by Howard Upton
“A piece of jewelry,” Dugan said before continuing. “What kind of jewelry, and what did it do? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“That is a mystery to us, Mr. Smith. We only know it was a piece of jewelry. What it looks like is unknown to us. It would be most interesting to learn of its make-up and appearance. It appears to have been used as a focal point for Chan, or something used to channel the spell, or magic as you call it, not so dissimilar to the western version of a ‘magic wand.’ From what I understand, Chinese doctors would cast those spells from the object used to channel their medicine or magic, if you will, and the object held a part of the spirit of the doctor. In other words, the part of him used to cast the spell was locked inside the object until it could be reversed, should the doctor choose to reverse it. In the English language you have come to know the word ‘charm’ as a piece of jewelry. My understanding is the word comes from the world of magic; a charm is used to bring about a desired outcome. In this case the outcome would be to change a group of people into something other than flesh and blood. Again, from what I’ve read and studied, a person’s spirit would have to be very strong and the channeling of one’s personal chi something that had been practiced for many, many years. Chan must have been just such a person!”
Dugan’s mind dwelled on the possibility that Wu’s legend held some truth. He had seen too much in his time to discount all things magical or paranormal. Once, while running a job just outside New Orleans, he’d seen a voodoo priestess cast a spell, or invoke the spirits in what she called gris-gris, over a doll. That doll represented a man being held in the same room. He was bound, gagged and forced to watch the whole thing transpire. When she had finished chanting over the doll, she picked up a pin and stuck it in the heart. The bound man’s eyes widened to the size of half-dollars. Within seconds his lifeless head slumped to his chest, the man dead of a heart attack. It had been one of the cleanest hits Dugan had ever seen and it both fascinated and scared the shit out of him.
He couldn’t help but allow his mind to float around the prospect that the statue and the eight thousand others of which Wu had spoken, were, at one time, living, sentient beings. He had also mentioned that the spell could be reversed. This last fact is what mesmerized him because of the opportunities it posed.
“Mr. Wu, I have another question,” Dugan said. He watched one man who had taken an interest in him some twenty feet away, but Dugan suspected the man was more interested in his non-Asian features than the conversation he was having with Wu. “I realize you told me you don’t know why this statue, Captain Li as you called him, was left outside, but has anyone ever attempted to reunite him with the rest of the Terracotta Warriors?”
Wu took a long, deep breath before exhaling loudly then replied, “Of course the Chinese have always been interested in protecting their heritage and art, Mr. Smith. This statue is no different than any other, and the Chinese have attempted to move it several times since the discovery of the other warriors in 1974. Each time it has been tried, however, mysterious circumstances have arisen around the individuals attempting to relocate it. But, please, Mr. Smith” he said almost apologetically, “understand that Asians generally, and Chinese specifically, are very superstitious. As a result of our superstition, we attribute oddities to our lore, most especially when that lore involves spells and the like.”
The American nodded his head in understanding. “So, tell me what happened to the people who tried to move the statue, Mr. Wu.”
Wu’s eyes dropped to the ground for a few seconds as he put together his thoughts and considered his words. “Since 1974, the government has attempted to move the statue a number of times. Each time it was tried something strange would happen. On two occasions movers had heart attacks on the spot. Another time, the statue was strapped to a truck to be moved the next day. The individual who placed the straps on the statue went home that night and took his own life. There have been rumors of others who have died or killed themselves after coming in contact with the rider or his steed. A couple of individuals reported hearing voices in their heads telling them how to take their own lives. Family members tried to calm them down, but each time they successfully committed suicide. It’s really quite tragic, but again, it is all circumstantial and steeped in lore and legend.”
The wheels spun in Dugan’s head to the point that he became moderately dizzy. Another question burned at the back of his mind, but he hesitated to ask since he didn’t know Wu personally. But he had learned long ago an itch left unscratched would fester and be scratched in time. He figured he might as well dig in.
“How fascinating this all is, Mr. Wu!” exclaimed Dugan. His enthusiasm was probably a little over-acted, but a large portion of it was real. “Tell me, is it known whether a spell or curse like this has ever happened in China before or since?”
Wu chuckled quietly then replied, “A very intriguing question, Mr. Smith. I wonder why you would ask such a thing?” He allowed the question to hang in the air for almost a full minute before continuing.
“I guess it doesn’t matter, as I’m sure your musing is purely academic. Yes, there have been some documented cases of people being turned to stone and clay here in China over the centuries. It’s a strange but remarkable piece of our folklore that few outside the country’s boundaries have any knowledge of. Most are familiar with our fixation on dragons, but few know about the spiritual scientists that have always lived here.
Their mythos is really not so different than the western version of Merlin the Magician, Mr. Smith. And our stories of turning people to stone fall in line with the western story of Medusa. Isn’t that amazing? It would seem the human mind is capable of analogous modes of thought that do not bend to the will of country’s leaders or borders. This is one part of the human condition that has always aroused my intellect, sir.”
The American tried to measure how much longer he should press Wu. He knew there was much research he could do on his own, but having a professor of Chinese culture at his immediate disposal was something he wanted to take advantage of. The internet provided little uncommon knowledge of China, of that he knew.
“You mentioned that a spell such as this could be reversed. My last question, Mr. Wu is this – in your ancient lore, have any of those spells ever been reversed?” asked Dugan.
Wu loudly swallowed some spittle, clearly nervous with the direction of the conversation, but the side of him that loved teaching about Chinese culture would not allow his tongue to be silenced. A drop of sweat formed on his forehead and rolled gently down the side of his face.
“It is rumored, Mr. Smith, that on one occasion a spell akin to this one was reversed. There is a tale told to mischievous children about a man who was turned to stone then brought back, but when he was brought back he was not a man. He remained stone and was evil personified. The child’s story was that he slaughtered unmercifully anyone who got in his way, including small children. Obviously, this is only an old wife’s tale told to misbehaving children. Mothers and fathers alike have told the story to children and threaten to call the stone man to their homes if children do not behave properly.”
Dugan nodded his head again, then asked, “Mr. Wu, would you mind showing me the Terracotta Warriors in the pyramid, that is, if you have time and are willing? I would be honored if you would accompany me to the terracotta crypt and help me learn more about your country’s fantastic collection.”
Wu considered Dugan’s request then said, “I wish I could, Mr. Smith, but I’m afraid I must be leaving. I have a class to teach very soon. You needn’t look far for the exhibit. The pyramid stands just two hundred meters from where we are now. Follow this path down the stairs, and you will see it. At the entrance you may purchase a ticket to see our beautiful Terracotta Army. I wish you the best of luck in furthering your learning about the Terracotta Warriors, sir. It’s been an honor discussing them with you.” With that, Wu turned and walked away.
As Dugan stood there scratching his chin wh
ile watching the Chinese professor walk away, he wondered how much truth could be found in the legend. Legends were, after all, conceived from factual events. What if..., he asked himself? He had seen many strange and bizarre things before and would again if he lived long enough, but the potential compensation for controlling such an army was priceless if the spell was real and could be reversed.
He allowed himself a few short seconds of speculation before he began walking down the path to find the pyramid and Terracotta Warriors. The path led him past tall, green trees and immaculately pruned shrubbery. His hand grabbed the rail as he descended the stairs Wu had described. As he came around a bend, an immense, white pyramid towered above him. Never in all his years, had he seen architecture that could match what faced him at that moment. The sun reflected off the side of the massive structure as he stood, mouth agape, staring at it.
After he took a few moments to gaze at the pyramid, he walked to the front of the entrance to purchase a ticket. A mob of foreigners stood in line in their respective tour groups waiting to get inside. Hosts of hawkers lined the area selling souvenirs of the Warriors and Emperor Qin’s burial site.
He hadn’t given much thought as to why he had become so entranced by the lone statue in Xi’an, or why he was being drawn to the pyramid to view the rest of the Terracotta Army. Simply stated, he knew there was something there that spoke to him, but what that thing was he couldn’t articulate.
The throng of visitors made their way inside to see the three large pits and innumerable clay soldiers. Dugan’s mind was awhirl with the absolute enormity of the display. Why would anyone choose to sculpt all of these life sized warriors? Were they forced to create them to protect Emperor Qin in the afterlife as recent science had suggested, or was Mr. Wu’s tale of a more sinister motive the truer reason for the inordinate, and almost vain, spectacle of art? What he did know, somewhere deep in his gut, was that this room resonated with life beyond the tourists with whom he walked. Dugan was struck by the intensity of the place and noticed others looking uncomfortably at the warriors’ prowess.
He wandered around the location for five hours, having lost track of time and almost forgetting the reason he was in Xi’an to begin with. Arms trading could not wait, and his connection to some rebels in the northern tier of China had funded his bank account beyond measure. He knew they planned some sort of assault against the communist government, but he hadn’t asked any details and wanted to be out of the country before the shit hit the fan. His spirit wanted him to remain for a while longer, but his mind told him he had to leave.
On the way out of the museum, he stopped and purchased a small replica of a Terracotta Warrior for his desk back in New York City. He hoped the small replica would help him recapture some of the awe he felt while viewing the warriors. Little did he know that they would invade his heart, mind and soul to the point of obsession. Focusing on his normal tasks would be difficult and require tremendous discipline, but in his free time he would allow his mind to drift back to Xi’an. And he would research the legend of the Terracotta Warriors and the spell that many Chinese believed bound them for eternity. Something deep within him told him that the legend was steeped in truth.
Over two years he researched, and paid others to research for him, the legend of the mystical doctor and the Terracotta Warriors. At first there was little progress, but recently some revelations had come to light about connections to China, Egypt and ancient Maya. He began feeling hopeful when his research team had begun delivering news about the connections, especially given his tour through a pyramid to see the Terracotta Army; a pyramid he entered without question, so absorbed was he to see what was inside. Still, it wasn’t until someone stumbled upon the connection of the cartouche to all three that things began to take shape. One of his researchers discovered an ancient Chinese cartouche on display in a museum in Beijing that was believed to have originated in Xi’an.
The question of how a cartouche housing a magical spell wound up in Mexico City was troublesome and problematic, but was soon revealed through discovery and luck. Research had also dispelled the notion that Norsemen were the first to land on the western shores of America. It was apparent to Dugan that the doctor and his Xi’an tribesmen fled first into Mongolia then Russia, or at least in part. Some of them reportedly crossed the Bering Strait into Alaska before continuing their migration to Central America. Perhaps it took a couple of generations for this migration to happen, but it was obvious to Dugan the influence of the Chinese in American, Mexican and Central American Indian cultures.
Dugan also surmised that part of the clan had ventured west into India, through the Middle East and into Egypt. Not only were pyramids being discovered at a significant rate around the world, most especially in the United States and into Latin America, but the similarities between the three different region’s pyramids in question were uncanny. Additionally, evidence of cartouches had been found along both routes from China to Egypt and China to Latin America.
His team of researchers vetted every plausible prospect regarding the migration of Chan and his people. Needless to say, when they found a significant amount of the Mexican population in the Yucatan Peninsula with Chinese sir names, they were all astounded. Upon discovering certain nuances within languages of Native American tribes and Chinese Mandarin, they knew they were on to something. But when it was revealed that particular DNA strands were the same amongst Chinese people in Xi’an, Alaskan Eskimos, several of the western Native Americans and Mexicans all the way to the Yucatan, Dugan was convinced his hunch had been correct all along.
Even harder than connecting all the intercontinental dots would be locating the item, the cartouche he suspected, that contained Chan’s spell. He was convinced the cartouche was the charm used when Chan cast the spell, especially since similar jewels could be found in all three areas of the world his research team were scouring. Once found, figuring out how to reverse the spell and control the most powerful army in the world would be the priority.
Confirming it was the cartouche used in the incantation was a reach, but it was obvious the knowledge of their manufacture was passed along to each region where villagers had migrated. Noticeable to Dugan was that Chan had apprentices in his midst, but the strongest of his knowledge found its way to the Yucatan, which must have meant Chan began migrating to the West. The magic used while wielding the charm had been reported throughout Mayan history.
How far Chan made it was still a mystery, but Dugan was convinced his direct bloodline had continued into the Americas. Everything, in his mind and according to his researchers, pointed him to the region. Had Chan been able to make the trek all the way to southeastern Mexico himself? That was doubtful in Dugan’s mind, but there was no uncertainty that the cartouche and its secret would have been passed on to someone else in his line. The legend held that his son was killed by Captain Li, but he knew that small villages were rife with blood relations. Asians were beholden to passing secrets along to family members unlike other cultures who would pass along secrets to non-family members if loyalties were exhibited.
An announcement was made over the intercom that his flight would be boarding in approximately twenty minutes. He was still pissed that he couldn’t take a direct flight to Monterrey, but resigned himself to connecting through Dallas. Hopefully, that fucked up airport won’t have a tornado circling the top of it like it usually does. Seems like every time I go through there the airport gets shut down and another mobile home gets destroyed, he thought to himself.
Dugan had really wanted to take his private jet to Mexico, but he would be flying under an alias to avoid detection. He had chartered a private jet to his destination from Monterrey though, and that made him a little happier about the situation. The cartouche would be in his possession, and a lot of loose ends would be cut off soon enough.
He walked to the restroom to relieve himself then ventured to a Starbuck’s to buy a cup of coffee. It would be a long travel day for him, and he needed to work thro
ugh a few more details in his mind, most especially would be reversing the incantation. Finding a family member wouldn’t be an issue, as the DNA strains had already been proven, but how the spell would be undone posed a much bigger problem. Should the legends prove true, knowledge passed down through the family could possibly be found in either practice or in tradition. Either way, he fully intended to unlock the secret and become a multi-millionaire in the process.
Joining him in Monterrey would be that crass son of a bitch, Buddy Smith. If he wasn’t the man working to land him the cash with the Christians In Action, he would have put a bullet in his head a long time ago. He knew the U.S. government had been following some of his dealings globally for quite some time, and Smith had been one he suspected of keeping tabs on him. Having the knowledge that he was being watched had been beneficial to the point that it forced him to be even more careful in his dealings in the shadow world, but it didn’t mean that at some point in time he wouldn’t torture that idiot and make him beg for his life.
Sharing much of the knowledge about the cartouche and Terracotta Warriors with Smith had pained him, but he recognized how ridiculous the story of the curse would seem to the uninitiated. Dugan needed an advocate in order to sell his wares, and while the story was far-fetched, he knew the United States government had invested in the black arts on several occasions. If for one moment they thought they could get the upper hand on the Russians and Chinese, they would pay handsomely. Of special interest to the Brotherhood of Allied Capitalists, otherwise known as the U.S. military, would be taking something from China that was inherently theirs. Hypocritical bastards that his countrymen were, he accepted the fact that they were opportunists of the highest order.
