Ark of Fire

by C. M. Palov

  Despite the fact that English food rivaled mess tent slop, he looked forward to greeting the new day in London. The Miller woman had set the schedule back a full twenty-four hours, and though he was frustrated by the snafu, he felt curiously uplifted, ready, willing, and able for the task he was about to undertake. Besides, in the larger scheme of things, Edie Miller and her consort were insignificant. Minor players in a drama penned by the Almighty twenty-six centuries ago.

  He glanced at his watch. He had enough time to post his daily blog entry.

  Seating himself at the desk, he used his two index fingers to type the opening Bible passage, a favorite from Psalm 11.

  He will send fiery coals and flaming sulfur down on the wicked . . .

  CHAPTER 32

  “At this juncture I should probably mention that I’m not an adventuresome person. I like stability. Predictable, watch the same TV program every Monday night, stability. The only thing in my life that gets changed on a regular basis is the lightbulbs.”

  At hearing Edie’s voice, Caedmon glanced away from the Oxfordshire scenery that passed in a limestone blur on the other side of the oversized coach window. Having touched down at Heathrow two hours ago, they were now en route to Oxford.

  “How curious. You strike me as a most intrepid woman.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  “Indeed.” He pointedly glanced at her attire.

  Their clothes having taken a shabby turn for the worse after yesterday’s foot race, they’d each purchased a new set of garments at the airport boutique. He’d selected tweeds, wools, and a beige anorak. Opting for more colorful plumage, Edie had chosen a yellow knit cap, a red military-style jacket replete with epaulets, and knee-high riding boots into which she’d tucked her denim jeans. While he resembled one half of a stodgy English couple come to town, she looked like a Mondrian painting come to life. He would have preferred that she select earth tones. Colors that faded into the winter scenery. Should an RIRA operative happen to catch sight of him, he would suddenly have two enemies to contend with rather than the one.

  “Do you think MacFarlane and his goons will actually find the Ark of the Covenant?”

  “It’s an outside wager, at best,” he replied. “Over the centuries many have searched—all in vain. Although if found, the Ark of the Covenant would be the most astounding discovery in the annals of mankind.”

  Edie closed the Bible they’d purchased in the gift shop at Dulles airport. “It’s been a while since I last read the Old Testament, being what you might call a New Testament kind of gal.” She stuffed the King James Bible into the Virgin Airlines shoulder bag that they now used to convey their meager belongings. “Somehow I’d conveniently forgotten about all the death and mayhem associated with the Ark. Just now I was reading about the battle of Ebenezer.”

  “If memory serves correctly, Ebenezer was where the Philistines not only defeated the Israelites but managed to steal the Ark of the Covenant.”

  “And wasn’t that a big mistake? Within hours of installing the Ark inside the Temple of Dagon, the Philistines discovered the statue of their deity smashed to smithereens. But, of course, that was nothing compared to the plague of boils that suddenly afflicted the entire city of Ashdod. In the ensuing panic, the Philistine king wisely decided to return his ill-gotten booty to the Israelites.”

  “At which point the Philistines loaded the Ark of the Covenant onto a cart and rolled it to the Hebrew town of Bethshemesh.”

  “Where, as you mentioned yesterday, fifty thousand residents were indiscriminately slaughtered because of a curious few who dared to peek inside the Ark.” Edie’s brow furrowed. “You know, I’m trying hard, but I just can’t get a handle on an all-loving, all-forgiving God instigating that kind of brutality.”

  “I, for one, don’t believe that God had anything to do with the Ark’s devastating powers.” Caedmon leaned back in his coach seat, crossing his legs at the knee. “Rather I believe that the Ark’s power was entirely manmade. To comprehend its supposedly supernatural power, one must understand how the Ark was constructed.”

  “You said that the Egyptian bark was more than likely the prototype used by Moses.”

  He verified the statement with a quick nod. “I am certain of it. First, consider the materials used. Both bark and Ark were manufactured from gold. An enormous quantity of gold, to be precise.”

  “Well, gold is one of the most valuable metals known to man.”

  “More important, gold is an extremely dense metal that is chemically nonreactive. Although it can’t be proved, some biblical scholars believe that the gold used on the Ark was nine inches thick.”

  “You’re kidding? That would make for a huge hunk of gold.”

  “Indeed.” Riffling through the shoulder bag, he removed pen and paper. Culling to mind the detailed descriptions given in the Old Testament, he managed to produce a fairly accurate rendition of the Ark of the Covenant.

  “As you can see, the gold box was covered with a lid known as the mercy seat.”

  Edie chuckled. “Not the hot seat?”

  Caedmon smiled at his companion’s wry remark. “The mercy seat was adorned with a matched pair of gold cherubim mounted on the lid. Mind you, these weren’t the adorable putti that clutter the paintings of Peter Paul Rubens. The cherubim who stood sentry atop the Ark were fierce, otherworldly creatures, not unlike the winged figures of Isis and Nephthys that adorned many an Egyptian bark.”

  “Underneath all that gold, the Ark was made of wood, wasn’t it?”

  “Acacia wood, to be precise, the tree native to the Sinai Desert. In ancient times, such wood was thought to be incorruptible. Additionally, it would have acted as an insulator.”

  Her brown eyes opened wide, the realization having just dawned. “And gold is an excellent conductor. Since the acacia box was lined, inside and out, with gold”—using her hands, she made a sandwich, leaving several inches of air between her palms—“the Ark would have been an incredibly powerful condenser. And given all the dry desert air in the Sinai, I bet the darned thing would have packed a very potent electrical punch.”

  Despite her quirkiness, Edie Miller possessed a nimble mind; the woman was fast proving herself an enigma.

  “Touching the Ark with one’s bare hands would have resulted in instant death,” he said, confirming her theory. “Moreover, the Old Testament is rife with tales of the Ark producing skin lesions on people who came into close proximity. Interestingly enough, recent research has verified that skin cancer is an occupational hazard of working near high-tension power lines.”

  “So how did the Israelites protect themselves?”

  “The high priest wore specialized ritual clothing when handling the Ark, and the Stones of Fire was part of his protective wardrobe. Because the Ark built up an electric charge due to all the jostling while in transport, it was carefully wrapped in leather and cloth.”

  “Which acted as a protective barrier so that the guys stuck with carrying it wouldn’t be tossed on their collective keisters,” she astutely, if not, irreverently, remarked.

  “Not that those calamities didn’t occur. Despite the precautions, there are accounts of Ark bearers being tossed bodily through the air and a few blokes being killed outright.” Caedmon pointed to the sketched drawing. “Now imagine that the wings on the two cherubim were hinged with leather and bitumen, enabling them to flap back and forth. The accumulated electric charge would not only have created visible sparks, it would have emitted strong electromagnetic pulses similar to Hertzian radio waves. Once charged, the Ark would have picked up strikes of lightning anywhere in the world. That, in turn, would have created an audible static.”

  “Like the crackling sound you get in between AM radio stations, right?”

  “Precisely. And to the ears of the ancient Israelites that ‘crackling’ would have sounded like the voice of God. A careful reading of the Old Testament proves that the Ark of the Covenant isn’t a literal deus ex machina.
Rather it was envisioned and executed by Moses.”

  Edie stared at his sketched drawing, as though seeing the Ark of the Covenant in a new, and slightly disturbing, light. “Yeah, well, there’s a whole legion of true believers who would disagree with you on that one.”

  Knowing she spoke the truth, Caedmon wearily nodded, having more than a passing acquaintance with the naysayers of the world.

  A few feet away from where they sat, the coach’s windshield wipers hypnotically swung to and fro like a metronome. Blinking, he fought off a seductive wave, having caught only a quick cat nap on the transatlantic flight.

  In the distance he could see the honey-colored villages and rolling sheep pastures of Oxfordshire. From those pastures, limestone had been quarried and lugged to Oxford, where it had been used to construct some of the most stunning architecture in medieval England.

  As the countryside passed in a wet blur, so too did his memories. He’d journeyed to Oxford by coach when he’d been a gangly lad of eighteen, his father too busy to accompany him. As the coach neared the city limits, he’d been in a tumult, his emotions ranging from anxiety to excitement to shame suffered on account of his father’s indifference. Then, quite suddenly, those gut-wrenching emotions were superseded by a burst of exhilaration, his younger self staggered to have landed in the most famous university city in the world.

  A sweet city with her dreaming spires.

  “You mentioned that you went to Oxford,” Edie remarked, making him wonder if she might not be a mind reader. “This will be like a homecoming for you, huh?”

  “Hardly,” he murmured, disinclined to reveal his tainted academic past. Particularly because she would find out soon enough.

  Like most postgraduate students, he’d spent two years doing field research, after which he confined himself to his Oxford digs and commenced writing his dissertation. “The Manifesto,” as he’d jokingly taken to calling it, had been an exhaustive examination of the influence of Egyptian mysticism on the Knights Templar. To his horror, the head of the history department at Queen’s College publicly denounced his dissertation topic, claiming it a “harebrained” notion that could only have been opium induced. Not unlike the poetry of William Blake.

  Such stinging criticism amounted to the kiss of death.

  Finished as an academic, he left Oxford, his tail between his legs.

  What a perverted bit of irony that he was, once again, en route to the fabled city of his youth. The gods must be chortling, gleefully rubbing their hands in anticipation.

  Somewhat idly, he wondered what Edie would say if he were to inform her that Moses and the Knights Templar had been initiated into the same Egyptian mystery cult. He bit back an amused smile, certain his assertions would be met with a raised brow and a quick-witted rebuttal. Truth be told, he enjoyed their verbal jousts. Although she could punch hard, hers was an open mind.

  He hoped that Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown would be equally open-minded. If not, they would have journeyed to Oxford in vain.

  As Edie peered through the coach window, he, in turn, peered at her. The straight brows gave his companion a decidedly serious mien wholly at odds with her exuberant personality. So, too, did the softness of her lips and the pale Victorian smoothness of her skin. When he first met Edie Miller, he’d thought her an unusual mix of Pre-Raphaelite beauty and quirky modernity.

  Unthinkingly he raised a hand, cupping her chin between his fingers. Slowly, he turned her face in his direction. Startled, her eyes and mouth opened wide.

  How bloody perfect is that? he thought as he leaned into her, about to ascertain if those wide open lips were as soft as they appeared.

  Amazingly, they were.

  Not having asked permission, he barely grazed his lips across her mouth, concerned she might balk at the trespass. For several seconds he played the gentleman, softly applying pressure, deepening the kiss in small increments. Until she murmured something against his lips. What, he had no idea; he only knew the incoherent utterance sounded incredibly sexy.

  The male biological response not unlike a trigger mechanism, he shoved his tongue into her mouth. Then he shoved his hand to the back of her neck, effectively imprisoning her. Open-mouthed, he kissed her, wetly and deeply, doing all that he could to wed his lips to hers.

  For several long moments he went at her like a madman, his hand moving from her neck to her back, pulling her that much closer to him, not stopping until her breasts were smashed against his chest.

  Not stopping until he heard a horror-struck gasp from the across the aisle.

  Abruptly, and somewhat awkwardly, he ended the kiss.

  “That was unplanned and—forgive me if I acted inappropriately.” His cheeks warmed at the butchered apology.

  Wet lips curved into a fetching smile. “The only thing you did wrong was to end that kiss way too soon.” Edie glanced out the window. “Looks like we just pulled into Oxford.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Hoping she didn’t appear too awestruck, Edie discreetly checked out the buildings that fronted High Street.

  Everywhere she looked there were hints, some subtle, some in your face, of Oxford’s medieval roots. Battlements. Gate towers. Oriel windows. And stone. Lots and lots of stone. Varying in shade from pale silver to deep gold. All of it combining in a wondrous sort of sensory overload.

  “Where’s the university?” she inquired, scrunching her shoulders to avoid hitting a group of midday shoppers who had just emerged from a clothing shop. She and Caedmon were en route to some pub called the Isis Room, where Caedmon seemed to think they would find Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown.

  Caedmon slowed his step as he gestured to either side of the busy thoroughfare. “Oxford University is everywhere and nowhere. Since leaving the bus depot, we’ve already passed Jesus, Exeter, and Lincoln colleges.”

  “We did?” Edie swiveled her head, wondering how she could have missed the three campuses. She knew that Oxford University was made up of several dozen colleges spread throughout the town limits. Having attended a downtown college herself, she assumed there would be placards and signposts identifying the various buildings. Clearly, she’d been working under a false assumption.

  “Look for the gateways,” Caedmon said, pointing to an imposing iron portal wedged in the middle of a stone wall. “They often lead to a quadrangle; most of the colleges were built to the standard medieval pattern of chapel and hall flanked by multi-storied residential ranges.”

  Edie peered through the iron bars. Beyond the gatehouse, she glimpsed an arched portico on either side of the quad.

  “That’s a formidable entrance. Guess it’s meant to keep the little people out, huh?”

  “Having spent an inordinate amount of time on the other side of those ‘formidable’ gateways, I always thought they were intended to keep the students from leaving. The college’s way of cultivating a slavish devotion to one’s alma mater.” Edie wasn’t certain, but she thought she detected a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Sounds like an academic Never Never Land.”

  “Indeed, it was.”

  “So, where are the Lost Boys?”

  His copper-colored brows briefly furrowed. “Ah! You speak of the students. Michaelmas term ended last week, the vast majority of students having gone home for the holidays.”

  “Well that would certainly explain all the riderless bicycles,” she said, nodding toward a crowded line of bikes parked in front of a stucco wall. Above the tidy line of bicycles, old posters flapped in the breeze, hawking an array of student activities. Debate societies. Drama societies. Choral societies.

  Caedmon’s gaze momentarily softened. “By their bicycles you shall know them,” he murmured, his sarcasm replaced with something more akin to nostalgia.

  Surprised by the sudden shift in mood, Edie surreptitiously checked out her companion, her gaze moving from the top of his thick thatch of red hair to the tips of his black leather oxfords. She was beginning to realize that Caedmon Aisquith was a
complicated man. Or maybe she was just dense when it came to men. He’d certainly taken her by surprise with the killer kiss. For some idiotic reason, she’d assumed that because he was such a brainiac, he lived a monkish existence. And wasn’t that a stupid assumption? Given the passionate smooch on the bus, he’d make a lousy monk.

  Wonder what kind of lover he’d make?

  Giving the question several moments’ thought, she decided it was impossible to tell, the cultured accent acting like a smokescreen. Although the unexpected kiss most definitely hinted at a deeper passion.

  Oblivious to the fact that he was being ogled, Caedmon turned his head as they passed an ATM.

  “Though I’m sorely tempted to use the Cashpoint, it would undoubtedly lead Stanford McFarlane right to us.”

  “Don’t worry. As keeper of the vault, I can assure you that there are enough funds to keep us afloat. At least for a little while.” The airline tickets and new clothes had set them back a bit, but at last count she had nearly eighteen hundred dollars in the “vault.”

  “Being a kept man doesn’t sit well with me. Bruised ego and all that.”

  She affected a stunned expression. “You’re kidding, right? We’ve spent three days together and only now am I learning that you object to being my sex slave?” Playing the bit for all it was worth, she theatrically sighed. “Here I thought you were having the time of your life.”

  To her surprise, Caedmon blushed, his cheeks as red as Christmas berries. Raising a balled hand to his mouth, he cleared his throat.

  “Hel-lo. I’m teasing. You’re hardly a kept man,” she assured him, amused by his embarrassment.

  “Then how about spotting me two quid for a pint of lager?” Taking her by the elbow, Caedmon ushered her to a wood-paneled door. Above the door, a brightly painted sign emblazoned with the pub’s moniker swung from a metal bracket.

  “Be my pleasure, luv,” she replied in a thick Cockney accent.

  Not expecting the interior to be so dim, it took several seconds of squinting before her pupils adjusted, the room bathed in soft amber light. All in all, the joint was pretty much as she’d envisioned an English pub—wood-paneled walls, wood-beamed ceiling, and wood tables and chairs scattered about. Framed lithographs of British sea battles hung on the cream-colored walls, and a limp bouquet of mistletoe was tacked above the Battle of Trafalgar.