by C. E. Murphy
Methos pulled an apologetic face, lowering his head to speak quietly into her ear. “Ragar’s room is the next one over, just off the terrace there. He kept a journal in one of those boxes.”
Ghean’s face lit up. “Do you think — ” she began, still very softly.
“God damn!” Michael clapped his hands together, shouting with delight. “You are worth your weight in gold, Pierson!”
Methos leaned around him to look at Anne’s screen. Handy was in front of a set of cupboards in the back corner of the room, and had pulled one of the doors open. Unbroken pots and utensils lined the shelves. “Well, aren’t I clever,” he grinned. “There’s your motherlode, Michael.”
“They used a lot of stone to build,” Jerry said. “I don’t get the impression these people thought in the short-term.”
Ghean smiled crookedly. “Well, when you’re the most advanced civilization of the time, you want to make a good impression on the neighbors,” she suggested, and Michael grinned at her.
“Apparently. All right, Adam. We’ve struck gold twice in a row here. Do you have another inspiration as to where we should take a look next? You’ve given us a fine show of their architecture and pottery. I don’t suppose you could point us towards a perfectly preserved body or a closet full of undamaged clothes so we could see what they wore and ate? Maybe some murals to give us an idea of the level of art in their culture? Althought,” Michael added, musing, “that plate with the dancers is a pretty good showing of that. Well?” He lifted his eyebrows at Methos.
A perfectly preserved Atlantean body. Methos deliberately didn’t look at Ghean, afraid of her expression. “You don’t ask for much, do you?” He frowned, running a hand over his mouth. “Finish the other wall of the kitchen, anyway, and let’s go through the door back on the other end of the kitchen. There’s got to be more to the house over there, right?”
“How practical of you,” Anne said. “You don’t want to go surging blindly into the night? You’re no fun at all.” She grinned over her shoulder, then sent Handy back along the kitchen’s other wall, stopping to examine shattered fragments of pottery. A few minutes later she directed him through the kitchen door, and let him hover there. “Left or right?” she asked. “Which wall do you want to follow? All I can see is floor, right now.”
“Left,” Methos said, at the same time Michael said, “Right.” They grinned at each other, and Michael waved a hand. “Left,” he agreed. “I’d hate to jinx this now.”
“I don’t think you can jinx it,” Dan said. “I figure about the only thing that’d lose us this is if there was an earthquake that brought it all down around our ears right now.”
Silence filled the sub as everyone stared at him. After long seconds, he cleared his throat and mumbled, “Sorry.”
“God, Dan,” Anne said disapprovingly, and then shook her head, smiling. “Don’t do that! Left it is, then.” Handy began his exploration along the wall, and the blonde woman added, “Really, Adam, I know I gave you a hard time, but it’s a good way to explore, doing it methodically like this. We’re far less likely to miss something. Have you ever been on a dig before?”
Not since the twenties. Methos shook his head. “No, just read about them. Being systematic makes sense, that’s all. Although this isn’t a very interesting wall, is it?” There’d been a wood-framed painting on it once, a brilliantly colored rendition of a god taming one of the unicorns, with the city gleaming behind it. Methos straightened again, this time cracking his head on the top of the sub. He rubbed his head, muttering, “Ow,” as he watched Handy follow the wall. This is Taurus. The stables might be left. There might actually be unicorn skeletons. Joe’ll be all bent out of shape. He grinned at the thought.
“Door,” Anne announced as Handy rounded the corner. “In or not?”
“In,” Methos said. No one argued as the robot swam into the next room. Barely damaged at all, it was almost empty. Methos had expected that. Ragar’s funiture was of wood, as most of the Houses’ furniture had been, despite the stone table in the dining room. Time and water had dissolved them, leaving the more durable belongings littered on the floor. An inkpot and stylus lay where a desk had once been, the inkpot overturned. A small knife lay with them, used for sharpening charcoal. Anne collected the items without asking, tucking them away into Handy’s pouch.
“They wrote,” Michael murmurmed, as the stylus was lifted and examined before being put away. “That’s an incredible find, right there. I wonder why there’s no furniture.”
“Rotted away,” Ghean said. “It must have been wooden.”
“Either that or they liked sleeping on stone floors,” Methos said innocently. Ghean glared sideways at him. He grinned at her as Dan leaned forward, squinting at Handy’s screen.
“What’s that?”
“A box,” Anne said wisely. Methos’ head jerked up. “It’s about the only other thing in here,” she said. “Not all that interesting.”
“Take it anyway,” Methos suggested. “There might be something in it.”
Anne wrinkled her face. “It’s kind of big. There won’t be a lot of room left for anything else if we take it.”
Methos felt Ghean’s hand on his forearm, tightening. If it’s preserved Ragar’s journal, it’ll be worth far more than anything else you could bring up, he argued silently. “I have a feeling,” he said with a wry smile.
Michael grinned. “Careers,” he said, “have been made on less. Go on, Anne. Worst that can happen is that Adam’s feeling is wrong and we’ll get to give him hell.”
“How quickly you turn against me,” Methos sniffed. Ghean’s grip on his arm loosened as Anne manuevered Hand’s claws around the box and lifted it into his pouch. Methos looked down at her, and she smiled, bright-eyed excitement coloring her face. “Now only if it’s undamaged,” he murmured, and she nodded.
Anne brought Handy out of Ragar’s room, exploring the other rooms in the servant’s quarters. The common area, much larger than any of the other rooms, had a wide door, still closed, that lead into the rest of the house. After prodding at the door a minute or two, Anne shook her head. “I could probably open it,” she said, “with some patience and maybe a wedge of some sort, but we’re about full up already. I think we should grab the chair and head topside again to look at our treasures. If I’d known Adam was going to bring us to a gold mine, I’d have used a bigger pouch for Handy.”
Methos returned to his seat, smiling. “Next time I’ll warn you?” he offered.
“Hey,” Dan said, “if you want to choose all our sites for us, at this point I’m for it. I don’t know if we’d have ever checked out here.”
“Eventually you would have, I’m sure,” Methos said smoothly. Anne shook her head as she moved Handy back out to the dining room, and nudged a claw under the chair back. The claw closed gently around the carved bull in the center, and she carefully closed another one around the chair’s upper leg.
“Maybe we would have,” she muttered, concentrating, then exhaled, “Moment of truth,” and lifted the chair.
It stayed intact. Dan let out a cheer, narrowly stopping himself from clapping Anne on the back. She grinned a little, biting her lower lip in concentration as she reversed Handy’s engines and backed out of the room, chair in her grasp.
“Nicely done,” Michael said. “Did you see that? Hardly any damage, very little crusting, it’s in almost perfect condition. This is all going to make everyone very, very happy.” He turned around to Methos, leaving the camera still pointing out the window. “Looks like you’re a lucky charm.”
“Lucky, anyway. Now I’m going to sit in the corner and look modest about the find while you do all the work.”
“Just like a man,” Anne laughed, lowering Handy’s arms to their lowest point and letting the automatic mechanism dock it under the sub again. “Let’s get out of here. We’re gonna be famous.”
Jerry flashed a grin. “Man, I like the sound of that.”
-o-O-o-
“Are you sure it’s a box?” Michael leaned over the drying stone dubiously. Methos scraped buildup off the sides with a piece of sandpaper, nodding.
“It’s too light to be solid,” he explained, “and I think this is a seam.” He rubbed a finger over the slightest flaw in the stone. Laughing, he looked up at Michael. “I can’t believe you’re hovering over me fussing over this with all that.” He nodded towards the buzz of activity that had been going on since the sub resurfaced. The chair survived the journey to the top unscathed, and more than a dozen people were crowded around it, inspecting and filming it, everyone talking at the same time.
Each of the individual pieces they’d brought up garnered the same attention. The apparently impenetrable box Methos was cleaning up was the focus of the least interest. Michael looked over his shoulder, shaking his head. “I’m as interested as they are,” he admitted, “but I guess I’m kind of counting on your hunch, here. I want to be paying attention when you get that thing open.”
“Your confidence is flattering.” Methos looked down at the box, then frowned, glancing around again. “Where’s Mary?”
“Being drowned in champagne, I think. She was going to bring some back for all of us.”
“Into the lab?” Methos asked, horrified. “What if it gets spilled?”
“In the hall,” Michael assured him. “Not in here. Don’t worry. How do you think it opens?”
“With a chisel, failing all else.” Methos shook his head, grinning at Michael’s expression, and turned the box on its side. “There’s a little indentation,” he said, running his finger over it. “I found a couple of others. One of them, maybe. I’ll figure it out. But I need to get the rest of this crap off it before I can. I think I’m missing some of them.” He scraped more of the salty buildup away, concentrating on the task at hand to the exclusion of the world around him.
The box was almost clean when the chill of Ghean’s arrival swept over him. Methos looked up, cracking his neck as Ghean came in, an empty champagne flute in hand. “Well?” she asked breathlessly, dropping into a chair beside him. “Have you cracked the secrets of the universe yet?” She leaned forward, elbows on the table, smiling giddily.
“I didn’t know that was in my job description. Does cleaning up a stone box count?”
“Only if you get it opened.” Ghean reached out to touch one scarred fingertip against the side of the box. “You scratched it,” she tsked.
Methos set the box on the table, standing to look down at it, finding the pressure points on the sides. “It adds to its aura,” he claimed. “I could only find four indentations. I hope there aren’t any more.” The box the Book was in had seven.
Ghean shook her head. “Probably not.” Michael was across the room, examining the stylus, leaving Methos and Ghean more or less alone for the moment. “Three or four were average,” she murmured. “The more points, the more secure the box. Even the ones in the library only had six. I never saw one with seven.”
“Seven what?” Michael asked, returning to their table.
“Dwarves,” Ghean said lightly. “You should have some champagne, Michael.”
“It tickles my nose,” he said. Ghean clucked her tongue. The sound masked the low click as Methos found the right pattern and the stone box slid open, a hairline fracture appearing in the stone. For a few seconds, the ancient Immortal stared down at the break in the white stone, and then he lifted his head, looking at Ghean.
“Would you like the pleasure, Doctor Kostani?” he asked with a suddenly dry throat.
Ghean stiffened, eyes widening. “You did it,” she whispered.
“It could be empty,” Methos warned, trying to stifle his own excitement. It failed completely, leaving him grinning nervously as Ghean set the champagne flute down and put her fingertips on the box.
“It could be,” she agreed faintly, and bit her lower lip, grinning back at Methos. “I feel like I’m about to open Pandora’s box.”
Michael let out a squack, leaning across the table. “Well, open it!” he demanded.
“I feel more like Schrodinger’s cat,” Methos disagreed, deliberately drawing the tension out. “The box is neither empty nor full until it’s opened.”
“If a cat jumps out of here,” Ghean said severely, “I’m going to scream.” She squinched her eyes nearly closed, holding her breath as she slid the box halfway open.
“Holy Christ,” Michael whispered. “Holy Christ.”
Ghean stared down at the neatly stacked papers, Ragar’s handwriting filling the top page in small, fine print, and flung her hands into the air with a shriek. “Yes!”
Heads snapped around and people turned to their table, to watch Methos shout with triumph and pick Ghean up, whirling her around. “There’s your proof,” he crowed. “There’s your civilization.”
“Put me down, put me down!” she shouted, laughing. “I want to look at it! I can’t believe it!”
Methos laughed, setting the tiny woman back on her feet. Michael sat down in his chair, hard, mouth hanging open a little. “Writing,” he said wonderingly. “My God, look at the paper. Look how fine it is. Just look at it.”
“We are,” Ghean beamed. Anne pushed her way through the gathering crowd to gape down at the tightly packed papers.
“Jesus Christ, that survived? My God. What’s that?” she asked as Ghean opened the box the rest of the way.
Nestled at the end of the box was a thin piece of stone, sectioning off a narrow length of space. Metal glinted there, and Ghean worked it out of its resting place, tipping a bone handle up and pulling the knife out of the box. Under age-induced tarnish, the blade glinted dull silver, and Ghean’s eyes widened. “Steel,” she whispered. “He had a steel knife.”
“It can’t be,” Michael said, disbelieving, and snatched up a soft cloth to place the knife on as Ghean handed it to him. The woman lifted a hand to her mouth, taking a little step backwards as Michael took the blade.
Success, the patient and frightened ones whispered together. Atlantis reborn. Ghean backed into Methos, who caught her as she swayed.
“There’s your civilization,” he repeated, into her hair, voice soft. “You did it. There’s your proof.” Someone pushed in front of Ghean, looking wonderingly at the discovery. The noise level rose violently as the knife was carefully handed around. Ghean caught Methos’ hand and pulled him away from the find, out into the hall, letting the door bump closed behind her.
“You did it,” she corrected, falling into her native tongue. “Methos, you did it. You found it. Writing, Ragar’s journal, and a knife! A steel knife!”
Methos grinned down at her, then laughed, looking up at the ceiling. “For you,” he said, shaking his head, and looked back down at her. “For you, Ghean. You deserve it. Gods above, I had no idea he had a steel knife in there.”
Ghean flung her head back again, shouting with laughter. “Yes! I can’t believe it. Oh, I can’t believe it.” As she had thousands of years ago, she launched herself at Methos, confident he’d catch her as he had in Atlantis. He did, laughing, making a small ‘ooof’ as she knocked him back a step.
“There’s your proof,” he said again, and thought, damned if you do, and kissed her. Don’t get carried away, old man, he ordered himself, and still whispered, “You are so beautiful, Ghean. I’d forgotten how beautiful you are when you’re happy.”
Ghean’s smile was slow and delighted as she curled her arms around Methos’ neck. “I haven’t been happy in a long time.” She rolled her eyes at the door, and murmured, “Do you think they’ll miss us?”
Methos shot a glance at the door, eyebrows rising. “Probably,” he said, grinning, “but I think Michael would stop them from looking right away. And maybe they won’t miss us at all.” He lowered his head, kissing her again, then rather dramatically swept her up in his arms. “Carrying brides over threshholds wasn’t exactly an Atlantean tradition, but perhaps a little new with the old?” he suggested.
Ghean laughed, kick
ing her feet. “My cabin’s closer,” she whispered into his neck. “That way.” She pointed imperiously with her toes.
Chapter 27
Michael did an admirable job of hiding an overly smug smile when Methos returned a few hours later. “There you are. We’ve stored the paper in mylar sheets. It’s very delicate, so we’re going to get some stiffer supports for it as soon as we can, but no one expected us to find paper of any sort. It’s a wonder we had any mylar around at all.” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to grin as he asked, “Where’s Mary?”
Methos looked at him sideways, chuckling despite himself. “Showering and getting some dinner. Have you made any sense out of anything yet? Is any of it recognizeable?”
Michael turned to the neat stacks of mylar-encased paper. “They’re pretty clearly in chronological order. It looks like a journal of some sort. We kept them in order. This,” he said, touching the first pile, “was on the top. I don’t know if it’s the oldest entry or the newest. I’d guess the oldest, and they get younger as they go deeper — they won’t fit in the box anymore, I’m afraid — but until we figure out a dating system or some sort we won’t know. You’re the one Mary thought might be able to find some kind of basis in some other language to help us translate.”
Methos leaned on the table, hands turned out. Michael stared at the inside of his left wrist with interest. “That’s like Mary’s necklace.”
I should have worn long sleeves. Methos turned his wrist up to look at the tattoo, rubbing his thumb over it. “We were going to be married,” he said, slowly. “A long time ago. I got the tattoo then. Her mother gave her the necklace.”
“Mary doesn’t strike me as the type you’d tattoo yourself for. Come to think of it, you don’t seem like the sort of fellow who’d get a tattoo.”
“I was a lot younger then,” Methos said dryly. “People do strange things for love.” He frowned at the papers, lifting the first one up by its mylar encasing. The date was ten years before Methos had come to Atlantis. He set it down again and went to the last pile, taking the last sheet or two out from the bottom. His own name leapt out at him, partway down the final page.
