Midway through the cave, the trio paused before a free-standing stone chamber. Each of its four sides held an open doorway guarded by sculpted gatekeeper figures. Inside was a dome-shaped black rock.
Before his companions could ask, Griffin said, “That would be a Shiva lingam. The rock represents the power-center of Shiva. Many Western observers have described linga as phallic objects but some are egg-shaped. The majority are made of meteor rock.”
“Meteor rock?” Cassie echoed in surprise. “So these linga are baetyls like the Sage Stone?”
“Yes,” the Scrivener agreed. “Just as the Minoans revered the Sage Stone, and as Muslims make pilgrimage to kiss the black stone at Mecca, Hindus would regard objects made from meteorites as epiphanies of the divine.” He paused to study the short round pillar. “Of course, I’m not sure of the origin of this particular lingam so I don’t know whether it’s a meteor rock or not. In any case, the intent of the shrine is to venerate the stone as a manifestation of Shiva.”
They moved past the cell and turned their attention to the carvings on the back wall of the cave.
“At least this one’s intact,” Erik remarked. “No missing parts.” He pointed toward an enormous bust of Shiva.
It stood at least twenty feet high. Unlike the other statues, the bust had not been damaged. The figure possessed three faces. The central face looked forward. The two others were seen in profile on either side of the head. Each face bore a different expression.
“This is called the ‘Trimurti’ sculpture.” Griffin read from his guide book. “The three heads represent the three aspects of Shiva – creation, protection and destruction.”
Cassie folded her arms and scowled at the statue. “This is getting complicated. I think I need a refresher course in Hindu mythology. I’ve heard the names of some of their gods and goddesses but I don’t know much about the religion. What do Hindus believe?”
Griffin chuckled. “That is a very tricky question because the Hindu pantheon is extraordinarily intricate.” He paused as a thought struck him. “Do you remember our conversation this morning about Indian culture?”
“What conversation?” Erik asked.
“The one we had while you were getting your beauty sleep,” Cassie retorted. Turning to Griffin, she said, “Sure I remember. You were saying that India is like the United States if the States were run independently and everybody spoke a different language.”
“Exactly so,” the Scrivener concurred. “The Hindu religion operates on much the same principle. There is no dogma—no central religious authority like a Pope to enforce conformity. There is only local practice which encompasses a dizzying number of divinities—too many to mention or even remember.” He gave a helpless sigh. “Based on my research, there are a few concepts that seem to be generally held. At the top of the religious hierarchy is Brahman. He is essentially an abstraction because he is... well... everything. He infuses all of his creation while at the same time being limitless and formless. Brahman is truth and reality.”
Cassie raised skeptical eyebrows. “Makes it hard to direct a prayer at somebody when he’s everywhere and nowhere at once. That’s not exactly a warm and fuzzy god. At least Zeus had a toga and thunderbolts.”
Erik grinned appreciatively but offered no other comment.
Griffin continued. “Quite. That’s where avatars come into play. An avatar is a manifestation of a particular aspect of Brahman. It puts a face to the name. The holy trinity of Hinduism would be Brahma the creator, Vishnu the preserver, and Shiva the destroyer.”
Cassie spun around and took a quick survey of all the images carved on the cave walls. “So this entire shrine is devoted to Shiva—the guy whose job is to destroy everything. Do Hindus all have a death wish?”
“Ah, but destruction can be viewed in a positive light. For instance, if a new skyscraper is about to be built in downtown Chicago, someone would have to tear down the old building to make way for the new.”
“So Shiva’s the demolition crew,” Cassie remarked doubtfully.
“Yes, and quite necessary to the continuity of life. You must remember that Hindus see time as cyclic. Periods of creation followed by periods of preservation followed by periods of destruction and so on. There can be no creation of the new without a preceding destruction of the old.”
“I guess that makes sense,” the Pythia conceded. “But didn’t you just say this Trimurti sculpture shows Shiva as the destroyer AND the creator AND the preserver? Isn’t that the job of the other two gods in the trinity?”
Griffin shrugged. “There are many, many variations to Hindu belief. That would be one of them.”
“Forget I asked.” Cassie rubbed her head. “Just give me the bullet points of the religion.”
“Very well. The three principal avatars of Hinduism all have consorts—female counterparts who actuate their potential. Brahma’s consort is Saraswati, the goddess of learning. Vishnu’s consort is Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. Shiva’s consort is Parvati, the mother goddess though she also has avatars which are much less maternal. Kali and Durga are two of her more fearsome aspects.”
Cassie stepped over to the bas-relief to the right of the Trimurti which depicted a male and female divinity and their celestial attendants. Directing her attention to the smaller female figure, she stared at it briefly. “So that’s Parvati—Shiva’s little woman.” She turned to address her two teammates. “And I mean that literally. In every one of these carvings where the two of them are together, Shiva is twice as big as Parvati.”
“It was a convention of Hindu art to depict the god as bigger than the goddess,” Griffin informed her.
“Except here,” Erik corrected.
The other two turned to notice what he was pointing at. To the left of the Trimurti was a seventeen foot high sculpture of a bi-sexual divinity. One half was female with prominent breast, curved hip and lavish jewelry while the other half was male. The male figure rested his arm on the head of a bull.
“In this one, Shiva and Parvati are both the same scale,” the Paladin said.
Cassie walked over beside him to study the sculpture. “What is this about?” she murmured.
Griffin glanced at his book. “This is called ‘Ardhanarishvara’. The carving is meant to depict the synthesis of the male and female energies which created the universe. There are statues and paintings in many temples in India which show the pair together in one body. It’s also typical to show the animal each deity rides. Here we see Shiva leaning on his mount which is a bull. Parvati’s lion is absent in this carving.”
“A goddess and a lion,” Cassie repeated smiling. “That combination has been around a long time, hasn’t it? The goddess-lion statue I validated in Turkey was at least nine thousand years old.”
“Right you are.” Griffin smiled, apparently pleased that she had seen the connection. “The great mother goddess and her lion were common motifs in paleolithic art throughout Europe and Asia. The image persisted well into overlord times. The Norse Freya riding in her wagon pulled by cats, the Anatolian Cybele driving her chariot drawn by lions. Parvati and her lion mount. Whenever we see an image of a female divinity escorted by a lion or two, we’re dealing with a primordial mother goddess figure.”
“So Parvati must have predated Hinduism,” Cassie observed.
“Yes,” the Scrivener agreed. “Though Hinduism is primarily an overlord religion, it was certainly influenced by indigenous beliefs which preceded it. I suspect Parvati is a vestige of that much older faith. In fact, Hinduism is unique among the existing overlord religions in that one of its branches worships female energy as the ultimate source of creation. Shakti, in Sanskrit, means “power.” Devotees of Shakti believe that she is the supreme Brahman or primordial cosmic energy. While this worship of the feminine principal might encompass all the Hindu goddesses, adherents of this cult principally focus on the worship of Shiva’s consort Parvati. They see Shiva as incapable of acting without the power supplied by his better ha
lf. He is only potential energy which she actuates. Shaktism has a very large following in India.”
“Sounds like something matristic survived right in the middle of Overlord Central,” Erik observed.
“Yes, and to a much greater degree than we see evidenced in other overlord cultures,” Griffin added.
The trio contemplated the androgynous figure in silence for several moments until Erik interrupted their thoughts. “That was a great crash course in Hindu religion but it’s not why we’re here. I don’t know about you two but I didn’t see any lily symbols while we were looking around.” He gave Cassie a quizzical glance. “You get any hits, toots?”
The Pythia shook her head regretfully. “Not a one.”
“Oh dear,” Griffin frowned. “I was so hopeful. Of course, there are four other Hindu caves on the island and two Buddhist caves. None of them are carved as elaborately as this one but we may find something. Failing that, there’s Cannon Hill. It’s situated at the top of the island and might be the tower referenced in the riddle.”
He glanced hopefully from one of his teammates to the other.
“I don’t know.” Cassie hesitated. “Ever since we set foot on the island, I’ve gotten the feeling that there isn’t anything here for us.”
“We might as well check out the rest of the caves and the hill just to be sure,” Erik urged.
“That’s fine by me,” the Pythia agreed uncertainly. Turning to Griffin, she asked, “But if we don’t find anything here, what’s our next move?”
The Scrivener hesitated. “Well, it’s a bit off our line of latitude but Mohenjo-Daro may be our best hope.”
“I don’t know much about Indian history but even I’ve heard of Mohenjo-Daro.” Erik nodded approvingly. “Good call.”
The two men turned to walk back toward the north courtyard.
Cassie trailed behind. “What’s Mohenjo-Daro?”
“It’s what this part of the world was like before the overlords arrived,” Erik replied.
Chapter 11—A Moving Site
It was late afternoon when Leroy Hunt found himself on the doorstep of Miz Sybil’s antique shop having a bad case of “been there, done that.” This place had thrown a monkey wrench into his plans one too many times. First off, its original owner, Miz Sybil, had stopped him from nicking the preacher’s granite key. Then its new proprietor, Miz Rhonda, had set up a smokescreen to keep him from drawing a bead on little Hannah. When he doubled back to pummel some proper intel out of Miz Rhonda, she vanished herself right out from under the watchful eye of his surveillance cameras. Her disappearance had cost Leroy his last living link to the preacher’s runaway bride. He disliked this shop and everybody connected with it. It was surely jinxed.
Today as he stood peering through the plate glass window with a disgruntled expression on his face, nothing had changed in the two months he’d been away. The place mocked him with its emptiness. Everything gone. Lock, stock and barrel. No new tenant. Still no “For Sale” or “For Rent” sign in the window.
Hunt swore under his breath and turned down the alley. He made his way to the store’s loading dock, intending to pick the lock and take one more futile look around inside. As he approached the rear entrance, he was startled to realize he wasn’t alone. An old man was curled up in a corner of the bay, cradling an empty wine bottle and snoring loudly.
Leroy walked over for a closer look. The bum was dressed in a stained army fatigue jacket, ripped blue jeans and canvas sneakers so badly frayed that his toes were poking out the sides. His long gray hair was as straggly and greasy as his beard. The old wino’s nap came to an abrupt end when he choked on a snore and jerked upright, coughing and spluttering.
“Whoa, there friend.” Leroy put a hand on the bum’s shoulder to steady him.
“Get your hands off me, you filthy cop!” The old man swatted at him petulantly. “I got a right to be here!”
“I ain’t no copper,” Leroy protested in an injured tone. “Just a Good Samaritan tryin’ to keep you from tumblin’ over and crackin’ your skull. That’s the thanks I get?”
The old man squinted at him through bloodshot eyes. “You’re not a cop?”
“No sir, I ain’t.” Leroy climbed up and took a seat next to him on the loading dock.
The old man straightened up and brushed off his jacket with an air of dignity. “Sorry,” he said grudgingly. “You shouldn’t wake somebody up like that. You startled me.”
Leroy decided to ignore the comment. “You live around here?” he asked casually.
“This is my turf.” The bum swept his arm around grandly. “Far as the eye can see. Everybody knows that.” He looked down at the empty bottle still cradled in one arm then turned it over and shook it with a disappointed “Damn!”
Leroy reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small flask. Handing it to the old man, he offered, “Here. Have some of mine.”
The bum eagerly grasped the bottle and sucked down half its contents in one long gulp. “That’s good stuff!” he exclaimed enthusiastically, handing the flask back to Leroy.
“Why don’t you hold onto that,” Hunt suggested, not relishing the idea of taking a swig after the derelict. “How long has this alley been your stompin’ grounds, old timer?”
The bum scratched his head. “Long as I can remember. Years. I see everything that goes on in this neighborhood.”
“That’s good to know.” Leroy nodded approvingly. “Maybe you can help me out. Do you recollect seein’ a moving truck parked here a couple months back?”
“Oh, that!” The old man shifted around, trying to find a comfortable position on the cold concrete. “Yeah, I seen ‘em. Heard ‘em too. The movers made so much racket I couldn’t get any sleep.”
“You got a notion where they was bound for?”
“No, I don’t. Why don’t you ask ‘em yourself,” the bum said cryptically taking another draught from the flask.
“Now how can I do that? They been gone a couple months.” Leroy wondered if the derelict was suffering from the DTs.
“They’re still around,” the old man said.
Hunt stared at him suspiciously. “You seein’ ‘em now?”
“The moving truck.” The wino snorted irritably. “I recognized the name. “Continental Movers. They got an office a couple blocks from here. On Franklin Street. I know everything that goes on this neighborhood.” He thumped his chest for emphasis. “It’s my turf. I oughta know.”
“Franklin Street, you say?” Hunt stood up and tipped his hat to the bum. “Thank you kindly.”
“My neighborhood,” the old man muttered. He tucked back into the corner and pulled his jacket more tightly around him. “I know everything that goes on around here.” Pocketing Leroy’s flask, he shut his eyes to resume his nap.
***
It took Hunt a few passes up and down Franklin Street to find the place—a dingy storefront under the elevated tracks with nothing but a small placard in the window announcing its name. Leroy concluded that their low profile meant they weren’t interested in attracting new customers. Once the cowboy entered the place, he also concluded that they must be having trouble hanging onto whatever down-at-the-heels customers they already had. The business consisted of a few rickety chairs and a reception desk staffed by a middle-aged woman with aggressively-teased red hair. She sat typing at a computer keyboard. Glancing up briefly from her work, she asked, “May I help you?”
The cowboy removed his hat as he advanced to her desk. “I surely hope so, ma’am. I’m tryin’ to locate a party that moved out of the neighborhood a couple months back. Lady by the name of Rhonda? She owned an antique shop a few blocks down from here.”
“Oh yes, I remember her,” the receptionist said readily. “She and her daughter were moving out of state.”
“Her daughter?” Leroy repeated blankly.
The woman treated him to a doubtful stare. “Well, if you’re a friend of Rhonda’s you must have met her daughter Hannah.”
Hunt swallowed hard. He couldn’t believe it was going to be this easy. The two birds he was after had flown the coop together. One well-aimed rock could take care of them both. “Oh, yes ma’am. I met her a couple times. Pretty blond gal, around fifteen or so?”
The woman’s suspicious expression evaporated. “Yes, that’s her. Rhonda told me they were moving out west to be closer to her family.”
“Pinin’ for the kinfolks, eh? Well, there’s no place like home,” Leroy agreed sententiously. “You wouldn’t happen to have their new address, would you? It so happens I’ll be travelin’ out that way. Might as well look ‘em up while I’m there.”
The receptionist paused to take in his cowboy hat, string tie and snakeskin boots. “You must be from out west yourself. The way you’re dressed.”
Leroy didn’t feel inclined to correct her. “Yes, ma’am,” he agreed simply.
She refocused her attention on her computer. “I should have their new address on file. Just a minute.” The woman typed a few keystrokes and scowled at her monitor until it displayed the information. “Here we are,” she said at last. Taking a slip of notepaper, she scribbled out the location and handed it to Hunt.
He stole a look at the address. So they’d holed up somewhere in Phoenix, Arizona. It might be halfway across the country but that wasn’t going to be far enough to keep them out of his sights. “Much obliged, ma’am.” Hunt turned to go.
“Give my regards to Rhonda and her daughter when you see them,” the receptionist called after him as he reached the door.
Hunt paused on the threshold to put on his hat, a grim smile forming on his lips. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
Chapter 12—Club Rules
Faye stood in her backyard looking upward. Shading her eyes, she contemplated an apple tree with a ripe crop of fruit hanging low on the branches.
“Hey, Gamma, how’s it going?” Zachary loped up beside her without warning.
“Gracious, where did you come from?” She turned to regard her descendent in surprise.
Into The Jaws Of The Lion (The Arkana Archaeology Mystery Series Book 5) Page 7
