Thoth, the Atlantean

by Brendan Carroll

  Chapter Nineteen of Twenty

  Wherefore should God be angry at thy voice, and destroy the work of thine hands?

  The coup had backfired. Bari was sent off immediately to St. Patrick’s Island in the company of Simeon d’Ornan. There he was promptly delivered up for safekeeping to Reuben and Joey, who had ironically moved back to the island with their adopted sons and daughters in time to welcome the boy back into the fold. They had taken up Asher Schumacher’s old residence at the Postern Gate allowing Asher and his wife to retire to Peel on the big island, leaving most of St. Patrick’s to the care of Simon’s sons. Bari was not allowed to leave the island and he remained under constant watch.

  Everyone was made aware of his powers of mind control and only the Healer’s sons with their innate gifts inherited from their father were to be in direct contact with him. Ruth had been devastated by this new development and, at first, she had been very angry, refusing to believe what Omar told her about their son, but her condition had rapidly deteriorated when she discovered she was pregnant. The grim reality sank in and she knew that the dream of Lucio Dambretti had not been a dream at all, but a nightmare. Omar sent her to stay in Switzerland at Konrad’s chalet along with her personal physician and several servants to see to her needs. As the weeks passed, she succumbed into a deep depression and was now confined to her room where she rarely left her bed. No one could console her. Not even Lemarik could raise her out of her deathly pall.

  Mark Andrew had been sorely pressed to come up with some way to right what had happened in New Babylon, but he had pulled off a ‘divine miracle’, internationally broadcasted, wherein he had ‘rejoined’ his ‘spiritual’ body with the physical body of Martin St. John. It had been a theatrical spectacle and he abhorred the thought of it. It had been the only thing he and Omar could think of that would convince the people that Martin St. John was not an interloper, nor an impostor, but the actual physical embodiment of the Prophet. Mark had simply lain himself down on top of Omar and disappeared into the physical form of the Prophet. The illusion had been most convincing though somewhat difficult to perpetrate because Martin was somewhat shorter than Mark Andrew. They had pulled it off long enough to convince the Prime Minister and a select body of influential government officials from several countries that the transformation was real.

  Afterwards, Omar had accompanied him to the roof and released him back to his own body, which, by then had been taken back to Lothian. The entire affair had taken less than three days to orchestrate and then Omar had brought Ruth and Bari to the estate in Lothian where they had discussed long into the night what to do with Bari Caleb and Ruth Kadif. The Grand Master and the remaining Templars at the Villa in Italy had temporarily closed the Villa and evacuated either to the islands or to Scotland while they decided what to do with Catharine de Goth and how to handle the problem of her brother, Eduord.

  A surprising development had put an end to their idea of simply releasing her in Edinburgh. She had simply and adamantly refused to go, preferring to remain in Mark Andrew’s chapel atop the keep, not as a prisoner, but as a refugee seeking asylum from her brother and his Order. She wished only to remain near her grandchildren she said and even if they were not allowed to visit with her, she could watch them from the roof of the keep and the bell tower of the chapel.

  All the while, Simon kept the knowledge Luke Andrew had let slip about his mother and Lucio to himself, and admonished Luke Andrew to do the same. He did not blame the Italian for what had happened, though he could not understand his mother’s motivation. He had declined every invitation to go to the islands even though he wanted desperately to see his son, Reuben, again. He remained in Scotland with Mark, Luke Andrew, Christopher Stewart, Konrad von Hetz and Luke Matthew while the rest of them journeyed on to St. Patrick’s.

  The wedding of Barry of Sussex and Rachel d'Ornan was rapidly approaching. They would have the wedding in the Glessyn Chapel rather than St. Germain’s as previously planned.

  Nothing more had been heard of Jozsef Daniel personally, but his influence was still spreading through the island nations of the Caribbean Sea and had begun to expand into the Central American countries. One after another, they were leaving the New Order of the Temple in rapid succession, while Jozsef Daniel remained safely ensconced in Haiti under the protection of Prime Minister Tremelay. They would have to confront Jozsef Daniel and the sooner the better, if possible.

  On the other hand, they had heard nothing more from Eduord de Goth. Mark Andrew learned he had withdrawn to Wewelsburg Castle in Germany and had not ventured out in several weeks. Eventually, he would have to go after him as well, but Eduord posed a much less dangerous threat than Jozsef.

  And In the meantime, he had been greatly overjoyed to learn that Lemarik had retrieved the Emerald Tablets from the bottom of Lake Canandaigua where Schweikert had thrown it. It now lay on the worktable in front of him in his lab in Lothian, gleaming darkly in the light of the single oil lamp overhead.

  It was strange to think that he constructed this thing and engraved the symbols on it and yet, he could not read it. He didn’t remember making it, he didn’t understand the language, and he still did not know what he needed to know. But he did know he did not want to depend on Marduk when the time came!

  He slammed his fist against the tablet and rubbed his eyes. Even Edgard d’Brouchart could not read the symbols that vaguely resembled Egyptian Hieroglyphs. Lucio had been working day and night to find some way to translate the words. They had the supposedly ‘inspired’ translation of part of the tablets from a widely publicized work attributed to a man who had supposedly translated it through some sort of a supposedly mystical connection and Lucio supposedly was trying to use it as a sort of Rosetta Stone. But it was not so easy as it might have seemed. There was a problem in trying to match the ancient language of Egypt with the language of Hermes Trismegistus. Problems with deciding which dialects to use, syntax, etceteras, etceteras. Things of which Mark Andrew had no concept. He simply sat staring at the stone tablets in wonder, day after day, running his hands over the smooth stone, marveling at its construction. It was not stone at all, but something akin to very hard plastic.

  Not even diamonds could scratch its dark green surface and the gold rings and bars that held it together were not simple gold. They were more akin to his Golden Sword of the Cherubim than anything else. He had used all of his alchemical knowledge to try to learn the composition of the materials, but it had defied his reason and ability. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed up the stairs, following his nose toward the savory scent of baking salmon. He had to admit that the chef knew his basic fish. He passed through the kitchen long enough to speak to Gil and continued on to the library. There he found Lucio working on the computer with Vanni standing next to him. The boy was holding a large book in front of him, reading aloud to his father as the Italian worked furiously over the keys.

  Mark was quite pleased with the boy’s progress. And he was even more pleased with the way the Golden Eagle kept his son at his side almost night and day, just as he had promised, never tired of answering his questions, never fussed at him and never complained about anything. D’Brouchart was snoozing in one of the leather recliners and the television was babbling on without an audience. One of the wolfhounds met him at the door, while the other laid on his back half-on, half-off the stones of the hearth in a most undignified pose of utter bliss. Vanni stopped reading and looked up at him expectantly.

  “Vanni.” Mark nodded to him and then looked over Lucio’s shoulder at the screen. “How goes it?”

  The screen was covered with mind-boggling symbols and pictographs.

  “Not good.” Lucio said stretching his arms over his head. “I have found that most of the versions of the so-called translations of the Emerald Tablets has nothing to do with the actual tablet. Forgeries and wild fantasy! Can you believe that one of them says that there is a spaceship buried under the Sphinx? And interspersed in that account are so
me very valid pieces it would seem. It is very hard to separate the trash from the treasure even when it is already in a common language.”

  “Perhaps there is a spaceship under the Sphinx.” Mark Andrew shrugged slightly. “It would not surprise me in the least.”

  “Well, if there is, Brother, then you should know.” Lucio looked up at him. “It would seem you supposedly put it there, if indeed, you are who they say you are.”

  “And who do they say I am?” Mark leaned on the desk.

  Lucio jerked his head up and narrowed his eyes at the Scot.

  “That is not funny,” Lucio told him and went back to work on the computer.

  Mark felt no different now than he had ever felt. Everything that had happened to him seemed somehow detached from reality as if it had happened to someone else. He knew this to be merely a defense mechanism that kept him from dwelling too much on things he could not control nor comprehend. He still scratched where it itched when possible and he still had to repress the urge to reach for a cigarette or a dip of snuff. There was no sense in denying his humanity, which had been developed and cultivated over almost two thousand years of constant contact with men, but he could, conceivably deny everything else. None of his Brothers, including his blood brother, Luke Matthew, could present the first shred of proof that he had done anything that anyone of them could not have done or have said to have done. Sheer fantasy, most of his history. Only the Emerald Tablets in his cellar were solid proof that anything out of the ordinary existed here.

  The tablets, the Ark, the skulls… everything could have been piled together and no one could have connected him personally with them other than by his presence in their vicinity. The name Mark Andrew Ramsay appeared on none of them, nor did the name Adar, Uriel or Ninnib appear on him as a brand or some genetically implanted identifier. If he said ‘I am John Mark Andrew Larmenius Ramsay’, it was no more believable than saying ‘I am John Jacob Jingleheimerschmidt’ as far as the world was concerned. He could have taken his jacket, walked out the front door and simply disappeared again as he had done when the Grand Master had seen fit to excommunicate him from the Order for five years. He could stay gone for five years or five hundred years and still, no one could prove that he was anything more than a simple Scottish lowlander. No one would believe the rantings of a group of radical fanatics, who imagined themselves to be eyewitnesses to miracles and fantastic battles of dragons and demons. Men who claimed to be immortals, and yet died if their heads were removed from their bodies.

  Which of them could prove that they had died and returned to life twelve minutes later? Only the direct witnesses would be convinced and the rest of the world would categorize anyone who dared to substantiate the claims as just more radical fanatics. Only Omar Kadif, the Prophet, could lay claim to ‘divinity’ in this world and the privilege had cost him his family and any hope he might have had for a happy life. Even Lucio could be killed. His neck might be impervious to blades, but his body was not impervious to destruction and his heart had been shown to be quite accessible. What Schweikert had done to the Italian had never crossed Mark Andrew’s mind and he had seen many evil things in his day and even contemplated and invented many more himself in his darker moments. Sometimes he wished that he had been cast into the beyond instead of the Abyss. Surely his existence would have been less complicated there. You can’t miss what you’ve never known.

  “They say that you are very special.” Lucio laughed after a moment and looked up at him. “Perhaps it is funny after all. I say that you are nothing but trouble. I should have let the Saracens take your head and hang it on the walls of Jerusalem. This is killing me! If John the Baptist were to appear here and declare you Jesus Christ, I would believe it.”

  “No, Father! Don’t say that.” Vanni’s eyes widened. “That is blasphemy. Greta has told me so. We are not permitted to make jokes about our Lord.”

  “I am not joking, my son.” Lucio pursed his lips.

  “So you would have let them kill me?” Mark asked him with some amusement and then turned his attention to the boy. “Vanni, I heard something very interesting about you from my son, Luke.”

  “Oh?” Vanni perked up a bit. Sir Ramsay had rarely spoken to him. “What is that, Sir?”

  “I heard that you can see… auras… souls. Is that true?”

  “Brother.” Lucio pushed himself back from the computer and stood up. “It’s time for our walk with the dogs.”

  “I can see colors and patterns around people,” Vanni answered the question in spite of his father’s attempt to escape it. “Is that what you mean? Auras?”

  “Yes.” Mark followed them to the door, much to Lucio’s chagrin.

  “I can see that.” Vanni looked back at him.

  “Can you see mine?” Mark asked him and Lucio froze in his tracks at the unorthodox question.

  Vanni stopped and squinted at him momentarily.

  “Yes. It’s very pretty, but sort of scary.”

  Lucio started off again, pulling his son along forcefully and calling for the deerhounds.

  “How so?” Mark Andrew followed them and the dogs into the hall.

  “It’s dark and full of red sparks and gold streaks.”

  “And can you see your father’s soul?” Mark’s voice seemed to echo endlessly in the hall.

  Vanni stopped again and Lucio nearly yanked him off his feet. He let go of the boy and Vanni righted himself.

  “No.” He shook his head and frowned.

  “Why not?” Mark persisted and held up one hand to stay the Italian, whose face had grown very dark.

  “It’s not there,” Vanni shuddered and looked at the floor.

  “Where is it?” Mark asked him quietly.

  “You know where it is, Sir Ramsay.” Vanni raised his eyes to meet Mark’s curious gaze.

  “Do I?” Mark narrowed his eyes.

  “Yes. You do.” Vanni broke away and ran to the front doors. He flung the heavy doors open and disappeared into the yard with the dogs.

  “What are you trying to do, Brother?” Lucio asked him angrily.

  “Just testing a theory.” Mark looked him in the eye. “So you would kill me?”

  “That was just an expression!” Lucio backed away from him. “All of this digging is making me crazy.”

  “Then I suggest you get hold of yourself, Brother,” Mark told him quietly.

  Lucio turned on his heel and followed after his son. The Knight of Death walked slowly to the door and looked after them as they ran toward the meadows, down the walkway and past the administration building.

  He was startled by d’Brouchart’s voice behind him.

  “That is not very nice, du Morte,” the Grand Master told him. “You should not toy with him like that.”

  “I was not toying with him. I was testing a theory.” Mark glanced back at him.

  “You should give it back,” D’Brouchart told him.

  “What? And allow him to sell it again to the highest bidder?” Mark turned and smiled at him wickedly. “I think I should keep it safe for him.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed back toward the laboratory passing Gil in the hallway.

  Gil nodded to him and then approached the Grand Master.

  “Won’t you come to the kitchen, Sir, and I’ll fix us a spot of tea as they say here.” Gil smiled at him. “You can sample my Pompano.”

  “Pompano? I thought it was salmon.” The big man followed the chef down the hall.

  “Oh, no. There are many fish in the sea, Monsieur. Big fish and little fish. And each one with its own special flavor. I especially like filet of sole.”

  “Filet of sole,” D’Brouchart muttered. “How appropriate. What is your take on the state of the human soul, Guillaume?”

  “That would depend,” Gil said thoughtfully as they entered the kitchen where the kettle was already whistling on the stove.

  “On what?” D’Brouchart sat down at the table.

  “On whose soul. Some souls are i
n better shape than others.”

  “Then you don’t believe that all men are created equal?”

  “Not at all.” Gil smiled to himself.

  “Well, then,” d’Brouchart yawned “how about your own?”

  “My soul is free, Your Grace,” Gil told him as he brought the kettle to the table. “I strive to keep it that way.”

  “Then you believe that some souls are not free? Bound somehow?”

  “Ah, oui`! Of course!” Gil poured the water into a porcelain teapot. “I believe a man might sell his soul for the right price.”

  “Really?” D’Brouchart raised both eyebrows in amusement. “And how would one go about doing that?”

  Gil went back to the stove to get a sample of his fish for the Master.

  “Now that would depend on who you know.” Gil told him cryptically. “First of all, you would have to know someone who is capable of making the purchase. A demon, perhaps, or an angel.”

  “Ahh.” The Grand Master nodded. “I see.”

  “Someone, perhaps, like le Compte.”

  “Like du Morte?” D’Brouchart raised up in his chair as the chef returned with a small plate on which a steaming piece of savory fish lay in a puddle of melted butter.

  “Oui`! Now he strikes me as someone who might be able to complete the transaction.” Gil smiled at him. “Very dark. Very mysterious. He would probably have the right connections.”

  “You think so?” D’Brouchart forked the fish and then popped it in his mouth. It was sublime.