Like the others Najid had been lured by promises of wealth, glory and riches beyond his wildest dreams. He had followed the wealthy American and the Irishman to the Sudan, a place where not even the most impoverished Egyptians dared to go, for the poverty of Egypt was wealthier than the riches of the Sudan. Still they had promised. They had promised, and he had believed. He had wanted to believe, and now he lay dying just like the others. He drew ragged breaths, hoping with each inhalation that it would be his last, and each time that it was not his disappointment grew. For now Najid wanted to die, wanted it more than anything else in the world. Even death would be better than facing the wrath of what they had unearthed.
The white men did not fear it. White men did not fear much for they knew little, but Najid felt fear unlike any he had ever felt. He did not know that they had been seeking the burial shrine of the Bedouin, for if he had he surely would not have come, not for any amount of riches. The Shadow Walkers were feared, sent by the devil himself to strike down the missionaries and their false prophets. He drew another breath and the tent walls began to close in upon him, drawing nearer until they would choke the life from his lungs. Najid only prayed it would be quick.
The American had entered the tent. Najid could tell from the way his boots scuffed through the sand like a sidewinder. The American leaned over him, his beard and eyes focused upon his face with mock concern. Najid’s vision blurred. The American’s face distorted and then became three images, all speaking to him with words he once understood but now meant nothing. He tried to concentrate but it was becoming more and more difficult. He focused on the central image, saw the lips moving between the coarse gray fibers of an unkempt beard, but the sound that slipped by his ears was a raging river, loud but indiscernible.
Naajeeed. Naajeeed.
Even his own name was unfamiliar.
Hooow aaargh yooo feeeeling?
The words continued to slip by until they faded from his mind like water in an oasis, evaporating in steaming waves beneath the scorching desert sun. Najid drew his last breath and then… silence.
Doctor Mussaud pulled the stethoscope from his ears, felt his pulse at the wrist one more time, looked at Talcott and shook his head.
Talcott’s words were a hush between his teeth. “God damn it.”
It was the second man he had lost this week, and the fourth in the last month. His men were dropping faster to the river sickness than Sioux Indians to the pox. He looked down at his doctor, the Egyptian hack that was the only doctor who dared to come along on this suicide crusade. He was thin and balding, weather worn features and an elongated narrow nose common to the Egyptians dominated his face. Talcott wondered if he even was a real doctor, or just another blood letter trained in the back alleys of Cairo, preying on the sick and the dying for a few coins to feed his family. Either way Talcott had disdain for the man. He had hired him to keep his men healthy and so far all he had to show for it was a crude trench dug to house the ashes of the dead.
Talcott ran his hand along the back of his neck. “You try my patience Mussaud. My men die every day now it seems.”
“Surely you don’t think I could have prevented this?” Dr. Mussaud’s voice was thick with Egyptian accent. “This river sickness, this is what I warned you about. This is what I told you would happen. The sickness is worse than it has ever been. Whole villages have been cut down, entire families decimated, the living wail in the streets and yet we try our hand at playing God? We should not have come.”
Talcott bent low until his face was just inches from the doctor. “Your job is not to play God, nor is it to challenge my judgment. It is to keep my men healthy. Let me remind you Doctor Mussaud that the men also look to you to keep them well and they have seen your miserable failure measured in the bodies of their friends and brothers rotting in the desert sun. They have begun to talk Mussaud. I have heard them whispering amongst themselves while they sit huddled around their campfires at night. They say you are a witchdoctor, that you curse them and bring the sickness upon them, that you do nothing to cure them. Do I need to remind you that these are not the sort of men you want turning against you Mussaud?”
“You can’t be suggesting that I can do anything about this? There is no cure!” The doctor’s face was placid but anger resonated behind his eyes. “Even in the best hospitals the doctors can do nothing but make them comfortable and give them fluids and vitamins, and even then nine out of ten will not survive. I have no equipment, no supplies, not even herbs or aspirin. And yet you expect miracles from me? This is madness!”
Mussaud attempted to rise but the American pushed him back into his chair with thick and calloused hand. “I will have no more of your excuses Mussaud. You say there is no cure, then find one, or else find a way to keep them from getting sick. For if you don’t I will confirm what they have been whispering about at night while you sleep. I’ll tell them that you have been making them sick. They will not be pleased.”
Talcott rose to his full height, towering over the doctor. “Get the body out of here and burn it. I don’t want anyone else getting sick.”
The anger in Mussaud’s eyes had been replaced with fear. “Yes Mr. Talcott, right away sir.”
Mussaud stood and hurried from the tent to fetch a stretcher and find another man who was willing to help him carry the body away from the campsite. Talcott watched him go then pulled the glasses from the brim of his nose and wiped his sweating brow with the back of his sleeve, as he did often, making his shirt yellowed and starchy with dried sweat. They could not go on much longer. Without a payout, without the riches promised to them the men were growing restless. “Our brothers die in vain,” the men had begun to whisper amongst themselves. “We Chase nothing but a myth, Atlantis in the desert.” Talcott knew that soon the remaining men would turn against him and McGinty. They would be cut down where they lay, rusty blades drawn across their windpipes while they slept. It had been six months and they had uncovered nothing, until today.
Today’s find would bring him the fame and fortune that he desired, it would have to, or he was a dead man. He had been holding out hope for the last two months even while McGinty had panicked. The Irishman had a strong desire for success but a weak will to back it up, that was why men like him would always be reliant upon others to help them achieve their meager conquests. It was why he was here, because McGinty could not do it without him, of course he couldn’t, or he would have done it long ago. Talcott placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and headed outside, brushing the tent flap back with one arm and shielding his eyes with the other.
The night was cold, a striking contrast to the thirty-eight degree Celsius temperature earlier today. They dug at night to avoid the scalding sun; even the desert men could not labor in such temperatures. The wind was howling, kicking up dust in swirling tempests that assailed the sides of the tents and stung the skin like biting locusts. Talcott brought his scarf up around his face to shield his mouth from the sand then pushed his glasses close upon his face to cover his eyes. With his arm still draped around his face, he stumbled across the desert sand before the limestone steps descended into the tomb. Inside it was remarkably quiet, the howling wind reduced to nothing more than a whistling banshee, eerie but inconsequential.
John stood at the back of the tomb, overseeing the men as they labored to clear the sand away from the base of the East wall. The two Egyptians labored heavily, sweat dripping from their brows. Their spades had been worn down to mere nubs from months of constant digging. The Bedouin always lay the sacred dead in the eastern chamber. It was there, if anywhere that they would find what they sought. At last the final spade full of sand was thrown clear.
Talcott moved forward and examined the Sanskrit text. He traced his thick fingers along the worn edges to be sure that he was really seeing what his eyes were telling him. When his doubt had been assuaged he looked over at his partner, exchanging more words than could have possibly been spoken in that moment.
McGi
nty too was bathed in sweat, though he did no labor. His breathing accelerated, he drew wispy breaths that whistled slightly between clenched teeth. He removed his fogged eyeglasses and wiped away the perspiration on his shirt before replacing them on the bridge of his nose with shaking hands. Talcott laughed, an amusing and disbelieving little chuckle escaping his lips. McGinty was scared. The man stood at the door to his dreams, his lifelong quest to make his name memorable in the pages of future historians, and he looked scared. Talcott huffed to himself and stared at the man who had persuaded him to fund this treasure hunt in the first place. He was tall and lanky, six foot two and weighing no more than seventy kilos. He was dressed in desert garb as was Talcott, khaki pants tucked into black leather boots, beige safari shirt, and wide brimmed hat, but he wore it like a child playing dress up, out of his element, pretending. He was fifty-five years old, but a lifetime of constant worry and anxiety had etched lines in his face so deep that most people took him to be in his seventies.
“McGinty, show a little enthusiasm. This is what we’ve been searching for. Soon we will be famous men. We’ll celebrate you and I with the finest scotch and the youngest girls that money can buy.”
“I pray that you’re right my friend.” McGinty’s words drew out like a dull blade. “I pray that you’re right.”
The two watched as the Egyptians removed the last of the sand from the base of the wall and pried the grit from the edges with raw fingers. A doorway took shape in the sandstone, a mass of inscribed symbols carved upon its surface. Talcott strained his eyes and examined the etchings. It was a dialect used only by the Bedouin, a crude language of letters and symbols scrawled together reading right to left that seemed to sway and dance in the flickering torchlight.
“Move away.” Talcott’s Arabic was broken and crude.
The two men did as they were told. Talcott grabbed a spade from one of the men and carefully scraped away the loose grains of sand from the etchings. He was no expert in the field of cryptography, he doubted if anyone was in the language of the Bedouin, but he had managed to learn a few words and symbols. He translated aloud the words he knew. “Death. Evil. Passage.”
McGinty had turned a pasty white, an unhealthy glow even for him. “George, the script. It is a warning…”
“I know what it says.” He waved the Irishman off with a flick of his wrist. “A scare tactic to ward off any would-be grave robbers, nothing more.”
The Egyptians shifted uncomfortably in their sandals. The one who spoke no English muttered something in Arabic. Talcott turned to the other one, who spoke very little English.
“What did he say?”
“He says the door bears the mark of the devil. We should not have disturbed this place.”
“Open it,” Talcott commanded.
The two Egyptians stared blankly for a moment. The one who spoke no English averted his eyes from Talcott’s penetrating glare.
“Open it,” Talcott said, more forcefully this time.
The first man, the one who spoke no English shook his head and screamed. Overcome with terror, he turned and fled from the crypt. The second man called out after him.
“Baresh. Come back. Baresh there is a sandstorm.”
But Baresh did not hear him, and he did not stop. He bounded up the stairs and fled into the howling winds. Talcott watched him go then turned calmly back to the remaining man. Inside his guts bubbled with impatience but he had learned how to deal with these men and a calm demeanor was best.
“You. Help me.”
The Egyptian weighed his options, and deciding that they were few, complied with the request. Talcott and the Egyptian began chipping away at the edges of the door, loosening it within the sandstone. When they had cleared away the debris from the edges Talcott motioned to McGinty to hand him the large iron pry bar. Talcott took it and using all of his might jabbed the jagged end into the rock and the door line. Then the three men each took hold of the bar and threw their weight against it. The heavy rock began to slide outward an inch at a time. A grating sound of rock against stone split the air. At last they had pried it just far enough to allow a man to squeeze through. They stood back and peered into the darkness beyond. Talcott tried to illuminate the darkened chamber with his torch but the blackness was vast and the light was swallowed within it.
“Very well,” Talcott said. “Shall we?” He motioned at McGinty to enter first.
Inside the room was barren except for a staircase that led downward even further beneath the Earth’s surface and into the penetrating blackness. Talcott did not hesitate, boots thudding on the stone steps. The other men followed wearily, wondering quietly what in the hell had they just gotten themselves into. The stairs continued for hundreds of feet leading them further down than even Talcott had imagined. The bottom of the stairs opened into a large open chamber. The men strained their eyes as they stared into the massive room. Five large pillars spanned from the floor to the ceiling high above. In the center of the room was a single sarcophagus comprised of marble. No etchings or markings of any kind adorned its front. The three men took cautious steps until they stood just a few feet from it.
“There are no markings.” Talcott said. Disbelief was thick within his voice. “Why are there no markings?”
“Because the markings are on the pillars,” McGinty answered. “Look each one is scribed with a single etching.” He pointed to each one and translated the words carved into the stone. “Death, Famine, War, Pestilence.”
“The four horsemen of the apocalypse,” Talcott whispered.
McGinty nodded his head.
“But why is the fifth one blank,” Talcott asked.
“Because it forms the centerpiece, the keystone if you will.”
“Why? These four pillars could easily support the ceiling.”
“Because it’s not there for support, it’s there for symbolism.”
Talcott huffed quietly to himself. “Please elaborate John, for those of us less versed in cryptology.”
“Here, look. Trace lines between each pillar and see what I’m talking about.” He pointed to each pillar and drew an imaginary line with his hand to each pillar opposite it.
“My God,” Talcott managed. “We’re standing in the center of a giant pentagram.”
Outside in the pulverizing wind-driven sand Baresh ran into the darkness. He labored with great effort to pick his feet up from the desert sands that sucked at his boot heels. It was the flight of a madman, one driven insane by fear. He ran in no particular direction with only one thought on his mind, away, he must get away. For nearly ten minutes he ran over endless sand dunes until at last he could run no further. He collapsed into the sand on his hands and knees, laboring to draw a breath in the storm. The wind howled in his ears, drowning out his own voice as he screamed, the sudden realization dawning on him that he had run out into the desert and now was hopelessly lost. He bowed his head down, trying to block the sand from stinging his eyes while he gathered his thoughts.
Even in the pitch darkness he saw the shadow. How can a shadow be cast where there is no light he wondered? The presence that cast the shadow drew near. Baresh was too tired and too petrified to run. He stayed on his hands and knees as the presence loomed above him. He looked up into the dark face, his own eyes gone completely white.
“Master of the Bedouin,” was all he was able to say. It was the last time he ever spoke.
THIRTY
McGinty took a swig of his ale and tried not to cough. The man sitting across from him had changed somehow. He couldn’t quite explain it but he was different. There was a new light in his eyes, a light no doubt fueled by his exuberance, but also a light with a dark side as well. The man had always been egotistical, of that McGinty was sure, but now Talcott bordered on a Theo-complex.
Talcott drew inward on his cigar and looked across the table at his Irish colleague. The whisky had coated his eyes a thin sheen of transparent silver.
“Something on your mind John?”
The Irishman forced a smile. “Nothing of importance.”
A low rumble emerged from Talcott’s barrel chest. “Nonsense! You have never been able to spin a lie McGinty. I read trouble in your face as if I had written it there myself.” He slapped his big hand down on the table causing McGinty to jump in his chair. “Out with it John. What troubles you so on what should be the most glorious day of your life?”
“I fear we have meddled where we should not have.” McGinty said with a lowered head as if he were talking to the table.
“Ha!” Another loud thump on the table with a thick hand followed. “Ha, McGinty. Scared of a little fame and fortune are you? Scared of the written word carved by religious zealots centuries ago? Your fortitude is laughable John. Here, drink with me and build your courage.”
He slid a shot glass across the worn oak table. The drink oscillated before smoothing into a placid brown reflection pond. McGinty stared down into the glass and caught his image briefly before throwing the drink back and relishing the slow burn as the whiskey calmed his blood.
Talcott slapped him on the back. “There, you see John, nothing like a good slug of whisky to calm the old nerves.”
McGinty tried once again to force an ingenuous smile but this time it would not come. He watched as Talcott filled their glasses once again.
“Perhaps tonight is not the night for celebration George.”
“Oh? And why is that John?” Talcott’s bearded face twisted into a façade of false pretense. “Because we lost another laborer?”
“A man John!” McGinty shouted. “A good man with a family, and a life outside of this deranged treasure hunt.”
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