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A is for Archaeology

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Our graduation yearbook billed our rivalry as one for the ages, one to watch over the forthcoming years when discoveries would be made, and reputations won or lost.

Jackson Jamieson, son of the famous, world-renowned Aristotle Jamieson who found the intact tomb of a previously unknown Egyptian Pharaoh in a period no one really knew about

Questions were still being asked about the veracity of the discovery.

That fame acquired by the father, rubbed off on the son and it didn’t matter whether he knew anything about Archaeology, having a degree and a father to work for and with, gave him the job that all of us fellow graduates would have given anything to have.  Access to one of the greatest finds since Howard Carter and the tomb of Tutankhamun.

At the other end of the scale, I studied hard and learned everything there was to know about just about every Pharaoh.  I didn’t have the renowned parent or be a part of any number of digs providing very valuable first-hand experience, just a few minor digs that gave the requisite equivalent for grading purposes, and probably wouldn’t get that all-important photograph.

Chalk and cheese.

That’s what Elizabeth Wilkins said.  A fellow graduate, also of the study and knowledge variety, and although the object of Jackson Jamieson’s affections, and on the end of multiple offers to bask in his father’s glory, she chose me over fame.

Perhaps that was because she didn’t believe a word about the discovery.  I hadn’t put that idea in her head.  She, like I, had put the numbers through the archaeological wringer, and to her, like me, they didn’t add up.

I remember the first time we sat down together.  I had admired her from afar, we had talked, but I didn’t think she knew I existed.  It was after the third attempt on Jackson’s part to get her to accompany him to his father’s dig, a rare privilege he kept telling her, and she refused, more definitively this time.

It became heated, and I thought it best to step in before it became something else.  It earned me a glowering look from Jackson, a slight he would never forget, and a haughty shove from Elizabeth and being told in no uncertain terms to mind my own business.

The next day, she came over and sat at my table.  I thought it was to give me a second serve.  I was shocked when she apologised.  That was when she said, “Don’t you think it’s interesting he picked a date range that we have no definite data or history.  I bet the name is an invention.”

“You have to admit the artefacts are fairly compelling.”

“What we’ve seen of them.  They’re not releasing everything, just bits and pieces, while they fabricate the story around them.  It’s like they are adjusting it to meet expectations.”

“Then you think it’s fake?”

“It’s Jackson Jameson.  Everything about him and his father is fake.  Some of the earlier artifacts he found, they’re as suspect as this whole Pharaoh thing.  I know you think so, too.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.  I’m just the poor man’s pathetic excuse for an archaeologist. It’s not as if we’re going to make a name for ourselves.”

“Ancient Egypt is not the only place we can make a discovery.  You just have to be patient and trust your instincts.  And forget about Jackson Jamieson.  I have.”

I was sitting at the desk in a large bookstore doing the umpteenth signing of my father’s best-selling thriller.

I did not get to pursue the life I wanted.  Instead, I extrapolated existing findings into stories that could be true after twisting the facts to suit the story.

And yes, one was the discovery of a previously unknown Pharaoh.  That was the story that got the ball rolling.

It was a tiring but necessary part of being a successful author.  Or so I was told.  We were near the end of the tour, and I couldn’t wait for it to be over.

I’d got to the end of the queue and was hoping it was the last.  I looked at my watch and sighed.

“It can’t be that bad?”

I looked up.  Elizabeth Wilkins.  Seven years older and more beautiful than ever.  We had dallied for a month or so, but then she got an invitation to a project in the Caribbean, her pet subject Pirates.

It was the subject of her Theseus, and I was considering it as the subject of my next book.  In fact, I was seriously considering taking a break and going to look for her.

Great minds and all that.

“I’ve missed you.”

“Not that much, apparently.  No 1 best-selling author, hobnobbing with the likes of James Patterson?  Who’d have thought.”

“I couldn’t make a living out of it, so I took up journalism, thought I’d do some investigative pieces, and then while digging around the Jamieson discovery I got an idea for a story.  And as they say, the rest is history.”

“He tried stopping publication.”

“Closer to the truth than he expected?  Maybe, but no one put two and two together, and I left out quite a bit so I wouldn’t get sued.”

“But you got to the truth?”

“No.  They still haven’t released anything to definitely prove or disprove the discovery.  Seven years of milking a cash cow.  Enough for two generations to bask in glory and live like kings.  Good luck to them.  Enough about them.  What have you been doing?”

“Buy me dinner and I’ll tell you.”

It was an offer too good to refuse.

It was an amazing dinner, a romantic stroll back to the hotel where she chose to stay in my suite rather than her small airless box in Queens, as she described it, and rekindled a flame that had not been extinguished over time.

And continued for another three days, because my agent had forgotten to tell me about three more book signings, all of which were made more bearable with Elizabeth opting to come with me.

She, like me, was surprised at the number of people interested in fictional Archaeology, so much so, that she began to tell me about the site she had found and was hoping would be her Aristotle Jamieson moment.  It was all very low-key, and she had not shared the results of her finds with anyone but our old Archaeology professor, the only person she felt she could trust, and now me.

I was honoured she included me on that very small list.  But there was an ulterior motive, and I should have recognised the signs.  Perhaps I didn’t want to because of the way our relationship was developing.

It was dinner on the last day, and we were discussing my next book.  I told her I always had a story in the planning stages rather than after a hiatus having to come up with another outline.  Publishers were always nervous about the next book, especially when it was a best-selling series.

But I was curious…

“Pirate treasure.  A fabled treasure belonging to a minor pirate that no one really believes exists, but where there are endless references.”

“And I assume you could pick any island in the Caribbean where this treasure could be found.”

“Almost, but not quite.  The clues are there if you now know where to look.”

“And you think you know where it is?”

“I think I do, yes, and it could be a brilliant idea for a story, teasing out details as the dig progresses, not only a journalistic account of the actual finds but in the research it would save you.”

That’s when the penny dropped.  “And you believe I would want to do this because…”

“The university pulled my funding, and I thought…”

Perhaps my expression belied my thoughts, and I had to ask, trying to keep the disappointment out of my tone, and probably failing.  “I hope you didn’t just spend the last three days with me because you need money.”  It needed to be said, no matter how bluntly put.  I think she knew that was coming.

“No.  And I’ll be honest, I don’t want what we have, now, to end.  I didn’t want to put you in this position and wasn’t going to ask, not after our time together, but in the spirit of being honest, when I saw you were here, I did come up with the idea that I would ask you if you would be interested.  Why do you think it took so long to summon the courage to even raise the subject?”

She was right.  If she was simply mercenary, she would not have waited so long knowing it was more rather than less likely I’d say no.

“You could simply ask?  I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Like I said, I intended to, but seeing you again and how you looked at me, and knowing that I had hurt you leaving the way I did, I couldn’t.  I’m sorry.  I’m making a mess of things, again, aren’t I?”

She could have if I was not feeling the way I did about her.  She hadn’t been faking her emotions or her feelings.

“Why did they stop the funding?  It didn’t amount to a lot as I recall.”

“They were just cutting the smaller projects, and mine just happened to be one of them.  Like I said.  The clues are there, but I haven’t been interpreting them correctly.  I’ve made some small finds and I know there’s more, they just didn’t see it progressing.  It’s just me and several local archaeologists now, and we’re taking a break.  I was hoping that you would come back with me, and help, perhaps share some of the glory.”

It was a tempting offer.  I had visited several sites but never got an invitation to stay.  And it was Elizabeth, and it would allow us to work and be together in close contact.  Those sorts of situations always bring out both the best and worst in people and are a good indication of whether you could live together in a relationship, although it was a little early to contemplate that.

“How much?”

“Last year it was about fifty thousand dollars, mostly living expenses, some wages for help, and permit fees.”

“I would get exclusive publication rights if you found anything?”

“Yes.  And another best-selling novel from tagging along for the ride.  It’s a win-win for both of us.”

“Then I think I’m now funding an archaeological dig.”

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© Charles Heath 2024

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