Chase Baker and the da Vinci Divinity

Prologue

Prologue

Vinci, Italy

April 1467

The bastard son is mesmerized by all that he observes.

Maybe what his father expects of

him is to keep his sharp, fifteen-year-old eyes glued carefully to the flock of

sheep he herds through the tall grass that covers the seemingly endless

foothills of Vinci. But, instead, he focuses on the early morning sunlight

shining through the leaves of scattered patches of tall trees. He studies the

birds flying overhead and nesting in the trees. The way they take flight by

simply falling into the sky with wings spread wide, catching the air with all

the ease, speed, and efficiency of a horse galloping along the dirt roads that

connect Vinci to Florence. The natural world that surrounds him is divine—a

gift from God—and it inspires him like nothing else.

His field of vision shifts and

he spots a farmer working a newly plowed field not three hundred meters away, pulling

seed stored in his cloak to sow. The boy feels something boiling inside him. An

idea automatically brewing. A better way to spread the seed. Something

mechanical so the farmer can produce more without so much wear and tear on his

body. The idea is there, but the boy can’t quite put his finger on the

mechanics of it all—the engineering. A cart perhaps, attached to a horse. A

machine like no one has ever seen before that will spread the seed so fast, the

abundance of food it will produce will be almost Godlike—Divine.

Dropping his walking stick, he

retrieves the sketch book hanging from his neck by a leather lanyard and he

once more watches the birds. His eyes capture their every movement in detail,

as if his brain is able to place their rapid action on slow motion. Pencil in

hand, he observes and he sketches. But he also thinks.

?ylf I t’nac yhW, he writes in his curious, backward,

mirror writing. Finger-combing his long, lush, brown hair, he asks the same question

aloud. “Why can’t I fly?”

He listens to the forceful sound

of the stream flowing at the bottom of the valley not far from where his stone

house is located, and he wonders: Why can’t I swim like a fish?

He wants to do all of these

things, but he just doesn’t know how. If only he could talk to God directly,

ask him how to make the things he wants to make. Ask him how to make beautiful

drawings that take your breath away just by laying eyes on them. Only God

possesses such knowledge. Only God alone possesses the power and creativity.

The one, all-omniscient force that created the world. Surely a direct line of

communication with the Divine would give him the ability to make things beyond

not only his wildest dreams, but those of the entire world.

Then, coming from out of the

blue sky, a streak of lightning.

But this can’t be lightning,

because the trail is not vertical and jagged. It’s horizontal and straight as

an arrow led by an object that appears to be on fire. A spherical shape with a

triangle attached to its front. It reminds him of those horrifying, long-beaked

medicine masks the priests wear when confronted with those dying from the

plague. Only, this is not a mask. It’s some kind of craft and it has emerged

from the heavens. A bright fire trailing behind and it is flying as fast as the

swiftest swallow.

He puts pencil to paper, makes a

sketch. As detailed as he can make it in just a few seconds of time. Then, acting

on instinct, he runs after the trail of fire. Runs downhill, through the grass,

tripping once but bounding back up, never breaking stride, his notebook and

pencil s******g him in the chest.

Crossing over the dirt road, he

enters into another field that runs steeply downhill, the bottom of the hill

converging with another where it forms a wide streambed. He steps into the cold,

swiftly moving mountain run-off as it flows over his bare feet and shins.

Looking back up into the sky, he no longer sees the trail of lightning and

smoke. Instead, he sees nothing but blue sky and the occasional puffy white

cloud.

“Where did the flying machine go?”

He looks around ardently. He is certain

he saw the machine go down in this very spot. Or close to this spot anyway. But

if it went down here, why can’t he see it, touch it, feel it? There’s no

evidence it existed at all.

He decides to walk along the

streambed farther away from his home, the cold water numbing his flesh to the

point he can no longer feel his feet making contact with the ground. Facing a

steep hill, he begins to climb. It takes almost all his strength, but when he

comes to the top of the granite-topped peak, he looks down upon the other side,

only to see where the stream empties into a lake. It’s a beautiful, if not

pristine scene, that he would love to paint one day, but the primary object of

his fascination remains to be seen. There is no flying machine down there.

Dejected, he’s about to turn

back to find the sheep he abandoned in his quest, when something on a tree

branch on the hillside beside him catches his eye. Another bird. But this bird

is different from all the others he’s observed today.

This bird is a large hawk with

glassy, black eyes.

The hawk appears to be watching

him, communicating with him. Stepping down off the hilltop, he moves toward the

hawk. It takes flight and soars in perfect circles around the hillside,

descending in the direction of the lake each time it makes a pass.

The boy follows the hawk, moving

further downhill until the terrain gives way to a small field that abuts the

lakefront. A lake not much wider than the village of Vinci. As he comes closer to

the lake, he realizes he’s not alone. The flying machine he spotted shooting across

the sky is now hovering over the lake. The triangular shaped machine is shiny

on the bottom, as if it is made of the most polished metal, and as it floats

over the water it emits a hum. When a bright laser light shoots out of the

bottom of the craft, it strikes the lake. The water begins to ripple violently

and, at the same time, recede.

But how can that be? How can an

entire lake just begin to disappear the moment it is touched by a bright light?

Pushing his way through the tall

grass and coming around a stand of tall trees, he sees the lake water has

disappeared entirely, exposing a hole in the earth. A cave, to be more

accurate, that appears so deep it is filled with pitch black darkness.

“A grotto,” he whispers to

himself.

His mind spins out of control

thinking it could run as deep as the center of the earth and wondering if

perhaps he is the first person to discover it. He knows he must explore this

cave.

He runs across the stony bottom

of the now dry lake bed until he comes to the cavern-like entrance. Leaning

over, he peers down into the abyss. Cool, rich, sweetly organic smelling air

emerges from the depths.

“But what of my sheep?” he asks

himself aloud. “Father is all alone and he is depending upon me. But what harm

can come from exploring this massive opening in the earth, even if only for a

few moments, to see what secrets it holds?”

That’s when it comes to him. The

flying object. Maybe this cave was its destination all along. Maybe the cave is

a home for whoever—or whatever—flies inside the machine?

Moving to the edge of the cave,

he stumbles, loses his balance, his right foot pushing a loose stone over the

edge so that it falls into the opening. The stone lands, coming into contact

with what sounds like a pool of water. The sound of the splash resonates up and

out of the cave’s mouth.

Sitting down, he hangs his legs

over the opening. Then, rolling onto his stomach, he gradually lowers himself

into the hole, his feet searching desperately for a foothold. When he finds

one, he realizes happily that he will be able to climb down into the cave using

only his hands and feet. Slowly, he descends into the cave, his hands gripping

the stone outcroppings, his feet balancing on the small, narrow, stair-tread-like

ledges until, finally, he finds himself standing on the cave floor, only the

light from the mid-day sun illuminating him.

He looks one way, spots the pool

of crystal clear water.

He looks the opposite way, sees

a pitch black shaft tall enough to accompany a man of great height without his

having to lower his head. The shaft is somehow claustrophobic and frightening.

It also possesses a strange smell that’s different from the sweet organic scent

that hovers over the pool. It’s a smell that reminds him of smoke, but also of

the fire pit inside the swordsmith’s hut in the center of Florence. An acrid,

almost toxic, odor that consists of burnt metals and gases. Knowing he won’t

get very far without a lamp of some kind, he, nonetheless, finds himself drawn

to the shaft. His body trembles and his heart beats ferociously in his chest.

“What secrets do you possess?”

he whispers aloud, his voice echoing inside the stone cavern.

When the voice from deep inside

the shaft answers him, asking, “What is it you wish to know?” the boy grows so

dizzy he feels he might faint.

He breathes in and out,

attempting to steady himself. To regain control.

“Who is it?” he says. “Who’s

there? Are you the man from the flying machine?”

“Come forward, Leonardo da Vinci,”

the voice says. “I shall tell you everything. I shall give you the answers you

seek.”

And with that, the shaft becomes

engulfed in a light so bright, the boy must shield his eyes with his hand. Once

more lowering his hand, he begins to see something gradually taking shape

against the light. A silhouette of a man. A muscular man whose straight legs

are spread shoulder width apart, his arms fully extended at the shoulders, his

long, wavy hair draping his face like the depictions he’s seen of Jesus Christ

so many times before inside the galleries of Florence.

“Come forward, Leonardo,” the

man says, voice deep, commanding, resonating. A voice not of this world. “It’s

time you come face to face with your destiny.”

The boy is so enthralled with

the man, his voice, his dark image, he forgets to breathe.

“But there is one thing you must

remember. The knowledge you seek will not come without a price.”

The boy suddenly remembers to

breathe. “And what shall this price be, good sir?”

“Turn around and you shall see.”

The boy turns. The figure that

stares him down is a woman. A woman he’s not laid eyes upon in years. His

mother. Instead of hair, she sports a nest of live snakes. One of which lashes

out, bites the boy on the neck.

“My God!” he screams. “I am

going to die!”

“You have much to learn, young

Leonardo. For the price of knowledge is not only death, it is birth, death, and

rebirth. It is also, eternal life.”