Scroll- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  The beauty of his voice, its light musical quality, now rang out with authority and took on an ancient wisdom which seemed at odds with his youthfulness. But there was no mistaking the intensity of his purpose.

  ‘Why are you helping me?’ I asked suspiciously, unwilling to believe that he was being philanthropic.

  He must have sensed my reservation and underlying hostility as his face was wreathed in what appeared to be sorrow or regret, but he answered me frankly, ‘Because it is in my interest to do so.’

  I was uncertain how to respond but nodded hesitantly, recognising his words for the truth. I would never have believed him if he’d said he’d fallen in love with me. I wasn’t stupid enough to fall for some line just because it came out of the mouth of some cute guy. Nor would I have trusted him if he’d claimed that he wanted to help the Anakim. But, instead, he’d said no such thing. It was written in his eyes. Brilliant, supernatural blue. He seemed so close now that I could almost imagine his breath fanning my face. My mind was in turmoil; blood was pounding in my ears. He stared at me unblinking, cast into the same spell as me.

  Damn, but he was way too gorgeous, and it was such a pity he was my type ... mysterious, dark, dangerous ... And he was ... well, I guess he was the enemy. Why’d it have to be this way? I just knew it was going to end in tragedy for one of us...

  But the spell was abruptly broken. The lone, haunting cry of a bird of prey in the wilderness jolted us back to reality. And I stood again at the edge of the forest with him barely a metre away under the cover of shadow.

  He was the first to recover.

  ‘I had better go. Kemwer awaits my return,’ he said sombrely as he turned away from me, shoulders hunched, his stance familiar to me now as if he was afraid of rejection.

  ‘Wait!’ I cried, holding out a hand as if to stop him from leaving.

  He paused, looking back over his shoulder at me. ‘What is it?’

  Stupidly, I realised I had no reason to keep him with me but felt an overwhelming impulse just to be near him – maybe due to the brief connection we’d experienced, I didn’t know for sure. I fumbled around for something to say and finally came out with, ‘But I don’t even know your name! It’s Phoenix, isn’t it?’

  ‘Finn,’ he muttered, as if it were some secret.

  ‘Finn?’ I repeated, blinking in bewilderment, ‘Isn’t that Irish?’

  He stiffened slightly and I realised that somehow I’d managed to surprise and offend him. ‘It’s the name I prefer. My mother refused to name me for my father as is tradition, and instead named me for her people before she passed away.’

  Anxiety slowed my responses; I could not even stammer an apology before he turned again and hurried away from me.

  As he disappeared under the arch of silver birch trees in the distance, moving faster than I had anticipated, I called out after him, ‘My name’s Fi!’

  A tinkling of bells was heard in return, floating out from the cover of the forest. ‘I know who you are, Saffron Woods, Daughter of Ishtar. Better than you know yourself.’

  I stood, listening, until the sound of his voice faded completely away and I was alone. The sun was just breaking beyond the horizon now; its glorious warmth spilling onto the patchy snow and icicles on the branches and eaves, lending them the glimmer of gold.

  Then realising that my feet and hands were freezing and that if I didn’t hurry my mother would be awake and angry with me for risking a relapse, I turned back to the Manor House.

  Ensconced in the warmth of the breakfast room, absentmindedly sipping away at my café latte and staring out the window towards Satis House, I reflected upon Finn’s mystical words and strange but powerful ability to project images into my mind; images that were so real that I could have sworn time and space had indeed shifted. Sage had informed me of her encounter with St. John’s true father, a member of the Grigori who had the same uncanny ability, but I wasn’t aware of any Nephilim inheriting such rare power. Maybe it should have concerned me, but it didn’t seem as if Finn intended to hurt me. In fact, he’d implied that he was there to protect and assist me in the quest to find the Scroll – simply because it served his own purposes and for no other reason.

  But all the rest of his cryptic message – the Daughters of Ishtar, the star of Ishtar, the Pleiades – bewildered me. I knew I would have to confer with Sage whose understanding of ancient history was far better than mine, and yet I was loath to do so, as there was something in my encounters with this strange young man that I wanted to keep just to myself.

  I didn’t know why Finn held such a fascination for me. There was no doubt he was the most handsome guy I’d ever met, but the attraction I felt bordered on frustration rather than lovesick mooning, which I’d seen so often in many of my friends’ reactions to hot guys and celebrities. It frustrated me that he was so enigmatic – but that was perhaps the source of his attraction. I just couldn’t fathom him. He was a closed book. I knew virtually nothing about him while he, on the other hand, seemed to know almost everything about me – and things I didn’t even know myself. It disturbed me that for weeks he’d been actively avoiding me since I’d first seen him at Satis House, and yet today he had deliberately sought me out, claiming that he was going to help me find the other part of the map.

  But what was even more intriguing was that he had to be one of the loneliest, saddest people I’d ever met – every now and again I would catch a look in his eye that was part despair and equally fierce longing. And I had no idea what it meant or what was the cause of such misery. But I longed to find out.

  ‘Safie, you’re up early. Feeling better then?’

  I spun around in my chair, startled out of my daydream, to face my father who had entered the kitchen silently and was now standing at the granite-topped counter selecting from amongst the various coloured Nespresso capsules. Choosing one of dull gold to load into the coffee machine, his face was a study in concentration. The coffee machine was brand new, given as a Christmas present from Mum, and Dad was still struggling to work out its relatively simple mechanics. I waited until he’d removed his freshly-poured espresso from the machine then mumbled a suitable response to his question as he came to sit beside me at the breakfast table.

  Switching on the BBC News, Dad settled himself back in his seat to watch whilst sipping away at his coffee. A spate of sensational reports ensued – another terrorist attack overseas; the bizarre case of a young heavily pregnant woman whose foetus was stolen from her mutilated corpse; and a controversial football win which ended in fans brawling in the street. Even I knew that such news of sectarian violence would not be welcome at the museum, as the UN had cancelled all on-going work on archaeological sites in Iraq until these random, violent acts of terrorism died down, but it seemed unlikely that this would happen for a very long time. I could read the frustration on my father’s face, deep frown lines etched almost permanently onto his weathered skin, as his continued efforts to preserve the history of Iraq and Iran and elsewhere in the Middle East slipped further away with the unceasing global conflicts.

  In an effort to distract him, but also because it occurred to me that I needn’t only ask Sage for information, I decided to go straight to the source and ask Dad for the answers I was seeking.

  I began cautiously, keeping the eagerness from my voice, ‘Dad, who was Ishtar?’

  My father’s eyebrows furrowed in a familiar quizzical expression as he shifted in his chair to face me, and I realised how strange it must have sounded to him that his normally uninterested daughter was now enquiring about his favourite topic; ancient history. I felt the need to give some sort of explanation that wouldn’t arouse his suspicions.

  ‘And whose idea was it to decorate the entrance of the museum like the Ishtar Gate on New Year’s Eve? I thought it was sick ... um, I mean ... awesome.’

  Dad’s face brightened considerably. ‘Oh, you liked it? It was a team effort actually. I must admit I’m quite chuffed at how it turned out. But to answer your
question,’ he paused, considering his words, ‘Ishtar, also known as Inanna, is the Babylonian goddess of war and fertility, celebrated as the Queen of Heaven and mistress of the sky. To the Greeks, she was known as Aphrodite; to the Romans, Venus. She’s commonly associated with the planet Venus in its double manifestation of morning and evening star and, as you can see on the Ishtar Gate, the winged lion. One of the most famous myths about Ishtar is her descent into the Underworld–’

  I gave a start which luckily he failed to notice, wondering if it was possible that it was Ishtar’s voice I had heard before falling ill, but as Dad continued his explanation I refocused my attention on what he was saying.

  ‘–some scholars believe that she descended to the Underworld to rescue her lover, Tammuz or Dumuzi, as it was claimed that her love and obsession was responsible for his death. But a similar Sumerian myth has shed greater insight into her journey highlighting her restless ambition for greater power. The story of her visit to the Underworld, which is preserved in both Sumerian and Akkadian, is shown as a bid to extend her influence into the realm of the dead, which was ruled by her pale alter ego, her sister, Ereshikigal.’

  Sisters? Like twins? I wanted to ask Dad about this but by now he was getting totally into his explanation, liking nothing better than to talk about ancient Mesopotamia.

  He continued, not even checking to see if I was still listening, ‘She descended into the Underworld passing through the Seven Gates and, naked and vulnerable, was brought into her sister’s presence. But in the ensuing struggle between the two sisters, she was left lifeless, and the world above suffered from a loss of fertility. The story continues to demonstrate that she could only return from the Underworld if she sent someone back to replace her amongst the dead. I expect it wasn’t easy as everyone she met on the way was either a friend or a loved one, so she let them go free – at great cost to herself.’

  ‘So what happened to her?’ I asked, intrigued, getting caught up in the story in spite of myself.

  ‘Well, finally, returning to her home, she saw that her beloved Tammuz was on the throne. I suppose she expected a heartfelt welcome from her beloved, but there was no tearful reunion as, in her absence, he hadn’t mourned her at all. In fact, the opposite was true. So in her anger she sent the demons to take Tammuz to the Underworld in her place. You can read about Ishtar in The Epic of Gilgamesh ... a woman scorned and all that.’

  ‘Tammuz sounds like a total bastard! What a jerk! Typical male!’ I exclaimed hotly, feeling indignation on the goddess’ behalf, ‘I think he deserved what he got! He betrayed her love for him!’

  Dad made a sound like he was choking and held his hand up to cover his mouth as if to cough, but I saw his lips quivering suspiciously and knew he was secretly amused at my defence of the Babylonian goddess who had been slighted by her lover.

  ‘I wouldn’t get too upset on her behalf,’ Dad warned, still smirking, ‘there are many other myths that show her nasty streak. Things aren’t always what they seem, Safie.’

  I gave Dad a weak smile but felt a slight shiver go through me. It was the second time in a matter of hours that I’d been told the exact same thing. So cryptic. A warning to be cautious. Things aren’t what they seem. What did it mean? Was I meant to keep an open mind?

  ‘If you’re interested there are several cylinder seals on display at the museum depicting the various myths associated with Ishtar. They’re really quite something.’

  I knew that Dad was hoping I might finally take an interest in his work in ancient Mesopotamian history. It wasn’t exactly subtle but I couldn’t blame him for attempting to prove that historical discourse was as exciting as art – it wasn’t his fault that I’d turned out more like Mum.

  ‘Well, maybe I might take a look,’ I conceded, but there was an obvious tone of hesitation in my voice as I didn’t want Dad to think that I’d developed a real interest in ancient history and end up being disappointed that it was only a passing fancy.

  Dad must have heard it too as he shrugged his shoulders, stating, ‘It was just a thought.’ before turning his attention back to the BBC News.

  I hesitated momentarily but, unwilling to drop the subject, I decided to ask one further question.

  ‘Dad, have you ever heard of the Daughters of Ishtar?’

  He turned his head to look at me, hazel coloured eyes blinking owlishly behind his silver-rimmed spectacles. ‘I can’t say that I have, Safie. Of course, a number of texts refer to Ishtar’s cult and festivals. We know that Ishtar’s temple cult was composed of holy prostitutes–’

  ‘What? They were prostitutes?’ I exclaimed indignantly, feeling my entire body stiffen in rejection of his words.

  ‘Well, actually, we do know of sacred male prostitutes who were castrated and gave lifelong devotion to the goddess. Transsexuals and perhaps homosexuals too.’ Dad explained calmly.

  ‘But ... but what about the women?’

  ‘Look, the practice of prostitution during this period wasn’t morally censured. It was common. A peculiar feature of Mesopotamian culture was ritual prostitution. Think of it as female liberation – you’re always going on about that.’ Trust Dad to try to justify it! ‘Numerous women escaped the narrow bonds of patriarchal marriage in the service of the goddess. To the temples of the fertility goddess were attached bordellos served by women who were consecrated and represented Ishtar. They were priestesses of the temple. The belief was that these individuals were in communion with the divine principles of life and renewed their vital forces through ritual intercourse. According to the Code of Hammurabi, these women were highly respected. In fact, they probably performed ancient fertility rights where ritual intercourse occurred between priests and priestesses.’

  ‘You mean like in The da Vinci Code?’ I asked rather dubiously, feeling totally grossed out, just like Sophie Neveu on discovering her grandfather’s dirty little secret.

  He nodded in agreement. ‘Precisely like that, I’d expect, but without the secrecy. Remember, this was a religious ritual.’

  Great! So Finn thought I was this Daughter of Ishtar! Like a ... a prostitute! And I’d actually thought he was being nice to me ... flattered myself that he might even be interested in me! Eeuw! Gross!

  I felt my anger mounting at such an insult. It wasn’t like I’d never had a boyfriend or been out on dates before – it wasn’t even as if I hadn’t engaged in some sexual exploration – but nothing serious had developed between any of the guys I’d gone out with and I was willing just to wait for things to happen when they happened. For Finn to claim I was a Daughter of Ishtar – even if it was some sacred cult thing – was really quite offensive. Determined to give him a good piece of my mind the next time I saw him, I sat seething in contemplation of my revenge.

  From now on, he could keep his stupid opinions to himself! I didn’t need his help!

  ‘Safie, don’t look so shocked! Honestly, you feminists are all the same!’

  ‘Oh! Epic fail!’ I replied hotly, screwing up my face in righteous indignation. ‘Wait till I tell Mum what you just said!’

  He laughed, throwing up his hands in entreaty. ‘Okay, okay, I take it back! Look, Ishtar stands for the erotic potential of city life which is set apart from the strict social control of the tribal community or village. She frequents the taverns and alehouses where men could meet women, and is said to prowl the city streets in search of sexual adventure.’

  Seriously, could this get any worse? Dad made it sound like she was some drunk uni student hooking up with some guy she met in a pub for a shag ... No! He made it sound like she was a young Brit holidaying in Ibiza! Eeuw! Gross!

  Dad gave a flippant shrug before continuing.

  ‘Copulation in the streets was apparently a normal and joyful event, Safie, and the young people who were celibate – sleeping in their own beds alone – were singled out as a most worrying state of affairs. Think of it as the first example of “free love”, challenging conventional sexuality.’ Dad’s lips were c
urved into a patronising smile. ‘Even at the Akitu festival there would normally have been the performance of a ritual intercourse in the temple. Of course, there might also have been a ritual sacrifice, though there’s very little evidence, if any, to support this...’

  Ugh! No more! I blocked my ears. I decided I didn’t want to listen to the rest which was starting to sound worse and worse.

  Luckily, I was saved from hearing any further sordid details and gross descriptions as Mum entered the kitchen, managing to light up the room and distract Dad with her barely restrained vitality. Even with her hair mussed from sleep and in her dressing gown, she exuded a raw sensuality and energy.

  ‘Well, speak of the devil ... here’s a Daughter of Ishtar for you,’ Dad joked, reaching out to grab Mum around the waist. I almost gagged in response. ‘Actually, more a goddess than a priestess...’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Mum asked suspiciously, swatting Dad’s hand away as she skirted the table and sat down beside me, Indy at her heels. Not giving Dad an opportunity to answer, she turned to me and asked in a concerned tone, ‘How are you feeling, honey? Are you sure you should be out of bed?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum. Honestly,’ I sighed, rolling my eyes in the hope that she wouldn’t fuss or ask what I’d had for breakfast.

  Mum looked at me, a long, searching look, then shaking her head, smiled a little ruefully before again facing Dad to ask him about our previous conservation which she’d interrupted. I let Dad explain it to her as I tuned out their discussion, which eventually turned to my younger siblings starting school within the fortnight, to focus once more on the line of trees in the distance beyond the window pane. I might have continued to ignore them if Mum hadn’t mentioned that mail had arrived for me during the week and was piled up on the table in the hallway.

  I excused myself from the breakfast table to take a look. As I made my way to the front of the house, I found that during my recovery someone had taken down the Christmas decorations. The stairwell was stripped of the boughs of holly, no mistletoe was to be found hanging from the lintel of the library now, and the Christmas tree had been removed from the drawing room. Only the haunting scent of pine needles lingered behind.