Free Pillars of Light by Jane Johnson Page A

animated. He ran from one place to another, pulling the Moor along by the sleeve, pointing up and down and sideways, talking, talking. Dawdling behind them, I saw the Moor stop suddenly and describe an arch in the empty air, his hands flowing up to a point, then sweeping down again. Then they were off, chins wagging, heads nodding, leaping over the trenches into the centre of the sward. Dodging a pair of workmen staggeringunder the weight of a huge stone, I ran after them, my satchel banging against my hip.
    “The cloisters are extraordinary,” the Moor was saying as I caught up to them. “I have visited the Qairouan Mosque, and at Puy they have experimented with new forms influenced by Islamic designs, a method of spreading the weight of the walls in such a way that the space between them may be opened high and wide. It is quite breathtaking. Something about the angles of the
sekonj
, which support the vaulting, setting it at a diagonal between two walls. And the formation of the cupolas. Domes like a golden sky.”
    “Puy is one of the points of departure for the pilgrimage route to Compostela,” the bishop said.
    “I have read the
Kitab Ruyyar
, describing the route.” The Moor nodded. “But I have not yet walked the Way. You know the old story is that they brought Saint James’s body back from Jaffa in a ship made of stone? I have always believed that image to be symbolic of the church there.”
    A mason was summoned and another earnest conversation ensued. The mason called a new man over and he went running off, to return a few minutes later with a flustered-looking greybeard. Then the whole long conversation was repeated, with the Moor making wild gestures in the air and the old man furrowing his brow.
    “John, if I describe something to you, can you draw it for me?”
    I had been kicking at a stubborn tuft of grass, bored by their chatter. A beetle was burrowing its way into the earth, away from the disturbance of my boot. I looked away from it unwillingly. “I doubt it.”
    “Come here, John.”
    His eyes locked on mine. I walked towards him, drawn by the dark lodestone of his gaze. Quite against my will I found myself saying, “I can try.”
    It took several attempts, for I couldn’t visualize what he meant, but at last we had a sketch of what he was trying to convey.
    The old man clucked his tongue. “Ah, you mean squinches.”
    “Sekonj.”
The Moor grinned. “Yes!”
    The greybeard shook his head. “Can’t be done.”
    There followed a protracted argument, during which my attention wandered. Light and strength; strength and light. In my head danced a procession of pillars and arches. Fair white stone, hard as iron, gave way to softest petals. The scent of roses.
    The edges of my vision began to haze. I swallowed, braced myself. I would not fall, I would not shame myself …
    When next I was aware of myself I found that my lap was full of drawings. Sweeping lines, elegant curves. Had some angel entered my body and guided my hand? For once it appeared that I had not measured my length on the ground and jerked and jinked, but had sat quietly, sketching like a man possessed. Once conscious, I drew on, letting the Moor’s words push the charcoal across the surface.
    “That’s it, John. But even taller. Up to the sky!”
    We ran out of paper. A boy was dispatched to fetch it from the church stores, and I sketched some more.
    “It’ll never hold,” the greybeard opined, shaking his head grimly over my drawings.
    “It will,” cried the Moor. “It’s stronger than the Roman arch, see?” He made an adjustment to a sketch.
    By the end of the day they all seemed very excited.
    “And then a great window here, and tall, pointed inlets of light …”
    “But I can’t work from mere sketches,” the greybeard warned at last. “It’s all very well striving for something so new, but it carries a great risk if it goes wrong. Towers collapse, and if there’s acongregation gathered beneath …”