Crypt of Bone

Prologue Jerusalem. Israel. 5.27am Blood has seeped into the stones of Jerusalem for millennia. Screams of the dying have echoed across the Kidron Valley as the ancient city has been besieged, broken and destroyed. Each time, the blood of the defeated has watered the earth, seeds of hate to be harvested in the next generation. Demons of war and power have squatted over the city, feeding off the lives that ground themselves to dust for their gods. Here the blood of human sacrifice stained the altars to Baal and fortress walls were built on the crushed bodies of the vanquished. Here the Jews fought to rule their Holy City, being both victor and then victim in their long history. Here the blood of Jesus Christ ran onto the stone streets of the Old City as the mob jeered his passing. Jerusalem has always been a place of blood, and always will be. Ayal Ben-David stepped out from the maze of Jewish Quarter streets onto the series of ramps leading down to the Western Wall. The golden Dome of the Rock dominated the scene, reflecting the rays of the rising sun. The blue tiles were dusky from this distance but he knew that the mosque was covered with Arabic script and brilliant turquoise, aqua and gold tiles. It stood framed by cypress trees, witnesses to a never-ending conflict. Ayal walked across the wide expanse of the open square, grey marble reflecting pink hues of the early morning sky. He raised his hand to another soldier standing guard at the eastern entrance to the square, acknowledging him but not stopping. He stood taller as he neared the Western Wall itself, straightening his uniform and checking that his rifle hung down correctly behind him. He never tired of this morning routine. This wall was the only remnant of the ancient Temple and Jews had been kept from it for so long. It was the closest they could get to the Temple Mount where God gathered the dust to fashion Adam, where Abraham had bound his son Isaac as a sacrifice. It had been the centre of the Jewish temple, the Holy of Holies, the place where God dwelt with His chosen people. But it was also here that Mohammad ascended to heaven on his Night Journey and so it had become the most contested religious site in the world. Ayal was close enough now to see the huge blocks of limestone that made up the ancient wall. Each was almost as tall as a man, the wall’s foundations embedded deep in the earth. There were tufts of shikaron or henbane spiking from the grooves between the blocks. He smiled as a swallow swooped to perch and pick an insect from one of the thorny bushes that grew there. Nature found its way into the cracks of life, he thought, like the Jews, surviving despite generations of persecution. Ayal was proud. This was his heritage, his life. He stood in front of the wall and began to pray, fingertips resting gently against the stone. He could almost feel the power of the place. Hopes and prayers of believers were written on scraps of paper and pushed into the cracks of stone. The tefillah, heartfelt prayers, would reach God faster here, the most holy place, where the real bled into the divine. As he neared the end of the first prayer, Ayal heard shouting above him. The words were muffled but the noise echoed through the square. Immediately, he swung his rifle into position, looking up for potential danger. Rocks had been thrown down many times by Muslims intent on disrupting the prayers of the Jewish faithful, but sometimes the threat was more serious. He could see that the other soldiers in position around the square had heard the noise and were also prepared for action. Moving back away from the wall, Ayal scanned for the source of the noise. Standing on top of the Western Wall, a skinny man in a thin white robe raised his hands to the dawn sky and called out to God. His head was shaved and his skeletal figure made a grotesque outline against the deepening azure sky. Ayal couldn’t make out the words but clearly the man was a fanatic and the guards from the Temple Mount would get to him soon enough. He turned his head to signal to the others to stand down; there was no real threat. But a soldier pointed urgently, and Ayal looked back to see the man jump from the top of the wall, sixty feet above him. The man was silent as he fell, white robe billowing behind him in a parody of flight. With a sickening crunch, his body smashed on the flagstones at the base of the wall. Blood exploded from the broken body, staining the robe into a grisly shroud. Ayal ran to the man, but he could see there was nothing to be done, for he was clearly already dead. He knelt and checked the man’s pulse out of protocol, then called for another soldier to bring screens to put around the body. He would need the Rabbi to come and cleanse the area before the worshippers arrived. He noticed that the man was young, maybe in his thirties. Although half of his face was mangled by the fall, he had sharply defined cheekbones, as though he had been starving. Strangely, his face wasn’t contorted and it seemed he had died at peace. There were no other wounds so he hadn’t been shot. He had just jumped. Ayal could see that the once white gown was from a hospital and that the man was naked underneath. He moved the gown slightly to cover the man and give him some dignity in death. As he bent down, he noticed a scrap of paper that had been clutched in the man’s hand and now lay crumpled next to the body. Perhaps it would give some clue as to why he jumped. Blood still oozed from the body and would soak the scrap before long so he picked it up. It showed a roughly drawn horse’s head in thick lines of charcoal, smudged into the page with rough hands. The horse’s eyes were wide, its nostrils flared. Chalk had been rubbed over it to give a consistent white appearance. Beneath the image were inked the words, ‘Before me was a pale horse. Its rider was named Death, and Hades followed close behind.’ Ayal recognized it as part of a Christian prophecy from the book of Revelation and for a moment he pondered its significance. As he stood to direct the other soldiers, a trickle of blood ran down into the cracks of stone beneath his feet, joining the blood that had soaked the earth of the holy city for millennia.