“Why don’t you try, anyhow?” Donovan said in his most persuasive voice.
Why the hell should I?
“I’d appreciate it,” Donovan added.
Yeah, I bet you would.
Indy frowned as he stared at the inscription. Finally he cleared his throat and spoke in a slow, halting voice, like a child who was just learning to read.
“. . . drinks the water that I shall give him, says the Lord, will have a spring inside him . . . welling up for eternal life. Let them bring me to your holy mountain . . . in the place where you dwell. Across the desert and through the mountain . . . to the Canyon of the Crescent Moon, broad enough only for one man. To the Temple of the Sun, holy enough for all men . . .”
Indy stopped, looked up at Donovan with a startled expression, saw no reaction on the other man’s face, and continued with the final line “. . . Where the cup that holds the blood of Jesus Christ our Lord resides forever.”
“The Holy Grail, Dr. Jones.” Donovan’s voice was hushed, reverent. He was obviously impressed by what Indy had read. “The chalice used by Christ during the Last Supper. The cup that caught His blood at the Crucifixion and was entrusted to Joseph of Arimathaea. A cup of great power to the one who finds it.”
Indy rubbed his chin and looked dubiously at Donovan. “I’ve heard that bedtime story before.”
“Eternal life, Dr. Jones.” He emphasized the words, as if Indy hadn’t heard him. “The gift of youth to whoever drinks from the Grail.”
Donovan, it seemed, was taking the inscription at face value rather than considering it in a mythological context. Indy nodded but didn’t say anything, not wanting to encourage the man in a pursuit that had consumed countless lives. He was too well aware how the search for the Grail Cup had become an obsession for even the most rational scholars.
“Now, that’s a bedtime story that I’d like to wake up to,” Donovan continued.
“An old man’s dream.”
“Every man’s dream,” Donovan countered. “Including your father’s, I believe.”
Indy stiffened slightly at the mention of his father. “Grail lore is his hobby.” He spoke evenly, covering the discomfort he always felt when the Grail and his father were mentioned in tandem, like parts of a rhyme or a riddle.
“More than simply a hobby,” Donovan persisted. “He’s occupied the chair of medieval literature at Princeton for nearly two decades.”
“He’s a professor of medieval literature. The one students hope they don’t get.”
“Give the man his due. He’s the foremost Grail scholar in the world.”
Indy gave Donovan a sour look and was about to say something when the door opened. The music and sound of chatter suddenly pumped into the room, and both men turned as a matronly woman in an expensive evening gown stepped through the door.
“Walter, you’re neglecting your guests,” the woman said in a tone that didn’t hide her annoyance. Her eyes shifted from her husband to Indy and back again.
“Be along in a moment, dear.”
Indy turned his attention to the tablet once more when it became evident that Donovan wasn’t going to introduce him to his wife.
Mrs. Donovan sighed, a sigh that said she was accustomed to this, and returned to the party, her gown rustling as she walked away.
In spite of his skeptical comments, Indy was fascinated by the Grail tablet. He wouldn’t swear to it, but he was almost certain the tablet was what it appeared to be. The fact that it existed was an important discovery. What it could lead to was something he didn’t even want to consider right now.
He had forgotten all about the way he had been picked off the street. It was inconsequential. The tablet, and what it said, was what mattered.
“Hard to resist, isn’t it?” Donovan commented, acutely aware of Indy’s interest. “The Holy Grail’s final resting place described in detail. Simply astounding.”
Indy shrugged and recovered his skeptical, scientific attitude, the one that dominated his classroom persona. “What good is it? The tablet speaks of desert and mountains and canyons. There are a lot of deserts in the world—the Sahara, the Arabian, the Kalahari. And the mountain ranges—the Urals, Alps, Atlas . . . Where do you start looking?”
Then he pointed out the obvious flaw in the discovery. “Maybe if this tablet was completely intact, you’d have more to go on. But the entire top portion is missing.”
Donovan wasn’t about to be easily discouraged. He acted, Indy thought, like a man who knew something he wasn’t telling—a big something.
“Just the same, Dr. Jones, an attempt to recover the Grail is currently under way.”
Indy frowned and shook his head. “Are you saying the tablet has already been translated?”
Donovan nodded.
“Then why drag me here, just for a second opinion? I could charge you with kidnapping.” His tone was deliberately gruff.
Donovan held up a hand. “You could, but I don’t think you will. I’m getting to the reason. But first let me tell you another ‘bedtime story,’ Dr. Jones. After the Grail was entrusted to Joseph of Arimathaea, it disappeared and was lost for a thousand years before being found again by three knights of the First Crusade. Three brothers, to be exact.”
“I’ve heard this one, too,” Indy interrupted, and finished the story himself. “One hundred and fifty years after finding the Grail, two of these brothers walked out of the desert and began their long journey home. But only one made it back, and before dying of extreme old age, he imparted his tale to a Franciscan friar.”
Donovan nodded, clearly pleased that Indy knew the story. “Good. Now, let me show you something.” He walked across the room and returned with an ancient leather-bound volume. He opened it carefully. It was obvious that the pages were extremely brittle.
“This is the manuscript of the Franciscan friar.” He paused a moment, letting that fact fully register. “It doesn’t reveal the location of the Grail, but the knight promised that two ‘markers’ had been left behind that would lead the way.”
Donovan pointed at the stone tablet. “This, Dr. Jones, is one of those ‘markers.’ This tablet proves the story is true. But as you pointed out—it’s incomplete.”
Seconds passed. Indy could almost feel them filling the room and felt his own body tense, waiting for Donovan to continue. “The second ‘marker’ is entombed with the remains of the knight’s brother. Our project leader—who has brought years of study to this search—believes that tomb is located within the city of Venice, Italy.”
“What about the third brother, the one who was left behind in the desert? Does the friar say anything about him in his manuscript?”
“The third brother stayed behind to become the keeper of the Grail.” Donovan carefully closed the ancient manuscript. “As you can now see, Dr. Jones, we’re about to complete a great quest that began almost two thousand years ago. We’re only one step away from actually finding the Grail.”
Indy smiled. “And that’s usually when the ground disappears from under your feet.”
Donovan sucked air in through his teeth and expelled it, a sigh that spoke of some minor inconvenience that had somehow become a burden. “You may be more right than you know.”
“How so?”
“We’ve hit a snag. Our project leader has vanished. So has his research. We received a cable from Dr. Schneider, his colleague. Schneider has no idea of his whereabouts or what’s become of him.”
Donovan looked down at the ancient manuscript, then back at Indy. His eyes seemed distant now, almost glazed, as though a part of him were as lost as Schneider’s colleague. “I want you to pick up the trail where he left off. Find the man and you will find the Grail. Can you think of any greater challenge?”
Indy held up both his hands, patting the air and shaking his head. He gave a small, uncertain laugh. Challenges were one thing; stupidity was quite another. Besides, he rationalized, he had a commitment to the university to fulfill. He couldn’t ju
st run off, especially since he had just returned late from another little field trip.
“You’ve got the wrong Jones, Mr. Donovan. Why don’t you try my father? I’m sure he’d be fascinated by the tablet and ready to help out in any way.”
“We already have. Your father is the man who’s disappeared.”
SEVEN
The Grail Diary
INDY SPED ALONG a tree-lined boulevard through an old neighborhood. He cranked the wheel of his Ford coupe, skidded around the corner, and almost hit a man who had stepped into the street.
“Indy, for the Lord’s sake and my poor heart, slow down,” Brody yelled, from the passenger seat.
A block later Indy pulled over, screeching to a halt at the curb. He gazed for a moment through the windshield toward the house partially hidden by a hedge and trees.
It was two stories, with numerous windows and a nicely landscaped front yard. It might have belonged to an ordinary family with kids and pets, the sort of family that had barbecues on weekends, the family Indy had never had. It didn’t look anything like the place where he and his father had lived when he was younger. But it elicited the same feelings of unease, of awkwardness, even though he hadn’t set foot here in at least two years.
But none of what had happened between him and his father mattered now.
He hopped out of the Ford and was halfway to the front door when Brody caught up to him. He was breathing hard from the burst of exertion; a frown creased his forehead.
“Your father and I have been friends since time began. I’ve watched you grow up, Indy. And I’ve watched the two of you grow apart.” He climbed the stairs to the porch a step behind Indy. “I’ve never seen you this concerned about him before.”
Indy strode across the porch. “He’s an academic. A bookworm, not a field man, Marcus. Of course I’m concerned about . . .”
The front door was ajar, and it silenced him. He and Brody glanced at each other, and Indy stepped cautiously closer, muscles tight, expectant. He touched his hand to the door and nudged it open. It creaked. The air that struck his face was cool—and empty.
“Dad?”
“Henry?” Brody called out as he followed Indy inside.
Their voices echoed hollowly. Indy’s dread bit more deeply. He called for his father again and moved quickly down the hall, peering into empty rooms, rooms that hadn’t changed all that much since they moved here from Utah when he was fifteen. The furniture was nicer, there was more of everything, but the air here was just as barren and devoid of character as it had been in the other house after his mother had died.
A clock ticked in the silence. The refrigerator hummed. The quiet mocked him. Gone, Indy thought, and flung back the curtain that separated the hall from the sitting room.
He grimaced, and Brody whispered, “Dear God.”
The room hadn’t just been ransacked; it had been decimated. Drawers had been pulled out and dumped on the floor. Shelves had been swept clean. The couch cushions had been torn away and hurled across the room. Books, letters, and envelopes were strewn through the mess.
For several long moments Indy just stood there, his eyes flicking this way and that, seeking something, anything, that would provide a clue,
He bent down and picked up a photo album that had been cast aside. Several pictures fell out, and he plucked them from the ruin and stared at the top photograph. A young boy stood with an unsmiling older man whose beard had not yet turned completely gray. Both the man and the boy were stiff, obviously uncomfortable, and they both looked as though they wanted to be anywhere other than where they were. And that, he thought, had always been the point with him and his father, even as far back as when this picture had been taken. They had never felt comfortable around each other, and now, as all the old feelings flooded back, something hitched in Indy’s chest.
The picture had been taken the year after his mother’s death. His father had been sullen that year, and Indy knew he thought a lot about the woman who had formed a bridge between father and son. When she died, the bridge vanished. His father had never talked to Indy about her. If he mentioned his mother or anything related to her, his father would cast a frigid glance at him and change the subject or give him a chore to do.
Then there was the intimidation. He remembered the constant reminders that he would never measure up to the old man. He didn’t have the discipline, the determination, the intellect. Sure, he had a sense of curiosity, his father had conceded. But what good did it do him? All he did was get into trouble.
As Indy grew older, all the anger and resentment he felt only grew worse. One day, he told his father that he would show him. He would be an archaeologist, too, and a good one. His determination to be as knowledgeable as his father seemed to have grown in direct proportion to his old man’s stubbornness and insistence that he would never amount to anything.
The sound of Brody’s footfalls on the stairs snapped him back to the present. His misgivings about his father were quickly replaced by a huge and terrible guilt for the times he had wished he would never have to see him again. And for the times he had wished him dead. In spite of his father’s toughness and unwillingness to grant him an inch, the texture of everything was different now that he was missing. Right this second there was no one in the world whom Indy wanted to see more desperately.
“He isn’t anywhere in the house,” Brody said.
“I didn’t think he would be.”
Brody’s face skewed with concern and worry. “What’s that old fool gotten himself into, anyway?”
“I don’t know. But whatever it is, he’s in over his head.”
“I just can’t imagine Henry getting involved with people he couldn’t trust. Look, they’ve even gone through his mail.”
Indy stared at the clutter of torn papers and envelopes and suddenly realized he had forgotten about his own mail.
“The mail. That’s it, Marcus!”
He immediately rifled through his pockets and pulled out the overstuffed envelope he had been carrying around since he left his office. He looked at the foreign postmark again and shook his head.
“Venice, Italy. How could I be so stupid?”
Brody looked baffled. “What are you talking about, Indy?”
He tore open the envelope and pulled out a small notebook. He quickly flipped through several pages. It looked like a journal or diary. Page after page was covered with handwritten notes and drawings.
Brody glanced over Indy’s shoulder at it. “Is it from Henry?”
“That’s right. It’s Dad’s Grail diary.”
“But why did he send it to you?”
“I don’t know.” He looked around at the room again and back to the diary. “I’ve got the feeling this is what they were after. It looks like somebody wanted it pretty badly, too.”
He lightly stroked the leather cover of the diary. He trusted me. He finally did something to show that he trusted and believed in me.
“Can I see it?” Brody asked.
“Of course. It’s all in there. A lifetime’s worth of research and knowledge.”
As Brody paged through the diary, the lines on his face deepened by the second. “The search was his passion, Indy.”
“I know. But do you believe in that fairy tale, Marcus? Do you believe the Grail actually exists?”
Brody stopped turning pages as he came to a picture pasted into the diary. It was a depiction of Christ on the cross, his blood being captured in a golden chalice by Joseph of Arimathaea.
He glanced up and spoke with conviction. “The search for the cup of Christ is the search for the divine in all of us.”
Indy nodded and tried to disguise his skepticism. But his indulgent smile wasn’t lost on Brody.
“I know. You want facts. But I don’t have any for you, Indy. At my age, I’m willing to accept a few things on faith. I can feel it more than I can prove it.”
Indy didn’t say anything. His gaze flicked to a painting on the wall. It portrayed eleve
nth-century crusaders plummeting to their deaths over a high cliff. One crusader, however, floated safely in midair because he was holding the Grail in his hands.
He remembered how his father had forced him to read Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival—the Grail story. He was only thirteen and couldn’t think of a drearier way of spending his summer afternoons. At least not until the next year, when Dad made him read it again, this time in the early German version. That was followed by Richard Wagner’s opera, Parsifal, based on Eschenbach’s work.
Each day his father would ask him about the story, to make sure that he was understanding it. If he didn’t know the answer to one of the questions, he was required to go back and reread the related section. As an incentive his father promised him that he would be rewarded when he had satisfactorily completed Wagner’s work.
He had thought about what kind of reward his father might give him and hoped it would be a trip to Egypt to see the pyramids, or maybe to Athens to see the Parthenon, or Mexico to the Yucatan to see the Mayan ruins. At the very least he figured he deserved a trip to the museum in the state capitol to see the mummies.
As it turned out, his reward was the Arthurian Grail legends. First came Le Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory, and he had to read it in French first, then English. After that was Lord Tennyson’s Idylls of the King. Some reward, he glumly thought. In spite of his hatred of the difficult books and his silent anger about his reward, he had never forgotten the adventures of the knights Parzival, Gawain, and Feirifs—the heroes of Parzival—or Arthur, Lancelot, and Merlin from the Arthurian legends. In fact, now that he thought of it, those books probably had considerable bearing on how he lived his life.
When Indy didn’t speak, Brody cleared his throat, and continued: “If your father believes the Grail is real, so do I.”
Indy wasn’t sure what to believe, except that he needed to act, to do something, to begin searching. “Call Donovan, Marcus. Tell him I’ll take that ticket to Venice now. I’m going to find Dad.”
The Adventures Of Indiana Jones Page 40