by Otto Schafer
“Makes sense,” Garrett said. “Keep going, Pete.”
“That’s all that was written on the left page. The last half was blank, or at least I don’t see any writing, or maybe there was a picture or drawing, but no way to tell now – it’s just a water stain.” Pete turned his attention to the right page and began the letter transfer.
Bowling Green and I carefully concealed the entry xxx xxx xxx through meticulous means. I spent many a fortnight working in the dark by no more than the light of my lantern, taking careful measures to ensure no one unearths this secret – a secret I deeply regret allowing to ever burden my ears.
I now have reason to believe our dear friend Bowling Green, who was like a father to me, was murdered nearly twenty-three years ago to this day by the Masons’ most secret inner sect, the Keepers of the Light. Sorrowfully, I believe this to be true as they have learned that I confided in him, a Mason himself, the forbidden knowledge I have now confided in you.
Garrett looked curiously at Pete. “Bowling Green? That’s an odd name. I feel like I should know that name.”
“Well, that’s a pretty damn stupid name, if you ask me. Who in the hell ever heard of naming someone Bowling?” Jack said, shaking his head. “Do you recognize the name, Pete?”
Garrett looked at Pete expectantly, but Pete said nothing as he just stared at the page. His eyes were searching back and forth across the page as he began to chew his lower lip. He knew something. Don’t you say it, Pete! Suddenly Pete began bouncing on the balls of his feet, his knees practically hitting the top of his desk. For Christ’s sake, whatever it is, don’t you freaking say it.
“Fud! You home in there, dipshit? I asked you a question. You ever heard of this guy Bowling Green?” Jack said, in an annoyed tone.
“I… I… No… I don’t think so. I mean, like Garrett said, the name sounds familiar, but I need to do some research to see if I can figure out who he was. I’ll go to the library tomorrow after school and research the name.” Pete stood shakily from his desk and closed his notebook.
“Hey, what the hell! Turn the next page and see what it says. Maybe it will give us another name or something.” Jack frowned, pointing at the book.
“I need to let the next page moisten before we turn it, otherwise it will just break or – even worse – crumble. Plus, my mom will be home soon, and I have to have my chores and homework done. I have two tests tomorrow, and I still need to study for those. If you want to stay and help me clean while I do my homework, I might have time later to try and turn the next page and transfer some more text – if it is moist enough.”
Garrett didn’t say a word as he listened to Pete ramble on like he was trying to ask a girl out on a date. The explanation of why they couldn’t turn the page now was coming in a long burst of gibberish. Not gibberish, Garrett thought. Bullshit. Pete was bullshitting Jack – but why? If he knew anything about Pete, it was that he didn’t have homework to finish. He never had homework, because he finished it all at school. Also, in all the years Garrett had known Pete, he had never seen him study – ever. He never needed to.
“Yeah, right, I’m not sticking around this place to babysit you, your chores, or your homework. So how about this, Fud, I’ll just take the book home with me and figure it out myself,” Jack said, reaching over to the desk and snatching up the book before anyone could react.
Pete’s eyes went wide. “Careful, Jack!”
“Wait a minute, Jack, what are you getting all worked up about? The kid said he has stuff to do. If you go and take the book, you’re probably going to mess it up and we’ll never find out what it says. I say we listen to Pete,” Garrett said.
Jack paused and locked eyes with Garrett in an awkward moment that lasted just a little too long.
“Come on, look at it – it’s already breaking apart,” Garrett said, pointing at the floor where a piece of the leather lay at the boy’s feet, having chipped off the corner, no doubt a result of Jack’s aggressive grab for the book.
“Please, Jack, put the book down – please.” The blood had drained from Pete’s face.
“You’re already in, man. You know what’s up. We’ll figure it out tomorrow after it has had more time to get soft or whatever,” Garrett said.
“Fine, but if you little shits try and screw me over, I’m kicking the crap out of both of you.” Jack pointed both his pinky and index fingers, one at each of them.
“Screw you out of what? It’s just an old book. An old book that I found, not you!” Pete said.
Jack’s face filled with angry blood. “Yeah, right. I’m not stupid. Really old crap like this can be worth a lot of money. I want to know what it says by tomorrow, then I want to figure out which antique store will give us the most money for it, and we will split it three ways. You understand me, Petey?” Jack said, pointing a finger in Pete’s face. “If you two double-cross me and that book disappears, I will decide myself what it was worth and that’s what you’ll pay me.”
Garrett seethed internally, but he said nothing. As bad as he wanted to stand up to the kid, he didn’t. In his mind, he told himself to just let it go. Jack was leaving and wasn’t taking the book – just leave it alone.
Jack made his way from Pete’s room across the small apartment and into the kitchen. “See you shits tomorrow,” he said as he slammed the door.
“What the hell was that, Pete? Are you trying to start crap?” Garrett asked.
“Can I ask you something, Garrett? Why don’t you just beat his ass, man?”
“He’s not worth my time, Pete,” he said, knowing the answer was lame. “Why don’t you tell me why you lied to him to get him out of here?”
“How do you know I was lying?” Pete grinned, cocking an eyebrow.
“Really, man, homework? Study? We’ve been friends since grade school.”
“Well, it’s good to know you can pick up on my codes when I need you to.”
“Okay, so what is it, man?”
“Right, you’re never going to believe this. It was bothering me all day even before this. July 10th, 1832 – I know what the date is! It’s the date he was mustered out of service at the end of the Black Hawk War!”
“He who?” Garrett tried, but Pete babbled on excitedly.
“Holy shit! My God, oh my God, oh my freaking God! Do I know the name? Hell yes! I know the name. Why wouldn’t I know the name? Shit! And I know who thought of Bowling Green as their father too – holy shit! Can this be real? This can’t be real! But it has to be, right? I mean, shit! It has to be real!”
“Pete! Slow down and tell me what are you talking about.” Garrett laughed – he had never seen his friend this flustered.
“I know who Bowling Green is, dude!” Pete said excitedly. “But more important than that, I know who looked at Bowling Green as a father.” Pete began pacing back and forth. “At first, I couldn’t believe it, man, but yeah, I think I know who wrote this book!”
“Who? Jesus, Pete! Who wrote it?” Garrett pressed.
“Abraham frickin’ Lincoln!”
“What! No way! That’s not possible!” Garrett said.
“I’m telling you, Garrett, it has to be. It’s the only logical explanation!”
Both boys looked back toward Pete’s room, wide-eyed. Without a word, both broke into a run, coming to a halt in front of the book. They froze, staring at it anew. Could this really be Abraham Lincoln’s journal?
“How long before we can turn to the next page, Pete?” Garrett asked, grabbing Pete by the shoulders. “How long!”
“I lied about that too.” Pete smiled, snatching the jersey gloves off the desk. “We can try and turn it now!”
“Turn the page, Pete! Turn the freaking page!”
12
The Cross
Present day
Oak Island, Nova Scotia
The sky was a deep blue with the afternoon sun high overhead. Outside the Money Pit, the air actually moved. Breanne sat at the picnic table, her face turned to the sk
y and her eyes closed to feel the breath of the breeze on her face, not wanting to take the moment for granted. She could almost enjoy it… almost. She popped one eye open and scrutinized Paul with disgust as he sat at the picnic table across from her, shoveling handfuls of potato chips into his mouth between bites – no, chomps – of his third sandwich. Both eyes were open now as she fixed her gaze on her apparently starved sibling. A deep crease formed across her brow, and she crinkled her nose. “Do you even chew your food or do you just inhale it like a ravenous dog?”
Paul paused, smiling through stuffed cheeks. “You wrestle those heavy stones out of the tunnel for a few hours and see how starved you are,” he said, taking a gulp of water.
“You look like a chipmunk, and not a cute one either. Stop trying to talk and just chew your food.”
“You asked me, remember?” he mumbled, stuffing more sandwich in.
“Pops, who are the Knights Templar, and what’s the big deal?” Edward asked, between bites of his own sandwich.
“Yes, Charles, do tell us the significance of the Templar connection,” Jerry said, dabbing a napkin at the corner of his mouth.
Charles looked up from his plate, delighted at an opportunity to launch into a historical lesson. “What’s the big deal, you ask? Well,” he said, swallowing as he wiped his mouth, “up until now we had to assume this was the work of Native Americans or, less likely, Mayans, Aztecs, or some other known or unknown society. But now, we have Christian implications, plus the timing is correct for the Knights Templar. Now, why is the Templar connection so important? Well, what has always been thought – to me, at least – to be a far-fetched conspiracy theory, is that when the Knights Templar occupied the Solomon ruins on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, they excavated the ruins and found the Holy Grail and the Ark of the Covenant.” He paused and frowned. “I guess I should tell you who these guys were first. The Templars were basically a Christian army formed around 1120 ad, after the occupation of Jerusalem took place during the First Crusade. They were religious badasses during medieval times, put in place to protect pilgrims visiting the holy site. So, like I was saying, the theory is that they found the Holy Grail in the ruins of Solomon’s temple.”
“And the Holy Grail is the cup Jesus drank out of at the Last Supper, right?” Edward asked.
“Biblically, yes, the Holy Grail is the cup that Jesus drank from during the Last Supper, but there is also a conspiracy theory that the Holy Grail is really Jesus’s bloodline. Regardless, cup or bloodline, the conspiracy scenarios hold the Knights Templar obtained it and hid it here on the island. The same theory pertains to the Ark of the Covenant, a wooden chest dressed with gold, containing two stone tablets recording the Ten Commandments, along with Aaron’s rod and a pot of manna. This is all Old Testament, Moses stuff.” He waved his hands as if to wipe away any further need of explanation on the subject. “Anyway, back to the Templars. They disappeared around 1312, give or take. This was after Pope Clement V, under the orders of King Philip IV of France, disbanded them, wrongfully accusing them of crimes, leading to their cruel torture, including burning many of them at the stake.”
Dumping a pile of chips onto his plate, Edward shook his head with disgust. “That’s messed up.”
His father nodded. “Indeed, but they weren’t all killed, and the conspiracy nuts…” He paused, considering. “Well, it isn’t really fair to call them nuts, not after today. Not after what we’ve found. The conspiracists say that the Templars have always been here, protecting a secret, and that all this time they have been in hiding. One thing is for sure – something is down there, it’s a big damn deal, and we are going to find it!”
Jerry lifted his plastic cup. “Like I have said all along, Charles, my dear man. What you find down there will change history forever!”
“Hooah!” Paul shouted, raising his own cup.
Breanne raised her cup, too, alongside the others, and they cheered.
After lunch, they completed their safety checks, secured their rigging, and descended into the pit, where Paul quickly went to work bracing the tunnel and Edward continued to remove the remaining rocks from the tunnel. The mood was high as Dr. Moore slapped the tape deck closed and got the Four Tops singing about how there “Ain’t no woman like the one I’ve got.”
Taking Breanne’s hand in his, her father pulled her towards him, then twirled her away. He smiled warmly, singing along with the lyrics. With his free hand, he snapped his fingers and began alternately kicking each foot out in front of him to the tempo of the music. “The dance floor is ours, baby girl,” he said, smiling.
Breanne quickly fell into the rhythm, matching his movements, giggling at her father’s strange timing for a father-daughter dance. Her father masterfully spun her to and fro, twirling her with his one hand only to retrieve her with the other. As she spun back, he spun himself, too, crossing one foot over the other and dipping his hips low before falling back into the step rhythm with perfect timing.
The two laughed as she spun in slow circles, her bound braids flipping from one shoulder to the other as the Four Tops faded away, replaced by another of her father’s favorites.
“Bre, do you know who this is?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Me and Mrs. Jones,” her father sang. “That” – he pointed at the radio – “is the satiny smooth voice of Billy Paul.”
Paul’s head poked up from the tunnel. “Well, you’re no Billy Paul, Pops – better not quit your day job,” he said with a laugh.
Dr. Moore turned to Paul with a frown. “My voice is smooth as a warm glass of brandy.”
Bre raised a skeptical eyebrow towards her brother.
“Ha, well, whatever – that magical voice of yours had me thinking someone was hurt, so I thought I’d better check on you two.”
“Boy, don’t make me come down there.”
Paul laughed.
“How is the progress?”
“Almost done. Can you pass me a couple more boards?”
Her father passed the boards to Paul, and he disappeared back down the hole.
“Daddy, can I ask you something that’s been bothering me?”
“Of course, what’s on your mind?”
“How do you think all those people in the swamp died?”
He cocked his head, concerned. “Well, we don’t know, baby girl – we just don’t know. The lab didn’t find any blunt-force trauma, so maybe they were sacrificed through some sort of ritual bloodletting.”
“But, Dad, that was before we found the cross. I mean, does it even make sense that the Templars would sacrifice them in a way that didn’t break any bones? Or, for that matter, does it make sense Templars would sacrifice the Native Americans at all?”
He paused, clearly stunned by her revelation.
“What?” she asked.
“The depth of your intelligence never ceases to amaze me. Honestly, I don’t know if I will ever get used to it.”
Her face flushed with embarrassment.
He placed his hands on his daughter’s shoulders, his eyebrows raised in keen anticipation. “Baby girl, you have a theory of what happened to those people in the swamp? How they ended up there?”
Breanne hesitated, knowing how what she was about say would sound. But it wasn’t only the cross that had led her to this idea. She had another clue, though it was so ridiculous she wouldn’t admit to it. Something in her nightmares… Native Americans, walking into the bottom of the swamp one after the other. The nightmares always started the same, in the car, upside down, but then she was here on the island. Except it wasn’t now; it was then. That didn’t mean what she dreamt about Oak Island was true. That was ridiculous… crazy. It was just her brain working to solve it, that’s all.
“Bre?”
Pulling herself back to the moment, she looked at her father and narrowed her eyes, nodding slowly. “I think they walked into that pit on their own, and I think they killed themselves.” There, it was out. She’d said it,
and it was out.
Suddenly Paul shouted from inside the tunnel opening, causing both of them to jump. “Hey, can one of you hand me down that pouch of nails? It’s hanging on the sawhorse.”
Her father passed the nail pouch through the hole to Paul, then turned to Bre. “Go on.”
“When you think about it, it makes sense. The Templars were not enslavers, and if they wanted to force a people into slavery to hide religious artifacts, they would have been ill-equipped to do it. If the Templars were here, then they were fleeing with these religious treasures after the majority of their order had been tortured and killed at the order of King Philip. I just find it hard to believe they were in any condition to pull this off. There were simply too few to overthrow and murder hundreds of Native Americans.”
“So, if you have come to this conclusion, do you have a hypothesis as to why they would kill themselves?”
“No, I don’t, but I think we will get our answer behind that cross, Dad. The question is what would make a group of Native Americans willingly help Christians hide something and then freely sacrifice themselves? I just can’t wrap my head around it. Maybe they were tricked into it somehow? I… I just don’t know.” Breanne shook her head in frustration.
“I have this thing braced up solid as a brick shithouse,” Paul said, his voice echoing from inside the tunnel.
“We will find the answers,” her father assured her with a tight smile as he removed his fedora to loop a leather camera strap over his head. Replacing his fedora, he turned to the hole. “Alright, I’m coming in! Bre, wait here till I say it is safe for you.” He stepped onto a short stepladder and made his way down into the tunnel.
Stepping off the last rung and into the mucky bottom of the tunnel, Dr. Moore’s senses were assaulted with the pungent odor of rotting swamp and decomposing wood. “Good God, man, this place smells worse than a truck stop toilet.” He pulled his bandana up to rest atop his nose. “Grab your helmet and come on down, Bre.”
