by D B Nielsen
‘Doubly boring.’ She gave me a look as if challenging me to contradict her a second time. ‘Besides, I can’t make head nor tail of all the markings on the Scroll. And, on top of it, all that maths – it’s killing me, not the ancient Romans. In increments. An inch at a time. Seriously! Why me? I hate maths! I suck at maths!’ With these last words, her tone had changed to a high-pitched whine.
‘Hey, did you just make a maths joke? Unbelievable! Wonders never cease!’ I teased, earning a dirty look in response.
‘Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?’ she asked impatiently.
I laughed at the offended expression on her face. ‘Yes, I get it, but you forget that I suck at maths too.’
‘Oh pl-uh-ease! That’s like saying Picasso sucked at constructed sculpture! Like duh, just look at Chicago!’ When she got nothing more than a blank look from me, Fi shook her head in exasperation, declaring that I was a lost cause.
‘Look, I wish we could swap too,’ I said, consternation creasing my brow, ‘but, the truth is, when I look at the Scroll, I see only what I’m meant to see – like the Latin inscription of the story of Sodom and Gomorrah on the original papyri – and not much else. But now that the palimpsest has been pared back to reveal its original layer – mathematical astrology and cosmology – I can’t read it at all. The Scroll is yours for a reason, Fi. It came to you. Just like the Seed chose me.’
‘Then why can’t I read it? I thought once we pared back the layers, the meaning would reveal itself to me but that hasn’t happened.’
I measured her frustrated expression for a moment. ‘I don’t know. Maybe there’s a cipher. Maybe you need some sort of key to decode it.’ But even as I said this, my sixth sense flared in disagreement.
‘I wish it was that easy but I don’t think so, Sage. There is a code here, I know it. But I can’t seem to see the pattern,’ Fi corrected, intuitively agreeing with my thoughts and confirming our bond as identical twins. She adjusted her position on the floor to face me properly. ‘So, that’s it then. I’ve run out of ideas for now. What about you?’
I blinked. ‘What about me?’
‘What about the Seed? You still seem to be unsure of the full extent of your powers,’ my sister observed, eyeing me appraisingly.
I shrugged, pretending nonchalance, refusing to worry further. ‘I guess there are no guarantees. I don’t know when or how or even if the potential in my – our,’ I corrected, ‘– our blood might ever be realised. Even St. John hasn’t been able to say for certain what these powers are or how best to manage them. He didn’t think I had such power in me until I accidentally drew this symbol and he fused it to my palm.’ I held up my hand to look at my whitened scar once more, running my thumb over its strange smoothness. ‘Well, it’s a pity the Seed doesn’t come with an instruction manual because I could certainly use one right now.’
‘It’s sentient, Sage. Have you tried asking it? Though I don’t much fancy your luck. Imagine if it did come with instructions, it’d probably be like Alex’s Chinese-made toys written in poor English with useless, confusing diagrams,’ Fi joked, a sparkle coming back into her hazel eyes.
I choked back a laugh, agreeing, ‘Yeah, right, but at least it’s not some Babylonian dude’s idea of self-assembly like Ikea.’
It was nice to be able to lighten the mood of the moment. With the burden of returning the Seed back to its origin, coupled with our complicated and entangled relationships, Fi and I had become far too serious lately. I found that I missed our carefree lives where we had nothing more difficult to worry about than our Finals or choosing evening dresses for our school Formal. Well, if I were honest, I only missed it slightly – there was St. John, no matter how entangled my relationship with him was.
Fi’s expression became more sombre as she stated, ‘But I think you might be wrong, Sage. I suspect that the Scroll is the instruction manual for the Seed.’
I stared at her in astonishment. ‘What do you mean?’
Fi gestured to the printed images of the papyri littering her bedroom floor; copies of the originals which were safely kept in a vault at International Temple Bank, overseen by Gabriel. The markings, diagrams, geometry, and symbols inserted between texts were arranged in no particular order, haphazardly, adding to the confusion. But it was difficult to see anything ordered in the mess of Fi’s bedroom. As always, her bedroom floor was a minefield of papers, photos, post-it notes, open-boxes of pastels and pencils – though, at least, the wardrobe explosion was confined to a basket of clean clothes, neatly folded and yet to be put away – making it difficult to focus on any one item and distracting the eye.
I looked at my sister questioningly as she seemed so certain in her belief.
‘Take a look for yourself,’ Fi said simply. ‘If I listen with my inner ear, I can hear ... well ... something. If I try and really concentrate like Finn taught me, I can almost absorb the sacred language. But then my ears start pounding with the rush of blood to my brain and I’m forced to give up. It’s driving me crazy – because I can’t put all the pages of this instruction manual together. It’s like this huge jigsaw puzzle that I’m supposed to build, but I don’t have the image on the box to work with.’
‘You’ll get it, Fi. I know you will,’ I said, attempting to reassure.
But she only shook her head in frustration. ‘You have never doubted that the Seed is a cosmic map. That it locates the Hanging Gardens and Garden of Eden in time. The other part, however, provides the location through space. It’s the location in the real world.’
I frowned, wondering what her point was; it wasn’t like I hadn’t been told all this before. ‘Meaning?’
Fi exhaled in exasperation. ‘Meaning just that. The real world, Sage. You’ve got to get your head out of the clouds, girl – or, at least, your nose out of a book – because the Scroll was written for humans by humans. Not by some divine entity. Not angels. Not demons. Or wizards. Or whatever fantastical creatures you’ve read about or imagined.’
‘I know that, Fi,’ I said impatiently, feeling a bloom of embarrassment and resentment stain my pale cheeks. ‘I’m not stupid.’
‘No, you’re gifted. And that’s the problem. You overcomplicate everything. You always have,’ she groused, standing up and stretching her cramped limbs.
‘Geez, thanks!’ I replied, sarcasm dripping from my voice. But in the back of my mind a small voice whispered that Fi knew me better than I knew myself, and I shifted about uncomfortably where I was seated on her bed.
Fi rolled her eyes, quick on the uptake. ‘You still don’t get it, Sage, do you? I’m not trying to dis you. Look, it’s just like with multiple choice questions written for the lowest common denominator – you would always look for some deep and meaningful answer, second-guessing yourself. But the answer’s usually simple – staring you right in the face. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There’s something we’re missing. Something I’m missing. And it’s probably staring me right in the face.’
‘Well, if it is, I can’t see it! And I doubt St. John would be able to either!’ I protested, hopping off the bed to crouch down in the spot Fi had vacated, and all but putting my nose to the Scroll as my sister remained standing.
‘And why am I not surprised?’ Fi muttered under her breath.
I stared up at her as she towered over me. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that you can’t even see what’s obvious to everyone else,’ she said coolly, and then she sighed. ‘Honestly, Sage, you’ve always been blind to such things, but I cannot believe that even you haven’t guessed the real problem between you and St. John by now.’
I was a little staggered to realise that others had been avidly observing and judging my relationship with St. John. ‘And what’s that?’
‘Sex.’
‘We haven’t had sex,’ I said tartly, getting to my feet.
‘My point exactly!’ she chided, grabbing me by the shoulders to give me a little shake. ‘What’s wr
ong with you, girl? There’s so much sexual tension between the two of you – and so much chemistry – that you could light the Olympic torch and keep it burning for the next three thousand years!’
I was too stunned to respond. Though, of course it didn’t help that my thoughts flew immediately to the Vestal Virgins that performed the torch lighting ceremony in Greece, which made me wince at how fitting Fi’s analogy truly was.
But Fi was still speaking. ‘It’s will they or won’t they? Or better yet, when will they? I blame all those stupid books you read – Pride and Prejudice, Gone with the Wind, whatever – because you can’t see what’s staring you in the face! And I’ve seen you, Sage! You’re standing in front of St. John and it’s obvious you fancy him like mad and you act like a complete fool!’
‘Fi!’ I objected, flushing with embarrassment.
‘It’s true! I know you! I’ve seen you! It’s pathetic!’ Fi said rather haughtily as I groaned in humiliation. ‘Your heart is racing, your cheeks are flushed, the adrenalin is pumping, and you’re stuttering. Even I can feel the temperature rising in the room as you laugh a little too loudly at his jokes. Seriously, you both can’t deny that you want each other – there are sparks in the air whenever you’re around one another.’
‘I know. I can’t deny that there’s an energy between St. John and me. It’s hard to describe, but it’s just something magical that exists. But, Fi, I don’t know if I fully trust him. I mean, I did ... I do ... I just don’t know anymore.’ I pressed my hands against my burning cheeks. ‘What do you suggest I do?’
‘What should you do? The problem is what you haven’t done!’ To my surprise, my sister’s tone lacked the mockery that usually accompanied such a disparaging statement. ‘I’m not suggesting you should have sex. Although, for you, that would prove that you fully trusted him because I can’t see you giving yourself to a guy without it. But you haven’t even mustered the courage to ask to see him in his true form.’
‘I tried!’ I whispered in an echo of remembered agitation.
‘Did you? Did you really try?’
Did I really try? I wondered. Looking back now, I realised that the only time I had raised the issue of St. John’s true form was on the night when we had departed for Vatican City to meet his father, Elijah. And he had reacted with such torment and pain that since that night, I had not pressed him.
I had not pressed him because I was afraid.
I wasn’t ready to make love with St. John yet. But it had always been more a matter of fearing the intimacy that came with making love and not the act itself – that if we made love, there would be no way to remain separate, and that meant that St. John would be even more protective of me than ever, which would result in a loss of selfhood.
Fi did not look reassured. ‘Sage, you need to be more–’
‘–like you.’
‘No! Not like me! St. John’s not in love with me!’ Fi gave me a withering look. ‘You need to be more like your idol, Elizabeth Bennet. You need to be more assertive. Bold. Outspoken.’
‘I thought I was!’ I protested hotly.
‘Really? Then what the hell are you doing hiding in here?’ And dramatically throwing open her bedroom door, she gave me a hard shove towards the hallway. ‘As I said before, Sage, St. John’s been patient – more patient than I’d be in his situation – but I don’t need him breaking down my door demanding to see his fiancée because she’s too much of a wimp to stand up to him. It’s not like he’s keeping you locked in an attic or forcing you to sign some contract to have sex with him. If you’re going to marry the guy, take charge and stop avoiding him.’
A surge of healthy anger washed through me. The voices of my younger siblings, raised in song, penetrated the muffled silence of Fi’s bedroom once more, making my head ache and teeth grate. The song was so damned annoying, I wanted to shout at them to shut up.
I could feel my jaw clench as, facing my sister, I replied grandly, ‘I’ll have you know that I don’t need your solicitude. And I am not a wimp or submissive. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself!’
And on this truly stupid note I swept out of her bedroom.
MALEFICIUM
CHAPTER FIVE
“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”
I sighed. Dropping my well-thumbed copy of Jane Eyre onto my lap, I stared dismally out of the window. My thoughts had been to escape from the company of my family because I wasn’t in the mood for more lectures or censuring or polite conversation or talk about what was happening at the museum, the repairs to the winged-bull monumental sculptures, or the security guard’s funeral – which I hadn’t been allowed to attend as my parents had, once again, “thought it best”. If I had been more artistic like my mother or Fi, I might have been able to lose myself in some form of creativity, to express the emotions that stirred inside me. It was the one time I really envied Fi her talents. But I knew deep down I was fooling myself. Because I felt hollow. Empty. You couldn’t express emotions if you didn’t feel anything – didn’t allow yourself to feel anything. I was like a vessel waiting to be filled. Only I wasn’t sure with what.
I just knew I needed to escape for a while. I wasn’t hiding – or at least that’s what I assured myself – I just needed some space. But I didn’t really want to be alone. And so I turned to the one thing I could always count on – books.
Books had always been my refuge in the past. My childhood had been spent immersing myself in books. And it was in books that I lived a full and rewarding adolescence – with Harry Potter and Bilbo Baggins, with Katniss Everdeen and Percy Jackson – when I’d gone through my awkward stage of puberty and braces and gangly, clumsy limbs. Maybe it was also my way of coping with the frequent moves due to Dad’s restlessness; constantly uprooting the family to go on various digs and lectures around the world. Up until the time I’d turned fifteen, the only stability we’d had in our lives was when we spent our summer breaks with my Uncle Daniel in Argentina or my Aunt Lily in New York. But I always knew I could escape whenever I wanted to the worlds in books. Worlds built in words. They were like old friends that I would greet when I took them down from the bookshelf. I loved that familiar feeling of parting the pages and sinking into them. To escape to a world that was way more interesting – and permanent – than mine would ever be.
So armed with my volume of Jane Eyre, I had escaped to the solar; one of my favourite rooms at home. The solar used to be a private room on the first floor of the Manor House, reached from the raised dais at one end of the hall and reserved for the lord and lady of the manor, like a medieval family room. But, at some time in the past, a previous owner had made significant changes and renovations. The first floor had been converted into two private wings fanning out from the grand entry. Instead, at one end, Fi and I had our bedrooms and the solar was located in a larger drawing room at the end of our corridor. The space now housed a family room for relaxation and recreation, complete with open hearth, billiards table and home theatre unit.
I loved the solar with its large windows and sweeping views of the courtyard and verdant woods beyond. It was one of the few rooms where the atmosphere remained peaceful. Hushed. I felt shrined within as I drew the heavy curtains of dusky blue velvet close and seated myself cross-legged on the window-seat in my very own reading nook, which I treated like a sacred space.
It should have been as calm and as still as a cathedral with the folds of dusky blue drapery enclosing me on my right, encircling me in soft caresses, and with its framed views through the clear glass panes on my left, protecting me, but not separating me, from the sublime, cool beauty of the Kentish landscape. It should have been peaceful but it wasn’t.
Like Jane Eyre, I had slipped away from my family and retreated to the solar with my novel. But I hadn’t even made it past the opening sentence.
“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”
My eyes scanned the words for the sixth time. Like Jane, I was glad t
hat there was no possibility of taking a walk. I never liked long walks, especially since the woods surrounding the Manor House seemed ominous to venture into without St. John’s protection. I’d been hunted, attacked and almost killed in the woods. Not once but twice. I had searched desperately on a raw twilight in the woods for my injured sister, Fi, with St. John and an army of emergency service volunteers. And I had been given a cryptic but ominous warning about the woods through my connection with the Seed: “The Woods are not to be trusted. Do not trust the Woods.” But whether the Seed had meant to place me on my guard against my family or the physical place, I had no idea.
Yet there was no doubt the woods held a strange fascination for me.
After a lengthy interval of staring blindly at the words on the page, I turned my head to study the changing aspect of the spring afternoon. Earlier that day it had been sunny but, by lunchtime, the clouds had turned sombre, the sky the colour of Carrera marble. By the afternoon, the woods were snuggled under an eiderdown quilt of mist and cloud yet the wind’s caterwauling and colourless drizzle brought a human sadness that nature did not feel.
For the first time Jane Eyre failed to hold my attention. It wasn’t Jane’s fault nor was it Bronte’s – it was all my sister’s fault. Why couldn’t she have left things alone?
Unbidden, the image of St. John came to me with an unexpected ache.
Sex. That’s what Fi had claimed was the problem. Well, the lack of it in my relationship with St. John. The non-existence of it.
The image took hold. I saw him as he had been before I had knowledge that he was the Keeper of the Seed. He had teased me with his melodious, soft voice and his words borrowed from Shakespeare. Of course, from that first encounter, I continued to think about him constantly. Initially, I thought about him the way a person thinks about time or destiny; something always at the edge of your mind and vision, just something you dream in the dead of winter or on a miserable day at school when the endless droning of teachers fills the heavy air. He didn’t seem quite real to me; a golden God.