by K. T. Tomb
“I remember your father’s work well and now it is your mantle to carry.”
“Indeed,” Ophelia replied. “Minister McKinley, you asked me here to show me something. What have you found this time my friend?”
In his former life, the priest had been well on his way to becoming a professor of world religion at the University of Edinburgh. Something had happened in his sixth year while toiling over a dissertation and suddenly, he had turned to the study of theology. That had led McKinley to the cloth and he’d never looked back, but he’d always had a penchant for finding rare books and other artifacts, which was a skill he’d never lost.
Most of the pieces that came into his possession over the years were religious and he made space for these in the extensive library at the church on Carnoustie. However, from time to time he found important tomes, journals and other works that were either secular or controversial. Whenever these turned up, he always gave first option of purchase to Quests Unlimited.
“I came across a journal recently, belonging to a former Harvard professor…former because the poor bugger lost his life when a church he was salvaging in Boston with his students collapsed on him.”
“Unfortunate but what does that have to do with us?”
“His journal contains a number of research notes about the item he was searching for in the church building. Though the subject matter is rather Judeo-Christian in nature, I’m afraid it’s a little too controversial for us Presbyterians.” The minister rolled his eyes sarcastically as he said this, making Ophelia feel that there was a high probability the notes in the journal were leading to some crucial evidence.
“What was he searching for in that church, McKinley? What was so important that he filled a journal with research on the topic then lost his life searching for it?”
“You won’t believe me but you’re the only person I would tell about this. I could be disrobed for even thinking what this man wrote down,” Minister McKinley said in a hushed tone.
He was nervous, Ophelia could plainly see it.
“Why don’t we go into the parish, Minister. I assume that’s where you’ve kept this document?”
“Indeed.”
When the two were in the privacy of Minister McKinley’s living room, the old man disappeared into a back room for a few moments then returned carrying a leather-bound book. He handed it to Ophelia.
It was beautiful leather with perfectly crafted holes along the left edge. Loose pages of punched paper had been bound between the covers by a long leather string which looped through the holes and tied at the top.
Ophelia opened the front cover and flipped through the first ten or so pages before shutting it closed abruptly.
“You saw the diagrams, didn’t you?” Minister McKinley asked, raising a glass of whiskey to his lips and smiling.
Ophelia nodded, dumbstruck. She wallowed hard and asked, “Did he find those? Are those sketches from the actual coins?”
“I don’t think so. From what I heard he did find them but he never left the building alive.”
“So someone out there has them?”
“I’d assume so, but God save whoever that person is,” Minister McKinley said in a grave tone.
“They’ll need all the help they can get to be saved from the curse of those coins...”
Prologue
“As they sat there in the synagogue that afternoon before Jesus began to speak, there was just one great mystery, just one supreme question, in the minds of all. Both his friends and his foes pondered just one thought, and that was: ‘Why did he himself so deliberately and effectively turn back the tide of popular enthusiasm?’ And it was immediately before and immediately after this sermon that the doubts and disappointments of his disgruntled adherents grew into unconscious opposition and eventually turned into actual hatred. It was after this sermon in the synagogue that Judas Iscariot entertained his first conscious thought of deserting. But he did, for the time being, effectively master all such inclinations.” —The Urantia Book 153:1.5
Professor Jonathan Grindlay pushed aside a half-charred two-by-four that the cleaning crew had left behind.
His eyes scanned the rubble, most of it having been cleared out already, but a few bones of the structure, a shadow of what had once been, still remained. It was a shame, really. It had been a beautiful church, over three hundred years old, and a landmark in the neighborhood. Other churches, larger and more ornate, had been erected over the years, some of them towering over the squat building, but none had the history and the worth that it had had. He was saddened by thoughts of the fire that had ravaged through it but smiled a bit, subconsciously, at the prospect of the treasures that had been hidden and forgotten within the walls. It was Boston and old structure fires were relatively common as were the priceless discoveries made within them.
Everything within the walls above ground had been lost in the flames, of course, save a few artifacts that refused to melt down without temperatures much higher than what had been produced there. They required fires that had to be coerced and force-fed, and a simple structure fire just wasn’t going to produce the necessary heat. He was hoping that the same could be said for the contents below the surface. The kids—in his mind, they would always be kids, no matter their age—followed closely behind. Most had worked excavations with him before.
However, this excavation was a first for Julie who, unlike the others who had graduated the year before, had been unable to attend previous outings of that nature. But this year, alongside her fiancé, Piers, she was just as ready and willing as the rest of them to dig into the work, if not more.
For them, this was an adventure; lost treasures and untold stories. Uncovering the bounty of pirates, kings and queens, legends and relics, which was why they were all there. All save Grindlay, who tramped through the rubble for much more than just the adventure. After so many years, he’d lost count of just how many; the adventure was no longer there. Instead, it was just disappointment after disappointment, and his only crew was always students or, rather, those fresh out of grad school, who didn’t have a clue what they were doing or what they were looking for. Still, they could work in his favor, too, given the right circumstances.
Grindlay shoved a long, gray hair behind his ear. He’d pulled most of it back and secured it with a rubber band, but often times it was an unruly bunch and he felt the annoying tickle of strands escaping and obscuring his view. The students watched him anxiously, awaiting his direction as he scoured the burn site; stepping lightly here, moving quickly there, avoiding this plank altogether while balancing precariously on that one. The entire group was a bit wary as they stepped onto the blackened ground, the crucifix shape of the church forever burned into the soil along the perimeter of the colonial building. Julie felt a sudden chill, as if the spirits of the past still lingered, their fingers brushing across her skin.
Piers pulled her close, giving a quick kiss to her forehead, as his eyes roamed the tiny area where they were standing. He imagined the box pews lining either side of the nave, noticing the area where the pulpit should have been was slightly brighter than other portions of the site. He imagined the choir sitting just behind, waiting to burst into their hymns. He could almost hear the organ playing, could almost see the women with their dull-colored petticoats and the men with their white, powdered wigs. The church had been remodeled several times over the years, but the integrity of the church, the character that it had, had always endured. It was devastating to see such heritage lying in a pile of rubble and ash beneath their feet, but there it was nonetheless.
It was an ominous site, but it still provided them with opportunity. Grindlay grunted as he attempted to pry a rotted board from the floor. He had found blueprints from previous construction work at the site during one of the remodels and there was an indication that there, somewhere amongst those old boards, was a hidden cellar. During the last update, the floors had been replaced, and at the request of the church, the cellar door had been comp
letely covered with the flooring, just as it had been, to begin with.
Grindlay’s hair had come loose completely; his face a mask of twisted, sweaty skin as he worked at loosening the board. It was still too early for the sun to bear down heavily on them, but everyone in the group, save for Julie, had seen him on these excavations before. The excitement of discovering the unknown always made his heart pump harder and sweat run freely, even with minimal effort. Gerald and Piers, having released Julie from his hold, went to the professor’s aid, helping him to yank the floorboard up, as well as a few surrounding ones. The boards snapped against the strain, nearly tossing the men off their feet. Their efforts revealed an ornate door beneath. That was exactly what they had come to find.
The intricate iron weaved and waved over a thick, deep-red mahogany door fit so snugly in its frame, that it was hard not to believe that it was one solid structure. The wrought iron overlay creaked and groaned, the thick wood beneath held tightly to its jamb. The three tried lifting it from its molding, but it refused to give way. Robert walked over coolly, his toned arms flexing beneath his tight shirt, a lazy smile spread across his face. If anyone was going to get the door to budge, Robert was confident that it was going to be him. The group had never truly understood what Robert was doing with them or what his interest in history had been. They all had been more than convinced, in the beginning, that he was nothing more than a jock and that football and beer were the two main ingredients in his Friday night cocktails. Still, he was there of his own accord and had gone on so many of the excavations that no one doubted his true interest any longer. Even so, he was still the brute of the bunch.
Valery watched from a distance, eyes half hidden behind wire frames and glass. Her lanky brown hair pulled onto the top of her head in a neat little bun, but from the way her fingers fidgeted and twisted together, it was easy to see that the playboy had her attention. The two were complete opposites in every way possible, so her friends found it difficult to understand her interest in him, but she’d had eyes only for Robert since she’d met him the year before. The problem was, he had no idea and, if Valery had anything to do with it, never would.
The door screeched and scraped as metal ground against metal, but slowly, Robert’s brute force overcame its complaints and it was lifted upwards. With one last great heave, the group, muscles strained and rippling, shoved the door back from its frame. With that solid piece no longer giving support, the floor rattled under them unsteadily, waiting for just the right moment to give way from under their weary feet, but it held, for the moment. Through the opening a wooden staircase was revealed, only half exposed by the pale orange streams of the rising sun. Grindlay pulled his ragged book bag from his shoulder and laid it on the ground in front of him. His students had always thought he looked awkward with it, but it had its uses. His eyes were wild as he handed each of them a flashlight.
“Careful, now.”
He spoke through a crooked smile which partially concealed yellow teeth, stained from his years of nervous chain-smoking.
“There’s no telling the stability of these stairs.”
He gave the same speech before every excavation and repeated his words often throughout. They were used to it by that point, so they each nodded in the hope of speeding him along. But Grindlay was not satisfied unless he proved his point. So he stretched out a steel-toed boot and kicked at the top step. It didn’t give under the force, but it didn’t sound as if it would hold up to a great deal of abuse either. Even so, Grindlay was pleased and was still smiling as he addressed the grad students.
“Gloves at all times,” he instructed, again repeating the directions he’d given them before they’d arrived, “and everything gets bagged and tagged. No exceptions!”
His eyes darted to Robert, almost mechanically. The man was still suspicious that the last excavation had been botched by Robert intentionally. Without proof, however, he couldn’t keep the hotheaded jock from joining them that day.
“Judas’ mind was in a disagreeable ferment because of the Master’s rebuke the preceding day in connection with Mary’s anointing at the feast in Simon’s house. It was because of this rebuke, which he took as a personal reproof, that Judas Iscariot finally made up his mind to seek revenge for his hurt feelings. Many times had he entertained such ideas subconsciously, but now he dared to think such wicked thoughts in his open and conscious mind. The one absorbing thought of Judas was: What shall I do? Shall I go on with Jesus and my associates, or shall I withdraw? And if I am going to quit, how shall I break off? It was while listening to the Master’s final indictment of the Jewish leaders and rulers that Judas finally and fully made up his mind to forsake the gospel movement and wash his hands of the whole enterprise.” —The Urantia Book 172:5.12
The outside air had been cool, as was expected based on the weather reports; but as they descended the rickety stairs, the temperature began to drop rapidly and the damp settled against their skin like cloaks of death. The air became thick in their throats as the group gulped and swallowed it down. The wooden planks, which had likely been forgotten for at least a hundred years or more, sagged under their weight as the team followed Grindlay into the basement of the burned out structure. Soft, yellow light danced around the room as flashlights bobbed about in unsteady hands. Some shivered from the cold, others shivered from the uncertainty of exploring the area; many of the same uncertainties—of their find, of the stability of the site—were all part of the grandeur and excitement of the exploration. Grindlay may have been used to such conditions, but a handful of those explorations under their belts had made none of the grad students experts.
At the bottom of the stairs, their feet encountered bare earth. Wooden planks lined the walls from ceiling to floor on each side of the room. As they edged around the room, trying to feel out the space, hands ran across the wood which had been overrun by moss and mildew that turned to slime under the touch. The cellar followed the length of the building, though it did not have the transepts coming off of each side. Along the walls were several walnut chests which, at one time, had likely been quite beautiful. It was devastating to see their once supple surfaces, the luxurious details dramatically carved and sculpted in such poor form. The doors hung slack on their frames, many of the structures leaned awkwardly, and it was a wonder that they had not already toppled to the side. Much of the detail of the doors and corners had been worn away by time and much of the surfaces were deteriorated by water damage or, just as likely, rodents. Decaying tapestries portraying scenes of the apostles, and scenes of the resurrection hung limply along much of the walls, their images barely recognizable beneath the buildup of soil and dust.
Gloves were snapped onto anxious hands before anyone was permitted to run fingers across their discoveries. They weren’t looking for anything in particular; still, those types of excavations always held possibility and that was more than enough to excite Grindlay and the young students. Sheila’s fingers grazed over the surface of the doors to the closest cabinet before she gently pulled them outwards. Inside, leather-bound books shriveled against one another, their pages yellowed with time. She pulled a book from the shelf carefully, allowing the pages to splay open in her hands. The words had long lost their readability and had become nothing but dirty, faded scrawls across the wilting pages. Valery moved beside her.
“How sad. I’m sure they once held priceless knowledge.” Her words were soft and filled with longing.
“I’d have loved to study them.”
She began slipping the books into preservation bags, with the loving care of a mother with her child. Sheila followed, mimicking the caution that her friend used.
Grindlay searched a cabinet, but found nothing but pottery; mostly wooden pieces, though there were also some made of silver. They were not finely crafted, however, and it was unlikely that they had been for ceremonial use. He shoved them into bags anyhow, because one could never be too sure about such things. Often the most priceless of finds were the items tha
t one would not think to be worth anything, to begin with. He heard Robert rummaging through something behind him and he cringed as he turned, dreading that he would find the ape destroying or corrupting something of value. By the time the professor’s eyes found Robert, the trunk he had been struggling with had swung open, the lid clapping against the soil a dull thud. Grindlay could see from where he stood that it contained nothing of great importance; only decayed scraps of cloth and a few simple pieces of jewelry.
Julie huddled closely to Piers, still unsure of exactly what she should be doing. He glanced at her occasionally, smiling at her uncertainty, as he inspected tapestries and the woodwork of the cabinets. He couldn’t help but admire the passion that could be seen in these ancient pieces. They walked to the back of the room, the ceiling dropping noticeably as they went, so low that Piers had to hunch once they reached the final cabinet. He smacked his head into an unseen beam and Julie, trying to hold back a giggle, reached out to steady him.
“Shit!” he snapped.
His hand shot to his forehead but came away dry. No blood, but there was certain to be a bruise. He resisted the urge to smack the beam back like Robert might have. At least he had a little control over his actions. Julie pulled him to her as she kissed his forehead.
“Poor baby,” she cooed with a mocking tone.
Piers wasn’t sure if he thought it cute, or annoying, but for the moment, he brushed it off. He reached out to the cabinet, wishing he could slip off the gloves and feel the softened wood on his fingertips. The doors barely clung to their hinges and the frame of the cabinet slouched dangerously to the right. He lifted the left door, swinging it out gingerly just as Julie did the same with the right. Suddenly, his door snapped free of its restraints and the sudden release of strain jerking the cabinet even more to the right. Before either he or Julie could stabilize the hulking wood, it collapsed. The contents were sent sprawling across the floor and the wood splintered like shattered ice.