A Song in Stone Read online

  “There are hundreds of individual carvings on the walls and ceilings of this place. If you look up along the Lady Chapel”—he pointed to his left, facing us; we obligingly followed his hand and saw the intricately carved ceiling, filled with carved animals, people, musical instruments, and square boxes formed into curved arches that met at a middle round projection that looked a little like a light fixture—“you’ll see the work of the artisans. For decades they labored to build this place, this wonder—this exquisitely beautiful mystery.”

  “Are you saying—” The man with the video camera stepped forward, with the damn thing still running. “Are you saying that there’s no meaning to all this—this stuff?”

  It was an American accent. MacLeod looked at me again; I was trying to be unobtrusive, “drinking it in”—but by now he’d surely recognised me and was showing how he could play the audience like a pro.

  He shrugged the tiniest bit. “No, sir, that’s not at all what I meant.”

  “But you said—”

  “What I said,” he interrupted, his voice patient, “was not that the stonework has no meaning—but rather that it has some meaning that we do not at present understand.” The tourist looked ready to jump in again, but he raised his hand slightly. The dim light glinted for just a moment off a ring he wore, but I couldn’t see the device. “This place was chosen, laid out and founded, and the artisans worked for more than four decades to build it. Though Scotland was torn by religious strife for more than two centuries afterward, and though great harm was done to the outer shell of the building and to the fragile work within, the carvings and artwork you see in its stones have survived virtually intact since the late part of the fifteenth century.”

  It was really getting a bit thick, I thought; it would have to be cut down to thirty or forty seconds at most—perhaps I might be able to do a quick gloss.

  “Sir William of St Clair wrote a message in these stones, we believe,” MacLeod continued. “It is our greatest regret … that we can not decipher it.”

  I pricked up my ears at that. This was the sort of thing that would play well on television. A Geraldo moment, I thought, only half-facetious: mysterious stone carvings that had survived intact, with a meaning lost to history.

  Mr Video Camera, meanwhile, didn’t know how to respond. Without speaking further MacLeod led us along the Chapel, beneath the three stone light-fixtures, to the opposite corner.

  As we passed through the centre of the Chapel, I heard a sort of low humming. It was almost like someone had left a wireless at full volume, tuned to some frequency that had no broadcast. It was annoying; I stopped and shook my head to clear it, even stepping back a few steps and then forward again. It was only really there when I was directly in line with the west doors.

  As I looked that way I glanced up at the ceiling and saw the beautiful decorations—stars and flowers, mostly, hundreds of them—marching their way toward the baptistry entrance. The rest of the group moved past me. It wasn’t until I moved along to where they’d gathered that the sound seemed to dissipate.

  “Are you feeling all right?” the guide asked, coming back to me.

  “Yes. Fine,” I said. “Nasty hum.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The hum. The noise.”

  He shrugged and smiled slightly. No one else had appeared to notice—not MacLeod, not Mr Video Camera.

  “Don’t you hear it?” I asked. I stood directly in line with the west doors, open to admit weak early afternoon sunlight.

  “Perhaps you should sit down for a bit,” he said, gesturing toward a bench, and began to turn away. He was being polite. I decided that there was no point in pursuing it as MacLeod returned to the rest of the group. I followed, getting a curious glance from the Yank with the camera.

  “This is the Apprentice Pillar,” MacLeod said, indicating the rightmost of three great stone columns that separated the Lady Chapel from the rest of the church. It was different from the others. Instead of being straight vertical, it was like a braided cord, its incredibly intricate designs swirling around from bottom to top. “I would wager that this pillar is the one thing that anyone who has heard of our Chapel would recognise.”

  It’ll certainly get a few seconds on camera, I thought. Closeup from the base, pan slowly upward and then zoom out for Ian Graham’s face, caught in a thoughtful moment, contemplating …

  “Why is it called the Apprentice Pillar?” one of the other tourists asked—an older English lady.

  “Aye, there’s a story that goes with that,” MacLeod said. “It’s said that many different craftsmen worked on this building, and that one of the masters was given the assignment to create a work of exquisite design. Before undertaking it, he decided to leave for Rome to examine the original.

  “While he was gone, a talented apprentice dreamed that he had finished it and set about to complete it.” He reached his hand out and touched the pillar gently, affectionately. “When the master returned and found that the apprentice had created this, he was so enraged that he took a mallet and struck the apprentice on the right temple so”—he made his right hand into a fist and gently tapped his own head—“and slew him. But justice caught up with the master, and he was executed for his crime.”

  “How awful,” the lady said.

  “What a load of bull,” the American with the camera interjected. “Sounds like a story for tourists.”

  And telly watchers, I thought. Maybe there is an interesting story here after all.

  “That is as may be,” MacLeod responded evenly. “But you’ll find among our carvings the head of the apprentice showing the mortal wound, the head of the jealous master, and even that of the apprentice’s grieving mother. Believe it or not as you wish, but it is recorded in the stones of the Chapel.”

  MacLeod’s tour ran on a dozen more minutes. He pointed to the ceiling, the stained glass, and a number of other photogenic places in the church. Each time I crossed the centre line of the Chapel, I heard the same low humming. It was clear to me that no one else noticed.

  You need to get out more, me lad, I thought. Hearing noises no one else hears?

  He ended the tour in the sacristy, a sort of crypt area reached through a flight of stairs in the southeast corner of the Chapel. It was a bare place, with a flat stone floor and artificial light. On one side there was an opening with darkness beyond, and a polite National Trust sign indicating that the area was off limits to tourists.

  The wall beside the opening had a number of drawings and traceries: triangles and circles and such. Before it was a stone plinth with an upright stone, like a grave marker, set into it. At either end was a carved statue of a man; one had his index- and ring-fingers pointing to his mouth, and the other stood with his hands pressed palms inward to his chest, one above the other.

  It wasn’t likely to be good footage, but it was certainly intriguing: a collection of little mysteries to go with the bigger one above.

  When MacLeod’s standard speech was over, he asked for questions. The English lady asked, “What are these sea shells?”

  There was a little collection of them set on end in an alcove at the east end of the sacristy. At a glance, they could’ve come from anywhere—a child’s collection from a beach holiday.

  MacLeod was about to answer, but a professorial-looking chap piped up with, “Those are from Santiago, aren’t they?”

  “That’s right,” MacLeod answered. “Pilgrims who had visited the shrine of Saint James in Spain would often come here as well and deposit their shell badges.”

  All of the tourists nodded appreciatively.

  The question and answer went on for a bit longer. I found myself drifting back to the wall with all of the tracings. It was hard to imagine that they were hundreds of years old, but there was some pattern there—something elusive, that I couldn’t quite pick up. I was sure that I could have ITV get someone to research it for me.

  And then, from the passageway beyond, I heard voices in the
dark.

  “It worked. I’m sure of it. It’s all here.”

  “Yes—but where is ‘here’? It could be anywhere—Orléans, Chartres—”

  “The Saturn Oracle,” the first voice said. “Where we expected to be.”

  The second voice was one I’d never heard—but the first one I knew very well: my agent.

  “Rodney?” I said, stepping into the opening. “Roddy, what are you doing there?”

  “Sir,” MacLeod said, stepping through the other tourists toward me. “Sir, that area is off-limits to visitors.” He was polite, but firm.

  “I heard something. I heard …”

  I stopped, not sure how to finish the sentence. The chamber beyond was dark, except for the intrusion of electric light; everyone else had stopped speaking. I stood for a moment longer, but all was quiet except for the incessant whirr of that damn video camera.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought I heard something.”

  “I’d be surprised,” the guide answered, smiling. “Those are the crypts. Tradition says that the St Clairs were buried fully armoured, ready to spring to the defence of the chapel—but that’s never happened.”

  I smiled as well. It was the easiest course. I was no celebrity—just another tourist.

  With the guided portion of the tour done, I made my excuse of a headache and took my leave of Rosslyn Chapel, after buying a guidebook in the gift shop. I don’t think I could get out of there fast enough. Humming that no one else heard; voices in the dark— disquieting, I thought, that’s a good word for it. Not “spooky”—that’s Geraldo for sure.

  As I put my car into motion up the lane away from the place, the storm broke, sluicing the area with rain.

  • • •

  I came home tired and depressed. Not that it mattered, but the guide probably hadn’t recognised me after all. I’d just been a tourist—an ordinary tourist.

  I tried to do my reading that night while the rain pounded down and lightning crashed, threatening to take out the power in my flat. It was hard to concentrate, and at last I gave it up as a bad job; there’d be a script, I’d give my lines, and ITV would be happy to have such a fine talent as Ian Graham describing the mystery of Rosslyn Chapel for the conspiracy folk.

  How the hell did you let it come to this? I asked myself again as I got ready for bed. I sat up and watched News 24 for a while, but kept finding myself being maudlin and autobiographical.

  Ian Graham. Local lad. Born and brought up in Edinburgh, attended chapel at St Giles when I was a wee boy, Bible class and all—“he’ll go far, that Ian,” they always said. For a while they were right.

  Edinburgh College of Art. Married to Liz. Radio with the Beeb—reading the headlines for Newshour, then moving on to hosting—then on to Channel 4, dropping in practically at the very top, when Gerard Lamont hired me for Ian and Jan. No one disagreed with that—everyone was scared of Gerard, but he was a good judge of talent.

  Locations all over Britain, on the Continent, overseas. Celebrities coming to sit at our little coffee table on air, talking about their latest film, their newest venture. Politicians, philanthropists, rock stars—they all dropped by.

  And now Ian Graham would be reading the lines from a Tele-Prompter while they got the light just right on a fifteenth-century puzzle box filled with stone carvings that no one understood.

  How the hell was this going to be a vehicle to get Ian bloody Graham back into the spotlight?

  It’s not, I told myself. Not a chance. Especially if he keeps talking about himself in the third person.

  I snapped the light out, turned off the telly, and went to bed.

  • • •

  It was some kind of interview, in an ITV boardroom. Seven executives were sitting around a polished wood table, but there was no seat for me. They were dressed like something from a costume drama— The Lion in Winter came to mind—robes with hoods thrown back, beards for the men, head cloths for the women.

  They didn’t look happy, and they weren’t even looking at me.

  Somewhere in the distance I could hear music. It sounded like the sort of thing my Gran used to favour: Satie or perhaps Poulenc coming from a phonograph.

  “It’s obvious that you’ve chosen wrong,” the one in the middle said. “Look at him: he’s obsessed with his own image.”

  “Hey,” I began. “That’s a bit over the top—”

  “You’re right, of course.” The man to whom the comment was addressed didn’t even seem to hear me. “But he’ll need to rely on his own strength.”

  The first man snorted. “It can’t work. It astounds me that you think it can.”

  “What won’t work?” I said.

  “I know it will. It already has.”

  “Only the past is immutable.”

  “But this has happened in the past,” the second man protested.

  “Not his past,” a woman interrupted. She sat near the end of the table. She was young—twenty-five, perhaps younger, and very attractive.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, but it was obvious that I wasn’t even there to them.

  “I don’t take your meaning,” the second man said.

  “For him, what we believe to be the result has not yet occurred. It is possible that it may never occur.”

  “But we know—”

  “We know very little,” she said. “We know what we see, but we do not know if this moment is part of what has happened to lead to where we now sit. It is in his hands: all of it. We cannot be sure.”

  “What do you propose, then?” the second man asked. “How can we bring this about?”

  “He may turn away; he may give up. He may not even complete the task once he starts it. We can only have faith—and hope.”

  “He can be told—”

  “No,” the first man said finally. “He cannot be told. He must not—it would jeopardise all.” He placed his index and middle fingers to his mouth.

  The others followed suit.

  The music swelled louder all of a sudden.

  “Amoun,” he said, and for the first time looked directly at me—

  • • •

  At a crash of thunder I woke up in my bed, sweating. The clock at my bedside glowed, showing the time: 0210.

  For a moment I considered speed-dialing Rodney, asking him what he was thinking putting me— me! —on this ridiculous programme and what the hell he was doing in the crypts at Rosslyn that afternoon.

  “Get a grip,” I said to myself. “Too much caffeine. Too much stress.”

  I laughed, and that sounded as hollow as my self-assured comments. Most of my dreams weren’t so memorable.

  I felt for the remote and flicked on News 24 again. Tragedies, repetitive weather reports, and meaningless sport flickered across the screen—and at some point I fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 2

  The storm had mostly passed the next morning, but there were still hints of it when I awoke, the telly still blaring on. The dream was nothing but a faint bit of undigested anxiety by the time I got out of bed and had my morning coffee, nicotine, and something for my headache.

  There was nothing for it but to go forward; I wasn’t going to duck out on the job. Whatever it amounted to, they’d get the best that Ian Graham had to offer.

  • • •

  A few days passed. ITV sent out a sample script which seemed fine. Rodney took care of the contract details. In the meanwhile, there were no more dreams.

  On the day shooting was to start I drove out to the country again, down the lane to the Chapel, and into the car park in a grassy field. As I stepped out I saw someone wave to me.

  “Hello,” I said, walking across to the entrance-door. “I’m—”

  “Ian Graham,” the man completed my sentence. He shook my hand. “Of course. I’m Rob Madson. Some of your crew is already here, but I’ve been asked to look after you especially.”

  “Thank you very much, I’m sure,” I answered. “You don’t need to
trouble yourself.”

  The voice seemed slightly familiar, but I couldn’t place it—not surprising, considering the number of people I met in my line of work.

  Former line of work, I added mentally but shrugged that thought away.

  “No trouble at all,” he said, smiling. Rob Madson was a middle-aged man, gone white on the top; glasses framed deep eyes. The smile was something else again—the look of someone who knew a secret he wasn’t sharing. “Rosslyn’s something best experienced with a guide.”

  “You know it well, then,” I said. He led me through the gift shop and down a short corridor, handing me a visitor badge with the ITV logo.

  “I’m one of the Friends of Rosslyn,” he explained. “I work part-time for the Trust.”

  “I was out here a few days past and had a wee tour then,” I said. “The presenter—MacLeod, I think his name was—was quite good; I think we might be able to use him.”

  “MacLeod, you said.”

  “Yes, that’s right. William, Warren, something like that. Tall fellow.”

  Madson looked thoughtful for a moment but didn’t comment further. He didn’t follow up as we passed through the gift shop. We stepped through the doorway and onto the path, and there stood the Abbey before us once again.

  “Remarkable, isn’t it?” Madson said.

  I’d seen it before, but the light seemed different—the day was overcast, but there wasn’t fog toward Mountmarle and the castle; I concentrated on what it would look like on screen. I’d stand there, and we’d need the light over here … “Yes,” I finally said.

  “Shall I give you the usual tour, or did you get enough of that?”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ve done some reading also.” I’d gotten enough of the “usual tour” the previous time out.

  Madson shrugged, with a small additional smile. “Let’s go in, then.”

  • • •

  Through the north door again.

  Inside was all abuzz. The ITV crew was there already. They hadn’t set up equipment, but a production man was pacing it off, measuring with his light-metre; a younger tech was standing near the front, bent over a laptop that he’d set up on a stone altar. I noticed Rob Madson catching sight of this and frowning.