The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

Friday, August 19, 2016

the da vinci cipher

James studied the parchment.
In the centre of it Sophie's dying father had scrawled three words:
'U Fuhn Cuhns'
Sophie peered over his shoulder.
"What does it mean?" she murmured. "Was my father trying to tell us who killed him?"
"No," said James, "I think he was just really annoyed about being stabbed."
Sophie sighed.
"Ever since Papa joined the Priory of Zion I knew there would be trouble," she said.
James sat bolt upright.
"What do you know about the Priory of Zion?" he demanded.
"Not much," she said thoughtfully stroking her adorable lustrous brown hair.
"When you're finished with that hair could I stroke it?" wondered James. "It's a really nice one."
Sophie didn't seem to hear him.
"Ze Priory of Zion," she mouthed, lapsing into stage French. " It is a secret society and it serves to protect a great secret. According to my father it has existed for almost two thousand years. Like the best secret societies it is always led by very famous people in each era. To avoid attracting attention, you see. Sir Isaac Newton, Leonardo Da Vinci, Michaelangelo, Titian, they were all Grand Masters of the Priory. And before them Charlemagne, Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, and Saint Augustine. Later still came Chopin, Liszt, Beethoven, Elvis and the Beetles. Then, Gandhi, John F Kennedy, Winston Churchill, Robert Mugabe, Chairman Mao, Colombo..."
James sat bolt upright again.
"Cristofero Colombo?" interjected James. "Christopher Columbus, the explorer?"
"No," said Sophie, "not him. It's ze one on ze television. You remember? With ze cigars. 'Pardon me Mam.' That Colombo."
"I think you're thinking of Winston Churchill," said James.
Sophie shushed him with a wave of her hair.
"After Colombo," she said, "came Barnaby Jones, Steve McGarrit, Mannix, Jim Rockford, Frank Cannon and Francois Mitterand. All the great TV detectives. All Grand Masters of the Priory of Zion. All sworn to protect its secret."
"What is the secret?" rapped out James bluntly, trying not to stare at her magnificent legs.
Then almost as an afterthought he added: "Could you not find a longer skirt? I mean throw another log on the fire. Thunder Thighs."
"Are you saying my legs are like tree trunks?" she enquired archly.
James was nonplussed by her aura of mystique and her gazungas.
Sophie looked at him with a hint of challenge.
"Stop distracting me," James told her firmly. "Just tell me the secret protected by the Priory of Zion."
"My father died for the secret," she said with a sexy French pout. "I will never tell anyone."
"Tell me," cried James, seizing her arm, "and stop pouting. You're scaring the parrot. And me to be honest."
"James the secret can never be told," she insisted, twisting away from him.
"Alright be like that," said James. "I think I know it anyway"
"You cannot know," whispered Sophie.
"I know," said James.
"How could you know?" she asked with a desperate plea in her eyes.
"Oh I know. It's quite easy to figure out once you get on the right track. Secret society. Famous leaders. Sum of the hypotenuse is equal to the other two sides. It was quite simple in the end. I know the secret, Sophie. Here I can prove it to you. We'll both take a piece of paper and write separately what we think the secret is. And then we'll compare the two. I know I'm right. But if I'm wrong I'll buy you dinner and stop talking about Donald Trump."
"You will never mention Donald Trump again?" said Sophie.
"Never," agreed James.
"No more interminable conversations about the dynamics of American politics?" persisted Sophie.
"Well I might talk politics but I won't mention Trump," hedged James, clearly unsure that solving a two thousand year old mystery was worth giving up his favourite conversational gambit.
"Okay," sighed Sophie.
She sighed a lot that girl.
They were very sensual sighs too.
It has been opined by learned professors that to the non French person every sound the French make seems sensual.
You should hear them fart.
James produced a notebook and tore out two pages. He passed one across the table.
"Have you got a pen?" said Sophie.
"Use the marker beside the sugar bowl," answered James.
Sophie scribbled busily.
James wrote with a little more deliberation.
The two pieces of paper were placed face down on the table.
"Put your hand on my page," said James.
Sophie did so.
"Now I place my hand on your page," continued James.
Simultaneously each one turned the other's page.
Sophie's read:
'The original Jesus was a feminist vegan advocating goddess worship. He supported Amnesty International, Save The Whales and nuclear disarmament. He was also married to Mary Magdalene and their children became the royal house of France. That is why we French are so superior to everyone else. The Catholic Church has been suppressing these facts for two thousand years using a squad of psychotic albino assassins disguised as an order of monks.'
James' page read:
'I haven't a clue.'
There was a moment of stillness.
Sophie was struggling to understand the feelings welling in her ample bosoms.
Either she was in love with him or she despised him.
Which was it?
She didn't know.
James was also struggling with mounting emotions.
"That's the most stupid ----ing thing I've ever heard," he exclaimed. "A cult of ----ing albino assassins dressed as ----ing monks. For ----'s sake. That's an insult to the intelligence that is. What a load of old cobblers. Albino monk assassins. For ----'s sake!"
At the window, Silas the albino assassin slowly lowered his gun, pushed back the cowl on his monk disguise, and shed a soft tear.


Anonymous MissJean said...

I laughed, James. Particularly at the end - poor misunderstood Silas. The ridiculousness of these conspiracies compared to a real one now exposed:

11:45 AM  

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