head and smiled at them again. "You not only found the site of the impending attack but also the unusual properties of the various lines on the shawl. And we have corroboration of what is planned from a divine source...if we are to believe an incredible story which, since it fits in with all the deadly properties of the shawl, I do...as do the security forces. And I am now going to tell you, under cover of the utmost secrecy, what is being planned and how your discoveries fit into it."

He then proceeded to relate all that had befallen a group of pilgrims making its way at that very moment to Compostela and what had been revealed to them in the middle of the night in a vast and empty field.

"Father John is with that group," Père Hippolyte volunteered after they had heard the reverend father to the end and had then remained seated, mute with surprise and awe. "He is not young." Père Hippolyte murmured, worried at what awaited the little Band of Brothers at Compostela.

"No, but God is surely with them all or they would not have been proffered such a vision. And that means the Divine Spirit will be at their side to keep them safe. And we shall pray." Père Xavier added.

"Amen." They murmured, thinking of the next few days that would bring the group to their final destination to face the biggest challenge of their pilgrimage and their lives so far, in a bid to prevent the most vicious and sophisticated crime ever envisaged.

*

The hill, though high, I covet to ascend,

The difficulty will not me offend;

For I perceive the way to life lies here.

Come, pluck up heart, let's neither faint nor fear;

Better, though difficult, the right way to go,

Than wrong, though easy, where the end is woe.

78.

"Ladies and fellow pilgrims," The tall man began to address his charges as they were getting ready to board their bus for another busy day of sightseeing. Soon, very soon, they would arrive at their final destination and the culmination of their voyage of faith. It had been a truly elevating experience and each one murmured a blessing and a word of thanks to whichever saint had watched over them and had arranged things in such a way that their trip could take place in these difficult financial times. For without divine intervention they would not now be travelling in luxurious conditions to reach their goal. They were avidly looking forward to their arrival in the holy city in order to give thanks to God and all the saints for having given them this chance to be present at all the important ceremonies and to ask for grace. The accommodations had been delightful, the care and solicitude assuring and they were all more or less a little bit in love with their guide who had truly done everything in his power to facilitate this adventure for them so that when he called them together just before they boarded the bus for the next stage of their journey, they surrounded him avidly, waiting to hear what he had to relate.

"I imagine that you have noticed the heat, dear ladies. It is truly getting warmer every day and it will certainly not get any cooler before we reach our destination, so I would suggest that you dispense with your travelling shawls for the time being. I shall of course return them to you and I know you will want to keep them as much for their usefulness in the winter as a souvenir of this delightful voyage but right now they are taking up room and as you will not need them, we shall be more than happy to store them in the luggage compartment for you."

They all fell in with his suggestion, passing over their wraps and commenting to each other again, when they were alone, how very concerned for their comfort he was and what luck they had in having him as their guide.

*

"But how could a busload of elderly ladies disappear? Someone must have seen them. Have they all gone blind?" Inspector Bretet paced up and down his small office, berating his assistant.

"No sir. Everyone is on the lookout. Doubly so as we approach the 25th, but all the charabancs that have been seen have a mixed load of pilgrims. All ages and all sexes, as is usual. Nobody has reported a group of elderly women, which must mean, sir, that they are using the minor roads."

"Yes, yes, of course. You're right but we can't patrol all the backroads; we simply don't have the manpower." He sighed, "I'm truly worried, Francois. Here we have over 20 older women, widows for the most part, in the hands of some unscrupulous person who is pretending to be a tour guide and who is leading them to Compostela by some dubious route far from other travellers and the safety of the police. What is he planning to do with them? If what we have learned so far is true and there really is a nefarious plot to steal the bones of the saint and in the process not hesitating to kill anyone who gets in the way, these women are in the greatest danger and we sit with our hands tied, unable to protect them!"

"Yes, sir. It does not bear thinking of."

"But what can we do?"

"Well, sir, they must be staying overnight someplace, even if they're off the beaten track, so I thought to look up some inns or country hotels that might possibly have been used by the criminals. There are surprisingly quite a few and they are listed in guide books as being not only charming and clean but also much cheaper than those on the principal roads. Should I institute inquiries, sir?"

"Yes, yes, by all means and immediately. If we can pinpoint their location we could intercept them before they reach Compostela. It may save their lives."

"We have had some disturbing news." Kurt and Wolf approached Keith as he unrolled his sleeping bag. They had arrived at the highest point of their mountain itinerary and were getting ready to bed down for the night. A fire blazed merrily in the clearing and backpacks had been opened to extract food and water. Luckily for them it was an extremely mild night, for at such a high altitude it could have been bitingly cold even in the middle of summer.

"What?"

"You remember what we related to you about two women of different ages who had been missing and were assumed to have been the fifth body found at the lake when the American sect attempted to float their sins away? One was in her 50s and one 45. Well, both women are alive and well and have returned to Germany to their relatives. The former had been on a nature trip and was very angry when the police finally found her in France and pulled her in for questioning before sending her home and the younger one, well...she was discovered with someone who was not her husband and of course she was angry as well. In the end we have not been able to help you with anything, anyway, nothing having to do with the woman you saw. But there is something else." Wolf reported.

"A body was discovered in a hotel room in Castres and from the description it sounds as if it might be one of your bird watchers." Kurt exploded his bombshell.

"What did he look like?"

"He was very tall with a long, thin gangling sort of neck and a small head. He had been knifed and was found by the chambermaid of the hotel where he had been staying together with another man. This man is missing." Wolf explained.

"Yes, that does sound like one of the bird watchers. Finally. Were night-vision binoculars also discovered at the site?"

"That I do not know for it is not in the report but I shall make enquiries."

"I wonder why he was killed...falling out among thieves? Or did he try a spot of blackmail?"

"Nothing is reported in the communique and of course the police are looking for the companion. If we learn anything we shall naturally tell you. Now we'd better see about food and then sleep." And they joined the others at the fire while Keith, in a sudden outburst of frustration, kicked his bedroll until it landed several meters outside of the circle and he had to dust it off and bring it back into line again.

The inn turned out to be anything but 11th century for which the pilgrims were very thankful and, after having bathed, eaten and spent a pleasant evening and night they were once more ready to face the challenges of the road. Their next stage encompassed a mere 5 hours and the one on the following day proved to be even less. When they arrived at Palas de Rey they found a long message awaiting them from Inspector Lemoine. Keith opened it avidly and scanned the contents before calling a meeting of what he had come to think of as "The Inner Cabinet". This comprised Father John, Peter-Paul, Steven and Derek.

"There will be something for us in Compostela," Keith began, "the Inspector has arranged that we shall have some self-illuminating badges to pin on our clothes so that those in authority in the city will be able to identify us as being on their side, even if we are seen running after the criminals and in the direction of the church. They will help us and not try to stop us. So, that is one problem out of the way. Now to the others..."

"One of the big problems is the presence of the women in our party," Father John reminded him.

"Yes, it will be difficult to persuade them to remain in the hotel." Steven sighed. "After all, they have not only walked all the way they have shared all the dangers of the road, they have remained firm in their resolve and shown great courage and I can understand their decision to be part of whatever we shall have to face, but..."

"Yes, there is that big BUT! They must be made to understand that unless they are martial arts experts they cannot possibly help us or the Saint in this situtation, certainly not in what we were shown that night in the wheat field. Those bent on mayhem and murder to achieve their ends will show no mercy to them just because they are women and they are not strong enough physically to tackle these men. The result will be that instead of stopping these criminals we shall have to backtrack in order to defend them and that could be fatal for the Saint." Peter-Paul pointed out. "And, anyway, one of them should certainly not continue with us at all...and that is Mathilde. A girl of l6 ought never to have been permitted to endanger herself in this way."

"Cerainly not!" Father John agreed emphatically. "If her father knew he would have a heart attack."

"I am surprised at Tom," Keith added. "that he has not sent her back yet."

*

"For once I am putting my foot down. You are not going on with us!" Tom raised his voice in frustration, "You are either going to wait for us at Lavacolla or you are getting on the first bus out of here and that is final."

"But Thomas I have come all the way and now when it is the end you cannot..."

"Oh but I can. How do you think I shall be able to face your father when he finds out what happened in Compostela and that we were a part of it and that I allowed you to stay as well. You were only to have come for two weeks and should have been back home by now. You are certainly not going to lie to him and tell him you were someplace else?"

"No, oh...I had not thought..." her voice was faint and contrite, "I would not cause him worry, not for the world."

"Then you must see that I am right."

"Yes," she sighed softly. "but how can I let you go, knowing that you will be facing such danger. We saw what will happen, we know and..." she burst into tears. "if anything were to happen to you I would die."

"Nothing will happen. There's going to be a very large police presence, much larger than usual and they will not even let us get involved. It's they who'll chase after the bad guys and we'll stick around to help the pilgrims who might be wounded by explosions, or perhaps sort of 'direct traffic'...I mean, help people get out of there, so don't worry about me. I'll be fine. And you'll call your father to tell him that you remained behind with the other women in our party. In Lavacolla. Because he's sure to get all the news the moment it happens. The tv coverage will be extensive should there be an attack in Compostela."

"Deborah will refuse to stay behind," Mathilde reminded him. "She will feel that her skills as a nurse will be needed."

"Derek is a nurse so for once we won't need her!" Tom retorted angrily.

"She won't like it."

"You know what she can do about that don't you?"

*

"Listen..." the bus driver grunted to the tall man as he bent over ostensibly to check on the tires, "at the last stop someone talked about a heavy police presence on the roads this year."

"They probably got some kind of warning about ETA."

"No, they're on the lookout for a blue and white tourist bus with old biddies."

"What?" the tall man cried out, forgetting his usual suave reactions as the full impact of such a search hit him. "But why? We were so careful!"

"Don't know, just that they want to find those women, or the bus they're in. It wasn't clear, but the gist of it is that if they find one with only old dames on board they're going to arrest everyone."

"Is that so? Well, we'll just have to make a few changes in our cargo."

*

"You have no right to tell me what to do!"

"It has been decided by everyone that the women are staying behind until tomorrow morning

and that, Deborah, includes you!" Keith reiterated forcefully.

"And who is everyone I might ask?"

"Everyone with a bit of sense for unless you are a master of Krav Maga or one of the other martial arts, there is no place for you in the church square tonight."

"I shall be there in my professional capacity. If people are attacked and wounded my help will be invaluable."

"You will not be needed. I won't mention Derek because you seem to think his credentials not in any way comparable to yours, but there will be dozens of ambulances manned by paramedics parked just outside the perimeter of the square."

"But I'll be inside the square, next to those requiring aid and therefore on the spot and anyway, how can one compare a British nurse to some Spanish orderlies?"

"Pride, Deborah. Pride! Tsk, tsk. One of the Seven Deadly Sins and this is not the first time you have flaunted it. But that is something for your next confession, and not my concern however, it does raise a few questions about the purity of your motives." And, as she refused to be drawn out and remained mute, regarding him with a mulish expression on her face, he sighed. "It's up to you but just remember how you stampeded us all into rushing off to rescue the Americans at the lake and what happened there." And he turned around and left her to her thoughts as he recalled how he had been influenced by her and had even come to blows with Peter-Paul in his own eagerness to save the Americans and thereby be dubbed a hero.

*

"My dear fellow pilgrims," the tall man addressed the busload of elderly women who looked up at him eagerly, "we are approaching our goal and in the true spirit of the road we should do a good deed before our arrival at the Saint's door. I have a suggestion to make. Our bus is not full to capacity which makes our voyage much more pleasant, to be sure, but here we are wallowing in so much space and outside our windows there are pilgrims walking the last kilometers of their trek in order to reach shelter for the night. Shall we not be good Samaritans and take some of them with us? They have certainly slotted up their required 200 km. and are now footsore and weary and longing for the first sight of their goal, so they can wash, change, eat and place their clean and rested hand on the Portal of Glory, as we too shall tomorrow morning. Would it not be in the true Christian spirit to succor them?"

Their agreement was fervent and they immediately began to crane their necks out the windows to see who would accept their invitation first as the bus pulled over and came to a halt.

"Oh, thank you, how very kind of you." The compactly built figure, grasping its stave and burdened by the usual backpack, heaved itself up the steps and looked around for an empty seat. A pleasant looking woman waved to her, indicating that there was room at her side and Deborah sat down with relief, secure in the knowledge that the Almighty was still looking after her and that she would not have to battle the multitudes already streaming to the small city in the hope of being allowed to crowd its principal square in a few hours' time.

*

"I'm leaving Woofy with you again, Mavis. I'm sorry if you...well, he won't stay with anyone else." Keith was apologetic as he prepared himself for the night to come and all that it would bring when they would have reached their goal. Mutely, and to himself, he gave thanks that none of the other women in their group had reacted like Deborah but had realized the enormity of the situation, their role in it, and had admitted in a mature manner that they would be able to do very little to help should things become truly violent. They would join the others in Compostela the following morning in the hope that perhaps the warning in the wheat field had been a mistake and that everything would be completely normal by that time.

"No problem; I love him. He's the most human dog I've ever come in contact with and a darling." She scratched him on the nape of the neck while he grinned, letting his tongue hang out, then shaking himself from side to side in a spurt of delight.

"That he is. And I had hoped to be with all of you tonight so he could tell you his story, but I must do my best to help those innocents in the square, if what we were given to see will really take place."

"I don't quite understand what you mean by saying that Woofy would tell us his story...how can a dog tell us anything?"

"Oh, Mavis...there are more things in heaven and on earth than you ever dreamed of and, well, perhaps even if I won't be here, you will be given a taste of it and will remember some of it tomorrow. That is not in my hands but the help I can give those in the square certainly is, so I'd better join the others and be off. We shall meet tomorrow in Compostela, God willing!"

"God willing!" She answered in a low voice, already envisaging the carnage to come and what that might mean to her future with Jacob and to her brother's new life. "God keep them safe," she sighed.

*

"So you're a nurse, how very interesting," the elderly lady at her side beamed. "I hope my English is not too bad?" she continued.

"Oh, no, you speak it very well, Madame, very well indeed."

"I learned at school and then studied it at University. I only completed two years and got married. I had wanted to be an English teacher in our school system but as so many of us women at that time, finally settled down to be a wife and mother. I was and still am very happy but sometimes I wonder if I missed out on something." She sighed.

"I don't think you did. I enjoy my nursing duties and would not have given them up for anything but on the other hand they keep me so busy that I hardly have a private life at all and this is the first time I have taken time off for a proper vacation in over four years. In fact, I had piled up so many vacation periods which I had not taken that I was able to go on the road for two whole months. And it has been wonderful. So many new experiences, meeting new people, new ideas...yes, very worthwhile and I shall miss the Road and my fellow pilgrims when I will be back in the hospital. But...you know, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night in a fright, as if after a nightmare, while a dreadful thought rushes through my head: what will happen when I have to retire? What will fill my days and nights? To whom shall I speak? With whom shall I share my joys and frustrations?"

"Have you no friends outside of the hospital?"

"No. There is never any time to cultivate a friendship not related to my work. And when the work will be over the friendships will also disappear. I have already seen it happen with other nurses and doctors who have been transferred or have stopped working."

"Then it is perhaps time to do something about that. Before it is too late. I mean of course you should look for a partner in your life. You are not old, you are very nice and have a good profession and you are a good Christian, it should not be difficult."

"I think I've left it a little late."

"Not at all my dear, we are heading for Compostela and the Saint. If you are sincere and truly believe, everything is possible, you will see." And Madame Lafayette patted Deborah's hand in encouragement.

*

The four brothers, Mr. Magian, Father John, John and Peter-Paul piled into the blue panel truck and, after a hurried last word with the others, set out on their route to Compostela. They would park as close to the city center as was permitted, leave the truck, and make their way on foot the rest of the way to have their certificates stamped for the last time. Proof that they had carried out all the requirements needed to be dubbed true pilgrims of the Road and entitled to place their open-palmed hand on the pertinent spot on the Portal of Glory. After that they would go to a hotel, make themselves presentable and be at the square in front of the cathedral by nightfall, not forgetting to attach the self-illuminating device that would identify them to the security forces.

Keith and the rest of the group were making their way on foot hoping to meet up with those riding and then, together, continue on to the square, where they would separate and take up strategic positions among the celebrants already in position for it was well known that in order to obtain a good vantage point one had to arrive early. He also hoped that Deborah had had a change of heart and, if already in the city, would remain safely in her hotel room. But knowing her stubborn nature and her need to stand out in any crowd, he rather doubted it.

*

"I have checked you all in," the tall man announced to the group of women surrounding him. "and I would suggest going up to your rooms to unpack as soon as the driver and I have brought your suitcases. It will soon be lunchtime and I advise most strongly that you have it in the hotel as the streets outside are already crowded and unpleasant and I would not wish you to be uncomfortable or hurt. I shall go with the driver to our designated parking slot outside of the town and will then make arrangements for you all to attend mass tomorrow, so don't expect to see me until you see me!" He laughed jovially. "I shall certainly be back in time for supper. You might, if you so wish, do a little sightseeing close to the hotel but I would not advise straying far. The city is already congested and it will get worse. If you do go out be sure to take a piece of the hotel's stationery with you, or perhaps one of the folders with matches, both of which have the name and address of the hotel imprinted on them as well as the telephone number just in case you get lost." This piece of advice was accepted with great delight for they would never have thought of it.

And so, with a wide smile and a wave of his hand, the tall man left them milling around the reception desk and made his way rapidly to the red and white bus which took off in a tearing hurry to the edge of town where the driver parked it expertly next to other vehicles, jumped down and, joining the tall man, headed in the opposite direction to the one everyone was using.

Each was pulling a large, dark blue wheeled suitcase behind him.

79.

Deborah left her backpack and stave in her room and, depositing her key at the front desk, made her way through surprisingly broad streets, past ancient and picturesque dwellings in the direction of the cathedral. Before reaching that edifice, however, she noticed the time and decided to eat first, then scout out the area she intended to patrol later on that night. The old women, she knew, would remain to have lunch in the hotel, too frightened at having to manage on their own to go out but she had no such qualms and checking out several venues, finally decided on a small and attractive place which had a display of amazingly varied seafood in its one brightly lit window.

*

After a sensible meal of soup, chicken with rice and vegetables and a simple apple dessert, partaken in the restaurant of the hotel the group of 23 women headed resolutely up to their rooms where they undressed, wrapped themselves up in their robes and lay down on their beds for a few hours of rest. When they awoke, refreshed and eager to see a bit of the city, they got dressed, knocked on each others' doors and finally assembled downstairs near the front entrance to the hotel. Then, in a body, they stepped out into the street to take in some of the sights.

*

The group making its way to Compostela on foot and led by Keith, turned to the right as soon as it had come in from the road. There they entered a narrow three-storied building and, after asking directions, walked up the stairs to the second floor and knocked on the third door. They were immediately invited in and the door securely closed behind them.

"Are you complete?" The portly, gray-haired man behind the scarred desk asked when they had all filed into his room.

"No, a group of 8 should already have arrived by truck. I'm surprised they haven't gotten in touch with you yet." Keith replied. "Perhaps they went to check out the square first but they have the address here and will certainly come to see you before evening. Do you want their names? Oh, and by the way I'm Keith Sommerville and this is Tom O'Brian, Derek Levebre, Steven Freeman, and Kurt Arnheim and Wolf Fassbender from Germany. Luc Castres remained behind in Lavacolla to keep an eye on the women in our group but one of them, Deborah Winter, insisted on coming into Compostela on her own. I have no idea where she is." And I really don't care, he felt like adding but didn't, as he checked himself for the sin of refusing to be his brother's keeper.

"Thank you. I have all your names from Inspector Lemoine but it is good to know precisely where you are and will be from now on, if possible. I also have the self-illuminating devices. Here, one for each of you. Pin it on the upper part of your body tonight. To light it there is a small switch, just here...see?" he pointed to a large metal circle with a thick glass center. It looked vaguely like the rear light on a bicycle but larger.

"That's great," Tom checked the brightness by flicking the switch on and off a few times.

"We have doubled the security in the square. Not all of them are men for we have enlisted quite a few women as well. They are all fully trained operatives and will know what to do. Having too many physically fit and tough looking men around...most with shaven heads, and why a security operative has to look like someone out of a Hollywood action film is beyond me!...is not a good idea for it might put the criminals on their guard so, there will be some of those as well as the women. I think we shall be able to thwart the criminals with their big sticks but the explosions...well, that will be extremely difficult. I have to tell you that the explosions will be started by using black rope or string together with a chemical in liquid form When these two elements unite..." and here the official threw both hands into the air and slapped them together over his head..."BOOM!"

Keith and Derek jumped.

"Devilish! And how easy to smuggle some black threads and a few drops of a liquid...probably in a cologne bottle...into the city. We cannot stop everyone entering in order to check their perfume or deodorant, or shampoo. You can be sure they will have secreted this substance in a very ordinary container. No, no, we cannot prevent anything, we can only be extremely alert to the danger and keep our eyes open for anyone holding a bottle in his hand...it might even be a mineral water bottle such as every pilgrim carries. And since almost everyone in the square will have such an object the task is Herculean." He leaned over his desk to look each and every one of them in the eye, then added in a very grave and soft voice, "We will not be able to prevent the explosions I am afraid. You do see the problem?" And he continued, lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper. "Many will die or be injured tonight. Having come to celebrate the Saint's Day, they will be rewarded not in having their prayers answered but by death, injuries that will leave them crippled for life, traumatised, and their futures wrecked for ever. And there is nothing we can do about it."

"We might be able to help there." Keith began, then stopped to clear his throat, and started all over again. "I have been thinking...you see, if danger threatens then in order to put a stop to it one must cut off the head. It's analogous to being attacked by a snake or a pack of ravening wolves. In both cases cutting off the head will put paid to the danger. In the case of the snake it is the actual head without which the body cannot function and in the case of the wolves one has to go for the leader of the pack in order to neutralize the others. Here, tonight, we shall have to try to locate the leader of this nefarious plot. We have already run into him several times before but, as he seems to be a master of disguise, it will be difficult to pinpoint him among the thousands in the square and at night. He has already crossed our path as a monk. That was in Arles at the start of our pilgrimage when he stayed at the same hostel as some of our co-pilgrims and where he murdered the attendant without anyone having heard or seen a thing. He later on appeared in the same disguise to someone living on a high mountaintop and of course he was the mysterious young monk asking most solicitously after the health of Brother Guillaume at the Institute of Tropical Diseases in Toulouse. It was he who somehow managed to kidnap both Brother Guillaume and the male nurse in charge of him and of course he also killed both these men. And, I do believe that he is behind the attempt to steal the Saint and hold him to ransom and that all the threats, thefts and murders attached to this individual came as a direct result of what is being planned here tonight."

"That makes sense," Steven remarked after they had all absorbed Keith's words. "but how do we find him among a crowd of thousands and how do we stop him? He will certainly not allow himself to be taken into custody without a very bloody and bitter fight."

"The security forces will have to screen every person entering the square tonight." Keith replied quietly.

"Impossible!"

"Keith, there will literally be thousands of people, coming into the square from all directions. It is not feasible to check on everyone."

"I would suggest that four entrances be created and the other areas abutting the square be cordoned off. With guards and fierce dogs patrolling as well so that nobody could slip in. The four gateways will be manned by fully armed men who will be on the lookout for a monk or priest. He is sure to disguise himself as one or the other in order not to be noticed when he heads for the entryway to the crypt area. Everyone would then naturally assume that he was part of the clergy of the cathedral and he would therefore pass unnoticed. It is even possible that the young men who set off the explosions in the square and rush to the cathedral will also be disguised...perhaps as monks or seminarians, but the important thing is to catch the blond one."

"Hm, it could be done, but it is taking a great risk. An operation such as you have suggested usually takes weeks or months to mount and rehearse and you are asking me and the security forces to do it in a few hours? No, no, good as the idea is, it is not possible." The older man shook his head as the scope of the operation defeated him.

"Have you a better solution?"

"No," and he sighed, "No, I will see to it and at once, and may God forgive me if there are slip-ups but to contain the thousands tonight into one area through only four entrances and to put it all in place in a matter of hours is truly the stuff of nightmares." And he wiped the perspiration from his brow.

"Keep thinking of the alternative and those nightmares will turn to frothy pink-clouded bubbles of jubilation."

*

"Our mother had reached the end of her strength and, pulling us along with her teeth, collapsed under some bushes at the side of the road. Here she nuzzled our heads, licked them and, closing her eyes, settled herself down for that final deep, deep sleep. We kept up our whining although that too was getting more and more faint as our weakened bodies gave up the fight and, laying our heads against her flank we too prepared ourselves for that endless night. We two tiny brothers who had barely lived three days. And here it was that Keith found us."

Mavis remained in her room after the men had left, sitting near the window and absent-mindedly petting Woofy on her lap when she became aware that someone was speaking and not only speaking but relating a story. An intensely sad one about a thoroughbred bitch who had fallen in love with a mutt and when the inevitable had happened, had been thrown out of the house to fend for herself. How she had wandered from street to street, town to town, sometimes being given a handout or finding something in a garbage can to tide her over until the next time and how she had eventually, after harrowing adventures, arrived in the high valleys of the Jura mountains, there to seek her final resting place under a hedge, her two pups at her side.

And here Keith had found them, had immediately brought them home, had fed them warm milk from an eye dropper until the village, having learned the news, gathered together to help. The butcher taking over one of the pups and the postmistress the mother. One of the children contributed a doll's baby bottle that worked like a real one, making Keith's job to feed the other puppy easier and after a week the entire little family was declared out of danger. The mother thrived and was soon able to take over the care of her litter by herself and eventually one of them was firmly adopted by the butcher and his family while the postmistress refused to be parted from the mother and the second pup remained with Keith, Père Jerome and Lucienne.

While the village was intent on saving the dogs a threat began to materialize that boded ill for their tranquil life. A vast and powerful consortium hoped to be able to purchase land that abutted the village in order to build a factory there. It would change the life of the villagers as they had known it for countless centuries and the pollution would force them to abandon homes which had been in the family for generations. The only way to avoid this was to purchase the land themselves and relegate it to farming. Unfortunately nobody had that sort of money to invest and the only thing they could do was pray.

Some tried to ignore the danger by pretending it to be a gross exaggeration or perhaps that it did not exist at all but deep down in their hearts they knew the bitter truth. Their days in their lovely valley were numbered unless they could raise the money to buy that plot of land and thereby keep the factory from being built. As land goes it was not expensive but the villagers were not wealthy and the thousands needed to secure the purchase were beyond their means. And so matters stood throughout the entire summer and into the beginning of autumn as the leaves turned golden and the woods were redolent of earthy odors.

"Of all those attracted to the loamy scent it proved to be our mother who felt the lure the most and she strained at the leash to reach the darkest, dankest areas under the trees when Keith took us out for a ramble. Fearing that she might eat something that would sicken her, he always held her back until one day she broke loose and, hurtling into the underbrush, began to dig frantically among the fallen leaves and mosses. Keith hurried after her, afraid a snake might be hiding in these shadowy spaces but when he squatted down next to her he saw that she was digging with her front paws at a black shape, and looking more closely, identified it as a very large truffle.

Reaching for his pocket knife, he severed the truffle and shaved off a goodly portion for the dog, for as he had bent over the fungus to detach it from its surroundings he had seen another ten in the vicinity. He marked the spot in his mind, rushed back to the house, picked up a basket and lined it carefully with a towel then headed back to the area under the trees to harvest a fortune in truffles to be he sold a few days later at the annual truffle fair in the lower town.

Our mother had paid her account in full. The truffles she had found earned enough money to buy the piece of land next to the village and thereby foil the plans for a factory on the inhabitants' doorsteps that would have changed their way of life for ever. And every year thereafter our mother repeated this miracle because she turned out to be the only female truffle hound in history. For it is well known that all truffle hounds are male.

And so you have heard my story on this day which is the only day in the year when animals speak and humans can understand them. It is usually a happy day for those of us who are well looked after and loved and those in dire straits often can, with their tale, warm a human heart into the sort of action that will save their lives. But tonight there is great danger to many humans which only a few dedicated pilgrims can avert. Keith is among them and I am not with him to save him. He will certainly be in the forefront of what is to occur in that city to which we have been walking for an eternity by now. I am as devasted at not being at his side as you are at being left behind by the man you love. So, dear Mavis, let us comfort each other and let my little story stand as a reminder that life must be lived, that miracles do occur, that kindness does prevail and that love is stronger than death."

And with that the little dog licked her cheek and, curling himself up in a ball on her lap, fell asleep.

80.

Deborah found herself near the broad open space in front of the cathedral in the early afternoon and was surprised to see that it had been sealed off on all sides with only four narrow entrances left open. These were already heavily guarded. Near each improvised gate there were, furthermore, security vehicles manned by tough looking soldiers clutching sub-machine guns. Large dogs and their handlers were also on tap, sniffing at each person who attempted to pass through to the square.

Well, she thought, with such security, our group is really not needed. I wonder where they are and if they have arrived at all. I don't see anyone I recognize. And so far there don't seem to be any ambulances in sight but perhaps they will come later. It is, after all, only the middle of the afternoon and most people will probably not get here until sundown. And what will I do now? Too early to find a place inside the security lines so I'd better do a bit of sightseeing and get back to the hotel for an early supper. Let's see there was a lovely old cloister garden which is now part of the pharmacy department of the university. It looked so tranquil. I wonder where it can be.

And with the thought of spending some time in those soothingly green pathways she extracted the map of the city, checked to see where she was in relationship to this oasis and began to walk away from the square.

*

The contingent of older women was delighted at the sight of the quaint houses that lined the streets of this most atmospheric of towns. They halted frequently to peer into shop windows and were especially interested in the displays of foodstuffs in grocery stores or restaurants as well as souvenir items being sold in hastily erected stalls. Time passed rapidly and before they knew it, it was late afternoon and they turned to go back to their hotel in the expectation of a short rest in their rooms and then a leisurely supper in the hotel's dining room which had given them the first normal meal of their voyage. They were also looking forward to having a word with their guide about tomorrow's schedule and secretely planned on trying out their mantillas, arranging them on their heads in the most seductive and fetching manner as possible, then chided themselves for having impure thoughts about an accessory meant to emphasize piety during a solemn mass.

*

"Well, the body has been identified," Inspector Bretet announced to his assistant as he held the computer print-out one of the policemen in the station had just delivered to him. "She is Elizabetta Jardin, magician's assistant. She has been missing over a month from the home of Artold the Magnificent where she rented a room."

"Did they list her as missing or did they only now wake up to the fact that she was gone?"

"No, no, they called the police several days after she vanished. She had told them she was going to be away. Said she had to see a friend who was in a spot of trouble but that she'd be back in no time and for sure by the time Artold would need her for his magic show again."

"But she didn't show up?"

"That's right. So they waited two more days, hoping she'd call and explain herself. Then they got the wind up because all her stuff was in her room exactly as she had left it. Where could she have gone without her clothes and other belongings?"

"Sounds as if she ran into a sex maniac or serial killer on her way to spend an evening with a friend. She could not have contemplated a longer stay or she would have taken at least an overnight bag, yet you say she left everything behind."

"Yes. That's what the police in her area also thought but, you know, there might be another explanation. She might not have needed her things. She might have been hired to take part in an impersonation. I'm thinking of the kidnapping of Deirdre Van Der Gilden who has only now surfaced, according to the British police who had word from her father. The young woman herself has not come forward to tell us anything and I have a feeling she won't. Her father said she had been kidnapped by two people pretending to be her nanny when she was four years old and the nanny's lover at that time. I'd dearly love to track Mrs. Van Der Gilden down and ask her some questions but she seems to have vanished into thin air like the snows of yesteryear." And the Inspector sighed in frustration.

*

The bus driver had not been paid in advance. He had delivered the suitcase as instructed, had then received a fat envelope in return and had been told to leave town immediately. In fact, he had been forcibly turned around and ejected from the small office so that only when he was out of sight of the crowds forging their way into Comopostela, had he opened the envelope to discover that it was filled with strips cut from a local newspaper in the shape of Euro bills. Howling with rage and vowing vengeance he turned around and, almost running, reached the door of the premises he had so recently entered only to find it bereft of human habitation. The front door had been left open, swinging on its hinges but the interior was dark, emptied of everything, even the desk, filing cabinet and chairs which had been there several minutes before. It was as if it had never existed.

"They think I'm a fool to be played with? Well, they'll find out different!" He vowed and turning once more to face the entrance to the city began to walk towards the church.

"I want to report a crime." The burly man announced as he entered the police station closest to the principal square.

"Sir?" The young constable looked up, all attention, imagining a complaint of pickpocketing or price gouging.

"And I want to speak to someone important, not you. This is big stuff and I need a top guy to hear me out," he insisted.

"If it's about pickpockets, sir..."

"Listen and listen good. This is so big that a chump like you couldn't grasp it in a thousand years. I need to speak to a big shot and now, right away. Time is running out! I'm talking big trouble; big, big trouble and tonight. Now! Here! Move your ass before the balloon goes up."

And before he had even finished speaking the young constable's hand had already shot out to grasp the phone and announce: "We've got it!"

The large group of ladies took their places in the hotel's dining room earlier than usual. They were hungry and, also, since there did not seem anything to do to while the time away until they could go to sleep, they felt that an early and leisurely dinner would amply fill the hours between dusk and night. They had hoped that their guide would also be present and would let them know the precise time they were to be ready in the morning when, it was assumed, he would shepherd them to the cathedral for mass. But once they had settled into their chairs they were disappointed not to find him among them.

Madame Lafayette, however, was delighted to have the pleasant English nurse as her tablemate. Deborah had decided to eat in the hotel, not wishing to brave the crowds clogging the side streets more than once this evening for she still intended to go to the square tonight although she did not think an attack would be forthcoming. Not after she had seen the draconian measures taken by the police, the army and probably by the various counter-terrorism organizations which seemed to have turned the small city into an armed camp for this festive occasion.

Since Marechal d'Albans still had not put in an appearance after the last crumbs of their chocolate cake had been consumed, some of the ladies began to show worry and strain. Could something have happened to him? Had he met with an accident or were the crowds already so large that he was unable to get through the streets to reach them? Deborah did not share their anxiety for she was much more used to dealing with bureaucracy and unforseen circumstances that could wreak havoc with anybody's schedule and imagined that the guide had been held up in the cathedral offices arranging seating for a party of 23 at tomorrow's mass. She did, however, wonder that these reservations had been left to the last minute. Surely there were hundreds who also wished to celebrate mass on this special day and she had been certain that places must have been reserved months in advance. Wasn't the night before leaving such a task much too late and didn't that point to something just a little bit fishy in the guide's behavior? And as her table companions began to evince more and more stress, doubts began to course through her mind until she promised to make inquiries at the reception desk in case the guide had phoned and had left them all a message.

When she did finally speak to someone in charge at reception, she was assured that there had been no phone call and that, in any case, they did not know what she was speaking about. Yes, the ladies had been checked in by a kind man, a passing stranger, who had explained that, as they were unused to travel, the women were a bit confused and he was happy to do a good deed so close to the Saint's special day. He had also helped bring in their suitcases, seeing that the bus driver had been ordered to move his vehicle as it was blocking traffic and the lone bellboy of the hotel could not cope on his own.

"But they were with a tour. The Mount Tabor Religious Tourism Company." She insisted only to be told that as far as the hotel was concerned there was no such company and the group of ladies had reserved their rooms by themselves and would of course pay their bills on the day of departure by themselves as well.

As she attempted to take this in Deborah realised that here was something more than just a misunderstanding on the part of the hotel or the women and demanded that the police should be called...immediately!

*

The bus driver had been escorted to a narrow three-storied building near the entrance of the town, set down next to a scarred old desk and handed a cup of coffee. Then, these formalities completed, the elderly man facing him had begun to ask him questions. Questions concerning the contents of the blue suitcases he and the tall man had extracted from a secret compartment in the luggage section of the tourist bus and had taken to a small office just on the outskirts of Compostela.

When it became known that these had contained shawls utilized by the elderly ladies on a tour from Fance to Spain and that they were a present from the non-existent tourism company, he was asked to describe them, then try to sketch them from memory as best he could and asked again about the black lines in the overall pattern of the highly colored wraps.

Finally, after the authorities were convinced that he knew no more and was himself not a part of the conspiracy he was allowed to leave but warned that if he would reveal any part of their conversation to the criminals he would find himself in the lowest dungeon of the oldest security prison in the country, one dating back to the 17th century, and not to make a mistake and think this meant a holiday retreat. What the security forces would have on offer would make a chapter from "The Man In The Iron Mask" look like a summer vacation camp.

Shuddering and cringing the driver took his leave and hurried out of the city on his way back to France even if he had to walk all the way on foot to get there. But he was not so cowed as to give up all thoughts of revenge and swore to himself that if he ever came across the tall man again he would settle the score so that crook would not only never con anyone again, he would remain in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

*

When someone in authority finally arrived and heard what she had to say, he was flabbergasted. Why should anyone play such a trick on 23 elderly women and what could he have gotten out of it? Most of the women had taken the tour almost without paying anything at all and only about 6 had paid the full price. Yet they had been ferried about in a luxury coach, had eaten at good restaurants and had slept at pleasant inns and country hotels. The tourism company, if it existed, not only had not made any money it had shelled out a great deal in order to bring these women from their homes in France to Spain, there to desert them. Whatever for? Did they have valuables secreted in their homes and was the entire operation mounted in order to have free access to these houses in order to rob them at leisure or was some madman with a perverted sense of humor at work? And wait...wasn't there something about a busload of old ladies? Yes, the policeman suddenly recalled that the French authorities had sent out a request to the Spanish police to be on the lookout for a blue and white tourist bus with the Mt. Tabor logo, said to be taking a group of elderly women to Compostela. He'd better report this right away and see what it was all about, and mainly...what he was supposed to do with the women now that they had been found.

*

The blue panel truck had been parked on the outskirts of the city and Mr. Magian, the brothers, Peter-Paul with John and Father John made ready to try to locate the rest of their group in order to join them in the square. John said he would check in with the head of security to let him know that they had arrived and he would also pick up the self-illuminating disks for the others if they had not already done so. They would meet later near the cathedral on the side farthest from the rows of stairs leading to the monumental doorway. If, on their way to the church they should happen to see Deborah, which they rather doubted, they would try once more to dissuade her from continuing her foolhardy and completely unneccessary action. Mr. Magian, who had remained silent throughout their trip to the town, now murmured that, as it was already written, there was no way anyone could divert the nurse from her course and that what was to be, was to be. Only Peter-Paul suddenly understood and tried to still the tremors that shot through his soul while the others made some light remark about Deborah's well known stubborness and turned their faces to the already crowded entrance of the town.

*

By the time the police had arrived Deborah had not only forgotten all about her intention of being in the piazza to help those who might be injured in that night's attack, she had forgotten all the aims of her two-month voyage to reach this town in Spain. In fact, so turbulent were her thoughts that she was hard put to even remember the pilgrimage of faith and the names of those who had trodden the road with her. First and foremost there loomed the deep mystery of why a coterie of French women had been lured into going on a free or cut-rate trip to Spain in order to end up at Compostela, there to be abandoned like an unwanted parcel. Was this merely a cruel prank by some twisted mentality or was there a reason behind it and if the latter, then what could that reason be? Had someone perhaps been secreted in the luggage compartment and brought across the border in this manner? Was there anyone in the criminal or political world who would need to be smuggled into Spain in such a dramatic way? It made no sense at all. Nothing was taken, nothing stolen yet the scam had cost the perpetrators a great deal of money. The bus, the driver and guide, food and hotel rooms for 23 people for a period of slightly more than a week...that could not be carried out on a shoestring. That required serious funding. Why?

"Are you sure there wasn't anything else in the luggage comprtments of the bus? Just your suitcases?" Deborah asked Madame Lafayette yet again.

"Nothing. I have already told you and I have told the police. There was nothing."

"I don't know what to say," Deborah began, "but I won't leave you until the authorities here will get in touch with the French ones and something will be decided about you and the others. You will have to be repatriated to France and that will have to be done without you paying for it. I am going to speak to the policeman in charge and will insist that all of you must be flown home at the French government's expense...and immediately!" And a very determined Deborah got up and stomped out of the hotel insisting to be taken to the officer in charge and at once!

81.

Charles had presented his credentials to the elderly man in charge of security and had been advised that, as everything had already been set up in the most competent fashion to thwart the criminals, there was really very little for him to do and he would be better off staying out of their hair on this of all evenings. Curtly dismissed, there was nothing for it but to leave the obviously very busy office and wander over to the square to see for himself how the Spanish set about neutralizing a potential crime scene.

When he had arrived within one street of the area in front of the cathedral he was impressed by the massive turnout of soldiers, firemen and paramedics, all with arms and vehicles. There was certainly nothing he could teach these people and he chafed at the idea that he would now have no part to play in whatever had been planned for tonight. He wondered what the members of the group thought they could do...if they were at all present of course...that could best the local authorities, when he found himself suddenly face to face with one of them. The one who had first challenged him when he had joined them in Pau. It was Deborah, the nurse. She looked surprised to see him, then her expression changed to one of disgruntlement for she had never thought anything of his skills and was not happy to find him here of all places and tonight of all nights.

"Mr. Thomas, what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," he countered.

"You're a pretty bad detective if you can't remember that I and the group were heading for Compostela when you joined up with us in the first place. Well, after 'heading' we of course arrived. I would think even you could have figured that one out." The tone of voice was scathing.

"I mean, you should not be involved if there is a chance of violence and evidently there will be from all the signs around us." And he gesticulated at the heavy security presence so evident for all to see.

"I'm here on a humanitarian mission and, since you are French and in some position of authority you might be just the person to help." And here she pulled him over to the side to a quiet corner near the entrance of a small building and began to tell him about the 23 older ladies who had been so sorely duped and what it could possibly mean.

*

It was getting dark and the streets were by now so crowded it was almost impossible to push through or walk at a pace other than the one being utilized by all. Keith found himself being propelled along with everyone else heading for the square and the cathedral. From all over the town he could hear the tolling of bells and this, coupled with the sounds of the marching throng, all good humored with anticipation, made it seem like a grand fair coupled with a feeling of intense religiosity. From a distance he could hear music; some kind of band thumping out a marching song that added to the feeling of festivity and anticipation and when he looked up he realised that they had arrived at the square and that everyone had begun to line up in order to pass through police scrutiny.

*

Deborah paused in her narrative as Charles gasped inadvertantly. Her revelation had set off a spark of memory. Something sounded familiar; what was it? Something the Inspector had told him when he had returned to Lodeve. What had he said? Oh yes, "It's all to do with those blasted Scottish shawls. Let me tell you about them and about two monks and a priest in a monastery in Arles who took up a most unusual challenge and what they discovered."

"I know what that's about!"

"You do? You can make some sense of the Scottish wraps and the women and whatever scam is under way?" Deborah did not believe him.

"Yes. I might just have the key. Who did you say was in charge here? I have to see him and right away." He was galvanized into action and swivelled his head around trying to determine in which direction to go in order to reach the head of security who had dismissed him so scathingly just half an hour ago.

Unaware of what Charles was about to reveal to the security forces, the group made its way to the square from various directions. They pinned their self-lighting devices to the front of their shirts and were waved through without having to stand in line at the checkpoints. Once inside the piazza they soon found each other and congregated in a large circle in order to exchange information. The flashpoints of light also brought them to the attention of the crowds and especially to that of an older man who had been waiting at one side, carefully scrutinizing those who filed, one by one, into the area.

"Well, here we are again," He remarked to Keith whom he rcognized as the group leader he had last seen in his small office. "You seem to be complete by now and I have quite a bit of news, some of it relevant and some of it an enigma."

"Ah, it is you." Keith sighed. "I did not expect to find you here."

"I am not the puppetmaster type; I like to see for myself. Now, to what has happened since you checked in with me," and he proceeded to tell them about the busload of women who had been abandoned, about the driver of that bus who had told a tale of shawls and a guide who was not a guide, of a French detective sent by his superior officer to aid them and of a lone woman pilgrim who had taken the duped ladies under her wing. And he himself was present right now in the hope that they might have some explanation as to what had been happening in his town and what it might mean for the rest of this fateful evening.

"The woman must be Deborah," Peter-Paul thought aloud. "It's just the sort of thing she'd get mixed up in."

"Better than coming to the piazza in order to aid the wounded." Tom muttered as Mr. Magian shook his head and stared off into the distance.

"And the shawl...well, we've run into that before. In fact I should say I have run into that before. Actually in Arles," And here Father John related what he knew about the Scottish wrap to the head of security, adding "And the priest must be my friend Père Hippolyte who was stabbed and pushed into oncoming traffic when he went to the station to pick this item up after nobody had claimed it for a week. So, he and the two brothers did discover something!" He appeared most satisfied at this turn of events.

"Yes he did and I am now going to tell you how it all came about."

After they learned what had happened in that small room under the eaves within the tranquility of an Arles monastery they were made more aware of the dangers facing everyone that very night. For even a very tiny snippet of the threads making up the black lines on the shawls, when mixed with a certain liquid, could cause a major explosion, and the criminals had 23 shawls at their disposal. All of them with black lines.

"What I want to know is how the master criminal, for so I shall call him, was able to pay for as many men to help him in the square as we were shown in our vision." Father John reminded the others, "There were over 20. That is surely a huge number to gather together, even for a gang."

"He could hardly have advertised on the Internet, could he?" Joseph wondered.

"It does present some serious questions," Mr. Magian murmured.

"Where can one find several dozen young men and be able to influence them into a criminal act against the church?" Peter-Paul wondered aloud, as he looked pointedly at those around him.

"In jail?" Steven suggested.

"Close, but not quite right."

"Delinquents!" John shouted.

"Lower your voice!" Peter-Paul hissed, "Yes! And where did we run into some delinquents on the Road?"

"When we stayed at a B. and B. outside town while John and Derek and Tom and Deborah remained in whatever town it was. I've forgotten the name but there was a very noisy clock tower from the neighboring church pointing right into your rooms and tolling off the hours." Keith added. "I recall Deborah complaining about it the next day when we met up and we told her about a group of jouvenile delinquents attended by monks and priests who sang hymns all night outside our windows."

"Exactly. I rest my case." Peter-Paul smiled sardonically.

"And you think those boys were corrupted into taking part in tonight's activity?" The older man inquired.

"Let's say I would dearly like to know if one of the attendant monks for that group was tall, thin, young and blond and if his influence, for good or evil, was noticed by any of the other clergymen."

"I can find out but not in time. It would take a bit of detective work to discover which group it was and who was in charge, but your hypothesis is valid. The main problem will be to keep the innocent safe while at the same time defending the Saint. We have already moved him, by the way." The last was said in such a low voice that only those in the immediate circle could hear.

"Heaven be praised!" Father John whispered while the brothers crossed themselves and breathed a sigh of relief.

"But the danger remains."

Deborah had been kept so busy ministering to her charges she had not even had time to change her clothes but once she had provided aspirins or a very mild soporific to ensure a good night's sleep and had seen them all safely into their rooms, she could no longer remain in the hotel and, picking up her stave and cockleshell, headed for the square, determined to carry out her original plan. Charles had either come to the church area himself or was still in conference with the chief of police who had turned the entire small city upside down looking for the criminals and, not finding them, had ordered all the entrances and exits to Compostela blocked. Nobody was to be admitted after 7:00 PM.

As she reached the square she noticed that the crowds had intensified with many groups added to the those already on site. Most of these were mixed but here and there were some of only one gender or the other, usually with priests or monks in charge. These were let through with more scrutiny than single worshippers and she wondered about that. Had the Spanish authorities received some information which their group lacked?

She had no trouble passing the security point and found herself on the vast square which was filling up rapidly. In another hour or so it would be solidly packed with humanity. They all seemed to be sprouting cockleshells, some on their bodies, some on hats and many were chanting and singing. The air was electrified with such excitement that Deborah could hardly bear to breathe or remain where she was. It seemed as if everyone around her had been strung to a fever pitch and hummed and vibrated in a cacophony of impulses that shook her soul. And as much as she attempted to block them out and remain alert to any threat from the outside, she was unable to as she too was caught up in the frenzy of the evening.

That frenzy ceased abruptly as heavy, dark gray clouds rolled across the square, pressing down loweringly upon the excited multitude. It was not only dense in form but, once engulfing the area, proved to have a smothering effect that caused loss of balance among some and loss of breathing ability in others so that the crowds began to stagger around, clutching at each other or bent over in a fit of violent coughing and retching. Deborah had the presence of mind to knot a large pocket handkerchief over the lower part of her face and began to help those in her vicinity who were gasping and throwing themselves on the ground in a bid to escape the fumes. She was soon aided by young men and women wearing gas masks who had rushed over from their ambulances parked on the sidelines but she refused their help and continued to minister to those within her orbit when she became aware of several bright flashes of light bobbing up and down in the crowd. One made its way over to her side.

"Deborah, if I'm not mistaken. And what might you be doing here?" Peter-Paul asked.

"Working. Are you blind?" She snapped.

"And how are the old ladies? We thought you'd be too busy with them to come here tonight. You are the one who took them under your wing, aren't you?"

"Yes. How did you guess? And everything's under control in that area. By the way, Charles is here. Someplace.Trying to make himself useful. Well, with the women he did help."

"It needed only him!" Peter-Paul sounded disgusted.

"You can say that again," and she laughed, despite the seriousness of the situation just as the first of the explosions went off throwing them both to the ground.

Peter-Paul lay as he fell, too stunned to attempt to rise. All around him he heard people screaming as more explosions shook the square while the heavy, malodorous smoke continued to press densely down upon them. Then shots went off, in sudden outbursts of ear-splitting rat-at-at, followed by more ground-shaking blasts and the strident cries of the wounded. Sirens and whistles added to the cacophony and small arms fire continued unabated. He lay quietly assessing his injuries. He could move his limbs, his body. Nothing seemed to be broken and, pulling his wits together he very slowly rose to his knees, head raised, to see what he could through the heavy clouds that covered the area like a dark and lowering presence. Through this miasma he was able to distinguish flashing pinpoints of light moving resolutely towards the area of the stairs leading to the cathedral entrance and knew that his co-pilgrims had not given up the fight. He too, finally, rose from his crouch and began to forge ahead to the others, making certain that the large button on his chest was still intact and lit so they could identify him. Sneaking up on them without it would be to court grave danger. He had almost made it to the first of the steps when he rembered Deborah. Was she all right? She too had been knocked over by the first blast and he had not noticed if she had gotten to her feet so intent had he been on trying to hear and feel what was going on all around. He hoped she had survived, then shook himself at his morbid thoughts...of course she had! Deborah was a solid presence impossible to imagine otherwise than on her feet and in charge of any situation. She had probably joined the Red Cross people who, he was certain, were already succoring the wounded. And he began to run up the stairs after the other members of his group at the same time trying to pinpoint an elusive thought that seemed to have assailed his subconsciousness and would not let go. Something to do with Mr. Magian and Deborah. But he brushed it aside as he came closer to the pilgrim band by now embroiled in the midst of the action.

Some of these had thrown themselves bodily on the young, tough looking boys who were also swarming up the broad staircase, stout cudgels in their hands with which they were attempting to dislodge any resistance to their ingress. Seeing this, he uttered a whooping war cry and leaped on the first of the delinquents to cross his path. He pulled him swiftly away from what he perceived to be one of his friends although it was impossible in this murky light to make out who it was, and landed blow after blow to face and body until the assailant lay in a heap on the steps, too beaten to do more than think of crawling into the first hiding place he could find upon which, raising his stave with its iron-tip, Peter-Paul stabbed him until he was certain he could not be a danger to anyone ever again and turned swiftly in search of more prey.

Keith and Steven had reached the top of the broad staircase and found themselves suddenly outlined in a piercingly icy, blue-white light that illuminated the entire area and showed them at least ten young men struggling with some of their co-pilgrims augmented by security forces. Seeing that they were not needed, they flew past the heaving mass into the church itself where they perceived some worshippers, dignitaries as well as priests and a bevy of choir boys crouched behind pews, as close to the floor as possible, hands and arms raised to protect their bowed heads. Bright flowers and massed greenery had been overturned and scattered all over the altar, various costly church vessels lay on the floor while a priest seemed to be trying to stop a young monk from following those who had attacked them all. At least that was the image most of those present received from the sight of an older, black-robed figure grappling with a young and very blond brother. Only Steven and Keith realized that here, finally, was the illusive monk glimpsed entering the hostel in Arles on a turbulent mistral night, the same one who had visited the good woman of Faulat and the one who had asked most solicitously after the health of Brother Guillaume at the Institute of Tropical Diseases in Toulouse and they threw themselves on him, grappling and punching until they had subdued him into a bloodied mass at their feet and tied him up with fancy passemanterie ropes filched from the looped-back hangings that decorated an alcove. When the rest of the group, accompanied by police, burst into the church they had only to lift the man up and haul him off to jail where he would be interrogated by the security forces. They intended to search him carefully in order to find whatever chemicals he had secreted on his person that were meant to smash through bullet-proof glass and other burglar-proof devices in the crypt. Most of his followers had already been taken away and, while the square was being evacuated of its dead and wounded, the clean-up crews were already in place so that by the time this night was over not a single sign would be left to remind worshippers that something untoward had happened to mar the holyness of the Saint's day.

82.

After a solemn mass to commemorate all those who had been killed and wounded in the previous day's events, the very subdued group rode back to Lavacolla. As beautiful and inspirational as Compostela had been they did not want to linger, for every time they passed the square Deborah's sturdy frame appeared before their eyes, marching stolidly forward, a no-nonsense expression on a face given often to laughter.

They would miss her.

Keith was the only one whose mind was still on the many unexplained events of their pilgrimage. The others only wanted to forget, so it was he alone who went to speak to the older man in security who had done so much to safeguard the crowds at Compostela. When he broached the subject of all the odd incidents that had occurred during their two month trek to reach this city, he had very few answers. The so-called monk had had no idea why a shawl had been foisted on Father John at the Arles train station and put it down to an accident or a form of amusement dreamed up by the tall man who, he claimed, had an odd sense of humor. And no, he had no idea where he had gone or what his real name might be. As to Keith's insistence that Monica had been pushed...well, if Keith were to look a little bit closer into her character he might find the answer there. Wasn't that the sort of thing she would say, even if she had really lost her balance on the top of that path? A woman who claimed to speak to pilgrims of the Road, dead these 500 years was not his idea of a reliable witness. And the bird watchers? Well, there was such a thing as industrial espionage and hadn't the group itself remarked that the area in which they found themselves was full of atomic energy plants meant for peaceful purposes? And that one had been killed? Perhaps a robbery gone wrong...and wasn't it time to stop playing detective and forget it all in the knowledge that in the wider scope of things they had prevailed and that a much bigger tragedy had been averted although one of their group had died? With all of which Keith had had to agree, by now not as interested in discovering truths as he had been at the beginning because his mind was at present firmly set into the future and the past was just that...past and gone. He would celebrate the end of their voyage with the others and return as fast as he could to Arles where he, Père Jerome and Lucienne would pack their bags and head for their village in the Jura to spend the rest of the summer and, once returned to Arles he would begin his studies for the priesthood and a life of service to all those who needed him.

On the morning of their second day in Lavacolla they dressed in the best of their pilgrim's clothes and presented themselves at a small rural church to see John and Helen married at the altar by a Spanish priest. After which they headed for a nearby field where, under several trees which afforded shade, long tables had been set up for a colorful wedding feast cooked by Luc with the help of several local apprentices. And after toasts had been pronounced, Tom rose to his feet to call for attention.

"Fellow pilgrims and friends, I'd like to take this opportunity to invite all of you to come to Lodeve on August 15th to celebrate the wedding of...Tom O'Brian and Mathilde Fournier. You will be staying at Le Petit Cedre hotel and Luc here, will be in charge of the revelries to follow. We hope that this joyous occasion will help to dispel the truly harrowing events that took place in Lodeve and all through our pilgrimage and we shall toast with joy and love all those who are dear to us...present company and absent friends included, in the hope that someday, somewhere we shall meet again."

"Amen" came softly from everyone around the table in an almost silent whisper to remind them yet again of those they would never see again in this life.

As Tom sat down Deirdre go up and tapped her knife against her water glass until she had their full attention.

"I don't want to spoil Tom's surprise announcement but I too have something to tell you. And so..." she laughed, "Luc and I are inviting everyone to Manchester on September 1st to take part in the wedding festivities of Deirdre Braithwaite and Luc Castres. Rooms will be arranged for all of you in my father's home and in a nearby hotel."

"A toast!" Steven called out. "To the happy brides and grooms." And they all stood up and raised their glasses.

"And now, last but not least..." Mavis and Jacob arose. "On September 15th you are all requested to come to our wedding which will be celebrated in Ireland on a wild coast, at a monastery by the sea whose gracious abbot has made the church available to us and has most kindly permitted Father John to officiate, after which we shall celebrate at a nearby gypsy encampment with food, drink and dancing for as long as the spirit moves us and the whiskey lasts!"

"And I..." Peter-Paul added, "beg the pleasure of your company at my wedding on May lst to be celebrated in Paris among the heavenly perfume of the lily of the valley plants that intoxicate all of France on that day as a symbol of love. My bride-to-be must remain a secret as even I have not met her yet but I know that she will appear in two day's time to end my long bachelor existence in the tried and true manner." And when the company remained mute and gaping, he added: "That is a gypsy's prediction and you know that I am always right. And now let us drink to the future, not forgetting the past...to us, to distant friends, to the departed who are always with us, to the Road and to the Saint."

They all stood up raised their glasses and drank deeply while Mavis leaned forward for the final word: "The staunchest of our fellow pilgrims, the one who never complained and never flagged, spoke to me at length just before the events in the square and I want here, now and for ever to tell you what he said. It is a lesson he learned early in life and has never forgotten and I know it will help us, not only now when we mourn, but all through the years as we face the trials and tribulations that are the lot of man on this earth: Life must be lived...miracles do occur...kindness does prevail...and love is stronger than death!"

And with that she smashed her glass onto the stones at her feet as a brilliant star suddenly startled them by arcing up into the heavens to take its rightful place among the vast multitude that bedazzled the darkness of this summer night's sky.

completed this day, December 13, 2012

LIST OF QUOTATIONS

Page 5 and 6: Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618), The Passionate Man's Pilgrimage.

Page 21:The Litany.

Page 25 and 26: Drinking Song, Anonymous, Middle Ages.

Page 55: James Elroy Flecker (l884-l915), Golden Journey to Samarkand, Prologue.

Page l07 and l08: A Song of the Open Road, Middle Ages Student's Song.

Page 110: Gaudeamus Igitur. Student Song of the Middle Ages.

Page 113: French Folk Song, Anonymous.

Page 113: Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593), Doctor Faustus.

Page 114: Homer, The Odyssey

Page 114: Christopher Marlowe (l564-l593), Doctor Faustus.

Page 116: Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) Doctor Faustus

Page l37: Sabine Baring- Gould (l834-l924), Hymns, Ancient and Modern.

Page 148 and 149: Jacques Prevert, Paroles: Le Jardin; Paris at Night.

Page 149: John Donne (l571-1631, Elegy XIX, To His Mistress Going To Bed.

Page 164 and 165: William Shakespeare (l564-1616), It Was A Lover And His Lass from

As You Like It.

Page 261: Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), To Helen.

Page 285, and 286: Vladimir Mayakovsky (1849-1930), Final Poem.

Page 290: A. Shopenhauer, Psychological Remarks, Parerga and Paralipomena, 1851.

Page 419: John Bunyan (1628-1688), Pilgrim's Progress.

Page 435: John Bunyan (l628-1688), Pilgrim's Progress.
