‘Can I try to get in that way?’
‘No, it wouldn’t work. You’d have to get past the sand and that’s impossible from there. The tunnel is two-thirds full!’
‘Damn!’ cursed Philip. ‘There’s got to be a way. Don’t you have anything with you?’
‘A pickaxe, a steel crowbar and a rope. All useless in this situation.’
‘No, wait,’ said Philip. ‘I’ve just had an idea. How long is your rope?’
‘About ten metres.’
‘Tie it to something heavy. The crowbar. Maybe I’ve found the way to get down.’
‘Be careful!’ shouted his father. ‘If you fall into the sand we’re both lost!’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Philip. ‘We’ll make it.’
The idea of rescuing his father from a trap like this made Philip euphoric. He would show him now! After all those years of trying to solve impossible conundrums, all those years of trying to earn his father’s esteem.
He climbed up out of the hole and went to examine the acacia tree at the rim, where he had tied his rope. As he had thought, the trunk was much longer than the opening at the bottom of the hole was wide. He took an axe from the gear he’d packed onto his horse and began to hack at the tree’s roots. He had heard that acacia wood was hard, but he would never have imagined how hard. It was like trying to cut stone.
He put everything he had into the task, realizing that his father’s life might be hanging by a thread; even a few minutes could make all the difference. Finally, the last root was cut and the trunk, about twenty centimetres in diameter, fell to the ground. Philip tied one end of the rope to the centre of the trunk with a double slipknot and secured the other end to his waist. He dragged the trunk down and fitted it across the hole at the bottom. He tied a handkerchief over his mouth and stopped up his ears and then began to lower himself down. When he touched sand, he let his arms and legs slide over it so he wouldn’t sink in. He slipped through the bottom opening and into the access tunnel, closing his eyes and holding his breath as though he were diving.
He was buried under cascading sand, and an atrocious sensation of suffocation and panic threatened to overwhelm him, but he didn’t lose hold of the rope and managed to pull himself back up to the surface with immense effort. His eyelids and ears were full of sand and his heart felt as if it would burst, but as soon as he had his head out and drew a breath, he knew he would make it. He let himself slip forward, holding the rope tightly. After the first stretch he found he could control his movements much better because the speed of the sand had greatly diminished. He was almost at the point where the tunnel opened onto the underground chamber when he felt a sharp tug: the rope was stretched taut and he could go no further. He tried to wipe his eyelids as best he could before opening his eyes and he finally saw his father. He was just four or five metres in front of him. The sand had already flooded the entire room and was at his waist.
‘Throw me your rope!’ Philip shouted.
Desmond tossed the crowbar from which his own rope dangled. After missing it a couple of times, Philip managed to grab it and tie it onto his.
‘We’ll go up now!’ he said. ‘Cover your mouth with a handkerchief and try to protect your eyes and ears. This is the hard part. We have to make our way up the stream of falling sand. There’s no alternative!’
‘I’ll follow you,’ replied Desmond. ‘Go on.’
Philip began to haul himself back up on the rope. It wasn’t too difficult, until he reached the cascade. He took a deep breath and let himself go into the onrushing sand. He thought his chest would explode. It was impossible to breathe and the exertion required to go on was tremendous. He forced himself to think of all the obstacles he’d overcome to get where he was, and to think of the man dragging himself so laboriously behind him. He tightened his grip, knowing that his father’s life was in his hands. The sand grated his bare hands and got under his clothes, weighing him down and creating an incredible amount of friction. But he had calculated the height of the sandfall on his way down and he knew that each time he managed to put one hand over another he was twenty centimetres closer to the top.
When his head finally burst from the sand inside the reservoir he was close to passing out. He ripped the handkerchief from his mouth and took two or three rapid, deep breaths. The oxygen restored life and lucidity. He turned around, as he continued to hoist himself upwards, and shouted, ‘Stop before the sandfall, father! Did you hear me? Don’t try to get through the sandfall!’
‘I heard you,’ answered his father.
‘Good! Wait there until I’m out completely. Don’t start to pull yourself up until you feel me tugging the rope. That way I can help you from here.’
‘All right, I’ll wait.’
As Philip made his way up, he saw that the top part of the reservoir was already free of sand. He pushed off the nearly clear surface and hoisted himself up to the acacia trunk, which had performed its task as an anchor perfectly. He was outside, finally, and the last drops of rain from the storm were an immense relief. The sight of the stars glittering here and there among the clouds reminded him of the sublime verses with which Dante concluded his Inferno: ‘Thence we came forth to see again the stars.’ He turned back towards the hole, pulled the rope taut and gave a sharp tug.
‘I’m coming up!’ shouted his father.
Philip began to pull with all his might, bracing his legs against the acacia trunk. He could soon feel that his father had come past the critical point, but he continued to pull nonetheless to help him up. When he saw his head emerging from the hole, he couldn’t believe it was true. He stretched out his hand and helped him up and into the night air. They were on their feet, facing each other.
‘Hello, father,’ said Philip with a calm voice.
Desmond wiped the sand from his eyes and face, then said, ‘I’m happy to see you, Philip.’
Philip had tried so many times to imagine this meeting with his father and what he would say to him. He had thought of reproaching him for all his absurd behaviour, or of calling him a bastard for forcing Philip to follow him in a stupid game of hide-and-seek. Or else, he had thought, he would punch him first and then hold him in a long embrace, like Ulysses and Telemachus.
Instead, all he had managed to say was, ‘Hello, father.’
‘Let’s go down to the valley,’ said Desmond. ‘I’ve got bread in my bag, some salt and olive oil. And maybe even a drop of whisky.’
‘But, father,’ said Philip, ‘it’s three in the morning, not time for dinner.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Desmond. ‘I’ve destroyed the sixth tomb and you’re here with me. You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ said Philip.
The rain had stopped. The smell of fragrant herbs and wet dust rose from the ground, and the stars twinkled even more brightly among the scattering clouds.
‘Find some wood,’ said Desmond, when they got to the bottom of the valley. ‘It won’t have rained hard enough to soak it through. Light a fire if you can and we’ll toast a little bread.’
‘I have some things too,’ said Philip.
He went to get the bag that the woman in Aleppo had given him and then lit a fire under a rocky outcrop. The damp wood smoked at first but then burst into flame, crackling and giving off a slightly bitter aroma. Philip opened the satchel and placed his remaining delicacies on a little cloth: honey, dates, sweets, fruit jellies and walnuts. But as he was rummaging through the satchel his fingers stopped as he touched an object that he would never have expected to find there.
He took it out, amazed, and admired it against the fire which was blazing now. His father was no less surprised.
‘My God, that’s beautiful. What is it?’
‘A Pegasus on top of a tower.’
Desmond examined the magnificent jewel: crafted in the late Hellenistic age, he thought, or perhaps even Roman. The winged horse was rearing up on its hind legs and its eyes glowed with sapphires, whil
e the little tower below was realistic-looking, with fluted columns and stone blocks.
‘What does this represent?’ he asked his son.
Philip set the jewel on a stone in front of the fire and sat watching it in silence, as if fascinated by the play of reflections on the sparkling surface, by the perfect anatomy of the miniature steed.
‘What is it?’ his father asked again.
‘It’s the seventh tomb, father. The last.’
11
THE LITTLE LIGHT BULB pulsed rhythmically at the top of the glass pyramid in Father Boni’s secret study. The old priest had Father Antonelli’s breviary open in front of him, while on the wall behind him was a huge celestial map of the northern hemisphere. Every centimetre of his large working table was covered by sheets of paper containing scribbled mathematical equations. The strain of the enormous job he’d taken on was plain in his face; it was ashen and furrowed by deep wrinkles. He lifted his head from the page he was reading when he heard a light knock at the door.
‘Is that you, Hogan? Come in and sit down.’
‘You’re not well, Father Boni,’ said Father Hogan. ‘You must rest. Stay away from that damned text for a couple of weeks or you’ll end up like Antonelli.’
‘You are strange, Hogan,’ said the scientist with a tired smile. ‘We are about to bear witness to an unrepeatable event, unique in the history of the universe, and you tell me I should take a couple of weeks’ holiday.’
‘I’m not strange. I’m a priest and a believer. I am therefore convinced that my soul will survive my biological death and that I will see the face of God and contemplate His mind, with all the secrets and mysteries it contains. I am convinced that the time that separates me from this event, be it dozens of years or a single day, is nothing compared to eternity, and very little compared to the history of our planet or the history of humanity.’
‘Absolutely. So why the hurry, right? Next you’ll be saying that Bellarmino had a point in gagging Galileo.’
‘I said I’m a believer, not that I’m stupid,’ retorted Father Hogan. ‘And you know me well. I’m as anxious as you are to find out how this adventure will end, but I feel that it was a very serious mistake to keep the whole thing secret. We need help. Other experts could be involved. The Church has an enormous wealth of experience and knowledge at its disposal. Our own wretched forces are simply not enough. If you want to know the truth, I still can’t get the thought of Father Antonelli out of my mind: his bewildered expression, the anguish in his eyes, the tremor in his hands.’
‘It’s not true that we didn’t ask for help. Do you call Guglielmo Marconi no one?’
‘A single man is not enough. Think about it. What we’ve chanced upon is the story of a civilization that violated every law of nature in their supreme arrogance, in their belief that they were capable of achieving ultimate knowledge, ignoring the path that God himself had carved out for mankind.’
‘Yes. The folly of taking on God himself. It is this titanic challenge that fascinates me. You know “The Canto of Ulysses” in Dante’s Divine Comedy, don’t you?’
‘Of course. One of the most sublime expressions of universal literature. Ulysses dares to go beyond the Pillars of Hercules to look upon the holy mountain of purgatory, which is forbidden to mortals, relying stubbornly on his own strength and defying the decreed limits of what mankind can do. This is precisely what I fear: that you have fallen under the spell of this temptation, of this civilization that imagined it could subjugate nature and challenge God. Ulysses, remember, ended up entombed in the abyss.’
Father Boni’s forehead and temples were damp with heavy perspiration, his eyelids were constantly twitching.
Hogan insisted, ‘Tell me, what is it that you expect to come out of this revelation? Tell me. I need to know.’
Father Boni wiped his brow with a swift gesture, as if he didn’t want to let any weakness show. ‘Hogan,’ he said, ‘this is the point. Think about it. Man is continuously challenging God: when he kills, when he rapes, when he curses. But God does not respond to these provocations. He merely marks everything down in the eternal book of His everlasting memory until the day when each man is judged for the good and the evil he has done. God gave man his freedom; that explains it all. In other terms, man is free to offend God, and thus damn himself for all eternity.’
‘True,’ said Father Hogan.
‘This is why God never responds to any of our challenges.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But this is different. Here we have a civilization that has challenged God in a direct, inescapable way. They’ve challenged Him head on. More than that, even. They’ve gone off to search for Him in deepest space. They’ve gone back in time to spy on what He was doing at the exact moment of creation. Don’t you get it, Hogan? Don’t you understand what’s been attempted here?’ The old scientist seemed transfigured. A visionary light sparkled in his eyes. ‘Hogan, do you remember when I read you the translation of “The Book of Amon”? You said it sounded like a myth, didn’t you? Do you remember?’
‘Of course. And I say so again.’
‘And I told you that wasn’t quite right. That it wasn’t a myth, but an epic tale – that is, the transfiguration of events that actually occurred . . .’
‘But the origins of such an ancient epic are completely beyond our reach . . .’
‘No. You’re wrong. I can tell you exactly what was meant. Do you remember the part that says that the inhabitants of Delfud manned a garrison, that they stood watch day and night for generations and generations, waiting for the Guardian Angel to doze off so they could force the gates of the Garden of Immortality and reach the Tree of Knowledge? That story symbolizes the most extraordinary endeavour that has ever been undertaken in the history of mankind. These ancestors of ours actually attempted a journey to the origins of the universe. And their purpose was even more extraordinary: to understand God’s plan at the moment of creation, or even to force His hand, to modify His plan . . . to originate a new creation on earth. And we know where, Hogan. At the point where the message is to be delivered, in the heart of a sun-scorched desert. Where the Tower of Solitude stands.’
Colour had returned to the old man’s cheeks and his eyes shone with hallucinatory excitement. Father Hogan looked at him in dismay, but did not dare to contradict him.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Hogan, none of us is free of doubt. Not even the Pope himself.’
‘So?’
‘I don’t want to wait until I die. I want to know now. You see, I believe that, if God exists, He could not refrain from responding to such a tremendous provocation. And so, Hogan, when the transmitter is in conjunction with the black body at the centre of the constellation of the Scorpion – that is, in exactly twenty-nine days, seventeen hours and thirteen minutes – we will have the answer to all the questions that man has ever asked, ever since the moment at which he became conscious of his existence. Or we’ll have God’s response to the insult of Delfud. In any case, we will hear His voice and His message – even if that means a howl of anger – in a direct way . . . No longer through books that we can’t interpret, or through signs and symbols, no longer hidden behind an elusive pattern of chance happenings. We will hear and we will forever remember the sound of His living voice . . .’
‘Father Boni, what if there is no message? No answer? You must take this possibility into account.’
Father Boni fell silent and the flickering light on top of the pyramid was reflected in his dilated pupils. He turned then towards the little bulb. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘The intervals between one sequence of symbols and the next have become, just over the last few days, much shorter. They’ve been reduced by nearly one per cent. Do you know what that means?’ He pointed at the heaps of papers covered with figures. ‘If you take a look at my calculations you’ll understand what I’ve managed to demonstrate: the transmitter is approaching along a parabola at a speed that we cannot even imagine. Faster than the sp
eed of light! It is advancing through the cosmos, distorting space and time as it proceeds, bouncing from one peak of distortion to the next, like a stone skips along the surface of a lake. A stone tossed by an immeasurable force . . .’
Father Hogan stared at the endless sequences of calculus, then looked back into the eyes of his superior and mechanically repeated the same question: ‘And if there is no message? No answer?’
‘Then that would mean that . . .’
‘That God does not exist?’
The old man lowered his head. ‘Worse,’ he said. ‘Much worse.’
Father Hogan covered his face with his hands to hide the tears rising to his eyes. ‘Oh, my Lord,’ was all he could manage.
Father Boni regained his composure instantly with a total change of expression. He seemed to be in a completely normal frame of mind when he spoke again. ‘Let’s drop this discussion for now. I didn’t call you here to talk about philosophy, but to give you some news. I’ve managed to calculate the exact location where and the exact time when the event will take place. Marconi is still working with us and, as you know, he has come up with an extraordinary invention: an ultra-short-wave radio combined with another instrument which has revolutionary capabilities.
‘You will be waiting there at the precise place and time of signal impact, Hogan, and you will capture the message coming from the most remote regions of the universe with this radio of ours. The message will be imprinted using a system that will conserve it for years and allow us to decode it. Although there may well be no need to decipher it. In any case, Hogan, I’ve prepared everything, down to the very last detail. I’ve already been in touch with the . . . powers that be, to obtain authorization and assistance for your journey. You will be travelling to a practically inaccessible desert area at a great distance from the last outposts of civilization. Of course, our . . . collaborators will be demanding something in exchange. But there’s no other solution.’
‘What?’
‘They’ve asked to be told of the results of our experiment.’