It was a charming little café in the south of France, in one of those remote villages way off the beaten track, somewhere in the foothills of the Pyrenees. The place was utterly deserted, and because of the sudden rain shower the group of friends was sitting inside around a small table, their hiking gear tossed untidily on the floor beside them. Their conversation was bubbling with the delights of the countryside, the emerald green of the hill slopes, the seductive sway of the poppies cajoling with the wild grasses, the bougainvillea spilling over the white walls of solitary cottages along the way.
One of them, it was Martin, mentioned a strange dream, of following a winding road through a dark town of abandoned houses and dead-end alleyways, to suddenly find himself in the middle of a stark and isolated moorland, lost and apprehensive with no trace of where he had come from and an ominous feeling of doom consuming him. Everyone laughed at the contrast as the sun shone through the stained glass hangings on the windows to cast a beam of light onto the blue and gold damask tablecloth.
It was while they were all looking round, taking in the bohemian décor with the sienna-red painted stucco walls and colourful clay pots of flowers everywhere, that Charmaine noticed the face of the lady at the next table talking to a dark-haired man with a beard, but glancing every so often surreptitiously in Charmaine’s direction.
“How did they get there?” she wondered. “The place was empty a minute ago, and I never saw anyone come in.”
The background music had changed to a song by Edith Piaf, La Vie en Rose, one that always profoundly moved Charmaine. Then as she lifted the round bottomed yellow faience cup to take a sip of her morning café au lait, she looked at the lady and suddenly knew without any hint of a doubt.
“That is me, in another life!”
After several seconds of stunned silence and a couple more minutes of musing, heart beating wildly, she returned her attention to the discussion at her own table and the excited plans for the day’s hike. Martin was singing along with the new song that was now playing, the famous duet from Bizet’s Pearl Fishers. He caught her eye and shrugged his shoulders. “I always thought I should have been a tenor,” he sighed. She liked Martin and smiled before casting a glance back at the neighbouring table.
It was empty, no sign whatsoever of anyone ever having been there, no left over cups, no disturbed chairs, no elbow creases remaining on the floral patterned table covering.
“I must be mad,” panicked Charmaine, “but how can that be?” And she tried to recall the features of the woman’s face, but no image would come.
“Okay, so it’s agreed that we head first for Fanjeaux, then on to Montsegur.” It was Martin’s voice, and with that her friends started to put on their wind breakers and pick up their backpacks.
Outside, the sun was asserting its presence and the rain had almost ceased. A brilliant rainbow was arched across a sky that was fast becoming blue.
“But where is the old oak tree?” gasped Charmaine, “the really ancient one, with the overload of acorns in the autumn, and superfluous branches teeming with leaves, where the children used to dance on midsummer’s night?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” It was the crisp voice of Cecilia, the no nonsense one in the group.
“I’m just going to take a minute’s walk,” replied Charmaine in confusion, lightly tripping across the field of buttercups and daisies towards a stream to collect her tangled thoughts by the water. The swishing sound of the effervescing flow soothed her mind, and she sighed at the peacefulness until she became aware of someone watching her.
On the opposite bank stood the woman from the café, and out of nowhere Charmaine felt the tears rise up in her. She knew intimately every fear and heartbreak the woman was feeling. It was herself, no doubt at all. Suddenly Charmaine was in that body at the other side of the stream, and looking back at herself, the self she had been that morning.
It was only a momentary shift though, and soon she was following her friends into the open back of an empty farm truck.
“Oui, oui,” said the driver, “je vais a Fanjeaux. Come, come, I take you.”
Arriving at Fanjeaux Charmaine breathed in the air, and sensed a strange familiarity about the place, and was filled with a longing to wander off on her own to seek out a certain something, though she couldn’t put her finger on what she was looking for.
After a cursory exploration of the town in order to pick up supplies the group made their way to the outskirts so they could begin their trek into the mountains. It was approaching midday and the sun was beating down mercilessly on the remote landscape of rocks, tall grass and wildflowers. A sudden surge of the immense antiquity of the scene overwhelmed Charmaine, almost bringing tears to her eyes.
“I have been here before,” she burst out, “but the town is different now. All those streets and houses were not here then.”
“I thought this was your first time in France,” retorted the sensible Cecilia.
“It is…but…well I think I’ve been here before….sort of….er…you know…er.”
Cecilia looked at her, eyebrows arched and a quizzical expression on her face as though dealing with a tiresome two-year-old.
“Let’s walk for a bit, then we can stop and have some lunch,” suggested Martin, coming to her rescue.
“Dear Martin,” she thought.
They walked possibly a kilometer deeper into the country, and then she saw it.
A beautiful old mansion, one of those stately old homes with a gatehouse and stone pillars topped with sculptured lion heads. There was a fountain in the courtyard, and a garden with a little arbour and stone benches.
“Oh, that is the place I was looking for!” Charmaine could not stop herself, “such a lovely place, where Francois went to his meetings. I used to wait for him in the apple orchard, but that seems to have gone now.”
Not just Cecilia, but all of them were looking at her now a little perturbed. Martin took her arm and led her off, and the others followed. No one said anything for a while, until Martin, gazing round with a sad kind of respect in his eyes, started to speak.
“This was Cathar country once. They were beautiful people, gentle and caring of each other, and wise custodians of the land. They believed in reincarnation and the catholic church hated them.”
“Why?” asked Charmaine.
“Who knows?” he replied. “Perhaps the church was afraid of losing its power over an ignorant population, if too many of them decided to search out the truth independantly. Anyway the Cathars were murdered in the thousands and horribly burnt alive.”
Hiking on for an hour or so they stopped at a country inn by the roadside. After purchasing two bottles of the local wine and food edibles they sat round the rough weather-worn outdoor tables and tucked into croissants, cheese and freshly ripened fruit.
Charmaine left the others to go for a little walk on her own, and stopping halfway up an incline she looked down into the distance where the grass verge sloped away into a woodland. There were two people, a man and woman locked in each other’s arms. As though they became aware of her presence they looked round, and with a shock Charmaine recognized them as the couple in the café. They were terrified, she could tell by the stiff movement of their bodies and the wild turning of their heads. Surely not of her? But just as she was experiencing an agonizing pain seeping through her whole body, the vision had disappeared. There was no one there.
“Quel beau pays!” She turned to see an old man standing by her and he smiled.
“Did you see those two people over there?” she asked, indicating the direction.
“Non, non,” and now he too looked at her a little strangely.
Back with the group, they proceeded for another few minutes before coming into a small hamlet. There was a village square with little outdoor cafes, and a bus that looked to be filling up with hikers. After making enquiries with their stuttering atrocious French accents, they found out it was going to Montsegur.
They reached Montsegur in the late afternoon, that lovely time of day when the sunlight is not so direct and seems to cast a lingering golden glow over the world. Immediately Charmaine was hit with a wave of intense sadness. Starting the climb with the others the sensation only increased. It was palpable in the air she was breathing, penetrating the pores of her skin. Even the earth seemed to be weeping. Then it turned into ice-cold naked fear of the most horrific kind, and she felt she was going to faint.
“This is a haunted place of terrific tragedy,” she wanted to scream. “The suffering can never be washed away.” She turned to her companions. “You’ll have to go on without me.”
Suddenly there were crowds of people pressing in on her. She could hear the roaring of flames, harsh shouts of anger, children screaming and the ceaseless sobbing of breaking hearts. Now she knew she was someone else again, holding the hand of someone she loved. The mountain side was a chaos of drama, and she looked up to the citadel at the top towards which her friends had been climbing just minutes ago. But she wasn’t Charmaine now and she wasn’t with them anymore. She was being driven downwards with multitudes of frightened men, women and children towards the burning fires at the bottom.
As she drew near the heat was unbearable, the cries deafening, the taunting of evil men in black robes hateful. Now she knew they were the dreaded officers of the inquisition and these poor souls were the Cathars as was Francois, the love of her life. She looked up into his dear bearded face, the sweetest face on earth and pleaded, “Please change your mind. Tell them you are not really a heretic.” But he only smiled sadly.
Her agony mounted into pure panic. Then just as she saw Francois hoisted up onto the pyre and drawn into the ferocious flames, her arm was grabbed in an iron tight grip.
“Ma fille, es-tu folle?” the angry tone rang in her ears as she was roughly pulled aside to safety.
It was her father, a good man who had no truck with the hypocrisy that called itself religion, but with little tolerance for the heretics either. With increasing impatience he dragged her away, stumbling and tripping over her own feet, shrieking and wailing like a soul in hell. The ground was rough and uneven, stones stumping her toes until they bled. Her heart was totally broken, her throat sore with tears and her life permanently in shreds.
“I will never forget him ever,” she was crying, over and over again.
Before she became Charmaine again, she saw her other self become a mad woman roaming the dark streets at night sobbing hysterically and looking for Francois, until she ended her life alone in the eerie blackness of a vast open barren heath.
Back in the safe company of her traveling comrades again, she remembered Martin’s strange dream.
Bio
Originally from Yorkshire, growing up in the untamed countryside of the Bronte's where she enjoyed the romantic literature of that period, particularly that which gave voice to the restless spirit seeking the mysteries of its own source. This led her into the field of eastern philosophy and mysticism, and for many years she has been a keen student of Theosophy, as introduced to the West by H.P. Blavatsky.
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