by Nancy Madore
Eventually the Arab caretaker, Abdul Samad, and his wife returned, bringing rice, vegetables and chicken. Though there was a perfectly good kitchen, they prepared the meal outside, cooking it in a deep hole they dug in the sand. Helene watched the woman from the window as she placed a large slab of dough on the hot stones that had been put in the fire.
While the meal was cooking the couple came inside. Abdul greeted the men while his wife silently arranged the table.
“You find good?” Abdul asked, smiling and pointing to the document splayed out on the living-room table.
“Not so good, actually,” said Huxley miserably. “Maybe we’ll do better tomorrow.”
Abdul’s smile slipped the smallest bit. Sensing their somber mood, he did not attempt further conversation but went outside to wait for his wife. Helene approached the woman quietly, so quietly that she started in surprise when she finally noticed her.
Helene held out her letter to Edward. “Can you mail this for me?” she asked.
Helene couldn’t tell if the woman understood her or not, but she obviously recognized the Arabian postage stamps Helene had put on the envelope. She accepted the letter, nodding her head vigorously. Her face was obscured by the veil but her eyes seemed to be smiling. She slipped the letter into a pocket in her skirt and—with one last nod of assurance to Helene—she went back to her work in the kitchen.
They didn’t sit down to eat until Abdul and his wife left.
“Why doesn’t she speak?” asked Helene.
“She’s acting according to Muslim custom,” explained Huxley. “It’s against the rules for a Muslim woman to speak to a man who isn’t related to her, except in very special circumstances.”
“Is that why none of the men spoke to me?”
“Yes,” said her father. “Their culture is completely different from ours. They don’t just speak differently; they act differently—and even think differently. Their customs are as unique as their language.”
“That’s it!” cried Huxley, so abruptly that all of them jumped. His face was beaming. “It’s a different language!”
“What’s a different language?” asked Helene’s father.
“Those parts we couldn’t translate!” interjected Butch, catching Huxley’s meaning so quickly that he was able to answer the question before Huxley did. They all turned to Butch, whose expression was like that of a detective who just solved a case. “We can’t translate them from Sumerian because they’re not Sumerian. Which explains their distinct patterns and why they’re set off by themselves like that. They’re not mistakes. They’re a separate language altogether!” He put his fork down and sat back in his chair thoughtfully. “It’s almost as if they were disguising the language to make it look like Sumerian.”
“The patterns have no commonality with the other languages of that time,” remarked her father.
“Do you suppose we could have discovered an entirely new language?” wondered Huxley.
“This is an interesting problem,” mused Helene’s father. “First of all, the texts in question are very limited and appear to be repetitive. It would be impossible to decipher an unknown language with what little we have. Even if it could be done, it would take weeks, if not months, to translate. And how do we know it’s even real, and not just some Hebrew scribe’s idea of a joke—some kind of ancient pig Latin?”
“Why translate it at all?” asked Butch. He still had that self-satisfied expression on his face and there was amusement in his eyes as he waited smugly for them to answer—though he clearly knew that they would not. He seemed to be testing them. “Think about it,” he continued finally. “The parts that are indecipherable appear to be some kind of spell, or incantation. Even if we were able to translate them into words, we wouldn’t understand them. Spells are like that. They only make sense to the one who creates them. Not to mention that their meaning could become lost in the translation.” Butch paused to take a sip of water from his glass while the three of them eyed him warily. His sudden optimism seemed to make them skeptical.
“We could try it,” he continued, almost as if he was talking to himself. “Those parts might be indecipherable but they’re definitely written in the Sumerian cuneiform,” he paused here to turn to Helene and add—“Sumerian cuneiform uses symbols—like we use letters—to represent specific consonant sounds.” Then, turning back to the others he went on—“All we have to do is identify the consonant sounds and we’ll know how the words sound, even if we don’t know what they mean.” He leaned in and looked at them conspiratorially. “We don’t need to know what the incantations mean. We only need to know if they work. And we can test that—and the scroll’s validity—by going through the ritual ourselves, here and now!” And with that he leaned back in his chair again, smiling like a Cheshire cat, his largish teeth gleaming.
Helene’s father and Huxley were speechless. They were more surprised, Helene supposed, by the source of the suggestion than the suggestion itself. It was so unlike Butch, who would be the first to ridicule such an idea. He seemed to be trying the other side of the case, as it were, and enjoying it.
“Come now, gentlemen,” he continued. “This is what we’ve all been thinking about, isn’t it? We want to know if we can wake up the dead. So let’s try it and see!”
A thrill shot through Helene as she glanced at her father. She didn’t dare speak. Her father had dropped his fork and was staring at Butch as if he was one of the awakened dead in question.
Butch’s smile slipped away and a glimmer of his former self returned. “Of course, there is no way to prove that the document’s a fake, because even if the spell doesn’t work—which, let’s face it, it most likely won’t—it could still be a legitimate creation of that Qliphoth tribe back in Sumer, whoever they were.” His wicked smile suddenly returned as he continued. “But on the off chance that the spell works…” He peered at them over his spectacles. “You’ll have your proof that your Book of the Dead is the real McCoy.” He winked at Helene. “And it’ll be fun,” he added.
Helene looked at her father again. “Can we?” she pleaded.
But her father didn’t even seem to hear her. He was staring at Butch thoughtfully, as if he was actually considering it. Huxley, on the other hand, was still eyeing Butch suspiciously, as if waiting for the punch-line of a joke.
Butch looked at Huxley and shrugged. “You brought your tablet of the Qliphoth with you,” he said. “Obviously the possibility occurred to you.”
Huxley scrutinized him a moment longer before slamming his fork down on the table. “We’ll do it, by Jove!” he cried.
The food was forgotten as the men got up from the table and all began talking at once. They were making plans; thinking out loud.
“We still have a great deal of translating to do,” said Butch. “Much of the informational parts are genuine Sumerian.”
“And we only have a day,” added Huxley.
“And there’s the matter of the talisman,” interjected her father, who had finally recovered from his shock enough to speak.
“That’s right!” exclaimed Huxley. “From the tablet. I completely forgot!” Huxley and Helene’s father turned to Butch, who, it appeared, was taking charge of this experiment.
“Mmm,” murmured Butch, considering it. “We’ll need help with that.” He looked at Huxley. “Perhaps your friend, the lieutenant, would know where we could find a foundry. One of the local monasteries might have one.” He stopped again to think and then his eyes grew wide. “Come to think of it, they might have one at the base where your friend is stationed. I’ll bet they make their own ammunition.”
“I’ll go right now and see,” said Huxley. “What is it, exactly, that we need?”
The men went back to the table to look over their notes.
“Here it is,” said Butch. “We’ll need a ring and metal shavings. The specifications are very precise. I’ll copy them for you.”
“Both the ring and the metal shavings must be cast fro
m the same lot,” said Helene’s father, reading over Butch’s shoulder.
“Yes,” agreed Butch, scribbling on a piece of paper. “And it must be made up of these exact percentages of copper and iron, heated to this temperature.”
“Get as many shavings as you can,” said Helene’s father. “We’ll need enough to create a solid circle of those dimensions I’ve added there at the bottom.”
“Oh, and you’ll have to engrave this symbol on the ring while the metal’s still warm,” said Butch, carefully drawing it out on the slip of paper. “Then twist the strip of metal into a ring like so, with the ends crossed like this.” Again, Butch drew it out for him.
“This is quite a lot,” said Huxley doubtfully. “Do you think they’ll be able to do it?”
“Any foundry could do it easily,” said Helene’s father.
“We’ll work on the translating while you’re gone,” said Butch. He turned to Helene’s father. “Why don’t you take up the part we were working on earlier? I’ll start at the other end and work my way back to you.”
And the men went to work.
It was just after dinnertime and the sun was beginning to drop. Helene went outside. The air had developed a sharp chill and she shivered, surprised by how suddenly it turned cold. The clouds overhead were lined a fiery pink. Her father popped his head out the door.
“Can you manage?” he asked.
“Of course, but Father, what do you think is going to happen?” she asked.
Robert Trevelyan grinned. “I think we’re going to have a bit of an adventure, and probably not very much more,” he admitted.
“So you don’t think it will work?”
“Let’s just say it would be a first if it did.”
Helene was disappointed. She’d always believed her father knew everything, but she suddenly wanted him to be wrong. “Well, like they say…there’s a first time for everything!” she replied with a defiant tilt of her head and her father laughed.
Helene went back inside. With nothing else to do, she went into the bedroom and lay down on one of the cots. She wondered what would happen if they really did conjure a Qliphoth soul from the dead. The thought was as terrifying as it was exciting. What would the soul look like? How would it feel about being conjured? What would they do with it afterwards? It was all so hard to imagine. Her father was probably right. Helene sighed, thinking how much more exciting all this would be if Edward was there.
Helene woke to the sound of loud voices in the other room. She jumped up and went to see what was happening. It was completely dark outside now, but the room was brightly lit. The men noticed her at once.
“Fancy a look?” Butch asked, holding out his hand with the same rare, toothy smile he’d been sporting earlier.
Helene looked at his hand. There, on his third finger, was the ring. It was the color of rust and inscribed with the same markings he’d drawn out earlier for Huxley. To Helene, it looked a little like a tiny bird footprint.
She spotted a can on the table. “Are these the metal shavings?” she asked, picking up the can.
“Be careful not to spill those,” Huxley warned.
Helene looked inside the can. There was a strange, slightly unpleasant smell wafting up from it that reminded her of the ice crystals that collected in the freezer. The metal shavings appeared to be very light and feathery soft, but when she reached in her hand to touch them she was surprised to find that they were also a bit sharp. But they were warm to the touch, and she carefully moved her fingers through them, noticing the wide range of lengths and thicknesses. Like snowflakes, no two were alike.
“How’d you two manage?” Huxley asked the others.
“We’re done,” announced Helene’s father. “We’ve just been waiting for you.”
“Really?”
“It’s so much easier, changing Sumerian symbols into sounds than trying to translate their meaning,” Butch told him. “And look, they keep repeating these same sounds again and again, which not only made the task simpler, but also seems to confirm that these parts are incantations instead of valuable information.”
“And you’re sure you have all the sounds right?” asked Huxley.
Butch nodded. “Even though we have no idea what we’re saying, you can rest assured we’ll be pronouncing the words correctly.”
Huxley examined Butch’s notes. “The more I think about it the more sense it makes. It’s like if we were to translate words into Japanese, we would still use the English alphabet.”
Butch nodded. “The only puzzle is where this mystery language came from. I suppose it’s possible that it could be a language that doesn’t have a written form—one that dates back to before people began to write.”
“Wherever it came from, it would seem that these Qliphoth were using it,” said Huxley.
“We translated all the Sumerian parts,” Helene’s father told Huxley. “Which were instructional, just as we suspected.” He exchanged looks with Butch and then smiled at Huxley. “And now, are you ready for the good news?”
Huxley seemed unable to process any more good news.
“We think we’ve uncovered the identity of the soul we’re attempting to conjure,” he said.
Huxley turned to Butch and he nodded. “The Sumerian instructions refer to it as ‘li-la-kee,’” he explained. “At first we thought this might be another word to describe the people, like Qliphoth, but then we noticed it on Huxley’s tablet, here, where it lists the Qliphoth tribe members. Thing is, this word—or the sounds making up this word, rather—are repeated again and again in the incantations we couldn’t translate in this Book of the Dead. It has to be referring to a particular soul!”
“Could this ‘li-la-kee’ be a Sumerian name?” Huxley asked.
Helene’s father and Butch exchanged a smile and Butch delivered the coup de grace. “Li-la-kee, translated from Sumerian to Hebrew, is Lilith.”
Huxley gasped. “Lilith! Surely you don’t think—!” He was too overwhelmed to continue.
Butch turned to Helene. “In Jewish folklore, Lilith was the first woman created—even before Eve.”
It was Helene’s turn to be surprised. She’d never heard of a woman being created before Eve, excepting in the evolution theory, which she supposed would have made Lilith an ape.
“Not only that,” interjected Helene’s father. “This document—the parts of it we could understand, anyway—appears to reference your Qliphoth tablet point for point. The missing ‘keys’ are all there, like pieces of a puzzle.”
“So are you saying we’re ready to move forward with the experiment?” asked Huxley.
“We have only to make a circle from the metal shavings to create our portal through which the soul can be summoned,” said Butch—not without a trace of irony in his tone.
“And create the markings around the outside of it with what’s left of the shavings,” added her father.
“I can’t believe it!” exclaimed Huxley. He rushed into his and Butch’s bedroom and returned with one of the bottles of wine they’d brought with them from Tel Aviv. Then he poured out four glasses and handed them out all around. Helene looked at her father and he nodded. It was her first glass of wine!
“To Lilith,” Huxley cried, and they all touched glasses and eagerly agreed—“To Lilith!”
Chapter 9
Present Day
Nadia stopped talking. She was a little startled by all that she had revealed. Telling the stories was very different from simply listening to them. It required more involvement but it made them seem more real. The little details suddenly seemed significant. She thought of the discovery at Qumran, which lured three stodgy old scholars all the way from England to the turbulent Middle East. Who else might it have lured there? Whether later events were real or imagined, it was clear that some kind of trouble had followed them there.
But Nadia’s voice was giving out from talking so much. She was still lying down on the couch with her eyes closed. With effort, she manag
ed to open her eyes and turn her head in the direction her captors. Clive had ditched his chair and was lying sideways on the floor, leaning up on one elbow, while the other two remained where they were. They were all still listening with interest.
Nadia closed her eyes again and turned her head back to its resting position. “So tired,” she murmured.
She heard Will sigh and felt he was about to object when Gordon interceded.
“Let her sleep,” he said.
And she did.
*
When Nadia opened her eyes again her senses were assailed by the pungent aroma of coffee. The room was very dark. Was it day or night? She felt sluggish and confused, almost like she was hung-over.
She heard voices in the distance and looked around. She was back in the dingy little bedroom with the boarded up window. Someone must have carried her in from the couch. She lifted the covers, relieved to find her clothing intact.
Nadia sat up slowly. What were they talking about out there? She thought about how intently they had listened to her the night before. They seemed interested in what she had to say. She wondered what it was they were looking for. Which piece of the puzzle held the key to her life?
Her hair was a thick and tangled mess. She felt rumpled, sticky and foul. Her body ached. I feel like I’ve been run over by a garbage truck she thought, and then suddenly remembered with a sense of revulsion that she had, as a matter of fact, been inside a garbage container.
She threw the covers back and cursed. The chain was still attached to her leg. This was discouraging.
As quietly as she could, she climbed out of bed and slowly—holding the chain up as she went—tip-toed across the floor to the bedroom door. Fortunately the chain was quite long, probably long enough to allow her free range of the entire house. Free range! Like a chicken! She carefully turned the doorknob and cracked open the door the teensiest bit, just enough to peek one eye through. The kidnappers were in the kitchen, which was to the left of the living-room. She pulled the door open a little more, just enough to slip her head out so she could see them better.