by D B Nielsen
Continuing our journey back to the hotel, St. John asked, abstractedly, ‘Sage, would you mind very much if I leave you when we reach the hotel? I’d like to pay a visit to Père Henri tonight, if you don’t mind.’
His inner radiance was matched only by his outward beauty and, as I gazed upon him, I had the sensation of coming home like a ship borne upon turbulent seas to a guiding beacon. I acceded to his request, knowing there was a necessity for him to leave me.
We were both silent again. I watched the streetlamps flicker in the darkness as we walked through the gardens at night. It was still early, barely nine, and Paris was coming alive as couples, strolling in the gardens, passed us by and the sidewalks were cluttered with diners and theatre-goers sipping their espressos or red wine, conversing, laughing, blowing cigarette smoke into the chill night air. I was aware of my time in Paris with St. John slipping away so quickly, dissipating like the fumes exhaled from cigarettes.
To any onlooker, we must have seemed like just another couple holding hands as we walked together through the Tuileries back to my hotel. Only I knew that this wasn’t the case. I realised that I was holding back tears and I fought against a grief or fear that threatened to overpower me. The only thing that seemed to make sense was the feel of St. John’s cool slim fingers entwined with mine.
When the colonnades of Le Meurice came into view, he turned to face me. I looked up at him to find he was staring intensely, measuring me with his eyes.
‘You’ll be fine from here, won’t you?’
I nodded in response but my heart gave a brief splutter of panic at the thought of him leaving me.
But he didn’t immediately draw away. Instead, our eyes held and the silence between us deepened, lengthened and subtly shifted. A voltage passed between us, charges of electricity that sizzled in the atmosphere as he continued to gaze intensely into my eyes; his own, tempestuous green depths.
I drew in a shuddering breath and he stepped away.
‘Sage, I think you should go inside now.’ His normally mellifluous voice was slightly rough, and he’d already dropped my hand, his eyes looking back in the direction of the Louvre.
I turned towards the hotel’s brightly-lit entrance and took a few tentative steps, scared of twisting an ankle in my ridiculous high heels.
‘Oh, Sage?’ his voice arrested me in my tracks.
I looked back over my shoulder. ‘Yes?’
‘Be sure to call your mother.’
And then he was gone, his movements little more than a blur, swallowed by the tide of humanity on the Rue de Rivoli and disappearing from my view before I could even collect my thoughts.
Entering the warmth of the hotel, I ascended to the third floor, reaching for my keycard automatically and, after unlocking my door, stepped inside. The first thing I noticed was that the porter had placed my bag of goodies from Mariage Frères on the coffee table next to the complimentary bowl of fresh fruits and a slight smile lit my face in memory of our afternoon together.
I flopped onto the sofa and immediately removed my high heels – the balls of my feet aching – and wondered how some women could walk in them all day. Shrugging off my jacket and removing the clip that was holding my French roll in place, I let my long hair float around my face, giving it a shake which released some of my tension, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Though I hadn’t planned on spending the evening by myself, I decided it was an opportunity to be taken advantage of. I thought I might surf the net on my laptop and see what more I could discover from the information I’d gained over the last twenty-four hours. But before that, I intended to have a long relaxing soak in a hot bubble bath in the luxurious Italian marble bathtub that I’d been dying to try since my arrival in Paris yesterday.
After turning on the faucets to fill up the bath with hot water and pouring in my favourite lavender bath-foam, I wandered back into the room and dialled an external line placing a call through to the Manor House.
Fi answered on the third ring and from her voice I could tell she was equal parts excited and nervous as she began speaking to me.
‘Sage, you’ll never guess what’s happened here.’ Her voice was so low, it was almost inaudible.
‘Fi? What’s going on? I can’t hear you very well.’
‘Dad’s here too.’ She hinted that she couldn’t speak freely.
‘Right – well, how is everyone?’
‘Oh, we’re all fine. Mum’s stressing because the exam results will be coming out soon and Dad’s– Oh, good, he’s gone. Sage, there have been developments with you know what.’
I groaned. We weren’t back to that again!
‘What developments, Fi?’
Her voice dropped out and I only caught the last words. ‘–found at Satis House.’
My heart started to accelerate. ‘Fi, what about Satis House?’
‘I’ll tell you all about it when you get back. So, how’s Paris?’
There was impatience in my voice. ‘Great. But, Fi–’
‘Damn! Mum’s calling me. Okay then, I’ll talk to you later. Bye!’
I was left with a dial tone in my ear as Fi had hung up on me.
I contemplated ringing her back but thought better of it – clearly she wasn’t going to tell me what I wanted to know over the phone so I’d have to wait until I returned to Kent. I realised that my bath was still filling and dashed back into the bathroom to turn the water off. I’d forgotten to turn on the fan and the steam rising from the bath had fogged up the bathroom mirror, turning the bathroom into a sauna.
Sinking into the hot lavender-scented water, foamy bubbles surrounding me, I closed my eyes blissfully and leant back in the tub, feeling my tight muscles slowly relax. The only sounds were the dripping of the tap and my almost imperceptible breathing. I was left to my solitude and, like Coleridge, my “abstruser musings”.
My mind drifted and I tried to make the connection between the Seed and Satis House – but only came up with the photos we’d taken which had shown the strange distorted patterning on both. So I turned my attention to the Esagila Tablet and its message.
It was difficult to believe that I could be a Wise One, let alone be expected to guide St. John to the Garden of Eden – I couldn’t even navigate my way out of a parking lot so goodness knows how I was going to lead him to the Seed’s origin.
I wondered what being a Wise One entailed – and whether I was up for the job. Well, it seemed I didn’t have a choice, because it was the Seed that had chosen me, not the other way round.
When the bathwater was beginning to go tepid, I finally got out. Rivulets of water had formed on the glass shower door and on the huge wall-length mirror, running down like tears and making it impossible for me to see my reflection without wiping the glass. As I did so, my face appeared – nothing extraordinary, no signs of the getting of wisdom or greater maturity since last I looked. I don’t quite know what I was expecting to see. But nothing had changed in my appearance, though my scar was beginning to heal nicely.
After towelling myself dry and slipping into my comfy old pyjamas, I dragged out my laptop and, while it was booting up, dialled room service to place an order of French onion soup and a cheese platter for dinner. In the meantime, I clicked on the TV and let the sound of a football match fill the room, adding much needed background noise to fill the void.
The first thing I looked up was the Wise Ones, but found I needed to narrow my search to gender specific roles and to Babylonia. As a result, I found over 200,000 matches, mostly related to the biblical three wise men who had attended Jesus’ birth. Many sources claimed that at least one of them had come from Babylon. While this was interesting, it wasn’t quite the information that I was searching for.
I came across some more details on one website claiming that the task of divination was given to the Wise Men in Babylon, interpreting dreams and otherwise determining the will of the gods. In order to do this, they were specially trained in both hepatoscopy or divination by
the liver, performed most often on animals such as a kid or sheep, and divination by the flight patterns of birds. More specialist training was given to the Babylonian astrologers who noted the direction of the winds, the colour of the stars, eclipses and other such occurrences in order to divine the future. This rather superficial information only reinforced what I already knew from having attended St. John’s lecture.
Significantly, most of the websites that linked to the Wise Ones referred back to the Bible and The Book of Daniel. I had, of course, heard the story of Daniel in the lion’s den when I was a child, but did not realise the significance of this historical figure. From what I read of Daniel on the net, stemming from both the Hebrew Tanakh and the Christian Old Testament and relating to the Dead Sea Scrolls, he and his fellow exiles were deported to Babylon during the reign of Nebuchadrezzar II.
When I saw that name, I rushed to the hotel’s bedside table and found a copy of the Bible, always left in the top drawer. Turning to The Book of Daniel, I read: “[King Nebuchadrezzar] ordered Ashpenaz, his chief official, to select from among the Israelite exiles some young men of the royal family and of the noble families. They had to be handsome, intelligent, well-trained, quick to learn, and free from physical defects, so that they would be qualified to serve in the royal court. Ashpenaz was to teach them to read and write the Babylonian language ... God gave the four young men knowledge and skill in literature and philosophy, He gave Daniel skill in interpreting visions and dreams.”
During the Babylonian Captivity, a period when many Jews were deported and exiled to Babylon following the Siege of Jerusalem in 597BC, Daniel, an Israelite, became Nebuchadrezzar II’s most trusted advisor and Wise One, being able to interpret the king’s dreams. He remained at the royal court until the Emperor of Persia conquered Babylonia.
I don’t know why I was so surprised to read of Nebuchadrezzar II’s involvement again but I was. It seemed that everything I researched and found out pointed me in the same direction and, link upon link, connected all my knowledge back to Babylon and to tales of creation and destruction. Daniel had apocalyptic visions where his narrative, in the form of court stories, focused on tests of religious fidelity and his interpretation of royal dreams and visions which demonstrated his visionary capacity, much like my own. His reception of dreams, visions and angelic interpretations affirmed my own role in the quest to see the Seed safely back to its origin.
A knock on the door and the arrival of room service with my dinner interrupted any further research as I decided to take a break and watch a pay-per-view movie while eating. There was a choice between a slasher cult film, a bodice ripper period piece and a Bollywood musical. I was torn between the period drama and Bollywood as I’d had my fill of horror for one night and, in the end, decided to go with the Bollywood musical with its colourful saris, musical numbers and romance.
Two hours later after the boy had sung his way into the heart of the girl and marigolds rained down on their happy ever after, I turned off the TV and gave a big yawn. I’d eaten my way through the French onion soup, most of the cheese platter and half a floury apple from the fruit bowl. I placed the tray and its contents outside my door in the hallway and moved the purchases from Mariage Frères next to my suitcase in the wardrobe in order to resist temptation and avoid bingeing on the Chocolats des Mandarins which St. John had given to me that afternoon. Instead, I deliberately brushed my teeth so I would have no excuse to overindulge.
Crawling into bed after first releasing the hospital corners, my final thought as sleep claimed me were the mysterious words spoken by St. John to Père Henri last night. If St. John had thought that the Wise One was a male, I wondered what he meant when he’d stated that he was certain I was “the one”. I only hoped it meant what I wished it to.
I can’t be certain what woke me hours later in the dead of night. Perhaps it was the drop in temperature which left me covered in goose bumps that managed to rouse me from my deep sleep or it could have been the slightest of unfamiliar sounds. But the room was icy cold when I woke. In my semi-conscious state, I only thought to snuggle deeper beneath the bedcovers for warmth, when some sixth sense alerted me that something wasn’t quite right.
Several impressions bombarded me simultaneously – I was absolutely freezing, yet the heating unit was turned on and I was still curled under my blankets; and that the room was in complete darkness where not even a slither of light seemed to emanate from either the streetlamps in the courtyard below my window nor from beneath the door leading out into the corridor; and, lastly, that there was an overpowering smell of putrefaction that seemed to originate from the direction of the coffee table which assaulted my nostrils making me want to retch.
I was fully awake now and frozen to the mattress. I could taste the fear in my mouth and even though I wanted to scream, no sound would come.
And then something slithered inside the room.
I knew it came from inside my room because the hotel prided itself on every room being soundproof. I began to tremble and wondered whether I was capable of moving my limbs to reach out and turn on the lights – and, if I did turn on the lights, would I really want to face what was out there.
Time seemed to stretch into eternity, mocking my capacity to think or react. There was a predator in my room and I was the prey.
Disturbing pulses of aggression and violent energy sparked across the room. And I heard what sounded like a rustling as something skittered round the coffee table. The smell of rottenness – of dampness and rotting vegetation – in the pitch black of the room intensified. It smelled like a swamp.
I knew I had to move but I just couldn’t seem to operate my arms or legs. I now understood the true meaning of fear.
Then I heard more slithering. The sound proved my worst fear – the evil thing was now approaching the bed.
The foul odour grew even stronger until I thought I might pass out – which may have been a blessing in my current predicament. With every breath I took of the noxious vapour, something slithered closer, ever closer, to the bed.
I thought I caught the glint of cold, palely glittering, inhuman eyes. And I would have screamed then if I could, but my voice was locked in the back of my throat so that only a low moan erupted.
It was then that I realised that the creature had been crawling on all fours because it suddenly reared up. And, with what sounded like the flap of wings, it loomed over the end of the bed; monstrously tall.
The horror of it oppressed me, making me shrink back into the mattress.
Then the door crashed open suddenly, shaking the very foundations of the room, in the same moment that I heard my name being called in a strong and vibrant voice – the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. And an intense bright white light filled the room as a hissing could be heard from the end of my bed in response to St. John’s entrance.
St. John was silhouetted in the doorway. Light and shadow reversed.
The extreme whiteness of his wings was captured against the shadow and light like an eclipse. Soft loose curls framed in a radiant halo.
I launched myself at him, managing to disentangle my legs from the sheets in one swift movement, and was captured against his naked chest as wings came down to form a barrier between the evil thing and me.
I must have swooned because when I came round, I found myself cradled against St. John’s chest, clutching the lapels of his suit jacket; the room no longer in darkness. Warm pools of lamplight now bathed the room as we stood in the exact spot where I had thrown myself at St. John in my fear and horror. But everything seemed familiar, the same as before I had gone to bed.
There was no putrid smell, no noise except my laboured breathing, no monster at the end of my bed.
There was also nothing different about St. John since last I’d seen him earlier tonight – no wings, no halo, and unfortunately no naked chest. But I wondered how he could have known I was in such dire need of his help. And I wondered how he had managed to arrive in the nick of time
to save me from danger once again.
‘Sage,’ St. John murmured, still holding me close, ‘Forgive me for leaving you.’
I nodded, still unable to speak. My legs were wobbly and I couldn’t stand up properly without St. John’s aid. It wasn’t his fault that this had happened – he couldn’t watch over me all the time. Besides, I was more than capable of taking care of myself under normal circumstances.
I was still facing St. John’s chest and the now closed door of my hotel room but, as I tried to look around more fully, St. John held me tightly.
‘Sage, don’t look,’ he ordered, trying to prevent me from turning around. ‘We must go. I’ll take you to Père Henri – he’ll know what to do. I won’t let you out of my sight, I promise.’
But I had to see. I had to know.
I pulled out of his arms and pivoted, eyes darting to the end of my bed expecting to see the nightmare of earlier.
But there was nothing there. All was as it should be.
I might have thought that I was going insane but then I caught sight in my peripheral vision of the coffee table and, when I moved to get a better view, I blanched; the blood draining from my face. Strong arms came around me again to hold me upright as I lurched forward, feeling my legs give way beneath me.
‘What is that?’ I breathed in horror.
The coffee table had been desecrated. Its rich wood grain scarred and burnt as if by a branding iron. Something glittered in the midst of the blackened pattern while the fruit bowl had been knocked over onto the floor, spilling the apples and cherries in a blood red smear across the carpet as maggots dropped from their now rotting carcasses.
I ran to the bathroom just in time, retching into the pristine marble sink, tasting again the floury apple I’d eaten earlier.
Somehow, St. John was there, holding the hair back from my face and stroking my back until I’d finished throwing up every bite I’d eaten that day. Under normal circumstances, I might have been embarrassed but this was no time for pride. Later, when I remembered his kindness, I would be feeling the worst sort of humiliation – but not right at this moment; not when I needed him so badly to make things better for me.
