The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 36
’Sticky? Strange, it smells like lemon juice.’
‘Sorry,’ apologised the archaeologist, ‘I had hoped we’d cleaned all of it off.’
‘I see,’ said the director. ‘It is of no matter. It is a fine piece nevertheless.’
‘Ja, and that is but ein drop in der ocean. Trust me, this is a major find.’
‘Minoan?’ asked the director, pulling another item from the bag. ‘This Bull bracelet is certainly Minoan, though I’m not so sure about the other piece. The necklace is maybe …. Mycenaean Greek?’
‘I have discovered the site to be predominantly Minoan,’ answered Dr Kraakenhausen loftily. ‘But it has been added to throughout antiquity. Some pieces are much more recent, but still of huge significance.’
‘Show him the box,’ said the blind man.
‘I’m sorry. And who might you be?’ enquired the director, looking over his glasses at the old blind man in his traditional Cretan costume.
‘I am no one of importance,’ replied the Cretan. ‘I am here merely to ensure that Dr Kraakenhausen acts in the best interests of our country.’
‘I see,’ said the director. ‘Well, it’s good that you have at least one Greek on the team. So, what about this box of yours?’
Kraakenhausen pulled a black velvet pouch from his bag, then tenderly drew out the item from within. Even in its tarnished state the brass binding caught the light, but it was the ivory of the casket setting off the lapiz lazuli inlay, and its curious geometric patterns that drew the director’s excited eye. Nevertheless, he kept up a professional air.
‘Hm, interesting.’
‘This,’ declared Dr Kraakenhausen, placing it upon his desk, ‘is a particularly notable find. It alone is demanding of your attention.’
‘Yes … well I’ll be the judge of that,’ stated the director, gingerly lifting the lid.
As soon as the box was opened, a look of puzzlement floated across his features. Scrutinising the tired wooden artefact, he repeatedly adjusted his glasses, clearly confused by what he was looking at.
Then he read the inscription.
‘It says it’s a fragment …,’ began Andronicus.
‘A fragment of the True Cross,’ finished the director. ‘I know. I can read. I am fluent in fifteen languages, including Byzantine Greek. I do not need a translation. Is it … authentic?’
‘It is,’ said the blind man.
‘No disrespect, my dear fellow,’ replied the director, ‘but given your impairment, I cannot see how you would know.’
‘The fragment is that carried before the Crusader army at the battle of Hattin,’ explained the blind man.
‘Yes, yes, I know the story,’ said the director impatiently. ‘After the defeat, it was taken by al-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub … or Saladin as he is better known.’
‘It is his inscription in Islamic beneath the Greek,’ explained Dr Kraakenhausen.
‘Oh my goodness,’ marvelled the director, confirming the details through a magnifying glass. ‘So it is. If this is authentic, then this is most remarkable. I heard it had been sent as a diplomatic gift to the Byzantine Emperor, but that the ship had been lost.’
‘The ship was not lost,’ insisted the blind man. ‘It was intercepted by pirates.’
‘What on earth would it be doing with these other items?’ asked the director. ‘They are millennia apart.’
‘I will reveal all,’ explained Dr Kraakenhausen, ‘when, and only when, you fulfil my request regarding my press conference. I want representatives from the government, the academic community, and the press. After that, I vill hand the discovery over to your Greek Department of Antiquities, as is correct, und proper.’
‘How many guests?’
‘‘A hundred should do it.’
‘Ten,’ contradicted Homer.
‘But that’s nowhere near enough, I need-‘
‘Ten,’ repeated Homer as Andronicus kicked the archaeologist under the table.
‘Well,’ said the director, ‘I have to say it, Kraakenhausen. My interest is well and truly aroused. And, while I am more than a little irked that you have been engaged in illegal archaeology on Greek soil, I am also reassured to see that you are finally learning to go through the correct channels.’
‘I am,’ promised Dr Kraakenhausen, nodding furiously. ‘I have learnt meine lesson. An occasional permit to join the official dig vill be enough for me; that and mein name being plastered all over the journals.’
‘And a reward,’ added Helena. ‘A big vun.’
‘Well, if the find is as significant as you say, there will certainly be some form of remuneration,’ agreed the director. ‘Plus, lecture tours and publishing deals. You won’t be out of pocket.’
‘Money is not meine motivation,’ insisted Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘But a little vould certainly help.’
‘And you’ve told no one else about this discovery?’ asked the director.
‘Nein,’ confirmed the archaeologist. ‘I came straight to you.’
‘Splendid,’ said the director. ‘Then I will send out the invites immediately. Shall we say tomorrow night, here at the museum?’
‘Excellent,’ replied Dr Kraakenhausen.
‘Wait,’ demanded the blind man, as they left the director’s office. ‘Take me to the Mycenaean Gallery.’
‘Can’t I just get back to my girlfriend?’ asked Andronicus. ‘Only I’m feeling really ¬–’
‘Do as I say,’ repeated the blind man, somewhat emphatically. ‘It is not a request.’
‘It is a vonderful collection,’ agreed Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘I used to come here all the time … before they banned me.’
Despite his frustrations, Andronicus led the blind man and the Kraakenhausens to the Mycenaean Gallery where salmon-skinned tourists were jostling for a view of Schliemann’s treasures, lifted from the tombs of the grave circle of the citadel.
‘Better seen without all these verdammt tourists, of course,’ sneered Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘Mein Gott, I hate the public.’
‘Oooh,’ marvelled Andronicus, catching sight of the cases of shimmering gold. ‘Treasure!’
‘Not just any treasure,’ corrected the blind man. ‘The treasure of the heroic age! A better age.’
‘Behold,’ declared Dr Kraakenhausen, pointing to an exquisite golden mask. ‘The face … of Agamemnon!’
‘That’s not Agamemnon,’ corrected the blind man. ‘He is still to be discovered. That is a lesser king.’
‘Oh sure,’ snapped Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘Like you vould know. You can’t even see it.’
‘I do not need to see it. I feel it,’ explained the blind man. ‘As I feel all things. Besides, Agamemnon didn’t have a moustache; he thought they looked cheap.’
‘Vhy do you trust this old fool?’ asked Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘He’s clearly deluded.’
‘Enough!’ snapped Andronicus in his best Russian accent. ‘Do not question my decisions.’
‘Himmel!’ said the chastised Dr Kraakenhausen, after being jostled by a party of school children. ‘This is no vay to view such treasures! I vant to go. It’s driving me insane.’
‘Are you ready to go?’ asked Andronicus, taking the blind man by the arm.
‘One moment,’ said the blind man, placing his gnarled hand against the bulletproof glass and closing his sightless eyes. ‘One moment.’
‘Oh, for Gott’s sake. Vot is he doing now?’ sneered Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyvun verk so hard at being enigmatic.’
‘Silence, Papa,’ advised Helena. ‘Ve need to go along vith this a little longer. You must be patient.’
‘Hummmppphhh,’ snorted Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘Timewasting old fart.’
The blind old man wasn’t even listening. Deathly still, he kept his hand upon the glass, his breath labouring as he scoped out the cabinets around him.
‘Soon …,’ he muttered to the reinforced glass. ‘Soon.’
Chapter 28
Return
The small conference room of the Greek Archaeological Museum had been ready for guests since 7 p.m. One by one, officials from major government departments and Greece’s premier TV station had arrived. Dr Kraakenhausen would have preferred a larger audience, but had settled for the select handful of attendees who had been persuaded to attend. Out of the ten requested only eight had bothered to turn up. Thanks to the archaeologist’s notoriety, only the director himself was there to represent the academic community. The audience, such as it was, had filed in to chat sceptically over wine and meze at a side table, as they awaited the beginning of the presentation.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the director announced to the assembled guests, ‘on behalf of the museum, I’d like to thank you all for coming. I realise how busy you all are, but I feel confident your presence here this evening will be well worth your valuable time. So, if you would be so kind as to take your seats, we can begin the proceedings. Thank you. Thank you.’
As the intrigued guests moved to their chairs, Dr Kraakenhausen and his daughter, the blind old Cretan, and Andronicus the Terrible entered from a side door, taking their place at the long table.
‘Now,’ continued the director, gesturing towards the wannabe archaeologist. ‘Some of you may know of Dr Kraakenhausen. A somewhat controversial figure in the academic world, I grant you, but nonetheless he has brought to my attention a discovery of possibly seismic proportions. I am still to be told the exact details of this find, but having seen a few samples from this extraordinary site, I am excited about what he has to tell us. So, without further ado, I will now hand over to Dr Kraakenhausen and his colleagues to explain everything. Dr Kraakenhausen,’ invited the director, sitting down, ‘if you please.’
The academic pariah cautiously rose to his feet, nervously clearing his throat as he tried to get used to these unfamiliar courtesies.
‘Danke, Herr Direktor,’ he began and quickly took in the disappointingly all-male audience. ‘Gentlemen. Distinguished guests. I am here to share vith you a most extraordinary discovery. Meine discovery,’ he added, in case anyone should miss it. ‘A few days ago, myself and meine daughter Helena, who you see here, sitting at meine side, verked our vay into a series of caves on the island of Crete. It was no easy place to find, let me tell you. Nein. This vos the culmination of many years of intense –’
‘Just show them the box,’ snapped the blind man, cutting him short.
‘But,’ protested Dr Kraakenhausen, thrown by the interruption, ‘I vanted to set the scene …’
‘Show. Them. The. Box,’ added Andronicus, with a dash of menace.
‘What box?’ came a shout from the audience.
‘Acting on mein hunch that there may be an entrance to …’, said Dr Kraakenhausen, attempting to resume the rehearsed speech. ‘I –’
‘You all need to see the box!’ repeated the blind man, louder and more emphatically.
‘What box?’ came another shout.
‘It’s on the table over here,’ replied Andronicus. ‘Gather round. Please.’
‘But I need to set the context of the find!’ wailed Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘To tell the story properly, like on the History Channel.’
‘You’ll do as you are told,’ whispered Andronicus. ‘Or else.’
‘What is in this box?’ asked the Deputy Minister for Defence, stepping forward.
‘Is this what you found?’ asked the Minister for Culture, approaching the table. ‘Looks medieval. I thought we were going to see something much older than that.’
‘Can we open it?’ came another voice.
‘We are about to,’ replied Andronicus, standing. ‘Come closer, then you can all have a proper look.’
‘Er … through my extensive research,’ continued Dr Kraakenhausen, though no vun was listening. ‘I was able to ….’
‘Can we hurry up?’ said the Deputy Minister for Education, Religious Affairs and Sport. ‘Only I’ve got a Thai massage at eight.’
‘We’ll be as fast as we can,’ promised Andronicus. ‘Just move in nice and close so we can reveal what lies within.’
The guests mounted the stage, crowding up to the table, peering down at the box as Andronicus teased the lid.
‘Everyone in place?’ asked the blind man.
‘Oh, I’d say so,’ smiled Andronicus the Terrible, sizing up the group before him.
‘Then we begin,’ proclaimed the blind man, lifting his hands high. ‘Oh, mighty Zeus. Oh, cruel, vengeful Poseidon. Hear me, Gods one and all. Come the heroes, come back to the land of your birth, come.’
‘Vot the hell!’ gasped Helena Kraakenhausen, realising where things might be going. ‘You can’t.’
‘Yes, we can,’ grinned Andronicus.
‘Can’t what?’ asked the Minister for Tourism. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘Behold,’ said Andronicus, flipping the lid back in a flourish.
There was a singular lack of gasps.
‘It’s a stick,’ said the Minister for Culture. ‘Is that what we are here for?’
‘Nein!’ protested Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘You can’t use such an object in this vay. You simply can’t. It is the Lord’s relic!’
‘Is it?’ laughed Andronicus. ‘Is it really?’
The blind man was into his second verse.
‘Come, oh heroes. Use the power of all the Gods; use the power of the spirits of the slain and glorious; use their glory to propel you. Come back to this realm and take your places. Páre tous klíro kai éla píso sti gi oi paníschyroi íroés mou, énas kai olio!’
The effect was as ghastly as it was sudden.
The Deputy Minister for Defence could almost have been tasered, his arms suddenly locking to his sides as his shocked eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. To his side, three of the other government ministers were bowled over like skittles, dropping from the stage to writhe like maggots on the polished wooden floor.
‘What’s happening to me!’ wailed the journalist, as the spirits took him. ‘I can’t control my legs.’
‘Nein! Nein!’ shrieked Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘You have tricked me! This cannot be; this is the Lord’s relic; we will be dammed for all eternity.’
‘Oh, Mighty Zeus!’ continued the blind old man. ‘Open the minds of these worthless mortals, that they may each be a vessel across the ages. A home for the shades of our beloved, mighty, time-transporting heroes.’
‘Stop it!’ demanded the director of the museum as he gyrated on his back, arms flapping like a pretentious contemporary dancer. ‘Whatever you’re doing … stop it!’
‘Mein Gott!’ stammered Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘Vot is happening here? Old man! Who are you?’
The box itself was now vibrating upon the table like a personal massager, hopping and spinning as an eerie light lifted away like mist from the wooden fragment. Driven by the incantation, it then split into a series of independent purple twines, each swivelling, cobra-like, looking around the room for a target.
‘Oh, swift Hermes, sweet watery Poseidon, eternally beautiful Athena, bear these spirits upon your shoulders and into this wretched, modern world.’ The blind man was up now, arms held high above him as his dead eyes looked deep into some other realm. ‘Help me, mighty Zeus! Help me to unleash again the spirits of antiquity. Let us embark upon this, the first day of the new Heroic Age! Párte aftoús tous thnitoús tóra tous chálkinous íroés mou!’
Off the leash, the tendrils surged forward like greyhounds from their starting boxes. Their selections made, each thickening tentacle raced inexorably towards their chosen prey. With a savage jab, each hydra branch slammed its glowing tips deep into the visiting dignitaries, the journalist, the director of the Archaeological Museum, and the utterly bewildered Dr Kraakenhausen.
Only the athletic Helena was fast enough to evade. Rolling away, she dodged the glowing tentacle that had been hell-bent on possessing her, leaving it to stab blindly into thin air. Frustrated, it flipped a 180-degree turn, then began a frenzied effort to puncture Andronicus the Terrible in his buttocks.
‘Not me … not me!’ screamed the former emperor, jumping sideways. ‘I’m on your side!’
‘Leave him!’ ordered the blind man. ‘We will have more bodies for you in due course. Return to the relic!’
Reluctantly, the tendril began to contract away, withdrawing frustrated past the writhing dignitaries, then back inside the wooden splinter from which it had been summoned.
‘Who the hell are you, old man!’ demanded Helena, now backed into the corner. ‘Who are you!’
‘Haaaaaa!’ laughed the blind old man theatrically. ‘You thought I was nothing! A simple Greek not worthy of respect. A mere peasant! For six months, I have listened to your xenophobic insults and misplaced condescension. Six months!’
‘Mein Gott!’ blurted Helena, looking at her father’s twitching body. ‘You used us.’
‘Of course, I used you,’ laughed the old man. ‘You served my greater purpose without even knowing it. What a pair of twenty-first-century losers. Why, this so-called modern world of yours … it’s pathetic. Not a trace of the glory and majesty of the ancients to be found anywhere. In your world, a hero is a prancing footballer, a swearing chef, an Instagram influencer … whatever in Zeus’ name that is.
‘He’s not wrong,’ agreed Andronicus.
‘I, on the other hand,’ continued the fired-up pensioner, ‘I am from an age when men were men, and women were actual Goddesses, not smoothie-drinking, ukulele-strumming pop stars with all the nobility of a stale olive. This modern world is utterly bereft of heroic warriors and great kings. Well … that must end! It must be wiped away. It cannot be allowed to continue. It won’t continue. It is time to return to the Age of Heroes. For three millennia, I have kept the memories of that glorious time alive. A memory so vivid, so perfect … so pure! I did it so that one day, those very heroes would return to smite the weak and subjugate the gentle, and restore a civilisation based upon the glorification of ritual violence and the rule of homicidal, despotic kings.’
‘Vot are you talking about?’ stammered Helena, as the figures around her began to twitch back into life. 'You're mad!'
