Scroll- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  ‘Je sais pas ... I’m not an historian, Saffron. You would do better to ask your father,’ Gabriel replied, almost apologetically, ‘But I can tell you that the Seven Sages were a manifestation of the unpredictable forces of the Apsu. According to the Mesopotamian notion of the cosmos, the earth was a solid, disc-like expanse within a huge body of water. Below the earth was the Apsu; the subterranean waters. In the later written tradition, the Apsu was connected with the Underworld.’

  I gave a small start when he mentioned the connection between the Seven Sages connected to the Underworld which Gabriel must have interpreted as a brief display of fear as he hastened to reassure me that in no way were the Seven Sages allied to the Grigori.

  ‘In fact,’ Gabriel pronounced, with a hint of mischief in his dimpled smile, ‘the Seven Sages often appear in magic texts and incantations as fish-like creatures.’

  My eyes widened. ‘That’s so weird! Like the Christian symbol of the fish? It has something to do with the sacred too, right?’

  ‘Oui, oui, oui. It is linked to Genesis, I believe. A mythic origin of Adam. A representation of the fish-man or fisher-men,’ Gabriel replied.

  ‘A fisher of men,’ I murmured.

  I rubbed my thumb nervously over the rim of the cut crystal glass, shouldering the weight of Gabriel’s unfathomable silver-grey gaze.

  ‘The masks worn by some of the priests in ancient ceremonies and rituals represented on cylinder seals and many Assyrian reliefs demonstrate the sacred power of the Seven Sages. It is believed that the Seven Sages are capable of warding off evil,’ Gabriel claimed, finishing his tale.

  ‘But how is that possible?’ I exclaimed in consternation, feeling the least likely candidate to be a Wise One and wondering what my own role was to be in the days to come, receiving only as a reply one of Gabriel’s cryptic shrugs.

  ‘Je sais pas,’ Gabriel shook his head. ‘But, je crois, the Seven Sages were sent by Enki to teach humankind the arts of civilisation. In the Erra Epic, they are called “the Seven Sages of the Apsu, the pure paradu fish who... have been endowed with sublime wisdom.” As St. John has often said, it is a pity that Berossus’ Babyloniaca did not survive in its entirety or we may know more of the Seven Sages.’

  This time at Gabriel’s words I really did give a shocked start, unable to control sloshing the remainder of my brandy over the edge of the crystal glass which I still cupped in my hands.

  ‘T’inquiète, Saffron! You must not worry!’ Gabriel attempted to reassure me, removing my glass and taking my hands in his own. ‘All will be revealed in time. You must simply have some faith.’

  I didn’t know if I had either patience or faith enough. I wasn’t like Sage.

  But I made a mental note to look up the information on the net when I returned home, feeling the need to know more about the Seven Sages and the Mesopotamian myths. I briefly wondered how one would go about finding any useful information that stemmed from the ancient myths. Were myths based on some kind of reality? Would the facts be obscured or the truth lost to time?

  ‘This is about a boy, n’est-ce pas?’ Gabriel’s quiet observation shook me out of my reverie.

  I realised he was referring to the accident with the clock. My automatic response would normally have been a sarcastic retort about his perceptiveness, but I held it back realising that none of this was Gabriel’s fault. If anything, I was even angrier with Finn now than before, because he could have just told me about the Pleiades connection to the Seven Sages and the Wise One rather than dropping cryptic hints and riddles. And while I could have stated that I hardly supposed Finn, a Nephilim of perhaps similar age to St. John and Gabriel, could be called a “boy”, his obvious boyish looks would certainly classify him as such in the eyes of many who didn’t know any better. If I were being honest, even I thought he was not much older than me when I’d first met him.

  Gabriel was waiting patiently for my response, but I chose to keep the details of Finn’s involvement to myself for now, knowing very well that Sage would have confided in St. John and, in turn, the knowledge of Finn’s existence would eventually make its rounds to Gabriel. Besides, I reasoned, that it would have been revealing too much about someone I knew very few details about but had become far too fascinated with.

  Looking at Gabriel, I responded as truthfully as possible, ‘It’s more to do with the part that I might have to play in all of this. I mean, what’s the Wise One supposed to do anyway? Like I know that we’re supposed to return the Seed to its origin, but what does that mean? The Seed is merely half of a map – a cosmic map – like an ancient navigational tool that’s pointing us in a particular direction. But we need to find the other half of the map, the part that will lead us to a location in the real world. That’s supposed to be my task but I don’t even know where to start. I know that this second part of the map was last seen in the Library of Alexandria. But I’m clueless. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack...’

  Though Gabriel seemed sombre now and didn’t say anything, I was grateful at least that he hadn’t dismissed my views out of hand. Silver-grey eyes probed mine.

  ‘And I just feel,’ I continued, my voice barely above a whisper, ‘that we’re already way behind the enemy. The Grigori have extraordinary powers and, I’m guessing, were able to smuggle the Seed out of the Garden of Eden somehow. But they also have both a rare astrolabe and the only copy of a unique Almanach Perpetuum by Rabbi Abraham Zacuto. They must have known what magic it could perform. They now know that the Keeper of the Seed has been united with the Wise One. Perhaps they even know that Sage isn’t the only Wise One...’

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

  ‘And this business with Interpol,’ I kept my eyes upon his hauntingly beautiful face, heedful to see if he would interrupt or contradict me, but he was still impassive, unfathomable, so I continued, ‘it seems almost too convenient. I wonder how much Louis is manipulating the investigation. It seems all too convenient. You know ... like smoke and mirrors...’

  His lips pursed together as he repeated, ‘“Smoke and mirrors”? You think, like I do, that it is somehow a ruse, a distraction? They have the upper hand, perhaps. Nos adversaires on tune longueur d’avance sur nous.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘The Grigori are playing with us; trying to divide us, weaken us.’

  Gabriel started, his silver-grey eyes flaring in surprise. ‘Tiens! It is what I have been trying to tell St. John for a while, but he does not listen. But you– faisons le tour de cette question avant d’agir. I mean to say, let us examine this carefully, Saffron. What makes you think this?’

  My heart started to accelerate wildly again as I knew somehow I was right. “If, for the sake of argument, it was a financial venture instead, and you wanted to get ahead and stay ahead of your opponents, your rivals, what would you do? Engage in corporate warfare? Use subterfuge? Would you stoop to insider trading? How far would you go? While they’re so busy trying to checkmate your moves, chasing their tails, you’d be in the clear. Home free. Think about it. If they can test our weaknesses, look for flaws, they’ll know just where we’re vulnerable and how best to formulate an attack...’

  Gabriel just shook his head bemused. ‘Mon Dieu! Formidable! I believe you are right. I am afraid that St. John, who refuses to use his power, underestimates the lengths the enemy will go to in order to regain Paradise. He is too honourable, too moral. He is like his father. He cannot recognise the darkness because there is no darkness in him.’

  Sighing, I felt suddenly chilled. All I could see was trouble looming ahead.

  Gabriel, however, refused to allow me to feel defeated.

  ‘You are not, perhaps, interested in pursuing a career in merchant banking?’ he asked, pulling me to my feet to lead me to the kitchen in order to cook dinner, ‘Because I think, ma mignonne, I will have to offer you employment in my firm.’

  And this time, in a most unlikely gesture for me, I felt myself blushing hotly in r
esponse to his obvious admiration at the slipperiness of the workings of my mind.

  A STRANGER ENCOUNTER

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  At the central train station in Lyon the following noon, an official-looking vehicle, proudly displaying Interpol’s distinctive light-blue emblem of the globe framed by olive branches and the scales of justice, accompanied by an equally bureaucratic-looking driver in uniform were waiting to convey me to the headquarters of the world’s largest international police organisation, boasting one hundred and eighty-eight member countries. I knew little about Interpol, except that its mission was to protect and combat international crime, and wondered at its involvement in what seemingly was little more than art theft. There was no proof, as far as I could tell, that the artefact had indeed been smuggled out of London and had crossed international borders. Besides which, Gabriel had briefly mentioned to me the charter of Interpol, finding it highly amusing that it was breaching its own mandate which prohibited any intervention or activities of a political, military, religious or racial nature. It seemed that the agency was being unwittingly drawn into something it was not prepared for and that went against its very charter.

  As I slid into the rear seat of the black BMW, I knew that Gabriel was not far behind, following my progress from a stealthy distance. The driver, a swarthy, dark-haired man, was disinclined to talk which suited me just fine. I doubted whether I would have been able to keep up the flow of conversation in any case with my poor knowledge of his native tongue. But his lack of conversation left me free to study the unfamiliar views that unfolded as soon as we were underway and gave me some time to reflect upon what lay ahead.

  I had donned my suit of armour that morning with a view to being chic, sophisticated and self-confident. I’d deliberately worn the most sensible outfit I had brought with me – which was depressingly all in black and felt as restrictive and conservative as a school uniform – and kept my makeup minimal. The suit, spun from a fine cashmere and silk, composed of a knee-length pleated skirt topped with a button-down jacket. Under this I wore a V-collared knitted top with lace sleeves and matched it with sheer black stockings and stilettos. The outfit was beautifully tailored and classy. But I hated it. It wasn’t me. The only items in my ensemble I could lay claim to were my underwear and the shoes; the rest I had pilfered from Sage’s wardrobe before I’d left. I hoped, given the way that we’d parted and the state of affairs as they stood, that she would not miss them before I had an opportunity to place them back in her wardrobe. Again, it felt like I was donning a persona like some actor readying themselves for their first screen test.

  I hated to admit it but Sage had been right; Gabriel’s presence was indeed reassuring. Somehow while I had spent the night restlessly tossing and turning in St. John’s guest bedroom, which was the epitome of indulgence and comfort, Gabriel had wrought a miracle – the debris in the study had been cleared away as if it had never been and new tiles around the fireplace had been laid in my absence. The only missing feature was the antique Ormolu clock on the mantle but, remarkably, Gabriel had reassured me that he would be able to find a replacement. It was merely a matter of money – and he had more than enough of that. I’d spluttered my way through an apology and an offer of repayment but, to Gabriel, the point was moot – the material world was inconsequential, even though he quite enjoyed the little luxuries that wealth provided.

  I found his response astounding and thinking about him even now continued to baffle me. I had been quite certain that I’d had him pegged; that he was, more or less, a decadent hedonist. But I was wrong. Behind the suave, urbane façade was a complex creature. He was such an enigmatic figure that I doubted I would ever be able to fathom him.

  I was shaken out of my reverie by the transition of the car’s tyres which had been noisily chewing up the tarred road suddenly turning onto smooth paving as the headquarters of the International Criminal Police Organisation, known as Interpol, loomed ahead. As we stopped to pass the security check-point, I took my first long look.

  The building was monstrous.

  Its exterior was an impenetrable fortress of heavy concrete columns towering into the sky – a style favoured by officialdom the world over, from city halls to university administrative buildings, to give an impression of inviolability. Behind the severe concrete pillars of the surrounding portico was a reflective glass tetragon, mirroring its urbanised surrounds back upon itself and keeping its secrets away from prying eyes.

  It was meant to intimidate.

  But it made me wince as my aesthetic sensibilities were assaulted by piles of concrete and sheets of glass. I could now understand why Renauld had requested the interrogation to take place here rather than at my home or the British Museum. It was appropriately imposing in a no-nonsense, coldly inflexible way.

  As the bullish driver held the car door open for me, I stepped out into the chill winter wind. It seemed I was to enter the building by myself without an escort as no one was present to greet me. I ascended the concrete steps leading to the entrance, the further I went the greater the distance between me and the civilised world, until I reached the glass doorway that mirrored my own doubts and stepped through.

  Isolating metal barriers and X-ray machines of the kind that could be found in any international airport were the only interruptions to the naked expanse of glass, chrome and marble. Proceeding through the gates, I was asked to remove my jacket, shoes and handbag, and place them in the trays provided to be X-rayed.

  The marble floor beneath my stockinged feet felt cold. The atmosphere was wintry. I would find no sympathetic, friendly gazes here. I was on my own.

  I was given back my possessions and a Visitor’s Pass stamped with the day’s date and asked to follow a burly, uniformed security guard to the interview rooms where my meeting with Renauld was to be held. The security guard – who, I suspected, from his appearance was a native of Algeria – kept his back to me, never once engaging me in small talk. With business-like precision he measured out his paces to the elevator and from the elevator to the interview rooms, depositing me with all the efficiency of a couriered parcel.

  The interview room was appropriately furnished as an office, it wasn’t too large but it was well out of the way of the offices where the main detective work was performed. Down a narrow corridor, my heart hammering as loudly as my stiletto heels on the marble floor before it gave way to midnight blue carpet, I was brought to a nondescript door and ushered inside to be seated in a functional metal chair where I was to face Jacques Renauld across the desk. They obviously didn’t have comfort in mind when they’d conceived of this place.

  The chair was high-backed and stiff, and creaked ominously whenever I shifted my slight frame. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped by degrees from the outside, yet I was not prepared to put my jacket back on in case they interpreted this as a gesture of fear. I was in no doubt that the large reflective glass at one the end of the room was peopled behind with agents taking in my every move.

  But I had time to look around and observe my surroundings before Renauld appeared.

  It was a smaller room than I had expected; windowless and sparsely furnished. A nondescript shade of grey which might once have been a dull blue layered the walls. A functional stool was stationed near the door. A solid but heavily scratched desk flanked by two chairs, one of which I was occupying, stood under the sole vent; a duct so narrow that escape through it was impossible. And a CCTV camera winked in the topmost corner; its red light indicating that they were recording my activities as I waited for my inquisitor to arrive.

  When they did, I realised that the room had been chosen deliberately – I was to be closeted with my interrogators in frightening, claustrophobic proximity. I was only half aware of the presence of the middle-aged female agent sitting almost motionless on the stool in the corner by the door. My focus was on the two men whose combined presence filled the smallest vacancies of this closeted space and I found myself studying Renauld for th
e first time. He seemed much larger than the tall, broad figure on his right – another agent that was instantly forgettable; a stereotype of a crew-cut, grey-haired department clerk.

  Jacques Renauld. King Kong. What sprang to mind instantly was how huge, how over-sized he seemed in this cramped little room. The dark hair and beard, and beneath his furrowed forehead a brush of thick eyebrow, a mono-brow, increased the sense of rough, untamed animality – an impression oddly at variance with the expertly tailored cut of his out-dated, pinstriped suit. One huge hand was waved in a dismissive gesture for the other agent to take a seat – the only other unoccupied seat in the room facing me – so that Renauld remained standing, dwarfing us all.

  But his face claimed all my attention. It was the face of a boxer. The face of a boozer. His skin retained the ruddiness of an alcoholic, red and blotched, the bluish veins standing out prominently under the surface, so that the whites of his deep-set eyes seemed bloodshot by comparison.

  And it was then that I realised the truth. This was not a well man.

  The splotchiness of his skin may have been caused by advanced melanoma – its cancerous cells dividing and attacking its host. I’d been warned often enough about damage to the skin under the harsh Australian sun, learning the message to use water-resistant sunscreen the hard way, resulting from a particularly painful experience of sunburn after hours spent surfing at Bondi, which left my shoulders lobster-red and peeling. As much as Renauld wished to disguise his disease, it was obvious to me. Under the bushiness of his facial hair, his cheekbones jutted in angular anomaly, giving an impression of gauntness.

  And yet he still exuded a contained energy. This was a man with nothing left to lose. What would he care about me? He’d happily throw me to the wolves.

  These morbid images pervaded my mind as I sat there waiting for them to address me and I had to recollect my surroundings, forcing myself to focus on the fact that he was merely a senior policeman or detective with Interpol, bound by their charter and judicial system, and paid to do a job.