IV
The grand library of Aquraa looked more like a city palace than a library. It was built in the style of medieval Arabia with a size and majesty that have not been rivaled since the great library of Alexandria. Inside, the walls were lined with heavy wooden shelves filled with copies of all the works from life that had been deemed worthy, as well as all the great works that had been written and composed in death by the greatest scholars of all time. No place – in life or death – held more or purer knowledge than the library of Aquraa. For this reason, it was only natural that Bahij had his private study there, with all worthwhile knowledge at hand. On this evening, he sat poised over his copies of the Voynich and Flamel manuscripts, surrounded by a wall of ancient tomes that rose from his desktop. He was nearly done deciphering the Voynich manuscript, and it was just as he had thought. The ritual within was indeed the source of everlasting life, offering the ability to travel between the worlds and thus granting the ability to return to life from death. Bahij dipped his quill in the inkwell and finished his notes, which by this time compiled several hundred handwritten pages, many of them written over the course of the last few days. He was done. He knew now that there were only two things missing to complete the ritual, as Notke had hidden crucial information to keep the ritual safe. Vincenzo was already retrieving the names of the three saints required for the ritual from Notke's altar, but the second piece of the puzzle proved much trickier. In the manuscript, Notke told of a verse to be uttered during the course of the ritual: a verse which Bahij had found that Notke had included in his masterwork painting Totentanz – Dance of the Dead – in the Marienkirche in Notke's hometown of Lübeck. Bahij had found that the verse needed for the ritual was the verse of the minstrel. The one playing the tune of death’s dance on his pipes would also be the one able to stop the dance – freeing the dancers from death's grip. It made perfect sense. However, there were two snags. First off, the painting inside the Marienkirche had been destroyed during the allied bombings during World War II, making it impossible for Bahij to get a firsthand look. Secondly, neither the only existing partial copy in St. Nicholas' Church in Tallinn nor any written records told of the minstrel having his own verse in Notke's Totentanz. Bahij heard resolute footsteps outside just before the door opened. Bahij rose from his seat to look over the stacks of tomes to see who had come to disturb him against his express wishes.
“My Lord,” he said, bowing down when he saw Him standing in the doorway.
“Bahij,” He said as He entered, closing the thick hardwood door behind him. “I have come to inquire as to the progress you are making, not wishing to needlessly tear you from your endeavor to serve me.”
“I am most joyous to say that I have finished the translation of the manuscript.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. I am certain that I have mapped the course of the ritual, save two parts omitted by Notke in the manuscript. One being the saint names, which Vincenzo should be acquiring as we speak, and the second being an unknown verse in Notke's Totentanz.” Bahij let his words hang in the air between them and awaited his master’s reply.
“Well, I am certain that now that the existence of this verse is known to you, you will be able to attain it for me.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Bahij said, showing no uncertainty though he was praying that he had not made a promise which he could not keep. “It is the verse of the minstrel who is playing the tune to which death dances, and as such, he is the one able to stop the dance.” As He walked over to take a look at the manuscripts and notes on Bahij’s desk himself, Bahij stepped back to give Him room. He peered through Bahij's notes, turning the pages of the manuscripts to follow the note references, and Bahij said nothing. He stood there for minutes that felt like hours, like a schoolboy showing his work to the teacher, and he said nothing despite having one question burning in his mind. When Bahij saw that He was just about finished and seemed to be satisfied, Bahij finally got up his courage. “My Lord, would you allow me to ask a delicate question?”
“Yes,” Mr. Ferre replied as He finished reading the last of Bahij's notes.
“I ask that you would let me know who will be the first to be summoned back from the Grey.” The question lingered for a moment before He answered.
“It will be my wife,” He said in a tone both grave and very matter-of-fact as he rose from the books and looked at Bahij. Bahij had heard it told that He had once loved, but few – if any – knew if the tales were true, or who she might be or how she had come to be sent into the Grey.
“Your wife, my Lord?” Bahij said with a tremble in his voice.
“Yes, Bahij. My wife. Do not tell me that you have not heard the stories.”
“I have, but I must say I had never believed them to be much more than just that.” He didn't reply, but his gaze revealed a longing for the past paired with a deep hatred and desire for vengeance. “I . . .”
“You are allowed to ask, my friend,” He said, turning his back to Bahij as He walked to a chair by the wall and took a seat.
“I will keep it to myself,” Bahij said, unnecessarily underlining his own trustworthiness.
“Yes, you will.” As He sat down, Bahij took a seat in his desk chair and looked at Him with marvel. He felt that he had been offered a short glimpse of the humanity of the gods and that he had just been awarded the greatest gift of all, namely that of trust.
“Who was she?” Bahij asked, still in slight disbelief.
“Her name was Hel and she was death,” He said, his eyes going cold again. “A great while before your time, she was death to the ancient Norse and ruled a large part of Shades – a task placed on her shoulders by force rather than will. But while she carried out the bidding of the powers that be, she felt no love for them and a part of her always yearned to break free.” He let a long silence fill the room while He recalled their time together so long ago. “While we first met as enemies, we also found in each other a resounding understanding and a great dislike for those who tried to rule us, and that was what brought us together in the end.” He looked at Bahij, who lowered his gaze to the floor. Though Bahij acted as if he averted his eyes to offer Him the solitude to speak freely, in truth he did it because he could not hold his gaze with his master’s as if they were equals. “Over time, her powers faded as other deaths encroached on her realm, and she eventually turned to me for love, aid and freedom. It was a cataclysmic treason that could not be ignored. For more than a century, the battles raged and there was no rest to be found until the fateful day came when our defenses fell and they finally had their will. I found myself unable to stop them and she was exiled into the Grey, while I remained behind, swearing my vengeance.” He fastened his gaze on Bahij. “And now, after the better part of a thousand years, it seems that the time is nigh. And it is largely your efforts that have made it possible, which is the sole reason why I tell you this.” Bahij looked into his master’s eyes and saw the fires raging, and he saw the wings threatening to burst from his master’s back into an inferno of flames. “When she returns, our line will have a new queen. Dæth will have his downfall. And I will have my revenge!”
V
For most of the concert, Vincenzo listened to the ominous wail of the organ pipes from the winding staircase of the cathedral tower. He sat on the century-old wooden steps and felt the weight of time, knowing that these steps had been there even before he was born. As Bach took him back in time, Vincenzo recalled his first years as a vampire – a time when it had been much easier to roam and feed, as news and fear traveled a lot slower in those days and the Hunters had a much harder time catching up. He recalled how people had tried to shield themselves with superstitious beliefs, such as that he could not enter a house unless invited, that garlic kept him at bay, that the sight of a cross would repel him, or even better, the belief that he could not enter hallowed ground. As the bass pipes rejoined the music with great gravity after a spell of lightness, Vincenzo was taken back to a time when he had been feeding
in a small village in the Netherlands. “It would have been around the year 1600,” he thought to himself. The whole village had been in an uproar after only two nights of feeding, and everyone in the village seemed to have their own idea of what or who was behind the monstrous murders. Some claimed it to be the devil, and others thought that it was the punishment of God. Some said it was the gimp who lived on the outskirts of town and somehow managed to keep herself fat and fed despite being of no good use to anyone, and yet others thought it to be the work of a wild beast come to haunt the village. As Vincenzo continued to feed regularly, the general consensus in town moved towards the idea that the gimp was a witch and that the deaths were God’s punishment for the sin of the villagers suffering her in their midst. The night they burned her at the stake, Vincenzo stood at the edge of the village green and watched as the smell of burnt flesh spread and the convulsions of the gimp subsided as the flames consumed her. Like a cat toying with its prey, Vincenzo refrained from feeding in the village for a good week, allowing the villagers enough time to agree that they had done the right thing. On the night he first fed again, he took a young girl of only twelve years, and he left her on the village green where the grass was still scorched from the fire that had burned there just a week before. When the girl was found the next morning, the village panicked and the doctor from the nearest city was brought in to aid the village priest in unraveling what had happened. The good doctor, being a learned man, had heard tales from the eastern parts of the continent of risen dead who fed upon the blood and souls of others. At a village meeting, he conveyed his message that this Vampir was what was terrorizing the village. He told the villagers that the best weapon against this abomination would be prayer, but that it was also believed that the scent of garlic would keep the creature at bay, and that the sight of our Lord’s cross and hallowed ground would surely repel – if not even destroy – the beast. This led to villagers carving crosses on the doors to their houses, filling their pockets with cloves of garlic and digging up graveyard dirt to spread around their houses to keep Vincenzo out. That same night, Vincenzo decided to have a banquet before moving on, knowing that the Hunters would eventually arrive as news of the village's fate spread. Come nightfall, he rode to the small convent that lay outside the village. He arrived after evening prayer, just in time to hear the abbess ensure the nuns that they were perfectly safe from the workings of the devil as long as they remained inside the convent where they would be protected by the hand and mercy of the Lord. As he recalled the look in the eyes of the first nun he consumed that night, he still marveled at the panic and disbelief that he had seen in her blue, teary eyes when she found that her God had abandoned her. He felt hungry now. As the last tones of the pipes rang out and resounded between the cathedral walls, he closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts. Soon he would feed again. There was a standing ovation, and after about fifteen minutes of waiting, the last of the concertgoers had left – save for Blake and Astrid, who had promised to lock up the church after a quick tour. Slowly and silently, Vincenzo snuck around the walkways, stairways and aisles of the cathedral like a predator on the prowl, waiting for just the right time. He kept a close watch on them, listening to everything they said. Vincenzo knew that Blake would be prepared and that he would need to find a way to catch him off guard.
“Blake?” Astrid said, picking up a used, folded-up program. She chucked it into the trash bag she was carrying around as she tidied up the church. Blake followed close to give her a helping hand. Before Blake could answer, she turned on her toes and kissed him. Her kiss started out passionate and was intended to convince Blake to abandon his interest in medieval arts in order to explore a much healthier interest in anatomy. However, it failed. Not so much because Blake failed to kiss her back, although his kiss was more courteous than passionate, but it was because halfway through the kiss, Astrid felt the cold of Blake's dead lips and immediately broke off. “Your lips . . . You must be freezing,” she said.
“Oh, it's nothing. I guess it's just chilly in here with the thick, cold, stone walls and all,” Blake replied, trying to weasel out of it.
“You poor thing,” Astrid started, but before she could move on, Blake diffused the situation by stepping out into the aisle and turning his attention to the altar at the far end of the choir.
“Would you show me the altar?”
“Sure,” she said hesitantly before joining Blake to walk up the aisle, taking his arm. As they reached the altar, Astrid looked at Blake as if to ask him if he wanted her to go through the details of the altar.
“Please explain,” he said with a smile, and she did. She told him about the wings of the altar that are shifted in accordance to the liturgical calendar. She told him about the many paintings that filled the predella and the closed wings, and she even pulled out a ladder from behind the altar in order to shift the wings so that Blake could see for himself. She told him about the woodcut figures of the twelve apostles and three saints – Saint Clement, Saint Anna and John the Baptist – that dominated the center of the altar when fully opened. After a good half hour’s lecture, Blake thought he had a pretty good grasp of the imagery of Notke's altar.
“So why these three?” he asked, pointing to the three central saints displayed in woodcut.
“Well, Saint Clement, holding his anchor, is the patron saint of the city. I believe it is a symbol of hope and can be seen as some kind of anchor of the soul,” she said, trying to recall one of the many biblical references of her thesis. “I think it has something to do with Hebrews six, verse nineteen, which I think goes something like: ‘Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, steadfast and sure, and which enters beyond the veil.’ Or something like that.” She smiled.
“And the other two?” Blake asked.
“Well, at the time Notke made this altar – which was before the reformation, mind you – Saint Anna had become the closest thing to a direct line to God because the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ himself had become too distant to pray to directly. So, by sending your prayers to Saint Anna, you would ask her to send it on to her daughter, the Virgin Mary, who would in turn ask Jesus, who would send the prayer on to God in the end. As you can see, the scene even shows Saint Anna depicted with her daughter, the Virgin Mary, and her newborn son, Jesus Christ.”
“So she's kind of a God hotline,” Blake stated. Astrid snickered with her head now filled with images of God – long white beard and all – sitting behind a desk taking down prayers sent to him from various celestial phone lines.
“You might say that. And John the Baptist, well, he was the one who baptized Jesus Christ in the New Testament.” Astrid's phone made a faint humming sound as it vibrated in her pocket. Blake stood looking at the altar as she found her cell phone and read the text message, inaudibly cussing and rolling her eyes, making sure that Blake didn't notice her.
“So we have the anchor of the soul, a connection to God, and finally, the sacrament of baptism to cleanse the soul and offer admission?” Blake recapped, convinced that he had the right saint names for McCoy.
“Yes, something like that,” Astrid said absentmindedly, quickly texting her mom back. “Blake, I'm sorry, but I have to go. There is one more thing about the altar that I would like to show you, but it will have to keep until tomorrow. I'm sorry!”
“What's happened?” Blake asked, turning his attention to Astrid.
“Oh, it's nothing to do with you. It's my mom.” Blake could see by the tears forming in her eyes that there was not much chance of keeping Astrid in the church any longer that night. However, he had already gotten what he came for and he would be back tomorrow to make sure that he had gotten all the details right. “Come on. I just have to lock up before we go,” she said, urging Blake on.
“So, tomorrow then?” he said as they walked down the aisle.
“Yes. Let's meet here at . . . say eight tomorrow evening. We'll have the whole church to ourselves and I can bring my notes. I'm really sorry!”
&nbs
p;
Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck Page 16