Hidden Gods

by Anthony Masters

‘Asleep too.’

  Hugo reached out in the darkened interior of the Mercedes and slowly woke her.

  ‘The pyramid,’ she muttered.

  ‘We’ll be all right.’ The fear twisted in Hugo’s stomach like a live animal.

  ‘Mr Fitzroy?’ Jamal spoke gently. ‘Are you prepared? I have been praying for you both.’

  10

  The Gods in their Casket

  The Great Pyramid was majestic in the sharp moonlight. Built of weathered stone, it dominated the desert, its apex reaching up to the glinting brilliance of the stars.

  Jamal paused and then urgently beckoned them on towards the other façade, where a small metal door was let into the stone. The terror in the pit of Hugo’s stomach coiled, ready to spring. Jamal took out a key.

  ‘Follow me.’ He produced a powerful flashlight and, with rising trepidation, Hugo and Philippa followed him inside.

  Jamal shone the powerful beam around the interior. The floor of the pyramid was sandy and bare and the walls rose around them claustrophobically. There was a musty, acrid, chemical smell, and as the flashlight continued to sweep, the interior seemed even smaller. Immediately Hugo noticed the same kind of glutinous liquid he had seen in the building in the desert. Some of it was also splashed on the walls.

  ‘What is that strange liquid?’ he asked. It was not something that Ibrahim had been able to explain.

  ‘It’s called Dacta – the gods nourish themselves and then excrete this substance. Part of its chemical make-up is used in the making of the vapour.’ Jamal turned towards them, his face in shadow behind the flashlight. ‘That is their physical nature. It’s not a great deal. The rest is pure spirit’

  ‘They leave the pyramid, then?’ asked Philippa.

  ‘The Disc will take them out into the desert where they synthesize Dacta from desert plants.’

  ‘They must have gone into the Iraqi monitoring station that we stopped at’

  ‘Yes – they regularly visited the place. They were deeply concerned they were under surveillance but the Iraqis claimed it was for their protection. I don’t think they were satisfied.’

  ‘You say “the Iraqis”.’ Hugo was impatient. ‘Just how many know about this – or think they know?’

  ‘Saddam Hussein – and a few of his most trusted advisers. No more.’

  ‘And he believes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s been here? Seen the Atlanteans – communicated with them?’

  ‘He has not done this personally. But a member of his cabinet has.’

  ‘This person came to the pyramid with you?’

  ‘I had no choice in the matter. If I die – a trusted negotiator is lost’

  ‘And Hussein believes? Believes when thousands wouldn’t?’ Philippa was incredulous – and suspicious.

  ‘He believes. His advisor has been monitoring the situation for many months now. And you have seen the video.’ The old man’s voice trembled slightly. ‘What more does he need? What more do you need?’

  ‘We need to see,’ replied Hugo.

  Jamal gave his flashlight to Philippa, walked slowly to a hollow in the wall and fumbled inside. Eventually he drew out a metal casket which flashed acid green in the beam.

  ‘Please do not illuminate the interior.’

  Jamal slid away the lid of the casket and, rather like opening a child’s pencil-box, slowly revealed what was inside. Hugo’s first thought was that it was dried skin. Then he realized they were winged serpents. Jamal placed the casket reverently on the floor and crouched down beside it. One of the things had decomposed and was simply a mass of what looked like pale fronds. Hugo had never felt so afraid in his life; he was confronting a miracle – and the miracle was his responsibility. Yes – Philippa’s, too, but he knew intuitively that she had given him her spiritual strength and now it was up to him to reach out to Brent and find out what Thoth wanted him to do. That was his role, and he felt a blinding terror of where he would have to go. For if the present existence of the gods was a miracle then he would have to provide another one to assure their release. What had Turgenev said? The words flooded into his mind: ‘Whatever a man prays for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer reduces itself to this. “Great God, grant that twice two be not four.”’

  ‘The gods are resting,’ said Jamal reverently. ‘Be patient.’ He squatted down beside them, his webbed sockets wrinkled, as if he was somehow seeing underneath their pale folds. A glow of moonlight washed the sandy floor of the pyramid and when Hugo looked up he could see the closed portal. Twice two equals four? He would have to be better than that.

  The serpents had not moved, but when he glanced across at Philippa he saw she looked entranced.

  ‘Do you see something?’

  ‘Be patient.’ But it was not Philippa’s voice that replied.

  ‘What are you seeing?’

  Her face was radiant, but she made no reply.

  ‘Stop resisting, Hugo,’ whispered Jamal.

  ‘I can’t help it.’ He felt like a child left out of a game, and a wave of panic swept him.

  ‘Take my hand,’ said Philippa.

  He reached out and her flesh was as cold as stone in the desert at night. When he looked at it in the hard light, he could see a web of tiny veins. Then he saw bone.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. We’ve been together a long time, Hugo. Do you remember those days? When we watched them building this pyramid?’

  Hugo’s head spun. Now the serpents – the Atlanteans – the gods – were floating in gossamer globes above him, and when he looked back into the casket there was nothing there but dust. The pyramid was now a vast cathedral-like space, scented with balsam and sandalwood. Soft light bathed the interior, the floor was polished stone and the walls gleamed black and lustrous.

  ‘Dad.’

  Brent was walking towards him from behind a sandcastle. The tide roared, but it was retreating and the castle walls were no longer threatened.

  ‘Dad.’

  He was covered in wet sand and clasping a spade. Then he was a little older, springing up to the cliff top to greet him. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A secret’

  ‘Can Philippa come?’

  ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘At home. Can Philippa come with us?’

  ‘All right’

  Hugo and Philippa stood hand in hand, waiting for Brent to show them his secret.

  They were walking through grey darkness along a wood-panelled corridor. There was another smell now. Ink and sweat and gym shoes. School? Impossible.

  ‘Do you remember Marlborough, Dad? You should. It was you who sent me here.’

  Philippa clutched Hugo’s hand. This time her grip was warm. He saw a huge dining-hall where dozens of boys in dark clothes were eating. On a rostrum he saw men in gowns. Above them floated the gossamer globes. Sound came and went like the waves on the beach of Tiderace. The clatter of cutlery, the buzz of conversation and the relentless chant of derision, ‘Fitzroy wets his bed. Fitzroy wets his bed.’

  ‘I was bullied, Dad.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Hugo could hardly bring out the words from the deadly chill of the pit inside him, but Philippa’s grip grew tighter.

  ‘The Chamber of Records.’

  Brent sounded careless, almost matter-of-fact, and Hugo could now see that he was wearing the same dark clothes as the other boys.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘I was trapped here, Dad. I couldn’t get out – Thoth was trapped – just like the gods. Now it’s right for us all to go, but only you can find the right time.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you’re powerful. You’ve been given strength. Come on, Dad.’

  ‘Here?’ Hugo asked. ‘Why here?’

  They were standing outside a battered wooden door marked LIBRARY.

  ‘This used to be my hidey-hole – away from the bullies.’

  ‘And this is the Chamber of R
ecords?’ Philippa’s voice was distant and incredulous.

  ‘Yes.’

  Brent opened the door and Hugo saw the beam penetrating the high mullioned windows. Polished tables, book-lined shelves, magazines in a rack, newspapers in a pile, battalions of radiators, warmth and comfort. It was safe in here; Hugo knew that no harm could befall them because this was Brent’s sanctuary. He looked up to see a glass-domed skylight. The portal. His son was standing in the beam now, the glow turning him golden, giving him flaxen hair and the look of a young god, of Thoth himself.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Brent. The beam ended on a pile of books, surmounted by the Koran. As Philippa lifted it up, her hands trembled. Below was a slim volume. Macbeth, by William Shakespeare.

  *

  ‘When I read that here, Dad, I knew that this had nothing to do with me, that I was different. Eventually the reason became clear: I was Thoth.’ Brent’s voice was adult now. ‘Pick it up,’ he said authoritatively.

  Slowly Hugo complied.

  ‘Keep it in the beam.’

  Again he did as he was told. A page fell open, illuminated by strong, revealing light.

  She should have died hereafter;

  There would have been a time for such a word.

  Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

  Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.

  To the last syllable of recorded time;

  And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

  The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle.

  Life’s but a shadow, a poor player

  That struts and frets his hour upon the stage.

  And then is heard no more; it is a tale

  Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

  Signifying nothing.

  Hugo noticed a slip of paper stuck in the margin of the book. As he unfolded it, he saw the writing was Brent’s.

  ‘The other lines – they’re from Henry Vaughan. They came into my head when I saw the globes.’

  ‘You saw them,’ Philippa whispered.

  ‘Oh yes. I was sitting here in my hideaway when they drifted in with the sunbeam to tell me who I was. I could see the disc, hovering outside the window.’ He spoke with a boyish enthusiasm.

  ‘And who we were?’ asked Philippa urgently.

  ‘I didn’t know that for a long time,’ replied Brent hesitantly.

  Hugo read the words aloud.

  Oh how I long to travel back,

  And tread again that ancient track

  That I might once more reach that plain,

  Where first I left my glorious train;

  From when th’enlightened spirit sees

  That shady city of palm trees.

  At the bottom of the lines was a scrawled note: At 7.03 a.m. Sept 18.’

  That’s the day after tomorrow,’ said Philippa.

  ‘And there will be no other chance – not for another 25,000 years. They’ve hung on with the promise of the light, but already one of them has gone to dust – ‘

  Brent grinned his schoolboy grin. Hugo saw that there was ink on his cheek and one of his fingernails was broken. He longed to throw his arms around him.

  ‘Go on,’ urged Philippa.

  ‘I’m flesh and blood, Dad,’ grinned the schoolboy and Hugo embraced him. As he did so, he felt a surge of power and authority – the strength he had taken away from his son by running for cover had joined the strength he had received from Philippa in their love-making. How empty he had been.

  Brent drew away from him and then flung his arms around Philippa.

  ‘What are we to do now?’ she asked urgently.

  ‘There is very little time. You must go to Nazra and then return to the pyramid – well before the hour of the change in frequency. If you aren’t there, the gods cannot leave. There’ll be no power.’

  ‘Nazra? Where’s Nazra? Why do we have to go there? Can’t we just wait here – with you – until the time comes?’

  But already Brent was walking out of the library and through the crowded dining-hall. The meal was over and boys and masters were standing, singing to the accompaniment of a piano. Abruptly the hymn stopped and a young priest stepped on to the rostrum.

  ‘To the roof that rises over us we submit this prayer: that the gods choose to show us the path of righteousness – and not the descent into the pit. The price of this evil is too great to pay for freedom.’

  Then they were alone, hurrying down the panelled corridors, their feet making no sound, the space growing large, the walls becoming those of the pyramid. The roof soared – and they sat down beside Jamal and the empty casket.

  ‘Have you been successful?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Philippa.

  ‘Now sleep.’

  ‘We can’t sleep,’ said Hugo, but exhaustion swept over him. ‘Where is Basra? We’ve got to go there. Now.’

  ‘You will learn about Nazra – but only in sleep.’ Jamal’s voice had a complete finality to it, and almost immediately Hugo began to battle against a drowsiness that became increasingly persistent.

  He was flying low across the dunes, the wind howling in his ears, taking him on what felt like a hard, buoyant shoulder of rushing air. It was still dark but a crescent moon revolved, a splinter of light that illuminated the twisting, soaring path. Several times he saw dried-out river beds below him, and in one the word BASRA heaved and pulsated, as if each stroke was made of serpents. Suddenly the lettering began to unwind and he saw the serpents sliding towards the dunes, racing him and the wind in fast, slithering, sinewy movement. Then he saw the cluster of buildings, low, one-storey, huddled round a small oasis fringed by desiccated palm trees. Even in the darkness, Nazra had a burnt-out feel, continually savaged by blazing sun, cool now, but blistered. The dunes rose away to the west. Built into one of them was an exact replica of the compound they had discovered on the road in Iraq, but as he stared down at it the wind took him high over the top and then he was falling, spiralling down towards its interior and the serpents that were now coiled below. Struggling in their midst, their bodies split and their bellies opened as long dark tunnels. At the end of each was a video screen holding the pyramid’s image. As he crawled towards it, the screen darkened and he saw the gods in their spheres. Inside his mind the question was insistent, imploring, yearning.

  When?

  ‘Sunrise. Tomorrow. At 7.03.’

  You have no time.

  ‘For what?’

  To destroy the vapour.

  ‘The gas? You must do that.’

  We cannot. They have the formula.

  ‘All of it?’

  Yes.

  ‘Why can’t you use your powers? Don’t you realize what the gas can do?’

  The choice is theirs. The voice in his mind was very faint now.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Beyond the stars.

  ‘To do what?’

  To build.

  ‘Atlantis?’

  But there was no reply and the end of the serpent was a wall of black flesh that was fast approaching him.

  ‘The sun’s coming up,’ Philippa whispered. The wall became her face, and through the cracks around the portal Hugo saw light. For a few moments he felt bewildered, as if he should be remembering something that kept elusively slipping away. Then the beam appeared with such force and suddenness that his heart began pounding so heavily he wondered if he was having a coronary.

  Philippa stepped into the beam, and for a moment Hugo was afraid. Then he joined her. They held hands, travelling up the beam until they were near the apex of the pyramid, from which they could see vast tracts of empty rolling desert.

  ‘It’s moving,’ Philippa said. ‘The earth’s moving.’

  Still they rose, until they had left the pyramid far below and were overlooking the lip of the world – a world of shifting sand fast becoming ocean – an ocean that boiled and heaved in great dark crests. The beam pierced the waves and an island rose from the tumult. Slowly, Hugo recognized the
tiny land mass as Tiderace. Again the pyramid appeared on the cliff top. Walking towards it were three naked figures: Thoth and Hermes and Isis – the beginning of the reincarnations that would lead to the end of the Atlanteans’ time on earth.

  The beam had disappeared and the interior of the pyramid was dark, cold and desolate. Even Jamal seemed to have left them.

  ‘It happened,’ Philippa murmured. ‘It did happen, Hugo.’

  ‘Wait’ Hugo was staring up into the darkness. ‘What’s this? Another beam?’

  The gossamer globe hovered some twelve feet above them but it was impossible to see the interior. Nevertheless, for the first time, Hugo could feel their fear, could sense the doubts of the creatures above.

  ‘I’ve told you when the portal will open,’ said Hugo. ‘And I’m going to Basra. But I don’t know how to destroy the vapour.’

  We need your strength, said the increasingly familiar voice in his mind.

  ‘Strength? I’m weak. You are the gods.’

  There is great danger.

  ‘What should we do?’ asked Hugo.

  Go to Nazra now. Both of you.

  ‘I still don’t know what the hell I’m meant to do when I get there.’

  He will be waiting.

  ‘Who?’

  The globe was rising, the telepathy becoming fainter.

  ‘Will you give us strength?’ demanded Philippa.

  But there was no response.

  Hugo turned to Philippa in dismay as the iron door rasped open and Ibrahim appeared, looking as benign and as calm as ever.

  ‘You have established the time?’ he asked deferentially.

  ‘Sunrise. Tomorrow. At 7.03.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There is something different about him, thought Hugo. Something barely discernible. Instinctively he knew that Philippa felt the same.

  ‘I’ve got something for you.’ Ibrahim reached into the pocket of his jacket and then rammed the small automatic weapon into Philippa’s stomach. Hugo watched unbelievingly, unconvinced that this could possibly be happening. Soon, in a few seconds time, he would be telling them both that it was all a joke, a test, a mistake, a reminder, a frightener. That was it. He was only trying to put the wind up them, to bring them back under his control.