The Taste of Discovery

The low light flickered, and Angela rubbed her tired eyes as markings on the page blurred. The museum archives were still and peaceful. She was conscious of the clock ticking, matching her own strong pulse and dull head throbbing induced by her third double espresso in about as many hours. She longed for sleep, but the work could not stop. She had to crack this.

In all her archaeological years, she had been part of many teams and their discoveries. She craved to hold a treasured artifact first, and to savour in being its finder. Her latest excursion had brought her to Cornwall, a place well-explored by many of her ilk. Tintagel Castle had been finely combed by generations of archaeologists all seeking the cup of legend, the Holy Grail.

The fated goblet from which Christ supposedly drank at the Last Supper had eluded discovery before now. Angela was convinced of a clue in the ancient texts of the archives. Some considered these writings to be the work of Merlin himself, others suspected some artistic licence had been taken with these scrawls to light the fire of adventure in those too naïve to believe it.

Angela turned the page and noted a faded map, damaged by sun exposure. Her heart dropped into her stomach when she noted a faded waypoint slightly northwest of Tintagel Castle: The Sisters. A tiny island.

What did this mean? Could this really be the place the cup has been kept for more than 1000 years?

In a caffeine-fuelled rush, the museum archive disappeared in Angela’s rear mirror.

The drive to the coast was brief, Angela commanded her grandfather’s vessel to the island. A cave beckoned her to enter, and she dug in the marked spot earnestly.

Her shovel struck metal and sang.

Angela sang too.