The Keeper's Cup: A Controversial Archaeological Thriller

by Ken Fry

  Time for a quick drink.

  In the last twenty-four hours, he had mused upon the chain of events that had led him here. What had shocked him and confirmed his convictions, was that Pope Adrian was the sponsor of the now not- so- secret breakaway archaeology group, SOTA.

  Unexpectedly, back in Rome, he had received an urgent and secret summons from the pope himself. He had not expected that. News of the bishop’s death had swept through Rome, and of course, the Vatican. At first, he had wondered whether his plans had been discovered… and he was prepared for trouble. His own conservative and rigid orthodox approach to Catholic dogma was becoming more widely known, and not just to an inner select few. It was spreading.

  The elite formed the foundations of his group, Ordinis Sancti et Sanctae Crucis et Gladio, – the Order of the Holy Cross and Sword. They were opposed to any liberalisation or loosening of strict observances and behaviour. Even Opus Dei was not immune from their surveillance of the creeping hand of sin and immorality, subtly disguised by the hand of Satan. The use of the cilice and self-flagellation did not go far enough.

  As an orphan, stricken with poliomyelitis, he was left with a permanent leg disability. Raised in the East End of London, he had known little of love, tolerance, or compassion… only rejection and disdain. But he had survived. He understood brutality, unremitting hardness, and how that quickly got him what he wanted. Attracted by the mysticism and rituals of the Catholic faith, he became a priest after training. He had a hard and inflexible view on the way the tenets of his faith should be carried out. Such was his devotion and intellectual grasp of doctrine and its requirements. He quickly rose through the ranks. As the years passed, he began to despair of the too, too liberal path the faith had begun to tread. It was surrendering to the Prince of Evil.

  The cardinal had a unique way of spearheading his agendas. He knew he would kill and had done so to maintain the precious God- given standards of the true faith. What lengths, lies, deceits and deceptions were required to maintain them, he was, by the Almighty Father prepared to do so. He was convinced that he was an Angel of God, sent to preserve the one true faith in its most severe form. St. Peter himself had said that Satan was going around like a roaring lion, seeking whom he might devour. Popes were on the menu. He was increasingly convinced that this pope had become part of that circle.

  Christ was sent into this world that he might defeat Satan and all his works. If his suspicions are true, and the pope thought it untrue, then Christ’s mission on this earth had no meaning. Anything or anybody – other sects, religions, science included – that opposed the one real truth, by actions, deeds, words, or thoughts, were enemies of Christ and his Holy Father. Their wicked souls would burn for eternity in the deepest hell. It would be their deserved reward.

  At their meeting, what the Pope had attempted to confide in him, he already knew. That amused him. He had that information beaten out of the stupid bishop. The pope told him that he didn’t want rumours of Jesus having survived the crucifixion spreading, or of him being married to Mary Magdalene. The bishop had told him another story in between his screams. The truth was just the opposite. The pope wanted it to be true.

  Pope Adrian was the Antichrist, of that he was certain. What the pope really wanted was for these scandalous heresies to be broadcasted far and wide. He wanted to change the one true faith into a sinful, liberal dog’s dinner of soft and sloppy edicts, fit only for God’s darkest hells. There wasn’t a doubt in Cardinal Nicholas’s mind about it. Pope Adrian had to go.

  Firstly, the meddling archaeologists in the UK and whoever was working for them had to be eliminated. Once accomplished, his own covert and surreptitious order could easily gain control within the glorious Vatican. A global upheaval would then begin in God’s name. It would be a worldwide crusade.

  A smile spread across Cardinal Nicholas’s face. He could almost see it coming to pass.

  Then, another tantalising thought entered his mind. What if this cup of life is to be found? Could that be possible? It had certainly gripped the bishop and also the pope, enough for him to fund an expensive search operation. What power that would give him and his new order. It would be beyond anything imaginable. Medical science would be rocked!

  He had another comforting thought. To fund the project, the pope had given him a briefcase with a million dollars in bearer bonds, drawn on The Institute for the Works of Religion, a private bank otherwise known as the Vatican Bank, situated in Vatican City.

  * * *

  The bar was empty, so he sat and ordered a strawberry daiquiri cocktail. This was a favorite indulgence when away from the eyes of other priests and cardinals.

  It was then he spotted him. The man he was expecting to meet, sitting in a secluded corner of the bar. He was reading a copy of the catholic publication The Tablet, as had been arranged. Clutching his drink, the cardinal moved toward the man.

  Cardinal Nicholas spoke first with a prearranged code. “Interesting title. Do tablets cure all ills?”

  The man looked up. He had a shaven head, facial features resembling a bag of spanners, and the look of a man who had spent time in jail. His hands were as bulky as a bunch of bananas. His voice was as heavy as a ball and chain. He replied, “Mostly. Even placebos can work.”

  It was the agreed response. The cardinal extended his hand. “I’m Nicholas. Who are you?”

  The man grasped it with a steely grip that gave the cardinal cause to wince. “My name is Cracker, Daniel Cracker. That’s what I’m known as.” The man assessed him with a boldness bordering on rude. “So, you are Nicholas. Nicholas what or who? “

  “That’s all you need to know, Mr. Cracker.”

  Cracker smirked. “Suits me. Our mutual friend called. So you want some work done, I understand?”

  Nicholas pulled out a chair and sat opposite. “Let me get you another drink. What is it to be?”

  “Peroni.”

  The cardinal ordered the beer and placed his large portfolio on the table. It was a condensed and censored duplicate of the folder the pope had given him. “In here, you will find all the information you need. I have also attached a separate fee structure. I hope you can read?”

  Cracker leant forward with a face aglow with menace. “Patronise me again, sunshine, and the deal’s off, but before that, I might possibly smash your face in. Just so you know, I have a master’s degree from the University of Life. Do you get my meaning?”

  The cardinal blanched. Nobody, since he had been a young schoolboy, had spoken to him so. “My apologies, Mr. Cracker, and yes… I understand you perfectly.” He continued. “Within, you will find photographs of a few individuals, all of whom may have to be dealt with later, in whatever manner you think suitable. If they find things, they are to be delivered to my assistant, who you will protect if needed. You will need to let them do their work and see what they find. My assistant will tell you what and when.”

  Cracker zipped open the portfolio. A silence descended between the two men. Cracker was the first to speak. “Hot stuff, Nicky boy. So you are a cardinal, eh? Hot stuff. I’m not religious, but I see what this is all about. Dealing with a bunch of nammy pammy dirt diggers, with a little persuasion if necessary, shouldn’t be difficult.” He paused and opened a secondary envelope which he studied intently. “Like the fees. Most generous, too. Anything found – documents or hard evidence – will be handed over to your assistant. Now who might your assistant be?”

  The cardinal swung around to see the glass door being opened. Striding across the oak panelled, art deco interior, he could see Father Giuseppe Vincenzo making his way towards them. Almost as if to add some drama to the meeting, he was dressed in black, complete with his Roman collar and a crucifix hanging from his chest.

  7

  Somewhere near Glastonbury, England

  Present times…

  The Keeper of the Cup held her small vessel aloft and walked among the wounded and dying warriors of her tribe. The battle had been short and fierce,
and the price had been paid. Her man, his grey hair blowing in the wind, was by her side. His lips moved as if in prayer before she administered to those who needed it. The wounded recovered. They lived to fight another day and their sacred rites and new beliefs were mirrored by the miracle of her cup.

  Kelvin’s daydream vanished as a soft breeze steered him back into reality.

  The Grove of Taranus had always been dear to him. Here, he felt the healing power of nature, which empowered him in so many different ways. It was a sacred place. The grove was little known and those that knew of it he counted as his followers. It was secluded – a natural creation surrounded by mighty oaks and elder trees. Above, an open blue sky gazed down, giving patches of light, which perfectly complemented the darker areas. It had been that way for hundreds of years. Close by was a small clear lake, not blue but grey, from which it forever gave a good view of Ynis Wydrn, The Isle of Glass – the Tor of Glastonbury. Its ancient name was what his exclusive sect of Druids preferred to use.

  Saint Michael’s Tower was built on top of Glastonbury Tor in Somerset. This mystical hill, with seven deep terraces sat in the heart of Summerland Meadows, within the Somerset Levels. Myths still existed of the Neolithic labyrinth of tunnels below the Tor, running all the way to the Abbey in Glastonbury. It was said to be haunted by Druids and some even said – fairies. The ancient Britons named this magical spot Ynys yr Afalon or the Isle of Avalon – the centre of the legend of King Arthur.

  Kelvin Stallybrass preferred to use his ancient name, Iseldir. He stood at six feet in height, was heavily muscular, and people often said that his countenance was one of wisdom and mystery. He was an impressive figure at forty-four years of age. Jet-black hair, with the odd patches of grey and white, hung loosely on his shoulders. On his chest he had a tattoo of the Cretan Maze that made up the Tor of Glastonbury. For many women, he was an attractive proposition.

  Iseldir believed that ancient men, Celts and Druids, shaped the Tor with ridges into a maze formation.

  As a druid, he had broken away from the modernised, sanitized, respectful form of druidism that was now the acceptable image of the movement. He had reverted to the old practices, which he thought was the true way of nature. Julius Caesar had so well written that the practice of the letting of blood and the sacrifice of animals were part of their rituals. That part of the ancient rites, he was not prepared to do.

  Iseldir, in his edicts, encouraged a dislike of Christianity – particularly the Roman Catholic Church. He saw them as responsible, in distant times past, for butchering and burning many Druids. The church had never apologised. They were an affront to nature.

  He was alone in the grove. He needed to muse over certain events and things he had been hearing. The grove was the perfect place. Quiet and free of people. Its history was one of complete naturalness. It was here that he could sense and be in touch with the ancients and all their wisdom. Their song and the atmosphere vibrated through his entire mind and body.

  Dotted around the clearing and forming a rough circle were a number of upright and flat stones – far older than the trees and must have been part of the original grove, formed in Celtic times. He sat on a centrally placed and flat- topped stone. From here, he could recognise what remained of the Ogham tree runes carvings. Most had been erased by time, and what remained were referred to as ‘The Sweet Cauldron of the Five Trees’.

  A — Ail: signifying birth is everywhere

  O — Ohn: Initiation upon hills and dolmens

  U — Ur: The love-goddess

  E — Eadha: The repose of the warrior

  I — Iodha: Death and hope’s gateway

  He knew where to look, but it took a trained eye to spot them. Their shapes were based on natural lines, and their meanings needed layers of understanding. He saw both the runes indicating the grove, the mistletoe, the various trees around, and oddly… there was a small crucifix carved beneath. What seemed to be two names written in the Ogham script had melded into the ancient stone over time, rendering any interpretation as useless.

  The more he gazed at them the deeper his meditation became. It was at moments like these, which were rare, that he thought he could discern the name Jah and Magda. They were woven around a small cup.

  Of late, the writings had figured in his dreams. He did not know what his vision meant. Could it be what the legends spoke of was carved into this stone?

  Iseldir was proud but never arrogant. He believed he could trace his lineage back to the days when the local tribes of the Dumnonii and the Durotriges held sway. A man, Arthwys, and his woman, Brianna, had led one of the tribes. Their names had been passed down through the ages. In this way, they still lived within the stories passed on to their people.

  Iseldir often dreamt of this man and of the druid masters across the ages. He believed he descended from them. He had no written proof, but such was his intuition, he needed no other proof. The feeling was so powerful it consumed his twenty-first century life. Intuitive wisdom was part of a druid’s life and it had never failed him. It was a talent that was, in some mysterious way, handed down through time – from druid to druid. It had not passed him by.

  What he had heard around and seen in dreams gave him cause to be angry and dismayed. It was told that a man, whom many believed as Jesus the Christ, also known as Yeshua, had somehow survived his crucifixion and the thrust of the Roman centurion’s spear. That he had fled to Britain, together with his mother and his woman, Mary the Magdalene. With them was her son and later their daughter. The legend said that the Magdalene possessed a healing cup filled with water and the blood from the wounds of Christ on the cross.

  Was that what my daydream was about?

  It was said that the cup had more powerful healing properties than the plants used by the Druids – selago and samulos. Their potions healed many, but it was nothing compared to the supposed cup, which never emptied no matter how many times it was used.

  Passed down through Iseldir’s tradition, and of late, figuring powerfully in his dreams, this story was wrapped in the secret tradition of his order, known only by the Chief Druid, never to be revealed to anyone else.

  Upon his ordination as Iseldir, the Chief Druid of his Order, he became a recipient of that secret. Whether the story was true or not, one thing Iseldir knew for certain… if such a cup existed, it belonged to nobody else apart from the Druids, the guardians of the secret.

  He felt the hairs on his arms rise. What if the story was true?

  What dismayed and angered him of late, was the news that archaeologists would be digging amid the hills and caves around the sacred lands of Cheddar, Wookey and Glastonbury.

  It appeared that the secret was not his alone. Others knew also.

  He felt that the timing of his dreams was not a coincidence. Was he meant to protect whatever is hidden?

  If this cup existed, and then removed from its resting place, it would amount to nothing less than rape.

  Rumour has it that the Roman Catholic Church was backing the venture. That, he found hard to believe. The last thing they would want is proof that the Christian messiah did not die, and instead… lived here… with his wife and children!

  Iseldir had intimate knowledge of the caves and had spent much of his life exploring and diving in them. He knew them more than any man alive. He could be of use to such a search. He could volunteer to guide them and in so doing, prevent any attempt to remove whatever they find – if anything could ever be found.

  If such a miraculous cup existed, it would offer a range of possibilities for humanity… a longer and more balanced life, free of disease. But he also understood that whoever possessed such an artefact could have enough power to rule the world.

  And that’s what he feared the most.

  He reached into his leather bag, one that he had made himself, and pulled from it an object wrapped in gold cloth. He had found it years back while diving in the shallow waters of the Wookey Hole cave structures.

  It was a rectang
ular tablet.

  Made of metal, it seems, the tablet bore three rows of letters or markings of some sort. He had never been able to decipher them.

  With that in mind, Iseldir decided it was time to approach the archaeologists. The plaque would surely pique their interest. A good bargaining tool. He knew where they were supposed to stay – at the local hotel where he worked as a barman.

  It was hard to keep secrets in a small community. The receptionist had told him earlier, before he went on duty, that two academics with a stack of diving gear had booked in. Later, they were visited by two other men – whom she thought were Catholic priests. They wore prominent crucifixes.

  Priests! That’s all I need!

  The two academics had made an open- ended reservation. It seemed that the rumours could be true. He needed to find out.

  Catholic priests! That shook Iseldir. What were they doing here?

  Robbery and even the destruction of artefacts that were not theirs, was all he could think of.

  8

  Through his middle-aged personal assistant, Francesca De Luca, he established contact with the professor. Eyebrows had been raised at her appointment, but for him, she was discreet, spoke fluent English, had an Oxford University education, and a passionate Catholic. She ticked all of Cardinal Nicholas’s boxes.

  She confirmed the professor’s meeting with the cardinal, via email and a letter bearing the cardinal’s personal seal. The meeting would be in five days at their hotel, which has been paid for as long as it was required. Other details would be discussed by the cardinal himself.

  * * *

  The professor and Miriam were alone in the bar area of the modest Ancient Gatehouse Hotel in the city of Wells. Francesca De Luca had confirmed media reports of the circumstances surrounding Bishop Fisher’s shocking death.