Sarge finally arrived at Élancourt. The Cathedral du Saint-Gratien sat in the center of this medieval town, being visible long before entering. Having Celia made moving through the narrow and labyrinthine streets easier. Looking up while waiting for some traffic to clear, Sarge saw a gargoyle leering down on her. In fact, there were gargoyles everywhere. It was a little unsettling, but no one else seemed to mind.
Cafes and bars were everywhere, filling the air with the scents of food and the buzz of conversations. Soldiers seemed to be the lion’s share of the customers. No one questioned her presence, she was just one more GI.
After a bit of navigation and some directions from a local, she found her way to City Hall, where the Army had set up its regional HQ. Sarge parked Celia, then entered. She presented her papers to the Corporal at the front desk and passed the contents of her courier bag to her.
Pentagast had provided real battle reports from her post. It was unlikely someone would open them beforehand, but it had to be legitimate.
“Come back later, there’s always something to be sent,” said the Corporal, who barely looked at Sarge.
“Understood.”
Another courier arrived just then, and Sarge slipped away. There was a small restaurant a few doors down from City Hall, so she parked Celia in the alley next to it and went for something to eat before her next step.
Le Château Blanc was emblazoned on the awning, and it was bustling with soldiers.
“Welcome! Welcome, Sergente!” said the maître d’ in an ebullient voice, “Are you dining alone today?”
“Yes,” she replied, looking around the crowded eatery.
“Hard to believe that a hero such as yourself is unaccompanied!”
“If you don’t have a seat-” she began.
“There is always room for our liberators! Follow me, s’il vous plaît!”
He led her to a very small table near the window. Clearly, they had crammed every available seat into this modest establishment. The table was a crate with a red and white checkered tablecloth, and the chair had three matchbooks under one leg to keep it from tipping over, but there was a tiny vase with daisies in it.
“I’ll be right back with your menu.”
“Why don’t you bring me your house specialty?”
“Ah! That would be the bœuf haché sur un petit pain avec du fromage avec des frites!” the maître d’ said, “It pairs very well, with our local malbec, if I might suggest.”
“Sounds great,” she said.
“Your waiter will be back with your wine,” he said as he moved through the crowded restaurant with a skill honed from years of service.
Sarge looked out on the square beyond the window. People were bustling about, civilians and military personnel. The possibility of being recognized weighed on her as she traveled, but people had their own problems. So far, she hadn’t crossed paths with any Arcadians. Unless they were planning something subtle. Now she was thinking like Ramirez.
“Por vous, mademoiselle.”
She jumped at the voice, knocking over the glass of Malbec. The young waiter blushed and said, “Apologies, mademoiselle. I will replace that at once.”
With a practiced movement, he cleared the glass and slipped away.
“Hey, I get it,” said a nearby soldier. She had jump wings pinned to her tunic and sergeant’s stripes on her sleeve.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make a mess.”
“They appreciate us, and that’s great, but they don’t know. They can’t.”
Sarge looked at her and nodded. The paratrooper returned the nod and went back to her own meal. The young waiter appeared with a new glass of wine, making sure not to startle her.
Rising up in the middle of the town square was the Cathedral du Saint-Gratien. Like the rest of this town, it was infested with gargoyles. She wasn’t superstitious, but all those grotesque figures unsettled her. She had a vague memory of being told that gargoyles were put there to ward off evil spirits. If that were true, Élancourt was the safest town in the world.
Just then, her waiter returned and placed her food in front of her. Bœuf haché sur un petit pain avec du fromage avec des frites was a cheeseburger and fries. She laughed out loud.
“Is there a problem?” asked the maître d’, who appeared as if my magic.
“Not at all, monsieur, not at all,” she said with a grin.
Taking a big bite, flavor exploded in her mouth. Savoring the perfectly seasoned and cooked burger, her eyes closed and she smiled.
“Perfect!” she said after finishing her mouthful.
“Merveilleux!” he said with a wide smile, as he and the waiter left her to enjoy her food.
Sarge forced herself to eat slowly. The fries were salty and crispy on the outside, fluffy inside. The wine paired perfectly. She never thought she’d have the best cheeseburger of her life here, but maybe it was an omen. After this last meal, she needed to head into that massive Gothic structure. The possibility of pleasant surprises was about to drop sharply once she entered the cathedral.
Sooner than she preferred, the meal was over. It was extended by a delightfully luscious, warm apple tart. She paid her bill and left. Walking across the town square, the Cathedral du Saint-Gratien loomed more imposing with each step. Like the town, it was covered with gargoyles. She thought this was a piss-poor way of welcoming parishioners.
Her mom was not much of a churchgoer, but her grandmother was. One time, her grandmother took her to church, and the preacher shouted a lot about what would happen to the wicked when they shuffled off. It was graphic and horrifying. She burst into tears and had to be taken outside. This led to a huge fight between her mom and grandmother. She never went back to church after that. Her mom told her to never be frightened by stories and to trust only what she knew was real.
Standing at the massive, open doors, Sarge took a deep breath and entered. Her footsteps were lost in the vastness of this holy place. A person would be afraid to sneeze here.
Two long rows of pews led to the altar, where a large, gilded crucifix hung. There were both townsfolk and soldiers praying. Sarge felt like an intruder. Pulling a slip of paper out of her pocket, she was about to unfold it when she heard, “Welcome and peace be with you!”
She whipped around to see an older nun, standing there, hands folded.
“Forgive me, my child. I did not mean to alarm you,” added the nun.
“Just a little jumpy, sister.”
“An occupational hazard, I imagine.”
“You could say that.”
“What can the Church do for you this day?”
“Someone recommended I see the Chapel of the Stars.”
“Ahhh! We are not supposed to have favorites, but I do find it a sanctuary for introspection.”
“I guess we can all use some of that,” said Sarge.
“Now more than ever. You will find it right off the north aisle,” she said, pointing towards the right side of the cathedral.
“Thank you, sister, have a good one.”
“May the Lord bless you this day.”
Sarge took two steps, then turned back.
“Sister, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, my child.”
“Why are there so many gargoyles all over this town?”
Smiling, the nun replied, “Today is a lovely day, but we are blessed with an abundance of rain in this region. Without them, some say we’d have floated out to sea.”
“I didn’t know nuns could be funny.”
“We are as God made us.”
“Thanks, sister.”
“You are welcome, my child.”
Sarge walked slowly to the Chapel of Stars. It was modest, compared to the main cathedral, but still impressive. A dark blue stained glass window, punctuated with gold stars, dominated the back wall. One young woman sat near the front, praying. Sarge took a seat a few rows behind her to wait. Perhaps ten minutes later, she got up, knelt in front of the altar, crossed herself, and exited.
Checking that no one else was here or coming in, Sarge moved behind the altar. The lectern was covered in a dark blue stone, with a field of stars of gold or brass. Sarge pressed the stars in the sequence that Pentagast had drilled into her. Once finished, there was a pause. Then the floor behind the lectern slid open with a hiss, and a ladder leading down was illuminated.
Sarge took one last look around and began her descent.
The Writings of Leo Byrne Jenicek 
