by Knox, Tom
‘You knew Victor.’
‘He was my hero, for a long time. I loved him. Almost like a father. Yet he also annoyed me, he was so religious. Deluded. And he sold himself as this great Jewish figure – a survivor of the camps – yet he didn’t make Aliyah, did he? He didn’t go to Israel? No. But I did. I left America, New York, and went home, to help our Jewish homeland. Sassoon stayed in nice comfortable Hampstead in London. Where the Palestinians are less able to kill you with rockets. Sassoon and I remained in touch. I told him what my research was beginning to reveal: that monotheism was parasitogenic, and this was possibly the final secret concealed in the Sokar documents. He assured me I was a fool, and he went off to find the Hoard. And he found the truth. Poor Victor.’
‘But why are you here? Why do you need to decode the documents?’
‘I want to know if I am right about Sokar. But I also want the documents, or wanted them, for the purposes of science.’
Ryan looked at the sky. Was it blacker than before? It seemed so. His vision was deteriorating again. He trembled at the idea: even as part of him yearned to yield. And believe. He had to use his last moments of lucidity. ‘So why come to us? Hanna has the documents.’
Herzog shook his head. ‘Not any more.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We had people in Aswan who got to Hanna, in hospital, as fast as we could, before the Israelis got there. The Israeli zealots might not have known his identity but we certainly did. My men took the Macarius papyrus from Hanna before he died, in Aswan. Raving. Meshugah.’
Ryan was trying to see through the glass darkly. ‘The Israeli involvement … why? I don’t—’
‘A section of the Israeli military is highly orthodox, and fundamentalist – they pray at Masada to Yahweh the night before they graduate as officers. Prayer vigils for soldiers? Imagine. They have growing influence, however, and the most senior of them knew Victor Sassoon, the great scholar of Egyptology and Jewish theology. We all knew Victor Sassoon.’
Ryan looked over Herzog’s shoulder; he could see the green-orange lights of a city in the distance, across the lightless flats of the desert. But the haze was there as well. Like a sandstorm rising.
‘Sassoon told several people before he died that he was going looking for the Sokar Hoard, these documents which would, rumour had it, damage the Jewish and Christian faith very badly. His suicide implied, therefore, that he had unearthed something truly terrible. Consequently, when his body was reported as found, the Israeli military – or rather, the maniac and rabbinical wing of our Israeli army – swooped down. They’d been waiting. They had men all over Egypt, ready for the moment. Just waiting to seize the documents. But you had already got part of them.’
‘But it was Helen. She went to the cave first, and hid when the soldiers came.’
Herzog’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘That is why the Hebrews have been after you ever since. The Israeli fundamentalists just want the Sokar documents. They want them destroyed, because they prove that Judaism is a mere remake of Egyptian mythology, that Yahweh is a demon from the desert, and Moses was a goy. But, of course, they don’t care about any cutting-edge bio-science.’ He shrugged, as if to say, What can you do. ‘So when we snatched the Macarius papyrus from Albert Hanna and he croaked about everything, then I was able to barter.’
‘You gave them the papyrus? You just handed it over? To be destroyed?’
Herzog stared up at the stars. ‘Because we didn’t need it any more, Ryan: we needed you and Helen. I guessed that one or both of you would have been infected with the God Parasite, like Hanna. You are, therefore, walking Petri dishes of invaluable biochemical evidence. Invaluable.’
‘Why not take Albert? Dead?’
‘I prefer a live specimen. I need a live specimen. I also need information.’
‘So the Israeli army—’
‘Accepted the deal. We did a hook-up at the Cataract. They got Macarius and in return I got all their information on you. They have paid off every cruise-boat owner in Egypt, as well as every airline. Expensive business … So here we are. We’re saving your life; I am sure you are grateful. We need to get on my plane at Luxor. And quickly.’
‘What will happen then?’
‘You will be cared for. In England, our lab there. We are surely the only possibility of your escaping death and of Helen escaping Egypt. And now, in return, you can give me your information: tell me exactly where you have been – exactly, down to the last detail, the last plate of shwarma you have eaten. I need to know what you have been doing since you left the bones of Victor Sassoon in Nazlet Khater.’
Ryan told him.
Herzog raised a hand, and asked, ‘Akhmim?’
‘Yes.’
‘Akhmim is crucial.’ Herzog nodded to himself. ‘I was convinced, when I began this quest, that it all came from Akhmim, everything comes from Akhmim. I’ve already looked into Akhmim. But I couldn’t work out a source.’ He scowled. For the first time. ‘Where did you stay? In Akhmim?’
Ryan told him.
‘What did you eat?’
Ryan told him.
‘Did you go anywhere? Do anything?
‘We just … I spent most of my time about fifteen kilometres outside Akhmim. The Monastery of St Apollo. That’s where I decoded the papyrus.’
Herzog grunted. ‘I do not know it. Feh.’ The engines of the cruise boat churned water in the darkness. ‘Is there anything at the monastery? Anything, unusual? A spring maybe? A water source?’
‘Just a library. And a lake.’
‘A lake?’ Herzog frowned. ‘In the desert?’
Ryan touched a hand to his head. Like Hanna. He was acting like Albert Hanna. He had to stay calm. ‘The lake was … very small, artificial maybe … Kind of … square.’
‘Tiye’s lake.’ Herzog was smiling now, his white teeth perfect in the gloom. ‘Tiye’s lake! Everyone thought it was in the Delta.’
‘You mean Amenhotep’s wife, Tiye?’
‘Of course. Amenhotep was always said to have constructed two lakes for his wife and his sons. One was Birket Habu, dried out, by Malkata.’
‘We went there.’
‘But all you Egyptologists told me the other must be near Heliopolis or in the Delta. I scoured the satellite maps looking for the remains of a square lake near Suez or Alex or Memphis. All the time it was near Akhmim!’ His laugh was dry, and terse. ‘So that’s where you caught the parasite, that’s where you were infested. Did you drink it?’
‘No. We swam. Albert paddled.’
‘Well there you go: you might as well invite a rabid dog to chew on your arm. You caught the cholera of Belief.’
Ryan stared at this man. He was starting to believe him; but then, he was starting to believe in God. The sun was rising; the sun god Amun had risen again.
Herzog persisted. ‘Helen is interesting, though. Why wasn’t she infected? She swam too?’
‘I think perhaps she was infected,’ said Ryan, yielding to the truth. The struggle was almost over. He was so tired. ‘She had a fever at St Tawdros, near Thebes. But then it passed …’
Herzog’s smile was faint in the darkness. ‘The God Parasite is quite unpredictable, it kills some, it converts most, a few are virtually immune.’
‘But you said I am bound to die?’
‘As far as we can see, once you reach the blindness stage you are going to die.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s in the Talmud, and the Bible. Search the manuscripts of early Jewish history, or early Christianity, and you will find stories of saints and armies being blinded by Jehovah and dying like flies. The Jews were terrified of it, but they blamed pork – the humble pig.’ Herzog smirked. ‘Yes, the trichinosis parasite, in pork, causes blindness as well, but it wasn’t the culprit. They didn’t realize that Moses, the infected Egyptian priest of Akhenaten, and his infected followers, had already brought the God Parasite to Israel. And so history unfolded.’
The sun’s rays we
re visible, the desert sky was bleaching. Ryan asked, ‘How did it evolve? The parasite?’
‘That is the fascinating area. Scientifically. We are still such infants in this field. What we can guess is this: the God Parasite is tiny, possibly molecular. It may have been evolving in Egypt for thousands of years: the combination of desert conditions, reliance on a single water supply and continuous millennia of dense human civilization in one place are ideal for a waterborne parasite to make the leap from infecting animals to infecting people.’
Ryan inhaled the night scents of rural Egypt. The cooling Nilotic breeze on his face. The breath of God in the desert. He was remembering verses from the Bible, learned as a kid. It was flooding back: all those boring Sundays in church with his Baptist parents.
Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.
He gazed at the eastern wilderness, stretching to the Red Sea, and Sinai, and Israel.
For I will punish them that dwell in the land of Egypt, as I have punished Jerusalem, by the sword, by the famine, and by the pestilence …
Ryan struggled to talk. ‘But how do, do, do these parasites affect behaviour?’
‘Neuromodulators. The parasites subvert the normal function of hormonal neuromodulators – the things that order the brain around – and they manipulate them in their own favour, to encourage an abundance of crazy behaviourisms.’
‘An example?’
Herzog shrugged. ‘I have several million examples. You know that one in four species on earth are parasitic? There are two hundred thousand species of parasitic wasp alone. One of the parasites that first seduced me into this field was Entomophthorales. It is an evil fungus that parasitizes the housefly. It glues itself to the fly’s body then burrows inside and starts eating all its blood, at the same time as it tunnels into the brain, like Muslim terrorists heading for the cockpit of a 747.’ Herzog glanced at his watch, then continued. ‘In time, the presence of the fungus, by manipulating the brain of the fly, gives the fly an irresistible urge to relocate to a high place, perhaps a blade of grass, or the top of a door. There the brainwashed fly glues itself to its perch, lowers its front legs and tilts its abdomen away. And in this surreal position it dutifully dies, and the fungus is ejaculated from the exploding abdomen of the fly, its contorted position perfect for firing spores widely into the wind, to shower on more flies below.’
‘Christ.’
‘Well, precisely. And there’s more. The parasitic control of the fly’s brain is so sophisticated it makes sure the fly commits suicide in this flamboyant manner just before sunset: only at that precise time is the air dewy and sweet enough for the spores to develop quickly on the next unfortunate fly. And so the cycle continues.’
‘That’s horrible.’
Herzog smiled. ‘Yes. And there are thousands of similar examples. It’s one reason why I am not religious. How could a good Creator conjure such monstrosities? There is a beetle which chews away the tongue of a fish and becomes its tongue, a parasitic tongue. There is a magnificently evil parasite which forces its poor host to change gender, yes – change sex – there is also a parasite which obliges its victim, say, a horse, to smash its head pointlessly against a rock or a tree: the Bornavirus.’ He put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. ‘But not all parasites are quite so malign. Many parasites thrive in a mutually beneficial way with the host. The God Parasite is one.’
‘Beneficial? But … Akhenaten was diseased, his children died young?’
‘Clearly in its earliest stage, the very first manifestation of monotheism, the God Parasite was brutal and harmful: it caused cranial malformation, strange bone diseases, bulging eyes – hence the oddness of Amarna portraiture. Those fearful plagues of Akhenaten and Moses. But Darwinism honed it. It got better. More user-friendly, more beneficial to the host.’
Ryan shook his head. As if he could shake the blackness from his sight. He was definitely going under now. He sat down on a wooden bench and closed his eyes. ‘It’s not benefiting me. And it killed Albert.’
Herzog’s voice was lonely in the darkness. ‘Ah, but only some people die. Those that survive do benefit, but why? Here is the genius of evolution: the parasite is, in fact, in its later forms, extremely beneficial – because monotheism is beneficial to the human host – religious people live longer than atheists: they are less likely to drink and smoke, they are happier, healthier, and, crucially, they have more kids – look at teeming Islam compared with sterile Europe – the atheists die out, in their sad and childless despair, meanwhile the monotheists breed like the lesser rodents.’ Herzog sighed. ‘We are sure the God Parasite, once it gets into the human brain, and presuming the host survives the initial infection, is then passed harmlessly down from mother to child, probably via uterine hormones. Or just maybe it smuggled its way into our DNA. Much of our DNA was originally the DNA of parasites that we co-opted. Either way, that’s why religious belief is partly heritable. A child who inherits the faith that infected his parents suffers no plague, no blindness, no insane epiphanies; he is just happy and monotheistic and devout, and he breeds more kids who have the same parasite.’
Herzog paused. ‘It does, however, appear that the parasite is not invulnerable. Eventually it stops descending down the generations, unless the human hosts are reinfected. Hence, maybe, the rise of secularism and atheism in Europe.’
Ryan opened his eyes. He saw an egret fly over the boat, spectral in the moonlight. Like a ghost. Or an angel.
Herzog concluded, ‘The parasite also evolves very quickly, we do not know how. It may become actively hostile to atheists, it may explain hostility to atheists. The science is still experimental and unformed, which is why a living, breathing, intelligent, freshly minted victim like you is such a valuable commodity.’
The moment was coming. When Ryan would have to agree. Before he lost his reason again. It was fleeing him now. He grasped for the words. ‘Commodity?’
‘This is the situation.’ Herzog clasped Ryan’s shoulder. ‘We are developing a cure for the God Parasite, a way of eradicating monotheism! Imagine the potential!’
‘I can’t. Why? Why are you doing this?’
‘Because of my country, the survival of my people. Because Israel is doomed if monotheism survives: religion is killing us. If it isn’t the Christians it is the Muslims – it is especially the Muslims, right now. Indeed, Israeli Jews will soon be outnumbered by Muslims even within Israel. There is no hope for the Zionist homeland, the Islamic nukes are here already. But ah! If only we can make the Muslims non-Muslim, make them nice secular liberals, take away the lunacy of monotheism around the world, then, hava nagila, Israel survives. And we get rid of the zealots at home.’ Herzog smiled bleakly. ‘Consequently we are, right now, developing a prototype parasite-killer; a parasiticide. We will use it on you. We do not know if it will work. It may cure you, it may not. But if it doesn’t, you will die, and then we get to cut open your head and look at your brain.’
He extended a hand. ‘Think, Ryan, think. While you still can. Doesn’t that sound like a pretty good deal? In the circumstances? With Helen asleep downstairs? You love her, don’t you? You want to save her. And yourself. So this is your only option. If you don’t agree you will definitely die, and she will be arrested and jailed. So, therefore, use your last precious moments of rationality. Make the decision. Do it quickly. Or you will die a flailing and horrible death.’
48
Plymouth, England
The girl, Zara Parkinson, was weeping again. Rothley resisted the urge to smack her. She still had faint bruises on her face from the last time he had struck her: sad, violet contusions under her eyes, and some bruising on her slim, pale arms. This was not ideal. The Abra-Melin ritual was adamant that the final victim must burn in as pure a state as possible. Virginal, and perfect, and unsullied.
Besides, there was no real need for him to hit her again. He had done much of the hardest work, having successfully transported her ac
ross southern England to this old block of apartments in a rundown corner of Plymouth.
All the neighbouring flats were empty: they could not be detected. The flat was anonymous, and utterly context-less; the police in their dutiful slowness would surely be looking for him in some house connected to Crowley and the Dawn. But Rothley was already beyond that – he had soared way beyond that.
‘Mnnggg.’
The girl was whimpering, choking a little on her gag. Rothley leaned close, and assessed her half-naked body. She was quite dirty. He would have to bathe her and feed her tonight. Yes. Then put some ointment on her wrists where the ropes had grazed her skin, and dress her in clean white clothes. He had to get her right for the final ritual, for the great and dramatic denouement, when she could burn correctly in the ‘incandescent fires’.
Staring out of the window, at the grey terraced houses of Plymouth, Rothley rolled the resonant Coptic concepts in his mind.
Burn the virgin in the scorching and incandescent fires of Hell. Before the eyes of many.
How fitting. It was rather magnificent in its own way. He had to burn the girl, and do it all in public. The writers of the Abra-Melin ritual had a gift for poetry, and theatre, as well as pre-Christian sorcery.
‘Mmmggnnn!’
The girl was still mumbling, intruding on his thoughts. What did she want? Perhaps she was thirsty? He couldn’t risk her dehydrating. He wanted her alive so that she could die. Pulling the rag from out of her mouth, he said, ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Please … please …’ The tears streamed abundantly down her bruised face. ‘Please let me go. Please!’
She was sobbing. It was cruel. He sighed and shook his head. ‘No.’
‘I … I …’ Zara sobbed some more, her lips trembling with fear, her eyelids opening and closing as if she were drugged. Soon she would be drugged. He would have to give her the last incense so that she was entirely bewitched; and of course he would inject some Ampulex compressa. Then she would walk into the incandescent flames virtually of her own volition. Her pure, virginal, eight-year-old’s body would be taken by the sub-princes, and scorched and devoured. Wholly consumed, rolled in the mouth of Hell: a cruel and beautiful death, witnessed by many.