The Making of the Lamb Read online

  Joseph coughed up more fluid and lowered his hand. Lazarus and Ponticus lifted him back into his bed.

  Master Joseph’s voice ran thin. “That carving brought back the memory of those days of awe and joy. It matters not. I will be with Jesus soon.” He looked from one face to another. “I can see it in your faces. My time is short.” He looked back to the carving and pointed to it. “You must make more of those when I am gone. They will remind the Britons of the Lord’s visit here.”

  “It shall be done, Master,” said Lazarus.

  “Where is that novice who was taking care of me?”

  Ponticus stepped forward, wringing his hands.

  “You have a sharp and discerning mind,” Joseph told him. “You ask intelligent questions. The brothers will tell you the stories of the time Jesus was in Britain. Write them down, but keep them well hidden. God will cause them to be found when the world is ready to hear them.”

  The Arimathean settled back and looked around the room. Once again his eye settled upon the tunic cross statue on the far wall. “Put some clue of where to find the stories, in those statues you will be sending out. Make it something hard to figure out, so the secret is revealed only with the inspiration of God.”

  “We will,” said Lazarus.

  “My work is done,” Joseph closed his eyes. “I commend my soul to Jesus.” The brothers kept a vigil over the Arimathean as he rested comfortably.

  Dawn brought a diffused light filtered through the thick mist. It cast no shadows, and it revealed that this giant among the followers of the Way breathed no more.

  Saint Hilary’s Parish, Cornwall, A.D. 1997, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth II of England

  The day after he met Father Walters, Ned returned with his parents for the Sunday service at the quaint parish church. It was quite a change from the simple “ordered” services the family was used to. His father whispered that it was hard to believe this was Church of England. When the thurifer swung the thurible to bless the people with smoldering incense, Ned’s father complained that the smoke upset his allergies. His parents started straight for the door at the conclusion of the service, but with no plans other than to relax at the bed-and-breakfast for the afternoon, they raised no objection when Ned said he wanted to stay behind and explore.

  As the pews emptied, Ned wandered the church and looked over the icons. In the back, he discovered a picture of Jesus at the age of twelve teaching in the temple.

  Suddenly, Father Walters was standing next to him.

  “This is the last we hear of Jesus from the Bible,” said Ned, “before he began his ministry. Is that right?”

  “Some people call that period the Missing Years,” said Father Walters. “It is quite a gap in the account of his life.”

  “Yesterday you mentioned the legend that Christ came to Britain when he was my age, but people back then didn’t just take a trip like that for a holiday.”

  “According to the legend,” Father Walters agreed, “his great uncle was Joseph of Arimathea, a trader of tin. The archeologists tell us that this area of Cornwall has been a major source of tin ever since the Bronze Age.”

  “My dad says there was a big monastery in Glastonbury, and the monks started the legend in the Middle Ages to attract pilgrims to raise money to replace the buildings that had burned down.”

  “Glastonbury was one of the biggest monasteries in Britain until King Henry VIII dissolved them all. It is true that a big fire burned the entire complex at the end of the twelfth century, but the legend is older than that. You probably know that Pope Gregory sent Augustine to take Christianity to the Anglo-Saxons about the year 600. Augustine reported that he encountered a Christian church among the native Celtic people. The bishops told him of a church built by the very hands of Christ, at what is now Glastonbury. Gildas, the first British historian, wrote about other parts of the Glastonbury legend at about the same time.”

  The Jacobs family was booked in the bed-and-breakfast for the week. The Old Vicarage did not have a television or video games, so aside from occasional day trips with his parents, Ned found himself frequenting the church and spending time with Father Walters.

  Near the end of their stay, Ned was talking to Father Walters about the tunic cross in the churchyard.

  Father Walters imitated the boy’s gesture holding his hands out. “It might be a greeting.”

  Ned looked at the stone, and then Father Walters. “I feel that boy might have a secret he wants to share.”

  Father Walters’s arms dropped to his sides. “What do you mean, Ned?”

  “It was something I thought of the first time I saw the statue. The way the boy is holding out his arms. It just reminded me of my mates at school, how we sometimes like to share secrets.”

  Father Walters put a heavy hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Ned, please make it a point to come see me before you leave. I might have something important to share with you, but I must think about it overnight, and pray.”

  Ned thought Father Walters’s request quite strange. The family was scheduled to leave the next day. Nonetheless, he was intrigued. “Yes, Father. I’ll come.”

  “Ned, thank you for stopping by,” said the priest, as Ned walked up the path the next morning. “Do you remember what you said yesterday about the figure on the tunic cross having a secret to share?”

  “You seemed surprised.”

  “I may know what the secret is, but I cannot figure out what it means. The secret has been passed down in this parish across many generations. I am going to retire soon, and I doubt the rector replacing me will have any interest in preserving the legend of Christ’s visit to Britain. I had no one to pass this secret to, but what you said gave me the idea of sharing it with you. I prayed about it last night. You are awfully young, but you have a discerning and inquiring mind. I believe the secret will be in good hands with you, if you will let me share it.”

  Ned nodded. Who would say no to such a thing?

  “Shortly after I first came to this parish, I noticed that part of this tunic cross had fallen into disrepair. The cement holding Father Donoghue’s plaque to the bottom had eroded. When I inspected it, the plaque fell off in my hand. I found a hollowed crevice, and inside was a very old stoppered bottle. Inside was a paper that bore the traces of some kind of rubbing. It did not seem like much to me, just some random horizontal and vertical marks, but I thought it strange that someone had taken such care to preserve the pattern, so I took everything I found to some experts at the British Museum.”

  “Could they read it?” asked Ned.

  “The bottle itself was the easiest to track down. The museum experts said it was a medicine bottle manufactured in the 1920s and 1930s. I talked to one of the older parishioners, and she told me that according to her grandmother, Father Donoghue’s plaque had been placed on the cross by Father Bernard Walke in the aftermath of the famous riot that happened here in 1932.”

  “This churchyard seems so peaceful. It is hard to imagine anyone starting a riot here.”

  “The rubbing required carbon-dating, and the people at the museum said it dated back to the early or middle part of the seventeenth century, about the time of the English Civil War.”

  “Wow, that’s brilliant!” said Ned.

  “The pattern in the rubbing turned out to be an ancient script made with hash marks against a baseline. The hash marks represent different letters depending on their length and angle. The script is called Ogham, it comes from Ireland, and it dates back to the early Dark Ages. A museum expert in Old Gaelic and Ogham translated it. This is what the rubbing said: ‘Look for the Secret of the Lord where the lamb turns to the beginning of his life.’”

  “Huh?” Ned frowned. “That’s the big secret?”

  “I have no idea what it means.”

  Ned repeated: “Look for the Secret of the Lord where the lamb turns to the beginning of his life. It sounds really weird. How are you supposed to know where some lamb turned round centuries ago?”
/>   “You have your whole life ahead of you, Ned.” Father Walters put his hands on Ned’s shoulders. “Just remember the secret. Maybe you will discern its meaning during your lifetime. If not, just remember to pass it on before you die.”

  Ned smiled. “That’s really cool, Father.” Discern the meaning… “I will remember that.”

  “This reminds me of a custom from the Middle Ages called Beating the Bounds. Not many people knew how to write, so they took the boys on a tour of the parish boundaries and beat them so that they would remember them and pass the knowledge to the next generation,” said Father Walters.

  Ned playfully put on a worried expression.

  “You will remember it, won’t you?”

  Ned repeated the phrase about the lamb.

  “I suppose we can dispense with the beating.” They both laughed.

  “Ned!” His father bellowed from the road. “Time to go.”

  Glastonbury, Somerset, A.D. 2010, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth II of England

  The bus rumbled down the A361. Geoffrey battered a drum rhythm on his lap. “That was a great festival, wasn’t it?”

  “Fantastic,” Ned answered his friend. “Can’t believe they got so many of the latest bands—”

  “In Pilton, I know, right?”

  The girl in the seat in front of them turned around. “Oi! What you got against Pilton?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Geoffrey said.

  “If you’re not from around here,” she said, “what are you doing on the Glastonbury bus?”

  “How can you tell we’re not from around here?” Ned asked.

  “You sound like a Londoner,” she said. “So why aren’t you headed that way?”

  “Did you see that car park?” Ned pointed his thumb back the way they’d come. “Who wants to deal with that? We thought we’d have a look round Glastonbury and give the traffic time to thin out.”

  “Huh. Tourists.” The girl turned back around.

  Ned looked out of the window at the green farmland rolling by. The festival had been a welcome change of pace from his studies. Having made it through his first year at theological college, he was preparing for ordination. His call to the ministry had been quite a shock to his parents, as well as to all his mates—including his oldest school chum, Geoffrey—who remembered him as an adventurous prankster.

  They got off the bus in the High Street, which was already full of tourists on their summer holiday to the West Country. In addition to ordinary tourists were many new-age types, identifiable by their long, flowing hair and clothes adorned with beads and flowers. Among them, Ned even spotted a few men and women dressed as druids.

  He pulled out a map. “Glastonbury Abbey that way.” He pointed ahead. “Guided tours…museum…Oh! Just up the street”—he pointed back over his shoulder—“there’s an archeological museum with artifacts from an iron-age lake village.”

  Geoffrey looked up from his phone. “A what?”

  “An old archeological site discovered a hundred years ago on the Somerset Levels.”

  “Whatever.” Geoffrey pointed to the other end of town. “What’s that, then?”

  Ned turned to see. Looming over the village was an oddly shaped hill with mysterious ridges descending in a triple helix from the top. A medieval tower on the summit gave the Tor a distinctive silhouette. “Glastonbury Tor.”

  “Hiking up there might be cool,” Geoffrey said. “Must be quite a view.”

  “Right, then.”

  “Oh, blimey!” Geoffrey stared at his phone. “No!”

  “What?”

  “I can’t leave for five minutes.”

  He’d been gone three days, not that it mattered. Ned craned his neck to see the screen. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “The web server’s bolloxed up again.” Geoffrey looked around, then pointed. “I’ll be in this Internet café awhile fixing this.”

  “On a phone?”

  “I’ve got my laptop in my backpack, haven’t I?”

  Of course. He carries the thing everywhere.

  “I’ll text you when I get it sorted. Have a look about in the meantime.”

  Ned’s father had not hesitated to inform his son what an insensible career choice he was making taking up the cloth, but the ministry couldn’t possibly be worse than running Geoffrey’s Internet startup.

  “No worries, I’ll just go check out some of the shops. See you later.”

  Geoffrey disappeared into the café, and Ned stopped at a little teashop across the street. They seemed to offer every herbal variety imaginable, but he only wanted his favorite English breakfast. After a night of partying, he needed the caffeine. His order somehow disturbed the matron’s cosmic aura, as she flustered about preparing it instead of her typical herbal concoctions.

  Stepping onto the pavement with his takeaway cup, he looked up and down the street. Spying a new-age shop, he thought it might be amusing to browse among the pagans. His first impression was that he had stepped into a shop for witches and wizards: Diagon Alley, remembered Ned, from the Harry Potter movies. Packets of every manner of incense were neatly arranged on one wall. Maps showing lay lines passing through the Tor in all directions hung on another. Cauldrons and wands were offered, as was a modest collection of books. That was more to his liking.

  Most of the collection revolved around new-age spiritual concepts that held little interest for Ned, but among the books he spotted a thin used paperback called The Traditions of Glastonbury: The Biblical Missing Years of Christ—ANSWERED. The author was an archeologist, E. Raymond Capt. The cover featured a tapestry showing young Jesus and an older man paddling up a stream at the base of the Tor. How did this get in here? Maybe the shop owner thought it would sell from local interest. Ned thumbed through it, recalling what Father Michael Walters had told him, thirteen years before, of the legends surrounding Christ’s visit to Britain, how Joseph of Arimathea founded Glastonbury Abbey as the first house of worship in all Christendom, and even something of King Arthur. I wonder whatever happened to Father Walters? That was such a crazy motto he had me memorize. Look for the secret of the Lord where the lamb turns to the beginning of his life.

  Turning another page, Ned spotted an image of a timeworn architectural feature on a doorway: a carving of a lamb beneath a cross. At first glance the image seemed like a typical Agnus Dei image for “the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world,” but there was something odd about it that Ned could not immediately place. He continued reading, and then it hit him. The lamb is facing the wrong way! The typical Agnus Dei image showed the lamb and the cross facing the west, towards the end of Christ’s life—his death and resurrection. But according to Capt’s book, this lamb was facing the east, the direction associated with the sunrise, representing the beginning of Christ’s life with his future before him. That’s it! A lamb turned to the beginning of his life!

  Ned turned the page again. The doorway feature was on a chapel in Cornwall. According to the book, the north transept of that chapel held an example of Ogham script carved into a panel on the wall. Could this piece of script be a link in the mystery? Ned hadn’t given much thought in the last decade to Father Walters and the mystery, but now he wondered about it. Only one way to find out…

  Ned paid for the book and hurried out to fetch Geoffrey. He found him at a high table, typing madly on his laptop. “Geoff, can you hurry? I’ve got…look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to cancel that climb up the Tor.”

  “What’s got into you, Ned?”

  “I’ve got something I need to take care of. Immediately.”

  “One minute.” Geoffrey typed a few more lines of code, and they left the café. They caught the next bus back to the festival car park. The traffic had improved, but not much. As they crept down the road, Ned beat the steering wheel.

  “What’s up, mate? I’m usually the impatient one,” Geoffrey muttered.

  “Maybe nothing,” said Ned. “But maybe…just maybe…something really
amazing.”

  Finally they got onto the A361 and then the A37 north from Shepton Mallet.

  Ned packed Geoff off at the Bristol train station and took the M5 west to where it ended, an hour later, just south of Exeter.

  Ned debated whether he should find a room to stay for the night, but he knew he was too excited to sleep. He continued on the two-lane into Cornwall, swinging around each of the roundabouts at full speed. He crossed Bodmin Moor at midnight. An hour later he pulled over to the side of the road just outside Truro and slept.

  The light of breaking dawn awoke Ned from his light sleep. Stopping only for a coffee, he proceeded south on the A3078. He was used to driving between the hedgerows, and the road narrowed only occasionally to force two lanes of opposing traffic down to one.

  He had to park the car some distance from the chapel, and he walked to it on a public path. He took a look at the photograph in the book and compared it to the chapel. Yes, it was certainly the right building. The chapel was attached to a larger estate house called Place Manor. According to the sign, the chapel was a decommissioned church, no longer consecrated ground for the Church of England, now in the custody of the C of E Conservation Trust. He approached the old oak door, darkened with age. He tried it, and it creaked open. By now the sun was up, illuminating the interior through tall lancet windows. Ned gazed around at the memorials, stretching back hundreds of years in commemoration of various members of the family that owned the house. Where was that Ogham script sample for which he had come all this way?

  He found it on the wall of the north transept, just where Raymond Capt said it would be. Ned took out a pencil and some paper, and he made a rubbing.

  He stared at his work as he walked back down to the car. He had the inscription. Now he needed to find someone to read it. Maybe that museum expert Father Walters knew.

  I bet the man will be surprised to hear from me after all these years. Tracking down Father Walters took a number of phone calls, but eventually Ned found the priest living in a retired housing scheme operated by the Church of England Pensions Board.