Ibrahim was tall, thinner than thin, with a darkness to his skin so profound it seemed to absorb all light. His smile was as broad as his nose, his teeth very large and very white. He wore a robe of heavy striped fabric and a shawl over his head from under which corkscrews of hair protruded like the quills of a porcupine.
The men exchanged traditional greetings, which included kisses on both cheeks and a holding of hands, which Conrad had always found both moving and childlike, in the best possible way. As he had mentioned to WBY, these people were not sophisticated, but they were plenty smart and not to be underestimated. They felt the world in a deeper, richer way than Westerners, as if they were aware of a broader spectrum of stimuli that civilization had long since annihilated in the less fortunate.
“Everything is in readiness,” Ibrahim said in fine, polished English. The moment he sat at their table the elaborate coffee ritual so beloved of Ethiopians began with the steeping and pouring over green beans, which Yeats found odd and exotic. But then he was partial to tea, rather than coffee, which was not to his liking.
Yeats was fond of saying that tea was a soulful drink, as it embodied all the best aspects of British daily life and conjured the heady days of the far-flung Empire.
For his part, Conrad found these sentiments as quaint as they were outmoded. His mind had already rushed ahead to what was to come, and one of his hidden motives for cajoling Yeats to come here, to experience not only the exotic but also the magic that still lit up the darkest corners of the world, was that he saw a similar spark in the Irish poet. He believed Yeats to have within him the power of Farsight, the ability to foresee the future, and this was a talent Conrad suspected would be vital to him and to the Gnostic Observatines in the coming years.
To this end, he turned to Ibrahim and said, “My friend here is convinced that communication with the dead is not only possible, but has already occurred.”
Ibrahim’s smile was as pure as the coffee they were drinking—and as rich. “But of course. Speaking with the dead is hardly an uncommon occurrence.”
“Good, good.” Yeats hunched forward. “This is splendid news, for it is my contention that psychical research is neither unethical nor should be forbidden by the Church, as others insist.”
“I can see why you brought this Irishman here.” Ibrahim beamed. “Did not Jesus Christ speak to the dead as he resurrected them? Was not he spoken to by the Holy Apostles as he himself was resurrected?” He shook his head. “How can the Church deny these absolute truths?”
Yeats’s delighted laugh lit up the interior of the café. “Conrad, I should bring this gentleman back to Dublin to help me break through our outmoded conventions of opinion.”
“I think Ibrahim would be confounded by the cities of the West,” Conrad said.
“Yes, but you see the rare and precious instrument he possesses. Unbelief in the magic all around us has poisoned our world. The dead have spoken to me, Ibrahim, and this is what they say: ‘The love of God is infinite for every human soul, for every human soul is unique.’ ”
“And yet your British Empire has for decades imposed its will on the people of China, Sumatra, India,” Ibrahim said, “without regard for the enslavement and suffering your armies have inflicted on these people. If, as you have been told, the love of God is infinite for every human soul—and I believe it is—should not your British Empire have been the standard-bearer of God’s love?”
Yeats’s eyes clouded over and he rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand. “Conrad, you have brought me halfway around the world only to be bested by this astonishing gentleman, who I trust will call me friend as he does you.”
Here he extended his hand across the table with such energy he nearly toppled their coffee glasses. Ibrahim grasped his hand, clearly delighted with the poet’s vigorous response.
“Indeed, I would consider myself fortunate to call you friend, Mr. Yeats.”
“ ‘WBY,’ please, Ibrahim.”
“This is done.” Ibrahim poured them more coffee. “Drink, WBY; we shall need all the fortification we can get for what is to come.”
*
IT BEING too late in the day to begin their adventure, Conrad decided they should return to their hotel, get a good night’s sleep in order to rise with the dawn and set out once the sun was up. Ibrahim would have none of it, however. Fetching the men’s suitcases, he stowed them in his mud-caked Jeep and drove them to the other side of town, where he resided with his wife and five children.
Ibrahim’s wife was named Alem, a slim, handsome woman with large eyes the color of betel nuts. She greeted them as warmly as she would her own family; then, swinging her hips, she bustled off to the kitchen to prepare a feast for them. Yeats was about to protest, as they had just eaten, but Conrad signed to him to keep still. In any event, protests would do no good; hospitality was high on the list of Ethiopian traits.
The dinner went on for hours. The children behaved impeccably, joking among themselves, lending the proceedings a further festive air. The last time Conrad had been here, Ibrahim and Alem had had only three children, all of whom recognized him joyously, as their mother had. Before the children all trooped off to bed, Conrad dug five of the dozen pads and pencils he had bought in London, after proper consultation with WBY, out of his suitcase, presenting one of each to the children. In return, they whooped, kissed Conrad on both cheeks, shyly took Yeats’s hand in theirs, then said their good nights to the adults, but not before witnessing their parents’ heartfelt thank-you to their benefactor.
“Are you enjoying your time here?” Alem asked Yeats when the adults were alone.
“Though it has only been a matter of hours,” WBY answered, “very much so. I have rarely met people as hospitable as yourselves.”
“Thank you,” she said with the downcast eyes modesty dictated. “We are a country very far away from everyone and everything. When visitors arrive in peace we must show them as much courtesy as we can.” She smiled. “After all, they have made a long and arduous journey to reach us.”
“That we have, madam,” Yeats said with his characteristic courtesy. “But believe me it has been worth every mile.”
“By any chance, do you know the origin of the name of our country?” Alem asked. “No? It’s Greek—as most things are, isn’t that right? Ethio is the Greek word for ‘burnt’ and pia means ‘face.’ ” She placed her hand against Ibrahim’s cheek. “So, the land of burnt-faced people.” She turned to Yeats. “That describes my husband, but what about me?” She laughed.
“You, my lady,” Conrad said, “are quite clearly descended from the bloodline of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, to which the Ethiopian imperial line can be traced.”
“A queen!” Alem exclaimed in pleased surprise. “My goodness, Conrad. You put me on such a pedestal, how shall I ever live up to that designation?”
“Ah, Alem, you already have,” Conrad replied. “Just ask Ibrahim.”
“He’s right, you know,” Ibrahim said, grinning.
And on that note, he rose to begin the coffee ceremony, which took another hour or so, while Conrad and their hosts chewed over old times and discussed the political and economic changes in Ethiopia. Yeats, though silent, seemed a happy observer, soaking up each bit of information as if he were a sponge.
At last, to bed. The visitors were given the matrimonial bedroom, and again Conrad cautioned his companion to accept gracefully. The accommodations were Spartan but comfortable nonetheless, and soon enough the two men settled down on either side of the bed.
Conrad plunged into sleep almost immediately, but all the strange smells and sounds kept Yeats awake. He could feel his heart beating, the blood thrumming through his arteries and veins. Sleep seemed to be on a far distant shore, thoroughly out of his reach.
As for Conrad, with his dreaming mind open to the universe and all its wonders, he was visited, not for the first time, by a Throne. This was not your common, everyday Throne, surrounded by cherubs and heavenl
y choirs, about which so much had already been written and sung. No, this was a very different sort of creature—more real and also more fantastical—with two pairs of wings and eyes the color of blood when, upon rushing out of a vein, it first hits the air.
You have much to atone for, Murmur intoned, for that was its name, as it hovered over Conrad’s dreaming form. Your sins have been accumulating at an alarming rate.
Eyes closed and yet seeing everything, Conrad listened to the soft beating of wings too large for the room. What would you have me do? his dreaming self responded.
The Throne leaned forward, its terrible eyes blazing with unspeakable intent. Who is accompanying you? Then it reared back. Ah, I see.
Conrad’s essence floated above the place where his corpus slept. What do you see?
This man—you have done well to bring him. It pursed its lips. But then I warrant he needed little persuasion.
That’s true enough.
Murmur smiled, an awful thing to witness. A chill passed through Conrad, as if someone had desecrated his grave.
He possesses a little of the Farsight, a drop in the bucket, so to speak, but that is enough for him. He is fragile, apt to fly apart. See that you don’t push him too hard.
What has he seen?
Murmur excoriated Conrad with its blazing, dreadful gaze. The future. Which you cannot see.
We have that in common, Conrad opined.
The Throne reacted in a blur of motion, its hands, deep-yellow talons at the end of each finger, reaching out to squeeze Conrad’s neck. But they stopped an inch away, hanging there as if stuck. The blue fire of Heaven blooming in Conrad’s hand formed a circle around Murmur’s wrists, otherworldly manacles.
You can’t do it. Conrad was not proud of this; on the contrary he felt only shame and a sense of hopelessness. It was always this way between him and Murmur, which was apparently in charge of goading him on. Nothing seemed to change; they were ever at each other’s throats, figuratively speaking. Much as part of you would like to, the other part, the part that allows our sub-rosa communication, can’t—won’t—because it knows better.
This fire won’t be enough. You understand that. You will need more.
That is why I have returned here.
You take great risk.
It is why I brought the poet. His Farsight, meager though it is, will protect me. And protect me it must. You know that without me, you and your kind are truly doomed.
The Throne shook its head as if trying to rid itself of the bitter taste of Conrad’s words. It stared at its imprisoned hands. Listen to me now. If you fail to act, the gyre will continue to widen. The center will not hold. Absent the voice of God, his name, in all its myriad forms, will be misshapen by those so full of passionate intensity they are blind. They will act in the name of a God they cannot hear, a God from whom they are more and more distant, and the result will be war, massacre, genocide, torture. In other words, the four faces of evil.
I have already seen all four faces in the world war that by the grace of God just ended.
Murmur moved its slow thighs. What you have witnessed is the orchestra tuning up. It has not even begun its prelude. Pray you never hear the diabolical symphony itself, because when the first notes sound all hope will be lost. The unholy fire of the Underworld will rise up and engulf everyone and everything, even unto Heaven.
*
CONRAD AWOKE in a sweat, sat up, his breathing shallow and ragged.
“What is it, my friend?” Yeats said from the other side of the bed.
Conrad passed a hand across his face; it came away wet. “Nothing. It was... nothing.”
“But you cried out in your sleep as terribly as if you had seen a demon.”
“That’s nothing new for me.” Conrad grinned creakily, trying to make a joke of his psychic visitation. “Just another bad day full of shadows.”
With that, he leapt out of bed. But as he drew on his clothes he was acutely aware of Yeats watching him with a guarded look. Yeats wasn’t fooled, and Conrad knew him well enough to know that he would not give up until he discovered the truth. Perhaps later, Conrad thought, lacing up his hiking boots. Not now.
Ibrahim was waiting for them as they emerged from the bedroom. Without ceremony he offered them coffee and bowls of bula, spiced with berbere and kibbe. To Yeats it tasted like heavily spiced porridge. There was no sign of Alem or the children; the house was utterly still.
“Come now.” Ibrahim’s hand shook a little as he put down his coffee. “The dead know our intent, and they are already restless.”
14
Malta: Present Day
Elias jumped up the moment Bravo and Ayla entered the cafeteria. He had before him three trays on which were a myriad plates with only a scattering of crumbs, one sad-looking French fry, and smears of mustard or ketchup on them.
“Bravo!” he cried.
Bravo waved him down. “Sit, sit, Elias.”
Immediately Elias looked abashed as he made room at the table. “You told me I could—”
“Yes, yes, eat anything you wanted.” Bravo grinned. “I didn’t think that would be all the food in the cafeteria.” He looked around wryly. “Have you left anything for anybody else?”
“I did have three portions of Salisbury steak and mash,” he said.
When Bravo and Ayla burst out laughing, the boy stared uncertainly at them for a moment, then joined them when he realized they weren’t laughing at him.
“You’re feeling better,” he said.
Bravo nodded. “Much better. Thank you again.”
“Tell me,” Ayla said, “have you heard the voice again?”
“ ‘Et ignis ibi est!’ ”
“The creaky voice,” Bravo said, “yes.”
Elias shook his head. “But look what I have!” He produced a shiny red apple, one of the pyramid of apples at the checkout counter. He tossed the apple in the air, caught if deftly, then crunched down on it. Fragrant juice spurted, ran down his chin.
“Oh, my God!” Bravo shot up so quickly he felt a stab of the familiar pain.
“Bravo, what is it?” Ayla asked, alarmed.
“The apple,” he whispered.
Elias held up the fruit, grinning as he wiped his mouth. “My dream, right? The dream led me to the castle. Once there, that voice told me where to dig this out of the rubble.” He fingered the bronze crucifix.
“The apple.” Bravo was still in a semi-daze as he sat down. “The apple tree you dreamed of is where we buried my grandfather Conrad. It was on the family estate in Surrey. The old man in your dream, the one who told you to eat the apple, was my grandfather. He led you to the crucifix and it led me to you.”
Elias stared at him, his mouth half-open in wonder. “How is that possible?”
“The creaky voice, the voice that cried, ‘Et ignis ibi est!,’ was Conrad.”
“But you said you buried him,” Ayla said. “That was decades ago, when you were still a young teenager.”
“And so it was. But Conrad was... different from the rest of the Shaws.”
“How so?”
“You recall my father was afraid of him. He told me Conrad was dangerous, that I shouldn’t believe a word he said, that I should have nothing to do with him.” Bravo ran a hand through his hair. “But I loved my grandfather and he loved me. That caused a rift between me and my father that never quite healed. My mother was caught in the middle; it pretty much ripped her apart.”
Ayla took Bravo’s hand. “But how could Conrad still be alive?”
“The blue fire!”
They both turned to stare at Elias.
“Bravo, it was your grandfather who saved you. The blue fire came from him!”
“Or from that crucifix he wanted you to find.”
Elias clutched the relic. “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
Bravo nodded his head slowly. “Perhaps. There’s a reason why it’s made of bronze, not wood, gold, or silver, as would be expecte
d.”
“He’s here!” Elias couldn’t contain his excitement. “I know he is, Bravo! He watched over me, protected me so he could bring me to the place where the crucifix was buried.”
“But why was it in the Knights’ castle?” Bravo asked. “What was it doing there? I remember Conrad having it when I was with him under the apple tree. Did he have it when he died? And what happened to it from that time until now? Who had it?”
“Maybe no one had it,” Elias said. “Maybe it was so valuable that he buried it for safekeeping.”
Ayla looked aghast. “In the headquarters of his avowed enemy?”
“Where better?” Bravo had a faraway look in his eyes. “Where better than a place his enemy would never look?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ayla scoffed. “What if one of the Knights found it?”
“He would have devised some way to ensure they did not.” Bravo tapped a forefinger on the tabletop. “Elias, I think you’re on to something.”
The boy beamed. He took the cord from around his neck, held the crucifix out. “You should have this. It belonged to your grandfather.”
Bravo regarded it a moment, then shook his head. “If he wanted me to have it, he would have given it to me while we were alone under the apple tree. Instead, he buried it, and all these years later he led you to it, Elias.” He reached out, closed the boy’s fingers over it. “No, for whatever reason, Conrad wanted you to have it.”
Ayla chose that moment to show him the cylinder. “The Lucifer Manuscript is in here,” she said. “Emma must have discovered a way to read it. I think it’s vital we try to find out how Emma managed that.”
“I think you should burn it!” Elias said.
“What?” Ayla looked aghast. “Elias, this is a precious artifact, ancient of days. It’s invaluable.”
“It’s death,” Elias said, staring at the cylinder.
Ayla’s eyes beseeched Bravo’s. “Bravo—”
“Nothing good has ever come of its existence.” Elias said this with such manifest conviction that both adults stared at him. He was clutching the bronze rood for all he was worth.
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