Origin by Dan Brown

Origin by Dan Brown

 

PROLOGUE
AS THE ANCIENT cogwheel train clawed its way up the dizzying incline, Edmond Kirsch surveyed the jagged mountaintop above him. In the distance, built into the face of a sheer cliff, the massive stone monastery seemed to hang in space, as if magically fused to the vertical precipice.

This timeless sanctuary in Catalonia, Spain, had endured the relentless pull of gravity for more than
four centuries, never slipping from its original purpose: to insulate its occupants from the modern
world.

Ironically, they will now be the first to learn the truth, Kirsch thought, wondering how they would
react. Historically, the most dangerous men on earth were men of God … especially when their gods
became threatened. And I am about to hurl a flaming spear into a hornets’ nest.

When the train reached the mountaintop, Kirsch saw a solitary figure waiting for him on the
platform. The wizened skeleton of a man was draped in the traditional Catholic purple cassock and
white rochet, with a zucchetto on his head. Kirsch recognized his host’s rawboned features from
photos and felt an unexpected surge of adrenaline.

Valdespino is greeting me personally.

Bishop Antonio Valdespino was a formidable figure in Spain—not only a trusted friend and
counselor to the king himself, but one of the country’s most vocal and influential advocates for the
preservation of conservative Catholic values and traditional political standards.

“Edmond Kirsch, I assume?” the bishop intoned as Kirsch exited the train.

“Guilty as charged,” Kirsch said, smiling as he reached out to shake his host’s bony hand. “Bishop
Valdespino, I want to thank you for arranging this meeting.”

“I appreciate your requesting it.” The bishop’s voice was stronger than Kirsch expected—clear
and penetrating, like a bell. “It is not often we are consulted by men of science, especially one of your
prominence. This way, please.”

As Valdespino guided Kirsch across the platform, the cold mountain air whipped at the bishop’s
cassock.“I must confess,” Valdespino said, “you look different than I imagined. I was expecting a scientist, but you’re quite …” He eyed his guest’s sleek Kiton K50 suit and Barker ostrich shoes with a hint of disdain. “‘Hip,’ I believe, is the word?”

Kirsch smiled politely. The word “hip” went out of style decades ago.

“In reading your list of accomplishments,” the bishop said, “I am still not entirely sure what it is
you do.”

“I specialize in game theory and computer modeling.”
 
“So you make the computer games that the children play?”

Kirsch sensed the bishop was feigning ignorance in an attempt to be quaint. More accurately,
Kirsch knew, Valdespino was a frighteningly well-informed student of technology and often warned
others of its dangers. “No, sir, actually game theory is a field of mathematics that studies patterns in
order to make predictions about the future.”

“Ah yes. I believe I read that you predicted a European monetary crisis some years ago? When
nobody listened, you saved the day by inventing a computer program that pulled the EU back from the
dead. What was your famous quote? ‘At thirty-three years old, I am the same age as Christ when He
performed His resurrection.’”
Kirsch cringed. “A poor analogy, Your Grace. I was young.”
“Young?” The bishop chuckled. “And how old are you now … perhaps forty?”
“Just.”
The old man smiled as the strong wind continued to billow his robe. “Well, the meek were
supposed to inherit the earth, but instead it has gone to the young—the technically inclined, those who
stare into video screens rather than into their own souls. I must admit, I never imagined I would have
reason to meet the young man leading the charge. They call you a prophet, you know.”
“Not a very good one in your case, Your Grace,” Kirsch replied. “When I asked if I might meet you
and your colleagues privately, I calculated only a twenty percent chance you would accept.”
“And as I told my colleagues, the devout can always benefit from listening to nonbelievers. It is in
hearing the voice of the devil that we can better appreciate the voice of God.” The old man smiled. “I
am joking, of course. Please forgive my aging sense of humor. My filters fail me from time to time.”
With that, Bishop Valdespino motioned ahead. “The others are waiting. This way, please.”
Kirsch eyed their destination, a colossal citadel of gray stone perched on the edge of a sheer cliff
that plunged thousands of feet down into a lush tapestry of wooded foothills. Unnerved by the height,
Kirsch averted his eyes from the chasm and followed the bishop along the uneven cliffside path,
turning his thoughts to the meeting ahead.
Kirsch had requested an audience with three prominent religious leaders who had just finished
attending a conference here.
The Parliament of the World’s Religions.
Since 1893, hundreds of spiritual leaders from nearly thirty world religions had gathered in a
different location every few years to spend a week engaged in interfaith dialogue. Participants
included a wide array of influential Christian priests, Jewish rabbis, and Islamic mullahs from around
the world, along with Hindu pujaris, Buddhist bhikkhus, Jains, Sikhs, and others.
The parliament’s self-proclaimed objective was “to cultivate harmony among the world’s
religions, build bridges between diverse spiritualities, and celebrate the intersections of all faith.”
A noble quest, Kirsch thought, despite seeing it as an empty exercise—a meaningless search for
random points of correspondence among a hodgepodge of ancient fictions, fables, and myths.
As Bishop Valdespino guided him along the pathway, Kirsch peered down the mountainside with a
sardonic thought. Moses climbed a mountain to accept the Word of God … and I have climbed a
mountain to do quite the opposite.
Kirsch’s motivation for climbing this mountain, he had told himself, was one of ethical obligation,
but he knew there was a good dose of hubris fueling this visit—he was eager to feel the gratification
of sitting face-to-face with these clerics and foretelling their imminent demise.
You’ve had your run at defining our truth.
“I looked at your curriculum vitae,” the bishop said abruptly, glancing at Kirsch. “I see you’re a
product of Harvard University?”
“Undergraduate. Yes.”
“I see. Recently, I read that for the first time in Harvard’s history, the incoming student body
consists of more atheists and agnostics than those who identify as followers of any religion. That is
quite a telling statistic, Mr. Kirsch.”
What can I tell you, Kirsch wanted to reply, our students keep getting smarter.
The wind whipped harder as they arrived at the ancient stone edifice. Inside the dim light of the
building’s entryway, the air was heavy with the thick fragrance of burning frankincense. The two men
snaked through a maze of dark corridors, and Kirsch’s eyes fought to adjust as he followed his
cloaked host. Finally, they arrived at an unusually small wooden door. The bishop knocked, ducked
down, and entered, motioning for his guest to follow.
Uncertain, Kirsch stepped over the threshold.
He found himself in a rectangular chamber whose high walls burgeoned with ancient leather-bound
tomes. Additional freestanding bookshelves jutted out of the walls like ribs, interspersed with castiron
radiators that clanged and hissed, giving the room the eerie sense that it was alive. Kirsch raised
his eyes to the ornately balustraded walkway that encircled the second story and knew without a
doubt where he was.
The famed library of Montserrat, he realized, startled to have been admitted. This sacred room
was rumored to contain uniquely rare texts accessible only to those monks who had devoted their
lives to God and who were sequestered here on this mountain.
“You asked for discretion,” the bishop said. “This is our most private space. Few outsiders have
ever entered.”
“A generous privilege. Thank you.”
Kirsch followed the bishop to a large wooden table where two elderly men sat waiting. The man
on the left looked timeworn, with tired eyes and a matted white beard. He wore a crumpled black
suit, white shirt, and fedora.
“This is Rabbi Yehuda Köves,” the bishop said. “He is a prominent Jewish philosopher who has
written extensively on Kabbalistic cosmology.”
Kirsch reached across the table and politely shook hands with Rabbi Köves. “A pleasure to meet
you, sir,” Kirsch said. “I’ve read your books on Kabbala. I can’t say I understood them, but I’ve read
them.”
Köves gave an amiable nod, dabbing at his watery eyes with his handkerchief.
“And here,” the bishop continued, motioning to the other man, “you have the respected allamah,
Syed al-Fadl.”
The revered Islamic scholar stood up and smiled broadly. He was short and squat with a jovial
face that seemed a mismatch with his dark penetrating eyes. He was dressed in an unassuming white
thawb. “And, Mr. Kirsch, I have read your predictions on the future of mankind. I can’t say I agree
with them, but I have read them.”
Kirsch gave a gracious smile and shook the man’s hand.
“And our guest, Edmond Kirsch,” the bishop concluded, addressing his two colleagues, “as you
know, is a highly regarded computer scientist, game theorist, inventor, and something of a prophet in
the technological world. Considering his background, I was puzzled by his request to address the
three of us. Therefore, I shall now leave it to Mr. Kirsch to explain why he has come.”
With that, Bishop Valdespino took a seat between his two colleagues, folded his hands, and gazed
up expectantly at Kirsch. All three men faced him like a tribunal, creating an ambience more like that
of an inquisition than a friendly meeting of scholars. The bishop, Kirsch now realized, had not even
set out a chair for him.
Kirsch felt more bemused than intimidated as he studied the three aging men before him. So this is
the Holy Trinity I requested. The Three Wise Men.
Pausing a moment to assert his power, Kirsch walked over to the window and gazed out at the
breathtaking panorama below. A sunlit patchwork of ancient pastoral lands stretched across a deep
valley, giving way to the rugged peaks of the Collserola mountain range. Miles beyond, somewhere
out over the Balearic Sea, a menacing bank of storm clouds was now gathering on the horizon.

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