Angel City (44 page)

“I don't know. No one does.”

“How was it described to you?”

Serge looked at the sextant.

“As it is. Old, copper, intricate drawings along the rim.”

“It's script.”

“Excusatz-me?”

“It's script. I got a good look at it in the sun. It's Avestan, from ancient Persia. The language of Zoroaster.”

“You know this language?”

“I've come across it once or twice. The only surviving examples are in the
Yasna Haptanghaiti
and the Gathas.”

“I do not know these writings.”

“No, but you know about the Cathars.”

“There is a connection?”

“Zoroaster was a religious mystic. And the first human to develop the concept of a duality in the universe.
AÅ¡a
was truth or light;
Druj
was untruth, darkness.”

“Pure God, Evil God.”

“That's right. It's all right here, in the script. And this down here, this is about a strange light in the sky that will announce that the time of the prophecy is at hand.”

“You speak of the comet over the pluton two nights ago.”

Harper thought about it. That's exactly how it would have appeared from the village.

“That's right.”

Serge scratched his chin.

“So what is this prophecy?”

“No idea, do you?”

Serge laughed.

“Me? How would I know? My family were simple, superstitious shepherds. Their lives were full of myths and legends.”

Harper listened to the man's voice. He was hiding something, but Harper couldn't sort it. He locked on to the man's last words:
myths and legends.
He sat back in his chair, watched the man study the calibration dials of the sextant. Waited.

“These symbols on these wheels, what are they?” Serge said.

“Constellations of stars in the north quadrant of the sky.”

“Where the comet appeared.”

“That's right.”

“And these little hammer strikes along the arc, what are they?”

“No idea. How about you?”

“Why should I know this?”

“Because you're not a simple superstitious shepherd, you're a man with a shed packed with a small army of iron angels. Besides, those hammer strikes are the first things your eyes locked on when I showed you the sextant.”

Serge looked at Harper.

“More coffee?”

“Sure.”

“Make it yourself, I'll be right back.”

Serge left the kitchen, rummaged through the bookshelves in the sitting room. Harper did the deed with the coffee machine, had a double shot this time. He sat back at the table. Serge lay a dusty old book next to the sextant. The book was open to a picture of a bone. Harper stared at it. There were sets of tiny scratches etched into the bone. He looked at the hammer strikes on the arc of the sextant. They matched those on the bone. Harper looked at the lettering under the photo.
Ishango Bone.
He looked at Serge.

“What the hell is an Ishango Bone?” Harper said.

“It's the fibula of a baboon. It was found in Africa by a Belgian archaeologist in 1960. His name isn't important. Look at these three sets of scratches, right here. Those carved to the left and right add up to sixty. The scratches in the middle make forty-eight. At first it was thought to be a lunar calendar or a counting tool of some kind. The bone was originally dated to be six thousand years old. Carbon testing found it was actually twenty thousand years old.”

“Twenty thousand.”

“At least.”

“Somewhat early for a lunar calendar, or counting tool of some kind.”

Serge pointed to the left column.

“Except for this. Nineteen marks, then sixteen, then thirteen and eleven.”

“And?”

“Left to right, they're nothing but scratches on the fibula of a baboon. Right to left, they form a prime quadruplet with two pairs of twin primes and two overlapping prime triplets.”

Harper looked at Serge.

“What did you say you did for a living fifteen years ago, before you started making angels?”

“Textiles.”

“Doing what?”

“I was in charge of measurements. I'm also very good at mathematics. It's a hobby.”

“A hobby. Right. So what is a prime quadruplet?”

There was a piece of paper on the table. Had a woman's writing on it, looked like a shopping list. Serge pulled it toward him, started scribbling under
les oeufs
. He turned the page around for Harper to see. Harper looked at it.

{
p
,
p
+ 2,
p
+ 6,
p
+ 8}

“This is the formula of a prime quadruplet,” Serge said, “where
p
represents the closest possible arrangement of prime numbers larger than the number 3. So, the first series of numbers is 5,7,11,13 . . . then 11,13,17,19 . . . then 101, 103, 107, 109. And on and on.”

“What's the formula used for?”

“Like any mathematical formula, it's used as a proof.”

“Of what?”

Serge closed the book.

“To date, the highest prime quadruplet formula is three thousand, twenty-four digits. Curiously, the formula shows no sign of resolving, suggesting a mathematical proof of twin prime conjecture.”

“Which is what?”

“Infinity.”

“Infinity.”

Serge nodded. “And you know what they say about infinity.”

“Actually, I don't.”

“No?”

“No. How about a hint?”

“Infinity, as represented in twin prime conjecture, creates the mathematical possibility of specific supernatural occurrence.”

Harper wasn't sure what that meant. Only that it had the same number of syllables as “undefined metaphysical condition.” He slammed back his coffee, looked at Serge.

“Define ‘specific supernatural occurrence.'”

“A miracle.”

“A miracle, you say?”

“Yes. And if there is a mathematical possibility of one, then mathematically, there is the possibility of more. I have a book in the sitting room,
A Mathematician's Miscellany
. Perhaps you would like to read it.”

Harper flashed the triangulations feeding into Blue Brain. Astruc was doing more than making a map of the world to build a cosmic alarm clock. He was looking for the confirmation of a miracle. Only there's no such thing in paradise. Or there's not supposed to be. Harper pointed to the sextant.

“Actually, what I'd like is to know if the angel who lived under the family roof mentioned where this thing came from?”

“Jerusalem,” Serge said.

“Did the angel happen to say
who
it came from?”

Serge nodded.

“And who might that be, according to the story?” Harper said.

“It was handed down from Christ, brought here and hidden in a cave beneath Montségur during the Roman Occupation of Gaul. Which is what the world called Occitania before the French called it France.”

Harper paused to render respect to the man's heritage. In fact, they had something in common with the land. This earth was sacred to both of them. He pushed the sextant closer to Serge.

“And how did this thing come to Christ?”

“It was a gift. Given to him a few years after he was born.”

Harper flashed Matthew's Gospel.

Christ, born in a manger in Bethlehem. Shepherds in the fields and angels on high. Years later, three wise men arrive from the East with gifts of frankincense, gold, and myrrh . . . or so goes the legend. Legend called the wise men
magi
. Fact:
Magi
was the name of the followers of Zoroaster. Harper rubbed the back of his neck, flashed Karoliina and her Christmas pageant
he-is-born
fantasy on the train to Lausanne. Looking at Serge, Harper wondered if fantasy was contagious.

“Quite the family
histoire
,” Harper said.

“It gave us something to talk about besides the weather. That is the old family joke.”

Harper wrapped the sextant, laid it in the reliquary box. He looked at the box, noticing for the first time the wood was well preserved, but very old. Eighth century, maybe. And closing the lid, he noticed the box appeared deeper by half than the sextant. He stared at the box some more; closing the lid, opening the lid. After a bit of that, he removed the sextant and laid it on the table. He felt inside the box, tapped the bottom. There was a hollow sound. He pressed the inside corners. The bottom shifted. He pressed harder, heard a snap, and the bottom of the box separated from the frame. He lifted it from the box. Two little compartments: one squared, one rectangular. There was powder in the square compartment. Harper touched it with his index finger, rubbed the powder on the palm of his hand.

“It's clay.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Very old clay.”

Harper replaced the false panel, then the sextant, then closed the lid.

“What else was in here, according to the superstitious shepherds in your family?”

Serge stared at Harper's eyes a moment.

“Come with me,” he said.

Harper picked up the reliquary box.

“You can leave it here,” Serge said.

“On the kitchen table? What if someone sees it?”

“They will think I made a very ugly bread box. Come.”

Harper followed the man out the kitchen door and into the garden. Shiva joined in the small parade to the shed. Serge pushed open the door and went in. Harper saw the light turn on and spill from the door. That's when Harper noticed snow falling through the sky. He stopped, scanned the scene above the village rooftops. The Pyrenees had been swallowed by low-hanging clouds. Harper felt Shiva nudge at the back of his legs, coaxing Harper as if he were a lost sheep:
Move along, move along.

Harper walked into the shed. Shiva sat outside the door, snapping at snowflakes.

Inside, Serge was at the worktable, clearing the surface. There were shelves built into the wall behind the table, loaded with cans, tins, toolboxes, junk. Harper watched him sort through the shelves and carefully remove a round tin. White, a small picture of a red-and-blue impatiens above the word
Sucre
. There was a muted rattle from inside the tin as Serge laid it on his workbench. He turned back to the shelf, pulled down a squared tin this time; green with pink roses and a smiling baby on the lid,
Biscuiterie Nantaise
printed along the side.

“Come and see.”

Harper walked over, saw the tins were antiques.

“Very nice. What's inside?”

Serge opened the lid of the biscuit tin, reached in, and pulled out a wad of leather. Same type of leather that was wrapped around the sextant. He laid the wad on the table, unwrapped it. Whatever it was, it was broken.

“And this is a what?”

“One third of a burnished clay cup.”

“A broken clay cup, at the bottom of a reliquary box. From Jerusalem, sometime during the Roman empire.”

Serge nodded.

“Interesting. What's in the sugar tin?” Harper said.

Serge opened the lid, pulled out a leather scrap tied closed. He opened it, pulled out something wrapped in old linen. He laid it on the table and opened the linen. A carpenter nail, five inches long, iron. Harper stared at the linen, saw traces of blood splatter. He looked closer at the nail. Ancient blood on iron.

“That's interesting, too. Looks like it would fit in the rectangular compartment of the box.”

“Yes, it does, doesn't it?”

Harper rubbed the back of his neck. “What else do you know?”

“Only what has been passed down through the family.”

“Tell me.”

“In the nineteenth century, a professor of antiquities from la Sorbonne came to Montségur to visit the fortress. He stayed in our house. He was shown what was left of the cup and the one nail. My family lied, told the professor the things were bought from an antiques dealer in Languedoc. The professor examined the clay fragment and said it was part of a cup, sort of thing people drank wine from. He said it was at least two thousand years old, from the Near East, brought by the Roman army, most likely. He said the nail was from the same period. Given there was blood on the nail, the professor suggested it had been used in a crucifixion.”

“A crucifixion.”

“So said the professor from la Sorbonne, passing through this place in the nineteenth century.”

Harper felt a chill down his spine.
No bloody way.

“The Romans crucified people all over the empire, Serge. It was their preferred method of dealing with troublesome locals. Or maybe this nail belonged to a carpenter who missed and hit his hand with a hammer. After all, it takes three nails to make a crucifixion.”

Serge leaned down, studied the broken cup.

“As it would three matching pieces of clay to make this the Holy Grail.”

Harper leaned down, stared at the cup. The lines of the break were clean, not ragged. It had been carefully sliced into three parts. He worked the odds there were two sets of the same sort, hidden somewhere in the world. Coming up 1,000,000,000 to 1, and it had the feel of a safe bet.

“So this angel, nine hundred years ago. He stays a few weeks in the family hut, gets his strength back, disappears with the sextant, but leaves a broken cup and a bloody nail with your family. Why would he do that?”

Serge shrugged, nodded at the nail and broken cup.

“Simple. The broken cup and the nail are the things of men, but the sextant was a thing of the Gods.”

“Gods, not God?”

“Gods.”

Pure God, Evil God . . .

Harper felt dizzy, rested his hands on the table.

Bloody hell
.

Montségur wasn't just a place where lines of causality simply intersected; here they ran in circles at the speed of light, crashing into one another head-on, releasing enough energy to shake the fabric of time and space. Strangest of all, the two American girls at the fortress this morning weren't that far off; the Cathars
were
into that kind of stuff. A faint sound rang through the shed. Serge reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a mobile, connected the line.