by Merry Jones
Josh guided her to section thirteen, where Lynne was waiting, decked out in hat, sunglasses, kneepads and gloves, her nose covered with zinc oxide.
‘Let me show you how to get started,’ Josh offered. He took out a trowel, gently digging into the ground, scratching the top exposed stratum of earth. Removing the dirt, straining it through a screen into a nearby bucket. ‘You strain to examine the fill.’
Harper watched impatiently. ‘We’ll manage. Really.’
‘But be careful,’ Josh said. ‘The earth is in layers, or stratifications. You’ll be able to see them, the different colors and textures. So you want to dig evenly, going only one layer at a time to preserve context – in other words, to be sure of the exact location of the find. Because the deeper the stratum, the older the find. That’s why we remove only one level at a time, to keep things in their own time—’
‘She knows all about it, Josh.’ Lynne interrupted. ‘Harper here has a PhD in archeology. She could probably teach you what to do.’
Josh’s mouth opened. ‘Oh. You’re Dr Jennings? Dr Ben Haim told us you’d be joining us. Sorry. I didn’t realize . . .’ His face splotched red. Embarrassed. ‘Well, nice to meet you. Let me know if you need anything.’ He hurried away.
For the next several hours, Harper and Lynne removed dirt from their five-meter section, strained it into buckets to make sure nothing of interest was in there, and dug some more.
And for just about all of those hours, Lynne seemed compelled to talk. She complained about the heat. About how monotonous the work was. About men, marriage. She talked about how she’d met Peter back in college, at Ball State. How they’d had a rough patch when she couldn’t get pregnant, but then they’d turned to Pastor Travis and he’d saved their marriage and put them back in touch with God. She talked about how blessed she was to have the pastor in her life. How he’d inspired her and given her new direction. She asked about Harper’s marriage.
Harper didn’t want to talk about it but, as the day passed, she opened up, sharing memories of meeting Hank in Iraq, when he had been a civilian consultant, she an army officer. He’d offered her a drink, even though she’d been on duty. He’d been confident, brash. Handsome. Her voice thickened, remembering how he’d been then, his smooth words, his easy gait. God, it had been a long time since she’d thought about how he’d been before his accident. She stopped talking, coughing. Not wanting to go on.
‘You okay?’
‘It’s just the dust.’ But her voice was unsteady, so she didn’t say more.
They repeated the digging pattern, working in rhythm: removing earth, straining it, filling buckets, straining again, digging some more. Lynne went on about her pastor and how he’d changed her life. She talked about how much evil there was in the world – crime, poverty, disease, war. How leaders had risen on false pretences, serving not for good, but for their own interests. How, if you really thought about it, the end of the world seemed inevitable. In fact, that realization was what drew her into her church. Made her want to serve God’s purpose in these troubled days.
Harper tried to tune her out. She didn’t want to engage in conversation about Lynne’s world view or her church. She wanted even less to talk about crime and war, or to theorize about the end of the world. She made no reply, focusing on the joy of being part of a dig. On lifting small bits of ancient earth, sifting them through a screen into a bucket.
Eventually, Lynne stood and stretched, stepped carefully around the perimeter of their section, pulling over an empty bucket. ‘I don’t get it, Harper. Why would you want to be an archeologist?’ she reached for her trowel.
Harper looked up, not sure how to answer.
‘I mean,’ Lynne laughed, ‘your career’s always going to be in ruins.’
‘Very funny.’ Harper smirked, took off her hat, wiped sweat from her forehead. She’d heard the joke before, but chuckled to be polite, relieved that Lynne could talk things other than church.
‘But there’s good news. The older your husband gets, the more interesting you’ll find him.’ Lynne grinned wickedly.
Harper groaned. ‘So, this is how it’s going to be?’
‘Sorry. When I told my friends back in Indiana that I was going on a dig, they told me a ton of archeology jokes.’
‘I’ve heard them all.’ Harper kept digging.
‘So, tell me.’ Lynne lowered her voice. ‘Is it true archeologists like it dirty?’
Harper rolled her eyes, nodding. ‘And we will date anything, even our own mummies. That’s because we dig mummies.’
This time, Lynne moaned.
‘Also, we cut our hair with Caesars. And, if we don’t eat right on digs, we get irregular trowel movements. Trust me, Lynne. I have millions of them – they get worse. Want me to go on?’ She put her hat back on, picked up her trowel and began digging again.
‘No.’ Lynne put her hands up, grinning, warding off more jokes. ‘It’s enough. But we should write these down and put on a show for the others. We can call it “The Archeology Revue”, or – wait for it – “Arty Facts” – get it? Artifacts?’
Harper got it. She stood and sifted dirt through a screen, found nothing, came back and dug some more. The sun was hot, she was sweaty, covered with dirt, and so far, the earth hadn’t given up a single find. But, Lord, she was having fun.
Harper didn’t even go back to the bungalow to shower. As soon as the bus pulled into the kibbutz, she said goodbye to Lynne and hurried to the nursery. In fourteen months, she hadn’t been apart from Chloe for longer than a couple of hours. Had Chloe missed her? Had she been afraid or cried?
From a distance, Harper heard shrieks and giggles, and when she got to the picket fence, she stopped and watched. Chloe was standing in the big inflatable toddler pool, perfectly happy, wearing her pink ruffled bathing suit, pouring cups of water onto a little boy’s back. Harper’s chest tightened. Chloe had been fine without her. Had played happily with other kids. Had transformed in just a few hours from a baby into a little girl, and at least one little boy seemed entirely at her mercy. Lord.
Hagit and Yael chatted beside the pool. Everything was calm. Harper’s presence wasn’t required.
‘Mama! Eemah!’ Chloe spotted her, but continued to pour water onto the boy.
Hagit looked up, seemed startled to see Harper. Glanced at her watch. ‘You’re here already?’
Harper joined them by the pool, knelt to kiss Chloe. ‘How did the day go?’
‘How did you expect?’ Hagit asked. ‘It was fine. You can see for yourself.’
‘Chloe made lots of friends,’ Yael smiled.
‘She’s having fun. Go. Relax a while. I’ll bring her home later.’
Harper felt dismissed, but didn’t want to argue. She gave Chloe another kiss and wandered back out the gate, the sounds of children’s laughter fading as she got to her bungalow.
By evening, Harper was restless. She waited for the goodnight call from Hank, but when it came, it didn’t calm her. In fact, it upset her even more. Hank’s attention was divided because Trent was in the background, interrupting like a pestering child, nagging Hank to get off the phone. They talked for only a few minutes, long enough for her to say that Chloe liked nursery school and that she’d made it through her first day at the dig. She asked if there was any news about the murders in the shuk; he said he hadn’t heard anything except that the investigation was ongoing. She asked how his day had been; he gave a vague, clipped response.
‘Busy. Went to sea.’ Or to see? ‘Tired.’
And the call was over. Afterwards, Harper sat outside on the porch, looking at the stars and the dark valley. Then she looked in on Chloe, who clutched her stuffed monkey in her sleep. Hagit was drinking tea, watching Israeli television on the big flat screen. Harper didn’t want to watch television. Didn’t feel like reading. Finally, too unsettled to sleep, she decided to take a walk.
The air was cool, almost chilly. And the stars so bright, she could see her way even where ther
e were no streetlights. She walked without a destination. Just following the road in the quiet star-filled night. For a while, the only sound she heard was her own footsteps. But then, passing the main office building, through the open windows, she heard a man’s voice. She stopped walking and listened.
Yes, someone was speaking in the meeting hall. Was there a kibbutz meeting? Or – uh-oh – a meeting about the dig? Had she missed a memo? She followed the voice, heard it more clearly but couldn’t make out the words until she heard a chorus of ‘Amen’.
Oh, of course. The church group. They must be having a prayer session. Harper relaxed, kept walking. But the man’s voice was so full of vibrato, so pulsing with energy that she had to stop and go close enough to hear it.
‘. . . And it will be glorious as promised. It will surpass all your dreams and hopes, will be more passionate than any love you’ve known, more joyous than any pleasure you’ve experienced . . .’
‘Amen!’ voices shouted.
‘The Lord has written it in the code that he guided me to decipher, has pledged it to you, the few who have come here with me, to Megiddo . . .’
More cries of ‘Amen.’
‘It will be here, where I have brought you. All we have to do is follow His word, as He has written it, as I have read to you from His hidden verses. We must bring unto Him—’
‘Three lambs,’ the voices answered.
‘Yes. Three lambs. Symbolizing each of His lineages, sacrificed according to His word, and then, only then, and exactly then on that date which He has written in the code that I have read to you – then will His promise be fulfilled and—’
‘The battle in Megiddo will begin and end,’ the voices answered.
‘And when it is over—’
‘We will rise.’
‘Yes, we will. We will rise with Him to His holy kingdom—’
‘Where we will live forever with the Lord. Amen.’ The voices rang, and a hymn began.
Harper stood transfixed. She hadn’t been to church in a while. But, even when she’d gone, she hadn’t heard this kind of preaching. What was the pastor talking about? Sacrificing lambs? Fighting a battle here in Megiddo? Rising up to God’s kingdom?
God’s kingdom, as in heaven? Where dead people went?
Oh Lord. Was this preacher one of those charismatic leaders – like Jim Jones? He’d been a charismatic. Years ago, he’d made his entire church kill themselves, promising they’d go to heaven. Some nine hundred of his followers had died – even children had swallowed poisoned Kool-Aid just because he’d told them to. Was this another Jim Jones? An end-of-the-world cult leader?
The small congregation was singing an unfamiliar hymn; someone with a soprano drowned the others out. The voices were strong, didn’t sound suicidal. Harper thought about what the preacher had actually said. He’d deciphered a code in the Bible. And they had to make sacrifices so they could go to God’s kingdom.
Maybe the pastor was just into Numerology. Wasn’t that all about codes hidden in the Bible? Or maybe he’d been preaching about the Book of Revelation. Didn’t that talk about the end of days? There were lots of possibilities. Interpreting the Bible didn’t make the pastor an instrument of death and suicide. No. Harper was seeing danger where there was none. Lynne’s pastor had nothing to do with Jim Jones.
Harper stood under the night sky, listening to the little congregation begin another song. ‘Amazing Grace’ floated out of the building, up to the stars.
She gazed up, felt small. Humbled. She walked back to her bungalow, ready to sleep. When she climbed into bed, she was still humming ‘Amazing Grace’.
The killer had gone through the motions of the day, mingling, chatting, eating. But by sundown, the tension had become unbearable. Every nerve was on fire, every muscle screamed. Relief could come only from fulfilling the promise, making it right. But how was that possible? How? Nothing had gone right so far. The assignment was a shambles. It hadn’t been completed, hadn’t gone as expected. And failure – well, failure would be catastrophic.
The killer was breathing too hard, sweating. Needed to regain control. Okay. It was best to begin by making peace with the Lord. Admit to Him that mistakes had occurred. Accidents had happened. Unpredictably. It was important to clarify what had happened. The killer knelt, head bowed, and offered a prayer. Apologized. Promised to make adjustments, fulfill the obligation. Prepare His people for what was to come. Make the required sacrifice. Clear the way for what He willed.
Afterwards, the killer washed again to be pure for the task at hand. Scrubbed away dusty traces of the physical world, scraped flesh until bloodstained water circled the drain. And then, cleansed, the killer donned black clothing and stepped into the night, called the assistant, and drove off, passing gates and security stops and miles of highway, to search for a proper lamb.
Finally, in the labyrinth again, while the assistant waited, the killer hunted. The hour was late, the stalls locked. The place almost abandoned. But that was fine. Those still here would be of the final lineage. Would fulfill the triad. Hunkering in shadow, the killer remained alert, ready to strike. The trap was set: a dark string tied tautly across the main path, a line for prey to trip over.
Waiting. Enduring cramps in the legs. Resisting fatigue. Mentally rehearsing the process: seeing the lamb stumbling and falling. Pouncing before it could recover, swinging the blade cleanly and mercifully across its neck while uttering the prayer. And finally, leaving the warning, the mark for all sinners to see.
This time, it would go smoothly, completing the command.
If only the lamb would show itself.
The killer counted seconds, minutes. Began to fear that it was too late, that sunrise was too close.
But, finally, footsteps clacked on the stone walkway, approaching the trap. The killer peered out of the dark corner, watching, gripping the blade. Ready. The prey wore a uniform. A soldier? Maybe security. And it walked with energy, a purpose in mind. The footsteps echoed against metal shutters of the booths. And they came closer. Ten steps away? Eight?
The killer counted down, thighs burning and set to spring, knife ready to slay.
Three steps. Two.
One.
The killer rose to strike, but the security officer walked on. Didn’t fall. Didn’t stumble. Didn’t even break stride.
Stunned, the killer gaped at the empty path, at the broken string. It had been too thin, had snapped. Hadn’t brought down the prey.
The killer jumped up and started after him, knife raised. Unwilling to admit defeat, revising the plan, deciding to call out and startle him. To plunge the knife when he turned.
But at the last moment, the killer hesitated. The officer was trained, would reach reflexively for his firearm.
Instead of getting shot, the killer went back to the shadows and tied another string across the path, this time doubling it. Failure was unacceptable; the offering had to be made, the sacrifice completed. And then, the position of honor would be eternal, with passion and joy for all time.
The killer waited, crouched in the darkness. When someone tripped on the string, the killer jumped, raising the knife, reciting the prayer and realized almost too late that it was the assistant coming to say it was time to go. The killer clutched the knife, angrily waiting for the assistant to recover. Neither made mention of how close the assistant had come to death.
Lugging the gear in the hot sun reminded Harper of other lugging, other gear. She rattled it off in her mind: ammunition, rifle, pistol, body armor, helmet, assault pack, food, flashlight, water, batteries, radio, first-aid kit. Eighty pounds, maybe more . . .
But this wasn’t Iraq. This land was moist and green. Its air clear and sweet, not heavy with sand and smoke. Not broken by cracks of rifle fire and cries of pain.
Damn. Why was she drifting back to Iraq? Oh, right: the gear. But this gear was trowels and gloves, brushes and screens. Peacetime gear, intended for discovery, not war and destruction. Harper stopped to look out o
ver the site, the expanse of exposed sections, the pits partially dug. She took a deep breath, felt a rush of anticipation. Even working as a menial volunteer was exhilarating. She was reaching into the past. Bringing it back into the light. Who cared about the weight of the gear? She hurried to section thirteen to join Lynne and start working.
Lynne, however, was not as eager to work as Harper. She’d sat with her husband on the bus, and now she stood with him, the pastor and another man at the perimeter.
‘Harper,’ Lynne called her over. ‘Meet my husband, Peter. His dig partner, Lowell Olsen. And our pastor, Ramsey Travis.’
Harper had to put down the gear in order to shake their extended hands, one by one. Peter’s was perfunctory, impersonal. Lowell’s was eager, damp. And Pastor Travis’s was indistinct.
Harper didn’t want to stop and chat. She wanted to pick the gear up and go to work. But Lynne went on talking.
‘Harper’s a real archeologist. She actually knows what she’s doing here.’
The others chuckled. Well, everyone but Peter. His eyes were strained, and his smile forced.
‘Do you really?’ Pastor Travis’s broad shoulders towered over her. ‘Because our little group, our church members, are just relying on the Lord’s guidance. We’re here to help Him reveal what He will in His own time. Because time is different to the Lord. If you remember Peter chapter three, verse eight: With the Lord, a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day.’
Harper didn’t know how to respond. Wasn’t even sure what he meant. She thought of his preaching the night before and of Jim Jones’ poisoned Kool-Aid.
‘Amen,’ the others mumbled.
