Nexus Point (Meridian Series) (10 page)

       “Oh, come now? You’re saying this cave is
someone’s home? Why, it’s completely empty—no sign of habitation at all. Surely
you would not deny a man shelter and water in a desert like this? Spare me your
bruised Arabic pride. If you think we have wronged you, say so plainly and
decide what you’re going to do about it.” The professor was recovering a
measure of his own pride now, and he was tired of being questioned like a
schoolboy by this man. “Otherwise you can take your men and leave the two of us
alone here, if you will. We’ll find our way to Akaba on our own if you refuse
to help us.”

       The leader tensed as Nordhausen spoke,
clearly annoyed. He cocked his head to one side, as though suddenly perplexed.
Then he stepped closer, resolved, and to Nordhausen’s surprise he delivered a
hard slap to the side of the professor’s face. “That is for the insult,” he
said bruskly. The other man flashed Nordhausen a toothy smile, a look a
pleasure plain on his gnarled face.

       “Leave the two of you alone, you say? Do I
think you have wronged me? A thief comes to my homeland and thinks to take me
for a fool. And he enters a place where it is death to come unbidden. Do I
think you have wronged me? Well I will let you in on a little secret, my
American friend. You will regret this day, because now I must decide what to do
about this intrusion. And may
Allah
lay his
hand upon me, for I do not feel merciful with beggars and thieves.”

Part III

The Well Of Souls

“That is the
way,” he said.

“But there are
no stairs!”

 You must throw
yourself in. There is no other way”

The Golden Key
– George
MacDonald

7

The Sami sat musing
in the tower, his mind
filled with the recollection of the of seven young initiates. He could still
see the red flush of youth upon their cheeks, and the light of hope and
discovery shining in their eyes. The image of their naked bodies lingered in
his mind, their smooth, brown skin gleaming in the guttering torchlight,
freshly oiled with sweetened liniment as they listened, for the very first
time, to all that they must learn.

       He had seen many others come before him,
naked and willing, ready to pledge themselves to a great cause, and the iron
will of one master. Seven gates would be set before them, and they must pass
each one in turn. Yet how many would reach the last gate? How many would come
to the knowledge of that final truth?

       He smiled to himself, for the very notion of
truth seemed a strange thing to him now. His hand strayed to the long grey
beard on his lap, painted with the glow of the torchlight. His dark eyes seemed
to catch and hold the icy fire of cold stars, sharp and remote as they followed
his thoughts, gazing at the high lancet window of the tower.

       Seven boys had come to him, listened to him,
as though spellbound with enchantment. Did they even understand a single word
of all he had spoken?

       “I do not say these things for any benefit
or hope of worldly gain,” he told them, “but only that in hearing them you
might be brought to the hidden truth that underlies the whole of the world.
Yes, for long you have walked, as shadows walk, seeing and hearing only the
barest thread of the cloak of that truth. And while all you have heard may be
holy and good, it is nothing compared to the things that will be revealed to
you.”

       How unseemly of him to use the word truth,
he thought. It was nothing—nothing at all.
That was
the heart of it: all piety, dignity, and forms of behavior; every ablution,
offering, rite and prayer, every oath shall come to dust.  Even the five
pillars of the faith would crumble and fall and t
he feet of the faithful will turn no more to seek the holy places. 
Every leaf of the Holy Koran itself will vanish and become empty paper, and all
memory of those words will be forgotten.

       So it was nothing, nothing at
all.

       He breathed deeply, taking in
the scent of incense where it burned beside him at the edge of a small iron
brazier. The thin wisps of purple smoke trailed up from the burner, and his
thoughts danced with them. It was all as this, he thought: just so much smoke,
so much vapor to be swept away by a great wind. Form and shape were but
illusion. Time was a mystery, without purpose, and nothing could be predicted. 
Nothing was certain, nothing true, nothing written…

       That was, in fact, the only
truth: uncertainty. It was not a notion for simple minds. It was not something
the young would easily embrace or understand. But the Sami was not young. He
had seen too many days, lived, and then lived again. Once he thought each day
of life was a precious thing, to be savored for the moment and then lost. He
knew better now. Once he held tightly, with greed and avarice, and the desire
that plagues all men, but no longer. Once he feared loss, knew tears, mourned
death. But all that was forgotten and his eyes were finally open. Now he knew
the whole of it. Every stroke of the hand or pen, every spoken word, every
deed, be it valorous or vile, every hour of the day could be renewed and made
again. Nothing was written, and all belief was a futile thing.

       And he knew one thing more: that
if nothing was written then everything was permitted. Every prohibition and
sanction, every stay and all restraint was mere folly. A man could do whatever
he pleased, without fear of reproach or condemnation. Only one thing
mattered—action. A man’s actions would give birth to the world he lived in. If
he found them suitable, then he lived in peace. If he found them unsuitable,
then all could be made new. Every destiny could be written anew, and every
purpose undone. How strange it was to know this. How strange it was to be the
master, sitting at the wheel and spinning anew the threads of Time as he
desired. The masses of men moved in ignorance, but he could pronounce all
judgment, and every fate was his to command.

       The
Sami paused in
his muse, the faintest inkling of a smile playing upon his dry lips. His eyes
narrowed, as with some inner mirth. He moved his arm, seeing the shadow it cast
on the hard stone floor and he recalled how the torch keeper had swayed his
hand before those seven young boys. The torch moved, this way and that, with
ritual motion. Its flickering light cast wild shadows about the room as the
seven initiates looked on. It was his cue to recite the next intonation of the
ritual.

       “
Do not be deceived by the
changing of appearances,” he told them. “Nothing is as it seems. Everything is
mere shadow: the life you have brought to this place, and everything you have
ever known—is all a shadow that may dance at the beck and call of he who holds
the light.“

       As if on cue the drum began
beating in his mind again, slow and steady, its dark rhythm cut by the
quavering of a horn in the hollowed roots of the castle.  He closed his eyes,
seeing the servants appear before the seven boys, draped in silken white with
bright red sashes trimmed in gold. Each one held a gold chalice, adorned with
many jewels. They glided to face the seven initiates, and slowly descended
until they rested on their haunches holding out the golden cups before them in
offering.
He remembered how he had exhorted the boys to take the cups and
drink…drink and forget.

       With that the
Sami opened his
eyes, folding his cloak about him in the chill of the room. He knew what would
happen to them, seven bright boys too eager for the truth. They would tip the
cups and drink, and a languorous mist would fill their minds when the strange
haze of the brew enveloped them. Their senses would soon grow dull, and then
vividly sharp again. Shadows and sounds would become one. Form and movement
would merge; substance and thought would each wear the same garment.  Then they
would grow still, their eyes heavy with sleep, until, one by one, the cups
would fall from their trembling hands and they would swoon in a dreamless
sleep.

       He did not wait to watch them
slip and fall beneath that wild enchantment, for he had other errands to
perform. Soon they would awaken in Paradise, or so it would seem. The guards
would carry the sleeping boys away, through secret hallways to a hidden garden
of delight. For two days they would languish in oblivion, and then awaken. The
chamber maids would be at hand to greet them, and platters of fruit and every
delicacy imaginable would be set before them. They would be fed milk and
honeyed bread, and drink the finest mead that could be had. And each night the
maidens would smooth soft, oiled hands over their lean bodies. They would know
every pleasure, and the boy in each would be lost forever in the warm embrace
of a maid.

       So it had been with him once,
long ago.

       He remembered it still, and
almost wished he could release all the days he had lived since then and return
to that one moment of awe when he first opened his eyes in unknowing bliss. It
was a foolish thought, he knew, for no matter how deeply a man would drink of
that cup, there was no forgetting. Once a thing was known, it was known forever.
There was no going back to the time of his youth. While he could spin the wheel
and change every outward circumstance, he would not forget what he had done.
And that was the sadness of it all—that was why a man would lay himself down
one day and wait for death. Yes, he knew it could all be overthrown, and he
might find himself here again, sitting in this very same tower, with visions of
seven new initiates fresh in his mind. Then again, he might not. He would just
have to wait and see.

       Now there were other things to
muse on, not the least of which was the coming of the stranger. Who was this
man? The Kadi was meddling, as he was always first to set his hand upon the
business of the castle. He was keeping the man under close watch, waiting for
his awakening.

       Thought of the Kadi gave him a
moment of unease. He had quarreled with that man too long. In truth, the image
he had of himself as the master of the wheel was not entirely true. There was
another set as his equal in the clan—the Kadi. In spite of all the Sami knew,
there was still the Kadi to darken each hour of the day with his ceaseless
questions and his sanctimonious judgment. No doubt he would have much to say
about this stranger.

       The Sami sighed. Let him have
his hour, he thought. For every man in the castle pledged to the Kadi’s
bidding, there was another that would answer to the Sami’s command. If it came
to it, and the two elders could not agree, what then?

       If the protocols were rigidly
followed the stranger would be sleeping now, guarded in the lower chambers near
the well. Was this another messenger, as the Kadi insisted? It was said that
his clothing and effects were very odd, and that was more than enough to rouse
the Sami’s interest. He stood up, resolved on something, and glad to be moving
again, on his feet, and done with his doleful muse.

       Action.

       A man might do as he pleases. A
man might do anything at all. He would go to the chamber of the burning and see
what he might find. Perhaps there would be some mark, some sign that would open
his mind on the matter. He would learn nothing, and know nothing, sitting here
in the tower. A man had to act. Only then would the world become real.

8

Paul was alive.
His fall had
been broken by a vast subterranean pool of water, alight with a hazy
phosphorescence. It was actually a kind of whirlpool, and the swirling motion
of the waters swept him dangerously near the rocky shards of the cavern wall
before they spilled down a low fall and ran away in a swift moving underground
stream. Paul was carried with them, struggling to keep his head above water,
his arms and legs flailing about with a reflex born of panic.

       He could not swim.

       He remembered the day that he
had first been thrown into water that was well over his head. He was on a sliding
board at the Matillija Hot Springs Pool in the hills near Ojai, California. He
was twelve years old then, and the family was enjoying the hot Saturday
afternoon with an outing to the pool. Paul climbed up to the top of the sliding
board, and slid too fast on the way down. He intended to guide himself to the
shallower water near the pool’s edge, but instead he landed smack in the
middle, in deep water. His slender legs poked down to find nothing beneath
them, and he was suddenly terrified. Somehow, in a flurry of thrashing arms, he
made it to the rim of the pool—even as he managed to reach the edge of a shelf
of stone now on the margins of the stream.

       He pulled himself out of the
water, shivering with fright and the trauma of his fall. He could barely move.
It was as if the fear and adrenaline had overloaded his system, and his mind
needed to shut down before he could function again. He tried to stand up, but
his legs gave way beneath him and he fell on a sandy shelf, dizzy and nauseous.