Being in love with an archeologist who’s an adventurer is hard but it’s even more challenging when the woman is part goddess and enchantress.
I see Astrid as the present incarnation of the Phoenician goddess Astarte—she was associated with love and beauty but was also a warrior, a fitting title for Astrid who easily conquers men’s hearts, especially mine, with her irresistible charm.
Even though I swore I’d never follow her again on her impossible quests I found myself yet one more time succumbing to her will.
And so, here I am once more in Israel with Astrid searching for the famed Jerusalem Cup that some consider the Holy Grail.
We’d been struggling, almost to the point of giving up, but finally had a breakthrough—literally.
My boots broke through a chalky ledge and down I went. Fortunately, unlike Munoz, a previous seeker of the Cup who fell to his death, I only fell about six feet…
Yes, an ironic depth to plunge that almost provided me a resting place among the wretches who lost their lives in pursuit of this impossible dream.
“Are you okay?” I looked up to see Astrid peering down at me, her hair haloed by the sun and her voice full of concern.
“You must be an angel sent to take me from my grave,” I quipped.
“Don’t laugh—it could have been worse.”
I looked at the hole I had fallen into and realized it was part of a shaft.
“Good news,” I called up to her. “I’m in the middle of a horizontal shaft.”
“I’ll get a ladder and a couple of flashlights and some gear and join you.”
Within minutes we were crawling on our hands and knees through the shaft—Astrid’s glorious khaki-covered derriere leading the way.
After a few minutes, the shaft before us opened up into a cave and we were able to stand. I spotted a crack in the wall directly opposite.
“O look!” Astrid cried, obviously spotting it too.
We shone in our lights and sure enough—there was the two-handled silver chalice, right where Munoz’s journal said it would be.
I got out a crowbar and heavy hammer and began working on the crack. When I got tired, Astrid took over.
Finally, after about an hour, part of the wall crumbled and we were able to reach in and recover the chalice.
Astrid was totally ecstatic—me, less so. I was beginning to enjoy the nights out here with her under the stars and was sorry it came to an end.
Back in New York, Jerrod Mason confirmed it was the Jerusalem Chalice, which is not to say the Holy Grail. Personally, I doubt such a relic exists—at least in the gold/silver jewel-studded medieval conception of it.
It was probably a common clay vessel broken and tossed on the Gehenna garbage heap.
No romance there.
Still, Jerrod shared Astrid’s enthusiasm and they were delighted to recover the cup, whatever its provenance.
Almost as soon as Jerrod confirmed the find, Astrid was off again—this time on a dig in Iraq—leaving me to long after her and regret reviving my thirst for her beauty.
She certainly is a seductress in the long list of Sirens who tempt men to risk their lives in the pursuit of a dream.
I don’t think the chalice will ever amount to more than what it is—an artifact from antiquity.
Every generation needs a holy grail, I suppose—a grand and noble quest to recover a sense of wonder—and that, I concede, is more important than finding an artifact.
And speaking of grand enterprises—with Astrid now in Iraq, my quest still continues, futile though it may be, but the pursuit alone justifies the endeavour.
