The Seven Keys of Balabad

by Paul Haven

  he walls of the Salt Caverns were rough and wet, with threads of pink and red crystals running through them, like streaks of rose- colored lightning. As the party crept along, the beams from their flashlights probed the darkness before them.

  Nobody spoke, as if afraid to break a silence whose rule had gone unchallenged for centuries.

  Oliver, Alamai, and Zee stuck close to Mr. Haji, with Oliver's parents and Mr. ul- Hazai behind them, and the presidential guards bringing up the rear. Every twenty paces, the guards marked the walls with blobs of white paint so that they would be able to find their way out again should they get lost.

  To reach the Salt Caverns, the group had walked for about half an hour through a twisting tunnel that led from the tomb to the mine's main shaft. Hundreds of years ago, men had used this passage to drag carts loaded with chunks of rock salt to the surface, but it had long since been sealed and forgotten.

  The shaft stretched deep underground, into the black bowels of the earth.

  As they walked, the group passed dozens of narrow passageways that peeled off on either side, their dark entrances like hungry mouths.

  Mr. Haji paused at the entrance to one of the tunnels, muttering to himself in Mensho. He swept his flashlight across the low ceiling and raised his nose, as if sniffing the air.

  “This way,” he said, before ducking into the darkness, Oliver following close at his heels.

  They found themselves in a labyrinth of tight corridors. The channels crisscrossed one another as they snaked ever downward.

  At each turn, Mr. Haji would pause and close his eyes, his mind tracing the route it had memorized long ago. When he was convinced he knew which way to go, he would cock his head to the side, turn his flashlight in the proper direction, and silently walk on.

  As Oliver followed him in the gloom, he hoped the old man's memory would not fail him. He glanced over his shoulder. A string of flashlights receded behind him, bobbing up and down in the darkness.

  “You okay up there, Ol?” Silas called out.

  “Fine, Dad,” said Oliver.

  Suddenly, Mr. Haji stopped short.

  “Take great care here,” he shouted. “And make sure to hold close to the wall on your right.”

  Oliver placed one hand against the oily salt rock. He could feel water oozing down the wall. With his left hand, he shone his flashlight onto the path ahead, where Mr. Haji was picking his way slowly forward.

  Oliver's heart thudded as his beam caught the edge of the path, and he realized they were no longer in a tunnel but on a narrow path that clung to the side of an underground cliff.

  There was a sudden cry and a clatter of metal. Oliver spun round just in time to see Zee's flashlight bounce over the edge of the precipice. Zee lay sprawled on his side, one leg dangling over the edge, his fingers clinging to the rocky path. There was a breathless silence broken by the distant crash of the flashlight hitting the depths below them.

  “My God!” gasped Scarlett.

  “Holy smokes!” shouted Silas.

  “Don't move!” yelled Mr. Haji, hurrying past Oliver. He and Mr. ul- Hazai helped Zee to his feet.

  “That would not have been good,” said Zee.

  “Are you all right?” Mr. Haji said.

  “Are you sure you want to go on?” said Mr. ul- Hazai.

  Zee brushed himself off and rubbed his knee.

  “Definitely,” he said. “I'm fine.”

  “Okay,” said Mr. Haji. “Let's take it gently. Stay close together and keep to the wall.”

  The going got a lot slower after that, with the party inching along as if they were stepping over broken glass.

  The deeper they went into the mine, the colder and wetter it became, and the stiller became the salty air. Oliver looked at his watch. They had been walking for nearly two hours, and it already felt like an eternity. His feet were starting to swell, and his eyes ached from the strain of peering into the darkness.

  A foul odor wafted into his nostrils.

  “What's that awful smell?” whispered Zee.

  “It smells like rotten eggs,” Oliver replied, holding his hand up to his face.

  “Sulfur,” said Mr. Haji, turning to face them as they emerged into a cavernous room as big as a cathedral. He swung the beam of his flashlight across the cave, pointing it at the surface of a dark, stagnant pond. The water looked as if it hadn't stirred in centuries.

  “Swimming in it is supposed to be good for your health,” Mr. Haji said.

  Oliver shuddered. “Not where I come from,” he said.

  “I'll give it a miss, too,” said Zee.

  Mr. Haji put down his backpack and stretched his arms as the rest of the group filed wearily into the cave.

  “ Pee- yoo!” said Silas, holding his nose. “Gosh, Scarlett, it smells like your mother's cooking!”

  “Ha, ha,” said Mrs. Finch. “Very funny.”

  “All right, everybody, five- minute break,” said Mr. Haji. “Oliver, what have you got in that bag of yours?”

  Oliver rummaged through the backpack and passed around the sandwiches and granola bars, then perched on a rock to rest. Oliver pointed his flashlight into the air, but the beam disappeared before it found the ceiling.

  “Amazing,” said Mr. ul- Hazai, taking a seat next to his son.

  “We must be very deep under the Ishgar hills by now,” said Mr. Haji. “These mines were dug in Alexander's time, and they stretch for miles beneath the ground. By Agamon's day, they had fallen into disuse, but the king knew only too well how valuable tunnels could be. He secretly built dozens of channels linking the caverns to the city, though those other entrances have long been lost, and only a select few knew of their existence at the time. When Agamon needed somewhere to safeguard his treasure, these caverns were the perfect place.”

  Mr. Haji pointed to a small opening in the wall beside the pond.

  “Okay, time to move on,” he said. “Follow me. We haven't far to go.”

  The children gathered their things together and trooped after him, the rest of the party right behind them.

  The farther they went, the narrower the passageway became, and the lower the ceiling. At times, Oliver had to lean over to avoid hitting his head against the rock.

  “We are close, we are close,” Mr. Haji shouted over his shoulder. Despite his warnings about taking it slow, Mr. Haji was picking up speed as his excitement grew.

  Oliver struggled to keep up, afraid to lose sight of the carpet salesman even for a second.

  He could hear the sound of Zee and Alamai breathing heavily behind him.

  “Ouch!” moaned Zee, bumping his head against the ceiling. Minutes later, Alamai slipped and fell, scraping her knee on the hard earth. Oliver turned and rushed to help her, but before he could reach her, she was on her feet brushing herself off.

  “I'm fine,” she said. “We must not lose Mr. Haji.”

  “Be careful, children,” Mr. ul- Hazai shouted from behind them.

  The children scrambled ahead, but Mr. Haji had already turned a corner farther down the tunnel. All they could see was the light of his flashlight, growing dimmer and dimmer.

  “Come on!” said Zee. “Hurry.”

  But by the time they reached the spot where Mr. Haji had been, the carpet salesman was no longer there. Oliver began to have visions of being lost in the maze of underground tunnels, wandering hopelessly until the light from his flashlight finally ran out.

  “Mr. Haji, wait!” he shouted.

  Suddenly, Oliver thought he spied the flickering beam of a flashlight disappearing behind a bend. The children sprinted around the corner and practically bowled Mr. Haji over.

  He was standing with his back to them in a dead- end passageway no deeper than a walk-in closet. His flashlight was pointed down at his feet, and his other hand was extended in front of him, his fingers probing the darkened wall.

  “Did we take a wrong turn?” said Alamai.

  “Don't tell me we're lost!” cried Zee.
>
  “Far from it,” said Mr. Haji, his voice hushed.

  He tapped his flashlight against the rocky wall, and to Oliver's surprise, it gave out a hollow, metallic ring. Then he pointed the beam at a spot above his head, where the wall met the ceiling at a right angle.

  “Oh … my … God!” Oliver gasped when he realized what he was looking at.

  This was not a wall at all. It was a narrow iron door, the metal darkened and cratered by time.

  As Scarlett, Silas, and Mr. ul- Hazai shuffled into the passageway, Mr. Haji scanned the door with his flashlight. About halfway up was an oblong keyhole, round at the top, with a rectangular tail beneath it.

  Next to it was another keyhole, and another after that. There were seven in all, about chest- high. Together, they formed a perfect heptagon in the center of the door.

  Mr. Haji placed a hand on Oliver's shoulder. He shot a sideways glance at Alamai and Zee.

  “We are here, my friends,” the carpet salesman whispered. “At long last, we are here.”

  r. ul- Hazai undid the clasp on the key ring and removed one of the long iron skeleton keys. He handed it to Oliver, then gave one each to Alamai and Zee.

  “Now, the moment of truth. Let's find out if any of these keys even work,” he said. “Oliver, you go first.”

  The group pointed their flashlights at the door, and Oliver stepped forward. He tried the key in the uppermost lock, but it got stuck halfway. He moved on to the next hole, and then the next, working his way counterclockwise around the heptagon.

  On the fifth try, the key rattled in. Oliver grabbed hold of the bow and jiggled the key from side to side until, with a grind, it began to turn. It took all of his strength, but finally the lock opened with a hollow click.

  “Got it!” he shouted.

  “Well done, Oliver!” said Mr. Haji. Mr. ul- Hazai nodded at Alamai, who stepped forward and held her key up to the door.

  One by one, the children fitted each of the keys into its lock. One by one, the locks clicked open. It was Scarlett's turn next, and Silas after her. Mr. Haji slipped the sixth key into place.

  Finally, Zee's father came forward with the last.

  He held it aloft, a wide smile on his face.

  “I can hardly believe I am here to see this day,” he said, placing the key in the final lock. It slid home with a satisfying clank.

  Mr. Haji thrust his shoulder against the door and pushed with all his might. It didn't budge. Then he and Mr. ul- Hazai tried to push the door together.

  Nothing.

  The carpet salesman stood back and wiped his brow.

  “It's times like these that I wish your father were here,” he mumbled to Alamai. “As it is, we'll just have to do our best.”

  He gestured at Silas, Scarlett, and the presidential guards, who put down their flashlights and crowded round the door. The adults each found an empty spot up high to place their shoulders and hands while Oliver, Alamai, and Zee got into position below.

  “Okay, here goes,” Mr. Haji said. “One, two three… push!”

  There was a scrape of metal against stone as the door inched back, a thin crack opening along the center.

  “Harder!” Mr. Haji shouted. “One, two, three …”

  They thrust forward with all their might, and this time the door gave way, swinging open with a terrible groan.

  Mr. Haji pointed his flashlight into the darkness, and the group let out a gasp.

  Just inside the door was a tarnished gold trunk, with a heavy bronze clasp and a curved lid studded with dark rubies and striped green malachite. Next to it was a low wooden chest, delicately inlaid with mother- of- pearl, its handles carved from ivory.

  As Mr. Haji swept the beam of light across the room, chests and boxes emerged one after another, each one more ornate than the last. Every inch of the chamber seemed to be crammed with trunks and coffers large and small, piled on top of one another and stretching back into the shadows.

  One by one, the party squeezed through the half- open door, the beams of their flashlights dancing across the stacks of treasure.

  Mr. Haji pointed his flashlight at the huge trunk in the doorway and turned to Scarlett.

  “Mrs. Finch, would you do the honors?” he asked.

  Scarlett knelt down and drew back the trunk's bolt from its heavy clasp. She lifted the lid to reveal a pile of exquisite jewelry—turquoise necklaces, pendants made of deep blue lapis lazuli, emerald- studded brooches, and gold bracelets.

  “Good God!” whispered Zee.

  “Way cool!” hissed Oliver.

  “Astounding,” gasped Mr. ul- Hazai. He drew two gas lanterns from his backpack and lit them, bathing the room in a warm, flickering light.

  “Is it possible that all these trunks contain such trea sures?” said Alamai.

  “There's only one way to find out,” said Mr. Haji, turning to the wooden chest and unlatching the lid.

  Mr. Haji leaned over and stuck his hands deep into the box, scooping out a fistful of misshapen gold coins. Some depicted helmeted Chinese emperors, others bearded Baladi kings. Some were engraved with winged creatures that looked like gryphons, others with fire- breathing dragons.

  Scarlett took two of the coins and held them up to the lamplight.

  “That is a Hindu god and goddess,” she said, pointing to one coin. “And those are Chinese characters. These relics came from all over the ancient world. They show that Agamon's was a great empire at the crossroads of many civilizations.”

  Alamai eased open another trunk and pulled out a spectacular necklace made of strings of gold discs joined by threads beaded with tiny precious stones. The twisting tongues of two gold serpents formed the clasp.

  She placed it around her neck.

  “You look like a true princess,” said Zee, stepping forward. “Certainly you have the beauty of one.”

  “I never dreamt such riches existed in poor old Balabad.”

  A smile flitted across Alamai's face, but she quickly unclasped the necklace and put it back in the trunk.

  Next it was Zee's turn. He reached into the trunk and picked up a magnificent crown. It was made of paper- thin golden flowers, their delicate petals twisted around each other. The crown's band was studded with glittering emeralds and fat rubies.

  He carefully placed it on his head and turned around.

  “What do you think, Oliver?” he said with a grin. “Is it me?”

  “It looks like it was made for you,” Oliver replied, whisking a long sword out of an ebony scabbard.

  “Be careful,” said Mr. Haji. “That sword looks as sharp as the day it was cast.”

  He took the blade from Oliver and held it aloft.

  “What a beauty,” he said. “It looks worthy of King Agamon himself.”

  Mr. Haji returned the sword to its sheath and handed it back to Oliver.

  “Let us take a few pieces back with us to show the president,” said Mr. Haji. “We will relock the doors until ar range ments can be made for the rest of it.”

  As Scarlett filled a bag with samples of coins and jewels, Silas scurried around, taking pictures and jotting down notes.

  Mr. Haji cast his eyes around the room and shook his head in disbelief.

  “All these years my ancestors and I have guarded the secret of the path to this vault, without ever knowing what truly lay within it,” said Mr. Haji. “I never dreamt such riches existed in poor old Balabad.”

  “Not just in Balabad,” said Scarlett. “If this treasure is as valuable as it appears, I am quite sure the world has never seen its equal.”

  hey came from the farthest corners of Balabad, over rugged mountain passes and through the dry wastes of the southern deserts, and now they filled every inch of the capital's main square. They gathered on the flat roofs of the low houses around the plaza. They clambered up on donkey carts and climbed into the trees.

  There were ancient villagers with milky eyes, their skin as coarse as elephant's hide, and giggling city girls with br
ight head scarves and jangling silver bracelets. Even the Zuxi nomads took a detour from their migration across the western plains, arriving in a long camel train and setting up camp on the edge of the city.

  And they were not alone.

  Scores of international reporters were there, too, representing newspapers and television stations from Chicago to

  Shanghai. They packed a viewing section on the edge of the square, their tape recorders rolling and their television cameras beaming images to billions around the world.

  They were all there for one thing: to catch a glimpse of the country's newest, and unlikeliest, heroes—a New Yorker named Oliver Finch, a warrior's daughter named Alamai Halabala, and a rich man's son named Zaheer Mohammed-W arzat ul- Hazai, who insisted that everyone call him Zee.

  A week had passed since Agamon's treasure had been discovered, and the nation was eager to see the young trio who had saved it and to find out what was to be done with it. On this day, President Haroon had promised to give the people a full account.

  Those who couldn't make it to the capital were listening in on crackly radios or had wandered down to village teahouses, where they gathered around old television sets.

  “Man, look at all those people,” said Oliver, peering through the window of the president's official residence at the teeming plaza below.

  Alamai nodded.

  “In my life I have never seen such a crowd,” she said. “Even when the civil war ended, it was not like this.”

  The three children were hovering near the tall French doors of the president's grand state room, waiting to be led out onto a wide balcony above the crowd. Alamai wore her hair in tight braids underneath a black silk scarf, her brilliant green eyes darkened by a thin line of kohl. Oliver was wearing his only button- down shirt, and—at his mother's insistence—a pair of dress shoes that pinched his toes. Zee was at his most regal, decked out in a dazzling white shalwar kameez tailored especially for the occasion.

  In one corner of the room, Mr. Haji and Hamid Halabala sat sipping cups of green tea, and in another, Mrs. ul- Hazai was sharing a laugh with Scarlett Finch.