The Serpent Papers

by Jessica Cornwell

  * * *

  I lie for hours in the dark listening to the sounds of the long-eared owl who lives in our pine tree, curled into the triangle of muscle between Francesc’s shoulder and chest, his arm wrapped around my body, hands protective.

  The visions have begun again. The voices. It is a sign that I am close and it frightens me. Gently I move Francesc, and slip out of the sheets. He is a heavy sleeper and does not seem to mind my midnight perambulations. I walk naked to my desk, sitting against the cold wooden chair. In the dark I open the drawer and take out the goatskin box. Cast away the guilt. He does not need to know. I stare at the sealed container. It is better that he doesn’t know. Checking the office door is closed behind me, I switch on the small lamp beside the laptop. Again the sickness comes, the bile and the nausea, churning in my stomach. The stench of fear on these papers. My nostrils burn with the heat of a candle, a sensation of dripping wax. The pages are bound in wood and leather, codified by a spindly hand, long dead, who has written on the outer sheath of the primary collection: Field Notes of Llewellyn Sitwell of Bath, 1851–1852. The first sheets of these are markedly original. Sketches not unlike medical drawings. Precise. Astute. Each illustration no larger than a small print in a nineteenth-century journal. Pictures capturing aspects of a female body. The front and rear of a woman. Tattoos drawn into the skin, crosshatched with shadow. I look to the centre of her forehead, onto which an individual has carved the letter B in an ornate script. Mystery. On each breast, the letters C and D. Across her rear and kidneys the letters E, F, G, H respectively. On her thighs, the final pieces of a code: I and K. The lack of J in the alphabetical sequence is due to the non-existence of the letter in old Latin. I turn the page, revealing a study of her palms, tattooed in thick black strokes with a coiled serpent and a cross. Captain Ruthven’s Woman of Akelarres. Beneath this: an afterthought, erratically drawn. Incomplete. A visual footnote formed by a small passerine bird, round black eye glassy, beak open. Each feather notched into paper, profile flat against the gaze of the draftsman. In the same wavering script:

  LUSCINIA L. Megarhynchos.

  The Latin name of the nightingale.

  The phone chafes again, rattling on the bedside table. A hot, urgent ringing. Francesc answers groggily. The colour drains from his face.

  ‘Sí,’ he says, ‘sí.’ I stand in the door, watching him. He pulls on clothes as he speaks, bending over the mobile phone, stress palpable. ‘We’ll be there as quick as we can.’ I hear the words incendi, forestal, foc, capella, signes.

  Fire, I realize, at the chapel site. My mind goes numb – hiking boots and overcoats, hats and unbrushed hair follow, sleep still thick in our eyes – Francesc rushing – Faster, be faster, if anything can be salvaged – he scrapes ice from the windscreen of our car angrily, a little blue Panda, the engine stalls and stalls again, struggling to ignite. I look at the sky, cumulus clouds against Egyptian blue, night dismounting her throne.

  ‘Get in!’ Francesc swears and bangs on the steering wheel. We drive in silence, feeling the cold, up through the sleeping village turn towards Deià. Then: ‘Fotre!’ Francesc explodes. The car’s tyres crunch on frozen rock and snow as we pull to the side of the mountain pass. Francesc is out the door in a flash, long legs striding into the distance. I am running after him, following the trail. There is a bad symmetry here and it unnerves me. Oak forest looms above us as we streak through olive groves. It is difficult to keep my footing in the half-light. I hear Francesc panting. Damn it, he whistles again as he trips and almost falls. God fucking damn it . . . As we move, the sun begins his fire to the east. Hot pokers pierce the sky as the bristling pines part and we stand looking over the rocky straight of earth that leads to the broken chapel. Flames consume the shattered, ancient beams, a raging inferno licking the dry stone walls and casting blue shadows onto the tumult below. It is almost sublime, I think in a daze; it could be a scene from Hannibal crossing the Alps, in the eye of the approaching storm. Clouds of smoke leer Turneresque above us, what was once a quiet sanctuary taken over by heaving humanity – firemen and farmers and working monks. The storm of yesterday had quenched the lightning, but this second fire burns hungry, loud belly hunting for fuel. Francesc knows as well as I do that any hidden bones will be charred into dust. Whatever other books might have been contained in the rubble reduced into nothing. All gold and signs melted into mud. The excavation site destroyed. Buckets of water and spray will do no good to the conflagration; they will contain it, let it burn out, burn down to valueless soot. An act of war. Francesc’s face darkens. I grip his hand tightly. The moment of decision is now. When I am most certain of the danger. The trees and ground are ice-ridden and damp, they will not catch – unless the fire grows, and the men will work tirelessly to stop this – but fear of fire is not why the monks pray at the forest’s edge, or the firemen quake in their boots, or Francesc’s cheeks turn pale. What disturbs us all is the vision of four limbs forming a quadrant in the earth, each cloven hoof pointing to the sky. A quartered pig planted in the rocky soil.

  IV

  ILLUMINATUS PALIMPSEST

  Accumulated Evidence

  Excerpted from the collected laboratory

  notes and translations

  of

  Captain Charles Leopold Ruthven

  As presented by Harold Bingley

  to Anna Verco

  London, 2012

  ‘Suggestions for Aqua Vitae’ by Rex Illuminatus

  Single Page from the presumed palimpsest. Trans. from Latin into English by Mr Charles Leopold Ruthven with notes by the author.

  Scriptio Superior

  You will find it efficacious to grind the mineral into a delicate powder, separating the base into three perfect elements (the Triumvirate of Hermes, recall – all that which is above is below) through wit and ingenuity fuse these elements anew into a solid substance like a wax – a stone with a pliable texture that can be melted into a tincture and consumed. You will need two drachms of antimony, also of Crocus Martis you will be wanting two drachms, and an ounce or so of Cumphire to which I recommend adding roughly half a pound of common turpentine. For the metals, 8 oz of quicksilver, with 5 oz of Copper Filings, shaved with precision, bound with equal quantities of brass and gold filings also and a sizeable share of Clearable Alum and that wondrous Efflorescence of Copper called Calcantum by the Greeks. Do not forget Golden Orpiment to be mixed with Elidrium, Saffron and Natron also, all of which should be readily and easily found in your alchymical cupboard. As to Lead, that imperfect metal, I prefer to purge the mound first – stripping it of its meat – the lumps and thickness . . . repeatedly washing the beast with a liquid alloy. Thus you will find what many call the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit distilled, extracted and combined with salt in the creation of aqua vitae. Procure also a sacred wad of gold blessed by the priests and infused with the Will of God. To this I tend to add a little Moon-Earth, or Aphroselenos, of the family of selenites. Should this be in short supply, the gypsum Desert Rose may suffice as well. Once in your possession, divide this wad into five parts before creating an alembic solid which must be allowed to rest under low heat for seven days in pursuit of what I consider the foundational mud of man. The Water Stone of the Wise, known to the initiated as the Sophic Hydrolith. Nothing comes from Nothing. We are speaking of what Aristotle called Prima Materia1 and Epicurus called Atom – and you call Adam – Adamas2 – the Incorruptible Mud birthed by the marriage of lovers, by king and queen, sun and moon, by the Alchymist and his apprentice.3 When this heir to the throne has set, it must be heated at such a high temperature that it turns at first crimson, then the luminous emerald of the dragon, deeper and richer in tone, before becoming a brilliant pearl that transforms into the white of stars darkening into a horrifying scarlet before transmuting into a purple wax (some call it dust), which may be applied as an ointment, rubbed onto the skin, or given into the mouth of the adept. Though difficult, I do not think it so complicated as the theologians would ha
ve it. Arnold of Villa Nova and John of Rupescissa proclaim that this stone is the emanation of Christ resurrected after crucifixion . . . But remember, John is always preparing for the apocalypse. There is too much talk of horsemen and fire in the world! Better to rest in the practicalities of science, young man, look to the future, which is of your making, not ours . . . Human ingenuity must guide the philosopher, faith in the real . . . though the usefulness of the wad of gold does seem heightened by a blessing, a detail I find peculiar, but may have something to do with the mineral rather than spiritual content of the gold mined by the Church4.

  V

  CITYSCAPE

  Clouds race past my window. A stewardess clears coffee from our trays. Please return your seat to the upright position. I oblige, pressing my nose to the window, studying the patterns of ice on glass. Tendrils. Little alchemical stars. The plane dips and bobs. Beneath me, Barcelona ripples out from water, unfolding in sheets of glass, turrets modern-cut and gleaming. Green fields churn into the mouth of the sea and behind her Tibidabo, where the rivers run, and behind this, further still, Montserrat, alone in the thin afternoon sun. I grip the armrest of my seat firmly and monitor my heart.

  Gather the strands that led you here. Listening to the whirring jets, it is not difficult to return to the catalyst, floating above my destination. What feels stranger is the absoluteness of my decision.

  From the back seat in the taxi I watch her dangling from a small chain attached to the rear-view mirror. Her body rocks with the car. Again. Ca-chink, ca-chink. She kisses a wooden cross. The car lurches. The Black Madonna collides with a metal coin carved with the face of St Francis. She pirouettes, god-child at her hip. I recognize her song, even though most have forgotten that once upon a time, at what has now become the Sanctuary of Lluc in the highest mountains of Mallorca, a black Virgin, carved of local chalk and painted in the regalia of the Madonna, was found by a Muslim shepherd boy in the forest. Across the halo of the Black Madonna, her anonymous author wove the words: Nigra Sum Sed Formosa.

  I am black but beautiful.

  The taxi swerves off the highway. Distant asparagus towers of the Sagrada Familia. Seagulls swoop overhead. Winter clouds clamber out from the sea, black as fermented berries. Paint splats ricochet across the façade of banks: Capitalista! Assassin! Swine! Scrawled in the windows of global chains. Down with Madrid! Down with unemployment! Fuck los Estados Fucking Unidos de Europa! Fuck los fucking banqueros! Gordos! Cerdos! Shuttered doors and beggars. Barça! The sun emits a rusty glow, tinged with frustration. Take to the streets! March! City fetid. Hungry. Bristling. I lean my forehead against the car window. In my trade, there is a sense of good, and there is a sense of bad. Sometimes these senses merge, but more often than not there is a line I do not cross, which I consider moral. There are good projects and there are bad projects, just as there are light witches and dark witches, sometimes divided along a confusing etiquette of those who drink water and those who drink wine, although divisions can be fiercer. In Barcelona, this city of opposites, the most prolific serial killer before the outbreak of World War One was a woman by the name of Enriqueta Martí, who dressed in rags to steal children by day and farmed their blood, grinding their flesh into potions which she sold to the rich at night. Enriqueta Martí leaves a taste in my mouth like rot, but thinking of the Black Madonna causes a delicious sparking at the back of my throat. I recognize her call. The Black Madonna sings to a root in me, sitting in her church-cave, she beckons with her thousand-year-old secret, and whispers: I am black but I am beautiful. We will make thee borders of gold and studs of silver, while the King sitteth at his table, my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof. The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir.

  The scents of memory are multiple and varied. Wet bark breathes out mint and secrets. I arrive to a cologne-clad man smelling of sweet orange and mustard, keys clinking in his pocket. He whistles from across the street as I approach. Maca! Maca! Benvinguda a la Ciutat Meravellosa! Bienvenido a Barcelona! Welcome to the City of Marvels! I thank him. He kisses each cheek and shakes my hand warmly.

  ‘Senyoreta! Senyoreta! Forgive me, but you take me by shock! You are earlier than I expected.’ Keys chinking in his pockets as he greets me. ‘Tot bé, tot bé. Com sempre dic: God is great. God is good, and I make it! I am very pleased to meet you! Let me take your bags!’

  I protest. He insists with a snort.

  ‘You have travelled very far, but Senyoreta, you have found yourself a gentleman and this gentleman will not – No he will not! – allow you to carry your bag up the stairs. Let no one say that chivalry has died in Barcelona!’ And with a flourish the gentleman landlord proceeds. We stride over the wide boulevard, lined with trees, bare and dark in the winter. Leather boots and green felt flowers promenade on the street, vanilla and cacao waft up from a chocolatier below the new apartment. Elegant couples in charcoal coats and cashmere sweaters flit through sheer glass doors ornamented by bronze metalwork. In shop windows, pale china, bleach-smothered table tops. Bouquet of winter tulips in clear crystal. My knight warbles, leading me up the stairs to the flat. His face wine-flushed, cheery as a robin.

  ‘You have all the modern amenities, wi-fi, heating, coffee-maker, dishwasher and washing machines. Anything breaks: you call. We fix it. Val? Val!’ He pants at the top of the stairs. I thank him. He chirps with pleasure as we enter the flat on the second floor. The space is pretty, fitted with basic furniture. Walls recently painted a rich cream, such that my adjoining rooms (kitchen, living room and bedroom) are, to my delight, neither dark nor dank. The landlord smacks his lips together and kisses his fingertips when he catches my smile.

  ‘You have problems, you call me!’ I offer him cash. He waves it away. ‘Your friend has taken care of it – he has paid for everything.’ He twitters and winks as if my benefactor and I were lovers. I scowl. We have not even met. The landlord sallies forth, unvanquished. ‘He says I must take care of you. Keep a close eye. Now. Senyoreta. I shall avail myself of a question! And a mighty one at that!’ The landlord suddenly rakish, breath rasping on my cheek. ‘I have worked with the inspector for many years – long ago – when things were noble. He is a legend in this city – OOOOOH! El Llop Fabregat, we call him. The Wolf!’ The landlord gloats. ‘He swept the streets of Barcelona with the coat-tails of the corrupt! He stitched the brothels with the hairs of the indecent! Hòstia! És famós! He is famous! Nothing but the greatest respect.’ A tap to the nose. ‘Ours is a special agreement. I have found places for many different types of people to stay. But he makes no favours, not even for young senyoretas.’ Keys exchange hands. ‘You must tell me what you do for him?’

  No. I rebuke him firmly.

  He whistles as he wanders out.

  This evening I study them. A young man occupies the room across from mine. I stand in the balcony and smoke a cigarette, wrapped in a jacket and scarf. The wide, wet branches of the trees between us. I watch the stranger move his bags into his room and arrange his paintings on the wall in the bright frame of his window. His bedroom a bare yellow glow against the dusk. A Warhol-inspired poster of Che Guevara, Swedish upholstery. He opens the doors of a large oak wardrobe that looks like it’s been there for centuries. Only twenty metres between this parallel life and mine – I could call to him! Shout across: Hello! Hello! Instead I inhale and feel the night darken and smooth, wondering if that piece of furniture is the same. My cigarette stubs out. I move inside. The cold bites the skin beneath my shirt. Everything in its place. You can’t understand a mystery without inhabiting the space that gave birth to it, without knowing what it looked like, how it smelt, the geometry of the home, what I call the psychological architecture of a person’s inner life.

  The phone interrupts me angrily, vibrating in my pocket.

  FRANCESC.

  Let it ring out.

  Again. A second, third time.

  A voicemail flashes up and then a text. WHERE ARE YOU?

  Gone.

  I liste
n to the message. A pregnant pause. Fish hook dangling. I need you.

  Another text comes through: Is this about your health? The phone rings again.

  You can tell me. Please.

  Do not answer.

  You’re behaving like a child.

  But what would you say? Nothing. You can tell him nothing. You dig too deep for him to follow.

  I catch my reflection in the black glass of the French doors. The line of my shirt rubs against my neck. Worn cotton vest beneath a woollen jumper and waxed parka. Thin grey scarf. Mud on my jeans from this morning, dried onto my boots. I remember the hawk I had seen like an omen, before the car had come to take me away. A shooting black thing. Rocketing down! Wings wrenched back as the rabbit lunged, leaping into underbrush at the edge of the field. The hawk, reckless, dishevelled, soaring over the sleeping village. The sky cloudless. Slate blue. Sharp as the ice at the edge of my pine-needle path, brown husks of grass pummelled into mud.

  Back inside the apartment, I survey my new environment with a certain element of unease. Already installed for the renter: knives and spoons, books and oven mitts, a radio, a small TV, the beautiful steel vase with dying flowers. I look about me. An entire floor to myself with long windows on the front facing side. When I was seventeen, living in this city, I would have dreamt of such privacy. Ten years later it feels too spacious. How much have you changed? I ask myself, pulling my bags into the kitchen, taking the cooled container from my carry-on first. I check the contents gingerly, placing my hand against the box of medication. Almost warm. Twenty-eight vials. A month’s worth. In case of emergency. I open the refrigerator door and position the blue and white box that holds the syringe capsules, each designed to be popped into a plastic injector – bright and cheerful, accompanied by cotton balls and alcohol swatches. I select a syringe from the box, breaking a single injection out of its packaging and set it on the kitchen counter. Wait.