the Grail, the Knights Templar and the Hospitallers, and other holy orders and movements and legends. Many of the most ancient books had titles in Latin or French.
De Antichristo
was easy enough to translate, and the same was the case with the
Histoire de la Papesse Jeanne
, written by a Frenchman named Lenfant. The contents, however, which the titles made sound so promising, were unreadable, French and Latin both being Greek to him, as was Greek.
He found books on the Illuminati, the Rosicrucians, the Assassins, the Mormons, and an array of books on Masonic lore. He took down
Morals and Dogma of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry
, which looked to be full of mysteries, and sat down to read it. But he was quickly bogged down in a mathematical account of the marvels of the number nine, which apparently could be broken up in a heap of different ways and then multiplied and re-added and cooked at a high heat with parsley and butter and still taste just like the number nine. It was evidently the great mystery number of the universe, but he couldn’t fathom what the mystery portended. That was the problem with secret societies, he thought—the secrets too often led down the garden path, finally revealing a view of a birdbath or a head on a plate.
He returned the books to the shelves and then, out of curiosity, he opened the doors of a low cabinet beneath them, expecting to see more books, or manuscripts, maybe—something worth keeping free of dust. What he saw were two cardboard boxes, identical to the two he was familiar with. Both of them had the usual Hosmer address, and both of them were taped shut. He picked one of them up, and then the other. They were either empty or contained—what? Another veil? If there were four of theboxes, he wondered, why not six? Why not eight? Veils crisscrossing the country in the trunks of automobiles, flying out from Iowa in biplanes or floating down rivers in baskets like Moses among the bulrushes. A man like Bob Postum wouldn’t be able to tell an artifact from a doodad under the circumstances. It seemed like a fancy way to throw him off the track of poor Aunt Iris’s veil.
He became aware that the rain had stopped, and he returned the boxes to the cabinet and stepped to the window. The dark river flowed past in a terrible hurry, bound for the ocean, with its own manifold mysteries. He went into the kitchen, found a grape soda in the refrigerator, and took it outside into the warm night, pulling off his shoes and socks and sitting down in his aunt’s chair, letting the river water swirl the unfathomables out of him, right out through the ends of his toes.
It was a moonless night, pleasantly warm, and the stars shone where the clouds had retreated back into the east. He could see the Temple out on its island, illuminated by parking lot lights, and he imagined himself a Knight, sitting on a stool out there in the old building, drinking twenty-five-cent beers and talking with the Brethren. Last time he had visited he had gone over there a couple of times. The Knights all seemed to answer to Whitey and Red and Woody and other adjective names. Immediately he had become Cal instead of Calvin and had fallen into a conversation about the virtues of fishing for striped bass below the dam in low water and about the sad fate of the two-stroke outboard motor, neither one of which subjects he knew anything about, although he wished he knew more. Out here in the desert those kinds of things seemed fundamental, although fundamental to what, he couldn’t say, because he was an out-of-towner.
After ten minutes his feet were numb and the bottle was empty. He picked up his shoes and socks and walked gingerly along the bank, then up onto a stone path that led back around to the carport, where he leaned against the hood of the Dodge and put his shoes and socks back on. The rain seemed to have abdicated entirely, so he set out walking, up the driveway and out onto the street that led
De Antichristo
was easy enough to translate, and the same was the case with the
Histoire de la Papesse Jeanne
, written by a Frenchman named Lenfant. The contents, however, which the titles made sound so promising, were unreadable, French and Latin both being Greek to him, as was Greek.
He found books on the Illuminati, the Rosicrucians, the Assassins, the Mormons, and an array of books on Masonic lore. He took down
Morals and Dogma of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry
, which looked to be full of mysteries, and sat down to read it. But he was quickly bogged down in a mathematical account of the marvels of the number nine, which apparently could be broken up in a heap of different ways and then multiplied and re-added and cooked at a high heat with parsley and butter and still taste just like the number nine. It was evidently the great mystery number of the universe, but he couldn’t fathom what the mystery portended. That was the problem with secret societies, he thought—the secrets too often led down the garden path, finally revealing a view of a birdbath or a head on a plate.
He returned the books to the shelves and then, out of curiosity, he opened the doors of a low cabinet beneath them, expecting to see more books, or manuscripts, maybe—something worth keeping free of dust. What he saw were two cardboard boxes, identical to the two he was familiar with. Both of them had the usual Hosmer address, and both of them were taped shut. He picked one of them up, and then the other. They were either empty or contained—what? Another veil? If there were four of theboxes, he wondered, why not six? Why not eight? Veils crisscrossing the country in the trunks of automobiles, flying out from Iowa in biplanes or floating down rivers in baskets like Moses among the bulrushes. A man like Bob Postum wouldn’t be able to tell an artifact from a doodad under the circumstances. It seemed like a fancy way to throw him off the track of poor Aunt Iris’s veil.
He became aware that the rain had stopped, and he returned the boxes to the cabinet and stepped to the window. The dark river flowed past in a terrible hurry, bound for the ocean, with its own manifold mysteries. He went into the kitchen, found a grape soda in the refrigerator, and took it outside into the warm night, pulling off his shoes and socks and sitting down in his aunt’s chair, letting the river water swirl the unfathomables out of him, right out through the ends of his toes.
It was a moonless night, pleasantly warm, and the stars shone where the clouds had retreated back into the east. He could see the Temple out on its island, illuminated by parking lot lights, and he imagined himself a Knight, sitting on a stool out there in the old building, drinking twenty-five-cent beers and talking with the Brethren. Last time he had visited he had gone over there a couple of times. The Knights all seemed to answer to Whitey and Red and Woody and other adjective names. Immediately he had become Cal instead of Calvin and had fallen into a conversation about the virtues of fishing for striped bass below the dam in low water and about the sad fate of the two-stroke outboard motor, neither one of which subjects he knew anything about, although he wished he knew more. Out here in the desert those kinds of things seemed fundamental, although fundamental to what, he couldn’t say, because he was an out-of-towner.
After ten minutes his feet were numb and the bottle was empty. He picked up his shoes and socks and walked gingerly along the bank, then up onto a stone path that led back around to the carport, where he leaned against the hood of the Dodge and put his shoes and socks back on. The rain seemed to have abdicated entirely, so he set out walking, up the driveway and out onto the street that led
Similar Books
