After crawling through the narrow underground tunnel on their hands and knees, Edmond and his mentor finally reached the priest’s cell. The passage had been barely wide enough for one person, forcing them to move in single file through the cramped space that connected their prison cells.
Edmond looked around eagerly, expecting to see something extraordinary. But the small stone room looked disappointingly ordinary.
"We have a few hours before the guards make their rounds," the old priest said calmly. "It’s just past midnight."
Edmond glanced around, puzzled. "How can you tell the exact time? I don’t see any clock."
The priest smiled and pointed to a thin beam of moonlight streaming through his tiny window. "See that ray of light? And these lines I’ve scratched into the wall? I can tell the precise time by tracking how the light moves across these markings. It’s more accurate than any watch, because the sun and earth never change their paths."
This explanation went completely over Edmond’s head. He’d always thought the sun moved around the earth, rising behind the mountains and setting over the sea. The idea that the earth itself was moving seemed impossible.
"Show me your treasures," Edmond said, changing the subject.
The priest walked to the old fireplace and used a makeshift chisel to lift a heavy stone that had once been the hearth. Beneath it was a deep hollow space where he’d hidden his precious belongings.
"What would you like to see first?" the priest asked.
"Your great manuscript about the politics of Italy!"
The old man carefully pulled out several rolls of fabric strips, each about four inches wide and eighteen inches long. They were covered in neat handwriting that Edmond could easily read, since it was written in Italian, a language he understood from his travels.
"Here it is, my complete work," the priest said proudly. "I finished writing ’The End’ on the sixty-eighth strip just last week. I tore up two of my shirts and all my handkerchiefs to make these pages. If I ever get out of prison and find a publisher brave enough to print this, my reputation as a writer will be secured forever."
Edmond examined the makeshift pages with amazement. "Now show me the pen you used to write all this."
The priest held up a thin stick about six inches long, like the handle of a fine paintbrush. At one end, he’d attached a small piece of bone with thread, sharpened and split at the tip like a real pen nib.
"And here’s my masterpiece," the priest continued, producing a small, incredibly sharp knife. "I made both this pen-knife and this larger blade from an old iron candlestick."
Edmond studied these crude but ingenious tools with the same fascination he’d once felt looking at exotic artifacts in the shops of Marseilles.
"I told you how I made the ink," the priest said. "I only make small batches when I need them."
"But how did you manage to work during the day without being seen?" Edmond asked.
"I also worked at night."
"At night? Can you see in the dark like a cat?"
The priest chuckled. "Not at all. But humans are intelligent enough to overcome natural limitations. I made myself a light source." He showed Edmond a crude but functional oil lamp. "I saved the fat from my food rations, melted it down, and made oil for fuel."
"But how did you light it?"
"Here are two pieces of flint and some charred cloth for tinder."
"What about matches?"
"I told the guards I had a skin condition and needed sulfur for treatment. They gave it to me without question."
Edmond stared at all these ingenious creations, overwhelmed by his friend’s incredible resourcefulness and determination.
"You haven’t seen everything yet," the priest said. "I didn’t want to keep all my treasures in one hiding place."
They carefully replaced the stone and disguised any evidence it had been moved. Then the priest went to his bed and pushed it aside, revealing another secret compartment behind the headboard. Inside was a rope ladder twenty-five to thirty feet long.
Edmond tested it carefully. It was sturdy and well-made.
"How did you get materials for this?"
"I unraveled more shirts and bedsheets during my three years in my previous prison. When they transferred me here, I smuggled the threads with me and finished the ladder in this cell."
"Didn’t anyone notice your sheets were falling apart?"
"When I pulled threads out, I always sewed the edges back together."
The priest showed him a long, sharp fish bone with a tiny hole at one end, still threaded with a bit of fabric. "I once considered removing the iron bars from my window and climbing down with this ladder. But I discovered that the window only leads to an inner courtyard. I would have been trapped. So I abandoned that plan, though I kept the ladder for future opportunities."
While pretending to examine the rope ladder, Edmond’s mind was actually racing with a different thought. This brilliant, resourceful man might be able to solve the mystery of his own imprisonment, something Edmond had never been able to figure out.
"What are you thinking about?" the priest asked, noticing Edmond’s distant expression.
"First, I’m amazed by your intelligence and skill," Edmond replied. "What couldn’t you have accomplished if you’d been free?"
"Probably nothing special," the priest said with a sad smile. "In freedom, my mind might have been scattered by countless distractions. Sometimes misfortune is necessary to reveal a person’s true potential. Pressure is needed to make gunpowder explode. Prison has focused my mental abilities, just like how lightning is created when clouds collide." The source of this content ɪs novel{f}ire.net
"I don’t understand any of that," Edmond admitted. "You must be blessed to have such knowledge."
"You said you had two things on your mind. What was the second?"
"You’ve told me your entire life story, but you know nothing about mine."
"You’re young, you haven’t lived long enough to have many important experiences."
"Long enough to suffer a terrible injustice. I want to understand who’s responsible, so I can stop blaming fate."
"So you claim to be innocent of whatever crime you’re accused of?"
"I swear it, by the two people I love most, my father and my fiancée Mercedes."
The priest closed his hiding place and pushed the bed back into position. "Tell me your story."