The search for the Cup, the Ark, and Joseph continued…
Part I
.1.
Present Time
In a small town, Lebanon
Early Morning
A square shaped building of only two floors, bounded by olive trees, and standing almost perfectly behind a church dedicated to St. John the Baptist. Over the main entrance, a white tinted iron door, the words: HOUSE OF PRIESTS inscribed on a golden plate. The short corridor with doors on both sides was unsoiled. Beautiful oil paintings adorn the walls with Angels, Old Churches, and the newly elected Pope, Benedict XVI. Straight ahead, at the end of the corridor, a white-painted wooden door plated with the words: PADRE JOSEPH.
“No… I’m afraid this cannot wait any longer, Maya. It is very important that we meet, and you just cannot miss it…” a firm, yet gentle, voice came from the room. “I am asking another person to the meeting as well.”
Inside his humble office, a soft beam of light seeped through the window, and traveled through particles of dust, to shine upon an open book: The NEW TESTAMENT resting serenely on a brown large desk. Padre Joseph, a man that looked to be in his late sixties, sat on a black leather armchair behind the desk, holding a newspaper in one hand, and the telephone handset in the other. His serious blue eyes softened the reddish tones of his round shaped face, as did his white hair to the black color of his religious suit. Despite the slenderness of his body, Padre Joseph reflected nothing but an admirable vigor.
“You truly sound very serious about it, Padre,” Maya’s sweet voice echoed in his ear. “What is…” her voice suddenly became intermittent. The call then went static, the connection almost lost.
“Hello… Hello,” Padre Joseph spoke aloud, a bit anxious. “Are you there, Maya? Can you hear me?”
“Just a little bit…” she answered back, a moment later. “But… it’s difficult to understand what you’re saying.”
“Where are you, right at the moment?”
“I can hear you now, Padre. It is coming… the connection is coming back. Stop here... to the left please, stop now...” She ordered, and Padre Joseph could hear her thunderous voice well. He quickly realized that she was speaking with someone else, probably a driver, urging him to stop the vehicle at once. “Well, Padre, I am with the team on route up Mt. Hermon, and the wind was blowing hard on us.”
“I see…”
A green convertible military Jeep, followed by another four wheeler, a white Range Rover, had just made a turn on the Mountainous tight road, only to stop immediately to the left side; trailing behind them a storm of dust. On the seat next to the young man driving the Jeep sat an attractive woman probably in her mid-thirties. With a silken face against the wind, and long light-brown hair flowing down her shoulders, she held the mobile phone to her ear, and waved with her free hand at the driver of the Range Rover, occupied by three people, to stop just behind them. Maya was clad in a casual outfit, a straw hat on her head, and elegant sunglasses that covered her eyes.
“Your lexis, Padre, sounded really serious,” her lovely voice echoed again in his ear. “What is it?”
“Right now, I can’t talk much about it over the phone, besides, you’re not alone. All I can say…” he paused for an instant. “Well, it is actually something related to what you do,” he then uttered, looking at the picture of a man in the newspaper.
“Archeology?”
“Yes… and much more than that.”
After a moment, she rejoined with a curious yet affirmative tone in her voice, “Alright Padre, I’ll be there.” Obviously, she had never before felt that strange seriousness he showed in his call today.
“Very well then, I’ll be expecting your visit next Wednesday, around 4 PM. Try to make it on time.”
“I will.”
“Until then, have a nice day, bye.”
“You too Padre, bye.”
He hung up, reverted to his seat, all too slowly, picked up his phonebook, searched for a name, and then dialed the number. The cell phone began to ring… once, twice, before a male hand picked it up from a small wooden table, topped with a beautiful African-designed ashtray, containing a cigarette not yet lit.
“Hello,” a man, in his mid-thirties, spoke. Sitting on a long swinging chair in his backyard garden, his face was round with brown eyes, a nice goatee on his fine chin, and black hair that covered most of his head. He held a book he was reading in his other hand. The Mythic Past, by Thomas L. Thompson.
“Hello, Paul, are you there?”
“Definitely, is that you, Padre?”
“Yes, Paul. Do you have a minute?”
“Certainly.”
“Good. Listen, I am setting up an urgent meeting with a couple of people, and I want you to attend. It will be something of great interest to your work.”
“What’s the urgency?” Paul asked, concerned.
“I just can’t relate the matter to you now, over the Phone, Paul. We need to meet.” The Padre’s voice sounded foreboding.
“Where and when?”
“My office, on Wednesday, around 4 PM. Can you make it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Alright, we’ll be waiting for you. Have a nice weekend, bye.”
“Same to you, Padre, bye now.”
He put the phone down, slipped back on his seat behind his large brown desk, and looked outside through the window. It has begun, he thought. One more name. He then turned towards his desk, and took his phonebook again to search for the name he had in mind. He found the number and dialed, while tapping with his fingers on the desk and looking at the tree outside.
A Cedar tree planted almost in the center of his backyard placed him well in its shade. He looked up, and breathed in the refreshing air. He always enjoyed being here in his house up in the mountains. Still seated on that long swinging chair, Paul Khoury resumed reading the book he held in his hand, after taking a sip of coffee. Yet, something began to agitate his mind deeply. A few minutes later, it stopped him completely from turning the pages. He could not concentrate on the text in the book anymore. His mind was elsewhere.
He was thinking of the weird call he had just received, and the urgent meeting he was supposed to attend next Wednesday. In fact, he had never before received such an important call as this one from the Padre. It will be something of great interest to your work, he said to himself, as he recalled the exact words uttered over the phone.
Paul had known Padre Joseph for almost eight years now. They had met at the Padre’s office, immediately after his return to Lebanon from a two-month trip he took to Scotland. The voyage was mainly about discovering the unusual, paranormal activities that take place there, and the findings he had made were just enthralling. Along with that, it was the religious and esoteric research on the Phoenicians and the Egyptians—with their Book of the Dead—which had led the two men to meet, although they both had lived for quite some time in the same small town in Northern Lebanon.
All his life, Paul had been strongly fascinated in subjects such as History, Religion, Philosophy, and—in particular—topics related to ancient civilizations. With that in mind, a strong passion impelled him to study and major in ‘Ancient History & Religion’ at the Lebanese University. Great cultures like the Egyptian and the Canaano-Phoenician had always mesmerized him.
Perhaps for national reasons, he always enjoyed old historical and geographical books that described the Phoenicians as being the native people of ancient Greater Lebanon. In the old books, the Phoenicians settled along the coastal cities and some major parts of the inlands, Lebanon in particular, Syria, Palestine, Israel, and even the Al-Arish area in Egypt. However, ‘Phoenicians’ and ‘Canaanites’ are the same people. Canaanites were the Phoenicians—living up in the mountains. Phoenicians were Canaanites—living along the coastal cities.
Paul stretched out his hand to the nearby table, brought the cup of coffee to his lips, and sipped the last bit of it. He then lit up the cigarette, and puffed away the smok
e, before it could enter his lungs and damage them. The cigarette smoke seeped through the air in a foggy shape…
.2.
House of Priests
Wednesday, around 4 PM
A white dense mist had been gradually forming on this day, which Paul had been waiting for with great excitement. Wednesday had finally arrived. The fog had already—and completely—cloaked up the house in the mountain. He was looking at its strange translucent formation outside the window. It was a bit chilly, yet Paul enjoyed that specific moment at the end of September.
A few minutes later, he left the house, down the staircase. Getting into his blue Jeep, he drove out of the garage and into the driveway, before reaching the main road. He then headed slowly down to the small town, around 30 kilometers from where he had been. The digital clock on the dashboard marked the time as 3 PM. Great. One more hour before the meeting with the Padre. I have enough time, he thought.
Two lines of tiny buildings; composed of three, four, sometimes five floors for habitation, and the ground floor—for shops and businesses—lined the streets. Each line of buildings by the side of the main road was divided in half by a row of different types of trees. Although the setting might look organized at first sight, to a visitor or tourist, the buildings opposing each other were actually constructed in a disorganized manner.
Driving through that small town was often a tedious ride to Paul Khoury. He disliked his hometown so much that he had once called it Hell in comparison to the beautiful and magical village up in the mountains that he called Heaven. Paul rarely left Heaven for Hell, and he would only do that for a good reason. Meeting Padre Joseph on an urgent errand was, obviously, enough reason for Mr. Khoury—who had at times named it: ‘the town of ghosts’. This could be true at night.
The blue Jeep made a turn to the left on route number 10. Paul then turned the wheel left again, into the parking area behind St. John’s Church. Surrounded by olive trees, the House of Priests appeared, facing the blue car coming to a halt now. The engine stopped, and Paul got out, walking towards the main entrance. To his surprise, Paul found the door locked. He came to a full stop. This door has never been locked before, he thought. However, what made his surprise grow even more was the Interphone he saw, installed on the right side of the main iron door. An interphone with a camera? Why? He wondered. He searched for Padre Joseph’s name among the list of priests, and pushed the corresponding button.
“Paul… Come in,” the firm voice of the Padre was heard over the Interphone, and a clicking sound came from the locked door. It had been unlocked. “Please, close the door behind you. Thank you.”
The small, always neat, hallway welcomed Mr. Khoury. Although short in length, Paul took his time crossing it, speculating about the security procedures that had been put in place here for the first time. What’s happening? He marveled at the situation. Sauntering slowly through the corridor, he finally reached the door that led to the Padre’s office at the end of the hall. PADRE JOSEPH, he read the plate on the door, before he knocked three times.
“Welcome, Paul.”
He opened the door, and entered.
Facing him, sat the Padre on his black leather armchair behind his large brown desk. The serious blue eyes in his round reddish face met Paul’s eyes in a swift moment of magnetism. Although the Padre looked relaxed, something truly unusual glittered in his eyes and alerted Paul.
To his left, his eyes met the green eyes of a good-looking blonde woman, sitting reposefully on the black leather couch. She stood up directly, to salute him, as he stepped forward. Padre Joseph introduced them to each other. Her name was Youmna Hamade, and she was probably in her late twenties or early thirties.
“Youmna has a Ph.D. in modern Chemistry,” the Padre continued, delightfully, his eyes on Paul. “She works at the AUB Laboratory—the American University of Beirut—as a vice-provost, and I was also informed, by a common friend you will meet in few minutes, that she stands as one of the finest experts in Alchemy.”
“Alchemy! How interesting,” Paul commented with curiosity.
She just smiled.
“What about you, Paul?” she asked, with a look so powerful yet so tender it caught him by surprise.
“I have majored in Ancient History & Religion… so I guess I’m a historian, certainly not a theologian. In fact, I leave theology to the Padre,” he replied with a smile, and looked at the religious man behind the desk, in wait for a statement.
Before Padre Joseph could comment on Paul’s words, the Interphone—installed on the wall, over the desktop computer—beeped loudly. The Padre rolled his armchair to the left, and pushed the button to see who was there. The camera showed a woman he seemed to know very well.
“Come in, Maya… and please, lock the door behind you. Thank you.”
What’s going on? Paul wondered for a moment, as he found a seat facing Youmna. This meeting is getting busy. There must be something important going on.
A minute later, three short and fast knocks on the door were heard, and the woman who had appeared over the Interphone camera entered. The Padre introduced Maya to Paul, as he stood up to shake her hand. Her name was Maya Deeb, an Archeologist of the highest caliber at the AUB. The Padre portrayed Ms. Deeb as such, and she obviously felt flattered. It appeared all over her lovely face.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said and leaned towards Youmna to kiss her, before sitting next to her. “How are you, dear?”
Youmna smiled at her, with joy on her face. It appeared to Paul that the girls had known each other for a long time; they had probably met at the AUB, or knew each other way before then. However, he felt that neither of them truly knew a thing about this strange meeting with the Padre.
“Now… since you’re all here,” the Padre began, all at once, “and perhaps speculating why you’re here in the first place, I will tell you everything, but first, what would you like to drink?”
“I’ll have tea,” Paul articulated with a smile.
“Me too,” Maya followed suit.
“So will I,” added Ms. Hamade.
“Very well then,” said the Padre with a calm voice. “We’re all having tea. My favorite drink at this hour; it soothes the mind.”
The tea was served almost ten minutes later. A young boy, who seemed to serve at the church, brought four cups of tea and a kettle on a nicely crafted wooden tray, and placed it on the table in front of them, with chocolate cake on the side.
When all were relaxed in their seats, enjoying the tea, Padre Joseph wouldn’t waste another moment, he put on his eyeglasses, took the newspaper in his hands, looked at everyone in the eyes—to catch their attention—and began reading from the front page.
“An Architect has been found mysteriously dead—Full story, page six,” he read carefully. “This is an intriguing title. Isn’t it?” he asked, looking again at each one of them.
Not one of his three guests commented, as if they wanted the Padre to impart them with the full story. He knew that already, and immediately skipped the international and national, political news, and went for the report on page six, “An Architect, working on ancient Phoenician relics, found dead in his backyard two days ago,” the headline announced, and the article continued, “Hiram Melki, a famous Architect was found dead by his wife in the city of Tyre…” he then stopped, putting the newspaper down on his desk.
A moment of silence echoed in the room.
“That’s an interesting story,” Paul broke the silence that didn’t seem to last more than a few seconds, “but I don’t really understand why you have gathered us here and for what reason, Padre. I mean, what does that story mean to us, after all?”
“It means a lot, actually,” he replied quickly, before sipping his tea. The vapor coming from the cup almost hid his facial expressions. “You’re a Historian Paul, and ancient Phoenicia is your specialty. Isn’t it?”
Paul didn’t answer. He just nodded, still confused.
“Maya is an Archaeologist, and an
ything related to ancient relics is her specialty. Isn’t it Maya?”
“Yes indeed, Padre,” she rejoined with satisfaction. “Yet, I don’t get your point.”
“You will, in a bit.” He confirmed.
From above the white head of the Padre, a picture of the Lebanese flag—attached to the glass of the large brown wooden bookcase behind him—appeared to the visitors. On his left stood a nice silver-plated frame with a picture of Einstein. To his right, and maybe all around his office, pictures of Pope John Paul II and some other prominent Christian religious figures and saints were found.
“I knew the Architect well,” he began, with a sore tone to his voice. “He was a good man, really honest. A hard worker, who excelled in his architectural projects of modern houses and villas until, one day, he fell in love with ancient architecture, especially Egyptian, Phoenician, and Sumerian.
“After many years of research, Hiram grew fascinated by the work done by a very famous Phoenician Architect from the city of Tyre. He spent many hours and days looking at aged records, and examining old maps, prepared by that ancient Architect by the name of Hiram Abiff, known for his excellent work done on the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem,” Padre Joseph took a short pause to drink from his tea, before it got cold.
“His name being Hiram probably played an important role in his great approbation to that ancient Architect by the same name.” He grinned at his guests, and then added, “In fact, nothing happens by chance. There are no coincidences in life.” He stopped to take a long, deep breath. “I have a belief that names can inhabit our personality, and sometimes, strong names from the past affect it even more. Don’t they?”
Nobody replied.
Although confused by that weird statement, they somehow seemed interested in the theory. Comfortably settled in their seats in front of him, they listened attentively to his words, their eyes on him, and their minds relaxed in the peaceful ambiance of the office. Nothing would lead their minds astray, unless something unexpected, like a phone call, should take place. That, however, did not happen.
The Phoenician Code Page 2
