by D B Nielsen
‘It’s all right, Sage. You’re all right,’ he chanted soothingly like a mantra, over and over until I’d calmed down sufficiently.
I was still trembling in shock but I washed from my mouth the sour taste of bile with peppermint mouth rinse and passed a cool facecloth over my face before walking back into the bedroom on decidedly unsteady legs.
Approaching the coffee table, I made sure not to step anywhere near the spoiled fruit. But I stopped in my tracks when I saw what had been left for me to find.
I recognised the markings immediately.
The pattern branded into the table top was similar to the ancient Sumerian board game discovered in the royal tomb at Ur, originally dating to 2600BC. I’d played the game too many times with my Dad not to recognise it now.
The version I knew was the Royal Game of Ur, rediscovered by another eminent scholar and historian, Irving Finkel. It was Finkel who, in the early 1980s, discovered a unique pattern on the back of a cuneiform tablet in the British Museum that resembled the squares of a game board. Written in 177BC, the tablet was the work of a Babylonian scribe who had copied the information from an earlier document. Painstakingly but passionately, Finkel translated the Babylonian and Sumerian script and realised it was a treatise on the game.
As I looked closer at what lay in front of me, I realised that this was a version I hadn’t been exposed to before. The game I was used to had five game pieces for the two players, but the table held seven game pieces for each player. These pieces were beautifully crafted – made of gold and shell, lapis lazuli and red limestone and engraved with different types of birds, a winged bull and a winged lion. But there did not seem to be any dice nor money pieces accompanying the game board and the pictorial game pieces on the table.
But what bothered me the most was that this game had already been set in motion.
I reached out to pick up a brilliantly polished stone piece but St. John stopped me.
‘Don’t!’ he ordered, ‘There’s an aura around them. They’re enchanted.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, withdrawing my hand from where it hovered above the table top.
‘I think the message is clear,’ St. John said in a low voice.
I looked at him, questioningly.
‘We’ve been challenged to a game, Sage.’
I shook my head. ‘But it doesn’t make any sense. There’s no dice and no money pieces. How are we supposed to play?’
St. John’s jade green eyes held mine. ‘This is no ordinary game, Sage. The stakes are higher. The ultimate goal isn’t to win all the counters.’
‘Then what is it?’ I said, looking down at the configuration on the board.
‘The ultimate goal is to gain entry to the Garden of Eden and to gain power through having access to the root of all knowledge and the secrets of life.’
I looked back up at St. John and saw the concern etched on his face mirror my own.
‘But does that mean we’re playing for clues as to how to find the location of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Garden of Eden?’ I asked, shocked. ‘But you’re the Keeper of the Seed – surely they can’t find it without you.’
‘And you’re the Wise One,’ he said, ‘but someone stole the Seed from its origin and knows more about it than we do.’
‘Then we’re already behind?’ I looked again at the pieces on the board uncertainly. They seemed to be level.
St. John shook his head, thoughtfully. ‘Remember, there is astronomical significance to this game. But luck might be on our side. Certain squares portend good fortune – one square would bring “fine beer” while another would make a player “powerful like a lion” – it might mean different omens but the idea is the same. We have the Seed. We’ve found the Wise One. I’d say we’re doing quite well.’
The astronomical significance of the twelve squares at the centre of the twenty-square board helped to explain how certain squares portended good fortune. But still there was a mystery to be solved.
My eyes held his, probing, ‘But who’s the other player? You saw him – it – whatever it was. Didn’t you?’
His expression was grim. ‘Yes, I saw it.’
‘What was it?’ I asked, afraid of the answer.
St. John closed his eyes, his face a beautiful mask. And when he opened them again, there was anger in their emerald green depths.
‘Nephilim,’ St. John replied, his voice harsh with feelings he couldn’t contain.
I blinked, shock making my voice sound sharp. ‘What do you mean? I thought all Nephilim were like you and your brothers.’
‘Not all,’ he explained slowly, ‘there are those we call the Rephaim or Emim – the Dead Ones and the Fearful Ones. The majority of them are abominations. Only a few of them are like my brothers and me, the Anakim.’
‘So, what I saw tonight was a Rephaim, a Dead One?’ I whispered, horror-struck.
St. John nodded, running a hand through his golden curls.
‘Did you recognise it?’
I had a flash of insight, like a premonition, and I moved closer to St. John in trepidation, fingers stretched out to catch hold of his arm and hold on tight. I saw that my hand still trembled, and knew it would not escape his notice.
St. John looked at me steadily, his jade eyes unfathomable, before replying.
‘It was Louis, Sage. Louis Gravois.’
ANAKIM
CHAPTER THREE
St. John’s flawless features could have been carved from stone. He held himself rigid – so tight and controlled that I could feel the hardened muscles bunch beneath my fingertips even through layers of fabric where my hand still clutched his forearm. With an effort, I released the pressure of my grip upon his arm and withdrew my hand, leaving creases on his bespoke jacket.
‘We must leave, Sage,’ St. John repeated urgently.
‘He won’t come back here tonight,’ I said with certainty, shaking my head.
St. John pressed his fingers to his temple, closing his eyes wearily.
‘No, Louis won’t come back here tonight,’ he agreed, his voice sounding more worn than it should be.
And then it dawned on me and I couldn’t believe how stupidly inconsiderate I was being.
‘Oh God, your father!’ I cried in horror, ‘He’ll go after Père Henri and the artefact! We have to stop him!’
I wheeled around in desperation, ready to rush out the door when St. John’s sure, steady voice stopped me.
‘They’ll be safe, Sage,’ he said, reaching out to grab hold of me, ‘My brothers will take care of Père Henri and my father will take care of the Seed.’
I stared at St. John desperately, wildly, and he must have seen the panic in my eyes because he repeated again for my benefit, ‘They’re safe, Sage. Safe.’
The words penetrated my brain and I finally whispered, ‘But then why must we leave?’
He tightened his arm around me. ‘You are not safe here, Sage. Louis may not come back here tonight but he will be back. I don’t intend for him to find you here.’
I shuddered, suddenly realising that even if Louis didn’t come back, there was no way I was going to be able to be in this room by myself again, let alone sleep here. I wasn’t that brave.
‘Then where will you take me? Because I’m not going back to Kent, St. John – I’m warning you. I won’t leave Paris because of some ... some Rephaim.’ I almost spat the word.
‘Some trust, please, Sage.’
St. John’s arm created an inescapable snare around my waist, refusing to let me go. We stood there, locked in this configuration, as the seconds ticked by. Until I slowly calmed down and looked him in the eye.
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I’ll take you to Père Henri and you can stay there,’ he said, authoritatively.
‘There? Where? What do you mean by “there”?’ I questioned, my eyebrows creasing in a frown. ‘His cell is the size of my wardrobe back home and I doubt the Catholic Church allow women to st
ay in the Presbytery – even if I am the Wise One.’
I could sense his frustration as he said, ‘Fine. You can stay at the nunnery next door.’
‘No way!’ I protested. My expression appalled, I broke free from his grip, stating, ‘I am not staying in any nunnery! Are you crazy?’
‘Sage,’ his mellifluous voice was tinged with impatience, ‘it’s not safe for you here. We need to find you a place to stay where Louis can’t get to you.’
I glared at him. ‘Fine – if you’re so set on having me move then I’ll come and stay with you.’
‘No.’ His voice was absolute and he was staring at me incredulously.
‘No? Just “no”? Why not?’ I demanded.
His beautiful face was tense, defensive.
‘Because it wouldn’t be such a good idea,’ he snapped.
I flinched back from the harshness in his voice. ‘You promised I wouldn’t leave your sight.’
‘Sage, you don’t know what you’re asking.’ His tone questioned my sanity, making me suspicious that he was hiding something from me.
My temper flared now, and I glared at him defiantly. ‘I’ll stay here then.’
He took a step back from me to throw his hands in the air in a gesture of desperation, his jaw clenched tight.
‘What do you want from me, Sage?’
‘I want to know why I can’t stay with you at your place,’ I demanded, ‘especially seeing that you have more than enough real estate to put me up in and after promising that I wouldn’t leave your sight. I want to know the truth.’
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
And from his sigh I could tell that he would tell me what I wanted to know.
‘It’s for your own good, Sage. It may sound clichéd but I’m no angel.’ I opened my mouth to protest but he held up a hand and continued, ‘Did you never wonder why I didn’t invite you to attend my lecture at the Sorbonne? Even when I knew you’d be interested and after I’d claimed that we were partners?’
I shook my head bewildered, startled at where this discussion was heading.
‘You’re too much of a distraction, Sage. And I am – at least half of me is – only human.’ His voice was low, intense. ‘I told you before that I find you irresistible. I don’t know if the angel in me is strong enough not to succumb to my base instincts. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that my reaction to you is purely corporeal but it isn’t wholly spiritual either.’
He was sombre as he said this but his lips twitched when he echoed my words and I found myself bemusedly smiling in response.
‘What if I said that I’d do my best not to distract you?’ I pleaded.
St. John only cocked an eyebrow.
‘I mean it,’ I vowed, ‘I won’t do anything to distract you or tempt you or annoy you.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘I think that’s asking far too much from you. You’d try the patience of a saint, Sage.’
‘Please.’
I desperately wished I could read his thoughts as he stared intensely at me for a long moment. I was afraid that he was going to refuse me if he had too much of an opportunity to think logically.
‘But I feel safe with you. I trust you,’ I whispered in desperation.
I didn’t know it then, but it was the one thing I could say that completely floored him, leaving him defenceless.
He closed his eyes and, when he opened them again, they had turned a deep emerald green. His expression speared me – it was one of complete surrender. He looked defeated and yet triumphant at the same time.
‘All right,’ he said resignedly, ‘You’re coming home with me.’
I would have given a huge whoop but I didn’t think that St. John would have been particularly impressed, so instead I smiled and moved to collect my things.
But my eyes caught sight of the coffee table again before I’d even taken a step.
I motioned to it with my hand. ‘What are we going to do about that?’
St. John merely shrugged dismissively.
‘It’ll be taken care of, Sage. Don’t worry about it,’ he advised me.
‘But the hotel–’ I began to protest but was cut off.
‘Trust me,’ was all he said. So I let it go.
St. John instructed me to take only what was necessary and he would have someone deliver the rest of my belongings to his apartment later. I grabbed my toiletry bag and a change of clothes as quickly as I could, fearing that he might change his mind. I didn’t even bother to change out of my pyjamas – I merely threw my overcoat on top and pulled on my leather boots and was ready to leave in less than ten minutes.
It was a little after four in the morning and I didn’t fancy our chances of getting a taxi at this time but, surprisingly, as we exited the hotel, the hired car which had been transporting us around Paris during the last couple of days was parked there idling, its exhaust fumes steaming in the chill night air, waiting to deliver us to our destination.
I assumed that we would be headed towards the Île de la Cité but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead, we were headed towards the Triangle d’Or or Golden Triangle – the most exclusive real estate in Paris.
‘I thought you lived on the Île de la Cité?’ I questioned.
‘You assumed I lived on the Île de la Cité,’ he corrected, smiling smugly, ‘but that’s where Père Henri lives. I’m three thousand-years-old, Sage – I was a visitor here when the Celtic Parisii occupied the city. Later, as an advisor to Charlemagne, I returned to Paris. But it was only recently that I bought my apartment in the Triangle d’Or.’
‘How recently was that?’
He gave a distinctly Gallic shrug and, finally, I could see the Parisian in him. ‘About one hundred and fifty years ago.’
St. John’s apartment was on the top floor of a prestigious Haussman style building on the Avenue Montaigne. Entering his inner sanctum, I could see that St. John had mastered the Parisian art of refined living. His apartment was spacious, light and airy. The December moon filtered through the windows and danced across the oriental carpets before St. John turned on the lights, bathing its beauty in a soft warm glow. The first thing I noticed was that the shelves which lined his walls were filled with antiquities, giving the place the look of a museum – an astronomical compendium in gilded and silvered brass, a girdle prayer book designed by Holbein, a Babylonian stele, and a papyrus from the Book of the Dead numbered amongst his possessions. These jockeyed for position amongst rare books and ancient manuscripts.
My eyes were drawn to three octavo volumes in avocado coloured calfskin over marbled boards that were placed under a glass display in the far corner. Moving closer, I read the title in gilt lettering and began to laugh.
‘Jane Eyre. First edition, I assume.’
St. John nodded. ‘And autographed.’
I was as impressed with his collection of antiquities as with the breadth of his library; all my favourites were displayed on his shelves and a great number more that I hadn’t yet gotten around to reading.
I could happily have spent a lifetime within these walls.
Looking further into the apartment with its hardwood floors and high ceilings, its dado wall panels and brass and etched glass ceiling lights, I fell in love with its proportions artfully displayed to advantage against walls painted in heritage red, Brunswick green and French grey. The period style furniture was understated and tasteful – and, most probably, original antiques – and I couldn’t wait to see where I would spend the night.
‘Well, what do you think?’ St. John asked, though I suspect he already knew the answer judging by my arrested expression. ‘You like it?’
‘It’s lovely,’ I breathed. ‘You have a beautiful home.’
‘The main bedroom is at the end of the hallway. It has its own ensuite. I’ll take the guest bedroom during your stay.’ St. John said, motioning for me to precede him down the corridor.
‘Oh, but I can take the guest room,’ I protested, feeling slightly
awkward at dislodging him from his own bedroom.
‘I’m a light sleeper,’ he said, smiling, ‘so it’s probably best if you sleep where you’ll be least disturbed by my wanderings during the night.’
I couldn’t imagine St. John disturbing my sleep – at least not from walking past my bedroom door. He moved effortlessly, with the sort of grace reserved for dancers. Sometimes I doubted whether his feet even touched the ground, his step was so light.
We came to a stop in front of the furthest door. Opening it, St. John gestured for me to enter first.
Coming to stand in the middle of the room, I blinked in awe.
His room faced towards the Avenue des Champs-Élysées with its sidewalks dressed in fairy lights dripping from its straight rank and file of trees. From St. John’s bedroom window, with its curtains drawn back, stretched forth the heart of Paris; its fashionable boutiques bedecked in Christmas decorations and honey coloured buildings lit like something out of a fairy tale.
I sighed, thinking I’d gone to heaven – the Avenue des Champs-Élysées was not called the French Elysian Fields for nothing.
Slowly becoming aware of the room itself, I turned a complete circle. It was a masculine room in bold strong colours. Fittingly, the walls were painted in Gamboge; a dark mustard yellow pigment based on the gum resin from trees found in Cambodia, India and Thailand. This was framed by sage green picture rails and dado wall panels, and an eggshell coloured ceiling.
A golden room for a golden god.
The room was dominated by an antique king size Federal Tall Post bed in mahogany, its carved posts elaborately topped with decorative pineapples. Two bedside tables in French cherrywood with brass lamps sitting atop them flanked the bed, and above it hung what looked to be an original Monet depicting his garden at Giverny. A wall-to-wall built-in wardrobe discretely painted to match the décor blended seamlessly with the room’s graciousness while, opposite it, under the window, stood an antique steamer trunk. Near the door to what, presumably, was the ensuite, an Albert chair and mahogany men’s valet resided. The only other items in the room were a large 3D LCD smart screen dominating the wall facing the bed and, beneath it, a carved French cherrywood Hi-Fi TV cabinet housing St. John’s television and stereo equipment.
