The Adept Book 3 The Templar Treasure (19 page)

“Good,” the older man’s voice whispered. “Start casting back now . . . back to your adolescence, back to childhood, back to infancy, and beyond . . .”

Guided by Sir John’s quiet voice, Adam felt himself slipping effortlessly backwards in time, only the touch of the other’s hand on his wrist anchoring a detached part of him to the here and now. Like a raft swept downstream by deep currents, he was borne swiftly in and out of patches of shadowy obscurity, moving toward a distant bright island in the midst of the flood. The island seemed to be moving upstream to meet him.

Then he saw that it was no island at all, but the converging image of a woman’s face . . .

Keeping close watch at Adam’s other side, pencil poised above his sketch pad, Peregrine heard his mentor give a faint gasp and saw him stiffen slightly in his chair. As he himself leaned in, his view of Adam’s face underwent a sudden, flickering transformation. The strong male features, stem even in response, yielded in fluttering succession to the image of a woman’s more delicate profile. As the images strobed before Peregrine’s startled gaze, it suddenly occurred to him that he had seen this face before, in conjunction with his vision of Solomon’s Crown.

The realization hit him like a punch to the midriff. Even as Peregrine struggled to master his surprise, Adam relaxed and opened his eyes, his wide—eyed gaze darting round to the faces of all those present with an expression of urgent inquiry.

“This place is Oakwood Manor, in Kent, and you are among friends,” Sir John informed the presence gazing out of Adam’s eyes. “Can you tell us your name?”

Adam’s lips moved, but no sound came out. His left hand lifted in entreaty toward the altar, starting to reach toward it. In a flash of sudden insight, Peregrine understood.

“The ring!” he whispered. “The Dundee ring is the focus!”

Nodding his agreement, Sir John picked up the ring and captured Adam’s left hand to slip the ring onto the third finger.

“Tell us your name, please,” he repeated softly.

A slight shudder passed through Adam’s frame as his hand closed and lifted to touch the ring’s crystal to his lips and then against his cheek in caress, the eyes still searching restlessly; but this time, when the lips parted to speak, the voice that issued was a woman’s bright contralto.

“I know thee not, sir. I am Lady Jean Seton, younger daughter of the Earl of Dunfermline. I seek John Grahame of Claverhouse. Pray, tell me which one of you is he?”

For Peregrine, the complete change of voice was accompanied by the transparent overlay of image which he had come to associate with historic personality resonance. The effect was both eerie and fascinating. Adam had once told him that any soul, by the time it reached the level of an Adept, would have experienced previous lives both as men and women, and had assured him that both he and Peregrine had lived past lives as women. Until now, however, Peregrine had never seen direct evidence of that truth. Hardly daring to breathe for fear of intruding, he pulled back slightly to surreptitiously turn to a fresh sheet of drawing paper.

Meanwhile, in response to Jean Seton’s question, McLeod’s head had tilted slightly to stare searchingly at Adam, a note of tenderness softening the inspector’s bluff countenance.

“Dear lass, I am here,” the spirit of Dundee declared quietly, “though ‘tis a strange turn of Providence that brings us together now, after so long a time. Never did I think to hear your voice again after our last parting. Tell me how you and your brave sister fared in the days that followed.”

Adam’s face had lit at the sound of his voice, but now grew shadowed by Lady Jean’s sorrow as he shook his head, his voice both sad and wistful.

“We fared both well and ill, my lord. The Crown was safely hidden, as you charged us to do, but Grizel perished to preserve the secret of its resting place.”

Peregrine, glancing up as his pencil flew across the page, capturing the images, caught just the briefest ghost-image of a second woman overlooking Adam’s shoulder, in her hands an ancient diadem with six sharp points of beaten gold. It was memory, not vision, he quickly realized—a flashback to the images he had never quite been able to capture before, of his vision sparked by the Dundee ring. But it tended to confirm that this alter ego of Adam’s must have been the other, younger woman—and Dundee had given them the Crown! No wonder the image of Solomon’s Crown had fascinated Adam from the first. Even as Peregrine tried to sketch what he could recall of both women’s faces, the spirits embodied in the persons of Adam and McLeod were continuing their odd reunion.

“Grizel perished? How did this come to pass?” Dundee asked, leaning forward.

Tears glistened in Adam’s dark eyes as Jean recalled her sorrow.

“It was after your death, my lord. In those sad days that followed, our bitter loss blunting your victory, Grizel took the Crown north to our father’s castle of Fyvie, there to hide it in a secret place prepared for it. I was to make haste toward St. Andrews, there to take ship for France. She was to sail from Aberdeen, where our father was to join us.

“But before Grizel could be quit of Fyvie, Covenanters came—mercenaries, searching for booty. No doubt they sought treasure of the common kind, of which there was none left at Fyvie, our father having cast his fortune with the Stuart cause. But they tortured her nonetheless, convinced that she was hiding the castle’s treasure. Surrendering the Crown might have satisfied their greed and saved her life, my lord, but she died in torment, rather than break faith with you and betray our charge.”

“The fiends, so to take sweet Grizel’s life!” Dundee whispered, McLeod’s body shuddering as the spirit housed within it registered its grief and outrage at the crime.

“Rest easy, my lord, they will have paid!” Sir John murmured, setting a restraining hand on McLeod’s as he shifted his focus back to Adam’s alter ego.

“Lady Jean, we would like to speak with Grizel, if we may, “ he said gently. “Will you call her and ask her to join us?”

“I will call her if you wish,” came the reply, “but she will not come, not even to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because her spirit abides still with the Crown, watching over its resting place. She has no leave to quit her charge.”

“And where is this resting place?” Sir John asked.

“In the same room at Fyvie where her blood was spilled.”

“The Green Lady!” Caitlin murmured in a startled undertone, speaking for the first time since they had begun. At Peregrine’s glance of inquiry, she added, “I collect ghost stories. One of the rooms at Fyvie Castle is supposedly haunted by a ghost known as the Green Lady. Gray, you don’t suppose she might be Grizel Seton?”

Returning his attention to Adam, Sir John nodded distractedly.

“This begins to follow a pattern. Lady Jean, what if you were to go to her?” he inquired of Adam’s alter ego. “Would your sister be willing to show you where the Crown is hidden?”

Adam gazed at him, uncertainty in the dark eyes. “While we lived and breathed, there was nothing she would not confide in me,” he said. “But this secret is not hers alone to disclose.”

“No,” said the voice of Dundee, “it is mine. Ah, faithful Grizel, “ he continued, shaking his head on a note of somber tenderness. “In committing the Crown to her care, I little thought that her faithfulness would be tested even unto death. This much and more do l owe her—to release her from that charge. Say you will go to her, Jean, as my appointed messenger. Show her the ring upon your hand, and take the cross I wore unto my death, and instruct her in my name to relinquish the Crown to you. Give her my loving thanks and bid her depart in peace, for others now are prepared to take up the burden of guardianship.”

Adam inclined his head in grave assent, answering again in Jean Seton’s voice.

“I will do as you bid me, my lord, and with right goodwill.”

“Sweet Jean . . .” Dundee murmured.

But McLeod’s bluff face was beginning to show signs of strain, his breathing quicker than it had been. At Sir John’s beckoning glance, Caitlin bent to set a hand to the inspector’s wrist while her great-grandfather murmured a few words in Adam’s ear that closed his eyes and set him drifting passively.

“His pulse is a little unsteady,” Caitlin murmured, after a silent few seconds of assessment. “We probably ought to bring this interview to a close.”

“I agree,” Sir John replied. “I think we’ve learned what’s needed.” Addressing himself then to Dundee, he said, “The body in which you are guest grows tired. Will it please you to release it now?”

“Yes, with my heartfelt thanks to him and to the one who now bears the burden of my charge.”

“It is we who thank you,” said Sir John. “Armed with your knowledge, we will find the means to keep bound the evil you and your Order have sought to contain all these long centuries,” He reached across and set his free hand on McLeod’s wrist. “Return now in peace to the realms of the Light, and may all bright blessings attend you.”

McLeod’s eyes rolled upward in their sockets, a long drawn sigh escaping his lips as he slumped forward bonelessly in his chair, head lolling. Abandoning Adam for the moment, Sir John leaned closer to remove the Templar cross from around McLeod’s neck, then traced a sign above the bridge of McLeod’s nose before laying a blue-veined hand lightly across his eyes.

“The guest has departed, Noel; you may now return,” he said quietly. “When you feel ready, take a deep breath and let it out slowly, and find yourself here and now, grounded and in full control again, feeling relaxed and refreshed.”

As Sir John took his hand away, McLeod drew a deep breath and exhaled audibly, then opened his eyes. Like a man newly roused from a sound night’s sleep, he blinked and shook himself upright.

“Not half-bad,” he mumbled drowsily. “Wish it were always that easy . . .”

His wandering gaze focused on Adam’s passive form, curious rather than alarmed, and he looked first to Peregrine, then to Sir John for enlightenment.

“You’re not the only one who’s been playing host tonight to a shade from the past,” Sir John said.

Leaving McLeod to complete the inferences for himself, he laid the Templar cross back on the altar, then took Adam’s hand and removed the Dundee ring, addressing himself once again to Lady Jean Seton.

“John Grahame of Claverhouse has returned unto the Light,” he informed her gravely, “and we have much work to do in his behalf. Lady Jean Seton may return whence she came, to come again when the ring is placed on your finger. Go deep now, Adam, and begin coming forward in time . . . return to Adam Sinclair, gently . . . when you are ready . . .”

Chapter Eighteen

DRIFTING PASSIVELY
in the midst of pearly seas, Adam was conscious of nothing beyond a sense of peace until a voice called him by name. Drawn back toward self-awareness, he oriented toward the voice, swimming languidly upward through milky layers of translucent light toward a distant point of brightness which was the present moment in time. The sensation was effortless, even agreeable. He broke the surface with a slight start and opened his eyes to find Sir John Graham crouching at his knees, gazing up at him.

“Welcome back,” said his counterpart. “How do you feel?”

“All right,” he said, darting a glance at McLeod to assure himself that the inspector likewise was all right. “Good Lord, you must have taken me deep! I don’t remember a thing.”

“I thought that might be the case,” Sir John said, reaching out a hand to Caitlin, who put a tiny tape recorder in it. “We routinely tape our sessions when we know we’re apt to get past-life regressions—and this time, it’s particularly fortunate that we did so. Sometimes it’s difficult enough for four people to remember what one subject was saying; but for three people to remember the words of two, especially given the nature of your conversation, begins to get even more complicated. You can both listen to the tape while we have some supper.

“And what, I wonder, did Peregrine get during our little exchange?” he went on, turning a look of question in the artist’s direction as he stood and shook the kinks from his knees from crouching down. “You looked very busy, son.”

For answer, Peregrine leaned forward with a grin to tender his sketch pad. Adam glanced through the sketches, tilting them toward the light of the nearest lantern, then shook his head, covering a yawn.

“I’m sure this will make more sense when I’ve had something to eat and heard the tape,” he said, returning his gaze to Sir John. “I’ll have to ask you whether we accomplished what was needed.”

“I think so,” Sir John replied. “Let’s join hands for a few minutes to make certain everyone is grounded, and then we’ll close everything down. After that, we’ll return to the house for a change of clothes and a bite to eat, and then we’ll review tonight’s proceedings and see what’s to be done.”

Twenty minutes later, reclad in more conventional clothing, the group gathered in the library for hearty soup and sandwiches. While Sir John and Caitlin began delving into the library’s extensive shelves, interspersing their research with food, Adam and McLeod listened to the tape, Peregrine correlating the dialogue with the sketches he had made. Satisfaction with what they had accomplished was mingled with amazement, for neither could remember much of what they had said. Peregrine, for his part, was still finding it a little difficult to reconcile his sketches of the very feminine Lady Jean Seton with what he knew of the undeniably masculine Adam Sinclair.

When the tape had finished, Adam switched off the recorder and glanced up at Peregrine, who was surreptitiously comparing one of his sketches with Adam’s present appearance. Controlling a smile, Adam turned the sketch pad for a better look at the study of the fair Lady Jean.

“Do you find that perplexing?” he asked with a forbearing lift to one eyebrow.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting it,” Peregrine began.

“Why ever not? I did tell you, the first time we discussed reincarnation, that some of my historic identities were female. Obviously, I didn’t know about this particular one before tonight, but we’re fortunate that we have this link to Dundee.”

“I know that, and you did tell me,” Peregrine agreed, “but that was still theoretical, until I’d actually seen one. She was a beautiful, petite little brunette, Adam. I suppose what surprised me more than anything else was the completeness of the gender shift from one persona to the next.”

“I don’t know why that should come as a surprise,” Adam said. “You got used to the idea that Michael Scot and young Gillian Talbot were aspects of one and the same soul, despite the difference in gender.”

“True,” Peregrine said. “But I didn’t know either of them the way I’ve come to know you. I mean,” he went on somewhat lamely, “Lady Jean Seton was
completely
female, and you’re—”

“Like everyone else, a mixture of qualities, some feminine, some masculine,” Adam said lightly, smiling as McLeod rolled his eyes and bit into another sandwich. “Putting on my psychiatrist’s hat for a moment—C. G. Jung rightly defined the totality of the self as a
conjunctio oppositorum
, a marriage of opposites. It’s largely a question of balance, the balance usually being tipped one way or the other by the biological factor. Two X chromosomes produce a female body, a physical environment which encourages the feminine aspects of the psyche to take the ascendancy. Substitute a Y for one of the X’s and you get the reverse effect. But the potential for either is always there.

“This means that every man has his
anima—his
female principle,” he continued, “while every woman conversely has her
animus.
Occasionally you get someone like Lindsay in whom, for a variety of reasons, the psychological imperative is so powerful that it outweighs the physical disposition of the body. That it happens now and then is no cause for either shame or condemnation. It’s simply a fact of human existence.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Peregrine said with a sheepish little smile, “and I’m not disputing any of this in principle. It’s just that the proofs of the practice take a little getting used to.”

In fact, the events of the past few hours had reawakened Peregrine’s curiosity concerning his own past lives. He resolved to explore the matter further, once the present crisis was over, for it now occurred to him that it would be interesting, not to say enlightening, to discover what life was like from a woman’s point of view. Thinking of Julia, he could see how such an experience might, at the very least, be uniquely instructive within the framework of a marriage.

As Peregrine helped himself to another piece of cake, Sir John came to join them, his reading glasses perched on his nose again, bearing a stack of books with bits of paper bristling from them as place-markers.

“You asked for information connected with the names Gog and Magog? I believe I can safely say that I’m now prepared to tell you far more than you ever wanted to know.”

He set the books on the library table and eased into one of the chairs around it. As they settled in around him, he steepled his fingers in front of him with the unsparing air of a military commander about to deliver a staff briefing.

“If Gog and Magog
are
names to be equated with demons—then what we have here is a very ancient evil,” he informed his listeners gravely. “Assuming that Dundee’s testimony is an accurate reflection of the truth regarding the origin of these demons, and given that the historical King Solomon is generally acknowledged to have died somewhere around 925 B.C., it follows that these evil beings—whatever they are—have been locked away for nearly three millennia.”

He paused to let the impact of this statement sink in before continuing.

“By the time we find biblical mention of Gog and Magog in the Ezekiel prophesies, around 592 to 570 B.C., the names remain associated with intimations of danger, but we find that they’ve been conflated to describe a dreaded King Gog of Magog whose armies were threatening to invade Israel. Almost a millennium later, the Koran speaks of them as
spoiling the land.”

“In other words,” McLeod said, “Gog and Magog are names of evil repute in more than one tradition.”

“So it would seem,” Adam agreed. “That would tend to suggest some common origin to the association.”

“The tale grows in the telling,” said Sir John. “By the time the names pass into British legend, Gog and Magog have attained the status of giants.”

He paused to open one of the books on the table before him, consulting the text as he continued.

“Geoffrey of Monmouth, writing in the twelfth century, reports that Britain was originally inhabited by a race of giants who were conquered by Brutus and his Trojan warriors around 1200 B.C., when Corineus was made ruler of Cornwall. After killing every other giant in the area, Corineus wrestled with the twelve-foot giant Gogmagog and threw him to his death in the sea.

“This Cornish connection comes through three centuries later, when Caxton identifies Gog and Magog as the last surviving sons of the thirty-three daughters of the Emperor Diocletian, women infamous for having murdered their husbands. As a punishment for their crimes, these women are said to have been cast adrift in a boat which eventually landed in Cornwall, where they cohabited with demons—so legend claims. All the resulting giant offspring eventually were killed off except Gog and Magog, who were captured and taken to London, where they’re said to have been kept chained to the gates of a royal palace belonging to Brutus, that stood on the site of the present-day Guildhall.”

“You know,” Caitlin interjected from atop a library ladder, “a possible literary connection has just occurred to me.” As the others all glanced in her direction, she came down to join them.

“Some aspects of this story remind me of the Grendel monsters from the legend of Beowulf,” she said. “Grendel and his mother are described as hybrid creatures, part giant, part demon, who feed on human flesh. Beowulf, the hero of the piece, is not only a queller of monsters; he’s also a sage King—an attribute which links him in with the pattern of esoteric traditions associated with Solomon. One might almost say that Solomon is the prototype for such folk heroes—but I suppose this constitutes something of a digression.”

“Digression or not, it’s consistent with the demon legends we’ve heard so far,” Adam said, pulling out a chair for her at the table. “The common element is that it takes someone of exceptional strength and wisdom to subdue such creatures. Gray, what became of the giants in Caxton’ s account?”

“Eventually they died and were replaced by effigies,” Sir John replied. “And here we begin to enter the realm of verifiable history. We know that effigies were, indeed, erected in London’s Guildhall in the fifteenth century. Most accounts identify them with Monmouth’s Gogmagog and Corineus, but some sources take the Caxton slant and call them Gog and Magog. Whichever names you prefer, the effigies burned in the Great Fire of 1666; but apparently there was enough life left in the legend that a new set of effigies was erected in 1708. By then, general opinion had returned to Caxton’s assertion that they were Gog and Magog, the last of the British giants. These effigies of 1708 remained in position until they were destroyed in an air raid in 1940. Here endeth the lesson.”

Adam was nodding thoughtfully as Sir John took off his glasses.

“I’ve seen photographs of that last set,” he said.

“I’ll go you one better than that,” Sir John countered. “I remember being taken to see them, as a small boy, and I remember walking over the rubble after the air raid that took them out. But the effigies are only the most recent surfacing of a corpus of lore stretching back at least three millennia. If we discard what can be categorized as quaintly fantastical and chip away the matrix of dross, what’s left is a hard core of information that does not change, from one version to the next: first, that the names Gog and Magog have a persistent association with extreme evil; second, this association goes back at least as far as biblical times, when Ezekiel himself may have conflated the two names to frighten his people with the threat that a past evil was about to return. I would even venture to speculate that the racial memory of so great an evil could have been carried outward as civilization expanded into the Mediterranean, thus accounting for the Trojan legends that eventually found their way into British folklore.”

“And meanwhile, the actual demons were buried all that time under the Temple at Jerusalem,” McLeod said.

“Apparently so,” Sir John agreed. “I also find it interesting that the first effigies of Gog and Magog were erected within a hundred years after the arrival of the real demons on British soil—if, indeed, that is what the casket contained, that the Templars had been charged to guard. But the legends had been around for centuries, so why erect the effigies at that particular point in time?”

“Perhaps because their mere presence on the island stirred some profound residue of racial memory,” Adam said. “When all is said and done, we know far less than we care to admit about the depth and complexity of the human psyche. The very existence of the effigies attests to the potency of the tradition. The single accounts might be regarded as circumstantial, and dismissible by themselves. But taken as a whole, they do tend to substantiate Dundee’s assertion that Gog and Magog are demons of some kind, together with his contention that it is the age-old function of the Templar treasures to contain and control them.”