JERRY HAD NOT KNOWN what to expect as he and Neisen crossed the two bridges connecting the mainland with Hilton Head Island. He checked his watch. Mechanical difficulties in Dallas stretched a normally two-hour flight to Savannah into five, leaving him exhausted at nearly ten o’clock at night.
Lights winked timidly through gathering fog as they drove down Highway 278 toward the heart of the island. What little he knew about the place, he had learned in the library the day before they left. One article said archeologists found evidence Indians had lived there for thousands of years before the white man arrived. Before the Civil War, it was a hideout for Negroes escaping from slavery. Called “Gullah,” their descendents still inhabit the island, now known more as a sanctuary for the wellto-do.
He told Ruth about his invitation to accompany Dr. Neisen to an important meeting on Hilton Head Island during the Christmas break, but he gave her no details except that relationships established there might help to further his career.
“Who are these men Dr. Neisen wants you to meet, Jerry?” Ruth asked.
“All I know is that he says most of them are very rich and very powerful…world changers he calls them.” He could tell by her tone, his explanation provoked more questions than answers.
“And these very rich and powerful men want to meet you? What for Jerry? What can they possibly…?”
“See in a lowly student from a college that’s not exactly Ivy League?”
What Ruth’s question implied hurt and he wished he could tell her he had moved beyond struggling to find himself but that was impossible. For now, he could only hope that unfolding events would show her there was more to him than she imagined.
“Well, I know your mom and dad will be disappointed, but I guess they’ll understand the importance of you getting to know the right people.” Jerry heard only disappointment and sarcasm in Ruth’s voice, so he changed the subject.
Neisen had been vague about what he should expect at the conference. Even during the flight he responded mostly in generalities to his questions, saying only he would be meeting an international fraternity of friends with common interests who looked forward to his joining them.
Jerry pulled an in-flight magazine from the seat pocket and began flipping through it. “What kind of common interests?” he asked Neisen, keeping his voice casual.
“To make a better world,” Neisen replied without hesitation, as if that explained everything, and then closed his eyes.
Jerry waved away a flight attendant offering drinks and stared out the window of the first class cabin. Nothing but the best, he mused, remembering the photos he had found on Neisen’s computer. My sponsors, some of the wealthiest and most prominent men in the world, all gathered in one place. “An inner circle of power,” Neisen called them. And I will be a part of that circle. Neisen had also said he would be expected to make a decision of some sort at the end of the meeting, but gave no hint what it might involve.
Jerry jerked himself back to the present as Neisen turned off 278 onto a side road that ended abruptly at a dark parking lot, bordered on three sides by palmetto palms and on the fourth by Calibogue Sound. Once parked, he collected his bag and followed Neisen down a path to a lighted pier where a large cruiser awaited them. An ancient Negro man dressed immaculately in white, his white hair haloed in the light from a single dock lamp swinging overhead, raised his hand as they approached.
“We’re not staying on Hilton Head Island?” Jerry asked through his exhaustion.
“Just a short ride,” Neisen explained patiently, “to a smaller island, one with no bridge to the mainland. Too many tourists here. Not enough privacy.”
As they walked out on the dock, the old man finished untying the bowline.
“Evenin’ Dr. Neisen,” he said courteously as he stored their luggage onboard. “T’ other folk is already suppered and bedded down.”
“Enough, Henry,” Neisen replied with a wave of his hand, “just get us to the island. It has been a long day and we are worn out.”
The man absorbed Neisen’s rudeness as though calloused to it, started the engines, and pulled away from the pier into the darkness.
“Mr. Spencer, welcome to Daufuskie Island! I’m so pleased we can finally meet.”
Francis Abelard extended a clammy, claw-like hand, which Jerry felt obliged to shake as he entered the foyer of the mansion.
“Our host, Dr. Stiediger, sends his regrets for being unable to greet you tonight, but he will join us tomorrow.”
Jerry shivered at the old man’s touch but tried to project warmth. “Thanks so much, Dr. Abelard, for inviting me.”
“Frederick has told me so much about you.” Abelard stepped back and gave Jerry an appraising look. The tick of a clock from somewhere was all that disturbed the silence as his buzzard-like eyes took his measure.
“Henry!” The uncomfortable hush ended as Abelard switched his attention to Henry who was carrying their luggage into the entrance. “You know better than to come through the foyer. Use the back stairs.”
Neisen shot a glance of contempt at the old man whose head hung down, his eyes avoiding either of the two arrogant white men as if anticipating another insult. Jerry squirmed in embarrassment for him and took the opportunity of the diversion to study Abelard, the man Neisen had described as the world’s leading anthropologist.
His sheer bulk was striking. Probably once of a stately build, age had reduced him to a great heap of rubble, a ruin of at least three hundred pounds of disorganized flesh, draped in a black cassock.
“Henry is Gullah, a fascinating group,” Abelard went on, as if the servant were a piece of furniture. “They even have their own language. As you might expect, I have a great interest in their culture, but it is always good to make sure they remember their place, don’t you agree?” Again, he flicked a contemptuous gaze, masquerading as goodwill, at Henry. “Run along now, there’s a good lad.”
Abelard beamed at Jerry and swept an arm to his left.
“Shall we?” he said, as Jerry feeling his face burning with embarrassment, preceded him reluctantly into the dining room.
“As I said, the Gullah interest me greatly. Not just because of who they are, but because of what they represent.”
They had taken their seats at the table, and Jerry was in the process of devouring a medium-rare cut of a prime rib. Thankfully, he thought, it prevented him from having to respond to Abelard’s comment.
“And what is that, Francis?” Neisen looked up from his dinner and peered down the massive dining table at his mentor seated at its head.
“Humanity’s helplessness in the face of inevitability.”
Jerry cringed when he realized Abelard had directed his response not to Neisen, but to him. His mouth still full, he nodded and hoped that would satisfy his host. Apparently it did, because Abelard continued as if he were delivering a lecture to one of his classes, although Jerry’s research told him Abelard had not taught in over ten years.
“History, like water, flows downhill from its source and the Gullah, like the rest of humanity, is swept along by its current. Their rescue here on Daufuskie from this current’s downward pull is only temporary. All humanity feels caught in it and looks for escape in one way or another. Some seek it through a hoped-for medical breakthrough that will delay their dying, others, by overcoming humanity’s obsession with war and the establishment of a lasting peace. And some quaint souls, even in this enlightened age, still insist on reversing history’s downward pull through faith in a compassionate God.”
Abelard turned his head as he spoke and looked into the darkness outside the dining room windows. “Every man seeks an island of safety,” he said, as if to himself, “but sooner or later all are swept away by the current of history.”
Jerry had not said anything since shaking hands with Abelard in the foyer. The professor’s manner, like everything else in Stiediger’s house, seemed designed to impress and intimidate: the twin staircases curving majestically up from the foyer, this dining room with a chandelier worthy of the Palace of Versailles, the massive table dominated by a throne-like chair at its head, obviously placed there for Abelard. All this opulence declared proudly in the language of polished woods, finely worked stone, and sparkling crystal, I have the power. I am in charge.
“You speak of a river…and history’s source. What might that be, sir?” Jerry was surprised how weak his voice sounded, how his words seemed to lose themselves somewhere between his lips and the vaulted ceiling looming overhead.
However, his words obviously reached Abelard because he nodded knowingly, folded his hands together in a prayer-like pose and for several seconds said nothing. When he did speak, it was to Neisen.
“Frederick, you were right in inviting Mr. Spencer into our circle. But I am afraid he has asked the wrong question.”
Abelard glanced at Jerry. “You ask me what is history’s source. That is not how I would frame it, young man. More precisely, your query should be not what but where; that is, where in time did the river of history begin its downward plunge?”
He did not wait for a response but heaved his huge bulk out of his chair and shuffled to the door.
“Tomorrow we will discuss your question further. I think you will find the answer interesting.” Abelard gave Neisen a broken smile as they exchanged knowing glances. “It is past midnight, and I am sure you are both weary from your journey.”
“Henry.” Abelard hardly raised his voice to call the Gullah before he appeared, as if on cue. “Henry will show you to your room,” he said, gesturing at Jerry. “Sleep well.”
Half his meal uneaten, Jerry reluctantly arose and followed the servant up the stairs, aware that Neisen had stayed behind. A quick backward glance confirmed he had followed Abelard into a room across the foyer from the dining room.
“We have much to do tomorrow, Frederick,” Jerry heard the old man say just before he closed the door.
The next morning, Jerry tried not to stare at the two muscular, flint-featured guards who stood with cold detachment at the door to the dining room.
Over a huge breakfast, he and the four other young men exchanged names, but avoided revealing anything else too personal. He did learn that, like him, they had not been told what to expect at the meeting. One said he understood that they would learn the history and purpose of the society and would be asked to make a decision that would change their lives for the better. All of them speculated, privately, about what that might be, but none of them was willing to give voice to his thoughts, except for one brash member of the group who insisted that it was merely a formality.
“After all,” the tall, blond one said, “if they didn’t want us to be part of their group, we wouldn’t be here in the first place, right?”
Maybe, and maybe not, Jerry thought. Still, he was sure, all shared one common feeling—a burning curiosity about the men one called “their destiny determiners.” More specifically all of them were anxious to know how these titans would benefit their careers. He looked up, startled, when one of the guards entered the room.
“You will follow us,” he said in heavily accented English. “Dr. Abelard is ready to receive you in the great hall.”
And so it begins, Jerry thought as he and the others pushed back their chairs and followed the guards into the hall.
With the exception of Abelard, all the men in the room stood when they entered.
For the first time, Jerry had the opportunity to meet their host, Erik Stiediger. He greeted each recruit stiffly; then, like a mongoose avoiding a cobra’s bite, moved in jerky starts and stops around the room, introducing them to the other members of the group. Delicate hands, unaccustomed to work, voices deeply accented and courtly manners made their graciousness seem more theatrical than real.
When the social pleasantries were over, Stiediger called the meeting to order.
“Gentlemen,” he said crisply, “welcome to Daufuskie Island. Though I have had the honor of hosting you and our esteemed leader many times,” he gave Abelard a nod of acknowledgement, “only once before have we met on my lovely island.”
As he watched Neisen take the chair next to Abelard, Jerry wondered if Henry and his fellow Gullahs would appreciate Stiediger’s assumption he owned the whole island.
“Since we are all very busy, we will move as quickly as possible to deal with the business at hand.” He gestured toward Abelard, whose multiple chins wobbled as he smiled. “Dr. Abelard, we await with interest your remarks.”
Abelard remained seated after Stiediger’s introduction. “Thank you, Erik,” he began. “Please forgive my not standing. These ancient legs you know.” He patted a knee as the men nodded their understanding.
“I have called you together with mixed emotions,” he continued. “First, joy, as I anticipate the decisions these five young men will soon be making.” Abelard’s eyes swept the room, and his lips drew back in a smile more canine than human. “As they say in certain Christian traditions, their professions of faith.” There were chuckles as members of The Brotherhood exchanged glances as if privy to a well-kept secret.
“Like you, I have also come to this meeting anticipating our good Father Bodien’s report that the search for the talisman, the so-called mark of Cain, is almost over.”
Heads turned toward a slight, balding man in clerical garb in the corner of the room. Spencer recognized Bodien as one of the men in the pictures he had taken from Neisen’s office. He also noticed Neisen’s glare at the mention of the Priest’s name, one a quick glance from Abelard erased.
“Yes, I feel joy at the prospect of what we will hear.” Abelard fingered his signet ring, his face grave. “At the same time, I feel sorrow because of a painful duty I must carry out.”
His eyes sought Neisen’s, almost as if looking for permission— or perhaps absolution. The others cast questioning glances, obviously unprepared for Abelard’s grim announcement.
Jerry wondered how many had noticed Neisen’s hand go to his mouth a beat too late to hide a satisfied smirk.
Abelard’s tone became more upbeat. “But let us first deal with more pleasant tasks.” He gestured a bony hand toward the newcomers. “For these fine young men, this is a day of revelation, and for the rest of us a day of information, so let us move on.”
Jerry could feel the grip of Abelard’s cold eyes as they swept the room before fastening on him. Those eyes…They seemed to take on lives of their own, to become creatures with claws that grabbed his gaze, dug into his mind and rummaged about, groping for his most secret thoughts.
Much retelling had polished the story Abelard related. In conversations with Neisen, Jerry had heard it in bits and pieces but never from start to finish or with the level of intensity Abelard displayed.
“As you probably know,” he began, “primitive tribes pass on their history orally.”
Primitive tribes. Jerry remembered the old Shaman in Ruth’s favorite book, and the disdain with which Abelard had treated Henry and his Gullah ancestors.
“However, they aren’t the only ones with an oral history. Our Brotherhood has had its own for centuries. For the benefit of our young friends here, I want to retell it now. Afterwards,” Abelard paused and scanned the faces of each recruit, “you will make your decision.”
“Hugh De Payne founded our order in the thirteenth century. He did so with the purest of motives. Though born into wealth, it was never his master but rather the means by which he showed his love for God, Holy Mother Church, and the land of Christ’s birth. Through The Brotherhood, he tried to inspire that same love in other young men of privilege. He saw himself and his followers as the church’s military arm with a calling to protect those on pilgrimage to the Holy Land from the Muslim infidels.”
Abelard related how thousands of Europe’s brightest and best young men joined The Brotherhood. Called Templars or Poor Knights of Christ, they pledged fidelity, chastity, and obedience to The Brotherhood and dedicated their lives and their wealth to the service of the church. Over the next two centuries, their pooled wealth grew to such an extent that they became not only the church’s military arm but also Europe’s chief banker.
“That was a good thing,” Abelard continued, “because the cost of financing the Crusades was draining the treasuries of Europe, and its kings needed a generous banker. This was especially true of Philip IV of France. As the Crusades were ending, he found his treasury empty and his debt to the Templars enormous.
“The final blow to the Crusaders’ dream of wresting the land of Christ from Moslem domination came when the port city of Acre fell, and with it Europe’s last foothold in Palestine.
“With this final defeat, both King Philip and Pope Clement were faced with personal dilemmas. Philip needed money to replenish his bankrupt treasury and Clement needed a scapegoat to explain the defeat of a movement the church had said enjoyed the special favor of God. What better choice for achieving both goals than the Templars? They still had great wealth to be tapped, and as for blame…weren’t they at the forefront of Acre’s defenders? Could it be their cowardice had led to its fall?”
The sun had been shining brightly through the tall windows behind Abelard when they first entered the room. However, as the old man spoke, the sky became overcast; raindrops peppered the windows, and a soggy gloom, common to coastal winters, settled over the island. Outside, long pointed fronds of palmetto palms swayed in the wind, as if trying to shoo away the mist settling over them.
“The storm arrives, just as the plot thickens,” Abelard stage whispered from the gloom invading the great room. For several moments, he seemed to listen to the wind, as if waiting for it to remind him of something he had forgotten.
From his seat at the far side of the room, the evaporating light made it impossible for Jerry to see more than the barest outline of Abelard’s great bulk. Though normally calm, Jerry found himself shifting uncomfortably in his chair as the raspy voiced Abelard continued speaking from the shadows.
“Fixing blame on the Templars was easy. The church leadership’s widespread envy of The Brotherhood guaranteed no shortage of persons ready to testify to their cowardice. Gaining control of their wealth was another matter. Sanctioned by the church, the Templar enjoyed its protection. Unless…”
Spencer sensed a stirring in the shadows and in spite of his distaste for the bloated Abelard, he, too, found himself leaning forward in anticipation of the rest of the tale.
“Its wealth could not be touched unless heresy could be proved, and proving it would be harder than spreading rumors questioning the Templar’s courage. Bribed witnesses were not enough to convict them. They must be made to confess their crimes which meant—”
Without warning, the silhouette leaned forward for a moment from the shadows, and Jerry Spencer gagged as a cry caught in his throat. He prayed it was some trick of the light…the way the shadows fell across Abelard’s face, or a nightmare born of his own imagination, but he knew it was not. Nothing, not even Ruth’s love, could ever erase from his mind the vision of the spawn from hell that had been Abelard; its vulture-like head moving slowly from side to side as if searching for some dead thing to devour, its serpentine neck wrapped in folds of leprous skin, the soulless stare of its pitiless eyes seeking his. Jerry knew he was looking into the face of pure evil and this vision would haunt his dreams forever.
“They had to be made to confess,” the being that had been Abelard hissed as it drew back into the shadows, “and torture was required if a confession was to be believed.”
Again, there was a rustling sound. That thing’s reforming into Abelard, Jerry thought, feeling his mind seized by a sickening horror. Frantically, he searched the face of the recruit beside him for some hint he too saw the nightmare but his engrossed expression told him he had not. Reason abandoned him as he imagined the demonic transformation taking place within the shadows.
“You understand, for reasons that will become clear, how important it was to the church that Templar leadership be tortured.” Abelard was speaking again in classic Oxford style. “The religious carry a burden we do not share. They must hide their lust for power beneath a veneer of piety.”
Without explaining what he meant, he went on to describe in lurid detail the kind of tortures the church used to gain confessions.
Just as Jerry was wondering why Abelard had drifted from the story to focus on the grisly details of torture, he dropped the subject entirely, proceeding to describe how King Philip and Pope Clement had hatched a plot to get what they wanted.
“Witnesses were bribed to make false statements accusing the Templar of all manner of crimes. Europe’s ears tingled with tales of their consorting with the devil, offering human sacrifice, and committing homosexual acts.
“Jacques De Molay was Grand Master of the Templar at the time,” Abelard explained, “and had made Cypress his headquarters shortly before the fall of Acre. When rumors began circulating in Europe about The Brotherhood, he chose at first to ignore them, confident his God would defend their cause.
“God!” The way Abelard mouthed the holy name was blasphemous. “De Molay believed The Brotherhood’s years of faithfulness to the church would quickly silence the lies being spread, but the storm continued to grow, and the heavens were silent.
“Finally, feeling only he could defend The Brotherhood, De Molay returned to France to face their accusers. It was too late. On Friday night, October 13, thirteen o seven, Philip’s troops fanned out across France and in a matter of hours, all but small remnants of the once mighty Templar were in chains.
“What was their mistake, Mr. Spencer?”
Jerry felt as if he had been pinned in his chair by the whiplash of Abelard’s voice. He swallowed hard and forced himself to reply calmly.
“Sir, I’m not sure I understand your question.”
“I mean exactly what I said. What was the Templar’s mistake Mr. Spencer…their mistake?