by D B Nielsen
‘No,’ he answered curtly. ‘But I was unsure whether you were to be trusted.’
I looked at him mutinously. ‘Well, ditto for you.’
We stood in silence for what seemed like ages but could only have been moments. Watching St. John’s face which could have been carved from a statue made me feel petty and childish.
‘There’s more,’ I admitted to him, my voice almost inaudible, ‘I can read the symbols on the Seed. It ... speaks to me. No, that’s not quite right.’
I shook my head, trying to voice what I knew; to put it into words that sounded logical, reasonable.
‘How does it “speak” to you?’ He had his voice under control, though I could tell he was still angry as he ran his hand through his hair, unconcerned that he was leaving his golden locks in disarray.
‘I can’t explain it.’
‘Try,’ he ordered.
‘It comes alive. It transforms.’ I paused, looking to see whether he believed what I was saying. ‘It changes colour and the symbols begin to ... shift ... to move. And it seems to be communicating with me.’
St. John ran a hand across his forehead, closing his beautiful eyes. ‘My God, Sage.’
From his reaction I was truly fearful that something was terribly wrong. It was ironic that tonight it was my turn to reveal my secrets and tell St. John the truth. I only hoped that he believed me like I did him.
‘You are the one we’ve been waiting for, Sage.’ St. John sighed and finally opened his eyes. ‘You are the Wise One.’
‘Wise one what?’ I asked, confused.
‘The Wise One,’ he repeated. ‘The text on the Esagila Tablet, which illustrates the mathematical calculating methods used by the Babylonians, reveals a more mysterious aspect of the art of the scribe – these dimensions are sacred, Sage. And on the back of the tablet, the recapitulation of the dimensions to be calculated are accompanied by the phrase, “Let the initiate show the initiate, the non-initiate must not see this”. I should have known it was you, but I thought that the Wise One was a man as in ancient times.’
‘You’re losing me. I don’t understand what you’re getting at,’ I said, trying to concentrate as I looked at him.
St. John shook his head. ‘Their mathematical system which was also used for astrology was sacred and only handed down to initiates. In other words, this system was for the sole use of the “Wise Men” or “Wise Ones”, the guardians of tradition. It was closed to others; only passed on to the Wise Ones who learned the ancient ways. In their concern to safeguard their knowledge, the Wise Ones omitted to pass it on to their Aramaean and Greek colleagues, which brought about the disappearance of the entire Mesopotamian culture for nearly two thousand years.’
‘And you’re saying that I’m a “Wise One”?’ I asked.
St. John took my hands in his, holding them tightly. ‘I’m saying you are the Wise One; the one that we’ve been waiting for.’
I shook my head in denial. ‘How can you be so sure?’
His smile was brilliant as he clarified, ‘Because the Wise One is meant to find me and guide me to the Seed’s origin; because you knew to turn the artefact over on its smaller base; because you knew it was a cosmic map when no one else knew what it was; because you’re having these visions; because you can smell the Seed and read it.’
At this point St. John paused and drew me closer to him, until his forehead was resting against mine.
‘Because, Sage, of your name.’
THE GAME
CHAPTER TWO
St. John continued to look deeply into my eyes and I found myself drowning in their golden-flecked warmth. I thought he was about to move closer into a hard embrace but an effete cough behind us had us breaking apart in embarrassment. As St. John straightened up to his estimable height, I blushed hotly and wished I’d left my hair out to form a curtain from the cold, probing eyes of the Assistant Curator.
But an aspect of the ridiculous hit me. I almost laughed aloud to think of St. John, a three thousand-year-old Nephilim, acting like a guilty schoolboy caught in the act, and I couldn’t look at him for fear I’d get the giggles.
‘St. John,’ Louis approached us from the shadows of the gallery and, once again, I was struck by his vampiric appearance. ‘I have brought the gloves that you requested.’
I wondered in the crypt-like atmosphere of the Louvre, whether Louis had overheard our conversation, as its stark, cold barrenness seemed to absorb all sound, leaching it away into the shadows from which he had appeared. I fought back a wave of rising trepidation as I gazed at Louis at the end of the murky hall, remembering back to what Fi had said just before I’d left Kent. She may have not realised it, but her pronouncement seemed eerily accurate now and I could only liken it to a chilling premonition – St. John and I were indeed engaged to play the roles of Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu. And I didn’t know if I was all that comfortable with it.
St. John accepted the gloves from Louis’ pallid outstretched hand and handed me a pair to put on. He donned another pair himself as Louis removed the tablet from the display case, having already dealt with the alarm system in this section of the museum when he retrieved the electronic keycard and numerical combination for the lock. But he needn’t have worried about the Esagila Tablet being stolen as the reality was that most art thieves tended to look for objects with far greater marketable value – a painting by a Renaissance master or an Egyptian antiquity in gold could fetch more on the black market than an antiquated terracotta tablet. An object as unprepossessing as the Esagila Tablet would only have value for a select few, which narrowed the potential suspects considerably.
As Louis opened the glass display case, I could taste the familiar sharp bite of museum air which was pumped around the Louvre and mingled with the arid vapours that rose from the stale, locked case housing the tablet. The dry, deionised gas was a product of the dehumidifiers, carrying a hint of carbon from their industrial, coal filters which were forever operating to counteract the corrosive effects of the carbon dioxide exhaled by so many visitors.
Louis reverently removed the Esagila Tablet and handed it to St. John whose graceful long-fingered hands dwarfed the small terracotta artefact. He turned it over so that I could view its back. Inscribed there were the measurements of the base of the Etemenanki in the Babylonian’s sexagesimals numeric system, finally making the claim as St. John had said, “Let the initiate show this to the initiate. Let the non-initiate not see it. Tablet written, traced and collated, after a copy made at Borsippa ... Uruk, month of Kislimu, 26th day (12 December 229 BC). Year 83: Seleucus; He who is King.”
St. John motioned to hand me the tablet but I stopped him, refusing it, as I was afraid that I would drop this invaluable artefact with another onset of a vision. As I couldn’t be certain when my visions would recur, and lacking control over them, I thought it best that St. John handled the tablet for me.
It occurred to me then that this was the reason I had been drawn to view the Esagila Tablet – I needed to understand my role in St. John’s quest that now had become my quest too. And I needed to commit the information on the tablet to memory as it might prove useful in locating the Hanging Gardens of Babylon once I could fully comprehend the language of Babel.
I turned towards St. John, opening my mouth to speak to him as I lifted my riveted gaze from the tablet, only to find that Louis was watching me carefully, scrutinising me with his pale blue lifeless eyes. A chill ran down my spine.
I felt terribly claustrophobic all of a sudden as if the airy, vastness of the museum was suffocating me. An oppressiveness hung in the air, as long far-reaching shadows encroached upon where we stood, and the soaring vaulted museum ceilings which added to the Louvre’s majesty, receded into infinity; a continuous black void.
Not wishing to alarm St. John but feeling the sharpness of an overwhelming fear, I stepped closer to his side, hoping to gain some succour from the heat that emanated from his body. He must have noticed my infinitesimal movement because his eye
s darted to mine and he immediately placed the Esagila Tablet back in its case in another of his graceful gestures in order to free his hands to capture my shoulders and face me.
‘Sage, are you all right?’ His voice was low, showing his concern for my wellbeing.
‘I’m fine,’ I lied, ‘It’s just the air in here. It’s a little stuffy.’
‘We can go if you like,’ St. John said gently, ‘Have you seen enough?’
I nodded, abstractedly, taking off the gloves to hand back to him.
‘Perhaps Mademoiselle Woods may wish to come back another time. It would be a pleasure to show her some of the artefacts we keep from public view,’ Louis murmured and I found his suggestion laced with a sinister undertone, though there was nothing particularly disturbing in the words themselves and his offer would have, under ordinary circumstances, seemed quite gracious. But I pretended an interest in his words I didn’t feel, murmuring something I hoped was appropriate.
Louis escorted us back the way we had come after imprisoning the terracotta tablet in its display case once more. We made our way through the monstrous sepulchre of the Louvre, till finally I could see I. M. Pei’s pyramid again and, through the transparent glass, the sparkling of hundreds of diamonds within the fine spray from the illuminated fountains.
St. John turned to Louis and thanked him for giving us his time, shaking his hand warmly before kissing the air beside Louis’ hauntingly androgynous face in the typical French gesture of farewell. Louis merely smiled; his sharp white teeth dazzling against the dark.
I too stepped forward to say goodbye and, remembering my manners, proffered my hand. But, this time, Louis bent down to kiss my cheeks.
As his face drew closer, I shivered involuntarily and froze. His smile widened, pale blue eyes mocking my own. And then his cool lips were against the warmth of my cheek and I could smell his breath, fetid and stale, the sweetness of rotten apples, which turned my stomach before he released me from his hypnotic spell.
Outside again in the chill crisp winter air, I breathed a sigh of relief as St. John captured my hand, drawing me away from the entrance and away from Louis. The farther we walked, the more I felt my spirits revive and the golden glow of honeyed stone calmed my unstrung nerves.
‘Do you mind telling me what that was all about?’ St. John asked, keeping his voice deliberately casual.
I hesitated, looking back over my shoulder just in case. But all I could see was the brightly lit pyramid in the centre of the plaza.
‘How long have you known Louis?’ I asked cautiously.
He seemed to consider my question.
‘Not long. I’ve met him perhaps a handful of times,’ he answered me. ‘Surely you aren’t concerned about his appearance? I admit his looks are somewhat startling but he’s perfectly harmless.’
‘No, there’s something wrong about him.’ I disagreed, ‘He doesn’t smell quite right.’
St. John raised an eyebrow, forcing me to explain.
‘His scent is the opposite of yours,’ I said, feeling foolish.
‘What do you mean?’ St. John’s voice held only interest, not the disbelief I was expecting.
‘You have an earthy scent like the aftershave you wear, like the woods near the Manor House. It’s a fresh, clean, woody scent and slightly spicy too, like sandalwood.’ I tried to explain, ‘Louis has a different kind of earthy scent – it’s the overpoweringly sweet smell of overripe, rotting fruit ... and freshly turned soil ... like compost.’
St. John looked at me, startled. ‘Are you quite certain?’
I nodded my head. ‘Yes, absolutely.’
His eyebrows were drawn together in a frown.
‘Do you know what that means?’ I asked.
He considered. ‘Trouble. But let me handle this. This is one thing you don’t have to get yourself involved in.’
It was a warning. I was to leave this alone, leave St. John to handle Louis Gravois.
We walked for some time in silence towards the Tuileries, his expression distracted as he was lost in thought.
‘St. John?’ I interrupted his reverie, asking ‘How, as this Wise One, am I supposed to help you? What exactly am I supposed to do? Just read the Seed? And then? How am I supposed to guide you back to the Garden of Eden with half the map missing?’
He smiled ruefully. ‘It’s always twenty questions with you, isn’t it?’
Although he did not mean it to be a criticism, I blushed with embarrassment. I felt lost. Even now, it was difficult to accept I was this Wise One that St. John had been looking for – it was like the earth had shifted in its axis, like the pavement was tilting beneath my feet. In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t fathom why I was the Wise One. Why me?
‘Sage,’ St. John tried to explain, ‘In every age, a Wise One is born, chosen by the Seed. In ancient Babylonia, the Seven Sages held the greatest wisdom, the secrets of the gods, which they passed on within the priesthood. Over time, after the Fall of Babylon, the priesthood went underground, became covert, a secret society, but continued to pass down its ancient knowledge. We know that it no longer just included those priests from Babylonia, but also several Jewish prophets who were caught up in the Babylonian Captivity and taken to Mesopotamia. At that point, things become vague – we do not know what happened to the members – as they became more and more secretive, hiding their knowledge, like their language, from the Greeks and other powerful empires. There has been much speculation whether the priesthood fell into disarray due to their fear and their pride, or the rise of other organisations and sects like the Freemasons and the Templars, whether they split into various factions and scattered across the globe, whether they disbanded due to religious persecution. All we do know for certain is that there remains the prophecy of the Wise One who will lead the Keeper of the Seed back to the Garden of Eden.’
I stared at him. ‘But what of these other generations of Wise Ones?’
‘Like yourself,’ St. John continued, speaking in rapid bursts now, ‘they do not know who they are. They are born and they die, ordinary people, without a clue that they were ever chosen. The time for the Seed to reveal itself to the Wise One – you – has finally come. Call it a convergence of signs. Providence. Fate.’
Bewildered, I asked, thinking of the monumental task ahead, ‘But if this wisdom is passed down within the priesthood, how am I supposed to know what to do? Though some of it is innate, I’m guessing, what about the stuff that I need to learn?’
At first, St. John didn’t answer; instead he put his hands into his trouser pockets and produced two polished stones.
‘It’s complicated. We will find the other part of the map. We must,’ he began, ‘But a passage in the Books of Samuel mentions three methods of divine communication; dreams, prophets, and the Urim and Thummim. The dreams and prophets are mentioned quite a bit in Babylonian literature, but the Urim and Thummim are not explicitly stated. Instead, in the Bible, the Urim and Thummim are two stones that the Creator permitted as a form of divination, used by Saul during his reign. The stones can also be interpreted as the Tablets of Destiny in Babylonian literature – Marduk was said to have put his seal upon them and, quite rightly, in the Sumerian poem, Ninurta and the Turtle, it was the god, Enki who held the tablets. The stones had to rest within the breastplate of the priest or rabbi mediating between the Creator and humankind.’
‘So these stones, Urim and Thummim, are the Tablets of Destiny?’ I asked, looking upon the unimposing sight of them lying in St. John’s hand.
‘They have been called by many names, but their power is always used for divine communication.’
‘Have you ever used them?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘No, never,’ he replied, jade green eyes flashing in the night, ‘They are only to be used to ask for divine intervention in times of extreme strife. Saul, it was said, abused this privilege and was rebuked by the spirit of Samuel whom he conjured up from the dead to give him the answers he sought.’
‘S
o these stones allow you to communicate with God in order to assist you in times of greatest need? And then there’s my role in all of this?’ I asked, even more confused.
‘Like the medium who Saul consulted, only you can read the Seed which will, in time, awaken to its full power, becoming fully sentient to speak through you. And when that time comes, you will lead us back to the Promised Land,’ St. John answered with conviction. ‘In that same poem, it tells of the theft of a precious object – it has been widely interpreted by scholars that this object was the Tablets of Destiny but, in fact, the object is the Seed. The Sumerians prophesised that whoever possessed the object would rule the universe.’
‘Rule the universe?’ I shivered with more than just cold at the enormous burden placed upon me.
‘That’s to be interpreted metaphorically, rather than literally, Sage,’ he commented, ‘I think it merely means that in gaining entrance to the Garden, the person who bears the Seed will have access to all that power – if they want it, that is.’
‘But I don’t want it!’ I protested, not even certain that I wanted the role of the Wise One.
‘You might not, but there are others who do – which is why there is also prophesised an epic battle to recover the object. This is where the Tablets of Destiny come into the picture, when we will have need of them,’ St. John looked directly at me, ‘but the story goes that the victor hands the object back to the Creator.’
I heaved an ominous sigh. It all seemed to be mapped out without my say in the matter.
St. John must have heard me because he looked across at me, slowing his stride to match mine when he realised I was struggling to keep up with him in my high heels.
‘Sorry, I know this is difficult for you to take in – I’ve dumped all this on your lap – but, believe me, you’re handling this extremely well, better than I’d hoped. You just have to trust that all will be revealed in time. All the answers are right there inside of you – they just are lying dormant, waiting to be unlocked.’ St. John smiled apologetically at me, weighing the import of his words. ‘Everything has been written by the same hand, Sage. The language of the Seed is the Word. The Seed is your raison d’être.’
