by A. L. Mengel
But there were no mourners here.
He turned back towards the passage, resigned to the fact that he was be sucked in, farther into this netherworld and he had no choice in the matter.
Then there was a rustling coming from behind him. Like the casket moved. Then a scraping, like a wooden box being slowly dragged across concrete.
Roberto couldn’t get it out of his mind. He dared not turn around, for fear of what could be happening with the casket. Instead, he stared forward to where his mother had been, as she disappeared into the dark, black abyss of the mysterious tunnel. She turned a corner far off into the distance, disappearing into blackness.
Now it was time, it was time to face his fear. Roberto wanted to turn around, but his feet would not let him. And then a commanding, male voice called to him.
“Roberto!”
He closed his eyes shut tight. Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit.
He did not want to think about what was happening behind him. Whoever that was lying in the casket was dead. Dead and in flames. They were dead.
Roberto let out a breath, and gathered his senses. As he turned to his left, the casket started to come into view.
But there were no more flames.
The room was no longer like that of an oven. The casket remained, lying on a stone slab in the center of the cold, grey room.
He dared not turn around farther. Whatever was going on in here was fucking with his mind. He already had his answer as to who was lying in the casket.
The flames, now receded, the room was once again like it was and the orange glow around the perimeter gave just enough light to see the contents of the open casket. Through slightly closed eyes, and uttering a long breath out of his lungs, he came to the revelation that the voice belonged to one being and one being only.
The voice that called him earlier in the commotion of the fire, a voice that was male.
His father.
And what was Hernan doing here, lying in the casket? That Roberto did not know. His mother had been dead, but Hernan was very much alive.
But this building.
Somehow this building was reading his mind, and dredging all of his thoughts and laying them out before him.
Roberto saw his father standing in front, towering over him and the casket, staring down at Roberto through slanted, angry eyes. He was wearing a dark blue suit.
“You slimy little faggot child!” he hissed. “You killed me! Just like you killed your mother!” He took a step closer to Roberto and lunged forward. Roberto braced himself to run, but he did not move yet. He was too stunned and shocked and none of the events were making any sense to him.
“Don’t think I didn’t know what you were doing behind my back! You sick disgusting fucking DEMON!” He screamed at the top of his lungs and reached his arms out for Roberto, knocking the casket onto the floor, spilling its contents of satin liners and sheets and an American Flag. Roberto broke into a run, leaping down the dark corridor where his mother had disappeared, tripping on rocks that jutted out from a watery floor, and coughing at the mustiness.
He had a distinct advantage over Hernan.
But there was only so far that he could go. The passage was dark and damp, the earthy floor was covered in water, and Hernan was closing in on him. The only problem now was Roberto had no idea where to go. Getting further from the strange room, the passage got darker and darker, and Roberto had no source of light. He had to get out this, and had to find a way to get away from Hernan.
Or whatever it was that looked like Hernan.
And then it happened.
Somehow, someway, a door appeared before him down the hallway. He could barely make out the form in the darkness, and it was made of the earth, but he could tell for sure that it was a door. There was a small, single solitary overhead light with no apparent source, shining down on the door. Hernan was closing in on him.
“Fucking little faggot!” Hernan screamed, charging towards him, splashing through the water. “You’re going to hell!”
Roberto had to make it to the door, and the hopes of safety beyond on the other side. Running through small puddles of liquid that smelled like rotten eggs and sulfur, and feeling rats crawl over his feet, Roberto made it to the door and stopped suddenly, bracing himself against the massive frame. Where the door led, Roberto did not know. But when he looked closer, he could see the word carved into the wooden doorframe: MEMORY.
But Roberto then got the sense that Hernan was no longer chasing him. Due to his youthful vibrancy and energy, Roberto had always been far ahead of Hernan and was unable to look back and see him, however now, standing at the door catching his breath, he could not only not see Hernan and but also sensed that Hernan gave up.
Or did he?
Where was Hernan? What was Hernan?
Roberto was in another quandary.
He could return to the way he came, and face him. Face his fears. The casket in the room. What came out of the casket. Or, he could open the door to MEMORY.
A large and inviting round handle stood out against the door, like a giant, silver plate.
Roberto backed away from the door timidly and carefully, not exactly sure what was waiting on the other side. As his sneakers splashed muddy water from the earthy floor below, Roberto turned quickly and headed back to face Hernan.
Or perhaps to escape the unknown.
Wherever that door led to, Roberto suspected that it led further into this strange building. And further from a way out. Turning the corner, Roberto started heading closer to the dim, orange light that emanated from the stone room at the end of the passage, leading way to the spilled casket and the dank, stark room.
When he arrived, nobody was there.
Roberto entered the room, and all he saw was the casket. The casket was laying on its side, the contents spilled out on the floor; satin pillows and blankets, a silver crucifix, and a folded American flag.
But Hernan was nowhere to be found. And there were no doors that marked where he could have gone.
There was one thing that Roberto knew. Or, at least he thought he knew. Hernan was in the casket. Or at least something that looked like him. Was this a premonition of the future? Or was Hernan really dead? Or was Hernan hiding in the casket to attack Roberto? How did Hernan know that he was coming here today? There were too many unanswered questions.
The longer that Roberto stayed in this building, the more he felt like he was sinking closer to madness; the more he felt that the building knew his thoughts and secrets, and he was have an increasingly difficult time distinguishing what was reality and what was not.
When Roberto looked up from the casket, he saw across the dim light of the room that there was another door on the far wall in front of him.
That door was not there before, he thought.
Roberto decided that if he was going to get out of this building, he was going to have to find a way out – and he may just have to go further in.
He looked to the left.
As there was before, from where he initially entered this room, there was just a wall before him. No hallway, no panel in the floor, nothing. Just a wall. He turned around, towards the dark, earthen path that led to MEMORY.
Another wall!
What was once there, now no longer is. Roberto had no choice but to go through the newly formed door.
Another mystery of where it would lead.
It could be a way out, or it could draw him even deeper into this structure. MEMORY was no longer an option.
Once again, the rules have changed.
*~*~*
SECOND PROLOGUE
SOUTH OF CAIRO
P
Many years ago –
The night sky in Luxor revealed a vast array of tiny white stars, etched in the sprawling dark blue pallet. Antoine stood in a small clearing of sand in the middle of the desert, his arms crossed before his tall, dark stature - staring up at the stars, running through his mind, over and over, his plans for the future
.
The cup was his.
Standing before the large sandy brown mountain, in front of the stone slab door covered in worn and painted hieroglyphics which informed the contents of the tomb:
Tutankhamen.
Antoine stood over the excavation like a learned professor, wearing his signature long black coat. Suddenly, he broke his gaze to the stars. Shaking off his temporary distraction, he entered the dark abyss of the tomb.
“The Cup of Christ,” he commanded to another immortal that had been digging at the cave floor dirt with his hands. The follower looked up and snapped his head in the direction of Antoine’s deep, booming voice of authority: “It’s in the tomb with him. In the coffin.”
Antoine pointed further into the compound, signaling with his hand that the place to dig was not out in the foyer but inside – in the inner chambers. The immortal immediately heeded the command and dropped the dirt he was holding, following Antoine like an obedient canine, crawling on the ground like an animal.
Antoine continued further inside the tomb, through falling rock and sand, deeper until he was no longer able to walk. Swinging from hanging rocks into an even smaller cave, he was forced to drop to his knees and crawl. He winced in pain. The cave floor was covered in rocks and small stones, and he felt their small, indomitable solidity dig at his knees. But that did not dissuade his determined pace.
Amidst the darkness, the decline leveled and then gave way to an incline, and he climbed up a small mountain of rocks and boulders as the cave opened up once again, revealing the first of the four rooms of Tutankhamen’s final resting place. It was a seemingly insignificant room with walls of clay and rock, an overtly soaring stone ceiling and a small, square window towards the crest of the top – signifying the possibility that this tomb once saw daylight before it was swallowed by the earth.
But what drew Antoine’s attention was not the clay walls – it was not the oddity of the small window – not even the gleaming, dusty treasure which created a stark contrast to the dullness of the room – it was the four luminous gold coffins in the center of the treasure, standing guard as if they were elemental patriarchs.
Standing next to the coffin was another man holding a flaming torch, dressed similarly to Antoine, with the same long, dark and flowing hair and black coat – but this man had much lighter skin, perhaps like that of a European - with pronounced facial features and a slight lankiness about him. He was standing in the center of the room, staring up at the high ceiling, amidst a sea of golden treasure and coffins.
“Darius!” Antoine called shortly, descending a flight of stairs that was below the small opening towards the top of the room that he had to crawl through. “All I want is the Chalice. None of this is important.”
“It’s unbelievable,” Darius said, shaking his head and staring at the coffin. The casket cast an aural yellowish glow in his face.
“What did you say?” Antoine called from atop the stone stairs.
Darius turned to face Antoine. “I was just saying it’s amazing how the Cup of Christ got in there. Look at this!” Darius gestured his arm around the room. “All this treasure….it’s so…old.”
“Tutankhamen lived several thousand years before Christ,” Antoine explained. “But time means nothing to her.”
Darius lit another torch for Antoine. The treasures glistened in the light from the fire, sending a warm glow throughout the chamber. Darius turned to face Antoine, who had reached the floor, dusting the dirt of off his pants and jacket.
“Come now, Antoine,” Darius said. “Do you think I have forgotten why we are here?” He turned to the nearest coffin, smirking, and walked to the center of the room, to the four gold painted coffins that were framed by the mountains of gold and jewels. “There it is.” Darius waved his torch over the top of the coffin. “Tutankhamen. It is in there.”
Antoine walked over to the coffin, quietly and reverently. “We need to open it. Night will be fading soon.”
“Azra!” Antoine commanded, turning his head to summon the immortal. He came expeditiously, carrying with him a small brown leather bag, handing it to Antoine. Darius came over from his place at the coffin and took Antoine’s torch.
Setting the bag on the floor, Antoine unzipped it and pulled out a long, dull tipped stake, and dug in the bag deeper for a small hammer.
He lined up the rounded point of the stake with the crease on the edge of the coffin – where the lid met the bowl – and Antoine gave the hammer a loud bang! A small shower of sparks poured down from the coffin.
The lid did not budge.
Antoine continued and continued, causing some but not very noticeable damage to the artifact, sending loud booming echoes of the noise cascading to the top of the chamber.
After what seemed like several minutes of pounding and hammering, the top loosened somewhat; just enough for Antoine and Darius to bend over and take the lid with their hands try to lift it with all their immortal strength.
Thousands and thousands of years of dust billowed from the coffin like a giant cloud, and the lid that was sealed before Christ walked the earth was about to be opened.
The two immortals held the lid in their hands and stood above the coffin. As the air cleared they saw their prize: Tutankhamen. Holding the cup of Christ in his hand. When the lid was dropped to the floor with a crash and a large cloud of dust, Azra explained to them how the Cup of Christ managed to find its way into Tutankhamen’s coffin. “Claret did it,” he said.
“What I want to know,” Antoine said, wiping the dust off of his hands, “is how Claret got that Cup in this coffin. I know she was infatuated with Christ, and I know that she killed Tutankhamen…but how did she do it? The two lived thousands of years apart. This Chalice would have been right here when Christ was supposed to have been drinking from it at the Last Supper.”
“Claret,” Darius said, musing. “What an evil bitch…”
Antoine broke his gaze from the chalice and looked at Darius, expectantly.
“I haven’t heard that name in quite some time,” Darius admitted, speaking to Antoine. “She lived during the times of Jesus Christ. She had an obsession with Him. But how did it get here?”
Antoine reached in the coffin, carefully and respectfully amidst the remains of the boy-king, past the golden burial mask, and placed his fingers around the jeweled stem of the chalice. It stood out abruptly in this chamber of gold and jewels – it was a plain and simple chalice made of stone.
He held it up to the light of the torch. “This is the cup that will bring me eternal salvation,” he said. “With this cup, we will no longer be damned. It is the key to our immortality.”
Azra broke the silence that had permeated the chamber after Antoine had finished speaking. “They say that Claret still walks the valley. They say that she is still alive and walking the sands!” His eyes remained wide as saliva dripped from an extended canine. He tugged on his beard.
Antoine eyes darted over to Azra for a moment, as if analyzing his comment. Saying nothing, he grabbed the brown bag from the floor and gingerly placed the goblet inside.
“This is all we came for,” Antoine said. “We should leave now.”
Azra looked down at the bag and his mouth dropped open.
“You took his precious gift!” he screamed in horror.
Azra turned and ran, tripped up the stairs, and fell flat on his face. He immediately rose and frantically clawed his way back through the opening to the cave.
Antoine and Darius stared at each other, without an answer for what just had happened. Antoine raised his eyebrows and shook his head.
As they lifted the coffin lid and placed it on the bowl, the ground began to shake. A massive earthquake shook the coffins off of the stone slabs that they had been resting on and the treasures surrounding the tomb fell and shook and dropped to the ground.
The ceiling showered dirt and rock on the two immortals, threatening to collapse. From the corner of the ceiling, a waterfall of earth and sand fe
ll down below, quickly covering up the contents of the tomb.
“Quickly!” Antoine said. “Over to the stairs!”
Amidst giant boulders now falling from the top of tomb the two dashed to the foot of the stairs as the ground opened from beneath them, as the floor split in two – and flames shot out of the giant fissure. Climbing up to the entrance to the cave, Antoine turned and looked back at the room of Tutankhamen, staring at it one last time, in danger of being swallowed up into the bowels of the earth.
Fixated on the scene before him, he saw that the earth was furious, the room shook and the walls crumbled but the treasures and coffins did not die; they did not fall down into the fiery red abyss; they sat in place, as if standing command and protecting what was to be discovered.
But the angry flames died down just as quickly as they enraged. The giant cracks in the earth slowly filled in as the earth rose to correct itself; to close up as the coffins and treasure stood its ground.
The room was as they had come to it.
There were no more flames. The coffins were placed on their stone slabs as they had found them. Antoine snapped out of his stare at the whole scene. “What?” he asked himself, confused at the situation.
“What did you say?” Darius called back up from the bottom of the hill, as he continued to the entrance.
“The tomb! It’s like we never touched it!” Antoine slid down the hill, kicking up sand and rocks. When he got to the bottom, he stood up, dusted himself off, and joined Darius at the opening. The sky was still dark and filled with stars.
“When I looked back inside, the crack filled back in. The fire put itself out. It was like we were never there!”
Darius clapped the dust from his palms, and mounted his camel.
The earth shook again.
This time it was much more intense; Antoine lost his balance, falling to the ground, and the camels panicked. Darius was thrown to the ground, his face hitting a large stone that rose from the sand at full force. The rocks around them began to loosen – the entrance started caving in and covered their steps with giant boulders, rock and dirt.
