The Atlantis Plague (The Origin Mystery, #2)(74)

CHAPTER 65


From Tibet to Tel Aviv


Milo unslung the heavy pack and walked to the edge of the rock ledge. The untouched green plateau in western Tibet stretched to the horizon, where another mountain ridge met the setting sun. The serene, picturesque landscape reminded him of the monastery. His mind instantly flashed to his last moments in that place, the only home he’d ever known. He had stood at the top of another rock ledge, looking down, watching the wooden buildings burn, crumble, and tumble down the mountain, leaving only a burnt, blackened rock face.

Milo pushed the scene from his mind. He refused to think about it. Qian’s words echoed to him: “A mind that dwells in the past builds a prison it cannot escape. Control your mind, or it will control you, and you will never break through the walls it builds.”

Milo cleared his mind and turned back to the pack. He would make camp here, then leave at first light as he had done each day before. He took out the tent, then the animal traps and the map, which he consulted every night. He thought he had to be somewhere near the Kashmir region of northern India or Pakistan, or possibly somewhere in eastern Afghanistan, but truth be told, he had no idea where he was, and he hadn’t seen a single soul, no one to offer any clues. Qian had been right about that: “You will walk a long and lonely road. But you will have all that you need.”

At each of Milo’s questions, Qian had issued a quick retort. Food? “The beasts of the forests will be your only companions, and they will sustain you.” Milo moved into the forest as he had each night before, and began rigging the traps. Along the way, he ate nuts and berries. He never brought them back to his camp. As he hiked throughout the day, he usually consumed enough to maintain his energy levels until his protein-rich breakfast of animal meat the next morning.

When the traps were set, he erected his tent and laid out his mat. He sat and focused on his breathing, seeking the stillness within. Gradually it came, and the memories and musings of his mind melted away. He was vaguely aware of the sun slipping behind the far ridge, pulling a curtain of darkness down the mountain.

In the distance, he heard the snap of one of the traps he had laid. There would be breakfast tomorrow, that much was certain.

Milo retired to the tent, where the last two items Qian had given him lay waiting in the corner. Both were books. The first was entitled Anthems of the Dying, but to Milo’s surprise, there were no songs inside, only three simplistic stories.

The first story was about a father who sacrificed himself to save his daughter. The second was about a man and woman who traveled across a vast wasteland to find the treasure their ancestor had left them, which was their only hope to cure their dying people. The last part told the story of a humble man who slew a giant and became a king, but renounced his power, giving it back to the people.

Qian had pointed to the book. “This book is a guide to our future.”

Milo had hesitated. “How can the future be written?”

“It is written in our blood, Milo. The war is always the same, only the names and places change. There are demons upon this earth. They live in our hearts and minds. This is a history of our struggle, a chronicle of the past war that will be repeated. The past and our nature predict our future. Read it. Learn it well.”

“Will there be a test?”

“Be serious, Milo. Life is a test we take every day. You must focus. You must be there for them when they need you.”

“Who?”

“You will meet them soon enough. They will arrive here and they will need our help, now, and even more in the future. You must be prepared.”

Milo considered this for a moment. Somehow, it excited him. He felt filled with purpose. “What must I do?”

“A great dragon pursues them. Their respite will be brief. The dragon will find them and breathe fire down upon us. You must build a chariot for the sky to carry them away. They must survive.”

“Wait, there’s a dragon? It’s coming here?!”

Qian shook his head. “Milo, it is a metaphor. I don’t know what will come, but we must be ready. And you must prepare for the journey after that.”

He wanted to ask about the dragon again, but he resisted. Instead, he asked, “Why me?”

“It must be you. The rest of us are too old to make the journey.”

“I’ve been telling you that for years,” Milo said playfully.

Qian rubbed his forehead, and suddenly looked older than his ninety-four years, like a fragile papier-maché person who could disintegrate at any moment.

Milo had spent the following weeks building a basket—for the chariot that would carry these people away from the dragon. He had thought it was all a diversion—something Qian had made up to keep him from pestering the older monks. But then they had come—Dr. Kate and Mr. David—just as Qian had said. Mr. David was just as Milo had seen him before: at death’s door. But Dr. Kate had healed him.

Qian’s other prediction had come true as well. The dragon had come, flying through the air and breathing fire, and Dr. Kate and Mr. David had barely escaped. Milo was again at the top of the mountain, staring up at the basket he had built. It hung from a massive balloon, one of many floating toward the horizon, away from the burning monastery below him. They had known—the older monks. They had taken only one younger monk. Milo. They had not run from their fate. “It is written,” Qian had said. But who wrote it?