“Son of a bitch!”
There, the high citadel is surrounded by its own outer wall, much of it destroyed and long fallen. A dozen excavation vehicles, support trailers and personnel are interspersed amid newer dig points. The chopper banks, tips and begins to circle. In the glass Astrid can now see the entire dig site at Wyn Avuqua, like a sculpted eye on the surface of the Earth. Upper Priest Lake shines silver and appears to drip like a tear from the city.
Astrid pants, unable to look away, “This is—this is—”
“Really happening?” Rearden offers. “Why yes. Yes it is, indeed.”
“Look,” Astrid points. Her hand is shaking. “There are the upper columns of the temple Tiris Avu! And the opening to the Avu stair!” The joy is overwhelming. She looks excitedly to Molmer and Rearden, but does not wait for acknowledgement before her focus rivets back to the site. Her cheeks suddenly begin to throb from smiling. “I knew it! I knew it!”
Not far from the eastern most gate is an encampment of some twenty wall-tents, a landing platform and a wide plot for support vehicles. The chopper descends, hovers and touches down. Astrid raises the strap of her bag up over her shoulder, pulls her cap onto her head, her gloves onto her hands and searches for the lever to open the door.
Molmer laughs, “A moment, Astrid, please. They will open the door for us.” She sits back struggling to contain the surge of validation—the meaning. She’s arrived at the city she has seen only in her mind’s eye. “Are you glad that we kept it a surprise?”
She grins and wipes away a tear.
Pocket Diary Entry # 3
November 11, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Portugal
3:57pm AZOT
(Loche Newirth’s pocket diary)
Nov 11- 3:57pm
A pyramid. Never in my life… Is this my doing ?
High Tea
November 11, this year
Pico Island, Azores, Portugal
4pm AZOT
From the open tent door Loche can see an emerald grid of hedgerows and vineyards far below. The encircling blue of the Atlantic beyond is like an airy hangman’s noose. His fear of the ocean… ever present, he thinks. A short distance away, across the flat summit, Edwin is searching the stone fissures and cracks for frogs. He is bundled up in a black stocking cap and coat. For some reason he believes frogs live at this height.
Loche touches Julia’s hand. “Are you alright?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Julia shrugs. “The Rathinalya is nearly unbearable. I’ve heard several others say they’ve never felt anything quite like it.” She turns and watches Edwin for a moment. “Even Helen is forced to keep her distance. I suppose for me, it is a sensation I’ll have to get used to.”
“How are you able to manage it now?”
“I’m coming out of my skin, to tell you the truth.” He sees her hand pinching the key beneath her blouse. “But I can manage.”
He pulls her close. She is shaking.
“I won’t be parted from you again,” she says. “So I must figure out a way to bear this, this, whatever this is. I hope there is a way.”
“Ribbit,” Edwin says. His head down and his fingers scrabbling in the stones.
“I’ll need breaks from him,” she says. “I’ll figure that out.”
Half a dozen guards in all black walk the perimeter of the stony height. Loche thinks he can hear them whispering. Maybe they are questioning just how long they must endure the stinging Rathinalya emanating from the young god among them. Maybe they are lamenting the dark fate that seems inescapable.
“Poet?” George’s voice calls from outside. “Join us, yes?”
Loche and Julia step out into the cold. Corey Thomas and George are standing a few meters from the tent, and both are craning their necks, scanning the pyramidal structure that looms above.
“How is the boy?” George asks.
“Looking for frogs,” Loche answers.
George smiles.
“Why are we here?”
Corey interrupts, “Angofal, should we do this first?” He points to Loche’s bag.
“Yes,” George says.
“Loche, Julia, let us take your shoulder bags. We would like to provision them.”
The two pass their bags to him. Corey hands them to another of the company.
“We are here because this,” George says, pointing to the rising stones. “And tea.”
“I don’t understand,” Loche says.
Corey laughs. “No—and why should you? Of course, your imagination may have catalyzed many strange and formidable powers, but you cannot be the sole creator. For from your creation come efficacies and artisans building upon your word. This, my dear fellow, is a pyramid.”
“So I see.”
“Ah, but do you? Mysterious structures, these. Millenniums old.” He sighs and questions as if to some disembodied audience, “Tombs? Energy beacons? Extraterrestrial origin?” He shrugs and chuckles.
“This does not look quite symmetrically designed,” Loche notes, “It looks more like a volcanic cone has pressed upward.”
“Yes,” Corey agrees. “And it is so. Endale, she too builds her own pyramids. The Earth, her art influences us all. Fascinating.”
“Pyramids exist here in our lives,” George says, “and they exist there, as well. In the Orathom. Or so says your brother, Basil, yes?”
Loche traces the triangular lines upward to the blue sky. Some fifty or so meters up, three of the Orathom Wis are steadily climbing. The summit is perhaps another twenty meters above. Given the rocky terrain, the climb does not appear to be difficult save for the steep incline.
“As a rule,” Corey says, “Three at a time may use an omvide, that is, a pyramid.”
“Use a pyramid?”
“Why yes, and after, there must be a period of waiting. Some thirty minutes.” He says to George, “Enough time for tea.”
“Yes,” George agrees. “After tea, omvide is ready again.”
Corey turns and calls, “Alice? Are they making tea yet?”
From inside another tent, Alice calls back, “Indeed, my Lord, Thomas.” Alice appears with a tray of cups. Behind her, another of the company carries two silver pots. The flutes steam in the icy air.
Leonaie Echelle follows behind Alice, carrying a plate of yellow cakes. “Is this your first time?” she asks. Both Loche and Julia share a confused glance.
“So it seems. Though, I don’t know what you mean,” Loche answers.
Leonaie smiles. “Samuel took me to a pyramid in Mexico once. 1969, I think it was. We had tea and watched William and two other Orathom Wis…” she breaks off. She leans toward Loche and says quietly, “Dr. Newirth, I have something that I think you should have… But I don’t know if… My Samuel would have wanted you to have it…” George’s voice interrupts her, “See there,” he says. Leonaie steps back and looks up the incline.
The three climbers have reached the top. At the summit (which is no larger than maybe five or so meters across, Loche figures), they turn and face the company below. One waves. George responds by raising his hand, as if signaling approval.
The three turn to the center of the summit, take two steps inward and vanish.
Loche scowls and rubs his eyes.
Julia says, “What the?”
“Now,” George says, “we sip the tea.”
Pyramids and Prophecies
November 11, this year
Upper Priest Lake, Idaho
12:05am PST
“Lain,” the man says, his hand upon his heart, staring at Astrid.
Astrid replies without a moment’s hesitation, “Lain,” and mirrors the man’s gesture. I’m home, she thinks. Aside from her assistant Marcel and a couple of fellow Itonalya scholars, the opportunity to speak Elliqui with others is rare. And to speak it now, on the very soil upon which it was conceived, is delicious beyond description.
“Graham Cremo, senior staff archeologist,” he says brightly. H
e is tall. Very tall. Thin, lanky and long limbed. How does this man find clothes to fit? she marvels. “I’m afraid my Elliqui is restricted to hellos, goodbyes, the usual restroom inquiry and, of course,” he laughs, “where can I find wine?”
“Thi twiv ressasht?” Astrid grins.
He grins, “And I do have wine to share—or, let’s see,” he leans toward her and says trippingly, “Thi twiv—jifoth.” The last word lilts in question, as if he’s unsure.
Astrid reassures him, “Hoy.”
“A thrill to meet you,” Graham says, offering his hand. Astrid takes it. “I’ve read your latest work—Dr. Molmer sent it along. Your insight into this culture is uncanny.” His smile is warm, framed by the shadow of a beard. He is nervous and doing his best to not show it—she likes that. “This must come as quite a shock, all of this.”
“Yes.”
“I expect you’d like to take a tour immediately.”
“Yes.”
Graham’s smile widens as he asks, “Or would you prefer a more Itonalya style introduction? Instead of wine, may I offer you tea?” A young woman, likely a college student intern, brings a tray of steaming cups.
Rearden receives his tea. “What does that mean, Itonalya style?”
“A sort of joke, for those in the know,” Astrid answers. “It means there’s no rush. This is the city of Immortals. Itonalya take their time with most everything they do—”
Molmer adds, “Those that cannot die have all the time in the world.”
“And they do things right,” Astrid adds.
Rearden nods thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. Of course.”
“However,” Astrid says, “I am very much human, and my time is precious—I was ready for the tour years ago. When do we start?”
“A vehicle is being brought around now and we’re getting your clearance papers. It won’t take long,” Graham says.
“Clearance papers?” Rearden asks.
“It is frustrating. There has been some discrepancy over the land rights, apparently. Its not finders keepers here, after all. Wyn Avuquain treasure hunters have always been interested in Upper Priest Lake and the surrounding lands of course, but nothing of note has ever been found. The National Historic Preservation and the Archaeological Resources Protection Acts essentially control our doings, but a private land corporation has owned the property for over a century—well before the 1974 ruling. So, there’s the rub.”
Rearden listens without expression.
Graham turns to Astrid, “While we wait, can I answer any questions—”
“Only three hundred or so,” Astrid laughs. “But your offer of tea makes me think of something specific.”
“What might that be?” Graham asks, a faint grin blooming.
“The pyramid exists?” Astrid says. “The pyramid…”
Graham’s answer is a fully lit smile.
An electric shock of excitement jolts through her.
Graham says, “There are two.”
She grins excitedly. “Yes. Yes.”
“Yes, you were right,” Graham’s hands wave excitedly. “The first, your Omvide Mellithion is mid lake—just where you thought it was. But it has been nearly destroyed and covered over by time. We’ve dug in from the eastern face about one hundred meters and found…”
“Crystal,” Astrid finishes.
“Crystal,” Graham echoes.
“And the other? You found Omvide Dellithion?”
“We have. We’ve uncovered about ten meters of the apex. It measures seven square meters across. We’re guessing the thing goes down at least fifty or more meters. Radar pings perfect symmetry and alignment. You were right.”
“I guessed, really,” she grins.
“Pyramid?” Rearden asks, smiling. “Do tell.”
Graham excitedly continues, “Dellithion is big. Almost too big to be believed for this part of the world, and it has been right under our noses. Well, not a kilometer north of where our noses are now, rather.” He points to a large map tacked to a board. On it are a dozen hand scrawled notes, connecting lines and circles around dig points.
“No one believed me,” Astrid whispers.
Simultaneously, and with a slight laugh, both Graham and Astrid say: “Lonwayro.”
“Pyramid.” Rearden says again, his tone a little more controlled this time.
Graham says, “I can’t begin to tell you the size of the job ahead. It’ll take years to slough off the ages of vegetation and sediment. But just knowing that it is here nods to the Itonalya’s supposed mode of travel.”
“Excuse me,” Rearden waves his bony hand between them. “Pyramid? Please, tell me about it.”
Astrid lowers the white cardboard cup to her lap. Rearden is here for an education, she remembers—the reason Molmer wanted him to come along. But why? To capture the murderer, Loche Newirth? The excitement of where she is pushes the thought aside, and she answers, “Crazy, right? I’ve been on this lake countless times searching for clues to Wyn Avuqua, and I’ve never turned up anything. But a few years ago I discovered a document in Germany, purportedly written by the hand of an Immortal. She wrote in detail how pyramids were used and needed by the Orathom Wis to travel long distances to uphold their mandate. She wrote of Wyn Avuqua’s pyramid.”
Rearden smiles. “Yes,” he says. “I have read that very document. But please, continue.”
She levels her eyes at Rearden, “You see, the city of Immortals was to be kept secret from the rest of the world. The city was founded in the Americas, or at that time, a place over the edge of the flat earth. A place that didn’t exist to any, other than the Immortals, and perhaps some of the indigenous tribes that inhabited the Northwest Plateau. Pyramids have long mystified us. There are more than a thousand scattered over the planet—some constructed by artisans, and some have been formed by forces of nature, strangely enough. Places like the Giza, Teotihuacan, even the anomalous structures in Bosnia continue to fascinate and befuddle historians, archeologists and scientists. Who built them, and how? Why are they here? What were they for? As with all big life questions, I’m afraid, I’m at a loss. But, according to the research I’ve done, and adding that to the shoulders of others, the Itonalya claim to have used the structures to move around the planet by simply crossing over the peak of a pyramid.”
Rearden’s head bobs slightly. “I see.”
Astrid says as if to answer him, “I didn’t say that I believed it. I’ve crossed over many pyramid caps—I didn’t find myself anywhere other than where I climbed to—all I got were sore quads.”
Graham’s head tilts slightly, “You’ve never spoken the word lonwayro crossing the point? Even for fun?”
Astrid laughs and checks her voice for sarcasm, “That’s funny. No. Not once.”
Graham nods, “Come to think of it, nor have I.”
A hard bound book appears before Astrid’s face. It is held there by an attractive female intern. She nods for Astrid to take it. On the cover is Graham himself, his hands outstretched and spilling out below him are the pyramid stones of what Astrid recognizes as Khufu, the Great Pyramid. The title reads: Mapping the Pyramids. She reads the flap copy. She scans a review. She reads it aloud. “Cremo brings the Pyramids back to the forefront of our imagination where they should endure. Sound research. Magnificent vision. History, for this reviewer, rewritten. Cremo is now the only expert on possibility.” —The New York Times.
She looks up. Graham is visibly nervous watching her read. “Expert. I love the sound of that.”
At her praise, Graham smiles. His lower lip seems to lower and jut outward and his pupils comically misalign. Astrid then sees a near perfect Bill Murray impression from the film Caddyshack: “Cinderella story, out of nowhere, former greenskeeper, now about to become the Masters champion. It looks like a mirac- its in the hole! It’s in the hole!”
Several people in the tent turn to watch and listen. Astrid laughs. Graham laughs.
“The New York Times was unusually kind,” he
says wrinkling his nose at the cover. “Sorry, I sometimes jump to movie quotes when I get nervous.”
God damn it, he is cute. “I look forward to reading it.” She sets it down upon the table. “I’m a little surprised I’ve missed the title.”
“Oh,” he chuckles, “there’s a club on Amazon of seven million others that missed it, too.”
“Hey,” Astrid joins, “I have a similar book club.”
“Well, down below there is so much more,” Graham says pointing diagonally down and to his right. “Where I’m about to take you there are volumes on the many pyramids in the surviving texts. I’ve barely scratched the surface—I’m writing a follow up right now.”
Rearden prods, “So, I understand that they used them as a kind of portal from pyramid to pyramid?”
Graham answers, “That is the myth. But obviously, they were really symbols of power for the Monarchy. They do, however, emit a kind of energy. This has long been known. There is science to support it. Itonalya lore claims that they used them as transportation from continent to continent, pyramid to pyramid.” He laughs, “Of course such a vehicle before intercontinental sea voyages would have been handy, indeed. The world is covered with pyramids—on every continent. There’s over one hundred and thirty in Egypt alone. From the Wyn Avuquain pyramids, the Itonalya could do their business of eliminating Godrethion virtually anywhere in the world and still have a home to return to. Here, on a continent untouched, or rather, untainted by humans—at the time, at least. Their own mythology depicted pyramids as travel portals—it’s a great story.” Graham raises his cup, “And as the ritual goes, when Itonalya would journey through an omvide, uh, excuse me Dr. Rearden, I mean pyramid, those left behind would drink tea.”
Astrid smiles and raises her cup, too. “Hoy,” she says smiling at him.
“Hoy,” both Graham, Molmer and a couple of other field workers in the tent join in.
Rearden asks, “So, you don’t really believe they are portals?”
The Shape of Rain Page 9
