Elisha’s Bones (5 page)
“Thank you for coming down here on such short notice, Jack. I know that your break from the university is a scant three weeks and the project I have for you may take some time.” He speaks as if my acceptance of the job is a foregone conclusion.
“I didn’t have much choice about coming, Gordon. It’s not as if billionaires are breaking down my door to offer me jobs. If nothing else, I have to find out what you have in mind.”
“Curiosity is the paramount character trait for those in your line of work,” Gordon says with a chuckle.
“I won’t argue that.”
Gordon is silent for a moment, his eyes on the fire. Suddenly he turns to me, casting a thoughtful eye my way, and says, “You haven’t done any fieldwork in almost five years. Why?”
It’s a germane question, but not one for which I have a ready answer. There is the obvious one, of course—that Will’s death drove me from my profession, along with the weeks of trying to get first the Egyptian government and then the American consular office to investigate it as something more than an accident, only to run into one wall after another. Even Jim counseled me to let the matter drop, despite the fact that there was an obvious blast pattern, and that the strange visit by the SCA minutes before the accident could not have been coincidence. As I consider these things, Gordon’s eyes hold mine, convincing me that he already knows everything I’m thinking.
“I was tired,” is my only response.
Gordon remains silent through the time it takes him to drain half of the glass. The fact that I’ve been less than forthcoming— even when we are both aware of the other’s unobstructed view of the playing field—bothers me, but I remind myself that I do not know this man, and I owe him nothing—not even honesty. I don’t have to validate public record.
“Are you well rested now?” he asks without a hint of judgment.
Despite what I have already told him, I’ve had a few offers during my time at the university. Some of them were unique enough ventures to tempt me into returning to a world outside of the staid confines of academia. In the end, I turned each of them down. I was not ready and, in truth, I’m not certain I am now. Perhaps Gordon Reese is catching me at the right time; maybe there’s something in the wintry air that is making me antsy; or maybe I’m at some watershed moment in a long and undefined grieving process. Whatever it is, I’m here.
“That really depends on what you have to tell me, Gordon.”
The expression on the billionaire’s face indicates he appreciates my answer. He lapses into a thoughtful silence, his gaze back on the dancing flames, and I wait for him to speak. He brought me here for a reason, and he will tell me in his time.
“I trust you know your Old Testament,” Gordon says.
I nod. “As well as most people do, I’d guess.”
“A good deal more than most, I’d venture,” he says, and a laugh shakes his thin frame. “It’s practically an archaeological streetlamp. I wouldn’t be surprised if half of all archaeologists, past and present, owe a good portion of their initial interest in the field to their childhood hearings of Old Testament tales.”
I have to join him in his mirth because, in my case, his guess is spot-on. There’s a decent chance that if I hadn’t spent time during my formative years at the knees of my parents, listening to stories about ancient peoples and places, I might not have taken an interest in the study of civilizations arisen, fallen, and in some cases, passed from collective memory.
“I see I’ve come close to the truth?” Gordon asks.
I nod and give him his due. “It may have had some influence on my education, yes.”
He grunts an acknowledgment and then shakes his head. “It amazes me how such a seminal work can be so neglected once one enters into serious study. It’s quite odd, really.”
I do not respond, principally because it seems such a childish thing to say coming from such a bright man. It’s the equivalent of suggesting that a person earning his doctorate in English Literature should spend time studying children’s books. While these books might have instilled in the doctoral candidate a love of reading, their usefulness has long been spent.
“I can tell by your expression that you do not agree with me?” There is no indictment in the question, but I sense a hint of sadness.
I let a few ticks pass in silence while I consider the question. I have no wish to offend this man, yet I have a feeling he would not be fooled by insincerity. I watch the flames dance over logs half consumed by their ravenous tendrils.
“The Bible does not teach a person the fundamentals of archaeology,” I say. “While there are some interesting stories in there—some even corroborated by other documents and excavations—you can’t use the book as some sort of treasure map.”
“That is certainly true, Jack. However, the treasures are there, if one knows where to look.”
We’re getting to the crux of it now. I can feel the reason behind the meeting looming just outside the edge of the conversation. I do not answer. It is his story to unravel, his request to make.
“Second Kings,” Gordon says. “Chapter thirteen, verses twenty and twenty-one.”
Of course, I’m silent. I could no more quote the contents of those verses than I could recite pi to the thousandth place.
Gordon looks once again at the fire, and when he speaks he’s quoting the biblical passage. “ ‘Elisha died and was buried. Now Moabite raiders used to enter the country every spring. Once while some Israelites were burying a man, suddenly they saw a band of raiders; so they threw the man’s body into Elisha’s tomb. When the body touched Elisha’s bones, the man came to life and stood up on his feet.’ ”
From deep within my childhood experiences, I pull a memory that corresponds to what Gordon has just recited, although I remember hearing the passage in Old English. It sounds different spoken in contemporary language.
“Do you know, Jack, that there’s no other mention of this event after these two verses? Imagine that: a dead man is tossed onto the bones of a prophet and he comes back to life. Today, that would be quite a story. The media would be all over it.”
“As they would the fact that this same man made an axhead float in water, and that he summoned bears out of the woods to kill children who made fun of his receding hairline.” It’s coming back to me now—these fanciful Bible stories. I remember not liking Elisha very much. It seemed petulant to use the power of God to get even with taunting youths.
Gordon picks up on my thoughts and nods. “Yes, the Bible is full of what seem to us abuses of divine power. But I think the work is richer for it. There is a certain weight—a believability— that is granted to a book that shows its heroes in all of their insidious splendor.” Gordon’s glass is empty and I’m beginning to wish I’d taken him up on the offer of a drink of my own. If nothing else, it would give me something to do during these pauses in the conversation.
“What’s your interest in the story, Gordon?” Asking this question seems a better choice than engaging the man in a debate about the historicity of Scripture. That’s not a discussion I’m prepared for, nor one I would want to participate in even if my thirteenth-century Incan stone ducks were all in a row.
“In a way, I’ve already mentioned it.” He leans forward, pushing himself away from the embracing couch, closing the distance between us. Everything about his posture and his manner suggests conspiratorial excitement. “Tell me, what would happen if you and I were at lunch with the president and, halfway through dessert, he pulled out a gun and shot the waiter?”
It’s an odd question considering the previous subject matter, and I’m left feeling stunned for a few seconds. Gordon, though, is waiting for an answer, so I take a stab at it.
“He’d be arrested and they’d haul him off to jail. President or no, you can’t indiscriminately shoot people.”
He looks irritated at my response and waves it off.
“My fault. You’re using today as a frame of reference. Let’s say that it’s the 1960s and we’re supping with Kennedy? What would happen then?”
I think I see now where he’s going with this. “In that case, you and I would be whisked away and we’d never be heard from again. The waiter’s death would be described as an accident, and anyone who saw anything would either be killed or cowed into silence.”
“Ah, that’s more like it. But the predominant characteristic of the event is that it would disappear from history, at least to the extent that something like that can be covered up. But there’s always someone willing to talk, even if the history books are scrubbed clean. And that’s where the absence of information attracts attention. It’s the secrecy that draws people in, Jack. Tell people something, no matter how farfetched, and most will believe it. Tell them nothing—”
“And you’ve got a conspiracy,” I finish.
“Right. It’s the lack of information.” Gordon’s eyes bore into mine. “Just two verses, then nothing. Gone. Scrubbed from history—as much as could be done. But someone talked and so they couldn’t erase it entirely. They minimized it.”
A heavy silence settles over us, and it seems darker in the room. Gordon’s face remains lit by the waning fire. It’s difficult for me not to get caught up by his passion, his magnetism. What makes it easier to retain a clinical distance is my understanding of what Gordon has implied, and then what he wants from me. Gordon Reese thinks—believes—that the bones are real. Worse, he wants me to find them for him.
I consider my words, but no matter how I try to couch my terms, I cannot dilute what needs to be said.
“Mr. Reese, I think you’re reaching. You can’t use a silence of historical record to prove a conspiracy—especially not in a document as old as Second Kings.” I feel odd even using the word
conspiracy
. “And if the story were true, who would try to cover it up? And why? Besides, there’s no biblical precedent for hiding a miraculous event. Quite the contrary, in fact. Anything even remotely supernatural was documented with great care.”
Gordon leans back, but not enough to signify disengagement.
“One of the interesting things about the story—the thing that sets it apart from many others in the Bible—is that there were so few witnesses. This was not Elijah on Mount Carmel, or the Ark of the Covenant smiting the Philistines with boils. This was a small group of men, alone in a cemetery. A much easier event to keep quiet.”
“Except that they didn’t keep it quiet. It’s right there in black and white.”
“Only to the extent that the Roswell crash is recorded in underground journals, or in the fashion that people whisper about the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of Marilyn Monroe. No, Jack, it looks to me as if the writers of this section of the Scriptures—and remember, this was likely penned by a group of scholars during the Assyrian captivity— chose to treat this as legend, since they could not force it out of collective lore.”
A part of my brain is now charting my exit from this place, and the prospect of a disappointing flight home. Yet another part—the purely academic—wants to discuss the theory, especially with one of the world’s richest men. At least then, when I’m back at Evanston and telling the story to Duckey, I can share with him that I sat in Gordon Reese’s drawing room and debated theoretical antiquities.
Before I can say anything, Gordon grips the armrest and pulls himself to his feet. As he struggles to get himself upright, I have a fear that he might fall over. But he regains his balance before I can react.
“It’s a comfortable couch,” he explains, “but if I sit too long, I can’t get up.” He takes slow and measured steps to the fireplace and removes the poker from its stand. With his back to me, he slides the mesh curtain aside and prods the spent logs with the implement until there’s a cavity in the center and the flames find fresh purchase. The task done, he returns the poker to its stand but does not turn around.
“You didn’t ask me to come here just because of two Bible verses,” I say. Now that I think about it, it makes sense that a man like Gordon would have done his research before initiating this sort of project. He knows something, and this piques my interest.
“I’ve spent a good many years in this pursuit. It’s only been recently, however, that my search has taken on a heightened sense of urgency.” He places a hand on the mantel and turns so that he can see me. I realize, then, that I’m looking at a man who is not just ill. He’s dying.
His eyes, though, are alive with flame—with purpose.
“You’d be surprised at what I’ve discovered, Jack.”
I would have to be a fool not to realize why he’s so interested in the remnants of a dead prophet. His own mortality is catching up with him and, like all men, he is searching for something to save him from his fate.
“Even if the bones are real,” I say after a long pause, “and that’s a big
if
—what makes you think they possess any kind of power?”
“Because the power of God does not fade over time, Dr. Hawthorne,” he says, absolute certainty in his voice. “The bones are as alive with healing energy today as they were the day the Israelites tossed their friend’s carcass on them.”
It is a claim I cannot argue. How does one contest against another man’s blind faith?
I
wake up with sweat on my face and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I hate planes. I’ve always thought I have some inner-ear thing that brings me just south of ill on anything prone to unexpected movements. Planes, roller coasters, and big-city taxis all produce the feeling.
I look out the window but all I see is the thick cloud cover separating me from terra firma. My watch tells me it will be another hour before we start our descent into the Venezuelan capital—an hour to either sort through or ignore the mixed feelings I have about returning to a place I once knew well. On one hand, it feels good to be moving. For the first time in years I feel as if I’ve taken a step toward something. Still, there’s a part of me that is not convinced this is a significant change in momentum. I tell myself that this job does not constitute a return to my pre-teaching profession. This is a short-term business deal, after which I will return to Evanston and go back to the serious matter of molding young minds and flirting with Angie. What belies that line of reasoning, though, is the tingle at the back of my neck that I only get when I’m excited about something. And when I’m eating Lemonheads. And I have to admit that I feel more energized than normal, especially considering that I’ve spent most of the day in cabs, airports, and planes of dubious mechanical soundness.
