‘Come, son, let’s go to the library.’
The boy followed his father who, at sixty-eight, his hair white, his gait hesitant, looked ten years older. As they entered, the boy could smell the familiar scent of nutmeg and must emanating from the worn books. A soft summer light intruded between the heavy, velvet drapes, its rays warming the library’s threadbare Persian carpets. The boy anticipated these weekly sessions with a certain apprehension: the fascination of new knowledge brought with it a sense of growing responsibility. It was becoming increasingly clear this was preparation. Preparation for the role he would play in the Cathar faith’s survival. Every week brought an extra brick of information that fitted into the walls of his ultimate destiny. There was no escape.
His father reached up and took down a tome with a faded red velvet cover, amid a row of brown leather books. He dusted it slightly and opened it.
‘This is the life of Pierre de Combel,’ his father said, ‘your ancestor. He wasn’t much older than you are now when he miraculously survived the massacre at Montségur. It’s time you read about him. I think you’ll find he was quite a remarkable man. Courageous, very courageous, yet cunning.’
‘Cunning?’
‘Yes cunning. Because under the masquerade of his Catholic knighthood, he quietly went about organizing what was to become the Cathar resistance movement. De Combel and, and a few others….’ The old man bent over and coughed heavily, his face turning to an alarming red as he gasped for air between spasms.
‘Father, are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes I’m fine. Just a bad cold.’ His father regained his composure and continued. ‘Most important, de Combel set new rules for the survival of our faith,’ he said, closing the book and waving it slightly.
‘How is that?’ said the boy.
‘I’ll get to it in a moment. You see, Pierre de Combel was entrusted with one sacred treasure. No, not that ridiculous piece of tin and silver that frauds and pseudo-historians like that Otto Rahn have written about. This Holy Grail and its supposed gift of eternal life. What nonsense! No, de Combel’s treasure was far more valuable, and even harder to secure: the preservation of our faith, so that our promise could eventually be fulfilled.’
‘Le pré reverdira. Our time will come again,’ said the boy.
‘Correct. You’ve learned your lesson well, my son. But what I’m about to tell you now will surprise you, might even shock you. To protect his sacred trust, Pierre de Combel wasn’t afraid of using violence if necessary.’
‘Violence?’ said the boy, looking at his father with an air of curiosity mixed with disbelief.
‘I know. So far, you’ve learned that one of the basic tenets of our faith is non-violence.’
‘Of course.’
‘Not of course. Following the massacre at Montségur, de Combel realized that passive non-violence had only led to the useless slaughter of three hundred men, women and children, who believed their immolation was inevitable, the will of God. De Combel realized that for the Cathar faith to survive, he had to take the initiative. The Cathars had to fight fire with fire. So he organized a sort of Le Maquis against the Catholic oppressor, much like the French resistance movement did against the Germans during WWII. De Combel’s actions against the Catholics are well documented in this book.’
The boy stared at his father, unsure as to what degree he was to believe what seemed to go against everything his Cathar teachers had taught him.
‘You look skeptical.’
‘No, it’s that it’s quite difficult to—’
‘To believe? I’ll give you an example. In 1267 AD, the Archbishop of Albi, Villebet was his name, proclaimed that any Catholic who knew a Cathar within the city’s walls and didn’t denounce the heretic, such Catholic, when found out, would be ipso facto excommunicated. I don’t have to remind you that excommunication, in those days was feared worse than death. To a Catholic, it meant eternal damnation. For the Albigese, in a city where the two faiths co-existed side by side, it was a difficult, untenable choice. The Archbishop was forcing brother to turn on brother, friend against friend. After Villebet’s proclamation, de Combel decided to eliminate the Albigeses’ dilemma. He—’ His father started coughing again, a dry sickening rasp coming from the bottom of his lungs. The old man leaned backward, gasping for air.
‘Father, I…. We can maybe continue some other—’
‘I’m fine. Just get me a glass of water.’ Grasping the book with both hands, the old man slumped wearily into the sofa, his small, fragile frame almost lost amid the sofa’s vertical ribs of padded leather.
The boy went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of cold water. Taking the glass with a trembling hand, his father took two sips and
placed it on the table next to the sofa.
‘Here, son, sit down next to me,’ said the man as he patted the cushion with his skeletal, arthritis-ridden hand. ‘Where were we? Ah yes, the Archbishop. Two days after his proclamation, Villebet was found crucified on the altar, in his cathedral. They never found out who did it until much later, 250 years to be more precise, when de Combel’s biographer pieced the evidence together. It was definitely de Combel. But getting back to my story, Villebet’s successor was wiser. He immediately annulled the proclamation.’ His father took another drink of water. ‘Later on during those troubled times, because of his high position within the knighthood, de Combel saved many Cathars from execution, often at the peril of his life. We owe him a lot. Some go as far to say the very survival of our faith.’
‘I see. But apart from a lesson in history, what has this got to do—’
‘With you? You’re going to learn, son, that all great endeavors are
built on a strong historical foundation. Lenin and Mao read Marx and
Rousseau. Jefferson read Aristotle and Sophocles, Patton was taught by
Alexander the Great and Napoleon, and—’
‘I understand, Father.’
‘If you are called eventually to become our leader – and I believe you
have the qualities necessary for the post – you must first acquire the
tools, the skills and the judgment essential to the faith’s survival and
growth. You’ll have many enemies, starting with those from within.
Our current leadership is passive and weak. I wish I had the strength to
fight them, but I’m afraid my time has passed. I suppose I was too busy
acquiring this.’ The old man waved his hand at the rest of the room,
and, the boy imagined, at the rest of his possessions and fortune. ‘All of
this will be yours someday.’
A sudden dread filled the boy’s heart. ‘Father, your cough. Is it…?’
‘The doctors say a good rest will cure it. If you believe them. These
quacks, what do they know?’ His father’s weak smile did nothing to
dispel the boy’s fears. ‘You see, de Combel was in much the same situation
then as we Cathars are in today. The threat is all the more sinister
now that it is hidden, pervasive, veiled in the cloak of so-called tolerance.
Of course the weapons and skills of combat have changed, but
make no mistake, it is, and will always remain, war. War that every oppressed minority must wage if it is to survive.’
‘But, sir, how, how will I know when?’
His father took on that reassuring look that the boy knew so well, always a safe harbor from his anxieties and dilemmas.
‘In time, son, in time. All in due course. You and you alone will feel when you’re ready, when the circumstances are right. Let God and Spirit inspire you, guide you. You will feel it, know when it’s time. My task is the easier one. It’s to prepare you for that moment. When you become their chosen leader, I ask only one favor of you.’
The boy looked quizzically at his father.
‘That you take the name of Pierre de Combel, in memory of our illustrious ancestor. That name belongs to our family, and it is time to restore it to its full glory again.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘In the meantime, read the book and let me know what you think. I warn you. The end is quite disturbing.’
The boy never got to talk about the book with his father. One month later, the old man was dead.