She sifted through them quickly. “Here, March 1771. This is the earliest there is.” She pulled out a chair and sat at the table. Her father took out his pipe and paced up and down the length of the room as she read to him.
“‘Piedmont Abbey, France. My Dear Mr. Harper, As you were so kind as to contribute to the costs of my travel to my new station here at the abbey, I felt compelled to write as soon as I arrived. It is indeed a splendid place, in reasonable repair for a building so aged. The name of its founder, Robert de Furches, is inscribed above the main door, which is curious as he was not a religious man himself. The brothers have made me most welcome. Alas my arrival was marred by a strange and disturbing event which occurred during my first night here. It was discovered the following morning that several tombs in the crypt had been destroyed and their contents removed.’” Hecate paused and looked up at her father. No exchange of words was necessary. She read on. “‘I am certain you can imagine the consternation and alarm this incident caused. The local magistrate was summoned, and the Abbot spent some time in conference with him, but neither cause nor motive for the desecration has yet been established.’ He goes on to talk about the routine of the abbey, the food.… There is nothing more of significance.”
“Try another letter,” said her father.
Hecate set the first aside and located the next. “It’s dated a week later. ‘Events have continued apace. Only a matter of hours after the discovery of the empty tombs, one of our brethren began to behave in a manner which I have been assured was utterly at odds with the man he had always been. He became quarrelsome, outspoken, difficult. Within a very short time he was foulmouthed and aggressive. When this aggression spilled over to violence we were forced to contain him in his cell. While we were doing this, Father Ambrose—the mildest mannered man you could wish to meet—stole two silver chalices, took the horse and cart we use to take our produce to the weekly market, and fled the monastery. The community is in turmoil. As a newcomer, and therefore a little removed from the situation, I am doing my best to be the voice of reason and calm.…’” She scanned the remainder of the letter, found nothing further of importance, and so went on to the next one. “Another week has passed. His handwriting is notably untidy, as if he were in haste to get his thoughts down. ‘Before we had time to make sense of any of it, the crypt was once again desecrated. Several tombs had been breached, some containing bodies of monks who had died centuries before, others … more disturbingly … the resting places of brethren passed in living memory, causing great distress throughout the abbey. One of the oldest members of the community was found dead in his cell, we fear the shock stopped his poor tender heart. A second, one of the youngest here, has run mad. It took three monks and a visiting preacher, James Habington, to restrain him.’”
“Habington? That name is familiar to me, though I cannot think why.” Her father thought for a moment and then shook his head, signaling for her to continue.
“‘He is another now confined, for his safety and our own.’” Hecate sorted through the letters and found the next. “There has been a longer gap … this one is dated April the fourteenth. And look! He mentions the Essedenes!” Her father stopped his pacing to stand close to her as she read on. “‘My Dear Tiberius, at last I have some words of explanation for the terrible events here at Abbey Piedmont, though they bring with them no comfort. The Abbot’s investigations, including calling upon an exorcist from Paris, have led to the discovery of heinous practices that would appear to be afoot. A long forgotten tribe, the Essedenes, were believed to have used dark magic in their attempts to raise the dead. It seems that someone has gained sight of an ancient manuscript that records details of their methods, and these have been used with wicked effect, summoning the departed from their places of rest. As if this were not sufficiently distressing, these Resurgent Spirits—for such their Necromancers named them—will stop at nothing to become Embodied in their new hosts. Once there, they vanquish the original soul and replace it with their own, which is inevitably blackened and vile given their unnatural progress. I was with the Abbot himself when one of the brethren was attacked by a Resurgent Spirit. We saw only a dark mass, though we both strongly felt its evil presence and saw the mortal struggle Brother Paul was engaged in. Alas, we could not stop it. For a night and a day we watched as the gentle soul, who had once been a baker in Toulouse, faded to nothing. We have learned there is a chance to save the victim if swift action is taken, but as yet, we know not what that action should be. Only one of our attempts have succeeded, when an exorcism was performed. We must stand helpless as the abbey is consumed by this darkness, or flee to save those of us who remain.’” Hecate picked up the final letter. “He has only written the date, and a few lines beneath the greeting. ‘They have taken the best of us. We have found them to be intolerant of alcohol, and uncomfortable in the presence of animals, which react strongly to them. Another exorcist arrives on the morrow, the first himself having fallen victim to the curse of the Essedenes. I will write again if I am able, though I fear all is lost.’ He has not even signed it,” she said, “but he has made some sort of drawing, here, see?” She held the page up to the light and they both scrutinized the simple shape the monk had sketched.
Edward gave his opinion. “A symbol, rather than a depiction of something more real…”
“It resembles slightly a handprint,” she said, turning it this way and that. “A smudged palm … What can it signify?”
Edward sorted through the letters, checking points for himself. “What a terrible business,” he muttered. “And see here, Hecate, this struck me. The date, do you see? March 1771. Almost one hundred years before the tombs in the Hereford Cathedral crypt were opened.”
“Almost, but not precisely. Brother Michael thought the date significant, though he has not yet recalled in what way. There is a shape to the number.… Do you see?”
“A shape? Why, yes. It is a palindrome. You think that significant?”
“I think we cannot rule out anything that might be. Wait.” She sifted back through the letters. “The date of the first emergence from the tombs.”
“The third of March.”
She nodded. “The third of the third. Or thirty-three, if you were to reduce it so.”
“Palindromic. Interesting, but…”
“How does it help us? If there is a pattern to the dates…”
“When did the first desecration in the crypt at Hereford take place?” her father asked.
Hecate thought for a moment, working it out in her mind. She smiled at him. “I recall it well. A Wednesday in April.” Her face fell then. “But no, that doesn’t work, the fifth of the fourth.” She shook her head. “We are chasing down a path that leads nowhere.”
“Or possibly in circles.”
“In either case, a waste of our time.… There is another point that causes me more concern,” she said, looking at him. “There is no escaping the fact; if there are Resurgent Spirits roaming the city of Hereford looking for hosts, they have not risen by themselves. They have been called. And called by someone who possessed the incantations, spells, curses … whatever words the Essedenes used, someone is using them now. Someone who knows where to find those lethal words.”
“The like of which would surely be considered among the most dangerous ever written,” Edward murmured.
She nodded, following his inevitable line of thought. “And the only books kept more closely guarded than priceless ones are dangerous ones. Such as those kept in the locked cabinet in the muniments room.” She sat back in her chair. “To think that such things have been there, a few strides from where I work every day.”
Edward sat on the seat next to her and placed a hand over hers.
“There is something else you must consider, my daughter, however hard. There are only a handful of people with access to that cabinet, and every one of them is known to you.”
When Mr. Thorpe returned Hecate and her father left the archives meekly. Both were occupied with their thoughts. Having thanked the librarian for his assistance, they made their way toward the exit, Edward voicing his inclination toward finding somewhere for their overdue luncheon.
“Yes,” Hecate agreed, “that would be sensible. Pleasant, indeed. But first, Father, would you mind if we spent a little time here?” She indicated the interior of the museum. “I should very much like to see the ancient Greek exhibits. We have so much to discuss but my thoughts are confused. I think I might find it … helpful,” she told him. What she did not tell him was that once again she was experiencing the light-headedness that had afflicted her earlier. Once again she could hear the whispered voices.
Beware! Beware!
While her mother might have insisted dining was the required course of action, her father was more accepting of the idea that wisdom and knowledge could themselves be sustaining.
“Of course,” he said. “Another hour will not see us starve. I believe I know precisely which exhibits you would like to see.”
He offered her his arm and they strode, in step, toward the room given over to Greek statuary. As they moved through the museum the voices chattering in Hecate’s ear became increasingly excitable and insistent, to the point where she could not make out words clearly. She was thankful when they reached their destination. She let go her father’s arm and stepped forward gazing up at the exquisite marble figure in front of her. Even after centuries, it had not diminished in its purity, its simplicity, its power to hold the attention of the viewer.
“Hekate,” she murmured, experiencing the strangeness of using her own name to identify another.
The goddess before her was beautiful, her limbs impossibly long but pleasingly so, her curves womanly but modestly draped. There were crescent moons woven into her hair. She held aloft a flaming torch, indicating her ability to shine light upon the dead and show the way through the darkest night. A serpent coiled its way down her arm. In her other hand she held a ring of keys, symbolizing her ability to open doors from one world to another, or to assist those wishing to travel through unearthly realms.
“Your namesake is a fair bit taller than yourself, daughter,” Edward noted. “At least, this splendid version of her is. Over there is a much later figure. Not Greek at all, in point of fact, but some curators prefer to group figures together by their identity, rather than their chronological position. A practice I have some issue with, but there it is. And there, in the center of the room—which does show some understanding of this particular goddess’s iconography—we have her represented as a trinity. One woman but three figures, three faces, each looking in a different direction, the statue traditionally positioned at a crossroads. Of course, this was a much, much later iteration of Hekate, but, as I say, curators all have their little ways, their need to make their own opinions heard.… And here she has hounds at her feet. Another addition to her mythology. Some say they are the hounds of Hades.…”
Hecate knew the legends well and had no need to hear her father’s words to remember them. Which was as well, since her mind was filled with another voice. It was not, she thought, that she could hear these words spoken, more that they were laid upon her mind so that she simply and immediately understood them. Just as she understood that it was Hekate herself who spoke to her.
You tread the boundary between two worlds, Daughter of the Moon. Where you venture there is great danger. You must not shrink from your task, but you must protect yourself. Go bravely, child, but go wisely.
A calmness flooded through Hecate’s very bones. She felt it strengthen her. The voice was as familiar as if it had been her own mother’s, and as clear as if the goddess lived and breathed.
“I will,” she murmured, gazing up at the serene face of the statue. “I give my word, I will do what is asked of me.”
“Hecate?” Edward placed a hand on her arm. “What is it?”
She wanted to answer him but could not tear her gaze from the statue. She was aware of him watching her, aware of his calm presence, but beyond that, nothing but the goddess until he spoke again.
“Are you ready to leave now? I would not wish us to miss the late afternoon train,” he told her.
