Ladbroke Grove, London
Number 214 Huxley Street appeared like any other house in the neighbourhood, and in most ways was. It was two storeys, only two rooms wide, and constructed of a faded red-brown brick that was common down the whole lane.
The room in which Marcianus had gathered with four of the brethren was on the first floor, and the curtains over its sole window were tightly closed. The space was lit by a row of specially installed fluorescent fixtures, hung low so as to maximize the light they shed on the large, metal worktable that filled most of the room. On the table lay a set of flat plastic trays, each an inch and a half in depth, together with a large collection of small bottles, vials and meticulously labelled containers.
‘Open it up,’ the Great Leader ordered. ‘We’ve been waiting long enough.’
At the far end of the table, two Knowers opened the red folder they had obtained early that morning, and with gloved hands extracted the single page contained in its foam lining.
The strong blue-white glow of the fluorescent lights washed some of the colour out of the ancient manuscript, but even in the antiseptic environment of their workshop it had a majesty about it. Everyone in the room felt an appropriate awe.
‘Still doesn’t look like a bloody map,’ one of the men whispered, almost inaudibly. But Marcianus heard the comment, and smiled.
‘By now you should know not to let appearances distract you,’ he answered in full voice. ‘You know how the old writings put it: “There is nothing hidden that shall not be revealed.”’
The man looked as if he was about to ask a question, but a gesture from the Great Leader cut him off. He wished to supervise the remaining preparations himself. His life was going to be a blur of activity over the coming days; he should cherish this moment, revel in its sanctity.
Marcianus was, at heart, a simple man. He had always believed that simplicity was the greatest virtue to attaining spiritual enlightenment, even if that simplicity often had to be wrapped in complex arrangements of organization. At the centre of it all, a man’s soul had to know the truth, plainly and simply, as Marcianus always had. It was why their founder had seen in him a suitable successor; it was why men and women all over the world submitted themselves to the truth he could deliver. And it was why, when he had finally seen the true simplicity of the world’s end, the way forward had become so clear to him. The time of preparation was over. His life’s ultimate mission had become tangible: to show the brethren that the End was already here, and transform the great Liberation from a thing of expectation and hope into a concrete, present, ultimate reality.
‘Get the mixtures to the right consistency,’ he ordered.
Close to his own end of the table, two brethren mixed together liquid ingredients in each of the three plastic trays. An old, leather-bound journal was held open on a display mount between them, and the men concocted their solutions from the recipes written in an ancient hand on the brittle pages.
The Book. The document that had so long been their guide – and this was the original, no less. This sacred volume was as close as the Brotherhood came to having a sacred scripture.
The brethren who worked on the chemical mixtures took their time, ensuring that the amounts and proportions of each ingredient were measured exactly. The process had taken just over twenty minutes, but at last one of the chemists looked up at Marcianus.
‘Master, the solutions are ready.’
The Great Leader nodded and motioned to the men at the far end of the table. Reverently, the man on the left picked up the manuscript and passed it to the Knower nearest the first tray.
Marcianus paused. All his life he had had to tone down his love for speaking in lofty rhetoric, so suitable to their heritage, in order to make sure his message reached those who needed to hear it, speaking instead in comforting tones and unintimidating phrasing. It was his politically necessary condescension to the requirements of his office. But tonight, he was surrounded by true devotees, fully aware of the grandeur of their actions. He could speak with all the loftiness the moment deserved.
‘Let us reveal tonight that which has been hidden for so many generations,’ he instructed, standing proudly before his men.
The chemist’s hands trembled. The moment was almost too much. He knew there would be only one opportunity. If it didn’t work, if he hadn’t mixed the solutions precisely right, the manuscript would be destroyed and their opportunity lost forever. There would be no second chance. Nervousness turned his courage cold, and he froze, motionless.
‘Begin the exposure!’ Marcianus commanded again, pointing to the tray.
Jarred out of his immobility, the chemist performed the Great Leader’s bidding. With all the self-assurance he could muster, he plunged the ancient parchment downward, submerging it in the solution that crept around its edges and drowned it before their eyes.