Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (16 page)

I continued to wait. He stopped. Something in the tone of my silence got through to him.

“That’s impossible,” Jenkins said, and the first dark glimmer of what we were in for washed over him in a distasteful bath. He said again, “That’s impossible.”

“I know,” I said dispassionately.

Jenkins came over and looked at the skull. I noticed he didn’t pick it up. He dismissed the matter, just as I had eleven days ago. “It’s too developed to be that old.”

“I know.”

Jenkins paused. He looked at the skull. I could almost see him counting the years. Every bit of training from high school geology to his training at this institute denied what was before him. “That’s impossible,” he said with less conviction.

I was barely audible. “I know.”

Jenkins broke his gaze from the skull and looked at me. “Man, oh man. Have you been up all night with this thing?”

“Mostly. Since it arrived, really. Eleven days,” I said, rubbing my eyes. I got off the stool and stretched. “I caught little naps. It stared at me with that implacable grin, even in my dreams.”

We looked at it. It scornfully defied us with that brain cavity as big as our own, leering at us with those tiny teeth in that impossibly evolved jaw.

The coffee boiled over. I strolled over and turned it off. Jenkins wouldn’t need any. He was awake now. I casually wiped up the spill with a paper towel as he looked over the computer printouts of the carbon dating runs I had verified four times. He flipped the sheet away with a loud rattle. He didn’t even look at the chemical dating reports. He knew what they said. He bit his lip and thought a moment.

He tried again. “So it’s wrong. Some weird soil composition leeched the carbon out at an advanced rate of decay, making this skull seem two million years older than it is. This is probably Jimmy Hoffa’s skull.”

I showed him Josiah Thibert’s letter. As he skimmed it, I told him what was in it, more to hear myself—anyone—speaking. Anything to drown out the scornful laughter echoing down time’s misty, dank corridors.

“It was found in a pit with other skulls of the same age, below the flood strata, a pit in a dig with fossils around it all consistent with the era. All the other skulls were as undeveloped as the time frame suggests. Barely Homo erectus. Low ape-like foreheads, large gorilla-like jaws, fangs and diminished brain pans; presumably undeveloped cortices. All except our friend here.” The skull grinned, as if with pride.

Jenkins pursed his lips. He started to say something a few times, then went back to the pursed lips. Finally, he got it.

“That’s im—what you’re saying is, two million years ago, we had a fully developed Homo sapien running around with a bunch of monkeyish Homo erecti.”

“That’s about the size of it. Unless Josiah is playing a huge prank on us. Not a common practice for a Nobel Laureate who didn’t want to hire you because your tie was too loud.”

Jenkins paused. “Two million years . . . a brain . . . “ It wouldn’t catch in his head. “That’s impossible.”

“You keep saying that,” I pointed out.

“I know,” he fretted.

I poured a glass of water. I sipped.

“The last time evolution got knocked on its ass this hard was
Piltdown Man
. And that took
how
many years before the hoax was revealed?”

I took another sip, telling myself to let him talk it out, let him get to it on his own.

He walked over to a chart, showing a timeline and evolution down the various branches of the human family tree. “Evolution isn’t steady, we know that. Plateaus and spurts. Couple of gaps here and there, a missing link or two.”

He looked at the chart, as if willing it to come to life and agree with him.

He turned to me. “But until now, they’ve all had the courtesy to wait their turn in line. No one skipped to the front of the line two million years early.”

I waited. He was almost there. I wasn’t gonna do it for him. Not the first leap. Once he took the first one, I’d hit him with the second one, and that would make it all easier. He and I had to be on the same page for me to do it.

“What we have here—if this is really real, we have positive disproof of evolution.”

I smacked my lips. “Yup. Either that or we have proof of time travel,” I added with casual mischief. I shrugged, but this was just a curve ball for Jenkins.

“I mean—or time travel, yes. Aw,
man
.” He confronted the enormity. “Man oh man. Either way, we’re in a lot of trouble.”

The skull leered smugly.

Jenkins began pacing. “Well thanks a
lot
. Great. Freaking great. So what do we do? If we publish this, we’ll be lucky if all they do is laugh at us.”

I smiled and pointed at the poster above the coffee pot. It showed a picture of Galileo appearing before a Papal Tribunal. “Every idea goes through three stages to acceptance. First it is ridiculed, then it is violently opposed, then it is accepted as having always been true.”

Jenkins just quietly shook his head. His words were quiet, too, at first. “We can’t break this. We can’t be the ones to break this. We’ll become saints, heretics, mad prophets. Josiah—just mailed us the coup of the century.” He stopped. I looked up.

He breathed. “I don’t want that,” he said.

I turned away.

“I didn’t sign on for that kind of glory ride. I don’t want to be a heretic.” He took a breath and continued, “I don’t want to be a heretic, I don’t want to be a mystic, and I sure as hell don’t want to be a saint.” He looked at the skull, but addressed me. “Do you hear me?”

With his thumbs on its temples, he asked the skull, “Do
you
hear me?” He broke contact and came over to me. “And why was it just a pit of skulls? That’s too weird. This guy and his buddies must’ve had bodies under those skulls. Where’d they go?”

“Josiah doesn’t know anything about this society or its burial rituals. We just discovered it three months ago.” He looked at me, demanding more evidence. All he got was, “Africa’s a big continent.”

“Oh thanks.”

I took a conciliatory tone. “There’re probably hundreds of unknown proto-cultures within two hundred miles of this dig. If the civil war breaks out again we might even lose what access we have.”

Jenkins threw his arms up. “And boy, how convenient for our hoax, the papers’ll say. Great.”

“I know,” I said.

“We have to do something,” Jenkins said.

“And what do you suggest?”

“Let’s send it somewhere else. We’ll have to let others examine it anyway. Let them break it.” He looked at the skull.

I spoke what he was thinking anyway. “That’s what Josiah did.”

Jenkins pursed his lips. “Yeah. Okay. And?”

I pursed my lips. I looked at the incredibly dark and deep sockets of the skull. If it had had eyebrows, they would have been raised.

“And so we’ll try not to be tormented too much after today,” I said, as I brought the hammer down on it.

The skull seemed to be smiling.

=[]=

Speaking of ancient rituals,
Curtis James McConnell
is technically BB King’s half blood-brother. He has also been to all fifty United States and ventured into Canada and Mexico.

Folly Blaine

=[]=

“Touching” is not typically a word selected to describe a work of dark fiction or horror, yet that is how I strangely thought of this piece. Written through correspondence to his wife, we find our protagonist to be cynical and scornful, yet also filled with sweet fondness for his spouse . . . and for other creatures. The author, Folly Blaine, welcomes you to
British Guiana, 1853
, in which a paleontologist searches the jungles for “a living relative of Megalosaurus or Iguanodon.” As the expression goes though . . . be careful what you wish for as you just might find it.

=[]=

1 March

My Dearest Ysabel,

The
Whitby
sailed into Georgetown late due to rough weather, yet Mr. Joseph Sutton graciously arranged to meet me at the dock upon arrival. Mr. Sutton, you may recall, is the gentleman who first spotted the mysterious creature in the Stabroek Market and requested the British Museum conduct a formal scientific inquiry. If only the skull hadn’t gone missing in transit, or if only there’d been more than those few rough sketches, my superiors would have recognized the implications as I did and honored the request. Imagine, being handed the opportunity to study a living relative of Megalosaurus or Iguanodon in the dark heart of South America. Think of the fame awaiting the man who makes those fossils breathe!

But the crown lies heavy, as they say. I alone grasped the potential. And now the burden falls upon me to tender proof.

Returning to the subject of Mr. Sutton, due to our late arrival he excused himself to attend to other obligations. However, he generously referred me to his man, Azco, to act as interpreter and guide during my stay. As it was a market day, Azco brought me to the stall where the creature had been discovered. Unfortunately we learned the Indians, whether through ignorance or hunger, had consumed all remaining evidence of the beast before it could properly be catalogued. Azco asked where we might procure a replacement and the natives, at first, demurred. I’m afraid I was forced to bribe them with the belt you gave me last Christmas Day.

I consider it a small price to pay for wisdom gained: greed is the same in all cultures of the world.

Darling, do not be angry. I retained the two handkerchiefs you embroidered for luck. I would never part with those.

The Indians reported finding the beast near a wall of stone about three days to the south by boat and a half day’s walk from the Essequibo River. Azco believes the men were lying to elicit more trinkets. Regardless, I plan to mount an expedition and charter a boat on the morrow.

I will see these walls for myself.

Ysabel, I thank you once again for obtaining the necessary funds from your father for this voyage. You are a most loving and steadfast wife who understands with perfect clarity that one man’s intuition is as great as another man’s knowledge. I only hope to repay your father with a discovery worthy of your faith.

2 March, Dawn

Ysabel,

I am bundling my letters to post together. As you may imagine, once we breach the jungle interior, communication will be difficult.

I miss you terribly.

2 March, Evening

Despite Azco’s increasingly sour attitude, I have decided he should remain on staff. I find his aboriginal insights useful, his interpreter skills unmatched, and I do not wish to slight Mr. Sutton’s generosity. I have relented in one way to his vocal misgivings: Azco insists we need more supplies. Today has been wasted hiring horses to take us to the village where our canoes will launch. An obstruction in the river forces us to walk part of the journey normally traversed by water.

Our party consists of myself, Azco, six Indians, two horses, and numerous containers for holding the specimens I am sure to find. The horses are malnourished creatures. I doubt they’ll last two days hard walking.

My excitement grows in leaps and bounds when I think this is the same jungle that fed my insatiable imagination as a child, reading Charles Waterton’s
Wanderings in South America
. These hot, green lands are a waking dream.

3 March

Ysa,

The Indians are of a curious stature, small and dark of skin. They move so quietly, I think shadows must flow through their veins instead of blood.

We are committed now, travelling along well-worn paths between Georgetown and the nearest village, whose name I can’t pronounce. Even on these constant roads, the jungle threatens to reclaim its own. The men slash the vines and creepers back with practiced strokes. In general, these Indians appear to be peaceful. I have only seen them wield their weapons against the vegetation. Still, I keep my distance.

As I predicted, the horses can barely carry supplies let alone a person. I am forced to walk in their stead, so that they might draw the attention of any predators. I am told predators are a grave concern in this area, however do not fear, dearest Ysabel. These precautions are sure to keep me safe and whole.

With regards to the smallest and most pervasive nuisance in the jungle, the mosquito net I wrap myself in nightly keeps out the worst of the insects. Their buzzing remains an ever present distraction, but I have found a solution.

Ah, Ysa, you will find this amusing, no doubt. The creatures of the jungle squawk and hum so loudly, and I am so starved for respectable music, I’ve made a game of calling the noise my
symphony of discord
. To pass the lonely hours when other men sleep, I conduct these savage musicians with a swoop of my hands and trill of my fingers, anticipating their next braying crescendo.