Solomon's Grave

He stopped in front of another painting. Unlike the others, this had an ornate dark wood frame. It looked quite old, but the colors were striking, dimensional in their fiery hues. Nathan began to say, “What do you—” but then could no longer speak.

The painting before him was of a desert, deeply colored in oranges and browns. The burning red sun had fallen behind a pyramidal structure. It was a temple, a massive backdrop when compared to the minute hooded figures marching away from the viewer, toward the temple’s dark red stone. All were washed in the hues of the dying sun. The walls rose up in stepped tiers, a slightly skewed rendition of an Incan temple.

Nathan knew this place.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The pilgrims were no more than slight, impressionistic dots along the bottom, dwarfed by the structure’s magnitude and presence. He imagined them moving as he watched, felt himself pulled forward, lost in the nightmare which had once again invaded his waking world.

He needed to look away, pretend this painting meant nothing. It was too late for that. Seeing this representation of his own private nightmare was too much of a shock. Its impact was not as it might have been, had there not been so many other enigmas these past few days. Just another mismatched jigsaw piece dropped in front of him.

“A lovely painting, isn’t it?”

Quinn had moved beside him and gazed at the picture.

Nathan’s voice was a harsh whisper. “What is it?” Any cards he’d hoped to play close to his chest had just been scattered across the floor. The best he could do was feign indifferent curiosity.

“If you don’t mind my saying, Reverend, you look a bit shaken.”

His confusion melted back into anger, or maybe this was simply what abject terror felt like. It filled every corner of Nathan’s body. The wall around the dark frame, the room itself, was crinkling away. Only the painting’s sharp colors offered any clarity. He needed to focus elsewhere, turn away. Instead he whispered, “What is that, that building in the painting?”

The other man said nothing, not right away. Instead he looked alternately between the temple image and his guest.

Nathan wasn’t sure if he’d answered. He didn’t think so. He closed his eyes, and the pressure around his head lightened a little. He turned to his right before opening them again, no longer trying to keep his composure. He wanted to run screaming into the parking lot but also grab this man and shake the answers out of him.

 “Tell me,” he said again, with a voice only slightly louder than before, “what that is. Now.” This last word surprised him. He didn’t like threatening anyone, even subtly. But it was too much. Too much to take in. Too much to accept.

Something changed in Quinn’s eyes. They had opened wider and his face softened in some unspoken understanding. An understanding which brought with it a slow, but genuine smile.

“I could say,” Quinn said, “that I do not know. But that would be a lie and we both know it.” His new stature, both physically and vocally, brushed away any assertiveness Nathan may have been building. In its place was defensiveness. The urge to leave was stronger now, but he was close to... something. Some answer which this man seemed about to give him.

Realizing he would get no response, Peter Quinn continued, “It is a rendition of an ancient Ammonite temple, built for the great god Molech.” His voice took on a hushed reverence. And something else, a vibration that tickled Nathan’s ears. “The greatest of all gods of those days, more powerful than any other. He demanded constant sacrifice and worship. Those pilgrims,” he nodded to the painting, and his smile grew, “are celebrating the Feast of the Wind, one of many celebrations in honor of the master.”

Quinn walked closer to the picture, leaving nothing between Nathan and the door.

Nathan needed to speak, take back control of the conversation. Quinn, however, was not finished. “At least, I believe that is the festival depicted, based on the depictions of swirling wind in the background, kicking up sand devils among the followers.” He laughed at some hidden joke in the statement, but said nothing else.

“Are...” Nathan began, then caught himself. He was going to ask if this man was such a worshipper, a pilgrim like the dots at the bottom of the painting. Of course he was not. A Satanist, perhaps, an avid researcher of old world religions, but the Ammonites were centuries gone and forgotten except by historical and Biblical scholars. He swallowed. “You know quite a lot about this. You’ve studied the old religions?”

Though he kept an outer calm, Quinn’s face belied an inner excitement about the subject. “Studied... yes, I suppose that’s one way to put it. Quite extensively. Tell me, Reverend, as you are a scholar of such things in your own way, do you know when the worship of dark gods of such great power was at its peak?”

Nathan knew only of what he’d studied in the Old Testament. The Ammonites—at least the demon Molech, whom they worshipped—were referenced throughout Scripture, as far back as Genesis. The fact that they had discussed this only last night did not strike him as strongly now as it would later that evening. By then, however, things would have gone so far out of control, it would be no more than a passing thought.

A name, perhaps the most prominent of names in those biblical chronicles, occurred to him. Nathan felt the room began to spin again. Quinn answered the question for him, moving a step closer.

“A few thousand years ago, during the reign of many famous Jewish kings. David, for one, though he did not pay much attention to the other sects of his time unless they were a direct threat to his small but, admittedly, powerful little nation.” Another step closer. “His son, however, ah, he was a different story. Displayed quite an interest in the Ammonites, did he not? Took some rather beautiful wives from among their ranks.” He was standing in front of Nathan now.

I want to leave, Nathan thought. God, please, what is happening? As had happened when he stared too long at the painting, the room blurred around the face of Peter Quinn. Nathan was in trouble. Every pore in his body that was not sweating screamed at him to leave... now! But he was frozen, paralyzed. It was too late to run. He’d had that chance earlier and did not take it.

“David’s son,” Quinn said, almost in a whisper. Nathan could almost taste the power in the voice wrapping around his head. “Solomon. I have studied your book, the stories of his time almost as much—more in some cases—as your contemporaries. I know details most of your kind choose to ignore. Solomon was enraptured with his Ammonite wives.” His breath was sweet across Nathan’s face, like incense. “He understood the power of their master, of the true god of that time.” He chuckled. “Irritated your little Yahweh to no end.”

God, help me.

“Does anything I say strike you in particular, Reverend Dinneck? Why did you react so excitedly to this painting? To this story I’m telling you, now? Tell me.”

The voice, barely a whisper, a breath, was a vice he could not escape. He had to tell Quinn about his dreams, about John Solomon’s grave, the angels. Had to tell him everything. More than that, Nathan realized that he wanted to.

 When he opened his mouth to speak, a voice across the room shouted, “Hello? Anyone home?” The room came into focus so sharply Nathan gasped and stumbled back. Quinn had such a sudden rage about his face Nathan thought he was going to snarl and leap upon the newcomer.

Josh Everson took another step into the store, his hand still holding the front door’s handle.

“Nate? God, Nate, what’s wrong?” He half-ran into the room. From the look on Josh’s face, Nathan decided he must look as bad as he felt.

“Excuse me,” Quinn said, raising a hand. “Mister Everson is it? We were having a private conversation.”

“Excuse me, yourself,” Josh said without looking away from Nathan.

Quinn’s composure slipped a little, and he said with a more conciliatory tone, “Please, you are trespassing. The reverend and I were having a—”

“Nate, you OK?” Josh asked.

Nathan nodded, but couldn’t remember ever feeling less OK in his life. “Josh. What... what are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “To be honest, I’m not really sure. I mean, I saw your car, and...” His voice trailed off. He looked as confused in that moment as Nathan had been a minute earlier.