The Emerald Tablet

by Meaghan Wilson Anastasios

  It is hoped the intervention of elder statesman, Winston Churchill, who has written to President Eisenhower, will go some way towards healing the rift between the British and the United States governments. ‘I do believe with unfaltering conviction that the theme of the Anglo-American alliance is more important today than at any time since the war,’ the former Prime Minister wrote. ‘Whatever the arguments adduced here and in the United States for or against the Prime Minister’s action in Egypt, to let events in the Middle East become a gulf between us would be an act of folly on which our whole civilisation may founder. The skies will darken indeed and it is the Soviet Union that will ride the storm.’

  In Israel, military authorities announced their intention to launch a ‘peace offensive’ after their decisive victories, expressing their hope that they might negotiate an amicable settlement with their Arab neighbours.

  The conflict in the Suez Canal Zone is certain to have broader political repercussions in Britain. In a letter published in this newspaper, influential Liberal Party member, Lady Violet Bonham Carter, wrote: ‘Never in my lifetime has our name stood so low in the eyes of the world. Never have we stood so ingloriously alone.’

  53

  Kemerhisar, Turkey

  Ben squinted through the sandy haze thrown up into the air as the decrepit van bumped and jarred along a path better suited to the passage of mules and goats than motorised vehicles.

  A troupe of barefoot village boys, their eyes black and mouths gaping in masks of chalky dust, belted along in a ramshackle procession behind what was sure to be the most exciting thing that was likely to arrive in Kemerhisar that week – a blond-haired foreigner driving a white van.

  As he’d left the outer suburbs of Istanbul, Ben had known he had an excruciatingly long journey ahead of him. With the cargo he was carrying in the back of his vehicle, he knew the wisest decision would have been to take the most direct route into central Anatolia through the nation’s capital, Ankara. But as he’d entered the outskirts of the town of Adapazarı and crossed the stone bridge built by the Emperor Justinian in the sixth century AD, he’d made a decision to turn south towards Kütahya instead and, beyond that, his old stamping grounds in Konya. It was a road less travelled, and, crossing as it did the craggy peaks leading to the sweeping plains of the central Anatolian plateau, Ben knew it was risky. He doubted that the loaned van had the stamina to make it out of Istanbul, much less travel halfway across the country along roads that were hardly more than shepherd’s tracks. He’d justified it to himself with the thought that if anyone were following him, they wouldn’t be able to keep their presence hidden on a route that few sane motorists would choose voluntarily.

  In reality it was unlikely anyone was on his tail. The real reason he’d taken the southerly route was that his brief and emotionally fraught encounter with the woman he’d known as Eris, whose real name he now knew to be Noor, had triggered in him a peculiar sense of nostalgia. He hadn’t been back to the excavation at Eskitepe for years – not since he’d been banished from his position by the director of the British Institute of Archaeology when he’d heard rumours of Ben’s arrangement selling minor finds to Ilhan so that he could afford to expand the excavation. Ben knew it would be awkward if he were to turn up unannounced, and he didn’t intend to visit the actual site as he drove through town. But he still felt a burning need to see it again, if only from a distance, which he did, stopping by the road to watch the workers scuttling like ants across the flat-topped hill.

  Despite his fears, luck had been on his side; although the van’s mechanical performance hadn’t improved on the journey, it didn’t deteriorate either. He’d arrived at the Sefer Hotel in Konya late in the day. It had been his base during the excavation season, and when he approached the reception desk he’d been welcomed by the proprietor as an old friend and offered a shot of Bowmore single malt from the bottle he’d bought for Ben and kept under the bar waiting for what turned out to be a much-delayed return to the city. The next morning, as he’d pulled out of the hotel’s parking lot, Ben felt as if he’d somehow closed a door on something that had been bothering him for many years.

  When the sign for Kemerhisar appeared on the road ahead many hours later, Ben’s fear that the van would break down and leave him and his precious cargo stranded dissipated, leaving in its place dread at what he might find when he arrived at Sebile’s cave house.

  The hillock of white tuff with its neat, wooden door appeared, hemmed in by a crop of late maize and Sebile’s orchard of fruit trees, their leaves edged with autumn gold. Ben pulled alongside the stone fence that encircled the tiny home.

  ‘My name is? My name is?’ A bouquet of cheeky, dusty faces filled his window as the village children parroted the only English phrases they knew. ‘Mister, mister? My name is? What time is it? What time is it? My name is?’

  ‘Move, little ones,’ Ben said in Turkish as he pushed the door open and waved them away.

  That shut them up! he thought as he watched their eyes widen when they heard the foreigner speaking their language.

  ‘Now,’ he said, drawing a coin from his pocket and holding it in front of them. ‘Who’d like to earn some money?’ One eager-eyed boy who looked like the little hellion who’d caused Sebile such trouble when he and Ilhan had first visited the village grabbed it from Ben’s palm. ‘Me! I do! What do I have to do?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My name is Bahadır.’

  ‘And my name is Ben,’ he said. ‘Now, Bahadır. This is my car. Nobody is to go near it, and nobody is to open any of the doors. I need you to protect it as if it were your sister’s virtue.’ The boys stifled giggles behind raised hands. ‘And the rest of you,’ Ben continued. ‘If you help him, I’ll give you all coins as well. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ they shouted.

  Ben turned towards Sebile’s front gate.

  ‘Why are you going in there, Mr Ben?’ Bahadır called out. ‘Are you looking for the old woman?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ben replied. ‘I am.’

  ‘She’s gone,’ they chorused.

  ‘Did you see her leave?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Bahadır answered. ‘We didn’t see her leave, sir. But we haven’t seen her for many days. So she must have gone.’ His voice dropped. ‘Or maybe she’s dead,’ he said solemnly. ‘She’s old, and old people die, you know.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Ben.

  ‘If she is dead,’ said Bahadır, ‘can we see? I’ve never seen anyone dead before.’

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ said Ben. ‘For now – you just worry about making sure my car’s safe. OK?’

  Bahadır gave Ben a mock salute. ‘Yes, sir!’

  The door into Sebile’s home was unlocked. Ben steeled himself for what he expected to find within.

  The neatly arranged room he and Ilhan had visited was thrown into disarray. The stacks of books that had once lined the walls had been thrown haphazardly across the floor, pages torn out and bindings bent back. The few pieces of furniture that had been set against the walls were now in a chaotic stack at the centre of the room, and the straw mattress from Sebile’s bed had been slashed open, its stuffing spread in a golden carpet across the stone pavers.

  Ricard Schubert – because Ben could only assume he was the one who’d torn Sebile’s house to pieces – had certainly been thorough in his dismantling of the old woman’s possessions. But the one thing it seemed he hadn’t found – in here, at least – was Sebile herself. There was no sign of her.

  Maybe he caught her outside, Ben thought.

  He opened the door to search her small garden.

  ‘Hey, sir, Mr Ben?’ shouted Bahadır. ‘Is the old woman there? Is she dead?’

  ‘No!’ he answered. ‘Don’t you worry about what I’m doing – you just focus on your job!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Bahadır cried.

  There weren’t many places in the small orchard where a body might be hidden from sight. The ma
ize, he thought as he looked at the densely packed stand of yellowing plants.

  His muscles tensed when he saw a worn slipper protruding from between the corn stalks.

  Christ, no. He bent over and parted the dried stems.

  It was a slipper, but without a body attached to it. Ben exhaled heavily.

  There’s one other place you might be, he thought. Was Schubert smart enough – or patient enough – to look there? And, more to the point, did you have time to get down there? Only one way to find out.

  Schubert had managed to throw all Sebile’s furniture on top of the entrance to the underground city that lay beneath the old woman’s floor. That made Ben suspect that her attacker hadn’t found the trapdoor.

  He threw aside the shattered bed frame and the table and chairs. The kilim beneath, though rumpled, was still in place over the hidden entrance.

  Ben pulled the carpet back and grabbed the metal ring set into the timber frame, yanking the trapdoor open. He peered down into the darkness.

  Nothing.

  ‘Sebile? Are you down there?’ he called out.

  Silence.

  He looked about the detritus of her kitchen and found the stub of a beeswax candle. Ben trod gingerly down the ladder that led to the labyrinth carved out of the volcanic rock. When he reached the floor below, he fished about in his pocket and retrieved his matches to light the candle.

  The flame took hold and the room was gradually washed in a dim light.

  ‘Ah. It is you,’ said a voice from the corridor that led into the pitch-black darkness beyond.

  Ben started. ‘Christ! Sebile!’

  ‘What’s got you so jumpy?’ she asked as she stepped into the pool of light, and turned the wick up on the kerosene lantern she’d dimmed.

  ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Me?’ She laughed wryly. ‘Not likely. Though if you hadn’t chosen to drop by, I might have been in a spot of bother. I always keep a supply of food and water down here – never know when you might need to make yourself scarce for a bit. But I haven’t been able to open the trapdoor.’

  ‘That would be because most of your possessions were piled on top of it.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, that would explain it.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A man arrived. I saw him coming down the road from the garden. Didn’t like the look of him. Not one bit. I was weeding between the cornrows. He didn’t see me as I ran. Lost one of my slippers –’

  ‘I found it.’

  ‘You did? Good. I’d hate to have to make a new pair.’

  ‘Why did you run?’

  She paused, eyes locked on Ben. ‘I know people. And I could tell he was someone I’d rather not meet.’

  ‘You’re a very good judge of character, then.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Enough to know he was no good.’

  ‘You said “was”.’

  ‘That’s right. He’s dead.’

  ‘I see.’ Sebile nodded. ‘You killed him?’

  ‘Yes. I did. He murdered my wife during the war.’

  The old woman took his hand and patted it. ‘Then you’ve corrected the balance. You mustn’t let it bother you. Now – can I offer you some tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely. But first, there’s something I need to show you.’

  54

  Kemerhisar, Turkey

  The pockmarked volcanic stone walls of Sebile’s home gleamed with the same poisonous green light Ben remembered from the cave in the Negev Desert where he’d found the Emerald Tablet nestling in Balinas’ lap.

  Tears streamed down Sebile’s weatherworn cheeks, her pale eyes reflecting the viridian glow that flooded the room. She was transfixed. ‘You found it! I knew you would. And . . . him? You saw him?’

  Ben nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Sebile advanced towards the open crate, hands extended as if she were paying the ancient artefact homage.

  He gently took hold of her forearm. ‘I don’t think it’s safe to touch it, Sebile.’

  ‘No – I know. It’s not,’ she said. ‘That’s what killed him, of course. The radiation. But to finally see it after studying it for so long, protecting its secrets . . .’ She reached out and closed the lid reluctantly. ‘But you’re right. It’s best not to be exposed any longer than necessary.’

  Something didn’t add up for Ben. ‘Sebile, you seem to know a lot about this. When you told me about the tablet and Balinas, you said you learnt about it as someone who moved in esoteric circles in Paris . . .’

  ‘That’s not entirely accurate.’ With a heavy sigh, she righted one of her chairs and moved it towards the window where she sat down. ‘You know, when I spoke about the spiritual aspects of alchemy, I told you of the pursuit of the Great Work – the Philosopher’s Stone . . . the ability to transmute matter that leads to the transformation of the alchemist’s soul and, if he or she masters the art, the physical body as well. I was . . . I am . . . an alchemist. Once, I was known as Fulcanelli.’

  ‘What?’ Ben couldn’t fathom it. ‘You’re a man?’

  ‘I was. But now, I’m me. An old woman named Sebile living in a small village in the middle of Turkey. If you master the Great Work, you see, you learn that everything material is fluid. Form . . . shape . . . matter – it’s all just about perception.’

  ‘OK. So . . . you’re a man dressed as a woman?’

  Sebile smiled indulgently. ‘Think of it however you wish, Benedict. But the fact remains that after the war, I needed to hide, and the best way to do that was to adopt a new form. When the Nazis – and the Americans, even the Soviets – were pursuing me and I’d lost my adept to that hateful man, Crowley, I was the only remaining link to this gift and to Balinas’ legacy. So I did the only thing I could to preserve the sacred knowledge – I became the divine androgyne and chose to assume the form of a woman.’

  ‘If you’re Fulcanelli – which, to be completely honest, I’m finding a little hard to understand or believe – then didn’t you know the location of Balinas’ tomb yourself? Why did you send me off on that damned chase? And, more to the point, if you were so worried about somebody else finding it, why didn’t you just go and retrieve it yourself?’

  ‘I would have liked nothing more.’ She smiled sadly. ‘But it wasn’t that easy . . . it couldn’t be. We were sworn to protect Balinas’ secret, and that meant none of us ever knew exactly where the tomb was. From master to adept through the ages, we passed on the location of the clues so that one day, if it became necessary, somebody could uncover and interpret the trail Balinas left behind. As for why I didn’t go and find it myself?’ Sebile spread her arms. ‘Look at me. My mind may be strong, but nothing changes the fact that I’m old and, much as I hate to admit it, fairly frail.’

  ‘What about the scarab you gave me – Psamtik’s heart scarab?’

  ‘One of the clues we’ve preserved. It was, as you worked out, a pointer to the statue in Cairo. The trail of clues has changed over the years. But the destination has always remained the same.’

  ‘You told me the scarab was buried next to the marble piece I saw at the museum in Niğde . . . so that was a lie?’

  ‘No – it was buried there. By me. I just didn’t tell you how it got there. Now, you’ve had your questions. It’s my turn. You could have sold this for more money than you’d ever need in a single lifetime. At the very least, if you’d given it over to one of the great archaeological collections of the world, you’d have been famous – more famous than you are now. Yet you brought it to me. Why?’

  Ben gathered his thoughts before responding. It was a question he’d asked himself many times since he’d resolved to bring the Emerald Tablet back to the same place Balinas had found it almost two thousand years before. ‘The truth is, I’m not entirely sure. It just felt that it was the only thing to do. The possibility of it being in the hands of people who don’t understand it – well, let’s just say there wasn’t anything I saw in the behaviour of those who were ch
asing it that made me feel confident that it would be handled with the awe and dread it seems to deserve. Balinas was right. Humankind hasn’t earnt the right to have this yet.’

  Sebile gazed at him. ‘Could it be that this has been a journey of transformation for you too, Benedict Hitchens? Don’t tell me the tablet’s somehow managed to make you a better man?’

  He laughed. ‘There’s no alchemical magic that powerful, Sebile.’

  ‘Why don’t you stay here? Learn from me. You know, the things you’ve dedicated your life to finding – all those things you discover beneath the soil. It’s all just refuse: the shed skin and detritus left on earth after the spirit of life sloughs off its material form and returns to the firmament. You can pursue a much higher purpose, you know – one that will clear the rubble of your past from the path that lies ahead.’

  ‘The thing is, I do have a life,’ he said gently.

  ‘Ah. I see. Is it a life that brings you fulfilment?’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes.’ Ben thought of the woman he’d just farewelled and the empty mansion that awaited him by the Bosphorus. ‘It might not be much,’ he said, smiling. ‘But I’m beginning to let myself hope it might be on the improve.’

  THE TIMES

  19 November 1956

  BRITISH ECONOMY FALTERS AS ATTEMPTS MADE TO REPAIR ALLIANCE

  LONDON, Monday (Reuters)

  Crippling petroleum price hikes and plummeting sovereign reserves strike the British Government as it works to repair the damage to its relationship with the United States in the wake of the Suez fiasco.

  The economic future of Great Britain hangs in the balance as the nation struggles to absorb the devastating effect on oil supplies directly attributable to Britain’s invasion of Egypt.