The Lazarus Parchment: There is not anything to translate.

By Jonas Cobos

THE LAZARUS PARCHMENT
London. 2016
Writer and lecturer Patrick Stromfeld, while in London, finds himself drawn into a dark web of murder and conspiracy around an old document known as the "Lazarus Parchment." In this is the key to discover a secret kept for more than two thousand years and that can trigger the resurgence of the most ruthless and cruel mass murderer that human history has ever known.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Aug 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781071557846

Book preview

The Lazarus Parchment

Jonas Cobos

First part

The figurine

Camden Town, April 29, 2016.

Patrick had not set foot on the streets of the quirky London neighborhood in years. However, although whenever he returned to the British lands, he did his best to the best of his ability to find a few free hours to lose himself in the colorful stalls of the open-air markets. He paused for a few seconds to admire an extensive collection of blue jeans; It was possible to find in some stalls the most reputable brands at a tempting price for any passerby. Among the variety, he was struck by pants with leather straps hanging from both legs, like those worn by the Indians of the old Western movies. For a few seconds he though about what effect those pants would have on the audience attending his next conference on creative writing. He let out a snap of amusement.

Even with that occurrence in mind, he continued to snoop around the shops and hawker stalls, while bustle of people grew more and more as noon approached. From the food stalls, the smoke streams began to unfold, as well as the cry of the clerks, including sample snacks to the passers-by. If one agreed to try them, it was easy to be captivated by that display of snacks from all parts of the world

Dodging an obese woman who had been enthralled by an Asian food stall, Patrick turned his attention to a junk shop of all kinds. In which, there were relics, from the so-called authentic Persian rugs to the legendary Tibetan bowls, without ruling out modern souvenir shirts displaying a stamped photo of Camden Town. On the left, several colors, large puffs, which seemed to be easy to swallow whole by one person.

On an Arab-looking table, ancient trinkets were arranged, like a series of statuettes of different motifs and sizes. From among the pile, the figure of a golden sphinx caught his eye, an excellent piece for his little one, although already voluminous, collection of memories of all the places they visited as part of their academic tours. Making a living as a writer did not quite come to fruition, so he had been forced to combine it with conferences on creative writing and the art of writing books.

He took the statuette in his hands and - with surprise - found that, despite its appearance, it was not actually metal but rather clay or something similar. An object sounded inside. Perhaps it was some inserted metal ingot, in order to convince the unsuspecting that it really was a massive metal statuette. He was about to leave it on the table when suddenly it slipped from his fingers. As a consequence of the impact, the piece of junk was broken into pieces, while revealing its true nature: plaster.

You will have to pay for it! exclaimed the establishment owner's voice, suddenly rising from several blinds.

An obese woman, dressed in a flowered dress and extravagant sunglasses, looked at him reproachfully from the entrance of the store, in which a man of about forty with a shaved head also stopped to browse, who also dedicated a accusatory look. Embarrassed, Patrick picked up the larger parts of the statuette, which ended up crumbling in his hands. Only one metal cylinder remained from the plaster block. As he had imagined, this was the object that gave mass to antiquity.

Without trying to oppose or dissuade the owner, Patrick recognized his clumsiness; he immediately put the remains of the sculpture in his shopping bag and paid three pounds sterling. The owner of the store quickly took the money and without hesitation disappeared again behind the blinds and the rugs hanging from the ceiling.

Without further ado, and even with the redness of shame on his cheeks, Patrick resumed his walk through the alleys and sideboards of Camden Town. After a while and the embarrassment, he opted to sit in one of the Mexican food stalls and order a couple of tacos, which he quickly took care of. His mind didn't think about the statue again until a few days later.

***

His stay in London was ending. After a continental breakfast in the hotel dining room, a small, but luxurious establishment located in Leinster Square, he spent the next hour preparing the luggage, an act that was carried out as usual the morning before the day of his return to the US. It was not until almost at the end of that task that his eyes fell on the shopping bag that still contained the remains of the ill-fated statuette. He picked it up and examined the remains in the hope that it would be possible to rebuild it. Some of the fragments were too small for fixing. He examined the metal cylinder; at its top he observed a fine line that ran along its entire circumference. Apart from that he did not see any other marks, which seemed to confirm the theory that the function of that piece of metal was none other than to give weight to the statue. The slot, however, struck him as a useless detail. Being a man of logic, Patrick began to feel the metal with more curiosity. Instinctively, he tried to turn the apparent cover clockwise to no avail. He was about to give up when it occurred to him to try the opposite direction. To his surprise, the cover yielded, unscrewing until it separated from the cylinder.

Patrick raised his blond eyebrows, puzzled, not only because of discovering the nature of the object, but also because he found a roll of yellowed paper hidden inside. With great care, he extracted the find. Feeling the material with his fingers, he understood that it required that he be careful. The precariousness of his condition made him think that it would crumble as soon as he removed it completely, so he decided to extract it with great patience.

Outside the metal tube, he moved the scroll to the nightstand next to the bed, and unfolded it. Aided by a few pieces of the statue, which he used as a paperweight, he was able to prevent it from rolling up again. The document was a text written in a language that he could not decipher. At first glance, he ruled out the possibility that it was Egyptian and, therefore, finding it hidden in a sphinx did not seem to be related to the possible meaning of the text. He also ruled out that it was Sumerian or Babylonian, because although the symbols did not resemble the Latin alphabet, they were not cuneiform.

One of the corners came off. The deterioration of the roll of paper convinced him that he was looking at a real old document. Patrick smiled at the thought that perhaps he was the first person to see him in thousands of years. Faced with the idea that it would end up completely breaking apart, especially before he could even find out what that holdover was about, he took out his mobile phone and took several photos from different angles, taking into account that the written text was legible in each shot.

After the photo shoot was over, he rolled up the document, returning it to the inside of the metal cylinder. After that, he deposited it inside one of his suitcases, after which he dialed the phone number of his friend, Mike Carrigan, a retired old archaeologist, who incidentally was the one who motivated him to collect old junk. The ringtone sounded unanswered. On the third attempt, the answering machine jumped.

Hi Mike, this is Patrick. I am going to send you some photos of a document that I have found in your email. Take a look and give me your opinion about what it is. Possibly it is a forgery or a minor document, but the fact is that it was hidden inside a plaster statuette. As soon as you know something, call me. I return to Bangor tomorrow morning.

At the end of the call, from his own phone he sent the photos to his friend's email. After a few seconds of hesitation, he also decided to send a copy to his own email. He put the phone in the inside pocket of his jacket and left the room ready for a walk in Hyde Park.

***

Hyde Park is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful parks that can be found in the center of a big city and Patrick was convinced of it first hand. On none of his previous visits to London had he had the opportunity to tour the park with such ease. With no other concern than observing passersby and starting to come up with a story for his next book. For a few months, he had been thinking about going into the historical novel, but he was not very convinced of being able to do it. Perhaps it was the constant reproaches of his ex-wife about the quality of his writings that had ended up undermining his novelist self-esteem.

Excuse me, do you have a light? The voice of a thin man with a pronounced German accent brought him out of his thoughts.

I do not smoke. I quit fifteen years ago. Patrick simply replied without paying attention, continuing on his path toward the park pond.

Spring was already showing its presence with more force. The squirrels of the park crossed the square, frantic, in search of solar brightness, something not very frequent in British lands, being a place dominated by an immovable layer of clouds.

Absorbed in the placid atmosphere, Patrick was totally surprised by the onslaught of two men who appeared out of nowhere. Each had taken him by one of his arms and dragged him behind some bushes. Right there, out of public view, they punched and kicked him without saying a single word. Still stunned by what had happened, Patrick had no way to react to the brutal attack. By the time he hit the ground, one of the attackers took advantage of it by frisking him. Pulling out his wallet, he emptied the contents onto the lawn. He did the same with the contents of the pants and jacket pockets. Patrick, meanwhile, yielded to violent inspection, stunned by the blows. One of the strangers discovered his phone, examined it and then also discarded it, throwing it along with the writer's other belongings.

In the same way that they had appeared, the two attackers disappeared among the trees of the park. By the time they were a few meters away from him, Patrick could only verify that his attackers were dressed in the typical clothing of the skinheads or hooligans.

He wanted to pull himself together, but it was too early for that. His ribs protested with a stab of pain. It was