The Forest Secret - Chapter 2
Smoke was everywhere, but mostly hovered about the vast vaulted expanses of the sanctuary, where he could hear the crackling and sporadic whooshof the flames high above him. From somewhere deep in the expanse came the voices of firefighters in search of the fire’s source. The heat was bearable but growing in intensity.
Aramis could sense how serious things had become. At times it seemed like the entire structure was consumed by the elements. He was thankful to look to the south end of the sanctuary and spot the beautiful rose window still intact and permitting the evening lights of Paris to enter the sacred domain. He marvelled that it was still in position and all that all 84 of its panes depicting apostles, bishops, angels and martyrs hovered in their historic place. He was saddened to realize that they, too, were witnessing the violent destruction of their familiar home.
Aramis began climbing the secluded stairway anchored to the outside brick wall. He needed to get to the recess in the vaulted ceiling above before it was too late, but his legs were burning from the exertion and from the strain caused by his advanced years.
And the heat! The higher he ascended the more he felt the oppression of hot air sapping his energy. Eventually the smoke almost overwhelmed him, as he struggled for oxygen and a sense of balance.
Suddenly he heard a deep rumble as part of the roof further down the vault collapsed. It was terrifying, since he had no idea what had created it but the sudden infusion of cooler air rushing in from the outside through the opening made his journey a more tolerable. And brighter. The fresh air fed the flames with new life and they transformed from a deep red to a resplendent yellow, sometimes even white in their hottest regions.
The luminescence of the flames cast light in every direction as he arrived at the vault landing. Yet his eyes were weary, his gaze now unfocused and disoriented.
He was at the peak of the infamous roof, hobbling along thick wood planking running the length of the sanctuary. He was gratified to see the smaller rose stained-glass window still intact at the north end, the beams from the fire department’s floodlights playing through the various colours of the glass. Briefly through his mind ran the epic scenes of Quasimodo moving through the rafters guided only by the moon’s glow in Hunchback of Notre Dame.
The wooden supports were thicker and longer than any other in Paris - a forest of wooden latticework protected everything beneath it at the same time as defining the cathedral’s grandeur. He stopped to rest momentarily, running his right hand along a beam beside him. He could recite from memory everything about the origins. They were oak, cut down sometime between 1160 and 1170 A.C.
The prevailing Gothic style called for high vaulted ceilings. To accommodate this, the cathedral's plans required tall, sturdy oaks from a nearby forest. Over 21 hectares of oak - 13,000 trees in all - were already between 300 and 400 years old prior to cutting. They were longer than any other trees in France - perfect for what the architects desired for the greatest cathedral in Europe. They were assembled first on ground then hoisted up with lifting gear, where they would be reassembled at steep 55-degree angles.
All of it was to support a lead roofing that was ironically supposed to be fireproof. But not if the inferno was started inside. Then the beams themselves would become the enemy - hundreds of years old and fully susceptible to blazes like the one Aramis was staring at now.
All of it - the labour, prayers, religious fervour, official sanctions, holy masses, surviving endless conflicts - was now obliterated by flames and heat that felt hotter than hades itself. The pathos of it was so great that Aramis made no attempt to stop the tears cascading down his weathered cheeks. The loss, the history, the hopes and expectations - gone because of a wayward spark no bigger than a pin.
He was reduced to a crawling figure now, moving toward the traverse where the lengthy plankway crossed the supportive crossbeams. He moved more by memory now, by an instinct, that had been decades in development but which was truer than any compass.
Where the massive two-foot thick oak support beam joined to the beam’s side was hidden a small wooden box - a long, thin container made of oak and running concealed along the side of the beam. He looked up to the see the flames rolling like a wave down the length of the vault toward him. Part of roof across from him had collapsed and the tongues of fire raced for the fresh air opening as if their intensity depended on it, which they surely did.
Aramis knew he had lost. Whatever he had hoped to save would perish along with him. He was out of air and despite the danger headed for the same opening in hopes of finding life-giving oxygen. He almost fell far below from the exertion, but at the last minute placed a hand on one of the beams to steady himself. He sighed, feeling the heat in the wood and knowing that it, too, was in its final moments.
Aramis could get nowhere near the opening - the flames were too furious, almost as if laughing at his puniness. He lay down on the planks meant for walking and prepared himself for the end. Père, entre tes mains je remets mon esprit (Father, into your hands I commend my spirit),” he prayed. His final words weren’t religious but romantic: “Marie. Marie.. From outside he heard the voices of thousands singing Ave Maria. He couldn’t have known that Parisians in huge numbers had gathered outside, holding lit candles, and singing to the ancient structure they had known and never truly appreciated until it was too late. Aramis believed it was the sound of angels, lifting their voices to bring him to heaven.
As the heavy smoke robbed him of his last breath, he died, mercifully avoiding the anguish of the flames. Below, the thousands continued in their lament, unaware that a great soul had moved on to its reward, guided by the strains of their collective prayer.