Lifeblade

By Donald Campbell

“Lifeblade” is a story of family love, woven within an Odessey of search. The search is for the fabled healing Spear which pierced the crucified Jesus. Artist David Whiting, his independent wife Janet and their young daughter Olivia, suffering her own battle for survival, confront perilous life events. There are near insurmountable roadblocks on their quest for possession of the Spear. David and his archaeologist friend Dr. Russell Canning navigate a perilous path through the brutal backstreets of Cairo, Beirut and Damascus. Their sheer determination and unswerving drive to obtain the all-powerful Spear become one as they dodge, regroup and proceed to outsmart their adversaries, The Egypt Federation Party.

David commences his journey while documenting images for a publication entitled “Scoundrels, Saints and Sinners”. Cairo is his locale where he meets Mr. Chalthoum, purveyor of antiquities. David acquires a mysterious box which is requested by Russell. The brilliant archaeologist instinctively knows the ancient relic is important. He is determined to explore and prove the role it played in the Christian pantheon. The box is trouble from the moment it is handed over to David. Death is not far away as he escapes from Egypt via Cyprus, box in hand. The EFP who are dogging his every move are determined to possess the treasured artifact. He spends time in a Tantric religious community hidden away in the Troodos Mountains, his ruthless adversaries know where he is. It is a fleeting exposure to communal living and jeopardizes his relationship with Janet and Olivia. Here however, he gains profound insight in reference to the important role of the box and his beloved family. Beirut calls as he delivers his treasure to Russell. Together they build a case for the authentication of the reliquary-box. They trace its history and with scientific verification establish what it contained over two millennia - the Spear.

David struggles to obtain a balanced life while bouncing between their permanent residency in England and their seasonal home of business in decadent Mykonos. Characters come in and out of their lives as they juggle the demands of being stellar parents for Olivia. Khadijah, a beauty from the Sudan, and Olivia’s nanny is entangled within the quest and proves to be indispensable as she interprets and exposes invaluable clues to aid the search. She becomes a devoted family member and blossoms into a favorite of the denizens of Mykonos. Her head is not turned however and she rides out the waves of seduction. All this is jeopardized as David is increasingly swept up into the search for the Spear. Syria and the fortress of the Krak des Chevalier is explored as it becomes the possible key to discovery with the analysis of archival photographs of Lawrence of Arabia and writings by the poet philosopher Gibran. Christina, a Paris journalist puts the puzzle together and reveals it to the world.

The EFP is intent on destroying not only David and Russell but anyone associated with them whom they interpret as threats to the parties’ radicalism. The EFP must have the box, murder is just one of their tools. The fragility of life is a constant in this tale of twists and turns, mystery and adventure. It will inspire, create hope and become a catalyst for reaching life’s successes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donald Campbell
• Release date: Jul 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301290222

Donald Campbell

About Donald Campbell.... Light, color and form are the foundation of Donald’s paintings, he has translated these elements and reinterpreted them through his writing. Words, ideas and structure have been his tools in executing his exploration of new themes and concepts. Donald’s training as a painter at Toronto’s renowned Central Technical School, as a graduate of the University of Toronto and his Specialized Honors degree in the History of Art from York University, as well as life’s experiences, have created an in-depth basis for his writing. Donald has worked as a graphic artist in television, a fashion designer and freelanced as a commercial artist and teacher. His paintings have been published and his originals can be found in Canadian collections as well as the U.S.A and Europe. His painting career paralleled this vocation having over thirty solo shows. He travelled the world from Beirut to Bali, which provided a rich resource for settings for his novels. His recollections of his time in Greece, Egypt, Lebanon, Syria and the people whom he met, as well as his journals, are recalled and reflected in his writing as he explores the morality and complexity of life’s offerings. His fictitious characters are close to the truth as he delves the mysteries below the façade that is life.

Book preview

Chapter 2

I was most frustrated because I could not reach Janet by phone I had to resort to a telegram again. I explained about the necessity to meet in Cyprus and that we would go on to Lebanon and hook up with Russell. I hoped she would go along with the plan, it was the only safe way to get to Beirut.

I inquired at the front desk about accommodations in Cyprus. Evidently Limassol has a fine bitchy place to visit and the Akrotiri Palace Hotel was the place to stay. It had a pool in which one could dive and was on a bitch very close by a myriad of only 30 or 40 meters from the hotel. It sounded fine and boasted three stars which was explained to me that the bathroom was in the room for only personal use. I relayed all this information to Janet and now had to wait for her response. I was able to leave on a flight later the next day so I prayed that Janet would respond quickly. I wanted to leave Egypt as soon as possible.

Light played across the ceiling of the lobby as I made my way towards the elevator. It was a strange unnatural light its colors hot, orange and red. It came from the street outside and then I heard the voices, Arab voices, angry voices, voices I had heard earlier that day in the bazaar. I stood back and joined the others as we searched the darkness outside broken by flames of torches and then banners Federation for Egypt. The drums now grew loud, echoing into the foyer. The main doors were closed as two uniformed guards with their guns at the ready stood their ground on the hotel steps.

Mr. Whiting step back it is not wise for you to be seen, as a non-Egyptian you are not safe. Please come into the shadows, one of the other guests warned me.

I took his advice and quickly moved to the darkness, I questioned if I was a coward but I did want to survive any problems and not put myself at risk. I stood motionless and observed the hate outside the glass doors. Then a burst of flames crashed into the door and fragments of glass cut their way through the air shattering on the white marble floors of the lobby. The flames licked their way across the floor and attacked the fringe of an Oriental carpet. The bartender appeared with an ice bucket and quickly doused the flames. The Molotov cocktail had done its damage. The physical damage was little but the psychological, the imposition of the anger over the calm of the lobby was great. The guests, mostly Egyptians retreated in horror as to what they had just witnessed. They stood in disbelief around the perimeter of the room, they were calm as they spoke quietly, but their faces betrayed their supposed interior quiet.

The fire attack strengthened my resolve to get out of this place. I was merely a visitor crippled to an extent by what I observed. I could do nothing to calm, to de-escalate the anger. It would be best to leave. I waited and waited for the return of Mr. Chalthoum.

I then saw his bloodied face and his blood splattered robes. He looked at me searchingly as I moved towards the door, he was lucid. Sir, sir I have come with the box. I know you will protect it from harm. It is but a simple container yet it is beyond important as all things of age are important but this is special. It is ancient in its beauty and has survived for many, many year it is for Mr. Russell to protect it. We mortals pass on we are only here a short time but what we create lives forever. Yes Mr. David please take this.

Mr. Chalthoum said this as he spoke through the opening newly created by the shattered glass in the door. Pieces of tiles and paving stones flew about as the crowd slowly, angrily chanted slogans which I did not understand. The potted plants, the Palms next were victimized, torn from their planters and trampled. It was mayhem, I could smell the intolerance of reason with every burst of flames. Smoke filled the darkness.

Please, please open the door for this man he must come in and be protected. He is not one of them. The guards would not open the door. It was at this moment that a sharp edged object tore a hole in the side of Mr. Chalthoum’s neck I could see a very large gash opening in his neck, the blood flowed profusely. Finally with the assistance of two other people we dragged Mr. Chalthoum through the new opening in the door. The protruding glass tore at his already blood soaked robes. Blood pumped from his neck and drenched his classic Galabeya as it now clung to his body . His face was pale in comparison to the dark tan it had been only an hour ago. We held him upright as he faded. One of the individuals offering assistance applied pressure to his neck wound but the blood could not be stanched. The wound was too massive to close.

David take the box guard it by God. He was gone. I could not believe what had just happened I was stunned. The two caregivers lowered him to the white marble floor which was now pooled with dark crimson blood, his blood. They straightened his body and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes were wide open. I attempted to gently close them but it was not possible, they remained open. I had never witnessed death before, the finality was profound. One moment Mr. Chalthoum was pleading, looking into my eyes and then he was gone. It was a quiet death, not dramatic or theatrical. The only deaths I was aware of were the ones in the movies with much gnashing of teeth and contortions of bodies. He slipped away his last word was God. I did not know if he was a Muslim or Christian but he was a man of God. For me his faith was of little importance, he was a good man, an honest man. He had braved the distress and trauma of the streets to bring the box to me. He had risked his life and lost. I would treasure his gift and protect it until it would be safe in the hands of Russell.

The fan boy now stood beside me with tears falling from his blind eyes. Farouk spoke to him quietly and explained the scene as we observed it. Mr. Chalthoum was his uncle and had been responsible for finding him his job. Although it was menial it was important, in turn he felt needed and honored to be able to contribute to the operation of the hotel.

The sounds, the smoke, the chanting continued in the street. I knelt beside the body and said goodbye God speed Mr. Chalthoum.

I held tightly to the box which he had wrapped with thick fabric and secured with braided rope. He had created a rope handle on the top for ease of carrying, I was concerned for the fragility of the box but it had survived no doubt for centuries and a volatile street demonstration. It was not fragile; it would continue to survive. I thought of what Mr. Chalthoum had said in that the objects live on while the body has long departed. I held the box firmly in my arms and went to my room. It was only then that I realized I was shaken and covered in his blood.

I sat the box carefully on the writing desk and tried to justify the loss of life for a stone box.

The room was dark with only one light lit on the desk, it cast a deep shadow from the box. The room was quiet in that I faced a nondescript courtyard. None of the trauma going on in the street infringed on my solitary thoughts. I surveyed my surroundings asking myself why was I here when I should be with Janet and Olivia. I was however working, acquiring information for the book. The book was the brainchild of one of my clients a man who had collected five or six of my contemporary religious icons. Scoundrels, Saints and Sinners was the title of the book to be published in the very near future as soon as I could get the images home to England. Images, primarily paintings were to appear in an edition of quality, these images would be accompanied by historical research analyzing the contribution the individuals made to society. It was a very inclusive list of over 200 historical personages, everyone, from Socrates to Mary and Judas. It was my job to find the images which would accompany the writings. It was desired that the images be rare and unpublished if possible. It was not an easy task. Once I found the image I would have to negotiate its publication with the owner. I had dealt with monks, private collectors, Museum Directors as well as government bureaucrats. I was now coming to the end of my odyssey, and Egypt I had hoped was my last stop. It was not meant to be but possibly I would find some visual gems in Cyprus or Lebanon.

Mr. Whiting, I am Farouk with a visitor, may I enter? I heard his loud voice coming from outside my door.

Farouk unlocked my door and entered, at first I did not see the visitor but as Farouk stepped aside I saw the small fan boy. He said something in Arabic which of course I did not understand so Farouk translated his words. Mr. David I have message from my beloved uncle he said if he did not return to the hotel that I must warn to you to ‘leave the Egypt immediately because here is evil,’ because he is now passed I chose to tell you these words.

Did he say anything else? I thought to myself that this was overly dramatic and sounded like a curse from King Tut’s Tomb. I did believe I should heed these words.

Farouk looked searchingly at the fan boy but of course his blind eyes were inscrutable, no acknowledgment of his look took place. Farouk translated No, just that.

Farouk then turned to me and said it is not simple Mr. Whiting you realize now Mr. Chalthoum was a political man and support the government. He was a target of radical Egypt Federation Party. He was a true person of the government today and many, many are all against this government. The fight between these two groups continues. He died because of his strong beliefs. He make you friend for a reason, this reason you must discover.

Farouk what is this young boy’s name?

It is a grand name, possibly not a good name to have in Egypt. He is called Jesus.

As Farouk said this the young lad turned in his direction and smiled a great smile. He wiped away a few tears with the back of his hand and bowed in my direction. I gave him my last few dollars, a hug and said be strong for your uncle. Farouk translated my statement and the boy said yes. I wished I could do more.

He lives here at the hotel and will be safe with us Farouk stated.

Thank you Farouk for bringing Jesus to me I will heed his uncle’s words and leave Egypt as soon as possible. I hope to understand their full meaning as to what my purpose is in this scenario. I realized after I made this statement that Farouk probably did not know what I was trying to say but he nodded in agreement.

The door closed solidly behind my visitors. I locked it securely, I felt safe for the moment. I composed myself and sorted through my options eventually I called the front desk and again spoke to Farouk. He indicated the earliest flight to Cyprus was noon the following day and he would book my departure. He arranged a car and sent a telegram to Janet explaining my decision to leave Egypt. I would contact Janet from the Hotel in Limassol, the Akrotiri Palace.

I carefully, not knowing why, approached the box. It wasn’t very large and not that heavy in that it was made of stone one would think it would weigh more. I carried it carefully to the bed and placed a towel down in the center and then the box. The packaging which had been so carefully constructed and tied was blood spattered, particularly the area Mr. Chalthoum had held against his body. I scavenged through my knapsack and eventually located my Swiss Army knife. I had carried it with me for years and had only used it two or three times. I painstakingly pulled out the larger blade knowing the miniature scissors were too delicate for the task at hand. I carefully deconstructed the wrapping, I took great care in preserving the braided rope which constituted the handle. I would reuse the bindings created by Mr. Chalthoum.

My initial cut released the main rope and permitted me to unwind that which circled one end of the package. Slowly I slid the ropes off the other end, I attempted to maintain their shape so that I could reuse them without difficulty. This was not to be for they collapsed in a tangle. It was a simple process to unwrap the rough textured cloth. I was surprised to find the box was padded with two inches of raw cotton. I shouldn’t have been for Egypt was famous as one of the great producers of cotton. The cotton before me was definitely not of a high caliber, it would have to have undergone a great deal of processing before it could be used in any other fashion than padding. I saved the cotton hoping that I could use it again.

The box sat in front of me. I was still breathing and functioning in a normal manner, I was not struck down dead by a dreaded curse. I was very disappointed with what I saw in the center of my bed. It was a small rectangular box approximately 10 x 6 and possibly six inches deep a flat piece of stone three eights of an inch thick constituted the lid. The white box was in fact a dull off-white, a boring beige. The paint which I thought was whitewash had flaked off in many areas which resulted in the original surface of the stone being exposed. It was in turn beige. I assumed it to be limestone the most common material used in the Middle East for containers. It was not an exquisitely carved reliquary but rather a common looking object which one might find in a farming community or peasant village.

I rotated it on the towel so that I might see all sides, it was plain except for a rudimentary drawing on one of the large flat sides which I would interpret as the front. I could not make out what the image was in that it had mostly been filled in and obliterated by the whitewash. I assumed that Russell was aware of the imagery and that was why he felt this old box was collectible. Using both hands I carefully elevated the lid which had a lip preventing it from moving when in place. The lid had four deep groves in the middle of each edge where straps or some sort of belts would have secured it in place. As I went to set it aside I glimpsed a drawing in the middle of the underside of the lid. It consisted of two arcs which touched on the left then crossed over each other on the right. Underneath this rendering was engraved the letters IXO with a dash in the center of the O then a Y and a sort of a capital E. I recognized the two arcs, the symbol as that of a fish and therefore an early symbol of the Christian faith. The word which I believed to be written in ancient Greek letters was a bit of a mystery. I stared at the word and then it clicked, I had seen it on an Icon at the Coptic Church. It was reproduced in my guide book. I grabbed the book and leafed through it until I found the reproduction, page 112. The legend described the word as early Greek letters from the First century A.D. meaning fish which was adopted as a Christian motif and is known today as Ichthys motif. I then looked up Ichthys and it was defined as Jesus Christ, God’s Son, Savior. The two arcs created a symbol of a fish which represented the Christian faith. I ran my fingers over the engraved word and fish, I wondered how old it was, possibly hundreds of years maybe a thousand or even close to two thousand. I doubted this in that would almost be impossible for a relatively delicate box to have survived. I then remembered seeing very delicate roman glass containers which dated from the time of Jesus. The engravings on the box were cold to the touch, smooth and only one sixteenth of an inch deep. It was fascinating to think of the craftsman who had toiled to create these carvings, they were crude but had an intriguing simplicity yet had been very beautifully executed. They were Christian motifs, nothing to do with circumcision or the Jewish faith. I could not reason why Mr. Chalthoum would indicate that it was a toolbox for Brit Milah did he not want me to realize that it was a box which related to the Christian faith? Possibly I was not to know for some bizarre reason. I presumed that Russell knew exactly what he was getting with the purchase of this