41. And I reply, "He will seek the light and will find it. "
42. Surely, then, my destiny is to teach of these matters and others, such as the righteousness of humility and of seeking and others of which I have learned during our long sojourn.
43. But to whom? Surely, the people of our fathers, the people of Abraham will make naught of such matters.
44. Oh, my brother and I have seen so much in these last years.
45. By caravan, we followed the silk road to Bactra and from thence to Kabul and Palitara. I have seen the holy cities of Juggernaut, Rajagrina, Benares, and Kopilavastu.
46. We have journeyed through many nations and supped with many peoples.
47. I am filled to overflowing with the wisdom of the ages.
48. You told me that I am Your tool. Well, use me! I have much knowledge and have acquired marvelous techniques. What is it all for? I am tired.
49. (Could it be that it was I who recently wrote here of patience?)
50. I know now that I am to teach. Well, then, let me teach! How much more must I learn? I have seen your many faces!
51. Eloi, Eloi! I am lonely. Despite the companionship of my brother, Thomas, I am tired of being a stranger in a strange land.
52. I have learned without doubt that You are Love, but I do not love. I have teachers but no friends.
53. I am feeling sorry for myself, for I am lonely and too wise.
54. 1 know God as well as I know Joseph, the husband of my mother, Miriam.
55. In the beginning, when I was very young, He would speak to me, and I would respond.
56. He spoke to me and it was clear enough. Not in words would He speak, but in signs and symbols and, sometimes, in dreams, too, He made His wants known. Learning the language of the signs was the challenge.
57. What is school if not a challenge for the student?
58. As a child who does good is rewarded, and is punished for having done bad, so, too, God shows pleasure when a sign is read correctly and displeasure when a sign is misread.
59. Usually some coincidence that inspired wonder would be my reward for right interpretation; a sense of foreboding being the clue that there was misreading.
60. I needed always to plumb my feelings and try to understand what God was trying to say.
61. In time, I built a whole vocabulary.
62. But now I am lost in the mountain country of the Bon people.
* * *
63. My brother, Issa, is dead. I, Didymus Judas Thomas, who has been my brother's companion for nearly eighteen years as we traveled through the strange lands of the East, am now alone.
64. 1 am afraid. God has deserted us.
65. Issa was attacked in a dark alley by robbers and was clubbed to death.
66. The morticians here, who feed their dead to the birds, have him in their care now.
67. I cannot bear to stay in this foreign land one day longer. I am leaving for home, Judea.
68. I have much to carry; I leave behind much; my burdens are heavy.
Thus ends the manuscript.
Conclusion
Horace was silent for a time, as we all were. Eventually, he seemed to awaken as from a trance and carefully picked up the loose leaves he had been turning over as he read, straightened them neatly, and replaced them onto the back cover, then replaced the top board, effectively returning the volume to the state in which we found it.
Then Horace folded his hands over the book and bent his head. I think he was praying. Sigerson was sitting with his back against the wall, his hands steepled as he so often held them, and appeared in deep concentration.
The young Dalai Lama, to whom, presumably, the story was familiar, sat calmly on Paljori's cot watching us passively.
For myself, I felt dazed, confused—only dimly aware of the impressions I've recorded above.
Finally, Horace looked up. I saw a hopeful glow on his countenance.
"Issa died here in Tibet," he said. "Obviously what we are all thinking...must be a case of mistaken identity. The man we've known as Jesus and this Issa must not have been the same man, since Jesus continued to live for some years."
Before anyone could respond directly, a thought suddenly loomed in my mind. I suppose my face must have registered some sort of shock for suddenly all eyes in that room were upon me.
The thought was so startling that I didn't want to speak it aloud. But I saw I had no choice.
"There is a conclusion that naturally follows from the narrative we have just heard: If the real Jesus of Nazareth died here in Tibet, then someone claiming to be him appeared in Palestine sometime afterward. This brings up the possibility of an impersonator."
"My God," said Horace. "That can't be! For that would mean that all of Christianity is based on the work of an impostor. Could the entire faith of the Western world be predicated on a sham? No, by God!"
No one in the room responded.
Horace continued, "No, Leo. You forget, when Jesus returned, he was accepted by his family, by his mother, and by Thomas his brother, who apparently was the last to see him, at least according to this narrative."
To which I said, "Jesus left the fold when he was twelve. Eighteen years later, a man returned claiming to be Jesus. An imposter, I believe, could have successfully perpetrated this fraud under those circumstances."
"But what about Thomas?" Horace countered. "He would have been in the best position to recognize the fraud and didn't...."
Horace's voice faded. Surely he remembered that it was, in fact, Thomas who was the most vocal with his doubts.
All this time Sigerson maintained his silence, and Horace finally demanded of him, "Well, man, what do you think?"
Sigerson put down his pipe. "Yes, yes, what do I think indeed? I think we've heard all that is necessary to deduce the truth. It is straightforward. Issa spent much time in India where he no doubt was a disciple of Hindu yogis. He became adept at controlling his respiration, temperature and pulse, and when he was attacked by the hoodlums, with no chance to escape, he feigned death to avoid a further beating. Thomas, who was not privy to the extent of his brother's spiritual prowess, in low spirits quit the East and immediately returned home.
"Following his brother's departure, Issa, that is, Jesus, roused himself from his self-induced trance, and, finding himself alone, continued his adventures and education for a little time, and then he, too, returned."
Horace closed his eyes tightly, then opened them and spoke: "You're saying that Jesus made himself appear to die, then sometime later awakened and continued his business."
"Yes."
"Then, assuming what you say has some basis in truth, that which he accomplished once, he could accomplish again, couldn't he?"
Sigerson didn't reply, merely sucking on the pipe that he'd pulled out and lit at some point. The young Dalai Lama chose this moment to interject his thoughts.
"Gentlemen, it is quite clear, I think, that the results of this investigation, if taken in a certain light, could be the death knell of your Christianity. It is my understanding that belief in Jesus' resurrection is the foundation of your faith. Take away resurrection and suddenly there is no foundation. If your Jesus did not in fact come back from the dead, but pretended to—"
"No, no! Don't say it, Your Grace! I cannot bear to hear it." Horace was beside himself with grief. For myself, I reeled with confusion. What did it all mean? Could Jesus Christ have been a fraud? Was he a mere charlatan who successfully duped half the world, and all of Western civilization? Could all sanctity and piety be nothing more than a joke? Sigerson must have read the thoughts on my face. Certainly Horace was as pale as a ghost. I doubted I looked better.
"Now see here, men, straighten up," Sigerson said.
Whereas to this point he had maintained his smug, self-satisfied posture, for once he became thoroughly serious. He knocked his pipe out onto the dirt floor and drew Horace and I close.
"Now the way I see it," he said, "Issa, or Jesus, was not
a fraud—was hardly a villain—and was every bit as good a man as we all take him to be—but he was a victim of circumstances. I believe he eventually returned to his home where he reestablished himself in his family and began to share his acquired wisdom with his neighbors. As word got around about this man and his radical views, people flocked to him and he found himself thrown into the position of teacher.
"Doubtless, he had no intention of dying before his time, and when he found himself arrested and condemned, he realized that he had within himself the means to survive. Whether or not he planned to be discovered walking about later, it is hard to say. But he was spotted and, no matter his explanation, to the great unwashed of Palestine his continued existence seemed a miracle.
"Poor Jesus, I'm sure he would be appalled to learn that what was likely an act of self-preservation has been misinterpreted through the ages."
Horace and I didn't feel much relieved after hearing this. Perhaps Jesus wasn't a fraud per se, but the alternative proposed by Sigerson nevertheless toppled the pillars and shattered the foundations of Christianity.
The Dalai Lama spoke again: "It seems so strange that a misunderstanding could root itself and become so integral a part of a faith for millennia."
"Your Grace, you should well know why the concept of resurrection has held for so long. It was because there was, after all, some basis of truth in it."
For myself, after having had my soul, my very identity as a Christian, dashed to the ground, this little bit of news seemed to hold succor. I waited hopefully.
"After all, resurrection is merely a form of rebirth. And it was a different doctrine of rebirth that Jesus no doubt shared with his people. It is clear, I think, what Jesus' message was when he returned from the East. Jesus saw his people suffering under the Roman yoke and shared with them the laws of karma. He taught them to do onto others as they would have them et cetera. Seek and you will find.
"Quite clearly, within the remnants of his thoughts that have been preserved to the present, these notions are paramount. He taught that to do good was all important and that, whether or not they were rewarded in this life, they would be in the next. These are clearly karmic concepts.
"But it appears that following the delivery of his message, much was lost, forgotten, misinterpreted, deleted, changed, appended, and amended; still, doubtless a fair number of references to karma and metempsychosis [Editor's note: The nineteenth-century term for reincarnation] still existed. But even those—all but a few fragmentary references such as those I just indicated—were purged from all Christian writings after 553 A.D."
"Why 553 A.D.?" I asked petulantly.
"It is rather a convoluted story. I will see if I can summarize it: Our orthodox versions of the New Testament date no further back than that year, when the Byzantine Emperor Justinian called the Fifth Ecumenical Congress of Constantinople in 553 A.D., supposedly to condemn the writings of a certain early church father.
"During that congress, events were initiated that caused the relatively few Bibles then extant to be edited or destroyed and all competitive gospels and histories of Christ to be likewise destroyed. This appears to be largely the doing of Justinian's Empress, Theodora, who started out as an actress and prostitute. How a commoner became an empress is another story. Suffice it to say she was world-wise and greed-driven, and she beguiled Justinian. Before long she was running the Empire as Justinian sniveled at her side.
"It was Theodora's great hope that upon her death, she would be instantly elevated to divine status. Since the doctrine of metempsychosis, with its slow cycles of birth and rebirth, opposed such an immediate destiny for her, she set about obliterating every reference to that doctrine that existed in the Empire and beyond. The fact that Christ's very teachings contradicted her desire did not matter. There was a conflagration that lasted decades as books were burnt across the civilized world. Thus nearly all references to Christ's Eastern teachings were deleted from the bible or altered to reflect a view that did not offend the Emperor and Empress. The latter, by the way, died in 547, six years before the congress in question. Apparently Justinian was determined that his consort would get her way posthumously.
"Beyond this, you must remember that the various books of the New Testament were pieced together totally independently of one another from a potpourri of pieces and sources. God only knows what was lost before Justinian and Theodora did their damage!"
Horace and I listened to all this sullenly. What were we to say? What further comment could we make? Sigerson spoke again. He said, "I live by a philosophy that has done good service for me. Namely, when all possibilities have been eliminated and all that is left is the impossible, then the impossible is the solution.
"Frankly, it appears obvious to me that metempsychosis is the only logical solution to the great mystery of the Injustice of Life—how it is that the good are allowed to suffer while the wicked roll in blessings, that innocent children should die, that plagues devastate populations and war destroys all. Otherwise Life on earth is a travesty...otherwise Life on earth is a mockery...otherwise Life on earth has no meaning at all."
"But how could God," I was prompted to ask, "have allowed the Bible to be so tampered with?"
"Because," Sigerson shot back, "though altered and watered down, it still served His purpose: The vision of Christ's resurrection and the festival of Easter still gave people hope—and certainly Christianity taught that we're all responsible for our actions. The root moral concepts underlying metempsychosis were still there, just obscured. The altered message still served God's plan."
And so it continued until I was numb with exhaustion. And finally there came a time when we all retired to our respective quarters.
* * *
Once we were back in the solitude and quiet of our apartment, thoughts came without my prompting:
Were we to accept reincarnation in place of Christ's resurrection? Certainly, I, Leo Vincey, of all people, had something to say in the matter! Am I not—even now—searching for a woman—my true love—who I know beyond a doubt is dead, for I saw her die with my own eyes? Isn't it true that Horace and I are searching for Ayesha's new incarnation, though we've never gone so far to admit it quite in that fashion before? Didn't she claim that I myself was the reincarnation of one Kallikrates, an Egyptian priest? Certainly, during our encounter with Ayesha, I believed none of her stories; but now I ask myself time and again, if I don't believe, why then am I searching for her now? Why have I spent six good years of my life looking for her who has already died? I suppose I must believe in my heart, or these last many years have been a waste! [Editor's note: Ten more years will pass before Leo and Horace find Ayesha.]
Then again, even if I were to admit belief in reincarnation, does that necessarily mean that Jesus had anything at all to do with the doctrine? Does that invalidate resurrection? What does my belief or disbelief have to do with Jesus and the birth of Christianity?
So many questions. So much muddle in my mind. I have no answers.
It was shortly after his reading of the sacred text that Horace fell ill. I believe the foundations of all he believed in were battered irreparably. Can I blame Sigerson? Part of me wishes we never met the man with his cold insufferable logic. Yet part of me is also aware that Horace and I shared a fabulous adventure with the man. I hold nothing against him. We all must do what we must do.
So I have done what I set out to do; I have recorded an incident that might have been better left unrecorded. Still I could not sit back and pretend it didn't happen. Horace and I will linger here in Lhasa until he recovers sufficiently to continue our trek, or return home, whichever seems appropriate at the time. Sigerson is preparing to leave—in search of Yeti he says. I wish him luck.
There is nothing more to tell.
Addendum
Upon returning to Lhasa three months after the incident last recorded in this narrative—from an interesting and hardly fruitless quest into the Nepalese Himalayas—I was given the Vincey journ
al by His Holiness the High Lama, who said Vincey left it behind with the request that I deal with it as I saw fit, or for the fates to deal with it as they will if I had no interest in it.
I note that Vincey did an adequate job of relating the circumstances and facts much as I recall them, though it is odd to read of another's sentiments toward oneself. Be that as it may, I will take this journal back to England, where I'm sure Watson will be interested in it, and possibly arrange through his or Holly's agent to have it published as a worthy footnote to Holly's and Vincey's original adventures.
It should be noted here, therefore, for the benefit of those who will not be content until they understand the reasoning, how it was I knew where to find the hidden latch that worked the secret door opening onto the chamber of Issa's journal. It is really very simple. We know that the library—which is contemporaneous with the Potola Palace—is many centuries old and that many generations of librarians have guarded the volume, checking it probably daily. In point of fact, the stone floor had been worn down over this period by the countless tread of librarians' feet so that a wide, shallow groove led right to the latch, and, similarly, the stone hollow where the latch was hidden was worn smooth and shone brightly as a result of myriad handlings.
Notwithstanding the above, I
[CONCLUSION OF MS.]
Editor's Note: Here the manuscript ends. One can't help but wonder why "Sigerson" did not in fact carry the journal back to England with him, since its coming into my possession via Nepal would indicate the notebooks remained behind. Perhaps Holmes had a change of heart. Or perhaps they were stolen from him by Nepalese highwaymen. Regardless, we of our time and our heirs must be grateful that "the fates" saw fit that these pages eventually fell into sympathetic hands.
Sherlock Holmes in the Great Detective on the Roof of the World Page 6
