Arrows of Time - Kim Falconer [68]
The art of tattooing was traditionally practised by many cultures for hundreds of generations. Performed on both men and women and sometimes animals, but rarely children, tattooing could indicate honour, rank, collective worth and, in some cases, punishment or identification—i.e. pirates or slaves. In other cases it was reserved for those of revered standing, high achievement within the family, clan or culture, or for those involved in spiritual initiations (see Art and Shamanism pp. 689-702). Some tattoos were thought to contain magic spells and were worn only by adepts or spiritual guides. In other societies, the tattoos were believed to bring the individual closer to the divinity or their source—to higher consciousness.
He coughed. Nonsense.
What she wore certainly didn’t look like a punishment. He guessed it was more the latter—an image for an adept or spiritual guide. It was too beautiful, and too potent, to be derogatory or simply identifying. He continued reading but could find nothing in the text about ASSIST and their campaign against all forms of such practices in the twenty-second and twenty-third centuries, nor the consequences of contravening the bans.
My, how they had changed the history. He’d read a speculative theory about small resistance groups that had managed to code dermal art into the DNA, but there’d never been any proof. Those resistance groups were long gone and the ‘artists’ with them.
He scooted his chair closer to the table. So much had been omitted from these records that it made him doubt the validity of what was left in. Still he read on, scrutinising the images and colour plates. They were fascinating, and he wondered how such creativity could be feared, abolished. Whatever the reason, it had lasting effects. No such creative spirit had survived to his day—nothing close.
He turned through page after page, but none of the plates matched what he’d found embedded in the flesh over his patient’s heart. No winged lions with eagle claws, looking as if carved out of jewelled stone. He kept on, losing himself in the designs, until the last page of the chapter came into focus.
He stopped, drawing in his breath. His forehead wrinkled as he stared at the image, his hands shaking. He shoved them into his lab coat pockets, as if hiding them would help, and leaned closer to the book. There it was, right in front of him—a winged lion with a woman, a deity of some sort, riding upon its back. The image was scanned from a photo of the actual monument dated third century BCE. ‘Five thousand years ago…’ he whispered. There was an inscription, a translation, if it could be considered accurate:
If you open not the gate that I may pass,
I shall break the lock,
The door’s steps will shatter, and the pillars.
And the dead will outnumber the living.
He stared at the words for a long time before scanning the page and sending the image to his personal database. Closing the book, he replaced it on the top shelf among the other antique volumes, his palms clammy. He turned off the desk lamp and polished his glasses, careful not to glance at the security camera pointing his way, careful to hide his fear.
‘The dead will outnumber the living, will they, my dear Jane Doe?’ he whispered, his voice melodic. ‘How could you know such a thing?’ He slipped his glasses back on. ‘I think it’s time I woke you up.’
He left the library and headed towards the intensive care ward.
EARTH & GAELA—TIME: FORWARD
CHAPTER 16
‘Did you see that?’
An’ Lawrence tilted his head. ‘See what?’ he asked.
‘How could you miss it?’ Kreshkali said. ‘Someone’s coming. Look at Scylla. She knows.’
He searched the temple courtyard for his familiar. The place was like a beehive: people leading horses to