Prophecy. An ARKANE thriller. (Book 2)
Prophecy
By J.F. Penn
Book 2 in the ARKANE thriller series.
Copyright
© J.F. Penn (2011). All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
“Before me was a pale horse. Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.”
Revelation 6:8
Jerusalem. Israel. 5.27am
Blood has seeped into the stones of Jerusalem for millennia. Screams of the dying have echoed across the Kidron Valley as the ancient city has been besieged, broken and destroyed. Each time, the blood of the defeated has watered the earth, seeds of hate to be harvested in the next generation. Demons of war and power have squatted over the city, feeding off the lives that ground themselves to dust for their gods. Here the blood of human sacrifice stained the altars to Baal and fortress walls were built on the crushed bodies of the vanquished. Here the Jews fought to rule their Holy City, being both victor and then victim in their long history. Here the blood of Jesus Christ ran onto the stone streets of the Old City as the mob jeered his passing. Jerusalem has always been a place of blood, and always will be.
Ayal Ben-David stepped out from the maze of Jewish Quarter streets onto the series of ramps leading down to the Western Wall. The golden Dome of the Rock dominated the scene, reflecting the rays of the rising sun. The blue tiles were dusky from this distance but Ayal knew the mosque was covered with Arabic script and brilliant turquoise, aqua and gold tiles. It stood framed by cypress trees, witnesses to a never-ending conflict. Ayal walked across the wide expanse of the open square, grey marble reflecting pink hues of the early morning sky. He raised his hand to another soldier standing guard at the eastern entrance to the square, acknowledging him but not stopping.
Ayal stood taller as he neared the Western Wall itself, straightening his uniform and checking that his rifle hung down correctly behind him. He never tired of this morning routine. This wall was the only remnant of the ancient Temple and Jews had been kept from it for so long. It was the closest they could get to the Temple Mount where God gathered the dust to fashion Adam, where Abraham had bound his son Isaac as a sacrifice. It had been the centre of the Jewish temple, the Holy of Holies, the place where God dwelt with His chosen people. But it was also here that Mohammad ascended to heaven on his Night Journey and so it had become the most contested religious site in the world.
Ayal was close enough now to see the huge blocks of limestone that made up the ancient wall. Each was almost as tall as a man, the wall’s foundations embedded deep in the earth. There were tufts of shikaron or henbane spiking from the grooves between the blocks. Ayal smiled as a swallow swooped to perch and pick an insect from one of the thorny bushes that grew there. Nature found its way into the cracks of life, he thought, like the Jews, surviving despite generations of persecution. Ayal was proud. This was his heritage, his life.
He stood in front of the wall and began to pray, fingertips resting gently against the stone. He could almost feel the power of the place. Hopes and prayers of believers were written on scraps of paper and pushed into the cracks of stone. The tefillah, heartfelt prayers, would reach God faster here, the most holy place, where the real bled into the divine. As he neared the end of the first prayer, Ayal heard shouting above him. The words were muffled but the noise echoed through the square. Immediately, he swung his rifle into position, looking up for potential danger. Rocks had been thrown down many times by Muslims intent on disrupting the prayers of the Jewish faithful, but sometimes the threat was more serious. He could see that the other soldiers in position around the square had heard the noise and were also prepared for action. Moving back away from the wall, Ayal scanned for the source of the noise.
Standing on top of the Western Wall, a skinny man in a thin white robe raised his hands to the dawn sky and called out to God. His head was shaved and his skeletal figure made a grotesque outline against the deepening azure sky. Ayal couldn’t make out the words but clearly the man was a fanatic and the guards from the Temple Mount would get to him soon enough. Ayal turned his head to signal to the others to stand down; there was no real threat. But a soldier was pointing urgently, and Ayal looked back to see the man jump from the top of the wall, sixty feet above him. The man was silent as he fell, white robe billowing behind him in a parody of flight. With a sickening crunch, his body smashed on the flagstones at the base of the wall. Blood exploded from the broken body, staining the robe into a grisly shroud.
Ayal ran to the man, but he could see there was nothing to be done, for he was clearly already dead. He knelt and checked the man’s pulse out of protocol, then called for another soldier to bring screens to put around the body. He would need the Rabbi to come and cleanse the area before the worshippers arrived. Ayal noticed that the man was young, maybe in his thirties. Although half of his face was mangled by the fall, he had sharply defined cheekbones, as though he had been starving. Strangely, his face wasn’t contorted and it seemed he had died at peace. There were no other wounds so he hadn’t been shot. He had just jumped.
Ayal could see that the once white gown was from a hospital and that the man was naked underneath. He moved the gown slightly to cover the man and give him some dignity in death. As he bent down, Ayal noticed a scrap of paper that had been clutched in the man’s hand and now lay crumpled next to the body. Perhaps it would give some clue as to why he jumped. Blood was still oozing from the body and would soak the scrap before long so he picked it up. It showed a roughly drawn horse’s head in thick lines of charcoal, smudged into the page with rough hands. The horse’s eyes were wide, its nostrils flared. Chalk had been rubbed over it to give a consistent white appearance. Beneath the image were inked the words, ‘Before me was a pale horse. Its rider was named Death, and Hades followed close behind.’ Ayal recognized it as part of a Christian prophecy from the book of Revelation and for a moment he pondered its significance.
As he stood to direct the other soldiers, a trickle of blood ran down into the cracks of stone beneath his feet, joining the blood that had soaked the earth of the holy city for millennia.
Oxford, England. 6.43am
The verdant green of summer was intensified by the rain that pounded down. It darkened the day, shadowing the earth in cloud. Morgan Sierra ran through the gates of the University Parks by Keble College, her stride lengthening as she headed towards the river Cherwell. In the distance she could hear the rumbling of thunder as it grew closer and lightning forked towards her from the north. This was Morgan’s favorite time to run. When most people hurried inside, she quickly changed into her gear and sprinted towards the storm. She had always been a chaser of violent weather. It thrilled her to move over the earth connected to this power of Nature, yet it was rare to have such tropical storms in England. This was a country of gentle rolling hills and soft rain that pattered onto the leaves of spreading oak trees. English rain was persistent but rarely violent so this was an event to be savored.
The rain made the ground slippery and Morgan was soaked through, t-shirt slick against her skin. She was more a thing of water than of air, her breathing even and pace strong as she raced through the park. She came out at St Catherine’s College, crossed the river and continued towards Magdalen Bridge. Oak trees shaded the path, a canopy of mottled jade, leaves open to the rain. Morgan splashed through puddles, a smile growing wider on her face. Sprinting now, she pushed herself as hard as she could along the towpath until she finally reached the crossing point at Magdalen. Panting, she stopped to catch her breath, skin cooling in the downpour. I needed this, she thought. I need to push myself physically to feel alive. A nagging part of her knew that her attraction to ARKANE lay in this acknowledged truth. She had felt alive during the search for the Pentecost stones and then the Arcane Religious Knowledge And Numinous Experience Institute had offered her a job. That had been almost a month ago and still she couldn’t decide her response.
Morgan ran on through the Botanical Gardens towards the junction where the Cherwell met the Isis, that part of the Thames that belonged to Oxford. Running helped her think, gave her body something to do while she mentally processed. The storm was a bonus, a way to hide and also to clear the paths of Oxford which heaved with tourists in the summer months. Morgan had thought about resurrecting her clinical psychology practice, but the problems of individual patients no longer seemed as challenging as the mysteries that ARKANE agents were investigating. She was distracted and it showed in her patient numbers. The University was quiet over the summer months, when she was meant to be writing scientific papers and improving her academic standing. But the work seemed insignificant in the face of almost losing her sister and niece. At the thought of little Gemma, Morgan ran harder, her love and fear needing the outlet. She would do it all again to keep them safe.