The Street Had No Name

Chapter 11

SOMEWHERE, In Its Own Time

The room was dark, light filtering in through the shutters covering the windows that ran from floor to ceiling. The chamber was some sort of workroom, perhaps a laboratory or the like. Down one side ran a workbench like those you would expect to find in a science room in an old school with a collection of things that looked scientific. In the centre of the place was a table upon which were stacked books and other things of learning.

In the middle, a glass box, well it appeared glass so that would do for the moment. Inside, seeming to glow in its own light was a scroll. It took pride of place there, in this room, and there could be no doubt it was an important artifact, made evident by the books and other papers that had been unceremoniously dumped on the floor nearby to make space for it.

Around the walls where charts and diagrams, shelves with bottles like some old chemist shop in one of those recreated pioneer villages. This room was old; it gave no quarter to any technology that would have been considered modern elsewhere. Its machinations were definitely those of old arts, old skills and old magic. Not a power point, computer screen or the like to be seen anywhere.

At the far end of the room were doors in the centre of the wall, like the windows they ran floor to ceiling and one could see how effective the draft would be when both door and window were open. This place was a warm, hot place, already the room had a heat about it that was suggesting such and from the light, it was not yet the full day.

The ceilings disappeared into the dull of the room but it was evident that this place was no workman’s hut somewhere; it was palatial to say the least, although so old, perhaps that was the wrong word for it.

The man was tall, gaunt in appearance, yet solid in his presence. The team that followed was a mix match of sizes and shapes, all subservient to this fellow, which was evident by their station in the entourage. The way they all followed like a gaggle of tramp steamers in the wake of one of Her Majesty’s Man o’ War’s on an Atlantic crossing.

With little effort, a turn of the lever-like handle and the doors pushed back quietly to let the light from the corridor beyond swim over the room, they entered. One would have expected this room to be covered with the dust of a millennium, well that would be the image one would have of some old wizard’s tower room made popular by the black and white minds of a bevy of directors in the infancy of the film industry, but that was not so. As the light pushed the dark back and out of the room, the true utility of the place was made apparent.

This was a room where everything had a place and there was no doubt minions were dispatched to keep it clean and “ship shape”. Except for The Scroll and the off-hand endeavours to afford it its place at the table, everything was where it should be. This alone underscored the importance of the thing inside the clear box, now shining in the natural light.

Two of the men at the back of the convoy moved to the windows and pulled the shutters back and across to one side as they folded in the middle. The light was not as bright as would have been expected, showing that the windows were like French doors opening out onto a breeze way and beyond, gardens of solid green foliage.

They moved to the table, forming a rough semi-circle around the place. Quickly, the two window men picked up the piles of books and things and carried them away to the benches on the other wall and stacked them with ceremony, out of harm’s way.

The congregation stood silently waiting for their return and then, as one, focused on the tall man, now with his hands on either side of the glass, crystal, whatever it was, box.

Nothing was said. No words at least.

He turned to face the others. They moved back a little to afford the leader a little space, his head was heavy, chin against his chest, in a supplication that one would expect to see form a Sunday morning evangelist preacher just before the recognition of the fifteen millionth dollars received at the telethon. That look of pride he has in his ability to get what he wants with little more than a very well timed series of “can you say alleluias” and “praise the lord’s”. Now, he lifted his head, a slight glint at the corner of his mouth appeared as a drop of spittle formed which disappeared with a flick of his tongue through closed lips.

He lifted his head, a smile from ear to ear. “Brothers, this is it. It is back with us.”

They all smiled, would have cheered if that had been the way of things here, nothing was said but all was felt. The Scroll was back where they felt it belonged. What that meant was not known to many, save these people here and a handful in the scheme of things elsewhere. The scroll was back, the time was right. Soon it would be time.