by S. L. Duncan
“What’s the Undercroft?” Gabe interrupted.
“Oh, well, that’d be the student pub,” Carlyle responded. “A bit like a dungeon but with lager and spirits. Course that’s hardly torture, is it?”
“Wait. There’s a pub just for students inside the college?”
“Certainly. Every college here has one. Many of the locals resent the university types, so on the weekends, students keep to their college pubs rather than mix it up with the townies.”
“You’ll do well to stay away from it,” his father warned. “You’re not of age yet, so no need to find any trouble there.”
“Don’t be daft, Joseph. He’s almost eighteen, isn’t he?” Carlyle said.
His dad shot him a look that Gabe knew too well.
“Right. What I meant to say, mind you, was being that you’re American, as it were, and it would be inappropriate, you understand. Ah, never mind. Follow me.” Carlyle led them toward a building adorned with a large black clock, though Gabe’s attention was still drawn toward the Undercroft.
“You’ll be staying at the dorms there in the Castle Keep, at least temporarily,” Carlyle said. “The best view of the town can be seen here, though the accommodations are a little . . . well, tight shall we say.”
Making their way to the inside of the keep, Carlyle obtained a set of keys for two rooms as well as two document envelopes from a student running an information desk. He handed them one of each.
“We’re not in the same room?” his dad asked.
Gabe couldn’t help but grin.
“No, the rooms are far too small. End up killing each other, I suspect, and then what use would you be? The porter’s number is in the packet. If you have any problems with the room, he’ll sort you out. Also, numbers for local delivery and the like should the cafeteria be closed. Your rooms are fortunately buffered from the rest of the student population, but expect a bit of mischief. You remember those days, eh?” Carlyle gave Gabe’s father a sharp knuckle to the shoulder and let loose a hearty laugh.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said.
Carlyle frowned. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Anyway, let me show you to your room, Gabriel.”
The interior of the dorm hardly impressed. A bed, a closet, a desk that doubled as a dresser, and a chair for the desk. Desolate but Gabe loved it. Simplistic necessity, he thought—exactly how he dreamed. He could almost see the open bags of potato chips and empty soda cans littering the desk, the floor covered in dirty laundry, posters of models and rock bands tacked to the wall. He imagined sitting by the metal desk light, cramming the night before a test, exhausted from partying with friends.
For the first time in a while, Gabe felt his spirits lift as he looked out the windows to the River Wear and the crowded shops of the square below, with its statue of a man on a horse.
Carlyle rummaged around the cabinets and drawers in the restroom, tossing towels out onto the floor. Half his body seemed wedged under the sink, and Gabe wondered if he might get stuck.
“Aha! Found it. I specifically requested a few things be put into your rooms. Essentials mainly—toothbrushes, soap, etcetera. And this.” Carlyle held up a pair of hair clippers like the ones used on soldiers before entering the service. Curiously, he plugged the cord into the wall by the entrance.
“What are those for?” Gabe asked.
“Shaving sheep. Are you thick? Cutting your hair, twit.”
“We need to shave your head in order to prove who you are,” his father explained.
Gabe smiled, trying to get the joke. “You want to what? Shave my head to prove who I am? What are you talking about? Look at my flipping passport.”
“It isn’t to prove to me but to yourself,” Carlyle said, all his humor suddenly gone.
Gabe turned to Carlyle and then to his dad. Neither one smiled.
“Look, I don’t know what you two are thinking. I don’t even know what I’m doing in this country, but I’m done. Done with both of you and done with all of this. Nobody’s shaving my head. I’m out of here.” Gabe started toward the door.
“Fair enough,” Carlyle conceded. “Have it your way.”
“I will. Thanks.” Gabe walked past him toward the hallway.
A buzzing swoosh flew past the top of his ear. He nearly fell over in shock. His hand went to his head and found a swath of hair cut away. Tiny hairs prickled his fingers. Long black curls fell to the floor. “What the hell, man? Are you nuts?”
“That’s quite an inventive hairstyle you have there,” Carlyle taunted. “Don’t know if the ladies will fancy it, but I can appreciate the abstract and artistic quality of the look. Very progressive. Or perhaps retro. To be honest, I’m not entirely certain what it is. Though, no doubt, it will be quite fashionable. Aye, perhaps you’ll start a trend.”
Gabe’s dad held his fist to his mouth and bit a knuckle to hold back laughter.
“What are you laughing at? You two are out of your minds. Do you know that? Crazy!”
“Well, if you don’t like it you might as well let him finish the job,” his father said and then turned to Carlyle. “You’ve never been one for subtlety, have you?”
“What? A nice new haircut for a nice new beginning. I’ll have you looking the part of a proper footballer quick like.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In the bowels of a building adjacent to the keep, Gabe stood outside a door at the bottom of a stairway below a long hall turned museum called the Norman Gallery, with arms crossed, seething at Carlyle. His father continued to stare, mesmerized, as he had since the haircut incident. “Take a freaking picture, why don’t you?” Gabe snapped.
This was his limit—plane flights, foreign countries, trains, taxis, and a clipper-wielding, maniacal Scotsman. He flushed with anger, and worse, felt naked without the shaggy locks on his head. He can remember toothpaste, soap, and clippers, but a hat is too much to ask?
Carlyle unlocked the door and ushered them inside. “This is my little hideaway. One of the privileges for being head of the School of Divinity. It’s where I keep my collected artifacts and special literature for exhibits and education. At least that’s what I tell the school authorities. Sort of a half-truth, really. But then, so long as I bring in the large donations from my benefactor, they don’t ask questions.”
Stone arches and pillars supported the low ceiling, giving the space a claustrophobic feel as if the room had once been used as a cellar or a medieval prison. On the far side of the room Gabe noticed a steel vault built into the wall with a massive door that looked suitable enough to be housed in any bank. An LCD screen blinked at its side. Completing the dungeon look, an old iron gate stood between the vault door and the rest of the room. How old, he couldn’t tell, but he suspected it had been around as long as the castle itself from all the wear and rust on the bars. Gabe wondered what treasures Carlyle kept that required such security.
Antique furniture, mirrors, and rugs decorated the room. With everything looking so ancient, he expected a musty odor similar to Carlyle’s house, but the atmosphere was crisp, filtered by an automated air purifier that hummed overhead.
“Have a seat, Gabriel,” Carlyle said. It was more of a demand than a cordial offer. He entered a code into an LCD keypad next to the vault door. “Obviously, you’ve had a miserable, if not tragic, couple of days. Can’t say that the topsy-turvy ebb and flow of your situation is likely to calm to any degree, but there you go.”
The large man was trying to ease the situation, but there was about as much comfort in Carlyle’s words as there was in the hard chair beneath Gabe.
His father seemed to agree. “There are aspects of your life that have been kept hidden from you in order to protect your life,” he said as Carlyle disappeared inside the vault. “This is why we are here in Durham.”
“You’ve kept secrets from me?”
“Yes. Very important ones,” his father continued. “Truths, regardless of what you believe about this world or where you place
your faith.”
“Right! Here it is,” Carlyle shouted from inside the vault. “I thought I’d misplaced it. Imagine that, would you? What a disaster that would’ve been.” He laughed and emerged, carrying a scroll sealed with red wax. The seal looked elaborate, but Carlyle moved around too much to get a clear view.
“This is why we shaved your head,” his dad offered.
“Now, mind you, these aren’t the originals,” Carlyle said. “Those are kept inside the Vatican’s Secret Archives for protection, but these are certified, sealed copies issued from the Office of the Pope. The most secret of documents.” He held the scroll up, and the Pope’s seal became evident.
“Fine. I’m impressed, but what does an Anglican priest and a Jewish professor need with a scroll from the Catholic Pope?” Gabe asked.
“Aye, I am Jewish. Different, though, from the modern practice. Specifically, I am an Essene Jew. Let’s just say that when matters of the Old Testament are in question, we’re the experts. Even for our financiers.” He nodded to the seal.
“You have this stuff because of the Vatican?” Gabe asked.
Carlyle nodded again and broke the seal to unroll the papers. “It is the engine behind our little endeavor. You might say what I’m about to tell you comes all the way from the top.”
“You won’t find this story in the Bible,” his father said. “There is a certain protocol and procedure for all things. I’ve touched on this in a few sermons.”
“I think I missed those,” Gabe said.
“Undoubtedly. But the fact of the matter is, there are rules to this world. Would you agree?”
“You mean like physics and laws?”
“Exactly. What is true for our world is true for other worlds that intersect with this one. That is, these laws are binding, governed by certain parameters,” his dad explained.
“You’re not going to tell me about aliens, are you?”
“No, of course not. I’m referring to worlds in a different sense. I’m talking about planes of existence. Dimensions. Realms. Earth being one of them.”
“Three realms in total,” Carlyle said. “There are accounts of the first war between the two other dimensions, heaven and hell. Some of which can be found in the canon of modern theology. Most, however, can’t. More important than the history found in these texts is what is noted about the future. We possess ancient books documented by the Essenes and their ancestors, books that very few have access to, foretelling the coming signs of the next dimensional war—signs that are happening right now.”
Gabe looked at Carlyle and waited for the punch line. None came. Not even the hint of a smile.
“It’s the truth, Gabriel,” his father said.
Much of the rough, grumbling Scotsman had gone, replaced by someone who appeared almost academic. His eyes shined with an eager intensity. He seemed to be holding back but anxious to speak. “The point we are getting to is one of the ramifications that occurred following the first war—the sealing of heaven and hell from Earth. This separation of the realms meant angels and demons could no longer interfere with the world of man in a physical sense once they had been removed. The gateway between them, you see, was closed forever. With this separation came free will. This is the gift and the burden man now carries in this world, with no physical interference from the other dimensions. That is, with two exceptions.”
His dad sat down beside Gabe and pulled out a parchment from the scroll. “For angels and demons—beings from other realms—to enter the world of man, they now have to be bound by his laws, by the laws of the Earth realm. Specifically, and most importantly, the law against immortality.”
Carlyle took his cue and unrolled the parchment on the desk in front of Gabe. On the parchment, Gabe could see a series of four symbols, all very similar in design. Encompassed inside each of their perfect circles were small characters that resembled Asian text.
His father’s hand settled on one of the symbols. “The converse of being subject to death is being subject to life and its governing rules. Particularly birth. Now in order to enter Earth’s realm, an angel or demon must be born to it, like man, or they must have remained in this dimension following the separation of the three realms.”
Gabe pointed at the symbols. “What are they?”
“Names,” his dad said.
Carlyle asked, “What do you know about archangels?”
“Not much. They’re the messengers of God.”
“Yes,” his dad answered. “But once, when our world and the heaven realm were still connected, archangels served as dimensional ambassadors and Watchers over Earth. Powerful beings, they were, and capable of traversing the two dimensions in order that they may keep balance between the realms.”
“Each possessed different traits typically associated with higher beings or gods,” Carlyle said. “And each was defined by their abilities, be it the power to heal or the power to give strength, for instance. The only gift the archangels were denied was the power to create.”
Gabe looked at the symbols, wondering what each meant.
Carlyle continued, “During the dawn of man, several Watchers, envious of mankind’s freedom, fell to Earth, led by an archangel known by early humans as Mastema. They were accused of forsaking their own dimension in favor of earthly pleasures. Pleasures including love.”
His father picked up the story. “These fallen assumed the features of men and chose to succumb to carnal desire for women. In those relations with women, the archangels finally obtained the power to create life. Their unholy offspring, denied the grace of the true creator, became demons and caused a splinter between the two realms, thus forming a third dimension that could support their unnatural life.
“That day, balance and unity between the realms was destroyed and the realm of hell burned into existence. Four archangels were sent to seal the Hellgate, which opened and grew, like an epidemic spreading across the Earth, replacing our world with theirs. Inevitably, war ignited and after a prolonged engagement ended in a compromise that sealed the realms.”
“Now the only way for a being from another realm to enter Earth is to become human. Have you ever wondered where you get your name, Gabriel?” Carlyle asked.
His dad still pointed to one symbol.
“I assumed I was named after the archangel Gabriel from the Bible,” Gabe answered.
Carlyle picked up a large upright mirror from the corner of the room and brought it over to the chair, placing it directly behind Gabe. He then retrieved a small mirror from the table where a candle had used it as a base and put it in Gabe’s hand.
Gabe lifted the mirror. On the back of his head a mark in the defined shape of one of the signs in the book was clearly visible. A tattoo. A closer look revealed that it wasn’t a tattoo but a birthmark. Instead of sharp, defined lines as would have been given by an artist’s hand, the colors blended, fading into skin, impossible by artificial means.
He stared at it, then looked down to the Watcher symbol on the parchment marked by his father’s hand. They were identical. A circle and a pattern of lines that resembled an upside-down Y.
“Not named after him,” his dad said. “My boy, you are the archangel Gabriel.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Having never been in a fistfight, Gabe didn’t know what a punch to the face felt like. He imagined the effect of his father’s words ringing in his ears was a close approximation.
Is this a joke?
Has my father gone insane?
Is this all some horrible dream?
But the last thought disturbed him the most—My dad and the Scotsman might be telling the truth.
He thought of the visions. Visions of the end of the world and ancient times. Cruelly, it all fit together, though his mind wouldn’t accept it.
“How would . . . I don’t . . . ,” Gabe said, struggling to talk. His pulse quickened, and a familiar tightening sensation built in the back of his head while he struggled to process his father’s words. Frustrated
anger tore through his mind. He couldn’t help it, but it was the only emotion responding to their news. “I don’t believe it. A dimensional war between heaven and hell? Angels and demons born on Earth? That’s insane. It’s just . . . stupid.”
“Is it?” His dad nodded to a painting of Jesus on the wall. “The concept isn’t exactly foreign to matters of faith.”
“Faith? You expect me to just believe? That my entire future is some big plot to save the world?”
“Not just you,” Carlyle said. “There are others. Four in total, to be precise.”
“Sure,” Gabe said, his tone sour and sarcastic. “I’m one of four super warriors, or whatever, sent to save the world. And you two—two people in nowhere England—are the ones the Vatican entrusted with keeping this big secret. Excuse me if I seem a little concerned about the state of the church.” Gabe flinched even as he said it, but propelled by the anger, he couldn’t stop.
“Carlyle and I are not just ordinary people. He is a Qumran Essene and an expert in all things concerning the End of Days. I am an agent of the Vatican, entrusted with your protection and care,” his father said.
“You’re a freaking Anglican priest!”
“Gabriel, there are many things about me you don’t know. Don’t you understand? This cover, this role as an Anglican priest, was the only way I could keep you as my adopted son and remain a part of the church. There are reasons for everything. But the question you should be answering about yourself isn’t why me. It’s why not me. Are we not God’s children? Is he not?” His dad pointed to Carlyle.
“The importance of keeping you in the dark and apart from the others was for the purpose of security,” Carlyle said. “Your safety has always been at risk. Moving from church to church made you difficult to find. Many voiced opinions that you should have been kept in Vatican City, under the guard of their security force. Alas, obscurity proved to be better than anything contrived by the Vatican.”
Gabe’s hands felt moist with sweat; his heart skipped inside his chest. Oxygen suddenly seemed lacking in the small room, and he couldn’t catch his breath.
