3zekiel (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  “Angela, can you set up a repeater station? We’re below the brow of the hill so we’re going to need to start bouncing signals off the ionosphere to get them back to base camp.”

  “On it.”

  Angela straps a nondescript grey box to one of the trees, extending an aerial and checking the connection from her tablet computer.

  As we approach the edge of the cliff, the trees thin as the ground drops away. Occasionally we get a glimpse of the valley opening out below us through the broken canopy. We stay on the track, winding our way down the slope. Although the height of the waterfall is roughly fifty to sixty feet, we’re following a trail that zig-zags back and forth, created by animals tracing the lay of the land, taking the most efficient but not the most direct route to the base.

  Most of the cliff is hidden by ferns and bushes growing out of the rocks. In the jungle, space is at a premium and trees twist and wind their roots over the rocks, clinging on to the cliff face as they reach for the sun. The wind blows moist air from the waterfall along the track, cooling this small portion of the jungle. Garcia hacks at vines blocking the path.

  Boulders form a series of pools at the base of the waterfall. The caves are visible further along the cliff face, appearing as dark shadows behind the undergrowth, deep cracks in the rocks.

  Pretzel points through the trees. There’s someone swimming down there. Given the lily-white complexion, it’s clear he’s European and skinny dipping.

  “Who’s that?”

  “I dunno,” I reply, unable to make him out at this distance. There’re not many people it could be as the jungle isn’t exactly crowded. “Brother Mordecai. Maybe?”

  “You know him?” Garcia asks.

  “Yes. I think it’s him.”

  We lose sight of Brother Mordecai as we descend, slowly trudging toward the base of the waterfall. Rocks and boulders hide our approach. There’s no path down here, and we’re forced to clamber over the debris that’s fallen from the cliff face as it has eroded over the years.

  “Watch for snakes,” Jana says, which immediately gets Angela’s attention.

  “Snakes?”

  Pretzel raises an eyebrow. Garcia doesn’t seem bothered. Angela goes on to ask, “You get a lot of snakes down here?” I understand what she means as I was surprised by this as well when Jana first brought me down here. Snakes at the base of a waterfall is something that’s counterintuitive. It didn’t make sense until she explained it to me.

  “Hundreds of them,” Jana replies, speaking as though it’s entirely normal. “Sometimes thousands during the Monsoon season.”

  “Hundreds?” Pretzel asks.

  “Thousands?” Angela says, latching on to the higher figure with a sense of alarm.

  Jana shrugs. “They’re mostly dead—mostly.”

  “Wait a minute?” Pretzel says, coming to a stop beside a boulder that reaches above head height. “You’re saying they get washed down here?”

  Jana nods. “But even when they’re dead, they can be deadly. Watch where you put your hands.”

  I say, “Smell that?”

  In turn, each of them sniff at the air.

  “Dead snakes.”

  Pretzel nods. Garcia has found a snake lying between the rocks beneath our feet. He grabs it by the tail, raising it up. Although the snake is quite thin, it’s long and he has to work his hands along its body before its head finally appears. Angela’s eyes go wide.

  “Black Mamba,” Jana says, even though the snake’s skin is more of a deep grey with a whitish underbelly. I’m not sure whether that’s because of some change that occurred after it died or if that was its natural color. The head hangs limp. Jana points at the mouth, which is slightly open, almost as if the animal is lying in wait, ready to spring upon its prey. “Still dangerous. If you catch your finger on those fangs…” She doesn’t have to elaborate further.

  Garcia drops the snake back on the rocks. Pretzel and Angela give it a wide berth, clambering over a shoulder-height boulder as we continue on.

  Jana says, “They get caught in the rains, dragged over the waterfall and onto the rocks. Be careful where you put your hands. Don’t reach for any handholds you can’t see as the snakes are often strung out on top of the rocks.”

  Garcia slips on some leather gloves and climbs over the large boulder barring our way. Water winds its way around the rocks, flowing gently on. Reeds grow out of the gaps in the rubble. As we follow, Garcia occasionally points to one side, letting us know where a snake lies baking in the sun. Sure enough, as I step up behind Jana, there’s a shriveled carcass withering in the heat, thin scales clinging to a gaunt row of bones.

  “That is definitely a Black Mamba,” Angela says, looking at the dark skin draped over the rock. We’re all extra careful when grabbing at outcrops while climbing over the boulders. Often, the snakes look like fallen branches or bits of cloth wrapped over the scorching hot stones.

  I wonder if Overlord is watching us, or if the aliens slowly descending to Earth can see us. My eyes drift to the skies as my mind wanders, wondering if/when the ‘rope ladder’ will be visible to us from the ground. How big is it? How thick? Such a device is inconceivable to me, disappearing into the heavens. Dad taught me about Jacob’s ladder in the Book of Genesis, but I suspect even that pales in comparison.

  “Hey!” Garcia calls out as we come to a rocky beach shaded by the jungle canopy.

  Water thunders into the pool, cascading over the cliff above, kicking up a constant mist drifting across the boulders. Brother Mordecai is out in the deep and can’t hear us over the torrent of water madly churning the pool. Pretzel waves his hands around as though he were trying to signal a plane. Mordecai sees us and swims in, using freestyle, with long, carefully honed strokes. Although there are plenty of leeches in most of the rivers and streams throughout Africa, they’re not fond of waterfalls. Something about the noise and turbulent water seems to scare them off, which is nice. Jana and I love coming here, but normally in groups of eight to ten with other teens from the village.

  As he gets close, Brother Mordecai stands, walking into the shallows without any regard for being naked. To him, the body is a temple—not something to hide or be ashamed of, but rather a jewel to be celebrated.

  Angela looks up at the trees, around to one side at low hanging branches and then over at the far bank, anywhere but at his penis as it droops from his waist. Jana looks at me. I shrug. Brother Mordecai never was orthodox. For his part, Mordecai doesn’t care. I can’t believe he risked coming down here alone. If a leopard picked up his scent it would have attacked him, but as they generally hunt at night, I guess it’s low risk. Maybe.

  Before Brother Mordecai reaches the shore, Garcia says, “We’re evacuating the area. I need you to head back to the village and jump on a truck to Kisangani.”

  “Is that a fact?” Mordecai says, dripping wet as he opens his backpack and grabs a towel. Water laps at his bare feet. Much to the annoyance of Garcia, he rubs his hair dry along with his arms and chest, but doesn’t so much as touch his groin, let alone dry his legs. It seems he realizes precisely how awkward he’s making us feel and is happy to accentuate that with his reply. “I think you’ll find I don’t answer to the US military. Mine is a higher calling.”

  Pretzel raises his thumb in agreement. “I like this guy.”

  Garcia glances at Pretzel. He’s less than amused by the aging Indian scientist, annoyed by how he’s apparently switched sides.

  “What?” Pretzel replies, holding his arms out wide in his defense. “He’s got a point. This isn’t our call. Who are we to say who they want to make contact with?”

  Garcia’s military. Orders are the overriding concern. He reaches into Mordecai’s backpack as though it was his own and grabs a pair of shorts, throwing them at the preacher’s crotch. Mordecai catches them with one hand and slips them on, but he’s in no rush. Angela relaxes a little, but she looks as though she’s enjoying the standoff, clearly understanding the dynamic
at work between the two men. Like Pretzel, I get the feeling she sees authority as a means, not an end, and wants to see a fight, of sorts. Not physically, of course, but like all of us, she’s curious how this will play out. Brother Mordecai is anything but predictable.

  “Why should I answer to you?” Mordecai asks, which leaves Garcia enraged. The veins on his neck are pronounced. Rather than reacting, though, he slows down, picking his response, keeping it measured, using his military discipline to stay in control of himself, first and foremost.

  “These orders are for your protection.”

  Clever. He’s removed himself from the discussion, attributing the decision to some nameless officer, someone not present so Mordecai can’t argue with them. And it’s ‘for your protection.’ Ah, the personal touch. I’ve seen my father use this tactic with the villagers, only I tend to miss it when it’s directed at me, only realizing I’ve been played after the fact.

  Pretzel seems intrigued by Mordecai’s point and wants to explore it further.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Petty Officer Garcia. I know you’ve got a job to do. I understand you’re here for our protection, but we need to recognize, we’re in uncharted waters. None of our assumptions hold—not any more. Everything we’ve ever known is about to be overturned. All our preconceptions and ideas—none of them are worth squat. You and I might recognize one authority. He recognizes another. As for them, who knows?”

  Brother Mordecai puts on a shirt, draping the damp towel over his shoulders like a cloak. He sits on a boulder with his bare feet still in the water. The contrast to Garcia couldn’t be more stark. Pebbles crunch beneath the thick soles of his combat boots as he walks around. His camouflage trousers are functional, with rubber kneepads and various pockets bulging with stuff. Even in the sweltering heat, he’s wearing some kind of combat vest with dozens of pouches, presumably full of ammunition or other equipment. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, exposing his thick, muscular forearms, which are a clear contrast to Mordecai’s thin, white arms. Garcia keeps his rifle slung over his shoulder, but it’s symbolic of his ability to project lethal force. Mordecai has nothing beyond the worn Bible sitting beside his backpack.

  Garcia points at Mordecai and then Pretzel, using his trademark deliberation, acting as though he were a police officer directing traffic at a busy intersection.

  “An alien vessel is about to touch down less than five miles from here. With all due respect, this is an issue for the government, not the church.”

  Pretzel takes exception to that comment and comes to the defense of Brother Mordecai.

  “The government? Really? You think a bunch of bureaucrats and soldiers are our best emissaries?”

  Pretzel slumps down on a rock opposite Mordecai, with Garcia standing to one side on the pebble beach, roughly midway between them. Angela, Jana and I drop our backpacks and sit on a tree trunk in the narrow stretch of beach curling around the side of the falls, enjoying the cool wet breeze coming from the thundering water. I’m fascinated by the discussion.

  “Science is our only option,” Pretzel says, holding his hands out with his palms open, making as though such a conclusion was obvious.

  Brother Mordecai says, “I beg to differ. For thousands of years, religion has been the cornerstone of humanity, the driving force behind progress.”

  Pretzel looks down at the stones by his boots, shaking his head. Given how outspoken he is, it must take all his resolve not to respond. He’s trying to be polite—diplomatic—something that doesn’t suit him. He presses his fingers together, lost in thought. I can see the pressure building in the intensity of his gaze as it narrows on the preacher. His dark eyes are piercing.

  Just as he was with my father, Brother Mordecai is oblivious to the social clues around him. He continues, saying, “Given the sheer number of believers across all time, let alone the billions of faithful alive today, I’d argue that, regardless of faith, religion provides the best representation of humanity.”

  Pretzel is brutal, offering only one word in rebuttal.

  “Best?”

  The jungle is never silent, but in that instant the water cascading over the falls, the screaming of monkeys in the trees and the incessant screeching of birds overhead seems distant. Even Brother Mordecai is quiet for a moment—something my father failed to accomplish. He regathers and counters.

  “For you, this is First Contact. But not so for us.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute there.” Pretzel has a finger raised, wanting some clarification.

  Petty Officer Garcia cuts him off with, “What do you mean for us?”

  I suspect Garcia’s motivation is more pragmatic than Pretzel’s scientific rationale. Garcia is thinking Mordecai may have knowledge of some earlier contact here in the jungle, but I know what Mordecai means. Our eyes meet.

  “Tell them, Josh.”

  The two men turn to me, looking at me as though I hold the key to some mystic secret. I’d rather Brother Mordecai didn’t drop me into his wild theory like this—I’m not sure what I believe, but Garcia and Pretzel are waiting on my response.

  “It’s Ezekiel,” I say, getting a feel for the shifting dynamic at play between us.

  When Garcia first marched in here he was leading our small band, providing Pretzel and Angela with the opportunity to set up their biometric probes throughout the jungle. Jana and I were guides of sorts, helping out. Brother Mordecai was the stranger—the outsider—the intruder. By directing the conversation to me, Brother Mordecai has flipped the tables on them, suggesting there’s more going on than they realize and showing the bond he has with me.

  For my part, I feel conflicted. Brother Mordecai is an old friend of my father. I’ve known him all my life. Petty Officer Garcia’s a Navy SEAL that literally dropped out of the sky this morning. Pretzel and Angela are scientists. They couldn’t be more removed from my daily life if they tried, and yet I feel more of an affinity for them than I do for Mordecai or even my own dad. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the sense of adventure. Perhaps it’s the energy and excitement they’ve brought with them. Maybe it’s the shifting perspective they’ve shown me, with the promise of opening new worlds. But now I find myself being dragged back to my roots and I don’t like it.

  Before I can say anything, Pretzel asks, “As in the biblical prophet?”

  I nod, but my eyes cast down. Brother Mordecai gestures with his hands, wanting me to go on, but this is his crazy idea. Mordecai doesn’t disappoint, quoting the Bible from memory.

  “…and their appearance was like burning coals of fire, and like the appearance of lamps… and the fire was bright, and out of the fire went forth lightning.”

  Pretzel raises an eyebrow, making eye contact with both Angela and Garcia as Brother Mordecai continues.

  “It is the testimony of Scripture.”

  Pretzel clenches his lips. Angela says, “No offense, Brother Mordecai, but we’re scientists. We need evidence.”

  “How is this not evidence?” Mordecai asks, holding up his Bible. “When Columbus discovered the Americas and then returned to Spain, what evidence did he have beyond his word?”

  Pretzel says, “Columbus brought back slaves, birds, plants.”

  Mordecai isn’t impressed. “Things he could have found in Africa. He promised gold and spices, but he found none. His word, though, was his proof—his bond.”

  Angela interjects with an afterthought, “He brought back syphilis. That’s something the Europeans didn’t have.”

  “Score one to the microbiologist.” Pretzel smiles, turning back to Mordecai, trying not to laugh.

  “You mock me at your peril,” Mordecai says. “But the Bible speaks of creatures not found on Earth. The Scriptures describe things that can only now be understood.”

  “I get it,” Pretzel says. “You want to believe. You see something that seems to fit within your framework of knowledge and it’s easy to read that into the Bible. We all see what we want to see.”

  Mordecai fli
ps through the pages of his ragged Bible.

  “Their legs were straight, and the soles of their feet were round; and they sparkled like burnished bronze.” He looks up at Pretzel and Angela. “What does that describe? Where have you seen that before? How is that not the pads of a landing craft like the Apollo?”

  Garcia steps back. He seems content to let this play out between Mordecai and the scientists.

  “There are a lot of things that could be describing,” Angela says, trying to be kind.

  Mordecai continues with, “And the likeness of the firmament was upon the heads of the living creature and was as the color of the terrible crystal, stretched forth over their heads above.”

  I’m impressed by Pretzel. He’s neither angry nor aggressive. He’s not treating Brother Mordecai with disdain. He seems genuinely supportive, even if he doesn’t agree. He asks, “And you think this is happening now?”

  Mordecai says, “I think it’s what happened then. And it’s happening again. The firmament is the sky. The color of crystal is blue. Stretched out over their heads—how is that not your space elevator?”

  “Wow,” Pretzel says, shaking his head and looking over at Angela. It seems as though he’s unsure where to begin and is looking for her to say something before he offends the preacher.

  “If there was some prior contact, we would expect more evidence,” Angela says in a soft spoken, considerate voice. “Converging lines of evidence are convincing. A single source, like Ezekiel, doesn’t give us much to go on. If there were multiple references, perhaps from different observers in different cultures. Or if there was some physical evidence supporting the notion. Data is plural, not singular.”

  Pretzel asks, “Ezekiel lived what? Around two and a half thousand years ago?”

  Mordecai Nods.

  “He lived in Israel, right?”

  Mordecai says, “Yes. Before being exiled to Babylon.”

  “Okay, that reinforces my point. He’s nowhere near the equator. Israel is above the Tropic of Cancer, right? As from memory, that passes below the Mediterranean, running through Egypt. Babylon’s even further north again, right?”