Triskellion

by Will Peterson

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh yes. At least they understand the draw of a good show. Capturing the public imagination, blah, blah, bringing tourists to the area, etcetera, etcetera…”

  Laura knew she had lost the battle. She cancelled the call with her thumb and thrust the phone back into Chris’s hand. “Well, you’re on your own,” she said.

  Chris shrugged. “Your loss. You’d get all the glory. But have it your way. We’re back on in twenty minutes, and I’m going to open it up. Live on air. Now that, for your information … is drama.”

  Dalton turned to the camera wearing his most earnest expression. The sort that doctors or newscasters held in reserve for really important news.

  “Welcome back to Triskellion…”

  Rachel and Adam stood huddled with Laura, inside the cordon now, but out of the camera’s shot. Rachel sensed that Laura wanted them close by for support, because although the archaeologist could not bear to watch, neither could she detach herself from the unfolding scene.

  The rest of the village had come back out of the pub and their houses for the ten thirty transmission, and a very large crowd was gathered behind the tape. Raised up on steel trestles and bathed in the phosphorescent light of the arc lamps, the wooden sarcophagus looked massive and primeval, like a huge animal awaiting slaughter.

  The whole scene had the air of a public execution.

  Rachel shivered. She was chilled to the bone, and without warning a small sob rose in her throat and she felt as if she might cry. She swallowed hard, trying to stifle the urge, and stealing a quick glance at Adam she could see that he, too, was welling up.

  What was it about this scene that was so unbearably poignant for them, she wondered.

  Chris Dalton was still talking, stretching out his introduction, building the excitement for his TV audience, although the atmosphere at the dig was already as tense as Rachel and Adam could bear. Film of the dig at various stages was being broadcast on the plasma screen next to them as Dalton described the progress that had been made. Rachel saw a picture of the chalk circle taken from a helicopter, then one of the beginning of the tunnel, then a shot of Dalton triumphantly holding up the corroded blade of an ancient sword.

  An image of Laura came up on screen from somewhere deep underground. Laura squeezed Rachel’s shoulder, reassuring her that she was by her side. Then, the sequence of the sarcophagus being eased from the tunnel came on to the screen and, once again, Rachel and Adam shuddered simultaneously at the eerie spectacle of the great wooden log being pulled from the ground.

  The screen cut back to Dalton live. He spoke in a whisper, “And now the team have informed me that we are ready to open the sarcophagus.”

  Together, Rachel and Laura moaned softly.

  “We’re about to see what secrets it has been holding, deep under the earth of this village, for, who knows, maybe three thousand years or more. Let’s go…”

  Dalton beckoned the camera to follow him and he took the few muddy steps over to where Laura’s colleagues were preparing to open the lid. The four archaeologists surrounding the log looked like surgeons; their hardhat-mounted torches shining down on the wet, black bark.

  “We can just see a few signs carved into the log, here,” Dalton said, running his finger over the surface. “If you bring the camera in close we can see what looks like part of the Triskellion symbol carved on the top…”

  Watching the plasma screen, Rachel, Adam and Laura, so familiar with the symbol, could clearly make out two intersecting lines gouged deep into the bark. Rachel heard Laura take a sharp intake of breath and hold it, then realized that she herself had been holding her breath for some time.

  “OK, people. The moment of truth. Let’s go to work.” Dalton whispered dramatically at his colleagues, as if he were about to lead them into battle.

  The archaeologists began to work at a line that ran laterally along the log, obscured from vision by thousands of years of mud and rot. A pair of long levers was put in place at either end and they began to work the joint open. A small wedge was eased into the gap, then one of the archaeologists began to ratchet up a jack that would force the gap to open wider.

  “They’re opening it way too fast,” Laura whispered, her voice panicky. “Let too much oxygen in there too quickly and everything could disintegrate.” Rachel returned the pressure as she felt Laura take her hand and squeeze.

  A second jack was applied to the other end and, centimetre by centimetre, a gap began to appear all round the two halves of the log. Rachel stood on tiptoe to see the coffin with her own eyes. There was definitely an opening, where the lid was being lifted from the base.

  Dalton kept up a whispering commentary as his team worked at the opening, threading strong nylon webbing under the lid, working quickly but carefully to preserve what was within. A large winch was already in place alongside the trestles on which the coffin was supported, and a chain from the winch swung gently from side to side over their heads. One of the archaeologists attached the webbing to a large hook that hung down from the winch chain.

  He gave the signal to pull.

  A whisper went through the assembled crowd as one of the archaeologists pulled on the chain. There was silence, until all that could be heard was the rattle and clank of the winch chain as, slowly and steadily, it lifted the lid of the coffin. The massive half of an ancient tree trunk rose slowly into the glare of the arc-lights, casting a deep black shadow over the archaeologists standing below.

  Rachel began to cry.

  High up in the oak tree on the green, Gabriel, for the first time in his life, felt hot tears pour down his cheeks.

  He could see the coffin clearly in his mind.

  He could feel what Rachel was feeling and he whispered over and over again, “Don’t worry, Rachel, this is meant to be. This had to happen. This is just the beginning of our story.” And, as he sent his message out across the blackness, he felt a warm feeling of elation creep through his body, as the coffin was opened to the fresh night air.

  Jacob Honeyman sat on the edge of a battered kitchen chair, his nose centimetres from the screen, holding the TV aerial over the set to get a better picture.

  The camera edged towards the coffin and Chris Dalton continued his commentary.

  “The lid is now off and once the team has made it safe, we can be the first to look inside…”

  Honeyman stared at the screen, his mouth falling open.

  “So we, the Treasure Hunters team, and you, the viewers, will be the first people in thousands of years to— Oh … my … God…”

  “Oh, my God,” Honeyman said.

  * * *

  The chatter and clink of glasses in The Star had stopped, and every face was turned to the TV set above the bar.

  Celia Root held her hands to her face, barely able to look as the strong light on the camera pushed into the void at the bottom half of the coffin; as its ancient remains were exposed to view.

  Blackened, and lying in a shallow pool of dark brown water, two figures were instantly distinguishable, their heads twisted back and their arms entwined.

  The image was shocking and real: the bodies decomposed, but as fresh as if they had been buried months, not centuries, before. To the untrained eye, it could have been the scene of a murder rather than a burial.

  “This … is … incredible,” Dalton said. “We have not just one, but two bodies here in an absolutely amazing, amazing state of preservation. This has got to be a really significant burial. Instantly, we can see that these bodies are clothed in … some kind of woven fabric. At the top here on what looks like a female figure we can see quite a lot of hair, possibly braided … you can just see a bit of gold, or at least a gold coloured, hair ornament here…”

  Rachel and Adam could not stand to watch what was happening on the screen any longer, and crept over to where they could see directly into the coffin. Their mouths and eyes widened in wonder as they stared down upon the mortal remains of the figures from
their shared visions.

  The knight and the maiden.

  Dalton’s surgically gloved hand traced out the outline of the female head, mummified and wet as if it were made of old leather.

  A twist of dark hair was just visible and a bronze grip held it to the blackened and shrunken ear.

  “And if you just look down here…” The presenter pointed to the gnarled arms, twisted together. “You will see something very exciting indeed.”

  The camera tightened and revealed a golden glint. A delicate shred of metal, woven between the skeletal fingers of the two bodies.

  The third blade of the Triskellion.

  Gabriel had been waiting for them the moment the twins left the cottage. The morning was chilly and misty and Gabriel looked as if he were emerging from the vapour at the bottom of the garden path.

  “Hello, stranger,” Rachel said. “Where have you been?”

  “Oh, I’ve been around, keeping an eye on things,” Gabriel answered.

  It was true, Rachel thought, he had been around. For the past two days his voice had become stronger and clearer in her head; guiding her and keeping her calm. Instinctively, she knew that the three of them had a date back at the chalk circle.

  Their grandmother had been a little subdued over breakfast and looked as if she had not slept well. When Adam had asked her what she made of the discovery at the dig, she had smiled sadly. Had said that, although it was fascinating, some things were best left undisturbed…

  Rachel, Adam and Gabriel tramped across the wet moor into a scene that had changed still further in the two days since the sarcophagus had been opened. The location vans for the TV company stood on the misty horizon like grey blocks of stone and next to them, covering the circle and the surrounding area, a huge polythene tent had gone up to protect the dig from the elements.

  It made the area look even more like a “scene of crime”.

  There were figures emerging from the tent, and Rachel and Adam stopped dead in their tracks when they realized that the shambling figure wearing a bobble hat, being closely followed by Chris Dalton, was Jacob Honeyman.

  They watched as Dalton chatted and patted Honeyman on the back. The two men shook hands, then Dalton handed Honeyman something which he pocketed.

  “Dalton’s paying Jacob,” Adam spat contemptuously.

  Honeyman shambled across the moor towards Rachel, Adam and Gabriel and when, several metres away, he spotted them, he dropped his eyes to the ground. He waved, but stayed looking down until he reached them.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Rachel and Adam mumbled a greeting.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Honeyman said. “The discovery. The blade … the bodies … everything. What an amazing night.”

  “So, where were you then?” Adam said, with characteristic bluntness.

  “I watched on TV.” The beekeeper tapped his nose conspiratorially. “Too many enemies out and about at night.”

  “Chris Dalton not being one of them,” Adam said. “What did he give you?”

  Jacob looked guilty. “Services rendered,” he said.

  “What services?”

  “They paid me a few quid to film around the cottage and to borrow some of my artefacts, you know?”

  “Oh, right,” Rachel said, digging Adam in the ribs to silence him. “Well, see you around, Jacob.”

  Honeyman nodded, darting a look from one to the other, before pulling at the front of his bobble hat and shambling off.

  The children watched him go.

  “He’s sold us out,” Adam said. “He told them about the map, the blades … everything, I bet.”

  “That’s unbelievable,” Rachel said. “I thought he was helping us, not helping some TV company expose all our—”

  “All our what?”

  Rachel turned at Gabriel’s question and saw that he was smiling. She realized that she – that they all – felt a strong degree of ownership over the circle. Over the artefacts.

  Over the Triskellion.

  “It’s fine,” Gabriel said. “This is what we’ve been waiting for. We needed someone like Jacob to get the ball rolling. We couldn’t have done it. We needed someone else to dig up the grave.”

  “Why?” Adam asked.

  “Well, apart from anything else, we didn’t have permission, or the right machinery.”

  Rachel wasn’t convinced. “Is that all this is about?”

  Gabriel smiled, like he was trying to decide how much to give away. “We need to understand as much about our past as we can,” he said. “It makes more sense of who we are, right? Now the third blade of the Triskellion has turned up, maybe the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle will come back together.”

  “What jigsaw puzzle?” Adam asked. He was looking to Rachel for help, but Rachel looked as if she already understood.

  Gabriel continued, patiently. “The puzzle of who we are. Why you’re here, why I’m here, and what has brought us together.”

  Before Rachel or Adam could say anything else, Dalton came strolling across. He was sipping from a Styrofoam cup of coffee and did not look best pleased to see the kids turn up. He seemed particularly uncomfortable around Gabriel.

  “Hi, you guys. Did you watch the show? Awesome, wasn’t it?”

  “Totally awesome,” Adam said, almost mocking.

  “Anyway, not really much to see here now.”

  Dalton had moved a few steps to one side as he’d spoken, almost as though he were barring their entrance to the tent, or at least their view inside it. Rachel craned her neck and saw Laura Sullivan just beyond the entrance.

  “Laura!” Rachel said loudly, hoping that once Laura had seen them, they’d be welcome.

  The archaeologist poked her head out of the tent, looking pale and shaken. “Oh, hi, Rachel,” she said.

  “We were just wondering how things were going?” Rachel said.

  There was a distinctly awkward silence. Dalton looked at Laura and shrugged, then walked away to where the production assistant was watching some of the programme’s footage on a small screen.

  “I thought you weren’t having anything to do with this?” Rachel said.

  “More of a damage limitation exercise, really,” Laura said. “I couldn’t stand by and let that clown mess up a find of this importance. My duty as an archaeologist overcame my personal pride, I’m afraid. And I think I may have found something … unusual here.”

  Rachel looked at Gabriel, who was staring off towards the trees as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “So, are you going to tell us?” Adam asked.

  Laura glanced off to her left. Dalton was walking back towards them. She chewed her lip. “Listen, guys, this isn’t really a good time,” she said.

  “Please,” Rachel said.

  Gabriel put his hand on Rachel’s shoulder, “Come on, Rachel, we’ll come back another time. It’s not going anywhere just yet.” He let his hand slide down Rachel’s arm until his fingers became entwined with hers and he led her and Adam away.

  Laura watched them walk disconsolately back across the moor, while she waited for Dalton to arrive back at the tent. She stopped him as he made to walk inside.

  “Chris,” she said, taking his arm. “Wait…”

  “I’m waiting,” Dalton said.

  “Can you and Amanda come in and see this, and get one of the other archaeologists? I need someone to look at this properly…”

  Within a few minutes, Laura, Dalton, Amanda and one of the archaeologists who had opened the tomb stood in the pale light of the tent that had been assembled round the sarcophagus.

  A faint mist from a spray constantly played across the remains inside the wooden log to keep them from drying out. The bodies still lay in their twisted embrace, but Laura had put measuring tapes alongside them and a camera was permanently mounted overhead to record every detail.

  “Some of these differences could be genetic,” Laura said. “I know that, seeing as the corpse we’re looking at is so old. But we al
l know three thousand years isn’t so long in terms of evolution, and it doesn’t explain this.”

  She pointed at one of the bodies and the others noticed that her fingers were shaking.

  “Somebody please tell me that I’m not going mad.”

  A hooded figure presides over a burial, chanting and throwing handfuls of earth into a grave, its sides supported by green oak timbers. A mound of freshly dug earth by his side is garlanded with flowers and bowls of grain. Swords, arrows and shields are laid down in front of the mound.

  A small group of villagers stands in tattered, woven clothes, their heads bowed.

  Standing alone between the two groups of villagers are a young boy and a young girl holding hands. They are twins. They bear the olive skin and striking features that mark them out as different from the rest of the onlookers.

  They stare blankly into the hole, uncomprehending.

  Round each of their necks on a leather thong hangs a blade of the Triskellion.

  The hooded figure nods towards an old woman, who leads the twins away. When he sees that the children have gone, the man in the hood steps towards a raised platform on which two bodies are laid in a hollowed-out tree trunk.

  He lowers his hood, revealing pale, sunken cheeks and a hawk-like nose. He mutters an incantation as he leans over the bodies, removing the curved knife from the folds of his dark cloak…

  Rachel looked up at the stained glass window. The meaning of the shocking images was beginning to come slowly into focus, but plenty was still puzzling.

  “So this guy … a traveller, a knight or healer or whatever he was, comes to the village and meets this girl. This maiden. They meet, they marry and they have kids.”

  “And then they die,” Adam said. “And get buried just outside the village. Seems pretty straightforward to me.”

  “Straightforward?” Rachel looked at Adam as if he were mad. “Are you kidding? How did they die? I don’t know about you, but I saw a knife.”