“There are elements reminiscent of Nashite, the language of the Hittites. But some of the symbols are variations on the Akkadian language. There is a third element, one with which I am unfamiliar, and I feel it would be the key to my unlocking the morphological, syntactic, and phonological bridges that make this its own fourth, original language. It’s even possible that this—what’s written there on the lid, and engraved here in these fragments of the bitumen encasement—is not a variation but the parent language from which the other three eventually sprang.”
Father Cornelius rubbed his thinly gloved hands together for warmth, fingers aching with arthritis. He shifted one of the large fragments on the table, trying to match it up more closely with its neighbor.
“Maybe it’s time he stepped away,” another voice said. “Took a little rest?”
Irritated, Father Cornelius turned. He flinched, startled to find so many other people gathered around him. Helen stood there with Wyn Douglas and one of their Turkish students. A few feet away, Calliope held her camera, filming the exchange. How long had she been there? How long had any of them been there?
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” he said, unsure which of them had spoken.
“Father,” Helen began, her eyes so kind.
“I’m not a child you can send off for a nap,” he said, heat flushing his cheeks and rushing down his chest and along his arms. “What I am, young lady, is your best hope at deciphering these writings. And I will tell you this much…” He turned to stare into Calliope’s camera. “Based on what little I’ve been able to translate thus far, I can say without a doubt that this ship is the biblical ark, built by a man whose name could be translated as ‘Noah.’”
Feeling a sheen of sweat on his brow, he wiped his sleeve across his forehead. His throat felt dry, but as he glanced from Walker to Helen, he was all too aware of the eye of the camera upon him.
“Father,” Walker said, laying a hand on his arm, a deep frown etched on his forehead. “I didn’t think you supported a literal translation—”
“I didn’t!” Father Cornelius said, yanking his arm away. A bit of bile snaked up the back of his throat and he choked it down, wiped at his forehead again. “You recruited me for this trip, Dr. Walker. You know my credentials. I’m not saying we’re to take the story of the flood verbatim, but—”
“Father,” Wyn interrupted, crouching on his other side, so that she and Walker flanked his chair. “You need to go and lie down. I’m worried that the elevation is affecting your brain. You seem unwell.”
He sneered, pushing back from the table. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve just begun the process of translating a language no one in the world has ever documented. Could I do that if I… if I…”
Father Cornelius stood shakily, to prove to himself as much as to the others that he was fine. The serpent of nausea coiled in his belly and slid once more up his throat, but he fought it back down. All right, he wasn’t feeling well, but that was no reason for them all to be staring at him as if he had gone insane. There were references to the building of the ark, to a warning from God about the flood, to a gathering of animals. There were other bits, phrases here and there, something about a terrible darkness that he thought might refer to the storm that brought the flood. Given time he could work out a rough translation, he was sure.
“Cornelius,” Walker said softly, rising to stand beside him. “Everything you’ve just told us… it’s the third time you’ve explained it all.”
First he scoffed, even scowled. Then he saw the worry in Walker’s eyes, turned and saw the wary curiosity in Wyn’s expression.
“That’s absurd.”
But didn’t he sense it as well, the déjà vu echo of words that seemed too familiar? Father Cornelius shook his head and walked around the table, staring at the upright coffin lid. He ran his hands over the symbols there, the language so similar to others and yet unique, like some intimate coded message from the ancient world.
A dreadful suspicion began to form. No, not a suspicion. A certainty, though he could not express it to the others. Not yet. Memories of past research cascaded through his mind and Father Cornelius backed away from the lid, turned and stared at the plastic tenting around the box, and the terrible remains of its occupant.
His right hand shook as he unzipped his jacket and snaked his thinly gloved fingers inside his shirt, drawing out the crucifix that hung on a chain around his neck. He closed his eyes for a long moment and then walked toward the tent. Calliope took a step toward him, her visible eye narrowing as her camera followed his every step.
“Father?” Helen said.
The Turkish student, a young archaeologist with the scruff of a beard, asked her something in a burst of his own language before switching to stunted English. “What is he doing?”
From the corner of his eye, Father Cornelius saw Walker and Wyn hesitate, but as he drew back the curtain, they started after him. He let the plastic flap fall down behind him, knowing he had only seconds alone inside the tent. Alone with the horned cadaver, the misshapen thing that someone had taken the time to hammer into a wooden box and then to encase that box in hardened bitumen. It would take time for him to translate all of what had been written, but he could not hide from the ominous things he had already interpreted.
He kissed the crucifix, held it toward the horned thing in the box. Black shadows stared out from the empty sockets of its eyes.
The plastic curtain rippled behind him as others entered.
“The Lord is my salvation, whom should I fear?” he prayed. “I will not fear evil because you are with me, my Lord, my God, my powerful savior, my strength, Lord of Peace, Father of all ages.”
The Turkish student shouted something. Father Cornelius barely heard the words, did not try to translate them. Helen started to argue with him, but the young man thrust her aside and rushed at him. Father Cornelius lifted the crucifix and kissed it again just before the student slapped his hand down. Marshaling a strange serenity that rose within him, he turned to face the angry young man and saw in his eyes more fear than fury.
Walker grabbed the student, twisted his arms behind his back, and marched him out of the tent.
“Damn it, let him go!” Helen barked, following after them. “He’s just angry about the blessing. We’re not supposed to establish any religious claims regarding the remains.”
Outside the blur of the plastic sheeting, five figures moved back and forth. Strangely numb, his mind at ease, Father Cornelius heard the student demand to speak to Mr. Avci, the senior of the two monitors sent by the Turkish government.
“Fine, go!” Helen said. “Tell Avci I want to see him as soon as you’re done talking to him.”
The student stormed off.
“Is everyone a lunatic now?” Walker asked. “People are losing their minds up here.”
“Your team included,” Helen muttered. “And you’ve only been here twenty-four hours.”
Father Cornelius pulled back the plastic curtain. “I’m sorry if I caused that. But prayers are a way of purifying the space around us and it had to be done. Whatever you want to call this dead thing, from what I’ve gathered so far it was something truly wicked. Natural or supernatural doesn’t matter, really.”
“It matters to me,” Calliope said from behind the camera.
“Whatever you do, Professor Marshall—Dr. Walker—do not let Meryam move that body before the translation is completed.”
Walker, Wyn, and Helen stared at him.
Then Helen sighed. “Go and talk to Avci, Dr. Walker. If he’s unreasonable, Zeybekci may be helpful. The last thing we need is more turmoil on this project.”
Father Cornelius clutched his crucifix. “Would you like me to come along?”