by Elik Katzav
- Up close, it looks like it was written by hand. Does this make sense to you?
Conroy pauses for quite a few seconds.
“I do not see it in the actual photo you’ve sent me, but it does. Yes, it does make sense. Look, this language was believed extinct for over two thousand years, two thousand five hundred even, I dare say. If anyone took the time to study it to such a degree as to be able to write in Philistine, I suppose it isn’t far-fetched to have a hand-written manuscript.”
- And do you have any idea what the text is about?
“This is why it is such a puzzle to me. The text being written in Phoenician is one thing, but the thing it talks about… simply put, is describes miracles the local deity Dagon had performed. Dagon provided grain, crops, in a desolate, arid area, in answer to the villagers’ prayers, so they practically saved the place with their prayers. The rest of the text describes the God Dagon’s immensity, his strength. It’s a common or garden pagan worship manuscript.”
- Dagon? Is that a local God?
I write this down in my pad.
- So what’s so special about this text?
“The text itself is no different from what you would refer to as the Jewish oral tradition, what you Jews use to supplement written texts about events and laws with lore and further meaning. And thereby lies the rub. There’s no such thing as ‘oral tradition’ in the case of the Philistines, if only because they do not have a written tradition to begin with. Besides, they haven’t been around for over two millennia now, but the very existence of this text suggests they did have something written down, that someone was familiar with their texts and traditions, legends and so on, took the trouble of having them inscribed, in their original language, which is the puzzle right there.”
- Is there anything else that is unique about this text apart from its contents?
He thinks for a moment before he replies.
“Other than the fact that it couldn’t possibly have existed, cannot exist, there’s not much more for me to say. In ancient times, the pagan peoples did believe in deities derived from their own lives, from what they knew. Dagon was a local God. It was indigenous to Canaan. It wasn’t originally Philistine. When they came over here, probably from beyond these shores, they took to this deity and embraced it. This is a God of bounty, growth, wheat and other cereal crops, fish, you know. They took Dagon to heart for it was the divinity in the territory they came to live in, so they wanted his protection, now that they were on his turf.”
“Now,” Father Conroy continues, “this tale is a pretty simple one. Again, from what I was able to glean, the village was struck with drought, and it was thanks to sheer faith in Dagon that their fields bore grain once more and the fishermen returned with catch. This brings me to another anecdote, you know. Interestingly, apart from the Philistine dialect this text is written in, you can tell it’s is Philistine thanks to the mention of the sea. The cult of Dagon was active all over the land, even as far as Beit She’an, far from the Mediterranean. Moreover, Dagon is considered a deity associated with grain.”
I bring up my list of the books I found in that box with the torn pages and read it out to Conroy.
“Yes, it would appear that whomever kept these books was into Ancient Israel’s theology, especially if he has in his possession manuscripts at such a high level.”
- Thank you, Father, this really helps me along with my case.
“Glad to help. If you’ve got more of those, do not hesitate to call me with such interesting documents, David.”
I am about to end the call, when he asks, “oh, and by the way-”
- Yes?
“Did you happen to get a chance to speak with Rabbi Datan?”
- Oh, well, I’ve been meaning to, but I didn’t find the time. I am rather busy-
“I see, I quite understand. Well, it’s just that I think he might be able to offer you a kind of, well, support. He is a bit eccentric, I grant you, but he is a great sage, very knowledgeable about the occult. I recommend you do try and speak with him.”
- Right. I will do my best to do it.
I leave the car and walk over to an internet café. There are very few people in at the moment, which means I can have a PC all to myself without being shuffled off in favor of paying customers.
So, Dagon. I run a web search and go over the lists upon lists of data and sites with further data. The most recent results associated with ‘Dagon’ actually come from news sites. Only last weekend, the Khan Museum in Ashkelon was broken into. Among the artifacts stolen was a statue of Dagon they found at a nearby archeological excavation camp.
The spokesperson for the museum, as well as the curator, refused to speak to the press, citing ‘the whole thing is under police investigation’.
Interestingly enough, this is the same comment the police gave.
All those news sites could do then, was run the images from the digging site and the announcement they had put out about finding the statue.
I take a close look at the picture of the statue. It looks so familiar. I magnify it. The statue is huge, twice the height of the two men standing near it, smiling. The archeologists who found it. It appears intact. Well preserved. Its head is shaped like a man’s, only that its hair is covered by scales, like a fish. Its hands are adorned with black metal coils. Dagon’s beard seems to be made of the same black metal. His bare body is strong and buff. He’s wearing a dress of wheat sheaves about his loins.
Metal worked into the stone. Unique craftsmanship. There’s something about this metal. I look again and again at these pixilated, blown up pictures on these news sites. It makes me shudder with a cold shiver right down my spine.
Chapter 21
My phone rings the moment I enter the upholstery shop. Na’ama.
“Good evening.”
- Same to you. What’s new?
“I wanted to say thanks for your idea, you know, the park cameras overlooking the road.”
- So, did you find the car?
“Well, yes and no. We did track down this blue pickup that is in line with the required specs for carrying people and equipment, but he folded his plates, so we lost him around the exit from Sha’ar HaGai in the direction to Tel Aviv. It’s a pretty common brand and make, too many in circulation for us to run through the database. There used be so many on the road, so you have quite a few of owners who never bothered renewing the license, especially in Kibbutzim and the like.”
- So what’s your next line of investigation?
“Ah, yes. We’ve decided to focus on the murder weapon. The unique design of the blade that sliced through Noga’s abdomen. We are currently checking with stores that specialize in exotic arms.”
- Say, do you finally have any information about the cult Noga was attempting to infiltrate?
“It’s more complicated than we originally considered. We’re talking about a group that made its home on the edge of the desert, less than ten, worshiping Semite deities, like the ones who were around before we came. Local Gods, indigenous to Canaan. Seems that house back at Omer, where you’ve been, was where they lived. Forensics found traces of Noga’s fingerprints.”
- So they’ve got Idan? This cult, led by that Adam Hacohen, is the same cult that murdered Noga?
I’m so nauseated right now. On top of this chill running down my spine.
“You brought us this info, that’s why I am even talking to you, but you have to realize that this case, well, their putting all the screws on us to solve it already. The guy who owns the newspaper Noga worked for, he’s extremely well connected to some very powerful people, so he had the case taken off our hands, which means we are technically still in the loop, but now it’s led by those hot shots from homicide. That’s quite a task force they’ve got going.”
- So… you and Aharon are in some advisory capacity now?
“I wish. Not even that. Advisors would have at least be listened to. They don’t even pay attention to what we have to say. The moment they dropped the idea of a ritualistic murder, they began digging in Noga’s past in order to find out who had it in for her. They even brought her ex in for questioning, thinking her former boyfriend might be a lead.” She pauses to take a breath.
“Still, they did get your tip about the pickup, but they never pursued the identity of the driver.”
- And what about Idan? Are they aware of the fact this lot got their hands on the boy?
“Not enough evidence. We can’t pursue it. We have nothing to go on. That’s their line.”
- More evidence? I only got to Noga through my search for Idan. What do they want, a gun complete with fingerprints?
“They are only after Noga. That’s all they’re on about. They are focusing all their efforts on answers to this murder, to get their headlines. They do not look at anything beyond that.”
- So the police officially gave up on any chance of rescuing Idan.
Chapter 22
I wrap up my call with Na’ama as quick as I can. I don’t want her asking me too many questions, all the more so, because she did realize, from my tone, that something was wrong.
“The conversation isn’t over as far as I am concerned, you know. I do wanna see you.”
Yes, she knows something isn’t right.
The list of coincidences in Idan’s case keeps getting longer.
One coincidence after another, they seem to be converging ever so closely on Noga: the house where she had been, the members of Adam Hacohen’s cult, Adam, who happens to be Lynn’s father, Lynn, whom Idan followed. A cult, a cult that already committed one murder, which the police do know about. And Liat said they need three ritualistic murders, whereas there have already been two—so is Idan next? And how, if at all, is Eldad related to all this? There are signs he is part of what’s been going on, but if he is—then he is certainly covering his tracks.
Then, another thought strikes me.
If I don’t help Idan, no one else will. It’s all on me.
I find the number for the Khan Museum in Ashkelon. Maybe with a little bit of luck…
The phone rings on the other side of the line and a young man answers.
I got one of the museum curator’s assistants.
When I begin to ask him about the robbery of the museum’s ancient artifacts, he cuts me off.
“Are you a journalist?”
- No. I am an investigator.
“Aha.”
Before I get a chance to continue, he says, “Alon Rosin, the curator, is the one who handles everything concerning the police investigation into the theft. I myself have nothing to do with it.”
- Is there any chance I could speak with him?
I choose not to direct his attention to the mistake he just made, thinking I was a police investigator.
“Yes. He’ll be in before ten. Let me see…” he’s checking Alon’s appointments and says, “Alon doesn’t have anything on until two o’clock.”
- Great. Would you please set up an appointment for me to see him at half past ten? Please pencil it in under David Maharani, investigator.
“Certainly, although, it is my understanding you have already gathered all your evidence.”
- Yes, that’s fine, only a few follow up questions that came up as a result of the evidence at the crime scene.
“Fine then. Ten thirty, meeting with Investigator David Maharani.”
I text Uri about this unexpected ride to Ashkelon.
He is sure to have a stroke with all these gallons of gas I keep burning up during this investigation.
I swear in silence as I figure out how many miles Ashkelon is further to the south from Tel Aviv.
I am in for an unpleasant ride. If Tel Aviv is scorching hot in August, Ashkelon has even higher temperatures, not to mention more humid. And the Subaru has no AC. It’s not going to be a breezy trip.
Chapter 23
The road from Tel Aviv to the south is clear, so despite the baking heat, I can still drive fast, which allows the cool breeze in through all the Subaru’s windows. Problem is, when I stop, whether due to a traffic jam or for traffic lights, the cool air subsides and the feeling is not unlike that of sitting inside a hair dryer at full blast. If only my single CD had not died…
I arrive at Ashkelon a little after ten AM. One of the oldest cities in the world, if I remember my history lessons correctly. No wonder archeological digs here produce findings that are hundreds and even thousands of years old.
Over the years, the great mosque of the old Arab town of Majdal, which was taken up by Ashkelon, has become the “Ashkelon Khan Museum.” The building, whose interior was restored, showcases the history of Ashkelon and the region, complete with audio visual presentations and a special section highlighting the finds from nearby excavations where researchers have been working.
I manage to find a good parking spot close to the museum, in a parking lot belonging to some huge supermarket.
One “advantage” of not having working AC in your car in the middle of August in Israel is that when you leave the car, the heat doesn’t hit you like it would have had you been coming out of an air-conditioned car. This way, the heat is constantly upon me.
I wonder how long it’ll take me to convince myself driving a car without an AC does have its advantages…
Armed to the teeth with my black shades and shoulder bag, I arrive at the museum, only to be greeted by a guard at the front, who inspects my papers briefly. One quick gander at my gun permit and investigator license later, he ushers me inside, into a renovated stone edifice, whose round walls and dome recall its former heyday as the town mosque, especially with the stone columns to lend it further authenticity.
The main space consists of platforms with sculptures and relics found right in this area. The walls have posters made of photos of the excavations, and there’s even a salvaged mosaic they have uncovered.
A young guide is standing by, looking like she has nothing to do. Seeing as it’s the middle of the week in August, it is little surprise that there are hardly any visitors, so she’s all too happy to show me around and direct me to the section where the offices are.
Alon Rosin’s office is right behind the area that is open to the public. The walls of the corridor leading there are covered with fading posters of past excavations. He happens to be in a meeting right now, so the guide shows me where the water cooler is and asks that I wait for Alon’s assistant.
A few minutes pass by before a young man with a folder in his hand presents himself as Doron. He sounds familiar. He’s the guy who had arranged the meeting with Alon.
“You’re a bit early,” Doron says, examining me closely from head to toe. He glances at his watch and remarks, “Alon’s meeting won’t be finished for another half hour.”
- That’s quite alright. I’ll wait, if you don’t mind.
“Certainly. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask,” he smiles.
- Actually, I got here without my copy of the stuff. Do you mind making me a copy, please?
“A photocopy? You mean of the list of the stolen artifacts? Sure. Here you go,” he hands me the folder he’s holding. “You are welcome to use my copy. I’ll make myself another one.”
Then, he smiles again. “I’ll be in the next room should you require anything else.”
- Thanks, that’s fine.
I smile back and add,
- I’ll bask in your AC until Alon gets here.
He appears hesitant for a moment, but eventually, he relents and goes away.
I wait for a few seconds before I sit myself down on the dusty couch, probably a remnant of some excavation from the 1980’s, and spread the photocopy Doron just gave me on the coffee table in front of me.
Photos of each item are in the folder: a few dozen pieces of jewelry made of gold and gems—bracelets and pendants. They are listed as thousands of years old, which makes them highly coveted for collectors on the black market.
I stop in my tracks at the sight of that obsidian knife handle. I begin to feel I am going to be sick. It looks like it was carved out of a single piece of stone, which appears to be flowing, wet. It’s as though the black stone completely absorbs the light in the picture. I begin to shudder on top of my nausea and the room starts spinning around me.
I recognize this particular piece of obsidian; or, more precisely, this bit of shell. I immediately recall a bird’s claw, in living color. A hand made of black smoke, partly palpable, partly ethereal, reaches out and grabs hold of this handle in the photo. I drop the picture. It falls from my hand as I lean back and close my eyes. Breathe, that’s it, in, out, regulate your breathing, just like Rose had taught you. No demons here, no monsters made of smoke, only one fucking shell!
It takes me a few moments to regain my composure. Then, I fold the photo as quickly as possible and place it in my own folder, after which I take another breath and move on to the rest of the pictures.
Next, a set of photos featuring Dagon, the stolen statue. It is said to be 8 feet tall and weigh nearly 1,100 pounds.
The statue of Dagon was shot in parts, from its head down to its scaly feet. The level of detail takes my breath away. I can now see even more clearly than back at the internet café that the statue’s head is part human and part fish, with scales running from the back of the head all the way down to its back. Its dress, or more accurately, the carved outlines that form a dress, are shaped like sheaves of wheat. Each of them was meticulously, masterfully engraved. So much so that it looks real rather than simply made of stone. Dagon’s flexed muscles make me think of a man who had moved his hand over real muscles in order to know precisely how to render them in stone. The result is a blown-up, toned male physique, albeit huge. And made of stone.