Will Adams - Newton’s Fire

‘Oh, yes. That really is a matter for a Clarence, I’m afraid. Not at all the right area for a mere Trevor like myself.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘The week after next, I believe. Eagle owls are no respecters of schedules. They fledge whenever they damned well please. But you could always consult the records of the Wren Society if you’re in a rush. They’ll have what you need, I imagine.’

‘You don’t have a set here, by any chance?’

‘We do, we do, we most certainly do; but I’m afraid to say we’re not that kind of a library. Try the British Library or the Guildhall. They’ll let just about anyone read their books.’

Luke thanked him and made to leave, glad to get away before impatience got the better of him. But Rachel wasn’t quite done yet. She paused at the door, glanced back. ‘I don’t suppose you Trevors would know anything about a man called John Evelyn, would you?’

‘A man called John Evelyn?’ said Trevor. ‘A man called John Evelyn !’ He shook his head with great good humour, pushed himself to his feet, came round to join them. ‘I once wrote an article for the Church Times on a man called John Evelyn. On his book comparing ancient and modern styles of architecture, to be precise. At least, not Evelyn’s book so much as his translation of the essays put together by de Chambray. But you get the idea. It caused a tremendous sensation.’

‘Your article?’ asked Rachel sweetly.

Trevor laughed affably, as though to acknowledge that he’d earned a little chaffing. ‘No. Chambray’s book, and Evelyn’s translation of it. I couldn’t even interest my own dear mother in my article.’

‘So what was it about?’ asked Luke. ‘Evelyn’s book, I mean?’

‘He liked architecture to reflect the divine mind. That was why he was so bullish on Corinthian columns. Designed by God Himself for Solomon’s Temple, you know.’

Luke shared a glance with Rachel. ‘Is that right?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes. And his plan for rebuilding London after the Great Fire was based on the Kabbalah. The original Kabbalah, I mean, not the ridiculous red-string bracelet travesty so favoured by Madonna and her ilk. Specifically, on the Sephirot , the Jewish Tree of Life. You’ve come across it, I imagine.’

‘Not in connection with city planning.’

The Trevor looked around for something to write on, but there was nothing to hand, nothing that he dared use at least. ‘It’s essentially an arrangement of ten or eleven small circles along three parallel lines,’ he said. ‘Three circles along each of the outside lines, four or five along the central one. Now lay the whole thing on its side and join the circles together like in a map of the underground and that’s pretty much Evelyn’s plan for London. All the circles were existing landmarks, of course, with St Paul’s in pride of place bang in the middle. We corresponded with the Sephirah for Tipheret, if I recall correctly, which represents the sun.’

Shrieks of laughter sounded in the corridor outside. Heels slapping on tiles, schoolchildren testing the bounds of discipline. They waited until they’d passed and silence was restored. ‘So what happened?’ asked Rachel. ‘To Evelyn’s design, I mean?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘It was too ambitious ever to be workable, frankly. Landowners kicked up too much of a fuss. So they gave it up and settled for widening the streets a little instead, improving the building codes.’

‘And that was the end of the Tree of Life?’

‘Yes. Unless you listen to a particularly exasperating correspondent of mine who insists that Wren incorporated Evelyn’s ideas into St Paul’s.’

‘Really? How?’

‘Send him a letter and ask. He loves to receive a letter.’

Rachel touched his wrist. ‘Can’t you just give us a hint? Please.’

‘I can’t believe you’d have me make his case for him,’ sighed Trevor. He looked around furtively, almost as though fearful of being seen. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

And the priest shall take cedar-wood, and hyssop, and scarlet, and cast it into the midst of the burning of the heifer. Then the priest shall wash his clothes, and he shall bathe his flesh in water, and afterward he may come into the camp, and the priest shall be unclean until the even.

The altar was a latticework of unblemished planks of cedar and cypress three good strides long by two wide. It was sloped slightly inwards, like the bottom two courses of a pyramid, and it was high as Avram’s hip.

Shlomo and his men bound the heifer with ropes of reed then heaved her over to this low wooden tower and half-placed, half-threw her on it. Avram climbed up too. It was trickier than he’d anticipated, weighted down as he was by heavy robes and with a full-grown cow struggling against her cords. His foot slipped and he banged his ankle hard, provoking such a fierce spike of pain that he had to pause and close his eyes until it passed.

He took the ceremonial knife from his belt, pinned the heifer’s head with his left arm. He paused a moment for effect then cut her throat. Blood gushed. He cupped a hand beneath the stream, stood tall, and turned to face Shlomo, his men and the painting of the Temple Mount. He flicked his fingers seven times, the blood cooling and caking as he was at it. He wanted to wipe his hand on his robes, but he restrained himself. He climbed down, lit the wooden torch with a lighter, then held it to the kindling until it caught and began to blaze. He picked up the log of stripped cedar. ‘This cedar?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Shlomo and the others.

‘This cedar?’

‘Yes.’

‘ This cedar?’

A shout now: ‘Yes.’

He set it back down, picked up the hyssop. ‘This hyssop?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ they said.

‘This hyssop?’

‘Yes.’

‘ This hyssop?’

‘Yes.’

He picked up the bowl of crimson dye next, repeated the invocations. Then he wrapped the hyssop and the cedar in wool and threw it on the fire. It was already so hot that he had to step back and avert his face. Smoke gathered in a thick, black canopy underlit by orange flame, like hell seen from beneath. Yet in his mind Avram was watching something else: the Dome as it collapsed, the Temple Mount engulfed in purging fire. And all around him they began to chant and cry out with joy, as though the Messiah himself was come.

There was an organ gallery and walkway at the rear of the Triforium that enabled passage from one side of the cathedral to the other without first returning back downstairs. Nearly a hundred feet above the cathedral floor, it offered a magnificent view along the main aisle to the altar; which was no doubt why a TV gantry was being assembled as they crossed, and why two women were scrubbing the floor while another waxed the black-and-gold balcony rail.

‘Our poor Dean has been having nightmares,’ confided Trevor. ‘He thinks the whole world will be watching tomorrow night, and snickering at our stonework.’

‘It must be stressful,’ said Rachel, ‘putting on an event like this.’

They reached the far side. Architects’ plans hung along the wall. Trevor led them to the fourth, a bird’s eye view of the cathedral. ‘See these,’ he said, pointing out a number of circles. ‘They’re open areas designed to echo the main dome. Three on either flank with a spine of them running down the centre. There’s your Tree of Life.’

‘There are more than five circles on the centre line,’ pointed out Luke.

‘You asked me what my correspondent would say,’ retorted Trevor. ‘This is it. Like I said, his theory is bunk.’