THE LOST PROPHET

“The Tomb of the Prophets is one of the holiest sites in existence today. It was an extremely daunting task for whoever had to build and design it. It was dug exclusively underground and carved from out of solid rock. As far as we know from radiocarbon dating it was built sometime around the end of the 1st century.”

It was the last scheduled tour of the day, and the designated guide—Israeli native Mr. Yonatan Davino—surveyed his attentive audience.

“Can you just imagine how long that must’ve taken? What hardships they had to endure? How many lives it cost?” He spread his arms out wide like a condor, showcasing the dim and rocky underground realm they were in. Several serpentine tunnels shot off in different directions, disappearing into the far-off gloomy void. The cavernous ceiling above them—although noticeably crude from its primitive era considering it was chiseled from rock—was remarkable in its craftsmanship. It gave off the effect of standing in the middle of a spacious amphitheater.

“There are forty tombs here that we know of . . . and the most prolific one is where we will be heading next.”

Davino zestfully clapped his hands together. He couldn’t help but give a beaming, open-ended smile because he knew the best part of the tour was yet to come. It was why most people came here in the first place to see it for themselves—up close and personal. Even at his elderly age, it still brought chills and goose bumps to him every time. And he’d been doing this for a very long time. Some would say almost too long. But he had no intention of leaving, at least for the foreseeable future.

He had always been a devout, wise scholar of paleoanthropology and anything remotely related to religious history. He had spent the better part of his life studying it, examining it; gleaning whatever answers and seeds of truth he could gain from it. Now, he was pushing toward the end of his life; but he still retained that old glimmer of unfettered joy and vivacious enthusiasm from the very first days he started working on field excavations in and around Jerusalem.

“Just follow me, please, and I will show you the highlight of our tour,” Davino told his group of fifteen or so. There was an assortment of foreigners and Europeans with a few indigenous Arabs. Not quite uncommon since people from all over the world came here. They had been mostly quiet and respectful so far, with a few obligatory questions sprinkled here and there.

But he knew they’d be blown away by the next thing in store. He turned and led them down one of the man-made tunnels that flanked to their right. It was narrow, confining, and just wide enough for two people at a time. Anybody with claustrophobia might have issues after leaving the big, open-spaced amphitheater.

But it would be well worth it in the end.

“May I ask, how long have you worked here?” a young lady with a detectable Swedish accent asked from behind him.

“Oh, going on thirty-five years now . . . almost half my life.”

“Good for you,” she remarked admirably. “You must really love it.”

“I do, I do. Sharing it with others is what I live for. I always appreciate the enjoyment and surprised looks on people’s faces when they see the dead prophets firsthand. There’s nothing else quite like it, I must say.”

The lady nodded thoughtfully behind him and then turned to the man she was with—a tall, archeologist-type fellow wearing a weathered fedora hat and a dusty handkerchief about his neck—giving him a knowing smile. He returned one of his own and then asked Davino something.

“Is it true that the Russian Orthodox Church holds the rights to this place?”

Davino slowed his pace down a bit as if surprised or possibly intrigued by such a question. Even at his dwindling age, he had a long loping stride—albeit with a bad hip—but it was as if being down here energized his spirits and kept him going.

“Not everyone’s aware of that—but yes—in 1882 the Archimandrite Antonine Kapustin was able to acquire this for the Russian Church. He had high hopes of building a prominent church right here on these foundations . . . and that set off immense anger and discontent within the Jewish ranks. They protested day and night, doing all they could to make sure that did not transpire. This holy site meant the world to them. They didn’t want to see it changed or altered—desecrated in any way. The long-held tradition it maintained for not only themselves—but their beloved ancestors—as a sacred place of worship was paramount to their way of life and went to the very core of their beliefs.”

Davino paused to take a shallow breath as they all followed a downward turn in the tunnel structure. It was far below the surface of the Mount of Olives.

“But in the end, the Ottoman courts—an ancient enemy of Israel and what we call Turkey today—ruled in 1890 in favor of Kapustin so long as people of all faiths could visit the site. So that’s where we are today.”

“Interesting,” the man replied, seemingly knowing all this already.

As they walked down the rock-cut tunnel, which was highlighted every twenty feet or so by blazing wall torches, they noticed the same inscription repeated over and over again.

“What do these inscriptions mean?” the inquisitive lady asked. She seemed to be mesmerized and taken aback by all the rich tradition and history.

Davino barely offered a passing glance at the archaic words. He had probably been as accustomed to seeing them as generic wallpaper. He carefully glanced over his shoulder to get another glimpse of the woman. She was dressed in a casual, but elegant, emerald blouse and tight-fitting khaki capris. Her well-brushed hair was a clean platinum-blonde that just touched her shoulders. She gave off the impression of being a stately, even classy college grad who had majored in some field of archeology at one time or another.

“It’s written in Greek,” Davino explained to her with a certain amount of seriousness. “Translated it says to put thy faith in God . . . since no human creature lives forever.” A thin, understanding smile began to grow on his withered, benign face. “Truer words were never spoken; don’t you think?”

“Indeed,” she said with a pleasant smile and nod of her head.

A moment later they passed by two security guards who were stationed outside one of the passageways that acted as offshoots from the main tunnel. Davino conferred momentarily with them in a friendly manner. One of them nodded absently, apparently granting them permission to enter.

With this, Davino now turned to face his group, extending his frail arm toward the passageway. A sense of admiration and sincere devotion had entered his voice, evident now more than ever.

“We have reached the defining stop of our tour folks. And yes . . . in case you were wondering, we have saved the best for last.”

He gestured animatedly for everyone to stay close and follow him into the viewing room. They were led into a relatively small space carved into the rock, no bigger than a one-car garage—part of one of the many burial chambers. The place felt everything like a tomb: deep underground, cut off from the rest of the world, relatively dark and shadowy, even with a torch burning profusely outside in the tunnel. The room smelled earthy with the musty scent of bedrock most prevalent.

The main attraction was what was lying in the center of the chamber. It looked like a heavy stone sarcophagus. Not unlike something the Egyptians might’ve used. But this was far less flashy with no gold, gems, or decorations of any kind to be found. It was tilted upright, with the lid off at an appropriate angle for people to get a good look at the contents inside. An exquisite marble plaque with emblazoned bronze lettering was placed at the head of it.

HERE LIES THE GREAT

HEBREW PROPHET ZECHARIAH.

“Impossible. Is it really him?” someone from the group questioned.

“Can’t be?” another person breathed in awe.

Davino allowed everyone a minute or two to savor and soak in the momentous occasion. With each new group he brought down here, their expressions of pure wonder and amazement never got old.

“I can assure all of you here that this once was the body of the Biblical prophet Zechariah. Laboratories worldwide have validated this. You are part of a privileged few who have been allowed down here and know it exists.”

Displayed inside the sarcophagus were the brittle remains of an ancient skeleton. It was kept under a protective sheet of glass to seal it off from the harmful outside elements. The size of the skeleton itself looked like it was an astounding seven feet tall. It was missing several phalanges from both hands and feet, a left clavicle, four ribs, and a fibula.

Other than that, it was remarkably intact. In fact, it looked so old there were pockets of dust lying at the bottom as if some of the bones over time had suffered from various stages of decomposition. Because of the extraordinary passage of time, age, and poor preservation methods, the bones had lost their ivory luster and now looked as badly decayed as desiccated tree bark. Most striking was where the cranium attached to the lower jaw bone—which hung open as if the skeleton had died trapped in an everlasting scream.

As the group continued to ooh and awe over the ghastly sight, the Swedish woman addressed Davino again, saying, “I want to thank you for showing us this. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been wanting to come here. It may sound strange, but it’s always been a dream of mine . . . it’s everything I thought it would be. It is truly . . . remarkable.”

Davino openly shrugged. Oddly enough, he wasn’t used to hearing such macabre affection from someone on the tour. She seemed almost . . . devoted in some way. Then, before he knew it, the gentleman in the fedora did something inexplicable. He cut in front of everyone in line, stood directly in front of the sarcophagus—peering into it—and then lifted his hand up as if bidding a final farewell to someone’s memorial service. A moment later, he actually slammed his fist against the glass frame, splintering it with a blunt object he possessed.

“What in the—” Davino’s voice abruptly ended in a shriek. “You can’t just—”

He paused in utter disbelief. He was in total shock as the man in the fedora completely ignored him and took only a second to slam the object against the glass one more time. This blatant attempt caused a considerable spider web to crack the surface.

This outraged Davino to no end.

Why would—how could someone do such a thing?

He felt like the top of his head was going to explode. He did all he could think to do. His natural reaction took control. He started charging in an effort to take down the man before he could inflict any more damage. At his old age he wasn’t scared of much, and he’d be damned if he allowed someone to get away with this. But something got in his way and stopped him.

He gasped down in sheer surprise and back up again. He was staring at the pretty, young Swedish gal again. She had just stuck a very sharp blade in his gut, practically disemboweling him where he stood.

Something horrific rose up in his mouth.

He could taste bile.

He began to choke on his own blood as it gurgled in his throat, muffling his cries. He sagged down to his knees, trying to hold his stomach together in both hands, but it was all but hopeless. He gave her a deeply troubled look as if to say—how could you?

But she offered no remorse or consolation whatsoever. Gone was her sweet, gentle nature he knew of before. Now she only returned an icy, heartless expression that would forever torment him to the grave. Then, one corner of her lips slowly curled upward. He knew then that he’d never forget that chilling smile of hers—even as he dropped dead right in front of her.

After experiencing this heinous event, a part of the group tried to bolt for the exit. But there were several accomplices in the group that remained firmly in place, already reaching for their weapons; which were concealed inside their garments. In an instant they had brandished their guns, even firing off warning shots for good measure. The innocent people who tried to escape froze. Terrified and conflicted by what to do next, their minds were made up for them by the gunmen who forced them to back up against the wall.

“Hands up!” they curtly instructed. “Keep them up!”

By this time the two security guards outside had heard enough. They were charging in, guns ready to open fire. Unfortunately for them, they entered into a human buzz saw. A spray of bullets awaited them. They hit the ground as soon as they exposed themselves, collapsing in a tangled heap.

The mysterious man in the fedora sharply ordered two of his followers to keep an eye on the doorway. He had a total of six under his command. There were only five hostages to deal with for now. He’d take those odds any day. A lucky couple had managed to scurry out and escape ahead of time. The rest were so frightened, trembling uncontrollably as they huddled together against the far wall. He thought it was necessary to address them now before someone did something unpredictable and foolish.

He faced them from his skeleton-coffin backdrop, giving him an even more elevated villainous stature. “Everyone stay calm. I have no intention to harm you unless my hand is forced. This situation will be over rather quickly once I’m done. Then you’ll be free to return to your daily lives.” He nudged his chin in the direction of his small army. “But rest assured, my men are dedicated professionals—trained to kill—and they’ll do just that if you provoke them.”

A few sobs and sniffles mixed in with eager nods of their heads.

“If you want to steal the thing, just release us, and we won’t tell anybody,” the bravest of the hostages mentioned. “I swear!” He looked like a local shopkeeper or farmer who wanted desperately to return to his family.

“Yes, please . . . let us go!” another voice pleaded.

“Why are you doing this?” someone else asked.

With his back to them, acting as if he hadn’t heard a single word they’d said, the man in charge returned to the sarcophagus before him. His Swedish female counterpart had appeared by his side, watching the destruction with a real twisted sense of anticipation.

The man slammed the object in his hand hard against the glass once more. This time it caused a considerable crack to split like a lightning bolt across the top. Then he delivered another vicious blow.

And another.

And another.

Finally—it shattered.

A waterfall of jagged glass shards cascaded to the ground. With his back still turned on the group of hostages, the man spoke in a rather calculated and severely measured tone.

“I’m not here to steal it . . . quite the opposite in fact.”

He then wasted no time as he unveiled a canteen that had been slung over his shoulder. He began pouring the brown liquid over the entire skeleton, splashing it on without discretion. The strong smell permeated throughout the burial chamber—some form of accelerant.

The nightmarish skull seemed to be grinning wickedly at him the whole time as he performed this monstrosity. As if it didn’t matter what he did now, he’d still pay for it in the end. He thought for a fleeting moment that it might rise from the dead, lift its bony limbs from the shackles of dust, and strangle him. It was disconcerting, to say the least, but he remained grounded in reality.

Once he was done, he and his female companion took several steps back to observe the sadistic handiwork. Over his shoulder, he spoke to the petrified group.

“Sit back and enjoy the show.”

A second afterward he took out a match, lit it, and flicked the thing without another thought into the sarcophagus. In an instant, a roar of flames ignited with a blistering sound effect. They shot up, devouring and engulfing the fragile remains. Every now and then there was a sound similar to popcorn cooking in the microwave as the bones burned, charred to black, and eventually crumbled.

“We did it. We really did it.” The Swedish woman’s voice seemed to carry with it a distorted sense of accomplishment as she tugged on the man’s arm.

“Yes, we did,” he said. Then, not wanting to outstay their welcome, they turned around to leave.

“Wait! What about us?” a few of the hostages cried out. “We have families! If you don’t need us anymore, please—please just let us go!”

Perhaps somewhat surprisingly, the man paused near the opening to the tunnel as if weighing this possibility. It didn’t take long though until he gave a subtle nod—or signal—to his men. They knew immediately what to do. They tightened their assertive stance, reaffirmed their point blank aim over the cowering hostages, and tensed their trigger fingers.

“But you said you wouldn’t harm us!” a couple screamed out in one last desperate attempt. They were practically begging for their lives.

Readjusting his fedora, the woeful figure regarded every one of them in turn. A merciless, unsavory snicker formed on his darkened features—followed by brief, spine-tingling laughter.

“I lied . . . a person like me can’t afford to leave any witnesses hanging around.”

Then he merely turned his back on them again and left to the deafening sound of gunfire.