1. The Keeper of the Grail

“The term of years of Satan’s power has been fulfilled, but other terrible things draw near.”

—from a lost passage of the Gospel according to Mark

“You are looking for the Holy Grail. You will not find it,” said an old man who’d been sitting quietly at a corner table, nursing a cup of tea while Dr. Pearce reviewed all of his notes over a fourth glass of cheap, badly-tasting whiskey.

Pearce was startled by him at first, not having noticed him there until that moment. He wore all black and sat in a poorly lit corner of a poorly lit café, at a small table adjacent to Pearce’s own. Yet the man still managed to be conspicuous by his alarmingly gaunt appearance, coupled with an inconsistent electricity about him. His skin was pale and smoky-gray, resembling sun-bleached cardboard that might crumble at a mere touch. Yet his lips were blood red, both garish and strangely sensual at the same time. His eyes were dark and sullen with a peculiar reddish glint. Despite his quiet but insistent ugliness, the man exuded an almost animal charm.

Pearce was sure he would have noticed him enter the small café, but wondered at how he would not have seen him there when he took his own seat. He was in no mood to make new friends or to banter with tourists, so he would have deliberately avoided sitting so close to another diner had he seen him when he selected his table.

His initial start quickly gave way to irritation at the intrusion, as well at as the invasion of privacy committed by looking closely enough at Pearce’s papers to know they concern the Grail.

“How do you know I won’t find it? And who the hell are you?” Dr. Pearce demanded.

“I am Harker. And I know because I know where you are looking, and I know it is not there,” the man answered dryly in a hollow, basso tone in a subtle English accent.

Pearce eyed him with a hint of recognition.

Harker took a sip of tea but observably took no pleasure in the drink, choking it down as if it were foul-tasting medicine. Pearce caught a faint whiff of garlic mingled with a flowery aroma he could not place as Harker coughed some of it up.

“‘Harker,’ huh? You wouldn’t be Quincey Harker, would you?” Pearce asked.

“I would indeed. I prefer to go by my middle name of Arthur, however. It is much more… kingly, would you not agree?”

Pearce answered by a slight shrug and a dismissive roll of his eyes.

“I am not surprised that you have heard of me, considering our shared interests,” said the old man as he wiped his chin of some of the tea that had dribbled out in his struggle to fight it down.

“Your name seems to come up just about every time I start digging into local Grail lore, no matter what continent I’m on. I’m always being told to read some book or another you’ve written,” said the archeologist, not hiding his revulsion at Harker’s difficulty at keeping his drink down.

“I have been on a quest for the Grail for longer than you have been alive,” Harker nodded as he calmly pushed his cup of tea to the far side of his table and out of his line of sight with Pearce, in quiet resignation to his disagreement with it.

A “quest for the Grail,” Pearce noted to himself with disdainful amusement. The curious word choice diminished his view of Harker as a serious archeologist, despite the man’s renown.

“So, how do you know that the Grail isn’t where I’m looking? The tunnels I’m excavating were only discovered last year, and my team’s the only one that’s been given access. Didn’t come cheap, either,” said Pearce as he downed another swig.

He already knew the old man was right, but he didn’t want to give that away. After squandering the remainder of his considerable inheritance on information about the tunnels and on the bribes that gained him access, Pearce was finally able to excavate newly-discovered tunnels beneath Jerusalem’s Old City, believed to have been dug by the Knights Templar as a hiding place for important relics. After years of extensive study into the history of the Order and of Grail legend, Pearce knew those tunnels must be where the Grail has been for the past thousand years. After weeks of digging and searching and pushing his crew to the edge of their limits, his years of work had turned up nothing, aside from a few trinkets that wouldn’t begin to fetch any significant return for his considerable investment. It was just the day before when Pearce resigned himself to the fact that the Grail just wasn’t to be found there, and he had very likely wasted the past ten years of his life. He’d dismissed his crew that morning, sending them back to the United States with a few parting barbs for their failure to find the Cup of Christ. He stayed behind because he couldn’t bear the thought of going back with nothing to show for the trip, or for the cost.

He felt bad about his send-off, knowing it wasn’t fair to take his bitterness out on them. It was his failure, not theirs. They couldn’t have done better work. Pearce knew it was his own fault that he’d hired them to chase down what turned out to be a bogus lead.

Already ashamed of the way he’d treated his crew, and washed out after his decade-in-the-making failure, Pearce was in no mood to hear this strange old man tell him so smugly what he’d already learned so painfully, and at so high a price.

“So? Just what the hell makes you so sure the Grail’s not down there?” Pearce demanded.

“You would not believe me if I told you,” the haggard old man joylessly teased.

“Try me,” said Pearce as he gulped down another mouthful of whiskey.

Harker eyed Pearce with a wry grin as he pondered whether or not to tell him what he knew. Then he settled himself and spoke with grave seriousness, “I know you will not find it where you were looking because I have the Grail.”

The younger man felt a sudden heat of anger rush to his face, and an involuntary sneer pulled his lip back to reveal clenched teeth. Was the old man taunting him? Did he already know about his failure?

Or, even worse, could he actually be telling the truth? To have devoted so much of his life and fortune to finding it, and for this ridiculous old man to have had it all this time would be too much for Pearce to bear. Could Harker have been sitting on it all this time? Unthinkable. To possess the greatest, most sought-after historical artifact of all time, and not tell anyone? To take such pains to find it, publishing volume after volume about his searches and speculations, but not announce his success to the world and take the recognition and fortune it could bring?

Pearce composed himself, not wanting to give the doddering old man the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him.

“Is that so?” he answered, poker-faced.

“Yes. That is so,” said the elderly man, maintaining his calm, matter-of-fact tone.

“Well, bully for you. Think you might let me see it?” said the archeologist with as much sarcasm as he could muster as he signaled for another drink.

“You may have it, if you agree to my conditions,” the old man answered before he choked down another mouthful of tea and convulsed in a few coughs as he fought it down.

“Ha. Sure. Alright. How much do you want for it?” said Pearce before he downed the last swig in his own glass.

“Heh! You offer me money,” the man spat. “For the Grail. You are already off to a pitiable start if you think any amount of money could persuade me to pass it to you,” Harker continued in disgust.

“You already told me I could have it,” he answered.

“Yes. All that is required is that you truly want it. But you cannot buy it. Its… consequence infinitely transcends your money,” he said.

“What money?” Pearce thought but did not say, as he once again tallied up in his head the fortune he’d spent on his search.

“Then what the hell do you want for it?” Pearce said. “And why am I even talking to you? You don’t have it.”

“‘Why’ indeed. If you do not believe the Grail to be in my possession, you are welcome to go on your way and this will be our final and only encounter. However, in the event that I do have the Sacred Cup, would it not be tragic if you left because you were too proud to humor an old man after all you have already suffered to find it?” said Harker.

At that, Pearce’s face grew flush again, this time more from embarrassment than anger. Harker knew. He must have learned of the newly discovered Templar tunnels himself, and come here to investigate. He must have come across some of his crew and overheard them talking about it, even though Pearce had made absolute secrecy a condition of employment. Still, he knew someone was bound to talk at some point—an errant word over drinks some night, or a slip of the tongue as they were sightseeing on one of their rare days off. Harker must have overheard something and followed the trail, and that must be why he sought him out in the first place.

But, if Harker already had the Grail, why would he come to Jerusalem in search of it? He couldn’t have beaten Pearce’s team to the tunnels and found it first. Never mind the bureaucratic labyrinth through which Harker would have had to have passed unnoticed—the tunnels themselves were untouched when Pearce began his excavation.

Pearce thought of all that the Grail represents, particularly it’s reputed power to bestow immortality upon its possessor—figuratively and professionally, at the very least, if not literally. Harker—this obscure old man—obviously doesn’t have it, or he’d be known in the world well beyond the exclusive subculture of archeology and Grail enthusiasts. And, of course, in the unlikely event that its reputed powers have any basis in reality, Harker would bear the appearance of a much younger, more vital man—not this withered old husk.

But, at the same time, how could his reputation precede him so among Grail seekers if he were not as earnest in his pursuit of the Grail as Pearce himself? And, it isn’t as if Pearce had any other pressing demands on his time or attention.

“You know how much I’ve suffered for it, so you already know that I obviously want it. If that’s your only condition, fine. I’ll take it,” said Pearce in feigned nonchalance.

“Excellent,” Harker said without enthusiasm, downing the rest of his strange-smelling tea, this time closing his eyes and calmly willing it down without the usual convulsions.

After he’d finished and the urge to cough up his tea passed, he opened his eyes, continuing, “…but I am not convinced that you do truly want it. You only believe that you do. You may not after all.”

Pearce stared wide-eyed at Harker as he wavered between exasperation and amusement.

Harker returned his stare as he awaited Pearce’s response.

“Sure. I’ll play along. How, pray tell, might I convince you?” said Pearce.

“Go to the Wall tomorrow, just after twilight. I will meet you there,” said Harker.

Without further explanation or awaiting Pearce’s answer, Harker stood up and pulled his seat back from the table in readiness to leave. He was of towering stature, looking somewhat like a scarecrow hovering over a cornfield, Pearce thought, with his ghastly white face and hair perched atop the black, shrouded obelisk of his lean frame.

After donning a black, short-brimmed hat, Harker then removed the teabag from his cup, squeezed out its excess fluid and placed it in a small leather pouch he’d produced from his breast pocket, then calmly exited the café as he tucked the pouch back into place, without looking back to Harker or acknowledging the wait staff as they thanked him for his patronage.

Pearce sat, mouth agape, deciding whether to laugh or be offended by Harker’s abrupt departure.