The Tavernier Stones (15 page)

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Authors: Stephen Parrish

BOOK: The Tavernier Stones
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Mysteries had never before appealed to John, nor stories of treasure hunts, adventure and danger, or anything to do with lust and greed. His Amish upbringing had programmed him to work hard and live simply. He had never paid any attention to the lottery; why should he care about some missing rocks, however valuable they may be?
The superficial answer was clear: because of their historical connection to Johannes Cellarius. Because Cellarius cared about them. But there was more to it than that.
He knelt next to the Winterbottom monument, dug his fingers into the soil, and breathed in the damp, musty odor. He rubbed the soil between his fingers and felt its gritty texture, that magical combination of minerals and humus that were gifts from the earth and all the former life it had nourished. The sensation triggered memories both dear and painful. He had a choice to make, and making it would be painful, too.
Since most Amish activities—work, play, dining, worship, haircuts—took place in the home, John felt lonely in his tomb-like row house on Nouveau Street. He missed the hectic bustle of an Amish homestead. The chatter of women in the kitchen. The squeals of children playing in the barn. The laughter that rose almost as one voice from the gathering of people who shared a common crucible.
At the same time, he still wanted a taste of what the outside world had to offer. To what extent, he wondered, would searching for the lost Tavernier stones provide that?
The Amish didn’t draw from Social Security because they didn’t pay into it. Instead, they integrated security into their social structure. No matter what calamity might befall a family—illness, fire, bankruptcy—the community would intervene on its behalf. It was more secure than English society, more secure even than the military or any other well-funded social unit. It provided a sense of place, an identity, a purpose. In short, a home.
In what way could the lost Tavernier stones possibly address any of those?
The Amish had been tied to the soil for centuries. Indeed, they saw it as a biblical mandate: “Therefore the Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken” (Genesis 3:23). John longed for the smell of crops at harvest time, the smell of the soil after a spring rain, even the smell of manure in the barn. Home, he had learned, consisted of everything he had ever taken for granted.
And now, in the quiet solitude of Lancaster Cemetery, kneeling next to the Winterbottom monument with the smell of earth on his fingers, it was time for him to take an objective look at the circumstances.
Johannes Cellarius had been found murdered in a bog in northern Germany. A ruby was clenched in his fist. Some people speculated the ruby was a recut of one of the lost Tavernier stones. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t.
Suppose it wasn’t. Suppose the ruby were merely an heirloom Cellarius grabbed in panic during his abduction. Then there was no connection to Tavernier, and nothing to look for. Or to dwell on.
Suppose it was. Then either the stones were all recut and scattered around the world, or they were still intact, buried somewhere, waiting to be found. If the former were true, then there was nothing to look for or to dwell on. If the latter, then he, John Graf, almost certainly wouldn’t be the man to find them.
Most historians continued to argue that Tavernier’s seventh voyage was mere legend, and that people who tried to fit the “facts” to the legend were only going to become frustrated. John was already frustrated; the problem was interfering with his professional life.
There might not have been any lost Tavernier stones to begin with. And if there were, they might not have had anything to do with Johannes Cellarius. And if they did, they might never be found, because there was nothing besides the ruby in his fist to suggest a connection. And the ruby was disconcertingly silent on the matter.
But then there was that map—that damn map. Cellarius’s depiction of the lower Palatinate was what had been bothering John. It was never the gemstones; it was always
the map
.
It was the final effort of Cellarius’s cartographic career. It had been lurking in dusty drawers for over three hundred years. Its border contained a secret message. Numerous elements were inexplicable and uncharacteristic of its author.
It had always spoken to John in a voice he could never understand.
He stood up and dusted off his knees. A walk in the cemetery was just what he had needed. His head was clear, he had sorted out an issue, he had identified the problem.
If Cellarius were speaking from the grave, he was not doing so clearly enough. There were too many unanswered questions about the Palatinate map. And as a cartographer, it was reasonable for John to seek the answers. He made a vow to Ramsey and Rosalie, speaking out loud to the weathered marble slab:
“All right, guys. As soon as I make sure the map contains no hidden messages, I’ll quit my search for the lost Tavernier stones and end this obsession before it truly begins.”
 
When John arrived home, entered his living room, and turned on the light, he found a man sitting cross-legged on the couch.
“Who the hell are
you
?”
The man held up a dollar bill for John to see. “Watch,” he said. He tore the bill repeatedly in half until the pieces were the size of a postage stamp. Then he slowly “unfolded” them, revealing a restored dollar bill.
“The gist of the trick,” the man said, “is that an accordion-folded bill—the ‘restored’ bill—is already fastened to the back of the bill that gets torn to pieces.”
“Who
are
you, and what are you doing in my house?”
“You come home awfully late. I got tired of sitting on the front steps, so I came in. Besides, I’m only returning the call.”
“The call?”
The man produced John’s business card. “You gave this to my girlfriend yesterday.”
“Oh,” John said. “You’re him.”
“Yes. I’m him. David Freeman.” He stood up and shook John’s hand. “It appears we have a common interest.”
The infamous gem thief was a lot shorter than John had imagined. And his face was too nondescript to trust. Anyone with eyes that luminous, that black, had been places John didn’t want to go. Maybe tracking the guy down in Philadelphia wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“How did you get in?” John asked. “The door was locked.”
“I unlocked it,” David said. “If you knew enough about me to find me, then you know enough about me not to be surprised by that.”
“What I
don’t
know is why I bother locking it,” John mumbled. “Look … um … can I offer you something to drink?”
“Like what? I already checked out your kitchen. All you have is mineral water.”
“Then I apologize for my inhospitality. And now, if you don’t mind …”
“Listen to what I have to say. Then, if you want me to leave, I will. It’ll only cost you a dollar, and you already paid.”
“What do you mean?”
“That dollar bill I tore up—I found it on the dresser in your bedroom.”
David spread a photograph, a postcard, and a drawing on John’s coffee table, and the two sat down on the couch. The photograph was of the Cellarius ruby; John had seen reprints of it in the newspaper. The postcard depicted a different ruby, one about the same size. The drawing was a page from the disputed Tavernier manuscript that John also recognized.
“Did you happen to see Dr. Cornelius Bancroft’s interview on TV?” David asked.
“No. But I met him.”
“You met him? Oh, of course. That’s how you got my name. Well, he was right. The Cellarius ruby
is
a recut of one of the lost Tavernier stones. Look closely.” He pointed to a trapezoidal facet visible on the photograph of the Cellarius ruby, then to what appeared to be the same facet recognizable on one of the stones in the Tavernier drawing. “This is the connection Bancroft made. It’s tenuous, but it suggests the Cellarius ruby came from the larger stone. Now look again.” David moved the postcard between the photograph and the drawing. “Notice anything extraordinary about this kite-shaped facet here?”
“It’s identical to
another
one of the facets in the drawing,” John said.
“Yes.
This
stone,” David pointed at the postcard, “was
also
once part of the Tavernier ruby. Considering the weight lost during a recut, the two stones, combined with a third not yet found, would comprise the original. So there’s another third still missing, although it might have been cut into yet smaller pieces. I doubt it, though.”
“Where did you find that?”
David flipped the postcard over. “Field Museum of Natural History, Chicago, Illinois. Can you believe it? The people who most loudly denied the connection had proof of it under their noses. It’s called the Prairie State ruby. I haven’t been able to find much history on it yet.”
John massaged his temples. “So it’s true, after all …”
“This is the first confirmation, ever, of the legend. The lost Tavernier stones exist. And everyone in the world will know it before long.”
“Why is that?”
David tapped the postcard. “They sell these things at the museum. Or at least they used to. The curators took the stone off display on the twenty-eighth of May, the day after Bancroft made his recut theory public. I think it’s fair to predict we won’t be getting much help from the museum staff.”
“We?” John asked.
David nodded solemnly. “I’m betting you don’t know a whole lot about the lost Tavernier stones. And you might as well be aware, I can’t even point in the direction of north. We need each other. That’s why I’m here, and that’s why you were in South Philly yesterday.”
John shrugged. “So what do you suggest we do first?”
“Eat,” David replied.
John got up and headed for the kitchen, but David stopped him. “All you have in there is microwave meals. It’s still early, though. We could hit a restaurant. And bring the map along.”
On their way out, John said to David, “You know, it’s eerie, but I can’t shake the feeling Johannes Cellarius has been trying to tell me something.”
“Well,” David said, “now that you’ve made your confession, I’ll make mine: Jean-Baptiste Tavernier has been talking up a storm to me. And I’ve decided it’s time I started listening.”
FOURTEEN
 
THE EARTH SUBSEQUENTLY SPUN twice on its axis. As it did, fever increased over the possibility of finding a lost cache of priceless gems.
Television talk-show hosts interviewed panels of cartographers, gemologists, and professional treasure hunters. Late-night comedians made one joke after another about dead mapmakers in bogs.
Printers of antique maps could not keep up with demand. Ruby prices soared. Tourists stood in long lines to view the remains of Johannes Cellarius, now on display at the University of Hamburg medical school.
Thursday’s noontime sun seemed to linger over Scandinavia. Urged, finally, by the afternoon shadows, it ponderously moved on.
Near Bergen, Norway, a fisherman blew on his chapped hands, then steered his boat away from the fog-drenched fjords and out to sea. He reflected on the glory days of his people, when fishermen-warriors set out in razor-thin vessels to loot any conspicuously accumulated wealth they could find.
The lost Tavernier stones constituted just such booty. They awakened a spirit in the fisherman that had been dormant in his people for a thousand years.
In Reykjavik, Iceland, a blond, blue-eyed schoolgirl had mapped out the rest of her life and felt it was time to inform the world.
“Papa, I know what I want to be when I grow up.
”
Her father turned the page of his newspaper and said,
“
Hmm.
”
“I want to be a mineralogist.
”
“Hmm. Wasn’t it just last week you wanted to be an astronaut? Maybe you could put the two together—be the first person to collect rocks on Mars.
”

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