Search: A Novel of Forbidden History (34 page)

“The
Traditions.
Your bible.” David felt he had no footing here. Religious beliefs were a matter of faith, and faith didn’t lend itself to rational debate.

“There’s nothing supernatural in the
Traditions.
That’s one of the ways we know it’s the truth.”

“How can the idea of gods not be considered supernatural?”

“Because of where the First Gods came from.”

It was obvious to David that Jess’s next words were a straight quote from her
Traditions.

“ ‘For forty generations man hid in darkness like the beasts, and knew not fire nor grain nor the markings of the heavens and the measure of the sun and moon and stars. Then, in the fortieth and first generation, the people of darkness captured fire, and did sow grain, and by the measure of the sun and moon and stars, did reap it. And these things and others they took to their children and to their parents so they would not fear the darkness, nor hunger, nor would they fear the confusion of days.’

“How much clearer could it be?” she asked. “It doesn’t say, ‘The people from the sky.’ ‘The people with green antennas.’ It says, ‘People of darkness.’ The same people mentioned in the verse preceding.” She tapped a finger to her chest. “Us. Humans. People of darkness living in caves and grubbing for our food until—until the First Gods rose from us and gave us
the tools of civilization so we could rise from that darkness and become gods ourselves. At their side.

“You want to know why our scripture isn’t some collection of fairy tales like any other religious text you’d care to name? Because it reveals
truth
that’s supported by reason, not unthinking faith.”

However unfounded her beliefs, David accepted they were sincerely held, like Ironwood’s. “Well, it’s different, at least,” he said.

For the first time, David realized he was enjoying the company of someone else as much as his own. He searched for a way to prolong this strange conversation, fearing if he didn’t, Jess would return to her room and their day together would be at an end.

“Tell me more,” he said.

And she did.

In modern times, the scriptures of the Family were called
Les Traditions de la Famille,
after the classic French translation by René Quinton, guardian of his line at the turn of the last century, and a shining example for children of all twelve lines as to what they should aspire to be. Quinton, a renowned scientist and physician who had saved tens of thousands of lives with his discoveries, had based his translation on earlier works in Latin, Hebrew, and ancient Greek that dated back to between two and three thousand years ago. With multiple copies having been passed down through generations of MacCleirighs, the scriptures were complete, and, even having been copied by hand and translated so many times, there were few discrepancies among the different versions.

The oldest form of the Family scriptures, though, was in cuneiform, dating back to almost five thousand years. One hundred and seventy-eight clay tablets—approximately one-third of the complete work—survived and were now preserved in the repository maintained by the Claridge line in Australia.

On those tablets, fired by scribes who had traced their lineage back to the time of the First Gods, and from whom Jess’s own lineage could be traced forward, the world and the universe were described in terms that contradicted millennia of common wisdom and superstition, yet were confirmed in modern times.

In the scriptures of the Family, the Earth was said to have been formed by forces unknown and was older than any person could comprehend. It was also described as a sphere, and it moved around the Sun as the Moon moved in turn around the Earth.

There were no demons or angels or wars in heaven in
Les Traditions.
Not even a god at the beginning. Not until the First Gods arose from
humans, just as life was said to have arisen from the land and sea—not through the intent of some supernatural mind, but because it was the nature of things.

These scriptures, with statements most other religions would find blas phemous, were the reason why the MacCleirighs had remained hidden, their faith disguised throughout recorded history.

Over the centuries, as the scattered lines of the Family perfected their strategy of hiding in plain sight, the scholars among them began to assemble the evidence that the truths in their scriptures—so at odds with what other religions maintained—actually did reflect the natural world.

MacCleirigh money and influence prodded the Enlightenment into being, gave birth to rationalism and an explosion of science. One after another, the truths of the Family scriptures were revealed to be
actual
truths, measurable by the tools of science.

Yet, as Jess told David, her teachers emphasized that there were no statements in the scriptures reflecting knowledge that early humans couldn’t have had. There was no mention of atomic theory. No discussion of medical concepts beyond those that wise observers at the time might note; hygiene was critical to maintaining health, the scriptures said, but they made no references to why that might be so, not a word about bacteria.

Les Traditions de la Famille,
then, were exactly what they themselves said they were—the writings of humans who had been present at the birth of the First Gods, and who had been charged by those gods to be their representatives on this world, defending their secrets until their gifts could be shared by all people, everywhere.

People. Not aliens.

So the
Traditions
said.

“How’s all that stayed secret?”

Jess shrugged. “By not talking about it. Like I’m doing now.”

“For seven thousand years?” David struggled unsuccessfully to soften his skepticism. “That’s something like three hundred generations.” The numbers arranged themselves in his mind. “One hundred and forty-four people in each generation means forty-three thousand individuals who knew all this, and not one of them ever tried to betray the Family, or was estranged, or got drunk in a bar and spilled their guts?”

“Not completely.”

David took her smile to mean he hadn’t insulted her.

“Of course,” Jess admitted, “some of the stories from the
Traditions,
and from the Family’s other writings,
have
leaked out for all sorts of reasons—that’s human nature. You can find them in other cultures, other legends.
Even other religions. Where they came from, though, that’s not open knowledge.

“The Family’s done studies of generational secrets, particularly of the dynamics of keeping them successfully. Three conditions have proved particularly important.” She ticked them off on her fingers: “One: stability over time. The Family’s certainly had that. Two: strong selection criteria for choosing who to tell the secret to. Very few. You being an exception. Three: nonconfrontational posture. We’ve never tried to impose our beliefs on anyone, so we have nothing to prove. People tend to ignore us because we’re not a threat, and that leads back to our stability.”

The lamplight illuminated half her hair.
Like half a halo,
David thought.
An angel’s halo.

“Next question.” Jess’s half-grin told him he’d been caught staring.

“Okay. What’s the Family actually been doing all these years? And why?”

Jess’s hands went to the silver cross she wore, the gesture seeming more reflexive than intentional. “The First Gods rose from humans, which means the seeds of godhood are in each of us. They gave humans the gift of civilization, so that we could be freed from fear and labor, and become wise. When we are wise enough, in time we will become gods ourselves at their side.”

To David, Jess’s words seemed less an answer to his question than a ritualized response derived from unquestioned repetition: childhood training. “You say, ‘in time.’ How much time? Do the
Traditions
say how long this is going to take?”

Jess shook her head, and a few strands of her long red hair floated free, gleaming in the light. David had to blink to keep his concentration. “All we know is that everything will change when the First Gods return to us.”

“They left?”

She kept her hands on her cross, but David saw her fingers tense. “Nine thousand years ago. Ever since then, each one of us who reads the
Traditions
has been faced with what we call the Mystery of the Promise. We know what the Promise is—the
Traditions
make that clear. The First Gods
will
return to us, and that’s when their Promise that all of us, all of humanity, will become gods at their side will be fulfilled. So the Family protects the knowledge they gave us, and adds to it, preparing for that day. We just don’t know when.”

The way she spoke said more to David than her words. It was as if she needed to convince herself, not him. As if something else about this ancient mystery were bothering her. Something she wasn’t sharing with him.

“Why did the First Gods leave?” he asked.

“We don’t know.”

“Any idea where they went?”

“The White Island.”

“The White Island.” He studied Jess. “You don’t know where that is, either.”

The way she turned the cross in her hands told him he was right. “There’s a new theory—new questions—every generation. Does the word ‘white’ refer to a color? Is it an industry? A practical facility for making linen shrouds thousands of years ago? Or was it a place of purity? A physical location like Mount Ararat? An actual island? Atlantis? Malta? A place of ice and snow like Greenland or Antarctica? Or, in the end, just a philosophical state of mind?”

“What do you think?” David asked.

“If we knew why the First Gods left us, maybe we could figure out where they went.” She seemed about to speak, changed her mind, stood up. “I need to sleep.”

David stood, too, still reluctant to say good night. “Big day tomorrow.” He glanced at the heavy curtains covering the window, as if he could see through them, through the night, to Tintagel Castle, less than five miles distant.

He walked to the door with her. She hesitated in the open doorway. “When we get those results back, you’d better be one of my cousins. Otherwise, after everything I’ve told you . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.

“Don’t worry,” David said. “Tomorrow, we’ll find a new temple. That’s my promise.”

So quickly that David knew there was no thought behind her action, Jess lifted the thin silver chain with its silver cross from around her neck and placed it around his.

“I give you the Twelve Winds of the world,” she said, the rhythm of recitation in her voice again, “because no one knows where one will die.”

Then, cheeks blazing like her hair, she turned away, and was gone without another word.

That night, David lay back in bed with her cross in his hand, thinking of the Twelve Winds and where they might take him in his own quest.

Like Jess, he didn’t know where he might die, either.

He only knew when.

Sleep did not come easily.

As far as the public and press knew, the FBI’s 6:00
A.M.
raid on the Encounters casino and resort was part of Holden Ironwood’s ongoing legal battles with the Treasury. Special Agent Jack Lyle, Agent Roz Marano, and eleven other specialists from the Air Force Office of Special Investigations—all wearing blue FBI Windbreakers and photo IDs—went unmentioned in the press briefing.

It took less than an hour to locate the isolated computer installation that Lyle had gambled was hidden in the casino. There, with the exception of the mysteriously missing billionaire himself, Jack Lyle found everything he wanted—but nothing he could use.