Prophecy. An ARKANE thriller. (Book 2) (4 page)
The stocky man came forward and laid the child on the altar, securing the bonds so he was tied there securely. The boy lay still, unresponsive.
“My father brought his son here, the child he loved above all else. He laid him on the altar just as this boy lies here now and he offered his child to God. He called out, pleading for God to provide another sacrifice, for a way out of the obedience that was required. Sometimes God sends another but sometimes He will ask of us that which we love the most. There must be sacrifice for then He will provide a greater blessing. So my father took up the blade.”
Thanatos drew a knife from the leather sheath at his waist. Its handle was polished bone made of metacarpals, finger bones curving down to a thin wicked blade. It glinted as he held it up.
“He called one last time for God to relieve him of his burden.”
Franco could hear the man’s voice breaking with emotion, for he was truly reliving the moment of agony.
“But God did not speak and my father was obedient to the end.”
Franco watched as the knife arced down. Even as he thought that it would stop, that this was just a crazy re-enactment of some guy's nightmare, he saw real blood spurt as the knife slammed into the little boy. He was witnessing the murder of a child in a church, a holy place. Franco started forward, as if to try and stop it. He felt Ivan's hands holding him back and then other vice-like grips as men around him realized he was trying to stop the kill. Franco watched in horror as blood ran from the child’s body and dripped from the altar to the floor. The woman near him licked her lips and he could see her breathing heavily with excitement. Thanatos turned again to the audience, the bloody knife held out in front of him.
“My father sacrificed his beloved son and tonight, you are part of this call to obedience. You will join me in the renewal of life to these bones. You are the resurrection of my father's faith. For God was faithful and gave him another son and I was born to fulfill the prophecy of the end times. Tonight you will join me in obedience.”
Thanatos handed the knife to the man at the altar and without hesitation, the man plunged it into the tiny body. Franco could only hope the child was dead from the first deep thrust or the shock. People moved towards the altar, crowding in their hurry to join the rite. No one spoke and Franco found himself pushed forward towards the child's body. It was a conspiracy of silence, of capitulation and the masks they hid behind prevented the assumption of responsibility for their actions. They were one crowd, a mob united by this dark force. The words of Thanatos mesmerized them and the rewards that they received in the material world kept them obedient. He bound them to him with blood and money, the most ancient chains of all and the hardest to break. Franco watched as one by one, the masked devotees stepped forward, took the knife and stabbed the child. Some thrust hard and others seemed reluctant but they all obeyed. He saw the slim woman take her turn. She took the knife from Thanatos, her fingers brushing his for just a fraction too long. She stepped into the pooling gore in front of the altar and thrust the knife in with no hesitation.
Ivan pushed Franco to the front until he stood, staring at the proffered knife.
“There is only obedience here,” Thanatos said. His eyes were of a man who saw the darkness in the soul of the world, and Franco realized that he was in too deep. He couldn't go back. This man knew what he had done, knew the depths to which he had sunk, and there was only one way towards a dark redemption. Franco took the knife and stepped to the altar. Looking down, it was as if this was no longer a small person, just a skin bag of leaking blood, the face pale and the spirit gone. Franco lifted the knife a little way and asked forgiveness from the God he thought he had long forgotten. Then the blade came down one more time.
Vlassky Dvur Castle, Kutna Hora, Czech Republic. 1.16am
The ancient hallways of Vlassky Dvur castle were the closest Milan Noble had to a family home. It wasn’t far from Sedlec and was his retreat after he played his role as the personification of Thanatos. He had little time to come here anymore since the international headquarters of Zoebios were in Paris and New York. As a pharmaceutical and health technology company it was the perfect foil to the dark underworld of Thanatos. Business had taken him away from his physical ancestry, albeit for the necessary purpose of building a platform for the fulfillment of the prophecy. Milan was glad to return now,
a brief window of solitude in his busy schedule. Time seemed to be speeding up now that the plans were beginning to mature. With the teams deployed, it was only a matter of time until the prophecy could be fulfilled and he was finally released from his burden.
Milan shrugged off his black robes and left them pooled on the dusty floor by the door. He threw the black mask down next to them and switched on a lamp that cast terracotta shadows across the wood paneled walls. The glow illuminated a portrait of Arkady Novotsky. Milan had anglicized his name to Noble, a necessary break from his father’s scattered past. He stepped up to the photo, a portrait of pain in sepia tint.
“I still obey you, Father,” Milan said, his voice echoing in the empty hall. “Even in death, I do your will, and we are so close to fulfillment now.”
He shook his head to clear the shadows that clouded his memory and walked to the end of the long dark corridor. His father had purchased the castle after a particularly successful archaeological dig. His side business of smuggling antiquities finally paid off enough to buy this grand old place. It was said to have belonged to an ancestor of theirs but Milan knew his father often had delusions of grandeur and the truth was frequently obscured by layers of fiction. His father had kept the castle private, but Milan had opened it up to the public. Most of the grounds were now managed for tours but he kept this tiny corner as his own personal space. No one was allowed to come here, not even a cleaner. As he walked, Milan shed more of his outer layers, so he was naked by the time he reached the door of the cellar. A simple white kimono hung there which he shook out and put on. With bare feet, he stepped onto the stairs leading down and shut the door firmly behind him.
Milan locked the heavy door from inside. He rested his head against the deeply grained wood, the darkness broken only by a chink of light from under the door. He breathed deeply, calm beginning to permeate through him even as the cold of the cellar prickled his arms. This place had always been his refuge, where he had run when his father rampaged in anger. This was where he had hidden when Arkady had beaten his mother to death, her screams muted through the thick wood as he shook in fear on the top step. Strangely, it had been his father who had shown him what to do at the first signs of violence. He had taught the young Milan to lock himself inside the cellar and to wait for the clock to turn a full twelve hours. Only then was it safe to come out, as the storm of his father’s anger would have passed.
When his breathing had finally slowed, Milan flicked on the lights, then turned and walked down into the cellar. The lighting was low and muted, a forest green tinge from the dim light bulbs and the bonsai that grew down here, each stunted plant in its own ceramic pot. Over the years, Milan had built this precious collection and the ecosystem of lights and water that sustained them down here in an artificial world. It was an Eastern interest that stood a long way from the Christian religious tradition he was steeped in. He thought it was probably a form of rebellion against his father, recognizing in the exactness of the bonsai a way to separate a part of himself from the work he carried out in the name of the prophecy. Bonsai was about control. It focused on making the form of the tree into an interesting shape without leaving a trace of the process. His bonsai were mounted on an ancient door laid on darkly oiled stumps, eight perfectly formed mini trees in a garden that no one else would ever see.
Milan walked around the table, his hands caressing the trees, fingertips gently feeling the health of his plants. He hovered and then chose. This one was his favorite, but today he had to atone for the death of the boy. It was only fitting that he use this, his most faithful friend. The bonsai was a Chinese bird plum grown in the ‘moyohgi’ style, an informal upright with twisting trunk. Milan traced the curves of the tiny frame, seeking just the right spot. He turned to the tool table where his instruments were laid out in neat rows of screws, twisting wire, pliers and sharp cutters. Like the picture in the attic of Dorian Gray, these trees were the outward reflection of his inner self, a physical manifestation of the evil he committed. He warred with himself over the deeds he performed, but he knew that the culmination of the prophecy was righteous. He came here to atone, for punishment must be handed out for the sin of murder and these were his scapegoat trees.
His movements knocked some of the tiny flowers onto the carpet of rich earth. With a little implement, Milan raked the miniature garden until the soil covered them again. Bonsai were hardy trees, grown to survive the shaping by wire and vice but he had developed the hammering of nails himself, based on something he had seen in Afghanistan. Milan thought back to when his father had taken him on a trip, a rare chance to be part of an archaeological dig in a part of the world generally not visited by Westerners. They had stopped on the outskirts of a remote village and he had been surprised to see an old woman weeping as she hammered thick nails into the trunk of a tree. As she sank to her knees in front of it, he had asked the guide what she was doing. It was a scapegoat tree, he had said. It took the sins of the people and was symbolically cast out away from them. It removed their sin and suffered in silence while they carried on with their lives.
His father had then told him of the ancient Israelite practice of scapegoating where a goat took the sins of the people and was cast out into the desert, dying far from the tribe that had committed the crime. The nailing of sin to a tree was also reminiscent of the sacrifice Jesus made for the sin of mankind. It was a way of repenting and atoning without the self-harm associated with taking the punishment upon oneself. Milan had kept that memory safe and now replicated the scapegoat trees here in miniature, creating this little world of atonement hidden from the world. The trees were precious to him and to hurt them was to punish himself. He couldn’t cut himself, as that was a sign of weakness. He needed to be a strong leader, to show no remorse in the face of what Thanatos must do to fulfill the prophecy. But down here, he retreated to a space where he could face his sin and acknowledge his flawed humanity. This is my prayer, he thought.
Milan selected a short fat nail from an old tobacco tin he had found as a young man in the wasteland behind the castle. It had been thrown from a car. He fancied it was a message from the people who might have rescued him, but they never came back. Picking up a tiny hammer, he took the nail and braced it against the trunk of the Chinese bird plum. His stomach was churning and he felt nauseous as he prepared to violate the wood. It was an abuse of the sacrament of bonsai, but he had to do it and he knew the relief that came after the sacrifice. He drove the nail hard into the trunk. It only took two strikes and it had pierced the heart of the plum.
Milan knelt by the tree, the flagstones hard and cold on his knees.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
His fingers once again traced the trunk, the smooth wood now desecrated with the nail. He stroked the tree and felt the raised bumps of other nails that had been hammered here over the years. Looking over his collection, he could see little space left for new nails as the trunks were pock-marked with silver studs. Here was the accumulation of his sin, the testament of his guilt. But Milan breathed more easily now and his calm returned. It was time now to focus on the fulfillment of the prophecy.
Jerusalem, Israel. 9.16am
Morgan wound down the window and breathed the familiar air as the taxi skirted the city of Jerusalem and headed for the hill where the Ezra Institute overlooked the Kidron Valley. Olive groves on the hills were a dusty green, like army fatigues laid down on the earth. Morgan remembered how she had been so idealistic once, so willing to believe there could be a lasting peace in Israel. After all, people are people. They love their children, they just want to work and be happy. But over that layer of simplicity was a web of politics, religious fervor and a desire for revenge that built up two sides of a dispute that surely would never be settled.