Scroll- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  But I’d faced similar situations countless times before with my Dad and my former Headmaster as I was always getting into trouble, and I wasn’t about to let him see my nervousness or fear – to do so would have shown weakness and that was the last thing I wanted. Still, I had a hard time believing that this was the same young man out in the woods who had saved my sister’s life from his own brother or was said to have been playing the haunting, emotive music I’d heard not more than half an hour ago.

  ‘You need to leave Satis House now. It’s not safe for you here.’

  Finality rang in his voice as he took stock of my crouched form but before I had an opportunity to respond, he wheeled away from me and retreated back up the darkened staircase; his movements little more than an inky blur. The Peregrine Falcon, virtually immobile, blinked its knowing eyes at me, indifferent to my dilemma.

  I stood there hesitating, uncertain of my next move – I could follow his advice and leave immediately or I could go with my gut instincts and poke around a bit more. Whatever the case, I couldn’t just stand here, waiting to be caught. Seemingly uncaring of whether I left Satis House or followed him, I decided to defy his instructions and take my chances.

  Moving quickly around the dark carved banister of the staircase, I began to ascend to the first floor of Satis House, making sure to keep well clear of the Peregrine Falcon still perched where it had landed earlier. My way was slow and laborious, impeded by my inability to see beyond the murky cavity which stretched out in front of me. Under my fingers, I felt the smooth carving of the banister and again felt an unwholesome electric charge surge up my arm. I withdrew my hand immediately but felt slightly tainted.

  Somewhere in the vastness of the mansion, a grandfather clock struck the hour. It had just gone two in the morning.

  Knowing I didn’t have much time to spare and worried that I needed to arrive home before my parents, I pressed forward through the smothering shadows and tried to get my bearings on the first floor landing. At the very end of the corridor there seemed to be a little light – not much, but enough for me to make my choice of which way to turn.

  The sound of my footsteps was absorbed by the thick hall runner – its pattern unrecognisable in the gloom – which ran the length of the corridor. I placed one foot carefully in front of the next, my right hand outstretched in front of me so I wouldn’t trip over the indistinct shapes that crowded the hallway. It took me a moment to realise that almost everything was under thick plastic sheets, giving the corridor an eerie, suffocating atmosphere.

  When I finally reached the end of the hallway, I came upon the oddity that was catching what poor light the gloomy corridor held. Housed in a deep recess in the wall at the very end of the long passageway was what appeared to be an empty fish tank; reflected in its glass was a slither of pale moonlight which beamed from behind a small slit in the tapestry hanging on the wall.

  An open doorway and worn stone steps that led up to the tower in the west wing were concealed behind the threadbare tapestry which I would have missed completely from where I had been standing on the first floor landing if the moonlight hadn’t revealed the way to me. I considered this a stroke of good luck – and right now I needed it.

  Guided by the light of the moon, I slowly climbed the stone steps that curled like an orange rind to the summit of the tower. The stairwell opened onto a small room that, like the rest of Satis House, was mostly shrouded in darkness but more moonlight spilt onto the scattered pieces of furniture draped in thick white dustcovers and the heavily carved dado wall panels from the diamond-paned windows.

  I hesitated once more but only because I could identify Mozart’s cascading thirds pouring forth from the room beyond this one. The music sounded like sunlight rippling across the stillness of a lake. It bolstered my courage and I took heart in the beauty of the music – anyone who could play like that couldn’t possibly be wicked. Dangerous, perhaps, but not wicked.

  The lingering tones dispersed as I pushed open the door, intruding on the young caretaker’s inner sanctum. Slender, graceful fingers stumbled briefly over the notes played on the finely-tuned grand piano before continuing without pause. If it weren’t for the pianist’s momentary fumbling of Mozart, I might have thought he was unaware of my presence. Instead, he simply chose to ignore me.

  Irritated, I sighed. Like what was his problem?

  I stood there in the middle of the room indecisively hopping from one foot to the other, pondering my options.

  He sat at the grand piano, playing by moonlight, as if the darkness proved to be no obstacle to his vision. I supposed that many musicians were capable of the same feat; able to perform by touch and hearing alone. But as his skilful fingers stroked the ivory and ebony keys, the music became a strange kind of language – like an aural Braille – which felt strangely familiar to me in the mysterious half-light, like I’d heard it somewhere before. An echo of a memory.

  The music caressed me, welled within me, and suddenly I heard voices of a different kind – curious whisperings and mystical chants. I remembered then when I had last heard these sounds – in the woods the day we were attacked by Louis when I’d lost consciousness – and the hairs on the back of my neck and my arms began to rise in response to that recognition.

  I stiffened. Afraid. Terrified, in fact, that I’d react in the same way and faint or collapse. But this time was different. Involuntarily, as if hypnotised, my fingers traced notes in the air as he continued to play and my lips of their own accord began to form the words that I could hear but no sound was uttered from my mouth. Instead, the air thrummed with energy as the notes themselves emerged to shimmer in the pale light of the moon – dully at first and then with brightening strength. Their ghostly presence danced in the air leaving a trace of silver-violet dust which pulsed like silvery light as if they were alive.

  It was totally sick. I could almost understand the music, like it contained some weird supernatural message. All those piano lessons Sage and I had been made to study in the past, my outward rebellion in my early teens and decision to play the guitar instead, my obsession with YouTube, all paled in comparison with the music I now heard. The notes were so clear to me and the voices now could be heard so loudly within my inner ear as if they were organic, living, that I felt invincible, like I could touch the very essence of creation.

  The notes hung like snowflakes in the chill night air, pulsating brightly, yet darkly iridescent. Luminescent, silver-violet, they acted like a beacon in the tower of the west wing of Satis House. I reached out a tentative fingertip, afraid that the symbols would burn me. But instead my fingertip connected with the first note and it grew brighter still, denser, and stilled in the air. Where my fingertip connected with it, I felt heat and cold simultaneously; felt it resonating, vibrating, felt my very being becoming one with it. It was like an incredible energy was building between and around the notes, the pianist and me. It was as if the air around us touched an elastic band at the point of greatest tension and I felt its sharp rebound from my being, my core, as if I was spiralling, hurtling towards oblivion.

  But I felt no anxiety at all. Strangely, my thoughts were all muddled. My main regret was not having my camera with me to capture this sight, as I knew instinctively this moment would never come again.

  At the gathering brightness in the room, the pianist looked up and his fingers stilled on the piano, his expression one of deep horror. Bright blue eyes took in the scene before him, opening wide in fear. The tower had become a seething electricity ball; its voltage sparking and flowing through the room, around and between us, yet not touching us.

  He moved swiftly then, with the gracefulness of a dancer, crossing to where I stood in the middle of this miasma surrounded by silvery floating, charged notes. The tower itself was like a lighthouse, radiating an enormous amount of energy, building like a static charge and there was the strange smell of sulphur and ozone permeating the room now.

  The young man stepped towards me with his hands ou
tstretched, palms upright in supplication, as if he didn’t wish to scare me, as if I might shy away from him like a skittish colt.

  ‘Saffron.’

  He said my name and the sound of his voice was even sweeter, more lyrical than the music I’d heard earlier, capable of drowning out the cacophony of voices in my head. There was no mockery, anger or boredom on his face now, instead his striking features held a deep concentration. I was acutely aware of the intense blue shade of his eyes. He was so close in proximity to me that I could have reached out to touch him and, as I gazed upon his exquisite looks, I noted a myriad of insignificant details at a single sweeping glance – the long dark curl of his eyelashes which made his vivid eye colour seem even more striking, the bluish-black colour of his hair as his longish fringe flopped down to partially cover his eyes, the pallor of his skin which was so much like porcelain. Up close, and if I had not known his origins, I might have attributed his ancestry to be from the Celts, possibly Irish from his accent – but knowing what I knew about the Nephilim, he simply looked like a dark angel, towering over me. I hadn’t before realised how tall he was – probably as tall as St. John and all solid muscle.

  ‘Saffron,’ he said again in a commanding tone, ‘listen to me. Listen to the sound of my voice.’

  He began to speak in tongues, in a foreign language that resonated somewhere in the deep recesses of my soul. I surrendered to the sound which was beautiful and dreadful, harmonious and discordant simultaneously.

  Something was happening. Strange resonances in the currents. Shifts in the landscape. Pulsing with possibility, the air thickened. The moonlight could no longer be seen amongst the silver-violet light pouring into the room.

  And then I felt it.

  Excruciating pain, so intense I could barely breathe. A pain beyond anything I could ever have imagined. I could barely put a name to such pain but for the thought that it was like the universe was labouring for a birth. Dark spots danced in front of my eyes but I still was able to see the tiny fissures beginning, threatening to rend apart the fabric of the world. Darkness seeped in amongst the silver-violet light.

  Dark and light. Two halves of a whole. One could not exist without the other.

  If I had enough voice or could have caught my breath, I would have cried out. But as it was, I could only remain silent, gasping for air, floundering in a pulsing sea of empty space.

  And as suddenly as it had begun, it was all over.

  Silence. Stillness.

  The room again swamped by the pale moonlight.

  I lay curled up in a foetal position on the floor, my head nestled in someone’s lap.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I moaned.

  ‘Hush,’ he told me, treating me as if I were a child. ‘Rest now.’

  If I had any strength left I would have told him where to go and shove it – I hated being treated with condescension; it rankled. I hated showing weakness. Of any kind. And I especially hated showing it in front of him. But I was utterly depleted and could only submit.

  When he opened his mouth again, he began to sing a haunting lullaby. This time, as he stroked the hair at my temple covered in fine beads of perspiration, the melody was so beautiful it made my heart ache ... but in a good way. Love, passion, excitement shot through me at the sound of his voice and the gentle touch of his hand, brighter than the glare of the magnesium powder used as a source of illumination in the early days of photography.

  But all too soon the lullaby ended, cut off sharply.

  Startled, I looked up at him.

  ‘What is it?’ I whispered, sitting up abruptly, suddenly afraid, but not knowing the reason for my anxiety.

  From somewhere in the distance, I could hear the pounding tread of footsteps.

  ‘Trouble,’ he stated sombrely, ‘for you.’

  There was no time to question him. He was already in motion.

  ‘Come with me.’ He levered himself to his feet and pulled me up in one smooth movement.

  I asked a little breathlessly, ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Not me. You.’

  I looked at him askance. Bloody hell! What was going on here?

  A hundred thoughts and questions leapt into my mind but I wasn’t given an opportunity to voice them as there was no ignoring the unequivocal tone of command in his voice.

  He walked towards the grand piano and pulled aside the Persian rug at its feet, revealing a trap door. Leaning down, he tugged on an antiquated iron ring level with the wooden panels. It swung open to the muffled groan of heavy iron hinges. Beneath the flooring of the tower was a narrow stone staircase much like the one I’d just climbed. I could only see the first few steps. The rest plunged downwards into a dark void.

  ‘No way! You’ve got to be kidding me! You’re out of your mind!’ I automatically stated, thinking of facing the darkness alone, remembering I’d left my backpack with the torch stowed in it behind a statue.

  He stiffened at my words, immediately bristling. ‘You don’t have a choice.’

  I had never suffered from claustrophobia or fear of the dark but even I was hesitant to step into the pool of suffocating midnight-black below the first few steps.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking! Are you completely nuts? You can’t expect me to go down there! Where the hell does it lead anyway?’ I asked in concern.

  ‘Out into the woods, just beyond the edge of the property.’

  I stared into his eyes, the power of the lapis lazuli only slightly reassuring me. Just like in the woods when Louis had attacked us, he genuinely seemed troubled for my safety.

  Having no choice, I decided to trust him.

  ‘Hurry!’ he said, looking back over his shoulder. ‘They cannot find you here.’

  ‘Who’s “they”?’ I demanded, following his gaze.

  Urgently nudging me forward, he commanded, ‘Just go!’

  I took one last look at his beautiful face as I gingerly placed my foot onto the top step. Then, turning away from him, I began to descend the ancient stone steps like Persephone descending into the Underworld.

  He waited until I had cleared the very last of the well-lit steps and was disappearing from view before closing the trap door behind me. My heart briefly spluttered as the blackness of the stairwell seemed to consume me, before I pulled myself together. I had never been afraid of the dark, unlike Sage, and as long as I didn’t come upon any creepy crawly things like rats or spiders, then I’d be just fine. I’d just have to see myself as Indiana Jones and hope there wasn’t any snakes too.

  But the going was excruciatingly slow.

  Placing my hand on the wall and tentatively reaching out with the toe of my boot before I placed a foot down on the worn stone step, I lumbered forward at a snail’s pace. The sounds above me receded into the distance with every step I took until I came to the bottom of the curving stairwell as it met up with a stone-walled corridor. The smell of damp earth and decayed vegetation was overpowering – like a crypt or cemetery no longer maintained.

  As I continued further into the tunnel like some heroine from a gothic horror film, I wondered what was happening to the young man I’d left behind. Yet my speculations were brought abruptly to an end when I almost walked into unyielding stone as the tunnel began to twist and turn this way and that. A fresh wave of unease spread through me at the thought that the only living soul who knew I was down here was now at the mercy of his sadistic brother who couldn’t wait to kill him. Fighting down a sharp flare of panic, I forced myself to concentrate on getting out of here alive. I would deal with the rest later.

  What seemed to be the passing of hours and just when I was sure I would go mad in the choking darkness and felt the urge to scream mindlessly with terror, the long corridor deadened to a solid wall of vaulted stone which was overgrown with moss and covered in silvery spider webs. But to my right was a slither of light from the pale glow of the moon and I realised that I would need to squirm on my belly to get out of the tunnel as it disappeared into what might have been m
istaken for a rabbit hole.

  Emerging from the hidden tunnel into the chill winter night, crawling on my hands and knees on the icy forest floor blanketed in snow, my clothes now caked with mud and sweat and saturated with melted snow, I felt more alive than I’d ever been. I felt exhilarated and energised. Beyond the copse of silver birch trees, I could just make out the tired lines of Satis House, again plunged into despair, a darkened ruin in the forest.

  I furtively scuttled to where I’d parked the car, trying to imprint the location of the tunnel’s entrance in my memory. Turning up the heater as soon as I’d started the engine, I looked at the clock on the dashboard which now read two forty seven. Gasping in surprise and disbelief, I was certain that my adventures had taken longer – instead I would be home before three in the morning and, with any luck, before my parents.

  Barely concentrating on the winding road home, my hands still shaking wildly from my experience, I managed to arrive back in one piece. The Manor House was in darkness. And empty save for Indy. I let myself in the back door and stripped off my soiled clothes, tossing them into the laundry before rushing up to the safe haven of my bedroom.

  It was only later after having taken a reviving hot shower and combed and blow dried my tangled hair as I was lying curled up in my own bed under the thick quilt cover that I thought about the events which had transpired at Satis House. As my eyelids grew heavy, my last thoughts as I drifted off to sleep were about ancient symbols, the beauty of the Nephilim, and the mystery of the Garden of Eden.

  It was only then that it occurred to me that Sage wasn’t the only one in the family who had curious abilities. And I wondered what it meant that there might be not just one but two of us ... two Wise Ones.