The Serpent Papers (4 page)

‘Yes, but I have not been given access to them.’

‘We can arrange that.’ Bingley made a scratch on his notepad. ‘Said laboratory notebooks were compiled and archived in the Bodleian library by a young English scholar in 1829, one Charles Leopold Ruthven, who went on to publish accounts of an extraordinary find at an unspecified monastery on Mallorca. He recounts the discovery of a palimpsest sewn into an illuminated Book of Gospels. Enchanted by the quality of the illuminations and the bizarre nature of the prayers – simultaneously apocalyptic and alchemical – Ruthven cut a page from the book and returned with it in secret to Oxford, where a series of studies took place in the hopes of revealing the nature of the Greek letters written vertically beneath the horizontal Latin. This is the page we now have in our possession. What was the book Ruthven had seen in Mallorca? We asked our friends at the university to investigate. A volume in a list of works held by the Mallorcan Diocese in 1825 entitled
The Chrysopeia of Majorca
dated to 1276
ce
. In 1835, when another list is published, the book vanishes from the records. We have reason to assume, Miss Verco, that the book was stolen, shortly after Ruthven’s visit to the monastery.’

His voice echoes through me.

‘It was a work of mesmerizing beauty. A magical book, layer upon layer of history. The manuscript’s value, if it still exists, would be in the millions, the ideal purchase for a private buyer. But if the book went to auction it would run the risk of disappearing from public access. The buyer always controls their purchase. The same would be true of a claim made by the Church; should it fall into the possession of certain members of the Archdiocese, I can guarantee you that the Illuminatus Palimpsest would never see the light of day. Obviously neither case is ideal. As a philanthropic venture, my benefactor would like to avoid these scenarios if possible. And so we come to you, Miss Verco. We are in need of a scholar. A book hunter. You’ve been described as a Renaissance woman by your colleagues and impulsive and rash by your critics. Given your peculiar set of skills, our benefactor seeks your services. He would like you to go to Mallorca for a year or two, maybe more. Work with our faculty at the University of the Balearic Islands, make an inventory of all manuscripts at the monasteries and abbeys in the Serra de Tramuntana. The groundwork is in place already. The local diocese has agreed to collaborate, as have our academic partners. Should we find anything of value, we will have the world’s top institutions at our disposal, the brightest minds, the finest laboratories. Such is the power of Picatrix, Miss Verco. Which brings me back to the page of the palimpsest preserved in Ruthven’s collection. He did not have the technology to read the Greek . . . but today we can.’

Harold beamed, turning to his colleague.

‘Michael has been an immensely valuable resource at Stanford. He’s connected us to the Stanford Linear Accelerator Center, and the Synchrotron Radiation Laboratory. Using Synchrotron light to pick up the iron traces on paper from faded gall inks, we’ve gained access to the submicroscopic world on the page.’

Harold removed a laptop from his briefcase.

‘Now. Why don’t you take a look for yourself?’

II

ILLUMINATUS PALIMPSEST

Single folio – verso and recto

Greek subtext as translated by Picatrix

London, 2012

You have called me

Thrice Great

Two-Faced

Forked Tongue.

You have called me

Devil’s Mouthpiece

Eve’s Blessing

Vulture’s Seed.

Skin of transgression and her Sin.

The Silence who speaks in Song.

I am the Beggar Queen who cast off Kings

Carrying silver cities on her shoulders,

Plucker of roses and violets,

Irises and hyacinths and narcissus,

Crocus gatherer

Dwelling in the deep

I gathered you like stamens

And ate the seeds of summer and birthed the cold of winter.

My tears formed rivers and oceans.

My womb the many-tiered world,

Yet I am empty,

Parthenogen Eternal!

Self-Making and Self-Destroying

Knowing and Unknowing

I am the forgotten and I am the omnipresent.

Alpha and Omega.

O!

Babylon you called me!

Grinding me to dust.

Dust!

I bear this proudly.

I say I am Foundation.

Root of your root.

Clay of your clay.

I am the Light Who Raised You To The
Knowing

And I am Thunder

The Perfect Lightning,

I am the Storm of the Mute and I am the Alphabet of Birds,

I am the Cry from the Dark and I am the Listening.

I am the Holy Path that you have called Knowledge,

And I am the Path that you abjure as Unholy.

I am eternal and I am ephemeral

I am your Mother,

and I am your Daughter

I am Wife of your Wife,

and I am Whore of your Whore,

Dust of your Dust,

and Ash of your Ash.

I am the Moon’s marriage and the Virgin’s child.

The Conquering Blade and The Spirit of Insurrection.

I am the Serpent’s Tongue and her Master.

III

DONUM DEI

Boots leave claw prints in earth, black holes where the rubber has crunched into snow.
Ash and fire on the air.
Smoke from a farmer’s chimneystack. The path frozen over, darting through the olive grove.
The wind cold as a Norse god, ice on the tip of your tongue.
The terrain drops steeply as we enter the woods. Pine needles underfoot, snowdrifts interrupted by black trunks. I shudder, pulling my jacket close, up round my ears, feeling my breath quicken.
There he scrambles. Much faster than me.
I look to my guide, thick turtleneck, polyester coat, hunched shoulders tight against the cold. Full of thunder. Already the sun fading. Clouds ominous. Stomping out the light.

‘Miss Verco!’ The monk Anselmo calls. A great pine uprooted at the side of the forest. Limbs contorted beneath the snow, roots exposed. Veins frozen. ‘The wind did this! The brute was fierce last night. We lost three oaks to the gale.’

‘And the chapel?’

‘You will see soon enough.’ He whistles through his teeth, the old goat call of the shepherd, and walks faster.

And other things too.
I shake the thoughts from my head.
Focus.
Hold my eyes to the path.
It is nothing.

‘I assume you heard the storm,’ he says.

‘Yes.’

‘And did you sleep?’

‘No. Not well.’

‘Neither did we. Are you afraid of the wind?’

I shake my head.

‘Good.’

Anselmo stops at a break in the white-frocked pines. His gaze leads along the thin spine of shale to a broken structure.

‘You can see where the bolt struck,’ he says. ‘The lightning began a fire, but the snow soon put it out.’ Blackened spokes of wood jut into the sky. Two slits for windows, or eyes, at the height of the first floor. Tiles scattered like gravestones. Above us the storm frowns. Gathering spleen. Smudging the sea with soot.

‘Is it safe?’ I ask, wary of the roof.

‘
Segurament
.’ He nods. ‘
Caminem amb Déu
.’
We walk with God.

Ducking low to enter the chapel, his movements are muscular. Well oiled. Two fingers in the stone font by the door. He genuflects, crossing himself from his forehead to his heart. I wait beside him.
Listening.
Breath raw against the cold. 

Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.

Rubble from the collapsed wall smothers the chancel and altar. Snow through the broken arch of the roof.
Adveniat regnum tuum
. Stone pulpit dusted with powder.
Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.
He prays fiercely. The chapel intimate, designed for meditation. I rest in the fallen stones, listening to the snarl of the wind overhead. For a moment I am frightened.
I can hear voices in the gale.
Cries of the Siren! One, two three, she screeches up! Up the cliffs! Into the trees, into the village! A kiss of darkness!
The gold of the tabernacle glints beneath black earth and ice, half crushed. A hallowed lamb upon his throne, obscured by dislodged dust, bears the Cross of St John. White silk trapped beneath the pile.
Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.
Glass on the floor.
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
Shards of colour arranged in patterns like poems. I watch the sound of his words hovering in the air.
Amen.

When he finishes, Anselmo walks into the shaft of dim light cutting through the roof near the chancel.

‘I found it here. Half buried. Who knows how long it had been hidden in the foundations of this chapel – eight hundred years? Maybe more? It’s a miracle that it survived.
Un donum Dei
,’ he adds beneath his breath
.
‘If there are more pages hidden they will be here.’ The wind sends a stone spinning. ‘Crushed in this chaos. If we do not find them today, the excavators will come once the storm has calmed.’ He looks at me closely. ‘I’ve heard your technique for finding things is quite unusual.’

I do not bother to answer.

‘You would like to work alone?’