The Newton Prophecies

Prologue & Chapter 1

Prologue

In a church tagged for demolition three months prior, Father Driscoll prepared to unveil the darkest secret he had ever known. Media from all over New England--gathered in by the renegade cardinal--lined the cathedral like cockroaches. They had been told to expect the story of the millennium, and they were ready for it, or so they thought.
         The sun's rays beamed through the many rows of stained glass--scenes of the Lord's birth, ministry, and death--casting a warm, yet haunting array of color over the congregation. The aroma of incense filled the cathedral. Father Driscoll, in full robe, held a chalice to the heavens, mumbling, his heart in profound prayer. The congregation bowed as he lowered the cup and drank from it.

† † †

         Lurking in the bowels of one of the oldest churches in America, unseen by its most faithful, an unspeakable terror shifted through the rank darkness toward the bustling chapel.

† † †

         The congregation rose in song, dressed in their Sunday best, hymnals tight against their bosoms. To the media they were like spirits; their voices rang as angels singing to their God. The cathedral ran thick with the spirit of the Lord.
         Father Driscoll watched his faithful sing while the media readied their equipment. The events that would soon transpire played through his mind like a late night horror show. It was not a secret he could simply sweep under the rug like so many times before. This was far too dire; and, it was truly happening; it was not just some rumor floating about cyberspace, his brother had unwittingly confessed to that.
         He had no choice; he had to stop it.
         Something struck the back of his neck. It stung for a moment, then went numb. His hands instinctively rose to feel what it was. A warm liquid spilled across his fingers. His knees grew weak. Dizziness. The room spun. Then darkness.

† † †

         No one noticed Father Driscoll fall, but when the singing ceased and the congregation lowered back into their pews it became clear, something was wrong.
         "My God!" a voice fired from the altar.
         The media hustled toward the fallen priest, cameras in hand, tapes running, microphones listening, flashbulbs sparking.
         Members of the congregation were swiftly shoved aside. Some got close enough to see, most simply fell to their knees and cried.
         The cardinal priest lay face down on the altar floor, a pool of blood haloing his head. A long black dart protruded from the back of his swollen neck, as his body lay lifeless--perfectly still.
         "He's dead!" a man shouted.
         As the congregation grew hysterical, a woman dressed in pure black pulled a piece of paper from the cardinal's robe. Brittle, yellow, it crumpled slightly in her fingers.
         "What is this?" she cried.
         Every camera focused on the tiny piece of parchment; most of it had been blacked out with what appeared to be a magic-marker; the handwriting that remained was hardly legible--very old.
         It wasn't the story of the millennium, but it would surely make the front page.

Chapter 1

"What's the difference between the end of the world and the date Isaac Newton predicted?" Michael DiBianco had a strong chin and raised it slightly when he spoke. It wasn't arrogance so much as confidence, confidence in what he said, and in what he knew. "It is a reasonable question--"
         DiBianco spread his hands in front of him and paced circles around the mahogany conference table. His was a small class, one of the smallest at Harvard Divinity. Only those elite few, having shown unique interest in scientific divinity, ever came to know DiBianco in such an intimate setting. "--and a simple one, when you allow your mind to open the way Newton's did."
         Caressing the stubble on his chin, DiBianco gazed out a tall window into a spacious courtyard. Harvard Divinity was an amazing place. A world far removed--spiritually and mentally--from the main university, though physically there were mere blocks separating them.
         The sun shown with a brilliance the week prior had missed, and for a moment DiBianco imagined himself sprawled amidst the freshly trimmed grasses, gazing up at the countless mammals, birds, insects, and organisms woven into the very brick of the structures surrounding him. The warmth of the sun penetrated his skin, filling his soul with renewed strength and wisdom.
         Part of him wasn't sure if he should be sharing what he was about to map out with his class; the other part--the part grounded in the world of science and reason--was positive; this was the best place to start.
         His latest book, God Science, was days from landing on the cluttered desks of his scientific peers, who were always eager to slam his hypotheses and theories into the frigid rank earth. He longed to test his latest batch--before the entire world had their say in the matter--on those closest and dearest.
         His students.
         "He wasn't predicting the end," a female voice pierced from behind.
         DiBianco spun on his heals at the wise voice. "Yes," he declared. "That's precisely right." DiBianco looked upon his student with impressed eyes.
         She was an attractive woman, fairly new to his class; young too, couldn't have been older than nineteen. Her crystal blue eyes beamed with purity--nearly made his heart flutter. He imagined it was for that very reason her parents had named her Crystal.
         Such a wonderful name.
         "Isaac Newton was not predicting the end..." DiBianco unlocked his gaze from hers and glanced about the class. "He was predicting the beginning."
         "I don't understand," a young man said, his eyes deeply inquisitive. "How... Why?" His eyes narrowed. "We're already here, Professor."
         "Fair enough." DiBianco's arms crossed at his chest. He circled the class with his index finger. "I bet you all, to some degree, have similar thoughts. Lord knows I did."
         "You're losing us, Professor," another woman said.
         "Don't think of it in terms of beginning and end. God is eternal. Remember. In Heaven there is no beginning or end." DiBianco clamped his hands together like he was about to pray, spun them inward and stretched them out in front of him. A long, loud series of crackles reverberated through the small space, sending shivers through his students.
         He continued undaunted. "In 2003 it was made public that Sir Isaac Newton had predicted that the year 2060 would bring the end of the world. That message was not only unfair, but untrue, and has since touched nearly everybody in earshot of the world's media. It astonishes me that Dan Brown hasn't written a book about it. I'm certain he's punching away at his keyboard as we speak.
         "But I digress. The point to be made is that the media was wrong. Newton was a profound thinker, a spiritual man whose beliefs in the divine differed from that of the great and powerful church; beliefs he knew would have driven The Church to imprison him, possibly until death."
         DiBianco noticed his students perk up at the word. Death. It was an intriguing subject.
         "Isaac Newton studied the verses of Daniel immensely. Knowing the Hebrew language and having impeccable skills in the art of translation, Newton translated the book from its original writings. In fact, for over fifty years he pondered the Bible's many hidden messages and secrets--"
         "Secrets?" Crystal's blue eyes lit ablaze.
         "Absolutely." DiBianco's excitement over the subject was impossible to misinterpret. He was fanatical. "The Bible flows with hidden secrets; messages, codes, clues; answers to things we have yet to even think about."
         "Come on, Crystal," a young man injected, "everyone's heard of The Bible Code. Have you been living under a rock?"
         "That's enough," DiBianco said with a slight chuckle. "Isaac Newton knew these secrets existed--not The Bible Code per say, but real hidden messages. He studied the Bible in great depth over the course of his life, hand writing thousands of pages, journalizing his findings."
         "What exactly did he find, Professor?"
         "Patience. I intend to explain." DiBianco strode toward the end of the table, grabbed a large leather-bound Bible and flipped through the gold-leafed pages, to a section marked by ribbon placeholders. "As many of you ought to know--hopefully by listening to my lessons on the very factual matters behind the lure, though likely through Brown's fictional ranting--Isaac Newton is believed by many to have been one of the Prieuré de Sion's most grandeur masters," he said in his best French accent.
         It wasn't difficult to spot the sudden mystification flood his student's gazes. They were a brilliant bunch, and DiBianco knew it; yet somehow his words would often got lost in his philosophical tangents. "The Priory of Sion," he explained. All at once, looks of recognition fluttered off their youthful façades like spring rain.
         "I thought the Priory has been proven a hoax?" a young woman said.
         "That's precisely what they want us to believe, my dear." DiBianco fingered through a few more pages, looking for the right place to start. "Do you really think that if the Priory of Sion was a real organization, that they would allow some fictional scribe to expose their secrets? Really now."
         "I suppose not, Professor," she replied sheepishly.
         "It was Newton's pure brilliance in science, combined with a nearly inconceivable connection with the Church's most heavily guarded secrets, that compelled me to finish my latest book, God Science." Somewhere midway through the latter-half of the sixteen-hundred page volume, DiBianco planted his finger on the page and read.
         "How long shall it be to the end of these wonders?" DiBianco glanced at the twelve youthful souls hovering about the conference table, their faces impressed by his every word. "Who can explain the 'Wonders' referred to in this passage?"
         The room was silent.
         "Come on," he said in an oddly serious, yet playful tone, "we discussed this just last week."
         "The apostasy?" a young woman said.
         "That fairly well sums it up," he said. "Daniel is such a short book, one of the shortest in the Bible, and yet it encapsulates so many amazing and powerful--"
         "I don't believe it," a young man interrupted. Sam was a good kid, a little rough around the edges, but good. DiBianco liked the challenges he often represented.
         "Believe what, Sam?" said DiBianco.
         "How can we be expected to believe half the stuff written in here?" he said, waving his pocket Bible in the air.
         DiBianco wasn't sure what to say.
         Sam gazed at DiBianco with a raw blend of intrigue and doubt. "Don't get me wrong, Professor, I love Christ, God, my Church, but I think we all know how much Constantine screwed things up, when he gathered the first council of Nicaea in 325 A.D. to recreate God's          Church to meet his own selfish needs..."
         DiBianco cringed. This was where things could easily, and quickly get ugly. His class was different from the rest at Divinity--DiBianco often got away with teaching things the rest of the school wouldn't dream of--yet, he was still just a professor at a school of divinity; a school--though officially nonsectarian--run primarily by deeply rooted Christians. He and the Dean were close. She wouldn't stand for half the stuff he believed in, and would likely despise him if she had even a clue. He could not allow this to go much farther.
         "...There are countless books missing from the Bible," Sam continued, "and the books that are here have been doctored by the early Church."
         "That's where you're mistaken," DiBianco declared, finally sensing a way out of the mess. "The Church did not doctor scriptures to conform to their needs, nor to the needs of the Roman empire." DiBianco paused. He knew what he was about to say would likely cause a firestorm of controversy. But this was his controversy; controversy only he could get away with. It was classic DiBianco. A strategy he enjoyed and employed often, and with graceful enthusiasm. No other Divinity Professor could stimulate the attention of young souls quite like Michael DiBianco.
         "The gospel authors themselves--even Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John--doctored their own accounts of Jesus's life in an attempt to conceal the greatest secret ever known to man."

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