The Snare

by David A Ogunde

  “That would be my guess,” stated the commissioner. “And an important clue, as well. Perhaps these tablets speak of some kind of ritual. Or…” He paused in thought. “They might actually be the instruments of a ritual. Maybe these cross-cultural symbols are a key to unlocking the magic.”

  “Magic for what, though?” John wondered. “To call down rain? To ensure a happy afterlife? To encourage conception?”

  “Can we, please, not talk about this as if it’s actually real?” Kate’s hands were on her hips as she chided the men before her.

  Pierre looked up in confusion, and John rolled his eyes in anticipation of the dialogue that was certainly coming. They had had this argument before.

  “Magic is real,” Pierre countered stoutly. “At least, the idea of it is real enough. In fact, belief in magic has been one of the most important pillars upon which civilizations were established, unified, expanded, and even, technologically advanced, relatively speaking. However, if you are referring to the definition of magic as being manifested results caused by unseeable elements instigated by a ritual involving an exact formula of words or sacred items being performed, I certainly can’t argue on that point—I’m not a philosopher.”

  John tried to suppress a grin. In all his life he had never had a friend like Pierre before. He was the epitome of courtesy, kindness, and professionalism; but whenever his academic feathers got ruffled, you could be sure that an earful was coming.

  Kate knew it, too, and decided to change her approach. “I don’t deny the idea of magic, nor underestimate the importance of it to the people who built their lives around belief in practicing it. I just think that it would be more beneficial for us to differentiate between what’s true and what’s believed to be true.”

  In practicing the science of archeology, Kate’s world had to revolve around evidence and logic. If it couldn’t be proved, it couldn’t be stated as fact. And as long as she had been in the field, she had never found anything that proved that practicing magic ever yielded any direct results. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t given magic its chance to show up. In traveling the world, she and John had investigated altars were human sacrifices had been made; examined carved reliefs and painted pottery images of priests and holy ones performing rituals; dug up and categorized beads, sticks, stones, and bones which had been later deemed “tools for magic” by university professors. One time in Ecuador, they had even been invited to observe a modern-day shaman appeal to supernatural entities to bless a farmer’s crop. They listened respectfully as the shaman spoke aloud in his native language an address to the gods, and watched with interest as he meticulously used many items such as milk, thread, herbs, and chicken blood throughout the ceremony. But they just could not detect one shred of evidence that anything was happening which would ensure the fertility of the soil in any way.

  To Kate, the phenomena of believing in magic remained a mystery. There was no proof that magic existed, yet billions of people across history and time tied up their lives to it, including, perhaps, the ones that carved these tablets. But, in the end—she had learned—just because many believe something doesn’t make that a guarantee that it’s true. And she was not going to allow the trained, professional scientific historians before her to brush away logic in favor of the convenient “theory” of magic.

  As if reading all this in her eyes, and maybe he had, the commissioner simply nodded to acknowledge his understanding of her stance; and John moved to change the subject entirely.

  “Can you see anything else that might give us a clue?”

  “Not at the moment,” answered Pierre. He ran a tan be-ringed hand through his smooth, black hair. “I’ve never come across anything like this. In fact, if I hadn’t seen these myself, I quite frankly would not have believed in their existence. They break the mold in so many ways. For one thing, look at this writing. Carving cuneiform script into stone is unheard of and challenges the very definition of the method. The shape of each letter’s individual spokes is consistent with the shape of the cuneiform stylus that was used to impress into wet clay. Yet a stylus could not have been pressed into stone and leave a mark.”

  “Could the symbols have been branded on?” suggested Kate. “Maybe with a metal stylus that was heated?”

  “Symbols can’t be burned into rocks this intricately,” countered John. “There’s no basis for that.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” said Pierre, suddenly lost in another deep thought. “In the biblical books of Exodus and Deuteronomy, it is stated that God, Yahweh, wrote the famous Ten Commandments Himself upon the stone tablets. Based upon the surrounding context, some suggest that the original stones were actually slabs of unpolished sapphire, upon which God used a fiery finger to burn his holy text into the tablets. Interestingly, the same motion can be found more than a thousand years later when Jesus stooped to the temple floor and used his finger to write upon its stones.”

  Now, it was John’s turn to express his distress at the commissioner’s response. Knowing him to be a respected man of learning, he was not surprised at his friend’s knowledge concerning religious stories. However, it was shocking that he would use an unproven fable for the basis of his statement.

  “Are you insinuating that God wrote these tablets?” John tried to sound as respectful as possible for the sake of his friend, but a note of sarcasm couldn’t help but attach itself to the question.

  Pierre snapped out of his train of thought and straightened himself to his full professionally-dignified height. Kate couldn’t be sure, but thought that the color of his face seemed slightly pinker than usual.

  “I’ll trust you to know, Caldwell, that I am not suggesting anything of the sort. I was just alluding to the only example I know of throughout proven and unproven history where such a phenomenon might have occurred. You know as well as I do that in a thorough investigation, all avenues should be explored before being discounted.”

  “Alright, Pierre,” apologized John. “Of course, I know you are taking a very professional approach to this matter. We can leave ‘burning letters into the stone’ as an option on the table until evidence shows up that can prove otherwise. A few scans with your secret, high-tech lab equipment in the ‘dungeon’ should be able to help clear things up.”

  Small smiles couldn’t help but appear on the three faces hovering over the desk at the reference to the friends’ long-time inside joke. The commissioner had always been proud of the advanced equipment the museum had been able to obtain for researching their in-house artifacts, and was very protective of it. Only the few staff members trained to use it were even allowed in the rooms where the equipment was stored. In a playful manner, John had often suggested that since he had never personally seen the equipment, it probably didn’t exist; and Pierre was just beefing up his tech to make himself feel more important. The actual process of studying the museum’s artifacts, John insisted, was done in stone-walled rooms secretly located somewhere in the basement where several hoary, bearded men were using large magnifying glasses and dusty books to determine the artifact’s facts.

  The joke had gone on for several years, and John was pleased that the use of it now instantly diffused the tension.

  “Hey, here’s a thought,” Kate volunteered, eager to get their study of the mysterious cross-cultural symbols back on track. “There really can only be one logical explanation for these icons. They, somehow, had to have been influenced by ancient Egyptian, Chinese, and Sanskrit scripts. That may help us date it, as all three of these writings had to have been already in use when this tablet was made.”

  “The Chinese hieroglyphs would have been the youngest of the three,” said Pierre. “Their use is believed to have been implemented around 1200 B.C.”

  “So, we can narrow our cuneiform script search to what was primarily in use at and after that time and not before.” Excited by this new ray of hope, Kate reached for the open book on the desk and began quickly flipping pages to the right century.

 
“Wait.” John gently placed his hand on the book. “You’re forgetting something—the Mesoamerican icons. Now, I can allow myself to stretch that the Egyptian and Sanskrit-looking symbols could have made their way into Mesopotamia. And I can even stretch a little more to concede it’s possible, though highly unlikely, that a group of Chinese traders, perhaps, traversed the continent and, somehow, the knowledge of their written symbols was made known to these stones’ carvers. But in no way can I conceive of how a form of primitive writing from the Americas, which was basically non-existent to all other cultures, could have made its way to the other side of the world and into the hands of ancient Babylonian.”

  A heavy silence weighed down on the room as the three mentally digested his words.

  “What if…” began Pierre slowly after a moment. “What if the symbols are not based on ancient scripts, but are rather the basis of them? What if they represent a center from which the different symbols were branched out and developed?”

  “Impossible,” Kate and John stated sharply at the same time.

  “Why is that?” Pierre swiftly parried. “Didn’t you just confess to me not half hour ago that you had been in the desert looking for the very place from which human language went from one to many? Weren’t you out in that desert looking for the Tower of Babel?”

  “That’s just the myth.” Kate defended. “We wanted to find the tower, not to prove the myth, but to investigate what it really was. Could it have been the tallest structure in the world at its time? What date was it completed? Under whose regional authority did it sit? How and why was it built? How and why was it destroyed or abandoned? You know science stuff. Do you think the first outside explorers to reach the summit of Mount Olympus were expecting to actually find the home of the Greek gods up there?

  “I mean,” she continued with an edge of panic in her voice, “do you even know what you are insinuating, Pierre? The ramifications of that idea alone would tear up the very foundations upon which historical research is built. And everything that’s been determined and recorded as fact would have to be thrown out.” She glanced over at John for support. Of course, he agreed, but left the hysterics out of it.

  “Pierre, even you can’t deny the evidence that these specific ancient languages: Egyptian, Chinese, Mesoamerican, etc., which all began together and branched outward into the world would cause an upheaval far greater than the societal chaos that ensued when it was discovered the world was round instead of flat. Least of all, it would indicate that our history timeline of mankind—the growth of their intelligence, ingenuity, awareness of self, and awareness of others—would be much shorter, if it even allowed for that growth period at all. It would beg the question: Was mankind always self-aware and intelligent? And that, of course, is not possible.”

  “If it’s impossible, then, why are you so worried about it, my friends?” returned the commissioner before raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Look, I know all this, perhaps even better than you do, and I certainly don’t wish to cause a disruption. But just think about this: It is one thing to dig up clues to the past. It’s another thing entirely to force those clues to fit into the history we are determined to create. Remember, there are many more secrets buried in the sand than ever came out of it. And it is foolish to believe that what we think we know takes precedence over what really was.

  “Now,” he rushed on before his companions could interrupt, “I think we’ve done enough…uh… speculating for now. I’ll take these stones to my ‘dungeon’ for rigorous testing concerning their authentication and date approximation. I’ve got a new tech who is highly qualified in both research and discretion. While we’re waiting for her results, we can try combing through the archives. A lot of it has not been thoroughly studied. There may be ancient texts with similar features, or that even mention the existence of the tablets and what they were used for. Sound fair enough?”

  Kate and John exchanged a synonymous glance. To be honest, their discussion had left them both with high doubts now that the tablets were even real. There was just too much about them that couldn’t possibly be true. It was more likely that they were forgotten props from some movie or items designed for some kind of touristy scavenger hunt. And yet, there was one stark fact about them that they simply could not ignore.

  If they were fake, why was someone else so desperately trying to obtain them?

  One Week Later

  Chapter 21

  Sarah Mode stared in apprehensive puzzlement at her surroundings. The immense brick walls on either side of her rose into the air and played host to a distinct pattern of square towers of which no end could be seen. Protruding from the walls at various intervals were masses of lush, springy verge, whose delicate tendrils trickled down the bricks like gentle waterfalls. Emerald-hued, perfectly trimmed grass lay between the base of the verdant bulwarks and the brick path she stood upon. And springing up from the soft, green bed were luxuriant flowers which filled the air with a sweet, intoxicating aroma.

  Looking around her in disbelief, Sarah, who had studied pictures of this place for years, knew exactly where she was; and how impossible it was for her to be here. No one had seen Babylon in its entire splendor in over 2,500 years. Feeling uncertain, but inexplicably urged, she continued walking down the smooth, even path toward a goal she could not describe. As she moved, the sounds of distant splashing fountains and busy songbirds reached her ears, but she didn’t see either of them.

  Dusk was falling, and long shadows crossed her path, seeming to swallow up the very bricks before her. Hugging her arms around her for comfort against an unknown fear, she continued forward. Suddenly, an enormous gate soaring, at least, one hundred feet high appeared within her vision. As she got closer, Sarah could make out two familiar-looking reliefs of square-bearded men overlaid in gold glaring down at her with soulless, black eyes. Without warning, the eyes simultaneously snapped to the left toward an adjacent street which emerged out of nowhere like a seafaring craft in a fog.

  “Run!” Commanded a voice in Sarah’s head. She didn’t hesitate. The dull slapping sound of her sandaled feet matched the pulsating rhythm of her heart as she raced back down the way she had come. At once, a hot burst of air flew out from behind her. The hair on the back of her neck instantly rose, and she knew she wasn’t alone—something was chasing her. She dared not turn around, but continued forward at full speed, not even noticing how the vibrant branches of the walls’ overhanging plants abruptly shrunk back into themselves as she passed.

  Then, out from an obscure doorway reached a hand. It grasped Sarah’s arm securely and pulled her out of the street into a dimly lit room. Her eyes adjusted quickly, and she was able to see the familiar yet unfamiliar figure before her. It was a man with deep-set eyes and long, curled locks of brown hair. Draped about his shoulders was a tallit gadol—a lengthy wool garment adorned with thick, solid blue stripes and edged with knotted tassels.

  “Rabbi,” Sarah acknowledged as if she knew him, though she had never met this man before.

  “Shhh.” The rabbi touched a cautious finger to his lips before whispering, “I will show you what they do not want you to see.”

  Chapter 22

  Sarah awoke with a gasp. The rabbi’s face was still in the forefront of her mind.

  “Are you alright?” James Mode rolled over in concern. His wife hardly ever had bad dreams, yet for the last couple of weeks, it seemed like she was being barraged with them.

  “Was it that dream again?”

  Sarah nodded, then rubbed her eyes against the dawning light in the room—so different from the dark space she had just been hiding in. ‘No. I wasn’t hiding,’ she reminded herself. It was just a dream.

  Chapter 23

  There was a sharp knock from the open doorway, and James looked up from his office computer.

  “Knock, knock.” Derek Smith’s perpetually cheery face popped into the room.

  “Derek,” James stated with surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
He quickly stood as the manager strode in.

  “No, no. Don’t get up,” Derek said, waving his hand. “I was just out for a stretch and thought I’d drop by…” His words lagged as he scanned the office’s open space. The window wall behind the broad desk was brooding in shades of English-weather grey, offset by the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. Upon the creamy pastel walls were hung a few generic abstract prints—subtle enough to blend in, yet interesting enough to give the room character. Against one wall stood columns of metal filing cabinets; on another was a black leather couch. Derek’s eyes lit momentarily on a pocket-sized Bible on the desk near James’ computer mouse before he nodded to himself, finished with his silent appraisal.

  “Now, this is an interesting piece.” Derek noted a multi-toned carved wooden ark resting on a stand on the corner of James’ desk.

  James lifted the carving from the stand and offered it to him for closer inspection.

  “My, it’s heavier than it looks!” Derek bounced the twelve-inch-long, solid figure in his hand a few times before cordially returning it.

  “It’s carved from solid wood,” James offered. “It was gifted to me by my community before we moved here.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard a little about the work you had been doing for your country, Nakambwe - economic restructuring, health reform.” His eyes knowingly flickered to the back of James’ right hand where the small bump of his microbit protruded. “Heck, you pretty much changed your nation’s status from third-world to well on its way to first! I can see it now...,” he gestured to the ark. “Like a modern day Noah, you are—trying to save the human race from its own devastation.”