BEHIND THE SUN
Considered by the vast majority of academics as implausible evidence of an ancient culture of remarkable people - causes a stir in modern times with the recovery of a captain's log from a sailing vessel that went down in a storm off the coast of Africa.
A lone archaeologist, Dr. Guy Williams who devoted the last half of his career to securing irrefutable proof the culture was responsible for major social and scientific advances - as well as metaphysical secrets - believes the culture did not die out.
Dr. Jack Sutter aware of Dr. Williams' work seeks distance and distraction from a haunting indiscretion - gathers a unique collection of five other professionals who also sign on for private reasons.
The odyssey takes the group from their predictable, comfortable careers to the military volatility of northern Africa and a jolting discovery that throws common acceptable history under the hooves of prevailing conviction...
...NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC Volume lV April, 1976
The
findings of archaeologist Dr. Guy Williams’ corroborated the conclusions of
three noted Dutch geologists who had ventured on a similar puzzle-piecing quest
in search of a highly advanced ancient culture.
Both
the Dutch and Canadian scientists studied the log from a salvaged
two-century-old wreck of the Portuguese merchant ship the Blue Queen. The log
entry that sparked immediate global controversy made a positive, but disjointed
description of a similar sub-civilization that an expedition of Dutch
industrial geologists claimed to have met and conversed with at length. The geologist's sighting occurred after their
field party ventured into the Atlas Mountains in northern Africa in search of
specific mineral deposits.
The
truly unsettling aspect of the mysterious culture alluded to in the
surprisingly well-preserved ship's log, found in a metal box with its edges
sealed in wax - was that the Blue Queen went down in a storm off the coast of
Mauritania in the spring of 1783. The
Dutch exploration team returned from the Atlas Saharien area with their
incredible story in the fall of 1971.
Reference
to this same civilization or similar culture was discovered at the digs of no
less than five separate archaeological sites in Crete, Egypt and Mexico. The scattered references found at these digs
were so casual in nature as to appear at first glance insignificant. However Dr. Williams believes this
sub-culture was and may still be anything, but insignificant.
Williams
noted that evidence of the culture did not reappear until after the crucifixion
and disappearance of the Nazarene when these people were then seen by merchants
from Greece. The account of those
merchants parallels the experiences recorded in the log of the Blue Queen and of the Dutch geologists.
PART I... The Quest
Where do I stand,
What place is this
That makes me want to run?
I want to leave,
Yet need to stay
On this other side of the sun.
s.t.b.
ONE
Jack
Sutter leaned back in his desk chair then stretched his arms above his
head. With one foot he pushed against
the floor and swung his desk chair around to face the wide stretch of glass
behind him. With his hands behind his head, he rested his gaze over the
familiar campus skyline.
Eight
floors below his office window he watched the weaving activity of hundreds of
students. They hurried along dozens of sidewalks and pathways that
criss-crossed the 314 acre campus like strips of crisp bacon connecting
twenty-six office buildings, lecture halls, and dormitories.
He
rubbed his temples, slowly willing a tension headache that hovered behind his
eyes to dissolve.
September
had always been Sutter’s favorite month, fall his favorite season. The smells were crisp almost sweet, the
colors were bracing. In fall Nature
bestowed a grand finale of turning leaves in rich tangerine and lemon - taking a
bow before the final curtain of winter’s powdered sugar.
Generally,
the beginning of a new term was precisely the therapy he needed. Once lost in revising lectures and caught up
in the whirlwind energy of students with their needs - he coped.
He read
again the typed lines of his opening notes to the first year students. Fundamentally it was the same material
printed on recipe cards every year, with slight alterations to curb his
monotony.
This
year he would no longer give full class lectures to first, second, and third
year students. As the new dean in the Department of Archaeology at the
University of Calgary, the extent of his future contact with the vast majority
of those young people would be the ten minute opening pep, then the more
demanding challenge of fourth year and the graduate students.
Sutter
eased out of the high-back chair and paced his office. He glanced at his watch. Just another thirty-two minutes before he met
Pete Roberts then gave the opening introduction to Robert's class.
Jack
was restless. Frustrated by a vast
accumulation of circumstances of which he was well aware and much more he could
not yet define.
Dr.
Aaron Fisherman's untimely stroke took the department by surprise. Jack had been hastily shuffled into his place
temporarily. Then the university
received word that Dr. Fisherman's full recovery was in doubt.
At
first Sutter was proud of his appointment as department head the previous
spring. But his sense of achievement at
securing the appointment slowly began to erode.
Intermittent depression fixed like fog to more and more of his days,
until his work ceased to be the haven of security in which he relied for refuge
and escape.
The
phone on Sutter's desk broke rudely into his thoughts. He stood for a moment glaring at the
intruding technology. On the fourth ring
he finally picked up the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Dr.
Sutter, Dr. Roberts just called. He
asked if you could meet with him in the lecture room earlier than ten to
nine."
"How
much earlier, Grace?"
"Is
now possible?"
"Did
he say what he wanted?"
"Not
in great detail. Something about a guest
lecturer, sponsored by the Glenbow Museum, a Dr. Guy Williams."
"Okay. Thanks Grace.
You needn't call Pete back. I'll
go down right away. Oh, and I won't return
until one thirty so just take messages this morning. Hopefully I can get back to everyone after
lunch this afternoon."
As
Sutter replaced the receiver he thought of Grace Fleury. How appropriate that someone like Grace
should be secretary to the head of archaeology.
She was nearly as old as the Province of Alberta and better than any
computer. All pertinent data was stored
and cross filed in Miss Fleury's delicate head, securely topped by an unruly
shock of naturally curly hair the color of raw cotton that reminded Sutter of
unraveled wool.
The
slim, bird-like lady had never missed a day due to illness and was punctual
with the precision of a finely crafted French clock.
Grace
had been secretary to the late Dr. Joseph LaRose when Jack struggled through
his first four years as an undergraduate, at the University of Alberta in
Edmonton. She later became secretary to
Dr. Fisherman in Calgary when Jack was a graduate student working on his
Master's thesis. He had known Grace
Fleury for twenty-two years and marveled that time had not touched her.
Dr.
Sutter made his way to the central bank of elevators. The lecture hall occupied a quarter of the space
on the fifth floor of the Earth Sciences Building, with some laboratory
facilities available on the same floor and in the basement.
He
walked through the open doorway and down the carpeted steps that lead into the
vast pie-shaped room. It had capacity
seating for two hundred, though Archaeology 101 could never boast that many
committed first year electives. By the
second year, usually about sixty had selected ancient sciences as their major
and that number remained constant to graduation. But less than one third of the graduates went
on to complete further specialized studies of field training.
Pete
Roberts sat on the corner of the table at the center of the lecture
podium. He was reading intently and
hadn't noticed he wasn't alone in the room until Dr. Sutter stood directly in
front of him.
"Jack. Good morning, didn't expect you this
quick." He lowered the National
Geographic that had so absorbed his attention greeting his one-time professor
and thesis advisor.
Pete
looked a full ten years younger than thirty-eight. His sandy blonde hair cut short, never varied
in style. The deep blue eyes that hinted
of mischief had turned many a female head on campus. Sutter suspected the younger man would retain
his friendly, boyish good looks well into his retirement years.
"Grace
seemed to think it was important. And
our new crop will be arriving in less than fifteen minutes so I thought it best
to hustle on down. What's up?"
"Have
you seen this?" Pete held up a
thirty-five year old edition of National Geographic. It was open to the first of four feature
articles. He handed it to Sutter.
Jack
quickly scanned the first two pages.
"No, not this article in particular, but I know Guy Williams'
work. He's one of the best known
archaeologists in the world. Most of his
field of study was in South America before he had to stop working at dig
sites. Apparently he suffered from
severe outbreaks of arthritis."
"He
was lecturing at McGill for a time."
Jack paused and flipped back to the cover, then frowned. "1976? Williams must be around eighty by
now."
"Eighty-four
to be exact. And he is the same Dr.
Williams Catherine has booked to speak at the Glenbow next month."
"I
didn't think he was still working."
"Well
he isn't, officially. However, occasionally
since retiring from McGill he’s done some guest speaking when he felt up to
it. Catherine has her fingers crossed he
doesn't become ill again before he is slated to speak here."
"And
so she should. I never met him
personally, but Aaron did. In fact, he
worked under Williams as a doctorate student three years prior to the last dig
Dr. Williams organized. I cut-my-teeth
on a number of Williams' published papers.
What's to be his topic?"
"This." Pete tapped the periodical with his first
finger. "Apparently this illusive
culture has been one of his pet subjects for half his life. But other than a small party of Mauritanian
government officials who attempted without success to duplicate the route taken
by the Dutch, Dr. Williams had no success convincing anyone to part with the
money he needed for another, more intensive search."
A
familiar buzz sounded, first bell. The
two men looked up to see close to a hundred students already seated with more
filing in through the open double door to fill the rows of stepped seats.
"It’s
nearly curtain time." Pete
smiled. He made a last minute check of
his projector, while Sutter arranged his note cards across the table.
The
doors were closed after the second bell and three stragglers hurried to vacant
seats. Dr. Roberts joined Dr. Sutter on
the podium. He introduced himself as
attending professor then his friend and department head.
"Good
morning and welcome to our past."
Dr. Sutter began.
"History,
the maintained written record of mankind's accomplishments and failures, is
little less than three thousand years-old."
"Writing
itself has existed just over six thousand years. The major slice of our distant past however,
was not recorded in any written form, but based on legend, tradition, or simple
drawings."
"There
would exist a great void in our present knowledge of evolution were it not for
archaeology. One of the most interesting
aspects of this form of science has been to bridge the stories, handed down by
word of mouth generation to generation, from undisputed fact or unquestionable
fiction. A perfect example of that was
found in Homer's account of Troy and the ancient Greek heroes of the Trojan
wars along with his classic poems.
Virtually all of this material remained unsubstantiated until the
excavations in Greece and Asia Minor showed that what Homer wrote had a
foundation by evidence."
As Jack
scanned the faces scattered before him he knew he didn't have his audience
leaning on the edges of their seats tense with anticipation, but they weren't
staring at him glassy-eyed, or down at the floor either.
"Because
of archaeology civilizations long-extinct, lost cities and forgotten ways of
life have surfaced. It was archaeology
that discovered startling evidence from tablets found in the Near East that
much of the legal code much of the human race follows today, can be traced back
over four thousand years to its origin in one of the earliest civilizations -
the Sumerians."
"Considering
how important archaeology has become in adding to our knowledge it is, but an
infant among the sciences."
Only
within the last one hundred years has it grown from a hobby of the academic
amateur into a recognized scientific profession. It was only early in the Twentieth Century
that historians reluctantly came to acknowledge the relevance of
archaeology. Then as the decades past
the work gained greater momentum with each new discovery that exposed new
information acquiring critical importance."
"It
is hoped by me and this entire department that not only will the majority of
you seated here today complete the next four years, but due to the volume of
detailed knowledge necessary within the general framework of archaeology, will
go on to specialize in one of the many tributaries of investigation associated
with ancient studies."
"The
successful archaeologist must possess a vast reserve of patience with
perseverance, a flair for discovery, a serious regard for the truth, and a
slice of genius for interpretation."
With
that, Dr. Sutter ended his annual opening remarks. The new students clapped as he ascended the
same stairs to the back of the lecture hall, then out the same double doors he
had entered half an hour before.
The
fresh new faces had seemed attentive enough.
But this fall he felt deflated with hypocrisy. He had become a textbook scientist. He spoke to bright, alert minds about the
digs and discoveries made by others. He
had once possessed just the flair he had spoken of - shelved so many years
ago. He hadn't picked up a brush or a
spade in years for anything more startling than a demonstration of the proper
handling and technique.
Sutter
rode the elevator to the main floor then left the building by a side
entrance. He followed a narrow cement
path to the staff parking lot at the rear of the eight storey red brick
building. He unlocked the driver's door
of his jeep tossing his notes over the back of the driver’s seat. The cards fell like leaves in a litter on the
rear floor as he got in behind the steering wheel.
With
the homing instinct of a wounded animal seeking refuge, he drove south to the
center of the city, an almost overnight collection of towering glass and
concrete that hadn't existed when he was in elementary school. Driving east on fifth avenue, he turned right
on fourth street, threading his way through the mid-morning traffic south again
all the way to the river along Elbow Drive.
The old
familiar neighborhoods of Glencoe, Rideau Park and Roxboro that branched off
of Elbow Drive always gave him solace.
He often walked their streets for hours never tiring of the vintage
architecture that had remained unchanged for over ninety years.
These
areas were still as he remembered growing up in Calgary. So far they hadn’t suffered the crass
indecencies of instant devastation at the hands of a trigger-happy developer.
Storm
clouds were building inside of him.
Sometime soon, he feared his fragile charade would crumble, fracturing
his carefully sculptured life into ruins.
He
braked then parked by the curb along Roxboro Road. The houses were built flanking the south,
wide grassy boulevard overlooking the Elbow River that bordered the north side
of the street.
Sutter
left his car and stood for several minutes absorbing the venerable peace and
serenity of the neighborhood. Directly
across from where he parked stood a sizeable brown brick bungalow with wide
hanging eaves, and an imposing square pillared veranda that spanned the front
of the house.
He
turned away from the house and walked toward the gently swaying river. He allowed the rhythmic rippling to hypnotize
him until he felt relaxed, tension melted away like snow in a Chinook.
Jack
Sutter did not match the stereotypical notion of an archaeologist or indeed the
hackneyed perception of a university professor.
No corduroy pants, or tweed jackets with suede leather patches at the
elbows. He appeared for all there was to
see at first glance, a banker, an insurance broker, or business executive.
He
looked somewhat out of place as he stood dressed in his three-piece, custom cut
grey wool suit, on the same river bank that one hundred years before had
sheltered a small camp of Sarcee Indians who had come to trade at Fort Calgary.
Despite
the shaded grass, and leaves still damp from the cool fall night and the price
of his suit he sat cross-legged on the ground.
His thoughts drifted to his First Nations heritage.
Had any
man from the band of his great grandfather's people faced a similar self
crisis? Somehow he doubted it. Indians
of that time were true realists.
His
paternal grandmother had married an officer in the Royal Canadian Mounted
Police. Together, they had crisscrossed
Canada a dozen times in the course of his police career, packing three sons and
a daughter from province to province.
Calgary,
Alberta made an indelible impression on Jack's father as a boy. The emerging cosmopolitan excitement of the
fledgling oil industry blended with the small-town ranching friendliness,
framed to the west by the northern Rocky Mountains, said home to him. Jack's father headed west after graduation and
taught high school his entire working life in the sprawling foothills city -
history his passion and specialty.
Many of
Jack's summers had been spent visiting his uncles and aunt, who like Jack's
father, found a special place among the many cities and towns they had lived in
throughout their growing years. Those summers had also included Nova Scotia,
the Maritime province of his grandfather's birth where his grandparents finally
settled at retirement.
Jack
had never tired of the stories his grandparents told of the early settlement
years in Western Canada. From his
grandmother he learned of the land-wise natives who helped early settlers to
survive their first winters.
From
Jack’s grandfather he learned of the RCMP and the people of the Maritimes -
fishermen, miners and farmers. From his father came the history of Europe. The seeds of the past became deeply
planted. As he grew so did they until
they matured into a feast of ancient knowledge for which he continually
hungered.
But
something else had grown within his as well - something dark.
He
closed his grey-brown eyes, a legacy from his paternal grandmother. Then bowed his prematurely greying head, a
legacy from his maternal grandfather - and prayed to Niska Ku Luk Li -
as his Sarcee TsuuTina grandmother taught him.
He
prayed for a miracle.
He
prayed for release.
TWO
Catherine
Toy emerged from the third floor conference room to see her secretary Jillian
Whitehead hurrying down the hall toward her.
Jillian had a panicked expression and Catherine braced herself to meet
with the latest crisis.
"Catherine,
I just took a call from your sister Joanna.
Your mother fell and broke her hip. Joanna telephoned from Foothills
Hospital Emergency to let you know that your mother was on her way to surgery.
She tried your cell."
Catherine
felt weak and a little light headed. She patted her pockets. “I left my phone
on my desk.”
"Its
nine fifteen," Jillian reminded Catherine.
"Dr. Williams is slated to speak to our sixty-three invited
university professors and graduate students at ten. What are you going to do?"
Catherine
struggled to manage her thoughts.
"When did this happen?"
She had
worked long days for many weeks against high odds to arrange for Dr. Williams
to come. She couldn't just walk out now,
but she wanted desperately to be with her mother. Her father certainly wouldn't be there.
"Sometime
early this morning," answered Jillian.
"A neighbour who came over to borrow something found your mother
lying unconscious at the bottom of the second floor stairs. Joanna's gallery was the first phone number
the neighbour found after calling 911."
"Did
Joanna mention Dr. Lee?"
"Yes,
he's there. Joanna already called your
other sister too. This sure isn't a good time for you to leave, but I could
introduce Dr. Williams and get everything started."
"Thanks,
I know."
Catherine
headed for the elevator, Jillian hurried to follow. They rode it down two
levels to the first floor where offices for the six curators, their staff, and
the file room were located.
The
main floor of the Glenbow Museum housed the public reception area, another
small conference room, a display area, and the main delivery dock with storage
for the shipping and receiving articles for display on a rotation basis as well
as new and permanent acquisitions.
The
four floors of the museum built in 1963, quartered displays of prehistoric and
early man, ancient history, recent global history, Canadian History and a
special exhibit of Canadian Native Cultures.
Replicas
of the English Crown Jewels, a history of Alberta, and its early oil and
ranching roots as well as a detailed historical exhibit dedicated to the Royal
Canadian Mounted Police, occupied the fourth floor.
The
third floor sheltered temporary art displays, antiques and artefacts on loan
from other museums or travelling exhibits.
Four
junior curators reported to two senior curators under the museum's director who
stood guard over Glenbow's operation, financial security and expanding
reputation.
The
junior curators worked with a Spartan support staff of one secretary, and one
research assistant, who also doubled in the museum's library. Catherine Toy was the youngest and sole woman
among the curator staff.
After
graduating from the University of Calgary she spent two years in South America
then returned to complete her masters’ thesis in Epigraphy. After that, she had been offered a temporary
archives position in Mexico City.
Three
years later she returned to Calgary and joined the Glenbow Museum staff as
research assistant to Ian Usselman. With
Ussleman's encouragement she tackled her doctorate, with a thesis on
Paleogeography.
With
her PhD in hand, Catherine was again about to escape to an excavation in Crete
when two events got in the way. Dr. Ussleman was in line for a senior curator
post. And he made it clear to Catherine
that he favored her over anyone else as his replacement. Then Pete Roberts - unsuccessful in his bid
to persuade Catherine to agree to marry him - convinced her to move in with
him. So in his words, "...you can see first-hand, what a charming fellow I am”.
Catherine
was in love with Pete and had been for many years. But for all the differences between Pete and
her father she continued to harbor a deep inner fear of finding herself discarded
like her mother.
With
less than a year under her belt as the new junior curator - an appointment that
impressed her father not at all - Catherine flew to Montreal for the Museum.
While there she heard Dr. Williams speak at one of his rare public appearances.
Catherine
was impressed by the vast expertise and professional passion of the ageing
scientist, who until her trip east, had only glimpsed through the pages of
archaeology journals. She felt certain
that such a timeless, eloquent speaker, and noted expert would be a boon to the
growing national reputation and international awareness the Glenbow Museum
worked to project.
Upon
her return the reality of the deflated Alberta economy and her
new-face-at-the-bottom-of-the-totem-pole status, left her little hope of
inviting Dr. Williams.
In
theory the curators worked as a team for the total good of the museum. In practise, they often guarded pet projects,
lobbying for the displays they wanted over the practicalities of limited space. The prima-donnas far outnumbered the
musketeers.
Catherine's
memo to the museum director regarding Dr. Williams, met with a short and
simple, "Not at this time," response.
Disappointed, but not discouraged she enlisted the aid of her
supervisor.
Considering
Dr. Williams professional status and the relatively small amount of money
involved to invite the man to speak, Ian went to bat for her. Dr. Ussleman
received a more detailed explanation for the "no", but a duplicate no none the less.
"Sorry
China couldn't get to square one with the old guy." The endearing nickname Ian hung on Catherine
her first week at the museum rarely failed to enlist a smile no matter what her
mood. "This meant a great deal to
you didn't it?"
Catherine
looked up and met Ian's pale blue eyes fringed by the same pale copper-coloured
lashes as his hair - her trusted friend and mentor. A wisp of a smile played around the corners
of her mouth softening the usual hard line.
But the black almond-shaped eyes were still sad, her thoughts miles
away.
Ian had
been very taken with the dainty, dark young woman with the ancient Asian
heritage. Never having enjoyed the gift
of children himself, though he and his wife lived contentedly enough, he felt a
strong almost fatherly protectiveness toward Catherine. Though, often enough,
she had proved more than capable of defending herself against her male
peers. Soon after her appointment had
finally been secured, he ceased to worry for her professional future in dealing
with competition.
"As
you are well aware," Ian attempted to clarify a highly political
situation. "The first items on the
menu to suffer during an economic decline are the arts, or anything knitted in
with that general weave. The museum's
interests are considered expendable by too many government agencies and fickle
corporate sponsors on their threatened list of financial priorities."
"Business
and private donations are down by a third this year. Social service group donations and federal
sponsorship has also dropped by a third.
Provincial government funding was frozen at last year's level. Many of our most avid, past patrons were
loyal only because they felt it was culturally impressive for their personal
image to be so. Something like appearing
in church every Sunday is good for one's social, and community business
standing."
"Now
that the financial futures of these same hollow people don't look as full, they
have withdrawn all support post-haste taking their open wallets with
them." Ian shook his head.
"Rats and sinking ships and all that sort of thing."
"Those
who have always believed in the museum as a part of Calgary's natural growth
and cultural development are still with us.
But, for all intent and purpose our private financial base is so
depleted as not to be counted on for too many extras in our immediate
future."
"Okay,"
conceded Catherine. "I can
understand that, but two things. Why
didn't the director explain that to me in his return memo and what about the
Special Events Fund?"
Catherine's
eyes were so dark that even from the four foot distance between his desk chair
and the chair she occupied across from him, Ian couldn’t see her pupils. Her round delicate face was simply framed by
straight black, shoulder length hair parted to the side. The ebony eyes were angry and her lovely
features rigid.
Ian
took a deep breath. "In answer to
your first question, our director is sixty-eight years old and his, woman's
place in the home attitude still pervades far too many of his
decisions." He pointed a finger at
Catherine, grinning. "You are
pushy. With the men at your level, it's
ambition. And on that view he’s as
unmoveable as your own father."
"To
your second question, you made the fatal mistake of mentioning your plans to
Arthur before you presented your memo to the director. Our very own, all's fair in love, war and special events funding - Arthur P.
Sheldon."
“I did
tell Arthur.”
"Arthur
hadn't completed folding in all of the loose ends of his project, but he rushed
to submit a request ahead of yours to finance the showing of that newly
discovered native artist from Portland, Oregon.
As far as I know to date, the artist has not sent confirmation that he
will come let alone allow a showing of any of his work."
"At
best, if the showing does go ahead so many of the finer details were not fully
completed that Arthur may have a short fall if he’s under estimated those hasty
figures he submitted. Which of course
would leave dear Arthur somewhere on the near side of stupid, but that doesn't
help you."
"That
pile of cow chips!" She rested her
elbow on the arm of the chair and rubbed her forehead with the tips of her
fingers.
"Money
for special showings for which our director in his wisdom considers trendy,
like Judy Chicago's - The Dinner Party - he doles out sparingly."
Catherine's
weary head shot up. "Well that's
ridiculous. The money for that was
raised outside of the museum's regular budget.
The appeal to the public as well as advanced ticket sales, paid for the
Chicago showing."
"True."
Ian continued. "But you are seen as
a symbol of that same kind of thing - a trend.
Edgar Loots, bless his misguided heart, actually believes it's just a
matter of time before women tire of careers then retreat to their gardening,
sewing and meal planning, and life will return to normal. He doesn’t
acknowledge this so-called trend,
that began at the turn of the Twentieth Century has gained a steady momentum
from the Second World War and is now well into another century.”
“Okay
then if I raise the money, to bring Dr. Williams here, as the money for The Dinner Party and every other special event since was acquired, could I
book the third floor conference too?"
Ian
smiled. He knew even if the director did
not, that Dr. Guy Williams would indeed be speaking at the Glenbow Museum. "I don't see why not. I'll notify the director of your
intentions. And, I might add will look
forward to meeting Dr. Williams in person."
Catherine
had raised the money with the help of her two younger sisters, Joanna and
Angela. Joanna's husband owned an art
gallery in Chinatown, specializing in Oriental silk art and hand carved jade
sculptures. Many of his regular patrons
were wealthy, influential people.
Angela
tapped her husband's contacts within the education system. As a counsellor at a major high school,
together with a decade of experience at other city schools, his connections too
were extensive.
From an
unexpected source came a generous donation from Catherine's father. He had drawn contributions from the clients
who dealt with his accounting firm. The
gesture was more of a face-saving for his family name than for any reason of
parental love or pride. However Catherine accepted the additional donation
anyway because the extra meant that as junior curator of the Ancient Cultures
Department she could sponsor a four day seminar instead of two, offering
expanded displays of Dr. Williams’ artefacts to Calgary and area high schools,
colleges and the university.
The
elevator door opened and Catherine hurried down the hall to her grape-sized
office. Closing the door behind her, she
fought back the tears. Her mother was precious to her. Yet she had laboured to exhaustion for this
seminar and the next four days would leave little in the way of free time for
anything that wasn't related to Dr. Williams' visit.
Lost in
thought she didn’t hear the light tap on her office door. Nor did she notice that the door had opened
and someone had entered the room, until a soft, warm kiss was planted on her
cheek.
Startled,
she looked up to find Pete standing beside her.
"I don't suppose plans for our future wedding were occupying your
obviously serious thoughts just then?"
He teased, grinning.
Catherine's
expression of despair deepened as she looked at him. Then one tiny tear tipped over the edge and
slid down her flawless cheek, dropping off the side of her chin. Pete was shaken. Only twice before in the ten years he had
known Catherine had he seen her cry.
Silently
he opened his arms and she came to him.
He held her quietly for a moment then released her and waited for her to
share her pain. There had been nothing
more than one tiny tear, but for someone like Catherine it was as if she had
sobbed to the heavens.
"My
mother fell and broke her hip this morning. A neighbour found her. She's in surgery now. I should... I want to go to her, but I have an
obligation here for the next four days.
All mother really has is her daughters.
She needs each one of us."
She moved away from him and circled her desk chair.
Pete
watched her pace for a few minutes then offered what would have been obvious to
Catherine had she not been emotionally tied into a tight knot. "Listen, I
realize you’re the eldest, but your mother does have two other daughters. The fact of the matter is Angela, and Joanna
can take turns staying at the hospital.
They’re home with little ones full time, and both have a mother-in-law
who can see to the grandchildren."
"Leave
word at the hospital for someone to call you here when your mother comes out of
surgery. Then find out how long the
doctor expects her to be in recovery.
You don't need to leave here until she’s awake."
Catherine
brightened. Pete pressed on. "Dr.
Williams will certainly be sympathetic if you miss some of his lectures. Cyril and I have worked closely with you on
this. We've talked on the phone to
Williams almost as much as you have before he arrived. We can certainly cover for you easily enough
once the seminar’s launched."
Pete
winked. “What happened to my practical,
clear thinking girl?"
"She
had a momentary relapse."
"Which,
only goes to prove how much you need me."
He grinned again. "What if
this kind of thing happens again?"
Catherine
tossed an eraser at him.
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