John Schettler - Touchstone

He wondered if the logs would have enough buoyancy to prevail against the sluice gates. Something told him that this was a carefully balanced system, and that counterweights must be involved. Just for good measure, he dragged another log into the water and lashed it to the first. Now the buoyancy of two logs would press against the pegs as the water rose. When he finished he was cold, and soaked to the bones. He wanted nothing more but to reach the safety of dry land above, and made his way toward the torchlight.

But what have I done, he thought? I’ve rigged the lock to open the sluice gates and flood this entire chamber. Under normal circumstances he could see that it would be a slow, gradual process… but the growl of thunder, and the rain that was sure to follow, made him realize that his death now fell from the storming clouds above. Rain could fill up the watercourse in a sudden flash flood, and the lock would give way under that pressure to flood the whole chamber beyond this point.

Well, he thought, whatever is beyond this point, I suppose it’s time for a look. No sense waiting here for the flood tide. I’ve done my best. There’s no sense trying to backtrack at this point either. I’d never make any headway against the stream. If there’s a way out of here, I must go on from this point and see what lies ahead.

He was some timegetting up the muddy embankment at the far end of the pool, but he soon dragged himself, breathless, onto a shelf of dry stone.

Kelly looked back for a moment, wondering where the water emptied from the chamber below. It must flow on through another opening in the wall of the chamber, hidden beneath the surface of the pool. If those sluice gates open, however, the flow will be too great. The water will fill the chamber and rise to this level, spilling over to flood… To flood what?

Now his gaze was pulled down a long limestone corridor that led east from this point. The flickering of torchlight moved shadow and light over the walls, illuminating a series of carvings there, in classic Egyptian style. He wished he had time to bone up on the hieroglyphics, for he could make no sense of them at all.

He walked slowly on, his senses keenly aware, until he reached the first guttering torch. It had been doused in a sweet smelling oil, lending a pleasant spicy aroma to the air. Another roll of thunder rumbled in the distance but, as it subsided, a faint clink of metal on stone could be heard. He listened, hearing a steady chink, chink, chink, as if someone was carving, or excavating the chambers ahead.

He walked on, drawn by the sound, his gaze playing over the silent carvings on the walls. Up ahead the corridor opened to a great chamber that stretched up into deepening shadow, and there, hunched against a far wall, was another man in Arabic robes. He was bent over a section of the wall, chipping away with a mallet and chisel by the light of a wavering oil lamp.

Kelly did not know what to do or say, but he stepped gingerly forward, approaching quietly as the man worked at the wall. As he crept closer, he was possessed with the feeling of an intense déjà vu , as if he had come upon this place, this man, before, though he knew that was clearly impossible. Still, the feeling that he knew what was about to happen next was overwhelming, and confirmed when the man suddenly stopped his work at the wall and turned to face him.

“Falaq – The Dawn is come. In the name of God the most gracious, the most merciful. Who seeks refuge with the Lord of the Dawn?” The man looked at him, dark brown eyes above a graying beard, his face lined with the years, cheeks sallow below his thin, yet regal, nose.

Kelly could almost hear the words he would speak next, impossibly, in answer to the man’s question. “I… I seek refuge…”

“Refuge from the mischief of created things,” the man answered. “From the mischief of darkness as it overspreads, and from the mischief of those who practice secret arts…” There was a glint in his eye, the hint of a smile.

Kelly was confused. “You speak English?” he stammered.

“No, that is not my native tongue,” said the man. “But you speak it, and know nothing of the true voice, and so I meet with you on ground that may be more familiar to you, for I have been waiting here this morning, expecting your coming at the edge of the storm, as it was foretold to me.”

“Foretold? What do you mean?”

The man smiled, the lines of his face stretching as he did so. “Look about you,” he said, gesturing with a thin arm. “Have you not seen this place before?”

Kelly looked, seeing the high walls carved with hieroglyphics, stretching away into the shadows. The sensation of déjà vu was redoubled, and he had the distinct impression that he had been here, seen all this, spoken with this very man, many times before.

“Yes,” he whispered, not knowing exactly what he meant.

“Yes,” the man returned. “For this is the first place. The first true moment. From here, all things progress forward to become what they must, and here I write it, as it must be told, inscribed upon these walls so that my brothers will know the tale of the ages.”

“The history,” said Kelly. “You are carving the history of all time here on these walls?”

“As I am able.” The man squinted at the torchlight carvings and pointed. “See there, that they call ‘cartouche’ in the modern tongue, each one begins a new sura. But this is the first.”

‘The touchstone,” Kelly whispered. “This is where the messengers come to press their parchments against the wall.”

The man nodded. “And they take away a rubbing of the sura they are charged with, so that they may know the outcomes that are to be desired. So it is that we work our will upon the days, and herd them to some good end.”

“Good end? Perhaps as you may see it,” said Kelly.

“Certainly,” the man agreed. “But how else can I see it? Each man sees what he wishes. But it is not my will that must prevail. The world belongs to Allah, blessed be his name, and I am merely his servant.”

“Oh, of course,” said Kelly, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “Tends to relieve you of the burden of guilt, eh? You were speaking of mischief a moment ago, the mischief of those who practice secret arts. Don’t tell me you are blameless in that.”

“No,” said the man, “I will not be so arrogant, my friend. I am as guilty as any man that ever lived, though the only arts I practice are those I can work with this hammer and chisel. Yet I know that with every stroke of my hammer, a legacy is set down that will decide the fate of billions. It is a terrible burden, yet I must bear it. And you? You have come here to make an end of this place, have you not? Yes… you have lashed the beams to the gate in the passage below, and the waters are rising. You have come to set the tempest of the dawn upon the beast that has hidden this chamber for millennia.”

Kelly was troubled. “How could you know that? You saw me? I don’t understand…”

“Oh, but you do understand. That is why you greeted me with a knowing glance… why this place is familiar to you, why all of this seems as if it has been lived before.”

“You’re telling me that I have been to this place, and spoken with you before?” Even as he asked the question Kelly knew the answer himself. This was the beginning of all places, the Prime Meridian. To this point in time all things owed homage. Every generation would bow to the lion of stone that guarded this place. He had a sudden vision of the image of a sphinx, imprinted on a silver coin, as if to commemorate the sacred significance of this place and time. And the coin was in his hand, an ordinary silver piece that he might use for pocket change. He could not make any sense of the memory, but he was certain of it.