The Illumination (22 page)

Natalie could feel the blood draining from her face. The rabbi's words suddenly seemed to be coming to her from far away.

“The jewel,” Natalie asked shakily, her hands squeezed tight around the egg-shaped pendant in her hand. “Do the legends say what became of it?”

“There are numerous stories that have been passed down, both in legend and in folktale. I've already told you the only one that's written in the Torah—the Old Testament—about the
tzohar
illuminating the interior of the ark. The ancient rabbis explained that Noah had been given the
tzohar
by his father, after Adam passed it down through the generations.”

Father Caserta spoke up. “Millions of readers the world over are also familiar with this brilliant light of creation encased in a jewel. You're familiar with the famous trilogy of J.R.R. Tolkien—
The Lord of the Rings
?” He strode to the bookcase packed with volumes at the far wall, plucked a hardcover from the shelves, and blew the dust off its top edge.

“Tolkien introduces it in
The Silmarillion
—the book that preceded
The Hobbit,
which in turn preceded
The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers,
and
The Return of the King.
I was captivated when, as a young man, I first read the tales of Middle Earth. Not until years later did I become aware of the novels' parallels with the legends surrounding the
tzohar.
I am convinced that Tolkien based a part of his masterpiece on the legends of the
tzohar.
”

“That's intriguing.” D'Amato's brow furrowed. “I wouldn't have taken Tolkien for a Talmudic scholar.”

“In a way, he was.” The priest nodded. “He was a devout Roman Catholic who was fascinated by biblical and cultural myths and legends. He studied them extensively—he must have come across the legend of the
tzohar
in his readings. There are simply too many similarities between his work and the Jewish legends. Are either of you familiar with
The Lord of the Rings
?”

“I've read them all—but long ago,” Natalie replied instantly. D'Amato shook his head no, as did the rabbi.

“I'm probably the only person alive who hasn't even seen the movies,” D'Amato added, placing his fingertips on the desk.

“Well, then, think about this.” Father Caserta set the book down on the exact center of his desk. “In
The Silmarillion,
Tolkien wrote about a light created before the sun. A primordial light which filled the earth and which later—after sin entered the world—was concealed within three gems. Does that sound familiar?”

“In our Jewish legend, there was only one gem,” Rabbi Calo murmured, a gleam in his eyes. “Yet the concept is the same.”

“Exactly. Both legends center around the same uniquely powerful light. Tolkien called his three crystal jewels the Silmarills.”

D'Amato sat silently as Natalie nodded. “That's a pretty strong parallel,” she allowed.

“Ah, but there are more,” the priest assured her. “And they are striking enough that I don't see how they could be considered coincidental.”

He hefted the silver coffee pot and refilled all of their cups. “In both legends the jewel-encased primordial light is lost. Noah's falls from the ark, while two of the three Silmarills similarly disappear—one swallowed by the sea, one swallowed by lava. The third Silmarill, however, is set in the sky as a brilliant star. Tolkien's star of Earendil. If you remember,” he said to Natalie, “its light was reflected in Galadriel's mirror.”

She nodded, gazing intently into the cup he'd just refilled. “Galadriel gave Frodo a fragment of it in a vial,” she recalled.

“Correct.” The priest strode back to the bookcase, found another book among his collection, and flipped through the pages.

“Ah, here it is. Galadriel's speech to Frodo when she gave him her gift.”

He began to read.

“In this vial, is caught the light of Earendil's star. It will shine still brighter when night is upon you. May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out.”

“Just as Adam and Eve had the
tzohar
with them—a light in dark places.” Natalie's tone was quiet, contemplative, as she tightened her fingers around the pendant in her palm.

“Let's back up a minute.” D'Amato held up a hand. “Explain
that bit about the
tzohar
falling out of the Ark after the Flood. Was that the last time anyone saw it?”

“Not at all.” Father Caserta shook his head. “Jewish sages say that when it fell overboard, it drifted deep into an underwater cave. And there it lay until the floodwaters receded and the cave was no longer below sea level.”

“And then?” Natalie lifted her cup to her lips.

“And then . . .” the priest said with a smile. “There is another Talmudic legend.”

 

The Ethiopian guard stared at the two photographs proffered by the Vatican
gendarme
. “These two people are not here.”

“Have you seen them?” The
gendarme
glanced at the Rome synagogue's security camera, then again, sharply, at the guard.

The guard shrugged. “They were here and they left,” he said neutrally.

“We must speak to Rabbi Calo.” The
gendarme
drew himself up, as if he could grow taller than his five-feet-nine-inch height. “We have reason to believe the woman is carrying something of great interest to us. It is urgent that we meet with Rabbi Calo at once.”

 

 

 

“The next legend about the
tzohar
recounts what happened after it fell overboard from Noah's Ark,” Father Caserta continued, glancing from Natalie's intent face to D'Amato's contemplative one.

“In the very cave where the
tzohar
washed up after it fell into the sea, Abraham, father of the Jewish people, was born. He found the sparkling gem as a child, and it became his treasured plaything, which he wore around his neck. Abraham passed it down to his son, Isaac, who in turn gave it to his son, Jacob, and Jacob gave it to his favorite child, Joseph. While some Jewish legends say it had great powers of healing, we don't hear that the
tzohar
also possessed the powers of divination until the days of Abraham's great-grandson Joseph, who like his ancestor, wore it around his neck.”

The priest continued. “When Joseph's brothers took his coat and threw him into the well, none of them realized they'd left him with something far more valuable than that coat. Joseph had no idea either, until the jewel around his neck began to glow in the darkness of the well, frightening away the snakes and vermin. It's said that Joseph used it in Egypt to interpret the Pharaoh's dreams, and that Moses reclaimed it from Joseph's burial tomb and placed it in the Ark of the Covenant.”

“And this is all in the Talmud?” There was amazement in
Natalie's voice. “I hadn't realized there was so much I didn't know about my religion.”

“Well, we all have our areas of expertise, Ms. Landau. Mine is the Babylonian Talmud, on which I based my doctoral thesis. But I can assure you that you do know something about the
tzohar.
If you've been to synagogue, you are already familiar with a reminder of this special light.”

His eyes crinkled at her puzzled expression.

“It hangs above the
bimah
—the altar—in every Jewish sanctuary,” he informed her with a smile. “In every synagogue in the world.”

“And not only there—it also hangs before the tabernacle on the altar of every Catholic Church,” Rabbi Calo pointed out. He inclined his head, amused by her puzzled expression. “Now do you know what we're referring to?”

“The Eternal Light.” It was D'Amato who answered. “Apparently we Catholics borrowed the concept from you.”

Natalie leaned back in her chair, letting the answer wash over her.
The
ner tamid—
the eternal light.
The lamp in the sanctuary that was never allowed to go out, or to be switched off. The lamp that burned continuously, remained illuminated day and night, as a reminder of God's eternal presence.

Rabbi Calo's enthusiasm thrummed through his next words. “The
tzohar
is the original
ner tamid
, the eternal light shining from the dawn of time.”

From the dawn of time. The words echoed in Natalie's brain.
Dawn of time. Eye of Dawn.
She started, the pendant suddenly heavy in her palm and the rabbi's words fading to a dull hum. The man who'd tried to kill them, who had Dana's silver
hamsa.
He had demanded she hand over the Eye of Dawn.

“. . . and the lights burning on our
bimah
s and altars”—Rabbi Calo's voice penetrated her thoughts once more—“are all a remembrance of the
tzohar,
which was hung above the Ark of the Covenant after the First Temple was built in Jerusalem. The
tzohar
and the ark were ensconced in the Holy of Holies—the most sacred area of the Temple, which only the High Priest could enter. The crystal God gave first to Adam and Eve shone there until the sixth century
B.C
., when Nebuchadnezzar's army
destroyed the Temple, carrying off all of its treasures, along with Jerusalem's captured Jews.”

“To Babylon.” Natalie spoke softly. “The treasures were carried off to Babylon. Has anyone seen the
tzohar
since then?”

“The Babylonians saw it.” Caserta returned the Tolkien books to the shelf and came back to lean against his desk. “At least, those who gained entrance to Nebuchadnezzar's palace did since the king hung it there to remind everyone he'd conquered the Temple.”

“But when his grandson was conquered by the Persians three thousand years ago,” Rabbi Calo put in, “the
tzohar
disappeared again. And it hasn't been seen since. Only written about.”

“Written about where?” Natalie's heart was thudding so hard she could barely get the words out.

The rabbi's eyes brightened, as if she'd arrived at the crux of the matter. “In a little-known Dead Sea scroll, Ms. Landau. One found badly damaged in Qumran. It's taken researchers years to piece some of it together and to uncover the writing. The words have been obscured in animal skins blackened by time. Perhaps you're familiar with it.”

“Which scroll?” she asked. “I've seen several of them at the Dome of the Book in Jerusalem.”

The priest smiled gently at her and leaned forward. “It isn't on display there. This scroll is still being studied, bit by bit, and few of its contents have been made public.”

D'Amato squinted questioningly.

“This scroll was written by one of the last people in Babylon to see the
tzohar,
” Father Caserta murmured. “By a man very close to King Balshazzar. So close that the king gave him a Chaldean name. Belteshazzar. But in the Bible he's called—”

“Daniel,” Natalie finished for him, her eyes widening and the pendant seeming to tingle in her palm.

“Correct again.” Rabbi Calo nodded. “The
tzohar
is described at length in the long-lost Scroll of Daniel.”

 

 

 

Shock reverberated through Natalie. She'd handled countless ancient artifacts, categorized them, arranged them—but always as an observer of history. Now history, in all its wonder and mystery, had fallen into her lap. Filled with a dawning sense of awe, she stared down at the pouch, at its two Aramaic words—
Belteshazzar—tzohar.
Then her gaze shifted in disbelief to her fingers, concealing the ancient pendant encrusted with the protective eyes.

Something
is
enclosed inside it. Something from the dawn of time.

Slowly, still trying to grasp the magnitude of what she was learning, she extended her hand toward the Italian clerics. She unfolded her fingers, now marked by the impression of the jewel that had been pressed tightly against her flesh. She held the pendant out like an offering.

“This necklace was inside that pouch. It's the one my sister sent me from Iraq,” she said through dry lips. “I know for certain that, like the pouch, it's three thousand years old—and that it has something sealed inside.”

 

Hasan, Siddiq, and Jalil approached the church on foot. Three more Guardians, from the Rome cell, were on their way, but Hasan doubted their assistance would be needed.

He made a harsh gesture toward Jalil, and the lithe young driver nodded and crept toward the small patch of graveyard behind the spired building, his Walther P99 in hand.

Hasan drew his Beretta, a .40 caliber, chambered and ready to fire. And he would, the moment he claimed the Eye of Dawn from the Landau woman. He'd be back in Al Quds with the Eye tonight.

He noted with approval that Siddiq already had his weapon pressed against the side of his Italian suit as together they advanced on the small stone church.

 

Father Caserta jumped up from the desk, tumbling his chair behind him. He reached toward the pendant, but his hand froze in midair. Rabbi Calo hadn't moved, but his gaze was trained in fascination on the jewel-encrusted eye.

“Have you opened it?” He blinked rapidly behind his glasses.

“We can't. Not without damaging it,” D'Amato replied.

“I have no idea how my sister got it.” Natalie spoke quickly in the hush of the room. “But she was murdered right after she sent it to me. She was beaten to death. And from the moment I received it, people have been trying to get it away from
me
.”

“The man who delivered it to Natalie was also murdered,” D'Amato said grimly. “We've been chased and shot at, and someone just left a threatening message scrawled across the wall of our hotel room.”

The rabbi snatched off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “The light of the
tzohar
is a bit of the primordial light of creation.” His voice was almost a whisper. “It has the power of healing, the power of divination. It was a part of that radiant light in the Garden of Eden—a light so bright it outshone the sun seventy times over. Just a bit of that light, encased in a crystal, had the power to illuminate the entire ark when the world was thrown into darkness.” Calo took a deep breath. “The
tzohar
contains within it a spark of the very force of creation. It would possess a power men can only dream of. A power that, if harnessed, could do great good—or great harm.”