16 - Luce

       It is an unsettling evening. The wind has risen sharply, and a dingy gray blanket has obscured the normally lovely evening sunlight. Clouds race quickly overhead, as ink spilled on a page, the shades of darkness growing and receding as the blot spreads. I feel ill at ease, though I am not certain the reason. And so I walk the city streets, which are oddly comforting in their dinginess. The bricks and stones are black with soot and the stains of old rain, the air heavy with the breath of so many persons caught in the small spaces between the high walls. A city of this age always feels so weary, the very ground it stands upon worn by carrying the thousand travails of a million lives. Perhaps that is why we have settled here for a time, perhaps finding a sympathetic atmosphere, the wear of time that we feel made visible in this place.
       I turn a corner, and nearly collide with several small boys, playing wildly in the streets.
       “Look out! James, you almost hit him!”
       “Sorry sir!” the first one – smallest, probably youngest - calls back over his shoulder at me.
       “Boy. Come here.” My voice is not loud, but it is stern. The boy obeys, refusing to meet my gaze. “I believe you have something of mine.”
       “I... I'm sorry, sir, it must have fallen out when I bumped into you,” the boy babbles desperately, digging deep in his pockets, and pulling out my pocket watch. Well, a pocket watch. I had purchased it as a gift, but the fellow left the city quite unexpectedly, and I am not sure he will return. Not an outcome of our liaison that I had expected, but, it is no matter at the moment.
       I raise an eyebrow at this obvious lie, and the boy flushes.
       “You'll catch it from Mum now, see if you don't!” yells an older boy, sprinting back the way they had originally come.
       “No! No don't tell, if you tell, I'll tell her about yesterday, you'll just see!” The younger boy starts to run – pauses half an instant to bob his head at me, and mutter a “sorry sir” - then takes off after his companion.
       I chuckle to myself as I continue on my way. I do wonder what the mother will think of the ornate little absinthe spoon I slipped into the boy's pocket, as he returned his original theft to me? It is rather a shame that I am unlikely to see the outcome.
       Looking about, deciding which way to go from here, I realize I am in a familiar neighborhood. There is a tiny bookstore on the other side of the street, whose proprietor occasionally comes into some interesting merchandise. Around the next corner is... now let me see. I believe it is the residence of Father Mark Douglas, if memory serves correctly, and Claude explained it properly. I am sure he would be home at this hour – a visit with him might prove interesting, and perhaps be distraction enough to shake this strange mood that hangs over me.
       There is a light on in a room on the second floor, though none on the ground floor. I knock – there is no answer. I look for a bell or some other device, but there is nothing to be seen. Well then. I try the door, and find it is not locked. I suppose the man has no servants – odd, considering how accepting his Bible is of slavery. Ah well.
       “Hello? I don't mean to intrude---”
       “Luce?” Claude pops his head over the railing at the top of the stairway. “It is! Do, come in! I am so sorry, Mark refuses to let even his cook stay into the evening, so there was no one to open the door. Do come upstairs, there is wine and a bit of something to eat – we can get you more, if you'd like. Meres is here as well, we shall have ourselves a little party!”
       I cannot help but smile at his ebullience – I suspect he has had rather more of that wine than he is used to. He is young, and presumably in love, such is only to be expected. I look about for someplace to lay my jacket. The furniture is sparse, but he has not occupied the place long, and is probably still suffering from feeling a need to maintain the appearance of Christ-like poverty. We shall cure him of that, I am sure. Turning, I find an unsteady coat rack behind the door, and balance my jacket carefully upon it. Claude had disappeared from view the moment he finished speaking, presumably to announce my arrival.
       As I reach the top of the creaking, chilly stairs, Meres steps out of a brightly-lit room to meet me.
       “Luce.”
       “Meres! How delightful. I was in need of some pleasant company this evening.”
       He raises an eyebrow skeptically, keeping his voice low. “So long as you keep it pleasant. Please, do not toy too much with these – we would not want to scare them off too quickly. I believe they are just at the cusp of a new element to their relationship, and I should like to watch it progress as it will.”
       I laugh, and lean in to give Meres a quick embrace. “My darling Meres, kindest heart of us all. I promise you, I shall do no damage to the solace of their souls. You need fear no interference from me tonight. I am here only for the pleasure of good company, you may rest assured of that.”
       He relaxes a bit, and smiles in return, putting a hand to my elbow and leading me into the room. “Father Douglas, have you met our friend Luce?”
       “I have had that pleasure, yes – I believe he found me lost in his labyrinth!”
       There is laughter at this, and Meres and I seat ourselves where we can find space in the cluttered room. There are books and papers on every available surface, with sheets both freshly white and crumbling yellow. Claude is seated on a low stool near Mark's feet, and is halfway through another glass of wine. There is a bottle nearly-empty on a table – on my appearance, Mark rises, and pours a fresh glass, which he offers to me. I take it gratefully, and am pleasantly surprised at the quality of the vintage.
       Claude leans over, reaching behind a stack of books beside Mark's chair, and pulls out an unopened bottle of wine, which he sets on the table with a hazy flourish. Mark raises an eyebrow at the boy. “Where did you find that?”
       “I brought it up with us earlier this evening. I thought we might need more than the two bottles you carried, so I brought a few extra.”
       “But I did not see... oh, it does not matter. Still, I suspect you need not have much more.”
       “Ha! I am perfectly fine. So long as I am in your presence, I will be blessed with sobriety enough that I shall not miss a single detail of your beautiful personage.”
       Mark cannot help but blush at this, though he laughs and tries to shrug it off as a mere jest. It's rather sweet, to see the two of them together. I can see why Meres was concerned about me spoiling it. Still, I will do nothing to ruin it yet, for I am quite curious as to how far the priest will go along with the painter.
       We spend a little time in idle conversation, sipping our wine. Claude, it seems, has been discussing the inspirations for several of his recent paintings, but though he tries to resume his discourse, he finds himself unable to focus, and instead beings moving around the room like a caged pet, picking things up and asking Mark about them. Mark carefully replaces each thing Claude lifts and discards, making certain it is put back just where it was taken from. Most of the papers are of little interest, being study for an upcoming Sunday sermon. Still, there are some that bear the marks of a more academic research – texts on archeology, a few slim volumes on Canaanite and Chaldean cultures. Little is still known of these subjects, so I am quite surprised to see his interest in them.
       Claude finally alights on a book with some truly fine engravings, and curls up contentedly on his stool. “Mark, come sit down, I am done messing about with your papers, now that I have found something that I like. You can relax.”
       Mark chuckles softly, shaking his head, but resuming his seat nonetheless. I notice that Claude moves imperceptibly nearer the older man, and it is not long before his tousled head rests against the man's knee. I can see Mark's hand twitch, just a little, and I smile, knowing how much he is longing to tangle that pale hand in those dark curls.
       Following in the wake of some discourse on the subjects of the books Claude rummaged through, Meres manages to make his question entirely casual and unobtrusive:
       "So, Mark, dear, I ought to have asked far sooner, but whatever is it that had you so engaged in study when I entered this afternoon? I hardly dared distract you from it more than I had already done, so I did not inquire but allowed you to continue, you looked so very lost in it all. I am sorry I turned your thoughts aside from it!"
       "Please, don't concern yourself with that!” he laughs genially. “Quite an interesting road you pointed me toward, and I was in need of a diversion, to untangle my own path. But as for what I was looking into... Ah, well, I am afraid it is a bit of a personal indulgence, though of course all things eventually lead back to His service, you know."
       It is all I can do to not burst into laughter at this absolute naïveté. Oh what a consummate scholar! So perfectly out of touch with what living life and its pleasures will do to the soul. We simply must ensure he does not discover the depths of his error for quite some time, this is far too entertaining to listen to.
       "I do not know if you are familiar with it, but in the book of Genesis, just before the story of the Flood, there is a brief line regarding some scarcely-mentioned Biblical figures. It is said: 'That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.' Following that, there is a reference to giants being in existence in those times and in times which followed, 'when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.' "
       I startle at this, feeling my heart pick up its pace. I do not dare to look at Meres. This... this was what little we allowed to remain in their knowledge, and so few have ever noticed the vague reference that it has been... oh I do not know how long, but so long! So long since we heard those words, and heard another speak of our true lineage. I fight my body's will, struggling to keep the shake from my hand as I take another long draft of wine. I will the alcohol to slip into my bloodstream, urging it to dull my senses, to soften my surroundings and make them just a little unreal, that I might make light of all things...
       "There are other references to giants, of course, but they are referred to by different names in the Hebrew, and appear to be merely different ethnicities encountered by the Israelites in their travels. The word used here, in this first reference, is nephilim, translating as "sons of God", or, more literally, "sons of the powers"... oh but I must be boring you, to go on so!"
       "No, no," Meres answers, his reply coming quickly, his voice remarkably calm, but I can hear the strain he feels in making it thus. "No, do go on... I am quite intrigued."
       "Well, I was profoundly struck by the strangeness of such an idea, certainly it was never covered in any of my lectures at school, or, indeed, any sermon I had ever heard. To think, that angels came from Heaven to lie with human women! Given the placement of this mention, it seems quite probable that this was the very reason for the Flood itself, to rid the world of these unwanted half-breeds, along with the other evils prevalent at the time. Of course this entire thing may be a mere construct, to allow for some dabbling into the vast pantheologies of all the cultures surrounding them - a loophole to let the early Jews fit in a little better with their neighbors, if you will, explaining the existence of semi-divine things in the world, figures like Hercules in the Greek mythos, though he was much later. All the same, I was intrigued, and began to research, and eventually began looking outside of the accepted canon of Scripture."
       Claude, who had been silently lost in his book up until now, suddenly cuts in. "You hadn't told me that! Is that really allowed, then?"
       Mark chuckles softly. "It depends upon who you ask. Really, there are some books within the canon itself that are quite controversial - the libraries of the past, while attempting to be comprehensive, did not always do the work we do toward verifying the authenticity of their collections. And so there are many things which seem, upon closer examination, to be mere derivations of other works, or use as sources other books which are now lost to us... really, the whole field of manuscript authentication is quite a maze, I have had all I could do to find what I needed without becoming overwhelmed by it!"
       "So where do you find these sorts of books? Does the seminary really keep such things in its library?"
       I have to smile a bit at this - we hardly need step in at all, to get the information we desire, the boy is so irrepressible. Still, this conversation is proving work enough, merely to survive it! To hear such strained references to a story we know so very, very well, and not fill in the glaring holes... to hear of those women we first thought we loved, those who seduced us and those who praised us, those whom we clung to, terrified... oh, such strange things happened in those times! All was confusion, we were intrigued and thought we knew precisely what we did, but we knew nothing of time and mortality and the physical form... and then all was washed away, by the torrents of God's curse upon us and our children, our children whom we never knew... We have learned so much since then, though we had thought we knew all! It is so long since I have thought of those days, it seems almost another life entirely. Yet... yet it is my life nonetheless, for despite the years, the pain can still be felt.
       "It does, yes, for research purposes of course. Hardly the original manuscripts, those are found only in the largest libraries. But there have been translations of most, and copies made of all, that study might be done. Although, one of the books I have found especially enlightening, I have found is still considered canon in Ethiopia!"
       Claude laughs lightly. "So the dark continent is yet dark, after all!"
       Mark smiles, but shakes his head. "How can we know? Perhaps they were the more intelligent, for having held onto such a book all these years, while it was elsewhere lost. Our own church fathers thought it gone for good, until fairly recently. The book of Jude makes reference to it, so it is not as though it were entirely shunned by our traditions – as the author of that book may have been the half-brother of Jesus, or an apostle, or at the very least a close associate of the earliest Christian church."
       I sneak a glance at Meres, and see him nod, his eyes dark and intense, a thousand thoughts streaming through them. I do not know what book it is of which he speaks, but it is one we should greatly desire to see.
       "And what book is this? I do not pretend any great knowledge of religious texts, but it has been of passing interest for me." I am amazed to find it is myself who has asked the question – and that I have kept my voice so calm, so smooth and refined. It feels as though the veins and arteries surrounding my heart have drawn close, and become knots. My hands are so cold, and I am reminded anew of how fragile and powerless these bodies are, after what we once had...
       "It is called the Book of Enoch, though its true authorship is of course highly disputed. When it was written is also questioned, particularly as it makes some messianic references which many think place it after Christ's ministry. Still, such references were made in the book of Isaiah as well... oh but I have gone so far from my subject!" He laughs, shaking his head. "But you must understand, I have studied this for years, and rarely have a willing audience for my findings. You must stop me if I ramble too much for your patience."
       "No, dear Mark, not at all,” I reply calmly. “We are in no hurry this evening, and the wine makes even the most dry conversation comfortable. I had hoped to hear some such interesting tale from you, when I decided to stop by. Do go on, you have such a pleasant speaking voice."
       I believe the man blushes, but it might well be a flush from the wine, which he is sipping scarcely less frequently than we. "This book of Enoch, it seems to be a compilation of several different sections, which may or may not have been written at the same time - there are all sorts of discrepancies, in names and positions and such, but really, there are discrepancies within the canon as well, the most obvious being among the lists of lineage."
       Ah, yet another bright spot in this man's theology - he focuses on the academic minutiae, reading over all with a critical eye. Really, we haven't a thing to worry about from him, he is so engrossed in learning that he will scarcely ever think of applying any of it to his life. He is in the field for its vast knowledge, not for love of the faith. I let his voice subside into gentle, caressing waves for a minute, letting my body relax, for it grows tired of the stone-like tension brought on by the content of the man's words. I cannot decide if I ought to coax him into fewer apologetics, for while the anticipation of something truly unpredictable is something I have not felt in years... it is not an entirely pleasant sensation in this instance.
       "...the book of the Watchers, really, is the one I have focused upon, along with the Dream Vision section. It tells of a group of angels who were instructed by God to watch over the human race in its infancy. The angels begin teaching mankind various things - it is not really clear if this was God's will or not - astronomy, weaponry, cosmetics, that sort of thing. They found women to be attractive, and lay with them, and had offspring which became the Nephilim. They did seem to realize this was a sin, for their leader bound the rest of them with him in an oath, that they would pay the price for the sin together, were they discovered. In the end, God banished them from Heaven for these sins, and it seems they came to Enoch to bid his intercession on their behalf. This in itself is an interesting concept, given that tradition shows angels to be in a station above that of man - yet apparently, this group was under the impression they could gain some special aid by enlisting one of them to their cause."
       "What was that, Meres?" Claude inquires curiously, leaning toward him. I look up, to see Meres seething with rage. Even I unconsciously move backward, keeping distance from him, for he is terrifying in his anger (as are we all, I suppose).
       The boy, however, does not quite have the intelligence to realize the depth of the fury flaming up into Meres' eyes. He moves his ottoman closer, and peers into Meres' face with the trace of a mischievous grin. "Whatever so bothers you about this idea? You look altogether offended!"
       "I am." His voice is a low growl, the words sublimated in ominous hatred.
       Mark, flustered, begins a confused apology, but Meres cuts him off. "Go on! Did I tell you to stop? Continue, and keep the boy from so interrupting, or I shall cut his tongue out from his head."
       Even I am taken aback by this sudden blaze of undignified rage. Claude, thankfully, finally realizes the seriousness of the situation, and moves hastily back to Mark's side, bewildered and more than a little terrified. I do hope they will chalk it up to too much wine.
       Timidly, nervously, Mark resumes. "Well, I... where was I? Oh, yes. In any event, Enoch's intercession is contained in a later part of the overall book, which repeats many ideas from the first part. There is a bit of uncertainty, though, on the fate of the fallen angels. Obviously the text has been greatly corrupted through the centuries, less stringent care having been kept of it than most of the canonical books. On the one hand, God commands several of his archangels - Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, and Uriel; this book is quite wonderful at providing names to what are canonically nameless beings - to bind the fallen ones, the leader in particular, burying him under rocks, until he is cast into fire at the final judgment. Uriel is then sent to warn Noah of the impending flood. Yet in the Dream Vision section, the judgment is applied more generally to the earth, and it almost seems as though the fallen might have been carried on the ark. In either case, given this source and others, it looks as though the Nephilim may all have killed each other off, been hunted out by the Israelites, or merely died from lack of nutrition - it seems their immense height put a bit of a strain on the resources for survival, and they consumed all that was available, in the end resorting to cannibalism, for God's sake! Cannibal angels. Really, it is almost a tale for the tabloids - I suppose that is why I find it so engaging!" he finishes with a slightly-embarrassed laugh, glancing anxiously at Meres. "But, there, I have tired you enough, I must have worn your nerves terribly by the strangeness of the story. Is there anything I might get you, Meres?"
       Meres has buried his face in his hands, his hair hanging low before his bowed head. He sighs deeply, taking a slow breath. With everyone's attention thus diverted, I take a moment to compose myself as well, breathing slowly and taking another long sip of wine. I do feel a touch of its sweet numbness settling into my limbs - a thing I am most grateful for. I dab the corner of one eye with my kerchief, and drink a little more wine. It was not an easy tale to hear, corrupted and vague though it was...
       "More wine, please," he sighs softly, his voice faint and exhausted. Mark obligingly refills his glass, and offers him the plate of pastries, but Meres waves it away, taking only the glass. He drinks half of it in one long draft, then takes another slow breath. Finally his gaze returns upward, and meets Mark's. "Mark, darling," he says smoothly, his voice so soft it is a silken caress, a lover's light touch, the whisper of a child, the murmur of a courtesan. "This book you were talking of, by Enoch. Do you have it here?"
       "I do, yes, I have it on loan from the seminary."
       "Do you think you might lend it to me? I should love to examine it in more detail."
       He takes a slow breath, and shakes his head apologetically. "I am afraid not, as the library is quite strict in their policies. It took some doing for me to be able to borrow it beyond the seminary grounds alone, and I must return it quite soon."
       "Darling..." Meres croons in a low voice, leaning forward and placing a gentle hand on the man's knee. The seduction in his voice is powerful, so smooth and rich, and I can feel the electricity in his gaze and in his touch even at a distance. (Or perhaps it is only the wine, and the recent amplifications of memory...) "Dearest Mark, you must know I can be trusted with it. Would I so betray your confidence in me? I am not one of the vulgar masses, or even one of the blind to whom you tirelessly preach. I know the importance of this volume, I shall of course treat it with great care. I should only like to peruse it myself, for I am intrigued by the story you tell."
       "I'm very sorry to disappoint you, but I really can't..."
       Meres' gaze shifts again, and though there is still seduction, there is also threat seeping through his voice. "Oh, I am terribly sorry to hear that, I should have so liked to only borrow it, for my own edification... No, no, you need not apologize more, dear, clearly you have no power here." He takes a long draft of his wine, sinking back into his chair tiredly.
       Claude tries to insert some light conversation in the uncomfortable silence, but it plummets dully in the thick air. Where Meres has cast his disapproval, there is no recovery. I have been quietly resolving what I shall do, now that this diversion seems to be ending. Of course I might go with Meres, but I do not think either of us should like to discuss what we have heard. Oh, I should like very much to know what exactly remains of our story, but I hardly think it will be worth the effort of researching it on our own, when Mark has delved so deeply already. And hearing it all told again, will certainly not heal wounds already made. There can be nothing in the fragments of half-forgotten histories that would be of any use to us - surely not, it is silly to raise one's hopes so frivolously. If Mark finds something of worth to us, it will come out, and we shall all enjoy its benefits, there is no need for me to trouble myself with the process. Meres will hear it from Claude, or from Mark, and if it is worth hearing, he shall pass it along.
       Meres is now in a horribly foul mood, and I know as well as anyone how difficult it is to rouse him from such a mood. He will likely do some heinous violent thing before the night is out, to releave his passions. Or perhaps he will paint instead – I have heard rumors he has been attending to his long-abandoned canvases again. I am pleased to hear it, for he seems able to capture such elusive truths in his paintings, things which could hardly find expression in life.
       In any event, my amusement here is done for the evening. It is time to move on.
       "Are you going, Luce?" Claude asks, a note of anxiety in his voice. I believe he is frightened of what Meres might do, without myself there as - what, mediator? intercessor? pacifier? Hardly! He probably assumes Meres will not make a scene with me present - and he is correct, but not to the extent he believes himself to be. Meres will probably not commit a murder with me standing by, but that is only because he conducts even murder with such artistic flair. That scene at my rose party...
       "I am. It grows late, and I have another visit to make before I retire for the evening. I thank you very much for the society, gentlemen – it has been quite an edifying evening.”
       Mark offers his hand, and I take it, squeezing it warmly and looking solidly into his eyes. He has no guess as to the effects his story had upon us. That is well.
       Claude hops up and shakes my hand vigorously. “Do visit again soon. We shall keep Mark from babbling on so the next time.”
       I chuckle, and tap his chin lightly. “That you might babble in his place, dear boy? No, it is no matter – I am glad to hear such passionate speech, whoever it might be from.”
       Meres does not rise, so I lean my head down, and murmur gently in his ear. “They know of no truth in it, it is only mythos. Do not trouble yourself over things long gone.”
       He sighs in exaggerated sufferance, and waves me away dismissively. "Certainly, darling." The tension in the air around him is still palpable, and Claude is determinedly keeping his distance, almost clinging to Mark for safety.
       "Have a pleasant evening," I say, with an amused smirk at the impossibly awkward group. "I shall show myself out." And so I do, before I become entangled in the impossible paradox of manners that they must sift through. Ah, Meres... you are too close to the world you live so passionately within. Take a little distance, and view it all as the stars do – small things, moving small distances, and making no ripples at all on eternity.
       I step into the dark streets, still undecided on where I shall go next. I pick a direction at random, and begin to walk, breathing in the cool night air, finding solace in the chill which seeps through my skin, and works into my heated blood. Cold, the light of stars, and I can almost imagine that I am as distant from all these things as I once was, when I spent my nights in those distant skies, where I could see so far, and watch without care...