by Scott Hunter
“I don’t know.” Her head was pounding in a mixed reaction of confusion and anger at herself. “I’ve never – it’s forbidden.” Her heart was beating with fear. Natasha. Why there? Why didn’t you wait? “We can’t follow,” she stammered. “It’s impossible.”
“What are you talking about?” Dracup turned to Moran. “What about your map? Does it show anything in this direction?”
Moran shook his head. “That’s the funny thing. It ends right here. The gallery isn’t marked at all.”
Dracup called her name repeatedly: Natasha! ’Tash! Moran walked alongside, observing, cautious. Sara was behind with Farrell, reluctant. Scared. And he could understand it. There was something about this place, something not right. The ceiling had crept lower and lower until for an uncomfortable five minutes they had been forced to bend almost double; then it rose sharply again, stretching out of sight and creating the illusion that they were no longer travelling underground, but under a remote, lofty sky. The ground became progressively featureless, the curious formations of rock they had passed at the outset being replaced by a plain, dry dust underfoot. The air was still, the temperature warmer than the area surrounding the waterfall and the funnel.
Dracup noted all this subconsciously. His arm throbbed with a dull beat. He concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, all senses alert for a frightened child. His brain transmitted a repetitive mantra in time with his footsteps: She can’t have gone far. He was relieved that their two-abreast formation had defaulted Moran as his travelling companion; he didn’t trust himself to speak to Sara. He didn’t know if he felt anger or disappointment at her betrayal. All the while she had known. She could have warned him. Said something. Anything. And yet, he conceded, she had tried to protect Natasha, or so it seemed.
The DCI broke into his thoughts. “Can you feel it?” Moran said.
“Say what?” Farrell’s voice came from behind.
“A heaviness in the air? Yes, if that’s what you mean,” Dracup said. He noticed that he had slowed down, his legs somehow reluctant to take him any further. His breathing was laboured, yet they were on a flat trajectory. It was becoming more difficult to see the way ahead; the strange luminescence of the waterfall and its environs had faded to a thin, faint twilight.
Dracup paused. “Here.” He bent and examined the ground. In the thickening dust were the clear imprints of a child’s feet. Dracup straightened and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Natasha!” The sound was muted, as if an invisible fog had descended, trapping his voice and returning it void.
Moran pointed. “Do you see what I see?”
Sara took Dracup’s arm. For the first time, Dracup hesitated. About a hundred metres ahead of them, two giant gates rose up from the cavern floor towards the distant roof. Dracup tilted his head but the apex was out of sight, lost in the enveloping darkness.
Farrell let out a low whistle. “That sure ain’t part of the Korumak setup, huh?”
Dracup took a step forward. “No. No, I don’t think it is. Sara?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never been here. I’ve heard rumours, but –”
“What sort of rumours?” Moran was beside her, his eyes glinting with excitement.
“Beyond the gate of God,” Dracup muttered. “The body was laid to rest outside the gate.” He turned to Moran. “Potzner’s expert was partly correct – but the reference wasn’t to Babylon.” He felt a creeping sense of awe. There was no doubting the evidence before them. He was speaking very quietly now, almost to himself. “The reference was to Eden.”
They approached the towering structure. Dracup stretched out a hand and placed it on one of the upright supports. It felt cool to the touch. His finger came away marked with a residue of carbon.
“Fire?” Moran was examining the metalwork.
“Sure,” Farrell said slowly. He was looking up, soaking it all in. “This gate was guarded by fire.”
All heads turned to the American. Sara was nodding, tight-lipped.
“When they were expelled from the garden, God placed an angel with a flaming sword to guard the gates of Eden.” Farrell shrugged. “It’s all there in the book of Genesis.”
“But they’re open now,” Dracup muttered. “And look.” He pointed to the continuing line of footprints. “She’s in there somewhere.” He began to follow the prints along the length of the gate until he came to the point of entry where the two great elevations separated. He beckoned. “Over here.”
“I’m sorry.” Sara backed away. “I can’t. It’s forbidden.”
“Then stay put,” Dracup told her. “There’s no need for you to follow.” He was conscious of a new sensation; a fragrance emanating from beyond the gate, a sweet, almost sickly smell. Its enticement was powerful.
“Can’t you feel it?” Sara was trembling. “You mustn’t go in.”
“I’ll stay with you, ma’am,” Farrell offered. To Dracup he said, “Go right ahead, Prof. I’ll watch out for her.” He smiled awkwardly.
Dracup felt a momentary pang of disquiet. There was something in Farrell’s demeanour –
Then Moran spoke. “There’s no time for this. We go in fast and get out fast.”
Dracup ran a hand absently through his hair. “Right then,” he said, with more conviction than he felt. “We’ll meet you back here as soon as.” He retraced the footprints to the opening between the gates. His hand was on the cold material of the giant upright, Moran’s feet crunching through the dead soil to join him.
And together they stepped into Eden.
Sara watched the receding figures. There was nothing more she could do here. Someone else needed her now. “Farrell. I have to find my brother. Will you help me?”
She looked at the American and realised with a shock exactly what it was that she had seen in his eyes. Confirming her thoughts, Farrell reached out and placed his hand gently on her cheek. “You don’t have to ask. You know I will.”
Chapter 40
The blighted subterranean landscape enveloped Dracup and Moran like a shroud. What little conversation had taken place between the two men had quickly been relegated to wordless glances and grunts of effort. The deepening layers of ash – and other remains Dracup didn’t care to examine too thoroughly – impaired their progress. He grimaced each time the pressure of his weight produced a dull crack underfoot; bone or bough, it evoked the same feeling of horror and loathing. A dead place. And then there was the cloying, sickly smell inhibiting his breathing with every faltering step. It reminded Dracup of childhood summer days, when the summer sun had over-ripened what little fruit remained hanging from the trees or lay, wasp-ridden and wasted, on the water-starved grass of his parents’ orchard.
Still the small footprints led them on. Dracup felt an invading weakness, a sapping of energy that made him want to stop, lie down, sleep forever. The box was getting heavier and he felt the heat of its contents against the bare skin of his arm. He shifted its weight and found himself struggling for breath.
“You have to fight it,” Moran said through gritted teeth. “She got this far and further – so can we.”
Dracup grunted a response, conserving his resources. He wanted to tell Moran that he was grateful for his company. To make this journey alone would be unthinkable. And yet, Natasha had done just that. He struggled to understand why. Was it fear? Or a response, perhaps, to some whispered summons? He mopped his brow and caught Moran’s shoulder. “I have to put this down. I can’t carry it any further.”
Moran nodded. “No one else around. It’ll still be here on the way back.”
Dracup planted the box at his feet with a grunt. The box fell away, peeling back from the glowing metal inside. They watched the cardboard turn to ash.
“Come on,” Moran prompted. “There’ll be time for answers later.” The policeman shifted his backpack with a grunt.
There was a strange look on Moran’s face. Dracup wondered what was in the backpack. He opened his mouth to form the question,
but Moran’s expression silenced him. Keep walking, Dracup. Just keep walking.
They passed through a glade of petrified trees, the trunks huddled closely together as if for comfort. By an exposed root lay the skeleton of some old inhabitant, its skull resting upon yellowed forepaws, dark eye sockets observing their passing with ambivalent stare. Moran was muttering to himself. “My God, my God. This is awful.” He had wrapped a handkerchief across his mouth, but Dracup could see the fear reflected in his eyes.
“Don’t look at anything,” he advised. “Just keep going.” He passed Moran his water bottle and the DCI took a furtive swig.
“Thanks.” Moran returned the bottle and mopped his brow. “It’s getting warmer.”
And it was. As the trees thinned, their breath became laboured. Dracup’s lungs felt starved of oxygen, as if some unseen process was greedily drawing all the air to itself.
They emerged from the glade into a flat, empty space. Dracup raised his hand. “Wait.” He pointed to the ground. Moran followed his finger and saw the problem. The footprints had disappeared. The plain ahead was covered, not with the now familiar layers of ash and bone, but with a fine, orange dust. As they stepped onto its surface their feet left only the faintest of marks.
Moran peered into the distance and caught Dracup by the arm. “Hold on.” He pointed a thin forefinger. “Take a look over there, would you, and tell me I’m not seeing things.”
Dracup looked. In the distance he could see a faint, green phosphorescence, quite different to the buried ziggurat’s luminosity. It seemed localised; the light did not spread across the landscape but remained static, like a theatre spotlight picking out the leading actor in a play. He took a deep breath. Whatever it was, that’s where they needed to be. Like a beacon, its magnetism was irresistible.
“She’ll be there,” Dracup said.
The smell grew ever stronger and Dracup was compelled to follow Moran’s example, removing his jacket and partially covering his face with the material. He kept his eyes on the vision ahead, his fear for Natasha tempered with a powerful curiosity.
Moran broke the silence. “It’s a tree.”
Dracup squinted at the brightness and the object swam suddenly into focus. Moran was right. A magnificent tree, stretching its branches high into the fetid atmosphere. They were close now, perhaps a few hundred metres. The tree was standing in its own circle of light, the ground within alive with plants, flowers and shrubs of many different varieties. The scent was overpowering but Dracup had forgotten his discomfort. He held his jacket loosely by his side and gaped at the oasis of life surrounding the tree. He could hear birdsong, musical and delightful to the ear, the humming of bees, the gentle sigh of a warm midsummer breeze. But his attention was on something else: in the centre of this pool of fecundity, legs crossed, head tilted slightly to one side as if listening to a favourite story, was Natasha.
Sara led Farrell through the empty corridors. She felt very alone. Farrell touched her shoulder. “Wait.” He stopped and cocked his head to one side, listening. Sara’s shoulder tingled where his hand had rested. She clamped her teeth to her bottom lip angrily. What sort of a woman was she? How could her emotions be so wayward? In that moment she saw her future clearly. She murmured a prayer of thanks and gave Farrell a non-committal smile.
“It’s all right. It’s coming from the chamber of worship,” she told him. “They’ll be there until midnight.”
“Who?”
“My brothers and sisters.”
“Your family...”
“Yes. Farrell – we have to keep moving.” Fearful of the Al-Qaida presence and Kadesh’s security squads she held her breath, praying as she walked. Be there. Be there.
Hurrying around the next corner her prayer was answered. Jassim was striding towards them, staff tapping the ground as he went. Relief exploded through her. She ran to him and clasped his hand. “Jassim! Thanks be to God!”
“Who’s this?” Farrell said. His hand strayed under his jacket.
Sara caught the movement. “No, Farrell! It’s okay.” Her eyes filled with tears. Jassim, Jassim. You have done the right thing...
Jassim held her tightly. “Praise Him that it is I who found you and not Kadesh, my sister.” He turned to Farrell. “Mr Farrell,” he said gently, “I am no threat. I have something to show you.”
Dracup hung back. Natasha seemed unaware of their presence.
“Careful,” Moran said, resting a restraining hand on Dracup’s shoulder. “Don’t wake her suddenly.”
Dracup’s mouth was dry. He turned to the DCI. “Do you think she’s all right?”
Moran rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. His skin looked grey, the colour of ash. “I’ll take a look from the other side.” He walked around the tree, taking care not to let his feet stray into the light. Dracup waited for his return.
“Well?”
The inspector shook his head. “She’s awake. Eyes open. I don’t think she saw me.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t think she can see me.”
“I’m going in,” Dracup said. He didn’t care what happened as long as he could just hold Natasha, tell her everything was all right. Daddy’s here, he mouthed silently. I found you.
“Go on, then.” Moran gave him an encouraging smile.
Dracup moistened his lips. He reached a hand into the circle. It felt warm and pleasant. He turned to Moran. The policeman nodded. Dracup withdrew his hand, and walked slowly forward, bracing himself for – what? He realised he had closed his eyes. He felt the sun on his face, a soft wind against his forehead. He opened his eyes and his chin dropped in astonishment.
He looked round to give Moran a thumbs up, but Moran was indistinct, a mere shadow behind a curtain. Dracup looked at the tree, amazed at the size and shape of the leaves, the abundant fruit hanging in great fertile clumps from every branch, and the sheer girth of the trunk.It was alive in a way he could not find words to describe. And then it came to him: The Tree of Life. With the memory came a vague uneasiness. He placed his hand on the bark. It pulsed under his fingers. He pulled back in surprise, but felt immediately drawn to reconnect to the sudden burst of energy he had felt emanating from the wood. This time he let his hand remain. This is – amazing. He had never felt so alive; he could feel the blood travelling through his veins and arteries, the oxygen inflating his lungs, the small movements of a million cells and processes within. He was alive. He almost laughed aloud. Alive!
Dracup sank to the ground and listened to the sound of life. He was vaguely conscious of Natasha’s presence, but the motive that had impelled him to enter the circle was now forgotten in the extraordinary sensations running through his body. Somewhere in the recesses of his subconscious he heard another voice. It was insistent, grating. He wanted it to stop. It was spoiling everything. And then he remembered, with a sudden sharp clarity: Moran. He turned his head. There was Natasha, his daughter. He reached out. “’Tash. It’s me.”
The girl looked at him. “Hello, Daddy.” She smiled. “I like it here, don’t you?” She frowned, a little furrow in her forehead. “You’re thin. You need to eat.”
Dracup’s head was clouded. He couldn’t think. “Yes, darling. I do. But –”
“Can we stay? Please?” Her eyes were appealing to him. “No one will hurt us here.”
“I – I know, ’Tash. I’m not sure –”
Dracup!
The voice in his head was louder now. Perhaps he should listen. Talk to it. “What is it?” he shouted.
Hold onto the girl and I’ll help you... Feel for my hand.
What hand? Dracup looked. Nothing made sense.
“Don’t shout, Daddy. You need to be quiet here.”
Draaaacup!
“Here, Daddy.” Natasha held out a fallen fruit. It was large and pear-shaped, but a deep, purple colour. The juice ran onto Natasha’s fingers. She raised her hand to lick the juice.
“No!” Dracup leaned over and knocked her hand away from her mouth. The fruit fell, sl
owly turning, and smashed into a pulp on the soft, mossy ground.
“Daddy!”
Another voice in Dracup’s head was speaking urgently and rapidly now.
... The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the Tree of Life and eat, and live forever...
With a huge effort of will Dracup grabbed Natasha’s hand and turned away from the tree. There was Moran’s hand, gesticulating urgently from the other side of the curtain that separated the tree from the wasteland of Eden. The policeman’s shape was dim, but discernable.
“Daddy. Please. I don’t want to...”
“We must,” he hissed through gritted teeth, muscles trembling with the sheer effort of pulling away. “This isn’t for us. Not now. Not in this life.”
Moran’s arm and shoulder appeared. Dracup prayed that the DCI would not succumb and join them in the circle. Natasha was resisting, digging her heels into the soft turf. “No, Daddyyyyyy –”
Sweat sprang from his forehead. He reached out for Moran, felt his tendons straining as the steely fingers enclosed his wrist.
Sara knew where they were heading. Her feet could have found their own way, so often had she felt the cold stone of these steps beneath her bare feet. Here was the central stairwell that led to the chamber of Adam. How right it was that he should lie at the ziggurat’s pinnacle, how fitting. But surely Jassim would not bring Farrell, an outsider, to that place, of all places? And then she remembered Jassim’s duties, his role here amongst the Korumak. Jassim was the keeper of the flame, the high priest of the great chamber. And he kept his accoutrements appropriately close by, in a small storeroom accessed directly from the stairwell. She heard the jangling of his keys as he turned off the great staircase and down the narrow corridor that led to his domain. Farrell was expressing his unease by means of his usual tuneless hum. It jangled her nerves in sympathy with Jassim’s keys. “Farrell – give it a rest.”
