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Authors: Bowen Greenwood
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through the endless stream of pottery shards and goat bones depressed him. The heat never let up and neither did the boredom.
Wilson Kendrick tried to keep his thoughts in productive places, but it was almost impossible. Pondering the subject of ultimate justice only made everything seem worse, but keeping his mind away from it proved too great a task. At this wretched dig, it was just too easy to feel like he was getting what was coming to him for the way he had dealt with Siobhan McLane’s paper.
When she enrolled in one or more of his classes each semester, he simply appreciated the feeling of validation that comes with students who really look up to a teacher. She possessed a kind of girl-next-door beauty; more than a few of his colleagues might have taken advantage of her obvious respect. Kendrick wasn’t that kind of man. In those days, he congratulated himself on his ethics… until her paper crossed his desk.
Anyone who came near the world of academia heard the phrase “publish or perish.” Back then, Kendrick had been no exception. Whatever Siobhan may have thought of him, his colleagues formed their own opinion. They believed him lazy, unintelligent, and occupying a professorial chair that should have gone to a better man. His prospects for advancement seemed dim indeed. The other members of the department didn’t take him seriously.
He had been passed over for a full professorship many times by then. And as the brass ring came around again, he knew what was coming. None of his research went anywhere. None of his grants received funding. He offered no new finds or contributions to the field in years. He was going to be passed over for a full professorship again.
And then an unknown grad student handed in the most incredibly-researched paper he had ever seen. She connected disparate facts about the Quran, secular history, and more, then injected them into an idea no one would have believed.
Did Muhammad really come to Jerusalem? What if he left evidence behind?
On its own, the theory would have been useless. However, Siobhan had done more than just put forward the idea; she had compiled a list of locations most likely to produce such evidence.
Kendrick remembered the moment well. He sat in the tiny cubicle that passed for his office. He daydreamed of the full professorship that would never come as he half-heartedly marked grades between B- and A+ on the spoiled children’s papers. He had been ready to attend an archaeology conference where he was scheduled to present another boring paper on a theory that would attract no interest.
His mouth fell open as he read the one paper that had changed everything. It was brilliant. The analysis of why each potential dig location could contain evidence was perfect. No one would believe it had come from someone so unknown.
If he presented them with a more likely explanation… they would believe it.
His face burned so hot when he stood at the podium and read Siobhan’s paper as his own. He cried when he wrote out the allegations of plagiarism against her for the Dean.
He planned to build his career on that paper. He felt like he needed a shower afterwards, but at the time, completely discrediting her seemed necessary. If she hung around the university while he was off getting famous based on her work, there would have been too much opportunity for her to cause trouble. He still hated the memory.
But it all proved worth it. Everyone loved the paper. He won his professorship. The University paid to send him to Israel to seek the funding for a dig.
And the lady from the Fund for Mideast Harmony drove up to his hotel in a black Mercedes sedan with red leather trim, took him out to a fine dinner, and offered him the kind of funding he’d never seen in his whole career.
Getting there had been nerve wracking. He danced along the edge of failure the whole time. He pitched the theory — his theory — to the Israeli government, but that went nowhere. He pitched it
Wilson Kendrick tried to keep his thoughts in productive places, but it was almost impossible. Pondering the subject of ultimate justice only made everything seem worse, but keeping his mind away from it proved too great a task. At this wretched dig, it was just too easy to feel like he was getting what was coming to him for the way he had dealt with Siobhan McLane’s paper.
When she enrolled in one or more of his classes each semester, he simply appreciated the feeling of validation that comes with students who really look up to a teacher. She possessed a kind of girl-next-door beauty; more than a few of his colleagues might have taken advantage of her obvious respect. Kendrick wasn’t that kind of man. In those days, he congratulated himself on his ethics… until her paper crossed his desk.
Anyone who came near the world of academia heard the phrase “publish or perish.” Back then, Kendrick had been no exception. Whatever Siobhan may have thought of him, his colleagues formed their own opinion. They believed him lazy, unintelligent, and occupying a professorial chair that should have gone to a better man. His prospects for advancement seemed dim indeed. The other members of the department didn’t take him seriously.
He had been passed over for a full professorship many times by then. And as the brass ring came around again, he knew what was coming. None of his research went anywhere. None of his grants received funding. He offered no new finds or contributions to the field in years. He was going to be passed over for a full professorship again.
And then an unknown grad student handed in the most incredibly-researched paper he had ever seen. She connected disparate facts about the Quran, secular history, and more, then injected them into an idea no one would have believed.
Did Muhammad really come to Jerusalem? What if he left evidence behind?
On its own, the theory would have been useless. However, Siobhan had done more than just put forward the idea; she had compiled a list of locations most likely to produce such evidence.
Kendrick remembered the moment well. He sat in the tiny cubicle that passed for his office. He daydreamed of the full professorship that would never come as he half-heartedly marked grades between B- and A+ on the spoiled children’s papers. He had been ready to attend an archaeology conference where he was scheduled to present another boring paper on a theory that would attract no interest.
His mouth fell open as he read the one paper that had changed everything. It was brilliant. The analysis of why each potential dig location could contain evidence was perfect. No one would believe it had come from someone so unknown.
If he presented them with a more likely explanation… they would believe it.
His face burned so hot when he stood at the podium and read Siobhan’s paper as his own. He cried when he wrote out the allegations of plagiarism against her for the Dean.
He planned to build his career on that paper. He felt like he needed a shower afterwards, but at the time, completely discrediting her seemed necessary. If she hung around the university while he was off getting famous based on her work, there would have been too much opportunity for her to cause trouble. He still hated the memory.
But it all proved worth it. Everyone loved the paper. He won his professorship. The University paid to send him to Israel to seek the funding for a dig.
And the lady from the Fund for Mideast Harmony drove up to his hotel in a black Mercedes sedan with red leather trim, took him out to a fine dinner, and offered him the kind of funding he’d never seen in his whole career.
Getting there had been nerve wracking. He danced along the edge of failure the whole time. He pitched the theory — his theory — to the Israeli government, but that went nowhere. He pitched it
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