by D B Nielsen
Surprised, I searched the concourse. ‘I don’t know. He was here a moment ago. Maybe he went to the lav–’
‘There he is!’ Fi pointed out St. John as he was exiting the library again.
I whipped round at her exclamation, tripping over my own feet and stumbling headfirst towards the hard ground in the process. But instead of face-planting on the pavement, as I pitched forwards, I was scooped straight up into St. John’s waiting arms. He had moved at lightning speed, his fingers cool but firm on my waist.
Inhaling the spicy scent of sandalwood, I sighed. His arms circling my narrow waist tightened momentarily in response, feeling like steel bands that would never let me go, before he set me on my feet.
‘Oh, get a room!’
This sneering pronouncement had me breaking away from my fiancé in embarrassment, cheeks burning.
‘And good day to you too, Fi,’ St. John murmured, a trace of a smile upon his lips.
‘Yeah, yeah, always a pleasure ... whatever.’ Fi said, coolly dismissive, and gave a brief nod in my direction. ‘So, did Sage tell you the news?’
One perfectly curved eyebrow quirked in amusement. ‘What news would that be?’
‘I’ve made a breakthrough with the Scroll,’ she said, her voice containing only a slight smugness, which was deserved under the circumstances.
If St. John was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, consulting his wristwatch, he offered, ‘It’s almost lunchtime. I know a place near here that’s secluded and relatively empty at this time of day. What’s more they serve pretty decent fare. I suggest that we go there and continue this discussion.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Fi said in a clear voice that contained within it a hint of belligerence.
If we’d been seated, I would have kicked her. Instead, I settled for a note of indisputable authority. ‘A meal will improve your mood, Fi. Perhaps they’ll have grapefruit smoothies.’
She sighed loudly, shouldering her backpack irritably, as she said, ‘I hate grapefruit.’
Smiling as I took her arm in mine to follow St. John, who was looking on in amusement, I answered, ‘I know – surprising really when they’re as tart as you are.’
‘Cow!’ she retorted, but it lacked any real bite.
We walked only a block or two from the British Library, and then down a rather narrow alley which suddenly grew dark around us, closing us in. The air around us constricted as if squeezing us tight, then released its breath as on a sigh. I wasn’t certain what had just happened but I could feel Fi tense as we approached a sunny entranceway, illuminated by a stained glass window. Rainbow ribbons of light danced upon the threshold as St. John held the door open for us and we entered a tiny café.
‘Have you ever been to this place?’ Fi whispered into my ear.
Shaking my head, I heard St. John’s reply to her question. ‘It’s a well-kept secret, but it’s been here for centuries.’
Curiously, I looked around. St. John’s earlier words were accurate – there were only a few patrons scattered about the intimate space and plenty of empty tables. The walls were a mosaic of tiled images of colourful foodstuffs – bowls of spaghetti, bread sticks, olive branches, and citrus trees.
We wended our way through the empty tables and chairs to sit at a small booth near the window towards the back of the establishment, which emptied onto a flowering beer garden. This time, I was sandwiched between the other two in an attempt to keep the peace.
Fi’s mouth was slightly open as she took in her surroundings, whilst St. John waved down the ample-bosomed woman behind the bar where she was drying clean pint glasses to request an antipasto platter of cheese, olives, smoked salmon, dried fruits, and slices of fresh baguette.
‘For starters,’ he informed us.
My mouth began to water.
Fifteen minutes later, the same woman brought over the laden antipasto platter, along with a chilled bottle of water, a steaming pot of tea, a creamer of milk, and several glasses, teacups and saucers, balancing them precariously on our table as she waited to take the rest of our order.
‘A chicken Caesar salad followed by a regular vegetarian pizza, thanks.’
Bemused, I raised my eyebrows at my sister as she placed her order, as if to say, I thought you weren’t hungry. Fi caught my quizzical look but ignored it, turning instead to apply herself to the antipasto platter with relish. This was a far cry from the Fi of old who believed that if she so much as looked at food hungrily, by osmosis she’d get fat.
‘Tell me about your vision,’ Fi demanded, spitting out an olive pip into a small bowl.
St. John’s mood went from indulgent amusement to tight-lipped fury in seconds.
‘What vision? What aren’t you telling me, Sage?’ he said scathingly.
Great. Trust Fi to open her big mouth. Why couldn’t she have choked on the olive pip? I thought irritably.
I gripped the teacup, trying to steady myself, and said on a drawn-out breath, ‘It was another vision of the pathway to the Garden of Eden. Same as always but, this time, there was a shrine guarded by an Archangel and a fountain featuring the Persian White Desert Rose which marked the path.’
Fi’s eyes glittered with a sudden wave of anger. ‘That’s all very well and good. But what aren’t you telling us, Sage? That’s not exactly the danger I was warned about.’
I blew on the steaming hot liquid and, when I was certain it wouldn’t burn my tongue, took a sip to fortify myself.
‘I saw things – evil things – stirring in the Underworld,’ I conceded, keeping a wary eye on her as I knew that Fi had risked much to retrieve the Scroll from the Underworld and it still gave her nightmares. ‘I feel that what Isabella said about Semyaza wanting to possess the sacred tree is probably accurate.’
‘Wait! What?’ Fi’s eyebrows rose towards her hairline. ‘What’s Isabella got to do with this?’
‘Nothing!’ I said defensively, wincing at her unvoiced accusation. Then I put my chin in the air. ‘She was only referring to the image we viewed in RSPA 230. She has nothing to do with the Seed. She knows nothing about the Seed. But her personal interpretation of religious dogma made me realise that she’s right.’
‘Don’t be too certain that Isabella is completely right in her theories, Sage. Historians are detectives – we like to put together the puzzle of the past, but it’s often filled with gaps and silences.’ St. John cautioned through pursed lips, staring fixedly at my whitened knuckles. ‘It would stand to reason that once having possessed the sacred tree, Semyaza might then destroy it, ensuring that no one can take from him the knowledge and power he possesses.’
Swallowing, I drank my tea in silence, not knowing how to respond. St. John drummed his fingers on the edge of the table and looked at me. The sun slanting in the window behind him fell on hair that was the colour of spun gold. He leant back in his chair.
He studied me until the silence grew uncomfortable. Luckily, I was reprieved by the waitress who brought our meal. In the moments it took for her to sort out which overflowing plate belonged to whom, the tension at our table was released.
Everything on the small table was piping hot and appetising. The delicious smell of pizza wafted under my nose as Fi broke off a slice, oozing cheese over the sides and onto the plate.
‘So then, what have you found?’ I ventured, popping a piece of brie-smothered bread into my mouth as I looked directly at my sister.
Fi paused in the act of raising her pizza slice to her lips. ‘The Scroll is a hypertext or, more accurately, a hypermedia.’
St. John’s mossy green eyes lifted to mine. ‘That is interesting. A hypermedia.’
I leant forward in my seat.
‘Like a textual labyrinth? So we’re meant to enter a garden of forking paths?’ My voice shook with excitement and nerves. ‘Wow! That’s truly amazing!’
‘Yes and no.’ Fi hesitated, hazel coloured eyes flicking warily back and forth between St. John and me. ‘The intention of the Scroll’s wri
ter was to not only make the Wise One realise the structure of the pieces of parchment as a whole, but also realise all the pieces that must be fixed together in order to create one unified structure. Each segment leads down a trail that takes the traveller in multiple directions through various linking words and images.’
‘So you need to navigate it in real time,’ St. John observed.
‘Yes. You need to navigate it in real time.’ Fi sat back in her chair, relieved that the questioning was over, and that St. John didn’t express doubt but believed her. ‘But the rest can only be read with the assistance of a computer and a specific program, not unlike a video game.’
St. John gave a low whistle. ‘It seems we were not meant to unlock the secrets of the Scroll until now. I believe Gabriel would call this providence.’
‘So,’ I breathed, in awe at how this was turning out. ‘That’s why the Scroll is meant for you, Fi.’
‘Maybe.’ She met St. John’s eyes directly; hers unwavering. ‘That’s where you and Gabriel come into the picture. I need to get access to a supercomputer. And I need Gabriel’s help with the mathematics and programming – and don’t try to pretend he’s only some ordinary investment banker because I know better. If we pull this thing off, it’ll make the cryptanalysis of the Enigma Code look like child’s play.’
I stared intently at my sister. I was surprised. Shocked even. Everything about her smacked of a newfound confidence and determination. A maturity. She had changed. Her role as the Wise One had changed her. The quest to see the Seed safely back to its origin had changed her. And, perhaps most of all, falling in love and its accompanying heart-break had changed her.
St. John slid a glance my way, then returned his attention to Fi. ‘C’est incroyable. All this time, we had to wait for the world to catch up. For industry. For scientific knowledge. For technological progress. And for you both.’
‘Isabella was right.’ I mustered a small smile as I looked at St. John and my sister. ‘The Word must be understood or its message is lost. And Fi – you were right too. The Scroll was recorded by humans and must be interpreted by humans in order to be meaningful.’
Fi looked triumphant, her smile slightly smug, as St. John reached for my wrist. His slender fingers were cool against my pulse. But my own blood was flowing hotly with barely-suppressed elation.
‘And so it begins.’
A POISONED SEASON
CHAPTER NINE
‘Oh! I just remembered!’ I blurted, suddenly jerking upright in my seat and forcing St. John to release my wrist. ‘The Nephilim who attacked me in the British Museum had a sword with a marking on its hilt. It was the Faravahar. I noticed it because it was also on the cover of the Zoroastrian sacred text we viewed today.’
‘There was no symbol of the Faravahar inscribed on the cover of RSPA 230, Sage.’ St. John quietly informed me; his face completely shuttered.
His answer took me by surprise and I stared at him in utter astonishment.
‘But, of course, there was! I saw it!’ The tension seeped back into my body as I said defensively, ‘It flared to life when you touched the cover, St. John! What do you mean there was no symbol?’
‘Whoa – what symbol are we talking about here? What’s a Farava– ... Faraha– ... whatever,’ Fi interrupted, confused hazel eyes swivelling back and forth between the two of us. I explained it to her as patiently as possible but, all the while, my anxiety was on the rise.
‘You had to have seen it, St. John!’ I insisted. He just had to have seen it. Never before had any of the iridescent symbols escaped his notice. ‘You’ve got to be joking! You must have seen it! You’re joking, right?’
‘I’m serious, Sage. This is hardly the sort of thing that one makes jokes about.’
I stared in silence at the face I had come to know so well – at the brass coloured hair, the firmness of his jaw, the hard mouth that at moments could transform his appearance with the attractiveness of his smile, the brilliance of his jade green eyes. He looked back at me, his face expressionless, but I had a feeling that he was not as controlled as he appeared to be.
As if from a long way away, I heard his voice say, ‘There was no Faravahar, Sage. Or, at least, none that I saw. Whatever message that was left for the Wise One was for you alone.’
I shook my head, reaching up to squeeze my scarab necklace until the sharp edges bit deep into the skin of my suddenly clammy palm. But the very act of touching the warm pendant relieved my mind, as if its firmness contradicted the fragile and biased nature of memory.
‘But, if what you saw is correct, Sage – and I believe that it is,’ St. John said, his manner guarded, ‘then it may be easier to track down the Nephilim who attacked you.’
Fi cleared her throat, making her presence known. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There are no records of Nephilim births, you understand. Whatever genealogy we have is simply an amalgamation of myth and legend, superstition and folklore. Unlike humans, we do not attend schools that teach us our history. What we learn of ourselves and others like us are told in stories of exodus and battle, of loyalties formed or dissolved in conquests and bloody sacrifice – the Viking expansion, the Crusades, the One Hundred Years War, the World Wars, amongst other events – and tales of colonisation and imperialism, which led to Nephilim diaspora into the New World and beyond ... and, of course, the stories written in the sacred texts.’ St. John gazed at Fi with a coolly assessing eye. ‘These became Nephilistic lore. Part truth, part myth or fairy tale or fantasy.’
‘So you fake the records in order to assimilate with humans?’ Fi seemed fascinated by this notion, as if it confirmed every conspiracy theory she had ever believed.
‘We fake quite a few records, yes.’ He gave a brief, bitter smile that lacked any warmth. ‘We certainly fake the records of our births and deaths. It’s a necessity when you live as long as we do.’
‘But that’s not the same as not having a genealogy or understanding of your past,’ I said softly.
St. John called over the waitress and ordered a long black. He gestured to my sister and me, but we both shook our heads, almost in unison, declining the offer of more food. In truth, I had lost my appetite and it was difficult to drink my tepid tea without swallowing thickly. I struggled to mask my reaction to the tragic details he communicated.
‘Yes, mon cœur. I see you understand my meaning perfectly.’
St. John then folded his hands and seemed to consider some minute detail on the tablecloth in front of him before he continued. His voice was steady and clear.
‘You know of the circumstances surrounding my birth – how my mother’s family abandoned me; how the Anakim found me and raised me. But, consider, that my circumstances were more fortunate than many of my brothers. Some lucky few were raised by their mothers – Nephilim whose mothers were not supposed to survive their birth – though these mortal women like all humans passed away too soon. But most of my kind never know the peace of family and the love of a mother or a foster father like Anak. They are denied clan or tribe. It is worse for them. They have no one to nurture that other half of their blood; their humanity. And so, they search for answers to understand who they are ... what they are. But what they discover is soul-destroying.’
‘What exactly are you saying?’ The words were low and angry and sounded as if someone had torn them from Fi. I realised she was unhealthily thinking of Finn and the damage the fallen angel who had sired him had done to the Emim and his human mother.
‘Imagine if you will, that human beings have the luxury and comfort of stories and memories that map both personal and collective history. You trace your experiences and your ancestry through documented accounts and imperfect memory to order your past. You can look up these records, view these images, tell these stories, to make sense of your existence and leave a legacy to your children. It gives you a raison d’être. But many Nephilim have only the stories constructed for them by human beings – a biased and distorted history; one ba
sed on their paranoia, superstitions and fears.’ He looked up and his green eyes glittered with an indefinable emotion.
I remembered back to when I had first met Gabriel in Paris. He had expressed a bitter anger against the stories told of the Anakim in the Bible. I now understood why.
‘There is a belief – one that I do not subscribe to, mind you – that the Scroll somehow unlocks the secrets that encode the bloodlines of the Grigori.’ There was a weariness in St. John’s tone. ‘Some of this information is also claimed to be in The Book of Generations, which is no longer in existence, with the exception of the parts written into the Torah, but it is believed to hold the basic genealogy of the ancestors of the Israelites. There are many Nephilim who hope that it also contains their basic genealogy too. But this is another reason why the Rephaim and Emim covet these artefacts.’
‘Because it holds their ancestry?’ Fi asked, astonished.
St. John sipped his long black pensively. ‘Because it tells our story – all of it – birth, life and death. Beginning, middle and end. Just like the Tree of Knowledge and the Tree of Life hold the names of every living entity ever born or that will ever be born, the Scroll is believed to generate and record all the names, every name, of every Nephilim, and place us firmly within the world. For many, it is a vindication – a belief that our creation was not meant as an aberration but that we were created by design. A belief that the Creator willed us into being as he also willed humans into being. Many of us feel the need to understand our place in the world – a world, as human history tells it, which was created solely for humans.’
Placing his hand on mine, St. John made an effort to calm me, but it was too late.
‘Forgive me for being verbose.’ He shook his head at the folly and tragedy of it all. ‘What I meant to say was that tracking these Nephilim may have been made easier for us. You see, many Nephilim attempt to create their own histories, to forge their own destinies. Whilst Gabriel and I chose to join the Knights Templar, our brothers joined other sects.’