Doctor Illuminatus (17 page)

“How does he do that?” Tim asked.

“He will use his surroundings,” Sebastian explained, taking down another book and opening it at a copper-plate engraving of the interior of a church. “Consider this illustration. It shows the chancel of a twelfth-century church in Italy which, before the coming of Our Lord, Jesus Christ, was a pagan temple to the Greek god, Zeus. Notice how, behind the altar, the wall is curved, to form a semicircle. The roof above is domed. Imagine, if you can, that the walls and roof are hands, opened yet brought together as if to catch a ball. And imagine that the ball is the power you seek to bring to this place, in this case the power of the Almighty. The curve of the walls and the roof sweep this power inwards upon the altar —”

“It’s like a satellite dish!” Tim exclaimed. “A concave shape that collects the signal and concentrates it in the middle where the receiving aerial is.”

Sebastian opened an astronomical almanac.

“The moon rises at eleven forty-three of the clock. That is when he will be commencing his ritual.” He looked across at Tim. “What is the hour now?”

Tim glanced at his watch and said, “Half past three. We’ve got eight hours to find de Loudéac’s whereabouts.”

“I think not.” Sebastian produced a long leather tube from a rack beneath the table and, twisting off the lid, let a roll of pale vellum slide into his hand. “Draw near and see this.”

He smoothed it out on the table, weighing down the corners with books. It was nearly a meter square.

“It’s an old map,” Pip declared.

Unlike a modern cartographer’s map, it was as much a picture as a plan. Villages were shown as clusters of tiny houses, woods as hundreds of little trees. Marshy areas appeared covered in tufts of rushes or coarse grass, orchards as rows of trees with little red dots in them for fruit. Some fields contained primitive drawings of farm animals. On a trackway was the two-dimensional drawing of a man on horseback, not skillfully done, but as a child might, the horse’s ears pricked up, its bridle painted blue, the man riding with his feet stuck out. Intricate symbols were inked in here and there, scattered seemingly willy-nilly about the landscape.

“More exactly,” Sebastian corrected her, “it is an alchemical map of this area. This,” he pointed to a little cluster of houses drawn in three dimensions, “is what is today Brampton. You can see here the mound upon which the castle stood. This,” he ran his finger along two meandering lines, one drawn in faded azure ink, the other brown, “is the river and this is what is now the road from Brampton to Stockwold. As you can tell from the depiction of trees, this area was once covered with forest.”

“It might be in color,” Tim observed, “but it’s certainly no Ordinance Survey map.”

“What is this place?” Pip asked, her finger hovering over a carefully drawn cross with curled ends to the arms.

“Rawne Barton,” Sebastian answered, “or, to be precise, it is the Roman spring in the field. This map was compiled before my father built the house. Do you see anything else that might be of interest?”

Side by side, Pip and Tim studied the map. It was

Tim who finally spoke.

“Just here,” he said, “across the river, there’s a symbol drawn. Looks like an inverted horseshoe with something else in it. What does it mean?”

Unlike most of the other symbols, drawn in black ink, this was the color of dull brass.

Sebastian picked up a pencil and drew an inverted U upon a piece of paper, then, within it, added a symbol:

“Dismiss for the moment,” he instructed them, “the

U. This circle is an ancient sign dating back thousands of years before the time of Jesus Christ. It may be found on Bronze Age carved stones. To alchemists, it is the sign of phosphorus. Are you aware of this substance?”

“We learned about it in science,” Pip announced. “It’s really dangerous because it ignites spontaneously with air.”

“It is the substance some alchemists called brimstone,” Sebastian added, “that from which the fires of hell are created. Thus, on the map, where you see this symbol, be assured it is a place where the power of great evil may be concentrated.”

“What about the upside-down U?” Tim asked. “That,” Sebastian said, “is not an alchemical sign.” “So what is it?”

“Study again the map, my friends.”

Pip and Tim looked at the map once more, then at each other, then at Sebastian, and said in chorus, “The quarry!”

At ten o’clock, Pip told her parents she was tired and went up to her room. Ten minutes later, Tim said he thought he would turn in now too. Fifteen minutes after that, in the gathering summer dusk, they emerged from the coach house with Sebastian, wearing dark-colored clothes and soft-soled sneakers. Tim carried his father’s black Maglite, a hefty halogen flashlight that took six batteries and was the size and weight of a policeman’s club. Sebastian had armed himself with a small T-shaped piece of metal in which, at the point where the upright met the crossbar, was set a smooth, cloudy crystal.

“I suppose,” Tim said as they set off through the long grass of the meadow, “that’s a magic wand of some sort.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Sebastian replied. “I personally do not believe in the efficacy of wands. They are more the invention of writers of stories than genuine alchemical tools. This item has an actual practical use.”

“What exactly is it, then?” Pip asked.

“It is an alchemical divining rod,” Sebastian told her, “in the shape of the true cross. If I were to hold it by each end of the bar, the long section would bend upward if it encountered goodness, downward if wickedness.”

“A bit like those birch sticks that dowsers use.” “Yes, save that their rods discover water and are made of wood, whilst this is made of gold.”

“Gold!” Tim exclaimed. “Solid?”

“No, the center is of silver, but this is plated with gold.”

“What about the stone set in it?” Pip said.

“It is of quartz,” Sebastian replied. “It is called the eye of God for it sees righteousness and condemns wrong.”

As they came near the river, they stopped talking. When they reached the bank downstream of the Garden of Eden, they turned and followed the river for about half a mile, leaving the grounds of Rawne Barton and making their way through the neighboring fields. Eventually, they reached a gravel track that crossed the river by a rusty iron girder bridge. Welded into the floor of the bridge were two rows of protruding bolts.

“This was a railway line,” Sebastian explained, keeping his voice low. “It was closed many years since.”

Once over the river, they found a track branching off from the former railway line, clearly a spur running towards the quarry. Some way along this, Sebastian stopped.

“From here,” he said, “we shall climb to the top of the quarry. It is imperative we are silent. On such a still evening, sound will travel easily.”

They entered a wood, the ground rising gradually at first, then, after a few hundred meters, more sharply. It was not easy going. They had to watch out for loose stones and dry twigs. When Tim stepped on one, it cracked like a pistol shot, drawing a scowl from both Pip and Sebastian. It took them half an hour of climbing to reach the top of the cliff.

The drop was greater than it looked from below, at least fifty meters. The rock face was broken in a few places by ledges but it was otherwise smooth. Lying on their stomachs, for safety as much as to keep hidden, they elbowed themselves forward until they could just see over the rim. The sky was clear and although the new moon had not yet risen there was sufficient starlight to see below.

In the clearing beneath the cliff were the hippies’ bus and van. Where the Moonbeamers had had their hearth, another fire was burning, the thin smoke rising on drafts of hot air up the cliff face. It smelled sweetish, a delicate incense.

“Apple wood,” Sebastian hissed. “To purify the air.” The door of the bus opened, a figure stepped out and the door swung shut behind it. Standing close to the vehicle, it gazed around itself before stepping towards the fire. As it approached the glimmer of the flames, Tim realized it was the old bookseller. He was wearing a black cape.

“De Loudéac!” Sebastian whispered.

Once more, the bus door opened and another figure appeared. It did not, however, follow de Loudéac to the fire but moved around the clearing, keeping to the shadows. Its movements were slow, hesitant.

“Is that . . .” Pip was not sure how to refer to the homunculus, “. . . it?”

“No,” Sebastian answered. “That will not move until de Loudéac instills the force of life within it. What you see,” he added, “is either Beelzebub or one of his infernal servants.”

“Beelzebub?” Tim repeated.

“The Lord of Darkness,” Sebastian murmured. “He whom they call Satan.”

De Loudéac threw something into the fire. There was a sharp flash of brilliant light from the fire that momentarily illuminated the trees.

“Magnesium powder,” Sebastian said. “It is beginning, we must move.”

As cautiously, yet as quickly, as they could, Pip and Tim followed Sebastian down the side of the quarry, keeping just a few meters back from the edge of the drop and well within the cover of the trees. It took them less than ten minutes to reach the quarry floor, where they crouched behind some huge boulders.

By the fire, de Loudéac was chanting in a low, sonorous voice. On the periphery of the light of the flames, the shadowy figure danced a contorted jig. Across the far side of the blaze, the old Royal Mail van stood with its back doors open. It was empty.

“What do we do now?” Pip whispered.

“I must position myself between the fire and the omnibus,” Sebastian replied.

“Why?” Tim muttered. “That’s crazy. There’s no way —”

“I must,” Sebastian reiterated. “If I can get the light of the fire to shine on the vehicle through the quartz lens . . .” He held up the T.

“What’s with the bus?”

“The smaller vehicle is empty. Therefore,” Sebastian reasoned, “within the omnibus must be de Loudéac’s homunculus.”

De Loudéac’s chanting ceased. There was another flash of radiant light. The chanting started again, its rhythm more urgent.

Lying down and placing his head at ground level, Tim peered around one side of the boulder, Sebastian the other. The shadowy figure twirled in a tottering pirouette and entered the van. Immediately, the interior seemed to fill with dense black smoke. It closed the doors behind itself.

The chanting rose in volume.

“Now is our opportunity,” Sebastian said in a low voice, just audible over de Loudéac’s alchemical litany. “Pip, on my signal, I want you to walk out from behind this boulder. Take no more than a few steps. Just make yourself visible and call to de Loudéac.” He thought for a moment. “Address him as Malodor. If he hears you not the first time, repeat this name until you have his attention, then fall silent. Make no other sound. Do not approach the fire. If de Loudéac should come towards you, step back and lower yourself once more behind the boulder. He will not come right up to you, for he dare not leave the glow of the fire. To do so will spell the failure of his endeavor. If he quits the fire, he cannot complete the ritual. Can you do this?”

Pip nodded. She was terrified at the thought of giving away her presence, but she knew she had no alternative. They had to stop de Loudéac.

“Tim,” Sebastian ordered, “on my signal, you run towards the right-hand side of the fire, as fast as you may go. Stop where the path to the river begins. Make as much noise as you can. Wave your arms. Switch on your light. Flash it in de Loudéac’s face. If he comes for you, show no fear. Stand your ground. He can do nothing to you except try to fright you. Be firm, hold to your resolve.”

The chanting grew quieter and was now more melodious, like someone singing a psalm at the far end of a vast cathedral.

“What is your signal?” Pip whispered.

“When you see me, you will know,” Sebastian answered. “Be ready!”

With that, Sebastian crept away, moving furtively from boulder to boulder in the direction of the bus.

Pip and Tim waited. Pip took her brother’s hand and squeezed it.

“We’ll be all right,” Tim whispered. “We can trust him. I think . . .”

From the direction of the quarry cliff came a deep yellow light. It seemed to be moving, shimmering and swaying. It was as if someone were approaching, carrying a bright lantern.

The chanting ceased. De Loudéac turned, raising his arms, his fingers outspread like clutching talons.

As the yellow light grew stronger, they could hear a voice. It was Sebastian’s.

“I command you, Unclean One,” he intoned, his words echoing off the quarry face, “along with all your minions, begone from this place.”

De Loudéac picked up a log from the fire, holding it over his head like a firebrand. Tim could see he was holding it where it was alight, the skin of his fingers singeing. He seemed impervious to the pain.

“I command you to obey me to the letter. Depart hence, Transgressor. Depart, Seducer, full of lies. Give way, Abominable Monster, to Christ, Our Lord in Heaven . . .”

From beyond the bus, Sebastian appeared. The golden T glowed luminous in his hands. He glanced towards the boulder and nodded briefly.