The guests had stopped trying to be polite and were openly staring at him now, waiting to see what he would do next. Mark nodded to the man with the same sarcastic smile he had given his escort and then looked at the half-eaten salad in front of the man. The man cleared his throat and managed to move his plate down the table an inch or so without being overly rude. His perusal of the man’s plate was interrupted by two waiters who appeared bearing bowls of clear soup with a single piece of toasted French bread floating on top. The waiters took the salad plates away and set out the third course. A murmur of conversation issued from the far end of the table. Everyone resumed the pattern of trying to watch him and not watch him at the same time. He was truly beginning to enjoy himself. He picked up the bowl with both hands, leaned over the table to keep the soup from dripping on his clothes and drank it down in one long, slurping swallow, bread and all, spilling only a spoonful or so on the linen tablecloth. It tasted of onions and garlic, but was nothing more than hot, flavored water. Very poor fare at best. He licked his lips and made an exaggerated point of wiping his mouth carefully on the linen napkin. Several choked giggles arose from the ladies situated among the guests. He looked at them, frowning as if their behavior were the height of rudeness. Valentino cleared her throat and he turned his most innocent gaze on her expectantly. Was she going to start talking now?
While he waited for the rest of the diners to finish their soup one spoonful at a time, he perused the banners hanging on the wall in front of him. The guests began to unwind a bit in the absence of the floor show and he heard them talking about everyday subjects that meant nothing to him. Stock market prices, new computers for city hall, the local school board meeting and an up-coming bond election seemed to be the topics of choice nearby while some of the international guests spoke of the wars in the Middle East and debated whether European cars were not better made than Japanese and American models.
Merry glanced at him every time she put her spoon to her lips. Valentino made comments to the nearest diners, but kept a sharp eye on him. He crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his head, closing his eyes. They said no prayers during the meal. No one read from the bible. Their lack of devotion to God astounded him. He might as well have been at a so-called ‘steak house’ with another group of irreverent strangers fighting over fried chicken on the buffet. If this was the extent of their ‘order’, they were extremely irreverent group. He said a prayer of thanksgiving in his head, but was not overly thankful for the meager meal so far. Surely, what he had seen in the pantry would have afforded a better outlay. Perhaps it was a holiday for fasting or some such. A meatless day. These thoughts bothered him. They seemed natural enough, but they had no basis, no origin in his memory. They were just there like the ability to brush his teeth or shave. Just there. Just part of life. He raised his head again to find Valentino staring at him.
“I thought you were asleep,” she commented dryly.
He shook his head, but did not answer. No talking during meals. Apparently her order had no such rule, but that would imply that his order did and he was not sure that he had an order.
“Perhaps the next course will be more to your liking,” she said as the waiters returned, pushing a cart full of small, silver dishes with lids. He waited patiently as the soup bowls were cleared and everyone had received their new dish. He picked up the lid and set it aside. A mottled, pink fish with a slice of ripe olive for an eye replete with cracker fins along its back stared up at him. He almost laughed at the sight of it, but that would have been improper. He picked out the eye and popped it in his mouth. He chewed the olive slowly and deliberately as he waited to see what the others were doing with theirs. They were picking off pieces of it with short, blunt knives and smearing it on the crackers. This was much too troublesome. Mark picked up the blunt knife and nodded to Cecile. Her face lit up and then fell when he cut off the fish’s head, slid the knife under and ate the whole thing at once. In spite of his troubles, making her squirm eased his mind. Her resolve to remain unflappable at his behavior was slowly fading.
He was well aware of what was expected of him as far as table manners, but had no intention of honoring her with them. He had also seen enough of her to know that she lost all dignity when her temper took over. She thought him a barbarian; let her continue to think so. He had known plenty of barbarians. She had no idea what a barbarian was. As he finished the fish off in two more bites and sat waiting again, listening to the boring drone of voices around him, he pondered the question of how he would know what a real barbarian was like.
As he looked down at the empty plate, another memory, more horrible even than the rats flashed through his mind. He saw a white stone wall surrounding a burning city. He heard the screams of the people inside the walls, inside the burning buildings. All along the top of the wall, poles were erected in holes in the stones. On top of the poles were the severed heads of bearded men. Their faces distorted in pain and terror. Their long beards fluttered in the hot wind like grizzly pennants. Blood ran down the walls and pooled in the plate in front of him. He jerked his head up and the vision disappeared.
“I’m sorry it was cooked, Sir Ramsay,” Valentino said sarcastically, causing a small round of laughter. He glanced around the table and the laughter quickly ended. They were afraid of him? What had she told them, he wondered?
The wait for the next course was much longer. These people had not come to eat, but to talk. They watched him carefully, avoiding direct eye contact with him, all the while dabbing the fish pate` daintily on the crackers. Valentino had hardly touched her fish, but leaned both elbows on the table in front of her. Merry continued to eat very slowly, unwilling or unable to look at him and he thought she almost seemed embarrassed somehow. He returned his attention to the banners on the wall. One of them seemed extremely familiar. Simple black, geometric figures against a white background. A cube at the bottom with a circle resting on top of it. A triangle sat on top of the circle and a small flame was situated at the apex of the triangle. Another thought ricocheted through his mind and he looked at the Pixie in consternation. Merry had no idea what her companion was up to. Valentino had kept her out of the meat of the business. The Pixie thought it was all a game. A social club.
“Does that one interest you?” Valentino asked, following his gaze to the banner.
He shrugged slightly. He did not understand the symbols though he was sure that he should have. He felt that if he moved the symbols and compressed them together, they would mean more. As above, so below.
“The four elements, like the ring of the alchemist you wear,” she prompted him to no avail. “Earth, air, fire and water.”
He said nothing. Merry looked up at him and he raised both eyebrows at her expecting confirmation of some sort. It was the same thing she had told him about his silver ring. He refused to glance at it.
The waiters returned, saving him from both Valentino’s meaningless chatter and his sorely offended stomach. He could feel the pink fish swimming in the shallow depths of the onion soup. Each diner received an oblong platter with a huge steak draped across it, perfectly seared, surrounded by delicately browned potato wedges. Pink juices oozed from under the steak onto the plate. The conversation increased as he picked up his fork and steak knife, making short work of the beef, very glad that it was not a meatless day after all. The main course was too good and he was too hungry to play with it as before, but it was forlornly gone much too soon even with good table manners. He found himself alone with an empty plate and nothing to do.
He could not bear to watch his tablemates toy with their steaks. He was still hungry. He closed his eyes again and let his head drop, intending to meditate until the dessert arrived. The Pixie had other ideas about how to use the time, since everyday was a meatless day for her. Her plate contained only the potatoes and a medley of steamed vegetables, but she didn’t bother to eat them. Instead, she adjusted her chair closer to the table and nudged his knee with one bare foot. Mark jerked his h
ead around to glare at the older gentleman on his left. When she giggled again, he looked at her in surprise and she placed one finger against her lips briefly before picking up her water glass. He glanced left and right again. No one was paying attention to him any more. Valentino was involved in a running discourse with the man on his left about the ancient art of alchemy and its historical significance as the foundation of modern medicine and chemistry. He did not care in the least about their discussion. Alchemy was alchemy. Very few people understood it correctly. There were levels and layers in the Art that only the highest initiates could fathom. High initiates. Like himself?
His stomach felt much better with the cow to keep the fish company and he had to smile at the Pixie when she blew him a kiss through the bottom of her crystal clear water glass. He shifted in his seat as she slumped slightly in her chair and propped both of her bare feet between his legs on the edge of his chair. He leaned his chin in his left hand and reached under the table, taking hold of one of her feet. He squeezed her toes. Why was she doing this? He couldn’t recall any rules or prohibitions about engaging in such actions at the table. Apparently he had no precedence from which he could draw. When she began an entirely obscene massage on him with her other foot, her intentions became crystal clear. When he reached for the mischievous foot, it stayed easily out of reach. He found the experience to be extremely disconcerting, but much more interesting than the conversation above the table. He allowed a slight smile to play across his lips and she winked at him again. The dinner droned on around him, but he soon forgot where he was. How she could do what she was doing under the table, while cutting her potatoes into minuscule pieces, was beyond him. Ambidextrous did not quite cover her unexpected talents.
“So!” The man next to him raised his voice suddenly, causing Mark to jump and then look at him in surprise. “Cecile tells us that you, yourself, are an alchemist.”
Mark just looked at him. Was the meal over? Everyone seemed to have given up on the steak and potatoes and sat engaged in conversation or looking at him openly.
“He has broad knowledge,” Valentino offered in the silence. “But it is only his secondary function.”
“Extensive,” Merry added an additional word and then another. “Impressive.”
Mark looked at her and frowned.
“And what is your primary function?” the man asked him as if daring him to answer.
“I am… an assassin,” Mark answered blandly and smiled at him before pinching Merry’s little toe as she became a bit too rambunctious under the table. “I kill people for a living.”
The man blanched and Cecile laughed nervously.
“He has a great sense of humor as well,” she interjected.
“Very great. Extraordinary,” Merry reiterated, emphasizing her words with her toes. “I’ve never seen a better example.”
“Seriously, Mr. Ramsay,” the man relaxed a bit. “Your order is very old, I understand. Cecile tells me that you are in possession of knowledge concerning the Philosopher’s Stone. I, myself, am a student of Carl Jung. I fail to see how anyone could possibly assign any real significance to the old texts in regard to practical use. Dr. Jung’s research and conclusions concerning the esoteric nature of the alchemical texts make much more sense than imagining that one could actually produce gold from ordinary substances. I believe that the true modern alchemist in nothing more than a seeker of knowledge. A pilgrim, if you will. What he seeks is a meaningful purpose to existence and when he has achieved the psychological enlightenment, he is said, therefore, to have found the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“Stone. Philosopher Stones. Sounds better than Philosopher’s Rocks, don’t you think?” Merry asked. “Of course, rocks and stones are both hard. I wonder what the difference is. Do you think that one might be easier to work with than the other? ”
“I’ve never given it much thought, Miss Meredith,” the man frowned at Merry and returned his attention to Mark, dismissing her question with disdain. “Do you claim to possess the secret of making gold from such things as mercury and sulfur, Mr. Ramsay? Is it true, as Ms. Valentino intimated to us, that you may have something a bit more concrete… something more physical in nature… that would prove otherwise? I understand that the true search for the Philosopher’s Stone is an attempt to rise above our lower natures and reach for the divine within us.”
Mark looked at her and then at Cecile before smiling. “I am in possession of many things, Mr… ahhh,” he paused and squeezed Merry’s foot harder. His lower nature was betraying him even as he spoke.
“Petrie. James Petrie.”
“Mr. Petrie,” his voice was not normal looked at Merry instead of the man and swallowed hard before speaking. “But secrets are secrets. They wouldn’t be secrets if we told them, would they? I know nothing of your Dr. Jung. Is he from hereabouts?” Mark knew the eminent Dr. Jung and had a great deal of respect for his philosophies. How he knew the man or why was presently beyond his comprehension and probably best left unexplored. What the Pixie was doing under the table made it very difficult to carry on philosophical discussions.
His question elicited several more twitters from the guests.
“Surely you jest, Sir Ramsay,” the man laughed. “But our hostess has told me that she has been trying to persuade you to share some of your ideas with us. I, myself, have studied alchemy for years. I would be most interested to hear some of your thoughts on the subject.”
“Our hostess is most… persuasive in some respects.” Mark glanced at Valentino. “And Miss Meredith's hospitality has been unequaled. I don’t think I’ve ever been treated so well… or so often.”
“Hospitality is a Texas tradition, Mr. Ramsay. We like to make our guests feel right at home,” Merry agreed and received another scathing look from Valentino.
“Ms. Valentino is very… verbally adept,” Mark nodded and winced involuntarily. “Her words can mesmerize a man like a snake-charmer plays his cobra. She makes her points very well. But the tongue can be like a double-edged sword. It cuts both ways. Used with the proper skill, it can bring about the desired results quite nicely. When used improperly, against nature, as it were, it could be fatal. Like using your toes to write music.”
Merry smiled.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll take that as a compliment,” Valentino retorted acidly, while smiling sweetly. The underlying double insult was not lost on her. “It is well known that the ancients knew the secrets of the Lapis Philosophorum, which as you know, is the ultimate goal of every alchemist, whether they expect spiritual enlightenment or physical success. The secret was supposedly handed down through the ages to a select few, the Brothers of the Rose Cross, or the Templars as they are more commonly known, being among the chief suspects of having preserved the secret even unto the modern day under the guise of the Scottish Rite or other Orders. The quest for the secret has brought death and destruction on the heads of many interested parties.” The comments of the hostess had gained the attention of the entire assemblage. Mark noticed with great relief that every eye and ear in the room except Merry’s, was now focused on Valentino.
Merry kept her attention focused on her exercise under the table. Mark closed his eyes and tried to appear unaffected by her footwork. He wondered if she intended to carry it all the way through to its inevitable end and what would happen to him when she did. Terrible thoughts began to enter his mind as their hostess continued her lecture. “Some of the Templars were accused of witchcraft among other, more heinous crimes, and were executed or burned at the stake. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ramsay? But the Philosopher’s Stone and the secret of its composition was never learned. Nor did the Church learn the whereabouts of certain historic treasures. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ramsay?”
“I thought the Templars were all killed and the order disbanded,” someone spoke up from further down the table. “It has been a matter of some debate as to whether the Scottish claims were founded in truth.”
“Most of them were scattered.
Some were arrested. Some escaped the persecution, but the order was banned and their properties were confiscated by the church and other interested parties. They were too rich for comfort and answerable only to the Holy Roman Emperor, the Pope. Isn’t that so, Mr. Ramsay? There aren’t many real Templars left today, are there?” Valentino answered and then looked to Mark for confirmation.
“I don’t know any,” he managed to say with considerable difficulty. Templars were the furthest subject from his mind at the moment.
“Some would argue that the Philosopher’s Stone was just a legend. A myth or more likely, a metaphor,” Petrie interjected.
“I don’t believe that.” Valentino shook her head. “Too many people have died trying to find it for it not to have some basis in reality. One but has to look in the right place.” She glanced at Mark again, though he did not notice.
“Yes, one has only to look in the right place and then go after the prize,” Merry nodded and smiled impishly at her captive audience across the table. He was beyond commenting further on the subject at the moment.
The waiters returned to remove the dinner plates, replacing them with smaller plates filled with a variety of elegantly decorated pastries and cookies in front of each guest. Mark Andrew leaned forward suddenly, grabbed hold of Merry’s foot and squeezed it very hard, trying to hide temporarily behind the waiter as he served dessert to Valentino. He picked up the water goblet and drained the glass quickly, coughing again on purpose as he tried not to appear non-plussed. Cecile leaned around the waiter and looked at him suspiciously.
The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death Page 9
