To Make a Ghost

Murderers were human, and the root of each murder was an emotion. Warped, no doubt. Twisted and ugly. But an emotion. And one so powerful it had driven a man to make a ghost.

Louise Penny, Dead Cold

I’ll admit I was tempted to leave the publishing of this post to next month in the spirit of Halloween. I mean, the title alone suits the spooky season. However, I’m on such a roll lately with my blog posts, and this was the next one chronologically in my travelogue of France, I decided injecting a little ghoulishness into an overly hot September was perhaps not a bad thing.

So, get yourself something delicious to drink and settle in for a tale filled with at least one deliberate murder and another, well, mystery.

After exploring the crypts of the Bayeux Cathedral thoroughly and, perhaps, almost encountering some restless spirits, I headed back up to the still dimly lit surface. Having spent so much time underground I thought that by this point Dad would be patiently, or otherwise, waiting for me near the entrance of the church.

Turns out – perhaps unsurprisingly as we are pretty similar – he had been completely distracted by this incredibly complicated display the locals had put together depicting the history of the cathedral and the town in which it is situated.

I say complicated because I can’t think of a more accurate term to describe how convoluted this display was. It really was completely incomprehensible to me (I wish I had a picture). It looked like some kind of world cloud and timeline in one. I think I came to the conclusion eventually after staring at it for a while that it was just a super complex timeline with, really, far too much information but I’m not even sure about that at this point. At any rate, it had Dad engrossed. Maybe I should ask him if he remembers it…8 years later!

Deciding to spare my brain the extra effort of deciphering the story (stories?) being told on the crowded display, I walked around some more contemplating the vastness of the space inside the cathedral. That’s when I stumbled upon something even creepier than the crypts.

A little context.

Personally, I’ve never understood the concept of holy relics. The idea of having a centuries-old body part of some dead historical figure on display in absolute reverence is mind-blowing to me. No offense intended but…do you really need their femur present in order to remember them and their good work?

Even more bizarre, it’s not always bones that are being kept on display for centuries. Bones are one thing, though I don’t know enough about biology to fully comprehend how long they sit around for and in what state. Dinosaur bones seem to suggest that they can remain intact for millions of years. Or are fossils just the imprint of former bones left in the rock? If there is a paleontologist (or dinosaur enthusiast) reading this…please enlighten me! I’m much too tired to look this up at the moment.

At any rate, I know I’m woefully ignorant about this. That being said, I’m smart enough to know that soft tissue degrades rather quickly. Or at least is certainly no longer around after 100s of years. Let alone the 1000+ that some places claim when they say that they have the heart of some dude that died in 500AD. Do people really believe this? Or is this more of a “I don’t need to see to believe” sort of concept?

But I digress…

Because this place was claiming no such thing. Instead it had…a bone. Lovely. This skeletal remain belonged to a saint names Marie Catherine de Saint-Augustin who died in the mid-17th Century somewhere in her 30s. It was truly a strange sight to walk up to this ornate case which looked something like a miniature version of the arc of the covenant from Indiana Jones and to find the front made out of glass (so, no face-melting effects thank goodness) offering the perfect view of the comfortably-cushioned bone inside.

And it was, legitimately, a bone. A little dirty and definitely worse-for-wear, but a bone nonetheless. I should look up the process of how such relics are authenticated (if they even are) before I scoff but, too late, here is me scoffing.

The woman to whom this particular bone was supposed to belong (skeptic? moi?!) was on some kind of missionary jaunt to Canada when she died. In the 1660s.

I realize she was clearly important but, really, how in the hell (gasp!) would they have gotten her body back to France intact with all of the misadventures that were almost certain to have happened at sea at the time, to say nothing of the numerous things that could go wrong just on the way from the settlement in Quebec where she would have been working to the boat in the first place. It all strikes me as a wee bit fishy. Though, I admit, I have made no attempt to research this is any way.

My own skepticism aside, however, it was another one of those neat-if-totally-random moments where yet again was another connection to dear-old Canada. I’m going to forget the exact words here, but they basically referred to this saint as something like the Mother of Catholicism in Canada. I think this was because she was one of the first nuns to come over from France as a missionary.

I know I could have done some research and found all this out ahead of time but I just love that we kept discovering all these things completely unexpectedly. It adds to the charm of it all, I think.

The last thing I will say about the cathedral is that we discovered the coolest mural there while sitting down for a moment to take a break. We had sat down to enjoy some music playing and I looked up to find a familiar scene staring down at us from the walls above. It was a rather colourful scene in which a bishop of some sort was being set upon by a bunch of angry-looking knights brandishing swords. What struck me most about the image, however, was the priest in front of the bishop being attacked who had apparently had his hand cut off quite recently judging by the blood seeping from it.

Looking at this rather macabre tableau, I had a hunch I knew exactly what event it was depicting: the murder of Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral. Though I admit I’m not the most devout Catholic in existence, and I certainly don’t know every story of Martyrdom in existence (really…who has the time?) this is definitely one that stands out. I mean, how many bishops have been killed by a murderous band of knights on the rampage? Scratch that, probably all kinds (especially in England). But this one had to be pretty damn infamous to be so featured.

It turns out, anyway, that I was right and that it was indeed Thomas Becket. I’m still unclear as to why the priest is depicted as being one-handed but I think it’s pretty safe to assume it happened while he was defending his boss.

My brain positively reeling from the mystery of poor Marie and the murder of equally poor (though, actually, rich) Thomas, we made our way out of the Cathedral into the bright sunshine and on to something decidedly more vibrant and lively.

Desiring some fresh air after the stuffiness (both mental and physical) of the cathedral, Dad and I walked over to check out an enormous open-air market going on in the same place where it has apparently been happening for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Absolutely packed with people and not a bone (or thousand-year-old saintly heart) in sight, the place smelt heavenly thanks to all the chocolate, cheese, bread and, inexplicably, paella, being sold everywhere. Dad kept commenting on how amazing the paella in particular smelt, laid out as it was in these absolutely enormous skillets. I’m still surprised he didn’t buy any. Looks like we will just have to go back!

I said there were no bones or…other remains present but at one point we passed a stall selling live chickens. I’ll admit that I had a small moment of revulsion – were these people going to take them home and kill them themselves? Or, worse, was the person selling them going to kill their chosen bird right there and then in front of them? I watched with a sickened sense of fascination as one was indeed selected and picked up by the stall owner and…placed in a box with airholes. I’ll admit I let out a small sign of relief.

It’s funny, isn’t it? I eat meat. I enjoy eating meat. Hell, I had meatballs for dinner last night. And I obviously know that in order for the meat to exist, something living has to die. And yet, the thought of witnessing this very simple act actually makes me feel a little ill. I know, I know, I’m spoiled.

Dead (or live) chickens aside, the market was a fascinating place. One we left after only about half an hour, however, having only bought some nougat. It was just so crowded compared to the relative peace of the cathedral.

It seemed, however, that the cathedral was not quite ready to relinquish us or our thoughts as on the way home we stumbled upon a rather intriguing statue. It depicted a young woman, her back to a post (or a tree?), looking behind her as if terrified. This was Marie Catherine de Saint-Augustin, the same young woman whose bone now rested in the Cathedral on a plush pillow to be adored by passing pilgrims. The one who had died very young while on a mission to Canada.

Now, in preparation for this post, I did some research on Marie. Sorry, Saint Marie. Everything I have read suggests she died from an illness at the age of 36 in Quebec City. An illness. Not some kind of horrific violent attack. So why is she shown in her stature to be so terrified? What, or who, is pursuing her? What is the story behind that depiction? Did she really die of an illness or did she, intentionally or otherwise, drive someone to make a ghost? I have far more questions than I have time to research.

According to my research, before she “expired” she apparently said, “My God, I adore Your divine perfections; I adore Your divine Justice; I abandon myself to it with my whole heart.” I’m no expert but this seems to suggest she died in relative peace, not terror.

At any rate, after reflecting on at least one crime of passion, and potentially another one, we headed back to the B&B for a much deserved rest rather exhausted. The human capability for twisted and ugly emotions, and grisly practices of bone-worship, will do that to you.

Next time…drumroll please…I will write about something other than Bayeux Cathedral! Stay tuned.

Until then, remember, life is not twisted and ugly. It is beautiful.

xo

Erin