“Of course!”
“This is a sculpture of Gilgamesh. The protagonist of the epic who conquered two lions on his way to the Garden of Eden.”
“No. No, Father, that’s impossible,” I said, trying not to be disrespectful. “Gilgamesh isn’t a biblical character. And his story wasn’t even known in the Western world until the twelfth century . . . Those clay tablets weren’t discovered until the nineteenth century . . .”
“Well, it’s him, Julia. And as strange as it may seem here, it fit perfectly on the now-defunct Pórtico of the Transfiguration, where, obviously, it made more sense. As you already know, the king Gilgamesh failed in his obsessive quest for eternal life, but he didn’t stop until he found Utnapishtim, the survivor of the Flood. Maybe a pilgrim overheard his story and brought it here, seeing as how it applies to the basic tenet of our faith.”
“How do you mean, Father?”
“Very simply, Gilgamesh failed in his attempt to overcome death. But thousands of years later, another man, one who was part human, part divine, did achieve that very goal. His name was Jesus of Nazareth. And he did it in a very curious way: He managed to transform his physical body into one made of light. And he ascended into Heaven.”
“And this is the secret you’ve been guarding, Father?”
“Part of it, Julia. You see, light is everything. It’s the perfect symbol of all the mysteries around us. Something invisible that allows us to see. Just an infinitesimal part of the electromagnetic spectrum, which includes everything that is audible, tangible, and visible—our ancestors before the Great Flood understood that. That light is what your husband was after. And he found it—the first person to do so in more than two thousand years. And what that tells me, Julia, is that something is changing in our world . . .”
“Maybe he just managed to alter the gravity or the molecular structure in that cave—who knows? He only did it for a matter of seconds. And, you know, there was an intense solar storm going on and the mountain absorbed an incredible amount of energy just as Martin ascended . . .”
“Now do you see what I mean about symbols, Julia? What I describe as transfiguration into heaven, you describe in scientific terms.”
“But why does that matter? What matters is that it happened. Martin realized his dream. And I know that, wherever he is, he’s safe.”
Father Benigno sighed, taking my hands and patting them gently. “Julia, do you know why you brought me to tears earlier?”
I looked tenderly into the old priest’s eyes.
“Because fifty years ago, my predecessor told me the secret of this place and I didn’t understand him. His descriptions were, of course, shrouded in symbolism and, naturally, open to interpretation. He told me all about the statue of Gilgamesh, about the significance of the Great Flood, about the lost towers of the old world, even about the method Utnapishtim and Jesus of Nazareth used to cross over. And he was the one who told me that right here, beneath our feet, is one of those antediluvian antennas. At the time, I thought it was just another one of his symbols. But after hearing your story tonight, I finally understand the metaphor.”
“So what does it mean?”
“Simple. That only angels can summon God.”
I slumped my shoulders. It wasn’t exactly the great revelation I was hoping for. But he quickly added, “Don’t look so disappointed, my child. After all, you, me . . . we’re all one and the same. Or have you already forgotten that we are the children of angels, the progeny of the sons of God and the daughters of man?”
“You and me? Angels?” I chuckled.
“Now, that’s a pretty great secret. Don’t you think?”
Author’s Note
I have to admit, my writing method is a little unorthodox. For years, I’ve tried to set my stories against real, historical backdrops and to ground them in verifiable facts, sharing with the reader the fascinating discoveries I make along the way. In writing The Lost Angel, I was so obsessed with exact dates and painting accurate scenes that it nearly cost me my life.
But now I think it was worth the trouble.
Perfect example: I couldn’t bring myself to finish this novel until October of 2010, when I finally received the necessary approvals from the Turkish government to climb to the top of Mount Ararat. Three times, I tried and failed to scale the 16,945-foot peak. Every morning, I’d wake to the towering peak inviting me to conquer it. But by the time I’d gotten ready for the climb, it veiled itself again and again in frost and clouds. Of course, that only made me want to surmount it more, so that I could accurately describe it in these pages.
Near the top, on the auspicious day of 10/10/10 and standing more than 16,400 feet above sea level, I understood the grip this place has on man, especially in times of crisis. In that solitude and majesty, among the many twists and turns on my trek, the limits of my personal and literary search were tested. If any place on earth deserves to guard the secrets of Noah’s Ark, or at least the dream of salvation in the face of adversity, it’s Mount Ararat.
But the sanctity of this mountain isn’t all that’s real in this story. So are the CIA and Keyhole satellite photos, which have started to be declassified in the last fifteen years, thanks to the brave efforts of George Carver and Porcher L. Taylor III of the University of Richmond in Virginia. The Hallaç crater, one of the world’s great wonders, is hidden behind a military zone, just steps from a Turkish army outpost near the border. Showing up with video camera in hand almost cost me a serious confrontation with the military. The St. Echmiadzin and Santiago de Compostela cathedrals and the old church in Noia are exactly where I write they are and are open to visitors. The old church is at the very end of the Way of St. James in Spain’s northwestern corner. My fascination with its ties to Noah was born when I learned that legend has it that Noia got its name when Noah’s ship landed at the nearby Mount Aro. I’m sure no one missed the similarities between the names Noia and Noah and Aro and Ararat, and the slew of other place names that refer to the “myth” of the Great Flood. These places are, in fact, not figments of my imagination but of the creative minds who named so many places in southern Europe after that event, for whatever reason.
Suffice it to say that all the references cited in this book—from the works of John Dee to those of Ignatius Donnelly, from the Book of Enoch to the epic of Gilgamesh—are quoted exactly. So, too, are any allusions to the lives and works of Joseph Smith, the founder of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints; the mystic George Ivanovich Gurdjieff; the painter Nicholas Roerich; even the Yezidi and the Hopi Indians.
My intent was to show all the ways these cultures and their beliefs are tied together—sometimes closely, sometimes loosely—in the notion that our species was, at some point, doomed by God—or the gods. And that in each of those myths, we were given the opportunity—the gift, if you will—to survive extinction, individually and collectively. All we have to do is believe.
And I, of course, have come to believe—even in angels.
Acknowledgments
I’ve lost count of all the people who offered me their unconditional help in the making of this book. At one point or another, all of them were crucial to its success, and I cannot close without leaving a written record here of the critical roles they played.
Aside from the incalculable support of my family—always loving, unrelenting and endlessly generous with their faith in me—I have felt the constant angelic presence of my editors in Spain and in the United States: Ana d’Atri, Diana Collado and Johanna Castillo. Thanks also to my agents, Antonia Kerrigan and Tom and Elaine Colchie, and to Atria’s Judith Curr and Carolyn Reidy, not to mention Carlos Reves, Marcela Serras and the formidable team from Editorial Planeta in Madrid and Barcelona. From Marc Rocamora and Paco Barrera to Laura Franch, Lola Sanz, Eva Armengo and Laura Verdura—thank you all. And thanks to the innumerable people along the way whose enthusiasm and professionalism helped me maintain my faith in this novel.
Thanks also for the invaluable help
of several writer friends and researchers, such as Juan Martorell, Alan Alford, David Zurdo, Enrique de Vicente, Julio Peradejordi, Iker Jiménez and Carmen Porter, and my webmaster David Gombau. Thanks to experts such as José Luis Ramos—the guru of electromagnetism at the Universidad de Alcalá de Henares, Spain; geologist Luis Miguel Domenech of the Universidad Politécnica de Cataluña and Pablo Torijano from the Department of Hebrew Studies at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. I pray I have not inadvertently twisted their information as I tried to add tension to the plot.
I’ll never forget the good times with my own guardians, Carmen Cafranga, Ana Rejano and Maite Bolaños, or the well-wishes from Cagla Cakici of Pasión Turca and the assistance from Turkey’s Office of Public Relations in Spain, which facilitated the cumbersome permits to allow me to scale Mount Ararat. And there, I met several people to whom I’m indebted, including Mustafa Arsin, Cesar and Bruno Perez de Tudela and Alvaro Trigueros. They, and other guides and sources I was fortunate enough to meet along the way, made this entire endeavor all the more worthwhile.
Thank you, all.
About the Author
Javier Sierra, whose works have been translated into thirty-five languages, is the author of The Lady in Blue and the New York Times bestseller The Secret Supper. A native of Teruel, Spain, he currently lives in Madrid. Please visit javiersierra.com and thelostangelbook.com.
About the Translator
Carlos Frías is an award-winning journalist and author of the memoir Take Me with You: A Secret Search for Family in a Forbidden Cuba. The son of Cuban exiles, Frías was raised bilingual and bicultural in South Florida and floats easily between the Spanish-speaking and English-speaking worlds. For more about his writing, please visit cfrias.com.
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