The Dark River

by John Twelve Hawks

  “I don’t like ladders,” Lumbroso said. He put one foot on the top rung as if to test the ladder’s strength, and then climbed down slowly with the lantern. Maya walked over to the corner and found a drainage hole in the gray stone wall. The hole was about two feet square and completely underwater. Its bottom edge was flush with the surface of the sundial.

  “The water flows out here?”

  “Correct. That’s where you have to go.” Still wearing his long-sleeved white shirt, necktie, and black pants, Lumbroso stood with an odd sort of formality in the water. “Turn back immediately if it gets too difficult to move.”

  Maya returned to the ladder and took the scuba equipment out of the canvas bags. There was a belt with lead weights, a two-stage air regulator, a diving mask, and an air tank that was a foot long and four inches in diameter. She had also purchased an underwater flashlight and a digital underwater camera—the sort of thing a tourist would use when snorkeling in the Bahamas.

  “That air tank looks very small,” Lumbroso said.

  “It’s called a pony tank. You told me that there wasn’t a lot of room in the tunnel.”

  Maya put on the weight belt first, attached one end of the regulator to the pony tank, and slung the camera’s plastic lanyard around her neck. The tunnel was so narrow that she would have to hold the tank with one of her arms, pressing it tightly against her body.

  “So what am I looking for?”

  “You need to take photographs of any Latin or Greek phrases on the outside of the sundial. Some of these phrases will describe cities in the ancient world, while others will describe a spiritual location—an access point.”

  “And what if the words are covered with rubble?”

  “You can brush it away, but don’t touch the walls.”

  Maya pulled on the diving mask and sealed it against her face, then turned on the air and started to breathe with the mouthpiece.

  “Good luck,” Lumbroso said. “And, please—be careful.”

  She knelt on the floor and lowered her head beneath the water. Lying flat, she moved toward the opening in the wall. Maya could hear her own breath, the bubbles coming out of the regulator, and a scraping sound from the edge of the pony tank as she dragged it across the limestone floor.

  When she reached the opening, she extended her arm and pointed the flashlight into the darkness. Over the years, the flowing water had cut an underground tunnel through the rubble of the past. The walls of the tunnel were an aggregate of stones, Roman brick, and chunks of white marble. It looked fragile, as if everything would crumble, but the real danger was created by the present era. In order to support the collapsing foundation of the building, someone had driven steel rods deep into the ground. The tips of the rods jutted out into the tunnel like the tips of rusty sword blades.

  Pushing with her toes, Maya glided down the tunnel. When she looked up at the rubble and the steel rods, she felt as if the weight of Rome were directly over her head. Her body was pressed against the travertine floor of the sundial, but she couldn’t find any words set in bronze.

  The scuba regulator rasped. Bubbles rose past her face. Inch by inch, she crawled forward until her entire body was in the tunnel. The tunnel was so low and narrow that it was impossible to turn around. In order to return to the cellar room, she would have to push backward with her hands.

  Forget about your fear, Thorn told her. Concentrate on your sword. Her father never seemed to hesitate about anything. And yet he had spent two years in Rome avoiding his destiny. Maya pushed everything but the tunnel out of her mind and kept moving forward.

  She had traveled twelve or fifteen feet when the tunnel took a turn to the right. Passing beneath one of the steel rods, she entered a wider area that looked like an underground cave. The surface of the sundial looked dark in this area, but when she crawled closer she saw that the floor was embedded with bronze words written in both Greek and Latin.

  Holding the flashlight with her left hand, Maya grabbed the underwater camera with her right and began taking pictures. Whenever she moved her body, shadows formed or disappeared.

  As she crawled forward, the air tank got away from her and touched the side of the tunnel. Some debris was shifted loose from the wall and rolled across the sundial floor. It was nothing, really—just a few black pebbles—but she felt a stab of fear.

  More sand and stones fell from the wall. A good-sized rock hit the floor and rolled toward her. She took a few more quick photographs and tried to ease backward, but suddenly a chunk of ceiling collapsed and fell in front of her.

  The water was dark with sand. Maya tried to escape, but something was holding her. Fighting panic, she forced her palms flat onto the marble floor and pushed hard. There was an explosion of air bubbles and water rushed into her mouth.

  She had cut the regulator tube on one of the metal rods. There was no air to breathe and no way to get out. Her flashlight was lost and she was struggling in total darkness. Maya gripped the mouthpiece with her teeth, reached over her shoulder, and felt for both sections of the severed air hose. The section connected to her mouth was filled with water, but air bubbled through the hose connected to the pony tank. She forced the two sections together and held them in her fist. Air mixed with water started to flow out of the mouthpiece. Maya swallowed the water and sucked the oxygen into her lungs.

  With both sections of hose held tightly in her right hand, she pushed back with her left, feeling the gritty sand with her feet. Like a bystander staring at a car accident, her mind disengaged from the situation except to observe calmly and draw conclusions. She was completely blind, and within a minute or so the air tank would be empty. Her only chance was to find the tunnel that led back to the cellar room.

  When her feet touched the side of the tunnel, she stopped immediately and slid her body sideways. Maya concentrated on the gritty texture of the fallen rubble. Her life had collapsed into a particle of bone and blood and tissue.

  Trying not to cause another cave-in, she crawled backward inch by inch. The regulator made a faint gurgling sound and then her tongue tasted something that reminded her of ashes. She tried to inhale, but nothing filled her lungs. The ruptured hose had bled the tank dry.

  Maya extended her arms, pushed backward, and her toes felt the bend in the tunnel. She kept moving and prayed that she wouldn’t get caught on the barbs. It felt like her brain was reacting slowly and she wondered if she was about to pass out.

  A few seconds later, she felt hands on her ankles. With a swift tug, Lumbroso pulled her out.

  “What happened?” he asked. “I saw sand coming out of the tunnel. Are you injured? Are you all right?”

  Maya ripped off the face mask, spit out the mouthpiece, and gasped for breath. Her lungs were burning, and it felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Lumbroso kept talking to her, but she couldn’t answer. She was incapable of speech, and only one thought stayed in her brain: I’m still alive.

  The underwater camera dangled from its lanyard, and she handed it to him like a precious stone.

  AROUND EIGHT O’CLOCK the next morning, Maya was a customer at an outdoor café in the Piazza San Lorenzo in Lucina. The piazza was less than one hundred yards from the entrance to the deserted building that concealed the sundial. Directly below her feet were layers of the past and secret rivers flowing through the darkness.

  If she closed her eyes, she could see herself trapped within the underwater tunnel, but she had no desire to reflect on that moment. She was alive and in this world. Everything that surrounded her seemed both ordinary—and beautiful. She touched the smooth marble top of the table while a young Italian waiter brought her a cup of cappuccino and a peach tart decorated with a sprig of mint. The crust of the tart was light and flaky, and she let the sweet peach filling linger on her tongue. Although her sword case hung from the back of the wrought-iron chair, she had the mad impulse to abandon it and wander around the square like an ordinary woman, entering each shop to sniff the perfume samples and
try on silk scarves.

  Lumbroso arrived as she finished the pastry. He was wearing his usual dark clothing and carrying a leather portfolio beneath his arm. “Buon giorno, Maya. Come sta? It is a pleasure to see you this morning.” He sat and ordered a cappuccino.

  “Last week I saw a tourist ordering a cappuccino at five o’clock in the afternoon. This is Roma, not Starbucks! The waiter was deeply offended. There should be a sign in all trattorias: ‘It’s Against the Law to Order a Cappuccino after Ten in the Morning.’”

  Maya smiled. “What about an espresso?”

  “Espresso is appropriate.” He opened the portfolio and pulled out a manila folder filled with glossy photographs. “I downloaded the images last night and printed them on photo paper. You did a very good job, Maya. I could read everything quite clearly.”

  “Did it mention an access point?”

  “The sundial combined locations that our modern sensibility would consider ‘real,’ as well as those places that connected you to another world. Look at this image….” He placed a photograph in front of her. “It’s written in Latin and refers to Aegyptus—the Roman name for Egypt. After the death of Cleopatra, Egypt became part of the Empire. To the right of this Latin inscription are words in Greek.”

  Lumbroso handed her another photograph and sipped his cappuccino. Maya studied a photograph that showed both Greek and Latin words.

  “The inscription uses a word that means ‘doorway’ or ‘portal.’” Lumbroso picked up the photograph and began to translate. “The portal to God was taken from Ludaea to Ta Netjer—the Land of God.”

  “In other words, we don’t know where the doorway is.”

  “I disagree. The directions are as clear as one of those guidebooks the tourists carry around Rome. Ludaea is the Roman name for the province that included Jerusalem. Ta Netjer—the Land of God—was also called Punt. It’s generally believed to be northern Ethiopia.”

  Maya shrugged. “I don’t understand, Simon. How could a portal—an access point—be portable?”

  “Only one famous object was taken from Jerusalem to Ethiopia. It’s a ‘portal’ that, in our modern day, is referred to as the Ark of the Covenant.”

  “The Ark is just a legend,” Maya said. “It’s like Atlantis or King Arthur.”

  Lumbroso leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “I haven’t studied the books about King Arthur, but I do know a great deal about the Ark of the Covenant. It’s a chest of acacia wood plated with gold, with a solid-gold cover called a kapporet. The Bible even gives us the dimensions of this sacred object. It’s about forty-five inches in length and twenty-seven inches in width.

  “The Ark was created by the Israelites during the exile in the desert. It had a place of honor in the first temple, built by Solomon. The common assumption was that the Ark contained the Ten Commandments, but I think it’s more logical that it’s some kind of access point. The Ark was kept in the ‘Holy of Holies’—the innermost part of the temple.”

  “But wasn’t it destroyed by the Assyrians?”

  “You probably mean the Babylonians.” Lumbroso smiled. “The one fact that is consistent in all sources is that the Ark wasn’t in the temple when Nebuchadnezzar sacked Jerusalem. The Babylonians made detailed lists of their plunder, but the Ark was never mentioned. The famous Copper Scroll—one of the Dead Sea Scrolls found in 1947—states explicitly that the Mishkan, the portable temple for the Ark, was removed from the temple before the invasion.

  “A few people think that Josiah hid the Ark somewhere in Israel, but the inscription on the sundial reflects the legend that it was taken to Ethiopia by Menelik the First, the son of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. The Romans knew that when they wrote the inscription.”

  “So the Ark is in Africa?”

  “It’s not exactly a secret, Maya. You can go on the Internet or read a dozen different books. The Ark is currently being kept at the Church of Saint Mary of Zion in the northern Ethiopian city of Axum. It’s guarded by a group of Ethiopian priests, and only one priest is allowed to go into the shrine.”

  “There’s one problem with your theory,” Maya said. “If the Ark is in Ethiopia, then why hasn’t Israel done something about reclaiming it or protecting it?”

  “Ahhh, but they have. In 1972, a group of archaeologists from the Israel Museum flew to Ethiopia. They received permission from the Emperor Haile Selassie to examine certain historical artifacts. At the time there was a major drought in the province of Wollo and the emperor was desperate for international aid.

  “These archaeologists traveled to the monasteries on Lake Tana and to the city of Axum. But, strangely enough, they never issued a report or any other public statement. Two weeks after their return to Jerusalem, Israel began to send military and humanitarian aid to Ethiopia. This support continued after the emperor’s death in 1975. It still continues today.” Lumbroso smiled and finished his cappuccino. “The Israelis don’t publicize this aid and neither do the Ethiopians. Because, of course, there’s no political reason for giving the money—unless you believe in the Ark.”

  Maya shook her head. “Maybe a few historians have thought up this theory and a few Ethiopian priests want to believe it. But why didn’t the Israelis just grab the Ark and take it back to Jerusalem?”

  “Because the Ark goes in a temple which no longer exists. The Dome of the Rock currently occupies the site: that’s where the Prophet Muhammad ascended into paradise. If the Ark were returned to Jerusalem, then certain fundamentalist groups—both Christian and Jewish—would want to destroy the Dome of the Rock and rebuild the temple. That would start a war that would dwarf any previous conflicts.

  “The men and women who lead Israel are devout Jews, but they’re also pragmatists. Their objective is the continual survival of the Jewish people—not the start of World War Three. It’s best for everyone if the Ark stays in Ethiopia and that people are encouraged to believe that it was destroyed thousands of years ago.”

  “And what happens if I go to Ethiopia?” Maya asked. “I can’t just walk up to this shrine and demand to see the Ark.”

  “Of course not. That’s why I have to go with you. For the last few years, I’ve bought artifacts from an Ethiopian Jew named Petros Semo. I’ll ask him to meet us in Addis Ababa and help us talk to the priests.”

  “And the Ark is an access point that will take me to the First Realm?”

  “Perhaps any of the realms. The texts can’t agree on this matter. The general conclusion is that you have to send your spirit first and then follow it. I think that means you have to want to go there—want it with all your heart. We have left both history and science far behind at this point. If you step through this doorway, you abandon our particular reality.”

  “But will I find Gabriel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And what if I can’t find him? Can I return to this world?”

  “I don’t know that either, Maya. If you study the classical myths about the underworld, they agree on only one thing—you have to go back the way you came.”

  Maya looked out at the piazza and the beauty that had captivated her only a few minutes ago. She had promised Gabriel that she would always stand beside him. If she refused to honor her own words, then that moment between them lost its meaning.

  “So how do we get to Ethiopia?”

  Lumbroso stuffed the photographs back into their envelope. “First—we order another cappuccino.” He nodded to the waiter, and then pointed to their empty cups.

  35

  I t was early spring in south England. When Michael stepped out onto the third-floor balcony of Wellspring Manor he could see that pale green leaves were beginning to appear on the beech trees that covered the surrounding hills. Directly below him, the guests at the afternoon party were leaving the house and wandering through the rose garden. White-jacketed waiters were serving glasses of sparkling wine and canapés, while a quartet of musicians played The Four Seasons. Although it had rained yesterday afternoon, t
his Sunday was so clear and warm that the sky looked vaguely artificial—a blue silk tent set up to shelter the party.

  Wellspring was another property owned by the Evergreen Foundation. While the first two floors were dedicated to public activities, the top floor was a private suite guarded by the security staff. Michael had been living at the manor house for the last eight days. During this time, Mrs. Brewster had fully explained both the public and private goals of the Young World Leaders Program. The army colonels and police officials who were sampling the bite-sized crab cakes in the rose garden were visiting England to learn how to defeat terrorism. During three days of seminars, they learned about Internet monitoring, surveillance cameras, RFID chips, and total information systems.

  The garden party was the culmination of this learning process. The leaders would meet corporate representatives who were eager to establish this new technology in underdeveloped nations. Each leader was given a special leather folder to hold the business cards handed out after the first glass of wine.

  Leaning over the edge of the balcony, Michael watched Mrs. Brewster move through the crowd. Her turquoise blue skirt and jacket stood out among the somber business suits and olive green military uniforms. From a distance, she appeared to be a catalyst molecule dropped into a beaker filled with different chemicals. As she met and talked and parted with a kiss, she formed new connections between the young leaders and those who wanted to serve them.

  He left the balcony, passed through some French doors, and walked into what had once been a master bedroom. Now his father lay on an operating table in the center of the room. White plaster Cupids gazed down on him from the ceiling. Matthew Corrigan’s head was shaved and sensors had been inserted into his brain. The body’s heartbeat and temperature were continually monitored. One of the neurologists had announced that the lost Traveler was as “dead as you can be and still be alive.”