I trained
the binoculars on the north transept, looking for the Saint Peter's
statue, but the angle made it impossible to see the small chapel.
I panned out to the middle of the nave. My view was drawn to a circular
design of light and dark marble tiles, about forty feet in diameter.
I remembered crossing these tiles when Miriam had first given me a
tour of the cathedral and wondering if they had been placed randomly.
From this distance, I could see that the dark and light stones did
indeed form some kind of pattern.
"Miriam, check
this out," I said, handing her the glasses and directing her
to the spot. "What's that marble pattern in the floor?"
"That's a unicursal
labyrinth. They're common in medieval cathedrals."
Retrieving the glasses,
I re-focused them. The lighter tiles of the labyrinth etched an
almost symmetrical path through the circle. There was only a single
point where this pathway intersected the inner circle, and only
a single entry point into the labyrinth, at the point farthest away
from us. Starting from that entrance, I mentally traversed the path.
There were no intersection points, no wrong turns or dead ends.
The path continuously turned back on itself, like a coiled snake.
At journey's end, my imaginary feet were standing firmly in the
circle at the center of the labyrinth. This inner circle was about
six feet in diameter, with six smaller half-ovals attached to its
circumference.
Unicursal, Miriam had
said. I sounded it out. "Unicursal. One Course." Miriam
nodded. "And the symbolic significance?"
"No one really
knows. The labyrinth was popular with pilgrims to the cathedral.
They would walk it from the entrance to the inside and then back
out again. It taught them that if they persevered on the path of
good, no matter what the difficulties, they would inevitably end
up with God in the next life. I suppose the center circle represents
heaven." She shifted in her seat. "Why are you so interested
in the labyrinth, Ray? We should pay attention to the funeral."
Something about the
labyrinth fascinated me. It was similar to the gargoyles, but in
reverse. They jutted from the building at such a height that their
design could hardly be appreciated. The labyrinth was large but
at ground level it could easily go unnoticed. I entered a description
of the labyrinth into Sherlock's knowledge base, along with Miriam's
explanation of its historical significance.
Sherlock-in-a-Box is
a smart computer system being developed by Ray to solve mysteries.
But besides stretching his mental muscles, he is undergoing his
own spiritual journey. On this other level, the author deftly weaves
in the metaphor of the labyrinth as a journey to the center of your
deepest self and back out into the world.
Later in the funeral
scene, Ray enters information on the labyrinth into Sherlock-in-a-Box
to see if the computer has come up with any new leads.
On the screen, Sherlock
Holmes continued to puff on his pipe. Behind the detective's unruffled
exterior, I knew Sherlock was jumping in and out of his thumbrules,
backward chaining until he came to a dead end, meaning he had insufficient
data. And insufficient data meant he had to ask a question.
"Any second now,"
I said. Finally the graphic of Sherlock Holmes disappeared, replaced
by a question. But it wasn't the one I expected. It read, What is
distance from west portal to labyrinth?
I looked at Miriam in
surprise. "I entered some facts about the labyrinth while we've
been up here. Sherlock must have connected it with our mystery."
Miriam seemed to tremble
and looked unsteady. The funeral was taking its toll.
"Maybe we should
leave," I said. "We can do this later. I'll measure the
distance from the doors to the labyrinth after the funeral is over."
Miriam hugged her chest
and took a deep breath, as though willing herself to be calm. "No
need to measure it," she said. "It's one hundred twenty
five feet."
"I'm impressed.
How in the world do you know that?"
"'All things whatsoever
observe a mutual order and this is the form that makes the universe
like unto God.'"
"Meaning?"
"It's a quote from
Dante. Medieval cathedrals were constructed using geometrical formulas,
simple ratios whose relationships were intended to mirror the harmony
of heaven. Everything's in a one-to-one or one-to-two ratio."
"I remember feeding
in some articles about 'right measure' to Sherlock. Is that what
you're talking about?"
"Yes. Take the
nave," she said. "It's twice the width of the side aisles.
All the wall pillars are equal to the length of the intersection
of the nave and the transept. The distance between the pillars of
each bay of the nave is in direct proportion to the height of the
walls. Everything is related harmonically. If you know the ratios
and the starting number, you can calculate the distance between
any two points in the cathedral."
I was genuinely impressed.
As well as having an aesthetic feel for beauty, Miriam was obviously
mathematically inclined. I realized that the two were in balance
in this building. But I wondered why Sherlock would care about the
distance to the labyrinth. I dutifully typed in the number that
Miriam had given me.
Sherlock digested the
response. "Look what he's asking now," I said, angling
the screen toward her. What is shape of labyrinth?
I typed in "Round."
Does labyrinth have
half-circles on circumference?
Half-circles on the
circumference. I recognized this phrase. I had entered it into Sherlock
to describe the sketch we had found.
I hefted the binoculars
again to examine the labyrinth. Its inner circle had six smaller
half-circles connected to its circumference, reminiscent of the
petals of a flower. The flower illuminates the time and the place.
A chill quivered through me. I entered "Yes." The program
responded with, What number half-circles has labyrinth?
Six. The same number
as was on the sketch. I temporarily suspended Sherlock-in-a-Box,
and brought up the picture of the Numbers of the Rose sketch on
the computer.
There was indeed a resemblance
between the circles on the sketch and on the labyrinth. "It
looks to me," I said to Miriam, "that we were wrong to
think that the figure on the sketch was a rose. It's actually the
center of the labyrinth."
I checked to see if
she had made the same connection. Her face had gone pale and she
looked as though she were going to faint. I quickly set the computer
down. "Miriam, are you okay?" I touched her shoulder.
"Do you want to leave?"
She pushed my hand away.
Slowly, methodically, she began to tap a closed fist against her
chest. I was afraid she was having trouble breathing. Then I understood
the gesture. She was praying.
"Give Sherlock
his answer," she said.
"Are you sure,
Miriam? Maybe we should..."
"Do it, Ray."
I typed in the answer.
"Six."
Does rose window have
vertical shaft connected to circle?
I looked out to the
distance of the western entrance to the stained glass window. I
typed in "No."
Does labyrinth have
vertical shaft connected to circle?
I looked through the
field glasses at the labyrinth. "I don't see any vertical shaft
coming from the inner circle."
"That's because
of our perspective," Miriam said softly. She took the binoculars
and held them to her eyes. "If you follow the path of the labyrinth
from the opposite end, it joins the circle just like it shows in
the picture." She set the glasses down and looked at me. "From
ground level, no one would connect the pattern in the labyrinth
to the pattern in the sketch because of the perspective. And you
didn't recognize it from here because you were looking at it upside
down."
The use of the word
"you" instead of "we" wasn't lost on me. Miriam
had already deciphered the sketch, probably when I had shared Jon
Matthias' comparison of the boxes to walking a winding path. "It
has to be looked at from the other direction, from a height,"
she continued.
"You mean it has
to be looked at from the rose window?"
Miriam brought a handkerchief
to her puffed eyes. I was beginning to realize that there was more
to her grief than the death of an old friend.
Labyrinths
in Prodigal Logic