by Rob Swigart
Before Constantine could respond, Lex spread his arms and with a great cry clapped his cupped palms against the monk’s ears with such force the drums burst.
In the absolute silence that followed, Constantine cried Deliver me from all wrongful dealings of men, and so I shall keep Your commandments!
He could not hear these words as he spoke them, and knew in that moment that if he could not hear them, God could not hear them either.
Then the pain began.
The Cave of Abraham
The Mevlid-I Halil Mosque sits at the foot of a limestone ridge topped by a Crusader fortress. Alongside the mosque, the famous fishpond called Balıklıgöl stretches for 150 meters. Lisa, standing submissively beside Steve in a discreet headscarf and voluminous clothing, was relating in a low voice a story she had read somewhere: “After a long debate Nimrod got frustrated with Abraham and threw him into a fire, but God, or perhaps Allah, changed the flames to water and the wood into these fish here. That’s why they’re sacred.”
Steve grunted. “He could have drowned, but of course he was saved. The water would only cover his ankles.”
“I don’t think that’s the point of the story. God spoke to Abraham, and because Abraham listened and obeyed, he became first Patriarch.”
“Right,” Steve muttered. “Father of nations.”
Vendors were hawking fish food. The tourists in turn tossed the food to agitated swarms of dark-gray carp.
“Those fish may be sacred,” he said. “But they’re also quite greedy!”
At one end of the pond they passed a group of mannequins draped in garish traditional harem dresses. Giggling teenagers tried them on and snapped photos of each other with their phones. Nothing could impede commerce.
Alain followed twenty meters behind them, eyes in constant motion.
Near the women’s entrance to Abraham’s cave in the courtyard of the mosque Steve asked, “How will I know it?”
“Nizam never told me what he was after or if he found it, but I’m sure it was the original Miraculous Child. He was young, then, a student. When his Teacher told him to have his own mother killed, he did. Said he didn’t understand why until much later, but I think he identifies with Abraham and was obeying the command of his Teacher as the Word of God.”
“Seems a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”
“May be far-fetched, but all the objects— the tablet, the paintings, the letters— tie the centuries together.”
“Why would it be in a mosque? Ophis Sophia’s not Muslim.”
“Not Christian, either, or anything else. Muššatur was before Abraham, before even the ancient gods. She goes back to the very beginning, to the source, or so they believe. They’re quite ecumenical in their way. Men are reluctant to part with their gods.”
Steve nodded. “All right. So, what do I do, just ask?”
“Of course. A blond woman, a foreign infidel, would never get a straight answer.”
He gave her a discreet salute and disappeared inside.
She walked the perimeter of the court, pausing occasionally to feel the texture of the stone arches of the colonnade, one eye on the mosque entrance. On the opposite side of the courtyard Alain played the tourist, snapping pictures.
She had completed her third slow circuit and was reading a long text from Ted when Steve returned. “What is it?”
“Suggestions of contemporary women with large followings and names that suggest Divine Mother or Mother Goddess. There’s Amma, for instance, which means ‘Mother,’ a Hindu who preaches love to audiences all over the world. And then rather interestingly, there’s Beletili, either a character in a popular online computer game called World of Warcraft or an Akkadian mother goddess. Her physical location is obscure, but she has a substantial Internet presence. Her messages are somewhat darker than Amma’s: less love, more action.”
“Violent action?”
“Nothing overt; no armed insurrection or political upheaval, just the usual cant about the dignity of the soul and preparing for the coming Great Change, that sort of thing.”
“Doesn’t sound much like the same Divine Mother. Ophis Sophia’s definitely interested in politics. Their Divine Mother could be completely unknown, with no public face at all,” Steve said.
Lisa put the phone away. “You’re right, of course. Enough of that, then, how’d it go in there?”
“No luck,” he reported. “A man named Memet claims everyone knows about the painting. It’s a painting of Father Abraham, he said. He said it disappeared forty years ago.”
“That means Nizam did find it.”
“I’d say so. Memet showed me an empty spot on the wall with the faint outline of a missing painting, surprisingly large. Nice fellow, Memet. Gorgeous black moustache. Dyed, I suspect, though he wasn’t more than forty. He’d never seen the painting and wasn’t very interested. Not just ancient history, he said, but a forbidden image, infidel. Yet this mosque once displayed a painting. We don’t do that any more, he said. This is the twenty-first century, he said.”
“Mmph. You believe him?”
Steve shrugged. “He’s either a spy or a simple bureaucrat. But he was right about one thing.”
“Yes?”
“This is the twenty-first century.”
“Ha-ha. Nothing is simple where Ophis Sophia is concerned. They know we’re looking for it.”
“OK, so where is it?”
“In Harran. Ophis Sophia will have some kind of headquarters there. Harran is the birthplace.”
“Of course. We just go?”
“We just go. We’ll know it when we see it.”
Alain was waiting at the car up Vali Fuat Avenue. “I didn’t see anybody who looked like they might be friends of our friends,” he said. “Doesn’t mean they aren’t here, though.”
Ibrahim Makes a Call
Cellular service was spotty, and they had to use the ancient landline.
“You arrived safely?” the Teacher inquired politely.
Ibrahim listened through a barrage of static. He didn’t bother to acknowledge the question; it was obvious he had. “They went straight to the mosque,” he said. “The Canadian asked about the painting. The woman walked three times around the courtyard.”
“Just the two of them?”
“So it seems. Memet told him he didn’t know where the painting was.”
“They won’t stop looking,” Nizam assured him. “They know how important it is.”
“I know that, Teacher.”
“That woman’s a high intuitive, Ibrahim, with the eagle sight. We must not underestimate her. She’s resourceful. She escaped Alamut with the priest and she has the tablet. She will be on her way there.”
“Then Divine Mother must move. If they’re coming, we won’t have much more than an hour.”
“See to it.”
Ibrahim gestured to a man waiting nearby. “Take her. Go.”
The man nodded and scurried away.
“It is done,” Ibrahim said into the phone. “Now, what about the painting?”
After a long silence filled with electronic crackling Nizam said, “Show it to them.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes.” After another silence, Nizam said, “Iskander punished the monk as instructed, but not before he gave up important information. The child will be born in Asturias, Spain. We must prepare the Divine Mother to go there.”
“Yes, Teacher.”
“Lex will arrive soon. He’s ready.”
“The faithful have been gathering for weeks, as planned,” Ibrahim assured him. “Say the word and his Ascension happens today.”
“Very good.”
“Is he strong enough? I ask this because I must.”
“This we will learn.”
“Of course, Teacher. The future rushes to us.”
“I’m quite sure the Tablet confirms our belief. I will attempt once more to persuade the Delphi Group to give it up. I’m not hopeful, but it must be done.
This event is too important, the third Greater Rite in four thousand years.”
“Of course, Teacher. But if Lex is not strong enough…”
“Then, Ibrahim, we must proceed without him. The final step is his choice. But I believe he is ready.” His elation came through even over the static. “Raise Iskander to the Second Mystery, Ibrahim. Four thousand years of waiting will soon be over and he will fulfill his destiny.”
“It shall be done, Teacher.”
Agronatur
Alain trailed one of the hourly minibuses full of Turkish tourists from Urfa all the way to Harran. Neat fields quilted the treeless plain, mostly new cotton. After an hour’s drive they saw the square tower of the Islamic observatory rising from the middle of the archaeological zone. Only twenty kilometers away perpetual war was raging, but here all was calm.
They passed a compound of small square buildings with tall cone-shaped roofs. “Famous beehive houses,” Steve remarked, reading from his phone. “A tradition going back two hundred years.”
“Not Abraham’s childhood home, then,” Alain muttered.
Lisa laughed. “Harran’s been a trading post for at least three thousand years. They’ve probably remodeled since Abraham.”
Alain pulled over and switched off the engine.
An enormous black tourist bus passed them into the car park and stopped in a spray of gravel. Dazed visitors in colorful spring clothing began to climb out. They stood in a clot, blinking in the brilliant sunlight.
Steve studied satellite images of Harran and tapped a spot on the car’s navigation screen. “The only building in the area large and isolated enough,” he said. “A farm?”
They drove once more through cotton fields. A few kilometers outside of town a large dark blue windowless bus passed them going the other way. Lisa felt an unsettling sensation ripple through her. The feeling dissipated when she turned to the front and saw they were approaching a vast white building with “Agronatur” printed in large block letters on the side. Underneath were four large cargo doors, all closed, and a rutted parking lot.
“That’s it,” she breathed.
“I don’t like it,” Alain muttered, pulling to a stop by the side of the road. “Too quiet. No farm machinery, no one working the fields, only two cars in the parking lot. No one in sight.”
“You’d expect guards,” Steve agreed. “But OS had the latest tech in Paris. They’d have it here, too. This close to Syria and the refugee camps armed guards would attract unwanted attention. The name seems harmless enough, Agronatur. Organic food?”
“Perhaps,” Alain said. “Guards are inside.”
“We can’t wait for dark,” Lisa said. “We’re running out of time.”
Steve asked, “What do you suggest?”
“We knock.”
He stared. “Knock?”
Her shoulders lifted. She tightened the knot of her headscarf and climbed out. “You’re in the agricultural import business. I’m your wife. We were here to visit Harran and decided to take a drive in the countryside. You saw the sign and thought you might be able to do business with this company. Agronatur is an intriguing name for your organic food import business. So here we are. Come on.”
A narrow cement path led from a gate in a low black metal fence around a yard of stone and sand to a pair of cement steps and a small porch. The once orange paint on the industrial front door was faded and chipped. The few windows were covered on the inside. The air was still and warm. Heat shimmered over the fields. There was no traffic, no birdsong; no sound at all.
Steve knocked. Silence. He knocked again, more forcefully.
A muffled voice inside said something incomprehensible.
Steve replied, first in French, then in English. He explained that he was looking for a partner for his food import business.
There was no reply.
Steve insisted he just wanted to speak with the head of Agronatur. He repeated the word several times during his extended explanation of his interests, the popularity of natural foods, the rich profits to be made in Canada with exotic organic imports. With each ensuing silence he offered increasing levels of detail, most of it nonsense or contradictory.
Finally the door cracked open and revealed a ferocious scowl. “Go… away. Go.” The voice attached to the scowl was surprisingly high and mellow, almost feminine.
“We’re so sorry to drop in unannounced like this,” Steve apologized. “We’d like to come in, learn about your operations here, your products. I have significant businesses in Canada, as well as the United States and France. I think we could do quite well together.”
“Go away.”
“No, my friend, you don’t seem to understand me. I really must insist. We’ve driven all the way out here, and if you turn us away what can we do but conclude illegal activities go on here. I note, for example, the darkened windows, the nearly empty parking lot, and your decidedly unfriendly reception.”
When that produced only more dark looks he said, “Let us try another tack: Nizam al-Muriq.”
The scowl withdrew and the door opened. When the scowler saw Lisa he started to bar her way, but lowered it at the last moment. The Teacher’s name cut all knots.
He was slender and clean-shaven, with short dark hair and large black eyes. His belligerent manner softened to mere suspicion as he bowed them in.
They were in a large room lit by a circle of elaborate chandeliers dripping with crystal. There was no one working at the four desks arranged on one side of the room like a sketch of a thriving business. The ceiling was the same midnight blue as the bus they had encountered down the road.
Before Lisa could point this out, a leather-paneled door at the back swung open and a thickset man bustled through, accompanied by the sound of many men chanting. The door closed, cutting off the sound.
The newcomer opened his arms in an enthusiastic welcome. “So,” he said in brisk, fluent English. “You know our Teacher!” His eyes squeezed shut in rapture. “You should have said so. I am Isaak. Please.” He waved them forward.
Lisa and Steve exchanged glances, alarmed at this disarming swerve from hostility to warmth. “Isaak,” she said. “Son of Abraham.”
Isaak tipped his head in assent. His clean-shaven face was broad and open and utterly without guile. He was not as short and stocky as he first appeared, but his spread hands were like giant spatulas.
They crossed the room, and after a moment of scrutiny he said in a voice smooth as balm, “You’re here to see the painting.”
Before they could respond he reopened the leather-paneled door. The chanting had stopped. He stood aside and gestured. “Please, after you.”
They passed through into another world.
The Gnome Visits
Usem’s worried frown smoothed when Frédo sat down beside him. “I’m glad you’re here, old friend.”
Frédo gave him a friendly smile. “And I’m glad to see you back and safe. Anything I can do to help?”
“Tell me what you think.” Usem proffered his translation.
There were three versions of each line: the cuneiform signs, a transliteration into the Roman alphabet, and a translation in English. Frédo looked up in surprise. “So quickly? You sure? It’s only been a day since Lisa and Steve left, and you finished translating it already?”
“It was the recording,” Usem admitted. “The girl, whoever she is, did it. I don’t know how. Our understanding of late third millennium Sumerian is still incomplete and it’s been a dead language for four thousand years. No one speaks it, yet every syllable she speaks is clear, as if she learned it as a child. I’ve played the recording over and over, comparing lines. Meaning emerges, ambiguities disappear. It’s a kind of miracle.”
Frédo read the first line, “Dimme, daughter of the great god An.”
“An ambivalent figure, to be sure; good and bad, a fallen goddess speaking for Muššatur, the great Mother of the world, a kind of First Principle. You’re the expert on handwriting, Fré
déric. Look at the tablet here. Tell me what you see.” He turned the object around. The wedges were clearly visible through the glassine.
Frédo studied it for several minutes. “I can’t read it, of course, but I would suggest that the person who wrote this had a very fine hand: the signs are pressed carefully, clearly, neatly aligned, all the same depth, same pressure. Amazing control, really. It can’t be easy. It must take years to learn that kind of skill.”
“Anything else?”
“What’s this along the bottom of the back side? Looks like something pressed into the clay over the writing. A figure and some writing, very faint.”
“Udnamekam, the scribe. That’s his seal. You can see how careful he was. The text underneath is still clear. A scribe rolled his seal over a document to authenticate it.” He paused. “The Tablet of Destinies was supposed to have a seal.”
“So this is the Tablet of Destinies? I thought it was a myth.”
Usem raised his eyebrows.
Frédo sighed. “If you say so. All the same signs are almost identical, like printing. The grain of the clay is very fine, no impurities or intrusions. I’m not a specialist, of course, but this document was clearly very important to this Udnamekam. You’re probably right, this could very well be the legendary Tablet.”
“You confirm my impressions. Udnamekam’s name refers to the future— he was an omen priest. This could not be a coincidence: he believed in what he did, in what he was writing. He was sure he knew what was going to happen over four thousand years in his future, long after he was gone.”
Frédo shook his head. “Doesn’t seem possible.”
Usem grunted. “There’s a blood moon in two days, and a Spanish astronomer just discovered a new comet he named Lamaštu, Akkadian for Dimme.”
Frédo pointed at the last few lines. “The fifteenth day of the first month? That doesn’t make sense. Today’s the nineteenth of March, the third month.”