“And you insist that the Protocols were composed by pigs?”
“Yes.”
“Animals domesticated in China?”
“Yes.”
“And these pigs wrote in Chinese?”
“The symbols of jia-gu wen to be precise. They worked with shells and bones. The compilation of the Protocols came later, the translation I am about to give you much later still.”
“Absurd.”
Jack accepted the thin, leather-bound volume that Arthur held out to him. It was supple, much worn, the pages clean yet showing the effect of many readers. Jack’s reasoning, naturally sceptical, told him to return it at once, that the world he was being invited to enter was too bizarre; and yet the pleasure of a secret book was delicious. He weighed it familiarly in his hand, turning it over; then he could not resist flicking through the script that he was told would be of Latin and Church Slavonic.
“You’ll not regret it, Jack.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain. This will shake the Society to its core.”
“So you say.”
“I do, Jack.”
Arthur turned round, his practiced, genteel movements no more pronounced than those of the many men gathered in the hall to discuss that evening’s presentation. Despite this caution, Jack thought he caught a look from Symms, but it was quickly gone and he gave his attention to the friend standing in front of him.
“Jack”, Arthur said in a low voice; “this book is not for me. I joined the Society to meet like-minded people, perhaps gain some influence or power. I thought with my education that there might be some scope for me to make a contribution, however humble, to an otherwise indifferent world.
You know I have never been a true student, I lack the patience and time, yet even one with an intellect as limited as mine can recognise an important find.”
“Which is why you stole it.”
“Borrowed it;” the undergraduate grin returned. “I took it from a museum that regarded the Protocols as a quaint, Russian artefact. It is more important than that.”
“And why me?”
“Because, Jack; you are practically a mystic yourself. Despite that prune of a wife.”
Jack said nothing.
“Nothing would please you more than to immerse yourself in a text written six thousand years ago. You would be bringing the Protocols to the whole, English-speaking world.”
“Perhaps.”
Arthur shifted once more, his manner casual, public. He spoke as though discussing an indifferent supper.
“And you must forgive me for what I say about Sarah. She might indeed be a great medic, despite her sex; but she is obsessed with this women’s issue. Votes mean nothing to the Society. We want to get the order right, not who chooses it.”
Jack flicked again. The print was spare, each protocol, a verse of prose, occupying a single page; there were twenty-four in all. Again he felt an urge to return the book, but he resisted. The face of his friend told him that Arthur believed, and this certainty intrigued him. He thought of the Russian priest, disappeared by the Okhrana in the 1860s; this popular story was well-known, the arrest giving a mythic status to the man. It seemed strange that he should be holding the priest’s book.
“What do you know of this man?” he asked.
“Only what you do. He was a mystic, of wealthy parents. He worked among the peasants of his father’s lands, believing they should take control of their own lives. He is an example of an agrarian socialist, if you will, which is why he has come to the attention of so many important people.”
“And his arrest?”
“He was arrested shortly after this book went to print. The secret police seized and destroyed any copies they could find. That is why we are so lucky that this made it to the British Museum.”
“And you don’t think it is strange?”
“I think it providential, Jack. This book means more than the journey of Gilgamesh; it makes a trifle of the Bible. And Fr Sergius knew exactly what he was on to. When you read these protocols you will see that they have a perfect understanding of our society. We have a duty to act.”
“Do we?”
“Yes. And now you must make up your mind, Jack. Either you return the book and forget it; or you put it in your pocket and read it later.”
The urgency of Arthur’s voice forced him to act, and though Jack might have questioned more, he opted to keep the book for now. When it was hidden he looked up and was taken aback by the Secretary’s stare. The man no longer bothered to disguise his actions; he was at home in the hall, Logan Place, and he showed all the importance of his position as he advanced across the room of solid, unostentatious expense. Arthur, noticing him as well, nodded at the man’s approach.
“Mr Downing.”
“Mr Symms.”
“I think you should circulate, Mr Downing. I’m sure Mr Knightley here is already familiar with your opinions.”
Jack made to move away with Arthur. He paused as Symms raised his hand, indicating that he should wait. The Secretary smiled warm eyes from behind his lenses; he seemed easy, gentle, caring, though this manner brought a hint of threat.
“Mr Downing tells me you will be of use to us,” Symms began.
“He did?” Jack asked.
The eyes flashed a quick study, the soft features briefly keen; then the face relaxed, benign and wizened once more. As with Arthur he seemed at once unhurried, yet intense, and Jack wondered what he knew. He chose to say nothing.
“Some people find our ways difficult to accept,” Symms began again after their pause.
“They are different.”
“Yes; I suppose they are at first. And yet this difference is not sufficient to keep you away, Mr Knightley. This is your fourth visit.”
“It is.”
There was a new pause, an explanation was required, and Symms was waiting. Jack obliged.
“I am intrigued,” he said.
“I see.”
“I would scarcely..........”
“........have credited your ignorance of the world, Mr Knightley.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
A further look, this time studying the invisible bulge beneath his jacket, and Jack was certain that Symms was considering the book, questioning Arthur’s recommendation. Whether Symms resolved his doubts, or not was unclear; the man said nothing of his thoughts, nor did he long continue his study. He turned rather, lightly, to the rest of the room, where the groups of men continued their earnest conversations. Symms was choosing his next move carefully.
“And now I too must circulate, Mr Knightley.”
“Certainly.”
“You will do your best.”
“I always do.”
“I look forward to reading it.”
That was it, Symms had said it, but the Secretary showed no sign of his deceit; nor was their embarrassment in the acknowledgement that he, a respectable public figure, was supporting the theft of public property. If anything, the disclosure added to the Secretary’s ease.
“There are many men,” he said, “who would gladly have taken on the translation.”
“I suppose there are.”
“But Arthur thought that your literary style would add to its appeal.”
“Thank you.”
“Not yet, Mr Knightley. We want the book to be read, so you have been chosen.”
“I have not made up my mind.”
“There is that. And I have told Arthur that you will make up your mind before I see you next.”
Symms moved off in the direction Arthur had taken. Alone again Jack felt doubtful, a sceptic among believers. He watched the groups in their busy chat; there was some familiar humour, though the conversations were mostly absorbed and serious. He wondered if he should join them, it was the pursuit of such intense discussion that had motivated him to come along with Arthur in the first place; then he thought about the book, he was at once confused and intrigued, and he chose to leave quietly.
Outside, the cool of the January air, the sharp winter’s breeze, cleared his mind. He was in the east end, surrounded by slums; and conscious of the danger, he lifted his collar, dropped his head and walked quickly. It took him an hour to reach the quieter suburb of Bow. There he found that Sarah had not returned, and he retired to the small study at the rear of their terraced house. He placed the book on the desk, his high Russian returning, but struggled as Sergius slipped occasionally into dialect.
Men gather in their cities, the book began, too populous to survive on the patches of earth that they allow for their homes. This removal from the natural world is their weakness, and with this contradiction comes the inevitability of their downfall.
Men cannot hope to organise the living they create, it is built upon subjugation and disorder, and though they parade as Masters, certain will be their collapse.
That brothers and sisters is our future; as long as men think to raise pigs our survival is secure. We then must domesticate men to rely upon our order, and when their world crumbles ours will grow. Such rule is coming.
“Absurd”, Jack said aloud; “completely absurd”.
©
2011 Padraig De BrúnTo read Chapter 2 click here.
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