The Digger's Rest

by K. Patrick Malone

  Simon understood all too well what that meant but said nothing. He just let his head hang low.

  “Grieve not for me, boy, for I take great comfort in that thou hast come to us, and hast become of us,” the old man said with words and reached across the table to take Simon’s hand. “I have feared many years that it would not happen, but when thee arrived with thy sacred name, and I smelled the green in the blood thee spilt at the place, I knew we were saved.”

  Simon looked back up at the old man astonished.

  “Tis not a dream,” the old man said as if he could read Simon’s mind, letting go of Simon’s hand and reaching out further to place his palm over his heart. “I have seen thy suffering,” the old man said again, a single tear running down along his crooked nose.

  “I have seen thee broken and abandoned among strangers, laid bare like carrion, open to the birds of prey this world hast wrought. I have seen thy loneliness and thy despair. Since thou hast come I have seen how he came to thee in a place of worship and how thee hid thyself from his sight, and feared to show him thy deformity lest he turn from thee in displeasure.

  “I have seen thee at thy desk, quill in hand over paper, hidden from his sight, only then able to reveal thyself to him as thou art. And I have seen the love he bears for thee in his unguarded heart as he wept for thee before the fair one in black, vowing to forever relieve thee of thy loneliness.”

  “Dr. Bramson and Father Javier?” Simon blurted out.

  “And I have seen that he has kept his vow to thee, hast he not?”

  “Yes, everyday.”

  “And that thou hast responded in kind, vowing before me, a priest of another god, to protect him with thy love and thy life, and that is good.”

  The old man took a deep breath, visibly weakened by the effort it took to see not only into Simon’s soul, but to speak what he saw aloud. “And now ‘tis time for the wizened old oak to pass, saddened by the fact that he must bequeath unto thee a terrible burden; the weight of the ages on an acorn,” the old man said shaking his head sadly, then looking into Simon again, pointed his finger at boy’s chest. “But it is an acorn that I have reared and nurtured, strong in the knowledge that within thy frail body lies the spirit of a mighty young tree with branches that will grow toward the heavens that have spawned it, and be able to shoulder that burden,” and he reached for the box on the table, the lock falling away at his touch.

  The old man removed what looked to Simon like a rolled piece of cloth, yellowed with age and tied with twine, crumbling sprigs of holly bound in the knots. The old man touched the twine and it too fell away as he began to unroll the cloth on the table before them.

  The first part unrolled, Simon could see it was not just an ordinary piece of cloth but a very finely needled piece of tapestry. He recognized the style immediately. It was from the time of William, although with a decidedly English touch. The old man looked deeply into Simon’s eyes. “Dost thou see?” he said in his soundless voice.

  Simon nodded. The first panel was of a beautiful maiden, ornately adorned, boarding a ship in France. The uneven lettering sewn in old Latin indicating, as far as he could tell, that she was Breton, of high birth, and called ‘Alais.’

  The next panel was of a ship at sea, wrecked in a storm, but it was more than that, for in the sky above the ship were images of whirling fingers appearing to intentionally whip up the wind and the maiden falling into the sea. The only word he could make out for sure was, ‘Curse.’

  The next panel was of the maiden awash on the shore, with the words being ‘England’ and ‘Exchange’ or ‘Switch.’ He couldn’t be sure. He looked closely at the figure of the maiden as she was being aided by rescuers. The expression on her face was…was strange, different from the first panel, but still somehow the same.

  At first he didn’t get it, so he drew in close to the cloth to see her face better. She was smiling. And then he saw what at first appeared to him to be damage in the cloth and saw what looked like a tail coming from beneath her skirts. The tips of her ears were exaggeratedly pointed. “Dost thou see?” the old man asked in his soundless voice.

  Simon looked up at him questioningly, not sure he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing.

  The old man pointed to the next panel. It was of the maiden arriving at the castle and being presented to the Lord of the Manor, the word there was ‘Revelstoke’, and when Simon looked again at the maiden as she was being presented, it was still there, the tail coming out from the back of her skirts. The panel after that was the Lord of Revelstoke presenting the maiden to a young man, his son, ‘Eadwyn’ and giving him her hand. The word there was ‘Marriage.’

  Simon’s eyes and soundless voice spoke. “What does this mean?”

  ***

  Mitch barely made it back from the hospital. The drugs they’d given him impaired his judgment, then overlain with his state of mind at what he’d seen happen to Sean and driving on the wrong side of the road, it took him twice as long as it would have anyone else. By the time he arrived back at the inn it was already dark. Ivy was at the podium. He hadn’t expected that. “Good evening, Dr. Bramson,” she said coolly, without looking up.

  “Good evening, Miss Farthing,” was all he could get out, practically mumbling. He stopped in front of her, not sure what he was expecting. When she still didn’t look up, he just moved on into the pub; head low, feet shuffling and shoulders slumped.

  Jed was at the bar. “The usual Dr. Bramson?” he asked smiling, sounding as bright as ever.

  “Yeah, please, Jed,” Mitch mumbled.

  “Rough day?” Jed asked, putting the glass of beer in front of him.

  “You could say that,” Mitch said, letting out a long whistling sigh and looking around the bar. “No Deck tonight?”

  “He’s not feeling too well, so I’m covering his shift,” Jed replied shrugging.

  “So how is Sandrine making out? No one but you has seen her for days?” Mitch asked, remembering the oddness of her attack.

  “She’s…well…better; still sleeping most of the day from the medication. As long as I keep the curtains drawn, she seems more like herself. She’s been asking about Lady Cotswold, though. I didn’t know what to tell her so I just said she was busy at the dig and tired when she came in. I don’t know how long I can keep lying to her,” he said, seeming to look to Mitch for an answer.

  “Just tell her that you love her, Jed,” Mitch said bluntly. Jed looked at him, his eyes astonished but sparkling.

  Ah, to be young and in love, Mitch thought to himself. Everyone can see it but themselves.

  “You know?” Jed asked, struck by the direct hit to his heart.

  “It’s been all over you since you laid eyes on her. She’ll soon forget about Lady Madeline. Trust me,” Mitch said, his words and thoughts on his sleeve from the effect of the drugs. Jed blushed and walked away, stopping to look back briefly at the man with long hair and his head down.

  “Yes, sir,” Jed said under his breath, nodding as he walked away.

  With his head still down, his hair hanging so no one could see his face, Mitch thought, Physician heal thyself! and waved his fingers in the air to let Jed know that more drinks would be required.

  For the next few hours Dr. Mitchell Bramson, star of the stage and screen known as the art world, was helpless, feeling completely and totally alone. All he could think of was Jack. Jack would know what all this means. Jack would know what to do. Sandrine falls into an unexplained fit; Lady Madeline mysteriously disappears, Malcolm loses his fucking mind and kills some poor gay boy; Sean Donnelly gets struck dumb in some sort of religious mania right before my very eyes. Hell, it seems Simon doesn’t even want to be around me anymore. What the fuck is that all about? And it all seems to have something to do with this fucking dig. Could it really be cursed the way King Tut’s tomb allegedly was? It can’t be. It’s the twenty-first fucking century, for God’s sake. What do I do, Jack. Please tell me.

  “Jed, can I use
the phone to call New York, please? Put it on my tab.”

  ***

  It was two o’clock in the morning in New York when the phone rang at Alida’s desk. “Dr. Edgeworth’s office,”

  “Alida, it’s Mitch.”

  “Oh, Dr. Bramson. It’s so good to hear jour voice. I’m so glad jou called,” she said nervously.

  He didn’t like the sound of her voice.

  “Alida, is everything alright there? Is Jack alright?” His heartbeat flew to racing.

  “He’s at the heart doctor now. He’s had two episodes lately. He seems okay when he comes out of them, but Dr. Bramson, he’s been so worried about jou, and I’ve been so worried about him.”

  Mitch thought his heart would stop in his chest. God, please don’t let him die! raced through his head. Jack, please!

  “I want to come home to be with him and I feel…” Mitch said into the phone, wanting to cry. That was all Alida Ruales heard before the buzz told her they’d been cut off.

  ***

  The old man thought for a moment before he spoke. “During the time of William, he forced the young men of noble birth to marry young French women of noble birth to ensure their families’ support in the continuance of his rule. A Breton maiden was chosen for the heir of Revelstoke,” he said, pointing to the panel of the ship wreck. “But the maiden died in the sea, murdered by a demon that took her likeness and married the young Lord.”

  The old man rolled out more of the tapestry. The next panel was of a female, naked with a full tail, haunches like a lion, talon-like claws, many arms and large, webbed wings standing in front of a mirror and smiling, one hand on her stomach. Under the image was a word Simon didn’t recognize, ‘demoness.’ Crouched behind the mirror, unobserved by the creature, was a youth, a page of the castle, the name ‘Peter’ sewn under his image.

  The next panel showed the youth, on his knees, bowing before the elder Lord Revelstoke, gesturing with his hands as if he were telling the Lord what he had seen. The word ‘Father’ was sewn underneath the image of the elder Lord.

  ***

  “How long do I have, Dr. Heidt?” Jack asked somberly.

  “It’s hard to say, Dr. Edgeworth. A few months, a few weeks if you don’t take care,” the young doctor replied. “Each of these little attacks weakens your heart significantly. It’s imperative that you retire immediately and let me schedule the surgery as soon as possible; and whatever you do, do not, DO NOT allow yourself to get upset or stressed. Actually, I’d like to admit you today and do the surgery on Friday,” he said making it a point to look Jack straight in the eyes so Jack knew how serious he was being.

  “No thanks, Doctor. I’ve lived my whole life like a man and I intend on dying like one, not a vegetable or a cripple. Thank you for your advice, but I have some important things to attend to,” Jack said stoically, putting his shirt and jacket back on.

  ***

  When Jack Edgeworth arrived back at his office at the Museum, Alida was anxiously waiting for him. His color was bad and his nerves were stretched beyond their limit. She saw the look in his eyes and she knew.

  She got up and ran to him, putting her arms around him. “I love jou,” she said, crying.

  “I love ‘jou,’ too,” he said holding her tightly.

  That night he had to take a tranquilizer to get to sleep. Even the warm, soft comfort of Alida’s body next to his wasn’t enough. He listened to the rain, pounding on the roof top. He looked up and could feel it on his face, but everything was so black. All he could make out was the outline of the buildings as he looked around. “Jack,” he heard a woman’s voice whisper from very far away. He started walking toward the sound of the voice somewhere over in the distance. Damn, his feet hurt, and he looked down. He had no shoes on. He was still in his pajamas and he was all wet.

  Where am I? he thought, unable to stop his feet from moving. But instead of getting weaker from the exertion of walking, he seemed to be getting stronger. He saw lights, bright, colored lights not too far away, and he heard music making him step up his pace. He’d heard it somewhere before. It seemed to be calling to him, leading him to where he thought he needed to be.

  A figure appeared coming from the direction of the lights, like a thin sliver of blackness coming toward him, cowering from the rain. He was drawn by the lights. He knew he had to get there, but he didn’t know why. “Mitch! Mitchell!” he called out. It’s Mitchell, he thought, walking faster toward the figure. But the closer he got, the smaller the figure got. Suddenly the figure wasn’t alone any more. The street was lined with people walking slowly in the rain on both sides of the street. He couldn’t tell one from the other. They were all dark and wet, collars up and heads down.

  Soon he was passing them by. He looked but he didn’t recognize any of them, men, women and children, old and young, all races, all sizes. He was in the middle of them. A figure walked by him; a woman, her long hair wet and plastered to her face. She looked up at him and he saw her eyes, those green feline eyes, haunted.

  “They want our boy, Jack. Please don’t let them,” she whispered as she passed and kept walking.

  He turned his head to follow her. He was alone. She was gone, and so were all the others; nothing but blackness and mist rising from the street.

  “Mitchell!” he cried out as he opened his eyes.

  Alida was wake next to him. “Yack, what is it? Are jou okay?” she asked, deep concern in her normally shining dark eyes. She had his pills before he could ask for them. He got up and started pacing.

  “Alida, my love. I need you to help me one last time. I’ve got to see him…before…” and he sat down, his head in his hands. “I’ve got to see him, one last time. I’ve never told him that I loved him,” and he started to cry. “I need you to help me get to England.”

  ***

  Michelle had just finished fixing her hair and reapplying her after lunch make-up when the phone rang. “Mr. Bramson’s office,” she answered professionally.

  “Michelle, it’s Bobby Kinsella. Is Mr. Bramson available?”

  “Hello, Bobby,” she sparkled. “No, he’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”

  “Sure, but make sure he gets it as soon as possible. It’s important. You get me?” he stressed through the phone.

  “Yes, I gotcha, Bobby,” she said smiling and thinking, “Not yet I haven’t but I will. You can count on that! as she got her pad and pen ready. “Go ahead, I’m ready for you.”

  “Tell Mr. Bramson that I found him. He’ll know what that means, and that he’s in England, somewhere in the southwest called Exeter. I’ll be sending the details by courier. Also tell him that Edgeworth is very sick. He’ll know what that means, too. You got that?”

  “Yes, Bobby. I got it, so when are you coming by again?” she said flirtatiously.

  “I should be by sometime in the next week to pick up my check. Think you’ll be free for lunch?” he asked, finally picking up on her meaning.

  “I’ll make sure of it,” she said remembering what beautiful indigo eyes and thick black lashes he had.

  Chapter XIX

  INHUMAN NATURE

  Sleight of hand and twist of fate, On a bed of nails she makes me wait, and I wait without you.

  With or without you. With or without you. . .

  My hands are tied. My body bruised, She's got me with

  nothing to lose.

  With or Without You

  ………As performed by U2

  . . . when she saw the greatness of his corruption, became strong in her husks, and came to Adam against his will, and became hot from him and bore him many demons and spirits. . .

  Patai 81:455f

  The old man rolled the tapestry out further, revealing another panel. The scene was of the elder Lord Revelstoke consulting with priests, but there were other figures present, dressed in sack cloth, some bearing arms, some bearing holly branches and words; ‘Ilex verticillata.’ Simon looked up at the old man.

  “Holly?�
��

  “Yes, ‘tis one of my peoples’ strongest symbols. ‘Tis the symbol for ‘man.’ They are my people,” the old man said pointing to the figures in sack cloth.

  “Who are they?”

  “My people have been on these islands for thousands of years, longer than history. They built Stonehenge and many other ritual sites like it, now long gone,” the old man said, his tiny black eyes shining with life again. “Our God is not one thou wouldst recognize, for they are many or they are one who is faceted to appear as many, like a finely cut precious gem. We have since come to believe that it is the same God as that of the Hebrews who chose to show himself differently to us because we are not desert people like the Hebrews. We are people of the green earth, of the grass and the trees, of everything that grows and gives us life as I have shown thee. For thousands of years we have kept apart from the world. Some have assimilated into it, forgetting or abandoning the old ways. We kept apart from the Romans and survived. Later we kept apart from the Christians too, until she came and we were forced to join with them for both our survivals,” and he rolled out the scroll more and pointed to the next scene.

  The next scene was of men in the armor of the time, bearing banners of the church and walking in line with the shaggy men in sack cloth, all led towards the gates of the castle by the elder Lord Revelstoke. In the background the she-creature lay in her bed, swollen in her belly, the words, ‘Diabolus gravid…pregnant devil’ sewn under her. Outside her door guarding her, was a tremendous brown wolf, his long, sharp fangs bared with the words ‘daemon lupu’” sewn under it, and an enormous green serpent with two long fangs bared and the words ‘daemon serpentis.’

  The rest of the castle was littered with dead bodies, festering and rotted with boils and sores, among them were the Lady of the castle, the young Lord Eadwyn and his page, Peter. Under his image was sewn the word ‘fidelis,…faithful.’ Simon’s mouth dropped open. He looked back to the old man. “Dost thou see?” the old man asked, arching his eyebrows. Simon did see. He thought of Malcolm and Deck, and understood.