Enoch's Device

by Joseph Finley

  New concern gathered in Dónall’s brow. “Like the one about the dragon and the Urim?”

  “The dream felt equally as real,” Isaac said, “but this one did not concern the Urim. Instead, I saw Goliath, standing on the battlefield in all his fearsome glory. He was dressed like a Greek warrior and led an army of pale-skinned giants.” The rabbi closed his eyes as he spoke, as if reliving the dream in his mind. “The army marched from great ships with many oars, across a desert plain. I could feel the air, as if I stood there among them. It was not hot like the deserts of the east, but very cold. And then my vision whipped over the barren land, as if I were but a feather blowing in the harsh wind. Across the desert, I saw a woman, beautiful and dressed in white, looking like an angel. Behind her, billowing up in the distance, was a black cloud, like those that pursued our ship last night but far larger and in the form of a great beast with broad wings and a long, craning neck. It was the spirit of the Dragon. I could feel it, like death itself, drawing closer until the blackness enveloped all my sight. And I awoke, shaking with dread.” Isaac opened his eyes. “What does it mean?”

  “You dreamt of the Nephilim,” Dónall said. “Perhaps it’s a connection to the demons that attacked us. The Book of Enoch claims that demons are the spirits of slain Nephilim.”

  “Goliath was a Nephilim,” Isaac said with a sigh. “Scripture makes clear that many of the giants survived the Deluge. But the message of the dream . . . I agree, it must confirm that the demons who attacked us—these Nephilim spirits—serve the Dragon.”

  Dónall’s eyes narrowed. “The book of Revelation states that after a thousand years, when the Dragon is freed from his prison, he will gather the nations of Gog and Magog for battle. Some believe that Gog and Magog were kings among the giants.”

  Isaac shook his head. “This is deeply troubling.”

  “I know,” Dónall said. “But I can protect us from the demons.” He tapped the talisman around his neck. “And having a few more of these around wouldn’t hurt.”

  “You can make these?” Isaac asked.

  “It’ll take some time, but we may as well get started.”

  Ciarán had turned to go with them when he saw Alais standing at the threshold to the deckhouse. Seeing the troubled look on her face, he realized that she had overhead everything.

  “I’ve seen a woman in white as well,” Alais said.

  “You had a dream?” Ciarán asked.

  “No. I saw her. This was no dream, though it felt like one. It happened years ago, in a field of wheat. She was like an angel standing on the wind. It was she who told me of my choice, she who brought me to Selles-sur-Cher.”

  Ciarán saw the sincerity in her gray eyes. “If you had never been in Selles, you would never have learned your husband’s secret . . .”

  “I know,” Alais said. “It’s as if she set me on this path.”

  Ciarán could not imagine how her story was connected to Isaac’s dream, yet somehow, it must be.

  Alais smiled at him. “Let’s eat something,” she said, “even if it’s only stale bread.”

  *

  Dónall spent the rest of the day and much of the next crafting seven talismans from silver coins donated by Josua. He gave the first three to Isaac, Josua, and Eli. Confident that the addition of a Hebrew symbol would not weaken their power, he had etched a Star of David in the center of the heptagram that dominated each. The remaining four talismans he gave to Alais, Évrard, and two members of his crew, who were so shaken after the sudden storm that, every night, they redrew the heptagram Dónall had traced across the deck. The talismans and the heptagram seemed to calm the superstitious crew, who had been terrified by the storm yet strangely accepting of its supernatural origins, perhaps because the sea had always held deep mysteries.

  Although the seas remained calm in the days that followed, the storm clouds frequently gathered on the horizon, trailing the ship to the Moorish lands, and Évrard and his crew never doubted that the demons were following them. Ciarán sensed this as well, though somehow, Dónall’s magic was keeping the demons at bay. Dónall believed it was the collective power of the Fae words embedded in each silver disk, fueled by the life-bearing essence of the human soul so long as the talisman made contact with its wearers, that was warding off the demons. But he suspected that if the talisman were removed from the wearer’s body, its power would fail. Perhaps that was what the demons were waiting for: a careless moment when the talisman might be removed. But he could do little beyond sharing his theory with everyone who wore them.

  *

  After crossing the Basque Sea, they rounded Iberia and sailed along the coast of Andalusia for more than a week before reaching the river that wound its way through the land of the Moors. Évrard and his crew navigated the waterway, which the Moors called Guad al-Quivir, or “Great River.” By the second day of February, the crew spied Córdoba, rising above the river’s north bank.

  Even from a distance, the city seemed a sprawling marvel of human construction. Its stone walls rose over a sea of sand-colored buildings shaded by date palms. Behind the wall, atop a hill, stood a gigantic structure whose grand spire towered above the city of the Moors like an ornate spear.

  “Unbelievable,” Ciarán breathed.

  Spanning the river ahead of them was the grandest bridge he had ever seen. A chain of stone archways supported it, each archway tall enough for a small boat to pass beneath, though not a ship the size of Évrard’s cog. At the river’s south bank, scattered buildings emerged from the palms, as if a whole other city existed across the river, and atop the most prominent hill, leagues beyond the urban sprawl, stood a palace with gleaming white walls and a golden dome glistening in the sunlight.

  Alais looked on, wide-eyed. “That’s all one city?”

  “I told you she was amazing,” Isaac smiled. “They call her the Bride of Andalusia, whose necklace is strung with the pearls of learning.”

  Dónall leaned over the rail, agog. “Not even Rome . . . !”

  “Not even Poitiers and Paris combined!” Ciarán said. “And throw in Rouen, too!” Indeed, nothing in all Ireland, nor anything he had seen in France, approached Córdoba’s grandeur. The Moors must surely be the most skilled builders in all the world—maybe the most skilled who ever lived.

  “How many people live here?” Alais wondered aloud.

  “Ten times more than in any city in France,” Évrard said, smiling. “Which, of course, makes for very good business.”

  *

  Évrard guided his ship past fortified water mills to a crowded harbor east of the bridge, where the crew tossed ropes to a gathering of half-clothed men, who pulled the ship to the docks. Eli spoke to these men, whose skin had been bronzed by the sun, in a throaty foreign tongue—Arabic, Ciarán presumed. After the ship was unloaded of its cargo of wine barrels from Bordeaux, Josua led the two wide-eyed Irishmen from the docks up a flight of stairs to the bridge, where they entered the city through a towering archway that, he explained, was one of the city’s seven gates.

  Beyond the gateway, Moors bustled through the streets. They were an exotic mix of people, some with skin that gleamed black as ebony, others of a deep bronze hue, and many others of a rich olive color. The men wore robes of striped cloth, or else shirts with flowing sleeves, baggy trousers, and soft boots. Many wore head cloths, while others wore round hats of wrapped silk, which Isaac called turbans. The women dressed in shimmering silks or full-length robes. Many wore veils covering their faces beneath eyes lined with kohl, or head scarves that concealed everything except their eyes, while others wore no veil or scarf and let their beribboned black hair spill down their backs. Many women wore jewelry in their ears, and silver bangles adorning their arms. Others wore anklets of silver above slippers with upswept toes. Ciarán found many of the women stunningly beautiful—Évrard had not exaggerated when he boasted of the city’s feminine treasures.

  Ciarán looked in awe at the graceful iron posts and hanging glass lanterns
that lined the streets, which were free of mud and dung and paved with brick. But most of all, he noticed the air. “What’s that smell?” he asked.

  Isaac laughed. “A lack of refuse.”

  “How can that be?”

  “It’s carried beneath the streets in something called a sewer. It has always amazed me that you Christians never got around to it.”

  They soon found themselves passing the magnificent spired structure they had seen from the river. It was the most splendid building Ciarán had ever seen. Palm trees fanned out above its crenellated surrounding walls, whose horseshoe-shaped archways stood on slender pillars inlaid with mosaics of red and gold. A montage of interlacing ribbons and geometric shapes wove their way over every remaining detail of marble and stone. The central structure, with a conical roof rising high above the outer wall, was flanked with turrets and a slender minaret with three tiers of pillared balconies.

  “Whose palace is this?” Alais asked.

  Isaac smiled. “No, not a palace. It is the Great Mosque—a Muslim church.”

  Ciarán glanced at Dónall, who was clearly awestruck at the sight. It was hard to imagine a cathedral anywhere in Europe approaching such grandeur.

  They continued past the Great Mosque, up a main street, passing narrow side streets and plazas filled with merchants’ tents. They turned down several smaller streets—enough to give Ciarán the impression that he was in some type of maze—until they reached a neighborhood of whitewashed houses, which Isaac said was the city’s Jewish quarter. It was nothing like the cramped Jewry of Poitiers. These houses were large and sided in stucco, with flowering vines spilling from boxes beneath each windowsill. The air smelled of bluebells and lilacs, and gardens and courtyards could be seen behind many of the homes.

  Looking around him, Dónall said, “Your people seem quite welcome here.”

  “We pay a tax called a jiyza,” Josua explained. “Upon payment, the Moors are bound by their laws to protect us.”

  “But it is because of the Moors’ tolerance,” Isaac added. “To the Moors, both Christian and Jew are considered ‘people of the Book,’ because, like the Moors, they trace the origins of their faith back to Abraham. Traditionally, we are respected here.”

  Ciarán thought about Prior Bernard and Canon Frézoul—small wonder the Jews had such an affinity for the Moorish lands.

  No sooner had they arrived than a group of bearded men hurried to welcome them. Isaac introduced the monks to his cousin Abir ben Hillel. He resembled the rabbi, though taller and fleshier and with a beard less flecked with white. Abir’s three sons, like Isaac’s two nephews, ran the Córdoban side of the family’s mercantile business. The sons had gracious wives, who offered the travelers a meal of tangy white cheese, flat bread, and grapes. The wives also offered the travelers warm baths and, more astoundingly, the Jews’ own bedrooms. Ciarán and Dónall, who were used to sleeping on floors and pallets, tried strenuously to decline, but their hosts insisted.

  After the meal, Isaac spoke with his cousin and then shared their conversation with Ciarán and Dónall. The rabbi’s eyes were sparkling. “Abir knows someone who could get us into the bowels of the great library—a poet named Khalil al-Pârsâ. He is a Persian who has influence with the caliph, who controls the library.”

  “Perfect!” Dónall said, beaming. “So this poet performs for the caliph?”

  “Not quite,” Isaac said. “For the caliph’s mother. He was her lover.”

  Ciarán’s eyes grew wide. “The same woman who was mistress to Al-Mansor? Is the man mad?”

  “My cousin tells me this poet is accustomed to taking risks,” Isaac said.

  A wry smile had spread across Dónall’s lips. “Then he sounds like just the man for the job.”

  “Abir has promised to send for him,” Isaac replied.

  “Well done,” Dónall said. “But while we’re waiting, I’d like to see this great library.”

  “Then follow me,” Isaac said, “for the Bride of Andalusia awaits us.”

  Ciarán glanced at Alais. “I want to go, too,” she said.

  Eli bounded toward them. “I can show you around,” he said eagerly.

  Alais flashed the young Jew a fond smile. Ciarán felt a momentary pang, though it faded quickly, for he had grown fond of the curly-haired first mate and knew that any affection Eli had for Alais was harmless. Besides, Ciarán reminded himself, he was still a monk, and a monk had no room for jealous thoughts of a woman—even though that was proving more difficult than he had ever imagined.

  Under a late-afternoon sun, the five of them set out from the Jewish quarter. Ciarán glanced around for any sign of the storm clouds that had followed them up the river, but saw none. Perhaps the demons still lingered at the horizon but had not followed the monks into Córdoba. Ciarán pulled the silver talisman from the neck of his habit. The sun glinted off its surface.

  “Tuck that back in,” Eli murmured. “The Moors forbid Christians and Jews from displaying symbols of their religion.”

  Ciarán did as Eli bade him, and glanced at a passing Moor to make sure he hadn’t noticed. “Thanks,” Ciarán said, grateful now that Eli had tagged along.

  From the Jewish quarter, they headed back in the direction of the Great Mosque and soon found themselves in a marketplace. The market occupied a large plaza and spilled over onto several adjoining streets. Striped merchant tents cramped the center in a chaotic labyrinth of narrow aisles, while the shops of artisans and craftsmen surrounded the plaza’s perimeter. There were silversmiths and coppersmiths, ivory carvers and glassblowers, tanners, carpet weavers, and sellers of colorful trinkets of every sort. The smells of sizzling meats, spiced stews, and warm bread mixed with those of animals, sweat, and sweet perfumes and frankincense. The merchants’ tents harbored an array of strange creatures: birds of green, red, and blue, several of which could speak Arabic words, and one that even cawed out insults in Latin; snakes that danced rhythmically to their handlers’ flutes and oboes; and, most marvelous of all, hairy childlike beasts, some of which wore skullcaps and tiny vests, looking like miniature versions of their merchant owners.

  Amazed, Ciarán and Alais watched the hairy creatures. “What are they?” Ciarán asked.

  “They’re called monkeys,” Eli said, smiling at the foreigners’ amusement. “They bring them over from Africa, and they are said to run wild on the Pillars of Hercules.”

  “They’re so humanlike,” Alais noticed aloud.

  “They make lots of noise,” Eli said. “And some bite.”

  “I think they’re adorable,” she said, watching a monkey take payment for a vendor of silk scarves.

  Dónall and Isaac walked over from the tent of a physician peddling treatments for a long list of maladies.

  “Ah, Lad!” Dónall said in an exuberant tone. “Imagine, the practice of medicine—real, Arabic medicine—available to anyone! And not administered by some grimy-handed leeching monk, but the doctor was a woman! And a Jew, no less! Never in all my years have I seen such enlightened practices!”

  Emerging from the bazaar into the maze of narrow streets, they zigzagged along the streets and alleyways until they found themselves in another plaza, dominated by an enormous building that must have been a fortress or palace built on the remains of some earlier structure. Columns of Greek and Roman design supported its many parapets, while the outer walls—like the Great Mosque, made of marble—displayed Moorish archways and geometric mosaics. Towering above the outer wall was a central edifice with a domed roof and scores of windows and balconies on every side, each framed by graceful archways. Only the nearby mosque exceeded its grandeur.

  “Here it is,” Isaac announced, “the great library of Córdoba.”

  Ciarán’s jaw went slack. “That’s a library?”

  Isaac smiled broadly. “There is more knowledge within her walls than in all France.”

  “And I thought the library at Fleury was big,” Dónall murmured.

  “What’s going on
?” Alais asked, noting a large crowd gathering around the library’s steps. From the crowd, a crier yelled in Arabic. Voices responded, yet Ciarán could not tell whether they were shouts of anger or unity, or both. Men and women descended the library steps to stand at the edge of the crowd. Others gathered on balconies.

  “This does not look good,” Isaac said.

  “Maybe we should go,” Eli offered.

  A tendril of smoke rose from the center of the crowd, and Ciarán hurried toward it.

  “Careful, lad,” Dónall said, trying to keep pace.

  The smoke thickened, and some men shouted angrily while others cried out in protest. Near the center of the crowd, four bearded, black-robed men, turbaned and stern-faced, surrounded a raging bonfire. The oldest of them, a severe-looking man with a white beard, shook something in the air. Then, with a vehement cry, he cast it into the flames.

  Ciarán felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach. The object was a book. The entire pyre was made of books!

  The crowd roared, and the parchment crackled as it burned. One of the black-robed men threw another tome into the flames, and as the cries of the crowd grew more violent, the older man read bitterly from one of the tomes.

  “Why?” Ciarán asked.

  Dónall grabbed Ciarán by the shoulder, pulling him back.

  “But . . . who would burn books?” Ciarán asked, still stunned.

  The fire claimed another book, then another, cast by the dour black-robed men, to the cheers of the impassioned mob.

  “We must leave now,” Isaac implored.

  Ciarán backed away, but his gaze remained on the pyre. All that knowledge, all that glorious work by authors, copyists, and illuminators—precious gifts of civilization, gone.

  *

  The black-robed men, according to Isaac, were called imams, clerics of the Muslim faith. Yet the rabbi had no explanation for their barbarism outside the library. “The imams have never acted in such a way,” he said. “Al-Hakkam devoted his life to those books. His library was a shining beacon in the darkness of Europe. The imams never opposed his wishes.”