by J. R. Rain
Chapter Forty-two
We untied the clothing and got dressed. Wally had a purple goose egg on his forehead, rising rapidly, ready to hatch. When the kid finally stood, he swayed on his feet as if he were on board a sinking ship.
To see if he was still playing with a full deck, I asked him his name, and he said Waldorf Krispin. The kid didn’t look like a Waldorf, although Wally seemed to fit nicely. I asked for his mother’s maiden name. Richmond.
I turned to the professor. “Is this true?” I asked him.
Caesar shrugged. “I suggest you stick with answers you can verify.”
“Good point.” I turned to Wally. “What color are your eyes?”
“Hazel.”
I thought they were green, and told him so. Wally became indignant and said he should know the color of his own eyes. I suggested that he had hit his head harder than he thought. Caesar stepped forward and arbitrated. “Wally’s eyes could appear hazel when wearing green or blue, but other than that, they’re green. So you’re both right.”
Next, I told the others about the erect pile of stones found in the center tunnel. They agreed the stones could be a clue; either that, or evidence of primitive man’s obsession with his own penis.
* * *
As Caesar had had the foresight to bring up Wally’s torch, the three of us each carried a light as I led the way back through the middle tunnel, once again contorting my body around the many rock protrusions. Unfortunately, as the professor’s body hadn’t contorted in many decades, he needed a helping hand. Wally, however, was a natural at picking his way through the tunnel, knees and elbows casting sharp shadows along the walls and ceiling. He looked like a preying mantis.
Shortly, we passed the pile of stones. It hadn’t changed since the last time I’d seen it.
We moved deeper into the heart of the mountain. The rock walls were cold to the touch, as if made of ice. Sand covered the floor, and the ceiling arched high above. With each step into the tunnel, Faye seemed further and further away.
The tunnel climbed and narrowed, and our breaths came quicker and harder, echoing off the surrounding stone. We made a sharp left and the professor immediately groaned.
“This can’t be good,” he said.
The tunnel had become nothing more than a ledge, narrow as a breadboard. The ledge wound along the side of sheer granite wall. A swirling, icy wind billowed up from below, and the torches danced in our hands as if to silent music.
“What do we do, Sam?” Caesar asked.
“We continue forward. There’s no turning back.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
The torchlight did little to penetrate the darkness. It was hard to conceive that such a massive cavity existed within the mountain. I concluded it either had to be a massive cavern, or a bottomless pit to Hades.
I led the way forward, inching along the narrow rock shelf. The wind was cold as ice, thundering over our ears. Now I knew what an airport runway felt like. As if a cruel practical joke had gotten crueler, the ledge narrowed further yet, and I hugged the wall like a lost lover.
A blast of icy wind suddenly pried me loose from the wall. My heart slammed in my chest as I clawed wildly at the smooth surface until my fingertips found a tiny fissure and pulled myself forward and pressed my face against the cold stone of the wall, sucking in great gulps of air.
As I waited for my hammering heart to slow down, the wind came again, and suddenly all three torches winked out of existence. We were instantly plunged into total darkness. The cruelest joke of all.
“Oh God,” said Wally.
* * *
I fought to control my own panic, taking deep breaths, trying my best to visualize how the narrow ledge continued along the granite wall. Then again, I tried to visualize myself on a beach in Cabo, but that didn’t seem to work. In as calm a voice as possible, I said, “The way before us angles to the left. Keep that in mind. Move very slowly, do not place your full weight on your front foot until you’re sure there’s secure footing.”
The darkness was complete. The silence overwhelming.
The wind came again, howling like a malicious demon. I leaned into the wall, hand splayed over the smooth rock surface. I closed my eyes, not daring to move. After an unknown amount of time, the wind subsided; however, it continued to moan, which was a bit unsettling.
“Maybe we should hold hands,” Wally suggested, voice trembling. “You know, in case one of us slips, or something.”
“Sounds like a good idea, for safety reasons, of course,” concurred Caesar immediately.
I understood the others’ need for human contact, and so I gripped the professor’s shaking hand, which was cold and callused. I could smell the sharpness of his sweat, mingled with the stench of my own.
Soon we were inching along in complete darkness, holding hands, the wind tugging us with invisible fingers. We continued like this for either minutes or hours, as time seemed lost to us completely.
Suddenly, the toe of my boot found nothing but empty space.
“Hold on, guys,” I said.
I reached down with the tip of the dead torch and discovered that three or four feet of the ledge was missing. I told the others.
“So what do we do?” asked Wally.
I took a breath, wondering if things could possibly get any worse. “We jump.”
“And how are we to land in pitch darkness on a shelf that’s no wider than my ass?” said Wally. “What kind of plan is that?”
“Granted, it’s not the world’s safest plan, but it will have to do. I’ll go first.”
And I did, flying through the inky blackness. I landed safely, stumbling slightly. Luckily, the ledge was a bit wider than Wally’s ass.
Caesar was next. He jumped without reservation, like the first jump of Spring into a freezing swimming pool, and landed next to me. I caught hold of his groping hands and kept him safely on his feet
Wally needed some coaxing, and if I listened closely, I could probably hear his bony knees knocking together. Finally, Caesar commanded the boy to jump, or risk suffering a B for the course.
Wally jumped—
And landed well short. He screamed, and in a feat of luck, I caught hold of one of his windmilling hands. I pulled him forward, and he spilled across the narrow ledge. The smacking sound I heard was Wally kissing the rock shelf.
We waited a few minutes for Wally to regain his composure, if that was possible, then moved on. Thankfully, the ledge widened, and shortly we slipped around a tight corner and stepped into what I assumed was the confines of a narrow tunnel, as our breathing once again echoed off surrounding stone walls and the wind mercifully subsided.
“Thank God,” Caesar said.
I removed my flannel shirt, and tore free a small section of sleeve. I next searched in the darkness with my hands and found a suitable hand-sized rock. With the steel blade of my pocketknife, I soon produced a blazing drop of liquid sun, which caught in the flannel. I fanned the spark into an orange flame.
The narrow tunnel exploded to life. Surrounding us were dark walls and a low ceiling. I wrapped the burning cloth around the end of my torch, lit the others, and we moved on.
Chapter Forty-three
They moved quietly through the complex of narrow tunnels. Ten men and one woman. Beams of light played across the rough stone walls, boots muffled in the thick carpet of sand.
Faye marched silently behind the massive form of Farid Bastian. Hungry, thirsty and cold, she wondered if she had ever felt worse in her life. She didn’t think so. Earlier, they had all slid on their bellies through a narrow opening in the cave wall, breaking most of her nails in the process. She had also managed to scrape her chin. Sweat from her brow stung the abrasion, attracted to the wound like iron filings to a magnet.
Farid checked on her often, his concern enough to calm her nerves. She suspected that Farid was the only thing separating her from the animal Kazeem—who was directly behind her—and for that she was
eternally grateful.
They were marching quietly down a long and twisting rock corridor when the lead soldier suddenly raised his hand, halting the search party. Faye soon saw why. A rock wall blocked their path. Two small tunnels opened before them. Neither looked particularly inviting to Faye.
The soldier consulted the laminated map, and spoke rapidly to Omar. Finally, the prince summoned Faye.
“We appear to have a problem,” he said when she stepped before him. He spoke in short gasps through his open mouth. Sweat dripped from his pale face. “According to your father’s map, there should be three tunnel choices.” He motioned with a skeletal hand. “As you can see, there are only two.”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked. “The map could be wrong.”
Omar removed a pistol from his hip and leveled it at her face. “Make it right, or I will shoot you between the eyes.”
She stared down the dark barrel. She couldn’t breathe, was unable to move. Farid moved forward quickly, gently eased the emir’s arms down.
“She does not need to be threatened, emir. She will comply.” Farid looked at her and said gently, “I suggest you agree to his terms.”
Faye nodded dumbly, still unable to find her voice. Omar exhaled through clenched teeth and re-holstered the weapon.
Faye thought: Christ, he was going to shoot me!
“Good,” said the emir, voice quivering with adrenaline. “Now, I expect immediate results.”
“I-I’ll need the map,” she heard herself say. Her voice echoed weakly off the dank stone walls.
Omar spoke rapidly and Al Sayid, eyes wide with anticipation, handed her the laminated map. The little professor also gave her his flashlight. A soldier suddenly trained his automatic weapon on her as if the flashlight made her more dangerous.
Farid eased back into the shadows, silent as a shade.
Faye breathed deeply, amazed at what had just transpired. Then again, she knew Omar Ali was a desperate man and would do anything to save his project. She tried to focus her thoughts and control her shaking hands.
She looked down at the map and almost grinned. Her father’s child-like renditions of the ark and tunnel entrances were hilarious. The man may have a brilliant mind, but he drew like a chimp.
She felt herself relax and was beginning to think clearly again.
Had her father erred in his research? She didn’t think so. The man approached the research of Noah’s ark the same way a demolitionist wired a building: very carefully.
Then where was the third tunnel?
Faye stepped toward the two tunnel entrances and scanned the corrugated wall, which looked like a frozen waterfall, with many vertical shadows. It was difficult to distinguish the shadows from the cave openings. She moved closer.
Then she thought she saw something—
A faint stirring of cobwebs from within a particularly deep shadow, followed by a cool wind. She was confidant this was in fact the mysterious third opening, obscured by a vertical outcropping of rock that gave it the illusion of deep shadows.
Closer.
The cobwebs appeared to have been recently parted, now hanging to the side like discarded clothing. She was certain this was the route her father had taken. Faye was also certain she had little choice other than to cooperate fully. Or be killed.
“I believe this is the third tunnel entrance, emir,” she announced.
Omar was suddenly behind her, peering carefully into the opening. A tiny grin touched the corners of his small mouth. He had manipulated the truth out of her, and he was obviously pleased.
“You’ve just extended your life, my dear” he breathed. He motioned for the others to follow, and the procession eased through the narrow rock opening.
Chapter Forty-four
We came upon another fork in the tunnel. Unfortunately, there was no erect pile of stones to point the way. No pun intended. However, Caesar’s rowboat depiction of Noah’s ark was off to the right of the map. Whether or not we were supposed to make a left now, and then a quick right later was impossible to tell with the cannon-ball sized hole in the map. I proposed we go right, and the others concurred.
The right tunnel was wide enough to walk side by side, although the ceiling hung too low for Wally to stand erect. The kid was forced to walk with his head down, Neanderthal-like. In that hunched position, Wally suggested that we never let out publicly that we had all held hands. I told him there wasn’t much public in Dogubayazit, and that he should be more comfortable with his sexuality.
Our breaths fogged as the temperature dropped. The tunnel stretched into complete oblivion, and the light from the torches had a terrible time penetrating the heavy blackness. Devoid of any dirt, the floor seemed to have been recently swept clean. Wally began whistling the score to the Star Wars movies, although he botched it. How do you botch the Star Wars score? Kids nowadays….
It was some time later when two massive shapes materialized out of the shadows, the light from our torches bringing them slowly to life. Twin stone pillars, wide as redwoods, carved roughly from the tunnel itself, loomed high into the darkness and disappeared into the gloom. The pillars sat opposite each other, like hulking minotaurs, guarding their secret labyrinth. Their bases were covered in inscriptions.
Professor Caesar Roberts removed his glasses, cleaned them hastily with his filthy shirt, then pushed them back over his nose. Holding the torch before him, he moved quickly forward and examined the base of the left pillar.
Standing behind him, I saw that the carvings resembled the cuneiform writing found in caves along the foothills around Mount Ararat. Grinning, the professor ran his thick forefinger over the etchings. He could have been a kid in a candy store.
He said to himself: “Strong Sumerian influence, although this may predate the Sumerians, which would be a fabulous find, indeed. Of course, I will need to run a potassium-argon test and take latex samples back to my colleagues at the university. And if there’s any pottery or potsherds around we can use archaeomagnetic dating—”
“It looks fresh,” said Wally. “As if it had been carved yesterday.”
“The coolness of the tunnel and the absence of any weathering would preserve it perfectly. In the desert, these relief carvings would have been sand-blasted into nothing.”
“But what does it say, professor?” I asked impatiently.
The professor bent down, knees promptly cracking. Must be hell getting old. He said, “Offhand, I would say this appears to be some sort of narrative. The writing itself is pictographic, the simplest form of Mesopotamian writing. The Sumerians would later formalize writing with the use of symbols to identify ideas—”
I broke in. “And you can read all this?” It looked like ancient graffiti to me.
Caesar nodded. “At one point in my career, Sam, I was highly regarded in the field of cryptology, or paleo-linguistics. Now my daughter has taken up the mantle, so to speak.” Caesar paused at the thought of Faye. The old man was a mix of emotions: guilt, pride and exhilaration. Finally, he motioned to the ancient inscriptions. “Although I have been out of the field for some time, this is all very basic stuff. Anyway, I shall do my best.”
We stood there quietly while the older man mumbled to himself and held his torch close to the stone, blowing away dust from the inscriptions. I looked at my watch because I had nothing better to do. The watch face was covered in dust and cracked at the bottom and seemed to be permanently stuck on the stopwatch feature. I leaned against the pillar, folded my arms across my chest, closed my tired eyes and waited.
Finally, Caesar cleared his throat and began reading, pausing often and skipping unknown characters: “The Heavens opened and the earth burst forth, and every living creature was swept away. But the creator granted mercy on my small family. And here, upon this holy mountain, lies the salvation of the world, and only those worthy and blessed shall witness the savior of man. Behold, the Ark of life.”
* * *
Wally whistled. I felt a pleasur
e of goosebumps crop across my forearms.
“I think,” I said, “this is a clue.”
“Do you think Noah himself actually wrote this?” Wally asked.
Caesar, face red from bending over and reading the ancient text, stood and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Hard to say for sure. Most scholars, myself included, suspect that Noah’s ark was built in southern Mesopotamia, near the city of Shuruppak, which is identified in the Gilgamesh Epic. There’s plenty of reason to believe that Noah was a wealthy man, capable of hiring and organizing the construction of his ship. In Mesopotamia, writing had become a skill for every aspiring man to acquire. Noah could have acquired such skills himself. If so, then, yes, he could have written this.”
“Then who carved these pillars, and why?” asked Wally.
“Obviously they signify something of importance,” said the professor. “And my guess is that Noah and his sons did the carving.”
“Seems like a lot of work in such a gloomy place,” said the kid.
“Building the ark would have been a bigger task, lad. Perhaps they wanted to commensurate such a sacred vessel.”
Wally shrugged. “Fine; then where’s the ark?”
I studied the pillars, frowning. The twin stone columns were not only immense, but somehow familiar. I removed the folded map from my jacket. And there, above the burned hole, were two symbols that could easily be the two pillars. And, according to the map, Noah’s ark was directly behind the left symbol. Could the left symbol be, in fact, the left pillar?
I showed the map to the others. Caesar gasped and grabbed it out of my hands. “My God, you’re right Sam.”
“How could anything be behind the pillar?” asked Wally. “It’s solid stone.”
I thought about that as I ran my hand over the smooth surface. And that’s when I found it. A seam. Along with cool air. Very cool air. I smiled.
“These pillars are not hiding anything,” I said.
