by Luke Norris
“I’m not sure what happened to his clothes,” Shael answered. “But I found him just in time I would say.”
“By Ponsy’s hammer, I’d say you did!” Breiz said, shaking his head in disbelief. “That man was in such bad shape, he looked like one of the mummies we pulled out of this place. This will make headlines, a far bigger news story than your find Ander. Nobody will be interested in some old parchment. People will want to know who he is. I mean he is probably missing from somewhere, right?”
“If his story gets out early it will completely overshadow the expedition,” Ander agreed. “That would be a disaster from a P.R. standpoint. Our expedition’s benefactors will want the publicity, to get back their investment. That means we want the publicity. It equals funding for our next trip back up here. It’s the side of this industry I’d rather not think about Briez, but we do need to come back. We’ve not examined half of this place. This is the most important find in modern archaeology. And, it could be overshadowed by some person who wandered off the trail,” Ander lowered his voice. “I’m not saying we keep him a secret… Maybe we just don’t need to actively advertise that we found him, at the beginning at least.”
“You think you can keep this a secret?” Breiz asked.
“I’m just saying let news of the explorer come out organically, that’s all. There’s no need to glamorize it. I mean what happened actually? Let me summarize. Basically, a person wandered onto our site. He’d spent some nights in the cold.”
Shael almost spat out her tea. Just wandered onto our site? They were several kilometers above sea level, hundreds of kilometers from anywhere, in the most hostile environment on the entire planet. But did the average citizen really know what it was like up here? No, the average person didn’t, and they probably would believe the farce that Ander just suggested. He was right, you could spin the truth in such a way as to make the story so unremarkable that it would fly under the radar. The explorer didn’t speak Naharainee, so he would not be able to refute anything.
What’s more, Ander was right. There was a business side to this whole enterprise that a scientist would rather not have to deal with. Ander may not have the most scrupulous practices when it came to scientific methods, but he used his attributes, Shael gave him that begrudgingly. If it wasn’t for his charismatic press work they wouldn't be here. He had a talent for exciting the public, and wrangling in the money when it was needed. He always managed to get funding, it was uncanny and unfair.
“Listen up team!” Ander called everybody’s attention. “Eorol has given us until tomorrow, midday latest, to pack down the camp, and have the wasps ready to go. Some big storm systems are looking unpredictable, and he’s pulled rank as pilot and safety officer. So, unfortunately, we’re out of time this trip,” he added reluctantly.
Damn! Shael would not have the chance to get back into the tomb before then. And worse, her spot on the return mission was looking dubious. She had used her leverage on Ander to get on the team. It was a little underhanded, and he knew it. That wouldn’t work a second time. She had refused his romantic advances, despite having sent obvious signals to him. At least he wasn’t the sort to hold resentment for such a thing, besides it’s only what he would have done in her position.
She had to secure her place on the next trip. She would have to think of something, and fast. Perhaps she could turn the situation with this explorer to her advantage. A loose idea started formulating. She would freestyle it. She was good at improvising.
Ander was heading back to his wasp. This was the opportunity.
“Ander, can we have a minute?” Shael called, jogging over to him.
“Shael?” He cocked an eyebrow, the unspoken tension hung in the air.
“It’s about what you talked about earlier,” she said. “You really believe that news of that explorer won’t be splashed across every newsfeed in the country, as soon as people hear? I mean it’s just such an unbelievable tale.” She had to sell this to Ander.
“Well, I mean not if we don’t go advertising it,” he examined her. “What are you saying Shael?”
“I just mean, you know, hospital staff will ask questions. I can just see his story overshadowing the mission.”
Ander grimaced in acknowledgment. Yes, this was her chance.
“Unless he is kept out of the limelight,” Shael continued, “you know, just at the beginning, while he recovers. By that time the expedition should have had ample exposure. I was listening to him earlier, and am certain he was speaking Varien,” she lied. “I have a family friend who could assist in his recovery.”
“His recovery?” Ander said dubiously. “You would look after him, and keep him out of the public eye?” He looked at Shael appraisingly. “And you want to be on the return mission, no doubt. I knew there was something. Does everything have an ulterior motive with you Shael?”
Damn, he was still a little bitter. She thought he’d not been so affected.
“Alright,” Ander agreed. “If you can keep his story breaking for two weeks, you’ll have a secured place on the next trip.”
“Deal!” She started back toward her camp.
“Shael!” He called after her. “How would it be to let your work get you ahead for once?”
That struck home. Not because it was true, it wasn’t. But now she knew for sure that he thought she didn’t deserve to be there. He had no idea how many hours she devoted to her craft, endless late nights learning from Targon. If an opportunity presented itself, she would take it. Baah, he was just still sore from the rejection, and she didn’t need Ander’s approval. Her little plan had worked, one that she had hatched on the spot.
Now she just had to somehow keep this man under wraps.
5
RETURN FLIGHT
Shael gripped the armrest of her seat, as turbulence jolted the wasp. How were the others so calm? How was he so calm? The explorer was awake, sitting opposite her, watching out the window. His brown eyes were so intense, as he watched those untamed jungle covered canyons. He’d been somehow living down there in that? His condition did seem much better—he was eating small amounts, and seemed more alert. That was good, she didn’t want any risks if she was going to be nursing him.
“The waterfall is coming up, Shael,” Eorol said, leaning over from the cockpit chair and pointing out the window beside her. “You have to see it, just a small look. Come on, you know these things are completely safe. I’ve taken more rough flights in the wasps than you can count. Don’t worry so much. Just have a peek, it’s truly remarkable.”
Shael didn’t need to see a damn waterfall, but she smiled weakly and nodded at Eorol, so he would at least turn back around, and focus on the flying this stupid contraption.
She needed a distraction. Maybe she could get some more information from the explorer while he was awake.
“Hey!” She gently tapped his knee, getting his attention. “Do you have a name?”
He just stared back silently, examining her under his dark brow.
“Sorry, I’m a bit of a dummy, you don’t speak Naharainee do you?” The few words he had spoken had similarities to the ancient Hajir dialect. Perhaps he’d understand a few things if it sounded similar enough.
“Isem Shael,” she said tapping her chest. Then she tapped his. “Isemik?” Maybe he understood the word Isem for ‘name’.
“Oliver.” He said quietly.
Not such an uncommon name, even in other cultures. It was trending again in fact. Parents calling their children Oliver.
“Oliver, that’s a nice name,” she said. “Like King Oliver. Ah sorry,” she searched for the words, “mital amalak Oliver.”
“Aye, amalak Oliver.” He agreed.
He understood the word for king. Amazing, they were using a forgotten language as an intermediary to communicate. Targon would love to meet this man.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you Oliver,” Shael said happily.
Oliver smiled in return and then turned his attention back t
o the window and the landscape passing underneath. His eyes told stories of the jungle below, there was pain and nostalgia in that expression. He must have been down there for a long time, surviving.
What else could she ask him with her limited vocabulary?
“Oliver, what land are you from?” She asked in broken Hajir.
“Oliver examined her for some time, searching her face. So intense. She smiled back encouragingly. It was hard to hold his gaze. He had a natural air of authority.
“Wasat,” he said eventually. Pointing in the direction of the coast.
That was not a place she’d heard of, apart from the ancient Wasat kingdom of course. He was pointing toward the coast. It was probably somewhere overseas, but she couldn’t translate that sentence to ask him. Targon might be able to clear that up when they got back.
Oliver pointed to her chest. “Anta abini Ponsy?” He asked.
Am I Ponsy’s daughter? The question made no sense. She needed the old man. Wait, did he actually say Ponsy? Like the mythical Ponsy, as in ‘Ponsy’s hammer’ Ponsy. She chuckled. He smiled and nodded, with an ‘I thought so’ expression as if she’d confirmed it for him.
Oliver did seem much perkier. That was great! Shael should have an easy couple of weeks looking after him. The thought of securing her spot on the next expedition, and getting back up to that tomb was exciting. But who knew how long that would be? There were so many factors that determined such an expedition, not just the logistics, but all the politics that went along with it.
Oliver seemed so placid, and thoughtful, staring out the window. Not in a rush to get home… wherever that was. Why did he not have the elated jubilant attitude of a person that had been rescued near death? It made sense that people who were able to survive extreme situations probably had calm personality types, able to accept their circumstances and work with what they had.
Shael closed her eyes, with thoughts of the ancient world running around her brain. She pictured the strange highland man and woman on the fresco paintings in the guard tower burial chamber. She imagined them alive and smiling at her. Her conversation with Oliver had triggered childhood fantasies. She didn’t mind, she’d always secretly found escapism in thoughts of kings and queens, and the folktales of old. Her fear of flying was temporarily forgotten, as she drifted into dreams of the highlands, and times long ago.
*
A pain in his heart overshadowed all his physical exhaustion and afflictions. Verity had not survived! Seeing her remains in the sarcophagus had crushed him. It felt like she had died suddenly as if they had only just been together. Yet he knew, in reality, it had been an extraordinarily long time. It was indeed one-hundred-and-fifty years since they had gone into hibernation if all had gone to plan. And judging by this aircraft they were being conveyed in, technology had advanced significantly.
Holding Verity was his last memory, so fresh in his mind. He could still imagine the smell of her hair. Ponsy had separated them once they were asleep.
Ponsy was gone too. I hope you lived a good life my friend, full of peace, free from war, as you wished. Verity was gone, Ponsy and Ayla gone. Everyone he knew was gone.
Oliver was alone.
He leaned his head against the glass, watching green canyons zipping along below the aircraft. He had faint memories of an arduous journey with a ragtag group of crash-landed castaways.
He looked at the girl, Shael, sleeping opposite him. Ponsy had joked about one of his good-looking descendants waking him. He had told the truth. She very faintly resembled Ayla, high cheekbones, a strong jawline. She shared the bright yellow iris pigment, and silky jet-black hair of the Hajir, not dissimilar to Ayla.
They had sent this whole team for Oliver, to transport him back to society. He was amazed at how calm they were around him. They didn’t seem too disturbed by the fact they had woken him after one and a half centuries. Good! He didn’t want people treating him like a king. In fact, before he and Verity had moved to the monastery to live, the population had begun treating them with superstitious awe, almost a kind of worship. Oliver had found it disturbing, and it went against the attitude of scientific method and education they were trying so hard to instill.
It got to a point where they could no longer visit places in person because of the throngs that would come to get a glimpse of Oliver and Verity. There had only been a few hundred witnesses who had seen Oliver’s abilities with their own eyes, but that was enough to generate a reputation that he was some kind of superhuman. It saddened Oliver that even the highland chiefs like Ab-Jibil, who he had befriended, began treating him with the same reverence, the same distance. It was a kind of isolation. The only ones who really understood were Verity and Ponsy. How could he expect anybody else to really understand?
In the end, the decision to withdraw from society, and move to the monastery, had not really been theirs.
Oliver felt sleep overtaking him. It would take days, maybe weeks to bring his metabolism up to normal speed. He had been in extreme slow-time for so long—almost dead, yet not, rather in a kind of stasis sleep and alive. He did not know what a ‘normal’ length of time for second-stagers to go into slow-time was, but Verity said one hundred and fifty years was a long time. He had been sleeping most of the day away, it took much of his energy to just move around.
It was interesting how the language had evolved so far. It was hardly recognizable to Oliver. Shael still spoke a little of the highland tongue it appeared, but others seemed to have no ability whatsoever.
Shael’s hair glinted momentarily reddish in the low light and brought Oliver’s thoughts back to Verity. He turned his head back to the passing scenery and closed his eyes.
*
“It’s only for two weeks, Targon. I swear!” Shael said breathlessly, patting the confused old man on the chest as she squeezed past. “You don’t mind taking in another stray for a while, do you?” She ushered Oliver in and dropped her bag in the corridor. “Come on you! Inside.” She closed the door quickly behind her and leaned against it breathing a sigh of relief. She’d done it, somehow managed to covertly avoid the reception of reporters, and smuggle Oliver here. Ander had done his part to suitably distract them, but she felt as if they were do something criminal. Were they?
“Shael?” Targon cocked an eyebrow. “Who is our guest.” Targon’s wispy silver hair was in disarray. It was his default look when he’d been buried in the books all day, and completely oblivious to the goings-on of other humans.
“It’s a long story,” Shael said, her head still against the door. She gave the old man her sweetest smile. “First let’s get this one into his room. He’s not well. He stumbled onto the dig site, and I found him.”
“I thought you were at the foot of the mountains. There’s nothing up there.” He turned astounded to Oliver. “Is this true my friend?”
“His name is Oliver,” Shael said. “Oh, he doesn’t speak Naharainee by the way. Actually, you will love him, Targon. He’s from overseas, someplace called Wasat apparently. But his language is remarkably similar to ancient Hajir. I was able to get his name but not much more.”
They both examined Oliver, who stood towering over them both, arms folded. Ponsy’s hammer, he was tall.
“Yes, it’s an unbelievable tale of survival,” she put her hands on Targon’s shoulders staring him directly in his eyes, “that cannot get out. For two weeks at least. Okay?” She added, nodding encouragingly.
The hunched old bookworm looked up at Oliver with smiling eyes. “What have you done this time Shael?”
“Well Targon,” she couldn’t hide her excitement, “I have secured us a spot on the return expedition. Provided we can keep this one under wraps, for a couple of weeks.”
“Despite my best efforts,” Targon spoke gruffly, “I’ve somehow been pulled into the politics.” But he let a smile slide up under his short white beard.
“Can you understand me, friend?” he asked Oliver in Hajir.
“Of course,” Oliver repl
ied. “I speak Hajir.”
Targon let out a chuckle and continued in the obsolete language. “Nobody speaks Hajir. It’s a good try, I am impressed. You’ve obviously studied the unification. Am I right? “But your accent is a little off?” he added. “Tell me, what were you doing exploring such a remote place? Shael tells me you walked into their camp in the nick of time.”
Shael listened in amazement to Targon speaking in fluent Hajir. It was not common for him to speak out loud in full sentences, as he had just done. He was obviously slightly impressed with himself, at having schooled Oliver on how somebody really speaks the ancient tongue. Targon watched Oliver with a cocked eyebrow, smiling. Yes, Oliver looked thoughtful. Had he even understood Targon? Probably not. Even Shael had not been able to keep up with everything.
“I didn’t walk onto that monastery,” Oliver said, concerned. “I was woken,” he pointed at the baffled face of Shael, who was clearly having trouble keeping up, “by the descendant of Ponsy. Wait, do you not know who I am?”
Targon was now brimming with excitement. “Your Hajir is astounding!” he shook his head. “Astounding. I’ve spent a lifetime studying…” He broke off excitedly, ruffling through some papers. “Maybe you could even help me with some translations. If I can just find…”
Olivers put his hands on the papers, cutting Targon off. “Don’t worry about my Hajir at this moment. Tell me, Do you know who I am? Was I not woken on purpose?”
Verity was now lost. The level the men were speaking at was that of master scholars. Oliver was a young man, how had he managed to reach such a level? He commanded the language, and spoke with authority, amazingly making even Targon’s abilities seem basic. The old man had never been so enthusiastic about Shael’s work as he appeared to be with Oliver right now. But now Oliver was looking confused.
