by Lynn Sholes
Alan’s head shot up.
“Thodium?” Cotten said.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Kai said.
Alan turned to Cotten. “How do you know about thodium?”
Cotten said, “Miller asked me if the word thodium meant anything to me.”
Alan had already crossed the room and punched the button on his phone. “Get Max Wolf up here.”
cubits or qubits
“This Mace guy has a source of thodium,” Alan told Max after he had explained what had led up to this moment.
“Could be he’s found a way to create more than a few atoms at a time, but I doubt it,” Max said.
“You want to know where he got the thodium?” Kai said. “Heavens, Alan, for the price you’ll be paying me, all you had to do was ask.”
“Spit it out, Kai,” Alan said. “If you’ve got information, give it. Can you do that?”
“Well, I have to admit, it is entertaining to see all the gyrations,” Kai said. “But all right, I get your point.” She clasped her hands, steepled her fingers, and pointed them at Alan. “I don’t think you’re going to believe me, though.”
“Try me,” Alan said.
“Rizben has a collection of archaeological artifacts. He’s a collector. Anyway, from what he told me, in his collection he had a fragment of Noah’s Ark. How he got it from the Baghdad Museum into his collection is a long story, and it doesn’t really matter, so I won’t go into that . . . unless of course you want me to take the time.”
Cotten could see that Kai’s over-politeness was grating on Alan. She stepped in. “No, we don’t need all the background.”
Kai sank back in the cushions. “Rizben said that the Ark was built from lumber that came from some tree mentioned in the Bible—in Genesis—you know the one?”
“The Tree of Knowledge or the Tree of Life?” John said.
“The second one,” Kai said. “The Tree of Life. And this particular wood secreted a sap, or resin I think he called it. After a long time, that resin crystallizes into the stuff he needs for the computer—thodium. He managed to extract the thodium from some splinters of Noah’s Ark. I thought it was pretty wild, actually. Tree of Life. Fucking Noah’s Ark.” Kai glanced at Alan. “You never were any good at hiding your feelings. I can tell from your face you don’t believe me.”
“You’re right,” Alan said. “I don’t believe you.”
“Maybe she’s telling the truth,” John said. “In one translation of the Bible, God tells Noah to build the Ark out of gopher wood. In another translation God says to use resin wood.”
The door to the playroom opened and Lindsay came out carrying a sheet of chart paper against her chest, the blank side showing.
“I found this from when the kids were drawing before. I don’t know, but I think it might be important.”
“What is it?” Cotten said.
“Tera said she drew this as Devin described it to her. She says it’s a sketch of the man who was holding Devin.”
“Turn it around,” Alan said.
Lindsay flipped the paper around so everyone could see the image.
“It’s certainly not Ben Ray,” Cotten said.
“No, that’s Tor,” Kai said. “Wow, she’s a really good artist.”
“Thanks, Lindsay,” Alan said, sounding disappointed. “It is important, but we’ve already identified—”
John suddenly got to his feet. “Wait a minute,” he said walking closer to the sketch of the young goateed man in glasses and tee shirt. “Look at this,” he said, touching the T-shirt. “It says ‘Cubits or Qubits, they all add up.’”
“What does it mean?” Cotten asked.
John turned around. “Isn’t qubits with a Q a computer term?”
Max said, “It’s short for a quantum bit, a unit of quantum information stored in a quantum computer.”
Alan said, “‘Qubits and cubits’ is an interesting play on words.”
John said, “Looks like Kai is being honest about where Mace got the thodium. It’s too much of a coincidence for this guy, Tor, to be wearing a T-shirt that says cubits or qubits. The shirt suggests there’s a connection between the two. Cubits, spelled with a C, is an ancient measurement of length. God gave Noah the dimensions of the Ark in cubits—three hundred cubits long, by fifty cubits wide, by thirty cubits high.”
“What did you say?” Max’s eyes blinked rapidly. “Can you repeat that?”
“Three hundred cubits, by fifty cubits, by thirty cubits.”
Max thrust his arms in the air. “Holy shit!”
the leap
“What is it, Max?” John said.
Max had both hands on his head in amazement. “Those measurements, the dimensions of the Ark, are exactly the same as the dimensions of the thodium crystal we intend to use in the Destiny computer—three hundred atoms by fifty atoms by thirty. Each one of those atoms holds a qubit of information. Destiny will hold four hundred fifty-thousand qubits.”
Alan’s face was solemn, and he stared blankly.
“You all right, Alan?” Cotten asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said nodding. “I’m fine.” Alan met John’s gaze. “You told me I didn’t have to buy into everything . . . and I didn’t. But now . . . I don’t know. There’s just too much for me to ignore. I don’t like it. I’ve always considered myself grounded in certainty—scientific facts. But we just made the leap from science into something else. Something foreign to me.”
John put his hand on Alan’s shoulder. “The perceived gap between science and religion is not as wide as it seems once you’ve made the leap. Trust me, Alan. I’ve seen it happen more times than I can count, so don’t rush it.”
“It’s not a matter of rushing anything, I just feel like I’ve been blindsided. When I got up this morning, I never expected anything like this.” He ran his hand over his face. “So, where can we get a piece of Noah’s Ark?”
“Kai said Mace got it from the Baghdad Museum,” John said. “That’s obviously out. Who knows where any of the artifacts from the Ark are now—the museum was ransacked right after the invasion. And you know what’s funny? When those pieces of the Ark were first discovered, there was very little news about it. I think that, mostly, no one believed it. It was regarded as a hoax by a majority of the scientific world. Like the Ossuary of James. I recall that just before the Iraq War, there were some tests being scheduled to authenticate the fragments—at least date them and things like that. Then of course, the museum was wrecked, so nothing ever came about.”
“Do you think there might be remains of the Ark somewhere?” Cotten asked. “Could we track them down?”
“Forget it,” Kai said. “Rizben likes to tell the tale that he bought his fragments at a museum auction, but in reality, he’s the mastermind behind the ransacking. He has all the pieces of the Ark.”
“Dead end,” Max said.
“The only way to stop Mace and his Hades Project is to beat him to the punch,” Alan said. “It will take another quantum computer. Destiny.”
“Isn’t there some other source of thodium?” Cotten asked.
Max shook his head. “We haven’t been able to find one.”
John said, “Lumber from the Ark would have been quite valuable after the Flood waters receded. They would need it for building, for fire, tools, many different uses. There might be some structure, some item still in existence. Or maybe there were other objects made from the Tree.”
“How would we find out?” Cotten asked. “Where would we even start? Does it say anything about other items in Genesis?”
“No,” John said. “We won’t find the answer in the Bible this time. But there are other sources.”
“Like the Dead Sea Scrolls?” Alan said.
“You’re close,” John said. “There is a church called St. Mary of Zion that houses tho
usands of ancient Gnostic texts, scrolls, codices, and gospels. What we might be looking for is what’s called the Book of Emzara. Many years ago, I remember reading that it was among the documents in the treasury church of Saint Mary of Zion. You don’t hear much about the church’s depository other than the suspicion that the Ark of the Covenant is hidden there. Or at least a lot of people believe that’s where it is. There’s no real proof.”
“Like Raiders of the Lost Ark?” Kai said.
John smiled at her. “Exactly.”
“So who is Emzara?” Cotten asked.
“Noah’s wife,” John said.
“And where’s the church?” Max asked.
John pointed out Alan’s office window toward the east. “Axum, Ethiopia.”
axum
The twin turboprops roared when the Ethiopian Airlines DHC-6 swung around for its approach to the small airfield in Axum. Cotten and John occupied the first two of the six passenger seats. The flight from the capital city of Addis Ababa had been turbulent because of a bad weather front that swept in earlier from the Red Sea.
The late afternoon light cast long shadows as Cotten stared down at the countryside surrounding the old city. Jagged peaks formed from the remnants of ancient volcanoes dotted the highland landscape, while a few dirt roads stretched across parched farmland.
She was anxious—not comfortable flying on any airplane, much less one so small. Gripping the armrests, she glanced at John across the narrow aisle. “I hate landing,” she said.
The tires bit into the dusty landing strip, and the plane vibrated as the pilot applied the brakes and reversed the engines. Soon, the plane slowed enough to turn and taxi toward the small terminal. Once the aircraft was parked and the engines wound down, the passengers were allowed to disembark. Clutching a small carryall each, Cotten and John made their way across the open field to the terminal and on through the building to the gravel parking lot.
A short, potbellied black man came toward them. He was wearing a threadbare three-piece suit, a New York Yankees baseball cap, and sandals. With a heavy accent, he said, “Your Eminence, it is with my extreme honor to be in person and greet a prince of the Roman Church.” He grasped John’s hand, dropped to one knee, and held it to his forehead.
John blessed the man with the sign of the cross.
“We welcome your presence,” the man said, getting to his feet. “I am Berhanu, your guide.” He shook John’s hand and then Cotten’s. “And it is also the huge pleasure to meet a famous person, as you are.” He looked back to John. “Many funds were wired ahead to be paying my services and also your rooms at the African Hotel. How long are you to stay?”
“Just tonight,” John said. “We leave on the return flight to the capital tomorrow morning.”
Berhanu pointed to a vintage Land Rover parked a few yards away. Its color was a combination of faded orange and lime green among patches of rust and Bondo. The side window was spider-webbed with cracks spreading from a bullet hole.
“Someone use your car for target practice?” Cotten asked as they approached it.
“Oh, no. They were definitely trying to kill me.” Berhanu laughed as he held the side door open for her. “Fortunately, they were not shooting good. War is always close by in Ethiopia.”
Cotten got in the back seat while John joined Berhanu in the front, and they drove from the airfield toward town.
The ride was noisy, and Cotten had to lean forward to be heard. “Did they tell you why we are in Axum?”
“Yes,” Berhanu said. “You wish that to visit the holy church of the St. Mary of Zion.” He crossed himself.
“Right,” John said. “An arrangement has been made for us to meet with the guardian monk.”
“And I am your person who translates all that he speaks.”
“Can we go directly there now, Berhanu?” Cotten asked. “I know it’s late in the day, but we are anxious to speak with him.”
“I am driver for you,” Berhanu said. “If you wish straight away, then I take you.”
Cotten watched as they passed small shops and open food markets lining the dirt roads. The thick dust, like the poverty, was everywhere. Young boys swarmed the car with outstretched hands, trailing behind the Land Rover, begging for handouts or a few birr. The buildings were old and in disrepair—she saw only dirt roads and ill-kept paths connecting the neighborhoods. Piles of trash and garbage dotted the landscape. Cotten felt something close to guilt or shame for having money in her pocket and the lifestyle she enjoyed with her job at SNN.
“Berhanu, do you live here in Axum?” Cotten asked.
“Yes. I was birthed here and am the worker for the Ministry of Culture. My job is to keep watching out with an open eye for the treasures of Axum.” He turned the Land Rover onto a potholed road and motioned to the right. “What you see there are all that’s remaining of the palace of the Queen of Sheba. She was married to King Solomon.”
A hundred yards down the side of a gently sloping hill, Cotten made out the remains of low walls forming the ruins of an ancient building.
About a mile farther along the bumpy road, Berhanu said, “And there is the destination for which you are arriving.” He motioned to a spacious walled compound on their left. It contained two churches, the larger one appeared old, and the smaller a much more recent design with a domed roof and a bell tower in the shape of an obelisk.
“Which is St. Mary of Zion?” Cotten asked.
“Both,” Berhanu said. “The ancient church dates to the seventeenth century. It was the building for which the great Emperor Fasilidas made.”
“And the new one?” John said.
“The treasury church became built about thirty-five years previous from today.”
“Is it true that the Ark of the Covenant is kept inside?” Cotten asked.
“Quite, yes,” Berhanu said.
“And have you seen it?” John asked.
“No, no.” With a swift, jabbing motion, he crossed himself again and glanced up at the inside roof of the Land Rover as if seeking forgiveness for even thinking himself worthy. “The guardian monk is the all who sees what is inside the treasury church. He alone can look upon the blessed Ark.”
“Have you met the monk?” John asked.
He shook his head. “The guardian monk lives in seclusion. He received his calling before my birth, so he is never seen by my eyes.”
Berhanu pulled the Land Rover up to the front gate of the church of St. Mary of Zion. “And now we arrived.”
Getting out, Cotten looked at the older of the two churches. It reminded her of a castle with its tall, grand turrets and imposing battlements ringing the tops of the walls.
Moving through the gate, they approached the large double latticed doors and entered the old building. Within its dimly lit interior, Cotten saw murals covering almost all the walls and ceiling including one depicting the life of Mary and another series showing the Crucifixion and Resurrection. There seemed to be a perpetual veil of candle and incense smoke creating a milky, soft glow to everything. From the far recesses of the church beyond the altar came the scraping of feet on stone. A figure appeared. He must have heard them enter.
Cotten watched the man, stooped and leaning on a prayer staff, shuffle toward her. Dressed in a long flowing white robe, he was old and bearded. When he finally stood before her, he spoke at length in Tigrigna, the local language. His voice was meek, reminding her of an un-oiled door hinge. She noticed he was toothless. When he finished, Cotten and John turned in unison to Berhanu.
Berhanu, who kept his eyes cast downward in the presence of the holy man, conversed briefly with the monk, and then looked to Cotten and John. “He asked who you are, and I told him you are the visitors he agreed to see. He says he has pleasure in meeting you and has wishes to serve you.”
“Tell him we are pleased as well,” Cotten said.
<
br /> Berhanu again looked at the floor as he translated.
Introductions complete, the monk slowly extended his hand to John. Then he turned to Cotten and did the same. As she grasped it, Cotten smelled the faint but unmistakable scent of frankincense. “It is an honor, Father,” she said.
The guardian monk stiffened. His eyes met hers, and although they were clouded with cataracts and sunken with age, he focused intently.
As a trace of a smile crossed his lips, Cotten felt uneasiness rush through her, and tried to release his hand. He kept his grip firm.
The monk spoke barely above a whisper before he let go of her hand.
John glanced at Berhanu.
The guide shrugged, his jaw agape. “I’m sorry, but I did not understand.” He looked perplexed and frustrated. “It was in a speaking foreign to my ears.”
Cotten stared at the monk in amazement. He had spoken in Enochian, the language of heaven, the tongue of the angels—a language she clearly understood, which meant he understood who she was, her legacy and her destiny.
And his words filled her with wonder.
beyond the veil
“What did he say?” John asked. They stood in the back of the sanctuary of St. Mary of Zion church. The guardian monk had opened a door leading out through a walled garden to the smaller treasury church.
“That he knew my father,” Cotten said, still dazed from having the monk speak to her in Enochian. “That my father was pleased I had come here, and that there are things inside that I should see.”
“That’s impossible,” John whispered. “How would he have known you father?”
Cotten shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t know—”
“I’m afraid that we can go not beyond this door,” Berhanu said, holding his hand up to John. “The holy monk speaks that it is forbidden. Only Miss Stone may be proceeding into the treasury church.”
John turned to meet Cotten’s gaze. “You don’t have to go alone if you’re uncomfortable. Let’s just tell him what we need—give him a list.”
