The two of us rode in silence for a few hours, before our silence began to feel uncomfortable. I’d already asked if Layla was okay enough times that it was clear I needed to drop that particular topic. Though I had little else I wanted to say to her, I started to feel rude staring at the back of the seat in front of me, avoiding eye contact. So I tried to be civil, while also being a little nosy. “How did you and Jude meet?”
She seemed pleasantly surprised by my question. “He never told you?” I shook my head. “About six months ago, he asked for help leaving the United States, from the woman who leads the Washington, D.C., group . . .”
“Dawn.”
“Yes, Dawn. He wanted to go to Nova Scotia.” He wanted to go with me. I wondered if she knew that part of the story. The way she watched me out of the corner of her eye suggested she might. “When he could not go there, Dawn suggested he come here. She had heard rumors of unrest . . . the unrest you have now seen. So he came to Turkey, and we met here.”
Essentially, they had only met because of me.
Perhaps she saw the sadness on my face, because her voice softened, almost like an apology. “He was very unhappy when I first met him, to be away from you. I know he cares about you very much.”
I thought back on my late-night chat with Jude, the moment we’d shared, and I suddenly felt guilty. Here she was being so sympathetic toward me, and I wasn’t sure I’d shown her the same consideration. “I’m sure he does,” I said carefully.
She admitted, “That is why I tried to convince my father to choose someone else for this mission. I did not want you to be in danger.”
I was surprised. “For Jude.”
“I do not know you very much, this is true, but Jude still loves you. If something happens to you, he will be so sad. I worried that if he believed you were in danger, he might do something stupid, to try to help.”
“Well, he’s got a few hours still till we get to Jerusalem,” I said flippantly.
“You want him to put himself in danger trying to save you?” she asked scornfully.
“No . . .” I said, realizing my mistake.
“He has already risked his life for you many times.”
“I know . . .” I wish I knew how to convey to her how stupid I felt.
Her voice was breathlessly irate as she listed off my sins. “You should have stayed in that taxi in New York, but you did not. You did not listen to any of the people who wanted to help you. You should be dead right now, but Jude flew all the way to Washington to find you, putting himself in great danger.”
Her indignation made me defensive. “So you are jealous,” I shot back. “That he’d do all that for me.” I hated the way she judged me, the way she acted superior to me. Or . . . maybe just the way she reminded me of my own faults.
“I am not jealous,” she said. “Why would I be jealous? I have Jude.” She didn’t say it to hurt me, but it hurt anyway.
“Well, I’ll be out of your way soon enough,” I said, hoping to end the conversation.
And indeed, we slipped into a tentative silence again for a few more miles. Until she finally said, “I will try to help you. Even if you do not deserve it.”
I resisted the urge to say something nasty back—I knew my anger wasn’t at her, really. “I appreciate that,” I managed to squeak out.
As she turned to look out the window, I watched her a moment longer. Though her mere existence drove me nuts, right now she was all I had. I hoped I could trust her when I needed to.
In Damascus, we made a pit stop for food, and the clocks on the wall implied that this was supposed to be breakfast. A friendly Syrian family at the table next to us wanted to know where we were going, and I glanced at Layla, hoping she’d know what our cover story was supposed to be. But she stared resolutely at her plate, so I answered with a big smile: “Israel-Palestine.”
The kids, probably eight and ten, who’d known nothing but the Revelation age, squealed with excitement. Their mother explained, “They think Israel-Palestine is the best country in the world.”
“Do you?” I asked, then felt stupid, remembering the history of this region, the violent conflicts that this woman would have remembered from her youth.
But she smiled, undisturbed. “Syria is the best country in the world.”
I also remembered the stories of war in Syria, waged by religious extremists and a callous government. Indeed, on our bus ride from Turkey I’d seen plenty of bombed-out buildings that still hadn’t been rebuilt—remnants of that war, over for more than a decade now. But looking around this bustling square in Damascus, you never would have known the pain this city had once suffered. The peace brought by the Revelations was swift and all encompassing.
I talked to this family awhile longer, bonding over our mutual love of Great Spirit, how we believed that Great Spirit had a plan for all of us (though I didn’t mention that His plan for me at the moment seemed to involve a suicide mission). Layla watched with a cynical smile at first, and then that smile transformed into something more genuine. Perhaps she was moved by my ease at talking to these strangers? I’d never know.
When we got back on the bus, she turned a kind eye toward me, suddenly inquisitive. “Why did you stay behind in New York?” she asked. “Jude said it was something about your mother?”
I reluctantly explained what had happened during my mission in the hospital. “I thought maybe there was a chance my mother was still alive.”
Layla considered this. “I understand why you would search for her.”
I shook my head, embarrassed. “I think maybe I was wrong. I found out why she was Punished, and it seemed real, it seemed true.”
“But you saw her,” Layla argued, and a small bit of hope resurged.
I tried my best to quell it. “Even if she is alive, I’ll never find her. I tried, but all my leads went nowhere.”
“I think if she is out there, you will find her someday,” Layla said, the confidence in her voice reassuring, though I was pretty sure she was just trying to be nice.
Our bus rolled into Jerusalem in the afternoon, depositing us a few blocks from the gates of the Old City. I paused to take in the view: the magnificent stone structures, built thousands of years ago. Coming here had been a bucket list dream of mine for years. It seemed I’d get to see it just in time to kick the bucket.
I looked around—this was my last chance. Did I dare make a run for it? But thinking about the plan calmed me. Go to the prophets, my inner voice told me. Stay on the path Great Spirit was laying out for me, that’s what I knew I needed to do.
“Are you ready?” Layla asked, handing me a small, shriveled fungus: what the hippies of my grandparents’ generation would have called a “magic mushroom.” I took it from her, put it in my mouth, and started chewing. The mission had begun.
2
During the Revelations, prophets around the world had forbidden the production and sale of many drugs, for reasons that—I knew now—were quite logical. By changing brain chemistry, drugs interfered with the way the nanotechnology in our brains worked. Because of the Prohibitions against them, I’d never seen a human being on hallucinogens, and I’d certainly never gotten to try any myself—or wanted to, for that matter.
But here I was, nervously swallowing and waiting to see the effects as Layla took my arm to guide me. “This way.” It took us about thirty minutes winding through the labyrinth of souvenir stalls, finally emerging at the Western Wall, with the beautiful golden Dome of the Rock right next to it. One of the most holy sites in all the world, according to the old religions. This was one of the places mankind had fought over in the dark ages before the Revelations, and now, it was the site of Israel-Palestine’s joint prophetship—one former rabbi and one former imam, ruling together, passing commandments over their joint territory. Their office was small because it had to be squeezed in between this assortment of holy relics, but it was beautiful, built of light-colored Jerusalem stone and adorned with marble eight-pointed stars.
�
�What do I do now?” I asked, fear bubbling up inside me. I was pretty sure the drugs hadn’t kicked in yet, but I wasn’t sure what I should be waiting for exactly.
“Go inside. I will be here in case you need anything.” And to make sure I didn’t bolt, I suspected.
Determined to get through this alive, I pushed through the crowds of the devoted to step up to the doors of Prophet Itai and Prophet Hamza, showing the guard my ID card. Luckily, I’d been to Walden Manor enough times to feel comfortable navigating this part of the plan. “I’m here on behalf of the American prophet, Joshua.” The guard squinted at the green square, and after consulting with a second guard, he waved me by.
The entryway was beautifully adorned with a combination of Jewish and Muslim iconography: paintings and architecture that evoked the history of both religions. Mosaic tiles lined the walls, forming scenes that stretched back centuries: images from the Torah and the Quran, and more recent depictions of the Revelations.
I looked carefully at everyone I passed, a staff evenly split among the country’s ethnicities. I knew that someone in here was an agent working for Mohammed, but I had no idea who it might be. Someone with the ability to monitor the phones in this place, that was all I could say for sure. But Mohammed had specifically chosen not to tell me who our man on the inside was, for fear that I might give away his cover under torture, if I was caught.
Before I could get very far inside, I was intercepted by a harried woman, who spoke to me in very clear English: “You are American? Can I help you?”
“I’m here on behalf of Prophet Joshua. I have a message from him for your prophets. It’s urgent.”
She glanced at the green card, and the grave expression I was putting on, and walked away at a fast clip. “Follow me.”
She took me immediately into an empty office. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
And that’s when the shrooms kicked in.
3
I should tell you, while I’ve done my best to correctly recount everything that follows, my memories while on drugs are obviously a little compromised.
What I do remember is feeling like I was melting into my chair. There was no barrier between me and the room around me. It was peaceful—it reminded me of the Moment. Which made sense—Dr. Marko had explained that during the Moment we all experienced temporal lobe epilepsy, which created the spiritual experience of being connected with everything. But this trip on shrooms was so much more intense, and because of the high-stakes circumstances, the drug also served to amplify my fear. I could feel myself vacillating between panic and bliss from moment to moment.
I tried to hold myself together as my escort returned with a glass of water. “Our prophets apologize for the wait. They both want to be here to hear this urgent news, so they’re finishing their current appointments as quickly as possible . . .”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to keep my cool. I took the glass of water, took a sip. If it had any uppers or downers, I couldn’t feel them over the craziness that was happening in my head.
Finally, two men entered: Prophets Itai and Hamza. Before the Revelations, I might have been able to tell them apart by their dress, but as they stood before me in suits and ties, I struggled to tell one jovial salt-and-pepper prophet from the other. There was a lot of “we apologize” and “praise Great Spirit,” before they finally broached the question: “What message does Joshua have for us?”
Mohammed had given me a fake message to tell them, in case I needed it, but in my drugged-up haze, I couldn’t remember it. I couldn’t remember much of anything. Looking into their faces, I could almost see halos above their heads; I felt like these two people were the best creations in the whole world, and I wanted to tell them everything—everything about the resistance, every secret I held dear. As I sat in silence, trying to pick which words to say to express what I was feeling, the prophet duo stared at me, trying to figure out what was happening. “Are you okay?” Prophet Itai finally asked.
And then they exchanged looks—something was happening. I pulled a mirror from my pocket and saw the insane way my face was morphing, melting like a Dali painting. Though maybe the intensity of what I saw was just a hallucination, I knew some piece of it must be real—in fact, that was the whole plan. The only way to stop my face from spinning out of control was by removing the nanotech in my brain altogether. And everything relied on the hope that these prophets were loyal enough to Joshua that they would call the one person who knew how to remove my nanotech, in order to avoid starting some kind of international incident. We knew that these prophets had made that call once before, when an agent from Russia had suffered similar symptoms. In fact, they might even assume that my symptoms were caused by the same, still unexplained source.
And once our spy in this office traced their call, and figured out which person the prophets were contacting, the resistance would know whom to target.
“What’s happening to me?” I asked, feigning panic and ignorance.
“Have you experienced anything like this before?” Prophet Hamza ventured. His suspicious voice made me think that, on drugs, I might not be the greatest actress in the world.
I snapped back, defensive, “Of course not!” I looked down at the glass of water in my hand. “Did someone in your office poison me?”
They knew exactly what I meant, and they talked over each other, saying no, of course not, they would never do that.
“I don’t believe you!” I cried.
They looked at each other, both a little accusatory. I saw them silently asking—Did you? Did you? Both denying it.
Mohammed had hammered this next part home, so in my delirium I repeated it over and over. “Help me!” I kept saying. “Something’s wrong, help me!”
But instead of picking up the phone and calling for help, they eyed me suspiciously. “What did you say your name was?” Prophet Hamza asked.
“You’re suspicious of me?” I spat back, trying to turn around the accusation. “You poisoned me, and now you’re accusing me?”
They didn’t back down. “If you’re really working with Prophet Joshua, tell us your name.”
I was backed into a corner. “Grace. Grace Luther.” I showed them the green ID card to prove my identity.
Prophet Itai quickly typed something into his computer, and a file came up. He turned the screen toward Hamza, and Hamza nodded—indeed, my face matched the image on the screen. The resistance’s hack had been well timed—my record on the computer was spotless.
Hamza pushed a button to call someone, speaking in his most measured voice. I didn’t understand the Arabic, but I did catch one English phrase: Protocol 44.
With any luck, I’d just accomplished my mission. A spy somewhere in the prophets’ office was tracing the call now. I wondered where in the world that call might be headed to . . . How long it would take the resistance to kidnap the secret knower, and interrogate them.
And I wondered how the heck I was going to get out of here. Considering I had no idea how to do that, I was less afraid than I should have been, and significantly more interested in the thick, grainy texture of the carpet on the floor.
Prophet Hamza was less focused on carpet fibers. “Come with us, we will help you,” he said reluctantly. I was thrilled as I stood to follow these two prophets. They must be taking me to remove the nanotech. The plan was working perfectly.
But as we exited our meeting room, I saw a familiar face standing at the other end of the hallway. I stared, trying to figure out how I knew her, but by the time I’d placed her, she’d placed me. It was Aviva, that sorority girl from NYU whose files I’d stolen. I finally recognized her unplaceable accent—she was Israeli-Palestinian, reporting to these exact prophets. Her eyes narrowed as she strode toward us. “What is she doing here?”
4
I looked around—was there any way I could escape? I knew how many guards were in this building, and with a face going crazy like mine, there was no way I looked trustworthy enough to make
it past that gauntlet.
Aviva ranted, ratting me out. “This is the girl who stole my research on that professor!”
The prophets turned on me. On a less powerful hallucinogen, I might have found a snappier comeback, an explanation that made sense. But at that moment, I was flummoxed. “Nuh-uh,” was all I could think to say.
“We should notify the Americans,” Hamza began, but Itai interrupted him.
“Not yet. We need more information.”
“I’m not telling you anything until you fix whatever you’ve done to me!” I cried, thinking maybe I could sway them with anger, trying to return to my real goal. Heads were turning—maybe if I created a scene, people nearby would help me. At least, I was convinced they would all be on my side—right now a lot of them had halos, too.
“I do not believe we have done anything to you,” Itai said sternly.
“Then he did!” I pointed at Prophet Hamza, hoping to turn them against each other. I knew the divisions that existed within the rebels. Perhaps they still existed between these two prophets, too.
But Hamza bore down on me, indifferent to my attempts to sway him. “Whatever has been done, you did to yourself. We both know this.”
I held my ground. “You want to bother Prophet Joshua, go ahead. But the way I see it, I came here on a diplomatic mission, and I was poisoned the moment I stepped through those doors. Now, you find some way to solve this, or I walk right back out there and I tell Joshua everything that’s going on here.” While this is what I remember saying, I’m pretty sure Grace on drugs was far less eloquent. And she definitely didn’t convince anyone.
For a moment I was convinced I was hallucinating this whole event. Maybe the drugs had invented these two prophets, or Aviva, or both. Maybe I was still back in the cave in Turkey, or New York, or Tutelo, or the womb even. But the more I looked at everyone, trying to gauge their realness, the more suspicious and angry they became. My pleasant high was turning paranoid.
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