Palace Council

by Stephen L Carter

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “A man, Mrs. Garland. Your children need a man in their lives.”

  Her irritation boiled over. “Are you offering me one?”

  The counselor wisely chose to take this as a joke, for she had been in the business thirty years and knew when a mother was about to declare war. In her way, she apologized.

  “I know it can’t have been easy for you, Mrs. Garland, losing your husband that way. I won’t pretend to know what it’s like. But I was divorced, and that wasn’t so easy, either. I still found Mr. Right.”

  “Thanks for your advice,” said Aurelia, and went out into the hall, where Locke sat on a bench. She was late to collect Zora from the gifted-children’s program that had not wanted to take her either. All the way into town, Locke kept trying to tell his mother that the other boys had called him “Brillo,” because of his hair, and Aurelia kept lecturing him, the way she imagined her father would have lectured her brothers, if only she had grown up with a father and brothers: If you let them know they can get to you, they’ll never stop. You can bloody every one of their noses twice a day, and they’ll never stop. Then Zora tumbled into the station wagon, all legs and teeth and excitement, babbling about prime numbers, and Aurelia, at her wit’s end, told her to please just hush for once. But when she looked in the mirror and saw her children’s faces, she relented and stopped at the sweet shop for vanilla malts.

  It was not their fault. She was worried about Eddie. She had one telegram from him since he left for Saigon, and that was three weeks ago. She had no right to take it out on her children. The thought of Eddie in the middle of the war appalled her more than she would have imagined. And so she was rude to the guidance counselor and snapped at her children for no good reason, and made up for these sins by cravenly offering ice cream and malts—bribes, fortunately, that her children were still willing to accept.

  The kids were so happy, in fact, they even cajoled their mother into going off her diet and having a root-beer float, which she had once told them, teasingly, had been invented by her grandfather.

  They seemed to believe it still.

  (II)

  WHEN AURELIA PULLED into the driveway an hour later, Tristan Hadley was waving like a madman from his metallic-blue Ford Galaxie convertible, parked across the street. Aurelia could not believe her eyes. She sent the kids into the playroom and served Tris coffee in the kitchen. He looked the way he always looked: tall and elegant and handsomely innocent. He carried a scuffed leather bookbag, the old-fashioned kind with clasps on top, and you had the impression that he had been a serious reader before he was born.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she began, sharply, before he had the chance to get a real word out. “What’s the matter with you, Tris? Are you on something? Because, just in case you haven’t noticed, Ithaca is a very small town. You know better than this. I want you to stop dropping by my house. I want you to stop dropping by my office. I want you to stop calling me and leaving me cute little notes.”

  “I’m glad you think they’re cute,” he said, careful not to smile.

  “You know what I mean.” Crunch, the beagle, slunk in to see if it was time to eat. Aurelia lectured her unwanted guest over her shoulder as she crouched, filling the dog’s bowl.

  “All I know is I miss you.”

  “You can’t miss me. Number one, you’re a married man. Number two, we’ve never done anything worth missing.”

  “We used to talk.”

  “That was before you decided you were in love with me.”

  “A realization,” he corrected her. “Not a decision.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  Tristan’s smile flashed, boyish and helpless, the man-child whom life has denied nothing. “Hey, I have something for you.” He was delving in the pocket of his jacket, and for a terrible instant Aurelia was afraid he would pull out a diamond ring, a divorce decree, or both. But he withdrew only a notebook. “Remember those phrases you showed me? The ones you couldn’t track down?”

  “Showed you? You were rifling my desk, Tristan. While your wife was in the other room. Or don’t you remember that part?” Aurelia called him Tristan, not Tris, when he annoyed her, and he annoyed her often. “Megan sat there at the table and I had to go looking for you. In my own house, Tristan. Think about that for a minute. Think about Megan.”

  “I am thinking about Megan.” He was flipping through his notes. “She’ll be getting her doctorate this spring. After that, well, the availability of academic appointments being what it is, we could wind up at different schools—”

  “Don’t even dream it.”

  But Tristan Hadley, an academic from a vast family of academics, had been raised in a world where the mark of intelligence was saying whatever you pleased. “The marriage,” he declared, right hand over his heart to prove sincerity, “was forced upon me.”

  “With men it seems like it always is. If nobody forced marriage on men, none of you would ever get married.”

  “Unless the right woman comes along.”

  “What do you want, Tristan?”

  The soft eyes went wounded. Tris could do hurt as brilliantly as he did most things. But when Aurelia refused the implicit invitation to apologize or embrace, he sighed, and surrendered. “I don’t know if you remember, but Megan’s field is the early moderns. She did her thesis on Aphra Behn. Anyway, Megan’s the one who worked the whole thing out.”

  “What whole thing is that?”

  “Those phrases you didn’t understand. Megan told me where they came from.”

  Aurelia could not believe her ears. “You told your wife what you found snooping in my study? I’m right about you, Tristan. You’ve taken leave of your senses.”

  “Love does that to people,” he said calmly. “I told her I came across them in a student paper. Why are you looking at me like that? There’s no reason to think she suspects.”

  “There’s nothing to suspect.”

  “That’s right. Now, come around here so I can show you what she discovered.” Around here meaning over to his side of the kitchen island, which Aurelia had prudently kept between them.

  “I can see fine from where I am.”

  “The typeface is a little small,” he said, pulling from his bookbag a cracked leather-bound edition of Paradise Lost by John Milton. “This is where the phrases come from.”

  “What?”

  “‘The Author,’ ‘shaking the throne,’ everything. It’s all here.”

  (III)

  IT TOOK HER ANOTHER HOUR to get Tristan out of the house. He did not get a kiss, but he did get a hug and a smile of thanks, and that was enough to persuade him to leave Milton behind. She fed the kids, graded a few student papers, then turned to Paradise Lost. Aurelia studied the yellowy pages of the book. Her dissertation topic had been the response of European writers to Negro abolitionists, with a special focus on Martin Delany and his novel, Blake. She had never read Milton. An undergraduate degree in English, a doctorate in literature, and she had never read Milton.

  Her conversation with Tristan had been instructive. He had preened and pranced around the kitchen, proud to have proved himself, and Aurelia had let him do it. She rarely saw his pedagogical side, and saw why, years ago, a graduate student named Megan Feldman had found it so attractive.

  “What do you know about Paradise Lost?” he had asked.

  “Satan against God, right?”

  Tris had furrowed his smooth brow, the way the learned do when confronting the Philistine. “Well, that’s a start, Aurie, but you’re oversimplifying a little. Paradise Lost is an epic poem about the danger of ambition and hubris, and the foolishness of obsession and revenge. Satan rebels against God out of pride. He rallies other angels to his cause, but he and his army are defeated and cast into the fiery pit, where Satan tells his troops they can still win. He refuses to believe that God is as omnipotent as the disillusioned rebels keep whining. Satan keeps fighting, keeps losing.”

&
nbsp; “Because he’s evil,” Aurelia murmured, wanting to slow Tristan down, because in his teaching mode he was too endearing. “Or because he’s a fool.”

  The anthropologist never paused. “Some authorities think that Milton, who for his time was considered a progressive sort of Christian, shows a sneaking admiration of Satan. Not what you might call Satan’s politics. His perseverance. And, you know, when the poem is taught as literature—especially to undergraduate seminars—there are always a couple of fiery arguments about how Satan was right to rebel against the arbitrary authority represented by God. My own view is that this is a serious misreading of the poem, and also of Christianity, but—”

  Aurelia finally had to walk around the counter after all, because the only way she could make him stop talking was to cover his mouth. He seemed delighted at the physical contact, but when he reached for her she stepped away. “The quotes,” she said, gently.

  “Whatever you say.” But as they stood side by side, looking down at the yellowed pages, Tristan managed to ride his hip against hers, and not just once. Unwilling to offend, she let it happen. “Over here,” he said, pointing and pressing. “Here. Milton divides the poem into books. Now. Book I. As the story opens, Satan and his armies have just been defeated. He tries to rally the troops, to keep their spirits up, while he plots his revenge. Look, here’s the quote about ‘We shall be free.’ One of the most famous stanzas in the poem:

  The mind is its own place, and in itself

  Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.

  What matters where, if I be still the same,

  And what I should be, all but less then he

  Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least

  We shall be free; th’Almighty hath not built

  Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:

  Here we may reign secure, and in my choice

  To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:

  Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav’n.

  Tris glanced her way, eyes shining. “Brilliant. Milton, I mean. A genius. You see it, right?” But he marched straight on, just in case she did not. “Satan is telling them that, even if they only get to rule Hell, at least they get to rule. He does not mind being damned, as long as he no longer has to serve God. Do you see?”

  “I see,” said Aurelia, marveling. “What else?”

  “Well, ‘Author’ is easy. It’s simply another name for Satan. It recurs throughout the book. For example, in Book VI, in the midst of one of the battles, the Archangel Michael refers to Satan as ‘Author of evil, unknown till thy revolt.’ And there are others—”

  He was flipping pages again. It occurred to her that Tristan had done a lot of work, trying to impress her. And she was, indeed, impressed. She had to remind herself that the presentation was mostly the fruit of Megan’s research.

  “Tris?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Don’t call me honey. Listen. You said your wife told you all this?” Deliberately using her appellation, reminding them both. “After you showed her the quotes?”

  “That’s right,” he said, suddenly testy.

  “And you told her they were from—where again?”

  “A student. A student who came across them somewhere.”

  Aurelia frowned. Thin. Tissue-thin. “And she did all this work? Just because one of your students was puzzled?”

  “She’s very conscientious,” he said, piously. Then he saw his error. “She didn’t do all the work, Aurie. I did a lot of it myself.”

  She turned a page. “Where did you get this book, anyway?”

  “From Megan.”

  “You borrowed your wife’s book? You didn’t think she might notice?”

  “What if she does?” Drawing himself up. “A man can borrow books from his own wife, can’t he?” He tapped the pages. “I came here to help you, Aurie, and instead I’m facing a cross-examination. I resent that.”

  She sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re right. This is all wonderful, and I’m grateful.”

  Tristan remained unsatisfied. “Maybe I should just go. Should I go on? Will you stop the nonsense now? Or should I just go?”

  “I said I was sorry.” Forcing the words out. “Please stay.”

  “If you insist.” Grinning again, wanting Aurelia to see he knew he had outsmarted her. “Here’s a part that gave us some trouble. That note you wrote about the four arrows or four letters ‘A’? That one stumped us for a while.” Us, she registered, sadly. “Then we found it. Here. Back in Book I again, Satan speaking to his fellow rebels. Read from, mmmm, line 105.”

  Aurie read:

  “What though the field be lost?

  All is not lost; the unconquerable Will,

  And study of revenge, immortal hate,

  And courage never to submit or yield:

  And what is else not to be overcome?”

  Aurelia read the lines, then went over them again, registering the way the words pounded home their meaning. Unconquerable Will. Revenge. Immortal hate. Never to submit or yield. It sounded like an oath. A very angry oath.

  Maybe that was it. The cross symbolized membership in some group that required—well, a very angry oath. An organization run by the Author.

  Tristan, meantime, was talking again. “See how the first letter of each line lines up? They all start with ‘A,’ and they summarize Satan’s case. And of course his pride. If you look down later in the paragraph, you’ll see that this is where Satan reminds them that—from their point of view—God is a tyrant.”

  Aurelia had found the spot already. She followed his finger down the page, speaking the words half aloud. They chilled her blood:

  “…since by Fate the strength of Gods

  And this Empyreal substance cannot fail,

  Since through experience of this event

  In Arms not worse, in foresight much advanc’t,

  We may with more successful hope resolve

  To wage by force or guile eternal War

  Irreconcilable, to our grand Foe,

  Who now triumphs, and in th’excess of joy

  Sole reigning holds the Tyranny of Heav’n.”

  She said, “What does this mean? ‘Empyreal substance cannot fail’?”

  Tristan returned to his notes. “Oh, right. Satan is saying that he and his angels, and his whole realm, are made of the same substance—the Empyreal substance—as Heaven. They are immortal. They cannot be destroyed. By God’s own command and design, they are eternal.”

  “Let me understand. He’s saying, as long as they are immortal, they might as well keep waging war against God? The Tyrant?”

  “Exactly.”

  Empyreal substance, she was thinking. A rebellion against the Tyrant, led by the Author. Immortality. It fit.

  Meanwhile, Tris was still turning pages. “One more thing in your notes. Pandemonium?”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s the name of Satan’s palace.” He pointed. “See here? Milton refers to Satan’s closest advisers as the ‘council of demons.’ They sit with Satan in his palace—in Pandemonium. So this other phrase in your notes—the ‘Palace Council’—would have to be Satan’s advisers. In other words, the Palace Council would be the leaders of”—he hesitated, grinned, shrugged—“well, of whatever it is that these notes are about.”

  “They’re not about anything,” she lied, hoping God would understand.

  (IV)

  THE CONVERSATION with Tristan had occupied much of the afternoon. Now Aurelia sat in her bedroom, Megan’s copy of Paradise Lost beside her, notebooks spread everywhere.

  She puzzled and puzzled. Why was “shaking the throne” mentioned so often? What did the oath mean? And, most baffling of all, why did the group identify so completely with Satan, who is doomed to defeat?

  And then she had it.

  Not all the details. Not yet. But she glimpsed the sweep of the Project, and understood the need for secrecy. She saw why Philmont Castle’s testament wa
s so fiercely sought—and fiercely defended. The key was the advisers to Pandemonium—the Palace Council. She stretched a trembling hand toward the telephone, only to remember that Eddie was half a world away. A cable to Saigon could wait days to find its recipient, if it got there at all; a letter already took a month.

  Eddie was in Vietnam looking for Perry Mount because he believed the golden boy to be the path to Junie. But what if the Palace Council thought Eddie was searching for the testament? Aurelia had no idea what role, if any, Perry was playing in events. She did not, yet, know the fine old truth; she did know that Eddie was in terrible danger.

  She sat on her bed long into the night, trying to figure out how to get a message to the man she loved, a man brave enough to wade into a war to find his sister, and careless enough to blunder into the middle of a more secret battle. She refused to allow herself the luxury of sentiment. Already she saw the ending. The Palace Council would kill him. It was as simple as that. The Council would kill the great Edward Wesley Junior to protect the secrets of its preposterous Project, and she had no way to warn him. She had lost Kevin, and now she would lose Eddie. She cried a little, prayed a little, dozed a little. Just past two in the morning, she had an idea. She padded downstairs to her study, took the address book from its nook, and, despite the hour, placed a call to New York City.

  CHAPTER 43

  Arrest

  (I)

  “YOU SHOULD HAVE SOMETHING to drink, Mr. Wesley,” said Benjamin Mellor with that indulgent dip of the head. He had recovered entirely from his astonishment. “You need to calm the nerves.” He signaled the waiter. “They do some marvelous local beers here.” Pointing to the bottle in front of him.

  “No, thank you,” said Eddie. His voice was scratchy. He sat very stiffly. He had the sense that if he moved he would wake, and if he woke he would not hear the story, and he really did need to know why the confessed father of his sister’s first baby was still alive. “I don’t drink.”

  “Mineral water, then.”

  Mellor ordered two with the panache of a veteran French colon, even though he could not have been in Southeast Asia for more than four and a half years—four and a half years, that is, since he vanished in a boating accident off the Cape. In Eddie’s files, he was listed as dead. Presumably his own family believed the same. Yet here he was, sitting at the fanciest club in Saigon as if he belonged. Teri had disappeared.