Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (27 page)

“I think the one on the right is the Egyptian pyramid and the one on the left the Mayan, what do you say Willard?” Frost said.

The scientists laughed, Willard bent over with his hands on his knees.

“No. Why did you stop here?” Roger asked the driver in Ukrainian.

The driver pointed to where the road passed between the piles of silt; it was reduced to a track only wide enough for walking single-file.

“As you can see,” Roger gathered the scientist’s attentions. “The digging is progressing swiftly. It seems we’ll have to walk a bit more than planned. Please follow me.”

Roger led the way to a paved courtyard before a massive gate that looked to be a Roman triumphal arch, but instead of praising a victor, half of a rising sun sent out rays across the entablature.

“Queen Moo welcomes all visitors to Mu, is what I’ve translated the text to read. It appears to be a predecessor to Sanskrit.”

The scientists stared, Willard open-mouthed. Even Frost looked more amazed than grumpy. Roger exhaled. His reputation was saved. Mu would make him famous.

“This way, gentlemen.” Roger headed for the monument. He tried to keep righteousness out of his tone of voice. “The arch is one of the
least
impressive parts of the city.”

Flights of steps, sixty-six feet wide, progressed down into a valley. Hundreds of laborers hauled wheelbarrows of sludge up out the valley to hundreds of piles.

At each landing, Roger paused to point out the interesting finds that slowly emerged from under the thick, muddy silt. He showed the tops of the pyramids, the obelisks, and other buildings, but ignored the columned building in the center of the valley which had already been cleared of debris.

“Is that the Parthenon?” Huxley asked.

All of the scientists stared at Roger. He paused, smiling, enjoying the moment. “It’s even better,” he finally said. “I call it Diaspora Hall, the origin of every culture on the Earth.”

“Preposterous,” Frost said.

Roger noted that he spoke with far less vehemence. “Wait until you see inside to decide.”

Frost said nothing more.

As Roger led the way across the city, he pointed out the canals where the river water had been channeled and also the many sun and bird motifs and compared them to pre-Christian religions.

The scientists asked numerous questions of Roger as they climbed the five hundred fifty-five steps to the entrance to Diaspora Hall, but he waved them away. “Come inside first.”

Even Roger was winded when they reached the top of the steps. Hands on his knees, he pointed to the flowing script encircling the frieze of the building. “I don’t know what it says but the script looks like early Arabic.”

“I know just the linguist to tackle that,” Willard said.

To Roger’s delight, Frost was the last one recovered enough to proceed. He still looked flushed and breathed heavily but did not want to delay the exploration.

“Everyone grab a lantern,” Roger said. “It’s as dark as night inside.”

Giddy with elation and relieved at his success, Roger led the way into the voluminous hall. Two rows of huge pillars supported the roof, dividing the hall into three long rows. Plinths stood between the pillars and on each sat the remains of a sculpture. Roger gathered everyone at the first of the thirty plinths.

“Let’s play a little game,” he said. “Each plinth holds a representation of a god. See the large breasts, here, and there’s part of an ample belly. Does anyone know which god this was?”

“Venus, Aphrodite, and many others generally descended from Asarte of Phoenicia,” Willard replied, sounding a bit annoyed.

“Right,” Roger quickly spoke before the scientists became impatient. “But see that the effigy was smashed and—”

“That likely happened when it was under water,” Frost snapped.

“Maybe,” Roger said. “But look at how the statue was painted with words of different languages, many of which I haven’t translated yet. I believe that when the first worshippers of Asarte took their god out into the world they destroyed the original one here.”

The scientists, especially Frost, did not look convinced.

“Who can spot the next one?” Roger asked, pointing at the opposite plinth.

The remains of a bas relief littered the plinth and the ground. Churchwood pointed to several pieces. “I see the headdresses of Zoroastrianism and a ring. This likely was Ahura Mazda, the uncreated god and lord of light and wisdom.”

“Top marks to Churchwood. Shouldn’t he have his doctorate by now?” Roger looked at Front who glared and stood with his arms crossed.

“How about the next one?” Roger aimed his lantern on a plinth that contained pieces of tentacles. Even in its reduced state, the statue raised the hair on the back of Roger’s neck.

No one could identify the effigy.

“I don’t know either,” Roger said. “At least half of them I have not been able to identify. I was hoping you gentlemen would assist me there. Let’s look at another.”

The next plinth held the remains of a statue of an old man with a long beard, wearing a long robe and holding a fan.

“By its hair I’d say Lao Tzu, author of the
Tao Te Ching
,” Frost said. “But it could be any old man. Fans like that are as common as student assistants.”

Roger winced. It seemed that lobbying for Churchwood would not be tolerated.

After showing several unknown remains of statues, Roger led the group to a winged woman, naked, standing on lions near owls.

It took several moments of looking before Willard smiled. “Kishar. This is Akkadian.”

The scientists expressed their surprise. Huxley stood with his chin in a hand, staring at the portion of the torso. “That is a depiction of a penis, drawn here, right?”

Roger agreed.

“I don’t believe that’s a fertility symbol, however. I’d say it’s pornographic in nature. These effigies seem to be defaced.” Huxley pointed to black marks around the statue’s eyes. “If the diaspora ritual involved destroying the idol before carrying the god to its new culture, then the effigies would not have been vandalized.”

Roger did not answer at first. It was a revelation. “There’s a great deal unknown. Many a career can be made here.”

Roger switched rows and moved deeper in the hall, stopping and showing a statue of Enlil, a Sumerian god of the ghost-land and then Kinich Ahau, the Mayan god of the Sun. “This is where I really see Le Plongeon’s work showing up as this is from the Western Hemisphere, a millennium before Columbus.”

They moved on and looked at the remains of a turtle statue.

“I know what this hall reminds me of,” Huxley said.

Roger turned and stared. He knew this could be a pronouncement that changed his life.

“At my old boarding school we had a trophy room,” Huxley said.

Roger wondered if the old man had become demented.

Huxley continued. “We had a small room where we put the trophies we won for sports and academic competitions, but we went a bit further than that. Sometimes we stole the mascot of our opponents, or we created effigies of the teams we defeated, especially hated rivals, and vandalized them and laid them at the foot of the trophies. We made up dirty limericks and sang songs to mock our defeated opponents. We were really quite beastly about it. Eventually our dormitory father got sacked for letting us do it.”

Roger stared, stunned into surprise. The brilliant scientist had become a doddering fool.

“Don’t you see,” Huxley went on. “The inhabitants conquered these people, and then brought back their gods here, where they ridiculed the gods of their defeated foes. This should be called the Hall of Defeated Gods.”

There was silence.

“By Jove—is he here somewhere—I think you’re right.” Frost took off his top hat and bowed to Huxley. Willard and Gildston softly applauded.

Roger derided himself. The hypothesis fit nicely. The only explanation he’d had for the graffiti was that it had happened later, after the city had fallen, but somehow before the flood. But there was still one crack in the idea, although even thinking of it made the hair on his neck stand—the small, black god.

“Excellent reasoning, sir, but there’s one idol that you need to see. It’s this way.” Roger led the party to the farthest corner of the hall. “I’m not sure in what order the statures were placed in the hall so I don’t know when this was put here. It may have been first or last. As you can see, this god was not smashed or mocked. I’m thinking it might be the original god of the people of Mu.”

Roger illuminated a plinth upon which sat a small statue of a rotund man, naked, holding his toes in his hands, a clever grin pulling up one side of his face. The black color seemed to be flat, yet shined with light at odd angles.

The scientists approached and scrutinized the statue. Most shivered.

Roger looked at the base, being sure to look away from its mischievous eyes. “I’ve not placed it. Tell me if you recognize it.”

“Unsettling,” Huxley said.

Churchwood went last, almost as an afterthought. “I think I saw this in Patagonia. Humorous god.”

“I don’t think it’s funny at all. Ghastly, really,” Roger whispered.

Churchwood squinted at Roger, looking confused.

The scientists launched into a debate of the small, black god, the purpose of the hall, and the order of the placement of effigies. Roger answered questions and joined a few discussions but he noticed that Frost kept staring at the statue and several times actually picked it up. Frost’s satchel, which had been flaccid, now seemed to be rather lumpy. He planned to steal the small, black god.

“I think the black god came last and was the one that brought down the city. They conquered a god that got back at them,” Gildston shouted over the men talking with him.

“Uh, interesting,” Roger said into the ringing silence that followed. Uncertain of what next to say, he looked at his pocket watch. “Oh my. It’s nearly tea. We need to get back. We do not want to ride the carriage over the mountains in the dark.”

Roger ushered the scientists out ahead of him. Frost refused to move and actually clapped Roger on the shoulder and pushed him ahead. “Good job, chap. This city is first rate. I might even be able to find you a spot on my staff at the university.”

“Oh. Yes. Lovely.” Roger scooped up the small, black god and placed it in the pocket of his jacket where it bulged like a canker.

The smile evaporated on Frost’s face.

“The exit’s this way, sir.” Roger led the way. Frost stumped behind him.

The scientists jabbered like school children as they marched out of the city. They peppered Roger with questions, asking for details on his excavation techniques and which textbooks he used for translation. Roger detected a pessimistic tone to their inquiries.

On the carriage ride, Frost was as pleasant as a bull that smelled a cow in heat but could not reach her. The rest of the scientists echoed the attitude and Roger vowed to rent a new coach. The scientists that had been so excited about the city were again doubting it—doubting what they had seen with their own eyes.

The trip back over the mountains echoed Roger’s feelings: Depressed at the start of the day, then his emotions soared, then back down again.

By the time they reached the hotel, the scientists had three hypotheses that refuted the claims of Mu. Willard went so far as to call the city a Roman joke built by Nero as a place to perform his theatrical shows.

While the guests washed up and changed their clothes for dinner, Roger cleaned up in the well behind the hotel and brushed the dirt from his only suit. He arrived at the dining room late to avoid the scientists during the aperitif, but Frost and Willard were already inebriated and vicious.

Frost tapped on his wine glass with his large, gold class ring until he had everyone’s attention. “I’ve figured out the whole thing, the city, the gods, all of it.”

Roger cringed. This would be a blow.

“This is the Kingdom of Prester John, the Christian city surrounded by Muslims.”

The scientists laughed. The few other guests in the dining room chuckled, pretending to get the joke. Roger wanted to run from the room but his feet would not obey his order. He felt like his blood had been replaced with lead. This was worse than his nightmare of being asked to lecture at Cambridge only to find that he stood naked before the assembly. That had been a dream. This was reality.

Willard stood and tapped his ring on his glass. “I thought I had the correct theory, but you’ve got it, old chap. I was thinking we had found Camelot and the knights of the plinths.”

Frost laughed and clapped. “No, I did not make the greatest joke. Le Plongeon did, making up that story about a mother city, which this—guppy—lapped up and spit out like Henry Rider Haggard. Come to Mu, the city that must be obeyed.”

Even though this was the only dinner Roger would get—he could not afford another—he folded his napkin, excused himself from the table, and departed. He walked the streets of Sudak for an hour before going to his room, which was barely larger than the cot, on the side of the city closest to the excavation. He slept poorly, plagued by nightmares of failing at every task or career he tried, even one as lowly as being a hauler at his own excavation where he dumped a basket of silt over a huge cliff only to see the small, black god tumble into bottomless depths, smirking the whole way.

The next morning, Roger stayed in bed as long as possible and made sure he was the last to the carriage. He had forgotten to make arrangements for a new one and so expected his luck to be even worse than yesterday. As Roger wedged in between Willard and Gildston, Churchwood covertly pointed to himself and moved his lips. Uncertain of the meaning and wishing to hide from the mocking scientists, Rogers closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

At the excavation Roger exited the carriage before it came to a complete stop, then hurried between the piles of silt toward the city. Today they would visit the two pyramids and Roger wanted to be by himself as much as possible.

Impatiently, Roger waited at the edge of the excavation of the Egyptian pyramid for the scientists to arrive. Frost came last, sneering and strolling, and staring at Roger’s bulging jacket pocket. Roger knew that Frost would not believe anything he said, today.