Seed- Part Two

by D B Nielsen

  ‘Well, I liked it on you. You looked...’ He searched for a word.

  ‘Sophisticated? Sexy?’ I hinted.

  ‘Mature,’ he supplied, making me scowl.

  ‘The stupid dress is definitely going back,’ I mumbled under my breath, making him laugh.

  ‘Sage, keep the dress,’ he whispered as he brushed his lips softly against mine.

  I melted into him, forgetting the dress, forgetting to ask him about this fiancée business, forgetting everything. It was St. John who, once again, exerted more self-control than me, drawing back from the kiss to pull me to my feet.

  ‘Come on, Sage,’ he said, opening the door for me to pass through, ‘let’s get you something to eat before you pass out on me.’

  As we were seated in the dining car finishing off our meal, my mobile phone rang and I remembered that I hadn’t yet phoned my Mum. Hoping that I wouldn’t have to lie to her as I knew for certain that she had no idea that I was making my way with St. John to Rome, I pressed the little button to receive the call.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Sage?’

  ‘Fi, thank God it’s you! I was worried that it was Mum.’

  ‘Nah, I already lied to her saying that you called earlier while she was out.’ Fi sounded quite smug.

  ‘Oh, thanks, I think. What’s up?’

  ‘I need you to do me a favour. I want you to ask St. John whether he knows anything about the Babyloniaca. I’ve been doing a bit of research here about the Hanging Gardens. They’re way more interesting than Dad made out. Why couldn’t Dad make those boring nightly discussions on history more like the novels of Steve Berry or Matthew Reilly?’

  I sighed in exasperation. Dad’s discussions were far from boring, but trust Fi to think so!

  ‘Did you say the “Babyloniaca”?’ I asked, ignoring her other comments, ‘Okay. Is there a reason?’

  From across the dining car table I saw St. John raise an eyebrow, his body leaning forward betraying his interest in my conversation.

  ‘I’ll tell you when you get back. By the way, how’s it going? You sound distant. Where are you?’

  ‘Don’t tell Mum but I’m headed towards Rome.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ Fi’s voice sounded shocked at the other end. ‘No way! That’s totally sick!’

  ‘Yes way. We’re on the overnight train now.’

  ‘First class, no doubt,’ Fi’s voice dripped sarcasm.

  ‘Yep, a double berth first class cabin,’ I smiled, catching St. John’s eye.

  ‘Oh yeah. Are you going to be on top or underneath?’ Fi’s sly sexual innuendo made me blush beetroot.

  ‘Sorry, Fi, I can’t hear you clearly. I think the battery’s dying. I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye.’ I could hear her chuckling away as I pressed the button on my mobile to terminate the call.

  ‘Everything’s okay?’ St. John asked, noting my flushed face.

  ‘Fine,’ I responded. ‘Fi just wants to know whether you have any information about the Babyloniaca – what’s the deal with that, by the way?’

  ‘You’ve heard of the classical writer, Berossus, I take it?’ he asked, expecting my answering nod. ‘The Babyloniaca is a book, lost to us now though later writers have quoted from it, that Berossus wrote dedicating it to Antiochus I. There are notes from Berossus to Nebuchadrezzar II that give a description of Nebuchadrezzar’s great achievement.’

  ‘The Hanging Gardens of Babylon?’

  St. John nodded in agreement. ‘It’s a pity the book didn’t survive in its entirety. It might have proved most valuable in our quest.’

  ‘I wonder why Fi asked after it,’ I speculated, sighing, ‘She wouldn’t tell me over the phone. I wish she wasn’t always so cryptic.’

  St. John’s eyes had a wicked sparkle to them. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, she seems to make her point quite nicely at times.’

  I looked at him questioningly, over the brim of my water goblet, suspecting that he’d heard what she’d just said on the phone, but he simply let the subject drop and turned his attention to what we could expect tomorrow.

  St. John’s face was cast in shadow, his expression now unreadable. He’d dropped his pretence of the cool, distant, sophisticated young man and, instead, showed his true nature – more serious, contemplative and also more human than I’d ever seen previously.

  ‘I have to warn you, Sage,’ St. John said sombrely, ‘that tomorrow will be a terrible ordeal for you. My father might be cast down from the heavens but even now he has incredible power, as do all the Grigori. Do not underestimate him. Do not look upon his form for more than a moment. Do not use your name or mine – true names confer power. And stay close to me at all times. The fallen angels are both terrible and beautiful to behold. They will break your heart or bleed it dry if you let them. It is as Milton claimed of Satan, “Now conscience wakes despair that slumber’d, wakes the bitter memorie of what he was, what is, and what must be ... Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue”.’

  ‘I promise to stay by your side. But I don’t understand – why were you left to be raised by the Anakim? What happened to your father?’ I asked in a small voice.

  ‘He’s doomed, Sage. At least the Nephilim take care of their own kind, but the Fallen are cursed – no one, not even Nephilim, can share the burden of their existence.’

  ‘But he wasn’t like the others,’ I protested quietly. ‘He fell in love with your mother, and she with him.’

  ‘He broke God’s law, Sage,’ St. John took a deep breath, ‘Laws that are ancient and rigid and there for the good of all. He deserved to be cursed for wanting what he couldn’t have. He abandoned his duty and gave in to temptation.’

  ‘You sound as if you almost hate him,’ I remarked, carefully. I was more scared for him than for myself.

  ‘It’s not so simple, Sage,’ St. John said, lifting eyes filled with a searing intensity, ‘I pity him. I pity him because I understand him.’

  ‘Why is that so terrible?’ I asked, reaching out to touch his fingertips across the length of the table.

  He gently cradled the hand that I’d offered, turning it over so that the palm faced upward, to trace my lifeline. Then, after lifting it to kiss – grazing his lips against the softness of my palm followed by the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist – he placed it against his cool cheek as he whispered, ‘Because he’s my father and there’s a part of him in me. And because I know that I’m like him.’

  THE GRIGORI

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I awoke from a fitful sleep to the steward’s discrete but firm knock on the cabin door. Swinging my legs off the top bunk, I leapt down to the ground, swaying slightly to the rhythmic motion of the train as my feet hit the floor, somehow retaining my balance. St. John was nowhere to be seen and from the look of his berth, he obviously had not come to bed at all during the night. Opening the cabin door to the steward bearing a tray of croissants and a pot of steaming coffee, I wondered where St. John had gotten to after escorting me to the cabin after our meal. Perhaps he had decided to have a nightcap in the bar car.

  The thought of St. John’s humanity was quite sobering – I was almost afraid that in the emotional state I’d left him in last night that he may have drowned his sorrows with his preferred beverage, a fine single malt scotch whisky, but I’d never seen him so much as slightly intoxicated let alone completely inebriated and he didn’t seem the type to get drunk on his own.

  I suppose that’s what truly worried me; that he had spent the entire night on his own. Alone. And he had been alone for so long.

  Despite bringing me to see his father and trusting me with his history, I still knew that St. John was keeping a barrier between us out of a sense of innate nobility. He thought to protect me from himself.

  Well, he could think again. I wasn’t going to have it. I would find a way to bring down those barriers.

  Pulling up the sash that covered the window, the pale morning light streamed in and rotated in shreds and p
atches on the cabin floor. It was the most sunlight I’d seen in ages and I stretched as leisurely as a cat, arching my body in a pose I’d learned from yoga; a salute to the sun. I needed the calming influence of practiced routines as my sleep had been disrupted and restless. Part of my mind had been asleep, but that secret, inner part, buried deep, was wide awake. I had a vague feeling that something was wrong, something not as it should be, but it was oddly ambiguous. All night I’d felt a tentative tugging on my inner mind that seemed to repel and slip from the sureness of its grasp, so that I felt oddly violated. There was a welter of confused impressions – the artefact brilliantly surging to life, the blazing coal-black amber-lit eyes watching me, and an army of Nephilim marshalling in the east. I had no way of telling whether the visions were real or simply a product of my heightened emotions, and equally no way of telling whether they were a record of past or present happenings, or a prediction of things yet to come.

  Shaking off my half-daze, I’d almost forgotten the presence of the steward and practically bumped into him in the cramped space of the cabin. Expertly, the steward rearranged the furniture and once again the confined cabin was in its day configuration, the tray set on the table in front of the window.

  As the steward left, a hand reached out to capture the door before it slammed shut and St. John entered, looking as cool and as suave as ever. No signs of the previous night’s insomnia could be seen in his appearance or his emotional state. He had changed into a more informal outfit of black jeans, white shirt and a dark leather jacket which gave him an air of relaxed remoteness.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he asked, the rich timbre of his voice never failing to send a small thrill up my spine.

  I shrugged. ‘Just fine. And you?’

  His eyebrow arched mockingly, suggesting my lack of subtlety. ‘I spent the night working. I have a few business interests that needed taking care of.’

  This time it was me who raised an eyebrow mockingly. He could call it whatever he wanted but I knew there was another reason why he was avoiding me, especially in sharing the unusual sleeping arrangements of such cramped quarters.

  He ignored my blatant expression of doubt and said, ‘The train arrives at a quarter to ten at Rome Termini. From there, we’ll be met and taken to a ruin near Vatican City where my father is.’

  Buttering the end of a croissant, I asked, ‘Why is your father near Vatican City? I would have thought that would be one of the last places he’d be, considering he’s a fallen angel.’

  St. John slid into the seat beside me and poured himself a cup of coffee. ‘He can’t help himself. The Grigori are drawn to places of worship, holy and sacred sites – cathedrals, churches, temples, and so forth. It lures them like nothing else can, reminding them of the Paradise they have lost. They are cursed and exiled and so they yearn for Paradise again.’

  ‘“Sometimes towards Eden which now in his view lay pleasant, his griev’d look he fixes sad, sometimes towards Heav’n and the full-blazing Sun, which now sat high in his Meridian Towre”,’ I murmured, quoting from Milton.

  ‘Yes, exactly,’ St. John said, sipping his black coffee. Pulling a face in disgust, he put his cup down with a slight clatter. The lack of his usual gracefulness made me realise how highly strung he was. ‘Anyway, Sage, better shake a leg, we’re on the outskirts of Rome now.’

  Looking out the window, I strained to see the Eternal City but while the Italian countryside was becoming more populated with urban dwellings, we were still some distance from central Rome. As the landscape slipped away, the warm glow of morning turned sun-baked clay, olive trees and flaxen coloured fields into a picturesque panorama reserved for postcards sold to tourists.

  The train’s shadow, fleeting and swift, flew across the yellow and olive paddocks, over slopes and hilly mounds – the lash of a serpent’s tail bruising the landscape. And now the sky unfurled like a spinnaker and diamond points of light twirled and whirled across the carriage making the compartment dance to the disco ball of day.

  Sighing, I grabbed the clothing and toiletries St. John had brought for me and made my way down the corridor to the shared facilities of the carriage washroom. As on board a schooner at sea, the water swayed a solid mercury in the stainless steel basin, turning cold within moments of its release from the faucet; so cold it seemed to leach the blood from my hands and face. I splashed my face quickly and, taking the toothbrush and toothpaste out of its plastic wrapping, brushed my teeth till they almost began chattering in the chill air.

  St. John had obviously grabbed the first items of clothing he’d laid his hands on – everything was completely impractical for both the climate and a meeting with the Grigori. I thought about returning to the cabin and wearing the same outfit from the day before but knew I just didn’t have that much time to waste. Besides which, it may have made me seem slightly vain. It made me blush to realise that St. John had rifled through my suitcase back in Paris searching for clothing and underwear as I put on a fresh pair of underpants and bra chosen by him – the lacy pink almost a perfect match for the colour of my cheeks.

  Upon entering the cabin again, St. John looked up and took in my attire.

  ‘I guess I have a lot to learn unlike Gabriel,’ he said, trying his best not to smile.

  Shooting him an exasperated look, I reached over to pull on my overcoat to cover the pretty woollen and lace black singlet top which normally went under a long-sleeved blouse that St. John had taken from the top of my open suitcase. I’d brought the two-piece set in the event that the weather in Paris was warmer than I anticipated but St. John had failed to pack the blouse, so I was missing the extra layer of warmth it would have provided. Luckily, he’d thrown in my long woollen skirt so my legs were at least covered from the morning chill. Although it didn’t look quite right with my boots, I assumed that the long skirt might be necessary if we were to visit the Vatican which was strictly traditional regarding women’s attire.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I replied, ‘if I get cold I can always put on the top I was wearing yesterday.’

  He nodded, already turning away to focus on the view of Rome flashing past the train window; a collection of autumn toned buildings amidst ancient ruins. It was my first sight of the Eternal City and, feeling alive to every new scene and experience, it thrilled me. The shifting colours of the landscape and the gothic romanticism of the famed city of the Seven Hills, the Colosseum and the Spanish Steps, its historic centre declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site were, for me, like entering Middle Earth. Though I knew I would have no time to explore the city at leisure as the purpose of our trip was to meet Elijah, being amongst history – the seat of an empire and civilisation – was wondrous. St. John noted my expression with a cynical amusement. I sighed again, this time in resignation. I guess it took a lot to impress a Nephilim, especially as he had lived before and during the age of empires.

  As St. John had informed me, there was a car waiting when we stepped from the platform at Rome Termini out onto the busy streets of Rome. I was shocked, however, to realise that our escort was none other than one of the Papal Swiss Guards; his distinctive Renaissance costuming easily recognised by the tourists milling around Rome’s central station – they must have thought that we were foreign delegates or diplomats sent to attend upon the Pope.

  The uniform of the Swiss Guard was usually attributed to Michelangelo but, in fact, the Renaissance master had little if nothing to do with it. In reality, the modern Swiss Guard uniform was created by Commandant Jules Repond in the early twentieth century drawing inspiration from Rafael’s frescoes. Though it could be said to be inspired by another Renaissance master, the simple mistake only served to prove how rumours had a dreadful way of circulating and being taken as gospel truth. This was reinforced by the assumption that the ceremonial costume of the Swiss Guard was worn in their daily duties. Though the Swiss Guard waiting for us was rather gaudily dressed, he instead wore the solid bright Medici blue tunic, pantaloons, spats and black beret of the more common
duty uniform, covered by his bright blue cape. It may have still managed to make him appear rather comical – like a misplaced Shakespearean actor – but there was no mistaking the air of authority he exuded.

  I wondered why there was the need for the Swiss Guard’s escort to visit St. John’s father. While the military corps was one of the most allegiant and formidable security forces in the world, admired by many other military organisations and countries, I couldn’t imagine the need for a Swiss Guard with St. John accompanying me.

  ‘Why are we being escorted?’ I queried in a low voice.

  St. John shrugged. ‘It’s always been this way. I’m sure Père Henri told you that in every age of man, there is a priest, rabbi or mufti who acts as an Emissary for the Light and shelters the Nephilim; more precisely, the Anakim. It is, therefore, a courtesy extended by the Vatican to the Keeper of the Seed to be offered the same protection as the Pope when entering His holy cities, Vatican City and Jerusalem.’

  ‘So they protect you while you protect me?’ I thought this kind of ironic.

  St. John smiled. ‘Perhaps I’ve explained this poorly. They don’t protect me, as such. Their allegiance is to God and they recognise that I am His warrior, His emissary.’

  ‘So, it’s like when the President of the United States visits England, the Queen extends a similar courtesy?’ I clarified.

  ‘Exactly.’

  As we drove through the crowded, narrow streets of Rome, I didn’t quite know what to expect. Wild speculations ran through my head – stories and myths from the Bible through to Disney, of angels and demons, devils and exorcisms. Could a fallen angel walk in the sunlight? Could they say the name of God? Could they enter holy ground? Would they burn from holy water? Were they afraid of crucifixes? Did they have horns like bulls and wings like bats?

  I guessed that I would have an opportunity to find out the answers to these questions and more – to finally distinguish myth from reality. Still, my mind conjured up images from horror flicks and the stories told to me in classes of Religious Studies at school – and none of these images were particularly appealing.