Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (26 page)

My laugh echoed their own. I came in search of wealth, and this is what I found, only in a surprisingly different form. My map was a treasure map, after all. And so, I looked at the nearly translucent man and then to his people, and I nodded.

“Deal,” I agreed.

The man paused. “A strange word,” he said, with a tilt of his head. “It has been passed down from our ancestors, but we do not know its meaning.”

I shrugged and then watched in awe as his people carted out heavy sacks of silver and gold coins, enough to fill up my buggy with, and then some. Untold riches, just as promised. And then they walked me back through the dilapidated room and up the rusted stairs. Eventually, they covered themselves in hotel sheets, revealing not an inch of tender skin, and joined me on the hot desert sand as they loaded my buggy, bag after glorious bag.

“We have your word then?” the man asked. “You will never return or tell of our god?”

“No,” I confirmed as I sat myself behind the steering wheel and looked back up at him one final time. “But one last question.”

“Yes?” he said, staring down at me quizzically.

“This god of yours, what do you call him?”

He smiled and bowed his head in reverence. “Bellagio,” he replied. “We call him Bellagio.”

=[]=

Rob Rosen
is the author of the critically acclaimed novels
Sparkle, Divas Las Vegas,
Hot Lava,
and
Southern Fried
. His short stories have appeared in more than 150 anthologies. Please visit him at
www.therobrosen.com
.

Caw Miller

=[]=

This next selection caught my attention immediately, not only by its intricate storyline, but also its clever dialogue. Dialogue is one of the most challenging aspects of writing—when done effectively, characters become vivid and “real.” When done poorly . . . well, there’s simply nothing that ruins a story faster.
The Small, Black God
captures the back-and-forth jousting intellects of a young archaeologist and a panel of scientists who have arrived at his dig site, perhaps with motives of their own. Heed this god, but consider still the following:
Well done, Mr. Miller, well done.

Caw also asked to include his own anecdote regarding this tale: “The original version of the story was set on the Black Sea coast of Turkey, but a week before the submission deadline for the anthology, a 7.2 magnitude earthquake struck Turkey and killed hundreds of people. Out of respect for the victims and their families, I moved the location across the Black Sea to Crimea. I hope that Crimea escapes the baleful glare of
The Small, Black God
.”

=[]=

As the ferry chugged closer, billowing black smoke into the sky, Roger hoped that the serpent of the Black Sea would rise up and swallow the ship, taking Frederick Frost and his band of unbelievers with him to the bottom of the sea. The serpent did not appear, though, because the beast was a mirage seen by drunken sailors, so Roger could either run away and never do archaeology again, or face the inquisition of the panel of scientists.

Roger kicked pebbles from the dock into the water as the steamer approached. He had invited his mentor to come see the lost city but somehow his enemy had found out instead. Frost invited himself, no doubt to carry out his two-fold campaign to discredit dear mentor Augustus Le Plongeon and to disprove the existence of the city of Mu, Le Plongeon’s progenitor of all historic civilizations.

The steamer ploughed closer and Roger reviewed his arguments and proofs, which coupled with his buoyant nature, convinced him that he had enough evidence to sway the esteemed panel. He would make his own fortune and clear the name of his mentor. Roger waved as the ferry tied up at the dock.

“Welcome to Crimea,” he said.

Down the gangway strode imposing Frederick Frost, his signature top hat clamped on his head with a hand against the gusting wind. Tall and broad, Frost looked more like a bare knuckle boxer than the head of the archaeology school at University College Nottingham. He had the reputation of a man who got what he wanted by whatever means necessary.

“You Marsh?” Frost asked, not extending a hand in greeting.

The man’s pessimistic expression made Roger wonder if he would ask for identification papers.

“I am.” Roger offered his hand, which was ignored.

“Show us to our lodging. The rough seas have been telling on Huxley’s delicate innards.”

Frost’s sneer shocked Roger by its intensity and gave him the impression that he was to blame for the weather. Roger nodded. This man’s opinion would be nearly impossible to sway.

“This way, please.” Roger turned and led the way up the dock to a waiting carriage. At least here, he knew that he would not disappoint. The carriage was new and would bear them to the Golden Waters, the most famous of the hotels in the resort city of Sudak.

Roger held the door to the coach as the party climbed in. He recognized the oldest member, Thomas Henry Huxley, the noted scientist who so favored Darwin’s theory of evolution as to be nicknamed
Darwin’s Bulldog
. The last member of the party was young James Churchwood, who smiled sadly through his goatee.

“Is the old Kaiser ever going to let you graduate?” Roger whispered.

Churchwood shrugged. “He feeds me well, at least.”

Roger followed Churchwood into the carriage and squeezed into the only space left, between two middle-aged men wearing the worn suits and supercilious expressions of academics.

“Introductions.” Frost pointed at the man to Roger’s right. “Theodore Willard, archaeologist. He’s studied the Maya, like your mentor, and has some questions about Augie’s preposterous claims.”

Fuming at Frost, Roger nodded to the man. Of course Frost brought with him a well-known critic of Mu. Frost also used a nickname for Le Plongeon since it would trivialize the great man.

“Uriah Gildston, geologist.” Frost pointed at the man to Roger’s left. “He’s looking forward to examining the alleged earthquake that revealed this lost city that you claim.”

“Alleged?” Roger barely contained his anger and had to look away for a moment before he could speak. “The earth shook. Buildings collapsed. A landslide blocked the river which cut off the lake. When the water drained out, the city was revealed. It was in the papers as far as London.”

“Yes, yes. You found a couple rocks stacked on top of each other and you’re claiming it’s Mu, your mentor’s fictional city that he confused with Atlantis, which was a lie told to Plato. If not for Huxley’s desire to take the waters in Sudak, this expedition would not be here.”

Roger looked at Huxley, who stared out the window blandly. “I’m grateful for everyone’s trouble,” Roger said. “You’ll find there are more than a couple stacked rocks. The architecture is varied, with Mayan and Egyptian pyramids, bas-reliefs like ancient Assyria, dolmens, and Greek pillars, showing proof of Le Plongeon’s theory that all of those cultures had a single origin culture, which he called Mu.”

Frost chuckled. “No ziggurats?”

“No. But there is a flat space that is about the right size for one matching the pyramids,” Roger replied.

“But what about your mentor’s placing of Mu in the Atlantic Ocean?” Willard asked.

Roger felt his cheeks heat in a blush. They had spotted a weak point in the theory. “Yes, well, Le Plongeon might have put the thumbtack in the wrong place on the world map, choosing the most central location, but the hypothesis is still valid.”

Frost snorted. “Yes, well. That’s the problem with Augie’s little story. I daren’t legitimatize it with the word
hypothesis
. It’s based on ideas, not facts. A resemblance of architecture does not prove a relationship.”

“But what about the sun motifs in each culture?” Roger asked.

Frost pointed out the window with a wickedly curved thumb. “The sun is the most dominant feature in every culture, including our own. You’re not going to tell me that Mu founded London, too, are you?”

Willard and Gildston chuckled.

Roger squeezed his fists so tightly that he would have drawn blood, but for the thick calluses on his hands from shoveling silt and mud. He clenched his jaw shut to keep from returning insults with Frost, likely what the bully wanted.

“Why don’t we keep an open mind about this city until we see it,” Huxley said. “Science is best served by observing first, before making decisions.”

To Roger’s delight Frost frowned, clearly wishing to continue the debate, but respectful of the elder scientist.

The rest of the carriage ride passed in tense silence. At the hotel, the new arrivals went to their rooms and freshened up, then to dinner. Roger presented Frost with the ongoing report he was writing on the excavation. After the meal, while the others sipped brandies, Roger led Gildston out into the city to look at the evidence of the earthquake.

In the morning, Roger was the first one to the carriage. To his surprise Huxley was second.

“I always sleep like a baby when I can hear the ocean,” the elder scientist said. “I figure it reminds me of being in the womb.”

Willard came next, followed by Gildston who still smiled from the earthquake evidence they had seen last night. “There’ll be more today, right?”

Roger assured him there would be much better earthquake evidence. Last came Frost, trailed by Churchwood carrying several satchels. Roger guessed that Frost had waited in his room until he knew he would be the final one to appear.

“Let’s get on with it,” Frost muttered, acting like it was a tribulation.

Once they settled in the carriage, Roger waited as long as he could before asking his question. “And what did you think of my report?”

“Oh, that.” Frost smirked. “I was busy with correspondence last night and never got to it.”

Churchwood caught Roger’s eye and mimed holding a pen then pointed to himself. Roger knew who had written the letters. Anger at Frost’s snub surged in Roger, but then ebbed away. He had expected it, so it just made him feel empty inside. Frost’s mind was already made up. If the man would just look at the city, especially Diaspora Hall, he could be enlightened. Roger felt his academic career slipping away like it rested on ice . . . or Frost.

After lunch, eaten in the cramped carriage, they traveled up a narrow road climbing the side of the mountain. Far below, a blue river twisted between rocks. The carriage stopped at the only pull-off.

“We’re here? I thought it was at the bottom of a lake?” Frost asked.

“We’re going to see some evidence of that alleged earthquake,” Roger said, suppressing a chuckle.

Frost frowned.

From their vantage point halfway across the mountain, the party looked down into a steep-walled valley filled with a cloudy lake. A landslide of boulders, whole trees, and talus blocked the valley. The river leaked out of a crack in the side of the mountain on the far side of the valley and disappeared.

“Call me a flannel buzzard if that isn’t the most obvious example of an earthquake I’ve ever seen,” Willard said. “You could put that in a textbook.”

Gildston sketched furiously on an art pad. “It will be.”

Frost snorted.

“When you have a chance, Gildston, I’d like your interpretation of this,” Huxley said.

“One moment, sir.”

The geologist finished his sketch before launching into a half hour lecture on earthquakes, the shrinking earth, and hydraulics. Roger meant to listen and learn, but Frost’s leering and supercilious expression seared through Roger’s ability to concentrate. Roger looked at the steep mountains and blue sky, seeking solace in their beauty. It was a pretty place to spend the rest of his life trolling for fish and then cleaning them, the only real job in Sudak likely open to a foreigner like him if this archaeological dig failed.

“Roger . . . ready?” Churchwood said.

Roger realized that everyone stared at him. “Of course. Back into the carriage. Time to go down the mountain now.”

“There’s no chance of that landslide giving way and flooding the city again, is there?” Willard said, clearly fearful.

“Only if there’s another earthquake as strong as the last one,” Gildston said. “Unlike lightning, earthquakes do occur in the same place twice, but they’re never as strong.”

The geologist squeezed the shoulder of the archaeologist and encouraged him to enter the carriage. Roger considered riding on the bench with the driver to escape Frost’s brooding presence, but wanted to be near the man to defend himself and Le Plongeon against defamation.

As they neared the city, Roger’s spirits rose. It truly was an amazing find that could persuade even a Neanderthal man like Frost.

When the carriage stopped, Roger could not suppress his smile. “Gentlemen, I present to you the lost city of Mu, progenitor to all culture on Earth.”

Roger followed the scientists out of the carriage, to find them staring at two huge piles of reeking, oozing silt.