Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (14 page)

The skull had rolled to one side. She picked it up to place it back in position and a tingling shock went through her fingers and up her arms, as though the power of that person still lingered. In the flash of an instant, came a vision of a woman, with long dark hair.

Shaken, she looked around. It had to be a woman. Long gold earrings lay by the skull; an enormous gold torq circled the neck that was draped with amulets and a red amber necklace. Only the highest ancient noble would have such a torq: a powerful chief or a king, or this woman: a queen. An elaborate bronze belt, studded with coral, lay around the waist area and several fingers had iron and bronze rings. Everything appeared rich and breathtaking.

Something small and gold lay next to the skull. She picked it up—a small Egyptian Ankh! Shocked, she dropped it. What was it doing here? It made no sense.

She lightly touched the heavily ornamented end posts of the gold torq with her fingertip. They looked like deer heads. Small amber beads and something else lay beneath the torq—a leather bag, probably an amulet.

Her heart beat light and fast. Her finger-tips were cold. She felt like she had when she’d held Aubrey’s hand and thought he would die at any moment. The specter of death had floated in the air then. Something equally life-changing breathed in the air here.

She moved closer and gently blew fine silt away from the leather bag. As she lifted it in her hand, the leather disintegrated, disappearing into a puff of fine particles, revealing its treasure. In her hand lay a smooth, white, quartz stone. She turned it over. Lines were scratched on it. A spiral! She stared at it as though hypnotized. She’d seen this stone before.

It was like finding some precious heirloom you had only heard about, lost and forgotten until accidently rediscovered in some out of the way place. She looked at the stone in her hand as if she could measure it with her eyes and memorize it for all time.

Keep it! The feeling was intense. She wanted it. She’d never seen a grave object like this, or had anything that affected her so profoundly. When she first closed her hand around it, the stone was cool then slowly grew warm, its heat penetrating her cold fingertips.

It was like a living thing. She did not want to let go.

There was not enough light to draw it, and the camera was inadequate for the fine line. She could not draw it
in situ
; she would take it back to her tent and draw it there.

She wanted this stone.

All the time, she clutched it in her hand, drawing strength from its warmth.

Don’t let go. Come!

The voice again! Chills and goose bumps traveled over Germaine’s arms.

“It’s my own mind, my own thoughts,” she whispered. The small white stone in her hand was comforting.

“
And how can I be afraid of myself? I can’t be afraid of myself. It’s my own mind.” She repeated that like a mantra as she cast the flashlight beam over the skeleton.

There was a shape of something, a long cylinder, lying under one arm of the skeleton. To one side lay an array of small, covered containers. They looked like pottery. It seemed there was no end to the riches of this chamber. She felt certain it had never been plundered.

More rocks tumbled down and she jumped, suddenly afraid. Only one more thing, then she would go.

She put the precious stone in her pocket for safekeeping and then reached for the cylinder. It was about ten inches long. For a dagger? Or some special gift to take to the gods and goddesses of the Otherworld? She shook the cylinder, but heard nothing. A clever metal top with a handle covered one end. Germaine gave it a gentle pull. It was sealed tight with some dark adhesive and would not open.

Then a flash of gold caught her eye. Something long concealed by the leather bag lay under the skeleton’s chest. Dirt covered most of it. Germaine’s hand shook as she picked it up. As big as a small child’s hand, it was a gold brooch shaped like a hawk, elaborately carved with heavy lines. Filled in with dirt, the lines were like ghosts, fading in and out of the surface. She could barely make them out. She laid down the flashlight and taking a small brush from her pocket, gently brushed away the ancient soil and then rubbed the surface clean with her sleeve.

She reached for the flashlight and slowly moved the light over the surface. It gleamed under the light, as bright as the day it was made—gold never tarnished.

The heavy lines now showed as letters ... writing! Germaine gasped. Across the front of the hawk, three small words were written, and the writing was in Greek.

I AM SABRANN.

Germaine nearly fainted. She felt dizzy as the blood left her head. Her stomach hurt, as though someone had punched her.

Writing!
In a site, at a level that gave every indication of dating to the Iron Age. No one had ever found writing from that time. It was Prehistoric, Pre-Roman, Pre-anything. The only writing she knew of in England started with the Romans.

It was the discovery of a lifetime. And it was hers!

Her hand trembled as she carefully laid the gold brooch down. She took a photograph, and then felt in her other pocket for her notebook and pencil. She was going to remember this forever. She drew a rough sketch of where the brooch was found. Her hand trembled as she wrote the words in Greek script.

She found the two-way ear bud and placed it in her ear.

“Conan— I’m coming out.” Her voice was shaking. “You won’t believe what I’ve found. Its writing! Ancient Greek writing!”

There was no reply, it didn’t matter. She had a flashlight. She knew the way home.

CHAPTER 7

Germaine turned slowly around for one last look. This burial chamber belonged to her now; her discovery would change everything. She started for the passageway and carefully switched the flashlight to low, not wanting to risk the battery failing—she would crawl back in the dark if she had to. Her blood thrummed with the thrill of discovery; adrenaline raced though her body. A tall beam, the timbered roof support, stood nearby. Pieces of fallen limestone from the wall and broken clay shards lay on the floor, barely visible in the dim light.

She looked up, anxious to see the opening of the passage, and stumbled on the debris. She fell hard against the beam. Her shoulder hit the ancient wood, so fragile in this tombed chamber. The beam cracked with a sharp, snapping sound. The wood was old—no one had touched it in over 2,500 years. Then came a muted creak, as the heart of the support beam slowly gave way, bending like a broken branch with the outside bark still intact.

Germaine reached for something—anything—to try and stand. She grabbed the rough wood as the beam crumbled.

That timber had great purpose in this rich burial chamber, this place of the old Celts. With another one, on the opposite side of the chamber, it supported the roof. Its twin was already felled with age and lay on the floor in the corner, deep within shadow. Now, at last, the remaining timber broke free from the roof. A hidden roof beam sagged and broke in two with a splintering sound, like something old and tired—small, sharp snaps, with each wooden fiber giving way, one by one, until the beam collapsed.

Nothing was left to protect the grave of the woman who had been so rich and powerful in life. Nothing left to protect Germaine.

Her body shook with deep, cold chills. She pushed her hands in her pockets and felt the white stone. She grasped tight; it felt warm and alive.

As the beam fell, the world grew dark.

Germaine looked up and saw a sword turning high above her head, its bronze blade gleaming against a black sky. She knew that sword! The engraved figures on the sharp blade were running, holding their weapons high, chasing the one—now the only one—who held the wheel: the great circle of life. And she knew the sword was seeking her.

She heard the sword’s metallic, whining sound. No time left to cover her head with her arms as it came down and she felt it strike. There was no other sound, only a void before her eyes. She sank under the head-splitting rain of timber and stones, buried next to the richly ornamented skeleton.

It was death, and Germaine knew the sword had found her.

And then she was not of this world anymore.

It was cold. The only warmth came from the small stone in her hand. She knew she must never let go of it.

Her head reeled with vertigo, as she flew in a long, spiral descent. Her breath caught with the swirling motion. She fell fast, down an intricate, double helix path that undulated forever. The helix was made of delicate beads of different colors—bright green and ruby crimson, gold and a deep sapphire blue—all shimmering as she sped by. She looked down once and could see no bottom.

On either side of the helix, she caught glimpses of people. They all turned to look at her as she careened past. There was no way to focus on them for long; there were too many. They were women of all ages: some beautiful in their youth, some crones with faces full of age and sometimes wisdom. Some had faces distorted with fear or avarice, while many glowed with the joy and lightness of being.

Young or old, each looked straight into her eyes. Germaine saw each face, then swirled off and away, as a new downward curve carried her deeper on the ever descending spiral.

It was no use shutting her eyes, for then the dizziness became unbearable. She
must
watch. Some unseen force compelled her to look, to note each person, to acknowledge every one.

Finally, imperceptibly at first, then slowly, the speed and vertigo diminished. The faces now were farther apart. Their features were clearer; she felt as though she knew them.

A woman’s voice called a name. It echoed from each bead on the helix until the whole string vibrated, and the colors radiated like small suns in her dark universe.

It was her name!

She wanted to answer but then the mad rush down the spiral stopped, and there was only one face before her eyes and she knew it as her own. She was home.

She sighed as she closed her eyes.

And Germaine O’Neill disappeared.

PART II

Sabrann

CHAPTER 8

472 BC

Wolves howled a long, wintry chorus on the hill above the hut, fierce cries to accompany the ending of a mortal life. They always knew. Soon, a messenger from the gods would come and guide the soul of the newly dead away from this life.