The stranger was taken aback by her lack of expressive emotion. “Aren't you sad about his death?”
“That's just how we are. We believe that he fulfilled his purpose in time and space. That was his body's destiny and now he has moved on to a different vessel, another incarnation, another mission in his journey.”
He did not want to cause her pain but his curiosity was getting the better of him, so he asked, “Don't you miss him?”
The corners of her mouth curled downwards. Her eyes revealed sadness but her carefully crafted words were calculated and deliberate. “My father was a hero. One of the pioneers of space and life exploration. He gave his life for his mission. The Pythagoreans name their children Atar in his honor and there are space stations named for him as well. His memory lives on in us.”
“But he was first and foremost your father, no?” Although he could clearly see that he was causing her distress, he was unable to stop himself. He could not understand what compelled him to hurt her so, but he could not control his urge. Even her cautionary glances did not deter him. “You were left without a father. An orphan. A dead hero is no replacement for a live father,” he persisted.
“Enough! It is none of your business. I see that you also seem to have forgotten how to behave toward your hosts,” she said with controlled anger.
He regretted his intrusiveness and curiosity. “I'm sorry. It’s not my place to judge you. I don't even know my own identity and certainly have no right to interfere with the conventions of your brotherhood.” In his heart, however, he did not believe that she felt no grief for her father.
He noted the growing disparity expressed by her body language, her restlessness and her escalating voice in contrast with her measured responses. “The brotherhood provides us with everything we need. I do not lack a father. I have the entire brotherhood.”
He tried to touch her shoulder comfortingly but she was like stone.
“Excuse me. I have a lot of work ahead of me and will visit you later.”
His eyes followed her out of the room.
Decades earlier, Atar experienced the shock of his encounter with Earth. Of all the Pythagoreans in Octavia, no one could have prepared him for what he was about to experience. Atar had never contemplated the fragile nature of Pythagorean serenity, or that the peaceful composure he had brought with him from Octavia would be contaminated by the white skies and black lightning that enveloped Earth.
Atar was the first Pythagorean to return to Earth since the exile of Orpheus. He had done his research in the database and read about Calcutta in the twentieth century: the limbless children aimlessly wandering from place to place, the corpses rotting in the streets and the hunger-swollen stomachs. But in contrast to the airport, God still existed in Calcutta. The Indians still believed that this was their destined place in the cosmic order, their karma. The glazed looks on the faces of the semi-limbless bodies that clutched his clothing as he exited the airport did not appear to belong to any semblance of order. Mesopotamian Uruk, the mythological paradise, was just like the rest of the planet now: the most cursed place that human history had ever known. He felt—not without a certain sense of guilt—a glimmer of joy in thinking that the Pythagoreans had been spared the bitter fate that had befallen Earth. He shook these feeling away, as it was improper for a Pythagorean to harbor such thoughts, but did so with a sort of clemency; usually, Pythagoreans had no reason to cope with the harsh realities of earth.
The Pythagoreans had every reason to disconnect themselves from the Gnostics on Earth. As it were, Adamas, founder of Gnosticism, stole the formula for the constant of creation, An, and established the Gnosis on Earth. Did Orpheus have any legitimate alternative to his decision to do what he did? Furthermore, Earth could offer nothing to the Pythagoreans aside from being a burden. But now, eighty years later, the master of Octavia decided that it was worthwhile to try and rescue whatever remains of life that had survived on Earth. Atar volunteered for the position.
He made his way through the putrid human mass as he exited the airport. People screamed in languages he did not understand, grabbed at the edges of his clothing and begged him for something he could not make out. Perhaps money? Food? He noticed a bizarre sense of pride in the way they emphasized their open and purulent wounds, as if the scars of their missing limbs were merely decorative tattoos. As if they were requesting money in exchange for the pleasure he was to gain from beholding their wounds. They even tried to bite him. 'What do they want?' he speculated.
He walked through a narrow passage to a protected area enclosed by a chain link fence. The human mass pressed up against the fence. Fingers clutched the cage that had closed upon him and imprisoned him inside while imprisoning them outside. A driver in a brown uniform led him to a hovercraft in the exact same shades of brown. He introduced himself as the representative of the Earth Transportation Corporation, opened the door of the passenger's cabin and pointed to a box containing sickness bags, tissues and water bottles. After he vomited in the bag and drank some water, Atar wondered how the driver knew that he needed to vomit. It appeared that this was a common reaction among strangers toward the shock of Earth.
“Is this your first time on Earth?” asked the driver in a rough Earthly accent.
“Because I vomited?”
“No, just asking. People vomit even on their twentieth visit to Earth. If you weren't raised here, you won't get used to it. You've got a bit on your sleeve there.”
Atar used a tissue to wipe off the blood and pus that had stuck to the sleeve of his silver suit. He did not know if his eyes were tearing up due to sorrow, disgust or the effort involved in repetitive vomiting.
“Why did I need this,” he muttered aloud.
“What did you say?” asked the driver.
“Nothing, nothing, just talking to myself.”
The hovercraft passed over ruined buildings and metallic blue oily swamps. Here and there, he saw people marching along the highways at a distance that was kilometers away from any visible settlement, as if they came from nowhere and were on their way to nowhere. A distant building in the shape of a step pyramid, a red ziggurat, materialized on the horizon.
Four months passed. He had found a place to live as well as a laboratory, welcomed his junior associates who arrived a month after he did and even managed to prepare one shipment of samples of plants to Octavia. One day, while plucking a small narcissus flower and bulb out of the mud, he suffered a severe blow to the nape that caused him to momentarily lose consciousness. Three Gnostics bound his hands behind his back. Atar was dragged by his captors, who trampled through a muddy clay channel covered in a layer of tar. They hurled him roughly into the swamp hovercraft.
“What do you want from me? Who are you?” he asked in alarm.
“Shut your mouth!” roared the tallest captor.
Atar's heart was beating furiously: Why are they kidnapping me? For ransom? Slavery? Or perhaps a fate worse than that?
“How much money do you want?” he asked in a trembling voice.
“Shut your mouth! We won't warn you again,” answered the tall one and landed a quick fist into Atar's abdomen. Atar struggled to breathe. He tried to maintain his cool while praying to the stars. But the knowledge that he had been captured by Gnostics only exacerbated the sense of horror that engulfed him.
After they had travelled for about an hour through the dense reeds, they reached the Gnostic compound in Uruk. It was an island of order amid the sea of chaos that surrounded it. Its breadth was enormous and was surrounded by swamps, as well as a tall electric fence that enclosed its concrete walls dotted with manned watchtowers. The air hung thickly with the odor of burnt crude oil. An eye peered through a peephole in the huge steel gate.
The three men led him down a path between tall black buildings. Though he was nearly paralyzed with fear, his curiosity was still aroused. He wondered about the lack of doors or windows on these buildings. To his surprise, he saw a group of children who appeared to
be four or five years old, marching in groups like soldiers following an adult. When the children noticed the men, they froze in place and only resumed marching after receiving a nod from his captors.
When they descended the stairs to the underground level, he understood why they had no need for doors. He beheld a sprawling web of crisscrossing corridors with cars shuttling between them, carrying people and equipment in and out of the various openings. They put him onto one of the metal cars, which rattled down a path for a minute, and then they disembarked.
They placed him on the cold concrete floor of a dark room and slammed the door shut as they exited. Despite the darkness, he could make out a table and four chairs. The more time passed, the more he convinced himself that he was never going to make it out of this place. 'I am the first Pythagorean to arrive at the Gnostic compound. I have no chance of getting out of here alive. I must find a way to contact Octavia. This is not how I intended to die. What will happen to my daughter Sophia and my wife Orithea? I need to calm down, to stay focused and alert. Who knows what these savages want from me? Maybe I do stand a chance after all.' Atar breathed deeply and went over the notes of his melody in his head.
Suddenly, he noticed a black scarab beetle rolling a ball of dung and digging into a crack in the earth between the concrete floor and the wall. It's no wonder, he mused, that the ancient Egyptians believed that the sun was rolled across the sky by a scarab beetle. It was no wonder that they attributed the cyclical harmony of life to this sanctified symbol. Atar was grateful to the beetle for reminding him of the perfect cycle of the universe, even in dung.
A blinding light came on. Atar blinked and finally saw three Gnostics in shining uniforms enter the room. They looked older and more senior than his kidnappers. They stood next to him.
The middle one began in a cold, stern voice, “I am Nergal, father of the ship of Uruk. This is the chief of headquarters, Neti, and this is the chief scientist, Sin.” Nergal was average height, thin and gaunt, sporting gray hair and stubble. His black uniform was covered in armor made of shining metal plates. His colleagues did not wear armor. Neti was wide and solidly built. Atar assumed that he was not very intelligent based on the closeness of his eyes, but he could not be sure. Sin appeared to be more human than the stern Nergal and the brutish Neti. His facial features were delicate and his body type was full.
“I am Atar the Pythagorean. I came to Earth on a peaceful mission. I request that you release me at once,” he said and rose to his feet. Nergal aimed a surprisingly swift kick at him. He gestured to the other two Gnostics, who then began to beat the writhing prisoner. Nergal sat down opposite him.
“You cannot request anything!” Nergal declared coldly. Atar could viscerally feel the sharp laconicism of his words. What was the reason for this dry coldness that emanated from them? Was it the severe Gnostic culture or simply a manipulative tactic aimed to make him feel threatened? How should he react to their severity? How should he interpret it? He seared for clues in their facial expressions. He could only sense a slight flicker in the eyes of Sin, the scientist. Perhaps curiosity.
Since his capture, Atar had repeated in his head the words that he was about to recite at this moment. He decided that as long as they were receptive and willing to listen to him talk, he should quickly take advantage of the forum and say what he needed to say. “Thirty six years ago, the founding fathers of our nations, Orpheus and Adamas, established scientific communities built around the common goal of discovering the constant of creation. Each community developed the formula, the culture and the technology in its own unique way.” He sensed hints of impatience around Nergal's tight lips and quickly skipped over the obvious details in order to make his main point. “We respect the differences between our cultures. We never wanted to harm the Gnostics.”
“Liar!” thundered Nergal, “The cursed Orpheus considered himself a king. He wanted to keep the secrets of the universe only for himself and now you came here to steal our knowledge as well? Oh yes, the most perfect of the perfect,” he snorted sarcastically, “coming down to the gutter to become even more perfect?”
Was it possible that they think I came to Earth to steal their technological secrets, he reflected, or are they just trying to intimidate me? He noticed, with an awkward delight, that Sin and Neti seemed surprised at Nergal's outburst. Nergal's apparent expression of humanity kindled a strange feeling of optimism in him. Burning fury was better than cool indifference.
“I have the authority to engage in discussions about peace efforts between our communities,” said Atar with forced composure.
“How will you make peace with us lowlifes?” teased Nergal. “We, the inhabitants of Earth, carnivores, interpreters of clay tablets, who bring sacrifices, practice witchcraft and spells? How can you stand to look at the reality of pain and emptiness from the ideal world in which you are entrenched? Are you willing to accept the covenant of blood, the blood ritual, or are you just speaking empty words?”
“What is the blood ritual?” asked Atar, aware that he had begun to become entangled in the web but had no way of backing out now.
“You claim you respect us? Then prove to us that you are worthy of holding discussions with us. Participate in our blood ritual.”
“What is the blood ritual?” Atar asked again, repeating the question in the same tone as before.
Nergal glanced at Neti and the two of them left the room. Sin and Atar sat in silence. “What will happen now? What are you going to do to me?” He heard the fear surfacing in his voice despite his efforts to hide it. Sin looked straight into his eyes without saying a word. For about half an hour, they sat, watching each other in silent torture. Atar tried to guess what the 'blood ritual' was and what was to be considered proof of his respect. How do these primitive people enact a blood covenant? Do I have to pierce my ear, draw blood, cut or burn my flesh? He hoped that he would be able to stand whatever it was.
Nergal entered the room followed by Neti, holding a crate that was making rustling noises. The three of them stood frozen, heads bowed, and murmured a few ritual words in a language he did not understand. Atar bowed his head like them and waited for them to turn their eyes toward him. When Nergal lowered both his hands into the crate, Atar could scarcely breathe out of suspense. In his right hand, Nergal grasped a slaughtering knife and in his left he clutched the neck of a small black fluttering chicken.
“In the name of the holy serpent, Master of Light!” proclaimed Nergal. In one dramatic motion, he sliced off the chicken's head and sucked the blood from his gaping neck. He held on tightly to the headless chicken who was furiously flailing his legs and wings, sending feathers flying all around. Neti watched with obvious relish as Atar's face paled. Atar felt his insides churning. Unanswerable questions flooded his brain: 'How much time do I have to weigh my words? How do I suppress my disgust and make rational decisions? How come Sin did not react with the same sadistic pleasure that Neti displayed? What must I do according to the Pythagorean code? Is it permissible to participate in the offering of sacrifices and consumption of living animals? What will happen if I don't participate in the ritual? At best, I will be exiled back to Octavia. At worst, I will be imprisoned here. No, worse than that—they will kill me. And what will happen if I do drink the blood? Will that indeed cause them to open up to me? To trust me? Please forgive me, my Gods and my teachers; forgive me, chicken. I have no choice but to act as my own witness, to take a chance alone and act to the best of my ability.'
“This is a great honor that we bestow upon you, Atar the Pythagorean,” said Nergal with bloodstained lips and teeth, “an honor commensurate with the anger and hatred we harbor toward you.” He pulled out the second flailing chicken and placed it in Atar's hand, along with the knife that was still dripping with blood. Horror seized Atar from the tips of his fingers, which were wrapped around the chicken’s neck, down to his very core. With great difficulty, he contained the overpowering tremors and muttered heavily, “In the name of the holy se
rpent, Master of Light.” He decapitated the chicken in one swift motion and pressed his lips to the severed neck. The chicken convulsed in his hands. The blood gushed from the slit throat in pulsing spurts, spraying out onto his silver suit and staining it. He swallowed and gulped the hot, salty and sticky blood; he felt himself reanimating the life-force of the chicken into his own soul. He sensed how his own life was running out.
“Come with me!” Nergal's voice unsettled him and shook him back to reality.
Malaise gripped Atar as he laid the beheaded and twitching chicken corpse on the floor alongside the other corpse, which was still bleeding. He followed Nergal and Sin. His brain was engrossed in attempting to comprehend what he had just done and left him with little room to ponder his current task.
Atar struggled to contain his revulsion and fear and tried to engage his stunned and numb brain in order to understand what was happening. Are they trying to make me become Gnostic? Or perhaps humiliate me as a Pythagorean?
Nergal signaled to Neti to join him but told Sin, “Take him to the facility.”
Something changed once Nergal and Neti left—the dread lifted. It seemed like Sin's composure had changed in some way. He was less tense. Atar cleaned the sticky blood off his teeth with his tongue and tried to think rationally: the ritual had not been a sacrificial offering. In most religions, a sacrifice was part of a triangular relationship involving the God, the man and the sacrifice—a sort of cyclical deal involving at least three partners and usually a priest as well, serving the function of intermediary. Here, there were only two parties, the man and the chicken; there was no God here. There was hardly a man here. Atar needed to suppress his fear again. He thought about his purpose in this incarnation of life. What type of death should he anticipate, and how? Would Nergal drink his blood as if he were a chicken?
Mesopotamia - The Redeemer Page 12