Page 3 of Never Leave Me
Shoving aside the doubts that had assailed him more often of late, he powered his wheelchair toward the eastern wing he’d reconstructed over the past two decades to make more handicap accessible—doors and hallways widened, rails and grips strategically positioned, windows lowered and enlarged. He’d even had an extensive laboratory built so he could work from home as frequently as he wanted, which in recent months had been nearly all the time.
He pressed the button on the wall next to his lab and waited as the automated door opened. The waft of sulfur and the scents of other chemicals greeted him.
He wheeled inside, heedless of the untidiness of cylinders, spreadsheets, empty bottles, bags, and plastic tubing scattered about—his fruitless attempts to find a cure for VHL. Stifling a yawn, he stretched his arms over his head. He’d had too many sleepless nights of late. But the desperation pressed hard against his chest and wouldn’t let him rest.
“Hospice?” The word echoed in the room, and it contained every trace of bitterness in his soul. He’d wanted to tear off the physician’s head when he’d suggested it at the appointment. All the way back to Chesterfield, he’d ranted about the dreadful suggestion.
Now look what it had done. Given Ellen permission to stop trying.
“Rubbish, I say. The doctor’s advice was all rubbish.” He rolled over to his desk and peered down at the latest beta cell regeneration study he’d focused on last night. Should he work out the figures again?
What choice did he have? He was running out of time and absolutely had to discover a cure.
If only he could find Arthur Creighton’s ultimate cure.
His attention shifted to the enormous world map he’d pinned above his desk, to the various red and blue pins scattered all over the continents. The blue dots represented places where miraculous healings had supposedly happened throughout history, many of them related to holy water or holy oil. Of course, Canterbury and Walsingham in England had the most documented miracles.
Arthur had concluded such miracles could be traced to the Tree of Life in the garden of Eden, specifically seeds that had been preserved from the Tree of Life and brought to Canterbury and Walsingham for safekeeping. Eventually the seeds had affected the groundwater in those locations, so that those who drank of it were cured of their diseases. Monks had bottled and sold the holy water to pilgrims in flasks known as ampullae. In Canterbury, such flasks were called St. Thomas ampullae and contained engravings of Thomas Becket, a murdered archbishop who’d been named a saint.
While Arthur’s theory about the seeds from the Tree of Life was only speculation, historical records attested to the miraclesthat had taken place at both Canterbury and Walsingham in the Middle Ages. The very stained-glass windows within Canterbury Cathedral proclaimed the healing power of the holy water.
Over the past year, Harrison had researched other sites throughout Europe. If seeds from the original Tree of Life had arrived in England for protection from the invasion of the barbarians during the Roman Empire, then perhaps guardians of the seeds had taken remnants to other parts of Europe as well.
In fact, he’d recently inspected the Sanctuary of Our Lady in Lourdes, France. In the 1860s, a young woman named Bernadette claimed to have visions while washing in a spring. After her miraculous visions, more than seven thousand cures were reported as a result of the spring. Scientists at that time investigated the cures and analyzed the water. While they’d found it high in mineral content, they discovered nothing else that might contribute to the healings. Now nothing remained in the spring except normal, natural water. Harrison had gone there himself and tested it.
He’d also made a quick trip to Sienna, Italy, where over two thousand miracles were reported during the 1400s and associated with St. Bernardino. Unfortunately, no amount of investigating had uncovered any springs or other remnants of the holy water that had supposedly contributed to the cures.
The red dots on the world map over his desk represented every museum, every lead he’d pursued in his attempt to find more St. Thomas ampullae, which held the only known holy water left in the world.
Historians and museum curators knew of only three original St. Thomas ampullae to survive from the Middle Ages. One had been a part of a collection in England along with other relics passing from church to church as part of an exhibit. Arthur had stolen that ampulla when the relics came to Canterbury. Apparently the other two had disappeared over recent years from the museumswhere they’d once been displayed. And no one knew where they were.
Harrison’s private antiquarians were looking for the second and third ampullae day and night. But so far, they hadn’t discovered anything, anywhere. When he’d phoned up each of the fellows a short while ago, he’d told them to redouble their efforts, to branch out beyond museums, churches, and abbeys.
The men indicated they weren’t the only antiquarians hunting for the St. Thomas ampullae, which meant Lionel Inc. also had people searching for them. Harrison could only pray his antiquarians would come across them first.
He pulled his mobile out of his inner waistcoat pocket, checking again as he already had a dozen times for a voice mail from the antiquarians. But there was nothing new.
Shoulders deflating, he stuffed his mobile away. What if there wasnothingto Arthur’s ultimate cure? What if the holy water didn’t have any power after all—not to cause movement through time or to heal?
Ellen hadn’t believed any of Marian’s tales about crossing to the Middle Ages. Instead, she’d attributed her sister’s experiences to the realistic and sometimes odd dreams that coma patients could have. In the end, Ellen blamed the holy water for poisoning both her dad and sister.
She wanted nothing more to do with her dad’s theories and research, which was one of the reasons why Harrison hadn’t told her about his efforts to track down the last of the ampullae. She’d specifically asked him not to look for any more holy water, had shed tears while begging him to abandon the dangerous pursuit.
Although he wanted to honor her request, he hadn’t been able to stop the search. At times he felt guilty for his deceit, especially when he’d received permission from Canterbury’s Archaeological Trust to excavate under St. George’s Church tower on St. George’sStreet. He’d spent thousands of pounds to pay a crew to drill underground and locate a wellspring rumored to have once been there and thought to be the original source of the miracle holy water.
Of course, he hadn’t disclosed his true motive to any of the workers—that he hoped the wellspring contained curative residue from the Tree of Life, the same water that had been used to fill the St. Thomas ampullae. But after digging as deep as the equipment could go, the excavation team had come up dry. If there had ever been a wellspring in that spot, it was long gone.
After the failed attempt, more doubts had crowded in. Was Ellen right? Was he crazy for believing holy water could cure the ill or allow a healthy person to cross over time? Was the water poisonous after all?
Harrison reversed from his desk and steered to the window. He drew his wheelchair up at an angle that allowed him to look outside without being seen. He easily found the spot where Ellen was still sitting, her legs curled up underneath her, her arms crossed, her hair fluttering in the breeze. Even from a distance, her beauty made his heart ache.
In spite of the weight loss, she was willowy and graceful, tall with endless long legs. With her blue eyes framed by thick lashes, she had the power to knock the breath from his lungs with one glance.
She had that power over most fellows and could have had any number of suitors. Men were always agog over her. And even though he’d tried not to be jealous watching her interact with other fellows over the years, he’d had to swallow his frustration too many times to count.
Thankfully, she’d never grown serious with anyone. He wasn’t sure how his heart could have handled seeing her in another man’s arms.
Lately, he’d begun to suspect that with her VHL and reoccurring cancer, she’d purposefully thwarted relationships because she didn’t want to burden a man with her problems.
