The Matriarch Matrix

by Maxime Trencavel

  Morphology? Peter rubs Mei’s God Gene bump behind his neck as he sits forward. “But the women—my mother, my sister, Mei—they don’t have the dreams, and yet they’re afflicted. How can that be?”

  A methodical blink and Jean-Paul clarifies, “Another very astute question. I have wrestled with this question for many years. I cannot find instances of symptomatic women in the billions we have screened today. In my survey of the historical archives, including the Vatican’s, there might exist isolated behavioral cases, but we cannot confirm as we do not have their DNA samples.

  “Most of the afflicted males have the dreams, the disturbing restless nights. I would not call it sleep as it does not feel that way. You see Peter, I too am afflicted,” the good Father confesses with a quick blink. “But as we look at the oral traditions, in women, and a very, very small percentage of afflicted men, the affliction may manifest itself as voices.”

  “Joan of Arc,” Peter blurts, remembering a discussion he had with Dr. Fontaine.

  “Yes, Peter. The historical records of her trial list statements and incidents consistent with the affliction. But the restless dreams are the most consistent marker.”

  The cheeky gene pops—or is that the creative mind gene?—as Peter interjects again. “I have the dreams, and I heard the voices when Sarah and I did magic mushrooms in the Peruvian Andes to communicate with our alien friends. And they told me I should ask her to marry me.” At which Peter glances down at the floor with some sadness. “And I think that broke the camel’s back, as shortly after we got back, she got the idea to be a romance novelist, and I was on my way out of her life. Her getting a MoxWrap led her to think differently about her life. And me, unfortunately.”

  Jean-Paul responds in his priestly voice, “I am very sorry for your loss, Peter. You know, sometimes bad things happen because the Lord would like you to have something else better in your life.”

  Better things? That’s what his mother said. Peter imagines sitting with Mei, editing her next genetics textbook, and he smiles.

  “The oral traditions, like the one your grandfather insisted you know by heart—we have literally tens of thousands of pages of these now transcribed and cataloged. Interpreting them is another story. A highly complex issue. Much of what has been captured in writing and by oral transmission over hundreds and hundreds of generations may be distorted or entirely inaccurate due to transfer inaccuracies,” says Jean-Paul. Peter remembers the sharp chastising Pappy has given him over the years for making the simplest of mistakes.

  “Further exacerbating the situation, afflicted siblings of the afflicted parents may transfer a different story to their children than their siblings do to their children. Most often, something is added to reflect the world of that distinct family arm. Thus, no two sibling lines of oral tradition are exactly alike.”

  Jean-Paul asks Peter if he would recite his family’s oral tradition. After seeing he can do so perfectly, Jean-Paul says his is the oldest in chronological order and is from the originating afflicted persons. Peter feels special. And then Jean-Paul recites the fuller, more complete tradition from the originators he has assembled through Alexander’s empire resources:

  “Part one: Tens upon tens upon tens of cycles of the stars ago, the long-tailed star came from the sky and our lands became ice, and winter became forever. Only the giants of the reindeer prospered because of power from this star. Thus, the forefathers of our forefathers’ forefathers moved away from the land of the ice. We prosper as we move farther away each generation. Keep looking for lands rich in animals to hunt, water to fish, grass to harvest, and settle there. Make alliances with neighbors for safety. And be wary of the Reindeer People, for when they arrive, you must move away from the direction of ice to seek safety. The bright star, the tail of the bird, will be your guide. Watch for the long-tailed star, which came from the direction of the bird. For when it returns, lands will again become winter, and the lands and animals and even man will change again.

  “Part two: And be wary of the giants, the Reindeer People, for when they arrive, you must flee and seek the mountains past the hill of obsidian rocks that overlook a land rich in animals, water, grasses, and your new safety. Follow the vision and words of the black object, for this will guide you as you seek your new land.

  “Part three: Remember your father’s words. But equally remember your mother’s words. Only with the two together can you find peace. The object. You might see in sleep, might hear. But only as man and woman. The object can destroy. The object can save. But only for the man and woman together. Together, guide the salvation of others.”

  Peter slumps back in his chart. Part of him is disappointed that his ancestors didn’t transmit the tradition completely right, even with Pappy replicating the same chastising his great-grandfather had given him and so on up the family tree. The other part of him is entering nirvana. Aliens did indeed come to us and guided our history. These Reindeer Giants prospered through the power of the star.

  But Jean-Paul interrupts Peter’s moment of thought. “And, Peter, can you see now why it is so vital we work together to find this object? It can save. It can destroy. It can guide the salvation of mankind. It may somehow be linked to this long-tailed star, which one day could bring another catastrophic change to our environment, and to us.”

  The former priest adds, “As you may have noted, I broke this earliest part of the oral traditions into three parts. I believe they are temporally different and come from different originators over that time. The last one I believe comes from the matriarch. She is vitally important as one examines the history of the later traditions. I believe she is the one who originated the five senses algorithm.”

  Peter snaps back to reality and says, “My grandfather said I must find a ‘good woman,’ one who can talk with me as we work out what this all means together. There must be man and woman working together to find this salvation.”

  Peter slumps in his chair again and then thinks about Mei. She’s like me. And a little smile warms his face.

  Astutely watching Peter’s every movement, Jean-Paul adds, “And although I said earlier that Mei was only a moderate match to the originators’ DNA cluster, I think she may exhibit a higher match to the matriarch’s. Under the assumption that I was correct, I trained her in my best reconstruction of the matriarch’s algorithms, which I believe she used to address the patriarch’s symptomatic affliction.”

  Alexander reenters the room and explains why he left them alone for Peter’s discussion with Jean-Paul. “Who better than a priest to orient you on the fuller traditions? Who to trust more than a priest, albeit maybe a former priest, and not some strange person with a little remnant of a Russian accent?”

  With such a thought proposed, he asks Peter about the parchment. Was there anything else his grandfather said or possessed concerning the parchment? No other documents or books? Peter says no, but he could send them the pictures he took of it. Alexander says that isn’t needed as they already possess those pictures. Oh yes, lines 3278 to 3321, Peter muses to himself.

  Alexander looks at him with those dark, piercing eyes as if he were probing deeply into Peter’s very soul. “My boy, Peter. Your grandfather, did he tell you about the work he did with his father during the war—that’s World War Two for you youngsters?”

  Making sure he appears candid and frank, Peter immediately replies, “He did mention he lived in Austria during the Second World War, and the books he needed to research our oral tradition were burned. And he lamented—how were he and his father going to find the object without these books? As well as something about the compromise they had to make.” And as he said that last sentence, he reflected upon Mei’s and Jean-Paul’s lectures about limits and what he may need do to these limits one day.

  Alexander, still glaring at him with those piercing dark eyes, asks, “And nothing else, my boy? Nothing about what they did, what they found when they had to make that ‘compromise’?”

  “No, no, nothing m
ore. You must believe me, Alexander. I know nothing more. He only told me a day or two ago when I met him. I’m sorry, this has happened all so fast, I’ve lost track of time,” Peter says with a mix of confusion and sorrow.

  Alexander lets up a little with his probing eyes, and with the littlest of smiles, he says, “You have done well, my boy. I must tell you for your own knowledge and one day your own safety, your great-grandfather worked for the National Socialist German Workers’ Party.”

  Now he’s scared. Peter doesn’t know whether to cry, gasp, or what. He looks at Jean-Paul for any signal about what to do now, but the former priest is reading his MoxPad+. If only Mei were here to tell him what to do.

  “According my sources, he worked in Himmler’s Ahnenerbe unit, created to provide the archeological and historical evidence for the superiority of the Aryan race. But Himmler’s deep interest in the occult added a different dimension to their work. Your great-grandfather enlisted the help of his teen son, your grandfather, when he served with the Ahnenerbe unit, assigned to investigate the Ukraine and Crimea. We share a common past, Peter. Your great-grandfather saved the life of my grandfather when he was first stationed there. My grandfather was studying the same things yours was. They worked together until the Russians forced the Germans into retreat. I would not put it past the Ahnenerbe to have tasked both of our relatives with exploring ancient alien origins in this region.”

  Jean-Paul leans over to Alexander, shows him his MoxPad+, and whispers something. Alexander subsequently asks, “And so you do not know how your great-grandfather died?”

  Peter, so disturbed he cannot speak, shakes his head no.

  “He killed himself before having to face the Nuremburg trials for war crimes,” the giant man states, staring into Peter’s eyes.

  Jean-Paul mercifully takes over. “Peter, my research would suggest your great-grandfather killed himself not because he committed or participated in any war crime per se. I believe he killed himself to protect what he found and took from Crimea. And this is why Alexander asked if there any other documents or items your grandfather may have.”

  Peter shakes his head no. Jean-Paul leans over again with the MoxPad+, showing it to Alexander, who says, “Excellent. Then that concludes this discussion. Do you have any questions, Peter, any concerns?”

  Thinking hard about Mei’s wisdom about not wasting Alexander’s time with frivolities, he meekly asks, “But why me? Why am I here? Why am I so important to you? What do you want from me?” After which he crosses his legs.

  Jean-Paul confers with Alexander and answers, “We believe you have the answer to a dichotomous pivotal question presenting an impasse to our search. We believe that in your subconscious, deep, deep inside, lies the answer. Something hidden in your psyche, which may very well be the cause of how severe your affliction is.”

  Alexander takes over, stating, “Peter, deep within you lies the image of the object as well as how to access its power. I think our object is a monolith of sorts, which is why you have seen my facilities all have a monolith at the entrance. But Jean-Paul here thinks we should be very open to other forms, given his research.”

  Peter shivers and stutters, “Honestly, I have no idea. Not even the hint from a dream. No vision. No voices. No little drawings that I’ve made since I was a kid.”

  In a reassuring voice, Jean-Paul says, “Peter, we believe the answer is buried deeply in your subconscious. Only you and Alexander show a close enough DNA match with the originators to exhibit what Jung might have called an ancient repressed memory, handed down through time in your genes. These ancient memories drive your response to the collective unconscious, the afflicted dreams you wrestle with each night. We believe we may be able to activate this repressed memory or image. Our Mei was tasked to work with you to allow your subconscious to be expressed. I believe…Mei believes with me, that a specific algorithm of five senses, which may have come from the originators, will reveal your repressed image, bring it out of your subconscious and into your conscious. As you noted, the tradition says, ‘But only for the man and woman together. Together, guide the salvation of others.’”

  Alexander adds, “And Peter, do you understand now why Mei has asked you to trust her implicitly? You can do that, can you not, my boy?”

  Freeing his head from its temporary paralysis, Peter ekes out a nod. He is definitely in fear of what they have asked Mei to do, what line she has been asked to bend, break, cross, or simply run over to meet this end.

  Jean-Paul proceeds, discussing their conclusion that the object is buried either in Crimea or, in his expert opinion, more likely in a prehistoric temple called Göbekli Tepe, in the middle of the battle between Turkey, the new Anatolian Kurdish State, and the Arabic Confederation armed forces. Although there is currently a demilitarized zone agreement that encompasses the area around this temple, getting a team, however small, inserted in there will be tricky. Even trickier will be trying to conduct an archeological excavation in the midst of war.

  Alexander further explains, “Over the past years, I took steps to secure the areas around Crimea as well as select areas of Eastern Ukraine, thanks to my Russian friends. However, this area around Göbekli Tepe is much more difficult to control with the many different factions in play. Hence I summoned an extremely special, intimately personal, dear friend of mine, a Kurd who is expert in the region, to join this team.”

  Again, Alexander gets up and exits.

  Peter, having crossed his legs for the better part of a half hour, pleads with the good priest, “Please, could you excuse me? And could you point the way to the men’s room?”

  Walking down the blue-lit hallway, he repeats Jean-Paul’s words. “Out that door, down the hallway, past the infirmary, and two doors to the…right.”

  *

  Zara sighs as she looks around the prayer room that priest had prepared for her. A soft yellow-peach tone to the walls, with a blue glow atop each wall. Very peaceful. And the mat he selected will do; however, the room is small. Perhaps a converted closet of some sort. And the priest even thought of a washbasin, where she cleanses her hands.

  She slips off her mother’s navy flats. Oh, what a wise choice that was not to wear those pumps. These have been on her feet for more nearly a day without stop. And still her feet, her calves, what torture means the women’s footwear industry. Instead of napping this morning after the infirmary, she opted to continue studying all of MoxDefense Industries’ newest tech, especially those involved in air defense. She stares at her feet, once as nice as Peri’s, until they destroyed them. Destroyed her. Outside, and deep within.

  As she walks onto the prayer mat, her feet sink into the spongy padding. He was right, that priest. And that warm glow inside her comes back. A feeling she cannot quite fathom, but she enjoys. The first feeling she has had like this since before she destroyed their lives. And hers. Only a day after her family discussed finding the right man does she hear the first non-mahram man ever, a good-looking one at that, tell her he would rather pray with her than seduce her. She takes a slow, deep breath and savors the thought.

  She looks again at her feet. How could any man ever think of praying with her with feet like these? In the soles of her feet, she sees the torn shreds of what was once her soul. How could any man pray with her, knowing what is inside her? She sighs, for God’s will has been clear on this subject. And she lowers herself onto the mat. The room is a little too warm, with little ventilation. She lifts her lovely jelli eidi holiday skirt, now wrinkled and crinkled, up her calves, and loosens her headscarf.

  Halfway through her prayer, she prostrates for a second time. And her heart rushes when the room fills with the blue tint from the hallway. Someone has opened the door. And he is looking up her skirt. Her first instinct is to protect herself, not knowing if this stranger was friend or foe. She wraps her skirt tightly around her legs and does the same with her light outer coat. She quickly scans her immediate vicinity for anything which could be used as a defensive weapon.
Perhaps she should have visited the armory before praying, but too late now.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” this strange man with round glasses pleads as he puts his hands over his eyes.

  Realizing this man is no threat, she quickly stands, keeping her long skirt and coat around her and then adjusting the scarf around her head. “It’s the room across the hallway,” she says, annoyed. “Now leave, before you offend God any more than you already have.”

  She spots the distinctive coral mark on his cheek. The lips of the last victim of this womanizer. That vestige of warmth and glow over having met a man who was divinely different has just been washed from her soul by this voyeur.

  If she ever sees this voyeur again, he will not live to tell what he saw.

  Chapter 14

  The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mode but the true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives the passion that she shows. The beauty of a woman grows with the passing years.

  —Audrey Hepburn

  Late March, 2003

  Northern Iraq near border with Syria

  “I have beauty within, Mama. I do. I do. I do.”

  For a while, I stopped saying this little girl’s princess mantra, which my mother schooled into me ever since I could remember. A mantra that held no meaning for me once I understood that the only meaningful beauty is that within myself. But it pleased my mother so much to hear me say this phrase to her. Reassurance that her daughter still loved her.

  But after her deep depression, when my father came back from his years of imprisonment and torture, I began to say her inspired mantra with her again. It was one of the few things that would bring back a little bit of her beautiful smile. And I say this again today as I ready myself to leave with Zengo to fight our oppressors with the Peshmerga.”

  Having finished Isha prayer with her mother and grandmother, Zara sits atop the roof of their home, staring into the night skies. She loves her family so. They have been through much together, but a life not so different from the hardships of other Kurds.