The Arrival

by J W Brazier

  Just then, Nassir walked into camp. He’d finished his walk-through of the worker’s encampments, his habitual practice.

  “The damned Jew is close, Nassir,” Ian said. “I can feel it.”

  Nassir stood an arm’s distance away. He measured to Ian’s shoulders in height and was every inch the muscular barroom-brawler sort, complete with battle scars.

  “Sayyid, I believe you’ll find what you’re looking for in time,” Nassir said. “Our journey is difficult in every measure, but the men are loyal and they work hard. You pay them well. I tell you this: they’ll not stop until you’ve found your treasure. That, I believe.”

  Ian smiled and nodded. Nassir had proven a trusted aide who’d managed to keep the heated temperaments of his Arab and Jewish workers at bay. The men were afraid of Nassir’s rumored retributions.

  “Have you heard from our pudgy little friend, Omar?” Ian asked.

  “He’ll be in camp before tomorrow’s midday meal. He’s acquired the two new scrolls. Expect a higher price.”

  Ian wiped his face with the towel.

  “Don’t worry, my friend. If they’re what he’s described, they’re worth it.”

  Nassir started to speak, but looked hesitant. Something was on his mind.

  “Is there something more, Nassir? Go ahead, spit it out.”

  “No troubles, Sayyid, but I ask for another, a trusted friend. He asked that I speak with you. He’s acquired several unique treasures. The Knights Templar hid them when Saladin conquered Jerusalem. I think you’d like to see them.”

  Ian raised an eyebrow. Must be important.

  “I trust your judgment, Nassir. Your word’s good enough. Will there be anything else?”

  “No, Sayyid.”

  Nassir started to leave, but stopped when Ian began speaking again: “Please convey my gratitude to the men. Win or lose, they’re the best I’ve employed on any expedition. I’ve included a sizeable bonus for each man at the end of our dig.”

  “I will tell them, Sayyid. They will be grateful.” Nassir gave a short bow of his head and walked away.

  Ian turned away from the campfire to face the Hinnom Valley, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, while sipping at his whiskey. Lucid, but woozy, he raised his fourth glass, gesturing a toast to the old city.

  “Here’s to you, Jerusalem, the City of God!”

  “Whiskey can’t drown away your miseries, Ian?”

  Ian whirled around to see Charles warming his hands by the fire. Ian smiled and looked at his watch.

  “You’re late, Doc. I was about to send out a search party.”

  Charles looked tired to the bone, his shoulders stooped—from exhaustion, Ian figured.

  The campfire light played with shadows, enhancing Charles’s disheveled appearance. His thick black hair looked like a tangled pile under his hat, wet from sweat. Ian could see the dark bags underneath his tall friend’s eyes, even in the diminished light twenty feet away.

  “So what’s the bottle for, misery or enjoyment?” Charles asked.

  Ian answered in part with a grin, a roguish wink, and a nod. “Pleasure, Doc, an enjoyable habit I’ve acquired. I’ve no room for more misery; it’s all around me.” Ian pointed toward Jerusalem. “He’s right out there, my friend. Who knows, maybe tomorrow, he’ll surprise us all.”

  Ian winked again and swirled the whiskey in his glass, motioning in a goading manner.

  “What do you say, Doc? Grab a cup and come over here. Have a drink with me.”

  Charles grinned, shaking his head. “Thank you, but no.”

  Ian laughed, tossed his head back, and gulped down the rest of the whiskey. He staggered a step or two, but recovered in style.

  “You look tired, Doc. Busy day in triage?”

  Charles drank several long swigs of water from his canteen and nodded at Ian’s question. “Yes, there’s an abundance of wounded, with more arriving each day. We can help some; others won’t make it through the night. Two truckloads from Haifa came in today. The battle the Jews are calling ‘Passover Cleaning’ must have been intense. They say it’s secure now, but if we don’t leave soon, we’d better pick a side, because all hell is going to break loose.”

  Ian poured a smaller amount and drank it down in one gulp. “I know, Charles. I’m ready myself.”

  *

  May 12: Sunrise

  Omar seemed an impatient man. The shady Arab paced like an agitated caged animal. He paused long enough to steal a questioning glance toward Ian, scratch at his beard and body parts, and then resume his restless pacing.

  Ian inspected Omar’s two scrolls with a hunter’s eye for detail. The first scroll appeared an authentic first-century parchment on which the scribe had recorded the trial of a carpenter, a man called “Yehoshua.”

  The second scroll was a copy of Torah from the same period. Ian laid the Torah aside, deciding he’d donate it to the locals as a peace offering. Omar continued to stalk about the tent, dispersing his rancid odor throughout the already cramped space.

  Ian leaned over top of the first parchment with a magnifying lens and examined the scribe’s notations. Without looking up, he said, “Where did you say you found these?”

  Omar stopped his nervous pacing enthusiastic to explain. “Sayyid, as Allah is my witness, from a trusted vendor in the market.” He rubbed a grubby hand underneath his nose and wiped it on his clothing.

  Ian laughed at his remark, knowing the man was a thief and a skilled liar.

  “I swear to Allah, my good friend, the scrolls are not stolen.” A roguish grin emphasized his tenacious plea.

  “Yeah, sure. Allah may believe you—but I don’t.” He really didn’t care how the obtuse man obtained them. Spoils of war, he reasoned. “I’ll take them both.”

  He reached for a stack of cash and placed six 500-mil notes from the Anglo-Palestine Bank Limited on the table.

  “Take it,” Ian said. “I’ve overpaid you, a perk of my employers. Now get out. I need fresh air.”

  Omar flashed a row of sparse gold teeth, his eyes wide and glued on his reward. “Allah be praised and many thanks to you, Sayyid Taylor.” He snatched the pile of money, like a wharf rat stealing food, and scurried away.

  Two thoughts invaded Ian’s attention: Where and how did that thieving Arab find the scrolls? Even better, are there more? The questions were a time-consuming distraction he couldn’t allow. He turned his attention back to the ancient text with a renewed sense of hope.

  The parchment at first glance appeared to confirm that his hunch for the new dig location had been correct. Omar’s thievery had paved a new direction with potential for solid clues to the Jew’s burial site.

  The wording of the text showed the scribe was a meticulous person and, no doubt, an eyewitness to daily events in the Sanhedrin. Joseph Caiaphas, the Jews’ high priest then, and Pontius Pilot, the Roman prefect over Jerusalem at the time, were mentioned prominently throughout the document.

  Ian read the scribe’s extraordinary detailed accounts during council meetings. He’d even included burial site locations, names, and dialogue notations about the victims’ trials and their judgments or deaths.

  The author had also included a short eulogy for a specific Jew. Must have been a friend or acquaintance, Ian figured. He followed another line and stopped. When he saw the notations, the wording took his breath away.

  “This is incredible!” he shouted.

  He read it again. No mistake, the scribe had written an account of the Jew he’d long sought. Enthralled with his good fortune, he read on, immersed in the complicated text. The scribe’s details confirmed he was at the right spot, but his Jew’s exact location wasn’t as clear.

  Just then, a heated commotion erupted outside his tent. He could hear Nassir engaged in a fierce argument with someone, and then he heard someone shouting, “Mr. Taylor! Mr. Ian Taylor, please!”

  Ian just rolled his eyes, but the anguished man continued shouting his name, demanding his attention.
/>   “Mr. Taylor! Please, will you speak with me?”

  Ian shook his head. “C’mon, Nassir!” he muttered. “Make him go away.”

  “My business is urgent, Mr. Taylor. I would—” A choking wheeze stopped the sentence short.

  “I’ll not remind you again!” Nassir growled.

  Ian cursed under his breath and finally pushed his reading aside to storm out of his tent. He saw Nassir dragging away an irate rabbi.

  “Great, all I need is another religious fanatic,” he muttered. “Hold up, Nassir. What’s the trouble here?”

  The brawny Arab stopped and released his hold on the man. “Sayyid, this Jewish pig demands to speak with you. I told him Mr. Taylor was busy, but he attacked my guards and ran past them.”

  “Sir, please!” The rabbi coughed and panted for breath. “I’d like a word with you.”

  Ian thought for a moment. “Fine, but you’ll have to walk with me, Rabbi.”

  The rabbi nodded, massaged his throat, and adjusted his clothing. He gave Nassir a disparaging sneer and jogged away to catch up with Ian, Nassir trailing a few yards behind. The small man stopped five feet away and bowed at the waist.

  “Shalom, Mr. Taylor. Avram Goldman. I’m a rabbi from Jerusalem.”

  Ian harrumphed. “That’s obvious, Rabbi, so what do you want? I’m very busy.”

  “I came here to speak with you, Mr. Taylor.”

  “Yeah, you said that already,” Ian said. He trudged up a sandy incline to a makeshift canopy covering their water barrels. He retrieved his new site’s grid overlays out of a leather satchel hooked on a nail, ignoring the rabbi and noticing that Nassir had taken up a position nearby. “I’d suggest you get to the point of your unwelcomed visit—and fast, Mr. Goldman.”

  “The Jew you’re searching for is why I’ve come.”

  Ian stopped cross-referencing dig sites. He lifted his head slowly. The rabbi looked at him, clearly uneasy, especially as Ian’s eyes, shrouded under his wide oval fedora, had narrowed. The cold stare conveyed an unmistakable message.

  “What Jew, Rabbi? You’re confused,” Ian said. “We’re gathering ancient bones for medical research.”

  The rabbi’s expression mocked Ian’s evasive remark. “I implore you, Mr. Taylor, you must leave without him. Tell your employer you were unsuccessful. Those remains are cursed, Mr. Taylor.” He stole a quick glance over his shoulder, eyeing Nassir’s firm grip on his revolver.

  Amused by the rabbi’s plea, Ian crossed his arms. “Isn’t this special, a rabbi who believes in curses and wants me to lie to my employer? No, Rabbi, that won’t happen, nor will I stop my excavations because of your superstitious nonsense. You’ve twenty seconds to explain yourself.”

  His eyes wide, Rabbi Goldman stared at Nassir. “Please, Mr. Taylor! I’ve come to warn you. He must stay in the earth.”

  Ian threw his head back and laughed. “You came to warn me?” He laughed harder. “Please, why don’t you stay, Rabbi Goldman? Your humor might boost the morale of my men.”

  But the rabbi’s resolve would not be denied, and his voice hardened: “I’m quite serious, Mr. Taylor. I don’t think you understand the consequences of your actions. It’s imperative. I implore you: leave this Jew buried.”

  Ian chuckled again. “Rabbi, my employers wouldn’t appreciate your suggested alternative.”

  Rabbi Goldman dropped his head, obviously dejected. “Will you not heed my warning, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Rabbi Goldman, I’m an archeologist. I dig up relics, bodies included. The man I seek is no different, despite all this garbage about curses. He’s one of your brethren, Rabbi … or are you afraid of him?”

  Goldman’s eyebrows went up, and he jerked his head back a bit. “That man will vex all of humanity, Mr. Taylor.”

  “The man is dead, Rabbi, bones and dust way past being a cause for trouble.”

  Feeling a rising tide of anger burning through his veins, Ian turned his back on the rabbi and sorted a stack of papers, intent on ignoring him.

  “Mr. Taylor, have you not ever wondered why a medical company would hire you to find a centuries-old specific Jew?

  Ian looked over his shoulder and saw that Goldman had turned and now faced the excavation, watching the men labor in the patchwork dig sites.

  “Why would they want his remains, above all others that are buried in Palestine?” Goldman asked.

  That remark struck a raw nerve. Ian and Charles had discussed the rabbi’s very question during many heated conversations.

  “Okay, that’s it. I believe you’ve overstayed your visit, Rabbi. It’s not your business what my employers need,” Ian said.

  Rabbi Goldman raised his hands, as if signaling his submission. “I’m your friend, Mr. Taylor. I mean you no harm. I’ve come here to help you.”

  “You’ve helped enough,” Ian said and then motioned with a hand wave to Nassir.

  Always quick to respond, Nassir marched over and stood alongside the rabbi.

  “Escort our uninvited visitor off my site,” Ian ordered and walked away.

  “I beg of you, please listen to me, Mr. Taylor!” Goldman said.

  But Ian kept walking. “Religious fanatics … always trying to interfere,” he mumbled.

  After entering his tent, he grabbed a canteen of water and was drawing down a thirsty swig when he heard some of his men shouting and screaming.

  “Now what?” he shouted.

  Ian hurled the canteen aside and ran out of his tent toward the dig. He stopped halfway to the cliff face, astounded by the disturbing chaotic scene. Workers continued to yell and scream, running away from their work. He looked to the right. Ten feet away sitting on a mound of dirt, smiling, sat the same old man he’d encountered a day earlier. The old-timer looked serene and unaffected by the workers’ frenzied behavior.

  What the … It’s that same old Jew—Elijah, Ian thought.

  Elijah looked in Ian’s direction. “You should listen to Rabbi Goldman, Ian Taylor. It’s not too late.”

  Ian raised an eyebrow at that remark. He’s repeating the rabbi’s warning, he mused.

  “Eavesdropping again, Elijah? I’ve no time for your nonsense.”

  He ignored the old man and pivoted to his left, shouting and waving his arms to garner Nassir’s attention, but with no luck. He spun around to tell the old Jew to get off his dig site. But the old man had vanished—again. Ian staggered about, circling in the loose sand, searching. Spooked by the repeat of the old man’s appearing-and-disappearing act, Ian shouted in anger, in case Elijah was listening.

  “Blast you, Elijah … or whatever your name is! Nice trick, but stay out of my business! And pass that onto the meddling rabbi, too. Neither of you or your bag of tricks will frighten me away!”

  Feeling a little unsettled by another bizarre run-in with the mysterious old man, Ian tried to refocus his attention to spot the cause of his men’s panic. And then he saw it …

  Several large rocks had fallen away from the cliff face, opening a menacing black hole.

  Ian’s eyes opened wide, and he smiled to himself, then stumbled forward until he started sprinting toward the dark opening, his mind spinning with the possibilities of a hidden tomb. His workers, though, continued to run past him toward safety. Ian finally slowed to a trot and then stopped halfway to the opening because of what he saw. About a hundred yards away stood Nassir, shouting, cracking his whip, and shoving the men. His efforts to restore calm and order looked futile, though.

  Ian considered that the Valley of the Dead now seemed alive with excitement. He looked right and saw Dr. Wagner running toward him with his medical bag in hand.

  “Doc, the men are terrified, not injured,” he muttered and glanced past his advancing friend.

  There the old rabbi stood, a safe distance away, bobbing back and forth with eyes shut as he prayed.

  Ian ignored the manifold distractions and turned his full attention to the dark opening, still spewing out a cloud of dust. At first glance, the b
lack hole looked to be another hand-hewn cave. The terrified workers still remaining nearby had fallen to their knees and now wailed prayers to Allah. Others huddled together and pointed their dirt-encrusted fingers at the gaping hole, as if it were the mouth of hell. All seemed fearful that some snarling, unseen demonic beast would soon emerge and devour them.

  Even while cracking his whip, Nassir kept stealing glances over his shoulder at the haunting imagery of the opening.

  Ian sprinted closer, stopping twenty yards away, his eyes now fixated on the opening. He focused his attention, ignoring his workers’ blaring distractions and the wooziness he felt from the booze. He’d spent months hunting his quarry. The thrilling moment of a possible discovery he longed for … it might be inside that cave. His felt his adrenaline intensify and surge through every fiber of his being, like a fast-acting drug. His pent-up energy propelled him toward the opening. He stopped short ten yards from the entrance.

  “Nassir, bring me a torch!” Ian shouted.

  Nassir abandoned the workers. He grabbed an unlit torch and raced up from behind, handed the torch to Ian, and then rushed away to a safe distance. Ian pulled a small tin of matches from his shirt pocket and lit one. The torch ablaze, he approached the opening.

  Stale, musty air drifted out of the hole. He waved the torch near the opening, testing for any volatile gases. His impatience overruled further delay to wait for the trapped air to ventilate. He’d risk it; he had to see what lay inside the tomb.

  The torch flames formed eerie flickering shadows that danced on the cave walls. Ian froze when he heard what sounded like an animal’s menacing growl. Spooked, Ian jumped backward and dropped his torch inside the opening.

  That was the wind … I hope, he thought.

  Ian looked about. The workers had quieted down, now watching his every move, along with Charles. Nassir ran toward him with another torch already ablaze. Torch in hand again, Ian saw the animated fear imprinted on his workforce supervisor’s face. Nassir backed away several yards, then fell to his knees to join others as they bowed and prayed aloud for Allah’s protection.

  Ian stepped forward and shoved the flickering torch inside the tomb, piercing the darkness. All prayers stopped. A hushed, wave-like whisper rippled through the natives. Ian squinted, straining to focus. The torch illuminated a small corner of the cave, exposing a black undulating shape. Ian was sure he saw two large red eyes—and then they blinked.