Mesopotamia - The Redeemer (16 page)

“But he was first and foremost your
father, no?” Although he could clearly see that he was causing her
distress, he was unable to stop himself. He could not understand
what compelled him to hurt her so, but he could not control his
urge. Even her cautionary glances did not deter him. “You were left
without a father. An orphan. A dead hero is no replacement for a
live father,” he persisted.

“Enough! It is none of your
business. I see that you also seem to have forgotten how to behave
toward your hosts,” she said with controlled anger.

He regretted his intrusiveness and
curiosity. “I'm sorry. It’s not my place to judge you. I don't even
know my own identity and certainly have no right to interfere with
the conventions of your brotherhood.” In his heart, however, he did
not believe that she felt no grief for her father.

He noted the growing disparity
expressed by her body language, her restlessness and her escalating
voice in contrast with her measured responses. “The brotherhood
provides us with everything we need. I do not lack a father. I have
the entire brotherhood.”

He tried to touch her shoulder
comfortingly but she was like stone.

“Excuse me. I have a lot of work
ahead of me and will visit you later.”

His eyes followed her out of the
room.

Decades earlier, Atar experienced
the shock of his encounter with Earth. Of all the Pythagoreans in
Octavia, no one could have prepared him for what he was about to
experience. Atar had never contemplated the fragile nature of
Pythagorean serenity, or that the peaceful composure he had brought
with him from Octavia would be contaminated by the white skies and
black lightning that enveloped Earth.

Atar was the first Pythagorean to
return to Earth since the exile of Orpheus. He had done his
research in the database and read about Calcutta in the twentieth
century: the limbless children aimlessly wandering from place to
place, the corpses rotting in the streets and the hunger-swollen
stomachs. But in contrast to the airport, God still existed in
Calcutta. The Indians still believed that this was their destined
place in the cosmic order, their karma. The glazed looks on the
faces of the semi-limbless bodies that clutched his clothing as he
exited the airport did not appear to belong to any semblance of
order. Mesopotamian Uruk, the mythological paradise, was just like
the rest of the planet now: the most cursed place that human
history had ever known. He felt—not without a certain sense of
guilt—a glimmer of joy in thinking that the Pythagoreans had been
spared the bitter fate that had befallen Earth. He shook these
feeling away, as it was improper for a Pythagorean to harbor such
thoughts, but did so with a sort of clemency; usually, Pythagoreans
had no reason to cope with the harsh realities of earth.

The Pythagoreans had every reason
to disconnect themselves from the Gnostics on Earth. As it were,
Adamas, founder of Gnosticism, stole the formula for the constant
of creation, An, and established the Gnosis on Earth. Did Orpheus
have any legitimate alternative to his decision to do what he did?
Furthermore, Earth could offer nothing to the Pythagoreans aside
from being a burden. But now, eighty years later, the master of
Octavia decided that it was worthwhile to try and rescue whatever
remains of life that had survived on Earth. Atar volunteered for
the position.

He made his way through the putrid
human mass as he exited the airport. People screamed in languages
he did not understand, grabbed at the edges of his clothing and
begged him for something he could not make out. Perhaps money?
Food? He noticed a bizarre sense of pride in the way they
emphasized their open and purulent wounds, as if the scars of their
missing limbs were merely decorative tattoos. As if they were
requesting money in exchange for the pleasure he was to gain from
beholding their wounds. They even tried to bite him. 'What do they
want?' he speculated.

He walked through a narrow passage
to a protected area enclosed by a chain link fence. The human mass
pressed up against the fence. Fingers clutched the cage that had
closed upon him and imprisoned him inside while imprisoning them
outside. A driver in a brown uniform led him to a hovercraft in the
exact same shades of brown. He introduced himself as the
representative of the Earth Transportation Corporation, opened the
door of the passenger's cabin and pointed to a box containing
sickness bags, tissues and water bottles. After he vomited in the
bag and drank some water, Atar wondered how the driver knew that he
needed to vomit. It appeared that this was a common reaction among
strangers toward the shock of Earth.

“Is this your first time on Earth?”
asked the driver in a rough Earthly accent.

“Because I vomited?”

“No, just asking. People vomit even
on their twentieth visit to Earth. If you weren't raised here, you
won't get used to it. You've got a bit on your sleeve there.”

Atar used a tissue to wipe off the
blood and pus that had stuck to the sleeve of his silver suit. He
did not know if his eyes were tearing up due to sorrow, disgust or
the effort involved in repetitive vomiting.

“Why did I need this,” he muttered
aloud.

“What did you say?” asked the
driver.

“Nothing, nothing, just talking to
myself.”

The hovercraft passed over ruined
buildings and metallic blue oily swamps. Here and there, he saw
people marching along the highways at a distance that was
kilometers away from any visible settlement, as if they came from
nowhere and were on their way to nowhere. A distant building in the
shape of a step pyramid, a red ziggurat, materialized on the
horizon.

Four months passed. He had found a
place to live as well as a laboratory, welcomed his junior
associates who arrived a month after he did and even managed to
prepare one shipment of samples of plants to Octavia. One day,
while plucking a small narcissus flower and bulb out of the mud, he
suffered a severe blow to the nape that caused him to momentarily
lose consciousness. Three Gnostics bound his hands behind his back.
Atar was dragged by his captors, who trampled through a muddy clay
channel covered in a layer of tar. They hurled him roughly into the
swamp hovercraft.

“What do you want from me? Who are
you?” he asked in alarm.

“Shut your mouth!” roared the
tallest captor.

Atar's heart was beating furiously:
Why are they kidnapping me? For ransom? Slavery? Or perhaps a fate
worse than that?

“How much money do you want?” he
asked in a trembling voice.

“Shut your mouth! We won't warn you
again,” answered the tall one and landed a quick fist into Atar's
abdomen. Atar struggled to breathe. He tried to maintain his cool
while praying to the stars. But the knowledge that he had been
captured by Gnostics only exacerbated the sense of horror that
engulfed him.

After they had travelled for about
an hour through the dense reeds, they reached the Gnostic compound
in Uruk. It was an island of order amid the sea of chaos that
surrounded it. Its breadth was enormous and was surrounded by
swamps, as well as a tall electric fence that enclosed its concrete
walls dotted with manned watchtowers. The air hung thickly with the
odor of burnt crude oil. An eye peered through a peephole in the
huge steel gate.

The three men led him down a path
between tall black buildings. Though he was nearly paralyzed with
fear, his curiosity was still aroused. He wondered about the lack
of doors or windows on these buildings. To his surprise, he saw a
group of children who appeared to be four or five years old,
marching in groups like soldiers following an adult. When the
children noticed the men, they froze in place and only resumed
marching after receiving a nod from his captors.

When they descended the stairs to
the underground level, he understood why they had no need for
doors. He beheld a sprawling web of crisscrossing corridors with
cars shuttling between them, carrying people and equipment in and
out of the various openings. They put him onto one of the metal
cars, which rattled down a path for a minute, and then they
disembarked.

They placed him on the cold
concrete floor of a dark room and slammed the door shut as they
exited. Despite the darkness, he could make out a table and four
chairs. The more time passed, the more he convinced himself that he
was never going to make it out of this place. 'I am the first
Pythagorean to arrive at the Gnostic compound. I have no chance of
getting out of here alive. I must find a way to contact Octavia.
This is not how I intended to die. What will happen to my daughter
Sophia and my wife Orithea? I need to calm down, to stay focused
and alert. Who knows what these savages want from me? Maybe I do
stand a chance after all.' Atar breathed deeply and went over the
notes of his melody in his head.

Suddenly, he noticed a black scarab
beetle rolling a ball of dung and digging into a crack in the earth
between the concrete floor and the wall. It's no wonder, he mused,
that the ancient Egyptians believed that the sun was rolled across
the sky by a scarab beetle. It was no wonder that they attributed
the cyclical harmony of life to this sanctified symbol. Atar was
grateful to the beetle for reminding him of the perfect cycle of
the universe, even in dung.

A blinding light came on. Atar
blinked and finally saw three Gnostics in shining uniforms enter
the room. They looked older and more senior than his kidnappers.
They stood next to him.

The middle one began in a cold,
stern voice, “I am Nergal, father of the ship of Uruk. This is the
chief of headquarters, Neti, and this is the chief scientist, Sin.”
Nergal was average height, thin and gaunt, sporting gray hair and
stubble. His black uniform was covered in armor made of shining
metal plates. His colleagues did not wear armor. Neti was wide and
solidly built. Atar assumed that he was not very intelligent based
on the closeness of his eyes, but he could not be sure. Sin
appeared to be more human than the stern Nergal and the brutish
Neti. His facial features were delicate and his body type was
full.

“I am Atar the Pythagorean. I came
to Earth on a peaceful mission. I request that you release me at
once,” he said and rose to his feet. Nergal aimed a surprisingly
swift kick at him. He gestured to the other two Gnostics, who then
began to beat the writhing prisoner. Nergal sat down opposite
him.

“You cannot request anything!”
Nergal declared coldly. Atar could viscerally feel the sharp
laconicism of his words. What was the reason for this dry coldness
that emanated from them? Was it the severe Gnostic culture or
simply a manipulative tactic aimed to make him feel threatened? How
should he react to their severity? How should he interpret it? He
seared for clues in their facial expressions. He could only sense a
slight flicker in the eyes of Sin, the scientist. Perhaps
curiosity.

Since his capture, Atar had
repeated in his head the words that he was about to recite at this
moment. He decided that as long as they were receptive and willing
to listen to him talk, he should quickly take advantage of the
forum and say what he needed to say. “Thirty six years ago, the
founding fathers of our nations, Orpheus and Adamas, established
scientific communities built around the common goal of discovering
the constant of creation. Each community developed the formula, the
culture and the technology in its own unique way.” He sensed hints
of impatience around Nergal's tight lips and quickly skipped over
the obvious details in order to make his main point. “We respect
the differences between our cultures. We never wanted to harm the
Gnostics.”

“Liar!” thundered Nergal, “The
cursed Orpheus considered himself a king. He wanted to keep the
secrets of the universe only for himself and now you came here to
steal our knowledge as well? Oh yes, the most perfect of the
perfect,” he snorted sarcastically, “coming down to the gutter to
become even more perfect?”

Was it possible that they think I
came to Earth to steal their technological secrets, he reflected,
or are they just trying to intimidate me? He noticed, with an
awkward delight, that Sin and Neti seemed surprised at Nergal's
outburst. Nergal's apparent expression of humanity kindled a
strange feeling of optimism in him. Burning fury was better than
cool indifference.

“I have the authority to engage in
discussions about peace efforts between our communities,” said Atar
with forced composure.

“How will you make peace with us
lowlifes?” teased Nergal. “We, the inhabitants of Earth,
carnivores, interpreters of clay tablets, who bring sacrifices,
practice witchcraft and spells? How can you stand to look at the
reality of pain and emptiness from the ideal world in which you are
entrenched? Are you willing to accept the covenant of blood, the
blood ritual, or are you just speaking empty words?”

“What is the blood ritual?” asked
Atar, aware that he had begun to become entangled in the web but
had no way of backing out now.

“You claim you respect us? Then
prove to us that you are worthy of holding discussions with us.
Participate in our blood ritual.”

“What is the blood ritual?” Atar
asked again, repeating the question in the same tone as before.

Nergal glanced at Neti and the two
of them left the room. Sin and Atar sat in silence. “What will
happen now? What are you going to do to me?” He heard the fear
surfacing in his voice despite his efforts to hide it. Sin looked
straight into his eyes without saying a word. For about half an
hour, they sat, watching each other in silent torture. Atar tried
to guess what the 'blood ritual' was and what was to be considered
proof of his respect. How do these primitive people enact a blood
covenant? Do I have to pierce my ear, draw blood, cut or burn my
flesh? He hoped that he would be able to stand whatever it was.