A Gathering of Twine Read online

  “I know,” Freeman said calmly and with near icy resolve, “that’s why this is my last book.”

  After this, it won’t matter.

  Danielle’s mouth did not hang open this time and Freeman was disappointed. His publisher sat back into her chair with a sigh. “Ok. Ok.” And then again. “Ok. I just need a minute to digest this.” She paused again, and Freeman did not feel the need to break the silence.

  “So this book is not about ancient technology or lost civilisations?” she said eventually.

  “Not as such, no. There is evidence of a civilisation before ours, but...”

  “So what it is about?”

  It was Freeman’s turn to pause. Ah what the hell. She’ll find out soon enough anyway.

  “Proof of a Creator.”

  Danielle blinked. And then she blinked again. “Proof of a Creator?”

  “Yes. Incontrovertible proof,” He took a breath, “and The Divine Plan.” The translation of the last stele had told him all he needed to know. Confirmed what he already suspected.

  George Tate had been right…

  Freeman could see Danielle’s cogs whirring. Either she was trying to come up with a marketing angle, or she was trying to find a way to completely disassociate herself from Freeman. None of the mainstream publishers did religion anymore.

  Danielle cocked her head to one side. “Have you met our Creator? Is that where you were a few weeks ago when I couldn’t get hold of you?”

  “No,” sighed Freeman. “I haven’t met our Creator. If I had I very much doubt I would be here now. The reason you couldn’t get hold of me is because I was screening you.”

  Danielle mocked an expression of hurt. “You’ve got me on the hook,” she continued, “Proof of a Creator, and the revelation of The Divine Plan. Give me your pitch Freeman.”

  Freeman took a breath and looked his publisher in the eye. “Everything about you is a lie. Everything. Your life. Your home. Your family. Friends. Everything.”

  Danielle stared at him, genuinely offended. He had called the woman’s character into question. That was probably a mistake, especially in these times.

  He tried again. “Do you ever feel that there is something wrong with the universe? Like something is broken? Like there is a hole in the world? That this,” he gestured to the office and the view of urban gigantism outside, “just wasn’t meant to be?”

  Danielle looked at him blankly, expecting the question to be rhetorical. She realised it was not. “You’re talking about disaffection, right? The ever-growing divide between rich and poor? Social and political elites? Conspiracy theories about who gets what contracts?”

  “No,” Freeman said bluntly. “What I mean is that there is a Plan, but it doesn’t involve you, me, or the rest of Mankind because it is bigger than that. It’s not that we’ve been abandoned or forgotten. It’s that we were never intended to be part of the Design. We are not even bit players. We wonder if we’re being heard, but the truth is that the heavens don’t care to listen.”

  His words hung in the air, like sandcastles on a shore, before the waves of more conversation would wash them away. And then Danielle did something unexpected. She laughed. Shrill and piercing.

  “That’s a great synopsis. I can see the jacket cover now. Civilisation forging its own path without the encumbrance of religious dogma. Admittedly, it’s a little late in the day to be bringing that thinking in, but I’m sure we can put a new spin on it.”

  “I’m not joking. I know what The Plan is.”

  “I know you’re not. I can see that. But come on. Your evidence is always called into question. You’re a controversial writer. That’s why your fans love you. Have you got any real proof this time?”

  Freeman took a second. “Yes.”

  Danielle smiled. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. From people who have seen the Creator... and survived. I don’t mean the fairytale our books describe, but the real one.”

  Danielle smiled, indulging the old man. “Ok. Let’s see it.”

  “Eye-witness accounts. Documented events. Proof of suppressed evidence. Forgotten religious writings. It’s all in my manuscript. If you just see here in Chapter One...”

  “Whoa whoa whoa,” Danielle held her hand up to stop the old man. “Freeman. I am not going to sit here and go through a quarter-of-a-million words with you on a Thursday morning. Give me the whistle-stop tour. Start at the beginning.”

  “A whistle-stop tour?”

  “Yeah. Compact it down for me.”

  Freeman could feel the anger rising up inside him. “The most powerful message Mankind will ever receive and you want the edited highlights?”

  Danielle shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a simple gal. Short-attention-span. Give me something to believe in.”

  “Something to believe in. Ok. Ok, I can do that. You’re a Muslim, right?” Freeman knew how to press a button.

  Danielle raised a finger. “Hey. Hey now. You be careful.”

  “You know what this is?” Freeman said, ignoring Danielle’s rising tone of protest, and threw a medallion onto the desk.

  Danielle picked up it up and turned it over. Three concentric circles of pale blue enamel around a black pupil-like dot. “This? Of course. My mother keeps these. It’s a Nazar. It wards off the Evil Eye. But this is very common. Maybe two or three dollars at Old Spitalfields. Please don’t tell me you’ve bought this as an antique?”

  “You haven’t answered my question. You’ve told me its name, and what it does. But what is it?” There was an edge to Freeman's voice, and Danielle knew better than to say more and fall into the old man’s trap.

  Danielle shrugged again. “You got me.”

  “This, Danielle, is the All Seeing Eye. The eye that never sleeps. It wards off evil because it is the most evil, most formidable power there is. Imagine that you had nuclear weapons, and at any time you could fire them. Even though you know those same weapons could poison and kill you, your enemies know that it could do the same to them. That’s what this eye is. And you know what else? It’s not unique to Islam. The Christians call it The Eye of Providence. The ancient Greeks called it The Apotropaic – that which turns all else away. The Assyrians used it. So did the early tribes of Central America. This is a symbol of ultimate evil and power, and your mother hangs it in her house. Now, what about this?”

  Freeman passed the pendant from his pocket to Danielle – he had to make sure. This one was made of black metal. Two concentric circles linked by nine zigzag lines.

  “Another eye?” Danielle offered, picking it up and turning it over in her hand.

  “Yes. That one is genuinely old, so please be careful. It’s similar to the ones the Aztecs used and is known as the Black Sun. I think it represents both the womb and the tomb. Similar designs were worn by followers of the Goddess Itzpapalotl, the ‘Obsidian Butterfly’, the primal deity who devoured people to herald her coming.”

  “Eats her own people?” Danielle thought for a moment. “You’re telling me that our Creator is evil, aren’t you?”

  “Good and evil are always subjective concepts. But from the perspective of Humanity, yes. The Creator is evil.”

  Danielle paused and looked at Freeman. “That’s an interesting interpretation you have of the Koran and other world religions, but...” she said, handing the pendant back.

  “Oh, the Koran. Yes, let’s talk about the Koran,” interrupted Freeman. “Do you speak Arabic?”

  “Not as such, I...” Danielle could feel the argument beginning to slip from her. She had not even meant to get into a debate. She had already cancelled several meetings this morning to accommodate Freeman’s sudden request to see her and as used to the old man’s fringe thinking as she was, it was clear he had gone off the minaret.

  “So you recite in English?” Freeman persisted.

  Danielle gave up. “Sure.”

  “And like a good Muslim woman, five times a day?” The memory of this morning’s chase was already fading
. He was here – he had won.

  Danielle did not bother answering and shrugged.

  “Which Sura do you open with? The hundred-and-thirteenth or the hundred-and-fourteenth?”

  Danielle struggled to remember. “Hundred-and-thirteenth.” It sounded like an answer, but she knew it was really a question.

  “Ah, one of my favourites. The Rising Dawn. Of course, some sects refer to it as Day Break. Literally, The Breaking of Day. As in to be broken. Never to be put back together. Please, can you recite?”

  Danielle knew this was coming. She had learned this at school, practicing at every assembly. “Ah. Ok. I seek refuge with the Lord of the Daybreak.

  From the evil of everything He has created,

  And from the evil of the dark night when it penetrates,

  And from the evil of the women who blow on the knots,

  And from the evil of an envier when he envies.”

  Freeman clapped slowly and then leaned forward. “Beautiful. Danielle, have you ever thought about those words. I mean really thought about them and what they mean? Or even where they came from?”

  Danielle shook her head. She knew she had lost. She might as well enjoy the ride.

  “You know that Islam recognises its roots in Christianity and Judaism, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you also know that the Arabic language has its origins not only in Hebrew and Amharic but also in Akkadian, a language that can be traced back over five-thousand years?”

  “I might have heard something like that once.” Danielle wanted to be interested, but she had a lunch appointment at noon, and she could see that Freeman was on a roll.

  “The Akkadians were some of the earliest traders. They had a whole network spread throughout what was Mesopotamia and Sumeria. Have you heard of the Valley of the Kings?”

  “In Egypt? Sure. Where all the pharaohs are buried?”

  “Yes. You know that even after more than a century and a half of excavation, they’re still finding previously unknown tombs. Old tombs and I mean really old. Tombs that haven’t been opened for thousands of years. Sometimes they find tombs still full of artefacts. Unlooted. About fifteen years ago, KV-One-Twenty-Two was opened. Current thinking is that is not pharaonic, but rather that of some unknown high priest. Here, take a look at this photo.”

  Freeman slid his Plex-Pad over. One of his few concessions to modern living was this A4-sized piece of plastic that could seemingly look up anything anywhere. Although Freeman knew that he did not use all of its features - most of which were a mystery to him - and that by present-day standards his model was almost an antique, the ability to research and reference had become invaluable.

  “This was taken an hour or so after the tomb had been opened. See those hieroglyphs on the wall?” he continued.

  “The eye?”

  “Yes. That is The Eye of Horus. The ancient Egyptians invoked it as a sign of action. Not just protection, but also of wrath. Looks a lot like your Nazar, doesn’t it? And like my Black Sun too.”

  “I think I’ve seen that before...”

  “Yes. It gets used a lot. But it was originally ancient Egyptian. Now, there were also a large number of papyrus scrolls discovered in KV-One-Twenty-Two. Prayer scrolls. Written in ancient Akkadian. They were old. At least four-thousand years – maybe older. This is a translation of the one the mummified corpse was holding.”

  Freeman tapped one of the glowing icons on the Plex-Pad screen, and the image changed. “Please, read it out.”

  Danielle picked the pad up and scanned the first line, looked at Freeman, and then began. “Protect me from the Breaker of Days,

  From the evil of everything She has created,

  And from the evil of the dark night with which She penetrates,

  And from the evil of She who unbinds the stars,

  And from the evil of Her as she envies.”

  “Similar enough to your Sura, no? You see Danielle, Arabic is a beautiful language. But the written is wholly separate from, and a good deal more conservative than, the spoken dialects. Compound a few millennia, the odd political slant, and working its way from the Akkadian to the Egyptian to the Greek to the Roman, to...”

  Danielle snapped. “I get the picture,” she said, putting the Plex-Pad down. Then, more gently, “Freeman, if a Shia Enforcer ever heard what either of us has just said, he would declare us guilty of blasphemy, probably treason against the State too, and have us dragged down to Speakers Corner to be executed. I cannot print this,” and with that Danielle pushed the Plex on her desk pointedly back to Freeman.

  Freeman had been prepared for this. “It’s not just Islam. Christianity and Judaism – just look at the Old Testament; an angry and vengeful god who smites Mankind whenever they obtain knowledge, and then commits global genocide, only to come back later and blow up a few more towns who have once again broken from Him.

  “The Hindus have Shiva – the principal Goddess within their Trinity. Her role is to destroy and inspire terror. In Greek mythology, the Creator so hates his children he imprisons them forever in hell. The Ohlone tell of a world before ours being destroyed to create this one, but that Mankind was so scared of the Creator that they ran into the sea and drowned themselves. Mandaeists believe that the Devil created the material world and those that do not worship Him will receive no food, shelter or sustenance.

  “In just about every faith and religion, the creator is also the destroyer. Just stop and think about it; does that sound right to you? Does that sound like something that should be worshipped?”

  Danielle was exasperated. “It doesn’t matter what I think. No amount of religious interpretation will let this company publish that manuscript.”

  “It’s not just religious interpretation. I’ve got evidence as well...”

  Danielle sighed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Look, Freeman. Unless your evidence is a signed confession by the Creator himself, none of that matters. You’re saying that you know The Divine Plan. This means that you are saying that you know God’s Mind. His Will. You. A dissenter and self-declared atheist – and that cost us more than a few readers, thank you very much – now knows God: something not even our holiest clerics would dare to say. It doesn’t matter how good your evidence is. What matters is the reception you get. It matters what reception the book gets.” She could not believe that she had cancelled her morning meetings for this.

  Silence fell between them like a hungry guillotine.

  “If you are worried about the reception, you should print it,” Freeman said eventually.

  “What? No, I shouldn’t. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. Can you imagine the public outrage? Not just in this country. Most of America. The whole of Africa. Asia. You’re basically telling the world they are wrong. You’d be banned and have a fatwa on you before your first signing was...” her voice trailed off, and Freeman saw a light come on behind her eyes and smiled to himself.

  “It would be one of the biggest scandals this century,” he said to his publisher. “Heresy. Blasphemy. Challenging not only canon and rubric but also the basis of law. Could you imagine the column inches? The chat-shows deriding this so-called scientist. The burning of effigies. The condemnation by governments. The public marches and protests, all covered by twenty-four-hour news networks. An author in hiding. The search for the Dissenter. The investigative journalists. The exposés of a corrupt and wretched life. The story could run for years.”

  “... Bigger than Rushdie.” Danielle said dreamily. She snapped back from her daydream. “But no. I can’t.”

  “Why?

  “Because they would kill me too. I don’t know about you Freeman, but I am very much attached to my head. No matter how wrong I think the world is.”

  “You could if you showed good faith,” Freeman nearly whispered. He knew he had her.

  Her eyebrow arched. “Good faith?”

  “If you could show that you published in good faith, plus the usual publishers’ disclaim
er. And then later, just a little mea culpa and a token gesture of pulping however many copies are left unsold after, say... ten years?”

  “I’d be an Equity Partner within twelve months,” said Danielle wistfully.

  “Your own Fresh Water.”

  “I’ve never had Fresh Water.”

  “Or had an Equity’s salary.”

  “The money... wait. No. This good faith,” she paused for a moment, thinking. “You need to convince me. I mean really convince me.”

  “That is a collection of eye-witness accounts,” said Freeman said indicating towards the manuscript. “Some going back more than a hundred years. And let me tell you Danielle; there is some knock-out stuff in there. And I’m not talking crack-pots or stoners. I’m talking nuclear physicists; Justice Officers; Museum curators; Doctors: Respected, intelligent, rational people. And linking them all – and I mean every single one of them – are these… inscriptions. Most of them were found in the late seventies, in Dorset of all places. But the world these texts describe… these witnesses have actually seen it.

  “If you really are that worried, and there is a public outcry at the first printing, you can say that the Justice has been through my early notes, and I had unscrupulously left out key statements. I had edited in a partisan way to promote my own agenda, and you’re as shocked and saddened as everyone, and here is a second edition with all of the omitted passages.”

  It won’t matter – the truth will be out there…

  “Double money.” Danielle was almost drooling.

  “Maybe more if you phase the ‘discovery’ of the edited statements. Eight or nine editions good for you?”

  Danielle could feel herself giving in. “These accounts. What are they?”

  “On their own, each is little more than a tale of an unexplained encounter or event. Something that neither science nor The Clerics could explain. But each has a unifying aspect. The inscriptions I told you about and the man who discovered them – George Tate. He’s been tracking this thing since I don’t know when. At least since World War Two. But I also think that It has been tracking him. And maybe his family too. It’s as if they’re woven together – like strands. He believes that some people… some families are marked, and he calls them ‘The Twine.’ And wherever he goes and whatever he does, he leaves... I guess you could call it a wake. People get caught in it, and then they get… well, they either get themselves dead, disappeared… or recruited.