It happened quickly. Plato’s soul passed through the room and through Aristotle, mingling with Theron’s soul like dust particles in a sunbeam. Unseen, he was reclaimed by the Source. There was not a rush of wind or a whispered goodby.
Marcus was once again flowing through the Grid, destined for the place in between, the “Meadow,” as Plato had called it. He was at complete peace, in harmony with the divine Source and all creation, and he suffered no conscious separate thought. He existed in complete bliss, lightness, and color.
Marcus, like all of the world’s souls and Emissaries, was born and reborn in the generations to come. Each lifetime had its own lessons, difficulties, highs, and lows. His childhoods continued to be unfettered by past recall. But eventually in each life, his memories came to him as lightning or in whispers. They always came, piled upon one another like a wardrobe from countless centuries, layer by layer.
Without fail, in adulthood Marcus searched for Theron’s spirit in everyone he met and was wary and alert for Helghul. Entire lives passed without finding her. He was tortured, knowing too much yet not knowing enough to certainly lead him to his love.
CHAPTER 19
UNDERSTANDING THE PAST
Present day
Quinn studied history intently. He was thankful for the gaps the scholars filled and the clues as to what had occurred in the lifetimes flowing in and out of his own.
Marcus had awakened in Quinn, stronger and louder than in any other lifetime, perhaps because of the turn of the Great Year to an ascending Age.
Where was Theron? What had happened to her? He was obsessed as he looked for threads of her. Aristotle—how grateful he was that she had been someone important and that her words, or almost her words, were contemplated even now. So much had been lost. Aristotle’s most brilliant works had vanished, most likely in the fire at Alexandria. The great library had been torched during the darkness of the Iron Age, and thousands of years of carefully collected ancient knowledge had been destroyed. What a terrible waste.
Alexandria and the importance of Egypt could not be overstated. Quinn felt it deep in his bones. News articles, documentaries, movies, travel advertisements, Ashton Kutcher on Jimmy Fallon in front of the Giza pyramids with an iPhone. Images of the ancient, sacred land inundated him and with them came a rush of familiarity.
Quinn had returned to Egypt in this lifetime. He had wandered the same dusty terrain he had walked thousands of years before as Plato. He had returned to the Great Pyramid of Giza, the oasis of Siwa and its temple. Quinn had heard that a new ruin had been discovered, and it was believed to be a calendar of the Great Year. He went to Nabta Playa to see it for himself. Unfortunately the stones had been dismantled before he got there, under the guise of protecting them from vandals.
He had again felt the heat and mystery of Heliopolis, though the symbol of Horus was now found on T-shirts and tattooed arms rather than over a secret doorway. It had seemed a good a place to look for her, but Theron had not been found.
Quinn had done his homework. He found that after Plato’s death, Aristotle had gone to Macedonia to teach a young prince, a future king who became known as Alexander the Great. The boy king had indeed been great, but he had been terrible as well. “Three destinies tied together,” the Oracle had said to Plato. Marcus remembered the prophecy with a shiver, and Quinn pulled closed his sloppy black velour robe.
Alexander the Great was rumored to have visited the Oracle of Amun in Siwa and to have found the Emerald Tablet in the tomb of the rebel, Pharaoh Akhenaten. Akhenaten was the father of King Tut and had recorded, for the first time in history, the concept that there was only one God. He seemed likely to have been Red Elder, the protector of the Emerald Tablet’s secrets, but Quinn could only guess.
Aristotle had probably helped Alexander to accomplish this feat. Perhaps the knowledge of the Mystery School that Plato had shared with Aristotle had been instrumental.
Quinn thought of Amnut, the guide who had helped Plato find the Mystery School so long ago. Had he helped Alexander as well? He wished he could ask, and just as he thought it, his computer pinged with an incoming message.
“U up?” it said. Quinn smiled at the coincidence—the uncanny connection they all had and the synchronicity of the Universe.
“It’s noon,” he replied.
“Ur point?” the faceless person typed.
“Come on over,” Quinn answered, without thinking, as if he had been born with keys connected to his fingertips.
“15,” the screen announced.
Quinn had his theories about Alexander the Great. So close to Theron, so important in history, second only to Genghis Khan as the greatest conqueror the world had ever known. Quinn suspected that Alexander had been Helghul, just as Alexander had supposed, thousands of years before, that Plato had been Marcus. They had both been correct. They had missed one another by a generation, but Theron had linked them once again.
Alexander was said to have found and displayed the Emerald Tablet. Quinn wondered where it had gone next, certain that Helghul would have hidden it for himself to find in a future life.
Quinn read and reread, looking for new information, new blogs, new links, and evidence of other Emissaries. Theron might be out there somewhere.
There was a quick rap and the door opened.
“Dude … you should lock your door,” Nate—a metrosexual artist in his late twenties—said as he let himself in. He wore skinny jeans, a long sloppy sweater, and a toque that covered his mop of dark hair, except for the pieces that were arranged in deliberate poky bits across his forehead.
“If I had, you’d still be standing in the rain,” Quinn pointed out, readjusting his robe.
“How goes the computer biz? You look like you got some work,” Nate said, eying the pile of hard drives and laptops on the kitchen table as he helped himself to a cup of coffee.
“Yeah, some. How’s it going with you?” Quinn said, pushing back from the computer and rolling closer to the overstuffed chair behind him. Nate moved a small pile of newspapers and a dog-eared copy of The Secret History of the Mongols20 and sat sideways. His long legs dangled over the worn arm as he drank.
“Not doing well, actually. My car’s not driving for shit these days and I hate the thought of taking the bus at my age. I really thought I was done with that, you know? Anyway, Sarah’s been nagging like, insane, about the whole marriage and kid thing, and I was thinking, like seriously, if she’s going to nag and bitch like this do I really want to get tossed into some crazy, formal, man-made cage with her? Voluntarily? Fuck no, so we had another huge fight. Hey, whatever happened with that woman who gave you her number at the art gallery?” he said, finally taking a breath. Quinn passed him a joint and blew out a lungful of smoke.
“Man, when someone says how’s it going … seriously … do you have to go into the unedited, Bible-length version?” Quinn asked, shaking his head.
“Yeah … explain that why don’t you? Why do people ask if they don’t wanna know?”
“I wanna know, relax,” Quinn said, amused by his friend’s rant.
Nate was so easy to rile, but it was only because he cared so much. When Nate asked someone, “How’s it going?” he meant it. He wanted to know. Right down to the smallest, most insignificant hangnail. If it mattered to you, Nate wanted to know. Quinn loved that about his pal. He had loved that same energy when he had known Nate as Amnut in Egypt centuries earlier, and before that as his merciful guard in Stone-at-Center. He was a good soul, and Quinn wondered what they were meant to accomplish together. There must be some reason that they were a part of the same soul group and that Nate had come into his life once again.
Three years earlier, Nate and Quinn had met on a small plane between Lake Arenal and Montezuma beach in Costa Rica. They were the only two passengers on the tiny, turbulent flight, and they had been delighted to learn that they lived a mere ten miles apart back home in Washington State. It was no coincidence. Though Nate did not have past-li
fe memory, nor was he an Emissary, his aura was distinct, a fingerprint belonging only to him, and Quinn had recognized his spirit when they met.
“You didn’t answer about that woman, the blonde. Did you call her?” Nate asked hopefully.
“Naw, I don’t need the complications.”
“You’re already practically a monk, dude … don’t have to marry her,” Nate teased, picking up the Mongolian text next to him and shaking his head at Quinn’s strange preferences.
“Yeah, look who’s talking,” Quinn said snorting.
Life was always complicated enough. Relationships, especially romantic ones, never worked out for Marcus. There was only one Theron, and no matter who or where he was, no one else could reach that place within him. It was unfair to put other loving souls at such a disadvantage, so Quinn stayed casual and aloof, ever vigilant.
CHAPTER 20
CHILGER AND BORTE
AD 1171
Borte ran unchecked through the marketplace; sheep, wheels, grain—all obstacles to be avoided. The tips of her plaited hair, dark and glistening, blew free of her fur cap. Her black eyes sparkled with the chase, her cheeks permanently ruddy and burnt by the constant winds that cut across the plains of her homeland. The crowd was loud and moved deliberately, ignoring the children as they darted and played joyfully. Borte and Chilger, laughing and running, stopped breathless behind a shelter, unnoticed by the adults nearby. Chilger opened his hand and produced a date, easily snatched in passing. He held it out to Borte and she took it happily, biting it in half and returning the other portion to him. He popped it in his mouth, flashing a broad white smile, and suddenly, without a word, they were off again. She looked back, her heart racing. How close was he? Bam! She slammed to an abrupt stop. The tribal leader, her father, solid as a stone wall, loomed unyielding over her. She bounced off like a pebble, and he easily caught her before she hit the ground.
“Ay, ay!” he grumbled. Her smile already wiped clean, she was contrite and lowered her head respectfully as her father steadied her and used the moment to subtly scold her under his breath. He hurried her along and his swiftness unnerved her. It was unlike him to move quickly or say much, so she thought that he must be quite upset with her to act so. He was a quiet, contemplative man, typically cautious to smile but unlikely to anger, very good qualities in a chief.
Chilger watched from a distance, sorry that he had caused his friend to suffer her father’s disapproval. Borte’s father eyed the boy cautiously and waved his arm in the air toward him once, as if swatting a fly. Chilger sadly watched her go; they were from different clans and he looked forward to their chance meetings at the market, as they always had great fun together. There was something unusual about her, and since the first time he saw her, he had been compelled to seek her out.
The daughter was loaded onto the family cart, and they made the long journey home in customary silence. They crossed the endless grassy landscape, empty to the untrained eye, aware of every rabbit, fox, and magpie for miles. Even under the bright sun the temperatures cut hard and cruel as they rode; the wind from all directions stirred the dust and grass in alternate sweeps.
It was the early months of autumn. The days of snow would come soon to make life difficult, but the people of northern Asia would endure heartily. In tune with the elements, the heavens, and the Earth, they survived the bitter cold by hard work and planning—the furs must be plenty and the food stocks full. The angry cold and blizzards could hold them captive for weeks at a time, isolated and dependent on their herds, which needed grazing land to survive.
The nomads positioned themselves the best they could to accommodate their need to be self-sufficient, often going months without the option of trade in a shared marketplace. Common sense and preparation were second only to pleasing the gods in their beliefs. There was no chance; events unfolded as they were meant to at the pleasure or displeasure of the countless deities which abounded in the living, breathing land around them. Borte smelled the snow that had not fallen yet; the sweet flowery scent of summer had gone and been replaced by the frigid crispness that warned them to make haste.
Borte and her father arrived at their nomadic tent, which was one of a group of fifteen gers spread out along that section of the remote steppe. Their fellow tribespeople were busy with their work and did not stir as they arrived with the dust billowing around them. Their sheep herd, back from the pastures for the night, milled around them, and Borte’s father forgot her, busy with his work. She climbed out to help unload, casually looking at the distant horizon. She saw something there, a cloud, an unusually large smudge of movement approaching their camp. She pointed. Her father turned, his square silhouette momentarily obscuring her view of the evening sunset.
“Go daughter, there is much to do, they come quickly,” he instructed, nudging her toward the shelter. Her brothers had already joined their father in attending the cart, and he directed them with few words to position the sheep for the night.
Borte was unsettled at being sent inside. Her father was acting strangely—her ten-year-old mind reflected back to the marketplace and Chilger, and she assumed that she was to blame. She knew that she was getting too old to behave in such a carefree, childish way, and she felt shame that she had disappointed him.
In actual fact, she was responsible for his preoccupation, but not for the reasons she supposed. Though she remained unaware, it was a monumental day in her life. Borte was being introduced to her prospective husband that night, and if the meeting went well, an alliance would be made and a contract agreed upon. The fathers were both tribal leaders, and they had met months before to discuss the possible alliance of their like-aged children. It was a time of discord and uncertainty between tribes, and wars were not uncommon; an ally would be welcome.
“Daughter, you may meet your husband tonight. You see they approach. Come quickly and be washed and dressed,” her mother said as she entered. Instantly she noticed that the ger smelled deliciously of roasting lamb tail and fragrant tea, and she was grateful for the warmth of the healthy fire in the center of the room. She saw that the traditional circular dwelling had been neatly arranged to receive guests at the north side near the altar, respecting Father Sky, Mother Earth, and the ancestors. It was laid invitingly with their best furs, skins, and carpets. Borte walked clockwise the short distance east to the women’s side of the quarters. She stood compliantly while her hair was tightly rewoven and her over-clothes were replaced with fresh ones that she had only ever seen folded carefully in her mother’s personal belongings. Her mother and grandmother rubbed and dressed and cleaned her, the whole time clucking around her like hens.
“This is a special day, Borte,” they explained briefly in their spare but happy sing-song way. “You will always remember the first time you see your husband.”
Borte’s mother stepped away from her, attending to the food preparation and arranging tea and spirits, while her grandmother continued to fuss over the wide-eyed girl. Borte noticed that both of the women had also taken special care with their dress and had scrubbed themselves and retied their hair. They were beautiful; their wide, round faces were perfectly symmetrical and kind. Even the elder woman, almost in her forty-third year, had an unusual sparkle in her almond eyes.
“Will they take me away?” Borte asked bravely. Her respected grandmother’s face creased into cheerful lines and, smiling widely, she displayed the gap where she had lost a side tooth. She held the girl tightly by the shoulders.
“Good girl to be so strong,” she said, nodding. “You won’t go now, not until your thirteenth year at least. This is just a time to make sure that the choice will stick and that your temperaments are in balance. If it is heaven’s will, he will join us here to serve your father until the year of the marriage ritual,” she said, while at the same time rubbing her thumb superstitiously across the girl’s forehead in a protective sign.
“But who is he?” Borte begged to know, her excitement and curiosity building.
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nbsp; The dust cloud grew closer, ox and cart and more men on thick, wide, heavy horses. Father rushed around the outside of the ger, still preparing, then pounded the dust from his layers of clothing. The sun was barely a sliver on the scarlet horizon and the cold of evening was settling upon them. Each breath and word hung like smoke in the air. A blazing outdoor fire had been built to welcome and comfort the visitors, and the sheep, their long winter coats growing in, had been gathered nearby to rest for the night, where they could be heard bleating occasionally.
Tribal members from the other gers just beyond the chief’s began to gather a few hundred paces away, anxious for a first-hand view of the visitors.
Nine-year-old Temujin approached, accompanied by his father, Yesugei Khan, his uncle, and numerous attendants. The group had traveled on horseback for three long days, but they were a traveling people and were unfazed by the journey.
The men arrived looking rested and well. They were an impressive sight, and it was obvious that their clan was large and prosperous. They brought gifts of spice, grains, and textiles for their hosts. Borte’s father led the honored guests through the southern tent flap into the traditionally appointed ger, warm with fire and food. Her brothers stayed outside with the remaining entourage and gathered at the fire, where they enjoyed a simple meal and exchanged stories and shared good humor.
“I hope you find your horses fat and your sons strong,” Yesugei Khan began, demonstrating his friendly intentions to his hosts as they entered. His uncommon ginger hair and beard were bright against his fur cap, and his weathered face was nearly the same shade.
“You are generous and wise. I hope that your yak has the muscle of many,” Borte’s father answered graciously.
As was mandated by custom, the men walked clockwise around the ger to the northern side and took their comfortable, warm places among the furs. The night had become harshly cold compared to the heat of the day, and they were glad to nestle in. A wind gust whistled through the ger, sending chills through Borte’s body at the mere sound. She thought compassionately of her brothers outside, though they were well accustomed to adapting to the rapidly changing environment.
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