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By Jonathan Michael
- Part II -
A CHANCE RENDEZVOUS
New York City
October 13, 1934
The spacious lobby of the Plaza
Hotel stood crowded with many clusters of well-dressed academics, each
group debating the recently completed symposium on a growing trend in
the world of archaeology. It was a troublesome phenomena that the oldest
and most conservative of the field had labeled “Yellow Duggery,”
and a topic that had ignited a fiery schism among those attending
the annual American Archaeology Convention currently being hosted within
the meeting rooms and banquet halls of the hotel. The focus of the symposium
had centered on a 1933 photograph, printed in the London Daily Mail, of
a serpent swimming the waters of Loch Ness, Scotland, and the ensuing
expedition by M.A. Weatherall to prove the creature’s existence. Such
an adventure had caught the American public’s imagination, and had ignited
a chorus of claims by foreign travelers, big game hunters, and international
explorers alike, of similar sightings and encounters with a diverse array
of magnificent, mysterious, and unknown beasts across the globe.
It was both an ailment and cure for the difficult
times weighing upon all.
If “Yellow Journalism” was an intoxicant to entertain the Depression age
masses in need of scandal and titillation to distract them from their
daily woes, such an explosive concept as “Yellow Duggery” only proved
tumultuous and divisive to the more structured and skeptical world of
those filling the Plaza Hotel lobby. To many in the room, such claims
about monsters existing among men only compromised and belittled their
serious scientific research. Some of their anger was fueled by an elitist’s
innate fear of change; after all, such fierce skepticism had attempted
to thwart the enlightening theories of such pioneers as Columbus and Galileo.
But then again, neither Columbus nor Galileo
had ever made claim that a giant sea serpent inhabited a loch in Scotland.
Nor had Indiana Jones, though it was quickly growing evident in the numerous
cigar-stained scowls and disconcerting stares offered by his contemporaries,
that he was among those viewed as guilty of soiling the field of archaeology
with such scandalous tales.
He decided to leave the turbulent lobby for a breath of fresh air.
Dressed in a tweed suit
compatible in color with the gray October haze filling the city, Indiana
walked through Central Park amidst the company of a light and sporadic
trickle of raindrops. Over the years, his boyish good-looks had imperceptibly
given way to a more rugged and mature handsomeness, as if each of his
many adventures throughout the far reaches of the globe had ingrained
upon him a souvenir of his often hair-raising exploits. The park was for
the most part abandoned, and the solitude and sights of the squirrels
dashing along the multi-colored trees lightened his spirit. Yet danger
never seemed far off for him, and any peace most fleeting. A jagged bolt
of lightning tore a gash across the pale canvas of sky, soon followed
by a sharp crackle of thunder that all but shook the city. The rolling
dark clouds overhead were menacing enough for Indiana to cut short his
respite. He headed back toward the academic fray. He held his hand out
to slow traffic as he crossed Fifth Avenue, needing to dodge each car
that ignored his civil gesture as he was peppered by the first wave of
the deluge. He barely made it across in one piece.
“One heck of a town,” he murmured to a hotel
concierge.
“That it is, sir,” the man responded, tipping the brow of his hat.
The
moment Indiana was free of the hotel’s revolving door he was confronted
by a group of men led by Allistair Sudsbury, a prominent archaeologist
from Columbia University. Sudsbury was also a member of the renowned Explorers
Club, and he appeared even more unabashed than usual to argue his points
here on his home turf of New York City.
“I suppose, Jones, that you support such
exploits?” he frowned. “My God, this is 1934! To believe such foolishness.”
He took a sip from his glass to stem his agitation. “Imagine.., grown
men travailing the globe in search of sea monsters, giant birds.., some
ancient myth they have the audacity to call the ‘Abominable Snowman.’
All foolish poppy-cock!”
“It’s almost as blasphemous as grave robbing!”
another man added in an accusatory fashion.
“Here-here,” the others in the group tossed
in as they finished their Martinis.
“Some of the boys,” Sudsbury frowned, “have
speculated it was you who brought such muck to the tabloids after your
trip to Asia last year, Jones. A giant, hairy creature terrorizing the
Himalayas... Abominable, indeed.”
Indiana
removed his wire-rim glasses and slightly grinned to help deflate his
anger. The members of the Explorers Club had not demurred in expressing
their dislike for his exploits and methods on many occasions.
Rather than enter into a heated debate, he
offered Sudsbury a look of amusement, and informed, “I believe the specific
hairy creature in question is actually referred to as a Yeti:
The Sherpa word meaning ‘That thing.’ What I do know as fact is that the
Tibetan people believe such a beast does indeed share their mountains.
I believe the first sighting of such a creature by western eyes dates
back to the Dutch Paleontologist, Ralph von Koenigswald, in 1832. Credit,
where credit is due, gentlemen.”
“And what of these giant birds terrorizing
the Alps?” another man scoffed.
“As for giant birds, I would not be surprised
if certain species, most likely related to our American Condor, do exist,
though they remain yet documented by western science.”
“As I suspected,” Sudsbury howled, his unruly
white hair becoming all the more flustered in battle. “I can only hope
such malarkey only taints those who profess it, and not our most laudable
works. What place do such things have in the profession of archaeology!”
“If such creatures did, or still do, exist,”
Indiana offered, “I take it that it is our place to dig up their remains.
Honestly, I’m neither here nor there on the matter,” he made known. “I
simply remain reluctant to believe, as so many great and distinguished
minds of the past have, that we have come to know of everything this world
may behold. Science will eventually prove, or disprove, such things...
Patience, gentlemen.”
“In this debate, it is as simple as us or
them, Jones,” Sudsbury insisted.
As he walked past, Indiana said, “Then I doubt you’d be interested
in hearing that just last week, on my way to Trenton, I ran over a Jersey
Devil.”
Indiana abandoned his combatants, leaving them to simmer in his youthful
arrogance, though at thirty-five years of age and recently humbled by
a series of both professional and personal disappointments, he failed
to realize either of those qualities to his demeanor. He waded through
the crowd and settled into a safe harbor next to Marcus Brody, who was
entertaining a trio of his contemporaries with a jocular tale relating
one of his youthful discretions. Indiana crossed his legs and closed his
eyes, attempting to briefly buffer himself from the bursts of familiar
cacophony filling the expansive room. For some reason he had romance on
his mind, and for the first time in some time, the pleasant notion stroked
rays of optimism upon his mind and spirit.
Over the course of his life, Indiana Jones
had seen much of the world, encountered many of its hidden mysteries,
and had experienced too many implausible events in his quest for the greater
understanding of mankind’s past to rule out the possibility of anything.
As a scientist, he knew that lore, speculation, and mythology should not
be taken at face value, and were reveries dispelled in academic circles
as merely opiates for the masses. Such remained the tone he acclaimed
in his professional teachings and lectures, though his own search for
knowledge and the attainment of answers had only filled his mind with
greater uncertainty and confusion instead of clarity and contentment.
His core belief that science alone could prove or dispel truth had waned
rather than solidified over time, and it was for such a reason that this
very public debate at the convention had so unsettled him.
Indiana barely registered the voices of those
seated around him as the image of his deceased wife, Deidre, slipped in
and out of his thoughts.
“Wouldn’t you agree with that Indiana..?
Indy?”
“What was that, Marcus?”
Brody gave him a reassuring gaze, and politely repeated his inquiry.
“Our friends here were stating their belief that the stories coming out
of the Tyrol region of France, those regarding giant birds flying off
with children, are true and not mass hysteria. Why don’t you tell them
about that egg you found.”
Indiana lifted his warm
glass of beer from the circular glass table separating the foursome, hesitant
to elaborate on a matter that he couldn’t justly prove. Such candor on
some of his earliest adventures had brought nothing but ridicule and scorn
upon him, and such residues he had found were difficult to erase from
one’s pedigree. Due to his growing reputation as a formidable procurer
of worldly artifacts, many at the convention were of the opinion that
he was nothing more than a reckless and unscrupulous adventurer, and one
who had surely crossed that fine line separating pure archaeology from
mere treasure hunting. One with more lives than a blessed cat, and all
the worse more handsome and younger than most of such stature. Indiana
knew of his reputation as a maverick, and therefore preferred not to embellish
his experiences beyond anything but a minimalist’s touch.
He finally elected to only say, “I briefly
held what appeared to be a fossilized bird egg, roughly twice the size
of a bowling ball. Unfortunately, it was lost to me soon after.”
Marcus Brody and his colleagues sat in silence,
ears and eyes attentive to his pause for a sip of beer, awaiting more
detail, but Indiana hesitated as he looked to the thirsting expressions
etched upon each of their faces. Brody knew well of the story, as Indiana
knew well of the comfort Marcus’ presence brought to him. The current
curator of special collections at the Museum of Natural History had been
Indiana’s most consistent and generous means of support, both moral and
financial, throughout his adult life. A veritable surrogate father, he
had helped to span the pronounced chasm that had developed between Indiana
and his true father over the years. But the others were for the most part
strangers, and their expressions could as easily be primed by the potential
opportunity to scoff and ridicule his tale rather than being spawned by
legitimate interest in his findings. To Brody’s left sat a man named Willowby,
who sported a derby and a curled mustache roughly twenty years out of
style. Seated next to him was a sedate professor from Northeastern University
named Ziegler. And to Indiana’s right, a stoic captive to his wheelchair,
sat Llambros Leka, a former director of Harvard University’s Peabody Museum,
whom Indiana had spent some time talking with over the course of the weekend’s
festivities. Though physically frail, this engaging and fatherly figure
had voiced a spirited passion for locating one of the key prizes in all
of archaeology: The Sarcophagus of Alexander the Great.
As it grew apparent to the group that Indiana
was reticent to share any more, it was Leka who broke the silence. “My
good fellow, you are among friends. Feel at ease to speak freely with
us without concern of any envious ridicule.”
Indiana offered a slight nod of appreciation.
He relaxed his shoulders, and elaborated, “The most astounding aspect
to this egg, was that the fossilized embryo appeared to have two heads.”
Willowby chuckled with delight, Ziegler didn’t
even blink, while Leka’s face became flushed with a boyish fascination.
Marcus Brody voiced to the varying reactions, “It would have been such
a fine piece for the museum’s prehistoric collection.” He patted Indiana’s
knee. “Alas, perhaps someday.”
“There you are, father,” a soft voice rang,
gaining the attention of the group.
Indiana turned his head to see a rather attractive brunette sporting
a black coat and beret huddle next to Llambros Leka.
She added, “I’m so sorry I’m late. The rain seems to have washed
away all of the empty taxi cabs.”
Indiana stood along with the others out of manners. It gave him
a better vantage point to study
the woman’s features. She had a pleasant face: smooth, pale skin, both
exotic and yet innocent. She wore no make up and held a girlish glint
to her misty green eyes, but the full lips and the lovely arc of her brows
were those of a temptress. Though he could not place the origin of her
slight accent, it was no less to his liking and entranced his attention.
She stood roughly shoulder high to him, and he could not help but notice
the beads of rain that glistened upon her dark clothes and the long strands
of her dark curly hair.
Leka took hold of her hands. “You’ve caught
a chill, my dear. I’d very much like to stay awhile longer.” He looked
to his colleagues and announced with obvious pride, “My daughter, Hope.
This is an old friend, Marcus Brody.”
Brody extended his hand, and dipped his head.
“A true pleasure.”
“So kind of you,” she nicely smiled to him.
“Doctor Adam Willowby of Cornell, and you
know well of my good friend, Professor Ziegler, here.”
Indiana caught an enchanting whiff of her
perfume as she shook Willowby’s hand, then leaned forward to kiss Professor
Ziegler upon the cheek. He noticed her ring finger was occupied with a
wedding band and averted his eyes, fearing the others might detect his
ogling. When her eyes finally settled upon his, the intensity of their
mutual gaze all but dissipated the clamor of the lobby surrounding them.
It was as if nothing else existed.
“And this is Doctor Henry Jones Jr., currently
of Princeton.”
Indiana gently raised a corner of his mouth
and extended his arm, but she failed to respond to either his hand or
his rye expression of charm. Rather, in a chameleon like manner, her expression
changed twice; first melting away the mature elegance from her appearance,
then turning very firm and cold, as if to rebuke her momentary loss of
composure by venturing to its opposite extreme.
She finally swallowed hard and nodded in a curt manner, a finger
unconsciously running under her lower lip. Unsure of his exact transgression,
Indiana touched the same area of his own chin, thinking he might have
a bit of mustard from a recently sampled hors d’oeuvre lingering about,
but all he felt was the familiar bump of scar tissue he had had since
he was a boy.
Hope broke free of his gaze and looked to
her father. “It’s late, father. I left the cab waiting for us. You say
your farewells and I’ll go tell the driver we’ll be right out. It was
nice to have met you, gentlemen.”
And with that, she was gone.
As
Llambros Leka shared a few parting words with his colleagues, he asked
for Indiana to accompany him out of the hotel. He obliged, settling himself
behind the wheelchair to steer their way through the crowd. Finding a
lane, he made their way toward the doormen.
“Marcus has told me you’ve done significant
research into the location of Alexander’s tomb,” Leka said to his current
pilot. “I’d be delighted if we could sit for awhile and compare notes.”
“I’d enjoy that,” Indy said. “I’m going to
catch the train back to Princeton shortly, but will return tomorrow morning
for the conclusion of the convention.”
“Then what do you say we meet in the lobby
restaurant,” Leka suggested with vigor. “Breakfast will be on me!”
Indiana motioned to one of the doormen, who
was encumbered in a most awful red uniform, to open a door. He took hold
of the man’s umbrella as he passed, opened it, and they emerged into the
damp chill of the waning storm.
“How is nine o’clock?” he asked.
“Agreed,” Leka confirmed. He looked out onto
the street a bit perplexed with his daughter’s abandonment of him, finally
spotting her standing near the corner trying to hail a cab. He pointed,
and Indiana steered towards her. “I thought you were already holding a
cab?”
She turned and looked troubled in spotting
Doctor Jones behind him. “The driver said his trunk was too small to…
Never mind.” A trickle of tears was competing with the raindrops for a
place upon her cheeks.
Indiana felt caught between either holding the umbrella over Llambros
Leka or moving several steps to place it over Hope. He chose to take command
of the situation before either got drenched.
He told Hope, “Why don’t you come stand here
and I’ll get a cab.”
She tentatively came over, looking down and
away as he passed her the umbrella. Indiana walked to an idling cab and
knocked on the passenger side window. It was rolled down, revealing the
face of a burly driver. The man wore a cap over a failing hairline and
seemed more intent on smoking a cigar than accepting a fare. He raised
a paper, concealing his features.
“Are you on-duty?” Indiana asked.
The man lowered the paper. “Like I told the
dame, I don’t transport cripples.”
Indiana’s brow tightened, and he was about
to voice his anger when the man shifted into drive and sped back into
traffic. Indiana managed to flag down another cab almost instantly. He
motioned to Hope to wheel her father over. He gently lifted Leka out of
the chair and settled him in the front seat. With the cabby’s help, the
wheelchair was placed in the trunk. As Hope moved forward to enter the
cab, Indiana took hold of the door, prepared to close it behind her.
She hesitated, then turned to him.
Indiana could sense there was something she
wished to ask him. He chose to give her some time by saying, “It was nice
to have met you, Hope.”
She lifted her eyes to him. “As a boy, were
you called Indiana?”
He said, “Even now on occasion, though my
friends simply call me Indy.”
“I somehow knew as much,” she said with a
glint of warmth.
“Have we met before?” he wished to know.
She hesitated, then said, “I don’t believe
we have. Thank you for your help.”
Indy smiled and closed the rear door. He
watched for several moments as the yellow cab moved uptown through the
rain and a funnel of falling leaves prematurely swept from their branches
by a fierce gust of wind. Huddled under the umbrella, he contemplated
going back in to say his farewells to Marcus and a few others, but being
a bit of a maverick, he simply hailed a cab.
Borrowed umbrella in-hand, he informed the driver to head for Penn Station.
* * *
Free of his wet clothes and settled back in his small house in New Jersey,
Indiana Jones tightened the belt of his bathrobe and struck a wooden match
across the stones of his fireplace. He placed the match under a clump
of crumbled newspaper and kindling, watching as the flames spread until
he was satisfied that the main logs would soon be ablaze. He took a seat
on his sofa and placed on his reading glasses, hoping that a bit of Herodotus
would provide good company, but almost instantly he turned off his reading
lamp to revisit the ghosts of his past. Two months had passed since he
had returned to the lost city of Cozan, that wretched place of pure evil,
hidden deep within the dark jungles of British Honduras. He had placed
the troubling Crystal Skull back into the Temple of the Serpent, the rightful
home he had taken it from in March of 1933. Finding, losing, and finally
reclaiming this artifact had claimed its share of victims, and seemingly
haunted Indy’s every relationship. The Skull’s curse, “You will kill what
you love,” had for so long pushed
him away from others.
Or was farther
away a better terming for it?
It had kept him at arms length from Alecia
Dunstin, the English alchemist whose powers of clairvoyance had eventually
led to her own death in front of his very eyes. It had only deepened the
long-standing rift that kept him at odds with his eccentric and introverted
father: A man whose love of the lore surrounding the Holy Grail, and his
quest to uncover its location, seemingly surpassed any affection toward
his only son.
Indy’s thoughts were distracted
by the scrape of a branch to a window, and he suddenly decided that with
the curse now lifted, he was free to attempt to mend that which divided
them.
But
how? he silently pondered.
He stood and put on some water to heat, contemplating
what course of action he could take to initiate reconciliation with his
father without tarnishing either of their inbreeded stubbornness or pride.
Soon the water came to a boil and he poured some into a mug. After the
floating tea leaves had bled an acceptable amount, he used a spoon to
scoop them free and resettled himself by the fire. He yawned, feeling
sleepy; tired of his current position in life. Tired of his eternal struggle
to somehow please his distant father. He gave thought of returning to
Herodotus, but the vision of Deidre again filled his mind as it still
often did, flushing him with waves of both warmth and regret, much like
tea late at night when one really should be preparing for sleep. But he
indulged in both stimulants, for they were comforting and constant companions
during those few quiet nights he spent away from the demands of academia
or adventure.
And then, suddenly, a new face joined those more familiar.
Indiana Jones could not quite place
a finger on what made her so.., intriguing.
He felt instantly protective of her, as if it was a pre-established role,
though she remained a perfect stranger. He had felt a flush of deja vu
when his ire toward the cab driver had risen in his craw; upon seeing
her standing on the corner, tears upon her cheeks, her caressing green
eyes calling out for him to save her from a life of terror and woe she
was not allowed to turn from nor flee. And though it remained quite natural
for him to demonstrate chivalry and care for those in need.., this
time it had been different.
The way it was different left him all the
more confused with the matter.
Indy whispered to himself, “It’s simply that
she’s attractive, and you’re lonely, doctor. You’ve been there many times
before.”
He shook his head, not confident at all that
anything about Hope would prove as simple as that. He placed down his
mug, sensing a need to get away from all of it for awhile or he’d never
settle into a state of sleep. Hoping to burn off some energy, he left
the living room and ventured into his study. The room lay cluttered with
mounds of neglected books, piles of loose papers, and a discouraging quantity
of dust. Upon the table and along a few shelves were various artifacts
he had procured in his travels: An Indian statuette from Belize City,
an inscripted dagger from Outer Mongolia, two jade dragons from Formosa,
along with a dozen more such antiquities from a dozen other distant lands.
He looked through the drawers of his desk for any items particular to
his upcoming trip to Italy, claiming a folded map and a copy of Dante’s
Inferno. He took a seat and waited until the germinating seed of an
idea fully blossomed into form. It imprinted upon his face a satisfied
smile.
He patted the beaten leather cover of the book. “Ravenna. Of course!”
Indy
plunged his arm back into the drawer, tossing out various papers and books
to the floor. He rifled through another drawer, then another, before moving
his search to the closet that he left in an even greater state of disarray
than he had found it. Finally it was spotted, buried in a box behind a
musty sofa; an almost forgotten souvenir he had been handed years ago.
The leather field journal was something he could appreciate: A compilation
of hand-drawn maps, sketches, narratives, and symbols which no doubt told
much about the life and ventures of its author, whomever that might be.
Unfortunately, it was not written in one
of the two dozen languages in which Indy was fluent, and he had not taken
the time to have it translated.
But he recalled it mentioned Ravenna.
Indy thumbed through the parched pages and found the references, three in all, and decided to toss the journal into his suitcase, with the hope he could find someone to interpret the passages for him along the way. He returned to the sofa, and with at least one of the current dilemmas gnawing his mind now resolved, he quickly fell asleep.
* * *
TALES OF A LOST CROWN
That
very evening, the comforting aroma of brewed Turkish coffee, sweet basil,
and the soft notes of old world ballads had wooed Hope Leka into a brief
and refreshing bout of sleep. She awoke after two hours in an upstairs
bedroom of a house located in Queens, rubbing her eyes as her sleepy mind
reoriented itself to these foreign, yet familiar surroundings. Downstairs,
a light-hearted crowd continued in their festive affair of songs, conversation,
and shared laughter. It reminded her of the days in her late teens when
she and her father had shared a house with two other families in South
Boston; a time when unity proved a fine remedy for poverty, and one could
find a degree of harmony to life in such free and simple pleasures.
It
was a way of life that sometimes she missed.
Hope
took leave of the mattress and covers resting the wooden floor and ventured
toward a window. The emotional upheaval that had exhausted her had not
been cured by her nap, but merely escaped for a brief while. Before going
downstairs to check on her father, she studied her blurred reflection
in the glass as cold rain continued to immerse the outside world with
a damp and less forgiving impression of its true self; much like the fogginess
of bad memories one is unable-- or perhaps unwilling-- to ever forget.
Indiana. For years the name
alone--the captured image of his face-- had privately captivated her.
They had occasionally stroked life into her fading belief that tales of
noble knights saving young maidens, and the obligatory happy ending in
each others arms, was a notion too good to be true. Such a belief had
comforted Hope Leka on countless nights, and not only those she had spent
alone, abandoned, and seemingly beyond salvation.
And
now, tonight, until mere hours ago a night as inconspicuous as any other,
she had again come face to face with him. That elusive, almost mythical
figure of her past, who in one Samaritan stroke had both saved her from
an existence of perpetual misery, all the while sentencing her to an almost
intolerable degree of loss, worry, and humility. Her father knew nothing
of Indiana Jones, nor the pivotal role he had played in her life. Neither
had her deceased husband, for their reactions to what had been instigated
on that night would have only led to their obliteration. Revenge proved
a most potent characteristic of her people, and such a primal impulse
likewise enveloped her own soul and blood. She silently cursed herself
for not having been brave enough to attempt, no matter how feeble her
effort would have surely proven, to right the great wrong of that one
distant evening. She dipped her eyes, no longer able to tolerate her own
feeble image. She could still be brave now, but as she looked to her hands
as she rubbed the goose bumps covering her thin and very feminine forearms,
she confirmed that just the thought of such a confrontation left her almost
frozen with fear.
Hope Leka started shaking. She
freed up a hand to rub the gold cross hanging on her neck chain. Surely
divine intervention had steered her toward this night, again eye to eye
with the only man in the world who could salvage that which lay lost.
A man she had seemingly forever dreamed of again holding her within the
safety of his arms. A savior who had indirectly given her a passport to
America, and a ticket back to her estranged father. A dilemma, whom she
quickly needed to decide to either forcefully forget, or attempt--
much like a sailor’s siren-- to lure toward a place holding an
enemy he held no chance to overcome.
And
no matter how much she tried to convince herself to do the honorable thing,
Hope Leka knew she would choose to coerce and then betray the only man
to have ever truly touched her heart.
She
rested her face in her hands. “Oh, Zana. Help me. Whatever am I to do?”
Someone
knocked on the door. The matriarch of the house, an old friend of her
father, stuck her head into the cluttered room. “Come, Shpresa. Come join
us all for cake and coffee.”
* * *
Sunday mornings in Manhattan seemed uncharacteristic, almost surreal in
quality, as if the everyday bustle of traffic and the expected hordes
of hustling pedestrians were temporarily exiled, or placed in a state
of hibernation. Indiana Jones enjoyed this weekly inkling of tranquillity
amidst the high rises and colored trees as he walked the quiet streets.
His lungs lustfully ingested refreshing gulps of the crisp, dry air that
filled the aftermath of the previous day’s storm. Such invigoration would
help him endure the final doses of bitter argumentation he knew surely
awaited him at the last day of the convention. He entered the Plaza Hotel
and was pleased that it too was quiet and free of the circulation it most
assuredly would have in a few hours time.
Indy spotted the tired-eye doorman that he had seen the previous evening
and walked over to him. He handed back the umbrella he had borrowed, thanked
the man for its use, and tipped him a buck.
A few of the chairs in the expansive lobby were occupied with guests
looking over the morning edition of The
New York Times. He knew the lead headlines well, having read it along
his train ride from Princeton: King
Alexander of Yugoslavia assassinated in Marseilles. Unrest grips Madrid
and Cyprus. Grand Jury indicts Bruno Hauptmann in Lindbergh kidnapping.
Cardinals win World Series.
Such
were the latest triumphs and woes of the troubled world.
Indy
veered left and followed the scent of freshly brewed coffee as if he were
a seasoned bloodhound. It led him directly into the lobby restaurant that
was nicely decored with white-clothed tables, wicker chairs, and a small
forest of potted plants. It was not difficult to find Llambros Leka, as
his wheelchair was quite cumbersome in size, and stood out amidst the
less restrictive furnishings.
Next to him sat Marcus Brody.
“Good
morning,” Indy stated to both men. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit late.”
“Late
is forgivable,” Leka smiled as Indy took an open seat. “Anyway, Marcus
has provided splendid company in the interim.”
“I’m
afraid it’s true what they say,” Marcus said, looking to his watch. “The
older one gets, the earlier one rises. I’m so eager to attend Huffington’s
lecture on those newly discovered Norse artifacts and his findings at
Gotland, that I had trouble sleeping. Are we still on for lunch?”
Indy
nodded. “We can finalize our plans for the trip.”
With
that, Marcus left to reclaim his seat with some others a few tables over.
A
waiter arrived with a steaming pot and filled Indy’s cup with coffee.
“Eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice would do nicely.”
As
Indy settled his napkin upon his lap, Leka said, “Marcus tells me you’ll
both be traveling to Italy in a few days. Ah.., to see Rome but one more
time.”
“Well,
I’m on sabbatical this semester,” Indy offered, “and Marcus doesn’t like
to travel alone. We’ll be escorting the Museum’s entire Mayan collection
to the Museo Nazionale Romano.
In exchange, Marcus will borrow their collection of Roman antiquities.
I’m afraid these difficult times have made such swaps necessary. I know
the museum’s budget has been cut severely.”
“These
are most difficult times. Now, about this fossilized egg you mentioned
last evening,” Leka inquired. “Would you find it disconcerting if I told
you, that I believe it might be that of a species of giant eagles?”
Indy
sat back in his chair. “What is the basis of your hypothesis?”
“Have
you ever heard of the Lost Crowns of Illyria?”
Indy rummaged his memory, for the term seemed to hold some significance
to him. The phrase suddenly struck a chord.
“I
believe that is part of ancient Illyrian folklore. Something about a breed
of giant, double-headed eagles, that once dominated the skies of the Balkans.
These birds were reported to be highly intelligent, and in their nesting
temple rested two crowns reputed to possess mythical powers.”
“Well
done,” Leka said. “While I remain skeptical of the existence of such creatures,
my fascination with the exploits of Alexander the Great has consistently
led me back to this folk tale. I’m sure you’re aware of the current German
excavations outside of Alexandria. The recently reinvigorated search for
the burial site of Alexander himself.”
Indy knew of it all too well. It seemed that ever since Adolf Hitler had
become Chancellor of Germany, teams of Nazi excavators were being dispatched
throughout the world in search of a variety of artifacts believed to hold
mystical powers. Indy himself had come across a few of these Nazi lackeys
in his recent quests to reclaim the Crystal Skull, and they had proven
to be the type of fanatics he already had developed a deep dislike for.
He
commented, “The search for Alexander’s remains, specifically his armor,
has fascinated a great many archaeologists, especially since the Napoleanic
occupation of Egypt. Until they were proven in error, the reported discovery
of Alexander’s sarcophagus at the Attarine Mosque drew more excitement
in scientific circles than the discovery of the Rosetta Stone.”
“Napoleon
believed,” Leka interjected, “that possession of the armor of Alexander
the Great would allow him to conquer the world. I believe the current
dictator of Germany believes the same… Or more precisely, possessing both
of the Lost Crowns of Illyria.”
The waiter returned and placed down Indy’s breakfast. He wished him good
dining, and went off on his way. The nearby lobby was beginning to fill
with a fresh surge of traffic. Indy took his utensils in hand, and went
about appeasing the moans of his empty stomach. “Please.., go on.”
Leka
sampled his coffee, then refocused upon his story. “As you surely know,
Alexander’s father was King Philip II of Macedon, but his mother, Olympia,
was the daughter of Neoptolemus, a king of the Illyrian Mollosian clan.
Olympia was reported to be a rather treacherous woman. One consumed in
the arts of dark magic and the occult. She was even known to sleep in
her chamber aside giant snakes.”
“Snakes?”
Indy coughed in startlement, for his strong aversion toward these creatures
had proven difficult to shake. He took a sip of coffee to loosen the sudden
knot in his stomach.
“Yes,
snakes,” Leka reiterated. “As the tale goes, one day after Philip had
divorced her to take another wife, Olympia was visited by two warriors
from a rival Illyrian clan seeking peace with the Mollosians. As a token
of tribute, they offered one of the two crowns that they stated their
clansmen had found within a large temple, which was surrounded by huge
eagles’ nests atop Mount Tomorit. She accepted this gift, and believing
this crown held special powers, passed it on to Alexander just before
his ascension to the thrown in 336 BC. Though he wore a variety of headgear,
it was this specific crown he always wore in battle, and along with his
sword and breastplate, remains today such a coveted treasure to those
who truly believe Alexander was indeed a god.”
Indy
could not discredit anything he had yet heard. “Is it your belief that
this crown played a key role in the War of the Successors?”
“Precisely,”
Leka confirmed with vigor.
Indy took a moment to review his
learned history. The death of Alexander in Babylon in 323 BC had set off
chaos throughout his empire. Perdikas, an influential regent and general,
had fiercely insisted that Alexander’s embalmed body and armor be brought
to Macedonia for burial. However, Ptolemy, an Illyrian general under Alexander
and the provincial satrap of Egypt, had ordered that the remains be brought
to him for burial in Siwa, just outside of Alexandria. Thereafter, Perdikas
had initiated civil war, marching his soldiers into Egypt in a quest to
reclaim Alexander’s remains.
He
eventually failed, and was murdered by mutinous troops.
Satisfied
with his recollection, Indy shared, “I recall that Alexander’s crown was
often referred to as the Crown of Vanity, though I’m unfamiliar with the
origin of that term.”
“You
impress me with your knowledge,” Leka smiled, gently patting Indy’s hand.
“It’s a rather obscure piece of mythology. The term is of Illyrian origin,
as is that of its lesser-known counterpart, the Crown of Valor. Ancient
mystics believed that these two crowns represented the two faces of war:
Those of offense and defense. The Crown of Vanity made its beholder
unstoppable in conquest, and those possessing the Crown of Valor unconquerable
in defense. Held together, they would make an otherwise formidable army
undefeatable.”
“The
veritable unstoppable force and the immovable object,” Indy interjected,
as he wiped his lips with his napkin. “If you believe, Mister Leka, that
the Crown of Vanity is buried with Alexander, then whatever became of
its counterpart, the so called Crown of Valor?”
Leka
said, “That is an entirely fascinating story in itself. One I’m afraid
we hold too little time for me to fully share with you. What I can tell
you with certainty is that such a crown was taken from Albania by the
Austro-Hungarian Empire in the Great War. It was placed in the War Museum
in Vienna. Two months ago it was stolen, most likely by German agents,
but they quickly discovered it was merely a fair replica.”
“What
makes you think the Germans were the culprits?” Indy asked.
Leka
lifted out of his wallet a crumpled newspaper clipping. It was from the
Vienna Press and entitled: Albanian
nationalists likely behind museum theft.
“Several
months ago I was visited by a man and woman who claimed they were reporters
from this paper. He was a dapper and well-spoken fellow, looking for background
information on the stolen piece. His secretary was a very attractive woman
with blonde hair and wintry eyes. I shared with them a brief history,
but their demeanor quickly soured when I failed to elaborate on more precise
details regarding my research into the true resting place of the Crowns.”
“They
sound like Nazis to me,” Indy noted.
“Thankfully,
my daughter arrived home and they left abruptly. Two days later, my house
was ransacked and many of my private notes taken. The perpetrator left
a note harshly warning me to keep silent on the matter. It all gave me
quite a start.” He broke off such distasteful ramblings and offered an
apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to have burdened you with my troubles.”
“No
burden at all,” Indy said, waving off such a notion.
Brody,
Willowby, and Ziegler left their table, heading for the conference.
Indy
told Leka, “It sounds like they got what they wanted. I doubt you’ll be
troubled any further.”
Leka
said, “You have a lecture to attend. I won’t keep you any longer. But
I hope you can now appreciate how your report of this most unique egg
has stirred my emotions and intellect. For better or for worse, it’s a
piece of evidence that might link folklore to truth. I hold you in astute
admiration and respect, Doctor Jones. Try not to let the attitude of many
of our more pretentious colleagues dampen your enthusiasm.”
Indy offered the frail, genial man a look of appreciation for his kind
words. He could only imagine what it would feel like to hear his own father
share such words with him. The lobby was beginning to overflow with conventioneers.
His plate emptied and Huffington’s lecture about to begin, he stood and
searched out his wallet from his back pocket.
“Shall
I escort you to the lecture? Or will your daughter be arriving to…”
Indy
immediately regretted making his last inquiry, but to his surprise, Leka
responded in a less than disapproving manner, “I’ve given her the day
off to see the sights of the city. The poor girl has spent too much of
her time seeing to my needs, doing my leg work. A father is not supposed
to notice such things, but I believe she was a bit taken with you. You
forgot, breakfast was on me.”
Indy
tried to resist, but Leka eventually convinced him to take back his money.
He asked Indy to walk him to a quiet corner of the lobby rather than be
rolled into the crowded lecture room.
Indy
guided the wheelchair to the designated spot. “I feel bad leaving you--”
“Go,
go. Enjoy, young man,” Leka insisted. “I need some time alone. You’ve
given me so much to think over. I hope to see you later.”
Indy
began to fade into the crowd, but turned needing to ask, “Mister Leka.
Do you truly believe that if both Crowns of Illyria were discovered, that
they would bestow upon their procurers some form of awesome power?”
Leka said with concern, “Only the ability to rule the known world.”
* * *
Hope Leka managed her way through
the lobby an hour later, one eye searching for her father, the other hoping
to catch a glimpse of another man. Failing in the latter, she settled
herself next to her father who she found napping where Indy had left him.
After he woke, she coyly tried to widdle out as much information as she
could about his breakfast with Indiana Jones; a rendezvous she had secretly
observed from a distance, only leaving the lobby upon its conclusion.
When her father mentioned that Marcus Brody and Doctor Jones were scheduled
to leave for Rome in a few days, she made an instant and startling decision.
“Father,
I’ve been thinking,” she said in a tenuous voice. “I’ve saved some money
over the years and.., well. Since Thoma died, I’ve neglected so many of
my friends. I was hoping to take some time and visit Aferdita and Larisa
up in Jamestown. But only if you can spare me… Certainly I’d arrange for
our neighbors to--“
Her
father diffused her growing trepidation, taking her hand within his. “Of
course you should go. You know there are others who can help me manage
my daily affairs. I’ve been trying to get you to treat yourself in some
manner for some time now.”
She
closed her eyes as he placed a hand upon her cheek, her feelings of guilt
evaporating within his affectionate touch. She hated having lied to her
father, but something in her heart told her on this occasion that it was
forgivable. She told herself she was doing this as much for him as for
herself, and whatever came of it would prove worthwhile. She opened her
eyes, and noticed such fatigue in those of her father. He was losing his
long battle with a broken heart, a wounded body, and countless shattered
dreams.
“Let me get you some water,” she finally said, for he looked parched.
“And then we’ll go for a stroll through Central Park.”
His face filled with better color. “I’d enjoy that very much.”
Untitled Document 
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