The Keeper's Cup: A Controversial Archaeological Thriller

by Ken Fry

  “Yep,” Fergy replied. “Nice to see you, Kelvin.” He stood up. “So here’s what we’re going to do. On the first dive, we will allocate a shallow section not far from the water’s edges. There’s no need for a buddy system until we go deeper… if indeed that is necessary at this stage. Lake three should be ideal for our first dive since it’s not far from the entrance.” The others nodded in agreement. “All we have to do now is wait for our tubby priest.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. There was an almighty over revving engine noise as a red and black pick- up truck screeched to a stop yards from them in a cloud of dust. It ignored the parking signs. The door swung open as Father Vincenzo, with a hefty Canon DSLR camera slung around his neck, jumped from the cab with surprising agility. He was dressed in an incongruous, black track suit bearing the logo of the Athletica Vaticana – part of the Vatican Sports Association. On his feet, he wore an expensive pair of Nike trainers. Vincenzo had thought the outfit made him look fit and sporty.

  His smile is as sincere as a funeral director’s over a pauper’s coffin, Fergy thought.

  “Buongiorno, figli miei.”

  “Hi Father, let me introduce you to our other member, Kelvin. He’s a seasoned diver with years of experience around these parts,” Fergy said.

  The two men shook hands. Fergy gave the priest a brief overview of their dive. before they set off into the caves and beyond the taped off SSSI area.

  The air was cool and remained at a constant temperature of eleven degrees centigrade. Vincenzo immediately began taking pictures of the interior and of the crewmembers. It was clear he had precise instructions to photograph their every action.

  Once their equipment was assembled, correctly fitted, and checked, the three divers took up positions at the agreed points. When they reached their diving stations, Vincenzo shouted out, “Un momento, por favor. Un’altra fotografia.” He swiftly moved between them and blasted off three camera shots. These, like the others, would find their way into the cardinal’s files. “How long will you be?”

  Miriam answered. “Forty minutes max unless we find something of interest.”

  “Okay,” Father Vincenzo replied. One could see he was shivering. “Fa freddo, I’ll go outside before I freeze to death here.” He turned and disappeared from view.

  “Thank God for that. He just bloody annoys me,” the professor snapped.

  “Me too,” Miriam said.

  “Religions like his are an affront to nature,” Kelvin responded.

  Fergy looked across at Miriam and from behind his mask, she saw his eyebrow rise.

  At that point, he raised his arm and gave the agreed signal. Their timers were all set, and as he lowered his arm, all three divers slid silently into the cold waters.

  * * *

  Rome

  Cardinal Nicholas opened his eyes after dozing off for thirty minutes. He was seated in the business class section of an Alitalia flight into Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, situated in Fiumicino. Behind him, he could hear the soft reassuring whine of the A321 Airbus’s twin jet engines. He stretched out his misshapen, sinewy leg and felt a glow of inner satisfaction.

  It had been an eventful day. As expected, he had received a call from the pope’s aide requesting he attend an audience with the Holy Father. All seemed to be falling into place, and what the professor and his small team could accomplish would only add to his good fortune. They seemed to know what they were doing, and all he could hope for were results. Vincenzo, he knew, would stop at nothing to make certain all was going to plan. The man wouldn’t hesitate. That thought was comforting.

  The intercom announced there was thirty minutes of flight time remaining before they touched down at the airport.

  Later, after clearing Rome’s airport, in a room with an astonishing view of the Vatican, he had conducted several round table meetings with his senior fellow sympathizers. They formed the core of the Ordinis Sancti et Sanctae Crucis et Gladio – The Order of the Holy Cross and Sword. There were eight senior members in total, although there are members whose identity can only be found in the cardinal’s encrypted database.

  In these meetings, he had outlined to a shocked gathering, the depths of the Antichrist’s hidden agenda, and his transparent attempts to hide the real reason for the existence of SOTA. He had also explained the real truth behind the pope’s efforts. Truths that he had beaten from the now dead Bishop Vincent Fisher.

  “How do you know that?” another cardinal asked upon hearing what Nicholas had said about the pope’s reasons for supporting SOTA.

  “The very man organising SOTA’s activities had mistakenly confided in me. This may come as a shock to you all, but our now belated brother, Bishop Fisher, told me. He was acting for our Antichrist who is currently ensconced in luxury in the palace before you.” He pointed through the window. “God rest the bishop’s soul.” To emphasise his supposed concern, the cardinal stood and made the sign of the cross. His face remained as a sharpened flint.

  There followed gasps of astonishment. “Where do we go from here?” a voice shouted.

  The cardinal felt his chest heave as he took a deep breath. “Have no fear. I have the pope’s trust, the poor fool. I am now in charge of operations and all finds will be reported and handed over to me. He will see only what I want him to see. This pope will not get away with undermining our true faith, given by Saint Peter through Christ and our Blessed Virgin Mary. If I have to rot in hell to prevent such a disgrace, I would willingly do so.” As he spoke the words, he wasn’t quite sure if that was true.

  He glanced at his watch before ending the meeting. “I have a meeting with His Holiness in twenty minutes. That should be interesting. I wonder how many more lies he will try to spoon out. If anything new transpires, I will, of course, let you know. Buon pomeriggio, signori.”

  He turned and exited through a side door into a large courtyard, which led to the pope’s private quarters. Thoughts ran through his mind. Pope Adrian had not mentioned the story or legend about a healing cup that contained water and blood from Christ’s crucifixion wounds. The cup that supposedly remained full and was never empty. He had first heard of it in the newly discovered written words of Philip and Thomas. Superficially, it seemed like a phoney legend. However, the fact that the pope was so intent on discovering the so-called truth of Christ’s survival and such a miraculous cup, added a degree of cadence to the story. The history of the Celts in Britain and even any surviving Druid records would surely mention the artefact and the events surrounding it, if it had existed

  * * *

  Pope Adrian gazed around his room, at the sumptuous art of old masters hanging from the walls. He made a mental decision that they would have to go. They had an aura of decadence, of overindulgence, unseemly for a person attempting to improve the lot and concerns of suffering humanity. In many ways, he longed for the simplicity of his rooms back at the seminary all those years ago. There is far too much unjustifiable gold and splendour in attendance. Yes, they should be disposed of soon.

  Overriding these thoughts, he was anxious to hear a report from Cardinal Nicholas, although he realised it was still early days. Such expeditions have been known to extend into years. The bishop’s untimely death had led to a hiatus in the mission, but now events were moving along once more.

  A buzz on his desk- mounted CCTV screen revealed the expected arrival of Cardinal Nicholas. The pope operated the entry system and the door swung open, allowing the cardinal to enter, but not before the cardinal had adjusted his zucchetto and brushed down his cassock.

  Cardinal Nicholas genuflected and was offered the Piscatory or Ring of the Fisherman to kiss. Once done, he was shown to a seat.

  The Pope spoke. “I trust all is well with you, Cardinal Nicholas?”

  “Couldn’t be finer, Most Holy Father.”

  “What news on our SOTA project?”

  “Holy Father, it is underway once more. Father Vincenzo, my aide, is attending to the project. A
s we speak, he’s on site at the team’s first dive. We anticipate there will be digging involved in due time. There has to be Celtic evidence on how Christianity seemed to arrive there before our saints.” He paused, and a sly gleam came from his eyes. “I personally do not believe the nonsensical stories that Jesus was not crucified, or another that he was, but survived the ordeal. That he had then moved around Europe and ended up in England… These things are of course absurdities manufactured by Satan’s agents.”

  Pope Adrian’s face froze. He didn’t blink or change his expression. Now, where did he hear all that? I only told him we wanted to know how and when our faith arrived in Britain.

  He decided not to give too much away. Bishop Fisher, he trusted totally. But for a reason he was unable to fathom, the same did not apply to the cardinal sitting in front of him. But no matte… the die was cast.

  “Cardinal, please tell me the location and any history attached that may have a bearing on our conversation.”

  “Most Holy Father, they are in a cave system in South West England, around a series of intricately linked cave systems known as Cheddar, Wookey Hole and Glastonbury. The area was and still known today as a stronghold of Celtic culture. If anything is to be found… it must be there.”

  “Let us hope so, Cardinal.”

  “I am preparing a file for you, Your Holiness, complete with the photographs Father Vincenzo is assembling.” You will be seeing only those I choose you to see.

  “I look forward to that, Cardinal. Is your aide, Father Vincenzo, efficient and capable of understanding what we are attempting to discover here? Above all, is he trustworthy?”

  “Most certainly, Holy Father. It was I who introduced him into the priesthood years ago. I trust him with my life.”

  “I hope it need not come to that, Cardinal. It is good to hear of your trust in him. This mission is of utmost importance to our faith and would need to be handled with extreme discretion. Now if you please, I have some matters to attend to. I will contact you again soon. Keep me informed of your movements, please.” Pope Adrian rose.

  “Most certainly, Holy Father.” Nicholas again genuflected, before turning and leaving the room. What he didn’t realise was that the entire encounter had been recorded and videoed.

  Once alone, what Pope Adrian did next was unprecedented in the chronicles of papal history.

  11

  Kelvin hadn’t forgotten his Druid name, Iseldir, or its importance. As he slipped under the cool waters of the cave, he offered up an ancient Druid prayer, but not before he had deposited a small Lemurian crystal into the clear waters. He mentally recited,

  Hear you, these sacred waters,

  It is I, Iseldir.

  Our quest is pure. Our quest is holy.

  We pray for healing blessings from your waters.

  We pray for healing blessings from the sea.

  We pray for healing blessings in these waters.

  That they might shine in crystal purity.

  May we find, with your blessings, what we seek.

  When that was said and done, he felt a warm glow of spiritual satisfaction. The search could commence.

  The waters around him were as of daylight. He could see around him clearly. Pottery fragments had been discovered on the shore edge. He was now down to the agreed limit of thirty feet, a fraction over nine metres. Just below him was a flat outcrop of rock covered in stones and flint.

  He peered long and hard at the bulging rocks. If that doesn’t hold something of interest, I’m a nanny goat’s mother. Kelvin swiftly swum down and opened his specimen collection bag. Scanning around quickly, he saw something that looked promising, but he would have to get them into daylight to find out what they were. His time limit was now almost up. With swift movements, he gathered up what he could and deposited them into the open bag. He then struck out to the surface. On surfacing, he could see the other two had also done the same. Removing his mask and mouthpiece, he yelled out. “Did you find anything?”

  “Not sure yet. Let’s get to the bank and check.” Miriam gave a cheery wave.

  “Just a load of shale and flinty bits.” Fergy waved his bag at them. “Let’s see what we have.”

  Minutes later, they were emptying their bag’s contents. Miriam got excited at some brown coloured pottery fragments that were clearly ancient, although a cursory examination gave no clue of age. They were, due to the stillness and constant temperature, remarkably well preserved.

  “We’ll have to examine and analyse them some more back at the lab. What about you, Fergy?”

  The professor scuffed, dragging his hand through the gravelly stones and then peering hard at his find. “Nothing that you couldn’t find on Chesil’s famous beach in Dorset. Anything interesting there, Kelvin?”

  Kelvin did not say a word. His lips seemed to be moving in silent prayer.

  “What have you got there, Kelvin?” Miriam pointed to the large, flat rock he had in his hand.

  For a moment, he didn’t respond. His eyes were glazed over. Then he snapped out of his trance and exclaimed, “I can’t believe I found this on my first dive. Look!” He held it up.

  “It’s a triskelion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An ancient Celtic, Druidic and even Christian symbol, reflecting the belief that all things come in threes. It’s based on Archimedean principles. As you can see, it’s a rounded spiral with three arms radiating from a central point, turning counter- clockwise. It stands for any one of hundreds of Celtic and Druidic Triads found in their literature. Part of the foundation of their ancient cosmology, which stands for land, sea and sky.”

  “The three in one. The Father, Son and Holy Spirit,” Fergy quipped. “Hey, how do you know all this? I thought that was my field. I may have a rival here!” He laughed out loud. He knew the myths and legends but never took them seriously.

  Kelvin remained serious. His silent prayer had been answered and shown only to him. He knew there could only be one other discovery to complete the three-fold lore. Had he not previously been led to discover that mysterious plaque? He had yet to show that to them. He gave a short prayer of thanks to the elements. He ignored Fergal’s question.

  Miriam gave Fergy an enquiring look. There was more to Kelvin than he had let on. “What are we going to do with it?”

  “We will have to catalogue it, complete with photographs, location and other details. I expect our minder out there will need to be told, although there’s nothing particularly Christian about the find. No doubt his boss will have the final say. After all, they are paying for all this.”

  Kelvin looked up. “They have enough artifcats in their vaults. Why would they want this?” His voice was laced with anger.

  “You may be right, Kelvin. This could belong to a museum, but I don’t think our rotund friend would care for that. Do we tell what we’ve found so far?”

  Kelvin took a deep breath. “Let’s wait and see. Later, I’ll show you something else I found awhile back. You may be able to tell me what it is.”

  “Look forward to that, Kelvin. Let’s look around a bit more. It won’t do any harm to keep our fat minder waiting longer… and we say nothing for now, okay?”

  * * *

  Later that evening, having found nothing further, the professor sat resting in his armchair. He had boiled water and was spooning the Assam tea into the glass teapot he had brought with him. He never used tea bags. They never tasted quite the same. Fergy stirred the brew with care, enjoying the subtle aroma that came straight from a section of heaven.

  He jumped when there was a rap on the door. It was Miriam. She had booked a room down the corridor from him. As she frequently did, she had been thinking of the project they had embarked upon. There was more talking to be done, especially about their new friend, Kelvin. He had turned out to be a man of mystery. After their dive, they realised there was more to him, and they needed to find out what.

  Many people imagined, because of their closeness, that she and
Fergy were an item – lovers at least. It had never been that way. As children, they had grown up together and lived just a stone’s throw away. Their parents had been close friends, and their lives closely entwined.

  Miriam’s father had been a roof thatcher until a stroke prevented him from climbing up ladders ever again. It eventually killed him. Her mother was living in a care home and unable to function on her own. Miriam went to see her every week, but dementia was getting a grip on her and she often couldn’t recognise her own daughter.

  She and Fergy often talked about their odd relationship, but never once did either of them overstep the invisible line. She had often wondered, and still did, if they would ever be romantic. Neither had current relationships with others, although in the past, that had not been the case. They adored each other, holding high respect for each other’s respective ways of life and achievements. They were a perfect match. Some even said they were like brother and sister.

  After her knock, the door opened and he stood there holding the teapot.

  “You timed that well. Come in.”

  Just then his mobile began to ring. “Oh bugger. Who can that be?” The screen showed an international caller. It was not unusual. He frequently received them from colleagues and enquirers.

  “Hi, Professor Christie speaking. How can I help you?”

  The voice at the other end sounded soft, almost South African in its intonation.

  “Hello, Professor. Good to reach you. Please do not be startled by this call. It’s from Rome. The Vatican, to be precise.”

  There was a pause. “The Vatican. Is this some sort of joke?” He swung a wild look at Miriam who looked startled. “If so, you better get off the line right now.”

  “No joke, Professor. My common name was Jayden Van Cleef. You know me more as Pope Adrian.” He paused as he heard gasps from the other end of the line. “So now, do I have your attention?”