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Indiana Jones and the Spirits of Avalon
Chapter 2: Warnings
It was a nice car, a Bentley, but Indiana found himself more attracted to his fellow passenger than to the streamlined leather craftsmanship of the vehicle. Vivian (Professor, Indy reminded himself) Monroe had decided to use the ten minute ride to the National Museum to bring him up to speed. From her briefcase she had removed several tattered documents, recently extracted from the field, and given them to the archaeologist to examine. On the excavation papers were several sketches. They appeared to be of a key, and if the archaeologist had done his finding justice it was intricately designed, a jewel of some kind embossed in the handle. It was far from the key he used to open the door to his apartment, obviously. A voice in Indy's head kept telling him that the key was of twelfth century English origin, if only for the elegance of the craftsmanship and the presence of the jewel. He glanced over at Professor Monroe and voiced his theory.
"I believe you're right, Dr. Jones," said the assistant curator, glancing at the sketches. "Our man in the field, Charles Canning, had relatively the same thoughts. However, we believe there's more to this than merely an interesting archaeological find."
Indy raised his eyebrows. "And you want to find what it goes to?" he asked. It made sense, but finding the hole for the key would be a difficult task. Was the good Professor saying what he thought she was saying?
"Mr. Black asked me to bring you to the museum to discuss a proposition," she stated, answering his unasked question. "We would like you to travel to London, Dr. Jones. You will meet Canning there and begin to follow the trail of this key back to its source." She gave a quick smile, as if it was the smallest of assignments. The smile alone made him want to accept.
Instead he nodded, handing the papers back to Professor Monroe. "Sounds like a tough job."
The beautiful Professor smiled again, this time with more zeal. "For a man with your experience, Dr. Jones, tough should be a walk in the park." The abrupt halt of the Bentley saved him from responding. "We've arrived." The chauffeur opened her door, and she stepped out. Indy followed suit, eyeing for a moment the grand architecture of the National Museum. It was a great building, but an imposing one, made all the more so by Marcus' absence. Was accepting this assignment truly a good idea? Brody's unfinished sentence was weighing on his mind. "The new curator, Edmund Black-"
"Come with me," said his female escort, pulling Indy out of his thoughts. He walked to the other side of the vehicle as she started up the stone steps. He had to jog to catch up, the Professor strolling with purposeful speed. The woman truly was intriguing, but his mind was switching gears to the new curator, Edmund Black. He couldn't wait to meet him. Maybe that was because he wanted to give him a right hook across his jaw for stealing his friend's job, or maybe it was because he needed another escape from teaching. Even if his body was still aching from that Marquesas Islands incident...
Professor Monroe pushed open the large double doors and stepped into the warmly lit reception area. Visiting hours were still in full swing. Tourist families, large school groups, and archaeology buffs walked eagerly into the building, and Indy felt a small surge of pride. These people might happen upon one of his exhibits, glance for a moment at a piece of history he had devoted a part of his life to uncovering... It felt good to know that his work didn't go unnoticed. It really did. Which was more than he could say for his toils in Archaeology 101. Take notes, cram, take test, forget; that was the college kid's ideology. His teaching went in one ear and out the other. At least it had steady pay, though. That was something field work could never provide him.
He followed his escort past the crowds and through a side door. He knew this section of the museum well. The archives. A second home, when it was occupied by friends. He trailed the Professor into a large office, thoughts still buzzing in his head.
"He shall not bind his soul with clay. Alfred T. Tennyson said that. I agree. One must break free of the mold, or suffer greatly from letting it wallow inside of him. Indiana Jones, I presume?"
Talkative son of a bitch, Indy thought, sitting down opposite the man he assumed was Edmund Black. They were in a library-like study, which, up until a week ago, had been Marcus'. Bookshelves lined the wall, and in a hearth on the right wall a fire crackled, though it couldn't have been less than fifty outside.
Indy eyed Black, trying to disguise his immediate disgust. The new curator was thoroughly pathetic in his appearance. A flattened nose, a greasy goatee, and a pair of beady gray eyes seemed to have been plastered on his pallid face, and his suit was ill-fitting and rumpled. He sat with a strange conceit, however, which just made him all the more annoying. "At your service," Indy finally responded.
"I trust Vivian has told you my proposition," Black stated, motioning unnecessarily to his colleague. She was seated in an armchair a short ways away, arms crossed in front of her. Black shared her English accent, but that was where the similarities ended. Black seemed to be a narcissistic intellectual, whereas Vivian Monroe was cool, in control, and... Well, maybe it was just because she was a gorgeous woman. But one with a personality to match.
"Yeah, the Professor filled me in. But I have one question."
"Please. Ask away." Black poured himself a shot of cognac, not offering any to Indy.
The archaeologist's eyes narrowed. "First, why is this key so goddamn important? I don't want to devote any of my time if all I'm doing is satisfying your curiosity." He knew it sounded disagreeable, but that was how he felt.
"You must admit, Dr. Jones, it is an interesting find. I merely want to uncover its source. And with a key such as this, the source may be very interesting indeed."
Indy nodded, but he was unsatisfied with the answer Black had provided. The National Museum wasn't known to fund any major expeditions without proper explanation. And the newly appointed curator seemed to be lacking in that department. Interesting? Sure, but not to the Board. They needed concrete fact, not private interest. He decided to leave it. It wasn't worth pursuing. Instead he leaned back in his chair and sighed. What was eating at him? This was a job, and nothing more.
Black seemed to sense Indy's discomfort. "Well," he said slowly, "There is one thing."
One thing. One goddamn thing. There always was... "What is it?" he asked, shifting in his seat.
The curator took a sip of his cognac. "Something was found in the museum. A tapestry, of sorts."
What the hell! Thoughts raced through Indy's mind like wildfire. He took a breath, and leaned forward in the chair. "When were you planning to tell me this, exactly?"
Black wrung his hands together. "Dr. Jones, you must excuse me. This tapestry..." He paused.
"Yes?"
"It seemed as though a man as routed in fact as yourself would not be inclined to believe in such myths."
Myths? This just kept getting better. Indy tried to keep his tone neutral, though he was becoming increasingly agitated. "What myths are we talking about, Mr. Black?"
"Are you familiar with the legend of Excalibur?"
The question hung there, unmoving, impenetrable. Indy's head hammered like never before. Excalibur? Was Black implying that the key opened something that held the sword of King Arthur? He snorted. "Pelllinor, the broken sword, the Lady in the Lake, Morgan le Fay... if you're telling me you found a reference to that nonsense, I'm sure as hell not sticking around."
Black seemed unphased. He brought out a sheaf of parchment paper, one with inky fingerprints on the edges. These were evidence of field work. Indy took the parchment from Black, eying its contents. A copy, obviously, one done no doubt by Dieter Jansen, but it was a skilled facsimile. A sketch of a broadsword, most likely Excalibur, was in the center of the parchment. Above and below, ancient Welsh script was written in the form of prose. Indy donned his reading glasses and began to translate, though Welsh was one old language that he had some trouble with.
"'Tip sharp and hilt of... gold,' that's it," he began, "'born in isle of undying beauty'... Obviously Excalibur. And Avalon, right... 'Flesh of man its favorite meal.' Okay, next stanza; 'but true power unheeded'... 'taken by treacherous daughter--'"
"Treacherous sister, actually," Black stated pompously. Indy looked up.
"Right. 'Taken by treacherous sister'... That'd be Morgan le Fay... 'And lost forever beneath field of blue.'" He paused and took a breath. "The scabbard of Excalibur. Arthur didn't keep the scabbard close enough, despite Merlin telling him it held infinitely more power than the sword, and his sister stole it and threw it in the lake-"
"Yes, of course. I think we all know of the myth. But that it of no importance." Something in Black's voice made Indy think otherwise, but he remained quiet. "What is of great importance is the intrinsic value of the sword and its scabbard! So you see, Dr. Jones, you must accept my proposition. You must, for the betterment of the world!"
No, he told himself. Say no. For with Marcus' unfinished sentence lingering in his subconsious, and his impression of Black anything but good, there was absolutely no way in hell that he would accept this assignment. Not a chance-
"I can't see why not," said the archaeologist, silencing his thoughts.
A grotesque smile spread across Black's face. "Splendid," he responded. "Absolutely splendid. I have your tickets right here-" He removed a manilla folder from his desk drawer- "Along with some background information that you may need."
The folder slid across the table. Indy flipped it open and quickly looked up. "What's the second ticket for?" he asked, uncomfortable.
Black glanced at Professor Monroe. The look on his stretched face was that of confusion. "You didn't mention..."
"It escaped me," she answered, tight-lipped.
Her superior turned back to Indy. "Professor Monroe will be traveling with you, Dr. Jones. I wouldn't feel this necessary, but you must understand that this is our first time working together. I decided that it might be best if you were accompanied by a trusted colleague." A pause. "Of course you understand my motives are nothing but professional..."
Indy decided the best way to convey his repugnance was through silence. The fact that Black had felt he needed a babysitter was beyond comprehension, and the archaeologist again questioned his employer's motives. If he knew him by reputation, he should have known that Indy didn't have a record of making off with artifacts meant for the museum.
Black coughed nervously. "Yes, well... Your plane leaves tomorrow, Dr. Jones, at precisely 10:30. I trust you'll arrive on time." The cognac swished in the shot glass as he finished it off. "If that will be all..."
"Yes," Indy muttered, rising from his chair. "It will." He rose from the chair and walked out. It was high time he called Marcus. If he walked into this assignment blind, there was no telling what could happen.
X
It took less than two rings for Marcus to pick up, and Indy couldn't help but hear the nervousness in his voice. "He-hello?"
"You don't sound so good, Marcus." True, the ex-curator had no real reason to sound good, but there was something in his voice that Indy didn't like.
"Yes, well... With the museum, and all, I'm a little... out of sorts. And the war effort... well, er, it's seeming very close to home at the moment... I- I'm sure you understand, Indiana. You of all people..."
What was his old friend trying to say? His brow furrowed, for the answer was not forthcoming. He should understand. He could understand. But the pounding in his head was proving much too hard to accommodate any cryptic messages. "Er... Marcus? I'm at a loss."
Marcus sighed with discontent. "I can tell."
"I called because I... I took a job from Edmund Black. I thought you might fill me in-"
"You what?" Marcus gasped. "You- er, well, yes... I- I'm glad, Indy, I am. No doubt you'll find the work immensely... exciting."
And that was that. Indy couldn't help but feel that the former curator was speaking cryptically. "Marcus?"
"Hm?"
"I, er... Are you sure you're all right?"
A hacking cough came through the receiver. "Yes, of course. I'm... fine..."
"I'll see you when I get back from London."
"Yes, Indy... I'll hope to see you then." The line went dead. Indy hung up the telephone, struggling to understand the message. What had he meant? And why was the shady Edmund Black suddenly Marcus' favorite curator?
He mulled over the questions in his mind, his attempts to answer them fruitless and disheartening. He truly was walking into this job blind. And even Marcus couldn't do anything to help him…