within the Sacred Mosque at Mecca, believed by Muslims to have been built by Abraham. Some regarded the black stone as sacred, believing it had fallen from the sky during the time of Adam and Eve and that it had the power to cleanse worshippers of their sins by absorbing them into itself. They claimed that the stone was once pure and dazzling white and had turned black because of the sins it had taken into itself.
This beautiful stone, however, really was sacred. Its demonstrable miraculous powers would become the brilliant cornerstone of the Holy Mother Church, underpinning its power, eclipsing all other religions. He felt giddy at the prospect of what the future held and had to suppress a nervous impulse to laugh. Whatever the pope and Vasari had felt about his coming here, Torino knew that after seeing this the Holy Father would forgive – and give – him anything. He got to his feet, stepped closer and studied the hydra growing out of the fertile crystal. Radix, meaning 'root' as well as 'source', took on a fresh significance. This must be what Orlando Falcon had meant by vita quod mors arbor, the Tree of Life and Death.
But why death?
He walked round the chamber. As well as the entrance from the glowing tunnel and the opening in the ceiling, through which the water flowed on to the monolith, there was a darker exit, which appeared to lead down into a warren of black passageways. He thought of the rock worms and shuddered.
There was a sharp intake of breath behind him. Bazin was standing in the doorway to the chamber, his face illuminated by the monolith's rainbow hues. 'It's so beautiful.'
Torino smiled. 'Now who can doubt that God exists?' Suddenly he felt magnanimous. 'Let Sister Chantal and the others come in. Everyone should see this once before they die.'
70
When Sister Chantal saw the monolith she did exactly as Torino had done: she fell to her knees and prayed. After waiting centuries to see it she had no doubt in her mind that it was God's work – it was too beautiful and awe-inspiring to have been anything else. She noticed Torino watching her.
'Surely now you understand why the Holy Mother Church must claim it,' he said.
'No religion may claim it. It's far greater than any church. Whoever sees this glorious jewel of creation – whether Christian, Jew or Muslim – will see their God reflected in it, and that's how it should be.' It dawned on her then that religion was merely a language. How we spoke with God depended on which culture we were born into. Nothing more. Nothing less. As Zeb Quinn stared wordlessly at the monolith she knew, with utter certainty, that the object before her had nothing to do with any abstract god but with Gaia. When people talked about climate change, global warming, acid rain and every other ecological concern – it all boiled down to one thing: keeping Mother Earth alive, keeping her heart beating. This pulsing crystalline rock, with its tree-like growth, was nothing less than Gaia's beating heart, the engine of life that drove all that was good on Mother Earth.
She considered mankind's unique and contradictory position as the one species capable of both protecting and destroying Mother Earth. This pulsing rock epitomized humanity's stark choice: either to nurture the mother that had given it life, or to exploit her. As a doctor, Nigel Hackett saw nothing remotely religious or spiritual in the monolith, but he was no less awestruck by it. The monolith's significance was so immense that he felt no need to overlay it with God or Gaia. To him, this was simply the point of origin for all life on the planet, the first genotype, containing the original building blocks and base genetic instructions that had led ultimately to humanity's current genetic programming: DNA. He could feel the radioactive charge in the air and wondered what level a Geiger counter would show. He knew that radioactivity had the power to affect DNA; it was infamous for causing cancers. So it wasn't a great leap to see how this incredible rock might positively affect the human genome – repair it, create it.
As he watched the water rushing over the monolith's surface, washing microscopic elements of its essence into the pool beneath it, then down the stream in the tunnel to the lake in the garden, he could only marvel at its power. If just this dilute contact with water was enough to create the miraculous garden and all its creatures, and engender the crystals that encrusted the tunnel to the antechamber, it was no surprise that it had once seeded a whole planet. And when he looked at the hydra-like growth he wondered how long it had been growing from the crystal – its branches or arms probably extended throughout the cave system. A sudden insight came to him then, heaping wonder upon wonder: the hydra might be the oldest living organism on the planet, as old as life itself, a multicellular creature that continued to evolve within its own lifetime and need never die.
Anger intruded on Hackett's awe. How could Torino use something as wonderful as this to bolster his superstitious belief in an invisible god? Far from proving God's existence, Hackett believed this amazing entity proved that nature was miraculous. However, as he absorbed its shimmering beauty, he said none of this. His words would be wasted on Torino. Instead he told himself to feel grateful that he had at least seen this wonder.
Torino turned to Bazin and the soldiers. 'We'll go back now and finalize plans for when we leave this place. And I need a rock hammer.' He indicated the monolith – the Source. 'I want a sample.'
'We didn't bring one,' said Fleischer.
'Dr Kelly was a geologist. Look in his backpack. He may have something.'
Bazin glanced at Hackett and the others. 'What about them?'
'You know what to do.'
71
Twenty minutes later Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Zeb was amazed by how quickly the most intense sense of wonder could evaporate in the face of imminent danger. From being transfixed by the Source, she was now too busy panicking to give it a second thought. She still couldn't believe that Torino, Bazin and the soldiers had left them tethered to a rock near the blood-and-viscera- splattered worm holes, then continued down the tunnel with the nymphs.
'What if those things come back?' she had shouted after them. 'What if others come?' As she'd watched their backs disappear down the tunnel she had known the answer and, sure enough, ten minutes later, she could hear the rock around her whispering.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
'Hurry, Nigel, hurry. They're coming back.' The place was like a charnel house from the earlier slaughter but Hackett seemed oblivious of the mess as he knelt between them, holding the rope in his bound hands, sawing it against the sharpest edge of the rock.
'Hurry, Nigel! Hurry!' Sister Chantal pressed.
'What a good idea,' Hackett said drily, through gritted teeth, fingers working furiously. 'That had never occurred to me.' He had already tried to untangle the knot but with bound hands it had been impossible. Zeb could see that some of the fraying rope strands had parted but plenty more were still intact.
'We're running out of time,' she said. 'They're coming.'
'I know,' said Hackett. 'I can hear them. What exactly do you suggest I do that I'm not doing now?'
'Bite it!' snapped Sister Chantal.
Hackett kept sawing the rope against the rock. More strands parted, but the whispering was harsher – and louder. Zeb's knees turned to jelly as she imagined the worms' rough carapaces rasping against the rock. All she could think about was whether it would be better to be devoured first, or watch Nigel and Sister Chantal torn to pieces before her. The noise increased and the surrounding rock shook.
Zeb had a sudden desire to fill these precious moments with human warmth before pain and death claimed her: to pull Nigel away from his futile task and kiss him on the lips, then hug Sister Chantal close. She wanted to tell them how important they had become to her – especially the Englishman.
'Almost there,' said Hackett, stubbornly refusing to give in.
She could smell the creatures now as they rushed through the warm, confined space: rancid and fetid. She glanced down at the rope. Hackett had made good progress but when he pulled at the remaining strands they held
