The Tenth Order (16 page)

“So the church knows about all this?” Hunter arched his neck to take in the tall ceiling.

“Well,” Valdis weighed his words carefully. It wouldn’t do to show his full hand until he was sure of the consequences. “Not exactly,” he said hesitantly. “I came upon it by accident when I was not much older than yourself.” Valdis stepped to the table with the horse, pulling a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. He gently lifted the figurine.

“Near as I can gather, the room was originally designed for storage. The church had a much larger congregation back then, and needed an enormous space to store all the necessities for a growing community.” Valdis took one of Hunter hands as gingerly as he would a small boy, and placed it on the statue, transferring the treasure into the large man’s control. “This neighborhood was Denver’s hub during the gold rush, and the cathedral was the center of the neighborhood. But over time the city spread north, moving into flatter areas better suited for agriculture and farming, and our church became what you see today.” Valdis’ lip curled. “A moldering heap.”

Hunter, his eyes glowing as he ran his hands gently up and down the small horse, looked at the priest. “Everything alright there, Father?”

Valdis waved his hand absently, his eyes distant. “Yes, yes. I have a penchant for the dramatic, and the state of this neighborhood lately…” He looked at Hunter. “I expect you know all about that after last night.”

Hunter shrugged and lowered his hand, bringing the horse gently back to the table. “So, all of this was here the whole time?”

“No,” Valdis stepped forward and assisted Hunter until he was sure the horse was safe in its original spot. “The supply records I’ve restored reference the church’s diminishing congregation several times. In certain cases the cathedral had to close off entire sections of the building due to neglect.” Valdis motioned for Hunter to follow him as he wound carefully between the scattered tables.

“It wasn’t until plans fell through on the new cathedral that the diocese began to take interest in this old place. Unlikely as it seems, it used to be in far worse condition. Before I arrived there was one part-time caretaker, and a priest who delivered communion to whatever desperate soul was too tired or poor to make the trip north to Saint Joseph’s.”

“I take it that changed when you arrived?” Hunter said.

Valdis looked over his shoulder. “How astute. I’ve been fortunate that certain studies I’ve published have gathered the attention of…people of influence. The cathedral prospered for a time. Now, it’s not much, but we have a small number of clergy who staff the church and preside over the congregation.”

“So…the supply room?” Hunter asked gently.

“Of course, of course. I imagine it was emptied once the space was no longer needed, and over time the entrances sealed up until nothing remained but that narrow hallway.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t explain any of
this
?” Hunter gestured at the tables. “I mean, this stuff, it has to be
hundreds
of years old.”

“Older, actually.
Thousands is more accurate
.”

Hunter looked skeptical but continued to follow Valdis until they reached the far wall. The priest reached over and removed the candle from the nearest bracket, lighting the shadowed section of the stone wall.

“A question, before we go further. I’ve been a student of language since I was eight-years-old ,” Valdis said. “Dead languages. Which, I can tell you, did not thrill my parents. I have two degrees from Oxford—one in Latin, the other in Arabic—and a Master’s in Linguistic Analysis.” Valdis paused, trying to figure out how to word his question. “Hunter…have you ever been to Israel?”

“No,” Hunter said. “Why?”

“Your parents, maybe?”

“Father, my parents never left town, much less the country.”

Valdis stared at Hunter a moment, then turned and thrust the ancient flashlight against the wall, spilling light across the stone and revealing thousands of cramped lines of archaic-looking script. Hunter squinted his eyes, leaning forward. “What is it?”

“It doesn’t look familiar?”

Hunter eyed Valdis. “Why the hell would it look…” But his words trailed off as his eyes turned back to the wall. He took a step forward and lifted a shaking finger to trace the foreign words etched into the cold, stone wall. Suddenly he turned and shouted at Valdis: “Where did you get this!”

His eyes were black pits.

Valdis stepped back, mouth hanging open. “What? I don’t…”

“Where did you get this!” Hunter’s arm shot forward and yanked on the priest’s collar, pulling him close.

“It was here already. When…when I first got here,” Valdis stammered.

Hunter’s eyes faded back to their original gray and he let go of the priest’s collar. “Father, I…” He took a deep breath. “Jesus. I’m sorry. I just…” he shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

Valdis, his hands shaking fiercely, took a deep breath and felt his pulse slow. “It was the wall, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe. What language is it?” Hunter turned back to the wall, carefully avoiding Valdis’ eyes.

Lord, remind me never to argue with him,
thought Valdis. Out loud, he said,
“It’s the celestial language, I think.”

Hunter continued to stare at the wall, Valdis watching him carefully. The large man hadn’t registered any surprise at the priest’s words. “Celestial?” He finally asked, his voice pinched.

“Yes. It’s said to have originated from Sanskrit and a primitive form of Arabic. Or, perhaps it was the other way around…” Valdis mused. “Regardless, it is extremely difficult to translate. You see these swoops here?” Valdis pointed at one of the lines of text. “The way it twists and connects with that downward slash?” Hunter nodded. “That’s the glyph for ‘Seraphim.’”

A shadowed look came over Hunter’s face, and he moved from the wall to examine one of the silver cups behind them. Valdis, his suspicions all but confirmed, watched Hunter’s eyes roam restlessly over the table.
He’s heard the name before
.

“Seraphim are the highest order of angels,” Valdis walked carefully over to Hunter who had put down the cup and was ideally running his hand along a tightly rolled scroll of papyrus. For once, Valdis wasn’t concerned with the objects on the table. “Have you heard of them?” He asked.

“Once,” Hunter said absently, eyes roaming the table.

“Where, might I ask? A book? A movie?”

Hunter sighed and put down the scroll, meeting Valdis’ eyes. “About six hours ago, actually. I was holed up in some rich guy’s mountain getaway, talking with an angel who told me I was something called an ‘Apkallu,’ and there’s a war in heaven centered around a pair of ‘Seraphim.’” Hunter’s mouth tightened, daring Valdis to laugh. But the priest only nodded and motioned for Hunter to continue.

“When I came here earlier—in that fight I mean—I wasn’t just taking a midnight stroll,” he took a deep breath. “I was running from the cops. I’d just escaped the hospital, and I…I killed someone on my way out. I didn’t mean to,” He said quickly. “It was an accident, I swear. I wasn’t even awake when it happened. It’s just, sometimes these visions I told you about can get pretty crazy…” Hunter trailed off, watching Valdis warily.

The priest shook his head. “If you say it was an accident I believe you. Maybe the police—”

“The police? Are you nuts? They’ll slap me behind bars before I have a chance to—”

“—should be kept out of it. For the time being,” Valdis finished.

Hunter’s eyes rose, and he looked at Valdis like he’d never seen the old priest before. “Come again?”
“There’s man’s law and there’s God’s law. Sometimes you have to sacrifice one to serve the other. In this case, I think it’s wise we follow God’s.”

“So what I said about the Seraphim…?”

Valdis sighed and shook his head. “I owe you an apology, I haven’t been honest with you since the moment you first woke. Your birthmark,” the priest gestured at Hunter’s arm. “I saw it when I was tending your wounds.”

“Oh. What about it?”

“It’s not a birthmark.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“Hunter, birthmarks don’t perfectly mimic one of the four basic symbols of the celestial language.”

Hunter laughed. “God, I don’t know why I’m even surprised anymore.”

Valdis turned back to the wall and shined the flashlight on the ancient writing. He pointed at one of the small figures. “There. You see that?”

Hunter came over and leaned down. “Yeah.”

“That matches your birthmark almost
exactly
.”

“So?” Hunter said with a petulant frown.

“So, it’s the symbol for the Grigori—the Watchers.”

Hunter shook his head. “Those guys at the mansion said I was something called an ‘Apkallu.’”

Valdis nodded. “Yes, I believe you are. Which means the first part of your glyph
would
match theirs. The Grigori were the ones who figured how to encapsulate an angelic soul in a human body.”

“Why in the hell would they do that?”

Valdis pursed his lips. “That is a fine question, my boy. One that I’ve been studying for quite some time.”

“And?” asked Hunter.

“And, well…it’s like this: let’s say you’re cooking dinner and you accidentally cut your finger. How would you treat it?”

Hunter frowned. “A Band-Aide? I don’t know, peroxide? What does that have to do with Apkallu?”

“Everything,” Valdis’ eyes lit up, and it was all he could do not to rub his hands together. “Angels don’t have band-aides. What good would they do without physical bodies? So, when an angel is injured, when he is on the verge of death, what would they do—just let him die?”

Hunter’s frown faded. “I’m the band-aide,” he said softly.

Valdis nodded vigorously, his body practically vibrating. “Yes! An Apkallu is a
band-aide
, as you would say. It takes many lifetimes, but incarnated as a human being an angel can heal his wounds.”

“So, Earth is just…what? A big MASH unit?” Hunter stepped back from the wall. “We’re just a pit stop in their stupid war.”

Valdis patted Hunter’s arm. “My son, not
they.
You.”

Hunter pulled back, face twisted, eyes dark as a thunderstorm. Valdis let him go, unsure of how to comfort him. Finally, after a quiet moment, the priest cleared his throat. “What about these symbols here? Do they mean anything to you?”

Hunter didn’t respond at first, then, after another silent moment, turned back to the wall and focused on the section Valdis was motioning too. His eyes narrowed, and he moved closer, pointing at one of the symbols near the bottom. “I’ve seen these words before.”

“I’m not surprised,” the priest said excitedly. “The two angelic armies: the
Adonai
and the
Elohim
.”

Hunter’s hands were clenched and it looked like he was having trouble breathing. “How…” he forced through grit teeth, “do you know so much about this?”

“I’ve been studying this writing for years,” Valdis said, squinting at the wall. “Ever since the day I discovered this room and its treasures. At first, I planned on telling the bishop, alerting Mother Church and having her send her investigators and archaeologists. But when I saw this language,” Valdis shrugged. “I was selfish. I wanted to decipher it on my own. Twenty years later I finally created a rough key that would let me translate at least part of it. And now, thirty years from the initial discovery, I’ve been able to decipher close to twenty-five percent of what you see here.” Valdis swept his hand across the circular room. “Each quadrant holds a different passage, each passage containing roughly 300,000 lines of script.”

“What does it say?” Hunter whispered, eyes fixed once again on the flickering, candle-lit wall.

Valdis grinned. Once again he felt that rush of being in Hunter’s presence, an overwhelming ache in his guts, his bones, all the way from his feet to his crown. “It talks about the war in heaven,” he said.

Hunter rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Those people at the mansion said the same thing. ‘The War in Heaven,’ like it’s some kind of Saturday-morning cartoon. They had the same stupid grin, too.” He pointed at Valdis. “If someone doesn’t tell me what the hell is going on, I think I really
will
turn myself over to the cops.

Valdis’ smile faded. “No need to be rash. Look here,” the priest walked a few feet to his left and brought the flashlight to another similar patch of script. “You want to know about the war? As far as I can tell, this is the beginning”

Hunter gave the text a cursory glance. “I can’t read celestial.”

“Well, I should hope not,” Valdis chuckled. “Not yet. Took me thirty years. Anyway,” his chuckle faded under Hunter’s gaze, “You have to understand, this is only loosely chronological. This section begins with the opening thrusts of the war. Whomever wrote it must have assumed the reader already had an understanding of why the war began, because the details are sparse. However, despite what we have been told from the Bible—or Milton—our mysterious author suggests the war in heaven had nothing to do with the Morning Star.”