Although I’d heard about the story of Gilgamesh, it was from a different time period—about four thousand years earlier—than the one I’d focused on in my work as a historian.
“Please, go on,” I said.
“It’s really a fascinating story. Gilgamesh learns from Utnapishtim about the Great Flood, how it was supposed to cleanse humanity after our species was contaminated. As far as I’ve been able to determine, our genetic split began some eleven or twelve thousand years ago, when our species mixed with divine blood.”
“The ‘sons of God’ that Enoch wrote about,” I said.
“Precisely,” Martin added. “And, from a paleoclimatological standpoint, that’s about the time in history when a worldwide catastrophe like the Great Flood would fit in the fossil record.”
“But why are you so interested in this? You’re not a historian or a geneticist . . .”
He smiled. “Julia, hidden in all these different myths are the keys to the first time in human history that people had to adapt to a global climate shift.”
“And that’s the only reason?”
“Here, let me continue, and you’ll see what I mean. In that meeting, Utnapishtim tells Gilgamesh that the god Enki was the one who kept our species from dying a watery death. Enki told Utnapishtim to build an ark so he could save himself and humanity. And he bestowed upon Utnapishtim two stones that he could use to communicate with him.”
“Two stones . . . ,” I muttered.
“The stones were made by the hands of gods. Living proof of the existence of divine beings,” Martin said with a faraway look in his eyes. “Gilgamesh would go on to say that the stones were only used during very special ceremonies, when their energy would be strong enough to let them communicate with heaven.”
“And that’s why you intend to use them today. As part of our wedding,” I said, finally seeing the point of his story.
Martin nodded. “Exactly, my love.”
30
Benigno Fornés was breathless by the time he had rushed down the hallway toward the archbishop’s palace. He banged on the archbishop assistant’s door until the man answered. The cathedral’s dean must have looked a mess: He was sweating as he carried his flashlight and his eyes were frantic. He must have seemed a little out of his mind, too. Fornés hurried the assistant to wake the archbishop. And fast.
“At this time of night?” the assistant whispered.
“I’m sorry. But it’s a dire matter between the archbishop and me.”
“Dire? To whom, Father?”
“To the Church.”
The man was struck wordless and nodded. “Well, it better be, Father Benigno. I’ll call him, but I’ll warn you that I’m not accepting any of the consequences.”
“Please, hurry.”
It was just before four in the morning when a pale, stumbling archbishop arrived at his assistant’s quarters. He’d clearly rushed to dress in his black robes and was still buttoning his priest’s collar when he greeted Fornés. He found the old dean a bundle of nerves, pacing in circles, his hands clenched together, as if in urgent prayer.
“All right, Father, what’s so important?”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. But this is something I have to show you. Something you have to see to believe.”
“To show me? Where?”
“In the cathedral.”
“I thought I was clear that it should remain closed until the police complete their investigation.”
Fornés ignored him. “Remember the ‘sign’ we were talking about?”
Archbishop Martos was caught off guard. He had figured Father Benigno, the cathedral’s keeper, had a more earthly concern. Maybe regarding the shooting this afternoon.
“Uh, yes, of course,” he said. “But, Father, couldn’t we wait to have a discussion about legends over breakfast?”
“Legends?” Fornés grimaced. “No. No, it can’t wait. Your Grace has spent three years here. I’ve been here forty. This is something you need to see right away, before I try to explain what’s going on. What’s happened in our church is no coincidence. Now I’m sure of it . . .”
Intrigued, the archbishop followed the wild-eyed priest out the door and into the night. They hurried down the darkened path to the church and headed toward the Platerías door, until Fornés stopped exactly in front of the spot he wanted to show the archbishop.
“Four decades ago, one of my predecessors in charge of the cathedral told me an interesting story, Your Grace,” he said. “He explained to me that for more than five hundred years, this sanctuary was considered Christianity’s westernmost place of worship, and, as such, it was seen as the church at the end of the world.”
The archbishop quietly listened to the priest.
“In the twelfth century, the keepers of the cathedral were so convinced that Compostela would be the first place from which you could see the kingdom of heaven returning to Earth that they decided to secretly decorate it as such. They started replacing the Roman ornamentation with apocalyptic symbols. And that, Monsignor, is how our Pórtico de la Gloria became the quintessential piece in that project. As you know, the images carved in it foretell the coming of the New Jerusalem, the city that will establish a new order on earth.”
“Okay, Father, where are you going with this?”
“Your Grace, they believed the day would come when the seven seals that John mentions in the Book of Revelation would open. The book gives us instructions for how to reach the kingdom of heaven when we arrive at the End of Days. But to follow those instructions, Your Grace, first we would have to find the seven seals.”
The archbishop started in disbelief. “And you believe this is one of those seals, Father?”
“It’s not a matter of believing. It’s a fact that one of the seals has just appeared in your cathedral, Your Grace. That’s what I want you to see.”
“Father Fornés, I don’t—”
“Please, Your Grace. Don’t say anything else. Just look.”
Juan Martos leaned in to look at the spot on the stone wall, disbelieving. There, he found a marking, perfectly carved—or scorched, he couldn’t tell—with a skill level that no medieval stonecutter could have ever hoped to achieve. It was shaped like an upside-down “L,” about a foot tall. He traced the outline with his fingers. He wasn’t ready to validate the old priest’s claims. Still he couldn’t figure out what language this letter might be in.
“Is it Celtic?”
“No, Your Grace. Not Hebrew, either. And not any other language of this world.”
“Do you know what this is, Father?”
Fornés hesitated.
“I’m betting the man who was in here earlier tonight could tell you. The police said one of the restorers caught him kneeling over here, as if praying or looking for something.”
The priest paused, his face grave.
“Do you know what I think, Your Grace? Someone has set out to open the seven seals. And he’s found one of them in our church. I think the police need to find him and bring him back here. We have to talk to him, immediately.”
Martos gazed at the dean sadly. The poor old man had lost his mind.
31
“My children, I feel we should open this ceremony with a story.”
It was noon on a brilliant June morning when Father Graham presided over our wedding. He seemed to have moved on from the heated discussion he and Martin had had and was ready to make our day memorable. He looked over the handful of guests with that hawkish gaze. The entire congregation fit inside the first three rows of the small chapel, huddled cozily around the bride and groom. All those memories, the sights, the sounds, are forever etched in my mind.
Father Graham looked over the top of his glasses toward Sheila and Daniel, who were seated to my left.
“They would like to share something on behalf of the groom’s family. Please,” he said, motioning to them, “come up to the altar.”
Sheila straightened the brilliant corsage of yellow f
lowers she wore and headed for the altar. She looked splendid in a black sequined gown, her creamy, white skin seeming to radiate light. A cloud of soft, intoxicating perfume floated around her as she moved, followed by Daniel, his hair as wild as ever, but looking slightly more professorial in a tweed jacket. It was he who addressed us first.
“Father Graham, invited guests . . . ,” he said, clearing his throat as he looked around the room.
“One of the Faber family’s longest traditions is reading from the Book of Enoch, which tells just how difficult it was in the olden days to distinguish the angels among us.”
“What is this, some kind of lecture?” I whispered to Martin.
“Hmm, I thought you liked myths,” he said with an ironic grin, never taking his eyes off the altar. “So I thought I’d ask Daniel to give us a little background on angelology.”
“Martin!” I hissed under my breath.
“Shh, shh, my love.”
Daniel eyed us without interrupting his speech.
“Let me tell you what those angels actually looked like,” he said, raising his voice to the crowd. “In the final few chapters of the Book of Enoch, we hear the story of Lamec, Noah’s father, who was gravely concerned about these lovely blond creatures who walked among us, unnoticed. He called them ‘the Watchers,’ because he believed God had sent them to earth to look after us after Adam and Eve were cast out of paradise. Those divine protectors ensured man would never again fall into God’s disfavor. They admonished those who broke God’s laws and all mankind respected them, heeded their warnings . . . until one day, when a terrible rumor about them spread among the masses,” Daniel said, arching his bushy eyebrows and creating a palpable tension with every word. “It seemed that several of the Watchers had taken human brides, mixing their divine flesh with ours. And that’s why Lamec grew suspicious when his own wife gave birth to a dazzling young child with crystal-blue eyes and fair skin. He called that child Noah, which means ‘comfort.’ Lamec died without knowing that God had chosen his hybrid son and family to save man from the Great Flood. And that he had chosen Noah specifically because the child would be able to do something others could not: He could hear the voice of God. And communicate with Him. Like a medium to mankind . . .”
“All right, all right . . . ,” Father Graham grumbled, making the audience laugh and lightening the mood. “That’s all fine and dandy, but it’s time to get on with the ceremony and you still haven’t gotten to Enoch and his book.”
“Sorry, Father.”
Daniel Knight glanced at Martin, as if looking for permission to continue, and moved on.
“Noah had quite a predecessor in Enoch. He was one of the few humans before the Great Flood who had direct contact with the Watchers and he learned from them, even though he was a simple shepherd. Enoch learned their strange language, became their trusted confidant and was rewarded by being allowed to ascend into the heavens without dying or even aging. He returned from paradise not only with endless knowledge, but with a rare wisdom. He insisted a terrible catastrophe awaited man and that we must be prepared. But his contemporaries ignored him. In fact, his warnings were forgotten until his great-grandson Noah broached the topic generations later and he, too, was ignored.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Knight,” Father Graham said, “but can you explain to us exactly who Enoch was? Whether he actually existed?”
“Certainly he did, Father,” Daniel Knight said, using a handkerchief to wipe beads of sweat that had started to form on his brow. “My partner Sheila and I have spent years studying him and certain stones he is said to have brought back with him from the heavens. And we’ve come to learn that his journey is nearly identical to that of another hero, one born in the first great civilization after the Great Flood—in Sumer. That’s where man invented the wheel, writing, laws, astronomy and mathematics. It’s where they first spoke of angels, which they drew with wings, as a symbol of their celestial connection. And it’s also the place where man was robbed of his greatest gift: immortality. That hero, who has a longer track record than our Enoch, was a king called Gilgamesh. He also managed to communicate face-to-face with the gods and set foot in the kingdom of heaven—without having to face the unfortunate reality of death. I’d like to give you a brief summary of his odyssey, as it was recorded in those ancient cuneiform tablets.
“It all began more than five thousand years ago, in the times after the Great Flood.
“Gilgamesh, whose name means ‘he who has seen the profound,’ had just been crowned king of Uruk. His kingdom was extensive, stretching from the eastern shores of the Euphrates. But Gilgamesh was more than just a great warrior. He was also a great thinker. He had watched his parents and close friends die and realized the ravages of time were even more destructive than war. All of us, rich or poor, soldier or farmer, would end up merely bones in a coffin. As would he. And that certainty terrified him.
“Tortured by these thoughts, Gilgamesh decided to journey to the kingdom of Anu, the fatherland of his creators, to demand that the gods make him immortal, the way humanity had been before the Great Flood. He came across the name of the only human ever to have achieved that goal, a foreign king named Utnapishtim, who he believed could teach him the secret to eternal life.
“He journeyed through lands prohibited to humans, defeated terrible monsters and resisted a thousand and one temptations and tricks that the gods hurled into his path.
“Gilgamesh overcame the most difficult challenges, including strangling two colossal lions, one in each arm, a symbol that would come to define him: man dominating beasts with brute force. When Gilgamesh finally reached Utnapishtim in a garden on the far left side of Lifes, the five-thousand-year-old man agreed to hear his pleas.
“Breathless and completely exhausted, Gilgamesh managed to ask just one question. A question that the eleventh clay tablet of the epic takes up with great care. A question that Utnapishtim agrees to answer despite his many doubts: How did you achieve eternal life?”
Daniel paused.
“Would you like to know his answer?”
32
The young man with the tattoo on his cheek looked worried.
“Sheikh, do you know this man?”
His leader, the one with the thick mustache, nodded absentmindedly. He felt like the walls of the narrow café were closing in on him. It was clear he was trying to hold back a torrent of emotions and memories that came rushing to the surface as he stood next to the enormous man collapsed on the floor in front of him. Waasfi was right when he said that “they”—their ancient enemies—were in the city.
“His name is Nicholas Allen, brother,” he whispered. “For years, each of us has been chasing the adamants.”
Waasfi looked down again at the fallen soldier. The Amrak’s electromagnetic pulse had left him in a catatonic state that could very well be irreversible. He tried to imagine what kind of challenge he might have posed if Waasfi hadn’t managed to give him the slip inside the cathedral. He looked at his battle-tested visage: his sheer size, the imposing scar on his forehead and now a new bruise just below his nose. He must have struck something as he fell and was now bleeding onto the floor. Even still, he was an intimidating sight.
“Is she the one?” the sheikh asked, rousing Waasfi from his trance. He looked down at the woman with fiery red hair covering her face. In the darkness, it was hard to fully make out her features. “Is she the woman you saw in the cathedral?”
The young man nodded.
“Yes, master. But I can’t understand how he managed to find her before we did.”
“He must have followed the same trail,” the sheikh admitted. “Martin Faber’s video led him right to her.”
“Should I kill him?”
Waasfi tightened his jaw. To him, Allen was a dangerous enemy. His teachers in the mountains of Hrazdan had taught him that a man like this was more than just an enemy from the United States of America: He was evil incarnate. It would give him so much pleasure to squeeze the t
rigger and ensure there was one less on Earth.
But the sheikh resisted.
“No. Let the Amrak decide his fate. A worthy adversary deserves an honorable death.”
Waasfi swallowed his bile and picked up the woman. “What should we do with her, master?”
“Frisk her. I don’t want any surprises.”
Waasfi laid the woman on the ground and patted her down, looking for a weapon, while the sheikh tried to switch on Colonel Allen’s device. But it was no use. The cloud’s electromagnetic pulse had sapped the power.
Waasfi finished his search by the light of his shielded flashlight and found the woman clean. Doctor Julia Álvarez was harmless. The only metal on her body was a simple necklace with a dangling crucifix and a small, dull medallion. He emptied her purse and laid out its contents but didn’t find anything that looked dangerous.
“She’s clean.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
The sheikh looked over at Julia’s lifeless body and the contents on the ground.
“What about that medallion?”
“It’s nothing, sir.”
“Show it to me.”
Waasfi handed it to him. It was a thin silver disk engraved with a picture of a boat and birds flying overhead. Around it were etched the words “Beginning and end.”
He couldn’t understand why his leader’s face suddenly brightened when he saw it.
“You still have much to learn, my son,” he whispered with a smile. Waasfi dropped his head in humiliation. “You don’t know what this is, do you?”
The young man took a closer look at the little medallion and shook his head.
“This is our clue for where the stone is hidden,” he said, putting the medallion back around Julia’s neck. “It’s too bad the infidels don’t know how to read the signs.”
The Lost Angel Page 10