En exclu aujourdhui, le 1er chapitre de The Divine Number sylvaintristan.wix/thedivinenumber 1 The concert in Avebury As Arthur was strumming his guitar, a warm flurry of spring air caressed Thi Mi Linh’s dark hair. Standing within the audience beside her friend Peter, she was humming the tune of Stairway to Heaven along with the band who was playing it onstage. … And its whispered that soon, if we all call the tune, then the piper will lead us to reason… And a new day will dawn, for those who stand long, and the forests will echo with laughter… Above them in the clear sky a half-moon was shining down the stone circle of Avebury. … And it makes me wonder… The song was getting into its stride. “This really is an awesome song,” Peter said. “It is!” Thi Mi Linh agreed. “And Arthur’s such a good guitarist!” “First-rate!” Peter chimed in. The band was playing the extended instrumental part now. The whole place resonated with the sounds of the guitar, the bass and the drums in a rather uncanny way. And then came the intense part. Convincingly the singer was screaming the lyrics out in a high-pitched, ear-splitting voice, somewhat remindful of the shrill notes of Robert Plant, the acclaimed vocalist of semi-mythical rock band Led Zeppelin. … There walks a lady we all kno-o-ow… Who shines white light and wants to show… How everything still turns to gold… And if you listen very hard…The tune will come to you at last… When all are one and one is all, oh yeah… Thi Mi Linh was singing out loud now. … To be a rock and not to ro-o-o-o-o-oll… As the singer held out the sharp note, Arthur played the last chords of the classical rock song of the early nineteen-seventies. … And she’s buy-uy-ing the stai-air-way…to hea-ven… The voice of the vocalist faded in the blue of night. A second of silence floated in the air, followed by a volley of applause and excited whistling to reward the rock band who’d given a talented performance that night. “Bravo!” Thi Mi Linh screamed ecstatically. “Well done, Arthur!” she yelled, as her friend and his fellow young rock performers were bowing to their public. “You’re the king of the world, Artie!” Peter jocosely shouted, raising his fist. On that early-summer Friday night, the northeastern grassy section of the Avebury circle was crowded with a bevy of local rock and roll aficionados who had come to take in this electrical music concert–women of all ages in black hipsters and pink tops or skimpy dresses, men with rock tee-shirts. With the sharp chords of the band’s own compositions, along with classics by Led Zeppelin, the stone circle had been vibrant with sounds it had probably never been acquainted with, and had thus experienced something entirely novel. But even if the original spirit of the place had somewhat transmogrified, the thrill of eternal magic that pervaded the village had unwaveringly filled the air all evening long. It should be said here, dear reader, that the story you’re about to be told is no less strange that the atmosphere that reigned in Avebury that singular evening. To claim there’s nothing mysterious in it, nothing objectively magical, nothing verging on the miraculous, would be a lie. The unprepared average reader might even be scared by what he’s going to read. It sure enough gave many boldish men the creeps, while the vision of history of many others was forever altered. In many respects it might plainly seem unbelievable. This is simply because there are stories even fiction can’t handle, let alone essays–when the apparent reality is stripped of its numberless layers of enamel and flourishes, what remains can sometimes be so astounding that even the rational, educated person is likely to be drawn in the daze of an extraordinary feeling that will bed with her till the bitter end. Nobody here is a liar, heart crossed, hoping to die–there might be no saint around, but there’s no arrant liar either. Everything is factual, from the top to the bottom line of this book that’s why it’s kind of scary, in a way. “Great concert, really,” Peter said. “Very nice,” Thi Mi Linh concurred. She turned her face toward Peter’s: “It’s really good to see you again, guys!” she said with a smile, referring both to him and Arthur. Of course at this early point in the story, you might legitimately wonder who these young people are. You’re going to be put in the picture–but ladies first, if you will. Thi Mi Linh Green (in spite of the quite intricate spelling, the name easily read “Tee Me Leen”) was most times dubbed Thi–pronounced like “tea.” She was a brisk twenty-two-year-old young woman from the region, her folks living out of a red-brick semi-detached house of Avebury Trusloe, on the hillock that rose a few hundred yards up the village of Avebury. As her name gave away, she was half-British half-Vietnamese, although the British part in her scarcely showed through: slim as a sylph and short-statured, she had straight, ebony hair and black, slit eyes that could become amazingly round when something surprised her. Her nose was typically flat and she had a funny, crescent-like mouth pointing downwards which, paradoxically, never made her look unhappy but rather coyishly mischievous. She always carried along Buzz, her little hamster, with her. The adorable tiny animal had been named so because it regularly buzzed like a mobile phone in her pocket. Born in Salisbury, the young woman had a perfect command of English, and actually couldn’t speak much Vietnamese, her mother’s native tongue. In her youth one of Thi Mi Linh’s main activities had been horse-riding, but she hadn’t pursued this interest until her university years. She was from Wiltshire, a British county with many a jewel of ancient history, as you may or may not know–including prestigious places like the Salisbury Cathedral, white horses carved into chalky hillsides, the enigmatic artificial hill of Silbury which she could see from her bedroom window and Stonehenge, the world-famous, mind-boggling Megalithic temple which lay only twenty miles south of Avebury. Such a high-status birthplace most certainly accounted for the young woman’s nutty passion for history, especially when it came to ancient one. A passion which sponged much of her time, and which probably explained why she was not involved in any steady relationship at the moment. Not that she’d never had any boyfriends–her good looks had caught the fancy of more than one candidate, as much in her teen years as of late in college. But these relationships had always been quite ephemeral, like beautiful sailing boats drifting past, and right now she wasn’t seeing anyone, a high-and-dry condition which for the first time in her life was starting to weigh over her shoulders. She’d actually told her friends just a few days before that presently her life–the mental invagination of books and studies about antique Greece and dynastic Egypt and the Mayas in Central America was rather dull and unexciting, not quite spicy enough perhaps. “Bravo!” she screamed again, almost frenziedly. “I wish I could play the axe just half as well,” Peter said regretfully. “Didn’t you try to learn at some point?” “Yeah, I did try actually! When I was fifteen. But I was spending too much time either listening to hard rock, or trying to solve math problems, to really get to assimilate the basics!” “Too bad,” the young woman said sympathetically. “I guess you’re left with no other choice than being a spectator, like me!” Peter sighed. “Oh, it’s okay. I know I’ll never be a great guitar player, but I don’t mind. Anyway, that was cool! Great place for a concert, don’t you think?” “You bet!” Still clapping her hands enthusiastically, Thi Mi Linh’s pensive mind couldn’t agree more. The concert had taken place in an exceptional location. Long before that night–more than two millennia ago, she reflected–Celtic druids must have assembled for God-knows-what sacred purposes, and well before them–nearly five thousand years ago–Megalithic sages (the builders of the stone circle) had certainly met to perform heaven-knows-what other mysterious rituals. Avebury. A countryside community which looked like a soft pastel drawing. A hamlet that boldly stretched both inside and outside a giant stone circle, thus amusingly indifferent to the incidental presence of the local archaeological marvel. Her mind bouncing through time and space, Thi Mi Linh wondered how many sacred sites in the world had endured for five millennia like this one had. Very few, undoubtedly. The ring of Avebury is one of those rare places on earth where countless generations of people have probably met to perform sundry types of celebrations, and which survives today–not completely intact perhaps, but in a decent state of preservation. That evening, a twenty-first-century rock band had carried out a wild musical show in the sanctum of the age-old site, sparking it back to life in a most original fashion. The giant stone circle was of Megalithic origin. It should perhaps be explained what this truly barbaric term means. A megalith is a “huge stone” in Greek. Thi Mi Linh, a student of ancient history, knew that more than anyone else. The Megalithic people, whom historians themselves poorly knew, let alone general public, once reigned all over the islands and coasts of Europe, from sun-neglected Scandinavia to the arid bumpy plains of southern Spain through green Britain–for thousands of years. Of course, that was well before our comparatively short so-called Christian era. They’re thought to have revered the “Great Goddess of the Universe”–an all-powerful female deity watching over them. Later, their brilliant maritime civilisation plied deep into the Mediterranean islands, presumably even attaining the Jordan Valley in the Holy Land. Astonishingly little is known of these fascinating people. Historians can merely observe they didn’t have any form of writing, and yet they were exceptional navigators and indefatigable stone erectors well before the first limestone block of an Egyptian pyramid was even put up. Most of them are not even sure any more they belonged to a single, united civilisation. Still today, the casual rambler strolling across the Western Europe countryside can hit upon one among the tens of thousands of dolmens–that is, Megalithic tombs for the great which have proudly survived through time. Or the innumerable phallic standing stones that can still be admired here and there. Although the purpose of these has never been clearly established, one can hazard that the local Neolithic folk assumed that the Great Goddess, in Her immeasurable hallowed loneliness in Her infinitely remote heavenly adobe, would at times get bored up there and pass by upon occasions to somehow divinely enjoy the stone circles that had been set there for Her. Literally hundreds of these stone rings grace the rural areas of Britain and Ireland, partaking in the timeless magic of our isles. But the stone ring of Avebury in Wiltshire has something special about it, this can hardly be denied. It’s the largest of all stone circles, not only in Britain but also in the whole world, which makes people of the region, moderately speaking, rather toffee-nosed and cocky. Although many stones have been felled, particularly by careless farmers during the eighteenth century, part of the inner two circles and a fair portion of the outer grand circle of massive sarsen stones still stand to bear witness of the immense sacred place Avebury must’ve been in a distant, long-forgotten past. Just think, some of the stones are over twenty feet in height, no less. Surrounding the great circle, a deep ditch had been dug out for some obscure reason. Many skilled archaeologists think it was once filled up with clear water, making the place look like an island then. And enclosing this ditch is a grass-covered twenty-foot-high embankment, cut open at the four cardinal points, that bestows the whole place its aura of spectacular grandeur–a bit like the arena of the Coliseum in Rome, to take a much more modern comparison. According to some specialists, Avebury might well have been the most sacred site of Europe in its own time–joking apart. But its precise function, regrettably, is yet to be explained. Mystery is to be met, it’s been said, in every corner of Wiltshire. Avebury is no exception. You should see the place on certain cold winter days, when the dormant grass is covered in fleecy-white snow, the massive stones gleaming with the reflection of weak sunlight on the small patches of flaming snow clinging to their sides–creepy and supernatural, as the old Avebury residents say. Now, where were we–oh yes, the applause! As the rock band broke up after the last bows, Thi Mi Linh asked: “So what are we doing now, Peter?” “I suppose we can meet Arthur backstage, Thi.” “All right,” she said, “let’s go meet Arthur!” Peter and Thi Mi Linh threaded their way through the disassembling crowd, a peculiar blend of red-haired or blondish youngsters and old-timers nostalgic for the hippie period. Backstage, they found Arthur, who was chatting with the singer, the bassist and the drummer of the band. The words used were uninterestingly trivial, the language as trite and slangy as it can get on any British Friday evening: “Hey, guys!” Arthur said. “How you doin’, American boy?” “Pretty good, Art,” Peter said with a broad smile. “Nice performance! And the choice of Led Zeppelin for the finale–just ace!” “Thanks, mate. Hi, Thi!” “Hello Arthur. Nice concert, honest! Buzz liked it too.” Thi Mi Linh’s gemmed arm dipped into her breast pocket for her little hamster and let the animal run round her neck. She warily took hold of it again, gently playing with it. The little animal was on her thin wrist, looking downwards with lively eyes. “Say hello, Buzz!” Thi Mi Linh said, before dropping him back into her pocket. Buzz slid down along the inside texture of the pocket with a muted whoosh. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Frank said with an unpretentious grin. He was the vocalist and had a banana-shaped cowlick on his brow right where you expected to find it. “Frankie.” “Thi Mi Linh Green,” Arthur clarified. “And this is Peter Crystal. My best secondary school mates!” Arthur introduced his two old friends to his fellow musicians. Frank took up a cigarette, tapped it twice on the packet to spike it a little, and lit it up, whereupon he seemed to eye Thi Mi Linh with curious interest for a fleeting moment, and puffed the smoke aside. Then he and the musicians excused themselves because they had to tidy things up. “Abyssinia, guys,” Frank drawled. After a moment or two, Arthur said: “I must help with the tidying. Let’s meet in, say, fifteen minutes?” “Sounds good,” Peter said, nodding, his hands in his pockets. “Don’t forget your guitar,” Thi Mi Linh directed. “I won’t,” Arthur said in a nice smile that revealed his dimples.
Posted on: Tue, 20 May 2014 20:10:13 +0000
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