Alcatraz

by Michael P. Spradlin

  “So you were actually there when the Knights Templar were founded?” Angela said. She still seemed a little freaked out by Boone’s revelation.

  “Yes,” Boone said. “And as it turns out, I’m still here. I never thought I’d be here so long.”

  “So you’re not some kind of wizard, or the world’s greatest magician or a time traveler or something, are you? Because if you’re the world’s greatest magician I’m going to be really ticked,” I said. “You know that’s always been my goal.”

  Boone laughed. “No, Q, I’m not a wizard or magician or any of those things. I’m not even immortal. At least I believe I can be killed. Or at least eventually I’ll get to the point that I can be killed. I think. I’m not exactly sure. In fact, it’s almost happened on more than one occasion. I’ve been shot at at least sixteen times, stabbed more times than I can count. But I always recover. I still heal because of what happened. Though lately it seems to take a lot longer than it used to.”

  “Are you saying you have some kind of magical healing power?” Angela asked.

  “Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “So you can heal yourself and poof all over the place as well?” I groaned. My plans for learning the secret of Boone’s ability seemed further and further away.

  “Poof?” Boone asked.

  “When you disappear and reappear. I call it poofing,” I explained.

  “Poof. Huh. I guess that’s as good a word as any,” Boone said. Croc was curled up at his feet, and he reached down and patted the dog on the head. “Croc and I call it ‘blinking.’ Because that’s what it seems like to us. We go from point A to point B in the blink of an eye.” As if to emphasize the idea, Croc lifted his head, opened his blue eye, and then shut it again.

  “But how, Boone?” Angela asked. “How do you do it? Were you born this way? Is it some kind of occult thing? Did you discover the secret to faster-than-light travel?”

  “No. Nothing like that. It goes back to Jerusalem. Remember when I told you how King Baldwin let us billet in King Solomon’s Temple?”

  “Yes?” Angela and I said at the same time.

  “It all started . . . everything began when we found something there,” Boone said. “Something very powerful.”

  Angela reached into her backpack and pulled out a small digital recorder. She put it on the table. “Boone. If it’s okay, I think we should record you. Just in case something . . . happens to you . . . we might need to know everything you’ve told us. If we get something wrong—”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Boone said. He took a deep breath and looked out at the sparkling blue water. He began speaking and his voice took on a tone I’d never heard him use before. No good ol’ boy twang. No regular, gruff Boone voice like he used when he was issuing orders to Felix, Uly, or X-Ray. It was serious and formal. There was an intensity in his words I’d never heard despite all we’d been through in the last few days.

  “I should probably start at the beginning,” Boone said.

  And he did.

  CE 1104—1106

  Boone

  I was my father’s second son.

  In the Middle Ages the second son was unlucky in birth, having far fewer options than the firstborn. My father was a nobleman in southern Italy. My older brother became a priest. Like many younger brothers in the noble classes, that placed certain limitations on my future occupations. My father owned one of the largest estates in all of southern Italy. In those days the oldest brother went to the priesthood—the real power resided with the church—and the younger brothers could either manage their father’s lands, waiting for their fathers to die, so they could become barons themselves, or they could train to become knights.

  We lived in an incredibly violent time. Europe was just starting to emerge from the Dark Ages. For years, the kingdoms in England, Ireland, France, and the rest of the European continent had been in a state of near-constant warfare. If they weren’t fighting Viking raiders from the north they were fighting each other. And when the Vikings were finally beaten back, the kingdoms turned on each other. Fighting men were always in short supply, and that was the path I chose. Fighting.

  I had no interest in farming or vineyards or being a baron. Knighthood was far more exciting. From the age of fourteen, I trained in the arts of war. Horseback riding, archery, sword fighting, and the use of the cavalry lance occupied my days from dawn to dusk. My father hired the best instructors to teach me. I spent hours in the saddle.

  Sword fighting was the same. I’ll never forget my first lesson. I had a helmet but nothing else for protection. One of my father’s men-at-arms had been tasked with teaching me. We used wooden swords and he beat me nearly senseless.

  “Are you ready, young Borneo?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I answered, holding my sword by the hilt, squeezing it as hard as I could.

  “Good,” he said. And then he proceeded to hammer me into the ground. His first blow struck me above the wrist. The pain caused me to lose feeling in my arm. I dropped the sword. Next came a blow to the side of my head and I fell face first into the dirt.

  “Were these real swords, you would have lost an arm and your head, in that order,” he said. “Get up. Again.”

  I crawled to my feet and the same scenario repeated itself. I’ve been in hundreds of battles and fights in my life, but I don’t know if I’ve ever been more tired and sore than I was at the end of that first day. Fencing is a sport. Sword fighting is combat.

  I didn’t just train with the sword. I became familiar in the use of all of the weapons of the time, although I’ll admit I was never much of an archer. Oh, I could hit what I aimed at. But it always seemed to require more patience and skill than I possessed. Nevertheless, as the years passed and as I grew to adulthood I became—let’s just call me fierce.

  By the time I was twenty I was a fighting machine. A soldier. But a soldier needs a war. A place where all the skills and training and hours of practice can be put to use.

  An enemy.

  In 1104 I found them all.

  My father was friendly with a knight from a neighboring barony. His name was Hughes de Payans. One morning he rode up to our estate, asking for an audience with my father. And he asked that I be included in the conversation.

  We sat in my father’s council hall, the place where he did his official business. Hughes was tall and rugged. Strong and well trained.

  “I come with news from Rome,” he said. “I have been in conference with the pope.”

  My father was a quiet man, not prone to talk. But he was astute.

  “And what does His Holiness require of us now?” he asked cautiously. My father and Hughes were friendly, but an official envoy from the pope was something to be handled delicately.

  “There is trouble in Jerusalem,” Hughes said.

  “Isn’t there always trouble in Jerusalem?” my father asked.

  Hughes chuckled and I saw my father visibly relax. My father was good at reading people. It’s something I inherited from him. Hughes’s laughter told him the visit was a courtesy.

  “His Holiness has tasked me to raise a group of knights. With them we will travel to the Holy Land and offer our swords to King Baldwin, ruler of Jerusalem. Word has reached Rome that bandits and the local tribes are harassing Christian pilgrims. We will offer them protection.”

  “And what does this have to do with us?” my father asked.

  “Word of your son’s training has reached me. I understand he has become quite formidable.”

  “He is also quite young,” my father answered sharply.

  “Father—” I interrupted. He held up his hand. I understood. Sir Hughes wanted me to fight with him!

  “No doubt. And we will need his youth and his vigor. I’ve heard talk, Baron Borneo. Your son is an excellent rider. Some say he is second to none with the long sword.” He paused and looked at me. “That I will need to see for myself.”

  My father was quiet as he considered Sir H
ughes’s request. I could tell he was about to say no, and apparently so could Hughes.

  “My Lord Borneo,” he said. “I understand. You have two sons. One becomes a priest. You wonder and worry who will take care of your lands—”

  “I care nothing of my lands,” my father snapped. “I care very much for my sons.”

  “I did not come to anger you,” Hughes said. “We have been friends. We have fought together ourselves. You—”

  “And we have watched men die. My son has not. I would spare him of it,” my father interrupted.

  Sir Hughes closed his eyes and nodded. “Indeed we have,” he said. “And I would spare him of it as well, were I you. But the word has been given and it must be answered. And forgive me, my friend. I came to you, first, as a courtesy. But is your son not of age? Should it not be his decision?”

  I was of age. Had I not been so absorbed in training, I would have—should have—taken a wife and been raising a family by then. But I wanted to fight.

  “He is,” my father said quietly. “How much time does he have?” My father asked Sir Hughes because he already knew my answer.

  I would go to the Holy Land. I would fight.

  It was the worst decision I ever made in my life.

  The Holy Land

  Three days later I said good-bye to my father.

  “Father . . . I promise, I will return home. I will remember everything you have taught me.”

  “Do not make promises you cannot keep,” he said. “Be safe. Pay attention. Follow Sir Hughes’s instructions without fail, for your life depends on it. You might come home alive.”

  As parting words, those may sound harsh. But it was my father’s way of telling me he loved me. I know that now. A year after I left, he fell ill with a fever and died. That was the last day I saw him.

  With Croc at my side, I rode to Sir Hughes’s estate and we departed for the Holy Land a few days later. I could barely contain my excitement. The ship traveled slowly. Impossibly slowly, it seemed to me. Back then, sailing ships were simple, single-mast vessels with a square canvas sail. When there was no wind they were rowed by oarsmen. Today, a trip that takes two days by sea took over two weeks nine hundred years ago. I was itching for a fight.

  I found it quickly.

  We arrived in the city of Acre, which is on the northern coast of what now is Israel. We gave the horses a few days’ time to rest and recover from their voyage. We hired porters to assist our squires with our equipment, mounted up, and headed out for Jerusalem.

  It was my first lesson in learning that spies are everywhere.

  In a hotbed of such violence, anger, and religious fervor, spies were more numerous than the olives on the olive trees that dotted the countryside. Or so it seemed. It was a perilous introduction to the hazards and advantages of covert intelligence. I learned a hard lesson: that there is nothing more valuable than knowing something about your enemy and them not knowing that you know. Does that make sense? There is no replacement for a highly trained operative. All the technology we have today? None of it can take the place of a human being. Those things have their place, of course. But a well-placed spy, an agent behind enemy lines, someone who wins the confidence and learns, sees, and hears the secrets of your enemy? There is no piece of technology better than that.

  One of the porters we hired to help carry our equipment was in the employ of a local tribal chieftain who thought slaughtering nine knights sent by the pope would bring great glory upon him. We were attacked the very first night on the trail.

  After making camp, we posted sentries. One of those sentries was the spy, who let the chieftain’s men inside the camp. First they slew the porters, whom they considered traitors for agreeing to work for us. Then they came after us.

  “To arms! To arms!” The shouting woke me and my sword was instantly in my hand. The moon and firelight gave us enough light to see. I leaped to my feet, just in time to parry the downward swing of an angry man with a long and deadly scimitar. We struggled hand to hand, grappling and punching, gouging at each other’s eyes. He bit me on the shoulder, but I held firm. He did not. I had a dagger at my belt and with my free hand, I used it.

  Someone somewhere in the darkness yelled, “Be glorious!”

  For whatever reason, it invigorated us. We all began to shout it as we fought. Even the squires, who were also trained in combat, acquitted themselves well that night. “Be glorious! Be glorious!” We chanted over and over, louder each time.

  The chieftain and his men found our behavior unnerving.

  Attacking poorly armed or defenseless pilgrims was one thing, but it was soon apparent they had never encountered well-trained, well-equipped knights. Even betrayed and taken by surprise, we fought like demons. Two of our squires were injured, but the nine of us either killed or wounded thirty men. It was the beginning of the building of our carefully crafted reputation as ferocious fighters. Even Croc got in on the action, leaping high to knock one of the raiders from the saddle. After that night he became the official mascot of our group.

  News of our victory traveled quickly and we made it safely to Jerusalem, though enemy forces shadowed us the entire time. King Baldwin treated us like heroes. Our enemies constantly besieged the city and we plunged into the fighting almost the very next day. The king was so grateful he gave us shelter in Solomon’s Temple. We pledged our swords and lives to the king and our cause. Sir Hughes declared that we would be known as the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and King Solomon’s Temple. Eventually, because we lived in the temple, the locals began referring to us as the Knights Templar. The name stuck.

  Sir Hughes began developing our fighting strategies after our first few skirmishes. “We will work in groups of three, patrolling all roads leading in and out of the city. We ride on our warhorses and escort any pilgrims we find to safety. In everything we do, we show confidence, aggression, and an utter lack of fear. No. Fear. We will carry our banner high at all times. And we will wear these.”

  He handed us each a white tunic with a brilliant red cross emblazoned across the chest. These fit perfectly over our chain mail. And in the desert they were visible from miles away. We wore them every day as we chased down bandits and raiders and protected all who traveled the roads. Word of our exploits spread throughout the region. The attacks on innocent victims diminished. And the story could have ended there. Nine brave men who fought for a cause they believed in.

  And it might have—if Sir Hughes and I hadn’t made a remarkable discovery in King Solomon’s Temple.

  The Discovery

  It wasn’t the original Temple of King Solomon. The first temple was destroyed and the one where we stayed had been rebuilt over the original site, or so it was said, but no one was certain. Remember, this was one thousand years ago. There were no real records, no maps or photographs. Just oral tradition and legend and half-truths.

  Sir Hughes became obsessed with the temple. He would pace off the rooms. He spent hours measuring walls and making sketches, and inspecting the building from top to bottom. None of the other knights paid much attention, but he had assigned me to his squad—I believe he felt he owed it to my father to watch over me—so I was usually sleeping while he spent his off hours examining every inch of one of the most holy places in the city.

  One night, Sir Hughes placed his gloved hand over my mouth and roused me from my sleep. I shared sleeping quarters with Quintas, a brother knight, who snored softly on the pallet across the room from me. He was a heavy sleeper, and it was unlikely he would awaken. Croc woke up and growled in curiosity. Sir Hughes shushed him.

  “Do not make a sound,” Sir Hughes whispered. “Follow me.”

  Out of habit, I grabbed my sword. In my half-awake state I wondered if I was needed for battle or if we were under attack. Sir Hughes laughed when he noticed my sword gleaming in the flickering torchlight that lined the temple walls. Croc padded along at my side, his ears up, just as curious as I was.

  “No, young Borneo,” he chuckled.
“Sheath your blade. We have nothing to fear this night.”

  He led me to a wall along the southern end of the temple. We stood before it and he placed his hands on the bricks as if he were praying. I was confused and tired. I’d spent many hours in the saddle that day. Why he had summoned me here escaped me.

  “Um. Sir Hughes,” I said. “May I ask what we are doing here in the middle of the night?”

  “What do you know of this temple?” he asked.

  “Only that it is a replacement for the original.”

  “Did you know that it was once thought to house the holiest of relics? The Ark of the Covenant, the One True Cross, some say even the Holy Grail itself was kept here.”

  “But surely that must be . . . it can’t . . . Sir Hughes, why would such valuable items be kept here?”

  “No one knows for sure, of course. The first temple was destroyed during the siege of Jerusalem in the sixth century. King David attempted to rebuild it, but its construction eventually fell to his son Solomon.”

  “Sir Hughes, I have observed your . . . behavior. What interests you so about this place?”

  “If the holy relics were here, suppose they survived the destruction of the first temple. Where did they go? Do you not think someone would have made sure they were safe? And returned them here, where they could be further safeguarded?”

  “Yes. I suppose, but . . .” I could not understand his obsession. Even if the relics were here once, it was doubtful they still were. They could be anywhere.

  “You think I’m crazy!”

  “No! Of course not!”

  Sir Hughes laughed. “Do not fear, young Borneo. I do not fault your skepticism. Except your information is incomplete.”