Young Whit and the Shroud of Secrecy

by Phil Lollar

  “But you said you’d share your findings with me—”

  “And I will, John,” Harold said firmly. “But not yet. When I want you to see them, I’ll show them to you.”

  Johnny glowered at him, and Harold glowered right back. He waited for a few seconds and then commanded, “To bed.” He then raised his eyebrows and added, “Now.”

  The eyebrows communicated a lot. Whenever they arched up like that, his father had drawn his line in the sand. The conversation was over.

  Johnny rose, sullen, and said, “Yes, sir.” He turned, headed for the door, and paused there, looking back. His father was still glaring at him. Johnny took a breath and exited the room.

  Johnny didn’t sleep at all that night. His mind was too jumbled with thoughts, alternating between the discovery of the coffin at Granville House, the mysterious boy who kept writing him notes, and the nagging feeling that his father had figured out something from the journal and had decided to keep it to himself.

  The only thing Johnny came to a conclusion about was that he would not even entertain the notion of telling his father that the cloth the journal referred to had been in his wooden trunk the whole time. He believed strongly that if his father found that out, he would take the cloth from him and send it away for testing as well. Johnny wouldn’t risk that.

  Lying in bed, the minutes and hours ticking down the night and its darkness, Johnny had the nagging feeling that his life teetered on the verge of huge changes. He had no idea exactly what that meant or whether he’d like the outcome. The last time he felt so unsettled was right before his Grandpa Jackson died and his family moved from Scotland to America, and he hoped this time the changes would be happier ones.

  The next morning, after a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and applesauce, during which Charlie asked such silly questions as, “Why is cooked bread called toast?” and “Why do people eat fried eggs for breakfast but not fried chicken?” Johnny quietly escaped out the front door and off to school.

  When he was clear of the house, he took out the note the boy had written and slipped in his candy bag the previous night. In spite of his father’s lack of concern, the note troubled him. It could have been a prank, but he didn’t think so. The boy had obviously been watching his home last night, and Johnny at the river the other day. So why didn’t he come out and introduce himself? Why all the secrecy? Might it have something to do with the cloth? After all, the day Johnny unintentionally stabbed McDuff, somebody had neatly folded the cloth while Johnny went for help. Could it have been the boy?

  Johnny was half a block down the road when he realized he’d forgotten to wait for Emmy. It didn’t matter; when he turned around, he saw her running toward him. He silently groaned, wishing he had gotten away. His father’s mood had rubbed off on him, and he didn’t want to talk to anyone. Still, maybe she would have some thoughts on the boy and the note. He held it up as she approached.

  However, it seemed Emmy was also not in the best of moods. When she got up to him she barked, “Where did you disappear to last night?”

  Johnny was taken aback by her tone, but he shrugged as if it were a silly question. “Home, of course,” he said.

  “Well, it was kind of rude to take off without saying goodbye or thanking my folks for the party. They even commented about it.”

  Johnny gritted his teeth, holding back a barbed response. Instead, he managed to squeak out, “Sorry.”

  “And why didn’t you wait for me this morning? You always wait. I wanted to—”

  “I don’t care what you wanted, Emmy! Why is everyone breathing down my neck?” He turned and started walking.

  Emmy stood stock-still. She called out, “What’s your problem?”

  But Johnny didn’t answer. He took a left at the corner, away from the direction of school. He heard her call out one more time, “Where are you going?”

  He didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. He only knew he wasn’t going to school.

  At dusk, Johnny sat on his bed, looking out his window. He had spent the day on a secluded bank of the Enoch River near his grotto, tossing rocks into the slow-moving water and watching the ripples float lazily downstream. He was still deep in thought when a knock at his door interrupted his contemplation.

  “John Avery?” Fiona said.

  “What is it, Fiona?”

  “May I come in?”

  “I’m kind of busy—”

  The door opened and she entered anyway, then closed it quietly behind her.

  Johnny rose and faced her. “Fiona,” he said, “I’m really not—”

  “I got a call from the school this afternoon,” she interrupted softly. “Mrs. Monahan informed me that you didn’t show up for any of your classes today. She asked if you were ill. I told her I didn’t know.” She paused. “So . . . are you ill?”

  Johnny saw a mix of concern, disappointment, and anger in her eyes. He took a deep breath. “No, I’m not ill.”

  “Then may I ask where in the world you were all day?” Though her voice remained soft, her tone was sharp, and her green eyes bored right into him.

  “The river,” he muttered. “I . . . I guess I wasn’t in the mood for school.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “The mood? Is this what comes from giving you permission to go trick-or-treating with your friends? You just decide to do whatever your ‘mood’ tells you to do?”

  “No! I—I just have a lot of stuff going on right now and needed to get away from the stress and clear my head. That’s all!” He wrung his hands. “Probably wasn’t the best choice I could have made.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” she snapped. She also took a breath, and her face softened. “But I suppose I understand—especially considerin’ there’s somethin’ going on between you and your father.”

  Johnny stopped and blinked. “Um, ‘going on’?”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m not blind, John Avery. Your glow formula worked very well. I saw you pass something to your Da last night. And saw him stuff it in his jacket before you went out.”

  Johnny’s heart sank. “Fiona, I can’t tell you—”

  She held up a hand. “I neither want nor need to know about it. It’s between you two. But I do need to know where you are during the day. Is that clear?”

  He lowered his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he said, “Wait—does this mean you haven’t told Dad?”

  She frowned. “No, I haven’t—yet. But if it happens again—”

  “It won’t!” Johnny cut in.

  “See that it doesn’t.” She uncrossed her arms, turned, and moved to the door. “Supper’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

  Johnny watched her open the door. This was the second time she had covered for him with his father. Remorse welled up in him. “Fiona.”

  She stopped. “Yes?”

  “I’m really sorry for . . . well, for all the trouble I cause you.”

  She stepped to him, caressed his cheek, and tugged his ear gently. “You are a handful sometimes, John Avery.” She smiled. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She turned back to the door, slipped out, and closed it quietly behind her.

  Johnny sighed deeply. His life seemed to be spiraling out of control. And something inside him said that things were only going to get worse.

  Chapter Thirteen

  At supper, Johnny and his father exchanged only glances, no words. Fiona looked between them apprehensively, trying desperately to make small talk and relieve the tension that lay over them all like a thick blanket. She was only marginally successful, and as soon as the meal was complete and the table cleared, Harold immediately retired to the inner sanctum and Johnny back to his room. He felt like a tired, caged animal. After pacing around for about an hour, he decided to see if he could get some sleep.

  But sleep wouldn’t come. His mind was too active. Hours passed, and eventually he heard Fiona and Charlie climb the stairs and go to their rooms. It was after midnight when his father’s footfalls reached the top of the stair
case, clumped down the hallway past Johnny’s bedroom, and entered his own. The door closed.

  One o’clock.

  Two o’clock.

  At two thirty in the morning, Johnny decided to get up and try a glass of milk. That sometimes relaxed him enough to get to sleep.

  He eased his way down the creaky stairs as quietly as he could, made his way to the kitchen, poured himself a small glass, and downed it in a few gulps. He rinsed the glass, put the bottle back in the icebox, and headed back toward the stairs, white milk mustache intact. As he passed the inner sanctum, a thought struck him—one so obvious that he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it on the way to the kitchen.

  Everyone was asleep. If he was careful, he could find out what his father had been writing about the journal the night before. All he had to do was go into the inner sanctum. He padded down the hallway to the study.

  When he arrived at the door, he discovered that going in without his father’s permission was a lot more daunting than he expected—even more daunting than sneaking into Professor Mangle’s office at the university. His curiosity won out, though. Besides, he reasoned, his father had promised to share his findings about the journal, and he seemed to be breaking that promise. Johnny thought he had no choice.

  He entered the inner sanctum, being careful to tiptoe around the creaky spots in the floorboards. Once inside, he slowly closed the door and turned on the lamp atop his father’s desk.

  On the left side of the desk were two neat stacks. One looked like bills waiting to be paid, the other like student papers waiting to be graded. On the right side was one stack. An empty folder sat on a book, Supralapsarianism and the Decrees of God. Johnny picked it up.

  Sounded riveting.

  Another folder labeled Conference subject material had been under that book, but inside were only scraps of paper with notes on church history and the like.

  What lay under that folder was the book Johnny saw on his father’s desk at the university, the one his father hid after he saw Johnny reading it.

  A piece of paper hung out like a bookmark about halfway into the book. He opened to that page.

  The paper was actually one of several. The book was in Latin, and Johnny saw that his dad had translated a large section of it on these pages. His father had also written some of the phrases from the journal on them, including the ones already translated. There were dates, as early as AD 415, along with names he’d never heard of. Gamaliel. Lucian. The latter name had been circled on the page the book was opened to.

  Johnny took the papers, sat back in his father’s leather chair, and began to read.

  Friday, December 3rd, in the year of our Lord 415.

  Caphargamala: twenty miles outside of Jerusalem.

  My name is Father Lucian. The story I recount on these pages is factual, and happened to me exactly as you will read. I attest to it, in the name of our Lord.

  I awoke in the middle watches of the night, not from a restful sleep, but from one hounded by dreams. Perhaps it was the lamb I had eaten, but one dream followed the next, and all stayed in my memory at my waking.

  The last dream troubled me the most, and remained the most vivid. In it, the Pharisee Nicodemus wept over the body of a man stoned to death outside the city gates.

  A look of incredible peace and joy remained on the face of the victim. It was Stephen, the saint of God who had performed wonders and signs among the people of Jerusalem. Tenderly, Nicodemus wiped the dry blood from Stephen’s eyes. He felt that he could see straight through those eyes into heaven.

  Nicodemus tried picking up the broken body of the martyr. He could not do it alone. Another man approached and laid his hand on Nicodemus’s shoulder.

  “Allow me to help you, my friend.”

  Nicodemus nodded. “Thank you, Gamaliel.” They lifted him and began walking the parched road away from the city.

  “We will take him to my house,” Gamaliel said. “He will lie in my tomb. Many saints sleep there. It is a holy place.”

  “Made more holy by His presence,” Nicodemus added.

  Stephen had been murdered two days before, and when news reached Nicodemus, he and Gamaliel ran to the north gate, expecting the birds or dogs to have defiled his body. But when they arrived . . .

  It had not been touched. If not for the blood, one would have thought he simply fell asleep and had not yet awoken.

  As Nicodemus and Gamaliel walked along, they prayed for Stephen’s soul. And they wept more.

  At that, I awoke. It was dark; only the light of a nearly gone candle lit the room. Groggy, I lay still in my makeshift bed in the baptistery, my eyelids struggling to stay open. I had been tasked with guarding the sacred relics of the church and would not leave them. I folded my hands and asked the Lord why that dream had visited me. What did it mean? God often speaks in dreams, as in the days of Joseph. Was He speaking through them now?

  Entering the candlelight beside the holy relics, I beheld the figure of a man.

  I felt no fear or concern. Somehow I knew the man now walking toward me meant no harm. When the man spoke, I thought I had heard that voice only moments before in my dream.

  “Yes,” the man said. “You do know me.” He was tall and handsome, with a long white beard and piercing eyes. His garment was pure white and edged with small plates of gold, marked with crosses. His hand held a golden staff. “Lucian,” the man said, “I am Gamaliel. Go to Jerusalem. Tell Bishop John to open the tomb in which lie my remains and those of Stephen and Nicodemus.” And then the tone of the man’s voice changed, and his gaze hardened. “Also there is a cloak that was given me. Protect that cloak above all, for through it God may grant the owner His holy mercy.”

  “Mercy?” I asked.

  “Now go, retrieve the relics and safeguard them, for if not, they may be forever lost. Keep them only in your possession, for the hearts of men are wicked.” Having said this, Gamaliel disappeared.

  I knelt at that very spot, and for many hours worshipped the Lord.

  Three weeks later, on the twenty-sixth of December, the relics were indeed found—exactly where the vision of Gamaliel told me they would be. Bishop John and seven members of the church attended with me. The cave was replete with various items. One wooden crate contained several scrolls that I discerned were portions of Holy Scripture from the Pentateuch—the first five books of the Bible. There were writings from the early church fathers, pieces of wood and cloth that must have some significance, most likely in ownership by the saints. The cloak that the vision of Gamaliel spoke of, though, was not to be found.

  Four caskets lined the back wall of the cave. Within them lay the bones of holy men of God. We all bowed our heads and prayed a silent prayer.

  Afterward, the bishop said, “We must open these.”

  I protested. “No, Bishop, to do so would be sacrilege!”

  “There is no reason to move the caskets if someone came here before us and stole the relics already. We must look.”

  I reluctantly agreed to his request. We then looked over the names scrawled into the wood of the lids.

  Gamaliel. Here lay the bones of the man who had visited me in my vision, the same man who notably instructed the apostle Paul in the understanding of the law before Paul’s encounter with the Lord on the Damascus road.

  Abibas, son of Gamaliel. Little was known of this man other than that he was an early convert to the most holy Christian faith. That he lay next to these pillars of the church spoke well of his devout belief.

  Nicodemus. Written in the apostle John’s account of the Christ, Nicodemus sat under the teaching of our Lord, petitioned the Sanhedrin to not condemn Jesus without at least allowing Him to defend Himself, and—with Joseph of Arimathea—buried our Lord after His death.

  I then saw the name on the final casket. Stephen. I told the others, “The blessed martyr lies here.”

  Bishop John instructed all present to open the caskets. He walked to Stephen’s, whispered something in Greek, and with hi
s index finger made the sign of the cross. As one, we lifted the lids of all four caskets. We had expected to be assaulted by the putrescent smell of rotted flesh.

  We were not. Instead, a most agreeable and sweet fragrance rose from the caskets and filled the cave. We looked at one another, amazed.

  The bishop quoted the writing of the apostle Paul. “We are unto God a sweet savour of Christ, in them that are saved, and in them that perish.”

  At that moment, an even more amazing thing happened. Of those present with me in the cave, most had been afflicted with various diseases, including tumors, fevers, the falling sickness, headaches, and severe pain. At the opening of the coffins, every one was instantly healed of his maladies.

  We all prayed and gave glory to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, praising Him in loud voices.

  I then remembered the admonition from the vision of Gamaliel to protect the cloak he had secured there. I wondered whether it might be in Stephen’s coffin, but looking inside, found only the bones of the martyr—intact and in their natural position.

  I looked next in Nicodemus’s coffin, but it too contained nothing but the bones.

  I called to the men who had opened Gamaliel’s coffin. “Did you find a cloak inside?”

  “No, only the remains.”

  Then it struck me. Gamaliel would have placed something of such great value in an obscure place. A place that would not receive much attention. The least likely place people searching for it might look.

  I looked inside the coffin of the son of Gamaliel. What I saw amazed me.

  Abibas was most certainly dead, but in spite of the many years since his burial, his body had not decayed. His skin was still supple. Over 350 years later it appeared as if the corpse had been laid to rest only days prior.

  Under Abibas’s head: a folded cloth.

  I gently lifted the head up and slid the cloth out. Laying the head back down, I then prayed for Abibas’s soul. Holding the cloth in both hands, I bent down and kissed it.

  As I did, a piece of papyrus with writing on it fell out. The writing was illegible in some places, likely due to age. But bits of it could be deciphered.