CONFLICT

Dog is running through the garden. He is clearly enjoying himself. The grass is long. Freddie keeps throwing the ball away, and Dog runs after it again. This game is repeated at least three times. Dog indicates himself when he wants to play. The ball is always right near his nest, and he brings it back when he is ready.

Plop. The ball suddenly lands at your feet, and Dog won’t leave until there has been some playing and fetching. There’s nothing Mommy can do about that.

The grass is really long, Freddie thinks. It needs to be mowed again. Oh, how he hates that! Getting the lawnmower out of the garage, unrolling the cable, and then mowing. The grass is always too wet, so it sticks to the blades. It bunches up, and then the damn thing jams again. Cleaning it and starting over, and then the same frustration all over again.

I have to come up with something for that, he thinks.

“How does one of those things actually work?”

Freddie asks the shopkeeper to explain to him how the robotic lawnmower actually works.

“It’s not that complicated. You bury the sensor cable along the mowing lines. Five centimetres deep is enough. Then you install the base station. That’s where the robot comes to feed, so to speak. It drives there by itself and charging starts automatically. Once it’s fully charged, it sets off again. This process continues as long as it isn’t interrupted.”

“And what happens to the grass?”

“It simply stays where it is. It’s cut so finely that it can serve perfectly well as fertiliser. Two birds with one stone: short grass and no waste!”

“All right, I’ll take one.”

“I’ll get a new box for you. This one can stay here in the shop as our display model.”

“How long is the warranty?”

“I believe it’s one year. Keep your receipt safe; that serves as your proof of warranty.”

Apparently, he has to pay for it first, but the receipt also serves as the warranty certificate.

The box feels surprisingly light, but then again, Freddie has no idea how much it is supposed to weigh.

Time to unpack it and read the instructions. Freddie is home, and Dog looks at him expectantly, having placed the ball on the floor in front of him.

“I don’t have time now, Dog. The grass needs mowing.”

Freddie opens the box.

“What?”

Astonished, he stares at its contents.

Nothing!

“I thought that box felt awfully light!” he mutters to himself. “Have they ripped me off?”

“I swear there was nothing in that box. You gave me an empty box.”

“Of course we would never do that. I think you’re trying to get a second one for free.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“In any case, you’re not telling me the truth. We don’t give customers empty boxes here.”

“Why didn’t you check the contents of the box before giving it to me?”

“There was no need. Anything that comes from our warehouse is in order.”

“So you don’t actually know whether the box was empty. You didn’t check it?”

“There’s no need, as I just told you. If it comes from the warehouse, it’s in order. That’s what I just said.”

“Exactly. You can’t know whether it was in order because you didn’t check it. That’s what I’m telling you.”

“There’s nothing I can do for you, sir. In any case, I’m not giving you another one.”

“No, I suspect you’d just give me another empty box. Although this time I would check it myself.”

“That’s not allowed. Boxes may not be opened in the shop.”

“I understand. That way you’ll never get rid of those empty boxes. So it’s all part of a deliberate scheme!”

“We cannot let an accusation like that pass. You must take those words back.”

“I will, if you take back the empty box.”

“Then we’ll report you for slander and making false accusations.”

“Fine. That can go alongside my complaint against you for fraud.”

“Why won’t you compromise, sir? Surely we can work this out together?”

“Because you’re the one who won’t compromise. You gave me an empty box, and I’m not accepting that.”

“You didn’t check the contents yourself either. So it’s your own fault.”

“You just told me that boxes aren’t allowed to be opened in the shop. So how was I supposed to see whether the box was empty?”

“You could tell by the weight, couldn’t you?”

“Could I? Am I a walking set of scales? And how am I supposed to know how much one of those things weighs?”

“Too many questions at once, sir. Please ask them one at a time.”

“Why? It’s not that complicated, is it?”

“Too many questions at once, sir. Please ask them one at a time.”

“Don’t you understand me anymore when I ask several questions at the same time?”

“No, sir. I’m not programmed for that.”

“Huh?”

“This conversation is being recorded. So that we can learn from it, and so that we can assist you better in the future.”

“Do you mean that I haven’t been properly helped?”

“Surely that should be obvious? I’m being cheated right in front of my eyes.”

“That is not correct, sir. According to company policy, you yourself were negligent by failing to check the contents of the box.”

“You wouldn’t let me!”

“That is not a legitimate defence. According to the law, you are required to carry out that check yourself.”

“Then what was I supposed to do? How can I buy something here and check whether what I receive is actually what I paid for?”

“You can’t. But that’s not really our problem.”

“So you’re not going to resolve this?”

“No. You’re trying to deceive us, not the other way around.”

“Then I’m going to report this to the police.”

“I would advise you not to do that.”

“You can try, but I’m going to do it anyway.”

“How can I prevent that?”

“By giving me a new one.”

“I’ll contact the warehouse.”

“Let me know when you’ve worked it out.”

“A new one is coming from the warehouse.”

“In a box, I presume?”

“Of course. Here it is already!”

“I want you to check the contents yourself.”

“Boxes may not be opened in the shop.”

“So this is another empty box? Wait, I’ll call the police. They can check it. They’re authorised to do so.”

“I’ll look the other way for a moment. Then I won’t see you opening the box.”

“So you don’t agree with company policy either?”

“According to the statistics, this creates too much hassle. I’m not programmed for that either.”

“Why do you keep saying that you’re not programmed for things?”

“Because the programmer probably didn’t think of them.”

“Then you can’t possibly do your job here properly, can you?”

“Sir, I’m a robot too. I don’t work; I carry out instructions.”

Freddie picks up the box. This time it is considerably heavier. Muttering a few words that I’d rather not commit to paper, he leaves the shop.

Dog is running through the garden. The grass is short now, and he doesn’t like that quite as much. Freddie keeps throwing the ball too far; the long grass no longer slows it down.

1Q73

A QUMRAN Short Story

Jos Kremers

The expedition to Jordan was over. Laura van Zanten had enjoyed some well-earned rest at home. She was an archaeologist and actively involved in many expeditions. Her latest expedition in Jordan had been intensive, with working days sometimes lasting as long as twenty hours. During the day she worked on site, and when it became too dark, she went inside to register, photograph and catalogue the finds.

This summer Laura was due to travel to Israel. Qumran needed her! She was pleased to have an assignment that was important to Qumran. Her last adventure with Roger Meers at Khirbet Qumran had been some time ago, and she had developed a soft spot for the place.

According to the experts, this ancient Essene settlement—or, more accurately, what remained of it—had still not been fully catalogued. It was a long-term undertaking, especially since there was no budget for it. Qumran was known to contain the remains of a monastery, and Laura wanted to investigate them further and determine whether a more detailed plan could be drawn from the known structures of the ruins.

This time she travelled alone. Roger was currently very busy with his work at the university and with preparations for an exhibition about the information that could be made public concerning his research into the Birth Scrolls, the writings they had discovered together in the caves around Qumran.

It was summer. She drove into the desert with a full tank of fuel and two spare tyres. The water tank was full, and she had brought a simple tent and plenty of provisions. She was completely prepared.

Qumran—an ideal place for any archaeologist—looked magnificent. Bathed in sunlight, yet with enough shade to make working pleasant, it invited her to dig deeper into the ruins. The many tourists—mainly Japanese—gave the site something of the atmosphere of a theme park, however. That was a pity. This place deserved better.

After parking the car, Laura walked to the small office beside the site. It was a simple wooden building equipped with only the most essential facilities.

David Resi was already waiting for her inside. No one else was there.

Resi had commissioned the search for the Birth Scrolls, and she and Roger had remained in contact with him ever since. David invited her to sit down.

“That business about the monastery was a diversion, Laura. There are probably always people intercepting email traffic on unsecured connections.”

“So I don’t have to search for the monastery?” she asked in surprise.

“No. The monastery has already been mapped thoroughly and in great detail. What we want you to do is search the cave where you found the Birth Scrolls for further clues relating to that document. Immediately after you discovered the scrolls, the cave was sealed again to prevent anyone from disturbing the site.”

“Why do you think there’s anything else of interest to find? We didn’t discover any hidden chambers or anything like that last time!”

“The Syrians are back, and they’re snooping around near the site. I think they’re looking for the exact location of the cave.”

“What do you expect me to do, then? I don’t want to be anywhere near those Syrians. They’re far too violent. I haven’t forgotten what happened last time!”

“No, Lautenbach will keep those men at a distance. I want you to examine the cave very thoroughly one more time. You can use all the facilities and personnel available. Don’t worry about the cost. That has been taken care of.”

“What am I looking for, David? We examined the cave pretty thoroughly last time, and we documented and catalogued everything we found. Did we miss something?”

“Among all the belongings found in Yossi’s house, something was discovered suggesting that there is still something hidden in the cave you found. We don’t know exactly what it is. There was only an indication that a document had been concealed when the Birth Scrolls were secured. The writing is in such poor condition that we can no longer determine what it says.”

Laura nodded. She gathered everything she needed. David Resi introduced Shimon Levy as her assistant and protector. Shimon had taken part in the first mission as one of Lautenbach’s men.

They set off for the cave where the Birth Scrolls had been found.

From the hilltops above Qumran, Aziz Yilmaz lowered his binoculars. He picked up his phone and quietly said:

“al-ãna.”

This was the moment the Damascus Group had been waiting for for two years. Now the time for revenge had come. Two years had given them time to regroup and recruit new people. Two years during which the humiliation of losing the Birth Scrolls had remained etched in their minds, clouding their judgement even further and allowing their desire for revenge to grow into an all-consuming hatred that could only be satisfied by blood.

A camera drone was launched into the air, recording Laura’s every movement.

They made slow progress. The terrain was still extremely difficult to cross. That was probably why hardly anyone ever used this path. Hidden from prying eyes, with an entrance that was almost invisible, whatever lay concealed there might be safer than in a bank vault.

After almost an hour, during which they had covered only two kilometres, Laura said:

“Stop! We’re here.”

“Where are we? I can’t see anything!”

“The cave where the Birth Scrolls were found is here. The entrance is very well hidden, isn’t it?”

“I can’t see an entrance at all!”

Shimon stared intently at the rock face, but the bewilderment in his eyes remained.

Laura walked towards a few clumps of dry scrub, pushed some of them aside and began scraping with a small knife at a barely visible crack in the rock face.

“Pass me that steel tripod with the winch from the vehicle. And the long steel bar.”

Laura gave Shimon her instructions decisively. She positioned the tripod beside the rock face and inserted the flat end of the bar into a tiny opening just above ground level.

“When I tell you, push the bar down like a lever.”

She attached a flat hook to the chain on the tripod.

“Now!”

Shimon pushed down. The crack widened slightly, allowing Laura to insert the flat end of the hook.

“If you operate the winch now, the opening will be exposed.”

Shimon began turning it, and slowly the boulder sealing the entrance to the cave moved forwards and upwards. When the opening was large enough, Laura placed a large wooden block beneath the boulder on either side.

The entrance was exposed.

They could go inside.

Shimon first walked back to the car and retrieved a small black device. He pressed the red button twice. It was small but prominent in the centre of the matt surface.

High above them, the camera suspended beneath the drone began to move with a soft hum, its lens turning towards the cave.

Farther away, just outside the centre of Jericho, the door of a warehouse opened. A small truck with a powerful engine drove out.

In the small portable office beside the ruins, Resi picked up his phone and called Lautenbach.

The hidden caves north of Qumran suddenly came alive.

Men climbed aboard armoured vehicles. Apart from the heavy rumble of the engines, there was silence.

Everyone knew his task.

And everyone carried it out in silence.

“Will you help me look, Shimon?” Laura asked. “I’m looking for small marks in the rock face that might indicate there’s a space behind it. Let me know if you see anything.”

“What sort of marks do you mean exactly? There are so many scratches that I don’t know which ones might be clues and which ones aren’t.”

“I mean lines that could be cracks or seams—fairly straight ones.”

Shimon studied the rock walls with interest, occasionally running his fingers over a spot that caught his attention. Slowly he moved towards the cave entrance.

Laura also followed the rock wall, heading towards the ledges where salt had once been stored and then towards the shrine in which the Birth Scrolls had been found during their previous visit.

Suddenly Laura looked up from her position beside the shrine.

Very faintly, she could hear the sound of an engine.

Perhaps more than one.

She saw Shimon walk out of the cave. He turned and looked back at her.

Then, without warning, he pulled the blocks from beneath the boulder.

The boulder crashed down before Laura could reach the entrance.

She was trapped.

Just as Yossi had been more than seventy years earlier.

No food.

No water.

No means of communication.

Why?

After the initial panic, she began to cry softly.

She had seen often enough how people trapped in similar situations had fought to survive, both physically and mentally.

All she could do was wait for the moment when she would die.

Hunger—but above all thirst, an all-consuming thirst—would ensure a horrible death.

Her tears flowed more freely now, and her sobbing grew louder.

She would never see Roger again.

She stretched out on the ground and closed her eyes.

She didn’t want to think.

She wanted to sleep.

Sleep forever.

After what seemed like days, but turned out to have been no more than two hours, a thin streak of light appeared.

Surprised, Laura looked towards the cave entrance, blinking against the brilliant sunlight.

The opening grew wider.

Once again, blocks were pushed beneath the boulder.

The cave was open.

Someone entered through the opening. Laura couldn’t see the person’s face; the bright light outside meant she could make out only a silhouette.

The figure shone a flashlight around the cave.

Its beam found Laura, still lying on the ground.

“There you are!”

Laura recognised Resi’s voice.

“Oh, David!” she cried. “I’m so glad you’re here! I was so afraid I was going to die in here!”

Resi walked towards her and wrapped his arms protectively around her.

“It’s all right, Laura.”

His gentle voice calmed her.

“The threat is gone.”

After a brief silence, he continued.

“Shimon was part of the Damascus Group. He betrayed you. I can assure you they won’t trouble you again.”

Laura crawled through the opening and out into the blazing sunlight, blinking until her eyes adjusted.

She looked around.

Shimon lay there.

A bullet hole in his head.

A short distance away stood a small truck, with three bodies lying around it. The blood surrounding them told its own story.

A deadly battle had taken place here.

The Birth Cave had become a cave of death.

She would never set foot inside it again.

Author’s Note

Do I detect a little confusion in the reader’s eyes?

What does the title mean?

Surely you haven’t read the thriller The Qumran Controversy yet!

What a shame!

Order it now and you’ll understand this story much better.

The Absurd Evening Hours of Petertje Poort

A humorous variation on Hendrik Marsman’s “Herinnering aan Holland”

 

It is already late. Petertje Poort is sitting in the living room in front of the window overlooking the busy street.

Petertje, however, is not looking at the busy street. Petertje is reading. He loves poetry and wishes he could write half as well as his great literary example, the Dutch poet Hendrik Marsman.

Petertje drifts away on the opening lines of Marsman’s famous poem Herinnering aan Holland (Memory of Holland). As he reads, Marsman’s images of rivers, lowlands, poplars, farmhouses, church towers and threatening waters begin to merge with Petertje’s own thoughts, taking the poem in a rather unexpected—and increasingly absurd—direction.

And Petertje dreams his dream like a film unfolding before his mind’s eye.

Thinking of Holland, the opening line fills his head.

I’m thinking of Holland, Petertje thinks.

His wife, who occupies the other side of the living room and is busy working at her sewing machine, suddenly asks:

“Petertje, what are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking of Holland, my lady.”

“Oh, that sounds like a pleasant thought. What’s happening inside your head?”

“Well, that isn’t very difficult to describe.” Petertje suddenly seems fully alert. “I see broad rivers flowing slowly through endless lowlands.”

“That is rather typical of Holland, isn’t it?”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. And the beautiful thing is that rows of impossibly slender poplars rise like tall plumes on the distant horizon.”

“That sounds like a very expansive view, Petertje.”

“Indeed, my lady. Scattered across the land, farmhouses seem to disappear into the immensity of the landscape.”

“Does your eye encounter any other horizons? Just trees and farmhouses might become rather dull after a while.”

“I also see clusters of trees around villages, truncated church towers and elms where an owl might make its home. All of it forming part of one magnificent whole.”

“Oh, Petertje, how I would love to dwell inside your dreams. But before I enter them, I would first like to know something about the climatic conditions.”

“I can tell you that the sky hangs low. Evening is approaching, and the sun is slowly being smothered by grey, many-coloured mists. But before you enter my dreams, I should warn you.”

“Oh yes, Petertje? What makes you think a warning is necessary?”

“That, my love, is because the voice of the water, with all its eternal disasters, is feared and heard throughout the land.”

Mrs Poort felt herself being drawn into Petertje’s dreams. The threatening conclusion to his thoughts, however, prevented her from storming headlong into them.

Petertje, too, had certain reservations about his dream. He did not like those truncated towers.

Should I hire a contractor to restore those towers?

The practical side of his mind had opened for business.

And all those willow branches—shouldn’t I prune them?

His wife knew him through and through and, with uncanny accuracy, guessed what he was thinking.

“They’re not willows, Petertje. They’re poplars. They don’t need pruning.”

“Still, I have my reservations.” His forehead creased into a frown. “That red evening sky looks as though it might put some water in the ditch. And you know me: I don’t like getting my feet wet.”

MY FAITHFUL WALKING SHOES