by Grey Durose
Once the tents were up, they could all sit and rest at the fire side. The last glimmers of the sun were peeking over the horizon, painting the sky in pink and orange, red and indigo. Night fell quickly here and it wasn't long before the sky was littered with stars and a half moon took up the mantle of regent of the heavens.
They ate and talked and drank tea and after a couple of hours they decided to retire. The wind was blowing harder and the dust had become unbearable, the tents offered some refuge from its gritty onslaught.
George lay in his tent and waited until everyone had gone to sleep, except the guard who was keeping watch over the camp from the security of one of the trucks. He was alone in his tent and decided it was time to use the compass to try and locate the place he needed to get to. He wrapped his mouth and nose with a long scarf and opened the flap on his tent to take a look around. All was quiet and the dust would cover him from the gaze of the guard, who was useless to them in these conditions.
Crawling through the camp, he made his way up a small ridge to get a better view over his surroundings. Once at the summit he pulled out the compass and held it up in front of him, with the gemstone dangling in front of his right eye. The wind caught the compass and it swayed and twisted on its chain, making it hard to get a clear view, especially since George was already squinting to keep the dust out of his eyes. He faced towards the site where part of Eridu had been dug but there was no sign of a glow. Slowly, he turned to the West, the compass flicked sideways in the wind but as it swung back it passed in front of George's eye and, for a moment, he saw the glow. He held still and waited for a lull in the wind, so the compass could confirm it. There it was again, a definite green glow coming from a patch of desert about half a mile west of the archaeological site, as far as George could tell.
George went back to his tent and got together his equipment, he needed to get a closer look tonight. He might need to call on a ritual to uncover the site, it looked big, whatever it was. Ahmed and his men might not take kindly to the use of what might appear to them as a dark magic, contrary to their faith.
Once again, George headed out in to the night, the wind was still gusting but was not as challenging as it had been before and visibility was a little better. He returned to the ridge and got a better view of where he was going and began to hike across the stony ground towards the spot he'd singled out. It was only about a mile from the camp so there was little chance of him getting lost, even in the dust storm, and he made the ground in twenty minutes.
The compass revealed a massive area, George quickly began to mark it out with salt; before he could start the ritual he would need to define the area he wished to reveal. It was tough going and George had to crouch low as he went or else the salt would blow away with the dust in the wind. Finally he was finished and now he began to mark out the symbols in the middle of the area with his feet.
It was all prepared, George stepped back outside of the confines of the salt and began to chant. At first slowly and quietly but gaining in magnitude and pace with each repetition, until he was howling along with the wind. He drew his trusty dagger from its sheath, cut the heel of his left hand and squeezed it to force the blood to flow. He walked over to the perimeter, splashed a few drops of blood across the ground and stepped back again.
The wind suddenly fell, all about there was silence, then the wind began to blow again; just a breeze, it seemed to whisper as it passed George's ears. The wind grew stronger but not around him, just in front of him, the area he'd enclosed with salt was now beginning to transform in to a whirling mass of sand and rocks. The wind swirled around inside the salt line for about half an hour, sending sand and rock flying upwards and away, and then it stopped. The dust began to settle.
The air was clear now and George could make out the outline of the top layers of a ziggurat, the same size and shape as the one in his dream but collapsed in places and with old worn stones whose sharp edges had been battered away by wind, rain and sand.
He began to make his way down the side of the pit, stepping carefully at first, then gradually hastening to a trot, pulled along by the momentum of his descent. At the bottom, he found himself surrounded by thirty feet of rocks and sand which plunged him in to deep shadow, the upper layers of the ziggurat shining in the silvery light of the half moon. George walked around the temple until he came to the entrance. He could still make out the edges of the steps which had led down to the ground level and the patterns on the stones around the entrance were still visible. George ran his hands over the stones, trying to pick out more detail, much of the finer work had been lost but in places its position had aided in preserving it.
'It's the same.' George said to himself in a hushed voice.
The stone lintel, which held up the entrance way, had survived but the floor of the temple was piled with sandstone and mudbrick rubble which had fallen from the upper layers. George pulled out a torch and shone it across the floor, he began to pick his way through the rubble until he found himself deep inside the main chamber. He flicked the torch around, trying to get a better understanding of his surroundings. The alcoves were still intact in places and in some he could see the staining on the walls where the blood of the poor sacrificed souls had been spilled. He studied the ceiling carefully, there was still a haze of dust in here but the moonlight could be seen, bursting through holes in the worst affected areas and kissing the floor with its silvery-blue light.
It dawned on George that he still had no idea what he was looking for, this place was big and, whatever it was, could be buried or concealed. He took out the compass again and held it up in front of him, focusing on the mystery of the Nameless One. The air was still in here and the compass settled quickly, allowing George to turn and study the room in detail. He was looking for something different, much smaller. He didn't have to turn far, since the compass was picking out a number of objects in a space somewhere behind the main altar. It was clear the structure was in a delicate state and he picked his path with care, fearing that he might trigger a collapse that would leave him trapped and injured, with no hope of any aid until after dawn.
He reached the back wall of the temple; to the left a roughly square gap, fifteen feet wide, allowed access to another area. George made his way to the hole and found himself in a secondary chamber. It was a large room, not as big as the first but much more care had been taken to decorate the walls. As well as the carvings, the walls had the distinct residue of vibrant pigments and holes where it had once been set with semi-precious stones, some of which could still be seen amongst the rubble and broken pottery on the floor. To one side there was evidence of a broad stairway leading down in to the lower levels but access had been cut off by several tons of rubble.
George turned to the compass again, the image was much clearer now and it was directing him to twelve objects evenly spaced along part of the far wall. He approached the wall, still holding up the compass, and shone his torch on the area of the floor where the first object should be. It was the bottom of a large ceramic jar, whose shards lay smashed around his feet. Moving along the wall, he found all twelve of the objects were the same, twelve broken urns, each in varying degrees of completeness.
The seventh jar was the most complete so George decided to study this one in more detail. It was fine work, extremely early, earlier than any piece of pottery he had ever studied. On the side of the urn was a stylised depiction of the beast he'd seen in his dream and all about it were the suspended corpses of its victims. At the topmost part of the jar, George could make out the bottom half of what looked like an enchantment. Feeling around the floor in front he found a piece from the top of the jar, the rest of the enchantment was there and he recognised it as a very old and powerful curse which could be used as a magical seal. It dawned on George that these urns had been used to store the remains of the beast after it had been dismembered in the legend he’d read.
He took a step back to take a better look at the big picture, each urn had been placed on
a slightly raised stone slab and they were evenly spaced along the wall but not all the way along the wall. They started with the first in the left-hand corner of the room and ran across the back wall but stopped short of the right-hand corner. George went over to the right corner and shifted the rubble out of the way with his foot, there was something there. He got down on his hands and knees and began clearing the space until he found the edge of a stone slab. There had been a place for another urn, a thirteenth, and there was no trace of it, not a single shard or chip littered the floor.
George decided to return to camp and ponder his discovery. For now he had to get out of this place and cover up his work before it collapsed in on him, or someone else stumbled across it. He was about to enter the main chamber, when he heard a noise, like a rock being kicked across the stone floor. He froze and switched off the torch in his hand. There was silence for a few moments, then he heard another noise, the sound of a shoe scuffing against stone. George stepped backwards silently, retreating in to the secondary chamber, he had company. He slowly slid his back down the wall until he could place his bag on the ground and reached in, pulling out the handgun Ahmed had given him earlier. He couldn't afford to take any chances.
Then came a loud, commanding voice, 'We know you're in there! You might as well give yourself up and save us both a lot of bother.'
George said nothing. The voice was unfamiliar, the English was good and clearly spoken, if a little clipped, with the merest hint of an accent.
'No reply? I should warn you, there are quite a few of us out here. If you're planning on shooting your way out, you may wish to reconsider.' the voice called again.
There was the sound of hurried steps and hushed voices, as several men moved in to position.
'And if I give myself up, what then?' George was trying to buy some thinking time, he was cornered and very definitely outnumbered, his heart started to quicken.
'We only want to talk to you. This place has... special significance.' the voice explained.
They knew something about this place and that both unnerved and intrigued George. Regardless of who they were, this knowledge placed them almost definitely in the foe camp. A feeling of dread crept in to his stomach. 'We seem to be talking already, no need to hand myself over to you just yet.' George countered, looking around for gaps in the roof.
'I prefer to look a man in the eyes when I ask him a question, that way I can tell if he's lying.' the voice insisted, the veil of amiability lifting.
There was more activity outside, they were closing in on him and George knew he had to slow them down, he stood up again and in one smooth action swung his arm out in to the doorway letting loose a couple of rounds. There was the sound of scurrying feet and George saw a couple of men dive for cover in the momentary flash of the gun. He drew himself back in to the chamber as several rounds of automatic fire were returned and dug holes in to the wall around the entrance. Then he waited, as silence fell again. George was just considering moving out, when the doorway was suddenly flooded with light.
'Face it, you're trapped. This is your only way out and my men have it covered.' the voice pointed out.
'It would seem so, but things aren't always as they seem.' George was clearly bluffing –he’d stolen the phrase from his own magic act - but felt he now had to back up his words.
'If you don't come out, my men will just have to come and get you' His adversary's voice had a sound of resignation and, moments later, George started to hear people moving around outside again.
He waited patiently for an assault on his position but instead there was a tiny metallic clink, then a small indistinct object came tumbling in to the room across the floor in front of him, its shadow bouncing along ahead of it. The word 'Grenade!' screamed in George's head and he leapt toward it, scooping it up with his left hand and flicking it back out through the doorway, before he could consider the wisdom of his own actions. He landed on the ground in a foetal position with his eyes firmly shut and his hands clasped to his ears. There was an enormous bang and a bright flash that penetrated his eyelids, turning them in to dazzling red curtains. He decided to seize his opportunity and run for it.
George wobbled to his feet and grabbed his bag, his ears were ringing and his legs none too steady but he quickly mustered some forward momentum and charged out in to the main chamber, through the dust and sand now pouring in through gaps from above. The torches, which had been facing the doorway, were scattered on the ground now and he could see the dark shapes of the men who'd held them rolling on the floor, clutching their faces. He guessed they were crying out but he couldn't hear them, his ears were filled with a constant whistle.
He ran past five men on the floor and stopped, pressing up against a crumbling pillar. He popped his head out in both directions, there were no more torches and no sign of any more of his enemies. George pushed on, once he got up the bank and out of the pit he'd have the advantage and the tables would be turned. He ran for the only exit, skipping over rocks and debris until he was almost there. He was passing the last pillar when, from nowhere, an arm appeared in front of his face. His head stopped dead, crashing in to the unyielding limb, but his feet were so surprised they continued running. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back and winded from the impact. A dark shape hovered over him for a moment, then there was a thud and a sharp pain to his head. George lost consciousness.
Chapter Nine
The drive home was precarious, normally it was a short smooth drive along unchallenging roads. Tonight was different, Carlos was not only battling fatigue but also the nagging voice of John, who seemed to have an opinion about everything.
By the time he arrived at his front door he was eagerly awaiting his habitual six hours of sleep and a welcome break from the constant chatter. Carlos grabbed a quick snack and filled a glass with ice and whisky, if he couldn't ignore John he could certainly try to drown him. After a hot shower he slid between the sheets and closed his eyes, John was still going on about some tiny detail or other but the whisky had made Carlos numb to his prattling.
Carlos awoke the next morning to broad daylight outside, he was running late. He grabbed his watch by its gold-plated strap and squinted at the inky black face: half past ten. Carlos was hours behind schedule but worse than that he felt like crap. He was accustomed to leading a very ordered life, which included a strict dietary, exercise and sleep regimen, this was not part of the plan.
He dragged himself out of bed, forcing himself past the resistance of his complaining muscles. It was odd, his exercise routine the day before had been exactly that: routine. There was no reason for Carlos to be feeling like this, then he remembered John. The old fart had been quiet so far, maybe he's gone, maybe it was just temporary, maybe I just lost it and he was never there at all, he pondered, more in hope than belief.
The thought of John triggered another memory, the dream he'd had last night, no wonder he felt like crap after a disturbing dream like that. It had all started in a particularly normal setting for a stress dream, in the place where Carlos felt least safe, at the top of the tower, in the boardroom. The rest of the board were there but there was something wrong with them; they all had cold black eyes, not a spot of white or colour or a trace of individuality. While he was studying their blank faces he'd noticed something else: fine wires, so fine they could barely be seen at all but there nonetheless. The wires were attached to the limbs and heads of the board members, threaded through the skin and muscle. They ran up to the ceiling where they joined a complex rig of pulleys. Carlos had traced the wires down from the pulleys and they led his eye to the head of the table, where John was sat. It was an unusual detail, John had never been on the board at the same time as Carlos, so there was no memory involved in this nocturnal apparition. John was sitting, cackling, at the head of the table, consumed by mirth as he pulled on the wires that made the other members of the board dance. An arm would fly up and strike its owner in the face or a jaw would flap and out would pour a
cackle. Suddenly, Carlos had felt a pull on his own arm, it had swung up of its own accord and his own hand had slapped him across the face before he could respond to it. He could still feel the sting of the slap, the dream had been very vivid, and the sound of John's raucous laughter still rang in his ears. If dreams have messages in them, this one was broadcasting it loud and clear.
Carlos padded over to the sink in the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face, in an attempt to rinse the sleep out of his head, it didn't work, he was still fuzzy headed. He wandered over to the toilet, stood wide footed in front of it and took his penis in hand, he looked down to aim his jet of morning piss but, as he was about to release, he saw something that caused him to tense. Floating on the surface of the toilet water, was a used condom. It hadn't been there the night before - he would have noticed - nor would it have been there any other night, Carlos knew better than to try and flush a rubber. He stood there, confused, his piss dammed by his befuddlement. If he'd had sex with someone last night he certainly had no memory of it. He felt his penis, there was a residue of slippery lube still on the skin, the condom was certainly his but it must have been put on inside-out.
'How?' he asked himself, under his breath. 'What the fuck is going on?' he posed the question to the universe within as well as without, but the only reply was the echo from the tiled walls.
Carlos rushed through to his bedroom, he was looking for his phone but he couldn't find it in its usual place on the bedside cabinet. He burst out of the bedroom and in to the lounge, there it was, on the coffee table, next to a pair of used champagne flutes. He went over to the coffee table and sat down; one of the glasses had lipstick on it, a small mercy, he thought. He picked up his phone and began fumbling with the touch screen, flicking through the pages, looking for his call record. When the record came up, he found he'd made a call, late the previous night, or someone had. He recognised the number, too: one of his regular escorts, Amber, he still hadn't worked out what had happened, his tired mind wasn't running on all its usual cylinders.
