NINE
Twenty-five miles inland, on the wind-swept plains of Patagonia, the Supreme Leader of el Elegidos, the Chosen, was elated by the discovery of two new marble tablets.
At last.
He'd been staring at the photographs of all three gold tablets on his giant computer monitor for hours. The thrill of looking at them was profound. The one taken of the La tavoletta d'oro Merrezo was sharp and clear. Indecipherable, but the image was good. The other two pictures were not professionally staged, rather, photographed with a smartphone. The second so blurred that it could be any flat, gold object. Still, it was clear they were uncannily similar.
Stroking a finger across the cold glass, his heart actually leapt with elation. Now he'd have proof of the teachings of his forebears, and details of the work still to be done.
No coincidence that they'd been found mere weeks before the world as everyone knew it, ended, and the new world order began.
He would lead the Chosen. His position was ensured, passed down through the generations.
He knew the date his official rein would commence.
But what else did the tablet or tablets spell out?
What details had they kept hidden until now?
The Abipón language was ancient. Extinct. He knew but a handful of the obsolete words of his people. But not enough to read the Merrezo tablet which he, his father and his grandfather before him, had visited many times in the hope of learning something new. Those visits always proved fucking useless. He'd stopped going ten years ago. Waste of money and time.
It had become increasingly more difficult to retain his eleven thousand followers’ attention over the years. It was hard, if not impossible to get them to maintain fervor for el Elegidos' promise, and keep the prophecy in the forefront of their minds. Sheep farming could no longer hold them to the land, and they were moving to big cities, with modern, big city ideas.
A five hundred-year-old prediction, by a child, with almost no proof, couldn't compete with sophisticated education, and access to the information highway. He knew he could only bullshit them with a scrap of paper and a promise for so long.
Even though he had not as yet seen them, he knew unequivocally that the discovery of the tablets, and where they'd been found, was the sign he'd waited for his entire life.
In the 1400's, a young boy was declared the village seer due to the accuracy of his visions. The specific content of those predictions and the identity of the child had long since been forgotten. The little they did know had been translated and interpreted multiple times over the next five hundred years, the true meanings of the seer’s visions eventually lost. But, even based on so little, the belief and unshaken certainty of the seer's predictions had always, without exception, been believed by the followers of the Chosen.
Still, he, as Supreme Leader, had very little in the way of tangible proof to hold his people. A few scraps of worn parchment, the words, passed down from Leader to Leader. . . But now he'd have the tablets. And fuck it, if he couldn't read much more than a handful of words on them, he'd pretend to his people that he could. The Chosen sure as shit hadn't attempted to learn the ancient language as he had. Much good that had done him, but still- he'd made the effort.
His father had assured him, that when the time was right, all would be revealed. All would be clarified. The time was at hand.
The consequences, should these tablets not deliver as promised, was him being unseated, his legacy and leadership forgotten just like their language.
He was closer to learning the truth today than he'd been a week ago. Than any of his people had been for five fucking hundred years.
Things were looking up.
With a satisfied smile, he leaned back against the butter-soft leather of his chair. In his esteemed opinion, massive furniture, and a display of his wealth, showed his followers his power and importance. He inhaled deeply, relishing the familiar scents of his power; dusty paper, fine Cuban cigars, and the acrid smell of fear he instilled in his followers. The darkly paneled room was wrapped with ceiling-to-floor shelves filled with ancient manuscripts and old tomes.
He’d read almost every scrap of paper in the room, finding nothing of importance. All he had of any relevance to el Elegidos was a fragment of an ancient document. The worn, fragile piece of torn parchment had been given to him with great ceremony by his father on his deathbed, thirty years earlier.
Unlocking the top desk drawer, he opened a velvet-lined leather folder and lay it on the desk. The ancient parchment- this most holy of holy relics, was torn, worn thin, and stained. The rest of the prophecy he knew by faith alone.
Over hundreds of years, the writing was now faint, in most cases illegible. Worn away by hundreds of hands over time.
Heart pounding, he let his eyes scan down, hoping something would miraculously become clearer now that the time was so close at hand. The date of the End was unmarred and as clear as if it had been written that very morning. Ten days from now.
It seemed not only fortuitous, but divine providence, that the two tablets had been found now.
He scanned the words on the parchment, even though he knew them by heart.
The words High Altar and Holy Lake were slightly less faded than other words, not only recognizable, but quite legible.
His first name, the same as that of all his male ancestors, was as clear as day. Nkaatek, the Abipón word for fire, in the middle of a long, too-faint-to-read sentence had never made any sense. Possibly the means by which everyone would perish? "Warrior" was mentioned several times. Sometimes the two words were together, other times, not. Aaloa, meant Earth. “Star” could be anything. Possibly the date or time on which the seer had written the document.
Star could mean Gallagher's ship, Blackstar, but that was too much of a coincidence and stretched his credibility. Coincidence, that was all.
The words that put a chill in his heart were el Ehnos. The Protectors had not been seen, nor heard of, in hundreds of years. It was only on the rare occasions that he read their name, here on this parchment, did he think of them. If, as he knew, they'd died out hundreds of years ago, why was their name so prominently, and unmistakably written on this holy item?
Would the Protectors show up to thwart his plans?
They'd better the fuck not. He had a skilled army of true believers at his disposal. Five hundred strong, they'd been trained from childhood for this very moment. Should the Protectors still have any members, they would be annihilated, as would anyone who stood in the way of his divine path.
As stated in the prophecy, only eleven thousand Chosen would remain to populate the earth. Why were the Protectors mentioned, and what, if anything, would be their roll in the end of days?
Who were they? Where were they?
Was eliminating them part of the prophecy?
Frustrated that he couldn’t read more, he looked forward to getting his hands on the two new tablets and was hopeful they'd aid in interpreting the mystery. He closed the leather folder and returned it to the drawer. Locked it, then sat back in his chair to wait.
Heavy, burgundy velvet drapes hung open at tall, leaded glass windows. Stark white moonlight washed across barren, open fields of scrub grass and hardy shrubs. The house had been built around an ancient temple that was on holy ground in the middle of fucking nowhere. Not a house, not a human for miles. He was surrounded by sheep.
With a deep sense of destiny pulsing through his veins he was ready, more than ready, for his next, even more exalted position; el líder supremo del mundo. Supreme leader of the World.
“Adelante,” he called at a soft rap on the ornately carved door to his private inner sanctum.
Like a timid mouse, his second in command peeked around the door. Thin graying hair stood up on the side of his head. A deep crease on his cheek indicated he’d rushed from his bed. “You wanted to see me, su excelencia?”
“Come in. Come in.” He gestured impatiently for the other man to get his ass inside. “Do not hover, Jose Luis. Close the door. I have momentous news, the reason I summoned you in the middle of the night.”
The late hour was unnecessary. He’d gotten word at noon about the first tablet. Mid-afternoon about the second. He just liked to fuck with his acolyte.
He’d positioned spies on each of the six ships anchored off the coast at the onset of the salvage. It was Divine Providence that he’d already had so many in place when the two tablets had been brought to the surface. He’d received the unexpected and astonishing news about them almost immediately.
If Jose Luis hadn’t been specifically mentioned in the ancient document, he would have executed him years earlier. The man was a continuous pain, with his timorous approach to everything. He was tired of having the apprehensive man scuffling about.
Ah well, time enough to find a suitable replacement once he was el Lídder Supremo del munfo. He only had to suffer Jose Luis long enough to sacrifice him.
He waited with barely contained excitement for the man to approach and stand before his enormous, heavily carved antique mahogany desk. Jose Luis shuffled forward, but stopped near the center of the room.
The fear in the old man’s eyes was palpable. And Jose Luis had reason to be afraid. As Supreme Leader, it fell to him to dole out punishment when necessary and with Jose Luis, it was frequently necessary.
Penance was an important part of life in the sect. Violence was the Supreme Leader's punishment method of choice.
"Two sacred tablets have been discovered on the salvage." His voice, sharp with excitement, rose. “They match La tavoletta d'oro Merrezo. A call twenty minutes ago gave me even more profound news. The Merrezo tablet will be on its way to Argentina within days."
He’d always known the date and time of the End. Ten days from today. That information had not varied over five hundred years. What was not known, but merely speculated was the method that the World, as everyone knew it, would dramatically change.
The Chosen would rule the world.
He would rule the Chosen.
"This is. . .astonishing news,” his second in command whispered with awe as he stood before him, head bowed in deference. “Is it possible they contain the translation for the Merrezo tablet, su excelencia?” Jose Luis, a short, wiry man in his mid-seventies, looked up at him with anxious black eyes and a worried frown.
He didn’t need fucking confirmation, and he resented a subordinate questioning him. “You doubt my conviction?’ he asked in a cold, monotone that warned the other man that he was growing impatient with his negativity. “Our person on board Case’s ship, Tesoro Mio, confirmed the first finding. As did our spy on board Blackstar. The main players have sent for La tavoletta d'oro Merrezo. It is expected to be delivered to Gallagher in a few days. Without a doubt, the joining of three tablets will have great significance. We retrieve the tablets from Gallagher, and we’ll need to eliminate anyone and everyone who gets in our way. I don’t want any loose ends.”
Should I recall our army?"
Jesus, what a fucking moron. "You need ask?" His men were scattered to the fucking four corners of the Earth, continually honing their skills for what was to come. Not letting their training go to waste while they waited to be called, they were for hire to anyone who could afford a soldier with zero scruples and the best training Russia could provide. "Tell them to return home immediately. I expect them to be here by the end of the week. No exceptions."
"Sí, Excellency. It shall be done."
“We will, of course, intercept the tablet from Italy. And take possession of the other two before it even arrives. If anyone gets in our way, they’ll be exterminated. A few weeks early won’t make any difference in their lives, now will, it?” He chuckled, pleased with his gallows humor.
Unamused, Jose Luis shifted from foot to foot. “I suppose not, su excelencia. Even I have come to believe that the story of such, to be. . . honest-” He wrung thin, veined hands. “To be completely honest, Excellency, I oft wondered if additional tablets might be a myth.”
"Even you, Jose Luis?" he challenged, his anger rising. "Five hundred years, thousands of believers, and you suddenly have doubt? You are vaulted in our Order, yet you question the message the seer foretold five hundred years ago?”
“No, Excellency. Of course not.” He squinted his small black eyes, his face pinched with distress. “I believe in the Prophecy. It has ruled my life, just as it has yours, from birth. That has never been in question. My skepticism is about the written word of our directive - that is all. Now, knowing the writings have been found-"
“This manifestation of our teachings is the equivalent of the Rosetta Stone, that is all. The additional stones will merely be a clarification of our directive.”
“One of the tablets will surely inform us of the locations of the High Altar and the Holy Lake, su excelencia,” the acolyte's voice rose, and his eyes shone with wonder. “Sí, that would be most- “
“Naturally the maps will be on the tablets, imbécil!” Or so he fervently hoped.
This massive house had been built on the land where the prophet's village had once stood. For hundreds of years, every inch of the land for miles around had been searched for the two holy locations. Nothing had been found.
For years, he’d sent acolytes to every far-flung corner of Argentina in search of anything that could, even loosely, be construed as a High Altar or a Holy Lake. Each had been rejected for various valid reasons.
Although he’d had great hope, all searches had been to no avail.
It didn’t concern him that the Merrezo tablet had been indecipherable. There were only a few recognizable words there that were important. His name and el Elegidos.
“The directives we have followed for hundreds of years have not changed,” he told the other man. “We are, have always been, el Elegidos. It is time the world discovered who the Chosen are, and the nature of our Divine purpose.”
"Once we have the tablets in our possession,” Jose Luis, spoke annoyingly softly. “Once we have them, and can see the writings with our own eyes- The exact words of the Prophet -"
“Jesus Christ!” Eyeballs throbbing from the pressure of his intense annoyance, he maintained his temper by a mere thread, only because he was in a good mood and didn't want to ruin what was a momentous day. He pictured shooting Jose Luis in the head. A close-up and personal shot between his beady little eyes. Or a hard blow to the back of the old man's head so it cracked like an egg. “We have no need of writings to instruct us what we must do," he said tightly. Killing Jose Luis was a daily fantasy, and one he'd fulfill once the man’s usefulness was over. Hopefully, the tablets would tell him exactly how and when that would come to pass.
"We’ve always known. Do not falter, Jose Luis. A lifetime of worship, a lifetime of planning, is about to come to fruition.”
Perhaps the writings of the Prophet indicated how all but eleven thousand people would die? Because he knew that to be true. It was preordained in the teachings. Did the how of it really matter? It was the result that was important.
He’d feared he would not live long enough to claim his destiny. He had no sons. No nephews. No blood relatives who bore his name. Yet. There was no assurance that his chosen mate would be fertile. God. Did he dare have personal doubts now? Of course, the seer wouldn't have foretold his lifemate if the woman couldn't bare him many strong sons.
He knew his future, but as the date of the apocalypse drew closer he’d become less sure. The prophecy was five hundred years old. Some of the Chosen worried that the verbal message could possibly have become diluted with the decades, like a game of telephone. One generation misinterpreting the words for the next.
No. As far as he was concerned, there was no room for interpretation. The details may have faded or become obscured over time, but the date had never changed. This specific date, this specific year. The world’s population would perish. All but eleven thousand souls. The Chosen. They would rebuild the population. The world would once again become Paradise.
“I do not need proof of our purpose,” he told his subordinate, who had been mentioned in the prophecy as a ‘messenger’. Jose Luis’ only purpose was to alert their followers when the time was right and bring together the eleven thousand people of el Elegidos.
“We will retrieve all three tablets and study them at length. Time may have diluted the message, but not our purpose or resolution. We will learn exactly what must be done now- in our time- to fulfill the rest of the prophecy for eternity.” Pausing, he savored the next words as if they were manna from Heaven and he could taste their sweetness on his tongue. “And, as prophesied, my even more exalted role in the future of the world.”
When Jose Luis didn’t immediately respond, he said sharply, “What is it? Why do you scowl so?”
“Do you not fear the intervention of el Ehnos should they also discover that the tablets have been found?”
“The Protectors?” A vein throbbed in his neck. “Who are they?” He was at the end of his patience with the old man. “Where are they? Have you seen or heard anything about such a sect for the last hundred years? Two hundred years?” Anger made his voice deadly soft. Enough so that the other man tensed his narrow shoulders, and looked at him as a mongoose watched a snake.
“Has there been any indication anywhere that such a group even exists?” He answered his own question. “No.”
With nothing to say, his subordinate just stood there, small and meek, sweating, like a frightened rat.
As usual, all answers were up to the Supreme Leader. Which was why he’d been so since birth. “Because they. Do. Not. Exist. Do not be naïve, Jose Luis. They were at one time fabricated by the first Chosen as a cautionary tale for those who strayed from the path of el Elegidos. Now we know our task. Retrieve all three tablets. Kill anyone who stands in the way. The clock is ticking. We have ten days to fulfill our destiny.”
His heart thundered with anticipation. The time, so long ago foretold by the seer, was at hand. All would be explained, all would be clarified.
His position was preordained, written in the stars.
He would not waver in his task.