“Ah, Jaque, you made it! Thank the gods.” Therese held me close, her face buried in my chest, tears cutting lines in the dust, smoke and soot on her face.
We
gathered in the darkness of that smoke filled night, fires burned around us,
bodies strewn across the streets, the smoke mingling with the screams and cries
of the damned. We moved swiftly through the ruins of the city, which only
yesterday was a bustle of friendly activity, now, only a smudge of soot,
rubble, and fire.
It
was only in the darkest of spaces between the catacombs and the sub-basements
of the ancient city remains below us that shelter could be sought from the
onslaught of the enemy above, and quickly we hurried to find an entrance. Many
found safe haven through the sewers and old underground train stations. Indeed,
the meek shall inherit the earth.
Our
enemy sought no peace, desired nothing but destruction. We did not anticipate
their swift attack, they gave neither warning nor respite. Instead, we were
confronted by a hail of bullets, and a storm of bombs and rockets.
Under
this most ancient city we could hide, some would be doomed by cave ins, caused
by the walls giving way to the explosions above, the limestone walls shaken
loose by the gravity of the weapons which tore down the buildings above like so
much chaff. Some would be drowned by the waters loosed from the river cutting
into the crevices and craters, finding steady course into the underground
system of caves and cavities in the limestone, themselves so ancient that this
city was once named “The City of Catacombs”.
But
here, the meek of the earth found some shelter, perhaps to live another day,
after tending their wounds, and if time would allow, to bury their dead.
But
shelter was not our only aim, for we knew well these caves, better really than
even the dwellers who existed down here, homeless and hidden from the society
above, the sewer rats and survivors who would rather hide away in a city of
eternal night than to live alongside the often cruel society above. This was a
hidden land, one which the modern would nary venture, save but to occasion
danger. These caverns, carved into the limestone over many centuries, wound
down into the earth, past even the valley which the city nestled in, and far
into the mountains. This labyrinth, made of man made aqueducts and sewers,
tunnels and basements, shelters and hidden pools of water, fed by ancient
underground springs. This dark land, far from the eyes of the common man, were
hospitable only to those with a taste for adventure, and a stomach for fear.
Squatters lived here, ragged gypsies whose homes were torn from them, thieves
and lunatics, and yes, even the relics of a much more ancient society, our
brotherhood, whose temple lay at the foot of the mountains, near an underground
lake so vast that none above even suspected that the foothills could hide such
a monstrous sea beneath them.
Gigantic
columns of stone held the heavy weight of the earth, crystalized over many
aeons into sparkling domes above us when there was light to glean there.
We
gathered at the base of the city, the few of us that remained, to meet with our
brothers and discuss the solution to our real problem, one which faced not only
ourselves, but the world above, and inevitably, the world beneath. These
caverns would soon no longer be safe. They would be accosted by the same forces
which destroyed our city, that proud nation which once stood for liberty and
freedom, that proud people who once stood for humanity’s greatest triumphs and
liberal sciences. Now, we were made to scatter into the depths of the earth, to
hide like rats from the terror which faced us, the enemy which knew no
pacification to its hunger and thirst for power. It would not stop until its
every enemy was ground into the dust and ashes of a history which their
writings would refuse to even admit. We faced the gravest of deaths, oblivion.
None would know that we stood here, none would know that we had lived. Future
generations would remember neither our names nor our exploits.
There
is no holocaust so severe as that which wipes even our memory from the walls of
our sacred places. And these caverns housed our most beloved place, the temple
at the fount. My brethren had gathered here in secret enclaves for thousands of
years, since before the time of the modern machines, since before the time of
the kings and queens who waged war upon each other for power and prestige,
since before the time of the monks and nuns whose church would tear down our
holy sites and arrange on them instead their own cathedrals and churches. Our
temple had existed here since before their Christ died upon a cross, and before
their demon god reigned. No, our gods were truly primordial, and they dwelt in
the mind of man, not to be spoken of in the tongues of the common folk as
children's stories and fairy tales. Our gods were subtle, and they were
unforgiving, but not cruel. They were the secret gods of the time before
history, and their names are unspoken, even by our most holy prophets. Our gods
exist within each and every man, woman, child, and indeed, some would say, even
the creatures, plants and minerals.
Four
of us reached the city of catacombs. None others survived or could escape the
terror which reigned above. We waited, in silence for the arrival of our
brothers and sisters, in hope that they might trickle in one at a time, finding
a way down into our world. But none came. We waited for three days. We could
still hear the echoes of the turmoil from above. We could envision the blood in
the streets, the screams of children, the fires which engulfed entire
buildings. We knew there would be naught but rubble left to return to. This
enemy was known to raze cities to the ground, leaving nothing but a savage scar
where once great monuments stood. Children would not be spared to one day
avenge their fathers, and women would not be raped to breed a bastard race. No,
they would put all to the blade and burn it all to the ground, grinding even
their bricks into dust.
We
are not the praying kind, generally, but we prayed then, for swift deaths for
those in pain, and swifter justice for those who would bring such travesty in
their wake.
We
watched and waited. Finally, when our watches wound down one final time, we
hurried onward to the temple, several miles through twisting caverns and dusty
crevices. There was little time to waste, for soon, to be sure, the black
cloaked soldiers would find their way into this underground world, and wipe it
clean of their enemies as well. We dared not wait any longer. Perhaps we had
already waited too long.
The
entrance to the temple was a roughly carved wooden door, decorated with the
symbol of a tree, its branches swirling in upon itself, each leaf representing
a maxim of our law, and each law a method to our science, as prehistoric as
mankind itself. I dare not whisper more
of its mystery yet. It is too soon.
To
the rear of the temple lay upon a stone table, upon which lay four books. These
were the sacred laws, the codes, the rituals and histories of our people. The
heavy parchment was never allowed to grow so old as to dissolve, flake or
crumble, each generation keeping these records whole for the next, as it had
been for thousands of years.
The
books were divided, one to each of us, that we might continue the tradition in
a foreign land, far from the reach of the enemy, at least long enough for us to proliferate the mysteries again.
Now
was no time to refuse our calling, for we were the only keepers of this secret
sect. The time had come for us to part ways, each to a different part of the
earth, only to come together again when the time permitted, and only when we
could again be safe. It would seem that we would wait lifetimes.
We
left the catacombs during the night, escaping miles away from the city, its
fires still aglow on the horizon. Each of us carried, wrapped caringly into a
heavy watertight sachel one of the tomes of our people. My Brothers and Sister
each went in opposite directions, Mattiu to Asia, Terese to South America, and
Luc to Australia. Far enough from the terror in Europe to keep us safe, we
hoped, for a few years at least.
The
book I carry, and the copies my brethren also take to safety, are all that
remain of us. The Libris Mysteriis, the Books of Mystery. Each folio measured
the length of my forearm, from elbow to wrist, and were as tall as the length
of my outstretched hand, from wrist to fingertip (about 12”x 8”). The four
books, each holding eighty pages of parchment, handwritten in a private tongue,
were carefully transcribed once each generation by the members of our clan,
that one might have a copy from which to study and share. The language itself
was one which we all shared, and was never spoken, but voiced only through
motion and action. Each letter had meaning beyond its mere sound, being
mathematical as well as harmonic - each
word was a song, each symbol an equation, and these in turn opened the gates of
the mind. The words and phrases of our philosophy would make a common man a man
of greatness, and a man of greatness into fount of genius. Should they be
dishonored, the results would be terrible. One man may climb only so high
before he must fall.
Traveling
for days on foot, hiding in forests and lodging where I felt it was safe, it
took many days to travel through the countryside. Many times the soldiers
passed me by, I hid in the thickets, under leaves, and many times just beyond
their sight, watching for movement for hours before daring to take foot once
again, until I was sure there were no sentries traveling closely on the roads.
I crossed the border and rested, finally thankful that the worst part of my
ordeal was through. I spent the night sleeping with the knowledge that my part
of our sect would remain safe, its contents to be read again by our future
brothers and sisters.
Fortunately,
it was still the late spring when I escaped our war torn country, and not too
unpleasantly cold to sleep in the out-doors with my coat wrapped tightly around
me. There was little food, though water was not scarce. My childhood growing
near the mountains gave me enough knowledge of local herbs and plants that I
was able to forage some common plants to keep up my energy, and I knew enough
of which insects and worms were edible. I could not cook, nor hunt, nor trap
while escaping, not that I could have stayed in any place long enough, and
certainly I did not desire to attract any attention, nor leave behind any trace
of my passing there. But nonetheless, the pains of hunger were a constant
presence, and eventually became the norm as I made my escape.
I
slept very little, and when I did it was a disturbed sleep, as I feared
snoring, or worse, being happened upon accidentally. This was not our war, but
it was one which raged around us, and no one could be trusted, even the most
unsuspicious, as the enemy had spies in every corner, and even those not
trained in intelligence gathering could be paid for what they knew, even if
their only information was the passing of a stranger through the fields and
trees.
Every
step took me closer to my goal, escape from an occupied country filled with
soldiers and their allies. Every step warned me that I should remain conscious
of every movement, and to be aware of my surroundings. Move slow, move steady,
be cautious.
I
was not carrying some secret intelligence for the war effort. I was not spy. I
was not concerned with the matters of men. I carried one of the four sacred
objects of my people, our heritage, our history, our rites and rituals, our
culture, our values and our teachings. These stretched back thousands of years.
Always, we lived and worked with the people of our country, practicing their
religion alongside of them, living similar lives, united in their aims and
cultures. But there was something more. We held a philosophy, a set of natural
laws which were our secret, a truth which could never be shared to the common
man, for its purpose was too powerful for the common man to understand, and too
dangerous for those who would misuse
them. These laws, these few brief spans of writing were kept from the eyes of
the masses, for, in past ages when they were shared with all, chaos ensued. Our
gods are dark gods, they are nameless, and they exist solely in our own hearts.
We
carried no distinguishing marks, no jewelry to identify ourselves to anyone
outside of ourselves. We did not practice our rites and rituals in fine robes.
There were no aprons or trappings which might be used against us. Our places of
study were underground, hidden from those who might defile our works, and kept
secret. Converts were not tempted by everlasting life, riches, or great power.
We did not indoctrinate our children with teachings which would separate them
from their countrymen. Ours were called to us by a higher mission, one which
would benefit all, if it were used appropriately and one which would keep back
the tides of an evil which flowed in every man and woman, should they choose to
use it appropriately. But in the wrong form, it would be twisted, and destroy
the healthiest of minds with thoughts of control, power, and hate. Our mission
was one which was deeply personal, and one which could not be lost to the wrong
hands. Many come to the garden of these teachings, few realize that they are rejected
before they even have the opportunity to enjoy its fruits, and those who remain
enjoy true peace.
The
border to the next country drew closer, my senses deliberately focused. I
watched, waited, and took action when the sun fell low across the mountains.
These old roads were not large enough to allow more than a small vehicle or a
horse drawn carriage, and although I only had a few more miles to travel into
the Basque country, every new hill and curve in the road caused me to stop,
rest, examine the horizon for signs of hostility. The sun was low, touching the
mountains, nearly gone from the day, and I made my move again.
As
I rounded a hilly corner on this old farm road, I was confronted by two men,
both carrying rifles, neither uniformed like a soldier. The first man, broad
shouldered and young, his face red, his head covered by a dungy grey work cap,
and his neck wrapped in a dull olive green cloth. His tight brown hunting
jacket fit snug, and his boots, though worn in and to his knee, looked new. He
carried his rifle slung over his shoulder, the leather strap at ease as he
walked. His companion looked similar, eyes grey, solid bodied, but older,
perhaps sixty. He carried his gun in front of him, cradled in the crook of his
arm, obviously loaded, obviously ready. Though his dress was similar, his boots
were worn and covered in mud.
They
both watched me as we approached each other, their gaze stoic, giving away
nothing. They did not draw their weapons from their resting places, and they
did not smile. The older man’s grey moustache and stubbled face looked like
that of a farmer or workman, and their rifles were obviously for small game or
birds, not for targeting larger prey or men.
I
smiled, as broad and welcoming as I could manage. “Good evening”, I called out
in the best French that I could manage, “Any luck with your hunt?”
The
older man nodded gruffly in return, raising his thumb and forefinger to the
air, “Two pheasant. It will be a light dinner this evening.”
I
nodded at the younger man as a greeting. He nodded in return, though no smile
crept across his face. Instead, he spoke, “If you are heading towards San
Sebastian, I would recommend against it. The border is heavily occupied around
Irun, and you are likely to be shot. Follow instead the Route d’Ibardin, you
will likely be safer there.”
They
knew my direction, and they knew my purpose.
“Thank
you.” I replied.
“Be
well. You will find that most of the countrymen you engage along this road will
not be of much help facilitate your travel. The enemy is obvious, they dress
like soldiers, and behave like soldiers. They are loud. Do not worry, you will
see them a mile away. But the country people are wary of strangers, these days.
Remain safe”
“Again,
thank you.”
“Good
luck. May you find peace.”
They
continued on their way after giving direction to the Route d'Ibardin, and I
found myself in Spain before too long, with no trouble from that point onwards.
After passing the border, I caught a ride with a farmer south as far as he
could take me. He shared a loaf of heavy bread and a jug of water before
sending me on my way, his cart slowly moving off the main road towards his
home.
Though
Spain was not officially involved in the invasion, her people were not
untouched by the war, her people fearing that it may overwhelm her own borders
and bring the devastation that had occurred elsewhere.
I
soon made my way to the City of Bulls, Pamplona. The bustle of activity in
Pamplona was overwhelming for me. Saint-Nazaire seemed a snail’s pace in
contrast. Industry prevailed there, and the city itself seemed busy with people
going about their business. Though not occupied, there were still to be seen
soldiers patrolling, though this did not concern me.
I
found myself moving with the crowds. The streets were narrow, but filled with
people. Hawkers announced their wares, children ran through the streets,
(TBC)