Sword- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  Her apologies delivered so prettily made me feel like I was being petty and immature – yet, whilst I excused Isabella, I still didn’t like her assumptions.

  I was, therefore, thrilled when St. John saw it my way and took my part.

  ‘Actually, Isabella, you’ll find that Sage isn’t anything like most of us at her age. She’s quite knowledgeable about conservation. And it’s not all due to her father.’ He looked at me then, his astonishingly green eyes flashing with amusement. ‘In fact, that’s what she wishes to specialise in. Isn’t it, Sage? You want to be a conservator, right?’

  I nodded, feeling my face flame with embarrassed pleasure under St. John’s obvious approbation as he took my arm and guided me beneath the decorative gated entrance, through its vast courtyard with its imposing sculptures and into the British Library. In response, Isabella murmured another apology. And, though short-lived, Isabella and I wordlessly declared a temporary truce as we were both eager to see the illustrated Zoroastrian book of trees.

  Requests for library materials were often delayed, especially with the onslaught of visiting scholars to London and the university towns during the winter and summer breaks. Still, it had taken longer than we had anticipated to view this particular book. St. John had placed his request for RSPA 230 before Christmas, and we were now approaching the lushness of spring. The librarian archivist who greeted us at the call desk was abjectly apologetic as he hadn’t realised that the request was made by the Assistant Keeper of Ancient Mesopotamian Culture at the British Museum. The call slip had done the rounds of various librarians’ desks until someone, finally, had brought it to the attention of the archivist now standing before us.

  The starched, conservative blue and gold Prince of Wales check shirt the portly, middle-aged librarian archivist wore already bore the creases and faint rust coloured traces of handling and shelving books bound in old leather, despite the fact that it was only the beginning of the working day. He shuffled nervously in front of St. John’s impressive authority and height, pushing his black-rimmed spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose with a self-conscious sniff.

  ‘My apologies, Dr Rivers,’ he said hurriedly, leaning slightly back from the modern cream marble information desk with its bank of computer screens that separated us, as if to put more distance between himself and St. John. I could see his discomfort from the manner in which his Charlie Chaplin moustache twitched. If ever there was a stereotype of a nerd, he was it. ‘We’ve been inundated with work; we’ve just received the shipment of manuscripts from the Royal Library in Rabat, Morocco, to be featured in our newest exhibition on Sacred Texts, and have been busily cataloguing.’

  ‘I knew of the exhibition, but was unaware of the timing.’ St. John smiled in an attempt to put the other man at ease, but this seemed to have little effect. The man was a bundle of highly-strung nerves, possibly because he dealt better with old books than with people. So, instead, his interest peaked, St. John queried as he leant against the information desk, ‘I gather the Torah Scroll used by the Chinese Jews of Kaifeng will be included?’

  ‘Of course!’ The librarian looked shocked that St. John might even suggest that they would dare leave such a significant text out of the exhibition. ‘Indeed, the rarest and most elaborate collection of religious manuscripts from around the world will be displayed side-by-side to show what the great faiths have in common. We’re hoping the Sacred Texts exhibition will contribute to a greater understanding of these faiths.’

  This hinted at the desire to create an opportunity to build bridges and reconcile sectarian conflicts, starting with those who came to view the exhibition.

  ‘It could not come at a more opportune time,’ St. John concurred. I read between the lines – St. John didn’t just mean because religion and inter-faith relations featured prominently in the daily media; he was inconspicuously referring to our quest and the renewed war between the Nephilim which affected humankind. The librarian, however, abstractedly agreed to St. John’s statement; hoping to move us along quickly, no doubt.

  More apologies about the inconvenience of temporary and new staff made it difficult for me to keep a straight face, particularly as St. John’s scholarly credentials had done the trick of not only gaining access to a restricted item but the archivist’s willingness to offer any further assistance required. But St. John diplomatically waved away the librarian’s embarrassment, compounded by his self-conscious reaction to Isabella’s pale beauty, as he guided us around the marble staircase to follow the corridor to one of the private reading rooms adjoining the St. John Ritblat Gallery. Isabella was quite happy to walk ahead with the flustered librarian, charming him as she did everyone else, especially with her knowledge of sacred texts. Within moments, it was easy to see, he was Isabella’s slave. It made me wonder whether, in other circumstances, we might have been friends. But, then again, the Isabella Donnatellis of this world didn’t often enter my orbit – or, it may have been fairer to say, that I didn’t ordinarily enter theirs.

  The St. John Ritblat Gallery was kept dimly-lit and at low temperatures to preserve the items housed there. The item that I had long wished to view was displayed in its Sacred Texts section under Zoroastrianism; a book containing illustrations of trees catalogued as RSPA 230. The beauty of such a rare text under its glass display had captured my imagination on my first visit – it was incredible to think that this treasure had so much knowledge to impart, linking to ancient beliefs about creation, immortality and fertility. But, previously, I had only managed to view the two pages on display; today I wished to view the text in its entirety.

  As we moved beyond the Ritblat Gallery, Isabella’s stiletto heels tapping upon the tiled floor then falling silent as tile gave way to purple carpet, I had the strangest sensation of déjà vu. The light of the corridor was dampened the further we ventured inside, causing a slight shiver to trickle up my spine. A shadow in the periphery of my vision intruded on the familiar composition of the room. But it was so fleeting and vague, like an image of an image, that I instantly dismissed it. And, by the time we reached the private reading room where the librarian briefly left us to retrieve RSPA 230 from its glass prison, I had forgotten all about it.

  Within the dimly-lit private reading room, I had time to take in my surroundings and calm my mounting nerves. I was equal parts thrilled and fearful at what we might find. On the desk in front of me, there was placed a special book mount – consisting of three independent pieces; two side supports and a spine support, along with book snakes to hold the book open rather than using one’s fingers – set up for the book to rest upon. These were similar in design to the headrests on car seats, with its foam-and-wood cradle covered in velvet. All was in readiness.

  I excused myself to wash my suddenly clammy hands, moist with anticipation. By the time I returned to St. John and Isabella, the air was charged with a frisson of excited energy. I almost felt that it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t find anything in RSPA 230 if I could just touch, hold, read such an historic document.

  Almost, but not quite.

  And it wasn’t long that we had to wait before the librarian arrived with RSPA 230 lovingly cradled in his pudgy hands.

  To others, even those historians like Isabella who specialised in sacred texts, the book may have seemed unremarkable but for its age. It looked no different from hundreds of other religious manuscripts, ancient and worn, held in national collections or university libraries around the world. But I knew there was something different about it the moment it was placed before me.

  I knew it as soon as I saw the oddly-shaped marking on its cover that flared golden to brief life before fading before my very eyes.

  I knew it with a shock of recognition that left an empty, hollow feeling of fruitless desire as my fingers itched to open the book and learn more, but my mind shied away from the act itself.

  I knew it as the manuscript challenged me with a remembrance of repressed pain and guilt.

  I knew it as soon as
I saw it. The oddly-shaped marking on its cover. It was exactly the same strange marking as the one displayed on the hilt of my attacker’s sword.

  RSPA 230

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘The Faravahar.’

  We had reverently crowded round the book with St. John standing between us, handling the precious document with the utmost care. But at Isabella’s melodious utterance, murmured so low that I would have missed it if not for my suddenly heightened awareness, I gave a slight start and turned in her direction. I studied the pale beauty for a moment, yet neither Isabella nor St. John shifted their focus from the book in front of them, and I was left to doubt what I had heard.

  Regardless of who had uttered the words, I knew for a certainty that they were right – the image I had witnessed flaring to life was the Faravahar. The winged disc, similar to the winged sun hieroglyph of ancient Egyptian culture, reminded me of the image of the Cherubim guarding the gateway to the Garden of Eden. I could only assume that this image represented the Archangels, the Amesha Spentas that we had just been discussing in the car on the way over to the library. From my knowledge of Egyptian history, I knew that the winged disc was a manifestation of the divine mandate – the king’s divinely appointed right to rule – and symbolised immortality. But, I was to find out later, that the Faravahar also signified the duality of Zoroastrianism; the two wings which were composed of three main rows of feathers represented good thoughts, good words and good deeds, whilst the tail, likewise comprised of three rows of feathers, represented bad thoughts, bad words and bad deeds. The choice between good and evil was an individual one, as each human and Nephilim was endowed with free will. This conflict between good and evil was made evident in the symbol which warded the book, protecting it from the Grigori.

  Even from a safe distance with St. John directly in front of RSPA 230, virtually shielding me from the manuscript’s effects, my skin prickled with acute awareness. It possessed an otherworldly, celestial power that was difficult to ignore, as much as I tried to resist its attraction. Despite its seemingly harmless appearance, the manuscript seemed to challenge, to mock and seduce me with the secrets it held bound and warded within.

  Shaken, I hastily stepped back from the reading room table.

  St. John looked at me sharply, concern lacing his voice. ‘Are you all right, Sage? It isn’t too stuffy in here for you, is it?’

  I knew that he suspected I was about to have a fainting fit or reaction to an onset of a vision, so I attempted to reassure him.

  ‘I’m fine. Just keyed up with excitement, I guess.’ But the unsettled feeling had not abated.

  St. John studied me closely – all the while I smiled through practised lips – until satisfied, he nodded and turned back to the task at hand. I was not good at lying but, in the past few months, had been doing my fair share. And yet it wasn’t a situation that sat well with me. Feeling much like the second Mrs de Winter, I wanted to weep for what I had begun and what I had lost.

  The manuscript lay on the velvet book mounts in a pool of subdued lamplight. I held my breath as St. John cracked open the cover, revealing the thick, ancient parchment within, marked with age spots the stain of spilt tea. Isabella immediately noted that at least three or four leaves were missing and had been neatly cut out of the binding; one folio at the beginning and several folios from the end were missing. Though there was no indication of when or why or who had vandalised such a rare and precious book, the other 272 folios were still intact and well preserved.

  Determinedly, I searched for something – anything – that might be relevant to our quest and felt a tingling sensation travelling up my spine, along my limbs, raising the fine hairs on my arms to tiny goose bumps in recognition of being reunited with an old friend or foe.

  A darker border on facing pages contained within its frames the flourishes of inked Avestan calligraphy. On a following page, a row of green trees, similar in shape to iconic Christmas trees, were interspersed with palm fronds, each uniquely rendered in red ink.

  Emotions swamped me. I struggled to remain sensible and view the manuscript with the kind of professional detachment I would need to exercise if I wanted to become a conservator. Drawing in the library’s familiar smell of parchment and ink and old books into my lungs – the smell of organic compounds breaking down within the books’ bindings of almond and vanilla and grass – I shut my eyes and longed for peace and clarity. The harmony of the British Library had always been a sanctuary to me; the Ritblat Gallery remained solemnly beautiful and still, the air rarefied as the interior of a cathedral.

  Determinedly, I turned my attention to the illustration of a religious ritual on the thirty-first folio, as St. John continued to carefully handle the pages. It was finely illustrated and strikingly well preserved – the artist had, no doubt, intended the scene to be an accurate depiction, painstakingly mixing crushed stone and mineral to colour his representation. I stared fixedly at the image.

  ‘It’s the ceremony of the yazišn gāh, designating the sacred girdle or kushti.’

  For the first time, I was grateful that Isabella had accompanied us. Her expertise in this area proved invaluable as she explained how a strip from a date-palm leaf was consecrated in the Yasna religious ceremony and used to tie a bundle of sacred twigs. The priest had to draw water from a well in the fire temple and purify a water pot. With this pure water collected in a purified pot, he went before the tree whose twigs were to be used in the ritual and washed with his right hand the twig to be cut. Then holding the knife in the right hand and the pot of pure water in the left, he cut off the twig “for the glorification of the tree, the good, created by Ahura Mazda.”

  A mild shock made me stiffen. I read the image with an eerie familiar feeling, and stared at the disturbed, darkened exposure of calligraphy beneath it.

  ‘These illustrations are part of the Wīdēwdād manuscripts,’ clarified Isabella, securing the page with one of the book snakes provided, ‘written in the Avestan language. They form part of a group of liturgical texts. The Vendidad, as we understand it, were written primarily for ritual purification.’

  And I realised then what it was that RSPA 230 depicted – not just the myths of creation, but the ceremonies used to destroy the power of demons and their evil influence. These were the religious rituals given to ward against and defeat demons – and perhaps also the Fallen; the Grigori.

  But St. John had already removed the heavy weight that held the page in place and, impatiently flipping over the images, said sombrely, ‘If I remember correctly, there may be an illustration in the following folios that will greatly interest you, Sage.’

  Isabella’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. ‘You have already viewed the book?’

  St. John’s green eyes held a touch of amusement. ‘In my wayward youth, I accompanied my undergraduate honours supervisor to view several musty tomes which he felt would assist in my research for my honours thesis. You may have heard of him, Isabella.’ St. John mentioned the Cambridge University don’s name, which made Isabella’s eyes widen with awed respect, before he continued, ‘As it so happened, he was contacted by an old friend, a former museum curator who wished him to advise the new owner of a private collection, inherited from an eccentric, elderly Scottish uncle, on how best to value the rather eclectic collection. My supervisor brought Hamish Drummond and me to the Bod, the British Library, and several other notable institutions – presumably to enlighten us. He lectured us both on the finer points of ancient Korans, Slavic scrolls, Hebrew manuscripts, and Ottoman land deeds. RSPA 230 was one of the texts that my supervisor used to make some tedious point – which now eludes me as it wasn’t relevant to my paper – and, whilst I remember some of the illustrations, I can’t say that on the whole I was particularly interested. I do seem to recall, however, that the blonde librarian who showed us the book had a rather impressive–’

  ‘Okay, that’s way too much information!’ I ground out in disgust.

  ‘–tattoo.’ J
ade green eyes were filled with a gentle mockery. ‘A Celtic cross, actually, that covered most of her forearm.’

  Blushing hotly, I briefly let the chestnut curtain of hair cover my acute embarrassment. The unsettled feeling returned – but not from RSPA 230.

  To Isabella’s credit, she didn’t laugh at my hopelessly wrong assumption. In fact, quite the opposite was apparent. Isabella’s perfectly serene mask transformed like a cloud passing in front of the sun, casting long shadows. Her mouth flattened into a severe line, seemingly puzzled and angered by some discrepancy. She looked up, dilating pupils making her normally bright blue eyes suddenly dark.

  Staring beyond St. John at the Ice Queen, I froze. There was something potent about the look she shot St. John and me, and I took an instinctive step away from her. Her eyes glittered with a wave of sudden anger and jealousy, quickly masked.

  ‘You have an interesting history, St. John.’ Isabella’s voice held a characteristic lightness which seemed at odds with the intensity of her expression.

  I almost gave a snort but managed to restrain myself. St. John had a reputation for being somewhat reclusive. He did not like to discuss his colourful past – only the most commonplace, casual information was yielded to the curious listener. He didn’t post any material about himself online – not even academic or professional information, with the exception of his published articles and essays listed on the British Museum website. Such privacy was virtually unheard of in the Digital Revolution.

  His history, as long as it was, remained elusive and silent like the stories of those disenfranchised. Merely half-heard scraps of gossip. A hint of rumour and myth. A carefully garbled disclosure in the corridors of Oxbridge or the British Museum. And the strange tales gathered like a bank of clouds threatening to storm. Yet there appeared to be a silencing finger at the lip, leaving mute the most wondrous of these. Like myself earlier, Isabella was fishing for more of his personal history, but I doubted she would catch St. John. A fact confirmed by his next words.