by Scott Hunter
A group were standing together, slightly apart from the others, at the far end of the portico. Beside them on the paved surface was an object Dracup immediately associated with something he had seen before in Ethiopia: an Ark – not a Noachian Ark, but a container, like the fabled Ark of the Covenant. Two poles ran along its length to facilitate transport. But the central box was not chest-shaped; it was longer and shallower. Dracup’s heart began to hammer slowly and forcefully.
Surely not?
Jassim was watching him carefully, leaning on his staff. “Kadesh has done you a great injustice. It is only right that you see.” He said something to one of the attending Korumak, a striking young man with flawless brown skin, as tall as Jassim himself. His son or nephew, perhaps? The youngster stepped forward and carefully, reverently moved the covering aside. Four of his friends joined him at each corner of the box. At Jassim’s signal they bent and gently opened the lid.
Dracup stepped back.
I’m not ready for this.
And then he realised, –I’ll never be ready for this.
He took a deep breath. “You moved him. He wasn’t in the ziggurat’s chamber. Was he?”
Jassim’s eyes reflected pinpricks of turquoise light. Dracup saw in their depths a wisdom that spanned the centuries. “You are correct. We transferred him to a safer location.”
The lid had been placed on the floor. Natasha looked up at him. “Can I see? I’ve seen him before.”
Dracup swallowed. “Of course, darling. Of course you can.”
And then he looked into the open sarcophagus.
For a moment all he could see was a shifting translucence, an indistinct outline, as if he were peering into a frozen pond in the depths of winter. Presently, the shape of a man began to form, the features swimming in and out of focus like some cleverly contrived trompe l’oeil.
“You have to wait, Daddy.” Natasha squeezed his hand. “Just keep looking.”
The veil lifted. Dracup caught his breath. There, in the box, lay the body of a man. He was naked, muscular, extraordinarily big. Dracup estimated at least three metres. The face was shockingly young, the eyes closed as if in sleep, the mouth set in an expression of profound peace. His hair was shoulder length, jet black with no trace of grey.
“I like him, Daddy. He looks kind.”
“Kind, yes.” Dracup regarded the handsome features, tracking down from the noble head to the torso. He paused here, and smiled. The stomach was smooth, devoid of umbilical depression. The genitals were large and well proportioned, framed by strong thighs supporting the astonishingly long legs.
I’m looking at the start of it all. The seed of the human race...
Dracup thought of Potzner and his obsessive quest for immortality. He thought of his friend, Charles, lying cold in some indifferent pathology lab. He lifted his hand and placed it on the surface of the material enclosing the body. It had an unexpected warmth to it, a pliancy he had not expected. Under his fingertips it was the shifting colour of a river, blue and green, then grey and flecked with white. A substance unknown to science. Something created, like its contents, ex nihilo.
He realised he was holding Omega tightly, caressing its ancient contours. He wanted to understand the connection – that there was a connection, he had no doubt. He untucked Alpha from his belt and held out both artefacts to Jassim. “These belong to you.”
“I am indebted,” Jassim replied with a slight bow, “as are all our people. Your family’s involvement in these matters has come full circle.” He slotted Alpha and Omega together and raised the staff aloft. “Do you see, Professor? You have returned the two sections of the headpiece for this, the original staff.”
“You mean –”
Jassim held the staff aloft. “It belonged to Adamah; he cut it from the tree before he was expelled from the garden. The headpiece was crafted by Adamah himself, in the early days of his kingship – a symbol of his dominion. But after he fell from grace he fashioned the staff and set the headpiece upon it. God became angry; He divided the sceptre and named the sundered pieces Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, to remind Adamah that he was now mortal, and only God himself was eternal. To Adamah’s sons he gave the two segments. Eventually they were parted, one to Africa, the other remaining with Noah and his descendants. You may read of these events in our scriptures.”
Jassim went on. “You entered the garden of beginnings. Not many have walked where you were permitted to walk. Again, it is in His providence that you followed in Adamah’s footsteps.” Jassim bent and placed his hand on Natasha’s head. “It was for this little one, for her healing.” He smiled down at the girl. “But the life conferred by the tree is a life forbidden to Adamah and his children in these days. In time it will be different, but that time has not yet come.”
“In time. . . ” Dracup felt light-headed. “Please – please, go on.”
“Angels once guarded the portals of Eden, but I am permitted to allow entry to the garden in rare circumstances. Many have attempted to find it and failed. Were you to look for it now, it would remain hidden. It is ‘off the map’, in your colloquial English. Yet within its wastelands, as you have seen, there is life in an abundance the world cannot imagine. One day that life will be revealed in all its fullness. That which the human race lost millennia ago, it shall have again.”
“And that is what Noah’s children, the Korumak, wait for?”
Jassim’s eyes twinkled. “That is what the world is waiting for, if only it would open its eyes. Do you see? Now that Alpha and Omega are reunited, the end is closer to the beginning. This accords with our prophecies, of which you, my friend, have become a part.” He elevated the staff, and the headpiece cast its cruciform shadow on the ground at Dracup’s feet. “The world will hear His voice again, even as you have heard it, Professor Dracup.”
“But where will you go?” Dracup asked Jassim hoarsely. “Where will you take him – Adamah?”
“There are hidden places,” Jassim said softly. “God has ordained that there will always be a home for the Korumak Tanri. Until the end.”
Farrell was at his shoulder. “We have to move, gentlemen.” He took Dracup aside. “Listen, Prof, I’ve handed this over to the mainstream peacekeeping force. They’re moving in to clear the place out. They’ll burn the jihadis out like an ants’ nest. You don’t want to be here when it happens.”
Dracup could not tear himself away. He looked once more into the face of the first man, fixed the image on his retina as the lid was closed and sealed.
Led by Jassim, the Korumak began to file silently towards the Great Passage, melting away from the place of the fountain. Many were women, as evidenced by the face-concealing hijab they wore. Dracup felt a pang of longing. Where was Sara? And then he saw the gesture, a momentary hesitation as she looked back. Their eyes met for an instant in a fragile spark of valediction before she too faded from his sight.
He craned his neck as the Chinook lifted above the Tell and turned to the north, but of the Korumak there was no sign. Marines were scuttling away from the area, Humvees burning a line of departure in the sand like scattering beetles. The Tell receded but Dracup kept it in sight, wanting to see the end. A line of black dots zeroed in, a swarm of destruction. Orange flames blossomed into the sky, followed by a pall of smoke that eventually obscured the Tell from view. He whispered to Natasha, asleep in his arms: “We’re going home now, darling. Everything’s all right. We’re going home.”
Towards the east a scattering of clouds was gathering. Dracup watched the formation coalesce as a zigzag of white lightning cut the horizon in two. He rested his head against the padded seat and closed his eyes. The Chinook flew on, into the eye of the coming storm.
The End
About the author
Scott Hunter was born in Romford, Essex in 1956. He was educated at the now sadly defunct Douai Abbey School in Woolhampton, Berkshire. His writing career was kick-started after he won first prize in the Sunday Express short
story competition in 1996. He combines a career in IT with a parallel career as a semi-professional drummer. Where he fits in the writing is anyone’s guess. Scott lives in Berkshire with his wife and two youngest children.
For more information: http://www.scott-hunter.net
Top
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
