Solomon Key

Chapter 28

Vohipeno sat nestled on the east bank of the Sandrananta River in southeastern Madagascar just a few miles from the Indian Ocean. The small town and commune had a population of less than 20,000, almost all of whom were farmers, who produced rice and coffee. As they wandered along, Maddock couldn’t help but feel he was in another world. Many of the homes were weathered, tin roof shacks set on thick posts to avoid flooding, and virtually all the buildings, even the businesses, were in a similar state. Some looked like they’d been cobbled together from driftwood. The whole town seemed to be graying wood and rust-pitted metal.

“I still think this is a weird place to look for King Solomon’s Mines,” Bones said. “Is Avery sure she got the code deciphered right?”

“If not, it would be one heck of a coincidence for her to screw up the code and still get a coherent message out of it,” Maddock said.

“It’s roughly the proper distance from Israel to fit the legends, and Madagascar is rich in resources,” Isla said.

Since the incident at Lilly Archer’s grave, Isla had buried herself in research. After relieving Gowan of his wallet and smartphone in order to hopefully make him more difficult for police to identify, they’d fled the country. Fortunately, Avery had decoded the message before their departure, giving them a place to head to.

Maddock had some idea of what Isla was going through. Taking a life, even justifiably, took a toll on a person. She would need time to deal with it. Her struggle with what she’d done had gone a long way toward smoothing over relations between her, Maddock, and Bones, especially since she’d admitted to placing a tracker on Maddock’s jacket when she’d picked them up outside the cathedral.

“Also, our research seems to support a possible connection. Rather, Jimmy’s research supports it,” she added.

Maddock nodded. They’d called upon his old friend, Jimmy Letson, to see if he could find any connection between King Solomon’s Mines and the island of Madagascar. He had uncovered a remarkable, yet little-known legend called the “Malagasy Secret.” Some Malagasies believed that they were of Israelite descent, and that their forebears were seafaring members of Israel’s “lost tribe.” Furthermore, local lore amongst these tiny pockets of Judaism held that Madagascar was, in fact, the biblical land of Ophir, the home of King Solomon’s Mines, and that Madagascar provided many of the building materials for King Solomon’s temple, including gold and rosewood. Curiously, he’d also turned up reports that Madagascar had been considered by France in the late 1700s and the Nazis as a dumping ground for “undesirable” citizens.

“And then there’s the fact that the translation included one of the bits of scripture found on H. Rider Haggard’s tomb,” Isla said. “The secret lies here. I’m certain of it.”

“Let’s just hope the people here are willing to talk.” Maddock pointed to a rickety, whitewashed wooden building. The Star of David was painted in blue above the doorway. They entered the makeshift synagogue, where they were greeted by Rakoto, a robust man dressed in traditional Malagasy clothing. He greeted them warmly, shaking each person’s hand in a powerful grip. Maddock was relieved that the man spoke fluent English. He was prepared to converse in French, a language spoken among the educated citizenry of Madagascar, but if the man had only spoken Malagasy, they’d have been stuck trying to make use of an online translation program.

“You’re not what I expected,” Bones said after introductions had been made.

“Oh?” Rakoto’s gray eyebrows twitched with amusement. “You thought to meet a skinny white man with silly sideburns?”

“Something like that,” Bones said, chuckling.

“For some reason, my hair will not grow that way.” Rakoto laughed, tugging at a patch of close-cropped, curly hair at his graying temple. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“We’re archaeologists,” Maddock said. “We are on the trail of something…unusual.”

Rakoto looked like a child trying his first taste of Scotch Whisky. “King Solomon’s Mines.”

“We realize it sounds far-fetched,” Isla interjected, “but some dangerous people are taking this legend seriously. If there is any truth at all to this legend, we need to protect it from them.”

“Two Americans, one…Irishwoman?” Rakoto asked.

“Scottish, actually,” Isla said.

Rakoto nodded. “For whom do you work?”

“Bones and I are connected with a special CIA task force,” Maddock said. That was technically true, although their connection to the Myrmidons was no longer official. “We’ve engaged Ms. Mulheron’s services for her expertise.”

“I would prefer not to get involved.”

Maddock reached into his pocket and took out a heavy iron ring and held it up for Rakoto to see the signet. There, in brass, were two interlocked triangles forming a six-pointed star. A tiny sapphire lay in the space between each point.

Rakoto gasped. “That is never the ring…” He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

Maddock understood. There was something about the ring. It had a presence, for lack of a better term. You could feel it as if it had a life of its own. The moment he’d touched it, he’d known it was the ring of Solomon.

“It’s real. Please help us if you can.”

Rakoto let out a long, tired sigh. “I know very little, save the legends.”

“We’re interested in anything you can tell us,” Maddock said. “Even if it is not definitive.”

“Very well. Please have a seat.” They sat down on blankets on the floor and Rakoto began his story.

“Some Malagasy Jews believe we came to the island on Noah’s Ark. As if the ark landed in Africa.” He let out a rich laugh, while Maddock and Bones exchanged a knowing glance, one that Isla did not miss. She quirked an eyebrow and Maddock shook his head and gestured toward Rakoto, who continued talking. “Among most of our number, the tradition holds that our common ancestor was a man called Alitawarat, or ‘Ali Torah.’ He was originally from Jerusalem and his first language was Hebrew. He served King Solomon, and discovered the bounty of Madagascar. While the specifics might not be precisely accurate, there is reason to believe that we have an ancient Hebrew heritage. The practice of circumcision, for example, has been a tradition long before missionaries visited our island. Many isolated communities called themselves ‘Descendants of Abraham.’ He went on to list other examples of the Madagascar-Hebrew connection. “And then, of course, there is the sacred rock of Alakamisy-Ambohimaha.”

“What’s that?” Bones asked.

“It is a boulder upon which Hebrew letters have been engraved. You will pass it on your way to Vatumasina.”

Isla tilted her head. “Vatumasina.”

“It is a royal village where the protectors of the Malagasy secret reside. If anyone can tell you more than mere legend, it will be them.”

“Would they speak with us?” Maddock asked.

“They will meet with anyone. But you must ask in the proper form, else they will dismiss you out of hand.”

“What’s the proper form?” Bones asked.

Rakoto shrugged. “No one in living memory has asked properly. If you manage it, you will be the first.”