The Keeper's Cup: A Controversial Archaeological Thriller

by Ken Fry

  “What exactly are we looking for?” one of the students asked.

  The professor paused. “I wish I knew.” He wasn’t giving too much away.

  Pulling away from the group, Miriam looked up to St. Michaels, perched on the Tor’s summit. “Well, before we do anything, I want to go up there. I haven’t done so since I was kid. Anyone care to join?”

  “Not me,” Fergy grimaced. “Too much climbing.”

  “I’ll go alone then. Won’t be long.” She set off at a pace. She somehow wished that Kelvin had volunteered. She thought they had much to say that hadn’t as yet been said. He had decided to help with the setting up of the equipment.

  * * *

  An early frost had begun to evaporate under the weak rays of a feeble lemony sun. The air was clear and the sky already a spotless blue. It wasn’t warm. She looked around and wondered whether she could see a Fata Morgana. The low-lying damp ground could produce a visual effect known by that name when the Tor appears to rise out of the mist. This optical phenomenon occurs when rays of light are strongly bent as they pass through air layers of different temperatures, in a steep thermal inversion where an atmospheric duct has formed. She remembered that the Italian term Fata Morgana was derived from the name of Morgan le Fay, a powerful sorceress in Arthurian and Holy Grail legend.

  She looked hard, but it didn’t appear.

  Moving upwards without effort, Miriam used the well-trodden walkway to the top which so many before her had used. Already, childhood recollections arose in her mind. She could clearly hear and see her mum and dad larking around and playing silly games with her. It seemed as if it was only yesterday.

  She marvelled at how the power of the human brain and mind could so easily conjure up such memories. What on earth are thoughts made of? That notion spawned the question, what is the nature of reality?

  She pressed on. Such was her absorption she barely noticed the rigours of the climb or that her breathing had become quicker as she neared the summit.

  For a moment, she paused to take in the view that unfolded around her. Its panoramic extent was breath taking. Its expanse reminded her of T S Elliot’s words, so eloquently expressed in his poem, ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.’

  ‘When the evening is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table.’

  She knew the history and background of the church well.

  Remains of a fifth century fort had been found on the Tor, and remnants of a very early church. In 1275, an earthquake had shaken the original St. Michael’s Church and destroyed the building. A second church, built in the 1360s, survived until the Dissolution of the Monasteries in 1539. What was left of the fifteenth century St. Michael’s Tower were restored in modern times and the structure now stands on the Tor.

  Excavations on the Tor revealed Neolithic flint tools and Roman artefacts, indicating some use of the Tor since very ancient times. The terracing on the side of the hill, if man-made, suggest they could date from Neolithic times. She had researched some of the Celtic mythology and what part this mystical place played in iron-age lives

  The Tor, she discovered, seemed to have been called by the early Britons as Ynys yr Afalon meaning, ‘The Isle of Avalon.’ Some believed – including the twelfth and thirteenth century writer, Gerald of Wales – that it was the Avalon of Arthurian legend. Miriam wasn’t even convinced that Arthur was a real historical figure. The Tor has been associated with the name Avalon, and with King Arthur, since the alleged discovery of his and Queen Guinevere’s neatly labelled coffins in 1191. Too neat by far, she thought. It was more likely to have been an early medieval hoax or a put-up event to perpetuate the legend and lore of the locality.

  She also discovered that Author Christopher L. Hodapp had asserted in his book, The Templar Code for Dummies, that Glastonbury Tor is one of the possible locations of the Holy Grail, because it is close to the monastery that housed the Nanteos Cup. At first, she had thought that the Nanteos cup could be the cup they’re looking for. Not so. The Nanteos Cup was a medieval wood mazer bowl. It was on view and held for many years at Nanteos Mansion, Rhydyfelin, in Wales. It is now on display at the National Library of Wales

  Like so many medieval relics, their provenance had never been proven, or to have any of the attributes accorded to them. The Nanteos Cup was said to have a supernatural ability to heal those who drank from it, not unlike the one they were seeking. It was said by many believers that the Nanteos Cup had been made from a piece of the True Cross. Miriam couldn’t but help wonder how many of these True Crosses were in existence?

  By the early twentieth century, the Nanteos Cup had become a Holy Grail candidate – one of hundreds in Europe. In her research, she had been unable to locate any evidence that it healed the sick.

  Is our research heading into the waste bins of myth and wishful thinking like all these others?

  Be that as it may, as she gazed around, there was no doubt in her mind that the place was special. Since she could remember, she had felt a strange sensation whenever she looked at pictures of the Tor or viewed it from afar.

  Her encounter with Kelvin and that vision nagged away in the background. It wouldn’t go away. If anything, it was growing stronger the closer she drew to the summit. Directly in front of her stood the towering open roofed remains of St. Michaels. She looked around and could see she was alone. For a moment, she felt reluctant to step inside. The opening beckoned to her to enter. One hesitant step followed another, and she was inside. Her gaze was fixed on the open roof and the bright light streaming down, bathing her in a golden glow of sunshine.

  All went quiet.

  Silence.

  Stillness.

  Then she heard them…

  Voices.

  They were speaking a language not spoken in these times, but she understood it clearly. They were talking of livestock and of food. Others were speaking of fortifying the Tor with terraces to protect the community from raiders and enemies. There were the sounds of children playing and of women talking and preparing meals.

  The aroma of food cooking.

  Of ashy smoke arising.

  It was then she saw them. They were moving all around her but did not acknowledge her.

  She could reach out and touch them, but they glided through her. She felt no fear, only wonderment and a deep irrevocable sense of belonging. Their clothes were bright and colourful. The men had long fair hair, coloured and embroidered belted tunic shirts, with trousers called bracae. Around their shoulders were cloaks, striped or tartan in design, with the separate checks close together and in various colours. The women who congregated in groups wore floor-length skirts or dresses made of wool or linen and shawls or cloaks. They were colourful and made from the dyes of vegetables and berries.

  Miriam saw all this in a flash, and in seconds that seemed to stretch for hours, the vision faded.

  She was left breathless, in a wondrous confusion. What is going on with me?

  There was no way of knowing. She savagely shook her head several times from left to right, as if that would bring her to her senses. But it didn’t. The memory was as strong as any she had ever had. Who were they? It was if I knew them all.

  In her confusion, she rushed out through the furthest exit and into the morning sun again. Taking several deep breaths she stared down to where the team were located. They were all there. She could make out the tall figure of Fergy and the others close by. Heading in their direction, she could see Vincenzo’s red pickup truck heading their way.

  She felt reassured that she wasn’t going mad. Everything was as it should be.

  Get a grip, Miriam. It wasn’t real. These stories are getting to you.

  Her rationale, however, was unable to explain why her nostrils were full of the aroma of smoke and food cooking.

  26

  In a packed private conference room of the Kolbe Hotel in Rome, away from possible interventions, Cardinal Nicholas, looking composed, sat in a chair mounted on an ele
vated dais. The chair resembled a burnished throne. Golden rods entwined with classical style vines swirled around the tall headrest, atop of which a pensive Cupidon gazed to the heavens.

  The cardinal twirled his episcopal ring tightly around the third finger of his right hand. The ring was the one bestowed on him by the pope. Usually, he wore no other. At secret meetings like these, he discarded that rule and wore another ring on his left hand – a fat, gold and black, onyx cygnet ring. It was his to wear as the acknowledged head of Ordinus Sancti et Sanctae Crucis et Gladio. The Order of the Holy Cross and Sword.

  He turned his head from right to left to survey his audience. There were over one hundred members from across the globe, comprised of priests, bishops, and cardinals. All were dressed in their full ceremonial attire of scarlet and black, and some wore full red cloaks. Each commanded their own bands of substantial domestic followers.

  The room was darkened and only Cardinal Nicholas was clearly visible. From his viewpoint though, he could see them all clearly. He was dressed as they were. He gave them all a measured and lengthy gaze. This technique had always mesmerised members. Their attentions were riveted on him. He knew that a theatrical performance always had the potential to galvanise devotion. He simply stared at them en masse and said nothing for another full minute He then began to speak, in slow, measured, and articulate terms. The longer the speech, the faster the delivery.

  “My Brothers, once more our devoted ranks meet to discuss and defend our sacred faith. We last met two months ago, here in these very rooms, and declared our intention, and to promote our blessed movement, Ordinus Sancti et Sanctae Crucis et Gladio. Our resolve was as stone and now it has grown, hardened as steel and iron. Each day, our glorious Order gathers, and strengthens little by little. Soon, it will grow to envelop the earth. Do not doubt it. If you do, then you may get up and leave this holy meeting.” As he expected, nobody did.

  “We are witnessing our glorious church, which you all helped hold up, being desecrated by one who came in the night like a murdering thief – His Hereticalness, The Antichrist, our false pope, so named Adrian. Through him and his followers, our Church is in danger of becoming invisible, lost in a mish mash of anti-biblical expressions and anti-God tolerances that can only bring us ruin. You know them all. I do not have to list them. I want you all, here at this moment, to run them through your minds right now.”

  The cardinal had begun to sweat as he sensed his methodical, oratorical skills having the desired effect. He let over a silent minute run by before picking up the verbal link.

  “We can make our Church visible once more like a beacon on a far and distant hill, a guiding light for lost souls.”

  He liked to use flowery similes and metaphors.

  “Our world is sinking into a well of darkness and I am disturbed by the foreshadowing of liberalism, promiscuity, and all propelled by the wings of so-called science – a science controlled by Satan.” He stood, ignoring the awkwardness of his misshapen leg, and raised both arms to the air. His speech was accelerating. “And what do we say of the future? Must we tolerate the satanic teachings of other faiths and religions?” He paused for dramatic effect. “Must we?!” His bony fist smashed onto the tabletop as he delivered his question. His voice ascended octaves. “Our visible church built this world and we must not let the light go out. Those who oppose us must perish as God and His Son Jesus Christ so aptly willed. The snake who lies curled in his dark pit must have his venomous head removed, for if not, he is preparing to devour us! The evil reptile must be slaughtered and all those who wind their way around him and his false satanic ideas. I am prepared to die for our God-given Church, and I am willing, if needs require, to shed blood to maintain it! Do you agree?”

  A thunderous roar of approval answered him.

  Excited spittle and phlegmy droplets sprayed from his mouth. He continued in this manner for ten more minutes, by which time his audience were on their feet, clapping adoringly and cheering furiously. He knew that if he asked them all to strip naked and stand on their heads, they would have done so.

  “Now, my true followers of Christ, I have prepared for you all a folio. When you are alone and away from here, I wish you to study it. In this, you will find an agenda and a ‘Plan of Action’.”

  What he didn’t tell them was that they would also discover comprehensive details about the search for the never empty cup. That would soon be up for more discussion.

  “Please read it and then send me your opinions. I would like your replies within fourteen days.” He nodded and took a sip of water, closed his eyes, and wiped his brow with a red, silk handkerchief. That went well!

  There then followed a series of statements and reactions to his performance from the gathered conclave. All were in favour, and to a man, a defiant militant tone had set in amongst them.

  It was time to end the proceedings. What was now bothering him was a note that had been passed to him by his personal assistant, Francesca De Luca. A quick scan had caused his brow to wrinkle. He needed to read it in more detail when he was alone.

  He stood and raised his hands for quiet. “Brothers, it is time to bring our sacred meeting to a close. Please listen to my prayer.” After a minutes’ silence, he prayed aloud. “Oh great Christ, we thank thee for your guiding hand and light as we meditate on your will and wishes. Your lighted candle will not dim. There will be no shadow. For with us and protected by our holy ranks, it can only grow brighter.”

  The meeting came to a close and a galaxy plus of glassy eyed cardinals and priests made their ways back to their residencies. Cardinal Nicholas knew there would be a substantial reaction to what the portfolio contained. That was exactly what he wanted.

  One hour later, in his own rooms, he had more time to read through the message passed to him. A chill went through him the more he read. It contained information that had somehow leaked from the pope’s secretariat. That a certain Inspector Rizzo was independently investigating the murder of Bishop Vincent Fisher, and for some reason, he figured in a list of suspects. There were no reasons given as to why this might be so. It was disturbing. Could the pope be party to it in any way? What did it mean? The pope, who seemed to be playing his cards close to his chest, had made no mention. Did he know more than he was letting on?

  He sat back in his chair and rubbed at his damaged leg. Something had to be done and done quickly. Rizzo was proving to be an obstacle, and as such, he would have to be overcome. He had become an ulcerous nuisance. To his mind sprang a medical expression he knew of. It went, ‘If in doubt, cut it out.’

  The cardinal was never slow to act fast when he needed to. Thinking hard for several minutes, he reached out for the phone to make a very unusual call.

  27

  The students appeared baffled. “How does this stuff work?”

  The professor was in his element, and like a child in a sweet shop. Words poured from him like a waterfall, accompanied by frequent hand gestures. There was nothing he enjoyed more than to share his knowledge. He began to explain.

  “The principle behind LIDAR is really quite simple. Shine a small light at a surface and measure the time it takes to return to its source. When you shine a torch on a surface, what you are actually seeing is the light being reflected and returned to your retina. Light travels amazingly fast – just shy of 300,000 kilometres per second, 186,000 miles per second, or 0.3 metres per nanosecond. Turning a light on appears to be instantaneous, but of course, it’s not!” He clapped his hands loudly together for emphasis.

  He continued. “The equipment requires measuring, and it needs to operate extremely fast. Only with the advancements in modern computing technology has this become possible. The actual calculation for measuring how far a returning light photon has travelled to and from an object is quite simple.” He paused with a smile of enjoyment. “I won’t go into that, as you will get too much baffling information. Basically, the LIDAR instrument fires rapid pulses of laser light at a surface – some at up to 150,00
0 pulses per second. A sensor on the instrument measures the amount of time it takes for each pulse to bounce back. Light moves at a constant and known speed, so the LIDAR instrument can calculate the distance between itself and the target with high accuracy. By repeating this in quick succession, the instrument builds up a complex ‘map’ of the surface it’s measuring. With airborne LIDAR, using our drone, other data must be collected to ensure accuracy. As the sensor is moving, height, location and orientation of the instrument must be included to determine the position of the laser pulse at the time of sending and the time of return. This extra information is crucial to the data’s integrity. With ground-based LIDAR, a single GPS location can be added for each location where the instrument is set up.”

  He smiled affably at his listeners. “Are you both any the wiser?”

  There was no response. “Any questions?” He received two looks of confusion and shaking heads. He laughed. “Fine then, let’s get this gear set up.”

  * * *

  In the midst of their activities, Father Vincenzo’s arrival in the pickup truck went unnoticed. He leapt out and was back in his sporting tracksuit and trainers. Around his neck hung his inevitable camera. He had travelled alone. He made his way across to Fergal and the others, “Buongiorno figli miei!”

  The professor looked up. He didn’t see himself as one of Vincenzo’s children. His reply was offhand. “Oh, hi Father. What do you want this time?”

  A flicker of a scowl crossed Vincenzo’s face. The offhandness was not lost on hm. “I come to see what you do and to take pictures for the cardinal.” He pointed to the equipment scattered around. “What is all this for?”

  In exasperation, thee professor straightened up from tightening a cable to an output unit. “I’m sure, Father, that if I took the time, which I don’t have, you would still not understand. Basically, it’s hi-tech geological surveying equipment, which can perform miracles. But sadly not the wave-walking variety you’re used to.”