How far we’ve fallen from mid-20th century greatness! In pursuit of truth and a bit of infotainment, I aim to reclaim the great personalities of history in an epic sci-fantasy novel ‘Shadows in Time’, taken to the next level in my upcoming ‘Sages’ series. Long overdue is T.E. Lawrence of Lawrence of Arabia fame..
..a true gentleman, scholar, and multi-dimensional warrior!
This Lawrence revival harks back to the origins of “Shangri-La” in Lost Horizon, the first mass-market paperback and one of the most popular novels of the 20th century. We’ll dive into what happened to Lawrence after his “death” and entanglement in interdimensional affairs, from the earliest days of WW2 to the 1960s.
Egypt, 1913
Deep within a sun-scorched tomb, beneath the unrelenting gaze of pharaohs, a lone adventurer deciphered the language of the ancients. Lawrence of Oxfordshire, archaeologist and scholar, was a wisp of a man, his spectacles and sun-bleached pith helmet seeming at odds with the rugged world he inhabited. Yet, his eyes gleamed brighter than any treasure amidst these relics of millennia.
"Good Lord!" he whispered, his voice echoing through silent corridors. "These hieroglyphs… they speak of many arks. And not just vessels of salvation, but repositories of marvels, beyond measure!" A thrill shot through him, the joy of a scholar tasting discovery richer than any gold or treasure.
His elation was short-lived. He heard the crunch of booted feet on sand, the guttural cadence of German soldiers. From his vantage behind a pillar, he watched as agents of a rising Empire entered, eyes glittering with cold purpose.
"The British stumble upon a prize we seek," one hissed. "His meddling will be his grave.."
"The Kaiser demands these wonders," added another. "They hold the promise of Teutonic ascendance, and they will be ours."
Lawrence's blood ran cold. He was no mere academic; whispers of war fluttered across Europe. To expose these designs, this radical rewrite of history.. His life was forfeit, if it meant preserving this knowledge from misuse. After a few quick strokes across the wall he slipped away, a phantom in the shadows, escaping into the blazing desert carrying a world-changing secret.
London, 1936
Lawrence sat in a dark drawing-room, wood-paneled and heavy with the scent of old leather. Lord Churchill, stout and jowly, puffed on a cigar. An MI6 man, sharp-faced and humorless sat beside him, rigid as a ramrod. Before them, a map was spread – mountains, monasteries, and mystery in the heart of Tibet.
"Lawrence," Churchill intoned, "one of your fabled ark sites…we have word of its whereabouts. Intelligence suggests the Germans hunger for it too. Its importance… it may well decide the fate of nations."
The MI6 man broke his silence. "You, sir, are uniquely equipped to retrieve whatever lies within. It must be in British hands, not those of the Führer and his minions."
A spark reignited in Lawrence's eyes, the archaeologist's spirit burning through the Oxford don. "I'll unearth the truth," he vowed, "and preserve it, come hell or high mountains."
"Splendid!" Churchill boomed. "But understand, this is not a sanctioned operation. No crown, no flag. You must vanish, yet succeed!" And so it began..
Lhasa, Tibet, 1937
The holy city was a riot for the senses – monks chanting, prayer wheels spinning, the tang of yak butter and incense. Lawrence, disguised as a merchant, wove through the chaos, his eyes ever vigilant. He was a lone wolf here, the fate of empires resting on his slender shoulders.
His months in the timeless city were a game of shadows. Informants were won, lost, or exposed. False trails led him into shadowed alleys or snow-choked passes. The Germans hunted him too, whispers of his presence carried on the wind. Still, he endured, unlocking secrets, drawing ever closer to the monastery on the map.
Reaching the outskirts of Lhasa, Lawrence sought out an airfield, relics of the Great War rusting in the thin air. Amidst the decay, he found Farad, a grizzled Tibetan, the mechanic's eyes reflecting the boundless sky.
"Can those bones fly again?" Lawrence asked, pointing at a biplane that was more optimism than aircraft.
Farad stroked his graying beard. "With blessings, luck, and much tinkering, young master, perhaps."
They labored under moon and stars, Lawrence's hands, once soft for manuscripts, turning rough with grease and determination. The reborn engine was a raucous song, a hymn to defiance and the yearning for discovery.
The air grew thinner as they climbed higher through the pristine azure vault. The green valleys shrank away, replaced by a tableau of soaring peaks and crystalline glaciers. For Lawrence, it was an ecstasy of fear and altitude, of discovery and limitless possibility.
Then the black cross appeared, slicing across the endless sky. A German fighter plane, relic of the Great War like themselves, strafed the biplane's rickety frame with explosive bursts. Farad, crouched in the rear gunner's perch, retaliated in kind with staccato blasts from his Vickers machine gun.
The two aircraft were suddenly entwined in a spiraling aerial duel, straining against gravity and centrifugal force. Bursts of smoke and debris bloomed in the razored slipstream as bullets shredded aluminum. The German plane curled away, stricken, before plummeting to the implacable earth below in a plume of black smoke.
But Lawrence and Farad's own craft had sustained mortal wounds. Its torn fuselage shuddered violently as they struggled to maintain control. Then a wing crumpled, sending them into an unrecoverable spin toward the rocky slopes below.
Control stick dead in his hands, Lawrence surrendered to the bliss of free fall, pristine peaks alternating with the rocky cliffs below. As they plunged toward the earth, his eyes caught a fleeting glimpse of ancient stone walls - an inscrutable monastery, mute witness to their violent descent. Their plane crash-landed at the base of the ancient monastery, its looming, weathered walls a testament to centuries of secrets.
The plane's fuselage crunched into the snow covered rocks but held fast, suspended hundreds of meters above (a winding river | the valley) below. Miraculously, Lawrence and Farad emerged from the wreckage unscathed, the Tibetan offering a quick prayer to his deities. Their eyes traced the dizzying heights above, the only path to the monastery's entrance. Undeterred, they secured their carabiners and ropes and began the treacherous ascent.
Buffeted by gusts of wind, they inched upwards, fingers clinging to razor-thin holds. Loose stones tumbled past, a reminder of the peril they faced. Lawrence's arms burned as he hauled himself over a bulging overhang. Below him, Farad grunted with exertion, sweat dripping from his brow.
At last, they reached a narrow ledge near the summit. A looming rock face provided their final obstacle. Summoning their last reserves of strength, they scaled it hand-over-hand, ignoring aching muscles and bloodied fingertips.
They collapsed at the monastery entrance, chest heaving. But their relief was short-lived. Ancient mechanisms whirred to life as they crawled across the threshold. Giant stone blocks thudded closed behind them, sealing the exit. Lawrence winced as invisible darts hissed from both walls in a deadly crossfire.
Dodging and weaving through the hail of projectiles, they raced deeper into the monastery. A groaning rumble signaled an imminent collapse of the ceiling. Without breaking stride, Farad shoved Lawrence through an archway into the next chamber, a shower of rubble burying him moments later.
There was no time to mourn as the walls continued shaking. Lawrence gave his friend a final salute, then plunged back into the labyrinth, alone, in pursuit of the Ark.
Lawrence soon lost all sense of direction as he twisted through the convoluted maze. He froze as heavy footsteps echoed nearby, punctuated by the metallic click of rounds being chambered.
Turning the corner, he came face-to-face with a squad of SS Ahnenerbe troopers, their uniforms bearing the iconic Totenkopf insignia. Their submachine guns swiveled towards him, the chamber filling with shouts.
Lawrence threw himself aside as a hail of bullets chewed into the stone where he'd stood. With a leap he bounded toward the opposite doorway, deafening gunfire seeking his life as fragments of stone stung his face. The game of cat and mouse had begun anew in this underground labyrinth.
Noticing a strange symbol Lawrence slipped into a side passage, all light disappearing as it narrowed into a claustrophobic crawlway into the unknown. The tunnel led lower, naught but inky darkness and dust, until a point of light appeared in the distance. Heart beating with excitement Lawrence picked up the pace, half scrambling half sliding his way toward the light. Suddenly the tunnel steepened, sending him into an uncontrolled slide. Slamming his feet to either side he braked his descent, tumbling into a dim, dusty chamber moments later. Blinking and disoriented Lawrence stood and brushed himself off, taking in the large circular chamber, walls etched with symbols that pulsed with an eerie inner light. The air thrummed with dormant energy, sending shivers down his spine.
"A gateway," he breathed in astonishment, his voice a mere whisper in this vast space. This was it – the true heart of the ancients' power..
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