The Realms Thereunder

3

Freya came out of her sleep slowly, gradually becoming aware that she was slumped forward on a table. She hoisted herself upwards and looked around. She was in her office, sitting at her desk that was littered with page after page of complex numerical equations, all of them in her own handwriting. That was odd; she thought she was . . . somewhere else. It had become so easy for her to throw herself into her work, and she went so deep into it that sometimes she literally forgot where she was.

She sighed. When did she become a mathematician?

A large book lay open in front of her, propped against the windowsill. On the two facing pages were tables of letters and numbers listed in pairs, triplets, and quadruplets-in total about a hundred rows and a dozen columns. It was headed AKV STRINGS-NOMINATIVE.

There was a smaller but much older book also open in front of her that contained very small type. The right-hand page was in Greek and the left-hand page was in English. Her eyes went to the first paragraph and read:

Now, (the) wisdom belonging to afterthought, which is an aeon, thought a thought derived from herself, (from) the thinking of the invisible spirit, and (from) prior acquaintance. She wanted to show forth within herself an image without the spirit’s [will]; and her consort did not consent. And (she wished to do so) without his pondering: for the person of her maleness did not join in the consent; for she had not discovered that being which was in harmony with her . . .

Freya rubbed her eyes and tried to remember what the text was referring to. She had gotten so involved in decoding and recoding all the nominations that she had lost perspective on the context of the words. Or maybe it was best to keep going through the text mechanically and focus on the meaning of the uncoded text.

“How’s it coming?”

Freya jumped. The reverend was standing behind her, looking at her work.

“Oh, Peter-I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were there.”

He smiled. “Perfectly alright. At least I know I’m not being a nuisance if you forget I’m even here. How is it coming?”

“Fine,” said Freya. “I’ve just finished breaking down and gridding the third chapter. Now I just have to look for patterns-that is the easiest part for me-and then retranslate. I should have the whole book done by the end of the month.”

“Good, good,” the reverend said, smiling. She could never tell how much he took in; he was always so sweet-natured.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked.

“No, no. I was just thinking that I should leave. You carry on.

I’ll see myself out.”

Freya went back to her work. She glanced over the different papers but found it difficult to see where she had left off. Why, exactly, was she doing this?

She looked at the clock. When was he getting back? It was starting to get dark. She knew she shouldn’t worry, but she couldn’t help it.

There was the sound of a key turning in the door. It opened and closed.

“Felix?”

“Hello, darling.”

She got up from the desk and went into the hallway. “How was your day?” she asked.

“Not bad, all things considered. Yours?”

“I think I’m losing my mind. I was breaking down the Secret Book of John-”

“Beautiful book.”

“Yes. Well, I was breaking it down and it all just suddenly became page upon page of meaningless numbers . . .”

“Those numbers aren’t meaningless,” Stowe stressed.

“I know. I just mean, it all became so abstract-like I lost perspective.”

“Ah. Well, perhaps it’s time to finish for the night. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll cook something.”

“No, don’t,” Freya said, putting her arms around Professor Stowe’s middle. “You’ve had just as long a day as I’ve had.”

“Perhaps, but my work is far less important than yours. Go into the lounge and I’ll bring some wine in to you.”

“Okay.” Freya gave him a peck on the cheek and went into the sitting room. On the way, she passed her office and, without even looking into the room, snaked her hand through the doorway and flicked the light off. Then she settled into the sofa and closed her eyes, just for a moment . . .

“Sweetie?”

Freya opened her eyes. Felix was standing over her, gently patting her shoulder.

“Hello,” he said, grinning.

She sat up and looked around her. “Where am-? Oh.” She was on the sofa, coffee table in front of her, with several used plates, glasses, and an empty bottle of wine on it.

“You just drifted off, you silly goose.”

“’M still hungry,” she said sleepily.

“No, you’re not-you’re just exhausted. Here, lie still, I’ll carry you to bed.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. I can-”

“No, I insist!”

“I’m far too heavy.”

“Not yet, you aren’t. There-see?”

Freya clung to his neck as he straightened up and then carried her through to the bedroom.

“My gallant knight,” she said as he lowered her down and arranged the covers over her. “Are you going to join me?”

“My darling wife. I have an appointment with the lieutenant, remember?”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“But I’ve got a few minutes. Shall I tell you a story? Something that happened to me today?”

Freya smiled and snuggled closer. “M’kay, that’d be nice.”

“I was walking along the river when I ran into a friend of mine who I thought had seen me but proceeded to walk right past me. I turned around and caught up with him and asked if anything was wrong. He said no, he was fine, but he’d just been told the most puzzling and confusing story in his life. I asked him if it would help if he shared it with me, and he said it might. As we stood there in the street, this is what he said:

“I was with a group of friends in a pub when one of our lecturers wandered in and walked directly to the bar. We waved to him, but he seemed wrapped in his own thoughts, which was odd since he wasn’t one of those absentminded academics, but a young and witty man who we all loved. He ordered a whiskey and stood staring at it, not even taking a sniff of it. I left my friends and went up to him to ask him what was the matter. This was what he said:

“I’ve just come from the hospital bed of a friend of mine. We’ve known each other since university, where he studied law. He was a very diligent soul who eventually became a high court judge, and was known for his clear-minded, evenhanded judgments. I had lost touch with him in the last ten years or so, but a week ago I heard from his wife, who informed me that he had fallen ill and that he had been troubled of late with a moral quandary that was doing him no favours due to his illness and would I mind paying him a visit to help thrash it out? I agreed, of course. When I saw my friend in his hospital bed, I knew that there was no real cause for alarm; he was still as strong and as vital as ever, but his mind seemed to be absent-he was not the sharp, incisive man I had known. At length, I managed to tease out of him the cause for his distraction. Clearing his throat and casting his eyes around the room, he replied:

“Three years ago I sat a case, which, at the time, was no more interesting than any other I’d heard during my career. The specifics of it are hazy to me, but the case itself isn’t important. Suffice to say, my judgment effected a fine and eight months in prison for a young woman with no dependents. I thought no more about the matter. It was a year later that a letter-just one sheet of paper-was delivered to my office, written by the defendant. This is what it said, verbatim:

“Dear sir-you may remember me from a case twelve months ago. It was a charge of driving under the influence-my third offence-made more serious by a possession of class B drugs-my first offence. My impression was that you were lenient with me, dismissing the drugs charge, and instead sentenced me with the full weight of the driving charge. This struck me as generous, even kind, and that made me think that a man like you would be good in a difficult situation. I hope you won’t mind, therefore, if I impose upon you to relate a story that I heard while I was detained ‘at Her Majesty’s pleasure’ that was told to me by one of the guards. Usually alert and on the ball, I one day noticed her to be confused and somewhat distant. I asked her what was he matter and this was her answer:

“I have four children, two sons and two daughters, all healthy and happy, except for the last one, my son, and that only during the last ten days. He’s a priest, by trade, in a Catholic church in a village in Norwich. We, that is, my husband and I, were visiting him last Thursday, and we were aware that he was totally distracted. It took us a solid hour of coaxing and cajoling for us to get the reason out of him. At length, he told us:

“Five days ago I was in the confessional and a person entered with the most queer story. I’m not breaking any vows or confidences- for he confessed no sins-to relate it. I will not tell you his name, all I will say is that he is a local businessman of great success. This is what he said:

“Every Thursday I volunteer at a shelter that serves meals to the homeless. We take turns at different tasks, and this day it was my turn to socialise with the guests. Just before we shut up-as we were clearing away and clearing out-an old man who was a regular there, grabbed my sleeve and pulled me into the seat next to him. He told me that he had something to tell me . . .”

Freya began to doze, slipping in and out of consciousness, trying as hard as she could to concentrate.

“I was sitting on a street corner,” Felix was saying, “when I saw a man reading a book. He had the strangest expression on his face. I went over and asked him what he was reading, and he said it was the weirdest story he’d ever come across. I asked him what it was, and this is what he said . . .”