The Enigma

The Enigma

They call me Huck.

That’s not bad when you consider the possible alternative. My parents were both academicians, American and English Literature respectively. With a name like, Huckleberry Byron Waldo Whitman, my young life was somewhat of a challenge. Now, challenge is what I thrive on; it guides my thinking, feeds my imagination and energizes my ambitions.

Naturally, it was the hopes and dreams of my parents that I would follow them into the academic world. They didn’t count on me having a rebellious streak in my genetic make-up. Consequently, my path was totally opposite of what they wanted.

West Point Military Academy was my alma-mater. After graduating West Point I spent nine years on active duty with the Army Special Operation Forces. When I was reassigned to staff duty and passed over for battalion command - in favor of some political officers whose accomplishments were far below my own achievements - I resigned my commission and returned to the civilian environment.

By that time I had completed a Master’s Degree in French and I already spoke fluent German, Italian, and Arabic, and was familiar with Spanish, Russian, and Greek. I had also studied Latin and Ancient Greek at West Point. I returned to college and chose the field of Philology.

For those who do not know what Philology is it is the study of language in written historical sources and is a combination of literary studies, history and linguistics. It is more commonly defined as the study of literary texts and records to establish their authenticity, origin, and meaning.

As a philologist my basic job is to read some crusty old writing, written on paper, metal, clay, or engraved on stone, and translate its meaning and possibly who wrote it. I already loved history, so this field is right down my alley. My parents would be proud of me. After six years of intensive study, I finally obtained my Doctorate.

Although my field required extensive research and study, it also demanded a considerable amount of field-work and travel. That’s the part of the job I love the most. Consequently, I have traveled around the world to assist in deciphering old writings at the behest of many archeologist and other professional colleagues.

I was on a trip just recently to assist a friend. The trip took me to Orleans, France. I am no stranger to France. I have made several personal trips to Paris, and I worked with the French Foreign Legion (Légion étrangère), when I was in the Special Forces.

Orleans is a beautiful city located on the Loire River south of Paris. It was originally founded by the Romans under the name, Aurelianum, or the city of Aurelien, time and pronunciation converted it to Orleans. Orleans was always a strategic point on the Loire River as there were few bridges over the dangerous river, one located at Orleans.

French troops under Joan of Arc liberated the city on May 8, 1429 during the Hundred Years War. The city’s inhabitants have continued to remain faithful to Joan calling her, “la pucelle d’Orleans” (the Maid of Orleans). Naturally, the American city of New Orleans is named after this beautiful city.

I flew into Charles De’ Gaulle Airport north of Paris and rented a car because I had to pick up a colleague and friend on Avenue Jean Jaurez in Paris, I also wanted to see more of the beautiful French Country side. Most Americans think of the French as arrogant people, however, that is far from being true. In Paris, tourists have encountered arrogance, but Paris is not France, just like New York does not represent all of America. French people outside the big cities are just like their American counterparts, friendly, respectful, and many remember the GI’s who liberated France from the Nazis.

After meeting my friend, Marceline Le Galles, we drove down the A10, a very scenic route. Marceline, a respected geologist, had connections to the job I was working on. On arrival in Orleans, I took the time to drive by the post where I had worked with the Foreign Legion at Forêt  d’ Orleans, and a placed named Coligny Caserne, an old US Army post. Afterwards, we took the Rue Jeanne d’Arc to the Orleans Cathedral then cut down to Rue de Bourgogne to the residence of my friend and colleague, Doctor Dorbec, who is also a priest and Monseigneur at the Orleans Cathedral.

My assignment in Orleans was to help decipher the writings on a stone sarcophagus found during recent renovation of the Orleans Cathedral. The cathedral was completed in 1329 and is most famous for its association with Joan of Arc. Joan attended mass in the cathedral on May 2, 1429 while in the city to lift the siege. The cathedral’s stained glass windows now depict the story of Joan, the Maid of Orleans.

According to Claude, the level in which the sarcophagus was found actually predates the cathedral by six or seven hundred years, a mystery, since the foundation for the cathedral would have been dug at least that deep for stable support. There was another smaller cathedral on the same site in the 7th century which was burned, but all known residue would have been filtered and discarded.

We immediately drove over to the cathedral and Claude let us in the back entrance into a small room where the priest dressed for mass. This room is called the sacristy and holds the vestments (such as the alb and chasuble) and the cruets, chalice, ciborium, paten and altar linens.

According to Claude, the piscina clogged and the new renovation was initiated to fix the problem. The piscina, commonly called a sacrarium, is a drain which flows directly into the ground to prevent sacred items like holy water from being washed into the sewer system.

There was a large gaping hole where most of the floor had once been, with heavy construction ladders leading down into the shadowy depths. Claude grabbed a lantern and we slowly descended.

We stopped at one level and Claude pointed to a solid slab section of rock. “This is where the foundation of the cathedral ends,” he noted. We descended another dozen feet where the ladder rested on softly packed soil. He pointed at Marceline. “She told me this section represents the period from late 600 to late 700.”

He walked over to a corner and pointed to a small sarcophagus surrounded by pieces of decaying wood. It was obviously intended for a large child or small woman. Claude held the light over the top of the tomb and pointed at a plaque embedded into the stone covering.

Claude whispered. “A friend told me the wood residue was carbon dated to around 730 AD. I’ve also been told that the plaque you see is made of solid gold.”

I walked over and glanced down at the plaque. The inscription was in Old French. The earliest known text in French is the Oaths of Strasbourg from the year 842. This text was very similar. I took my time deciphering the text, reading it over and over.

“This is impossible,” I finally blurted. This text describes the life of Joan of Arc, stating that her sacred remains are interred within and the inscription on the plaque is dated 733.”

Marceline looked at me with a quizzical expression while Claude merely smiled.

“The year 733 is one year after the battle of Tours when Charles Martel defeated the Arab Emir of Cordoba, Abdul Rahman Al Ghafiqi, thus halting the spread of Islam in Europe. Joan wasn’t born until the year 1412, almost seven hundred years later.”

“Maybe someone placed her remains in this sarcophagus and buried it here as a joke,” Marceline replied.

I glanced back at the thick gold plaque. “If that plaque is solid gold it probably weighs around fifty or sixty kilos, and to use a fortune in gold for a joke someone would either have to be filthy rich or insane. Besides, Joan was burned at the pillar in Rouen on May 30, 1431. Her English executioner, Geoffroy Therage, had the coals raked back to expose her charred body so that no one could claim she had escaped alive, then they burned the body two more times to reduce it to ashes so no one could collect any residue for relics. They then cast her remains into the Seine River from a bridge called Mathilda.”

“Marceline identified this stratum as around the seventh century and the carbon dated tests of the wood in which the sarcophagus was placed were dated to 730 AD,” Claude stated. “If your translation of the plaque is accurate, and I trust your expertise, we have a mystery.”

“Perhaps the contents will shed some light on this dilemma,” I stated. “We need to open the sarcophagus and search inside for additional documents. The remains may also help clarify the mystery.”

“That’s impossible,” Claude replied. “A special team will be here first thing in the morning to prepare the sarcophagi for movement to the Vatican. The Holy Father wants this activity under the control of the Church. Nothing is to be disturbed and it must remain unopened.”

As I noted earlier, challenge is what I strive on and this mystery just became the greatest challenge in my life. I turned to Claude and spoke with anger. “What you’re saying is the sarcophagus will be moved to the Vatican Archives and will disappear forever?”

Claude shook his head and smiled. “You are not the first to verify the authenticity of the inscription, Huck. I sought your help as a friend and independent philologist. Several eminent Church philologists have already translated it. It is an enigma the Church does not yet want exposed.”

I was exasperated. “You had no right to do this to us, Claude.” I nodded towards Marceline. “You know this mystery will haunt us until the day we die.”

Monseigneur Jean Claude Bibeau Dorbec smiled again. “There is a way…”

Word Count: 1669