A private trader of furs and spices, pocket watches and ivory, Glenn Cormier had traveled as far as any British naval captain, and his pay was much better. His two-masted vessel did not require a crew, and the deck hand was grateful to Glenn for feeding him and allowing him to see more of the world than his imagination could encompass.

Today Glenn docked at Billingsgate, the great London fish market district. He told Alvie, the deck hand, to stay with the ship. Glenn hardly ever took him out in public. The last time was two months ago at Hastings, when Alvie needed to be fitted for a new pair of shoes. Glenn knew that Alvie preferred to stay huddled safely in the ship's hull, where the piercing stares and cold words of the public could not reach. There he often found amusement with the exotic cargo, which sometimes included small, playful monkeys from the African coast.

Glenn stepped onto the dock and turned to Alvie, who was standing in the boat's stern.

"Fetch the package for me and I'm off," he told the boy.

Alvie nodded quickly, and he scampered down below. In a few moments he emerged with a carefully bundled item and, with infinite care, he handed it to Glenn It resembled a long, curved cylinder, and Glenn held it snugly under his left arm.

"Be wary," he advised the boy, and was gone.

As of late Glenn had enjoyed prosperity from his trading ventures, but there was talk on the streets of increasingly severe penalties for blackmarketeers. Rumors of midnight cargo checks by soldiers and certain ships suddenly sinking were everywhere. As Glenn walked away from the wharf, the cobblestoned streets were abuzz with vague uneasiness, and huddled figures quickly whispered to each other in nooks and doorways.

The proper Victorian gentleman scorned such pungent and roguish places as the Billingsgate fish market, but Glenn was at home with the area, where policemen were few. He pulled off his soily cap and ran his fingers through his thick brown hair, filling his lungs with foggy English air. Proceeding up Boltolph Lane in the direction of Eastcheap, Glenn turned right, at number thirty-two.

Before him was a gateway leading to a rather spacious courtyard. Old-fashioned buildings rose on either side, mostly occupied by fruit merchants, who were plentiful in that area. He approached an old woman who had a cart of apples.

"How much?" he inquired, lifting one of them.

"Fivepence for a right good bag," she told him, peering at his face and then at the large parcel he carried.

"Too much," he said, playing the game. "Look here, this one's got three wormholes in it!"

The old woman snickered. "Fourpence gets the bag, and you can even 'av all the worms you find for free!"

"No," Glenn said with mock consternation, "one is all that I'll offer you."

The woman looked truly wounded. "Why, I'd sooner lend meself to practices of ill repute!"

"I doubt you'd have many customers."

And before she could respond, Glenn paid her original price and took a bag of apples. Her smile was almost motherly.

Munching on the apples as he walked, Glenn headed for St. George's Church, where he would pray to St. Boltolph, the Saxon saint whose church used to stand on the south side of Thames Street before it was destroyed in the great fire of 1666. Boltolph was the patron saint of travelers and sea-faring folk, and Glenn would pray to him at each new port, leaving some money or some food behind.

But this time he would offer his patron saint something more.

Glenn stood outside St. George's and crossed himself, as was his custom. The church, designed by the famous architect Sir Christopher Wren, had a remarkable stone tower with a unique entasis and no bell turret. He entered through the church's two massive doors, walking through an interior that was divided into a nave and two aisles by four composite columns. The ceiling above the columns was flat, but in the nave, or central section of the church, the ceiling was arched.

A handsomely carved pulpit stood in the chancel, next to the altar. Glenn proceeded to this section, where an inscription to the memory of William Beckford, twice Lord Mayor of London, graced a stone tablet. There he kneeled.

"Prayer," came a voice from the shadows, "is done from the pews; unless, of course, you are a priest?"

Glenn stood. "I am not."

"Ah," the other figure said, coming a little closer, "I know you, don't I?"

"Yes you do, Rector MacColl. My name is Glenn Cormier. I last paid you a visit three months ago. Remember?"

The old man came closer. "You are the one who left us the silver coins?"

"The silver was left for St. Boltolph," Glenn corrected.

The old man coughed. "Yes, yes. St. Boltolph. Of course. I remember. You make your living from the sea, do you not?"

"Fishing," Glenn said.

The rector chuckled. "Fishing, eh? Donating that pouch of silver coins sounds like you've been fishing things out of people's pockets."

"Fishing," Glenn repeated. "It has many forms, yes. When I speak of fishing I allude to the richness of the sea, and while some fish downward into its depths, I prefer to fish across its length and breadth into lands dark and exotic, with St. Boltolph as my guide and watcher."

The rector was now keenly interested. He came up to Glen and furrowed his white, bushy eyebrows in thought and speculation.

"Glenn Cormier," the man said, "do you know what it means to be a follower of St. Boltolph?"

"Well, I know that it implies Saxon heritage..."

"No, no, no," he said. "Not that."

"What then?"

"When one worships Boltolph," the man said, "one stands against darkness and opression. During the years of pestolence, beggars would congregate at the city gates, and Boltolph would watch over them, protecting them against the blackness of death. The people built him chapels and shrines, like the one that was once on Thames Street, but the evil was strong. Boltolph's church burned in 1666, the year of Satan. Few worshipped him after that, and for a time, the evil thrived." The rector's voice was but a whisper. "But now, in the silence of the stone, in the hardness of the marble, in the dampness of the grave, I swear to you, Boltolph lives again. Sometimes, in the stillness of the night, in the darkness and silence of this church, my eyes have beheld candles that suddenly ignite. The symbolic light of Boltolph's patronage. There are stirrings in this place."

The old man looked upon the altar, transfixed. "I think that Boltolph moves among us.....and..."

"What?" Glenn asked. "What is it?"

The old man turned ashen.

"He is followed closely by the beast."

Then, from somewhere, there came a whisper.

"Wanton..."

The rector turned swiftly, but beheld no one.

"Who speaks?" Glenn demanded.

"Wanton..ununified..."

"Who is there?" the rector asked.

The reply came: "No one. The wind. The night. The blood." There was hideous laughing.

"The blood," it repeated. "The stone. The axe. The wood. The pain."

Falling to his knees, the old man began reciting the Lord's Prayer.

From inside his jacket Glenn withdrew a knife.

"If you be a man, then you will die!"

"I am," said the voice, "the dead. The torturer. The screamer. The outcast...

"The One."

A wind arose, and it swept away the light.

From all around the altar, there was chanting, as if a choir surrounded them.

"What do they sing?" Glenn asked the rector.

"It is a black prayer," came his terrified reply. "In Nominae Satanas."

The darkness was absolute. The chanting persisted, became louder, hurt their ears. Glenn dropped the useless knife.

"Ekas fo ycrem. Ekas fo ssendam. Nekasrof."

"Boltolph!" Glenn cried, unveiling his package at last. It was the tusk of a white elephant. Glenn placed it upon the altar.

"Boltolph!" he repeated more urgently. "Patron of the viator, provider to the poor, lord of the light, guide me!"

A beam of brilliant radiance shot down from the church's central dome. It was quickly followed by another, and another.

The beast groaned.

Spears of light filled the chapel, and from above, a figure descended, bathed in white. It walked across the church, up to the altar, laid its hand upon the offering of the ivory tusk, and turned to Glenn.

Boltolph spoke:

"Let the axis of disunion reverse itself! Seek out my karma, imprisoned in the past...in the east. Pacify. Sanctify. Solidify."

Glenn's very surroundings began to fade.

"All worlds are one," said Boltolph. "All worlds are one."

And before the transference was complete, Boltolph gave one final command:

"Seek out Nur Jahan."

* * *

The dry and dusty Plain of Woe, through which the Jumna River flowed, served as a highway between the two great cities of Delhi and Agra in northern India. For one hundred and twenty miles this plain stretched, dotted only by weeds and the occasional traveler or caravan, going to and coming from the cities of the king, Jahangir.

The year was 1623.

Glenn awoke to a mouthful of hard, gritty sand. The stuff seemed to be everywhere--even in the sky--and he spat quickly. Next he noticed the heat. Ninety degrees, easily, he figured.

"Where the hell am I?" he mumbled.

As if in response, he heard the baying of a camel in the distance, just beyond a hill of sand. He got to his feet, sunk a bit, and began trudging along. He wore no socks, and the hot sand seared his ankles. Ten yards.. .twenty yards. He would have given his ship's sextant just to be walking along the cool and pleasant shores of the Isle of Wight.

"Ho!" someone yelled. "Dalan u mahal?"

Glenn looked up. It was the camel rider.

"Dalan u mahal?" he repeated.

Glenn frowned. "I'm sorry but I have no idea what you're saying. Could you please tell me where I am?"

"Roe! Roe!" the other suddenly said. "Sir Thomas Roe, are you not sir?"

Glenn thought. His days in reform school taught him that Sir Thomas Roe was the British ambassador to India in the early seventeenth century.

His location and time suddenly hit him.

"Wring my cock!" he cursed.

The camel rider looked quite puzzled.

"I am not understanding you sir."

"Oh, uh, never mind," Glenn said quickly. "You speak English."

"Yes sir," the other said proudly.

"What was that you were saying before?"

"I asked you sir 'Dalan u mahal?' It means 'Domestic or royal'--an informal way of asking you your status."

"So, what would Sir Thomas Roe be?"

"Foreign" the other said, "but important. Are you not Roe?"

Glenn weighed his response. "Well, uh, where is the king?"

"In Agra," the man said.

"And where are we?"

"Ten miles from Delhi sir."

"Mmm," Glenn said, searching for his best snooty Brit accent. "Well, you see, I am in dire need of some privacy-- the rigors of ambassadorship and all that. Is there any chance that anyone in Delhi might recognize me?"

"That sir is unlikely," the man said. "The king has taken his most important courtiers with him, and the common people are not allowed to mingle with the king's officials. The only person in Delhi who would recognize you as Sir Thomas Roe is the king's wife, Nur Jahan."

Glenn swallowed, hard.

"Why hasn't the king taken his wife to Agra?"

"She is ill," he said. "Also, the king has other wives to accompany him, although Nur Jahan is the Padshah Begam, or as you say in English, 'Principal Wife'."

"And you're sure my visit won't disturb her?"

"She will be in the private gardens most of the day sir. You will not disturb her. You are not even expected here for one month or more."

"All right, then," Glenn said. "Help me to mount this smelly beast and we'll be off to Delhi."

As they rode toward the city, they talked.

"By the way, what is your name?"

"My name is Akbar sir. I was named after our great Jahangir's father, the late king who established the Mughal people here."

"And where did you learn English?"

"Sir," he said, "we are not an uncivilized nation. Our libraries stock books from around the world, our scholars often give public teachings, and our king, Jahangir, prizes the values of foreign cultures. Do you not know this?"

Glenn nodded quickly, but said nothing.

Akbar went on to tell of his people, the Mughals, who arrived in Hindustan (India) from the central Asian steppes in the early sixteenth century. He proudly spoke of how Delhi and Agra were designed by the Mughals to reflect a world of order and beauty. With their tombs and mosques, palaces and gardens, the Mughals brought grace and enhancement to a chaotic nation.

As his companion spoke, Glenn could not help but think of India's future, which he knew would be governed by Britain. Soldiers with guns would kill the people, great white hunters would kill the animals, and slowly but surely the true identity of the nation would suffocate and nearly die.

But that was in the haze of the future.

Now they approached the imperial city.

Color and sound were everywhere. Merchants haggled in the open market streets. Veiled women wearing burqas and palanquins silently strode past. Old men played games with colored beads, sitting on the flat earth and laughing.

Glenn and Akbar rode through the streets, hardly attracting more than casual stares.

"Is it always like this here?" Glenn asked.

"No sir," Akbar replied, smiling. "It's usually busier."

Directly ahead of them was the Red Fort, a massive enclosure that was the hub of the city. They entered it through a pair of ornate gates, where all men were free to pass through. Some would go to the Hall of Public Audience, a roofed structure surrounded by colored tenting and a fence. Here they would be heard by the emperor, Jahangir. As Akbar and Glenn passed, the emptiness of the hall confirmed the emperor's absence.

Between this hall and the Jumna River were the emperor's private apartments. Glenn noticed a completely enclosed zenana, and Akbar told him that the chief sultana Nur Jahan resided within, separated from the other, lesser wives. To the left of this was the Hall of Private Audience, where trusted officials would advise and have discourse with the king. This, too, was also empty.

"I wonder why the emperor wanted to go to Agra," Glenn said. "It seems like this place is just perfect."

"Some say the emperor prefers Agra," Akbar told him. "It is close to the dream city of Fatehpur Sikri, which his father the king had built, flooding an entire plain to make a pleasure lake. Jahangir often goes there. It restores him, I think sir."

Glenn nodded. "Tell me about Nur Jahan."

Akbar looked at him, then looked away. "She is a good Padshah Begam," he said. "Nur Jahan is very smart, very respected. Coins are even minted with her semblance sir. Some even say that she advises the emperor from behind a curtain at state dinners.. .but I know not of this. I am just a humble student sir, unversed in royal protocol."

"Earlier you said she was ill?"

"Yes sir. A most unusual illness."

"How do you mean?"

Akbar lowered his voice to an almost inaudible pitch. "An illness of the spirit, some say. I do not know."

"Very strange indeed," Glenn said. "Tell me, does she speak English?"

Akbar looked offended. "Of course she does sir, as well as Latin, Turkish and some Chinese. She is the Empress."

Digesting this information, Glenn asked his companion to show him to his room. He explained that he needed rest, and Akbar understood, guiding him through the incredible walled fort to an area where official guests stayed.

"You will be comfortable here?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," Glenn said. "I'll be fine."

"Then I will notify Nur Jahan of your presence."

"No," Glenn said, "don't do that She is ill."

"I must notify her," Akbar said, "regardless." Glenn had no choice but to agree, and Akbar left.

The room was lovely. Delicate tapestries hung from the walls. An immense and inviting canopy bed with red satin sheets sprawled in the center. The furniture was exquisite, and since the Jumna River flowed nearby Glenn even felt moderately cool.

And yet he needed a plan. The facade of elegance would soon vanish and he would probably be thrown into some viper-infested pit if he couldn't succeed in reaching Nur Jahan. And not only that, he had to convince her to trust what he said, and he didn't even know what to say.

Slumping into a chair, Glenn buried his head in his palms. He could feel the weight of his situation bearing down on him. He knew it was all so desperate, so unplanned. But his love of St. Boltolph was absolute. An answer would come. A door would open. The link between the two worlds would appear.

He waited for darkness.

*

Under the cloak of the moon he found her, wandering through the imperial gardens, and she did not question his presence. She expected it.

"I have dreamed of the orris," she said to him, gracefully touching a golden flower with the tips of her fingers. "I have dreamed of the scepter. I have dreamed of the crown. I have dreamed of the tomb. A place of infinite shadow, trapping light. I have dreamed of winged angels bearing lyres. All these things I have dreamed, but shall no more."

"It need not be so," Glenn said.

"Ah, but it is. There are no promises in sorrow. There is no hope in hell." Just as gracefully, she crushed the golden flower. "As of late, all my dreams are but one, endlessly repeated. In this dream I am walking along a street paved with stones, up to a church that is burning. Although I shouldn't walk inside I do, through the blazing inferno, and I am unburned. I feel sorrow, even though the religion is not my own, and I begin to cry. My tears serve as fuel for the flames, and they rush toward me, and I am engulfed in fire. That is my dream."

"St. Boltolph," Glenn said. "You dreamt of the church of St. Boltolph."

"Boltolph," she said, "I know this name. I remember..."

"What?"

"In the church..."

"Yes?"

"When I was burning. St. Boltolph was in the church...." She closed her eyes very tightly. "There was something else...something dark, cold, like..pain....but worse. Agony, suffering, horror..."

Nur Jahan shivered.

"This thing, this beast," Glenn said, "we call it Satan."

The woman's eyes looked into his own, and slowly, the words formed:

"He spoke to me."

"What?"

"He spoke to me," she said, "but I did not want to listen. His voice became louder, filled my head, filled my mind..."

"What did he say?"

"Fragments," she mumbled, looking away. She slowly walked to a calm pool of water and gazed inside. "He spoke of the future--of endless sorrow. War. Conquest. He said the Mughal nation would collapse, and all their dignity would be destroyed. He said that he would defile the memory of St. Boltolph, the protector of hopeful ventures. His year had arrived, he said, and the world would begin to burn."

"My god," Glenn uttered.

Nur Jahan suddenly looked at him.

"You are the right hand of St. Boltolph."

"I don't understand."

"You are his messenger; his final, true believer. You are the freer of his karma, his spirit, his soul."

Glenn shook his head, kneeling beside the reflecting pool.

"I am only a believer."

She took his hand.

"That is enough."

"But setting him free," he said, "how do we do that? I have come here with faith, but with no apparent means of accomplishing my goal. I.. am lost."

"No," said Nur Jahan, "you are not lost. I now realize the answer that you seek."

Glenn looked hopefully at her. "What is it?"

And, as if in reflection, Nur Jahan said, "My death."

Glenn let her hand go and stood. "No! How could that be?"

"In the church," she said. "When my dream-self was in the church, St. Boltolph was there with me. He was being tortured and he was in agony. He knew his foe was too strong, and that he could not win, so before his imprisonment he locked a part of himself inside of me--inside my soul, my karma, my spirit. And the time has come to release him."

Nur Jahan reached deep down into the pool, and withdrew gleaming silver dagger.

"Do it," she said. "Now."

Glenn closed his eyes. "I cannot."

There was a stirring in the air around them.

"Do it," she repeated. "Now!"

Something was lurking in the water's depths.

"I cannot do it," Glenn said, his eyes still closed.

The water began to ripple.

"All is lost if you do not do it now!" she screamed.

A black shape rose from the water.

Glenn's eyes were now open, horrified.

"You must do it!" she pleaded. "It is the only way!"

The shape lifted a taloned hand toward Glenn. "Fool," it said. "Weak and pitiful fool!"

Glenn took the knife.

"Kill me!" she screamed. "Kill me now!"

But he did not.

With one, swift motion Glenn plunged the blade into the heart of the beast.