Chapter Four
“Despiertese, mi amigo tonto. No debe haber arriesgado a ti mismo para rescatar viejo Manuel.”
In his grogginess it took John Reid a few moments to translate the Spanish in his head. It meant “Wake up, my foolish friend. You shouldn't have risked yourself to save old Manuel.”
Reid groaned and looked to see the source of the comment. It was a Spaniard of about forty, with a receding hairline and a greying mustache. He wore simple clothes and a cross necklace like Carmen's.
It took Reid a few more moments to register who this was. “Manuel Garcia Hernandez da Rosa, I presume,” he said.
“The same. Please save your autograph requests for later.” Da Rosa snorted at the stupidity of his own joke.
Reid rose to his feet. “In answer to your question, I couldn't have done any less,” he said. “What's happened to you is probably my fault.”
“Then consider us even, now that you are in the same shoes,” said da Rosa.
Reid took in their surroundings. They were in a room not much larger than a broom closet, completely devoid of anything except a bare light bulb on the ceiling. In fact, it probably was a broom closet. “I presume breaking out isn't an option?”
“No sir. They are not far away, and they have guns. I wouldn't want to see how willing they are to use them.”
“Me neither,” Reid said. “Oh, that reminds me. I was with your wife when they took me, and they threatened to shoot her unless I cooperated. I did, so she should be fine, but...”
Da Rosa's fists clenched. “Filthy British bastards. They will pay for this,” he said. “You mark my words, they will. Nobody threatens my wife.” He softened with visible effort and said, “Anyway, we are here together, so, who are you, how are you involved in this, and what do you mean that it's your fault?”
Reid introduced himself and said, “I'll tell you, and then you can tell me what's going on with you. Have they told you anything?”
“Yes, a little. But you first.”
“Okay. Well, I'm a professor of archeology at Arizona State Teacher's College of Flagstaff, and a few days ago I had a visit from a couple of the same guys you did. It was at night, naturally, and I was in my office –”
“Tell him later,” one of the thugs said in English as the door swung open and they stood blocking escape, guns at the ready once again. “It's our turn to talk, and we're going to tell you what's what, so as nothing's lost in translation.”
“I love stories,” Reid said.
“This one will be your new favorite. You two are the protagonists. It's like this. You know about Victor Duarte's journal, and you know it's important to us.” From the pocket of his robes he produced the artifact and gently handed it to Reid, who took it with reverence as if he were examining it with a colleague. It was old but in good condition, bound in leather and gold gilt with a Catholic cross embossed on the front cover. Ever so carefully he opened it and looked at the brittle, yellowed pages. In a moment he had ascertained that the book spanned from AD 1523 to 1527. “You're a professor, so I won't insult your intelligence by telling you what I can show,” the thug said. “But we haven't got all day. Turn to the first bookmark and read the entry.”
Reid hadn't noticed the bookmarks – they were decidedly more modern details, newspaper clippings, and thus beneath his attention until now. He went to the page indicated by the first, a recent article about Al Capone's progressing syphilis (karma, he thought), and read silently. Then he rubbed his eyes and read it again.
Translated, it read:
“July 8th. Today Peku said I have earned his trust. He said that while my companions are obsessed only with gold and other 'worthless' minerals, I am one who knows how to appreciate the true treasures of nature, and that while my companions try to convert the natives en masse out of a sense of instinctive obligation, I am one who truly cares about them and their welfare. This was flattering, of course. I have confessed before that I care for gold more than I let on, but it is a temporary thing in a world of temporary things, and I have tried to shift my priorities. As for the natives, I will gladly go on record as saying that they are very nearly on par with the white man. What appeared at first to be a collective of unbridled savagery now seems to be a civilization richly endowed, if not with the technology and knowledge we Westerners enjoy, then with nearly the same human capacity for problem solving, interaction, and all of the other important cornerstones of society.
“Anyway, Peku said I have proven myself worthy to see, even to possess, a far greater treasure than gold. He led me into the jungle for several hours to a temple nearly overgrown with vines and half crumbled to the earth. The natives are superstitious about this place for some reason or other, he said, but he was not afraid. He led me inside and, amidst the cobwebs, there was an old stone box. Inside it we found a sword of nearly European fashion, but of even better craftsmanship than the finest of Toledo. The hilt was of pure gold, but he assured me that was not wherein its value lay. This sword, he said proudly, had come from a land across the sea many generations ago, long before any of the native temples or other buildings had been built. It was wielded by the wise and righteous leader of a great nation, and passed on to his successor who was similarly wise and righteous, and so on. There had reportedly been many swords similar to it in use at some point, but none of so great materials or craftsmanship.
“That people had been completely obliterated by another, and only existed now in oral traditions among a well-educated few. The sword was taken as a spoil of war from whoever had it at that point, and handed down among this other people, but they did not possess the skills to duplicate it. A long series of murders and thefts ensued as greedy natives attempted to take possession of the coveted weapon. The bloodshed grew so great that some began to feel it was cursed. When they considered the untimely end that had come to their enemies, who had previously bested them at nearly every turn for centuries, and that these enemies had been very prideful and centered on riches as this group was now becoming, the matter was settled. The sword was placed in this box and simply admired from a safe distance by the privileged class. Somehow though, over time, rumors of the item's accursedness grew in intensity, until these people feared to be anywhere near it. They did not destroy it, for it was (and is!) such a fine sword, but abandoned the location where it had been left.
“'Those people were our ancestors,' said Peku. Unfortunately, he says, the old superstitions die hard, and those few who know of the sword will not go near it. But I have given him courage, he says. He has seen the wisdom of European religion and philosophy, and he knows there is nothing to fear from this item. Because I care about this land and people so much, he says, and because it will not be missed, I am welcome to take the sword. And take it I shall, before he changes his mind. This weapon will be worth a king's ransom when I return to Spain.”
Reid could not speak for a minute. He searched his mind for the appropriate word to say, and after a minute of groping, found it. The word was “Wow”.
To clarify that statement, he added, “Wow.”
And as an afterthought, he said, “Wow.”
“Our sentiments exactly, professor,” one of the thugs said. “Now, turn to the next bookmark, please.”
The next bookmark was an advertisement for an upcoming movie called "The Charge of the Light Brigade", starring Errol Flynn, but it didn't hold Reid's interest. He eagerly read the diary entry that it indicated:
“July 23rd. I have made a critical error in judgment. Although for the last two weeks I have kept the sword a secret – Peku did not ask this of me, but it was rather forcefully implied in the manner of his giving it to me – it is not the easiest thing to hide, and today I showed it to Don Pedro de Alvaredo. In hindsight I am not sure what my motivations were, but I believe I wanted to demonstrate to him that the natives are far more than mere savages. Never before have I had the courage to press the issue, for he is most adamantly set against it. It was most foolish of me to presume that this artifact could possibly change his mind. He has already seen in action the macuahuitls, the wooden swords used by some natives, which are somehow more powerful than our own blades, able to decapitate even a horse when used by an able-bodied warrior. De Alvarado has seen this, and was impressed, but we have guns, he says, and so we are still undeniably superior.”
Reid paused for a moment to reflect. From 1523 to 1527, when this diary was written, Pedro de Alvarado had been sent by Hernán Cortés – along with several hundred horsemen, foot soldiers, and native auxiliaries – to conquer the highlands of what was now Guatemala. His contempt for the natives, documented here, was a gross understatement. He had not only enslaved them but also hanged them, burned them and threw them to dogs. Still, he could only be considered a product of his time and culture. Reid continued reading.
“His reaction to this artifact was exactly what I would have expected if I had been thinking straight; exactly what his reaction has been to everything else we have found. He told me to melt down the gold hilt and make a new, more practical sword with the remaining portion. It wouldn't do, he said, to let the outside world know of its discovery. Both of us knew it was meaningless, he said, but some back home, blinded by their affinity for shiny objects, may get the wrong idea and even begin to wonder if these savages might be more intelligent than we give them credit for. If the tide of public opinion turned against a Spanish presence in the New World, he said, then what a blow that would be to the spread of Christianity here! The entire argument is superfluous, of course, since this sword was crafted in the East to begin with, but I have not told him that story, or about Peku; only that I found this sword while exploring. In any event, I have come to see that de Alvarado cares little for the spread of Christianity, only about increasing his personal wealth. And I realize that so have I. And I am ashamed.
“I am disregarding de Alvarado's order. I have asked Peku to return the sword to the box in the temple it was taken from. When the time comes for me to return home and, God willing, that will be soon, for I have grown weary of this environment and the increasingly questionable morality of our presence here – when that time comes, he will recover it for me, and I will smuggle it back to Spain. I surprised myself with my reluctance to melt the gold down as ordered, but after a while of pondering I have come to realize something, something that my heart has known for a long time now but that my brain is just acknowledging. There are things in this world more precious than gold. Not just the Gospel, although that is significant of course, but material things as well. Artifacts that teach us of a civilization, of its rise, its fall, the hopes, dreams and daily lives of its people – these things can no more be taken with us than gold, of course, but they are of so much more use. We can learn from them when the people themselves are long gone, as I fear these natives soon shall be, about the heritage which is, really, shared by us all as members of the same human family. Such knowledge can substantially improve our time on this Earth as individuals and a collective and, who knows, perhaps it shall rise with us into the hereafter?
“But then, complications arise. I will be something of a celebrity, returning from the untamed and uncharted wilderness like this, and I do not know that I can be left in enough peace to keep the sword a secret. It only takes one glimpse by one person, and thieves will be prowling left and right, endangering myself and my family. If, somehow or other, news gets back to de Alvarado that I disobeyed him – whether he will still be in the New World or back in Spain I don't know – he will be furious. How furious, and what sort of consequences I can expect, I likewise don't know. I've decided to keep this piece of New World history safe and hidden until the world becomes a more enlightened place, and I pray there will still be history remaining where it came from by that point. I have decided to hide it in a chamber beneath a cathedral in Toledo that I know.”
Reid let that sink in as well. It just seemed too – too something. It didn't seem real. “This man was really ahead of his time,” he said to himself, automatically speaking in Spanish after having read so much in that tongue. “I can see why people think the diary is a fake.” He remembered da Rosa and hurriedly added, “No offense.”
“Yes, very interesting, isn't it, Dr. Reid?” said one of the hooded figures before da Rosa could respond. “Even more so because, unless I'm mistaken, this sword sounds familiar to you.” It was not a question, and he clearly didn't think he was mistaken.
Perhaps it was the sword of Laban, if not an astonishing coincidence. But if it was, they certainly wouldn't find it in the cathedral. It was buried within the Hill Cumorah, awaiting the coming of Jesus Christ. And if his own theory was correct, as this account seemed to validate, the Hill Cumorah was somewhere in Mesoamerica and the hill in upstate New York had been mistakenly identified as such by church members. But if he mentioned that, his and Manuel's usefulness would be outlived, and he didn't want to see what would happen then. Out loud he said, “What do you want with an artifact that most people have never heard of and fewer still believe in?”
“You tell us. You're the one who was inspired by it to write a research paper. Which was quite helpful, by the way, thank you.”
“Thank you, I am rather proud of what I got to complete. But that doesn't explain your interest. We're not living in ancient Hebrew or Mesoamerican culture. Certainly the sword would be valuable, but –”
“Then figure it out yourself. Your only concern is survival, which right now means locating this cathedral for us. We were going to scour the city for it on our own before we got word of your arrival. Thank you, Dr. Reid, you were really a godsend.”
“You're not from the KKK, are you?”
“Correct. Our hatred of blacks, Jews and Catholics is merely average.” They snickered at that. Reid didn't think it was funny.
“Actually, we're British, in case you haven't noticed, and we don't stoop to such levels,” said the other.
“Ah, yes, I've spent some time in your country and I do admire that about you,” Reid said. “Still, there is that whole class system thing. What is this, the Middle Ages?”
“Enough,” the first snapped. “We have no allegiance to the Crown, so we'll let that remark slide, but this isn't the time for verbal jousting. Figure out where that cathedral is and then we can have a contest.”
“What do you think I am, an atlas? I've never even been to Toledo and it's full of cathedrals. Your guess is as good as mine.” He had another concern. The Alcázar de Toledo, a third century Roman palace in the highest part of the city, was being held as a fortress by Nationalist Colonel José Moscardó Ituarte against a siege by Republican forces. It had begun on July 21st and Reid hadn't read anything about it being over.
“Take this map of the city,” one of the men said, handing one over, “and review the diary as much as you need to. You have an hour. If you have not given us a satisfactory result by then, things will be unpleasant. Catch my drift?”
The tone in his voice did not invite negotiation, so Reid did not attempt any. It was a ridiculous request, and he knew that they knew that it was a ridiculous request. They wanted things to get unpleasant. Was this all an elaborate hoax to torment him? No, that left too many questions unanswered; most notably, why. He nodded and took the map.
Both men turned their backs to leave – a careless move on their part. They probably assumed their prisoners were too intimidated to try anything foolish. They assumed wrong.
Manuel flung himself across the small space and caught both thugs around the neck as he came down. One managed to duck and spin away and point his Webley straight at Reid, who had been a second behind. The other crashed to the floor with Manuel on top of him. “Threaten my wife, will you?” the Spaniard snarled, beating with his fists. “Bastard! Son of a -”
Manuel was fueled by the adrenaline of pure rage, but his opponent compensated with sheer skill. In a moment he had flipped his attacker over his head, pinned him to the floor, and returned the beating – though with the butt of his gun. Reid watched helplessly at the point of the other gun as the thug systematically worked over every inch of Manuel's body and face. Though his expression was hidden, it didn't take a psychologist to see that the thug was enjoying it.
After what seemed several minutes he stopped. Then, without a word, he dragged Manuel's limp form, breathing like an asthmatic after a marathon, back into the small closet and dumped it there. Then both thugs returned to the doorway, taking care to back out with their guns raised this time.
“Fifty-seven minutes, now,” one said, and they shut the door behind them.
Instantly Reid went to his knees by Manuel's side. The man looked as if he had been kicked in the face by a horse. Twice. Blood flowed profusely from his mouth, nose and split left cheek, while unsightly bruises were already forming elsewhere. “Manuel,” he said, “Manuel, answer me if you can; if you can't, don't worry about it. Are you all right? I mean, I know what just happened, but will you survive?”
“Si, señor,” he rasped.
“Oh, thank God. I'm so sorry I couldn't help you. I wasn't fast enough, and the other guy pointed his Webley at me, and I just –”
“Está bien.”
“Where does it hurt the most? I don't have any medical training but I'll try to do what I can –”
“Please, Señor Reid,” Manuel said with obviously painful effort, “just figure out where that cathedral is, or else they may do worse to both of us. I only need to rest.”
Reid hesitated, but he knew Manuel was right. There was no telling what these people would do. So he spread out the map and reopened the diary, but that was as far as he knew to go. What could he do next? What could he possibly do next?
***
Eliana was bored, listless and depressed. Life around the reservation was always dull and without John around to relieve the monotony, to entertain her with tales of archeology and religion, she just couldn't handle it. Not for the first time she wished she had a job, or was enrolled in college. Or even that she had kids running around and usurping every minute of her spare time. She laughed to herself at the thought. Well, maybe she wasn't quite that bored yet.
She wasn't as worried about John as she'd expected, anymore. She knew he could take care of himself, and that God would watch out for him, and that whatever happened was beyond her control. No, really the problem to begin with had been that he would be away from her for who knew how long, and she'd end up as bored as she now was. Even her Book of Mormon reading failed to entertain her, now that she couldn't go to him with her questions.
On the other hand, there was a sense of resignation to the fact that something terrible could happen to him out there, and that was where the depression came in. She didn't know how she could go on, dealing with the boredom and the thought that she'd never see him again. Not in this life, anyway. She sort of believed what he'd told her about the resurrection and all that, but that was all so abstract, so far away. For now she was alone and well might be forever.
Not for long, actually, she realized as the door to her adobe pueblo burst open and a pair of figures shuffled in. Her heart skipped a beat. Even without the events of the past few days taken into account, the sight of Klansmen, or what appeared to be Klansmen, would have filled her with terror. They weren't holding guns, but that was small comfort.
Eliana refused to be intimidated in her own home. She rose from her small wicker chair, trying in vain to stop her legs from vibrating like jackhammers. “Get out,” she said in the firmest voice she could manage. “Get out,” she repeated more loudly, “unless you want a tomahawk where the sun doesn't shine.”
The figures raised their hands and laughed. “Easy, squaw,” one said. “We're just here to talk with you real quick. Won't take a minute.”
“One scream from me, and the whole tribe will be at your throats,” she warned.
“Okay, fine, we'll leave,” the other said with a shrug. “We just thought you'd like to hear the latest about Professor Reid –”
“What have you monsters done with him?” she snapped, trembling legs forgotten.
“Nothing, nothing,” the other said, raising his hands again. “He's in Spain, and we've been here this whole time. He did run into some associates of ours, but they haven't done anything to him either. They mocked us for letting him escape, but they've gotten a taste for themselves of how spirited he can be.”
“I see,” Eliana said. “And let me guess. You're here to take me hostage so he'll do what your buddies want. You'll have to kill me first.”
They laughed. “No, no, no,” the first said. “We're amateurs, you understand, but we do know that generally in a hostage situation you pick someone the guy cares about.”
Eliana's heart suddenly seemed to explode into a million pieces. Her face fell correspondingly. She couldn't hide it.
“Indeed,” the other said in triumph. “But why do you look so sad, my dear? You mustn't take it personally. After all, we have kind of slim pickings here. He doesn't care about anyone who hasn't been dead for a few centuries.”
“He does care about me,” she said, but as she did she wondered who she was trying to convince. “He taught me about his religion...”
“Why? Are your traditional Indian beliefs not good enough for him? You'd think an archaeologist of all people would be more tolerant of other cultures.”
“Well for me, personally, life on the reservation leaves much to be desired. John thinks he has something that can make me happier, and I've begun to think he's right.”
“And why are you on a reservation anyway? Because of white men sticking their noses where they didn't belong. That's all he's doing. He's as bad as the conquistadors he studies. Convert the inferior natives to your way of life, no matter the cost.”
“You're ridiculous.”
“Are we?” the other thug said, taking the cue. “Let me ask you something, Eliana – when was the last time he spoke to you about anything besides religion or archaeology?”
“Well, it –” She stopped cold.
“Ah, I suspected as much,” he continued. “He never asked you about yourself, did he? About your likes, your pet peeves, your hopes, your dreams, your fears? He never bothered to find these things out, did he?”
“Funny my colleague here should mention fears,” the other said. “Because I believe your greatest fear, Eliana, is that John Reid doesn't love you, doesn't even care about you and never will. And I would have to say, based on the evidence, that your fear is completely justified.”
Eliana felt water coming to her eyes. She tried to force it back, but no more could she stretch out her hand and stop the flow of the Susquehanna river. She let herself bawl, not caring that her enemies could see her weakness, not caring about anything except what they had said, and that she knew it was true. Her feelings had told her that John's religion was true, and if she was to trust them on that, she had to trust them now.
“Don't cry, my dear,” one said, digging a handkerchief from the pocket of his robe. She refused it as a matter of principle, even though she could feel her sinuses clogging as if with cement. “This will make it easier for you,” he continued, “if he becomes too much of a liability, and we are forced to dispose of him.”
“We don't intend to,” the other added hurriedly, “as long as he cooperates. But the two of us learned firsthand that that isn't something we can count on. We just thought we should give you fair warning, prepare you for that possibility.”
“Indeed,” the other said. “But don't kill yourself worrying about him. He certainly isn't worried about you.”
With a pair of friendly nods, they backed out the door which had stood open all this time. Anyone could have glanced in and seen the pseudo-Klansmen standing there, but no one had. Maybe no one else cared either. “It's like we said, squaw,” one of them said, “we just wanted to talk real quick.” And they left.
Her strength vanished, Eliana collapsed back into her chair with a force that nearly broke it. Her head crashed down on the table, her arms splayed akimbo in front of it, and she allowed the water to flow freely until she was in serious danger of dehydration in the Arizona desert, and then she let it flow some more. Despair wracked her soul, despair such as she had never imagined possible. For the first time in memory she wished she had never been born, had never existed. Or, as the next best thing, that she could collapse and die right now.
“By the way, I forgot to mention,” one of the hooded figures said, poking his head back in the pueblo, “there is one thing that possibly is worth your worrying about. If Professor Reid cooperates, and remains safe and sound, and our plan succeeds – if we find the sword of Laban, as I know you've already deduced that much – in that case, he'll move on to some new archaeological thing and still not bother about you, of course. But more importantly, if you're really invested in this religion he's trying to force on you, then you might not like what we're going to do with it.”
“You can't destroy it,” she blubbered, raising her head slightly with monumental effort and pausing her sobs with greater effort still. She narrowed her eyes. “You can't,” she continued. “It couldn't be destroyed in Joseph Smith's day, and it certainly can't be now.”
The man laughed without mirth. “Really, my dear, you insult our intelligence,” he said. “We have something much more ingenious in mind. But no, on second thought, don't worry about that either. It will only give Professor Reid something more to distract him from you, as if he needs it.” And he left once again.
Eliana cried, and cried, and cried, through the afternoon and into the night.
Next: Chapter Five
In his grogginess it took John Reid a few moments to translate the Spanish in his head. It meant “Wake up, my foolish friend. You shouldn't have risked yourself to save old Manuel.”
Reid groaned and looked to see the source of the comment. It was a Spaniard of about forty, with a receding hairline and a greying mustache. He wore simple clothes and a cross necklace like Carmen's.
It took Reid a few more moments to register who this was. “Manuel Garcia Hernandez da Rosa, I presume,” he said.
“The same. Please save your autograph requests for later.” Da Rosa snorted at the stupidity of his own joke.
Reid rose to his feet. “In answer to your question, I couldn't have done any less,” he said. “What's happened to you is probably my fault.”
“Then consider us even, now that you are in the same shoes,” said da Rosa.
Reid took in their surroundings. They were in a room not much larger than a broom closet, completely devoid of anything except a bare light bulb on the ceiling. In fact, it probably was a broom closet. “I presume breaking out isn't an option?”
“No sir. They are not far away, and they have guns. I wouldn't want to see how willing they are to use them.”
“Me neither,” Reid said. “Oh, that reminds me. I was with your wife when they took me, and they threatened to shoot her unless I cooperated. I did, so she should be fine, but...”
Da Rosa's fists clenched. “Filthy British bastards. They will pay for this,” he said. “You mark my words, they will. Nobody threatens my wife.” He softened with visible effort and said, “Anyway, we are here together, so, who are you, how are you involved in this, and what do you mean that it's your fault?”
Reid introduced himself and said, “I'll tell you, and then you can tell me what's going on with you. Have they told you anything?”
“Yes, a little. But you first.”
“Okay. Well, I'm a professor of archeology at Arizona State Teacher's College of Flagstaff, and a few days ago I had a visit from a couple of the same guys you did. It was at night, naturally, and I was in my office –”
“Tell him later,” one of the thugs said in English as the door swung open and they stood blocking escape, guns at the ready once again. “It's our turn to talk, and we're going to tell you what's what, so as nothing's lost in translation.”
“I love stories,” Reid said.
“This one will be your new favorite. You two are the protagonists. It's like this. You know about Victor Duarte's journal, and you know it's important to us.” From the pocket of his robes he produced the artifact and gently handed it to Reid, who took it with reverence as if he were examining it with a colleague. It was old but in good condition, bound in leather and gold gilt with a Catholic cross embossed on the front cover. Ever so carefully he opened it and looked at the brittle, yellowed pages. In a moment he had ascertained that the book spanned from AD 1523 to 1527. “You're a professor, so I won't insult your intelligence by telling you what I can show,” the thug said. “But we haven't got all day. Turn to the first bookmark and read the entry.”
Reid hadn't noticed the bookmarks – they were decidedly more modern details, newspaper clippings, and thus beneath his attention until now. He went to the page indicated by the first, a recent article about Al Capone's progressing syphilis (karma, he thought), and read silently. Then he rubbed his eyes and read it again.
Translated, it read:
“July 8th. Today Peku said I have earned his trust. He said that while my companions are obsessed only with gold and other 'worthless' minerals, I am one who knows how to appreciate the true treasures of nature, and that while my companions try to convert the natives en masse out of a sense of instinctive obligation, I am one who truly cares about them and their welfare. This was flattering, of course. I have confessed before that I care for gold more than I let on, but it is a temporary thing in a world of temporary things, and I have tried to shift my priorities. As for the natives, I will gladly go on record as saying that they are very nearly on par with the white man. What appeared at first to be a collective of unbridled savagery now seems to be a civilization richly endowed, if not with the technology and knowledge we Westerners enjoy, then with nearly the same human capacity for problem solving, interaction, and all of the other important cornerstones of society.
“Anyway, Peku said I have proven myself worthy to see, even to possess, a far greater treasure than gold. He led me into the jungle for several hours to a temple nearly overgrown with vines and half crumbled to the earth. The natives are superstitious about this place for some reason or other, he said, but he was not afraid. He led me inside and, amidst the cobwebs, there was an old stone box. Inside it we found a sword of nearly European fashion, but of even better craftsmanship than the finest of Toledo. The hilt was of pure gold, but he assured me that was not wherein its value lay. This sword, he said proudly, had come from a land across the sea many generations ago, long before any of the native temples or other buildings had been built. It was wielded by the wise and righteous leader of a great nation, and passed on to his successor who was similarly wise and righteous, and so on. There had reportedly been many swords similar to it in use at some point, but none of so great materials or craftsmanship.
“That people had been completely obliterated by another, and only existed now in oral traditions among a well-educated few. The sword was taken as a spoil of war from whoever had it at that point, and handed down among this other people, but they did not possess the skills to duplicate it. A long series of murders and thefts ensued as greedy natives attempted to take possession of the coveted weapon. The bloodshed grew so great that some began to feel it was cursed. When they considered the untimely end that had come to their enemies, who had previously bested them at nearly every turn for centuries, and that these enemies had been very prideful and centered on riches as this group was now becoming, the matter was settled. The sword was placed in this box and simply admired from a safe distance by the privileged class. Somehow though, over time, rumors of the item's accursedness grew in intensity, until these people feared to be anywhere near it. They did not destroy it, for it was (and is!) such a fine sword, but abandoned the location where it had been left.
“'Those people were our ancestors,' said Peku. Unfortunately, he says, the old superstitions die hard, and those few who know of the sword will not go near it. But I have given him courage, he says. He has seen the wisdom of European religion and philosophy, and he knows there is nothing to fear from this item. Because I care about this land and people so much, he says, and because it will not be missed, I am welcome to take the sword. And take it I shall, before he changes his mind. This weapon will be worth a king's ransom when I return to Spain.”
Reid could not speak for a minute. He searched his mind for the appropriate word to say, and after a minute of groping, found it. The word was “Wow”.
To clarify that statement, he added, “Wow.”
And as an afterthought, he said, “Wow.”
“Our sentiments exactly, professor,” one of the thugs said. “Now, turn to the next bookmark, please.”
The next bookmark was an advertisement for an upcoming movie called "The Charge of the Light Brigade", starring Errol Flynn, but it didn't hold Reid's interest. He eagerly read the diary entry that it indicated:
“July 23rd. I have made a critical error in judgment. Although for the last two weeks I have kept the sword a secret – Peku did not ask this of me, but it was rather forcefully implied in the manner of his giving it to me – it is not the easiest thing to hide, and today I showed it to Don Pedro de Alvaredo. In hindsight I am not sure what my motivations were, but I believe I wanted to demonstrate to him that the natives are far more than mere savages. Never before have I had the courage to press the issue, for he is most adamantly set against it. It was most foolish of me to presume that this artifact could possibly change his mind. He has already seen in action the macuahuitls, the wooden swords used by some natives, which are somehow more powerful than our own blades, able to decapitate even a horse when used by an able-bodied warrior. De Alvarado has seen this, and was impressed, but we have guns, he says, and so we are still undeniably superior.”
Reid paused for a moment to reflect. From 1523 to 1527, when this diary was written, Pedro de Alvarado had been sent by Hernán Cortés – along with several hundred horsemen, foot soldiers, and native auxiliaries – to conquer the highlands of what was now Guatemala. His contempt for the natives, documented here, was a gross understatement. He had not only enslaved them but also hanged them, burned them and threw them to dogs. Still, he could only be considered a product of his time and culture. Reid continued reading.
“His reaction to this artifact was exactly what I would have expected if I had been thinking straight; exactly what his reaction has been to everything else we have found. He told me to melt down the gold hilt and make a new, more practical sword with the remaining portion. It wouldn't do, he said, to let the outside world know of its discovery. Both of us knew it was meaningless, he said, but some back home, blinded by their affinity for shiny objects, may get the wrong idea and even begin to wonder if these savages might be more intelligent than we give them credit for. If the tide of public opinion turned against a Spanish presence in the New World, he said, then what a blow that would be to the spread of Christianity here! The entire argument is superfluous, of course, since this sword was crafted in the East to begin with, but I have not told him that story, or about Peku; only that I found this sword while exploring. In any event, I have come to see that de Alvarado cares little for the spread of Christianity, only about increasing his personal wealth. And I realize that so have I. And I am ashamed.
“I am disregarding de Alvarado's order. I have asked Peku to return the sword to the box in the temple it was taken from. When the time comes for me to return home and, God willing, that will be soon, for I have grown weary of this environment and the increasingly questionable morality of our presence here – when that time comes, he will recover it for me, and I will smuggle it back to Spain. I surprised myself with my reluctance to melt the gold down as ordered, but after a while of pondering I have come to realize something, something that my heart has known for a long time now but that my brain is just acknowledging. There are things in this world more precious than gold. Not just the Gospel, although that is significant of course, but material things as well. Artifacts that teach us of a civilization, of its rise, its fall, the hopes, dreams and daily lives of its people – these things can no more be taken with us than gold, of course, but they are of so much more use. We can learn from them when the people themselves are long gone, as I fear these natives soon shall be, about the heritage which is, really, shared by us all as members of the same human family. Such knowledge can substantially improve our time on this Earth as individuals and a collective and, who knows, perhaps it shall rise with us into the hereafter?
“But then, complications arise. I will be something of a celebrity, returning from the untamed and uncharted wilderness like this, and I do not know that I can be left in enough peace to keep the sword a secret. It only takes one glimpse by one person, and thieves will be prowling left and right, endangering myself and my family. If, somehow or other, news gets back to de Alvarado that I disobeyed him – whether he will still be in the New World or back in Spain I don't know – he will be furious. How furious, and what sort of consequences I can expect, I likewise don't know. I've decided to keep this piece of New World history safe and hidden until the world becomes a more enlightened place, and I pray there will still be history remaining where it came from by that point. I have decided to hide it in a chamber beneath a cathedral in Toledo that I know.”
Reid let that sink in as well. It just seemed too – too something. It didn't seem real. “This man was really ahead of his time,” he said to himself, automatically speaking in Spanish after having read so much in that tongue. “I can see why people think the diary is a fake.” He remembered da Rosa and hurriedly added, “No offense.”
“Yes, very interesting, isn't it, Dr. Reid?” said one of the hooded figures before da Rosa could respond. “Even more so because, unless I'm mistaken, this sword sounds familiar to you.” It was not a question, and he clearly didn't think he was mistaken.
Perhaps it was the sword of Laban, if not an astonishing coincidence. But if it was, they certainly wouldn't find it in the cathedral. It was buried within the Hill Cumorah, awaiting the coming of Jesus Christ. And if his own theory was correct, as this account seemed to validate, the Hill Cumorah was somewhere in Mesoamerica and the hill in upstate New York had been mistakenly identified as such by church members. But if he mentioned that, his and Manuel's usefulness would be outlived, and he didn't want to see what would happen then. Out loud he said, “What do you want with an artifact that most people have never heard of and fewer still believe in?”
“You tell us. You're the one who was inspired by it to write a research paper. Which was quite helpful, by the way, thank you.”
“Thank you, I am rather proud of what I got to complete. But that doesn't explain your interest. We're not living in ancient Hebrew or Mesoamerican culture. Certainly the sword would be valuable, but –”
“Then figure it out yourself. Your only concern is survival, which right now means locating this cathedral for us. We were going to scour the city for it on our own before we got word of your arrival. Thank you, Dr. Reid, you were really a godsend.”
“You're not from the KKK, are you?”
“Correct. Our hatred of blacks, Jews and Catholics is merely average.” They snickered at that. Reid didn't think it was funny.
“Actually, we're British, in case you haven't noticed, and we don't stoop to such levels,” said the other.
“Ah, yes, I've spent some time in your country and I do admire that about you,” Reid said. “Still, there is that whole class system thing. What is this, the Middle Ages?”
“Enough,” the first snapped. “We have no allegiance to the Crown, so we'll let that remark slide, but this isn't the time for verbal jousting. Figure out where that cathedral is and then we can have a contest.”
“What do you think I am, an atlas? I've never even been to Toledo and it's full of cathedrals. Your guess is as good as mine.” He had another concern. The Alcázar de Toledo, a third century Roman palace in the highest part of the city, was being held as a fortress by Nationalist Colonel José Moscardó Ituarte against a siege by Republican forces. It had begun on July 21st and Reid hadn't read anything about it being over.
“Take this map of the city,” one of the men said, handing one over, “and review the diary as much as you need to. You have an hour. If you have not given us a satisfactory result by then, things will be unpleasant. Catch my drift?”
The tone in his voice did not invite negotiation, so Reid did not attempt any. It was a ridiculous request, and he knew that they knew that it was a ridiculous request. They wanted things to get unpleasant. Was this all an elaborate hoax to torment him? No, that left too many questions unanswered; most notably, why. He nodded and took the map.
Both men turned their backs to leave – a careless move on their part. They probably assumed their prisoners were too intimidated to try anything foolish. They assumed wrong.
Manuel flung himself across the small space and caught both thugs around the neck as he came down. One managed to duck and spin away and point his Webley straight at Reid, who had been a second behind. The other crashed to the floor with Manuel on top of him. “Threaten my wife, will you?” the Spaniard snarled, beating with his fists. “Bastard! Son of a -”
Manuel was fueled by the adrenaline of pure rage, but his opponent compensated with sheer skill. In a moment he had flipped his attacker over his head, pinned him to the floor, and returned the beating – though with the butt of his gun. Reid watched helplessly at the point of the other gun as the thug systematically worked over every inch of Manuel's body and face. Though his expression was hidden, it didn't take a psychologist to see that the thug was enjoying it.
After what seemed several minutes he stopped. Then, without a word, he dragged Manuel's limp form, breathing like an asthmatic after a marathon, back into the small closet and dumped it there. Then both thugs returned to the doorway, taking care to back out with their guns raised this time.
“Fifty-seven minutes, now,” one said, and they shut the door behind them.
Instantly Reid went to his knees by Manuel's side. The man looked as if he had been kicked in the face by a horse. Twice. Blood flowed profusely from his mouth, nose and split left cheek, while unsightly bruises were already forming elsewhere. “Manuel,” he said, “Manuel, answer me if you can; if you can't, don't worry about it. Are you all right? I mean, I know what just happened, but will you survive?”
“Si, señor,” he rasped.
“Oh, thank God. I'm so sorry I couldn't help you. I wasn't fast enough, and the other guy pointed his Webley at me, and I just –”
“Está bien.”
“Where does it hurt the most? I don't have any medical training but I'll try to do what I can –”
“Please, Señor Reid,” Manuel said with obviously painful effort, “just figure out where that cathedral is, or else they may do worse to both of us. I only need to rest.”
Reid hesitated, but he knew Manuel was right. There was no telling what these people would do. So he spread out the map and reopened the diary, but that was as far as he knew to go. What could he do next? What could he possibly do next?
***
Eliana was bored, listless and depressed. Life around the reservation was always dull and without John around to relieve the monotony, to entertain her with tales of archeology and religion, she just couldn't handle it. Not for the first time she wished she had a job, or was enrolled in college. Or even that she had kids running around and usurping every minute of her spare time. She laughed to herself at the thought. Well, maybe she wasn't quite that bored yet.
She wasn't as worried about John as she'd expected, anymore. She knew he could take care of himself, and that God would watch out for him, and that whatever happened was beyond her control. No, really the problem to begin with had been that he would be away from her for who knew how long, and she'd end up as bored as she now was. Even her Book of Mormon reading failed to entertain her, now that she couldn't go to him with her questions.
On the other hand, there was a sense of resignation to the fact that something terrible could happen to him out there, and that was where the depression came in. She didn't know how she could go on, dealing with the boredom and the thought that she'd never see him again. Not in this life, anyway. She sort of believed what he'd told her about the resurrection and all that, but that was all so abstract, so far away. For now she was alone and well might be forever.
Not for long, actually, she realized as the door to her adobe pueblo burst open and a pair of figures shuffled in. Her heart skipped a beat. Even without the events of the past few days taken into account, the sight of Klansmen, or what appeared to be Klansmen, would have filled her with terror. They weren't holding guns, but that was small comfort.
Eliana refused to be intimidated in her own home. She rose from her small wicker chair, trying in vain to stop her legs from vibrating like jackhammers. “Get out,” she said in the firmest voice she could manage. “Get out,” she repeated more loudly, “unless you want a tomahawk where the sun doesn't shine.”
The figures raised their hands and laughed. “Easy, squaw,” one said. “We're just here to talk with you real quick. Won't take a minute.”
“One scream from me, and the whole tribe will be at your throats,” she warned.
“Okay, fine, we'll leave,” the other said with a shrug. “We just thought you'd like to hear the latest about Professor Reid –”
“What have you monsters done with him?” she snapped, trembling legs forgotten.
“Nothing, nothing,” the other said, raising his hands again. “He's in Spain, and we've been here this whole time. He did run into some associates of ours, but they haven't done anything to him either. They mocked us for letting him escape, but they've gotten a taste for themselves of how spirited he can be.”
“I see,” Eliana said. “And let me guess. You're here to take me hostage so he'll do what your buddies want. You'll have to kill me first.”
They laughed. “No, no, no,” the first said. “We're amateurs, you understand, but we do know that generally in a hostage situation you pick someone the guy cares about.”
Eliana's heart suddenly seemed to explode into a million pieces. Her face fell correspondingly. She couldn't hide it.
“Indeed,” the other said in triumph. “But why do you look so sad, my dear? You mustn't take it personally. After all, we have kind of slim pickings here. He doesn't care about anyone who hasn't been dead for a few centuries.”
“He does care about me,” she said, but as she did she wondered who she was trying to convince. “He taught me about his religion...”
“Why? Are your traditional Indian beliefs not good enough for him? You'd think an archaeologist of all people would be more tolerant of other cultures.”
“Well for me, personally, life on the reservation leaves much to be desired. John thinks he has something that can make me happier, and I've begun to think he's right.”
“And why are you on a reservation anyway? Because of white men sticking their noses where they didn't belong. That's all he's doing. He's as bad as the conquistadors he studies. Convert the inferior natives to your way of life, no matter the cost.”
“You're ridiculous.”
“Are we?” the other thug said, taking the cue. “Let me ask you something, Eliana – when was the last time he spoke to you about anything besides religion or archaeology?”
“Well, it –” She stopped cold.
“Ah, I suspected as much,” he continued. “He never asked you about yourself, did he? About your likes, your pet peeves, your hopes, your dreams, your fears? He never bothered to find these things out, did he?”
“Funny my colleague here should mention fears,” the other said. “Because I believe your greatest fear, Eliana, is that John Reid doesn't love you, doesn't even care about you and never will. And I would have to say, based on the evidence, that your fear is completely justified.”
Eliana felt water coming to her eyes. She tried to force it back, but no more could she stretch out her hand and stop the flow of the Susquehanna river. She let herself bawl, not caring that her enemies could see her weakness, not caring about anything except what they had said, and that she knew it was true. Her feelings had told her that John's religion was true, and if she was to trust them on that, she had to trust them now.
“Don't cry, my dear,” one said, digging a handkerchief from the pocket of his robe. She refused it as a matter of principle, even though she could feel her sinuses clogging as if with cement. “This will make it easier for you,” he continued, “if he becomes too much of a liability, and we are forced to dispose of him.”
“We don't intend to,” the other added hurriedly, “as long as he cooperates. But the two of us learned firsthand that that isn't something we can count on. We just thought we should give you fair warning, prepare you for that possibility.”
“Indeed,” the other said. “But don't kill yourself worrying about him. He certainly isn't worried about you.”
With a pair of friendly nods, they backed out the door which had stood open all this time. Anyone could have glanced in and seen the pseudo-Klansmen standing there, but no one had. Maybe no one else cared either. “It's like we said, squaw,” one of them said, “we just wanted to talk real quick.” And they left.
Her strength vanished, Eliana collapsed back into her chair with a force that nearly broke it. Her head crashed down on the table, her arms splayed akimbo in front of it, and she allowed the water to flow freely until she was in serious danger of dehydration in the Arizona desert, and then she let it flow some more. Despair wracked her soul, despair such as she had never imagined possible. For the first time in memory she wished she had never been born, had never existed. Or, as the next best thing, that she could collapse and die right now.
“By the way, I forgot to mention,” one of the hooded figures said, poking his head back in the pueblo, “there is one thing that possibly is worth your worrying about. If Professor Reid cooperates, and remains safe and sound, and our plan succeeds – if we find the sword of Laban, as I know you've already deduced that much – in that case, he'll move on to some new archaeological thing and still not bother about you, of course. But more importantly, if you're really invested in this religion he's trying to force on you, then you might not like what we're going to do with it.”
“You can't destroy it,” she blubbered, raising her head slightly with monumental effort and pausing her sobs with greater effort still. She narrowed her eyes. “You can't,” she continued. “It couldn't be destroyed in Joseph Smith's day, and it certainly can't be now.”
The man laughed without mirth. “Really, my dear, you insult our intelligence,” he said. “We have something much more ingenious in mind. But no, on second thought, don't worry about that either. It will only give Professor Reid something more to distract him from you, as if he needs it.” And he left once again.
Eliana cried, and cried, and cried, through the afternoon and into the night.
Next: Chapter Five
