I could see the end of the labyrinth. As far as I could tell, there were no more columns of light. I’d seen the scroll, but I recalled nothing of its content. I knew then that the lost knowledge was lost forever. I had failed.
I took another step and then stopped. The vision of the labyrinth had suddenly evaporated. In place of the melodic chanting was the morbid sound of gurgling water. An appalling wave of emptiness swelled in me. I stood motionless in absolute darkness.
I pulled back the hood. There was no torchlight. Only the dense curtain of black stench greeted my eyes.
Then, it hit me, a thought so terrifying that it weakened my knees. Euphemia was Konstantina reincarnated! She’d planned all along to draw out the Prophet and lure him to his death with fantastic fairy tales and drug-induced visions, an evil scheme designed to ensure that her beloved priesthood would go unchallenged for another two thousand years.
I could barely control the panic as I turned to retrace my steps out of the labyrinth. Then, a tremor, accompanied by the sound of pebbles tumbling into water, halted me in mid-stride. In that same instant, I sensed a faint light coming from somewhere behind me. Thinking it was a rescuer’s torch, I turned and peered through the eerie mist. The light emanated from the opening in the belly of the Great Mother.
Then, I heard a splash as more rocks plunged into the water. In the faint light, I could see the path moving, disintegrating. There was no escape. I had no choice but to scramble over the few remaining yards and dive for the center platform.
I landed in a battered heap and struggled to my feet. The tremor stopped. The dim light from the chamber was enough to see that the path, my only way off the platform, had crumbled into the boiling cauldron. I was trapped on an island in the bowels of hell.
I eased around to the entrance of the chamber. The light appeared to have no direct source, just luminous patches, rapidly shifting curtains of colorful energy that materialized and then disappeared—aurora borealis in miniature.
The Throne of Knowledge was made of black granite, rough in all places except for the seat and arms. The back stood about eight feet high and followed the contoured ceiling of the chamber. The throne rested on a circular platform less than a foot in height. I stepped to the throne and sat down. The shifting curtains of light intensified to an excruciating glare, forcing me to shield my eyes.
Then, I sensed a change. Seconds earlier, the air had been moist and putrid. Now, it was dry, sweet, and natural. The gurgle of brackish water became the hypnotic sigh of a breeze rustling through the boughs of a palm grove. The light sting of sand peppered one side of my face.
I opened my eyes and struggled to peer through the glare of light. I was no longer seated on the Throne of Knowledge. I was standing, blue sky stretching over my head, the fronds of palm trees waving gaily in the breeze.
I regained enough of my vision to realize that a sea—not of water, but of sand—stretched to every horizon. I walked in a slow daze around the edge of this desert oasis, trying to figure out where I was and what I was going to do about it.
Shade appeared to be the only amenity in my newfound environment. No food, no water. It occurred to me that I may bake to death, but at least I’d do it in the cheer of broad daylight, a vast improvement over boiling in the stinking black hell of the cave.
Things were definitely looking up.
I noticed something in the distance, a tiny speck that appeared to be moving in my direction. It took several minutes to determine that I was looking at the robe-clad figure of a man. When I saw the beard and sunglasses, I figured he was either a modernized nomad or on his way to the set of a Lawrence of Arabia remake.
The man moved with the kind of confidence I would expect from the owner of the only spot of shade in a thousand square miles. I prepared for eviction. My only request from him would be directions to civilization and a few pointers on traveling through a desert with no food or water, wearing the equivalent of nineteenth-century English-style pajamas with a built-in nightcap.
My concern diminished when the man, now a few yards from me, removed his sunglasses. His brown eyes were warm, crackling with light, definitely friendly, strangely familiar. He pushed back his hood, bowed slightly, and then came up with a smile. His white teeth gleamed in bright contrast to his dark beard. Something in his eyes gave me the impression that he thought he knew me.
“This might sound a little crazy,” I said, not knowing if he could understand me, “but do I know you?”
“Yes.”
His instant certainty made me laugh—politely.
“I’m sure you’re right, but I … um … well, I’ve been through quite a bit lately and I … I guess my memory’s a little fogged.”
“Anatolios. Am I not right?”
The face I definitely did not recall. But the eyes—there was something about the eyes. And then it hit me. “Marcus!”
He laughed and threw his arms around me. “It has been a long time, my friend,” he said, smiling and holding my shoulders in both hands. “You are looking well. Well indeed.”
A million questions clogged my brain, forcing my face into a long and speechless gape.
“You … you knew I was here?”
“Of course I knew. Just as I know that you are no longer Anatolios. You are Stuart Adams. Is this not correct?”
“Yeah, but … but you’re still Marcus. It’s been over two thousand years since I saw you last … and you look twenty years younger.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling proudly. “I take this as a great compliment.” He raised a scholarly hand. “The time comes in the journey of the soul, when the shifting identity begins to … how shall I say … stabilize. Many other things are possible as well, but we will talk of this another day. For now, we have a more important matter to discuss.” He motioned, and we both sat in the shade of a palm tree. “You desire to discuss the Three Measures of Wisdom, do you not?”
“How’d you know that?”
“In the same way I know that you returned to Kyropos to find the scroll.”
“I found it, all right.” Flashing through my mind was the image of Father Jon’s doomed helicopter plunging into the sea. “But I lost it again. This time for good.”
“True wisdom can never be lost. Truth is like a fig, you see. A man who eats it describes its sweetness. Ten thousand years later, another man comes, and he too eats this fig. Will this man not describe the same sweetness known by his predecessor? He most certainly will. And so, my friend”—he clapped his hands lightly on his knees—“let us turn to the business at hand. Let us taste again the sweetness of this fig of Truth that you seek.”
Euphemia hadn’t lied after all.
J Douglas Bottorff 