Authors: Gilliam Ness
Los Picos de Europa, Northern Spain.
The section of wing
that trapped Isaac Rodchenko was merciful. By collecting the splashing droplets of a nearby spring, it was channeling a meager stream of water close enough to his face to hold death at bay. For many days now Isaac lay trapped in the airplane wreckage. He was high atop a frigid mountain in the wildest regions of northern Spain, battling a new and invisible enemy.
From the corpse of his son had come an unspeakable blight. The same demons that had possessed his child, were now accosting him. Wave upon wave their relentless attacks came. In his weakened state he feared that it was only a matter of time before they entered into him.
Even in his struggle with mental illness Isaac Rodchenko had remained a staunch Roman Catholic, and he now clung to its doctrine like a drowning man to a piece of flotsam.
“Dear Father in heaven,” he whispered fervently, “I accept this punishment. I know that it is my past sins that have caused you to unleash these demons upon me. Had I not abandoned Christian and Alina, none of this would have happened. What I did was unforgivable.”
Isaac went over the tragic events of his childhood and adolescence. At the age of twelve, his father had cast him from the Antov family, and sent him to live at Vatican City. He had remained there ever since, taking his mother’s surname, and disinheriting himself entirely from his wicked father. At the Vatican, a venerable priest by the name of Father Adrianus Vanderwerken had encouraged him to forget his past and start anew.
“God has wonderful plans for you, my son,” he had often said when sadness haunted Isaac.
In not returning home, Isaac knew very well that he had abandoned his little brother Christian and baby sister Alina to a hell at the hands of their abusive father. It was the guilt and regret stemming from this decision that had over the years become the root of Isaac’s mental illness. Despite Father Adrianus’ smooth tongued assurances that he had done nothing wrong, a dark specter of guilt had remained buried in Isaac’s heart; one that would soon be growing in intensity as the numbing effects of his medication began to wear off.
Exposed to the elements and slowly dying, Isaac Rodchenko continued his hopeless battle against the demonic forces that accosted him. Unspeakable things had been happening of late. The corpse of his son was somehow reviving, its occasional twitches escalating into prolonged seizures that filled Isaac with horror. Even now as it lay there motionless, Isaac could hear its icy whispers. The corpse was urging him to surrender; to let the demons take control.
Rome, Italy.
“The most venerable
and most renowned of all Rome!” exclaimed Bishop Marcus as he led the way through the dark tunnels.
He was quoting what Pope John XXIII had said of the catacombs of San Callisto in the early nineteen-sixties.
“When we were boys, Father Franco and I would sneak into the restricted areas of these catacombs!” he said brightly. “They might very well have been what inspired me to become a priest.”
Natasha was amazed. How could dark and tangled passages possibly be a source of religious inspiration? Even still, she had never seen her uncle so enthusiastic about anything before. It was as if the spark that had been rekindled in the old man earlier that morning had now blossomed into a beautiful flame.
“These Catacombs are a resting place for almost half a million Christians,” he said. “As well as sixteen popes and many, many martyrs. The necropolis covers almost ninety acres!”
“That is quite daunting, Uncle,” said Natasha. “Will we be able to find a way out?”
She was walking beside him now, trying her best to see the beauty he saw in the arched and crumbling passages.
“Find a way out? Oh, most definitely, my child!” he chimed. “We are presently on the lowest of five levels; an area off limits to the general public, but one that I explored at great length with my schoolmates.”
Gabriel fell to the back of the group. Entertaining as the old Bishop’s enthusiastic discourse was, he had become much more concerned with Suora. She was walking in front of him now, slightly behind Fra, and seemed to be hunched over more than usual. Ever since they had entered into the catacombs her breathing had become more and more laboured, and Gabriel could see that she was having trouble keeping up with the group’s already slow pace. Even Shackleton seemed to sense something. Instead of his normal place at the head of the group, he was lingering at the back, near the old nun, and looking up at her every now and again with those gentle amber eyes.
“How’s about a break, Suora?” asked Gabriel, trying to make it sound offhand.
“I am fine, my son,” she said, giving her short little nods. “I was just listening to his Excellency. How incredible.”
“There’s no reason why we can’t all have a rest.”
“If I am not mistaken,” said the old Bishop, having overheard Gabriel, “we should soon be arriving at a wonderful little chapel. It would be a perfect place to have some refreshments.”
Gabriel frowned. It seemed to him that his comment had actually made things worse for the old nun, reminding her of her fatigue. What was more, Fra had now brought his attention to her as well, and in the half light, Gabriel could see the look of concern on the old man’s face. There was a great love between the Brother and the nun.
As if in answer to the Brother’s prayers, the chamber the Bishop had spoken of appeared suddenly to the right. Two heavy columns rose up on either side of a dark opening, a crooked lintel holding them fast. The crumbling portal looked impressive. It was carved with what looked to be Egyptian hieroglyphs, their strange shapes shifting under the roaming beams of their flashlights. A dark chamber lurked behind, radiating the scent of pungent mildew.
“How many flares do you have left, Gabriel?” asked the Bishop over his shoulder.
“Just one.”
“We had better save it then,” he said, rubbing his chin. “If memory serves me correctly, this chapel has a hearth in it. Let us enter and see.”
The crooked portico gave way to a large open space that appeared palatial in contrast to the tunnels behind. Under a shallow domed ceiling they could see an altar adorned with peeling frescos. It sat between two wide columns, with a life-sized wooden carving of a crucified Christ hanging at its centre. To the right and left of the altar, intricate freezes were carved into the stone walls. Natasha ran the beam of her flashlight over them, her many years studying artifacts peaking her interest.
“These carvings are obviously Christian,” she said, “but they are Egyptian in style.”
Gabriel came up beside Natasha as she passed her hand over one of the freezes. He could see that she was not mistaken.
Who is this girl?
“Christ is being portrayed as the Egyptian god Horus,” she continued, trying to ignore Gabriel. “See the giant sun behind him? That is the traditional setting for a sun god.”
Gabriel looked around, the beam of his flashlight finding a fresco depicting a scene of the Egyptian god being crucified.
“This chamber would have had to have been built in the early fourth century,” he said. “Most of these frescos would have been considered heretical anytime after that.”
Now it was Natasha’s turn to be surprised, and she fought back an urge to look over at Gabriel. How could a man like him know so much about the early church?
“I can’t believe I’ve never heard about this place,” continued Gabriel in awe. “It clearly depicts direct parallels between Christianity and Egyptian mythology.”
He looked over at the Bishop.
“Maybe that’s why this level of the catacombs is off limits to the public. The church has never been able to explain how the same stories in the bible were told in Egypt, thousands of years before they ever supposedly happened.”
“That is a highly contested subject, my son,” said the old Bishop, his eyes wandering over the ancient paintings. “The fact of the matter remains that the early Egyptian Christians were of the most severely persecuted by the Romans. In all probability, this chapel was built as a shrine to them. If you look next to the altar, you will find a small doorway leading to a room that is filled with their bones.”
It was not the first time that the old Bishop had heard mention of the disputed pagan sources of Christianity, yet even though there existed a large body of archaeological evidence in support of this claim, he did not suspect it was a matter of simple plagiarism. He felt that there was a missing piece to the puzzle; a truth that would reconcile the chronological discrepancies, without destroying the essence of what Christianity stood for.
“Truly, though,” he said, thinking of Suora. “All this is of no practical concern to us at the moment.”
He turned away from the frescos and looked to the back of the chapel, shining his flashlight on something there.
“What is of practical concern,” he continued, “is that the inspired gentleman who ordered this chapel built, saw it fitting to equip it with a hearth. And as you can see, a long departed archaeological team has left us with plenty of material to burn in it!”
Both Gabriel and Natasha turned and focused their beams on the chapel’s back wall. There, between two wooden scaffolds, was an enormous hearth under a full sized statue of the god Horus. Its falcon’s head was looking straight across the chamber to the crucified Christ that hung directly opposite. Scattered around the hearth were wooden chairs and a table. To the right of the scaffold was what looked to be a crate filled with dust covered torches.
“Now that’s a beautiful sight,” said Gabriel, his beam focusing on the crate.
In no time at all the small party was huddling around a crackling fire, enjoying the first warmth they had experienced in many hours. Gabriel lit torches and set them around the room. In the flickering light it seemed that the chapel was suddenly brought to life, its mysterious purpose being revealed to them with utter clarity. The chamber was clearly a sanctuary, but it also held a great secret, subtly revealing clues to a mystery that Natasha had always been fascinated by. The Egyptian roots of Christianity.
While Gabriel was busy with the torches, Natasha prepared a chair for Suora and placed it directly before the hearth, lovingly covering the old nun in a blanket the moment she had sat down. Fra Bartolomeo, in all his foresight, had brought a small pot in which to heat the soup that he had also stuffed into his pack. Only one portion could be heated at a time, and against Suora’s emphatic insistence to be left until last, the first bowl was given to her. The effects were nothing short of miraculous.
“Thank you, my dear ones. You are too kind to me,” she said from under her blanket. “It was only these old bones and the dampness.”
“Rest well, dear girl,” said the old Bishop gently.
He was lowering himself into a creaking chair before a worktable, an old leather-bound book in his hands.
“We will stay here for an hour or so,” he said. “After that we will have a bit of walking to do. We are very deep, but I know my way. God willing we will be out of this place in time for supper.”
Natasha was next to get her soup. She thanked Fra, and drew a chair up to the old worktable, sitting down close beside the Bishop.
“What book is that, Uncle?” she asked, sipping her soup. It was warm and wholesome, and it drove away the last of her shivers.
“This is a book that belonged to Gabriel’s father,” said the Bishop, studying its worn cover. “I received it in the mail shortly after his death.”
Gabriel was sharing some of the roast with Shackleton when he overheard the Bishop’s words.
“My father?” he repeated, his mouth full. “What book is that?”
“It is a book containing all of his findings concerning the Cube of Compostela, my son,” said the Bishop earnestly. “It is time that you both knew the knowledge it contains.”
“The diary!” gasped Gabriel. “I went crazy looking for that thing!”
“His life’s work,” nodded the old Bishop, pausing for a moment and then continuing slowly.
“Out of love and an earnest desire to give you both an unburdened childhood and adolescence, much has been kept from you, but now all will be revealed. The time has come for you both to learn the truth about who you really are; a truth that we have long suspected, but one that has only recently been confirmed.”
Amsterdam, North Holland.
“Shall we get started,
young man?” asked Prince Vladimir condescendingly.
He was seated directly to the left of where Christian was standing, a sharply hooked nose distinguishing him from the other old men in the room. Leaning over, the Prince stretched out a crooked finger and tapped a stack of papers on the table in front of Christian.
“It is all right there before you, boy,” he said. “Right in the agenda.”
Christian looked through the room’s large windows, and out onto the manicured gardens.
Boy? Go to hell, you son of a bitch.
A group of men caught his eye. At first he thought that they were gardeners, but as he looked more closely he could see that this was not at all the case. The figures he saw were robed and hooded, and they appeared to be enveloped in a strange darkness, utterly out of context with the bright and sunny day. Christian frowned. Although the figures seemed to be standing still, they also appeared to be shifting from side to side. Their appearance was scratchy and difficult to discern, as though they were not entirely there.
A creeping fear was making its way up Christian’s spine, spreading through his body, and making his eyes water. He tried desperately to control himself against the irrational emotion, but he found that he was powerless against it, able only to maintain the outward appearance of calm.
“Well, Christian,” said his uncle, humorlessly. “Shall we begin by discussing the first item on the agenda?”
Christian turned to face him. The Prince’s words had somehow broken the spell.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course.”
Christian glanced back into the garden. The hooded figures had vanished, replaced by a decrepit old man standing in the place where they had been. He squinted at the figure, recognizing him immediately as the man who had been present at his father’s deathbed; the same man who had given him his father’s ring. With unmistakable purpose, the old man turned suddenly towards Christian, his cold reptilian eyes locking with his own. A current of fear shot through Christian’s body like high-voltage electricity.
“Pay no heed to the Nautonnier, boy,” said the Prince, his voice thick with disdain for the old man. “Father Adrianus Vanderwerken is a relic from the past. Look how his nurses come to change his diapers.”
Christian watched as the old man was escorted from the lawns. His scalp was still itching from the cold sweat that had come over him when they had locked eyes. He turned to face those in the room. Why had he seen four figures where the Nautonnier had been? His mind was obviously playing tricks on him, but he would give it no further thought. He had a meeting to direct. He would consult his psychiatrist later. The dosages of his medications were most likely the cause.
“Gentlemen,” he said, gathering himself. “I have been informed by the Prince that we will soon be replacing the monetary currencies in the United States, Canada, and Mexico with a new North American currency. I am told it is to be called the
Amero
, and that the current economic collapse of the United States was engineered by the Vanderhoff Group as a means of ushering in this new currency.”
Christian moved closer to his chair.
“I want to know exactly what our little group is up to. If I am to lead this committee, I need to know its motives.”
Christian sat down, glad of the opportunity to shake off the remnants of his disturbing hallucination. He heard an old man at the opposite end of the table clear his throat and make ready to speak.
“You will find, Christian,” said the old man condescendingly, “that we have become very efficient in our work here. Over the decades we have stripped down and simplified our methods so as to arrive at the most efficient means of execution. In this way we get the most done with the least amount of effort.”
Christian looked at the old man, his eyes cold as steel.
“Cut the bullshit and get to the point.”
The old man looked back at him icily.
“We tear down old things so that we can build new and better things, Christian. In 1913 we instituted the Federal Reserve after engineering a major banking crisis in 1907. What most people don’t know is that the Federal Reserve is not federal at all. It is privately owned and directed by us.”
Christian laughed aloud.
“That’s ridiculous. I won’t argue that the regional Federal Reserve Banks are privately owned, that’s no secret, but they are all controlled by the Board of Governors; a
federal
agency.”
The man nodded patiently.
“Whose members are appointed by the President and confirmed by the Senate. In other words, by
us
, Christian. We just brought down that agency so that we could bring in the Amero.”
Christian held his gaze.
“And you did this by staging last month’s terrorist attack in Los Angeles.”
The old man clasped his hands over the table.
“Yes,” he said, smiling coldly. “We knew that a massive terrorist strike would take down the teetering U.S. Economy.”
Christian smiled coldly. Fear and doubt were the two main weapons in the Vanderhoff arsenal. With them they had routinely manufactured crisis after crisis in order to implement their twisted policies.
“And why the new currency?” Christian asked. “Are you not already in control of the existing ones?”
“Our goal is to centralize power,” said another man, his accent Texan, “but the things that get in our way are the political and economic systems that are currently in place. The more we centralize, the more these systems need to be revised and changed to suit our needs. This is why we created the United Nations. It provides us with a means to implement our new infrastructure. Ultimately there will be a single world currency and a central world government. It’ll be split up into four unions. The American Union, the Asian Union, the African Union and the European Union,”
He rolled his eyes in frustration.
“Jesus, boy. Didn’t you ever see the movie,
Zeitgeist?”
Christian frowned in confusion.
“And exactly who will elect those in power?”
A rumble of dry laughter made its way around the table.
“The Vanderhoff Group will appoint those in power, Christian,” said the old Texan. “Just like we’ve always done.”