Time Knot

by M. C. Morison

  Maimonides spoke slowly. Anastasia and Devorah sat on stools on one side of the room, and Håkan and I perched on the table edge. Myrna, still wearing her outdoor cloak, stood to one side.

  ‘There was a prophecy, many years ago. Received in the last years of Ptolemy I. A wise woman’s words, the words of a true soothsayer, a sibyl.’

  Håkan looked over at me. I didn’t understand all I heard, but images suggested something between a good witch and a priestess had been given a vision that she’d written down, in some Greek guy’s reign here in Alexandria. I gave him a quick synopsis in Swedish.

  “The prophecy has been kept hidden. Our Great Library is well known to all. We take a copy of every book that reaches this port and buy copies of those that do not. Scholars know our pockets are deep for books of great knowledge or wisdom. But few know we have another library, smaller, but infinitely more important.”

  The Jewish guy cleared his throat and clasped his hands in front of him.

  “Well, there has been a sign. The prophecy stated that that library, the Labyrinth Library, would be safe as long as Alexander’s sword hung above the door. Last night it was stolen. A mob commandeered the boat and beat up the few guards. The strength of the door prevented them entering. That and the curse that will fall on any who wrongfully enter.

  An image arose in my mind, of a sticky whirlwind sweeping all before it into a deep gully of sharp rocks. Not a curse I wanted to test. Not with the creepy beast that lived in the gully to contend with.

  “There is a secret group here, dedicated to the ancient and universal wisdom. This group has representatives of the Nazarene, the Hellenic and Roman mysteries, the Jews and others from farther East. We all venerate what has been gathered here over more than half a millennium. But now we know it must be hidden to keep it safe for the distant future.”

  Maimonides looked across at me, his eyes twinkling as they narrowed slightly. The grey-haired man nodded as he glanced at each of the young people in turn.

  “And even as the prophecy says, it falls to the young to save the wisdom of the old.”

  He reached into a fold of his cloak and drew out a tube. Carefully removing the cap, he extracted a small scroll. He came over to the table and spread it out. The writing might have been Chinese for all I knew, it didn’t have any letters I recognised. He read to us:

  “When the crone who eschews the Great Nile and wears the skin of the goat enters the city between the waters, and insults the Mother of the Hawk-eyed God, then the Secrets of the Ages are in peril. When the man on the pale horse leads a river of flame, then that flame will enrage Jove and His two Brothers. Calamity will follow.”

  Maimonides looked at us all. His face held a serenity, as well as a cold fury.

  “An age of darkness comes. An age when all we treasure will be treated as though it never was, as of no importance. It is written and it has to be. We have been warned. We have been warned so we can act when the time is right. Our Hypatia has asked that she should explain what must happen and has a request for you. No one can rightly force another to do a deed involving great jeopardy. We are all free and free to choose.”

  He stared over our heads for a moment, looking like some Old Testament prophet about to call a plague down on an errant pharaoh.

  “I have ordered two palanquins. You are to travel in secret to the harbour. Hypatia will meet you there.”

  We Meet Hypatia

  Travelling in a palanquin was mega. Beats taxi rides any day. The cushions were deep and the rocking motion, if there hadn’t been so much noise, would have soon lulled me to sleep. Håkan and I shared the palanquin with Nysa. Anastasia, Devorah and Myrna travelled in a second, slightly smaller contraption. Eight men, who could have just left the set of Pirates of the Caribbean, carried us. Cool.

  We were told to keep our curtains drawn so, of course, we all took turns in peeking. The streets looked like Hammerford when the local team is about to play an important fixture, only much more so. People swirled everywhere and we often had to stop until a way ahead cleared. Some young men carried torches, their pale flames incongruous in the bright sunlight. At one point a passer-by banged on the side of our conveyance, making us all jump. The fact our bearers were armed probably kept us safe. We were descending quite a narrow street.

  ‘We’re getting close to the harbour. We’ve just gone past the Great Library.’ Nysa looked at us both. ‘We should come out quite close to my father’s storage sheds.’

  I was sorry to have missed the Great Library, which I knew was pretty famous, and was going to suggest we went round the block and had another look, when the curtains to our little travelling room were torn back. The sweaty face of a young man with wavy dark hair thrust itself inside. On his forehead a large cross had been drawn in black ash. Nysa screamed. I think I yelped. Håkan jabbed him in the eye with his finger. The man’s head vanished accompanied by a howl. In moments we were joggling along much faster. We could hear shouting behind us. I felt we’d entered a personal nightmare designed for three, with goodness knows what chasing us down the street. The men carrying us were shouting. I tuned into their thoughts as best I could.

  ‘Danger.’

  ‘Run or we’re dead.’

  ‘I’ve got cramp.’

  ‘Who was that giant?’

  This last came with its own image. Magnus. My personal colossus. I felt a teeny, weeny bit calmer, which meant just shy of total panic on my Richter scale of fear. The palanquins stopped. We were now safe or about to die. A man about my dad’s age looked in.

  “You’re safe now. We have guards here and you weren’t followed.” He nodded at Håkan and me, but didn’t smile. “The time has come, Nysa. The time to serve our Gods as best we’re able.”

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  We stepped out into the semi-gloom of a huge warehouse, filled with sacks and large clay jars. Just outside, beyond an area shaded with a bright yellow awning, the wharf and harbour teemed with people. Some were working, but most were watching as though a bus with the winning cricket team was imminent, or, when I saw their faces, a tumbril with some luckless French aristocrat about to be relieved of his headache.

  “We don’t have much time.”

  A woman sat on a stool in the dimness to one side of us. Her eyes had that quality of soft kindness found in the best of nurses, but also had the ability to see right inside you, given to clever headmistresses. She’d a face of such quiet beauty it reminded me of Shoshan’s teacher Katesch. Various combs and clips held her dark-brown hair in place and added to her majesty. Her dress, woven with greens and blues that changed hue as she moved, reached close to her feet.

  “Gather round. You do understand me?” This last comment she directed to Håkan and me. We nodded.

  “This is Hypatia,” Nysa whispered to us, her eyes sparkling. We sat down on sacks arranged in a small semicircle.

  “First, greetings to our newest friends.” She smiled at the two of us. “Others will join us soon but they are aware of what is going on. You can see from the streets that we are facing a difficult time in Alexandria. The politicians and the newly appointed bishops are using the blind faith of the masses to gather themselves more power. The latest edicts of the Emperor offer us little comfort, and those who are not followers of the new state religion, Christianity, are being put at risk.”

  She described how the Governor of Alexandria, a personal friend, protected her and her father Theon, but he too experienced pressure from the zealots who would destroy everything not to their taste.

  “They have no respect for the Hellenic Religion, nor the venerable Gods of Rome or Egypt. If the hotheads get their way they will destroy our Great Library and close all our temples, some of which have traditions going back to the time of the most ancient pharaohs.” A shadow crossed over her face as someone came in from the harbour.

  “Ah, here is Angelos.”

  A tall young man approached us. He looked about 18 or 19, with the build of a rugby forward
and the good looks of a man lounging around in a Men’s Health magazine. He pulled over a sack and sat near the stool. He nodded at Hypatia, who continued:

  “I have a request to make of you. It’s the reason you’re all here.” She looked at me and then Håkan as she said this, holding our eyes long enough for slight shivers to go up and down my spine.

  “Our Library must be saved – or at least the most important books within it. We owe it to the future, to the generations to come, when the pall of great darkness begins to lift once more.”

  Again she looked at me, and smiled slightly.

  “These days have been foreseen. A Sibylline prophecy in our care, and known to your fathers –” this to Nysa and the other two girls – “has already begun to be fulfilled. The sword that long protected the most important histories of mankind has been taken, and today we know the lady in the goatskin will arrive. That marks the moment of maximum danger, but also a moment of great opportunity. For the prophecy goes on that the advent of the desert woman will mark the time when doors long sealed will once more open, and those who have not seen fifteen summers may enter once again, if their hearts be pure and their purpose honest.”

  She looked around the small group sitting at her feet. Goodness, she means us! My heart sank. Brave acts against the mob were not really my thing.

  “Yes, my young friends, I do mean you. For you are the ones here now. You are the initiated who can penetrate the labyrinth or negotiate the coils of time. Between you, you can save teachings beyond price for those generations yet to come in far-off times.”

  Crone in a Goatskin

  “She’s here,” said Nysa’s father from the door.

  “I will slip further into the shadows,” said Hypatia. “I’m too well known. But you should all see and remember this day, for it will be a day of both infamy and hope.”

  The gradual crescendo of noise outside suggested we were drawing closer and closer to a pop concert. A murmuring rumbled around the harbour, accompanied by whistling and high-pitched yelps of delight. It had sounded much the same the day Juliette and I had gone to Hammerford Park to hear the girl band, the Fridays or the Tomorrows or whatever they were called. We stood in the shadows under the yellow awning like a bunch of kids suffering from jaundice.

  People on the wharf craned to see who approached from the East. Some had crosses of ash on their foreheads, but many were sullen and shifted around as though uncertain whether to stay or flee. Behind them, craft of all sizes moved across the harbour as though this was a normal day. It clearly wasn’t, though. A woman with tanned bandy legs strode towards us, like one of those marathon walkers. Others had to jog a little to keep up. She carried a knobbly dark rod of wood, with a cross piece lashed to it, making a cross as well as a cudgel. Holding it with both hands she swept it back and forth in front of her, like a drum majorette who had forgotten to toss her pole in the air. Some watchers cheered.

  “Elizabeth,” they murmured. “Elizabeth.”

  She wore an animal skin that only just protected her modesty. The legs of this long-deceased beast bobbled around her knees. Her shoeless feet slapped against the flag stones on the wharf. As she drew closer to where we stood at the mouth of the warehouse, she started to look about her, and slowed her rhythm. She studied the faces of those near the wharf. Some offered gormless grins; many dropped their eyes and looked intently at their sandals. Her eyes raked our side of things. She fixed on me and slowed some more. Fever chills went right through my body. The words rose up inside, like marsh gas in a dark swamp, ‘Ah. There you are.’ Puzzlement spread over Elizabeth’s face. The crone moved on, her eyes now intent on something on the far side of the harbour.

  I sat down on a convenient stool. Hard. I could only gulp breath with difficulty, as though I’d received a punch in the solar plexus. When she’d looked at me I saw and experienced again the mad red-headed priestess I’d fought with in the old Egyptian temple, the one where Shoshan was nearly sacrificed. At the same time I registered the stout woman from that night in the Coliseum, the one with the green brooch. We had gone to see a ballet after Christmas, and this lady had searched for me. Myrna’s look-alike Shelley, had warned me to sneak out a back exit. Somehow she’d found me here. I felt as though I’d been picked out by a form of psychic radar.

  Soft hands settled on my shoulders. I looked up to see Hypatia now standing behind me. She didn’t speak out loud.

  ‘The forces of Set are powerful. It’s best just to let them go. They will have their day for a while. But they will never, ever win.’

  A warmth spread from her hands, through my shoulders and down to my abdomen. I could breathe once more.

  ‘Stand and watch. It’s important this abomination is witnessed.’

  I must have been seated for longer than I thought, for the minxy desert lady had nearly crossed the long causeway that ran from the mainland to the island with the huge Lighthouse. Crowds followed her, but kept a distance, in case her waving cross delivered them an unwelcome whack. Near the Lighthouse, and to its left, stood a rather impressive temple.

  “The Temple of Isis,” Nysa murmured as though following my thoughts, as indeed she probably was.

  An elderly priestess stood halfway down the steps that ran the whole length of the temple’s entrance. Gathered at the top were a group of ten or twelve priestesses, trying to keep their dignity in the face of the approaching mob. A man galloped across the causeway, forcing Elizabeth’s followers to press themselves against the low walls. One bystander nearly tumbled into the sea and was hauled back by his fellows, who hooted with mirth.

  “Peter. Peter the Reader,” said Nysa.

  “The man on the pale horse” whispered Devorah, “just like the prophecy.”

  His horse, chunky, rather than like a racehorse, towered above the watchers; its flanks were the colour of old chewing gum, with dark-brown socks as though it had just waded through mud or worse. Nysa jabbed me in the ribs.

  The crone had reached the bottom of the temple steps. The elderly priestess, the mother superior I assumed, approached her with her hands spread in welcome or supplication. Elizabeth spun her body with surprising speed and swished her cudgel straight at the other old woman. The priestess went down like washing falling from a washing line. The vicious crone danced about waving her stick. The crosspiece had flown off. The other priestesses fled inside. A trumpet sounded off to our right. A group of soldiers, wearing dark-blue cloaks and helmets with dark-blue plumes, ran in unison along the wharf. The trumpet sounded again, and someone screamed.

  “The Governor’s men.” Nysa’s father’s face had a crumpled look but a flicker of hope showed in his eyes as the soldiers went past.

  The temple now had a sea of people all around. Peter, the rider on the pale horse, appeared to be shouting orders, although the half-mile between him and us meant his words didn’t carry over the commotion. Another scream from close by, and a woman with a grubby brown tunic pointed at the temple and made a strange wobbling movement at the same time. A flame appeared at a window. Then another flame sprang out. Men outside ran past holding firebrands. The shouting woman collapsed. Angelos ran over to her.

  “Are they burning them alive, Father?”

  “No, Nysa. I think the priestesses long decided to offer themselves as a sacrifice if this day came. For to allow their temple to be desecrated would be more than any of them could bear.”

  The soldiers had by now reached the far side and the crowd began to return. Of Elizabeth there was no sign. Peter, on his horse, was talking to one of the soldiers. They didn’t seem disposed to arrest him. We went back inside the warehouse. I threw up in a corner. Hypatia had left. She’d slipped off during the worst of the crisis.

  I kicked a sack.

  “What can we do,” I said. “That is so horrible.”

  ‘First you can remember you are mute.’ This came from Myrna.

  Angelos sat where his mistress had been just an hour or so earlier. He told us what we could no
w do to help. We all agreed, even though it sounded both unpleasant and dangerous.

  Entering the Labyrinth

  The oars dipped rhythmically into the water. They’d been painted black, matching the midnight shade of our craft which bumped over the choppy waters of the harbour. We were dressed in dark-grey tunics with matching cloaks, like so many young Ninjas. My face itched where it had been smeared with burnt cork. We sat low in the boat and drops of seawater frequently spattered over us. We’d set off twenty minutes earlier, from the wharf in front of the warehouse.

  After the attack on the temple, the mob led by the Desert Vixen had stomped off elsewhere in Alexandria, and no one had paid much heed to five teens and their young companion Angelos, setting out in a long rowing boat. Nysa pointed to the large ship that lay between us and where we were headed, noisy with sailors carrying lights about the deck.

  ‘Father arranged that as a distraction.’ Nysa nodded towards the ship, her eyes glittering with reflected firelight, contrasting with her blackened face. I blinked as salt water stung my eyes. I kept glancing towards the glowing remains of the Temple of Isis. The occasional flame and shower of sparks still jetted out of the rubble. A tear or drop of seawater, tickled its way down my cheek. I sniffed. Whatever they wanted us to do, I would now do it, if only for the way those brave women had faced the mob.

  We kept the Lighthouse to our left and approached the dark mass of the palace where Håkan and I’d arrived only a few days back. On the harbour side someone juggled with firebrands. Nysa touched my arm and pointed at the performer.