Charlie’s statement startled Coop for a second. “Tried to kill you?”
“Charlie, relax. Let him finish,” Sean tried to ease the momentary tension between the two friends. “Coop, we’ll fill you in later. Please, go on.”
Their host seemed concerned about Charlie’s statement, but continued what he was saying nonetheless. “Very well, but I apologize for any problems this may have caused. The coin has been handed down through generations of my family along with Francis Jackson’s personal diary.”
Charlie stared at his friend for several seconds without saying anything. His mouth drooped wide open, and his eyes remained narrow. Sean remained unfazed. He had a feeling there was something missing from the whole coin story. Now he knew what it was.
“Where is the diary?” Sean asked evenly.
Coop’s bearded face creased into a grin. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a worn, leather book. It wasn’t much more than a notepad, but there was no question of its age. Sean wanted to say something about keeping an important piece of history like that somewhere safe and not around six kinds of barbecue sauce, but he decided to keep it to himself. The diary belonged to Coop. He could do with it what he wanted.
Charlie, on the other hand, was less discreet. “Why in the world would you have that thing on you? And why would you bring it here?”
“I wanted to show it to you two, and I didn’t want to wait,” Coop explained innocently. He handed the little journal over to Sean, who accepted it reverently.
He’d seen his fair share of those sorts of things. Whenever he found something so old, so personal, he couldn’t help but feel a connection to the history and life of the person who’d created it. Over two hundred years ago, someone had been making notes in the book he held at the moment. Sean wondered what trials and journeys the diary had made through the last few centuries to end up in his hands.
Carefully, he opened up the leather as if it would tear asunder. Inside, the pages were still in good shape. Vellum, he thought. Paper would likely have not survived that long, at least not with the owners of the diary taking it out to restaurants and exposing it to the elements.
The writing on the pages had been done in dark ink that was still easily readable. The dramatic cursive lines demonstrated that the person who’d written it was well educated.
Sean started reading, warily making sure he didn’t do any damage to the book.
I managed to convince the king to let me and my men go to Denmark on a secret mission, one of utmost importance.
After learning about Jonathan Stuart’s fascinating encounter with the hidden Danish tomb in 1801, I set about learning all I could about the location of it. The details were hard to come by at first, especially considering the fact that Stuart and his men discovered the burial mound quite by accident.
Our ship let us go ashore before the main bombardment of Copenhagen began. We only had a small amount of time to complete our task before our rendezvous with the fleet on the return trip.
One of my men discovered the burial mound, not far from the famous castle Kronborg near Helsingor. It was just as Stuart had remembered, a fact that surprised me given that he had to recount the events of his discovery through the fog of six years. On top of that, they’d found the tomb in the middle of the night, so seeing landmarks must have been nearly impossible. I suppose Stuart must have taken in the lay of the land during his escape the following morning.
Getting into the burial mound took a bit of work. Fortunately, we brought the tools necessary for the job, including picks and shovels for digging. The task of uncovering the entrance took less than an hour, due to the fact that it had been opened only six years prior.
Once inside, we were greeted by a stone sarcophagus in the center of the chamber, but upon investigation, it proved empty. In spite of some paranoia and superstition from my men, we spent the night in the tomb, thinking it far more prudent than venturing unwittingly into an enemy encampment in the dark.
We left early the next morning. As my men evacuated the mound, I lingered for a few moments and took a closer look at the inside of the sarcophagus. That was when I discovered the shard.
It was a small piece of stone, no larger than the palm of my hand. On the surface of the object were strange markings, like none I’d ever seen before. I now know these odd lines and shapes are the language of the ancient Norsemen.
Sean turned the page, his eyes wide with fascination. Charlie impatiently tried to shift into a position where he could look over Sean’s shoulder.
My men and I found a frigate flying the king’s colors, hailed them from shore. The ship was returning from the bombardment of Copenhagen with the rest of the fleet. Once back in England, I began my work in earnest to discover what secrets the shard was hiding.
Deciphering the code of the old Viking language took a great deal of time. It did not help that the shard was incomplete. There was enough information, however, to afford me the opportunity to begin my journey.
The shard, as it turns out, was part of a map. What it leads to, I still do not know and fear I never will. My health has taken a turn for the worse as of late, and I fear my days in this world are numbered.
I write these words for the future generations. My son is but a boy at the time of writing this. If you are reading this, Stuart, I hope you will carry out this last of my missions. If you do not, I forgive you, but ask only that you pass this logbook down to your child, that generations of our family may keep it safe.
Along with the journal, I ask that you do the same with the first of what I believe is a set of four golden coins.
Unfortunately, I was only able to complete a quarter of the journey. But you, future generations of Jacksons, may take the difficult path and finish my mission. To date, I do not know the face of the bearded man on the coin. I likely never will. I have searched through books and scrolls, pouring years of my life into this endeavor. Still, I cannot find a clue as to who the man is. I believe him to be an old Viking king or god, but that is mere speculation.
The language on the back is different from the other Norse verbiage I found on the shard. I continue to attempt to decipher it.
Good luck on your journey. The southern gate opens the way for those who pay the toll.
Sean’s wide eyes narrowed as he finished the last passage. The southern gate? That was a strange way to end the entry. He thought for a minute before looking up at Coop. The bushy bearded man stared across the table, his eyes full of wonder.
“Well, Sean, what do you think?”
He didn’t respond for a second, reverently flipping through a few more pages of the diary first. There were strange symbols and more notations from Jackson on the latter pages. Coop’s ancestor had begun a quest to find something. What it was, none of the men at the table knew for sure, but whatever it was, had been important enough that it had consumed Francis Jackson until the day he died.
“It’s interesting stuff,” Sean said finally.
Coop gaffed and leaned back in his chair. “I was hoping for something a little more substantial than a baseline answer like that, Sean.” His barb was only partially serious, though he crossed his arms after saying it.
Sean tilted his head to one side and then the other, still carefully eyeing the outside of the leather book. “Sorry to be so vague. It’s just that I’ll need some time to think about what’s in this,” he held up the journal. “I’ll also have to do a bit of research on your ancestor to find out all I can about him, as well as anyone else who may have used this to look for whatever he was trying to find.”
Coop nodded his approval. “You may take the diary with you to Atlanta. I assume you would like your researchers to have a look at it as well?”
“Probably,” Sean shrugged. “They’d love to get their hands on this. To be honest, you’re lucky it’s in such good shape. Something as old as this doesn’t usually keep very well unless it’s in an airtight container. Since it’s made from lamb skin and leather, surviving the last few hundred years wasn’t as difficult.”
“What about the riddle at the end of his entry?” Charlie asked, sliding his chair back to where it had been previously.
“Not sure, Charlie.” Sean flicked his eyes at his friend and then back to Coop. “Could mean anything at this point. We’re trying to put together a puzzle without looking at the picture on the box. For now, let’s get this back to IAA and see what the kids can come up with. I’ll start trying to dig up anything I can on Francis Jackson and any of Coop’s other ancestors that might have known anything about what he was looking for.”
“Splendid,” Coop said, throwing his hands up in the air. He raised the tall, half-full mug of beer to his face and proceeded to pour the rest of the contents down his throat. Setting the mug back onto the table, he sighed as if a great thirst had been quenched. “Well then, gentlemen, shall we head back to the house for the evening? I’ve got some good bourbon if either of you are so inclined.”
“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day,” Charlie said.
“I’ll pass,” Sean waved a dismissive hand. “But I appreciate the offer. Besides, I’d rather keep a clear head right now. Something is strange about this whole scenario.”
A few minutes later, the three men were back on the road, returning to Coop’s house. He’d had a few large beers while at the barbecue joint, and his speech carried the slightest slur to it.
“Tell me, gents, what happened to Charlie? You said there was some sort of altercation earlier?” Coop said, his arms outstretched across the back of the rear seat.
“Some commie kidnapped me and tried to kill me,” Charlie grumbled.
Sean laughed at the way he said it. “To be fair, Coop, the guy was Russian, and they aren’t communist anymore.”
“Once a commie, always a commie,” Charlie corrected.
Coop took on an air of concern, leaning forward in the backseat. “Someone abducted you and tried to kill you?”
Charlie nodded. “Guy said he was looking for your coin. Didn’t say why. He wanted to know where it was and where I got it.”
Coop’s eyes were wide in disbelief. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry that my family heirloom has caused you so much trouble.” He thought for a second before continuing. “Sean, how did you come to be involved with all this?”
Sean switched lanes and sped past a slow moving eighteen-wheeler before merging back into the center lane. “I was on my way to see Charlie, noticed him in the passenger seat of the Russian’s rental car, followed, saved his butt.” He grinned as he said the last part, knowing it would annoy his friend.
Charlie remained silent, but Sean figured he wanted to say something to the effect that he had the situation under control.
Coop shook his head slowly. “I am so terribly sorry. I did not realize asking you to help with this would bring about such trouble.” Regret filled his voice.
“I’m fine,” Charlie said, half twisting around to look in the rear seat. “Don’t worry about it.”
Coop forced a smile back onto his face.
“But I do want some of that bourbon,” Charlie added with a chuckle.
Another fifteen minutes later, Sean steered the Mustang back into the gravel driveway and up the hill to Coop’s home. The men got out of the car and made their way to the front porch, but stopped short on the landing just before reaching the door.
The wood where the doorframe met the deadbolt was in splinters, and the door hung slightly ajar. Sean held up a finger to the other two and padded back to the parked car. He opened the door and reached in, pulling out the weapon he’d taken from the Russian earlier in the day. He pulled the slide back, chambering a round, before rejoining the other two at the front door.
“Stay here,” he mouthed.
Coop and Charlie nodded.
Sean kicked open the door and scanned the left side of the area first, then the right. Next, he rushed to the back of the living room where it adjoined the dining area, rounded the corner, and cleared the kitchen. Once the main parts of the house were checked, he swept through the two bedrooms and bathrooms to make sure the rest of the house was empty. It was a routine he’d performed many times before. In total, the entire process only took him about ninety seconds.
Once he was sure the house was clear, he went back to the front and motioned for the other two to come inside. “It’s clean,” Sean informed them. “Well, sort of.”
He waved a hand around at the scene before them. Papers were strewn across the floor near the overturned desk. Sofa cushions had been cut open and the stuffing pulled out. As the men made their way to the kitchen, they discovered drawers lying on the floor with silverware and various items of stationery scattered about.
A quick tour of the home revealed to Coop that the same treatment had been given to every room. His wide, disbelieving eyes said it all.
“Looks like our Russian friend followed us,” Charlie said with his hands on his hips, observing the scene.
“Yeah,” Sean agreed. “And it also looks like we’re going to have to find another place to crash.”