The Showstone

by Glenn Cooper

  ‘Nonsense? Hardly,’ she said. ‘When you mentioned it on the phone I got chills.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The angels told Doctor Dee that there were really forty-nine calls but that they would hold back one of them because it was too powerful and couldn’t be revealed.’

  ‘You’re saying no one has ever seen it?’

  ‘As far as I know, it’s never been revealed.’

  ‘But we have this guy thinking I might have it.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Cal.’

  ‘And what would this forty-ninth call be used for?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. The mind boggles. Maybe it’s a direct connection to God or maybe—?’

  ‘Maybe what?’

  ‘Maybe it’s a direct connection to something we weren’t intended to reach.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  She said that she didn’t know what she thought; he had no way of knowing that she was playing back the conversation she’d had with Pothnir about the world teetering over an infinite abyss.

  ‘It’s time,’ she said. ‘Let’s get started.’

  As she set up the table at the center of the patio, she explained that she had it made to match the design for a scrying table the angels had given Doctor Dee. Like Dee’s, her table, made of laurel, had folding legs for travel. Dee had taken his on his journeys throughout Europe and she too took her tools on the road for seminars and private actions with students. She told him wistfully that these days she didn’t travel much and that paying students were few and far between. By the light of the sconces on either side of her patio doors, Cal saw that the borders of the table were segmented into twenty-one cells on each side, each cell containing a runic kind of script that Eve said were angel letters. A large hexagram was inscribed onto the table and at its center was a 3 x 4 cell of more angel letters.

  She opened a wooden box that contained several objects. First, she took out a thick disk, the size of a fruitcake. It was made of cream-colored wax engraved with a complex concoction of circles, interlacing geometric forms, and runic letters and words.

  ‘This is the Sigillum Dei Aemeth,’ she said. ‘The seal of God, also given to Dee from the angels.’

  She gently placed it at the center of the table then got a folded square of red silk from the box and placed it over the wax seal and the table, so its tassels hung down from the corners.

  There were four more wooden boxes inside the larger box, the size of a couple of packs of playing cards. Each box, she, explained held a miniature wax version of the Sigillum Dei Aemeth, and with his help, she placed one box under each table leg.

  Next, she lit candles on standing holders and placed them around one side of the table then turned off the sconces so that the patio was lit only by the flickering wicks.

  The last small box within the larger box held her scrying stone, a flawless crystal ball, but she asked Cal if it was okay with him to use his obsidian mirror instead.

  ‘I’d love to give it a test drive,’ she said.

  ‘I was kind of hoping you would.’

  She used a small plate holder as a stand for the stone and adjusted the candles. She had him sit opposite her as she faced the showstone and began to chant the 1st Call.

  ‘Ol sonf vors g, goho Iad Balt, lonsh calz vonpho; sobra zol ror i ta nazps od graa ta malprg.’

  In time, she reached the Call of the Thirty Aethyrs.

  ‘Madriaax ds praf paz, chis micaolz saanir caosgo, od fifis balzizras iaida!’

  Cal watched her closely. The candles were behind her; her features were lost to the darkness. The angel language was guttural, but somehow, in her voice, it sounded sweet. Her chant lasted a couple of minutes. It seemed to take something out of her because he could see her shoulders begin to droop.

  Then, apart from the crickets, there was silence.

  Until.

  He saw her leaning in, her face closer to the showstone.

  ‘He’s here,’ she said. ‘His image is so vivid. This mirror is incredible.’

  Cal was about to ask who was there, but she began speaking in the guttural language. Then silence again.

  She spoke in English now. ‘Pothnir knows you’re here. He says your showstone is very powerful. He says it allows him to tell me things he couldn’t before. He says you are permitted to question him.’

  Cal felt like he was watching an act and his skepticism was running wild. He was a practicing Catholic, which made him a card-carrying believer in miracles, but this? It seemed a bridge too far.

  ‘Can I come over to your side and speak to him directly?’

  ‘You won’t see anything other than your own reflection and you won’t hear anything either. Ask through me.’

  ‘I want to ask him something that only I would know.’

  She sounded hurt. ‘You don’t believe me, do you? You think this is bullshit. Go on, ask him anything you like.’

  Undaunted, he thought for a moment and said, ‘Ask him what memento of my father I keep on my desk.’ It was something he was sure had never appeared in anything written about him.

  She spoke in angel tongue and soon relayed an answer. ‘He says, you have your father’s tool that he used for digging artifacts from the soil. He says the handle is engraved with the letters HD.’

  Cal felt lightheaded. The cricket chirps were drowned out by the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

  Eve must have noticed him wobble. She asked if he was all right.

  ‘Yeah, I’m okay.’

  ‘He nailed it, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, he got it right. No one knows about that trowel.’

  ‘Shall we continue, then?’

  Questions swam through his head but the first one was for Eve, not the angel.

  ‘He told you I’d be calling you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ask him if the man who came into my house killed my mother.’

  She spoke to Pothnir then told Cal, ‘He killed her. He wanted the stone.’

  ‘Does he know who he is, his name?’

  Cal waited.

  ‘He doesn’t know his name but there is a powerful man, a magician, who controls him. That man’s name is also unknown to him.’

  ‘Can you ask him if the man who killed my mother also killed my father?’

  He held his breath.

  ‘He says that this man did kill your father. He says it happened in Al-Iraq. The magician was present.’

  He tried to compose himself, but he was shaking. ‘Why do they want this showstone?’ he asked.

  ‘It is very powerful,’ Eve replied once she received the answer. ‘A strong magician, one of the strongest ever known, made it from a very pure lump of black glass. With this stone, a powerful magician can use it to learn the 49th Call.’

  ‘What is the 49th Call?’ Cal asked.

  The answer came. ‘With it, a magician can summon the great evil.’

  ‘What is the great evil?’

  ‘The evil that arises from a fallen one.’

  Cal wished he could see Eve’s eyes better. ‘A fallen one?’ he asked. ‘Do you mean a fallen angel?’

  The answer was simple. ‘Yes.’

  Cal asked this: ‘The killer asked about something written in Aramaic. Probably on papyrus. Do you know what he was talking about?’

  Eve conveyed the answer. ‘The great magician wrote it. Your father found it.’

  ‘In Iraq?’ He corrected himself and used the medieval Arabic name for the territory. ‘Al-Iraq?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘What should we do?’ Cal asked.

  Eve spoke into the showstone then listened to the words that only she could hear. Before she gave Cal Pothnir’s answer she told him that she had never before heard the angel raise his voice. Her own voice was quavering. Later, he would see she’d been crying.

  ‘He says that we must stop these men from pos
sessing the showstone and the 49th Call. If we cannot, the world will be plunged into a pit of evil the likes of which has never been seen.’

  THIRTEEN

  Al-Iraq, 1095

  It was an oasis, not in the sense of a fertile spot in the desert where water nurtures the barren land, but in a religious sense. In the eleventh century, the Rabban Hurmizd Monastery, located in the mountains to the north of the ancient city of Mosul, was a religious oasis, a Christian enclave surrounded by the Seljuk Turks, who were recent and fervent converts to Islam. The bishop of the monastery, an elderly cleric named Cyril bar Aggai, ruled his enclave with a firm hand, but his inner streak of kindness was known to his acolytes and to Christians in this hostile land, and this attribute had, over the years, served as a recruiting tool for young men contemplating a life of prayerful service. One of these young men was Daniel Basidi, who entered into holy orders at a tender age. His parents had too many mouths to feed and they welcomed his decision, even though it meant losing the affable youth to a cloistered life.

  The day that Daniel presented himself to the gate of the monastery was the second time he had met Cyril. The bishop remembered him instantly even though it had been a decade earlier, when Daniel was only a boy. His parents, devotees of the Church of the East, had sought the bishop out for his counsel. The small boy had been acting strangely and they were concerned that the devil had a hand in his affliction. For days he had been staring into bowls of water, cups of wine – anything with a reflective surface – and he had been heard to murmur furtively. When asked what he was doing and what he was saying, the boy was evasive. At first Cyril had been curt and dismissive but then, out of earshot of his parents, Daniel said something that caught his attention. He then questioned the lad more closely for several minutes before taking his father aside and telling him that in his opinion, the boy was not cursed but blessed, and that he should be encouraged to pray regularly and learn the scriptures.

  On the day of their second meeting, the old bishop nodded at the strapping youth standing before him and said, ‘So, Daniel, you wish to become a priest?’

  ‘I do, father bishop.’

  ‘And tell me, do you still converse with angels?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And what do they tell you?’

  ‘That I should become a priest and devote myself to God.’

  Cyril reached for his stick, pushed himself upright, and took a few steps on arthritic hips.

  ‘Then all I can say is welcome, Daniel. You will be one novice I will be watching with particular interest.’

  Now, Daniel was a priest, and according to his superiors he was the most attentive and intellectually adventurous member of the spiritual community. He already knew the scriptures by rote when he entered the monastery, but during his tutelage as a novice and as a young priest he excelled in doctrinal analysis and commentary. His discourses and disputations were held in high esteem. But he did have his detractors for his habit of closeting himself away for stolen moments to devote himself to scrying. Cyril, who now had become practically bed-bound by his arthritis, wearily summoned him each time one of the brothers complained. He had an obligation to do so, but he harbored little worry for he believed in his heart of hearts that Daniel was a good and pure soul, albeit a special one. Once, a few years past, a traveling mystic had stopped at the monastery for rest and sustenance and Cyril, on learning the man was himself a scryer, had introduced him to the young priest. When the bishop later questioned the mystic about Daniel’s skills, the wizened fellow replied that he had never heard of or met a scryer with the powers that Daniel Basidi possessed. The mystic was so moved by the experience of watching Daniel scry that he could hardly speak.

  ‘Enter, Daniel. I have had another report,’ the bishop said.

  ‘I will not ask from whom,’ Daniel replied, his hands folded over his rough brown robe.

  There was a wink from an old eye. ‘That is good, because I would not tell you. Now, Daniel, you know the question I am once again obligated to ask.’

  ‘You wish to know if, in the course of my scrying, I have engaged in any conversations with dark spirits. You wish to know if I have been practicing black magic.’

  ‘And what would your answer be?’

  ‘My answer is no, father bishop. The angels with whom I converse are sons of the light. They are the minions of God Almighty.’

  ‘The calls that you have learned from them – do they still number forty-five?’

  ‘I have recently learned three more. They have allowed me to penetrate the second Aethyr, only one Aethyr from where God Himself does reside.’

  ‘And what will happen when you reach the first Aethyr?’

  ‘I do not know if mortal man can ever attain this realm but if I am the fortunate one to do so, I hope to learn ultimate truth and divine enlightenment.’

  ‘If a brother asks, might I tell him that you continue to use your scrying for good, not evil purposes?’

  ‘That is the truth.’

  ‘One last question, Daniel. Have the angels informed you of my fate?’

  ‘They have, father bishop.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You should prepare yourself.’

  The old bishop closed his eyes tightly and nodded. ‘Thank you, Daniel. You may go.’

  Daniel returned to his stifling, airless cell in a mud-brick dormitory, to get his walking staff. He had two hours before evening prayers, led these days by the assistant bishop given Cyril’s infirmity. It was just enough time to take a brisk walk down the steep path from the monastery to a plateau blessed with a smattering of wild flowers. He would pick a bouquet and give colorful sprigs as treats to the other priests at the conclusion of the church service. And if he was lucky, he might catch a few gusts of warm wind on his face, the kind that made him feel as if he was being brushed by the hand of God.

  He reached the plateau and his sandals slipped and shifted on sweaty soles as he collected his blossoms – fluffy purple squills, blue thistles, and yellow chamomiles – but when he had almost gotten to the limit of what he could hold in his fist he spotted a stone protruding from the ground that caught his interest. It was half-buried in the pebbly soil, rounded and knobby, and he knew from its thick matrix of powdery chalk what it was – a good-sized nodule of obsidian, the size of a big melon. He put his flowers aside and pulled the stone from the earth, then brushed it off and admired its heft. If it was pure and black, he reckoned that Brother Thaddeus, the most able knapper in the monastery, could produce hundreds of sharp scythe blades from it. Bronze was expensive in these parts and the local farmers still used obsidian blades set into antlers at harvest time, as their ancestors had done for tens of thousands of years. The monastery traded scythes for grain and kegs of beer. A good hunk of obsidian was God-sent.

  The only way to tell whether the stone was of high quality was to split it and that’s what Daniel sought to do. A short distance away, he found a round hammer stone the size of his fist, and dropped to his haunches. With one stiff blow to the chalky nodule, it cleaved down the middle and he saw that it was the blackest black and flawless. One half was slightly concave, the other convex. He chose the concave one for closer inspection and saw his own image on its surface, distorted only by the percussion ridges from the cleavage.

  In an instant, his reflection gave way to something else that arose from the depths of the blackness. He lost himself in the image and soon was hearing words in his head in a language that only he knew. The words were as clear as if one of his brother priests was whispering directly into his ear, clearer by far than he had ever heard them.

  Gulping, he replied, ‘Zirdo aqlo noco. Gemeganza.’

  I am thy servant. Thy will be done.

  They made a curious pair. If Daniel was a twig, Thaddeus was the trunk of the tree. Not so many years separated them but Thaddeus, with his enormous girth and great height, seemed like a much older brother. Daniel was cerebral and clumsy. Thaddeus was not stupid but his mind was not
his strongest asset. It was his hands that were special. He was a wizard with his big, thick hands and it was in these hands that he held half of Daniel’s nodule.

  ‘It is a nice piece of obsidian,’ Thaddeus said, his heavy hindquarters indenting the thin rush mattress on his bed frame. ‘One of the best I have ever seen. Do you know how many scythes I can make from it?’

  ‘You can make your little blades from the other half,’ Daniel said. ‘I would like you to make me something from this half.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A scrying mirror.’

  ‘I thought you use a bowl of water for your magic.’

  ‘I do. I did. This will be better.’

  He looked up at Daniel with dull eyes and asked, ‘Better how?’

  ‘More powerful.’

  The large young man thought for a moment then asked what Daniel had in mind.

  ‘Chip away the chalk from the other side and make it thin and round.’

  ‘How thin?’

  ‘Maybe the thickness of my thumb. Any thinner and it might break. Grind the ridges off the faces and polish them so it they are as smooth as the bottom of a baby and as shiny as a still pool of clear water.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Carve a piece of wood to hold the mirror upright.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, nothing else.’

  ‘And what will I get for doing this for you?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Without hesitation he replied, ‘I want you to teach me how to speak to the angels.’

  ‘Why do you want to speak with them?’

  ‘Because I want them to show me my parents. I want to see them again.’

  Daniel reacted kindly to the sadness in his friend’s eyes. ‘I am afraid it does not happen thusly. The angels do not show me souls who have ascended to Heaven. They only reveal their own visages.’

  ‘Then I would ask them to pass messages to them. I want to know how they are faring and I want them to know how I am faring.’

  ‘But do you not seek this in your own prayers?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘I do, but I receive no reply.’

  Daniel weighed his response. He hesitated to take on a student. After all, other priests would be envious and would want to know why they were not given a similar opportunity. And his scrying time was precious, carved out from the brief intervals between monastery work, organized prayer, and sleep. But this obsidian stone had a power like none he had ever seen. Without so much as a call, he had seen not one of the minor angels he had conversed with in years past, he had seen Michael. The Archangel Michael! The angel who had led God’s armies and defeated Satan! And it was Michael who had commanded him to make this mirror. Still, if Thaddeus did not possess a glimmer of scrying ability, then teaching him would be pointless.