by WR Armstrong
McGrath wanted to refute what she was saying for it seemed too bizarre, too improbable to be true. Yet he could not do that, for deep down he sensed there was truth in what she said, and it painted a picture horrifying in its potentiality. Kate looked at him and said, “You’re a closed book on this particular subject, aren’t you Paul?”
He shrugged his shoulders, unsure, and watched a car drive past, heading up the hill in the direction of Evesham.
“Look at me,” she urged.
He did as she asked, but it was difficult, for he didn’t want to see her disappointment. He had let her down in the restaurant even though he had the best of intentions, and was fighting her on a viewpoint that he privately conceded had much foundation.
“Do you believe in God, Paul?”
He blinked in response, the question catching him off guard. He hadn’t given religion any serious thought for years. He had been christened a Protestant and was wed in a Christian church. He’d even been known to pray when he’d found himself in a dangerous or life threatening situation during his time in the army. When he really thought about it he didn’t even know who the hell he thought was listening to his prayers. Prayer was an automatic response to a stressful situation. It was a way of coping, of not feeling totally alone when the chips were down. Doing so had felt the right thing to do; it had offered him comfort and in some unexplainable way, reassured him. Did he believe in God? He honestly didn’t know. Perhaps he did. He supposed something had to be responsible for creating this piss awful world we lived in. Something or someone must be out there in the vast unknown with more idea of what the fuck was going on, and why we existed in the first place. That being the case, it or she or he probably went by some kind of name. The Christian religion had chosen to call whatever the hell it was God. It was, McGrath supposed, as simple as that.
“Yes,” he said having given the question careful consideration, “I suppose I do believe in God, though not as a person.”
Kate looked at him incredulously. “You’re ready to accept the existence of a being you have never seen or heard,” she said. “An entity that has been written about in a book that might be as fictional as a Mills & Boon novel, yet you refuse to believe what your own eyes and ears tell you. That something terrible is happening, which ties in perfectly with an account given over three centuries before. The manuscript is retrospective evidence of a situation occurring in the present, and you and many more people are behaving like the three monkeys.” She shook her head in apparent exasperation. “The word Archaeology comes from a Greek term,” she said thoughtfully, “meaning the discussion of ancient things. I would like you to humour me for a few moments while I offer my thoughts on the subject.”
McGrath sank back against the bench, watching uninterestedly as the odd vehicle passed by on the road in front of him. It was turning chilly. The cold had an invigorating effect. His senses felt keener than they had in a while. He supposed it was due in part to the adrenalin rush he’d experienced earlier, and the dreadful sense of anticipation he felt as Kate began to speak.
“Humankind has a bad habit of closing its eyes to the obvious,” she began. “They say perception is reality and I believe it is true. People tend to believe what they want to believe because it suits them. Everyone was ready to believe Adolf Hitler was sincere when he signed the document that Chamberlain presented to him prior to the Second World War, because the thought that Hitler wouldn’t keep his word was too awful to entertain. Its’ human nature to blot out incidents and events we don’t fully understand, or when the feelings they instil are too horrifying to comprehend. Occasionally our lack of imagination and our scepticism lets us down. Most people thought Homer’s account of the siege of Troy, which he called The Illiad, was just a story until a man called Heinrich Schiemann dug up a mound in North Western Turkey and found the remains of Troy, and signs that it had been destroyed in a fierce battle. The Dead Sea Scrolls were found by accident by a Bedouin shepherd boy out herding his animals. The grave of the emperor responsible for building the Great Wall of China in 200BC was found by a group of Chinese villagers digging a well in the valley of the Yellow River. It was as big as a football pitch and contained thousands of life-sized pottery figures of soldiers and animals. The authenticity of the Shroud of Turin has yet to be disproved despite having undergone the most rigorous tests Man can initiate. What I am trying to say Paul, is there are more things in Heaven and Hell than we shall ever know. Now, with your patience I would like to try to make my point.
McGrath listened.
“The ancient Egyptians believed that the dead required nourishment just like the living. It was the reason why food was buried with them. Servants were oftentimes buried with the body of their master as well. The ancient Chinese held a similar belief. It’s a pretty gruesome notion, is it not?” Kate paused to gather her thoughts. “Recently an old burial pit was discovered containing human remains and artefacts that suggested those people belonged to some kind of pagan religion that worshipped the sign of the cross. If the media is to be believed, people are being murdered, cannibalised and crucified, though not necessarily in that order. It’s interesting that all of those involved have a connection with the burial pit, having either fallen victim to the bomb explosion that unearthed it, or worked on the reconstruction of the underground or the excavation of the site itself. It’s also interesting to note that reference to individuals called the “dark ones” has been made by some of those affected by whatever haunts the pit. In the Dead Sea Scrolls, more particularly, the War Scroll, a demonic army referred to as the Sons of Darkness was sent to earth to corrupt the minds of the living. Satan branded their foreheads with the sign of the cross as protection against their counterparts, a host of white angels sent down from Heaven to thwart their plans that are referred to as the Sons of Light. It was the age-old conflict of good versus evil. From all that has happened, it would appear that the so-called Sons of Darkness had converts enabling a legacy to survive their existence.”
“The occupants of the pit,” McGrath offered.
“And before that, the mass grave in France,” Kate said. She paused as if to gather her thoughts. “And then along comes a manuscript that has been in the possession of the Roman Catholic Church for at least three hundred years, which offers an explanation for what has been happening recently. Unfortunately, that explanation suggests dark forces are at play that could herald the advent of the dead rising from their graves to prey on the living. In other words: Armageddon. Farfetched though it seems, it’s no more so than the idea of putting a man on the moon would have seemed to the ancient Aztecs or body transplants would have seemed to Stone Age man. People are ready to accept a man called Jesus could bring the dead back to life, himself included, but when there is evidence such an event is being orchestrated under our very noses, though admittedly by opposing forces, those same people run scared. If what the manuscript says is true it means the dead are returning to life through the act of crucifixion and feeding on the living in order to rejuvenate their physical bodies. Taking what I have just said into account, let’s go back to the ancient Egyptians, and the servants that were buried alive to serve their masters in the afterlife.”
McGrath frowned as the meaning behind Kate’s words suddenly became apparent. “You’re saying the purpose of the servants wasn’t to serve when their masters returned from the dead, but to provide them with human flesh?”
“The Egyptians talk of something called a Ka,” Kate went on, “which is supposedly the double of a dead person that lives on after death. If the manuscript is to be believed, it tells of a similar event occurring when a dead person becomes undead. It is no longer that person, as the soul may have departed or been replaced by another, and would therefore be to all intents and purposes an imposter. In other words the original person’s double, or doppelganger. The people buried in the mass grave at St Anthony’s believed the dead could be brought back, Paul, and if the manuscript tells the truth, they were carrying
out the practice up until they became the victims of mass genocide at the hands of the authorities. They had been kidnapping people in order that the bodies of those people could be used for the purpose of necromancy—so the soul of an enfeebled or terminally ill person in the community could pass into a fresh, healthy body.”
McGrath wasn’t sure how to react. If what Kate said was correct, it meant the living dead might have walked the earth and been inbreeding with the living for the past three centuries at least. It would certainly explain why the act of cannibalism so fascinated humankind, and why certain races of people had incorporated it into their culture through the passage of time.
“But why the cross?” he asked, trying to recall what Carrington had told him.
Kate explained. “Much as Hitler mistakenly thought he’d created the sign of the swastika, which incidentally is another version of the cross symbolising invincibility, many religions wrongly associate the sign solely with the crucifixion of Christ. Nothing could be further from the truth. The cross was around centuries before Christ appeared on this earth. Pagan cultures such as the Celts, who lived almost three thousand years ago, believed the cross-symbolised harmony of the human spirit. The cross was used in many ancient cultures. It has always been seen as a protective symbol with no definite allegiance to either good or evil. It is said that whosoever was placed up on the cross, depending on the type of ceremony conducted, would be connected spiritually to either Heaven or Hell, or be held earthbound.”
McGrath turned the theories Kate had expounded over in his mind, trying to make sense of the picture she painted. He stood up, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, having heard enough. His expression spoke volumes. Kate sighed miserably.
“You don’t believe any of what I have said, do you?”
He gazed blankly across the road, unable to voice his feelings. Her argument was frighteningly plausible and strangely logical, yet he was unable to accept the notion fully. Perhaps it was simply too horrifying.
“I would like you to drive me back to the rectory, Paul.”
The request surprised him. “I thought you were staying with me at the hotel?”
“I need time alone to think.”
There was disappointment in her voice, and annoyance. McGrath realised too late that she had looked upon him as an ally, and saw his seeming unwillingness to share her point of view as some kind of betrayal. She had been desperate to confide her thoughts and fears to someone; had assumed he would rally alongside her and was now devastated.
“Won’t you reconsider?” he asked. “What you have just told me makes the mind boggle. I need time to take it all in.”
“Call me when you have,” she said, standing, her mind made up.
They walked back to the hotel in silence.
In the car on the way to the rectory barely a word was spoken. As McGrath watched Kate walk away from him along the rectory drive that night, he was hit by the uncomfortable feeling she was walking out of his life forever.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
It was raining hard the morning Kate was driven back to London by Chrichton. The anthropologist seemed more preoccupied than ever, barely uttering a word during the first leg of the three-hour journey. When Kate mentioned the manuscript, inquiring why he had been so guarded when discussing the subject with Father Rinaldi, he reacted angrily. “Why the hell should the Catholic Church benefit from our endeavours? It has been in receipt of that document for years, and chosen to keep it locked away in a backwater church gathering dust. Why should I do their dirty work for them? If they think it’s a Christian document simply because it mentions crucifixion in the Anglo Saxon language, more fool them. If they bothered to delve further they would discover otherwise.”
“So what in your view does the mention of crucifixion relate to?” Kate asked, hoping the anthropologist would confirm that which she already knew. Chrichton however, refused to be drawn.
“I’ve yet to reach any firm conclusions,” he said. “The manuscript is muddled and confused. Its author is anonymous. I need more time to consider my findings fully. It’s a pity the Catholic Church has refused to supply us with a complete photocopy of the document or release it into our care for a period of time. It could bear closer scrutiny. Ideally more time is needed over its translation. But never mind. I’m confident we have enough for our own purposes.”
Keeping his eyes on the road ahead, he added scornfully, “Rinaldi suspects the manuscript is of pagan origin, and wanted us to verify the fact or have it verified: the cheek of the man!”
The anthropologist’s obvious dislike of the Church made Kate uncomfortable. He sounded scornful. She suddenly thought about McGrath and the argument they had had. She regretted not staying with him that night, but his response to what she had told him had annoyed her so. She’d risked everything by sneaking into Chrichton’s room that day. She believed he was her friend and would lend support and reassurance. Instead he was sceptical, a reaction she had found infuriating at the time. In retrospect she accepted that she had overreacted. What she had told him would have shaken anyone. He had said he needed time to digest the information. She should have allowed him that time. Instead, she had fallen into a pathetic sulk. Now it was up to one of them to mend fences. Despite what was at risk Kate wasn’t sure she would be able to make the first move. She cursed McGrath for his stubborn refusal to accept the truth.
Yesterday morning there had been two further reports of people being found murdered and cannibalised. The scenario was being repeated all over London. It had to be contained or the whole of humanity would be endangered. So far as Kate could tell the only way to do that was by bringing the excavation of the burial site to a premature end, and to rebury the occupants of the mass grave as had happened previously in France. But if McGrath refused to believe in the conclusion she had drawn, what chance did she have of convincing anyone else?
She gazed through the passenger window at the passing countryside. It was rainy and windswept. The landscape looked as bleak as she could ever remember, or did her mood make it appear that way? She was filled with a terrible doomed feeling. They were already out there; she thought fearfully, a new breed of people: the undead. Her mind was in turmoil. Her thoughts returned to McGrath. She loved him. Was she going to allow stubborn pride to spoil it all? But he had been so obstinate and blinkered in his point of view. Could she expect more of the same should their relationship grow more permanent? He was obviously a strong, wilful individual. His past history told its own story as far as that aspect of his character went.
Chrichton snapped her back to reality. He was again talking about the manuscript. It seemed to be an obsession with him, yet he was so guarded about its true content. It seemed to hold a pseudo religious significance for him. Kate supposed that in a way he was right to think like that, for it did hold wisdom of a magical kind, albeit of a highly disturbing and destructive manner. She tried to see it from McGrath’s point of view. Yes, it did seem outrageous to suggest that the dead could be brought back to life through some kind of pagan ritual, but that was where the argument ended as far as she was concerned, for all the evidence pointed to it being the case. The idea of the dead being returned to life through the ancient act of crucifixion, when related to what had been happening in London since the discovery of the burial pit, took on a grim and ominous sense of reality.
They were nearing Oxford. Chrichton suggested they stop over at a service station for a break. Inside the restaurant he ordered while Kate secured a table that overlooked the motorway, which to her cynical eye was a blot on the landscape. It was, she thought, as ugly as many of the monstrous buildings and undercover shopping centres built over the past few decades. She often wondered what humankind was trying to achieve with its so-called progress. The fancy buildings, breakthroughs in medical science, rockets and intergalactic space cameras sent to the planets and distant stars hadn’t put an end to world famine or bloody conflict between opposing nations. And Man was no closer no
w to discovering the reason for his existence than he was when he first walked the earth. Kate occasionally felt as if Mankind was on a roller coaster speeding into oblivion. She often wished she could have been born in a time free of modern technology and industrialisation. She wondered if perhaps this secret desire, this endless yearning to be back in the past was the primary reason for her forging a career in archaeology.
She scanned the restaurant for Chrichton, wondering where he had got to, and spotted him by the cutlery counter. He had his back to her. She observed him with no particular interest before being distracted by a baby that began bawling its eyes out at an adjacent table. For some reason the baby made her think of McGrath. The sudden realisation hit her that she would like to have a child with him more than anything in the world. The thought made her smile self-consciously. She watched as the baby was gathered to its mother’s bosom, and sighed longingly. She would have to patch things up with him before she could have her wish, she supposed. She considered phoning him from the service station, and was about to do so when Chrichton arrived at the table, carrying a tray laden with food and drinks.
“Do you take sugar?” he asked, sliding a cup of coffee towards her. She declined and sipped at the drink. Finding it a little too bitter for her taste she changed her mind about the sugar, taking a sachet from the bowl. With a faint smile she said, “It’s incredible, don’t you think, how modern man can come up with a whole gambit of wondrous technological feats, but still can’t get a motorway service station to make palatable coffee?”
As they left the service station Chrichton slipped a Roxy Music CD into the player and hummed along to the music.
