The Lost Word

by Traci Harding

  ‘Tonight?’ Karita came down from her cloud abruptly. ‘I feel like hell, Aldo. I’ve just travelled halfway around the world —’

  ‘So has he,’ Aldo pointed out. ‘So, around seven at the gallery should suit. Cheers, bella.’ He blew her a kiss and hung up.

  ‘I thought I was supposed to be calling the shots in this relationship.’ She clicked her phone closed and tossed it on to the lounge. ‘Well,’ Karita smiled as she thought about a large cash influx, ‘I suppose I should grab a nap then.’

  The unpacking could wait until tomorrow and her large, familiar bed was so inviting. ‘Home!’ She took a running jump to land belly down upon her mattress and gave a deep, satisfied sigh as she snuggled in for a snooze.

  Oh, but she was lovely — and home early too.

  Karita had the look of a Middle Eastern beauty: dark eyes, olive skin and a mass of long, thick, black hair. To some extent, the western culture into which she’d been born was reflected in her strong independent nature and her highly stylish dress sense. Her small, slender frame leant itself to body-hugging attire, which heightened her trendy image — ‘as skinny as a rake’ was the in thing.

  Did you miss me, Karita? Tristan asked as he floated alongside the sleeping female, who grinned in response to his question. Torture me with tales of the men you seduced in your travels. Did you meet anyone special this trip? Tristan hoped not; he hated the idea of a man moving into the house with them.

  Karita, still in a deep, blissful sleep, slowly shook her head. ‘No,’ she mumbled, ‘they all manage to bore me senseless before they get anywhere near me.’

  Tristan gave a delighted chuckle. Tell me all your news. The brothers have sent someone to acquire our picture, I hear?

  ‘Aldo isn’t sure the buyer is a Mason,’ Karita mumbled, unaware that she was having this conversation.

  Oh, he is a Mason, sure enough, Tristan warranted. And he’ll pay handsomely for the picture, so make sure you hold out for his best offer … a million, at least!

  Karita laughed out loud at this and nearly woke herself up.

  I know you think I’m a naive, old has-been, but I know what I’m talking about in this case.

  A knock on the door woke Karita.

  Surprisingly enough she felt rather chipper after her short rest. The knock on the door was repeated, and as she was still fully dressed, Karita moved to answer it. ‘Yeah … who is it?’

  No response.

  ‘Hello?’ Karita reached the door and hesitated to open it.

  ‘Are you Karita Torelle?’ a pleasant male voice responded.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ She looked through the peephole, but the fellow had his head down and she couldn’t see his face, only his shoulder-length light brown hair.

  ‘I’m interested in a picture you’ve painted,’ he explained without looking up. ‘The Lost Word.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Karita couldn’t believe it. ‘You’re the buyer?’ She opened the door at once, and although the man was not the jetsetting big spender she’d imagined, he seemed pleasant enough.

  ‘You don’t know me,’ he smiled, to reassure her. ‘My name is Logan de Scott.’

  De Scott! Tristan was shocked by the visitor’s claim. Could it be?

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Karita was thankful that he’d introduced himself, as she’d forgotten to ask the buyer’s name when she’d discussed the sale earlier with Aldo. ‘Won’t you come in?’

  Logan shook her hand and stepped inside, his eyes darting about the large house as if searching for something.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess.’ Karita referred to her luggage, still piled in the lounge room. ‘I’ve just got back from OS.’ Then she noted Logan was looking at her artworks and not the state of her house. ‘The picture you’re interested in is at the gallery,’ she advised Logan, but his eyes continued to roam the house.

  ‘This house has a history,’ Logan explained, his roving eyes still at last.

  He knows, Tristan feared.

  ‘Really?’ Karita wondered how a buyer from America would have knowledge of an obscure old house in Sydney, Australia? Now that she came to think about it, he didn’t sound American at all, but rather, as Australian as she was.

  ‘A rather infamous Mason once lived here,’ he advised.

  No, don’t tell her! Tristan begged in vain.

  ‘A Mason!’ Karita was shocked at hearing the secret organisation mentioned twice in one day. Still, if this guy was a Mason himself, then that might explain his knowledge of the house. ‘How do you know this, Mr de Scott?’

  He smiled, warily. ‘The man in question was my great-grandfather, Tristan de Scott.’

  So … finally someone in my family will admit that I existed. Tristan was angry at being suddenly confronted by a long-lost great-grandson.

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Karita could hardly believe his claim. ‘What a coincidence?’

  Logan’s smile, although well intentioned, seemed to be mocking her somehow; or maybe ‘testing her’ was a more accurate description. ‘My grandfather claimed to be the channel for a highly evolved planetary Master.’ He paused to gauge her reaction to the news.

  Karita cringed, not knowing how to respond. ‘I had an aunt who thought she was Cleopatra,’ she commented sympathetically and Logan began to laugh.

  ‘The thing is,’ he became serious again, ‘it was believed that my great-grandfather was a fraud and that the secret knowledge he claimed to channel through this spirit was actually acquired from a very old, very valuable and very sought-after text … which may still be concealed in this very house.’

  Logan took a step toward Karita, and the intense expression on his face caused a chill down her spine. A loud crash in her bedroom gave Karita an excuse to back away from the man. ‘Probably the damn cat,’ she explained, even though she didn’t have a cat, and ran quickly down the hall.

  In her bedroom she took deep breaths to recover from the scare. Maybe she’d just imagined that expression on his face?

  She noted a whole pile of things had been swept from her dressing table on to the wooden chair that sat in front of it; she didn’t understand how this had happened and right now she didn’t much care.

  Don’t trust him, Karita, Tristan warned. Call the police.

  ‘He’s creepy.’ She decided she didn’t like being alone with Logan. ‘I’ll just tell him to meet me at the gallery to discuss this.’

  Karita roused her courage to confront her guest once more and was spooked to find that he’d already departed.

  ‘Too weird,’ she decided, having checked all the rooms and closets.

  I never thought they’d link you to me. Tristan regretted inspiring this girl with his knowledge. If they believe you have possession of the lost doctrine, as they believed I did, then you are in great danger. He cursed his desire to take revenge on the Masons and mock them from beyond the grave. He’d hoped that the order would recognise this woman for the exceptional channel she was and be forced to humble themselves before her and pay her to acquire the knowledge they sought. I should have known they’d suspect fraud before the simple truth.

  3. The Oldest Tongue

  Via Enoch, Hermes, Solomon and Hiram,

  a sacred language was taught to man.

  Its key word, the cause of a hundred wars,

  was hidden far from any shore.

  The ancient tongue passed through the ages

  all the way down to modern sages.

  This text was the key to find the expression,

  that would grant mankind power over heaven.

  Karita wasn’t that keen about meeting Logan again, but as Aldo was expecting her, she made herself presentable and drove down to the gallery. It felt wonderful to be driving her own car; she’d really missed her little MGB when she was overseas.

  The gallery was in the inner city suburb of Paddington and had private off-street parking. Beside Aldo’s black SAAB was parked a white stretch limousine, and try as she might, Karita just
couldn’t imagine Logan de Scott climbing out of the luxurious vehicle.

  Inside the gallery, Karita found Aldo speaking with a very distinguished-looking gentleman, who was much more the buyer she had imagined. When Aldo had finished hugging her, he turned and introduced Karita to Preston Molay, the potential buyer.

  Although Karita was relieved not to be dealing with Logan de Scott, she could feel the heat of her fear burning her up. What business had Logan de Scott had at her house today, if he was not the buyer? How did he know so much about her? And she’d been stupid enough to invite him into her house!

  With these thoughts racing through her mind she accepted a cold glass of bubbly from Aldo and drank a toast to good business. The dealer then excused himself and went to his office to organise some paperwork, leaving Karita to entertain their client.

  ‘So, I hear you are fond of Masonic symbolism, Mr Molay.’ Karita made conversation, trying to ignore the lecture she was still giving herself in her head.

  The blond-haired, blue-eyed businessman smiled and explained: ‘Symbolism is the language of the cosmos, enabling the soul-mind to communicate with its deepest essence. Masonic symbolism, in its highest forms, is spiritual architecture.’

  Molay was just Karita’s type: rich, intelligent and charming. ‘I feel I touch my soul when I paint,’ she admitted, and then glanced at the painting that Molay was here to buy. ‘So you see Masonic symbolism in this piece?’

  Molay laughed as if Karita was making a joke.

  ‘I’m serious. I know nothing about Masonry, thus —’

  ‘Nothing at all?’ Preston stopped laughing.

  ‘Well, how would I?’ she reasoned. ‘It’s boys only, isn’t it? I mean, men only,’ she corrected, in case her comment caused offence, but this only seemed to make her dig more obvious.

  ‘There are female chapters of the Masons too,’ he informed her, smiling. ‘I believe the organisation is called the Eastern Star.’

  ‘Never heard of them.’ Karita shrugged apologetically. ‘But then, I’ve never been one for organisations. In my personal experience, individual people are reasonable and open-minded, but put them in an organisation and they become mindless sheep.’

  Preston nodded, obviously seeing her point but not necessarily agreeing with it. ‘But one man alone can accomplish very little. If he forms associations with other like-minded souls then they can achieve much more by pooling their resources.’

  ‘They can achieve more good,’ Karita granted, ‘or more damage. And a group of people hellbent on causing damage is much harder to reason with than just one man.’

  Preston appeared not to know what to make of her argument. ‘Well, this is all very astounding,’ he commented, as he strolled closer to the painting in question, ‘for this piece is entirely composed of Masonic symbolism and I’d assumed that that was completely premeditated on your behalf.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint.’ Karita followed him. ‘Does this information detract from the appeal of the painting?’

  ‘No,’ he was fast to reassure her, ‘not at all. But it does make this work something of a puzzle.’

  ‘How so?’ Karita was flattered by the statement and intrigued. ‘What is it you see in there, Mr Molay?’

  He was looking at her as if unsure whether she was testing him, lying to him or being entirely honest. Still, he resolved to smile, and stepped up to the painting to explain. ‘These two pillars covered in hieroglyphs that extend up both sides of the work, one of marble, one of brass … these are the Pillars of Enoch. On these sentinels are inscribed the history of creation, the principles of the arts and sciences, the doctrine of Freemasonry. These pillars were described by Soloman in ancient times, but sometime in the late sixteenth century an unknown artist and scribe drew a picture of these columns and added a curious inscription that gave the secret location of a precious treasure deposited in a subterranean vault.’

  ‘What precious treasure?’ Karita took the bait.

  ‘This is unknown, although in an accompanying text that was uncovered with this sixteenth-century work, it was said that a triangular plate of gold, on which was inscribed the ineffable name of God, the secret word of creation, would be needed to unlock the treasure.’

  Karita gave a nervous laugh. He was deadly serious, but how could he be? ‘These hieroglyphs, as you call them, are just a bunch of shapes, lines, dots and dashes that I made up.’ She grinned, feeling he was pulling her leg. ‘I went out of my way to ensure they didn’t look like any ancient glyphs I’ve come across. You’re not going to tell me you can read my etchings … are you?’

  Preston raised both brows at the challenge and moved closer to the work. ‘The forms we see in the physical are but crystallised sound,’ he read slowly, taking time to access all the glyphs carefully. ‘Complete control of future action … but is hindered —’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ Karita pointed out.

  ‘Well, I can only see approximately one third of the column in your two-dimensional picture?’ Preston suggested. ‘Ever thought of doing sculpture?’ He was only half joking. ‘You see, it was also prophesied by this unknown sixteenth-century artist that his work depicted two engraved columns that had been hidden somewhere to be found at a later date by one enlightened enough to put the information contained thereon to good use. But, the columns have never been found, only a two-dimensional painting that discloses part of the text needed to find the treasure. Thus, to find the treasure, one needs to find these columns in order to find the triangular plate that will unlock the treasure and to discover the secret location of the treasure.’

  ‘You’re not kidding, are you?’ Karita didn’t know what to think.

  Preston folded his arms, highly amused. ‘And you’re not kidding either. You really don’t know anything about the significance of this piece?’

  ‘No,’ Karita said in all seriousness before her nervous smile returned. ‘For me it was just a flight of fancy.’

  Aldo was heard suppressing a delighted chuckle in the background, and both Karita and Preston looked to find the dealer had returned. ‘Shall we talk money, people?’

  Karita’s first assessment of how she felt when she woke the next morning was — terrible! She’d drunk way too much champagne last night and she didn’t even remember getting home. She was not usually a heavy drinker, but then it wasn’t every day that one became a millionaire, or that one was pursued by one.

  Preston Molay had turned out to be way too charming and she vaguely recollected being treated to more champagne in the back of his limousine. He must have dropped me home? That’s right!

  ‘He asked me to lunch!’ Karita’s excitement overtook her headache and she smiled broadly, rolling on to her back to check her bedside clock for the time. She found it was missing; the whole table had been knocked over. ‘Hold on.’ She noted the upheaval around her. ‘Is this home?’

  Yes, this was her room. Karita sat up to have a better look around. These were her things, but — ‘What the hell happened?’ It looked as if a cyclone had ripped through every nook and cranny in her room. ‘Please don’t tell me the entire house looks this way.’ Karita reluctantly dragged herself up and out into the hall to take a look.

  ‘Shit!’ was all she could say as there wasn’t an item that had been left unturned. Then she noted all her electronic equipment was lying about in a mess. All her paintings had been ripped from the walls, but none had been stolen. ‘It doesn’t look like they took anything?’

  Logan came back looking for the lost texts, Tristan advised her, sorry that he’d been unable to stop the intrusion, although he had managed to scare his great-grandson off before Logan found the precious treasure Tristan guarded. They didn’t find it a hundred years ago when they tortured me to death and they won’t find it now.

  Karita gasped suddenly as she recollected Logan’s words from the day before. ‘A very old, valuable, sought-after text, which may still be concealed in this house! Damn it!’ She stomped
her foot, angered. ‘I should have seen this coming. Damn.’ She stomped her foot again when she realised she couldn’t even remember if the place was like this when she staggered in last night. ‘Ouch.’ The impact of her stomping finally registered in her brain and her head began to throb. ‘Fine champagne never usually gives me a hangover.’ Still, her head was thumping and she felt urged to make haste to the bathroom; she was going to throw up.

  Once the unpleasantness was over, Karita noted from her reflection in the mirror that she was still dressed in the clothes that she’d worn to the gallery. She tried to remember getting home last night, but the brain strain made her feel queasy again. The last thing she remembered was drinking in the limo. The thought of booze was enough — she was sick again.

  ‘So,’ Karita indignantly pulled herself up from driving the porcelain bus, ‘this is how it feels to be a millionaire.’

  I’m sorry. Tristan considered his get-rich scheme for Karita had backfired rather badly, and instead of making her happy, as he’d wished, he’d placed her in grave danger. I suspect you were drugged.

  ‘Karita?’

  Oh, my God! The distinctive accent of Preston Molay was enough to send Karita into another mild panic.

  ‘Miss Torelle! Are you all right?’ He sounded concerned, so she thought she ought to answer him.

  ‘I’ll be right out, Preston!’ They had got to a first name basis by the end of the evening.

  ‘Gee, I like what you’ve done with your place,’ he commented in a far calmer tone.

  ‘You like it?’ Karita desperately scrubbed her face clean. ‘It’s called post-espionage.’ She splashed her face with cool water and reached for the towel and her toothbrush.

  ‘What got stolen?’

  Karita scrubbed furiously and spat. ‘Nothing that I can see.’ She rinsed her mouth, wiped her face and grabbed for her bathrobe.

  ‘I told you I should have come in last night,’ he stated, playfully.