Descendant

by Jeffrey A. Levin

  Then I remember something else—something that I must have buried deep within my subconscious. Yet it surfaces like a hungry black rat creeping into the house at midnight. My body quivers with angry hatred.

  My mother’s voice is nervous and shaking. “How long has this been going on for?” I hear her say. My thoughts return like unwelcome strangers. I remember walking stealthily toward the kitchen. My father looks so sheepish and weak. My mother speaks in hushed, exasperated tones. Her voice trembles. She looks fragile and angry at the same time.

  “I thought you were done with her!” my mother exclaims. “Exactly how many humiliations do you want me to endure? You bastard!”

  “Do you want me to tell him that you’re not his mother? You don’t want that, do you?”

  Mom picks up a vase and throws it at him. It ricochets off his back and shoulders. Glass is everywhere. Mom breaks down, crying desperately. I hear the door slam. I remember creeping stealthily up to my room. I sit at my desk and turning on iGames. I watch cartoonish characters. I close my eyes momentarily, shutting out the repellant surreal event.

  I hated that woman then, though I didn’t know who she was. But it’s different now. Here she is, in all her glory, and I need her help to find Maya. I remember I met her once. She said hi to me. Those eyes! But I was just a child. She picked me up, raising me to her eye level. She whispered the word “Precious!”

  Get a grip! I tell myself. Think! You can’t let on that you know—that you remember.

  “Did you continue to keep in contact with him?” I inquire, remaining eerily calm.

  “Yes,” Isabella confesses. “Of course we became, um, very good friends.”

  Isabella’s face flushes. She instinctively places her slender fingers on her exquisite dark necklace.

  “I understand that you had a lot in common.”

  Isabella laughs. “Yes! As a matter of fact, your father had a real love for art and the opera.”

  I don’t think so, I muse, but I play along. “Really?”

  “Yes. Let’s take a walk through the halls of art. Did you know that we have over three hundred uniquely famous works of art right here at the Residenz? Your father and I spent many an afternoon conversing about the great artists of different eras. Admittedly, you father liked the realists, while I had a strong affection for the romanticists and some of the abstract paintings of the day.”

  “Who were your favorite artists?” I wonder if one particular painting that hangs in our living room would have been among the president’s choices.

  Isabella smiles. “Why, I’d have to say Da Vinci. He is so enigmatic, hiding secrets in so many of his paintings.”

  What else is she going to tell me?

  “Yes, Da Vinci is a master of disguise,” I offer, making it up as I go along. “It would take a great master to match him.”

  Isabella glances away from the painting, and then her eyes bore into me. Her stare is at first enigmatic, but it somehow changes, like a chameleon, soft and smooth, drilling a hole into my repressed past.

  “Do you know the secrets of Mona Lisa?”

  Is that code? Dear God, I think it’s true. I’m really not ready for this!

  I take a deep breath. Somehow, I don’t want her to say it… far too delicate… far too… Feeling the trepidation of a tiger ready to pounce on his prey, I ask her the question over and over again, in the safety of my mind.

  Should I ask her, straight out? Now?

  I am so tired of it all: deception, lies, hazy half-truths. I feel as though I am going to burst.

  “Are you my real mother?” I finally inquire, immediately wishing I can have the words back, as if I never actually said them. Our eyes meet. There’s no way to retreat; the words have been spoken.

  Tears slither uncontrollably down her face. She turns away from me momentarily. What’s she going to do? Say?

  I witness her coming apart right in front of me. Her tears flow in torrents, flooding her pale face. I want to cry, but I can’t. There’s no way to go for me; I’m a virtual dead end of emotions.

  No words are spoken—not a one.

  CHAPTER 43

  October 30, 2387

  9:19 a.m.

  Daybreak comes like an unwanted visitor on my doorstep. My dreams were full of snapshots, surreal pictures, and unanswered questions. My life has become a series of sharp pieces that don’t seem to fit anymore. Yet I know there is one place I need to go. I don’t have time to figure out the last odd configuration in the puzzle called my life.

  I feel more resolve than ever before. I have one quest, one goal, and one desire; her name is Maya. Isabella did have the picture of the Red Queen evaluated. The lab report revealed a possible location. After all, canvases are derived from flax and hemp, and their origins can be traced, right?

  It could have come from anywhere in the world. I guessed South America—perhaps even the city of Palenque, Mexico, where Maya’s parents and descendants were from, notably including the Red Queen herself.

  Where did Maya go? Why is she hiding from me? Did anyone help her get there? If so, who?

  I allow myself the indulgence of looking at the flowers, sipping on my coffee, and thinking about Maya. All I can think of is skipping stones together and then bouncing in and out of the waves.

  Why does life have to be such an enigma? Isabella’s visage approaches me like some sort of false image. She is nothing other than a lie to me. My newly crowned real mother approaches me, carrying a small sheet of paper in her hand. She smiles, sitting down next to me and placing the piece of parchment on the table directly in front of me. My heart is beating rapidly. The paper states, “Isfaya, Israel—located at the top of Mt. Carmel.” There’s hope!

  Have you ever visited the Dead Sea?

  Why is it called the Dead Sea? Probably because there isn’t a single living thing that truly lives in the Dead Sea. Apt name? I think so. A place for revitalization? A place to bask in the magical rejuvenating minerals? A place to heal? Perhaps.

  After a short flyover, Bo deposits me within a dozen miles of this dead body of water. I strap my bag over my shoulder and begin my new journey. I walk until I see the Dead Sea sprawling like a huge watery sphinx in front of me.

  I’m hiking 416 meters below sea level, which is the lowest place on earth. My thoughts are like injured warriors staring gloomily off into space. Do I feel loss? What do you think? My father’s dead from a precision razor-like beam hurtled mercilessly from the sky; Monica is depressed; I have a new mother, whom I’ve hated my entire life; and my best friend, Zeke, has abandoned me, disappearing into the fabric of time. I’m just asking for one thing; I need to lay my eyes on Maya.

  The dry air surrounding the Dead Sea is all that I have to breathe. The amazing thing about this sprawling mass of colorless liquid is that water flows in but does not flow out. Sound familiar? My privileged, so-called interesting life has turned into a toilet that I can’t flush! At least this motionless, stagnant, absolutely dead mass of water is functional; one can float on it. One can sit up, read a book, or just tan right in this unmoving soot-filled bathtub.

  Do you want a worthless piece of information? Did you know that water has been evaporating from this dead sea for sixty-five thousand years? Yet it’s here, and so am I. So what can I do? I walk toward the sea until I just throw myself onto the water. Now I’m floating, eyes open, looking up into the sky. I just stare upward, at the lofty, mindless clouds.

  What? You’re kidding! I’m sitting up in the Dead Sea, equipped with every piece of modern technology known to mankind. I could be reading the Wall Street iJournal.

  Anyway, what in the world is this? Floating right next to me is this scraggly-bearded, hairy-chested, white-garbed swami-looking dude. He’s dressed in a loin cloth, smoking something. Dear God, it’s khat!

  “It’s the cow poo of the Middle East,” I m
utter under my breath.

  “Good morning; it’s a beautiful day!” Mr. Scraggly sticks out his hand.

  I shake it. The creepy bearded dude shakes hands like a dying fish.

  “Welcome to the Dead Sea. It’s a trip, isn’t it?”

  “My name’s Michael,” I say matter-of-factly. After all, the man doesn’t look dangerous or anything.

  “Magdiel,” he proclaims. “Magdiel Avraham Levi.”

  “Where from?”

  The man laughs. “You’re not from around these parts, are you?”

  You’re kidding, I think. I’m floating in the Dead Sea. I own a floating home in the sky, which is an astronomical observatory. What does he think?

  “No, I’m not from around here.”

  Magdiel strokes his beard. His black eyes look like beaming, spooky flashlights. Yet, unfortunately, his firefly eyes don’t turn off.

  “I just have some business here,” I say, hoping that will satisfy him.

  “Business? I’ve never heard that one, not while you’re floating in a big cosmic bathtub like this.” Magdiel strokes his beard.

  “Why? Do I look out of place?”

  Magdiel cackles so hard that he nearly flips over onto his hairy stomach.

  I have to laugh. After all, he looks like a caricature of an ancient, bearded Middle Eastern Martin Short doing an impersonation on Saturday Night Live. Actually, the equivalent in my day is called Late Tuesday with Harry!

  “A Lebanese soldier may be out of place! A beached extraterrestrial smoking hashish would be… well, a little out of place. Perhaps an underwear salesman selling kayaks might be a touch out of place. You, my friend, are like the proverbial purple pimple sitting right in the middle of my clean, virgin ass. Now that’s out of place!”

  Magdiel reaches downward, itching vociferously under his loin cloth. His eyes seem to open up like a gorilla’s. I refuse to laugh, denying him any further encouragement.

  “Your ass is a virgin? Don’t think so!” I retaliate. “Well, this bleeding pimple wants to know how he can fit in.”

  “I don’t have a destination,” the beleaguered swami utters.

  Game change, I think. “How’d you do that?

  “Mysticism!” he cackles.

  This baboon just read my mind.

  “Really! Well, I’ve got an idea; why don’t you say something that will give you some credibility?”

  Magdiel begins splashing me in the face.

  “Hey, stop that!”

  “I’m leaving!” I say, attempting to paddle out of this bathtub.

  Magdiel blurts out a name.

  “Ezekial!”

  Suddenly it is dead quiet, just like the sea. It is almost as if I think the Dead Sea is going to part. Have you ever had that feeling? Well, unless you’ve been to the Dead Sea and have been hangin’ out with three-thousand-year-old time travelers, I kinda doubt it!

  “Ezekial?” I whisper, as if I am saying a prayer.

  Magdiel splashes some water on his face. “No… I’m not Ezekial, but Zeke Man sent me to help you, Michael.”

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?

  Magdiel laughs. “Well, what if I tell a joke that reflects our buddy Zeke’s sense of humor?

  I stare at the crazy man adorned in a loin cloth. “Okay, I’ll bite!”

  Magdiel splashes some water on himself, swishing his tongue around his lips. “Here goes… How do you truly define a time traveler?”

  I shake my head skeptically. “Don’t know, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “Okay, a hot blonde hops on a bus, so I have to ride out the trip with a traveler.”

  “And what’s a traveler?” I inquire.

  Magdiel sucks his lips. “It’s a word used to describe an erection that rises on a bus!” Magdiel reaches down deeply, cupping his hands and projecting the dormant water from the Dead Sea onto my face and body.

  I shake my head in disgust.

  “God knows but Ezekial likes you, Michael,” he screams. “But in case you’re interested, I think you’re quite the lemon puppy. Anyway, you may need some help climbing up Mt. Carmel. It’s not for the faint of heart.”

  I shake my head. “So how did you get the job?”

  Magdiel drives his palm into the dormant water, splashing me hard.

  “C’mon Magdiel; that stuff is salty!”

  Magdiel bows his head. “I’m a mystic! I follow Kabbalah! Oof Beit Lamed!”

  I look up at the heavens, suggesting a most obvious question: who in the hell is this guy?

  “Do you know what the word ‘La-med’ means? It means ‘acceptance!’ In other words, I’m accepting Zeke’s challenge to help you.” Magdiel stands up in the shallow water and bows.

  “Nice of you.”

  “Ma’aseh merkavah!”

  “Okay, I’ll bite!”

  “It means that Zeke told me to help your sorry ass!”

  Magdiel dives into the water, flipping me into the clutches of the Dead Sea.

  As I turn over and over in the salty abyss, I think about Maya. Can I find Maya without him? Probably not, I think as I emerge from the stagnant water of the Dead Sea, spitting and coughing its excrement up like a sickly beached whale. I’m going to have to accept this preposterous sorcerer’s invitation; I think I’m regretting it already. Now I’m bobbing up and down like a pathetic clown on a string. I stick out my hand, stoic and firm, committing to this strange man with the firefly eyes.

  “I accept your proposal, Magdiel. When do we start?”

  CHAPTER 44

  October 31, 2393

  1:47:36 p.m.

  Now it’s time to visit Elijah’s cave. Elijah’s task as a time traveler, of course, was to offer the country and his people to go back to God and keep them away from those that believed in idolatry. As is spelled out in verses 18:21 and 18:37, God worked with Elijah to make this occur. Was Elijah the first time traveler on Earth? What do you think? Anyway, I place on my hiking boots, preparing for my journey up to Mt. Carmel with Magdiel at my side.

  Yes, in case you’re wondering, I did feel a little like Elijah. After all, he was taking a trip into the wilderness, and in a way, I was embarking upon my own quest. Our trip up the mountain would prove to be perilous, frustrating, and, of course, ridiculous in its own way. How else can you explain a man, M. E., who has to traipse up a lonely rock when he has the ability to teleport to his destination in fragments of a second? Well, some things haven’t and will never change. This was my quest.

  I watch Magdiel as he climbs with his staff and small shoes. Periodically he stops for water; but otherwise, he is just a workhorse. I’m not exactly sure what or who Magdiel is; but I know he is going to help me find Maya.

  “The first thing I’m going to do, Michael, when we get there, is to introduce you to the Thirty-Six Righteous Ones.”

  I take a deep breath. Then I stop. “Need a swig?”

  Magdiel stares into my eyes. “No, my friend; you’re going to need all of that water.”

  “Is it true that God said that there aren’t thirty-six people in all of the world that are righteous?”

  Magdiel continues walking. “That’s right… I was there.”

  I stop again. “What did you say?”

  Magdiel laughs. “Just a manner of speaking, my friend.” Then he stares at me again, flashing his hypnotic smile. “That’s why God destroyed the city.”

  I nod. Why do I have this eerie feeling that Magdiel is speaking from experience? Okay, I get it! This is a religious place. But why Mt. Carmel? Have you ever felt as though you were stuck on an anthill? I feel as if I am carrying a thirty-pound backpack up a mountain when I should be taking a wormhole through space.

  “Who are you kidding, my friend Michael? You’d carry a backpack up this mountain
a million times if it meant finding Maya… I know.”

  Magdiel places his backpack down on a sharp, translucent black rock, peering across the large expanse of God’s mountain, which appears to be extending its fingertips into the sea. He stretches his hands and fingers, pointing as if he is mimicking the mountain itself.

  “What are you doing?”

  Magdiel smiles luridly. “Don’t you worry, my friend.” Magdiel takes out his pipe, lighting it with a match that he strikes on the bottom of his shoe. “You’re very impatient, Michael,” he says. “The journey up the mountain is not like taking a spaceship to the other side of the universe.” He puffs slowly on his pipe. I watch as the smoke curls up, appearing like a crazed genie in the thin air.

  Have you ever felt so tired and delirious that you can’t concentrate on anything? My feet hurt, and my arms and shoulders ached from carrying my useless bag up this prodigious mountain.

  “You look dizzy,” Magdiel says, as he munches on a delectable falafel and shawarma sandwich called a sabich. It was made from a baked Israeli flatbread, stuffed to the max with fried eggplant and hummus.

  “Do you want some? I have another one in my bag,” he says in between mouthfuls.

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Suit yourself,” Magdiel says. “You’re missing a day in paradise!”

  I shook my head, feeling just a little sick, watching Mags as he consumed the hearty morsel.

  “Did you know that Mt. Carmel is considered to be God’s vineyard?” Magdiel proclaims. He waves his hands like Elijah, pointing toward the top of the mountain. “This mountain stretches like God’s arms over the Mediterranean Sea. It’s a source of life for all of its inhabitants, Michael.” Magdiel shudders. “But it also has many secrets.”

  “Secrets?” I say as I continue to make my slow trudge up the mountainside.

  “Mystical!” he says, looking like an escaped inmate from the nearest insane asylum. “It is a symbol of virtue and religious values for many ideologies, including the Orthodox Jews as well as the Kabbalah Jews, who were known as mystics.”