The Six Messiahs

  "Yes."

  "Have any direct actions been taken against you?"

  "Not to date, but—"

  "Have you seen or had any contact with the person or persons you believe are planning to kill you?"

  "No." The man looked at them both sheepishly; this seemed to be the limit of his hard evidence. No mention of the "book" Doyle had heard them talking to the Captain about. Doyle gave Innes a look—back me up on this—then moved to the door, opened it, and gestured firmly to Lionel Stern.

  "I will ask you to leave my cabin, sir."

  Stern's jaw dropped. He looked ghastly. "You're not serious."

  "I cannot be expected to help you, and I would resent this unwelcome intrusion from any man unless he is willing to part with the truth. You will please leave at once."

  Whatever force of will had been holding Stern together dissolved; his plain features fell. He collapsed into a chair and cradled his head in his hands. "Sorry. You don't know the strain I'm under. You can't imagine...."

  Doyle closed the door, walked over, and studied Stern for a moment. "You were born and raised on the Lower East Side of New York City. The oldest son of Russian immigrant parents. You are a secular Jew, thoroughly and willfully assimilated into American culture. That you have rejected the religious observances of your father has been a matter of no mall dispute between you. You sailed to London approximately six weeks ago from Spain—Seville, I believe—where, over a period of at least one month, in partnership with the man who accompanied you on board the Elbe, you negotiated a complicated transaction involving the use or purchase of an extremely rare and valuable book, which you are now transporting to America. A book of some profound religious or philosophical significance. This book is the cause for these well-founded concerns about your safety, Mr. Stern, and I will enjoy your complete candor in this matter from this moment on or we will proceed no further."

  Stern, as well as Innes, stared at him uncomprehending, mouth agape.

  "Have I left anything off?" asked Doyle.

  Stern slowly shook his head.

  "How in the world ..." began Innes.

  "You wear a Star of David around your neck at the end of that chain."

  Stern lifted the medallion, as described, from under his shirt.

  "But how did you know he was Russian?" asked Innes.

  "Stern is a fairly common diminution—Americanization, if you will—of an entire subgroup of Russian surnames. You display none of the obvious outward signs of a devout, Orthodox Jew—it's likely your father, who was undoubtedly part of the first wholesale immigration from Russia to New York a generation ago, is more avidly a practitioner—in spite of which you wear a religious symbol concealed around your neck, indicating some self-division about your status; a conflict not uncommon in the relationship between a father and his eldest son.

  "The uppers of your shoes—relatively new as indicated by the lack of wear on the edge of the soles; purchased with the last few weeks—are a distinctive Spanish leather particular to Seville. Your stay in that one city was of sufficient length to have this pair of shoes crafted to order—three weeks to a month usually—which suggests you were probably there on business. And this afternoon I happened to overhear a portion of your conversation with the Captain about the safekeeping of a book."

  Stern let them know all of Doyle's conclusions were accurate, save two: His shoes had been purchased from a bootmaker on Jermyn Street in London, where his recent business had been conducted—he'd never set foot in Spain—but yes the leather had been sold to him as a product of Seville, and the book in question was indeed of Spanish origin.

  Innes shared but did not disclose his equal astonishment, unwilling to indicate either undue admiration of or a lack of solidarity with his brother. He knew Arthur had consulted with the police from time to time, and of course he'd written those detective stories, but had no idea his detective skills were sharpened to such a remarkable edge.

  "So, Mr. Stern," continued Doyle, standing over the man, hands folded magisterially behind his back, "now you had better tell us about this book the parties allegedly following you are so interested in and how it came into your possession."

  Stern nodded, running his pale, slender hands back through his unruly hair. "It is called the Sefer ha-Zohar, or Book of Zohar, which means 'The Book of Splendor,' a collection of twelfth-century writings that originated in Spain. They are the basis of what is known in Judaism as Kabbalah."

  "The tradition of Jewish mysticism," said Doyle; he searched his mind, finding his hard knowledge of the subject frustratingly scant.

  "That's right. The Zohar has been for centuries a restricted document, studied only by an eccentric line of rabbinical scholars."

  "Well, what is it?" asked Innes, lost as a motherless calf.

  "Kabbalah? Hard to describe, really; a patchwork of medieval philosophy and folklore, scriptural interpretations, legends of creation, mystical theology, cosmogony, anthropology, transmigration of souls."

  "Oh," said Innes, feeling sorry he'd asked.

  "Most of it's written as a dialogue between a legendary, perhaps fictional teacher by the name of Rabbi Simeon bar Yochai and his son and disciple, Eleazar. The two supposedly hid in a cave for thirteen years to avoid prosecution by the Roman emperor; when the emperor died and the Rabbi came out of seclusion, he was so disturbed by the lack of spirituality he saw among his people that he went right back into the cave, to meditate for guidance. After a year, he heard a voice that told him to let ordinary people go their own way and to teach only the ones who were ready. The Zohar is the record of those teachings, written down by his followers."

  "Not unlike the Socratic dialogues of Plato and... er, what's his name," said Innes, not wanting to appear entirely ignorant, although he still had only the dimmest idea of what the fellow was talking about.

  "Aristotle," said Stern and Doyle.

  "Right-o."

  "Did those original manuscripts survive?" asked Doyle.

  "Perhaps; the Zohar was written in Aramaic, the language of second-century Palestine. Authorship of the original remains in dispute, but it is most often attributed to an obscure thirteenth-century rabbi who lived in Spain, Moses de Leon. Only two surviving manuscripts of De Leon's original work have been found; one is called the Tikkunei Zohar, a short addendum written some years after the main book. The Tikkunei was obtained last year from Oxford by the University of Chicago for study by a group of Jewish-American scholars—among whom my father, Rabbi Jacob Stern, as you correctly surmised, Mr. Doyle, is one of the foremost.

  "After long negotiations, my partner and I have just secured the temporary loan of the oldest complete handwritten manuscript of the Book of Zohar. Called the Gerona Zohar; it dates from the early fourteenth century and was discovered years ago at the site of an ancient temple near Gerona, Spain. There's been tremendous controversy among experts about the Gerona Zohar's authenticity; my father and his colleagues hope that with both books in their possession they can compare them side by side and resolve these questions once and for all."

  "Right, so what's so special about this old Bologna Zohar?" asked Innes, stifling a yawn.

  "Gerona. To be honest, I've never studied it myself. I'm a businessman, rare books are my trade not my passion; I have no training or interest in such an academic undertaking. But my father, who's studied the Kabbalah for close to thirty years, would tell you he believes this book, if successfully decoded, will provide man with the answer to the mystery of creation, the identity of our creator, and the exact nature of the relationship between us."

  "Mmph. Tall order, that," said Innes, displaying his natural gift for understatement.

  "No one's managed it yet, have they?" said Doyle.

  "It's all Greek to me," said Stern. "I wouldn't know what the mystery of creation was if it jumped up and stole my hat; all I'm told is that among the men my father keeps faith with, the Book of Zohar is reputed to contain the hidden key that will unlock the secret mean
ings of the Torah. ..."

  "The first five books of the Old Testament," said Doyle.

  "Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy," said Innes, counting his fingers to remember—behind his back—-as he'd been taught to do in Sunday school.

  "... and that the Torah was allegedly transcribed directly from the teachings that Moses supposedly received from God on Mount Sinai."

  "Allegedly; supposedly."

  "As you also correctly observed, Mr. Doyle, I am not by temperament or inclination in even the slightest way a religious man. If there is an all-powerful, all-knowing God, and if He had intended for man to solve the riddle of his own creation, I seriously doubt He would have gone to all the trouble of hiding the answer in the pages of a musty old book."

  "A book which, nevertheless, you now believe someone is willing to kill you for."

  "I didn't say the book was without earthly value: before taking possession of it we had the Gerona Zohar insured by Lloyd's of London for a sum of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

  "Preposterous!" snorted Innes. "Who'd pay that much for a book?"

  "There are private collectors the world over who would consider it a priceless addition to their libraries," said Doyle. "Men for whom money is no object and who might be more than willing to commission the theft of such an item."

  "Commission the theft? Fiddlesticks; from whom?"

  "Well, thieves, naturally." Good Christ, the boy was thick sometimes.

  "You have arrived at the root of my fears exactly, Mr. Doyle," said Stern. "As I said, neither my associate nor I— his name is Rupert Selig, by the way; he manages European accounts and works out of our London office—neither of us can point to any direct evidence of someone stalking us. But ever since we arrived in London with the book, we have both experienced the uncanny feeling that we were being observed.

  The feeling grew steadily worse as we made our way to Southampton and onto the Elbe. I don't know how else to describe it: a crawly feeling up the back of my neck, small sounds that stay just out of earshot when you stop to listen, shadows that seem to move from sight as you turn...."

  "I am familiar with the sensation," said Doyle.

  "Bloody spooks at a seance don't help much," said Innes.

  "Absolutely; I don't know about you but I found that business tonight terrifying," said Stern. "And I can't tell you why but I felt that what we saw tonight and what I've been going through are somehow related. I consider myself a logical man, Mr. Doyle; I hope you will never hear me utter a more perfectly illogical statement."

  Doyle felt his responses to Stern softening; once the man unburdened himself of his initial reluctance, his honest modesty and intelligence grew considerably more appealing.

  "When such a feeling comes from deep levels of the intuition, I advise anyone to pay attention to it," said Doyle.

  "That's why when the Captain said he could not help us I turned to you: I've read newspaper accounts of your assisting the police on a number of mysterious cases. You also strike me as a man who is not afraid to take a stand for what he believes in...."

  Embarrassed, Doyle waved off the compliment. "Where is your copy of the Gerona Zohar now, Mr. Stem?"

  "Under lock and key in the ship's hold. I checked it this afternoon."

  "And your companion, Mr...."

  "Mr. Selig. In our cabin. As I told you, Rupert's concerns for our safety have been even greater than mine. Since we sailed, he's refused to go out on deck after dark...."

  Innes snorted contemptuously—in the tradition of the Royal Fusiliers—then realizing the inappropriateness of his response, disguised it as the onset of a protracted coughing fit.

  "Must be the goose feathers in my pillow," said Innes.

  "Perhaps we should have a word with your Mr. Selig as well," said Doyle, not stooping to dignify Innes's outburst with even an evil eye.

  Lionel Stern knocked softly on the door to his cabin: three rapid knocks, then two slower ones. Innes was appalled at the lack of luxury in this second-class passageway, but in mixed

  company decided such an observation was best kept to oneself.

  "Rupert? Rupert, it's Lionel."

  No reply. Stern looked at Doyle, concerned.

  "Asleep?" asked Doyle.

  Stern shook his head and knocked again. "Rupert!"

  Still no answer. Putting his ear to the door, Doyle heard a creak of movement inside, followed by a slight click.

  "Your key?"

  "Left in the room," said Stern. "We decided it was best not to go walking around the ship with it."

  Innes rolled his eyes skyward.

  "We should ring for the steward," said Doyle. "Innes?"

  Doyle gestured him off with a toss of the head. Innes sighed and idled down the hall in search of a steward, thinking they must be a rare sight down here among the unwashed.

  Stern rattled the door handle. "Rupert, please open the door!"

  "Keep your voice low, Mr. Stern. I'm sure there's no reason for alarm."

  "You told me to pay attention to my intuition, didn't you?" He banged his fist on the door. "Rupert!"

  Innes returned with a steward, who absorbed a quick explanation before opening the cabin with his passkey. The door jerked to a halt at six inches, stopped by a taut security chain.

  The steward began explaining the chain could only be removed by someone inside when Doyle raised his boot and gave the door a mighty kick; the chain snapped, the door flew open.

  The cabin long and narrow. Double bunks bolted to the left wall. Closed and locked porthole over a washbasin at the far end.

  Rupert Selig lay on the cold steel floor, legs fully extended, arms raised to the level of his shoulders, fists clenched, mouth , and eyes frozen open in as perfect an expression of ungodly terror as Doyle had ever witnessed.

  "Stay back," said Doyle.

  The steward ran for help. Stern slumped against the wall; Innes propped him up with a free hand. Doyle stepped cautiously over the bulkhead, pausing to absorb as much detail as possible in a room that he knew within minutes would be trafficked beyond usefulness.

  "Is he dead?" whispered Stern.

  "Afraid so," said Innes.

  Stern's eyes rolled back in his head. Innes directed his inert form gently down to the floor of the passage outside the cabin.

  Doyle knelt beside Selig's body to examine something faintly scrawled on the wall. His eye moved to a small clot of mud on the tiles by the door. Traces of the same mud were visible beneath the nails of his right hand.

  "Try to keep them out of the cabin for a while, would you, Innes?" said Doyle, taking a magnifying glass from his pocket.

  "Certainly, Arthur."

  "There's a good fellow."

  ROSEBUD RESERVATION, SOUTH DAKOTA

  The moon was one night from round. The first cold breath of winter rode in the pocket of the wind. Leaves already turning. Geese overhead, flying south, away from the motherland. She looked back from the rise at the tumbledown houses and huts on the reserve and wondered how many more of her People would be taken when the snows came? How many would be left to welcome the spring?

  She hugged the blanket tight around her shoulders. Hoped one of the patrols would not find her out here beyond the walls and send her back onto the reserve. So much sorrow: disgusting food, whiskey, the coughing sickness. The blue coats' repeating rifles. Sitting Bull murdered by one of his own Whites with their lying treaties, ripping open the belly of the sacred black hills for their gold ...

  And she was afraid to sleep because of a dream that the world was ending? How was that any worse than what she saw when her eyes were open?

  She knew the world of the Dakota, their Way, was gone forever. One trip to their city of Chicago had shown her that The whites had built a new world—machines, straight lines, squared corners—and if it was that world she saw ending in the dream, why should she lose any sleep? If the world of the Dakota, the first human beings, could be destroyed in one generat
ion, then no world could be made to last; surely not one built on the blood and bones of her People.

  This dream was not a curse wished on the whites, although many had passed her lips. They had killed her mother and father, but this was no vision of revenge. This dream had crept into her sleeping mind unwelcomed, and in the three months since, it had become a nightly torment from which she could find no relief. Driving her to stand out here on the flats beyond the reserve and ask her grandfather for an answer, which still had not come after seven nights of waiting.

  There was proud, strong medicine in her family, and she knew when a dream-quest came she must follow wherever it would take her. This vision held no medicine she knew—a dark tower rising into burning skies above a lifeless desert, tunnels carved beneath the earth, six figures joining hands; out of a hole in the ground the Black Crow Man rode a wheel of fire. The images reminded her of what the Christians called Apocalypse, but if it came to that she was not afraid to die: When the fighting began, and she was called upon as in the dream, her only fear was that she might fail.

  Thirty summers. Many suitors; never a husband. Hard to accept a man who had never ridden the hunt, a no-fight man, a touch-the-pen who'd given up their Way. But the whites killed all the strong ones and whiskey took the rest. So she had learned to ride and shoot and skin, made herself a warrior in body and in mind. She went to the white school as law required, learned to read their words and understand how they lived. They baptized her—one of their many strange rituals; and they thought her people were primitives—and called her Mary Williams.

  When it suited her, she would answer to that name, wear I heir clothes—these skirts, these uncomfortable binding stays—and make herself handsome with their paints, but she look a lover only when she wanted one and even then always held herself apart. She had known since she was small that he was making ready for a life of power. When the dreams started, she knew that her time had finally come. No more preparing.

  An owl circled the rising moon. Grandfather had taught her about the spirit of the owl: He had such powerful medicine. More than any of the big bellies left alive in the Hunkpapa or Oglala families. What would he counsel if he were with her now?