Sword From Heaven (2) “Isabella, I think you should go back to bed. It’s almost three o’clock.” Isabella didn’t hear her husband, didn’t notice the tremble in his voice. She was consumed by the strange new sensation she felt pulsing through her body. Her hands were trembling, but no longer from fear. She flexed them experimentally, feeling a new found strength. The thrill of anticipation flooded her veins with excitement and caused her heart to race. Looking up at her husband she noticed a strange expression passing over his face. She almost laughed with delight when she realised what it was. Fear. “Iron that fell from heaven as a blazing star; it would cleave all earth-delved iron” (Tolkein) Elliot sat alone in her brightly lit office tapping her pen absentmindedly on the rim of her empty coffee cup. She felt restless and for about the fourth time that morning she poked her head out the door. “Any messages?” “Nothing yet Miss Reid.” The reply annoyed her – it was so polite and efficient and so totally unlike anything Karen would have said. It had been three weeks now since her secretary and best friend Karen had left work on maternity leave and Elliot couldn’t help hating her for it. Her replacement, Carol, an extremely capable woman in her late forties, was consistently agreeable and pleasant in a way which infuriated her. Elliot was fed up with her already but the truly annoying thing was that she couldn’t really justify to herself why she felt this way – perhaps it was because the woman just made her feel so damn pointless. Elliot was used to feeling alone; the office was a male dominated shark-pool. She spent a lot of time watching the men circling outside the glass, sometimes forming into groups, sometimes cruising the corridors alone, lean and watchful. She turned as a faint noise behind her revealed the smug features of Brandon Fulton sliding towards her. Instinctively she slammed the door, turning to lean against it. She hoped he hadn’t seen her, but too late she realised the flaw in her plan - the door was glass. Turning, Elliot had only time to jump back a step before, without so much as knocking, he swung the door open and moved into the small room. Elliot could see Carol standing behind him nervously. “Mr Fulton to see you, Miss Reid.” “Reid.” He had perfected a way of addressing her that made her want to kick him. Hard. “Just thought I’d let you know the subs are running a little wager on who’ll be chosen to cover the High Street Shooter story. If you’re interested in putting some money on it the odds are on Bishop, oh…and me.” Stretching and expanding himself, he floated out and along the corridor, stopping to high five the advertising director. Elliot wrenched open her top drawer and pulled out the stress ball her sister had given her. Squeezing it as hard as she could, she visually imprinted an image of Brandon’s smug face on the hapless object. The High Street Shooter was set to be one of the stories of the year. The call had come in two days ago that there had been another fatal shooting in the area, this time resulting in a double homicide. Every paper would be chasing the story. The gradual unpeeling of the case had produced an effect something like tossing scraps of meat into a pool of piranhas. Everyday saw them circling in the office, trawling for fresh kill with hungry eyes. Everyone wanted that case, especially Elliot. Although new to The Examiner, she had quickly established a reputation as a shrewd observer and already wrote her own weekly column. But she wanted to do more that commentate on the social scene, albeit through the veil of satire. She wanted a story she could tear into. The thing that made Elliot even more confident was than the High Street Shooter was very similar to the Martinsville Gunner, a story she had researched the previous year. Even so, she felt nervous; she knew she deserved this case, but somehow, every time, it seemed someone else deserved it more. And that someone always seemed to be, coincidentally, a male. Her phone rang. “Miss Reid, Mr. Ferris just phoned to say he’d like to see you. He said it was important.” Mathew Ferris’ office was spacious. Elliot supposed that as the Editor-in-chief he was entitled to this. He motioned her in and waved at a chair. “No Barnes! I told you we couldn’t fit the Jefferson story in till Tuesday. Well you’ll have to reschedule, won’t you?” He threw the earpiece down and breathed into the well of his hands for a moment before looking at her. “Reid.” “Mathew” “I’ve got something for you.” Elliot struggled with an enquiring look. She deserved this. “As you know The Examiner covers a number of the most high profile stories each year.” Elliot nodded, impatient now. “And you will also appreciate that we have another market. Our feature magazine is one of the most successful in print today. We’ve captured the human interest market and that’s big bucks in advertising. This is where you come in. He leant back and regarded her. To her horror Elliot found she was still nodding like the idiot dashboard dog on his desk. “I knew you would appreciate the matter Reid. That’s why I’m giving you the Boagman and Sons story.” Elliot stared at him blankly. “The what?” “Boagman and Sons, you know the supermarket chain.” Elliot knew. “And the High Street Shooter? Who’s covering that?” “Reid, Reid, Reid. It’s not right for you. It’s a nasty business. It’s not your style. Leave it to the sharks out there - someone like Fulton.” Elliot choked on the word. “Fulton. You gave the case to Fulton?” “Yeah, look, it’s not personal. I mean he’s perfect – ego the size of a planet and as sensitive as a bloody sledge hammer. Ferris seemed to be running out of words. And patience. “Yes I chose Fulton. The man’s…he’s…he’s” He searched for a word. A man. Elliot finished for him. Elliot sat cross-legged on the floor of her office breathing deeply. The Boagman and Sons file lay open on the ground in front of her. Next to her lay two mangled pieces of foam, the last remains of a stress ball. The Boagman and Sons story was dead. Unlike the High Street Shooter, the event in question had taken place over one hundred and fifty years ago- a cold case. A construction team, building an underground car park for a local Boagman and Sons store, had uncovered the ancient grave, scratching out the yellowing bones with the digger’s teeth. But it was the ornate knife, lodged in the ribs that had brought the case to the attention of the press. She had few facts to work with thus far: Caucasian male, around fifty five at the time of death. She threw what was left of the stress ball against the wall – this was a case for a historian or an archaeologist, not a journalist. It was only when she flipped to the final page of the report that her question was answered. The Discovery Channel had unearthed the story and had decided to make a murder mystery documentary. It was to be based on the life and death of the Boagman and Sons body, as it had become known. Or would become known when someone managed to find out something, anything about it. This was where Elliot came in. TO: Karen_Wilkins@yahoo.com FROM: Elliot626@hotmail.com SUBJECT: SHARK BAIT Look at the positives?!! Don’t start with me! I spent the whole morning trying to find out ANYTHING about this guy. He was probably some boring old sod who wandered off for a walk in the garden after breakfast and fell on his bread and butter knife or something… I mean, come on, it’s a pile of bones; there’s only so much I can say! I’m soooo bored. The dagger IS interesting – I will grant you that. I’d say at a guess it’s much older that the body. It has the most amazing texture to the metal – you can almost see these strange translucent patterns and it’s really dark – almost black. It feels almost warm to touch, like it’s pulsing somehow…my god, I need to go to bed! I’m raving. (Elliot paused. She could tell Karen that she had ‘accidentally’ slipped the dagger into her bag for ‘research purposes’… Couldn’t she? For some reason she decided to keep this to herself. She liked the idea that it was her secret; no one knew. Of course she would give it back eventually. But for now…) Talk to you soon… Love Elliot Elliot hit the ‘send’ button and watched a clownfish swimming in circles on a panel advertising free screen savers. Absorbed in its movements, she followed its winding path with her eyes. Waking a short time later to the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside, she sat up jerkily, quickly tapping out a basic report for Ferris, ‘borrowing’ some paragraphs from the coroner’s report. The familiar lemony smell of surface spray greeted Elliot as she entered her apartment. Clear bench tops, spotless coffee table; her world was as it should be. Upon opening the kitchen cupboard however, she was greeted by the depressing sight of eight bags of instant coffee and a half empty bottle of vinegar, the used-by date long faded. Elliot snatched an apple from a bowl on the bench. She was a busy woman after all, and some of her best thinking was done at The Smokey Clam restaurant. Sighing deeply she fell back onto the leather lounge which returned her sentiments with a low hiss. Scanning the room absentmindedly, her eyes fell upon her bag. She could just see the end of the hilt, gleaming from inside its zip-lock bag. The room around her was dark and cold. The only light shed came from a small oil lamp in one corner. Soft panting escaped her lips as she brought her hand to her face to push back the black tendril of hair that hung limply over her eye. It was stained a deep red. Like blood. Calmly she examined it by the lamp light. It was the colour of the lipstick he had bought her. The lipstick which sat innocently on her dresser, lost amongst the perfumes and jewels. He had bought her many gifts. But not out of love. She knew it was because he liked the way it felt. He had the money. He had the power. No more. Her eyes scanned the room lazily. Books and papers spilled over the large oak desk and onto the floor where he lay crumpled, his face turned away. He refused to look at her, to acknowledge the small figure which now towered over his lifeless body. She stood watching his diminished form, hoping to implant the image in her memory. The hilt of the dagger protruded sharply from his chest. For a moment she felt an urge to snatch the treasure from its place of rest. Yet she restrained herself and the feeling passed. No, she thought to herself. It is done. No more. TO: Karen_Wilkins@yahoo.com FROM: Elliot626@hotmail.com SUBJECT: RE: CHILL So what if I had 2 cups of coffee for dinner! I’m telling you it was really creepy. It wasn’t like a dream at all. It was too real. I was me. But I wasn’t. You know what I mean? I’m going to hunt through the archives. I just need a lead, a scrap of info to go on. No I haven’t seen our beloved Brandon in a while… much to my dismay! Of course I’ll tell you if I hear anything juicy… you’ve been gone for what… 2 months and you’re already you’re missing it… what’s wrong with you? Oh, by the way, I took your advice. My freezer is now stocking six weeks worth of instant meals. You should have seen the looks I got. Talk to you soon…hopefully with good news! Love Elliot Despite the cleanliness of the archive, a thick musty smell- a combination of vellum and aging paper engulfed Elliot as her gloved hands flipped through the yellowing pages. It was an arduous task, sifting through the years of records: births, marriages and deaths; celebrations and tragedies. Hundreds of faces, watching her from across the ages. For hours she searched fruitlessly, losing hope with every useless page turned. Had she really believed she would find something? After a final hour of searching, she gave up. Disheartened and hungry, she returned the large volumes to their places and headed home. Pale moonlight filtered through the dark sky and into the quiet garden, falling onto the dull shovel blade. She stood, wiping her dirty hands on the light cotton night-dress. The fresh soil over the vegetable patch smelt earthy and damp, the smell of her childhood. She stood silently, looking out of the small kitchen window. Thick smoke filled the air, accompanied by a low crackling. She looked down at her bare feet peering from beneath the long cloak. The ground was wet and slick so she walked slowly and carefully out into the hall. Flickering shadows followed her as she walked through the clouded room and up the stairs. The smoke followed. At the top of the stairs she was blinded by bright shafts of sunlight which shone through the window opposite, opposite the room in which the bed lay unmade, just as he had left it. The maids had gone. Smiling and humming softly, she pulled the covers up and patted the linen smooth. The flickering and crackling drew nearer. In the bed-side mirror two grey eyes met her gaze evenly, two dark holes in bleached skin softened only by a spill of hair, black as jet, which curled down past her waist. The room was now full of smoke and the floorboards were hot beneath her bare feet. She continued to hum in a strange tuneless way as she stretched out to the intricately patterned hair-brush, a gift from her husband. It slid through the silky wave of darkness, combing in the swirls of smoke. Elliot woke with a start. She knew that face. The familiar smell surrounded Elliot once again as she dislodged a particularly thick volume labelled 1850-1855 and brought it back to her bench. She quickly found what she sought: a short article with a small photograph. Elliot studied the picture and felt her pulse quicken. An elderly man filled out the centre of the frame, radiating dignity and importance. Yet it was the small figure next to him which caught Elliot’s attention. She recognised the black curls, the porcelain skin and the deep grey eyes. She had found her. Elliot checked the date of the article, March 31st, 1853. The headline pronounced: Prominent Archaeologist celebrated by National Museum. Professor Myles Edward Bower, pictured with his wife above, was today honoured for his contribution to modern archaeology. Prof Bower has recently bequeathed his entire private collection to the National Museum. His life’s work, this collection includes highly valuable artefacts from a number of ancient civilisations, most notably Greece, Egypt and Rome. When asked to name the pick of the collection, Prof Bower selected a magnificent Ancient Egyptian dagger. “This is the most historically noteworthy piece in the collection,” he commented. “It was found in the newly discovered tomb of the Pharaoh Iris I and is thought to have served a ceremonial purpose. The blade is of meteoric origins and as such, would have been both feared and worshipped, as a ‘sword from heaven’. Its placement inside the sarcophagus indicates it was of great value to the Pharaoh.” Prof Bower will be presented with an award for his generosity at a ceremony at the end of next month. TO: Karen_Wilkins@yahoo.com FROM: Elliot626@hotmail.com SUBJECT: LAST RESORT Time is running out. Ferris is breathing down my neck. The producers want to start filming next week and all I have is a name, a date and a photograph with a possible connection with the dagger. Apparently I need more ‘solid’ information. I feel like I’m grabbing at loose ends… I don’t even know if the dagger in the article IS our murder weapon. I’m beginning to think that it’s all in my head. Maybe I dreamt about a face I saw that day and nothing more. I’ve organised an interview with the Curator of the National Museum on Tuesday. Hopefully he can shed some light on this Myles Bower character. Speak to you soon. Love Elliot Alexander Bryson was a small balding man in his late sixties whose pale watery eyes peered up at Elliot through thick spectacles. “Yes, yes” His chin wobbled as he nodded vigorously, “the Bower collection… I know it well. 1853 it was, if my memory serves me.” “Fifty three?” Elliot inquired. This was the same year as the article, the same year that he bequeathed his collection. “I am quite sure my dear. But you may check the files if you wish.” Bryson returned with a slim folder. A label on the front read M. E. BOWER-RECORDS. “We keep records of all donations, in case of legal issues. Personally I haven’t had a chance to look through it but you may find this helpful.” He placed the folder in front of her gently. “I do apologise, but I have other business to attend to. You are welcome to use my desk for as long as you need to. Just return the folder to the front desk when you are finished.” Elliot shook the offered hand and watched him leave the room. Inside the folder was a small pile of papers. Flipping through she noted a list and some official looking documents as well as a newspaper article. Beginning with the list, she realised it was a catalogue of all the artefacts donated by Prof. Bower. Each had been signatured as they had been collected. One signature, however, was missing. Tracing her finger along the list to the corresponding artefact, Elliot gagged on her own sudden intake of breath. She read the description again to be sure: Dagger, Egyptian. “This is good. All I need now is proof that connects our Boagman Body’s murder weapon to this missing dagger.” Thumbing through the other pages of the report, Elliot found her proof. It was the newspaper article. The heading read, Celebrated Archaeologist Tragically Killed in House Fire, but this was not what had caught her attention. Halfway down the page was a small photograph; lying on a bed of black satin, gleaming maliciously was the dagger, her dagger. The caption underneath the photograph read: Bower’s prized Egyptian dagger is unaccounted for, believed to have been in his home at the time of the fire. As yet no remains have been found, nor any signs of the priceless artefact. Both Bower and his wife Isabella are presumed dead. TO: Karen_Wilkins@yahoo.com FROM: Elliot626@hotmail.com SUBJECT: MYSTERY UNSOLVED It’s done. I’ve handed in all my notes and research. I’ve finished. I can’t help feeling like I’ve failed. There are so many questions I just can’t answer. Most of Bower’s life is still a mystery. I want to know more about Isabella. Why would she kill him? I just feel so powerless. I still haven’t heard back from the guys at D.C. It’s been over a week. Elliot’s train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the smug figure of Fulton leering at her over the top of her laptop. “Reid. I trust you’ve heard about my recent success.” She had. Fulton had done well with the Shooter story, very well. “I just thought I’d drop by and see how you went with your little assignment… I heard you were having a bit of trouble. I was just speaking to Mathew.” He sneered, “He seemed to think your research hadn’t come to much, Reid. I think he’s rather concerned about your level of commitment.” He let this last sentence hang for a few moments. “Well I have to get back to work.” With a final infuriating sneer at Elliot he strutted from the room. Elliot, by now very used to Fulton’s particular type of harassment, was furious at this latest onslaught. He had reached a new low. Trembling with frustration she turned back to her laptop. Screw it! I can’t take it anymore. I’m so over this! As she typed Elliot reached into her bag and produced the dagger. Unable to send it with the rest of her research, she was to drop it in to the research centre that afternoon. As she held it carefully, she felt a strange and foreign feeling wash over her. She felt compelled to type the words. She had to. This ends now. In a mad rush of emotions she suddenly saw it all; centuries of powerlessness, of abuse and shame, lifetimes of wasted potential and repressed dreams and the beacons of hope splashed amongst the hopeless. She understood their reasons, more than she had realised. They had done what others were too weak to do. They had taken power for themselves. She knew this dagger had been meant for her, just as it had been meant for those before her. She knew what she had to do. The walk to Ferris’ office seemed longer than usual. She walked slowly, not wanting to attract attention. As she walked she gripped the hilt of the dagger inside her bag fiercely. She thought of all the lost opportunities that this building represented to her, years of fruitless work. She had given them all she had and got nothing in return. She reached the doorway. Fulton was sitting across from Ferris his back to Elliot. Good she thought to herself. This will be a lot easier than I had thought. Her hand still clasped tightly around the unseen dagger, she knocked sharply on the door and the two heads turned to face her. “Reid?” TO: Eliot626@hotmail.com FROM: Karen_Wilkins@yahoo.com SUBJECT: “Return to the Sky” ‘Oh mighty is the sword that conquers all before it’ – that’s what one critic said about your story! You’ve blown the high street shooter off every front page across the country. I know you’ve had a hard time of it with this story and that you felt that you were struggling under a shadow the whole way. It’s strange but you’ve always said that there are two sides to every story and that’s what makes a good reporter. Anyway, I was reading our favourite author the other night and just wanted to share a little something that I found: “Meteors rush up and jump back into the sky again to flee across its spaces. They return by passing through the door of night and again ascend to follow the sun.” Keep searching the skies my friend.
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Copyright © 2006 Kristen Karlson |