I marched toward my father's room. I trudged on the partially carpeted and glossed wooden floors, toward my father’s room of death. I picked up speed, but the forceful hand of Robbie soon stopped me—he had caught up with me. He grabbed my arm, and he pulled me back, just before I could open my father's door.
“You can’t see your father again. It’s too risky,” he urged. He is getting sicker by the day, and tomorrow he’ll be taken to a private hospital room. We can’t manage here anymore.”—Robbie knelt down again and looked squarely at me.
A maid, one of our twenty, abruptly trotted up the staircase toward us. She interrupted my scolding to tell us that we had a visitor.
“Mr. Lock, Master Willie is…”—before she got the words out, Uncle Willie was in sight. He climbed to the top of the stairs, and he addressed us promptly.
“Hello, Peter! Robbie! I must see Arthur! Now!”—Uncle Willie was someone of few words when he was determined.
Uncle Willie was a short and fiery spirit with short white hair. He was a man that never showed his age. At times, he was jovial, but at others, when seriously determined, he was adamant and resolute. Robbie told me to wait for him, and then they both walked into my father’s bedroom and closed and locked the door.
I looked down at the necklace in my hand. I was worried about my mum. She was supposed to be with Uncle Willie, but Uncle Willie was here without her. Where was she, I wondered.
That day did not have time for immediate answers because I had to prepare to leave for a new school. I was rushed and packed and in a taxi less than half an hour later, but I was full of questions for Robbie, who had joined me for the ride.
How could I go to school with all of this going on? My school was not a distraction but a total annoyance!
“What happened to Father? Why didn’t my mum come as well? What did Uncle Willie want?”—I was impatient as the taxi sped along the narrow roads to the bus stop.
“Peter, Uncle Willie brought some news from a doctor and some medicine. Your father is being transferred tonight to a hospital. Your mother is staying in Wales and being examined at a hospital there. We believe that she may have had early symptoms of the same sickness.”—Robbie could not keep up with my questions.
“Why did she give the necklace to me? Is she dying? Why didn’t she come to see me? What’s going on?”—I did not know where to begin.
Robbie spoke while he looked out the taxi window with a blank expression. He was in another time and place, I thought.
“I know all of this is sudden," he confessed. "But your father and your mother thought it best to keep you away from things during this crisis. He thought that some preoccupation in school would help get your mind on other things.”—he paused and gazed upon my curious face. “Your father and mother still love you, but they want to keep you away from any contagious sickness. Your mother came down with this sickness two weeks ago while she was in Wales. She didn’t want you to see her in this condition because this sickness carries with it ghastly changes to the neck and fingers, blueness or bulging of some kind. I am not sure exactly. Since your father has had frequent colds over the last few years, we didn’t realize that his case was that bad, until today. He hasn’t been himself, and he certainly was not supposed to tell you that you were adopted. I am sorry that you found out like that.”
“What is it? Is it Cancer? Malaria?”—I thought of known possibilities that my limited thirteen-year-old mind could process. I was confused and could not grasp it all.
“It is an infection and very contagious. Although, we did not think so at first.”—Robbie tried to explain in a further effort to calm me down while his perspiration and a twitch in his eyes betrayed his true state. Robbie was worried. “Servants had come and gone into his room with no one catching the disease. But once we knew that they both had the sickness, the doctors decided that it was best to quarantine both of them. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes,” I lied as I was not quite sure. “Is this the necklace in the photograph?—the one she gave to you to give to me?”—I pulled out the blue stone that he had given to me. If it was truly lucky, I wished that she had the lucky piece instead of me.
“That necklace is a copy of the one that she had in the photograph. She lost the original in Glastonbury—years ago—I’m afraid.”—Robbie again looked out the taxi window— as if mourning the end of something great.
I prayed in earnest that day, but my mum did not survive the illness. She died a month later, without my ability to see her one last time. The medicine that Uncle Willie had been so quick to speak of to Robbie had arrived just in time to save my father. However, my mother’s sickness had evidently been too far advanced; the medicine was too late to help her.
After my mum’s death, I decided that I wanted to study medicine in addition to archaeology. I wanted a profession as well as an adventure. I wanted to seek a cure for such illnesses like the one that had brought such a sudden and tragic ending to my mum’s life. But dreams had prices that were difficult for me to pay.
Despite my altruistic and genuine goal, I failed to apply myself many times during school, and I attached myself to a crowd that sought escape from the world and its problems. I found that I too wanted to escape. Until my graduation, and even a year or two later, I escaped life with somewhat deviant behavior. It was what my father called, “the normal way of deviant adolescent and escaping behavior.” I experimented with drugs, and I sought escape through multiple relationships that were merely sexual in nature.
I attempted promises of reform to my father many times, but I always went back to the same degenerate behavior. It took several years of being nagged by my father, but I gradually grew up. I ultimately gave up on my constant and futile attempts to rid myself of an undefined pain. My childhood seemed intentionally delayed. It was as if I had been too young for too long.
I eventually enrolled in college at Oxford with the intention to study both medicine and archaeology. And throughout my college and training, I always kept with me, either on my person, or in a drawer, my mum’s beloved necklace, and the blue stone replica. I finally dedicated my life to serious studies and applied myself to devoted learning and several years of rigorous training.
During my final year of medical school, the week of my final exams, my life and my studies were briefly but suddenly halted by an unexpected email from Robbie. My father wanted to see me, he said. That time was to be my father’s final battle with his occasional colds and flu-like symptoms. My father was truly sick unto death, so I rushed to see him during his last hours. Robbie told me to go in straight away when I arrived at the mansion. It proved to be a very cathartic experience from the initial moment. I was a different person by then. I was a degree candidate. I was a grown man. I was going to see my father as an adult.
I walked into his antiseptic bedroom. He had the same white beard, but it overlapped newer and more modern covers on the bed. I walked over to him and stood by the end of his bed. My father pleaded for me to come closer to him.
“My sight and my hearing are fading, my son.”—his feeble attempt to clutch my hand was evident. “You have made efforts to learn many things, and I have not shared anything with you. I know you wanted me to. I have kept hidden from you the corporate life—partly because you did not have the desire to run any business. But mainly I did so because you have been a major disappointment in many ways. You sought your selfish pursuits. You had your parties. You had your fun.”
Didn’t my father see that I had changed, I thought. He was unforgiving and selective in his attention to my character.
“I have prepared well for you when I die,” he told me. “But you will not officially run any business of mine.
"I have prepared a trust for you. Robbie and his designee will manage it after my death. You will have to live within your budgeted means, decide your fate, and make your wealth.”—I did not look surprised.
“Father, I already know what you do. I am not naïve anymore,�
�� I defended myself.
I had to explain the results of my inquiries and several years of prodding Robbie for information.
“I know that you first inherited a mineral company, many years ago—several in fact. I know that you own manufacturing and oil companies. I know that you have diversified into many anonymous corporate names and that you have excluded me from those properties and their knowledge to the best of your ability. But, I will make my way. And I will make sure that diseases like the one that attacked you and mum are counter-attacked by research and medicine of the type you never dreamed possible in your life. I will make my way. You will see,” I arrogantly declared.
“Yes—I’m sure you will conquer anything—except your conceit and selfishness.”—Arthur, my father, was stubborn to the end. “Hand me that wooden box under your mother’s picture.”
I went to the dresser and brought him the wooden box after I looked briefly at my mum’s photograph. I glanced at her necklace in the photo, the one that showed her blue stone then I handed the box to my father.
“I want you to have this.”—he pulled out two oddly shaped gemstones, one white and sand colored, and another stone of pink and purple.
“What are they?” I asked, being mildly curious.
He held the stones in his hand that barely fit into his palm.
“They are precious stones. They are gifts from your mother and me to you”—Arthur attempted his continued look of disappointment that turned into a sly grin. “You may discover about them what you will, but do not destroy them. Keep them safe. It was your mother’s wish for you to have them. And now, it is my wish as well. These have been handed down in our family as heirlooms—if you will.”
I thought how predictable this was. He would not allow me to take over a multi-billion dollar company. He simply would give to his beloved and adopted son two worthless rocks.
I had a father for a fool, but I shall be better and make my way.
“Your mother and I have descended from royalty, my son. Although you are adopted, we wanted you to know that the parents that raised you did not do so out of pity. We have had kings and queens in our blood—but, it was not entirely true about your adoption. Yes, I adopted you, but you were born to your mother from an affair she had years ago. And I…”—Arthur was interrupted. That was the final straw for me.
“You son of a bitch!"—I said it with as much disgust as possible from years of holding my tongue. “I groveled at your feet for years allowing you to run my life. But damn you if you ever say anything like that again about my mother. And, as for you, you can go to the devil as far as I am concerned. You bloody killed her when you dragged her off to one of your business trips! Who knows how she truly got sick! You probably had some affairs yourself with some bloody whores you had on the side. You didn’t think I noticed when the nurses that were attending you did not wear any kind of uniforms?”—maybe I was reaching, but, at this point, I was too upset at his accusation to think clearly or to properly articulate with a respectful attitude.
I held the stones tightly, and I left the room in an angry rage. I flew down the stairs and out of the mansion. I got into my red Jaguar and tore out like a wild man. I almost hit a servant who hurriedly raised a gate for me. I raced to downtown London while my mind attempted to think of other things besides my mother and her supposed infidelity.
Later that night, I decided to prepare for my final exams. I engaged the assistance of liquor at a downtown hotel, in a private suite. I threw papers all over the hotel bed. I had the box on. The news of the day played in the background on the television. I sat in an uncomfortable chair and eyed my exam papers. I downed a pint of colored euphoria.
It was then that I noticed an unopened letter on a nearby desk labeled: “From Uncle Willie!” I reached for it. During the excitement of my earlier exit, I had forgotten that I had just that day received a letter from him.
The letter was more of a note or a memo. “Peter, I must see you at once concerning the stones, Cordially, Uncle Willie!” it said. I tossed it back on the desk with a lack of concern, and I focused on the nightly news.
A news story caught my attention when I heard the name Glastonbury. I turned up the volume with the remote, and I listened intently as the reporter narrated:
“Today, during an archaeological digging in Glastonbury, remains of a skeleton were found, along with several ancient artifacts dating back hundreds of years, some dating to over a thousand years old.”
While it was true that there were artifacts found, the report said that the discovery was a result of a cleanup and investigation after a fatal plane crash. A plane had plummeted into the grounds of an ancient abbey, in Glastonbury. It was not a planned or government-authorized archaeological site. It was an accidental find.
The man who was in charge, the man who organized the accident cleanup, was an Egyptian, named Hajen Habib. He was a skilled archaeologist and gemologist who was sent there to assist in the preservation of the ancient historical site while the accident was being investigated.
I moved to a footstool close to the television. I looked closely at the screen that showed a video of Dr. Hajen Habib of Cairo. The video showed him as he toured the crash site with monitoring equipment. He wore protective clothing, but there was something particularly noticeable around his neck.
As I looked more closely, I saw that it was a necklace, and on it was a blue stone that looked just like my mum’s stone. I grabbed my coat on the back of my chair. I reached into a pocket, and I pulled out the necklace my mum had given to me. With a sense of urgency, I picked up the phone and called Robbie. I had to tell Robbie of my information.
“Robbie, this is Peter," I said with some drunken excitement. "Look! I am sorry that I left in a hurry, but I...”—I was not able to finish because of the interrupted and repeated words of Robbie.
“I said your father is dead, Peter. He died this afternoon—I’m sorry Peter”—Robbie had an awkward but expected pause. So much was happening—and all at once—I thought.
“Robbie,” I said after I took a moment. “After the funeral—after my exams—I am going to Wales. I am going to see Uncle Willie unless I see him at the funeral. And then I am going on a little trip. It's urgent.”
“Peter,” Robbie broke in. “I just spoke to Uncle Willie on the phone. He said he would be down for the funeral in three days, but he needed to see you first.”
“Right! I will postpone or proxy my exams—whatever I have to do. I must see Uncle Willie first, and then I will come back for the funeral in three days.”—I had almost said goodbye when I heard his probing question.
“Peter? Where are you going after that?” Robbie pried.
“I’m going to Cairo, old boy,” I boasted.
Chapter 6
David’s Retreat
“Mattie?—Mattie?”—David was insistent. He was not concerned about the early hour. He had to wake Mattie. He had to tell her about his meeting with Peter. He went from room to room, flipped on light switches, and called out her name.
The black calico cat that roamed the condo started to stir. She jumped from the bed to a chair and the chair to the floor. Pili hopped to the beat of each stressed syllable that she heard.
“Pili!”—David spoke to the cat. “Where is Mattie, huh?”
Then David heard the sounds of a fumbling key and rushed to the front door. It was Mattie. She carried in a box of donuts purchased from a 24-hour pastry shop and sat them down on the nearby wobbly kitchen table.
“David! I was worried!—you didn’t call!” David felt Mattie’s hasty and warm embrace briefly then pushed her away to speak.
“Mattie, we gotta leave—we gotta leave now! Pack an overnight bag—maybe enough for a few days.”—David attempted to pull her into the bedroom while he talked. “Haj is alive, and Peter is not who we thought he was!”
“David, wait! Stop it! Right now!” Matting asserted as she chopped her words. She stopped and stood in the doorway of the crowded bed
room. She removed her jacket and crossed her arms.
“What is this all about? I thought it was some kind of joke or even a lie at first! I mean the idea of you meeting someone who has been dead for five years! I mean honestly! This is getting crazy!”—the caffeine from the pastry shop gave her a headache. What she needed was more of it, she thought. More was always better.
“Mattie, I need you to trust me,” David slowed his pace and stood and faced her as he grabbed her by the shoulders. “We don’t have much time. Peter will be on to us soon. He’s involved in something very criminal. He’s got Haj locked up in some kind of prison in his office in Holliday! At his corporate office! He’s had him there for a very long time. I promise I’ll tell you more, once we’re out of here. But will you please trust me for now? You can sleep later! We have to go!”
Mattie unfolded her arms and breathed a deep sigh in an attempt to give into David’s madness. She was not convinced yet but stepped into the bedroom and walked over to her nightstand where Pili waited for her master’s attention.
“What about Pili? Should I call a neighbor? Should I leave her some cat food?”—Mattie petted Pili and looked for her blanket.
“Leave Pili here! Leave food and call a neighbor later. I don’t want anyone to think that we’re gone for good or doing anything unusual.”—David realized that his requests must have sounded weird or unusual to Mattie because David was not usually a spontaneous kind of guy.
Mattie rotated her eyes in bewilderment, and then she reached for an overnight bag from a tall dresser and started to push clothes into it. She grabbed items from several drawers and went through the motions in her caffeine high, but she didn't know why.
“I’m exhausted. Where are we going?” Mattie said as she made a small attempt to understand the madness.
The Royal Stones of Eden (Royal Secrecies Book 1) Page 6
