There Clayton sits on the other bank on his rock, beckoning me to walk on the water as Christ once did to reach him. Who is this dignified man sitting beside him in the fields of Provence, holding his book in his hands? It must be Michel Nostradamus. He takes the brim of his hat, then bows his head to me in reverence, and I do the same. And there is that tender mother standing at the end of the illuminated tunnel, raising her hand high to receive me into her arms . Is this Shadia or is it my mother? No, it is motherhood itself, the source of raw, pure tenderness that I find myself crying freely and loudly in longing for, I find myself leaning on a dry branch, my head wrapped in a vinegar-scented bandage, so I throw down my cane, unwrap myself and throw them into the sea of Cava. I run towards her, then settle in her arms like a lost speck that is found and lights up as soon as it connects with the source of love, my mother. I remember now the lullaby that gives eternal peace, she sings it to me now. It is tranquility, it is tranquility.
******
I can see some of you are wondering now: Am I dead? Of course not, otherwise how would I have told you this story? In fact, I woke up the next day to find that my twin brother was dead.
Yes, now you understand what happened, I killed my brother's look-alike, not my look-alike, and my look-alike is still free, and he is not innocent of his brother's dirty deeds either.
Where am I now?
I'm now inside Safwat's device which is signaling to me that it's time to go after the bastard, but this time I'm going to make sure to get it done.
I remember that Mary had described me as an angel, but am I really one? I think the word that accurately describes me is that I am the "shadow angel", the one who saves others from a dark cellar whose key is in the hand of a demon, looking for his death among the screaming monsters that chase him, but in the shadows without anyone knowing about him, like the prophet of God Yahya, but this time I am the one who holds the harp in my hand playing the notes to which Salome sways, and I know very well that the end of the musical piece and my notes mean cutting off my head and putting it on a platter.
It's me ... Adam.
It's me ... the Egyptian magician.
It's me ... the shadow angel