“You should know that they would never keep such a text here in the open.”
“Then where is it?” I asked, my agitation growing by the second. “In Dr. Seraphina’s office? In the vault?”
“Clematis’s account of the First Angelological Expedition contains very important information,” Gabriella said, smiling with pleasure at her advantage. “Its location is a secret that only a very few are allowed to know.”
“So you have read it?” I said, my jealousy at Gabriella’s access to restricted texts causing me to lose all sense of caution. “How is it that you, who seem to care so little for our studies, have read Clematis and I, who have dedicated everything to our cause, cannot so much as touch it?”
I immediately regretted what I’d said. The silence we had forged was an uncomfortable truce, but the artifice had allowed me to progress with my work.
Gabriella stood, took her beaded bag from the table and, her voice unnaturally calm, said, “You think that you understand what you have seen, but it is more complicated than it appears.”
“I should think it rather obvious that you are involved with an older man,” I said. “And I suspect that Dr. Seraphina believes as much, too.”
For a moment I believed that Gabriella would turn and leave, as had become her habit when she felt cornered. Instead she stood before me, defiant. “I wouldn’t speak of it to Dr. Seraphina, or to anyone else, if I were you.”
Feeling I was in a position of power at last, I pressed my point. “And why not?”
“If anyone were to discover what you think you know,” Gabriella said, “the greatest harm would befall all of us.”
Although I could not fully understand the meaning of her threat, the urgency in her voice and the genuine terror of her expression stopped me cold. We had come to an impasse, neither one knowing how to proceed.
At last Gabriella broke the silence. “It is not impossible to gain access to Clematis’s account,” she said. “If one wishes to read it, one only need know where to look.”
“I thought the text wasn’t circulated,” I said.
“It isn’t,” Gabriella answered. “And I should not help you to find it, especially when it is clearly not in my best interest. But you look as though you might be willing to help me, too.”
I met her gaze, wondering exactly what she could mean by this.
“My proposal is this,” Gabriella said, leading me from the Athenaeum and into the dark hallway of the school. “I will tell you how to find the text, and you, in turn, will remain silent. You will not mention a word to Seraphina about me or your speculations about my activities. You will not speak of my comings and goings from the apartment. Tonight I will be out for some time. If anyone comes to the apartment for me, you will say that you don’t know where I am.”
“You are asking me to lie to our teachers.”
“No,” she said. “I am asking that you tell the truth. You don’t know where I will be this evening.”
“But why?” I asked. “Why are you doing this?”
The faintest look of weariness appeared in Gabriella’s features, a hint of desperation that made me believe that she would open herself to me and confess everything, a hope that was crushed the moment it emerged. “I don’t have time for this,” she said, impatient. “Do you agree or not?”
I did not need to say a word. Gabriella understood me perfectly. I would do anything to gain access to Clematis’s text.
A series of exposed electric bulbs illuminated our passage to the medieval wing of the school. Gabriella moved quickly, her platform shoes tapping the quick, erratic rhythm of her footfall, and when she stopped, halting abruptly midstep, I stumbled against her, breathless.
Although clearly annoyed by my clumsiness, Gabriella didn’t utter a sound. Instead she turned toward a door, one of hundreds of identical doors throughout the building, each one the same size and color, without numbers or nameplates to indicate where it led.
“Come,” she said, looking to the arch above the door, an assemblage of crumbling limestone blocks that rose to a peak. “You are taller than I am. Perhaps you can reach the keystone.”
Stretching as best I could, I brushed my fingers against the grainy stone. To my surprise, the block moved under the pressure of my touch and, with a bit of wiggling, slid from its place, leaving a wedge of open space. At Gabriella’s instruction I reached inside and removed a cold metal object the size of a penknife.
“It is a key,” I said, holding it before me, astonished. “How did you know it was here?”
“It will get you into the school’s underground storage,” Gabriella said, gesturing for me to replace the stone. “Through this door there is a set of stairs. Follow it down and you will find a second door. The key will unlock that door. It is the entrance to the Valkos’ private chambers—Dr. Raphael’s translation of Clematis’s account is kept here.”
I tried to recall hearing anything about such a space and could not. It made sense, of course, that we would create a secure location for our treasures, and it answered the question of where the books from the Athenaeum were being stored. I wanted to ask more—to demand that she explain the details of this hidden space. But Gabriella raised a hand to cut off all questioning. “I am late and haven’t the time to explain. I cannot lead you to the book myself, but I’m certain your curiosity will assist you in finding what you are looking for. Go. And remember when you are finished to return the key to its hiding place and do not speak of this evening to anyone.”
With this, Gabriella turned and walked down the hall, her red satin dress catching the weak light. I wanted to call for her to come back, to guide me into the subterranean chambers, but she was gone. Only the slightest odor of her perfume remained.
Following Gabriella’s instructions, I opened the door and peered into the darkness. A kerosene lamp hung from a hook at the top of the stairs, its fluted glass chimney charred black from smoke. I lit the wick and held it before me. A set of rough-hewn stone steps fell downward at a steep angle. Each lozenge of stone was frosted in moss, making the passage dangerously slippery. From the dampness of the air and the smell of mold, it felt to me as though I were descending step-by-step into the cellar of my family’s stone farmhouse, a vast, dank underground bunker stockpiled with thousands of bottles of aging wine.
At the bottom of the staircase, I found an iron door, barred like the entrance to a prison cell. To either side of it, brick passageways opened and receded into an almost pure darkness. I raised the lamp so that I might see the spaces beyond. Where the brick had crumbled, I could make out patches of pale, unquarried limestone, the very rock that formed the foundation of our city. The key unfastened the lock with ease, so the only obstacle that remained to me was the overpowering urge to turn, walk up the steps, and go back to the familiar world above.
It did not take long before I came upon a series of rooms. Although my lamp did not allow me to see with great clarity, I found that the first room had been filled with crates of weapons—Lugers and Colt .45s and MI Garands. There were boxes of medical supplies, blankets, and clothing—the items we would surely need in an extended conflict. In another room I discovered many of the very crates I had observed being packed in the Athenaeum weeks before, only now they had been nailed shut. Prying them open without tools would be next to impossible.
Continuing through the darkness of the brick passage, the lamp growing heavier with each step, I began to understand the enormous scale of the angelologists’ move underground. I had not imagined how elaborate and calculated our resistance would be. We had transferred all the necessities of life to below the city. There were beds and makeshift toilets and water pipes and a number of small kerosene stoves. Weapons, food, medicines—everything of value resided under Montparnasse, hidden in burrows and tunnels carved from the limestone. For the first time, I realized that, once the battle began, many would not flee the city but move into these chambers and fight.
After examining a number of these cells, I stepped into another chiseled, damp space, less a storage area than a warren delved into the soft limestone. Here I found many objects, some of which I recognized from visits to Dr. Raphael’s office, and I knew at once that I had found the Valkos’ private chamber. In the corner, under a heavy cotton tarpaulin, there was a table stacked with books. Light from the kerosene lamp fell over the dusty room.
I discovered the text without much trouble, though to my surprise it appeared to be less a book than a sheaf of notes bound together. The volume was no bigger than a pamphlet, with a hand-stitched binding and a plain cover. It was light as a crepe in my hand, too insubstantial, I thought, to contain anything important. Opening it, I saw that the text had been handwritten on transparent foolscap in blotched ink, each letter scratched into the paper by the uneven pressure of a careless hand. Running my finger over the letters, feeling the indentations on the paper and brushing the dust from its pages, I read:
Notes on the First Angelological Expeditionof A.D. 925 by the Venerable Father Clematis of Thrace, Translated from the Latin and Annotated by Dr. Raphael Valko.
Below these words, pressed into the pulpy surface of the page, was a golden seal containing the image of a lyre, a symbol I had not seen before but would from that day forth understand to be at the heart of our mission.
Holding the pamphlet close to my chest, suddenly afraid that it might dissolve before I had the chance to read its contents, I placed the lamp on a smooth stretch of the limestone floor and sat beside it. The light fell over my fingers, and when I opened the pamphlet once more, Dr. Raphael’s handwriting became distinct. Clematis’s account of his expedition captivated me from the first word.
Notes on The First Angelological Expedition of A.D. 925 by The Venerable Father Clematis of Thrace
Translated from the Latin and Annotated by Dr. Raphael Valko
Blessed be the servants of His Divine vision on Earth! May the Lord, who planted the seed of our mission, bring it to fruition!
II
Our mules heavy with provisions and our souls light with expectation, we began our journey through the provinces of the Hellenes, below the mighty Moesia and into Thracia. The roads, well-maintained and regular thoroughfares built by Rome, signaled our arrival in Christendom. Yet, despite the gilding of civilization, the threat of thievery remains. It has been many years since I last set foot in the mountainous homeland of my father and his father’s father. My native tongue will surely ring strange, accustomed as I am to the language of Rome. As we begin our ascent into the mountains, I fear that even my robes and the seals of the church will do little to protect us once we leave the larger settlements. I pray that we meet few villagers on our journey to the mountain paths. We have no weapons and will have little recourse but to depend upon the goodwill of strangers.
III
As we paused by the roadside on our way up the mountain, Brother Francis, a most ardent scholar, spoke to me of the distress that has come to haunt him regarding our mission. Taking me aside, he confessed that he believes our mission to be the work of dark spirits, a seduction of the disobedient angels upon our minds. His unrest is not uncommon. Indeed, many of our brothers have expressed reservations about the expedition, but Francis’ assertion chilled me to my very soul. Rather than question him about this sentiment, I listened to his fears, understanding that his words were another sign of the growing fatigue in the search. In opening my ear to his cares, I took them upon myself, lightening his heavy spirit. This is the burden and the responsibility of an elder brother, but my role is even more crucial now, as we prepare for what will surely be our most difficult journey. Shaking away the temptation to remonstrate with Brother Francis, I labored through the remaining hours of travel in silence.
Later, in my solitude, I strove to understand Brother Francis’ distress, praying for guidance and wisdom so that I might help him overcome his doubts. It is well known that scholars have missed the mark entirely in past expeditions. I am certain that this will soon change. Yet, Francis’ phrase “brotherhood of dreamers” plagues my thoughts. The faintest breeze of doubt begins to shake my insuperable faith in our mission. What, I wonder to myself, if we have been foolhardy in our efforts? How are we to be certain that our mission is one with God’s? The kernel of disbelief growing in my mind is easily ground down, however, when I think of the necessity of our work. The battle has been fought for generations before us and will continue for generations after. We must encourage our young men, despite the recent losses. Fear is to be expected. It is natural that the incident at Roncesvalles,
2
which all have studied, is on their minds. And still, my faith does not allow me to doubt that God moves behind our actions, animating our bodies and spirits as we move up the mountain. I will persist in my belief that hope will soon revive among us. We must have faith that this journey, unlike our recent miscalculations, will end in success.
3
IV
On the fourth night of the journey, as the fire burnt to embers and our humble party sat together after our meal, discussion turned to the history of our enemy. One of the young brothers asked how it had come to pass that our land, from the tip of Iberia to the Ural Mountains,
4
came to be so colonized by the dark spawn of angels and women. How did we, humble servants of God, come to be charged with the cleansing of the Lord’s Earth? Brother Francis, whose melancholy has so affected my thoughts of late, wondered aloud how God would allow the evil ones to infest His dominion with their presence. How, he asked, can pure good exist in the presence of pure evil? And so, as the evening air grew colder and the frozen moon hung in the night sky, I related to our party how these evil seeds were sowed in holy soil:
In the decades after the Flood ceased, Japheth’s sons and daughters of purely human provenance separated from the false Japheth’s sons and daughters of angelic provenance, forming two branches of one tree, one pure and the other poisoned, one weak and the other strong. Along the great north and south sea lanes they scattered, taking root in the rich alluvial gulfs. They swept over the alpine mountains in tremendous flocks, settling like bats at the highest reaches of Europa. Along the rocky coasts and the vast fertile plains they moored, sinking into the shores of river passages—the Danube, the Volga, the Rhine, the Dniester, the Ebro, the Seine—until every region had become filled with the spawn of Japheth. Where they rested, settlements grew. Despite common ancestry, there remained a deep distrust between the two groups. The cruelty, avarice, and physical power of the Nephilim led to the gradual enslavement of their human brothers. Europe, the Giants claimed, was their birthright.
The first generations of Japheth’s tainted heirs lived in great health and happiness, dominating every river, mountain, and plain of the continent, their power over their weaker brothers secure. Within decades, however, a flaw appeared in their race, as sharp as a fissure across the gleaming surface of a mirror. A baby was born that appeared weaker than the others—tiny, mewling, it was unable to gather enough air in its weak lungs to cry. As the baby grew, they saw that it was smaller than the others, slower, and had a susceptibility to illness unknown in their race. This child was human, born in the likeness of their great-great-grandmothers, the Daughters of Men.
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It took nothing—not beauty or strength or angelic form— from the Watchers. When the child reached manhood, he was stoned to death.
For many generations, this baby was an anomaly. Then, God desired to populate the dominions of Japheth with his own children. He sent a multitude of human babies to the Nephilim, revivifying the Holy Spirit upon the fallow earth. In their first appearances, these beings often died in infancy. With time, they learned to care for the weak children, nursing them to their third year before allowing them to join with the other, stronger children.
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If they survived into adulthood, they grew to be four heads shorter than their parents. They began to age and decline in the third decade of life, and die before the eighth. Human women died in childbirth. Sickness and disease required the development of medicines, and even when treated, humans lived for only a fraction of the years of their Nephilistic brothers. The inviolate dominion of the Nephilim had been corrupted.
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Over time, human children married others of their kind and the human race grew alongside the Nephilistic. Despite their physical inferiority, Japheth’s pure children persevered under the rule of their Nephilistic brothers. The occasional intermarriage occurred between the groups, bringing further hybridization to the race, but these unions were discouraged. When a human child was born to Nephilim, it was sent outside the walls of the city, where it died in the elements among humans. When a Nephilistic child was born to human civilization, it would be taken from its parents and assimilated into the master race.
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Soon, the Nephilim receded to castles and manor houses. They built fortifications of granite, mountaintop retreats, sanctuaries of luxury and power. Although subservient, God’s children were graced with divine protection. Their minds were sharp, their souls blessed, and their wills strong. As the two races lived side by side, the Nephilim receded behind wealth and fortifications. Human beings, left to suffer under the strains of poverty and illness, became slaves to invisible, powerful masters.
V
At dawn, we rose and walked many hours along the precipitous path to the top of the mountain, the sun rising from behind the towering stone pinnacles, casting a glorious golden emanation over creation. Provided with sturdy mules, thick leather sandals, and pristine weather, we carried forth. By midmorning, a village filled with stone mountain houses arose over a crag, the orange clay tiles layered above the slate. After we’d consulted our map, it was apparent that we had arrived at the highest reach of the mountain in proximity to the gorge the locals call Gyaurskoto Burlo. Taking refuge in the home of a villager, we bathed, ate, and rested before inquiring after a guide to the cavern. Straightaway a shepherd was brought before me. Short and thick in the way of Thracian mountain people, his beard flecked white but his body strong, the shepherd listened intently as I described our mission into the gorge. I found him intelligent, articulate, and willing, although he made it plain that he would take us to the floor of the gorge but no farther. After some discussion, we agreed upon a price. The shepherd promised to supply equipment, saying he would lead us there the next morning.
We discussed our prospects over a meal of klin and dried meat, a simple but hearty repast to give us strength for the next day’s journey. I placed a parchment on the surface of the table, opening it for the others to see. My brothers leaned close to the table, straining to discern the light shadings of the ink drawing.
“The site is here,” I said, dragging a finger over the map, along a wedge of mountains signified by dark blue ink. “We should have no trouble crossing.”
“Yet,” one of my brothers said, his unkempt beard brushing the table as he reached across it, “how can we be certain this is the correct location?”
“There have been sightings,” I attested.
“There have been sightings in the past,” Brother Francis said. “Peasants see with different eyes. Their visions most often lead to nothing.”
“Villagers claim to have seen the creatures.”
“If we follow the fantastic stories of mountain peasants, we will be traveling to every village in Anatolia.”
“In my humble opinion, it is worth our attention,” I replied. “According to our brothers in Thrace, the mouth of the cave cuts away sharply into an abyss. Deep below, there flows an underground river, much as it is described by legend. Villagers claim to have heard emanations at the edge of the abyss.”
“Emanations?”
“Music,” I said, striving to remain cautious in my assertions. “The villagers hold feasts at the mouth of the cave so that they might hear the sound, however faint, rising from the cavern. They say the music has an unusual power over the villagers. The sick are made well. The blind see. The crippled walk.”
“This is most wondrous,” Brother Francis said.
“The music rises from the depths of the earth, and it will lead us forth.”
Despite my confidence in our cause, my hand trembles at the dangers of the abyss. Years of preparation have bolstered my will, and still I fear the prospect of failure looming over me. How past failures haunt my memory! How my lost brothers visit my thoughts! My enduring faith drives me forward, and the balm of God’s grace soothes my troubled soul.
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Tomorrow, we descend the gorge at sunrise.
VI
As the world turns back to the sun, so the corrupted earth returns to the light of Grace. As the stars illumine the dark sky, so the children of God will one day rise through the haze of injustice, free at last of evil masters.
VII
In the darkness of my despair, I turn to Boethius as an eye turns to a flame—my Lord, my excellence hath been lost to the Tartarean Cave.
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I am a man forsaken. Through burned lips I speak, my voice ringing hollow in my ears. My body lies broken; my charred flesh oozes with gaping sores. Hope, that ethereal and airy angel upon whose wings I rose to meet my wretched fate, is crushed evermore. Only my will to relate the horror I have seen drives me to open my cankered, scorched lips. For you, future seeker of freedom, future acolyte of justice, I tell of my misfortune.
The morning of our journey broke cold and clear. As is my custom, I woke many hours before sunrise and, leaving the others to their slumber, found my way to the hearth of the small house. The mistress of the house busied herself about the humble space, breaking twigs for the fire. A pot of barley bubbled above the flames. Endeavoring to make myself useful, I offered to stir the mixture, warming myself over the fire as I did so. How the memories of my childhood flooded upon me as I stood over the hearth. Fifty years ago, I was a boy with arms as thin as saplings, assisting my mother in this same domestic task, listening to her hum as she wrung clothing in basins of clean water. My mother-how long had it been since I had thought of her goodness? And my father, with his love of the Book and his devotion to our Lord—how had I lived so many years without recalling his gentleness?
These thoughts dissipated as my brothers, perhaps smelling their breakfast cooking, descended to the hearth. Together, we ate. In the light of the fire, we packed our sacks: rope, chisel, and hammer, vellum and ink, a sharp knife made of a fine alloy, and a roll of cotton cloth, for bandages. With the sun’s rising, we bade our hosts good-bye and set out to meet our guide.
At the far end of the village, where the path wound into an ever-rising stairway of stony crags, the shepherd waited, a large woven sack over his shoulder and a polished walking stick in his hand. Nodding good morning, he turned and walked up the mountain, his body compact and solid as a goat’s. His manner struck me as exceedingly terse, and his expression remained so somber that I expected him to forfeit his duties and abandon us upon the path. Yet, he walked on, slow and steady, leading our party to the gorge.