The Snare

by David A Ogunde

  “Magnificent, aren’t they?” Sarah spoke quietly beside them. “Studying them has been such a privilege. As Pierre may have told you already, the verification results have indicated that these are authentic pieces. They were cut and polished from a rare type of obsidian, known to form along the edges of a volcano’s mouth, when it erupts for the first time. The violent clash of elements which occurs when the pressurized lava breaks from its earthy crust onto unfamiliar materials and atmospheres often causes the subsequent formation of unique geological entities—the likes of which are almost impossible to imitate both in the lab and in nature due to the very specific conditions, elements, and forces present at that first instantaneous moment.”

  “Boy,” John said, scratching his head, “I knew I shouldn’t have dropped out of geology.”

  “What Sarah is saying,” Pierre interpreted, “is that the rare stone formation from which these tablets are made, though never discovered before—or at least never catalogued before— does not negate their authenticity. The existence of such stone is possible, by means of which Mrs. Mode just kindly explained.”

  “Do you know what the red flecks are?” Kate asked Sarah.

  “The laser scan wasn’t able to penetrate through the glassy surface; so I couldn’t get a reading of the element traces of the black or red substances. But, if I had to guess, I would say they could very well be small diamonds or crystals which formed quickly within their host at the time of its natural production.”

  “Fascinating,” Kate whispered.

  “And the markings,” John piped up. “Were you able to determine how the writing was made?”

  Sarah nodded. “Using a digital microscope I was able to detect evidence of uneven miniscule grooves and ridges within the etchings. These were definitely carved, mostly likely with a small chisel and hammer.”

  “So, no fiery digits from unseen deities involved, then.” John spared a snide glance to Pierre, but the commissioner either didn’t see or pretended not to—perhaps choosing not to engage in childish banter with his antagonist.

  “When?” Kate’s question shot out fast and urgent. They had arrived at the most important question—the key to unlocking the mystery of the tablets’ existence. “When were these tablets made?”

  Sarah took a deep breath and looked over at Pierre who gave an affirming nod.

  “I’ve run the data several times, and the results all came back the same. These tablets are Pre-Sumerian. They were made before any ancient writing system was invented—”

  “They were made before when, history tells us, any writing system was invented,” amended Pierre. “But clearly, writing had been invented and was in use because…well, here it is.”

  “What are you saying?” John leaned in closer to the table. “Are you saying these tablets, this sophisticated writing, is over 5,500 years old? That’s impossible! No Pre-Sumerian writings have ever been discovered.”

  “I told you they’d take it well,” Pierre muttered to Sarah. “Look,” he addressed John and Kate, “we’ve been over this before. The art of forming what we call “History” is based on taking a few pieces of a scattered jigsaw puzzle and putting them together the best we can. But just because we do it the best we can doesn’t guarantee that we are doing it the correct way. It is absolutely not impossible for things to have happened in a very different way from what we scientists have determined; especially, when it comes to human intelligence, knowledge, and communication. I’ve been giving this some thought, and the truth is: while it is very convenient and comfortable to believe that the first human beings were grossly primitive, there is—in fact—no evidence to prove that point. There are only conjectures and socially acceptable theories which—”

  “No.” Kate shook her head. “Pierre…what are you saying? You of all people must know that we can’t just throw away the basis—the foundations—of our history because of one outlying factor which probably only appears to be so because of a glitch in the computer—no offense, Sarah. No, the cuneiform symbols on these tablets have to depict the Elamite language, or Akkadian, or Chaldean, or anything after—Persian, Babylonian. But they cannot…just cannot be older than that.”

  The Commissioner looked at Kate with a mixture of pity and sympathy, and then suddenly had an idea. “Kate,” he soothed, “I know it’s scary, and I understand where you’re coming from, believe me. I’ve been struggling with this whole thing myself. But maybe if you just looked at some of the words that Sarah has managed to translate—”

  “What?” Kate and John exclaimed together.

  Sarah flashed them a beaming smile. “Yes. Since I was able to date the tablets to Pre…um, well to being pretty old, I guessed that ancient Sumerian texts would be a good place to start, as far as identifying the main language used.”

  “But,” interrupted John, “ancient Sumerian cuneiform doesn’t look like these symbols.” He pointed toward the neat writing on the tablets. “It looks more like pictographs or hieroglyphics.”

  “Well…,” Sarah’s posture moved into a position of bracing itself, “that’s another thing. The language this writing expresses is ancient Sumerian, but it was depicted—or written—with more ‘modern’ Sumerian symbols which supposedly weren’t developed until between 2400 and 1000 B.C.”

  The room fell silent as John pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep sigh.

  “So,” he finally spoke, “to sum this all up. What you’re saying is that we have here a set of tablets that was made before writing was invented which has writing on it that was also not invented or used until at least 1000 years after writing was initially invented? Is that about right?”

  “Precisely,” Sarah answered curtly. “Would you like to know what it says?”

  “By all means.”

  Chapter 38

  Four eager heads craned up toward the three screens on the lab wall as Sarah used a tablet in her hands to zoom in on each image.

  “Firstly,” she commenced, “Pierre asked me to try and decipher this symbol, which appears along the left edge of each of the stones….At least, we can assume it also appears on the missing half of the broken one.” She moved the small light of a green laser pointer around the same cipher on the sides of first two tablet images.

  “Oh yeah,” Kate remembered. “We were trying to figure out what that meant in your office, Pierre. We didn’t get very far… What does it mean?”

  “Three together.”

  “Three together?” John squinted his eyes at the screens.

  “Three together!” Kate exclaimed energetically. “These three tablets are a set meant to be used together!”

  Pierre rewarded her with a triumphant smile.

  “Used together for what?” pressed John speedily—perhaps to compensate for his not understanding the connection as fast as his wife.

  “Show them the next word you were able to translate, Sarah.”

  Using her pointer on the first screen, Sarah circled a symbol near the top of the image of the first tablet. “This one. It means ‘a rising.’”

  “A rising,” Pierre confirmed, “or, in other words, ‘a summoning.’”

  “So…these are ritualistic artifacts, then.” Kate spoke in soft awe. “You were right. Whoever used them believed they had magic capabilities.”

  “And just what are they supposed to summon?” jumped in John. “Earthquakes? Plague? A monster?”

  “From what Sarah has been able to gather, which is not much since she only started translating recently, these tablets appear to hold instructions for a specific ritual to call forth some sort of supernatural empowerment. This power is then to be bestowed upon a certain ‘chosen one,’ who will use it to rule over the people.”

  “Hmm.” John rubbed his chin while the idea sunk in. “Well, it’s definitely not unheard of for ancient rulers to want to be endowed with otherworld powers. The idea of it would certainly help keep the people in check and the occupation of ‘expansion by conquering’ successful. T
hough in many cases, a king was often already presumed to have godlike powers. Asian Empires, Incan, Egyptian, Roman - all were, at one time, ruled by men who were believed to be divine. What?”

  Kate, Sarah, and Pierre were staring at John, startled and astounded at his sudden cool demeanor and analysis.

  “Hey,” he chided, “don’t look so surprised. We’re all scientists here.”

  “But we don’t all always act like it,” whispered Pierre out of the side of his mouth. He averted his eyes to dodge a glare from John as Kate took up the conversation mantle.

  “Have you found any clue as to who might have authored these?” she asked. “Are there any known references to a culture invoking this specific ‘magic’ before?”

  “None that I can think of,” stated Pierre. “But if you two would like to spend the next couple of days helping Sarah finish translating the rest of it, we might be able to unearth some more ideas about the origin and nature of these extraordinarily real artifacts.”

  Chapter 39

  The preliminary meeting with some of the Ukadan Republic’s government officials had gone well, James thought. Though he could tell Cyndi was annoyed (she had anticipated this would happen) that the convened officials had asked to be given the weekend to study the report Cyndi and James had presented to them. They requested to meet again on Monday, at which time a few of their currently absent members would also be able to assemble with them. James and Cyndi had been warmly invited to stay the next couple of days in the city’s most famous hotel, The Two Palms, and enjoy experiencing what the Republic had to offer. James knew that Cyndi would have given anything to refuse…except the risk of jeopardizing the GED loan contract. After playing out the polite script of not wanting to impose upon their hospitality, needing to get back to the office, etc., and, in return, receiving only more encouragement for them to stay, in the end Cyndi plastered a smile on her face and accepted—or, more accurately, gave in to—their proposal.

  James was, though he wouldn’t admit it to his steamed colleague, overall pleased by the arrangement— despite the fact that it was taking away more time from his family. He had spent most of Saturday polishing up the projection report to a more personally acceptable standard, and even took an hour or two to get out and take in some of the city’s beautiful sites.

  How Cyndi had used her day, James could only guess; and he spent more time guessing than he would like admit to. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her remotely at all. Maybe, he had thought with a touch of chagrin, she took the jet back to Brussels for the weekend without telling anybody. She was just the kind of person who would pull a stunt like that—making everyone think she was doing one thing when she really was up to something else. James didn’t know why, but the idea had made him feel angry. Here he was sacrificing time he should be spending with his family for the sake of getting this deal done while Cyndi could just break her word to the government officials and take off—leaving him behind. Getting himself worked up about it, James had decided to go down the hall, knock on her door, and see if she was there to answer it. What excuse he would give he wasn’t sure of at the time, figuring he’d make one up along the way. Maybe he would show her the revisions to his report. Perfect!

  Grabbing his laptop, James was about to leave the room when the hotel phone rang shrilly from the nightstand. Maybe it was her! Swooping toward the phone, he picked it up and answered with a quick, “Hello?”

  “James! It’s me. I’ve been trying to reach you on your cell. Have you seen my missed calls?” Hearing Sarah’s lovely but edgy voice had made James’ heart skip a beat.

  “Sarah? How did you get this number?”

  “I am a professional researcher,” she quipped. “So, what’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, Sarah.” James softened his voice, deciding to be up front. “I have seen your missed calls but was waiting for a good time to call back. I’ve been really busy working on my report and checking out the city…you know, to have some points to talk about with the officials we’ll meet again on Monday. It’s been crazy. But I’m glad you called. I’ve got a few minutes now. So…so, how’s Tolu?”

  *

  After hanging up with his wife, James had made a decided point to quit wondering about Cyndi and gave himself an early night—though sleep remained annoyingly elusive. The light conversation with Sarah continued to wrap around in his mind, within an unusually heavy net of guilt. He should have taken her calls. He should be calling her more often. He should quit thinking of Cyndi so much. He should quit telling himself all he wants to do is get back to his family because, if that were really true, he wouldn’t be doing such a good job of ignoring them. He was a terrible person. Rocking back and forth between these merciless waves of self-accusation, James found himself awake quite early on Sunday morning and feeling as if he had hardly rested at all. Lying in bed, he began to imagine what he’d be doing if he were home right now...

  Of course. It was Sunday.

  They’d be getting ready for church. Sarah would be dressing herself up in a beautiful flowing dress and hat, while he and Tolu would be making breakfast in the kitchen. And when Sarah came down the stairs to eat, he and Tolu would look up at her with awe as she gracefully descended. Even after 15 years of marriage, she was still in the habit of taking his breath away. James smiled up at the ceiling as he remembered how much he really did love her, and promised himself to start making more of an effort to act like it. He was feeling truly regretful that he wouldn’t be there, sitting beside her and holding her hand throughout the service. He would miss watching her sing the worship songs with her whole heart, miss her strong “amens” when the pastor’s words resonated with her own inner witness. But most of all—he chuckled as he thought of it—he would miss how she squeezed his fingers when she felt the pastor was speaking something specifically for him.

  This last gesture had been one they’d shared since they were young together. As boys, James and his older brother would walk two miles with their mother to the missionary center where she would play a rickety old piano before and after each service. The piano—which had been donated to the mission—was worn and off-key on several notes; but the way his mother could play it made it sound like a gift from heaven itself. After ending a sweet tune, his mother would stay seated at the piano while the preacher spoke; and James and his brother would sit with their neighbors: Sarah and her family.

  James remembered clearly the first day Sarah reached out to him. His father had broken his leg in an accident. Not having access to medical treatment, they set and bound it as well as they could. He had been doing fine until an infection set in. His health declined quickly to the point of barely being conscious, and they were sure they were going to lose him. At what seemed like the last minute, a traveling medical van came into their part of town offering free vaccinations and minor treatments. They offered to drive James’ father to the larger medical camp twenty miles away. There, a doctor had been able to save him—but only by severing the infected limb. Though grateful that his life had been spared, James’ family had a real hardship now to face. How were they going to live? Who was going to work so they could eat?

  Their neighbors knew of their distress, but couldn’t offer much help beyond encouragement and sympathy as they had no spare of their own to share. It was that Sunday, after his father had been brought home from the medical center and their dire circumstance realized that young Sarah had quietly taken James’ hand and squeezed his fingers for the first time. The pastor had been reading from the Bible a story of Jesus telling people around him not to worry about how to find enough food, where their next set of clothes were coming from, or even about the problems of tomorrow or the next day or the next because “the Heavenly Father, who loves us even more than our parents love us, knows what we need today, and what we will need tomorrow, and is taking care of us.”

  James knew that Sarah felt these words were just for him—to reassure and comfort him that everything would be all right. As much
as he understood her compassion and hope for his situation—and thanked her silently with his eyes for it—in his heart, James felt that the preacher’s words could not be true. If God cared, why would he let his father get into an accident? If he took care of them, why did they live from day to day with little to eat, dirty clothes, and a small, leaky shack-of-a-home? It didn’t make any sense. And James had told her that as they walked back home after the service. Her reply, he remembered, was beautiful…but only because it came from her. Having attended services for a while, James knew that the preacher wanted everyone to accept and trust this Jesus of the Bible; and being urged by his mother, had even stood up in the line to say the Salvation prayer. But, as he had predicted, nothing in his life changed. They still struggled; they still didn’t have enough. And now, because of the accident, things had gotten far worse.

  Yet on that walk home, Sarah told him that accepting Jesus as Savior and trusting him to take care of one’s life started in the heart—that believing was the key to seeing. James had loved her for her graceful answer and told her he would accept with his heart. They had prayed together, and remained friends until life set them on different roads. But time didn’t prove strong enough to dissolve their bond; and when he had bumped into Sarah years later while taking the time from his studies at Cambridge to visit his parents, he couldn’t help but recall his childhood feelings for her and was elated when she admitted to the same. They married after he graduated and had been living an amazing life together ever since.

  Rising from his bed with these tender memories, James snatched up his phone to call Sarah and leave a voicemail—feeling in his heart how much he loved her and truly missed being at church with her that morning. Even as the line rang, he wondered what kind of sermon their pastor would be preaching—and which of his words would inspire Sarah to lovingly squeeze his hand...