The universe is one of humanity’s greatest guides. By carefully observing the earth and the creatures that live upon it, we can uncover the solutions to countless mysteries. Most living beings open their eyes to life only after a period of incubation. For this incubation to proceed properly, the essential elements within the egg—carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, and others—must be present in perfect balance. And for the chain of transformations to occur, certain catalysts and conditions must also be in place so that each reaction unfolds exactly as it should.

An uncountable number of elements, passing through an uncountable number of reactions, first produces the cell, then specialized tissues, and finally the organs. During this delicate process, an externally supplied warmth—along with gently turning the egg in the right direction—is essential for a healthy embryo.

Only after all these stages does the chick strike the shell from within and take its first step onto the long road called life.

But if that same act—cracking the shell—were done from the outside rather than from within, the embryo would neither survive nor gain any benefit from the egg.

The universe, through the simple story of a hatching chick, offers us an important message:

“If an individual wishes to change their society—change their world—they must begin that transformation from within, using the virtues already inside them: honesty, justice, kindness, selflessness. One may certainly adopt certain qualities or ideas from another civilization or another land, so long as they harmonize with their own nature. But when the boundaries of such external influence are not clearly drawn, uncontrolled and excessive power can shatter a society just as a force striking an eggshell from the outside destroys the life within.”

Abraham, Mark, and the other young islanders were alike in some ways and different in others, yet they shared a respect for each other’s views, a belief that no mortal should be sanctified, and a commitment to honesty and truth. Through these shared values, they had created a powerful synergy on the island—a synergy of change that had ripened and was now ready to crack the shell of oppression the Lord had built around them.

Far beyond the island, to the northeast, there lay a stretch of green land surrounded by blue waters. Here lived people whose skin tones ranged from fair to dark, with even a few of much deeper hue; whose eyes could be black, blue, green, or hazel; and whose hair might be black, blond, or red. And like all humans, they did not truly mind these differences—within them lived the same capacity for love and virtue.

But the heavy shadow of the Dark Ages had settled over them like a suffocating nightmare. It was a darkness so profound that minds were numbed and unable to think, a veil had descended over their eyes so they could no longer see, and layers of blindness had been drawn over their hearts, preventing them from looking upon the world with love, mercy, or understanding.

Tyrants had forged the greatest alliance history had ever seen, and their claws were now wrapped around this once-bright continent. Within its grand castles, manors, and palaces, rulers and nobles either exploited the people for their own gain or distracted them with empty promises.

The Church, indifferent and ever on the side of the powerful, crushed the poor beneath its authority, and its standing in the eyes of the people had begun to crumble.

“Everything is going according to plan. First they will hate the Church, and then they will hate God,” said one.

“Whoever claimed our star-gods perished centuries ago?” murmured another, only to be sharply warned:

“Quiet! Do not violate our code of secrecy. There is no room for carelessness. Think instead of how we might gain influence over that vast newly discovered continent.” Then he added:

“Come, let us get to work. It is not enough to have deceived the religious leaders into believing they are God’s representatives—or even gods themselves. We must also persuade these scientists that they are rivals to God. Only then will faith itself, the force that most shapes humanity, fall entirely under our dominion.”

The number of believers in Jesus grew day by day, year by year, and eventually the pagan-rooted Roman authorities realized they could not withstand this rising tide coming from the far edges of the empire. So Rome moved swiftly: they bought off religious leaders, flattered their egos, and wove their own agents into the fabric of Christian teaching, planting traces of pagan belief within it. In this way, they hoped to preserve their divine-king order under a new disguise.

Despite everything, Europe remained resolute; even if the chick soon to be born carried a few deformities, the time had come for the shell to crack. The hope of the enlightened was that, as the chick grew, those flaws would fall away one by one. They might not live to see it, yet the age in which heart and mind would finally unite was drawing near. Reason had already begun to break free from its shell of prejudice, and its reunion with its companion—the heart—was close at hand.

London was one of the most significant cities of this great transformation in the 18th century. There were striking similarities between the land of the long-legged people, where the sun was said to neither rise nor set, and the Twin Island. It was as though Europe were the world in miniature, England a smaller version of Europe, and the Twin Island a reflection of England itself. At times the clouds and fog grew so thick that the sun’s rays could barely pierce through; at other times, the sun would declare its victory and flood every corner with light, leaving not a single crack or shadow untouched.

Those who could see beyond the material realm sensed, with an instinct like a sixth sense, that this was the eternal struggle between good and evil. Darkness—emerging now in the attic, now in the cellar, now from a hole in the wall—shifted constantly, never allowing the sun to claim a final triumph. Yet the struggle never ceased. In defiance of the spirit of Qabil, the sun pressed on, determined to extinguish the darkness, whether by shining directly or by casting its light through mirrors and waters.

Samuel, heir to the legacy of Abel’s light and a steadfast devotee of illumination, gave his old friend the cardinal a stern warning:

"Act as though I am not here. If they notice that I’m listening through the open door, we are as good as dead."

The cardinal understood from the steadily growing tak-tak of footsteps on the staircase that his most distinguished guests were drawing near. In every age, there have always been vain souls who crave admiration—those who expect people to look at them, applaud them, and feed their swelling egos until they become little Pharaohs. Unaware of their own condition, such people suffer in the grip of a spiritual affliction.

In ancient Rome, such men let their long robes trail along the ground; in eighteenth-century Europe, their custom had become the sharp, authoritative clicking of hard-soled shoes. The cardinal knew his visitor was now standing before the door, pausing to read and contemplate the inscription above it: “God is the sole Lord of earth and heaven.”

He knocked once—not to ask permission, but simply to show that he had arrived—before stepping inside.

Samiri, with his sparse short beard, bulging eyes, crooked nose, large ears, and the fedora resting on his head, had a singular appearance. The cardinal, unlike many other clergy, was a humble man. He had made his own ego his adversary, striving—as he had learned from the teachings of the Messiah—to spread goodness and restrain evil among his fellow beings fashioned from the same clay.

Unlike other cardinals, he was accustomed to rising and buttoning his vest for honored guests. Yet this time, perhaps influenced by the things his old friend Samuel had told him about Samiri, he chose only to stand.

“Honorable Deputy Mayor Samiri, your visit brings me great pleasure,” he said, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Samiri greeted him with a polite smile and began speaking of how overwhelming his duties were, how difficult it was to govern such a vast city. Gradually, he steered the conversation toward the real purpose of his visit. Before doing so, he reminded the cardinal of the donations he had made to the church, hoping this would soften him. Yet he knew that might not be enough.

He went on to praise Samuel, calling him a man of exceptional worth, saying he deserved to live in a grand château and that he wished to see him as pope in the Vatican. He praised the depth of his knowledge, claiming it reminded him of Khidr, the companion of Moses—an attempt both to flaunt his own scholarship and to flatter the cardinal even further.

The cardinal understood perfectly: his guest was subtly hinting that he could secure support in the Vatican elections and was even willing to gift one of the many château he owned. And of course, none of this was a bribe—these were simply “gifts,” not part of some quid pro quo(!).

Yet this time, unlike with other clergy, Samiri failed to perceive the lack of greed behind the cardinal’s eyes. Samiri was a man who trusted his intuition; and though he sensed no spark of desire in the cardinal, he decided to take his chance regardless. Depending on the cardinal’s reaction, he also intended to mark him for surveillance.

“Dear friend, our city and our country are passing through difficult days, and in such times, some behave recklessly and end up serving the devil. Fortunately, there are children of God like you, through whom the insolent may be punished.”

The cardinal understood that Samuel had been right about the purpose of Samiri’s visit. He also suspected he would not be wrong about what Samiri intended to ask of him. The phrase children of God struck him as odd, for it was a term more commonly used by the leading Protestant councils; he wondered whether the old Samiri had momentarily forgotten he was speaking to a member of the Catholic Church. He chose to remain silent.

Samiri continued, “In fact… what he has done goes beyond irresponsibility—it is something downright demonic.”

Hearing the word demonic, the cardinal grew even more certain of Samiri’s intent. Yet the real question remained: who was the target? Samiri’s reluctance to speak the man’s name only deepened his curiosity. Samuel, too—listening from behind the door—knew Samiri and his companions had set their sights on someone important, though he had not yet discovered who.

“I do not exaggerate when I call him a demon,” Samiri declared. “Only a demon converses with a demon. Up on that mountain, in that tower far from prying eyes, he speaks with the devil in the sky—we are sure of it.”

The cardinal needed a moment to think. What exactly did his visitor mean by “the demon in the sky”? Whoever Samiri was talking about must have uttered something so perverse, so heretical, that forgiveness was beyond reach—or so the cardinal thought. Yet he also considered the possibility that Samiri was exaggerating. After all, Samuel too had a habit of overstating certain truths; perhaps he had fallen under his friend's influence. Still, Samiri spoke with absolute certainty: the man in question was conversing with a demon. By “demon,” he might very well have meant a human being. Seeking clarity, the cardinal tried to untangle the knots forming in his mind.

“You are speaking of the devil—cast out from the presence of God for defying Him, granted respite only until an appointed time. He cannot rise to the heavens even if he wished. He can dwell only in this corrupted world and in the depths befitting him. Whenever he attempts to trespass beyond the limits granted by God, he is confronted by angels whose wings and majesty strike terror into every enemy of the Almighty. Then he remembers well what the tormentors of hell would do to him.”

From the way his guest nodded, the cardinal understood that Samiri was not speaking metaphorically; he truly meant the devil. Even so, he began to list those whom men like Samiri might easily call “devils.”

“The Ottomans, who threaten the lands of our ancestors? The followers of Martin Luther, who have shown such treachery by removing the icons of our saints from their churches? The Jews, who not only refuse to defend our Holy Father but seek to kill him? Or perhaps France, our rival since ancient times and our opponent in so many matters?”

By now, the cardinal was certain that Samiri believed this mysterious man was communing with an actual demon. He knew well that not only Christians, but Muslims, Jews, and even the countless polytheists before the age of divine revelations, all had their own rites through which they claimed to speak with spirits. He was also aware that several mystical sects had recently increased their activities throughout London. And Samuel, just before Samiri’s arrival, had spoken of their rituals as well.

Just as Samuel had steered the subject toward Samiri, he heard him entering through the church garden. He shortened his words, warning Samuel that he must remain cautious, resist the man’s flattering, pride-inflating remarks, and avoid committing monstrous deeds he would later regret. He knew his friend in the English intelligence service usually dealt with murders in London rather than matters of faith. Since his friend was not one to speak idly, Samuel sensed there must be a link between the murders and Samiri. Yet what business would a deputy mayor—an office of dignity—have with such criminal cases and spiritual affairs? And now this man was speaking of the devil, as if such things suited either his position or his character.

With a faint smile he said,
“Sir, matters of the spirit intrigue everyone. Perhaps, while attempting to commune with the soul of a deceased acquaintance using a cup or some other object, he unwittingly reached a demon instead. You know that even Solomon, endowed with God’s unparalleled sovereignty, conversed with spirits. Despite the many fables surrounding it, it is possible to communicate with metaphysical beings like demons.”

But Samiri shook his head vigorously.
“No, no. This is nothing like the spirit-summoning you describe. He isn’t using a cup, nor chanting any invocation that draws souls.”
Then he uttered the sentence that made the cardinal’s skin crawl:
“In such rites, the devil’s voice is never heard—at most a few faint whispers, or perhaps an object or two shifting to signal the presence of the accursed creature. But whatever this man is doing… he hears the demon’s voice clearly.”

“Are you certain? What exactly did it say?”

“A villager had secretly slipped into that lonely tower on the mountainside, hoping to see what was happening there. When he heard the words I’m about to tell you, he was so terrified he wet himself. There was no one inside but that man. The voice he heard was strange—almost as if it were echoing through a pipe.

‘I will surely lead mankind astray; I will fill them with vain hopes. I will command them, and they will slit the ears of cattle, and I will command them again, and they will surely alter God’s creation.’”

These words were not unfamiliar to the cardinal. He was certain he had encountered them somewhere before. There were similar expressions in the Holy Scriptures and in commentaries, yet he was equally sure that this phrasing was not taken from any of them. Samiri’s voice, sharp with anger, pulled him out of the corridors of memory:

“Who else could it be,” he said, stepping closer, “but the Devil—who misleads mankind and fills them with empty desires? A creature who would gladly mutilate the ears of animals for pleasure is capable of anything. I am convinced that the unsolved murders of the poor and forgotten are tied to this man and those around him.”

The cardinal, forewarned by his friend Samuel, had expected peculiar claims from his visitor, but he had not anticipated a tale binding together a mysterious tower, the Devil, and a string of killings.

“What sort of tower is it, and why is it in such a desolate place?” he asked.

Samiri answered,
“You know our holy book better than anyone…”

The cardinal immediately understood that Samiri was speaking of the Tower of Babel described in the Holy Scriptures. He recalled the tale of its construction—a story said to reach back to the dawn of human history. According to the eleventh chapter of Genesis, it was the first of all towers, built when every soul on earth spoke the same language and uttered the same words. Then the Lord scattered mankind across the earth, and the city was named Babel—the name itself evoking confusion.

He also remembered another account told by historians about a tower in the same ancient land.
In the Sumerian tablets, Abraham—the man regarded as the father of humankind—is addressed as the Exalted Father. He had called Nur-Adud, who claimed divinity for himself, to the path of truth. When Abraham declared to him that the Almighty, the Creator of all things, was the sole Lord of the heavens and the earth, Nur-Adud sought to preserve his tyrannical rule. With insolent arrogance he ordered a tower built so that he might ascend to the sky and proclaim to the people: “I climbed to the heavens, yet I saw no such God as he speaks of!”

The cardinal recalled a similar tale involving Moses and the Pharaoh of Egypt.

“Yes, you are right,” the cardinal said at last. “Nur-Adud—known to us as Nimrod—built such a tower, and so did Pharaoh.” Then he added:

“There is yet another tale concerning that same despot: when he ordered a fire so immense that it rose like a mountain of flame to burn Abraham alive. But he could not see Abraham within the blaze. Perhaps out of cruel delight he had another tower raised so he might witness the prophet’s suffering. Yet when he looked, he saw a figure standing beside Abraham in the fire, and he said: ‘Ooo Abraham, the power and might of your Great God must be truly vast, for I have seen with my own eyes that He has delivered you from this.’”

The cardinal regretted having used the phrase “friend of God” for Abraham and wished he had chosen his words more carefully, but when he realized that his guest had not noticed the slip, he felt relieved.

“What you’re describing shows that the builders of this tower are enemies of faith,” he said. “Who knows—whether in a literal or a symbolic sense—they may intend to burn people just as Nimrod once did, and to watch them from that lofty tower.”