The Secret of the Ancient Alchemist

by Yasmin Esack

  “Someone’s trying to kill me. I don’t even know why,” he said.

  “You are safe here.”

  The Patriarch’s strong, deep words were the best ones he’d ever heard.

  “Thank you, Father,” he replied trying to fathom why anyone would want him dead. “Where am I?”

  “This is the Abba Garima Monastery.”

  “The monastery?”

  “Yes.”

  Hart straightened up. He realized there were five monks in the monastery and they all had eyes on him.

  “I…I want to see the gospel.”

  The monks looked at each other with concern. One spoke.

  “You’re shouldn’t be here, far less see the gospel. The gospel is over there.” The young monk pointed to a bright blue, circular hut.

  “I’m sorry to intrude like this, really sorry.”

  “The gospel is magical and we guard it with our lives.”

  Hart stared at the fourth century text that was a mere five feet away. Not much was known of its writer, the Abba, except that he was a Byzantine royal who had come to Aksum. Maybe, what was known was also being kept a secret.

  “Magical?” he asked.

  “If a person is ill and we read from the text, the person is healed.”

  Could you read to me, he wanted to plead as the pain of his wounds heightened. He took a sip of water again. Hart suddenly remembered a poster he’d seen at a museum in the city. It was of the Abba holding out two fingers, producing a fish. The man, who looked middle-eastern, was illuminated by light. He bit his lip, thinking. What would make a royal abandon his comforts to come here? Had Garima seen something? Was it in the Ark of the Covenant? Did it affect his mind, giving him the ability to produce an object with a thought?

  “What do you read?” he asked.

  “We read from its Cannon Tables.”

  “Can you tell me a bit more?”

  “The illuminations in the book are divine, of the four evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. There are depictions of the Temple of Solomon and depictions of birds and gardens from paradise.”

  Hart sighed, not knowing what to say. The expression of the young Ethiopian monk was genuine. He was among folks who held nothing higher than their deep belief in the Garima Gospel. He cleared his throat.

  “Can you tell me anything about the Gospel of Mary Magdalene?”

  “What do you want to know?” The Patriarch stared.

  “Six pages are missing from the part that deals with matter. I’m looking for them.”

  “That gospel was well-circulated. Fragments of a Greek version were found at an ancient library in Oxyrynychus, in Lower Egypt.”

  “I know and I‘m going to have a look at them.”

  “That will not help you much. The fragments question the exaltation of Magdalene, nothing more.”

  Hart froze. It was his hope of finding something of the missing pages. They were part of a large collection of Papyri housed at the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford University dating from the first to the sixth century. Among them were two fragments of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene written in Greek. It was his original plan to go there first hoping to find the missing pages but the institution was temporarily closed for fourteen days and he had to postpone his trip. In pain and feeling pangs of bitter disappointment, he could do nothing but swallow.

  “But, to add a little zest to your belief, Mr. Hart,” the Patriarch continued, “I will quote from the hidden Gospel of Thomas, Coptic version 30 1.23: Split a piece of wood and I am there. Lift a stone and I am there. And yet, we live in poverty amidst our great wealth. I must leave you now.”

  “Wait, Father!”

  “I must leave now.”

  “Please.”

  The Patriarch stared at Hart’s face. The dirt that stained his clothes and the blood on his hands mattered not to him, he knew. He could sense Hart mustering strength to speak.

  “Is death a good thing, Father?”

  “Without death, we would not have life again.”

  “And, what’s our new life about? Where do we go? Do you know?”

  “I’m not sure what your point is, Mr. Hart.”

  “My point is that there are too many mysteries in this life that are unsolved.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then, why won’t you reveal what the ark holds? What ar’you guarding?”

  “I can’t say, Mr. Hart.”

  “What you have may be the last piece of evidence of our future. If matter can be super-supernatural, so can the mind. We have a realm of matter in us. Think of what a realm of ultra-supernatural matter could do for us.”

  “The contents of the ark must be kept a secret, Mr. Hart. Now, I really must go.”

  “Mr. Hart?” a young monk called as Hart watched the patriarch leave.

  “Yes?”

  “We know your life is in danger. We can get you out of here safely and back home.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that,” he said, touched by all kindness shown to him.

  Ten minutes later, he was in a mule-driven cart moving downhill. His head ached with every jolt of its wheels. Lying under piles of boxes and crates, he moved his right hand down his pants pocket to feel for the slip paper Father Belele had handed him. It was a lead to the missing pages of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene, but, all he wanted was to head back home.

  And, he did.

  Chapter 40

  In California, Julius Olsen sat on his sofa with a cup of coffee, unaware of Hart’s trials. He was thinking about the heavy rains that were battering his neighbourhood. It was going on for two days with no sign of let up. Flooding was expected and mudslides had already occurred in mountain areas. He had texted Marin twice to discuss the Inca date for a new age but Marin hadn’t replied. He had to acknowledge the seismologist’s lack of interest in it, not to mention his dismissive attitude on the phone the few times they had spoken.

  The tedium of searching through Quipu sketches was over and he was sure that change would come to the world. The universe was what he lived for. He recalled the times his heart leapt at the observatory in Copenhagen where he had worked. The design of the galaxies he had seen had held him awe. Sometimes tears had come to his eyes as emotions took over. Life was crafted by a master he knew, but, like the supernovas he had seen every day, life would die, to begin again. Life was sacrosanct. He couldn’t bear to see it all end and he knew it wouldn’t, for even in Hesiod’s box there was hope. His Inca date gave him much.

  He stretched for his phone and dialled a number.

  “Yeah, Olsen?”

  “Tom?” Olsen was quite surprised Hart answered. “Where the hell are you?”

  “I just got in. I didn’t get the missing pages of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene but I got a strong lead.”

  “To where?”

  “Jerusalem City. While I as in Laibela, Father Belele suggested that I contact Ali Salaam, an Egyptian antiquities dealer. He thinks Jerusalem City may have something but he has to do some checking. It’s possible the pages were torn prior to being taken to Berlin.”

  “Didn’t you say it was in good condition when it was sold?”

  “I did but, maybe it was missing pages. Salaam also thought it strange that missing pages from any ancient text would be consecutive ones.”

  “He has a point. Some ancient fanatic would have torn them out. You didn’t see inside the ark of course.”

  “No, but, King Solomon had magical powers. The ark was handed down to him. The Queen of Sheba may have taken it to Ethiopia.”

  “Go on.”

  “According to the Book of the Glory of Kings, the Kebra Nagast, a copy of the Glory of God was handed to Moses and kept in the ark. Abba Garima, a Byzantine royal, may’ve accessed it. He had many powers. I believe that supernatural matter existed in the ark. I feel we were given a glimpse of life elsewhere. D’you know if rods similar to the rod of Moses ever existed?”

  “Actually yes, Tom.”

  “Yes?” H
art’s heart leapt.

  “Bentley said Peru has a history of them.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s amazing.” Bentley was truly a remarkable man, he thought. He would not have achieved anything without him. Hart marvelled at the idea of finding supernatural matter in Peru but he placed his excitement aside for the moment. “The Oxyrhynchus fragments of the gospel lodged at Oxford are about the exultation of Mary Magdalene and, little else, Olsen.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll find the missing pages, Tom. That Jerusalem lead maybe a good one.”

  “We’ll see.” Olsen was too sure, he thought. It long dawned on him that someone didn’t want them found. Without the pages, no one would know of other worlds. Of course, he said nothing of his ordeal. “Salaam would text me soon to finalize arrangements on that Jerusalem lead.”

  “That’s great, Tom.”

  “Are you ready to talk about the date for the new age? I’m hoping Marin’s seismic data starts changing soon.”

  “I need to go over it with you.”

  “When?”

  “Can you get here?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 41

  A haunting feeling loomed over him as he waited on a flight to California. Hart felt he was being watched. Ignoring the feeling and a bit tired, he slouched on his chair and shut his eyes. As he lifted his head in response to his flight call, he saw a pair of brown eyes peering at him. It was no mistake, his stalkers were back. Even with the back pack he carried across his shoulder, he felt the stab of a gun in his side. As he tried to move, the gun went in further.

  “Get up and head to the exit,” a male voice ordered.

  He couldn’t see much of the man but he could sense he was tall. The pair of brown eyes in front of him continued to stare.

  “Who’re you people? What do you want?” he cried.

  “Get up now!” the male voice ordered again.

  Hart was calm, trying to stall them. It was working. It wasn’t long before both men grew anxious.

  “One bold move and you’re dead. Get up, Hart!”

  “Why do you want to kill me?”

  “Get up!”

  Hart bolted from his seat.

  “Stop him!” The man with the brown eyes yelled at two security agents. Before they could draw their guns, Hart pushed them aside and ran as fast as he could. The airport was now on full alert. He had little chance. He ran down an escalator as a bullet whizzed past his hair. People scampered for cover. Many screamed. Gasping for breath, Hart jumped over a Southwest counter. He tumbled onto a luggage stairwell and pulled stacks of suitcases close to him, not sure where he was headed. A blast of air told him he was outside the main building.

  “Dear God, I’m out!” he cried.

  He had to think fast. A jumbo 747 was in front of him. No, he couldn’t get on that. As footsteps neared, he jumped the security fence and ran to a cab.

  “Alpine,” he shouted, “fast!”

  The small hybrid car didn’t move.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” Hart screamed.

  “I seem to be having a problem. Hell, my battery’s gone dead.”

  As Hart came out, two bullets hit the car and struck the driver. The man slumped to the wheel, his hand on his ignition.

  From the car park, he saw a bus in the distance. Racing ahead, he grabbed hold of its door as it was about to close. He steadied himself and took a back seat, staring at a plane that was taking off.

  “You’ve got to survive, you’ve got to survive, Hart,” a voice droned. “The pages must be found.” Getting his bearings, he glanced at the blonde male seated next to him, noting that the man looked a lot like him.

  It wasn’t long before Terminal 44 started coming into view. The bus slowed for a while before coming to a halt. With a whoosh, the door opened. Ahead of Hart, ten people stood waiting to exit.

  Through the window of the bus, he caught sight of Brown Eyes. He was leaning against a post with a Walkie-Talkie in his hand. Next to him was a beefy Caucasian with thin blonde hair. Hart could see the man signalling to other members of the airport’s security team.

  The first passenger stepped out, then the second and third. His breathing shortened as the ninth made his exit. It was the passenger with long blonde hair, of Hart’s height and stature, the passenger who was seated next to him.

  As the man made his exit, Brown Eyes moved towards him brandishing his automatic Colt. The man ran with all his might, Hart’s long Gabi and loose cotton shirt blowing in the air. The Caucasian chased too but the young blonde was faster than them. He ran towards the car park and disappeared behind a line of parked cars.

  Hart exited the bus as shots fired in the distance. Inside the terminal building, he heard an announcement: VA Flight 208 to UK boarding at Gate 6. With his credit card in hand, he purchased a ticket and headed up a flight of stairs. He pulled a red tam further down his head and zipped up the front of a Slazenger jacket.

  Chapter 42

  Akhmim, Egypt

  2.20 PM.

  It was unusually cool when he hopped off the rail in Akhmim days later. Instinct made him gaze around. It had nothing to do with fear for nothing would halt his mission of finding the missing pages of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene.

  While remnants of its ancient past were obvious, Akhmim was a modern city with hotels, police patrols, and palm trees bordering fertile lands. The old art of weaving had survived and residents still made a living from it. At a market that sold cotton goods, he waited on Ali Salaam.

  “Dr. Hart?” Salaam called as he spotted Hart in the square. He approached with a wide smile, adjusting his kufiyah. He was about forty-nine but looked older, his skin parched by the hot sun. The art dealer smoked a wooden pipe.

  “Salaam, I’m glad to see you. Thanks for taking time to assist me.”

  “Mr. Hart, let’s begin by tracing some old steps. Follow me.”

  Salaam walked through an alley, passing through the courtyard of an ancient mosque. He took a right turn and headed to a taxi hub.

  “Where’re we going?” Hart asked.

  “To the desert.”

  They hopped into the back of a Nissan and took a route northeast of the city. The car move at a comfortable pace as Hart marvelled at the ruins and the statues that paid homage to the God of Fertility, Min. The many tourists reminded him that Akhmim was one of Egypt’s more popular sites. Forty minutes later, they came to halt. Ahead, on a desert ridge, lay the Monastery of Martyrs enclosed by a wall of mud and bricks. The monastery was surrounded by a huge necropolis bearing the tombs of fourth century Akhmim governors.

  “Let’s go in,” Salaam said.

  Inside the ancient monastery, the walls were decorated with paintings of crosses, of the angels Gabriel and Michael, and many of the Virgin Mary.

  “Who’s he?” Hart asked as Salaam came to a stop at a painting of a dark man.

  “Saint Basil of Caesarea, an influential Christian of the fourth century. He came from Turkey and was part of the Council of Nicaea. Basil was the Cappadocian Father who founded Christian theology. He, along with other fathers, fought hard against Greek philosophy. His brother, Nyssa, was also a Cappadocian Father.”

  Hart stared at the image of the stern-faced man dressed in robes. “What else do you of him?”

  “He was autocratic and the person who decided what was heresy. He destroyed every semblance of alchemy.”

  “I guess there’s nothing of it you can show me.”

  “No, Mr. Hart.”

  Hart knew that Akhmim was the central point of alchemists. The city was known for magic like healing. He was disappointed and it showed. He was hoping that Salaam could have directed him to something.

  “You’re sure, Salaam?”

  “I’m sure. D’you know what a Geniza is?”

  “No,” Hart sighed.

  “It’s a literary cemetery, a place where books had been buried. One existed here. I don’t bel
ieve there’s anything left of it. The Book of Proverbs, which is a fourth century text, was discovered here in 1904.”

  “You think the Gospel of Mary Magdalene was lodged here?”

  “There was a heavy presence of Gnosticism in Egypt. I checked around after you called me, thinking a copy might have showed up. But, I didn’t find anything. If it’s not here, then, I doubt you’ll find it anywhere else in Egypt. I brought you here to give you an idea where the gospel may have originated.”

  “I’m glad you did. This place is amazing.”

  Hart was staring at a deep abyss. There were passages in the walls that ended in foreboding darkness. He gasped. A momentary stream of light revealed an object. It was lodged at the bottom of a pit. With the light gone, the pit was pitch-dark again.

  “Hand me your light,” he shouted to Salaam.

  By the light of the torch, they could see the outline of an old and worn manuscript. Hart could barely make out the etchings on its cover.

  “What do you think it could be?”

  “Whatever it is, you can’t get it, Mr. Hart. There are snakes in that pit.”

  “Hold the torch a minute.”

  “Mr. Hart, what are you doing?” Salaam panicked.

  Hart took a deep breath and jumped on a ledge. His feet slipped on broken mud and he landed on the floor. Circling him were hissing asps. He stretched his hand as far as he could. The manuscript was four feet away. He grabbed it and looked up. He could see Salaam’s body hanging down the pit, his right arm extended.

  Chapter 43

  “Alchemy comes from Al-Kimia, a Persian word. This is an eight century work of Jabir Ibn Hayyan, Mr. Hart. He promulgated Takwin, the creation of artificial life, an act that tapped the spiritual forces of nature.”

  “He used five elements, air, ether, earth, fire, water, and, maybe two metallic elements to do it. Now, we can see how.”