Stones of Fire

by Chloe Palov

  ‘Trust me, that wasn’t the case,’ he countered, not about to let her think otherwise.

  ‘Whether you enjoy that kind of action or not, I still want to go with you.’

  Something in Edie Miller’s brown eyes – a defiant expression – seized hold of him and refused to let go. He was well aware that even if they paid for their air tickets with cash, it wouldn’t prevent MacFarlane from discovering their destination. If MacFarlane could get hold of airline passenger manifests, he would soon discover they’d flown into Heathrow. Whereupon they would find themselves, once again, in dangerous straits.

  He raised his face heavenwards. ‘It’s raining feathers,’ he remarked conversationally, the hail having softened into light snow. ‘Admittedly, it’s not an original thought. Herodotus coined the phrase some twenty-four hundred years ago.’

  ‘I’ve got one for you: “It’s raining men.” The Weathergirls at the height of the disco era.’

  Cædmon sighed, thinking them an odd pair.

  ‘It would appear that our destinies are linked,’ he said, capitulating. For several long seconds he stared at her. He glimpsed a wariness in her eyes. The wariness at odds with her usual defiance, he intuited that Edie Miller’s tough facade was akin to gold leaf. Solid to the glance, but gossamer thin.

  ‘You know, Cædmon, I’m a little uncertain about the agenda. Are you planning to stop MacFarlane from finding the Ark or are you hoping to beat him to the punch?’

  He ignored the second part of her question: ‘For now, we must concentrate our efforts on stopping MacFarlane finding the Ark.’

  ‘I agree. If the Ark is, as you claim, a weapon of mass destruction, it doesn’t bode well that an ex-military man is after it.’

  He acknowledged Edie’s spot-on observation with a brusque nod. ‘Just as worrisome, I suspect that MacFarlane is well funded, his cash translating into a highly developed communications and logistics network.’

  ‘So, in other words, it’s going to be a whole lot like David going up against Goliath.’

  Cædmon kept silent, not about to point out that David at least had had a catapult.

  31

  ‘I will take revenge on my hateful enemies. I will sharpen my sword and let it flash like lightning.’

  Being a military man, Stan MacFarlane knew that another battle loomed on the horizon. Yet another chance to vanquish the enemy.

  A lesson well learned in Panama, Bosnia, Operation Desert Storm.

  And, of course, Beirut.

  Some said that’s where he found religion. He preferred to think that’s where his relationship with the Almighty began.

  He still had vivid nightmares of that deadly October day when two hundred and forty-one marines were taken out by a suicide bomber driving a water truck packed with explosives… the sickening stench of sulphur and burnt flesh… the cacophony of pain and outrage… the frenzied rush to rescue the injured… the grievous task of finding the dead.

  Amazingly, he’d survived the blast, his bunk mate not so lucky.

  In retrospect, able to see with a survivor’s clarity, he knew the attack had been the first sign that the End Times were near.

  His wife, the treacherous Helen, left him within a year of his conversion, claiming spousal abuse. In the nine years of their marriage he’d never laid a violent hand on the woman – although he’d been tempted to wring her scraggy neck with his bare hands during the divorce proceedings.

  The judge, a pussy-whipped liberal, had given Helen custody of their son Custis, Stan only able to see his son at the weekends. Afraid Custis would turn into a mummy’s boy, he’d made sure his son joined the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps while still in high school. Pulling a few strings, he’d been able to secure Custis a berth at Annapolis. Helen claimed that he’d bullied Custis into joining the marines, but he knew he’d done right by his son, the Corps making a man of him.

  Who or what had turned him into a weak-kneed coward was to this day a deep, dark mystery. The official account claimed that after one deployment to Afghanistan and two to Iraq, Custis had been suffering from PTSD. Stan knew it wasn’t post-traumatic stress disorder that had caused his son to put the barrel of a loaded M16 rifle into his mouth. Stan knew it was the barbarous infidels of Babylon who had caused his only son to heed Satan’s siren call. Men of God had a duty to battle the godless among them. Custis had shirked his duty.

  And would burn in the pits of hell because of it.

  Soon after his son’s death, he had founded the Warriors of God, convinced it was his duty to lead the army of the righteous, that duty akin to King David leading the Israelite army to victory over the Jebusites and Philistines, or Godfroi of Bouillon heading the crusaders as they battled Muslim infidels in the streets of Jerusalem. And, of course, there was his personal hero, Thomas ‘Stonewall’ Jackson, a deeply religious military man who had refused to fight on Sunday and had led his men in prayer before each battle.

  Today, despite his fervent prayers, the battle had yet to be won.

  Part of his contingency plan had been to send in a sniper in case the old man lost his nerve. No need to worry about the scion of one of America’s great industrial families being gunned down in the middle of the National Zoo; the police would jump to the conclusion that a copycat killer was replicating the sniping spree that had paralyzed the nation’s capital during the autumn of 2002.

  No doubt the funeral eulogies would wax poetic about Eliot Hopkins’ generosity and philanthropy, making no mention of the many stolen items featured in his collection. The tributes would also not cite Hopkins’ secret passion, the Ark of the Covenant. Because of Stan’s thorough planning, the biblical scholars and archaeology watchdogs would continue to snore, unaware of any goings-on.

  When all the pieces were in place, only then would the world know of Stan’s divinely inspired mission. At the moment the world was following his timetable. It was early, too early to reveal God’s great plan. Although if the unbelievers had but eyes to see they too would know that global events manifested an urgent call to arms from the Almighty.

  Anxious about the upcoming mission, the colonel hit the intercom button on his phone console. ‘Any word on the flight plan?’

  ‘I’ve just received the official approval, sir. You’re wings up at thirteen hundred hours.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Stan said to his chief of staff before disconnecting.

  Despite the fact that English food rivalled messtent slop, he looked forward to greeting the new day in London. The Miller woman had set the schedule back a full twenty-four hours, and while frustrated by the snafu, he felt curiously uplifted, ready, willing and able for the task he was about to undertake. Besides, in the larger scheme of things, Edie Miller and her consort were insignificant, minor players in a drama penned by the Almighty twenty-six centuries ago.

  He glanced at his watch. He had enough time to post his daily blog.

  Seating himself at the desk, he used his two index fingers to type his opening Bible passage, a favourite from Psalm 11.

  ‘He will send fiery coals and flaming sulfur down on the wicked…’

  32

  ‘At this juncture I should probably mention that I’m not an adventurous person. I like stability. I’m predictable. I watch the same TV programme every Monday night. The only things in my life that change on a regular basis are the light bulbs.’

  Cædmon glanced away from the Oxfordshire scenery passing in a blur on the other side of the oversized coach window. Having touched down at Heathrow two hours ago, they were en route to Oxford.

  ‘How curious. You strike me as a most intrepid woman.’

  ‘Appearances can be deceiving.’

  ‘Indeed?’ He pointedly glanced at her attire.

  Their clothes having taken a shabby turn for the worse in yesterday’s cross-country race, they’d each purchased a new set at the airport. He’d selected tweeds, wool and a beige anorak. Opting for more colourful plumage, Edie had chosen a yellow knitted hat, a r
ed military-style jacket, complete with epaulettes, and knee-high riding boots into which she’d tucked jeans. While he resembled one half of a stodgy English couple in town for the day, she looked like a Mondrian painting come to life. He would have preferred her in earth tones, colours that faded into the winter scenery. Should an RIRA operative happen to catch sight of him, he would suddenly have two enemies to contend with rather than one.

  ‘Do you think MacFarlane and his goons will actually find the Ark of the Covenant?’

  ‘It’s an outside wager at best,’ he replied. ‘Over the centuries many have searched – all in vain. Although if found, the Ark of the Covenant would be the most astounding discovery in the history of mankind.’

  Edie closed the Bible they’d purchased in the gift shop at Dulles airport. ‘It’s been a while since I last read the Old Testament, being what you might call a New Testament kind of gal.’ She stuffed the King James edition into the Virgin Airlines shoulder bag that they were now using for their meagre belongings. ‘Somehow I’d conveniently forgotten about all the death and mayhem associated with the Ark. Just now I was reading about the battle of Ebenezer.’

  ‘If my memory serves me correctly, Ebenezer was where the Philistines not only defeated the Israelites but also managed to steal the Ark of the Covenant.’

  ‘And wasn’t that a big mistake? Within hours of installing the Ark inside the Temple of Dagon, the Philistines discovered the statue of their deity smashed to smithereens. But of course that was nothing compared to the plague of boils that suddenly afflicted the entire city of Ashdod. In the ensuing panic the Philistine king wisely decided to return his ill-gotten booty to the Israelites.’

  ‘At which point the Philistines loaded the Ark of the Covenant onto a cart and took it to the Hebrew town of Bethshemesh.’

  ‘Where, as you mentioned yesterday, fifty thousand residents were slaughtered because of a curious few who dared to peek inside the Ark.’ Edie’s brow furrowed. ‘You know, I’m trying hard, but I just can’t get a handle on an all-loving, all-forgiving God doing that kind of thing.’

  ‘I, for one, don’t believe that God had anything to do with the Ark’s devastating powers.’ Cædmon leaned back in his coach seat, crossing his legs. ‘Rather I believe that the Ark’s power was entirely man made. To comprehend its supposedly supernatural power, one must understand how the Ark was constructed.’

  ‘You said that an Egyptian bark was more than likely the prototype used by Moses.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m certain of it. First, consider the materials used. Both bark and Ark were manufactured from gold. An enormous quantity of gold.’

  ‘Well, gold is one of the most valuable metals known to man.’

  ‘More importantly, gold is an extremely dense metal and chemically non-reactive. Although it can’t be proved, there are some biblical scholars who believe that the gold used on the Ark was nine inches thick.’

  ‘You’re kidding! That would make for a huge hunk of gold.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Rifling through the bag, he removed pen and paper. Calling to mind the descriptions given in the Old Testament, he managed to produce a fairly detailed sketch of the Ark of the Covenant.

  ‘As you can see, the gold box was covered with a lid. This was known as the Mercy Seat.’

  Edie chuckled. ‘Not the hot seat?’

  Cædmon smiled at his companion’s remark. ‘The Mercy Seat was adorned with a matched pair of gold cherubim. These weren’t the adorable putti that clutter the paintings of Peter Paul Rubens. The cherubim who stood sentry atop the Ark were fierce, otherworldly creatures, not unlike the winged figures of Isis and Nephthys that adorned many an Egyptian bark.’

  ‘Underneath all that gold, the Ark was made of wood, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Acacia wood, to be precise, a tree native to the Sinai Desert. In ancient times this wood was thought to be incorruptible. Additionally, it would have acted as an insulator.’

  Her brown eyes opened wide, a realization having just dawned. ‘And gold is an excellent conductor. Since the acacia box was lined, inside and out, with gold –’ using her hands, she made a sandwich, leaving several inches of air in between her two palms ‘– the Ark would have been an incredibly powerful condenser. And given all the dry desert air in the Sinai, I bet the darned thing would have packed a very potent electrical punch.’

  Despite her quirkiness, Edie Miller possessed a nimble mind.

  ‘Touching the Ark with bare hands would have resulted in instant death,’ he said, confirming her theory. ‘Moreover, the Old Testament is rife with tales of the Ark producing skin lesions on people who came into close proximity. Interestingly enough, recent research has verified that skin cancer is an occupational hazard of working near high-tension power lines.’

  ‘So how did the Israelites protect themselves?’

  ‘The high priest wore special ritual clothing when handling the Ark, the Stones of Fire part of his protective outfit. Because the Ark built up an electric charge due to all the shaking while in transport, it was carefully wrapped in leather and cloth.’

  ‘Which acted as a protective barrier so that the guys stuck with carrying it wouldn’t be tossed on their keisters,’ she astutely, if not irreverently, remarked.

  ‘Not that calamities didn’t occur. Despite the precautions taken, there are accounts of Ark bearers being tossed bodily through the air and a few being killed outright.’ Cædmon pointed to the drawing. ‘Now imagine that the wings on the two cherubim were hinged with leather and bitumen, enabling them to flap back and forth. The accumulated electric charge would not only have created visible sparks, it would have emitted strong electromagnetic pulses similar to Hertzian radio waves. Once charged, the Ark would have picked up strikes of lightning. That in turn would have created audible static.’

  ‘Like the crackling sound you get in between AM radio stations, right?’

  ‘Precisely. And to the ears of the ancient Israelites that crackling would have sounded like the voice of God. A careful reading of the Old Testament proves that the Ark of the Covenant is most definitely not a deux ex machina. Rather it was envisioned and executed by Moses.’

  Edie stared at his sketch as though seeing the Ark of the Covenant in a new, and slightly disturbing, light. ‘Yeah, well, there’s a whole legion of true believers who would disagree with you on that one.’

  Knowing she spoke the truth, Cædmon wearily nodded, having more than a passing acquaintance with fanatics. A few feet away from where they sat, the coach’s windscreen wipers swung hypnotically to and fro. Blinking, he fought off a wave of tiredness, having only had a quick nap on the flight.

  In the distance he could see the honey-coloured villages and rolling sheep pastures of Oxfordshire. From those pastures, limestone had been quarried and carted to Oxford, where it had been used to construct some of the most stunning architecture in England. As the countryside passed in a wet blur, so too did his memories. He’d journeyed to Oxford by coach as a gangly lad of eighteen, his father too busy to accompany him. As the coach neared the city limits, he’d been in a tumult, his emotions ranging from anxiety and excitement to shame on account of his father’s indifference. Then, quite suddenly, those emotions had been superseded by a burst of exhilaration, his younger self staggered to be arriving in the most famous university city in the world – ‘that sweet city with her dreaming spires’.

  ‘You mentioned that you went to Oxford,’ Edie remarked, making him wonder if she might not be a mind reader. ‘This will be like a homecoming for you, huh?’

  ‘Hardly,’ he murmured, disinclined to reveal his tainted academic past. Particularly since she would find out soon enough.

  As with most postgraduate students, he had spent two years doing field research. After which he had confined himself to his Oxford digs and commenced writing his dissertation. ‘The Manifesto’, as he’d jokingly taken to calling it, had been an exhaustive examination of the influence of Egyptian mysticism upon the Knights Templar. But to
his horror the head of the history department at Queen’s College had denounced his dissertation, claiming it was a ‘hare-brained’ notion that could only have been opium-induced. Not unlike the poetry of William Blake.

  Such criticism amounted to the kiss of death. Finished as an academic, he left Oxford with his tail between his legs.

  What an irony that he was once again en route to the fabled city of his youth. The gods must be chortling, gleefully rubbing their hands in anticipation.

  He wondered what Edie would say if he were to inform her that Moses and the Templars had been initiated into the same Egyptian mystery cult. He bit back an amused smile, certain his assertions would be met with a raised eyebrow and a witty response. Truth be told, he enjoyed their verbal jousts. While she could punch hard, hers was an open mind.

  He hoped that Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown would be equally open-minded. If not, they would have journeyed to Oxford in vain.

  As Edie peered through the coach window, he in turn peered at her. The straight brows gave his companion a decidedly serious mien wholly at odds with her exuberant personality. Then there was the softness of her lips and the pale Victorian smoothness of her skin. When he first met Edie Miller, he’d thought her an unusual mix of Pre-Raphaelite beauty and quirky modernity.

  Unthinkingly he raised a hand, cupping her chin between his fingers. Slowly he turned her face in his direction. Startled, her eyes and mouth opened wide. Perfect, he thought as he leaned into her, about to ascertain if those lips were as soft as they appeared.

  Amazingly, they were.

  Not having asked permission, he barely grazed his lips across her mouth, concerned she might baulk at his presumption. For several seconds he played the gentleman, softly applying pressure, deepening the kiss in small increments. Until she murmured something against his lips. What, he had no idea; he only knew the incoherent utterance sounded incredibly sexy. The male biological response not unlike a trigger mechanism, he shoved his tongue into her mouth. Then he clamped his hand to the back of her neck, effectively imprisoning her. Openmouthed, he kissed her wetly and deeply, doing all that he could to wed his lips to hers.