Ark of Fire ca-1

by C. M. Palov

  “As you can see, the gold box was covered with a lid known as the mercy seat.”

  Edie chuckled. “Not the hot seat?”

  Caedmon smiled at his companion’s wry remark. “The mercy seat was adorned with a matched pair of gold cherubim mounted on the lid. Mind you, these weren’t the adorable putti that clutter the paintings of Peter Paul Rubens. The cherubim who stood sentry atop the Ark were fierce, otherworldly creatures, not unlike the winged figures of Isis and Nephthys that adorned many an Egyptian bark.”

  “Underneath all that gold, the Ark was made of wood, wasn’t it?”

  “Acacia wood, to be precise, the tree native to the Sinai Desert. In ancient times, such wood was thought to be incorruptible. Additionally, it would have acted as an insulator.”

  Her brown eyes opened wide, the realization having just dawned. “And gold is an excellent conductor. Since the acacia box was lined, inside and out, with gold”—using her hands, she made a sandwich, leaving several inches of air between her palms—“the Ark would have been an incredibly powerful condenser. And given all the dry desert air in the Sinai, I bet the darned thing would have packed a very potent electrical punch.”

  Despite her quirkiness, Edie Miller possessed a nimble mind; the woman was fast proving herself an enigma.

  “Touching the Ark with one’s bare hands would have resulted in instant death,” he said, confirming her theory. “Moreover, the Old Testament is rife with tales of the Ark producing skin lesions on people who came into close proximity. Interestingly enough, recent research has verified that skin cancer is an occupational hazard of working near high-tension power lines.”

  “So how did the Israelites protect themselves?”

  “The high priest wore specialized ritual clothing when handling the Ark, and the Stones of Fire was part of his protective wardrobe. Because the Ark built up an electric charge due to all the jostling while in transport, it was carefully wrapped in leather and cloth.”

  “Which acted as a protective barrier so that the guys stuck with carrying it wouldn’t be tossed on their collective keisters,” she astutely, if not, irreverently, remarked.

  “Not that those calamities didn’t occur. Despite the precautions, there are accounts of Ark bearers being tossed bodily through the air and a few blokes being killed outright.” Caedmon pointed to the sketched drawing. “Now imagine that the wings on the two cherubim were hinged with leather and bitumen, enabling them to flap back and forth. The accumulated electric charge would not only have created visible sparks, it would have emitted strong electromagnetic pulses similar to Hertzian radio waves. Once charged, the Ark would have picked up strikes of lightning anywhere in the world. That, in turn, would have created an audible static.”

  “Like the crackling sound you get in between AM radio stations, right?”

  “Precisely. And to the ears of the ancient Israelites that ‘crackling’ would have sounded like the voice of God. A careful reading of the Old Testament proves that the Ark of the Covenant isn’t a literal deus ex machina. Rather it was envisioned and executed by Moses.”

  Edie stared at his sketched drawing, as though seeing the Ark of the Covenant in a new, and slightly disturbing, light. “Yeah, well, there’s a whole legion of true believers who would disagree with you on that one.”

  Knowing she spoke the truth, Caedmon wearily nodded, having more than a passing acquaintance with the naysayers of the world.

  A few feet away from where they sat, the coach’s windshield wipers hypnotically swung to and fro like a metronome. Blinking, he fought off a seductive wave, having caught only a quick cat nap on the transatlantic flight.

  In the distance he could see the honey-colored villages and rolling sheep pastures of Oxfordshire. From those pastures, limestone had been quarried and lugged to Oxford, where it had been used to construct some of the most stunning architecture in medieval England.

  As the countryside passed in a wet blur, so too did his memories. He’d journeyed to Oxford by coach when he’d been a gangly lad of eighteen, his father too busy to accompany him. As the coach neared the city limits, he’d been in a tumult, his emotions ranging from anxiety to excitement to shame suffered on account of his father’s indifference. Then, quite suddenly, those gut-wrenching emotions were superseded by a burst of exhilaration, his younger self staggered to have landed in the most famous university city in the world.

  A sweet city with her dreaming spires.

  “You mentioned that you went to Oxford,” Edie remarked, making him wonder if she might not be a mind reader. “This will be like a homecoming for you, huh?”

  “Hardly,” he murmured, disinclined to reveal his tainted academic past. Particularly because she would find out soon enough.

  Like most postgraduate students, he’d spent two years doing field research, after which he confined himself to his Oxford digs and commenced writing his dissertation. “The Manifesto,” as he’d jokingly taken to calling it, had been an exhaustive examination of the influence of Egyptian mysticism on the Knights Templar. To his horror, the head of the history department at Queen’s College publicly denounced his dissertation topic, claiming it a “harebrained” notion that could only have been opium induced. Not unlike the poetry of William Blake.

  Such stinging criticism amounted to the kiss of death.

  Finished as an academic, he left Oxford, his tail between his legs.

  What a perverted bit of irony that he was, once again, en route to the fabled city of his youth. The gods must be chortling, gleefully rubbing their hands in anticipation.

  Somewhat idly, he wondered what Edie would say if he were to inform her that Moses and the Knights Templar had been initiated into the same Egyptian mystery cult. He bit back an amused smile, certain his assertions would be met with a raised brow and a quick-witted rebuttal. Truth be told, he enjoyed their verbal jousts. Although she could punch hard, hers was an open mind.

  He hoped that Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown would be equally open-minded. If not, they would have journeyed to Oxford in vain.

  As Edie peered through the coach window, he, in turn, peered at her. The straight brows gave his companion a decidedly serious mien wholly at odds with her exuberant personality. So, too, did the softness of her lips and the pale Victorian smoothness of her skin. When he first met Edie Miller, he’d thought her an unusual mix of Pre-Raphaelite beauty and quirky modernity.

  Unthinkingly he raised a hand, cupping her chin between his fingers. Slowly, he turned her face in his direction. Startled, her eyes and mouth opened wide.

  How bloody perfect is that? he thought as he leaned into her, about to ascertain if those wide open lips were as soft as they appeared.

  Amazingly, they were.

  Not having asked permission, he barely grazed his lips across her mouth, concerned she might balk at the trespass. For several seconds he played the gentleman, softly applying pressure, deepening the kiss in small increments. Until she murmured something against his lips. What, he had no idea; he only knew the incoherent utterance sounded incredibly sexy.

  The male biological response not unlike a trigger mechanism, he shoved his tongue into her mouth. Then he shoved his hand to the back of her neck, effectively imprisoning her. Open-mouthed, he kissed her, wetly and deeply, doing all that he could to wed his lips to hers.

  For several long moments he went at her like a madman, his hand moving from her neck to her back, pulling her that much closer to him, not stopping until her breasts were smashed against his chest.

  Not stopping until he heard a horror-struck gasp from the across the aisle.

  Abruptly, and somewhat awkwardly, he ended the kiss.

  “That was unplanned and—forgive me if I acted inappropriately.” His cheeks warmed at the butchered apology.

  Wet lips curved into a fetching smile. “The only thing you did wrong was to end that kiss way too soon.” Edie glanced out the window. “Looks like we just pulled into Oxford.”

  CHAPTER 33 />
  Hoping she didn’t appear too awestruck, Edie discreetly checked out the buildings that fronted High Street.

  Everywhere she looked there were hints, some subtle, some in your face, of Oxford’s medieval roots. Battlements. Gate towers. Oriel windows. And stone. Lots and lots of stone. Varying in shade from pale silver to deep gold. All of it combining in a wondrous sort of sensory overload.

  “Where’s the university?” she inquired, scrunching her shoulders to avoid hitting a group of midday shoppers who had just emerged from a clothing shop. She and Caedmon were en route to some pub called the Isis Room, where Caedmon seemed to think they would find Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown.

  Caedmon slowed his step as he gestured to either side of the busy thoroughfare. “Oxford University is everywhere and nowhere. Since leaving the bus depot, we’ve already passed Jesus, Exeter, and Lincoln colleges.”

  “We did?” Edie swiveled her head, wondering how she could have missed the three campuses. She knew that Oxford University was made up of several dozen colleges spread throughout the town limits. Having attended a downtown college herself, she assumed there would be placards and signposts identifying the various buildings. Clearly, she’d been working under a false assumption.

  “Look for the gateways,” Caedmon said, pointing to an imposing iron portal wedged in the middle of a stone wall. “They often lead to a quadrangle; most of the colleges were built to the standard medieval pattern of chapel and hall flanked by multi-storied residential ranges.”

  Edie peered through the iron bars. Beyond the gatehouse, she glimpsed an arched portico on either side of the quad.

  “That’s a formidable entrance. Guess it’s meant to keep the little people out, huh?”

  “Having spent an inordinate amount of time on the other side of those ‘formidable’ gateways, I always thought they were intended to keep the students from leaving. The college’s way of cultivating a slavish devotion to one’s alma mater.” Edie wasn’t certain, but she thought she detected a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Sounds like an academic Never Never Land.”

  “Indeed, it was.”

  “So, where are the Lost Boys?”

  His copper-colored brows briefly furrowed. “Ah! You speak of the students. Michaelmas term ended last week, the vast majority of students having gone home for the holidays.”

  “Well that would certainly explain all the riderless bicycles,” she said, nodding toward a crowded line of bikes parked in front of a stucco wall. Above the tidy line of bicycles, old posters flapped in the breeze, hawking an array of student activities. Debate societies. Drama societies. Choral societies.

  Caedmon’s gaze momentarily softened. “By their bicycles you shall know them,” he murmured, his sarcasm replaced with something more akin to nostalgia.

  Surprised by the sudden shift in mood, Edie surreptitiously checked out her companion, her gaze moving from the top of his thick thatch of red hair to the tips of his black leather oxfords. She was beginning to realize that Caedmon Aisquith was a complicated man. Or maybe she was just dense when it came to men. He’d certainly taken her by surprise with the killer kiss. For some idiotic reason, she’d assumed that because he was such a brainiac, he lived a monkish existence. And wasn’t that a stupid assumption? Given the passionate smooch on the bus, he’d make a lousy monk.

  Wonder what kind of lover he’d make?

  Giving the question several moments’ thought, she decided it was impossible to tell, the cultured accent acting like a smokescreen. Although the unexpected kiss most definitely hinted at a deeper passion.

  Oblivious to the fact that he was being ogled, Caedmon turned his head as they passed an ATM.

  “Though I’m sorely tempted to use the Cashpoint, it would undoubtedly lead Stanford McFarlane right to us.”

  “Don’t worry. As keeper of the vault, I can assure you that there are enough funds to keep us afloat. At least for a little while.” The airline tickets and new clothes had set them back a bit, but at last count she had nearly eighteen hundred dollars in the “vault.”

  “Being a kept man doesn’t sit well with me. Bruised ego and all that.”

  She affected a stunned expression. “You’re kidding, right? We’ve spent three days together and only now am I learning that you object to being my sex slave?” Playing the bit for all it was worth, she theatrically sighed. “Here I thought you were having the time of your life.”

  To her surprise, Caedmon blushed, his cheeks as red as Christmas berries. Raising a balled hand to his mouth, he cleared his throat.

  “Hel-lo. I’m teasing. You’re hardly a kept man,” she assured him, amused by his embarrassment.

  “Then how about spotting me two quid for a pint of lager?” Taking her by the elbow, Caedmon ushered her to a wood-paneled door. Above the door, a brightly painted sign emblazoned with the pub’s moniker swung from a metal bracket.

  “Be my pleasure, luv,” she replied in a thick Cockney accent.

  Not expecting the interior to be so dim, it took several seconds of squinting before her pupils adjusted, the room bathed in soft amber light. All in all, the joint was pretty much as she’d envisioned an English pub—wood-paneled walls, wood-beamed ceiling, and wood tables and chairs scattered about. Framed lithographs of British sea battles hung on the cream-colored walls, and a limp bouquet of mistletoe was tacked above the Battle of Trafalgar.

  Her eyes zeroed in on the easel where a chalkboard listed the day’s menu. Homemade lentil soup. Two-cheese quiche. Seafood salad. She placed a hand over her abdomen, having long since digested the rubbery chicken cordon bleu that she’d been served on the transatlantic flight.

  “Any idea what this Sir Kenneth character looks like?” she asked over the top of a very unladylike stomach growl.

  “Ruddy cheeks, aquiline nose, and a pewter-colored mop of curly hair. Looks like a Devon Longwool sheep before the spring shearing. You can’t miss him.”

  Edie scanned the crowded pub. “How about we divide and conquer? You take that side of the room and I’ll take the other.”

  “Right.”

  A few seconds later, seeing a man of middling height with curly gray hair standing at the bar, Edie headed in that direction. Raising her hand to catch Caedmon’s attention, she pointed to her suspect. For several seconds Caedmon stared at the man’s backside, drilling the proverbial hole right through the older man’s head. She wasn’t certain, but she thought Caedmon straightened his shoulders before heading toward the bar.

  Reaching the target a few seconds ahead of Caedmon, she lightly tapped the gray-haired man on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me. You wouldn’t happen to be Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown?”

  The gray-haired slowly man turned toward her. Although he was decked out in a brown leather bomber jacket, with a red cashmere scarf jauntily wrapped around his neck, he resembled nothing so much as a woolly ram; Caedmon’s description had been right on the mark.

  “Well, I’m not the bloody Prince of Wales.”

  “Ah! Still the amiable Oxford don much beloved by students and fellows alike,” Caedmon said, having overheard the exchange.

  Slightly bug-eyed by nature, Sir Kenneth became even more so as he turned in the direction of Caedmon’s voice. “Good God! I thought you crawled into a hole and died! What the bloody hell are you doing in Oxford? I didn’t think the Boar’s Head Gaudy your cup of tea.”

  “You’re quite right. In the thirteen years since I left, I’ve yet to attend the Old Members’ Christmas dinner.”

  The older man snickered. “I suspect that’s because your softhearted sympathies go out to the apple-stuffed swine. So, tell me, young Aisquith, if the pig is not your purpose, what bringeth you to ‘the high shore of this world’?”

  “As fate would have it, you’re the reason why I’m in Oxford.” Outwardly calm—maybe too calm given the older man’s condescension—Caedmon redirected his gaze in Edie’s direction. “Excuse me. I’ve been remiss. Edie
Miller, may I present Professor Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown, senior fellow at Queen’s College.”

  Sir Kenneth acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod of his woolly head. “I am also the head of the history department, secretary of the Tutorial Committee, defender of the realm, and protector of women and small children,” he informed her, speaking in beautifully precise pear-shaped tones. “I am also the man responsible for booting your erstwhile swain out of Oxford.”

  CHAPTER 34

  “Mind you, that was long years ago,” Sir Kenneth added, still addressing his remarks to Edie. Then, turning to Caedmon, “Water under the Magdalen Bridge, eh?”

  Refusing to be drawn into that particular conversation—one could drown in a shallow puddle if led there by the woolly-headed don—Caedmon jutted his chin toward the far side of the pub. “Shall we adjourn to the vacant booth in the corner?”

  “An excellent suggestion.” Smiling, Sir Kenneth placed a hand on Edie’s elbow. “And what is your pleasure, my dear?”

  “Oh, I’ll just have a glass of water,” she demurred. “It’s a little early for kicking back the brewskies.”

  “Right-O. An Adam’s ale for the lady and a Kingfisher for the gent. I won’t be but a second.” Turning around, Sir Kenneth placed the order with a barmaid.

  As he steered Edie toward the booth, Caedmon wondered how, after so many years, his estranged mentor remembered his preferred lager.

  The old bastard always did have a mind like a steel trap.

  Which meant he’d have to be on his guard to keep from ending up in the poacher’s sack.

  As they sidestepped a jovial group arguing the merits of the new PM, Edie elbowed him in the ribs. “You didn’t tell me that you knew Sir Kenneth.”

  “Forgive the omission,” he replied, failing to mention that the oversight had been quite intentional.

  “You also didn’t tell me that you were ‘booted’ out of Oxford. Geez, what else are you hiding from me? You’re not wanted by the police or anything like that, are you?”