The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

Eventually, he became so concerned about the boy that he suggested they stop his treatment and let my husband bring him back here, where he knows a good family that would look after him. So Urs comes out here as often as possible to check and make sure everything is all right.”

“That’s very noble. My Frank says a lot of very caring, humanitarian things. But it’s all talk really. He just sits on the fence most of the time. I’m sure he would never give up so much of his free time for such a noble cause.”

“It’s just how things work in this country. They try to instil a strong sense of solidarity into you from an early age,” Marthe explained with a carping edge to her voice when she added: “But not everyone absorbs these things quite as completely as Urs. He’s always so absolutely thorough and precise in everything he does.”

“What’s Stefan like?” Ellen asked, ignoring this hint of censure.

“I couldn’t tell you. I’ve never met him.”

By now, they were walking through a long tunnel of a corridor that led down and under the basilica. The lighting was subdued. And the ambience of the corridor perfumed with frankincense began to claw at Ellen’s throat. When they reached the top of a steep and seemingly endless flight of a narrow enclosed wooden staircase down the side of the craggy rock face, she became instantly giddy, sensed her legs begin to give way beneath her. And she reached for the railings to steady herself.

It put her in mind of her Catholic boarding school and the steps leading down to the basement. The punishment room where the nuns would relish doing God’s work and locking girls in isolation for twenty-four hours without food or drink. Even the slightest deviation from their bizarre rules was deemed worthy of this torture.

“Marthe,” she said, “do you think we could leave this out? I have a real problem with places of religious devotion.”

Marthe held her by the arm. A look of concern in her eyes.

“Of course. Let’s get some fresh air,” she said. Then added with a teasing air of mystery: “As a godless woman, you probably just sensed the spirit of the prayer crusaders.”

She was plainly expecting the puzzlement - though perhaps not the slightly wounded look - which etched itself into Ellen’s face and, after the briefest of pauses for dramatic effect, she explained:

“Basel was a melting pot of socialists, communists and freethinkers around the turn of the century. And for a long time after. The Catholic Church believed their atheism was such a danger that some of the more conservative priests here decided to fight it with a ‘prayer crusade’. So, every first Wednesday of the month, thousands made the pilgrimage here to pray against what they called the ‘godless movement’ in the city.

“And it’s now a tradition,” Marthe added. “They still do it today.”

“I’m not an atheist,” Ellen insisted, as they left the basilica and walked out onto the square. “I just don’t like the Catholic Church.”

“That’s all right,” Marthe said, touching Ellen’s arm in a gesture of reassurance. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”

Walking out of the village, Ellen was entranced by the way the surrounding fields were peppered every so often with patches of sunlight as gaps opened up in the scudding cloud. When they reached the top of the hill and Ellen looked back down on the village, her heart leapt at the majestic sight of the basilica against the dull, grey-brown winter background. For all her aversion to the devotional spirit that religion imbues in its followers, she felt quite uplifted by the gleaming whiteness of the church’s neoclassical façade. It stamped its presence on the landscape with such beautiful confidence. Ellen sensed a tingling warmth course through her veins at the very sight of it, which surprised her.

“Are you feeling better now?” Marthe asked.

“I’m fine,” Ellen replied, taking in a deep breath of fresh air. “It’s so beautiful lying there beneath us in the valley. Churches can be so impressive from a distance. As long as I don’t get too close.”

Marthe smiled. Ellen was not sure whether this was out of understanding or simply tolerance. And the chiaroscuro effect of the light on her face, clouding the expression in her eyes and the definition of her lips, lent an added layer of mystery to the smile that was compounded by the tantalising way in which Marthe stretched out a hand with the words:

“Come on. We’re now crossing the border.”

Ellen obediently turned and followed.

“Into France,” Marthe added.

On the crest of the hill across the border, the ancient ruins of a castle were silhouetted against the sky. A handful of houses sprawled at the foot of the hill beneath the ruins. It was a ten-minute walk down to these dwellings. As they approached, Ellen could see no sign welcoming them to the hamlet with anything that resembled a name. And the street showed no sign of life. The anonymity perversely put her in mind of Frank and underlined her own sense of emptiness. On the packed streets of the city it was possible to imagine that she might bump into Frank at any moment. That he could not be far away. But here, the solitary emptiness of the street merely accentuated his absence. Ellen felt a shudder through her entire body.

“Urs will be meeting us in the village further down the hill,” Marthe said as they passed an unpretentious building on the left. “So we can have lunch in here on the way back before we meet.”

The only thing indicating to Ellen that it could be an eatery of any kind was a small, slightly shabby sign on the building with the words au chasseur. It told her game was likely to be on the menu.

“But first I want to show you the view from up there,” she added, pointing to the castle ruins. “But we must take care. It can be quite dangerous.”

The danger Marthe