The Swagger Sword

by David S. Brody

  He allowed the crowd to study the structure. “The other thing I want you to focus on is the arch directly opposite us, on the western side.” There were eight identical arches in the Tower, which was built in the Romanesque style. “If you notice, of the eight arches, only one has an actual keystone. And that keystone is egg-shaped. In fact, that is practically the only round or ovular-shaped stone in the entire Tower. Everything else is flat and horizontal. Plus, it’s a different color than the other stones.” He smiled. “All of which tells us it must be important.” He stepped back. “Now’s a good time to snap a picture, with the light box approaching.”

  Cam continued. “This is my ninth consecutive year visiting the Tower.” The first year, there had been only a handful of people. He looked around. The crowd had grown to over a hundred. “In just under fifteen minutes, as many of you know, you are going to see something amazing. That light box is going to perfectly frame the egg-shaped keystone. It only happens once a year, on the winter solstice.”

  One of the Native American elders cleared his throat. “I notice that the keystone is not exactly in the center of the arch.”

  Cam nodded. He was glad to see representatives of many of the New England tribes in attendance. Most Native Americans, for good reason, did not feel inclined to focus on the painful history of the European takeover of their lands. But over the years Cam had forged friendships with a few of the tribal leaders, and they had told him that their oral history confirmed what he had long believed: The Tower was built in the late 14th century by remnants of the outlawed Knights Templar, who had formed an alliance with the local Native Americans.

  “Good point,” Cam said in response to the question about the keystone. “It’s like the drunk Mason window. I think it took them a few tries to get the alignment to be spot on. They had to reverse-engineer the window, reshaping it to make the light box fit the egg perfectly. And, from the looks of things, they had to move the keystone over a bit to make the alignment work.”

  They had about ten minutes before the light box reached the egg. The crowd had grown by another couple of dozen while Cam spoke. “I’m not going to spend too much time on the reasons we think the Tower is not a Colonial gristmill, as mainstream historians insist,” Cam said, hoping to sway the reporter. “But I’ll give you a few while we wait.” He moved a quarter-way around the structure and pointed to a recess in the interior of the structure above one of the archways. “That’s a fireplace. Which itself is uncharacteristic for a gristmill, given the danger of the grain dust conflagrating. But even more telling is that the flue for the fireplace is a double flue, shaped like devil’s horns. That kind of design feature is unique to 14th century Scotland.” He paused, allowing the reporter to jot some notes. “And, speaking of Scotland, the unit of measurement used to build this is the old Scottish ell, used during medieval times. The Colonists, of course, would have used English inches and feet.” He continued, explaining how the Tower had many other architectural similarities to Templar-related structures built in Europe during medieval times.

  “Finally, the Colonial gristmill theory dates construction to the 1675 through 1677 period.” He lifted his chin toward the Native Americans clustered together. “As my Native American friends can tell you, those dates coincide with King Philip’s, or Metacomet’s, uprising. The Colonists were fortunate to survive—many settlements were completely destroyed. If the Colonists were going to build any kind of stone structure during those years, it would have been a fort, not a windmill.”

  They edged back around to the east to watch the light box continue its march. At precisely 8:43, the light box kissed the egg. Cam explained, “This is not just a random time. At this longitude, 8:43 is exactly three hours before solar noon. That’s how medieval monks determined the times for prayer. So, 8:43 would have been the time for prayer called Terce.” He smiled. “The sun kisses the egg, and prayers begin. Now watch what happens next.”

  The light box continued to move across the Tower’s back wall. The group watched, cameras clicking, as fifteen minutes later the light box framed the egg completely. “This only happens once a year,” Cam said. “On the winter solstice.”

  Cam allowed the moment to sink in. “What’s happening here? I think the allegory is clear. On the darkest, shortest day of the year, the sun—which historically has been associated with the male deity—appears and symbolically fertilizes the egg lodged on the inner wall of the womb-like Tower. Rebirth. Life is renewed. The sun is reborn.” He spread his arms. “The days begin to lengthen again. So what do the people do? They plan a big celebration, of course.” Cam smiled again. “Usually held on December 25. Today we know it as a celebration to mark the birth of the son. But in its original form, it marked the rebirth of the sun.”

  Cam appreciated that Brian had the decency to keep himself—and his sword and bloody hand—at the periphery while the reporter asked a few more questions. But his childhood friend pounced as soon as the journalist left.

  “I should have asked earlier. How’s your mom?” Cam had forgotten how Brian had a habit of flicking his tongue around behind his teeth. As if at any moment it might need to snap out and snatch an insect.

  “Good, thanks.”

  “She still pissed at me? Not that I blame her.”

  “Honestly, Brian, I don’t think she’s given you a thought in twenty years.”

  Brian bit his bottom lip, showing yellowed teeth and receding gums. Girls used to find him attractive in a thick, roguish sort of way, but now he just looked, well, sloppy and decayed. “Yeah, I could see that.”

  Cam shuffled, wondering how to end the encounter.

  “How about your dad? I thought he was going to kill Father Samuelson that day.”

  Cam nodded. “He’s good.” Their friend, Marty, had been molested by Father Samuelson on a church getaway, a camping trip, up in Maine. Marty was a shy, sweet kid who had lived down the street. His father had been one of the last to die in Vietnam, and Cam’s dad had always tried to serve as a surrogate father figure. But Father Samuelson, as God’s servant, had the inside track.

  Cam didn’t like to talk about this stuff, but Brian plowed ahead. “I wish he would’ve. I still remember him smashing that scumbag’s head against the curbstone in the parking lot with Father Marcotte trying to pull him off. It took, like, four guys to finally get him to stop.”

  They stood in silence for a few seconds. A couple of months later, Marty had hung himself by his belt in his bedroom. It wasn’t until then that Cam understood what had happened, understood why his father had attacked the priest. “What were we, eleven, twelve?” Brian asked. “That really fucked me up for a while.”

  For the first time, Cam wondered if the priest had molested Brian as well. Cam hadn’t known about Marty at the time, so why would he have known about Brian? And Brian had been on that same camping trip. It had simply never occurred to Cam, but something in Brian’s voice resonated. It might explain why the kind-hearted Brian of Cam’s youth had grown into such a nasty piece of work as an adult.

  They stared at the trees, each with their private thoughts. Brian sighed. “You driving back to Westford? Can I catch a lift? I took the bus down early this morning.”

  Cam faked a cough to cover his lie. “Sorry, I’m staying down here to do some research.” He felt bad for the fib, but he really had no interest in letting this particular childhood friend back into his adult life. With Brian, things like sharing a sad memory were just as likely ploys to manipulate. “I can drop you off at the bus station.” He turned to walk to his car. “Just don’t get blood on my seats.”

  “That reporter going to give you a good story?”

  “I think so. It’s hard to see the illumination and still believe this was built by the Colonists in the 1670s. I mean, that was the timeframe of the Puritans—”

  “Scarlet letters and hanging witches,” Brian interjected, smiling, his flicking tongue visible behind a missing tooth. “I did pay attention in school once in
a while.”

  “Right. Even though the settlers here in Rhode Island were not as religiously zealous as in Massachusetts, they were still pretty strict. The sun and the egg and the womb symbolism would have been considered heresy.”

  Cam reached into his Pathfinder, grabbed a bunch of napkins, and handed them to Brian. “You might need stitches for that.”

  They climbed in. “Nah. It’ll scab.”

  Brian had always been tough. Cam recalled the time he took a groundball to the chin, rubbed some dirt on it, and finished the game. Turned out to be a broken jaw. “So, why Ireland?” Not that Cam had any intention of going with him. “Heenan. As in shortened version of Henihan. My grandfather came over after World War I. Like I said, it’s on my bucket list.”

  Cam sensed there was more to it than that. There usually was with Brian. “Where’d you get the sword?”

  “Pulled it out of a boulder, like Arthur and Excalibur.”

  “Look, Brian.” He spoke with an edge. “You want my help, stop being such a smartass.”

  Brian angled his head. “Far as I recall, you haven’t agreed to help yet.”

  “Yup, you’re right, I haven’t.” Cam pulled away from the curb, curious as to where Brian got the sword but also content to be at loggerheads with his old friend. They drove in silence for a few minutes.

  Brian broke it. “Mind if I ask you some questions about the Templars?”

  Cam shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Reason is, I think the two might be related. Ireland and the Templars, that is. Which is the other reason I want you to come with me.”

  Here it was, the angle. “Okay, shoot.”

  “I read that the Templars brought treasure with them when they came over. That true?”

  “Probably. But it depends on what you mean by treasure.”

  Brian wrinkled his face. “You know, treasure. Gold and silver.”

  “Maybe. When the king of France raided the Templar treasury in Paris in 1307, it was empty. Nobody knows where their treasure went. But they may have had other stuff, even more valuable than gold and silver.”

  “Like what?” Brian sniffed.

  Cam twisted his way through the narrow streets that rose up from the harbor. “Like religious artifacts. The Ark of Covenant. The Holy Grail. That stuff would be worth more than gold.”

  Brian grunted. “Yeah, I see that.”

  “And I’ll give you another possibility: Ancient documents or scrolls. Maybe writings from Jesus or the apostles. Maybe documents about early Christianity.” He angled his head. “Maybe a marriage contract—a ketubah—between Jesus and Mary Magdalene. The bottom line is that the Templars spent a decade digging and searching under the Temple of Solomon when they first went to Jerusalem. Who knows what they found?”

  “Reason I ask is I read about that stuff up in the Catskills. And I know the markings on the sword are some kind of map. But I figure I need someone like you to put it all together for me.”

  Cam nodded as he pulled to a stop in front of the bus station. “I get that. But, again, what does Ireland have to do with all this?”

  Brian shook his head. “Honestly, I’m not sure yet. But the person who gave me the sword told me that’s where I needed to go.” He grinned as he opened the car door. “And if nothing else, we can drown ourselves in Irish whiskey.”

  “I didn’t agree to go, Brian.” But Brian had slammed the door before Cam could get the words out.

  Astarte walked the halls of Westford Academy, still conscious of being the youngest student at the entire high school. Not that it bothered her. She was easily able to keep up academically, she had made the JV soccer team, and she had a core group of theater friends she hung out with. The only time it really mattered was times like this. At thirteen, she knew she probably shouldn’t consider dating a sophomore. But he sure was cute, with his shy smile and dark eyes and polite formality. Plus his cheeks flushed every time he saw her. Like now. Which made her feel a bit tingly inside.

  “Astarte!” he said, weaving around other students toward her.

  It had taken him a few tries to get the pronunciation right, with the accent on the middle syllable rather than the first. “Aha,” he had finally proclaimed. “The accent is on star.” He had smiled and bowed in mock formality. “I should have known!”

  “Hi Raja.”

  “Please wait.” He paused a few feet away. “How are you?”

  She swallowed. “Um, good.” That’s the best you can do? Good? Ugh. She slid against a row of lockers to give them room to talk. He stood a bit closer to her than most of her friends did, but not enough to make her feel pinned. They each had minor roles in the fall musical and had been paired together as dance partners. The familiar smell of his body spray wafted over her, bringing back memories of his arms around her waist and his breath on the side of her neck.

  “So, um, do you want to go with me to the basketball game tonight?”

  “I still haven’t had a chance to ask my parents. But I think they’ll say yes.”

  “I can pick you up. I’ll call an Uber.”

  She kicked at the floor. A real date. Her hands felt sweaty. “Um, they might want to drive me themselves.”

  He nodded. “That’s okay.” The bell rang. “I’ll text you.” He held her eyes for a second and grinned. “Bye.”

  She ducked into her study hall, glad to have a few minutes to think. Originally she had planned to go with her dad to view the Newport Tower alignment this morning, but a snow day earlier in the week had pushed her math test back to today. Opening her math notes, she reviewed for the exam. But her mind kept drifting to Raja. He wasn’t like the other boys, acting all goofy and tough around the girls. And he liked sports as well as theater, so they had a lot in common. Not to mention there was that whole tingly feeling she got when she was around him. But her parents would not like that he was more than two years older than her.

  She sighed. Originally she had wanted to go to an all-girls high school, similar to the one she had visited last spring up in Vermont. If she was going to be some kind of feminine spiritual leader, as the Native American prophecies foretold and as had been drummed into her head for as long as she could remember, she thought it would be best to focus on her female side. But her parents had argued that any leader—feminine or masculine—should be exposed to the widest possible variety of stimuli. Mum had pointed out, “That’s the biggest problem with the Catholic Church. They have priests trying to counsel people on marital issues and raising children and situations involving tight finances, but their priests never have to deal with those issues themselves. It’s like asking a fish for advice how to fly.” Astarte smiled at that. And Mum was right. Part of growing up was being around boys, understanding what all that tingling meant.

  In fact, that’s exactly the argument she’d make when her parents hesitated about letting her go out with Raja: I’m supposedly destined to be some kind of spiritual leader. I need to go through all this, be a normal teenager. I can’t be the fish telling people how to fly. Besides, what kind of leader will I make if I can’t even handle a teenage boy?

  After texting Amanda that he was on his way home, Cam dialed Monsignor Marcotte’s number as he cruised north away from Newport. Why had the cleric told Brian where to find Cam? Getting voicemail, he left a message. “Two words: Brian Heenan. Call me back.”

  He shifted in his seat. Amanda should have been with him today. They could have spent the day in Newport, maybe toured a mansion and had lunch on the waterfront. But he sensed it was best not to push her, that she needed time to work through her grief in her own way. And an allegory centered on fertility and rebirth probably wasn’t the best way to take her mind off the miscarriage.

  The two-hour drive gave his own mind a chance to wander, rewinding six weeks back to a November drive he had made to Long Island and which now seemingly took on added importance in light of Brian’s sword…

  Cam parked in front of a modest ranch-style home in a subdivision
a few miles off the Long Island Expressway. Approaching the door, he smiled in appreciation at the whimsical Halloween decorations—a “wrong-way” witch, her face plastered against a tree; a skeleton wearing a Boston Red Sox cap holding an “RIP” sign in a lawn chair; a vampire hanging upside down from a tree, a Red Cross blood drive poster clenched in one hand. The adornments perfectly reflected the playful, quirky, clever personality of the home owner, his friend Ruthie Sanders.

  A few stray leaves tumbled around his feet as he approached the front door, which opened even before he could ring the doorbell. A wide smile and a wider hug greeted him. “Cameron,” Ruthie sang.

  “Hi Ruthie. It’s great to see you.” He stepped back. Her eyes danced, and the features that had once made her a beautiful woman were still evident. “You look great.”

  “And you are a big fat liar,” she grinned, “though a well-raised one. I’m eighty-four. A good day for me is when my shower fogs up the mirror.”

  “Nonsense. You look like Sophia Loren.”

  She touched his cheek gently with her fingertips. “So sweet. You tell Amanda that if I were forty years younger, I’d try to steal you away.” Laughing, she lowered her hand to grasp his, her grip firm despite her slight stature. “Come. I know you are a busy man.”

  He had left Boston at nine o’clock, shooting for a mid-afternoon arrival so she wouldn’t feel the pressure to serve him lunch. “I can stay as long as you have energy to regale me with your stories.”

  She led him to a round Formica kitchen table. A bowl of matzo ball soup, a light steam rising up from it, sat waiting. So much for no pressure. She smiled. “And some marzipan cookies for dessert.”

  He shook his head. “Both my favorites. How did you remember?”

  She tapped at a worn three-ring binder on the kitchen counter. “My mother, may she rest in peace, taught me to record every meal I ever served, so I never serve the same thing twice.”