the Source (2008)

by Cordy, Michael

  Her fear and anger that her long life of sacrifice should end so pointlessly was only tempered by the hope that the nymphs would perform their task and she might see what lay at the end of the tunnel.

  The nymphs stopped abruptly by the waterfall.

  'They're up there,' said Bazin, pushing her aside.

  'Where?' said Zeb. She held Hackett's hand, squeezing it.

  'Top of the waterfall,' Hackett said. 'Right side of the chamber. The holes in the wall.'

  Sister Chantal peered up and thought she saw movement but couldn't be sure. She heard a click, then a jet of flame shot past her at the nymphs. As they ascended the steps by the waterfall they began to chant. The rope tautened and Sister Chantal followed. Torino and the soldiers waited until the nymphs walked past the dark chamber. As Sister Chantal followed, she glanced at the deep recesses in the rock to her right and saw countless red eyes staring balefully at her. Besides the holes the walls were riven with dark passageways that led to places she didn't even want to imagine.

  'The chanting's working,' Bazin hissed behind her.

  Torino and the others moved quickly, passing her and the nymphs, until they were beyond the holes - safe. Then, just as she thought she, too, would reach safety, she felt the rope slacken. Bazin had blocked the nymphs' path, leaving them standing directly in front of the hole-riddled chamber. Then he and the three soldiers approached the holes. One stood back with a flame-thrower, while the other three advanced, laden with guns, and opened fire. Immediately one weapon was spent they switched to another. The noise was deafening and the carnage devastating. For many moments the creatures remained motionless, as though their instinct to obey the barely audible chant of the nymphs was more powerful than their instinct to survive. By the time any reacted the holes were oozing with viscous, black-red blood, and the few that attacked were easily repelled. Through the gunfire she heard an inhuman scream well up from deep within the bowels of the caves, building in volume and intensity. The tunnel shook and trembled, dislodging shards of encrusted crystal. When the soldiers eventually ceased firing at the gaping, bleeding holes in the wall, she heard a loud whispering: the rustle of worms moving through the rock around her. Escaping.

  Although the carnage sickened her, her legs trembled with relief. She was prepared for death but this was not how she wanted to end her life. Moreover, she wanted desperately to see the Source before she died. Torino and the others turned to continue the ascent and she moved to follow. But Bazin blocked the way, and for a chilling moment she thought he was going to leave them there. Then he took her arm and helped her up the path. As he did so, the Superior General turned to her and smiled, but she couldn't read his dark eyes.

  As they rounded the final corner of the tunnel Torino saw a portal ahead, leading to a chamber of breathtaking brilliance. An overwhelming sense of anticipation, privilege and responsibility descended on him. He had always known the Church had singled him out for greatness, ever since the Jesuits had plucked him from the gutters of Naples, nurtured his talent and pushed him to become the best he could be. He had repaid their faith by eschewing all worldly pleasures, becoming the Society's youngest ever Superior General and the Holy Mother Church's most dedicated and committed servant. However, even his sense of destiny hadn't prepared him for this. He sensed he was about to glimpse the face of God, and the notion humbled him. God had chosen him not only to witness whatever lay ahead but also to be its guardian.

  He turned to Bazin and the others. 'Wait here.'

  Not waiting for their response, he walked into the chamber.

  He took only four steps inside before he gasped and clasped his hands in prayer. The chamber was nothing less than a temple to God's miracle of life. The air itself fizzed with it. He could feel its power in his hair and fingertips. A pool in the centre glowed as if lit from beneath, and the crystal rock formations that encrusted the entire chamber were host to countless phosphorescent life forms, which added to the ambient radiance. But they were as nothing compared to the twelve-foot-high mass that loomed over the pool and dominated the chamber. In this temple to life this towering object, this presence, was its altar.

  Torino knelt in worship, careful not to get too close to the multifaceted, crystalline monolith before him, which radiated intense heat and light. One facet had a gold metallic crust, another was pearlescent, a third a clear prism, with veins of silver and gold that reflected all the colours of the rainbow. Protruding from one facet was a huge, hydra-like growth, whose trunk rose to the crystalline ceiling and spread out into countless tubular branches or tentacles, which burrowed into the walls and across the chamber. They appeared to possess both plant and animal features: stems and leaves, flesh and pulsing veins. Yet the section of trunk nearest the monolith appeared metallic and crystalline, as though it had taken on the properties of the object from which it grew. The combined entity formed a unique hybrid of flora, fauna and mineral, fused so seamlessly that it was impossible to discern where one ended and another began. From one angle the hydra's iridescent roots were visible deep within the monolith's crystal heart, which shimmered and pulsed with life. Though the water falling from the ceiling formed a clear channel in its crust, exposing clear, crystalline rock, there was no apparent erosion in the crystal. The monolith appeared to be constantly renewing itself, forever changing and forever the same.

  No doubt Dr Ross Kelly would have explained the phenomenon as the result of some alien rock falling from the heavens, and he might have been right. Torino, however, knew that God had sent it. He couldn't help but smile when he considered the small black meteorite that formed one of the cornerstones of the Kaaba, the cubic building within the Sacred Mosque at Mecca, believed by Muslims to have been built by Abraham. Some regarded the black stone as sacred, believing it had fallen from the sky during the time of Adam and Eve and that it had the power to cleanse worshippers of their sins by absorbing them into itself. They claimed that the stone was once pure and dazzling white and had turned black because of the sins it had taken into itself.

  This beautiful stone, however, really was sacred. Its demonstrable miraculous powers would become the brilliant cornerstone of the Holy Mother Church, underpinning its power, eclipsing all other religions. He felt giddy at the prospect of what the future held and had to suppress a nervous impulse to laugh. Whatever the pope and Vasari had felt about his coming here, Torino knew that after seeing this the Holy Father would forgive - and give - him anything. He got to his feet, stepped closer and studied the hydra growing out of the fertile crystal. Radix, meaning 'root' as well as 'source', took on a fresh significance. This must be what Orlando Falcon had meant by vita quod mors arbor, the Tree of Life and Death.

  But why death?

  He walked round the chamber. As well as the entrance from the glowing tunnel and the opening in the ceiling, through which the water flowed on to the monolith, there was a darker exit, which appeared to lead down into a warren of black passageways. He thought of the rock worms and shuddered.

  There was a sharp intake of breath behind him. Bazin was standing in the doorway to the chamber, his face illuminated by the monolith's rainbow hues. 'It's so beautiful.'

  Torino smiled. 'Now who can doubt that God exists?' Suddenly he felt magnanimous. 'Let Sister Chantal and the others come in. Everyone should see this once before they die.'

  Chapter 70.

  When Sister Chantal saw the monolith she did exactly as Torino had done: she fell to her knees and prayed. After waiting centuries to see it she had no doubt in her mind that it was God's work - it was too beautiful and awe-inspiring to have been anything else. She noticed Torino watching her.

  'Surely now you understand why the Holy Mother Church must claim it,' he said.

  'No religion may claim it. It's far greater than any church. Whoever sees this glorious jewel of creation - whether Christian, Jew or Muslim - will see their God reflected in it, and that's how it should be.' It dawned on her then that religion was merely a language. How we s
poke with God depended on which culture we were born into. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  As Zeb Quinn stared wordlessly at the monolith she knew, with utter certainty, that the object before her had nothing to do with any abstract god but with Gaia. When people talked about climate change, global warming, acid rain and every other ecological concern - it all boiled down to one thing: keeping Mother Earth alive, keeping her heart beating. This pulsing crystalline rock, with its tree-like growth, was nothing less than Gaia's beating heart, the engine of life that drove all that was good on Mother Earth.

  She considered mankind's unique and contradictory position as the one species capable of both protecting and destroying Mother Earth. This pulsing rock epitomized humanity's stark choice: either to nurture the mother that had given it life, or to exploit her.

  As a doctor, Nigel Hackett saw nothing remotely religious or spiritual in the monolith, but he was no less awestruck by it. The monolith's significance was so immense that he felt no need to overlay it with God or Gaia. To him, this was simply the point of origin for all life on the planet, the first genotype, containing the original building blocks and base genetic instructions that had led ultimately to humanity's current genetic programming: DNA. He could feel the radioactive charge in the air and wondered what level a Geiger counter would show. He knew that radioactivity had the power to affect DNA; it was infamous for causing cancers. So it wasn't a great leap to see how this incredible rock might positively affect the human genome - repair it, create it.

  As he watched the water rushing over the monolith's surface, washing microscopic elements of its essence into the pool beneath it, then down the stream in the tunnel to the lake in the garden, he could only marvel at its power. If just this dilute contact with water was enough to create the miraculous garden and all its creatures, and engender the crystals that encrusted the tunnel to the antechamber, it was no surprise that it had once seeded a whole planet. And when he looked at the hydra-like growth he wondered how long it had been growing from the crystal - its branches or arms probably extended throughout the cave system. A sudden insight came to him then, heaping wonder upon wonder: the hydra might be the oldest living organism on the planet, as old as life itself, a multicellular creature that continued to evolve within its own lifetime and need never die.

  Anger intruded on Hackett's awe. How could Torino use something as wonderful as this to bolster his superstitious belief in an invisible god? Far from proving God's existence, Hackett believed this amazing entity proved that nature was miraculous. However, as he absorbed its shimmering beauty, he said none of this. His words would be wasted on Torino. Instead he told himself to feel grateful that he had at least seen this wonder.

  Torino turned to Bazin and the soldiers. 'We'll go back now and finalize plans for when we leave this place. And I need a rock hammer.' He indicated the monolith - the Source. 'I want a sample.'

  'We didn't bring one,' said Fleischer.

  'Dr Kelly was a geologist. Look in his backpack. He may have something.'

  Bazin glanced at Hackett and the others. 'What about them?'

  'You know what to do.'

  Chapter 71.

  Twenty minutes later

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Zeb was amazed by how quickly the most intense sense of wonder could evaporate in the face of imminent danger. From being transfixed by the Source, she was now too busy panicking to give it a second thought. She still couldn't believe that Torino, Bazin and the soldiers had left them tethered to a rock near the blood-and-viscera-splattered worm holes, then continued down the tunnel with the nymphs.

  'What if those things come back?' she had shouted after them. 'What if others come?' As she'd watched their backs disappear down the tunnel she had known the answer and, sure enough, ten minutes later, she could hear the rock around her whispering.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  'Hurry, Nigel, hurry. They're coming back.' The place was like a charnel house from the earlier slaughter but Hackett seemed oblivious of the mess as he knelt between them, holding the rope in his bound hands, sawing it against the sharpest edge of the rock.

  'Hurry, Nigel! Hurry!' Sister Chantal pressed.

  'What a good idea,' Hackett said drily, through gritted teeth, fingers working furiously. 'That had never occurred to me.' He had already tried to untangle the knot but with bound hands it had been impossible. Zeb could see that some of the fraying rope strands had parted but plenty more were still intact.

  'We're running out of time,' she said. 'They're coming.'

  'I know,' said Hackett. 'I can hear them. What exactly do you suggest I do that I'm not doing now?'

  'Bite it!' snapped Sister Chantal.

  Hackett kept sawing the rope against the rock. More strands parted, but the whispering was harsher - and louder. Zeb's knees turned to jelly as she imagined the worms' rough carapaces rasping against the rock. All she could think about was whether it would be better to be devoured first, or watch Nigel and Sister Chantal torn to pieces before her. The noise increased and the surrounding rock shook.

  Zeb had a sudden desire to fill these precious moments with human warmth before pain and death claimed her: to pull Nigel away from his futile task and kiss him on the lips, then hug Sister Chantal close. She wanted to tell them how important they had become to her - especially the Englishman.

  'Almost there,' said Hackett, stubbornly refusing to give in.

  She could smell the creatures now as they rushed through the warm, confined space: rancid and fetid. She glanced down at the rope. Hackett had made good progress but when he pulled at the remaining strands they held firm.

  'Bugger,' he said, then continued to saw.

  She spied movement in three of the deepest holes, all at head height. Mesmerized, she watched three pairs of red eyes racing towards her - one straight at her face. Such was her terror that she didn't even try to move out of the way - there was no point. All she could do was rasp, 'I can see them. They're here.'

  For the first time, Hackett looked up from his task. Despite her shock, she marvelled at his expression when he saw the creatures. He didn't exhibit the terror she felt or the horror she saw on Sister Chantal's face. He looked annoyed, as if the worms weren't playing fair. Then he went back to his task.

  'Break, you bastard. Break.'

  Even if Hackett cut the rope now the creatures were too close. She saw Sister Chantal start to pray. Zeb wanted to look away, but couldn't. She felt compelled to see what was about to kill her.

  'Done it,' said Hackett, pulling the rope apart. Zeb detected a note of satisfaction in his voice, even though it was too late and they were seconds from death. She felt his hand take hers and squeeze. 'It's okay,' he said. 'We're all in this together.' He spoke with such composure that he almost calmed her.

  When the first worm rifled out of the hole she closed her eyes and braced herself. Her anticipation was so intense that she didn't hear the sound at first. It was only when the attack didn't materialize that she became aware of the chanting. She opened her eyes. The worms had retreated into their holes and were now motionless.

  The nymphs have returned, she thought, and looked down the tunnel, expecting to see Torino and the soldiers coming back. Sister Chantal raised her bound hands and pointed frantically towards one of the dark passages by the holes. Zeb saw an indistinct figure chanting the calming incantation and beckoning to them. She registered the staring rock worms and shuddered at the prospect of seeking refuge in their black, infested warren. No one wanted to enter the dragons' lair.

  Then she heard more chanting coming from the tunnel of blood. Torino was returning with his nymphs in harness. 'The others are coming back,' said Hackett. 'We can't let them find us.'

  They had no choice now. Zeb and the others ran into the dark passage. In the gloom, the shadowy figure stopped chanting, reached out and cut their wrist ties. 'Come with me,' a voice said, and led them into the darkness. 'I know another way down.'

  Zeb gasped. It was im
possible. Bazin had shot him and the worms had devoured him. Torino had told them as much. And yet, as his strong hand gripped hers and pulled her deeper into the passage, Ross Kelly didn't sound dead. On the contrary, he sounded and felt very much alive.

  Chapter 72.

  As they descended the dark passageway, Sister Chantal heard more shooting behind them. But she didn't care. Ross was alive. All was not lost.

  'Must be killing more of the worms,' Hackett hissed. 'The bastards probably think they've eaten us.' He reached out for Ross. 'Torino said they'd eaten you. I can't believe you're alive. What happened?'

  'Yes,' said Zeb. 'I thought--'

  Ross put his fingers to his lips and resumed chanting. Then he pointed into the gloom. On each side of the dark passageway there were even darker fissures and side passages. Red eyes watched as they passed and Sister Chantal could almost hear the creatures breathing. The others might be desperate to know what had happened to him, but she felt no need for questions. Somehow the Source had saved him and that was enough for her.

  His miraculous resurrection was a sign from God that she could still fulfil her sacred oath. She clutched the crucifix Father Orlando had given her and smiled at the demons in the dark.

  Do the dead dream? Do they have thoughts and feel emotion? mused Ross, as he continued to chant and led the others down the dark passages to the antechamber.

  They must, he concluded, as his mind drifted back to the Source, to when he had died and looked down upon his body . . .

  He feels no pain or grief as, from above, he watches the nymphs stripoff his clothes and lower his naked body into the small pool beneath themonolith and the hydra. He floats in the mineral-rich water, like abather in the Dead Sea, as the bullet wound on his chest and the largerexit wound on his back bloom rose-red in the milky water.