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69 pages

English

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Description

Ethan is a religion professor at Columbia University obsessed with Jewish mysticism whose Muslim lover, Yaqub, has been falsely accused of terrorism. Ethan's struggle to clear Yaqub's name leads him to the Holy Land where he attempts to open the ancient gates to the Temple Mount

Sujets

Visionary

Metaphysical

Fiction

Informations

Publié par	eBookIt.com
Date de parution	25 mars 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781456615215
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Hei
by
Bernard Amador

Also by Bernard Amador
To Know Å Fallen Angel:
Understanding the Mind of a Sexual Predator
Cyber-Eugenics: The Neural Code
The Rut

Hudson Mohawk Press
595 New Loudon Road #138
Latham , New York 12110
www.hudsonmohawkpress.com
hudsonmohawkpress.blogspot.com
www.facebook.com/hudsonmohawkpress
Copyright © 2012 by Bernard Amador
www.toknowafallenangel.com
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First edition published in paperback in 2012 by Hudson Mohawk Press (ISBN 978-0-9843040-6-6 )
Library of Con gress Control Number: 2012951232 (Hudson Mohawk Press edition)

The Hei is an adaptation of the screenplay The High
© 2011 Bernard Amador ( PAu 3-567-352)
Book design by Bernard Amador
Cover Image: Bernard Amador

For Bill
Life with you is effortless, like floating on the
Dead Sea .

Contents
Prologue
Part I: Visionary Thinking
Part II: A Portal
Part III: The Gates
Part IV: Tikkun
Epilogue
About the Author

Prologue
Sing Sing, 2025
A single bolt of lightning touched down in the Hudson River as I awaited my fate. The clouds crackled followed by a roar of thunder. There I was shackled in a bright yellow jumpsuit wearing teffilin and tallit. The walk I was about to take to the prison infirmary and my reason for going were giving me vertigo. I’ve walked this earth for forty years but this afternoon I felt like the thirty-three year old Christ walking the Via Dolorosa. It really doesn’t matter that I’m a Jew, so was he. It does matter, however, to my chest-protruding over-confidant Israeli watch keeper Moses Sahid who has been by my side since I was extradited to the United States from Jerusalem and housed in Sing Sing.
Sing Sing sits in the town of Ossining , New York , approximately thirty miles north of New York City on the Hudson River . I am one of the two thousand inmates the maximum security prison houses. The name of the prison was taken from a Native American tribe from whom the land was “purchased”. Its name is appropriate for my circumstances. Sing Sing literally means “stone upon stone”. When this day is all said and done stones will be piled upon one another on my grave so that my soul will be bound up in the bonds of eternal life. It is my mantra that my beloved Palestinian mate Yaqub Abad be with me.
Muslim hip hop music flowed through the long corridor of cells as I took my final walk. Ali’s arms rested on the bars as I passed. Like Christ I took a moment to rest and press my hand above the concrete wall. The sweat on my palm left an imprint beside the steel metal bars. When I arrived at Sing Sing, Ali made my acquaintance and tried to convert me to Islam. This was the last time I wished him well.
“Peace be with you, my brother!”
“Ethan, praise Allah in your journey,” said Ali as he turned off his radio playing the hip hop music and grabbed a metal cup.
Ali took his metal cup and started to bang on the steel bars. Other inmates followed his lead and rhythmically banged. The bangs continued for six hundred and fifteen times marking me as the six hundred and fifteenth prisoner executed at Sing Sing. The last inmate executed at Sing Sing was Eddie Mays in 1963. The practice of execution at the prison was discontinued in 1972 after the United States Supreme Court ruled in Furman v. Georgia that the death penalty was unconstitutional. The death penalty returned to New York in 2008 through the back door when it was reinstated for those outcasts of society who took it upon themselves to kill a federal law enforcement officer.
Three court officers escorted me and Moses into the prison infirmary. A medical doctor dressed in a white coat and black rimmed glasses motioned to a nurse wearing a green surgical gown to prepare the room. The doctor checked the needles attached to tubes leading to intravenous bags. The nurse passed by me and headed for an adjacent room. I could see her through a glass window. She lifted a phone receiver off a desk and dialed as she held the receiver to her ear. The doctor sat on a padded stool. His face was hidden behind a surgical mask. The doctor got up and walked over to me. He did not say a word. Moses removed the shackles from my feet. The doctor went over to the wall and pressed a button. A screen rose to reveal spectators as they filed into the room next door, quickly taking a seat as they entered, eager to see the spectacle of which I was the star.
As I was mentally preparing myself to take my last breath, my thirty year old Palestinian beloved stood in his jail cell three floors above. My sixty-five year old Papa, Ira Hammond stood outside Yaqub’s cell waiting for the door to open. The door clicked and opened. Yaqub exited the cell carrying tefillin and walked up to Papa. Both men stood outside the cell looking at each other in awkward silence. Papa looked at the tefillin in Yaqub’s hands and spoke.
“You seem to have come to your senses.”
“No thanks to these,” said Yaqub as he lifted the tefillin.
“Those are not for play.”
“You don’t have to convince me.”
“Do you know those were designed in the image of the first and second temple? An aerial view tells it all.”
“Aerial view?” asked Yaqub.
“Of the temple that housed the Holy of Holies.”
“I h aven’t seen it.”
“Quite telling,” said Papa as he took a tefillin and lifted it up to Yaqub. “It’s the image of a minim. A direct link to the song of the universe.”
“Do you mean half note? Silence for two beats.”
“Yes, only the sound of the universe,” said Papa.
“At peace with the one,” said Yaqub.
“Rests of the heart,” said Papa. “It’s like the fifth letter Hei symbolizing half. It’s where thought and breath join. The point where time and space begin to form.”
“Thank you for getting me out of here.”
“I couldn’t have done it without my son’s help.”
“Is he back?”
“They extradited him. Got back the day before yesterday,” said Papa. “He risked his life for you and even though he found the people who were responsible they are blaming him. He’s three floors below on his way to be executed as we speak.”
“That’s not what he went there for,” said Yaqub as he handed Papa the other tefillin and ran down the hall away from Papa.
“They won’t release you without my signature!”
“I have to stop it!”
“I’ve spoken to the Feds!”
“In that case you better hurry,” shouted Yaqub as he disappeared down the hall.
Papa ran after him. It wasn’t Yaqub’s fault that I was in this predicament. I brought this all upon myself ten years ago.

Part I: Visionary Thinking

Chapter I
Central Park , New York City, 2015
On that bright Sabbath morning I took my usual stroll, along the perimeter of Central Park on Fifth Avenue . The heat of the sun permeated my yamulka. I could feel Hashem’s presence. As I strolled along I drew near the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A blind man resembling a young Ray Charles sat on a bench feeding pigeons out of a small brown paper bag. The flock of birds fluttered around him trying to get what little the blind man had to offer. One of the birds was caught in a purple ribbon attached to a helium balloon that read: Happy Birthday!
The bird struggled, so I approached to release it from its constraint. The flock danced away and back toward the blind man who was taking pleasure in the cool breeze that the birds’ wings wafted towards him. The blind man stopped feeding the birds and listened as I scurried around to catch the entangled bird. Almost tripping over the flock I caught the pigeon and freed it from its bondage then moved on. Portal Jones, a forty year old homeless schizophrenic woman, stood on a milk crate peeling a golden delicious apple as I approached the entrance of the museum. Her paranoia penetrated my being as I passed. Portal’s eyes darted around and followed me as I walked up to the museum entrance.
My passion and strong desire for what I’ve been trying to teach my beloved Yaqub was reflected in the art of my ancestral Jewish culture. There I stood as I did each week on the second floor of the museum mesmerized by Marc Chagall’s 1923 painting The Fallen Angel . Meditating on the single eye of the falling angel in the painting put me in a trance as I mumbled my mantra for the day. After seeing Portal my lesson for the day was the need to humble myself. I repeated to myself, “The lowest outcasts are the tools of the divine.” Right there right then on that special Sabbath, I could feel the energy as my body swayed. I could feel myself getting closer.
“The lowest outcasts are the tools of the divine...,” that’s until Yaqub nudged me.
“Ethan!”
“Uh.”
“Here again?! Been looking all over for you.”
Yaqub motioned to the Chagall.
“You’ve analyzed it for months.”
“I tried explaining it to you.”
“Others are trying to get a glimpse,” said Yaqub as he motioned behind me.
Other museum patrons looked annoyed as I turned around and looked behind me. I walked away.
“Sorry.”
“You have to stop this! Where are you going?!,” shouted Yaqub as I took flight from the gallery.
I bolted for the stairs and Yaqub rushed after me as I ran out of the museum. Portal was now sitting on her milk crate. As I tried to run by she jumped up at me holding her carving knife in one hand and half peeled apple in the other. I backed away from the crazy woman as she shouted at me.
“Hey!”
I ignored her and moved on. As I slowed down and walked at a normal pace I turned and saw Yaqub descending the stairs looking for me.
“The angel calls!” shouted Portal.
I walked back up to her.
“What?” I asked.
Portal handed me the ap