Scroll- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  ‘Ah, le café! Parfait! Just what I need!’ Gabriel’s silver-grey eyes held a glint of satisfaction as he placed the hessian bag containing the bakery items he had bought on the kitchen counter, helped himself to the espresso I had just made for myself, and elegantly folded his tall frame onto one of the high-backed wooden chairs at the breakfast table. ‘And did you sleep well, mon petit chou?’

  I replied noncommittally as I began the tedious process of making myself another cup of coffee, no thanks to him, ‘Perfectly well, thank you.’

  Gabriel looked at me thoughtfully before he said, ‘Très bien. Then what would you like to do today as it seems your travel plans have been disrupted?’

  I paused in the act of arranging the freshly-baked brioche and chocolate croissants on a cake plate I found in the back of the kitchen cabinet, ignoring the coffee machine as it steamed and spluttered performing its task beside me, and turned slowly to face him.

  ‘What? What d’you mean?’ Bewilderment edged my voice.

  Gabriel quickly glanced out the window as he replied, ‘Euf, the Chunnel is closed. It is this weather, tu vois?’

  No way! I didn’t get it. We lived in an age of advanced technology and increasing industrialisation – cities did not just grind to a halt because of inclement weather.

  I looked at Gabriel sceptically and, beyond the amused quirking of his brow, through the kitchen window at the frozen landscape outside the apartment. The streetlamps were still on, radiating their golden glow, but the darkening sky seemed filled with bleak despair, pressing down claustrophobically against the hard, cold earth. Through the frosted glass panes, which provided little protection against the chill, I could see that a wintery world of white had encased Paris.

  Blizzard conditions had set in overnight and all forms of travel and transport had been affected. Gabriel patiently explained that flights in and out of Paris had been either delayed or cancelled due to ice and sleet on the tarmac, whilst my transport home aboard the Eurostar was indefinitely postponed as the icy conditions had led to the breakdown of several Eurostar trains within the Channel Tunnel and hundreds of passengers stuck on board or stranded at Paris Gare du Nord.

  Sure enough, I would not be going home any time soon.

  I had not experienced such merciless weather conditions during winter for several years. Summers in Australia were more likely to be a killer than the milder winters – heatstroke, drought, bushfires, shark attacks and drownings were all par for the course. Yet since relocating to Kent, we had experienced one of the coldest winters on record; attributed to climate change. I was reminded again of the Death Watch Beetle which I had encountered earlier that morning and its portent of doom.

  The world was out of balance. Natural dualities – dark and light, feminine and masculine, cold and heat – were often viewed in both Eastern and Western philosophies and some sciences as a manifestation of this balance; Taijitu or Yin-Yang. My yoga instructor, a karate champion, had taught me that seemingly contrary forces were interconnected and interdependent in the natural world, and gave rise to each other in turn. Unfortunately, this concept was often oversimplified as people invariably mistook the concept of Yin-Yang to merely represent good and evil. In fact, it was a much more complex philosophy; polar opposites would possess traits of the other, so that in the good, there was always present some element of evil and, likewise, in the evil, there was some element of good.

  Sage believed that the Seed’s unusual appearance, balancing in airy defiance of gravity, with the larger ziggurat dominating the smaller was a representation of this balance and harmony. But now, due to the Grigori, the Seed, and forces beyond my comprehension, the natural equilibrium was being threatened.

  I was recalled from my contemplation by a strident buzzing noise emanating from the guest bedroom. My mobile phone was ringing, loudly and insistently.

  ‘Go ahead and answer that if you like,’ Gabriel said, silver eyes glinting, ‘I expect that it’s your mother.’

  The phone stopped ringing as soon as I had cleared the doorway, then started up again, even more strident and persistent than before. It lay where I had left it the night before on the bedside table, vibrating demandingly for me to answer. By the time I pressed the little green phone icon in response, there were already three missed calls registered, displaying the number for the Manor House.

  I raised the mobile to my right ear. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh, Safie! Thank God!’

  I froze. Mum’s voice sounded panicked and a sharp prickle of alarm ran up my spine.

  ‘Mum? Is everything all right?’ I demanded loudly, suddenly fearful.

  ‘Everything’s fine here. I was worried about you. We’ve been watching the news and weather reports on the BBC.’

  ‘Oh.’ I replied lamely, feeling an overwhelming rush of relief that it was nothing more serious. Then, recovering, I said more calmly, ‘Meh. I’m fine, Mum. Gabriel came over to warn me of the delays. Looks like I won’t be coming home today – but don’t worry ‘cause I’m okay. Honest.’

  But Mum was gibbering on the other end of the line, ‘We’ll try to get you on the first flight back. There must be some airlines still operating–’

  ‘Hey, Mum? Mum?’ I tried interrupting her but she wasn’t listening to me, too absorbed in making plans. I tried again, more sharply this time, ‘Mum!’

  There was a pause. A breath taken. Then, ‘What is it, Safie?’

  I sighed, flopping down on the edge of the bed. My voice, now calm and measured, I stressed the first few words, ‘Mum, I’m fine. You know that I’m not going to be able to fly home any time soon. The weather’s terrible. And with the cancellations to the Eurostar, everyone will be thinking the exact same thing – jump on the next flight. I really don’t want to be stuck in some crowded airport. But look on the bright side – I’m in Paris! I can visit the art galleries and museums! And I won’t starve! I promise you I’ll eat properly!’ Then, thrown in for good measure, was the clincher. ‘Besides, Gabriel’s here.’

  ‘Thank God!’ Mum responded again dramatically, characteristic of her artistic temperament, ‘I really must tell St. John what a God-send his brother has been. Gabriel’s an angel for looking after you while you’re in Paris – I’m so pleased he can keep an eye on you!’

  I groaned inwardly, wondering exactly how good a Nephilim’s hearing really was as, no doubt, he was listening to every word of my conversation with my mother. I only hoped he could see the irony of my mother’s comments.

  Squirming on the bed, I grumbled, ‘Geez Mum, you make me sound pathetic! I’m not completely useless, you know? I can take care of myself!’

  ‘Safie, I know you can take care of yourself,’ Mum sighed, her voice fluttering wildly as the connection seemed to drop out then resume, ‘but you’re...’

  Yeah, yeah, I’d heard all this before ... blah, blah, blah...

  I let Mum voice her concerns without paying too much attention, adding the appropriate sounds of “Mmmm”, “Uh huh” and “Yes, Mum” or “No, Mum”, listening distractedly with only half an ear, when it finally dawned on me that Mum had steered the conversation in an entirely different direction and I had been unthinkingly agreeing with her.

  ‘After all, it can’t be a hardship being holed up with Gabriel,’ she was saying, rattling on, completely unaware that I hadn’t been paying attention, ‘He is rather handsome, you must admit.’

  I almost choked on my breath.

  ‘What?’ I protested, my voice rising an octave. ‘Mum! What are you saying?’

  I could hear the amusement in her voice as she girlishly confided, ‘Well, he is very easy on the eye! What’s that term? “Eye candy”, I think they call it.’

  I was drowning in embarrassment, knowing very well that Gabriel was eavesdropping from the other room.

  ‘Mum,’ I hissed down the phone, ‘you’re turning into a cougar!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Safie!’ she retorted, ‘I may be your mother and twice your ag
e, but I’m not blind!’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My mother was using terms like “eye candy” and making embarrassing suggestions. The world had turned on its axis!

  And what was worse, I could almost swear I heard Gabriel give a hoot of laughter from the kitchen!

  Grinding my teeth together, I replied acerbically, ‘I’m not exactly “holed up” with Gabriel, Mum! As if! It’s just a bit of bad weather! And, besides, I’m not interested in Gabriel...’

  I was emphatic.

  But a little voice in the back of my mind seemed to mock me, so I threw in for good measure, ‘Definitely not interested in Gabriel!’

  Mum chuckled, teasing me with, ‘And what’s wrong with Gabriel, Safie? He’s good looking, charming, intelligent, wealthy ... Much more interesting than any of those boys you’ve brought home ... I could go on...’

  Bloody hell! She was ready to marry me off to the guy!

  I interjected before she did go on.

  ‘Gabriel’s too ... too–’ A hundred adjectives popped into my mind, but I only seized on one. ‘–old! He’s like ancient!’

  ‘One day, Safie, you’ll meet your match and age will be irrelevant.’

  The words took on an entirely different meaning in my mind than what was intended; holding an ominous, prophetic note. Bloody hell, it was easy to see that Gabriel had my parents’ approval.

  I quickly ended the call, promising Mum that I would take care before hanging up, and followed the corridor back to the kitchen where Gabriel was waiting for me.

  He was standing at the kitchen sink, his sleeves rolled back baring his muscled forearms; his black leather jacket discarded on the back of the seat he had recently vacated. Perfectly domesticated, he was meticulously wiping dry the breakfast plates. I stood at the doorway for a long moment before he spoke and, when he did, I started, for he had not turned his head and I had not realised he was aware of my presence.

  ‘How’s your mother? Not too worried, I trust?’

  I shook my head. ‘She’s fine. How did you know it would be her calling me? Are you clairvoyant or something?’

  Gabriel gave a snort of laughter, looking up. ‘Euf, it does not take a psychic to realise that your family would be concerned about you being delayed in Paris.’

  I coughed in embarrassment as Gabriel watched me closely, assessing me.

  ‘It will be different when we become family,’ he stated.

  What? I struggled to understand him. ‘Sorry? What d’you mean?’

  He fixed me with such a look as I had never yet seen upon his face. ‘Tiens! My “brother” is to marry your sister. A most anticipated event. Sage will become my sister. And you too will be my sister.’

  My eyes flashed to meet his, surprised by his pronouncement. The thought had never occurred to me. And I certainly wouldn’t have looked at things in that way.

  ‘I am obliged to watch over and protect you,’ he said calmly and, as if to prove his point, he pushed the plate of pastries towards me, urging me to eat. But I found I had lost what little appetite I had.

  It was not a declaration I wished to hear. He saw me as his “sister”. How gross!

  My feelings were in turmoil and I felt strangely confused. I knew that I was going to have to do something about Gabriel feeling like some sort of brother figure or guardian angel watching over me in case I fell headlong into danger, because I valued my independence far too much to surrender it to the Nephilim; quest or no quest. Yet, even as I thought this, I knew I was being slightly hypocritical. After all, I had cautioned Sage when she’d also chafed against such restrictions about the need to accept that St. John’s duty was to protect the Wise One, for without her the Seed would never be returned to its origin. And now, under similar circumstances, I was experiencing an identical frame of mind to that of my sister. I was terribly conscious of being stifled and made to feel helpless.

  And I hated it.

  But there was some small measure of consolation. Gabriel was not St. John. One had only to look at them together to realise this. It was the eyes that gave it away. I could easily see the weight of responsibility in St. John’s eyes, whereas in Gabriel’s, most of the time, I only saw sardonic amusement and mischief.

  ‘Epic fail! I am not one of your pilgrims in need of protection, Gabriel. This is not like the Crusades,’ I said tightly, referring to his history as a Knight Templar.

  ‘C’est vrai,’ Gabriel nodded in agreement, before stating mockingly, ‘Indeed, you are not like the pilgrims journeying to the Holy Land – they gave me far less trouble.’

  My eyes narrowed in outrage but Gabriel ignored me, continuing on a more serious note, ‘It is simple to understand. I must watch over and protect you. It is my duty. It is the duty of all Anakim.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked, appalled.

  ‘You are the hope of the Nephilim. You are the one chosen. You, as young as you are, are destined to guide us ... to return the Seed to its origin.’

  A chill ran through me then, and I felt my heart beat hard and fast in my throat as I stared at him. I had given it very little thought but, if truth be told, I presumed that only St. John and Gabriel were safeguarding Sage and me, even though Gabriel had already hinted at the fact that he knew everything about me and my movements.

  Well, if it was going to be like that, then he bloody well could make himself useful. And it suddenly occurred to me what I had to do.

  ‘Then will you help me?’ I asked after what seemed like a long silence. I could scarcely hear my own voice over the drumbeat of my pulse in my ears. ‘I wish to view the Seed.’

  Silver coloured eyes probed mine. ‘Pourquoi?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I told him honestly, ‘but I feel that I have to see it. I need to see it.’

  My tone implied that I was doing this with or without him ... but hopefully with him.

  He cocked his head to one side contemplatively, and I saw that his eyes were clear and alight with some anticipated pleasure.

  ‘Oui, oui, oui. Bien sûr. I am not the Keeper of the Seed, tu vois? But it is for the Wise One to command and for the Anakim to serve.’ He gave me a conspiratorial wink. ‘Leave it to me. I will make the necessary arrangements.’

  A CULTURAL TOUR

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I left St. John’s apartment under a gauzy white sky, where clouds massed overhead threateningly and the sleet and icy, cutting wind rose with gusto, as plaintive as a human voice crying out in the wilderness. Gabriel seemed undisturbed by the intemperate weather as he took his leave of me – making a tactical decision to organise and put our plans into effect, stoically choosing to go on foot – but the sound of the wind made the blood freeze in my veins as there was an eerie dissonant wildness to its call. I was happy to escape from it as Gabriel’s chauffeur held open the door of the limousine for me and I slid gratefully into its warm, inviting interior.

  I decided to reacquaint myself with the Louvre until I heard back from Gabriel, who promised to call my mobile phone as soon as he had any news. It had been years since I’d been to Paris, and that was before I was old enough to appreciate great artworks and antiquities, and before deciding upon studying Art History at Oxford.

  Twenty minutes later, the BMW glided past the centrally-positioned column erected by Napoleon to commemorate the Battle of Austerlitz on the Place Vendôme, following a south-easterly route to the Musée du Louvre. Experiencing a surge of energy as the glistening, snow-capped structure of the Louvre Pyramid came into sight, I alighted quickly from the vehicle amidst the impatient blaring of car horns while the traffic banked up behind the BMW, double-parked as it was across the courtyard from the Carrousel du Louvre.

  I admired the glass edifice only for a moment, wrapping my woollen overcoat tightly around my slim figure and hugging my body close, as the sharp wind bit through the layers of clothing I wore which offered little in the way of protection. I hadn’t planned on being caught in a blizzard. Moving quickly t
owards the Louvre’s entrance, my boots crunching deeply into a new-fallen layer of icy snow, I negotiated my way through various groups of coach tours. The rough winds snatched fragments of speech from German and Japanese tour guides and bore their foreign words in my direction – sounding to me like nothing more than incomprehensible gibberish.

  In my hurried approach towards the main entrance, my head bent low to avoid the arctic onslaught whipping my hair into my eyes, I failed to notice a young man, African-American and athletic in build, advancing towards me proffering his camera.

  ‘Excusez-moi de vous déranger...’ he began, the strange pronunciation of the vowels betraying its foreignness to his tongue, ‘Can you ... Um, I mean ... Pouvez vous prendre une photo?’

  He thrust his camera at me, motioning exaggeratedly for me to take it from him whilst showing me how to aim it and press the little silver button.

  Honestly, what did he expect me to take a photo of? The sleet? Epic fail!

  Brushing my long, slightly damp chestnut strands off my face and out of my eyes, I noticed he was standing amidst a group of American university students. Some of the young men were obviously on the college football team, their height and build betraying them, as they wore sweatshirts and woollen scarves bearing the insignia of the University of Pennsylvania under thick ski jackets. They huddled in a mass, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together to keep warm in the chilly climate as they waited patiently for their tour guide.

  ‘Sure, no problem,’ I said, taking the pocket-sized, digital camera from him and gesturing for him and his friends to bunch up so I could get them all in the frame, immortalising the moment.

  Looking down at my handiwork, I exclaimed, ‘Oh, the girl in the blue beanie had her eyes shut, so I’ll take another, just in case. Can you all crowd together again?’

  ‘Hey,’ the young man said in surprise, loping over to where I stood shivering with cold to collect his camera after I’d taken a few more photos, his huge build dwarfing me yet managing to block the worst of the cutting wind, ‘you speak English! I thought you were French!’