The Secret of the Ancient Alchemist by Yasmin Esack Page B

it’s sometime after the last solar
eclipse.”
    The rains that
fell all morning in California stopped. Sunlight broke through the
clouds and made its way to a window where he sat peering at a
sketch of an Inca Quipu. Olsen was confident of what he had in his
hand. The archaeologist he worked with, Arthur Bentley, had assured
him that the Quipu from which his sketches were taken was the one
used to record ages.
    He placed the
sketch aside and looked out the window. Olsen wasn’t daunted at all
by his challenge to find a new age. His gusto was sturdy, sturdy as
his large frame.
    Five years ago,
he had come to the US. Without full-time employment, he kept
himself busy deciphering his data and doing analyses for agencies
such as Marin’s Earthquake Surveillance Unit. It was through Marin
he’d met Hart and their friendship had grown quickly. They were
really two peas in a pod, both intensely determined to achieve
their end.
    The
astrophysicist had survived an emotional drain caused by a bust up
he’d had with his colleagues back home in Copenhagen. His problem
began when he had suggested prophecy as a solution to the global
crisis at the Summit of the Environment. From there it was downhill
for him. He had taken enough heckling about a crystal ball and had
left. Still, his calculating mind churned with the same
belief: the
Inca prophecy was about to unfold . His certainty welled when he glanced at the
actual Quipu perched on his wall. It held more power than
Dionysus’s Oracle, he thought. It was testimony of an age of
enlightenment, a time when man became god.
    The sun in Lake
Forest was high when he opened his front door to put garbage out.
He closed it, shutting out the noise from the dumpsters and a party
next door. Olsen was reclusive. He had never met his neighbours and
didn’t quite know what they looked like. Hopeful movie types were
as much as he’d gathered. Continuing his Saturday routine, he
picked up the mails scattered all over the floor and, with a cup of
coffee in hand, dropped his weight on his leather sofa.
    “ Rubbish,
rubbish,” he mumbled going through the pile.
    He flung
the ads for loans and car sales into the bin but stopped short when
he came to one that said, Travel to the Caribbean for less than five
hundred .’ The offer was
a deal, he thought, ignoring the bright pages of beaches and hotels
that came with it. He dialled a phone number marked in red. Ten
seconds later, a voice answered and it wasn’t one ordering him to
press one or any number for that matter.
    “ Hah,” he
relished. The day looked good.
    “ Sunway
Travel, how can I help you?”
    In less than
five minutes, he was booked on flight VA 209 bound for La Joya
Island. He felt great, more so than he did the past few days. His
task of deciphering the Quipu was nearly over. His decoding system
worked beyond his expectation. He just needed to speak to the
archaeologist, Arthur Bentley, and then, head to Colombia to return
the Quipu. He was moving to the shower when his doorbell rang.
Opening the door, he found Hart.
    “ Hey,
come in. A pleasure to see you,” he said with a grin. Hart reminded
him of the past. With his long hair and attire, he really seemed
like a medieval official.
    “ Same
here,” Hart replied. “You look a lot better than the last time I
saw you. Mission accomplished I take it.”
    “ Deciphering Incan data is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Believe me when I say the Inca had time on their hands to construct
such intricate numerology.”
    “ Have you
found the date for the new age, Olsen?”
    “ Just
about.”
    The words sent
a thrill through Hart. “I hope we don’t have to wait long.”
    “ No.
Let’s talk about your work.” Olsen led Hart to his living room. “We
haven’t spoken that much since that time in New York, have
we?”
    “ I recall
you being very sceptical about my work.”
    “ Still
am. I’m sure you still haven’t found the Universal Mind. Have you
found the realm, at