Seed- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  ‘Sage, Saffron,’ Dad began. He was seated behind the Partners desk with Dr Porterhouse seated opposite on the side closest to us; both of them facing Fi and me. Their female colleague was leaning against the side of the desk, twirling a limited edition Mont Blanc fountain pen between her fingers, apparently unconcerned with the events occurring before her. Dad’s face looked grave, the past twenty-four hours had taken a toll; there seemed to be more silvery strands in his salt-and-pepper hair. He continued sombrely, ‘I think you know why you’re both here.’

  I remained silent, neither confirming nor denying his statement.

  His sad eyes flicked back and forth between the two of us waiting expectantly for an answer.

  Dr Porterhouse frowned in anger, warning us severely, ‘It would be far better for you both if you cooperate. We have the security tapes which show you entering Conservation unauthorised.’

  At that, Fi piped up, ‘That was me. Not Sage. She doesn’t need to be here.’

  For the first time since we entered, Dad’s female colleague looked at us directly. Her eyes, still a warm chocolate brown, did nothing to reassure. ‘I disagree. Your sister is more involved in this than you realise. I suppose you won’t mind telling us how you came to know that the artefact should be placed on the smaller ziggurat?’

  Her question was directed at me; her voice frosty. I noticed that the temperature in the room dropped down a notch.

  There was no reason for me to lie as I had no answer to give that would satisfy them, so I told them the truth, ‘I don’t know.’

  Fi piped up, ‘Sixth sense, perhaps?’

  Dr Porterhouse jumped up to lean threateningly over Fi who refused to cower, ‘Don’t play games, young lady. This is hardly a joke. You have no idea how serious this is.’

  ‘They don’t understand how serious this is,’ Dad defended us, ‘How can you expect them to know that the artefact has disappeared?’

  ‘James,’ the woman intervened, ‘this is hardly helping matters. Why don’t we let them explain what they know?’

  ‘Fine,’ Dr Porterhouse shouted, moving across to stand at the window, hands thrust angrily in his pockets, back rigid. ‘Just tell me what the hell she was doing in Conservation taking photos?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ Fi interrupted, moving up to the desk and seating herself in the seat Dr Porterhouse had vacated. My stomach plummeted as on a roller coaster, the bile rising up my parched throat. I was staring at Fi in horror.

  ‘Safie, what’s going on?’ Dad asked; his voice laced with disappointment.

  Fi shrugged. ‘I was simply taking photos, Dad.’

  ‘That much we already know, young lady.’

  ‘Look, it’s no big deal. I’ll show you, Dad. It’s nothing sinister. And it’s nothing to do with the disappearance of the artefact; we’ve got no idea what that’s about. I can’t see how you can blame us for its disappearance. Blame Security!’ Fi said precociously, throwing back the words we’d heard during Dad’s telephone conversation.

  ‘Fi!’ I implored, feeling greater trepidation than she obviously did. ‘Please!’

  My twin sighed in capitulation and stood up to cross the room, heading towards the door, ‘Okay, okay. I’ll show you. Just give me a minute, please.’

  ‘I want you to come right back!’ Dad warned.

  As Fi exited the room, heaving an irritated sigh, the woman crossed to where Dr Porterhouse stood, whispering something so softly I couldn’t quite catch it. Dad had his head in his hands, eyes closed, as if he couldn’t bear to look at me, his own daughter.

  And I still stood, frozen to the spot, my face partially shielded by a curtain of chestnut hair.

  I could feel St. John’s gaze boring into my back and wondered if he knew how humiliated I felt just now. I wished he didn’t have to be here – to witness me being accused of theft. I don’t know how I would bear it if he thought me a thief.

  From my right, Dr Porterhouse and his colleague were still speaking in hushed tones. Every now and again I caught hold of a word or two; their voices so low they might have been praying in a chapel. I now knew her name was Ellen. And I suspected that she and Dr Porterhouse were intimately involved but, then again, their familiarity might have been due to their working together.

  I was concentrating hard on the paperweight on Dad’s desk when I heard Ellen utter a word that changed everything for me.

  My head came up and I strained to hear what they were saying but the only thing that reverberated in my mind was that one word over and over. I felt the air shifting around me and a familiar feeling of light-headedness swamped me claustrophobically.

  As the door slammed readmitting Fi into the room, I struggled to breathe. In a corner of my mind, I wondered if my fast, shallow breaths would be interpreted as a tell-tale sign of my guilt. Black spots appeared before my eyes as Fi brought a leather-bound photo album into view. In some distant recess I heard the words that she was saying, ‘This is for you, Dad.’ but I couldn’t comprehend them.

  I was losing control, sliding into unconsciousness.

  The feeling of oppression increased until I felt my legs buckling beneath me as Fi cried out in horror, ‘SAGE!’

  The last thing that registered in my mind before I blacked out was the spicy sweetness of beeswax polish, and potpourri, and smoked hickory and apple firewood ... and the feel of a pair of strong arms catching me, lifting me, stopping me from falling.

  Dawn fills the wineglass of morning with champagne melting to a pale rosé. Golden ochre washes away the dew-wet shell of Heaven as I linger in the galleries of green, amongst hanging vines that flourish with the fruits of the earth. The dawn is crisp and delicate and full of angels. They have no faces that are visible and no voices that speak, but their wings beat the air like a pulse. Out of the pink-gold brilliance, the woman comes, hopeful and frightened. Hands outstretched, offering fruit for me to taste. This is the beginning of all places, and the first of all worlds...

  I stirred, struggling to move. My eyelids felt like they were coated in sand and my limbs felt heavy, lethargic. I was reclined on the chesterfield in the study, the scent of beeswax, potpourri and firewood no longer as intense.

  ‘Lie still, relax.’ A strong masculine voice said, hovering close by.

  I relaxed, leaning back against the leather sofa, keeping my eyes closed so I wouldn’t need to face everyone just yet. It was impossible not to respond to that familiar, authoritative voice; so deeply attractive. I was even more aware of him with my eyes closed; of the deep timbre of his voice, of his spicy sandalwood aftershave.

  ‘What happened?’ I whispered.

  ‘Not surprisingly, you fainted,’ his voice held a hint of amusement. ‘How are you feeling now?’

  I opened my eyes. And wished I hadn’t. Brilliant jade flecked with gold gazed back at me with an unfathomable expression. I could feel the heat rise up my throat and face.

  ‘F-f-fine,’ I stuttered in response. Why did he have this effect on me?

  ‘Good. There’s some colour back in your cheeks.’

  If anything, his comment made me blush even harder.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ I asked, realising that we were alone as my gaze flitted around the study, becoming aware of the silence.

  ‘Your mum took your younger siblings out shopping so that the others could discuss matters with you and your sister in private. Dr Porterhouse and Dr Jacobi left shortly after you fainted.’ He summarised succinctly, ‘And your dad and sister have gone to the museum – your dad wanted to compare the photos you took last week in Conservation against others taken earlier. I offered to stay and watch over you until they came back.’

  Several things he said stood out; he’d referred to my Dad, Dr Porterhouse and Dr Jacobi as “the others” but did not include himself with them, which was quite telling; he also continued to claim that it was me who took the photos that day and not Fi. I wondered how he knew and how he could tell Fi and me apart. But, more importantly, he’d offe
red to look after me when I’d lost consciousness – and it was this that caught my attention.

  ‘I wonder how you can bear to be around a thief,’ I questioned, my voice low and unsteady.

  He looked at me sharply, exasperation written all over his face, ‘I never thought of you as being stupid. Do you really think I would believe that of you?’

  I didn’t know what to say. It was amazing how the churning fear and anxiety vanished, amazing how much better I felt at his words. I stared at his face in profound relief.

  ‘I would stake my life on your honesty,’ he said, his voice tight, controlled.

  ‘Even knowing I lied about visiting the museum and sneaking into Conservation and taking photos of the artefact?’ I whispered, surprised at how hoarse my voice sounded.

  He exhaled sharply.

  ‘As I recall it, your sister did all the talking both at dinner the other night and today. You, on the other hand, told me to mind my own business.’ He smiled, ‘I don’t remember you ever having lied to me.’

  I was overawed.

  I lay there in silence, watching his beautiful face in the flickering of the firelight; loose golden curls falling artlessly around it. He might have been crafted by a Renaissance master.

  Lying there, I felt too vulnerable; I struggled to sit up and immediately his arms came around me, assisting me to a more comfortable position. His golden locks brushed against my cheek, his throat exposed as I gripped his shoulder pulling myself up. My lips were so close that if I moved merely a fraction they would be touching his warm skin. As I inhaled sharply, I got a lungful of his aftershave; his concern at my shallow breathing automatic, tightening his grip in case I swooned a second time. Even at that brief contact I trembled.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked anxiously.

  I nodded, feeling able to breathe again as he moved away.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ I asked hesitantly, looking briefly down at my hands tightly gripped together.

  He raised an eyebrow. Obviously he was wary of my tentative tone.

  ‘It’s about the artefact.’ I watched his face to see if he would immediately reject my request, but he was still impassive, unfathomable, so I continued, ‘How did you know it represented a tree?’

  His lips pursed together, ‘How did you know it should be turned upside down onto its smaller base?’

  I laughed, ‘Touché.’

  He smiled slightly, but the look in his eyes remained a mystery, ‘As it happens, I made an educated guess.’

  I leaned back against the sofa, staring blindly at the fire in the grate. Little tongues of blue and orange flame licked the wood until it blackened but all I could see in my mind were images of an hourglass-shaped object. I’d finally understood what the “something else” it represented was. That was the uttered word that triggered my vision. Tree.

  I measured his expression for a moment. ‘Can I ask you another question?’

  He gave a snort, ‘You’re full of questions this evening.’

  ‘Only one more, I promise.’ My words were rushed, pleading.

  As he nodded in assent, I asked, ‘Does the artefact ... Is it ... the first hard evidence of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon?’

  St. John started, his jade green eyes flaring in surprise. ‘What makes you think that?’

  My heart started to climb as I knew somehow I was right. The artefact had to be evidence of the Hanging Gardens. My Dad had spoken of the magical gardens of Nebuchadrezzar II often enough – unlike some scholars, he didn’t believe that they were just a myth. I remembered all those times around the dinner table and before bedtime during my childhood when he’d tell Fi and me about the centuries-old quest by Assyriologists to find this Seventh Wonder of the Ancient World, how it would rewrite the history books. But its location remained as elusive as the final resting place of Alexander the Great, who ironically died in Babylon.

  I could still recall the enthusiasm in my father’s voice as he described the wonders of the city of Babylon when he was left to take care of two hyperactive seven-year-olds, as Mum had given birth to Jasmine and had remained in hospital for five days.

  ‘Imagine a temple the size of a mountain built to the gods. Seven platforms rising in square or rectangular succession with a shrine at the very top, that was accessed by an outer stairway so that the climber had to make a circuit of each platform before reaching the staircase which would take him to the next level. It would be like climbing the stairs of the Eiffel Tower or Empire State Building – I’m sure our Safie would be able to accomplish such a feat easily.’ Dad gave a wink in Fi’s direction, turning back to my eager face. ‘The Tower of Babel was a ziggurat which inspired the design of the tower in Fritz Lang’s film, Metropolis. Even the Guggenheim Museum where Mum has her exhibitions is an inverted form of a ziggurat, and the Secret Intelligence Service HQ Building in London is also influenced by it.’

  ‘Tell us about the Hanging Gardens, Dad,’ I begged.

  My father removed his glasses and began to polish them the way he always did when he was about to give me a challenge.

  ‘Do you know what the Greek word “kremastos” means?’ When I shook my head and scowled, feeling slightly disappointed that I couldn’t answer, he asked, ‘What about the Latin word “pensilis”?’

  Immediately, I perked up. ‘Yes, it means “overhanging”, I think.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Dad said, smiling. ‘The Hanging Gardens of Babylon didn’t hang in the literal sense, as this name derives from an incorrect translation. The meaning is closer to the Overhanging Gardens of Babylon.’

  Fi pouted. ‘That sounds lame. The Hanging Gardens sounds way more cool, Dad.’

  He laughed, ruffling Fi’s hair. ‘Well, according to one historian, the Gardens consisted of vaulted terraces raised one above the other, resting upon cube-shaped pillars. The pillars were hollow and filled with earth to allow trees of the largest size to be planted. Can you imagine what it must have been like to see trees growing out from these enormous pillars?’

  ‘Why do I have to imagine them? Why can’t I see them?’ Fi demanded, growing restless at the conversation, wanting instead to watch The Mummy on TV as Dad was a softer touch than our mother who censored our viewing. ‘Is it because of the war?’

  ‘No, Safie,’ Dad replied, ‘it’s because we still haven’t found the Hanging Gardens. There have been descriptions of the Gardens themselves in historians’ records but, unfortunately, no maps – not even a set of directions...’

  Inside Dad’s study, I felt that history was whispering to me...

  I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. I was certain of it. ‘Because it’s a map, isn’t it? A tree that represents the Hanging Gardens and a map that points the way there.’

  He watched me carefully as he spoke. ‘We can’t be sure about that. There’s no evidence that the Hanging Gardens of Babylon even exist. Of all the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, no evidence has ever been found. Not a single trace has ever been unearthed; no foundations, no temples, no aqueducts, not even a cuneiform tablet.’

  I sat upright, my voice now excited as I said more forcefully, ‘But here’s the proof, the evidence – what more do you need?’

  His voice hardened, ‘What proof? What evidence? We don’t even have the artefact anymore.’

  I’d forgotten about that and managed to look shamefaced as I muttered, ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. But–’

  St. John interrupted me, the fury was plain on his face, ‘Don’t you think we’ve been through this – your dad, Dr Porterhouse, Dr Jacobi and me? Don’t you think we’ve called in all the experts to give their opinions? If – and I mean if – if it was evidence of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon it would be one of the greatest finds of the twenty-first century. Hell, it would be one of the greatest finds in the archaeology of Mesopotamia.’

  Feeling foolish, I remained silent as he continued, ‘Look, unquestionably the artefact is a phenomenon – a rare find. We have nothing like it. Not
hing we can compare it to. Even the accounts of Strabo and Diodorus Siculus or information that’s come from Berossus don’t give any details for us to work with.’

  ‘But what do you think?’ I demanded, ‘Can’t it be evidence of the Hanging Gardens? What if the gardens really existed? What if we could use the artefact to find where it was located?’

  St. John just shook his head bemused. ‘You’re like a Terrier – small, cute and cuddly but you just won’t let go. Sage, listen to me, we just don’t have enough proof and with the artefact missing we may never have.’ He paused then, his mouth turning up at the corners, reminding me, ‘Besides, you promised to only ask one more question, not half a dozen.’

  I blushed in embarrassment. It was true. I had promised him.

  The sound of a car purring down the driveway made me feel self-conscious. I’d been sitting here alone with St. John for over an hour. Admittedly, I had passed out earlier and was still feeling slightly woozy but now I also felt flustered, especially at the thought of being so familiar, almost intimate, with him.

  I stood up and moved towards the doorway to escape from the room before anybody arrived home and found us, but St. John was at the door before me, chivalrously opening it and standing a little to the side so that I could precede him into the hallway. As I moved to pass him, I let my hair fall forward to shield my face from betraying my response to his nearness.

  ‘Sage,’ he murmured, stopping me in my tracks.

  I turned to look up at him. His impressive height dwarfed me yet I didn’t feel overwhelmed, instead it was reassuring and protective. His fingers lightly brushed the hair from my face.

  ‘Look up,’ he said softly, his voice a caress.

  I did as he bid. Hanging above us, in the lintel of the doorway was the mistletoe Mum had bought and placed there this afternoon while we were in the woods.

  My eyes flew to St. John’s face, my heart flipping over wildly. His eyes had deepened to an emerald green, the golden flecks more pronounced, the expression in them filled with an unidentifiable emotion.

  ‘You’re still too young for me,’ he murmured, his fingertips lifting my chin with a touch as soft as a dove’s wing; infinitely gentle, infinitely slow.