he had spoken with before.
“You are but a man, fool,” and he hit the creature’s head with the broadside of his sword, to dislodge its mask.
But the creature did not move, nor did its head roll to the ground. For it was not a mask that he wore.
“Welcome to eternity,” it hissed in return, “Welcome to my harem!”
“My God!” Montague fell silent. “And yet I forget – I have no god but you!”
Chapter 70
“Time runs short,” Patrick said, his voice as heavy as the darkness.
“But what to do?” asked de Garcia. “To go deeper into the mountain risks the return of the masked men, but to turn back risks our purpose.”
“Forward,” Willard said, “For if they would have us, we are already theirs. Come, in the light I saw the path forward,” and he started toward the pillar in the center of the chamber.
After a moment of blind travel, their lanterns struck the stone door, all of which could not be seen in the dim light. Its face was covered in esoteric symbols, carved meticulously in vertical columns. Each figure was at once hieroglyphic or symbolic: a drawing that represented a single idea, usually according to the Egyptian system. At the same time, however, each of these symbols was also an alphabetic letter: the symbol was drawn as an embellishment of a letter, the alphabet of which was an ancient ancestor of both the Phoenician and Mayan alphabets. Because of this dual purpose, the writing could be read two different ways, depending on whether the symbols were read as hieroglyphics or letters. Yet there was also a third message, for the individual symbols were mosaics of a larger image, which – when taken abstractly – formed a giant third symbol.
“There is writing upon its surface,” de Garcia said as he held the lantern against the door. “But I cannot read it.”
“Nor can I,” Leggitt added, “But I am fluent only in French, Latin, and Atiltian.”
“My father has many books in his library,” Ivona offered, “Perhaps I can make sense of them where others cannot.” She stepped forward and examined the face of the door. “Space the lanterns apart, so the whole door can be seen at once,” and they did.
Ivona stepped back to look as they stood close and held the lanterns.
“Ingenious!” she cried as she grasped the pattern. “There are three meanings, each derived by reading it a different way. The first two are dialogs from lesser gods to mortals, and the last is a greater God’s answer,” and she read as follows:
LETTERS : You are cursed and downtrodden, for you are men treated as gods. Yet he who was first is now last, and he who was highest is now lowest. Uranos, beware the Titans.
SYMBOLS : The ocean’s crust is pierced by the trident and its sons are sent to Hades. No longer will the ancients reign, for they think themselves more ancient than even the gods.
MOSIAC : A picture of a White Eagle, its claws extended and its eyes gleaming, holding a lion’s head in its talons.
“There is a hole in the center, a rectangular place for a tablet, but there is nothing around. Whatever it says, we cannot know.
“No doubt, but we are not here to understand ancient scribblings,” Patrick said. “We have come to retrieve the Holy Graal, so let us be on with it. The air grows fouler every moment we remain.”
“So it does,” Willard said, and he laid his shoulder against the door to force it open. The others joined him and it began to creak, then to rumble, and at last swung open – rousing the dust and sediments of many years. There was a mysterious glow for an instant, but it passed quickly.
The opening revealed an ancient staircase, roughly hewn from the stone from which the pillar had been carved. It was narrow and steep, curving around within the diameter of the pillar and leading them to the mountain above. Even after it passed from the chamber it did not expand: they could walk only in single file. The ornate carvings of the previous rooms ceased, replaced by a rough, minimalist architecture. Willard led them, led himself by the short lantern light that went before him. They could not stop to rest along the way, for the stairs were too narrow to sit upon and too steep to be leaned upon.
After a long climb, the stairs ended, opening into a veranda that occupied the top of the mountain, open to the air on every side with only occasional pillars to uphold the roof. The stairs came in on the far side. Outside, the moon was sinking fast and the swaying canopy of the forest could be seen far below. To the west, the dawn’s cold fingers were grabbing onto the horizon and the lanterns were no longer needed in the faint, phosphorous haze. A man sat in the furthest corner, looking over the dawn with his back to them. His hair and beard were uncut, wafting around him and dropping to the floor. They said nothing, some from respect, others fear.
“You have come for the Holy Graal,” said a pleasing voice, coming from the man. “But to what end?”
“My father stands before death, my lord,” and Ivona fell on her knees before the back of the chair. “I come for the Graal, that he might live.”
“The blood of Christ can be found in many places, why have you come this far?”
“Are not the hardships of the search rewarded by our God? I have come with a great request, so I come with great ceremony to ask it.”
“God rewards no one; for who has given the heart to seek, or the heart to remain aloof? If a man is saved by grace, can he be rewarded for what he has not done? No, for God gives grace to whom he pleases, as well as damnation. You do not need blood to heal your father, child, for the blood has already been spilled.”
“Then may it be, for I have faith!”
“Who has faith, who has not been given it? You may go, for he his healed.But beware the sign of Jonah.”
As he finished speaking, the sky was darkened by a school of clouds passing under the sun. When the light returned, the man was gone. They were silent for a moment, wondering over what they had just witnessed, until Ivona rose from her knees and turned to the others.
“We are done here,” she said faintly and began walking to the stairs across the room.
“Then this is all?” asked Patrick in unbelief, “We have come on a mistaken whim? Time is not my lover, that I can safely forget it, and you are no different. Let us return to the action!”
“We came for Montague and have had him. But if it were not for our mistaken whim, you would yet be imprisoned; and a man is not always imprisoned without reason,” Willard said.
“What do you think? That I am a mere farmer’s boy and Lydia my youthful dame? Then I understand why you do not value my counsel.”
“You are more than a farm boy?” Lydia mocked him, her blue eye turned his way. “Are you a king simply because you inflamed the countryside to rebellion in order to capture my heart?”
“Her heart does not seem so much a prize,” de Garcia moaned.
“Do not blaspheme my god!” Patrick cried vehemently, “Do not mock my savior, my world, my Lydia! If she is contrary at times, it only accents her innocence at others. If a woman is always gentle, who knows and relishes it? But if she is foul tempered, her previous gentleness is praised. She is made perfect by her imperfections, so do not blaspheme my love!”
“How can you call a mortal your god, with what we have just seen?” Ivona asked quietly, as if in pain.
“All I have seen is a man. Lydia is more lovely than a mere man.”
“With eyes, they fail to see!” Ivona sighed.
“With minds, they fail to think!” Lydia mocked. “Poor farm girl, poor farm boy! Fools the both of them, but what can one expect?” she hissed at Patrick, who turned his head and closed his eyes.
“Fools!” Lydia continued, but her head turned and her hazel eye fell upon Patrick. “But all men are fools and their ways with them. If you are a fool, it is the crown of your manhood.”
The dawn broke out, the sky was lit, and the room was silent from its outburst.
“A man’s heart is revealed when he is given authority,” Willard said at length. “If you were a farmer’s boy, I was lower still; but if you are now a noble warrior, I will only see you as such.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Patrick McConnell, his passion subdued for the moment. “I am only an English peasant, though the people have followed me into rebellion. Yet I am only a boat which is pushed along by the tides; for I, myself, do not shape events. I fought for love,” he looked to Lydia, “And the rebellion came behind.”
“So it is for many.”
