The Thoth Realignment

You think you are safe.

You think the world is orderly and secure. It is not. You think that the paradigms of your life are ordered and regular; that the motions of societies are delineated and obeyed. They are not. You think images of otherness, of un-orderliness, are just that — images, and the cant and rhetoric of your belief systems have withstood the examinations of history and truth — they have not. You think there are no dark corners of reality to confuse and misdirect your understanding of the incessant march of humanity and its progress, its unrelenting advancement, it’s examination and acquisition of truth and reality. By their measure you know that the modern world, despite its imperfections, is solidly based on the unrelenting waves of history and endeavour that characterise mankind. You believe and you know that you are the pinnacle of human progress. You are not.

You think you are safe. You are not.

You see, there are things we have not been told — secrets things. Hidden things. Unbelievable things. Constructs of thought and belief and imagination that would challenge all we know and understand about our world. And there are more of these secrets in the world than we realise. Well, we don’t really know that, because they’re secrets, but we think that. But some secrets we can guess at and we call them esoteric knowledge and we then believe we understand them; we’ve made up a mystery around them and by doing so we own them. Although we don’t actually know them, we pretend we do and put them into their own little containers. They become secret rites, folklore, legends, myths and alternate histories. Time distorts them and they become incorporated into the fabric of things — like religion. And history. That’s a fact.

But ­­­­–– what if there was another fact? What if there was another truth to things; a truth so old and ancient that it had never been remembered. A truth that began before man was created, a truth that existed before the gods were made; a truth of the creation of mankind, at a time before history was recorded and when the world looked very, very different. The modern social world is built on the crafting of half-truths and compromises; on false shibboleths of unproveable veracity, on the vested interests of power blocs both ancient and modern and on institutionalised self-interest. Everything of the modern social world is fluid, because nothing is absolute, because nothing will withstand the rigours of academic and scientific examination.

Because nothing is allowed to.

The ancient truth is still there; it exists and it has always been known, in a corrupted form, as a footnote in the pages of history; a curiosity –– a whim –– a fable. A story to dream of. And a fear to be dreaded, for the knowledge believed within would tear down the very pillars of this world. It would wipe the slate clean and allow mankind to start again –– to follow the path laid down for him uncountable millennia ago. Long hidden and long sought for, esoteric and enigmatic, it has been known by different names –– The Hall of Records –– the Library of Thoth; and for the world to change — for your safety to be questioned — all that is required –– is for someone to find it.

Ancient unrecorded history

There was a war in the heavens before the first of days, and the newly uplifted hominids of the world of the third orbit looked up in fear as their creators fought a rebellion within their ranks and the very lands and oceans themselves felt the blows of anger and power and might. When nearly all was destroyed, the victors resumed their self-appointed task, gave of their own life-helix and set humankind on the long road to civilisation.

The defeated were cast down and in their frustration and anger and arrogance vowed vengeance on those above and all their creations. They sought the annihilation of the blasphemy those above had created upon the world — no matter how long it took — no matter the passing of ages — the hatred of those defeated would last to the end of time. A vast design was needed, a nemesis of incalculable power and energy was to be crafted to fulfill those wishes — and, over millennia, as the new humankind proliferated on the third world, it was made so. Hidden and secreted in the proto-planetary material between the fourth and fifth orbits, it was the last combatant of a long-dead war; but one that would never forget its duty.

As testimony to the efficiency and hatred and longevity of the created nemesis, asteroids were ejected from the asteroid belt — thousands of them — and directed sun-ward towards the third world. And the Earth became pock-marked with the craters of those asteroids — asteroids that shredded the atmosphere — asteroids that tore into the seas and soils of the planet and uprooted the order of things. Vast fires scoured the lands, massive tsunamis raced across continents — gigantic forests were torn asunder and buried under countless billions of tonnes of water and rock –– the very face of the Earth changed. The civilisation that was beginning to show intelligence and endeavour was all-but erased from history.

But the creators came down again from on high and life rebuilt; and over innumerable millennia the impact craters became ancient and weathered. The great icecaps began a slow retreat and flora and fauna moved into the new spaces; and the survivors of those ancient hominids began to grow and evolve and build and create and light the beacons of civilisation.

Recent unrecorded history

Beyond Mars, hidden deep within the uncharted realms of the asteroid belt, the remnants of a vast machine whiled away the millennia. Once, aeons past, it was a dark and mighty weapon of absolute destruction and its creators had imbued it with an intelligence that would span the ages; would survive long after those very creators were dead; would carry on its manifest duty –– to rid the third planet in the system of the one thing its creators so resented, the one thing its creators had been denied the right to rule –– human life.

Vast ages had taken their toll on the engine of hate. The slow, ponderous eddying of the asteroid belt had impacted its very construction. Large sections had been destroyed, lost within the belt. Yet, a small, inner part remained intact. Artificial synapses were now dulled and slow; the caged singularity that had powered the machine for so long was all-but spent and the arrays that had once searched the system for the profanity to be destroyed were feeble and almost blind. Almost.

As if by accident — or destiny — a small spacecraft on its journey of inquiry from the third world to the outer planets passed through the belt, its weak electronics probing the way ahead. And somewhere in that vast expanse of proto-planetary material those signals were heard. An ancient array caught the faint signatures of intelligent otherness and signalled its alarm. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, dormant protocols were revived. Residual energy matrixes stirred and became activated. The orders of long-dead creators were to be obeyed. Asteroids were selected; the few gravity cannon remaining were targeted upon them and calculations commenced. Energy pulsed — and slowly, very slowly — an asteroid began to move away from its ancient path; slowly it began to move towards the sun. The cannons moved to another target. In one turn of the third planets’ orbit, when the target would be at its closest, the asteroids would come.

The ancient duty would be honoured — again.

The Thoth Re-Alignment

Giza Plateau, Egypt. June 7, early morning. The sun had been in the sky for one hour and forty minutes yet was already biting hard as Harry Wolfe made his way along the flank of the Sphinx. Forty metres beyond the fabled creature’s paws a small group of archaeologists awaited him beneath a very large, white, tent-like pavillion that was more security screen than tent. It hadn’t been there the evening before.

Sand crunched beneath the soles of his boots, loud in the morning quiet. Sand that had felt the tread of conquerors, kings, peasants and priests. Sand that had endured the millennia of humanity’s expectations. Those countless billions of particles had once been part of something grand, something majestic, something new and wonderful. Once they had been part of magnificent edifices that had glittered in the sun and the world had marveled at their precision and beauty. Now the millennia had eroded their grandeur and rain and wind and sun had abraded and carved the glory of what once was, until only a shadow of a memory of things was left. But the sand never forgot, and in the noise of its disturbance under each tread could almost –– almost –– be heard the ghosts of whispers –– we know the secrets, they said, we haven’t forgotten, we never will.

At thirty-four, Harry Wolfe had the world at his feet. He wasn’t an archaeologist, his area of expertise was ground-penetrating radar, and he had worked all over the world in all manner of industries; mining, rescue, construction; in fact, anywhere that his specialty was needed. Even the military had needed him. The middle east had given him plenty of income and enough excitement over the last two years so that an archaeological site was a welcome break from the tensions and dangers of war zones.

He was tall, with chiseled features and grey eyes; he was blondish, slim, fit, tanned from years working outdoors, reasonably good-looking and had a house in London. And a son. Bradden. What he didn’t have was a wife that went with that son, but Carol had left three years ago when his work demanded attention –– and travel. Ah well.

The world at his feet was exemplified by the three archaeologists before him; they were the latest to seek the fabled Library of Thoth, and he, last evening, might just have found it for them. ‘Good morning, Bede,’ he offered, as he stepped into the shade of the tent. He nodded to the other two present.

Bede McMaster nodded. He looked every inch the archaeologist; short, sixty-ish, bearded and affable. He wore the ubiquitous wide-brimmed hat and sand coloured construction apparel and he would never be mistaken for anything other than what he was. The second of the trio, Andrea Luca, was Bede’s assistant; she had been everywhere and seen everything. Tall and gaunt and in her sixties, she lived for archaeology and had seen some amazing things, but now, on the cusp of one of the most monumental discoveries ever made –– she crossed the fingers of her mind’s eye and really, really hoped it was true. The third member, Steve Hardwick, was the projects liaison and information officer and his job was to bring to the world the stunning news if and when it eventuated. He cast a weathered eye to one side where three senior members of the Egyptian Board of Antiquities were in deep and quiet discussion. Their lack of enthusiasm for this project brought a moment of disquiet to the veteran journalist. Not quite foreboding –– but things, he felt, could change.

‘Morning, Harry,’ Bede responded. He cocked his head over his right shoulder. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?’ Behind the small group was a shallow pit, four meters long, two wide with the long axis paralleling the line of the axis of the Sphinx, but displaced ten metres south. The tent completely covered the opening blocking any view of the activities within. A group of eight workers stood around the pit, power leads, tripod, block and tackle at the ready. The floor of the pit comprised four granite blocks tightly packed across the width. This was as far as excavations had progressed the previous night, and the plan was to drill two holes into one of the end blocks, inset lifting sprags into them and hoist it out. The other three slabs could then be separated and lifted out with chains.

All eyes were on Bede as he confirmed their readiness, then, ‘Okay, lads, let’s do it.’ Then he stepped back to let them get on with it. Steve Hardwick noticed that the three officials moved in close, their eyes never leaving the activities in the pit.

Bede was a happy man. The vindication for what prophesied to be an unparalleled success was the miracle he had achieved in bringing to light an ancient and hidden secret and brought to acceptance the once-discredited science of astroarchaeology. The evidence was before him; to his left brooded the maligned, misunderstood and disfigured leonine body of the Sphinx, its legs stretching out before it. In front of those great paws, and forty metres away was the about-to-be-uncovered entrance to that holy of holies –– the Hall of Records. He shook his head at the memory of it all, as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and shucked one into his mouth. The snap of a match brought it alight and he blew a grateful puff of blue smoke into the hot air as his mind went back to the beginning. The Hall of Records. The fabled and lost receptacle of the sum of human knowledge; talked about throughout the centuries; surrounded and shrouded in conjecture and mystery and sought by charlatans and emperors alike. Seers and prophets over the ages had claimed to know its location and it was always said to be within the pyramid complex of Giza. Always. It was never anywhere else because the Hall of Records had a far, far older name that fixed it inexorably to the complex of Giza –– The Library of Thoth. Thoth. Creator god. Thoth’s will, it was told, had brought the eight gods and goddesses of the Ogdoad of Egypt to life and writing and magic and medicine were his inventions.

No-one had come close to finding the Library and for all of modern man’s determinations, pick and shovel were no match for the secrets of history. And then along came a group of astronomers who looked at the whole of the complex from a different angle; here was the Sphinx, then with the body and head of a lion, sitting half-hidden in the landscape, staring straight ahead to his alter-ego the constellation Leo. And at exactly the summer equinox, Leo broached the horizon in perfect symmetry with his earth-bound counterpart and following Leo, below the horizon and directly beneath the body of the stellar Leo was the star of all stars, Sirius. The heliacal rising of the star pointed a neon-like finger to the opportunity of finally answering the question of the ages.

And there was more, esoteric more. The ancient historian Manetho had told of a vast college of bearers of knowledge that stretched back hundreds of thousands of years from the first of kings, the first of pharaohs; back to the mythical Zep Tepi — The First Time, when the gods themselves walked the earth. Could it be that there actually was an unbroken line from the gods to the Library? But it hadn’t been easy convincing a staid and entrenched body of experts that a new way was needed. But after long and tense months he had succeeded. As if to reconfirm the facts, Bede had gripped the welcoming hand of the man who walked towards him and had found what he desperately hoped would be the entrance. He crushed out his cigarette, pocketing the butt; it never occurred to him to toss it away, as everyone else did. This was, after all, his sacred site.

Sand. Sand had been the key. Sand covered everything, filled everything, obliterated everything. Sand mis-directed the eye. But not Harry’s, Bede admitted to himself. With a shout and a great groan of rubbing stone, the end slab came free of its home of millennia and was swung out of the way. Faces peered over the pit edge; stairs. There were steps there; dimly seen in the intense dark shadow line of early morning, but steps nonetheless. They descended towards the north, towards the centreline of the Sphynx.

‘Take the next one,’ Bede directed, ‘but leave the other two. That will be enough for access.’ He caught Steve’s eye and the liaison officer flicked his own across to the three officials in an unmistakable gesture for Bede to look that way; and as untrained as he was in reading body language, Bede could see the tension and apprehension on display. Hmmm.

Harry’s two team-mates on the project came over with work-boxes full of GPS sensors and began setting up the base unit in front of the steps. This would be line-of-sight, sensor to sensor all the way down. Bede took a battery torch and lowered himself carefully down to the top step; it was level with the bottom of the cover slabs. Surprisingly, he found his heart beating rather hard as he stepped down into the shadows and coolness of history. Behind him, Andrea and Steve followed with their own torches and Harry brought up the rear, placing sensors as he descended.

The steps were two metres wide and seemed to descend forever, to a small vestibule, then they turned left, continuing downwards towards the Sphinx. Dust lay everywhere, yet despite that fact, Bede couldn’t help but notice the perfection of the ancient excavation. The rock was machined to an incredible degree of accuracy; perfect and unspoiled despite the weight of ages. The only variation to the precision was the wear on the steps; each one was massively hollowed from the countless passages of feet. Age oozed out of every step; and now the dust of millennia lay witness to the footprints of modern man. He paused at the vestibule, the beam from his torch lost in the blackness when he pointed it downwards.

‘Are we ready to go on?’ he asked, not really expecting an answer, then started downward again. And downward. Damn! He’d forgotten to count the steps.

‘One hundred,’ Andrea called out. Then, moments later, ‘One fifty.’ In Bede’s torchlight the stair disgorged into a square room. Foyer, his mind corrected as he stepped from the last step. ‘Two hundred,’ Andrea confirmed, stepping down behind him. ‘Christ, Bede,’ she panted, ‘this is deep.’