by Yasmin Esack
The heat of the day was rising when he entered the Seismic Research Observatory in the Bronx, yet he shivered in the stark coldness of the seismic processing room. Monitors poured out data from many states and seismographs ran the length of the carpeted floor. The phone rang constantly.
He caught a glimpse of Marin in the distance. Marin was engaged in conversation as he approached.
“Have you checked the seismographic readings on the EPGZ yet?” Marin’s assistant, Ted Thompson, asked.
The EPGZ fault line was responsible for the Haitian earthquake and was similar to the California fault line. Not something Marin was happy about.
“No, I haven’t, Ted.”
“Looks like the zone will generate an earthquake soon. If that happens, tsunamis will be heading to San Onofre. The damned things will hit nuclear reactors.”
Marin put his coffee down and turned to the main Vax computers that received seismic data from across the globe. But, even in the extreme coldness, he could feel heat rising beneath his collar. It was definitely a fault line he needed to worry about.
“Are you going to give out any warnings?” Thompson inquired.
“Not yet.”
“I see,” he reacted, lowering his eyes. He wasn’t sure the decision was a right one.
Standing in the room, the men stared at the ominous seismic signs. Neither spoke. With a sigh, Thompson headed to the second floor.
Marin turned to Riley.
“Sorry, I couldn’t return your call.”
“When is everything going to calm down?” Riley was desperate for an answer but Marin shook his head.
“There aren’t any signs of seismic reversal anywhere. I can’t give you an answer, I’m afraid.”
Twenty minutes later, in a city of tall buildings, Riley held his steering wheel tightly to curb his anxiety heading back to his office. He was disappointed that Marin couldn’t provide him with the assurance he needed, that earthquakes would be no more, at least, not in the near future.
“I don’t know what’s going on anymore,” he cried.
At twenty-eight, Riley headed the Global Resource Division of the UN and was one of few persons to have successfully developed a technique to determine glacial loss.
“How are you?” A woman called out to him at the elevator door as he stood waiting to get to the sixth floor.
His head bent, Riley heard nothing.
“Ron!” she called again. “Are you deaf?”
“Sorry, Thelma, my mind was far away.”
He knew Thelma Dickson had eyes for him since they had met at a party last Christmas.
“You should try and relax, Ron,” she suggested as they both entered the elevator.
“Yeah, I guess I should.” Shy and lost for words, he fidgeted with his Samsonite case searching for something to say. “You look really nice today, Thelma”
“Thanks,” she said beaming. “So do you.”
‘Floor five’ the elevator’s automated voice announced, much to Riley’s relief. He always had a secret fear of women. Flirtatious types made him very nervous.
“Call me sometime, Ron. Take the pressure off your job a bit.”
“Sure, I will.”
Thelma sauntered past him in her high heels and suit. She entered her office and disappeared from view.
It wasn’t long before Riley sat in his chair and loosened his tie. He gazed at the Manhattan’s skyline, wondering if it would really all end in a cloud of smoke. Through the glass frame, he could see police cars and Special Forces jeeps speeding along East 42nd Street. He turned around as Agatha Stevenson knocked on his door and came in.
“Just heard. Someone opened fire and shot two people near Central Park. People are panicking, Ron.”
He ignored the matter. “Have you booked the hall for next Friday, Agatha? Are you sure it’s 3F, the only room where the air-condition works properly. We expect a lot of important people at this upcoming meeting.”
“People are clamouring for a man called Bentley.”
“Who’s he?”
“An archaeologist, I believe.”
“Don’t know him. This time I want everything to be done right, Agatha. This is a very important meeting.”
“Don’t worry so much.”
Riley wished he didn’t have to but things were getting out of control and there were too many questions and too few answers. His head was spinning.
“Has the agenda been finalized?”
“You’ll deliver the opening remarks and Mayor Ferelli is going to talk next about building codes.”
“That’s fine. Make sure the satellite equipment’s set up properly, not like the last time, okay? Anyone should be able to pick up this conference.”
“Yes, sure.”
“And, don’t forget the caterers and the flowers.”
As Agatha left, he turned and picked up a remote. He flicked the television on hoping to catch the news.
“Panic broke out on the streets of New York City today after a number of tremors struck the city,” an anchor read. “Crowds gathered at churches around the city to pray, some, to demonstrate. We have it live for you.”
“We the people of this country,” a man shouted on a microphone in Central Park, “would like to see Arthur Bentley. We know you’re working on an Inca date. We know you’ll be at a conference in Paris. We want to speak to you in person, NOW. Where the hell are you?”
Behind him, crowds carried placards bearing Bentley’s name. Many more chanted, “We want Bentley, we want Bentley, we want Bentley…”
Riley stared as a screen appeared with images of the archaeologist and Olsen. The images grew bigger and bigger as the crowds shouted, “We want the Date! We want the Date!”
He skipped the channel. Bentley’s face appeared again. It was another five minutes before the item changed.
“A genetics lab in South America called SARDS is to be closed after several cases of mutations have been reported,” he heard this time.
Riley doodled with a pencil on a notepad trying to curb his agitation. The whole world was in a big mess. Floods had worsened in Europe and the Far East to the point of chaos and the Maldives were just one of many islands to have disappeared under water. The Red Cross was running from one end of the earth to another and the UNHCR, the organization mandated to oversee refugees, was out of options. Brazil had moved millions of farmers off hillsides and had replanted them all. Solar powered cells were providing energy to Bangladesh and much of Africa. Hybrid electric cars were in and biofuel production had soared. While green economists counted dollars, Friends of the Earth and Green Peace pounded doors. Planet earth was in deeper shit.
“Damn!” he shouted as his pencil point broke. Flinging it aside, he snatched the phone and dialled.
“Hart!” he called out.
“I’m not deaf, Ron.”
“Listen to me, damn it. I need answers from you!”
“I already gave you the answer. Why aren’t you at the CDP press briefing? I’m here.”
“I don’t have time for that. Marin told me you’re taking two weeks off. You’re taking two weeks off? Why the hell are you searching for pages of an ancient text? You’re not going to find them anyway.”
“You’re so sure?”
“No one knows anything about the missing pages of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene. No one!”
“You’re quite an expert on ancient texts, Ron. What if I told you the pages are purposely being hidden?”
“By whom?”
“I’m going to find out. Someone in this wide world of ancient secrets is going to give me answers about who we are and where we’re going. Our inner realm is a portal to a new world. I know it is.”
“You…you are impossible, Hart!”
A couple minutes later, Riley banged the phone down. He grabbed a pill from a bottle of Excedrin and, with a wash of coffee, drowned the words he heard from Hart as Hart had ended the call.
Some things are beyond human endeavour.
A new age is coming. Be calm.
He shook his head. Hart can’t be right, he can’t be, he thought. He was really very tired of arguing with the young mathematician about Plan B, something that cost taxpayers billions and a plan Hart thought was foolish. He was even more irritated by Hart’s pronouncements of realms but not too many in the field of Science, including himself, would challenge Hart.
At twenty-five, he knew just about everything there was to know about natural dynamics.
But, he thought again, as he swung his weight in his chair. What if Hart was right about a new age?
Chapter 35
“We want answers now!” a woman shouted out on the pavement.
Hart stood a few feet away from the turmoil that was erupting on Greenwich Street. A crowd was pushing its way through the Center for Disaster Preparedness. People were panicking over the tsunami warning looming in the city’s air.
“Go home, stay indoors and be calm. That’s all we have to say at the moment, folks and thanks for coming,” Hart heard as he moved closer to the front door. The CDP officer who spoke stared passively ahead, ignoring the grunts and foul words of a very tense crowd.
“Tell us more!” Barry Dean, a resident, demanded.
“Calm down,” his associate, Gary Anderson, pleaded.
“All of my travel bookings have been cancelled this summer because of these tremors. He tells us there’s nothing to worry about. Doesn’t anyone have answers? Earthquakes are swallowing up whole cities in China. The world is facing collapse! People are scared.”
Barry started moving towards the podium.
“Hey, what ar’you doing?” Gary cried out now. “Barry, stop!”
He watched in horror as Dean grabbed hold of a CDP officer. The buttons of the man’s shirt fell to the ground. The sound of pockets ripping was heard as the Hispanic went flying cross the floor. People scattered for cover. Some ran out. Microphones and speakers tumbled everywhere.
The CDP officer scrambled to his feet and dialled a number. It was the New York Police Department.
“Look, just get here!” he shouted on the line. He sank in a chair in desperation and watched as eyes turned Hart’s way.
“Isn’t that the guy who’s always on TV, Gary?” Barry pointed.
“That’s him. What’s his name again? Hart, that’s Tom Hart.”
“He talks ‘bout a date for a new age.”
“You’re right.”
“Hey, everybody, this way!”
In a rush, people dashed to Hart.
Meanwhile, The Washington Herald’s Science Editor, Cathy Simpson, took it in from a safe distance at a corner of the room.
“That’s him!” She exclaimed.
“Him? What’s so special about him?” Another reported inquired.
“Hart has broken space-time barriers.”
“What d’you mean?”
“He found a dimension. He’s the only one who can tell us where we’re headed.”
Cathy’s eyes moistened with joy. She folded her arms across her chest and stared at the man she admired most. Hart’s arms were tucked behind his tall imposing figure as he looked at the approaching crowd. He had that air of detachment that told her he was on a mission. His expression was assertive, compelling, a brilliant man ahead of his time. She watched Hart grab hold of a microphone that spilled his way as the crowds surged toward him.
“My friends,” Hart spoke like a superstar preacher, “Be calm. I guarantee that all will be well. Please, believe me. No more tremors, no more wars and disasters. The time ahead is fast approaching when mankind will be free.” His words bounced off the walls of the solar-panel building.
“Tell us the date!” they demanded.
Hart stared at the expectant faces. The surly man at the front was uneasy, he thought. His eyes connected with his trying to calm him.
“My man, don’t be afraid.”
“Give us the damned date!” Dean retorted in anger.
Before Hart could say another word, Dean reached out and grabbed Hart’s coat. In the melee, Hart’s pocket watch fell to the ground and smashed to pieces. As he struggled with the crazed man, NYPD’s sirens pealed in the air. Hart felt the relief of his life as the man let go of him and disappeared into New York’s streets.
“Dr. Hart? Wait! What’s this date?” Cathy called as she ran towards him.
Hart didn’t hear her call as he made a dash for the NSA. Back in his office, he picked up the sheet of paper with the five odd words, staring at them again. The words baffled him. Were they connected to Magdalene’s vision mentioned in the Gospel of Mary Magdalene, he wondered again. Who could say what the words meant? Still, that didn’t preoccupy him as much as the missing pages of the gospel itself.
He rocked back in his chair with a pain in his heart. He had come so close to the truth of life but had merely tasted the fruit of human freedom. With his arms clasped behind his head, he pondered his move in a world of very few options. To think that so much was hidden for so long was unbearable to him.
“I want those pages,” he banged his fist on his desk. “Where’re they? Something must exist, surely.”
His eyes shifted from the carpeted floor to the piles of reports lying all over his desk as he thought of the roads he would have to take on his path to fulfilment. Frustrated, he slid his fingers through his hair, obsessing about the six missing pages of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene that deal with matter. Science was moving in the right direction but it would be many years before people got confirmation of the existence of other worlds, other realms.
He wanted answers now.
Chapter 36
St. Catherine, Egypt.
The monastery of St. Catherine stood at the foot of Mt. Sinai where Moses received the Ten Commandments. It was surrounded by a stone wall, inside of which stood many buildings rebuilt from their original constructions. Among those buildings was an acclaimed library of ancient texts.
Sweating from the heat of the day, Hart made his way to the Visitors Centre. There he was met by Father Stavros Anatoli. Anatoli was a tall, bespectacled man with a greying beard. The black robe he wore with a hood that covered his head made him appear mysterious. A silver chain bearing a cross rested on his collar. He was about fifty-eight, Hart reckoned.
“Hello, Mr. Hart,” Anatoli said in heavy tone. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’ve come a long way. I hope you didn’t find your journey too tiring.”
It was long Hart thought but he didn’t want to say that. “I’m grateful for your time, Father.”
“The Gospel of Mary Magdalene fascinates you, no doubt, Mr. Hart.”
“It does.”
“So, how can I be of use to you?” Anatoli led him to an adjoining sofa.
“I’m interested in verifying its translation. You told me already that you don’t have a complete copy.”
“I’m sorry to have disappointed you. I know you really want those missing pages.”
“Yes, I do.”
“The gospel was written in Greek and translated by the early Coptic Christians. Written Coptic began in the first century and it adapted Greek letters in addition to six from ancient Egypt. There were two main dialects, Sahadic and Bohairic.”
“Would the early Christians have missed anything in the translation from Greek?”
“Hardly likely, Mr. Hart. The early Christians had a sound grasp of Greek. One second, please.” Anatoli opened the text he held in his hand. “This is a translation of the Sahidic Papyrus Berolinensis as the gospel is also known by the scholar Karen King, from her book by Polebridge Press. The brackets in the text indicate gaps in the original papyrus that were filled in. As you see here,” he pointed, “[Ma]tter gav[e bi]rth to a passion that has no image because it is derived from what is contrary to nature.”
“Image?” Hart repeated. He recalled Leidman’s script said that matter gave birth to a passion that has no equal. He argued the point with Father Anatoli who responded.
“There are severa
l Coptic alphabets and translations may differ slightly.”
“A passion that has no image would be unseen.”
“It would be.”
“The dimensional world is certainly unseen. It makes perfect sense.” Hart smiled broadly, feeling encouraged by the translation and at ease in Anatoli’s company. He listed intently as the cleric continued.
“Mr. Hart, the teachings you claim this gospel gives would have been impossible to understand in ancient times. You must admit, even today it is. I must tell you the apostles complained of strange teachings as they did of Magdalene’s hierarchy.”
“It’s not strange. Science has shown that a realm is possible.”
“Science is a hard subject, not quite suitable for the broad masses, don’t you think?”
“But, we can’t ignore it. Natural forces impact on us and whoever compiled this gospel must’ve understood it. The broad masses need to as well. We can’t escape it. There’s no simple explanation for who we are.”
Anatoli smiled. The cleric’s eyes didn’t miss the zeal in Hart’s voice or the excitement in his face. His motivation was truly unparalleled, he thought.
“Your journey has been long, Mr. Hart. Would you care for some tea?”
“Thank you, Father. Yes, I would.”
Father Anatoli disappeared through a curtained door. Hart could hear the rattle of cups and spoons. Staring out, he saw a landscape that was stark and stony under a clear, blue sky. Yet, there was life in the barren land, like the Nubian Ibex, lizards and sparse grass. The monk returned with two cups of tea and sat.
“What do you think was said in those missing pages? I am intrigued by your interpretation of this gospel. So, please tell me.”
“It’s clear to me that the intention of this gospel was to inform of things unseen, the metaphysical elements of life. The pages would have said that the human mind doesn’t die but is guided by super consciousness.”
“And, you claim that it comes from within us, no?”
“Yes. What you call Holy Spirit is, to me, supernatural intelligence, intelligence that exists in an inner realm of light. And,…” Hart stopped. Anatoli seemed edgy and unsure.
