Seed- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  It was as if the moment was arrested in time.

  ‘I’m still Professor Woods’ daughter,’ I agreed, yearning for and yet fearing his kiss.

  ‘I’m going straight to hell,’ he muttered, before capturing my lips.

  I was totally unprepared for my response to his kiss.

  It wasn’t as if I’d never been kissed before but I’d never been kissed quite like this. His lips were soft and warm, exploring mine – at first hesitantly, as if unsure whether I’d draw back, and then more boldly.

  ‘You taste of strawberries.’

  Blood surged and I felt my hands lock in his hair, drawing him deeper into the kiss. My breath hitched in my throat and I felt like I might lose consciousness once more.

  The sound of a slamming door registered somewhere in the recesses of my brain but it was St. John who broke the kiss.

  ‘I’m definitely going to hell,’ he affirmed, briefly kissing the tip of my nose before holding out his hand to lead me to the kitchen and delivering me into the hands of my family. I was too bemused to protest.

  ‘Look after her,’ he told my mother, before retrieving his overcoat from the alcove and taking his leave through the front door.

  INVESTIGATION

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Sage!’ Fi exclaimed, rushing into my room as soon as she returned home from the museum. I was lying on my bed trying to read a piece of pulp fiction, some conspiracy thriller I’d bought at the airport before boarding our flight to London over a month ago. I’d hoped it would distract me from my wayward thoughts but it failed miserably to gain my attention; I’d already read the same sentence five times and still had no idea what I’d read.

  Clutching at my shoulders anxiously, she asked, ‘Are you okay?’

  Convincing Fi that everything was fine was made more difficult as my face was flushed and my pulse still racing from my encounter with St. John. Every time I managed to get my breathing under control I would remember the way St. John’s lips felt against mine, or the softness of his loose curls beneath my fingertips, or a thousand little details that I must have taken in subconsciously, and it would make me feel hot and flustered all over again.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll tell you about it later. But, Fi, what did you do? What happened back there?’ I asked, trying to distract her and myself. ‘What was with the photo album? And the trip to the museum?’

  Fi’s eyes, only slightly more hazel than amber, met mine. ‘I told you to trust me, that I had a plan. I’m sorry I had to keep it from you, but knowing your inability to lie, well...’ She shrugged by way of apology.

  She went on to say that while we were away that morning purchasing the Christmas tree, after returning from the gym early, she’d spent her time arranging the second set of photos of the artefact into the scrapbook album that she was preparing for Dad’s Christmas present. It had been the perfect solution to our problem as she’d been working on Dad’s present for the past few months and had packed it into her suitcase to take with her knowing that the household contents from Sydney wouldn’t arrive till late January. I briefly remembered her mentioning something of the sort to me a while back but, during my black period, nothing much had registered – now I realised how selfish I had been for the past month or more, as even Mum had known of the album because Fi had needed photos from Dad’s days as a university student. She had traced Dad’s early years as a PhD student working on archaeological digs right through to the present – photos of artefacts were interspersed between the images of his life as an historian and archaeologist. This suitably explained all her sneaking around and the need for secrecy.

  When Fi had presented Dad with his Christmas present last night she had no need to act – she was genuinely disappointed in not being able to give him his gift at Christmas with the rest of the family there present. Dad had been impressed and overwhelmed by Fi’s gift and, although he chastised her for gaining unauthorised entry to Conservation, Fi claimed that he had a tear in his eye, and also had to excuse her behaviour as the photos of the artefact were now deemed vitally important to unlocking its secrets.

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Sage, you should have seen Dr Porterhouse – it was like he’d been handed the Holy Grail!’

  ‘Or the map to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon,’ I said dryly.

  Fi was instantly alert, her body jerking in reaction. ‘What do you mean?’

  I hesitated for a second before I answered, ‘Well, I think I figured out the artefact’s purpose with a little help from St. John, although he neither confirmed it nor denied it. It’s a map but also, as St. John realised, the artefact represents a tree.’

  ‘A tree?’ she gasped, collapsing beside me on my bed.

  I nodded, turning my head to look at her. ‘Yeah, I overheard Dr Porterhouse and his female colleague talking about it when you were out of the room. When they said the word “tree”, I started to become light-headed and had another vision. That’s when I realised I kept seeing a garden in my visions.’

  ‘The Hanging Gardens of Babylon – no wonder Dr Porterhouse looked like he’d found the Holy Grail!’ Fi breathed in awe. ‘Sweet! That’s awesome!’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said morosely, ‘and now they have the photos.’

  Fi laughed delightedly and shook her head, ‘Uh uh, not all of them.’

  My eyes went wide, ‘What? Tell me!’

  ‘Of course I didn’t give them all the photos or all the negatives as they requested. I’m not stupid, you know!’ she said, a smug look plastered on her face, ‘I only gave them the ones that were normal, nothing unusual.’

  I couldn’t believe how devious my sister was, she had a real talent for deception – though this was something that I had always known, as she was a master of being able to elude detection, sneaking out of the house at fifteen to go clubbing with friends much older than herself who should have been more responsible than to allow an underage youth to accompany them, lying to our parents about who she was meeting up with, smiling winsomely to get her way with one parent knowing that the other would disapprove, and almost never getting caught.

  I kept her secrets out of loyalty to a twin, but it wasn’t easy.

  ‘It’s actually ironic,’ Fi continued, as I glanced up, feeling myself return from faraway thoughts. ‘Images of the artefact apparently can only be captured by film not digital, although you can scan the filmic images onto a computer later. If I had a new digital camera instead of Dad’s old Nikon I wouldn’t have been able to take those photos. That’s why they wanted them so badly. They need as many images of the artefact as possible to study its detail now that the actual artefact is missing.’

  I stated the obvious. ‘But they accused us of theft, Fi!’

  ‘No, they didn’t. They knew it wasn’t us.’ Fi responded, ‘Like I told you before, Sage, there’s a timeline. They knew that the artefact had been in Conservation up until the time it went missing.’

  ‘But then how did it disappear?’ I asked, looking at her bewildered.

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘No idea. From what I could gather, one minute it was there, the next it was missing. No security footage of the theft. No evidence of who did it.’

  ‘Nothing?’ I asked in awe.

  ‘Nope,’ she confirmed, ‘Nothing. Not a single shred of evidence. They’re still investigating the incident internally, looking for answers.’

  I sat at the edge of my bed, looking across at my reflection in the window. ‘No wonder Dad was so anxious.’

  Fi nodded, standing up and stretching, before sitting back down again cross-legged on my bedroom floor next to Indy who’d made himself comfortable at the end of my bed.

  ‘Now,’ she said significantly, ‘It’s your turn. What happened between you and St. John after I left with Dad?’

  I blushed to the roots of my hair. ‘He kissed me – although we were standing underneath the mistletoe.’

  ‘He kissed you? Tell me everything!’ she commanded, grabbing at my right hand which rested on my
knee in excitement. Indy’s tail thumped against the carpet with a matched enthusiasm.

  I hedged. ‘Fi, can’t this wait? Shouldn’t we be planning our next move – like trying to find out more about the Hanging Gardens or something?’

  ‘Pl-uh-ease!’ Fi rolled her eyes at me. ‘Girl, you gotta get your priorities right! Hanging Gardens – been there for centuries, ain’t going nowhere. St. John Rivers – here, now, like drop dead gorgeous. No contest.’

  Unfortunately Fi was right – there was no contest – but the artefact, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and St. John Rivers, I felt, were part of the same puzzle. This may have been because of the strange visions I’d been having, or because it was St. John who helped me make the connection between the artefact and the cosmic map in the first place, or perhaps it was because we’d both figured out an important piece of the artefact – which I took as a sign that we were in this together – but, whatever the case, I only knew for certain that they were inseparably linked in my mind.

  I was saved from having to reply to Fi’s probing analysis as Mum knocked on my bedroom door and entered. Mum’s expression was wreathed in concern as she crossed the room to gaze intently at my flushed face.

  ‘Sage, honey,’ she began, her voice laced with anxiety, ‘I’ve been thinking that we should get you checked out by a doctor. Your dad told me how you fainted today and you’ve been having dizzy episodes and headaches lately which, your dad and I feel, is quite worrying.’

  She didn’t have to voice it; the spectre of Fi’s illness haunted us still.

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ I protested, squirming on the bed.

  ‘I mean it, Sage. I’ve got the number of a Harley Street doctor who comes highly recommended.’ She sat down beside me on the bed and stroked my back, ‘It would make me feel a lot better to know that you’re okay.’

  Oh, God! Emotional blackmail! I thought.

  Sighing, I knew that there was no way I was going to get out of this.

  ‘Okay?’ It was more a statement than a question.

  I nodded reluctantly.

  She touched my forehead with the back of her hand. ‘You still look a little flushed, are you sure you’re feeling all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, for the last time, I hoped.

  ‘You don’t look fine,’ she contradicted, ‘Safie, don’t you think your sister looks a little overheated?’

  I threw a quick scowl towards Fi, hopefully discouraging her from agreeing with Mum.

  ‘Now that you mention it, she does look a little hot and bothered.’ Fi remarked, ignoring my look. She was enjoying this – I knew very well what she was referring to and my eyes narrowed.

  Amber eyes looked at me assessingly. ‘Do you want some painkillers, Sage?’

  ‘No, no!’ I insisted, waving my hands in the air at Mum, palms angled in the age-old gesture to stop.

  ‘All right, but I think it might be an idea if you go to bed early and get some rest.’ She turned to Fi who still sat on my floor looking smug, and continued, ‘Come on, Safie, time to leave your sister alone. She needs to rest. You can talk to her tomorrow.’

  Fi’s smirk dropped from her face and she immediately began protesting. ‘But Mum–’

  ‘Now Safie! Come on, Indy, out!’ Mum gave me a kiss on my forehead and, ushering Fi and Indy out the door, said, ‘Try to get some sleep, honey, okay?’

  I nodded as she closed the door softly behind her, leaving me to my solitude.

  Alone, more tired than I realised, exhausted from the long day of mental stress and riding an emotional roller coaster, I decided to take my Mum’s advice. Though I hadn’t any dinner, I didn’t feel in the least hungry; in fact, my stomach was tied up in knots and I kept getting butterflies whenever I thought about the events of the day – well, at least, one event in particular. I got ready for bed in a state of dreamy fatigue and, as I slipped beneath my covers, a smile played upon my lips. I realised that I had no idea what the next day would hold but that I was already looking forward to it.

  The next morning brought milder weather, a relief from the biting cold of the past few weeks, as well as my determination to pay a visit to the British Library at St. Pancras. I figured that if it had two copies of the Gutenberg Bible, two 1215 copies of the Magna Carta, the sole surviving copy of the poem Beowulf, and da Vinci’s Codex Arundel, then it may have the information I required about the Hanging Gardens.

  When the Bloomsbury site was unable to accommodate the growth of the British Library, the government explored the possibility of resituating the British Library on the disused Potato Market next to St. Pancras Station. That was my destination this morning. So I found myself taking the HS1 train from Kent to St. Pancras Station on the high speed domestic service which raced along the tracks at 225 kilometres an hour, allowing me to make the trip in half an hour.

  My first port of call was to one of my favourite places; the St. John Ritblat Gallery which housed the treasures of the British Library. I took its name as a good omen. I was tempted to linger over Leonardo’s notebooks and Shakespeare’s First Folio but managed to resist as I was on a quest. The Ritblat Gallery was kept dimly-lit and at low temperatures to preserve the items housed there. The item that I wished to view was displayed in its Sacred Texts section under Zoroastrianism. Although Zoroastrianism was the dominant religion of much of Greater Iran and was a formative influence on much of that region’s history and traditions, the text that interested me was a book containing illustrations of trees catalogued as RSPA 230. The beauty of such a rare text under its glass display captured my imagination – it was incredible to think that this treasure had so much knowledge to impart, linking to ancient beliefs about creation, immortality and fertility. I knew that if I wished to see more of the book than just the two pages on display I would need to write to them requesting permission. I didn’t have the necessary credentials but I knew of someone who did and hoped St. John might be willing to assist me in my investigation. It was worth a try.

  The electric overhead lights dipped and spluttered, and I gave a shiver, feeling like the temperature in the room had suddenly plummeted. A movement caught my eye, and I glanced up quickly. At first, within the dimly-lit recesses of the Ritblat Gallery, I didn’t see him. My nose had been so studiously plastered to the glass, examining in detail the book written by the Zoroastrians, that I had failed to notice that someone else had entered the room. An extremely tall man in a dark fur-trimmed overcoat stood near a glass display cabinet not far away, watching intently. When our eyes met, I felt a momentary chill that encased me with the force of an arctic wind, like someone had walked over my grave, and I knew that I had seen this man before. Even though I could not see the colour of his eyes in the dim lighting, I somehow knew they were as black as coal, a dark abyss, and it was as if red hot embers were lit within them that flared in sudden acknowledgement at our eye contact.

  A key had been turned in a lock inside my mind. I knew this dark figure. Had always known him. Indeed, had known him before I even drew breath, beyond birth. It was as if I’d inherited an imprint of memory that could be traced back through history, from descendant to ancestor. That dark figure had always hovered on the edge of my vision, in my nightmares, for as long as I could remember. Never speaking. Always watching.

  There was in that silent scrutiny, in those coal-black eyes, a cold animosity. An implacable will. I could not break contact with that hard stare and felt myself plunging like a sinking rock into the depths of that dark abyss.

  There was the sound of footfall outside the room and I was abruptly released from the spell, able to turn to look at the newcomer, but it was simply one of the librarians walking past the entrance to the gallery. I turned again to look back round, but the dark figure was gone. And, strangely, with his passing, the incident vanished completely from my mind, leaving only the fleeting impression that somehow something more than time had been stolen from me.

  I had done some earlier research online about the Hanging Garde
ns of Babylon and continued my investigation now in one of the British Library’s Reading Rooms. But despite the various volumes I’d located on the library shelves and requested from stack, the mystery surrounding Nebuchadrezzar II’s earthly paradise suggested that the gardens may never have existed at all and were instead a fanciful product of the Greek historians. One of the problems was that the Babylonians were noted to be very careful record-keepers but no convincing references to the Hanging Gardens had been found. Despite this, historians continued to be fascinated with the thought of such an elusive find; one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Most historians agreed that the Hanging Gardens were built by Nebuchadrezzar II around 575BC to please his wife, Amytis of Media who longed for the lush trees and plants, the verdant surroundings of her homeland, Persia.

  The Hanging Gardens must have been a sight to behold according to the accounts of Strabo and Diodorus Siculus – it consisted of arched vaults, ascending terrace roofs, and towers built of walls so thick that the passage on top of the wall allowed for four-horse chariots to easily pass one another. In fact, galleries projected over each other built with balconies giving the appearance of a theatre and conduits for water raised by pumps from the river. I’d also read that the centrepiece of the Hanging Gardens was a shrine devoted to the Persian White Desert Rose, a species so rare that it didn’t seem to exist any longer. It reminded me of the stories of the Taj Mahal – another equally romantic gesture; built by a man for love of his wife.

  The Hanging Gardens were described as being situated to the east of the Euphrates River and recent research in this area uncovered the remains of ancient walls twenty-five metres thick and forming steps or terraces directly adjacent to the Euphrates where ancient Babylon was once located. But this wasn’t conclusive evidence of the existence of the Hanging Gardens.

  The more research I did, the more convinced I became – one historian even believed that the Hanging Gardens sat atop a golden ziggurat with cascading foliage and waterfalls. I wondered if this was why the artefact was in the hourglass shape of two ziggurats meeting which represented a tree. It seemed logical enough.