By Gary Bonnell
Like the Holy Grail of Arthurian lore, every culture and religion have vividly detailed stories of enchanted objects that have encountered divine beings that then take on miraculous powers. I personally have been in the presence of many such artifacts; some in very out of the way places, places that require a pilgrim-like devotion to reach. Most of these objects seem so out of place when you consider their origins. In the Andes of Peru, I drank crystal clear stream water from the skull bones of a Tibetan saint's remains. It was suggested that by doing so, I would gain the mystical knowledge he was reputed to have obtained. The rest of the trip seemed overly surrealistic and extremely coincidental, even to the point of just missing an encounter with Shining Path gorillas, the kind that were known for taking American hostages for ransom, collecting CIA money and then dumping the bodies in the center of the nearest town.
The most memorable of such encounters was not so threatening. Once, while on business in Europe, I was prompted by a spiritual adept, Deter Fride, a person I had corresponded with for several years, but had only just met on that trip, to include a short adventure to a small village in the Belgium countryside. As we entered the village from a small overlooking knoll, I was immediately taken by the meticulous manner in which the buildings were aligned to what could only be described as a German-built WWII bunker. The old stones that created the walls stood juxtaposed to the smooth round sides of the deadly battlement. Like the buildings, our car headed straight for that gray pile of steel reinforced concrete. I started to explain that I was not into artifacts of war, when my new friend began to tell the story of St. Catherine, who had visited the town in 1369 to meet a well-known herbalist whose miraculous cures were widely known at that time. He vividly described the small stone chapel that had once graced the soil that was now supporting the bunker. The streets were empty of people and, if not for the pile of waiting bicycles standing against the restaurant, I would have thought it altogether deserted.
The day had started out with a dense fog that by noon had given way to a low ceiling of drizzling clouds. I pulled my collar up against the slight damp chill as we exited the warm interior of Deter's car. As we quietly approached the ominous object from the gravel parking lot, he asked me if I could tell him what was unusual about the bunker. I told him that I thought it was odd that they would leave it as a memorial to the Nazi war effort. Deter asked again, “What do you notice about this particular bunker?” I looked long and hard, not wanting to miss what must be very obvious. “There are no ricochet or shrapnel marks. It has been repaired,” I announced.
“This countryside, for a hundred kilometers in each direction, was devastated by the days of bombing that preceded the allied invasion at Normandy . As you can see,” he stated, pointing toward the surroundings, “the thatched buildings in the town are all from the middle ages. The trees are obviously hundreds of years old. The stone fences that line the road are very old.” I looked around, shaking my head in agreement with all he was saying. I had actually noticed the oasis effect this gathering of old growth trees that surrounded the village seemed to have as we had approached it from the west. The rest of the countryside had seemed unnaturally bare.
“With thousands of bombs, dropping from as many planes, not one blade of grass was touched or stone over turned. This bunker was never hit,” he said, with a little wonderment in his voice as he turned and looked at the ugly gray form. Not knowing what else to do, I decided to use a gift I had discovered at an early age, the gift of psychometry, and went over to touch the walls of the structure.
Images of local people being herded by men in uniforms began to crowd my consciousness as I continued my hold on the cool surface. The villagers had been forced to tear down the church and put up the embattlement. The stones that had been the churches walls were now part of the turret. The odd thing about the images was the peacefulness that showed on the faces of the people as they busily worked to fulfill their task masters' vision. It seemed bizarre that there would be no anger or resentment energy hanging in the ethers around the slaves. Then, suddenly, I saw the absolute sweetness of her face – St Catherine. A rambling of words flowed between my lips as I gave narration to the scenes flashing across my mind. Deter confirmed my story adding a few details that had escaped my account. At first, the town's people would not cooperate with the Nazis, but instead would go each evening to the temple to pray for peace and deliverance. A few of the men had been beaten to near death by the soldiers as an example of what would happen if they did not begin to accept their fate. Each time this would happen, the townspeople would take the unconscious villager into the chapel where the next morning he would emerge without blemish or bruise. This went on for days and weeks. With each beating and subsequent healing, a few more Nazi soldiers were converted to the local version of mysticism. The leader was the last to find the deep inner peace emanating from the bunker. Before the first allied bombs had fallen, every enemy soldier had laid down his weapons and taken off his uniform.
Deter asked me to follow him into the bunker. Surprisingly, what would normally be the stink of mildew and dank earth was more the fragrance of roses. “Don't bother looking for burning incense. This smell was here long before the bunker or chapel. During the time of St. Catherine, this had been the rose garden of an herbalist healer, one who healed more by touch than elixir. St Catherine had blessed the woman whose healings bore a close resemblance to those of the Christ, leaving her a gift of her head scarf, three pink roses brought from Avignon and her personal rosary beads and cross. A few years after that visit, the woman is said to have disappeared in the presence of two angels.” I followed Deter down a dark staircase and into what had been the root cellar of the herbalist woman's home. Like the bunker, the chapel had been built over the exact spot where the woman had released her conflict with Earth and had ascended.
We approached a glass-enclosed alcove that was lit by three smoldering candles. A small grouping of what looked like fresh picked roses was resting on a simple cotton cloth. Wrapped around the throne stems was a rosary that held a gleaming silver cross. “Hold your hand to the glass,” Deter instructed. I reached up, and before my fingers touched the transparent barrier, I could feel a mighty presence of what can only be described as goodness, a deep inclusive kindness, the simple loving sensations of caring without concern. Years of anger melted off my mind like the wax falling to the floor from the smoldering candles. I couldn't remember a time in my life when I had felt insignificant or slight. I felt huge and full of life. There was nothing outside of me that was unknown; I felt at one within and without. Tears of knowing flooded down my cheeks as I felt a rush of acceptance moving through my body.
My friend walked closely along side as we strolled to the car. There was nothing much to say on the way back to Brussels . We nodded goodbye as I got aboard my train to Copenhagen . The ten business days in Denmark went by so quickly. Everyone remarked at how different I was from the previous trips, they wanted to know my secret, the one being concealed by the ever-present knowing smile that adorned my face.
Deter and I continued our letters and open exchange of mystical ideas. Over time I learned that the woman who had been the herbalist, whom Saint Catherine had traveled to meet, the one whose home had become the chapel, had in fact held the Holy Grail as a child. The story was that her parents stopped with her in a small town in the French countryside. The moment her feet touched the ground as she was taken from the carriage, she ran into a small church opposite the carriage stop. With her parents and the carriage attendant in pursuit, the little four year old ran up to a small cupboard next to the altar, opened the door, pulled out a carved wooden goblet and declared, “He drank from this.” The parents were not sure what to do, except to apologize for her unusual behavior. No one moved to take the cup from her upheld hands. The priest who had been offering prayers sat next to her as she continued to hold onto her treasure. The little girl told everyone that the light of the world was in the cup and that they could drink from it if they wanted. The metaphor was lost on everyone but the priest. The grail is your body, your cup. The light of the world pours forth from the cup.
The next two years had me traveling back and forth to Northern Europe with little time to visit the village forty minutes south of Brussels . Deter promised to take me there again one day, but sadly he was killed before that could occur. I had tried to reach him to set up a meeting on my return through Amsterdam . His sister was collecting his belongings from his flat when I called and explained what had happened. The only witness to the incident said the man in front of Deter had stopped his car, dragged his wife from the passenger side and began beating her. Deter had tried to stop the scuffle and was stabbed in the process. The woman fled; the man went to jail. Deter bled to death before he could make it to the hospital.
A letter from Deter was in the pile of mail sitting on the table when I returned home. In it he said that he apologized, but that he would not be able to take me to the village, but was instead enclosing a detailed map of how to get back to the bunker. He was doing this, he wrote, because sometimes it was difficult for people to find it again.
I did return.