I found this very heartening to hear, because many people are so quick to classify events as miraculous that it devalues the word. It’s that type of thinking that leads people to look to the mummies for a cure when medicine can’t provide one, and even if the Church no longer makes claims about the healing power of relics, it doesn’t do enough to dissuade the desperate. Among the ticket holders were one blind person and two confined to wheelchairs, all presumably hoping that proximity to one miracle could induce another. I pray that their suffering might be lessened, Lord, but I follow the secular consensus that there has been exactly one verified miracle—the creation of the universe—and all of us are precisely equidistant from it.
I must have waited in line for an hour before reaching the mummies, but that’s an estimate I made in retrospect, because seeing them was such a profound experience that I forgot all about the wait. There were two, both male, each in its own temperature-and-humidity-controlled display case. Their skin looked as delicate as the paper of a wasp’s nest, while simultaneously seeming to be stretched across their skulls as tight as a drum skin; I imagined that a slight jostling would cause it to tear. Both mummies wore guanaco hides around their pelvises, but nothing else; they lay recumbent on the reed mats they’d been buried with, their abdomens fully exposed.
I’ve handled the skeletal remains of primordial humans before, Lord, and as wondrous as it is to hold a cranium that has no sutures or a femur that has no epiphyseal line, it frankly cannot compare with the experience of seeing a body that lacks a navel. The difference lies, I think, in the fact that we are not conscious of the detailed structure of our own bones, so it requires some anatomical knowledge to recognize what distinguishes a primordial skeleton. But we are all conscious of having a navel, so seeing a torso without one induces awe of a more visceral, even intimate, variety.
When I left the exhibit area, I overheard the boy and his mother behind me again. The mother was leading the child in prayer, and they thanked you, Lord, for ensuring that the mummies were discovered by Church archaeologists rather than secular ones, because now they were being exhibited to the public instead of being hidden in the back rooms of a museum, where only select scientists could see them. I was less heartened to hear this. It’s not because I disagree with her, precisely. On this question, I’m of two minds.
I appreciate how powerful an experience it is to see the mummies directly, and this tour will bring tens or hundreds of thousands of people closer to you, Lord, by giving them that experience. But as a scientist, I feel that preservation of the tissue is the highest priority. No matter what pains the Church is taking, exhibiting these mummies across the country is bound to cause more deterioration than if they were stored in a museum. Who knows what techniques for analyzing soft tissues will be developed in the future? Biologists believe they are close to identifying the particles of inheritance through which organisms transmit their characteristics to their offspring; perhaps one day they’ll be able to read the information those particles carry. When that day arrives, we could have access to your original blueprint for the human species, uncorrupted by time. A discovery like that would bring all of humanity closer to you, Lord, but it requires us to be patient and not damage the tissue in the meantime.
In any case, I proceeded to the gift shop, where a number of visitors were lined up to purchase postcards. While waiting for the salesman to become available, I looked at the display case of relics; just as Rosemary had said, there were abalones among the various more conventional shells for sale. I had wondered if the gift shop would claim the abalone shells came from Chile along with the mummies, but in fact the card describing the shells said they were found on Santa Rosa Island off the coast of Alta California. It said they were found at the bottom of middens, the trash heaps of prehistoric communities.
Once there was a lull in the visitors making purchases, the gift shop’s salesman came to attend to me. Perhaps he was accustomed to people being put off by the shells’ origins in trash heaps, so he explained how that enhanced their status. “Not only do these come from primordial shellfish, but they were actually handled by primordial humans. Men made directly by God held these in their hands.”
I told him I was curious about the abalone shells; had they been found by Church archaeologists, like the mummies were?
“These were donated by a private collector. He provided the information that’s on the cards.”
I asked him if I could get the name of the collector, and he asked why I wanted to know. That was when I introduced myself and explained that I was an archaeologist; he told me his name was Mr. Dahl. I said that the only excavations on Santa Rosa Island were funded by the University of Alta California. Any and all recovered relics became part of the collections of the university’s museums, so there should be no primordial abalone shells in the hands of private collectors.
“I didn’t know that about abalone shells,” he said. “If I had, I would’ve asked more questions. Are you suggesting these were stolen?”
I told him that I couldn’t be certain, and that there might be an innocent explanation for it, but I’d be very interested in hearing what that was.
Mr. Dahl was obviously concerned. “We’ve received donations from private collectors in the past, and there’s never been an issue with provenance.” He looked through a ledger and then wrote down for me the name and address of the donor: a Mr. Martin Osborne, at a post-office box in San Francisco. “He sent a large selection shortly before the tour began, and asked that the items be priced inexpensively so that everyday people could afford them. It was such a generous sentiment that I agreed, even though it meant fewer funds raised for Yosemeti Cathedral. Would he do that if he had stolen them from a museum?”
I told him I didn’t know. I thanked him for his help and told him I would write to him once I had verified the source of Osborne’s donated relics; I suggested that, to avoid further complications, he might not want to sell any more of them until he had heard from me, and he agreed.
Now I confess that what I did next was to lie. Forgive me, Lord, but I couldn’t think of any other way to meet this Mr. Osborne if he’s in fact guilty of theft. I have sent an electric mailgram to Mr. Osborne, claiming to be Mr. Dahl, saying that I believe the relics he donated were stolen and I’m shipping them back to him immediately. I’ve also prepared a package addressed to Mr. Osborne, which will travel via train to San Francisco. I have exchanged my aeroplane tickets so that, rather than taking the flight to Arisona tomorrow, I will leave on the same train as my package. Once I’m in San Francisco, all I have to do is watch the post office and question whoever picks up the package. If he can’t explain how he acquired the relics, I’ll report him to the authorities. Then I’ll take the train south to Los Angeles, and from there I can make arrangements to get to the Arisona dig.
I know how unorthodox this is. If Mr. Osborne had provided a residential address, I could simply knock on his door. The fact that he’s using a post-office box not only makes it difficult to confront him, but leads me to think that subterfuge is justified. I hope I’m not leaping to conclusions.
Guide me toward the proper course of action, Lord. I recognize that my desire to seek answers, while necessary in scientific endeavors, is not always welcome outside of it. Help me to know when it’s appropriate to keep looking and when it’s better to ignore my doubts. Let me always be inquisitive, but never be suspicious.
Amen.