Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

But Gabriel knew it was not. It was occupied. He sensed it.

  He sensed her.

  The cold was intense. He became aware of his arms and legs cramping as he unconsciously fought against the shivers running through his body. A few fat raindrops fell on his face. The wind plucked at his scarf.

  Blowing on his frozen hands in an attempt to warm them, he quickly crossed the street and pushed the garden gate open to its fullest extent. He took the front steps two at a time. Without giving himself more time to think about it, he pressed the doorbell.

  He waited. Nothing stirred.

  The heavy velvet curtains in the downstairs window were open, the window only covered by the old-fashioned net curtains. But the two lacy panels did not quite meet in the middle and through the gap he was just able to make out the room and, further back in the passage, a glimpse of the elegant curve of the staircase.

  For a moment the memories came flooding back. His first legitimate visit to Monk House. He was standing at the foot of the staircase, admiring its graceful proportions. Next to him stood Minnaloushe, cool and lovely in a summer dress. And he remembered her exact words. ‘I love staircases,’ she had said. ‘I wouldn’t be able to live in a place without one. I believe they’re essential to anyone wanting to live an interesting life.’

  For a moment he closed his eyes, the pain of the memory so intense, he found himself involuntarily touching his chest. And on the heels of this memory, another image. A woman falling backwards down the stairs, arms like pale petals grabbing uselessly at the banisters to stop her fall, rolling, rolling downwards—a flurry of legs, arms, red hair, her white neck angled crazily.

  He opened his eyes and breathed shallowly. Turning away from the window, he placed his finger on the doorbell once again, pressing down and holding it for a full five seconds.

  Nothing. Everything was quiet.

  Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she had deserted this place, after all.

  Something stirred at the periphery of his vision. He turned his head.

  She had pushed one of the white net curtains to one side and the darkened window now formed a perfect frame, as though she was putting herself on display. Pale face, pale dress, pale hands. Her hair a black snake falling over one shoulder.

  She watched him expressionlessly from behind the pane of glass.

  He wasn’t sure she would be able to hear him through the window so he raised his voice.

  ‘Morrighan, open the door!’

  The movement of her head was almost imperceptible.

  ‘Please. I need to talk to you.’

  Nothing. No reaction. Her eyes black hollows. Behind the pane of glass she appeared as motionless as any exhibit in a museum.

  ‘Damn you!’ The anger boiled up in him, rising through his body like fast-burning acid.

  She pressed her palm against the window. Her hand looked like a white moth. The gesture reinforced the idea of something on display. What did it mean: Stop? No further?

  She was mouthing something. At first he did not comprehend but then he realised what she was saying. An accident. It was an accident.

  ‘No!’

  I never touched her.

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  She moved her shoulders indifferently. She didn’t care.

  ‘It does not end here.’ He didn’t know if she could hear him. He raised his voice again. ‘It does not end here!’

  He felt something touch him: a bolt of menace from her mind directed straight at him. An unambiguous warning. It had the impact of a physical blow, pushing him backwards so that he almost fell.

  Shocked, he steadied himself by placing his hand against the wall. It had felt as though she had reached invisibly through the window and punched him with great force in the chest. He had never experienced anything like it before.

  Don’t make me come after you. She mouthed the words slowly, precisely. Her eyes were black as space.

  She turned to go. For a moment he saw her profile: the profile of a huntress.

  Then the curtains dropped, and the house was quiet once more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  London was in the grip of a deep freeze. It was the coldest December on record for twenty-five years.

  Irritable shoppers rushed past with inwardly focused eyes. Shop windows were rimmed with fake frost and tinsel. Carols floated from hidden speakers, the same songs repeated with demonic regularity. Gabriel had never liked Christmas but it seemed to him as though this year the forced jollity of the season was verging on the grotesque. Underneath the froth and mirth of end-of-year festivities, mince pies and jolly Santas lay a heart of ice, a seeping darkness.

  He felt removed from it all: his mind cold, his heart cold.

  In the dead of night she visits him. He opens his eyes and there she’d be, next to the bed, looking down at him where he sleeps. Her red hair a cloud of light. Her pale shoulders smooth and glowing. Bringing her forefinger to her mouth, she places it between her lips, then touches herself between her naked thighs.

  Sweat breaks out on his skin. He reaches out and pulls her down onto the bed with such force that she cries out. As he enters her she tilts back her head and closes her eyes. He thinks he might hear the blood—hot and exuberant—pulsing through her veins.

  But as he touches his hand to her breast, searching for the strong beat of her heart, she is turning into a ghost—her body becoming ephemeral, insubstantial—slowly fading from his grasp. One moment he is still holding on to flesh and blood, the next she has disappeared from his disbelieving fingers. A dream woman. A woman created from longing and want and memories.

  The days passed but time had lost all meaning for him. His computer stood untouched. He rarely answered his phone.

  Minnaloushe. I had just found you. How could I have lost you?

  • • •

  New Year’s Eve. Fresh snow lies on the ground.

  Gabriel watched the pale flakes swirling in the darkness. The streets were deserted. The icy weather had driven even the most determined reveller inside.

  He looked back at the book in his hands. He had been trying to read, but the black letters stared up from the page, the words meaningless. He closed the book and pushed it away from him.

  The wind threw snow against the window. The refrigerator made a small tired sound. Silently the green neon light outside pulsed against the wall, staining the desk with intermittent streaks of light. He hadn’t used that desk in weeks and he could see a layer of dust gleaming on the surface of his closed desktop. When had he last logged on? He couldn’t even remember.

  For a moment he hesitated, then stood up.

  The desktop’s hinges felt stiff when he opened the lid. Pressing the On switch, he waited for the machine to boot up.

  Outside the window the drifting snow was thickening into a fast-falling blur. Opaque, smothering.

  It was so quiet. You could think you were alone in the world.

  The screen flashed blue and filled with icons. Mechanically he moved the cursor to his mailbox and clicked.

  Ninety-seven unopened email messages were waiting in his inbox.

  He scrolled slowly down the list, his mind dull. Some of the names he recognised, others were new: prospective clients, most likely. He did not open the messages, simply dragged the cursor down the list.

  His breath caught. Adrenaline sluiced through his body. With burning eyes he stared at the screen.

  The entry date was three weeks ago. The subject line was empty. The sender’s email address read: Minnaloushe@Monkmask.co.uk.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  My dearest love,

  I have set this email to a time switch. With luck you will never receive it because I shall be around to disable the switch before its release. But if things go wrong, this email and its attachment will be delivered to you on a pre-specified date. If you are reading this, then I am in all probability dead, and you are mourning me.

  After leaving you earlier tonight I went to talk to Morrighan. I
was hoping I could negotiate with her for your safety and I also hoped she would give up on her insane compulsion to draw more disciples into the game. But Morrighan is threatening us and for the first time I am scared.

  She wasn’t always like this. Somewhere inside Morrighan hides my brave sister, who believes in passion, creativity and beauty. Tomorrow, when I talk to her again, I will try to find this sister I admire so greatly.

  If I fail… we must go into battle.

  Morrighan has become so powerful, Gabriel. You have no idea how the memory palace has enhanced her viewing skills. They used to be confined to wetware only, but lately she has moved beyond mind-to-mind manipulation and is now able to manipulate inanimate objects in the real world as well. I thought it was amusing at first—you know, watching her switch the TV off and on from across the room, starting the microwave or coffee maker. But who knows where her skills can take her, eventually?

  So we have no choice. We have to make her forget.

  If we can make Morrighan lose her memory of the order of places and things, she will be adrift—mapless—condemned to wander the halls of the memory palace with no hope of escape.

  There is a tradition in the arcane schools that every seeker of enlightenment should have a secret name given to him by a teacher. As we did not have a teacher, I gave Morrighan her name and she gave me mine. And I so hope to give you yours one day, my love, when the time is right and you have travelled far enough. Morrighan’s secret name is a very old one and it means Knowledge of God. It is also the password to the portal.

  A secret name is very potent. It is keyed to magic numbers and marks the searcher’s destiny. The owner of such a name must meditate upon his name constantly but should never speak it out loud. By keeping it silent, he preserves the name’s vibration intact and it gains power. If the searcher gives voice to the name, it becomes worthless.

  I am going to reveal to you Morrighan’s name. You must enter her mind and make her say her name out loud. When she does, the name will be stillborn and she will lose the order of places and things. She will be hopelessly lost. No longer a witch.

  I have written a spell which I have based on fragments of old Gnostic texts. You will memorise this spell and release it. It is highly magicised code and it will act like a virus. As a virus eats away at software, so my spell will destroy Morrighan’s inner resonance, her inner strength. It will compel her to speak the magic numbers that are integral to her name and then the name itself. She will try to resist, but she will fail. My code will defeat her.

  What is all-important is that you release the spell inside the portal itself. It will not work in any other part of the palace. It is only in the portal where Morrighan is vulnerable.

  I am condemning my sister to walk through the palace of her own mind endlessly. I do not know how heaven will judge me for this. But I know heaven will not forgive me for what I am asking of you—my love, my heart. The ultimate sacrifice. Please know that if I had remote viewing skills, I would have entered Morrighan’s mind myself and taken the burden on me. But I am not a remote viewer. You are all I’ve got.

  Morrighan will probably lead you to the portal herself, just as she did with Robbie. But how do you get out again? If the spell works, she’ll be unable to find a way out, lost herself.

  And, therefore… so will you.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ‘It’s impossible.’ Frankie sounded aghast.

  Gabriel placed his finger on the down arrow of the keyboard and watched the fragments of text scroll past.

  ‘Gabriel, you can’t seriously consider going ahead with this. It won’t work.’

  ‘If Minnaloushe says it will work, it will work.’

  ‘But look at it—it’s gobbledygook.’ Frankie stared at the sentences on the screen. ‘I am the whore and the saint. I am the wife and the virgin. What the hell does that mean? It sounds like porn.’

  Gabriel gave a short laugh. ‘Quite the opposite. According to Minnaloushe’s notes, those lines are from a Gnostic tract describing the perfect mind. And these lines here,’ he pointed to another section on the screen, ‘are based on fragments from the Dead Sea Scrolls and ancient Mandaean writings.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’

  ‘I don’t know, Frankie. It’s coded language. A spell.’

  ‘And it will make Morrighan say her secret name?’

  ‘Yes. First the numerology of her name and then the name itself.’

  ‘This is all crazy.’ Frankie looked sick. ‘You have to walk through the palace and somehow find the portal. Then, if you do manage to get there, you have to release this spell. How are you going to do that if Morrighan decides to open the door inside the portal and your brain gets pulped? You already have an aneurism in your brain waiting to leak!’

  Gabriel was silent.

  ‘And that won’t be the end of it.’ Frankie was thoroughly unhappy. ‘Assuming you survive your little adventure inside the portal, you then have to find your way out of the palace again. Which might be just a little difficult, considering Morrighan’s own mind will be scrambled egg by that time and she won’t be able to show you the way.’

  ‘I have no choice, Frankie.’

  ‘There’s always a choice.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know why you’re doing this. It’s about revenge. You want to hurt Morrighan for what she’s done to Minnaloushe.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Revenge is the worst possible motive.’

  ‘It works for me.’ His voice was harsh.

  ‘Gabriel—’

  ‘It’s not only revenge, Frankie. Do I want Morrighan to pay? Damn right I do. But it is not that simple. Morrighan is out of control. I’m the only one who can stand in her way. I know this is going to sound as though I’ve found religion, but for the first time in my life I feel as though my remote viewing powers were meant—not merely an accidental gift. If Morrighan isn’t stopped, who knows what she’ll get up to? And she’ll be looking for someone new to train. Someone who will get hurt. I can’t let her.’

  ‘You’ll get lost. You’re bound to. Think about it, Gabriel. Really think about it. Imagine the horror of walking endlessly through a labyrinth from which there is no escape.’

  ‘It won’t happen.’

  ‘How can you say that!’ She was shouting.

  ‘I have a secret weapon.’

  Frankie stared at him in bewilderment.

  ‘You.’

  • • •

  They were lying in bed, hand in hand. The curtains at the windows were drawn. The door was shut. The darkness inside the room was all but absolute.

  ‘Ready?’

  Frankie’s fingers tightened on his. ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. Go.’

  Gabriel closed his eyes and willed his breathing to slow. He was doing his best to keep his body completely relaxed and to clear his mind of emotion. If he was too tense, he would involuntarily block Frankie when she tried to enter his mind. He needed to open up his inner eye and keep it slack. Clouds. Think of clouds. Clouds floating, weightless…

  He sensed her tentative probings. She was hesitant, timid. But it felt instantly familiar. A soft fragrant summery breeze. They used to scan each other often when they first started. During his training at Eyestorm he had acquiesced to Mullins’s scanning exercises but he had never allowed any of his fellow RVs full access. He had never allowed his inner eye to slacken fully. Even with Frankie, he had held back.

  But not tonight. For the first time in his life, he was about to place his life in someone else’s care. No more going it alone. Frankie would be the first person to walk through his inner eye unimpeded.

  Not the first person, he reminded himself. Morrighan had been the first. He shivered as he remembered the insolent confidence with which she had moved through his thoughts on the night of Minnaloushe’s birthday. That heavy musk and frangipani fragrance descending over his brain like a fog, his limbs growing weak, his groin tingling, the pleasure c
entres in his brain roughly stimulated so that all he wanted to do was give himself over to her completely…

  He shuddered again and tried to concentrate on Frankie. Frankie, whose signature was summery fresh, her presence inside his mind like a breeze. But it was so fragile, he thought, suddenly despairing. The thread was so tenuous—would it hold?

  It had to hold. Frankie was the ace up his sleeve, the only way he could outwit the most ruthless opponent he had ever faced. Frankie was his one chance of navigating his way back through the house of a million doors. She was to be his anchor. With his mind tethered to hers, she would bring him back to safety. An Ariadne’s thread leading him out of the maze. Assuming, of course, that he managed to survive whatever Morrighan had waiting for him inside the portal and if the aneurism in his brain didn’t suddenly spring a catastrophic leak.

  Relax. Calm yourself. His heartbeat had speeded up again; he needed to slow his breathing. He tried to slacken his neck muscles, which had tightened in nervous anticipation.

  He had spent the last hour memorising Minnaloushe’s code. He had swotted like a schoolboy cramming for an exam—the most important exam of his life. The text covered not even half a page but he still found it difficult and was shocked at how weak his memory was. The mental strain of committing those lines to memory had been sobering. No mouse with which to point and click. No prompts, no icons to guide him. Just his own ability to internalise the information and draw on it at will.

  Frankie was fully inside his mind now. Her hand in his was still and the grip of her fingers had loosened. Darling Frankie. Dapper, gallant. The idea of going into the palace with him was deeply daunting to her, he knew that. But when he had asked her if she would follow him inside, she never hesitated. Such unconditional love—he felt humbled. Their destinies had always been linked, Frankie’s and his. And they were about to embark on their longest journey together.

  His inner eye was now completely slack. It was time to interface with Morrighan. Would she accept him? But on that score he needn’t be worried. She would accept him. Oh, yes. She was probably waiting for him already.