Remi grimaced. He grabbed Ciarán by the sleeve and pulled him to one of the drawings on the wall: a sphinx, lion-bodied with a woman’s head and full, unseemly breasts. The image had been sketched in fearsome detail, from the claws on the feline paws to the high cheekbones and flowing hair of the womanly visage. “Do you know the meaning of the sphinx?” he asked fervently.
“Actually,” Ciarán replied, “I think I do.”
Ciarán studied the symbols. Amid a score of others, twelve of them formed a roughly circular pattern around a narrow seven-pointed star. “Etched,” Ciarán said, “means written or drawn, as in a picture. So pictures in the heavens must refer to the constellations.”
“Exactly,” said Remi. “It has been written there since the beginning of time, and you don’t need Maugis to tell you that. Remember the Psalm: ‘The heavens declare the glory of God; day to day they pour forth speech, and night to night they declare knowledge; their voice goes out to all the earth, and their words to the end of the world.’ The stars declare the knowledge, don’t you see? The knowledge of the prophecy!”
“The signs of the zodiac,” Ciarán said.
“Precisely! The ancient Greeks, the Egyptians, the Babylonians—every people throughout history has recognized these signs. When read together, they tell a prophecy of things to come. The signs are arranged in a circle, so what they mean depends on where you start reading. If you begin at Aries and end with Pisces, the meaning is very different from beginning with Capricorn and ending with Sagittarius.”
“It leaves a little room for interpretation, doesn’t it?” Dónall added.
“Not if you read them in the right order. The first riddle refers to the sphinx as the key. There it is.” Remi pointed a bony finger at the drawing of the mythical beast. “What does it mean?”
Ciarán had contemplated the answer since that night on the Irish Sea. He studied the picture, then glanced at the circular pattern of symbols.
Remi’s mouth hung open in anticipation.
“The riddle of the sphinx,” Ciarán began. “I thought about the riddle it posed to Oedipus: what creature goes on four legs in the morning, on two at midday, and on three in the evening? The answer, we know, is man. So maybe man is the key, but what does that have to do with the constellations?”
“Gemini is sometimes depicted as twin men,” Dónall offered, “and Orion is also a man.”
Remi flashed him a bitter look.
“But Orion is not part of the zodiac,” Ciarán said. “So then I thought, what if the sphinx itself is the riddle? If the sphinx literally is the key? A key is used to unlock something—not just chests or doors, but codes. To interpret the symbols, you need a key, something that tells what letter each symbol corresponds to. If the sphinx is literally the key, it should tell us how to read the code—in this case, the constellations. The sphinx has the head of a woman and the body of a lion—a woman first, and lion last. So what if the first constellation is a woman, and the last is a lion?”
“Virgo and Leo!” Remi beamed. “The prophecy starts with Virgo and ends with Leo. That is the key!”
“So it tells you the order in which to read the constellations,” Ciarán said. “But how do you know what they mean?”
“Ah,” Dónall replied, half smiling. “Now you’re traveling farther down the river of interpretation and into the misty seas of theory.”
“But some theories prove true,” Remi insisted. “Open your mind to the possibilities. Enlightened thinkers since ancient times have seen meaning in these constellations. But when the constellations tell the whole tale . . .” He shuddered. “Are you prepared for this?” he asked Ciarán. “It is a secret that forever changes the lives of any to whom it is revealed. A secret for which countless men over thousands of years have sacrificed their lives. One that has wrought great destruction in the past, yet offers a bare sliver of hope in the dark future to come. Once you have seen this, you will never look at the stars the same way again, knowing the dire warning they hold for us all.”
Ciarán had to wonder, was this simply a product of Remi’s madness, or something far graver? Yet he could not restrain his curiosity. “I want to know.”
“Good.” Remi’s eyes brightened. “First, put your mind in the frame of the man who first discovered the prophecy: Arcanus of Atlantis. The Atlanteans were like the ancient Greeks, so you must interpret the story the way a Greek would: in three acts—a beginning, a middle, and an end—with each act composed of four signs. If you begin with Virgo, the first four signs are Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, and Sagittarius.” He gestured to the four symbols that formed the top left third of the circle.
“Virgo, the first sign,” he said, pointing to the bottom of the four symbols, “is depicted as a woman holding a sheaf of wheat—a universal symbol of a seed. The Egyptians saw her as the goddess Isis. To the Celts, she is the Earth Mother. Others see her as Eve. Yet it is her seed that matters, her offspring. Perhaps the seed represents mankind. But Maugis saw something more specific: a bloodline traced through history from Arcanus to Constantine, to the heirs of Charlemagne—the bloodline of a champion of men who must fulfill the prophecy or all will be lost.
“Next is Libra, the scales. They speak to something being weighed and measured—a test. Third comes Scorpio. In Hebrew, its name is Akrab, which means war or conflict. Yet in Coptic, the name is Isidis, meaning attack of the enemy. And last is Sagittarius. He is the archer who aims his weapon at the heart of Scorpio.”
As Remi spoke, Ciarán recognized the meaning of another picture scrawled on the shrine’s wall: a muscular centaur pulling a bowstring and targeting a monstrous scorpion, its deadly curved sting poised to strike.
“Together, these tell the first act of the prophecy,” Remi continued. “A champion of men will be measured in a battle against the enemy. Only by wielding the weapon, Sagittarius, can the champion survive and defeat the enemy in this battle. Maugis called this the prime conflict.”
Remi pointed to the next four symbols, which completed the next third of the circle.
“Of the next act, we know much less. It begins with Capricorn, the goat, a universal symbol of sacrifice. Next is Aquarius, the flowing waters. It is believed this represents a journey. The waters flow into the constellations that surround Pisces, the next sign. Pisces is depicted as two fish bound by a chain. The chain also binds two other constellations: Andromeda, a woman, and Cetus, the Leviathan, a great monster of the sea.”
Flanking the symbols in this half of the circle were sketches of a woman, shamelessly naked yet beautiful, and a creature that looked like a whale, but with the scales of a fish and the jaws of a shark. A chain linked the woman’s wrists to the sea monster’s tail.
“This is where the meaning of the second act becomes a mystery,” Remi continued. “Maugis says nothing of it. Last of the four is Aries, the ram—again, a symbol of sacrifice. So the second act represents a journey of some type that begins and ends with sacrifice.”
Ciarán nodded, his eyes still riveted on the image of Andromeda and the Leviathan.
“The meaning of the final act is clearer.” Remi tapped a finger beside the last four symbols.
“First,” he said, starting at the top, “we have Taurus, the raging bull. It represents a great conflict. Next is Gemini, the twins. In the old Coptic tongue, the word for Gemini is Pi-Mahi, meaning ‘the united.’ After Gemini is Cancer, whose name in the ancient languages is significant. In Arabic, its name is Al Sartan, meaning ‘to hold or bind.’ It has the same meaning in Hebrew. And in Greek, it is Karkinos—‘to encircle.’
“Finally, there is Leo, the lion. This is the symbol of the champion of men. Beneath it, however, is another constellation: the Hydra, a symbol of the enemy. Both the lion and the Hydra head toward Cancer.”
Beside this third of the circle, Remi had drawn a dragon, terrible and twisting, with snakelike scales. “This completes the act’s meaning: that the champion and the enemy will be bound in a final, decisive con
flict. Only one shall prevail. And there the prophecy shall be fulfilled.”
Ciarán still found it an abstract mystery. “How can you tell when any of this will happen?” he asked.
“It already has,” Remi said, his eyes growing wide. “And its time is coming again.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This is more theory,” Dónall said. “The zodiac is a wheel, and a wheel turns over and over. Maugis spoke of a cycle of darkness that turns every thousand years. So, the theory goes, the cycle of the prophecy repeats itself every thousand years or so.”
“Three times man has survived,” Remi said, “but the enemy has grown stronger—and wiser. And now the end of the millennium is nearly upon us.”
Dónall shook his head. “We don’t know, in fact, if it has ever happened before, but Thomas believed the first time may have been around the time of Arcanus, about three thousand years ago.”
“And you want your proof?” Remi said. “Where is Atlantis? Sunk into the sea in the aftermath of the great conflict. That is what we are dealing with! Almost every civilization has a story of a battle between light and darkness, whether fought by gods or by mortal men. And as the cycle of the prophecy has been repeated, these myths have been reinforced until they became embedded in the legends of mankind. To you Irish, the story is reflected in the battle of Mag Tuired, where the Tuatha Dé Danann defeated the Formorian giants and their king, Balor of the Evil Eye. The Babylonians have their battle between the hero-god Marduk and the dragon Tiamat. The priests of Persia tell of a great war between Ahura Mazda, the god of good, and Ahriman, the god of evil, when darkness will cover the sky and the world will be devoured by fire. The Northmen believe in a final battle that will plunge the world into darkness, when the world serpent rises from the sea and armies of giants and demons do battle with the gods, while the earth burns. The Northmen call that battle Ragnarok.
“But we have long known it by a different name, the name by which the battle will be called when the cycle of the prophecy repeats again.” Remi’s expression had grown frighteningly serious.
“To us it is known as Armageddon.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ENOCH’S DEVICE
“Now do you understand the significance of the book I sent to Derry?” Remi said. “Of the images I chose?”
A lump of dread formed in the pit of Ciarán’s stomach as Remi’s illuminations flashed vividly through his mind: the rain of fire and blood, the figures writhing in pain, the demons with horned heads rising from a smoking pit. “The apocalypse,” he murmured.
“Yes.” Remi’s eyes narrowed, and his voice fell. “The book of Revelation tells of portents in the heavens, battles on earth, and a final conflict called Armageddon. And it tells of the enemy of prophecy.”
“The Dragon,” Ciarán almost whispered, unwilling to utter its true name. He recalled Remi’s illumination of the serpentine beast battling the hosts of heaven.
The mad look returned to Remi’s eyes. “Now do you see who we are dealing with? The Dragon is present in every myth. He is the snake of Eden, Balor of the Evil Eye, Tiamat of Babylon, Ophion to the Greeks, the world serpent of the Norse. The book of Revelation says that after a thousand years, the Dragon must be released from its prison, where it has been bound since its war against God. Maugis says the prophecy is a cycle of a thousand years. Thus, with each millennium, the war that broke out in heaven continues on earth!”
“You’re talking about the end of the world,” Ciarán said.
“No!” Remi exclaimed. “Revelation tells of the world’s end: the trumpets, the fire, the earthquakes, the stars falling from the sky. Those are the things that will happen if the final battle is lost. To prevent these horrors—that is what we are fighting for.”
Ciarán glanced between Remi and Dónall. “How does God let this happen?”
“Why does God let any evil exist in this world?” Remi asked. “Because man did this to himself! In the garden, when Eve became Pandora. It was man who broke God’s laws and listened to the serpent and ate of the forbidden fruit. Man who brought about the end of paradise and let evil into the world. And it was man who, after the war in heaven, sided for a time with the fallen angels, cavorting with them, bearing their offspring, corrupting the world to the point that God nearly drowned it all in the great flood. But still evil lingered, all as a consequence of man’s doings. The prophecy is the ultimate trial, where man is forced to confront the evil he let into this world—a test to see if mankind deserves to live another thousand years.”
Ciarán found himself at a loss for words.
“Thomas believed it was a consequence of free will,” Dónall said. “Just as man can choose to do good or evil, so he can choose to defend himself in these times and preserve the world that God gave him, or stand complacently by and witness the end of all things. Yet the fact that men can read this meaning into the zodiac does not make it all true.”
“Dónall, ever the skeptic!” Remi declared. “The signs of the apocalypse are everywhere. The Four Horsemen ride unchecked over our land. The king and his magnates are at war, and beyond our borders, the Vikings and the Saracens threaten all godly life. There is famine so bleak that men are rumored to eat other men just to survive. Disease and plague follow the famine, killing children, the old, and the weak. And everywhere walks death, stalking, killing, and reaping souls. Only those who choose blindness can fail to see these things.”
“But war, famine, and disease have existed throughout history,” Dónall argued.
“Never like this!” Remi insisted. “Why you remain in denial has always vexed me, especially since Thomas gave his life for this. And there is one fact you have always ignored, even though it compels a belief in these things: Maugis taught us the secrets of the Fae, which are real, and then he tells of prophecy and how to find the weapon.”
“You mean Sagittarius,” Ciarán said.
“Precisely!” Remi looked at Dónall. “Go on, show him.”
Dónall sighed and unslung the leather satchel from his shoulder. “It’s another cryptic clue,” he said. “Another damnable riddle.”
“In the book,” Ciarán murmured.
“The book is full of riddles,” Dónall replied, pulling the Book of Maugis d’Aygremont from the satchel. “I think even you have seen it.” He set the thick book on the table, opened its cover, and flipped through the centuries-old vellum until he came to the image of a symbol-filled circle with two seven-pointed stars.
“The witch’s circle,” Ciarán said.
“It is no such thing,” Remi insisted.
“No,” Dónall said. “We have always believed it’s some type of pictorial representation of the prophecy—a hieroglyph of sorts.”
“Surely it is,” Remi explained. “These symbols”—he pointed to twelve glyphs along the outer circle—“like those on the wall, are the symbols of the zodiac, arranged appropriately in a wheel. In the gaps between the points of the first seven-pointed star are more symbols, representing the planets, which are closer to the earth: Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, the Moon, Venus, Mercury, and the Sun. The large seven-pointed star symbolizes the seven days of creation, when the stars were set in the sky and the prophecy was written. The star is also a glyph to ward off evil. The smaller seven-pointed star in the center is called the fairy star, a symbol of the Fae, suggesting they have a role to play in the cycle of prophecy. Within it is the ankh, a symbol of life but also an Atlantean symbol of Arcanus. That is why Maugis chose it to adorn the cover of his book. Surrounding the fairy star and the ankh are words, written in the heptagrams within the larger star. And do not let your mind fool you given all the myriad symbols: the letters are Greek.”
Ciarán’s eyes grew wide. It was true: the letters within the heptagrams were Greek—amid the unnerving symbols, he had failed to notice until now.
“When you read them,” Remi said, “they tell a story.”
Though Greek was not his strongest tongue, Ciarán slow
ly read the words aloud:
Enoch saw a great and glorious device at the ends of the whole Earth. There Arcanus found the Stone of Light.
“Do you see what I meant about another riddle?” Dónall said.
“But it is a riddle that gives us the clues to solve it,” Remi insisted. “‘Enoch’ is a clear reference to the author of the Book of Enoch. We know this book was kept in the library of Charlemagne, and I believe it was intended to be kept alongside the Book of Maugis, although somehow over time they became separated. The Book of Enoch must tell us how to locate the weapon, which Maugis calls the Stone of Light, though elsewhere he refers to it as Enoch’s device. This is why we need the Book of Enoch. To find the device, the weapon needed to survive the prime conflict.” Remi gazed at them with fierce eyes. “And we are running out of time.”
“What do you mean?” Ciarán asked warily.
“On the fifth of March, Mars, the Roman god of war and bloodshed, shall pass between Scorpio and Sagittarius. So don’t you see, war and bloodshed between Scorpio and Sagittarius? The prime conflict is nearly upon us!”
“That’s less than four months from now,” Ciarán realized.
“One hundred and five days,” said Remi. “And six hundred sixty-six days from the millennium.” He looked to Dónall. “Don’t you realize its significance?”
Dónall turned away.
“If I am wrong,” Remi argued, “we lose nothing by finishing Nicolas’s mission and finding the Book of Enoch. If there is nothing to the book, so be it. If all of this is nonsense, what harm will have been done? But if I am right and the prophecy has begun, then you know we must do this. Or all will be lost. The horrors of the apocalypse will rain down on all. Dónall, the price of being wrong is unimaginable. Surely your logical mind brings you to this conclusion.”
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