Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (28 page)

Churchwood raised his eyebrows at Roger and seemed to be hinting at something, but Roger launched into his lecture on the architecture, which the scientists ignored. Roger did not wait for questions and set off toward the other pyramid, ignoring the calls of the party to slow down.

A hand on his shoulder brought Roger to a halt.

“We need to talk,” Churchwood whispered.

“I just want the day to end.”

“Unless we talk it’s going to end badly for you, and still might.”

Roger looked Churchwood in the eye. “It can be worse than this? My reputation is shot.”

“Let’s pretend to examine that frieze.” Churchwood pointed to a small columned temple.

“Keep following this canal to the next pyramid. I’ll catch up,” Roger shouted to the scientists.

Not looking to see if they had heard, and not caring, Roger accompanied Churchwood a dozen yards off the main path. The mud was thick here and slippery. If he convinced the panel, he would have enough money to buy enough laborers to clean the city properly. He sighed. His dreams were dead.

Near the temple, Churchwood pointed at the script and bird symbol. “I overheard Frost and Willard talking last night. They are very impressed with this city. They don’t buy into Mu and the diaspora, but they want to excavate here, so much so that they plan to discredit you and take over.”

“What?” The news elated and shocked Roger. All the jokes and mockery were to cover the archaeologists’ envy. There really was something here if Roger could just keep it from being stolen. “Damn them.”

Needing to strike something to release his frustration, Roger smacked his thighs, hitting the side of the idol in his pocket. He pulled out the small, black god and showed it to Churchwood. “Not so humorous, now?”

Churchwood looked puzzled. “Why do you keep saying humorous with that effigy?”

“That’s what you said it was, the humorous god.”

“No.” Churchwood smiled briefly. “I said the god of hubris. Greek for inflated self-worth. What led to Achilles’s death and half the heroes of the Greek tragedies.”

“I know what it means,” Roger said. “That’s a rather different meaning than I—” Roger stared as thoughts collided in his brain. “It arrived here last.”

He turned to Churchwood. “Willard was right. I’ve got to see Frost.” Roger hurried through the mud to the cleared road, then jogged.

“Why? What’s so important?” Churchwood asked, jogging after him.

“Professor Frost, can I have a word in private?” Roger asked.

Willard checked with Frost, then walked half a dozen steps away. Churchwood joined him.

“What is it?” Frost said, glaring at Roger.

“I want you to have this, sir, for your museum.” Roger pulled the idol of the small, black god from his pocket and handed it to Frost.

At first Frost was surprised, speechless, then his sneer returned. He turned to Willard and Churchwood. “You are all witnesses. Roger Marsh attempted to bribe me with this priceless artifact to support his excavation. I declare his dissertation invalid and therefore he is unworthy to continue the excavation here. Someone should take over.”

“How about you, Professor Frost?” Willard said. “You’re the most experienced archaeologist present.”

“I accept.” Frost turned his malevolent gaze on Roger. “You are discredited and banned from this site. Get out now or face imprisonment.”

“As you wish, sir.” Smiling slightly, Roger strolled passed the beaming Willard and the stunned Churchwood.

“What? What are you doing?” Churchwood hissed.

Roger paused, then turned back to Frost. “I don’t think I’m trustworthy enough to see myself out. Maybe Churchwood should escort me out of the city?”

“Don’t be too long. We have a lot of work to do,” Frost said.

“I don’t understand,” Churchwood said.

“Just come on. Trust me,” Roger whispered.

Huxley strode forward and gestured for Roger to halt. “That was very poorly done. I’ll support you in fighting that egotistical monster.”

“Thank you, sir. But right now I need to get out of the city. I recommend you join me. Where’s Gildston?”

“He rushed on ahead.”

Striding so quickly that Huxley and Churchwood struggled to keep up, Roger pressed on until he could hail the geologist.

“Professor Gildston, we’re heading out of the city to take a closer look at the earthquake line. Maybe you’d like to join us?”

“Certainly more interesting to me than old buildings,” Glidston replied

At the next active dig site, Roger realized that he needed to do one more thing. He called over the head laborer. “You’ve all worked so hard that you should take the rest of the day off, with pay. Tell everyone you meet.”

The laborer hurried to his underlings who quickly cast off their baskets and sprinted toward the exit.

“That’ll bollix Frost for his trouble,” Huxley said, smiling.

“Yes, well, let’s keep moving. The effect seems to be quick.” Roger marched away.

“Can’t you explain this?” Churchwood asked.

“I’m saving my breath for the walk. I won’t stop ‘til we’re out of Mu.”

Laborers jogged by, many offering thanks to Roger as his small party exited the city. Outside of the victory arch, they boarded the carriage and caught their breaths. They were partway up the mountain when Gildston asked about the quake line.

“Oh. Sure. I forgot. We’ll stop in a moment.”

Roger instructed the driver where to go, then sat back in the carriage surrounded by expectant faces.

“Well? What’s this all about?” Churchwood asked.

“It stretches the imagination. I’m not sure I’m right, yet, but if I am, I just saved all of our lives.” The audience seemed to be suitably impressed, so Roger continued.

“When the committee arrived two days ago they were justly doubtful of my findings. I was justly doubtful of the committee, especially since it was headed by Frost, my mentor’s enemy. Things started out poorly, but once you all saw the city you saw how spectacular it was. I knew my reputation was made, but late yesterday afternoon I saw that Frost had been stealing artifacts and his next mark was the idol of the small, black god. To protect the linchpin of Diaspora Hall, or Conquered Gods, I took the idol. That’s when my luck turned.”

The carriage stopped. Roger led the party to the edge of the road where they could look down on the city in the valley, the closest end of the earthquake line, and the landslide. Gildston headed down the mountainside for a closer look at the scar.

“Shows how much he loves his rocks, that he’d rather look at them than hear the rest of your story,” Huxley said.

“Well, I don’t think he knows of Frost’s treachery,” Roger said.

Huxley nodded.

“By the time we were leaving the city yesterday, you all had changed your minds and were mocking me and my theory, and it only got worse after that. Thanks to Churchwood here, who really is a good man if you’re looking for a new student assistant, I learned that Frost planned to discredit me and steal Mu from me. But that’s where Frost’s partner in crime showed me what had happened, along with discovering what Churchwood had said. The small, black god is the patron of hubris, essentially revenge for ego. It was the last effigy to arrive in Mu and the city was destroyed soon after. I took the idol and my luck turned upside down. My ego being rather small, no one had to die to appease the dark god.”

“But why did you give it to Frost?” Churchwood asked.

Huxley chuckled. “Frederick has an immense ego, therefore if he possessed the idol it would bring him down, just like it did the city.”

A tremendous crack knocked Roger off his feet. The ground trembled, keeping him on his hands and knees.

“Earthquake?” Churchwood shouted.

Roger nodded. Roaring sounds drew his attention to the mountainside below. The crack in the earth widened on the closer mountain and sealed up on the far mountain. The landslide shivered, then water burst from the middle of the debris, soon eroding a channel. The lake surged into the valley, its former bed. The city of Mu drowned in minutes.

Churchwood stared, opening and closing his mouth, but no sounds came out. Huxley looked stunned. Roger sat, trembling so violently that he thought the earthquake continued.

“Frost’s ego was even bigger than I thought,” Churchwood said.

At least two men had just died, but Roger laughed. His emotions had been so twisted the last several days that he let them out, whatever they were. The great find that would have set his name among the revered of archeology was submerged, again, and out of reach. If it had been buried in rock he could excavate it, but he had no way to remove a lake or walk underwater. He was not sure that he wanted to. The small, black god was best left out of reach of humans and their egos.

A hand reached over the edge of the road.

Gildston hauled himself up, smiling like a fool. “That was stupendous. I finally experienced an earthquake firsthand. It nearly killed me, but now I can write what it really feels like.” The geologist looked at the faces near him. “What?”

Churchwood pointed at the new lake. “The city is gone.”

“Oh.” Gildston shrugged. He turned to Roger. “Sorry.”

“I expect Frost and Willard are still in the city,” Roger said.

The geologist shrugged. “They were tiresome companions who knew that archaeology is a dangerous profession.”

The men stood and watched the water eddy around its old bed, like a dog circling before lying down to sleep.

“What will you do now?” Huxley asked. “Publish your paper, incomplete as it is?”

Roger sighed. “Frost still has my report, which has many of my original sketches. It’s at the bottom of the lake now, where I hope it stays. In fact, I would like all of you to promise you won’t speak of this city ever again. I want the small, black god to stay where it is.”

The men nodded.

“What about the workers?” Gildston asked.

“I’ll tell them the truth, which they’ll embellish so much it will be like El Dorado and no serious archaeologist will ever look for the city again.”

“But this find could have made your career, landed you a professorship?” Churchwood said.

Roger shrugged. “I’ve decided to switch professions to something a little less dangerous.”

“Geologist?” Gildston said.

“I was thinking of joining the army.” Roger said.

The men laughed.

“Actually,” Roger said. “One of my classmates is digging in Egypt in the Valley of Kings. I’m thinking of joining him.”

“Aren’t you worried about the ‘Curse of the Pharaohs’?” Churchwood asked.

“I’ve looked into the eyes of the small, black god. What’s a dead pharaoh after that?”

=[]=

Caw Miller
is a technical writer by trade and is beginning the adventure that is fiction writing. He is enjoying the journey so far, seeing new vistas and even into the depths of hell, and hopes that just over the horizon is a novel or two.

Cherstin Holtzman

=[]=

Mortality is finite, but what would occur if man refused his own demise? For that matter, what about a town or an entire era? What if they simply weren’t ready to lie down when that black clock strikes midnight? Such an idea seems oddly plausible when one thinks of the cowboy-infused myths of the old “Wild West.” After all, who else inspires the phrase,
hard livin’ and harder dyin’
? Cherstin Holtzman brings us the next story,
In Eden.
Gritty and tough, this town ain’t going down without a fight.

=[]=

“Where life had no value, death, sometimes, had its price.”

—Sergio Leone, 1965,
For a Few Dollars More

The sheriff sat in a corner of the kitchen, clutching the stiffening body of his dead wife, while the sounds of small animals scurrying under the floorboards had him wondering how long it would be until they came gnawing for her. Pockets of dust floated across the wood floor in the fading light, and when he heard shuffling footsteps on his porch, he shifted his wife to the comfort of his left arm, pulling her close, aiming his revolver at the back door. The sheriff had known the West was dying for quite some time. A few days ago, he’d even mentioned it to his friend, Jed Nelson, who now, before the sheriff could pull the trigger, kicked in the door and blew him away.

=[]=

Some said they came from the dust, but that was too literal; the West just refused to die. There was a change, and the land spit them out to wander the streets, and in that moment, the desert was fertile again. The land birthed them, reanimated, and the West itself was resurrected. The town was happy, and the winds died down.

The town was named Eden, and the man walked down the middle of its hardpan street, layers of dust on his boots visible in the light of the moon. He paused once to wipe each boot clean on the back of his pant leg, but reconsidered, afraid of losing his balance or worse. Changes were taking place so rapidly within him that he could hardly keep up, and he was disturbed by the numbness in his limbs, his inability to feel pain.