Seed- Part Two

by D B Nielsen

  ‘Yes, it’s so wrong,’ I agreed, almost wailing, ‘Youth and beauty – it’s not fair. How can you look like that after three thousand years?’

  Again I’d managed to startle him and I remembered what Père Henri had said – that it was good for St. John to be challenged. Well, I would challenge him – if only to show him that I could be his equal as Jane was to Rochester.

  ‘Are any of your brothers ugly or are you all gorgeous? Because cosmetic surgeons would go out of business if there were many more of you,’ I said to him, pouring myself a fresh cup of tea.

  St. John gave a laugh, deep and resonant. ‘Sage, I’ll say it again, you are completely refreshing.’

  I scowled at him over the rim of my teacup. ‘Stop saying that. I hate that word.’

  ‘Too bad,’ he said, giving me a wink.

  A thought occurred to me which I gave voice to, interested to hear his response.

  ‘Is it a coincidence that Charlotte Bronte named a character after you?’ I asked intrigued.

  His eyes lit with fresh humour. ‘I wondered when you’d get around to asking me that. No, it’s no coincidence. I was a curate under her father in Yorkshire. I knew all the children – Branwell, Emily, Charlotte and Anne – but not very well, as I was often in the company of Reverend Bronte whilst preparing to embark on my voyage to India. The Anglican Church was intent on bringing the word of God to its colonies. In reality, my journey to a mission there was a ruse as I was following a lead which had reported the Seed had been smuggled into Pondicherry. Charlotte must have seen me as a righteous young man under her father’s tutelage because she cast me in the role of a fervent Evangelical. For a while, I was quite annoyed that she’d called me a “white pillar” and made me some sort of martyr in her novel.’

  ‘Well, the novel does end with St. John Rivers, not Jane and Rochester,’ I said, ‘and there has always been a lot of debate why she did that. Some critics seem to think it highlights that Jane made the right choice of an earthly Paradise with Rochester and not sacrificed her identity and autonomy to St. John Rivers’ demands.’

  ‘And what do you think?’ he asked, curiosity lighting his eyes.

  ‘I think Charlotte had a crush on you,’ I teased him, unable to suppress a laugh at his expense.

  It was difficult to stay annoyed at St. John for long, even though I wanted to, his beauty proved too distracting. I allowed myself to be charmed by the golden god in front of me – which was made even easier when he called over the waiter to bring the dessert trolley, aptly named the Patisserie Chariot Colonial, for my perusal. As I gazed upon the mouth-watering delicacies like a child in a candy store, choosing from the variety of tea jellies, chocolate gateaux and glazed tarts, my mood improved dramatically.

  It was just as St. John signalled the waiter to bring fresh pots of tea that I caught the faint drift of citrus fruits in the air; a tisane of herbs and flowers.

  ‘It smells just like the artefact,’ I pronounced distractedly, biting into a chocolate and apricot tart.

  St. John’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. ‘What does?’

  ‘The tea,’ I answered, ‘can’t you smell it? It’s so sweet-smelling, so fruity.’

  He stared across at me with watchful eyes, much as he had done last night. I smiled wider, tilting my head in bewilderment as he remained silent.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I finally asked.

  ‘You’re telling me that you can smell the Seed?’

  I blinked, dazed. ‘Yeah, can’t you?’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, I can’t.’ He looked at me, his eyes enigmatic.

  His words bothered me more than they should have.

  ‘You can’t?’ I asked again and, when he shook his head, I continued, ‘But what does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured, ‘Tell me, when did you first notice this phenomenon?’

  I thought back quickly. ‘In Conservation, I think. But I was also aware of it whenever I walked into the study – it has that same fruity scent from the mix of beeswax polish, potpourri, and the apple and hickory firewood.’

  ‘Remarkable,’ he said, and I could almost hear his mind ticking away.

  ‘Why do you think you can’t smell the artefact and I can?’ I asked curiously, resisting the urge to lick the chocolate off the dessert spoon.

  ‘I have a theory,’ he answered slowly, hesitantly, ‘but I’d rather not say anything until I consult my father.’

  I knew St. John was referring to Père Henri and I thought it rather endearing that he called the old priest his father, especially when St. John was over three thousand years older than him.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, ‘but don’t forget that I’m your partner now.’

  He laughed at me, his eyes warm.

  ‘All right, partner,’ he responded, adjusting his cuff to check his watch, ‘but we better get a move on if you want to have enough time with the Esagila Tablet.’

  His reminder of the Esagila Tablet was probably the one thing that could tear me away from Mariage Frères. I quickly gulped down the last drop of tea and, patting my lips clean with the napkin, stood in readiness to leave which caused St. John much amusement. But before we left, I visited the store and purchased a few of the tea caddies filled with their exotic blends as a start to my Christmas shopping, making St. John wait as I dithered over the enormous selection. He was amazingly patient – more patient than my father would have been.

  As I smoothed down my dress when I was seated in the backseat of the hired car on the way to the Louvre, ensuring there were no dirt stains or wrinkles, having already deposited my purchases in the boot to be delivered to the hotel later, St. John dropped a square parcel onto my lap. It was wrapped in distinctive black paper and tied decoratively with gold curling ribbon.

  ‘Oh!’ I breathed, turning shining eyes in his direction. ‘May I open it?’

  He gave an amused nod.

  I was conscious that he was sitting beside me as I slowly unwrapped my present; careful not to tear the paper as it was the first gift ever given to me by St. John other than the floral arrangement – but that had been delivered by the florist and not handed to me in person. As I slowly revealed the Mariage Frères logo, I gave a squeal of delight. He’d bought me a box of Chocolats des Mandarins.

  ‘St. John! Thank you!’ I cried, thoughtlessly throwing my arms around his neck in a show of my appreciation.

  I found myself captured by a pair of golden-flecked, deep jade green eyes looking at me intently, as his arms came round my waist.

  ‘Do you realise that’s the first time you’ve said my name to my face?’ he whispered, his voice unintentionally seductive.

  I shook my head in surprise. I hadn’t realised – his name was so familiar to me I was sure I used it a thousand times or more a day. Sitting pressed up against him, I could smell the earthy, woody scent of his aftershave and the subtle scent of his skin. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

  When I opened them again, I found he was looking at me so intensely it made me blush.

  ‘I admit it,’ I said.

  He looked at me quizzically. ‘Admit what?’

  ‘I admit being attracted to both the angel and the human in you.’

  The golden flecks deepened.

  ‘Sage Woods, you say the damndest things.’

  His lips moved slowly down my cheek, feather-light kisses stopping just at the corner of my mouth. At that point, I wanted nothing more than to simply blend into him but he disengaged my arms from where they were locked around his neck and set me back against the soft leather of the car seat.

  ‘We’ve arrived,’ he murmured, in perfect control of himself.

  I, on the other hand, felt wildly out of control. It was disturbing how easily he could upset my equilibrium. But somehow I gathered myself together and was able to alight from the car with as much dignity as I could muster in that moment.

  St. John instructed the driver to place the chocolates and its wrap
ping in the bag in the boot and deliver it to my hotel as he intended that we should simply walk back later that evening across the Jardin des Tuileries. Then he took my arm to escort me towards the world’s most famous museum.

  The Musée du Louvre was garbed in Renaissance romanticism, its imposing façade now lovingly draped in the silvery tones of twilight – a fitting backdrop to accentuate its beauty. Shaped like an enormous horseshoe, the Louvre extended across the plaza’s expanse, folding its corners of open space and attempting to carry it all in its wings. The sheer majesty of its façade never failed to take away my breath.

  I still didn’t know how I felt about the glass pyramid designed by I. M. Pei in the centre of the Renaissance courtyard. Mum, of course, loved it – it appealed to her postmodern sensibilities. Even now, it reflected the pools of light from the seven illuminated triangular fountains that encircled it. The romantic in me wanted to protest against its transgression of the sublimity of nature and order; the classicist in me found its modern tribute to a tradition established in 1833 within the streetscape of Paris ironically appealing – it was as if it was cheekily paying a panegyric to the Obelisk of Luxor at the Place de la Concorde.

  I briefly wondered what a three thousand-year-old Nephilim might think of La Pyramide as it united the ancient and modern together in a synergy of past architectural styles and new construction materials and methodology. And it occurred to me then that St. John would be the greatest source of knowledge and history for me – a living link to the past.

  It was estimated that it would take at least five weeks for any visitor to properly appreciate the almost 70,000 pieces of art housed in the Louvre, but my main reason for being there was to view the Esagila Tablet. Walking beside St. John, I felt a small shiver of pleasure pass through me.

  We approached the main entrance of the pyramid and were met by an androgynous young man with the palest of features. He could have passed for a vampire as his eyes were a haunting light blue, his nose perfectly aquiline. He had the sharpest whitest teeth I’d ever seen and he wore his platinum blond hair in a military cut; short and spiky. He might have been considered handsome by some in an effeminate way, if not for the scowl on his face. I suspected he was what my friends would term an “Emo” but he greeted St. John in a friendly manner, even though he was slightly cooler towards me.

  ‘St. John,’ he greeted and, in the Parisian fashion, blew air-kisses on each of St. John’s cheeks twice over. The way he pronounced St. John’s name made me raise an eyebrow and smirk. He stressed the last syllable drawing it out so that it sounded like the French “Jean”. I looked over the young man’s shoulder at St. John who caught my look and returned one of his own, cautioning me to behave myself.

  ‘Louis,’ St. John motioned, ‘this is Sage Woods, Professor Robert Woods’ daughter.’

  Louis extended a hand rather than kissing my cheeks too and it felt like he’d offered me a dead cold fish, so limp was his wrist when I took his hand in my own.

  ‘Louis Gravois is an Assistant Curator here,’ St. John said, making the necessary introductions.

  We followed Louis down the famous marble staircase into the sunken atrium beneath the glass pyramid as the last visitors straggled behind unwilling to leave the sepulchral beauty of the Louvre, worshipping at the altar of art even to the last moments before closing.

  I could hear the tapping of my high heels echoing on the marble floor and the glass plates above. As I looked up, I saw the misty spray of the fountains disappearing with every step I took away from the Louvre’s grand entrance. Ahead of me yawned the Louvre’s subterranean tunnel, a dark mouth opening wide to swallow me whole. It spread out in a seemingly vast and endless cavity beneath the earth as ancient relics and mummies slept in its timeless vault.

  Louis and St. John kept up a steady stream of French, conversing about the difficulties in obtaining funding for some project or other. It was only when we neared the collection of Near Eastern Antiquities that Louis turned to engage me in a dialogue that he obviously meant to be more of a monologue, except that I was unwilling to cooperate.

  ‘You are interested in viewing the Esagila Tablet, non?’ he asked, but took it for granted that this was my intention, ‘You realise that the Esagila Tablet is a neo-Babylonian mathematical text that has come down to us in the form of a later copy made at Uruk in 229BC. You may not know, however, that the name given to the tablet does not correspond fully to the content of the text, for the only parts pertaining to the temple of the god Marduk in Babylon recorded by the scribes are two courtyards built earlier than the temple. The rest of the tablet concerns the ziggurat, Etemenanki.’

  ‘As I understand it from my father, Professor Woods,’ I felt compelled to point out to Louis that I was raised by an esteemed scholar of ancient Mesopotamian culture, ‘The text, which is copied from an earlier document, describes the temple of the god Marduk in Babylon as reconstructed by the kings of the Babylonian dynasties of Nabopolassar and Nebuchadrezzar II. The text gives a description of the base of the tower then describes the main temple and, finally, gives the measurements of the Etemenanki.’

  It seemed I had put Louis’ aquiline nose out of joint as he sniffed in disdain in response to my display of knowledge, though had to admit that I was right. However, I did learn from Louis that German excavations had confirmed the dimensions of the square base as being over ninety-one metres along each side. They also had shown that three large stairways, resting on the south facade, provided access to the first storey, higher than the others, and to the second storey. Smaller staircases led to the top, probably situated at a height of ninety metres.

  Finally, we came to the display case housing the Esagila Tablet. Tourists looking at it and not knowing its significance would most probably underestimate it – it was almost half the size of an A4 page and its dull grey terracotta wasn’t very imposing to look at. But it caught and held my undivided attention, so I was unaware of the fact that Louis had drifted off, leaving us to view the tablet by ourselves.

  ‘Louis has gone to retrieve the key and some conservation gloves if you wish to handle the tablet,’ St. John murmured in my ear. ‘It would be well worth a look at the back of the tablet.’

  I merely nodded in response, fascinated by the ancient script written on the face of the tablet.

  ‘It reminds me of the clay tablets in your power point presentation at the Sorbonne,’ I said, unconsciously betraying my presence at his lecture. But as soon as I realised what I had unwittingly let out, my eyes flew to St. John’s face in mute appeal.

  His partly amused, partly exasperated look speared me.

  ‘I thought that was you. I’ll have to put a bell round your neck so I can track your movements,’ he said in his low attractive voice.

  ‘I’m not sorry I went,’ I claimed, ‘because it was fascinating. I was able to understand most of it, even with my rusty French.’

  He laughed and the sound reverberated through the empty gallery.

  ‘I shall attempt to fill in the parts that you missed later.’

  I turned back to the tablet and the longer I stared at it, the more certain I felt that I could read it. And with this assurance, another vision hit me.

  The purity of clouds like heaven’s quilting drift in the cradle of morning. On the river lies a diamond flotilla. Light stretches across water; the parry of a blade in a duel with another as the water ripples against the shore. My beloved draws near, his footsteps thundering like a god’s. The mountainous country of the sky looms overhead.

  And a voice resounds, ‘Now these human beings have become like one of us and have knowledge of what is good and what is bad. They must not be allowed to take fruit from the Tree that gives Life, eat it, and live forever.’

  An angel comes down with his flaming blade to drive us from the King’s garden. Burning. Its sharp edge holds Death. Exile holds Death.

  What choice is there?

  We stumble our way out of Paradise, heads bowed low in s
hame, passing under boughs of cherry blossom as they weep flowers at our feet. A small bird shifts like the sparkle of ruby on a silver branch. I glance back to see the golden sun escalating in the east, and a line of living creatures holding blazing swords which turn in all directions.

  They guard the Tree that gives Life.

  ‘Sage! Are you all right?’ St. John’s arms were around me, helping to keep me upright as my legs had buckled beneath me, and I would have fallen if not for his support. ‘Are you feeling faint?’

  I leant against him for balance, fingers digging claw-like into the superfine wool of his suit, as I attempted to speak in a voice that sounded slightly slurred, ‘No, I’m okay. Just give me a minute.’

  He continued to hold me tightly against him for a few minutes more as my vision slowly cleared and I became aware of my own shallow breathing.

  ‘Sorry to give you a fright. I’m fine now,’ I claimed, tentatively standing on my own two feet without assistance.

  ‘What happened just now?’ he demanded, his jade green eyes filled with concern.

  I sighed, knowing I couldn’t keep the truth from him any longer.

  ‘Ever since I first saw the Seed in Dad’s office, I’ve been having these visions,’ I confessed to him, feeling slightly foolish.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean? What sort of visions?’

  ‘The sort that involves gardens and fruit trees and naked people,’ I said, unwilling to tell him that I was one of those naked people in my vision and that I suspected he was the other.

  He exhaled sharply.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?’ he demanded, and his tone was livid.

  ‘Oh, right!’ I said sarcastically, surprised at how weak my voice sounded, ‘You’re one to talk! When were you going to tell me that you had the artefact? I had to sneak around in the dead of night tailing you before I found out! It wasn’t as if you were willing to tell me that day in the library before you kissed me or in the hospital when you visited me, now were you?’