The Map

by T. S. Learner

  ‘I’ve heard there’s a classified file on Tyson, one that might contain real evidence of his involvement in the massacre,’ Jacob interjected.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Who is this guy? How come he’s so well informed? How much does he really know about me? August’s sense of the clandestine began to prickle. ‘Befriend everyone, trust no one’ – it was one of the first things they’d taught him in training for espionage work. Jacob met his gaze openly and did not flinch.

  ‘There are people who dislike him within the CIA, and besides,’ said Jacob, grinning cheekily, ‘not everyone disapproves of my covert activities.’

  August studied the slight youth before him, then, taking a leap of faith, decided to trust him. ‘I found mention of the black op and an operative codename Jester in a file in the American Embassy,’ August said, slowly and clearly. ‘The only way the CIA would have anything is if they’ve been tracking him since the war. But I have contacts within MI5.’

  ‘So does Tyson,’ Jacob added. ‘I have evidence the British bribed some of Franco’s generals to dissuade them from joining forces with Hitler during the Second World War. There was mention of a US operative with fluent Spanish who was in with a couple of Franco’s generals, codename Magus.’

  ‘So Magus was his English codename?’ August said, before Izarra interjected.

  ‘And you think the Jester, Der Pfarrer and Magus are all the same man?’ She leaned forward.

  ‘Possibly. Tyson played everyone off against each other; I suspect it made him feel powerful, superior. August, if you really want to trap him, you have to have something he wants. Politics and espionage is only the top game; there’s another game Tyson is playing on an occult level – that’s the one he really cares about.’

  August glanced over at Izarra and she nodded almost imperceptibly. He stood. ‘I have something I have to show you.’

  19

  The photographs of the two mazes as well as the chronicle were spread on the table like pieces of an obscure puzzle. The other two watched in silence as August laid out the pages of his transcription of Shimon Ruiz de Luna’s chronicle.

  ‘The text is allegorical. It is impossible to work out what the mazes mean, which I’m beginning to think Shimon had built at each location as a means to both conceal and represent, like a secret code. I haven’t had time yet to translate all the chronicle but I know there are others to explore and I suspect the answer will appear when images of them are put together.’

  Jacob picked up the chronicle reverently. Lifting it to his face, he sniffed at the leather, then caressed the embossed cover, then murmured a blessing in Hebrew. Feeling as if he were intruding, August looked away for a moment.

  ‘Amazing to think this is over three hundred years old,’ Jacob commented, handing back the book.

  ‘Written in 1609, four years before Shimon’s execution, but he was following a far older book.’ August wrapped it carefully up in the canvas bag.

  ‘Hitler managed to burn more of our history in twelve years than all the other zealots from the time of the Romans, and yet this little diary survived.’

  Izarra smiled. ‘My family have been the guardians of the chronicle since Shimon Ruiz de Luna entrusted it to his Basque wife. It has not once fallen into hostile hands.’

  ‘On behalf of my people I thank you,’ said Jacob and he gave a little bow, which delighted Izarra. Cohen turned back to August’s transcribed notes. ‘You know, in my religion a book – when it contains the name of God – is never destroyed, it is always buried like a man would be. This chronicle would be considered holy. As for the mazes, the designs are of the Tree of the Sephiroth, more commonly known as the Tree of Life. In kabbalistic and occult terms, this is literally a depiction of the map of creation. Both kabbalists and members of the occult believe spiritual beings can descend the tree to Earth just as human beings in an advanced state of meditation can zigzag up the tree to the top sephirot Kether and move into a state of enlightenment.’

  ‘So I believe, but why make a physical manifestation of a spiritual map?’

  ‘Like you suggested, perhaps because it’s the perfect code, or messenger.’ Jacob pointed to the top sephirot in the photograph of the Avignon maze then wrote a Hebrew letter down – ‘Kether’ – ‘Crown’. ‘This is a spiritual attribute above consciousness.’ He pointed to the next one to the right and wrote the Hebrew name down beside it.

  ‘This is “Chokmah”, “Wisdom”. This is also considered to be a spiritual state that floats above consciousness. Then we move down the tree into the next plane, which is considered conscious intellect. Here we have Binah, Understanding; and Chesed, Kindness; Geburah, Severity; and finally Tiphareth, Beauty. The lowest four sephiroth are considered to be conscious emotions – Netzach, Victory; Hod, Splendour; Yesod, Foundation; and finally Malkuth, Kingdom, from which all action springs. The sephiroth themselves are like spiritual attributes through which God, in Jewish mysticism known as Ein Sof – ‘The Infinite’ – reveals himself as he continues to create the physical and higher metaphysical realms or worlds.’

  ‘How do you know so much?’ Izarra asked.

  ‘My opa, my grandfather, insisted I knew the basics of the Tree of Life, just as his father had before him. Hebrew was my first language back in Germany.’

  ‘You’re German?’

  ‘I was sent to England in 1938 on the Kindertransport. I was nine. I never saw my parents again. They perished, along with my grandfather, in the camps.’ To August and Izarra’s surprise, Jacob’s voice now dropped into a thick Berlin accent. ‘“Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stärker.”’ Nietzsche, somebody else my grandfather admired. Life has made me a chameleon; it was the only way to survive.’

  ‘Now I understand why you might be so driven to hunt down Nazis,’ Izarra observed, quietly.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m a persistent sod and it keeps me off the streets, London streets, that is,’ Jacob cracked back, reverting to the deceptively cheerful cockney façade. He picked up the photograph of the Basque maze. ‘It’s interesting that only the Malkuth is planted in this one, the first Shimon mentions, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Because that suggests by entering the first maze you have begun something – brought into action – intentionally or otherwise, a journey you cannot stop. This could be spiritual, psychological or physical. The beginning of an unravelling.’ Jacob looked over at August and August had the uncanny feeling that Jacob could read a lot more of his psychology than he was comfortable with. Averting his gaze, he glanced at the photograph of the first maze. The planted sephirot seemed to look back at him defiantly. Was that unravelling you, Charlie? Waiting for me behind that wall of hedgerow? What were you trying to tell me? That I can’t deny you any longer?

  ‘But I’m afraid I can’t help you with the symbolism of the herbs, I know nothing about nature.’ Jacob’s voice brought him back to the cellar.

  ‘There are the magical aspects of the Tree of Life. Didn’t Crowley use it in his rituals?’ August asked, remembering something he’d read once.

  ‘I have heard this, but all that stuff is mumbo-jumbo to me. But I can see why Tyson would be obsessed with the chronicle.’

  ‘What I don’t understand is why these particular mazes are mentioned in the chronicle with only a single sephirot planted each time?’

  ‘The paths you take to reach the Kether are as significant as the sephiroth themselves, more so,’ Jacob replied. ‘It could be that Shimon is indicating that he has discovered the most direct path possible to Ein Sof. The Hebrew translation is ‘without end’ – this is a manifestation of God, a state of grace, to be one with the Infinite. This could be another key to Elazar ibn Yehuda’s great treasure.’

  ‘So Shimon was sending a hidden directive on several levels: transcendental, literal and physical. Like a secret map that if you find it, then follow it, you will go on a spiritual odyssey that eventually leads to a material treasure,’ August elaborated.


  ‘How do you know the treasure is material? From what you’ve told me I’m guessing Elazar ibn Yehuda was a great philosopher and most probably a magician in the classical kabbalist sense as well as a great physic. This treasure of his could very well be metaphysical or even a metaphor of some sort,’ Jacob suggested.

  August stared down at the chronicle, recounting Shimon’s words in his mind, the way the Spaniard had described how the treasure would be liberating for mankind in some way, how Shimon’s father had emphasised to his son that it could save the family. It hadn’t sounded like the description of something ethereal or abstract; it had sounded solid, something material you could offer a king. The idea caught at his imagination like a hook – had that been the reason Shimon had gone to England? A perilous trip for both a Jew and a Spaniard. The court account had mentioned Shimon demanded an audience with King James, that he had something to offer the king. Surely such a treasure would be something King James would have been able to use in some fashion – not an abstract philosophy or some nebulous spiritual insight, but a powerful tool.

  ‘No, I don’t think it’s a metaphor. It’s real. Real and potent enough for Shimon Ruiz de Luna to endanger both his wife and his own life. Real enough for Tyson to kill for. There has to be something else about the mazes, something behind the reason he chose the Tree of Life as a design.’ Then August remembered the curious Hebrew word inscribed over Brother Dominic Baptise’s memorial in the crypt of Saint-Germaindes-Prés, the young monk who had mysteriously vanished researching a clue left by the same philosopher-explorer Shimon Ruiz de Luna had been inspired by. He looked at Jacob.

  ‘Does the word “Da’ath” mean anything to you?’

  Jacob studied the photographs, frowning as he concentrated. ‘Da’ath?’

  ‘I believe the translation is “knowledge”.’

  Jacob clapped his hands in excitement. ‘You’re right. Opa did tell me about Da’ath. It’s a hidden sphere – like another sephirot, but invisible.’

  Eagerly, Jacob started drawing on a piece of paper, sketching out a rough picture of the Tree of Life. Under the top sephirot Kether he drew another circle. August watched fascinated.

  ‘Da’ath is the hidden sephirot that floats in a whole metaphysical realm of its own. It has huge significance in the occult,’ Jacob concluded, triumphantly. He then wrote the Hebrew for the sephirot underneath. August recognised it instantly. A drum of intense excitement began beating in the pit of his stomach. ‘I have seen this before, written on a memorial plaque for a monk who disappeared researching the same maze.’

  ‘Dominic Baptise? He really did disappear?’ Izarra was almost whispering. August nodded. Jacob leaned forward and rested his hand on August’s arm.

  ‘August, you don’t have to continue on the physic’s journey. There’s no shame in stopping now.’

  ‘I can’t stop, I don’t want to stop.’ He picked up the two photographs of the mazes and held them up to the lamplight. ‘Besides, there’s no evidence Da’ath exists in these mazes.’

  ‘Haven’t you got others to explore, when you’ve deciphered the locations?’

  August touched Jacob’s drawing of the Tree of Life, his finger resting on Da’ath. In broken pencil strokes it did seem to float above the other sephiroth, a Shangri-La of enlightenment – for good or for evil. Either way, he had to get there before Tyson.

  ‘Come with us, Jacob, we can help each other.’

  Jacob shook his head. ‘I’m flattered. But I don’t plan to go anywhere yet. Go on without me. I’m going to stay back and track Tyson when he follows you.’

  ‘How do you know he will follow us?’ Izarra asked.

  Jacob held up the chronicle. ‘Trust me, Tyson would follow this into hell.’ He glanced over at August. ‘But then so would you.’

  The small stone office in the refectory in the abbey of Saint-Germaindes-Prés was unheated and despite the warmth of the sun falling across the flagstones, Olivia found herself chilled to the core. How much of this was her intense discomfort at being inside a house of Christ and how much of it was genuine cold, she couldn’t decide, but she’d had no choice. She studied the young monk sitting before her. He had the smoothness of feature that betrayed a limited emotional experience, as if sheltering in the abbey had preserved an innocent banality to his face. Some might see it as purity, but all Olivia saw was a fear of the world in all its visceral complexity. Stifling her contempt, she took the young monk’s hand and stroked it like it was a cat.

  ‘Father, I understand the importance of protecting the knowledge, the ascendance of Father Dominic Baptise is a delicate matter, but it is an ascendance we …’ she paused here, momentarily wondering whether she should elaborate on the nature of the collective she belonged to, then wisely deciding it would be safer just to emphasise there was a collective, ‘we, and there are many of us – silently united in this belief – are profoundly committed to. Naturally, we are all curious as to which angel he surrendered his earthly form. But just as important to us, in terms of worship, is the exact location of this miraculous event. I have heard rumour it happened in what we now know as Germany.’

  The assistant’s face lit up, thrilled to have such a respectful and captive audience. ‘Indeed, Madame, it occurred on the outskirts of Hamburg, in the year of 1709, I believe. It has been hard to get an exact date but my research suggests the 31st of October of that year.’

  ‘And you have evidence of the location?’

  ‘Well, now that you mention it.’ He turned and pulled out a small drawer of an austere wooden campaign desk, retrieving an old manuscript. He rolled it out carefully, weighing down the opposite corners with two clear paperweights.

  ‘This is one of several letters from the Archbishop of Hamburg to Father Baptise’s abbot Father Bernard de Montfaucon. In this one he tells of the last sighting of Dominic Baptise as being just outside the city of Hamburg, by the bank of the Elbe. Actually there was a witness, a woman described as having auburn hair.’ He glanced for a moment at Olivia’s own red hair, marvelling at the coincidence, then dismissed the observation as fantastical whimsy. ‘But when it came to locating her later to collect evidence to support Baptise’s sanctification, she was nowhere to be found.’

  Olivia locked eyes with the cleric for a moment. It still disturbed her that a written account existed at all. This wouldn’t do at all; she was not a woman to leave clues. She glanced down at one of the paperweights. It was made of glass and heavy, heavy enough to brain a man if necessary.

  ‘May I take a closer look at the manuscript?’ she asked, sweetly.

  20

  The three of them waited as the morning light – a thin bluish square escaping down through the trapdoor – had travelled across the concrete floor like a sinister sundial from another world. That night as August translated, Shimon had finally revealed the next location: Hamburg.

  Izarra sat on the edge of her bed, dressed, with her packed bag beside her; Jacob, a little less gaunt in the face after four hours’ sleep, his eyes closed, sprawled in the battered armchair, his thin legs thrown across the worn leather like some strangely aged boy in the embrace of an old bear; and August stood statue-like, beneath the trapdoor, staring upwards. He’d been standing there for over forty-five minutes, poised, waiting. It was past seven o’clock and Edouard had not given his usual knock, the signal that it was safe to ascend into the printing press. Now counting the minutes, August turned to Izarra.

  ‘Something’s wrong, he should have knocked at six, as arranged.’

  Jacob opened his eyes, while Izarra stood, swinging her bag over her shoulder.

  ‘His staff will be here in less than an hour,’ she said, softly, August’s anxiety reflected in her face. Jacob was already on his feet. August pulled his gun slowly out of his jacket.

  ‘We’re going up.’

  Something heavy was blocking the trapdoor, a dull leaden weight. August, balancing on the top of the ladder, butted his shoulder up against the wood and pushed
. On the other side he could feel something slip, a slight give in the pressure.

  ‘Jacob, give me a hand,’ he instructed. Cohen climbed up behind August as close as he could and together they heaved against the trapdoor. Again, it felt as if something rolled slightly but not enough to clear the hatch completely. The two men fell back.

  ‘Okay, on the count of three. One, two, three,’ August commanded, and they pushed with all their strength. The weight rolled away and the trapdoor suddenly swung open, throwing them into the light of the floor above. August was the first to climb through.

  Edouard’s half-naked body lay there, his jacket and shirt torn off, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, his face squashed against the floor, his eyes wide open and milky, staring across the room with almost an aggrieved expression. The red mark of a garrotte ringed his neck.

  ‘Oh no, please God, not again.’ August, horrified at the sight that met his eyes, climbed out and kneeled beside Edouard’s body. The others followed in shocked silence.

  August rolled the body over, revealing the bare chest and forehead; odd-looking symbols had been scrawled in lipstick across his body and forehead.

  ‘He must have died hiding the trapdoor from his killer,’ said Jacob, kneeling down next to August.

  It was hard to imagine how, but he had.

  ‘He died saving us.’ August closed the corpse’s eyes, then stood, a vision of Edouard playing before his eyes, sixteen years earlier, laughing and getting drunk with August in a field in Aragon; a black-and-white image jerking like a piece of film stuck in a projector gate. He just couldn’t link that man – so vibrantly defiant of death, fate and other concepts the Frenchman had always regarded as ‘bourgeois abstractions designed to confine the spirit’ – with the broken corpse lying before him. ‘We should never have come here.’

  Izarra put her arms around him. ‘He knew the risks, August. For him the fight was not over.’ Furious with the absolute waste of it all, August pushed her away.