I am due south of Heredom.
He continued around the perimeter to the next window. Looking west, Langdon's eyes traced the long rectangle of the reflecting pool to the Lincoln Memorial, its classical Greek architecture inspired by the Parthenon in Athens, Temple to Athena--goddess of heroic undertakings.
Annuit coeptis, Langdon thought. God favors our undertaking.
Continuing to the final window, Langdon gazed southward across the dark waters of the Tidal Basin, where the Jefferson Memorial shone brightly in the night. The gently sloping cupola, Langdon knew, was modeled after the Pantheon, the original home to the great Roman gods of mythology.
Having looked in all four directions, Langdon now thought about the aerial photos he had seen of the National Mall--her four arms outstretched from the Washington Monument toward the cardinal points of the compass. I am standing at the crossroads of America.
Langdon continued back around to where Peter was standing. His mentor was beaming. "Well, Robert, this is it. The Lost Word. This is where it's buried. The Masonic Pyramid led us here."
Langdon did a double take. He had all but forgotten about the Lost Word.
"Robert, I know of nobody more trustworthy than you. And after a night like tonight, I believe you deserve to know what this is all about. As promised in legend, the Lost Word is indeed buried at the bottom of a winding staircase." He motioned to the mouth of the monument's long stairwell.
Langdon had finally started to get his feet back under him, but now he was puzzled. Peter quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. "Do you remember this?"
Langdon took the cube-shaped box that Peter had entrusted to him long ago. "Yes . . . but I'm afraid I didn't do a very good job of protecting it."
Solomon chuckled. "Perhaps the time had come for it to see the light of day."
Langdon eyed the stone cube, wondering why Peter had just handed it to him.
"What does this look like to you?" Peter asked.
Langdon eyed the 1514 and recalled his first impression when Katherine had unwrapped the package. "A cornerstone."
"Exactly," Peter replied. "Now, there are a few things you might not know about cornerstones. First, the concept of laying a cornerstone comes from the Old Testament."
Langdon nodded. "The Book of Psalms."
"Correct. And a true cornerstone is always buried beneath the ground--symbolizing the building's initial step upward out of the earth toward the heavenly light."
Langdon glanced out at the Capitol, recalling that its cornerstone was buried so deep in the foundation that, to this day, excavations had been unable to find it.
"And finally," Solomon said, "like the stone box in your hand, many cornerstones are little vaults . . . and have hollow cavities so that they can hold buried treasures . . . talismans, if you will-- symbols of hope for the future of the building about to be erected."
Langdon was well aware of this tradition, too. Even today, Masons laid cornerstones in which they sealed meaningful objects--time capsules, photos, proclamations, even the ashes of important people.
"My purpose in telling you this," Solomon said, glancing over at the stairwell, "should be clear."
"You think the Lost Word is buried in the cornerstone of the Washington Monument?"
"I don't think, Robert. I know. The Lost Word was buried in the cornerstone of this monument on July 4, 1848, in a full Masonic ritual."
Langdon stared at him. "Our Masonic forefathers buried a word?!"
Peter nodded. "They did indeed. They understood the true power of what they were burying."
All night, Langdon had been trying to wrap his mind around sprawling, ethereal concepts . . . the Ancient Mysteries, the Lost Word, the Secrets of the Ages. He wanted something solid, and despite Peter's claims that the key to it all was buried in a cornerstone 555 feet beneath him, Langdon was having a hard time accepting it. People study the mysteries for entire lifetimes and are still unable to access the power allegedly hidden there. Langdon flashed on Durer's Melencolia I--the image of the dejected Adept, surrounded by the tools of his failed efforts to unveil the mystical secrets of alchemy. If the secrets can actually be unlocked, they will not be found in one place!
Any answer, Langdon had always believed, was spread across the world in thousands of volumes . . . encoded into writings of Pythagoras, Hermes, Heraclitus, Paracelsus, and hundreds of others. The answer was found in dusty, forgotten tomes on alchemy, mysticism, magic, and philosophy. The answer was hidden in the ancient library of Alexandria, the clay tablets of Sumer, and the hieroglyphs of Egypt.
"Peter, I'm sorry," Langdon said quietly, shaking his head. "To understand the Ancient Mysteries is a lifelong process. I can't imagine how the key could possibly rest within a single word."
Peter placed a hand on Langdon's shoulder. "Robert, the Lost Word is not a `word.'" He gave a sage smile. "We only call it the `Word' because that's what the ancients called it . . . in the beginning."
CHAPTER 130
In the beginning was the Word.
Dean Galloway knelt at the Great Crossing of the National Cathedral and prayed for America. He prayed that his beloved country would soon come to grasp the true power of the Word--the recorded collection of the written wisdom of all the ancient masters--the spiritual truths taught by the great sages.
History had blessed mankind with the wisest of teachers, profoundly enlightened souls whose understanding of the spiritual and mental mysteries exceeded all understanding. The precious words of these Adepts--Buddha, Jesus, Muhammad, Zoroaster, and countless others--had been transmitted through history in the oldest and most precious of vessels.
Books.
Every culture on earth had its own sacred book--its own Word--each one different and yet each one the same. For Christians, the Word was the Bible, for Muslims the Koran, for Jews the Torah, for Hindus the Vedas, and on and on it went.
The Word shall light the way.
For America's Masonic forefathers, the Word had been the Bible. And yet few people in history have understood its true message.
Tonight, as Galloway knelt alone within the great cathedral, he placed his hands upon the Word--a well-worn copy of his own Masonic Bible. This treasured book, like all Masonic Bibles, contained the Old Testament, the New Testament, and a treasure trove of Masonic philosophical writings.
Although Galloway's eyes could no longer read the text, he knew the preface by heart. Its glorious message had been read by millions of his brethren in countless languages around the world.
The text read:
TIME IS A RIVER . . . AND BOOKS ARE BOATS. MANY VOLUMES START DOWN THAT STREAM, ONLY TO BE WRECKED AND LOST BEYOND RECALL IN ITS SANDS. ONLY A FEW, A VERY FEW, ENDURE THE TESTINGS OF TIME AND LIVE TO BLESS THE AGES FOLLOWING.
There is a reason these volumes survived, while others vanished. As a scholar of faith, Dean Galloway had always found it astonishing that the ancient spiritual texts--the most studied books on earth--were, in fact, the least understood.
Concealed within those pages, there hides a wondrous secret.
One day soon the light would dawn, and mankind would finally begin to grasp the simple, transformative truth of the ancient teachings . . . and take a quantum leap forward in understanding his own magnificent nature.
CHAPTER 131
The winding staircase that descends the spine of the Washington Monument consists of 896 stone steps that spiral around an open elevator shaft. Langdon and Solomon were making their way down, Langdon still grappling with the startling fact that Peter had shared with him only moments ago: Robert, buried within the hollow cornerstone of this monument, our forefathers placed a single copy of the Word--the Bible--which waits in darkness at the foot of this staircase.