Stephen Lawhead - The Paradise War

«They came and took it away yesterday afternoon,» the farmer answered.

Simon crouched down and put his hand on the flattened straw. «Who took it?» he asked idly. «If you don't mind my asking.»

«Ah dinna mind,» the farmer replied. «The men from the university.»

«Which university?» I demanded, feeling more of a dupe with each passing second.

«Edinburgh,» the farmer answered-as if there were only one possible institution of higher learning on the entire planet, and it was a wonder I should even ask. «Archaeologists they were. Had a wee van and trailer and everything.»

Simon steered the inquiry back on course. «Yesterday afternoon, you say? About what time?»

«Quarter past four, it was. I was just going in for my tea when they came,» the farmer said, crouching down beside him and waving the stick over the non-existent body. «There, you can see how it fell. Ah reckon it rolled onto its side. The head was there.» He tapped the ground with the stick. «They took pictures and all. Said there'd be some other chappies along to set it down in writing.»

«That's right,» Simon confirmed, implying we were the very chappies. «We got here as soon as we could.»

«You don't have a manure heap around here, do you?» I asked.

«Dung?» The farmer asked quizzically. «Is it ma dung heap you're after seeing now?»

Simon rolled his eyes at me. To the farmer he said, «Where did the university chaps take the carcass?»

«To the lab,» the farmer said. «That's where they take them-to the lab. Tests and all. The things they do.» He shook his head. Clearly, it was all beyond him. «Is it breakfast you'll be wanting?»

«Yes,» I said.

«No,» said Simon; he shot me a threatening look. «That's far too much trouble. If you don't mind, we'd just like to ask a few more questions and we'll be on our way. Now then, when did you first notice the beast was in your field?»

The farmer glanced at the sky. The sun had risen above the hills, burning off the mist. «Och, it would be no trouble,» he said.

«Thanks just the same,» Simon said, with one of his warm and winning smiles. «Still, it's awfully kind of you to offer.»

«Will you no have a wee cup of coffee, then?» The farmer shoved his hands into his pockets.

Simon rose slowly. «Only if it's no trouble. We wouldn't want to take up too much of your time,» he said. «I know what an intrusion all this can be.»

The farmer smiled. «My Morag will have the coffee already in the pot. Just you come wi' me.» He thrust out his hand. «Ma name's Grant-Robert Grant.»

«I am Simon Rawnson,» Simon said, shaking bands with the farmer. «And this is my colleague, Lewis Gullies.»

I shook bands with the farmer, and, having observed the ritual greeting, we fell into step behind our host. As we started towards the house, Simon grabbed me by the arm. «You can't come on to these people like that,» he whispered tersely.

«Like what? He offered. I'm hungry.»

Simon frowned. «Of course he offered-what'd you expect? But you have to let them coax you.»

«Whatever you say, Kemo Sabe. This is your show.»

«Don't screw up again,» Simon hissed. «I'm warning you.»

«Awright already! Geesh!»

We followed the farmer into the house, and waited while he shed his coat. His wife, Morag, met us in the kitchen, where, as the farmer had predicted, she was pouring out the coffee as we trooped in. «These laddies are up from Oxford,» the farmer told her. Something about the way he said it made it sound like we'd hopped all the way on one foot.

«Oxford, is it?» his wife said, visibly impressed. «Then you'd best sit down. The porridge is hot. How do you like your eggs?»

My lips formed the word «fried,» but Simon beat me to it. «Please,» he said sweetly, «coffee is enough for us. Thanks just the same.»

The farmer pulled two more chairs to the table. «Sit ye down,» he said. We sat.

«But ye canna keep body and soul taegither wi' just coffee,» the farmer's wife said. «I'll no have it said you went from my table hungry.» She placed her hands firmly on her hips. «I hope ye dinna mind eating in the kitchen.»

«You're very kind,» Simon told her. «The kitchen is splendid.» He blessed her with his best beatific smile. I'd seen him use the same simpering smirk to remarkable effect on librarians and waitresses. Some people found it irresistible.

In moments we were all tucking in to steaming bowls of thick, gooey porridge. Eggs, toast with homemade goose-berry jam, thick-cut country bacon, farmhouse cheese and oatcakes came next. Morag presided over the table with red-faced, fussy pride. Clearly, she was enjoying herself massively.

It wasn't until the dishes were being cleared away that talk turned once again to the absent aurochs. «It's very strange, you know,» the farmer said, gazing into the coffee mug gripped between his hands. «I crossed that field but five minutes earlier. There was no a sign of the beastie then.»

Simon nodded sympathetically. «It must have been something of a shock.»

The farmer nodded slightly. His wife, who had been hovering over the table, broke in. «Oh, that's no the half of it. Tell them about the spear, Robert.»

«Spear?» Simon leaned forward. «Excuse me, but no one said anything about a spear. There was nothing about a spear in the-ah, report.»

The farmer permitted himself a slow, siy, prideful smile. «True, true. Ah haven'a told anyone else, have I?»

«Told them what, exactly?» I asked.

«The beastie in ma field was kilt wi' a spear,» farmer Robert replied matter-of-factly. «Clean through the heart.» He turned his head to his wife and nodded. Morag stepped to a small nook beside the big stove. She reached in and brought out a slender length of ashwood over five feet long. It was tipped with a flat, leaf-shaped blade of iron which was affixed to the shaft with rawhide. The blade, rawhide, and wooden shaft were much discolored with a ruddy brown stain that appeared to be blood.

She brought the ancient weapon to the table. I stood and held out my hands. «May I?»

At a nod from her husband, she gave it to me and I held it across my palms. The weight of the thing was considerable… stout, well-made weapon. I turned it over, examining it closely, butt to blade. The wood of the shaft was shaved and smoothed and straight. The blade, beneath the patina of dried blood, was hammered thin and honed razor sharp. And it was decorated with the most intricate pattern of whorls imaginable; the whole surface of the blade to the very edges was covered with these precise, yet flamboyant interwoven swirls.

A curious feeling drew over me as I stood holding the spear. I felt as if I knew this weapon, as if I had held it before, and as if holding it now was somehow the right thing to do. I felt a strange sense of completion, of connection.

Silly of me. Of course, I had seen such a blade before, many times before-in countless photographs, and more than a few actual specimens-and knew it well enough to identify: iron-age Celtic, La Tиne Culture, seventh to fifth century BC.

The British Museum has hundreds, if not thousands, of the things in its collection of iron-age artifacts. I had even handled a few of them in the research department at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. The only difference that I could see between this one and the rust-encrusted relics of the museums was that the weapon I stood holding in my hands looked for all the world as if it had been made yesterday.

«It's all a prank. A hoax. And you're a stupe for falling for it. I bet they're laughing at us right now. Conned some city folk with the ol' vanishing aurochs stunt. How clever we are! What a great joke! Ha! Ha! Ha!»