The Spirit Well be-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Smiling, the nun also arranged Cass’s cotton scarf into a more convincing head covering, then opened the gate for her. “Bonne journee.”

  Cass wished her a good day and, stepping through the gate and into the street beyond the walls, made her way back to the society’s black lacquered door. She knocked once, waited, then knocked again. When there was no answer, she knocked a third time and waited some more. Still too early, she thought, and deciding to try again later, she spun on her heel and started off to explore a little more of Damascus. Deep in thought, she reached the end of the lane and rounded the corner onto the busy main street-where she collided heavily with a tall, thin man in a three-piece suit of pale cream linen topped off with a natty white panama hat.

  Cass was thrown backward into the road. The man hooked her elbow to keep her from falling.

  “Steady there.” He helped her to right herself, then moved back a step and regarded her with the disinterested concern of a stranger. “Are you quite all right, miss?”

  “Yes-fine,” she said, embarrassed. “Very sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  He glanced beyond her in the direction from which she had come. “You’ve been to the society.”

  “I have. Yes,” she said as if this explained everything. She made to edge past him and move on.

  “Rosemary said there was someone yesterday. Was that, by chance, you?” He spoke matter-of-factly, and Cass placed a soft Irish accent.

  “I suppose it was,” she allowed. “Are you one of them?”

  He chuckled. “We’re not as bad as all that, I hope.” Before Cass could draw breath to apologise, the thin man smiled and offered his hand. “Brendan Hanno at your service,” he said, his light Irish burr going down like butter. She took the offered hand and clasped it diffidently. “And you are?” he asked.

  “My name is Cassandra.”

  “Yes,” he replied pleasantly. “I expect it would be. I was on my way to the society just now. Would you like to accompany me? We can have a cup of tea and see if we can find answers to all your questions.” He gestured towards the lane. “Shall we?”

  Cass fell into step beside him. “How do you know I have questions?”

  “Everyone who comes to us has questions,” he observed mildly. “I have a few myself-such as, how do you find Damascus?”

  “It’s nice,” replied Cass lamely. “I’ve never seen any place like it. Then again, I’ve only been here a day, and I haven’t seen very much.”

  “Well, we must do something about that,” he said. “To know Syria is to love Syria.”

  They reached the society entrance, and Brendan fumbled a key out of his pocket and into the lock, opened the door, and beckoned her in, snapping on electric lights as he went. From somewhere they could hear a warbly humming. “That will be Mrs. Peelstick making tea. We live on tea, it seems. Take a seat, and I will tell her we’re here.”

  Cass sat down in one of the damask-covered overstuffed chairs and took in the room once more-the shelves of books, the old-fashioned sitting room furniture, the dusty windows barred to the street.

  A moment later Brendan poked his head back into the room to announce that they would take their refreshment in the courtyard. “This way, please. It is far more pleasant outside.”

  He led her along a high-ceilinged corridor to a door that opened onto a commodious enclosed courtyard of the distinctive black-andwhite-banded stone. The square, paved yard was open to the sky, but half shaded by a striped canvas awning. The air was cool and fresh and alive with the gentle tinkling splash of a small octagonal fountain standing in the centre of the courtyard; the bowl of the fountain was covered in a blanket of red rose petals floating on the surface of the water. A tall potted palm stood in a large terracotta pot in one corner, and in another stood a round teak table beneath a square blue umbrella.

  “It is so very pleasant this time of day,” Brendan observed, waving Cass to a seat. Presently the woman from the day before appeared with a tray full of tea things. “I think you have met Mrs. Peelstick,” announced Brendan.

  “Yes, good morning, Mrs. Peelstick,” replied Cass.

  “Please, call me Rosemary.”

  “Rosemary, then. I am sorry if yesterday I seemed somewhat… brittle. I am still a bit uncertain about all this.”

  “Understandable, dear,” replied the woman. “Think nothing of it.”

  “Rosemary has been with the society since its inception,” explained Brendan with a teasing smile.

  “Nonsense!” scoffed the woman lightly. “Not by a long chalk.” She bent to the teapot and began the ritual of pouring black tea into glasses containing fresh mint leaves. Passing a glass to Cass, she said, “I want you to know that you are among friends. From now on we will treat one another like the friends we hope to become.”

  “In short,” continued Brendan, completing the thought, “we will speak frankly.”

  “Please,” replied Cass, taking a sip of hot minty tea. “I welcome it.”

  The sun was warm, and the palm fronds rustled gently in the light breeze. Small white butterflies flitted here and there among the jasmine strands growing up the courtyard wall. Cass felt the anxiety and trepidation that had marked her first visit melting away. Inexplicably, everything seemed right and in order; all was as it should be-although nothing much, really, had changed at all.

  They drank their tea, and Cass listened to the Irishman talk about the courtyard and the building the society maintained and how they had come to own it. He described what it was like to live in Damascus-a place that, as he said, “In the immortal words of Mark Twain, measured time not in hours or days or even years, but in empires that arose and flourished and crumbled to dust.”

  Finally they came back around to the reason for Cassandra’s visit. “We know you are a traveller,” Mrs. Peelstick said, “a traveller for whom time and space are little impediment. Otherwise, you would not be here. That is a fact. It is also a fact that there are only two ways to become such a traveller: either you are initiated by another traveller, or you are simply born with the ability-passed on, perhaps, genetically. The former is the usual way; the latter is more rarely the case.”

  Brendan, nodding slowly, added, “One means confers no great benefit over the other, although those born with the ability to leap from one dimensional reality to another may be physically more sensitive to the active mechanisms involved.” He fixed her with a quizzical expression. “Which sort of traveller are you, Cassandra?”

  “So far as I know,” she answered thoughtfully, “no one in my family has ever experienced anything like this. I think I would have heard about it if they had. I guess I was initiated.”

  “By whom, may I ask, were you initiated?”

  “A man-a Native American. We call him Friday.”

  “You knew this fellow well, did you?”

  “Not well, no. We worked together sometimes, is all. He was a member of an archaeological dig that I was-that I am — involved with in Arizona.” She thought a moment. “But I don’t think you could call it an initiation at all,” she said. “I followed him into a canyon near the site one day and… it just happened.”

  Brendan sipped his tea. “That must have been something of a shock for you.”

  “It was,” Cass agreed. “It still is. I don’t even know how I ended up here.”

  “You have a gift-or have been given one,” said Rosemary. “Either way, it amounts to the same thing in the end. You are now an astral traveller.”

  “I like the term inter-dimensional explorer,” put in Brendan, “because it carries no unfortunate occult overtones. You simply cannot imagine the amount of blather and nonsense that has crept into the subject over the years.”

  “And always, it seems, by people who do not know the first thing about it,” Mrs. Peelstick said, extending a plate of tiny, round sesame-seed-and pistachio biscuits. “Try one; they are delicious.”

  “Much of that nonsense is useful, of course,” observed Brend
an, his Irish lilt dancing, “for it obfuscates the subject sufficiently to protect our work.”

  “Protect it?” wondered Cass. “Why does your work need protecting?”

  “This would merely be a somewhat arcane, not to mention foolhardy, pursuit if it did not serve a far greater purpose,” Brendan told her. “It is not too much to say that the future of humankind may depend on the work of the society. We are engaged in a project of such importance to humankind that its success will usher in the final consummation of the universe.”

  “Gosh!” remarked Cass; to her embarrassment it sounded like sarcasm, which she had not intended.

  Brendan paused, gauging her receptiveness to hear what came next. “I suppose it does sound a little overblown,” he admitted, “but it is true nonetheless. In short, the Zetetic Society was formed to offer aid and support to our members who are engaged in a very particular project. Our aim is nothing less than achieving God’s own purpose for His creation.”

  “And what purpose would that be?” Again, Cass hoped her response was not an offense to these kind and hospitable-and probably delusional-people.

  Mrs. Peelstick fielded the question. “Why, the objective manifestation of the supreme values of goodness, beauty, and truth, grounded in the infinite love and goodness of the Creator,” she concluded, her tone suggesting that this should be obvious.

  “Human beings are not a trivial by-product of the universe,” Brendan continued. “Rather, we-you, me, everyone else-all humankind is the reason the cosmos was created in the first place.”

  “I am familiar with the anthropic principle,” Cass replied. It was a favourite hobbyhorse of her father. “The theory that the universe was designed to bring about human life-that the universe exists not only for us, but because of us.”

  “Succinctly put,” commended Brendan. “You do know your cosmology.”

  “My dad is an astrophysicist.” Cass lifted a shoulder diffidently. “I might have picked up a few things.”

  “We go further,” said Mrs. Peelstick. “We extend the principle to say that the universe was conceived and created as a place to grow and perfect independent conscious agents and fit them for eternity.”

  “Independent conscious agents,” echoed Cass softly. “Human beings, you mean.”

  “Yes, dear-human beings.”

  “Why, one might ask?” said Brendan. “What is the aim, the purpose for such an elaborate scheme?”

  “That,” Cass suggested, “is where all the controversy begins.”

  “Truly,” agreed Brendan. “Our view is that the aim of the process of creating all these independent conscious agents is to promote the formation of harmonious communities of self-aware individuals capable of knowing and enjoying the Creator, and joining in the ongoing creation of the cosmos.” He paused, then added with a shrug, “In a nutshell.”

  Cass bit her lip. This sort of talk always made her uneasy: the grand claims of visionaries, charlatans, and madmen sounded very much alike to her. She had had a bellyful of that in Sedona, and before that from various cranks with whom her father had, at one time or another in his career, chosen to entertain. She was fed up with their quasi-scientific and irrational beliefs.

  “I see we’re confusing you,” Brendan observed. “Perhaps we should start again.” He bent his head in thought, pressing his fingertips together beneath his chin. Then, brightening suddenly, he asked, “Have you ever heard of the Omega Point?”

  “Not as such,” Cass replied. She searched her memory, then shook her head. “No.”

  “The Omega Point is conceived as the end of time and the beginning of eternity, the point at which the purpose of the universe is finally and fully realised. When the universe reaches the point where more people desire the union, harmony, and fulfilment intended by the Creator, then the balance will have been tipped, so to speak, and the cosmos will proceed to the Omega Point-that is, its final consummation. The universe will be transformed into an incorruptible, everlasting reality of supreme goodness.”

  “Heaven, in other words,” Cass concluded.

  “Yes, but not another realm or world,” corrected Mrs. Peelstick. “ This world, this universe, transfigured-the New Heaven and the New Earth. It will be a place of eternal celebration of God’s love and goodness where we will live and work to achieve the full potential for which humanity was created.”

  “Which is?” wondered Cass, acutely aware that she had managed to sound sarcastic again.

  Mrs. Peelstick returned her wondering glance as if to say, Don’t you know?

  “I’m not trying to be difficult,” blurted Cass. “I’d really like to hear your theory.”

  “Human destiny,” replied Mrs. Peelstick, “lies in the mastery of the cosmos for the purpose of creating new experiences of goodness, beauty, and truth for all living things.”

  “And,” added Brendan quickly, “extending those values into the rest of the universe at large. You see, the universe as it exists now is but Phase One, you might say-it is where living human souls are generated and learn the conditions of consciousness and independence. The ultimate fulfilment of the lives so generated, however, will only be found in the next phase of creation-a transformation we can hardly imagine.”

  Cass shook her head. Clearly, she had paddled into deep water- but what did any of it have to do with inter-dimensional travel or, come to that, with her?

  “The quest for the Skin Map is merely the beginning,” said Mrs. Peelstick. “But there is so much more.”

  “The Skin Map?” wondered Cass.

  “Has no one mentioned that?” asked Brendan.

  Cass shook her head. “Not in so many words.”

  “Well then, I will tell you a story, shall I? Many years ago a man named Arthur Flinders-Petrie-”

  Mrs. Peelstick put up a hand. “Please, spare the poor girl.”

  “Mrs. P. has heard all this a time or two before,” Brendan confided.

  “Yes, and I don’t need to hear it again now.” She gave them both a sunny smile. “If you two will excuse me, I am going to pick up some things at the grocer’s-and if you will take my advice, you will get out and enjoy this beautiful day. Cass has never seen Damascus. Why not show her around the Old Quarter, Brendan?”

  “That is a splendid idea, Rosemary. I’ll do just that.”

  “Good.” Rosemary started away. “Don’t wear her out with your ramblings, Brendan-you know how you are-and try not to be too late. I’ll have a nice supper ready when you return.”

  CHAPTER 22

  In Which Despair Gives Birth to Audacity

  The journey to Black Mixen Tump always filled Charles Flinders-Petrie with dread. Although the gentle hills of the Cotswold countryside appeared benign enough, it was the destination that cast a pall over all that went before. He felt it now-and he could not even see the great mound from the window of his carriage. But it was there, hidden from view, waiting for him. The thought made his heart skip a beat.

  Almost fifty years had passed since his father, Benedict, had introduced him to the infamous mound-and still the thing occupied a baleful place in his psyche. An earthwork of incalculable age, the tump had been raised by the hands of primitive labourers using nothing more than deer-antler picks and reed baskets. Why this primitive society thought it necessary to build yet another hill in a landscape of nothing but hills remained a mystery. “The Age of the Monument Builders,” murmured Charles to himself. An age, so far as he could tell, that was rife with mysteries of every kind.

  The carriage lurched and took the turning in the road, leaving behind the village of Banbury, and Charles regretted his decision to come to this godforsaken place. Even more, he regretted that the decision was necessary. But something had to be done. His last exchange with Douglas had made that abundantly clear.

  The boy had always been headstrong; as a child he had been willful, wayward, intractable. Charles, bereft after the death of his dear wife in childbirth, despaired of the boy’s rebellious and destructi
ve nature and packed him off to boarding school in the hope that a stern institution would instil the discipline he himself was unable to generate. Stoneycroft School had made the lad more mannered and well behaved, to be sure; but it had also made him far more devious. That, combined with a self-confidence bordering on reckless audacity, cast Douglas as a most formidable adversary to anyone or anything that crossed him. In short, from a selfish, unbearable youth, Douglas was fast becoming a cunning, implacable, and dangerous young man.

  “I do not see what difference a piece of paper makes anyway,” Douglas had complained during their last in a long series of confrontations. “Nothing they teach is any use on the quest. Anyway, it is my birthright.” He glared at his father. “Or will you deny me that-as you have denied me everything else?”

  Charles exploded. “Ingrate! How can you say that? In all good conscience, how can you possibly even think it? I have denied you nothing.” Rising from his chair, he began pacing about the parlour. “All I ask is that you gain a little more learning, apply yourself to your studies, show me you can achieve something through your own efforts.” He looked at Douglas’ sullen face and saw he was not getting through to his unruly son. He tried another tack. “You are not stupid, Douglas. In fact, in many ways you are amongst the most intelligent persons I know. If you were to apply even the smallest portion of your native wit and mind to your studies, you would achieve wonderful things.

  “Listen, I’ve secured your place at Christ Church, and all is arranged,” Charles continued. “Three years is nothing-you’ll be busy, make new friends, and establish associations that will serve you through the rest of your life. If you apply yourself, time will pass just like that.” Charles clicked his fingers. “On the day you finish your exams, I will personally place the map in your hands.”

  “Why should I believe you?” grumbled Douglas. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

  “Now, son-that’s not fair.”