The Celestine Prophecy: An Adventure (5 page)

He looked at me intensely, then said, “Working to establish a more comfortable style of survival has grown to feel complete in and of itself as a reason to live, and we’ve gradually, methodically, forgotten our original question … We’ve forgotten that we still don’t know what we’re surviving for.”

Out the window, far below, I could see a large city. Judging from our flight-path, I suspected it was Orlando, Florida. I was struck by the geometric outline of streets and avenues, the planned and ordered configuration of what humans had built. I looked over at Dobson. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. For an hour he had told me more about the Second Insight, then our lunch had arrived and we had eaten and I had told him about Charlene and why I had decided to come to Peru. Afterward, I wanted only to gaze out at the cloud formations and consider what he had said.

“So what do you think?” he asked suddenly, looking sleepily over at me. “Have you grasped the Second Insight?”

“I’m not sure.”

He nodded toward the other passengers. “Do you feel as if you have a clearer perspective on the human world? Do you see how preoccupied everyone has been? This perspective explains a lot. How many people do you know who are obsessed with their work, who are type A or have stress related diseases and who can’t slow down? They can’t slow down because they use their routine to distract themselves, to reduce life to only its practical considerations. And they do this to avoid recalling how uncertain they are about why they live.

“The Second Insight extends our consciousness of historical time,” he added. “It shows us how to observe culture not just from the perspective of our own lifetimes but from the perspective of a whole millennium. It reveals our preoccupation to us and so lifts us above it. You have just experienced this longer history. You now live in a
longer now
. When you look at the human world now, you should be able to clearly see this obsessiveness, the intense preoccupation with economic progress.”

“But what’s wrong with that?” I protested. “It’s what made western civilization great.”

He laughed loudly. “Of course, you’re right. No one’s saying it was wrong. In fact, the Manuscript says the preoccupation was a necessary development, a stage in human evolution. Now, however, we’ve spent enough time settling into the world. It’s time now to wake up from the preoccupation and reconsider our original question. What’s behind life on this planet? Why are we really here?”

I looked at him for a long time, then asked, “Do you think the other insights explain this purpose?”

Dobson cocked his head. “I think it’s worth a look. I just hope no one destroys the rest of the Manuscript before we have a chance to find out.”

“How could the Peruvian government think they could destroy an important artifact and get away with it?” I asked.

“They would do it covertly,” he replied. “The official line is that the Manuscript doesn’t exist at all.”

“I would think the scientific community would be up in arms.”

He looked at me with an expression of resolve. “We are. That’s why I’m returning to Peru. I represent ten prominent scientists, all of whom demand that the original manuscript be made public. I sent a letter to the relevant department heads within the Peruvian government telling them that I was coming and that I expected cooperation.”

“I see. I wonder how they will respond.”

“Probably with denials. But at least it will be an official start.”

He turned away, deep in thought, and I stared out the window again. As I looked down, it dawned on me that the airplane on which we were riding contained within its technology four centuries of progress. We had learned much about manipulating the resources we had found on the Earth. How many people, I mused, how many generations did it take to create the products and the understanding that enabled this airplane to come into being? And how many spent their whole lives focused on one tiny aspect, one small step, without ever lifting their heads from that preoccupation?

Suddenly, in that instant, the span of history Dobson and I had been discussing seemed to integrate fully into my consciousness. I could see the millennium clearly, as though it was part of my own life history. A thousand years ago we had lived in a world where God and human spirituality were clearly defined. And then we had lost it, or better, we had decided there was more to the story. Accordingly, we had sent explorers out to discover the real truth and to report back, and when they had taken too long we had become preoccupied with a new, secular purpose, one of settling into the world, of making ourselves more comfortable.

And settle we had. We discovered that metallic ores could be melted down and fashioned into all kinds of gadgets. We invented sources of power, first steam then gas and electricity and fission. We systemized farming and mass production and now commanded huge stores of material goods and vast networks of distribution.

Propelling it all was the call to progress, the desire of the individual to provide his own security, his own purpose while he was waiting for the truth. We had decided to create a more comfortable and pleasurable life for ourselves and our children, and in a mere four hundred years our preoccupation had created a human world where all the comforts of life could now be produced. The problem was that our focused, obsessive drive to conquer nature and make ourselves more comfortable had left the natural systems of the planet polluted and on the verge of collapse. We couldn’t go on this way.

Dobson was right. The Second Insight did make our new awareness seem inevitable. We were reaching a climax in our cultural purpose. We were accomplishing what we had collectively decided to do, and as this happened, our preoccupation was breaking down and we were waking up to something else. I could almost see the momentum of the Modern Age slowing as we approached the end of the millennium. A four hundred year old obsession had been completed. We had created the means of material security, and now we seemed to be ready—poised, in fact—to find out why we had done it.

In the faces of the passengers around me I could see evidence of the preoccupation, but also I thought I detected brief glimpses of awareness. How many, I wondered, had already noticed the coincidences?

The plane tilted forward and began its descent as the flight attendant announced that we would soon be landing in Lima.

I gave Dobson the name of my hotel and asked where he was staying. He gave me the name of his hotel and said it was only a couple of miles from mine.

“What is your plan?” I asked.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he replied. “The first thing, I guess, is to visit the American Embassy and tell them why I’m here, just for the record.”

“Good idea.”

“After that, I’m going to speak with as many Peruvian scientists as I can. The scientists at the University of Lima have already told me that they have no knowledge of the Manuscript, but there are other scientists who are working at various ruins who may be willing to talk. What about you? What are your plans?”

“I have none,” I replied. “Do you mind if I tag along?”

“Not at all. I was going to suggest it.”

After the plane landed, we picked up our luggage and agreed to meet later at Dobson’s hotel. I walked outside and hailed a taxi in the fading twilight. The air was dry and the wind very brisk.

As my cab drove away, I noticed another taxi pull out quickly behind us, then lag back in the traffic. It stayed with us through several turns and I could make out a lone figure in the back. A rush of nervousness filled my stomach. I asked the driver, who could speak English, not to go directly to the hotel, but to drive around for a while. I told him I was interested in sightseeing. He complied without comment. The taxi followed. What was this all about?

When we arrived at my hotel, I told the driver to stay in the car, then I opened my door and pretended to be paying the fare. The taxi following behind us pulled up to the curb some distance away and the man stepped out and walked slowly toward the hotel entrance.

I jumped back into the vehicle and shut the door, telling the cabbie to drive on. As we sped away, the man walked into the street and watched us until we were out of sight. I could see my driver’s face in the rear view mirror. He was watching me closely, his expression tense. “Sorry about this,” I said. “I’ve decided to change accommodations.” I struggled to smile, then gave him the name of Dobson’s hotel—although part of me wanted to go straight to the airport and take the first plane back to the States.

A half block short of our destination I had the driver pull over. “Wait here,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.”

The streets were filled with people, mostly native Peruvians. But here and there I passed some Americans and Europeans. Something about seeing the tourists made me feel safer. When I was within fifty yards of the hotel, I stopped. Something wasn’t right. Suddenly, as I watched, gunshots rang out and screams filled the air. The crowd in front of me flung themselves to the ground, opening up my view down the sidewalk. Dobson was running toward me, wild-eyed, panicked. Figures behind him pursued. One fired his gun into the air and ordered Dobson to halt.

As he ran closer, Dobson strained to focus, then recognized me. “Run!” he yelled. “For godsakes run!” I turned and ran down an alley in terror. Ahead was a vertical board fence, six feet high, blocking my way. When I reached it, I leaped as high as I could, catching the top of the boards with my hands and flinging my right leg over the top. As I pulled my left leg over and dropped to the other side I looked back down the alley. Dobson was running desperately. More shots were fired. He stumbled and fell.

I continued to run blindly, leaping piles of trash and stacks of cardboard boxes. For a moment I thought I heard footsteps behind me but I didn’t dare look back. Ahead, the alley ran into the next street, which was also crowded with people, seemingly unalarmed. As I entered the street, I dared a glance to my rear, my heart pounding. No one was there. I walked hurriedly down the sidewalk to the right trying to fade into the crowd. Why did Dobson run? I asked myself. Was he killed?

“Wait a minute,” someone said in a loud whisper from behind my left shoulder. I started to run but he reached out and grabbed my arm. “Please wait a minute,” he said again. “I saw what happened. I’m trying to help you.”

“Who are you?” I asked, trembling.

“I’m Wilson James,” he said. “I’ll explain later. Right now we have to get off these streets.”

Something about his voice and demeanor calmed my panic, so I decided to follow him. We walked up the street and into a leather goods store. He nodded to a man behind the counter and led me into a musty spare room in the back. He shut the door and closed the curtains.

He was a man in his sixties, although he seemed much younger. A sparkle in his eyes or something. His skin was dark brown and his hair was black. He looked of Peruvian decent, but the English he spoke sounded almost American. He wore a bright blue t-shirt and jeans.

“You’ll be safe here for a while,” he said. “Why are they chasing you?”

I didn’t respond.

“You’re here about the Manuscript, aren’t you?” he asked.

“How did you know that?”

“I guess the man with you was here for that reason, too?”

“Yes. His name is Dobson. How did you know there were two of us?”

“I have a room over the alley; I was looking out the window as they were chasing you.”

“Did they shoot Dobson?” I asked, terrified by what I might hear in reply.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I couldn’t tell. But once I saw you had escaped, I ran down the back steps to head you off. I thought perhaps I could help.”

“Why?”

For an instant he looked at me as though he was uncertain how to answer my question. Then his expression changed to one of warmth. “You won’t understand this, but I was standing there at the window and thoughts about an old friend came to me. He’s dead now. He died because he thought people should know about the Manuscript. When I saw what was happening in the alley, I felt I should help you.”

He was right. I didn’t understand. But I had the feeling he was being absolutely truthful with me. I was about to ask another question when he spoke again.

“We can talk about this later,” he said. “I think we’d better move to a safer place.”

“Wait a minute, Wilson,” I said. “I just want to find a way back to the States. How can I do this?”

“Call me Wil,” he replied. “I don’t think you should try the airport, not yet. If they’re still looking for you they will be checking there. I -have some friends who live out of town. They will hide you. There are several other ways out of the country you can choose. When you’re ready they will show you where to go.”

He opened the door to the room and checked inside the shop, then walked outside and checked the street. When he returned, he motioned for me to follow. We walked down the street to a blue jeep that Wil pointed out. As we got in, I noticed that the back seat was carefully packed with food-stuffs and tents and satchels, as if for an extended trip.

We rode in silence. I leaned back in the passenger seat and tried to think. My stomach was knotted with fear. I had never expected this. What if I had been arrested and thrown into a Peruvian jail, or killed outright? I had to size up my situation. I had no clothes, but I did have money and one credit card, and for some reason I trusted Wil.

“What had you and—who was it, Dobson?—done to get those people after you?” Wil asked suddenly.

“Nothing that I know of,” I replied. “I met Dobson on the plane. He’s an historian and he was coming down here to investigate the Manuscript officially. He represents a group of other scientists.”

Wil looked surprised. “Did the government know he was coming?”

“Yes, he had written certain government officials that he wanted cooperation. I can’t believe they tried to arrest him; he didn’t even have his copies with him.”

“He has copies of the Manuscript?”

“Only of the first two insights.”

“I had no idea there were copies in the United States. Where did he get them?”