‘By the time of Christ’s birth, the fundamentals of Gnosticism were already ancient,’ she continued. ‘The roots stretch back at least six hundred years before that, when adepts used what many perceived to be ‘‘magic’’. You are aware of the Blue Fire?’
He nodded.
‘Simon Magus, Valentinus, Marcion — all of them were attracted to Gnosticism. They understood the meanings of the serpent and the labyrinth. For centuries that knowledge disappeared from public view, but it was protected by the Knights Templar and the Cathars …’
Her words sparked so many links in his mind that it could not be random — this time with the treasure store under London Bridge that had held the crystal skull. Church felt the movement of great forces around him.
‘… who could only avoid persecution over the secrets of Existence by coding the information for others to decipher.’ She gave a teasing smile. ‘Did you know that the ancient Ophites sect worshipped the serpent as the source of forbidden knowledge? Did you know that the Peratae believed Jesus was the soul of the serpent? That the Naasseni worshipped the serpent? All Gnostics.’
‘You’re playing with me now.’
She took his hand. ‘I am simply showing you that there are layers upon layers. Strip away one to find the hidden knowledge beneath. The hidden structure that holds everything together. There are truths and untruths, and the mere act of searching for the mystery is in itself the uncovering of the mystery. In Eastern philosophies there is a technique known as raising kundalini. Kundalini means ‘‘serpent fire’’. This technique involves waking the dormant power of the sleeping serpent, the spiritual and psychic energy we all possess, and then raising the energy through the body to the head. Once it is in the head, anything is possible.’
‘All right … Gnosticism … serpents … secret connections. I hear what you’re saying. I just don’t see how it helps me right now. And, frankly, I’m not wholly sure I should trust you.’
Church looked around the crowds. The glimpses of Jerzy had clearly been designed to lead him to this meeting with Helena Blavatsky, but who had arranged it? Would her information help him, or was there some malign intent behind her words? So many mysteries surrounded his life that he found it increasingly difficult to know who to trust and in which direction to go.
‘The kundalini is symbolised by two entwined snakes, which is also the caduceus, the timeless symbol of healing. The truth is everywhere you look, Jack Churchill,’ she said, as if she could read his thoughts. ‘This may mean nothing to you now, but there may come a time in the labyrinth of your life when you will see this golden thread and follow its sinuous path to enlightenment.’
The whole meeting with Blavatsky was starting to feel like a distraction from his original intention: to find Veitch and prevent him from killing any more Brothers and Sisters of Dragons.
‘One more thing,’ she said, smiling. ‘Look to the Fool, for the Fool is the holder of wisdom. The Fool knows nothing. That is wisdom. Look to the Fool.’
Blavatsky’s cryptic comments were starting to irritate him. He was distracted by laughter echoing around the room; it sounded simultaneously very far away yet close at hand, and it had a quality that was not entirely human. When he looked back, Blavatsky was gone. Church searched for her, and when he returned to the point where she had stood he had a fleeting impression of a darkly mocking grin and searing inhuman eyes, fading like the Cheshire Cat.
Something brushed his temple and he fell into unconsciousness.
6
Veitch wiped the blood from his blade on the bedclothes. Etain stood nearby, staring out of the window into the smog-created gloom in a manner that Veitch pretended was yearning for the green, rolling landscape of her former life.
‘Three down,’ he hummed. ‘Two to go. Wish I’d been keeping a running total. I stopped at a hundred and forty-five.’
He sheathed the blade and turned back to the room. The man’s head, which had been sitting in the centre of the room, was somehow back on his neck. The lips had been pulled into a mocking grin.
Veitch kept his hand on the sword. ‘Who did that?’ he said incredulously to Etain. He’d only been wiping his blade for a second; no time at all for someone to steal in behind him and adjust the body. Then he noticed that the woman’s head was missing.
Cursing, he rushed to the door. It was locked. He shattered it with his boot and stormed into a dark corridor that smelled of coal and damp and cabbage water. At the end, by the stairs, the woman’s head hung by the hair like a Hallowe’en lantern, but he could not see who was holding it.
Veitch raced along the corridor. By the time he reached the end he could hear footsteps rapidly descending the stairs, and then the banging of the front door. Sprinting into the street, he coughed and choked in the smog, looking up and down. The head bobbed along, just disappearing in the haze.
Veitch hadn’t got far when hands grabbed him roughly and hauled him into an alley. It was the Libertarian.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Veitch raged. He threw himself back into the street, but he had lost sight of the head.
The Libertarian pulled him back. ‘What are you doing?’ His red eyes blazed in the gloom. ‘You may well hold a position of some authority because of your peculiar abilities, though why you were given them remains beyond me. But you are still weak and pathetic, easily distracted and, I might add, none too bright. We cannot risk upsetting the delicate balance at this crucial stage.’ The Libertarian’s sneer became a snarl.
Veitch threw him off and drew his sword. ‘Who cares what you think, you parasite?’
The Libertarian stared at the sword, then drew himself up and smiled menacingly.
Veitch was distracted by a shapeless mass in the alley, which he realised were two bodies, butchered so brutally they were almost unrecognisable. Scattered nearby were pieces of clothing — a shawl, worn but cared for lovingly, and a man’s flat cap.
‘What did you do that for?’ Veitch said, disgusted. ‘They couldn’t have hurt you.’
‘I did it because I could.’
Veitch stared deeply into the Libertarian’s eyes but couldn’t fathom what he saw there. ‘You and me are going to have it out one day,’ he said.
‘I relish the moment.’
Sickened, Veitch sheathed his blade and ran back into the street. Candles and lamps were alight in the windows he passed. They revealed families, sometimes eight to a room, old men hunched over tiny fires, women old before their time, sobbing at a table or getting drunk on cheap spirits, children worn out from work, men in the act of robbery or violence. It was dark and it smelled sour.
Just when he was about to give up and return to Etain, the head dropped from above him and splattered at his feet before rolling into the gutter. On the edge of the roof, Spring-heeled Jack rocked on his haunches, his staring eyes seething. With a flourish, his cloak rose up around him and he was away across the rooftops once more.
‘Right, you bastard,’ Veitch hissed. ‘I’m in a bad bleedin’ mood and it’s all coming down on your head.’
Sometimes it was difficult to see the figure skittering across the rooftops, for the streets were narrow and the buildings high. But once they moved out of the East End it became easier. Past the Tower and St Paul’s Veitch raced, determined Spring-heeled Jack would not outpace him. Finally, the West End rose up around him. There were carriages and people in fine clothes on their way to the theatre or stretching their legs after dinner. Veitch hitched a ride on the back of a carriage, keeping one eye on the roofs.
It was only when the buildings ran out that Spring-heeled Jack came down to ground level, and by then they were in Hyde Park. Ahead, the gleaming majesty of the Crystal Palace stood like a beacon in the night.