Jonathan Rabb - The Book of Q

It was odd to think how close he was to whatever was hidden within the Vault, how long the parchment had waited to be found.

If, of course, it was still there. And if Angeli had deciphered the scroll correctly. Too many variables.

A breeze lifted off the water, more of the olive and mint, a gentle reminder of the world he now inhabited. For some reason, the face of the priest from San Bernardo filled his thoughts, the ancient shoulders swaying back and forth, the whispered chant from his weathered lips. Pearse imagined the old man would have liked it here.

He turned to the bed, and he noticed a monk’s robe hanging on the door, evidently the preferred garb even for guests. Perfect, he thought. He would rest for an hour, then go. Better with everyone asleep.

After all, he had to be back by first prayer.

“O existent in very truth.

O being which beholds the aeons in very truth.

Unseen unto all but me.

Unseen unto all.

Eeema, Eeema, Ayo.

O self-originate that lacks nothing and is free,

I have come to know you and to mix with your immutability.

I have girded myself to dwell in your armor of loveliness and light.

And I have become luminous.”

The boy, no more than sixteen, rose from his knees, trying his best to mask the relief pounding in his chest. It was the last of the prayers he would have to recite on his own. The rest, he knew, he could do in his sleep, had been doing in his sleep for the last six months. Preparation on preparation.

Hair parted neatly to one side, he wiped away the few beads of perspiration that had collected on his brow and upper lip. Dressing this morning in his hotel room, he’d assumed the air in the grotto would be cooler, the four floors of solid rock beneath the Ninety-fourth Street armory enough to fend off the heat. No such luck. The thick initiate’s robe wasn’t helping matters, either.

It just went to show how little an Ohio boy knew about New York summers.

Six others waited with him on the beama , the raised platform at the grotto’s center, each of their faces illuminated in a billowing light from torches placed along the walls. Several ancient tapestries hung down as well, not even a hint of air to ruffle their faded colors. If the elect were hoping to shroud the ceremony in a kind of medieval patina, they were more than succeeding. The young men stood entranced.

“You have been formed within the orbit of the light,” chanted the trio of elect, who stood behind the group of initiates.

“So that in your company I might have life in the peace of the saints,” they responded as one.

“And so we welcome you. For the light is within your bosom, an unreproachable light, the sign of the prophets within you.”

“O Iesseus-Mazareus-Iessedekeus.”

“O Mani Paraclete, prophet of all prophets.”

“Eternally existent in very truth.”

“Eeema, Eeema, Ayo.”

The princeps -the highest of the elect-now passed behind each of them, the ritual laying on of hands, a silent prayer. He wore a white cotton shawl pulled up over his head, the rest draping to his knees, a distant cousin of the Jewish tallis in all but the missing Hebrew lettering at the collar. Even the way he manipulated the fringed corners bespoke a connection to an Aaronic past. When he had finished, he kissed each of them on the cheek, followed by the sign of the cross on their foreheads, the sign of the trihedron at their breasts. One by one, the boys stepped down from the beama and took their places among the thirty or so men seated in the chamber. The boy returned to his father’s side.

No words of congratulations. No recognition of any kind.

When the last of them was seated, the princeps removed the shawl from his head and placed it around his shoulders, the face of John Joseph Blaney now revealed to the assemblage. “Let us recall the Primal Aeons,” he said; the gathering rose. “The Deep,” Blaney began.

“The perfect parent, prior source, and ancestor,” they responded.

“Silence.”

“The betrothed. Thought, loveliness.”

“The Intellect.”

“The only-begotten, the parent and source of the entirety.”

“Truth.”

“The betrothed.”

“The Word.”

“The parent and source of fullness.”

“Life.”

“The betrothed.”

“The Human Being.”

“The Human Being.”

“The church.”

“The betrothed.”

“These are the Primal Aeons. Through them, we bind our wills to Your knowledge; through our knowledge, we are bound to Your will. In the Father of Greatness, who resides in the realm of Light. In the Power of the cosmos, who brings our salvation. In the Wisdom of the ages, who returns us to the wholeness of our church.”

“In the Father, the Power and the Wisdom.”

Blaney stepped back to a small podium at center. “And let us recall the ‘Perfect Light, the True Ascent.’”

As one, the voices began:

“It is from the perfect light, the true ascent that I am found in those who

seek me.

Acquainted with me, you come to yourselves, wrapped in the light to

rise to the aeons.

For I will illumine in your illumination;

I will ascend in your ascension;

I will unite in your union.

It is I who am the riches of the light;

It is I who am the memory of the fullness….”

The boy continued to chant, his mind wandering as the words flowed freely. For as long as he could remember, he had committed the prayers to memory, the rituals that had prepared him for today, his father as guide. Always in strict isolation, so different from the shallowness of Sunday, when he would watch his father play the role of minister, stand behind his pulpit and preach words that seemed so far from the truth.

As his mind drifted, so, too, did his gaze, faces all around him, many of which he recognized from neighboring towns-Davenport, Kenton, Elmsford-none of which he had ever associated with the private world he and his father had shared.

Until today.

The journey north to the elect. The day of illumination. Entrance into his cell.

Everything would change now. He had been told as much. How, he didn’t know. Standing among his brothers, reciting the “Perfect Light,” it didn’t seem to matter.

Eeema, Eeema, Ayo.

The fruit was all but gone, the bowl of loukoumi licked clean. He’d been hungrier than he’d realized, the confection far better than he’d expected.

Waiting for the last of the paraffin lamps to flicker out, Pearse donned the robe and stepped out into the open-air corridor, a tree-lined atrium three stories below. The sleeves hung a bit too long, though an ideal spot, he discovered, to conceal the notes he had with him. Not that he was anticipating anything, but best to have the pages out of sight should someone appear. Looking to minimize that chance, he kept his lantern dark as he moved past the other cells, the monks either asleep or oblivious to his late-night wanderings.

With one hand flat against the wall, he inched his way back to the stairs, the moon having broken through, making all but the last few steps relatively painless. Once outside the dormitory walls, he found a darkened nook and fired up the lantern, careful to keep it low at his knees. No bonnet, no beard, but at least with the lantern shining out-and not up-he could see where he was going without casting any light on his upper body.

As quickly as he could, he began to retrace his steps through the various alleys and courtyards, one or two cats leaping out at inopportune moments to accelerate an already-lively heartbeat. But no monks. Even so, he found himself moving ever more stealthily, reduced to tiptoes for the last twenty yards or so, the area by the fountain far more exposed than he’d remembered.