Gene of Isis (18 page)

Real or faked, my brother-in-law was very relieved at my decision. ‘Thank you.’ His gratitude was heartfelt and emphatic. ‘Do you know where my wife was headed?’

I realised he’d just been waiting to get me on side before springing that question. ‘I have no idea, she didn’t say,’ I told him truthfully and perhaps a little harshly, for the truth obviously crushed him. ‘But my guess is that she’ll head deeper into Europe.’ I tried to be encouraging. ‘Paris is the next major stepping stone from here, so that should be our first stop.’

‘Our
first stop?’ Devere actually flashed a fleeting shadow of a smile. ‘You mean to imply that you plan to join me on this fool’s crusade?’

‘Well, I can’t be of much use to you if I stay here.’ Yes, it was insane, but suddenly the idea of not knowing what I’d be doing tomorrow or where I’d be had great appeal.

‘James will never allow you to travel with me,
alone,
through Europe.’

‘Then we will just have to convince your dear brother that it is his duty to help us find our lost sister.’ I served Mr Devere with a wink. ‘But my brother’s political agenda—’ I held up a finger to hush his concern. ‘Just leave my Lord Oxford to me.’

Post-revolution Paris was my kind of town. In the vacuum of Napoleon’s departure, the city had become a hive of artists, writers, theologians and radical thinkers. If you spoke decent French, and it was commented that I did, the Parisians were very helpful and to the point.

This city may not yet have been as organised and developed as London—many of the streets were covered in a black muck that was a mixture of human and animal waste and mud—but construction had started on several very ambitious new landmarks, in addition to a gaslight system for the city streets. A grand art gallery, the Louvre, was nearly completed and already hosted many exhibitions and fine works of art. At one end of a wide dirt road in the city, a construction site marked the unfinished Arc de Triomphe. The growing city also boasted its first railway line, between Paris and St Germain. There were some very fine tea and coffee houses, which proved to be excellent centres for obtaining information.

In social situations, Nanny Beat conveniently transformed into my mama, but as she was not confident with conversing with her betters—and quite often didn’t understand them anyway—she developed a hearing problem. This gave her cause
to speak coarsely, or to ignore people when the need arose.

In one sitting of afternoon tea we learned of some excellent accommodation, and when it became known that I spoke and read several different languages, I was told that the chief librarian of the Arsenal Library in Paris was looking for translators at present.

The Arsenal was a major depository for mediaeval occult manuscripts: an extensive collection of magical, cabalistic, Cathar and hermetic disciplines. More recently the library had taken charge of all the books and manuscripts that Napoleon had confiscated from the Vatican and many other monasteries around Europe. There were more than three thousand cases of material that were being translated at present. Apparently Rome was negotiating for the return of some of these texts to the Vatican, and a group of library staff were soon to embark on a journey to the Holy City.

Travelling by land was probably the most direct route to my destination: the longer land route down through Italy to Sicily would make for a short sea voyage and, due to pirates in the Mediterranean, less risky than any alternative routes. Perhaps I could arrange to travel with the library’s party at least as far as Geneva. There I could brave the trek through the mountains and the cold of Switzerland and on to Venice, where I could catch a boat down through the Adriatic Sea and across the Mediterranean to Cairo. An alternative was to continue south through France to Marseilles and take the extended sea voyage via Sardinia and Malta.

It seemed like too great a coincidence to let pass without investigation. What’s more, how could I
forgo a peek into such a library to drool over all the texts that my schedule would not allow me time to read? Perhaps I might be able to come back here one day, but who could say? That was the most wonderful thing about my present life; I couldn’t really see beyond the moment and I liked this constant being in the now.

Our terrace accommodation backed onto a lovely courtyard shared with several other terraces, all of which had their own table for taking tea in the sunny private area. The central feature of the court was a beautiful little tree surrounded by a colourful bed of flowers—trees in Paris were few and far between. We were a good enough distance away from the manure stench of the well-trodden thoroughfares, but a short walk down a paved street took us to the heart of Paris.

Nanny was concerned about how I planned to pay for our comfortable accommodation, so I confided in her regarding my secret treasure and she nearly had a fit!

‘You can’t keep such riches in something so easily lost or stolen,’ she insisted in a whisper, as she looked over the red book.

‘Then how should I transport it? I have no pockets.’

‘The very thing!’ Nanny clapped her hands. ‘You leave it to me.’ She winked at me confidently.

The next day Nanny headed off to go shopping, and I caught a carriage to the Arsenal Library.

The library was a very imposing, two-storey, L-shaped structure. My carriage drove into the courtyard and I alighted at the door, which was positioned in between the two wings that angled back toward the street on either side of me.

Inside, I inquired after the chief librarian, whose name I had foolishly failed to learn. I was told to wait by one of the several gentlemen librarians. I couldn’t see a woman in the place and yet there was nothing to indicate that the library was for men only.

A short while later, a middle-aged, dark-haired Frenchman introduced himself to me as the assistant to the chief librarian. ‘My name is Mr Jenkins, Mrs Devere. I hear you are a translator, interested in our Vatican archives.’

‘That is very true, Monsieur Jenkins,’ I responded in French. ‘I also wanted to inquire about a journey to Rome that some of your colleagues are embarking on in the near future. Mama and I also wish to make this trip, but as we have no trusted male company to accompany us, we wondered if—’

‘Why, yes, of course.’ He was quick to allay any doubt that we would not be welcome in the party, and did not bother asking after my husband. I was fast discovering that the French were more liberal in their views than the English. ‘I am so very sorry that our curator is elsewhere today,’ Jenkins said. ‘I feel sure he’ll wish to meet you.’

Why did it seem like my reputation had preceded me? ‘Really? Why do you say that, for I am no one of consequence?’

‘Well,’ Jenkins paused to smile, or perhaps to think, ‘it is so seldom a sister takes an interest in our work, especially an English woman.’

He made me smile, for I was not surprised to hear this. ‘Is my French very ill spoken?’

‘Not at all,’ he assured me. ‘It is your countenance that gives your origin away.’

‘You are too kind,’ I replied, sensing both compliment and derision in his statement.

He had a lovely aura though; not extraordinary, but showing a good person. There were little muddy patches around his third eye and gut, which I translated as meaning that he was fighting his instinct about something, and that he had some major concern with processing higher knowledge. Then again, it could add up to a suggestion that his imagination was a little stifled. Mr Jenkins presented as a scholar, but he lacked the individualistic air of an artist.

‘If it pleases you, Madame, I can show you to the archive room.’ He gestured to the door that led to the grand foyer. ‘No one is in there today, but you are most welcome to have a poke about.’

My heart started beating nineteen to the dozen. What an opportunity. And for a woman at that! ‘It would be a wonderful opportunity. Thank you, Mr Jenkins.’

‘Right this way.’ He led off. ‘How many languages do you speak, Mrs Devere?’

‘Six,’ I stated plainly, trying not to sound boastful. ‘And a little Hebrew.’

‘Then you ought to fare well. You are required to sign our guest book and give a contact address in Paris for security reasons. We couldn’t have any of our archives going missing without knowing where to start looking, now could we?’ Mr Jenkins said as we headed into another wing of the building.

‘Not a problem,’ I replied.

‘Our curator could return today, but if he misses you, can I arrange an appointment for tomorrow?’

‘I would be most grateful if you would.’ I was about to ask the curator’s name but I was distracted when double doors were parted before me.

It was a huge room we entered, with tall windows along one wall. Around the other walls were shelves piled high with old books, manuscripts, scrolls and parchments. More of the same covered the desks, of which there were many. There were several glass cabinets with sheets of crumbling parchment presented for viewing and translation.

‘These texts are under glass for good reasons, but you are free to handle everything else. There are paper and pens aplenty lying about, so if you desire to jot anything down, please do so,’ Jenkins concluded, appearing eager to depart. ‘Could I have some tea brought to you?’

I smiled gratefully. ‘That really would be spoiling me, Mr Jenkins.’

‘Then I shall see that it is done, Madame. Good day.’ He bowed and left me in the middle of a historian’s paradise.

‘What to read first?’ My head was swimming as I considered the choice. I looked at the open book on a desk beside me. It was a Latin translation of
The Works of Saint Ignatius of Antioch.
The book was open at a copy of a letter written by Bishop Clement of Alexandria to a friend, which dated the letter to about the year 200AD. The bishop was talking about the Gospel of Mark, or part thereof, that was to be suppressed because it did not conform to the church’s teachings.

For even if they should say something true, one who loves the Truth should not, even so, agree with them.

For not all the true things are the Truth, nor should that Truth which seems true according to human opinions, be
preferred to the true Truth
—
that according to the faith.

To them one must never give way; nor when they put forward their falsifications, should no one concede that the secret gospel is by Mark
—
but should deny it on oath. For not all true things are to be said to all men.

‘The secret gospel of Mark?’ I looked around at the masses of texts and laughed at my chances of finding the document.

A knock at the door announced that my tea had arrived. It was wheeled in by an elderly lady who set it down on a small table that was free of paperwork and books.

I thanked her kindly, to which she gave a curtsey and a ‘Madame’ and departed silently with her trolley, closing the door again.

I did fancy a cup of tea, and it would allow me time to ponder which text would serve me best to read.

I poured my tea, and with my first sip the solution came to me—an itch on my left palm. ‘Albray, Albray, Albray.’

An interesting predicament.
The knight took a seat on the other chair at my table.

‘And what do you suggest?’ I sipped at my tea, a particularly good brew.

You wish to define which text destiny has brought you here to read. Why not use your new talent to will this text to you? Psychokinesis can be used for much more than just moving things about. This talent includes the ability to rearrange the atomic structure of any given thing. On your plane of existence, that is,
he thought to add.

I baulked at his words.

Best
that we just start with the book,
he encouraged, realising that he’d unnerved me.

‘I cannot change atomic structure by accident, I hope.’

Of course not.
Albray didn’t sound entirely confident about that.
I’m sure no harm will come of it.

‘All right then.’ I placed my cup aside, and wiped my sweaty palms on my napkin.

I took a moment to still my mind and calm my heart, then stated my will in my mind.

Nothing seemed to come of it, but then I turned to see a paper trail of parchments floating my way and as a piece alighted on my lap it crumbled to dust. ‘Oh, Jesus, Albray, it must have come forth from one of the glass cases!’

A knock at the door set my heart racing and a hot flush filled my cheeks.

Mr Jenkins entered. ‘Mrs Devere. How would two o’clock tomorrow suit?’

Thankfully, he waited by the door for my response. ‘That would suit very well, Mr Jenkins, thank you.’ Before I’d drawn breath he was gone again.

‘Albray, what do I do?’ I panicked as the priceless document transformed to dirt all over my frock.

What do you think changing the atomic structure of an object means?
He rolled his eyes as I stared at him blankly.
Just will it back together…will it to be as strong as hemp,
he suggested.

My intent manifested as Albray had anticipated and I began to breathe easily once more. ‘Sorry.’ I apologised for my little fit. ‘That was very scary.’

I
understand,
he confirmed, feeling all my emotional turmoil.

‘Now what is this?’ I had the courage to take the sheet in hand.

It was an account from a bishop in Northern France to Pope Honorius the First and it told of a strange incident.

In the year 633AD a mysterious little boat sailed into Boulogne-sur-mer harbour. No person was on board the vessel, but it carried a statue of the Black Madonna and child, accompanied by several manuscripts. The bishop regretted to inform the Pope that the local authorities were unwilling to hand the statue, or the texts, into church custody. However, the bishop had been given the opportunity to translate some of the manuscripts. The bishop’s translation read as follows:

This is a truthful account of my life, yet to history I shall be as myth. All account of my days will vanish or be distorted to suit my oppressors
—
to whom women are valued below animals. It is my belief that if I am remembered at all, it will be as a whore and not as a Nazarite priestess, who was a wife and mother to the royal Kings of Judah.