Home
The games
Resources
Links
About
Site map

« Back

A Cold Mountain

Chapter 9

by Daniel Pears, published on September 14, 2000

September 1st 2000, noon-time, Cambridge, England

Sergeant Cornwell lit another cigarette, his seventh of the day, crumpled the empty pack in his meaty fist, and tossed it into his pocket. When he finally reached the second floor of the Faculty of Archaeology and Anthropology, Cornwell found two men and a woman standing by the threshold of an office. The woman was tall, good-looking.

-“You Frey?” He asked.

-“That’s right,” Sarah replied. “Thank you for coming.”

-“And who the hell are you?” Cornwell pointed to the two other men.

-“My name is Dr. Gabriel Knight,” I extended my hand. “I'm from Yell University.”

-“An American?”

-“That’s right.”

-“And you?”

-“Dr. Neil Brodie, the new Director of the Hebrew and Aramaic Studies.”

Cornwell glanced at Sarah. She seemed spooked but in control of her emotions. Good. Cornwell knew it was harder to get anything done when people let their emotions take over. “My name is Cornwell. How did they…” He looked over Sarah’s shoulder at the jimmied door. “Never mind. I guess I can figure out how they got it. Your basic pry bar job. Want to show me around, ma’am?”

Sarah let him inside the office. Cornwell stood there for a moment, surveying the wreckage. The furniture had been slashed and overturned. He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn, these boys meant business, didn't they?”

-“You think there was more than one of them?” I asked.

-“Most likely.”

-“I don’t understand how they could have passed through our security control at the entrance of the Faculty,” Dr. Neil Brodie remarked.

-“To be honest with you, Doctor, if the security control stands for the old security guard I saw when I entered the building, I can perfectly imagine how they managed to break into the office.”

-“I believe you are right,” Brodie nodded approvingly. “I suppose we'd better appoint a new security guard as soon as possible.”

-“Beside,” Cornwell added, “perhaps the guard didn't pay attention to them because he had already seen them throughout the Campus. On my way down I'll ask him some questions.”

-“You think that the burglars might be students or teachers?” I asked.

-“Everything is possible. Perhaps one of the students wanted to steal the copy of his latest exam.”

-“I'm merely a Research Assistant, Sergeant Cornwell,” Sarah replied dryly. “I'm not handling exams.”

-“A jealous colleague, perhaps.” Cornwell moseyed across the room, poking at the wreckage. “Weird that they didn't smash your computer as well. What were they after? Cash? Jewellery? Rare books?”

-“I don’t think so, sergeant,” Sarah said. “Perhaps this is related to my father’s murder.”

-“You father was murdered?” Cornwell was suddenly on alert. “Why don’t you tell me the whole story?”

-“I can try.”

When Sergeant Cornwell and Dr Neil Brodie finally left the office, Sarah stepped into the middle of the room, where her ruptured heavy bag hung. She retrieved a pack of cigarettes, pulled out one and lit it. She took a deep breath, savouring the aroma and then gazed at me. “I believe You've noticed that I deliberately chose to omit some details. I did not want Sergeant Cornwell to ask too many annoying questions.”

-“Why haven’t they broken into your father’s office as well?” I asked.

-“Perhaps the burglars knew that my father gave me something before he left and believed it was hidden in my office.” She smiled ironically. “That’s precisely why I decided to slid the envelope into one of my father’s books. I was sure no one would think about such an obvious hiding place.” She puffed away and motioned to the metallic box I was holding. “Let’s have a look on the box.”

I put the box on her desk, next to the computer, and opened it. We both peered inside.

-“A floppy disk!” I exclaimed.

-“Yes.” Sarah patted her computer. “God bless the burglars for leaving my computer intact.” She glanced at me. “Suddenly I'm hungry. I’d like to buy a sandwich down at the Cafeteria. Want one too?”

-“Yes, please.”

-“In the meantime, turn on the computer and insert the disk. I'll be right back.”

When Sarah stepped out of the room, I pulled out the remains of a chair and turned on the computer. It made a series of repetitive strange bleeps. As soon as Windows 98 was fully charged on the screen, I selected ‘My Computer’ and clicked on the icon of the floppy disk. Once again, several short bleeps were heard and a message appeared on the screen: ‘Password, please.’ Damn, there is a password. Apparently Dr Russel Frey was particularly fond of this kind of challenge. Let’s see… What can it be? I typed the name of his daughter. Wrong password. I tried ‘Archaeology’. Wrong answer as well. ‘Hebrew studies’ perhaps? No. Aramaic? Wrong again.

I was about to smash the computer in anger, when Sarah entered the office, holding a small tray with two sandwiches and two cups of coffee on it. “Hey, Gabriel,” she laughed. “My computer wasn't smashed by the burglars and is certainly not going to be by you!” She put the tray on the desk. “Here is your sandwich. I'm taking my coffee black. What about you?”

-“Fine with me.”

We both ate our sandwiches, as slow as possible, and sipped our coffee over the office’s desk.

-“So to consult the contents of the sloppy disk we have to go through the password. Right?” Sarah finally asked.

-“Yes. I haven’t been able to find it out so far.” I gazed at the screen. “Perhaps his birth date.”

-“My father was born on the 15th of December 1948.”

-“Let see,” I typed 15121948 and clicked on ‘enter’. “No. Perhaps the other way around.” This time, I typed 12151948. “Wrong password, I'm afraid. It’s rather difficult because the password consists of maximum eight characters.”

-“Let me try.” Sarah seized the keyboard and glanced at the screen. “If I'm not mistaken, my father once used my mother’s maiden name as password for a file he wanted me to read.”

-“What was your mother’s maiden name?”

-“Baigent.” She typed the name and then pressed ‘enter’. The message ‘password accepted’ appeared on the screen. The floppy disk contained only one file entitled ‘For Sarah’. Sarah clicked on the icon. The computer made several bleeps again and we found ourselves gazing at a screen filled with small characters.

-‘I'll be damned!” I exclaimed.

-“August 27 2000; My dear daughter,” Sarah began to read, her voice trembling. “If you are reading this file, it means that I'm no longer here. Confession is good for the soul, so they say. I really loved your mother. I still do. More than ever, now she is no longer here to be loved. A friend once told me that a man’s mind is concentrated most wonderfully by the knowledge that he is to die soon. I have only three days before my departure for Munich. It should not be a difficult thing. Why, then, do I find that it is? Why do I prefer to lie on my bed and think of your mother in happier times than to chronicle the steps I took along the road that will eventually lead me to my death? Let us begin, since we must. Let me not die with this story untold. Let the warning stand.

In 1947, a Bedouin Arab found a cave in Qumran near the Dead Sea which ultimately yielded over a thousand priceless manuscripts dating back before AD 68, when the Roman legions destroyed the Qumran village during the Jewish war against Rome. A group of scholars were sent by the University of Oxford to investigate the contents of the scrolls. The secret expedition was headed by Professor Jack Stanley. When the ancient Hebrew scrolls from these caves were examined by the scholars they found that the Qumran site contained a library with hundreds of precious texts of both biblical and secular manuscripts that dated back before the destruction of the Second Temple and the death of Jesus. The most incredible discovery was the immense library of biblical manuscripts in Cave Four at Qumran that contained every single book of the old Testament with the exception of the Book of Esther. Scholars were able to reach back a further two thousand years in time to examine biblical texts that had lain undisturbed in the desert caves during all of the intervening centuries.

The scholars discovered that the Hebrew manuscript copies of the most authoritative Hebrew text, Textus Recepticus, used by the King James translators in 1611, were virtually identical to these ancient Dead Sea Scrolls. After carefully comparing the manuscripts, they discovered that aside from a tiny number of spelling variations, not a single word was altered from the original scrolls in the caves from the much copied AD 1100 manuscripts used by the Authorised King James Version translators in 1611. Furthermore, the scholars learnt that a Jewish society, called the Essenes, had primarily lived in three communities: Qumran at the Dead Sea, the Essene Quarters of Jerusalem (Mount Zion) and Damascus. They appear to have existed from approximately 200 BC until the destruction of their communities in Jerusalem and Qumran by the Roman armies in AD 68. In their love for the Word of God, the Essenes faithfully copied each Old Testament scroll in their Scriptorium in the village of Qumran.

When the scrolls were first discovered, the scholars naturally wondered if they might contain evidence about the new faith of Christianity. Soon, a number of scrolls were discovered in Cave Four containing fascinating information about the Messiah. It identified the Messiah as one who will suffer for the sins of his people. Some scrolls provided an amazing parallel to the New Testament revelation that the Messiah would first suffer death before he would ultimately return to rule the nations.

Dr Alexander Peters, one member of the expedition, believed that the exciting discovery of the scrolls revealed that the Essene writers understood the dual role of the Messiah as Christians did. These scrolls identified the Messiah as the ‘Branch of David’. They also described the Messiah as a ‘leader’ of ‘the community’ who was ‘put to death’. This reference pointing clearly to the historical Jesus of Nazareth created shock waves for liberal scholarship that previously assumed that the Gospel account about Jesus was a myth. Jesus is the only one who ever claimed to be the Messiah who was crucified. The genealogies recorded in both Matthew and Luke’s Gospel, reveal that Jesus was the only one who could prove by the genealogical records kept in the Temple that he was the lineage of King David. Since the tragic destruction of the Temple and its records in AD 70 it has been impossible for anyone else to ever prove their claim to be the Messiah based on their genealogical descent from King David. Additionally the scroll identified the Messiah as ‘the sceptre’ which probably refers to the Genesis 49:10 prophecy, ‘The sceptre shall not depart from Judah, nor a lawgiver from between his feet, until Shiloh comes; and unto him shall the gathering of the people be.’ Apparently, the scrolls confirmed some of the historical truthfulness of the New Testament record about Jesus and His crucifixion. The evidence from the scrolls suggested that the Jewish Essene writers had acknowledged that Jesus was the ‘suffering Messiah’ who died for the sins of his People. The presence of these statements in the Dead Sea Scrolls suggested that some of the Essenes either accepted the Messianic claims of Jesus to be the son of God or anticipated this concept. Either possibilities opened up new areas of exploration. Another possibility that must be considered is this: is it possible that some of these scrolls are a direct quote from the writers hearing the words of the Gospel of Luke? Luke, the physician, claimed that he wrote the Gospel of Luke as an eyewitness of the events he personally observed. In Luke 1:1-3, he says: ‘Forasmuch as many have taken in hand to set forth in order a declaration of those things which are most surely believed among us, Even as they delivered them unto us, which from the beginning were eyewitnesses, and ministers of the word; It seemed good to me also, having had perfect understanding of all things from the very first, to write unto thee in order, most excellent Theophilus.’

Professor Jack Stanley and his team decided to keep most of the scrolls mentioning the Messiah unpublished until further investigation was to be carried out. Dr Alexander Peters was put in charge of translating most of these scrolls. He worked day and night. However, one day, Dr Peters disappeared with some of the precious scrolls he had been working on. Professor Stanley decided to contact Dr Edward Coyle, an eminent young archaeologist who had been one of his students at Oxford. He was asked to carry on the translation of some of the scrolls left behind by Peters. At the site of Qumran, Dr Coyle met Dr Emma Darlings, and soon they fell in love. Strangely enough, Dr Coyle had remained in Palestine for only three days. He informed the Professor that he had finally decided to decline his offer. Both Dr Coyle and Emma Darlings returned to England. Shortly afterwards they married and I was born on the 15th of December 1948. I still remember how my mother used to tell me that I had been conceived during my father’s first night in Qumran.

In 1956, my father was appointed Teacher of Hebrew and Jewish Studies at Oxford University. I loved my father deeply. He was a very intelligent man. He was also extremely reclusive and sensitive. He didn't talk much about his work and I was not allowed to enter the room where he archived most of his research. The door had always been locked and my father carried the key with him. One day, during the summer of 1959, my parents went to visit some friends and I was at home, all by my own. I remember I was playing outside when I suddenly noticed that the window of the archive room was slightly open. I approached the window and managed to open it a little more and then entered the room. Curiosity has always been one of my greatest vices. There were bookshelves all around the room filled with books, magazines, scrolls and parchments. They were classified by subject and each one of the sections was then classified in alphabetical order. My father had always been very keen on organisation and time. A large desk stood in the centre of the room. When I approached the desk I found an ancient yellowish scroll and a notebook filled with small black characters. Apparently my father was studying the scroll and taking notes down in his notebook. The scroll was written in some kind of foreign language. Probably ancient Hebrew, but I didn't know it by then. I flipped some of the notebook’s pages and came by an intriguing title: ‘Translation of scroll G3452’. My father had wrote it the day before. I knew I wasn't allowed to read it, but my curiosity was unbearable. I kept hearing voices in my head: ‘Read it! Your father will never know about it’. And so I did. The text was pretty short. It said: ‘Neither the roaring of loud waters nor the burning of bright fires shall deflect me from my Covenant with Thee, O Lord, nor shall the Sons of Light find me faithless’. I didn't have much time to study the rest of the notebook. Suddenly, the door of the room wide opened and my father entered inside. At first, he stood still by the threshold, gazing at me. He didn't say a word. Then, when he finally realised that I was reading his notebook, he stepped toward me and slapped my face. It was the first and the last time that my father had ever slapped me. He then pointed to the door and I left the room. Later that evening, when we were about to eat dinner, my father looked at me and warned me not to enter his room ever again. We had never spoken about my intrusion again. About two months later, when my mother and I returned from a visit to my mother’s sister in London, we found our house burnt down to ashes. The police told us that my father had probably fallen asleep with his cigarette still burning. Our furniture, my father’s books and scrolls- they were all taken by the flames. We had never found the remains of my father’s body. The fire was too strong or so the policemen said. His funeral took place the following day. My happy childhood was over. My mother and I moved to London.

In 1967, I began my studies at Cambridge University. My mother tried to convince me to go to Oxford, but I didn't wish to see that place ever again. Like both my parents, I have always been fascinated by history, more precisely by Oriental Studies. At Cambridge, I met your mother, Helen Baigent. As soon as we both graduated in 1972, we married and you were born a year later, in 1973. I first became Research Assistant at the department of Archaeology and lecturer in 1976. The following year, my dear mother passed away. I completed my doctorate in 1982 and we moved to Boston in 1984 and I was appointed teacher of Hebrew studies. In 1990, your mother died of cancer and you and I moved back to Cambridge. Six years later I was appointed Director of the Hebrew and Aramaic Studies.

My purpose is not to bore you with the facts you already know. That’s why I'm now reaching the key element of this modest confession. About three weeks ago, I was in my office, had been throughout the evening, absorbed in an obscure text. The text was written in 71 AD by a certain Abraham Ben Zaken, a survivor of the destruction of the Second Temple of Jerusalem by the Romans. I wondered whether he had been a priest or a worker at the Temple’s stables. With that debate agitating my mind I looked up and spied an envelope resting on the floor next to the door. Had it just been put there? Had some faint, sub-conscious perception registered as it slipped across the threshold and attracted my eyes on it? I remembered hearing nothing; no approach, no crack bent knee. Nevertheless, the envelope was there. I listened for signs of life, aware of my heart accelerating and the acrid, irrational taste of fear. I stood, stepped toward the door and opened it. The corridor was empty. I registered no sensory impression of any person having just been present. I closed the door and took the envelope. It was square. I held it to the light; the bond was thick, yielding no silhouette. I pierced the envelope and opened it. A single sheet of paper, thinner stock than the envelope slipped into my hand. Two paragraphs were written on the paper. The first one read: ‘Neither the roaring of loud waters nor the burning of bright fires shall deflect me from my Covenant with Thee, O Lord, nor shall the Sons of Light find me faithless’. Why did it feel so familiar? I recited the text over and over again. As I did so something jerked to life in my memory. I remembered where I had heard it before. They were the opening lines of the scroll that I had found in my father’s office shortly before his tragic death. Was somebody playing a practical joke on me? I gazed at the second paragraph: ‘Behold, I send the Master of Light and Heaven before thy face, which shall prepare thy way before thee and command thee.’ The second paragraph sounded quite familiar as well. I knew I had read it before.

I grabbed my bible and flipped some of the pages. Eventually, I found what I was looking for. Mark 1:2: ‘Behold, I send my messenger before thy face, which shall prepare thy way before thee’. When I compared the biblical passage to the second paragraph of the note that I had received, I could identify two variations; the author of the second paragraph of the note used the word ‘Master of Light and Heaven’ instead of ‘Messenger’, and the part ‘command thee’ was nowhere to be found in Mark 1:2. What is the meaning of all that? I asked myself. Was the contents of the paper I had received genuine? And if so, which one preceded the other? I turned my attention to the section regarding ‘the Sons of Light’. Who were they? Further research enabled me to discover their identity. Apparently the Essenes were also known as ‘the Sons of Light’. Was the scroll founded in my father’s office of Essene origin? Why was the word ‘Messenger’ replaced by ‘Master of Light and Heaven’, or vice versa? Could the contents of the paper be somehow linked to the Dead Sea Scrolls discovered at the Qumran site? Who does ‘Master of Light and Heaven’ stand for? Could the contents of the paper be referring to the Messiah? And above all, who sent me the paper? Was it a friend of my father? Could it be the invisible Dr. Alexander Peters? Why now? Why me? Does someone else know about it? Am I being followed? Those are some of the questions I have been asking myself ever since I found the envelope. The following day, when I came to my office I had the feeling that something was wrong. I cannot tell you how, but I knew that someone had paid a visit to my office. Some objects, such as my notebook, were not at the same place where I had left them the previous day. Despite the fact that my office is usually quite messy, I always know where this or that item can be found. And then, there was the odour. An odd combination of sweat and strong eau de Cologne. Was someone looking for the paper that I had received? If so, why? Was I in danger? I thought so. Who shall I contact? Can I trust someone? I first thought to share my fear with you. But then, I didn't want to put you in danger as well. That’s was when I first considered calling the Schattenjager. I met Wolfgang Ritter three years ago in Brussels. Dr Jean Lamy of the Université Libre de Belgique called on the Schattenjager for a bizarre affair I'm not allowed to talk about. Suffice to say that I was very impressed by Wolfgang’s professionalism and discretion. I decided to contact him. Surely he could be trusted. When I called Schloss Rittersberg, I learnt to my great pain that Wolfgang had died. However, his nephew, a certain Gabriel Knight, assured me that he was the new Schattenjager. Since I had nothing to lose, I asked to meet Mr. Knight in Rittersberg. The meeting will take place the day after tomorrow.

Sarah, as I explained at the beginning of this confession, if you are reading this now, it can only mean that I am dead. Please, forgive me for not having shared all of this with you when I could have. I am the only one to be blamed. I ask you, no, I commend you to forget it all. It won’t be easy, but you have to. Now that you know why I was eliminated, you might be able to understand how dangerous this affair is. As far as I'm concerned, I had no choice. The paper was addressed to me. I had to do something about it. There was no choice. And only one escape. I want you to destroy this floppy disk. Mr Knight, I suppose that you are hearing this as well. Consider our brief association terminated. You owe me nothing. For your sake, as well as for my daughter’s, please return to Rittersberg and forget about me. Sarah, I have always loved you and always will. I am very proud of you. Love. Dead.”

We both remained silent, lost in thought. I could absorb no more. My eyes were glazing over, and my head was like a pinball machine, with observations and descriptions of people and places. Sarah puffed out her cheeks in exhaustion. We had been at this for more than an hour.

-“Had enough?” Sarah asked. I nodded dumbly. She turned off the computer and took out the floppy disk. She returned it to the small metallic box. Then, she put on her jacket, went to the curtain and looked outside, intently studying the inner courtyard of the Faculty. After a while, she went to the door, opened it and turned to me. “Are you coming?”

-“Where are you going?”

-“I’d like to have a word with someone who might be able to help us.”

-“Help us?” I exclaimed. “aren't you going to destroy the floppy disk and forget about this affair.”

-“This affair, as you call it, is my father’s murder,” she replied dryly. “I won’t be able to forget all about it. Never.”

-“But it might be very dangerous! Do you want to end like your father?”

-“Gabriel, I don’t want to force you to join in. You heard my father’s side of the story. You can either come with me or go back to Germany. It’s up to you now.”

I didn't respond at once. Instead I stepped over to her bookshelves and removed an object I had been eyeing since the moment I had come into her office. I held it in hand, stroking it, almost as if it were alive. It was a small statue of a dog. Apparently the burglars had spared it too. Finally, I turned to Sarah. “Okay, Sarah. Lead the way.”

-“Thank you, Gabriel,” she smiled with tears in her eyes. She turned around quickly, not wishing me to see how shaken she was. “I really appreciate that.”

I made my way through the devastation that had been Sarah’s office and put my hand on her shoulder. I closed my eyes. We remained like that for a short while, each one of us lost in his own secret refuge. Finally, Sarah said. “Let’s go.” We left the office.

 

Last update: October 24, 2007


Print this page or access the printer friendly version
Bookmark with:
Bookmark this page with del.icio.us Delicious   Bookmark this page with Digg Digg   Bookmark this page with Facebook Facebook  Bookmark this page with Reddit Reddit  Bookmark this page with StumbleUpon StumbleUpon

« prev | next »