The Keeper's Cup: A Controversial Archaeological Thriller
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KEN FRY
THE KEEPER’S CUP
Copyright © 2020 KEN FRY
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Edited by Eeva Lancaster
Cover Design and Formatting by The Book Khaleesi
Table of Contents
BOOKS by KEN FRY
AUDIOBOOKS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
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FREE CHAPTERS from The Patmos Enigma
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS by KEN FRY
The Keeper’s Cup
The Long Case Clock (FREE)
The Chronicles of Aveline: Love and Blood
Dying Days
The Lazarus Mysteries: Omnibus Collection
Shakyamuni’s Pearl
The Lazarus Continuum
The Chronicles of Aveline: Awakening
DISJOINTED TALES: Short Stories of the Weird and the Macabre
The Patmos Enigma: Quest of the Wandering Jew
RED GROUND: The Forgotten Conflict
The Lazarus Succession
La Sucesión Lazaro
The Brodsky Affair
Suicide Seeds
Check Mate
AUDIOBOOKS
The Chronicles of Aveline
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The Lazarus Succession
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The Brodsky Affair
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The Patmos Enigma
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
Is there a different truth behind the greatest story ever told?
What if everything you know about Jesus and Mary Magdalene is wrong?
What if there's a story that goes deeper... a story that when revealed, could threaten the faith of billions of people around the world?
What will powerful factions do to get hold of this information?
I suspect that The Keeper's Cup will upset some people of various religious denominations. This was never my intent, but I don't doubt there will be reaction. I can't help that nor make apology. At all times, I have attempted to show loving kindness and respect.
Pre-Constantine Christianity had much to say before, but with a large swipe of his brush, much of the early writings of the Essenes and others, were doomed to the bin by the Emperor, (who only became a Christian on his deathbed). Including the writings of both disciples, Thomas and Philip.
Since there was no mention of miracles or Christ's crucifixion, their words were deemed not worthy.
Through history, The Magdalene has been portrayed as a prostitute. The amounting evidence that she was a woman of huge spiritual dimension contradicted the patriarchal dimensions of men as superior. Hence, the appellation. That has now been refuted.
The canonical Gospels themselves fail to agree on certain points. So... what can be trusted?
The entire issue has fascinated me for many years. I would love to know if it was true or not, but the evidence always appeared shaky to me.
Because of that, my story attempts to place a new perspective on events. I'm aware that at times that can be clumsy, but it was written with hope and joy.
How did Christianity appear in England long before the early saints arrived?
That, I think, is an intriguing question. Don't you agree?
That factor alone made my story worth writing about. Highly speculative, it is. Though, no more so than people walking on water or changing water into wine.
At the end of the day, it is a story... nothing else. I don't ask you to believe it. It's not about that. It's about a deep love of humanity, and the cruelties that entwine that concept.
~ Ken Fry
Surrey, UK
1
CRACK! The splattering noise groaned loud from splintered timber. Its torturous sound penetrated and fractured the surrounding silence.
Wood split. Blood flowed.
Red stained hands held hard onto metal grips, grabbing at the cruel nail that pinned both heels and ankles together to the wood in a tormented embrace.
Tug… tug… pull… twist… gently turn.
The rivet began to loosen.
Joseph of Arimathea, with bent and aching body, strained gently on the impaled spike and started easing it away from the wooden structure.
Bone splinters fell away, along with flesh and more blood.
A low moan came from the impaled man, followed by a soft whisper. “Gently, brother. Gently, I pray you, as yet I live…”
Joseph, shocked to hear the whisper, ensured his endeavours became more delicate as he wielded the pincers once more.
With a few more gentle tugs, the nail loosened and released one heel, and then the other, until at last, he eased the nail out and freed the blood-encrusted feet.
He placed the nail in the leather pouch tied to his waist.
The figure became unconscious and his head rolled downwards to his lacerated and gore- streaked chest.
On the man’s side, the spear of the Roman Centurion, Longinus, had performed its task. A chest wound lay open, dripping blood.
A woman with long, red hair hanging from her shoulders, her face creased in sorrow and anguish, held a wooden cup close to the wound. Its seal was wedged open as the woman called The Magdalene filled it to the brim. Afterwards, she held it tightly to her bosom.
Why she had done this, she knew not. She only felt a compulsion to do so. For a reason she could not understand, it was of importance. She had heard Joseph’s tortured whis
per. He lives! He lives! Jehovah be praised!
As she heard those words, the woman’s body started to shake. Joseph too, found it difficult to concentrate. His pale lips began to quiver… but there was more to do. The man lived but his heart beat an erratic rhythm.
Close by, the man’s mother, whose name was Mary, wept aloud. Tears of disbelief ran down her lined face. This is my son. He harmed nobody, nor did he steal or murder, and yet… this they have done to him.
Joseph, with gentle urgency, reached the wrists and moved firstly to the right one. Once more, he used his metal tongs to grasp the head of the offensive nail. Again, he began the delicate extraction process.
The spike had missed vital arteries. The Romans knew how to make a death slow and painful.
As he went about the painstaking process of freeing the man’s wrists, Joseph could see the man lapsing in and out of consciousness. It was a miracle that he was even still alive!
Using his own body to prop up the impaled figure, he wasted no time in freeing the right wrist. With another small tug, it was free.
“AAAH!”
Joseph stared at a crimson hole pumping out blood. With haste, he moved to the left and repeated the process until both wrists were free.
From the blistered and raw lips of the crucified man came a plea, almost inaudible. “For the love of God, water, water.”
Joseph knew he could not honour the request. He moved closer to the man’s ear and whispered, “You are not to be seen alive. Quiet, Master, I beg you. Please bear the pain a while longer and water will arrive once we are gone from here.”
He placed the two blood-soaked nails into his pouch with the first, looked across to Mary, ran his stained arm through his white hair, and nodded.
There was a deathlike pallor to the man’s face. A tomblike pastiness imbued the entire naked figure, made more so by the intersection of crimson streaks of sweat imbued blood. He lapsed into unconsciousness once more.
Mary leant forward and stroked the face. “Yeshua, my son, my adorable son. What have they done to you? You spoke only of love and kindness, and this is how they repay you.” She produced a shroud, and along with the Magdalene and Joseph, they lowered the sticky, mutilated, inert body from the cross and into it. With care, Mary wrapped the shroud around her son.
He continued to breathe.
Just.
A sparrow fluttered and hovered close by, a sad lament from his beak.
Joseph had commandeered a donkey with a small, low cart. They eased the unconscious, covered body onto it. When it was done and they began moving away, it looked like any other funeral cart.
The sparrow followed.
Above, the sky surrendered to thick, black, and ever darkening clouds. Afternoon light was turning into sudden night. Beneath them, they felt the ground around begin to tremble.
All was not well in heaven or on earth.
2
Three years later…
North West Gaul
Burdigala, now called Bordeaux
The gaunt figure pulled his robe tightly across his body as a gusting wind blew in from the sea. His long, dark hair moved without protest or defence across his weary face. The air was rich with the smell of the ocean and tasted of salt. He’d been walking since the sun arose. His gait was unsteady and the pains in his feet and arms were never far away. It had been that way since the nails had been pulled from his flesh and bones those three years gone.
His mind continued to flick through all possibilities. Decisions had been made. He had assembled his tools and they were packed and ready for the journey. Nearby, and moored, was the fully equipped fishing boat given by his sympathetic followers. News had reached him that Joseph ben Caiaphas, the Jewish High Priest, had learnt of his survival, his escape, and his whereabouts. He was now being hunted. The death sentence had to be fulfilled.
For Yeshua, it was time to leave. The avenging hand of authority was reaching out for him. If it grasped him, this time, there would be no escape from the cruelties of crucifixion. To accompany him was his ageing mother, Mary, also The Magdalene Mary, and their young beloved son, Judah. The Magdalene was carrying her unborn child of two months.
Everything they needed – tools, coins, clothing, fishing nets and various other items – were on board. They intended to make frequent stops in various ports.
“Where do you think we shall be going?” asked Magdalene as she twirled the ends of her red hair.
Pointing out across the sea, Yeshua replied. “I had a dream last night. My heavenly parent told me it was now time to leave Gaul. It is no longer safe. I was told that there is an island to the north that some are calling Britannia. It is to there we must direct our boat. The journey will take many months at sea, but with fair winds, we may reach it before our child is due. God will protect us. But we must away now before knowledge of what we intend is discovered. Come, all of you.”
“One moment,” Magdalene said. “There is something we must do. Do as I do, please.” Gathering her shawl and robe around, she knelt gently to the ground, her long hair partially obscured her face by the presence of the billowing but warm breeze. “Let us hold hands.”
She reached out for his mother’s and Yeshua’s. Judah smiled. He was being an adult and held his small arms out and they each held a hand.
She spoke softly but her words were carried across land and sea. “Let us thank this land of Gaul for giving us safety and protection. It is now a blessed place and its soil is holy. We are about to depart and wish its people health, prosperity, and faithfulness to God, our Parent, forever. May our blessings cleanse you of all wrongdoings and sins. Amen.”
They all uttered, “So be it.”
Within the hour, the shoreline had vanished, and they followed the coastline northwards. The people left behind would miss her healing powers.
* * *
Eighteen months later…
Ynis Wydryn, The Isle of Glass
Known now as Glastonbury Tor
Judah loved his new sister, named Sarah. Both Mary and the Magdalene had similar affections for her. There seemed to be an aura around her that was indefinable. Born in close proximity and in the shadow of the Tor, Yeshua felt that his Parent had chosen this place for a special reason. Its significance could not be denied.
More remarkable, they had eluded the Roman search squads and the far-reaching grasp of Caiaphas. It had not taken long for his family to be accepted by the local tribe. Yeshua’s words and woodworking skills were in demand and respected.
For this, he was given assistance in building a roundhouse made of wattle and daub. It was vastly different from the stone home he once had in Judea. The roundhouse roof made of straw and mud had a hole at the very top of it to allow smoke to escape. All cooking was done on a central fire inside. The ground was covered in a mixture of reeds and straw with thicker piles for bedding.
He made small bowls and utensils for the community, or whatever they wanted him to make. When asked, he would talk of a God, invisible and greater than their pagan druidic forces. He argued that the forces they revered were part of God’s plan and creation. To many, his words made sense… but to others, they were a threat to the established hierarchy. He gathered many followers as the years advanced and amongst these were the tribal chieftain, Arthwys and his wife, Brianna.
Arthwys was a strong and intelligent man – tall and with a sturdy build. His face expressed the hardships of his life with scars and blemishes, but from his brown eyes shone a kindly but firm expression. He was also brave and had proven himself in battles many times. He was taller than most and his long blond hair hung thickly around his shoulders Fixed around his neck was a decorative gold and silver torc. This was the emblem of a tribal chieftain and leader. He wore a fur tunic and thick, woollen trousers, and around his waist hung a short sword. His wife, Brianna, was dressed in a flowing woollen skirt and fitted doublet.
It had not taken him long to develop a fondness for Yeshua and his family. They had a
dded a new dimension to the community, not only with their skills, but also with their intriguing words of their God.
Judah and Sarah had come to regard them as their second mother and father. There was great love between them all and they shared frequent kindnesses with small and often unexpected gifts.
Without being aware of it, the community and others around had begun the silent, almost stealthy process of change.
That morning was wet, cold and with much rain and wind. Yeshua was working on a small table he hoped to barter for supplies. Previous examples had proved popular. He paused to rest. His old wounds were always there to give a painful reminder of his role in God’s grand scheme of things. There were frequent short, sharp stabs of pain in his feet and simultaneously followed by others in his wrists and hands. When this happened, he understood, accepted, and gave thanks to God.
His mother, Mary, and Magda, as she was called in their community, were preparing bread and meats for their next meal. The roundhouse filled with warmth and smoke, mingled with the delicious aroma of breads baking.
A dark shadow filled the entrance. Both women looked up, startled. It was Arthwys. He was dressed in furs and decorated robes. The expression on his weathered face was grim.
Magda gave a quick look at Mary who looked worried.
“What ails you, Arthwys?” Mary asked.
His voice was urgent. “Come quick! It is Brianna. She has been taken with a sudden sickness and cannot walk. Our Druid cannot cure her. I have been to our water well and implored our Druid Great God Nodens to exercise his healing powers, but he has not answered. I fear she may be dying. I have seen and heard how you and Magda have healed others. Is there anything you know of that may help Brianna live?”
The Magdalene looked across to Yeshua who had stopped working. For a moment, he closed his eyes as if in prayer. On opening them, he looked across to her. “You know enough, sweet wife. Go to her. You know what you must do.” He turned to Arthwys. “You are a good man, Arthwys, and it shall be done, and when you see, you will believe in our Good Parent, as you have heard us speak the name of God. Of that, I am certain.