Seed- Part Two

by D B Nielsen

  ‘And in all these centuries since the Fall of the Grigori did you believe that Semyaza remained there? Is still there?’ the fallen angel asked, ‘In that place of darkness? In that dungeon of torment and suffering?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ St. John demanded, ‘I have no use for your games, Fallen One.’

  ‘Too late. The game is already begun. The die is cast.’

  I shivered in response; the horror of two nights’ ago fresh in my mind.

  ‘Is Semyaza still in Tartaros?’ St. John asked harshly, ‘It is heavily guarded. I thought there was no escape.’

  ‘No escape from the Underworld?’ Elijah laughed bitterly, the sound like piercing music, sharp and jarring. ‘Escape is always possible with the right incentive.’

  St. John sucked in a breath. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Have you not wondered how it was possible to smuggle the Seed out of the Garden of Eden?’ The Watcher’s tone was sly. ‘Did you think the angels, the Creator’s most trusted, were blind or lax in allowing the culprit to carry off his theft? The Seed is sentient. It is supposed to protect itself. The Grigori cannot even touch it, for we have sinned and can never be redeemed. How was it then that this thief was able to steal into the King’s Garden and lay his hands upon it without being destroyed by its power?’

  The voice wove its way cunningly into my mind.

  ‘Did you think the Creator would not have known?’ Elijah mocked his son, and I could feel him smile even though I couldn’t see it – a smile which would have been terrible and beautiful to behold.

  ‘As the Creator knew of your rebellion and cast you out of Paradise?’ St. John returned with a similar taunting tone.

  I understood now that they were like opponents in some dreadful eternal battle.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Elijah sighed, a sound heartrending in its remorse, ‘Ah, I have been punished for loving a human woman. For love of my Miriam, I have been cast out of Paradise. But not by the Creator have I been made into a travesty. These mortals – so weak, so afraid, claiming to be so holy, acting in His name – look what they have done to me. Look at me Elijah. Look at me, Wise One. And weep.’

  St. John whipped around and grabbed hold of me, pulling me tightly into his embrace.

  ‘Don’t look!’ he whispered urgently into my ear.

  My face was pressed against his shirt, the zipper of his leather jacket digging into my cheek. But even in that split second which it took for him to whip around, fast as lightening, a more dreadful vision filled my mind.

  The winds scour this place. Matted, dead grass. Entrails of smoke unravel from the bowels of Earth. Frozen light like an oil slick dripping from olive boughs. The scree of a once living mountain like crushed pebbles beneath the feet of giants. Winged creatures wheel in the calico of early morning. Hundreds, whirling and turning, captured in shadow and light. Turning and wheeling in the widening gyre. Wings spread wide, opening like the ivory blades of a fan, pleated feathers in gold and bright white. Lightening rends the sky. In mockery of flight, the wrecked bloody thing, no longer a heavenly being, falls to the Earth. Charred blackened wings, singed feathers, the sulphurous taint of volcanic ash. The metallic taste, sticky stench of blood. Flies hover over the dead carcasses of the Fallen; the ink smudged blackness of war. Trees form crippled, crude hieroglyphs across the land severing the darkness. Into the chasm they fall, one by one. A scar on the face of Earth. Lava blood. Burning. Falling. Falling. Twice the distance from Heaven. Into the abyss. Into a pit of darkness. Into silence.

  When I regained consciousness I was lying on the backseat of the car. Vague recollections of St. John carrying me in the darkness of the catacombs flitted through my mind, but I hadn’t been fully aware of what was happening at the time. It occurred to me that it had taken far less time to travel back through the catacombs than when we had entered and I wondered if that was because of my mortal limitations. Certainly, St. John’s ability to see in the dark meant that he didn’t need a torch at all – evident from my memory of being cradled against his chest through the benighted world of the dead.

  St. John was leaning over me, his face wreathed in concern.

  ‘This is starting to become a habit,’ he said, jade green eyes surveying the pallor of my face.

  I smiled weakly. ‘Don’t you know? I do it just to be in your embrace.’

  He laughed at my small joke, recognising my attempt at levity.

  Looking out the window, I saw the Swiss Guard standing at attention a little distance from the car, staring out over the barren landscape, a wasteland, reminding me of the vision I’d just experienced. I shuddered in horror.

  Turning back to St. John, I said, ‘I saw it all. The Fall of the Grigori, I mean. Those images ... they were...’ I gave another shudder.

  ‘I know what you saw. I saw it too. Don’t think about it, Sage,’ St. John said; his beautiful voice ominous.

  I looked at him in surprise. ‘I thought you couldn’t see the visions.’

  St. John shook his head. ‘Normally, I can’t, but these were sent by Elijah. The Grigori have the power to put images in your head – both terrible and beautiful.’

  ‘And my visions of the Garden of Eden?’ I asked, looking down at my hands which still trembled despite knowing I was safe.

  ‘Sent to you by the Seed to assist us in our quest,’ St. John confirmed, capturing my hands in his own. ‘We were lucky, though. Most of Elijah’s power is contained within the pentagram. Imagine if you can that power tenfold and you might understand the true power of the Grigori.’

  I shook my head helplessly. ‘I’d rather not think about it.’

  ‘I wish I could protect you from this, Sage, but it’s too late. It’s much worse than I imagined.’ St. John’s expression was bleak and I knew he was castigating himself for being unable to protect me.

  ‘Don’t worry. Have faith that it will all turn out well in the end,’ I murmured, squeezing his hands.

  Jade green eyes stared at me intensely. ‘I hope so, Sage, because we’re dealing with Semyaza; the most terrible of all the Grigori. And what’s infinitely worse is that he’s obviously regained control of his powers.’

  MISSING PIECES

  CHAPTER SIX

  Minutes unfolded while I tried to reconcile myself to what St. John had said. I wasn’t quite sure how I was supposed to feel or what to think. The only thing I knew for certain was that a strange numbness had enveloped me. Maybe this was cathartic in some way. Knowing that the real danger facing us was one of the Grigori, I no longer had to fear the unknown. But, on the other hand, the only experience I had with the Fallen was back in the catacombs and I hadn’t fared too well at the hands of Elijah who could easily be compared to a crippled fallen angel; one without his full powers. I wondered whether there was any way to build up an immunity to the Grigori’s powers because, if I didn’t learn to exercise my own will around them, I would jeopardise our quest and endanger us both.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I asked St. John, dazed.

  ‘Do? Well, right now I need a coffee; not that pig swill that was served this morning,’ he replied, ‘then we can go sightseeing.’

  My jaw dropped and I stuttered, ‘But ... but ... what about the Grigori? How can we simply go sightseeing at a time like this? Shouldn’t we have a plan of action?’

  St. John managed to look amused. ‘We can’t exactly go haring off with our guns half-cocked now, can we? The fact is, I need to return to Paris to consult with the Anakim brotherhood and inform them of these developments. You heard what the Fallen One said; that the Seed wasn’t stolen by the Grigori at all, so that begs the question – who was the thief? – especially as we’d based our assumptions on the Grigori, and now with Semyaza freed from Tartaros – and we don’t know how he managed to escape – it seems we have quite a lot to contend with.’

  ‘But sightseeing?’ I queried, feeling restless in my own skin. ‘I mean, shouldn’t we be doing something more? Shouldn’t I be doing some
thing? I feel ... so ... useless.’

  ‘Right now the Seed is safe enough where it is. And all too soon, I suspect, your turn will come,’ St. John replied, gazing out upon the ruins. ‘It has taken longer than my lifetime to find the Seed, but what is Time to the Creator? Many men believe only what they can prove scientifically – empirically – what they can see, hear, smell, taste and touch. But there are worlds beyond this one, and those worlds have their own laws, and exist by the Word.’

  I recalled the Vatican’s stance on life on other planets, confirming what St. John believed, as he continued, ‘What may be impossible in our world is very possible elsewhere and, sometimes, the boundaries between these worlds blur and disappear.’ He paused, jade green eyes serious. ‘Don’t be too quick to rush to act, Sage. We don’t always get to choose when we are called upon to do some noble and heroic deed – but when the time comes, we must simply be ready.’

  It was true – I had no plan of action but had just felt the compulsion to act – yet I hadn’t considered that time was virtually meaningless to the Seed, to the Nephilim, and to the greater being that had created the world.

  ‘Besides, as I recall it, you stated in no uncertain terms that neither Louis nor Gabriel nor my father nor I were going to stop you from living a normal life; I assume that would also apply to Semyaza or are you going to let one of the Grigori stand in your way?’

  I scowled. As much as I hated to admit it, he had me there.

  ‘How about a compromise?’ he suggested, ‘We can visit a few of Rome’s famous sites and then tour the Vatican Museum and Library, as it is important for me to visit with my old friends and fulfil my obligations as an ambassador for the Anakim.’

  ‘As long as there are no catacombs on that list,’ I replied, giving a mock-shudder, making St. John laugh.

  St. John’s plan sounded perfect but we hadn’t taken into account the presence of the Swiss Guard who informed us that his orders were to take us immediately to the Vatican at the conclusion of our visit to the catacombs. His entire bearing challenged us to try and defy him. We decided against this – it seemed better to find out why the Vatican was interested in us.

  The Swiss Guard drove to the country’s western border, until we were travelling along the Viale Vaticano with the entire Vatican City lying sprawled behind an enormous fortified wall reminding me of my friends’ obsession with World of Warcraft and Game of Thrones. This wasn’t far off from the reality as the Swiss Guard were posted at regular lengths along the fortress’s interior, facing the inside of the Vatican’s grounds, and patrolling the borders to ensure the security and wellbeing of the Pontiff and those serving the Catholic Church.

  The fortifications along the Viale Vaticano faced into the Vatican’s manicured gardens and landscaped lawns dating back to medieval times when vineyards and orchards extended to the north of the Palace. The Vatican Gardens were divided into two main areas by the remains of the medieval walls which encircled the Vatican before the construction of these surviving sixteenth century ramparts. On one side was the park of the Villa Pia and the wood above it while, on the other side, behind the apse of the Basilica, were rolling slopes housing the many monuments in honour of the saints.

  The gardens were adorned with magnificent fountains and groomed box hedges in the characteristic style of the Italian Gardens so popular in the Renaissance era – a place where the Catholic clergy could stroll at leisure and escape the worries of the modern world which seemed to have lost much of its spirituality due to political and scientific pressures in the last two centuries.

  At some point along the exterior western wall, the Swiss Guard stopped the car and told us to get out and to wait there for another escort. His orders, in fairly curt Italian, were designed to intimidate and I was glad to be with St. John who seemed completely unfazed by what was transpiring, the expression on his face unfathomable except for a hint of what might have passed for either boredom or disdain.

  Moments passed before an enclosed golf cart approached in the distance carrying another member of the elite military corp. It almost looked like a smaller version of the bulletproof Mercedes-Benz Popemobile which made my eyes widen in surprise. Fi wouldn’t believe what I was getting up to in Rome.

  Again we were ordered about; told to get into the buggy and driven to the very heart of Vatican City. Travelling past the Pontifical Academy of Sciences and the Monument of St. Peter, situated in the middle of a grassy slope, we approached the rear of St. Peter’s Basilica which rose before us as the Swiss Guard drew to a sharp stop. As I’d only ever seen pictures of the Vatican taken from the famous St. Peter’s Square, the sight of the Basilica from the rear was most unusual but still breathtaking. No one could mistake the famous dome of the Basilica dominating the skyline of Rome and rising to its towering height, all of 448.1 feet tall.

  Looking around, I could see the functional administration building behind us, its external severity typical the world over, and on the left, past St. Peter’s Basilica, the rectangular structure of the Vatican Museums which enclosed the Belvedere, Biblioteca and Pigna courtyards according to the well-marked signposts within the Vatican’s grounds.

  A thought struck me and I turned to St. John and asked, my voice barely a whisper in case anyone was listening to our conversation, ‘How is it that you can walk unscathed on holy ground? Shouldn’t you be like bursting into flames or lightening striking you dead or something? Or is there some password that gets you in?’

  St. John managed to look amused. ‘I was conceived by an angel, Sage. Not a fallen angel. Elijah’s sin led to his fall from grace. I am a result of that sin and, while I may be considered by many in the Church an abomination, I am still part angel.’

  ‘Part heavenly being,’ I whispered, nodding in understanding. Then, clicking my fingers, I continued in a slightly louder voice, ‘So that’s why your wings are white and Elijah’s are black.’

  St. John shot me a warning look and lowered his voice, ‘That’s a result of the Fall of the Grigori.’

  ‘Ah, right,’ I said, nodding as comprehension dawned and I remembered my previous vision.

  St. John continued, his voice still low, ‘There is an old tale that in the year 587, Pope Gregory the Great – a Benedictine monk at the time – saw a group of Angle children for sale in the Roman slave market at Deira, situated in modern Yorkshire. He was so struck with their beauty – their fair skin, blond hair and blue eyes – he asked who they were. He was told they were Angles, and he replied, “Non Angli, sed angeli.”’

  ‘Not Angles, but angels,’ I translated from the Latin, ‘Are you telling me that Pope Gregory really did see angels or, at least, Nephilim? Did he know what he was looking at? He would have had to know, right?’

  St. John just smiled enigmatically, refusing to be drawn into my speculations. I would have said more but we were interrupted by the Swiss Guard who demanded in an abrupt tone, ‘Attenzione!’, and motioned for us to follow him on foot towards the Secret Vatican Archives behind the Porta di St. Anna, adjacent to the Apostolic Library.

  The Vatican Secret Archives were said to house approximately 35,000 volumes in an estimated eighty-four kilometres of shelving, supported by their own Photographic and Conservation Studios – something that both Fi and I would have envied. Amongst the many volumes in the Secret Archives was Henry VIII’s written request to the Holy See for his marriage to Catherine of Aragon to be annulled, the transcripts of the Inquisition, as well as letters written by Michelangelo. It was also rumoured to contain rare items that were strictly forbidden from public viewing such as the Gnostic Bibles, da Vinci’s missing diaries and the lost second book of Aristotle’s Poetics. Of course, no one knew for certain if the rumours were true and I wondered how much more knowledge of Vatican affairs St. John was keeping secret.

  The Vatican Secret Archives were closed for renovations and repairs but the Swiss Guard ushered us through several sets of steel doors that were accessed by keycard entry, down a stairwell whic
h opened out onto a foyer that had two separate combination keypads, and through further electronic security gates to finally arrive outside the double oak doors that marked its entrance. There was a sepulchral silence about the place, cast in heavy shadow, due to the absence of visitors or workmen.

  The Swiss Guard stopped and, ignoring us, spoke in rapid Italian to the closed doors. It was then that I noticed the absence of the traditional clunky walkie talkie which had been replaced by a Bluetooth earpiece. It seemed an anachronism against his Renaissance-styled uniform and the architecture of the Vatican itself but, perhaps, no more so than the high-tech security system of electronic keypads and steel-grilled gates that we’d just passed through.

  He then turned towards us and, in a brusque tone, stated, ‘The Librarian Cardinal will be joining you shortly. I have been instructed to escort you here to meet him. The Swiss Guard are not cleared for access to the Secret Archives but the Librarian Cardinal himself will be your host. It is a great honour.’ He briefly looked us up and down suspiciously, as if he could not believe that the Librarian Cardinal would want anything to do with us, before he continued, ‘When you have finished your visit, you are to wait here in this spot and I will return to fetch you. Please do not go wandering about the grounds by yourselves.’

  He made this last request sound like a threat and I wondered what were the consequences for wandering around the Vatican’s grounds unescorted. Death by firing squad, perhaps? But, looking at his expression as he turned and walked away from us with a militaristic rigidity, I figured that it was better not to know.

  St. John was staring down the long corridor and I turned to follow his gaze at the sound of approaching footsteps.