by Daniel Diehl
“This is a very strange mixture of languages. Do you know what this one is? I do not recognize it.”
“That’s Old Persian. The others are Hebrew…”
“Yes, yes. Hebrew, Latin and Greek. I am fluent in Hebrew and know the others, it is just that I have never seen the – what did you say it was, Persian?”
“Yes.”
For nearly a half an hour the old man leafed through the book, sometimes reading as much of a given page as he could, at others, skimming quickly. Finally, he closed the book with a sigh and delicately stroked the cover with one hand before offering it back to Jason.
“Are you aware of the rarity of what you have here, young man?”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“May I ask how you came by this book?”
“It was given to me and a friend by the head Lama of a Buddhist monastery on the border between Mongolia and Russia. Do you agree that it is Gnostic?”
Fr Marcos nodded sagely, still holding the book out toward Jason. “Oh, yes. Absolutely. What I cannot understand is why you brought it to me. You already knew its provenance, and presumably its value. Why did you not sell it to the British Museum, or to the Vatican? Either of those could have paid you very handsomely for such a treasure. We have no money.”
Jason leaned forward and gently pushed the book back toward Fr Marcos’ lap. “Because you have something far more valuable than money.”
Marcos made a short, sharp snorting sound. “I won’t assume you are foolish enough to think I would trade the Ark for any object on earth?”
“No. I just want you to let me see the Ark and open it up. There may be two small stones inside and, if so, I need them.”
“Stones?” The old man shook his head in bewilderment. “I know nothing of any stones, but I do know that in three thousand years no one has ever discovered the secret of opening the Ark of the Covenant.” Pausing in his answer, the guardian looked down at the book in his lap, stroking the crumbling leather cover. “Even if I did agree to let you see it, you would not be able to get inside.”
The old man’s resolve was cracking. Jason could feel it; he could see it in the priest’s eyes; in the way he looked at the Gnostic Gospel. “Let me worry about opening it. You just show it to me and give me permission to try to open it and the book is yours.”
The guardian of the Ark moved his eyes away from the book to lock with Jason’s, but his hands never stopped fingering the book. Slowly, he lifted it and offered it back to Jason.
“I will need to pray on this. Only God can decide whether it is time for someone other than the guardian to look upon the Ark of the Covenant.”
Jason accepted the book, laid it gently back in his briefcase, closed and locked the lid and stood up. This was not the time to press the old man. Anything he said now would be as likely to spoil the deal as to close it. Finally, he bowed, looked at Fr Marcos and said “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, then. At noon.”
Jason nodded, turned and walked silently out the door. Now he needed to call Merlin. Together they had to figure out the best way to give God a shove in the right direction.
Chapter Eleven
Beverley was at the door of Jason’s flat minutes after finishing her early morning class at King’s Manor, insisting she had just stopped by to tidy up for Merlin. Merlin smiled and gave her a hug before taking her coat and waving an encompassing arm around the small living room, dining room and kitchen areas, silently indicating that after spending nearly sixteen centuries inside a ball no larger than a grapefruit he had learned how to pick up after himself.
“I just thought…”
“You wanted to make sure your young man is alright, isn’t that it?”
Beverley conceded with a nod. “I know he’s Ok. He called me night before last. I guess I just wanted to make sure you’ve been checking on him too.” After a short pause she smiled and added “The last time he wandered off alone he only went as far as Liverpool and Morgana still nearly managed to kill him.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort to you, I can report that he is keeping well and doing just fine. I have alternately been keeping track of him and Mistress le Fay, and last evening I spoke with him on the telephone. I even projected my image to where he was and we had a nice long face-to-face chat about his progress toward getting in to see the Ark of the Covenant.”
Beverley had wandered toward the tiny kitchen alcove, filled the kettle and dug out a large mug which she now waggled in Merlin’s direction. “Cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
“I’m dying to know, so tell me. How is the Ark project coming on?”
“All I know is that today he has an appointment to see the old priest who guards it. From there on out things must be allowed to take their own course. I’m sure that as soon as he has any news he’ll let us know.” Merlin smiled and extended one arm, motioning for her to follow him. “Come on. Let’s go spend some time spying on Morgana.”
“Oh, that would be absolutely brilliant. Could we?”
Beverley linked arms with the old man and together they moved into Jason’s bedroom. Beverley pulled a small wooden chair next to the big desk chair where Merlin was ensconcing himself, and by the time she made herself comfortable he was busily waving his hands in front of the ancient mirror, leaving sparkling tracers chasing through the air each time his fingers passed its face. By any standard the badly deteriorated mirror was amazingly unprepossessing, but despite its humble physical appearance it was only a matter of minutes before the sheet of crystal, and the occult powers Merlin had bestowed on it, began to work their magic. Beverley rubbed the palms of her hands together like an anxious child and snuggled closer to Merlin, the steaming mug of tea balanced in her lap as the glass alternately clouded and cleared until, a minute later, they were staring at the figure of Morgana le Fay, who appeared to be riding in the rear seat of a large luxury car. In front of her they could see the back of an elderly man’s head as he steered the vehicle down a broad, four lane motorway that appeared to be streaming toward the edges of the mirror as the car barreled forward.
“It’s amazing. It’s just like watching telly with the sound turned off.”
For a moment Merlin stared intently at the image in silence, finally pointing at the mirror. “Can you tell where this road is, Beverley?”
Beverley leaned forward, peering over Merlin’s shoulder. “Dual carriageways all look pretty much the same but the signs should tell us. Just wait, one should be along in a minute.” After several minutes of watching open fields punctuated only by cows, sheep and the occasional fast food restaurant, Beverley pointed to a small, narrow blue rectangle as it appeared on the left side of the mirror. “There. What does that say? Wait. There it is. They’re coming up to the Bradfield turning and then there’s Theale and then Reading.” Leaning back in her chair, Beverley patted Merlin on the shoulder. “That’s it then, they’re travelling east on the M40. That means they’re heading in toward London.
Merlin turned in his chair to look directly at Beverley. “So she’s headed away from her offices in Cardiff?”
“Oh, yes. She can be at the M25 ring road around London in twenty minutes from where she is now.”
Merlin turned his eyes back to the old mirror, rested his chin in the palm of one hand and stared at the image of the woman in the car. “Where do you suppose she might be going?”
“Maybe she has business in London.”
“No.” Merlin shook his head. “She’s too single mindedly intent on the belief that she is free to open the gate and bring the dragons back to earth. I don’t think anything as mundane as drug deals or crude oil is on her mind at this point.”
“Wait. Look there.” Beverley’s hand shot toward the mirror. They’re taking the turn off. The sign says it’s the A33 toward Reading. No wait, they’re turning off onto a smaller slip road. The A4155.”
Again Merlin turned around. “Do you know where that goes?”
“It’s just a small secondary road. I’ve never even heard of it so I have no idea where it might go, but I have my A to Z out in the car. I’ll be right back.”
In a matter of minutes Merlin heard the door slam twice, the second time brought Beverley scurrying back to his side, clutching the map book. Throwing off her coat, she thumbed through the pages until she found what she was looking for.
“Here it is. The A4155 will take them to…here it is…Henly-on-Thames and then…” Her eyes were glued to her fingertip as it traced the brown line upward and toward the right-hand side of the map. “And then it crosses the A404 and…Oh, my God.”
“What?” Merlin twisted around in his chair as far as he could, his hypnotic blue eyes staring intently into Beverley’s face.
“The A404 takes them right into High Wycombe.”
Merlin slapped his knee and clapped his hands together, a huge grin plastered on his face. “I knew it. She’s on her way to the caves.”
* * *
“Slowly now, George. It’s been rather a long time since I’ve been here, but I know it’s somewhere just ahead on the right.”
The old butler gently applied the brakes to the huge Bentley, alternating his gaze between the small road winding up the hill toward St Lawrence’s Church and the trees lining the right side of the road, looking for a turn-off.
“There. That’s it, on the right.”
George brought the car nearly to a halt, scanning the line of trees and underbrush in search of the place Morgana indicated, but the only evidence he could find of anything that might once have been a road was a sparse patch in the undergrowth.
“Madame, if that sheep path is the roadway I fear the Bentley may not be up to the rigors of the task. We should have brought the Humvee…or possibly a tank…if we but had one.”
“Too late now, George. Just take it slow and if the roadway becomes impassible I’ll get out and walk.”
Shrugging, rolling his eyes skyward and offering only a small “Very good, Madame” the old retainer ploughed the nose of the big car gently into the scruffy underbrush. Slowing their advance to a crawl, ten minutes later George pulled to a halt only two feet from a fallen log that partially blocked the overgrown path. No more than sixty feet ahead of them stood a collection of stone walls that appeared to be a ruined building set deep into a hillside. Growing over and around everything, vines and a wild profusion of undergrowth showed the unmistakable signs of long years of abandonment and neglect. Surveying their surroundings with a look of dismay, George got out, moved around to the rear door and opened it.
“I believe we have arrived, Madame.”
Morgana stepped out of the car pulling the collar of her pale violet, sable coat close around her throat. Drawing a long breath of fresh country air into her lungs, she stared at the entrance to the Hellfire caves and smiled.
“I fear, Madame, that our destination has rather fallen into disrepair.”
“Not at all. It was built to look like a ruin; just think of it as a garden that needs a bit of tending, that’s all.”
“Of course, Madame, how stupid of me. I do apologize.” As Morgana picked her way through the weeds, stinging nettles and brambles, George dutifully fell in line behind her. “Would Madame like me to – what is the phrase - blaze a trail for her?”
Ignoring her servant, Morgana stopped dead in her tracks a dozen feet inside the encircling enclosure of the mock ruins. Staring at the mouth of the cave she could plainly see where the timbers and sheets of plywood that served to cover the entrance had only recently been torn away; the scars where the nails had been pulled from the surrounding wood still stood-out in stark white against the weathered gray-brown of the surrounding wood. Finally, after standing immobile for several minutes she turned and looked at her servant.
“No, George. You stay with the car. I’m going in to have a poke around. This might take a while so don’t worry if I’m not back for an hour or two.” With that, she turned back to the cave and made her way toward the entrance, whistling a tune from an old Walt Disney cartoon from the nineteen thirties; ‘Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf’.
Bowing slightly toward her receding back, the old man turned around and headed back toward the big car; under his breath he muttered to himself “I believe I should somehow manage to survive adequately even if Madame failed to return at all.”
Stepping carefully over the fallen barricades, Morgana moved out of the light and into the dank mouth of the limestone cave, taking a deep breath as she did so. “Odd.” She twitched her delicately shaped nose, catching a faint, errant scent in the air. “I ought to recognize that smell. It reminds me vaguely of someone I ought to know but I can’t quite place it.”
Shrugging off the question as inconsequential, she extended her hands in front of her, palms outward, and moved them in opposite directions with a fan-like motion. Instantly the walls of the cave began to glow with a pale, sickly green phosphorescence that grew and grew, spreading out in front of her, along the length of the cave, until the entire scene glowed with an unearthly light. As Morgana began her descent into the cave she smiled when she reached the first of the devil’s heads carved into the walls. Reaching out with one finger, a smile flickered across her shapely mouth as she touched the slime covered grotesque face, changing its incandescent glow from green to deep red, making it stand out weirdly from the surrounding wall. Stepping back, she smiled again and moved on down the tunnel until she came to the first of the incised inscriptions reading XXII. There she stopped again, nodded and thought of the man who had owned the caves more than thirteen centuries after she had first come here to ally herself with the Dragon Lords and offer her services in their quest to conquer mankind. Now, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her sable coat, her mind carried her back a mere two and a half centuries.
“Oh, Francis, Francis, you certainly did know how to throw a party – and you were so devastatingly handsome. You were a right randy bastard, too, weren’t you? No doubt about it, you did beguile me. You and your friends would screw anything that moved. God, I loved it.”
By the time she reached the small collection of Roman era catacombs Morgana had become completely immersed in her memories. Pausing in the tiny maze of niches she idly nudged a large rat aside with the toe of her shoe as she struggled to remember something. Finally it came to her. “Ovaries. You silly bugger, you called this place the ovaries. Why in God’s name anybody would name the different parts of a cave after a woman’s internal organs, I can’t imagine, but anything that sounded like sex sounded good to you. You were never as dedicated to your work as that nice Hitler chap, but you were a whole lot more fun at parties.”
Hurrying up the short incline, she stepped into the huge, circular room that Dashwood had used as his dining hall. Looking up, in the gently fluctuating light of the glowing walls she could just make out a massive, rusted hook embedded into the center of the ceiling that had once held a chandelier nearly fifteen feet in diameter.
“And you called this the womb because it was where everything else grew out of. My God, the banquets. And the brilliant names you gave all the dishes; I remember one night you served each of us half of a swan’s breast with a single cherry on it and called it Breast of Venus.” Rushing toward the small alcoves clustered along one side of the room, she stuck her head into one after the other, grinning maniacally, talking to herself. “Ah, yes, the confessionals. Bloody hell, but I loved to dress up as a nun, always in a red habit, and I’d drag you in here and roger the living daylights out of you.”
Wandering back into the dining room she leaned against the cool, damp limestone wall for a final look, taking in the vast hemispherical space hewn from the living rock, remembering how it had looked all those years ago.
“Oh, why not?” That meddling old cretin is finally dead; you deserve to treat yourself, old girl. Take a moment to enjoy life. “Go on. Carpe deim, as they say.”
Pushing off from the stone wall, she walked back to the c
enter of the floor, judging her location by the chandelier hook high in the ceiling. Once in position, Morgana stretched her arms out to the sides and slowly began turning counter-clockwise - against the direction in which all time flows. At first turning slowly, she began picking up speed – faster now; faster and faster, spinning until the cave became a blur. Faster and still faster yet, until her own body began to vibrate and disappear, melding with the elements of the air. When she was spinning so fast that anyone who might have inadvertently wandered into the cave would not have seen her at all, but would only have been aware of a high-pitched humming noise like the sound of distant bees on a warm summer evening, she stopped.
Looking around at what had been an empty, lichen covered cave only a moment before, the room had come alive once again. Above her, the ceiling was draped with a mammoth crimson silk canopy, in the center of which hung a gigantic, forty armed chandelier, its candles flickering and wavering in the constant movement of the subterranean air. Off to the sides, the walls were adorned with dozens of fanciful paintings depicting comically imaginative scenes of dark, satanic rites and erotically vivid witches’ Sabbaths. Around her, in the center of the room, was a ring shaped table set with sparkling, gilt-edged china, the finest Venetian crystal stemware and gleaming silver flatware. All around the table were laughing figures who remained eerily silent despite appearing to shout at each other. The men were all dressed in monks’ robes and the women costumed like nuns, and all of them were gorging themselves from mountains of food and drink that made the table groan under its weight. In silent pantomime of celebrations long dead and gone, the figure of Sir Francis Dashwood leaned to his right long enough to stick his tongue into the shapely ear of the grinning young woman dressed in a scarlet nun’s habit before rising from his chair, lifting his glass high and proposing a silent toast to the cheers and cat-calls of dozens of ghostly figures. Morgana smiled at the flickering specter of the handsome Dashwood and then snapped her fingers, returning the entire tableau to the forgotten past where it belonged. But just before returning to the tunnels she burst out laughing when she suddenly remembered the evening she conjured a lesser demon for the entertainment of Dashwood’s debauched, drunken friends.