The Himalayan Codex

by Bill Schutt

  “And ran into quite a surprise.” Mac finished the thought.

  Jerry continued moving forward into the forest of crystalline display cases. Yanni followed, then Mac, without any discouragement from the Morlocks.

  He halted at a display of what was apparently a lost German expedition, pre–World War II. “I’d say your Morlocks have been playing this gig for a long time.”

  Mac found himself overwhelmed by the sheer variety of organisms, tools, and people on display. The chamber really did remind him of a museum—full of historical clues, and with nothing random about it. In fact, the deeper they walked from the alcove entrance, the deeper they traveled backward in time.

  “Holy mackerel. Will you look at that,” Jerry exclaimed. “I mean, who knew that Templars made it this far?”

  R. J. MacCready nodded, his puzzlement giving way to something else. He had sometimes felt inadequate against the broad canvas of Jerry’s knowledge—which seemed to span every arcane subject and, by comparison, often left the zoologist feeling a little too specialized in his own field. This was hardly a cause for despair. Mac hoped, as any true teacher or explorer hoped, that Jerry and others who followed would surpass him.

  Only a few short paces from the Templar knight, Jerry paused at a display of men and their horses. They seemed to have died together, in twisted agony, within the ice itself.

  “Khan’s men,” Jerry announced.

  Mac peered through the ice. “So Genghis lost an army, too, huh?”

  “His grandson Kublai did. Or so say the legends,” Jerry replied.

  “Well, they might be from the right time, in this sequence, but they certainly took a wrong turn somewhere.”

  Jerry led Mac and Yanni farther down through the centuries until a carved golden eagle, encased in ice, brought him to a stop. Behind the winged symbol of Rome, the rest of the column contained a tangle of bodies.

  “Those Pliny’s men?” Yanni asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Jerry said as he moved in for a closer look at the eagle. Turning to Mac, he said, “You’ve been boning up on your Roman history. Who do you think they are?”

  There had been damage to the inscription beneath the talons of the sacred icon, but even through the distorting lens of ice, Mac was able to read enough. “Not Pliny’s Romans, that’s for sure.”

  “You give up?”

  “I think it’s the Ninth Legion.”

  “Excellent!” Jerry said. “The Legio nona Hispana.”

  “Show-off,” Mac said, under his breath. “Jeez, that would be about what—forty years after Pliny?”

  Jerry replied, with a smile. “Yeah, something like that—forty, fifty.” He was about to place a hand on the ice containing the Romans but a glance at the Morlocks made him stop. “This one’s a real head-scratcher though.”

  “How so?”

  “I sure as hell wouldn’t have expected to find the Ninth Legion anywhere near Tibet.”

  “So how’d they get here?” Mac wondered.

  “Dunno,” Jerry said. “According to historians, the Ninth was either annihilated in northern Britain by Celtic tribes or they were transferred.”

  Yanni moved in for a closer look. “I’d vote for number two. But transferred where?”

  “Possibly to the Jordan Valley,” Jerry said, continuing the tale. “One rumor has them moving east from there into India.”

  “And what were they doing in India?” Yanni asked.

  Mac shrugged and turned to Jerry, who shook his head. “Who knows? Like I said, it was pretty much just a rumor, sung by ancient poets. What is clear is that there’s no trace of the Ninth after a.d. 120. After which they did pick up a new moniker.”

  Jerry waited, but the pair remained silent.

  “Go on,” Mac said at last.

  “Rome’s Ghost Legion.”

  “So they just up and disappeared?” Yanni asked.

  “All five thousand of them, poof—gone.”

  Yanni gestured toward the columns. “Until now.” She knelt down near the base of the pillar, where a Roman leg had been thrust close to the surface of the ice—thrust at an angle so awkward that she supposed it would have been extremely painful were he alive in that final moment. Dozens of yellowish strands seemed to have sprouted out of the leg, tearing at the flesh before he died.

  “Talk about your shitty transfers,” Mac chimed in.

  Yanni squinted at the bizarre wounds. “What are those things?”

  A shove at Jerry’s left shoulder blade communicated that Alpha was finally becoming impatient with the conversation. Obediently, the trio moved in the direction indicated by the shove, down through the second century b.c. into Hannibal’s time. Far ahead, Mac could see bodies whose faces were pressed near the outer surface of an ice pillar. They displayed distinctly Asian features but their hair was bright red.

  Mac was certain that the Morlocks’ collection went back at least through the Bronze Age—past the incongruous-looking redheads and beyond the first dynasties of emperors and pharaohs alike. “Jerry,” he asked, “you’ve heard of Howard Carter, right?”

  “Sure, Mac. Why? He sure as hell didn’t get this far.”

  “No, but I was just thinking that discovering Tutankhamun’s tomb completely intact might take a backseat to a thirty-foot walk in any direction down here.”

  Jerry was about to respond when his attention was suddenly diverted by something near the very center of the chamber. The Morlocks allowed him to sidetrack past a display of Jin Dynasty infantrymen and their rockets, toward the tallest and widest of the pillars they had encountered thus far.

  It stretched high above the backs of the elephants entombed within—and in fact four of the neighboring pillars also contained elephants, along with their drivers. The frozen pachyderms were outfitted in protective plating and the warriors astride them also wore battle armor and thick furs. Mac was just telling himself that the soldier nearest to him looked either Chinese or Cambodian—and possibly female—when Yanni distracted him. She had knelt down beside one of the entombed elephants. Clearly, she was deeply immersed in her own thoughts.

  Despite the distinct possibility that the remainder of their lives would henceforth unfold under the whim of the Morlocks, and despite certain grim details of their immediate surroundings, Mac had at least some small measure of success in convincing himself that being here was an astonishing turn of good luck. For now, even Jules Verne’s fictional Captain Nemo and his discovery of the ruins of lost Atlantis could not compare to this.

  “Hannibal’s army?” Mac spoke, not quite believing his own question.

  “I don’t think so,” Jerry replied, when Alpha’s call startled them both.

  The Morlock had been watching intently as Yanni sketched yet another figure into the earth—this time it was an elephant’s head. And after emitting a rather loud call, the giant was kneeling down beside her, using an index finger to draw his own version of the figure.

  He looks almost enthusiastic, Mac thought.

  “Alafas,” Yanni said, then quickly sketched one of the two-trunked mammoths Knight had described back in New York.

  But the Morlock did not respond to Yanni. Instead, Mac saw that Alpha’s attention was drawn to the pair of Morlocks who had been standing by silently. One of them displayed what had been a seriously deep and recent wound, running from above his left temple down to the jawline. Now almost completely healed, the wound was discernible mostly as a line of slightly mismatched fur. Alpha and “Scarface” had both begun uttering low-frequency growls.

  The pair exchanged a series of whistles and canine-flashing grunts that concluded with Alpha looking frustrated and even angry. Turning back to Yanni, the creature erased the drawing of the bi-trunked Elephas before lifting her up gently. Then, as swiftly as she had been carried into the chamber of ice and lost souls, Yanni was whisked away from its center, and up again through time.

  The two men exchanged frantic looks before MacCready turned and caught a las
t glimpse of Alpha retreating out of the chamber. Their own escorts approached quickly, each of them hefting their human cargo before setting off at a trot. To Mac, however, it seemed as if they were being handled more roughly this time.

  “Where do you think he’s taking her?” Mac asked, straining in vain to see around the Morlock’s bulk.

  “Search me,” Jerry responded, “but she’ll be okay, buddy.”

  Something’s up, Mac thought. And now he realized that it had been Alpha’s reaction to his own brethren that he’d found most disturbing.

  Near the chamber threshold, among what they had determined to be the youngest pillars, Mac saw that a new pedestal of ice, wood, and rock was being constructed adjacent to a column containing what appeared to be a British explorer and his Sherpa guides. A pair of Morlocks looked up from their work.

  Jesus Christ, Mac thought, but kept to himself.

  “Hey,” came a concerned voice, “I don’t like the way that one guy is—”

  There was a crack—loud and unmistakable, and Mac reflexively turned toward the sound. The Morlock who was carrying Jerry had dropped him to the ground. His friend’s eyes were open—wide open—and Mac immediately felt a sickening feeling in his guts.

  R. J. MacCready had just begun to scream when a hand clamped over his mouth and nose.

  His world went black.

  Chapter 10

  The Gathering

  With man, most of his misfortunes are occasioned by man.

  —Pliny the Elder

  Only two things are infinite: The universe and human stupidity. I’m not sure about the former.

  —Albert Einstein

  Yi Chang Airport

  Western Hubei Province, China

  June 20, 1946, 11:40 a.m. (22 days earlier)

  “Where are you taking me?” Wang asked the army officer. The man, who appeared to be about forty years of age, had a long scar that ran from just below his right eye to the point of his chin. He said nothing but responded by gesturing to the first of three strange-looking helicopters tethered to the tarmac.

  Climbing down from the armored scout car, Wang noticed that their arrival had set off a flurry of activity at the airport. Members of the ground crew were sprinting from a rust-stained hangar toward each of the aircraft. They were followed by three pairs of serious-looking men in flight suits—pilots, Wang assumed—who began double-checking the outsides of their respective machines. Each of the helicopters had a pair of rotors—one centered on the roughly fifty-foot-long fuselage, the other mounted at the rear, atop a section of the body that curved upward to an angle of approximately 40 degrees. The front of the craft was roughly triangular in shape, with large windows. Approaching the open aft cargo door, Wang noticed with a sense of alarm that the ship’s outer shell appeared to be made of nothing more substantial than fabric that had been stretched over a thin tubular frame.

  After a prod from behind, the zoologist entered the craft, the officer and his men following through the same cargo door.

  Wang shuffled forward, carrying his backpack, and took a window seat near the cockpit. Behind him, the earthen jar containing the Yeren specimen was loaded into the cargo hold, along with the small wooden crate containing the creature’s skin. The skull sat at the bottom of Wang’s backpack, cushioned by clothes.

  As the pilots strapped themselves into their seats, and just before the noise from the dual engines rendered any conversation impossible, Wang turned to the army officer, who was seated across from him. “Is this trip related to the specimen I found?” he said, pitching his voice above the increasing whine. “The Yeren?”

  At the mention of the creature, the officer’s eyes widened in a momentary flash of anger, but just as quickly his face returned to its previously passive state. Then, in a gesture that only served to increase the unease Wang had felt since his arrival in Yi Chang Harbor, the military man turned silently and faced forward in his seat. Glancing aft, Wang began to see that every step he had taken was degenerating into a string of poorly chosen actions. All conversation between the soldiers had stopped, but it was clearly more than the rise of engine noise that silenced them. Each of the men was glaring at him. Like the officer, Wang turned and stared straight ahead, letting out a deep breath.

  Underfoot, river and forest gave way to more rugged terrain. After several hours, the helicopter began a descent and Wang could see that they were approaching a field of well-irrigated farmland, located on the outskirts of a small village. The great peaks had been looming ever larger as the trio of aircraft flew steadily southwest but now, descending into a landscape lit by the last rays of the setting sun, the vast mountain range dominated the entire western horizon. Directly below, Wang watched three torch-waving figures arraying themselves across a field of ripening crops. As the helicopters made their final approach, each of the torchbearers scrambled out of the way, just before the downwash from the six enormous blades destroyed a month’s supply of the village’s squash crop.

  Wang was escorted hastily to a small yurt and he was thankful to see that it was equipped with a chair and a little table, upon which sat a lantern. There was also a straw-filled mattress, and after setting his pack beside it, he lay down. Exhaustion had come upon him like a wave.

  Only for a moment, he thought, closing his eyes. Only for a—

  He awoke to the sounds of men singing—a drunken chorus, as near as he could tell. Crossing to the open doorway, Wang saw soldiers gathered around a sizable campfire. Some of them were dancing and all of them seemed to be making quite a great time of it. He caught the glint of bottles being passed around and the smell of meat cooking. The villagers were watching the festivities as well, but they stood grim-faced and silent. This is not their party.

  Afraid that someone would see him, he withdrew quickly, closing off the doorway, then lighting his lamp. Retrieving the Yeren skull and his notebook from the backpack, he sat down. Examining the anterior aspect of the skull, he began to sketch. His descriptions of the incredible find filled ten pages by the time a knock on the door frame interrupted him and an officer entered, carrying something.

  Captain Mung Chen placed a plateful of food beside the notebook. He waited for a lull in the alcohol-fueled din taking place just outside. “You should eat something.”

  “Captain, why am I being held prisoner?” Wang asked.

  “You are not a prisoner here,” the officer responded, his voice calm and measured.

  Wang then managed a smile, before gesturing toward the plate, which contained rice and vegetables. “If that is as you say, then why am I not being fed the meat I’ve been smelling—fed like the other men?”

  Captain Mung had already turned to leave but now he stopped to address the scientist again. “Because, Wang Tse-lin, I did not think you would enjoy eating your specimen. My men, on the other hand, are enjoying it. They’ll be stronger now. And where we are going, they will need strength.”

  Wang stood. “But—”

  The captain held up a hand. “Of course they had no idea that we were carrying the flesh of the mountain ogres with us—until you told them. So before you say another word, know that you did this.”

  Wang’s mind flashed back to the helicopter and the careless words he had spoken just before takeoff. Then he slowly lowered his head into his hands.

  “You did this.”

  Wang Tse-lin had been sitting in stunned silence for many long and uncomfortable minutes when the officer reappeared and took a seat at the bamboo-framed table. He gestured toward the skull. “Tell me more about how you tracked the Yeren.”

  The scientist’s worried expression shifted to puzzlement. “Tracked? I don’t understand.”

  Captain Mung crossed his arms. “It’s no secret. Your university colleagues couldn’t stop talking about you—how you had tracked the Yeren across the mountains. How you followed it into the Shennongjia wilderness.”

  Wang sat silently for a moment, then shook his head. “Who was it? Dr. Yi?”

/>   Mung said nothing but reacted as if the chair had suddenly become uncomfortable.

  The scientist managed a wry smile. “It was Dr. Yi.”

  “Explain yourself,” Mung commanded.

  “My work was to survey the valley. I used the opportunity to collect zoological specimens. I was hoping for a white bear but instead—”

  “But instead you killed a Yeren?”

  “The villagers killed the creature. I tried, as I said, to . . . purchase it.”

  “You bought it?”

  “They gave it to me.”

  Captain Mung sank back into the chair, closed his eyes, and let out a deep sigh. A minute passed, but to each of the men it seemed far longer, until a burst of drunken laughter outside brought them back to present reality: a damp hut in a nameless village.

  Finally, the officer spoke. “My family came from a settlement not much bigger than this one,” Mung said. “Outside Harbin.”

  Wang winced involuntarily at the name.

  “You’ve heard of it, I see,” the captain said, briefly wearing a humorless smile.

  “To my sadness, I have.”

  “My wife was killed there, as was my youngest child.”

  Wang bowed his head.

  The officer continued. “My two remaining children are sick—poisoned with candy. Can you believe that? Candy.”

  “I am sorry,” Wang said, quietly. Like many people, he was familiar with the rumors about what took place at Harbin during the war—rumors whose details became far too specific to have been made up. The Japanese invaders had constructed a vast complex of buildings—“a lumber mill,” inquiring local leaders were told. Then the walls went up—razor wire and guard towers—the perimeter patrolled by soldiers and vicious guard dogs. Stranger still were reports of a ceaseless rumble of trucks moving into and out of the facility in the dead of night and long after construction was completed.

  Through it all, and in what would become the most disturbing development, was the oddly charitable nature of the Japanese occupiers—who provided regular deliveries of food to the perplexed and war-starved locals: fresh vegetables, meat, even cookies and candy. Soon after, many of the villagers became horribly sickened and most of them died. The few who survived were taken in the night by teams of men who arrived and departed like phantoms, men clad from head to toe in strange suits.