Tree of Life

by J. F. Penn

  Tree of Life

  An ARKANE Thriller

  J.F. Penn

  Contents

  Quotes

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Enjoyed Tree of Life?

  Author’s Note

  More Books by J.F.Penn

  About J.F.Penn

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  “Now the Lord God had planted a garden in the east, in Eden; and there he put the man he had formed. The Lord God made all kinds of trees grow out of the ground — trees that were pleasing to the eye and good for food. In the middle of the garden were the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.”

  Genesis 2: 8-9

  * * *

  “Nature, red in tooth and claw.”

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  * * *

  “No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell.”

  Carl Jung

  Prologue

  A thousand candles lit the synagogue of Ets Haim in Amsterdam, the light flickering in a warm glow from the copper chandeliers that hung over the bowed heads of the faithful. Some held candles in their hands, upturned faces full of hope and sorrow, and their prayers spiraled heavenward with the sweet smell of smoke.

  The fine acoustics of the synagogue resounded with the songs of the choir, unique to this community, sung in Hebrew with Portuguese inflection. The lack of electric light made the place seem timeless, the faithful engaged in a tradition stretching back across the ages. Words spoken by generations long dead, whispered behind closed doors during times of persecution, and spoken aloud with pride during times of freedom.

  Aaron Heertje usually loved Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year, when the community came together to repent and atone for their sins. But this year, it was a time of dread — he was about to have far more to atone for.

  Sweat dripped down Aaron’s spine as he stood at the end of the wooden bench, his suit tight against his chest as he fought for each breath. His black top hat, worn by all men in the Portuguese Jewish community, sat like a heavy weight upon his head. He longed to pull it off, but he couldn’t draw attention to himself. He wiped his brow and tried to calm his pounding pulse as the seconds ticked away.

  The cantor came to the end of his song, the final note lingering before fading into silence. Men from the community carried the Torah scroll from the ark of Brazilian jacaranda wood, brought from Recife by Portuguese Jews returning to the safety of Amsterdam. The Rabbi stepped forward to read. He used a yad, a ritual pointer with a tiny hand on the end, to move across the scroll as he recited the ancient words that Jews had spoken for thousands of years.

  As others around him listened intently, some with lips moving to the familiar sacred text, Aaron looked at his watch. He was out of time.

  The gaze of the community remained fixed on the Rabbi as Aaron stepped out of his row and hurried to the back of the synagogue. The fine sand strewn across the floor softened the sound of his footsteps, a reference to the desert crossed by the Israelites as they fled from Egypt so long ago.

  Aaron slipped quietly out the door and rushed past the workshop where the candles were made for holy days. As the chanting rose once more, it stifled the sound of his retreat. But there was no one out here to witness, anyway. All the faithful were inside, taking their place as members of the community. A community he was about to betray.

  As he reached the door of the library, he looked at his watch again. Just ten more minutes and Rachel would be safe in his arms once more. Aaron could only hope that he would have a chance to atone for the sin he was about to commit, but surely, it was a greater sin to let a loved one die when there was a way to save that life.

  He pulled a key from his pocket with a trembling hand, his fingers lingering on the rough texture of its handle. The Rabbi had given it to him two years ago in exchange for a solemn promise that he would keep these manuscripts as safe as he would the souls of his loved ones. But as much as Aaron loved the word of God, he loved his wife more. All he had to do was give up one obscure fragment of a manuscript and she would be returned to him.

  Perhaps no one would ever even know about it. After all, the Ets Haim Library held many thousands of books and hundreds of manuscripts, as well as countless fragments of ancient texts. Who would miss one tiny little piece?

  Aaron pushed open the door and entered the library. The faint smell of cedar wood hung in the still air, a scent he always associated with this haven of learning. This place was akin to the Holy of Holies for those who loved words and who scoured the texts for ancient wisdom.

  He held the candle high and his shadow cast a dark path ahead through the beam of light. In normal times, he would never bring an open flame in here, but the candle was safe in its holder and he dared not switch the lights on for fear of being seen.

  The beam glanced over his allotted seat, the leather cushion worn and dented into the shape of his bony frame. It was not quite comfy enough to make study pleasant, but still, it had been his place in a sanctuary of learning reserved for true students. Scholars from all over the world tried hard to get a spot to study here, but it was almost impossible unless their credentials were well verified. Aaron had worked hard for that seat. Now it would be forever tainted by what he was about to do.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened the photo that had been texted to him last night. Rachel bound and gagged, her precious face bloody, her hazel eyes terrified — and a demand for a manuscript fragment with a specific library reference. Aaron had not recognized it, but then the library held so much and it would take many lifetimes to read every word it contained.

  “Soon, my love,” he whispered, the surrounding books the only witnesses to his pain.

  Aaron put away his phone and walked over to the index, a huge leather-bound tome with handwritten entries, added to over the years as ancient manuscripts were retrieved from communities around the world. He placed the candle-holder down and pulled out the pair of white gloves he always wore to touch the texts before leafing through the pages.

  The entry he needed lay within an area of the library infrequently visited. It held not holy books, but fragments of texts that resisted scholarship because they were incomplete. This one was unusual as it was marked with only one word, Tuin. Aaron frowned. It was the Dutch word for garden and yet everything else was catalogued with Hebrew or at least a mixture of Hebrew and Dutch.

  The sound of the cantor drifted across the courtyard and his prayers gave Aaron pause. What was he really giving away this night?

  The seconds ticked away.

  He shook his head. Rachel was everything and even the Rabbi must agree that her life was worth much more than this fragment, whatever it might be.

  Aaron turned to a different part of the index, leaving it open at a new page to hide his search. He picked up the candleholder once more and hurried to the back section of the library beyond the furthest shelves he had been allowed to study. This area was not exactly forbidden, but the junior members of the library rarely accessed it. If he remained at Ets Haim, Aaron could climb the ranks of scholars over the years and as he progressed, he would b
e allowed to read more. Such manuscripts were a worthy goal for study — and right now, he trespassed too soon. It was necessary, but his heart hammered as he took each step toward his goal.

  A huge rack of drawers stood against the back wall, etched with Hebrew letters and numbers, and some with strange symbols carved upon them. Aaron ran his fingers lightly over the wood, his lips moving in a prayer. The drawer he sought was near the bottom of the case, its number matching the ransom text. But there was something else next to the reference code.

  An ancient Jewish warning, a curse of some kind.

  Aaron frowned. It was highly unusual. These words were infrequently used, and he had never seen them in the library, only in ancient texts from pagan, superstitious places. Never here in modern Amsterdam. Perhaps it remained from some historical use of the wood, or… Aaron shook his head and pushed the doubts aside.

  He tugged at the drawer, but it didn’t move. It was locked shut with no obvious place for a key. Panic rose inside as Aaron tried desperately to think where it might be and a hot flush washed over him as he thought of the ring of keys that the Rabbi carried at all times. Perhaps it was on his belt even now as he stood surrounded by the faithful in the hall… No, there had to be a way inside.

  Aaron raised the candle higher and examined the drawers more carefully. There was no obvious keyhole, and sometimes the cabinetmakers created opening mechanisms in different places. He ran his fingers around the edge of the cabinet, feeling for any variation in the wood.

  There, at the back of the base, a tiny catch.

  He lifted it and heard a clunk from inside the drawers. Aaron knelt once more and pulled at the handles.

  This time the drawer slid free, and he sighed with relief as he carefully eased it open. Some part of him expected to find something shocking or terrifying, something worthy of the curse protecting it. But inside, there were only three manuscript fragments encased in glass fitting snugly into the wooden drawer.

  At first glance in the semi-darkness, they were nothing special, just more fragments in a library full of them. But as Aaron held the candle higher, he noticed that one of them looked unusual.

  It was a fragment of a map rather than a manuscript, illustrated with tiny vines. He bent closer. No, they weren't vines; they were something else. There were hooks and razor-sharp barbs on the faded green swirls, and the crimson flowers that sprouted from them resembled open mouths dripping with poison. A tree stood behind the malevolent vines, part of its trunk visible on the fragment and intricately painted with strange symbols. Its leaves spread out across the page toward a deep river teeming with life. There were other markings on the edge of the map, but it was torn and ragged. This piece was perhaps one quarter of the original.

  The tree gave Aaron pause. He stood within the Ets Haim Synagogue, named for the Tree of Life in the book of Genesis. Perhaps this image was the tree of which the scriptures spoke? But surely that was just a metaphor, and God did not cast mankind out of some physical Garden of Eden.

  The fragment was beautiful and mysterious, precious for sure, but it was the price of Rachel’s life and Aaron was more than willing to pay it.

  A sound came from outside the library, a scuff of boots on stone.

  It was time.

  Aaron lifted out the glass case with the Eden fragment and moved the others over to cover the space. He closed the drawer and stood up, spinning around and holding the candle high.

  Footsteps came from the outer library.

  A tall figure moved into the doorway just out of the candle beam, his features obscured by the semi-darkness. Aaron could see the immense size of the man. He filled the low wooden doorway, a looming physicality in a library built for men of a more studious stature.

  “Where is she?” Aaron stammered.

  “The manuscript first,” the man replied, his voice low and hoarse as if he had sustained some kind of throat injury and had to force his words out.

  Aaron held up the glass case, his hand shaking a little. “It's only a fragment. This is all there is, I promise you.”

  The man took a step forward, and his presence seemed to fill the room.

  Aaron shuffled away until his back rested against the shelves. They were in the furthest reaches of the library now. There was nowhere to run.

  The candle shook in his hand as the man reached for the glass case.

  “Tell me where she is. Please.”

  As the man stepped forward, the light of the candle revealed his face. The smoke turned his visage into something demonic with the hard planes of a fighter’s chin and underneath, a ravaged neck with the scars of one who had faced battle and emerged with no pity.

  Sometimes God sent an avenging angel, sometimes His plan unfolded through the hands of violent men and Aaron had a sudden sense that his own tree of life was ending. In Kabbalah, there was a moment when each spark of light was released back into the world as its physical container perished. As he looked into the man’s eyes, Aaron understood that Rachel’s spark was already free. Perhaps it was not the worst thing that he would soon join her.

  The man snatched the Eden fragment away with one hand and with the other, he raised a heavy golden candlestick high in his meaty fist. The sound of voices chanting prayers of atonement came from the synagogue beyond, and in that last moment, Aaron joined in, the sacred words smashed from his lips as the weapon came down.

  Pain exploded as he fell to the ground, palms raised in supplication. The candle in his hand rolled away, its light flickering as the man loomed over him. As Aaron sank into darkness, he smelled petrol in the air. The flicker of flame spread across the library floor toward the ancient books. What had he done?

  1

  Morgan Sierra stood on the edge of what remained of the still-smoldering library. The community gathered for Yom Kippur had stopped the fire from spreading too far, but much was burned and much more ruined by the water used to put it out.

  Smoke rose from the pyre and ashes danced on the morning breeze, a bitter sight for Jews whose collective memory still echoed with the horrors of the Holocaust. The rise of the far-right in the rest of Europe seemed a long way from the open society of Amsterdam, but as she gazed into the embers, Morgan couldn’t help but wonder whether racial hatred had driven this attack as it had so many times before — and surely would again.

  She and Jake Timber had arrived an hour ago on a red-eye flight from London, swiftly organized when Director Marietti discovered the target of the fire. He hadn’t said much on the phone, and his reticence was puzzling. ARKANE rarely became involved with hate crimes or terrorism of the everyday kind.

  The Arcane Religious Knowledge And Numinous Experience (ARKANE) Institute investigated supernatural mysteries around the world. They focused on religious and occult forces, relics of power, and ancient places of blood rather than the more obvious terrestrial threats. Although the modern world might deny the existence of such things, Morgan had seen enough on her many missions to accept that not everything was as it seemed. Perhaps that was just as true today.

  The wind changed direction and whipped the smoke around in a mini tornado. Morgan tasted ash in her mouth, the charred and bitter remains of the precious books of the library. The smell of mourning would linger in her clothes, a reminder of what had been lost.

  On the flight over, she had read about the place in a hastily put together dossier from the archives of the ARKANE databases. Ets Haim was the oldest functioning Jewish library in the world, established by conversos, Jews forced to convert to Christianity who fled Portugal as the Inquisition scoured their ranks for souls to save and bodies to burn.

  In 1492, the Jews of Spain had been expelled, and many retreated to Portugal, initially a safe haven of tolerance. But only a few years later, the Portuguese Jews were forced to convert in their turn. Some integrated into Christian society, but others fled to places where they could live in freedom, with some arriving in Amsterdam in the 1600s. Bet Jacob, the first Jewish community in Amsterdam,
was formed in 1602 and the library started with its first Torah scroll.

  Its literary prowess grew as the Dutch Republic became a center for printing and publishing in the seventeenth century. The ‘bookshop of the world’ used the distribution network of trade routes to ship books to all corners of the empire, and Amsterdam became one of Europe’s leading hubs for Jewish printing.

  Over the years, thousands of Portuguese and Spanish manuscripts found their way to Ets Haim, a trusted resting place for the written traditions of a persecuted people driven from their homes. The Netherlands had been a haven, but even this place had not escaped the Nazis, who murdered seventy-five percent of the Jewish population after the invasion. They came for the library in the summer of 1943; the books packed into crates and shipped to Germany, but the Allies recovered and returned them in 1946.

  Lack of funds threatened the library once more in the 1970s, but finally, in 2003, the UNESCO Memory of the World Register added the collection in recognition of its universal value and documentary heritage. The Jewish Cultural Quarter now thrived in the modern city, tolerant of their faith once more, and the library now contained over 25,000 printed books and hundreds of manuscripts and other fragments.

  Ets Haim also held rare Kabbalistic texts, and Morgan wondered whether her father had visited as part of his own study. He had been a scholar of the ancient Jewish mystical tradition, murdered for his knowledge as one of the Remnant and avenged at the Gates of Hell.