The Secret of the Ancient Alchemist

by Yasmin Esack

  “The woman’s dead,” he heard through his haze.

  “Don’t move,” a paramedic ordered as Hart flung his hands about. He could sense the man’s fingers as he fitted a respirator on his face. Soon he was put into the back of the ambulance, headed to New Jersey’s EMSU, the Emergency Medical Services Unit.

  “He’s going into shock. Get the IV into him. He’s losing blood,” a paramedic said.”

  “Know him?” another asked.

  “Sure, he’s Dr. Hart, the man who talks about our inner realm of light. Hey, big guy, can you hear me?”

  “He’s not blinking.”

  “Can you hear me?” The paramedic shouted now.

  “Check his pressure.”

  “It’s falling rapidly.”

  “Can you hear me? Dr. Hart? Dr. Hart? Can you blink your eyes?”

  Two hours later, three doctors stared at monitors and gauges that were above Hart’s bed.

  “His blood pressure is low,” Dianne Rutherford said, in response to a query from another doctor. “There’s nothing more we can do but wait. The bullet struck his right leg and shoulder and he’s lost a lot of blood. Let’s move him to the ICU unit.”

  Outside, Julius Olsen swallowed as Hart passed by on a gurney near lifeless. He was unrecognisable, he thought. His long hair was cut and his clothes removed. A thin sheet covered his body. An IV tube was attached to his right arm and blood stained the linen he lay on. Olsen took a breath to compose himself but he couldn’t.

  “Bastards, bastards!” he shouted out with a fist in the air, feeling the urge to kill. And he would have if the shooter were anywhere near. He sank into a chair and started to cry. Wiping his tears with the back of his hand, he turned to a doctor holding out a cup of hot coffee.

  “Drink it.”

  Olsen struggled to speak.

  “Will he be Ok, Doc?”

  “He’ll pull through. There’s no point staying here. In a couple of days, we’ll know more. Go home. You can always call to find out how he’s doing but, right now, he’s off limits where visits are concerned.”

  Chapter 49

  Hart was aware he was somewhere. He kept slipping in and out of a bad dream. In the dream, a man was standing over him, his mouth a slit of profanity and mockery.

  “Is the Ethiopian looking for the gospel pages? Is he, Hart?”

  “Leave him alone,” his sub-consciousness replied.

  “Why ar’you making calls to him? Are you searching for the Secret Book of James and the Gospel According to the Hebrews?”

  Hart felt the man breathing on him now. He could even feel the suffocating stench of his breath.

  “Why are calling Tarafi? Answer me! You want to see him dead?”

  “No! No! No!”

  “Dr. Hart, Dr. Hart!”

  He could hear someone call. His eyes slid open and he felt restraining hands on him.

  “Calm down, calm down” the soothing voice of a nurse said. “You’re hallucinating. It’s the effect of the aesthetic.”

  Hart used the sheet on his bed to wipe the sweat from his face and tried to focus on the images around him.

  “You’re an amazing man,” a male doctor said.

  Hart blinked his eyes. The excruciating pain in his head was gone and all he had was a deep, weary feeling.

  “What happened to the lady?” he asked.

  “Angela Keller died. There was nothing we could have done to save her, I’m afraid. The bullet damaged her brain.”

  He looked out the window at rain clouds forming in the distance.

  “It’s my fault, she died. It’s all my fault,” he cried with guilt. His deep sadness erased the feeling of relief that he had survived. He didn’t know the woman but would often see her with her dog on Ashner Avenue.

  “We’re keeping you for a while,” the doctor spoke again. “Your leg has started to heal with one antibiotic treatment and some stitches. We’ve never observed such remarkable recovery before.”

  “I can’t walk, can I?”

  “You’ll need to rest for a while.”

  Chapter 50

  A week later, he was back home, free of pain but not of his on-going anxiety. He took a call from Olsen.

  “Maybe you should give up on these missing pages. What the hell’s going on, Tom?”

  “I’m being pursued by fanatics, nothing more. I’m not giving up. I won’t forsake the truth. Those six pages on matter say a lot about our life. We’ve been kept in the dark too long. How much do we know about ourselves? Someone came on earth to tell us about it in scientific terms. Imagine that! It’s unnerving for me not to have them.”

  “So, whad’re you going to do about them?”

  “I’m not sure as yet. We’ll talk more. I’m coming over tomorrow. I’m tired of being home already, and, don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

  Hart wasn’t thinking of his pursuer when he placed the phone down. It was of a telephone conversation he had had with Malaki Thoplikos of the Monastery of Simonopetra in Macedonia. Thoplikos had called to enquire of his condition. What Thoplikos had told him simmered in his mind. He’d expected the call. Thoplikos was an ardent seeker of truth, not that he questioned his faith. He was an academic with an inquisitive nature and a huge voracity for knowledge. His theological scholarship traversed the old world, extending back to the first century.

  “How much do you know of Mar Saba,” Thoplikos had said on the line.

  “Only that it’s a Greek Orthodox Monastery built in 483 in the West bank. It’s the oldest inhabited monastery. Like Simonopetra, no women are allowed, right?”

  “You’re right, Dr. Hart, but that’s not important.”

  “What is, Father?”

  “Well, you already know it was where Clement’s letter regarding the Secret Gospel of Mark was found. Mar Saba was a special place. It was founded by devout men, hermits who performed miracles.”

  “Miracles? Like what? ”

  “They healed the sick, for example. These are facts, not imagination I assure you. But, I also want to explain a few things about Greek Orthodox mysticism.”

  “The Hesychast system?”

  “I realized there were a lot of things I should have mentioned to you when you had visited Mount Athos but, of course, time didn’t permit and honestly, Dr. Hart, I’ve had some time to think about all that you that you said. Heychasts were mainly monks who believed that by prayer and detachment from materialism, one could see a mystic light which is the light of God’s essence.”

  “And, what do you believe?”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe but the question that has haunted me is, where does the light come from?”

  “As I’ve said, there’s a realm in us, a realm that comes from matter, a realm of light.”

  “I’ve been very uneasy since our meeting.”

  “I don’t expect you to accept what I say, Father. I don’t expect anyone to.”

  “Certainly, centuries ago, no one would’ve. Now, times are different. I’m aware of your study of gravity and dimensions and I commend you all for your hard work. Many people hated the Hesychasts. They were considered blasphemers. Hesychasm, contemplation in silence, actually has its roots in Egyptian monasticism. Gregory Palamas was a strong supporter of Hesychasm and the father of Palamism. He was a monk at Mount Athos. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You must have heard of Palamism?”

  “I have. It asserts that humans can become god-like. Palamism was also rejected by western Christianity.”

  “The thing is, a lot of people believe God’s essence is far way and absolutely unseen. It may not be that way at all. I must tell you that I’m truly fascinated by your pursuits, Dr. Hart.”

  “You are?”

  “I’ll tell you why. Palamas cited many examples of a supernatural presence on earth, like the burning bush that appeared to Moses, and the Light of Mount Tabor which he called the energies of God.”

  “He would
not have known about matter, would he?”

  “No, he would not have known. He was concerned with the energies of God, the essence of God, like the light seen in meditation. Palamas was supported by all the monks at Mount Athos in his time. He was highly regarded but he created quite a stir, as I’m sure you would too. There was a man called Barlaam, an Italian scholar, who attacked all he claimed, particularly the light seen in quiet contemplation. Barlaam was very annoyed by Palamas’s claim that it was the energy of God. Of course, to Barlaam, such a thing could never be and he gave Palamas a hard time, but, Palamas stood his ground as did the other monks at the monastery. The light is, of course, the goal of Hesychasm. I’m still not absolutely sure, but, maybe, we should be encouraged in the presence of all forms of matter.”

  “You should.”

  “Let’s go back to Clement’s letter, the letter that was discovered at Mar Saba. Clement was educated, influenced by Hellenistic philosophy, a man with keen interest in the esoteric. He had written many books being absorbed as he was in theology. He had one passion and it was to reconcile a kingdom within. In his letter to Theodore, he mentions that the mystery was discussed in the Secret Gospel of Mark.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “But, did you know Clement was an avid supporter of Hesychasm?”

  “Really?”

  “And, while Clement’s letter didn’t say much of the mystery, it seems he knew of it. I’m beginning to believe that Clement knew of the inner realm, but apart from the gospel, there’s no other document on it. That’s strange, isn’t it?”

  “I haven’t found any.”

  “You have introduced Science into an understanding of God. I think that is phenomenal.”

  “I didn’t. The Gospel of Mary Magdalene did. By the way, did you ever figure out who Theodore was?”

  “Theodore was a disciple of Clement. I don’t know much else about him, and, it seems, he didn’t receive his letter.”

  “Well, we did,” Hart chuckled.

  “I do hope you find the missing pages of the gospel and help us put an end to all the secrets.”

  “I want to thank you for your call. I’m not giving up hope of finding them.”

  “I wish you luck. Bye.”

  “Wait, Father!”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you tell me a little more of the miracles at Mar Saba?”

  “Apart from healings, the monastery founders prayed a lot when it was drought. Springs of water had appeared. Clement would have known of these miracles. That’s why he went there.”

  “Thanks, Father Thoplikos.” Hart had hung up.

  In a sense, he began to feel his mission coming home. He believed he would find the missing pages. The truth was close.

  Chapter 51

  “Sure you’re ok Tom?”

  It was a quiet Saturday morning at Lake Forest Condos in California. A cool breeze blew in from the Pacific coast.

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “You’re sure?” Hart’s weight loss was obvious.

  “Don’t fuss, Olsen.”

  “You didn’t spend much time recuperating.”

  “I can’t stay in bed and I don’t like being at home much. I’m good.” Sitting on a sofa, Hart stretched for the coffee in front of him. Chopin’s Nocturne played quietly in the background.

  “Man, you gave me a scare and a half. I’m glad the worst is over for you.”

  “I survived to find the missing pages.”

  “You really want those ancient secrets, don’t you?”

  “More than anything. You told me on the phone you had something you wanted me to see. What’s it?”

  “One sec.” Olsen walked to a room and returned with a painting. He placed it on an armchair. “This is The Dawning by French painter, Francis La Croix. Look at the date etched on it.”

  “Where?”

  “Look in the centre. Stand further back and you’ll see it better. La Croix was tricky.”

  “My God, you’re right. There’s a date marked on this.”

  “Do you know what it means?”

  “Obviously, a new age. I can plainly see the line-up of constellations in our galaxy.”

  “I always believed prophecy is possible. La Croix was an artist. How could he have known such planetary detail? Look at the new positions of Jupiter’s moons. This is the earth’s new dawn.”

  “Where did you get this painting?”

  “He gave it to me in Copenhagen at the Summit of the Environment. I forgot I had it.”

  “Marin hasn’t seen any changes in his seismic data. Seems to me that tremors are increasing in number and intensity worldwide. The date for the new age really isn’t that far away, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t, but, seismic reversal isn’t unknown and can happen at any time.”

  “Well, we’ll see.”

  “What’re you going to do about the gospel pages?”

  “Wait a bit. I need to find the French connection. Cathy Simpson, the Washington Post’s Science Editor, called me. I gave her a good description of the shooter and Tim Pearce, who’s a good friend of Marin …”

  “Tim Pearce?”

  “Yes. He’s a computer expert. Pearce managed to hack G.W.D Foster’s email.”

  “Foster? Who’s Foster?”

  “Foster’s a man in the US secret services and Pearce had a hunch he might be connected to the Brotherhood organization. Foster’s been trying to shut down abortion clinics and genetic labs for years.”

  “Coming to think of it, he’s after Dr. Bentley’s lab SARDS, the South American Research and Development Station.”

  “Bentley’s associate is John Steel, the geneticist. You shouldn’t be surprised that Foster’s after him. But, guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Pearce found two names in Foster’s email.”

  “He did?”

  “KD is a nickname for the shooter and the other belongs to a Frenchman called Michele LaPlotte.”

  “Really? I suppose you gave Cathy the names.”

  “She’s going to do sketches of the shooter and put them out. Hopefully, we’ll catch KD, and then, get a lead to Michel LaPlotte. He’s going to give me those missing pages. I know he has them. “Hart’s mood seemed calm, as if he knew that time was near.

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “LaPlotte doesn’t know we’re on his trail. He’s not going to destroy the pages. Besides, Cathy’s cunning.”

  “Wouldn’t he know at some point?”

  “He’s more concerned with killing me than hiding those pages.”

  “What do you know about LaPlotte?”

  “He’s the curator of the Louvre and he has a Jesuit ancestry. LaPlotte is sixty-three, accomplished in many ways apart from his knowledge of art. I don’t really know how he ended with the pages. The German dealer who purchased the gospel in Akhmim may have taken it to France for a second opinion. The pages were probably torn and ended up in LaPlotte’s hands eventually.” With a weak left knee, Hart hopped to a window and looked out. He turned and raised his hand in the air to make a point but, as if daunted by what was happening to him, he let it drop to his side. “LaPlotte will be caught,” he said calmly. “He’s probably so full of himself believing he’s infallible. I’ll wait.”

  “Are you hungry, Tom? I’ve got some pizza in the microwave.”

  “No, I’m good.”

  Olsen was saddened to see Hart so quiet, so lacking his forthright self. He had certainly gone shades paler and while the sharpness of his mind lingered, he could see that Hart was a broken man. But, there was nothing he could say. It was better to let it be. The trauma of his past days seemed to weave in and out his consciousness.

  “Did you get anything on the strange writings we found at Yale library, Olsen?”

  “Yeah, I got something.” Olsen pulled a note from his desk with the words, Zama zama ōzza rachama ōzai. “It’s alien writing. It means the mystery which is beyond this world. Tablet writi
ngs Bentley found in Peru bear similar etchings.”

  “How authentic are these?”

  “Xenolinguistics isn’t unknown. In the sixteenth century, John Dee and Edward Kelly claimed angels sent them a language. Alien abductees have reproduced alien writing under hypnosis.”

  “The mystery that is beyond this world, you say?”

  “That’s what the words mean. I believe it’s the reason for Magdalene’s declaration: How could such a thing be, mentioned in the Gospel of Mary Magdalene.”

  “Maybe. We’d never know for sure. What about the Inca date?”

  “I want to review the data before I say anything.”

  “I suppose you want to be absolutely sure.”

  “Yeah, I do. You know me.”

  Hart glanced at a clock on the wall. “I better get going. Cathy Simpson might pay me a visit later this afternoon. I want to talk to her.”

  Chapter 52

  At home again, he sat with a book trying to shut his mind off from all that surrounded him. Hart was reading a book on ancient peoples and cultures, wondering why gods were relegated to mythology. He didn’t think they were mythological at all.

  The Mayans had a God of Thunder and thirteen creator gods. Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec god, was flaunted as a feathered serpent but he had many forms, including human ones. The Chinese deities, Nuwa and Fuxi, were creator gods who fashioned Man from. The African god, Adroa, was a sky god, a god on earth and a creator god. These gods were considered links to a supreme God whose presence no one saw. Were all the ancient peoples of the world filled with imagination? He didn’t think so.

  His dinner of duckling in orange sauce was in his oven and an avocado salad lay in the fridge but, he didn’t feel very hungry. He turned to the sound of his doorbell. Opening it, he saw Cathy Simpson, Washington Post’s Science Editor. He looked at her and smiled, noticing little else, not even the man who was back in his hedge.

  “The sketches of the shooter are done and out to every newspaper, Dr. Hart.”

  “That’s great news, Cathy. I hope we get an ID on him soon.”