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surrender of the castle, two hundred and twenty Cathars hurled themselves, singing, into the huge bonfire lit at the bottom of the mountain on which the castle had been built.”
Wicca said all this with the book, still closed, on her lap. Only when she had finished her story did she open it and leaf through it, looking for a photograph.
Brida saw the ruined building, with the tower almost completely destroyed, but with the walls intact. There was the courtyard, the steps Loni and Talbo had climbed, the rock that formed part of the wall, and the tower.
“You said there was another question you wanted to ask me.”
The question was of no importance now. Brida could hardly think straight. She felt odd. With some effort she managed to remember what it was she had wanted to ask.
“I want to know why you’re wasting your time with me, why you want to teach me.”
“Because that is what the Tradition is telling me to do,” replied Wicca. “In your successive incarnations, you changed very little. You belong to the same group as people like myself and my friends. We are the ones charged with maintaining the Tradition of the Moon. You are a witch.”
Brida paid no attention to what Wicca was saying. It didn’t even occur to her to make another appointment to meet. All she wanted at that moment was to leave, to be among ordinary things that would bring her back to her familiar world—a damp stain on the wall, a packet of cigarettes discarded on the floor, some letters left on the porter’s desk.
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“I have to work tomorrow.” She was suddenly concerned about the time.
On her way back home, she started pondering her company’s invoicing system for exports and came up with a way of simplify-ing certain administrative procedures. She felt very pleased. Her boss might approve of what she was doing and, who knows, give her a raise.
She got home, had supper, and watched a bit of television.
Then she wrote down her thoughts about invoicing on a piece of paper and fell, exhausted, into bed.
The invoicing of exports had taken on great importance in her life. That, after all, was what she was paid to do.
Nothing else existed. Everything else was a lie.
For a whole week, Brida woke promptly, worked hard at the office, and received due praise from her boss. She didn’t miss one of her classes and took an interest in everything printed in all the magazines at the newsstand. All she needed was to avoid thinking. Whenever thoughts surfaced of her meeting with a Magus in the forest or with a witch in the city, she immediately drove them out by reminding herself that she had exams next week or by recalling a remark made by one female friend about another.
Friday came around, and her boyfriend met her outside the university to go to the cinema. Afterward, they went to their usual
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bar, talked about the film, their colleagues, and about their respective jobs. They bumped into friends who were on their way back from a party and decided to join them for supper, grateful that, in Dublin, you could always find a restaurant open.
At two o’clock in the morning, they said good-bye to their friends and decided to go back to her place. As soon as they got in, she put on a record by Iron Butterfly and poured them each a double whiskey. They lay on the sofa with their arms around each other, silent and abstracted, while he stroked her hair and her breasts.
“It’s been a really crazy week,” she said suddenly. “I worked nonstop, prepared for my exams, and did all the shopping.”
The record finished. She got up to turn it over.
“You know the cupboard door in the kitchen, the one that had come unstuck? Well, I finally managed to arrange a date for someone to come and fix it. And I had to go to the bank several times as well, once to collect some money my dad sent me, and again to deposit some checks for the firm and then . . .”
Lorens was staring at her.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked rather aggressively.
Who was this man lying on the sofa, staring at her, incapable of saying anything of interest? It was quite absurd. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked again.
But he said nothing. He merely stood up, went over to her, and very tenderly led her back to the sofa.
“You’re not listening to anything I say,” said Brida, confused.
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Lorens put his arms around her.
“Emotions are like wild horses,” she thought.
“Tell me everything,” Lorens said sweetly. “I’ll listen and respect whatever decision you make, even if you’ve met someone else, even if this is good-bye. We’ve been together for a while now. I may not know you that well; I mean, I don’t know exactly who you are, but I know who you’re not. And you haven’t been yourself all night.”
Brida felt like crying, but she’d shed so many tears already over dark nights, talking tarot cards and enchanted forests. Emotions really were like wild horses, and all she could do now was set them free.
She sat down in front of him, remembering that the Magus and Wicca both favored that position. Then she gave him a complete account of everything that had happened since her meeting with the Magus in the forest. Lorens listened in total silence.
When she told him about the photograph of Monségur, Lorens asked if she had perhaps heard about the Cathars in one of her university courses.
