by Phil Lollar
Lucian
Sir William
The Order of the Holy Sepulcher
Sir Gawain Mac Illiuntaig
He decided to copy everything down, so he opened the desk drawer to search for a piece of blank paper. Just then he heard a muffled voice outside the door, calling to someone in the hallway.
Johnny quickly shut the desk drawer, shoved the paper back in the book and the book back under the stack of papers, and ran to the door. Just as he got there, the knob turned and the door thrust open. Johnny lurched sideways to stay behind it. Karl Mangle entered, mumbling to himself.
Johnny hoped against hope that Mangle would not close the door behind him.
Mangle didn’t, but he continued mumbling to himself. “. . . meine Zeit verschwenden . . . no interest in breaking out of their linear thinking . . .” He walked toward his desk, and the door began to swing shut on its own. Johnny caught it and pulled it back to conceal his presence. Fortunately, Mangle was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice.
Johnny heard Mangle sit down at his desk and riffle through some papers. Then Mangle gasped. “Where is it? I left it right here!”
Footsteps entered from the hallway. “Where is what?”
It was Johnny’s father.
Mangle composed himself a bit. “Oh, hello, Whittaker. A paper I’ve written. The demise of Roman influence in North Africa in the seventh century.”
“Sounds interesting,” Harold said, and Johnny thought he actually meant it. Johnny heard his father walk away from the door and up to Mangle’s desk. “Speaking of misplacing things, I looked again last night, and I still can’t find it,” Harold said.
“What?”
“The book on Scottish history. Silly of me to misplace it, but I am a bit absentminded. Fiona tells me—”
“Don’t insult me, Harold,” Mangle snapped. “I know the phrase didn’t come from that book.”
“Oh? Where did it come from, then?”
Johnny marveled at how calm his father could remain even when caught in a lie.
There was a long pause before Mangle said, “It doesn’t matter.”
Johnny took a chance and peeked around the door’s edge. His father’s back was to him, obscuring Mangle from view.
Harold said, “You seem a little testy today, Karl. Is everything all right?”
Mangle bolted up from his desk, red-faced. Johnny pulled back behind the door.
“In Germany I would say, Da beißt sich die Katze in den Schwanz, which in English means, The cat is biting her own tail. Things are going in circles without getting resolved.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Things with my wife are, shall we say, strained. Plus I’ve had a few investment setbacks. And the doctor bills are piling up.”
“How’s your boy?”
Mangle’s chair squeaked as he plopped back down into it. “Getting weaker and weaker. It’s only a matter of time. This disease, it’s . . . grausam. Cruel.” He stopped, gathering his emotions. “The irony is that someday he’ll get some little problem like a cold, and his body will not be able to fight it off. The cold becomes pneumonia, and a young boy dies. It makes no sense.”
“No, it sure doesn’t,” Harold agreed gravely. “Fiona and I are praying for Steve and your whole family. We may not be able to make sense of it, but at least God knows.”
Johnny blinked. Professor Mangle was Steve and Paul’s father?
A tone of disgust laced Mangle’s words. “I know you teach theology, Whittaker, but I didn’t suppose you actually believed it.”
“You don’t? You’re a professor of religious languages, after all.”
“It is my field of study, not my lifestyle.”
“Well, if anything would prompt me to a search for God, it would be a sick child.”
“If there were such a thing as God, we wouldn’t have to search for Him. We wouldn’t have diseases that kill children, or hurricanes that destroy towns, or people starving because of drought.”
Or mothers taken away from their sons, thought Johnny, and he was instantly uncomfortable that he and Mangle actually agreed on the topic of God.
Mangle exhaled, trying to recompose himself. “Religion has its place, Whittaker, but the answer to our questions has and always will come from Wissenschaft. Science.”
“I appreciate the value of science. It’s one more component to help me understand God.”
“Ach! Gut! Then you agree that both are necessary?”
“Of course.”
Johnny peered around the door again, hoping for a moment he could sneak around and get out without being seen. But Mangle was standing, his hands on his desk, leaning toward his father. “Tell me, have you ever heard of C.O.S.U.?”
Harold instinctively frowned. “You mean, the Center of Scientific Understanding?”
Mangle’s eyes widened. “You do know it. I’m impressed. At least you read more than just the Bible.”
“The Bible is science, history, anthropology, psychology, political science, and religion. You could make an argument for a few other core studies as well.”
“Ja, ja, ja,” Mangle said dismissively. He walked around the desk and sat on its edge. “I’ve been applying for membership with C.O.S.U., Whittaker. It’s very difficult to get in. You have to prove a breakthrough in one of their fields of study to garner any interest.”
“They focus primarily on longevity, don’t they?”
“They do, but they’re also engaged in advanced forms of medical science. Some conventional; others . . . less so.”
“Meaning?”
Mangle leaned in. “There are many ways to achieve the same result. What if one of those ways is something people would consider, shall we say . . . bizarre?”
A wry smile spread across Harold’s face. “Sounds as if you’re talking about how some people view faith.”
Mangle nodded. “Ja, as I said, religion has its place. But consider this: What if the thing you call ‘faith’ were actually the result of an explainable, scientific fact? What if there were a scientific reason for why Jesus could heal people?”
“Such as?” Harold asked.
“Such as a chemical or electrical interaction unique to his body chemistry that interacted with other people’s bodies in a way that destroyed disease.”
“I would say that, if that were proved to be true, it wouldn’t change the fact that God made it possible.”
“Gut! Gut! So to prove such a theory would serve both the scientist’s and the theologian’s purposes, would it not?”
Harold mused for a moment. “What are you suggesting, Karl?”
Mangle stood and walked to the window. His back was to the door, as was Harold’s. Johnny saw the chance to get out. He snuck around the door and quickly tiptoed out. Halfway through, he heard Mangle say, “I believe you know where the journal is.”
Johnny stopped in the hallway, waiting to hear his father’s answer.
Suddenly, a voice down the hall called out, “Did you find him?” It was Mrs. Drexler.
Johnny didn’t know what to do, but he just smiled and waved and ran toward his father’s office, finally taking that left turn in the hallway. He stopped and peered around the corner to see Mrs. Drexler shrug and walk back toward her desk. He then saw Mangle poke his head out his door in Mrs. Drexler’s direction. Johnny quickly ducked behind the wall and ran into his father’s office.
He plopped into a chair and desperately tried to catch his breath as his chest heaved with each pounding heartbeat. He turned his head to listen for the sound of approaching footsteps, praying that Professor Mangle had not caught him out.
Chapter Seven
Johnny sat listening for what seemed like an eternity but in reality had been only ten minutes. No one had come. Perhaps he hadn’t been seen after all.
His father’s office was laid out much like Mangle’s, only quite a bit neater and with fewer books and shelves. On one of the wood-paneled walls hung several photograph
s, including a large print of the recently completed Duke Chapel, a beautiful gothic edifice patterned after St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague, Czechoslovakia. Johnny’s mind marveled at the incredible engineering needed to craft such an ornate and stately building. It seemed almost impossible.
On another wall hung his father’s diplomas:
Undergraduate Degree in English Literature, University of Aberdeen, 1920
Master of Arts Degree in Medieval and Renaissance History, University of Aberdeen, 1921
Ph.D. in History of Theology with a Thesis on Natural and Revealed Religions, University of St. Andrews, 1924
Johnny fidgeted, shifting in his chair, and finally stood and walked across the wood floor to his father’s desk. It was strewn with papers, a book or two, a fountain pen, his father’s hat lying crown down, and a half-eaten sandwich from what must have been lunch.
Next to the sandwich and partially obscured by the hat was a piece of paper that looked like the one he’d seen in Mangle’s office. It had what appeared to be many of the same phrases written on it, though not all of them. The paper rested on an open book. Several phrases and names in the book had been underlined or circled:
Holy relics of the faith
Father Lucian
The tomb of Gamaliel
He turned the book around to read in earnest when a voice startled him.
“John?”
Johnny jumped. “Father! You scared me!”
Harold entered, his face stern. “How did you get here?”
“Oh, uh, the bus—after school!”
Harold’s brow furrowed. He glanced down at his desk and then back at Johnny, piercing eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?”
“I just . . . came to see you.” Johnny walked up to his father. “I need to tell you something.”
Harold took a breath and then nodded. “I need to tell you something, too.” He crossed to the desk, shifted a few papers, and grabbed his hat. “What say we walk to Warner’s Drugstore and talk over a chocolate soda?”
When his father turned, Johnny saw that the book he had been reading when Harold entered was now closed.
Johnny nodded, working up enthusiasm he didn’t feel. “Sure! That’d be great!”
Mr. Warner fairly danced up to the booth where Johnny sat with his father. “And here,” he said melodiously, “we have two Warner-exclusive chocolate sodas. People have traveled the globe for one of these, I want you to know. They’re world famous!” He set them on the table with a flourish.
“Well, Johnny here is a dual citizen, having been born in Scotland, so you can add us to the list of world travelers seeking one,” Harold said. “Though we did only walk a few blocks to get here today.”
Warner laughed louder than the joke warranted. “I am honored to have you both. Bon appétit!” he declared, and then he bounced into the back room.
Johnny caught a whiff of an odor he’d never smelled before and wrinkled his nose. The odor was quickly displaced by the wonderful chocolaty smell of the soda. He pulled it in front of him, glanced at his father, and nodded toward Mr. Warner. “Is he always that happy?”
“No,” Harold replied with a frown. He dipped his straw into his glass and took a sip.
Johnny did likewise. It was delicious. “Well, he sure makes a great soda!” He sipped again, this time as slowly as he could without drawing attention to himself. He wanted to enjoy the soda, but he also knew that as soon as it was gone, he’d have to start talking. Then again, he thought, that is why I came.
“What did you want to tell me?” Harold asked, taking the briefest of sips from his soda.
Johnny gulped. “I wanted to talk about the words that Emmy asked you to translate.” He concentrated on his soda glass.
“Yes, I wondered when you’d own up to that.”
Johnny looked up quickly. “You knew I asked her to do it?”
Harold smiled faintly. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Your friend Emmy is bright, but she doesn’t seem the type to be interested in old Scots Gaelic.”
How snobby! thought Johnny, but he said aloud, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you didn’t. I figured you’d come to me when the time was right.” Harold took a sip of his soda, then set it aside. “So . . . since the time is obviously right, that must mean you have more questions that need answering, yes?”
“Um . . . questions?”
Harold looked squarely into his eyes. “About the journal.”
Johnny’s heart began pounding. How did his father do that? He seemed to have a knack for being able to read Johnny’s thoughts. Sometimes Johnny felt that as hard as he may try, there was nothing he could truly hide from his father. Johnny breathed deeply, hoping the air would supply enough oxygen to clear his head. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said as nonchalantly as possible.
“Don’t lie to me, John. I know you’re still flush with success from your last adventure, but I won’t brook lying from you.” Leaning forward, he added, “You have information about the journal. Do you know where it is?”
There was no escaping the question. Johnny set his soda aside and took a deep breath. “I found it in the trunk Grandpa Jackson gave me.”
Harold leaned back and nodded slowly, suddenly so deep in thought that Johnny could almost see words appear over his father’s head. He knew what was coming next. “What else is in the journal?” Harold asked.
“A lot of entries. Some in Latin and Greek, and some in other languages. You said the ones Emmy gave you were old Scots Gaelic?”
“Correct.”
“I think those were Grandpa Jackson’s entries.”
“You don’t think he wrote them all?”
Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. But it looked like different styles of writing. And different ink.”
Harold didn’t flinch. He simply nodded and said, “I see. Well, if you want, I can take the book and have it translated for you.”
“By Professor Mangle?”
Harold’s eyes narrowed. “Now why would you say that?”
Johnny looked down. In for a penny, in for a pound. “That day when Professor Mangle came to the house . . . I overheard your conversation in your study about the meaning of the phrases.” He didn’t mention that he had also just overheard them talking in Mangle’s office at the university. His father frowned, and Johnny added quickly, “I wasn’t snooping, honest! I just went into the house for something and . . . heard you both talking.”
Harold considered him for a long moment. “I’m not sure Karl is the right man for this job. I know another gentleman who could do it. If you like.”
Johnny felt relieved, though he wasn’t sure why. “I’ll think about it. If that’s okay?”
Harold nodded. “It’s up to you.” Johnny retrieved his soda and took another sip. Then Harold added, “Don’t you want to know what I need to tell you?”
Johnny stopped mid-sip. “It wasn’t that you knew about Emmy and the words?”
“Not just that, no,” Harold responded.
Johnny pushed away his soda again. “Then what?”
“The cloth.”
A chill went down Johnny’s spine. He knew Harold was aware of the existence of the cloth, but he didn’t know how much he knew. He’d have to be very careful.
Harold went on. “If you listened to the conversation between Karl and myself at the house, you must have heard him talk about the cloth.”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Well, as you saw on my desk—” Harold peered at him over the top of his wire-rim glasses—“I’ve been doing my own research on what Karl said. I found that resource in the university library. My intention was to learn the full history of the story before having this conversation with you. Because if that cloth can be located through the clues in your journal, well, imagine what it might mean.”
Johnny forced himself to remain calm. As far as he could tell, his father didn’t know the cloth may actually be upstairs in thei
r house in the trunk, or about what happened to McDuff and how the cloth may have healed the dog. So what did he know? “But, Dad . . . how could a piece of cloth actually heal someone?”
Harold’s eyebrows rose. “You didn’t hear that part of our conversation?”
Johnny shook his head. “I went back outside.”
“I don’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed,” Harold muttered. “What’s the good of snooping if you’re not going to hear the entire conversation?”
“I wasn’t—”
Harold held up a hand. “All right. I need to find out more information before I answer your question. And a good place to start . . . would be with that journal.” He adjusted his glasses. “But as I said, it’s up to you.”
Johnny frowned. He didn’t like this idea, but he needed to know what was in the journal, especially why his name was written in it. He regarded his father intensely. “It’s my journal, right?”
“It is.”
“You’ll give it back to me when you’ve looked it over?”
“I will.”
Johnny took a deep breath. “Then . . . okay. But you’ll tell me everything you find out, right?”
“Yes, John,” Harold snapped. “What, you don’t trust me?”
Johnny’s thoughts about the only people in Provenance he could trust flickered through his mind, and he felt a sudden pang of guilt and sadness that his father wasn’t among them. But he couldn’t tell Harold that. What son would tell his father he didn’t trust him—even if he actually didn’t? He forced a grin. “I do. I’m just . . . kind of wound up by all this stuff. In an excited way.”
Harold’s stern expression broke, and he actually smiled. “I understand.”
Johnny slowly pulled his soda back and took one last, long sip. It slurped in the bottom of the glass. He needed a bit of reinforcement for what he was about to ask, which he knew was a sore spot for Harold.
“Dad, why do you think Grandpa wanted me to have the trunk and not you?”
Harold stiffened but replied calmly. “He said . . . he just believed it was what he needed to do.”
“Is it what you believed he needed to do?”
