THE HISTORY OF THINGS TO COME: A Supernatural Thriller (The Dark Horizon Trilogy Book 1)

by Duncan Simpson

  Before I could enquire as to the nature of this curio, the Architect had produced a wrapped bundle from beneath his coat and placed it on the table. With the greatest of attention he unwrapped it and laid the thing before my sight, but not before warning me with grave solemnity not to touch it with my flesh. Such an odd thing I had never seen before …

  Chapter 12

  Brother Nathan switched on the lamp stationed at the corner of his desk. The rich gilded lettering of the pages seemed to glow in response to the sudden illumination. The priest adjusted the half-moon glasses balanced on the end of his nose and read on.

  The Architect’s discourse had shocked me and I stood wavering for a while, staring at the strange object that he had presented to my person that December evening. It had the appearance of a wooden staff, with proportions of some two feet in length and some one inch in bore, its axis being tightly coiled, as if the tree from which it had originated had been firmly twisted during its growth. But the most curious of all was the inscription that ran down its length, carved in Hebrew characters and inlaid with gemstones, which, on cursory inspection, took the nature of blue sapphires. I am obliged to acknowledge that I was oddly drawn to this strange object, but seeing my disposition, my learned friend again admonished me of my close proximity to it, and recounted the tragic fate of Uzzah in the scriptures who, against Divine Law, steadied the Holy Arc with his hand and was killed instantly by the vengeance of God. But of this I shall speak again presently.

  Knowing of my reading of ancient languages and antiquities and granting me to be more conversant with those things than he, the Architect beseeched me for an interpretation of the characters. For a long while I cast myself entirely upon the translation and not a word of discourse passed our lips. The inscription took the form of two intertwined lines. The first contained a chain of ten Hebrew symbols, , the meaning of which vexed me till some time later. The second line was a trifle to decipher from the carved Hebrew letters: ‘To the extent of God, let these come to pass.’ Contrary to easing his distress, my meagre translation seemed to increase his deep concern. I ventured to ask what he made of the curiosity in our midst and his answer gave me much disquiet. I have mentioned the high regard I have for my friend the Architect. He is a man who possesses extraordinary genius and proficiency in rational things, but that winter’s evening, he was seized only by the thoughts of the supernatural.

  We conversed at great length until the first light of morning had broken over Gresham College. I resolved with the gentleman Architect to meet again when the Royal Society reconvened two weeks hence. In the meantime, I would take the staff to Cambridge for safe keeping and to complete my studies upon it. We determined not so much as to speak with anyone about this matter and to use great caution in our ordinary conduct, for we both feared for our person, being in knowledge of such a relic. That very morning, with the staff hidden in my baggage, I made for Cambridge.

  The following days, I shunned all trivial discourse concerning my duties at the University and locked myself in my quarters to study, not coming out for fresh air or sustenance. Deciphering the inscription became my duty of the first moment and so, on the fifth day, I sent coded word to London to meet with a man whom I shall call Mr F. He had come to my acquaintance through secret study of Kabbalist alchemy, and I knew him to be adept in many arcane practices. A scholar of the Early Church, he read and perfectly understood Hebrew, Greek, Latin and Syriac, and debated in divinity, astrology and in history, both ecclesiastic and profane. Through his travels to the East, he was trusted with many great secrets and was curious of knowing everything to some excess.

  As not to draw attention to our meeting, we convened ’twixt the hours of ten and eleven at night, at a place named Whalebone, east of the city; a place so called because a rib bone of a great whale was taken there from the Thames some years past. We rode on to his residence at Devil’s Ditch through a prodigious and dangerous mist, which, I later realised, gave some portent to future happenings. His rooms were large and furnished with curiosities of all kinds: atlases, maps, hieroglyphical charts, magical charms, talismans, medals, a skull carved out of wood, and books of all sizes, some embossed with gold and silver, all topsy-turvy. Several shelves displayed many curious clocks, watches and pendules of exquisite work, which would not look out of place in the newly established Observatory in Greenwich Park.

  Without trifle or pleasantry, I recounted the events of the previous days, for I knew him to be an incorrupt gentleman, sober and discreet in his discourse, and a safe custodian of the alchemist’s intent. As Mr F sat and listened silently, his face became ever more burdened by a tremendous worry. On showing him the copy I had made of the rod’s inscription in my notebook, he stood up and, with much diligence, consulted a book covered in crimson velvet and richly embossed with a hexagram design of golden-leaf gilt.

  Brother Nathan’s eyes widened. He quickly turned to the front cover of the volume. With his gaze fixed upon the star-shaped design embossed onto its red fabric, he traced a slow path with his index finger along the gilded edge of the symbol. He swallowed loudly and then returned to his place in Newton’s handwritten commentary.

  Mr F lost little time finding the pages of his enquiry and from the angle of my sitting was able to glance upon Hebrew characters so exquisitely written, as no printed letter comes close to them. As if taken by a sudden ague, he became mightily afflicted and could not fetch his breath for a short while. After sitting and not speaking for several minutes, he inspected the bolt across the door and found it to be secure and we started a solemn discourse. At first, Mr F was apprehensive of my intentions, but on pressing, he consented to divulge his true opinion regarding the matter. I speak this not as my own sense, but what was the true dissertation of this learned traveller on that night. I set the particulars of his dreadful estimation down before you and pray that God will have mercy on your soul.

  In the year of our Lord 1185, the holy city of Jerusalem was under great peril from the Muslim armies of Saladin. Many knights from the Orders of Templar and St John Hospitallers saw the holy city of David and Solomon on the brink of a great calamity. In the last resort, Baldwin IV, the King of Jerusalem, gave blessing for a delegation of the highest urgency to set passage for England, imploring King Henry II to send a Crusade to rescue the Holy Land from heathen powers. After making the perilous journey across the lands of Europe, Heraclius, the Patriarch of Jerusalem, and Lord Roger des Moulins, Grand Master of the Knights Hospitallers, met with the King at Reading Abbey in March. With them they carried a golden reliquary which they laid before the King, and solemnly petitioned his support to banish Saladin’s army from the Holy Land. It was of the greatest imperative not to let the tomb of Christ fall into the hands of infidels.

  Yet the true intent of the knights’ mission in Jerusalem was hidden from good King Henry. The Pope’s Crusade to the Holy Land had a secret mission, now obscured by the flying sands of time. Their authentic purpose was to search out the holy relics of the city, and to secure them for the Kingdom of Rome. The Templars set up barracks and a military arsenal on Temple Mount, the site of Solomon’s ancient temple. On the south side of the Mount, they found underground cellars dating back from the times of King Herod, which they later used to stable their horses. Below these chambers they found the entrance to an aqueduct that travelled a great distance under the holy city.

  Mr F took leave to the kitchen and returned quickly with a sack over his shoulder. He took a handful of the contents, which I discerned to be flour, and threw it over the table, like a farmer sowing seed. In a trifle, the white dust had settled, leaving a surface of virgin powder on the table. Now almost whispering, the curious traveller continued his discourse. I strained to catch his every word. With the tip of his finger, he traced out a large triangle in the white dust, each corner being pronounced with a circling of his thumb. He tapped the lower right corner of the triangular design with his finger; this is
the Temple Mount, the very place where Abraham offered his son Isaac to Almighty God for sacrifice. Mr F instructed me that the underground aqueduct followed the shape of the triangle and first travelled south-west under the old city. He traced its path with a straight line along the furrow of flour, until his finger reached the next terminus. Directly above this point, he explained, were set the foundations of a church long since decayed, which marked where James the Apostle and James the brother of Christ were both put to death. Years later, on realising the great significance of the place, the Knights built a glorious cathedral there in honour of the hallowed ground.

  I lost little time in enquiring as to the location of the apex of the triangle set in white powder on the table. I faithfully recount what he imparted to me next.

  In a voice as smooth as quicksilver, he stated: ‘It is the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; the place of Christ’s crucifixion, burial and resurrection.’ He beckoned me closer and in the flickering candlelight told me of the treasure that was found under the foundations of that great and magnificent church. Not a treasure of gilt metal, but a remarkable relic of antiquity. For the aqueduct led to a sealed chamber containing a fine wooden chest of shittim wood, engraved on all sides with Hebrew characters. Before I had the opportunity for deliberation, Mr F handed me the crimson book that he had consulted previously. The volume was opened at a page splendid in design, with intricate Hebrew letters dense and interlaced in golden leaf. As my esteemed teacher disclosed to me that these markings had been transcribed by one of the three knights that had made the discovery, I realised that they matched in entirety the inscription that ran down the shaft of the relic in my possession. Feeling I was on the brink of a dreadful truth and with my guts in my throat, I enquired as to the contents of the chest. Little did I fathom that his answer would alter the course of my life.

  Brother Nathan’s attention was diverted from the book by the sound of footsteps travelling quickly on the gravel path outside. He strained his senses to determine their direction of travel. Abruptly, the priest rose to his feet and, with his eyes fixed upon the library entrance, he slipped the small crimson volume into his jacket pocket. In no time, he disappeared behind the large velvet curtain leading to the covered walkway to the accommodation building.

  Chapter 13

  Why were these places always so bloody hot? Vincent Blake loosened his tie. Dragging the knot downwards to his chest, he pulled the narrow loop of material over his shirt collar and threw it like a lasso onto the back of the chair at the foot of Sarah’s hospital bed. The private room on the fourth floor of the London Bridge Hospital was large and bright. It contained a single bed, two armchairs and a bank of medical equipment lining one wall. Blake stared at Sarah’s thin fragile body lying in the oversized hospital bed. Since the accident, Sarah’s once-dark complexion had faded into ashen white. The bright hospital lights made it worse, draining all colour from her body.

  Radiating from his daughter’s body were wires and tubes of all sizes and colours. Solemnly, Blake counted them as if he were taking an inventory: an intravenous line in her forearm to deliver fluids and medicines; an arterial line to measure blood pressure; a PEG feeding tube in her abdomen; and a white plastic tube connecting her windpipe to the ventilator at the side of her bed. Sarah’s arms were thin and almost devoid of muscle mass. The room was filled with the constant sounds of the medical apparatus regulating Sarah’s breathing and the electronic beep of the heart monitor. The artificial noise jarred against Blake’s mind.

  The door to the hospital room opened and in walked two nurses. Blake didn’t recognise them. Pausing only momentarily to introduce themselves, the two women began their well-rehearsed routine of checking charts and preparing medications. Feeling awkward and useless, Blake retreated to a corner of the room.

  One of the nurses was a stocky lady with large hands and big shoulders. Her greying hair was tied in a ponytail pulled tightly back from her wide forehead. Contrary to her size, she was surprisingly dainty on her feet, as if she had spent her childhood studying ballet. Her feet were small, and her shoes squeaked on the grey plastic flooring every time she moved. She said something to Blake in a thick Eastern European accent and smiled a reassuring look in his direction. He nodded dutifully, but he hadn’t understood a word.

  The other nurse was of a completely opposite stature. Asian, maybe Filipina, he thought. She was barely five feet tall, slim and dark-skinned. Blake put her age at forty, but he could have been wrong by ten years either way. She wore a tiny silver crucifix around her neck and, according to her name badge, her name was Anje. He tried to think of something to say to the nurses, but nothing came out. Nomsa would have known what to say. She had always been good with strangers and awkward situations; she put everyone at ease. He blinked and his view became gauzy. He stood there, his eyes fixed upon a point on the wall. He was teetering on the brink, like he had been so many times since the accident and Nomsa’s funeral. His heart called out to his wife. Nothing came back but the incessant bleep of the heart monitor.

  Blake moved to the window and studied the reflection of the two nurses standing on either side of Sarah’s bed. The reflection was clear like a mirror. He watched the two ladies temporarily disconnect the intravenous line and heart-monitoring equipment in preparation for the well-rehearsed manoeuvre. Moving coma patients from side to side every two or three hours was an essential part of their treatment protocol. The most common cause of death for patients who lay still for extended periods was secondary infection, and regularly changing the position of the patient helped prevent life-threatening conditions, such as bedsores and pneumonia. Forlornly, Blake watched the reflection of his daughter being rolled from one side of the bed to another, her thin limbs twisting awkwardly beneath her.

  Lengthening his focal point, he stared out over the London skyline. Heavy rain clouds hung above the River Thames like a dark shadow stretching across the horizon. He followed the river’s course eastwards, past the grey outline of the permanently moored World War II warship, HMS Belfast, and beyond to the familiar sight of London Bridge itself.

  His focus then snapped back to his own reflection staring back at him. What he saw startled him and made him take a quick intake of breath. He rubbed his fatigue-bruised eyes, but it made no difference. He looked a mess, shattered, barely alive. The pits of his cheeks were filled with dark shadows.

  Instinctively, he raised his hand to drag it through his hair, but his fingers were met by the raised bristles of his recently shaven head. Blake had first taken a razor to his head the same day the nurse had shaved Sarah’s before the surgery to remove the blood clot on her brain. Somehow the act of sharing the experience had made him feel closer to her. Once again, Blake adjusted his gaze and followed a fat droplet of condensation making its erratic journey down the inside of the windowpane.

  After checking the watch pinned to her pressed blue uniform, the larger of the two nurses clicked down on the top of her pen and signalled to her colleague that it was time to leave.

  ‘Mr Blake, the consultant has just finished her ward round downstairs and will be with you any minute,’ said the Asian nurse squaring up a light brown Gideon Bible with the edge of the small bedside cabinet. ‘Goodbye, Mr Blake, God bless. I hope you have a good day,’ she smiled politely. Blake nodded, gazed into the middle distance and wondered whether he would ever have a good day again.

  The nurses’ exit through the door was slowed by the arrival of the consultant coming the other way. She was a tall woman in her mid-forties. Her close-fitting, tailored blue dress gave her the demeanour of a successful business woman rather than a hospital medic. Effortlessly, she rearranged the features of her face into an expression of concern. She gestured Blake to sit down and pulled up a chair next to his.

  ‘Mr Blake, whilst Sarah’s condition is stable, she is unfortunately showing no signs of improvement.’ The consultant’s voice was quiet but direct. ‘She has been in a d
eep coma for over ten months now. The length of a coma cannot be accurately predicted, but the chances of making a full recovery are now becoming very slim.’ As the woman spoke, she moved closer to the edge of the seat and turned to sling one leg over the other. ‘Mr Blake, I was going to call you, but now that you are here, I need to talk to you about Sarah’s care.’

  ‘Sarah’s care?’ said Blake.

  ‘At London Bridge Hospital, we provide the best possible care for coma patients. We always have our patients’ well-being as our first priority.’ The consultant shuffled on the edge of her chair. ‘I am sorry to bring it up, but we have been notified by your insurance company that their financial contribution to Sarah’s treatment came to an end several months ago, which means we will need to discuss your financial arrangements and Sarah’s care plan going forward. The accounts department tell me that there are invoices still unpaid.’ The consultant’s comment calcified in mid-air.

  Blake’s face blanched. After an uncomfortable pause he spoke, his words deliberate and weighty. ‘Doctor, don’t worry about the money. I will make sure all of your bills are paid. I have sold my house. You just make sure that she gets the best care. The best care available anywhere. Do you understand?’

  Tilting her head slightly, the consultant placed her hands on her knees and her feet squarely on the floor. ‘I know the last year has been quite terrible for you, with the passing of your wife and Sarah’s condition. I can only imagine the worry you have been through. Mr Blake, how have you been coping?’

  Blake was momentarily disorientated by the question. The doctor’s concerned stare seemed to pin Blake to the spot. After a pronounced silence, he spoke up.

  ‘Me? I’m okay. Just look after Sarah. Promise me that,’ said Blake.

  The consultant surveyed the dishevelled appearance of the man sitting in front of her: his jacket, crumpled white shirt, and jeans were all stained to differing degrees, and his scuffed boots were laced so loosely they were almost falling off his feet. She had admitted healthier-looking people as patients to the hospital.