The Ruins of the Lost World

by C K Burch

  As he scanned the tables, his eyes set upon Jacqueline Blythe-Wight, exactly as Kalu had described her. She wore traditionally men's clothing: beige-colored slacks, oxford shoes, a brown vest over a button-down shirt, and a wide tie in a Windsor knot. Her wavy, auburn hair gently swept over her features, but was cut dramatically short along the sides and the nape of her neck. In the noon sun, her fair skin resembled silk sheets; were she to stay out in the sun for too long, Dust imagined she would look like a rose. Quite beautiful. She kept pushing strands of hair back behind her ear, which misbehaved as she wrote quickly and furiously in the leather-bound journal on the table before her. A small cup sat beside the journal, and as Dust approached, he saw that the coffee inside had not been touched. Also on the table was a map of India, which she continuously checked between strokes of her pencil on paper. Animated was clearly an understatement. And yet, no drunken, obnoxious brother in her company. That could either be a benefit or a hazard.

  He stood next to the table for a few moments, watching. She did not look up.

  Dust cleared his throat.

  Startled, Lady Blythe-Wight sat up, looked around, and promptly knocked over her coffee. Brown liquid stained her journal immediately, and landed on her trousers. “Damn!” she muttered, and she quickly stood and brushed the offending spill off of her legs; she ignored the journal.

  Dust smiled. “Sorry about that. You're Lady Blythe-Wight?”

  She looked up from her stain, and blinked. “Oh,” she spoke quietly, and then retrieved a pocket watch from her vest. “How long have you been here? Have I been ignoring you?”

  “No, not really. I'm actually late, sorry about that.”

  “Oh, thank god.” She sighed in relief, and chuckled. “Jacqueline Blythe-Wight. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister McAlan.” She held out her hand to shake.

  “Same.” Dust shook her hand. “It's a bit trusting of you to assume that's who I am. This isn't exactly the kind of transaction where one should figure they're dealing with someone legitimate, you know.”

  “I imagine that if you weren't Dust McAlan, you'd not be warning me about assumptions.” She picked up her journal and shook it to get the remaining pool of coffee out of the pages. “Also, the pulp magazines do a good job at capturing your likeness. Quite good, really, except for the chin.”

  Dust frowned and touched his face. “What's wrong with my chin?”

  “Nothing, actually, it just doesn't look as it does in the pulps. Otherwise you're quite you.”

  He almost forgot about those damn pulp writers making shit up about his adventures. Now he was going to be thinking about the size of his chin for the rest of the day. “Well, you know, for someone as wealthy as yourself it might be wise to take a bit more caution, Lady Blythe-Wight.”

  “Please, leave the Lady to the side. I'm not quite one for formalities.”

  “Jacqueline, then?”

  “Call me Jack, Mister McAlan.”

  “Dust is fine.”

  She smiled. “An unusual name, I must mention.”

  He returned the smile. “Like a woman going by a man's name?”

  “I use the name I wish.” Without a trace of haughtiness, she nodded and then gestured to the chair across from her. “Please, Mister – Dust. Please have a seat. I've a proposal for you.”

  Dust nodded as he sat, and then looked over to the sound of applause. A singer had come out to join the strings – and oh, fantastic. Oum Kalthoum, the Egyptian singer, was gracing the Santi with a performance. Dressed in a pearlescent white gown, and her hair topped above her head in her signature bun, Kalthoum smiled brilliantly and gave a slight bow of her head to the audience. As the strings wound up into an upbeat jazz tune, and Kalthoum's voice beautifully sang in Arabic, Dust noted that, however this meeting turned out, he'd at least there would be something lovely in the background to listen to.

  “How familiar are you with dinosaurs?” Jack asked. She fidgeted slightly as she fixed herself in her seat, casually touching the corners of her journal to align it with her map.

  Dust blinked. This was an unexpected left turn.

  “I'm not sure how to answer that,” he admitted. “I've put more time into studying ancient history than dinosaurs, but, you know, I'm familiar enough with them. Sort of. I grew up in museums. You see a lot of bones.”

  Jack nodded. “That's well enough. Since I was a little girl, I've been fascinated with the notion of said beasts. And I've often questioned, where did they all go? They couldn't have all died off, the way that scientists are postulating. A massive meteor colliding with Earth, killing the entire population of every single species of dinosaur on the planet. Something must have survived, I've told myself, over and over. After all, we're discovering pockets of hidden, untouched areas of the Earth with increasing frequency now that the great treasure rush is on. Wouldn't you agree?”

  Dust raised a cautious eyebrow. While he'd had a few run-ins with the ancestors of the terrible beasts, they'd been few and far between. Hearing this, he could feel the job – and the pay – slipping away quicker than he'd figured it might. “Honestly? The idea of a possible 'lost world' hidden amongst the ruins of ancient civilizations is, I mean, it's like chasing after the wind. Reach out and try to grab it all you want, you're still clutching for something that can't be caught.”

  “Yes, for the most part.” Jack, undeterred, held up a finger as she flipped through her journal. “A number of years ago, after the death of my mother, my father became more lenient in allowing the pursuit of my fancies. At this point I began to cross-reference my paleontological pursuits with that of archaeology. I've specifically researched for hidden civilizations or kingdoms or mythologies that references some sort of concrete description of paradise, in order to correlate them with my quest for the lost world. And this is how I then landed on not just my theory that a hidden corner of the world does exist, but that there is an even more valuable treasure to be captured within it.”

  She retrieved the cloth bookmark and held it outward. Dust accepted it; it had the texture of sackcloth, and had clearly been torn from some larger weave. He opened it to discover painted figures, skillfully drawn over the woven threads. This was definitely ancient: the drawing was aged, arid, and of a style that was not easily duplicated. Dust had seen many forgeries in his time and had an eye for it – this piece was as honest as the day was clear. A tailed figure with grotesque fangs held its outstretched arms towards a very clear image of Rama, his blue skin and garb revealing his status. Rama stood below the monkey-demon, holding up a jewel of some sort from what appeared to be a hollow on the bank of a river. In the art, sunlight struck the jewel, which glowed with a cobalt aura and spread rays of blue light outward beyond the demon. Below the image were lines of Sanskrit, but Dust was not versed in that writing. He mused over the possibilities of the image; clearly, Rama was gifting something of great import to a demonic figure, possibly at his burial site. But why would the avatar of Vishnu have dealings with a demon?

  “Tell me,” Jack inquired, “how familiar are you with the story of Rama?”

  “Definitely more than dinosaurs. Rama was the Seventh avatar of the god Vishnu, as is depicted in the Ramayana. He fought the demon king Ravana to save his wife, Sita, and was assisted by Hanuman, the monkey king. At least, that's what the text describes.” He tapped the cloth with his fingertip. “I recognize Rama, but this beast here is unfamiliar to me.”

  “That,” Jack said proudly, “is Hanuman, the monkey king.”

  Dust scoffed. “No way. Hanuman was never illustrated to be so ugly. From my understanding, such impressions were left to demons and evil spirits, such as Ravana.”

  “Depending on the translation or story one reads, Hanuman translates roughly into 'one with a disfigured jaw.' Now, that being said, I do believe that this offers some evidence that Hanuman was not only real, but of a species of monkey that the world has yet to see since that time.” Jack gently drew a line with her finger across the Sa
nskrit. “Lord Rama presented Hanuman with the key to Shambhala for protection. That is what it reads.” A triumphant smile crossed her face, very clearly pleased with herself.

  Shambhala, the mythical kingdom of paradise in the Hindu Vedic. Depending on how one read the good works, Shambhala was either a physical location, or a spiritual plane of enlightenment. One way of interpreting it was that the paradise of old was very much real, and the location where Vishnu would incarnate for the final time and return to the world to gift eternal life. But this, of course, was mere supposition that did not stop a great many followers of the Hindu traditions – and a number of “enlightened” Westerners – from seeking the fabled land for themselves. Personal glory, and whatnot. Dust wondered where in the spectrum of believers Lady Blythe-Wight fell. Now, to be fair, this revelation was not something that Dust was entirely surprised by; the Dhauladhar Mountains were, as he well knew, one of many possible locations as to where Shambhala was located. Walking into this meeting, he'd known that this would be a possibility, but to hold such evidence in his own hands, something he'd not heard of or seen before, well. He was, at the very least, impressed with Jack's research and knowledge.

  Dust did not take his gaze from the parchment. “You're well-read in Sanskrit?”

  Jack nodded. “I am quite. And I've taken it to an expert for confirmation. As well as other parchments that were unearthed during a recent archaeological expedition.”

  “No doubt you have.” Dust chewed on his lip as he considered the implications of the imagery. “So what you're proposing is a search for Shambhala, and you believe it to be this lost world that you've dreamed about since you were young.”

  Jack's smile grew even wider. “You're a very smart man, Mister McAlan – ”

  “Dust, Lady Blythe-Wight.”

  “Dust.” Her face flushed slightly.

  “Okay, so, for starters: I'm sure you're aware that others have searched for this sacred land.”

  “Nicholas and Helena Roerich, between 1924 and 1928,” Jack responded confidently. “And then Ernst Schafer in 1930, under the direction of the German government. In both cases, each expedition was led under, well, shall we say, less-than-accurate information. For lack of a better term, they were inferring upon the more spiritual aspects of Shambhala and were guided by psychics and stones.”

  “I've learned to not immediately dismiss supernatural sources.”

  “Perhaps. But the expeditions that have come before this one were based on, well, sources that were far less solidified than the evidence I've gathered.”

  “Such as?”

  “Physical descriptions of the city itself. Writings that detail not only the construction and workings of the city and its peoples, but the way to secret chambers which contain untold priceless treasures.” She tapped her journal with rapid excitement. “I was unable to carry all of the parchments with me here, but I spent weeks translating and copying them down. Based on the descriptions, I've drawn up a rather crude, but I believe accurate, map of Shambhala.”

  She opened her notebook and held it at the spot where her map had been sketched. Crude had clearly been a self-deprecating remark, as her gift with a pencil was extraordinary. The map was comprised of two concentric circles that rotated around a series of squares, with four towers that sat at the cardinal points. For Dust, it was worth noting the familiarity of the image.

  “You've drawn the Kalachakra Mandala,” he mentioned.

  “Indeed.” She pointed at the towers. “I read and reread and translated the Sanskrit multiple times to ensure that I was not placing my own ideas over the descriptions, but it is quite clear that this is the construction of Shambhala. Four towers that guard the inner temples and palaces, all leading to a single, central palace which houses a chamber of glorious worth. Every writing held the same words: the chamber where the Lords came to gather.”

  “What I gather is that while you've considerable and remarkable descriptions of the capital of paradise, you've only inferred there is a physical key to the location of Shambhala. But you don't have a particular destination or way to find that key. Only the Dhauladhar Mountains.”

  Jack began to speak, but then paused. “How did you know that?”

  Dust smiled. “Word travels quickly in Cairo.”

  “I see.” Jack reached into her pocket and withdrew a small object wrapped in sheepskin. “Then perhaps there is no need to maintain the secrecy of this.”

  As she unwrapped the cloth, a luminous sapphire was revealed. Oval, perfectly smooth, and about the size of Dust's palm, the gemstone was etched with Sanskrit writing wrapped around its surface. Dust gave a soft whistle of approval and admiration as he accepted the stone, and held it up to the sunlight: it was nearly translucent, with a nebulous opaque cloud in the center.

  Dust smiled. “And I suppose you're going to tell me that this is the stone that Rama gave to Hanuman.”

  “It is.” Jack smiled widely. “This was found along with the parchments I've studied in an excavation near Ayodhya, the city of Rama's birth and final resting place. Wrapped around the stone, in Sanskrit, are directions and coordinates to a very specific location.”

  “Would it be the Dhauladhar Mountains?”

  “It would be, in fact.” Jack became ever more animated as she swung her hands about, gesticulating madly. “As I said a moment ago, I realized that there could be more truth behind the Ramayana than simply the possibility of the lost world. What I'm proposing, ultimately, and what I'm searching for, is the nectar of the gods. Amrita, as it is described in the Hindu texts.”

  Dust raised both eyebrows. “Which the gods drank for immortality. Also what the demon king Ravana drank to achieve his power.”

  Jack nodded enthusiastically. “Literally, the nectar of the gods. I believe that a prehistoric insect, similar to the honeybee, crafted this nectar, and that it is hidden within the confines of Shambhala itself. The description of the hidden chamber, where the Lords came to gather, refutes this. Literally gathering the honey of life. The Ramayana describes Brahma coming down from Shambhala to gift Ravana with the Amrita. And so, I believe, that after Rama defeated Ravana, he gave the key to Shambhala to Hanuman to watch over the sacred realm, so that the Amrita might never enter the wrong hands again. And thus the hidden chamber still exists, where the bees gather and nurse their hives, the secret of immortality locked away from all.” She grinned and exhaled; she'd clearly been practicing for this moment, and appeared quite proud of herself and her research.

  Dust stared at her for a brief moment, considering this.

  “You've got a wild hunt ahead of you,” he began. He handed over the stone. “Look, let's say I agreed with what you've got here, and in all honesty you've got some pretty compelling evidence to start with. You're also looking to cover a lot of ground in one fell swoop, and that could be a very long expedition, even with a definitive starting point in the mountains. I'm not a long expedition kinda guy. I'm short, sweet, and to the point, give me my money, and I'm on to the next job.” He chewed his lip for a moment, weighing the possibilities, but ultimately shook his head. “I'm sorry, but I think you've got the wrong treasure hunter for this. Hope you find the right one.”

  As he stood up from his chair, Jack quickly reached across the table and grasped his forearm.

  “Mister McAlan, please!” she exclaimed. Her eyes were wide with desperation, and then she calmed herself. “Dust. Please. I have money. I can afford your time twice over.”

  Dust raised an eyebrow. “If you can afford my time twice over, then you could afford a whole crew of treasure hunters who'd be more inclined to spend their time potentially wandering about a lost world.”

  “But they're not you.” She took a deep breath. “There are a number of treasure hunters I could employ, but most come with unsavory reputations. You, sir, do not.”

  Dust frowned, wounded. “Yes I do, I've worked hard at it.”

  “Not the same way some of these for-hire treasure hunters are.”
She paused a moment, and made a face that said, What the hell. “I've been told that you're annoying, full of yourself, you have a knack for chaos and dangerous maneuvers, but that you're also a man of your word and you've never double-crossed an employer.”

  Considering this, he nodded. Good to know he still kept up his reputation.

  “I just need someone I can trust.” She removed her hand from his arm, her face a mask of despondence. “I do not trust my brother, whom you have yet to meet because he is no doubt drinking himself silly in the cafe. But the only reason my father has allotted me the sums to see this through are if I bring him along with me.”

  “Ah.” Dust smiled knowingly. For this, he sat down. “The daughter pursues her fancies, but the father only believes they will see fruit is if the son goes along, too.”

  Jack smiled with great restraint. “Something of that nature.”

  “Clearly.” Dust bit his lower lip and considered. Desperation often led to large sums of money spent. It also led to bored treasure hunters accepting long jobs when one could spend half the time and find twice as many clients. He felt himself torn between the two, wondering which was the lesser evil, finding himself wondering just how much of a fee the lady would be willing to consider.

  Jack saw this and leaned forward, ready to pounce. “Name your price.”