by Jon Saboe
Now they sat in the gondola, staring out into the expanse.
“I keep thinking about the Primordial Dreamstate,” Serug reflected. It had now been several months since their encounter with the Koori, but he often enjoyed discussing his conversations he had had with some of their young men.
While there, Peleg had dutifully shared Reu-Nathor’s pronouncement concerning the Great Awakening, and the local scholars had received it with great excitement. But Serug had found himself with a group of less-cultured field-workers who had presented him with their own homegrown view of origins.
“These Koori farmhands believed that everything prior to the Great Calamity was simply in the minds of the gods. All of creation had occurred only in their dreams, but upon waking, their dreams had manifested themselves in reality, and so here we are.”
“You know, you are starting to sound more and more like our tonga driver,” Peleg noted. He was actually becoming concerned for Serug.
“Oh, I’m not saying I believe them,” Serug quickly defended himself. “I’m just thinking. What if we were nothing more than someone else’s dreams? What if all of our collective memories never really happened.”
Peleg’s patience was wearing thin. Serug’s thoughts were increasingly childish, even for him. “You’re going to drive yourself crazy with that kind of thinking. If not you, then me. Anyone can come up with a different theory about life that is un-provable, then worry themselves sick over it.”
He looked over at his friend, scowled, and then said in his most authoritative voice. “You realize, of course: It’s turtles all the way down!”
Serug laughed and jabbed a finger towards Peleg. “Prove it!” He grinned at Peleg as if to say, Don’t worry. I’m not going crazy.
“It’s easy to see why anyone can believe almost anything,” Serug continued. “Phenomenology can really twist your head around.”
“You certainly twist mine,” Peleg retorted. “Especially when you use words bigger than you are. You know, I think I liked you better when you were a goofy, drunken fool.”
“Yeah, that’s why you invited me on this excursion.” He doggedly returned to his topic. “I still want to figure out the source of ideas. I mean, where does thought or intelligence come from? It seems that truth ought to be valid regardless of the source.”
Peleg decided to survey the overcast skies again as Serug continued to think aloud. It looked as though the clouds were clearing. He might even get a good measurement this sunset. His thoughts continued to wander while his friend continued speaking.
Serug was saying, “… of course those philosophers in Meluha believed that everything is an illusion, created by our own minds. I just wonder what happens when my reality collides with yours.
“What do you think?” Serug finished his monolog with a question that interrupted Peleg’s thoughts.
Peleg hadn’t been paying attention, but he realized that Serug had been talking for several minutes. He continued to look out to sea and answered absentmindedly, “I think that if we are truly going east, and if we don’t run into any land or bad weather, we should arrive home in about nine more years. Of course, we’ll all be dead long before that from starvation, but you can be comforted knowing that the youngest crewmembers will be eaten first.” Yes, it appeared that there was a spot where the clouds might be opening up.
“You weren’t listing to a word I was saying!”
“I’ve heard it all before, and…” Peleg spun his head around to his friend, instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that. I’m just distracted. Technically, we’ve been lost for over two weeks and I’m very preoccupied with more immediate things.”
Serug smiled. “Not a problem. Actually, I’ve said it all before.Nothing like the threat of dying on the open sea to wake you up,” he proclaimed gleefully.
They both continued to look over the edge of the gondola in silence. The expanse was unrelenting, and the silver-gray sky merged seamlessly with the surrounding sea. One could easily imagine this view continuing on forever—or for the rest of their lives.
The next morning, the skies were completely free of clouds. Peleg gratefully made his sunrise measurement and compared it with his compass reading and charts. He couldn’t be certain until this evening’s measurement, but it appeared they had wandered southward during the past two weeks. This was not surprising, since they were always fighting a weak current which tried to drag them backward to the southwest.
Peleg suddenly thought he noticed a dark spot toward the southeast. As the morning progressed, he realized he had spotted land. Even though it was even further out of their way, he was certain that Captain Phaxâd would want to divert, since they had depleted over two months of their stores. The Captain would certainly want to do repairs, and perhaps plant some crops to replenish their reserves.
Peleg found himself almost believing in some kind of providence—which he quickly discarded. It they hadn’t drifted south, they would have never found this place, and who knew where (or when) the next land might present itself. He could almost taste the fresh meat that was sure to be roaming there.
“I will no longer be communing with you.” The visage of Semyaz wavered in Salah’s translucent trance. “Nergal has asked that one of Nibiru’s own, whose thoughts are stronger and more knowledgeable that mine, become your teacher.”
Mentor Salah’s accelerated mind received this news with quiet expectation. Over these past three years, his exchanges with Semyaz had become more and more difficult. Actually, the exchanges were quite tranquil, but the recovery following each session was increasingly traumatic, and his body was becoming fatigued and emaciated from restrictive diet and lengthy preparations. Perhaps a stronger mind could contribute to more of the effort involved in communication and he would get a reprieve from the psychic and emotional demands involved. One could only endure so much fasting and eresh.
The phantom Semyaz began to dissolve, and in his place appeared a much stronger, clearer apparition. An outline of a large head with an oversized cranium and wide forehead began to form. Even before the facial features revealed themselves, Salah could easily understand how such beings had contributed to the lineage of the Mentors. Large, deep, black eyes appeared, and Salah’s growing apprehensions were immediately washed away when his new teacher winked at him!
“I am Akkadian Enkidu of the Utu Historical Council. You will refer to me as Dumuzi.” In his fatigued dreamstate, Salah nodded.
His new Nibiran guide continued. “I am able to contact you at will, and you shall have no further need for the preparations of which you are accustomed. You must rest and replenish your body and strength, but take care that you maintain your meatless diet.”
Salah suddenly relaxed in newfound joy and gratitude. His poor physique and mental capacities were worn, and he was immeasurably grateful that the compassionate inhabitants of Nibiru now offered a less demanding means of maintaining contact. He resisted the urge to weep with relief.
Dumuzi’s gray face looked at him with compassion. “In addition to contacting you at will, I will be able to speak through you as the need arises. From this moment on, I will be with you and guide you with wisdom and words from above.
“Get your rest, and allow me to take over your efforts. Sleep, now, and soon we will begin afresh.”
Salah’s eyes closed within his vision, and as he sat cross-legged on the marble tiles in the middle of his meditation chamber, he tipped forward, fell to his side, then slowly collapsed on the floor.
Mentor Inanna found him thus, two days later.
Chapter 12
Searching
“Can lifeforce develop a requirement for something that does not exist?”
Utebbibassu dove from the small cliff into the crystal blue waters below for the third time. Her husband watched appreciatively from the small beach, then jumped in after her.
“Oh, Phaxâd!” she cried with delight when he had reached her. She stretched her hand out for him, g
rabbed his head and dunked it under the water, holding him down with her leg. He grabbed her ankle, then tried to dive into the depths until she could no longer hang on. When they resurfaced, they both broke into peals of laughter.
“Oh, Phaxâd!” she repeated. “Isn’t this simply glorious! Our own island!”
Captain Phaxâd smiled warmly. “My dear ‘Bassu. I’ve been trying all my life to get you to a place like this.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Why don’t you go for another dive?”
She splashed water in his face, then took off for the other side, where the incline leading up to her cliff began.
The life of a Captain’s wife was peculiar. She seldom left the confines of her luxurious cabin, and enjoyed the best of whatever views and discoveries their voyage had to offer. She enjoyed writing extensive memoirs, and hoped to publish them upon their return. The men on the ship deferred to her at all times, always keeping their eyes averted in respect for her position—and in fear for theirs. One didn’t touch what belonged to the Captain.
Fortunately, she was as tough as the best of them, and sometimes would talk and jest with them, taking advantage of their fear of offending her. She excelled in probability theory and algebra, and often enjoyed creating math games and riddles to amuse (and usually) stump the men.
The sun caught the peak of the towering volcanic mountain to the southeast. This is what Peleg had first seen, but he had no idea how large it was at the time. They had expected to reach this land by nightfall, but in fact it had taken two days.
They were far beyond where any voyagers could have possibly traveled. It was blind luck they had found this island, and there was no reason to believe they would find another before they made it back home to the southern continent. All they could do was stock up on food and supplies, repair everything to launch conditions, and hope they could find some way to stay fed.
The coastline had been rocky and treacherous, with small volcanic islets scattered in the water. Lava tubes and small sea caves created by the pounding surf could be seen, and they had been forced to anchor a good distance from the shore.
The men were busy bird hunting and gathering foodstuffs that could be stored indefinitely. They also would be collecting materials for repairs, and there would have to be decisions made about whether or not to stay and clear land to plant crops for food and cloth.
Phaxâd had laughed at Chief Cartographer Peleg this morning when he announced he was looking forward to wild animal meat. “Nothing but seabirds and dragonflies here,” the Captain had politely explained to him. Since no humans had ever set foot here, there would be no game. Unless his favorite venison had built its own ship or traveled via hurricane, Peleg would have to make do with fish, fowl, or dried rations.
Captain Phaxâd took another surface dive into the cool water. Rank hath its privileges. He stayed under for a few extra seconds thinking of his men who were out working. He floated slowly upward and as he broke the surface, he heard his wife scream.
“Phaxâd!” This was definitely not the same tone she had earlier. He shook his head to clear the water, and was about to respond, when he heard her again.
“Phaxâd! Look over there!” She was waving her hand and pointing frantically to a ridge of rock outcroppings to the south. He strained to see what had caught her attention, but the glare of the morning sun made it difficult.
“I’ll be right over!” He swam toward the far side, and they both arrived at the beach at the same time.
“Over there,” she pointed inland to the south and up on a ridge. “It’s a man!”
“That’s impossible,” he declared. “No one has ever been here.”
“No,” she said. “I mean, it’s shaped like a man. See, there’s a large head facing out to sea.”
Squinting, he could just make out what she was describing. “It’s just a very unique design from wind erosion,” he said. “I can see why it was a little curious, though.”
“I’d like to go look at it anyway,” she said earnestly. “I want to see it close up.”
Kupé gave his anvil one final tap as he finished his Mara’ma sculpture. The huge forehead and the large nose and eyebrows, which indicated their great age and wisdom, could be seen peering out from the carved volcanic tuff. This was his best yet. Surely the Atua would descend from on high to view this one.
He got down from his ladder and collected his tools. He would go to inform the council that his gift was complete. They would return with him and begin the process of transporting his creation to a conspicuous platform before the mountain.
When Rana’kao, the great mountain, flared and rumbled, the Atua might take notice and see their likeness in his sculptures which faced the rising sun. If they took mercy on his community of outcasts, perhaps they would swoop down in their Golden Ships and return them to civilization.
It had been thirty-six years since they had been banished from the Tiwanaku settlement, and for their devotion to Mara’ma, they had been placed on a small boat—banished—with little hope of survival.
However, the Atua had been merciful, and the currents had brought them to this paradise. Not all had survived, but after four months of nothing but bird and fish, with fresh water collected from rain and other contrivances, the men, led by Irawaru, had thanked Mara’ma, their “Watcher-in-the-Moon”, for his protection and guidance.
They were patient. Honor prevented them from attempting to leave before the Atua were appeased. However, they could not assume they would live forever. With no women among them, there would be no offspring, so if it pleased the Atua to abandon them in their paradise, so be it. They were still beholden to Mara’ma and his fellow Watchers for their lives.
Someday, when the Atua arrived, they would surely be rewarded for their devotion, and each man dreamt of the eternal youth that would be theirs when they were allowed to eat of the Tree of Life.
“This does not seem to be the act of wind and erosion,” Phaxâd nodded in reluctant agreement. They had arrived at the outcropping Utebbibassu had seen, out of breath and with the sun glistening on their shiny perspiring skin.
A trick of depth perception had caused them to view it as part of the mountainside, but in reality, this structure was standing in isolation, resting on a platform of closely fitted stones some distance in front of the surrounding countryside.
The platform design reminded him of the cast-bricks of the Citadel, but each of these stones had a unique size, shape, and dimension—yet they were still placed as tightly as the uniform building blocks from home. Moreover, some of the larger stones had curved, rounded surfaces and still there was not even the tiniest space between them. A cursory inspection detected no masonry filling or mortar.
What had caught her attention, though, and what now dominated the landscape, was the structure that towered above them—two or three times the height of a man. It was nothing more than a sculpture of a man’s head. But it was no ordinary man. It had obvious Mentor characteristics, but with a large nose and protruding eyebrows indicating great age. The cranium was also wide and elongated, but flattened on top, and the eyes were definitely focused on a point far beyond the horizon.
“Since no one has ever been here, we must assume these must grow wild in this land,” she said. His sweet ‘Bassu could often be very sarcastic.
Out of bewilderment, Phaxâd managed, “This has been carved too recently to be from before the Great Calamity.”
“Dear,” his wife offered. “This has been carved within the last few years.”
They circled the huge head in silence, both recognizing the igneous medium of the sculpture, and its inexplicable isolation. Phaxâd expanded his circle, and noticed something brown coiled up nearby.
“Look!” he exclaimed as he bent to retrieve the object. “I found a piece of rope.”
“And over here!” his wife responded. “I see a path with footprints, and impressions of rolling logs.”
“Let’s get back to the ship,” the captain decided. “We’
ll let Castor Thaxad take a look at this.”
Kupé returned with sixteen men and Commander Irawaru to the place where he had discovered the tracks. He had been scouting at the base of the mountain for a suitable place to erect his latest Mara’ma when he had seen the footprints. Whoever had made them were certainly not animals, and, if human, were not wearing any type of footwear he had ever seen.
The men scouted around the area and deduced that there had been two intruders, who had disturbed some rope and tools.
Handprints were discovered on the platform, and soon it was obvious that their visitors had climbed up and examined their monument to the Atua.
“They went this way!” a man by the name of Manu called out. He was the closest thing to a chemist in their community, and the men usually deferred to him unless Irawaru vetoed his suggestions.
The grasses were bent, indicating the recent passage of the strangers, and it was a simple matter to start the descent to follow the direction they had taken.
They reached a pool where human footprints (without footwear) became evident, and it was obvious that someone had been swimming here earlier that morning. Clear, wet steps went up the side of a small cliff, and other hurried markings and disturbed surface rocks indicated the more recent rush of feet around the cove hidden by the outcropping.
With unspoken commitment, the men began stalking their prey, following the two sets of prints through the sand and continuing towards the coast.
“Peleg, I think I can use you right now.” Whenever Captain Phaxâd began a sentence with ‘I think…’ it was known to be an understatement demanding an immediate and unquestioned response.
