The Covenant Of The Flame

The back yard was glorious with the flowers. Everywhere, except for a maze of narrow paths that allowed visitors to stroll in admiration, the garden was filled with abundant, myriad, trumpet-shaped, resplendent, many-colored tributes to God's generosity.

Tess faltered amid the beauty. She clutched her purse and the weight of its pistol, reminding herself of how far she'd come, not necessarily forward, since leaving Georgetown University. How she wished she was back there.

Professor Harding turned and noticed her. 'Yes?' Trembling, he fought to maintain his balance. 'You've come to see my…?'

'Flowers. As usual, they're wonderful!'

'You're very kind.' Professor Harding used a cane and hobbled toward her. To my regret, there once was a time…'

'Your regret?'

'The poisonous air. The equally poisonous rain. Eight years ago…'

'I was here,' Tess said. 'I remember.'

'The lilies were…' Professor Harding, wrinkled, alarmingly aged, sank toward a redwood bench. His white hair was thin and wispy, his skin slack, dark with liver spots. 'What you see is nothing. A mockery. There once was a time, when nature was in control… The lilies used to be so…'He stared toward his cane and trembled. 'Next year…' He trembled increasingly. 'I won't subject them to this poison. Next year, I'll let them rest in peace. But their bulbs will be safely stored. And perhaps one day grow flowers again. If the planet is ever purified.'

Tess glanced defensively backward, clutching the outline of her handgun in her purse, then approaching.

'But do I know you?' Professor Harding asked. He steadied his wire-rimmed glasses and squinted in concentration. 'Why, it's Tess. Can it actually be you? Of course. Tess Drake.'

Tess smiled, her tear ducts aching. 'I'm so pleased you haven't forgotten.'

'How could I possibly forget? Your beauty filled my classroom.'

Tess blushed. 'Now you're the one who's being kind.' She sat beside him on the redwood bench and gently hugged him.

'In fact, if I'm not mistaken, you were in many of my classes. Each year, you took a course.' The professor's voice sounded like wind through dead leaves.

'I loved hearing you talk about art.'

'Ah, but more important, you loved the art itself. It showed in your eyes.' Professor Harding squinted harder, as if at something far away. 'Mind you, in honesty, you weren't my best student…'

'Mostly B's, I'm afraid.'

'But by all means, you were certainly my most enthusiastic student.' The professor's thin, wrinkled lips formed a smile of affection. 'And it's so good of you to come back. You know, many students promised they would – after they graduated and all.' His smile faded. 'But as I learned to expect…'

'Yes?'

'They never did.'

Tess felt a tightness in her throat. 'Well, here I am. Late, I regret.'

'As you always came late for class.' The old man chuckled. 'Just a few minutes. I wasn't distracted. But it seems you couldn't resist a grand entrance.'

Tess echoed the old man's chuckle. 'Really, I wasn't trying to make a grand entrance. It's just that I couldn't manage to get out of bed on time.'

'Well, my dear, when you're my age, you'll find that you wake up at dawn.' The professor's frail voice faded. 'And often earlier. Much earlier.'

He cleared his throat.

Their conversation faltered.

Even so, Tess found that the silence was comfortable.

Soothing.

She admired the lilies.

How I wish I could stay here forever, she thought. How I wish that my world wasn't falling to pieces.

'Professor, can we talk about art for a while?'

'My pleasure. As you're aware, apart from my lilies, I've always enjoyed a discussion…'

'About a bas-relief statue? I'd like to show you a picture of it.'

Apprehensive, Tess withdrew the packet of photographs from her purse, taking care to conceal the handgun.

'But why…? You're so somber.' Professor Harding narrowed his white, sparse eyebrows. 'Have you lost your enthusiasm for the subject?'

'Not for the subject,' Tess said. 'But as far as this goes…' She showed him the photograph of the statue. 'This is another matter.'

Professor Harding scowled, creating more wrinkles on his forehead. He pushed up his glasses, then raised the photograph toward them. 'Yes, I can see why you're disturbed.'

He shifted the picture forward, then backward, and with each motion shook his head. 'Such a brutal image. And the style. So rough. So crude. It's certainly not something I care for. Certainly not Velazquez.'

'But what can you tell me about it?' Tess held her breath.

'I'm sorry, Tess. You'll have to be more specific. What exactly do you need to know? What's your interest in this? Where did you find it?'

Tess debated how much to tell him. The less the old man knew, the better. If the killers found out that she'd come here, ignorance and infirmity might be the difference that saved Professor Harding's life. 'A friend of mine had it in his bedroom.'

'That doesn't say much for his taste. His bedroom? This doesn't belong even in a tool shed.'

'I agree. But have you any idea who might have sculpted it? Or why! Or what it means! Are there any sculptors you know or you've heard of who might have done it?'

'Dear me, no. I can see why you're confused. You think this sculpture might relate to a contemporary school of… I don't know what I'd call them… neo-primitives or avant-garde classicists.'

'Professor, forgive me. I'm still not a very good student. What you just said… You've lost me.'

'I'll try to be more enlightening. This photograph. It's difficult to tell from the image, but the sculpture seems to be in perfect condition. Distinct lines. No missing sections. No chips. No cracks. No sign of weathering.'

'I still don't…'

'Pay attention. Pretend you're taking notes.'

'Believe me, I'm trying.'

'The object, its craft, its execution, are recent. Very distinct. But the image itself is…' Professor Harding hesitated. 'Old. Very old. This is a copy, Tess, of a sculpture from as long ago as… oh, I'd guess… two thousand years.'

'Two thousand years?' Tess gaped.

'An approximation. It's not my specialty, I'm sorry to say. Anything before the sixteen hundreds is outside my expertise.'

Tess slumped. 'Then there's no way you can help me understand what it means?'

'Did I say that? Please. I merely admitted my own limitations. What you need is a classical scholar with training in archaeology.'

Tess glanced at her watch. Half-past twelve. Craig would be at LaGuardia by now. He'd soon be flying to Washington. She had to meet him at two-thirty. Time. She didn't have much time!

'A classical scholar with…?' Tess breathed.' Where on earth am I going to find...?'

'Young lady, I'm disappointed. Have you forgotten the marvelous woman I'm married to? She's the brains of the family. Not me. And until five years ago, she belonged to the Classics Department at Georgetown University. Come.' Professor Harding leaned on his cane and stood from the redwood bench. He wavered for a moment. 'Priscilla's been taking a nap. But it's time I woke her. It really isn't good if she misses lunch. Her diabetes, you know. Perhaps you'd care for a bite to eat.'

'Professor, I don't mean to be rude. I'm really not hungry, and please – oh, God, I hate this – I'm in a hurry. This is important. Terribly urgent. I need to know about that statue.'

'Well.' Professor Harding studied her. 'How mysterious you make it seem. Good. I can use some stimulation.' The old man shuffled unsteadily along a path, the fragrance of his lilies tainted by smog. 'But if it's that urgent, if you don't mind the familiarity, you'd better put your arm around me so I can walk a little faster. I confess I'm curious. So let's wake Priscilla and stimulate her. Let's find out what that odious image means.'