A flurry of footfalls echoed down the side alley. The syncopated rhythm of Blake, Mary and the dog slowed to a walk as they emerged into the small paved churchyard in front of St Mary Abchurch. According to Blake’s calculation, the shadow cast by the Monument would have fallen exactly on the site of the church.
Sitting in a tucked away corner off King William Street, the church’s simple exterior looked anything but impressive. If it weren’t for the 50-foot-high tower and leaded spire, the building would have resembled a featureless red-bricked public hall. As they approached the main doors, Blake stopped to read the public information sign fixed to the wall.
St Mary Abchurch
The church dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary has stood on this site since the 12th century. The name ‘Abchurch’ is a corruption of the word ‘Upchurch’, referring to the church’s position on comparatively high ground. Following its destruction in 1666 during the Great Fire of London, the church was completely rebuilt by Sir Christopher Wren. Work on the new church commenced in 1681 and was completed in 1686.
Blake folded his arms in satisfaction. ‘This must be the place,’ he said, his heart accelerating in his chest. The large doors gave out a creak as Blake stepped inside the deserted church. A look of amazement bloomed on his face.
From the outside, there was nothing to suggest of Wren’s spectacular design within. The ceiling was in the form of an impressive painted dome, probably some forty feet across. Sun streamed in from the four circular windows set at regular intervals into the roof. Like a mini Sistine Chapel, the artwork adorning the ceiling was stunning and expertly executed. Painted in oils directly onto the plaster, the design formed two horizontal bands lining the ceiling.
The lower band was composed of eight seated female figures painted to represent sculptures. The upper band formed a choir of angels and cherubs all staring in adoration at a golden cloud, its form taking central position on the dome. In the centre of the cloud were painted a series of Hebrew letters.
‘Look,’ said Blake wide-eyed and pointing up to the characters. ‘The letters make up the Hebrew name of God.’
Mary craned her head trying to take it all in. Her focus moved like a searchlight across the letters.
‘It’s all too much of a coincidence,’ said Blake. ‘A Wren church in exactly the position marked out by the Monument. The centrepiece of the church the Hebrew name of God. This place must hold the key to something.’
Particles of dust floated in the air, highlighted by the shafts of brilliant sunlight pouring in from the ceiling windows. With the weight of the magnificent painted dome supported entirely through the walls and without the need for additional supporting columns, Wren’s genius had created the illusion of tremendous space in a relatively small area.
Blake’s attention lowered and scoured the interior of the church. Hanging on the wall off to the side of the grand wooden altarpiece was a board listing the names of the rectors stretching from 1323 to the current day. Blake worked his way down the uninterrupted list to 1666 and the name of John Gardiner, who was rector of St Mary’s during the Great Fire. Gardiner would have discussed the designs for the new church with Wren himself, he thought as he started a path into the centre of the church.
‘Where is it?’ he said with frustration. Doubt soon entered his mind. He wheeled slowly around on his feet, the interior of the church spinning in his eyesight. ‘There must be something here.’ He felt the weight of the moment pressed down on him. Time was running out. The Sirius alignment was at midnight.
‘So, what are we looking for exactly?’ said Mary.
Blake experienced a moment of bewilderment. ‘I wish I knew.’ He slumped into a pew and suddenly felt adrift at sea with no sight of land. A surge of anger shot through his mind. Blake banged his fist down on the pew. There was an uncomfortable silence and then Blake reasserted, ‘This must be the place.’
The glimmer of a thought passed across his mind. ‘Perhaps whatever we are looking for is outside,’ he said trying to cling to some kind of hope. A second later, Blake was on his feet striking out towards the door. Outside, the three of them fanned out and independently surveyed the church exterior. After several minutes circling the church, Blake met Mary coming back the other way. She greeted him with a shake of her head. Blake’s eyes dropped to the ground despondently.
‘Maybe we should take a look at the tower?’ she said, scratching at her thatch of hair. ‘The stairs were—’
Blake stopped her with a waving hand. His attention was riveted upon a large stone forming part of the base of the wall. Wiping the sweat from his top lip, he crouched down to get a better look. Set into the face of the stone was a jet-black metal disc. Stamped into the disc’s surface were a date, 1681, and a three-letter word, ‘Hod’. Blake fell onto his backside, his eyes drilling into the metal plaque.
‘Hod, what does that mean?’ said Mary with a bemused tone.
‘Hod is part of the Tree of Life,’ he answered.