The Singularity Cycle 02 Song of the Death God Read online

  He dressed as a wealthy European on vacation and met Karl on the patio café, where waiters in fezes attended to their needs. Karl had wasted no time. He had already established the location of the bookseller they sought. He asked the manager of the hotel and reconfirmed the location with the maître d’. He had also arranged for a carriage to take them.

  While the citizens of Crete identified as Greek, Crete was part of the declining Ottoman empire, and many citizens were Muslims. They would be travelling to the home of a Sufi sect called the Bektashi. Alim Cihan was presumably one of these Bektashi.

  Carsten was familiar with Islam to the extent that men of his world needed to be; it was a plague that nearly snuffed out the light of Europe. The Islamic world was a medieval backwater while Europe was preeminent. Their faith was no match for science and certainly no match for German steel.

  These Bektashi were known to be mystic or even Gnostic in nature. Like their Gnostic counterparts in Christianity, they sometimes sought understanding outside the dominant orthodoxies. They were often called heretics for this. This was why Carsten believed this man might have the book they were seeking.

  When Carsten explained this to Karl, he gave him a stern look and reminded him that men trafficking with the likes of Piroska were extremely dangerous.

  “Karl, do you think this person might know… what we did?”

  “No, I don’t. But it is going to raise suspicions that we arrive bearing a letter of recommendation from a person who has been dead for more than a year.”

  “It’s possible he doesn’t even know she’s dead.”

  “News does travel much slower in this part of the world, but this is an exclusive group. People who trade in these… things would know one another.”

  Carsten sighed. “That is a safe assumption.”

  Neither of them said anything for a few moments, taking the time for these imponderables.

  “Should we really be doing this?” asked Carsten.

  Karl cracked a wry smile. “You would do this with or without me, of that I am convinced. It’s better that I get paid and you stay safe.”

  “That doesn’t really answer the question.”

  Karl laughed. “Well, of course we shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t even be here.”

  Carsten looked into the archaic city before them. “This is what I want. This is who I am. To turn away would be worse than death. It would be purgatory.”

  Karl asked, “Shall we go find this Turk, then?”

  ***

  They hired a carriage in front of the hotel, a small single horse model with an enclosed cab. It would be hot, but it would be worth it. In a city like this, they couldn’t disguise themselves like they could in Prague. They were obviously European Christians and not Greeks or Turks, and definitely not Muslims.

  As they rode through the chaotic, noisome streets, the Muezzin called out the Adhan, drawing the faithful to prayer. Carsten glanced through windows of shops and into courtyards and saw Muslims lined up in rows, bowing to Mecca in the east. It was unearthly. Even though Islam was younger than Christianity and Judaism, there was something about this practice that invoked the absolutely ancient. These people might be praying to Allah, but it wasn’t new on Earth, Carsten was convinced of it. His dreams told him that even if man forgot the days before history, the bones underneath the earth did not. Those bones spoke to the unconscious mind, even to the collective unconscious, and somehow, in some way, humans still heard their call.

  The city was a series of transitions from mazelike narrow streets to wide open bazaars, at all times a riot of humanity. The bazaars were scenes of chaos, but beneath there was underlying order. It was simple, really—people bought, people sold. Each bazaar had its purpose. Some bazaars were dedicated to selling fruits, some to selling meats, some to the selling of household items. Those selling non-perishable items were a study of the new contrasting with the old. One could see pots and pans made in factories in Europe sold next to dishes and bowls that could have been made in the villages where Christ walked. This place was a nexus of times.

  The bazaar of the booksellers was the redemption for every doubt and disapproval he’d cast upon this island. It was the one place outside of his elegant European hotel where he had experienced quiet. It was the smallest of the bazaars, no more than a few hundred paces wide and long, populated by thoughtful Turks, Greeks, Arabs, and Jews alike, all seemingly scholarly or even monastic in aspect. They knew and respected one another, part of an unspoken bond, men of letters in a world that had no time for such things. They spoke quietly and smiled as they pointed to passages or profound insights of the written word. Some sat at tables, others on carpets. They drank tea and smoked pipes and cigarettes.

  When Carsten and Karl dismounted their carriage, they were greeted with curious glances, but not overt suspicion. He wasn’t the first affluent European to peruse the books in this bazaar.

  Carsten spent the next hour looking through the books. He wanted the people here to become comfortable with them before making specific enquiries—especially of the sort he would make. He found many books he genuinely appreciated, mainly those of translation, geography and history. It amazed him how perceptions of these things could change through time.

  In his efforts to translate The Immortal Body, he became familiar with Latin and Greek. He couldn’t speak conversationally, but could read them well enough. Hebrew, Turkish, and Arabic were another matter. That the book could be written in one of these languages hadn’t even crossed his mind. He comforted himself with the thought that it was most likely written in Latin.

  After he knew he wasn’t being seen as a dubious character, he began paying attention to the books of the sellers in Turkish garb, as Alim Cihan was a Turk.

  Carsten realized Karl wasn’t standing nearby, as was his custom. He looked around, making sure to appear calm and unalarmed. Karl was seated about fifty paces away at a small table, playing chess with an elderly Hasidic Jew. Karl glanced up and waved genially in an utterly unconcerned manner and returned to the chess match, chatting with the elderly Jew.

  Carsten picked up a book on training horses in Arabic and attempted to look unconcerned too. Karl was stern and serious at all times, as well as a worldly man; he was playing the old Jew for a reason. Carsten returned the book to the table, nodded and smiled to the seller who politely nodded back. He slowly walked to the table where Karl was playing his new friend.

  “Ah, Carsten, it appears I’ve been challenged by a formidable opponent!”

  The old Jew looked up from the board and smiled a gap-toothed grin.

  “Your chaperone says he learned the game of chess from a chieftain of the Tutsi and that no living man could best the invincible strategies of the Dark Continent.”

  Carsten actually managed to let out a genuine laugh at that.

  The old Jew continued, “I told him that I’ve been buying and selling diamonds from east Africa since before he was born, and that I can spot a bullshitter from across the island.”

  Carsten grinned back. “So, what is your verdict?”

  The old Jew shrugged and looked down at the table. He had taken seven of Karl’s chess pieces and Karl had only two of his.

  “The Tutsi don’t actually play chess.”

  Then all three of them laughed.

  Carsten noticed that the man spoke with a heavily-accented German, probably from the East.

  Carsten asked, “Are you from Berlin?”

  “No, Chemnitz, but I spend most of my time travelling from city to city and back to here.”

  “Are you a bibliophile?”

  The old man smiled indulgently. “There are treasures to be found in this place.”

  Carsten nodded. “I have just caught the disease of bibliomania myself and was told by a scholar about this place, and I must say, he was right!”

  “And what subject interests you the most, young master?”

  Without missing a beat, “My family works in metals, so
metallurgy is what my calling is to be. What fascinates me is the quest throughout the ages to make gold or other metals via alchemy!”

  The elderly man knitted his brows together in curiosity. “Surely you don’t believe in such superstition?”

  Carsten let out a disarming laugh. “No, absolutely not. But these fumblings of the ancients were their attempts at science without science. As a man whose future is settled by pedigree, it’s a mission of mine to preserve and collate their understandings. Maybe one day we’ll see our own understanding as mere fumblings in the dark.”

  The old Jew looked to Karl, who shrugged, and back to Carsten. “Well, there are a few sellers here who traffic in those books, but they are expensive. A lot of wealthy eccentrics out there, I suppose.”

  Then he winked at Karl who just chuckled indulgently at the odd desires of his employer.

  Karl said, “I tried to take him to the whorehouses, but all he wants are books on turning lead into gold…”

  Both men laughed, and Carsten did his best embarrassed smile.

  “I tell you what, after I’m done trouncing your chaperone here, I’ll introduce you to just the man who would have that kind of book. I bought a three hundred-year-old book on the Temple of Solomon for my Rabbi from this man.”

  Carsten beamed, “Really?”

  The old Jew laughed in a grandfatherly way. “If you’ve got that kind of money, he’s got that kind of book!”

  It was in this way that Carsten and Karl were introduced to Alim Cihan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  The bookstand of Alim Cihan was a simple table with a black tablecloth embroidered with golden Arabic characters. Atop it was a small collection of books inside wooden cases with glass lids. A few of the books were in Persian, others Arabic, others in Hebrew, all of them very ornate. Unlike other books for sale in the bazaar, none of his books were labeled with prices.

  When the old Jew introduced Carsten and Karl to the elderly man, he was seated on a stool behind his table, a young boy at his knee haltingly reading to him in Persian. Alim Cihan was old, yet tall, stern, and dark. He wore an imposing black kaftan and a white turban.

  The jovial old Jew chatted with him for a few moments in what sounded like Hebrew and gestured to Carsten and Karl. After a few moments, the old Jew shrugged and laughed and Alim Cihan nodded sagely.

  The old Jew shared a few more moments of his mirth with the severe and scholarly Cihan, then turned to Karl and Carsten. “Yes, my friend Alim definitely has a selection of the sort of texts that you seek. I knew he would!”

  Then he glanced at Cihan and laughed again. He looked from Karl to Carsten and took his leave. “One such as yourself should be chasing girls, not moldy books of superstition. But I suppose enough wealth allows you to be as eccentric as you wish!”

  At this, Karl laughed loudly, playing his part with ease and grace.

  The old Jew ambled away, leaving the three of them to speak. Cihan spoke to them in perfect English, in the cultured tones of an Oxford-educated teacher. Cihan said, “I have been told by my old friend that you are an heir of Bavarian metal works, yet you seek medieval texts of earlier understandings of metals?”

  Karl grinned and Carsten smiled widely. In English, Karl said, “It’s good that at least we all speak a common language.”

  Carsten said, “It will certainly make this easier! Yes, I’m seeking to write a thesis on the subject.”

  Cihan asked, with no credulity, “May I ask why one such as yourself would bother?”

  Karl nodded in absolute agreement.

  Carsten paused, and looked around him and said, “Because we think we know everything, and that is a tragedy. We may have gained towers of steel, but we have lost mystery.”

  Cihan sat back on his stool and looked squarely at Carsten. “The ship that brought you to this island had an engine of steel. It burned coal. It brought you here without depending on the wind or the tide. Your clothes were made by machines and you will live decades longer than the men who wrote the books you seek.”

  Carsten stared directly back at him. “I believe that ancients still have much to recommend. I think we are just beginning to appreciate their wisdom.”

  Alim Cihan smiled, or at least displayed his closest approximation to a smile. “Mr. Darwin is wise, Mr. Pasteur is wise, Herr Krupp is wise; what wisdom does an alchemist have that can compare?”

  Carsten nodded. “I truly don’t know, but I hope to learn enough to answer that question.”

  Alim Cihan looked for a few moments each at Karl and Carsten. “I sense that there is something you’re not telling me.”

  Carsten paused. “Forgive our ruse, but you are correct.”

  Cihan nodded, but did not speak.

  Carsten reached into his jacket pocket and held forth the letter of recommendation from Piroska. Carsten and Karl stood wordlessly as Alim Cihan read the letter. This was the crucial moment that Carsten had lived in apprehension of since that fateful day in Piroska’s home.

  Cihan said without looking up from the letter, “Piroska said that you are capable of paying for that which you seek.”

  Carsten said, “Yes.”

  Cihan read for a few more moments and said, “Piroska says that you were very helpful to her in providing information on a very important matter.”

  Carsten repeated, “Yes, I did.”

  Alim Cihan continued reading, then inserted the letter into the envelope and handed it back to Carsten.

  “This letter is more than a year old and Piroska died after that letter was written. The woman who vouches for you is dead.”

  Karl nodded in a lawyerly way. “Mr. Ernst was given this letter in good faith by Madame Piroska, and we believe that it is still valid.”

  Alim Cihan looked from Karl to Carsten. “I don’t dispute this, but I will still have questions.”

  Karl nodded. “We are here to buy; we have no good reason to withhold any information.”

  “This is not an ordinary antiquity that you seek. Tell me, did you know that Piroska was no longer alive?”

  Carsten nodded sadly. “We were aware of this.”

  Cihan arched an eyebrow. “How did you know this?”

  Karl said, “I was dispatched a few months after our last visit. I found out that there had been a fire.”

  “May I ask the nature of your assignment?”

  Karl nodded in a businesslike way. “To ask whether the second book had become available.”

  Cihan turned to Carsten. He was still imperturbable, but beneath this façade was stunned shock. “How far along is your translation of The Immortal Body?”

  Carsten did not lie. “The translation is done. Without Song of the Death God, my knowledge is incomplete.”

  Cihan breathed in deeply, held it and blew it out, making some kind of decision. “This is not the sort of item that can be paid for in cash. I will need the money wired from Munich to a bank holding in Venice. We will make arrangements tonight when you come to my home for dinner.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Nightfall in Heraklion was a different creature than nightfall in Munich. While Munich could be seen as a gleaming city of glass and electric lights from many miles away, the same could not be said for Heraklion. But it was still fully alive, lit by the lambent glow of candles, lanterns and torches. Unlike Munich, this city did not go to sleep when the sun went down, but instead was a tableau of Babel, a riot of dark sights and exotic smells.

  The home of Alim Cihan was on the lane of the gold and jewel traders. Perhaps this was the reason that Alim Cihan had known the old Jew. There was only an unmarked door between two dealers of gold and jewels and a narrow corridor leading to a small, charming courtyard lit with a profusion of lamps. All around them flowers grew and small birds chirped serenely inside golden cages. The nocturnal chaos of Heraklion was not here, only the stately and calm ambiance of a wealthy seller of rare and magnificent books.

  Alim Cihan joined them in the courtyard, and they were s
eated at a low table of Morrocan style. Pipes were lit; tea and the mezze were served by two boys in Turkish garb. Alim Cihan was seated across from Karl and Carsten with the same young boy that was receiving his lesson in Persian earlier in the day. Although the boy did not speak at all, it was safe to assume from the way that he sat with Cihan that this boy was his grandson. There was little conversation for the first hour of their gathering, a time to appreciate the simple elegance.

  Finally Alim Cihan broke the silence. “Master Ernst, I would like to ask you how far along you are in your studies. Have you performed the final rituals contained in the book?”

  Carsten said nothing for a moment. “Yes, but the results were incomplete.”

  Alim Cihan nodded and said, “When I was a young boy, I was studying in a madrassa in Egypt. Between exams, I joined a caravan with other young, wealthy, adventurous men to cross the Sahara.”

  “We travelled for weeks, and finally reached the Siwa Oasis. It was there that I saw performed the reanimation of a dead cat, A tánc a halott lejárónyílás, in the language of Piroska and her people.”

  Carsten asked, “The Romani are in the Sahara, too?”

  “No, this ritual is not only theirs; it is older than their race, older even than the Siwa Oasis. Yet, it is roughly the same: three circles in a triangle inside of yet another circle. The details differ, but the intent is the same.”

  Carsten asked Karl, “And you have seen this in Africa as well?”

  Karl nodded and answered quietly, “Eastern Africa, yes. Not that specific act, but other deeds of a similar nature.”

  “This idea, reanimation of the dead, can be found in many places where memory is long and the modern world does not intrude. Waziristan and the far corners of the Americas almost certainly.”

  Carsten took this information in, then asked, “And you have performed this ritual yourself?”

  Cihan, with a look that could only be described as shame, nodded his head. “Yes, young master, I did this thing.”