Old Earth

by Gary Grossman

  "Where?” McCauley couldn’t quite get the Welsh name through the thick French accent.

  “A mine in Wales pronounced Sen-knee-need.” He handed McCauley a photocopy of a newspaper clipping from 1913. “Little is known about this. It was over-shadowed by another mining accident at the same location a few months later. That one still grabs all the attention, as well it should. It remains the worst mining disaster in the British Isles. Some have speculated that they are related.”

  Bovard explained both cave-ins were reportedly the result of coal gas explosions. He laughed. “Bull sheet.” His accent made his expletive sound cleaner.

  “The first occurred far into a mine that, according to the archival reports, was not producing any coal. The likelihood of volatile coal gas coming from nowhere? You tell me, Dr. McCauley?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Dr. Alpert?”

  “Not in my expertise.”

  “So, if not an explosion caused by coal gas, which, at the time, claimed the life of the site manager, then what?”

  The question begged for an answer, but the old explorer held up his hand.

  “Little has been reported. To this day, only a few locals gossip about it through the unreliable filter of multiple generations. Nonetheless, rumors tell a story of a mysterious find, an unscheduled visit by an unknown mining supervisor, the deadly explosion that killed the company man, and the disappearance of the supervisor soon after. Makes for a good conspiracy, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And we heard about you from a conspiracy theorist in America. Robert Greene.” Katrina softly said.

  “Ah, yes, the irrepressible young Mr. Greene. We’ve done some broadcasts together. How clever. He neither told you, nor me, what he wanted you to find. Maybe this is it.”

  “A theory? A feeling?” McCauley complained. “A rumor?”

  “More than that, Dr. McCauley.”

  It came to Quinn. “Evidence of evidence. Maybe much like”— he tapped the cover of the priest’s memoir—“what the good Father Emilianov saw.”

  Sixty-eight

  Rome

  The same day

  The Paulist priest arrived to an empty, dark apartment. Home, he said to himself. Five days in Prague had been quite enough. Nobody came to any conclusions. How could we, he thought. But that didn’t prevent the member of STOQ and the Pontifical Academy of Sciences from being predictably exciting, inspiring and living up to his reputation as a renegade in the house of the Lord.

  He dropped his suitcase in the kitchen, flicked on the overhead light and checked the refrigerator. The few take-out containers with leftovers didn’t interest him, neither did he consider the idea of washing the sink full of dirty dishes inviting. His two roommates, also priests, were at another conference in Madrid. They’d left the mess.

  Since he wasn’t up for cleaning, he also didn’t want to cook. So, Father Jareth Eccleston turned off the light and went for a late supper at his local haunt, De Giovanni’s, for one of his favorite dishes, tortelloni ricotta e spinaci. Since he primarily spent alone time in deep thought, he wasn’t aware of the man who had followed him in and watched him throughout his dinner.

  • • •

  Chicago, IL

  The same time

  Rich Tamburro hadn’t heard from Anna Chohany since he last saw her at the hospital in Glendive. He’d left so many messages on her cell that her voicemail maxed out. Considering she hadn’t posted anything new on Facebook or Instagram in the days since she left Montana, he was concerned that she hadn’t made it home safely. Even though there was no doubt now that she was somebody’s mole, he decided to drive to Ann Arbor with the hope of finding her.

  • • •

  Makoshika State Park, MT

  The same time

  “I can’t explain,” Park Director Jim Kaplan told the chief on-site National Transportation Safety Board investigator, Lee Miller. “It’s certainly a first for us.”

  “And the visiting college group? They’ve all left?” asked the fifty-five-year-old officer who wore a black tee shirt with the agency’s NTSB letters prominently displayed on the back in bright yellow. “Rather quickly, wouldn’t you say?”

  “They’d packed up the day before the crash.”

  “A coincidence,” Miller commented, suggesting just the opposite.

  “No coincidence. They’d wrapped. Dr. McCauley had just returned from some meetings and he determined it was time to call it quits. He’s an expert. If he felt it was time to go, it was.”

  “I heard they had a few more weeks.”

  “They did, but it wasn’t a particularly successful summer and one of the team got hurt.”

  Miller, a former Navy F-18 pilot, was raising questions well beyond the scope of the crash. But there were unusual circumstances. Principally—no bodies in the wreck. Now three days into the investigation, the field of inquiry extended beyond the crash site. The NTSB team was scouring the badlands for a survivor who may have safely parachuted or a pilot whose parachute failed to open.

  There were also other questions. Particularly interesting was why couldn’t he reach Dr. Quinn McCauley…anywhere?

  • • •

  Quinn and Katrina left Bovard without anything definitive. But the intersections of the past and the present came closer together: a Russian cave and their own discovery in Montana; the priest’s account from more than 225 years ago; and Senghenydd and other mysteries the explorer couldn’t explain. All part of a something rather than the something itself.

  McCauley struggled with another troubling thought. He wasn’t able to reach Pete DeMeo on his phone.

  “He probably hasn’t gotten out of bed,” Katrina said suggestively.

  McCauley, too concerned, didn’t laugh.

  Sixty-nine

  Rome

  The next morning

  McCauley and Alpert’s flight touched down at Fiumicino Aeroporto, better known as Leonardo da Vinci International, sixteen miles southwest of Rome. Seconds after landing, McCauley telephoned Eccleston’s cell.

  “Pronto.”

  “Good morning. Is this Father Jareth Eccleston?”

  “Yes,” said the groggy priest. His Welsh accent was evident.

  “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

  “It’s okay,” the priest replied. “My stars, it’s almost noon.”

  “I apologize. I can call back in a little while.”

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Quinn McCauley, from Yale University. I’m a paleontologist. You spoke with my assistant the other day.”

  “McCauley?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Dr. Quinn McCauley? Oh yes. You had some research questions apparently.”

  “Yes. I’ve just arrived in Rome with my colleague, Dr. Katrina Alpert from Cambridge. Would you be available to meet this afternoon? I recognize it’s short notice, but…”

  “It depends. Can you give me a better sense of the agenda?”

  “I’d rather do that in person. Let’s just say that you were recommended based on your research and your willingness to think out of the box.”

  “Out of the box, Dr. McCauley? Or between the lines in the Bible?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that, Father Eccleston. All I know is that you might be very important to talk to. I think you’ll agree, it won’t be a waste of time.”

  • • •

  Three hours later

  Katrina re-examined a photograph of the priest on her cellphone. Now in the main Vatican library they looked for the same man, age fifty-five, who in the picture had a full beard and wore large tortoise-shell glasses.

  After fifteen minutes, their anxiety abated. A larger-than-life character wearing the requisite garb, bounded into the Vatican Apostolic Library. He was, without a doubt, Father Jareth Eccleston, a man with an unmistakable quality and incredible vigor. The headshot on the Internet couldn’t have suggested his height. At six-foot-six he could very well stand closer to God th
an any other priest in the Vatican.

  McCauley covered half the ground toward the priest. Katrina was right behind him.

  “Father Eccleston?”

  “Please, Jareth works fine.” His voice was as deep as his smile was wide. The priest’s Welsh accent glided from a high-to-low pitch, like a lilting folk song.

  “Jareth it is. Quinn McCauley. So pleased to meet you. And this is Dr. Alpert.”

  “Katrina,” she quickly corrected.

  “Well, let me show you around a bit. This library is a feast for the eyes.”

  Neither McCauley nor Alpert had been to the Vatican Apostolic Library before. It was a researcher’s mistake. Father Eccleston explained how the library was one of the oldest in all Europe, and for centuries, the largest. The shelves covered religion, secular history, politics, philosophy and science, and a collection of Bibles from around the world. “The library houses an immense collection of Greek and Latin classics plus compendia of maps and military history. Some were claimed in bloody conquests and found their way to the Vatican. Speaking of conquests, we also have Henry VIII’s love letters to Anne Boleyn. You know where that led!” He gave a hearty laugh. “Imagine such material being read under candlelight by, well, whomever might be into such research.”

  As they continued their walk through the venerable structure, the priest described the depth of the Renaissance collection and the thousands of volumes that chronicled the history of the Roman Catholic Church and Rome itself.

  “Contrary to popular thought, it’s an issue-neutral facility. You’ll find books about the challenges the Church faced through the Protestant Reformation, the Catholic Counter-Reformation, and how the Vatican sided with or side-stepped dictators and despots. The resources go well beyond Catholicism. The Vatican Library is steeped in essays, letters, books and rare research covering Judaism, Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism, and likely every religion under the sun.

  “This, of course, started as the pope’s library, dating back to the middle of the fifteenth century, established by Nicholas V. His goal was to create a public library for the court of Rome as well as clergy and laymen. It would be a work of art itself, rivaling St. Peter’s for attention,” the priest added. “Nicholas and his successors collected beautiful hand-written books and the earliest of print editions, displaying them in frescoed suites, lit by huge windows. But to protect them from theft, the church brought in some of its extra iron chains and locks, anchoring the most valuable editions to wooden benches. In my estimation, a much better use of the hardware than in its dreadful prisons in the bowels of the Vatican.”

  McCauley and Alpert enjoyed Fr. Eccleston’s engaging delivery.

  “By the mid-1400s,” Eccleston continued, “there were more than 3,500 volumes notated in the handwritten catalogue. Amazing for its time, even more incredible through the ages. The library soon became an obligatory destination for writers, theologians, philosophers and even scientists who visited Rome. I kind of cover both sides of the equation.”

  “Is that difficult?” Katrina wondered.

  “Not for me. Oh, sometimes I can bend a bishop’s nose out of joint. When that happens I hear about it. So far, nothing so great that it’s required serious thumping. Not like what my brethren experienced years ago.”

  Eccleston stopped and thought. “Is this going to be one of those times, doctors?”

  “Father Eccleston,” McCauley said aware that he was speaking completely formally, “is there a place we can talk quietly?”

  “I’ve half expected you to ask. Certainly. But first we have to get you admitted.”

  Eccleston took a few steps forward and spoke in Italian to the nearest librarian. Alpert followed as best she could. McCauley picked up a few words. It was all polite. The librarian made a call. Soon, a nun came through the door, marching toward them with the look of someone who was going to require serious convincing.

  “Sister Cynthia Fernando,” Eccleston said softly. “We have a number of nicknames for her.”

  “I can only imagine,” Katrina said noting the nun’s bulldog expression.

  “Padre,” Sister Cynthia began. The rest was only understood by expression, at first troubled, then more so. Eccleston steered the gatekeeper away from them. From a few feet away they heard their formal names. “Dr. McCauley, Yale. Dr. Alpert, Cambridge.”

  McCauley felt that Sister Cynthia would have made a great Inquisition jailor. It seems that’s how she saw her job.

  Eccleston didn’t stop pitching. She listened. The worst thing he could do was pause and allow her time to curtly dismiss them.

  The nun frowned, nodded no, and turned to McCauley and Alpert as if to evaluate their worthiness. They automatically straightened and looked as professional as possible. A suit would have helped McCauley, but he was still in an acceptable dark sports jacket. Fortunately, Katrina was wearing the proper length dress and covered up appropriately.

  Another minute of selling and the nun finally nodded yes. Father Eccleston motioned for his guests to join him.

  Sister Cynthia did not step aside. They had to walk around her.

  “Gracia,” McCauley said.

  “Gracia, Sorella,” Alpert added.

  “Just walk quietly,” Fr. Eccleston recommended.

  “What did you tell her?” Alpert asked.

  “Later.”

  The priest led them through the library to an open table. When he was certain they were out of earshot of anyone else, Eccleston answered Katrina’s question.

  “I told Sister Cynthia that my esteemed colleagues had come all this way to compare signatures on some letters they brought from their respective colleges’ collections. Very old, very rare, but if authentic, would add significantly to history of seventeenth century science.” He smiled. “You did bring some letters or did I explain things incorrectly?”

  “Father Eccleston,” McCauley observed, “you told Sister Cynthia a bold-faced lie.”

  “Oh dear me. Did I misstate anything? I will surely have to apologize at some later date.”

  With that, they moved on. The priest took them past the public shelves, into a corridor where they settled into an empty long wooden table.

  “Please, sit, but we will have to keep our voices very low. We’re actually supposed to work in complete silence.”

  “Okay,” McCauley whispered. “But I’m curious. How do you square your religious beliefs with your research?”

  Father Eccleston grimaced. “That has the sting of a no-win declaration from a cardinal. And I would describe my beliefs as faith.”

  “I’m sorry,” McCauley said, “but it’s important.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “You can see why.” The professor cocked his head to Alpert. “Katrina.”

  Alpert picked up the backpack she’d been clutching and removed a manila envelope. She slid it across the table to Eccleston.

  The priest opened it and saw the copies Kritz printed in London. Katrina waited for him to review the content. “They’re pages from a book we found,” she said. “An old priest’s book written 150-plus years ago in…”

  “In Denisova,” Eccleston volunteered. “St. Denis’ cave. I heard such a memoir exists. However, I’ve never seen it. Where did you find it?”

  “Wait,” McCauley said. He held up two fingers. Time for the second envelope. “Here are the translations of those pages.”

  The priest read them with great interest; his engagement growing with every paragraph. “Remarkable,” he whispered. “Tell me where…”

  “We have a friend in London to thank,” Katrina said. “At Oxford.”

  “The Bod?”

  “Yes,” she added.

  “That’s odd. It should have come up on Google Book Search. The Oxford Library is part of their resource community.”

  “I can explain,” McCauley replied. “After locating the book, quite by accident, I checked the catalog. It wasn’t in the system. So officially, it didn’t exist and as a result—full c
onfession Father—I felt I didn’t have to sign it out.”

  “You realize this could very well be the only edition around.”

  “We’re checking on that.”

  “Perhaps the fact that it was on the shelves was an oversight. Maybe it was supposed to be removed or someone thought it had been. Doesn’t that raise interesting possibilities?” Eccleston offered.

  “Perhaps. How did you know about the book?” McCauley inquired.

  “Rumors in the seminary that were told in the dark. Old tales that never went away. The things that priests whisper, mostly to scare young students. The kind of stories that you hope aren’t true.”

  At that point, Katrina carefully removed the precious book from her backpack and handed it to Eccelston.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Is this…?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t believe it. May I?”

  “Of course.”

  He held it with genuine reverence. “Father Mykhailo Emilianov’s actual memoir.” He slowly turned the pages, and though he couldn’t read it, he felt like he was absorbing the meaning.

  He stopped on the page depicting Emilianov’s sketch of the cavern interior and the deep black wall. “What is this?”

  McCauley removed an envelope from his sports jacket. “The same as this photo I shot.” He handed Eccleston a photograph.

  “You’ve been there,” he predictably replied.

  “No, as a matter of fact.” McCauley smiled. “Interested in talking more?”

  • • •

  They shared a taxi for the three kilometer ride from the Vatican to Eccleston’s neighborhood restaurant on Via Antonio Salandra.

  “You’ll like the food,” he said pointing out the chalkboard menu of the day posted to the left of the door. The choices did look delicious. Pasta e Lenticchie, Polenta con Salsicce, Fettuccine Agnolotti, Filetto o Lombata, and more. Inside, they took a corner seat with Eccleston intentionally placing himself with his back to the wall so he could see everyone who entered and where they sat.