The Final Summit: A Quest to Find the One Principle That Will Save Humanity

by Andy Andrews

  Changing the subject, Joan stated boldly, “I don’t believe that age comes with wisdom.”

  “It doesn’t necessarily,” Lincoln replied. “Sometimes age just shows up all by itself.”

  “In what ways do we gain wisdom?” David asked, attempting to further the conversation.

  “Reading. Association. I already mentioned those two,” Winston declared.

  “Through meditative moments by ourselves?” Lincoln offered.

  “Yes, time alone,” Joan affirmed. “Scheduling small patches of time for concentrated reflection.”

  “Imitation,” David offered. “This may be the easiest way to gain wisdom, but it is what we do after reading about the lives of wise people or after associating with wise people. We imitate the behavior that we have observed.”

  “Good,” Lincoln affirmed. “And true. I grew up in the backwoods of Kentucky. I didn’t even go to school for formal education. Therefore, my writing, my manner of speech, how I learned to present myself . . . for the most part, has been a process of imitation.”

  “Experience,” Winston said. “There’s an old saying that goes, ‘Experience is the best teacher.’ That’s not entirely true,” he said. “I believe other people’s experience is the best teacher. Ha! Let them go through it, I say. I keep a careful eye out. If the water is warm, then I shall go swimming!” He thrust his head out comically toward Joan, making her laugh. “You see, dear girl,” he said, “in the wisdom of the wise, there is an uncommon degree of common sense!”

  “I feel that I gain a great deal of wisdom by simply remaining silent,” Joan said.

  With that comment, from the darkness came a loud laugh. Turning to see if he could spot the guilty party, Winston said, “Hmm, yes. It is the domain of scholarship to speak . . . the advantage of wisdom to listen. And I can only assume in good humor,” he said to Joan, continuing in the same breath, “that your comment, while germane to the conversation and a noted building block upon which we will base our conclusion, was not directed at me.”

  Noting Joan’s expression of innocence and desperately trying to hide his own grin, David steered the discussion in a different direction. “I have been mentally repeating our question,” he said. “Everything seems to be on target. At least, nothing I have heard would lead me away from ‘wisdom’ as the answer. Let me pose this question: In what ways does wisdom become apparent in a life? How do people use it?

  Lincoln thought for a minute then pointed to an old man in the theater. “That is Michelangelo,” he said to David as the old man dipped his head in acknowledgment. “You may not have met him, but you are aware of his work. Michelangelo carved with wisdom.”

  The president gestured toward a beautiful black lady on the first row. “There is Mahalia Jackson. She sang with wisdom.” And around the room Lincoln went, pointing out people and saying, “Charles Dickens wrote with wisdom. Helen Keller taught with wisdom. Rembrandt painted with it. Orville and Wilbur over there, they imagined with wisdom.

  “I believe that wisdom, when harnessed over time, leads ordinary people in incredible directions. Long before their hands or voices produce greatness, wisdom shapes their minds and hearts.

  “If we will only be patient and open, wisdom will reach out to us even from the Almighty’s backyard. Mountains teach stability. The sun and the moon model faithfulness. The seas demonstrate our capacity to change. Even the tiny ant shows us about teamwork and dedication and thriftiness.

  “Wisdom is the ability to discern. It is our perspective on life—our balance, our harmony. Wisdom is our understanding of how life works and our sense of humor when it doesn’t. Wisdom is playful and caring. Wisdom ushers in good judgment, calms agitation . . .” Lincoln paused and made certain he had the eyes of everyone. “And if it is harnessed, wisdom just might restore humanity to the pathway toward successful civilization.”

  With a hush upon them, everyone knew that the moment had come to decide. Was this the answer they would present? They had already failed once. David looked at the hourglass. “I don’t know how much you watch the present time, but it surely seems that humanity is not behaving wisely right now,” he said.

  Winston poked out his bottom lip. “It is always a last resort,” he said.

  Lincoln smiled and nodded, but David asked, “What do you mean?”

  Crossing his arms, Winston replied, “People and nations only behave wisely when they have exhausted all the other alternatives.”

  David tried not to appear surprised, but Winston’s pronouncement seemed to him a particularly pessimistic view. Calmly, he turned to Lincoln and asked, “Mr. President, do you agree?”

  Lincoln had his hands folded in his lap. His long legs were crossed and his head slightly bowed. Studying his hands, he answered slowly. “It is astonishing with how little wisdom mankind allows itself to be governed.”

  “That is because it requires wisdom to recognize wisdom,” Winston said sharply. “The music means nothing if the audience is deaf.”

  Eyebrows were raised, but no one said anything. Then, still without having changed positions, Lincoln sighed and said, “Well, prime ministers and presidents may be the judges of the earth, but it is the people who judge prime ministers and presidents. Let us pray they are wise people.”

  “If they are not wise people,” Joan said quietly, “or at least on the path to becoming so . . . then all is surely lost.”

  They were silent again, each in his or her own thoughts, yet furiously replaying what had been said, searching their minds for what might have been forgotten.

  Finally, David said, “That’s it, then? We are agreed?” Affirmed by all at the table, David glanced around the room and saw serious faces and nodding heads.

  David took a deep breath, paused and held it, then said, “I am ready with the answer.”

  As before, the door opened immediately and Gabriel walked through. Without stopping, the archangel moved across the room, stopping only when he reached the open end of the table. Clasping his hands together in a relaxed pose, he said, “I am eager to hear the results of this particular discussion, David Ponder. I trust Abraham Lincoln was a welcome addition to your quest?”

  “Yes, Gabriel,” David answered. “He was. Thank you. Should I present the answer to you now?”

  Gabriel gestured to the hourglass. “Whenever you wish,” he said. “The time is yours.”

  Suddenly, David felt uneasy. Just a moment before, he had been so sure, so confident. Something about the hourglass— the sands of time steadily and unceasingly flowing, never to be recovered—made him weak. But this must be the answer, he told himself. By sheer force of will, David opened his dry mouth to speak.

  “Gabriel,” he said, “we believe that one of the reasons mankind has lost its way is our reliance on societal norms as life’s blueprint. People have stopped questioning what the end result might be of certain actions and habits. We now rely on cultural trends—even celebrity behavior—to act as the compass guiding the decisions and behavior in our own lives.

  “Therefore, we believe that to restore itself to the pathway toward successful civilization, humanity must individually and collectively begin to seek wisdom in our personal and professional lives—in ourselves and each other. Seek wisdom.” David paused and repeated, “That is our answer. Seek wisdom.”

  “Yes, David Ponder,” Gabriel said, and when those words were out of the archangel’s mouth, David felt a sense of relief wash over him. The feeling, however, did not last long. “Yes, everything you said is true. Every assertion you made is accurate in its scope. Unfortunately, your answer to the question is incorrect. Yes, in order for the correct answer to produce miracles, seeking wisdom is an essential ingredient. But it is not the answer.”

  When Gabriel finished talking, he paused, met the gaze of everyone at the table, and walked out.

  CHAPTER 7

  It had been so quiet when Gabriel left the room that David actually heard the stone door close. He felt cold and alone,
though there were people all around. His elbows were on the table, hands clasped in front of him. When Lincoln reached across to briefly squeeze his forearm, David appreciated the gesture but still didn’t know what to say.

  That action by the president seemed a signal to the room that they could begin to move and speak. Meanwhile, all four at the table were dazed. The air had gone out of them; but quickly regaining their composure, they began to talk.

  “Just as certainly as I believed hope was the answer,” Joan said, “is how convinced I was about wisdom.”

  “Yes,” Winston growled. “I felt that way as well.” Reaching into his suit pocket and drawing out a cigar, he said to her. “May I smoke, my lady?” She nodded her assent. When the two other men declined his offer to join him, Winston stepped away to a place equidistant from the table and the first row of spectators. It was as close to “by himself” as he could manage, but he puffed away and the others left him alone. He was apparently, at least for the moment, in a foul mood.

  David walked to the other side of the table, where Lincoln and Joan were still seated. There, he got to one knee and said, “Do I look as scared as I feel right now?”

  “Yes,” Joan and Lincoln both said at once, causing them all to chuckle nervously. Winston couldn’t hear what had been said but scowled as they laughed. He turned away, a great cloud of smoke like the aftermath of a forest fire rising about his head. It was impossible to distinguish the point from which Churchill’s wispy white hair ended and the smoke began. It looked terribly funny to Joan, who suddenly began laughing out loud.

  Soon, David and the president had joined in. “Winston will not appreciate our demeanor,” Lincoln said.

  “No,” Joan agreed. “He will not.” And for some reason that made them laugh even more.

  Finally, wiping tears from his eyes with a handkerchief, Lincoln said, “I needed that. I think we all did. And the prime minister will be fine. We all have different ways of dealing with our stress. Some say there are times when laughing isn’t proper. I believe otherwise. I believe that laughter—especially when shared with others—is an effective medicine for the head and heart.

  “After Willie died . . .” He turned to Joan and explained, “Willie was my eleven-year-old son.” He continued, “After Willie died, I read joke books for weeks. Some thought that insensitive. Mary certainly did, but I had to laugh—sometimes I cried while I laughed—but I had to laugh, or the grief would’ve done me in.”

  “So that’s how Winston deals with stress?” David said as he motioned toward the man who was still by himself.

  Lincoln nodded. “I suspect so. You watch. I predict he’ll be fine in a moment. Soon he will be back to normal.” Grinning widely, he added, “Which is only slightly less grouchy than that.”

  After sharing a last chuckle, the three got down to business. “I trust those in the gallery are taking your advice about talking to one another,” Joan said to Lincoln.

  “They are,” he replied, scanning the crowd. “But what do we have? David, any ideas?”

  “For some reason, I continue to explore the thought about what humanity lacks . . . or has lost.”

  “And what do you think that might be?” Joan pushed.

  “If I had to answer right now,” David said, “I think it is a boldness . . . Is that the right word? Something is missing in our leadership and in the way we conduct our own lives.” He shook his head. “I’m all around it, but the thought is eluding me.”

  Winston came back at just that moment and motioned around the theater. “Move closer to the edge of the seats as I just did, and you can hear them talking,” he said with a smirk. “Is that cheating?”

  “If it was cheating,” Lincoln replied with a smirk of his own, “Gabriel would have put us in a place where we couldn’t have overheard. He only said not to discuss anything with the others. He never told us we couldn’t listen.”

  They all smiled, and David caught Lincoln’s eye. The president had been correct about Winston. The prime minister seemed back to his old self. “So what are they saying?” David asked.

  All four were standing now, and Winston leaned in secretively. “Well, at first,” he said, “everyone reacted to the archangel’s rebuff as we did—in disbelief. There’s a feeling that the question is a puzzle of sorts, which it most certainly is. ‘Hope’ and ‘wisdom,’ having been rejected as answers yet confirmed as a portion of what comprises the answer, have given rise to many theories.”

  “Such as?” Joan prompted.

  “Mother Teresa and C. S. Lewis believe ‘humility’ is the answer. Not surprisingly, Douglas MacArthur and Marie Antoinette disagree.” He looked at Lincoln. “Your great friend Frederick Douglass is effectively pressing for ‘justice,’ and there doesn’t appear to be great opposition to his argument. Cleopatra and Dr. Schweitzer—along with that poet, Emily Dickinson—are gaining traction with ‘love’ or ‘compassion,’ but they don’t seem to be defining their theme beyond the obvious.”

  “Any other possibilities?” Lincoln asked.

  “Well,” Winston said, “a few of the others are proclaiming ‘faith’ to be the only answer. Considering our present location, I considered it particularly bold of Mark Twain to loudly refer to their assertion as brownnosing.”

  Gradually, the four became aware of an uncommon silence overtaking the room. As they looked about, except for a few scattered conversations still taking place, most in the theater were looking at a woman midway up into the seats on the side behind David’s and Winston’s chairs. Many people were nodding, and several near the woman looked at David and pointed at her. “Why are they pointing?” David asked the others. “Who is she?”

  “That’s the lady pilot,” Winston said. “Earhart. Very nice. I talked to her last week. Amazing story. You wouldn’t believe where she’s been.”

  As David opened his mouth to ask where that might be, Joan interrupted. “I think they’re pointing because she has the answer. Or at least an answer with which they agree.”

  “Don’t ask,” Lincoln cautioned. “That would break the rules.” He glanced around. “Most everyone appears to be united with whatever she’s advocating. And whether that is the case or not, I’m sure we can find out exactly what it is when you call the next Traveler.”

  “By the way,” David said to Lincoln and Joan, “when I request a Traveler, how do you know to come to the table? How did you know that you had been chosen?”

  “I heard the voice of the archangel,” Lincoln said. “He wasn’t in the room, of course, but his words were quite audible, at least to me.”

  Joan corroborated the president’s statement by adding, “Yes, it was exactly like when I was a child—Gabriel was the voice in my head.”

  David shrugged his acceptance. Nothing seemed impossible or even odd to him anymore. “I think,” he said, motioning toward the chairs as he moved to his own, “that it is time to try again.” Arriving at a position behind his seat and having received no call for delay from the others, David said, “The summit requests the assistance of a Traveler.”

  This time, a man rose from the first row. He had been seated to the left of David and Winston at the end of the theater. David had noticed the man several times because he happened to be in his line of sight every time Gabriel stood at that end of the table.

  The man was tall—not as tall as Lincoln, but taller than David. He had dark red hair that was parted on the side and combed neatly back over his head. He wore a gray suit with a white shirt and navy tie. He reached the table in no time and had spoken to Joan and was shaking hands with Lincoln when David and Winston reached him behind the chair at the head of the table.

  The noise from the audience, which had been loud when the previous Travelers were summoned, was subdued. “Mr. Ponder, Prime Minister,” the man said as he shook hands, “Eric Erickson. My friends call me Red or Eric . . . whichever you prefer.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” David said. “Please have a seat.”

 
As Erickson selected the other chair beside Joan, David and Winston returned to their seats on the other side of the table. David’s mind was racing. Was he supposed to know who this was? When the man stood up, he had not sensed recognition flooding through the theater but assumed that surely he would know the man’s name. Eric Erickson? Red Erickson? It was not remotely familiar.

  David quickly looked again at the man. His clothes were not special in any way, but neither were they shabby. Except for a wedding ring, he was not wearing jewelry. His red hair was somewhat thin, slicked down with cream or oil, and combed in a style that made his receding hairline obvious. Fifties, David thought. He looks like he is in his fifties. And he looks like he’s from the ’50s.

  Sitting down, David was not certain how to proceed. He glanced at the others. There was no hint of recognition in any of their faces. David reached for the parchment containing the question. He thought he might pretend to study it for a moment while he decided what to do. The room was holding its breath.

  “That hourglass is not emptying itself any slower than it has been,” the man said calmly to David. “There’s not a lot of time to play games.”

  Somewhat startled, David looked up to see the man perfectly relaxed but with a gaze of steel focused directly and unwaveringly into his eyes. Shooting a glance at the others, David said, “I’m sorry? I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “None of you knows who I am,” Erickson said bluntly but not in a rude manner. “Rather than wasting the time to figure out how to ask me, why don’t you just ask me?”

  David could feel himself flush. How in the world does this man know exactly what is going through my head? he wondered.