By Clansman Sam
Chapter 4: Bookwork"Indy? …Indiana?"
Her voice came from somewhere close, and as he blinked open his eyes he saw her, hovering over him. Rays of sun filtered in through a porthole, lighting up her crimson locks. Indy grinned. "Hi," he said, somewhat dazed.
Vivian smiled, placing a fresh bandage over forehead. "You were out for a while," she said. "I was worried." The warmth of the rag felt good. Indy let out a sigh and sunk into the pillow.
"Where'd you find me?" The last thing he remembered was being bashed in the head by one of Panama Hat's cronies. Now that he thought about it, he was shocked that he wasn't dead.
"In your room," she said, smoothing out the sheets. "I came to see you, and your door was open, so I went in… You were on the floor, Indy. Your head was bleeding."
"Probably looked worse than it was. I feel fine-" he paused as a sharp pain needled through his forehead.
"You woke up after I shook you a few times," she continued, disregarding his forced machismo. "But after I got you on the bed, you were out for a while."
"Thanks for helping," he grunted. His forehead hurt like hell where the pistol butt had connected. It felt like the flow of blood had slowed down from when Vivian had found him, but it was still coming out. The bandage that she had just applied was already considerably reddened. He brought a hand up to it, flinching at the touch. So much for his stalwart Jones hardiness…
"Here," Vivian offered. "Have some water."
She held it out for him, but he shook his head. "I'm all right." Which he wasn't, but some ounce of toughness had to be maintained.
She looked at him, and her full lips curved up into a smile. "You know, Dr. Jones, you might just be the most stubborn man I've ever met."
"I wouldn't be surprised," he answered, still somewhat groggy. "How long until we dock in Dover?" They would be driven to their hotel from there, which was in the center of London.
She checked the wall clock. "About an hour and a half, I'd say." She had apparently brought her luggage to his room, having already dressed in a functional white blouse and khaki woman's trousers. He noticed for the first time that she wore a thin gold necklace around her neck. A pendant was hanging from it, and on closer inspection he could tell that it was of ancient Mayan design.
Vivian noticed him looking at it. "Oh!" She laughed self-consciously, her hand going to the pendant. "It was a gift from my father. He was an archaeologist, actually."
Indy nodded. "Perry Monroe?" he asked.
She looked surprised. "Yes, actually. Do you know of him?"
"Sure," he responded, sitting up in the bed. "He made a number of interesting discoveries in the Yucatan Peninsula region, right? Mayan grave sites, and the like."
She nodded, smiling. "It's funny you should say that, because my father… He never thought he got the recognition he deserved." She laughed again, and he couldn't help but be affected by her good humor.
"Yeah, my dad's the same way. And the thing is, he's done so much, and he still thinks it's not enough. You know?"
She nodded. "Henry Jones? Yes, he certainly has done a great deal of good for the world of archaeology."
He got up, doing his best to ignore the burning sensation in his head. "He's also done a great deal of good giving me migraines," he muttered. "I should clean up."
"Of course." She stood hurriedly. "I'll go, then…"
Indy waved it off. "No, you can stay. You're bags are all here, anyway." He walked into the bathroom.
But after starting the shower, he sifted through his pockets and found the Morse code translation paper. Good. They hadn't bothered to see what was missing from the desk. He flattened it out and placed it on the edge of the sink, then pulled out his recording of the transmission. The first two letters were "…."and ".", which together spelled out HE. Indy jotted it down, then went to the next group: "..", "…", and "….". This translated to ISH, so he added that. The last three letters were ".", ".-.", and another ".", the English of which was ERE. Together the letters spelled out "HEISHERE". He is here. Indy felt a surge of anxiety. It could've been referring to anyone, but he had a sinking feeling that his neighbors in Cabin 6 had something against him.
He stuffed the papers back into his pocket and began to undress. Just then there was a knock on the bathroom door. Waving steam out of his face, he opened it a fraction. Vivian stood there, smiling tentatively. "May I come in?" she asked.
He had told himself not to do this. It was a mistake, pure and simple, and there was nothing he wanted less at the moment than to screw up. He should tell her no, close the door, wash the pain out of his limbs and depart for London without having to carry around the additional baggage of a relationship…
"Sure," Indy said. He opened the door fully. She walked in, smiling shyly. "I would have assumed you would be in the shower by know, Indy," she said quietly.
"Well, I like to wait until it's hot enough," he lied, moving closer, his hand brushing her face.
She smiled again, and her arms wrapped around him. "I believe, Indiana, that it is plenty hot now." Her lips closed onto his.
X
Despite the pain caused by his encounter with Panama Hat's men, the headache that had been plaguing him for months now had all but disappeared. He felt elated, and as he made his way down the gangplank he wrapped his arm around Vivian's waist, kissing her on the forehead. Her eyes glistened as she looked at him. And, despite the somewhat conflicting feelings he'd been receiving from her, he could tell that he was in no way being played; she was serious in her affection. "How does it feel to be home?" he asked her as they stepped onto the Dover port.
"Wonderful," she answered. From the moment the steamer had docked, her English lilt had become much more pronounced. Indy found himself hopelessly attracted to her very voice. God, he thought, what have I been missing?
As they wound their way through the debarking passengers, Jack Shannon's voice rang out from behind them. "Hey, Jones! Jones! Don't walk away from me, ya bastard!" Several conservatively dressed passengers glanced nervously at them, eyes narrowed at Shannon's language.
Indy turned around, grinding his teeth together in mock anger. "I thought I had a restraining order against you, Shannon! Or have you forgotten why I have this bandage on my head?" He tried to suppress a grin, fully aware that they were causing a scene.
Jack stopped a few yards from Indy. "Yeah, I remember," he muttered. "My aim was off! This time you'll need a casket!" He shoved his hand into the folds of his coat- the surrounding people gasped and screamed- and came out with a fountain pen. "I told you to gimme your address, bub." The two broke into gales of laughter as the frightened passengers dispersed, giving them a wide berth.
When they had recovered, Indy pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled his room number and the hotel name on it, then handed it back to Shannon, who was eying his bandaged head. "How'd you really get that one, Indy?"
I had a chat with those guys in cabin six. It ended… badly."
"The dangerous world of antiquities, right…" Jack smirked and looked at the paper. "This is the hotel?"
"Yep. Give me a call sometime, Jack. Are you staying in London?"
Shannon nodded. "Yeah, the ship's docked for about a week, so I'll be around. We can go out drinking- it'll be just like old times." He grinned roguishly and looked at Vivian. "Hey, if you ever feel like ditching this chump, I'm always available." He winked at them and walked away, his only luggage a rucksack and his cornet case.
They continued on, Vivian leading the way. As they broke through the crowd, he heard his name called out again. "Dr. Jones!" Indy looked to his left and saw a solidly built man of average height who looked to be in his early forties. He was dressed in a gray wool coat, and his trousers were grimy with dirt. His blond hair was showing streaks of gray, but he made no attempt to conceal them. He didn't really seem worried about personal appearance in the least, a lot like Indy himself.
The man smirked as he looked at them, Indy with his arm again around the professor. "Vivian," he muttered. "I see you and Jones have become acquainted."
"Hello, Charles," Vivian said icily. Indy looked from her to Canning. It seemed that the two had a history, but he could only speculate as to what it might be.
The Englishman snickered by way of a response. "Well, now that we've made introductions, the car is this way." He fished out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, popped one out, and put it into his mouth. Then, after lighting up, he turned and walked in the direction he had come from.
Indy glanced at Vivian, but said nothing. The initial uneasiness he had seen a day before was back, along with something else; anger. Whatever she had had with Canning before, it was now over.
They followed Canning down the street, weaving between the debarking passengers, catching quick glimpses of the dust-coated bowler hat as it bobbed through the masses. Canning finally stopped at a battered Ford V-8, its green siding all but peeled away completely. "My company car," he said with a smirk. "Get in."
Indy held the back door for Vivian and sat down in the front passenger's seat. The Ford coughed to life. Canning pulled out into the street, silent save for his incessant humming. Indy drummed his fingers on the dashboard, somewhat distraught.
The car moved onto a long bridge. The River Thames rumbled beneath them, and the Tower of London loomed over it. The sky was dark and gray, and rumbled with thunder, and the ancient prison looked all the more foreboding through the billowing clouds. The endless grandeur of London spanned out before them, illuminated by frequent lightning bolts shooting down from the heavens. The storm that they had experienced yesterday on the steamer had followed them to London. Indy couldn't help but take it as an omen, despite thinking omens were a crock.
The Ford came to an abrupt halt, pulling Indy out of his thoughts. "The Dorchester," Canning said with a flourish of his hand. "Beautiful hotel, but only pricks stay at it." He smiled toothily. Indy contemplated telling him that if he said anything else he wouldn't have teeth to smile with, but instead he shoved open his door and stepped onto the pavement. Vivian started to exit the car next, but Canning motioned her to wait, and said something to her that Indy couldn't make out. She then opened her door and got out, looking angry.
"I'll get the-" he started, as Vivian brushed past him into the hotel lobby- "bags…" He popped the trunk and yanked their luggage out. Thankfully, a bellboy jogged over to him as he was attempting to heft all of the five bags at once.
"Can I be of assistance, sir?" he asked with a posh British accent.
"Yes," Indy nodded, leaning against the back of the bumper. "Thanks…" The Ford roared to life and sped away. Indy fell forward onto the curb.
"Are you okay, sir?" the bellhop asked quickly, running to Indy and pulling him up.
"I'm fine," he answered, brushing off his leather jacket. But Charles Canning won't be…
X
"Taxi!" Indy waved his hand and stepped into the street as the yellow, checkerboard-style taxicab screeched to a stop in front of him. He opened the back door and hopped in, careful to avoid the puddle below the curb. It was raining again, and the sour weather matched his mood. He was being pushed around by Charles Canning, bashed over the head by Panama Hat's men, and ignored by the woman whom, up until a little while ago, he had thought he had something with. But when he'd said he was going to explore the city, he hadn't needed the elaborate excuse as to why she couldn't accompany him; Vivian had simply said, "Mhm…" and gone back to her reading.
"Where to?" said the gruff driver, glancing back at Indy and causing acrid cigar smoke to waft through the back seat.
"Saint James Square," Indy answered idly. The man nodded and gunned the cab forward. They reached the square quickly, speeding down Regent, hanging a right, and into the all but deserted square. He fished out the allotted number of pounds and tipped the driver, then began to jog across the cobblestones. The London Library was just ahead, looking exactly as it had when it had been founded in 1841. He stopped at the door.
"Nothing like a little bookwork to cheer a person up," Indy muttered darkly, stepping into the cavernous front room. An elderly librarian sat at the Help desk. She didn't exactly look helpful, though. But Indy had been here before. He knew his way around, so, thankfully, he didn't have to disturb her. So, making sure she was still engrossed in the novel she was reading, he began to make his way up the twisting spiral staircase, stopping at the second doorway that he came to. The handwritten sign beside the door read "Third Floor: Years 1000 to 1500".
That wasn't exactly promising, but it was a start. Indy walked forward, looking over the room. It was small, but cramped with shelves, all of which were full to the point of bursting with countless dusty tomes. The bookshelves were all marked with different year markings: "1000 to 1049", "1050 to 1099," and so on. Indy stopped at "1200 to 1249." It was as good a place to start as any. He began searching for titles of any relevance. There were many interesting texts, even what looked to be an early scripting of a Shakespeare sonnet, but he passed them up. Soon, though, pertinent manuscripts started appearing: Merlin,a fragmented transcript by Robert de Boron, circa 1200. Vulgate Merlin and Suite de Merlin, both part of the Vulgate and Post-Vulgate Cycles, circa 1245… and finally, Sir Thomas Malory's Le Mote d'Arthur, a work that should've been in the 1400's section, but by luck, it appeared to have been placed in the wrong place.
Indy carried the large books to a table, and dropped them onto it with a thud. After clicking on a dim table lamp, he sat down and began to read.
There was much more to the story than he had originally realized, but the underlying story was still there. Arthur had broken his original sword, the one he had pulled from the stone, during a swordfight against a night named Pellinor. Pellinor, who had been hunting the Questing Beast for a year, would've killed Arthur, had Merlin not put him to sleep with a spell.
Merlin had then directed Arthur to a lake in the heart of Avalon. There they met the Lady of the Lake, and also saw a hand jutting out of the center of the lake which held a sword. The Lady of the Lake told Arthur that the sword belonged to her, and that it was named Excalibur. She told Arthur he could have it, as long as he gave her a gift or boon in return. Arthur complied, so he and Merlin took a boat to the sword and took it from the hand, which immediately disappeared back into the water.
Merlin asked Arthur which he liked better, the sword or the scabbard. Arthur told the sorcerer that he liked Excalibur, but Merlin said that he should still guard the scabbard closest, for if he lost it he would never find it again.
The scabbard proved to be just as valuable as Merlin had said, but an awful turn of events changed everything. Arthur was hunting a hart with his advisor Urien and Accolon of Gaul, who, unbeknownst to him, was the lover of his conniving sister Morgan le Fay, who had wanted him dead for some time so that she could gain power. The hunting party happened upon a ship full of beautiful women, and boarded it, each of them retiring to separate rooms for the night. Indy smiled ruefully as he read through the dense handwritten script. A ship of beautiful women… Only in Arthurian legend, my friend, he thought. Only in legend.
He read on. When Arthur awoke in the morning, he found himself in a dungeon in a distant castle, while Urien had been transported back to Camelot. Morgan, disguised as a serf, told him that he could win his freedom if he bested Accolon in single combat. But she had given her lover Excalibur and its scabbard, and the unknowing king got merely a fake copy. It was an incredibly one-sided fight; Arthur's sword did nothing to Accolon, while his wounds became more and more severe. But just when all seemed lost, Niniane, the Lady of the Lake, arrived, and cast a spell that caused Accolon to drop the sword. Arthur seized the moment, taking up his mighty sword and dealing the man a mortal blow.Arthur regained his magical equipment, but Morgan escaped. The king himself started to make his way back to Camelot, and one night as he slept his sister came into his chambers and, unable to take Excalibur, which he held in his sleep, she took the scabbard, and threw it into the lake it had been taken from before Arthur could get her.
Jesus, Indy thought. It truly was locked beneath field of blue, and according to this it did hold unmatched power; whoever held it could not be harmed by any weapon, which essentially meant they couldn't bleed to death.
But he shook himself out of it. He was here to locate the sword, not the scabbard, and the whole thing was just a myth, anyway.
…Wasn't it?