‘This is the skeleton of the First Man?’
‘And it’s his skull. Only it’s not a dog’s skull. It’s superficially dog-like maybe. But then apparently baboons have heads that resemble a dog’s.’
‘Poor devil. Then he was deformed?’
Eden leaned forward to gaze into the eye sockets of the broken skull. ‘A deformed man, who a Roman general identified as having the city of the gods inside of him? Something that excited the Emperor so much that nineteen hundred years ago he declared this “poor devil”, as you put it, be worshipped?’
‘That must be it.’
‘No, it’s not the whole story.’
‘You found this out from my mother’s notes? They were just random jottings. Nothing coherent.’
‘I found this at the back of the file.’ Eden unfolded a sheet of paper covered with fierce handwriting. There was so much ink it seemed to obliterate every square inch of white. ‘It’s a letter from Albert Hezzle, dated 4th October, 1968: two days after the same harvest festival where your mother sketched the congregation’s anger, when the vicar told them about the translation of the zealot’s book. The villagers hated the Hermit. They loved the First Man.’
Heather stared at the letter as if it smouldered in Eden’s fingers, just about to burst into flame and consume them all. ‘My mother received that letter, then stopped work on the translation?’
Eden nodded.
Heather turned back to the skeleton. ‘It seems as if Humpty, or more correctly the First Man, still wields influence.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘They’re a superstitious lot round here. A perceived bad omen can put the wind up them.’
‘No, as I told you, it’s not fear that the First Man inspires… it is Love.’
Her aunt shrugged. ‘So? He’s dead. Long, long dead.’
‘But something lives on.’
‘What? His wandering spirit?’
Eden shook her head. ‘His teachings.’
‘They’ll be of academic interest to historians. That’s all.’
‘According to Mr Hezzle’s letter the First Man’s knowledge is very much alive — albeit locally — and is something of a village secret. What’s more, the Hezzle family hoped that one day all of humanity will receive what they term “the Gift”.’
‘“And as soon as we receive this marvellous Gift, humanity will be saved”,’ concluded Heather with sigh. ‘If we had a golden nugget for every religion that’s promised salvation of our eternal souls… ’
‘It’s not about souls and the after-life. The First Man’s Gift would apparently improve the quality of life here on Earth.’
‘That’s very laudable. But undoubtedly delusional.’
‘According to grandma’s notes and Mr Hezzle’s letter, which is incredibly detailed, I’ve worked out the jist of… ’ Eden nodded at the bones on the table, ‘… the nature of his Gift.’
‘And?’
‘The First Man would father the children of local women. By the hundred, or even the thousand.’
They both looked up as thunder rumbled in the distance. A sound suggestive of prowling menace.
‘Ah, sex.’ Heather gave a knowing smile. ‘I should have known that the Gift of any self-proclaimed male hero would involve a stonking, great harem, so he could enjoy unfettered shagging rights.’
Thunder growled again. It grew darker inside the room as storm clouds loomed above the dreary expanse of fields. A car took the bend in the highway just a little too quickly. Its tyres squealed in protest. A moment later it accelerated safely away from the evil crook in the road.
Eden shook her head. ‘You might be a cynic, Heather, but local people, just like the Romans, believed in the First Man’s Gift.’
She turned back to the skeletal puzzle on the table and completed the brow ridge above one eye with a fingernail-sized fragment of bone that fitted perfectly. The face didn’t seem to resemble a dog so much now. Instead, something else emerged.
Eden spoke fluently, confidently: ‘The followers of the First Man realised this important fact: that the children he fathered with local women grew up to be superior to other children. They were stronger, more intelligent, more resistant to illness, and enjoyed a much longer life-span.’
‘So why did the Roman general describe the First Man as the Theopolis?’
‘Because General Gallus talked to him. Gallus possessed an enquiring mind. He knew that each Roman god and goddess had their own special talents: Mars, the god of war; Juno presided over marriage and children; Saturn, the god of agriculture. As you know, the Romans believed there was a whole bunch of deities in heaven. Gallus figured out that these godlike talents, or more accurately “fields of expertise”, had become fused into individuals known as the First Men. Hence, the title. The First Man would become the first in a long line of super-intelligent individuals with increased longevity. In turn, these would then sire more children.’
Heather gave a long, low whistle. ‘So a race of supermen would be born. And, in turn, the eventual extinction of
In the growing gloom, shards of ancient Roman pottery stood out as splinters of orange, as they caught the failing light. Eden noticed fragments of faces gazing from yet more remnants of bowls and jars that once contained spices, wine, and scented oils from Persia, and, perhaps, funerary unguents borne from mysterious realms along the Great Silk Road that linked the Orient with Imperial Rome. Once more thunder growled; this time with enough force to make a window pane shiver.
Heather shuddered. ‘We’re in for storm. Out here they can be a real nightmare. I hope Curtis comes home soon.’ Then she looked directly at Eden. ‘You know. I thought at first you were like your mother. I admit I was wrong. You are intelligent. You’ve examined all the facts you could find, then you worked out the truth. You’d have made a first class detective. I mean that sincerely, Eden. I’m impressed.’
‘I can also deduce that you don’t like my mother. That you think she’s silly.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘No, but I can piece your opinion together… just like these bones. Look at this,’ she moved to the table and gently touched the cheek of the skull. ‘The First Man didn’t have the head of a dog, or an ape. He was a man… but a man from a difference species.’
14. Friday Evening: 7.30
Thunder. Still no rain.
Curtis detested his day. He prowled; he snarled. Four times he made telephone calls. Complaints, expressions of frustration. With Curtis’s angry mutterings came more thunder. Plenty of thunder, a hollow sounding boom in the distance; the sound of massive barrier walls collapsing. When he poured himself a huge glass of merlot, the colour of blood in this half-light filtering through grim slabs of cloud, he made his fifth call.
‘Raj? Raj! You were going to get those damn court papers organised. No, that’s not good enough. I want Wayne’s ugly face in court. I want to see him go through hell after what he did to me.’ He touched his bruised eye. ‘Get it done Monday. Okay? That’s all well and good… yes… if the papers aren’t served next week you’ll be losing a valuable client. Goodbye.’ He glowered through the window. ‘Bloody weather.’ He emptied the wine down his throat then went for a refill.
Curtis jabbed a glance at Eden as she brought him a plate of sandwiches. He chose to interpret her expression the wrong way. ‘I can drink whenever I want. It’s my blasted house.’ He glared at his wife. ‘Even if my name isn’t on the deed, it’s still my home.’
