“He does not condemn us. We condemn ourselves. He offers us life. It is up to us to receive it.”
“When did He ever offer me life?”
“Every day you lived, He was trying to speak to you. Did your conscience never bother you?”
“Oh, a time or two, I daresay, but I put a stop to that early enough. A man with a touchy conscience will never get far in this world.”
“There you see—He was speaking to you, but you refused to listen. The world is upside-down from true reality, Channing. Getting on, as you call it, in the real world—the world of spiritual reality, the world we will all suddenly become part of the moment we die—getting on in that world means denying this world around us now. It’s all backward. The more we strive to get ahead here, the further behind we will be then. The last shall be first, you know.”
“Leaves a man like me in a bit of a pickle, I daresay, who was told nothing about all this!”
“We’ve all been told, Channing. Jesus came two thousand years ago to tell the world. His followers have been telling us ever since.”
“No one told me! If they had, maybe I’d have been different.”
“We all know the truth in our hearts. Even if no one tells us, the truth of reality—the truth of God’s character—is all about us and inside us. The world He created, and the conscience He put inside us, they are there to tell us about Him all day and night, every moment of our lives. No man can say he has not been exposed to God’s truth. No man will dare say it when he faces Him. In that moment we will know that we knew the truth all along, but we chose to turn our backs on it. Every man, every woman—we all make the choice, whether consciously aware of it or not.”
“Rather an infernal mess that leaves me in, if what you say is true.”
“There are consequences to what we do with our lives.”
“So how is a poor fool like me to get out of such a predicament?”
“By doing what He has been telling you all your life.”
“Being good, I suppose!”
“That’s a good thing, but not the starting point.”
“Don’t toy with me! What am I to do?”
“Lay it all down. Your bitterness, your hate, your unforgiveness. Lay it down that He might heal your soul.”
“And then keep the Commandments and be a good boy, is that it? There’s no time for all that! Look at me, Macintyre! I’m a dying man!”
“There’s only one command you need worry about, and there’s always time for that.”
“And what is that?”
“To believe in the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Poppycock! That’s nothing you can do!”
“You can do nothing until you’ve done that.”
“My life’s behind me, I tell you!”
“A life of greed, of thirsting for power, of hurting others, a life of bitterness and unforgiveness.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!”
“The day will come when you must face what you are, Channing. Better you hear it from my lips, while there is still time, than from His.”
“Curse you, Macintyre! To speak so to a dying man! If I could just stand—this wretched cane!” he exclaimed, struggling to rise, but falling back as the cane slipped under him. “If I could only—by heaven, if I were a younger man, I’d kill you myself!”
“Channing,” pleaded Logan, “do you ever want to see her again—face-to-face?”
The question sobered him and he fell back.
“Of course I do! But it’s too late for that too. She’s dead.”
“Her soul is not dead. And I’m sure she wants to see you again. What do you think she would say to you? Will she forgive you for the misery you’ve brought her family?”
The unexpected question bit deep into what was left of Channing’s blunted conscience.
“She will, when I explain how I loved her.”
“Did you love her, Channing?”
“Of course I did! Why else would I offer her the world? Why else—”
“Why else would you scheme and kill in order to destroy all she held dear? What kind of love is that?”
“How dare you!” he shrieked.
“I dare speak the truth to you because you will soon face your Maker, and He will speak the truth to you . . . and more! He will not be put off, Channing! You must face reality. The only path left you, the only life left you, is to lay down the demons of hate and vengeance and greed and selfishness that have ruled in your heart.”
“She will forgive me, I tell you!” he screamed.
“Indeed, she will. She does forgive you! And so do I, so does my wife, so does my daughter. We harbor you no malice, Channing. For what you have done, our hearts are open with forgiveness toward you.”
“Then God will forgive me too! Can His forgiveness be any less?”
“Infinitely greater in every way. But neither our forgiveness nor the forgiveness of God can enter your heart while it is yet full, blocked by the hate that has kept you in bondage and misery all these years. Until the bitterness is gone, there is no room for the forgiveness to enter.”
Channing thought for a moment. His body was still, his mental and physical energy nearly spent. His breathing came in short, weak pulses, and when he again spoke, Logan had to strain to make out the words.
“So what you’re telling me is that I have to lay down everything I’ve lived for—”
“Only your self, and the bitterness and unforgiveness you’ve carried with it all these years.”
“And then believe, you say, in Jesus Christ? What am I to believe about Him?”
“You need believe nothing about Him. We must believe in Him.”
“How do you do that?”
“By laying down your self, your past, your own desires, that you might trust Him to give you life. Give yourself into God’s care, Channing. The moment you open the door of your heart to let out the sin and evil you have harbored there, in that moment His forgiveness enters and all is changed. In that moment, your soul becomes forever His.”
Channing did not reply. His eyes were wide open and clear, but his thoughts were far away, reliving the many years that had led up to that moment he was about to face. The damp, darkened wine cellar was hushed like an underground cathedral as each person present was aware of the internal and eternal struggle then being waged within the mind and heart of the old sinner.
Gradually Logan felt the grip of Channing’s hand tighten.
“I . . . I see,” he struggled to say, but his voice was a mere whisper and he was having difficulty gasping for air. “They are coming . . . I see them . . . but—where did that bright light come from? Macintyre . . . Logan—are you still there? I’m . . . I’m going . . .”
Logan felt the withered hand slowly relax. A long final breath of air escaped Channing’s lips. Logan looked long upon the face. The eyes were closed. The twitch was gone from the lips. He was dead.
Silent tears fell from Logan’s eyes as he released the lifeless hand and sat back upon the floor.
Slowly Allison walked toward him, knelt down, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“You did all you could, Logan,” she whispered.
“I will always wonder,” he replied. “There is always so much one wants to say.”
Hilary and Ashley drew near and knelt down also.
“Dear Father in heaven,” Logan prayed aloud. “For this man’s soul we now offer our prayers. Whether or not he made his peace with you, only you know. We just ask that you cleanse us of any remaining bitterness or unforgiveness. Let us truly know your forgiveness, O God! Jason Channing made his life a grave filled with dead men’s bones. I pray, Father, that Channing’s hate will stop here, that the chain of his corruption and evil will be broken, and that the hold he must surely have on his own daughter be undone. For Jo we pray too, that your healing forgiveness might pour itself out on her. Dear God, your love still prevails, and has the power to heal—let each one of us experience that he
aling now.”
71
Vintage ’36
“Is it over, Logan?” asked Allison. “For us, as well as Channing?”
“I don’t know, dear,” he replied. “I think so. Though the Lord will never be through with our lives, nor with the work He wants to do in our family.”
“What are we going to do . . . now?”
“We are going to trust God . . . and believe He will deliver us.”
Logan and Allison still sat with Hilary and Ashley in the corridor where Channing’s body lay slumped on the ground. They had been praying together for some minutes.
“We have committed our way to Him,” said Logan, “and He will guide our steps.”
“I do not think Channing’s men will simply let us walk out of here, Logan,” said Ashley.
“But I am so sick of the guile we are using,” replied Logan. “while speaking to Channing about truth.”
“You mustn’t forget that we prayed before undertaking this venture, and asked God to guide us,” said Hilary. “You knew you had to face Channing, stop the evil and let it go no further, and talk to him, as a man, as a brother, about his soul. How else could you have done that but to get him alone, in a state that he would listen? I don’t see how it could have been achieved any other way.”
“It simply seems that there might have been a more straightforward way . . . I don’t know.”
“If God had opened the doors in that direction. But He gave you this idea . . . and it worked.”
“Did it? Channing is dead.”
“He died hearing of God’s love, and with four Christians with him praying for his eternal destiny,” replied Hilary. “Under what other circumstances could such a thing have occurred? You did not misread the signals from God, Logan. Even though this was, in a sense, a con on the unsuspecting man, I think God knew it was the only way to break in upon the hardened crust of his heart. You prayed for guidance, and I think He gave it to you.”
Logan sighed. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“Besides,” added Allison, “look at it practically. Had you tried to stop Channing any other way, more out in the open, there would surely have been bloodshed. He was a wicked man. Confronting him could have meant death for innocent people, even for yourself or any of us. You had to protect your family, too. The legacy of this family is not over. I, for one, want time to spend with my daughter!” As she spoke, she smiled at Hilary. “God used you, Logan, in His way, which might at the moment seem a little peculiar, to confront Channing and to protect your family. I thank God for what you did.”
“It’s not over yet,” reminded Ashley. “We may still have to con our way out of here.”
“Wise as serpents, eh, Ashley?” said Logan.
“And innocent as doves.”
“I only wish we’d have found the treasure,” sighed Hilary. “It is part of the legacy too.”
“Not so important, however, as how Channing spends the rest of his life,” said Logan. “It will not seem such a great loss in the light of eternity.”
“Who said it must be a loss?” asked Ashley. “We have to be close. I think we can spare a few minutes before we plan our escape.”
“Of course!” said Hilary. “It must be in one of these rooms nearby!” She jumped to her feet and continued through the cellar, pausing before every door and opening each to look for clues.
“What exactly are we looking for?” asked Ashley, rising also and following.
“Who knows?” answered Logan. “None of us have ever seen it.”
“Mother’s journal spoke of a large box. That’s all Maggie said.”
“Channing spoke of historical relics,” said Logan. “That could mean just about anything.”
Hilary had run on ahead, excitedly probing every corner of the corridor.
“Here . . . come here!” she called out. “There’s another large room!”
The other three followed, reaching the end of the passageway they had been in, off which two doors opened. One led only into a small room filled with empty barrels. The other led into a large, open room which was nearly empty.
“There’s nothing here,” said Allison.
“But look, Mother,” said Hilary. “At the far end—another door! I tried the handle, but it’s locked.”
“It’s hard to believe they would have installed electricity down here unless they had an important reason.”
“Didn’t Channing mention something about another room . . . a key?” said Logan.
“Yes, he did!” exclaimed Hilary. “A special room, he said. And no one had a key but him!”
They glanced around at one another.
“A bit quirky, perhaps,” said Ashley. “But do you suppose it might be in order for me to borrow Channing’s keys for a minute?”
Without awaiting an answer, he turned and ran out of the room and back along the corridor. When he returned he carried Channing’s ring of keys.
It took several attempts to find the correct one, but at length his patience was rewarded when one of the keys slid in. He turned the latch and gave the door a shove. Its rusty hinge scraped from the friction; it had not been oiled in years, and was apparently not often used.
All four heads peered into the black opening.
“Stand back,” said Logan. “Let me.”
He took a step inside, nearly falling as he did so. “It’s another set of stairs,” he said, recovering, then gradually disappearing downward. “I’m feeling the walls,” he called back, “but there appears to be no light switch.”
The others continued watching, but in another moment or two he had disappeared into the dark cavity. All they could hear was the sound of his feet probing their way downward through the blackness.
“Ah, here it is. I think—yes, that’s it!”
Suddenly a light flipped on, revealing the treacherous narrow passage. Logan stood at the bottom.
“A rather ingenious way of discouraging visitors, wouldn’t you say?” he called up. “Placing the switch at the bottom! Well . . . what are you waiting for? This has got to be the place!”
Eagerly Hilary skipped down the stairs to join him, followed by Allison, then Ashley.
The passage in which they now found themselves was extremely narrow, allowing but one to pass at a time. To either side were occasional doors, unlocked, in which were housed various vintages of wine, undoubtedly rare, presumably from Channing’s private stock. The fourth door they reached was again locked.
“Ashley . . . the keys!” Logan called back.
Ashley handed the ring forward.
Logan fumbled with them awhile. At last the door yielded. He walked inside, found the light easily, and switched it on.
The room was perhaps ten feet by twelve feet, with a low ceiling. Against one wall were stacked three or four cases of wine. Three large wine barrels lay on their sides at the far end. The four detectives spread out in silence to examine the contents.
“Curious,” said Hilary, picking up a bottle from one of the chests. “Every bottle here, though from different vineyards from all over the world, is labeled 1911. There’s probably a small fortune here, just in the wines!”
Logan was thumping at the three barrels.
“Do that again, Logan,” said Ashley, approaching.
Again Logan knocked against the casks.
“Do you hear that,” said Ashley. “This one has an altogether different tone. I’ll wager you there’s no wine in that cask. It’s as empty as a hollow log!”
Quickly Logan glanced about. “There must be a crowbar, or something we can use to pry off that lid!”
As he looked around in the darkened light, meanwhile, Ashley was examining the label on the barrel. He stood before it stumped. This was certainly no wine, and no vineyard he was familiar with.
“Steenbuaic—1936,” he murmured aloud.
“What is it, Ashley?” asked Hilary, coming up beside him.
“This label . . . it’s most unusual. If I didn’t kn
ow better, I’d think it was—”
“Ah ha!” exclaimed Logan, interrupting his thought. “Just what we need. Probably left here for this express purpose!”
Ashley and Hilary stood aside as Logan approached. He plied the crowbar to the questionable barrel of curious vintage. The lid fell away, and all four gasped simultaneously at what they beheld.
It was not wine.
72
Trail of the Reliquary
The heirs to Digory’s and Maggie’s legacy stood on the cold earthen floor of a dungeon-like room. Before them sat the ancient box that had been the object of such greed, such hopes, such mystery, and such speculation, where Logan and Ashley had placed it after lifting it out of the barrel.
For several moments each of the four was too awed to speak. Gradually they began to examine it more closely.
The metallic box was no larger than a small steamer trunk, perhaps one foot by two feet, and some eighteen inches high at the peak. Most of the exterior was of some kind of enameled metal—certain iron rivets and other fasteners were rusted, parts displayed the green corrosion of copper, but most seemed made of bronze. It had held up well through its wanderings over many hundreds of years.
A pyramidic lid of four slabs—two isosceles triangles and two isosceles trapazoids—were hinged to the box itself, joining at a peak where an ornate bar fastened each of the lid pieces to one another, apparently serving as a handle for two men to use in carrying the box, which Ashley judged to weigh some seventy or eighty pounds. The surface was richly engraved, and within moments, unable to restrain his historian’s curiosity an instant longer, Ashley was on his knees examining it all over in minute detail. He ran his hand over the rough surface of the once smooth and shiny metal.
“This outer layer appears not an original engraving at all,” he said, “but rather taken from a mold of some sort.”
“Let’s open it up!” said Hilary, her eyes glowing with anticipation.
Logan turned to Allison. “This should be your honor, my dear.”
She smiled, but quickly became solemn. “After witnessing Channing’s lust for this thing, I almost don’t care what is inside. Yet it is such a part of my heritage, at the same time I feel compelled to know once and for all what it contains.”
The Treasure of Stonewycke Page 48