Indiana Jones and the Dance of the Giants

by Rob MacGregor

  "That's good to know."

  As they headed down the street, Indy did his best to turn the conversation to their relationship, or the lack of it. "You ever travel alone before?" he began.

  "I didn't think I was alone."

  "I meant on your own without your mother."

  "Well, if you put it that way, I'm used to making journeys on my own and being away from Joanna for extended periods of time. She's a good mother, but she's also busy and gone a lot, attending conferences and meetings, going to digs," She shrugged. "The life of an archaeologist."

  "I guess I've been sort of distant since we left London."

  "Have you?" She looked away. "I haven't really noticed."

  He cleared his throat. "Your mother told me to be careful around you."

  Deirdre laughed. "She did? Why, am I dangerous?"

  "No, I think she thought I might be."

  "No wonder you were acting like I was going to bite you."

  They moved on. "You can understand my situation, can't you?" he asked.

  "Just relax. I think we'll get along a lot better."

  Relax, sure. How was he going to relax around her?

  Inside the pub, the smell of cooking food and cheery conversation greeted them. Back home, he thought, the town bar would be an unlikely spot for a dinner in someone's honor, especially a young woman. But pubs were more family-oriented here than their American counterparts. The place was crowded with villagers, and a quick glance around told him they represented at least three generations of Whithorn residents.

  "There she is," said a man's voice. "There's the lass, Deirdre."

  A woman from across the room chimed in: "And look there at her man."

  Everyone fell silent, and stared. "They got you right," Indy muttered, "but I don't know about me."

  Then the mayor, a pink-cheeked man with a receding hairline, stood up and motioned for them to join him at a long table in the center of the pub. He wore a kilt complete with a tasseled sporran dangling from his belt. Seated with the mayor was a matronly woman he introduced as his wife, Marlis, and Father Phillip Byrne, an elderly white-haired priest who wore a black cassock. Also at the table were several young women whom Deirdre introduced as old friends. They were all about her age and were dressed in similar outfits.

  In spite of Deirdre's explanations about who Indy was, the looks and smiles of the others suggested they knew different, that the two were lovers. The priest's eyebrows twitched when he glanced at them, as if he was trying to decide if they were committing adultery. Indy imagined him taking Joanna aside when she arrived, and telling her that she must do something about the young archaeologist's libido.

  A waiter arrived and poured Indy and Deirdre shots of a local brand of Scotch. Indy took too big of a swallow and felt it burning all the way down to his stomach. He coughed into his hand.

  "A good batch, don't you think, Professor Jones?" the mayor said, holding up his glass.

  "Great." He felt like fanning his mouth.

  "Ah, it's too bad your mother couldn't be here," Father Byrne said to Deirdre.

  "She'll be here in a few days, Father, and you can be sure she'll stop by to see you."

  The priest's thick white eyebrows furrowed, and Indy thought he detected a look of concern on his face as if Joanna's absence, or maybe it was her impending arrival, somehow affected him. He wondered what the priest knew about the gold scroll, since the monk's letters had come from the archives of his church. He was about to ask when Byrne launched into a story about Deirdre's past.

  At age twelve, she had organized a dance group of parish girls, and one time after they'd performed at a wedding reception, a dance choreographer from Edinburgh, who'd been in attendance, invited the group to perform in Edinburgh. "The girls were all excited about it, then they learned they would be performing for King George. Poor Deirdre, she was so excited as the day neared that she couldn't eat. I was worried that she would faint right there on the stage. But it all went very well, of course, and the king was heard to say that he was very impressed by the girls."

  Deirdre, who had been chatting with one of the women, heard the end of the conversation. She waved a hand. "Oh, we were only one of several dance groups that performed for the king."

  Byrne nodded toward the other women at the table. "They're all members of the original group, you know."

  When dinner was finally served, Indy found himself eating haggis, a concoction of organ meats and oats served inside the lining of a sheep's stomach.

  "What do you think of it?" Byrne asked, pointing to Indy's plate.

  "Good, really good." He didn't like lying to a priest, but didn't think it was the right place to say that the idea of serving sheep guts inside a stomach didn't appeal much to him. He ate it, though. Hell, he'd eaten worse, and after a few bites he decided it really wasn't that bad.

  "So what are the plans for the dig, Professor Jones?" Byrne inquired.

  "Well, we're going to be working inside the cave. We're looking for a gold scroll, the one that was mentioned in the letter from the monk that was found—"

  "Yes, I know. I found the letter in the archives."

  "Oh, then maybe you can tell me more about it," Indy said.

  Byrne shrugged. "Not much to tell. Why do you think the scroll is in the cave?"

  "I don't know that it is. But Dr. Campbell seems convinced we'll find it there. I guess it's a logical hiding place. It's Merlin's Cave as well as Ninian's. Right?"

  Byrne's expression changed, his features set in the stern look of a man who has spent a lifetime burdened by the weight of his position as guardian of his parishioners' religious life.

  "It's St. Ninian's Cave," he said firmly. "Those who call it Merlin's Cave are people you would not care to meet."

  "Oh, why not?"

  Byrne seemed disturbed by the topic and quickly dismissed it. "Maybe we'll talk about it one day."

  Indy took a bite of his haggis, and wondered about Byrne's reticence. "Do you know why Father Mathers never sent the letter to the Vatican?"

  "As I said, one of these days we'll talk about these things."

  Just then the mayor stood up and rescued them from the awkward silence. He gave a typical salutatory talk about Deirdre and her mother, their contributions to the community, and how they were missed. Then he introduced Indy to everyone and presented him with a kilt. The mayor held it up and turned it slowly around, a broad grin on his face. Indy heard chuckles rippling back from the nearest tables, and saw heads tilting toward each other and mouths covered. He laughed with everyone else, uncertain what exactly was so funny.

  "This kilt, Professor Jones, is a gift from the people of Whithorn; it also happens to be the tartan of the Campbell clan," the mayor explained.

  Indy accepted the kilt. "Thank you. I'm not sure what exactly the pattern implies, but I've got an idea." Everyone laughed again, and he glanced at Deirdre. She was smiling, but her face was red with embarrassment. "It does look very nice, though," he added. "At first, I wasn't quite sure it was my style, but the more I look at it, the more I like it."

  "That's what we like to hear," the mayor said. "Try it on for us, won't you?"

  Indy grimaced. "You're kidding."

  "Don't be shy about it," a burly, bearded man at the next table said. He stood up, and Indy saw his kilt. "Come on, lad. I'll show you to the back room, and you can change there."

  Indy glanced at Deirdre, saw her nodding encouragement. He shrugged and followed the man. After he'd changed, he looked at himself in the mirror. He lifted the kilt up, uncovering his hairy thighs. He shook his head in disbelief. "Am I really doing this?"

  As he walked back out into the pub, everyone looked up. To his surprise, Deirdre rose from her chair, walked over to him, and hooked her arm in his. The crowd cheered as they headed back to the table. "Now we're dressed like twins," he muttered.

  Deirdre leaned close, and whispered in his ear. "You look like a real man now, Professor Jones."

 
; "That's good to know. You could've fooled me," he said as they sat down. "And just call me Indy, will you?"

  "Indy," she said as if trying out the name.

  Suddenly, the pub was filled with sound as a band of kilted bagpipe players marched through the door. Indy recognized two of the men as the brothers, Carl and Richard, whom they'd hired to work at the cave.

  "Thanks for going along with everything," Deirdre said.

  Their eyes met, and he sensed that the gulf between them had been bridged. Just then, several young girls in tartans joined the band and were performing a traditional Scottish dance. Indy touched the back of Deirdre's hand. He nodded toward the dancing girls. "So that's what you used to do?"

  "What do you mean 'used to'?" She literally bounded out of her chair, and signaled her friends. They joined the younger girls. He watched as Deirdre, hands on hips, raised one knee high, and bouncing on the other foot kicked and twirled to the intoxicating sound of the bagpipes.

  Indy couldn't take his eyes off her. He felt as infatuated as a kid with his first girlfriend. Maybe it was the Scotch he'd drunk, the wild sounds of the pipe music, Deirdre's beauty. All of it.

  11

  Merlin's Cave

  "Tea, Professor Jones?"

  Indy looked up at Lily, the landlady, and nodded. He would prefer coffee with his breakfast, but he knew that wasn't an option. It was like the rest of the meal, bread toasted on one side, and fried eggs, watery on top and hard on the bottom. He either accepted them, or started a discussion about cooking, which at seven A.M. was a worse idea than eating the food the way it came.

  He watched as the frumpy, middle-aged woman, who always wore a housecoat and curlers, poured him half a cup of tea, then filled the rest of it with milk, and pushed a bowl of brown sugar cubes in front of him.

  "Thanks." He picked up a cube, but dropped it back in the bowl when she walked away. When he did drink tea it wasn't with milk or sugar, but one thing he'd learned from his travels was to adjust to local food and customs rather than try to change them for his particular needs. It made everything much easier, and today, the first day of the dig, he wanted everything to go smoothly.

  A few minutes later, Deirdre descended the stairs. "Good morning, Indy."

  She wore brown pants and a baggy checkered shirt. Her auburn hair was tied in a braid and covered with a scarf, and a pair of gloves protruded from the back of her pants. "Morning. Breakfast?"

  She shook her head. "I was down earlier, and had my tea and scones."

  Indy pushed his chair back from the table. "Well, you look like you're all ready to go out and strike gold," he said with a grin.

  "Do you really think the gold scroll is in the cave? You know the monk found it in the ruins of the old monastery."

  "I suppose he could have hidden it anywhere, but your mother seems confident we'll find it in the cave."

  Deirdre's expression turned pensive. Her eyes were soft, violet pools that made him feel weak in the knees. "But Joanna is right. If the scroll is in Whithorn, the cave is the logical spot."

  "It's worth taking a look. Meet you out front in ten minutes."

  She nodded. "I'll be there."

  Back in his room Indy pulled on his leather jacket, and put on his hat. He was about to leave when he remembered something. He opened his bag, and took out a coiled whip. He ran his hands over it. Maybe it was silly to bring it along, but he'd promised himself a couple of years ago in Greece that he'd always keep it with him on digs. He hitched it to his belt. What the hell. If nothing else, it was a good luck charm, a superstition he allowed himself.

  Deirdre was waiting in the road in front of the house, holding the reins of two horses. She didn't see him and he watched her a moment from the doorway. She was stroking the muzzle of one of the horses and talking softly to it. He could overlook the fact that she still hadn't clearly explained the situation with her old boyfriend. It was understandable. Everything about her was right. She was attractive and bright, and they even had similar interests. Of the women he'd met in Paris over the last couple of years, all had lacked at least one of those attributes.

  He stepped into the road, and his eyes were drawn toward the sky. It was a gray, windy morning and the clouds were so thick they literally pressed down on him. Maybe it was the contrast from yesterday's clear skies and bright sunshine that made him feel a sense of unease. Maybe it was his growing interest in Deirdre mixed with his concern about what would happen if his desires were fulfilled.

  "Looks like rain today," he mused.

  Deirdre looked up as if seeing the sodden sky for the first time. "Rain isn't an event here; it's part of everyday life."

  "I grew up in a desert where it was a wonder," he responded.

  As she mounted her horse, her mouth swung into that easy smile that seemed as much a part of her as her Scottish lilt. "I'm looking forward to uncovering a wonder, and soon I hope." With that, she prodded the sides of her horse, and galloped off. Indy quickly mounted his steed and chased after her, his eyes glued to her petite figure.

  They rode past stands of immense beech hazel trees, drumlins and moraines, bracken and gorse, bog myrtle and thistle. And it was all a blur. The three-mile stretch of road from the village to the cave was historical in its own right. It was known as a pilgrim's way because Christians, including early Scottish kings, visited the cave after worshipping at St. Ninian's chapel in Whithorn. Indy had read in a French manuscript that the road was also known as a "royal route" traveled by King Arthur, who had visited the cave after Merlin's death. But the writers who had penned the tales of Arthur and Merlin were by no means in agreement that the cave was the site of Merlin's death, and no one called it the esplumoir.

  They didn't slow until they reached Whithorn Isle, which was not an island, but a peninsula. They trotted along a trail until they came to the base of a bluff where they dismounted, and hitched their horses to a tree branch. "You ride well," he told her.

  "Thanks. I'll show you my equestrian trophies sometime."

  Another surprise, he thought, as they walked over to the two carpenters, Carl and Richard, who were busy unloading lumber. The men had arrived ahead of them with a wagon loaded with equipment and supplies. They were to build a work table and cabinets for storing gear. Since the cave was remote and rarely visited, Indy didn't think there was much likelihood of theft. However, Joanna had insisted they not only have locks installed on the cabinets, but hire someone to guard the ruins at night. So far, they hadn't had any luck finding someone for the latter job.

  "Your gear is already in the cave, waiting for you," Richard said as he and his brother lifted several two-by-fours onto a cart. "And we've set up the torches."

  "Great. Sounds like Dr. Campbell trained you well."

  "We've worked on a half dozen or so digs with Dr. Campbell all over Scotland. We belong to the Scottish Amateur Archaeology League, you see."

  "That's great," Indy said.

  They climbed the winding trail leading to the cave, which was located high on a bluff. When they reached the mouth of the cave, Indy stopped and gazed out to sea. He watched a gull pinwheel across the sky, carried by the wind. Whitecaps dashed across the surface, the only contrast to the dark, moiling water and solemn sky. He clamped a hand over his hat as the wind nearly blew it off.

  "I'm glad it's summer," he said. "I'd hate to see what it's like in winter."

  "Actually, inside the cave it never changes much. The temperature remains about sixty degrees year-round."

  "That's good to know." He stepped back from the lip of the cliff. "At least for the sake of the old monk who stayed here."

  "And Merlin," Deirdre added.

  "And Merlin," Indy agreed with a laugh. "But maybe the temperature didn't matter to him."

  They moved into the cavern. "Did your mother do any work inside the cave on her earlier excavation here?"

  "Very little." In the light of the flickering torches, her skin was an eerie orange. As she turned her head to the side
and the glow vanished, shadowy skeins fell across her face. "She made a few sample bores, but that was before Father Byrne showed her the letter."

  Indy knew that the areas outside of caves were favorite sites for archaeologists, especially at sites of ancient man. It was where the refuse of daily life—broken pottery, animal bones, discarded tools—was deposited. In this case, it was where the remains of stone crosses had been found. It wasn't, however, a likely place to find a gold scroll, or anything that was intentionally hidden.

  "Why did Byrne show her the letter? Things related to Merlin don't seem like a favorite topic of his."

  Deirdre laughed. "Joanna wondered about that herself. She thinks that he wanted to know if the letter should be taken seriously. He didn't know what to make of it. I don't think he expected her to start looking for the scroll, though."

  "What's he say about it now?"

  "Oh, he doesn't want to talk about it any longer. Joanna thinks he might even have destroyed the letter, which would be a shame."

  "That's too bad if it's true. I had the feeling he wasn't too keen on our work here, from what he said at the dinner."

  "He's an odd one in some ways. From what I gather, he's very concerned about druids. Why, I don't know."

  So that was it, Indy thought. That was what Byrne had meant by his comment about those who call it Merlin's cave. The priest was worried about pagans.

  "You know, lots of the local folks won't even go into it," Deirdre said. "They say odd things happen here, and that it'll bring them bad luck."

  "What about Carl and Richard? They don't seem too concerned."

  "They're not from Whithorn. They've only lived here a few years."

  "Well, if we find the scroll maybe folks won't be so afraid of the place anymore. Let's get to work."

  They spent the rest of the morning pounding markers and stretching cords across the markers to create a gridwork to use as the basis for defining the areas of excavation. At Joanna's recommendation, they were concentrating on the rear chamber, which had a fifteen-foot ceiling and spanned twenty-eight feet at its widest point, narrowing to six feet at its entrance.