by K. T. Tomb
Jack kissed her cheek and grinned at her.
“You really are a sheepshagger.”
He received a punch in the shoulder for that.
“Has anyone told you tonight you scrub up nicely?”
She shook her head sadly.
“Nope. Ta. Has anyone told you tonight you can look half decent when you make an effort?”
Jack laughed.
“No, but nobody seems to reckon it’s a big effort to put on a tux and comb my hair.”
She gave a snort of laughter at the remark.
“For a lad from Perth?”
“Patricia?” Tim’s voice sounded not far away.
Cash looked around and saw Tim moving through the crowd, trying to locate his wife.
“Shite.” she muttered and grabbed Jack’s hand.
“Need to get out of here, now.”
She pulled him along and ran out of the room, weaving in and out of the gathered guests. They rushed through a door and reached the cool night air. The famous cold fog was beginning to drift in now, late in the night, but had not reached them yet. Cash let go of Jack’s hand and breathed deeply, brushing her hands through her hair. It ruined her carefully styled hair, but she couldn’t care less. She turned to look at Jack and found him holding up a bottle of sparkling wine.
“Pinched it?” she asked.
He nodded and began to pull the cork out. He offered the bottle to her first. She took a long swig and gave the bottle back to her friend.
He took a sip and then put the bottle down on a low wall.
“Your drinking does worry me, you know.”
“Shut up, dad.”
“Seriously,” he said as he looked at her gravely. “If you’re not happy there’s better ways to deal with it than by drowning it out.”
Cash looked at him, looked into his eyes and felt a twinge in her stomach. It was the first time anyone had shown some sort of affection to her since the move. She moved forward, intent on kissing Jack, but Jack moved away.
“No” was the only thing he said.
It confused her for a moment, angered her even, but it passed. She knew instantly why Jack had moved away. He was a nice, decent guy after all, and she knew he would not touch a married woman.
“You’re right,” she muttered, before putting the bottle to her lips again.
“I am?” Jack asked, “What about?”
“Everything. The drinking. I need to find another way to deal with it.”
Just as Jack opened his mouth to reply, the sound of Calon Lân began to emit from Cash’s handbag.
“See, I knew you were a sheepshagger.” Jack grinned.
Cash punched him again and dug her phone out of the purse.
“Cash Cassidy.” she answered.
“How are you doing Cash? Been a while since we’ve heard anything from you.”
It was her publisher in London.
“You do know what time it is?”
“Nine in the morning, one o’clock for you. You’re at a party at the university?”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Our American partner sponsors the thing. We got some invites as well, but nobody could go. I figured your husband would drag you out there.”
“He did, he did.” Cash sighed audibly. “Is there any reason you’re calling?”
“Besides thinking you could use the distraction?”
There was a chuckle at the other end of the line.
“Well, I was hoping to hear you had decided to write some more and had some ideas. We’re gagging for another Cash Cassidy novel.”
“I was telling Tim earlier I want to get writing again. But I honestly have no ideas.”
It was true as well; her mind was pretty blank as it was. The whole atmosphere around her seemed to stop her from being creative.
“Maybe I can help?”
“Shoot.”
“The Holy Grail. And I don’t mean Dan Brown all over again. Some scholar, can’t for the life of me remember who, told me recently about maybe the thing having been found and then hidden by the Muslims. Something about an underground feud. I wasn’t paying attention. Was a lock-in at the pub, so I was drunk and the guy was drunk. But I reckoned it might make a good story, and one you could write well, too. It involves the sort of research you’re champion at.”
Cash thought for a moment.
“I don’t know.”
“How about I’ll get you on a flight to Israel? Got a mate in Jerusalem you can crash with while you do some research. If you find you can’t do it, send your research on to me and I’ll find someone else to write it. But I’m sure you can write this better than anyone.”
She wanted to decline, but just then the door behind her opened and Tim’s voice called for Patricia.
“Sure, I’ll go. Get me a flight for next week, will you?”
She hung up as her husband came to stand before her, his jaw set and his fists clenched. She winked at Jack and turned her back on her husband, picked up the bottle of sparkling wine and walked back to the party.
Chapter Two
She hugged Jack before joining the TSA line. He had come to see her off and, though he was the life of the party, he was obviously sad to say goodbye. She had given him the address of the home in Barry, making him promise he would visit her there if she decided not to come back to San Francisco.
Tim was not there. They’d had a big row the day before she left. He had been distant with her since the morning after the party, when she told him she was going on a research trip to Israel. He had insisted she cancel the trip and stay home to attend the other functions that month. The eve of her setting out, he had told her he would come along if she delayed the trip to the end of term, if she really insisted on going, but that was when she had finally burst. She had flown into a rage and stormed up to the bedroom. She had locked the door as she packed her own bags and tried to ignore Tim’s pounding on the door. When she went down, she unlocked the door as softly as she could, then slammed the door open, hitting Tim in the face before she ran downstairs to pick up her laptop and her old Nokia. She slung her backpack and stuffed the laptop into a shoulder bag as she ran out the front door.
She had called a cab and spent the night at SFO. She called Jack around midnight, who came to the airport an hour later and sat with her until she could check in around six o’clock. She was tired as she left now, having had no sleep and feeling confused about the situation she’d left behind. She stood in line for the TSA security checks feeling numb. She looked on as people went through the body scanner but switched lines the moment she could. She told the TSA guy she could not raise her arms due to a tennis injury and got the pat down instead of having to go through the scanner. ‘Slave scanners’ she liked to call them. She always opted out now since she heard about the option. Not just because it meant she could avoid the scanner, but also because having a TSA officer carry her bag was strangely satisfying.
Cash boarded the AC758 flight to Toronto at a quarter past eight and almost immediately after takeoff she finally closed her eyes. She woke up again as the stewardess nudged her, asking her whether she wanted a sandwich and something to drink. She asked for a cup of tea and a BLT, which were of course terrible, but satisfied her hunger and thirst. Not long after, she dropped off again, only to wake as the descent towards Pearson International began.
She walked around the airport for half an hour before boarding the flight to Tel Aviv.
Sitting down in her window seat, she opened her laptop and pulled up the documents with the research she had already done. She had been surprised how much information there had actually been. Using her husband’s university log in she had accessed the libraries of several universities in the US and the UK to check on existing work that had been done on the Holy Grail. According to the emails her publisher had sent her, the Templars had located something they referred to as the Holy Grail while digging their tunnels in the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, but all trace of what th
ey had found was lost after the Ayyubids took control of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.
“Good afternoon,” a man said in a soft Nova Scotian voice as he sat down in the seat next to her. “Hard at work?”
Cash smiled at him and closed her laptop.
“Not really. Just doing some research.”
“Academic, eh?” The man smiled back at her and extended his hand. “Well, pleased to meet you. I’m Fred.”
She shook his hand firmly.
“Cash. And no, not an academic. I’m a writer.”
Fred frowned.
“Can’t recall any authors called Cash. Written anything I might know?”
She smiled.
“Written a heap of things actually; Battle of the Southern Crosses, McAlpine’s Fusiliers, The Last Prince of Wales.”
Fred bit his lip as he thought.
“No, doesn’t ring a bell. I read quite a lot, especially when I’m at work, waiting for the action to start, but I don’t recall any of those. Sorry...”
Cash waved the apology away.
“I’m not sure they caught on here. They sold well enough elsewhere though.”
“I’ll be sure to look them up.” Fred said earnestly before nodding to the laptop. “Research for a book?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m researching the Holy Grail actually.”
“Oh, like Dan Brown?”
Cash could not suppress a laugh.
“No, I hope it won’t turn into that anyway.” She quickly changed the topic though. “What kind of work do you do then, if you’re waiting for action so much?”
“I drive an ambulance actually.”
They talked a bit about the book she was researching a bit more before the film with safety instructions started and the Boeing 737-300 began taxiing to the runway. They were silent as they sat there with their seatbelts buckled and the aircraft gathered speed. They felt the wheels leave the tarmac and Cash felt that strange sensation of being lifted swiftly from the surface of the earth.
The conversation picked up again when the fasten-seat-belt light went off. The moment the plane settled on a steady course, Fred began regaling Cash with anecdotes of his life on the ambulance. He mentioned he was going to visit a former colleague, a man who appeared in many of his anecdotes.
After an hour he winked at her though and opened the screen in the seat before him, plugged in his headphone and settled down to watch a film. Cash opened her laptop again and pulled up the documents she had been reading. One of the essays she had downloaded was from a professor at Tel Aviv University. She had only read the summary when downloading it, but as she began reading it, she was intrigued.
“Legend has it that the Holy Grail is the cup used by Yeshua of Nazareth at the Last Supper and used by Miriam Magdala to gather some of his blood after crucifixion, before being given into the care of Yossef of Arimathea. It is uncertain whether there is indeed any truth in this legend, but on its own it is powerful.
The legendary object first showed up, not in any documents in Palestine or Greece, but in ‘Perceval le Gallois’ or ‘Perceval, le Conte du Graal’, an unfinished Arthurian romance written by Chrétien de Troyes. The author claimed to be working off a document provided by his patron, Philip I, Count of Flanders, whose father, Thierry, went on crusade several times. The counts of Flanders trace their line back to Godfrey of Bouillon, the first Christian Lord of Jerusalem.
Chrétien de Troyes, working off this alleged document described the Grail as a salver, a serving tray, thus distinguishing it from the Holy Chalice of the Gospels, which is, in those Gospels, the cup used by Yeshua of Nazareth. Yet over the next few decades the legends of the Holy Chalice and that of the Holy Grail became interwoven. This coincides with the expulsion of the Crusaders from Jerusalem by the Ayyubid Empire under sultan Salah a-Din.
In recent times the theory has come up, especially in novels, that the Holy Grail or San Greal refers specifically to the Sang Real, as being the royal blood of Yeshua of Nazareth that survived in his wife Miriam Magdala and their child. There is no evidence to support this, but there might be some truth to the proposed etymology of San Greal.
If indeed the title Holy Grail refers to the Holy Blood, the merging of these two objects sacred to Christianity makes sense. As opposed to Judaism and Islam, much of the spirituality in Christianity revolves around relics, objects that are venerated as connecting people to the spiritual world.
The merger is also a logical one, as the Holy Chalice is the vessel that held the wine drank at the Last Supper, which in the Catholic tradition becomes the blood of the Christ; whereas the Holy Grail, in the meaning of the Holy Blood, is a vessel meant to capture the spilled blood of Yeshua of Nazareth. By merging the two traditions, which refer to a similar act and a similar object, a sort of super relic is created. And this super relic has been searched for since the idea was first represented as such in Arthurian literature.
Several objects have been claimed to be the Holy Chalice, but none have been confirmed as having any true connection to Yeshua of Nazareth. The only credible evidence of the existence of such an object is a piece of graffiti written in the steps of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. The piece refers to “Arne, Finder of the Holy Grail of Christ” and includes a Templar Cross.
My own research has indicated a possible candidate as to the identity of this possible finder of the Grail. On a hunch I began checking the records of members of the Order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon in Scandinavia. Some of these records are held at the ancient cathedrals of Aarhus in Denmark, Lund in Sweden and Trondheim in Norway; as well as the Royal Library in Copenhagen.
In the archives of the cathedral of Lund, I found a small diary which might be considered to be further evidence. With help of a linguist from the University of Lund, I was able to find out it belonged to a Swedish Knight Templar named Arne, who claimed to have found a silver cup in the bottom of a tavern, close to the Temple Mount, after having been thrown down into the basement during a drunken fight. The cup was damaged, but had seemingly survived several onslaughts and fires. Upon touching it, he felt a peculiar feeling come over him, which he could not describe. When he checked with the owner of the propriety, he found a tavern had been in that place since Roman times, though rebuilt several times.”
Cash was intrigued by the essay and figured she should perhaps go and talk to the professor. She grabbed a pen from her bag to write down the name of the author on the brand new ring bound notebook she always bought for each new book she researched. Fred, the ambulance driver, was looking at her, obviously trying to read what she was writing down. She pulled the book away and continued reading. But immediately she stopped and closed her laptop, finding Fred now trying to make out what was on her screen. She frowned at the man, who shrugged and turned his attention back to the film on the entertainment system.
***
The plane touched down in Tel Aviv just before midday local time, having suffered a slight delay. Walking down the gangway Cash finally turned on her phone. She looked up a text message, containing the address of her publisher’s friend. As she looked at that, her phone vibrated. A second after it stopped, it vibrated again, and then again. She thrust the phone into the pocket of her jeans and ignored it until she reached the baggage carrousel. The belt with AC084 on the screen above it did not contain any luggage yet. Standing there she looked at the messages. The top one was from Jack. He just wished her luck and said he would see her soon. The rest were a collection of messages from Tim. He started off saying he was going to file for divorce, then a message about her cheating on him, a message on how he hoped she would be killed by a terrorist in Palestine, a message apologizing for that, then another apologizing for his behavior and one begging her to come back.
She sighed. It was something she wanted to let go now. Right now it was time for Cash Cassidy, the writer and researcher; she did not have time for Patricia Mathews. She hated Patricia Mathews and she resented her husband
for trying to make her into that woman. But that woman had no place in her life right now.
Fred came to stand beside her as she waited for her bag to Patrice Mathews.
“Got a place to go, or are you going to find a hotel now?”
She bit her lip and frowned at him.
“I mean, we could go and...” he continued, before Cash interrupted him.
“I’ve got a place to go mate, but ta.”
Fred nodded, knowing she had just well and truly shot him down. But he kept a brave face and pulled a card from his wallet, which he handed to her.
“Well, if you want to go for a friendly drink, here’s my number, eh.”
His suitcase was the first to appear and he immediately picked it up, saving himself the embarrassment of having to wait for her response. Cash grinned. She admired the insistence of the man. That was the only reason she looked over the card as well. It said “Fred McDonnell” and had the logo of St John’s Ambulance Canada on it. There was a phone number and an email and nothing more. She smiled again and stuffed the card into her pocket. Her bag appeared and picking it up, she moved to customs.
Surprisingly customs was not a problem, unlike coming into the U.S. Perhaps it was the flirtatious wink at the officer that did it, but it all went quickly and without issues. Outside the airport Cash got into a taxi and headed towards the town.
The place she would be staying at was an apartment by the beach. The building had been recently constructed and still looked brand new. Across the promenade from the blocks of residences, the sand looked inviting and beyond that the Mediterranean’s blue waters stretched out into the distance. Cash checked her phone again as she went to the door of the building and looked over the list of names and numbers by the entrance. Number 33, the message said. She rang the bell and waited.
“Yes?” a soft female voice over the intercom asked.
“Hi, are you Makeda Iyashu? I’m Cash Cassidy.”
“Oh Hi! Dan’s writer, yes? I’ll buzz you up, the door will be open.”
Makeda turned out to be a tall Ethiopian woman. She had been born in Addis Ababa but had grown up in London, studied history at King’s College and then took a business Masters before taking a job in the City. After several years of stress in investment banking, she had decided to do something she actually liked and she moved to Tel Aviv from where she had begun work on a book about the history of Ethiopian Jews.
