The Einstein Prophecy

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Because there were no spare offices on campus — some of the buildings had been closed to conserve fuel for the war effort — Simone had been assigned a carrel in the sub-basement of the main library. It was not much bigger than a clothes closet, with a gray metal desk bolted to a gray metal wall, surmounted by gray metal bookshelves. Even the wooden chair was dreary, with a worn-out padded green seat. To make it all a tiny bit more congenial, she’d taped some family photos, faded and curling up at the edges, to the walls. The sliding door, with a narrow window the size of a shoebox, opened onto a long, poorly lit corridor, lined with racks of books from floor to ceiling.

Slumping back in her seat and stretching her arms, she surveyed the dusty volumes and monographs and scholarly publications cluttering her desktop. Every one of them had been something her father was consulting, and while it was comforting to know that his eyes had coursed across these same texts and his fingers had turned these same pages, it was also maddening. Somewhere in all of this, there were answers — answers to what the ossuary had held, to what powers it might still retain, and even to what might have caused her father’s death. So long as the critical blue folder was unaccounted for, however, Simone had her doubts about the “accidental death” ruling, and she was determined to follow every lead to its logical, or even illogical, conclusion.

No matter how weary she became — and there were times she found herself staring blankly into space — she would not give up.

Several times already she had found little scraps of paper that contained notes written in his distinctive hand, slipped into one of the old leather-bound volumes, revealing that he had intended to begin work at that spot again the next day. Each one of these notes she kept in a separate binder, though the most striking of all was a transcription of a prophecy from an ancient account of Christianity’s earliest saints; the book itself had come from the personal library of one of the university’s eighteenth-century presidents, the Scottish clergyman and theologian, John Witherspoon. Though the sentiments sounded like something from the book of Revelations, the words were attributed to none other than “the Holy Desert Anchorite,” a reference, quite plainly, to Saint Anthony of Egypt.

“And there, in the barren soil of sand, home to snakes and scorpions, the seeds of destruction shall be planted and grow.”

The next few lines were smudged beyond deciphering, as a blue mold had infected the book, and it appeared her father had given up trying to parse them.

But then the transcription had resumed with “… rising from the desert, like a pillar of fire, burning the eyes of those who behold it and laying waste to all that lives upon the earth and to all that ever will, unto the tenth generation.” Again, there was a missing phrase or two, followed by, “And even the clouds shall burn.”

Despite its poetry, the passages were similar to what could be found in much of the patristic literature, the dire warnings and apocalyptic visions of the early prophets and martyred saints. Her father had scrawled “St. A’s Fire?” at the bottom of his transcript, and though Simone knew that this term normally referred to the skin disease associated with the swineherd, she wondered if her father had not uncovered a second, and possibly even more powerful, meaning.

One other thing grew plain, too. Her father had evidently become fixated on the idea of demonic transmigration. There were the expected Catholic texts from the Rituale Romanum, containing the rites and guidelines for major exorcisms, but also a host of more arcane materials whose origins ranged from India to Egypt. She found passages copied from the Zohar, the Jewish mystical text of Kabbalistic teachings, describing the ways in which a demon could secretly slip into a victim’s soul, and how it could only be dislodged by a minyan reciting Psalm 91 three times; if the rabbi then blew a certain melody on the shofar, or ram’s horn, the sound would in effect “shatter the body” and shake the evil spirit loose.

Even the Muslims had their methods for disposing of wandering demons. The prophet Muhammad instructed his followers to read the last three suras from the Koran — the Surat al-Ikhlas (the Fidelity), the Surat al-Falaq (the Dawn), and the Surat an-Nas (Mankind) — and drink water from the holy well of Zamzam.

What none of these faiths — even the Hindu — did was doubt for one moment the existence of dark spirits, or their ability to jump from one living presence to another.

Demons were considered parasites, infinitely malleable and indefatigable, hitchhikers of the soul, and as she read, Simone could see that her father had been trying to unify all this material in some way, with many arrows and notes and cross-references. Just seeing his handwriting on various scraps of paper, stuck inside some of the books, stiffened her resolve to complete the work that he had begun. Inadvertently, she found herself clutching the medallion she now wore around her neck.

She was just about to start in again — what had he meant by writing “sigil/Saturn/containment” and underlining it three times? — when she thought she heard a noise in the corridor.

The creaking of a library cart’s wheels.

She had put in a request for a twelfth-century map of Mesopotamia, kept in the Special Collections Department, and she hoped that this was a library assistant finally delivering it to her carrel. But the creaking seemed to pass her by, and it was already receding into the stacks when she unlocked her door and popped her head out into the corridor. She could just see the back of someone in a long overcoat — small and dark, with his head down — pushing the cart into an aisle down the way.

“Hold on there!” she called out. “Did you have something for me?”

The man and his cart disappeared altogether, and she called out, “Do you have the map I requested?”

Again, there was no answer. Annoyed, she slipped on the shoes she had kicked off under the desk, and muttering under her breath, closed the door of her carrel without bothering to twirl the combination lock, and went off to find him. Only one other carrel, at the far end of the row, showed any light through its little window.

But by the time she got to the end of the stack where the cart had disappeared, there was no sight of it.

She stopped to listen, and she could hear the rattle of wheels a couple of aisles across, and deeper into the gloomy stacks. Lighted by only forty-watt bulbs, the bookshelves seemed to go on forever; in fact, Princeton had one of the largest open-access libraries in the country, with over two million books on display, and though she was normally grateful for that, right now she might have wished for a less expansive space. Every time she thought she’d spotted the corner of the cart, it vanished into the maze again, and she had to follow it down another aisle.

“Excuse me,” she called out. “Could you hold still for a moment? I think you have something I want.”

The assistant was either deaf, obtuse, or both. Whatever the reason, she got no reply. She began to wonder if she was on a wild goose chase. Maybe she should just go back to her carrel and put in a fresh request with the head librarian on the main floor on her way out.

A solitary student, his nose buried in a book, passed her by without even looking up.

Then, just as she was about to give up, the creaking of the cart came again, almost as if it were trying to tease her, and she couldn’t resist going a little farther. More and more, it was like swimming through some murky underground sea, moving from one pool of light to the next, around blind corners and down towering rows of books. Simone’s eyes scanned the titles as she went, many of which were in foreign languages. Some of the books were so old that the words imprinted on their spines had become illegible. They looked as if they’d been there since the college was founded in 1746, and it was a miracle that they were still in circulation. Lucas had once joked to her that he’d found George Washington’s name on a check-out card.

Ever since the night he had come to her hotel room, she had struggled to keep herself focused on her work. Sometimes, she was able to carry it off, for half an hour, maybe a bit more. But try as she might, she’d find her thoughts turning to that night at the inn. Minutes would pass and in her mind’s eye all she could see were his arms lifting her up and laying her on the bed, all she could feel were his hands, tearing at her clothes, caressing her body. It had been years since she had felt anything like it. No, she thought, that wasn’t true, either; she had never felt anything like it at all.

As she turned into the next empty aisle — no surprise there — she picked up a faint loamy scent. Like wet soil that had been recently turned.

“Hello?” she said, swiveling in all directions. “Can you hear me?”

At the distant end of the stacks, she now saw something sticking out, and she promptly marched toward it. “Ah, so there you are.” It wasn’t until she got closer that she realized it wasn’t the cart, but only one of the footstools that the library left here and there for the benefit of its shorter browsers.

Finally, she had reached a dead end. The basement went no farther than this, nor did her patience. Turning to thread her way back, she thought she saw a shadow move on the floor.

“Hello?” she said. The shadow shifted, but no one answered.

She peered over the top of the books and into the next aisle. “Hello?”

This time, when there was no answer again, something told her to stop asking.

To stop advertising her position.

As stealthily as she could, she slipped into the next aisle. And then, when that one proved clear, into the one beside that.

But she could sense the presence of another living thing. Close by.

The smell of sod grew stronger.

She placed each foot on the floor with the greatest deliberation, though her heels still made a noise.

She thought she could hear breathing. A snurfling sound, like something whose mouth was crowded with too many teeth. She flashed on the old etchings of the beasts assailing Saint Anthony.

Leaning against the end of a bookshelf, she slipped off one shoe, and then the other, and holding them in her hands, crept in the direction of the stairwell that led to the main floor.

The labored breath came again, closer than before. Lowering her head, she peeked through the stacks into the neighboring aisle. Something moved there, dark and indistinct, its back to her.

Ducking down, and swallowing hard — her mouth was suddenly as dry as the Sahara — she inched away, down the narrow passage between two rows of books, and when she thought she’d put enough distance between them, stopped to take another glance back.

Over the top of a collection of atlases, she saw a pair of eyes staring back at her. Sunken, black, buried deep in a face the color of mud.

She bolted. Throwing the shoes behind her, she raced down the aisle, turning left at the end, then racing down another and turning right. She could hear the sound of padding feet — or was it paws? — keeping pace with her.

She ran harder, desperately trying to orient herself. Was she heading toward the stairs or another dead end? She had the vague notion that she was being deliberately stampeded, that her pursuer had no intention of overtaking her yet — that it was only playing with her, like a cat with a mouse. Trying to scare her to death.

Her elbow caught on a volume, knocking her off balance, and the sleeve of her blouse ripped on the sharp end of a metal shelf. Several books toppled to the floor. She slipped on one, then took off again, the sweaty soles of her feet sticking to the linoleum. A red Exit sign glowed ahead, its arrow pointing to the stairwell and elevators.

Somehow the hunter seemed to have gotten ahead of her. Even before she saw its looming shadow again, she could sense that it stood between her and the stairwell. It was as if the damn thing could be in two places at once. She changed course, racing instead toward the carrel, where at least she could throw the sliding door closed, and lock it from the inside.

She burst into the wider corridor that ran along one wall of the basement and followed it down, past the ends of one stack after another, all of them nearly identical, until she finally rounded a corner and saw the lit island of her carrel straight ahead.

But that was when she skidded to a sudden halt, the breath ragged in her throat.

There was something in the carrel already.

How could it always be everywhere? Through the narrow window in the sliding door, she could see something moving, and she could hear the sounds of papers being ripped to shreds, books torn to pieces. The light from inside wavered as the intruder crossed in front of the desk lamp, back and forth, tending to his destructive work.

Reversing course, she headed back toward the stairwell, expecting at any minute to see the shadow blocking her way, but this time there was none. Her hands shaking, she threw open the steel fire door and scrambled through; the door clanged shut behind her, and she was halfway up the first flight of stairs, her head down like one of those football players she had seen, when she crashed into someone or something on the landing. She looked up, wild-eyed, as it snatched her by the arms and held her there.

She was about to scream when he said, “Hold on!”

And she saw who it was.

“What’s wrong?” Lucas said, gripping her more tightly.

She gasped, and fell against him so hard he nearly toppled over the railing.

“What is it, Simone?”

A folder — blue — fell from under his arm, scattering papers on the stairs.

“Why are you running?”

She couldn’t answer; she had no breath yet. She turned her head to watch the stairs below.

“Where are your shoes?”

But all she could do was cling to him, and listen for the sound of the fire door being thrown open again.

It didn’t come.

“Simone, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong!”

How could she explain? Instead, she clutched his arm and dragged him up the stairs, over his protests—“Wait, I need to retrieve those papers”—and toward the light and safety of the main reading room. Once they got there, she collapsed in a chair at the nearest table. A few students, annoyed at the commotion, looked up from their studies.

Lucas knelt beside her, holding her hands in his own and murmuring soothing words. A librarian hurried over to ask what was wrong. Lucas said, “I’m not sure yet.”

Neither was Simone, although, as her thoughts cleared and her heart slowed, she began to form, however reluctantly, a terrifying idea. It was the destruction in the carrel that gave it to her. Someone, or something, seemed intent on erasing its own trail, on eradicating all the evidence that had been amassed over the centuries, from all around the world, of its very existence. But to what end? Did it have some new and more monstrous havoc yet to wreak?