The Dark Rift: The Supernatural Grail Quest Zombie Apocalypse (The Last Artifact Trilogy Book 1) (21 page)

Gibraltar.

The Bishop could see the traffic
barriers on either side of the runway finally rising into the morning air. They had been lowered to stop the flow of pedestrians and traffic across the tarmac while their plane had made its landing. Now, as they taxied toward the small terminal, the traffic had begun to flow again, a mad rush headed by a smoky cloud of buzzing scooters.

“Your Excellency will be glad to know that Amir has arranged accommodations for you and your friends.”

It was the deep voice of Bahadur that spoke. He was out of his seat now, and on his way to open the hatch.

“It would appear that you read my mind, dear Bahadur,” said the old Bishop happily. “You must thank Amir for us.”

“You can thank him yourself, your Excellency,” said Bahadur, pulling open the hatch.

In an instant Amir was inside, embracing Bahadur heartily.

“Good cousin!” said Bahadur, rubbing Amir’s back with his massive hands. “Have faith in Allah. We will get them out safely.”

“I’m not worried,” said Amir, his groomed dreadlocks shifting as he shook his head. “We’ve got a small army to help us do it.”

Amir pointed to the cockpit with his thumb.

“You were lucky to make it to Gibraltar. They shut down all air traffic across Europe.”

“Why have they done this?” asked Bahadur, frowning.

“Terrorist attacks,” said Amir, looking over at the Bishop. “All in the last hour. Bombings. One in Madrid, two in London, two in New York City, one in Atlanta, and only ten minutes ago a massive explosion in Rome. They say it’s all been coordinated by Al-Qaeda. Thousands are dead. They’ve declared Martial law in the U.S..”

The Bishop stood up in alarm, as did Suora and Fra.

“We must contact Gabriel and Natasha!”

“Your Excellency,” said Amir with a slight bow. “I just got off the phone with them. They’re fine. They’re on their way here.”

The French Riviera.

The black sports car screamed
through a curving tunnel west of Monaco, its tuned exhaust reverberating off the chiseled walls of the mountain pass. To the left, flickering through a series of gallery openings, the Mediterranean was shimmering under a rising sun. At long last the rain had stopped, and they were finally getting a chance to make up for lost time. Gabriel looked down at the speedometer and shook his head in amazement.

Two-hundred and forty kilometers an hour and I’m barely pressing the accelerator.

With all air traffic having been suspended after the terrorist strikes, they had been forced to drive to Gibraltar. It was now seven in the morning, with very little traffic on the autoroute. If they could maintain an average speed of two-hundred, they would be crossing into Gibraltar seven hours from now.

“Maybe we can look at this now,” said Natasha, producing the envelope containing Professor Metrovich’s journal.

“Do the honours,” said Gabriel.

Natasha opened the envelope and removed the tattered book. It was thick and worn and smelled of old leather.

“Gabriel,” she whispered, opening it carefully. “This journal is filled with illuminations.”

She held it up and Gabriel shot over a quick glance. In the second he had looked, he had seen intricate medieval illustrations, glowing gold leaf, and precise calligraphy.

“I had no idea,” said Gabriel, shaking his head.

Many times he had seen his father working in the journal, but he had never been permitted to know what was within. When he had asked, his father had always given the same response.

“When it is time, Gabriel, and only then.”

Somehow the journal had always disappeared, and as a boy, no matter how thoroughly Gabriel had searched for it, he had never once found it.

“So what’s in it besides pretty pictures?”

Natasha was studying the book as she spoke.

“Eighth and ninth century texts. Perfect copies, Gabriel. Letters, scrolls, papyri, ancient maps. Some are in Greek, others in Coptic, Aramaic, Arabic… Here is a Latin manuscript. Guess who it is by.”

Gabriel shrugged.

“Gutierrez de la Cruz,” she said.

“That guy’s everywhere.”

Natasha turned another page. It was covered in gold leaf.

“This book is a masterpiece,” she whispered. “I cannot believe that your father made this. It is even hand-bound.”

Gabriel only nodded. He missed the old man terribly.

“Listen to what he writes on the very first page,” she said. “It is an excerpt from the Pistis Sophia.

“And the spirit of the Saviour was moved in him, and he cried, ‘How long shall I suffer you? Do ye still not know? Do ye still not understand that ye are all Angels, and Archangels; all Lords, and Rulers? That ye are from all; of yourselves and in yourselves in turn; from one mass, and one matter, and one essence?

“It refers to humanity’s divine nature,” said Natasha, “and the high places we held before the Fall. The page next to it only has a single line on it.”

Gabriel looked over at her.

“What does it say?”

Natasha read it aloud.

“To transcend the Cube is to see it in all things.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow but was soon lost in his thoughts. He was thinking of his father. Natasha continued to study the book.

“This journal is divided into sections,” she said at length. “The first treats with a medieval author named Chrétien de Troyes, and his book
The Quest For The Holy Grail
.”

Gabriel paused to think.

“That was a fusion of Celtic folklore and Orthodox Christianity, wasn’t it?”

Natasha nodded.

“Yes, and Jewish mystical symbolism too. It can be interpreted on many different levels. Some say it is an allegory of the secret teachings of the Alchemists.”

“The ones who could turn lead into gold,” said Gabriel.

Natasha nodded again.

“The Alchemists were Gnostic priests,” she said. “The Church burned them all and destroyed their knowledge. It was called Gnosis, and your father was obsessed with finding out what it was.”

Gabriel smiled and shook his head.

“That sounds like Dad.”

Natasha pulled an iPad out of her backpack, her eyes wide with excitement.

“What are you doing?” asked Gabriel.

“I am researching,” she said, tapping at the screen.

Gabriel gave a nod.

“According to this,” she said after a few minutes of surfing, “the person who possesses the Gnosis becomes an immortal creator of heavenly worlds. His every desire is fulfilled, and life takes on a perpetual state of excitement and bliss.”

Gabriel raised his eyebrows.

“Sounds like Las Vegas.”

Natasha shot him a sidelong glance.

“The only problem,” she continued, “is that there are practically no traces of the Gnosis left. The little that remains is veiled in legend and myth.”

“So basically it’s a lost knowledge.”

Natasha continued scanning the document she had downloaded.

“Learning the Gnosis was an initiatory path,” she said. “Pieces of the knowledge were given to the student as he advanced. The alchemists believed that acquiring the Gnosis was the meaning of life. It was all about remembering to be something that we already are, instead of trying to become something we are not.”

“So what are we?” asked Gabriel.

Natasha looked over at Gabriel as he drove.

“It says we are all gods.”

“Gnosticism,” said Gabriel, thinking. “The ultimate heresy. Christianity as myth.”

Natasha nodded.

“The alchemists combined Judeo-Christian mythology with other ancient mythologies. To them, the story of the Garden of Eden was not so much the cause
of the Fall, but the result of it. In their version, the serpent is not even the devil. She is the benevolent Mother, and the knowledge contained in the apple is the Gnosis that reminds Adam and Eve of the Virtue they lost as a result of the Fall.”

Gabriel scanned the road ahead.

“Just like in the myth that Marcus told us about.”

Natasha put away the tablet and returned her attention to the journal, reading silently for a while longer before looking up at Gabriel. Her eyes were wide with the wonder that only a theologian could feel about such things.

“The next section is about Gutierrez de la Cruz,” she said. “According to this, he was not only the one who found the lost Cube; he was also a member of an organization called the
Council of Six
.”

Gabriel glanced over.

“The Council of Six?”

“It was comprised of representatives from each of the six world religions,” said Natasha. “All summoned by the Moorish Caliph of Toledo in 866, to translate the proto-writings inscribed on the Cube.”

Gabriel recalled the parchments that had previously covered the Cube. They had been written in six different languages. He had only skimmed over them at the time, but it now occurred to him what they must have spoken of. 

“Of course,” he said. “That’s what’s written on each of the six parchments: Discourses on the translations they made. But why? Why gather scribes from the four corners of the earth to translate crude symbols that could have meant absolutely anything? Could there really be some kind of secret knowledge locked up in the Cube?”

Natasha shrugged.

“Your father suspected that everything would be explained in The Book of Khalifah.”

“And that’s why he was so obsessed with finding it,” said Gabriel. “That book must be pretty damn special.”

Natasha looked over at him.

“We must find it, Gabriel.”

“I agree,” he said, his eyes glued to the road. “Keep reading. I want to know everything my father knew.”

Los Picos de Europa, Northern Spain.

Isaac awoke
to find a brown hunting dog licking his face. The sun was up now, and the terrible storm had passed. His mind worked to remember where he was, and how he had arrived there.

Where did this dog come from? What is happening?

Isaac saw that he was on the shore of a mountain lake. At its centre he could see a small island burning steadily. In an instant all his memories came flooding back. He reached up and patted the dog’s head.

“I remember,” he said. “It is thanks to you that I am alive.”

Isaac shuddered as he recalled the horrific events that had only just transpired, and how he had swam out into the waters to escape the hellfire. He had been certain he would drown, and was on the verge of letting the lake take him, when a dog had swam up to him unexpectedly. He had lost consciousness shortly after.

As Isaac lay there, his mind went over all the things that had happened since his plane had gone down. He was perplexed by his clarity of mind. It was as though he had regained his judgment; something his doctor had told him would never happen. He looked at the dog, puzzled by the deep intelligence in its amber eyes.

“Where did you come from, my friend?” he asked. “There can be no explanation for your appearance here other than divine intervention.”

The dog gave a round nod and barked. He put a paw on Isaac’s chest as he lay there, and it seemed to Isaac that the animal was trying to communicate something to him. He examined the dog’s collar. It was made of rough twine, and had the lid of what looked to be an olive jar tied to it. Isaac saw that there was a name written on its underside.

“Sir Shackleton,”
he read, smiling. “A fitting title.”

He sat up, groaning with pain, and took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air.

“I cannot recall when my head was ever this clear,” he said to the dog. “Perhaps it was when I was a boy. Everything is so vibrant; so beautiful…”

Isaac looked around in wonderment, only then remembering his medication. He had not taken it for many days now. He searched his pockets, a panic beginning to take him. In over forty years he had never missed a dose.

“I must find my pills…”

Just then he felt Shackleton’s muzzle poke him in the side, and he turned to see that the dog’s eyes were focused on him. There could be no mistake as to what the dog was trying to communicate. His failure to take his medication was the reason for his recovery. He looked at the dog, his brow furrowed with confusion.

“But Father Adrianus always insisted that I never miss a dose,” he muttered. “He said that my sanity depended on it.”

Shackleton gave him another poke.

“Very well,” he said, frowning. “I will get up.”

Isaac rose unsteadily to his feet, noticing only then that Shackleton had returned him to the very place where he had first embarked onto the lake. Not a few paces away was the makeshift sled he had used to drag the corpse from the crash site, as well as the pack of supplies he had taken from the dead Father Franco. Isaac looked down at the dog.

“Who are you, my friend?”

Shackleton let out a resounding bark in response. He trotted over to Father Franco’s pack, picking it up in his maw and dragging it to Isaac’s feet. Within it Isaac found cured sausages and biscuits. It was not long before he had sat himself down and was sharing a meal with his new friend.

“Something of great importance has happened, Shackleton,” he said, looking out over the water. “I must try to understand.”

The flames on the island were beginning to subside now, replaced by a thick plume of rising smoke. Even though the sight of it served to affirm the reality of the demonic horrors he had experienced, the smoke was also strengthening his faith in God. That such a powerful evil could exist only confirmed the existence of an even greater force of good.

As he looked out over the lake, it seemed to Isaac that all the events of his life had lead him to the place where he now found himself. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet, scanning the mountainous peaks that encased him.

“I do not understand, Father,” he prayed quietly. “Lucifer used me, and then discarded me. He left me for dead. I am an abomination. I dismembered the corpse of my own son. I released an unspeakable evil onto the world. Why do you spare my life, Father? Why do you send this noble animal to help me? Should I not be despised and cursed by you?”

Isaac returned his gaze to the island, his eyes filling with tears.

“My life is yours, Father,” he whispered. “Help me and guide me so that I might put right the terrible wrongs I have done.”