Jason pulled the helicopter up above the roof line and eased the stick forward.
Once they’d cleared the city and were over the waters of the Mediterranean, Jason brought the chopper low, hoping to keep off radar.
“I hope we have enough fuel for this,” he said.
12
History of the Soul
“Really?” Gwynn asked. “Die? Is that all?” He looked to Adrastia. “What are you playing at? Are you trying to give me the power to defeat Cain, or make me some kind of sacrifice?”
“Anything worth doing comes with risk,” Marduk said. “Especially when it involves power. Kingu, who you call Cain, has achieved a level which cannot be given—it must be earned.”
“What about you?” Gwynn asked Adrastia. “Are you staying for this?”
“I can’t come with you, that’s the whole point of asking Marduk. But I will wait here in the shop.”
“You’re sure about this?” Gwynn asked.
“I wouldn’t have brought you if I wasn’t. Too many variables have changed, and I won’t take any unnecessary risks with you. I can’t afford to take anything for granted—the world I knew will never exist again.”
Adrastia turned her attention to Marduk.
“I give you my most precious friend—don’t make me regret it. In the meantime, I’ll get some food and tea.” She shot a glance at Marduk. “You never had the best of tastes.”
She turned and walked out of the shop without glancing once more at Gwynn.
Almost a full minute passed after the door slammed when Marduk let out a huge sigh.
He shook his head but wore a smile.
“She can be terribly frightening when she wants to be,” he said. “I’m sorry if my bluntness frightened you. But you must know the Veil is a treacherous place and needs to be treated with great care.”
“I’ll do my best to trust you. But I sort of have issues after dealing with my grandfather,”
“Yes, I suppose you are justified feeling that way. But then, if you know anything about mythology, you should know most Ageless Ones have issues with family.”
“You?” Gwynn asked.
Marduk laughed.
“Well, I suppose you could say that. My story tells of my going to war against the primordial mother of the gods, Tiamat—”
“But that’s what you called Adrastia. Does that mean she’s…”
“My mother or grandmother?” Marduk said. “No, not in any genetic sense. Myths were born based on observations. Tiamat certainly seemed to be the oldest and most powerful of the gods. She held a mother-like sway over the true progenitor of our kind.”
“Mother-like sway…?” Gwynn’s eyes widened. “Cain? Or…Kingu, you called him? He’s your father?”
“Great-grandfather, actually. He sired Zeus when he went by the name Kronos. Even Woten could find your Cain in his bloodline if he bothered to look. Woten thought Anunnaki began due to the Veil suffering damage from the ones he called “The Catalysts.” You and Cain, apparently. But he was wrong. Anunnaki exist because of a bloodline that predates recorded history. The closer each bloodline was to the source, the more likely they were a Script or an Ageless One, or both. The ability thins over generations.”
“But then there should be thousands, maybe even millions, of people with our abilities.”
“Many have the latent gene. Mister Takeda discovered this in his experiments. His formula forces the gene into remission. And the antidote awakens it, even in people who otherwise would never become Anunnaki. Truthfully, there were more of us through the years. Wars claimed some, treachery others, and not a small number chose to end their lives. Sometimes, eternity can prove to be too long.”
Gwynn traced a line along the counter’s dusty surface—imagining millions of dots connected to it, branching away from it, but all eventually returning to one source.
“So in a way, that would mean every Anunnaki is related to me, wouldn’t it?” he asked.
Marduk’s eyebrow raised.
“What should really confuse you is it means you are your own great-great-grandfather—give or take a couple of greats.”
“I feel sick.”
Marduk patted Gwynn’s back.
“That’s fine, but please find an appropriate place. Many of these books are irreplaceable.”
He moved behind the counter and lifted the watering can, resuming watering the plants where he’d left off.
Gwynn’s hand began to ached where he gripped the counter—as if it was the only solid object left in the world preventing him from falling into oblivion. He forced himself to breathe in a normal rhythm and slowly lifted his fingers from the surface. He didn’t pull his hand away at first, just left it hovering above the counter in case he needed its solidity once more.
When he’d finally risked putting his arm at his side, Marduk lowered his watering can.
“So, are we ready to begin?” Marduk asked.
“I’m just…still processing it. Woten was so sure. He told Sophia and I the story of how me awakening here, and Cain fully awakening as he crashed through time within the Veil, caused everything. I mean, it injured the Veil in such a way it birthed Anunnaki to heal it and maintain balance. It led to the Tears that allowed monsters into the world. Every dark thing was our fault. Even the worlds dividing, people being made…incomplete…was our fault. That’s why he used me to try and undo it all—to unite the worlds into a single whole. He’s supposed to be so wise, how could he get it so wrong?”
“He did not get it entirely wrong,” Marduk said. “The Veil is the center of everything—all the worlds, even time. The conversation Adrastia and I just had in the Veil, it now lives there forever. If someone knew where to find it, they could watch that conversation a thousand years ago or a thousand years from now. If any person were able to investigate the entirety of the Veil, they could observe the comings and goings of Anunnaki over millennia. But it’s too big a place. So Woten saw some things, observed further, investigated more, and then put together a hypothesis to explain what he had discovered. The problem is, he based it on the smallest fraction of possible information and then added a healthy dose of personal bias. We, the Anunnaki, are the chosen ones. We are not the result of lineage, we are granted a destiny by the power of the true God. If you start with that as your one unshakeable truth, it is not difficult to reach the same conclusions Woten did.”
“But you were there,” Gwynn said. “You were close enough to Cain to know it was his bloodline that gave you powers.”
“Yes, which is why it is my truth. My statement that all Anunnaki come from Cain is based on my own personal bias. Because of my experience and observations, I created my own hypothesis. But I have never investigated the family tree of every Anunnaki. I could be wrong as well. Perhaps the truth is somewhere in the middle.”
“Then why tell me at all?”
Marduk snapped his fingers and pointed his index finger at Gwynn’s chest.
“Why indeed?” He wagged his index finger at Gwynn for emphasis. “So you understand the truth is rarely as clear as we believe. Truth can be very personal. What I think is true may conflict with your truth. If you refuse to believe my truth, it can never be yours.”
“Truth can’t be flexible,” Gwynn said. “I mean, if a man commits a crime, that is the truth, regardless of what he says.”
“A good analogy. So let us say the authorities accuse a man of murder. For argument sake, we will say he did, in fact, commit the crime. But during his trial, the prosecution is incapable of proving he committed the crime beyond a reasonable doubt. The victim’s wife believes in her heart the accused is innocent. She knows others who gained more from her husband’s murder than the accused. And so, when the prosecution fails to prove his guilt, she feels vindicated in her belief he is innocent.”
“But the truth is he did the crime.”
“That is his truth, and perhaps we could say that is the truth the Veil knows. But for her, in her life, sh
e lives with a different truth. Once the accused is found not guilty, she launches a vendetta against the ones she truly feels are guilty. In her pursuit, she ruins their lives, forcing them to commit suicide. She feels vindicated having delivered justice. She dies never knowing anything different. Regardless of one version of the truth, she knows only her own.”
“So there can be truth, but it doesn’t matter what it is if we live in ignorance of it?” Gwynn asked.
Marduk’s mouth broadened into a smile.
“Yes, precisely. I tell you this because what I am about to show you, and the challenges ahead—you will only succeed if you choose your truth. In the Veil, someone else’s truth is meaningless. To survive, and to seize your power, you must have the courage to forge your path and ignore the temptation to wander paths made by others. You will face your soul. But it is not your soul alone—it has been shaped by Cain’s actions as well. But it still belongs to you—find your own truth and meaning or you will never be able to harness its true potential.”
“My own truth…”
Even if truths were as malleable as Marduk suggested, wouldn’t it mean you had to know your truth in advance.
What is my own truth? Will I even know it?
Marduk reached out his hand.
“You’ll need to take my hand for a while,” he said. “Initially, we will have to travel part of the Veil sheltered within my own soul. Once we reach our first waypoint, we’ll be able to separate for a while. And then, the true test will begin.”
Gwynn took Marduk’s hand. Within seconds, he felt like he was drowning in an icy ocean. Cold surrounded him on all sides, pouring down his throat and seeping into his every pore. He struggled, trying to shake loose the invisible hands choking the air from him. Marduk’s grip tightened.
“It will be over soon,” he said.
Gwynn gasped.
He greedily gulped at the air, though he didn’t feel the same satisfaction as breaking the surface after being underwater too long. He couldn’t even be sure it was air filling his lungs and keeping him alive. Cold no longer choked him, but a permanent chill clung to his flesh.
They were in a room with featureless white walls, floor, and ceiling.
“Is this the Veil?” Gwynn asked.
“Not exactly. Right now, we are inside a bubble. My own soul is acting as a barrier, protecting us from the Veil. That is why we must maintain contact with one another—it is the only way for me to keep your own soul from claiming you. Those of us who have mastered this technique refer to this space as the White Room.”
“Not the most creative name.”
Marduk chuckled.
“Well, with the amount of work it takes to create and maintain, you will forgive us for not having more artistic impulses with naming. We leave it featureless because it is easier to maintain, even with the conflicting emotions and impulses of another person. Adrastia can make her room larger, revealing doors which lead to all possible worlds.”
“Will I learn to create this space?” Gwynn asked.
“Perhaps, but I doubt there is much practical use for you. There is enough for you to master already.”
Marduk turned and pulled Gwynn’s arm to make him follow.
“Before the truly difficult things, I would like to show you a unique place within the Veil. In the entire vastness of this space, it is the one place where any Anunnaki—should they be able to find it—can walk without fear. It is a sacred place, a repository of knowledge both old, current, and new. It is safe because every soul can, and at some point must, access it.”
“Is it far?” Gwynn asked.
“It could be two steps or a million. Distance holds no meaning in this place. It is infinite in size, yet smaller than a grain of sand. How big is all the space between physical existences? It is not a matter of distance, rather a matter of sensation and desire. We are beings rooted in physical space and time—we perceive time and distance in the Veil because we force our perspective on it. But in truth, there is no distance, no scale, no time. Everything is here, now, and no further than the spot you occupy. When we leave this space, we could feel a thousand years have passed, when in truth only a day has passed.”
Gwynn thought they’d been walking for some time. But as he reflected on Marduk’s words, he questioned if that was true. Hadn’t they just started walking? Or maybe they’d never walked at all. Perhaps they’d moved their legs, but remained in the same spot.
Ahead of them, a dark speck appeared in the wall. As they came closer, the features of a door shifted into focus—a single door, a Frankenstein thing, cobbled together from different materials. At some point, it might have been made of wood, but time had ravaged the original material, rotting it away, and necessitating replacement with pieces of metal, plastic, and others Gwynn couldn’t identify.
“Why not just replace the whole door?” he mused out loud.
Marduk smiled.
“Because the door, like the place beyond, represents doors of all times and places. Even the parts which appear all wood, if you look closer, are constructed of different woods, with varying grains. The materials have not been added over time, the door has been this way from the beginning. But then, there is no door here anyway, it is nothing but your mind’s interpretation.”
With his free hand, Marduk took hold of a cast iron ring on the door, twisted it, and pushed the door open.
Once they’d crossed the threshold, Marduk closed the door behind them and released Gwynn’s hand.
“Welcome to the Akashic Records,” Marduk said, sweeping his hand out to indicate the space.
Gwynn’s body went slack. Since his awakening as an Anunnaki, he’d been told of the Veil’s vastness. He thought he understood the concept—envisioning prairies where open space expanded in all directions. But a sense of empty, open, space couldn’t compare to seeing a library with shelves the height of skyscrapers, stairs twisting at differing angles in all directions and heights, and all along an endless hall. The entirety of the hall’s ceiling consisted of glass, showing a sky unlike anything Gwynn could’ve imagined. Night, day, and dusk all seemed to blend in a gradient across the space. Constellations shone with such intensity and uniformity, he imagined each star was a glowing orb he could capture in his palm.
“I’ve never seen a sky like this before,” he said.
“You couldn’t,” Marduk replied. “The stars over your head are those which have died, ones living now, and more yet to come. You’re looking at the dawn, dusk, and night of every sky our world has seen, and each we will see in the future.”
“What’s that?” Gwynn asked. He pointed his finger toward a single burning star, isolated from the others. Unlike the rest, it didn’t seem to be an orb placed in the sky—a tail of fire streaked behind it, a picture of a body in motion.
Marduk didn’t bother to look where Gwynn indicated, he just nodded his head knowingly.
“It is Lucifer falling from Heaven,” he said. “At least, that’s what Adrastia told me when I asked.”
“And you believed her?”
Marduk shrugged.
“When you have lived as long as I, it becomes easier to believe such things. You know the rule, I assume?”
Gwynn smiled, nodding his agreement.
“All myths have some basis in fact.”
“And so that ball of fire in the sky, regardless of what it truly is, forms the basis of Lucifer’s fall.”
“There’s that word again…truth.”
“Yes!” Marduk laughed. “I did say you would face it often in this place.”
Gwynn turned in a semi-circle, regarding the walls of books.
“So what is all this, every book ever written?”
“They comprise part of the records,” Marduk said. “But the more interesting books are the autobiographies.”
“Really? What, is there an extensive section of the world’s famous people?”
Marduk grinned.
“Oh, I suppose you could say that
,” he said. “Though I guess it depends on your definition of famous. You see, every person in the world is represented.”
“Every person?”
Marduk nodded.
“It is a…large section. This is why we often refer to a person’s life as their story. Once you learn to enter this place and search its archives, you can find your own story, read about your exploits, reflect on who you are. The more interesting part is an index in the book, which links you to all the lives which have been connected to your soul aside from your current self.”
“How could you find anything in this place? It would take years just to walk from one end to the other.”
Marduk ran his finger along the spines on the shelf. They’d been blank before, but his fingers seemed to remove a layer of dust, revealing titles below. Gwynn noted this wasn’t accurate as the titles were far longer than the width of Marduk’s fingers.
“You don’t find the books,” Marduk said. “The books find you. An efficient system provided you know what you are looking for.”
Marduk sighed.
“There was a time when there were many hallways branching off this main one. The knowledge from just one world was incredible, but from billions…Since the cataclysm of seven years ago, most of those hallways have simply ceased to exist.”
“As if they never existed?”
Marduk placed his palm against a group of book spines. A rush of titles spread out, filling the spines of hundreds of books.
“Before, I could touch this shelf and the lives of a million Marduks would radiate for miles.” Marduk’s voice sounded thin and distant. “Now, there is only me. I’ve lost all those lessons others learned, all the possibilities they explored. I can only know who I have been and what paths I chose to follow.”
He pressed his forehead against the books and exhaled raggedly.
After a minute, he raised his head and stepped away from the shelf. As his fingers lifted from the books, the titles collapsed toward the final place of contact and disappeared from sight.
Marduk motioned toward the shelf.
“Give it a try,” he said.
Gwynn took hesitant steps toward the shelf. He reached out but stopped his hand an inch from touching the spines.
Resonance 4th Edits - Bleeding Worlds Bk 3 Page 14
