by J. D. Horn
“I believe you’ll agree it’s the Gothic alphabet,” Daniel said. “Not that heavy-metal, rock-band script on word processors, but the real thing.” He leaned in closer. “I find these characters interesting, as they served as a method of both transliteration and translation.”
Unable to make heads or tails of the words, if they were words and not mere jumbles, Evangeline’s eyes focused on the drawings. The left page showed a hand with the thumb pointing left, the right page another hand, its thumb pointing in the opposite direction.
“This text was obviously written long after the alphabet had fallen out of use.”
“Obviously,” Evangeline said, her attempt at sarcasm seeming to pass over Daniel’s head. When he didn’t react, she found it necessary to ask. “No, really, how could you know that?”
“Because the words aren’t Gothic. They’re English. Middle English, maybe, like pulp-fiction Chaucer, but if you look really closely . . . There,” he said, letting his finger hover above a word. “That’s ‘metan’ meaning ‘to paint” or ‘to dream,’ and that’s ‘rode’”—a shift of the finger—“which is . . .”
“Yes, that one I got.” She nodded. “When did you pick up Middle English?”
He waved his hand, a dismissive gesture. “Way back before the storm. When the boys were little.” He looked down his nose at her. “I don’t sleep. I thought we covered that.”
“Sorry,” she said, even though he didn’t seem offended. It was more like it bored him to wait for her to catch up. “I guess we did.”
“I’ve worked on translating a few pages, between batches.” He glanced at the plate of cookies at her elbow. “It’s something about a sojourn or a pilgrimage. A period of preparation.”
“Preparation for what?”
Daniel shrugged. “I’ve not gotten too far, but it hasn’t been explicitly stated in what I’ve decoded. It’s almost like . . .”
“If you’re reading this book, you should already know.”
“Precisely, though I think it’s safe to assume that as the lesser key, this book is the primer for the would-be student of the greater key.”
She turned back to the book to study the images of the reversed hands. There was a symbol on the back of each of them. The hand on the left bore a mark that resembled a barred V. The one on the right showed something resembling a fat U. On instinct, she rotated the book upside down, so that the right hand, though downward facing, was on the right page, and the left hand on the left. It struck her at once that it was a very simple clue. The inverted V was an alpha; the U, an omega. She closed the book and turned it on its face, opening it instead from the back cover.
She felt a momentary flush of achievement before she realized the book was identical back to front. The same images and, she guessed, the same text. Still, she turned a few pages before giving up.
When she looked up, Daniel was smiling down at her. “Nice try, Nancy Drew.”
She closed the book, flipped it back around, and stared down at the cover. After shooting a glance at Daniel, who seemed to be anticipating her next move, she balanced the book on its spine and let it open to what she assumed would be its most studied page. It cracked open close to, if not exactly at, the center. Here, there were no words, only an image of a man and a woman, the woman naked except for a necklace, the man also nude. The male figure carried a yoke on his shoulders, balancing a pair of pails. “Adam and Eve?” Evangeline wondered aloud.
“Possibly,” Daniel said, “though the other images seem to draw on non-biblical mythologies. Going by the pictures alone, this work seems to be an amalgamation of several old mystery religions. You know, the ones proselytes had to go through an initiation ritual, face a symbolic death of some sort, to join. I suspect these two actually represent Inanna or Ishtar, the Queen of Heaven, and her consort, Damuzi, the King of Bones and Ashes.”
Evangeline looked to him for an explanation.
“She represented Venus. And Damuzi, he . . . well, he died . . . a lot.”
He motioned for her to turn the page, and she did—only to discover the center of each facing page featured the image of an ogre swallowing a child. The look in the monster’s eye was so terrible, she flipped to the next page without prompting. A woman offered a sickle to a crouching man. The next featured a goddess riding on a chariot pulled by a lion. The following, the head of a young man wearing a conical cap. “Phrygian.” She pointed to the picture. “Like Marie on French coins, right?”
“Yes, though based on the charioteer and her lion, I’m guessing that fair fellow is Attis.” He reached out and grasped the book, using the towel he’d laid beneath it. “You could keep going, but I’ll save you the displeasure.” He folded the cloth around the book so that it was completely covered. “Other pictures, different mythologies. There’s Uranus and Chronos. Chronos and Zeus. Isis and Osiris. Horus and Seth. There’s even a golden ring and a dragon, though I’m guessing they have nothing to do with Tolkien.” He smiled at his poor attempt at a joke.
“So what is this all about?”
“There are a few common themes I’ve picked up on. The struggle between generations, the sacrifice of fertility for power, a descent to the underworld.” He grasped the thin volume between both hands. “My instincts tell me this is a guidebook.” He held it so tightly his knuckles began to whiten. “A kind of ‘how-to’ with a built-in compass pointing the ‘worthy’ initiate to The Book of the Unwinding.”
“Worthy?” she picked up on his tone when saying the word.
“I think that once a person’s spirit, or mind, or soul—whatever you want to call it—has been darkened enough, The Lesser Key will lead him to the greater.”
“Okay,” Evangeline said, wondering why he’d whisked the book away so quickly, why he now held it so tight. “What haven’t you told me? You said you thought this book was somehow connected to us.”
“Yes,” he said, lowering his gaze as if he were ashamed. “For me, the connection seems fairly clear.”
“How so?”
“When I said I’ve translated a couple of pages, you may have inferred they fell toward the front of the book . . . or, in this case, the end. Same difference, really. But the pages I translated were closer to the center. They speak of a way of descending into the shadows, of slipping between dreaming and death by binding one’s consciousness to a servitor spirit.”
He placed the book in her hands. “Go to the center and flip back six pages.” Evangeline did as he requested.
“All the other illustrations have been borrowed from ancient mythology, but I think you’ll find the illumination on this page a bit more abstract in nature.”
Evangeline focused on the picture, composed in deep red ink. It was a simple doodle that resembled a reversed question mark, its upper tip stretched into a long, curled tongue. Still, she could sense its power. “That’s a sigil.”
“Yes,” Daniel said. “But not just any sigil.” He blushed. “You’ll excuse me.” His expression took on the look of a shy schoolboy as he began unbuttoning his shirt. He opened his shirt and pointed to where a living man’s heart would be. A gasp escaped her lips as she looked at the raised, reddened skin, the mark looking more like a brand than a tattoo, on his chest. “It’s my sigil.” She held the book up before him, the symbol in the book exactly the same in every way, even in scale, as Daniel’s seal. “I used to hide it,” he said, his expression graying, “back when I thought I was a ‘real boy’—or at least the ghost of one. They used to brand criminals in the era I believed I was from. I thought I must have done something bad to earn it. I was ashamed. Afraid if Nicholas and Astrid saw it, they wouldn’t let me look after the children. Turns out they’re the ones who marked me.
“I asked Nicholas about it. He told me it’s meant to represent a shepherd’s hook. A reasonable enough mark for a guardian of children. At least I thought so, until I found it in this book. A few pages away from a drawing of Damuzi. Evidently the King of Bones and Ashes has a day job.
He’s a shepherd.”
“What does this all mean?”
Daniel shook his head. A tear fell from his eye. “I don’t know. But I am afraid.”
She wanted to take him into her arms and tell him it would be all right, but somehow she felt that would be a lie. “I’m sorry you’re afraid,” she said. That much was true.
He wiped away his tear, an embarrassed smile on his lips. “I wish I could say my fear wasn’t self-centered, that I’m merely concerned for my family. But I’m afraid for myself. I fear that when I’m gone, really gone, I’ll end in nothingness.”
“We all do,” Evangeline said. That, too, was true. The book began to feel heavy in her grasp. She wanted it gone. “So why do you think I share your connection to this book?”
“Go back two more pages.”
Evangeline did so. In the center of the page was the image of a young man with a halo like rays of the sun. He rode a chariot being pulled by three rearing horses, his face a mask of panic—eyes wide, mouth crying out in terror. She recognized this image. “Phaeton.”
“Yes,” Daniel said, meeting her eyes. “The young usurper who attempted to take over his father’s role and was executed for the chaos he created.”
“But Luc killed himself . . .”
“There are still parallels to be drawn.”
“How long has Nicholas owned this book?” she said, reaching back in her memory to a rainy Saturday she’d spent reading the myth. It was Zeus, not Apollo, who’d punished the boy with death. Grandfather, not father.
Daniel’s forehead scrunched up. “It doesn’t belong to Nicholas.” He took the book from her, once again using the cloth to protect his own hand.
“Then how did you get ahold of it?”
“I wanted to find a welcome home present for Alice. Not just some bit of junk off the Internet. Something that would hold real meaning for her . . .” He hesitated a bit too long, as if he feared his admission might get him into trouble.
“Daniel.” She said his name in what she hoped was a firm, yet forgiving, maternal voice.
His eyes darted up to meet hers. “I sneaked into the attic. I thought she might like to have something that belonged to her mother.”
FIFTEEN
“There she is. There she is,” Daniel said, rushing up to greet her before she could even close the door. “There’s my little girl.” He tugged her suitcase from her hand, wheeled it a bit to the side, and then grasped her upper arms with very solid, lifelike hands. He was glowing with delight, his eyes wide, his mouth twisted into the goofiest of smiles. If only her father could’ve reacted to her return with one tenth of this joy. Daniel looked her up and down. “But you’re not a little one anymore, are you? All grown up now.” Alice was surprised to see tears brimming in his eyes. “And I missed out on all the in-between.”
Before she could form any words, he ushered her inside. “Come, come. It’s the middle of the night.” He raised his eyebrows and wiggled them—a gesture that had never failed to make her laugh as a child.
“It’s only seven . . .”
“Ah, the witching hour, to be precise.” She felt a smile lift up her lips. “You look tired. You must be tired.” His head tilted to the side. “Or maybe you’re hungry?”
Her stomach answered for her with a growl. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, a day and a half ago. He stuck his head through the still-open door. “Is it only just you? Not that you aren’t enough,” he quickly added. “I just assumed your father would be joining us. And perhaps Fleur and her spawn as well.”
“No. Fleur and Nicholas,” she stretched the name out to see if he’d react to her using it. He didn’t. “They’re staying with the body.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, grasping the handle of her case and heading down the hall, “the body.” He deposited the case at the foot of the stairs. “I’ll take that up for you later,” he said, then shook his head. “I’m getting the most terrible sense of déjà vu, but a bit in reverse, if you know what I mean.”
His comic expression caused her to laugh. She sensed he wanted her to be a little girl again, the little girl he’d cared for so long ago. And the truth was, she wanted the same thing—at least for a little while. He reached out to her, and she took his hand.
“Anything you’d like,” he said. “Breakfast, dinner. You name it. I’ve become quite the chef in the last year. It’s amazing the things you can learn from the Internet, I’ve even . . .”
“A year? That’s how long you’ve been back? I’ve only just learned.”
“No,” he said, a guilty look in his eye, “a bit longer.” He bit his lip, the way he always did when he had bad news to explain. “I asked that you not be told.” He held up a hand to fend off any questions. “I found my way back,” he said, “but I had no idea if I’d be able to stay. Still don’t. Not really.”
“But how did you?” Alice said, running her hand down his upper arm before leaning in for another hug. Her reunion with this artificial being, she realized, was as close as she’d ever come to feeling home. He leaned in and nuzzled her hair, seeming to breathe her in. Perhaps he felt the same way. “How did you find your way back?”
“Why?” he mumbled in her ear. “Are you looking for pointers?” She leaned back to find his eyes twinkling with humor—and kindness. He seemed to have read her feelings. Probably plastered on her face. “Looks like I might have cut closer to the truth than I’d intended,” he said, but he didn’t give her a chance to reply. “After you.”
He held the kitchen door open for her, and Alice stepped over the threshold to discover the room held no resemblance to the one she remembered. A professional kitchen, all tile and metal and oversize appliances, had replaced the comfortable if shabby room where she used to have her breakfast.
“None of this,” Daniel motioned around the room, seeming to want to avoid blame, “was done for me. Your father redid the place before I made it back. I understand it’s the second renovation since Katrina. Just for show, I gather, but it’s what inspired me to start learning. Seemed like a shame to let it just sit here, derelict and unloved.”
She stopped at the sight of a dozen or so plastic bowls filled with cookies.
“I’ve done a little baking.” He smiled. “Just for you.” His face scrunched up in his customary look of fake seriousness. “After dinner.”
He went to the center island and pulled out a stool. “Sit.” She obeyed, watching him as he began opening and closing cabinets, foraging through the refrigerator. “I saw to it that we’d have a full larder for your visit. Since I can’t get much past the yard, I’m stuck ordering on the computer to make groceries”—his use of the New Orleans vernacular pleased her—“so I can never be sure of the quality of produce till it arrives . . .”
“I’m sure it’s all very good,” she said, offering him a smile. “It was very sweet of you to think of me.”
“I’m always thinking about my children. You, and Hugo.” His expression softened. “And our Luc, too. I’ll never forget my first.” His face took on a look of determination. “First night back. Something special, I think.” He raised a finger and wagged it at her. “I’m going to make you some shrimp calas.”
“Or maybe just a sandwich?” she said.
He looked a little disappointed, but raised his hand in salute. “Whatever Mademoiselle de Pigwhistle, the Princess of Upper and Lower Paroisse, desires.” He waited for her response, but she didn’t know what to say.
“See?” he said, “I remembered.” Alice smiled, though rather unconvincingly, she guessed, for the gleam left his eye. “Ah, but you didn’t.”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“Nothing to be sorry for, love. But wait,” he said, seemingly happy to find a way to change the subject, “I almost forgot something, too. An old friend wants to see you.”
“An old friend?” Alice shook her head. She’d been gone so long. She couldn’t begin to imagine who it might be.
“Your cat,” Daniel said. “S
ugar said she wants to see you. Evangeline asked me to pass on the message. The furry fiend lives with her now.”
“Sugar?” Alice said, another memory bubbling up. A gift-wrapped box with a bright red bow, walking across the floor under its own steam. Lifting the top to find a tiny speck of gray fur with viridescent saucer eyes and a pink dot of a nose. A kitten’s meow that sounded a bit like a hurled obscenity. It had been love, at least on Alice’s part, at first sight. “She asked to see me?”
“Well, from what I gather, it’s more of a royal summons than a request,” he said, bowing and scraping.
“But she asked . . .”
“Don’t ask me,” Daniel said, rising and shaking his head. “From what I gather, those swamp witches have a way with animals.”
Alice hadn’t heard the term “swamp witch” used by anyone other than her grandfather and her father, and then always in a derogatory tone. Alice was still trying to wrap her head around Lucy’s update that her father had not only come to accept Evangeline, but to what? Love her? Even as a small child, Alice had understood that her father had felt a swamp witch wasn’t good enough for his son. Maybe he had lower standards for himself?
A thought came to Alice. “She must be quite old now, poor thing.”
“Well, you can never tell with that kind of witch . . . ,” Daniel began.
“I mean Sugar,” Alice said, laughing.
“Oh, well, yes, but I gather she’s still healthy. Still feisty.” He paused before the kitchen door. “She gave Hugo a good clawing a few months back. Seems she doesn’t much approve of late-night gentleman callers. But then again, of late, Hugo hasn’t been much of a gentleman.”
“That bad?” Alice said. When she was first sent to Sinclair, Hugo had called every week. Then once a month. Then a couple of times a year. He’d visited Sinclair twice with Vincent and once with Nicholas. His final visit, he’d come on his own. A surprise, not linked to any other event like a birthday or Thanksgiving. But that had been years ago now. He felt almost as absent from her life as Luc did. He’d moved on without her. Just like her father had. Perhaps he’d even come to blame her, as Nicholas did, for Luc’s death. Seemed the only ones who’d truly missed her were Daniel and a cat she was surprised to learn was still alive.
