The Mists of Osorezan

by Zoe Drake

  “Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”

  Nozaki handed the girl the mesh, and she eased it over the back of David’s head. The metal and plastic felt cool against his scalp, but not uncomfortable.

  “It might be a tight fit,” Nozaki apologized, “but a few years ago it would have taken a long time to attach each sensor individually. Thanks to recent developments, we have technology sensitive enough to detect the activity of individual brain cells…” and David let the explanation wash over him, as Nozaki used a stream of unfamiliar technical Japanese words.

  The nurse handed David a glass of light blue liquid. “This is to help you go to sleep, Mr. David.”

  He drank it; it tasted of mouthwash. He lay back on the bed, the sensors slipping gently across his scalp to adjust to his movements. He nestled his neck into the shape of the pillow, making himself comfortable.

  Nozaki looked down at David and gave one final bow. “Sweet dreams,” he said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mappamundi

  The Cologne Mani Codex. Discovered in Egypt in the late Forties, undeciphered until twenty years later. A Greek translation of an earlier Aramaic text that purported to be the history of Mani, third-century CE Babylonian prophet and the founder of Manichaeism.

  In the dying days of the third century, both Christians and Muslims denounced the religion as heretical. Manichaeism spread, however, beyond the Persian Empire, and attracted followers from Spain to China, with its synthesis of ideas from Gnosticism, Zoroastrianism and Paganism and its creed of balance between two universes, the Realm of Light and the Realm of Darkness.

  In the Manichean version of Genesis, Adam was tempted by an entity named al-Sindid, the King of the Veils, a son of the Ruler of the Realm of Darkness. Adam protected himself, Eve and their young son by drawing three magical circles, while channeling an unknown language to defend themselves;

  “He pronounced over the first ring the name of the King of the Gardens, over the second the name of Primal Man, and over the third the name of the Living Spirit.”

  Circle rituals were well known in Middle Eastern and Jewish lore in Mani’s time. There were the incantations of the Ma’aseh Merkavah, the acts of Honi HaM’agel, Habakkuk and Abu Isa Al-Isfahani – even Moses himself was said to have performed a similar ritual.

  What were not well known were the tales concerning the return of the King of the Veils.

  When Mani received his calling as a prophet, he was living in a community of the Elkesaite sect on the river Euphrates. Having received revelations from an angelic figure he named ‘the Twin’, Mani left the sect to spread the word.

  On his wanderings, however, he had a companion: Achaz. A comrade who had also been illuminated by the teachings of the Twin, and who had left the sect with Mani. It was recorded in the suppressed text known as the Ardahang that Mani and Achaz were confronted in the Syrian desert and tempted by the old Archon of Darkness, al-Sindid, the King of the Veils. As it was written in the Ardahang;

  Then Mani and Achaz went into the desert, to cross to Kedar; and suddenly there came a rushing like the roaring of a mighty storm, and sand and wind blinded them.

  Then came the great tempter, al-Sindid, the King of the Veils. A window opened in the air before them; and the King of the Veils, and the scores of hundreds of dwellers in the Realm of Darkness stood before them.

  Achaz was then taken with the spirit of the Twin, and with a halo of flame about him, drew three circles in the sand, the three rings that were revealed to Old Adam. And the King of the Veils touched them not, and instead was sent back to his land of eternal night.

  Yet was the task of Achaz not finished; with the spirit of the Twin burning within him, he took up brush and papyrus and wrote upon it in the language of the angels, saying, This shall be the way to command the King of the Veils; this book sheweth how to open the gates to the Realm of Darkness, and this second sheweth how to close them.

  The second book he giveth to Mani; but the first, as it was a great danger to the men and women of that land, Achaz kept to himself. And the Twin entrusted him with its safety, and did bear him up with the desert wind, and carried him and the Book away. Thus was Achaz never seen in his native land again.

  The Ardahang and one half of the Book of the Veils; unknown to civilization because both had been removed from history by the Lamed Vav, and locked away in the Hohenstaufen Collection, along with the other forbidden texts and grimoires.

  Alone in his Bermondsey home, Weiss sighed and put down the codex. He fanned the rustling pages out upon the clear glass coffee table in front of his armchair, his eyes roving over the unknown angular markings, the cracks and stains left by the aging of the papyrus.

  He got up and collected several medicine bottles from the bathroom. Returning to the living room, his hands full, he stopped at the door. He had the fleeting impression that there was someone else with him; some presence.

  Narrowing his eyes, he studied the living room in the noonday sunlight. The stripped pine floor with its Persian rug, a present from Ilona; the rectangular glass coffee table and the plump haven of the Balmoral sofa; on the wall opposite the sofa, the picture of the Otz Chiim – the Tree of the Sephiroth – that he had painted and framed himself, to aid his meditations.

  “Eric?” he called softly. There was no answer; only the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

  He sat down, putting the bottles on the table. He hated doing this; but for what he had in mind, he had to be composed, and that meant taming his rebellious body.

  Prednisolone, which somehow he could never swallow fast enough to escape the bitter taste. Azathiopine. Lansoprazole. Calcichew. An optimistic attempt to repair the eroding of his stomach lining. When it was all over, he sat back in his armchair, feeling guilty but sated.

  He peered once more at the codex. There was even a story in the Talmud concerning circle magic, and a character called Honi HaM’agel, or Honi the Circle-drawer. In a time of draught, the people of the land petitioned a wise man named Honi to make it rain. He drew a circle, stood in the middle of it, and called, “Lord! I shall not move from this circle until you make it rain on my people!”

  A slight drizzle began to fall. “That’s not what I asked for!” shouted Honi. “We need the trenches and the reservoirs filled, Lord!”

  And so rain began to fall. Heavy, torrential rain. It rained until the people were flooded out of their homes, and the ground beneath Honi was washed away.

  “Be careful when you go looking for something,” Weiss muttered to himself. “You might just find it.”

  The phone rang, disturbing his thoughts.

  He picked up his smartphone from the coffee table. “Professor Weiss,” the husky vinegar and honey voice began.

  “Hello, Marcus.”

  “I thought I’d call you and tell you John Sinclair seems to have made a full recovery. He’s gone back to Canterbury to carry on with some research there. Has he phoned you yet?”

  “No, but he’s probably still sulking. I’m not exactly in his good books at the moment.”

  “You’ll have to forgive him, you know. He’s just as upset over Eric’s death as you are.”

  “Yes, yes, of course I’ll patch things up.” Weiss took a sip of water. “Has there been any other news from Venice?”

  “George and the Carbonari are convinced that it’s not in Venice. We have extended the search now to the whole of Italy, as well as Vatican City.”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t have to be in Italy, does it? What we found at Poveglia was a portal that had somehow been reactivated. Thankfully it hadn’t fully opened, but if someone used the other Book of the Veils and caused that event in Poveglia – either deliberately, or accidentally – then they didn’t have to be in Italy. Theoretically, they could be anywhere in the world.”

  “I’m aware of that,” said Marcus flatly.

  Weiss sat, blankly, listening to the silence on the other end of the phone. “Marcus,” he asked eventually, “If th
is is really as important as it seems to be, why didn’t you go to Venice yourself?”

  “I had commitments. But be assured, Professor, I was monitoring the situation.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me? What’s really going on, Marcus?”

  He could almost hear Marcus Jewell smiling on the other end; he could picture that arrogant, inhuman smile. “Everything is still going according to schedule, Professor. You fight the good fight your way; I’ll fight it mine.”

  Weiss sat listening to the dial tone for a few moments, staring into space, lost in thought. Then he switched off the phone.

  Weiss ran a bath, soaked himself for half an hour; piping hot water to partly sooth away the aches in his stomach and back.

  Afterwards, perspiring slightly, he dressed himself in white slacks, ceremonial blue tunic and orange waistcoat, and began his preparations. In complete silence, he performed the slow, graceful movements of the otiyot hayyot – the living letters, his whole body a call to prayer.

  In his study, he collected the box of crushed chalk he used in evocations, and emptied it on one corner of the pinewood floor, making a small white pile. He lit the candles, drew the circle and pentagram, and inscribed the holy names within. With the ceremonial dagger he drew the figure of the Earth Pentagram in the air, four times, north, south, east and west. Working by candlelight on white paper, he carefully inscribed the sigil of Orobas, the fifty-fifth spirit of the Goetia, and above it the two strokes of the Hebrew letter Vav.

  He commenced the breathing exercises, began to recite the preliminary evocation. He visualized a single line of light, stretching down from the heavens, through the roof of the house, down to the scalp of his own head.

  After a while, one of the candle flames began to burn brighter, sparking as it sent out thick black smoke.

  Who calls? came a voice, a hollow male whisper that echoed through the darkened room.

  Benjamin Weiss gave his earthly name, his brotherhood title and his Angelic name. “I wish to speak with Orobas,” he announced to the minor elemental.

  There was no more guttering from the candle; but, moments later, Weiss noticed the pile of chalk began to move. It slid over and upon itself, collapsing and reforming into a new shape, shoulders spreading upon out upon the floor, the grainy powder compressing itself to form a bulky, misshapen head.

  The head was that of a horse. A rough, crystalline mane, eyes white and blind, nose long and flat. Orobas; a prince of the Goetia, the legion of seventy-two demons once commanded by King Solomon.

  Why have you called me? came a voice. Not the same whisper; this was deeper, resonant, but flat, like the string of a double bass being plucked.

  “I welcome you to this realm, most great and mighty prince. I wish to speak with you regarding the death of Ayin of the Lamed Vav Tzadikim,” Weiss enunciated clearly.

  Why should I be concerned if one of your watchers has died?

  “Because this has presented us with a problem, and you with a task, Orobas. A challenge worthy of your intellect.”

  I shall be the one who decides what is worthy.

  The professor noticed his breath misting in the room, although the candles were unaffected by the sudden drop in temperature.

  “There is something I wish to know, Orobas. I wish to know in what realm the second Book of the Veils is currently located.”

  The horse head shifted, showing one blank eye to the professor. I will search.

  “I shall go with you.”

  That you cannot command.

  Shifting back upon its crumbling shoulders, the horse head froze into immobility, the faint light of life in its eyes flickering out. Weiss adjusted his position in the circle, prepared himself to wait.

  After a lengthy period of time, the chalk began to move again, grains of white dust falling from the big, flat teeth and flaring eyes.

  “Well?” Weiss asked uneasily.

  I have performed my search to the extent possible.

  “What do you mean, ‘to the extent possible’?”

  There were…difficulties. The horse lips of the chalk statue pulled back, eyes rolling in the grotesque, flaking head. Certain entities have put a field of protection about the Book. It cannot be traced. I have no access to those planes of existence.

  “Then who does?”

  No one among the Goetia. It is under the jurisdiction of the Anima Mundi.

  Weiss raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I wish you to summon the Anima Mundi,” he commanded after a few moments’ thought. In answer, the ghostly white head rocked back and forth. Its croaking was a hideous parody of a laugh. I am not foolish enough to try to summon the Anima Mundi alone, and neither are you.

  Weiss held the sigil of Orobas out towards the candle flame. “I am a kind and generous master if you serve me, spirit, but I have the right to punish you if you are disobedient.”

  The chalk head dribbled powder in the sudden silence. At length, the voice came again. This is not a matter for punishment. Look within yourself for the answers. Look at what you already know, and what your watcher Ayin had uncovered. What manner of man was Fra Mauro? What did he do?

  A dim, unholy fire burned deep within bone-white sockets. Was it fear? Or mocking?

  I cannot say more.

  Weiss stared at the head of Orobas for some time, watching the chalk shift and slide as it whispered to itself. Eventually, he gave it license to depart, and he watched the light in its eyes die. The head subsided into itself, a shapeless mass of chalk once more. Thoughtfully, Weiss placed the sigil of Orobas inside a black silken pouch, and performed the acts to conclude the ritual.

  As always, his encounter with the Goetia had left him drained; but this time, it had left him without answers.

  He sat in his armchair late at night in the soft lamplight, listening to Debussy’s Preludes. Thinking of what Orobas had said, thinking of what Marcus hadn’t said. Thinking of the past he’d shared with Eric, the astral traveling of subtle bodies…the chill, hushed interior of ancient cathedrals, deserts where the bones of nameless creatures had lain scattered, arctic skies with lightning erupting in the darkness.

  Thinking of Eric dying in front of his eyes and him being unable to prevent it.

  Sometime after dawn, in a cornflower blue London morning, Benjamin Weiss writhed in his sleep, eyelids fluttering, brow drenched in sweat, his limbs twisted in the bed-sheets. Waking to the soft light seeping into the bedroom, he sat up, reaching for pen and paper to try to write down what he had envisioned.

  Look again at Fra Mauro, Orobas had said. Look at what he did. What did Fra Mauro do? He made maps. And what else was the Otz Chiim, the Tree of Life, the diagram of the thirty-two Sephirophic paths? It was a map.

  As soon as it was opening time at the British Library, Weiss was on the phone to a colleague. Shortly afterwards, the emails and the file attachments started to appear in the Professor’s inbox. Opening the files, he printed them out and spread them upon the coffee table, placing the parts together to form the whole.

  Fra Mauro: a man whose life work had been to create the perfect map of Creation. Orbis Terrae Compendiosa Descriptio. A monk who had drawn his visions of the earth without leaving his cloisters. Through whose eyes had he seen these wonders? Whose hand had been guiding his when he had put ink to parchment?

  If the King of the Veils had somehow soon contacted, what had the purpose been? Was it possible that the Archon of Darkness had tried to communicate with this level of reality, its foul whispers emanating from the Subtle Territories? Perhaps to reveal the location of the second Book of the Veils, so it could use a human servant to summon it into this world?

  Weiss stared at the print-out of Fra Mauro’s map, completed in 1459; a circular planisphere drawn on parchment and set in a wooden frame two meters in diameter. One of its many peculiarities was that it had South at the top, a practice borrowed from Muslim cartographers. He scanned the myriad tiny details. The depiction of Africa was amazingly accurat
e. The Mediterranean coasts were meticulously drawn.

  And there, up in the eastern corner, Weiss found what he was looking for. Isola de Cipangu.

  Zain. Pe. Nun.

  “Mazeltov,” he whispered.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Dorataboh

  Yoshitada Tsutsumi awoke in his futon and lay very still. The darkness in the deathly quiet bedroom was broken only by the ghostly-gleaming squares of paper over the windows. He waited for his eyes to adjust, straining his ears to listen.

  He sat up in his futon, his middle-aged bones giving loud snaps and creaks. The clock said three twenty-five. Beside him, his wife’s graying hair fanned out across the pillow, her face turned to the wall.

  The sounds from outside drove away the feelings of fatigue and sharpened his wits. There were voices outside the window; they were the noises that had woken him up. Instantly, he was on the alert. The Tsutsumi residence was a farmhouse in the north of Iwata prefecture, near the national park; there was absolutely no reason for anyone to be walking past in the middle of the night.

  He noticed something odd about the voices outside. They were oily, gurgling sounds, like someone trying to talk through a throat full of mucus. Sitting bolt upright, staring around him, he glimpsed a faceless silhouette moving across the paper screens.

  With a whispered curse, he stood up. He put on his yukata robe, left the bedroom and slid open the door to their children’s room. They were both fast asleep.

  He padded to the kitchen at the back of the farmhouse and stepped into a pair of old trainers and put a jacket over his robe. Cautiously, he opened the door and stepped outside into the sultry night air.

  The terraced fields swept away in the moonlight, away to the woods and the cobalt shadows of the mountains floating in the distance. Although the Tsutsumi farm was only thirteen acres – all they could physically manage at the moment – their neighbors’ property surrounded them, part of the northern Iwate rice belt. He stared at the titanic skeletons of electrical pylons marching away into the dark, listened to the sounds of distant traffic from the highway. Above him, the cold Tohoku stars shimmered impassively.