The Eight: The Fire Part 26

Though Leda the Lesbian would surely go for this philosophy the idea that two virgin females might equal yin and yang I was still confused.

But that chime in my head was clanging louder.

And then I knew.

'You made up the code for that message Mother left me on the piano,' I mentioned softly. 'So what about those "Virgin Isles"?'

Key smiled approvingly and nodded.

'That's it,' she told me. 'That's why we dropped by here, first thing, before anyplace else. "Virgin Isles" is native code for Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. And this spot, right here in Piscataway, is where the Original Instructions were written for our nation's capital.'

'I thought that George Was.h.i.+ngton provided the original instructions for the capital city,' I pointed out. 'After all, he's the one who bought the land, who hired the folks who laid out the square, with all those moronic-Masonic trappings we've just heard about from your pal, the ferry pilot-'

'Where do you think he got those instructions?' Key asked me.

When I said nothing, she pointed across the marshes, out over the river. There, in the far distance, seated high on its green bluff in the brilliant morning sun, lay Mount Vernon, George Was.h.i.+ngton's home.

'The land for the city was never selected or secured through accident,' Red Cedar told me over his shoulder. 'It took much secrecy and skilled maneuvering on the president's part. But he knew from the first that this place where we are, Piscataway, was the key to it all. The tradition comes from native belief, but from the Bible, too: They call it the City on the Hill, the High Place. The New Jerusalem. It's all in the Apocalypse the Book of Revelation of Saint John. The place chosen for the sacred site must be a spot at the confluence of many rivers in order for the power to be invoked.'

'What power?' I asked, though I was beginning to get the message.

We left the marsh and had now come out into an open meadow where dandelions and wildflowers were already perking up for spring and birds and insects were chirping, buzzing, humming all around us.

'It's the power we've come here to see,' said Key, pointing her arm across the gra.s.sland. 'That's Moyaone.'

As we traversed the meadow, I saw one enormous evergreen tree that dominated the center of the field. If I wasn't mistaken, and I wasn't, the tree was 'The red cedar,' said Key. 'A sacred tree. The pith and sap of the trunk are red, like human blood. This one was planted by the last Piscataway chief, Turkey Tayac, whose grave site is also here.'

We crossed the meadow and went up to the grave, where a small picture of the Tayac himself, a handsome, bronzed fellow in full feathered regalia, was set into a wooden trail marker plaque. It said that he was buried here, through an Act of Congress, in 1979.

Around it were four tall stakes embedded in the ground, with woven wreaths attached. The tree itself, just beyond, was festooned with red bags that had been tied on with red ribbons hundreds and hundreds of them.

'Tobacco pouches,' said Key. 'Tributes to honor the dead.'

For the first time all morning, Mr Tobacco Pouch spoke up. 'For your father,' he said, handing me a small red cloth pouch that fit in my palm, as he gestured toward the red cedar tree. Key must have clued him in.

I went over to the tree, a bit choked up, and searched a moment before I could locate a branch that was unladen, where I could tie on my gift. Then I inhaled the scent of the tree. What a wonderful tradition: sending smoke rings up to Heaven.

Key had come up behind me. 'These spirit posts with the wreaths are here to protect this place from evil,' she told me. 'They mark the Four Quarters the four cardinal directions. It all connects together, as you see, right here at this spot.'

She meant, of course, the precise layout of Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., a city whose very first stone marker had been laid just due north of this place. Some things were definitely coming together the four corners, four quarters, four directions, the chessboard form of the ancient altars, the ancient rites But there was one thing I still really needed to know.

'You told me that the "Virgin Isles" is a code word for the city of Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.,' I said to Key and the others. 'I can see why George Was.h.i.+ngton as the founder of a new country, as a pretty religious guy himself, and maybe even as a Mason would want to create a fresh new capital city just like the one in the Bible. Why he'd design it this way, bridging the river, to bring the two Christianities together. As you said two virgin queens, hands across the waters, two kernels of corn in a pod.

'But what I don't get is this: If your mission is to follow the "Original Instructions," to go with the natural flow, then what's the point of going over to the enemy? I mean, as you yourselves have just pointed out, all these religions have been battling over their symbols and rites for hundreds of years. How could signing up with that embattled agenda possibly help Mother Nature spin spiderwebs or grow corn? Is this an example of "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em"?'

Key stopped and looked at me seriously for the first time. 'Alexandra, in all these years have I taught you nothing?' she said.

Her words struck home. Hadn't Nim asked exactly the same question?

Red Cedar took my arm. 'But those are the Original Instructions,' he told me. 'The "natural order," as you choose to call it, shows that things only really grow and change from within, by achieving a natural balance. Not through external force.'

Clearly, my three companions had blanked on a few historic memories of their own. 'So you're impregnating the Church with Native rules of order?' I said.

'We are merely demonstrating,' said Red Cedar, 'that Mother Corn, like Mother Earth, existed long before any other virgins or mothers. And with our help, she will long outsurvive them. We plant corn and harvest as we do, because that's how the corn is happiest and produces the most offspring.'

'As they always say,' added Key, '"As ye sow, so shall ye reap."'

Where had I just heard that?

Tobacco Pouch who'd been studying the sky turned to Key. 'He'll be here just now,' he told her, motioning across the meadow.

Key glanced at her watch and nodded.

'Who'll be here?' I said, following his gesture.

'Our ride,' Key said. 'There's a parking strip there, just off the back road. Someone's picking us up for the airport.'

I saw a man emerge from a copse of trees at the far side of the meadow, just opposite where we'd entered ourselves.

Even at this great distance, as he came through the unmowed gra.s.s, I recognized him at once by his tall, slender form and lanky gait not to mention that trademark mop of dark curls, blowing in the breeze.

It was Vartan Azov.

The Ashes.

I am ashes where once I was fire, And the bard in my bosom is dead, What I loved I now merely admire And my heart is as grey as my head.

Lord Byron, 'To the Countess of Blessington'

It were better to die doing something than nothing.

Lord Byron, March 1824.

Missolonghi, Greece.

Easter Sunday, April 18, 1824.

It was raining; it had been raining for days. It seemed the rains would never end.

The Sirocco had arrived from Africa two weeks ago and struck with the terrible force of an unleashed animal, ripping and clawing at the small stone houses along the coast, leaving the rocky sh.o.r.es strewn with odious debris.

Within the Capsali house, where the British and other foreigners were quartered, all was silence just as Drs. Bruno and Millingen had ordered. Even the cannonade, for the traditional Greek celebration of Easter Sunday, had been marched by the militia to a site just beyond the town wall, and the townsfolk were encouraged to follow it, despite the inclement weather.

Now the only sound that could be heard within the emptied house was the frenzied racket of the unrelenting storm.

Byron lay beneath the covers of his Turkish sofa on the top floor. Even his great Newfoundland, Lyon, lay quietly beside the settee, his head between his paws. And Fletcher the valet stood across the room in silence, pouring water in order to thin the ever-present carafe of brandy.

Byron studied the walls and ceiling of this drawing room, which he'd decorated himself upon his arrival was it just three months ago? with trappings from his own private a.r.s.enal. This display of suspended swords, pistols, Turkish sabers, rifles, blunderbusses, bayonets, trumpets, and helmets had never failed to impress Byron's boisterous and violent private brigade of Suliote bodyguards, who'd camped out below on the ground floor that is, until he'd finally paid up the dangerous hooligans and sent them off to the front lines.

Now, as the raging storm battered against the shutters, Byron wished in one of his rare lucid moments that he might still possess the strength to stand and cross the room, to throw open the windows to the fury of the storm.

Better to die in the wild embrace of a natural force, he believed, than this slow draining away of one's spark of life with repet.i.tious applications of plasters and leeches. He'd tried his best, at least, to resist all those bleedings. He could never bear the loss of blood. More lives had been lost to the lancet than to the lance as he'd repeatedly told that incompetent fool, Dr Bruno.

But by the time that the Greek administrator Mavrocordato's own physician, Luca Vaya, had been able to defy the storm and achieve the beach at Missolonghi, just yesterday, Byron had already suffered the racks of chills and fever for more than a week ever since that ride, April 9, when the elements had caught up to him, and he'd first taken ill.

And in the end, 'Bruno the Butcher' had gotten his way opening Byron's veins repeatedly to extract pound after pound of blood. Sacred Heaven! The man was worse than a vampire!

Now, with the life force ebbing from Byron moment by moment, he still retained enough awareness to realize that he'd been, in these past days, more than half the time delirious. And he also retained enough of sober consciousness to know that this illness of his was no mere dose of the cold or the chilblains.

It was, in all likelihood, the same 'illness' that had seized Percy Sh.e.l.ley.

He was being carefully killed.

Byron understood that if he didn't act quickly, if he didn't reveal what he knew to the one person who needed to know, and who could be trusted, it might well be too late. And all would certainly be lost.

His valet, Fletcher, was now beside his bed, waiting with the bottle of watered cognac that provided Byron's only relief: Fletcher, who in hindsight may have been the wise one from the very beginning. He'd long been reluctant to accompany his master to Greece, and had begged for Byron to reconsider whether his commitment to the cause of Greek independence might not be better served by merely providing financial a.s.sets that the patriots required but without such direct personal involvement. After all, they'd both seen Missolonghi before, just after their visit, thirteen years ago, to Ali Pasha.

But then, nine days ago when Byron had 'fallen ill' with this mysterious, unsolvable disease, the normally stoic Fletcher had nearly gone to pieces. The staff of servants, the military men, the doctors all spoke different languages.

'Like the Tower of Babel!' Fletcher had cried, pulling his hair in frustration. It had required three translations merely to request, on the patient's behalf, a cup of broth with a beaten egg in it.

But at least, thanks to G.o.d, Fletcher was here at this moment and they were, for once, alone. Now, like it or not, the trusted valet must be pressed into one last duty.

Byron touched Fletcher's arm.

'Sire, more brandy?' said the latter, with a countenance so grave and pained that Byron would have laughed if it hadn't required quite so much effort.

Byron moved his lips, and Fletcher bent his ear to his master.

'My daughter,' Byron whispered.

But he instantly regretted having spoken those words.

'You wish me to record a personal letter from you to Lady Byron and to little Ada in London?' asked Fletcher, fearing the worst.

For this kind of exposure could only reflect the last wish of a dying man. The world knew that Byron loathed his wife, and only sent her private communiques, to which she rarely replied.

But Byron shook his head slightly, among the pillows.

He knew that his valet would understand, and that this man who had been his servant for so many years and through so many tribulations, the only one who knew of their true relations.h.i.+p, would reveal this last request to no one.

'Fetch me Haidee,' Byron said. 'And bring the boy.'

It pained Haidee to see her father lying there, so pale and wan, whiter as Fletcher had warned, just before they saw him than down beneath the wing of a newborn chick.

Now, as she and Kauri stood before the tattered Turkish bed, where Fletcher had plumped up cus.h.i.+ons, she felt like weeping. She had already lost the one man whom she'd believed all her life was her father Ali Pasha. And now, this father, whom she had known for little more than a year, was draining away before her eyes.

In the year since they'd found each other, as Haidee well knew, Byron had risked everything and exercised every subterfuge to keep her near him while keeping their relations.h.i.+p a secret.

In support of this subterfuge, only months ago, on Byron's thirty-sixth birthday, he told her he'd written a letter to his wife, 'Lady B,' as he called her, saying he'd found a lovely and lively Greek child, 'Hayatee' just a bit older than their daughter, Ada who'd been orphaned by the war. He'd like to adopt her and send her to England, where Lady B might look out for her proper education.

Of course, he had never received a word back on the subject. But the spies who opened the mail, as he told Haidee, would believe this pseudo-adoption to be just another of the great lord's well-known foibles.

Haidee's 'relations.h.i.+p' with Byron had now been established through rumor, which, in Greece, never lied. And now that he was dying at a moment when it was imperative that they speak they both knew it was more important than ever that no one must know the truth of why she'd been brought here.

The Black Queen lay hidden in a cave on an island off the coast of Maino where Byron had once told Trelawney he'd like to be buried the cave where he'd written The Corsair. Only the three of them Haidee, Kauri, and Byron knew where to retrieve it. But what good was it now?

For the Greek War of Independence, begun in force three years ago, had now gone from bad to worse. Prince Alexander Ypsilntis former head of the Philiki Eteria, the society pledged to free Greece had led the charge but been renounced and betrayed by his former master, Tsar Alexander I of Russia, and was now rotting in an Austro-Hungarian jail.

The Greek factions were bickering among one another, vying for supremacy, while Byron, perhaps their last hope, lay dying in a squalid room in Missolonghi.

Even worse, Haidee could read the anguish in her father's face, not just from the poison they'd undoubtedly been feeding him, but anguish at leaving this earth, at leaving her, his daughter, with their mission yet undone.

Kauri sat in silence near the bed, with one hand on Lyon's head, while Haidee stood beside her father and took his feeble hand in hers.

'Father, I know how gravely ill you are,' she said softly. 'But I must know the truth. What can our hopes be now, for the salvation of the Black Queen or the chess service?'

'As you see,' whispered Byron, 'it was all quite true, everything we feared. The battles and betrayals of Europe will never end until all are free. Napoleon betrayed his allies as well as the French people and even his own ideals, in the end when he marched into Russia. And Alexander of Russia, in destroying all hope for uniting the Eastern churches against Islam, betrayed those ideals of his grandmother, Catherine the Great. But what use is idealism when the ideals are false ones?'

The poet had leaned back into the pillows, closing his eyes as if he could not go on.

He moved his hand slightly, and Haidee intuitively reached for the cup of tisane, a strong infusion of tea that, at Byron's request, Fletcher had made up for his master before departing. Haidee saw that the valet had left a water pipe as well, with the tobacco already burning, to provide the infusion of strength that Byron himself would need, to tell what he had to say.

Byron sipped the tea from the cup in Haidee's hand, then Kauri placed the hose from the water pipe between the poet's lips. At last, Byron found the strength to continue.

'Ali Pasha was a man with a great mission,' he told them in his weak voice. 'It was more than uniting East and West, it was about uniting underlying truths. Meeting him and Vasiliki changed my life, at a time when I was not much older than the two of you. Because of this, I wrote many of my greatest tales of love: the story of Haidee and Don Juan's pa.s.sion; The Giaour "The Infidel" of love for Leila by the non-Muslim hero. But giaour does not really mean "infidel." The oldest meaning from Persian gawr was a wors.h.i.+pper of fire, a Zoroastrian. Or a Pa.r.s.ee of India, one who wors.h.i.+ps Agni, the flame.

'It was this that I learned from the pasha and the Bektas.h.i.+s the underlying flame that is present in all great truths. From your mother, Vasiliki, I learned love.'

Byron motioned to them for another strong tea infusion and tobacco to provide the strength he needed. When this was done to his satisfaction, Byron added, 'Perhaps I shan't live to see another year,' he said, 'but at least I shall see the dawn tomorrow. Enough time to share with you the secret of the Black Queen that the pasha and Vasiliki, so many years ago, once shared with me. You must know that the Queen now in your possession is not the only one. But it is the real one. Lean closer, my child.'

Haidee did as he'd asked, and Byron spoke so quietly into her ear that even Kauri had to strain to hear what was said.

The Poet's Tale In the town of Kazan in central Russia, sometime in the late 1500s, lived a young girl named Matrona who repeatedly dreamed that the Mother of G.o.d had come to her to tell her of an ancient buried icon that possessed tremendous powers. After following the many clues given by the Virgin, the icon was at last located within a demolished house, in the ashes beneath the stove, wrapped in cloth.

It was called the Black Virgin of Kazan. It would become the most famous icon in the history of Russia.

Shortly after its discovery, in 1579, the Bogoroditsa convent was built in Kazan to house the icon BoG.o.doritsa meaning 'Birth-Giver of G.o.d,' from Bogomater, Mother of G.o.d, the t.i.tle of all such dark figures connected with the earth.

The Black Virgin of Kazan protected Russia over the past two hundred and fifty years. She accompanied the soldiers who freed Moscow from the Poles in 1612, and even from Napoleon as recently as 1812.

In the 1700s, Peter the Great brought her from Moscow, her second home, to his new city of St Petersburg. She became patron and protectress of that city.