In the shade of her garden, after I told Euphemia and Niki all that had happened, Euphemia explained that the final tea I drank was an entheogen, a natural, psychoactive substance known to induce deeply spiritual experiences.
“It is similar,” she said, “to peyote, or the psilocybin mushrooms used by the Native American shaman in their vision quest.”
“You’re saying that the Stations of Remembrance and the conversation with Marcus were drug-induced hallucinations?” I asked.
“Not mere hallucinations,” Euphemia insisted. “The tea, as I explained to you earlier, was specifically crafted to enhance soul memories, to recover experiences not registered in the current memory of the brain. These experiences, I assure you, were quite real.”
I could believe Euphemia’s explanation. If each individual’s life really was a continuum—the soul connecting an unknown series of lifetimes—then why couldn’t the mind plunge back into the most influential places of its own history? What she didn’t explain was how my body was transported to the Labyrinth of Roses. Even during a vision quest, the initiate’s body never left a ten-foot circle.
“It could only have been Sargos,” Euphemia said. “He must have carried you to the feet of the Great Mother. By many witnesses he was seen returning to the cave … before the collapse.”
“But he would’ve had to wade through scalding water to get me,” I said, remembering the stone path leading to the center of the labyrinth had crumbled.
“Yes,” Euphemia said, and her gaze suddenly became downcast.
She excused herself, she said, to meditate on the Three Measures of Wisdom, leaving me with a bitterly humbling image. The man that I’d flippantly called a nocturnal freak had waded through scalding water to save my life.
Niki must have noticed the remorse on my face. “There is nothing you can do for him,” she said, reaching over and squeezing my hand. “This man, he did a brave and noble thing. We can only hope that he somehow knows how grateful we are.”
“I know you’re right,” I said. “I just wish I could look him in the eyes and thank him.”
We lingered in a moment of silent reverence before Niki moved on. “I have been thinking. There is an intriguing detail to your story, one that may have escaped your consideration.”
“What detail?”
“You remember Cardinal Sorrentino’s letter, the one that suggested Jesus may have gotten the basis of his teachings from Marcus?”
“Yeah. Either Josephus was confused, or his letter is a forgery.”
“I do not think that Josephus was confused or that his letter is a forgery. It might surprise you to know that the name Jesus is the Greek rendition of the Hebrew name Joshua. We know Jesus by this name only because the New Testament writings that we have are copies made in Greek. His family and friends more likely knew him as Joshua. Moreover, according to the book of Acts, his early disciples were known as the followers of the Way, just like you remembered.”
The circuits of my brain popped. I hadn’t made the connection. The Jesus I knew was a Sunday school composite of idealized images. Joshua was a man—extraordinary in that he was highly intelligent, compassionate, wise beyond his years, a mystic, a healer, and a natural leader that people trusted, but a man nonetheless. Had I befriended the actual Jesus of history?
I stared like an idiot at Niki, and I was about to begin babbling some kind of a response when two people, a man and a woman, suddenly appeared through the garden gate. The man—eyes hidden behind sunglasses, gaunt, hollow-faced, dressed in a blue Hawaiian shirt and light blue slacks—carried his arm in a sling and hobbled over a cane. I guessed he was in his late sixties. The woman, also in dark glasses, wore a floppy hat and had blonde hair that fell to just above her shoulders. She wore a sleeveless cream blouse, white slacks, and canvas walking shoes, and she had a large bag slung over one shoulder. Younger, probably in her late fifties, she watched the injured man’s every step, ready to assist him if he faltered. They stopped directly in front of us.
“Can we help you?” Niki said, standing.
The man smiled and straightened himself with the pride of a wounded war veteran. When he removed his sunglasses, Niki gasped, her jaw dropped, and her eyes went wide with shock. Her voice was little more than a dry whisper when she squeaked out the name.
“Captain Threader!”
I couldn’t decide which was more shocking: the possibility that I might have spent time in a past life studying and traveling with the most famous spiritual teacher in the world, or seeing Blake Threader—reduced to a near skeleton but still very much alive—standing before us.
After a long hug, Threader finally came out of Niki’s arms and thrust a greeting hand toward me. I grabbed it, unashamed of my tear-streaked cheeks. We were all laughing, crying, wiping our eyes, and sniveling like a bunch of pepper-sprayed lunatics.
When the wave of disbelief started to recede, Threader began to explain. “Niki, Stuart, I’d like you to meet my nurse, Ingrid Weiss. If it hadn’t been for her, I probably wouldn’t be here.”
Ingrid, her German blue eyes animated, offered a more likely explanation. “What the captain really means to say is that if it had not been for his bullheaded strength, he would not be here.”
We all took seats, anxious to hear Threader’s story. He was going for the Winchester when Apollo shot him. The three Greeks then set the Penelope on fire and left Threader for dead. Like we suspected, he’d regained consciousness, called in the Mayday, strapped on a life jacket, and swam for the Zodiac. “I don’t know how I done it,” he said, when he told us about tying the mine to the front of the Zodiac. “I just knew I had no choice. When I saw Giacopetti’s boat coming,” he said, looking at Niki, “I signaled with the flashlight and hoped like hell that you seen it. Whatever happened, I figured it’d be better than leaving you with Giacopetti.”
“You jumped right before impact?” I asked.
“The instant I seen Niki roll off that boat. If she was gonna die, then I was gonna die with her. But when I knew she was off that boat, I was outta there. And not a second too soon. Took a piece of shrapnel in the leg. Just about bled to death. Lucky for me, a chopper full of geologists got to me before the sharks. Took me to the hospital in Fira. When I woke up, I was staring into two of the most beautiful blue eyes I’d ever seen. I was sure I’d died and gone to heaven.”
Ingrid blushed with the compliment. “And I too.” She turned to Niki and me. “Blake has asked me to marry him.”
A round of cheers went up.
“Heck, Threader,” I said, “if there was anything around here to drink besides mango juice, I’d make a toast.”
“Mango juice would suit me fine, Adams. No more booze for this old captain. Fact is, Ingrid has got herself a pretty decent little boat. She wants me to get serious about chartering again. I can make it work this time. Got me a damn good first mate.”
A beaming Ingrid said, “Blake and I encountered your friends, Artemas and Nicholas. Rumor has it that there is going to be a wedding here on the island.”
“Yup,” I said, and turning to Threader I added, “I had to twist Nicholas’s arm to stand up with me. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind giving up the position. I’d consider it a major honor if you’d stand in.”
Threader looked at Ingrid. She nodded. “I think we can arrange that. It ain’t like it comes as any big surprise. If you recall, I told you that this little girl was in love with you.”
“I remember. And I haven’t forgotten the thing about the jackass either.”
“Yeah? We all have our faults, Adams. Maybe Niki here can do something about that.” Threader grinned at me for a moment before turning to Ingrid. He nodded, and from her bag she pulled a two-foot-long rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. She handed the package to Threader.
“Got a little wedding present here for you,” Threader said, handing Niki the package.
“Wedding present?” Niki asked. “What is it?”
“I reckon if you open it, you’ll find out.”
Niki carefully tore away the layers of paper and lifted the lid off the box. Inside was what appeared to be an aluminum container, badly charred but capped at both ends.
“I didn’t know what it was,” Threader explained. “I was floating out there half dead when I felt this thing bump into my arm.” Grinning, he added, “I’m not sure I’m ready to start believing in angels, but somebody must have been looking out for us.” Puzzled, Niki twisted off one of the caps and pulled out the contents. The instant I saw the leather sheath, I knew what it was. Blake Threader had recovered the scroll.
J Douglas Bottorff 