A Treasure Deep (39 page)

“I . . . I . . .” Brent laughed. “I can’t
even talk. This is really it?”

“It has to be,” Perry replied.

“Give the anchorman some room,” Jack said.
The group parted and moved to the sides of the room. Jack moved
easily from the bridge to the floor, but he froze in his tracks. He
said nothing, his big frame casting a shadow the size of a bed
sheet. After a moment, he stepped two feet to the side to let the
light land on the thing before him. The beam wiggled and danced.
Gleason had picked up its stand and was moving it across the
bridge. He now set it in the center of the room and took a step
back.

Perry looked at Jack. “Well, big guy, what do
you think?”

Jack didn’t budge. He did, however, begin to
weep.

It seemed appropriate.

Silence permeated the space more deeply than
had the previous darkness. The only sounds were the running water
in the aquifer and the sniffing of men as they fought back
tears.

“I suppose we should do something,” Jack
finally said.

“Yeah, we should,” Perry answered. He bowed
his head and began, “Our Father in heaven, we are unworthy to
behold this . . .” As he prayed, tears ran from his eyes.

DR. CURTIS WAS childlike in his enthusiasm. He moved
through the room pointing and talking nonstop. Perry had given him
thirty minutes to evaluate the items while Brent, who had retrieved
his camera, shot video.

“The amazing thing is that the chrysalis has
maintained its shape,” Curtis enthused. “It was too much to hope
for. The ancient Jews often wrapped the deceased in strips of cloth
that ran from the feet to under the arms. That’s why all we see is
the shape of a man from the chest down. The hands of the deceased
would be tied in front with a linen strip.” He paused and looked
around the linen cocoon. “Here,” he said with excitement. “Right
here on

the pedestal, a cloth strip.”

Brent moved in for a close-up. “Just don’t
touch it, lad,” Curtis said to him and then continued his impromptu
lesson. “Spices meant to honor the dead as well . . . as well as .
. . well, just say it, to mask odor, would be poured over the body.
As much as a hundred pounds of spices might be used. Another band
of linen would be wrapped around the head to keep the mouth
shut.”

“If it’s cloth,” Anne asked, “why did it keep
its shape? Shouldn’t it just collapse on itself?”

“There’s a passage in the New Testament, John
chapter twenty, that has puzzled scholars for many years,” Perry
said. “The disciples Peter and John hear of the empty tomb and race
to the grave to see for themselves. It says that they saw the linen
wrappings lying there. After examining the empty tomb, it’s said
that John saw and believed. The question is: What did he see that
made him believe in the resurrection? Some have suggested that he
saw what we see now, the linen in the shape of the body of
Christ.”

“Doesn’t it mention a facecloth too?” Jack
asked.

“Yes,” Curtis affirmed. “In fact, it says the
cloth was off by itself, not with the linen wrappings but rolled up
and placed by itself. The word that is translated from the original
Greek as ‘rolled’ means ‘to be wrapped.’ Some think that what the
disciples saw was the face napkin still in the position it would
have been if wrapped around Jesus’ head. The simpler explanation
would be that it had been folded up and set aside. The truth is, we
don’t know.”

“Would it be here?” Gleason asked.

Curtis acted as if he had been shocked. “That
hadn’t occurred to me.” Curtis started looking around. Perry and
the others joined.

“Here,” Perry said.

“You found it?” Curtis asked.

“No, but I found something else. There is a
small rock ledge and something is resting on it.” Perry turned to
Brent. “I need more direct light. Bring the camera over.” Brent did
and shone the high-intensity light where Perry indicated. “They
look like medallions. Take a look, Doc.” Perry stepped aside, and
Curtis hurried over.

“I can’t be sure, but . . .” He took a deep
breath. “This is almost too much to believe. I think these are clay
seals. They bear an impression.” He leaned over the objects and
then straightened. “Pontius Pilate,” he said in a whisper. “These
are the remains of the seal that was on Christ’s tomb.”

“Seal?” Brent said. “You mean like a wax
seal? Remember I’m new at all this.”

“A clay seal,” Curtis said. “To break the
seal was punishable by death. The tomb was cut out of rock, and a
large, round stone had been rolled in front of the opening. A seal
would have been set by stretching a cord around the stone door and
setting it with clay medallions. A signet ring bearing Pilate’s
name would have been pressed into the clay, and the ring returned
to the procurator.”

“I found it,” Anne said. She was kneeling
down at the head of the stone pedestal. “There’s a cubbyhole here
and what looks like a folded dish towel.”

Curtis scampered over. “Please, don’t touch
it. It’s very old and might turn to dust if moved.” Anne moved so
the archaeologist could kneel down and see for himself. “Yes, yes,
this very well could be it. It must be it. It’s the only thing that
makes sense.”

“What about those?” Jack said, pointing to
two jars that were tucked away in a corner. “Should we open
them?”

“No, not here,” Curtis said sharply. “This
must be done in a laboratory, not in the field.” He stopped,
realizing the foolishness of his statement.

“We all agree with you, Dr. Curtis, but you
know the problem,” Perry said softly. “We’re going to have to move
these, no matter what.”

“But they’re invaluable,” Curtis moaned.
“They’re more valuable than anything on earth. They’re more
valuable than my life or . . .”

No one corrected him. Perry understood the
man well enough to know of his faith and the goodness of his heart.
Curtis plunked down on the floor, pulling his legs up into a fetal
position. “You’re right, of course,” he whispered.

Perry walked to the scholar and crouched down
next to him. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “You know if there
was any other way, I’d seize it, but for now, someone else calls
the shots.”

“I know,” the heartbroken archaeologist said.
Perry felt the same emotion and had, for the briefest of moments,
wondered if he shouldn’t just call the police and hope for the
best.

“Jesus died for the many, Doc,” Perry
offered. “He also died for the one. We have to do what is
right.”

Perry rose, approached the stone bier, and
looked at the wrappings that had once touched his Savior. Hot
feelings churned in

a roiling, emotional stew.

Brent stepped to his side, shooting more
video of the unusual object that had endured more than Perry could
imagine. As he did so, the camera’s lights illuminated the
chrysalis. For the first time, Perry saw a dark spot on the left
side: an ancient bloodstain. He immediately thought of the spear
thrust between Jesus’ ribs, and a profound sadness poured in to
form a void in Perry where confidence had once been.

In front of him rested objects that had
touched the Christ, the Son of God. Once, the chrysalis had
embraced the lifeless form of the Savior, then somehow, in some
miraculous way, had retained its shape during the resurrection. Few
doubted the reality of the historical Jesus, but many debated His
words, His life, His miracles, and His resurrection. Here was
proof. Doubters would work hard to find fault, but they would be
left on shifting, shaky ground. Those who did not want to believe
never would, but certainly many would recognize the truth when they
saw it.

Whoever moved the artifacts, whoever built
the replica tomb endured the worst kinds of hardship and danger. It
wasn’t something that one would do for a prank or a hoax.

Chrysalis. Face napkin. Pilate’s seal. Even
Perry was having trouble believing it. Here was corroboration for
those who had eyes to see. Everything in the stone room was
mentioned in the Gospels. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John all gave
details of the event, and here was evidence of their accuracy—each
item attested to the truth recorded in those Bible books. If they
were accurate about the burial of Christ, certainly they were
truthful about all He had said and done. They showed him to be the
Christ, the Messiah, the very Son of God, and before Perry lay
artifacts that gave silent but soul-shaking testimony to the
truth.

And he had to let it all go.

An image came to his mind: An older man lying
in a rain-soaked alley of Seattle; a man who clutched a battered
leather satchel and said, “I’ve failed. I’ve failed the world. I’ve
failed God.” Perry now knew what Dr. Henri had meant. He too felt
he had failed the world and, worse, failed God.

UNDER CURTIS’S PRECISE direction, Brent shot what
seemed to Perry to be miles of video footage. Curtis provided
running commentary on everything, recording his observations for
future study. It was a wise course of action, Perry decided. The
odds were great that the world would never see the precious
treasure again. The thought sickened him.

While the video record was being made, Jack
and Gleason worked outside the chamber to build wood crates for the
artifacts. Perry did nothing visible. He stood stoically to the
side, watching Curtis and Brent work. His mind was anything but
stoic; it was racing, plotting, conceiving, analyzing, and
rejecting one idea after another. Anne stood quietly by his
side.

“So this is the treasure you were after,”
Anne whispered so her voice wouldn’t interfere with Curtis’s
dialogue with the video camera. “I thought you were after personal
gain.”

“How do you know I wasn’t?” Perry asked.
“We’re looking at items more valuable than anything in the world.
On the underground antiquities market, just one artifact would
bring millions of dollars.”

“Treasure hunters and tomb robbers don’t
pause for prayer,” Anne said quickly. “Nor do they give over
spectacular, history-changing finds to crooks to save the lives of
others. I misjudged you, Perry, and I’m sorry.”

“You’re not the first,” he replied. “Now you
understand why I had to keep things secret, not that it matters
now.”

“I understand. You were right to do so.” She
chuckled. “My whole town thinks you’ve found gold or pirate
treasure up here.”

“That would be a lot easier to surrender,”
Perry said. “All the planning, all the security, and I still lose
it all; the world loses it all.”

“You sound like you’re giving up. You don’t
strike me as a man who just rolls over when things go south.”

“I haven’t given up,” Perry said resolutely.
“God didn’t bring us this far and protect us through all of this
just to let go now.”

“God helps those who help themselves,” Anne
said. “Doesn’t the Bible say that somewhere?”

“No, but Ben Franklin did, and in this
instance, I think he’s right.”

“So what do we do now?” Anne asked.

“We hand over the artifacts,” Perry said,
then strode across the bridge and into the bright afternoon
sun.

The crating had gone smoothly but also under
a somber veil darker than the pit over which their makeshift bridge
was suspended. Curtis maintained a steady dialogue of why
everything was wrong.

“We should be guarding against moisture . . .
dehumidifiers are what we need. We must double crate and prevent
jarring. Everything could turn to dust, the pots could break open
if mishandled . . .”

Since Perry had known from the manuscript
what treasure would be found, he’d made plans for shipping the
objects. The crates built by Jack and Gleason were to serve as
outer shells for

a combination of plastic bags, inert packing
material, and commercial packets of silica gel to remove moisture
from the air.

The ancient, dust-covered stone floor in the
anteroom and the airtight stone wall separating the two chambers
had kept moisture from the artifacts, but that had all changed when
the floor had given way beneath Perry’s feet and when he breached
the tightly fitted stone partition. Speed and care were essential
now. Every moment the artifacts were exposed to the air endangered
their existence. There were also several large plastic containers
that Jack had called “Tupperware for giants.”

With the reverence of a monk and the
gentleness of a surgeon, the team placed the items in plastic
bubble wrap bags, then in the large plastic containers with packing
material. Those in turn were loaded into the wood crates.

The process was slow and tedious. Perry and
the others moved deliberately, knowing that any mistake could
irreparably damage the precious find. The chrysalis and face napkin
were tenderly packed in one crate, the two earthenware jars in
another. The stamped clay medallions were bagged, enclosed in
bubble wrap, and placed in a small mailing box and set in the crate
with the pots.

After the delicate packing was done, while
the crew was still in the chamber, Perry pulled Gleason and Jack
aside. The conversation was carried out in hushed tones. Perry did
the talking; the two men listened intently, nodded, shook hands,
and returned their attention to the artifacts.

Perry and Jack carried each crate across the
bridge and into the light of day. With careful steps and awkward
lifting, the two crates were finally carried out of the pit and set
on the grass-carpeted ground.

“It’s time to clear the area,” Perry said.
“Gleason, you take Brent, Dr. Curtis, and Anne back to town. Jack
is going to stay with me. It will take more than one man to carry
the crates, and I doubt our friend will be hoisting anything
heavier than a gun.”

“I’d rather stay,” Anne said.

“I can’t allow it,” Perry said. “I’ve already
endangered your life enough.”

“You’ve done no such thing,” Anne shot back.
“I’m here of my own free will.”