nearly half a handâs length.
Volmar then turned his attentions to the wooden trunk and jiggled its lock. It held fast, determined to keep its secrets. He tried to lift it but found it too heavy and filled with what sounded to him like coins knocking against one another with a characteristic metallic resonance.
Volmar put the trunk down and froze, sensing that something, or someone, was in the room with him. Whoever or whatever it was must be alive, he thought, as he now heard the sound of its unnatural hum, a noise no human could make. As Volmar listened in silence, he was able to determine that the humming was coming from the adjoining chamber. Slowly, he made his way across to this smaller chamber, carefully placing each step as the flagstone floor was uneven. The stones were pushed on their sides by the roots of the trees overhead which, like living ropes, were intertwined haphazardly across the walls and the floors. His jaw muscles tightened and his heart thundered as he entered the adjoining smaller chamber.
When his eyes did finally adjust, what he saw neither frightened him nor sickened him. It did, however, mystify the young monk. In the corner of the antechamber, a partially decomposed body sat upright on a stone bench, leaning absurdly forward with its arms and legs crossed, ridiculously staged as if it were reading. Curiously, Volmar approached the body, still dressed in the shreds of a robe of a holy order he was unfamiliar with. The bodyâs hands were shriveled like twigs, giving the perception of abnormally long and pointed fingernails. The right hand was positioned so one finger was up its nose and the left hand was turned so it could hold the book it was reading. The facial features preserved by the inner chamberâs dry chilly air, however, belied this comical pose. On it was a petrified expression of outright rage. Volmar was grateful Hildegard did not have to witness such disdainful profanity.
Volmar roused himself, feeling a need to speak aloud, to say something to confirm that here in front of him was proof that Hildegardâs story of Brother Arnoul was at least in part true. He gave in to the feeling, swallowed hard and said, âBrother Arnoul, we meet at last.â
The petrified skin on the back of the bodyâs skull was cracked and showed distinctive bruising suggesting a head injury. But other than afew other skin discolorations, Volmar did not see any visible indications of puncture wounds caused by a knife or sword.
Suddenly, two honey bees flew from the bodyâs left ear, followed by six more buzzing irritably. Volmar backed off quickly, realizing that a beehive must have formed in the folds of the dead monkâs habit. He recalled the story of Samson in the book of Judges and the riddle he made up after finding a beehive in the carcass of a dead lion.
âIn death there is life, eh brother?â Volmar said, thankful the bees ignored his presence and seemed more attuned to escaping through the ceilingâs opening. Whoever visits down here, he surmised, does so on a regular basis, at least enough to allow the survival of this hive. All of this confirmed what Hildegard had said about her apparent conversation with Brother Arnoulâs left-behind spirit. He felt ashamed that he had doubted her story.
âMay I?â he asked politely, lifting the book from the remains of what he surmised was Brother Arnoul. The book, however, was not the missing codex he half expected to find. Instead, it was a dummy copy with the crudely scrawled title of
Benedictus
, clearly meant to mimic the original missing tome and to further add to this cruel joke. Who would do such a thing? âThe very same soul who wants to hoard treasures in this cave rather than in heaven,â he said aloud, answering his own question. He slipped the dummy copy of the book into his leather pouch, determined to find out who amongst his holy brethren would have a sense of humor bizarre enough
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