Enoch's Device (22 page)

“H
ow do you know?” Dónall
asked the question before Ciarán could formulate the words. The thought that Remi and Thomas had been chasing a real historical relic, and not some chimera born of Maugis’ mind, emboldened Ciarán, but he had never imagined the relic being what the rabbi just described.

“First,” the rabbi said, “I want to know how you have come to search for it. But please, come inside before you catch cold.”

The old man welcomed them into a warm, sparsely furnished room. It was a cozy space, although the boy was gone, so the house must have other rooms as well. A generous layer of soot covered the angled ceiling, and a comfortable hearth crackled with a burning birch log. The air was flush with a sweet aroma. “Roasted chestnuts,” the rabbi said. “My niece makes them for me every winter.” He picked a bowl of the nuts off a round table that displayed a small, curious-looking candelabrum shaped like a bowed arc, with nine candles, only six of which were lit. “Have one?” he said to Ciarán.

Ciarán took a chestnut, peeled away the hull, and savored its sweetish flavor. As he chewed, he noticed a large desk strewn with scrolls and parchments and several inkhorns. A colorful rug lay across the wooden floor.

“I am Rabbi Isaac ben Ezra,” the rabbi said, making a slight bow.

“Dónall mac Taidg,” Dónall replied, “and the lad here is named Ciarán.”

“Please, sit.” The rabbi gestured to two empty chairs. Once Dónall and Ciarán sat, the rabbi pressed them again. “So, Dónall mac Taidg, will you answer my question?”

“We came across a reference to it in a rare Frankish text. The author was a mystic of sorts. He wrote of a ‘Stone of Light’ and made reference to the lost Book of Enoch.”

“That is all?”

“Not really,” Ciarán added. “But we found the Book of Enoch.”

The rabbi blinked in astonishment. “Say that again?”

“We found it,” Ciarán said. “It spoke of a great and glorious device at the ends of the earth—what Maugis, the author, called the Stone of Light.”

“Do you
have
the Book of Enoch?” the rabbi asked, still incredulous.

“Unfortunately,” Dónall said, “we are not the only ones looking for it. Our rival ended up with the book.”

“That is unfortunate,” the rabbi frowned. “I would have liked to see it.” He eyed them shrewdly. “Why do you and this
rival
seek the stone?”

“It is an intellectual curiosity,” Dónall lied.

“Hm-m-m,” the rabbi said, “I wonder. But I suppose it doesn’t matter, because you will never find this thing. You are obviously an educated man, Dónall mac Taidg. Are you aware of any works by Jewish mystics?”

“Vaguely,” Dónall replied.

“There is a text, the
Sefer Yetzirah—
the Book of Creation—that tells how Abraham received a divine testimony of mystic lore. He lived long before Moses received the Torah, so he must have received something different. Abraham was the father of Jewish mysticism, much of which focuses on the origins of the many names of God, and the various combinations of sacred letters that make up those names, all in the quest to realize the one great name of God.
That
is the knowledge that many believe Abraham received. If this knowledge was embodied in a physical object, one theory is that it was a gemstone.”

“
That’s what Remi said,
” Ciarán whispered in Irish to Dónall, who nodded back.

The rabbi shot them a curious look but then continued. “You realize,” he explained, “that much of this is speculation. But my teacher was a sage from Al-Andalus, the land of my birth, where they are more educated in these things. Regardless, from here we must move to the Book of Exodus, for that is where we first read of the great stones. It describes the breastplate of Aaron, the first high priest. On the breastplate were many gemstones, but only two of them—the Urim and Thummim—bore unique names. They were to be worn over Aaron’s heart when he spoke with God. The Thummim was called the Stone of Perfection, or Stone of Truth. That is not the one you are interested in. You seek the other stone, the Urim, translated literally as ‘Stone of Light.’”

A wave of astonishment crashed over Ciarán: the stone was mentioned in the Bible.

Dónall gaped at the rabbi. “You believe the Urim is the same as Abraham’s stone?”

“The light is a focus of Jewish mysticism,” the rabbi explained. “Creating Light was the first act of God. It is the very essence of creation. If the father of mysticism had a sacred stone, it would have been the Urim, passed down through a long line of mystics, through Aaron to the kings of Israel, most notably King Solomon. And that is where we find the likes of the Urim again. The story comes from the Talmud and tells of a stone called the Schamir, or ‘lightning stone’—a gem that radiated light. Is this the Urim? I think the similarities suggest they must be. Solomon set the Schamir into a ring.”

“The Seal of Solomon,” Dónall breathed.

“Quite observant,” the rabbi replied. “According to legend, it was a ring etched with the name of God.”

Dónall rubbed his forehead. “There are stories that Solomon used that ring to subdue demons.”

“A ring holding the Urim would have bestowed such power.”

Ciarán listened intently to the two scholars, riveted by their dialogue. It was the same fascination he had felt hearing Remi and Lucien unravel the secrets of Enoch.

“What happened to the stone after Solomon?” Ciarán asked.

The rabbi held up his palms. “I sense that this is more than a mere intellectual curiosity. You have not been frank with me. Before I tell you any more, I want to know why you seek the Urim.”

Ciarán looked to Dónall, who was already unfastening the straps to his book satchel. He lifted out the Book of Maugis and set it on the table before the candelabrum. A glow from the flickering candles danced across the golden ankh etched into the cover. The rabbi’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the tome. He reached for it, then pulled back his hand as if afraid to touch it.

“Its author,” Dónall explained, “was Maugis d’Aygremont, one of the twelve paladins of Charlemagne—an expert, you could say, in the more arcane lore. It was written near the end of the eighth century.”

“May I?” the rabbi said, touching the cover. His hand trembled.

“Of course.”

The rabbi opened the book and began leafing carefully through the timeworn pages. He scanned paragraphs of scrawled Latin, squinting to read the poorly penned words, eventually abandoning the effort and delving deeper into the book. He stopped when he reached a page decorated with Fae symbols. He seemed captivated by the flowing beauty of the Fae script. With a crooked finger, he traced one of the letters from its stem to the arch, to its brilliant hooked serif.

“What is this script?” he asked reverently.

“According to the author, it is derived from the tongue of the angels.”

The rabbi looked up. “You believe this?”

“The author claimed to have known one, of a sort,” Dónall said. “Hidden among those symbols is an obscure reference to an event that occurs every thousand years—an apocalyptic event reminiscent of that described in the book of Revelation. The first time it occurred would have been three thousand years ago, with the fall of legendary Atlantis. The second would have been around the reign of King David or his son Solomon. The third would have been around the time of Christ’s birth.”

“And the fourth,” Ciarán added, “would be around now.”

The rabbi shook his head as if he had bitten a sour grape. “So this is some Christian prophecy you have fixated on.”

“Not exactly,” Ciarán said. “The prophecy is supposedly written among the stars, embedded in the signs of the zodiac—a good while before there were Christians.”

“Ah,” the rabbi said. “Astrological foolishness.”

“For years, I was skeptical, too,” Dónall said. “And I still am, to a degree. But of late, everyone who has chased this mystery has been murdered by people who believe very seriously in the truth of these things: the rivals I spoke of—men who seemingly will stop at nothing to ensure that the Stone of Light is never found.”

“And still you pursue it?”

“It is supposedly a key to this prophecy,” Dónall explained. “A linchpin, if you will—a thing needed to survive the prime event of this conflict.”

“And the author does not tell you how to find such an important thing?”

“There may well be more answers hidden in this book,” Dónall said, “but we don’t even know where to start looking—which brought us to you.”

The rabbi rested his chin on his hands and stared into the flickering candelabrum. Then he closed his eyes as if deep in thought. After a moment, he opened them again and sighed. “What you have just told me seems very dubious. But even if it were true, I am afraid I can be of little more use. For the Urim is gone, lost in the sands of history, just like the vessel that contained it.”

“What vessel?” Ciarán pressed.

“The holiest of all vessels. Built by Moses, overlaid with gold, and topped with cherubim, to carry the testimony of God’s covenant.”

Ciarán could hardly believe his ears. “The Ark of the Covenant—the chest that contained the Ten Commandments?”

“We know that the Ark held more than just the tablets of the Ten Commandments,” the rabbi explained, “but also the most sacred objects of the Levite priests: a golden urn of manna from heaven, Aaron’s rod, and, undoubtedly, the Urim. But when the Babylonians destroyed Jerusalem and plundered the temple, the Ark, along with the Urim, disappeared into legend. So, you see, to seek the Urim is to seek the lost Ark—as futile a quest, I assure you.”

Ciarán looked to Dónall, hoping for a response, but Dónall shook his head, looking dejected.

“Well,” the rabbi said, rising from his chair, “that is all the time I have. I am sorry I could not be of more help.” Dónall returned the book to its satchel, and the old man ushered his two visitors from their chairs to the front door. “Remember what I told you about the voyage from Bordeaux,” the rabbi said, clapping Dónall’s back. “Watch for Vikings. Good day.” The door closed.

Standing outside the rabbi’s house, they felt the wintry air gnaw at their bones. Snowflakes fell like frozen tears.

“Why would Maugis intend such a wild-goose chase?” Ciarán asked.

Dónall shook his head. “Maybe he
was
mad.”

“If so, then Remi died in vain—and my parents, too.”

“Perhaps they did,” Dónall said, dispirited.

“I don’t want to believe that.”

Dónall looked at him fondly. “Now you’re starting to sound like your father.”

“Maybe he was onto something. I’ve got an idea.”

“Speak.”

Ciarán looked Dónall in the eyes. “Only after you show me all the secrets in that book.”

I
n their austere, drafty guest
room at Saint-Hilaire-le-Grand, Ciarán and Dónall huddled over the Book of Maugis d’Aygremont, which lay open between them. Beside the book burned two tallow candles, their flames flickering in the draft of a narrow window that sucked in the night’s chill like a long-drawn breath.

“Go back to where Maugis talks about the prophecy,” Ciarán said.

“If you insist.” Dónall leafed through the ancient vellum until he found a stained blank page. Then, taking the small milky-hued crystal from a pocket in his robes, he closed his eyes and blew on it, whispering the Fae word that Ciarán had heard twice before:
“Eoh.”

The crystal flashed brightly before dimming to a warm glow.

Ciarán looked on with familiar awe as lines of verse appeared on the empty page. He read the first verse aloud, below the words “The Prophecy of Arcanus.”

Dark cycle of a thousand years, when the Dragon is freed. The Prophecy is etched in the heavens. The Sphinx is the key.

This time, the meaning of the first two lines struck Ciarán like a thunderbolt. “Remi said that according to scripture, the Dragon must be freed from his prison after a thousand years.”

“He did,” Dónall replied. “And so did John of Patmos. He wrote in the book of Revelation that ‘
When the thousand years are ended, Satan will be released from his prison and will come to deceive the nations at the four corners of the earth, Gog and Magog, in order to gather them for battle.
’ Coupled with the cycle of a thousand years and our now familiar riddle about the zodiac and the sphinx, Thomas and Remi developed their theory of the prophecy.”

Ciarán nodded, staring now at the second verse, beneath the word “Salvation”:

In Virgo’s seed of Charlemagne’s line, and Enoch’s device, where the answer lies, in the whisper of breath, or all hope dies.

“The last two lines concern Enoch’s device,” Ciarán observed.

“But where does that leave us?” Dónall asked. “All that remains is the hieroglyph and its reference to the Stone of Light at the ends of the earth. And even if the stone is the Urim, as our good rabbi believes, the trail ends in ancient Babylon, and from there only God knows.”

“But we know one thing,” Ciarán said, revealing the idea that had struck him outside the rabbi’s house. “If this prophecy
is
real, then a thousand years ago, someone found Enoch’s device. After all, the world’s still here, right? Don’t we just need to figure out who found it and where they went?”

Dónall blew on the crystal again. The light winked out, and the words on the page disappeared into the stained vellum. “And how do you propose we do that?”

“What about the other blank pages in the book?”

“They contain either Fae words or instructions on how to use them. Maugis hid his most precious knowledge on the blank pages, almost as a rite of passage, forcing the seeker to learn how to summon the soul light before being able to uncover the greater secrets of the Fae.”

Ciarán gazed at Dónall in the flickering candlelight. “Then don’t you think it means something that Maugis hid his reference to the prophecy in the same way?”

Dónall looked away, frustration knitting his brow.

“I need to learn how to read them,” Ciarán said, tapping on the blank page.

“Nonsense,” Dónall snapped.

“And what if something happens to you? The secrets of this book will be lost.
Everything
could be lost!”

“I never wanted this for you,” Dónall said solemnly.

“Did my father?”

“Do you realize how dangerous the power can be?”

“How dangerous will it be if what Remi believed is actually true?”

Dónall grimaced. “Blast it to hell! It’s against my better judgment, but so be it. In the morning,” he said curtly.

Ciarán breathed a deep breath. His astonishment at Dónall’s acquiescence was followed by a sudden wave of apprehension. For by tomorrow, his life as a dutiful, ordinary Christian monk would end.

*

The next morning, storm clouds gathered in the east, slowly advancing on Poitiers like a dark, threatening army.

Ciarán glanced up from one of the stone benches that bordered the floor of the ruined Roman amphitheater. Rows of steps encircled the bowl-shaped theater, which was littered with fragments of stone columns and broken benches. Tufts of yellow grass sprouted from the jagged fissures, and splotches of gray-green moss speckled the ancient stone steps that climbed to the amphitheater’s crumbling back wall. The ruins stood by the road between the abbey and the city’s southwestern gate—a vestige from a long-gone era when the city bore its Roman name, Lemonum. Ciarán and Dónall had entered through a half-collapsed arched gateway, squeezing past the remains of an iron portcullis and through a tunnel into the theater, although judging from the gaping breaches in the outer walls, this was not the only way inside. Snow dusted the rows of steps and formed a patchy white veil over the floor where Roman actors once performed. But for the two monks, the amphitheater was deserted.

“Perfect,” Dónall said.

He crouched next to the bench, using a stick to trace a diagram in the snow. Drawing a line, he crossed it with another and then described a circle around the cross. Ciarán recognized the symbol at once.

“A wheel cross, like the one in your cell.”

“Very good, lad,” Dónall replied. At the bottom of the cross, he made a small circle. At the end of the left arm, he drew another symbol: a straight vertical line. Moving to the top of the cross, he sketched a shape that looked like a sage leaf with a cross at its base, and at the end of the right arm, he drew a downward-pointing triangle.

“The circle represents our world,” Dónall said, “comprised of the four elements.” Starting at the base of the cross and working clockwise, he named them: “Earth, fire, air, and water. The Fae words allow us to manipulate these elements—at times, to bend them to our will. Each element has an associated object that one must use, while speaking the words, to focus the power. Thomas thought the objects might be a sort of crutch to help us focus our minds, but without them we were never able to make the power work. Perhaps the Fae don’t need them, but who knows?”

“What are they?” Ciarán asked, still trying to decipher the symbols Dónall had placed around the circle.

Dónall pointed to the small circle at the bottom of the cross. “For earth, the object is a crystal or a gemstone. You’ve seen the one I use.” He took the crystal from in his habit pocket and rolled it between his fingers and thumb. “Thomas used a ruby that he mounted on a ring.”

“You used the crystal to neutralize the basilisk’s venom.”

“True,” Dónall said. “We are but creatures of earth, so the power can accelerate the body’s natural healing.” Next, he pointed to the vertical line beside the left arm. “The object for fire is a staff baptized by flame. You saw mine before I lost it at Saint-Bastian’s.”

“Can you make a new one?”

“Yes, but it would take some time. First, we would have to find a suitable piece of wood—an alder tree struck by lightning, for instance. And then it must be enchanted by the recitation of Fae words and an infusion of light.”

“That’s the purpose of the pictures in the book, isn’t it?” Ciarán asked him. “Maugis told you how to create these.”

“Good deduction.” Dónall pointed to the oval with a crosslike handle. “For air, the object is a sword—the one you’re now familiar with.” Finally, he moved to the upside-down triangle.

“A cauldron,” Ciarán interjected. “The object for water.”

Dónall gave a wry smile. “We call it the cup, or the chalice, but it’s the same thing. How did you know?”

“The Four Hallows of Ireland—the treasures of the Tuatha Dé Danann: the cauldron of Dagda, the sword of Núada, the spear or staff of Lugh, and the stone of Fál. It’s another pattern.”

“Clever, lad. Thomas and I saw the connection, too. It affirmed for us that this magic—if that’s what you want to call it—was indeed the art of the Fae.”

In the distance, the sky growled. The angry black clouds had begun to encroach on the pale gray sky overhead. Ciarán wondered how much time they had before the storm hit. Dónall glanced quickly at the clouds and continued the lesson. “In the center of the cross, where the lines intersect, is the fifth and most critical element: the spirit—the light I revealed to you, empowered by our everlasting souls. Maugis had an apothegm for it: ‘
Stone cuts earth, staff kindles fire. Sword parts air, cup binds water. Spirit incites the power.’
Only by tapping into the spirit—the light, which exists within each of us—can you give effect to the Fae words and channel the power.”

Ciarán had no idea how to tap into his inner spirit. Indeed, the more Dónall spoke of it, the more he doubted he would ever be able to do it. “I assume it’s a little harder than just saying a magic word and blowing on a crystal.”

Dónall shrugged as he sat down on the ancient stone bench. “Just a bit. But it won’t be nearly as hard for you as it was for us. You see, the conscious mind erects a barrier around the spirit, such that normal people never know what power lies within them. We don’t know why this barrier exists—perhaps to protect us, for this power can be quite dangerous. Or maybe, over time, mankind forgot how to use the spirit, and it gradually became sealed off from the generations that followed. But the spirit exists in us all, beyond our conscious mind. To tap into it, we must shatter the barrier that surrounds it.”

“But
how
?” Ciarán asked.

“Maugis called it self-initiation. Thomas and I, along with many of our brothers, did it this way, inducing a state of delirium, fasting for days, locked in the darkness of our cells, deep in meditation, to break through the barrier of the conscious mind. The hunger tears at your insides until it seems you’re going mad, wishing that the horrors conjured by your delirious mind would go ahead and devour you and free you from the torment. But then, in the darkest moment, you break through and finally see it: the light in all its brilliance.”

Ciarán looked hesitantly at Dónall. “And that’s what we’re going to do today?”

“Are you afraid?”

“No,” Ciarán said, drawing a deep breath. “Well . . .”

“Using this power is not for the faint of heart or weak of mind. Remi, for one, felt that self-initiation was a necessary test to prove whether one was worthy to learn the secrets of the Fae. Fortunately, though, Thomas and I discovered a more expeditious and humane way to help others shatter the barrier. My one reservation is that this method avoids the suffering—when the power is earned in that fashion, it creates a profound respect. But I suppose we can’t lock you in a cell in Saint-Hilaire’s, raving like a madman, without attracting the attention of Prior Bernard and his pack of sour-faced Cluniacs.”

Dónall held the crystal to his lips, then hesitated. “I warned you many times how dangerous this is. It is not too late to change your mind, but soon it will be.”

Ciarán glanced at the wheel cross. He thought of his parents, hiding in some dimly lit stable of a village inn to practice the Fae arts in secret, all for the cause they believed in. Two fugitives chasing the prophecy—a quest that Ciarán now continued. He knew what had to be done.

He looked up and met Dónall’s gaze.

“I’m ready.”

*

Dónall put the crystal to his lips and whispered the now familiar Fae word. Within the crystal, a faint spark erupted into a bright flash before settling into a soft white glow. Dónall held the crystal before Ciarán’s eyes. “I’m told this won’t hurt too much,” he said. “Close your eyes.”

Ciarán closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt the crystal’s warmth bathe his forehead just above his nose. Silently he asked Saint Columcille for strength, an instant before he felt the crystal’s heat pressing against his head, lancing into his skull. A sudden rush of energy followed, and Ciarán felt himself falling. In a panic, he opened his eyes but saw only blackness. He was plummeting into a dark abyss. He cried out for Dónall but could not hear the words that left his tongue—if he even still had a tongue, for he could no longer feel his body or his limbs, as if he were nothing more than a consciousness suspended in darkness. The rushing slowed, and Ciarán felt himself floating in a starless sky, drifting toward the source of the darkness: a black obsidian wall, shimmering and impenetrable. Another sudden rush bore down on him like a violent wave, forcing him into the wall. What remained of his consciousness threatened to be pulverized between wall and wave. A scream roared up through the blackness. In the obsidian, a glowing crack formed and spread like a spider’s web—jagged lines of light crawling across the wall.

Then the blackness exploded into a billion sparkling shards.

Searing heat followed blinding light, and he stood in the core of a blazing white sun. It felt powerful, energizing. He breathed it in through his lungs, stretched the muscles of his chest, felt every bone and sinew of his arms and legs, and the heat on the tips of his fingers and toes. Around him, all was a glorious incandescent white.