Free Skeleton 03 - The Constantine Codex by Paul L Maier

actually enjoyed the first part of their voyage upward because of the spectacular view. But when they were two hundred feet off the ground, she made the mistake of looking down. She gasped and clutched at Jon’s arm.
    “No, darling,” Jon soothed. “Don’t look straight down. Just keep looking out over this once-in-a-lifetime panorama.”
    “But what’s that clickety-click sound up there?”
    “Just the ratchet wheel on the windlass that’s hoisting us up. You always want to hear those clicks.”
    “Why?”
    “They prevent the winch from turning the other way.”
    “In which case we’d hurtle back down?”
    “Well . . . exactly.”
    “Oh, how delightfu l ! I wonder if that’s ever happened.”
    “I understand that the windlass works perfectly. Most of the time, anyway.”
    “Jon! Not a time to be joking.”
    By now they were over halfway up to the monastery. While the view outward was breathtaking, any glance downward was terrifying. They were higher now than most radio towers, suspended between heaven and earth, and held only by hemp cables that looked quite worn. Now they themselves were also meteora .
    Shannon was sorry that she had ever let Jon talk her into this exquisite bit of torture. She cast another glance at the hawsers that spelled life or death for them. “How often do they replace those ropes, Jon?”
    He turned to the monk and asked the same question in Greek. When he had the answer, he turned to Shannon and smiled. “He thought the last time was when Lord Byron visited Greece in the 1830s.”
    Both men hardly concealed their mirth. Shannon pondered which of them to hoist overboard first, but she decided their weight in the basket was beneficial to her own safety.
    The monk then added another comment, which Jon translated. “The brother here was only spoofing,” he said. “As good stewards of property, they replace the ropes only ‘when the Lord lets them break!’”
    “Not helpful, Jon!” she cried, Jon . . . Jon . . . Jon echoing across the entire valley. The men, however, were doing a miserable job of trying to stifle their laughter.
    Suddenly the clickety-click stopped and the ascent upward was halted. A wind from the west had arisen, causing their rude gondola to start swinging from side to side. “What’s going on?” she demanded, her hands clammy.
    Jon asked the monk, then replied, “He says that you should not be concerned. The machine breaks down sometimes, but they’re usually able to repair it in less than twenty-four hours.”
    Her heart momentarily stopped. But then her mood changed to one of steel as she said, “Now listen closely, Jon. If I could let go of the edge of this witch’s basket you’ve arranged for me, instead of my holding on for dear life, these two hands would gladly wrap themselves around your throat until you begged for mercy. And the same goes for your new Greek friend there, monk or not! Now get me out of this mess, and I mean now .”
    Realizing that once again he had stepped over the line, Jon admitted, sheepishly, “It was only a little joke, honey.”
    The clickety-click resumed, and soon they were at the summit. Though Shannon’s knees were wobbly as she emerged from their netted elevator, she refused to give Jon the satisfaction of accepting his help in ascending the final steps to the courtyard of Varlaam monastery.
    “Shannon, honey,” he called. “I’m sorry. Really.”
    “Later, Jon,” she said through clenched teeth. Honestly, sometimes she wondered if her husband would ever grow up. As much as she loved the man, there were times she could hardly stand to be within ten feet of him.
    A violet-robed warden of diminutive stature extended them a warm greeting, and Shannon tried to arrange her features into a more neutral state. The warden showed them to their quarters for the night, and Shannon was pleased to see that the room was nicely appointed—not the monastic cell she had expected—with twin beds and a window