Timeline - Michael Crichton [142]
“Don’t you know?” Marek said.
She looked around, then realized that she was in the same underground chamber she had crawled into several days before. There was the same sarcophagus of a knight, now with the lid on the coffin. Along another wall was a crude wooden table, where sheets of oilskin were stacked and manuscript bundles were tied with hemp. To one side was a low stone wall, on which stood a single manuscript bundle—and the glint of the lens from the Professor’s eyeglasses.
“He must have lost it yesterday,” Kate said. “The soldiers must have captured him down here.”
“Probably.” She watched as Marek started going through the bundled sheets, one after another. He quickly found the Professor’s message, then turned back to the preceding sheet. He frowned, peering at it in the torchlight.
“What is it?” she said.
“It’s a description,” he said. “Of an underground river, and . . . here it is.” He pointed to the side of the manuscript, where a notation in Latin had been scrawled.
“It says, ‘Marcellus has the key.’” He pointed with his finger. “And then it says something about, uh, a door or opening, and large feet.”
“Large feet?”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “No, that’s not it.” What Elsie had said was coming back to him now. “It says, ‘Feet of a giant.’ A giant’s feet.”
“A giant’s feet,” she said, looking doubtfully at him. “Are you sure you have that right?”
“That’s what it says.”
“And what’s this?” she said. Beneath his finger there were two words, one arranged above the other:
DESIDE
VIVIX
“I remember,” Marek said. “Elsie said this was a new word for her, vivix. But she didn’t say anything about deside. And that doesn’t even look like Latin to me. And it’s not Occitan, or old French.”
With his dagger, he cut a corner from the parchment, then scratched the two words into the material, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket.
“But what does it mean?” Kate said.
Marek shook his head. “No idea at all.”
“It was added in the margin,” she said. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s a doodle, or an accounting, or something like that.”
“I doubt it.”
“They must have doodled back then.”
“I know, but this doesn’t look like a doodle, Kate. This is a serious notation.” He turned back to the manuscript, running his finger along the text. “Okay. Okay . . . It says here that Transitus occultus incipit. . . the passage starts . . . propre adcapellam viridem, sive capellam mortis—at the green chapel, also known as the chapel of death—and—”
“The green chapel?” she said in an odd voice.
Marek nodded. “That’s right. But it doesn’t say where the chapel is.” He sighed. “If the passage really connects to the limestone caves, it could be anywhere.”
“No, André,” she said. “It’s not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said, “that I know where the green chapel is.”
:
Kate said, “It was marked on the survey charts for the Dordogne project—it’s a ruin, just outside the project area. I remember wondering why it hadn’t been included in the project, because it was so close. On the chart, it was marked ‘chapelle verte morte,’ and I thought it meant the ‘chapel of green death.’ I remember, because it sounded like something out of Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Do you remember where it is, exactly?”
“Not exactly, except that it’s in the forest about a kilometer north of Bezenac.”
“Then it’s possible,” Marek said. “A kilometer-long tunnel is possible.”
From behind them, they heard the sound of soldiers coming down into the cellar.
“Time to go.”
He led them to the left, into a corridor, where the staircase was located. When Kate had seen it before, it disappeared into a mound of earth. Now it ran straight up to a wooden trapdoor.
Marek climbed the stairs, put his shoulder to the door. It opened easily. They saw gray sky, and smoke.
Marek went through, and they followed after him.
:
They emerged in an orchard, the fruit trees in neat rows, the spring leaves a bright green. They ran ahead through the trees, eventually arriving at the monastery wall. It was twelve feet tall, too high to climb. But they