Angels of Apocalypse, Part I: Alignment

by J. J. Harkin

  “How?”

  “It was like watching light bulbs switch on. When the fire reached them it seemed to hurry within, and then their bodies lit up like Christmas lights. I’ll never forget it,” continued David mistily. “It was like watching fireflies rise into the air all over Israel. They were warm and beautiful and happy” – he looked at her – “just like…” But David found himself unable to finish his sentence.

  “I think you’ll be interested to learn that I dreamed of Israel as well,” said Rachel, knowingly sparing him the embarrassment of speaking further.

  “You too?”

  “Yes,” she nodded, “but I didn’t see a fire.”

  “What did you see?”

  Rachel seemed reluctant, as if she wondered whether her dream should be spoken aloud. “It was nothing so dramatic as what you saw.” She paused yet again. “I saw Israel as it once was for our ancestors: green, fertile, and lush. There was a tiny house by the sea – small yet perfect. I was there, and Dogie was there. We had many children and animals to take care of.”

  “We?” David was beginning to feel quite curious. “You mean you and Dogie?” he laughed jokingly.

  “Course not!” snickered Rachel. “I meant you and me, of course.” A tentative look stole across her face as she waited upon David’s response to her clarification. “It was like we were married.”

  David’s jaw fell open. Never would he have guessed that any woman so enviable might open her heart to him so fully. As a card-carrying American geek, he had assumed such opportunities would always fall into Den’s lap first, but there was no denying the seriousness behind Rachel’s eyes. David tried to speak, but only coughed unattractively.

  “Don’t worry about it,” offered Rachel, as she set a calming hand upon his own. “Get some sleep. We can talk about it in the morning.”

  As he could tell she was enjoying his discomfort, David prepared to respond with some silly comment or other, but found Rachel to already be gone. As the door latched shut, his mind filled with visions of the Israeli coastline. He had only ever seen pictures of the “Old Country,” as his mother called it. He had never had time for a personal visit.

  “A house?” he wondered to himself, as he drifted off toward sleep. “She wants to live with me in a house?” It seemed that Rachel’s subconscious might be pondering the possibility, whether the dream meant anything or not. It was a strange idea, but one that he cherished deeply. No further visions of consuming fire visited him that night, and his dreams thereafter were calm and clear.

  Chapter XII

  THE CAVE

  News coverage of the solar eclipse plowed onward as Muhammad Abdullah watched in amazement. Frantically he pulled out the standard of the Prophet, knowing it all had to be more than just an eerie coincidence. As he looked once again upon the white halo at the center of the camelhair banner, he remembered words the wandering prophetess Ariadne had spoken to him when he was only a child: “What I tell you now, keep to yourself. When you see at once two halos, look immediately nearby for the third, for a revealer of hidden things, and an opener of things to come, wishes to speak to you.” Could she really have been speaking of any moment other than this one? Immediately Muhammad rolled up the standard, grabbed the sword and robe, and – without saying a word to anyone – walked swiftly from the house with his pack.

  Though all was beautiful there, nothing in the garden reminded him of a halo, so he walked back out onto the tiny street to peer around in every direction, hoping desperately that he would be able to read the proper signs. As Muhammad scanned the landscape, he thought again upon Ariadne’s words. There was something familiar about the phrasing she had chosen: “a revealer of hidden things, and an opener of things to come.” But what was it? Then, as he looked further down the mountain, all became clear.

  Just down the hillside he could see a large, round ring of stone, perhaps two meters wide in diameter. Being a student of many languages, thanks to Talman’s vast investitures in his education, Muhammad wondered if he should have realized it sooner. “A revealer of hidden things, and an opener of things to come” was the direct meaning of the ancient title Zaphenath-paneah, the very name which the Pharaoh had given to Joseph upon his revelation of the meaning of the King’s dream of the cows and the corn. The story was all over the Quran, Bible, and Torah! And what, in their anger, had Joseph’s brothers thrown him into? A well! The round halo of stone glared at him from down the hill like an expectant eye.

  “As a matter of fact,” thought Muhammad to himself, “the exact location of the well has always been hotly debated, for some say Dothan” – the name given for the region of the well’s location – “was further south, near the Sea of Galilee, while others say it was further north, in Syria.” Could it be that the Dothan of ancient times was actually located as far north as the slopes of Mount Qassioun?

  Though military guards stood at the head of the driveway, none bothered to disturb him. He was a guest of the President, so Muhammad hurried down the hill without a care in the world for Talman or anyone else. Reaching the pit, he found it to be quite round, though probably not deep enough to have ever truly been a well. Looking out from its edge, Muhammad could see that he was about three-quarters of the way up the mountain – too high above the water table for any such hole to be much use for digging water.

  “Could it have been a cistern?” wondered Muhammad to himself. Whatever the case, it certainly might have been deep enough to jail the unsuspecting Joseph at one time, though throwing the poor boy in a pit this far up the mountain would have been far more cruel than doing so down below, as no members of the passing caravans would regularly have ventured up high enough to discover him. No, if this was the pit in question, the other sons of Jacob could never have genuinely been counting on Joseph ever being found. If this was the place, they had been far more cruel than even the old stories had told. Regardless, Muhammad had found his third halo in the last couple minutes, and his heart beat fast, for he knew somehow that he was on the right track.

  The pit looked like it might be about three meters deep above the refuse clogging its bottom. Quickly Muhammad scrambled down to examine all this, thinking it to be nothing more than a mass of tumbled stones beneath a vertical column of air. It was actually a good thing the stones at the bottom were there, or he might never have stood a chance of crawling out on his own. After examining the bottom of the pit for several minutes, Muhammad realized there was something odd about the stones which formed its base, for they were impossible to shift from side to side, as if they were not actually separate pieces. Certainly some of the rock was unattached, having fallen in from the ground above over the years, but further inspection seemed to confirm the hypothesis that the bottom layer of rock was one solid piece. What might this indicate? Was it possible the carefully sculptured heap was just for show? A false bottom?

  Then Muhammad saw the hole. Though it was carefully surrounded by an immobile pile of rock which prevented its close examination, there was a small, diamond-shaped slit hidden among the shadows at the center of the pit. Suddenly a confident impulse struck him, and he unsheathed the sword of the Prophet quickly, thrusting it into the slot in the stone. Click! The familiar sound of metal against metal could be heard, and then he was falling – the sword still clenched in his hand – with his belongings rattling down behind amid a small avalanche of unattached stones. Muhammad’s guess had proved right, for the bottom of the pit was false, and had hinged open abruptly, sending him flying down a wide, slanted chute, before springing back into place in its original position.

  There was not far to fall, luckily. After just a few moments of the grating and clattering of the metal sword against stone, the incline flattened out, and Muhammad came to rest on a broad, smooth floor. “It’s cool in here,” he thought, “and darker than a moonless winter night.” Not a thing in the place could be seen. His hand was rubbing up against something that might be fabric. He felt around in the dark a bit further. There was mor
e of what seemed to be stones, as well as some twigs and more fabric.

  “Ugh!” he said aloud to himself, as his finger plunged accidentally into something wet and sticky. “What is this place?”

  Then he remembered his pack, and began fumbling about for it in the darkness. He was sure he still had the flashlight with him, if only he could find it. A few minutes search revealed the pack to be only a few meters away, pinned beneath a small boulder until he shoved it aside. At last his fingers found the cold metal cylinder, and he switched the light on, forcing himself to squint until his eyes got used to the light. It was just a small rectangular chamber. Behind him the chute through which he had arrived sloped upward more and more steeply, until it reached the perfectly sealed, round entrance through which he had just fallen.

  “There’s no chance I’m climbing out that way,” he said to himself, “and no way they’ll ever know where I’ve disappeared to.”

  Looking around, Muhammad saw just how right he was. The twigs he had felt turned out to be the ribs of a corpse, and he realized that most of the stones he had felt were actually skulls, lying here and there amidst bits of decaying clothing. There were many actual rocks as well, of course, all of which had evidently fallen down the chute over the years with the various victims that surrounded him. The sticky substance his hand had come into contact with turned out to be decaying flesh, and he shivered in disgust as he wiped it from his hand, for the body nearest him was still fairly fresh. It seemed, though this place had evidently been discovered by quite a few people down through the ages, that none had ever been able to escape back up to the surface, leaving its secrets preserved here forever.

  Muhammad jumped up, excited rather than afraid. Ariadne had been right all those years ago! Somehow she had known exactly what to say to make sure he found this place. But why? He grabbed his pack to make sure it still contained the sword, standard, and robe, and then shouldered it all, eager to have a closer look around. The carven walls had been shined to a finish just as flat as the floor beneath him. The rectangular room led forward from the chute like a hallway, and he followed it, the beam of his flashlight bobbing back and forth excitedly.

  There were more bodies here as well, the remains of other victims whom, like him, had survived the fall, but been unable to escape. They had starved to death, presumably. This might have been a gruesome scene to anyone else, but Muhammad had become inspired as never before in his life, so that he hurried forward to meet his destiny excitedly. A broken oil lamp lay upon the ground ahead, perhaps having been left for whomever happened to explore the cave. If a device for lighting the lamp had been present at one time, it could not be seen, and Muhammad thanked Allah that he had his flashlight, as none of this could be explored without illumination. The hall ended in a great flat wall.

  “But these are hieroglyphics!” he exclaimed to no one at all. “This place is a relic of the pharaohs!”

  He was right, of course, for a single line of the gorgeous script had been carefully carved and painted about halfway down the wall before him. Muhammad was tall, even for a person of modern times, and knew the Egyptian architects, whom had generally been much shorter, must have meant the script to appear at eye level. He smiled excitedly as he read, for he knew these symbols well, having studied them all most carefully during the long nights he had spent alone in his room in Medina, sheltering from the eyes of his more obsessive countrymen.

  The message upon the wall was not complicated. “Whose cave is this?” read Muhammad aloud.

  The answer seemed obvious to him, though he knew he must be the exception to the rule. Certainly no passing shepherd of old, after having had the misfortune of falling down into the cave, would have been likely to know the answer to such a question, which explained the remains of so many unfortunate wanderers strewn everywhere. At that moment a basket placed against the wall at his feet caught Muhammad’s eye, and he kneeled to examine the find. It was filled with hundreds of little tiles made from a brassy metal – almost golden in appearance, if he dared chip off their outer layer of corrosion – and the face of each bore a perfect representation of an ancient Egyptian hieroglyph. He knew these to be made of tin bronze, one of the first metals ever to be worked by man. The backs of the tiles featured sturdy protrusions, each of a slightly different shape, reminding him strongly of modern keys. Lastly he noticed a thin slat just below the question on the wall, and knew what he must do.

  Quickly he assembled the characters necessary to spell out Zaphenath-paneah. It was difficult to hold the flashlight, he was so excited. He was soon done, and the letters filled the space perfectly. But what now? Certainly there must be a lever or something somewhere. Muhammad searched the entire surface with his fingertips. It was smooth as glass, and for a moment he fell to doubting, as fear of the chamber enveloped him. Then he chuckled to himself, knowing if the place was in any way connected with the real Joseph of antiquity, that there should be nothing to fear but the darkness itself. Joseph had never been an ominous figure by any stretch of the imagination, and any protective measures present were more likely purposed to screen the inner sanctum from robbers than to directly kill anyone.

  Muhammad Abdullah thought to himself for a moment longer. The switch which had opened the bottom of the well had sounded as though it was at least partially metallic, and all of the hieroglyphic tiles seemed to be of tin bronze; thus it was likely that whatever mechanism he was dealing with would be of the same workmanship. Might this be another door which opened inward? If that were the case, it would explain why he was unable to see any hinges. He gave the wall a good push at its very center, without result. Kneeling, he peered into the slat where he had inserted the hieroglyphs, and proceeded to push them from side to side experimentally. He decided this had been a good idea in the next moment, for the adjustment seemed somehow to drop the tiles more firmly into place, as if they had each found specific grooves with which they needed to be coupled.

  Smiling, Muhammad gave the wall’s center another fierce push, but was surprised to find it as immobile as ever. Something was still not right. There just had to be a way in – he knew it! Exasperated, Muhammad stopped to think, leaning up against the wall just to the left, above the engraved question and his assembled answer. Without warning the grate of stone on stone was heard, and the poor man lost his balance entirely, dropping the flashlight as he tumbled to the floor in confusion.

  He scrambled to retrieve the light, and looked back to see what had happened. The door had opened suddenly as he leaned upon it just left of center, for it was not traditionally hinged, but supported from its back by a strong metal post which stretched from floor to ceiling. It was less a door and more a false wall that rotated upon a vertical axis at its middle, which explained why applying force to its central region from the other side had accomplished nothing. The correctly assembled tiles had been the key, while the weight of his body had served to turn the trapdoor.

  Again Muhammad gathered his things before proceeding forward with the flashlight. The gloomy room beyond was no less dark. Though the air was not so rank here, as it had been in the entrance hall amid all the decaying bodies, it was quite stuffy and hard to breathe in the place nonetheless. For a moment the spellbound spelunker halted to catch his breath, looking around. A quick examination revealed the space to be nothing more than a continuation of the hallway he had just left, as it delved further back into the mountain. Muhammad scrambled forward excitedly to find the end of the hall.

  Contrary to his expectation, he did not find another question on the back wall, or another basket of hieroglyphs. Rather, this hall ended with the statue of a man, seated proudly in the manner of the Egyptian kings of old. Though the king displayed the holy serpent upon his forehead, his hairstyle seemed rather bushy. The colorful garment painted meticulously across the statue’s middle was a dead giveaway.

  “Joseph!” shouted Muhammad triumphantly, as certainly this could be the image of no one else. Immediately he wished he had spoke
n more softly, for the returning echoes stung his ears, and he decided to try harder to control himself as he moved forward.

  The more he examined it, the more Muhammad thought there was definitely something odd about the statue. Rather than sitting symmetrically, with his hands upon his knees, as was the style with most of the old Egyptian statues, the arms of this image had been carved open-handed and outstretched, each at different heights. This should have been viewed as a bad decision from the point of view of an ancient craftsman, for it was a well-known tenet of the trade that any carving of such a shape was not likely to faithfully stand the test of time. Indeed, after this long the delicately carved arms could easily have fallen right off, as had so often happened to the contemporary works of Roman artisans, whom had evidently given less thought to the future in their haste.

  Before long this riddle solved itself, however. Where the arms joined the body at the shoulders there was an obvious junction between materials, suggesting the whole might have some sort of mechanical function. Also, a closer examination revealed the arms to be formed of a different substance than the rest of the statue: once again, most likely tin bronze. Putting gentle weight on one of the outstretched arms made Muhammad laugh, for this sent them bobbing up and down alternately, rather like some action figures he had seen, when activated by a child pressing firmly upon a button at the back. Next he tried grabbing one of the arms to halt its motion and, as expected, the movement of the opposite arm ceased as well. He felt quite certain now; the mechanism was clearly some sort of scale.

  Realizing he had hitherto forgotten to do so, Muhammad now took the time to read the hieroglyphics upon the pedestal. “Place your gifts in the arms of Joseph,” he read. “Then drive the sword home, and twist it in the wound.”