THE LAST ARK

CHAPTER 16: AXUM ATROCITIES

Axum, Tigray Region, Ethiopia Four Days Before Temple Ceremony

A scorching 108-degree temperature assails Nelson as he steps off the GII jet, grateful that the pilot, Zoey, insisted he change out of his suit. While a khaki outfi t would not be his normal attire, the ensemble fi lls him with a liberating spirit reminiscent of the legendary British explorers of the nineteenth century. Perhaps getting out of the lab will do him some good aft er all, refreshing his perspectives. Taylor left him with minimal instructions for this ridiculously dangerous expedition merely to get an unnecessary scan of an obscure religious relic. T h ere can be no fathomable connection between this place and the SLVIA code. While Taylor may have sprung him from a CIA interrogation tank, which obligates Nelson to a certain level of loyalty, he’s not a genuine partner to SNO or their unauthorized cyber vigilante activities. At least Taylor didn’t deny knowledge of his father and promised to discuss the matter. “OK, Dr. Garrett, here’s your survival kit. Don’t go anywhere without it. I’m serious, not even to take a piss, eh,” advises Zoey Mclaughlin, the glib GII pilot and former Canadian Air Force captain. A husky woman with bright brown eyes and a quirky sense of humor. “Taylor had me pack some of his priciest toys. Remember, you’re just here to see a site, grab a scan, and hit the road. I’ll see you tonight in Eritrea.” “Aren’t you staying?” Nelson misunderstood the exit plan. Zoey snorts. “You kidding? Way too dangerous, eh. Stick with your guide, you’ll be fine,” she says, turning to meet the fuel attendant. T he expensive backpack of tech toys is worth a man’s life in a country like Ethiopia. A tablet with a Wi-Fi hub, a specialized 3D scanner, a foldable mini drone, envelopes of extra cash, a satellite boost for WITNESS glasses, a halogen f lashlight, plus a few other devices. Nelson has suddenly become a walking mugging target. His momentary euphoria crumbles into penetrating angst. Customs clears him with a false NGO identification, and one of the cash envelopes to discourage a search in the bag of goodies. Nelson plays Randolph Hedges, a representative from a private Canadian charity, on a mission to research the humanitarian crisis. Officially, his mission is to see the dire situation in the Tigray region for possible humanitarian funding. Unofficially, he’s there to visit St Mary’s of Zion; the church believed for over five hundred years to house the Ark of the Covenant. Taylor sent a trusted contact to meet him at the airport. A young man, wearing faded jeans and a bright green and white polo shirt, holds up a sign reading HEDGES. The bone-thin lad smiles a bright, cheery countenance without a mask. While fully vaccinated, Nelson still wears a mask, worried that lethal COVID variant strains from Africa continue to find their way into Europe and America. Another careless oversight by Taylor. “Mr. Hedges, so glad you come. Mr. Taylor says many good things about you,” says the young man with an enormous grin. “Thank you, and what is your name, sir?” Nelson asks. “Salem; it means peace,” the lad replies with a wide smile-a tragic irony given the war-torn state of his country. “Thank you, Salem. I’d like to start by seeing St. Mary’s, if you don’t mind.” In 2021, Ethiopian Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, winner of the 2019 Nobel Peace Prize, sent troops into the northern Tigray region. Ahmed blamed the Tigray People’s Liberation Front for attacks on army camps, an accusation never confirmed by international observers. On January 19, 2021, Ethiopian troops and Amhara militia entered the city of Axum, marching toward the Church of St. Mary of Zion. More than a thousand local Christians ran to the church to protect the ark. The militia ultimately dragged 750 men, women, and children into the courtyard for execution. T he lad’s eyes cast down, and his bright smile vanishes. “Many of my friends and family died that day, Mr. Hedges. I wake up most nights in terrors.” Nelson’s heart softens, flooded with a sudden sense of empathy. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Salem. Truly. I didn’t know.” Salem nods his head in silence, his eyes distant, remembering. “First, tell me your understanding of how the ark came to Axum.” Nelson changes the subject away from the grim event. Salem’s smile immediately returns as they enter a beat-up Ford pickup, which appears to be a luxury. They drive slowly through streets sparsely mixed with pedestrians, army jeeps, empty produce carts, and a few goat herders. Hundreds of thousands have fled north to Eritrea or filled up mass graves. Nelson drives through the living corpse of a once vibrant culture. His eyes behold the unfiltered aftermath of war for the first time. “Our legend teaches that during the reign of Jewish King Manasseh, the son of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, a man named Menelik brought the ark out of Israel. Accompanied by over five hundred temple priests, Menelik took the ark to Elephantine Island on the Nile River and built a Jewish temple. Many papyri discovered in 1893, known as the Elephantine Papyri, speak of the temple. After an attack by the Romans, the ark came to Ethiopia in the second century,” Salem summarizes. “Even the Jews of Ethiopia agree the ark came here to rest.” “I’m impressed that you know your history so well,” Nelson encourages. “Tell me more.” The information may shed light on why Taylor seems suddenly enamored with this obscure relic. 7 “The ark stayed within Jewish synagogues until the Templars came in the tenth century and moved the ark into hand-cut rock churches such as Lalibela. During the sixteenth century, they brought the ark to the Church of Maryam Tsion, or St. Mary of Zion. Since then, the ark has rested on church grounds in the Chapel of the Tablets. Only the Bishop and the Guardian may see the ark, for it holds the presence of God.” Salem whispers a prayer. Hearing about the Templars strikes a dissonant chord that tightens Nelson’s chest. Origins of his family lands in Narin trace back to a grant from Edward II in a 1309 letter to Pope Clement V, where the king defended the Templars. Connected to William Sinclair by marriage, the Garretts were among the earliest Scottish Rite Freemasons in London. Taylor shares an obsession with the Templar lore, although for reasons he mysteriously refuses to admit. This entire trip may be part of Taylor’s Templar obsession, having little genuine value in the search for SLVIA. “The Guardian,” Nelson pauses, remembering that was the man Taylor wanted him to meet. “Did he survive the m******e?” Salem’s face falls in sadness as he shakes his head. “How did you survive?” Nelson asks. “We hid in tunnels beneath the church,” the young man explains. “I was preparing with my family to face the Lord when they stopped dragging us out.” “Do you know what happened to the ark?” Nelson asks as they approach the now empty church grounds. “People say they took the ark to Addis Ababa, but none of the museums, or Prime Minister Ahmed, report having the ark. Many say he sold it.” Salem chokes back a tear. “Sold it,” Nelson repeats. “You mean on the black market? To whom?” Salem merely shrugs his shoulders. The lack of an ark defeats the entire purpose of the trip. Nelson gets out of the truck and clutches the backpack over his shoulder. He should at least inspect the chapel. The church grounds contain several stone buildings, including a large, modern congregational hall, each scarred with bullet holes across the sides. “They built the current Maryam Tsion in the 1950s,” Salem explains, pointing to the larger building. “Which one is the Chapel of Tablets?” Nelson asks. Salem points to a small building of modest decoration roughly twenty meters by forty meters made of multicolored stone with a tall bronze door. “Can we look inside?” Nelson asks. Salem shrugs. On entry, Nelson notices a bronze chandelier hanging by a heavy chain under an arched dome ceiling painted red, blue, and gold. They covered the walls in murals painted in the unique two-dimensional style of the Middle Ages that depict the ark being brought by Jewish priests to Axum. Layers of overlapping rugs cover the stone slab floor with a soft footing. To the side of the main room lay a small cubicle with a simple wooden bed and a writing table with a lamp. Rather modest accommodations to accept for a lifetime of silent service just to maintain a hoax. On a far wall, Nelson spots a shelf of ancient manuscripts, books, and scrolls. No doubt, containing an immensely religious and historical value. Surprising that the army failed to take or destroy them. They focused solely on the ark. Inside a curtained room, the holiest relic in all of history supposedly sat for nearly five hundred years. Nelson discovers more paintings, candles, incense burners, tapestries on the wall, and a short, heavy, ebony stand where the ark once rested. They had covered the stone slab floor with overlapping rugs, except under the ebony stand where a single rug sits underneath, dusty, bug eaten, and ancient; Off center, likely dragged when they stole the ark. “I hope Taylor won’t be too disappointed,” Nelson murmurs. Stepping back outside the building, Nelson notes a simple, unadorned structure nearby. “What’s the purpose of that building?” “In 2011, the Chapel of Tablets suffered water damage from a leaky roof. Before the Guardian could move the ark, the church built a temporary chapel while they completed repairs,” Salem explains. “We expected a big ceremony so everyone could see the ark, but they moved the ark at night while the people slept.” “Interesting,” Nelson mumbles as he steps off toward the temporary chapel. T he inside décor lacks any paint or furniture except for a single rug under a rosewood stand that sits over a flagstone floor. Out of curiosity, Nelson steps up to the rug and pulls it aside. Underneath lay a single stone with a notch cut on one side in order to pull it up. An odd feature. “You said the survivors hid in tunnels under the main church?” Nelson asks for confirmation. “Yes,” replies Salem. “But I’m not aware of tunnels under the chapel.” “No, of course not.” They would not want that kind of information made public. Nelson’s barely listening, already striding back to the original chapel, and stepping through the colorful curtains. With a brief resistance, he pulls on the rug under the heavy stand. Instead of a stone slab, he finds an ancient wooden door with an iron handle. A yank on the handle lifts a floor door to reveal steps leading into a tunnel. “Bangers,” exclaims Nelson as he slips down the stairs into the darkness. He reaches into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone with a flashlight feature. “Salem, come down here, there’s a tunnel,” he calls. Without warning, Salem closes the lid, and then slides the rug and table back into place. “Salem!” Nelson shouts. “Salem, open the door this instant,” he calls again, then stops. Voices of men shouting and arguing outside the chapel seep through the stone, lasting for several minutes until the pop of two gunshots, and then nothing. Nelson stands in numb silence, utterly deflated, steeping in a stew of raw guilt and panic. The young lad must have seen the army coming, and then gave his life to protect a stranger, not even a Christian. Or perhaps he protected a secret. Either way, Nelson caused the death of a young man. No. Salem’s death will fall on Taylor. Terror grips Nelson’s soul as he paces in a circle. As of the moment, he’s trapped with no other local support, and the army potentially waiting outside. Salem may not be the only death on Taylor’s account.