He turned the page, hoping that her evidence would be something besides another myth. She next gave a detailed explanation of the source and meaning of the word, esplumoir. In effect, she said the word was of mysterious origin, but apparently its roots appeared to be plumae (feathers) and mutare (to mutate). The word literally referred to the molting process of a bird. However, seen symbolically, it meant to transform oneself.
Indy picked up his red pencil, circled mutare, and made a question mark in the margin. He had more than a passing knowledge of word roots, and doubted the derivation. He also saw another explanation of the word's meaning, and wrote: "It could be from a Latin verb: ex-plumae—to remove feathers." It was a minor distinction, but one he couldn't pass by without comment.
Scholars who had pondered the meaning of esplumoir, she continued, invariably saw it as symbolic of transformation from life to death. "But the esplumoir may actually be a physical place, a place where Merlin retired to chronicle his life with a plumed feather. It is my contention that this place, the esplumoir, is a cave located near Whithorn in western Scotland. This assertion is supported by new evidence in the form of a letter written by a monk in the fifteenth century. The letter was found in the archives of Priory Church in Whithorn, and is here translated from its original Latin."
Here we go, thought Indy. Let's see what she's come up with. The letter was dated April 7, 1496, and was addressed to Pope Alexander VI.
I write on a matter of most urgent concern. Nine months ago, I was assigned to explore the ruins of Candida Casa, the first Christian church in Scotland, which was founded in the village of Whithorn, by Saint Ninian in the final years of the fourth century of our Lord. There I have recently made a discovery of a very unusual nature. It is a gold leaf scroll and on it is writing which portends to be the words of the legendary wizard known as Merlin. That itself is disturbing considering where it was found, but even more disconcerting is the nature of what is written on the scroll. Rather than place the unholy words to paper, I am sending this scroll to your attention.
You should also know that there is a cave near Whithorn, which not only bears the name of the founder of Candida Casa, but in the local folklore is also called Merlin's Cave, and it is said that the man who many say was the son of the devil may have spent his last years in its residence, thus befouling the holy nature of the cave. I bring this to your attention because I believe not only that it supports the veracity of the authorship claimed upon the scroll, but that there may be reason to exorcise the cave of the presence of the demon-man, who many say still lurks in spirit in its recesses.
Your most humble servant,
Fr. James Thomas Mathers
Indy was fascinated by the letter, and wanted to find out more about it. But there was little else. Deirdre reiterated her conclusions, but made no mention of who had found the letter, when it had been found, or whether it had been authenticated. For all he knew, the letter was a hoax. Hell, maybe Deirdre had made it up. Maybe her mother had put her up to it just to see if he would swallow it without further evidence. Anything was possible when an undergraduate wrote a paper like this one in an entry-level course.
He didn't know whether to give her an A or an F or both. The letter probably was a fraud, but maybe she wasn't responsible. He was considering the note he would write when he heard a noise, like a door creaking. He looked up, cocking his head. He was sure he was the only one on the floor. The archaeology department offices had been dark and locked when he arrived.
Footsteps. Someone was here. He waited. The footsteps grew louder, stopped. Whoever it was must have seen the light from under his door. He imagined Narrow Eyes standing in the hallway with a bucket of scorpions or black widows, or maybe a few rattlesnakes destined for his office. Now he wished he'd reacted more quickly and turned off the light.
He heard a tapping at the door. Do something, he told himself. "Who's there?" he barked.
"It's Joanna Campbell. Is that you, Professor Jones?"
Indy leaped up, wishing he hadn't sounded so gruff. He hurried over to the door. "Come in. Sorry, I didn't know who it was."
It was the first time he'd seen Dr. Campbell with her hair loose, and the sight of her long, silvery hair cascading over the shoulders of her black cape struck him oddly. She looked more like a sorceress than an archaeologist. But maybe his recent reading material was affecting his thoughts.
"I saw your light," she said, stepping into the office and looking quickly around, her eyes stopping a moment on the cot. "You're working late."
"Grading term papers." He expected her to respond with a judgmental remark about his waiting until the last minute. Maybe she was thinking it, but she didn't say it.
"I have trouble sleeping some nights, and come in to handle administrative details. I find I can get much more done when no one's here."
"I can understand that." Indy nervously tapped his fingers on Deirdre's paper and wondered if he should say anything about it. "I hope I'm not disturbing you by being here."
Joanna Campbell moved further into the office and turned her back to him as she examined the books on his shelf. "No, not at all. In fact, it's time we talked." She looked over her shoulder at him. "This seems as good a place and time as any. That is, if it's all right with you."
"No problem at all." What did she want to talk about? "You can have my chair, if you like." Indy gestured toward it. "Or would you prefer going to your office?"
She turned and smiled. "Nonsense. Sit. This chair is fine." She placed her hands on the back of the straight-backed wooden chair across from his desk, but didn't sit down.
Indy lowered himself into the chair, and sat back uneasily. He waited for her to begin.
"How do you like it here?"
"I'm enjoying it."
She nodded. "I'm told that you don't always follow the syllabus with which I provided you."
Here it was: the very thing he had feared. Deirdre had told her everything. There was no way for him to hide anything that had taken place in class. "Well, I've tried, but there were times when I felt it was important to expand on certain themes."
"It's unusual for a beginning instructor at this university to divert from the syllabus, especially an instructor with so little practical experience in British archaeology"
"I know, but sometimes it's important to put forth your own ideas. I think that's true for a beginning professor as well as a more experienced one."
"Granted, and I understand you are an engaging lecturer, certainly an improvement over your pedantic predecessor." She glanced at the cot again, and looked amused. "Everyone thought he was so dedicated because he spent so much time in his office. The truth was he kept a bottle of bourbon in one of his drawers and read pulp novels until he passed out. And not from the reading material, either. Although that may have been a contributing factor."
"I've heard rumors about his reading habits." She was confiding in him and Indy felt reassured, but only for a moment.
"Now, I must tell you that I'm a bit uncomfortable with anyone on our teaching staff who lacks field experience in the British Isles, especially someone like yourself who is teaching a course focusing on our ancient monuments."
"That's understandable, but it is a beginning course," he added quickly, "and as soon as there's an opportunity I would like to be involved in fieldwork. In fact, I was talking with Professor Stottlemire about his upcoming excavation along the rampart of the Herefordshire Beacon hillfort. He seemed very interested in my joining him."
"It's an interesting site, and a nice place to take a walk, but you wouldn't want to work with Stottlemire. He'll take credit for any new ideas and anything you might uncover. The Beacon hillfort is definitely his territory."
Indy shrugged. "Well, I was just looking for an opening, and—"
"That's fine, Jones. But you should have asked me weeks ago."
"I didn't want to be presumptuous since there was no guarantee that I'd be here in the fall."
She waved
a hand. "Not to worry. You're doing a commendable job. Your position is safe. That is, if you want it."
"Yes, of course, I do."
"Good. Then the matter we have to discuss right now is your fieldwork."
He suddenly felt light-headed with relief. He was staying in England, and all the spiders and scorpions in London couldn't stop him. What's more, Dr. Campbell wanted to talk about fieldwork. "Do you have any suggestions, any new excavations starting?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I'm going to be leading a dig myself at Whithorn, Scotland."
"Whithorn?" Indy looked down at Deirdre's paper, then back up at Dr. Campbell. "I was just reading your daughter's paper on—"
"I know all about it. Deirdre is going along as my assistant. I hope you'll join us."
"Yes. Certainly, but..." He picked up Deirdre's paper. "Does this paper about Merlin have anything to do with your excavation plans?"
"Of course. It has everything to do with it."
9
The "Cruc"
A distinguished, decidedly upper-class British voice was speaking over the airwaves. "It is imperative that the thinking members of Parliament join together to fight this menace known as the Commonwealth. If this plan ever came into being, it would be the first step in the dissolution of the British Empire, and we can never allow that to happen in our lifetime."
"Thank you, Mr. Powell," another radio voice said. "Now, before we go any further I want to ask you—"
"Jack, turn that damn thing off, will you?" Indy called out.
He heard a click as Shannon shut off the radio in the living room.
"Need any help?" Shannon asked.
Indy's clothes were spread out the bed as he packed his duffel bag. "No, I think I can pack my own bag."
"Hey, maybe you ought to put your eye patch back on," Shannon said.
"What for?"
"It makes you look meaner. Fits your cranky mood."
"Sorry, but I haven't slept well for three nights now. I keep waking up thinking there's a goddamn scorpion crawling on my neck."
"The place is clean, Indy. I guarantee it."
"I know. But still..."
Shannon leaned against the dresser, resting a long, lanky arm on the top of it. "So when are you coming back?"
"Fall classes start in three weeks. I should be here at least a couple of days ahead of time."
"If I hear anything on the bug man, I'll send you a note. Check general delivery."
Indy stuffed a pair of socks in the bag. "I'd just like to forget the whole thing happened. Maybe they were going after someone else, and got the wrong flat."
"Could be. I doubt it, though. I still think those spiders and scorpions are connected, somehow."
Indy didn't answer. He folded a pair of khaki pants and a sweatshirt into the duffel bag and zippered it shut.
"Have you mentioned the scorpions to your girlfriend?"
"No, I didn't say anything to her, and she's not my girlfriend. She's my student."
"That's right." Shannon moved away from the dresser, and clasped Indy on the shoulder. "I bet you'll be singing a different tune when you come back from Scotland."
"Jack, I'll be with her mother, too."
"You better watch out for both of them."
"Cut it out, will ya?"
"Sorry. Just kidding. But you do like the girl, don't you?"
Indy shrugged. "Sure I do. But just don't bring up Dorian Belecamus, because Deirdre's nothing like her. They're worlds apart. And I am going to talk to her about her boyfriend, or old boyfriend, whoever he is. I just haven't had the opportunity yet."
"Right, worlds apart," Shannon mused. "She's good-looking, intelligent, a bit mysterious. Nothing like Belecamus was."
He had a point. But Deirdre had an entirely different attitude. "She may not have told me her life story, but she's not deceptive. There's a freshness, an innocence about her. I know I can trust her."
"Love is blind, Indy."
Indy folded an undershirt. "Shannon, you know something? You're the most suspicious person I've ever met."
"Gotta be. But then I'm not making my living in some ivory tower."
Indy flung the undershirt against the bed, and turned to face his roommate. "You got some problem with what I do? Is that it?"
Shannon raised his hands. "Nope. No problem at all with what you do. It's your attitude. You're gullible. You need more street savvy."
"You'd think some of yours might've rubbed off on me by now."
Shannon grinned. "You would think so, wouldn't you?"
"I'll tell you one thing. I may not be the greatest judge of women, but Deirdre is on the level. I'm sure of it."
"You may be surprised to hear this, but I agree with you. She's as naive as you are."
As if he even knew her, Indy thought, but he wasn't going to argue. He looked up at the clock on the wall. "Okay, I'm going to say good-bye to Milford. You sure you don't want to join me?"
Shannon laughed. "Positive. He wouldn't remember me."
"Actually, you'd be surprised. He might. He only seems to forget recent things. He has a wonderful memory of past events."
"I'll take your word for it." Shannon followed him to the door. "You're going to be back by four then, right?"
"That's what I said. Four o'clock." He opened the door and turned. "Since when are you so concerned about my coming and going?"
Shannon threw up his hands. "Hey, I just want to say good-bye before I leave for the club. That's all."
"Tell you what, if I don't see you, I'll stop by for a drink."
"Just be here by four, will ya?"
Indy padded across the thick carpeting of the lobby to the reception desk of the Empire Club, where Leeland Milford was staying. Ornate gold-framed portraits of men, several with monocles, hung on the walls, and heavy mahogany furniture filled the room. A thin, angular man sat behind the desk. He had a mustache that looked as if it had been penciled in. When Indy asked him where he would find Milford's room, he combed it with his fingernails, and in a voice as stuffy as his surroundings said: "Dr. Milford. Was he expecting you?"
"Yes, and he's waiting."
The clerk's expression turned blatantly smug. "Sorry, sir, but he's left. Said something about going to Madame Tussaud's, I believe."
"Did he now?" Indy said, mimicking the man's tone. "Guess I'll be on my jolly way then."
Indy turned on his heels and headed to the nearest underground. Ten minutes later, he found Milford at the wax museum standing motionless to one side of Henry VIII and his six wives. He was gripping the lapels of his overcoat and looked like a wax figure himself that had been stuck in the wrong century.
"Authentic, isn't it?" Indy said.
Milford slowly turned his head. His watery blue eyes gazed at Indy, and his thick mustache twitched. "Yes, but let me show you something else."
Indy shook his head as he followed the older man into another room. Not even a hint of surprise that he was here. Not a good sign, he thought. He was hoping Milford would be on an even keel today. On Friday morning, final exam day, Indy had found him waiting in his office when he'd arrived. Milford had acted befuddled, insisting he had something important to tell Indy, but then when he couldn't remember what it was, he'd insisted that he must have already told him.
They'd bantered inanely for a couple of minutes until it was time for Indy's class. He'd quickly set a date for lunch at the club, hoping that Milford would recall whatever it was he considered so important. The conversation had so abraded his nerves that he'd forgotten the students' graded papers in his office and had to go back for them.
"Look here at Robespierre and Marat," Milford said, stepping up to the wax figures of the French Revolutionary leaders. "Now these two are especially authentic in appearance."
"Why is that?" Indy asked.
"Because their heads were used as models by Madame Tussaud immediately after they were guillotined."
Indy cleared his throat. "That was handy. I
guess she didn't have to tell them to sit still."
"No, I suppose not," Milford said with a laugh. "Fortunately, they were spared the sight of their headless bodies so they lack a certain look of horror in their expressions."
"What do you mean? If someone lost his head, how could he possibly know anything about the sight of his body?"
"Ah well, you see, it was once a practice for the executioner to grab the severed head immediately after the guillotine sliced it off, and turn it to face the body. Since there was still blood and oxygen in the brain, it was felt there was still awareness for up to thirty seconds."
"Is that true?"
Milford shrugged. "From the bulging eyes and moving mouths that have been described, you would think so. But maybe it was just the reaction of the nerves."
"Still, just the idea..." Indy's words trailed off.
"Yes, it's amazing what we do to each other," Milford said after a short silence. "We like to think of the past as the period of barbaric behavior, but look at our own century. Thousands upon thousands sacrificed themselves, for country in the Great War. Quaint French villages stacked with bodies. Fields soaked in blood. If you ask me, it wasn't so great."
They wandered about the museum for nearly an hour. Indy didn't even bother asking Milford if he'd recalled what he was going to tell him. Today, apparently, wasn't one of his better days for testing the older man's short-term memory. Finally, he persuaded Milford to join him for afternoon tea at a small restaurant near the museum. After they were seated and their tea and biscuits had arrived, Indy talked about his plans to go to Scotland. He explained that he would be excavating St. Ninian's hermitage, a cave that had been used by early Christians as a place of meditation, and according to myth where Merlin spent his last years. He added that the cave may have been Merlin's esplumoir.
Indiana Jones and the Dance of the Giants Page 7