The Atlantis Origins

by S. A. Beck

  Otto nudged Jaxon. “Remember how the call to prayer used to blast us out of our beds at five every morning back in Marrakech? That’s something I didn’t miss in the desert.”

  “Wow, Marrakech seems like years ago,” Jaxon said.

  “Yeah, and America feels like a different life. Hey, look!” Otto said, pointing.

  At the entrance to a nearby street stood a faded metal sign with writing in the squiggly lines of Arabic, the strange letters of the Tuareg language, Tamasheq, and in French. Only the last language gave them any clue to what the sign said.

  Musée des Manuscrits Médiéval de Oualata.

  “Looks like that’s it,” Jaxon said. “I wish Arabic was as easy to figure out as French!”

  The sign pointed to a building that looked much like every other one they’d passed, except it was a bit larger. A double wooden door that was intricately carved with Arabic calligraphy stood closed, the doorway decorated all around with white plaster making an elaborate swirly design.

  Jaxon walked up to the door and knocked. The girl beside her said, “Fermé! Fermé!”

  “I think she’s saying it’s closed,” Yuhle said.

  One of the little boys said something to them in Arabic, making motions for them to wait. He ran off to one of the neighboring houses and soon returned with an old man in a dirty white djellaba. His black face was seamed with age and covered with a long white beard that seemed bright in contrast to his dark skin. He wore thick glasses that had been repaired with wire. The man turned to Jaxon.

  “Do you speak English?” she asked.

  “A little, yes. I am Abdullah al-Idrissi, the museum director. The child says you do not know our language.”

  “Actually, I’m from America. My parents were from Mali,” she replied, not knowing if that last part was true or not. She was beginning to feel that it was at least partially true. “Can we see the museum? I want to see if you have any books from my people.”

  The man gave a nervous glance up and down the street.

  “The People from the Sea?” he asked.

  “I heard someone in Marrakech call us that. He was a snake charmer.”

  Abdullah al-Idrissi nodded as if that news wasn’t a surprise. He pulled a big brass key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Shooing the children away, he led Jaxon and her friends into the dark, cool interior. With a final nervous look, he closed and locked the door behind him.

  “What’s wrong?” Jaxon asked.

  “You are in danger here. The government, they come and take the People from the Sea away last year. They accuse them of terrorism, but everyone knows that is not true. Do not tell anyone you are one of them, or they might take you too.”

  “But can’t they tell just by looking at me?”

  “Tell them you are American, and that your father was white. That will explain your blue eyes. Maybe they will believe it. You should get out of Oualata. Get out of Mauritania too. But first I have something to show you.”

  Abdullah al-Idrissi led them across a front hall, his sandals slapping on the tile floor. The walls were decorated with a few battered bits of ancient statuary. Jaxon looked at them but didn’t see any that depicted Atlanteans. The museum curator opened another door and ushered them into a long rectangular room. The center was taken up with a battered table piled high with old manuscripts. More manuscripts filled the wooden bookshelves lining the walls. Some were bound in leather covers. Others were simply stacks of old paper tied together with string.

  “Oualata is an oasis in the desert,” Abdullah al-Idrissi said, “and this room is an oasis in Oualata. This is a refuge of learning in a world of trouble. For centuries, the leading families of Oualata and the whole region have collected manuscripts of history, theology, geography, and other subjects. Now we have collected them here to preserve and study. I am writing a book about them, which will be published by the government and translated into French one day, God willing. But here is what I wanted to show you.”

  He went over to a shelf, rummaged through the books for a minute, then tut-tutted to himself and moved over to another shelf. He didn’t find what he was looking for there either.

  “Looks like professors are disorganized wherever they’re from,” Otto whispered. Jaxon nudged him to shut him up.

  “Aha!” Abdullah al-Idrissi shouted in triumph as he pulled a heavy tome out from under a pile. He thumped it down on the table and opened it.

  “This is eight hundred years old and is a description of the ancient ruins in this area. Look here.” He opened up the flaking, fragile manuscript to a page that was illustrated with paints of brilliant colors.

  It showed the interior of a cave much like the one Jaxon and Vivian had discovered. It wasn’t the same—there was no pool—but much of the wall was covered with an image of Atlanteans in the same style as the other cave painting. The figures sailed in boats to a shoreline, where another group of Atlanteans built large stone buildings that looked like temples and palaces.

  “This shows the time when the People of the Sea came to our shores on the Atlantic and brought civilization. Here’s another picture.”

  The curator turned the page to one covered with images of Atlanteans riding camels across the desert.

  “Your people established the trade routes and founded cities all across the desert. For a time, we lived in peace, but soon, more powerful local rulers began to resent the Atlanteans.”

  He turned a page again. Another depiction of a cave painting showed a battle between the Atlanteans on one side and what looked like Africans and Romans on the other. The Atlanteans looked as if they were losing.

  “The rest of this book shows many more cave paintings and ancient inscriptions. Some, the archaeologists have found. Others have been lost. Sadly for you, these are the only three of your people.”

  “Can I take some photos?” Dr. Yuhle asked, pulling out a small digital camera from his pocket.

  “Of course,” Abdullah al-Idrissi said, holding the book up to the light.

  After Yuhle had taken close-up shots of all three pictures, Jaxon asked the curator, “Have you ever heard of a story of a healing well? A well in the middle of the desert with water that could cure people?”

  Abdullah al-Idrissi’s eyes widened. “Ah, somebody told you that story? I thought it was forgotten except by a few scholars and old storytellers. Yes, there is a tale of a well. It is one of the last wells of the original water.”

  “Original water?”

  “Pure water, real water. Not dead water like we drink today.”

  Jaxon looked at Yuhle and Otto then back at the museum curator. “I don’t understand.”

  “Ah, the person who told you this story has forgotten the purpose of the tale. So much old wisdom has become silly little stories no one believes anymore. The real story goes that before the Great Flood, the water that people drank was holy, blessed by God. That is why people in the old times lived so long. Like Moses, who lived a hundred and twenty years. Other prophets lived two hundred, three hundred, even four hundred years. The water blessed them and kept them healthy. Then when God got angry at the sins of the world, He flooded the Earth, wiped it clean. But He did more than that—he also changed the water. The water of the flood was dead water. It quenches your thirst but does no more than that. God decided that letting man live for four hundred years only gave him more chances to sin. Sins build up over time, like camel droppings that are not cleared away, but all sins can be wiped away with one second of redemption. So man, and woman, does not need four hundred years to live. We can sin enough in the short lives we have now and still have plenty of chances to save our souls.”

  Yuhle looked amused. “So the well is some of this magic water?”

  Abdullah al-Idrissi shook his head, his dark eyes sizing up the scientist. “It is not magic, my friend. Magic is sinful. God does not do magic but miracles. Or do you not believe in God?”

  “Of course I do,” Yuhle said. Jaxon didn’t think he sounded
convincing. It didn’t look as if their host did either. He turned back to Jaxon.

  “If your friend had seen the well, he would believe.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “I have never seen the well,” Abdullah al-Idrissi said, “and do not know anyone who has. Perhaps it is gone. The story says that in a few places in the world, there are spots left of the old water, the blessed water. It was your people who guarded them.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “The People of the Sea had sinned badly, which is why they lost their home. Those who survived repented of their evil ways and tried to make amends. One of the things they did was to bring civilization to many places around the world. Another was to protect the last blessed water from those who would misuse it. I wish I knew more, but that is all I know. I have only met a few People of the Sea, and most of them were ignorant of their past. Now most are gone, and we do not know where they went. The government took them.”

  “Thank you so much for this,” Jaxon said.

  Abdullah al-Idrissi gave her a serious look. “Your people are scattered. Many do not know their own history. I know so little myself, and I have studied the history of my land all my life. I hope you find out more. You are going to Timbuktu, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, there are more of your people there and a much bigger collection of manuscripts. Timbuktu was the greatest city and center of learning in the Sahara for centuries. If you want to learn more, that is where you should go. But be careful.”

  He showed them to the door, opening it up and peeking out in both directions. “I wish I could go with you, but it is too dangerous. Go, and go quickly, and may God protect your journey.”

  When they returned to the gas station, they found Vivian and Yamazaki loading a bunch of fresh vegetables and some cooking oil into the Land Rovers as a curious circle of onlookers watched. They also loaded a few tarpaulins that Jaxon guessed they’d use to replace the tents they had lost in the sandstorm. Grunt stood to one side, fiddling with his phone.

  “They have phone coverage in this place?” Otto asked.

  “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Pyro,” Grunt said, turning on the Internet on his phone. “How else are these people supposed to talk to each other—drum signals like in the Tarzan movies? It’s damn slow, though. Feel like I’m back in 1996.”

  Grunt smacked the side of his phone.

  “Come on, come on. Load!”

  “I don’t think hitting it is going to speed it up,” Jaxon said.

  “No,” Grunt said, hitting it again, “but it makes me feel better.”

  “You should know that about him by now,” Vivian called over her shoulder.

  “What are you looking for, anyway?” Jaxon asked.

  “Checking in on Edward. He hacked into CNN and put in a little program to change the name of the author of one of their old articles, something no one would notice for a while. The program only changes the name if he doesn’t go back in and reset the timer every twelve hours.”

  “I don’t get it. Why?”

  “It’s to show he’s still okay. If something’s happened to him, the name will change, and we’ll know something’s wrong. Because it’s a third-party website, no one will trace it to us. Much safer than contacting him directly.”

  “Yeah, Edward is a bit paranoid.”

  The page finally loaded. Grunt’s face fell. “Oh, hell. Not paranoid enough.”

  “What’s wrong?” Jaxon asked.

  He held up the phone. It showed an article from three years ago about an environmental protest. “The original author’s name is Bill Rawling. Now it’s Bill Rawlings. Edward isn’t online.”

  Otto’s jaw dropped. “Edward is always online.”

  Grunt looked at him. “Yes, he is. Which means there’s trouble back in Marrakech.”

  “There’s trouble here too, honey,” Vivian said in a low voice.

  Everyone looked in the direction she was staring. Half a dozen men wearing camouflage and carrying assault rifles were walking toward them.

  Jaxon tensed. When she saw the curious crowd that had hung around them ever since they stopped her begin to melt away, she tensed even more.

  Chapter 13

  August 8, 2016, A CELLAR IN MARRAKECH, MOROCCO

  1:07 A.M.

  * * *

  Isadore hadn’t felt the emotion called pity in many, many years. She had rooted out that particular form of weakness from her personality along with all others. It had helped her rise in the ranks and become what she was today.

  She had to admit, though, looking at Edward strapped to a metal chair, shivering in the center of a cold, damp cellar, that anyone else would feel at least something for the guy.

  Amir was obviously weakening, as were the two toughs from his gang who had been splashing cold water on Edward for the past five hours to keep him awake and on the verge of hypothermia. She’d have to watch those three. They acted tough and were good enough in a fight, but they weren’t professionals like her. There was only so much they could be made to do.

  Perhaps it was time to ask some questions. She generally softened a subject up for a few hours before asking anything. Even the weakest prisoner always tried to lie at the start.

  Best to start with something easy.

  “Name?”

  “E-Edward,” he said through chattering teeth.

  He sounded almost grateful. Torturing someone for an hour without even asking who they were really did people’s heads in.

  She’d already checked his passport. An honest answer for the first question was always a good start.

  “What are you doing in Marrakech?”

  “I-I’m a tourist.”

  She nodded to Amir, who splashed another bucket of cold water in his face.

  “You’re not the tourist type. Cold down here, isn’t it? General Lamy, one of the French generals who conquered Morocco back a hundred years ago, said, ‘Morocco is a cold country with a hot sun.’ Have you noticed that? Out of the sun, it doesn’t feel hot here at all. Well, Edward, you won’t be seeing the sun for a long, long time. What are you doing in Marrakech?”

  “W-Who are you? Who sent you?”

  “I ask the questions. What are you doing in Marrakech?”

  “Helping my friends, the ones you’re after.”

  “Helping them do what?”

  “I used my contacts on the Dark Net to get fake visas so they could leave the country.”

  “To go where?”

  Edward paused. Another bucket of cold water made him jerk in his seat. The metal chair scraped across the concrete and almost tipped over.

  “Easy there, Amir. Where did your friends go?”

  “A-Algeria.”

  Edward hung his head.

  “Why there?”

  “We did some research and found evidence for a lost Atlantean colony on the Algerian coast. I don’t know much about ancient history or archaeology. I can’t tell you much about that.”

  “What’s the name of this archaeological site?”

  Edward’s eyes shifted, and he tensed a little more. Isadore sensed a lie coming. She sensed she’d been listening to a whole string of them already.

  “Tel Gezer.”

  “Never heard of it,” Isadore said.

  “It’s not well known.”

  “Perhaps it’s completely unknown.” Isadore snorted. “Did Jaxon go with them?”

  Edward nodded. “To Algeria, yes.”

  “Algeria, Algeria, Algeria. You sure are eager to get me to Algeria, aren’t you, Edward?”

  The hacker looked away.

  This was all bull. She didn’t need training in interrogation techniques to know that. Amir didn’t look as if he believed a word of it either.

  “So tell me, Edward, where does all the money come from? You people are quite the world travelers, after all, and your mercenary friends have all sorts of goodies. That prison break was impressive. So where does the money come fro
m?”

  “I get it.”

  “How? Skimming money out of people’s bank accounts?”

  Isadore had a special hatred for hackers. She’d once been the victim of identity theft. The guy had stolen almost a million off her before she tracked him down and got even in a very messy way. To think some nerd sitting at a computer could take all she had saved and built up!

  Edward shook his head. “I’m not into that. I’m not a criminal.”

  “Says the man who fakes visas, buys illegal weapons on the black market, and engineers prison breaks.”

  Edward looked at her, a trace of defiance in his face. “We don’t hurt anyone. The real criminals are people like you, who pretend to be with the law but who hurt far more people than every hacker in the world put together.”

  Isadore laughed. “You think I represent the law? Oh, no, Edward, you’re in far more trouble than that. I can make you disappear tonight if I want to, and make you reappear in a dozen different parts of the city by morning, if you catch my meaning.”

  Edward’s eyes went wide.

  “So where does the money come from, Edward?”

  “O-Operation Lifeline.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a crowdfunding site on the Dark Net. A bunch of rich people support people like me to go after child porn sites and human traffickers. We hack them, send their personal info to the FBI, and Operation Lifeline gives us a reward.”

  “Does that pay well?” Isadore asked. She sensed Edward was finally letting some truth slip out.

  “I made more than half a million last year.”

  Isadore whistled in appreciation. “Not bad. Silly thing for people to waste their money on, however. I’ve never understood charity. Instead of whining about their fate, victims should learn how to stop being victims.”