Touchstone

28

He arrived on the dark of night, the chill of the Arch quickly giving way to a sensation of growing warmth. The sound of flowing water came to him next and, as the mist of the time shift dissipated, he gathered himself and scanned the low horizon for the moon. It was a thin sickle, hanging in a of jade black sky just above the darker shape ahead, which he immediately recognized as that of a great beast, silent in its repose as it waited for the dawn.

He stared at it, realizing that this was not the real sphinx, the stony lion that sat at the feet of the Great Pyramids, but it bore an uncanny resemblance. The Great Pyramids did not yet exist, and would not be built for another eighty centuries or more! Yet here this ancient artifice sat, guarding the eastern meridian where the faint glow of fading stars were now setting, low on the horizon. He immediately recognized the constellation as that of Orion—that the Egyptians might call ‘Osirus.’ As the moon crowned the head of the beast, he could make out the telltale shape of a crudely carved face, draped in shadow. Moments later, the silhouette was plain to see and he froze, as if the creature might spy him out where he stood on the gentle downward slope of a low hill.

For a moment he thought he perceived a glint of light emanating from the eye of that great carved face. But then he was possessed with a feeling of immense emotional weight, as if the burden of ten thousand years had suddenly come down upon his shoulders, the leaden legacy of all the centuries that stretched out between this moment and the time of his own life. The gleam in the eye of the beast was one of recognition, he thought. It was oblivious to all else around it—fleeting life that came and went in the barest wink of a moment compared to the vast span of its existence. But when Kelly appeared it took notice, one ancient thing regarding another in the silence of the desert. He felt old now, hobbled by time and the dire urgency of his mission.

His instinct told him to move, down from the exposed slope of the hill to the covered watercourse below, and he felt his legs labor with sluggish response. Must be the effects of the time shift, he thought. Paul had told him what to expect. Though this was not the first time he had moved in the continuum, the feeling of disorientation was greater now than either of his previous shifts.

Moving forward was feather light, he remembered. He felt as though he was simply evaporating to mist, and then suddenly appeared in the pristine white chamber of some future world. There he had met, and spoken again, with Mr. Graves, a man bound to the thread of his life by the mystery of Time and Paradox. They had saved him from certain annihilation, snatching him away from the hounds as they sought to fall upon him at the end of that first mission.

He remembered snatches of conversation, questions and answers he did not fully comprehend at the time. It was necessary to move him forward to the safety of a Nexus, Graves had told him, otherwise his life would be forfeit to Paradox. The mission, undertaken by Paul and Robert, had been a success. Somewhere, back along the desolate track of the thin rail line that led down from Maan to Medina, a moment had been found that would change all future moments. It was something that still remained unseen and hidden in the confounding complexity of Time, hidden by its own insignificance. Neither Paul nor Robert could discern it. They could not determine what they had done to change things, but the Pushpoint was there somewhere, replete with significance, the whole of Time wrapped tightly round one single instance of the ordinary. What was it? Was it something they said to one of the historical figures they encountered? Was it something Paul did while held captive on the train? Was it something Robert worked by changing the life course of the two Arab men he had stumbled upon? They would never know.

That thought filled him with anxiety as he reached the bottom of the hill and descended into the low, winding thread of the watercourse. He remembered Paul’s anxiety when a silly error had sent his friends millions of years into the past. The farther back you go, the greater the influence of every thing you do.

There was a distant flash of light in the sky and, seconds later, the low rumble of thunder. Storm coming, he thought, and there was something in the growl of the night sky that filled him with deathly fear. LeGrand had spoken of a floodgate he must find and open. Could they have known that, on this night, of all nights, the sky would open and rains would fall heavily upon the barren landscape, a tempest that would end this whole affair. He remembered the rains of the Bay Area that first night in May when they were planning the Shakespeare mission. It began with a storm, and it will end with one, he thought.

Shivering, he looked about him at the flowing stream. What was he supposed to do here? Look toward the moon, follow the water, LeGrand had told him. It would lead him towards the great beast of stone that guarded this place—the only sign of human civilization anywhere to be seen. What would he find there?

He had no idea whether the numbers provided by LeGrand were even accurate. For all he knew, the time shift could be well off the mark. Even a minor variance could find him decades from any moment where he could actually carry out his mission. Follow the watercourse. It will lead to an opening and become a hidden, underground stream. That is the way.

He looked at the wine dark waters, agleam with slivers of moonlight, and stooped briefly to let his hand dip into the stream. The water was slightly cool, and he could perceive a gentle tug as the water swept slowly along its way, heading east towards the dark mass of the sphinx. He looked around him, wondering if there were any other people about. Would not this gateway be guarded? LeGrand seemed to think the site would be free and clear, its makers, if they still existed, unwary of any intruder.

One way to find out, he knew, and he started along the muddied edge of the stream, following its winding course as he crept silently to the base of the immense monument. Up ahead there came the sound of falling water, and he soon came to a place where the stream cascaded down a steep incline in a low fall. The mist from the rising spay was cool and refreshing, awakening his senses as he searched for a path down. In the inky darkness, he could barely make his way, afraid that he might lose his footing at any moment and tumble into the water. Trusting to fate, he lowered himself until he sat at the base of the fall. Amazingly, the water flowed down a slight incline here and rushed into the mouth of an eroded cleft in the ground, vanishing from his sight.

How will I get through there? He wondered how deep the water was, and whether he could walk upright through the entrance and yet keep his breath. Gingerly, he stood and advanced into the stream, feeling the cool water rushing past his lower legs until he was in well above his knees. When he reached the cleft he had to stoop low to pass inside, but thankfully, there was plenty of open space between the water and the stony roof of the underground passage. How long was it? What if the cave roof lowered?

Only his feet, and the quite determination that drove him forward, could give answer. He surged forward, finding the passage ever deeper, until the dark flowing water was chest high, then shoulder high, the rough ceiling very close to his head now. Then came the moment of truth.

He had been walking carefully, with one arm extended overhead to brace himself against the roof. The cool water chilled him, and he could feel his muscles tightening with involuntary shivers. It was so dark that he could barely see anything at all. Then the low ceiling descended abruptly and he came up short, nearly bumping his head against the jagged roof. He could hear the water frothing against the stony lip of the overhang, and he knew there would be no room to breathe if he went further. The only option was to completely submerge himself !

He passed a moment of fear, wondering how long he would have to hold his breath beneath the stream. What if it went on for a hundred feet like this? His fear seemed magnified by the sound of the cool black water as it rushed away. He could not come all this way without at least trying, he knew, so he shored up his will and took several deep breaths. Do you swim? LeGrand had asked him. He would soon find out.

A second later he took the plunge, ducking under the lip of the overhand and pressing forward. Five, then ten seconds passed, and he pushed forward, his hand groping on the rough upper throat of the cave. Fifteen seconds… twenty… He would soon have no choice but to turn about and retreat to catch his breath. He took three more steps, then his ankle wrenched hard on a slippery stone and his feet gave way beneath him. The force of the stream took him, and dragged him on. In a moment of panic he flailed about, disoriented, and desperate to gain some hold, but the water dragged him along the narrow underground channel at a speed he could never have achieved on his own. A moment later he came sputtering to the surface of a wide inner pool, gasping in the air, strangely sweet and warm here.

He thanked any god who would listen to his prayer just then. If he had kept on walking, his breath would have given out long before he could reach this place. It was only the fall, and the force of the stream, that enable him to gain the safe air of this chamber. He wondered if he had just stumbled on a Pushpoint, a silent stone in the bed of the stream that would change all Time from this moment forward.

He was surprised to see the faint glow of light ahead, wavering yellow and orange on the surface of this underground pool. As his eyes adjusted, he could see he was in a great cavern. Here the water was chin high, and he could still bob along on his toes, the soaked robes of his Arabic garb trailing after him as he moved. He made for the light, which now registered as torchlight in his mind. Ahead he saw the smooth dark shape of a barrier, something spanning the far edge of the cavern like an immense wall.

At once he realized that he must be looking at the hidden lock on the stream—the first lock, built to control and moderate the flow of the water beyond this point. He leaned forward and began to swim, making steady, even strokes until he reached the lock. His hand probed and he felt the telltale texture of wet wood. Yes, there was no mistaking this now. He saw that there were several openings in the lock that allowed the stream water to pass through, and kept the chamber from filling completely. It was a carefully regulated flow, but the recollection of the lightning he had seen in the night sky when he arrived made him shiver with the thought of what a torrential flash flood would do if it reached this chamber.

A distant rumble reverberated in the chamber, the hollow sound of thunder emanating through the earth. It seemed to him that the great lion of the sphinx was growling awake. Dawn was coming above the earth, and the beast was waking to greet it.

Kelly studied the lock carefully, wondering how he would get on the other side. He moved to one end, close by the edge of the pool, and ran his hands along the thick wood beams, until he felt something irregular in the face of the barrier. It was a lever of sorts, attached to a trap door! There was a thick coil of woven rope tied about the lever, giving him a good place to make a firm grip. He leaned down on it and. The door gave way with a wet squeak that echoed through the chamber, and it opened inward, moved easily by the rushing water.

Kelly wasted little time slipping through the opening to a much smaller pool on the other side. The chamber then narrowed, lapping up on sandy banks on either side where there were several large wooden beams, possibly leftovers from the construction of the lock itself. At the far end it ascended up a steep embankment where the way was dimly lit, and he felt the urge to get out of this damp, dark place and reach the warmth of the torchlight. Then he remembered that this was his mission—this very place. He stared at the lock, wondering how it operated. What was he to do? Should he merely leave the hatchway open? Would that be enough to cause the flood LeGrand was hoping for?

He spied a line of thick pegs, the thickness of his leg, jutting from the lock at intervals, just a foot above the water. Each one had a coil of rope about it. As he puzzled over them, he noticed that the water was slowly rising from the increased water flow of the open hatchway. The pegs had a purpose, he knew, but what? He waded over, feeling about one of the pegs until he noticed the depression of a seam in the wood below it. He groped about and was soon satisfied that the peg was attached to yet another hatch… a whole series of hatchways built into the lock. Is that what he had to do? Open all these hatches? He tested one, but for all his straining effort, he could not make it budge.

The great bass drum of thunder sounded again, as he thought what to do. Then an idea came to him as he looked at the rough wood beams cast up on the far embankment. He made his way over to them, taking hold of a thick log and dragging it off the embankment into the pool of water. It had an amazing buoyancy for its weight, and bobbed easily on the surface of the water once he had it afloat. Perhaps he could use the thing as a great ram to strike the wooden pegs and force open the hatchways on the lock. Could that be the reason these logs were kept here?

He was getting ready to thrust the log ahead of him as a ram, but paused a moment. Studying the pegs again closely. There was something he was missing. The log could not strike the pegs, for it was still well below them… but that would change as the water continued to rise in this pool in the minutes ahead. It suddenly occurred to him that the hatches might not open like doorways, but rather like windows, sliding upward. He squinted at the overhead ceiling and saw a series of depressions in the stony roof, each aligned with one of the pegs. Yes! The hatches slid upward, he was sure if it now, but how to move them?

The log had something to do with it all, but what? The log… the log… the log! The answer came to him and he quickly repositioned the log until it was parallel to the face of the lock. Now he guided it into place, just below the horizontal line of pegs, taking the rope coiled about the pegs and lashing it to the beam. Could it be this simple, he thought? The water would rise, and the log would rise with it, until it struck the pegs and slowly raised them. The hatches would open, sliding upward, ever so slowly, and more water would be added to the pool, increasing the upward pressure.

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.

29

He was some time getting 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.

The man turned to him, with real warmth in his eyes. “The first time we spoke of the dawn when you questioned me about the sura I quoted at our greeting. I can see you are confused. Do not worry. This place—this time—has but two possible outcomes. Either you succeed in your quest, and this place is destroyed, or you fail, and we live on. You are experiencing a moment of dissonance, that is all. The echoes of each possible outcome join together now to create this moment in your experience. Come… we have so little time together. Will you not walk with me? We will go out and greet the dawn, and perhaps, if you are willing, we might offer a morning prayer of thanks, as all men should do when they are given a moment like this one.”

He started away, gesturing for Kelly to join him, and Kelly felt himself pulled along, as if by an irresistible curiosity.

“Then you knew I was coming… You expected me.”

“Yes, this time, at least. And we have set aside the logs and closed the lock on the hidden stream. Rest assured, your death does not await you within these chambers as you feared. That possibility has been closed…”

“What do you mean?”

“The first possible outcome—that you should succeed and the flood comes upon us here: I have seen it as well. I still recall the image of your face and voice in the hall of records when the waters came, and how we clung to one another when the torrent came upon us. Thankfully Salim was at hand at that very moment.”

“Salim?”

“Yes, one of our messengers. He was here to make his delivery of the fourth age, and set to leave just when you arrived. So it was that he returned with knowledge of all that you would work here. It was all in play, you see, his coming and going at that moment. And so it was meant to be this way all along. The other side strives mightily, but here we are once more, taking this long walk through the heart of the beast, out to greet the dawn. Oh yes, forgive me, I have not told you my name, though I am sure you may already know it.”

Kelly knew the man now.

“You are Hamza,” he said, the word appearing in his mind as he reached for it. “You are the keeper of records, the Scribe, the maker of days that are set in stone.”

“You remember!” Hamza beamed with delight. “I told you my name as we clung to one another before the end—in that other time, the possibility we have ended once and for all.”

They walked through a low arch, and Kelly could discern the gray light of dawn ahead of them. Soon they were up a long flight of rough hewn stones and out of the Sphinx, emerging from a nook near his right hind leg. The cold rain fell upon them, and the wind played with their robes.

“The tempest is upon us,” said Hamza. “This is no place to pray but, if you could see far enough, that is the way to Mecca, or at least the place where Mecca will rise up in ages hence.

Kelly squinted, the rain washing his face, and mixing with tears that welled at the corners of his eyes. They learned of my mission when Salim was sent back on routine courier assignment. He knew it all now, remembered it all, as if the contact with Hamza had shaken the hazy coils of recollection in his brain, and set them in motion. The fog of uncertainty was finally lifted in a golden moment of complete awareness. Salim was pulled out, and informed the other side of these events. Somehow, some way, they were able to run yet another intervention andsend someone back to preserve the integrity of the lock on the stream below. He had little doubt that the logs he had lashed to the flood gate below were set aside by now, as Hamza told him, and the hatchways closed to seal out the flood that was pouring down from the gray heavens above.

And so now, instead of a watery death with Hamza the Scribe, he would survive this moment—though he could not be certain that any other future still remained for him.

He turned to Hamza, tears in his eyes. “How long…?”

Hamza smiled. “We have a little while yet. Your friends will try to call you home soon, though you may not feel the place to be a home in your heart when you return. They will make an error, a very small one of course, but then little things have great consequences—or so we have learned. You will make your return, to a moment when Time may best decide your fate. I will pray for you, my friend. Allah is merciful to all who abandon the errors of unbelief, and hear his words.”

He pointed east, to Mecca, and began to speak, in a low voice that grew ever more certain, and laced with strength and purpose.

“How fixed is the order holding together this material universe above and below us! Yet it must give way before the vast, unfathomed Truth in which man will see his past and future in true perspective. To God he owes his life and all its blessings…”

The voice faded away, and Kelly could feel the strange sense of feathery lightness that accompanied Time shift. He was going home.

30

Kelly awoke from a short nap where he lolled on the table at the college library. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked up at the clock on the wall. Lord! It was half past six already. Vague recollections of a dream fled from him as he stirred awake. He remembered a face, a voice, a prayer, yet none of the words made any sense to him now. He had dozed off, waiting for his computational run to download to his laptop computer, and now it was surely finished.

He got up, walking quickly through the glass doors to the computer lab where he had his laptop docked in a data recovery bay on the Arion system. Sure enough, his download had concluded twenty minutes ago, and he was surprised that no one had come to find him. Time on an Arion system was in high demand these days. He had to come all the way into the city to use this system, as the closer facility at U.C. Berkeley was booked solid for the day. Thankfully, there were still time blocks open here, probably because of the Memorial Day weekend, he thought.

He rubbed his palms together, as much for warmth as in anticipation of the data he now had secure in his laptop. The solutions to his convoluted algorithms were well in hand, now he just had to get to his Subaru and brave the Bay Area traffic to make the meeting at Nordhausen’s study by eight. He had to get out of the city, on a rush hour Friday night, over the Bay Bridge and up to Berkeley, and all in this maddening late spring rain.

As he carefully packed his laptop into its carrying case, an ominous rumble of thunder confirmed his worst fears. The freeways were going to be a nightmare. In spite of his nap, he was still tired, and hungry, but there was no time for a meal now. It would take him all of ninety minutes or more to get to Berkeley under these driving conditions.

He zipped up his satchel case and rushed out of the lab, heading for the staircase that would take him down to the lower floor. When he reached the upper landing he had the strange feeling that he had forgotten something. He paused suddenly, nearly tripping up a young female student, who smiled and maneuvered around him.

Something was wrong. He could feel it. Something was out of place… He entertained the notion for a brief moment, and then started down the library stairs, dismissing the thought as nonsense.

Over five thousand miles and eight hours to the east something was wrong. Three men were walking down a long tunnel at the back of a hillside, dug into the side of the island mountain. Outside, the quiet stars shone in the sky, and the tiny village below them lay sleeping as the hour struck half past two in the morning. It would be the last hours of peace for this island, the home to one of the three men for long generations.

Palma, in the Canary Islands, was once a secret getaway and waystation for the old Arabic traders, and Ra’id’s family had purchased land there, a small farm and hillside villa, ages ago. Over the centuries it had been passed on, from one generation to the next, and now served as a convenient vacation retreat and lodge of prayer in the trying times of the year 2010.

For Ra’id and his two associates, this was truly a moment of destiny. For years now, ever since the Americans had come to the Holy Lands again, thirsty for oil, he had planned and plotted with his brothers for the revenge he knew he must surely have one day. He was a simple man, grandson of a wealthy merchant who gained prominence during the first days of the Arab rebellion in the Hejaz. How strange, he thought, that a Westerner should be the spark that ignited the rebellion worked by Feisal and the others, his grandfather among them. First it was to throw off the oppression of the Turks, who had dared set foot in Arabia at the behest of the German Kaiser in WWI. The Arabs joined with a small British officer, el Aurens or Lawrence by name, and fought to drive the Turks from their ancestral lands. It was Lawrence who made the first promise to them, all those years ago, that they would have freedom if they would but join the British cause in the war. Now it was another who brought promises of freedom to the Holy Lands, and the price grew ever higher.

Ra’id, and his brothers, determined what they must do. It came to him in the flush of a night vision, as though Allah himself had opened his eyes. He saw, in his dream, the family villa, crowned by a searing fire. The earth shook around him and he knew that the mountain, sleeping quietly since the second great war, was coming alive again, and belching its red wrath out into the dark waters of the sea.

The island of Palma was largely formed by a great volcanic seamount called Cumbre Vieja. Each time it erupted, the unstable flank of the island shifted ominously towards the possibility of total collapse. There was evidence, just off the western shore, of at least twelve such events in the geological history of the island. Now, as the years passed, long tubes, once filled with lava, were saturated with rainwater, and each time the island erupted the water would superheat, expanding with great explosive force—enough force to shake loose the entire western flank of the mountain where Ra’id’s villa now sat in the quiet spring morning.

When this happened the resulting landslide would cause an immense tsunami to surge westward, crossing the whole of the Atlantic in just eight hours. When Ra’id saw the devastation that even a small tsunami could cause after the Indonesian Banda Ache earthquake of December 2004, he knew that he had found the perfect weapon of justice, a mighty sword that he could bring upon the enemies of Islam. It was then that he changed his name to Husan al Din, the sword of the faith, and bent himself to the plan that he hoped would bear fruit this very night.

With him in the tunnel were Nassim, the Wind, and his younger brother. It had taken them many years to acquire the means, and many long hours digging the tunnel they were now leaving. It burrowed into the heart of the mountain itself, allowing them to carry the long sought after device, the abomination made in the West, to its resting place in the heart of the mountain. Nassim had set the timer, and now all was set in motion.

They reached the end of the tunnel and went up the narrow staircase that led to the villa. There would be time enough to clean themselves, and to pray, before the chartered helo would arrive to take them from the island. Ra’id would stay, and endure the fire in holy sacrifice, but his companions convinced him that he should live on to fight again, should anything go wrong.

He stepped out onto the veranda, feeling the cool ocean breeze on his face and looking down at the herd of puffy white clouds that seemed to circle the island, dappled with moonlight. The night blue waters of the sea were calm now, but soon, he knew, they would rise up in a torrent of retribution. His only regret was that this, his sanctuary for so many years, would be vaporized as the sword fell upon his enemies, the island itself devastated, and many friends, companions of long years, lost. Yet there was nothing to be done now. The night was upon them, the time was at hand. Even the mountain itself seemed to stir awake, as if it sensed the impending catastrophe that was now only minutes away.

Soon he heard the distant thrum of the helo, flying high up, but descending rapidly as was planned.

“Come Nassim,” he called. “It is time…”

Things have a way of reaching their perfect end, he thought. Did the Americans think they could rape our lands, plunder our wealth, occupy the soil of Islam without consequence? Bush the elder had been brazen, his son even moreso, and foolish. Now the West would pay for their misdeeds. It had taken him many years of waiting and prayer to accomplish his task. But as the Arabs were fond of saying, ‘A’athreh ib dafra,’ with a stumble and a kick, he would achieve his great aim at last. A night of fire, a night of wind and water and earth, all conspiring together to work the retribution, ere the sun rises. It was not his doing, of course, but the will of Allah that he worked with this moment. He was already composing the words of the announcement that he would make to the shocked world when the true magnitude of his plan would finally become apparent.

‘…We are patient, forgiving. We are seekers only of peace, but as Allah chooses, then the command is given for the seas to rise and pound the shore. We are but an instrument, to that power. As the oceans are made up of an uncountable number of individual drops of serene waters, when Allah commands, those drops come together to form the most powerful force on earth, the ocean of Believers, who’s waves of faith become the hammer upon which justice is delivered to all followers of Satan.’

When the fifteen kiloton nuclear device they had buried in Cumbre Vieja exploded just over an hour later, that certainty became a reality. The mountain, rudely jarred by the abomination in its gut, exploded with a fury that was unsurpassed. And just as Steven Ward, Simon Day and a handful of other Western scientists had warned for so many years, the unstable flank gave way, sending well over 500 cubic kilometers of rock into the sea in a mad surging avalanche. The resulting wave set was enormous, and it fanned out from the island, rolling west in dark swells of ocean at the speed of some 600 km per hour. In just under three hours it had swamped the Azores. Three more would find its angry waves upon the shore of Newfoundland. After that, the entire Eastern Seaboard of the United States would be engulfed by the sea. It would be four a.m. in the Canary Islands when the mountain would explode, midnight for the Americans, four hours behind. They would not hear of the disaster for over an hour, those that remained awake, but soon the sirens would blare out a warning. The 24 hour news stations would ignite the fire of panic as the orders to evacuate the entirety of the eastern coast of the United States were finally given an hour later. That would leave only five hours, perhaps six, to try and move over a hundred million people to the safety of some inland refuge. Most, sleeping in the dark of the night, would never even hear the warning, in spite of the rising commotion.

It was just by chance that Kelly heard it that evening, as he peered through the squeaking windshield wipers of his midnight blue Subaru. He had just finished listening to a custom CD collection of Frank Zappa guitar solos, and when the disk popped out the he caught a snatch of the news that was rapidly becoming the story of the decade all across America that night. He caught the word tsunami, adjusted the volume, and tuned in the station to hear better.

A few moments later he was utterly aghast at what was happening, and the odd sensation that something was terribly amiss seized him. He had been musing over the numbers in his laptop, and wondering if all the calculations he had run for tomorrow’s mission were in order. They had planned to see a Shakespeare play, the Tempest, but now, it was clearly all around them, rising in headlong degrees with each passing moment. As the realization of the catastrophe settled over him, he vocalized his first reaction. “Damn… looks like we aren’t going to see the play tomorrow. How could we? We’ve got to do something about this—do something to prevent it!” But he could not think of anything they could achieve, even with the power of Time travel at their disposal, if the project worked at all.

Up in the quiet of the Berkeley Hills, just above the university, the Arch was already spinning to life, watched by a few interns as they ramped up the power to a low standby mode. Jen was there, and Tom. The others were waiting for him at Nordhausen’s study in the Berkeley suburbs, Maeve, Paul and Robert.

Paul would think of something, he hoped, as he finally sped through the Tunnel and reached the off ramp he always took when he came this way. He needed more music, and reached for that CD he had made with the favorite songs of a group he had discovered some years ago, a band called Porcupine Tree. The ethereal strains of the music surrounded him now— “Never stop the car on a drive in the dark.” That sounded like good advice in a storm like this, he thought. “Never trust the sound of rain upon a river rushing through your ears…” Somehow the words jogged a distant memory, but he could not grasp it.

The hunger in his stomach had grown to become unbearable, so, in spite of the rain and lateness of the hour, he simply had to stop and pick up something to eat. There was a 7-11 near the off ramp and, as he started to accelerate again, a strange thought came to him that there was someone on the road ahead, the barest flutter in his awareness. He moved to cover the brake but saw the way was clear, so he drove on. An odd sensation of déjà vu came upon him, woven amid the guitars of the band. The lyric seemed to mock him: “Ever had the feeling you’ve been here before?”

He had a sudden flush of adrenaline, an anxious sensation that he could not account for. It made him strangely light headed, keenly aware of his surroundings, and alive in a way that was exhilarating. He had the odd feeling that he was supposed to do something, but could not think of what it was.

The Subaru rolled into the parking lot of the 7-11 and came to a halt. He was very late but, with any luck, he would get to Nordhausen’s study by 9:30 p.m. He sat for a moment, trying to collect himself and dispel the strange notion that he had just missed something, or forgotten something of the greatest importance, though he could not think of what it was. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone to call the others, but came up empty.

“Great. Now where is my cell phone?” Then he remembered the phone booth just outside the 7-11, and he opened the car door as the driving guitars of the music ended, slipping out in the interval of quiet between tracks. Just then, a car came skidding around the corner, careening wildly out of control on the rain slick pavement. He saw it coming, yet was frozen, unable to move, riveted to this place and time by some power that he could not impede in any way. The car struck him a hard blow, knocking him against a metal road sign where he hit his forehead as he fell.

He was stunned, but reached up, by reflex, and felt the trickle of blood on his forehead. A feeling of exhilaration returned again, with strange whispers in his head. What were they saying?

“…the future depends on Right and Justice… The Day must come when Discord must finally cease, and the Peace of God and his command are all in all… For truly, God’s will flows freely, like these rains fall down upon us now from a darkened sky. We have but to tune our will to His—the ever-living Righteous God… But Oh, for the joy of being found worthy to bear the torch and to say to our brethren: ‘I too was in darkness, comfortless, and behold, I have found comfort and Joy in the Grace Divine.’”

Why those words came to him just then, he could not fathom, only that he knew them, and he had heard them spoken to him somewhere, long ago.

A sudden moment of clarity came to him, and now he knew this place, this time, to a fullness. He had been here before! The first time, a man had stepped from the shadows and rain, and he remembered how he had slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting him. That moment’s delay, that bare whisper in eternity, had changed things. But now they were set back again—back on the Meridian he was born to, and this was the moment he had been spared before, a time that was to be his last.

Palma had happened, he knew. The mountain collapsed into the sea, just as the light in his head now seemed to collapse to a fine point where he lay on the hard cold pavement. For the briefest moment he wondered what would happen to the world now—the world he tried to carry on his shoulders, though he stumbled, and fell.

He cold not think about that… no time for that now… No time for any of it: that first mission to the Hejaz, Nordhausen and his antics in the Arch, Paul’s lost venture in the Well of Souls, the King of Diamonds, and Maeve, dear Maeve. There was no time left now at all. These images of future days he would now never live seemed to emerge like fireflies in his mind, and then die.

Strangely, he smiled, rolling to his side so his face turned upward into the rain. He felt the cold water on his forehead, and knew that nothing had been changed. The world was restored, without his life traded for a future that was never meant to be.

Music was playing now, a solemn piano as the next song began on his CD player in the Subaru. The sound was fading… fading… “Collapse the light into earth…. Collapse the light….” It gave him great comfort as he held the meaning of the words in his heart—here at the beginning, and the end, of all that he ever knew.