by D B Nielsen
I sipped at my tea, slaking my sudden thirst from a parched throat, preparing for the long-awaited discussion to take place with some trepidation. We’d spent the past hour in an anxious state as Gabriel had refused to entertain the idea of discussing the message and its messenger until I’d put something more substantial into my stomach than a glass of vintage brut champagne – and a small, half-eaten bowl of strawberries did not count, according to the officious Anakim.
As a consequence, the slowly passing minutes had been an excruciating ordeal – the luxury of our compartment, the gilt-rimmed porcelain, etched crystal, and silverware so shiny I could see my reflection multiplied in the tines of the cake fork, did not quite soothe the tension that remained after my meeting with the celestial errand boy.
‘Bah. Not quite,’ Gabriel contradicted from where he sat on the opposite banquette seat. He regarded his slim fingers as they cradled the fragile teacup and saucer, fine-jointed and manicured, the image of languid elegance. The pose was deceptive. To anyone who knew him, the sharpness of his mind was a rapier.
‘What does that mean?’ my sister demanded, unconsciously picking apart the flaky pastry she was holding, betraying her restless state.
‘It begins with a secret as all good tales do. That is the key to the message,’ Gabriel began, still gazing down at his hands. ‘Long ago on his travels, a member of the Anakim brotherhood came across the greatest printer in Venice, a man called Aldus Manutius – this was in the early days of printing, during the Renaissance period at the end of the fifteenth century – who had been anonymously commissioned to publish a book that has continued to baffle scholars who have tried to understand its many mysteries.’
My voice eager, I asked, ‘What book? What mysteries?’
The late afternoon sunlight from the window danced amongst the silver tea service in crazy pinwheels and turned Gabriel’s wheat coloured hair to gold like in the fairy tale of Rumpelstiltskin, but he did not seem to notice, caught up in the past of his tale as he continued, ‘The Hypnerotomachia Poliphili – or that is the title that it is known by, though it is as much a riddle as the book itself which is coded in seven languages – this book is, at least superficially, a passionate love story with all the conventions of courtly love. It is also an arcane tale. And an intricate mathematical maze.’
‘Epic fail! No way! Every time we get close, there’s another curve ball thrown our way! Another riddle!’ hissed Fi, looking suddenly like she’d swallowed the bitter pips and rind of an orange.
‘I don’t get it,’ I said, still feeling slightly woozy from the glass of champagne earlier, and too highly-strung to think clearly. Looking confusedly from my sister to the debonair Frenchman seated opposite, I asked, ‘Does it remind you of something, Fi?’
Fi gave an unpleasant smile, throwing herself back against the cushions. ‘It reminds me of the Scroll. Of the multilayered coding. Doesn’t it remind you of the Scroll? We’ve been handed obscure directions. Again. I think that’s the purpose. Always these bloody ridiculous riddles to test us and to hide the truth.’
Gabriel’s stillness gnawed at my sister’s suspicion.
‘Come on! ‘Fess up! Doesn’t it remind you of what we’ve been working on at ITB? A mathematical labyrinth? A treasure map?’ she challenged the Anakim belligerently.
‘The tale is a riddle within a maze, hidden within a dream.’ Gabriel finally looked up, and his silver-grey eyes pierced like the point of a dagger. He deliberately chose to ignore my sister’s words. ‘I dare not speculate. Poor Aldus didn’t quite know what he’d been given nor who had composed it. It is a book that “shall not remain in darkness”, but even when Leonardo Crasso and Andreas Maro, the editors of Hypnerotomachia, exhorted the Muses in the introduction to reveal the author’s name, they refused to do so, claiming that it was better to be cautious lest “rabid malice” brought forth or devoured “divine things”. No one knows why the author wrote the book using so many languages, nor yet why the author wrote hundreds of pages on architecture – including pyramids, an underwater labyrinth, and a temple – and more pages on flora and fauna, music, dance, food, rare gems and metals. And yet, the writer of Hypnerotomachia desperately desired to remain anonymous, evident from current speculation upon the book’s authorship.’
Gabriel paused, weighing his thoughts carefully before continuing with his explanation. ‘But more interesting still, is the question: what or who were the “divine things” alluded to by the Muses? And what would inspire such “rabid malice”?’
‘I’ve never heard of this book,’ I confessed in some surprise – but to her credit, Fi didn’t mock me for my lack of knowledge as she might normally have done. Instead, she looked as baffled as I was by Gabriel’s revelations. ‘But, I think, what would inspire such “rabid malice” is pretty obvious to all of us. And I may have just met one of the “divine things” the Muses were talking about.’
‘Tiens! I believe so too. And for this reason we must tread carefully. Expose as little as you can or must,’ Gabriel agreed, lowering the teacup and saucer he was holding onto the table in a brisk manner, enough to make the teacup rattle in emphasis. ‘Be careful with the Watcher Elijah. Be careful with your passions. Be careful with your fears.’
Fi went quite still then. I could tell from her reaction to Gabriel’s words that they had shocked her.
‘Fear and passion are but two sides of the same coin ... Be careful with your wishes for they may become what you fear ...’ Her voice drifted off. It was as if she was tuning her mental antenna to her inner ear and listening in to what she called “angel radio”.
Shaken, I struggled to keep my voice even. ‘You know, I had a dream about a tower. A lot like the Tower of Babel. Two towers actually. But there might have been more. I’m not certain. It was ... vague ... but detailed. I know, it doesn’t make sense, but that’s what it was.’
‘Typical dream logic but I trust your visions, Sage,’ Fi offered with a small, sad smile; knowing that my concern for St. John was never far from my thoughts.
I hesitated, fearful of unlocking the dark, secret chamber of memories that was just beyond my conscious reach. But in light of how grim things were, I had to admit, ‘In the dream, I saw an angel and the coming war. I saw death.’ I couldn’t bring myself to say the words aloud – to tell them of my repeated vision of St. John’s death. It was, to me, like accepting its finality, its reality, and I was not prepared to do that. Instead, I said, ‘The contents of this note – the description of the wasteland and the stony ground and outcrops and jagged mountains – all of it – I’ve seen them before. At least, I have in my dreams. I’m sure of it.’
Gabriel gave me a hard stare, folding his arms and leaning back in the seat. ‘Saffron may be right in thinking this a prophecy – but let us not lose hope.’
‘I want answers.’ Fi’s expression was taut with suppressed anger, her eyes on fire. ‘I’m telling you that this has something to do with the Scroll. Gabriel, you know the truth. You know how much we’ve uncovered already. The mathematical equations and geometrical images are riddles within riddles. But there’s a familiarity about it all. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon. The Garden of Eden. The physical and the metaphysical worlds.’
‘C’est vrai, the meeting of physical and metaphysical,’ Gabriel murmured in a distant voice, strangely calm in the midst of all the chaos that was swamping us. ‘“I died for Beauty ... And I for Truth”. We must err on the side of caution, I’m afraid, as it is impossible to apprehend what is beyond this world and what some may do to acquire this knowledge.’
‘Why did you quote Dickinson?’ I asked Gabriel who was now watching me like a hawk.
He reflected meditatively, ‘Everyone has something they believe they are willing to die for. Even Semyaza. Even me.’ He smiled enigmatically. ‘This errand boy whom you have met is no mere child but one of the Cherubim. He has appeared to you, Sage, in the least threatening form – in the same manner that Renaissance painters depicted C
upid with his bow and arrow – as a child. He knows who you are. Perhaps he even knows what you are willing to die for or fight for or even kill for. But what his intentions are remain unclear.’
‘Do you think he’s been sent to help us? Or what? Aren’t the Cherubim the ones guarding the entrance to the Garden of Eden? Bloody hell! This has got to be a cruel cosmic joke!’ Used to movement and action, Fi thrust up from the table and stalked – or attempted to stalk in the confined space of the cabin – over to the hidden washbasin near the door. Bracing her back against its decorative oak panels, she crossed her arms upon her chest and lapsed into a sullen silence.
Gabriel surmised, ‘The Cherubim have never been a force to take control or provide guidance over human destiny – not without the explicit command of the Creator – but we cannot account for free will.’ He paused to give a sardonic smile. ‘Always hasten slowly, non?’
Again, I wished I might have listened as it was sound advice, but time was running out – for St. John, at least – and I could not second guess myself now. It was true – everyone had something they were willing to die for. Whatever the price to be paid for my actions, I would pay it. Willingly.
But that night, after we had returned from a sumptuous three-course dinner in the Côte d’Azur dining car, boasting gorgeous Lalique glass panels with their friezes of classical figures which had my sister enthralled and her camera busy, and a nightcap in the bar car with lively Jazz music from the baby grand piano to entertain us, I dozed fitfully in the lower berth, below my twin, my head as cloudy as if it was stuffed with cotton wool.
Despite the heaviness of my eyelids as I sank into slumber, snuggling into the cosiness of the crisp damask sheets and thick, royal blue blankets, I seemed to hear St. John’s deep, mellifluous voice saying, ‘Sage, there will be a price to pay ... but it is not you who will pay it.’ And, later, lulled by the rhythmic motion of the train as it seemed to sway like a mother rocking her baby to sleep, I thought I heard him call out a warning, ‘I am beyond help.’
As I struggled to awaken, my consciousness writhing like a fish on a hook, yearning to rise to the silvery surface of the stream and its promised freedom, a current rolled me under and I remained ensnared within a net woven with nightmarish visions, haunted by the shadowy figure of a man in a dark fur coat who watched me with a cold, smouldering intensity in his amber-lit eyes, as I plunged, jerked, thrashed about. When finally he released me from my terrifying ordeal, I floundered upon the undulating waves of memory, the shadowy figure still looming large, like a hideous toad coveting the fruit of a Cosmic Tree.
Sluggish and on edge, my mood did not immediately improve when I awoke the next morning – as ever the case upon waking, the dream receded into Lethean forgetfulness – with the cabin steward’s pre-arranged wake up call for breakfast, knocking discreetly upon the cabin door. It wasn’t his fault. I felt a migraine insidiously creeping along my temple and my palm throbbed where the Seed had left its mark, a reminder of the important business needing my attention. I had an urgent sense of déjà vu but couldn’t recall what it was that snagged at the edges of memory yet remained elusive.
The milky innocence of morning dawned amongst the rarefied air of hammocked snow-peaked Alps. Upon waking, we were just east of Zurich, the train chugging alongside the sparkling clear waters of the Swiss lakes with their breathtaking mountain backdrop. Fi threw up the blinds to take in the beauty of the Alpine landscape we were passing through, soaking up the ministrations of spring. The Orient-Express clipped a corner of Lichtenstein, entering into Austria, and snaked through the wonderfully majestic Arlberg Pass. And, gradually, almost imperceptibly, the pale light gave way to a clear blue interspersed with dandelion wisps of clouds that wreathed the high mountains.
But I was more troubled than I cared to admit to myself, and all the beauty in the world was not enough to ease my condition.
‘Stop it!’ Fi ordered with her back to me as she took more photos of the scenery.
‘Stop what?’
‘Stop ruining my Zen moment. I can hear you thinking. Loudly.’ She turned to look over her shoulder at me.
I exhaled heavily.
‘If I knew what was bothering me, I would tell you,’ I finally admitted, swinging my legs over the edge of the lower berth to sit up.
‘Nephilim bodyguards and Fravashi assassins following us about. Celestial beings with cryptic messages and fortune tellers whispering mysterious warnings. The guy I thought I was falling for turning out to be the son of our archenemy. The guy you’ve definitely fallen for slowly being poisoned by an immortal uber-biatch. Dead bodies dropping out of the air – well, maybe not yet but it will happen, I’m counting on it,’ she narrated cheerfully. ‘And paranoia induced by a clear case of morningitis and food deprivation.’
‘Okay, so I’m in a foul mood. But, as you’ve quite succinctly summed up, I have every reason to be.’ I steadfastly ignored the particular comment about St. John.
‘I can totally empathise with Buffy,’ Fi joked, ‘Our lives are running parallel to the fate of the Chosen One. Maybe Joss Whedon can write us out of this season’s cliff-hanger.’
But I remained moody and irritable. ‘You’re incorrigible, Fi. Never mind. I’ll just get my toiletries and be out of your hair in a sec. I wouldn’t want to ruin your Zen moment, now would I?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about it.’ Fi, accustomed to my moods, shrugged. ‘I’m sure Gabriel will take great pleasure in doing just that.’
I almost laughed. I was certain he would too.
Morning ablutions were merely a chore yet my scowl was replaced with a look of appreciation upon re-entering the cabin and feasting my eyes upon the well-laid breakfast table. In my absence, the night configuration of the compartment had been righted and a continental breakfast had miraculously appeared as if conjured up by magic. There was enough to tempt the fussiest eater – including my sister – from light and buttery croissants to flaky, golden pastries, fruit compote and berry yoghurt, chilled orange juice and steaming hot pots of tea and coffee.
‘I’m seriously keeping all of this,’ Fi remarked as she slid her unused Venice Simplon-Orient-Express slippers into her hand carry, alongside the stationery, menus, tissue packets, boxed bars of soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, and other items supplied for our comfort.
‘I’m surprised you’re not asking Gabriel for his as well,’ I teased, pouring milk into my tea while I watched her shuffle items around in her bag to create more space.
For one second, her face lit up at my suggestion. Then, shaking her head, she replied, ‘Meh, I don’t want to look desperate. I’ve already packed yours and mine, I don’t think I could fit much more in – though I do like the soap, and look, it even comes with its own soap holder.’
‘Fi, you’re impossible! Not to mention, embarrassing!’ I good-humouredly commented, feeling my spirits revive, as the panelled oak partition was drawn back between the interconnecting compartments and a sartorially-splendid Gabriel in another beautifully tailored charcoal suit entered with a breezy ‘Bonjour, mes chéries!’
Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he sat down next to me and reached across for the coffee pot, his gestures elegant and languid.
‘Now then, let us discuss our plan of attack,’ Gabriel said as he sipped at his strong, black coffee.
‘Well, that’s got to be a new record.’ Fi rolled her eyes at me as if to confirm her earlier assessment of Gabriel’s behaviour. ‘FYI, Gabriel, normal people show at least some casual interest in the lives of others. You could have asked how I slept last night. Or how I’m doing.’ She threw him an exasperated look. ‘By the way, that’s my breakfast you’re eating.’
Gabriel raised a fair eyebrow. ‘Tiens! It is a good thing I take my coffee black – that face of yours would curdle milk. Here, chouchou,’ he held out the fruit compote, ‘this might sweeten your disposition.’
Unable to help myself, I gave a snort of laughter which, for my sister’s sake, I attempted to
conceal behind a fit of coughing. I’m certain Gabriel was trying to make me feel better because only the most dull-witted person would think Fi was in a sour mood rather than my self – but I also knew that Gabriel and Fi couldn’t help their verbal sparring which held all the elements of a duel and made me think of the barely concealed sexual magnetism that lay beneath their antagonism. I felt my sister’s annoyance but also her amusement; they were almost perfectly balanced. Wisely, I held my tongue.
‘Gabriel–’ Fi began on a warning note.
He failed to hear her, which was probably deliberate, as he returned to his opening salvo, ‘The other Anakim on board did not witness Sage’s meeting with the Cherubim. No doubt this was intended. Please save your comments for later, Saffron; we are surrounded by danger and can use all the help we can get from the brotherhood. Ça peut toujours servir.’ Gabriel locked his gaze with Fi who subsided into grumbles. ‘I have verified the messenger’s text. And I believe that Saffron is quite correct; this is a prophecy. It would be foolish to ignore the cautioning of a Cherubim. And equally as foolish to dismiss his arcane revelations.’
‘This time it’s only a page from a book,’ Fi protested, collapsing onto the opposite banquette seat and tucking her feet under her bottom. ‘It doesn’t have any power unless you allow it to.’
‘Tu crois pas? Books have power. Some more than others,’ the charismatic Anakim said thoughtfully, tapping his chin. ‘Écoute-moi bien. Some prophecies are mutable. Such prophecies are open to interpretation and it is possible to thwart them. But this is an esoteric text with no known author. And who knows who the intended audience is meant to be. With the Seed and the Scroll, there is nothing in them that does not come to pass. But this–’ Gabriel gave a Gallic shrug. ‘– this is outside of my experience and knowledge.’
‘So who might know how to interpret the message?’ Fi said testily.
‘And might be willing to help us?’ I added softly, because I was almost afraid to hear the answer.