Dan Keohane - Solomon's Grave (excerpt)

Excerpt from

Solomon's Grave

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"And God spoke all these words: I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery. You shall have no other gods before me."

Exodus 20:1-3 (NIV)

"As Solomon grew old, his wives turned his heart after other gods, and his heart was not fully devoted to the Lord his God, as the heart of David his father had been. He followed Ashtoreth, the goddess of the Sidonians, and Molech the detestable god of the Ammonites. So Solomon did evil in the eyes of the Lord...."

1 Kings 11:4-6 (NIV)

Part One

Homecoming

Prologue

Constantinople, 1204 A.D.

Bishop Georgios Palaiologos stumbled on a raised stone as he ran the length of the torch-lit corridor. The top strap of his sandal broke loose. There was no time for mending it. He curled the toes of his right foot and continued on. Even in this little-known passage he could hear the sounds of Latin crusaders crashing through rooms and halls on the main floor. The Church of the Twelve Apostles, God's most holy and majestic Byzantine cathedral, was overrun by those who claimed their animal violence in His name.

The courier, a young boy of barely seven years, had given him the warning with terror etched on his small face. The message was from Georgios' fellow bishop at Hagia Sophia. They are coming, the Latins are coming and you must leave with as many of the relics as you can carry. No one is being spared. No one.

Then the boy's face crumpled. Before Georgios could reach out to comfort him he'd escaped out a side door, desperate to return home. The bishop now offered another prayer for the boy's safety as he opened a door hidden behind a tapestry at the end of the passage. He did so slowly, wary that perhaps he'd underestimated the preparedness of the knights storming up the church's steps only fifteen minutes after the courier departed. It would take time to find their way down here, but Georgios maintained stealth as he ran down the winding flight of steps and entered the large, cross-shaped tomb below the church. It was empty. For now.

No time to consider his plan. Still, when he saw the twelve caskets laid out in the chamber, relegated centuries before by Constantius to hold the most sacred relics of Christ's original twelve apostles, the large man sagged to his knees.

"Dear God," he whispered, hands clasped together against his chest. "Please protect your church. Do not let these murderers destroy your temple. Guide my steps." He wanted to remain there, fall prostrate to the cold floor and beseech the Lord to lay his hand over the perfect and irreplaceable objects which lay within the sarcophagi. The sounds above him became suddenly louder. They had found the entrance to this basilica. He had to go now, since what he sought made even these precious objects insignificant.

Georgios was the caretaker, chosen by God. He mustn't hesitate. There were some, perhaps many, among the invading hordes, dark-minded men no more faithful to Pope Innocent III's holy Crusades than were the neighboring Turks. These hidden marauders, servants of the Dark One himself, were his true adversaries. He rose to his feet, curled the toes of his right foot into the broken sandal, and ran to the far corner of the chamber. He passed the Column of Flagellation, the very pillar to which the Lord Jesus was bound and whipped. He closed one eye, trying to pretend it was nothing more than a support column.

Nothing more.

Dear God, why does this have to happen?

The door was flush with the wall, save three indented holes into which he clumsily put the fingers of his right hand. He pulled. The door gave, though it tried to resist his efforts. The bishop leaned back, adding his own weight to the action, and the door swung wide. As soon as he released his handhold the heavy stone began sliding back into place. He reached out and liberated the closest of the torches lining the room. They were lighted always, maintained by the nuns of his own order. Those poor women... no, he must think of nothing else but his mission. The door buffeted him as he passed inside, knocking him against the wall. Sparks from the torch dusted across his face. His right sandal, at last, broke free. He did not stop to reclaim it, but kicked off the other within the inner hall and walked barefoot along the passage. He held the torch's flame high to keep the heat and smoke out of his eyes.

Before he turned the corner into the chamber, the bishop felt its power. No matter how often, how constantly drawn he was to this secret room, the barely restrained power of God - both glorious and deadly - filled him with awe. But he did not slow, he could not. His bare feet slapped against the stones which were regularly cleaned and washed by his own hand.

The relic before him seemed to suck the very light from his torch's flame, filling itself and shining back a hundred fold. Georgios was certain it was not mere reflection across the ornate gold that caused this. He had many theories on why this relic, as holy and historical as it obviously was, was so coveted by both God and Satan. Why he and thousands before him had devoted their lives to its secrecy and protection. Some day he would need to write his theories down. He cursed his procrastination. He may not live out the day to write any more in his journals.

After inserting the torch into the nearest sconce, the large man climbed onto the platform. Voices, now, behind him. How had the cursed knights found the apostles' chamber so quickly? Sounds of breaking stone. Georgios stumbled, closed his eyes and wanted to weep at the thoughts of what might be happening beyond the sealed door.

The sound of looting and destruction faded suddenly under an obscure hum. Music, surrounding him. Chanting. No, not chanting, singing, a million voices collapsing into one, then back again to millions. He dropped to one knee, knowing in his heart the sound was of angels, just beyond the very doorway into Heaven.

No, he would consider such musings another time.

He looked up. The vessel was too large to be moved by one man, especially himself. After the boy left him, Georgios understood he'd been caught sleeping. He prayed that God would send a force to help him move it, but there was simply not enough time for help to arrive. Only one option left to him, which he must do alone.

Something crashed against stone at the end of the corridor. He heard voices, louder now, the grinding of the hidden stone door. It crashed closed. Even this most secret of places they had found with ease. It would not take long for them to realize how to handle the door and charge inside.

Georgios opened the vessel's lid, slid it sideways no more than a foot, and reached in with steady hands. He closed his fingers around them, the most sacred objects in existence. He lifted the bundle and held it close to his chest, feeling its power surge through him. This was the key. Without it, the door to Heaven would be locked against this violent, pathetic world.

Perhaps forever.

Chapter One

The sky above the desert glowed deep red, almost maroon. Towards the horizon it became brighter, lightening to a thin yellow where sand met sky. Nathan didn't know which direction this was, whether he was seeing sunrise or sunset. He prayed he was facing east, for then the dancing colors would imply the sun would soon rise and with it, the comfort of day.

Desert stretched around him as far as he could see, but he was not hot. No shimmering of heat danced over the ground. The sand under his sneaker felt real when he kicked it. When he looked up again his stomach tightened - a thin, acidic fear creeping through his body, filling his arms and legs with lead.

Where once was only an eternal stretch of sand before him, a building now rose. Even from this distance he could tell it stood tall, twenty, maybe thirty stories. No definite delineation of floor or stories existed. It could have been a pyramid - its base wide, slowly tapering to a narrow girth at the top - or an Incan temple the likes of which he'd seen in renderings from old National Geographic magazines.

He was dreaming. With the introduction of the temple came the people marching past. They formed a long line on either side of him, hooded, cloaks bathed in red hues of the surreal sky above. They marched in the sand like penitent monks, towards the temple in the midst of the landscape. Nathan did not want to follow. He wanted to run away, or wake up, or whatever he could do to escape. His sneakers moved through the sand which pulled him forward like an undertow. He tried to maintain his footing. The sand did feel hot now. It piled over his socks and shoes. He tried to lean back, pull against the force.

Suddenly he was in the air, flying without effort towards the temple. He passed over the hooded figures as they slid along the landscape to what Nathan could now see were hundreds of steps leading up the building's face toward a single, massive door. In the crowd that raced below, then eventually passed behind him, one face - just a quick glimpse - rang familiar before being lost in the ruddy shadows of its hood. The face eluded his memory, as all thoughts focused on what lay ahead of him.

The door of the temple swung inward. What remained was only a black square waiting to swallow him. He spun, looked behind him to search the many cowls trying to glean any features of a friendly face. Someone to beg help from. Anything to remove the alien unfamiliarity of his situation.

Nothing, save the lonesome darkness under their hoods. If there had been someone he knew in the line of penitents that person was lost forever. The twin formations faded into the distance. He was moving backwards, towards the open doors of the temple. Nathan ineffectually kicked his feet, tried to swim away in the hot dry air. He remained caught in the undertow. A heavy presence in the doorway behind him. He didn't want to turn around, didn't want to go inside. He closed his eyes, curled himself into a tight ball, tried to scream, tried to wake up, but his voice was mute.

"You are the sacrifice tonight," said a voice. It was the voice one would imagine being of God, but turned inside out, dark and amused. From everywhere and nowhere a hundred arms grabbed him, squeezed his skin, pulled him inside.

The desert faded to a square floating in darkness, growing smaller as he fell further inside the temple. Nathan thrashed in their grip. They pulled harder, hurting, drawing him down and ripping at his flesh. Another sensation now, an odor, something burning -

"Hey! Hey, Pal!"

Nathan found his voice at that moment and screamed one long, desperate wail. He struck out, found his arms were no longer pinned.

A large, burly man leaned across the aisle and gripped his shoulder. Despite the man's size, he seemed almost afraid to touch Nathan. "It's OK, man. You awake yet or what?" He pulled his hand away and leaned back into his own seat.

Nathan looked around. The steady vibration of the bus, rolling along the dark highway outside. The bus. He'd fallen asleep on the ride. Nathan checked his watch, pressing a small button to illuminate the dial. Two-thirty in the morning.

He took in a deep breath and exhaled. "I'm OK. I'm sorry. Bad dream, I think. I didn't hit you or anything, did I?"

The other man's body sagged with relief, and he nodded, moving his large frame back to the window seat where he'd apparently been sitting before coming across to pull Nathan from the nightmare. "It's OK," he mumbled, keeping a sideways glance always trained on him. "Didn't hurt. Sounded like a bad one. I couldn't wake you up." He said this last statement almost to himself.

Nathan began to explain, but already the images and details were hard to remember, washed away in the real-life sensations of the bus's dimly-lighted interior. Besides, the guy probably didn't want the details. He was being polite.

"I don't remember much of it, not really. Thanks, though." Three other heads were looking over the backs of the seats from scattered locations in front of him. Another advantage of taking such a late-traveling bus - aside from getting to Massachusetts quicker and without traffic - was that there were far fewer passengers getting spooked by his outburst. Nathan wondered absently if he really had screamed, or if that had been part of the dream. He decided he didn't want to know, and didn't ask.

The large man across the aisle extinguished the small overhead reading lamp, obviously trying to get back to sleep.

Nathan's left shoulder ached. The guy must have shaken him pretty hard. Seeing nothing else to hold their interest, the observing heads moved out of sight behind the seats, and Nathan was alone.

He looked at his dim reflection in the bus window, broken occasionally by a passing headlight or street lamp along the edge of Interstate 95. He tried to capture some details of the dream, hoping this time to retain more of it. It was the second one this week. Some details felt familiar this time around, as if he'd experienced them before. The temple was most vivid, so alien to his consciousness. Maybe he'd seen it in a book, once, but couldn't remember. It's setting had a biblical flavor. Nathan had already checked the three versions of the Bible he owned and did not see any illustration coming close.

There was a familiar face in the dream this time, or at least he thought so. His father, maybe? Other details, the red sky, the desert-scape, but again he returned to the quick glimpse of Art Dinneck - if that's who it was - walking along, hooded, lost. Almost reverent. That part almost made sense. Homecoming jitters. In a few more hours he'd arrive in Worcester. Then a cab ride to the small town of Hillcrest fifteen minutes north. Not to the house of his childhood, though he would pay a visit to his parents later.

Tomorrow morning - this morning he realized with a start - Nathan Dinneck would step into Hillcrest First Baptist Church not as a parishioner returning to the fold, but as its new pastor. The prodigal son returning, as his mother enjoyed saying (and saying, and saying) since he'd first phoned with the news. Only the second minister to serve in the small church's thirty-year history. His new job broke so many rules of a parish choosing a pastor, he half-expected a large "April Fool's" sign taped to the door. Five months late for such a thing, granted, but a nagging uncertainty remained.

Maybe if he was older, more experienced, then his new assignment wouldn't seem so unlikely. But Jesus' words - that a prophet is never welcomed in his home town - stuck with him. In fact, was often a standard by which church elders based many a decision. Until now, at least.

Reverend Hayden had a lot to say in the matter, having invited Nathan to his first interview. The old man had been looking forward to a long overdue retirement. Being the head of the search committee, he'd made the initial call himself. Nathan was serving as associate pastor in a large parish just outside of Orlando, a far cry from Hillcrest Baptist's smaller, more intimate congregation. Unlike the south, New England's Christian population, especially in Massachusetts, was predominately Catholic and Congregational. Many of his boyhood friends went to Saint Malachy's in the center of town, if they attended church at all.

Perhaps that would be an advantage. Running a small parish in a sleepy town like Hillcrest meant he could get his feet wet a bit more leisurely. From his own experience, nothing much exciting ever happened at home.

God had a plan for him, no doubt. Obviously, that plan involved coming home. He closed his eyes, feeling the tug of sleep returning, and wondered if Elizabeth O'Brien still lived in town. Even if she was, he doubted she'd speak to him, Big Time Pastor or not.

He did fall asleep, eventually, and did not dream. At least not that he could recall in the light of morning as the bus pulled into the Worcester depot.

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