He glanced about once more before scooping the thing out. He would hide it somewhere else in the chapel; and when the thieves returned, they would not find it. He smiled to himself as he imagined the looks on their faces when they saw the empty chamber. His father would hear about this at once! His father would know what to do. The young boy began to look about frantically for some place to stash the treasure. It could not be carried back to the house. It did not want to return to the house. As he carried it about, it seemed to grow warm in his hands. He looked down at it and was surprised to see a tiny spark of green fire within the depths behind the glowing points of orange, but this did not frighten him. Whatever this thing was; it seemed pleased he was saving it. A feeling of warmth coursed through him, pleasing him immensely, but he could not find a suitable hiding place. He ran from the confessionals to the apse, to the altar, to the belfry, to the cloak closet, to pulpit, to altar, to cloak closet…
Vanni drew up short in front of John Paul’s Holy Water font and looked up at the impressive statue of a beautiful angel, painted in brilliant colors. She seemed to smile down at him personally, from her deep blue eyes. She had a slight smile on her creamy white face; and she held out both hands to him as if she would lift him up and hold him affectionately. Vanni’s excitement faded and was replaced by a deep sense of melancholy as he realized he had never been held by such a one as this. His mother might have been such a woman, and she would have held him tenderly in her arms and dried his tears.
He had asked his father about his mother and Lucio had told him he, too, had never known a mother’s love and not to worry about it over much, giving himself as a prime example of how well a man could turn out in spite of such a loss. Lucio had also pointed out Simon of Grenoble had not been raised by his mother and Mark and Luke Ramsay had never known their mother’s love, but Vanni did not know if it was such a good thing. Greta spoke often of her mother, and Greta’s mother called every night to check on her daughter and her husband. Perhaps, Greta’s mother could be his mother if he asked her nicely. He tucked the skull, almost forgotten, under his arm and began to scale the font. He stood precariously on the basin of Holy Water and stretched up his neck to kiss the cheek of the angel. His left foot slipped into the basin and he was shocked to feel the arms of the stone statue suddenly close on him, hugging him tightly, to prevent him from falling to the floor.
His face was pressed against her neck and her dark hair tickled his nose. He shrieked and his voice was muffled in the folds of her robe. It was only then he realized the statue was no longer made of cold, painted marble, but was warm and supple and soft.
“Do not be afraid, little brother,” her voice was soft and soothing in his ear.
He drew back his head and looked into the dark brown eyes that had replaced the painted blue ones. This angel was even more beautiful than the other one.
“Who are you?” he asked breathlessly.
“Some call me Santa Lucia.”
“Santa Lucia? Is that like Santa Maria?” he asked her.
She laughed softly and continued to hold him by his upper arms.
“What are you doing up here, little brother?” she asked and a slight frown creased her brow.
“I am looking for a place to hide this stone,” he told her. “Thieves are trying to steal it!”
“Ahhh. Then you must hide it very carefully.”
“Where? I have looked everywhere and I can’t find a good place!”
“Put it in the water,” she told him.
“In the water?” He looked down at the water in the basin at his feet. He picked up his left foot and looked at her in alarm. The water was Holy and his foot was not. At least, that was the way he understood it from his father.
“Yes. It will be safe there. I will look after it.”
“Will you?” His face lit up. “That would be very helpful!”
“Then I will protect it for you.” She smiled at him. “Now jump down before you fall.”
Vanni edged away from her and jumped back onto the floor. When he looked up again, the stone statue with blonde hair and blue eyes smiled down at him as before. Her eyes now vacant and her arms reaching down stiffly toward the empty air in front of her.
“Ahhh. My angel!” he said in wonder and then carefully lowered the skull into the water in the font. The font was not deep, but it covered the skull; and when he looked into the water, he could not see it at all. It was as if it had completely disappeared. The glowing green and orange points of light were gone. Vanni looked up at the statue once more and then scurried from the chapel, leaving the doors standing open in his haste to get home to tell his father what had happened.
(((((((((((((
Eduord rolled over on his back and stared up at the ceiling in his room. The room had grown dim as the sun sank toward the horizon, but he had no idea how long he had been out. His head pounded and his eyes were bleary. He felt as if he had been asleep for weeks. He climbed to his feet slowly and looked down at the skull lying exactly as he had left it.
One thing he knew for sure, it was not Mark Ramsay he had seen in his visions. The man wore his face almost… almost, but the resemblance stopped there. He had been taken on a bizarre trip through the bowels of hell and the visions had gone on and on like a nightmare from which he could not wake… worse than a nightmare. He had seen angels and demons and things uncategorized so easily. Horrible things neither human, nor animal but perhaps a little of both. Monsters traversed bizarre landscapes full of fumaroles and volcanic vents spewing toxic gases into the sky. And his guide had stayed with him, taunting him and laughing at him when he screamed at the horrors he had witnessed.
The creature, and he had no doubt this thing had not been a man, had shown him what it intended for the world. Shown him what the world would be when it had accomplished its goals. And nothing, nothing had prepared him for what he had seen. Nothing he had ever heard, or read, or seen in his long life had mentioned such a place. Even Dante’s visions of hell paled in comparison, but one thing he remembered most clearly was there had been no damned souls in that dreadful place. Mankind would be consigned to complete and utter oblivion.
These things were not in the Scriptures. None of the prophecies mentioned this place he had seen. Whatever this was, it had to be something entirely outside the experiences of man. Totally alien in nature… not nature, but unnature. But most horrifying, the creature had known of Catharine. Not only Catharine, but the Templars as well. Everything. All of it. This creature had not been a god or even of God, but rather something out of God or away from God. Something perhaps put away from God as abominable and best forgotten in the tunnels of the cosmos. Eduord could not reconcile the thing to himself in understandable terms. This thing, this creature was as something cast aside, a piece of discarded garbage that should have perished, but did not.
Suddenly his eyes opened wide with recognition. Where had he heard the word? Where? The UNCREATE. He had not understood the term until now. This creature was a creature of a creature, not of the Creator.
He staggered to the cabinet and pulled out a lukewarm bottle of cognac and drank it down quickly. He sat on the edge of his bed, shaking and trembling in fear. Afraid to touch the skull that lay on the floor. Wondering how he was going to hide it away again. Wondering if Edgard knew of this creature, if the Grand Master had anything to do with it. Perhaps, it was time to confront the man again. Even if it meant begging, he had to have his sister back. Even if d’Brouchart imprisoned him, he had to do something!
Their little game had gone on long enough and time was growing short. He had only one skull in his possession, and he certainly had no hope of attaining the rest of them anytime soon at the rate he was going. He needed help, support, allies. Not more enemies.
He wanted to rip the place apart. He had been a formidable Knight in his day, and he had many battles under his belt. His immortality ensured he was just as fit today as he had been in 1320, perhaps even better since h
e had learned many techniques for fighting since then as well as much about the human psyche unavailable in the 14th century. Sitting by like a simpering coward and allowing this thing to taunt him and make him scream and cry for mercy without trying to avenge himself was not in his nature. He had often dreamed of calling Edgard out personally and settling their differences on the field, but time had passed and such things had gone the way of the horse-drawn carriage. Hardly anyone rode a serious mount these days. There were very few warhorses left in the world. Battles were fought now with machines and wars were won with buttons and toggles and keyboards manipulated old men in back rooms brokering deals.
De Goth had seen the Fox in action and many other modern armies. There was nothing honorable or personal about war anymore. No glory, no decisive victories on the field. He longed for the times gone past when one could look the enemy in the eye and slay or be slain, but things were not so simple now.
He left his room and made his way down the empty corridors to the telephone in the hallway and called the kitchen, ordering a huge breakfast to be brought to his sister’s room. He let himself into Catharine’s rooms and sat down at her desk. There he found her supplies of expensive writing paper and pens. She loved to write and had often spoken of the miracle that allowed people to put down their thoughts onto paper for others to see. She viewed the simple task as a gift from God, but he had no interest in it. In fact, he could not remember the last time he had done more than sign his name. He took out a sheaf of gray vellum stationery and selected one of her finest writing instruments. For long moments, he contemplated the tip of the glass pen, engraved silver, a work of art in and of itself. He dipped the pen in a crystal inkwell and then began to trace out a letter to Edgard d’Brouchart, slowly, painfully.
Chapter Four of Fifteen
It is better to hear the rebuke of the wise, than for a man to hear the song of fools
Catharine de Goth sat at her small desk in the dim recesses of the chapel, tapping her pen on her paper. She missed her fine writing utensils, collected over several lifetimes, but the cheap little pen her grandsons had provided her with still made the elegant curves of her writing as well as any might. The small sound seemed to grow and echo in the hollow reaches of the building, much louder than it should have been. The disturbing visit from the one called Isaac was still very fresh in her mind, and she feared her existence might be threatened even here.
She had been shocked to learn the son of the Prophet was on the island, and he considered himself a prisoner as well. Even more bizarre was his behavior, his demeanor, his knowledge and his presence. Did her grandsons not recognize the power of this one? They could not hold him. This puzzled her greatly as she remembered all the uproar about his disappearance and the massive world-wide search for him. She also remembered when he had finally been recovered, he had no longer been the cute little toddler that everyone had seen time and again on the news feeds and in the printed rags that still survived, but had been virtually grown in just a few short years. If this young man was truly Bari Kadif, then there was no doubt there was much more to the Prophet than met the eye.
She and her brother and their Order had virtually ignored the New Order of the Temple during the past several yards. They had lived outside of society for so long even Omar, the Prophet, and his miraculous movement had swept over them, leaving them untouched and unaffected. Her brother had told her he was simply a fad and, as all great leaders, tyrants and despots before him, he, too, would pass. She, on the other hand, had kept up with him superficially, although critically enough to suspect he might have been the prophesied Anti-Christ, but things had not worked out according to her interpretation of the Scriptures.
The only thing she had been sure of seemed to reflect a fulfillment of St. John’s Apocalypse was the ‘Mark of the Beast’, which had come in the form of the IIP. The program for identifying people with glandular implants had begun to cause serious problems for them, as they and their followers steadfastly refused and avoided the program. But the crisis had passed before they had come to the attention of the Fox as a particular group of resistance. No one, of consequence, had ever pieced them together; before the program had been rescinded, when Ernst Schweikert had mysteriously disappeared from the global scene.
She had also followed the events that had occurred in Jerusalem. When Omar had tried to open the Ark of the Covenant, she had been convinced he was indeed the Anti-Christ, and his great statue in the courtyard of the Temple was the ‘abomination of desolation’ prophesied in Scripture. Eduord had even become concerned, at that point, and had dispatched several of his men to the Holy City to more closely observe these things. But the disaster at the Temple and the subsequent destruction of the statue had put their minds relatively at ease. God’s mysteries were still intact and the Ark was safe and sound in the Temple according to the press and their own private sources.
Bari called himself Isaac. The purpose of this was unclear to her, but it might have been only to protect him from public knowledge. The things he said frightened her. He knew far more than a young man should know; and he seemed almost able to shape-shift, taking on the appearance of Lucio Dambretti. More probably he had somehow managed to send the image telepathically or perhaps he had put her in a slight hypnotic trance. If he was a truly mystical child as she suspected, he was more than a simple human boy with a growth hormone problem.
Catharine had seen many things in her life and the fact she and Eduord were virtually indestructible convinced her many, many things were hidden from general knowledge. Her brother had worked closely with Adolf Hitler’s General Himmler during the Second Great War, another thing that had distanced them from Edgard d’Brouchart. Edgard had written to her then, condemning her brother and her as well, for their connections to the infamous Third Reich. After the war, she had ceased to hear from Edgard altogether. She wondered if he had lost his power to locate her. Her brother’s unceasing efforts to remain hidden from the Grand Master must have paid off. She had never told her brother about the letters, but had destroyed them one by one, never answering them or sending word by the strange men who suddenly appeared at her door or on the street corner or in secluded inns with Edgard’s letters in hand. Where they came from and how they found her was still a mystery beyond comprehension, but he had finally stopped sending them and apparently given up on her altogether in the late 1940s. This had both relieved her and disappointed her in an odd way.
Now, she desperately needed to consult with someone. It was obvious Isaac ‘Bari’ Kadif had something very sinister in mind and the people here seemed oblivious to it. She had asked Joey d’Ornan about the boy when the woman had come up to check on her needs after his visit. Joey had refused to tell her anything truthful about the boy. Joey had told her he was just another of the foster children that lived with her and her husband at the postern gate. A boy that they had brought with them from America. Joey had become suspicious and questioned her reasons for asking about Isaac, but Catharine had told her she had observed him riding the horses on the bowling green and wondered why she had not seen him before. Joey had tried to lie about Isaac, but she was not good at fabricating on the spot and Catharine saw through it immediately.
Catharine picked up the pen and began to write her letter. She had no idea if it would be delivered or how many people would read it prior to its delivery. And with these restrictions in mind, she began to set down a plea for help.
‘My dear Sir Dambretti: I am praying diligently this letter finds you in good health….’
(((((((((((((
When Luke Matthew and Mark Andrew returned to the meeting room at the appointed time, they were shocked to see several new faces had appeared around the room. More chairs had been brought in and placed along the wall to the left of the Grand Master. The ladies, along with Gregory and Nicholas had managed to get back to the admin building ahead of them. John Paul was still there, of course, and the apprentices were reassembled with the exception o
f three. Michael, Galen and Luke Andrew’s chairs were conspicuously empty.
But even more surprising was the sight of al Hafiz al Sajek and Gerald Lorn sitting together against the far wall in matching armchairs. Ereshkigal also sat in the room, looking rather frightened without her constant companion and captain, Plotius at her side. She sat apart from everyone in the room in closer to the corner. Someone had brought her an elegant wingback chair and a table as befitting her status as queen apparently and a silver tankard sat on the table along with a carafe of wine.
The Queen’s eyes seemed riveted on the Knight of the Golden Eagle and Lucio was leaning forward with his face hidden under his hands, apparently in great distress at the presence of the Queen whom he recognized as the one and only Madame Reshki and the mother of his son, Vanni. Mark had to drag Luke Matthew into the room and make him sit down. His brother seemed ready to pass out again at the sight of these formidable creatures all gathered together under one roof.
“Please, sit down, du Morte, Sir Luke.” Edgard waved one hand at them. “We are waiting for your apprentice and his cronies. Do you know what might have happened to them?”
“No, Your Grace.” Mark Andrew glanced about again and then sat down between Lucio and Luke Matthew. He bumped Lucio and the Italian turned his head slightly to look at him.
The Jealous God Page 8