The Lost Ark (23 page)

Chapter Fifty

We moved past dozens of stables of varying sizes. Most were too small for anything larger than a medium-sized pooch. And even they would have been miserable. I pointed this out.

“The ark was built for survival,” he said weakly. “Not for pleasure.”

“Any reason why there’s no doors on the stalls, professor?” I asked, more to draw Caesar out of the oppressive silence that had engulfed him. The old man seemed to have retreated within himself.

We moved silently forward. Our boots whispered over the smooth floor. Finally, he answered, his voice quiet and withdrawn. “Perhaps the ancient shipbuilders used thick reeds or a bamboo-like material to compose the doors. It would have reduced the ship’s weight and would have saved time and money.” As he spoke, as his mind shifted away from Wally’s death, I saw a flicker of his old self. “The lighter material would have rotted away by now. Of course, the stables on the lower decks, housing the bigger creatures, would have utilized wooden doors.”

I grinned. “Of course.”

The ship continued to make settling noises, the mighty timbers moaning in a sort of death song, as if we were trapped inside the belly of a dying whale.

We moved deeper into the ark, quickly losing what little light we had, the dark wood blended with the deepening shadows. There were no sounds other than our footfalls, which seemed to echo forever. If I wasn’t such a fearless explorer, I’d be nervous.

Finally, I stopped and removed the burned-out torch from inside my jacket and removed the 9mm Luger from my waistband and checked the clip. Three bullets left. I removed one and studied it, a brass 9mm 124 grain, jacket bullet.

“Don’t try this at home,” I said.

I used my pocket knife and
carefully
removed the bullet’s casing, somehow managing to keep my fingers from getting blown off. I tapped out a small pile of gunpowder.

“You must have driven your mother crazy,” said Caesar, standing a safe distance away as if I were a carrier of the Plague, “with stunts like this.”

“Who do you think taught me this one?” I positioned the Luger above the gunpowder and aimed it back down the hallway. “Stand back.”

“Trust me, I’m back.”

I pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed and the powder burst into a small ball of fire. I held the torch over the flame until it was lit, then stamped the fire out.

“Do you always go around defacing priceless artifacts?” asked Caesar.

“This is my first,” I said, and shoved the Luger under my waistband. It was warm against the small of my back.

My ears still ringing from the gunshot, I held the torch before us and led the way forward. “Let’s get out of here, professor. I would guess that Omar will make a run for it, perhaps back home to Riyadh to re-access the situation here.”

“And taking my daughter with him.”

I grabbed his jacket sleeve. “C’mon, old man.”

* * *

The hallway with the stables ended in a low, wooden archway. Through the archway were a series of small rooms, three in total, all connected. The professor proclaimed these to be the sleeping quarters for the ancient mariners. The rooms were ten feet by ten feet. Or, in the spirit of things, about six cubits by six cubits. Caesar and I moved from room to room, ducking through the low archways.

“The ancients were a small race,” said the professor. “In all likelihood, Noah stood no taller than five feet.”

“Cute,” I said.

“I suppose so.”

I pointed to the interconnecting doorways. “Doesn’t leave much room for privacy.”

“They were too busy for any privacy, Sam. From sick and injured animals, to battling the volatile rising waters. Indeed, they would have needed quick access to all crew members.”

The fourth room, however, was massive. According to the professor, it was the captain’s cabin. Like the others, it was empty, save for an ornately carved pole in the center of the room. Rounded and domed at the top, it could have been a phallic symbol. Perhaps, I mused, to express their suppressed sexuality over the long stay on the ship. I kept the theory to myself.

The pole was covered in intricate carvings of entertwined serpents, culminating in a single massive head. Caesar walked around the pole. “Eight bodies and one head,” he reported

“Perhaps symbolic of the eight crew members and their ship,” I suggested.

“Perhaps.”

The serpent’s eyes gleamed black. The head was unusually worn and polished, like the newel of a staircase. The base disappeared straight down into the floorboards. I had an idea.

I touched the serpent’s head. It was cold and smooth. I pulled it toward me, like shifting a gear into second, minus the clutch. Caesar gasped. Immediately, a door swung silently open in the far corner of the room, a door that had been concealed until now. Faint green light issued out.

“Appears Noah had a secret room,” I said.

Chapter Fifty-one

It wasn’t quite a room.

Instead, we stared silently down a long, breath-taking hallway. We could have been two Viking warriors standing at the threshold to Valhalla. An arched cove ceiling gave the corridor visual and physical height. Dark wooden columns, spaced evenly along either side of the hallway like rows of alert sentries, were capped with saucer-shaped capitals, reminiscent of the Greek Doric pilasters. Between the columns were massive floor-to-ceiling murals that emitted a green, phantasmagoric luminance. The soft light cast our shadows behind us, and for the moment, the torch was unnecessary, although I was reluctant to extinguish it.

“What do you think, Sam?” said Caesar. I could hear his tongue scrape over his dry lips.

“I think this is some weird shit.”

“Shall we go in?”

I was reluctant. The flickering torch seemed to lap the air with renewed enthusiasm, like an eager puppy. “How did Noah feel about trespassers?” I asked.

Caesar looked at me, arching an eyebrow. “You think it might be booby-trapped?”

I shrugged. The walls continued to glow, as they had done for a long, long time. The torch whipped crazily in my hand, although I didn’t feel much of a draft. Black smoke billowed up from the flame, smelling vaguely of burnt hamburgers at a Fourth of July picnic. I think I was hungry.

“It may be our only way out,” urged Caesar.

“A valid point.”

“And soon the snow will cover the ark entirely, including us, just as Omar had hoped.”

I thought again of Liz Cayman. I thought of my life here in Turkey, the years wasted in mourning. Omar had stolen much from me. I gripped the torch until it shook in my hand, knuckles white. It was time to end his madness.

“C’mon, professor,” I said, stepping into the glowing hallway.

“What about booby-traps?”

“We’ll take our chances.”

* * *

There were no poison darts or trap doors. At least not yet.

Our footsteps stirred the ancient dust into billowing clouds, ghosts awakening from a deep slumber. The green light refracted off the dust motes and exploded into something surreal and dreamlike, shifting and churning, surrounding us in a sort of green aurora borealis. The color touched everything, bathing us completely, transforming our clothing and skin. We looked like two giant tree frogs. Even the professor’s teeth glowed green. I’m sure mine were no different.

As the dust settled, we stood before the first mural, which rose from floor to ceiling, perhaps ten feet tall. It depicted a lush landscape. Rolling green hills. Long green grass blowing in the wind. Even the sky had a blue-green glow. On the hills were scrawny cattle, vastly different from our scientifically bred and genetically enhanced beasts. Some of the paint had flaked away, revealing the dark wood beneath. To my untrained eye, the painting seemed to have been done simply, although expertly contrasting light and shadow. A sort of harbinger to the late Nineteenth Century impressionists. The brush strokes were short, quick and bold. I sensed it had been created in a burst of inspiration, with little forethought.

I rubbed my grizzled jaw. “What do you think, old man?”

“Rather well done,” he said.

“Rather,” I said.

“The artist was before his time,” said Caesar. “It belongs in a museum, or at least on my living room wall.”

“I think Noah would have something to say about that.”

The columns were spaced evenly, framing each mural, and sculpted in bas relief by a master craftsman. The scene on the first column was one of a mighty river surging over boulders, wending its way through the countryside. Large trees, perhaps cypress trees, crowded the banks. Birds sat on the branches of the trees. Gargantuan ferns hung out over the water, as predators, such as wolves and jackals, patrolled the undergrowth. A boy stood knee deep in the river and washed what appeared to be earthen pots. Another fished along the river bank, pole held loosely in his hands; he could have been asleep.

“Somebody had a lot of spare time on his hands,” I said.

“Good point,” said Caesar. “Taking the biblical story of the Flood at face value, the crew was on board the ark for over a year. With that said, I would suggest these masterworks were created while
on
the sea voyage, as I note a sense of longing for what was lost.”

I sensed it too. The painting on the opposite wall was of an old woman amidst a flower garden, wearing a patchwork collection of tattered clothing. She was hunched over a row of purple chrysanthemums. Rather than rendering the old lady in minute detail, her chubby form was merely implied; the artist chose instead to concentrate on the effects of light and shadow, contrasting the primary colors of red, yellow, and blue, with the complements of green, purple and orange. The brush strokes were side by side, rather than overlapping. The result was pure, verdant energy—the colors exploding across the wall in a visual orgasm.

“I’m sensing a pattern here,” said the professor. “Other than being a masterwork of impressionistic painting—five thousand years before the impressionist movement began in France—these paintings appear to be a sort of homage to earth and nature.”

“Or eulogy,” I said.

Caesar shrugged. “Also, the murals and carvings could have been therapeutic. Talk about your rainy day blues.”

The next pillar depicted jagged mountains. Again, the craftsmanship was unrivaled. Grass swayed in the wind. Near the base of a mountain, a farmer moved behind his mule, plowing deep furrows into the earth. Birds soared overhead, out-stretched wings catching the light of the setting sun. Deer, ibex, antelope and something that looked amazingly like a unicorn bounded along the many animal trails. There were no predators, and again life seemed to be celebrated.

Caesar said, “There is more going on here than just a spontaneous, undetailed rendering of simple life. There is a love for life. A love for the simple act of living. Perhaps even a tribute to life.” He paused. “But there is one thing I don’t get: how is the paint glowing?”

I thought about that. “The base for the paint may be pigments extracted from phosphorescent lichen, combined with linseed oil for added adherence. Of course the cold of Ararat would preserve it perfectly, perhaps even glowing to this day.”

“But why use glowing lichen as a base for the paint?” Caesar asked.

I shrugged. “What better way to enhance your requiem for Mother Earth?”

Caesar inhaled. He seemed to want to reach out and touch the painting. He managed to control himself. “Truly a miracle,” he said.

“At this point, professor, I’ve lost sight of what is a miracle and what isn’t.”

Next was a portrait of a striking woman. Hair hidden behind a shawl, she was robed in many colorful layers of heavy material. The bones of her face seemed both fragile and strong. Lips full and unpainted. Her eyes were not just green but
Earth
green. The color of new grass. Budding leaves. Moss on a tree.

“Naamah, I presume,” I said.

“I certainly hope so,” said the professor. “Otherwise Noah has some explaining to do.”

We were silent, staring at the woman who stared back at us. I said, “Do you think Noah was the artist?”

Caesar inhaled. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

There were more paintings. More columns. We saw scenes of family life, community life, workers plying their trades. But as we neared the end of the hall, we sensed an ominous change, from the innocent to the carnal. Drunken brawls. A public stoning of two children…then we came upon the next mural.

It was a massive public orgy. And detailed at that. Caesar leaned forward, hastily wiping his glasses. His face turned a shade redder than a turnip. “Rather imaginative,” he mumbled.

Hundreds of bodies were contorted and writhing and gleaming with sweat, men and women sprawled across the furs of bears and oxen, men vastly outnumbering the women. No orifice was left unviolated, no man or woman left wanting. As a whole, they could have been one endless, undulating serpent of flesh. They appeared to be in a palace, or perhaps a temple. Gleaming fixtures surrounded the room, and golden human-like statues stood regally off to the side, impassively watching the heaving masses, perhaps the only items left unmolested in the room.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly through my nose. The painting was disturbing. Most involved in the orgy seemed unwilling participants. Indeed, some were even bound, although not gagged.

“I can’t say the women are exhibiting the same looks of sexual glee as the men,” I said.

“And even some of the men seem a bit repulsed,” added the professor. He tilted his head and raked his beard with a single index finger. I think his glasses were fogging up. “Limber bunch.”

“So what do you make of it, professor?”

“Makes Sodom and Gomorrah look like a carnival ride.”

At the end of the hall we came to the final mural. It showed a starry night above a field of green meadows. It could have been “Starry Night” by Van Gogh. The grass was bent as if blown by gale-force winds. And yet there was something quite ominous about the painting.

“Do you see it?” asked the professor.

“Yes.”

A blazing fireball streaked across the sky, followed by a long, burning tail. The fireball seemed to be on a direct course with Earth. We were silent, digesting the information portrayed in the painting.