by Tom Hunter
But, not even Noah Ashbridge was impervious to the call of the sandman.
And miles to go before I sleep, he thought as he stretched himself on the bed. His final thought as he closed his eyes was a long-forgotten admonishment, his father had drilled into him, “Don’t go chasing your grandfather’s dream, boy. He’s an old fool, chasing fool’s gold.”
Noah Ashbridge dreamed of his grandfather, and the stories the old man told him the summer before his first days of school. Sitting on the strong legs of his grandfather’s lap, little Noah looked up into piercing blue eyes.
“Story! Giant story,” demanded little Noah. Reginald laughed softly. He nodded, as his gold-rimmed glasses slid down his nose. Little hands reached up to help him push them back up.
“Yes, lad. Giant story it shall be.” Reginald touched Noah’s nose with the tip of his finger and began, “Remember. Remember this story.
There was once a race of humans. They were as big as giants,” Reginald stretched his arm up as high as it would go. Little Noah’s eyes followed, his mouth open in wonder. “They were just like you and me. Well, not just like us.” Reginald caught himself as he looked around the room. He was still getting used to it.
His sparkling blue eyes now seemed haunted. Now following his grandfather’s gaze, Noah took in the room. It seemed important.
Cream-colored walls, and golden adornments. Stone silhouettes in alcoves cut just for them. Prints of creatures that existed only in storybooks. Richly upholstered furniture that somehow didn’t overpower the room. Leather stuffed dolls. Exquisite pottery, statues, and other curios that he’d never been seen before and never would again.
He remembered vaguely overhearing his grandfather try to explain to his father how he, and therefore his family, had come into such opulence and wealth. But, that was much later. Noah’s mind drifted. It seemed as if he could read his grandfather’s mind from all those years ago. Or, maybe, he was finally remembering the rest of the story. It wove itself into the childhood tale, and to separate the two would put him back to square one.
“Grandfather!” little Noah had snapped. “Story!”
“Ah yes,” Reginald had smiled, a warm, kind smile. “There was a group of giants who lived in a very special world. They were the color of the desert sands. They lived underground, beneath the caves, in the driest land in California. It is a desert land where no trees can grow.” His grandfather had paused dramatically, and leaned in close to whisper, “That is why they call it Death Valley.”
Little Noah’s eyes had widened in wonder as Reginald continued. “Some say it’s because of an ancient legend. The story’s about a great big bird, and a great big whale. And that these two animals were at war for many years. They fought in the air, in the water, and on land. The land was once green, and full of life. But something evil happened, and everything died. The evil ran so deep that nothing could or would grow.”
“Giants!” demanded little Noah. He didn’t want to hear the story of how Death Valley got its name.
Reginald had nodded solemnly, but Noah now wondered if the legend was more important than he’d ever realized. He’d have to look into that.
His grandfather picked up the thread of his story, and continued. “Though they did not have many enemies—they were quite large—they did have animals that helped them build. These great lizard-like creatures helped the giants build their houses. They dug out tunnels, carved great doors between below and above ground. For a long time, the animals and the giant peoples lived together in peace. These animals also helped the people hunt. When the people said something special to the wind, the animals came when they were called…” Reginald’s voice had trailed off then, as they were interrupted.
Noah had opened his mouth, ready with his barrage of four-year old questions, when a sharp voice pierced the relaxed happiness of the room. “Reginald, come into the dining room,” Clark Ashbridge had commanded his father.
“Clark…” warned Reginald. “Say, please,” he advised as he slowly lifted Noah from his lap. Gently, he set the child down and stood up. He could be kind and he could be steel. The tension was so tangible even a child felt its presence. But, curious to a fault, little Noah got up and made as if to follow them as they turned toward the dining room.
“Noah,” warned Clark, without turning around. In that one word, his name, Noah heard and understood the definitive “no”. Noah plopped himself back down and turned toward the wall. He was mad at them both: grandfather for not finishing the story and father for interrupting it.
He felt a sense of regret in his dream. In a child’s rationalization, he waited until their backs were turned, stood up, and followed them anyway, ignoring his father. It was a trend that would live on infamy from this day forward.
A child’s footsteps on plush cream carpet cushioned his espionage, as he listened to Clark chastise Reginald. “Stop filling his head with stories! We all know you lied, cheated, and stole our wealth.”
“Clark Ashbridge,” Reginald said in a dangerously low voice, “you will never know what I gained and what I’ve lost to give you this life.” In a sharp intake of breath, he added pointedly, “This life, you do not deserve.”
Clark opened his mouth to speak, and Reginald held up a hand to quiet him, “Furthermore, I will tell Noah whatever I like. I am his grandfather and it is my right. Whatever nuggets he finds in those stories are his and his alone.”
Clark had blustered something unintelligible. Somewhere in the recesses of his adult mind, Noah imagined it had been a bad word or a threat. Or both. Even today, he wasn’t sure of what he’d seen. Had it been a threat? And did Father make good on it?
His dream reminiscences were interrupted by the voices of his father and grandfather. “You may think me a crazy old man, Clark,” Reginald bellowed, “but I’m going back to the brink once more.”
“What are you talking about? You can’t!” sputtered Clark, stumbling over his objections in frustration and anger. “The only good thing you ever did for this family was make us rich,” he spat, his eyes ablaze.
“I can, and I will. I am returning to Death Valley,” Reginald explained slowly, in a low voice laced with venom. “There are secrets there I did not understand at the time, and an untold world of wealth.” In a quiet voice, steeled with determination, Reginald cut through Clark’s belligerence. “There are secrets I had sworn to keep. But, I see no reason now why I should.”
“I’m warning you…” Clark said, his own voice low. Two bulls, their horns locked, Clark matched his father’s gaze, and went on, “We are not that rich. We never were. We didn’t know then and we don’t know now how to handle it. An ill-advised dig will ruin us,” he finished, his voice strained.
Reginald laughed. “You think I’m digging?” he asked incredulously. “No, Clark, the dig is done.”
“Well, then, where the hell is all our money going, if not toward some archaeological dig?” Clark asked, now utterly confused.
“Retribution. And legacy.” Two disparate words positively linked. That’s the key. Noah’s subconscious was gathering clues as he slept.
Somehow the air felt lighter, though Noah didn’t understand why. Reginald reminded Clark, “I am still head of this household. The money we have now and will have in future—when I return to the caves—is mine to do with as I please.”
Noah remembered his grandfather’s eyes, their piercing blue growing darker, as he leveled. “The money is mine until I die and even then, it goes to Noah. Not you.”
Clark had been cut out. He had never seen the money!
Noah had always wondered what his father might have done, what he might be capable of, and even more so when Clark changed track.
“Reginald,” he had wheedled, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to go back. I mean, it’s much too dangerous at your age.” He’d spoken as a dutiful son should and was relieved when Reginald shook his head in a stubborn, “no”.
The angry words and tension between his fat
her and grandfather had long since sent little Noah scurrying back to his room. He was afraid he’d be seen and was even more afraid of what they’d do if he was caught. He knew the stories were real; he could feel it in the telling. These were desert fairy tales come to life.
After Noah’s fifth birthday, he’d left his hiding place too early. And to his chagrin, the next set of images that flashed in his mind were the blues and reds of patrol car lights, with radios crackling and officers trooping in and out of the house.
The police were not questioning his father. Deep lines of concern etched their faces as they came to tell their own tale: the strange mugging and death of Reginald Ashbridge. He’d been in the mines, they’d said. He’d hired some workers. Reginald had been attacked, the officers’ eyes haunted by a sight Noah could only now guess at. A final declaration by one of the policemen explained, “Six went in, but only five came out.”
Their soft voices had blurred and run together—waves of talking, tensions and emotions stretched taught as an acrobat’s rope. The voices, when he thought about it, sounded like a waterfall crashing into the pool below.
Noah’s mind took him next to the funeral. It had felt rushed, Noah thought. Even at such a young age, he’d felt the glossing over of a life. Clark had opted for cremation, and before one could say “tall tale”, his grandfather had gone up in smoke.
In another scene, a somber father and son listened to a lawyer read a will. The entire estate was left to Clark Ashbridge. Noah, too young to understand, remembered only his father’s dire warnings that only death and ruin existed in Death Valley.
Fool’s gold. Death. Ruin. Nuggets. Gold. Fool’s gold. Nuggets. Noah woke clutching at the words. There was a meaning, though his waking mind couldn’t divine it.
He turned his head to the clock. Though it had been a restless sleep, he was still surprised to see it had only been a few hours.
Reginald’s stories came spiraling into his mind. The sure clarity of a child confirmed his suspicions: the giant humanoid they’d seen in the caves had proven his grandfather’s tale. He had been telling the truth. But, had the truth cost him his life? The question had gnawed at Noah for over twenty years. If it had cost his grandfather his life, it would prove his father right.
To solve this puzzle, he’d have to study much more. Noah rolled over and pressed a button.
“You were talking in your sleep again.” A woman’s soft voice greeted him on waking. “Is it the same dream?” He nodded, about to answer, when his valet appeared, his white suit perfectly pressed. It was the antonym to Noah’s disheveled appearance.
Miss Welker giggled softly, silken sheets pulled to her face to hide her smile.
“Coffee,” Noah rasped.
“Yes, sir.”
Within minutes, Noah sat up, and got out of bed, gratefully accepting the piping hot cup. It was time to get back to work on translation and mapping.
Thirteen
Safely ensconced in Abby’s tent, and shielded from the already blistering mid-morning sun, Abby went through her usual morning routine. Mochni, already up, watched her. His eyes fought the ever-brightening sun, as he blinked back tears against its glare. He’d given up trying to leave, realizing that the sun was not his friend. Seeing him struggle, Abby was thankful Dr. Cunningham and Thomas had insisted on thicker material for their camp tents.
She tried to offer Mochni water, and something to eat; a snack she’d stashed from the day before. He shook his head, then a quick bob, Abby took for an acknowledgement of thanks. She squeezed his hand in understanding, got up from the chair she’d only just sat down in, and crossed to her desk.
His eyes grew wide as he watched her work. Quickly, and efficiently, she organized her papers, sat down at her desk and flipped open the lid of her laptop. As the screen came to life, she reached for her phone. The phone, a relic of its own, looked like a first-generation mobile phone. Abby was old school, and she liked it that way. Leave the drones and other high-tech stuff to Alexia and Robbie, she thought.
Satellite phone in hand, Abby held it up for Mochni to see. She had no idea if he would understand what it was and held it to her ear to demonstrate. He blinked once, and tilted his head, as he watched her operate the device.
Abby Hogan dialed Dr. Donald Cunningham. As she waited for Dr. Cunningham to pick up, she watched Mochni. He must be terrified. Abby looked down at the small flask of whisky she kept nearby. She wondered if its calming effects would be the same for him or if there would be an adverse reaction.
Abby watched Mochni move about the tent. From time-to-time, he would brave the brightness and lift back the tent flap, only to be repelled by its brightness. He tried varying tactics to shield himself. None could hold back the desert sun’s fierce light.
Shaking his head in frustration, Mochni plopped back into his chair not much different than a petulant child, Abby thought. She smiled as he picked up their drawings and spread them on his lap.
She hoped he understood they didn’t want to harm him, but to see him safely home. Though, ultimately, their expedition would depend on his help. As Don Cunningham answered, a plan began to form in her mind.
“Hello?” she heard his voice crackle on the other end. Geez, it’s 2030. You’d think phones would have better signal by now. “Hi Don. Abby Hogan here. I’m calling to update you on our progress.” She could barely contain her excitement, but decided to save the best for last.
Instead, she launched into an account of their findings. “Yes, we’ve got everything in crates. Alexia Fraga has been pulling together a full report for you to review. She’s been mapping the tremors we’ve been experiencing, too.”
“Excellent, Abby. That should make things go much smoother. I thought Alexia was hired for her experience with machinery…”
“Well, isn’t a computer a machine? Boy, you’re old,” she teased. “Besides, she is a godsend on so many levels.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, she understands and has had a hand in creating that drone technology stuff. So, we can spy on our spies,” Abby explained. “You know the ones I mean.”
“Good. Good. And Thomas Knight? How’s he doing?” Dr. Cunningham asked. “Didn’t I hear he collapsed and spent the night in the infirmary?”
“You heard correctly,” confirmed Abby. “Problem is, he’s recharged, and more gung ho than ever.” Her strained laughed spoke volumes, and he knew she was worried.
“Oh, speaking of our intrepid knight,” began Abby. “I wanted to mention that I’ve received word Harriet has arrived home safely.”
“Wonderful to hear!” boomed Dr. Cunningham. “What’s the status on the artifact; the drum? There were accompanying scrolls as well, I believe,” he asked eagerly. “And what about the creatures you all ran into?”
“Hold your horses,” Abby admonished gently. “I’ll get to it. The drum is…drum roll, please, 200 years old.”
“Just as I thought!” he exclaimed. “Seems about right,” he said, in his best toned down, professorial voice.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Abby mentioned, arousing his curiosity. “We had a…visitor…last night.”
“A visitor?” he repeated. “What do you mean? It wasn’t—“
“No, not him,” she confessed. “This visitor is much, much larger. But, he is after the drum.”
“Quit stalling, Abigail Hogan,” he demanded. Abby laughed and acquiesced. “Okay, okay. Boy, that was just too fun! Well, the reason our giant is after the drum is because—well, as we understand it, the drum is his. Or at least, his family’s,” Abby said matter-of-factly. She wished she could have been in his office to see Dr. Donald Cunnigham’s face as she delivered the news.
“Giant?” he repeated. Then, “You don’t mean—“
“I do.”
“Are you able to communicate with him? Her. It.”
“It is a boy. Teenager, we think. So far, the best we’ve been able to do is communicate via drawings.”
“Drawin
gs…” Dr. Cunningham mused, as Abby continued. “His name is Mochni, and it is pronounced ‘mow-sh-knee’.”
She smiled at the boy as Mochni looked up, his eyes wide.
“Don, you should know. Thomas plans to lead a team down into the mines…” She paused for moment, wondering if she ought to explain the rest of the plan. “With Mochni’s help.” Then, at Dr. Cunningham’s low whistle, she continued. “I think I’ve been able to communicate and explain enough to make the boy understand. And I’m going with them.”
Fourteen
Thomas Knight and his team were dressed for battle. Appropriate term, he thought; remembering Noah, the large reptilian creatures which had attacked them, and the tremors and rumblings they’d endured from Mother Earth. It was a battle of wills: man vs man; man vs beast; man vs nature.
Pediah adjusted his spelunking gear, distributing the weight of it slung over his shoulders more evenly. Thomas did the same.
Alexia, in her standard khaki shorts and cream top, a tool belt encircling her waist, worked diligently on a palm-sized drone.
“Sorry guys,” Thomas began as he took in the weary eyes around him. “In order for this to work, we had to adjust to Mochni’s timetable, and that means the wee hours of the morning, when it’s still dark.”
Weary heads nodded understanding.
“Today begins an important goal for us,” said Thomas, his tone commanding respect and attention; his impassioned words, a verbal standard bearer. “Today, our goal is to make first contact with a civilization no one has seen in two-hundred years. Ready to make history?”
Everyone stood a little straighter, their eyes bright, and nodded.
“Let’s not forget their guard…lizards. It is not in my plan to become lunch,” Robbie whined. Then, “He looks anxious,” as his eyes slid toward Mochni, tense and focused, intent on the caves behind Thomas and his core team. “Like he’s in a hurry to get somewhere…”
