Astrid and I were off to Israel to search for the mythical Jerusalem Cup.
She knew I would give in to her charms because there was no way I could resist the promise of lying under the stars with her in the land of Nod
I had to constrain my enthusiasm for the archeological merits of the expedition, however, because everyone knew the search for the Holy Grail was a fool’s errand akin to searching for Excalibur, King Arthur’s mythical sword.
So, a day later we were in a dusty room located under the main altar of a small chapel on the outskirts of Jerusalem.
Astrid was painstakingly examining the walls.
“How much did Jerrod pay the Franciscans to let us excavate this?”
Her downturned mouth and dark look warned me not to press my luck.
“It may be just an empty room,” she murmured, poking at mortar.
“What was Jerrod expecting to find?”
She slumped down on the floor with her back to the wall. “He believed this was the location of a reliquary—at least Raff Munoz thought so.”
“What made him so certain?”
“Apparently one of Munoz’s workers remembered his father telling him about exploring in the area when he was a child. He found a shaft and it led to a cave. There was a crack in the wall and when he shone in a light, he could see all kinds of artifacts—in particular, a two-handled silver chalice.”
“So, why didn’t he recover the artifacts himself?”
“His father died in the Arab-Israeli War and the son never knew the precise location—but Munoz figured out—but then he died by falling down a shaft while on a dig. Jerrod saw the reference in Munoz’s journals—and here we are.”
I stared at her skeptically. “Yeah, but the room’s empty—if it ever was a reliquary, it’s been looted.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think this was ever a reliquary—there’s no crack in the wall or mortar—this can’t be the room.”
“Okay, so what do we do now?”
She got up and brushed the dust off her jodhpurs. “We go looking for a shaft.”
I groaned. “That’ll be like searching for a needle in a haystack—this area’s rocky and honey-combed with tunnels, caves and shafts.”
“You’re such a positive guy, Paul.” Sarcasm was dripping off her tongue like acid.
Yip. Yip. Like a frightened puppy, I backed off.
We spent hours under the hot sun combing the hillside without luck.
When we got back to the hotel, I stood under a hot shower and let the needles of water massage and scour away the dust and soreness.
We met for supper—Astrid looking radiant—her skin bronzed from the sun, her hair dark and damp from the shower.
I felt expansive being here with her—I cared less about a chalice and was more drawn by her beauty.
“We’ve covered the eastern side today,” she said, “tomorrow we’ll cover the western side.”
My muscles ached at the thought of it. “And what if we don’t find anything?”
“Then we’ll do the north and south sides—and if that’s a bust, we’ll bring in ground-penetrating sonar. Face it Paul—I’m not going back to tell Jerrod we came up empty handed.”
I admired her tenacity—well that, and a whole lot more, but the thought of another week of exploring didn’t fill me with joy.
But then, the wine came—her eyes sparkled and we clinked glasses.
My fatigue folded its tent like an Arab, and silently stole away.
