Search for the Healing Cloth

Melody was waiting in the anteroom outside the study of Associate Professor Broderick Kearney. He was a tutorial fellow of the School of Archaeology, specialising in the Persian Empire, at Magdalen College, Oxford. The smell of wood polish reminded her of a quip a fellow student made that the college seemed to be made almost entirely of stone and polished wood.

The large oak-panelled door opened and he stepped into the waiting room, wearing a tweed jacket and paisley cravat, his highly polished church shoes clicking on the block parquet flooring.

‘Good morning, Dr Thornton,’ he said, smiling and holding out his arms to greet her.

‘Good to see you again, Brodie,’ she said, standing. ‘And less of the doctor’s title.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

‘Sorry Melody, I couldn’t help it, but the title suits you. Come on through, I’ve ordered coffee for us.’

She followed him into his imposing study, noting it had not changed since she was last there. A high ornate ceiling, leaded windows, and an oak-panelled library. He gestured for her to sit whilst he settled into his worn vintage chair. ‘You’re looking well, Melody. How’s your search for the swaddling going?’

‘Straight to the point, as always, Brodie. It would be nice to chat for once. I might be here just to renew acquaintances,’ she said, stroking her strawberry blonde ponytail.

There was a knock at the door. His secretary entered with a tray containing coffee and biscuits and left without speaking.

‘It would flatter me if you were here just to chat,’ he said, pouring coffee for them both. ‘However, you have recently written two articles on relics, intimating accounts found in the book of Joseph, regarding the swaddling may have some legitimacy. You’re hoping I will validate it.’

The Professor looked up from the cups and raised his eyebrows.

Melody tilted her head and shrugged.

‘Milk and sugar?’

Melody relaxed, pleased she would not have to give a long update. ‘Black, please,’ she said, whilst leaning forward to pick up the fine china cup with her immaculately manicured hand. ‘You’re quite the detective.’

‘What I can’t figure out with you is what came first. Was it the religious connection or your interest in archaeology?’

‘My grandmother, though I called her Mañana, was my greatest influence,’ Melody looked down into her cup, knowing that Brodie was probably thinking about her parents too; her mother died when she was young and her dad had little interest in church. Shaking herself off, she locked back on Brodie and continued.

‘She had a real and simple faith and would read stories from a children’s Bible she’d bought me. The Nativity story was my favourite. I always had a warm fuzzy feeling when it said, “You shall find the infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger.” It was such a lovely picture.’ Melody closed her eyes and smiled. ‘It was years later, when I was fifteen on a school trip to Egypt, that I became fascinated by archaeology. Now can we move on to why I’m here?’

He nodded and smoothed back his hair, flecks of grey showing through. ‘Go on…’

She fumbled in her briefcase. ‘I need a visa to visit Iran,’ she said. Matter-of-factly, as though she had asked to visit America. She eventually produced a map of Northern Iran and the Caspian Sea, unfolded it and smoothed it out on the table.

Brodie did not react. Instead, he leaned forward and picked up the map, noticing several small circles around the southern tip of the Caspian Sea. His face became serious as he spoke.

‘Melody, the Middle East is an unstable region, particularly now. Iran is a dangerous country to be snooping around in. Heaven knows what they would make of a rich Oxford-educated daughter of a retired British Army Colonel. They could arrest you as a spy. We have so little influence there; we may never see you again.’ He paused. ‘Incidentally, does your father know of this?’

‘I don’t need my father’s permission, Brodie. I’m almost thirty years old. I’m not a child and he’s still not got over the disappointment of me not being a boy. Besides, the Caspian Sea is virtually a holiday destination for some.’ Her shoulders sank. ‘I need a letter of recommendation from a world-class college with a superb reputation in archaeology and a personage with high international esteem, preferably a professor.’

‘Melody,’ he began, ‘The only sign the swaddling existed or indeed was ever presented to the Magi is in the discredited “First Gospel of the Infancy of Jesus”. I cannot think of one respected theologian that gives any credence to these gnostic writings.’

‘That doesn’t mean they are wholly without merit. Besides, it’s not just the writings.’

This time Brodie’s shoulders sank. ‘Look, all you have is a story, probably manufactured by a second-century Christian sect, supposedly written by the High-Priest Caiaphas and purporting to be a gospel. Which incidentally was rejected as heretical fiction. Luther even doubted James and Hebrews for emphasising “works” with faith, so he put them in the back of his Bible with Jude and Revelation and considered them uncertain.’ He held up his hands.

‘I see,’ she said, frowning. ‘Is this about the reputation of the college or about your reputation and only wanting to back a certainty or an odds-on favourite? Worried about what people will say about your reputation if I were to fail?’

‘That’s unfair, Melody, and you know it. I’ve stuck my neck out countless times. Who supported you when the college wanted to remove funding altogether for your research?’

‘You’ve made your position clear, though I was hoping for a warmer response. Help me build a case–’

‘Admit it,’ he said, ‘there isn’t a preponderance of evidence, and what you have is unclear and unconvincing. Look, from what I know, the Gnostic Gospels saw no connection between Jesus and the nation of Israel or the acts of God in the Old Testament. Why have you remained so obsessed about the existence of the swaddling?’

‘Obsessed! Listen to yourself. Even your language is negative. Think about it, in every nativity story you’ve ever heard, read or been part of as a child, you would have heard these words – “Wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger”. There is no relic greater than this one. My quest, no, it’s more than a quest. My destiny is to discover it.’

‘Destiny?’

‘Higher than that, perhaps more than destiny. I believe I have been chosen.’ There was a pause; she continued to glare at him as she began collecting her maps, then stopped and looked up. ‘Wasn’t it Keats who said, “The two most important days in your life are the day you are born, and the day you find out why?” This is the reason, Brodie. This is why I was born.’ She sighed, not letting a self-damning thought about her arrogance hold her back. ‘I doubt you would understand, even if I told you.’

‘Try me. I want to help, I do. Stay, please?’

Melody composed herself and stared hard at him. He better mean it. She put the maps back on the table.

‘The story from the book of Joseph, which I read at fifteen, intrigued me because the Virgin Mary gave a piece of the swaddling cloth to the Magi. But then, I imagined I was holding it, draped over my hands, still warm. Then I heard Mary speaking to me. I didn’t understand the language, but her words were soft and comforting. It’s the reason I learned Hebrew and Persian.’

‘Where were you at the time?’

‘Boarding school. On the day I first read the “lost gospel” story, I had a strange experience.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Later that evening, I had my first vision,’ she said, swallowing and watching Brodie’s eyebrows rise. ‘A sense of utter despair gripped me. It was overwhelming. It seemed to claw at me, pulling me down. My eyes clouded over. I could barely breathe. Then a total loss of sight, leaving only darkness. I panicked. I thought I had gone blind. But then a peace overcame me, a serenity the like of which I had never experienced, and such joy welled up inside me.’

‘How long did it last?’

‘It felt like an age, and yet it was probably only a few minutes. Scenes began flashing in my mind. Most of the pictures made little sense, like clips from an old film, fuzzy and shaky, though the location was clearly the Middle East and in ancient times. Eventually, one scene unfolded crystal clear. A woman nursing a child reached down and opened a wooden box. She removed a strip of cloth and gave it to one man kneeling opposite saying, “Bimcom bracha, ani magishah lecha et hamatanah hazo”.’

‘Instead of a blessing, I present you with this gift,’ Brodie said, translating from Hebrew.

‘Yes. And it was the same voice – soft and comforting. Then it faded away. Oh, how I wanted to stay in that moment.’

‘I see,’ he said, sitting forward in his chair. ‘Then what happened?’

‘Unfortunately, a House Mistress began shaking me and asking if I was alright. A classmate had found me and thought I was having a fit.’

‘And you believe Mary was the woman in your vision?’

‘Yes! I know it sounds crazy, but I believe it was Mary and the gift was the swaddling?’

‘Have you had any further experiences?’

‘Yes, I’ve lost count now. There have been so many and all of them concern the swaddling, Mary and the Magi. Over several years, the visions have become clearer, longer and episodic, like watching a box set, sequentially.’

‘Have you spoken to anyone about this?’

‘You’re the first person I’ve told, apart from the school doctor and my grandmother. Not even my father knows. I didn’t want people to think I was going mad.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Recently, though, there’s been a development. A transformation in the visions. It’s difficult to explain. I’m no longer watching a film. I’m well…’ Melody searched his face, looking for a flicker of empathy.

‘You’re what?’

‘I’m transported into it. Look, I know it’s hard to believe, but I am there with them.

Like, instead of watching a film, I am on the set. I’m an invisible onlooker,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘they sometimes walk through me, as though I were a ghost.’

Brodie was now taking notes. ‘What period do they cover?’

Melody straightened her posture. He seems to have softened his position. I need to fire both barrels now. ‘Chronologically, the visions have been as far back as Mary’s betrothal to Joseph and as far forward as the Magi receiving the swaddling,’ she smiled with the relief it was finally being shared.

‘What did your doctor say, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘He wanted to refer me to a psychiatrist or at least a psychotherapist and gave me medication to “relax me”,’ she made air quotes with her fingers. ‘But then I read about Catherine Emmerich and her visions in the book, Mary’s House. It was such a release to know a nun from the sixteenth century had similar experiences. That was the moment I knew I wasn’t mad.’

Brodie was nodding. ‘I know the story has its critics, but I researched her work many years ago. I believe her stigmata was the clearest sign of her existential union with Mary. Are you also making a journal of your experiences?’

‘Several so far.’ She paused. ‘I feel better for having told you. I can’t explain why I have the visions, and mostly I wish they would stop, but I don’t think they will until I discover the swaddling. It’s the reason I have to continue the search. I won’t give up Brodie, I have to go on.’ She paused again. ‘I don’t expect many will understand, but I have to find the swaddling somehow. If you feel you cannot help, I’ll ask my MP.’

‘I see,’ Brodie said, sitting back, pursing his lips and exhaling; he suddenly stood and paced the room. ‘A discovery of this magnitude would certainly be significant, not only in terms of your reputation but also for the college.’ He paused, deep in thought. ‘It’s not so much an evidential problem and now I understand better what’s been driving you, I would say it’s more of a practical one.’ He took the map and smoothed it out.

‘The Caspian Sea has so many borders: Russia, Azerbaijan and Turkmenistan, and to the south is Iran. I would regard none of these countries as stable or with high enough regards for women.’ By now, he was pointing at the circles on the map. ‘Why there Mel? What’s the connection with the swaddling or the Magi? What are you not telling me?’

Melody realised this could be her one chance to win over any lingering scepticism. She took a deep breath. ‘Do you remember Augustus Schmidt, the German Professor?’

‘I met him once when I attended a fundraising event they invited me to at Yale,’ he said, sitting down. ‘He seemed a decent fellow.’

‘His specialism is in the connections between archaeology and the Bible.’ She paused and he nodded his acquiescence. ‘Five years ago, Cardinal Poggi sought permission from the Pope to grant him exceptional access to the secret Vatican archives.’

Melody sat upright in her chair. ‘Here’s the interesting bit – on one of those days, he came across some non-catalogued manuscripts. In it was a letter from The Magi, Melchior to his wife, Paadini.’

‘Did it confirm the account in the Lost Gospel?’ he asked, nodding.

‘Yes and crucially, Melchior wrote the letter after the visit of the three Magi to Bethlehem. He told her about the presentation of the swaddling to them by Mary and how later they discovered it had extraordinary powers to heal, possibly giving eternal life, and so, after considering the consequences of it getting into the wrong hands, they decided “to lay it up among their treasures”.’

Brodie cut in, ‘I presume in an area south of the Caspian Sea?’

‘Previous searches have been around Bushehr on the Persian Gulf.’ She moved back to the map. ‘This letter spoke of the Valley of Ascendency being near Behshahr, on the South-Eastern coast of the Caspian Sea in Iran.’ She paused. ‘Brodie, I’ve been looking in the wrong place.’

Brodie digested this recent information. ‘Unfortunately, though, it’s only a hundred and fifty miles from Tehran, and to get a transit visa you would not only need a sponsor living in Iran, but tickets, hotel reservations and the production of a day-by-day itinerary.’

‘I think I can manage all of that. Farrokh Mokri has agreed to be my sponsor.’

Brodie stood up again, pacing the room. ‘Can I speak frankly, Mel?’

Oh, dear, is he excited or about to pull the rug? ‘You know I still value your opinion.’

‘Muslims in Iran will cover a wide spectrum of views in terms of the depth of their faith. There is a universally held view by most of them that poking around looking for Judeo-Christian artefacts is offensive and could possibly be interpreted by the State as blasphemy.’

He returned to his seat. ‘Surrounding Iran are hostile or volatile countries. There is no straightforward way in or out, and the UK has little or no diplomatic relations. If anything were to go wrong, I doubt we could get you out. On the flip side, should you be successful? It would be an international game-changer?’ He stroked back his hair as he paused again.

Melody could hear birdsong in the quad outside.

‘If, after considering this, you still decide you want to go, then I will write in support, but I have a proviso which is non-negotiable. I know someone in anti-surveillance who can equip you better for this task. You must sign up for a course.’

‘Agreed.’ Melody said, exhaling.

~

Melody left the London Underground at Covent Garden and made her way to The Strand. She was looking for the office of ‘Cherished Anti-Surveillance’ at Savoy Hill. Her appointment was with Stuart Toulson, a so-called ‘expert’ in personal security and anti-surveillance techniques. It annoyed her she couldn’t find her mobile phone; she thought she had it when she left home but couldn’t find it on the train. Maybe I left it at home, or perhaps in the taxi. Ringing it from King’s Cross Station, in case someone had found it, proved futile. It eventually went to voicemail.

Her expectation was a seedy office in some back street but she had to admit the reception waiting area for the private detective agency was impressive. The Art deco furniture looked as if it might have been by Eileen Gray.

A ceramic vase by Clarice Cliff sat in a glass case, and two paintings by the Polish artist Tamara de Lempick hung on either side. The efficient-looking receptionist broke into her thoughts. ‘Mr Toulson will be down in a few minutes, Miss Thornton. Can I get you something to drink?’

‘No, thank you,’ she said, picking up the company’s brochure. It targeted CEOs working in the oil industry in Africa and South America. She was not sure this was suitable for her or even necessary, but Brodie had insisted.

The lift door glided open almost silently, and a smartly dressed man stepped out and Melody stood to greet him.

‘Good morning, Miss Thornton, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’ He talked whilst shaking her hand. ‘Please call me Stuart. Do you mind if I call you Melody, surnames are so formal, don’t you agree? I always feel I need to know my clients well if I am to keep them safe. Please follow me.’

Melody realised she had not spoken and they were already in the lift. Although in his early forties, he looked in good shape, tall and muscular. He spoke softly but quickly, and with such authority, his voice almost hypnotic.

They left the lift on the third floor and walked a short distance down a beautifully carpeted hallway with more impressive art hanging from the walls and the scent of lotus blossom in the air. They entered his large modern furnished office, and he gestured for her to sit on one of two low-backed, colourful designer armchairs.

‘I understand you plan to travel in the Middle East, Melody and you wish to keep the reason for your visit a secret. Though secret is such a loaded word, don’t you think? I prefer esoteric, it sounds more mysterious.’ He was smiling, but his frankness had caught her off guard. She was about to speak when there was a knock at the door and a young man who seemed vaguely familiar entered with a small brown paper bag and a notepad. He handed it to Stuart without speaking and left; Stuart glanced at the items before placing them on his desk.

‘Mr Toulson, I appreciate your time, but I think Brodie overstates the danger and I’m not a child. I am confident I can look after myself. I don’t need anti-surveillance training.’

‘Brodie said you may say something like that. Now, what I am about to tell you will have one of two effects. You will either storm out of the office indignant and we will never meet again - but only two per cent of people do this. Though actually, I hate statistics. They seem to prove whatever you want; don’t you agree? Mark Twain put it perfectly when he said, “there are lies, damn lies and statistics”.’ He leaned his head to one side. ‘Alternatively, you will sign up for a three-day introductory course.’ He walked over to his desk, glanced again at the notepad, and then continued.

‘You rose at 0545 hours this morning and took a black cab to your local train station, where you purchased a return ticket for the 0710 to Kings Cross and a copy of the Daily Telegraph. As you were finding your seat, you bumped into a young man in the aisle who, unknown to you, stole your mobile phone. At Kings Cross, you made a call to your mobile from a public phone box, hoping someone had found it, but no one answered. You then visited Starbucks on the concourse and purchased a grande skinny latte before taking the tube to Covent Garden on the Piccadilly line.’

He opened the brown bag and handed over her iPhone. ‘We have not interfered with it or added a tracker, nor have we collected any data from it, although my colleague could have carried out these simple tasks on the train before returning it to you without your knowledge.’

Melody took the phone, speechless.

‘Now, the question for you is simple. Are you indignant or are you intrigued? Or to put another way, will you storm or will you stay?’

Melody was waiting in the anteroom outside the study of Associate Professor Broderick Kearney. He was a tutorial fellow of the School of Archaeology, specialising in the Persian Empire, at Magdalen College, Oxford. The smell of wood polish reminded her of a quip a fellow student made that the college seemed to be made almost entirely of stone and polished wood.

The large oak-panelled door opened and he stepped into the waiting room, wearing a tweed jacket and paisley cravat, his highly polished church shoes clicking on the block parquet flooring.

‘Good morning, Dr Thornton,’ he said, smiling and holding out his arms to greet her.

‘Good to see you again, Brodie,’ she said, standing. ‘And less of the doctor’s title.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

‘Sorry Melody, I couldn’t help it, but the title suits you. Come on through, I’ve ordered coffee for us.’

She followed him into his imposing study, noting it had not changed since she was last there. A high ornate ceiling, leaded windows, and an oak-panelled library. He gestured for her to sit whilst he settled into his worn vintage chair. ‘You’re looking well, Melody. How’s your search for the swaddling going?’

‘Straight to the point, as always, Brodie. It would be nice to chat for once. I might be here just to renew acquaintances,’ she said, stroking her strawberry blonde ponytail.

There was a knock at the door. His secretary entered with a tray containing coffee and biscuits and left without speaking.

‘It would flatter me if you were here just to chat,’ he said, pouring coffee for them both. ‘However, you have recently written two articles on relics, intimating accounts found in the book of Joseph, regarding the swaddling may have some legitimacy. You’re hoping I will validate it.’

The Professor looked up from the cups and raised his eyebrows.

Melody tilted her head and shrugged.

‘Milk and sugar?’

Melody relaxed, pleased she would not have to give a long update. ‘Black, please,’ she said, whilst leaning forward to pick up the fine china cup with her immaculately manicured hand. ‘You’re quite the detective.’

‘What I can’t figure out with you is what came first. Was it the religious connection or your interest in archaeology?’

‘My grandmother, though I called her Mañana, was my greatest influence,’ Melody looked down into her cup, knowing that Brodie was probably thinking about her parents too; her mother died when she was young and her dad had little interest in church. Shaking herself off, she locked back on Brodie and continued.

‘She had a real and simple faith and would read stories from a children’s Bible she’d bought me. The Nativity story was my favourite. I always had a warm fuzzy feeling when it said, “You shall find the infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger.” It was such a lovely picture.’ Melody closed her eyes and smiled. ‘It was years later, when I was fifteen on a school trip to Egypt, that I became fascinated by archaeology. Now can we move on to why I’m here?’

He nodded and smoothed back his hair, flecks of grey showing through. ‘Go on…’

She fumbled in her briefcase. ‘I need a visa to visit Iran,’ she said. Matter-of-factly, as though she had asked to visit America. She eventually produced a map of Northern Iran and the Caspian Sea, unfolded it and smoothed it out on the table.

Brodie did not react. Instead, he leaned forward and picked up the map, noticing several small circles around the southern tip of the Caspian Sea. His face became serious as he spoke.

‘Melody, the Middle East is an unstable region, particularly now. Iran is a dangerous country to be snooping around in. Heaven knows what they would make of a rich Oxford-educated daughter of a retired British Army Colonel. They could arrest you as a spy. We have so little influence there; we may never see you again.’ He paused. ‘Incidentally, does your father know of this?’

‘I don’t need my father’s permission, Brodie. I’m almost thirty years old. I’m not a child and he’s still not got over the disappointment of me not being a boy. Besides, the Caspian Sea is virtually a holiday destination for some.’ Her shoulders sank. ‘I need a letter of recommendation from a world-class college with a superb reputation in archaeology and a personage with high international esteem, preferably a professor.’

‘Melody,’ he began, ‘The only sign the swaddling existed or indeed was ever presented to the Magi is in the discredited “First Gospel of the Infancy of Jesus”. I cannot think of one respected theologian that gives any credence to these gnostic writings.’

‘That doesn’t mean they are wholly without merit. Besides, it’s not just the writings.’

This time Brodie’s shoulders sank. ‘Look, all you have is a story, probably manufactured by a second-century Christian sect, supposedly written by the High-Priest Caiaphas and purporting to be a gospel. Which incidentally was rejected as heretical fiction. Luther even doubted James and Hebrews for emphasising “works” with faith, so he put them in the back of his Bible with Jude and Revelation and considered them uncertain.’ He held up his hands.

‘I see,’ she said, frowning. ‘Is this about the reputation of the college or about your reputation and only wanting to back a certainty or an odds-on favourite? Worried about what people will say about your reputation if I were to fail?’

‘That’s unfair, Melody, and you know it. I’ve stuck my neck out countless times. Who supported you when the college wanted to remove funding altogether for your research?’

‘You’ve made your position clear, though I was hoping for a warmer response. Help me build a case–’

‘Admit it,’ he said, ‘there isn’t a preponderance of evidence, and what you have is unclear and unconvincing. Look, from what I know, the Gnostic Gospels saw no connection between Jesus and the nation of Israel or the acts of God in the Old Testament. Why have you remained so obsessed about the existence of the swaddling?’

‘Obsessed! Listen to yourself. Even your language is negative. Think about it, in every nativity story you’ve ever heard, read or been part of as a child, you would have heard these words – “Wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger”. There is no relic greater than this one. My quest, no, it’s more than a quest. My destiny is to discover it.’

‘Destiny?’

‘Higher than that, perhaps more than destiny. I believe I have been chosen.’ There was a pause; she continued to glare at him as she began collecting her maps, then stopped and looked up. ‘Wasn’t it Keats who said, “The two most important days in your life are the day you are born, and the day you find out why?” This is the reason, Brodie. This is why I was born.’ She sighed, not letting a self-damning thought about her arrogance hold her back. ‘I doubt you would understand, even if I told you.’

‘Try me. I want to help, I do. Stay, please?’

Melody composed herself and stared hard at him. He better mean it. She put the maps back on the table.

‘The story from the book of Joseph, which I read at fifteen, intrigued me because the Virgin Mary gave a piece of the swaddling cloth to the Magi. But then, I imagined I was holding it, draped over my hands, still warm. Then I heard Mary speaking to me. I didn’t understand the language, but her words were soft and comforting. It’s the reason I learned Hebrew and Persian.’

‘Where were you at the time?’

‘Boarding school. On the day I first read the “lost gospel” story, I had a strange experience.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Later that evening, I had my first vision,’ she said, swallowing and watching Brodie’s eyebrows rise. ‘A sense of utter despair gripped me. It was overwhelming. It seemed to claw at me, pulling me down. My eyes clouded over. I could barely breathe. Then a total loss of sight, leaving only darkness. I panicked. I thought I had gone blind. But then a peace overcame me, a serenity the like of which I had never experienced, and such joy welled up inside me.’

‘How long did it last?’

‘It felt like an age, and yet it was probably only a few minutes. Scenes began flashing in my mind. Most of the pictures made little sense, like clips from an old film, fuzzy and shaky, though the location was clearly the Middle East and in ancient times. Eventually, one scene unfolded crystal clear. A woman nursing a child reached down and opened a wooden box. She removed a strip of cloth and gave it to one man kneeling opposite saying, “Bimcom bracha, ani magishah lecha et hamatanah hazo”.’

‘Instead of a blessing, I present you with this gift,’ Brodie said...