The Essence of Darkness Page 10

  *

  It was 5:30 a.m. when Lauren reached the outskirts of Rochester. She exited from the beltway in the direction of the general hospital on Portland Street. About half a mile away, she saw the colossal modern building with its red brick facade emerge from a blanket of fog in front of her. She parked the Jeep on the second floor of the parking garage, inconspicuously, because she had noticed the vehicle had sustained serious damage. Considering the extent, the thing that had hit the roof of the vehicle must have been huge. She went to the emergency room to waste less time on formalities. She needed catheters and test tubes. The nurse on duty was dozing behind the reception desk. Lauren’s loud “Hello” made her jump.

  “Oops! How embarrassing. What can I do for you, ma’am?”

  “I need these items, please, to take a blood sample at home.”

  She gave her the list she had written out.

  The plump woman, who was wearing Halloweenish makeup, looked a little like Barbara Streisand.

  “Are you a private nurse?” she asked with a hint of defiance, gnawing on her chewing gum.

  “Yes, that’s right. Could you hurry, please?”

  “I should ask for your ID, but you look honest,” she said, getting up from her chair. Wait here. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  “Great. Thank you,” Lauren replied, thrilled that her plan worked.

  A quarter of an hour later, she hopped back into the Jeep. She had achieved the first objective of her mission. Now she was on her way to the residential area of Webster, northeast of the city, where the paleographer’s home was. It was still very early. She turned off the highway and pulled into a rest area. She leaned her seat back and slept for a good two hours. After she woke up, she set out to find the paleographer.

  The colonial-style residence was modest for a man of Sir Wilbur’s standing, and the garden in front was perfectly maintained. Lauren parked in the driveway in front of the white wooden house. It was still early to show up at his door, but this was an emergency. She took the book, put it in her jacket, pulled up her hood, and crossed the courtyard to the front steps. A small black iron bell seemed to be the only way to signal her arrival. She hesitated for a second and then pulled the chain several times. The ringing almost instantly triggered dog barking from the house next door. She waited more than a minute, and when there was no answer, she rang the bell again. The dogs started yapping again, followed by others who in turn triggered a wave of barking that spread all over the block. The noise was surprising. She wondered how so many dogs could live in such a small area. Ravenwood’s house seemed to be the only one spared by this canine overpopulation. The door opened. Lauren saw a tall, sixty-something man in plaid slippers, with sparse white hair and a small pince-nez on the tip of his nose. He studied the young woman for a brief moment with gray eyes behind round glasses encircled with silver.

  “Personally,” he said with a charming air, “I prefer the company of cats.”

  At these words, two superb white Angoras weaved through the man’s legs.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, holding out his hand to Lauren. “Wilbur Ravenwood. And these are Jake and Moon,” he continued, pointing to the two cats.

  She held out her hand with a captivated smile.

  “Natalie Gray. I’m very pleased to meet you, Sir Wilbur.”

  “How can I help you on this cold autumn morning, Miss Gray?”

  “The reason I came to you is because of your skills in paleography.”

  The gentleman’s leathery face lit up.

  “Forgive me; I’m failing to be polite. We’ll be better off talking inside, where it’s warm. Come in; I was just about to make some tea”

  He opened the door wide and beckoned her in.

  She followed him into a quiet room where lacquered walnut mixed with ecru tapestries. Lining the edges of the corridor were African and Aztec statuettes, Buddhas in different positions, and blocks of ocher stone carved with hieroglyphs. The carvings sat on wooden trunks that seemed to have come straight out of the holds of pirate ships.

  Lauren waited for him by a large stone fireplace where the flames were crackling. She suspected Ravenwood had been up for a long time. The living room was just as luxurious, decorated with exotic ornaments and paintings surely collected from all over the world.

  Sir Wilbur came back from the kitchen with steaming cups that he set down on the coffee table. He invited her to sit down.

  “You have a magnificent collection,” Lauren complimented him, looking at the pieces exhibited throughout the room.

  “Thank you. I bring back a souvenir from each of my trips, but a passion for the art of ancient civilizations can sometimes be a bit cumbersome.”

  He relit his pipe, made some perfect smoke rings, and continued. “So, Miss Gray, tell me precisely how my skills in paleography might be of use to you.”

  “I have an object with me,” Lauren said while unzipping her jacket and taking out the book, “that could definitely interest you.” She laid it on the table, facing him, and removed the wool blanket.

  Ravenwood’s eyes lit up. “Holy unicorn! Where did you find this book?”

  “A person gave it to me hoping you could translate its content.”

  “May I?” He pushed up his glasses, turned the grimoire toward him, and stared at it in fascination. He cleared his throat. “Do you know what these signs are, Miss Gray?” He ran his fingers over the symbols on the cover.

  “Actually, I was counting on you to explain them to me, Sir Wilbur.”

  “These ideograms come from an immeasurably ancient language, that has been the subject of secret research, as the importance of its discovery is so crucial. A language . . . that could go back to the dawn of time.”

  “What do you mean by the dawn of time?”

  He turned his eyes away from the book and looked up at her.

  “This writing would have appeared during the Eoarchean period of our planet, that is, an era more than three billion years ago.”

  Lauren’s only reaction was to blink as if a gust of wind had just blown in her face. She avoided getting deeper into paleographical questions that would delay her and came back to the basic essentials.

  “Sir Wilbur, would you be able to translate this work?”

  “Would you be willing to leave it with me?” he replied bluntly.

  “So you agree to do it?”

  “Do you believe for one second that I could refuse the opportunity to turn the pages of this book?”

  “No, I guess not. When can you start?”

  “This morning, if you wish. Give me a few minutes to get ready; then I’m all yours.”

  “Perfect.”

  He got up and strode to the kitchen; then he came back a few seconds later with a basket filled with rolls and pastries.

  “Would you do me the honor of having breakfast with me, Miss Gray?”

  “I’d love to,” she agreed with her most beautiful smile.

  *

  Cooper dragged his body—bruised by the transformation—to the tent, where he collapsed from exhaustion. Some parts of his skeleton felt like they hadn’t correctly gone back into place. His spine burned as if it had been in a blacksmith’s crucible.

  There was no bloody vomiting this time, as the thing hadn’t found any prey. Lauren had managed to escape; that was the important thing. He waited for the flood of memories to return; then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to rest to let his body mend. The images that came back to him were those of his fall from the Jeep and the fury he’d felt when he’d seen it disappear. Then he’d chased the vehicle through the woods, running after that flesh that had beckoned him. He had smelled the scent of Lauren’s skin, which had sharpened his monstrous greed. His powerful lower limbs had dug into the wet ground, so he could push off in jumps almost as high as the trees or propel himself forward at an incredible speed. His arms, black as night, had grabbed the branches, furiously breaking those that had blocked his path
. Contemplating this seemingly limitless strength gave him a certain pleasure. The memories that came back to him after each metamorphosis were becoming clearer and clearer. Was there a reason for that?

  His cell phone rang. It was Lauren. It could only be her. He made an effort to overcome his lethargy and stretched out his arm to pick up the phone.

  “Eliott? Are you okay?”

  God, her voice was so comforting.

  “Yeah, I’m . . . I’m fine,” he was able to utter. His jaws were numb, like after anesthesia at the dentist’s office.

  “I got to Ravenwood’s. He’s agreed to translate the book.”

  “When is he going to start?”

  “This morning.”

  “What kind of guy is this Ravenwood?”

  “A Brit, old school—a true gentleman.”

  “I’m going to get jealous.”

  She laughed. “He’s going to help us. I’m sure of it.”

  “Lauren, don’t let the book out of your sight.”

  “Understood.”

  “How long will the translation take?”

  “I have no idea at the moment. I’ve gotta go. I hear him coming back. I’ll call you back later.”

  “Okay, talk to you later.”

  *

  “Do you take sugar in your tea, Miss Gray?”

  “No, no sugar, thank you.”

  Ravenwood sat across from her and filled the cups with a deliciously fragrant Ceylon tea. Lauren felt he was making an effort to stay focused on the tea because he couldn’t help looking at the book next to it.

  “This book must be of great value to a collector like you, right?”

  He clumsily handed her a porcelain cup that rattled. He was obviously in a state of excitement he couldn’t contain. He sat down, sipped his tea, and ran a hand through his white hair in a gesture probably meant to be elegant and relaxed.

  “Sorry, what did you say?” he asked.

  “I asked you what the market value of this book was as a collector’s item.”

  He suddenly looked appalled.

  “Are you serious, Miss Gray?”

  “Please, call me Natalie,” she corrected him politely.

  “You can’t imagine the value of this book. It is truly immeasurable. But in any case, it’s not a question of a market value.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He took another sip of tea, seeming to enjoy her impatience.

  “My dear Natalie, this work has a value I would describe as scientific, even historical. It would be inconceivable to want to assign it a price.”

  “Sir Wilbur, please stop beating around the bush. What is this book? What kind of text does it contain?”

  “We don’t know.”

  He sat back in his armchair and drew a few small nervous puffs on his pipe without taking his eyes off the book; then he continued.

  “We are currently only able to give a partial translation of it, simply because the writing system in which it is composed is still almost entirely unknown to us.”

  “But I thought your knowledge of paleography—”

  “My skills in paleography,” he interrupted her, “have a limit in the course of time, Miss Gray. These writings . . . could be the very source of knowledge.”

  “I’m not following you, Sir Wilbur.”

  “Have you ever heard of the source language?”

  “No, not that I recall.”

  He put his hand on the cover again and stroked the symbols that appeared on it.

  “Look closely, Natalie. These cuneiform signs are simple lines, vertical and horizontal, curved in different ways, sometimes shortened. No accents, no flourishes—simplicity itself. This basic framework occurs in all complex forms of written language, such as the Greek alphabet, Latin, Maya, Arabic abjad, Egyptian hieroglyphs, and all the other Semitic languages. These signs could be the very foundation of every form of writing in the world.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “The first writings authenticated as belonging to the source language showed up in Mesopotamia at the site of the ancient city of Nineveh. It lies in the mountainous regions in the north of what is now Iraq. Discovered more than eight centuries ago, these texts suggest the existence of a line of anonymous followers. They have passed on this obscure knowledge over thousands of years. The mission of these followers was to preserve the secret of an immeasurably ancient knowledge—at the cost of their lives, if necessary.

  “A lineage of followers, you say? So they belonged to an order or a cult or something like that?”

  “All we know for sure is that such an order exists. The excavations revealed the group’s hermetic dimension, the secrecy in which it has developed and organized over the years. We know almost nothing else about the order itself.”

  “So strictly speaking, you have no idea what this book is about?”

  “This seems to be very important to you, Miss Gray, am I right?”

  Lauren thought the old gentleman knew more than he let on. She looked down for a moment and tried to find an appropriate answer.

  “Let’s just say my job right now is to find someone who can translate this book.”

  Ravenwood’s face stiffened, visibly dissatisfied with Lauren’s evasive response.

  She continued without giving him time to ask her any other questions. “Sir Wilbur, do you think this book may have anything to do with black witchcraft?”

  The gentleman didn’t hide his surprise. “Did you say ‘witchcraft’? Well, nothing is impossible, Miss Gray—especially since we’re talking about ancient knowledge.”

  “More specifically, do you think this grimoire could—”

  He interrupted her again. “I’m stopping you there, Natalie. I am not under any circumstances confirming that this book might be a grimoire, in other words, a book dedicated to spells and their learning. All I am telling you is that the role of witchcraft, or magic, in ancestral wisdom is certainly significant. But there is a world of difference between that and what this book is about.”

  He punctuated these words with a few sips of tea; then he carefully opened the volume to immerse himself in its first pages. The coffee table was so full of documents and manuscripts that Lauren wondered how he knew what was what.

  “Natalie, would you please be so kind as to bring me The Coronation of the Black Moon? It is on the top shelf of the bookcase near the window. It’s a very old volume dealing with witchcraft. Be careful handling it, please.”

  “Of course; I’ll get it right away.”

  The room wasn’t huge, and the shelves of the dark walnut bookshelves went almost to the ceiling and covered three walls. Despite all the space they took up, other books just as precious sat in piles on the floor on old, frayed Russian or Afghan carpets. Lauren slipped between the piles of books that were almost taller than she was. When she reached the foot of the shelves, she slid the library ladder on its wheels, placed it under the row where the work was, and climbed above the paper labyrinth. Turning for a moment, she evaluated the best route back to the sofa and coffee table where Ravenwood was working. She climbed a few more squeaky steps and reached the row he had indicated.

  “I’ve got it!” she said triumphantly.

  “Since you are up there, Natalie,” he called to her without taking his nose out of the manuscript, “I’ll also need Sumerian Ideography. It shouldn’t be far from where you are, on the left of the top shelf.”

  Her hand was almost on top of it. The massive tome must have weighed six or seven pounds. Loaded down with the two volumes, she carefully descended the ladder. She slipped deftly between the piles and reached the coffee table without causing a disaster. The paleographer stood up as she approached and relieved her of the two books, putting them in front of him. He relit his pipe with a ceremonial gesture and focused all his attention on the first of the two books.

  “Look, Natalie, do you see? Here, in The Coronation of the Black Moon, we find some terms that also appear in the source language.�
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  “So can we make a connection with witchcraft?”

  “No, not directly, but this similarity tells us that these two passages may have been written during the same period. The Coronation of the Black Moon is attributed to a priestess dedicated to the cult of Hecate practiced in ancient Greece, which was then Mesopotamia’s neighbor. There is therefore a probable link with the mysteries of witchcraft of that time.”

  “If I understand correctly, our book was written over a very long period of time?”

  “Exactly. Written by the lineage of followers of this obscure order whose secret we have been trying to discover for centuries.”

  “‘We’?”

  “Yes, of course—I forgot that you don’t yet know the extent of the research undertaken.”

  “You mean researchers have been trying all this time to translate the writings of this order?”

  “Exactly—and in the greatest secrecy.”

  They both stared at the book, unable to take their eyes off it.

  “None of the researchers who had access to these discoveries were tempted to reveal them?” Lauren asked.

  “Some of them, yes. But they paid for it with their lives before they could even do it.”

  “That’s horrible,” she whispered.

  “The curse of Tutankhamun’s tomb would be a children’s nursery rhyme compared to the murders the followers of this order have perpetrated over the ages to preserve their secret.”

  “So this book,” she continued, “would expose us to serious danger?”

  “Without a shadow of a doubt, Natalie. But I am ready to give up what I have left of my life in exchange for the unimaginable knowledge it contains.”

  “Who are they, Sir Wilbur? Who are the members of this order? Surely you have some idea,” she prodded.