Scroll- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  ‘Bienvenue à Paris, Mademoiselle Woods!’

  I started.

  The voice floated out of the shadows, mirroring Gabriel’s greeting upon my arrival. Detaching itself from the gloom, the figure of an old man shuffled forth, coming to stand in front of me. But Père Henri wasn’t looking at me, instead he looked beyond me at the Nephilim standing in the open doorway leading back into the Catacombs, silhouetted by the flickering flame of the sepulchral lamp.

  ‘I have been expecting you both since the Seed flared to life two nights’ ago,’ the old priest murmured, shaking his head as he took in my dishevelled appearance. He said something in spitfire French directed at Gabriel, concluding, ‘Bah, Gabriel, you will never listen. You must always do things your own way.’

  I was so astonished, I was speechless. I swung around to look at Gabriel who said nothing in response, but merely raised his chin defiantly and inhaled deeply.

  The priest sighed, then continued cryptically, ‘You must learn to trust, my son. It is not we who choose our path. If we are called, we must answer.’

  Père Henri’s words ticked over in my mind but whilst most of them seemed to have some especial significance for Gabriel, the only words I latched onto were his first.

  No way! He’d been expecting us? We’d been called by the Seed? I could have used the front door? I was definitely going to kill Gabriel!

  I was so angry with Gabriel I didn’t think I’d ever speak to him again. Ever. Not for as long as he lived – which, if I had my way, would be very, very short.

  But Père Henri was speaking to me now, claiming my attention as he took both my hands in his own. Though they felt as fragile as dry parchment, his skin was warm against my chilled, trembling hands and provided a small measure of comfort.

  ‘My child, tell me, how did you know which instrument to play?’ he asked, gently.

  I blinked away trickling moisture, reaching up to push damp locks out of my eyes before answering.

  ‘Well, I guess it was because the drum skin was embossed with seven circles. Like the position of the Pleiades in the night sky. You know ... the connection between the Pleiades, the Seven Sages, the Wise One ... I kind of like felt that it was a sign.’

  I shrugged, feeling awkward and embarrassed at my lame explanation, but Père Henri merely nodded knowingly.

  ‘In many cultures, drums made out of human bone are used to call the dead.’ The old priest revealed to me what I could not possibly have known in making my choice. ‘In ancient Mesopotamia, drums were clearly associated with the Pleiades as there is a strong connection between these particular stars and music.’

  Gabriel took up Père Henri’s explanation. ‘As the Pleiades were most revered, drums made from the hide of a black bull, with seven circles inscribed on the drum face, were used in ancient religious rituals. It was clever of you to pick up on that detail. Most people would have overlooked the seven circles. Does that now prove to you that you are meant to be the Wise One?’

  I knew Gabriel meant to compliment and assuage me of my fears and self-doubt, but I was not in a forgiving mood, so I ignored him. From the corner of my eye, I saw his brows lift in surprise – as if encountering an ambiguity; or maybe it was just me. Maybe he couldn’t believe that any female could be immune to him – especially when he turned on his charm.

  On the other hand, Père Henri was looking at me with a dispassionate, speculative expression which made me imagine that he was also trying to figure me out, like I was some kind of anomaly – which in some ways I supposed that I was, as I didn’t think there were meant to be two Wise Ones. But as I was tired and bedraggled and, I’d just realised, also ravenously hungry, I wasn’t in the mood to be looked over like some sort of new and exotic entomological specimen.

  Weary, but still on my guard, I questioned, ‘Woah ... backup ... If the Seed was no longer dormant and you knew that I was in Paris, why didn’t anyone come to get me?’

  But an answer was unnecessary. It all suddenly clicked.

  “Understand this, the Catacombs are a test and only those who are worthy will pass.” Gabriel’s words echoed in my mind.

  They had been testing me! Devious, underhanded, conniving bastards! They had been testing me and I had been too stupid to realise it!

  I wanted to scream, shout, lash out at something – more accurately, someone. Instead, I did none of these things.

  I smiled. It was feline.

  ‘R-i-g-h-t,’ I drawled out the word, ‘Of course, you knew I would be bound to view the Seed. You were expecting me. I suppose I wasn’t in any danger whatsoever. Perhaps it might be an idea not to waste any more time then,’ I said with deliberate sweetness, gesturing for the old priest to move out of my way so I could step forward.

  By now, Gabriel had moved into the Crypt and was regarding Père Henri and me with something akin to amusement. I could tell he was enjoying himself at my expense, waiting for the fireworks to erupt or, at the very least, a spirited debate to ensue. I could imagine Gabriel adopting a contrary opinion or stance in the company of like-minded people simply to play the Devil’s Advocate, simply for the sport of baiting them or disputing with them. To him, it was a blood sport. But I decided he would need to learn disappointment. I wasn’t going to fall in with his plans just because he expected it. I was still my own person.

  Stepping around them both, I focused my attention upon the object before me. The force it exerted over me was immense; charged like an electrical current that ran between the ancient artefact and me. Its deep amber casing swirled restlessly as if lit from within, the lettering writhing and swirling across its teeming frame. Again, I opened my mind and listened with my inner ear.

  Strange Middle Eastern music assailed me, reminding me of a song I’d once heard on an Eskimo Joe CD. The sharp, piercing tones of the wind instruments were accompanied by a deep, bass drum and transported me to another world – of incense and hot desert sand and One Thousand and One Nights. A whispered chanting could be heard building to a climax, like the distant roll of thunder across the plains, and I realised it was a million voices harmonised in prayer. And over and over again a phrase in a foreign tongue resounded loudly.

  Al-hajar Al-aswad. Al-hajar Al-aswad. Al-hajar Al-aswad.

  And everything around me, above me, beneath me, within me fell away – the Crypt, the Catacombs, the Nephilim, the clergyman, the chill and wet and my discomfort, my entire being, even my name – all fell away into a churning mass from whence the Word came...

  I awakened to the sound of my laboured breathing and found that I was lying on a single spring mattress on an iron frame in a room which looked something like a monk’s cell and was dimly-lit. Gabriel and Père Henri were seated across from me, speaking in low tones in their native tongue. I didn’t understand a word of it. And strangely, I was thankful for that small mercy.

  Struggling to sit up, silver-grey eyes pinned me to the mattress as a terse exclamation shot out of Gabriel’s mouth.

  ‘Tiens! How are you feeling? You gave us a fright!’

  I blinked at the force of his concern. ‘Why? What happened?’

  He stared at me for a long moment, those astonishing silver-grey eyes searching mine. Finally, he shook his head. ‘You were muttering words in Arabic and then you collapsed.’

  My eyes widened. ‘But I don’t speak Arabic!’

  ‘You do, my child. You just do not know it, you have not been aware of it. You are the Wise One,’ Père Henri said, his voice ringing out in tones a thespian would have envied, strong and with conviction. ‘Do you remember what you heard?’

  I slid my still-shaky legs off the bed and sat on its edge, telling them the details of what I had experienced. This time, I remembered.

  ‘What you heard was most probably an instrument such as a zurna or tuiduk of Persian origins.’ Père Henri paused, pitching his voice lower for effect. ‘This is fortuitous. A Turkish folktale holds that Adam, who was moulded from clay, had no soul until the melodious tuiduk-
playing Archangel Gabriel breathed life into him.’

  My eyes flickered towards Gabriel’s but he merely raised a sardonic eyebrow in response, which made me realise that he’d read my mind. For one brief moment I had thought Gabriel might be somehow linked to the infamous archangel. But, of course, I was quite mistaken. I had no knowledge of Gabriel’s parentage or upbringing, but that didn’t stop me from speculating – no matter how far-fetched or wildly inaccurate my ideas might be.

  I tore my gaze away from the handsome Nephilim and refocused on the old priest.

  ‘Did you understand what I was saying? The Arabic words?’ I asked.

  Père Henri leant towards me conspiratorially. ‘Bah, I have little knowledge of Arabic, though Gabriel speaks it fluently, yet “Al-hajar Al-aswad” is a term I have often heard. It is the Black Stone of Mecca.’

  I must have looked as confused as I felt as Gabriel stood up and, pacing the priest’s narrow room, dwarfing us with his presence, he began to explain.

  ‘The Black Stone of Mecca is about this big...’ He spread his hands apart roughly about twelve inches. ‘...and is an object of incredible significance and reverence within the Islamic world. According to Islamic tradition, the Black Stone dates back to the time of Adam and Eve. Muslims say that the Stone fell from Heaven to show Adam and Eve where to build an altar to worship the Creator. This altar became the first temple on earth.’

  I was listening intently; hanging off of Gabriel’s every word.

  ‘Islamic tradition holds that the Stone and the altar were lost during the Great Flood and forgotten. The belief is that the Black Stone was found by Abraham and his son, Ishmael, when they were searching for stones with which to build the Ka‘ba; the Muslims’ sacred shrine at Mecca – though there are some theologians who also claim that the Archangel Gabriel led Abraham and Ishmael to the Stone. At any rate, Abraham and Ishmael recognised its worth and made it one of the building’s cornerstones.’

  ‘And?’ I prompted, curious as to where this all was leading.

  ‘And the Ka‘ba, which means “cube”, is a temple which Muslims believe was built by Abraham and Ishmael, brick upon brick, and dedicated to God. The Ka‘ba is also believed to be a site of worship for the Arab tribes which existed before the birth of Islam. It is claimed that when Muhammad came to unite the tribes under the one God, he destroyed all the false idols within the temple with the exception of the Black Stone. It is the only object that survived as it was a relic of Abraham and, before him, Adam and Eve. Muhammad rededicated the temple to Allah, kissed the Stone and set it within the wall of the Ka‘ba. Since then, the Black Stone has been part of the pilgrimage of the Muslims to Mecca; part of the Hajj. The Stone is deeply revered.’

  The old priest nodded in agreement. ‘When pilgrims to Mecca circle the Ka‘ba as part of the Hajj, many of them try, if possible, to stop and kiss the Black Stone, emulating the kiss that it received from the Islamic prophet, Muhammad. If they cannot reach it, they are to point to it on each of their seven circuits around the Ka‘ba.’

  I shook my head as if to clear it. There was that number again.

  ‘But if we know where the Stone is, what’s the point of my vision or whatever you want to call it? What about the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Seed? And what about the Scroll?’ My questions were volleyed at Gabriel who merely gave me a slow, lazy, inscrutable stare – like one might give to a backward child.

  ‘Some Muslims believe that the Stone itself has supernatural powers; that it has the power to cleanse worshippers of their sins by absorbing them into itself. They say that the Black Stone was once a pure and dazzling white – as white as snow – but that it has turned black because of the sins of humankind which it has absorbed over the centuries. On the Day of Judgement, the Stone will testify before the Creator in favour of the faithful who have kissed it.’

  Père Henri took up the narrative again. ‘The Black Stone housed within the Ka‘ba is of the same material and origin as the Seed – not ebony but a unique material that some scientists believe to be tektite from a meteor. But they will never be given the opportunity to know for certain as they are not allowed to remove the Stone from its resting place. We do know, however, that the Black Stone was once joined to the Seed and formed part of Adam’s altar in the Garden of Eden.’

  I shivered in my damp clothes. ‘Please tell me that we don’t have to steal the Black Stone and return it too.’

  The clergyman chuckled. ‘T’inquiète, Saffron. The altar of Adam is unique in the world. And in the whole world there is only this one unhewn stone; the altar, cut out of the mountains without the use of tools or man’s labour, as stated in The Book of Daniel. All three pieces shall be united one day. But that is not our duty.’

  I heaved a deep, heartfelt sigh.

  Gabriel was openly laughing at me, but not with humour. ‘I’d like to see anyone try stealing it. The Black Stone is the Muslims’ most important relic. They believe that the Creator’s hand directed its placement and the construction of the temple. Steal it? It is forbidden for any non-believer even to approach their holy temple. To enter Mecca and steal the Stone from its sacred resting place in the centre court of the Great Mosque – its eastern cornerstone surrounded by a silver frame which is fastened by silver nails – would not only be virtually impossible, but would be an offence that would ignite a global war; an insult beyond all insults.’

  Père Henri said calmly while watching Gabriel pace, ‘The point is that the Black Stone and the Seed pass for the mithaq, the primordial Covenant between the Creator and His created.’

  Seeing that I was still shaking my head in confusion, Gabriel stated, ‘Conasse! Saffron, did you not listen to what I have been saying? That the Black Stone dates back to the time of Adam and Eve? That Muslims say that the Stone fell from Heaven to show Adam and Eve where to build an altar to worship the Creator?’

  I nodded.

  ‘We are being directed to precisely where we must place the Seed within the Garden of Eden. It must be returned to Adam’s altar. You, Saffron, together with your sister, must restore the mithaq.’

  The old priest looked at me solemnly. ‘The Covenant between man and God rests upon you now.’

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  SCROLL: Part Two of the Keepers of Genesis Series continues the story...

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  About the Author

  DB Nielsen was born in British Hong Kong and immigrated to Australia in childhood. DB likes to travel the world with family; dividing time between residing in Sydney and visits to the cathedrals, crypts and museums the world over, doing research for new projects. The author is a university lecturer in Linguistics and Semiotics, and continues to teach English Literature and Language whilst writing. DB’s passion is for throwing elaborate dinners and themed parties (such as medieval banquets), and reading anything and everything. DB’s dream project is to do a series of book tours in the Champagne region of France.

  DB Nielsen loves to hear from readers. You can contact the author through www.dbnielsen.com, facebook page db_nielsen.author or Twitter @db_nielsen

  Also by the Author

  Keepers of Genesis Series

  SEED: Part One

  SEED: Part Two

  SCROLL: Part One

  SCROLL: Part Two

  SWORD: Part One

  SWORD: Part Two

  STONE: Part One

  STONE: Part Two

  Hallowed Eve

  Christmas Seasonings

  Praise for Keepers of Genesis Series

  'You kno
w that thrill when you discover an author whose every word draws you in and you cannot put the book down? This is one such book and this is one such author... I did not want to part from it, did not want it to end.’

  Renita D’Silva author of The Forgotten Daughter

  and A Mother’s Secret

  ‘I stayed up until very very late one night reading this novel. Very difficult to put down once you're immersed, the pages just keep on turning... This author knows how to weave a spell with words, how to pull you into the world she's created and make it real.’

  H. Chim

  ‘AT LAST! TWO STRONG FEMAIL PROTAGONISTS! Saffron in particular is just so refreshing to read, as within these books, time and time again, we see that Saffron and Sage show us all that there can be exciting and action packed books with the main focus being on strong women’

  R. Palmer-Willmot

  Acknowledgements

  As always, to the many archaeologists, historians and curators whose preservation of artefacts, artworks and monuments has made my digging into the past much easier, I owe a special thank you. Any mistakes within these pages remain, unfortunately, my own.

  I would like to give special thanks and credit to the deceased R. Campbell Thompson whose translations and transliterations of cuneiform texts from Babylonian tablets have permitted the ancient ‘voices’ heard by Saffron to be an accurate record of the incantations of Assyrian demonology.

  I would also like to pay respect and give thanks to the Aboriginal tribes of Australia whose Dreaming brought Saffron wisdom and spiritual enlightenment.

  Big thanks to all my friends and fans for becoming my ‘beta group’ – with particular thanks to Cindy, Qim, Chris, Timothy and Hannah – once again, emotionally and editorially your support has been invaluable. And to the lovely and talented female writers, Renita D’Silva and Adina West, a heartfelt thank you for all the nice things you’ve done in support of the KEEPERS OF GENESIS series.