Divine Beings

2001

Sat between two stacks of oak bookcases— one devoted entirely to old tomes of Egypt and her pharaohs, the other to the histories of Asia Minor and the Levant— was a studious eight-year-old, nosedeep in a 19th century biography. The Exploits of J. H. B. Montserrat, Volume II. She flicked through the musty pages quickly, but with a keenness uncommon of a girl her age. Not for biographies at least. Even one as fantastical as that which she had chosen.

As she read, she found herself transported in time with Montserrat, sailing into Mosul at dusk. The hull of the boat scraped along the muddy base of the river as it shallowed nearer and nearer to the city; lush green marshland gave way to old stone and stucco walls, and crumbling towers; and the cool evening air and pesky mosquitoes rushed in around them to replace the punishing summer heat.

All the while, Montserrat argued with his Kurdish porter over when he would be allowed to speak to the Ottoman pasha, and whether he would be permitted to drive an armed caravan out to the desert. Montserrat contended it should be to track down a band of rebels, while his porter insisted the pasha would easily see through his subterfuges; that he should instead ask for a smaller handful of men to help him hunt a rogue Caspian tiger which had been haunting the banks of the Tigris.

True though they may have been, the girl could hardly believe either story would fool the pasha if he knew of Montserrat’s history. That is, habitually making off with half the treasury of every city he visited along the Iraqi river and sailing it all back to Basra, the Persian Gulf and beyond. In fact, had the pasha simply met the man or seen his portrait as she had, then he would be wary to even let the Right Honourable Montserrat into his court.

“Nona!”

Her father’s abruptness startled the girl back into the library. Her silk headscarf; the raft; the larcenous Montserrat; the dim orange and cloudless sky; and Mesopotamia itself disappeared in an instant. Like an ether came and evaporated the past. In their wake were thousands of shelves, and thousands upon thousands of leather-bound books to fill them. And if there was room, relics like mastodon bones, or an Edo period zunari kabuto took up the shelf space. Of course, this was a private collection belonging to Wenonah’s father, in a library of his own making. So the rest of the chamber was as much a beholding sight.

It was a converted abbey. The high ceilings were vaulted, meaning the chandeliers had to dangle substantially and give a bright and fuzzy glow, even during the day. For the lancet windows along either side of the aisle, though numerous, provided little in the way of light. Save for the large rose window at the far end of the apse, and this provided a spotlight for anyone either sitting or standing in the nave and the choir between the rows of bookcases to the count of thirty. Otherwise, the space was modernised. The stone walls remained, but the tile had been replaced with walnut hardwood flooring, and long oriental rugs were rolled out overtop. In each of the transepts were a pair of large, square writing tables with half a dozen desk lamps and half a dozen armchairs for each lamp. Around the walls of both transepts, were more bookshelves, though these were built in, and a small set of spiral staircases led up to a mezzanine and further seating— where the windows were suddenly at eye height. This upper level wrapped around the chancel and the apse, and housed yet more books in curved shelving units. This was mirrored in the lower level of the chancery, but in the lower apse, Wenonah’s father had installed a large fireplace, which was almost always lit. However, Wenonah was nowhere near a chair, the crackling fire, nor under the light of the rose window; instead she found herself on the floor, and almost in the dark.

“What are you doing in here? Were you hiding? I’ve been calling your name for half an hour, Nona.” He crouched down to her level, even though the two both knew that doing so hurt his knees.

Wenonah’s father was Sir Isaac Hutton Bailey Montebello. Most of the world called him Sir, or even Monty if they knew him well enough. While only two people ever called him differently. His wife called him Bailey. Their daughter called him Daddy. The man was as tall and as mighty as an English oak. He could hold his ground, and was unlikely to buckle under pressure. Metaphorically, at least. Physically speaking, only once upon a time ago. In Wenonah’s lifetime, his hairline had begun to recede, and his blond hair thin, so he grew it out long enough that his locks could touch the top of his light brows. His face was gaunt by then, and the colour had faded from his cheeks. Yet, his daughter never saw him go a single day without a white beam spread across his face, or the blue in his eyes twinkle.

“Sorry, Daddy.”

Montebello bowed his head and sighed. But he steadied a grin too. “We have to leave soon. Didn’t you hear me calling?”

“No…” Wenonah smirked back; her mouth a cave of chicklets of unequal sizes. She was actually missing a central incisor on her lower jaw. She would run her tongue over her gums, and felt a tingle where the tooth used to be. Otherwise, she looked very much like her father. With his cheekbones, his full lips, and his eyes. Even their hair was the same. Although, her’s was slightly longer, falling at her ears, and it was exceptionally wild and flyaway. And in need of a good wash. She continued, “I was enthralled.”

“Oh, you were enthralled, were you?”

“Yeah.”

“So where did you go to? What enthralled you?” He crawled over to his daughter and leaned against the marble wall, where Wenonah sat up and happily joined him. He rested his head atop Wenonah’s and listened with genuine interest.

“I went to Mesopotamia. We were stealing from the cities along the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. We were just coming to Mosul, but we had already looted Ramadi, and Fallujah, and Samarra, and Tikrit, and Al-Kāẓimiyyah where we smuggled out a giraffe! And he was actually banished from Al-Kūt, until Kadi Seid found out he had lain with his wife Dilay, so he had a thousand royal guards chase him out of the city for a hundred miles! And his camel died while he was riding, and then we had to run the final mile to the gates of Amarah, while the guards were seconds away from cutting him down from on horseback! And before that, they fired arrows at him, and one even went through his shoulder!”

“Ouch!”

“Yeah, but he was okay. He snuck into Kadi Ali Reza’s harem through a secret underground chamber he heard about, and they treated his wound.”

“I’m sure that’s all they did.”

“No, they did more than that. They undressed him, they bathed him, and THEN they—”

“Ah, yes,” Montebello chuckled; clearly unwilling to have a certain conversation with his daughter. “I remember now. The bold and brilliant Lord Montserrat at it again. Up to his old tricks. Er… may I?” He stuck out his hand for the book, which Wenonah obligingly folded closed and gave to her father. He opened the cover as if to read it for himself, quickly fanning through the pages, noticing a dozen or so illustrations inside before he reached the end. The binding had some heft so it closed with a light thud. Though he did so cautiously, as the book was a first edition, and it looked as much with its cracked and fraying spine, yellowed pages and worn red cloth covering.

“Well, I don’t think Montserrat actually travelled to Anatolia in this volume. Or Lebanon, or Egypt, for that matter, so... where’d you snag this one from?”

Wenonah pointed up to the top shelf with a gold plaque labelled Mesopotamia & Elam. It was from a separate bookcase entirely. One across the nave.

“When did you start reading books so far above your reading level?”

Wenonah shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just really intelligent.”

“You are really intelligent, Nona. I can’t believe I could’ve forgotten that. But since you are so intelligent, perhaps you could tell me what happened to the books in your bedroom, or even Mummy’s books that are in the lounge, that you decided you needed to move on to the delicate first editions in my collection?”

“I read all of mine already.”

“Can’t you reread them?”

“All of mine are for little kids, Dad. Besides, they’re boring. And Mummy’s are dumb romance books, and they’re all in French. And I was being really careful with these ones, I swear!”

“I believe you. And Mummy’s books are dumb, aren’t they.”

“Yeah. We— we should get rid of them if we’re not going to read them.”

Here, Montebello paused; his smile shrunk, and his eyes watered. Then after a few seconds he quickly rose, as if ready to sprint away. Rubbing his eyes and his forehead as he did so. Though he wouldn’t have the chance to consider running, as Wenonah stopped him. “Oh Daddy, I’m sorry.” The man slowly turned toward his daughter and saw tears begin to form in her eyes as well. “Are you cross with me?”

“Oh! Oh no, darling. Absolutely not. Come here. I’m not cross with you.” Montebello rushed to Wenonah and hugged her tightly. And there he held her long enough so as to squeeze the tears out of her. Perhaps longer so that his own tears would dry up. “I’m sorry. Thinking about Mummy just makes me upset sometimes.”

“You’re not cross with me?” sniffled Wenonah.

“No, I promise I’m not.”

“I don’t really want you to get rid of Mummy’s books.”

“I know, darling. I know.”

“So... you’re not angry that I came into the library and read your first editions?”

“No, I know you were being careful with the books. And so you know... you don’t need permission to come into the library, Nona. Alright? Just ask me if you ever want a book from the top shelves; I’d rather you didn’t climb the stacks from now on. I didn’t build them for that. And in the meantime, I’ll set to making you a few step ladders, okay? Ones with wheels.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Do we still have to leave? I don’t want to go to New York.”

“Neither do I, but we do still have to go. However, you may find that you’ll enjoy yourself. It’s a big city, like London. Plenty to see, plenty to do. And you always have fun in London, right?”

“Yeah… but I don’t know anyone in New York.”

Montebello frowned. “I know. I’m sorry about that. But it will only be for a few months. Six months at most.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.” The man gave a wink and fresh smile. “Now, what would you say if I let you keep volume two, and the rest of Montserrat’s Exploits in your room?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Can I take them on the aeroplane with me?”

Here, Montebello grimaced, and then reluctantly agreed. “I suppose.”

Wenonah beamed and jumped, “Oh my gosh! Thank you, Daddy! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Okay. Now hop upstairs as quick as you can, Nona, and get dressed. Grab any toys and clothing you want to bring with you. I’ll fetch your suitcases and the books for you.”

Wenonah’s bedroom was considerably smaller than the library. And warmer too. Her room, like much of the living space in the house was either refurbished or was an entirely new addition to the property. An extension to the old 11th century abbey Montebello acquired for the family some years prior. An extension whose construction was personally carried out, or overseen by Wenonah’s father. Yet the modern-day architecture had been made to look like it was built in Victorian times. In fact, Montebello deliberately gave the house some of those charms. For instance, the vintage olive green and pink floral wallpaper covering three of the four walls, originally belonged in a museum exhibit, while the reclaimed chestnut floorboards in the girl’s room creaked underfoot.

Evening had begun to set in, so Wenonah turned on the lights. Though the sconces around the room were slow to work, and when they did, the light they gave was lacklustre.

Upon the floor were original vermillion and lovat French Savonnerie carpets. In peak condition.

Along one wall, a pair of mahogany bookshelves contained paperbacks more suitable for children her age. There were so many there was hardly room for bookends, but spaced around and throughout the shelves were at least a hundred hand-painted tin soldiers taking up hiding positions. And along the top of each of these units were a dozen or so antique porcelain dolls dressed in lace. Between the bookcases was a massive leather bound trunk full of toys.

Going around the room, on the wall next to the door, shoved into a recess was a great wardrobe. Possibly the largest ever constructed, and certainly the oldest, for the wood was glossy and black, but distressed, and the set of brass bolt locks would stick sometimes, yet overnight seemed to come loose, letting the doors swing slowly open.

On the Eastern-facing wood-panelled wall were a pair of expansive oriel windows with built-in window seats, and curtains. The cushions were shiny brown leather, but the decorative pillows had a red velvet damask, and the curtains were sheer and white. The squat spindle-legged item of furniture between the windows was a Rococo period vanity. It had belonged to Wenonah’s mother and remained in good condition. The wood was painted pastel blue with accents of gold, and hadn’t peeled, but over the years, the mercury glass mirror had undergone considerable foxing, whereby the edges of its surface had accumulated a number of dark grey flecks. Wenonah strode there first, and removed a handful of dingy silver barrettes, an old brush with an ivory handle and a matching hand mirror which had been spared much of the aging experienced by the coiffeuse.

Pushed against the last remaining wall was the headboard of a queen-sized four poster bed. The white covers thrown over the side of the tall mattress lightly dusted the floor, while ten or so downy pillows had been cast across the room. This left just a sable throw on the bed. Wenonah then jumped onto the furry blanket, and slid to the other side. She reached for the chain on the tiny lamp on her nightstand, built by her father to match the style of the dressing table. The base of the lamp was a simple bulb of oxidized copper, and the plain fabric shade was conical.

Wenonah rummaged through the single drawer of her bedside table and produced a small change purse, her glasses, a pen, and two books. The first was a notebook with an ebony moleskin cover. The second was bound with a sickly green leather, and though slender and not terribly stiff, it had five metal clasps on the fore edge to keep it from opening. The title on the spine had worn away, as it had on the front cover. However, when she ran her fingers over it, she could still feel the indentations pressed into it. It was called Bending Passages and the author was Windy Azalea Burrferry Earle. She had discovered the book a week ago. From its place on the mantelpiece of the library fireplace, it was well hidden, having gathered dust and soot. Possibly for years. Unfortunately, she had yet to open it, though not for a lack of trying. She tried again, giving the clasps a good tug. Again, they didn’t budge. She planned to bring this book with her to New York.

She heard the floor creak behind her, and like a shot from a pistol, stuffed the book under the sable. Then she spun her head around, but there was no one else in her room. No one standing in the doorway. No one crept inside. No one stood out a window. Wenonah let out a sigh of relief. However, she did hear a voice come from outside her room.

She slowly stood up and crept out; into the hallway, and to the top of the steps. Once she laid down and made herself as flat as possible, she crawled part way down the stairs to see who her father could have been speaking to. Slowly to ensure the oak floorboards wouldn’t squeak. The front door was open, and there she saw her father speaking to at least three figures. She couldn’t recognise any of them, at least not very well from her position, or without her glasses.

Two of the shadowy figures looked like they might be men, but they stood back a bit and didn’t speak directly to Wenonah’s father. The third and the closest of the three was significantly shorter than Montebello, but Wenonah was able to tell she was a woman. She wore a string of pearls, a long black dress, and big black boots. And her hair and features were dark. Perhaps even sinister. She had the most to say, but she never raised her voice, which was so soft and so shallow it was impossible to pick out any of the words she said.

Though she would continue to watch, she didn’t hear any of the conversation, so had to rely on their facial expressions. From her father, she gathered that he was disappointed, maybe a bit scared. Although as assertive as the woman was— and she pushed hard— her father didn’t seem to give in to what the strangers were demanding. Until that is, the woman took a step forward, whispered something into Sir Montebello’s ear, and motioned to Wenonah with her head with a broad and toothy smile on her face.

Wenonah’s eyes widened and she drew in sharply, but her father didn’t seem to react, and he especially didn’t turn around. He said one final thing to the trio before slamming the door. Now Wenonah leapt to her feet and ran up the stairs before Montebello could see her. Despite strongly suspecting that he already knew she was there. That was all but confirmed when he called upstairs after her, “Wenonah!”

Of course, she didn’t stop running. And she didn’t go back. As she neared her bedroom door she saw a ghostly form suddenly smash through her window, scattering shards of rended glass upon the floor. Not a moment passed when the shapeless grey mass swirling around— half-floating and half-sticking to the ground— surged toward her. The girl screamed, for it was too late to make her escape.