The Rule of Knowledge

by Scott Baker

  ‘…. and tha fife off em didn’t know why, or who, or when, or fife!’ Ernie was still talking.

  ‘You know what, Ernie? I will have a hit,’ Shaun decided. He had run out of reasons not to.

  He took the small bottle from the man next to him and looked down at it. The rim was covered with brown-stained saliva and what Shaun suspected was vomit. He did not care. He took a big swig of the liquid inside and swallowed.

  He reacted almost straight away. Whatever it was in there, it was a hell of a lot stronger than he had anticipated, and no sooner had it hit the back of his throat and flowed into his stomach than he began to cough violently. He spluttered and gagged, and Ernie laughed at his park-mate.

  ‘Weeeee! Oh, dems dem and dats tha one ey!’ he said as Shaun promptly threw up in a puddle next to his feet and a little bit on them.

  Shaun’s eyes watered. Vomit strings fell from both his mouth and nose. He looked down at the puddle as Ernie laughed at him. Bile contrasted harshly with the green grass. But as he looked, he saw something else. There was something there. He looked harder, his brain laughing at him for examining his own vomit. What was that? Was it a … a walnut? A giant walnut? He had not eaten a walnut, had he? No. He was quite certain he had not eaten a walnut, let alone one this big. It was the length of his finger, and double the width.

  Slowly, uncaring about the world around him or the passers-by who had seen his display and cringed in disgust, he reached down to pick it up.

  ‘Dats dem! Secondsies! Weee!!! Ha ha!’ Ernie squealed with delight.

  Shaun turned the object over in his hand. It had a seam down one side and was made of something hard and metallic. Who knew how long it had sat in his stomach undigested. He dug his dirty fingernail into the crack and tried to pull it apart. Then, without warning, his head exploded in a violent flash of white and immediately his hands went to his temples. Images. Pain, BAM! BAM BAM! The explosions were accompanied by sound, and the images cracked through his consciousness. Shaun fell to the ground clutching his head. People on the footpath stopped, some showing genuine concern, others simply laughing. Others still recoiled and moved on their way.

  The episode lasted for nearly a minute, and when it stopped, Shaun sat up, his weight back on his hands.

  ‘Shit,’ he said to himself quietly. ‘Shit,’ he said again. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ he yelled. His eyes danced wide with shock and realisation. He looked up at Ernie, who seemed to be enjoying the show, then down at himself, and then at the walnut on the grass next to him. He picked it up and again dug his fingernail into the seam. It snapped apart on a hinge and a roll of tightly packed paper fell out.

  He picked it up, but before he unrolled it, he said aloud, ‘My name is Shaun Strickland. My name is Shaun Strickland!’ With that he unrolled the paper in his hands and looked at the type it contained:

  FOLLOWING IS A TRANSCRIPT OF THE FINAL PAGES OF THE FONTÉYNE DIARY – TRANSCRIPT BASED ON DOCUMENT 351-6.

  Found 1954, Cave 9, Khirbet Qumran, Dead Sea.

  ORIGINAL DIARY TEXT LANGUAGE: Aramaic.

  ORIGINAL DOCUMENT LANGUAGE: Italian.

  TRANSLATION AUTHORITY: Vincenso Giovanni.

  TRANSCRIPT OF DOCUMENT 351-6:

  The final pages of the text acquired for Essene Research translated here:

  ‘In accordance with the wishes of Saul, I, Mishca, son of Mycha, of the Village of Chorazin, have accounted for the final instructions leading to the disc of Officer X7.’

  Shaun shook his head. Diary? The diary. Where was it? So much information. So much all at once. The final pages, the final pages not in English … He sat back on the park bench, and read.

  CHAPTER 61

  In the days after our arrival in Jerusalem, I stayed for a little over a week with the man named Jacob. He was a trader and a good man. He lived alone in the city’s outskirts, although at the time I was visiting him, his daughter was staying in his house. His daughter, Alisha, caught the eye of the man whom I had come to regard as my older brother, my friend and my hero – the man who wrote this book in a language I do not understand. He is the strangest man, and the most incredible man I ever met, and he saved my life – now I will honour his. I will finish his story.

  For almost a week I didn’t see Saul or his African friend Malbool, nor did I see Zachariah. The whole time I was questioned again and again by Alisha about our adventures, but I realise now that she was seeking information about Saul. It was Tuesday when Malbool and Saul returned. They told me Zachariah had been killed and we mourned his death and attended his funeral.

  Saul had changed. For a start, his fingers that had been severed on the journey from Rome to Jerusalem were now whole. His nose was healed too, and all his cuts were gone. He assured me that the explanation would be made clear, and that one day he would be able to show all of mankind.

  He spoke of something called a disc and said that it would be hidden and would be found at the right time; that there would be a map leading to this disc, and the map would be with this diary.

  We stayed in Jerusalem for another few days, and then left for my village. It was curious to me then, but now I understand why Alisha came with us on our journey. I look at my own children and know that somewhere Saul from the future has a line of his own, and may even be his own ancestor!

  When I walked into Chorazin it was perhaps an hour after nightfall and the people were just sitting down to their evening meal. I came upon my house and paused outside the window. The shutters were open a little, and I could see my mother and father sitting together eating. There was a third place at the table. A third candle had been lit and a third bowl set. My place.

  My heart broke at the sight of them – a sight I never thought to see again. It took all of my will to not cry out at that moment, but instead I nodded to Saul and Malbool and smiled at Alisha. Then I walked up to the door and knocked.

  The door swung open, and my father stood before me. He looked first above me, expecting an adult, but when he looked down into my face he stopped. I think I counted five or six breaths before anything else happened. It was enough time for my mother to call out and ask who was disturbing them at this late hour.

  There was no explosion of joy in my father’s face, he simply nodded and a tear streamed down his cheek. Then another. He sank to his knees, his hand still on the door, but his face now level with mine. I could resist no longer and I threw my arms around his neck.

  By this time my mother had stopped eating and looked up from her food. She ran over to us and also fell to her knees, embracing me with all her strength. For the longest time we stayed there, in the doorway of my house.

  In the years that followed I saw Saul many times. He told me that he still had work to do, and had taken many long journeys to collect things from distant lands, but it was not until he had been absent for many seasons, and I now worked in my father’s fields, that he returned one day with an object he called a book. It was a scroll bound up in small square parchments and would become the way scrolls are read. It was the story of his time here in our lands. He said it contained important information that would ultimately lead to a change in his world, and could save the lives of many. He looked into my eyes and charged me with its safekeeping. He told me that it was my part to take the book, and through my lineage, ensure its final hiding place, where it would be discovered two thousand years from now in a faraway land. This land Saul spoke of was not yet known to the people of my time. He told me it would rest there, undisturbed in a cave on the mountain of Caroline’s grandfather, until the bluebird falls from the sky.

  He returned again many years later, as an old man. He gave me many parchments and scrolls and asked that they be taken together with his diary. He also told me more things he learned from his doctor friend Miles.

  It was always a celebration when my children were visited by ‘Uncle Saul’. When it was time for my children to leave home, my son went to Jerusalem and worked as a trader with Malbool, who had taken up permanent reside
nce in Jerusalem trading the rare and exotic goods of his African homeland, and as I write this I am an old man myself.

  Saul never spoke of how he got his fingers back, but he said that one day the world would see and that it was not for me to know. To whosoever finds this diary, the story of Saul the gladiator, the man who saved my life and freed the slave Malbool, I have one final message given to me before Saul closed his eyes forever with one hand in mine, the other in those of his wife, Alisha. His message is this: ‘The Rule of Knowledge is unbroken, but this may not always be so. You cannot sit by because of what has happened, you must act. You must remember and act right now. Leave the park.’

  Shaun stared at the paper. Leave the park? What had he been doing? He recognised the names but, yes … the diary. Did he still have the diary? He checked his stomach where he felt it should be. Nothing. Oh God! Had he lost it? Where, when? He was walking in the caves with … with David. He was following the bug. The doors, the lights … shit! What had happened then? Looking around. No one there. Men in uniforms. Lights, sirens. Someone at the door, a woman who was talking … someone in the office, looking down.

  So heavy.

  Shaun shuddered as he suddenly remembered the pain. The very thought of it caused him to scream again and start to panic. He shut it out. The pain he never ever wanted to remember again. Never ever.

  He looked back down at the paper. ‘TRANSLATION AUTHORITY: Vincenso Giovanni.’ Vincenso Giovanni? The priest! It was on his authority that the document had been translated into English. But there had been another translation, an earlier one. One from the original language into Italian. This meant what? It meant that the Church – the Vatican – was in possession of this document, or at least an Italian version of it. But what was it about Giovanni? There was something about him. Shaun found it hard to remember, hard to concentrate. His head was still playing tricks on him and causing intermittent explosions of pain. There were gaps in what he could remember. There was something about him. Yes, they had met him and, oh, he was dead.

  He was a nice guy, Shaun recalled. No, there was something else. Giovanni had said something. What did he do? He, ah, he was taken off The Journalist Project. Someone else was in charge now. Someone else was investigating. Someone …

  Le Clerque! Shaun heard his brain tell him, a voice that had been silent until now. That’s right. Le Clerque. Giovanni had said he would kill for the disc. Le Clerque would know about this translation, about this document.

  ‘Oh my God!’ he said aloud. Le Clerque would be looking for the diary.

  ‘Ohmaygod, ohmaygod! Dems that wanna gives the fives ey! Eh heh heh!’ Ernie said with a knowing smile.

  ‘But I’ve already found the diary,’ Shaun said, a little confused. He looked down at his feet as a newspaper swirled among the mess that lay there. He reached down to pick it up.

  ‘NATIONAL LOTTO JACKPOT GOES OFF!!!’ the headline read.

  Shaun knew that headline. He had read it before; he was sure he had. He remembered it because of the odd sequence of numbers the winner had chosen – they happened to be Shaun’s birthday. He remembered that headline. From when? How could he remember it?

  Below the story was another headline that caught his attention: ‘Haven in Pakistan – CNN Investigates 7.30 Eastern’. It was not the headline that caught Shaun’s attention, however, but the name underneath. Craig Schwartz.

  The weight, the immense weight of his limbs, right before … no, he didn’t want to think of it again. The sirens. David. Shit, David! What had happened to him? A few minutes ago Shaun thought he was an alcoholic who had lived in a park for years. This paradigm shift was hard to absorb. The sirens. The Facility. They were at The Facility. The one Graeme had spoken about in the diary. The one where they … sent you back in time.

  Shaun stopped. Was it possible?

  Why don’t you believe? his brain asked.

  I just, I just find it …

  Find it what? How can you not believe? Don’t be a total idiot! Everything makes sense, everything fits together.

  ‘I’ve been sent back in time?’ Shaun asked his brain, but it did not answer.

  ‘I’ve been sent back in time,’ Shaun said, this time out loud. He searched the fine print of the newspaper: Friday, 13 June 2014.

  ‘Today! That’s today!’ Shaun shouted, instantly struck by panic. He would never forget it: ‘This diary will be found on the 13th of June 2014AD, more than two thousand years from now. My name is Graeme Fontéyne, and I remember everything.’

  The diary was going to be found today! But what if the fact of him being sent back in time had changed all that?

  Shit. He looked again at the last line of the paper he had vomited up in the walnut: His message is this: ‘The Rule of Knowledge is unbroken, but this may not always be so. You cannot sit by because of what has happened, you must act. You must remember and act right now. Leave the park.’

  It was speaking to him; this translation. This message passed through the ages – it was speaking to him right now. ‘You must remember and act right now.’ He could almost hear the words, and again he was overcome with panic.

  The Rule of Knowledge? What did he know? He knew that the diary’s first lines predicted that it would be found today. It did not say anything about by whom. What if he was not the one to find the diary? What if Le Clerque found it? And the map? It was supposed to be hidden with the diary – if Le Clerque found the map, then he would find his way to the disc.

  Shaun looked at Ernie, smiled, put his hand on the man’s shoulder and said, ‘It’s been swell.’ Then he bolted down the street.

  After about a hundred yards he began to wonder where he was running to, so he stopped. He was breathing hard and his head throbbed. He pulled the paper up in front of his face and scanned it: ‘He told me it would rest there, undisturbed in a cave on the mountain of Caroline’s grandfather, until the bluebird falls from the sky.’

  In a cave on the mountain of Caroline’s grandfather? What did that mean? Grandfather’s cave?

  Then a realisation hit him. He was in America, and had been for the past three weeks.

  This was the first time he had left the park, but as he stood on the street, being ignored by passers-by, he looked up to a shopfront: ‘Dr Drains: We Fix Drains. Charlotte’s 24-hour plumbing service.’

  He knew where he was; he had known all along, he just had not realised it.

  Charlotte. North Carolina. Home. He was home … relatively. It was bizarre, because it suddenly made perfect sense: Grandfather Mountain, North Carolina. It was a clue only Shaun would understand. It was something that was so perfectly designed for his own style of thinking that he could not imagine it to be any other possibility.

  Grandfather Mountain was the highest peak in North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains, and it was a place Shaun used to visit with his brother Tim as a child. They stayed near Boone at the campground and often took day trips up to the mountain, to hike and explore the caves.

  Without another thought, Shaun ran again, this time in the direction of the airport. His bare feet started to blister on the concrete, but he kept going. Pain exploded in his head again and he fell as he ran, sprawling and rolling. His clothing ripped, but he was up and moving again without pause. A taxi pulled around the corner and Shaun flagged it, but it sped past him, the driver barely glancing his way. Did they not see? Did they not see past the rags now? BAM! Another explosion of pain in his head. Should this still be happening? He had not really gleaned how long it had taken Graeme to get over the headaches, nor any of the others the diary mentioned, but he was sure it was not supposed to go on and on like this. But this felt different.

  Cars passed as Shaun rounded another corner, following the large blue road signs to the airport. He tried to think things through as he ran, but his feet were killing him. He needed shoes.

  It was about this time that a shard of broken glass punctured his heel. He dropped immediately as the pain again made him stumble and fall. He
pulled the shard from his foot and forced himself to stand. Looking around, he saw a red scooter, whose owner had happened to leave the keys in the ignition and the motor running while he made his pizza delivery next door. Without the luxury of time to regret what he was doing, Shaun kicked up the stand and placed both feet in front of him.

  The nig-nig, nig-nig of the tiny engine as he sped away from the pimply-faced teen was the sweetest sound Shaun had heard for a long time. The wind stung his eyes and blew his considerable beard apart into tufts. He did not care; he was on his way.

  He had not formed a plan of how to get to Grandfather Mountain, but he knew that he had to be there today before Le Clerque’s men could find the diary – and it would be found today. He knew also that the hundred-and-fifty-plus miles to the mountain through immense terrain could not be covered by road in the time he had. He had to fly.

  He rode on faith. He knew only that he had to act, that what he knew had happened, must happen, otherwise … none of this would begin in the first place for him to be sent back to where he was right now, and, what? He would cease to exist? He did not know and agreed with his brain that these were awfully big thoughts for a homeless man on a stolen pizza delivery scooter to have.

  CHAPTER 62

  Ron Shaw ran through his checklist one final time. The replies of ‘Check, check, check’ gave him the buzz he always felt when he knew that the next thing he would hear was, ‘Azulejo, you are cleared for take-off on the south-west runway.’

  He sat with his earphones on in the small four-seat Cessna, content and ready to fly his plane solo for his first day off in six months. It was with surprise, then, that he heard the next words from the domestic control tower: ‘Ah, just sit tight there, Azulejo, we’ve got a disturbance on the tarmac.’

  What? A disturbance on the tarmac?! He sat back and closed his eyes, trying to hold onto his holiday frame of mind. He was not successful.