When he was done he could work back and forth between the three of them photographing everything they found before and after numbering, and in Malcolm’s case, before and after anything was moved; and they set to it.
***
Because Mitch and Deck were spending so much time outside of the perimeter of the castle structure, none of them could hear Malcolm as he dug, continuing to clear the floor area that he’d started. That damn pesky fly was back, buzzing and humming around his head; whispering in his ear.
He swatted at it as he had the day before, but also as the day before, it couldn’t be persuaded to go away. Malcolm heard the owl cry again, and when he looked toward the sound, he could see it in the tree above his head, staring at him, studying him.
Before long he was digging and talking to himself again. “No, no, no, no!” he said, waving his hands around his head. Then his spade hit something, hard, making a sound like it might be more wood. He forgot about the fly, concentrating instead on the object he’d hit, cleaning around it gently with the spade and a paint brush. He knew as soon as he saw it that it wasn’t wood.
Still more than half buried in the dirt, there were curved and rounded parts, but blackened like the wood. He quickly began to dig around them finding that they had a form and knew then what they were. They were bones, but not human bones. They were the bones of an animal.
He decided to keep it to himself until he had uncovered the entire form, and he dug on. About half way through, he could tell what kind of animal it was. It was a large dog, maybe a Great Dane or a wolfhound. He pushed forward, redoubling his efforts to uncover the whole thing before he called anyone over.
Energized by the prospect of having found something significant, he tore at the dirt with his spade then struck something else, something that gave off a thick metallic sound. His mind went wild, he had something here. He really had something.
He grabbed a short twig from outside the pit and began clearing an outline around it. It was long and definitely metal; narrow with one end seeming to be larger than the other and slanted, as if it were deliberately driven into the ground, but it was the end that was closest to him that told him what it was. It was a sword. Someone had run the animal through with a sword and left it there.
Suddenly he heard the owl in the tree start to screech, screaming, bloodcurdling screeches, as if it were being torn to pieces, and the fly was back, buzzing around his head furiously, then dozens of them. He swatted at them wildly. “No…no, no, no, no, no!” What it was saying made him so angry he could kill.
The blood pulsed in his veins, throbbing in his temples; a second heartbeat. He started tearing at the dirt with his bare hands, throwing clumps of it behind him as he worked furiously to uncover the beast before anyone else could come by and see it before he was done.
He uncovered the enormous head and knew it was no dog. By then his eyes were bulging with fever, saliva dripping from his mouth as he struggled to free the creature. He saw its fangs, long and sharp; a wolf. He sat up on his haunches, looked up to the sky and started to call out, his mind swimming in a vortex of chaos, losing himself. “Is there anybody there? Deck! Ivy! Can anybody hear me? Help! Help!”
Deck was the first to hear him call and he ran, Mitch was next with Simon following behind. When they got to the pit, Malcolm was standing above it, covered with dirt from head to toe; smiling proudly and pointing down at what he’d found.
They all peered into the pit. “Simon, photograph it, quick,” Mitch said as he scratched his head, staring down into the pit.
“What the bloody hell is that?” Deck said, amazed at what he was seeing.
“It’s Canis Lupus, but a much larger species than I would ever think we’d find in Europe,” Simon said, backing away. Mitch jumped down into the pit.
“Well, what do we have here?” he said pointing to the handle end of the sword. “Simon, come get a close up of this before I pull it out, will ya?”
Simon went over hesitantly, snapping it from all angles then stepped back with the camcorder to catch the moment on video. Mitch grabbed the handle of the sword and slowly pulled it out, holding it up to the sky triumphantly, his hair blowing in the light breeze, reminding Simon of a warrior returned from the Crusades.
***
After dinner Mitch went straight his room to begin cleaning the sword. This could be it! he’d been thinking ever since he realized what it was. If what Lady Madeline said was true and the ruin predated William’s invasion of England. This could very well put a date on it and bring me one step closer to the date I need. Jeez, Jack I wish you were here. It’s not the same without you.
Downstairs Simon waited impatiently for the voice. He sat at the bar and had beer after beer waiting for it to come, needing it to come so he could tell about that afternoon. “Another beer, mate?” Malcolm asked, smiling kindly. He didn’t look well. He was flushed again; small beads of perspiration forming on his forehead, and his eyes had this glassy, faraway look. Simon nodded. Then from next to him, Simon heard another voice.
“A beer please, Malcolm,” it said. Simon looked over. It was the long blonde-haired guy looking at Malcolm and smiling. Malcolm froze for a moment, not knowing what to do, then turned away.
“Deck!” he called out and walked to the other end of the bar. Deck showed up a few seconds later and drew the young blonde man a pint from the tap.
“Please, Alec, if you want a drink just come to me. You must know by now how it upsets Malcolm when you go to him…just come to me or Ivy,” Deck pleaded with him.
Just then Simon looked up to see Malcolm at the other side of the bar, glaring at the man Deck called Alec; that same glassy, faraway look in his eyes. It scared Simon and he looked down wishing with all his might that Mitch would change his mind and come down for a drink or that the voice would speak to him and tell him what to do.
When he looked up again, Ivy was over with Mal and had her hand on his forehead. Simon couldn’t hear what she was saying but he could imagine by the look in her eyes and her body language that she was going to send him to bed early again and take his shift, and he was right.
Simon watched as Ivy took Mal by the arm and led him back around the long way to the kitchen door. When she came back through, she didn’t have her apron on and took Malcolm’s place at the bar, smiling and pouring drinks for the customers.
Simon waited for the old man, or the voice to come, but they never did. By then he’d had a few pints and was as exhausted from the day as everyone else, so he decided to go to bed, feeling…unfinished, and turned to go. He was stopped dead in his tracks. The black-haired woman was standing in front of him, blocking his way. He tried to pass but she was taller than he was, and faster.
“Stop! Do not resist me,” she whispered, and took Simon by the arm over to the corner of the room, practically pinning him to the wall. “Old Amos is ill tonight, too weak to even…speak to you,” she said, peering into his eyes. “He sent me to see you, to tell you to take care and not interfere until he’s well enough to lead you again. If you find yourself in peril, call on me,” and she turned to go.
“Wait! Let me come with you. I know how to help him,” Simon said, taking hold of her arm. She turned back, smiling, her black eyes sparkling without the reflection of light.
“As do I, child. Only you had the fortune to be born with a man piece between your legs and I didn’t,” she said pointing her finger at his crotch. “I will serve you as I have always served him, as did my mother and her mother before her, little one,” she said, pointing her finger at his face. “But test me not. I’m Gayle, his great-granddaughter,” and she disappeared as if she had never been there, leaving Simon appearing to all outside eyes to be talking to himself.
***
While Simon was talking to himself in the pub, Mitch was in his room carefully pulling and prying flakes of dried mud from the handle of the sword; spraying it with a mixture of mild detergent and water, slowly rubbing it. As each layer of dirt c
ame off, his heart beat stronger. Would this give him the proof he needed to date the castle to the 6th Century? Little by little his gentle cleaning began to pay off. He could see the hilt was made of gold engraved with an intricate pattern and was, in part, encrusted with semi-precious stones. He held his breath. It was more than he could hope for to find some identifying mark, a family crest or a traceable name.
He got out his Q-Tips, metal cleaner, jewelry cleaning cloth and magnifying glass, taking the shade off the lamp to give him the brightest light possible. He gave it a good clean and polish until it looked like it had just come out of a museum, then held it up to the light. “Damn!” he said out loud to himself. It was beautiful, it was priceless; it would draw crowds when it was on display at the Met because it was at least a thousand years old and it might predate William, but not by much because engraved on the underside of the hilt were the initials HofR, House of Revelstoke. It belonged to a member of the family or someone in their service or debt who last lived in the castle.
“Fuck,” he said out loud, not even a tenuous timeline to link it to Arthur. Disappointed, he lay down on his bed and closed his eyes.
***
He could hear somewhere off in the distance hypnotic singsong chanting like he’d heard when he was in Egypt and Syria with Jack. When he opened his eyes he was dressed in his desert khakis, hat and boots, and was in the middle of a sandstorm. Covering his face with a scarf, he could barely open his eyes against the stinging sand as it blasted his body, tiny pellets ripping against his skin as he struggled to walk forward against it; the chanting vibrating in his ears.
Through the slits of his eyes as they peered through the gauze of his scarf, he could see his destination in the distance ahead and knew he had to get there at all costs. He closed his eyes and forged on, the sand feeling like it was tearing off fragments of his skin with each step he took.
When he could opened his eyes again, he was closer and could make out what looked like a promenade lined with stone figures. He closed his eyes again and moved forward. Suddenly the sand stopped beating at him. The chanting stopped, too. Pure dead silence. He dropped the scarf from his face and opened his eyes.
He was at the mouth of the promenade lined with the stone figures, each exactly like the other, winged like birds, sitting on their haunches like lions, talons on their claws like eagles, large firm breasts on their chest, but the faces were worn off from what could have been thousands of years of sandstorms just like the one he’d just come through. He took a step forward, slowly.
His mind rippled like a computer as he walked past each statue, trying to think of what they were, where he was, Iraq? Iran? Were they Assyrian? Sumerian? Babylonian? He needed Jack. Jack would know. “Jack?” he called out to the air as he walked past the dozens of stone figures. “Jack, I need you. Where are you?”
When he looked ahead, he could see it, an enormous standing statue with arms outstretched, more than one set, but he couldn’t see what it was.
The wind started up again and the sand and began to fly, stronger and stronger as he got closer to the gigantic figure. When he reached the foot of the statue, sand filled the air until he was blinded to the point where, when he looked up at the twenty foot high figure, he couldn’t make out anything identifiable. “Jack?” he called out again as he covered his face.
A voice came out of the sand, muffled and unrecognizable; telling him to do something. He felt the earth start to tremble under his feet, rumblings at first, then quakes increasing in violence until he felt he might fall. “Jack, help me?” he cried out as the strength of the quakes brought him to his knees, the voice telling him what to do. “Dig!” it said. “Dig!” and he did, pushing back the sand at the foot of the figure with his bare hands. “Dig! Dig! Dig!”
Soon he could see blood on his hands as he kept pushing back the sand. He felt the pain in his fingertips; his fingernails coming off one by one as he worked them furiously, the earth continuing to shake underneath him. “Jack, please. I’m drowning,” he cried out, anguished.
He went to call out again but before he could open his mouth, the earth beneath him gave one great shattering spasm; the ground opened up before him, splitting apart into an ever wide-ning chasm. He fell. Falling, falling, “Jaaaacccckkkk!” he cried out as the ground closed up above him, swallowing him into its blackness, alone with nothing but the echo of his own voice and the darkness surrounding him.
***
He woke the next morning on the floor. Simon was kneeling next to him, worry written all over his face. “Mitch, are you alright?”
“Huh?”
“I heard you from next door calling out for Jack,” Simon said, taking him by his arm to help him up onto the bed.
“Where am I?” Mitch asked breathlessly, soaked in sweat.
“We’re in England. Don’t you remember?” Simon asked. He was getting very worried.
“Oh, yeah. It’s okay, I remember now,” he said, putting his hand over his eyes, the brightness of the sun through the curtains making them hurt. “I was just having a bad dream. Help me stand up will ya, Simon.” Simon helped him up. He was shaky but still strong. Just in case, Simon put his arm around Mitch’s waist and walked with him to the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower. Wait for me here, will ya?” Mitch asked as Simon turned to go.
Yes, sir,” Simon said and came back to sit down on the bed, preparing to wait, thinking, That must have been some dream.
A statement Mitch could neither confirm nor deny, because from the minute he saw Simon’s face, he couldn’t remember anything about it. All he knew was that when he went to step into the shower, his arms and legs ached like he’d been climbing Mount Everest for a month.
When he came out of the shower, he had his hair in a ponytail. He just didn’t have the wherewithal to fuck with it. Simon was still sitting there, waiting patiently for him. “Come on, let’s go get something to eat,” was all Mitch could say as he put his arm around Simon’s shoulder. “Just promise me, no kidneys or herring, please,” he said laughingly as they walked through the door out into the courtyard between the two buildings.
“Blaaaaahh!” was all Simon could say in return.
It hadn’t occurred to either of them that Mitch hadn’t had one single drink that night.
“I had a return email from Dr. Edgeworth,” Simon said as he shoveled his breakfast into his mouth. “…actually it was from Alida saying that Dr. Edgeworth was pleased to hear from us and glad to hear that the work was going well. “They got the picture and sketch attachments,” he finished, downing a cup of black coffee. “There was no mention of Lady Cotswold, so I take it this message was in response to the first one I sent. They probably haven’t gotten the second one yet. Oh, and it said that Dr. Edgeworth returns your PS.”
That part made Mitch a little misty. Maybe he was getting old, but he missed home, he missed Jack and the Museum. Things just didn’t seem right. First it was Sandrine, then Lady Cotswold disappearing. Even with the unearthing of the cross and the sword, he just felt like he didn’t want to be there anymore, he felt…threatened.
***
Jed came over to the table to ask about Lady Cotswold. He hadn’t told Sandrine that she’d gone. He felt that in her state, it would be best to keep it from her as long as he could, but how long could that be?
Jed had just left their table when Deck came rushing up to them. “Have you seen Malcolm?” His normally pale skin was even paler. Mitch and Simon looked at each other…then back at him, shaking their heads.
“No, not since last night.”
Deck sat down at the table. “He isn’t in his room, and his bed hasn’t been slept in,” he said nervously. “Mal is as regular as clockwork. He’d never leave off without telling me. He was so sick when he went to his room last night. Something’s happened to him. I know it. I can feel it. He must have gone to the hospital in the middle of the night. I don’t want to worry Ivy or Jed until I know something. Dr. Bramson, can you go with
me, please?” Deck pleaded, his eyes filling with water and worry. Mitch stood up with a bolt.
“Simon, you stay here in case he comes back. We’ll check the hospital. If he doesn’t come back and anyone asks, he went with us for…supplies,” Mitch said and rushed out with Deck in tow, leaving Simon there to wonder, First Sandrine; then Lady Cotswold; and now Malcolm. What the hell is going on around here? He reached in his shirt, touching the amulet still hanging around his neck. Within seconds the soundless voice came to him.
“Be brave, Holly for I am with thee.”
***
Mitch and Deck arrived back at the inn an hour and a half later. They’d checked both area hospitals and hadn’t found Malcolm. Simon was still waiting where they’d left him, working on his laptop. He looked up when he saw them and shook his head. They’d just sat down about to talk about their next move when Fi came over with a pot of coffee. From the look on their faces, she assumed they knew. “So you’ve ‘eard already?” she asked, the blood seeming to drain from her face more with each word.
“Heard what? Deck said impatiently, distracted by his own thoughts of Malcolm.
“My sister says they found pieces of ‘im all along the side the road, torn apart. Police say it wuz a wild dog. The postman found ‘is ‘ead in the road ‘round dawn. The men ‘ave been out with guns and huntin’ dogs lookin’ for the animal all mornin’.”
Simon kept his head down trying not to faint, crossed himself then reached to touch the amulet again through the cloth of his shirt.
Deck’s eyes swam in his head. He jumped up like a wild man, grabbing the girl by the arm.
“What are you telling me, girl?” he bellowed at her with a shake, scaring her half to death. She flinched and tried to pull away, afraid he might hurt her.
“Alec from the next village,” she said and started to cry. They all looked at her, not following.
“What?” Deck shouted, shaking her again.
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