“You’re right, little brother.” Nabil kept the beam trained on the opening as he moved around the rim of the crater. “It is a cave.”
Achmed followed him to the mouth. Together they peered in. The floor of the cave was littered with small rock fragments, a thick layer of dust, and … something else.
The beam picked out an object with four short straight legs and what appeared to be a seat.
Achmed said, “Is that—?
“A bench or a chair of some sort.”
Achmed was shaking with excitement. He grabbed Nabil’s shoulder and found that his brother too was shaking.
“Let’s go in,” Nabil said.
Achmed’s dry mouth would not allow him to speak. He followed his brother’s lead, climbing over the pile of broken and fallen-away stone. They entered the cave in silence.
Dry, musty air within, laden with dust. Achmed coughed and rubbed his nose. They approached the little bench, covered with a think coat of dust like everything else. Achmed reached out to brush the dust away, to see what sort of wood it was made of. He touched it lightly.
The bench gave way, falling in on itself, crumbling, disintegrating into a lumpy pile of rotted flakes.
“Oaf!” Nabil hissed.
“May Allah be my witness, I barely touched it!”
Apparently Nabil believe him. “Then this cave must have been sealed for a long time. This place is old.”
He flashed the beam around. To the right—another bench and what looked like a low table; to the left—
Nabil’s gasp echoed Achmed’s.
Urns. Two of them: one lying on its side, broken; the other upright, intact, its domed lid securely in place.
“That’s what my stone must have hit!”
Nabil was already moving forward. He angled the beam into the broken urn.
“A scroll!!” His older brother’s voice was hushed. “There’s a scroll in this one! It’s torn and crumbling … it’s ancient!”
Achmed dropped quivering to his knees in the dust.
“Allah be praised! He has led us here!”
Nabil lifted the lid of the second urn and beamed the light into its mouth.
“More scrolls! Achmed, they will be singing our names around the night fires for generations!”
“Allah be praised!” Achmed was too overcome to think of anything else to say.
Nabil replaced the lid and swung the flashlight beam back to the broken urn.
“You take that one. It’s already broken but be careful! We don’t want to do any more damage to that scroll. I’ll take the unbroken one.”
Achmed bent, slipped his sweating, trembling palms under the broken urn, and gently lifted it into his arms as if it were a cranky infant brother who had finally fallen asleep. He rose to his feet and edged toward the mouth of the cave. He didn’t need the flashlight beam to light his exit—after the deep night of this tiny cave, the moonlit canyon outside seemed noon bright. He stepped carefully over the jumbled rocks outside the mouth, then waited on level ground for Nabil.
This is wonderful, he thought. Our family will be rich, and Nabil and I will be famous.
He saw the hand of Allah in this, rewarding him for his daily prayers, his fasting, and his strict observance of Holy Days. He turned and faced south, toward Mecca, and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving. Then he looked at the moon, thanking Allah for making it bright tonight.
But the prayer choked in his throat and he nearly dropped the treasure in his arms when he noticed a figure standing atop the far cliff they had skirted to reach this canyon. Silhouetted against the moonlit sky, it seemed to be watching him. For a moment he was transfixed with fear, then he heard Nabil behind him. He turned to see his brother stepping over the rubble before the cave mouth.
“Nabil!”
His brother looked up and stumbled, but caught himself before he fell.
“What is it?” he said between his teeth.
“Up on the cliff …” Achmed turned to look and saw that the upper edge of the cliff was now empty. The sentinel figure had vanished.
“What?” Nabil said, the irritation mounting in his tone. “Finish what you begin!”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you standing there like a blind camel? Move! We’ll take these back to the donkey then search the cave for more.”
They had just reached the donkey and were laying their treasures in the sand when Achmed heard something. He lifted his head and listened. A low hum. No … a pulsating thrum.
“Tayya’ra!”
Nabil leapt into motion. “Quickly! The scrolls! Bundle them up!”
They pulled the blankets they had brought, wrapped the urns in them, then slung them over the donkey’s back.
“Let’s go!”
“What about the metal?” Achmed cried.
“Forget the metal! We have a far greater treasure! But if the Israelis find us, they’ll steal it! Hurry!”
With Nabil pulling from the front and Achmed again switching from behind, they drove the donkey down the bank and across the wadi. As they slipped around the leading edge of the outcrop, the sound of the helicopter grew louder.
“It could be anywhere down there,” the copilot said.
Kesev stared below, watching the bright beam of the searchlight lance the darkness and dance along the peaks, plateaus, and crevasses that dominated this area of the Wilderness. They had been running a crisscrossing search pattern for thirty minutes now.
“I think we can be pretty sure no one was hurt by this thing,” the pilot said after a few more minutes of searching. “Maybe we’d better put this off, come back when it’s light and—”
“Keep going.” Kesev was getting the lay of the land now. “Follow this canyon south.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the pilot and copilot exchange glances and discreet shrugs, but neither challenged his authority.
The canyon widened below them, and then the search beam picked up white wisps trailing through the air.
“Smoke!” the copilot cried.
Kesev pointed. “It exploded on the canyon floor.”
He released a soft sigh of relief. A glance to his left at the top of the east wall of the canyon reassured him that the Resting Place was untouched.
Close, he thought. Too close.
And then he remembered that the canyon floor had its own secrets.
“Swing the light around,” he said. “See if we can find the point of impact.”
It took less than a minute.
“There!” the copilot said. “At two o’clock. Looks like it took out part of the cliff wall too.”
Kesev went rigid in the seat. The SCUD crater was right where the cave had been—still was. Had the explosion—?
“Take us down.”
“Sir, we’ve accomplished our objective,” the pilot said. “We’ve found the impact sight and determined that there’s been no personal injury or property damage, so—”
“Land this thing now,” Kesev said softly, just loud enough to be heard over the engine noise, “or you’ll spend the rest of your career working a broom handle instead of that joystick.”
The pilot turned. For a heartbeat or two he stared at Kesev from within the confines of his flight helmet, then took the copter down.
As soon as the wheels touched earth, Kesev was out of his harness. He pulled off his flack jacket—he didn’t need it, had only worn it because of regulations—and reached for the hatch handle.
“Stay here and train the search beam on the crater. This will take but a minute.”
He opened the hatch and ran in a crouch through the hurricane from the whirling blades, following the path of the search beam. He cursed as he neared the crater he saw that the cave had been exposed by the blast. What abysmal luck!
&nbs
p; On the other hand, how fortunate that he’d obeyed his instincts and come along to check this out. As a result, he was first on the scene. He could prevent this minor mishap from escalating into a catastrophe. He skirted the edge of the crater and stepped over the rocks tumbled before the cave mouth. Whoever was working the search beam back in the copter was doing a good job keeping it trained on him. The cave lit up before him.
That was when he noticed the footprints.
Panic clamped his heart in an icy fist as his gaze ranged wildly about the cave.
Empty. But in the dust on the floor … sandalprints … two sets … one larger than the other … the old chair—reduced to dust … the urns …
The urns! Gone! No, not completely. Fragments from one lay scattered in the dust.
How could this be? How could a pair of thieves have come and gone so soon? So swiftly? It wasn’t possible!
And yet the fresh footprints reminded him that it was indeed possible.
The urns … what had they held? It had been so long, he could barely remember. Anything of value? Old shekels? He didn’t care about losing little bits of gold or silver. What he did mind was word of the find getting out and causing archeological interest to center on the area. That could prove extremely dangerous.
But what had he put in those urns? He prayed it was nothing that might reveal the secret of this place. He racked his brain for the memory. It was there, just out of reach. It—
The scroll!
Dear Lord, he’d left the scroll in one of those urns!
Kesev staggered in a circle, his breath rasping, his heart beating wildly against the inner surface of his sternum as his vision blurred and lights danced in his vision.
He had to get it back! If it fell into the hands of someone who could translate it—
He leapt from the cave and ran back to the helicopter.
“Give me a flashlight! A canteen too.” When the copilot handed them out, Kesev jerked a thumb skyward. “Return to base. I’m staying here.”
“That’s not necessary, sir,” the pilot said. “The inspection team will be here at first light and—”
“Someone’s already beat us here. Probably picking up scrap metal. I’ll stay on and make sure they don’t come back and disturb anything else.”
Kesev was back outside, stepping clear and waving them off. He couldn’t see them inside the cabin, but he was sure the two airmen were shrugging and saying, If the crazy little man from Shin Bet wants to stay in the middle of nowhere until morning, let him.
Kesev watched the copter rise, bank, and roar away into the night. As the swirling dust settled on and about him, Kesev stood statue still among the stunted olive trees and listened … for anything. For any hint of movement that might lead him toward the thieves. But all he heard was the ringing aftermath of the helicopter’s roar. His hearing would be of little value for the next quarter hour or so.
He walked back to the cave. He had to look again, had to be sure he’d seen those footprints, be absolutely certain the urns were gone.
He searched the cave inch by inch, poking the flashbeam into every nook, corner, crack, and crevice. And as he searched he pounded the remaining furniture to rotted splinters; the same with the remnants of bedding against the rear wall; he systematically shattered anything that might hint that the cave had ever been inhabited by a human being. He took the crumbled remnants of the furniture and pulverized them under his heels, then he kicked and scattered the resultant powder, mixing it with the fine dust that layered the floor.
Satisfied that he’d made the cave as uninteresting as possible, he pocketed the broken fragments of urn, then went outside and cried silently to the sinking eye of the moon.
Why? Why has this happened?
Kesev did not wait for an answer. Instead he headed across the field toward the east wall of the canyon.
One more place left to check.
He knew the way. He hadn’t been up to the ledge in a long, long while, but his feet had trod the hidden path so many times that they carried him along now with no conscious effort.
He reached the top and stood on the broad ledge, breathing hard. He’d grown soft in many ways. He coughed and sipped from the canteen. So dry out here. The membranes inside of his nostrils felt as if they were ready to crack and peel like old paint. In the old days he wouldn’t have noticed, but he’d grown soft living so near the sea all these years in Tel Aviv.
He hurried to the mound of rocks that covered the entrance to the Resting Place. They remained undisturbed, as he’d expected. Still, relief flooded through him.
This was holy ground. Kesev had vowed to protect it. He would gladly die—more than gladly—to preserve its secret.
But his relief was short lived. The secret of the Resting Place lay within the coils of the stolen scroll. Its theft could have disastrous consequences.
He drifted to the edge of the ledge and stared down the sheer three-hundred-foot drop to the canyon’s shadowed floor. In the old days, at least for someone who didn’t know the torturous little path to the top, this sort of climb would daunt all but the most foolhardy adventurer. Nowadays, with modern climbing techniques—or helicopters, for those with deeper pockets—such a precipice offered but a momentary obstacle.
He turned and stared east, across the lengthening shadows behind the foothills that sloped down to the mirror surface of the Dead Sea. He hurled the urn fragments into the air and knew he’d never hear the clatter of their impact on the rocks so far below. The Resting Place was safe up here, hidden from the casual observer as well as the determined searcher …
Unless …
Unless a searcher had something to guide him.
Where are you? he thought as he searched the craggy wilderness spread out below. Where are you thieving bastards hiding? You can’t stay hidden forever. I’d be searching for you now if I weren’t afraid to leave this place unattended. But I’ll find you eventually. Sooner or later you’ll have to show yourselves. Eventually you have to slither out from under your rock to sell what you’ve stolen from me. And then I’ll have you. Then you’ll wish you’d never laid eyes on that scroll.
The scroll … how much did it tell? How detailed were its descriptions of the area? If only he could remember. So long since he’d last read it. Kesev squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples, trying to massage the hidden information from the reluctant crevices of his brain.
Was the scroll even legible any longer?
That was his single best hope: that the scroll had been in the urn the thieves had broken, that it had been damaged to the point where its remnants were little more than an incoherent jumble of disjointed sentences.
Kesev turned and was so startled by the sight of her that he nearly tumbled backward off the ledge.
Robed and wimpled exactly as she had been in life, she stood near the rubble that blocked the entrance to the Resting Place and stared at him. Kesev waited for her to speak, as she had spoken to him many times in the past, but she said nothing, merely stared at him a moment, then faded from view.
So many years, so many years since she had shown herself here. Kesev had heard reports from all over the world of her appearances, but so long since she had graced this spot with her presence.
Why now, just after the scroll had been pilfered? What did this mean?
Kesev stood on the precipice and trembled. Something was happening. A wheel had been set in motion tonight. He could almost feel it turning. Where was it taking him? Where was it taking the world?
I approached the Essenes at Qumran but they tried to stone me. I fled further south, wandering the west shore of the sea of Lot. Perhaps Massada would have me. Surely they would welcome one of my station. Or perhaps I would have to push further south to Zohar.
I do not know where to go. And I am alone in Creation.
from the Glass scro
ll
Rockefeller Museum translation
THE PRESENT
ONE
Fall
Jerusalem
The poor man looked as if he were going to cry.
“You … you’re sure?”
Harold Gold watched Professor Pearlman nod sagely as they sat in the professor’s office in the manuscript department of the Rockefeller Archeological Museum and gave Mr. Glass the bad news.
Richard Glass was American, balding, and very fat—a good hundred pounds overweight. He described himself as a tourist—a frequent visitor to Israel who owned a condo in Tel Aviv. Last month he’d brought in a scroll he said he’d purchased at a street bazaar in the Arab Quarter and asked if its antiquity could be verified.
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Glass.” Pearlman stroked his graying goatee. “A gloriously skillful fake, but a fake nevertheless.”
“But you said—”
“The parchment itself is First Century—we stand by that. No question about it. And the ink contains the dyes and minerals in the exact proportions used by First Century scribes.”
The first thing the department had done was date the parchment. Once that was ballparked in the two-thousand-year-old mark, they’d translated it. That was when people had begun to get excited. Very excited.
“Then what—?”
“The writing itself, Mr. Glass. Our carbon dating tests—and believe me, we’ve repeated the dating numerous times—all yield the same result: the words were placed on the parchment within the past ten or twelve years.”
Mr. Glass’s eyes bulged. “Ten or twelve—! My God, what an idiot I am!”
“Not at all, not at all,” Professor Pearlman said. “It had us fooled too. It’s a very skillful job. And I assure you, Mr. Glass, you cannot be more disappointed than we.”
Amen to that, Harold thought. He’d been in a state of euphoria for the past month, thanking God for his luck. Imagine, being here on sabbatical from NYU when the manuscript department receives an item that could make the Dead Sea scrolls look like lists of old matzoh recipes. When he’d read the translation he’d suspected it might be too explosive to be true, but he’d gone on hoping … hoping …
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