Ghostwriting

  With these thoughts racing through her mind she accepted a cold glass of bubbly from Aldo and drank a toast to good business. The dealer then excused himself and went to his office to organise some paperwork, leaving Karita to entertain their client.

  ‘So, I hear you are fond of Masonic symbolism, Mr Molay.’ Karita made conversation, trying to ignore the lecture she was still giving herself in her head.

  The blond-haired, blue-eyed businessman smiled and explained: ‘Symbolism is the language of the cosmos, enabling the soul-mind to communicate with its deepest essence. Masonic symbolism, in its highest forms, is spiritual architecture.’

  Molay was just Karita’s type: rich, intelligent and charming. ‘I feel I touch my soul when I paint,’ she admitted, and then glanced at the painting that Molay was here to buy. ‘So you see Masonic symbolism in this piece?’

  Molay laughed as if Karita was making a joke.

  ‘I’m serious. I know nothing about Masonry, thus —’

  ‘Nothing at all?’ Preston stopped laughing.

  ‘Well, how would I?’ she reasoned. ‘It’s boys only, isn’t it? I mean, men only,’ she corrected, in case her comment caused offence, but this only seemed to make her dig more obvious.

  ‘There are female chapters of the Masons too,’ he informed her, smiling. ‘I believe the organisation is called the Eastern Star.’

  ‘Never heard of them.’ Karita shrugged apologetically. ‘But then, I’ve never been one for organisations. In my personal experience, individual people are reasonable and open-minded, but put them in an organisation and they become mindless sheep.’

  Preston nodded, obviously seeing her point but not necessarily agreeing with it. ‘But one man alone can accomplish very little. If he forms associations with other like-minded souls then they can achieve much more by pooling their resources.’

  ‘They can achieve more good,’ Karita granted, ‘or more damage. And a group of people hellbent on causing damage is much harder to reason with than just one man.’

  Preston appeared not to know what to make of her argument. ‘Well, this is all very astounding,’ he commented, as he strolled closer to the painting in question, ‘for this piece is entirely composed of Masonic symbolism and I’d assumed that that was completely premeditated on your behalf.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint.’ Karita followed him. ‘Does this information detract from the appeal of the painting?’

  ‘No,’ he was fast to reassure her, ‘not at all. But it does make this work something of a puzzle.’

  ‘How so?’ Karita was flattered by the statement and intrigued. ‘What is it you see in there, Mr Molay?’

  He was looking at her as if unsure whether she was testing him, lying to him or being entirely honest. Still, he resolved to smile, and stepped up to the painting to explain. ‘These two pillars covered in hieroglyphs that extend up both sides of the work, one of marble, one of brass … these are the Pillars of Enoch. On these sentinels are inscribed the history of creation, the principles of the arts and sciences, the doctrine of Freemasonry. These pillars were described by Soloman in ancient times, but sometime in the late sixteenth century an unknown artist and scribe drew a picture of these columns and added a curious inscription that gave the secret location of a precious treasure deposited in a subterranean vault.’

  ‘What precious treasure?’ Karita took the bait.

  ‘This is unknown, although in an accompanying text that was uncovered with this sixteenth-century work, it was said that a triangular plate of gold, on which was inscribed the ineffable name of God, the secret word of creation, would be needed to unlock the treasure.’

  Karita gave a nervous laugh. He was deadly serious, but how could he be? ‘These hieroglyphs, as you call them, are just a bunch of shapes, lines, dots and dashes that I made up.’ She grinned, feeling he was pulling her leg. ‘I went out of my way to ensure they didn’t look like any ancient glyphs I’ve come across. You’re not going to tell me you can read my etchings … are you?’

  Preston raised both brows at the challenge and moved closer to the work. ‘The forms we see in the physical are but crystallised sound,’ he read slowly, taking time to access all the glyphs carefully. ‘Complete control of future action … but is hindered —’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ Karita pointed out.

  ‘Well, I can only see approximately one third of the column in your two-dimensional picture?’ Preston suggested. ‘Ever thought of doing sculpture?’ He was only half joking. ‘You see, it was also prophesied by this unknown sixteenth-century artist that his work depicted two engraved columns that had been hidden somewhere to be found at a later date by one enlightened enough to put the information contained thereon to good use. But, the columns have never been found, only a two-dimensional painting that discloses part of the text needed to find the treasure. Thus, to find the treasure, one needs to find these columns in order to find the triangular plate that will unlock the treasure and to discover the secret location of the treasure.’

  ‘You’re not kidding, are you?’ Karita didn’t know what to think.

  Preston folded his arms, highly amused. ‘And you’re not kidding either. You really don’t know anything about the significance of this piece?’

  ‘No,’ Karita said in all seriousness before her nervous smile returned. ‘For me it was just a flight of fancy.’

  Aldo was heard suppressing a delighted chuckle in the background, and both Karita and Preston looked to find the dealer had returned. ‘Shall we talk money, people?’

  Karita’s first assessment of how she felt when she woke the next morning was — terrible! She’d drunk way too much champagne last night and she didn’t even remember getting home. She was not usually a heavy drinker, but then it wasn’t every day that one became a millionaire, or that one was pursued by one.

  Preston Molay had turned out to be way too charming and she vaguely recollected being treated to more champagne in the back of his limousine. He must have dropped me home? That’s right!

  ‘He asked me to lunch!’ Karita’s excitement overtook her headache and she smiled broadly, rolling on to her back to check her bedside clock for the time. She found it was missing; the whole table had been knocked over. ‘Hold on.’ She noted the upheaval around her. ‘Is this home?’

  Yes, this was her room. Karita sat up to have a better look around. These were her things, but — ‘What the hell happened?’ It looked as if a cyclone had ripped through every nook and cranny in her room. ‘Please don’t tell me the entire house looks this way.’ Karita reluctantly dragged herself up and out into the hall to take a look.

  ‘Shit!’ was all she could say as there wasn’t an item that had been left unturned. Then she noted all her electronic equipment was lying about in a mess. All her paintings had been ripped from the walls, but none had been stolen. ‘It doesn’t look like they took anything?’

  Logan came back looking for the lost texts, Tristan advised her, sorry that he’d been unable to stop the intrusion, although he had managed to scare his great-grandson off before Logan found the precious treasure Tristan guarded. They didn’t find it a hundred years ago when they tortured me to death and they won’t find it now.

  Karita gasped suddenly as she recollected Logan’s words from the day before. ‘A very old, valuable, sought-after text, which may still be concealed in this house! Damn it!’ She stomped her foot, angered. ‘I should have seen this coming. Damn.’ She stomped her foot again when she realised she couldn’t even remember if the place was like this when she staggered in last night. ‘Ouch.’ The impact of her stomping finally registered in her brain and her head began to throb. ‘Fine champagne never usually gives me a hangover.’ Still, her head was thumping and she felt urged to make haste to the bathroom; she was going to throw up.

  Once the unpleasantness was over, Karita noted from her reflection in the mirror that she was still dressed in the clothes that she’d worn to the gallery. She tried to reme
mber getting home last night, but the brain strain made her feel queasy again. The last thing she remembered was drinking in the limo. The thought of booze was enough — she was sick again.

  ‘So,’ Karita indignantly pulled herself up from driving the porcelain bus, ‘this is how it feels to be a millionaire.’

  I’m sorry. Tristan considered his get-rich scheme for Karita had backfired rather badly, and instead of making her happy, as he’d wished, he’d placed her in grave danger. I suspect you were drugged.

  ‘Karita?’

  Oh, my God! The distinctive accent of Preston Molay was enough to send Karita into another mild panic.

  ‘Miss Torelle! Are you all right?’ He sounded concerned, so she thought she ought to answer him.

  ‘I’ll be right out, Preston!’ They had got to a first name basis by the end of the evening.

  ‘Gee, I like what you’ve done with your place,’ he commented in a far calmer tone.

  ‘You like it?’ Karita desperately scrubbed her face clean. ‘It’s called post-espionage.’ She splashed her face with cool water and reached for the towel and her toothbrush.

  ‘What got stolen?’

  Karita scrubbed furiously and spat. ‘Nothing that I can see.’ She rinsed her mouth, wiped her face and grabbed for her bathrobe.

  ‘I told you I should have come in last night,’ he stated, playfully.

  Thank God you didn’t. Karita assumed he’d dropped her at the door, and was thankful not to have to ask how the evening had concluded.

  ‘No witty retort?’ Preston pressed.

  Karita emerged from her bathroom tying on her robe. ‘But you see, you would have had nowhere to hang your hat, as it were,’ she joked, referring to the mess around them.

  ‘I never bother with hats.’ He grinned and Karita considered that he was far too handsome to contend with this early in the day.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have a hangover or something?’ She protested at his witty mood. ‘You drank just as much as I did.’ Karita headed for the kitchen to make coffee.

  Preston followed. ‘So why would someone ransack your place if they didn’t steal anything?’

  ‘Oh, I know who did it,’ Karita announced in an agitated tone as she found the kettle, filled it with water and plugged it in. ‘This creep of a guy that came calling yesterday … Logan de Scott.’

  ‘De Scott?’ Preston’s interest was immediately struck. ‘Any relation to the Tristan de Scott who once owned this property?’

  ‘What is it … advertised somewhere?’ Karita realised her cups were smashed all over the floor.

  ‘No, no.’ Preston attempted to set her at ease on that count. ‘His was just a very special case in Masonic circles.’

  She sighed, resigned to the fact that a cup of coffee would not be forthcoming, and grabbed her opportunity to ask, ‘And you move in such circles?’

  ‘I move through many circles,’ he grinned, ‘and there are circles within circles, believe me.’

  ‘And all these … circles, are interested in finding a certain text that they suspect Tristan de Scott was referencing.’ Karita stunned Preston with the comment, so much so that she felt suddenly wary of him. ‘The same text that they suspect I am referencing.’ Her anger overcame her fear when she realised that Preston was probably only seducing her to find out if the lost texts existed. ‘Please leave,’ Karita demanded, taking a step away from him.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking and it couldn’t be further from the truth.’ He was so calm it was infuriating.

  ‘I have to call the police anyway.’ Karita reached for her wall phone, to find it was no longer on the wall.

  ‘Of course, you’ll have to find the phone first,’ Preston commented timidly, to break the tension, and Karita began to laugh and then cry. This whole situation was absurd!

  ‘Look …’ Preston took her hands and suggested, ‘Why don’t you come out to my car and I’ll make you a cup of tea?’

  Karita looked into his eyes. He seemed so sincere, but deep down in her gut she knew that she only wanted to believe him because he’d just written her a cheque for in excess of a million dollars. She slipped her hands from his grasp and stepped away. ‘Thanks all the same, but I’ll pass.’

  Preston appeared to be perturbed that his charm wasn’t working. ‘You’re in grave danger, Karita. You have to let me help you. I know things you don’t.’

  She was shocked by the claim, but resolved not to give in to her fear. ‘Such as?’ Karita folded her arms, delighted to have put him on the spot.

  ‘Well I could start by explaining the rest of your painting to you,’ he suggested.

  Karita pondered her decision long and hard. ‘All right, I’ll let you make me a cup of coffee. But you can bring it to me inside my house.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he agreed, sporting a large smile of relief.

  Tristan didn’t like the American sitting so close to Karita, sipping coffee as they huddled to view a postcard-sized reproduction of her painting ‘The Lost Word’.

  ‘So, impress me.’ Karita prompted Preston to get on with it and stop flirting with her.

  Yes, do get on with it, Tristan whispered in the visitor’s ear, wishing that he could make the intruder hear him. But he could not.

  Karita only heard Tristan because she was open to such possibilities and more so when she was asleep. By day she was too distracted, but at night Tristan had Karita all to himself. There was only one way to make himself heard in the material world and that was to possess a physical body. Tristan knew this was very draining on a physical form, especially if the person who owned the body was not psychically adept.

  ‘The beautiful celestial building beyond the pillars of your picture is the House of the Holy Spirits,’ Preston began.

  ‘Spirits plural?’ Karita clarified that it wasn’t a slip of the tongue.

  ‘Yes. You see, it is believed that the true Rosicrucian Order consisted of a number of adepts who were no longer subject to the laws of humanity.’

  ‘The Rosicrucian order?’ Karita cocked an eyebrow. ‘They were connected to the Knights Templar, weren’t they?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Preston frowned, ‘but much Masonic doctrine was drawn from theirs.’

  ‘I’m seeing the connection now.’ Karita gestured for Preston to continue.

  ‘These adepts,’ he started awkwardly, feeling that she wasn’t taking him very seriously, ‘were considered to be superhuman and their temple existed in the spirit realm.’

  ‘And, let me guess,’ Karita preempted the punchline. ‘These guys guard the triangular plate of gold on which is inscribed the secret word of creation.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Preston commented as if he had not considered that before.

  ‘So what does the solid, decorative altar-like stone in the etheric building represent?’

  ‘Masonic lodges lay cornerstones in new buildings. It is the first stone placed when the foundations are laid. You’ll note the marker is in the northeast corner, midway between darkness in the north,’ he pointed to the night sky at the top of her painting and then moved his finger to the right to point to the sunrise, ‘and the light in the east. This represents the place of non-judgement and union with a divine perspective.’

  Not bad! Tristan was impressed. Still, you’ll never figure the connection to this house.

  Karita was staring at the tiny reproduction of her painting, unsure as to whether to believe Preston’s account of what it meant. Then she noted how the tiny glyphs on her two pillars made them appear pitted when reduced to this size. Pitted! She had a sudden vision of the chimney stacks on the top of the house that she’d just had cleaned and tried not to gulp at her realisation.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ Preston queried, seeing clearly that something had clicked in her brain.

  ‘No,’ Karita smiled to curb her silent panic, ‘but I am wondering why you are telling me this. I don’t know anything about these secret texts you’re looking for. In fact, I’d never give
n the Masonic order a second thought before yesterday. I travel, yes, and I have admired many of the architectural and artistic feats to be found the world over, and of course they have subconsciously influenced me. But that is the extent of this mystery, I assure you.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Preston announced, sitting back in his chair, now as wary of Karita as she was of him. ‘You see, I have seen the only pages of the historical text to survive through the past few centuries. It cannot be said for sure if these pages are an original text or if they are a copy, but I do know that you have some connection with these ancient documents.’ He pulled a sheet of folded paper from his pocket.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Karita insisted, until she saw the old, tattered black and white etching that had been photocopied on to a piece of A4 paper. Her painting. Her jaw dropped. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Preston agreed, ‘and now you see why I am having trouble believing you.’

  Karita merely nodded, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Let me ask you this,’ Preston ventured. ‘If you knew nothing about this, then why did you call this piece “The Lost Word”?’

  Karita released a giggle, unable to believe a simple misunderstanding had caused her so much trouble. ‘I didn’t call it “The Lost Word”. I called it “The Lost World”. Aldo heard me wrong and the picture got renamed. I didn’t have the heart to tell him about the mistake and “The Lost Word” seemed a more mysterious title for the piece, so I let it be. Aldo is a little sensitive about his hearing problem.’

  ‘I see,’ Preston said, his tone implying that she wasn’t being very helpful.

  ‘Look, what can I tell you? It’s the truth.’ She stood, a little fed up with being interrogated in her own home — especially considering the upheaval her home was in. ‘You have the painting and every copy that will ever be known to man.’ She handed back the postcard of her print and the photocopy on A4. ‘I can’t help you any further than I have. I believe our business is closed.’