by Yasmin Esack
“I could never quite understand why scientists feel the need to define everything.”
“I’m not trying to. I’m trying to understand who we are and where we’re going.”
“Creation is difficult to understand. You know that. I can’t help you reconcile your beliefs that an inner realm can be reached through the state of mindlessness and that through this realm, we can achieve anything.”
“I understand,” Hart acquiesced. He reckoned the patriarch knew much but would say little. “Your church Honors Thaddeus, one of the twelve apostles of Christ. Your religion is one of age-old traditions.”
“But, we’re not connected in any way to the early Christians of Alexandria. We don’t know of any secrets and even less of realms. The early Egyptians Christians took to the desert and lived in seclusion. They were hermits.”
“They were influential, Father.”
“Do you know what Hesychasm is, Dr. Hart?”
Hart shook his head. “No.”
“Hesychasm is a common tradition in Eastern Orthodox churches. It’s based on an injunction.”
“An injunction?”
“When thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray. It requires stillness of the senses to experience God. However, documentation does not support a realm. Palamism is a doctrine that asserts humans can become god-like through worship. St. Athanasius, a bishop of Alexandria, supported it. There is little else I could add.”
“Okay, but, we die and matter dies because we have been denied,” Hart exclaimed.
“Denied what, Dr. Hart?”
“The full presence of a creator. We have to plead and beg for all that we want. So, where are we going? What’s our journey?”
“No one knows.” Alman stepped forward. Amid the chant of an Armenian hymn, he put his hand on Hart and said, “You’ve found the fifth dimension. Say no more. No more.”
Hart was crushed. Alman wanted to put a stop to him. But, he understood the man’s position. He was the head of an important church. Hart debated whether to leave or stand his ground. Alman seemed gracious, truly a man of God. He would push his luck.
“I want the truth,” he said. “Is our path towards a perfect mind? Can we be gods? Why has everything been hidden, ignored, like the purpose of the mind when you know as well as I, it’s our true likeness to a universal mind? Why’re we going around in circles with everything and denied our place in the universe?”
“Life is a mystery. Everything is a mystery and, let it be, Dr. Hart.”
“No!” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket with five words on it. Zama zama ōzza rachama ōzai. “Would you happen to know what these mean?”
The Patriarch stared dumbfounded. “No, I don’t.”
“These words refer to some type of time machine, don’t they? Would that be the vision mentioned in the Gospel of Mary Magdalene?”
Hart knew that Hinduism was open about gods from other worlds. Vedic literature spoke of inter-dimensional spacecrafts called Vimamas which were said to move at the speed of thought. Still, confirmation was hard to come by.
“Only the pages of the gospel can give you the answers you seek,” Alman replied with all the reserve and patience he could muster.
“Do you have them, Father?”
“We don’t. Many manuscripts were destroyed in 1949, during periods of great upheaval.”
A young cleric stepped forward.
“What had been discussed regarding matter and other worlds will always be unknown. We’ll never know what was said to Magdalene, or, what she had seen.”
“Up to 1896 they existed and may still.” Hart’s voice was cracking now.
“There is…, there is,” the man stuttered. “Look, all I can say is that many regarded it as heresy.”
“Who has the pages?”
The cleric sweated under his robe. His eyes rested on Hart. “I really should not discuss this.”
“Tell me!”
“Francesco Ignacio of Rome’s Piazza Pietro D’Illiria may know something. He’s very ill and sees no one. He and a Frenchman I believe, were committed to keeping the only copy of the pages hidden forever.”
“A Frenchman?”
“I don’t know the identity of this man. I only know he’s from the Brotherhood, a legion of men who are fanatical Christians.”
“The Brotherhood?”
“I don’t know much about them either.”
Hart sighed. Finally, he knew who was after him. Still, he put the matter aside for the moment, bent on his pursuit of the ancient secrets.
“Do you know anything of the Gnostic, Basilides?”
“He was a teacher taught by a disciple of St. Peter. He wrote many books. They’ve all been lost, just like the sermon on matter.”
There was more to Basilides than that, Hart knew. According to ancient accounts, he knew of the secrets that were revealed to Magdalene, the same secrets that were revealed to Matthew.
“Matthew wrote a gospel, the Gospel According to the Hebrews. Is it the first gospel ever written?”
“It’s possible. Only fragments have survived. There’s nothing in it connected to the secrets he was told.”
Hart’s exasperation was overflowing now. “What can you tell me about the Secret Book of James? The apostle was one of three apostles to have witnessed the Transfiguration.”
“That’s not a book but a letter that says suffering is inevitable and little else. In that letter, James refers to a secret gospel but that too was lost.”
“Lost?”
“No one has ever found it. All the ancient secrets have been lost.”
“No. No.” Hart’s words echoed in the ancient hall.
“We admire your determination and work but, we must tell again that, what you seek is impossible to find. You won’t even find it in the Vatican. Now, we must go back and pray for this world. We are awaiting the date of the new age. I hope Dr. Olsen finds it.”
“He will.” Hart was surprised at his own assurance as he scrambled to his feet.
“We sincerely hope so.”
“Look, Fathe…” He stopped. The hard stare from the patriarch told him it was time to go.
Politely, Hart turned and walked into the light of the Old City. He took a cab to Ben Gurion Airport thinking of the French connection and what he could do about it. He had to find proof of other worlds where matter was better and brighter, places where those who passed lived on, places that were free of crime, hunger and need. All he had was a dim hope of knowing.
Chapter 46
In Paris, the sun was sinking in the sky. Nightlife was starting to stir. Sitting in the Museum of the Louvre, Michel LaPlotte typed an email to Commander G.W. Foster of the US Security services. The heretic must be killed. The mission must be finished.
Pressing send, he pulled his glasses off and rubbed his nose. Unlike his predecessors, LaPlotte used a small room in the Cour Caree, wanting to sit among the Egyptian antiquities he favoured, those of Ramses and The Seated Scribe.
It was approaching six o’clock and even as his day was closing, the director cut a suave image in his grey Armani suit and blue tie. The papyrus expert and philologist was a tall, pale man. His thinning grey hair was plastered down to reveal the pinkness of his skull. Bristly hairs grew from his ears. His ability to translate old languages impressed many as did his knowledge of history and culture. He had good reason to be holed up in a room no larger than ten square feet with nothing more than a desk, a Tiffany lamp and a hand lens. In his hands, LaPlotte held the ten lost pages of a fifteen hundred year old manuscript he wanted no one to see.
“How dare they write this absurdity? How could this be?” LaPlotte questioned. “These are strange teachings, yet the Saviour says time and time again to be encouraged in the presence of all forms of matter. I wish I had the courage to destroy them, but I don’t, Dear Father.”
He laid the pages out. Page eleven tormented him. His eyes burned from the words he saw.
“Non, never!” he exclaimed. “This is heresy!”
He read the words quietly.
-he does not see through the soul or spirit but the mind that is between the two; that is what sees the vision. It is…It is…
“You were right Brother Andrew, so right. These are strange words from a deranged woman.” Laplotte stared at the line on page fourteen. “This is impossible!” he screamed now. “Magdalene’s vision is also absurd.”
A knock came to the door and before he could answer, a security guard barged in.
“Monsieur LaPlotte, are you okay?”
“Yes, yes!” he replied, obviously annoyed.
“I’m sorry to disturb you but I was concerned.”
“I assure you, I’m well.” LaPlotte plastered a smile.
“When you’re free, Monsieur, your attention is needed at the donjon. There is much more damage from the floods than we thought.”
“I’ll be there in a second.”
The Louvre gardien stared at the papyrus pages which took up the length and breadth of LaPlotte’s desk.
“I said I’ll be there,” LaPlotte asserted.
“Eh! Yes, of course.”
The gardien quietly closed the door.
“Ass,” LaPlotte said. “How dare he enter my private space?”
He started placing the pages away but stopped at page fourteen.
“I want to have a look at you again,” he muttered. “I’m leaving you out on my desk. This vision cannot be!”
He locked his room and headed down a flight of steps.
LaPlotte completed his inspection of the dungeon in the Medieval Base and then, he exited the Louvre. He walked along the Seine through the heart of old Paris to do what he did most days, and that was to hurry to the Cathedrale de Notre Dame to capture the last minutes of opening time.
He entered the choir chapel. He lit a candle and sat. The cathedral was a museum itself with its great pipe organ, exquisite paintings and sculptures. LaPlotte was at home, he was at peace.
The cloister of stained windows caught the last rays of sun and reflected its beauty on him. He felt cleansed. But, for LaPlotte, nothing could compare to the serenity of the Virgin with Child that stared at him. She gave him strength and resolve. Tears came to his eyes. He wiped them away as he felt the presence of a human form. He glanced at the dark suited man who sat next to him.
“Monsieur, I would like you to please rethink your position on Hart.” The man was obviously distressed.
“No! I will die for my cause. Do you hear me? I am willing to die.” LaPlotte’s voice echoed in the eleventh century church.
“I urge you to be calm.”
“How can I? This man is corruptible. How could he say our path is to be a god? What does it have to do with matter? He is insane!”
“These aren’t ancient times, Monsieur. People are free to decide their own path. They are free to think.”
“No. I will not permit it.”
“Does he know you have the missing pages?”
“No one knows.”
“Listen to me. Whatever Hart says will come and go like the wind. You have nothing to fear.”
“Not if I am to believe Father Ignacio of Rome. He told me Hart had determination. No one would quiet him. But, I tell you, I will.” The sunlight was now gone and pale light filled the room from the burning candles. “When will heresy go away, my friend? How many more wars do we fight? Why are savages forever challenging my faith?”
“The world is not such a good place, you must admit. Maybe, Hart believes a realm will change things.”
“He won’t change anything by telling people their soul is an image of themselves. Our forefathers worked long and hard. Are you saying it’s for nothing?”
“I see I cannot change your mind, but, what of the other secrets Monsieur LaPlotte? Tell me, is it true that the Gnosis, the knowledge of supermundane things, is buried under the Basilica of Saint Maximim? As you know, Magdalene did travel to Rome to see Tiberius. He was very impressed with her. Are they in the Lateran Basilica?”
“I will not say.”
“As you wish, Monsieur, but, we must go now.”
They got up and moved to the exit, quietly closing the cathedral door behind them.
Chapter 47
July 03, 2018
Hart’s flight back home cruised over the deep abyss of the Atlantic Sea. The cabin was quiet at 2AM and full of dozing passengers. A light shone from someone reading.
It wasn’t long before eyes shot open as a stewardess dashed to seat number 6C.
“You okay, Sir?” The woman hovered over Hart.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. I was just having a bad dream.”
She looked at him with concern that lingered. “You were shouting. Sure you’re okay?”
“I am,” he assured. “Sorry for causing an alarm.”
He shifted to a comfortable position and closed his eyes trying to relax but he couldn’t. The dream he had disturbed him. It was unusual for him to recall dreams but this last one was upsetting. His friend, Olsen, was lying in a coffin. Days had passed since they had spoken. He had called twice but had gotten no answer. Maybe it was nothing, he thought. Olsen was probably working hard on that Inca date for a new age. The date would be his stamp of approval, a legendary mark on the world. Yet, something nagged him. He was not a panic lover but he didn’t feel right about his close friend.
He glanced at his watch. In six hours he would be in JFK. His thoughts turned to the supernatural as it did every moment of his life. He was more than convinced that humans harboured an inner realm of light and he could think of thousands of tired, torn minds that could be comforted by it.
Hart should have felt encouraged by all he’d learnt from his long trip but, he wasn’t. He felt restless. He didn’t have a clue as to how he would find the French connection or the Brotherhood of Christians and the unfinished line of the gospel: Ye doth not see visions with the spirit or the soul but the mind that is between the two. It is, it is, it is…spun in his head till it hurt. He simply could not believe that, right at that point, pages got torn. What a cruel joke life played on him.
“It’s God and the truth won’t be hidden any longer. It won’t be!” he declared, feeling his emotions rising and ignoring the passengers who looked his way again.
He tried to shake off torment he felt. It didn’t matter to him what others thought and he wasn’t trying to convince anyone. Still, he felt alone in his world trying to crack the mysteries of life.
As the weariness of his trip surfaced, he shut his eyes hoping for sleep. Those who have ears to hear let them hear, a voice cried out, he swore. He snapped his eyes open. He closed them again thinking of the six missing pages. Oh, how I wish I could find them, he anguished. His eyes watered with longing, wondering why everything was lost. He wasn’t giving up hope. He would never give up. He turned to the beep of a text from Olsen.
Hey, where are you? We need to talk. I’m coming to New York for a day.
Texting On my way home, he lay back and tried to sleep again.
Chapter 48
“Do you know anything at all of a French connection to the pages of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene?” Back at home, he was on the phone to the archaeologist, Arthur Bentley.
“Unless you find the Brotherhood, you won’t find that connection. Don’t despair, Tom, we will.”
“They’ll kill us all before we do. The truth is, we don’t know where to look, and, Father Ignacio of Rome has passed away.”
“Listen to me. Please be careful. I don’t want anything happening to you. There are dangerous people in this world who may not like what you’re doing.”
“I’m not afraid. I want those missing pages more than anything, Dr. Bentley.” Hart decided to say nothing of his ordeal in Laibela.
“Give me some time. I believe Mr. Hercule Thibault of Crime International in Basle can give us a lead to the French connection.”
“I’ve alread
y spoken to him. He said he doesn’t know anything. Hey, I gotta run.”
“Bye, Tom.”
He hung up and paced the floor of his home. He had spent days and nights thinking about the French connection, making calls and wracking his brain out. That his frustration was turning into despair was an understatement.
The morning was bright when he walked out his door headed to work at the National Science Advisory next day. He felt tired from lack of sleep. As he stood on the sidewalk, his usual frustration surfaced. Really, he couldn’t undo it. The secrets were written in two ancient manuscripts, none of which he could find.
Hart changed his focus and stared ahead, taking note of a woman walking her dog. She had gone past him when her Golden Retriever stopped and yanked its way back to him.
“Nice doggy,” he said patting its head.
“I’m surprised he’s this friendly. He isn’t really. Come on Casey, let’s go.” The dog didn’t move even as the woman tugged him. With a frown, she shouted, “Casey!” The dog still didn’t move. He started whining and before she could stop him, he charged toward a figure standing behind Hart’s hedge.
“Casey! Casey!” the woman yelled as shots rang out. In an instant, the dog lay dead. The woman looked confused as Hart rushed to it. A third shot came, hitting her head. She tumbled to the ground, blood spurting from her head. Hart spun into action, dialling 911.
“Alpine, Asher Avenue, please hurry!”
“May I have your name, please?”
“Hart, Tom Hart…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Hart fell as a fourth shot was fired.
An ambulance soon pulled to a halt ten feet from him. He felt as if he was floating in light. He caught a faint image of someone waving a hand. The image vanished and now, he was falling into a bottomless pit. Hart struggled hard to regain consciousness.