The Lost Symbol

Of course it is, Mal’akh thought. You convinced me of that beyond a doubt.

According to legend, the Lost Word was written in a language so ancient and arcane that mankind had all but forgotten how to read it. This mysterious language, Peter had revealed, was in fact the oldest language on earth.

The language of symbols.

In the idiom of symbology, there was one symbol that reigned supreme above all others. The oldest and most universal, this symbol fused all the ancient traditions in a single solitary image that represented the illumination of the Egyptian sun god, the triumph of alchemical gold, the wisdom of the Philosopher’s Stone, the purity of the Rosicrucian Rose, the moment of Creation, the All, the dominance of the astrological sun, and even the omniscient all-seeing eye that hovered atop the unfinished pyramid.

The circumpunct. The symbol of the Source. The origin of all things.

This is what Peter had told him moments ago. Mal’akh had been skeptical at first, but then he had looked again at the grid, realizing that the image of the pyramid was pointing directly at the lone symbol of the circumpunct — a circle with a dot in its center. The Masonic Pyramid is a map, he thought, recalling the legend, which points to the Lost Word. It seemed his father was telling the truth after all.

All great truths are simple.

The Lost Word is not a word. . it is a symbol.

Eagerly, Mal’akh had inscribed the great symbol of the circumpunct on his scalp. As he did so, he felt an upwelling of power and satisfaction. My masterpiece and offering are complete. The forces of darkness were waiting for him now. He would be rewarded for his work. This was to be his moment of glory. .

And yet, at the last instant, everything had gone horribly wrong.

Peter was still behind him now, speaking words that Mal’akh could barely fathom. «I lied to you,» he was saying. «You left me no choice. If I had revealed to you the true Lost Word, you would not have believed me, nor would you have understood.»

The Lost Word is. . not the circumpunct?

«The truth is,» said Peter, «the Lost Word is known to all. . but recognized by very few.»

The words echoed in Mal’akh’s mind.

«You remain incomplete,» Peter said, gently placing his palm on top of mal’akh’s head. «your work is not yet done. but wherever you are going, please know this. . you were loved.»

For some reason, the gentle touch of his father’s hand felt like it was burning through him like a potent catalyst that was initiating a chemical reaction inside Mal’akh’s body. Without warning, he felt a rush of blistering energy surging through his physical shell, as if every cell in his body were now dissolving.

In an instant, all of his worldly pain evaporated.

Transformation. It’s happening.

I am gazing down upon myself, a wreck of bloody flesh on the sacred slab of granite. My father is kneeling behind me, holding my lifeless head with his one remaining hand.

I feel an upwelling of rage. . and confusion.

This is not a moment for compassion. . it is for revenge, for transformation. . and yet still my father refuses to submit, refuses to fulfill his role, refuses to channel his pain and anger through the knife blade and into my heart.

I am trapped here, hovering. . tethered to my earthly shell.

My father gently runs a soft palm across my face to close my fading eyes.

I feel the tether release.