by Steve Alten
Mentally exhausting. Think I'll skip dinner and climb into a hot bath.
Listen, Mindy and I want you to come over for dinner next week. Tuesday sound okay?
Should be. Thanks.
Good, good. Hey, I spoke to Iz yesterday. Did you know he and your mother are planning to drive over for the High Holy Days.
No, I didn't-
Okay, I gotta run, I can't be late for Shabbat. We'll call you next week.
She waves, watching him hurry down the hallway. Dominique likes Steinberg and his wife, finds them both to be warm and genuine. She knows Iz has asked them to keep a parental eye on her.
Dominique enters the apartment and opens the balcony doors, allowing the ocean breeze to fill the musty room with a gust of salty air. The afternoon shower has chased off most of the beachgoers, the last rays of sun peeking out from the clouds, casting a crimson glow along the water.
It is her favorite time of day, a time for solitude. She contemplates a leisurely walk along the beach, then changes her mind. Pouring herself a glass of wine from an open bottle in the fridge, she kicks off her shoes and returns to the balcony. Placing the glass on a plastic table with the leather-bound journal, she lies down on the lounge chair, stretching as her body sinks into the soft cushion.
The pounding mantra of surf quickly works its magic. She sips the wine, closing her eyes, her thoughts again returning to her earlier encounter with Michael Gabriel.
Four Ahau, three Kankin. Dominique has not heard the words spoken since her early childhood.
Thoughts slip into a dream. She is back in the highlands of Guatemala, six years old, her maternal grandmother by her side. They are on their knees, toiling in the afternoon sun, working the onion crops. A cool breeze, the xocomil, blows in off Lake Atitlan. The child listens intently as the old woman's voice rasps at her. The calendar was handed down to us from our Olmec ancestors, its wisdom coming from our teacher, the great Kukulcan. Long before the Spanish invaded our land, the great teacher left us warnings of disastrous days ahead. Four Ahau, three Kankin, the last day of the Mayan calendar. Be wary of this day, my child. When the time comes, you must make the journey home, for the Popol Vuh says that it is only here that we can be restored to life.
Dominique opens her eyes, staring at the black ocean. Alabaster crests of foam roll in beneath the partially obscured moonlight.
Four Ahau, three Kankin-December 21, 2012.
Humanity's prophesied day of doom.
JOURNAL OF
JULIUS GABRIEL
AUGUST 24, 2000
My name is Professor Julius Gabriel. I am an archaeologist, a scientist who studies relics of the past to understand ancient cultures. I use evidence left to us from our ancestors to frame hypotheses and formulate theories. I sift through thousands of years of myths to find single veins of truth.
Throughout the ages, scientists like myself have learned the hard way that man's fear often suppresses truth. Labeled heresy, its very breath is suffocated until Church and State, judge and jury are able to put aside their fears and accept what is real.
I am a scientist. I am not a politician. I am not interested in presenting years of evidence-backed theories to a lecture hall of self-appointed scholars so they can vote on what an acceptable truth about mankind's fate may or may not be. The nature of truth has nothing to do with the democratic process. Like an investigative reporter, I am only interested in what really happened, and what may indeed happen. And if the truth turns out to be so unbelievable that I am labeled a heretic, then so be it.
After all, I am in good company: Darwin was a heretic; and Galileo before him; 400 years ago, Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake because he insisted that other worlds besides our own existed.
Like Bruno, I will be dead long before humanity's bitter end arrives. Here lies Julius Gabriel, the victim of a diseased heart. My physician urges me to his care, warning me the organ is but a ticking time bomb set to detonate at any moment. Let it explode, I say. The worthless organ has only given me grief since it broke eleven years ago after the departure of my dearly beloved.
These are my memoirs, an accounting of a journey that began some 32 years ago. My purpose in summarizing this information is twofold. First, the nature of the research is so controversial and its ramifications so terrifying that I realize now that the scientific community will do everything in its power to suffocate, stifle, and deny the truth about man's destiny. Last, I know there are individuals among the populace who, like my own son, would prefer to fight rather than sit idly by as the end approaches. To you, my warriors of salvation, I leave this journal, thereby passing the baton of hope. Decades of toil and misery are hidden within these pages-this slice of man's history, extracted from eons of limestone. The fate of our species now rests in my son's hands- and perhaps yours. At the very least, you'll no longer be part of the majority Michael calls the innocent ignorant. Pray that men like my son can resolve the ancient Mayan riddle.
Then pray for yourselves.
It is said that fear of death is worse than death itself. I believe that witnessing the death of a loved one is worse still. To have experienced my soul mate's life slip away before my eyes, to have felt her body turn cold in my arms-this is too much despair for one heart to handle. At times, I am actually grateful to be dying for I cannot begin to imagine the anguish of witnessing an entire population suffer amidst the planetary holocaust to come.
For those of you who scoff at my words, be forewarned: The day of reckoning is fast approaching, and ignorance of the event will do nothing to change the outcome.
Today, I sit backstage at Harvard, organizing these excerpts as I await my turn at the dais. So much rides on my speech, so many lives. My greatest concern is that the egos of my colleagues may be too large to allow them to listen to my findings with an open mind. If given a chance to present the facts, I know that I can appeal to them as scientists. If ridiculed, then I fear all is lost.
Fear. I have no doubt as to the motivational effect the emotion has on me now, yet it was not fear that started me on my journey on that fateful day in May of 1969, but the desire to seek fame and fortune. I was young and immortal back then, still full of piss and vinegar, having just received my doctorate degree with honors from Cambridge University. While the rest of my peers were busy protesting the war in Vietnam, making love, and fighting for equality, I set out with my father's inheritance, accompanied by two fellow archaeologists and companions, my (former) best friend, Pierre Borgia, and the ravishing Maria Rosen. Our goal-to unravel the great mystery surrounding the Mayan calendar and its 2,500-year-old prophecy of doom.
Never heard of the Mayan calendar's prophecy? I'm not surprised. These days, who has time to concern themselves with an oracle of death originating from some ancient Central American civilization?
Eleven years from now, when you and your loved ones are writhing on the ground, gasping for your last breath, your lives flashing before your eyes-you may well wish you had made the time.
I'll even give you the date of your death: December 21, of the year 2012.
There-you've been officially warned. Now you can act, or shove your heads in the sands of ignorance like the rest of my learned colleagues.
Of course, it's easy for rational human beings to dismiss the Mayan calendar's doomsday prophecy as mere superstitious nonsense. I can still recall my own professor's reaction when he learned of my intended area of focus: You're wasting your time, Julius. The Maya were heathens, a bunch of jungle-dwelling savages who believed in human sacrifice. For Cod's sake, they hadn't even mastered the wheel...
My professor was both right and wrong, and this is the paradox, for while it is true the ancient Maya could barely grasp the significance of the wheel, they had, in fact, managed to acquire an advanced knowledge of astronomy, architecture, and mathematics that, in many ways, rivals and even exceeds our own. In laymen's terms, the Maya were the equivalent of a four-year-old child mastering Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata on the pi
ano while remaining unable to pound out Chopsticks.
I'm sure you find it hard to believe, most self-proclaimed educated individuals do. But the evidence is overwhelming. And this is what compelled me to embark on my journey, for simply to ignore the calendar's wealth of knowledge because of its unimaginable doomsday prophecy would have been as much a crime as to dismiss summarily the theory of relativity because Einstein was once employed as a junior clerk.
So what is the Mayan calendar?
A brief explanation:
If I asked you to describe the function of a calendar, your initial response would probably be to describe the device as a means of keeping your weekly or monthly appointments. Moving beyond this somewhat limited scope, let us see the calendar for what it really is-a tool, designed to determine (as accurately as possible) the Earth's annual orbit around the Sun.
Our modem Western calendar was first introduced in Europe in 1582. It was based upon the Gregorian calendar, which calculated Earth's orbit around the Sun to take 365.25 days. This incorporated a very small plus-error of 0.0003 of a day per year, quite impressive fir scientists of the 16th century.
The Maya derived their calendar from their predecessors, the Olmec, a mysterious people whose origins can be traced back some 3,000 years. Imagine for a moment, that you are living thousands of years ago. Then are no televisions or radios, telephones, or watches, and it is your job is to chart the stars to determine the passage of time equating to one planetary orbit. Somehow the Olmec, without precision instruments, calculated the solar year to be 365.2420 days, incorporating an even smaller minus error of 0.0002 of a day.
Let me restate this so you can grasp the implications: The 3,000-year-old Mayan calendar is a 10,000th of a day more accurate than the calendar the world uses today!
There's more. The Mayan solar calendar is but one part of a three-calendar system. A second calendar, the ceremonial calendar operates concurrently, consisting of 20 months of 13 days. The third part, the Venus calendar or Long Count, was based on the orbit of the planet Venus. By combining these three calendars into one, the Maya were able to forecast celestial events over great expanses of time, not just thousands but millions of years. (On one particular Mesoamerican monument, an inscription refers to a time period dating back 400 million years.)
Impressed yet?
The Maya believed in Great Cycles, periods of time that registered the recorded creations and destructions of the world. The calendar recorded the five Great Cycles or Suns of the Earth. The current and last cycle began on 4 Ahau 8 Cumku, a date corresponding to August 13, 3114 BC, considered by the Maya to be the birth date of the planet Venus. This last Great Cycle is predicted to end with the destruction of humanity on 4 Ahau 3 Kankin, a date determined as December 21, in the year 2012- the day of the winter solstice.
The Day of the Dead.
How convinced were the Maya that their prophecy was true? After the departure of their great teacher, Kukulcan, the Maya began practicing barbaric rituals involving human sacrifice, cutting out the hearts of tens of thousands of men, women, and children.
The ultimate sacrifice-all to forestall the end of humanity.
I'm not asking you to seek such outlandish remedies, just to open your mind. What you don't know can affect you, what you refuse to see can kill you. There are mysteries that surround us whose origins we cannot fathom-yet must! The pyramids of Giza and Teotihuacan, the Temples of Angkor in Cambodia, Stonehenge, the incredible message inscribed upon the Nazca desert, and most of all, the Kukulcan pyramid in Chichen Itza. All these ancient sites, all these magnificent, unexplainable wonders were not intended as tourist attractions but are pieces to a single perplexing jigsaw puzzle that can prevent the annihilation of our species.
My journey through life is nearly over. I have these memoirs, highlights of the overwhelming evidence I've accumulated over three decades, to my son, Michael, and to all those who would carry on my work ad finem-to the end. While presenting the clues in the manner in which I stumbled across them, I will also endeavor to paint for you an historical accounting of the events along the time line in which they actually occurred throughout man s history.
For the record, I take no satisfaction in being right. For the record, I pray to Cod that I'm wrong.
I'm not wrong....
-Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel, Ref. J G Catalogue 1969-70 pages 12-28
Chapter 3
SEPTEMBER 11, 2012
MIAMI, FLORIDA
Michael Gabriel is dreaming. Once more, he is lying on the backstage floor of an auditorium, his father's head resting against his chest as they await the ambulance. Julius beckons his son's ear so that he might whisper a secret he has kept to himself since his wife's death eleven years earlier.
Michael. . . the center stone.
Don't try to talk, Pop. The ambulance is on the way.
Listen to me, Michael! The center stone, the ball court marker-I replaced it.
I don't understand. What stone?
Chichen Itza.
The weathered eyes glaze over, the weight of his father's body slumping against his chest.
Pop ... POP!
Mick awakens, his body bathed in sweat.
8:45 A.M.
Dominique gives the receptionist a half wave, then proceeds directly to the main security station. A heavily muscled security guard smiles as she approaches, the man's strawberry blond mustache lifting and spreading across his upper lip, revealing yellowed teeth.
Well, good morning, Sunshine. I'm Raymond, and I bet you're our new intern.
Dominique Vazquez. She shakes his callused hand, noticing beads of perspiration across the thick, freckled forearm.
Sorry, just came from the gym. Raymond wipes his arms down with a hand towel, over exaggerating the movement to flex his pump. I'm competing in the Mr. Florida Regional in November. Think I've got a chance?
Uh, sure. God, please don't let him start posing. . . .
Maybe you could come down and watch me compete, you know, root me on? The pale hazel eyes widen behind short amber eyelashes.
Be gentle. Are a lot of the staff going?
A few, but I'll make sure you get a seat close to the stage. Come on back, Sunshine, I need to make you a security card and record a thermal image of your face. Raymond unlocks the steel security gate and holds it open for her by flexing his triceps. Dominique feels his eyes running over her as she passes through.
Have a seat over there, we'll take care of the security card first. I'll need your driver's license.
She hands it to him, then sits in an upright chair positioned before a black machine the size of a refrigerator. Raymond loads a square disk into a slot on one side, then types in her information on the computer.
Smile. The flash explodes in her eyes, leaving an annoying spot. I'll have the card ready by the time you leave tonight. He hands back her driver's license. Okay, come over here and have a seat in front of this infrared camera. Ever have your face mapped?
Ever have your back shaved? Uh, not that I know of.
The infrared camera creates a unique image of your face by registering the heat emitted by the blood vessels beneath your skin. Even identical twins look different under infrared, and facial patterns never changes. The computer records nineteen hundred different thermal points. Pupil scans use 266 measurable characteristics, while fingerprints only have forty-
Ray, this is fascinating-really-but is it necessary? I haven't seen anyone use an infrared scan.
That's because you haven't been here at night. The magnetic strip on your identification card is all you'll need to enter or exit the facility during the day. But after seven-thirty, you'll need to enter your password, then allow the infrared scanner to identify you. The machine will compare your thermal facial features with the ones we're about to place on your permanent file. No one gets in or out of this facility at night without being scanned, and nothing fools the machine. Smile.
Dominique stares
sullenly at the sphere-shaped camera behind the plate-glass window, feeling foolish.
Okay, turn to your left. Good. Now right, now look down. Done. Hey, Sunshine, do you like Italian?
Here we go. Sometimes.
There's a great place not far from here. What time you get off?
Tonight's not really a good-
When is good?
Ray, I have to be honest, I usually make it a rule not to date anyone on staff.
Who said anything about a date? I said dinner.
If it's just dinner, then yes, I'd love to go sometime, but tonight's really not good. Give me a few weeks to get situated. And to work on another excuse. She smiles sweetly, hoping to ease the pain of rejection. Besides, you can't go out for a big Italian meal if you're in training.
Okay, Sunshine, but I'm going to hold you to that. The big redhead smiles. Now listen, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask.
I won't. I really should be going, Dr. Foletta's waiting-
Foletta won't be in until later this afternoon. Monthly board meeting. Hey, I hear he assigned you that patient of his. What's his name?
Michael Gabriel. What do you know about him?
Not much. Transferred down from Massachusetts with Foletta. I know the board and medical staff were pretty pissed off when he arrived. Foletta must have pulled quite a few strings.
What do you mean?
Raymond looks away, avoiding her eyes. Ah, never mind.
Come on. Tell me.
Nah. I gotta learn to keep my big yap shut. Foletta's your boss. I wouldn't want to say anything that might give you a bad impression.
I'll keep it between the two of us.
Two more guards enter, waving at Raymond.
Okay, I'll tell you, but not here. Too many ears with big mouths. We'll talk over dinner. I punch out at six. The yellow teeth flash a triumphant smile.
