by D B Nielsen
‘Safie!’ Mum exclaimed in horror, concern lighting her amber coloured eyes, a mirror of my sister’s. Not giving me time to reply, she bombarded me with questions. ‘What’s going on? Why is Indy growling? What do you think you’re doing out of bed? And why are all the windows wide open?’
Sage’s mouth was hanging open, her eyes wide, as shock filled her face. She simply stared at me, unable to voice a word.
I must have looked a sight as I stood, adrift, in the middle of the bedroom with the windows fully open and the heavy-textured, cream coloured curtains billowing in the chill winter wind. I had no remembrance of having opened them and was probably lucky that I hadn’t fallen through one of the open windows onto the paved flagstones below. I was equally lucky with the weather – for early January, it was the mildest of days we’d had so far this season, coming after a week or more of heavy snowfall in mid-December.
‘I thought I’d let in a little fresh air,’ I murmured in answer to my mother’s last question. Even to my own ears, the excuse sounded lame, and I could see Sage wince out of the corner of my eye.
‘A little fresh air is fine, a tornado is not! It’s freezing outside! Have you no sense? Especially when you might be coming down with the flu!’ Mum stated, her tone conveying concern through her anger, as she briskly went about the business of shutting all the windows in the room and directing me back into bed.
At first I wondered what she was talking about and then I recalled instructing my sister to inform my parents that I’d felt the onset of flu in order to bail out on last night’s Akitu celebrations at the British Museum so that I could visit Satis House. Now I had to keep up the pretence. This wasn’t too difficult to maintain as I was feeling decidedly queasy after being assaulted by the voice in my head, even though the migraine had abated as rapidly as it had arrived, so I allowed my mother’s ministrations which brought back the comfort of childhood.
‘What happened?’ Sage whispered under her breath as I climbed under the bedcovers after putting my pyjamas back on.
I weakly gestured to the sketchpad lying on top of the quilt which Sage retrieved before it slid off the bed. Glancing at the pencilled sketch of the entrance hall of Satis House, she raised an eyebrow in my direction, signalling her confusion. I gave a brief flick of my eyes to the left and received a nod in return. Our cryptic communication had been developed over years of sisterhood, the language of twins. I would explain all later.
‘Oh! How lovely, Safie!’ Mum exclaimed as she righted my quilt, throwing a glance over Sage’s shoulder. ‘Your technique has really improved.’
Before I had an opportunity to reply, Sage stated with typical honesty, ‘It’s not Fi’s work. The sketchpad belongs to ... a neighbour. He accidentally left it behind in the woods. Fi is going to return it to him next time she sees him ... aren’t you, Fi?’
I nodded, averting my eyes in case Mum saw my simmering resentment at Sage’s pronouncement. She was so bossy, just because she was the eldest.
‘Well, he’s quite good, isn’t he?’ Mum said, taking the sketchpad from Sage’s weak hold to continue her commentary upon the artist’s style and technique. I barely paid attention until, when she’d finally finished critiquing his work, she suggested enthusiastically, ‘Maybe we should go and pay our neighbours a visit, seeing that we’re new in the area. It might be nice to make their acquaintance.’
My eyes flew up to my sister’s face in alarm. The last place I would ever bring our mother was Satis House – it would be like taking her to Madame Tussauds’ Wax Museum and finding that all the wax dummies had come alive or, worse still, like in some B-grade horror film, finding that the human victims were on display.
Sage must have had the same idea as she attempted to distract Mum from this notion. ‘Well, we’re not likely to be visiting any time soon, especially if Fi is ill. Maybe we should make her some homemade chicken soup? It’ll help speed up her recovery.’
‘You know,’ Mum smiled at her and, unaware that I had vowed never to eat soup again, turned to me with, ‘that’s a great idea! It’ll fix you up in no time.’
I glared at Sage from across the room, sending her a look that proclaimed my intention of payback, as she slowly manoeuvred Mum out, tossing the sketchpad onto my desk in the process. As they exited my bedroom followed by an excited Indy, I lay back upon the pillows and wondered at a strange phenomenon – why it was the case that this time I could fully understand the words spoken in my trance-like state ... and whether it had anything at all to do with my visit to Satis House or my newly-formed connection with its enigmatic caretaker.
ASTRAL BODIES
CHAPTER FIVE
Ironically, my lie caught up with me and I ended up spending almost a week in bed with the flu, feeling very sorry for myself especially as, forced to take in only liquids due to my sore throat, I was on a diet of homemade soup, honey and lemon tea, and freshly-squeezed orange juice – reminding me of my illness over eighteen months ago, requiring strict dietary supervision, which I really preferred to forget. I spent the hours mostly sleeping or sketching when I felt up to it. Otherwise, I watched the day dwindle into night while the cream coloured walls of my bedroom went slowly from slate-grey to dull gold to black, listening to the rumblings of my family at the other end of the house or downstairs; voices spiralling away until, at last, the light had completely gone and in the darkness the familiar sounds reminded me of some faraway music. When I finally recovered, it was like stepping out, dazed, from a dream.
Arising terribly early one morning to find that finally I didn’t feel nauseous or dizzy and wasn’t sniffling, I roamed the Manor House like a sleepwalker, punch drunk with a fatigue borne of idleness and stunned by the beauty of the creeping, pale morning light that turned the silver birch trees which outlined the edge of the forest into cool, slim ghosts, spellbound in the hazy distance outside the kitchen window. Wanting to capture the haunting nature of the landscape on film, I quietly retrieved my camera after taking my first shower in days and feeling more like my old self – now clean and refreshed – I snuck out the back door intending on returning before my mother awoke to find me gone.
I could almost taste the crisp, cold morning air which immediately brought the blush to my cheeks with its stinging bite as I closed the back door quietly behind me. The sky was still hanging darkly overhead but the distant horizon was touched with a pale pink stain blending seamlessly into the silvery-violet that heralded the winter dawn. I was arrested by the difference in light. The light in the southern hemisphere seemed much brighter, sometimes almost harsh, compared to the muted light of the English countryside. Surrounding the Manor House in the wintertime, the warm mellow honeyed sandstone and flagstones drank the light of the dawn and dusk, illuminating the landscape like a Constable painting. I was captivated by the light. And I intended to capture it on film.
Photography was the one thing that truly interested me. The one thing that I could claim was my own, and I was really good at. As much as I wanted to study Art History at Oxford, I knew I’d never want to be an artist like Mum. Though I’d inherited some of her astonishing artistic ability, I felt like a brilliant forger, which was way too depressing. I often thought that, technically, forgeries were even better than the original pieces produced but lacked the true genius or passion of the artist, and paled in comparison to what it was trying to imitate. I really didn’t want to be compared by the art world to my mother, the famous Rose Wilde-Woods. Didn’t want to be seen to imitate her. After having lived in the shadow of my gifted twin sister all my life, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to deal with it. It would be far, far worse. If, instead, I could achieve Mum’s success but with my photography, it’d be awesome.
In the shimmering paleness that slowly illuminated the woodlands in front of me, the shadows that had lurked there overnight vaporised into nothingness. I trudged across the expanse of open lawn, the snow patchy from the milder weather of late, my boots sinking into the mud making a sucking sound wit
h every step. I clicked off several shots of the ghostly line of birch trees, pale dawn light edging the frost on the branches with silver and gold and touching the outlines of terracotta pots and statuary figures. I stopped still to view the moon still clearly hanging in the thin, clear sky, its shape an apparition; half exposed, half hidden. If I were superstitious, I may have seen it as an omen, but I wasn’t, so it held little meaning for me.
Mesmerised by the beauty of the light, I could have stood there till the sun was fully up, but the echoing sound of a twig snapping loudly in the dense overgrowth of the forest caught my attention. Shoving my cold hands into the pockets of my overcoat to warm them after turning up the collar, I moved forward to the edge of the line of skeletal birch trees, my camera swinging jauntily where it hung from my neck. Some instinct warned me not to set foot beyond the line where the domestic prettiness of the garden met the wilderness of the woods, so I waited pensively, not really knowing what for. To the left of me the patches of snow on the ground sparkled brightly, to the right the trees blurred together in shadow. I turned back to face the house, the pruned rose bushes in the garden arbour appeared as cadaverous twigs and the great oak tree that bordered the driveway was etched with unearthly clarity against the pale sky – but I didn’t take any pictures, content to stand still and watch as my breath steamed and dissipated in the nippy early morning air.
It was only then that I became aware of being watched. The fine hairs on my neck and arms raised in response as I turned back to the shadowed line of silver birch trees on my right to find at their foot, leaning against one slender form so that their bodies merged, the imposing silhouette of a human figure.
I froze.
The figure detached itself from the trunk of the birch tree and came towards me with such graceful movements it was almost as if it glided forward like a skater on ice.
A long, slow second ticked past as my mind raced to explain his presence at the edge of my garden, virtually standing out in the open, when in all the time I had known him he had been the most reclusive of individuals, never venturing out beyond the camouflage that nature provided.
‘What are you doing here? Are you dropping off my backpack or something? Or were you concerned about my health, seeing like it’s been over a week? Or did you just happen to be in the neighbourhood and think that maybe you’d check up on that daft bird who likes to hang out with Nephilim?’ I demanded sarcastically. Being so startled by his appearance made me sound more than a little rude, placing me on the defensive, but he didn’t seem to notice.
‘I live in the neighbourhood,’ the young man from Satis House stated in a mellifluous voice, which seemed to make the icicles hanging from the branches and eaves tinkle in response.
‘What? Is that all? So you just happened to be passing by and thought you’d drop round? Are you crazy? Are all Nephilim like psychopaths or something?’ My tone had not improved and I didn’t know why I was being so aggressive towards him when he’d never done anything to harm me, even remotely.
‘I’ve been waiting for you to show. I expected you to return to Satis House, perhaps even with your friends, after New Year’s Eve,’ he said simply, as his lapis lazuli coloured eyes held mine with an intensity from which I couldn’t look away.
I had no opportunity to dissemble under his candid gaze and knew that he assumed that I had deliberately withheld the bizarre events at Satis House from my sister and St. John. This wasn’t exactly the case, as my mind had been in turmoil when I’d returned home and I had convinced myself that I had been under some spell, cast into immobility. I’d tried to tell Sage once, and then got distracted by her engagement. Later, in my sickened state, I was almost able to persuade myself that I had imagined it – that I had been sleepwalking, and that in my sleep I had dreamt that I had heard a musical, unintelligible message. But I knew it was real. And though the notes were no longer visible, I could still hear his haunting performance whenever I cared to listen.
He remained unblinking while all the while my thoughts ran to and fro. Again I was struck by his statuesque beauty – such pale skin, such dark hair – and my heartbeat faltered beneath his unnerving bright blue stare. I broke eye contact first with an enormous effort, tearing my gaze away and averting my eyes from his heavenly form.
‘You saved my sister that day in the woods,’ I replied ambivalently, fiddling nervously with my camera lens. ‘I guess I should thank you.’
I felt him stiffen beside me before I heard him question incredulously, ‘You think that I was trying to save your sister?’
Shocked, my eyes flew up to his face, seeing the mix of disbelief and tension written there, a mirror of my own.
‘Weren’t you?’ I whispered.
He merely shrugged in response, averting his gaze. His dark hair flopped into his eyes, briefly obscuring them from my view, as if he was avoiding answering me.
Again I repeated, more urgently this time, ‘Weren’t you?’
He looked at me directly then, seeming to assess how much he could trust me and what to reveal to me. Some decision must have been made because his stance changed infinitesimally as if yielding like a branch to the force of the wind.
Kingfisher blue eyes met mine as he said cryptically, ‘Things are not always what they seem.’
I sensed that he was trying to tell me something important so, in a supreme effort of willpower, I remained quiet – which was difficult for me at the best of times – silencing the hundreds of questions crowding my mind, wanting to be voiced.
He sighed in exasperation.
‘You and your sister are more deeply involved than either of you realise. Such ignorance could land you in danger. You need protecting,’ he stated solemnly as if making me a vow or pledging allegiance to a cause and, slowly, as if he was fearful of scaring me, reached out across the distance between us to brush the calloused pad of his right thumb over the high plane of my cheek. Its roughened texture made me quiver in sensitive response and I almost sighed as I closed my eyes upon his hypnotic blue gaze. Beneath the back of my lids, I saw dancing purple and orange spots and only opened my eyes again to his commanding voice, telling me to look up.
‘Open your eyes. Look around you.’
I did as he instructed and gasped aloud in wonder.
The world had shifted. And I had fallen out of time.
We stood now on a barren plain, a desert of white sand stretching for miles in all directions. Nothing broke the monotony of its undulations as it disappeared into infinity. The sky overhead had turned a midnight blue, peppered with the silvery sparkle of the clusters of hundreds of stars, reflecting the sparkling quartz of the silvery-white sand beneath. Looking up, I could identify the constellation Taurus with its bright red giant, the leading star in this constellation hanging in the night sky, but it had never appeared so bright or seemed so close before. Taurus and the Southern Cross were the only two constellations that I knew with any certainty – the first because it was my horoscope sign and the second because we had lived for a while in Australia.
‘The Pleiades,’ I whispered to myself, calling the constellation by its other name.
The Pleiades were a galactic cluster of over four hundred stars with five to seven of these visible to the naked eye as part of the constellation Taurus.
‘Yes,’ the young man facing me agreed, pointing to where the stars winked and twinkled at us, ‘The Pleiades. From as far back as the Old Babylonian period, the symbol of the Pleiades has always been important. Some historians believe that the symbol of the seven evolved from the Babylonians who used seven pebbles or inscribed stones to divine the fate of individuals by casting lots. You may even know from your father of the seven stars forming the rosette-star of Ishtar which could be seen on the famous Ishtar Gate as travellers entered Babylon. The seven dots in the night sky are known as “sibittu” or the “group of seven”.’ He paused then to face me, his expression unfathomable. ‘We have been waiting for you since the Fall of the Grigori.’
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br /> I looked at him in confusion. ‘I don’t understand. “We”? Who’s we? Waiting for me? What do you mean?’
He nodded sagely, his intense eyes boring into mine. ‘We’ve been waiting for you and your sister for centuries, almost since the beginning of time. You are part of the seven. The Wise Ones. Daughters of Ishtar. Born under the sign of the bull. You are to lead us home. It is ordained.’
Again I protested, ‘What? But how? When?’
He continued to speak as if my interruption was of little consequence. ‘It is written. “Who made the Pleiades and Orion? Who turns deep darkness into dawn and darkens day into night? Has anyone ever shown you the Gates that guard the dark world of the dead? Do you know where the light comes from or what the source of darkness is? Can you show them how far to go or send them back again? I am sure you can because you are so old and were there when the world was made.”’
I shuddered at his prophetic words, experiencing a dreadful feeling of déjà vu, especially when he mentioned the gates that guarded the dark world of the dead, which recalled for me the strange angry female voice I’d heard in my head, demanding for the gates to be opened to her.
‘But what has this to do with me? How can I lead you home? I don’t even know where that is!’ I voiced uncertainly, once more gazing up at the stars shining above our heads which mockingly winked and glittered at me from their lofty height.
‘Sailors and navigators used the position of the stars and the planets, the cycles of the sun and the moon in their orbit to guide them to their destination. The astral interpretation of the Pleiades reflects the Creator’s rule within the cosmos. Seven lampstands with seven lights on top of each will navigate your way. But these will be lit only at night. Like the stars, the lights will shine from dusk to dawn. The seven-spouted lamps form a rosette – the star of Ishtar. Daughter of Ishtar, the Pleiades will guide you on your quest to find the missing piece of the map. Search for the Scroll – it is your destiny.’
