Empire of Ruins (2 page)

He shifted to his left, only to see rattling branches and hear shouts. They were herding him! He dodged right, but saw a blurred white-painted face. The man leapt, spear in hand. Modo grabbed him by his necklace of what looked like shrunken heads and used his own momentum to throw
his attacker down. The man’s spear struck Modo’s mask and was deflected.

Out of the corner of his eye Modo saw the tribesmen running to either side of him, shadowy limbs and floating faces, bodies hidden by the foliage. There was only one direction for him to go. If he turned, he’d be shot full of spears in an eyeblink. They were forcing him to move forward, but to where? It was clear they were directly behind him.

Modo leapt over a fallen tree, nearly tripping on the rotted trunk. He heard a waterfall. Maybe he’d be able to dive into a pool and escape! He dashed over a flat, open area, then realized, a moment too late, that he had made a horrible mistake. The leafy ground had looked solid enough, but it cracked asunder and he plunged into a pit, shouting in fear. As he fell, there was just enough light to see the bottom, lined with sharpened stakes.

F
ourteen months earlier, Alexander King, adventurer and explorer, was clinging to sheer rock on the lowest peak of Mount Kilimanjaro when his partner casually mentioned the God Face. They were still a day’s climb from the summit. Above them were the other two snow-covered peaks, below them the surrounding African forests. The men had no intention of being the first to reach the top; this expedition was only a lark, as King had explained, something to pass the time.

It was turning into much more.

“What is this God Face?” King asked. He had gaunt, bony features, and he was working hard to hide his excitement.

“It is a skull or a mask or something like that,” his climbing partner, Josef, said.

King had known fellow explorer Josef Stimmler for eight years, had climbed with him on three different mountain
ranges on three different continents. It had taken a long time and a lot of shared wine to gain the German man’s confidence and friendship.

“The God Face holds magic. It makes your enemies, how do you English say it, mad as hatters.”

King didn’t correct him. He was actually a Canadian. His father had been British, though, and King had perfected his British accent long ago. He found that people respected him more once he dropped his colonial accent. The thought of a new treasure made King salivate. The world was running out of treasures, and he was running out of money.

“What’s the artifact made of?” he asked.

“Oh, that is interesting. The usual exaggerations. Gold, diamonds, platinum. I’m certain the British Museum would pay dearly for it, even if it were made of dried dung. Ha!”

King found a good foothold and climbed a little higher, then hammered his hook into the rock, careful to ensure that it was tight and would hold their combined weight. When he finished he looked down at his partner.

“Who told you about the God Face?”

Beads of sweat trailed down Stimmler’s forehead and face, catching in his jowls. He was far too fat for mountain climbing, King thought. There was nothing worse than seeing an adventurer becoming a bumbling middle-aged man.

“It was the old man.”

“Which old man?” King asked carefully.

Stimmler lifted a sausage-shaped finger to point southwest toward Lake Tanganyika. “The old man of Africa. There is only one.”

King nodded. He knew exactly whom Stimmler was referring to. “Thank you, Stimmler,” he said solemnly. “You have been a great partner over the years. I’m certain your discovery of the Ibis River will be remembered by future generations.” Then King pulled the Buck knife from his belt and sliced through the rope below him. Stimmler didn’t even have time to scream. A look of shock froze on his face as he tumbled to his death.

King chuckled. It was all a somewhat comical way to rid himself of a loose end. Who knew whom else Stimmler would have told of the prize? He put his knife away and tied his spare rope to the remaining section of the climbing rope with a tight knot. Then he headed back down the mountain. The descent was much faster without his partner.

After returning to Moshi to resupply, King hired two guides and began the trek into Rhodesia. He didn’t know this part of Africa well, but he’d read the newspaper accounts of the old man he was about to visit. The papers said he was the most famous explorer of them all. King snorted. What had the old man really done? Discovered a river or two, not much more. He’d never found the source of the Nile.

In the fortnight it took to complete the journey, King lost one of his guides to malaria and one of his mules to snakebite. The remaining guide led him and the lone mule to a small village, and soon King was sitting in front of a fire, waiting for the water to boil for tea.

His companion was a tall, pale, elderly man with youthful eyes. He’d been living among the tribes of Africa for many
years now. Just the thought of it made King shiver. Why spend your life with these backward savages? The tribesmen had all retired to their huts, which suited King fine.

“The God Face?” the old man asked, the lilt of his Scottish accent still present in his gravelly, tired voice. “It’s in Australia, that’s what my old friend Bailey told me a few years before he died of fever. He heard from the natives there that deep in the rain forest is hidden a great temple bulging with riches. Exaggerations, exaggerations! That’s what we thrive on, my friend.”

“Of course we do. Why did your friend not seek out the source of these rumors?”

“Bailey was a botanist. If the rumors had involved an undiscovered plant he would have carved his way there with a machete. Gold? God-faced skulls? They meant nothing to him.”

King sipped his wine. “But every once in a while there’s truth at the core of these rumors.”

“Yes, yes. And this is a good legend. I was impressed by the detail the local tribe provided. They tell of the sky falling and great spirits rising, and of how the God Face would drive anyone who viewed it raving mad.”

“But when was this ‘treasure’ last seen?” King asked.

The old explorer sipped his tea. “Oh, these tribes often speak in riddles. Was it last year or a thousand years before? The description of the temple does suggest an ancient, long-forgotten civilization. Which is odd, since we both know there were no civilizations in Australia before we British arrived.”

“Which tribe was it again?”

“The Rain People, that’s what Bailey called them. What they called themselves I cannot say.”

King filled another goblet with red wine from France. He’d brought it in his own pack, a bottle that was twenty years old now. A perfect vintage. A wine, he thought, that a man would be happy to drink on the last day of his life. If only the man weren’t a teetotaler.

“Whom else have you told?” he asked.

The old man laughed. “No one, Mr. King, no one. You, that Stimmler fellow, and no one else. It’s not worth more than a moment’s thought. The vagaries of these stories.” He lifted a palsied, blue-veined hand. “The vagaries of our occupation.”

“That’s what we thrive on,” King said softly. “Now, where would one find this vagarious place?”

“It’s in the Queensland rain forest. Bailey drew a map for me. I’ve been using it as a bookmark for years now.”

King poured more tea, and with a flick of his hand a powder fell into the old man’s cup.

“Well, it’s good to finally meet you,” he said, and handed the cup to the old explorer. “Cheers, Dr. Livingstone, I raise my glass to all your accomplishments.”

The powder was strong. King had traded a shaman two gold buttons for it. He watched as Livingstone sipped his tea. Livingstone slowly closed his eyes and his head nodded as though he were answering a question. He murmured something that could have been “the waters” or “the vines” or “Queen Victoria”; then he excused himself and retired to his tent.

By early morning the old explorer was dead, and King
was gone, but not before having retrieved the map from Dr. Livingstone’s Bible.

As King tramped eastward through the steaming jungle he read the map by moonlight. It became tattooed on his thoughts. He pushed his guide and the mule harder every day. He had to be the first to discover the God Face. He’d be on the cover of the
Illustrated London News
within six months! Every sacrifice would be worth it.

It took King another week to reach the island of Nosy Boraha, just off the northeast coast of Madagascar. He rented a room at a storm-battered hotel built on stilts. The island had been home to pirates for years, and though their ships had long ago been sent to the bottom of the ocean by French and English warships, their kin and offspring still lived there. These men and women could navigate the waters without a compass; could fight like hardened marines. And they loved to gamble.

It was this last vice that was most important to King. He’d long ago decided the only people he could trust were those who were
un
trustworthy. No sense trying to put together an expedition from London, or any other civilized city. He didn’t have the money or prestigious connections for that. But soon he’d win enough to assemble his own team of guides and workers.

He spent his time at the card and wheel tables, ignoring the beer and whiskey they served. Someone with his mind could easily outsmart these half-breed pirate offspring and castoffs. And he did win, at first. He gathered up fistfuls of cash and howled at the dimwits. But he then began a downward spiral of lost bets. He turned to the whiskey, and what followed slowly became a blur. He might have climbed
onto a table and hollered, “I’m Alexander King, the greatest explorer alive!” He might even have shouted out something about the God Face and made the laughing hyenas tremble before him.

Then one night he awoke to hear a whirring of wings and a scratching at his door. There had been no footsteps, even though he had requested a room with the longest rickety staircase in order to hear anyone approaching. He heard a screeching noise—half animal, half banshee—and he knew Death was on the other side of that door. He drew his revolver and pointed it, hands shaking. He stayed in that position, rarely blinking, until the sun came through his tattered curtains.

Sober now, he saw the paper that someone had slid under the door. Still holding his revolver, he went and picked it up.

The letter had no address, only his name. And in the upper left-hand corner was a triangle over a clock. Three neat holes, as though pierced by talons, perforated the corner. He opened the envelope. Inside were eight thousand American dollars and a note that read:
For your expedition. We ask only to be kept informed of your findings. We will contact you when you have accomplished your task
.

As he stared at the money he poured himself a whiskey and swigged it. With a smile, he smashed the shot glass on the floor.

Within a week he was on a steamship to Penang, then New Guinea, and finally to the tiny port of St. James, Australia. It took another week to organize carts and hire a red-eyed guide named Fred Land. As he downed beers, the man
swore that he knew the rain forest “like the back of me hand.” That night he disappeared with the map and several hundred dollars.

It surprised King how little the theft bothered him. The map was burning in his mind, lighting up his thoughts. He would be the first white man to gaze upon the God Face. His photo would be in every newspaper in the world.

This time he hired only Indian and Chinese porters from the poorest part of the port. They spoke little English; his Hindi and Cantonese would suffice. A guide would no longer be necessary. He was destined to find the temple.

He led his expedition westward into the rain forest on foot, ponies and a mule carrying their gear. The cart wheels broke after the second day; the ponies grew sick and died on the third. The glowing map led him deeper into the dark rain forest. The sky never stopped crying, the Indians complained. The insects never stopped biting, the Chinese moaned. Soon larger creatures were biting; they crossed a river and he lost a man to a crocodile. Even when a fever overtook him, King drove them on.

After that they wandered for days, and King began to fear he wouldn’t find the temple. Was he remembering the map accurately? But yes, it shone like a constellation in his mind.

Then, one day as he climbed a rock face, he discovered two falcon-headed statues, their features crumbled with age, marking the entrance to a cave. Hieroglyphs surrounded the open door. He stared at them, stunned. Egyptian hieroglyphics? In Australia? Now,
this
was a discovery the world would remember! Paperboys across the colonies
and America would soon be shouting, “
King discovers ancient Egyptian temple!
”

His crew wouldn’t follow him inside, so he wiped sweat from his forehead, loaded his pistol, and entered the cavern alone. There he discovered more Egyptian symbols. How had they come to be in this place? Who had carved this temple out of a mountain?