Sword- Part Two

by D B Nielsen

  ‘Stop. You’re doing my head in.’ She held up a hand awkwardly to restrain me from saying or doing anything more. ‘Let me finish. You need to concentrate. Remember how I told you that there was a veil that hid the truth of Satis House? Hid it behind a glamour? We need to follow the earthen ramparts like Elijah said and I need you to study the landscape. He said it would be illuminating. But you need to open your mind ... look at it until you feel like something is shifting within your mind ... like a key turning a lock ... like a light switching on ... like words suddenly appearing on a blank page ...’

  She said nothing more for a long moment, and it was I who turned away. My throat worked and it felt like I’d swallowed bitter fruit. It seemed to me that she was describing my first experience with the Seed that had bonded me forever to St. John – and I could never forget that he was in peril and the consequences should we fail.

  ‘All right, I suppose I can try,’ I agreed nervously. ‘But I think you’d better lead the way.’

  Fi laughed out loud at my suggestion but it was a normal laugh, and I felt the tension suddenly lessen. ‘Epic fail. Damn right, I’m leading the way. If I let you do it, we’d be wandering in the desert for forty years.’

  Huffing in offence, I didn’t say anything. She never failed to criticise my appalling lack of navigational skills, even though I was the one to make it out of our mother’s womb first. If I didn’t know any better I would have thought my sister knew darn well that Siberia was just over five thousand miles from where we stood, in an easterly direction.

  We started out slowly, walking in tandem, Fi confidently leading the way. At times, I suspected she had the eyesight of a jungle cat as she seemed so sure of her footing in the thick, pressing darkness. As usual, I tripped more than once, the ground uneven beneath my feet, until Fi took pity on me and held my hand as if we were children once more. I followed her grasp into the dark like a lifeline. For the most part, I was staring at the ground, at my feet, trying to stay upright, but then Fi came to an abrupt halt and I almost careened into her in my clumsiness.

  Looking up, the dark scenery slid away from me, spiralling out into the night. To move through an almost utter blackness was a strange experience. Surreal. Under the pale moonlight, the far vista was veiled in mystery; the whole scene drenched in a mystical, silvery radiance. I concentrated. Tilting my head, I felt rather than saw it undulate like the waves of the ocean, rippling with greater intensity the longer and harder I looked. The mutable landscape of the mind teased at thought. I felt a sensation like an angel’s feather tickling at my consciousness, brushing against the sensitivity of mind and body. I wanted to close my eyes, to blink, but I did neither. Instead, the moment snapped into sharp focus like the quick break and recoil of an over-extended elastic band ...

  SERAPH BLADE

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘In here,’ Fi said, drawing me forward.

  We were standing at the bottom of a round tower, elevated on a hilly incline. Not an extremely high tower – not like the bell tower that Fi had jumped off – but a tall roundhouse with a crooked spire that looked like an eccentric witch’s hat. The doorframe before us was solid stone but impractical – roughly the height for children or dwarves – as if added on a whim by the village carpenters and builders. Immediately, I thought of Alice entering Wonderland and my heart plummeted. Yet, unlike Lewis Carroll’s novel, there was no keyhole. No lock.

  Fi tried the door, slowly but urgently feeling along the solid wood with her fingers. She knocked, tapped, pressed, searched for any means of opening it.

  Nothing presented itself.

  There were no niches, no oddly protruding openings, nothing that looked like a handle or hinge. Nothing suspiciously like a knothole or spyhole.

  I shifted impatiently. The air was chill but perspiration now dampened the front of my shirt and my bra, the material clinging uncomfortably to my chest.

  The silence stilled, unbroken, around us. Neither of us spoke, as if by mutual consent.

  Frustrated, I kicked the toe of my shoe against the bottom of the door but, instead, encountered something much harder and unyielding. It was a low stone step.

  It was an odd place to put a step as it almost disappeared into the ground below, obscured by tall grass and weeds. But as I focused upon it, I became aware of an unusual detail. In the middle of the step, there was an engraving similar to the pentagram which had yielded our first clue and, breathing hard, I crouched down, impatiently pushing the vegetation aside, to stroke over it gently with my fingertips.

  ‘Push it. Hard. Go on,’ instructed Fi impatiently, and, in acquiescence, I pushed my weight down upon the centre of the pentagram. It immediately depressed.

  Instantly, the low stone step ground forward as if mounted on a track.

  A small crack gaped at the bottom of the door, enough for a hand to wiggle inside. I carefully slipped my fingers then the rest of my hand into the gap and moved it around; at first, encountering only empty space. And then – as if guided by the divine – my fingers stumbled over what appeared to be a long, metal object. A rod. A handle.

  A large handle of cold, fashioned ornate iron.

  Tugging at it desperately now, something gave way inside the empty space and the door easily swung inwards, opening onto hellish darkness.

  The air that rushed out to meet us was cold, stale and dank, foully smelling of centuries of rank mildew.

  ‘This is no glamour,’ Fi said worriedly.

  I could just make out a winding stone staircase that curled its way around the circular walls like an unbroken, spiralling apple skin, from the depths below us and high into the tower above us.

  Fi frowned. ‘Up or down?’

  My reply was automatic. ‘Up. The better to study astronomical bodies.’

  I fought to keep my trembling inside as I followed my twin into the tower. Our progress was slow and laborious, the ascent steep and dangerous on the worn stone steps.

  Roughly a dozen stairs up the tower, Fi paused. I felt more than saw her fidgeting in her pockets.

  ‘Bloody hell! How could I be so daft?’

  Pulling strands of sticky hair back from my neck, I asked, ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘My iPhone. It has a torch. I forgot all about it.’ She sounded angry with herself for what was an honest mistake. ‘I turned it off when we were on the plane and completely forgot that I had it on me.’

  Entering her PIN, the backlight from her iPhone flared to life; a firefly in the darkness. Fi hurriedly switched on the torch which, though feeble, managed to illuminate the stone stairwell in front of us. Iron sconces containing half-burnt out candles were bolted at regular intervals on the wall above our heads, testifying to the tower’s former occupancy. But damp, seeping in through the cracked walls and obviously leaking roof, which made the tower smell musty and mouldy, emphasised the fact that it had been centuries since the tower had been in use.

  ‘Come on, let’s keep moving,’ she said, taking up the lead again.

  Another two dozen steps – and I was carefully counting them – brought us to a heavy wooden door, its face carved with intersecting lines and symbols.

  ‘What’s that? Carpenter’s marks? It’s not quite a pentagram,’ Fi remarked, holding her smartphone aloft to light up the door.

  Curious, I thought about it for a minute. I’d seen something similar on a BBC news report on Knole House in Kent. Finally, having examined the markings in as much detail as was possible given that we were pressed for time, I clarified, ‘These are apotropaic marks or witch marks. They’re thought to form a demon trap of sorts, to ward off evil spirits and prevent demonic possession. Can you see?’ I pointed further down the door. ‘Recognise this?’

  ‘A Sator Square!’ Fi’s voice held surprise, searching my eyes in disbelief.

  ‘Exactly. These guys certainly meant business,’ I said.

  Straightening my shoulders slightly, I pushed hard against the solid door, the marked palm of my hand c
oming into contact with the witch marks carved into the firm wood. Immediately, the door swung back on silent hinges, revealing the great circular chamber within, lit by wan moonlight streaming through the narrow skylights, which looked like arrowslits in the roof and tapered to a high but crooked point.

  The first thing I noticed was that the air in the chamber was surprisingly dry after the dankness of the stairwell and – though it might have been in my imagination – carried a peculiar saltiness like sea spray or that of an underground salt mine or a salt lake desert. The next thing I perceived was that the curved walls were lined with bookshelves – shelves upon shelves reaching up to the thick, exposed ceiling beams, accessed by extended wooden and brass-hinged ladders – containing all manner of ancient texts – scrolls, illuminated manuscripts, slates, books bound in animal hides and velvet, jewelled, gilt-edged, brass-hinged, silver-hinged, dully gleaming in the moonlight.

  There was a long wooden table near the door of antique solidity; the dusty tabletop resting heavily upon the outstretched wings of paired carved angels, reminding me a little of the iconic silver Cadillac Flying Lady hood ornament. At one end of the table, there was a branched brass candelabrum and, sitting on a platform high amongst the bookshelves, an ancient telescope.

  ‘Is this it? The Monastic Schoolhouse?’ Fi asked, uncertainty colouring her voice.

  ‘Yes, this is it,’ I responded, but she was already moving forward.

  Walking further into the perfectly circular room, I did a complete circuit, spotting, above the door we had just entered, the only area of the room not hidden behind shelving.

  ‘Look.’ Fi pointed with her free hand, and I noted what had caught her attention.

  The coat of arms of the city was mounted firmly on the wall, half way between the door and the roof, depicting the Archangel Michael, a fair and warlike form in full armour, striking down the devil who cowered at his feet. In his left hand, he held a shield with a central cross. In his right was a flaming sword.

  ‘The seraph blade of the Archangel Michael. The next clue must be here,’ Fi breathed, the light of her iPhone dancing over the walls of the tower.

  Yet, despite the vast number of tomes within the Monastic Schoolhouse to be preserved and catalogued, it seemed to me that we had already exhausted our search. I saw that a great many of the texts were written in Cyrillic and a good deal more were sacred texts written well prior to the King James Bible. Even though this extraordinarily fine collection appealed to the lover of books in me, it was no more than a red herring. For the tablet’s inscription did not mention a book but, more specifically, the repository of knowledge itself.

  ‘Can I borrow your phone for a minute?’ I asked, climbing onto the long wooden table, my hands and the soles of my shoes leaving imprints in the thick dust. Standing on the table, I wiped the grime from my hands down the thighs of my jeans before taking my sister’s iPhone from her.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked after a while.

  Not bothering to look down at her as I replied, ‘I’m not quite certain. But I’ll know it when I see it ... I think ... I hope.’ This last part I muttered under my breath, continuing my investigation of the tower’s crooked roof. Cobwebs clung to the rafters. And there was unhappy evidence that nature was slowly reclaiming the man-made structure.

  But there was nothing there to point us in the direction of the seraph blade.

  Hopes dashed, my shoulders slumped and I let the phone in my hand fall limply to my side. But, as I did, something caught the corner of my eye, flashing and dancing amongst the periphery of my vision. Moving slowly, I raised the luminous face of the phone in increments from mid-thigh to the level of my waist to my chest.

  And stopped.

  The floor sparkled where our footprints had wiped it clean, and I saw that it was inset with dully glowing gems beneath layers of accumulating dust.

  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!’ Fi exclaimed, looking as astonished as I felt. ‘Get down from that bloody table and help me push it out of the way!’

  It was no easy task. At first, despite our best efforts, the table would not budge. Not an inch. It was far heavier than I thought it would be – and I already knew it would be heavy from the solid look of the timber tabletop. But I now suspected that the ornate angels the tabletop rested upon had been carved from one massive block of wood and were not merely hollow inside. This slowed us down considerably.

  We tugged. We pushed. We pulled. We put our backs into it. And finally – like the workings of an ancient, rusted mechanism being brought back to life – we managed to make it move. Inch by back-breaking inch.

  ‘If this hadn’t worked I was going to suggest spitting on the floor to lubricate it,’ Fi joked, smiling at me.

  I chuckled. ‘Thank God it did. I don’t think I have that much saliva in me. I’m totally dehydrated and I’ve perspired most of the fluids from my body.’

  In fact, all I wanted to do was sink down to the floor and sit there to recover my fading strength. But I didn’t have that luxury.

  When the table was pushed well away from the centre of the circular chamber, I shone the torch over the floor to see what might be hidden there. The outer circumference of the floor was fashioned from aged floorboards set in a herringbone pattern. But its centre was inlaid with a mosaic of gemstones, precisely cut into square and rectangular tiles, to form a pattern. As I was standing virtually on top of it, I couldn’t quite decipher the image – it could have been anything; a map of the heavens, a map of the earth, the zodiac, or even a cross – but, as I moved back against the bookshelves in order to see it fully, the image began to take shape.

  Mirroring the coat of arms on the wall above the tower’s entrance, the floor of the Monastic School held a life-size depiction of the Archangel conquering the devil – who was positioned under my feet – as in Revelations. I hastily leapt to the side, feeling an uncomfortable dread and superstition. I could do without the appearance of the devil at this stage in our quest.

  ‘So this is our next clue. Archangels and demon-slaying.’ Fi walked a little distance away from me till she was standing on the opposite side. ‘I have no idea what to look for but it’s beautiful ... really exquisite.’

  I wasn’t quite sure what I had been expecting to see either, but it certainly wasn’t this. Yet my sister was right – despite not being as aesthete, even I could recognise the perfection of the image. Tilting my head slightly to the right, I gazed upon the fine features of the Archangel Michael. The Archangel’s piercing, glacial eyes, under the visor of his helmet, seemed to pursue me and stare into my very soul. It was an illusion, I assured myself. Just a case of ubiquitous gaze.

  ‘You know,’ my sister mused, making her way around the edge of the circle to stand by me again, ‘it looks almost–’

  ‘–lifelike,’ I finished for her.

  Almost too lifelike.

  The moon passed behind a cloud and the cone of light shifted sidelong on the ground.

  I dared not stir. Nor breathed. The shadows flickered. As tensile as a spider’s finely spun webbing. And there it was – the eternal essence I had always apprehended but could never see. Galaxies rushed past. And moonlight parted to other light ...

  The figure appears, twelve feet tall, a martial form in armour of crystal, platinum and gold, with unsheathed, flaming sword. Wings of shimmering emerald green unfurl, scalloped feathered wingtips, of a span far greater than twice its body length stretching towards the heavens. His body shines like a jewel, covered in the finest saffron hairs, gleaming in the moonlight a polished bronze. His face, too beautiful to behold, as bright as a flash of lightning, framed by long locks of blond and silver, burns against the blaze of his icy eyes.

  He beckons ...

  I felt myself falling forward towards the blurry image on the floor...

  I hear the clash of battle. The seraph blade rings with inhuman syllables like quicksilver sliding, filings magnetised. Like music, the first note stri
kes a second. The second; a third. Clashing. Echoing. Bellowing. The whole world fills with dumb yearning. The primeval voice deafening in the inner ear. A fugue of love and loss, full of echoes of dead languages and the torment of dead foes.

  I step out onto the cool ocean of starry night. A cornucopia of falling light. Following the current of the strait path, I press onwards. Searching. I come to the borders of understanding. I approach the Messenger who stands over a thing befouled. Demon. Devil. Despoiler of Paradise.

  The Messenger’s burning beauty harkens. He looks at me with glacial eyes that hold a reflection of colourless landscape. No shade, no colour, no furrowing of the brow’s surface betray his feelings. Moonlight on ice. A mirror. As though I am not here ...

  As though I am not here ...

  Moonlight on snow of his face to look upon my own face without seeing me. The Messenger’s blade rises majestic. Heaven’s eternal light. Forged sunlight. Forged moonlight. Forged starlight. In the furnace, the blade sang. On the anvil, an angelic chorus. A hymn of everlasting praise.

  The flaming blade calling where soft earths meet ancient stone ...

  The flaming blade cutting through ancient stone to penetrate the living, solid bedrock. Seamlessly embedded. Protruding from unyielding stone, transforming from weapon to a symbol of sacred might ...

  I felt all moments converge in me.

  “I conjure thee, O Sword of Swords, by three Holy Names. Jehovah. Yahweh, Elohim. Be my fortress and defence against all enemies, visible and invisible, in every magical work. By the Holy Name Saday, which is great power, and by these other Names, the First and the Last, the Alpha and the Omega, Wisdom, Way, Life, Virtue, Speech, Splendour, Light, Sun, Fountain, Glory, Mountain, Gate, Vine, Stone, Staff, Immortal Messiah: Sword, do you rule in all my affairs and prevail in those things which oppose me. So be it.”

  The conjuration of the seraph blade rang within me, flowing from my sister’s mouth as some divinity spoke through her. The visionary Blake had written “What the hand dare seize the fire? ... What dread grasp dare its deadly terrors clasp?” and I reached out, daring to grasp what was offered.