He was already inside and could barely hear her. He flipped a wall switch, but nothing happened. He pulled out a flashlight and swept its beam back and forth.
Zewinski caught up, and they slowly walked past the rows of benches, taking in the paintings, silent witness to the time when Christianity was the most potent force in France and an integral part of the lives of both humble field workers and aristocrats.
On their right, Saint Eloi, wearing a halo, was striking a horseshoe with a hammer under the watchful eyes of two craftsmen. Farther along, angels with blurred faces were gazing at other saints. On the left, near the third row of benches, there was a Middle Age bestiary, with two fighting leopards, their claws splayed. One was wearing a crown.
The flashlight beam revealed a rich palette of colors — yellows and reds, nuanced grays, bluish touches, and alabaster green.
“Marcas, look at this.”
Higher up on the wall, a beaming fox was playing a medieval musical instrument, perhaps a viola, for a hen and her chicks. Next to it, like a scene in a graphic novel, the fox was slitting the hen’s throat.
“I get it,” Zewinski said. “The fox is playing the woman. He’s out to get himself some fresh meat. Those knights had a dark sense of humor, didn’t they.”
“Some sense of humor,” Marcas said. “But the fresco we want is over there, near the altar.”
They walked past a small black railing that marked the entrance to the apse. Marcas angled the flashlight to illuminate the ceiling and the frescos. It created a play of shadows, making the pictures on the ceiling dance.
Jade grabbed the light. “Let me find out what doesn’t fit,” she said.
At first, nothing jumped out at them. A Byzantine-inspired Christ Pantocrator presided over the apse. His right fingers pointed to the sky, and he was surrounded by a traditional tetramorph, four allegorical representations of the evangelists: a lion for Mark, an eagle for John, an ox for Luke, and a man for Matthew.
On either side were frescos about six feet high, separated by narrow windows.
“What’s that?” Marcas said. “Let’s see what I can remember from catechism. Here is a crucifixion, there the Virgin Mary with child, a whole bunch of souls, and over there, to the far right, Adam and Eve surrounded by… Well, well, what is it that I see? It’s a—”
Marcas let Zewinski say the magic word.
61
The wind had been picking up since nightfall. The forecast was storms over the Adriatic. Boats were returning to port. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by thunder.
Fascinated by the show of unbridled elements, Loki was sitting on the bench at the edge of the overlook. He was holding a cell phone to his ear and talking to his master, Sol.
“A good omen. Thor is wielding his hammer. The board isn’t happy with your explanation regarding the Hiram operation, except perhaps Freya. They respect you and would never dare to question your word, but—”
“But what?”
“They belong to another generation. They share our political ideas and love the organization’s power, but remain deeply skeptical. They don’t think Operation Hiram will yield anything. And the loss of one of the order’s houses galls them.”
Loki looked out at the rumbling sea. Sol’s voice grew stronger.
“But they were initiated. They know that the spiritual side is most important. If Operation Hiram succeeds, we’ll be at the dawn of a new era. The Thule will be back. Don’t they understand?”
“In theory, yes, but discussing anything related to the divine is too abstract for them. Heimdall even wondered if you were getting senile.”
Sol was shouting now. “They’ll see if I’m a crazy old man! When I think about what their forefathers sacrificed. They’re gutless wonders, every one of them. Their entitlements are all that they care about. None of them would have made it into the Waffen SS, like I did. They’ve lost the taste for blood. I made a mistake giving them power. We need to replace the board. You’ll do that for me. I need to finish Operation Hiram. When it’s all over, we’ll be witness to a new night.”
“A night?” Loki asked, watching dark clouds roll over the coastline. Sol’s voice sounded like a metallic echo.
“A night of long knives. Like the Führer’s. More pleasures await your Iron Maiden. I have to go now. I’m meeting some very interesting people. And by the way, your daughter says hello.”
He ended the call.
62
“A giant toadstool.”
Marcas nodded. “A superb Amanita muscaria, or fly amanita,” he said.
Jade and Marcas stepped closer to the mural to get a better view.
Adam and Eve stood naked, their hands covering their genitals. Between them, five long-stemmed mushrooms rose from a single spot. A snake was wrapped around the central stem, its head toward Eve.
Jade leaned in. “Amazing. A shroom instead of an apple tree. That’s an intriguing depiction of the original sin. It must have been a shock for the worshippers.”
“Maybe not. The worshippers weren’t ordinary people, you know. This chapel was forbidden to commoners. It was used exclusively by the Knights of Hospitaller for two full centuries.”
Marcas pulled out his phone and started taking pictures of the mural while Zewinski examined the details.
“What’s this got to do with the Breuil Manuscript?” she asked.
Marcas put his cell phone back in his pocket. “Remember, Breuil bought this chapel and the land around it, so he must have seen the mural. He came back from Egypt and wanted to create a completely new ritual, change the bitter initiation wine, and dig a pit in the middle of the temple for a bush. Take a good look at the mushroom. Doesn’t it look like a fruit tree?”
“It looks like a mushroom to me.”
“Yes, but Breuil, like many other Freemasons, was skilled at using parables and symbols. I think he wanted to use this mushroom in his ritual. It’s the missing ingredient.”
Zewinski shrugged. “Why this mushroom?”
“It’s not just any mushroom. It’s a magic mushroom. It’s known for its hallucinogenic properties. Many religions and other belief systems have used mushrooms since ancient times to commune with the divine. So according to this painting, Adam and Eve were chased out of paradise for eating a mushroom, not an apple.”
“I’ve heard of South and Central American cultures that have cults based on sacred mushrooms.”
“Shamans in many cultures rely on psychedelic mushrooms. The psilocybin mushroom was an integral part of Aztec religious ceremonies in Mexico because of its hallucinogenic properties. They called it teonanacatl, which means ‘God’s flesh.’ And as far back as 1,000 BC, there was a Mesoamerican mushroom cult in what is now the Guatemalan highlands.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I listened to one of our brothers, a botanist, give a brilliant presentation on the role hallucinogenic mushrooms played in Central American religious ceremonies. He suggested that the visions recounted by Christian mystics were identical to hallucinations experienced by Mayan and Aztec priests.”
Zewinski smiled. Finally, a rational explanation from a Freemason. Maybe she could even like him someday.
“Did he have anything to back up his theory?” she asked.
“He talked about experiments conducted in the nineteen sixties in the United States. A Dr. Walter Pahnke gave psilocybin to Christian theology-student volunteers. After absorbing a purified form of the mushroom, three of the ten said they had experienced intense mystical visions. They had the feeling of being one with Christ and the Virgin Mother. They really saw Jesus and Mary.”