by D B Nielsen
‘Their enemies?’ I stopped just at the edge of the forest and turned to face St. John.
His jade green eyes looked down at me sadly.
‘Human beings, Sage. That is why they hate them so much. Humans are beloved and favoured by the Creator – redemption and salvation are possible for you. But for the Grigori and Nephilim, there is no such possibility.’
‘But what does that mean for you and Gabriel? And all your brothers too?’ I asked, horrified.
‘The war is not over, Sage. What was started by Lucifer and his followers in heaven and continued by Semyaza and the other Grigori on earth continues even now,’ St. John said, grimly. His expression was sombre as he admitted, ‘The battle has only just begun.’
AKITU
CHAPTER TWELVE
I felt like I was suddenly waking to find that I’d been sleepwalking through life, the effect somewhat like being plunged into a cold bath. My teeth began chattering louder than ever.
St. John made an impatient noise. ‘Sage, we need to get you inside, you’re frozen and you’ve had quite a shock today. It can’t be good for you.’
‘No, wait! I need to think! I need to know!’ I said to him, reaching out to place a hand on his arm to restrain him, as ice seemed to crystallise in my chest, ‘Do you hate human beings too? Are you on our side?’
St. John sucked in a breath and I realised that he had never expected me to ask him that, to say what I’d just said, not in a million years.
I’d blundered badly. As soon as the words had flown out of my mouth, I wanted to recall them. I hadn’t meant them in the way that they’d sounded and I immediately tried to take them back.
‘St. John, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–’
His reply when it came was almost soundless. ‘I am the Keeper of the Seed and I fight on the side of the Light.’
I’d never really doubted this but felt so embarrassed and ashamed I merely nodded without speaking.
He sighed then, briefly closing his eyes, and the sound when it came out was infinitely weary. ‘I keep forgetting how young you are.’
Then he brushed my cheek tenderly with the back of his knuckles in a gesture that scared me – it smacked too much of goodbye. I winced at my own folly.
‘St. John, I–’
‘Go on in now, Sage.’ St. John looked down at me, jade green eyes as unfathomable as ever. The snowflakes were still falling around us and, almost absently, he ran a hand through his now-damp hair, dislodging them like crystal teardrops.
My mouth went suddenly dry. ‘But aren’t you coming in?’
He gave a wry smile. ‘No. I’m going to find your sister and make sure she’s safe.’
I gave a start, feeling shamefaced. I had totally forgotten about Fi until he’d mentioned her.
‘Maybe I should go with you?’ I asked, hopefully.
He shook his head and, already moving away, distancing himself from me, said ‘It’s best if I go on my own.’
I winced, reading between the lines. I understood that what he really meant was that he preferred to go alone. Without me. Stripping off his leather jacket, I handed it back to him.
And then he was gone. Without so much as a goodbye.
I walked numbly across the yard and up the wide terrace steps that led to the back door. I was bitterly glad that I could escape to my bedroom through the old servant’s stairs without being seen because what I wanted more than anything was to throw myself onto my bed and cry, afraid that in my stupidity I’d ruined everything. Maybe it wasn’t the other members of the Woods’ family that the Seed was warning about – maybe it was me.
I made it to my bedroom without encountering anyone and, stripping off my clothes, threw myself under the shower. I’d hoped that the hot water would warm my chilled body but though it warmed my skin on the outside, I still felt frozen inside. I wondered bleakly how I could have gone from the certainty of death to feeling invincible; from fear to hope; and then from passion to despair in moments.
I stood under the fiercely spitting shower until my skin became wrinkled and prune-like. And still I felt numb.
And then suddenly I felt something crack and break inside of me and I was sobbing – great, gasping sobs – and the water from the faucet mingled with my salty tears and ran down my face. As I felt my knees buckle, I sat down on the tiled floor of the shower with the water coursing over my back, my arms wrapped round my knees, and cried and cried until there were no tears left in me.
And I knew then what no tears or remorse could mend.
When I finally turned off the shower, I felt like I’d aged years. I wrapped myself in a thick terry-towelling robe and lay down on my bed, uncaring of my wet hair soaking the sheets. Hugging a pillow between my knees, I closed my eyes tightly and, exhausted, slept.
When next I woke, it was late afternoon. Fi had not returned. Neither had St. John. I now knew what a season in hell was like. Choking on hollowness, the pain came again. This time stronger. I couldn’t just lie here and do nothing.
Throwing on a pair of jeans and a clean shirt, I headed downstairs to the kitchen. I found Mum seated at the breakfast table pouring over some old books. She looked up as I entered.
‘Hey there,’ she greeted, smiling at me, ‘where’ve you been? Want to help me choose your costume for the Akitu festival?’
I was struck by how ordinary everything was – paradoxically nothing had changed while everything had changed. My world had turned upside down but my mother and the rest of the population were making plans for New Year’s – parties, resolutions, beginnings – while I felt like my life had just ended.
‘Sure.’ I shrugged indifferently and, collapsing into a chair beside her, pulled out a little-used history book from the pile to look at.
Mum stared closely at me, her eyes narrowing.
‘Your eyes and nose are all red. Are you coming down with the flu?’ she asked, almost as if it were an accusation, ‘God, I hope you haven’t caught anything from Jasmine and Alex. It’ll ruin New Year’s if you have to stay home in bed.’
‘I’m fine, Mum,’ I protested, embellishing the truth a little to satisfy her curiosity, ‘I just got a little chilled while Fi and I were out walking Indy, so I decided to come home and take a hot shower.’
‘Well, make sure you take some Echinacea,’ she advised, fussing over me. ‘You don’t want to miss out on the Akitu festival that your father’s been planning. It’s going to be a great night.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’
She sighed as if my teen angst was too much to deal with. ‘If you say so.’
I gave a jerky nod and Mum dropped the subject, returning to the task at hand as she pointed out several ideas for costumes from the books on ancient Mesopotamian culture taken from the study.
Most of the clothing of the Sumerians, Babylonians and Assyrians were made from natural fibres like flax and wool or, for the wealthy, cotton and silk. Women usually wore gowns or tunics and wrap-around skirts, covering them from their shoulders to their ankles, although their right arm and shoulder would often be left uncovered. The style of the clothing would be the same for both poor and rich alike; only the fabrics used for the wealthier women and royalty would be more luxurious and colourful.
Despite my heartache, I found that my Mum’s enthusiasm was infectious and that I was actually getting excited about the festival, joking with her that her usual style would be perfect for the evening as the ancient Sumerians favoured motifs and designs of honeycombs and pinecones, concentric circles and animal prints which pretty much described Mum’s entire wardrobe – especially as they teemed this with tassels and fringes.
I was fairly sure that we could find something which fit in with their fashion from what we had at home. But it certainly made me smile to think that in the course of a week I would be doing the unthinkable – borrowing from Mum’s wardrobe twice!
The back door slammed shut and Fi entered into the kitchen with Indy in tow, looking wet, cold
and bedraggled. Mum immediately jumped up from her chair, fretting over Fi’s wild appearance. She rushed off to find a couple of towels in the laundry room while Fi stripped down in the kitchen.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked, apprehensively.
The look Fi threw me was murderous. ‘I’m fine, no thanks to your fiancé.’
‘He’s not my fiancé,’ I responded automatically, almost dully.
‘Could have fooled me!’ she responded in a foul mood. ‘Who does he think he is anyway? He acts like he has to save the world!’
‘He is trying to save the world, Fi!’ I snapped, ‘You don’t know him. You just don’t get it, do you?’
Her lip curled up at the corner as she snarled, ‘Get what? That he thinks because he’s some immortal being that he has to interfere in everyone’s lives? He’s ruined everything!’
My control shattered. Anger rose up like a tsunami – anger against Louis Gravois and the Grigori; anger against those who had hurt St. John in the past such as the Inquisitors and his mother’s people; anger against the burden placed on him of the role of the Keeper that St. John had to bear; anger against Fi for being so selfish; and, mostly, anger against myself for being so blind and foolhardy.
‘Well, that’s too bad but you don’t have to worry about it any more,’ I hissed at her so viciously she took a step back. ‘I doubt he’ll want anything to do with either of us again – especially me – not after today!’
Fi looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
‘What happened?’ she finally asked, her voice had fallen now as if I’d taken the wind out of her sails.
‘What do you care?’ I threw at her.
She recoiled. ‘Sage...?’
‘I said some things I shouldn’t have said,’ I told her, my voice raw with self-disgust. ‘I practically accused him of colluding with the enemy. I doubted him and I impugned his honour.’
Fi looked stunned. Standing in the kitchen covered in mud, dripping water onto the flagstones, she remained silent but her eyes showed compassion.
‘What’s worse,’ I said, my voice sinking so low she had to strain to hear it, ‘I accused him of this after he’d told me he loved me, that he’d give his life for me.’
‘Oh, Sage!’ Fi whispered sympathetically. Then, crossing to give me a stiff pat on my shoulder, confessed, ‘I know it’s not much, but if it’s any consolation, I believe you now. I mean about the Nephilim. I’m sorry I doubted you.’
At that moment, Mum walked back in with a pile of fluffy towels in her arms, unaware of the roiling emotions in the room. Without a word, I stood up and slowly made my way out of the kitchen, Fi’s eyes following my every movement. I was lurching as I walked, like someone drunk or dizzy, and I could only be grateful that Mum didn’t see this as I’m sure she would have taken me immediately to see Dr Mukherjee.
Later, when Fi had cleaned herself up and lied to Mum about falling over in her struggles with Indy as the reason for her shocking appearance, she came into my room and, sitting down beside me on the bed, stroked my back and held me without speaking. It was ironic that finally my sister and I were in accord, but I felt like I’d lost what truly mattered in my life.
It was a long time before she left my room. And only then did she whisper, ‘Don’t give up, Sage. If you feel the same way about him as he does for you, then fight for him.’
I realised that Fi was right. I had to make this better somehow, to make it right. I was too afraid to call him on the phone and was worried that it would be too impersonal – that I’d be making it too easy for him to reject me. I needed to see him. And I’d get my opportunity at the Akitu festival.
By the time New Year’s Eve came around, I was a nervous wreck. For the last few days, I’d thought of nothing else but seeing St. John again and, if I did nothing else at the festival, at least I would gain the opportunity to apologise for my thoughtless words. I had slowly worked myself into a state, a bundle of nervous energy. But none of my family save Fi noticed this as they were all excited about the Akitu festival and Dad was equally in a state as there were so many last minute preparations to be made and he wanted this to go off without a hitch. Mum had a fulltime job calming him down and, as such, it took the focus off of me.
Surprisingly, the evening of the Akitu festival brought milder weather. All week the snow had fallen till the only thing visible from the windows of the solar was the accumulation of frost on the windowsills and the spray of whiteness like baby’s breath falling from the sky. It hadn’t made much of a difference to my activities though as I’d spent the last few days arranging my costume to my satisfaction, as if it were armour and I was going into battle – which, in a way, I was.
I’d searched Mum’s wardrobe for something that I could use and, when I found it, begged her to let me cut it up. She wasn’t too impressed with the idea that one of her designer outfits was being hacked up like an old rag but because she saw how intent I was she allowed me to do it anyway.
In the end, the costume in red, gold and white looked spectacular – I’d cut away the right sleeve and shoulder to widen the collar of the white silk dress which now looked more like a negligee and added a sash in contrasting gold and red, the fabric in a geometric step pattern. At the bottom of the dress I’d added a gold fringe and turned a rectangular piece of cloth in red into a tunic of sorts – leaving my right arm and shoulder bare – with the edge rimmed in gold tassel.
Adding accessories to this, I borrowed a rather loud gold and garnet necklace and pair of earrings from Mum’s jewellery box. I used Mum’s necklace creatively as a headband, keeping instead my heart scarab necklace round my neck, and let the earrings dangle low; swinging like pendulums with every movement I made. Fi helped me with my makeup, accentuating my eyes with kohl, using concealer to hide my scar which was now beginning to turn a faint pink, and using a ruby red lipstick that made my lips full and pouty.
I didn’t recognise myself when Fi had finished; I looked seductive and exotic. I looked like I’d been transported in time, like a Sumerian princess from the past. My amber coloured eyes looked brighter than ever and deeply mysterious – perhaps because I felt feverish whenever I thought about seeing St. John again.
Fi’s own costume was much simpler than mine, cleverly sewn together from the woven flax of potato sacks and not so brightly coloured with tassels, which was surprising because it wasn’t Fi’s usual style – we might again have been swapping identities tonight.
We had decided to take our car to the event as there wasn’t enough room for all of us to fit in the one car. It would also give us an opportunity to leave whenever we felt like it – an eventuality that might arise if my meeting with St. John took a bad turn and I felt the need for a quick escape.
My parents, together with Jasmine and Alex, had left early in the afternoon for the British Museum in order to settle my younger siblings in the children’s play area and allow Dad to greet the guests when they arrived; many of whom were major benefactors of the museum. It was certainly a public relations exercise but I suspected that, this time, Dad didn’t mind so much because it was his own work that he was showcasing.
Much later, I locked up the Manor House as Fi threw her overcoat and backpack into the car boot and brought the Toyota round to the front of the house. In a small pouch that hung from my waist was St. John’s Christmas present which I still hadn’t given to him but hoped to get an opportunity to do so tonight.
As I made my way to the car, I briefly glanced to my right and saw the dark shadows of the woods, but they held no terrors for me this evening. The trees were bathed in the silvery-blue light of the moon, turning the snow which carpeted the ground a vaporous cyanotic blue. It was a magical landscape, reminding me of childhood fairy tales and myths of fairies and sprites and witches. It seemed the perfect night for them to come out and play.
Fi’s driving into London was way too fast but because I just wanted to see St. John again and address our unfinished business, I wasn’t abou
t to complain. The landscape passed by in a blur like a streak of black oil paint horizontally marring the pristine canvas. Our new car was given a real workout by Fi as its wheels, fitted now with chains, gripped the roads tarred with ice and snow, churning up the distance to London.
It was difficult entering the nation’s capital as there were so many road closures in anticipation of the crowds of revellers on New Year’s Eve that we had to take several obscure backstreets, following the SatNav’s directions. We were able to park several blocks from the museum, the closest parking we could find, and had to walk the rest of the way in our costumes. I was grateful for the mildness of the weather, even though it was slightly chilly. If it had been snowing, the flimsiness of my costume would have afforded me no protection from the elements despite my thick overcoat.
As we approached the museum from Great Russell Street, I saw that its exterior was floodlit. Banners announcing the Akitu festival were hanging alongside a heavy canvas curtain printed to represent the Ishtar Gateway which framed the main entrance to the museum, giving an illusion of passing through time, as we stepped from the main entrance into the Great Court. We walked down a lapis lazuli coloured carpet while bright blue glazed bricks and reliefs imitating the Processional Way flanked us on either side.
And then it was as if we’d entered another world, an enchanted realm – it was like stepping into ancient Mesopotamia.
People milled about in fringed, tasselled and decorated costumes – an ocean of colour from the brightest blue to gold and red. Costumed Cirque du Soleil performers were scattered about displaying with acrobatic flair their amazing talents. An area of the Great Court had been transformed into a Babylonian ziggurat where each of its seven levels was painted a different colour and, in the area near the café, a miniature version of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon was constructed with its viridescent foliage and waterfalls flowing down its terraced steps. Waiters dressed as wardu were serving champagne and orange juice in tall stemmed flutes and dainty canapés on silver trays – which was anachronistic but nobody seemed to mind.
