The Buried Cities

by James Frey

  CHAPTER 6

  Ariadne

  I fully expect to die.

  As I fall through the darkness, I do not scream or cry out for help.

  I look up at the faint, bluish glow coming from the opening above me. It is like looking into a blue eye, an eye that watches me without blinking. I marvel at the ingenuity of the people who built this place. Whatever is hidden here, they did not want me to reach it. I am only sorry that I have failed in my quest. Also, that I will never see Boone again.

  Then I land on something not entirely soft, but also not the hard rock or pointed spikes I expected. The force of my fall pushes me down; I choke as something fills my mouth, and at first I assume I am in water. But this is thicker somehow. I fan my arms to slow my fall, then head back up. My body is floating on some kind of liquid, and I smell a strange odor. The breath has been knocked out of me, so it takes a moment for me to realize what it is: oil. It’s unpleasantly slick on my skin, and it clings to my clothes. When I can breathe properly again, I splash around in it, seeing if I can touch the bottom. I can’t. Curiously, I have managed to hang on to my flashlight, and I shine it around.

  I am just in time to see a massive mechanical arm swinging down toward me out of the blackness, its hand clenching an unlit torch. The torch breaks the surface of the oil with a splash; then the arm is still.

  I run my light up it until I see where it is connected to one of the walls in such a way that it can move up and down.

  At first I don’t understand its purpose. Then it occurs to me that had the torch been lit, the oil in which I am swimming would now be on fire, and I would be burning with it. It’s yet another deadly construction, and I have survived it only because the torch for some reason failed to light. A lucky break.

  Just in case, I need to get out of the oily pool as soon as possible. I shine the light around until I see a ledge of rock. I swim over to it and pull myself out. I kneel on the rock and look around. In front of me I make out a narrow doorway in one of the smooth walls.

  From above me, Brecht’s voice breaks the silence. “Are you alive?”

  It’s a perfectly reasonable question, but it sounds so ridiculous that I laugh. “Yes,” I call back. “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s an easier way down?” he shouts. “A set of stairs, perhaps?”

  “I don’t see one,” I tell him. “You’re going to have to jump. Use what’s left of the rope to go as far as you can, then let go. And don’t linger at the end, or you might lose your head.”

  “How reassuring,” he says.

  As I wait, I inspect the doorway. Given that every new leg of the journey has presented an opportunity to be maimed or killed, I have no idea what to expect next. There is nothing extraordinary about the doorway at all, no carvings or decorations. It’s suspiciously uninteresting. Which is exactly what makes me fear it.

  A moment later, a small splash causes me to turn around. Kelebek is sputtering and choking in the pool. Then she is swimming over to me. Not long after, there is a larger splash as Brecht too makes the plunge from above. They swim to the ledge where I’m standing, haul themselves up, and try to scrape as much oil from their bodies as they can. I point out the stone arm dipping into the pool.

  “Whatever they used to set the torch ablaze must have dried out over the centuries,” I say.

  “Fortunately for us,” Brecht says. “That would be a most unpleasant way to die.”

  “Was the other box guarded this heavily?” I ask Brecht.

  “No,” he says. “Although I suspect it had already been taken from its original hiding place, as we found it with some other artifacts. I must say, I prefer that kind of archaeology.” He looks up. “We can’t go back, so I suppose we have to go forward. I wonder what else they have in store for us.”

  I indicate the doorway. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  We approach the opening, and I peer inside with my light. Beyond it is a small, round chamber approximately three meters across.

  As in every other room we’ve seen, the walls here are smooth rock.

  However, in this one there are rough metal rods about 30 centimeters long sticking out of the walls at random places beginning about two meters up. I shine the flashlight beam around and see that the walls extend upward with no visible ceiling. It’s as if we’re standing at the bottom of a well.

  In the center of the room is a solid block of stone. On top of it sits a metal box.

  “Do you think that’s it?” Brecht asks. “It’s roughly the same shape and size as the other one.”

  I wonder if our search has finally come to an end. But I sense that there is danger here, too. An unseen threat that lurks in the darkness. What might the builders of this hidden city have in store for this last challenge?

  Suddenly, Kelebek darts past me and into the room. I call out to her, but she ignores me. She runs to the box and puts her hands on it. I freeze, waiting for something terrible to happen. But nothing does.

  I grab her arm and pull her back.

  “I was only looking,” she says.

  Brecht comes in and also examines the box. As he runs his fingers over it, there is a soft clicking sound. Circular openings appear on each end. Brecht bends down and shines his flashlight inside.

  “There appear to be handles inside,” he says. “You must reach in and turn them simultaneously to release the lid.”

  Before I can tell him not to, he puts his hands into the box.

  I hold my breath. Just because we can’t see the danger doesn’t mean it isn’t there. I have a bad feeling about this.

  “Just as I thought,” Brecht says. “The handles inside turn. Like so.”

  He makes twisting motions with both hands. There’s another click.

  But no lid rises. Instead, Brecht grunts.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Something has closed around my wrists,” he says. “A band of metal.” He tries to pull his hands free, but they’re stuck.

  There’s another click, and this time Brecht cries out in pain.

  “They’re tightening,” he says. Again he tries to pull them loose, to no avail. He tries to lift the box from the block. “It’s fastened somehow,” he says.

  A moment later, blood begins to drip from the openings in the box. Brecht howls like an animal with its leg in a trap. More blood appears, flowing quickly.

  “My hands!” Brecht gasps. “It’s cutting off my hands!”

  I hear a sickening crunch—the sound of bones being broken. Brecht wails. Kelebek grabs my hand, and I feel her trembling. But there’s nothing I can do. Brecht is screaming wildly now as the machinery of the box eats away at his flesh and bone and muscle. Then he pulls his right arm away. A stump emerges from the box, the end raw and bloody. A knob of bone protrudes from the ravaged meat, and blood sprays thickly from the severed artery. He pulls his left arm out and it too is maimed. He cradles his ruined arms to his chest.

  Then the top of the box opens to reveal a familiar-looking, smaller box, the twin to the one we already have in our possession. Before I can think twice, I reach inside and snatch it out. I don’t even try to open it, but tuck it into my pack, still dripping in Brecht’s blood.

  Brecht is breathing heavily, but has stopped screaming. He sinks to his knees as blood pours from him. He’s going to die soon. There’s nothing I can do.

  “It seems they needed one final sacrifice before giving up their treasure,” he says.

  I kneel beside him and try to tend to his wounds. But before I can begin, there is another sound, a hissing. I look up. Kelebek is standing below one of the metal spikes that protrude from the walls.

  “Gas,” she says, sniffing.

  Brecht looks at me. “Go,” he says.

  “Where?” I say.

  He looks toward the ceiling. “Up. Climb the spikes.”

  Now the final trap makes sense. By removing the thief’s hands, the builders removed the one chance he might have of surviving
. Opening the box to reveal the contents was meant only to show him what he had given his life for. But I still have my hands.

  “Go,” Brecht says again. “Now.”

  I stand up and run to Kelebek. Lifting her under the arms, I hold her up until she can grab the lowest of the iron spikes, which I now see have holes in the ends for the gas to pour out of. “Climb!” I yell at Kelebek. “Climb as fast as you can!”

  She begins to scale the wall, reaching for the next spike above her and grabbing it. She is just tall enough to get from one to another. As she begins her climb, I turn back to Brecht. As I do, there is a scratching sound, and the lowest spike bursts into flame. I jump away so that it doesn’t ignite the oil that still covers my body.

  “You can build it,” Brecht calls to me. “Now go!”

  I have to leave him. I leap up, avoiding the burning spike, and grab the next. My fingers are slick with oil, and I almost slide off. But I manage to hold on and pull myself up. I reach the next spike just as another blossom of fire opens between my fingers. Somehow, the spikes are timed to erupt in sequence. For anyone climbing too slowly, it would mean a painful ending.

  I look up and see Kelebek moving steadily but slowly. I call out to her to hurry, then follow my own advice. We will have to climb a very long way to get back to the surface. If the chamber even goes that high.

  It could be another trick, a final horrible ordeal meant to torment anyone lucky or clever enough to get this far.

  It occurs to me as I climb that whoever hid the weapon and its plans here wanted to provide a chance, however small, of success. Had they wanted to ensure the death of anyone entering the gauntlet of traps, they easily could have. But after each trap there has been a way of escaping. Perhaps they hoped a worthy champion would someday come along. Am I that person? I have the treasure. However, I have it only because Brecht gave up his hands and his life for it. Had he not done so, would I be the one bleeding out on the floor below?

  More of the spikes are now breathing fire, and the heat is rising all around me. Now there is smoke, too, which burns my lungs. I cough, then push myself to climb more quickly. Soon I am right below Kelebek, whose shorter arms and smaller size make it more difficult for her.

  “You can do it!” I say to her. “Climb like a monkey in a date tree!” The heat and the smoke become more intense, and our bodies grow more and more weary, but we keep climbing, as if we are escaping the mouth of hell. The skin on my hands burns. My eyes sting. Every muscle in my body screams out for me to stop. But still I climb.

  Eventually, I notice that the chamber is growing narrower, closing in on itself until it is barely two meters across. This forces the smoke rising from below to grow thicker, and it becomes more and more difficult to see or breathe. I am grasping for spikes, grabbing whatever I can find. I pray that Kelebek can do the same, and with every pull upward I fear I will either find her collapsed and hanging from a spike or hear her fall past me.

  Then, like a miracle, I feel a breeze. We are approaching open air! This gives me renewed determination, and I force myself to climb some more. My blistered hands scream for mercy, but I give them nothing. Then I am out. Hands are pulling me up, away from the smoke. I roll over onto my back and look up at the stars. Then I see the face of Yildiz looking down at me. She pours fresh, cool water into my mouth from a flask. I choke, then drink deeply. Nothing has ever tasted so sweet.

  I sit up. Kelebek is sitting not far away. Her face is grimy with oil and smoke, but her smile is triumphant. “I told you she was worthy,” she says. At first I think she is speaking to me. Then I realize that her words are directed at Yildiz.

  “We call it the devil’s chimney,” Yildiz says, nodding at the hole from which we’ve just emerged. “Only the one who can beat the devil escapes it.”

  I don’t understand what she’s saying. Did they know about this? But before I can ask any questions, she says. “Come. We need to go. There are others here.”

  “Others?” I say.

  The old woman nodded. “Two,” she says. “One like the boy. One like you.”

  “Like me? You mean she looks like me.”

  “Like a mirror,” she says.

  Cassandra. Cassandra is here. How, I don’t know. But I am not surprised.

  “Where’s Boone?” I ask Yildiz.

  She smiles down at me. Suddenly I feel overwhelmed by fatigue.

  Unnaturally tired. I look at the flask still in Yildiz’s hand. “What have you done to me?”

  “Sleep,” she says. “You will see him soon.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Boone

  I wake up curled on the floor with my hands tied behind my back.

  I pull against the ropes, but they’re knotted too tightly, and all I manage to do is make them cut into my wrists. My thoughts are still foggy, and I shake my head, trying to clear it.

  “Do not struggle,” a man’s voice says.

  We’re bobbing up and down, and at first I think that I’m on a boat. Then I notice the flame. I look up and see something large looming overhead like a black moon. It’s a hot-air balloon.

  “Who are you?” I ask, my voice thick and raspy. “Where are we going?”

  “Soon,” he says. “And do not try to get out of the ropes. I will kill you if I must.”

  I shut my eyes and try to remember. The last thing I saw was Hicks lying on the floor. But there was something before that. Something important. Then I remember. Bilal. The one-eyed boy. He was standing behind Hicks, holding a tube to his mouth. A blowgun of some kind. That’s what the stinging in my neck was, a dart, tipped with a sedative, apparently. I assume Hicks was knocked out with the same thing. But where is he? And where is Ari? And Cassandra?

  The man piloting the balloon is whistling. The sky around us is still dark, and I wonder how long I’ve been out, how long we have been sailing through the night. And, of course, I wonder where we are going. Does this have something to do with the Minoans? Or is someone else also involved? I have many questions, and no answers.

  I try to rest, to conserve my strength for whatever is coming. The man’s whistling goes on and on, and I wish he would stop.

  Not long later, I feel the balloon begin to descend. Then there’s a slight bump as we land on something. The man jumps over the side of the basket, then returns and pulls me to my feet. I climb out, which is difficult with my hands tied, and find myself standing on what seems to be a platform carved into the side of a mountain. There’s a doorway in the rock, flanked by burning torches.

  And we are not alone. A man stands in front of the doorway. He is very old, with a beard that reaches to his waist. He looks like someone I would see selling dates in a Turkish marketplace, or sitting on a stoop, smoking. When I step closer to him, though, I see that his eyes are clouded over. He’s blind.

  “Welcome,” he says in English.

  “Who are you?” I ask. “Where am I?”

  “My name is Doruk,” he says. “And you are at the eastern gate of the Mountain of the Star People.” He looks at the man who piloted the balloon, who is standing beside me. “You may untie him.”

  The man moves behind me and works the ropes loose. As soon as my hands are free, I rub my wrists to get the blood flowing back into them. “Why am I here?” I ask Doruk. “And where is Ariadne?”

  “The others are being delivered to their gates,” Doruk says.

  “Others?”

  “The four of you,” he says. “The ones who attempted to find the treasure hidden in the underground city, and the ones who came to stop them.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “Ari went looking for the weapon. Did she find it?”

  Doruk shakes his head. “There was no weapon,” he tells me. “Not in the buried city. Nor is what you already found a weapon. It is not even part of one.”

  Now I’m really confused. “Then what is it?”

  “A test,” Doruk says. “Designed to find someone worthy of taking the real weapon. Clues to a larger
mystery.”

  What he’s saying starts to sink in. “You’re telling me that the pieces and plans we have are worthless?”

  “Not worthless, no. But not what you believed them to be.”

  “People died for those things,” I say. “My brother died. The scientist who guarded them died. Other people too. Good people.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Doruk says.

  I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with why I’m standing on the side of a mountain. At the moment, I’m trying not to think about everything that’s happened because of the plans that Doruk is now telling me aren’t actually plans.

  “There is a weapon,” he says. “A weapon of enormous power. I am part of a group whose lives have been devoted to keeping that weapon hidden, safe from those who would misuse it. For centuries, our people have kept its secret, waiting for someone to come claim it.”

  “Great,” I say. “Well, here we are. Didn’t Ariadne find whatever was hidden in the other place?”

  Doruk nods. “She survived the ordeal, yes.”

  Hearing him say this, I find myself smiling. I knew Ari would do it. “Then didn’t she pass the test? Shouldn’t she be given the weapon?” Doruk says, “There is a final test. The girl bested our traps, and did so admirably. She won the chance to compete for the bigger prize. Now she must best her enemies. Or, perhaps, they will best her. And you are being given the chance to help her, or to win the prize for yourself, if you choose to turn against her. Each of you will enter the mountain through a separate gate. You will find your way to the center, where the thing you seek is hidden.”

  “A race,” I say.

  “Not just a race,” Doruk answers. “No one can reach the center on his own. You may have to assist your enemy in order to advance, or ask for assistance yourself. Whether you survive what awaits you inside depends on your ability to choose wisely.”

  “Do we get any weapons?” I ask him.

  “There are weapons of various kinds to be found inside,” he says. “But your greatest weapon is yourself.”