The Tombs of Eden
Page 7
As much as my inquisitive mind wanted to stay behind or press on, we returned to our bedding point as required at the full rotation of one hour. When we returned we found the team members hunkered around the feeble glow of a lamp. Lying in the center was Professor Osman’s bedroll, torn and tattered, the cotton of its interior bleeding out through gaping tears that seemed to have been committed by razor cuts. On the fabric appeared to be marginal drippings of blood, which had dried to a shade of deep chocolate in the lighting.
When I asked who found it and where, an awkward-looking student raised his hand as if he was afraid to acknowledge that he was the one who had made the discovery. He stated that he found it in the tunnel leading to a central chamber, the fabric lying gathered in the center of the hallway.
And this begged more questions: Why was the professor’s bedroll tattered and torn? And why was it located far from the site? But more importantly, where was Professor Osman?
Perhaps driven by instinct, I merely lifted the lamp in hopes that the light would be strong enough to penetrate the darkness and allow me to see what truly lie beyond, waiting. And it was here, as the team watched my every move, when they realized that we were not alone.
Dr. John Moore
The Archaeological Institute of Ancient Antiquities
New York, New York
#
Fourth Journal Entry (Encrypted)
Everyone is on edge yet no one wants to leave.
Since there is safety in numbers, we gathered into a single unit and recommenced our journey within the temple of {Edin} Eden.
What we ventured upon were more cuneiforms and pictograms, as well as unfamiliar scripture bearing Sumerian similarities which I have been noting as pre-Sumerian characters that will have to be examined at a later time. What is even more amazing is the architecture. The hallways are perfectly balanced in dimension, according to my Laser Distance Meter. Wherever we go—no matter the tunnel—the walls, the floors, the ceilings, are all composed of black silica that is as smooth as the surface of glass. I cannot even predict the tools or lost technology that were used to create such a magnificent site.
It’s almost too surreal to conceive as I stand here in the cradle of humanity.
As the hours pass by with a speed we are unaware of, we came upon a passageway that led inward toward the central point of {Edin} Eden. The passage was rather short, a walkway—if you will—leading to a chamber of possible pagan worship.
The room is circular, the ceiling domed, and all in black silica. In the room’s center is a life-size statue of a bull, fashioned from clouded quartz, which stood upon a plinth of black silica. The sculptural detail is beyond description, beyond anything superlative. It was as if the bull had been petrified into this state with every cord of muscle, the upward tilt of its head and raised foreleg, were caught at the precise moment of transition from flesh to mineral.
Even as I write this, I find myself gazing at the surrounding cuneiform which seems to suggest that there may be a Master Chamber below us that may also be a burial compartment equal to that of an exalted pharaoh, and presumably the most heralded point in {Edin} Eden. But at this stage of examination, the writings appear somewhat alien to me, and I can only assume the inhabitant to be ancient royalty. That is, of course—should my skills of interpretation be somewhat correct—if anybody is at rest within the chamber at all.
But as I sit here with my entire team asleep on the chamber floor within the shadow of the bull, I cannot help myself when I say that I’m as giddy as a child and find sleep difficult to come by. So before I close for the evening, I will grab a lamp and follow the cuneiform that suggests the way to the Central Chamber, and spy upon the secret of who lies beneath.
Dr. John Moore
The Archaeological Institute of Ancient Antiquities
New York, New York
#
Fifth Journal Entry (Encrypted)
I have come upon the most amazing discovery. There is another chamber, this time with the life-size clouded-crystal sculpture of a boar, a perfect anatomical monument indicating the creatures were idolized to some degree. Perhaps as the cuneiform suggests, they were components of the God of Nature, as well as a third chamber of an indescribable creature.
However, these are not the discoveries I’m talking about.
I have come upon a fourth chamber towards the center of the temple. Whereas three of the walls are black silica, the chamber’s focal point is the fourth wall, which is entirely constructed of clear crystal quartz serving as a diagram of the temple’s entirety, which indicates what I now believe to be the temple cap of an incredible pyramid similar to the step pyramids of Mesoamerica.
If the aerial photos have picked up the geographical anomaly which I thought to be the foundation rather than the cap as this drawing indicates, then what may be below us is a massive structure far greater than the base of Khufu.
The crystal schematic shows this structure to be comparable to the step pyramids similar to the ziggurats of Mesopotamia, rather than the pyramids of Ancient Egypt. The largest known pyramid thus far by volume in Mesoamerican is the Great Pyramid of Cholula, which is in the Mexican state of Puebla, a half a world away. But if this schematic is true, then there is no rival. Not only is Eden a structural phenomenon, but a true wonder of the world.
I have spent a good portion of time going over every cuneiform—over every engraving—thoroughly amazed that the scriptures along the crystal wall are shared by cultures worldwide to some degree. It’s as if {Edin} Eden is somewhat the originator—the true Tower of Babel—where languages originated then evolved elsewhere as a purer form.
Further depictions shows the landscape surrounding the pyramid as rich with fauna and supported by a winding river, which I assume to be the Gihon, with indigenous creatures clearly specified on the Göbekli pillars in the forms of bas-relief carvings.
Time, however, and drought has stolen the river, stripping away the fauna and forcing the creatures to migrate to richer fields. The sands have built to gradients over several millennia, covering the pyramid in the same way that the earth has claimed Göbekli Tepe and the pyramids of Mesoamerica.
It’s all here, however, with the Burial Chamber two levels below.
However, in order to get there, I must find the Master Chamber, which is the principal point on this level as indicated by the cuneiforms, which serves as the portal to the levels below.
Time, however, is running short as I must return to my team.
Dr. John Moore
The Archaeological Institute of Ancient Antiquities
New York, New York
#
Sixth Journal Entry (Encrypted)
Come morning the entire team is ecstatic about my findings, so we have moved on to the “Room of the Crystal Wall” inside the Central Chamber where they noted, catalogued, and photographed every detail from every angle.
From that point, we ventured to the temple’s master room using the markings upon the wall as a blueprint to lead us to the portal. We were not disappointed with what we found.
The room was square and the walls made of minerals we could not determine. At the s center of what we thought to be the symbol of a large medallion on the floor, were seven rings and a center circle made of crystal. Beginning with the center circle, the outward rings alternated from clouded quartz to clear, with each ring bearing a series of archaic numerals and the final ring the only ring to bear several combinations of grouped numbers. It is also the only ring that moves in a clockwork direction, and works in the same manner as the dial of a combination safe. I believe the numbers on the first seven rings set the pattern of a riddle, whereas one must find the answer to the eighth ring by picking the correct sequence of the twelve numerical combinations provided on the final ring. By matching the correct pattern with the seven rings, it is my assumption that the right combination unlocks the secret to the lower levels. Should the wrong series be set, however, then I fear a terrible consequence
for failing to solve the riddle correctly will follow. On each ring, starting with the center circle and working outward, I’ve deciphered the archaic numbers to be as follows:
1
11
21
1211
111221
312211
13112221
?
Already I am looking for the correct numerical pattern for the last ring—for that final combination that will grant us access to the Burial Chamber below.
Dr. John Moore
The Archaeological Institute of Ancient Antiquities
New York, New York
After setting the last page copied from her father’s journal aside, Alyssa was amazed by his findings. Eden did exist. She fell back onto her cot and stared ceilingward with her arm across her forehead.
Her mother had died when she was six years old, so whatever memories she had of her were quite vague. Her father had become both parents, tutoring her through life with more of a scientific approach rather than a paternal one. Not to say that his method lacked any sensitivity, it didn’t. He was a loving father who taught her the ways of life with a small broom to gently whisk away granules of dirt from a buried relic, the task a tedious one that took time. But it was a lesson that taught patience and prudence, and at the end a reward. He taught her to read not only English, but schooled her to read ancient scripts and scrolls, imbuing in her an interest in antiquities so that she would follow in his path, and someday join his side so that father and daughter could always be as one.
Together they became globetrotters, discovering locations believed to be nothing but folklore such as Troy or Eden that would overwhelm scholars worldwide. Not only did they share an umbilical tie to one another as father and daughter, but their relationship had become so symbiotic that they knew what the other was thinking the moment their eyes connected. Not a single word had to be spoken. They simply knew.
But now she was alone and disconnected, feeling lost. Her best friend was gone. And her heart ached greatly. But she would press on using her father’s pages as the blueprint to find Eden.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rome, Italy
John Savage never smiled.
Those who met him said he was a man of cold fortitude who functioned by instinct alone.
He lived in a small flat east of Vatican City, the view from his window a web-like network of clotheslines full of sheets, obscuring his view of a distant hillside.
He sat reminiscing of the past, drinking his third bottle of beer with the two empties sitting on the table beside him. And then he closed his eyes, feeling empty and vacant, feeling completely alone.
When he was a navy SEAL he had felt like a man who was complete and whole. But he also had a wife who felt incomplete, and filled her personal void with other men during his absences. He didn’t know why he was shocked to find out about her indiscretions, but when he did, he came apart unlike a Navy SEAL should.
He had taken her for granted, believing she could live with his absences the same way he lived with hers, believing in all the heart-warming stories that trust was the foundation of all relationships and that distance only made the heart grow fonder. What a crock.
He looked at the near empty bottle in his hand and toyed with the label by peeling it back from the glass in little strips. Was this the way she felt? he asked himself, looking around his spartan apartment. This hollow, lonely feeling?
He brought the bottle to his lips and finished it off, and then he opened his fourth. After taking a deep pull, he realized that he could not fault her for leaving him. If this was what she lived through, he considered, then the blame was entirely his.
After she left him and his military assignment was up at the urging of Special Forces Command, he opted to outrun the loneliness and sorrow—to Vatican City where he thought he could find God at some level. But he didn’t and the sense of loneliness clung to him like a pall.
In his duty to serve, he had killed people without so much as flinching. But when his wife finally left him, when she departed within the embrace of another man’s arms, he broke, seeing himself as a man of great frailty, too unworthy to hold the title of Navy SEAL.
How could a woman possess so much power? It was a question he’d been asking himself for the past three years. And still there was no answer. He took another sip and put the bottle down.
On the table lying between the empties was a Glock. Attached to the weapon’s tip was a suppressor that was as long as the firearm, doubling the size of the barrel. It had been three years since he had touched the gun, stowing it away the moment he entered Rome seeking salvation.
He picked it up, hefted it, the touch of the weapon in his grip feeling good, feeling right.
And then he lowered it down to the tabletop and looked out the window. Beyond the sheets that obscured the hillside, he could see the soft afterglow of a sunset sky.
Tomorrow he would begin his call to duty. He would take that gun, his Glock, and head to Turkey where he would locate the girl, and, for the greater good of the Church, put a bullet in her brain. He closed his eyes. For some odd reason he was warring with himself, torn between duty and honor as a number of emotions passed through him. Working on behalf of the Church was an honorable cause, he considered—and to protect its interests just as noble.
But to kill an innocent woman?
He toiled with his own warring factions going on in his mind, trying to understand. And then he came to the conclusion that he was a Navy SEAL. And a SEAL never questions authority.
They simply do.
With the cold fortitude of a machine, John Savage, a man who never smiles, opened up his fifth bottle of beer and watched the sky turn every bit the color black that embraced him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Somewhere in the Atlantic
Aboard the Seafarer
Obsidian Hall was dressed in a plush robe and ascot. In his hand was the most expensive cognac that money could buy. As his valet stood poolside with a food trolley piled high with deboned chicken, he watched the small Hindu toss pieces into the water from the upper tier. The surface became froth as the sharks wrestled for the morsels.
In the distance, a helicopter approached.
The Hindu man looked at it and then to Hall. “Should I greet our guests?” he asked.
“No, Abdul. Keep doing what you’re doing,” he said.
“Very well, sir.” The Hindu went back to throwing chicken back into the pool, the bull sharks mounting each other in order to feed.
Obsidian Hall left the tier, taking the walkway to the helipad at the ship’s stern, and stood at the fringe of the rotor wash with one hand on the railing and the other holding his drink, watching the chopper land. As the rotors continued to spin at full velocity, the chopper door slid open and four commandos hopped out, each carrying a weighted duffel bag.
Obsidian Hall opened his arms in invitation. “Welcome aboard the Seafarer.”
As the chopper lifted and banked to the east, the warriors stood their ground. The forward commando, a large man wearing a khaki-green T-shirt, camouflaged pants and GI issued boots, addressed him. “Mr. Obsidian Hall.” He said this not as a question, but as a confirmation.
Obsidian inclined his head. “Welcome aboard,” he repeated.
“Name’s Butcher Boy,” said the commando. “But you already know that.” He then jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the three men standing behind him. “And this is my team.”
Obsidian waved them on in invitation. “Please,” he said. “We’ve much to discuss.”
Grabbing their duffel bags, the warriors left the helipad and followed Obsidian Hall to the ‘Pool of Sharks’ where they would dine from plates bearing foods with fancy French names.
#
Obsidian Hall and the four commandos sat at an opulent table inside an observation room that overlooked the ‘shark pool.’ Set in fine fashion were candelabras of gold and crystal ware that glittered with diamond-l
ike spangles of light. The table was made of expensive teakwood, and the bone china that sat upon it was made of the finest quality.
Standing at the entryways were two guards, each man carrying an Uzi.
“Tell me something,” said Butcher Boy, referring to the guards. “Why not them?”
“My ship is a floating museum of antiquities,” Hall answered. “I have more than a billion dollars worth of ancient artifacts on board with numerous more considered to be priceless. Their place is here to watch over them. What I want in my employ are seasoned fighters, not glorified security guards.”
One of the guards standing by the doorway warred with that sentiment with a facial tic.
If nothing else, Obsidian Hall was setting the parameters of their authority while establishing his.
“You men are being paid a lot of money,” he told them. “And since I’m the one footing the bill for your services, then I’m the one in complete authority. The command is mine.”
“Come again, mate?” The challenge came from a beefed-up Australian with a shaved head and an old scar that ran laterally down his cheek to his top lip, the scarring pulling down the corner of his lower eyelid enough to expose the glistening pink tissue within. “Funny,” he said. “You don’t look like a fightin’ man. ’Ave you been in combat before? Ever shot a man, killing him?”
“No.”
“Then what gives you the bloody right to man a combat unit? You sitting there, all pretty-like in your prissy little robe and ascot.”