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Tel Mareshah, fifty kilometers southwest of Jerusalem Rand Bullock stumbled through the flap door of his tent and paused in the predawn darkness surrounding the excavations. One hand held a duffel bag stuffed with rumpled clothes; the other gripped the handle of his laptop computer's carrying case.
He looked around at the shadowy camp. Mareshah was an amazing place, an archaeological complex in the heart of the Shephelah, the region of Israel between the coastal plain and the mountains of central Judea. It was also a shopping mall of ancient civilizations, from the Israelite fortifications of the eighth to the sixth centuries b.c. to the caves cut to shelter Jewish rebels during the Second Jewish Revolt against Rome in about a.d. 132-135. The Hellenistic settlements of the third century b.c. featured an underground labyrinth of caves and corridors, including subterranean olive presses, pigeon cotes, temples, and tombs. It was an incredibly well-preserved — and intriguing — site. And, thanks to Yigal Havner's reputation and expertise, it was one of the best-staffed and best-run digs Rand had ever worked.
Long before the Indiana Jones movies, most people who thought they knew anything about archaeology "knew" all the wrong things. Even his own wife and daughter had occasionally joked about Rand's profession with some remark about "digging up dinosaur bones." But Rand, like most archaeologists, had never unearthed a dinosaur bone; the only dinosaurs he'd seen were in museums he had toured in the company of his wife and daughter. Most people also imagined archaeology to be a glamorous and exciting profession: opening ancient tombs, discovering buried treasure, fleeing from elaborate booby traps, and eventually becoming rich and famous. Few things could be further from the truth. Archaeology is usually a tedious exercise, and most archaeologists never find anything spectacular. The vast majority enjoy adding even the tiniest detail to the world's understanding of past civilizations, and usually the "treasures" they discover are valuable only for what they reveal about the people who left them behind. As Yigal Havner loved to say, "It's not what you find but what you find out that matters."
Rand let out a heavy sigh and watched his breath dissolve into the air before putting his head down and walking toward the car parked a few yards from his tent. He tossed his clothes and computer into the passenger seat and folded his six-foot frame into the tiny car. He reached for the key in the ignition.
"Huh?" he muttered. He pulled his hands away from the steering wheel and searched the floor of the car. Then he craned his neck to look at the steering column.
"I know I left them here," he said. He twisted awkwardly and patted the seat behind him but found nothing. Then suddenly he spun around and faced forward again. He peered through the windshield...and groaned.
He was in the wrong car. His dusty white Fiat 500, a different model and color from the car he occupied, sat several yards away in the fog of the not-yet-morning.
"Story of my life," he said. He gripped his computer and duffel bag, one in each hand, and wrestled himself out of the car, shaking his head. He had been that way for months, ever since his wife had died. His life and his career had become a shambles, and he couldn't seem to rally himself. He'd spent the first days and weeks after his wife's funeral in a stupor, feeling numb both mentally and emotionally. He had pretty much abandoned his well-funded excavation on the island of Crete (and with it, he felt sure, abandoned his career as well), thinking he should stick around the house for the sake of his daughter, Tracy, who would have to graduate from high school without her mom. But the great gulf that seemed to separate him from his daughter had only widened in the weeks following the funeral, and Rand had nothing to fill the gap except drinking, crying, and sleeping an average of twelve hours a day — until his friend Yigal Havner had called, inviting him to join the excavation at Mareshah.
He had done so, but still had been unable to emerge from his fog. It was more than grief, he knew. Joy's death had left a hole the size of a crater in his life. Though he had neglected his marriage and family for years while he crisscrossed the globe from one archaeological dig to another, Joy had always been there, the only meaningful relationship he had — the only meaningful relationship he'd ever had. And now, in addition to having to deal with his overwhelming loss, he felt a hundred deficits in his life, a hundred vacancies, a hundred desires for love and friendship and relationship...and he had not the first clue about how to fill those needs.
He strode to his car, opened the door, and tossed his bags inside. This time, however, he didn't get in. He ran a hand through his short brown hair and scratched the back of his head. "Get it over with," he told himself. He left the car door open and headed down the row of tents, finding his old friend just where he'd expected: alone at his table under an awning, poring over a stack of papers and notes.
Havner barely looked up as Rand approached. "Shalom," the balding archaeologist said. He wore only an undershirt and boxer shorts despite the chill that still hung in the early morning air.
"I'm leaving," Rand said.
Havner lifted his gaze to Rand's face, his expression showing no surprise, only sadness. He said nothing.
"I want to save you the trouble of asking me to leave," Rand said.
"I am planning to ask you to leave?" Havner asked.
"If you aren't, you should be." He paused. "I'm grateful for everything you've done for me. But we both know I haven't been pulling my weight here." Havner opened his mouth, but Rand anticipated his objection. "You haven't shown any impatience or disappointment, and I'm grateful for that, too. You've been nothing but kind. But I won't ask you to lift the load for me any longer, and you should not have to pay for — for what I'm going through."
Havner came out from behind his table and approached Rand. "I...I do not know what to say." He squeezed Rand's elbow with his right hand and frowned, as though he were choosing his words carefully. "I suppose I should have asked you first."
"Asked me?" Rand said. "Asked me what?"
"It is just that I found out only last night, and did not want to disturb your...sleep."
My drinking, you mean, Rand thought. But he said, "Found out what?"
"You know how Jerusalem is. Every building project, no matter how small, becomes an archaeological site." He shrugged. "A park project in Jerusalem resulted in a cave-in, and someone is needed to evaluate and excavate it."
The two men stared at each other for a few moments.
Havner continued, "It would be a favor to me, if you do this thing." He kept speaking, talking in circles, but as he spoke, some of the fog seemed to lift from Rand's sleep-laden mind, and he opened his mouth slowly, working to mesh words and thoughts.
"This," he began, interrupting Havner, "this is not a favor to you. I'm not helping you out — you're helping me out, aren't you?"
Havner's eyes blazed. "A moment ago, you tell me you are grateful for all I have done for you. If that is true, then here is a way to thank me." He peered into Rand's eyes and tightened his grip on his friend's elbow. "Whatever you find in Jerusalem, it is a good opportunity for you, I think. A beginning. A chance to — to regain — yes, to regain some of what you've lost."
Rand stared defiantly at his mentor for a few moments.
"The site is Talpiot," Havner said, his voice low. "Ask for Sergeant Major Sharon."
After a moment, the hint of a smile appeared on Rand's face. "Sharon," he echoed. He gripped Havner's shoulder. "Yigal," he said, "what have you gotten me into?"
The famous archaeologist embraced his tall American friend. "Shalom," he said.
The Bone Box © 2008 Bob Hostetler
