The Arrival

by J W Brazier

  He watched the scraps of telegram blow out into the desert; he couldn’t allow Abram’s impatience to become a distraction. With few options and nothing to lose but money if he failed, he decided to stick with his strategy.

  Clients had suggested Ian’s instinctual innate abilities were a sixth sense. Those honed instincts pointed him to his current location, the Hinnom Valley, a deep and jagged scar on the land. In choosing the disfigured, long, and narrow valley, he’d put everything on the line. The gorge ran south and west of Jerusalem. It separated Mount Zion to the north from the Hill of Evil Counsel and the plain of Rephaim, a sloping rocky plateau, to the south.

  Ian walked a short distance to a nearby table of recovered artifacts, wiping away the sweat that stung at his eyes. A canteen of water hung on a nail; he snatched it off, turned about, and looked back at his excavations.

  His head tilted back, he upended the canteen. The water splashed in and round his mouth, running down his cheeks. He rinsed and spit. The water felt tepid, but refreshing, so he again soaked his hair and face, and splashed at his eyes and neck with his cupped hand, then shook his head. His long, wet hair strands slapped at his face, like a soaked animal shaking off its damp fur.

  A loud noise came from his left, and he looked up to see a military jeep roar into view and slide to a stop in a cloud of dust. He recognized the local official, a hard-line orthodox Jew. Since the expedition’s start, the man was a general pain, always contesting Ian’s permits. The little man jumped out and ran toward him, shouting and shaking a clenched fist.

  “You foreigners think you can desecrate our lands? None of you show respect for our dead! You’ve no rights to dig here. You’re shameful treasure hunters and a pestilence,” he shouted.

  Ian first thought: A solid right hook to the jaw would muzzle that little barking annoyance—but he restrained the impulse. Still, regardless of the man’s position, Ian couldn’t allow the Jew’s contemptuous outbursts go unchallenged. He threw the canteen of water down and moved like an attacking cat toward the now shocked little man.

  Ian grabbed a handful of shirt collar and yanked the Hasidic Jew to within inches of his own face. The heels of the startled official lifted off the ground. Ian glared down from his towering height of six-four, his nostrils flared, his look daring the man to speak another insult. His expressive stare conveyed his crystal clear intent.

  The bearded man searched Ian’s intense hazel green eyes, looking as though he hoped he’d find mercy. Puffs of wind lifted his long braided hair strands dangling along his temples, like tiny wings. He was about to speak, but stopped short, no doubt afraid he’d experience swift and painful retribution from Ian’s massive hands.

  In the blink of an eye, Ian’s rough and tough expression changed. A disarming smile softened his hardened air. He gently lowered the small Orthodox Jew’s heels to the ground, releasing his powerful vise grip hold on the man’s apparel. The small Jew’s hands trembled as he readjusted his hat and attire.

  Ian glanced down when he noticed a spider crawling across his pant leg. Magnified from behind his thick-lensed, wire-rimmed spectacles, the little man’s saucer-like eyes followed Ian’s big hand. Ian brushed the spider away and then squashed it under foot.

  “I hate annoying insects,” Ian growled and walked away.

  The Jewish official breathed again.

  *

  The antiquities official kept Ian at a distance while he snooped around, annoying the workers. Nassir, a tall intimidating Arab and Ian’s supervisor over the workforce, saw an opportunity. Thirty yards away, the prying Jewish official hadn’t noticed Nassir’s gazelle-like approach from his right.

  Nassir swooped down upon the official, repeating Ian’s actions. He grabbed a handful of the bearded man’s shirt collar, then pulled the quivering Jew to within inches of his face.

  “I hate Jews, you in particular,” Nassir said. “Stop bothering my men. You are not welcome here. Leave now. We understand each other, yes?” he snarled, and then spit on the ground.

  He made sure the Jewish man saw him stroke and tap the handle of a long, curved dagger secured at his belt. The Jewish official, alarmed by the not-so-subtle implication, nodded his head twice that he understood the deadly meaning. Nassir grinned.

  “Good answer,” Nassir said and released him.

  The terrified man all but ran for his jeep to leave the dig sites, stumbling several times. Nassir looked amused as he watched the man leave. He spit again, satisfied, and walked away back to his work. One less annoying Jewish official wouldn’t give him or his workers any more trouble.

  *

  Ian tugged his hat down over his brow to shield against the hot sun. He looked toward the old city, eyes narrowed, and his thoughts turned bitter: Jerusalem! What a hellhole—and they call you a Holy City. More like the dung heap of humanity. He spat on the ground, wiped his brow with the back of his arm, and turned around to face his excavations.

  He was in a tight spot and it infuriated him. Insufferable heat and miserable working conditions, part of the job, but an acceptable annoyance. Daily doses of hostilities between British, Arabs, and Jews, he’d tolerated.

  It was the failures at every turn that frustrated and confounded him. Superstitious nonsense he’d dealt with many times before, in different lands, but Palestine was different. Insects buzzed around his face, more trying reminders of his predicament.

  “I wonder if this Jew isn’t cursed as they say,” he whispered, watching his men work the digs.

  He checked his wristwatch. Charles was late in returning to camp. He’d missed breakfast and lunch. He imagined that the hospital and clinics in Jerusalem were keeping the good doctor busy. Locals appreciated his medical help, and it kept him out of Ian’s hair until needed. They’d already talked about his charitable diversion. Charles had agreed since they hadn’t found their Jew, so he welcomed the change. Now Ian made a mental note that, if his friend didn’t show up before sundown, he’d go find him.

  Exasperated, Ian secured his hat and tramped off to continue his inspections. He wondered if his luck might have improved if instead he would have just closed his eyes and thrown a dart at a map. He hoped he’d chosen the right area.

  *

  The Jew’s identity was never an issue. Misdirection had worked well. Deep pockets from Solomon Industries kept the expedition’s true purpose from regional officials. Charles had voiced his concerns over their mounting difficulties, pointing to rumors that the fledgling United Nations shared responsibility for the escalating Arab and Jewish turmoil.

  Ian thought his friend was overreacting, but tended to agree and suspected they were in the thick of covert political intrigues. World governments seemed eager and anxious to carve up Palestine.

  The British and UN, in Ian’s view, were primary players and obstacles to a settlement. Their bungling had jammed a stick into a hornet’s nest, igniting centuries’ old revenge and land disputes. He’d seen firsthand how inept diplomacy had enabled Hitler to launch his pursuits of conquest. Diplomatic incompetence appeared again, the ingredient that would very well drive the Jews and Arabs to war.

  Their campfire discussions bordered between cordial chats and heated arguments. Charles expounding on his religious prognostications didn’t surprise Ian. The good doctor had declared that what they were witnessing was prophetic. Charles’s prophetic approach was a stretch to Ian. In their impassioned discourse, he preferred keeping his analysis simple.

  “Charles, the Palestine turmoil will spawn a slew of new dictators, all jockeying over the spoils for the same reasons: power, control, and money.”

  *

  Ian held his hat tight, shielded his eyes, and waited as another sudden gust of wind spawned a swirling dust cloud that howled past and out into the desert. Disgusted, he stomped off toward a promising grid of excavation, the sun on its decline behind him.

  “I’m chasing enigmas blowing about in the desert winds. My luck, his remains just blew past in that dust cloud,�
�� he grumbled.

  He stopped and inspected another worker’s tray of human bones and pottery, and picked up a battered skull. He toyed with it, exploring its features.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Baptist. Sorry for disturbing you, John,” he said and then tossed the skull back into the pile. “You’re not the one I’m looking for.”

  He moved on, still stressed over his choice of final dig sites. The question that concerned him most was whether he’d used logic—or had fear influenced his decision? Two days remained, so it was too late for second-guessing, but he’d run out of plausible options.

  He browsed through several sites, stopped, and looked up, staring in amazement at how the evening sun bathed Jerusalem in a majestic glow. The poignant moment amplified his bitterness, reminding him again of the prospect of total failure. His anger over his predicament boiled to the surface in a sarcastic rant.

  “Whoever named this forsaken scorched expanse of earth ‘the Promised Land’ had a sick sense of humor. ‘Ticked off’ is more like it. Nothing holy here … Holy to what? Insects, dirt, and rocks.”

  He walked fifty meters away and stood in a wide-open area, observing the workers’ progress in excavating his new grid pattern. With a hand wave, he motioned and then shouted in Arabic, “Maa,” for water. An observant water boy came running with two buckets tied to a pole balanced across his shoulders. The teenage boy stood behind him and waited. Ian was about to turn around for his water when an unexpected voice spoke.

  “Welcome to Yahweh’s valley of lost souls, Mr. Taylor.”

  The startled water boy spun around, looked up, and gasped. Surprised by the voice, Ian’s reaction was an immediate and unconscious response. He whirled around, pulling out his army-issued .45 automatic holstered on his hip, and then pointed it in the direction of the voice. A peculiar old man stood by the boy. The aged figure had just appeared, as if a ghost. Stunned, Ian watched as the man dipped a ladle of water and lifted it toward him.

  Ian couldn’t help but stare into the man’s brilliant blue eyes. They pulled him in, like an inviting ocean lagoon. He’s not a local Arab—not with those baby blues. Maybe a European Jew? he thought. The visitor’s glistening skin resembled dark tanned leather, a sharp contrast against white garments billowing in the wind. Clean as a surgeon’s hands, neither clothing nor person were dirty or soaked in sweat, with even his sandals pristine.

  The eccentric stranger smiled and held out the ladle of water, unaffected by Ian’s maneuver with the pistol. Judging by the intruder’s coarse, long gray-and-black hair, beard, and mustache, Ian guessed him to be in his late sixties, possible seventies. The frightened lad abandoned his buckets and ran for safety. The old man chuckled, watching the boy run away.

  Ian lowered and holstered his .45 and took the dipper. The calm gentleman smiled and walked to a nearby mound of dirt and sat down, as if anticipating the two would have a friendly chat. The old fellow had managed to surprise Ian in a wide-open area and it disturbed him.

  “Yes, you’re right, Mr. Taylor. Yahweh is, as you colorful Americans say, ticked off about now.”

  Ian gulped down the water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s your name, Mister?” he asked. “And how’d you just … appear on my dig?”

  “I’m called ‘Elijah,’ Mr. Taylor. I’m one of those Jews who love this ‘scorched expanse’ you spoke about with such admiration. How and when I arrived isn’t important. The person whom your employers asked you to find, he is the reason for my visit. They’ve deceived you in their purpose for his remains.”

  Ian said nothing, so Elijah continued.

  “You are a determined and resourceful man, Mr. Taylor. I’m here to ask—and to reason with you. I’m asking you to stop your search, let your remaining few days pass. Leave the man buried … but I’ve the impression that won’t happen, will it, Mr. Ian Taylor?”

  Ian cocked an eyebrow, assessing what this mysterious man had said and asked, then he spoke: “Elijah, I take it serious when someone sneaks up on me. I almost shot you. Next time, I’ll shoot first. As to my employer’s purposes, that’s neither my concern nor yours. I’m paid to do a job. I intend to finish it. Tell that to whoever sent you. You’re wasting my daylight. End of discussion.”

  Elijah smiled, but remained seated. Ian tossed the dipper into the abandoned bucket at his feet and stormed away. Then it hit him.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Jews won’t speak or write the name of their God. They say ‘Ha-Shem’ or ‘Adonai.’”

  He whirled around and looked in every direction. The man who’d called himself “Elijah” had vanished, the same way he’d appeared—in the blink of an eye.

  Ian clenched his jaw, feeling something deep down inside that didn’t sit right with him, but soon his anger overcame everything. “I don’t have time for this nonsense!” he shouted, in case the mysterious trespasser was listening. He marched off in search of higher ground that offered a panoramic view of his excavations, but looked back over his shoulder several times.

  An hour later, his arms and legs ached, and his upper body and clothing dripped with sweat. His chest heaved to catch a breath after the hard climb. He looked down over the cliff’s edge at his men hard at work, in an area the size of two American football fields. In first-century Jerusalem, locals had named the desolate landscape “Sheol.” He knew it by another name: Hell.

  *

  Hopes of quick success had long vanished, replaced by stress and fatigue. Months of bitter disappointments had taken their toll. Dark lines marred Ian’s once boyish qualities. His prolonged misery had morphed into haggard despair and clung to him mind and body, like a smothering wet coat.

  He’d gone unwashed and unshaven for days. Excessive drinking after work had become a habitual habit, something he’d never practiced before. Palestine had eaten away his reputable footing like termites devouring sweet wood. Alone on the crest of the hill, depressed and aggravated, he spoke to the wind.

  “Palestine is an accursed land. I’m starting to wonder if this whole project isn’t cursed.”

  He flinched and turned to his right, surprised by the sudden noise of rapid gunfire and muffled explosions. Rumors were adrift that the hostilities between Arabs and Jews would soon escalate to war.

  His right hand moved to touch his .45 automatic, a reassurance reflex and a learned instinct acquired behind enemy lines in Europe. The clip was full, with four extras in pouches along his belt. The gunfire sounded like skirmishes he’d heard before; the rumors of war appeared valid.

  Ian hoped he’d made clear to all warring factions of his commitment to neutrality. Money had worked so far. The workers were happy, officials content, and the expedition safe.

  How much longer money would buy their safety appeared questionable. I hope I’ve greased enough palms, he mused, but his gut instinct was telling him the interlude between peace and war was about to end.

  With those thoughts in mind, another worrisome equation was incessant. To finish his work, could he keep his mixed bag of Jewish and Arab workers bound together a few days more? Without them, he had no chance. Palestine would win, he would fail, and there’d be no bonus.

  Exhausted and with the light of day fading, Ian decided to return to his tent. His sparse quarters were a miserable sweatbox that reeked of camel dung. The meager abode was the one place that offered a few minutes of peace and a drink. In the walk toward camp, his head drifted low, weighted with burdensome thoughts. How am I to turn this calamity around? he wondered. I’ve got to figure a way—and soon.

  He looked up and saw his tent a short distance away. The thought and anticipation of enjoying a stiff drink quickened his pace. In mid-stride, he stopped and stood still, as if struck by a lingering thought.

  Head erect, he spun around, glaring back at his dig sites. He reached down and scooped up a handful of small rocks off the ground. Fueled by his seething resentment of Palestine and its haunting affront in hiding the Jew’s remains, he shook his fists
.

  “You accursed land, where have you hidden that rotten piece of crap?” he shouted and then flung the stones. “Maybe I should get Charles to conjure a miracle. He believes in that garbage,” he muttered before storming off toward camp.

  *

  Ian started unbuttoning his shirt and took it off at the camp’s perimeter. Inside his tent, naked waist up, he flung his hat and the filthy shirt at his bed, a rickety army cot wedged into a corner.

  A rag of a towel hung on a peg next to a washbasin. He wet it and wiped the day’s grime off his upper body. Somewhat refreshed, he dug through a clothing pile, put on a cleaner shirt, left it unbuttoned, and walked straight for his liquor stash.

  Eager for the alcohol to soothe his concerns, he poured a small glass two fingers deep with whiskey. In quick succession, he gulped down two shots. A fresh refill in hand, he stood by his work area and stared at notes and maps spread across the table—the same documents he’d examined countless times.

  The trail to his elusive Jew had gone cold. His last possible chance rested in the hands of a thief. He hoped the crook could deliver what he’d promised. If his obnoxious little bandit came through, he’d use what he claimed to have and go all in; he had nothing to lose.

  Ian’s stomach growled, reminding him that he’d skipped breakfast and lunch, as had Charles. With nothing to inhibit the whiskey, the alcohol was having its way. Relaxed, his footing clumsy, he grabbed his bottle and walked outside with his towel draped around his neck, a glass of liquid comfort in hand.

  A sliver of sun hung at the horizon, ready to disappear. His workers’ campfires were already ablaze. The air felt cooler and refreshing on his bare chest.

  “Charles,” Ian said aloud. He remembered he hadn’t seen him all day and that he’d forgotten to go look for him. He turned and looked at his friend’s tent: no lights. Charles still wasn’t back in camp.

  Concerned by the absence, Ian checked his watch, thinking if Charles didn’t make a showing soon, he’d go find him. Must be working overtime in the clinic, he figured.