Assumptions (10 page)

Pritchard scanned the text systematically
until several pages later he paused to read. "Hmm." He turned two
more pages and continued. "Hmm.”

Jordyn couldn’t stand it any longer. “What is
it?” she asked.

Pritchard continued without taking notice.
“Hmm.”

“What!” Jordyn repeated.

Pritchard did not look up from the book. He
paraphrased aloud, “According to legend,
The Book of Raziel
was written by the Archangel Raziel, also known as the Angel of
Secrets. The book is said to contain all of the Wisdom of Heaven,
some of which was not even revealed to the other angels. It was
given by Raziel to Adam in the Garden of Eden. As the story goes,
the other angels were so jealous, they stole the book and threw it
into the sea. Adam eventually got it back. Later, it was given to
Noah and he used it to build the Ark and eventually it was passed
to King Solomon who used its knowledge to build the Temple in
Jerusalem. The book was handed down for generations, though
secretly." He clapped the book shut. "Essentially, it is a
grimoire."

“A what?” asked Jordyn.

Pritchard raised his head and looked at
Jordyn. “A grimoire. And one of the most ancient and powerful."

Will explained, “A grimoire is a collection
of incantations, enchantments, formulas.”

Jordyn scowled. “Magic?”

“Yes and no,” said Prichard. “Think of it as
knowledge.” Pritchard returned the book to its place, and went on,
“To some, electricity is magic, but to us it is just a product of
knowledge. It simply depends upon your perspective.” Pritchard
directed Will and Jordyn back to the sitting room. He closed the
library doors, opened them, and closed them again.

Will and Jordyn took their seats on the sofa.
Pritchard stood behind the wing chair. He folded his arms across
the high back. “If a grimoire is a book of knowledge, then this is
the
book of knowledge,” he added. “God’s knowledge.”

Will’s eyebrows knitted. “Even if it were
authentic, only an adept would be able to use it, right?”

“One would assume it would require some
experience to use it properly. And a crossroads would be
important.”

“A crossroads?" asked Jordyn.

“Yes. In this case, a church would be most
likely," said Pritchard.

"A church?" said Jordyn.

"Yes, Miss Quig. Crossings serve as
amplifiers and the floor plans of most churches form . . .”

“. . . a cross.” Will completed the
sentence.

Pritchard nodded. “Even so, the text is
supposed to have been written in a language so arcane that only
Raziel himself would be able to decipher it, and on a stone, at
that.”

Jordyn sat on the sofa and crossed her arms.
“You saw the photo. God’s knowledge?”

Pritchard chided, "Miss Quig, certain things
exist regardless of what we believe ought to be. There is virtually
no information regarding the physical appearance of the book. If I
am correct, I think this may be more valuable than anyone at the
insurance company suspects. To them, the stone is simply a bauble
they need back to reconcile their books. To them, the rest is
insignificant.”

“So you think this actually might be
The
Book of Raziel
?”asked Will.

“I think your father might have been onto
something. The stone is certainly a step toward that conclusion.
Can you find that photo for me again?”

Will shuffled through the papers and handed
the photo back to Pritchard who examined it closely. “Look.” He
turned the photo toward Will and Jordyn. “See the markings around
the stone? What do they look like to you?”

“Stick figures?" Jordyn snickered. Pritchard
frowned. Jordyn shifted in her seat.

Will came to her aid. “They look runic to
me.”

“Mr. Emerson, you are nearly correct. This is
Ogham.”

“Ogham,” Will muttered to himself.

Pritchard continued. “Some have hypothesized
the written form of the language was developed as a cryptic system,
originally used for secret messages of a political or religious
nature . . . and for magic.”

“But, it’s too recent,” said Will.

“Scholars agree it probably originated in
Ireland around the fourth century of the Common Era; not nearly as
ancient as one would expect on an object of this sort. Nonetheless,
the inscription is curious.”

“What does it say?” asked Jordyn.

“Essentially, it says ‘faith is the key’.
Pity you don’t have the book itself. But then, that is probably for
the best.” He returned the photo to Will. Pritchard walked to the
window and looked out over the lifeless courtyard. “An object like
that would bring an immense sum. Can you imagine?” Pritchard
laughed sharply then suddenly grew quiet. “But of course, its true
value is in the power of the knowledge it holds. One could achieve
wondrous things, truly wondrous. However, used with malice, it has
the potential for utter devastation.” He ran his finger along the
top of the window sash and blew a bit of dust into the air.

Will packed his backpack, took Jordyn by the
elbow, and escorted her to the front door. “Thank you, Dr.
Pritchard. We have to go now. You’ve been very helpful. Thanks
again.”

Will and Jordyn shook Pritchard's hand.
"We’ll show ourselves out," insisted Will and they left the
building.

Jordyn stopped outside the entry door,
scowling at Will. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. We got what we came for. We should
leave."

They walked out of the courtyard. Pritchard
watched from the window of his apartment.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: MISTAKEN

Will tossed in his bed unable to let go of
Iain Pritchard. Around three he gave up on sleep and forced himself
out of bed for a cup of tea. The study door was closed, but a
sliver of light cut into the dark hallway. Will stood outside the
door. He heard the faint shuffle of papers then his father picked
up the phone and dialed. Will listened as he wished the person on
the other end a good morning in Italian and asked for someone in
the antiquities department.

Will stumbled down the hall to the kitchen,
relying on dim streetlight and body memory to find his way. He
switched on the light over the stove and twisted the knob for the
largest burner. The gas hissed for a second until the pilot caught.
Blue flame billowed from beneath the kettle. Will leaned against
the counter waiting for the water to boil. The stack of his
father's files cast a tall shadow on the kitchen wall. Will turned
off the stove and went back to bed without his tea.

Will didn't want to leave his warm blankets.
He pressed the snooze alarm one time too many. He showered and
dressed quickly, tucking in his shirt on the way to the kitchen. He
pulled on his coat and wadded his uniform tie into a ball, pushing
it into his pocket. He slung his backpack over his shoulder,
inhaled a biscuit on his way down the back steps, and ran for the
el.

Will made it to Geography just as the first
bell stopped ringing. Logan sat at the front of the room, arms
crossed, glowering. Jilly twisted her gum around her finger and
stretched it out in a droopy pink strand. Copper stared at the
door. Jordyn leafed through her textbook.

Will sat down at his desk and leaned toward
Jordyn. "What's with them?"

Jordyn whispered, "Pritchard. He didn't show
up. Do you think it had to do with yesterday?"

"No. How could it?" Will un-crumpled his tie
and put it on best he could with no mirror. "How's that?" he asked
Jordyn.

She straightened it for him. "We told
Pritchard we were from Eastview."

"What difference would that make?" Will dug
his textbook out of his backpack and opened it to "Mapping in the
21st Century." He skimmed the chapter.

"I don’t know. None, I guess," said
Jordyn.

"Anyway, it's over."

The second bell rang. Professor Embry burst
through the door. "Always a glorious day to learn about mapping!
Books open, please."

The period dragged. When the bell finally
rang, the students tripped over each other racing for the door.
Jordyn and Will packed their things and walked out together.

"I need to go see a Professor before next
period,” said Will. “See you at lunch?"

"A professor? Uh, yeah, sure. See you at
lunch." Jordyn watched him vanish into the crowd.

Will stood outside Professor Barrett’s
office. He knocked lightly on the glass. "Professor?"

"Yes. Come on in," said Barrett.

Will pushed the door. It swung wide, no box
to block the way. Barrett hung up the phone. “Voicemail again.” He
neatened his inbox, taking a letter off the top.

"Looks like you've settled in," said
Will.

"Yes, indeed. Please, have a seat. They gave
me some real furniture." Barrett pointed to a plastic chair. "At
least it doesn't fold up. I hear my door is next on the list for
the maintenance crew." Barrett laid the letter in the top drawer of
his desk and closed it, locking it with a small key. "So, Mr.
Emerson, is this another social call?"

"Have you ever heard of
The Book of
Raziel
?"

"I see. Right to the point."

"I only have a few minutes between
classes."

"Yes, of course. I understand.” Barrett
forced a smile. “I have read about the book. Why do you ask?"

Will handed Barrett the file. He shuffled
through the contents. "Where did you get this?"

"My father keeps his work files at home. It's
his."

"You took it?" asked Barrett.

"Well, I . . . I just haven't put it away
yet. The case is closed. You can see on the front."

"I see." Barrett closed the file and handed
it back. "Will,
The Book of Raziel
is a sacred thing. I
doubt it would be on display in a small town museum like some
sideshow."

"I went to see Pritchard yesterday," said
Will.

"Iain Pritchard?"

"Yes. He lives near here. I thought he might
be able to tell me about the book."

"You are full of surprises this morning. What
did he have to say?" asked Barrett.

"He thinks it could be authentic."

"He does?" Barrett leaned back and folded his
hands under his chin. "And you?"

"I don't know. It could be. The sapphire and
the inscription . . . " Will's eyebrows knitted.

"And if it were? What would you do if you
found it?"

"Me? Nothing. Hand it over to the insurance
company, I guess."

"And your father?"

"I’m sorry?"

“Your father. What do you think he would do?
After all, it is his file.”

“It's his job to find it. Anyway, the case is
closed."

"Will, a book like that is not to be taken
lightly. It holds power beyond our comprehension."

“Pritchard made that clear yesterday. Made me
a little uncomfortable."

"How so?"

"He seemed . . .” Will paused to choose his
words carefully. “Well, he seemed a unstable. I think the mix-up
with that artifact really affected him."

"I’m not at all surprised. He lost his job.
It destroyed his reputation."

"My father said it was a mistake Pritchard
never would have made."

Barrett leaned forward, elbows on his desk.
"We all make mistakes, Will. You should return the file."

The period bell rang.

Will tucked the file into his backpack. "I
should go."

“See you at Vespers this evening?”

“Oh, right, Wednesday. Uh, yeah, see you
tonight, Professor.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE MESSENGER

Every Saturday morning Timothy Stillman
walked to the local coffee house for a double shot of espresso,
cream and lots of sugar, no matter the weather. He had missed this
habit while he was away. The neighborhood was always quiet, even
more so when the temperature dropped near freezing. On his way
back, he passed a young woman jogging, alongside her a Golden
Retriever. No one else braved the chill, even on such a sunny
day.

Stillman unlocked the door to his apartment,
only a little warmer than the outside. He set his coffee on the
kitchen table next to a manila envelope and peeled off his winter
coat, still musty from being unused for months. He draped the coat
over the spare chair and sat to enjoy his drink. Squares of
mid-morning light coming in from the garden windows at the top of
the front wall of his apartment checkered the living room
carpet.

The intercom buzzed. Stillman got up to
answer. "Yes."

"Messenger," came a young man’s voice.

"Be right there." Stillman retrieved the
envelope from the kitchen. He cracked the door open. The messenger
held out a paper and a pen. Stillman took them and put the paper on
top of the package, filled in the empty line, and signed. He handed
everything to the young man and closed the door. Stillman could see
the messenger's ankles walking past his garden windows. The
building's apartment manager, wearing worn out sneakers, slouchy
Christmas socks, and too short yoga pants, came into view. The
messenger stopped. The two pairs of ankles faced each other for a
moment then left in opposite directions.

Stillman went back to his table, sat and put
his feet up on the extra chair. He lifted his cup to his lips. The
intercom rang again. Not expecting more visitors, he grudgingly put
down his coffee.

“Yes,?” he answered.

“Messenger."

“Your guy just picked up the package."

“You sure?”

“He was just here. I’m surprised you didn’t
see him.”

“Hold on. Let me call my dispatcher,” said
the man.

“Fine, but your guy just left with the
package.” Stillman leaned against the wall on one elbow, looking at
the intercom as if it were speaking to him. He tapped a finger on
the answering button.

The messenger buzzed again.

“Yes,” said Stillman.

“Sir, my dispatcher’s telling me I'm the only
one they sent. Are you sure it was one of our messengers? Because
once I leave, man, I’m gone. I got another ten stops before I’m
done and there’re only a couple of us working today."