The Book of Names by Jill Gregory Page B

the gemstones of the Twelve Tribes of Israel.”
    David glanced at the stone on the desk, his brain roiling with questions. But he bit them back, listening as the rabbi continued in his low creaky voice.
    â€œThe copies belonging to Abraham’s other son—Isaac’s half-brother, Ishmael—passed to the sons his concubines bore him, and those papyri were lost to the desert sands. So for centuries, all copies of the Book of Names were lost. However, in recent years, archaeologists have discovered fragments in Egypt and otherplaces in the Middle East which they believe are copied from Ishmael’s papyri. Aided by historians and mathematicians, they’re attempting to piece them together. These are the experts I contacted to compare your pages against the various fragments safeguarded in Israel.”
    David struggled to digest the enormity of the rabbi’s theory. “Have they found more than one copy of Adam’s Book?”
    â€œWe believe so. Papyri written in Aramaic, Coptic, and Hebrew have been discovered—”
    â€œI would have thought only Hebrew.”
    â€œNo.” Ben Moshe shook his head. “Since Ishmael was Abraham’s son by his non-Jewish handmaiden, Hagar, his descendants’ copies were written in ancient Arabic languages. And although identical passages have been found in many papyri, no one has yet assembled one complete text. However,” his eyes gleamed, “some of us feel we are close.”
    David leaned forward. “So there are ongoing archaeological digs?”
    â€œOh, yes.” The rabbi’s voice sharpened. “Unfortunately, we’re not the only ones searching for the missing fragments. Others are racing to assemble the entire manuscript so that they can be first to translate all the names—only these are evil people, David. Enemies of God.”
    Baffled, David dragged a hand through his hair as the rain began to thrum more rapidly against the window. “Who?”
    â€œThe Gnoseos.”
    David looked blank. Rabbi ben Moshe walked around his desk, steepling his hands together at his chest. His face looked grimmer than David had yet seen it.
    â€œThe Gnoseos are a secret society descended from an ancient religious cult—the Gnostics.”
    David stared at him. “How ancient?”
    â€œPredating Christianity. The Gnoseos are one of the few remnants of Gnosticism still existing—a sect even more vibrant and secretive than they were centuries ago.”
    David had heard of Gnosticism. He remembered Dillon mentioning it one Saturday when they were discussing the broader roots of religion over bagels and cream cheese.
    â€œHedonists, aren’t they?” David searched his memory as thunder clapped outside. “They consider humanity to be trapped in evil bodies, right?”
    â€œYes. And that every soul has the ability to tap into some innate knowledge—a ladder, as it were—in order to elevate high enough spiritually to break free of the body.”
    â€œAnd what then . . . reach heaven?”
    â€œNot exactly, David.” Ben Moshe sighed. “The root of their name is
gnosis
—the Greek word for knowledge. The Gnoseos believe that with enough knowledge they can vanquish God. And they have resolved to do precisely that.”
    David had a dozen questions, but before he could ask the first one, there was a knock at the door and Rabbi Goldstein poked in his head.
    â€œRabbi, excuse me. Yael HarPaz has arrived.”
    â€œGood, good. Send her up, Tzvi.” Ben Moshe returned to his chair. “I hope you won’t mind, David. I’ve invited an antiquities expert to join us—a brilliant Israeli archaeologist from Safed. She arrived from Israel this morning.”
    â€œLook, Rabbi.” David threw up his hands. “This just gets more and more complicated. I don’t want us to get off-track. My stepdaughter’s name is in my journal, and I’m