Chapter 33 - Identity Crisis

Photo copyright Hanan from Unsplash

Ike was a Sibyl?

Book diving was already way out on the freak-o-metre, but a prophetess?

With a roar, a freight train thundered through Ike's head. Some kind nerves pulled the emergency brake and among loud screeching and hissing Ike's vision turned black once more and the world eerily silent.

Into the void, hushed voices spoke.

"Delia, you're an absolute moron." Jhanvi, the Indian lady. "To spring the news on her like that."

"I say—"

"You've said quite enough for today. It's entirely possible she has no idea who she is or what she can do. If you ask me, Ms Wordsworth looks tougher than she is. Makes me wish I hadn't used my knock-out spray on her. I wonder what document she used for her seeking. Maybe that's part of the problem? She did seem rather wonky."

"Perhaps, she can't balance the after-effects?" The voice of the young Spanish speaker, kind and caring.

"Possible," Jhanvi said. "Not likely, though. She wouldn't have survived otherwise. If she's self-taught, she'll operate on a trial-and-error basis."

"Uh," said the Spaniard.

"Quite," said Jhanvi. "We've lost way too many because of that little problem. How many of us are around these days? Not enough to teach them all. Especially when we get no warning where the talent will spring up next."

"The last count was twenty-seven," the lemon said, miffed. "You know that as well as I do."

"It was a rhetorical question, but thanks for reminding me," said Jhanvi. "It's the one thing the great K'ung ever worries about. The newbies getting lost in the stories or dropping dead afterwards before we can reach and ground them. That this one managed to stay under the radar and alive for so long is amazing."

"Yes, she's not young, is she?"

Had she felt fitter, Ike would have bopped the old bat on her bowsprit of a nose.

"Nor are you," the Spanish speaker said drily.

"Thank you very much indeed, Beatriz!"

Ike took a note to shake the girl's hand as soon as she was in a state to do so. Actually, she seemed to be better already, and listening to her enigmatic capturers had yielded mind-boggling insights. There might be more.

Something wet and cold got applied to her forehead. It reeked faintly of cucumbers.

"Can you hear me, querida?" Beatriz asked.

"Mh." Ike left it at that.

"Come on. I know you are awake."

Trust the old lemon to spoil the fun.

Water dripped down Ike's temple, trickled down her neck and pooled in a damp patch on her back. "Ugh." She lifted her head and blinked at a heart-shaped face with prominent cheekbones, liquid brown pools for eyes and a tumble of glossy dark curls.

She might be speaking Spanish, but she was from the new world. Mexico, Peru, something like that.

Of the three witches, or whatever they were, she came across as the most friendly and least intimidating.

But then, looks could deceive.

"Hola," Beatriz said, sketching a wave of her nimble fingers. "You are Jessica, right?"

"My friends call me Ike. Trouble is, I have no clue what category you would fall into."

Ike let her gaze roam around the room, or rather: the studio, for the place was bigger than hers. She was in the sitting area part of it, with a set of folding doors to her right that would house the bit with the bed. The colour scheme was as muted as in her chamber, but with dabs of reds to lighten up the minimalist gloom.

As Ike propped herself up on her elbows, a shower of slim volumes slipped off her chest.

"We tried Cervantes and a few minor Spanish poets this time," the young woman said with an apologetic tone. "Not so heavy."

"Most appreciated. You wouldn't have any coffee by any chance?" She was in insomnia country already, might as well go the whole mile.

"No stimulants after seeking," the lemon lectured. "You've been on a search, have you not?"

"Was I what?"

"You can send your consciousness into stories."

When Jhanvi spoke, it was with finality and self-assuredness that dispelled any doubts Ike might still have harboured. Those three witches knew who she was and what made her tick. Ike decided to release a test balloon. "So can you, I presume?"

Jhanvi nodded. She was seated on a giant burgundy beanbag, her legs pulled under, yogi-fashion. "Yes. We're all a bit different. Caffeine helps you feel better? Surprising. I prefer verbena tea myself, but I've got a coffee-maker in my room."

Beatriz had already zipped across, and with a healthy purring, the machine sprang alive.

"I thought I needed the destination story to revive? Not just any old book?"

Delia raised an eyebrow so pale it was almost not there. "Ah, so you are aware of that then? I'm afraid you got things quite wrong." She sounded like the headmistress at Ike's primary school. She and that woman had never got on. "An early edition will do the trick. No matter where you went seeking beforehand."

"You must have started with an old book for your first search. That saved your bacon. What do you call it? Dive? Not a bad expression. The K'ung will like that," Jhanvi said, a faint smile on her lips. When she wasn't out to zap innocent people, her round face looked amicable enough. But those eyes were as sharp as before.

###

Ike decided Queen K'ung or whoever she was didn't feature higher on her list of must-knows right now. "Care to tell me why you're after that scroll?"

Beatriz tilted her head, looking like a sorrowful sparrow. "How do you know we do?"

"I overheard you. Down in the catacombs. I was hiding in a tomb."

"Urgh," said Delia. "How disgusting."

"Quite. You left me no choice. You popped out of nowhere on the site of an accident, which back then was considered to be murder. I imagine you must have known about the Vestal and the scroll she tried to protect. How was I supposed to know you were not part of whatever was going on there?"

"Well, truth is we are. There has been another death in the meantime, correct?" Delia folded her hands in her lap, a boney Buddha. "Your company seems to be quite—awash with unfortunate incidents."

Ike drew a deep breath. Not quite there yet. Soon, she would be strong enough to sock that cow one. Once she had drunk the espresso, Beatriz placed on the aubergine glass table next to the sofa. "You're going off-topic. Could somebody answer my question?"

Jhanvi pulled off her spectacles and pinched the bridge of her nose. "How do we know we can trust you?"

"You don't. Same here. However, we all seem to suffer from a similar affliction. Something that would have the white men with their comfy padded jackets come running in no time. And you were the ones who attacked me. So, what about that blasted scroll?"

The three women shared a wary look. Delia shook her head, but Beatriz nodded.

It was Jhanvi, who spoke. "The Cumaean Sibyl was just one of many seers all over the world. Unfortunately, none of them left their insights concerning the craft to posterity. Quite a while ago, the sisterhood of the present-day seekers learned the Cumean scrolls, which are said to be the biggest compilation on seeking, might have got stolen before the temple burned and that a priestess hid them in their grave. It took us half a century to work out where they might be. We funded the excavation to the catacombs where we knew the grave would be hidden. Then this guest of yours tumbled into it, and the scrolls were lost."

Delia gave a quick nod and shot Ike an accusing look.

"The documents were never in the grave," Ike said.

Sharp inhalations of breath from all three ladies. Now she had their attention. Did she trust them or not? Ike decided, the whole situation was so bizarre, it could only be real.

"My colleague, Lord Nettlehole, has located an expert who swears she couldn't have taken them with her. He's trying to trace where the documents might have ended up, but there isn't very much to go by. I dived into Cecilia's last words—that's the priestess—and I saw no scrolls in the tomb scene. Well, it was pretty dark. However, she gave a name. Marcus. And she said something about sacred books. Mentioned a library. And Pompeii."

The words had hardly left Ike's mouth when despair hit her head-on.

Too much had been going on. Otherwise, Ike would have realised earlier the scrolls were long lost. Got burned after all.

Not in 85 BCE but almost a hundred years later, when the eruption of Mount Vesuvius buried the old city underneath a flood of hot ash, lava and brimstone.

Ike decided Queen K'ung or whoever she was didn't feature higher on her list of must-knows right now. "Care to tell me why you're after that scroll?"

Beatriz tilted her head, looking like a sorrowful sparrow. "How do you know we do?"

"I overheard you. Down in the catacombs. I was hiding in a tomb."

"Urgh," said Delia. "How disgusting."

"Quite. You left me no choice. You popped out of nowhere on the site of an accident, which back then was considered to be murder. I imagine you must have known about the Vestal and the scroll she tried to protect. How was I supposed to know you were not part of whatever was going on there?"

"Well, truth is we are. There has been another death in the meantime, correct?" Delia folded her hands in her lap, a boney Buddha. "Your company seems to be quite—awash with unfortunate incidents."

Ike drew a deep breath. Not quite there yet. Soon, she would be strong enough to sock that cow one. First, she would drink the espresso Beatriz placed on the aubergine glass table next to the sofa. "You're going off-topic. Could somebody answer my question?"

Jhanvi pulled off her spectacles and pinched the bridge of her nose. "How do we know we can trust you?"

"You don't. But we all seem to suffer from a similar affliction. Something that would have the white men with their comfy padded jackets come running in no time. And you were the ones who attacked me. So, what about that blasted scroll?"

The three women shared a wary look. Delia shook her head, but Beatriz nodded.

It was Jhanvi, who spoke. "The Cumaean Sibyl was just one of many seers all over the world. Unfortunately, none of them left their insights concerning the craft to posterity. Quite a while ago, the sisterhood of the present-day seekers learned the Cumean scrolls, which are said to be the biggest compilation on seeking, might have got stolen before the temple burned. That a priestess hid them in their grave. It took us half a century to work out where they might be. We funded the excavation to the catacombs where we knew the grave would be hidden. Then this guest of yours tumbled into it, and the scrolls were lost."

Delia gave a brisk nod and shot Ike an accusing look.

"The documents were never in the grave," Ike said.

Sharp inhalations of breath from all three ladies. Now she had their attention. Did she trust them or not? Ike decided, the whole situation was so bizarre, it could only be real.

"My colleague, Lord Nettlehole, has located an expert who swears she couldn't have taken them with her. He's trying to trace where the documents might have ended up, but there isn't very much to go by. I dived into Cecilia's last words—that's the priestess—and I saw no scrolls in the tomb scene. Well, it was pretty dark. But she gave a name. Marcus. And she said something about sacred books. Mentioned a library. And Pompeii."

The words had hardly left Ike's mouth when despair hit her head-on.

Too much had been going on, otherwise she would have realised earlier the scrolls were long lost. Got burned after all.

Not in 85 BCE but almost a hundred years later, when the eruption of Mount Vesuvius buried the old city underneath a flood of hot ash, lava and brimstone.

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.