Flight into Darkness (Flight Trilogy, Book 2) (9 page)

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine. I’ve learned to live with it.” Samael had not yet shared with Usman his theories about his albinism. Before his first regression and the discovery of Byzas, he viewed his albinism to be a curse. After learning of the unnatural paleness of both Mehmet and Suleyman, and Usman’s explanation of how souls choose their bodies, he was certain
his
soul had specifically chosen the white-skin man for a reason.

As they sat silently in the darkness among the faint conversations of other guests and the rustling of leaves in the trees, Samael noticed Usman wincing, holding his stomach. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” he groaned. “It’s nothing, just a touch of IBS.”

“IBS?” Samael cringed at Usman’s contorted face, growing with agony. It reminded him of a pregnant woman in the midst of a violent contraction.

Once the pain subsided, Usman wiped the sweat from his brow and replied in a soft voice, “Irritable bowel syndrome. Probably the coffee or milk. I love good coffee, but I know it’s not good for me. Really, I’m fine. Continue with what you were saying.”

“My progression from Mehmet to Suleyman was indeed a great advance for my soul, but I know now why my soul chose to live in the body of Suleyman.”

“Why?”

“It’s more than his great military victories for the Ottomans. I learned in the history books that nearly 100 years after Caliph Umar bin al-Khattab took Jerusalem for Islam in the year 1537, Suleyman ordered the rebuilding of the Old City walls in Jerusalem. Four years later, when the project was complete, I sealed the most important double-arched gate leading into the Old City. The gate that has many names—the East Gate; the Mercy Gate; the Shushan Gate—but most importantly, it is referred to as the Golden Gate. It remains closed today.”

“Why was this Golden Gate so important?” Usman asked.

“As a student of history, you should know that the Golden Gate on the east wall of the Old City of Jerusalem is an extremely significant landmark in reference to history and to eschatology for all three of the major monotheistic religions: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.”

“I know this, but I don’t understand the connection.”

“The Jews link the Messiah’s arrival with this gate. According to Jewish tradition, when the Messiah returns, He will enter the Temple Mount through this gate. Christians have for centuries associated this Golden Gate with Palm Sunday and the Second Advent of Christ.

Around A.D. 33, according to the book of Luke in the Christian’s Bible, Jesus entered Jerusalem through the Golden Gate (East Gate) as he came down from the Mount of Olives to the temple. It is prophesied that upon His return, He will again enter through the Golden Gate.

“But you and I know this is the place of Allah’s final judgment. That is why I believe, as Suleyman, I sealed this gate to prevent the Messiah's entrance.” Samael noticed Usman begin to squirm. Suddenly, he jerked in pain, grabbing his stomach. “Are you okay?” The contractions appeared much stronger than before.

Usman pushed back from the table and stood quickly, doubled at the waist. “I’ll be back….”

“Take your time.”

Usman rushed off holding his stomach.

Samael wasn’t sure if he needed to bother explaining to Usman the real story behind the Golden Gates. For the same reason Mehmet had sealed the Golden Gate when he took Constantinople, Suleyman sealed the Golden Gate in Israel.

Although the greatness of Mehmet and Suleyman is known by many, and their accomplishments are well documented in the history books, the history books do not record the common thread that Samael knew tied these two men together—their soul’s deep yearning for Keroessa.

For now, he enjoyed the silence. Usman’s questions and unbridled excitement had tired him. His mind emptied every thought, but one: Keroessa. He continued to reflect on what he believed to be the real reason for his soul’s journey into the skin of the tall, white albino.

There
can
only
be
one
Golden
Gate
.

CHAPTER 9

With Usman busy dealing with his spastic colon, Samael lifted his gaze into the black sky, closed his eyes, and released his mind to explore his past.

Three lives, three journeys—all for the polishing and perfecting of his soul—had prepared him for his next mission on Earth. Stirred with stimulating currents of focused energy, he was more assured than ever that the multiple journeys of his soul had led him to this point.

His newly-found freedom through regression had connected him with his past and purpose for this life. Thoughts associated with his beloved mother lingered, filling him with warmth radiating throughout his body. The leaves seemed to rustle in harmony with his sense of satisfaction.

Usman returned, walking slowly, his face pale. He stood by his chair. “Sorry for taking so long. The caffeine must have set it off.”

“I hope you can handle the long trip that is ahead of us.”

“I’ve lived with this since I was a child. I’ll be fine.” Usman quickly diverted the conversation. “I’m packed and ready to go.”

Samael stood and hugged the small, delicate man. “I will see you at the airport in the morning.” Usman bid Samael farewell. Wasting no time, the little man scuffled off holding his stomach.

Their flight was scheduled to depart tomorrow from Ataturk Airport at 9:45 a.m. on Turkish Airlines, connecting with American Airlines in Chicago, and then continuing to San Francisco. Scheduled arrival time in San Francisco was 4:35 p.m. Samael had booked two rooms at the Hotel Sausalito—a small, out-of-the-way, boutique hotel only minutes from San Francisco on the north side of the Golden Gate Bridge in Marin County. It was the perfect location to review the details of the mission with Usman.

Samael sat and took one last sip of his coffee leaving only the sludgy grounds in the bottom of his cup. His resolve and commitment was deeper now than ever. He was ready to serve out his destiny on Earth and continue into the afterlife.

He waved a hand at a young waiter. The young man quickly approached the table dressed in the 19th century period costume.

“Yes sir.” The boy recoiled slightly when light reflected against the albino’s white face.

“Son, would you call me a taxi?” Samael didn’t want to stand in the light of the café while waiting for the taxi. He preferred to sit under the cover of darkness until the taxi arrived.

“Yes sir.”

He paid for the coffee and slipped the boy an extra five million lira note (equal to slightly more than three U.S. dollars)—enough for one person to buy lunch or dinner in a second-class restaurant. “Notify me when it arrives?”

“Yes sir. It should only be a few minutes.”

“Fine.”

Samael returned to his reflections, basking in the thought of returning to Istanbul in a matter of days where he would celebrate and live out the rest of his earthly life in the white body of the albino.

Sooner than expected, the young waiter returned to his table. “Sir, your taxi has arrived.”

The young man stepped back. Samael had grown accustomed to being treated like a contagious leper. The boy took another step back when Samael rose from the table; his large frame towered over the boy.

Quickly and discreetly, Samael made his way through the small café. The crowd in the café had grown in numbers with the onset of nightfall; the beverage of choice changing from Turkish coffee to raki—the Turkish national alcoholic drink. While making his escape, only a few patrons had time to notice him. The ones that did, winced after catching a glimpse of his ghostly appearance.

Safely seated in the taxi, he spoke only two words to the driver, “Hotel Daphnis.” He made a point to sit in the right rear seat, hoping to avoid the anticipated stares from the driver in his rearview mirror.

Although the roads were congested, giving proof to Istanbul’s thriving nightlife, he arrived back at the hotel along the banks of the Golden Horn in less than thirty minutes. He passed the driver enough money to cover the fare, plus a healthy tip, and quickly exited the taxi, into the empty lobby, and up the stairs to his room.

Samael readied for bed, said his prayers, turned out the lights, and slipped his tall frame into the small, single bed. Tomorrow he and Usman would depart for California. He planned to rise early enough to ensure plenty of time to visit three very important locations.

First, he would stop at Fatih Mosque, paying his condolences at the tomb of Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror.

Next, he would stop at the Suleymanine Mosque where the tombs of Suleyman the Magnificent and his wife Roxalena are located.

Finally, he would visit the Golden Horn River where he would fill four small jars with the water from the glorious river, the symbolic life blood of his beloved mother—Keroessa.

The 2,600-year journey of his soul had been perfectly orchestrated and was close to an end. Before falling asleep, he thought of Usman. His technical knowledge and computer skills would ensure the success of the mission. Sadly though, Samael would have to kill the little man once his services were no longer needed. But on the positive side, death would release Usman’s soul from the pitiful, little body that imprisoned him.

CHAPTER 10

Monday
,
May
26th

The weak presence of dawn’s first light strained to wash the black from the sky. The cry of the muezzin’s call to Morning Prayer echoed from minaret to minaret—a network of antennae broadcasting high above the city’s tallest buildings. Samael rose to the first of five daily calls to the faithful to pray.

After a bath, he coated every exposed inch of his body with sunscreen and dressed so as to hide his white skin. Instead of a taxi, he embraced the cool, spring morning and walked the short distance—less than a mile—to the nearby Fatih Mosque to pay his respects to Mehmet.

Located atop the fourth of the seven hills of Istanbul, Fatih Mosque was a popular place for the pious. Each Wednesday, the streets around the mosque were filled with a vast, street market. Many brought picnics and made a day of their visit.

The brisk walk invigorated him. A lone dog’s bark pierced the morning silence, ricocheting through the quiet streets. Instinctively, he pulled the hood of his jacket down over his face and continued, arriving at Fatih Mosque before six, just as the sun was breaking above the horizon.

Fatih Mosque was the first of three stops. There was still plenty of time, as his flight didn’t depart until 9:45 a.m., and the drive to the airport could easily be made in thirty to forty-five minutes.

Behind the mosque, in the graveyard on the eastern side, stood the tomb of Mehmet the Conqueror, a decagonal structure crowned with an imposing dome. Alongside Mehmet’s tomb was the tomb of his favorite wife, Gülbahar.

Samael stopped and knelt beside the entrance to Mehmet’s tomb. Thoughts of his beloved Gülbahar stimulated strong currents within his soul. The doors to the tomb were locked and wouldn’t be open for visitors until 9:00 a.m. With his eyes closed, he encouraged his soul to explore the memories of his past.

After an uplifting time in meditation, he checked his watch—6:30 a.m. Suleymaniye Mosque was less than a mile away, but crossing Ataturk Boulevard—a major freeway—on foot would be impossible.

He spotted a yellow taxi parked under a tree. The driver appeared to be asleep. He slipped into the back seat and was quickly met by the startled, blood-shot eyes of the driver.

“Suleymaniye Mosque,” Samael said. The driver rubbed his face, cranked the engine, and sped off.

The driver headed south to Fevzi Pasa Street, then eastbound, passing the Valens aqueduct as he crossed over Ataturk Boulevard, then left onto 16 Mart Sehitleri Street which led up to the Suleymaniye Masque behind Istanbul University, all in less than ten minutes. Samael paid the fare plus a generous tip.

“Cok tesekkür ederim (thank you very much),” the driver said.

“Bir şey değil (you’re welcome).”

He exited the taxi and stood in awe of the spectacular mosque with its four minarets flanking the main building and central dome as the symbol of sultans (princes and princesses were allowed only two minarets, and others could have only one). Situated on the highest hill in the city, overlooking the domes and roofs spilling down the hillside to the Golden Horn below, it offered one of the most impressive views in all Istanbul. Considered the most beautiful of all imperial mosques in Istanbul, it stood proudly representing the greatness and strength of the Ottomans.

He made his way to the tomb garden on the southeast side of the mosque. The large cemetery had grown up around two octagonal-domed mausoleums attached to the mosque containing the remains of Suleyman the Magnificent and his most favored wife, Hurrem Sultan, later known as Roxelana.

Suleyman’s tomb is surrounded by a colonnaded veranda with a porch on the east side. Roxelana’s tomb is smaller and placed to one side. Samael had expected the tomb to be closed until 9:30, so he found a private place in the shade next to the building where he could reflect. With the remains of Suleyman near, Samael knelt on the concrete and began to meditate on the past—
his
past.

Time passed quickly. Sensing an urgency to move to the third stop, Samael stood and breathed a cleansing breath, then left the tomb garden.

He walked to clear his head. He navigated his way through a crisscross maze of narrow streets; a labyrinth of cobble-stoned, dirty streets filled with strange scents.

He glanced inside a smoky parlor where old men in drab, wool jackets played backgammon. One man held a glass of tea in one hand while shuffling prayer beads with the other.

Farther down the road he saw a woman leading a goat down the street. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, a white, translucent scarf wound around her head and decorated with colored trim, a red, print blouse topped with a multi-colored vest, and Turkish divided pants (salvar).

Seeing the sparkle of the Golden Horn River filled his thoughts with a woman he’d never met but had dreamed about—his mother.

Samael found a secluded place near the river’s edge, checked that no one was looking, then reached into the pocket of his hooded jacket and produced a small, vinyl, zipper pouch. He unzipped the pouch and withdrew four 3-oz, clear, glass bottles with screw-on tops. He was limited to three-ounce containers of liquids aboard the airplane.