by Dean Kutzler
But the most unnerving sight was held in each of her hands. Her arms were raised, bent at the elbows, with her fingertips just above her shoulders as if frozen at gunpoint. Placed between her thumb and palm in each hand was a circle of gold resting on top of a horizontal golden rod. It very closely resembled the same symbol on the door to his uncle’s vault and the same shape of the key he found stuck to the coffin and on the book.
What did it all mean?
As he stood in the darkness languidly shining the light over the dangerous beauty, mesmerized, he suddenly realized the crotch of his pants was wet. He had ejaculated a copious amount into his underwear and the more disturbing fact is that he didn’t recall it happening. His face flushed crimson with embarrassment over the violation, bringing him back to the embarrassing nocturnal follies from his childhood. He looked away from the relief hanging on the wall, despite its strange pull, thinking that he’d have to change his pants later. He glanced over his shoulder at the magnificent tree, wondering if it had something to do with the emission or if it was a reaction to the artwork. Before that moment, he would have said either notion was impossible.
He’d been so engrossed in the darkness of the beguiling image from the moment he first saw it that he hadn’t noticed the formation of stones sitting below the relief. The stones were various shapes and sizes and carefully fitted together to form a huge rectangular box that stood as tall as his shoulders. The angular dimensions were frighteningly accurate. Shining the light over the craftsmanship of the hand-constructed stone box, he couldn’t see any stones jutting out of place within the shape and the edges of the box had a sharp perfection to them. It’s the very reason he almost didn’t see it from across the expanse, blending in with the wall, coupled with the darkness.
He moved alongside a large stepping-stone that had been placed in front of the box. He knelt down on the stone and shined the flashlight over the length of the box, running the palm of his hand over the edge and alongside the stone wall. How was such perfection with haphazard stones even possible? They were fitted together perfectly to form the flat-shaped sides to the box, despite the different sizes and shapes of stones. There were slivers and holes that he could fit his fingers into between the stones, but the points where the rocks met, formed smooth solid walls. It reminded him of the milk carton ice candles he’d made in kindergarten. Every kid saved his little milk container from lunch. A piece of wick would be knotted on one end, then run up through a hole in the bottom of the milk container and tied to a pencil resting on top to keep it from falling in. Ice chips would be poured into the container, then the teacher would come along and fill the container with hot colored wax. Once the wax hardened and the ice melted, the children would peel away the cardboard to reveal a beautiful candle that when lit, would shine through all the holes created from the ice.
He remembered researching a piece he’d done for the Gazette about early farm settlers that cultivated the land in America before our time and how they painstakingly constructed stone walls out of the rocks they tilled from the soil and used them to mark their territory. The farmers would hire masons to do the construction and for incentive they would place a bottle of whiskey at one end of the field where they wanted the wall to end. When the masons finished the day’s work, they could drink the whiskey if the wall reached its position. The masons quickly realized that the quickest way from point A to point B was a straight line. Hence the old saying Whiskey Walls. He doubted very much that old settlers made this box, but if they had—they’d have surely been schnockered.
He stood from kneeling and stepped onto the stepping-stone for a look inside the box. The sickening scent of sweet smoke and incense was at its strongest now that he was above the opening. He flashed the light inside the interior and was surprised at what he saw. The interior walls were as smooth as the outside construction, but what surprised him was the black felt-like substance that thickly coated the walls. He scraped the knife along the inside wall on one of the stones and ancient soot fluttered to the bottom like black butterflies.
Staring down into the ashen soot, an awful epiphany formed and his face turned white with the sudden realization of the purpose that this box held. He was no expert in religion by any means, but he knew this box had once been used as an altar for sacrifices.
Burning sacrifices.
Guttural screams of terror echoed in his head as visions floated across his mind of the unbearable suffering of helpless virgins bound by their wrists, dancing a fiery dance of torturous death amongst the merciless roaring flames of the sacrificial pit. He turned away from the unimaginable abomination, bile rising up in his throat trying to purge the disgust in his stomach. Man had created many a wondrous thing since creation, but the bones of ignorance and savagery had amassed just as much horror. That sick smell brought new meaning to his stomach and he could no longer contain his disgust.
He stepped down from the stone step and, despite the lack of an audience, he instinctually scrambled out of sight behind the altar, clutching at his mouth. Burning a finger for more than a second was unbearable. The thought of burning any living creature alive dropped him to his knees, as violent fits of retching frothed up from his angry gut and escaped his throat as he dry-heaved onto the clean stone floor. He clung to the detestable altar, embarrassed by his weak stomach for a journalist and thankful at the same time that no one had witnessed the act. Once his stomach settled and the convulsing reduced to a slight cramp, he pushed himself back up into a standing position using the altar for leverage and accidentally knocked one of the stones loose.
He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, missing the spittle on his goatee, and looked at the stone sticking out from the altar. It sat a few inches from the rest of the stones, like a long button waiting to be pushed. Just the thought of the whole disgusting thing made him want to trash it, but it was probably a very rare archeological find. He laid the knife on the edge of the altar and grabbed hold of the stone. Before he pushed it back in, he noticed that it was loose enough to wiggle back and forth between his fingers. Instead of pushing it back in, childish curiosity forced him to pull it. The stone instantly came free of the altar and rested in his hand.
At first he thought that he’d broken the stone, but it didn’t look quite right. The break was too clean. The part that’d been sticking inside the stone wall had been filed down to a flat edge. It was merely meant to cap off the hole. Was it cosmetic in nature? Why at the back where no one could see it? What did it matter? He laid the faux stone aside and went to reach inside the hole and stopped. He wasn’t losing his fingers to some ancient trap. He bent down and shined the flashlight inside the hole and something golden flashed back at him from the roof inside. The gold fixture was sitting on top of some kind of block. That wasn’t quite right either. It looked worn, like leather. Grabbing the knife from the altar, he carefully jabbed it inside, delicately fishing around in case there was a trap inside. Paranoid but satisfied, he put the knife back on top of the altar and reached inside until he felt metal. His fingers grasped the edge of the metal source atop the object. It was attached like ornamentation. Slowly, he tugged the object from the hole, feeling soft bumpy leather under his palm, and rested it on the floor next to the stone plug. He laid the flashlight next to the knife on the altar and aimed it at the wall. The batteries were getting low, but the flashlight flooded the tight spot behind the altar with light, revealing the book as he sat down beside it.
It was bound in brown tooled leather, worn from centuries of age, possibly more. The tooling was barely visible from wear, but the distinct outline of a branch-filled tree gently embossed into the old leather could be felt softly beneath the tips of his fingers as he ran his hand down the cover. In the center of the delicate design sat the gold emblem, constructed into the same circle and rod shape as the key he’d found in the vault. In the empty space of the golden circle was a single word written in what he guessed was Hebrew: יוּחֲסִין.
The leather compl
etely engulfed the contents of the book like an old video cassette case, not even pages were visible. He lifted the book, rested the binding in his lap and tried to open it. The seams held firm against the pull of his fingernails. It wouldn’t budge, not even a crack. He even tried prying it from the corner edge. It was as if it’d been super-glued shut all the way around. Then he saw the holes.
It was like a lightning bolt hit the seat of his pants. He jumped to his feet, cradling the book in his arms, and snatched the flashlight. Not caring about the knife, he left it at the altar and sprinted for the doorway. Before he ran into the hallway, he stopped beneath the arch of the door and looked back at the seductive relief hanging on the wall. He felt a wet tingle deep down in his loins and fear lifted the hair on the back of his neck. He didn’t know what it was all about, but he wasn’t sticking around to find out. With one last look, he tore himself from the doorway and ran past the strange foot bath and down the passageway. He’d continue searching the hallway later.
He jogged up both sets of stairs in the passageway at as steady a pace as his heart would allow. He felt his lungs straining for air as he batted at the sweat stinging his eyes, cursing himself for not taking track in high school. His excitement dulled the ache in his calves, but going up was not half as fun as going down. The last time he came close to climbing this many stairs was with his uncle on a tour of Lady Liberty.
He hadn’t been a moment too soon when he reached the opening into the basement. The batteries in the flashlight had yielded the best of their brilliance down below, just before the pale yellow beam petered out before his eyes. He lifted his leg up over the opening in the broken wall and stooped back into the dankness of the basement. As he stood before the busted brick wall, gawking at his luck with the flashlight, a strong sickeningly sweet breeze of incense blew out and wafted past his nose and into the basement.
After running up the basement stairs once again, he dropped the spent flashlight next to the bundled book he’d pilfered from the church and ran upstairs to his bedroom with his new find. The book bounced on the bed as he tossed it down and fished underneath for the key he’d hidden for safe keeping before his visit with Father Alazar. His fingers found the tear in the lining of the box spring and snaked the familiar shape out.
Sitting on the floor alongside the bed, he reached up and pulled the book down onto the Persian carpet. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this excited. He twirled the gold circle shape between his fingers, admiring the intricately detailed lines in the rope shape and wondering how it was crafted with such detail so long ago. Before his discovery of the magical healing tree, he never would have thought a supernatural anything existed in this world, besides the TV show. Magic was stuff kids and fanciful adults dreamed of, not a reality.
He slid the book onto his lap and twisted the spine up towards his face. The holes in the binding matched the exact length apart as the little points that jutted from the back of the key. He tapped the little points with his finger and a slight frown grew on his face.
What would happen when he opened it?
Unexpectedly, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to find out. He wasn’t physically afraid, not really. The supernatural tree he’d encountered had been a positive help. He looked down at his pants. So far, only harmless side effects. But this was something more. Wasn’t it? What he was holding in his lap, and especially what was down below, would tip the world off its axis. He hadn’t fully stopped to think about the effects it could cause. It would be both negative and positive. Did one outweigh the other? He gave the tome a strong look. It depended on what was in this book.
All his life, he’d been wishy-washy when it came to religion. Not buying into his mother’s southern rhetoric, nor ever truly swaying like a palm tree in one direction or the other with the masses. He’d certainly never been a believer or follower in any factions of faith, but looking at the miracle of life, the world around him and space beyond, it was impossible to completely deny the existence of strategic design or the idea of a creator, whether that be a deity or a little green man. The earth’s self-sustaining ecosystem is solid proof of that. Humans breathe oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide. Trees thrive on carbon dioxide and release life-sustaining oxygen—and now heal, he thought. Storm clouds rain down precious water and evaporation sends it back up for recycling. People eat from the earth, live on the earth and go back into the earth when they die. How could mere chance evolution produce something so perfect, regardless of the countless passing of Darwinian eons? The general feel of connectedness was hard to deny. That’s why he’s always held a semi-agnostic belief.
Wishy-washy.
His dear high school friend, Theo, who’d died in the tragic Pan Am flight 103 crash, would always call him wishy-washy like Charlie Brown. She had been an intelligent atheist.
The metal felt cool and oddly satisfying between his fingers while he held it over the binding, lining up the points of the key with the holes. He was torn over what to do. He laughed at that thought, it was purely an idiom. How could he not open the book? Curiosity’s sake alone demanded it. What difference would it make to him? He’d built his life, the man he became, from his own just actions and moral decisions. Not because of some book with a deadly following. Religion has never won him over to the faith side. How could learning the truth change who he’d become? But then poor Theo’s voice echoed in his head: Wishy-Washy Charlie Brown, Wishy-Washy Charlie Brown. No matter how hard he tried to push faith and religion and a creator out of his head, he couldn’t. Life was too complex and his damned Wishy-Washy logic, which really wasn’t so Wishy-Washy, wouldn’t allow him to rule out the unknown. Even if he discovered how and where all life came from, the question was infinite. Who then, in turn, created the creator? It went far beyond being a conundrum. It was a question that no one could ever answer. It made his head hurt just thinking about it. Maybe Theo was right.
The supernatural aspect of the book sitting in his lap sent goosebumps down his arms. When Father Alazar had told him about the artifact being supernatural in nature, he’d silently scoffed at him. After today, he wished he could take that back. Whatever this book was, it held the power to be dangerous on a large scale. Dangerous enough for a mysterious organization, one that has been in existence possibly since the beginning of man, to want to get their hands on it bad enough to commit murder for it. That was if this was truly the book of which Father Alazar spoke. There was only one way to find out.
The key in Jack’s hand began to shake from his nerves. Maybe he should try and find Father Alazar before going through with this alone, but he’d lied to him about the pew. Why? He hadn’t trusted the priest completely, even less after that lie. Something in his journalistic blood was telling him that something was awry. But what? What reason would he have for lying? He didn’t like the answers floating in the ether. But then Jack flipped the picture for a second and realized that Alazar had no reason to trust him, either. After all, Jack was the one to reach out to him and the man had also tried to blow him off. No. He couldn’t wait to open the book. He wouldn’t. Maybe if he saw for himself, he’d have a better understanding of what he was up against. What all this had been about. Why his uncle and father had to die.
He took a deep breath and steadied his hand. Light danced off the shiny golden shape and sparkled in his hand like a diamond. He lined the points of the key up with the holes in the book and held it mid-air for a second. Silencing Theo’s voice in his head and with a newfound determination, he pushed the key until it was flush with the binding. Then suddenly, everything went black.
November 12, 4:01 A.M., EST
Across from the Brownstone, Upper East Side
LARS DIETRICH SAT across from the brownstone in the rented BMW, finishing his coffee. The sun was almost up and he was certain the lawyer’s nephew hadn’t seen him when he ran from the brownstone and down into the subway entrance. He would wait for now. He was leaving the house too early; probably getting breakfast or something.
Lars sent the last minute failure of a field agent, Wilhelm, back to their secret headquarters underneath the Vatican. This had been his second blunder. That was exactly why the Führer never gave second chances. The task couldn’t have been simpler and the simple man bested Wilhelm with a cheap tin trophy. Emmerich’s son, the foolish scientist, should never have sent Wilhelm in the first place. He’d overstepped his boundaries. Lars was the head of all field ops including security. It gave Lars great comfort to know that the Führer didn’t make exceptions for family failures.
Wilhelm had pleaded with him to stay on the mission. Lars lied and assured him that everything would be fine. The truth of the matter was quite the opposite. The Führer never accepted less than 100% success. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough. He was surprised in the first place to find out that Wilhelm had gotten a second chance. The fool. He deserved whatever fate the twisted scientists brought down on him. Lars would have been disgraced accepting such a generous offer, but he would never need it. Lars had worked hard within the organization, gaining the trust of the Führer, his admiration even. Lars was the only one in the organization’s history to score in the one hundredth percentile across the board on all evaluative tests. The Führer had recognized his potential from the start and promised him great things would come from his hard work and dedication. There wasn’t a soldat soldier amongst them that could beat him in hand-to-hand combat, or anything else for that matter.
