On a brighter note, you will be pleased to hear Thomas’ enthusiasm for his studies continues unfettered. He has put the aforementioned incident behind him with my firm blessing and I believe has learnt a salutary lesson.
Fair wind, Charles. I eagerly anticipate your return and look forward to hearing tales of your mighty adventures.
Sir Geoffrey Cantwell.
Darwin folded the letter. In Thomas Cantwell, he saw aspects of himself; the inquisitive nature and a thirst for knowledge.
FitzRoy stood on the deck, the Beagle stranded on the windless plain of water. The crew rocked the bark from side to side so it emanated waves like a footfall in a puddle. FitzRoy watched his men, acutely aware of the boredom permeating his ship.
Jolly sat next to Lazarene, stroking her neck while she drank from a bath of fresh water. She was none the worse for her operation and if Darwin ever decided to search for the ornament he wouldn’t dream of checking under her shell.
FitzRoy speculated when the breeze might return, consulting his barometer hourly. The fierce sun bleached the sky. Swarms of baitfish were chased by schools of shiny tuna and marauding sharks, though none as large as the beast that stole poor Jonathon Norrish. The crew spent hours watching the ocean, and some of them managed to catch fish on hooks baited with chunks of cooked tortoise.
A silver gull flew in through the rigging, landing on Lazarene’s shell.
‘Captain, on the horizon to the northwest,’ yelled the sailor in the crow’s nest.
FitzRoy retrieved a brass telescope from his cabin to sight a colossal wall of water heading toward the ship.
He said a silent prayer and called out to the crew. ‘Men, there is a king wave approaching from our stern. Lieutenant Wickham and I will use the longboat to turn the ship. I want everyone else below deck and the hatches battened down. Brace yourself in case the ship rolls.’
The wave was easily visible, but still a long way off. In the longboat, Wickham and FitzRoy strained against the inertia of the Beagle until the bow slowly swung to face the rolling mountain.
A deep thunder rumbled from the stillness. At incredible speed a wall of water cascaded toward them. Back on board the bark, FitzRoy pushed Wickham through a hatch in the deck and took a last look at the rising behemoth.
The crew huddled into the main hold, packing whatever they could reach, around them. Embedded among sacks of corn and flour they waited as they were engulfed by a deafening roar.
The hapless Beagle pitched vertically. The surf slammed into her hull, pushing her over like a piece of driftwood then she pirouetted in the foam and plummeted down the face of the wave.
When she appeared doomed, the wave overtook her and rolled away across the Pacific.
An eerie silence returned as the thunder faded. The sailors emerged from the tangle of upended stores with FitzRoy the first on deck.
Remarkably the sails and rigging were in good order, but the dinghy had smashed through a gunwale and splintered into the sea. The longboat was nowhere to be seen. FitzRoy scanned the ocean, now dishevelled by the wave that had barrelled under its tempered skin. Waterfalls poured off the Beagle into the sea.
Darwin opened his cabin door and trapped water flooded out. Lyell’s Principles of Geology lay soaked on the floor amongst upended furniture.
FitzRoy’s main concern was the structural beams of the hull but the crew reported no leaks below deck.
Jolly searched desperately for Lazarene who he’d abandoned in the rush to escape the wave. If she’d drowned, he hoped it was quick and he wondered if Darwin had noticed the ornament gone.
The crew busied itself restoring the ship, cursing the doldrums and praying for wind.
Deep below the sea surface, a black marlin sensed the mountainous wave roll overhead. The fish powered upwards into the air, its flanks flashing in the sun. It twisted, falling back to the ocean, scything through the depths in search of food. A glint caught its eye, and surging at greater speed it veered onto its side to snatch the prey into its narrow mouth. The ornament settled in the great fish’s stomach where a squid struggled in the digestive soup.
Lazarene bobbed out of the turbulent ocean gasping for air, buoyant enough to maintain her head above the water. Below her, the longboat spiralled to the ocean floor like a falling autumn leaf.
In the late afternoon, a breeze feathered the water, kicking up a swell, and Lazarene drifted at the mercy of the currents. Small fish pecked at her elephantine legs and a barnacle attached itself to her plastron. A tiger shark snaked from the depths and nudged her with its blunt head, then swam slowly away.
Lazarene endured the burning sun, occasionally dipping her head under water to keep cool. The salty sea drew fluid from her body and stung the incision at the top of her tail. On the third day, dawn struggled over a horizon smothered in cloud, turning the ocean black. Steady rain pricked the sea and Lazarene raised her swollen throat to the heavens.
At dusk the crash of waves came to her. She fell into yawning troughs and washed up on an empty shore, dropping down exhausted in the sand.
Queen Aimata took her morning walks alone. The turtle hatchlings were escaping their nests high on the beach, paddling across the sand toward the surf beneath a chorus of hungry sea birds.
Aimata did her best to rescue as many as possible. She piled dozens in her skirt and dumped them unceremoniously into the water. Schools of sea bass waited beyond the breaking waves and eventually she let nature take its course, continuing her stroll along the shore.
In the distance was a large turtle resting on the beach, but as she got closer she saw it was unlike any turtle she had ever seen, with a high-domed shell and legs like tree trunks. Its eyes were caked with sand and Aimata noticed sores on its neck. She decided it did not belong in the ocean, unable to fathom how it arrived on her island. She knelt next to the strange animal, tapping gently on its shell. It slowly lifted its head, feebly pushing with its legs. Aimata left it and returned to the royal house.
She summoned four strong men, busy mending nets by the swimming pool.
‘Down the beach past the old coral jetty is an odd-looking turtle. Bring it to the compound.’
She admired their muscled bodies as they hurried off to please their queen.
They found the turtle, carried it on their shoulders to the royal house and lowered it onto a patch of grass beneath a grove of palms.
Aimata ordered a bucket of fresh water and a sponge to wash the sand and salt off its shell and leathery head.
The turtle yawned, emitting a soulful moan. Aimata poured the last of the water over its stumpy legs and decided the dome of its shell had a wise and ancient bearing.
Aimata tended the turtle daily and watched the raw skin on its neck slowly heal. She named it King Moe for its penchant for sleep.
One morning when Aimata returned from her beach walk, the turtle was gone. She found it at the edge of an ornamental pond with its head buried in the water, neck pulsing as it drank.
Moe backed away from the pond, lifted his head, raised his mighty body off the ground and walked slowly toward Aimata. He pushed against her slender calves, then lumbered away to chew at the lush grass.
In the following weeks, Moe explored the compound, sampling the vegetation, and Aimata supplemented his diet with bowls of fresh fruit which he relished.
On a bright morning, near the start of the monsoon, Aimata found Moe digging in the garden. He was in a sandy area at the base of a thick tree and was busily pushing dirt aside with his hind legs. Nestling into the shallow depression, he deposited twelve spherical white eggs. He was now clearly a she, and Aimata, delighted at the surprising development, slapped Moe fondly on her shell.
After six months Aimata thought the turtles would never hatch, then on a warm afternoon beneath a cloudless blue sky they emerged through the sand. All twelve walked lightly onto the grass to eat. Aimata picked them up, one at a time, stroking them in the palm of her hand. She moved them to a smaller compound under net
ting to deter the gulls and fish hawks.
When the old fish died off the Japanese coast, it floated on the ocean surface. Then, ravaged by seabirds it sunk to the depths, spinning slowly, spearing into the seabed and falling on its side. It attracted colourless crabs and a million sea lice that reduced it to bones. Pale worms anchored on the ornament that once sat in the giant fish’s stomach, their fans swaying in the current, filtering the water for nutrients.
A wooden crate rocked heavily in the tall swells. Nearing the island, it tumbled in the breaking waves, lodging on a reef where sugar leached through the damaged slats in its side. A creature flushed out of the crate and skimmed across the reef toward the shore, then scurried up the beach and climbed a rocky outcrop at the bottom of the dunes. There it rested, its hairy body soaking up the last rays of the sun.
27
‘Congratulations, Charles, on a remarkable voyage. The specimens you sent from Chile are astonishing, and a fond reminder of my own visit to those rugged and beautiful lands so long ago. Whisky?’ Sir Geoffrey Cantwell said.
‘Just a half measure, Sir,’ Darwin said.
‘Did you receive my letter?’ Cantwell said, setting the drink in front of Darwin.
‘Yes, Sir, and thank you for including me in your correspondence. The sight of young Thomas on the dock at Plymouth stayed with me for some time and I was more than curious about the object he hurled toward the Beagle. I was sorry to hear it was the Cambridge ornament, for how I delighted in examining those little creatures whenever I walked the halls of Trinity. Unfortunately, Sir, the ornament from the British Museum was also lost somewhere between the Galapagos Archipelago and Tahiti. I fear it is at the bottom of the Pacific after the Beagle encountered a terrifying wave and was lucky not to sink,’ Darwin said.
‘Thank God you have returned safely, Charles. Your collection of specimens will provide years of study and research. Far greater treasures than those ornaments will be won and lost in the future, rest assured.’
‘Thank you for understanding, Sir. It goes some way to alleviating my guilt. I beg to ask of young Thomas.’
‘Bright as a button and London to a brick he knows more about spiders than anyone alive. Next year I have promised him a place on the Caroline, for an expedition to Southern Asia. We retired the Hercules after forty years and eight laps of the globe. She sunk while moored in the Thames outside the scrap yards, with only her crow’s nest left poking above water. We recovered the mast, reinforced it with laminate and cut it to size as a spar for the Caroline. A number of voyages are in the planning stage, enough to see her in work ten years hence. I expect to have thrown off my mortal coil by then, but you, Charles, will be in your prime and she is yours to sail whenever you need.’
‘I will give it thoughtful consideration, Sir, but my dry land exploits are much preferred. My bouts of seasickness are legendary among the crew of the Beagle and I was often the subject of their bawdy wit whenever I emptied my stomach into the sea. Chundering Charlie was a nickname I was none too fond of,’ Darwin said.
‘I have experienced it also and agree it is less than pleasant. However, the offer remains. I assume you will be returning to Cambridge to begin cataloguing. Young Thomas will be excited at the prospect and is no longer the boy you last saw on the Plymouth dock. Another drink, Charles?’
‘No thank you, Sir. I have a busy day ahead and should be on my way to make the family lunch. Nice to meet with you again and I will look up Thomas the minute I return to Cambridge,’ Darwin said.
Cantwell shook Darwin’s hand and showed him graciously to the door. The waiting carriage moved off slowly, bumping and rattling toward London. Darwin gazed through the foggy door window at the wet streets and grey buildings, a scene far removed from the primitive cultures and landscapes he encountered in the Americas. Low cloud pressed all around and he pondered his place in the world and the forces that had brought him to this point in history.
28
Present Day
‘Seventy-five thousand Euros for the second time… Seventy-five thousand for the third and final time…’
The gavel smacked the rostrum.
‘Sold to you, sir; bidder one-eight-six. Congratulations.’
Elvis Cash pointed at a dark-suited man in the front row who was holding a phone and smiling. A Zun vase glazed white and intricately carved with Yulan magnolia, was late fourteenth-century Ming Dynasty - the third piece of exquisite Chinese pottery the man had bought on instructions relayed over his phone.
Elvis oversaw the auction of so many Ming pieces, he considered the market littered with fakes, concluding serious money changed hands for items worth less than a good quality dinner set from Harrods. The evaluators were unscrupulous or honestly fooled by clever reproductions. He suspected the former but none of it concerned him. As head auctioneer of the house his brief was to ramp up the excitement and entertain. He was a salesman, turning any lot into a must have, dazzling prospective buyers with a brilliant play of words, stretching the boundaries of truth close to their legal limits for which Christies paid him handsomely. What was a few million dollars onto the price of a Picasso? Elvis eagerly encouraged bidding wars between billionaires desperate to feed their overblown egos. To inflate his share of the commissions, he happily sold prehistoric ice blocks to modern day Eskimos. He’d often seen bidding spiral out of control for all the wrong reasons. It accounted for Jackson Pollock’s horrible mess, Number 5, 1948, selling for a world record one hundred and forty million U.S. dollars. He who dies with the most toys wins was an adage that sprung to mind; prodigious wealth in the hands of extravagant men.
As the buyer’s details were recorded, Elvis turned his attention to the next lot.
‘Ladies and gentleman, the final item for sale this evening is lot thirty-three on page seven of your catalogues.’
A buzz filled the room as a large photograph of the most important lot ever offered at auction was beamed onto the wall behind Elvis to gasps of delight. Cardinal Grasso wanted it more than any other thing on Earth. He sucked saliva from under his tongue to lubricate his mouth and swallow his nerves. The Vatican had given him a blank cheque to secure the relic.
Dressed as a humble monk in an old woollen cloak with a hood that hid his face, a man carried lot thirty-three onto the stage. He stood, head bowed, the lot across his outstretched palms. Two thickset security guards clad in black and chrome stood behind the monk, reinforcing the aesthetic. Elvis raised his hand and complete silence befell the room.
‘Before we begin, I remind you of the lot’s extraordinary provenance.’
Elvis took a deep breath and scanned the crowd.
‘I present the Sword of Golgotha.’
A wave of excited chatter washed across the room then quietened to hear him continue.
‘With a blade cast entirely in bronze and free of filigree or inscription, the sword is unusually long for such an alloy and is likely a ceremonial weapon. The stunning gold-plated hilt is imbedded with an array of semiprecious stones numbering seventy in total that include opal, turquoise, jade, lapis lazuli, blood-stone, tiger’s eye, topaz and amethyst. A thin line of rich green emeralds encircles the pommel, the top of which is capped with a substantial ruby estimated at two carats.’
Elvis indulged the crowd, indicating parts of the sword in the photograph with a red laser pointer.
‘A beautiful piece, however its inherent value lies far beyond its physical worth. There is one verifiable mention of the sword in historical records. It is described in detail in a letter to the African Synod of Bishops from Pope Zosimus in 417 A.D. More incredible is his proclamation this is the weapon that pierced Christ’s side on the cross, undermining John’s gospel account describing the use of a spear.’
The claim evoked awe and reverence among the crowd. If Pope Zosimus spoke the truth, the sword was the most valuable relic in existence. Some in the room wept. One man in the front row knelt and blessed himself. Sweat broke out on Cardinal Grasso’s brow as Elv
is paused to let the enormity of his statement mess with the assembled minds. Elvis knew they wanted it to be true, and more than one salivating billionaire in the room was licking his lips in anticipation.
‘Although Pope Zosimus mentions the sword being kept in the Papal palace, there is no further record of it in Vatican documents. It disappeared until now. Instructions for its disposal were forwarded to our London office by Barclays Bank on behalf of an anonymous client. The reasons for the sale are unknown, however we understand some of the proceeds will be donated in a philanthropic gesture.
‘Incredibly, the vendor claims the sword is responsible for miraculous cures from illness of thirteen family members over the past eighty years.
‘The authenticity of the claims cannot be verified but this is certainly the sword described by Pope Zosimus and is of the classic Roman style of the time of Christ. It is a rare and important artefact aside from its purported religious and historical significance.’
The monk tipped the sword vertically, tip pointed at the ground, cueing Elvis to continue.
‘If there are no questions we will begin.’
Cardinal Grasso adjusted the red sash across his lap, and behind him a dozen cell phones flicked on. Flashes popped across the room as a television camera zoomed in on Elvis at the lectern.
‘The bidding is in your hands, ladies and gentlemen.’
A man in the second row raised his hand, bidding one million Euros in an assured voice. Cardinal Grasso felt sweat trickle from his armpits, his vestments uncomfortably hot even in the air-conditioned room. A rapid fire of bids soared to forty million Euros inside two minutes and the big players had not yet entered the fray. At fifty million the bids slowed. At seventy million there were just two men concentrating intently through their phones. The crowd sensed something was about to happen. A man who looked barely out of his teens held the top bid when Elvis decided to apply some pressure.
The Jesus Germ Page 13
