Irrefutable Proof: Mars Origin "I" Series Book II (6 page)

Chapter
Nine

Back
in 1997, Dr. Margulies had invited me to the Jubilee anniversary of the finding
of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Partly because he wanted to help me get over the
depression that was overtaking me. And, partly because he had planned a tour of
ancient artifacts so he needed my help. I couldn’t say no to him.

But
then I discovered what would soon consume me for the next year. During the
Jubilee, I had found that a Dr. Samuel Yeoman the original Editor-in-Chief of
the Translation Committee had alluded in one of his journals that he had
destroyed manuscripts from the find. Later, I discovered that he had not
destroyed them, but put them back in the cave from which they hailed. And that
put me on track to find out what happened and what was in those manuscripts.

So,
I recruited my siblings, Greg, Michael and Claire, and we went to find them. It
turned out, though, to be a useless endeavor. At that time access to the caves
had been easy to get. It wasn’t a national park. There were still excavations
going on, and even at dusk no one would think anything of people walking in and
around the caves. But it would have been fine with me if someone had caught us
and shot us, because it couldn’t have been any more painful than what I found.
The manuscripts were in pieces. Dr. Yeoman had written that the manuscripts
were an extant copy, in perfect shape. It was, he said, nothing like the other
documents found.

Not.

So
much for deciphering a mystery so compelling that someone of Dr. Yeoman’s stature
would commit an act that went against the grain of what every archaeologist
held dear - preservation of history.

But
soon I found that notebook. Tucked away by Dr. Amos Sabir. It was a mix of text
in Latin, Aramaic and Hebrew infused within each line.
It had taken me three months to translate.

Finding
that notebook seemed too coincidental to be true I know. But instead of
coincidence, I thought it providence. God intervened.

Dr.
Yeoman had tried to hide it. But Dr. Sabir, Dr. Margulies’ father had preserved
it. And then I had it.

I
translated what was inside and sent the notebook to the Hebrew University via
Ghazi, Dr. Margulies’ friend and employee. I thought it was a good idea. A
sneaky one as well. Perhaps someone else would get it and translate its contents,
then I wouldn’t have to. But I had no idea if Ghazi ever got it to Hebrew
University because I hadn’t heard from him since. That was in 1998.

I
guess I could have called him.

And
there on that bookshelf, the one I couldn’t seem to keep my eyes off of, was a
copy of the entire untranslated manuscripts on a set of floppy disks. Including
those last four pages in Latin I’d translated just last year. On one of those pages
was the directions to a box Dr. Sabir had buried under a tree in Israel.
And on the other pages, he professed to know how to get the secrets of the
Ancients.

I
had hid the floppy disks in the leaves of a book.
The Genius of the Few
by Christian and Barbara Joy O’Brien.

How
apropos,
I had thought.

It
was a book by two people that had the courage to write a book that admitted
that there was an advanced civilization that lived 100,000 years ago.

I
walked over and pulled the book down from the shelf. Sitting down at my desk, I
held it by its covers, fanned out the pages and watched as the four black
square disks fell out. They clanked, hitting the desk, turning on their sides, bouncing
around before settling scattered across the desktop. I laid the book to the
side and stared at them.

Taking
in a deep breath and letting it out through my nose, I took one and slid it
over in front of me. Spinning it around from its center with my finger, I
thought about what I needed to do. I picked it up, fanned it back and forth,
creating a little breeze on my face.

I
looked at the computer and back at the disk.

“Well,
nowhere to stick this big ole’ thing,” I said as I as I surveyed the USB port
and CD drive.

“But,
it doesn’t matter.” I threw the disk across my desk. “I remember exactly what’s
on them. Each and every word of it.”

It
was something that I couldn’t cover up in a book of fiction. It was something
that would help mankind. It was something that would save us from ourselves.

And
it was waiting for me to come and get it.

Dr.
Sabir had buried the proof I needed under a tree in the Jerusalem Forest
more than fifty years ago. And all I had to do was dig it up.

Being
an archeologist, I was good at doing that.

Chapter
Ten

Villa
Mondragone, Jesuit Community

Frascati
, Italy
, 1912

“Someone
is coming to look at books today.” Father Realini sat on his cot in the
sleeping room of the community house. “To purchase part of our collection,”
Father Realini continued, bending down tying his shoe. 

“Purchase
books? Which books?”

“Any
that he sees that he likes.” Father Realini gave Father Marquette a jeering
look. “At least that would be my guess.”

“Sarcasm,
I am finally realizing, does suit you.” Father Marquette said, shaking his
head. He held up a small mirror, combing his sandy-colored hair and giving his
face a once over. “What I meant, I guess,” he took a deep sigh and eyed Father
Realini through his mirror. “Why is he purchasing books from us? Who is he?” He
turned and looked at him.

“He
is a book collector,” Father Realini said.

“And
he will
buy
our books?”

“Yes.
Yes. Are you going deaf? And we,” he said smugly, “are going to insure that he
will purchase
the
book.”

“Oh,
Father, how can you know the will of a man? We can’t be sure that he will
purchase
that
book.”

“We
can, and he will. I have come up with an idea.”

“Tell
me.”

 “We
will compose a letter,” Father Realini said, standing up and knotting his
cincture. “
It will tell of the manuscript’s
illustrious history. We’ll tell a story that will fill any man with intrigue
and wonder, and certainly the desire to make the book his own.”

 “We
are going to lie?” Father Marquette asked.

“Lie?
Father, don’t be so obtuse. We don’t lie. We are priests.” He swung his
ferraiolo around his shoulders and looked in the mirror to place it.

“Then
we will tell the true history of the manuscript in this letter?”

“Of
course not. We’ll write that perhaps it once belonged to a King or an Emperor.”

“Did
it?”

“Don’t
be foolish, Father Marquette. Of course it did not. You know of its history.”

“Yes,
but I thought, perhaps . . .”

“Come.
Come. Let us write.” Father Realini went over to his cot and kneeled down and
reached for something underneath. He pulled out a small box that was lined in
cloth, and inside was parchment paper that looked very old.

He
sat down on the four-legged stool at the wooden desk and gently took the paper
out of the box.

“What
is it?” Father Marquette asked, almost whispering.

“Paper
from one of the old books in the library. A blank page. This document must not
just appear old. It must be old. Father Marquette nodded as Father Realini took
a fountain pen from the center desk drawer.

“I
must be honest with you, Father Marquette. This is not my first attempt. I had
previously written another name in the book as if he had been the owner. I had
put in his signature. But I thought better of it and removed it. No one will
ever be able to see that it had been there.”

“We
shall do it right this time,” Father Marquette assured him. “So, now, what
shall we say?” He leaned over Father Realini’s shoulder.

“First,”
he turned sideways and looked at Father Marquette. “We should explain how it
came to us. And I know exactly how that should go. We shall say it came from
Athanasius Kircher. A famous and illustrious member of the Society of Jesus
that worked with geology and deciphering hieroglyphics.”

“Is
that what the language is in the manuscripts? Hieroglyphics?”

“No.
No. Don’t be absurd, Father Marquette. I don’t think that hieroglyphics is a
‘language.’” He started to put pen to paper. “Wait. Perhaps we should pray.”

“Pray?”

“Yes.”

“Can
we pray for such deceit?”

“Aggh.
Father Marquette. Don’t call it deceit. It is not deceit. And certainly, we can
pray for anything.” He raised his eyebrows and turned and gave Father Marquette
a questioning look. “Perhaps I should stand.” Realini pushed back the stool and
stood, turning to face Father Marquette he said, “Bow your head.”

They
both raised their arms chest height, each pressing their palms together, and
titled their heads forward. Father Realini began to pray.

 “O
gracious God, pour out in abundance Thy spirit upon Thy priests as they perform
their duty. Each of us in a common purpose, to perfect Your Glory, and provide
passage to You in all things through the knowledge we have kept secret. Amen.”

“That’s
better, eh, Father?” Father Realini patted Father Marquette on his shoulder and
took his seat back at the desk. “Now let’s get to this matter.”

“I
believe the prayer did help. Scoot over. I will write this.”

Father
Realini, with a smile showing he enjoyed their shared secret, relinquished his
seat and waved his hand across it, welcoming Father Marquette.

Father
Marquette sat, scooted the stool under the desk, and without hesitation began
to write. Father Realini turned and began to pace the floor, one arm across his
body, the other arm’s elbow resting on it with a finger touching his lip in
thought.

“Not
only did our esteemed brother, Athanasius Kircher possess it,” Father Marquette
talked as he wrote. “But according to this letter, sent with the manuscript a
note, penned by none other than Johannes Marcus Marci, the  - ”

“Johannes
Marcus Marci? Brilliant!” Father Realini took a skip and landed back over to
the stool. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant!”

“Yes,
Marci, the official physician to the Holy Roman Emperors, Ferdinand III, and
Leopold I.”

“A
man with clout!” Father Realini proclaimed.

“And
. . .” Father Marquette emphasized the word by making his voice an octave
higher. With a sly grin crawling across his face, he said, “He was a
scientist.”

“So
of course he would have such a book!”

“Esattamenta!”

“So
we say Marci had it first?” asked Father Realini.

“No,
of course not.” This time it was Father Marquette that gave the mocking eye.
“The book is much older than that,” he said, relishing in his storytelling.

“Yes.
Yes it is.” Father Realini may not have thought of that, but he knew much more
about the manuscript than his counterpart.

“We
shall write that the manuscript was once owned by Emperor Rudolf II of Bohemia, the Holy Roman Emperor.”

“Ah.
You do know that it is even older than that?” Father Realini said, taking back
the upper hand. “But, no matter. How did the Emperor obtain it?”

“You
are right. It is much older than that. Who can we say it originated with?”

“They
would have to be at least from the thirteenth or fourteenth century.”

Father
Marquette ran his fingers and thumb down opposite sides of his chin, stroking it
as he contemplated.

“I
have it!” Father Realini stood over Father Marquette, his eyes beaming.

“Are
you to tell me?” Father Marquette asked.

“Roger
Bacon.”

“Now
it is my turn to cry, ‘Brilliant!’” Father Marquette bent over the letter and
started writing furiously.

“His
ownership of the book is the perfect way to prove that it has stayed within the
purview of the Church, making our contrived history so much more authentic. And
certainly his time in history is consistent with the age of the manuscript.”

“Shall
we add nothing of its true history?” Father Marquette paused. “To help decipher
it.”

Father
Realini knew that would not be necessary. The book, and the key, when put
together, would be all that was needed to know the truth.

“No,”
Father Realini said. “And we needn’t worry about how it got from Bacon to the
Emperor. It is easy to reconcile that Bacon’s things were confiscated during
his imprisonment.”

“They
lived three hundred years apart.” Father Marquette said in a sing-songy voice
as if to say ‘it won’t sound authentic.’

“Fine.
Then someone must have had it during the interim.”

“Who?”
Father Marquette asked.

The
question hung in silence, but only for a moment.

“I
have it!” Father Marquette turned and looked at Father Realini. “We shall say
it was John Dee. It has been widely rumored that he had some of Bacon’s
personal papers.”

“But
he didn’t. They have always been with the church.”

“Yes,
I know that, Father Realini.” He pointed at himself, then pointed to Father
Realini. “And you know that, but many people don’t. We shall appeal to their
ignorance.”

“Yes.
That is easy to do,” Father Realini agreed.

Father
Marquette nodded at Father Realini. “So. It was sold to the Emperor by John
Dee.” Then he paused his pen, and glanced at Father Realini. “For how much?” he
asked.

 “One
thousand lira.”

Father
Marquette sat still.

“Well,
write that.” Father Realini pushed Father Marquette’s shoulder.

“They
would not have had
lira
in the 1500s.”

“And
what would they have had, Father?”

“Ducats.”
Father Marquette turned around on the stool and faced Father Marquette.

“Well,
write that.”

“How
many ducats?”

“Oh,
Holy Mother of God. I don’t know. One thousand.”

“That
would have been too much.”

“What
would have been a fair amount?”

“For
an Emperor?”

“No,
for the Emperor’s cook! Of course for the Emperor.”

“600
Ducats,” Father Marquette said, and then with a nod added, “
Gold
ducats.”

“Well,
write that and be done with it.”

Father
Marquette lifted his feet off the floor and swirled himself around to face the
desk. He wrote for a few more moments and then ended the letter with a
flourish. “
Finito
!” He looked up and smiled at Father Realini.

Father
Realini took the letter and blew on it to dry the ink. He folded it and put it
in his pocket. Reconsidering, he took it out, handed it to Father Marquette,
and said, “Here, sit on it.”

“What?”

“It
must look old. Not as if it was written today.”

Father
Marquette gave a nod and stuck it under the mattress of his cot and sat on top.
Sitting for what he believed an appropriate amount of time. Retrieving it from
the folds of the bed, they continued to fondle and fan it, caress it and crease
it for better than an hour. Leaving it in the desk, they left for morning
worship and work, agreeing to meet in the Library in three hours.

 “Where’s
the letter?” Father Realini asked.

Father
Marquette gave Father Realini a vacant look. He had just come around to the
Library from the garden where he had supervised spring planting, at the agreed
upon time.

“You
have the letter,” Father Marquette said.

“I
do not have the letter. That was your responsibility.”

Father
Marquette checked the pockets in his cassock. Pulling it back, he checked his
pants pocket. He patted his hands over his body as if it could be hidden there.
His eyes lit up. He pulled off his
tuftless biretta and
peered
inside of it, the last vesture of his priestly garb where the letter could have
been hiding. Nothing. His eyes searched the face of Father Realini.

“Oh,
my Lord. Father in Heaven, help me.” Father Realini stomped one foot and on the
other spun around in a circle, holding his forehead with his hand. He stopped
as the window that faced the front of the Villa came into view. “Oh no,” he
screeched. He could see Rector Bershoni scurrying out to meet the black car
slowing pulling up the long curved driveway.

Father
Realini grabbed Father Marquette and shook his shoulders. “You have to go get
it.”

“What?
I don’t have time to get it,” Father Marquette said, following Father Realini’s
gaze out of the window.

Father
Realini turned Father Marquette around and starting pushing him out the door.

Father
Marquette made his legs stiff and his back straight. “No. Stop! I don’t have
time.”

“If
you would cease with the talking,” Father Realini said, turning to look out the
window and seeing a man with a moustache climb out of the back seat. “You could
make it.” He gave Father Marquette a big push that made him fall forward and
only missed hitting the ground by putting his arms out and bracing himself on
the wall in front of him.

“Go.”
Father Realini said between clinched teeth. “Run like the Devil himself is
chasing you.”