Enoch's Device

by Joseph Finley

  “In Patrick’s name, release him!” Dónall cried.

  Ciarán grabbed the satchel with both hands. Though Dónall was strong, the lad was stronger, and he ripped away the satchel. But this gave Dónall an opening, and he rammed a knee into Ciarán’s exposed midsection, just below the breastbone.

  “In the name of Columcille and Brigid and Kilian!” Dónall roared. “By Brendan and Brogan and Aengus and Finnian!” He slammed an elbow into the youth’s jaw.

  Gasping, Ciarán staggered back as Dónall struggled to his feet.

  The rage in Ciarán’s face burned like an inferno. He lunged, and Dónall collapsed again under his weight. Now Ciarán straddled him, and his fingers closed around Dónall’s throat. Dónall grabbed Ciarán’s wrists, but it was a bad trade, for the lad still had him by the throat.

  “Too late for you, Irishman!” The voice that came from the lad’s mouth sounded hoarse and ancient. Ciarán squeezed harder.

  Dónall gagged. But with asphyxiation came a strange clarity. He could see the blackness swimming in Ciarán’s eyes. All the light that Dónall had seen inside the lad when the barrier was broken had vanished. When the barrier was broken . . . when he had been inside Ciarán’s mind! If only he could get in there again . . .

  Around the two combatants, the demons wailed like a raging tempest. From the corner of his eye, Dónall saw the crystal. He reached, slapping the ground, but hot breath washed over his face, and Ciarán’s hate-filled eyes bored into him. Dónall’s fingertips touched the smooth surface of the crystal, and he drew it into his palm and brought it between his face and the lad’s. Summoning a last faint bit of breath, he formed a sound: “Eoh!”

  A blinding flash erupted, and at once Dónall thrust the crystal against the lad’s forehead. With all the power of his mind, he projected himself inside.

  *

  Dónall mac Taidg found himself in a sea of inky smoke swirling around two eyelike motes that burned with a hellish glow. He sensed the intruder’s name: Magaera. This was her realm now. Her eyes flared like molten stone.

  “Too late!” she hissed.

  Dónall felt the last vestige of life slipping from his mortal shell, as if the silver chord that bound body and soul had stretched to the snapping point. He knew he had but one chance. Drawing upon his raging anger, he answered her.

  “In the name of all the angels and all the saints and Christ the Lord Almighty, let there be light!”

  Blazing white heat exploded, and the demon loosed an enraged scream. Dónall fed the light, pouring his soul into the space. There’s only room for one of us!

  He willed a second thrust of light, and the demon screamed again, this time in agony. The light flared like a brilliant star, consuming the darkness until only specks remained before they, too, flashed into nothingness. Within Ciarán’s mind, Dónall found himself alone.

  *

  Ciarán slumped over Dónall’s chest, unconscious and barely breathing. Dónall wriggled free, praying he had not killed the lad. Through the crystal’s blazing light, he could see the three enraged demons circling the amphitheater. Magaera had somehow survived.

  The demons ripped up stones from the steps and benches, hurling them into the screaming wind. Dónall extinguished the crystal and stowed it in his habit, then slung the book satchel over his shoulder and hoisted Ciarán onto his back. They were but twenty paces from one of the gaping breaches in the outer wall, but a tempest of debris and three incorporeal demons raged in their path. With his free hand, he fumbled for the sword sheathed beneath his habit. He felt its pommel and wrapped his fingers around its comforting hilt.

  Then Dónall cried out to the invisible spirits: “So, you want to play with the wind!”

  He unsheathed his sword and uttered Fae words to manipulate the air, feeling the surge of power that came with each precisely spoken syllable. Envisioning a tunnel of swirling winds between himself and the breach, he gathered the air around him with the arcing movements of his blade, turning the wind in circles, faster and faster. He focused his will on the strength of the tunnel’s walls. Around him, the wind roared, sweeping the air into a broad cylinder. The whipping clouds of sleet and debris buffeted against the deafening force of Dónall’s wind. The din of swirling air smothered the demons’ wails. Dónall projected his conjuration to the breached wall, blasting away fragments of bench and steps in his path.

  Then he dragged Ciarán down the wind tunnel, praying that it was enough to shield them both from the storm of debris. To his great relief, the wall of wind held, and he reached the end unscathed. He pulled the lad through the man-size breach in the outer wall, carrying him over the remains of the great stone blocks mortared in place long ages ago by Roman masons.

  At the bottom of the hill stood the abbey of Saint-Hilaire-le-Grand. Dónall hoped it would serve as a sanctuary. Otherwise, all this would be for naught.

  He started down the hill, moving as fast as he could under Ciarán’s dead weight. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the black cloud over the amphitheater begin to billow and slither. Like a giant serpent, it glided toward the abbey, and through the howl of the storm winds, Dónall could hear the demonic squealing.

  A wall of black clouds gathered, with three columnar heads protruding, chasing the monks like a rolling avalanche. Dónall’s heart raced. Seconds later, a violent wave of clouds crashed over them. Dónall cried back at the demons’ piercing screams. Alongside the road, shrubs flew into the sky, wrenched from their roots by invisible hands, and the whipping winds picked up pebbles and cobbles from the ground. From the abbey, human voices cried out in alarm.

  Dónall raised his sword and began to reconstruct the protective wall, and soon piercing cries rose from the battering winds that slammed into the wall of air he had summoned. Amid this black chaos, he trudged toward the abbey.

  Ahead stood the walls of Saint-Hilaire-le-Grand. From the slate-roofed gatehouse, monks cried out in terror while others screamed prayers at the bizarre storm barreling toward the abbey.

  “Open the gates!” Dónall yelled.

  A panicked monk disappeared from the gatehouse window, and a moment later, the gate creaked open. Summoning the last of his strength, Dónall grabbed hold of Ciarán and ran. Crossing the threshold, he collapsed.

  A terrible wail rose from the encroaching blackness. The storm cloud, unable to invade the air over the abbey, boiled and billowed and then climbed back up the hill as if it had been sucked skyward. The angry black mass collected over the amphitheater. Overhead, thunder pealed furiously before the cloud slowly dissipated into a gray sky.

  Dónall grasped a handful of earth and brought it to his lips. Under his breath, he muttered a prayer: “Thank you, Lord, for hallowed ground.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  DELIVER US FROM EVIL

  Dónall lay on the snow-dusted ground, every inch of him hurting beneath his tattered, bloodstained robes. He glanced at Ciarán beside him, unconscious and breathing weakly. Then he looked up into the faces of a dozen black-robed monks.

  The gatekeeper was trying to explain. “They were caught in the storm.”

  “It was an evil wind,” another monk said.

  “A sign of the apocalypse!” cried a thickset monk.

  Chanted Ave Marias rose from the most frightened of the brethren. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus . . .”

  “It was the devil’s own tempest!” one insisted.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death . . .”

  Prior Bernard waddled into the crowd. His face was ashen. “What in God’s name was that?”

  “A terrible omen,” moaned the doomsaying thickset monk. “A sign of the end times!”

  Grimacing from a hundred aches and scrapes, Dónall picked himself up off the ground. His right hand clung to the strap of the book satchel.

  Prior Bernard blanched. “Brother Dónall? Look at you! I demand to know what happen
ed!”

  Dónall did not answer but glared at the gatekeeper and pointed at Ciarán. “Take him to the infirmary,” he said. “Let him rest, but make sure he’s breathing.”

  As the burly gatekeeper stooped to lift Ciarán, Dónall pushed past Prior Bernard, who grasped him by a torn sleeve. “Brother Dónall, I must insist . . .” The prior suddenly recoiled, his plump fingers stained with Dónall’s blood.

  Dónall looked the dumbfounded prior in the eye. “It was just a freak storm—hell of a nasty wind.”

  Ahead, one of the novices had picked up Dónall’s sword, holding it by the pommel as if it were a live snake.

  Prior Bernard winced. “What is that?”

  “Open your eyes, man,” Dónall snapped. “It’s a Roman blade we found in the ruins. I’ll donate it to the duke next time I see him.” He snatched the sword from the novice, who looked relieved to be rid of it. Dónall tipped the blade toward Prior Bernard. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Prior Bernard stared wide-eyed at the blade, backing away and nearly tripping in his haste. The little knot of startled monks parted quickly, and Dónall strode through them and headed for the guesthouse. He had to consult Maugis’ book. Someone or something had sent those demons against him and Ciarán. And they were still out there, which meant that as soon as he and Ciarán left this abbey, the demons would be waiting.

  When he reached the guesthouse, Dónall closed the door and pulled the Book of Maugis from its satchel. Setting the water basin carefully aside, he opened the book on the night table and flipped through pages toward the back. There Maugis had written of demons, which were just as the Book of Enoch had described. The slain Nephilim shall remain on earth as evil spirits, and they shall be like storms, rising against man and wreaking destruction. According to Maugis, demons could not be killed, for they were already dead. But they could be warded off.

  For an instant, he thought back to Reims, to the time when Brother Orlando longed to test the demon wards in Maugis’ Book. Orlando had searched the Secret Collection for tomes that told how to summon the evil spirits. Luckily, his first attempts had failed before Dónall and Thomas could convince him to stop. Dónall believed that such an act would be unholy—a dark turn down the path to forbidden magic. Thomas had shared that view, but it was clear now that Lucien had not. Had he become so powerful that he could bind demons to his will?

  The question was so troubling, Dónall tried to banish it from his mind. Shuttering the window, he removed the opaque crystal from his habit. With the whisper of the Fae word, light flared and then settled to a soft white glow. He scanned the room to make sure all was as it seemed. Then he turned the weathered pages until he found one that was blank except for the heading, scrawled in brown ink: “The Warding and Binding of Demons.” As the soul light settled onto the vellum, diagrams and flowing script cascaded down the page.

  Maugis had warded demons with a talisman, pictured as a disk etched with a heptagram—the same design Maugis had used in the prophecy’s hieroglyph. Instructions for constructing the talisman followed, accompanied by a litany of Fae words.

  Dónall took four silver coins from Remi’s purse—all that remained of a gift from the abbot of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He stacked them in twos and then brought the stacks within the crystal’s light. Fae words for metalworking flowed from Dónall’s tongue, and as he spoke, the coins grew hot and unstable, melting into molten pools whose shape changed with a wave of his finger. Over the next hour—perhaps more, for in the heat of the ritual, with his mind focused on speaking the language of the Fae, he lost all track of time—Dónall molded the stacks into two smooth disks. Next, he traced the heptagrams, carefully drawing the seven points of each star, with each point touching the edge of the disk. The heptagram was an ancient shape honored by the Jewish mystics and Oriental magi, but early Christians also used it to symbolize the seven days of creation and to protect against evil. As Dónall finished the symbols, his Christian nature demanded something more, so he traced a high cross into the heart of each heptagram and whispered a prayer to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. He ended with a singular request: “Deliver us, O Lord, from evil.” Then he drew a long breath and uttered a series of poetic incantations to seal the power within the talismans.

  When he was done, Dónall’s hands trembled and his brow dripped with sweat. What energy had remained after their skirmish with the demons was now spent, and with a deep yawn, he collapsed on the nearest pallet and slept.

  *

  Dónall woke suddenly at the cock’s crow. He rubbed his weary face and opened the shuttered window to let the sunlight spill through. Moments later, church bells rang the canonical hour of Prime.

  Still wearing his tattered Benedictine habit, he exchanged it for his Irish habit and then glanced at the empty pallet beside him. “Ciarán?” he called out before realizing what had happened. Dear God, I’ve left him in the care of an infirmarer!

  He bolted from the room. Down the steps from the guesthouse, he darted into the courtyard, past curious monks filing toward the church, nearly trampling the chickens in his path.

  Dónall threw open the door to the infirmary, and the two monks inside jumped in alarm. The windows were still shuttered, and a log burned in the hearth. Four candelabras provided the only meager light surrounding the bed where Ciarán slept. He was half naked, and here and there, black, thumb-size lumps clung to the skin of his chest, stomach, and arms, glistening in the candlelight.

  “Get those bloodsucking things off him!” Dónall growled.

  The infirmarer, a wiry monk with a pinched nose, and his apprentice, a novice no older than fifteen, looked confounded.

  “Why?” the infirmarer asked. “He surely has a disease of the blood. We have applied the leeches.”

  “Leechcraft is not medicine!”

  The infirmarer puckered his mouth. “What do you know of the four humors? When the blood is poisoned, it must be leeched.”

  Dónall poked a finger at the infirmarer’s chest. “I studied at Reims with Gerbert of Aurillac, who had knowledge of Arabic medicine, which is a damned sight more sophisticated than yours. Have you ever thought of trying to diagnose the disease rather than just jumping to reckless conclusions? Most likely, the lad’s just exhausted. You’d be better off putting wine from Cognac under his nose and into his mouth. Then see how he reacts before you start letting his blood.”

  “We have that wine,” the trembling apprentice offered.

  “Then for the love of God, lad, go get some!”

  *

  The Cognac worked better than Dónall had expected. Ciarán woke, groggy as if from a deep sleep. He seemed to have no recollection of his possession by the demon, which Dónall supposed was a good thing, although he would have liked to know what master the demon served.

  Dónall sat with Ciarán all that day while he rested. By the next morning, Ciarán was sitting upright in bed, slurping down bowls of broth brought by the infirmarer’s apprentice, and grateful to be back in his familiar Irish habit. Dónall had slipped one of the talismans around Ciarán’s neck, hanging it from a leather thong obtained from the abbey’s tanner. “Always wear this under your habit,” he said.

  “What is it?” Ciarán asked.

  “Something to protect you from the demons.”

  “Is that what they were?” The color had yet to return to his face.

  “If Maugis is right, with us wearing the talismans they shouldn’t be able to come near us.”

  Before Dónall could say more, the infirmarer returned, accompanied by the gatekeeper.

  “Brother Dónall,” the gatekeeper said, “there’s a man here to see you.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s the rabbi ben Ezra.”

  Dónall glanced at Ciarán. “Curious. I’ll see what he needs.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Ciarán said.

  “You need rest.”

  “I’ve had rest aplenty.” Ciarán threw off his blanket and bounded ou
t of bed. His knees buckled, and he sprawled on the infirmary floor.

  The infirmarer handed him a walking stick, and he rose gingerly to his feet. “No worries,” he said.

  “Hobble along, then, if you insist,” Dónall said.

  As they stepped into the crisp morning air, Dónall searched for any sign of the storms that had preceded the demons, but only a canopy of gray-white clouds blanketed the sky.

  At the abbey gate stood the rabbi, wrapped in a heavy blue cloak and leaning on a walking stick of his own. Rabbi Isaac ben Ezra smiled as Dónall and Ciarán approached.

  “To what do we owe this honor?” Dónall asked.

  “I am glad that you have not embarked on your journey home,” the rabbi said. “There is something you should know.”

  “Not another warning about Vikings, I hope,” Dónall said.

  “This is more timely than that,” the rabbi replied. A cunning smile spread across his face. “For I know how we can find your Stone of Light.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE NEXT JOURNEY

  Ciarán moved stiffly after Dónall and the rabbi to the abbey’s church. Still dazed at learning of his brief demonic possession, Ciarán prayed there were no lasting effects, and he was much relieved to see the morning sky without any sign of the demons’ storm clouds. Still, he found the church a welcome sanctuary. Dónall had picked it because the brothers of Saint-Hilaire-le-Grand were now between holy offices, so the place would be deserted.

  Window slits covered in vellum palely lit the cramped church, and the resinous scent of incense lingered in the air. The rabbi looked around him, as if studying a foreign place. Dónall offered him a seat on a stone bench in the well of the nave and sat down beside him, while Ciarán leaned on his walking stick.