In the Beginning: Mars Origin "I" Series Book I (2 page)

Unable to move for the two hours since
this revelation came to his attention, The Editor-in-Chief of the Dead Sea
Scrolls Translation Committee pushed his fingers down on the nagging
pain in his chest that refused to subside. He shut his eyes and with
his other hand tugged at his necktie that seemed to tighten each time he
swallowed. He was a short, stubby man who now felt uncomfortable in his dank
skin. His breath, shallow and forced, noisily hastened from his nostrils as
he reflected on what was before him.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone. He knew he
needed to be circumspect in dealing with this situation. And, what would he
say?  This was incredible.

Outside the rain beat relentlessly against
the window pane, a sharp interruption to a stillness that he needed to find. He
moved his hands, cold and clammy, up to help support the sudden heaviness of
his head.

“Yes, this is a revelation.” He could
admit to it now, out loud, he could speak the truth.

He laid his hand on the notebook that
contained the translation.  This knowledge would change the course of
man forever. It would be a terrible thing to let out. And he would be to blame
because this was all under his charge.

He had promised the release of the Dead
Sea Scrolls. The world was eagerly awaiting a look at what had been found
in the caves at Qumran.  And they had waited long enough. Now, he would have to
stall for more time until he could take care of this. There was no way anyone
could know what these manuscripts revealed.

But how would he be able to keep the good
doctor from telling what he found? He was an authority on such things, an
admired scholar. People would listen to him . . .

He laughed at the thought.
No
. No
one would ever believe this.

Are there more manuscripts of this sort?
The sudden
thought made him cringe. “I must find out what the other manuscripts contain,”
he voiced aloud.

 
The manuscripts from Cave 4 had only
the one translator. But there were eleven caves in all.
“My God, what might
we find?”

He placed his hands on the notebook and
pressed down hard with the palm of his hand and closed his eyes, as if by will
he could, through his hand and thoughts, erase what was written inside. He took
in a deep breath. Such fantasy would not help. The truth sat here before him.
He must go over the rest of the manuscripts from that cave himself. He must
take action. He would deal with others as they came, but he must take care of
this now. 

And, he would need to find a way to deal
with Dr. Sabir.

“God help me,” he said, but immediately
regretted it. He snatched his hands off of the notebook as if it burned hot and
opened his eyes. That was exactly what was written all throughout the
manuscripts -
God Help Us.

The making of a plan had begun to
formulate and was buzzing around in his head. But how to carry it out? His
thoughts raced around inside his head, ramming into his temples, it seemed. He
tilted his head to one side and tightly closed one eye to relieve the
throbbing.

The notebook was easy to get rid of, and
possibly so was the translator, but how could he destroy a document that he had
built a career around protecting?

He had sworn an oath to preserve ancient
artifacts. These were documents that God Himself had seen fit to keep intact,
in a cave, in clay pots, for more than 2,000 years.

He looked over at his name plate, the
letters of his name and title written in gold, “Samuel Yeoman,
Editor-in-Chief.”

It had been a long, onerous and intricate
scheme that secured this position. Truth be told, it should have been Dr. Sabir
who had his job. But he knew how to get what he wanted. This gold embossed
plate was evidence of that. Deep in his soul was a nefarious and indomitable
will that when loosed would tear through anyone or anything that stood in his
way. He had no remorse for his actions or compassion for those that suffered
because of it.

But the passion for his God did still him
at times. Like now. And, he knew that he had been entrusted to ensure that the
knowledge gained from the Dead Sea Scrolls was accurate, conclusive and made
public, no matter what was found.  No matter what was found –
that he
approved of
, he added. And he did not approve of this.

A shrill ring interrupted his thoughts
making him jump.

“God help me!” He drew in a breath, blew
it out and picked up the phone.  “Hello. This is Dr. Yeoman.”

“Dr. Yeoman, this is the
police. There’s been an accident.”

“Yes?”

“We believe it to be one of your
interpreters.”

“Yes?”

“The rain, sir, lightning struck him as he
fixed a flat on his automobile.  He must have died instantly.”

“Yes,” he said.

“We need you to come down and identify the
body. We could send a car around.”

“Now?” He glanced out of the window and
saw the raindrops still being collected on the window pane.

“Well, no, not now sir, the roads are too
bad. Perhaps first thing in the morning, say eight o’clock?”

“That will be fine. Thank you for
calling.” He hung up without saying goodbye or even asking which interpreter. 
He already knew. God was on his side.

He stood up from the seat he had occupied
for more than four hours, and with a smart little grin on his face he
walked over and opened his office door to let the light from the hallway into
the room. He took his coat and hat from the coat rack and picked up his
umbrella, then gathered up the manuscripts and the notebook from his desk.

The phone rang, again.

The officer must have realized that he
hadn’t given the name of the deceased
, he thought as he reached past the
ringing phone and turned off the lamp. Putting his umbrella over his wrist he
turned and walked out of the office, gently shutting the door behind him.

Cleveland
Heights, Ohio

August
1997

“I hate dressing up to go and spend time
with those literary weirds. I am definitely not in the mood for them.”

Dealing with the people Mase worked with
was so tedious to me. Almost as irritating as it was finding something to wear.
I had searched through a hundred boxes still packed from my now spurious move
to Boston to try and find something to wear that was appropriate for both the
book signing party with Mase’s associates and for my sister’s Claire’s cookout
afterwards so I wouldn’t have to come back home to change. I didn’t really like
what I had found, it was dated and too small, but I was tired of looking.

“It’s only half the afternoon. The other
half we’ll spend at Claire’s,” Mase said. “And, what exactly are literary
weirds? Is that an actual term? It doesn’t even make sense.”

“And neither do they,” I said.

I really didn’t like those people. They
called Mase “Andy,” and while that’s probably not a good reason to dislike
someone, especially since it’s his name, it was a good jumping off point for
me. My husband, Andrew Mase Dickerson, was never called anything but Mase, not
even by his mother, but those literary folks did, and took it one step further,
shortening Andrew to Andy. For some reason that just irked me to no end.

But everything lately had been upsetting
to me. I was feeling bad and didn’t know why. I had even quit my job and packed
up my house, all set to move my family to Boston. Running away from my
problems, not caring that my problems would just be following me.

“Justin, do you think that maybe you are
going through an early menopause?”

I sneered at him. “Just come here and help
me zip this up.” I was trying to fit into a jean skirt I’d found in one of the
boxes. The zipper was in the back and I was tired of having my hands behind my
back tugging at the zipper while trying to hold in my stomach.

“Can you still fit this?” He took over
zipping it. “Maybe you should wear something else.”

“You know, Mase I need to look at our life
insurance policies. Can you get them for me? I think they’re in that stuff I
packed from your desk.”

“Sure, why you need ‘em?”

“Oh, I just wanna check on how much I’d
get if you met with some unfortunate accident.”

He started laughing. “Oh, so now you’re
going to hurt me, huh? Okay, okay, I didn’t mean it, look – see, I zipped it.
No problem. Matter-of-fact, you little sexy mama, I think you may have lost a
little weight.” He kissed me on my cheek and patted my butt.

“Go away, boy.”

I probably wouldn’t ever really do harm to
my husband, but lately, everything and everyone put me on edge. Most days I
just wanted to yank out my hair and scream. There just didn’t seem like any
purpose to my life anymore. The kids were growing up, didn’t need me like they
used to and I felt as if I was rapidly approaching menopause age. Mase’s jokes
aside, it was bothering me. I didn’t know what was putting me in such a funk. I
just felt blah all the time. My house. My life. My things. All of a sudden just
seemed so small, so inconsequential.

I went downstairs. Mase was waiting for me
in the car. His impatience didn’t make me move any faster.

Maybe I’ll look for something else to wear
, I thought as I
tugged on my skirt. My eyes following the stacks of boxes throughout the house.
Some opened with its contents hanging out. Maybe not.

Now I’ll have to unpack everything.
I maneuvered my
way around the boxes.
Put everything back where it belongs.

I walked into my kitchen, the heels of my
sandals clicking across the terracotta tiled floor. I turned on the lights over
the black granite-topped island so the house wouldn’t be dark when we got back
home. I checked the cabinets and the dishwasher, then opened the refrigerator
and closed it again.

Ugh.
What am I doing?

I leaned up against the sink and stared
out of the window. I could see Mase, sitting behind the steering wheel.

Tears started sliding down my face.

What was making me so unhappy? I knew it
wasn’t my job. I have always loved being a Biblical archaeologist, looking for
the evidence of early Hebrew and Christian events. As an archaeologist I’d got
to travel, play in dirt, go on treasure hunts. And for the past seven years
since I’d been the curator for the Cleveland Museum of Ancient History. It was
a dream job. So not that. And it definitely wasn’t my husband.

We’d been married for more than twenty
years. Not love at first sight – I was too young for that. My first memories of
him were when I was three or four. He was friends with my older brothers. I
don’t remember the first time I ever saw him, or what he was wearing, or what
he said, nothing like that. He was just the boy who lived down the street, played
with me and my brothers, and gave me money to buy penny candy for my sister Claire
from the corner store. But was always there for me and now has stuck by me
through all of my bouts of craziness.

Like now.

I didn’t know if anyone else could have
put up with me through the years without divorcing or shooting me.

“Are you coming?”

I turned and saw Mase. He was standing by
the back door. I swiped the tears from my eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Let’s go.
You’re just standing there, staring out the window.”

“I was thinking.”

“Think in the car. We gotta go. We’re
going to be late.”

By the time we drove across town to his
party, it was late. So late the event was nearly over. Mase was visibly
bothered, he hated being late. I, on the other hand, was never on time for
anything.

“Aw, too bad we’re late.” I leaned in and
whispered.

“Be nice, or we’ll be the last to leave,”
Mase whispered back.

Israel
1949

The policeman let the phone ring at least
ten times before he hung up. Drumming his fingers on the desk, he stared at the
phone. Maybe he should let the Captain know that he’d forgot to give the name
of the deceased.

Dr. Amos Sabir.

How could he have forgotten that?

It didn’t seem to matter, anyway. Proper
protocol wasn’t being followed. Heck, the man he spoke with wasn’t listed
anywhere on Dr. Sabir’s personal effects and the person listed on his paper to
contact in case of an emergency was a woman in the United States. Usually the
deceased’s things would be packaged up and sent home with the body and the
family member would be notified. That’s the way things were mostly handled. If
it were anything out of the ordinary, or illegal, then the United States’
Consulate General was called. The only thing was that they were so secretive
over there at the University. His Captain had told him to call Dr. Yeoman and
no one else.

Who knows, maybe this man’s driver’s
license was encoded with some secret message or something.

As he sat at one of the two metal desks in
the small office, he toyed with the man’s things – a badly charred watch, the
key to his car, his driver’s license, registration and visa which were found in
the glove compartment. The body had been badly burnt. Fixing a flat tire in all
that rain had been a foolish thing to do. There was one more thing – a receipt,
dated with the day’s date. It was from the post office. Seemed this Dr. Sabir
had mailed a package to the same exact address that was on his visa. It was to
Mrs. Ruth Sabir, the person listed to contact in case of an emergency.

He ran his hand back and forth over the
stubble on his jaw and wondered what this man did over there at the University.
They had found those Scrolls more than two years ago and nobody had seen them
since or heard anything from the interpreters. He lit a cigarette, inhaled
deeply and exhaled a cloud of smoke that circled up past his grey eyes.

What was the big deal anyway?

He brushed ashes off of his black uniform
pants and ran his fingers down his tie. He decided he would just wait until
morning and let that shift handle things. He would leave a note about sending
around a car for the doctor at the University. Why tell the Captain he forgot?
That Dr. Yeoman didn’t seem too interested in which interpreter was dead,
anyway. Heck,
he
could have asked the name. No need to start a ruckus
over something that would be resolved in the morning.

He tugged at the cuffs of his freshly
laundered white shirt, put his feet up on the desk and took another drag on his
cigarette.

* * * * * * *

By the time Dr. Yeoman began his drive
home the rain had stopped and the low, full moon lit the night sky.
Unwillingly, he replayed the events of the evening over in his mind, shaking
off the chill he got just from the thought of what he had read. He rolled down
the window hoping the fresh air would help. He turned on the radio and tried to
forget what had happened.

He pulled up into his gravel driveway. The
crunching under the tires brought a sense of relief. He was home. The house was
dark except for one light in an upstairs room. It was quiet, peaceful, and
perhaps, once inside, he thought, the calmness would ease his mood. If he were
lucky, everyone would be asleep. He didn’t want to have to face anyone.

He walked in the house and stopped in the
foyer. Gripping the darkness, not moving a muscle, he drank in the stillness.
Clutching the manuscripts and notebook close to his chest, he drew in a deep
breath, and waited for his eyes to adjust. He laid the documents on the table,
took off his coat and hat and felt for the hook by the door. He picked up the
notebook and manuscripts and walked, hand outstretched, feeling his way down
the hall, to his study.

One of the largest rooms in the house, it
was sparsely furnished with a desk that sat in one corner. A rather large, worn
desk chair and a set of matching upholstered, high-back chairs that faced the
desk. There was one wall covered completely with a dark mahogany wood
bookshelf, which overflowed with books, papers and periodicals. Two walls were
nearly all windows, and along the south wall was a great fireplace. By the
light of the moon, he laid the documents on the desk and took out three candles
from inside one of the drawers. After lighting each one he went to the
fireplace and started a fire.

Gazing down into the hearth, he took time
to collect his thoughts. Then readying himself for what must be done, he walked
over and seated himself behind the desk. He took out writing paper and a
fountain pen from the top middle drawer. He put on his glasses and began to
compose a letter.

After he finished writing, he folded the
letter over twice, sealed it with wax from one of the candles and laid it
aside. He picked up the notebook that Dr. Sabir had given him and leafed
through it - the translation, plainly written in English for the world to
understand, to know its revelation. Placing it back down on his desk, he
reached inside one of the drawers and pulled out a locked metal box. Unlocking
the box he removed the top notebook that he used as a journal and turned to the
next page after his last entry. To the sounds of the crackling fire and the
flickering of the candles’ flames, he began to write.

October
22, 1949

I have come across some unusual
manuscripts today. It is a set of four. They contain, to say the least, a very
disturbing revelation. One of my interpreters has brought them to my attention.
He is now dead and cannot reveal the secrets that lie within. It reads, among
other things, that there will be a “perfect world” and “one people” will occupy
it. It is written in the manuscripts, “All are to be of one kind, one people,
for we have found that difference breeds hatred.” This is but one small example,
as the manuscripts are filled with precarious statements. Some things I cannot
even understand. And most I cannot bear to write or repeat.

Whatever was written in those four
manuscripts, we know now that it is not the truth. “One people” do not populate
the Earth and hatred indeed thrives. The manuscripts read that the “god within
us” could “create the perfect world.” So, it cannot be of our God. We are here
today, set at this task, to find the truth that our God has given us. We are
day by day proving that the Bible we have is the true and living word of our
God, Jehovah. We know for true that God created man, in the person of Adam, and
placed him here on Earth. There can be no truth in any other claim.

We look today, in our effort to translate
these manuscripts, to find the truth of God’s people, their history and their
heritage. These documents will only mar what we have come to hope on, the
foundations where we have firmly planted our feet.

I must destroy this evidence. I will keep
the assertions that these manuscripts reveal confined to the University and
from others for as long as I can. I must have the opportunity to ascertain if
they are any other documents of this nature so they can be dealt with
appropriately. The world is making its request known. They want to see the
Scrolls. I will stall their presentation to the world for as long as I possibly
can, and if necessary for as long as I am alive.

Deus adiuva nos
.

“Samuel, is that you?”

He looked up from his writing. His wife
stood at the door.

“Yes, Miriam it is I.”

“I thought I heard you come in. Are you
all right?”

“Yes, dear. I just needed to write down
some things while they were still fresh in my mind.” He took off his glasses,
laid them on the desk and rubbed his fingers along the T-line of his face,
releasing the tension that had amassed.

“How are you?” he asked. “I hope I didn’t
wake you.”

“I’m fine, dear,” she said. “And no, you
surely didn’t wake me.  I was having a problem getting to sleep. I thought I
would make myself a glass of warm milk. Would you like some?”

“Yes, that would be nice.” He placed the
letter he had written inside the journal and put it back in the lockbox. He
then took the manuscripts from off his desk and placed them on top of the metal
box and shut the drawer.

“You have it so dark, there isn’t a light
on down here,” she said. You’ll hurt your eyes reading with such little light.”

“I’m fine, dear. The light from the truth
at times is almost blinding. You see it is sometimes easier to lie in the
dark.”

“Oh my. I think you work too hard, Samuel.
Who could you be lying to?” She chucked. “There isn’t even anyone here. Perhaps
I’ll fix you a little something to eat, too. That’ll make you feel better.”

“Yes, dear, that would be nice. Now, go
along, I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Standing up after she left, he let out a
deliberate sigh, picked up the notebook that contained the translation of the
manuscripts and blew out the candles on his desk. He walked over to the
fireplace and fondled the notebook for a moment before tossing it into the fire
and watching the pages wilt and burn. As he watched the sparks of the paper
flicker around the fireplace he said, “Yes, a little something to eat would be
very nice.”