Far above him in the courtyards and crowded streets of the Holy City, the thunder rolled and pealed and crashed against the stones of the most sacred architecture of the Vatican itself. The jagged bolts stuck the ridge line of the roof of the Sistine Chapel, shaking its foundations, splitting the stones over the front entrance and causing chips of stone to fly down onto the steps. Gambrelli listened to the faint sounds of the growing storm outside and was glad that he had chosen to keep his work inside, rather than taking it to the roof of the chapel as the hand-written instructions suggested.
He steeled himself for the final words of the invocation.
“Lastly, I conjure Ye by Thy most Holy Name as revealed to the Saints of Old. That Name by Which only the Perfect Ones knowest Thou. That Name which makes the Jews tremble and the Infidels fall on their faces in the dust. That Name which is Denial, which is thrust away even by Thine Own Hand. I call on Thee, I invoke Thee, I abjure Thee, I demand Thy Presence by this Name: Yaldabaoth! Yaldabaoth! Yaldabaoth! Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts, Heaven and Earth are full of Thy Glory!”
Gambrelli placed his hands on his head and began to name the ten Holy Sephiroth as he touched each corresponding part of his body in succession. The thundering grew louder and he felt the vibrations in his bare feet.
“Kether! Chokmah! Binah! Gedulah! Geburah! Tiphereth! Netzach! Hod! Yesod! Malkuth!” He finished the invocation and dropped his hands to his sides. A trickle of cold sweat ran from under the small Jewish cap he wore over his close-cropped hair and dripped into his eye. Though the salt stung his eye and blurred his vision, he dared not move, dared not even blink as he waited for the result of his incantation.
At once the vibrations stopped and the storm held back its fury. The building around and above him grew absolutely quiet. Through the heavy quiet, he could hear the chewing of the insects in the old parchment, the gnawing of a rat somewhere in the woodwork, the beating of his own heart and the extremely faint sound of shouts somewhere above him as the guards and residents of the Holy City came out to assess the damage caused by the storm. He smelled the incense, the moldy scent of the innumerable scrolls, the mildew in the plaster walls and ceiling. He felt again the soft silk of the robe against his skin. He felt the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He acutely felt every trickle of the cold perspiration that ran down his back, his stomach and his neck.
“Paolo?” A gentle voice made him yelp. He dropped the pentacle and it rolled across the tiles. The small copper star suspended inside a copper ring sounded like a two hundred pound gong as it rolled slowly outside the protective circle, fell on its side, spinning round and round, finally coming to rest. The Cardinal dared not move. His knees turned to water and his courage left him altogether.
“Paolo, come, come Paolo. Surely you would not disobey my most simple command?” The gentle voice urged him and he fell on the floor, covering his head under his arms.
“Would you have me question you now? I know your heart, Paolo. What is so very urgent that you would summon me from my sleep?”
“My Lord!” Paolo found his voice. It was high and quivery. Unrecognizable even to himself. “Forgive me!”
“You have my attention, Paolo,” the voice remained calm, gentle, soothing. “Do you not wish to look at the result of your handiwork?”
“My Lord,” Paolo’s tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. His lips were dry and he seemed to be lying in a growing puddle of water. He could manage no more than these two words.
“Look at me,” the voice took on a more commanding tone.
“I cannot!!” the Cardinal moaned. “I will surely die!”
“You will not die, Paolo. You made the circle. You made the rite. You spoke the words of the mystery. You did everything perfectly. Are you not comparable to my servant Job?”
“Forgive me, my Lord! I am not Job. I am vile and unclean.”
“Ahhh and so was Job,” the voice continued. “Stand up and look at me!” The voice commanded. “Obey me, you worm! Gird your loins as a man and look at me! You dared called me from my slumber and now your heart fails you? How dare you refuse my command!”
Paolo pushed himself up forcefully. Every fiber of his being quivered with terror and he knew that his end had come and he also knew that he deserved it.
“Stand up, Cardinal Gambrelli!”
Gradually, a ray of doubt penetrated his brain as he strained to cope with eminent death. Someone had followed him. He had never expected the ritual to work. Never expected to actually summon God to account as Job had done. All he wanted was a chance to speak directly to the Creator as the Popes before him claimed to do. But it could not be possible. Not really. Someone had followed him. Someone was having a cruel joke on him. He stood up, but his eyes refused to open as he turned incrementally to face the southern cardinal point from whence the voice emanated. If this was some cruel joke, he would have their head…
“On a pike pole? I doubt it, Paolo. The Church is too humane for that sort of thing now, isn’t it? Its officers are not past committing murder, but the Church would never sanction a public execution,” the voice finished his thoughts aloud.
“My Lord,” his hopes vanished. It was no joke. “I am… without words.”
“You are without many things, Paolo. You fancied yourself as perfect as my servant Job. I see it in your heart. You have arrogance beyond measure and your Church is full of criminals.”
“I want to change all of that!” Gambrelli moaned and covered his face with his hands. “I want to serve You Lord as none of my predecessors before me.”
“Then you would precede even Moses for he, too, failed to serve me as I asked,” the voice remained bearable, but full of contempt. “I did not ask much and yet they were unable to serve me. All have sinned and fell short of the Glory of God. Who said that? Do you know? This was your most wise man, Paolo. Look at me!” The last three words rumbled in the room and struck Gambrelli’s face like a cold blast of Arctic air. He fell again and covered his head.
“I know you, Gambrelli. You think yourself even wiser than Job. Tell me then, can you answer the questions I put to him? They were but simple questions. Let me ask you what I asked him. Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare, if you understand. Who has laid the measures thereof, tell me who? Whereupon are the foundations thereof fastened? Or who laid the corner stone thereof; when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy? Tell me, Paolo, where were you? Where was your father? Where was that whore who bore you screaming from her womb? Where were you when the stars were fixed in the heavens and the seas pushed back in their bounds? Tell me! I command you!”
Paolo could say nothing.
“There, you see? You have nothing to tell. Nothing to say. You are the dust of the earth and nothing more. A pretense in a sham. Your Church is thorn in my eye and your words are all lies. You have nothing to offer me. You are the spawn of infidels and the filth under the claws of a dog’s foot. You are nothing.”
“My Lord! I beg of You. I have something to offer. I have myself, my service, my life. I would dedicate a new Temple to Your Glory here in Rome. Let me build You a new home to house Your Ineffable Presence. Let me bring the people back to You. I know where Your Ark is, my Lord. Allow me to fetch it for You and place here in a new Temple.”
“Get up Paolo,” the voice was gentle again. Coaxing, soothing.
Paolo learned where the water was coming from. He watched in fascination as water poured down his face and dripped onto the tiles. He was soaked and cold and shivering. If this session did not end soon he would be totally consumed.
Again he covered his face, only daring to open his eyes behind his hands like a small boy at a horror movie.
“Look at me, my son.”
Very slowly, he willed his fingers apart. As soon as he saw the visage standing before him, he began to scream and fell on his face again, groveling pitifully in the puddles on the tile. His beautiful white robe
was stained with sweat, chalk and dirt from the floor. He was horrified. His end had come.
“Hushhhhh,” the voice was wispy and almost female now. “Listen to me, Paolo. I know where the Ark is. I do not need you to fetch it for me. I do not need a new home. I have thrown out any notion of having mankind as my servants. They are too rash, too vile, too treacherous. There is too much greed, avarice and jealousy amongst them. They would be gods themselves.”
“Your Eminence! Please, I beg you! Make a covenant with me. I will give my life in Your service. I will lead the world to Your feet. You will be honored and uplifted, adored and worshipped as never before.”
The deep silence returned.
“Perhaps I have slept too long,” the voice continued after a moment. “When I see the Ark resting in this place, then I will know you are a man of substance and honor, and then I will come again to you and allow you to know my will.”
“Glory be to God! All praise and honor unto the Father!” Paolo cried the familiar words, but the room was empty now. The presence was gone. He could feel the difference in the air pressure. His ears actually popped and then he felt something warm running down his neck: Blood from both his ears.
(((((((((((((
Luke Matthew leapt into the air and brought the blade of his sword down on the neck of the man who was about to set fire to a stack of bundled wood laid at the foot of a wooden cross. The man’s head separated neatly from its body and rolled across the stony ground. Luke kicked the torch away from the firewood amid a babble of voices, screams and shouts. He slung his black mantel over his shoulder and turned to face his next target. A short man wielding a dirk and a short sword leapt at him from the dark and swung the dirk at his face. He side-stepped the dumpy little man and caught his ragged tartan as he plunged past him. The man ripped away from him and turned around, lunging at him, almost stark naked, with the short sword, screaming in panicked rage.
More shouts and cries continued all around him, adding to the chaos, but this man was no swordsman. He was brutish and possessed of only had one eye. The Knight felt a fleeting twinge of guilt at the thought of killing the ruffian. He could smell the sour breath of the drunkard on him and there was little doubt his only courage had come from a barrel. Luke pushed him away and sent him tumbling across the ground. He came to rest beside the first man’s head, screamed something unintelligible and then charged again.
This time, Luke did not hold back. He sliced the man’s arm almost completely off on the first pass, turned around and took off his head with the second swipe. The head sailed through the air and almost landed on top of the first. A woman screamed and a tremendous cheer went up.
“Another one!” someone called out and he spun to watch for a new attacker.
“Thair evra whair!” Another voice behind him cried and he turned again.
“The divvil take them oll!” He turned again, but the torches were bobbing away down the meadow.
He waited until he was sure there were no more armed men lurking in the mist, and then replaced his sword in the scabbard. He just had a real dislike for burning people alive. It mattered not to him what crime they had been convicted.
“Uncle Luke?” A plaintive voice drifted down to him.
He spun again and squinted up at the figure tied to the cross.
“Luke? Luke Andrew!”
“It’s me, Uncle! Help me down from here.”
The Knight climbed haphazardly up the piles and soon had his disgruntled nephew down. He was a mess, daubed with pitch and smelling of oil and kerosene. He was shirtless and wore no socks or boots. His face was scratched and his hair was a tangled mess as he rubbed his chafed wrists to restore the circulation.
“What are you doing here?” Luke Matthew asked him. “Where is here? How did we get here? Where did you come from?”
“This way!” Luke Andrew ignored his uncle’s questions and began to run back across the open spaces. He yelped and limped and cursed as he stepped on sharp stones buried in the soil. Luke Matthew followed after him, shouting for him to stop.
A long, low building abruptly loomed out of the mist and Luke drew up short. Luke Matthew recognized this place. His barn! Or it looked like his barn from ages past. He turned rapidly and searched for the house. The full face of the moon peaked from between ragged wisps of rising ground fog, illuminating the all too familiar lines of the big stone house in Lothian. The house his brother had given him.
“In here, Uncle!” Luke Andrew called back to him and entered the barn.
Luke Matthew hurried after him and then stomped with a bit more caution through the dim, low-beamed barn to the rear stall. What he found there astounded him. A group of people, bound and gagged sat against the wall, kicking and trying to talk through the rags stuffed in their mouths. Luke Andrew knelt by Mark Andrew and worked on the bonds holding his hands behind him. The Knight recognized Sophia, and started forward to help her, when he heard the mewling cries of a very new infant. He stood still and looked for the origin of the sounds. He was even more shocked by the sight of the tiny babe, wrapped in a white blanket lying on a lambskin in the livestock manger. Lucifer’s words rang in his head as clear as bells ‘Lo, I bring glad tidings of great joy! To you is born a savior and you will find him lying in a manger.’
He forgot everything else as he scooped the tiny infant from the trough and held it up in the light of the oil lamp. The baby’s forehead crinkled in a curious frown as it tried to focus its eyes on his face.
“My son!”
The baby was pulled from his arms, and he found himself eye to eye with Mark Andrew.
Luke Matthew could say nothing. He understood none of this. He had been somewhere… doing something else… looking for someone. The baby? Where had he seen Lucifer? Had it been a dream?
Luke Andrew loosed Sophia next and she came to take the baby from Mark, crying and babbling incomprehensibly. Mark Andrew grasped Luke Matthew in a great hug.
“By God, it’s gud t’ see ye, Luke!” He said and took him by the shoulders. “I’d given up hope.”
Luke was further astounded by the sight of Merry over his shoulder.
“Merry!” He pushed Mark away from him and crushed his wife to him.
“Luke! Luke!” She kissed his face and his neck and his eyes and his ears.
“Luke!” Another female voice accosted him and his knees turned to butter as he looked into the face of Lily Ramsay. “Thank the Lord ye’ve come! Has yur brother come with you then?” She pulled him from Merry’s arms and hugged him, kissing his static face on both cheeks. “What is this black uniform? Where is Mark Andrew? What have you done with those brutes?”
“My… brother?” Luke locked eyes with Mark and Mark winked at him.
“Aye, o’ carse,” Mark nodded. “I sent Sean to fetch the both o’ ye from Edinborough. Th’ auld sair is gone. Mark is as welcome ’ere as anyone.”
Luke nodded as Luke Andrew took him by the elbow.
“Yes, Uncle,” he said. “It is so good to see you. And just in the nick of time. I told mother ‘now don’t you worry yourself, Meredith Sinclair Ramsay, Father and Uncle Luke would never let his little nephew, John Paul, perish at the hands of these ruffians.’ Yessir, that is what I told her, and I told her if father couldn’t come from Edinborough to save us, you would. I knew you wouldn’t let your own father and mother come to ruin.”
“My father?” Luke Matthew repeated, but things were beginning to click into place. This was his wife, Merry, but Lily, his dearly departed mother, thought she was Meredith, Mark’s wife and, though this was Mark here with her now, she thought he was someone else… someone else? “Oh, father… you mean Sir Timothy?”
“Oh, no, no. You’re in for a surprise. Your real father is here. John Ambrosius Larmenius. Now don’t go getting all riled up. He’s a fine man. A fine grandfather and he is doing his best to look out for grandmother.”
“Ahhh,” Luke Matthew nodded and blinked several times as the
last piece fell into place. Now, he only needed to know how this had happened.
“Come, come! Come to the house,” Lily dragged him along. “We need to get back to the house before the Clanahans come back.”
“They won’t be back tonight, Grandmother,” Luke Andrew said. “Uncle Luke killed Gerald and Martin and Percy ran off with the rest of the cowards.”
“Oh, John Paul, you’re a mess,” Lily cried and let go of Luke Matthew. Merry quickly took her place. “We need to get you back to the house and get you cleaned up. John, bring Luke and go ahead and bring the babe and its mother up to the house. It isn’t safe here anymore.”
“Shhhh,” Merry placed one finger on Luke Matthew’s lips. “I’ll explain it all later.”
“Come on, son,” Mark slapped him on the shoulder and herded a wide-eyed Sophia in front of him. “We have some catchin’ up t’ do.”
“I’ll say we do,” Luke Matthew muttered as they left the barn.
(((((((((((((
“Calm down, Brother.” Konrad held up both hands in front of Louis Champlain trying to get the man’s attention without suffering too much damage. “I’ll try to explain.”
“I don’t need explanations!” Louis shouted at him. “I need to get back to the… I need to find… I was looking for… where did everyone go?”
The King of the Franks was frantic. He stormed around the meadow like a maniac with Konrad and Apolonio chasing after him. He tried to leave the vicinity, but each time he headed for the trees, a trio of Boggans dressed in yellow and black livery with gleaming hook-bladed staffs came out of nowhere and drove him back toward the tables and picnic area.
The Perfect Sun Page 19
