Seed- Part Two

by D B Nielsen

  ‘It’s very you,’ I said, turning to look at St. John where he stood framed by the lintel, ‘It reflects your personality.’

  He merely smiled as I turned around again and wandered towards the bed, heading for the reading material on his night stand. The conspiracy thriller I’d tried to read was in a pile of books that highlighted St. John’s eclectic taste, amongst the latest copy of TIME magazine, a collection of poems by Donne, a non-fiction work on the history of the Bayeux Tapestry, and a well-thumbed copy of Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion which were stacked precariously on the edge.

  ‘Interesting choice,’ I remarked, and would have said more but was overcome by fatigue and gave a huge yawn, covering my mouth with the back of my hand.

  ‘You’re dead on your feet,’ St. John murmured, moving to place my belongings on the Albert chair in the corner, ‘I’ll get you fresh bed linen while you make yourself at home.’

  As he left the room, I shrugged my shoulders out of my overcoat and draped it over the chair and took off my boots. Moving back to the bed, I sat on its edge waiting for St. John to return.

  But I must have fallen asleep in his absence, as that was the last thing I remembered before I woke up the next morning.

  Opening my eyes to the bright light of day, I found myself snuggled under a goose down quilt in the middle of St. John’s antique bed. My face was planted firmly in one of the pillows and I was glad that we didn’t get the opportunity to change the sheets last night as I inhaled St. John’s earthy masculine scent. It was a reminder of everything I hoped for – without doubt, this was the scent that I wished to wake up to every morning for the rest of my life.

  I stumbled out of bed and collected my toilet bag on the way to the ensuite and did a double-take – on viewing his bathroom it occurred to me that St. John’s mortal side really liked his creature comforts. Cool Italian marble and glass greeted me – a distinct difference from the rest of the apartment which had been meticulously finished in a period style. The bathroom was all modern amenities; with its heated floors and towel rail, a state-of-the-art steam shower unit, and what seemed to be a high-tech toilet imported from Japan.

  After taking one of the longest showers in my life as I just had to play with every button like a child with a new toy, I finally towelled myself dry and got changed. I’d brought with me a change of underwear and a simple pair of jeans and linen blouse – nothing extravagant and probably too understated for such an elegant apartment. After combing the knots out of my hair and brushing my teeth, I decided I’d lingered long enough and made my way down the corridor to the living areas in search of St. John.

  But he wasn’t there.

  Instead, a young man around the same age with similar features to St. John greeted me.

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Woods,’ his accented voice was melodious, like notes struck in harmony, ‘I am St. John’s brother, Gabriel. It is a delight to meet you at last.’

  He raised a mocking eyebrow when he said the word “brother” and I gathered that although he was Nephilim, he and St. John didn’t share the same lineage.

  ‘Please call me Sage,’ I murmured entranced, and crossed the room both in curiosity and out of habit to come to stand in front of Gabriel and greet him in the time-honoured Parisian fashion.

  I was therefore able to look at Gabriel up close to remark upon the similarities and differences between the two men. In turn, Gabriel was doing his own examination, subjecting me to his steady gaze.

  Whilst St. John was a golden god, Gabriel was a muted version of him. Straight wheat coloured hair, cut in a fashionable style, framed a face that could have been featured in Vogue or on the runways of Milan. He was tall, of a similar height to St. John but slimmer, like a ballet dancer. His eyes were an unusual silver-grey and, at the moment, they held amusement as he noticed my avid gaze.

  ‘Now I can understand the attraction St. John has for you,’ Gabriel pronounced, with a hint of mischief in his dimpled smile, ‘It is lucky for him you are the Wise One, n’est-ce pas?’

  I ignored his deliberate teasing and asked instead, ‘Where is St. John, by the way?’

  Gabriel waved a dismissive hand as if to suggest that St. John’s disappearance was commonplace. ‘He is visiting his father and will be back shortly. T’inquiète. He has requested that I look after you till he returns.’

  I felt dreadfully disappointed, despite Gabriel’s reassurances, exclaiming, ‘Oh, but I would have loved to see Père Henri again. There are so many things I want to ask him.’

  Gabriel’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. ‘Père Henri? Mais si, I said nothing about him visiting Père Henri.’

  Now it was my turn to show confusion. ‘But you just said he was visiting his father!’

  ‘Oui, oui, oui,’ he said, dismissing my words, ‘his father, Elijah, tu vois?’

  I shook my head in denial, suddenly aware of how foolish I’d been. ‘No, I wasn’t aware that St. John’s biological father still existed.’

  Gabriel must have noted the shock in my eyes because I felt him stiffen by my side.

  ‘Assieds-toi! Sit, sit!’ he instructed, fearing I would faint, ‘You did not know of St. John’s father?’

  I did as he asked, finding myself collapsing onto a chair and placing my face in my hands as I rested my elbows on the dining table.

  ‘Yes ... I mean, no...’ I began uncertainly, ‘I mean, I know of St. John’s real father, I just assumed that he was ... well ... punished for his actions.’

  Gabriel nodded in understanding. ‘Si, si, si. C’est vrai. It is perhaps best that St. John explain this to you.’

  ‘Oh no!’ I protested, dropping my hands from my face to look up at Gabriel, ‘Please! I need to know!’

  Gabriel sighed, his silver-grey eyes shadowed and I sympathised with him – what must have seemed a relatively small request to babysit me had turned out to be burdensome. Still, he bore it well.

  I didn’t feel like I was betraying St. John by probing into his background – my only thought was to understand him better. I felt that my not knowing certain details would only jeopardise our quest to see the Seed safely back to its origin. Gabriel must have felt that I also needed to know more because he began to tell me of St. John’s history beginning by recounting the story of Elijah.

  ‘En fait, St. John’s father, Elijah, belonged to the Grigori, the Watchers. There were two hundred that were dispatched to earth to simply watch over the people but soon they began to lust for human women and at the prodding of their leader, the angel Semyaza, they rebelled and formed a pact, deciding to live among humans. Elijah was not one of these fallen angels – initially, he resisted the temptations on earth. But then, he saw Miriam tending her sheep in the fields and he fell in love. It wasn’t difficult for him to secure the love of Miriam in return – in their true form, angels are indescribably beautiful.’

  I didn’t want to interrupt Gabriel’s explanation, so I kept to myself my thoughts of how beautiful the angels must have been. If St. John and Gabriel were anything to go by, it was only too easy to see why Miriam would have fallen in love with St. John’s father, a heavenly being.

  Gabriel continued his tale, unaware of my ponderings, ‘But Semyaza and the other fallen angels became corrupt and taught the humans to make weapons and other necessities of civilization that had been kept secret from humankind. Elijah did not condone this but the people began falling ill and many died under the oppression of these fallen angels and then the people cried to the heavens for help.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, riveted by Gabriel’s explanation.

  ‘The Great Flood happened to rid the earth of the Nephilim, but the angel, Uriel, was sent to warn Noah so as not to annihilate the human race. Since then, the Watchers are bound in the valleys of the earth to wander until Judgement Day, whilst Semyaza is doomed to Tartaros.’

  ‘And Elijah?’

  Gabriel sighed. ‘He too is bound to wander the earth until Judgement Day ... without his
Miriam.’

  ‘That’s so sad,’ I whispered.

  ‘Oui, it is sad,’ Gabriel nodded in agreement, ‘but if not for the offspring of the angels there would be no Keeper of the Seed, c’est bon? It is providence.’

  I reflected on what Gabriel had told me as he insisted on making me breakfast, leaving me alone in the dining room with only the magnificent view for company. Staring out the window on the Avenue Montaigne, watching the stylish Parisians and the adventurous tourists going about their business – so ordinary, so pedestrian – I wondered at the fantastical things I had heard and witnessed over the past few days. On the one hand, St. John’s history and the secret he had kept for so long were infinitely better than locking a madwoman in the attic. On the other hand, I felt a little like Alice following the White Rabbit down the rabbit hole; not knowing what to expect next.

  Gabriel came back into the dining room bearing a plate of French toast and a mug of Earl Grey tea for me, taking a seat beside me at the table.

  ‘You’re not having any?’ I asked him, feeling embarrassed at eating alone.

  He shook his head and indicated the lateness of the hour. Once again, I had slept through the morning – at this rate, my week in Paris would come to an end and virtually the only thing I would have done was sleep.

  The smell of the French toast made my mouth water and I realised how hungry I was after emptying my stomach last night. Taking a small tentative bite in case my stomach still protested, I gave Gabriel the thumbs up sign showing my approval of his culinary skills.

  ‘Gabriel?’ I asked after finishing another bite, ‘You and St. John are both Anakim? What’s that?’

  He made a slight moue with his mouth. ‘We are called this because of our stature. Du coup, Anakim are the Long-Necked Ones. I personally feel affronted by such a term.’

  ‘So you’re the good guys, right?’

  Gabriel laughed, the sound like bells tinkling. ‘Bah, Sage, it is kind of you to think so.’

  I looked at him in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘During the conquest of Canaan by the Israelites, we lived secluded in the neighbourhood of Hebron.’ Gabriel began to explain, ‘Anak, one of the oldest of the Nephilim, led our race peacefully in isolation from humankind, as most of us were exiles and outcasts – the sons of human women but not completely human ourselves. We were ostracised and hunted because of our unusual appearance. But we couldn’t stay isolated forever. The Israelite leader, Moses, sent twelve spies representing the twelve tribes of Israel to scout out the land of Canaan and give a full report to the congregation. The spies entered from the Negev Desert and journeyed northward through the hills of Judea until they arrived at the Eschol, a body of water near Hebron. It was here that we resided with Sheshai, Ahiman, and Talmai; the sons of Anak.’

  ‘Anak had sons? The Nephilim can have children?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘Mais si,’ Gabriel said, slightly annoyed at my interruption, ‘we are part mortal, after all – born of human women.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologised, not wishing to offend him, ‘please go on. It’s fascinating.’

  ‘After the spies had explored the entire land, they brought back to Moses samples of the fruit that we had cultivated. Bien sûr – the stories are exaggerated – such as how they took a gigantic cluster of grapes which required the strength of two men to carry on a pole between them.’

  Gabriel shared a smile of amusement with me, indicating his contempt for the rumours of the Nephilim’s gigantic nature.

  ‘We were not looking for trouble with the humans, you must understand. But, human nature being what it is, it led them to be curious about us.’ I wondered if Gabriel was making a pointed reference to me and hoped that this wasn’t the case, as he continued, ‘The spies reported back to Moses and the congregation that our land was flowing with milk and honey but ten of the twelve spies discouraged the Israelites from attempting to possess the land, for they had seen that the Nephilim were taller and stronger than the Israelites and they felt like ... how do you say? ... grasshoppers in our presence.’

  ‘Cockroaches,’ I corrected, feeling that it was more appropriate to call them this than “ants”.

  ‘Oui, oui, oui. Bien sûr.’

  ‘But how did you come to live here in Paris?’ I asked, finishing off the last bite of French toast in one mouthful.

  His eyes, the colour of mercury, looked at me mournfully, ‘The other two spies thought only of possessing what we had. Caleb, one of the twelve spies sent by Moses into Canaan, later came back and drove out the descendants of Anak and the Anakim from Hebron by force. As we were a peaceful nation we had not thought to defend ourselves with the weapons of the Rephaim or Emim. It is ironic that the fallen angels gave the knowledge of weapons to human beings and that this very same knowledge led to our downfall.’

  I shook my head in disbelief that human beings could be so avaricious and cruel.

  We remained in silence for a while, both lost in our own thoughts.

  Finally I asked, ‘Do you know how St. John came to be the Keeper of the Seed?’

  ‘Je sais pas,’ Gabriel shook his head, his use of the colloquial, informal language proving his acceptance of me. ‘You must ask him, Sage.’

  I nodded in understanding and thanked Gabriel for telling me the story of the Nephilim. Taking my plate and mug into St. John’s designer kitchen, I gave them a rinse in the sink. My mother would have approved wholeheartedly of such a well-equipped cooking area; it was a chef’s dream. I wondered how often St. John got to make use of it and whether he could cook.

  Gabriel followed me in, leaning casually against the bench top.

  I looked out of the window at the crisp and clear, bright Paris afternoon and suddenly felt wistful. It was the third day of my stay in Paris and already half my holiday had disappeared. Admittedly, the last forty-eight hours had been a whirlwind of activity and discoveries, but it barely left me any time to process it all – or to really appreciate that I was in Paris again.

  ‘Cheer up, ma mignonne,’ Gabriel said, catching sight of my expression, ‘you are in one of the most exciting, romantic cities in the world, with one of the most charming and devilishly handsome men in the world,’ he gave me a wink at that which had me laughing. ‘What more could you want ... except perhaps what all women want?’

  I looked at him curiously.

  ‘To go shopping, of course,’ he stated, as if it went without saying.

  ‘Oh! Shopping!’ I repeated, inanely; the thought being the furthest thing from my mind.

  Perfectly straight white teeth flashed at me as Gabriel exclaimed, ‘Prada. Armani. Dior. Chanel. Oh là là! You will adore it!’ and insisted on escorting me to the boutique stores on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées through to Printemps and the Galeries Lafayette.

  As Gabriel spoke, I admitted to feeling tempted by the thought of shopping in some of the most exclusive designer boutiques in the world. Though it was a little out of my budget, I couldn’t wait to see what the Parisian designers had to offer – especially as I was feeling a rather oddly feminine desire to impress St. John. I secretly acknowledged a longing to be a little bit more like Fi, the kind of female that would attract attention wherever she went – more fashionable, sophisticated and, yes, even alluring. Besides, I reasoned, I had yet to begin my Christmas shopping and, as I was no good at lying and would need to somehow account for my time here in Paris, I might as well forget my problems for a little while and accept Gabriel’s gracious offer to escort me around.

  I grabbed my overcoat and tote bag and we headed out into the streets of Paris, mingling with the other shoppers busily purchasing gifts for Christmas. Gabriel was more than simply a charming companion and temporary protector; he also seemed to know all the store managers by name and was able to secure me considerable discounts.

  Alex was perhaps the easiest member of my family to buy for – we visited a store selling football merchandise and bought him a scarf and a footbal
l jersey that listed on the reverse side French football heroes including Zidane and Henry.

  ‘If you will allow it, I can perhaps ask a few of the footballers to autograph the jersey for you?’ Gabriel suggested, modestly.

  My eyes went wide as I nodded in response – Alex would be over the moon!

  Unbelievable! I thought. What would it be like to have the whole world at your fingertips?

  I thanked Gabriel profusely, but he dismissed my gushing gratitude with a mere wave of his hand and murmured something in French I couldn’t quite catch. From there, he insisted we view the Chloé designer boutique on the chic Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, which housed virtually every exclusive global fashion label, and I readily agreed, succumbing to his greater experience.

  We passed jostling holiday shoppers and I was lulled into a state of simple happiness when some distance up the long, narrow street behind the bobbing heads I saw a disturbingly familiar figure. The dark stranger. The man in the black fur-trimmed overcoat stood so still he could have been a marble statue as the crowds surged around him, oblivious to his presence. The dark figure did not move a muscle, did not even twitch or blink, barely seemed to breathe, and for a single instant, every detail of that bright afternoon in Paris was etched indelibly onto my mind. The burning eyes watched me intently as we made our way towards the designer boutique and I carefully observed that, although he was standing in the rippled sunlight as the late afternoon sun dipped low in the sky, he cast no shadow.

  I felt Gabriel stiffen beside me, inhaling a breath, and touching his forehead gingerly, using his fingers to knead the flesh at his temples as if he was suffering from a sudden migraine.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked, concerned.

  Breathing deeply as he straightened up, Gabriel flashed me a reassuring look from his silver-grey eyes. ‘Mais si. Je suis parfaitement bien.’