The Genesis Plague

22

Despite his years, the elderly monsignor wove deftly through the aisles of the subterranean library. Hazo trailed closely behind him, scanning the amazing collection of manuscripts in the sealed bookcases. There were no windows in sight, making him wonder how deep beneath the mountain they were.

‘I’ve been told that your collection contains some of the world’s oldest books and scrolls,’ he said to make polite conversation.

The monsignor shook his head and swatted his hand at the idea as if it were a fly.

Though Hazo didn’t appreciate the old man’s crotchety disposition, he knew the monk had good reason to avoid the topic. Back in the fourteenth century the monastery’s entire collection had to be clandestinely relocated to avoid destruction by Timur’s invading Mongol army. The monastery itself could not escape partial destruction and remained abandoned until 1795. With a similar threat now brewing outside these walls, Hazo guessed the monks were rightfully concerned about opportunistic looters sacking the library.

‘Here.’ The monsignor stopped at a bookcase. He slid open the glass door, pulled out a leather-bound codex. He eyed Hazo’s crucifix. ‘First, let me ask you: as a Christian you are familiar with the stories of the Bible … the book of Genesis?’

‘I am.’

‘Then I presume you know the Creation story? How the world began?’

Hazo nodded.

The monsignor’s lips twisted into a wry smile. ‘Is that so? Please, tell me what you know.’

Unsure of how this exercise could possibly relate to his query, Hazo conveyed what he could recall: how in six days God created Heaven and Earth then made light to separate day and night across the formless waters … then land and sea, vegetation … then sun, moon and stars … then creatures from the waters and the birds to fly above the earth … then he ordered the land to be covered with living creatures dwelling upon it. And finally he created Adam then Eve. When he’d finished, the monk seemed impressed.

‘Not bad,’ the monsignor said. ‘Like most Christians, however, you have made a critical omission, though I will not fault you for it. It is a very minute detail that is easily overlooked. We’ll get to that shortly. Come, there is a table over here.’ He motioned for Hazo to follow.

Entering a study niche, the monsignor brought Hazo to a work table and set the codex on a bookstand. Using a flat-tipped stylus, he began gingerly leafing through the ancient pages.

Looking on, Hazo admired the book’s wonderful text and drawings complete with gilding and vibrant colours. The pages were deeply stained along the corners by countless fingerprints — oils and contaminants left behind in the vellum, he guessed.

‘The problem with books and scrolls,’ the monsignor explained while turning the pages, ‘is their fragile nature. Time is cruel to them. You can see these discolorations in the black lettering.’ He indicated where complete passages had faded from crisp black to a greenish brown. ‘In the old days metals, like copper and lead, were mixed into the ink. Naturally, metals oxidize over time. If there hadn’t been men dedicated to preserving and transcribing these ancient works, they’d have been lost long, long ago. We’ve begun to digitize the collections … to permanently preserve them.’ He kept flipping pages. ‘Did you know that 7,000 monks once lived on this mountain?’

‘I did not,’ Hazo admitted. With the monk hunched over the book, Hazo now realized just how stooped the man’s shoulders were; partly from age, Hazo was sure, but partly from the decades-long repetition of this very act.

‘Yes, it is true. Seven thousand monks. And many of those men dedicated their lives to the task of preserving our history. Without them …’ He shook his head gravely while keeping his eyes buried in the pages. ‘Though some criticize the accuracy of transcriptions through the ages, there come times when source material — the very origin of a story — is discovered, and it vindicates the written legacy. What you found in that cave is a fantastic example. Ah, yes. See here,’ he said, stopping on a page and tapping the lollipop tip of the stylus on its central drawing. He straightened and took a step to the side. ‘Look familiar?’

Hazo stepped closer and leaned in to examine the drawing, which replicated images in his photos. ‘Oh my,’ he said. The detail was incredibly accurate. So accurate that he could only believe that the artist must have seen the cave itself. ‘It is the same.’

‘A perfect match, I would say.’

‘And the words?’ Judging by the characters that matched the inscriptions he’d seen in the church, they appeared to be Aramaic. ‘What do they say?’

Strangely, the monk didn’t need to read the text to answer Hazo.

‘The words speak of the beginning of recorded history. A time when God cleansed the earth with water to begin anew. When the first woman created by God had returned to paradise to seek retribution.’

‘This has to do with Eve?’ Hazo said, now completely perplexed.

The old man shook his head and smiled knowingly. ‘This is the mistake you made earlier. Not Eve.’ He whispered conspiratorially: ‘Lilith.’