The Secret of the Ancient Alchemist

by Yasmin Esack

  Cathy chuckled. “Have you ever seen it?”

  “Science will soon prove it. Have you ever known that something will happen before it actually does?”

  “No.”

  “Lots of people have. And, have you ever dreamt of something and it happened?”

  “That’s just coincidence. Dreams are just jumbled rubbish.”

  “Problem is, your mind is blocked.”

  “You speak of us becoming gods a lot too. Why on earth would you say this, Tom?”

  Hart knew the question was coming.

  “Kronos, Aphrodite, Hermes, rule the cosmos. Zeus is fascinating. He rules our physical universe.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “You’re not going to be easy to convince, I see.”

  “What’d you expect?” Her dimples deepened with her smile.

  “Zeus carries a rod. The god, Hermes Trismegetus, and the Inca gods carried rods too.”

  “Zeus is a mythical being.”

  “His proper name is Chonbal and he’s described as a regent of the universe in a reliable ancient document. In other words, he may well exist.”

  “So, what about these rods?”

  “The rods were of ultra-supernatural matter.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Moses demonstrated it by parting the Red Sea.”

  “You really believe that, Tom?”

  “I do, just as I believe in the Philosopher’s Stone, a stone with alchemical properties. It was used to confer youth and bliss. Zosimos of Panapolis made mention of it, as did many. Matter can be supernatural and, so can humans. There’re many examples of supernatural matter there are in this world.”

  Cathy stared back blankly with a face that bore the same reluctance as before.

  “I can’t get you to understand anything, can I?”

  “If you stop basing claims on fantasy, I will.”

  It was becoming hot in Hart’s flat and with no fan, sweat emerged on Cathy’s forehead. Hart’s contentious demeanour didn’t do much to cool the heat either. He was overly passionate, she felt. Still, she wondered how a rational man like him could be so certain about elusive things.

  “Cathy, even Edgar Cayce predicted that an era will emerge when Mankind will be god-like. Our true essence will return.”

  “There you go again.”

  “You’re not going to accept anything I say. I can see that.”

  “I’m just not convinced.”

  “It’s easier to solve equations than to convince you.”

  “You can still try, Tom.”

  “I have tried.”

  “I still don’t believe we can be god-like, Tom. I just don’t believe it. It’s too far-fetched.”

  “Long ago, people knew the human mind could be influenced by universal intelligence. Avicenna of Persia embraced metaphysics and spoke of active intellect, sent forth from a creator. Maimonides, a highly recognized Jewish scholar, also spoke of active intellect. We need to recognize it and understand it. Newton also spoke of an active principle operating in the universe.”

  “But, you can’t find it. No one can.”

  “The gospel pages told us how to, Cathy! Don’t you see? Can you imagine what the ten missing pages say?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “I can.” Hart leaned back staring into Cathy’s face, a face framed by thick, glossy black hair. “Tell me something,” he said now.

  “What is it, Tom?” she replied, anticipation brimming in her light-brown eyes as she folded her long legs and arms.

  “What I’m about to say will end your scepticism once and for all.”

  “Well, well. Let’s have it.”

  “Do you know how many persons have had near death experiences?”

  “Lots, I guess.”

  “Many have reported seeing a bright light.”

  “I know.”

  “What if it were a space-time continuum?”

  “A space-time continuum?”

  “A portal to another world. The dead can reach it at once because matter travels faster than the light speed. It would take a spaceship hundreds of thousands of years to get to another world. It’s all about matter. Don’t you see? Don’t you see?”

  Cathy was silent as Hart continued.

  “Secrets were given to Judas, Mary Magdalene, Judas Thomas and others. The missing pages are our last chance to have them. It’s now or never.”

  “You’re obsessed with these ancient secrets.”

  “I am. The tea should be ready. I’ll go fetch it.”

  Chapter 58

  He placed cups of tea on a table and sat beside her. He thought of holding her hand but dispelled the idea. He wasn’t sure how she would react. But, he liked the feeling he had. Cathy brought feelings of warmth and cosiness to his home, something he’d never felt before.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” she said, her light-brown eyes brimming with anticipation again.

  “Do I have someone in my life, you mean?”

  Her face flushed. “Eh… eh, no.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “What’s your real mission?” She was fascinated by Hart and by now she was sure he knew it.

  “My mission is to awaken the human spirit.” Hart motioned to his phone remembering he had to make an urgent call to Marin. He stopped as Cathy spoke again.

  “Why risk your life for a couple of ancient pages, Tom?”

  He sighed now. Cathy hadn’t listened to anything he had said, far less believed any of it. It dawned on him that the woman possibly had ulterior motives.

  “Why were the secrets hidden from us, Cathy? Did you ever wonder?”

  She didn’t answer. In the creeping darkness, she caught the image of Hart she was more familiar with. It was a rigid. Hart’s axioms were precipitating, solidifying suddenly. As the candles continued to flicker from the air that entered the room, she knew she had lost him to his convictions.

  “Why’re you really here? Ar’you gonna write some spurious article about my warped sense of deliverance. Is that it? Tell the world of my misguided notions?”

  “Maybe, I should go, Tom.”

  “Don’t,” Hart said quickly as he recollected himself. “I’m sorry. Problem is, we’ve been programmed to chase after things, like robots.”

  “We must pursue our goals, surely.”

  “I didn’t say you shouldn’t, but do it sensibly and do something to make this world better. You’ll be rewarded. Something is listening to us.”

  “What?”

  “How else can we explain prophecy and phenomena? People see flashes of light in mindlessness.”

  “Flashes of light?”

  “Some people see them and some don’t. It takes time.”

  “Tom, please.”

  Hart rose taking back and forth steps while he spoke. “Those flashes are communication waves. We connect!” he shouted at her.

  “To what, Tom?’

  “A superior intelligence. Our mindless state is our biggest asset. It’s part of a massive cosmic link-up. We’re not wholly of this world.” He stopped his pacing. Sweat from the heat of the room poured on his face.

  “You’re not going to tell me you see angels too?”

  Cathy was mocking him now and he didn’t expect that from her. He said nothing more. The light came back on and the air condition was starting to filter cool air in the room. He shut the windows and sank in a chair feeling alone. Would the world ever listen, he wondered.

  Cathy, being an expert reader of body language, felt his mood.

  “I’m sorry and I know it’s just a matter of time before LaPlotte gets caught and you have those missing pages. I’ll do all I can to make sure of it, I promise you.

  It’s not that I don’t believe you, Tom, but people need time with this and I’m just psyching you out. Hey, you think the media out there is going to give you an easy time when you find those pages?”

  “And, I don’t care.”

&n
bsp; Ignoring his comment, Cathy looked at her watch. “I must be on my way, Tom.” As she raised her head, their eyes locked. She could feel butterflies flapping. She struggled hard with the feeling she had. It wasn’t going to be easy to dismiss Hart from her heart. She turned and started to the door. “Thanks for a wonderful time. I’ll call you as soon as I get news.”

  “I’m going to Peru for a shot while. I’ll be gone a week, maybe less.”

  “Peru?” she frowned.

  “Yeah. Got some things to check out there.”

  “Like what?”

  “The Inca gods came to teach us. I want to know what.”

  “Well, good luck, Tom, and thanks again.”

  He turned and opened his front door to let Cathy out.

  “What’s all this?” she questioned, stepping out and staring at the commotion taking place.

  Outside Hart’s door, police were everywhere. A man in his mid-forties was talking to one of them. The bullet from KD’s gun had struck the man’s windows sending glass everywhere. He had scrambled from his bed and, with great fear, had peeked outside. Below him, KD had stood with his AK-47staring up at him. In a dash, he had dialled 911.

  “A man is shooting at my home! A man is shooting my home,” he had screamed. “Please hurry. It’s Ashner Avenue. Yeah, yeah, the same place where the woman was shot dead. Look, this guy’s a serial killer. We have a serial killer on the loose.”

  “Stay calm. Help is on the way,” the dispatcher had consoled. “Please stay away from the window and lock your door.”

  Sweating, the man had knelt down on his floor and had started to pray. He had crawled out his room and made his way to the front door at the sound of sirens.

  Still hiding in the thicket of Hart’s hedge, KD heard his phone beep. He grabbed it thinking it was Foster. It wasn’t. It was a voice he didn’t recognize.

  “Got him yet?” LaPlotte shouted on the line.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Hello, hello,” the Frenchman called out again. “Have you killed Hart?”

  KD switched the phone off. He had heard the sirens in the distance and he knew if he had started to run he would’ve been dead already. He dialled Foster’s number now.

  “KD?” Foster answered in a flash, hoping for news.

  “I, I…” he fumbled on the line.

  “Is it done? Answer me!”

  “Something went wrong, Foster, very wrong and I’m in trouble.”

  “You bungling ass! What have you done now?”

  Chapter 59

  “How dare KD shut his phone on me? Idiot!” LaPlotte fumed, fearing the ancient secrets would be known.

  “I’ll burn those heretic pages,” he said, “and purge the world of demonic ideology and fantastic claims once and for all. Hart will rot in hell.”

  He knew he shouldn’t have made the call to KD but was desperate to know if Hart was dead. Laplotte stood at the Louvre’s damaged Medieval Base of the Dungeon, the sight of which distressed him more than KD did. The base, a cylindrical structure surrounded by towering walls, was built by Philippe Auguste to defend the Seine in the thirteenth century. From it, the Louvre was borne and it was of immense importance. It was popular with visitors as it gave them a chance to walk around the moat of the medieval fortress and pass to Salle Saint-Louis.

  Now it was cracked and LaPlotte despaired. His Jesuit ancestors must be screaming, he thought. It was here, before the crack of dawn centuries ago, that many were inducted in the Order of the Oath to annihilate disbelievers, the savages who perpetrated heresy. Today, it was the induction point of his order called the Brotherhood. Many members had military backgrounds as did its founder, Ignatius of Loyola.

  He sighed. It was at a meeting carded for the end of the month that a decision about destroying the gospel pages would have been made. It was too late to find another site. The meeting would have to wait. Even with powerful water pressure jets and many more restorers at hand, the task was never going to be completed on time.

  “Continue,” he said to his workers with a wave of his hand, heading back to his small office in the Cour Caree.

  LaPlotte felt pain in his leg as he climbed the steps to his office wondering how many more miles he would walk before his job was over and done. Catching his breath at the top of the staircase, he moved to his room. With an old Rudd key, he unlocked a safe and stared at the ancient pages of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene. He wiped his hands dry and, putting a pair of latex gloves on, placed them on his desk.

  “He who has ears to hear, let them never hear of these pages,” LaPlotte cried. “They’re hideous, an abomination of the sacred!”

  He switched his desk lamp on. The light made it easier for him to decipher the etched lines of the pages. With his nimble fingers, he arranged the pages in order. He grabbed a hand lens and passed it over page fourteen, a page he had left out on his desk earlier on. He came so close to the page that his glasses reflected the Coptic writing. A learned man in many ways, LaPlotte didn’t need to question the authenticity of the papyri. He did date the fragments and had chemically analysed the pigment. The translation he did himself, and, except for a few lines of faded words, he was sure of what he had in his possession. Neither did he need to question the identity of Mary in the gospel. It was Mary Magdalene, the woman of mischief who caused him much grief. Now, there she was in the ancient text seeking wisdom from the Lord and an explanation for a vision she had of Him in a dream.

  His phone rang now. He picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Mr. LaPlotte?”

  “Why are you calling me, Foster?”

  “Something went wrong.”

  “What do you mean? Is Hart dead, just like the fool, La Croix, who wanted to discredit our renaissance art? Why’d he call Rembrandt an ass for painting The Baptism of the Eunuch? It is exquisite, perfect. Mais Non, La Croix called it blasphemy.”

  “Be calm, LaPlotte.”

  “Calm myself you say? Hart wants to destroy my belief. I will not let him! Is he dead?”

  Foster exhaled. “He isn’t yet but I’ll take care of everything. I just called to tell you be careful. The police are now involved in this matter.”

  “Do not call me unless Hart is dead.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m waiting on your call, Foster.”

  LaPlotte switched his phone off and carefully put the papyrus pages away again. He glanced at his watch. It was better to head home, he thought.

  Chapter 60

  In his chateau on Avenue du General de Gaulle, he sat waiting on news of Hart’s demise. Except for a housekeeper and gardener who came by three times a week, there was no one else in his house. LaPlotte’s wife, a flirtatious socialite, had died young and childless.

  It felt quite hot that evening. His eighteenth century home had no air condition and he had to make do with a fan. Dressed in a brown silk gown, he sat in an embossed armchair and gazed out at his French garden which he cherished. The hedges were immaculately trimmed as it was for eons. The perfect, symmetrical parterres bloomed with bright flowers of marigold, tulips and asters. The lion fountain, his pride and joy, sat centrefold, its mouth wide and treacherous with water.

  His loneliness cheated him from enjoying the fruits of his ageing life. Still, he took comfort in the fact that heresy would become a thing of the past. He didn’t even worry about the missing pages for it was a foregone conclusion that they would never be found.

  His leg started to hurt again but the pain wasn’t as much as the pain that came from the documents he had in his hand. One was from the Journal of Archaeology and the other was The Naples Document. Both claimed that the writings of an Incan Jesuit cleric, Blas Valera, existed. Valera was a key person to the Spanish because he was half Inca, half Spanish. He spoke the native language and wrote Quipu. Valera documented many things. The most despicable to LaPlotte was that the Inca learnt nothing from the Spanish. They already knew Christian truths. Valera had been imprisoned many times for his radi
cal statements and may have been killed when he attempted to go to the Pope.

  “They should’ve killed the savage sooner,” LaPlotte said aloud.

  For years, LaPlotte feared Valera’s Quipu writings would be found. He gasped the day Arthur Bentley said he had. He had held discussions with the archaeologist about their authenticity. Bentley had indicated to him that the Inca had the ability to prophesy and heal and that Olsen had decoded Valera’s Quipus. All LaPlotte wanted was to get hold of the material. They would be soon stolen from Bentley’s lab at SARDS in Colombia as he had ordered. He did not know how to read them and it didn’t matter. All that did was his mission to destroy the lot and to rid the world of Olsen and Hart.

  As he got up to get a glass of water, his right hand touched the button of his sensitive TV remote. LaPlotte was stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the image of Foster surrounded by a barrage of reporters on CNN. Not far from him, KD stood handcuffed.

  “General Foster, did you order the killing of Thomas Hart?” a reporter shouted at the top her voice.

  Dressed in a dark suit and silk tie, Foster glared at her. “I did not!”

  “Kevin Drake has given testimony to that effect. Are you saying he’s lying?’

  “He is and I have nothing further to say to anyone at this point and I won’t until I speak to my attorneys.”

  He could see Foster moving towards the exit of the FDI headquarters. He heard another reporter shout out.

  “Is there a French connection to this whole affair? Is Mr. Michel LaPlotte, curator of the Louvre, involved?”

  Foster walked out the building looking straight ahead. LaPlotte was glad Foster ignored the question. He switched the television off. As he turned to get the glass of water, he saw a police car approaching his wrought iron gate.

  Chapter 61

  “We’re almost there,” the Peruvian driver said. The man’s voice pulled Hart from his thoughts. How far was he from getting the missing pages, he wondered. Had Cathy succeeded in cornering the Frenchman? Laplotte was no fool. He was undeniably a man of a thousand faces. He could slip out of anything. Still, Cathy was a fox, a trap-setter, wise to the world of men. She was bold, yet graceful and charming. He had started to get that look in her eyes, he noted, and he didn’t mind at all. He was soft-hearted when it came to women and had a great fear of misleading them. But, this time it seemed real. He was drawn to Cathy in ways he never before experienced. Maybe the chemistry was right or maybe it was in her easy manner. He found himself thinking of her. A strange occurrence for him. He would bet on her capabilities any day. Laplotte would not escape this time. He was sure. His anxious thoughts didn’t last long. His phone beeped. It was Cathy.