Ancient Echoes (37 page)

He stood. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

She walked to the door. “Yes, well, I’m sure PLP is one of
many who contributed to Professor Rempart. Considering the terrible turn this
has taken, I do not expect my name or that of PLP to be associated in any way
with Rempart, his disappearance, or his strange pursuits. Do I make myself
clear?”

Jianjun nodded and left.

THAT AFTERNOON,
MICHAEL was alone at the stables.
Earlier, the village men took the
others away to work. His arm felt much better already, and he wondered about the
poultice Ben Olgerbee had used.

In the distance, he saw Ben Olgerbee walk by.

The word “wizened” came to mind to describe Olgerbee, a
small, thin man who walked with a stoop, his chest concave.
Wizened
cheeks.
Wizened hair.
Wizened...Michael thought
of a similar word.
Wizard.

Something made him decide to follow the man.

Past the stables, near the fence that circled the village, a
trap door lay flat on the ground. Olgerbee opened it and descended steep steps,
then lit a torch and shut the door behind him.

Michael waited until he thought Olgerbee might have walked
away, and then opened the door and hurried into the dark, narrow tunnel. When
he shut the door behind him, he saw only a faint bit of light in the distance.

Michael hurried to catch up to Olgerbee, whose torch led him
through a dark, narrow tunnel away from the village. Michael grew increasingly
more claustrophobic with every step. Fifteen minutes passed before they stepped
out of the tunnel near a steep, rocky rise.

Tucked away behind tumbled boulders along its base was the
entrance to a cave. Olgerbee went inside.

Michael waited. He expected Olgerbee to come out any moment.
When he didn't, Michael inched closer.

He didn't expect to be able to see much at all in the
darkened cave, but to his amazement, torches fastened to the stone walls lit
the way.

Michael crept along the wall until the tunnel opened to a
wide room.

Olgerbee sat on the ground, eyes shut as if meditating.
Before him lay pure gold nuggets.
Numerous
nuggets.
Piles of them.
A
fortune in them.

Idaho had seen a few gold strikes, but most had been mined
out. Michael saw gold the size of one and two inch river rocks, smooth as eggs
and oval shaped. He couldn't even imagine where such gold had been found. It
couldn't have been veins of gold ore, but must have been from some river to
have been worn so smooth, but he'd never heard of panned gold being that size.

“Who's there?” Olgerbee cried. As he roused from his golden
reverie, he glanced about in suspicion.

Michael didn't move in hopes Olgerbee would assume the sound
came from one of the many creatures that walked the forest and caves.

When Olgerbee stopped listening, Michael quietly backed out
of the cave and hid near its mouth to wait for Olgerbee to leave.

He didn't have to wait long.

As Olgerbee headed back to the village, Michael snuck into
the cave.

Alone, the gold looked even more wondrous, the quality and
quantity more unbelievable, than he'd imagined.

He truly understood why people considered it the most
perfect of all metals, and why, in every civilization, it had been valued and
often used in worship.

A small golden box lay in the back of the cave. The box,
about one cubic foot, reminded him of a tabernacle—where Catholics house the
consecrated host—with doors that opened from the front to reveal the contents.

A simple hook and eye clasp with no lock held the double
doors shut. He opened it.

Inside he found an old, grimy bowl made from some thick
metal, possibly iron. He lifted it out. It felt heavy, the inside coated with a
sooty substance, and looked quite poor and cheap among all this gold. Why
someone put it in a place of honor was anyone's guess. It’s slightly sulfuric
odor told him nothing.

Under the bowl lay some sort of book. The cover seemed too
grow warm at his touch…as if there were a connection between him and this book.
His heart pounded.

When Charlotte told him about
Book of Abraham the Jew
,
she said it was bound with a cover of brass, and written on some sort of
delicate rinds.

He opened the cover and found the leaves weren't paper, not
even parchment, but could well be what Nicolas Flamel described in his
writings.

The first page had greatly faded writing on it, a very
stylized script that formed words in classical Greek. Michael had studied both
Greek and Latin.

Upon the first leaf, written with large albeit faint gold
capital letter, he read, “
Abraham the Jew, Prince, Levite...
”

This was it!
The book that had been
rumored about for centuries, argued over, sought…and here it was.

He carefully turned a page. The leaves felt fragile. He
feared the material might crumble in his hand.

Some pages were filled with writing that would take time and
effort to translate. Others were painted with symbols—the god Mercury, a
Caducean rod with two serpents, an old man with an hour glass and a scythe,
flowers, dragons, griffons, a rose tree, a king, infants, mothers weeping at
the feet of soldiers, and on and on.

It made no sense to Michael. Maybe this was why a scholar of
the Kabbalah had been needed.

Time passed quickly. He put everything back the way he had
found it. He knew he had to get back before anyone realized he was gone and
where he had been. Yet, here, in his hands, he had held the knowledge that men
sought for several millennia. And walking away from it was difficult.

THADDEUS KOHLER SENT Brandi and
Rachel to the community house to prepare lunch for the village men, but left
Melisse alone in the field where the women had dug tubers all morning. The day
was crisp and cool, but Melisse's cheeks were flushed and
a
sheen
of perspiration covered her skin from the effort of digging into
the hard ground. He stood before her.

“You must hate men for what they did to you,” he said, feet
wide and hands on hips.

She looked up at him and then stood, rubbing her hands
against her cargo pants to brush away the dirt. It didn’t surprise her to see
him, not after the way he'd looked at her in the community house that morning.
“Those men were the enemy. I hated them—and we killed them before we left the
area.”

“So you don't hold such brutality against my sex?”

“Yours isn't the only sex capable of brutality.” She thought
about how much to tell him, how useful it might be to have him as an ally.
Very useful.
“In fact, I have a child.
A
daughter.
Age five.”

His brow lifted.
“And a husband?”

She let her gaze slide over him slowly. She'd known better
looking men...and worse. It wasn't the first time she used a man's weakness to
survive. “I have no husband,” she said. “As for the father, I don't know where
he is. We didn't get along
all that
well.”

He regarded her curiously. “Why?”

She met his gaze steadily, and when she spoke, her voice
sounded husky. “He was weak.
Too weak for me.”

He took the iron spade from her hand. “Do you think to lull
me with your tempting words and sultry looks and then put this blade between my
ribs as I come to you like a lamb?”

She took back the spade and then tossed it on the ground.
“You're no lamb, Kohler. And my thoughts about you were far different from
that. But now”—she shrugged one shoulder—“I've changed my mind.”

She walked away, but when she reached a stand of aspen, he
stopped her and held her arm. She let him.

“You claim to like me now?” He adopted a mocking jeer.

She stepped backwards, deeper into the trees. “Like you? Not
hardly. I don't trust you.”

He moved closer. “How can you not trust me? You've seen
these men. I’m the one who controls them…so far.”

Disgust filled her face, and her next words were calculated.
“So far?
And here I thought you were strong.”

She raised her chin as if daring him to come nearer. He took
up the dare, so close she could feel his breath meet hers. Then, as if his hand
had a will of its own, he reached out and touched her cheek, her neck, her
collar bone. “I saved you,” he said, his voice a raspy whisper, “from the
beasts, from a branding, from the others. And now, it is I who
have
become a prisoner.”

“A prisoner?”

“To you, woman!
My own men mock me
for my weakness.”

“You lie,” she sneered, and placed her hands on his chest.
“Everything you say is a lie. You feel nothing for me.”

He put his arms around her. “Am I lying now?”

“What will your men say?”

“They mean nothing. You want this as much as I do.”

“I don't.”

“Then why is your breathing heavy, your heart racing?” His
hands spanned her waist then jerked her hips against his. “If you truly wanted
me to walk away now, I would know it.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders. “I despise you.”

“As I do you.
And I could have
killed you time and again, but I didn't. Tell me that's a lie, too.” He kissed
her ear, her neck, but as he sought her mouth, she turned her head from a
peculiar smell, almost of decay, that seemed to emanate from him. His hand went
to her breast. “Tell me,” he said.

She ran her fingers through his hair, then gripped and pulled
it tight enough to inflict pain, enough to heighten his desire. “We both lie,”
she whispered.

He emitted a deep growl and pushed her to the ground. He
hovered over her and unfastened her trousers. She began to unbuttoned his
shirt, but had only opened two buttons when a gold necklace with a red pendant
stone slipped free. “What is this strange jewel you wear?”

Shocked, he drew back.

“Is it a gift from a lady friend?” she purred. “Or something
you stole.” She took the stone in her hand. It felt warm, and began to glow.

“No!” He jerked it away from her, sitting up as his eyes
leaped from her to the stone. His face filled with conflicting emotions of
desire and horror.

“What is it?” She demanded as she sat up.

“Nothing.”
He stood and rebuttoned his
shirt, hiding the stone once more. “Get back to the community house. You need
to help the others prepare supper.”

He turned toward the forest, then stopped and faced her
again. “This between us,” he said, “is not over.”

She remained seated on the ground, puzzled over what had
just happened.

“HOW LONG ARE WE going to wait?”
Nose threw his dried jerky on the ground. They had spent another night doing
nothing but watching and waiting, and now the morning was nearly over, the sun
moving high in the sky. “I’m tired of sitting on my ass. This food is for shit.
I say we go in, kill those weirdoes with the bows and arrows, find what we
need, and get the hell out.”

Hammill frowned; he didn’t like his men speaking their minds
that way, but he wasn’t surprised it. The men felt spooked, and that made them
angry. “Okay, hot shot. Tell me how we get out.”

“Right back the way we came,” Nose said. “I’m sure there’s a
way.”

“Fuck,” Fish said, which meant he agreed.

“And if the plan craps out, then what?” Hammill asked. “You
think those bozos stick around with their thumbs up their asses because they
like it here? No one lives this way by choice. Think with your head, man, not
your stomach or your dick. We’ll wait.”

He didn’t admit to the others, but he thought that since
Charlotte Reed got them here, she should be able to get them out. He didn’t
want to take the chance of killing her. He didn’t like being superstitious, but
he was. She had become a totem to him. She’d stayed alive in spite of his best
efforts. There had to be a reason for that, and he saw it now. To kill her
would be unlucky. To keep her alive would bring him luck. And they needed luck.

His conviction was confirmed when his scout gestured for him
and the others to see what was going on. Three of the villagers led Charlotte
Reed and Lionel Rempart. Hammill and his men followed. Each carried the silent
hope that Charlotte Reed would show them how to leave this hell when the time
came.

When they finally reached the pillars, Hammill admitted the confused
expression on Charlotte’s face made him unhappy. The Professor brought out some
big, elaborate book and kept looking from the book to the pillars also worried
him. With a jolt, Hammill realized it was the book he’d been sent here to
steal. But now, he couldn’t take it. Not if it held the key to getting out of
this place.

If it did, however, the key didn’t fit the lock because
Charlotte and the professor kept shaking their heads. Finally, they sat down on
the ground, the book in front of them, and began to read it together.

Hammill hoped his men didn’t feel the same sinking sensation
as he did, or he’d have a complete mutiny on his hands, one that could be
dangerous even for him. He’d have to act before that happened. Maybe if they
captured Charlotte Reed and placed a knife against her scrawny throat, she’d be
inspired to get all of them home again.

That was what they needed to do.

Charlotte and the book, together.
Why wait?

But what if he was wrong?

o0o

“How am I supposed to know how to open the gateway?” Lionel
complained to Charlotte as they sat at the top of the mound facing the pillars,
The Book of Abraham the Jew
on a cloth before them.