Oliver Bowden: Revelations

They drew apart. Then, Altair stepped through the doorway. Once within, he braced himself, straining to pull a large lever just inside, up by the lintel. At last it moved and, having completed its arc, clicked into place. Slowly, a heavy green stone door rose from the floor to close the opening.

Father and son watched each other wordlessly as the door came up. Darim tried hard to keep his self-control, but finally could not restrain his tears as the door enveloped his father in his living grave. At last he found himself looking at what was, to all intents and purposes, a blank surface, only the slight change of color distinguishing door from walls, that and the curious grooves cut into it.

Beating his breast in grief, Darim turned and left.

Who were Those Who Came Before? thought Altair, as he made his way unhurriedly down the long hallway that led to his great domed chamber underground. As he passed them, the torches on the walls lit his way, fueled by a combustible air that led to them from hidden pipes within the walls, ignited by sprung flints that operated as his weight triggered catches under the floor. They flared for minutes behind him, then went out again.

What brought Them here? What drove Them out? And what of Their artifacts? What we have called Pieces of Eden? Messages in bottles? Tools left behind to aid and guide us? Or do we fight for control over Their refuse, giving divine purpose and meaning to little more than discarded toys?

He shuffled on down the hall, clutching the box, his legs and arms aching with weariness.

At last he gained the great, gloomy room, and crossed it without ceremony until he reached his desk. He reached it with the relief that a drowning man feels when he finds a spar to cling to in the sea.

He sat down, placing the box carefully by him, well within reach, hardly liking to take his hands from it. He pulled paper, pen, and ink toward him, dipped the pen, but did not write. He thought instead of what he had written-something from his journal.

The Apple is more than a catalogue of that which preceded us. Within its twisting, sparking interior I have caught glimpses of what will be. Such a thing should not be possible. Perhaps it isn’t. Maybe it is simply a suggestion. I contemplate the consequences of these visions: Are they images of things to come-or simply the potential for what might be? Can we influence the outcome? Dare we try? And, in so doing, do we merely ensure that which we’ve seen? I am torn-as always-between action and inaction-unclear as to which-if either-will make a difference. Am I even meant to make a difference? Still, I keep this journal. Is that not an attempt to change-or guarantee-what I have seen?…

How naive to believe that there might be a single answer to every question. Every mystery. That there exists a lone, divine light that rules over everything. They say it is a light that brings truth and love. I say it is a light that blinds us-and forces us to stumble about in ignorance. I long for the day when men will turn away from invisible monsters, and once more embrace a more rational view of the world. But these new religions are so convenient-and promise such terrible punishment should one reject them-I worry that fear shall keep us stuck to what is truly the greatest lie ever told…

The old man sat for a while in silence, not knowing whether he felt hope or despair. Perhaps he felt neither. Perhaps he had outgrown, or outlived, both. The silence of the great hall, and its gloom, protected him like a mother’s arms. But still he could not shut out his past.

He pushed his writing materials from him and drew the box to him, placing both hands on it, guarding it-from what?

Then it seemed that Al Mualim stood before him. His old Mentor. His old betrayer. Whom he had at last exposed and destroyed. But when the man spoke, it was with menace and authority:

“In much wisdom is much grief. And he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow.” The ghost leaned forward, speaking now in an urgent whisper, close to Altair’s ear. “Destroy it! Destroy it as you said you would!”

“I-I can’t!”

Then another voice. One which caught at his heart as he turned to it. Al Mualim had disappeared. But where was she? He couldn’t see her!

“You tread a thin line, Altair,” said Maria Thorpe. The voice was young, firm. As it had been when he’d met her, seven decades ago.

“I have been ruled by curiosity, Maria. As terrible as this artifact is, it contains wonders. I would like to understand, as best I can.”

“What does it tell you? What do you see?”

“Strange visions and messages. Of those who came before, of their rise, and their fall…”

“And what of us? Where do we stand?”

“We are links in a chain, Maria.”

“But what happens to us, Altair? To our family? What does the Apple say?”

Altair replied, “Who were those who came before? What brought them here? How long ago?” But he was talking more to himself than to Maria, who broke in on his thoughts again:

“Get rid of that thing!”

“This is my duty, Maria,” Altair told his wife, sadly.

Then she screamed, terribly. And the rattle in her throat followed, as she died.

“Strength. Altair.” A whisper.

“Maria! Where… where are you?” To the great hall he cried: “Where is she?” But the only answer was his echo.

Then a third voice, itself distressed, though trying to calm him.

“Father-she is gone. Don’t you remember? She is gone,” Darim said.

A despairing howl: “Where is my wife?”

“It has been twenty-five years, you old fool! She’s dead!” his son shouted at him angrily.

“Leave me. Leave me to my work!”

Softer, now: “Father-what is this place? What is it for?”

“It is a library. And an archive. To keep safe all that I have learned. All that They have shown me.”

“What have they shown you, Father?” A pause. “What happened at Alamut before the Mongols came? What did you find?”

And then there was silence, and the silence covered Altair like a warm sky, and into it he said:

“Their purpose is known to me now. Their secrets are mine. Their motives are clear. But this message is not for me. It is for another.”

He looked at the box on the desk before him. I shall not touch that wretched thing again. Soon I shall pass from this world. It is my time. All the hours of the day are now colored by the thoughts and fears born of this realization. All the revelations that were ever to be vouchsafed me are done. There is no next world. Nor a return to this one. It will simply be-done. Forever.

And he opened the box. In it, on a bed of brown velvet, lay the Apple. A Piece of Eden.

I have let it be known that this Apple was first hidden in Cyprus, then lost at sea, dropped in the ocean… this Apple must not be discovered until it is time…

He gazed at it for a moment, then rose and turned to a dark recess in the wall behind him. He pressed a lever, which opened a heavy door, covering a hidden alcove, in which stood a pedestal. Altair took the Apple from the box, a thing no bigger than a kickball, and transferred it quickly to the pedestal. He worked fast, before temptation could work on him, and pulled the lever again. The door over the alcove slid shut, snapping into place with finality. Altair knew that the lever would not operate again for two-and-a-half centuries. Time for the world to move on, perhaps. For him, though, temptation was over.

He took his seat at his desk again, and took, from a drawer, a white alabaster disc. He lit a candle by him and took the disc in both hands, raising it close to his eyes, and closing them and concentrating, he began to imbue the alabaster with his thoughts-his testament.

The stone glowed, lighting up his face for a long time. Then the glow faded, and it grew dark. All grew dark.