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-mâché 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?
Milo opened the second book, The First Tribes of Humanity: A History. He understood this book even less. It was written in an ancient language Qian had made him learn. Milo had been thrilled to learn English, but this language was different—far more difficult. And the text… what did it mean?
“When you know the answer, only then will your journey begin,” Qian had said.
“If you know the answer, why not just tell me?” Milo asked, smiling. “We can save some time, and I can take off in the balloon and be there soon—”
“Milo!” Qian steadied himself against the table. “The journey is the destination. Finding the answers for yourself, achieving understanding, is part of your journey. There are no shortcuts along the path.”
“Oh. Right.”
By the time Milo reached what was left of Tel Aviv, he thought he understood the books. And he had changed, because of what he had seen and the things he had done to survive.
He found a fishing vessel he thought would take him.
“What do you want, kid?”
“Passage,” Milo answered.
“Where you headed?”
“West.”
“Got anything to trade?”
“Only my willingness to work hard. And… the greatest story you ever heard.”
The fisherman eyed him suspiciously. “All right, get on the boat.”
CHAPTER 66
Somewhere off the coast of Ceuta
Mediterranean Sea
David stared at the two sets of lights on the water for another second. “Kamau!” he shouted.
Within seconds, the tall African appeared in the saloon, covered in sweat and grease.
“Get us underway,” David said.
“To where?” Shaw cried.
David turned to him. “Kill all the lights on the boat.” To Kamau he said, “Make our heading away from those lights.” David pointed out the window. “Best speed.”
“Jesus,” Shaw said. He ran out of the saloon. The lights throughout the boat went out.
David retrieved the binoculars from the cockpit and focused on the lights on the water. Just as the boats came into focus, they cut their lights. Through the moonlight, David couldn’t make out any markings on the boats or even what type, but one thing was certain: they had cut their lights the second Shaw had killed theirs.
The boats were following them.
David felt the yacht lurch forward and they were underway.
Shaw returned to the saloon. “They cut their lights—”
“I saw it.”
“They’re following us.”
David ignored him. He said to Kamau, who was standing in the doorway, “Bring the map. Mark our position.”
“Let me make the call, David. My government can airlift us out of here. It’s our only way out. You know it,” Shaw said.
Kamau returned with the map and spread it out on the coffee table, covering Martin’s notes. He pointed at a dot in the water between Spain and Morocco. “We’re here.”