by A D Davies
“How so?” Alfonse asked.
“It’s right on the cusp of the birth of the written word,” Toby replied. “And this is amazing because the oldest text humanity has ever recovered is Sumerian, and that’s in the form of clay tablets, carved and restored. This book, sealed at the moment, is not Sumerian.”
“It’s a complex language,” Bridget said. “Scratched-out syllables, like a Chinese dialect, but nothing we’ve seen before, nothing on record. There’s no key either, so it’ll take some time to decode. If we ever can. I just don’t know. We only decoded Egyptian hieroglyphs because of the Rosetta stone, which gave archeologists and linguists the clues they needed.”
“And the fourth book?”
The gang all exchanged glances, as if unsure whether to share.
“Inconclusive,” Toby said. “Carbon fourteen testing is only so reliable. The older the test subject, the less exact it becomes. Something that’s five thousand years old is fairly simple. Ten thousand, it’s accurate to within a few decades. When you get to fifty to one hundred thousand years, the margin of error is centuries, and so on, exponentially rising to millennia and even millions of years as we go farther back. Which isn’t a problem when we’re talking dinosaurs and early mammals—”
“Your best guess?” Alfonse said.
Bridget clasped her hands and stared at them. “Initial indications, when we take the paperlike substance and scrape off the preservation resin... is forty-five thousand years.”
Alfonse knew little about decay and erosion, and even less about the science of carbon dating, just that it was meant to be the best indicator of age conventional science knew about.
“A radon or argon test will confirm,” Toby said.
Alfonse nodded, assuming he was referring to a test approximating the carbon 14 examinations.
“If true,” Bridget said, brightening again, “it will be the single most important artifact in the study of human development. Actual writing from a time when we thought humans were just learning to use paint and tools.”
Alfonse suddenly wanted to hold it, to shake its secrets loose, but they had all been secured in the airtight vault in the chateau’s basement, where they would remain until Charlie recovered and was fit to return.
“Who knows about it?” Alfonse asked.
“No one,” Toby said. “We took the sample ourselves. The Pakistanis allowed access to their national museum’s lab for a couple of days while they negotiated with Colin and his mob. We registered it as the bangle, which we already knew was at least thirty, possibly fifty thousand years old. So it’s a secret. And the circle is this room. And Charlie. Probably Phil too by now.”
Alfonse stood and paced to the window, gazing out over the grounds. “You have the books And you have Harpal’s video that he shot.”
“It’s shaky, but Charlie will tidy it up.”
“This is the find of a lifetime, my friends. Who were these people?”
“Well,” Toby started. At Jules’s pointed cough, he said, “I’ll be brief. We only have hypotheses at the moment. More study will be needed to map out an actual theory, but... we used to believe all humans developed at the same pace, tribes branching off once they reached a certain level of intelligence. The Toba catastrophe is one factor; before then, it was all about brute strength, but after, you needed brains to survive. The cleverest humans lived to pass on their genes, which is why we see such a big spike in art and ritual a few hundred years later.”
“That does not explain so many things in your First Priest’s Tomb,” Alfonse said.
“Ah, yes. Well.” Toby ignored the fake snores from Dan, Harpal, and Jules. “We think it is possible humans across the globe developed at different rates. In some areas, the strongest and most virile passed on their genes, while in others, it was those whose brains served them well. It could have been that these people avoided the fossil record by living higher lives, burning the dead instead of leaving them in the mud. All guesswork, of course, but we hope there are more clues. After the ice melted, as the tribes were brought together, the single line of what we might think of as ‘higher humans’ must have merged with the more primitive ones. Eventually, they scattered far and wide, and their history descended into stories and legend.”
“Guesses?” Alfonse said.
“Logical,” Jules answered from the couch, sunglasses still covering half his face. “But yeah, I’m sure Toby’ll get into the history first chance he gets.”
In his former life, one of the factors that had stood Alfonse above his competitors was his ability to spot an opportunity. A chance meeting with a man who worked the docks at an as yet uncompromised checkpoint might mean mobilizing a team to follow him home, to learn all about the man’s family. A bribe would be administered too, a way of casting doubt on his story of threats and coercion if he was caught and attempted to divert blame.
Learning of a politician’s taste for domineering prostitutes was an opportunity too.
Discovering that a senior policeman’s sexuality was not as clear-cut as his wife believed: opportunity.
The CEO of a pharmaceutical company addicted to her own product: opportunity.
And a firsthand journal written in the near-immediate aftermath of biblical events, detailing locations that could be the apostles’ missions and paths, so far only guessed at by historians... that was perhaps the greatest opportunity of Alfonse’s life. An opportunity to unite the world in knowledge.
Alfonse turned to find Dan and Harpal literally asleep, with Jules slouched, and only Bridget and Toby eyeing him.
He said, “I have a proposal.”
Chapter Sixty
After Alfonse departed, Jules didn’t blame Dan and Harpal for fleeing to their rooms. Bridget and Toby would soon follow, but Jules didn’t want to hang around longer than he had to. A train for Paris departed in an hour, and he’d be on a flight to the States by nightfall. He was on his feet as soon as the housekeeper interrupted them.
Margarete cleared the breakfast things away and offered more coffee, which everyone politely declined. Then she inquired as to when Alfonse might return.
“Probably quite soon,” Toby said, waiting for her to leave. When she was gone, he and Bridget stood too. “Jules, you’re more than welcome to stay longer. You can defer your flight.”
“Thanks.” Jules shook his wrist. The bangle felt like a thick watch strap, not irritating, just... there. “But I got what I came for.”
“It’s dangerous,” Bridget said. “Can you protect it from other people like Valerio?”
Jules forced a polite smile. They were delaying him. “It’s mine. It belongs with me.”
Bridget stepped ahead of Toby and threw a glance over her shoulder. Toby returned a rueful smile, rocked on his heels, and walked out of the room, leaving them with the words, “It’s an open invitation. Listen to Bridget.”
Once Toby was gone, Bridget said, “It’d be nice to give you a proper send-off. I mean, I know you don’t want to be a part of what we do, but... maybe just a couple of days? France doesn’t just do good wine. The beer isn’t too shabby either.”
Jules found himself liking the idea. “They got pizza too?”
“Sure.”
“Backgammon Pizza? Cause that’s kinda my plan.”
“Plans can change, Jules.”
“I know they can. But not this one. Get my mom’s property back, order my birthday pizza, and drink my first beer. I’m gonna do that. If I don’t... what’ve the last nine years been about?”
“Answers.” Bridget held both his hands in hers, the movement jarring his shoulder and shifting the bangle so it rested on the top of her hand. “You have your answers. What we saw asked more questions. If you don’t stay, if you keep on running away, when will it end? When will you be satisfied?”
Jules didn’t need a psychology degree to self-examine that one. Obsession, they called it. And he was aware of that, had always been aware. But it was a barrier he couldn’t surmount. One he needed to bre
ak down with the achievement that had always eluded him. Even now, after learning more than he ever expected, he could not let go of this notion.
“I’ll get in touch when I’m settled,” Jules said. “I’ll be back to visit... one day. Okay?”
Bridget let her head drop. She sniffed. “When you figure out where you belong and when you get things straight with yourself, you do that. You come back.”
“I will.”
They stood there for a long moment. He wasn’t sure whether it was the right time to show that he regretted leaving, or if he wished he understood himself well enough to be sure of his feelings for her. But since he was on his way out of her life, it was probably impolite to kiss her.
So he was relieved when she stood on her tiptoes and initiated the kiss. Not a big romantic gesture but a firm, unmistakably genuine one. Her lips warm on his. Mouths closed. The moment morphed into a hug, and for the eight seconds they stood locked in each other’s arms, Jules fiercely debated the wisdom of leaving.
These people had taken him in, believed in him even when he betrayed them or endangered their mission. They helped him and saved his life, and he theirs.
But the embrace ended before he could reach a conclusion, and Bridget simply wiped her eyes, turned her back, and walked away.
Even after she left the study, Bridget hoped she’d changed his mind. She didn’t go in for the sloppy romantic nonsense portrayed in many films, where the guy rushed back to sweep the girl into his arms and kiss her while the music rose and the vision faded out. She wasn’t even sure she wanted that from Jules.
One thing she definitely wanted was friendship.
She had few true friends. Some university alumni she met with occasionally for coffee or cocktails, a handful she stayed in touch with back home in Alabama. But, of course, the only people she truly trusted were present in this house... plus one who was in a whole heap of trouble with her husband back in Britain.
With Alfonse now sponsoring them via a generous retainer and access to his entire shipping network, all they needed to do was furnish him with any artifacts of Christian interest that were discovered as a result of deciphering the ancient texts. They now had access to cargo planes, diplomatic back channels, and sea-salvage operations among many other advantages. Although Toby said they’d “think about it,” the answer was not in doubt. A new phase in the Lost Origins Recovery Institute dawned, and that alone should have convinced a new recruit to join them.
Yet, as soon as Jules said he’d be back one day, that he’d stay in touch, Bridget’s head dropped, a conversation returning to her from what seemed months ago, years even, but was barely over a week. A conversation over—fittingly—pizza.
Yeah, people say a lotta stuff they don’t mean.
Anything you need.
Let’s stay in touch.
I’ll be back.
Until that moment, she really thought there was a chance he’d stay. But he didn’t. He just trotted out the platitudes and left.
Bridget lay on her bed, listening to the noises in the old house.
Her leg stung. The doctors in Pakistan and then Germany on the way home had treated the wound, and she had enough painkillers to keep Hollywood going for a year. When her parents heard, they dispatched a surgeon, who would arrive the next day and recommend a procedure. For once, Bridget did not try to keep her distance from their wealth.
She popped another pill and waited for it to take effect.
She would have to deflect their questions about what happened, convince them she did not break their agreement that allowed her to keep LORI going. Even with Alfonse’s backing, she still had to rely on them for this base, for the vehicles they used, the modest allowance from her trust fund. If she broke laws that threatened her folks’ reputation, or they heard she’d placed herself in mortal danger, they would cut her off and she would be obligated to pursue a more businesslike college degree. Then, she expected, she’d be stuck in the family business instead of pursuing her true calling.
For now, she was willing and able to deceive them, and diplomatic gymnastics would keep her activity from sullying the business.
The door to Jules’s room three down from hers opened and closed once, then silence fell as he gathered his things. Outside, a car pulled up, followed by his soft footsteps padding by her door, and Bridget could not resist heading to the window to see him leave.
To perhaps watch him turn around and see her and change his mind.
No, she wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t a silly little girl, pining for the boy to notice her. If that boy wanted nothing to do with her, if he wanted to run away and reject her from his life, so be it.
She couldn’t sleep, though. Not now. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to keep the others up, and it wasn’t the caffeine driving Bridget. It was the unfairness of Jules’s departure.
He had his answers. He had his closure. But she never found the answer to her own what if.
Although she had never been a big drinker, her body clock didn’t care that it was before noon, so a stiff brandy wouldn’t go amiss.
She threw open her door and strode back along the corridor, the soft carpet absorbing what would be her stomping footfalls in a different home. But she grew annoyed at another thing Jules had done: he’d left his door open.
Scruffy as well as selfish.
Good riddance.
She reached for the handle to pull it shut.
But she paused, spotting an object on his bed.
She hadn’t expected the room to be laundered and perfect, but she certainly didn’t think he’d forget anything. This was a clean break for him after all.
So Bridget stepped inside and over to the bed. A sheet of paper lay over the item, and the words were written in all capital letters:
IT’S ONLY ON LOAN.
Bridget flicked the note aside and snatched up the Aradia bangle.
She dashed out of the room and sprinted along the corridor, down the stairs two at a time, and almost knocked Margarete over with a result of much cursing in French. She whipped open the front door and burst out into the sunlight.
The taxi was already turning at the bottom of the road.
But Bridget just ran in a circle, not caring whether she looked like an idiot to anyone watching. She didn’t even know why she was so happy. The painkiller kicking in, the euphoria of learning that not all platitudes were lies, or simply the lack of sleep sending her mad.
All she knew was this wasn’t an end.
It was a beginning.
Epilogue
Gujarat, India
Prihya Sibal had been a construction foreman on fifteen projects before this one. She was Indian, originally from Goa, but she’d relocated to Mumbai five years ago. Work was hard to come by, though, so with her fluent English she’d spent years in various call centers with an alter ego known as “Kylie” but, more recently, construction work paid far better. And in the aftermath of tragic accidents such as collapsed bridges and tunnels, she’d made a small fortune.
Female foremen were rare in even the most cosmopolitan districts, so it had probably been her gender that brought her to the attention of first the local councils and later—in light of much female empowerment across the country she loved so much—the government itself. She was a literal poster girl for three different campaigns to recruit women: in construction, search and rescue, and her true love, archeology.
She worked her way up the ranks of construction sites on her merit, though, and soon went to night school to learn more about ancient history with a view to a full-on archeology degree in England—when opportunity and funds allowed. Yet it was the search and rescue ops of first the Gindo Bridge and then the collapsed Yaleh Tunnel that cemented her reputation and earned her that rare foot in the door. In fact, she only agreed to let her image be used so widely on the condition that someone in the government find her work with a genuine dig.
A week ago, that call finally came.
Prihya ar
rived in Gujarat, handpicked by some unspoken-of government agency, so even though the almost exclusively male crew obviously wasn’t that happy with her, someone had clearly set out the ground rules for addressing her.
Ma’am.
Ms. Sibal.
Oh, she could get used to that.
So yes, she was handpicked by the government. But no one would confirm exactly which other governments were involved. She heard the leader of the NGO funding the operation speaking, and he sounded the same as the colonial masters her grandfather regaled her about.
She was so excited, and a little bit suspicious, that she even called up her night school professor, and he was happy to hear from her, recognizing her immediately and asking how her “historical philosophizing” was going—a term he coined to describe Prihya’s penchant for questioning the source and manner of every assertion that didn’t jibe with the conspiracy theories she was addicted to on YouTube: the Annunaki, holes in the Arctic leading to an underground world, aliens having built the pyramids, and OOPARTs aplenty. The professor claimed to have never heard of the man who led the dig, a false name most certainly, which added to her paranoia.
The only thing that distracted her from that suspicion was the nature of the work, her simple-sounding task: retrieve what artifacts and writings may remain under the ground of a pyramid-type construction discovered in the foothills of an innocuous mountain range.
A pyramid.
Here, in India.
Okay, there were pyramid-like buildings around the country, dating back to the eleventh century Chola dynasty, but those were mostly temples, functional and practical, while this find obviously predated the famous Egyptian monoliths. It stimulated both her philosophical and scientific sides.
The collapsed structure was a straightforward design, and she’d understood her professor’s explanation for pyramids being found on several continents: namely, it was the simplest structure to build using primitive materials and methods. In fact, it would have been odd had they not turned up in that many places.
