Empire of Ruins

by Arthur Slade

  It was nearly pitch-black, though the passage ahead seemed to harbor the faintest bit of light.

  “This way!” Modo ordered. “And hope it’s not a dead end.”

  “Yes, Modo, a dead end would be bad,” Lizzie quipped, then laughed.

  As they ran, the light up ahead grew brighter. Was it possible that Miss Hakkandottir had somehow circled around them? They had no choice, in any case, so they dashed on into a grand chamber, where they were blinded by the brightness.

  When his eyes adjusted, Modo found himself looking at a large golden sarcophagus. Behind it stood two familiar men.

  “Ah, Modo, you are late again, I see!” Mr. Socrates said.

  The God Face

  Modo’s eyes were wide as saucers. Mr. Socrates was standing there with his index fingers in his ears. Tharpa was pointing the elephant gun with one hand, a finger of the other hand stuck in his left ear. They looked absolutely ridiculous.

  Octavia elbowed Modo in the ribs and he suppressed a guffaw. Lizzie laughed, hard.

  “Well, we didn’t want to go deaf from the blast of the elephant gun,” Mr. Socrates tried to explain after he pulled his fingers out of his ears.

  Tharpa lowered the gun.

  “But never mind, we’ve found it!” Mr. Socrates exclaimed triumphantly. “I don’t quite know what to make of it, but it’s here. It’s here!” He pointed at something behind the sarcophagus.

  “Mr. Socrates … Miss Hakkandottir!” Modo made a move toward the passage behind the sarcophagus. “She and her men and her dogs are pursuing us. Their way will only be blocked for a short while.”

  “Ah, that’s the gunfire we heard,” Mr. Socrates said. “Then we’d better be quick about this. Come along.”

  Modo and the two women walked around the sarcophagus and found a statue of a man at least twice the size of a human, seated on a throne carved from what looked like obsidian. It had been set into the wall, facing the sarcophagus.

  But what really took Modo’s breath away was the figure’s pitch-black head, its lapis lazuli eyes glowing like stars, the facial features twisted grotesquely.

  “It’s my face,” he whispered.

  He’d stared at his own ugly mockery of a human face for so many years that it was shocking to see something so similar, especially set in stone.

  But there was something else about the God Face. Looking at it was making him queasy, as though it exuded a powerful force. The blue stone eyes were glaring directly into his own, as if searching out his darkest thoughts, his deepest doubts. He began to shake.

  “Tharpa and I have been studying it for the last little while,” Mr. Socrates said. “It certainly does have a disconcerting effect—it seems to bring about nausea and doubt, and even saps confidence. Tharpa and I experienced all these things. I cannot say what it is about the shape, or perhaps about what’s in the rock itself, that causes this reaction, but I’ll admit it’s already made me tremble.”

  “It’s my face,” Modo said to him.

  “What did you say?” Mr. Socrates replied.

  “The face on the statue … it’s almost exactly like my face.”

  “No, Modo. I don’t see it. There’s something primeval about it, that’s all. Some symbol that makes our minds react the way they do.”

  Octavia turned to Modo, looking pale and frightened. “I don’t see the resemblance either, Modo. It’s very hard to look at for any length of time.”

  All along, Lizzie had chosen to keep her back to the statue. “I can’t look at it,” she hissed. “It’s cursing us!”

  She took a few steps toward the tunnel, and Modo worried that she would flee. She stood, her arms crossed.

  “Why haven’t we been driven insane like King?” Octavia asked.

  “Perhaps we’re all made of stronger stuff than Alexander King,” Mr. Socrates suggested. “Our superior training has allowed us to overcome the effect the image has on us.”

  And I, Modo thought, I can look. In some way I know this face. It cannot overcome me.

  A stone-on-stone grinding echoed down the passage. “It sounds as if we will momentarily have unwanted company. Well, I’ve grown tired of running. Tharpa, set up behind the sarcophagus. Lizzie, you join him. Modo, fetch the God Face and be quick about it. I have an idea.”

  “You mean remove it from the statue?”

  “Yes, those are my orders.”

  “Yes, sir,” Modo said.

  He climbed the side of the throne and stood on the legs of the statue. The sapphires encrusted in the walls reflected light directly onto the statue’s face. He averted his eyes as he climbed closer to it; nonetheless, his muscles began to tremble and he grew weak, feeling he might fall at any moment. In order to find a way to pry the head off the body, he was forced to look at it.

  For some reason he stopped trembling, and something like hope began to creep into his heart. Someone with a similar disfigurement had perhaps become a great pharaoh. Maybe that was why he had left Egypt. He’d come here to carve his own kingdom in the jungle.

  It could be that I’m not such an oddity after all.

  “It’s me,” Modo whispered into the statue’s ear.

  “Modo, don’t be superstitious,” Mr. Socrates called, “bring the God Face! Hurry.”

  “There was another person like me,” Modo babbled to the face. What was making him speak to a rock this way? “He might have been a pharaoh.”

  “Don’t jump to such conclusions! What if the Egyptians just hired a sculptor to create a statue to frighten away grave robbers? Bring it down to me, Modo.”

  Modo twisted the head a little and it moved. He turned it again and pulled it from the socket. It gave Modo an awful feeling to remove the head from the body, as if he’d committed a sin. He imagined the ghosts of the pharaoh and all his slaves suddenly swirling around him, shouting their anger.

  He shook his head and climbed down, surprised at how heavy and cumbersome the God Face was.

  When he stepped down onto the floor and turned, he wasn’t surprised to see Miss Hakkandottir at the tunnel entrance, her soldiers lined up behind her. Despite his lack of surprise, he still trembled at the sight of her. He hugged the God Face against his chest and pulled his cloak over to hide it from her sight.

  “Ah, Modo. Mr. Socrates. So kind of you to save us so much trouble,” she said. “Please be so good as to give the God Face to me. Now.”

  The People Who Fell from the Sky

  Nulu stood beside the warriors and watched as the fire-haired woman, her dogs, and the gray men went into the mouth of the god home. The Rain People kept their distance, for they knew that the fire sticks could poke a hole in a man from far away. But this was dreamtime and now-time, and they wanted to see what was unfolding.

  The warriors had returned to their village and hustled her back to the god home because they knew she could understand Moh-Doh. He was in that mountain; two warriors had come running to tell them they had seen him enter. And now the gray ones were entering too.

  For generations only the bravest of warriors and shamans had entered that place, for all emerged changed after seeing the spirit world and the God Face. Sometimes they would return speaking only spirit words and would never speak the Rain People’s language again. It was the true test of any chief, warrior, or shaman. And now these people who had fallen from the sky would face that test.

  None of this had been predicted in the stories and dreams of the elders. These people who came out of the sky and walked like gods on the earth were here, but for what purpose?

  The Rain People clutched their spears and waited. There were big things happening, clashes between gods and the servants of gods. And they were the little Rain People. The man with the God Face would signal them if he needed their help.

  Until then, they would watch.

  A Horrible Whisper

  Twelve soldiers pointed carbines at them. Two more soldiers held the leashes on the mechanical hounds. The falconer carried the mechanical falcons on hi
s arms.

  Tharpa pointed the elephant gun directly at Miss Hakkandottir. She looked right through him.

  “Ah, Ingrid, it’s only a stone head,” Mr. Socrates said. “A talisman. Useless. Not even made of gold.”

  “I shall be the judge of that, Alan. Thanks to that head, I have lost several men to madness. Some have died. And yet you have seen it and you remain your old obstinate self. I wonder why?”

  “We’re English,” he said.

  Modo was impressed by his flippancy.

  “Your Indian slave is not. Neither is your pilot. Perhaps the men I sent in here were just weak.”

  Mr. Socrates shrugged. “We seem to have reached an impasse. Lower your gun, Tharpa.”

  Tharpa did.

  “Ah, these last many years have given you wisdom,” Miss Hakkandottir said. “Now, please, Modo.” She looked at him, almost pouting. “Stop trying to hide the head. Deliver it to me.”

  Mr. Socrates nodded and Modo took a step forward. He lifted the head of the statue so that it was caught by the sapphire light. A soldier approached with his hands out to take it, but when Modo turned the face toward him, the man went white. He raised a hand to cover his eyes, then whimpered and stumbled backward.

  “What is wrong with you!” Miss Hakkandottir shouted. But when she looked squarely into the carved face, even she fell silent. She lowered her gaze.

  Modo took another step forward and they all moved back. More soldiers covered their faces. Miss Hakkandottir tried to raise her head, but failed. One soldier dropped his pistol and ran screaming back down the tunnel. He was followed by another, and another. Even the falconer cried out, and turned, carrying his birds with him. The hounds, confused, followed.

  Miss Hakkandottir stood alone.

  An Uncontrolled Retreat

  Miss Hakkandottir had been taken by surprise. The God Face, caught in the light, seemed to have some otherworldly power. The ghosts of the dead Egyptians were speaking to her. Looking into the blue eyes of the God Face, she suddenly felt all the weight of the tomb above her. The past, her own past, began to sprout and grow wings inside her head.

  In her peripheral vision she saw the first soldier flee. Then the next and the next, followed by Visser. But their minds were weak. Her own constitution was much stronger. She would win!

  And yet, as she continued to look at the God Face, her mind began turning around like a gyroscope—fear, flee, fear. As Modo approached with the head, more voices began to speak to her. The people she had killed, they were all still there in her memory—soldiers, pirates, a multitude raised their voices. Then a childhood memory of the raised hand of her father. Her crippled grandmother with a serpent’s tongue. Her sister, whom she had drowned in an icy river near her family’s sheepherder hut. All of them screamed at her in a maddening chorus.

  Despite her attempts to stand her ground and prove her courage, involuntarily she stepped back. And once she’d stepped back, her body responded on its own and continued backing away. It terrified her. Modo, that masked creature, was following, holding that horrible severed head. The voices were growing louder. This, then, was the madness she’d seen in her men—it had found a way to get inside her head too.

  Driving the Enemy Before You

  Modo held the head high, taunting his enemies with it whenever they turned around.

  “It’s working!” Mr. Socrates exclaimed. “The God Face is driving them away. Step aside, Modo, and let us get a clear shot at Miss Hakkandottir.”

  Modo heard the order, but couldn’t obey. He was too caught up in the moment to stop. “I’ll get her!” he shouted. “I will!” He had relished the fear in Miss Hakkandottir’s eyes. I hope you go completely insane, he wanted to shout after her. His wounded hand throbbed as though urging him on. He dashed after her and the soldiers. You cut me! You hurt my friends! Murdered my colleagues! Go mad, you evil woman!

  “Modo! Stand aside!” Mr. Socrates commanded, but his voice was already distant.

  Miss Hakkandottir was running now, over the fallen pillars. Modo matched her step for step. If his companions were following, he was unaware of them. At one point Miss Hakkandottir turned to face him, a snarl on her lips, but her eyes were immediately drawn to the God Face and her strength waned again. She fled.

  The remaining passages and stairs were a blur. At one point Modo jumped a crevasse without even stopping to gauge the distance. The God Face was guiding him, pulling him toward the destruction of his enemies.

  Once outside in the sunlight he saw Miss Hakkandottir running pell-mell down the temple stairs. He stopped cold, gasping for air. It was his own face he was holding up to the world. His own face he was using to drive them away.

  But a triumphant thought followed: his face was a powerful weapon.

  A pack of Guild soldiers were running up the stairs, rifles raised, but they were shocked to see their leader and fellow soldiers fleeing the cave. Modo removed his mask and walked toward them. What are you doing? he asked himself. There were more than fifty of them.

  They took one good look and bolted, their rifles rattling to the ground.

  Modo stopped beside the paws of the sphinx and looked down. With great satisfaction he watched as Miss Hakkandottir scurried down the hillside below the temple and through the ruins of the city.

  A loud blast at his side barely made him shudder. Tharpa was firing the elephant gun. A second blast, and sparks flew near Miss Hakkandottir. She didn’t pause, was pulling at her hair with her metal hand as she ran past the Prometheus and disappeared into the cover of the forest. In less than a minute the temple and the city had been abandoned by the Guild soldiers.

  Modo put his mask back on and turned around to find his companions standing behind him in the doorway of the temple, the mouth of the sphinx. The lionlike statue was looking directly at Modo. Did it approve? He wouldn’t have been surprised if it had lifted its stone paws and shaken off a thousand years of waiting. It felt as though anything could happen on a day like this.

  Mr. Socrates’ lips were moving, but he wasn’t making a sound. Then Modo felt a sharp pain in his ears and the sound flooded in. He’d been deafened by the report of the gun.

  “… she’ll be dead soon enough. But that was a stunning display!” Mr. Socrates exclaimed. His eyes had a glow that disturbed Modo. “To drive the enemy back like that. Such a weapon! We’ll have to study this God Face. There must be a way to duplicate the effects.”

  “Don’t you wonder why we weren’t driven mad?” Modo asked.

  “Mad?” Mr. Socrates’ eyes were focused on the God Face, so Modo tucked it inside the folds of his cloak. “Yes, that’s an oddity, but with enough experimentation we will get to the bottom of that, too.”

  Modo looked from Mr. Socrates to Octavia, Lizzie, and Tharpa. What was the one thing they all had in common? The reason was clear. “Don’t you see?” Modo asked.

  “See what?” Octavia asked. “Modo, are you feeling unwell?”

  “I am feeling perfectly fine,” he said. “All of you had seen my face before. Our enemies hadn’t. That’s why you weren’t driven insane by the God Face. You saw me in that stone head.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Socrates scratched his head. “You do seem to have a penchant for self-aggrandizement, Modo. You cling to these notions of your own importance. Perhaps it’s a lingering effect of being abandoned as a child.”

  Modo gritted his teeth.

  Mr. Socrates raised a hand. “This is not the place or time to argue. Let me hold the head.”

  Modo didn’t want to give it up before he had to do so.

  Someone in the distance began beating a drum. The first sign of a counterattack? A choir began to sing.

  Modo and the others looked around, perplexed, until Octavia said, “Look—down there!”

  Crossing the ruins and climbing the long stairway was a group of half-naked people, moving in single file. As they approached the steps to the temple, Modo recognized them as the Rain People—fifteen warriors followed by
Nulu and her grandfather.

  One warrior was pounding on a hand drum. The remaining warriors carried spears, and shields painted with the God Face image. They stopped singing and continued up the steps toward Modo.

  “They’re friends,” Modo said to his companions. “Please, no guns.”

  Nulu pointed at him with her little finger and said, “Moh-Doh.” Then she said several more words.

  “Nulu,” he replied. Seeing her calmed him, and he was moved by the way the tribesmen gazed at his face with such reverence.

  She tugged on his cloak until he got down on one knee in front of her; then she pushed back his mask and touched his face. Her fingers were warm.

  “Walu. Ngulkurrijin. Yulu,” she whispered as she stroked his cheek.

  He didn’t know what any of the words meant, but listened intently. She repeated them softly several times.

  Then, gently, she took the God Face from him, so heavy in her little arms that she nearly dropped it. She bowed slightly and handed the God Face to her grandfather. Then the warriors and her grandfather bowed and followed her down the steps toward the rain forest.

  “But … but …” Mr. Socrates pointed at the tribe. “They can’t take the God Face!” He took a few steps after them, then turned to Modo. “Command them to return it! Now!”

  “I can’t, Mr. Socrates. I don’t speak their language. Besides, it belongs to them, more than it does to us.”

  “Belongs to them?”

  “You saw the symbols on their shields. We’d alter their lives if we took it.”

  “That God Face could end wars!”

  “Or start new ones,” Lizzie said. Her face was solemn.

  “What does that mean?” Mr. Socrates asked.

  Lizzie shrugged. “Weapons are designed to be used.”

  “Of course they are,” Mr. Socrates replied.

  Modo saw that the Rain People had gone back into the forest. “It’s too late, either way,” he said. “We can’t get it back now.”