The 58th Keeper

by R. G. Bullet

  “Yes, Dad, I’ll try.”

  “What did I say about trying, Vincent?”

  “Trying is for wimps?”

  “So, what are you?”

  “A wimp?”

  “NO!—you’re the Head Chef of the Savoy, King of the Culinary Arts, who happens to be on holiday in Turkey. Right?” he said flamboyantly.

  “All right, Dad,” said Vincent.

  “Alrighty then. Have a good night and don’t get into too much trouble, you two. Get those back to me. We’ll find your strengths, Archy, don’t you worry. Enjoy your day off tomorrow.”

  There was a long pause as Vincent absorbed his words. “Day off!” Vincent squawked. “I thought it was a holiday, Dad.”

  “Yes, your holiday is tomorrow. The days after that I want you to experience working on the dig. It’ll do you both good.”

  “But where’s George?” Vincent asked just as his father stepped out of the tent.

  “With your mother—shopping. Now don’t fuss about that, Vincent. Goodnight, boys.”

  The late evening turned cold and Archy quickly got into his sleeping bag. He zipped it all the way up so it left just a small hole for him to breathe. He could hear Vincent grumbling around the tent as he got himself ready. The camp beds squeaked with every turn as Vincent settled. But even that couldn’t stand up to Archy’s exhaustion and he soon fell asleep.

  Archy woke early the next morning, jolted awake by a nightmare in which he was falling from a great height. The sun’s early rays had turned the tent into a rudimentary oven. He kicked out from the clammy lining of the sleeping bag and stepped over Vincent to get out.

  He stood outside in the warm breeze and for a few minutes shut his eyes against the bright sunlight. The air coming in from the sea smelt different. In the background he heard the rhythmic crashing of waves on the shore, punctuated by the clink, clink, clink of the hammers from the dig.

  Vincent came bustling out of the tent behind him, holding a frying pan with two raw eggs in it.

  “Hey, Archy, check this. If we just leave these out for a bit they should cook in the sun,” he said, placing the pan on the hot sand.

  Archy crouched down to inspect it. “Well, now that you’re the King of Culinary Arts and the Head Chef of the Savoy—perhaps a good fire?”

  Vincent convinced Archy they’d cook to perfection and they left the eggs in the pan and wandered down to the dig to watch Richard and the others work. They found Richard right in the middle of the site, brushing dirt off something small, brown, and angular sticking out of the ground. Ward stood over him, taking a series of photographs.

  “What’s that?” Vincent shouted across at them, teetering over the wooden railing.

  “It’s a shard of a vessel, a Roman ceramic,” said Richard, pausing to scribble into a notepad. “Could’ve been a vase.”

  “Ceramic? What’s Roman stuff doing here?” said Vincent. “Where are the bones, weapons, crushed skulls?”

  Professor Sidley startled them by poking his head up from a ditch right beneath them. He removed his glasses, which left two perfect pink circles around his dusty face.

  “Good morning,” he blinked. “That is an interesting remark, one in need of clarification. The Roman Empire stretched all across the Mediterranean. We think that this particular amphitheater was also used as a kind of marketplace. This is a multi-site. There’s a whole layer underneath from different periods.”

  “Dull,” said Vincent, still not enthused by the prospect of working.

  “Not at all! You see, we have to go through layers. Maybe the bones, weapons, and crushed skulls you’d rather see are at deeper levels. It takes time to get to them.”

  “Armor too, swords and stuff?” Archy asked with rising interest. Now he understood why Richard and Ward were so excited by archaeology.

  Professor Sidley let out a snort that fired the dust out of his mustache. “You lads are so bloodthirsty,” he continued. “We’re hopeful of all those things, but believe me, the battles to the death were not the sort of thing you’d ever want to witness. Archaeological digs are the closest we have to time travel, though. The last person to touch that artifact, other than Mr. Ward, probably worked down here two thousand years ago during the Roman Empire. Very, very exciting.”

  “No weapons then?” said Vincent.

  “No!” said Ward, lowering his camera and glaring back at him darkly, “unless I pull this shard out with my teeth and chuck it at you.”

  “Now now, Mr. Ward,” said Professor Sidley, “if you boys would like to start today, we need someone to hold the theodolite and take—”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Vincent quickly, “but I have to go...” He started to back away, “...get something from the beach. Shells and stuff. See you all later.” And he dragged Archy with him.

  Archy followed Vincent. They wove along a sandy pathway with the tall grasses swaying in the breeze. The intense heat of the sand made them both hop from foot to foot, and once over the dunes Archy saw the sparkling waters glinting back at him. He gave a fleeting thought to how different it was from England’s dark and gray skies, the rugby fields, Rushburys, and Winnie’s house. He felt that his luck had finally changed and made a point of remembering the moment. Nothing could possibly spoil this now—nothing.

  They walked along the shoreline for a while. Archy stopped and rolled his trouser legs up to his knees. He loved it. However, Vincent looked like he had done this a hundred times before and probably had, and a while later started complaining he was hungry and returned to the tent to check on the eggs.

  Archy stayed behind and found a spot on the beach. His single intention for the day was to spend it lazing in the warm sun. The simple plan might have unfolded that way if it wasn’t for a man heading up the beach in his direction.

  Chapter 4

  Alturus the Scoundrel

  Archy had just settled on the sand and was enjoying his music player when he sniffed the air and opened his eyes.

  A man stood over him holding a pile of rugs on one shoulder. Sweat beaded and fell from his round, brown head. He had a pungent odor.

  “Beeeautifool RUGS!” The seller shouted into Archy’s face.

  Archy propped up onto one elbow and pulled off his earphones. He held up his hand. “Uh, no—no, thank you.”

  “YES! Beeeautifoool rugs,” the seller persisted. He stood blocking the sunlight Archy was trying to enjoy. “Look ‘ere, Eenglish, these ees the finest rug in Turkey.” He threw the pile down, wafting sand up into Archy’s eyes and then ran his fingers over the cheap nylon weave. “Look the quality, eenglish.”

  “No, really,” said Archy. “I don’t want a rug.”

  “Finest quality ‘andmade rug, only two hundred million lire,” said the man, spreading two sausage-like fingers in front of Archy’s face.

  “Two hundred million what?” Archy repeated. “No, no thanks.” There was such a stench of garlic on the man’s breath that Archy pushed away. “I don’t have any money for a rug.” Feeling awkward, he groped for his wallet and pushed it as inconspicuously as possible under his towel.

  The rug seller’s eyes darted to the towel, then back to Archy and then to the towel again. He bent to one side and spat out a brown substance, and then started folding the rugs. He muttered something to himself and promptly left, his flip-flops flicking sand into Archy’s lap. Thankfully, he disappeared over the dunes.

  “Good riddance!” said Archy, putting his earphones back on.

  He scanned his stretch of the beach. Only an elderly woman walking a dog by the shore and a man running way off in the distance caught his attention. Archy leaned on one elbow, enjoying the warmth and letting the music and the sun cast its spell. A few songs played out in uninterrupted bliss. He would have fallen asleep if he hadn’t seen a man run up to the old woman and start harassing her. He too seemed to be selling a rug.

  Archy sat up. He could see the old woman take a swipe at the man with the leash. The man cowered, turned an
d ran over to Archy, panting loudly. His brown eyes darted in all directions, giving the impression that he was a fugitive, albeit a well-dressed one. He wore an expensive set of silk robes that flapped in the breeze and on his fingers flashed the biggest diamonds Archy had ever seen on a man—or woman, for that matter. Archy removed his earphones.

  “Sorry, I don’t need a rug. Thank you!” he said slowly and loudly, thinking that perhaps the man did not speak English.

  The man looked behind him fearfully, took the rug off his shoulder, and rolled it onto the sand. Archy noticed it shimmering in the morning sun. It was mesmerizing to look at. Archy touched it.

  “It’s wet,” said Archy.

  “Damp! But still work enough for this. Look!” The man stood on the rug, folded the corners, and then completely vanished.

  Archy sat bolt upright, as if an electric shock had gone through him. He spread his hands out to where the man had been just seconds before. He felt the rug beneath his fingers and then tapped across it to touch a foot. The man reappeared and Archy yelped.

  “That’s amazing! Do it again!”

  “You like? Will be yours for small price,” said the man.

  “How did you do that? It was incredible!” said Archy, with a look of excitement plastered on his face.

  “Special rug, no trick. It disappear, and it fly too. Special and powerful. Many, many people pay mountain of gold to have it. It’s the Shroud of Urartu,” he added, as if Archy should know all about it.

  Archy, however, sat speechless, mesmerized by a wave of energy that seemed to be passing through him.

  “My name is Alturus Burk, and yours?” The man squinted into the distance.

  “Um—Archy. Archy Bass.”

  “Where you from, Archy?”

  “I—um—I’m from England.”

  “Archy of England, I make deal. It is yours and you can be owner. My time run out.” He stopped.

  The woman who was walking her dog came back into view and Alturus dropped to his knees. He watched her closely through slit eyes and kept perfectly still until she had passed.

  Archy tore his eyes from the rug and stared at the man. “Are you in trouble?” he asked, “with that old lady?”

  “Of course, no!” The man backed away. “The Kurul sometimes use disguise…”

  “Sorry, the who?”

  “Never to mind, Archy from England, this is why I am selling rug. No time to explain. You want?”

  “Yes, yes I want,” said Archy, springing up onto his heels. “How much?”

  “Ah! Yes,” Alturus cleared his throat. “It is fair price.”

  “All right, all right. How much?”

  “The price is for everything you own. Now!”

  “You want all my vacation money and my music player?”

  Alturus flashed a look of horror.

  “Is that it? Spending money and stereo. What else you have? Anything from your parents?” His eyes were now darting in all directions and he was beginning to sweat profusely.

  Archy thought for a moment. “I’d give you a two-man tent, but it’s not really mine.”

  “Are you serious? Not big ring? No nice gold watch? What about, how you say, traveler’s checks?”

  “Nope, nope, and nope. That’s it,” said Archy. “Oh! And this suntan cream of course.” He flipped the tube over in his hands. “This was expensive. And it’s SPF 50. I haven’t used it much because I wanted to get a—”

  Alturus threw his hands up in despair. “I should swap with reeech business man.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “Because, Archy of England, not many on beeech right now and I’m in big danger,” he spluttered. “I mean, big rush. Oh, why didn’t I sell it to Queen when I had chance?”

  “You could have sold it to the Queen of England?”

  “Yes, she would have given me everything,” said Alturus, craning his neck and looking around. “Let’s do—give me what you `ave.”

  “All right, but you’ll show me how to do the trick? Make it invisible?”

  “Do not worry please. I get instruction for you.”

  Archy pulled out the pittance from his wallet, wrapped the headphones around the music player, and handed it all over. He was happy he hadn’t worn his watch to the beach.

  “Are you sure this is it?” grunted Alturus, looking down at a small, tight roll of pound notes. Alturus handed Archy the damp rug. “Yours,” he said. “Find safe place, quick.”

  “Well, give me the instructions then. I can make it invisible.”

  “Hmm, yes I go and get them for you.” He started to back away, then he stopped. “Tell me, what name you go school in England?”

  “Rushburys.”

  With that, Alturus Burk took off just as quickly as he arrived.

  Archy sat for a while, looking at the damp rug. Then he leaned over and tried to fold the corners in the same way the man had done. Nothing. Archy looked up to see where Alturus had gone. There was no one on the beach, other than a couple walking near the shore. Archy ran to the top of the dunes to get a better view. Only the campground with its colored tents billowing in the wind showed any sign of life. He returned to his spot to find the couple looking at his rug.

  “Now that’s a nice one!” the man said in English. “We bought one too.”

  Archy wondered how he could have been so stupid—it was obvious the man was a con artist. Disgusted with himself for being so gullible, Archy rolled up the rug and made a dash in the direction Alturus had taken.

  He searched farther along the campsite but after panicked moments of rushing back and forth he gave up trying and threw the rug to the ground. “Idiot!” he shouted out loud. “I can’t believe I fell for it!”

  At that point, Richard and Ward came tramping along the sandy path. Both of them were so dusty they looked like they had been rolled in flour.

  “Hey, Archy! We found out what the slogan says on the side of the van,” said Richard as they approached.

  Archy’s thoughts were miles away, though.

  “UFO Spotters of Southern Turkey,” said Ward with a guffaw. “I wondered why we were getting so many looks.”

  Richard gave Archy a friendly prod on the arm. “You’re supposed to laugh.”

  “Nice rug, Archy!” said Ward, brushing past. “How much did you pay?”

  “The git took all my money!” said Archy. He was so ashamed he found it hard to speak. He felt a strange tightness around his throat.

  Archy dumped the rug in the stifling tent. Everything turned unbearable. He sat brooding for a while before Vincent returned and peered in through the flaps with the frying pan in his hand.

  “The eggs are great if you pick the grit out. You want one?” he said, and then noticed Archy’s dejected face. He put the pan down and poked the damp rug with his foot. “I heard what happened. I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I? A short guy tried to flog me one, too. Listen, don’t worry. We could dump it for double the money in England. It looks decent enough.”

  “You think so?” Archy asked, cheering a little.

  “Sure! Come on, let’s get out of here. Ward lost his trunks diving into the water and there’s a small crowd gathering on the shore.”

  Archy got up and they headed for the beach. For a moment, at least, the rug was forgotten.

  Chapter 5

  Time Travel

  To Archy’s surprise the rest of the day turned out to be fun. They all swam in the warm water and that night Vincent carried out his dad’s request and cooked (heated up) canned ravioli with cheese over a roaring bonfire while Archy toasted the bread.

  When Mr. Maynard-Bull arrived, Vincent dished out his creation. They sat at a table under the starry night with several gas lanterns lighting the area.

  Vincent was proud of his achievement. Archy, however, was the only one who went back for seconds and actually witnessed Mr. Maynard-Bull tip his plate of ravioli to the side and cover it quickly with sand.

  “You finis
hed that very quickly, Dad,” said Vincent. “I only turned my back for a second to get more toast and it looks like you wolfed it.”

  “Mmm, very good, Vincent,” his dad said, shuffling his feet in the sand under the table.

  “Would you like more, Dad?” Vincent asked.

  Richard and Ward cracked up with laughter.

  “No thanks, but I think we can add cooking as a forte, Vincent.”

  Ward leaned over to Richard and said, “Minus fortay.” And then laughed even louder.

  Things got a bit tense when Mr. Maynard-Bull handed the psychological tests results back. He seemed to be the only one who was interested. “Very, very revealing,” he said, lighting up a cigar and walking around the table, handing them out.

  Vincent had done one before and was confused to learn he was now good with accounting and would serve well with a junior post, whatever that meant. No one got to see Richard’s because it “accidentally” caught on fire while he made the tea.

  Ward got the best score, and took great pride telling everyone that he had suitable talents in People Management. And Archy discovered he had poor negotiating skills—no great surprise—and was best suited to a back-office position of an international conglomerate. It sounded worse than Rushburys.

  “Great results, huh?” Vincent said sarcastically, as they entered their tent at the end of the night.

  Archy didn’t respond, feeling more despondent by the minute. “Do you think they’re accurate?”

  “Who knows? Dad swears by ‘em, though.”

  Archy rolled out the rug. It had dried well and he put it over his mattress, listening to Vincent drone on about how many gadgets George had, and how George gets everything. But he was only half-listening, silently fuming, about seeing Alturus and buying it in the first place. He was certain it was of no real value, and the psychological results only confirmed what Mr. Elms had always said—that he would never amount to anything.