Brimstone

Constance listened intently as he went on. There was a rustle as Pendergast gently turned the fragile, yellowed page.

The girl held up her hand, and Pendergast paused.

"I'm not sure I can bear another war. Will it be a bad one?"

"One of the worst. It will tear apart the country "

"Let us save this war for tomorrow, then "

Pendergast nodded, carefully folding up the newspaper and putting it aside.

"I can scarcely believe the cruelty of the last century. It staggers the soul."

Pendergast inclined his head in agreement.

She shook her head slowly, and the glow of the flames reflected in her dark eyes and straight black hair. "Do you think this new century will be as barbarous?"

"The twentieth century showed us the evil face of physics. This century will show us the evil face of biology. This will be humanity's last century, Constance."

"So cynical?"

"May God prove me wrong."

A bank of embers collapsed, opening a glowing wound in the fire. Pendergast stirred. "And now, perhaps, shall we move on to the results of your search?"

"Certainly." Constance rose and walked toward one wall of bookshelves, returning with several octavo volumes. "The abbot Trithemius, theLiber de Angelis , the McMaster text, The Sworn Book of Honorius , the Secretum Philosophorum , and, of course, Ars Notorium . Treatises on selling one's soul, raising the devil, and the like." She placed the volumes on a side table. "All alleged eyewitness accounts. Latin, Ancient Greek, Aramaic, Old French, Old Norse, and Middle English. Then there are the grimoires."

"Textbooks of magic," Pendergast said, nodding.

"The Key of Solomon is the best known. Many of these documents belonged to secret societies and orders, which were common among the nobility of the Middle Ages. Apparently, these societies were often active in satanic practices."

Pendergast nodded again. "I am particularly interested in accounts of the devil claiming his due."

"There are many. For example"-she indicated the wormy cover of the Ars Notorium with a faint look of distaste-"the Tale of Geoffrey, magister of Kent."

"Go on."

"The tales don't vary greatly from the Faustian theme, except in the details. A highly learned man, restless and dissatisfied; a manuscript; raising the devil; promises made, promises broken; a warm end. In this case, Magister Geoffrey was a doctor of philosophy at Oxford in the early 1400s, a chemist and mathematician. His great passion was the mystery of the prime numbers. He spent years in his studio, calculating the primes out to five digits. Some of the calculations involved more than a year of work, and they say he needed a little help to finish them. Hence, the pact with Lucifer. There was talk in Oriel College of chanting, ugly smells, unexplained noises, and strange lights burning in the scholar's chambers long after midnight. The magister continued to teach and do his alchemical experiments. His fame spread far and wide. He was said to have discovered the arcanum for transforming lead into gold, and he was admitted into the Order of the Golden Chalice by King Henry VI himself. He published his great work The Nyne Numbers of God and was known across Europe for his wisdom and learning.

"But then things began to change. At the height of his fame, he became nervous, suspicious, strange. He was often ill, confined to his chambers. He jumped at every noise. He seemed to grow thin, his eyes staring 'like the great hollow eyes of a calf in the slaughter.' He ordered brass locks and had his doors clad and banded in iron.

"And then one day his students missed him at breakfast. They went to his chambers. The door was locked, the iron hot to the touch. There was a smell of phosphorus and sulfur. Only with great effort could they break it down.

"They beheld a terrible sight. Geoffrey, magister of Kent, lay on his wooden pallet, fully dressed, as if laid out for burial. There were no cuts on his skin, no breaks, no bruising. And yet his heart lay next to the body, partially burned and still smoking. They said it wouldn't stop beating until it had been sprinkled with holy water. Then it burst. The details are rather .     unpleasant."

Pendergast glanced at the girl. She leaned forward, took a sip of tea, replaced the cup, smiled.

"And do the texts describe just how the Prince of Darkness was conjured?"

"They drew circles around themselves. Generally, nine feet in diameter. They were usually drawn with an arthame , or ceremonial knife. Frequently, there were smaller circles or pentacles within the larger one. Above all, it was critical that the circle not be broken during the ceremony-as long as he remained within the circle, the conjurer was safe from the demons he summoned."

"And once the demons were summoned?"

"A contract was made. The usual: wealth, power, knowledge, in return for one's immortal soul. Faust, of course, is the prototypical story-particularly in the way it ends."

Pendergast nodded encouragingly.

"After making his personal deal with the devil, Faust had all the power, earthly and unearthly, he had always craved. But he had other things as well. He complained of never being alone: of eyes in the walls watching him, of noises, strange noises like the clicking of teeth. Despite having everything mortal beings can possess, he grew restless. Eventually, as the days of his contract grew short, he took to reading the Bible, loudly proclaiming his repentance. He spent his last evening in the company of his drinking companions, weeping bitterly, bewailing his sins, begging heaven to slow the passage of hours."

"O lente, lente, currite noctis equi," Pendergast intoned quietly.

"Dr. Faustus, Act 5, scene 2," Constance said immediately.

" The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned."

A small smile broke across Pendergast's features.

"According to legend, terrible screams were heard issuing from his rooms after midnight. None of his guests dared investigate. In the morning, they found his bedchamber turned into an abattoir. The walls were painted in blood. Somebody found a lone eyeball in a corner of the room. The crushed, limp remains of his skull clung to one wall. The rest of his body was found in the alley below, thrown over a pile of horse manure. They said-"

She was interrupted by a knock at the library door.

"That would be Sergeant D'Agosta," Pendergast said, glancing up at the clock. "Come in," he called in a louder voice.

The door opened slowly and Sergeant Vincent D'Agosta stepped into the library: dirty, clothes torn, scratched, bleeding.

Pendergast rose abruptly from his chair. "Vincent!"

{ 16 }

D'Agosta slumped in a chair, feeling dazed and in shock. It seemed one-half of his body was numb, and the half that wasn't was throbbing in pain. The old mansion gave him the creeps, so damp, cold, and dark. Was this really where Pendergast was now living? Here the guy had a beautiful place on Central Park West, but chose instead to live in deepest Harlem, in a spookhouse of a museum no less, all stuffed animals and skeletons and shelves covered with weird crap. At least this library was like an oasis: soft chairs, a roaring fire. Pendergast had a guest, it seemed, but for the moment D'Agosta felt too scratched, bruised, and wiped out to care.