by Ken Fry
“I see that,” Miriam agreed.
“Both mention the cup, and a place or grave that holds a secret. Kelvin might know where this place could be.”
The professor poked his pen at the scroll verse. “The scroll verse gets a little more specific. It mentions the cup in a way that seems to give it character. It wants to be found. Reaching out, the Cup to you hast begun. That’s intriguing.” The professor’s research antennae were glowing bright. “The verses sound like clues to a quest.”
“You’re forgetting something.” A quiet voice behind them caused them both to spin about. It was a pensive looking Kelvin. In their excitement, they had not heard him enter the room.
“Jesus, Kelvin, you gave me a scare! We didn’t hear you.” Miriam brushed aside hair hanging across her face.
“Knock louder next time, Kelvin.” Fergy looked annoyed. He had never liked creepy surprises. “Anyway, what are we missing?” His question was laced with the hint of a challenge.
“Look,” Kelvin began, sounding assured and confident. He indicated the third line of the scroll. ‘Search not yet done, to the Tor you must run.’ It couldn’t be plainer. We must search around the Tor itself. That’s what the scroll is telling us. Hell, you two, the place is rife with Arthurian tales – Excalibur, The Lady of the Lake, Camelot, the Holy Grail and many more. Doesn’t that connect with you?” Kelvin sounded passionate and enthusiastic.
“I don’t disagree with you, Kelvin. I was just about to point that out before you surprised us,” Fergy spoke evenly. “It’s a mystical place, but not one of those legends have been proven. They’re no more than legends… fairy tales, I guess, to keep the mysticism of this location alive. Stories like these are, at best, metaphors for wishful thinking and a sense of ancient identity. Like Druids being the real Brits.” Fergy gave a smug smile and grinned at Kelvin.
Kelvin didn’t flinch nor back down. “What you say may be right, but you can’t prove them wrong either. So my tablet, the stone casket, and the scroll, are phoney, made-up metaphorical artefacts, are they?”
Before Fergy could reply, the Waltzing Matilda ringtone on his cell phone cut through the air.
Fergy put his finger to his lips and then answered, turning his back to them as he did. His responses could be heard clearly. It had to be the laboratory.
“It is? That’s brilliant… Really? … That’s not hard to believe… Are you certain?... Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Kelvin and Miriam each had raised eyebrows.
The conversation continued. “Wow, as old as that… Thanks for letting me know… I’ll be over soon… Bye for now.”
He disconnected the call and turned to face them. “That was most illuminating.” His eyes shone like lighthouse beacons. “It was the lab, and they’ve finished their examination of both your tablet Kelvin, and the box and scroll.”
“What did they have to say?” Kelvin looked anxious. Miriam gripped his arm.
“Firstly, the tablet is made of limestone. The fascinating thing is… the limestone is several millions of years old. It reveals much about what this place must have looked like back then. Do you know how limestone is created? Ocean-dwelling organisms such as oysters, clams, mussels, and coral use calcium carbonate found in seawater to create their shells and bones. The water pressure compacts the sediment, creating limestone. There must have been seas here once. That’s your tablet. The Aramaic script, due to the remaining patina around the carvings or chippings, has been dated to around eighteen hundred to two thousand three hundred years old. What it was doing around here, totally out of place, is something we must investigate further. It almost dovetails into what the bishop and SOTA were beginning to believe.”
“Astonishing and very important to our work.” Miriam looked animated. “And the box and scroll?”
“The box,” Fergy continued, “is made of ancient rock found around these parts. There are chip marks from a sharp instrument found in one or two places around the lid. The bitumen seal has no part in the ID process, as it is as old as Kelvin’s tablet. The scroll is of fine vellum, calf, or goat. That was not totally identifiable. The composition of the ink used is a common one of that period – iron gall – and was applied using a very thin brush. It was used from the early twelfth century right up until the eighteenth century. These inks were widely thought to be the best type of ink.” Fergy stopped and looked at them both. “Well? That’s a brief summary of what I was told.”
“Where do we go from here? Back to the caves?” Miriam shrugged.
“I think we should go back to the Tor. That’s what the scroll suggested… To the Tor you must run.” Kelvin pointed out towards its imposing presence.
“I can’t see the point in that,” the professor said. “Every bit of that place has been examined, excavated, and sifted through for centuries. There’s nothing left to find.”
“That’s what they said about the pyramids and they’re still finding amazing discoveries. Fergy, I think Kelvin’s right,” Miriam said. “We’ve been given a direct clue. We shouldn’t ignore it.”
“But that message was written in the twelfth century.”
“That doesn’t matter. When it was written is not important. It’s trying to tell us something.”
“Okay, where do you suggest we start?”
She glanced at Kelvin and pointed to the Tor. “St. Michael’s?”
“Whoa there a moment, will you? There’s another issue here. How much do we tell Vincenzo and the cardinal? I’ve been thinking about that and I’ve had a change of mind. We should tell him everything. I will be forwarding all findings direct to Pope Adrian anyway. He’s not going to miss out. If the cardinal then withholds our information from the pope, he will know for certain the man’s dodgy, with his own secret agenda, and not to be trusted. We have our own copies and records so I’m going to send everything over to Vincenzo and see what happens from there.”
“Excellent,” Miriam replied. “That should clinch it one way or another. The cardinal has no idea of your direct contact with the Vatican. It must stay that way.”
“That’s sound,” Kelvin agreed. “At least this pope is from the twenty-first century, and not the days of the Inquisition. But before we go further, there’s something I need to ask you.”
“Fire away.” The professor leant forward. “What’s that?”
“In two days, it will be November the first. It’s an important day for our grove. We call it The Eye of the Sun, which registers the change of the season. I’d like you to join us.” He smiled and extended his arms in invitation. “Let me briefly explain. This is known as Samhuinn, and it only happens from October thirty first to November second. It is a time of no-time and should not be confused with the solstice. Celtic society was well organised. Everyone knew their place. But to allow that order to be psychologically comfortable, the Celts knew there had to be a time when order and structure were abolished – and a crazy, few days of mayhem took over. Its echoes remain today throughout the world. Samhuinn was a planned event. Time was set aside for the three days of this festival, and people did crazy things – men dressed as women and women as men, is one example.” Kelvin became more animated. “There will only be a few of us and I would be honoured with your presence. There will be no need to join in, rest assured. You can simply observe. It’s not so different from today’s Halloween.” Kelvin paused and glanced at them both. “I sense you are intrigued.”
Miriam was. Without saying a word, she felt a distinct shift in her psyche. A strange fluttering sensation passed through her. Kelvin’s words were familiar, but she didn’t know how or why.
Kelvin continued. “The veil between this world and the World of the Ancestors is drawn aside on these nights, and for those who are prepared, journeys can be made in safety to the ‘other side’. The Druid rites, therefore, were concerned with making contact with the spirits of the departed, who were perceived as sources of guidance and inspiration – rather than as sources of dread. The
dark moon, the time when no moon can be seen in the sky, was the phase of the moon which ruled this time, because it represents a time in which our mortal sight needs to be obscured in order for us to see into the other worlds.” He paused. “All a load of nonsense eh?”
“Not so,” the professor said with a smile. “Contrary to what you may think, I have great respect for ancient rites, rituals and beliefs. They keep us in touch with the real world and not the world of smart phones and AI devices. Long may these ancient ceremonies continue. Having said that… when are we going to the Tor? I feel that we should do it after attending Kelvin’s event. Meanwhile, I’m off to the lab to collect the findings. I will pass them all on to Vincenzo before sending my report to the pope. Who’s coming?”
“Not me.” Kelvin stood up and prepared to leave. “I need to make preparations. I call you later.”
A very quiet Miriam followed Fergy out.
21
Father Vincenzo brushed the croissant crumbs from his cassock and took a large mouthful of an Italian Bardolino red wine. He glanced at the wall clock; it was ten thirty in the morning. He had never understood the English rule on when you should drink or not drink. As far as he was concerned, there were twenty-four hours in a day and any one of them was a candidate.
Leaning back into the sofa, he enjoyed the prospect of a lazy day. Professor Christie had delivered a new batch of documents and photographs of their recent discoveries. He couldn’t ask for more. Well… not quite. He hadn’t been given the artefacts, having been told they were required for further examination and reference. Once finished, they could be handed over to him. He had no reason to believe otherwise. The team appeared upfront and open. Perhaps I was wrong about them, he thought. Yet, he was never one to underestimate another. That’s why Cracker was there to keep an eye on all their activities, morning, noon, and night. If circumstances became awkward, the man would enjoy employing some of his techniques.
He gave the report a swift perusal. Most of it was couched in the language of science, which he had little understanding of. Nevertheless, the cardinal would be pleased to receive it. He would know what to do with it.
With haste, he forwarded the report to the cardinal, eager to continue his day.
* * *
The soft electronic ping on his computer alerted him to an incoming message. Cardinal Nicholas was busy preparing an address for his society meeting.
He paused what he was writing. This could be of importance. He spent some time scouring the laboratory reports and the carbon dating evidence. It was firm and substantial, but nowhere near enough. The photographs were of excellent quality and both the tablet and the casket with its scroll were excellently presented. The verses made for intriguing but preposterous reading, hinting of the existence of a cup that may have been used by Jesus or The Magdalene. They alluded to a secret burial place somewhere in England, but where?
The story, he felt, was only just beginning.
The cardinal thought deeply about what was going on. There was a dichotomy. If this story were found to be true, his own society would look stupid. What was more important to him was to recover and hold the cup, should it exist. With that in his hands, he could twist and turn any religious society in the world to his agenda, and that included the Catholic Church. The traditional, ultra conservative points of the Catholic faith could be strengthened, as God could be shown as having led him and his movement to make this startling discovery. It did not mean the abandonment of traditional beliefs. Played properly, it could only strengthen his own agendas and propel him to the leading position in the church. The severe practices and elements of his beliefs and of the society’s would hold sway as the one true way – the one true belief as deigned by God, with him, Cardinal Nicholas, leading the way. No one will be able to oppose or contradict him then.
At that moment, he experienced an overwhelming feeling of gratitude and reassurance. God was holding his hand.
His next thought was how much of this information should be wired to the pope, who was paying for the mission after all. He snickered at the thought. Unknowingly, His Holiness was paying for his own demise.
Too little response might lead to a cancellation of the project. That should not be allowed to happen. This time, he would send him everything. It was just enough to keep his interest bubbling and yet, gave little away.
* * *
It was Sunday, just before one o’clock. The pope had just given his speech about the dangers of overpopulating God’s planet. He had spoken longer than usual and he knew it was a theme that would cause heated debate in the corridors of power, and churches across the world. Following this, he gave the Angelus and ended with a blessing for the faithful flock below, in various languages, and the Apostolic Blessing at the end of his prayer.
It was with some weariness that he wandered back into his private quarters. Of late, he had been aware of an increasing tiredness about his work. He knew he was regarded with high suspicion in various circles, ever since he had given his opinions on liberty, freedom of expression, and sexual choices. His approval of the ‘Rainbow Flag’ had offended many of the die-hard brigades and had enthused just as many liberals. He reasoned with himself, I’m not here to win a popularity contest. Only to spread Christ’s humanity and love of all living things. They can carve on my resting place, ‘Here lies a man who tried with all his might to do Christ’s work.’ That simple adage would make me happy.
He sat at his desk. As was customary, plates with a few simple snacks had been prepared for him: Varied pizza slices, Pizza al Taaglio, Panino Rapini, a bread sandwich with Rapini – a small version of broccoli. Following without fail was a cream-filled croissant, Cornetti con Panna. His weariness had diluted his appetite. For a reason he could only guess at, he felt ashamed of his tastes in food and the fine white wines condensing around the best Italian wine glasses to be found. A vivid picture of Christ entered his mind. The breaking of simple, unleavened bread and a plain chalice of wood or metal holding unpretentious wine… made the luxury he was in feel like a travesty.
He pushed the fare to one side. “God, give me strength,” was all he could utter. He switched on his computer to access the world’s news. He noticed the email from Cardinal Nicholas. “Ah,” he said out loud. “I hope this is good news.” The cardinal didn’t say much. He alluded to the findings and further tests on the discovered objects. He mentioned the two poems, without giving his own comments. The only exciting addition was the confirmation of the inscribed Aramaic on Kelvin Stallybrass’s tablet. He knew this anyway. Such was his faith. This small detail only reinforced his theory. He would check his mailbox later to see if the team had anything else to offer… and to see if the cardinal was concealing anything.
He pressed his internal buzzer for the attendants to take away the uneaten food and wine. The man looked surprised at the remains. Breaking with normal protocol, he asked if something was wrong with the food or was His Holiness unwell.
The pope responded with kindness. “Thank you for your concerns. All is well. Nothing that sleep will not cure. There is no need to worry.”
The man pushed his trolley from the room, bowed low and left. Without realising it, Pope Adrian had closed his eyes and dropped into the dark gulp of an aching sleep.
* * *
He had a good view of the floodlit frontage of the hotel and everybody who came and went. The whole thing was one big bore. He had his instructions from Vincenzo and that was good enough, but if these guys didn’t get stroppy what was the point of him being there at all? All the sitting around reminded him of a time when he was in Belmarsh High Security Prison, doing time for a failed armed robbery attempt on a famous West End jewellery shop. Two men were savagely beaten, and Cracker and his two accomplices were unable to escape. He got ten years for that. Since his release, he had remained one step ahead of the law and had not been rearrested for many of his other misdemeanours. He had led a hard life, forever in trouble with the law and authorities and in an
d out of jail. He had two maxims in life – strike first and never say sorry or apologise. That was for snowflakes and sheep shaggers.
He had learnt the hard way.
22
He spotted them from the concealment of his hotel window. It was the two smart gits. They were being picked up in a camper van, which had other ‘weirdoes’ in it. That included the barman of the hotel. They’re probably going back to that place, with the trees, stones, and water, where he had first seen them.
Time for some fun.
He packed his gun and headed down to his vehicle.
His thoughts proved to be correct. They were headed to the same location. He was now off his leash and determined to have some action.
The van came to a halt close to where he had parked previously. He counted seven people disembarking from the vehicle. His incredulity scale soared. The first to come out was the barman, dressed in a flowing, earth- coloured robe of some sort, with a headpiece, complete with some kind of badge. In his hand was a long staff, not unlike a shepherd’s crook. The others came out, but they were dressed in white robes that were similarly cut. Last out, but in their normal attire, came the professor and his woman. They were positioned in the middle of the column as they set out in single file through the undergrowth and trees.
Cracker followed at a discreet distance. Aren’t these people the crackpot Druids who turn up at Stonehenge every year? Jesus, this a new one for me. He listened hard but not a word was being spoken. The column moved in silence. They soon came to a stop and Cracker recognised it as the place he had previously been to with Vincenzo. He crouched low, not too far away, but close enough to see and hear what was going on. He felt the comforting weight of his pistol pressing against his ribs. This could be fun. A smirk crossed his face.