The Sphinx Scrolls

by Stewart Ferris

  Michel shook his head. If it hadn’t been for the earnest expressions of the company in which Ruby found herself, she would not have been able to take this seriously at all.

  ‘Ruby,’ Michel said, ‘look at it. Just look. Forget your prejudices. Forget your education. This thing once flew.’

  ‘Well, of course it has a vaguely streamlined shape, I suppose, and those stubby bits could have been wings before they were crushed, but it’s nothing like any aircraft I’ve ever seen. I just assumed any weak resemblance was coincidental. It seems to have all the aerodynamic properties of a pebble.’ She looked long and hard at the artefact, but still couldn’t picture it in the air.

  ‘Its systems are vastly different to those of our modern age,’ Michel continued. ‘The aircraft did not use aviation fuel as we know it today. They had a source of power which we understand in theory, but have not yet been able to put into practice. Philipe has been studying it, and hopefully – if this example is as intact as it appears to be – this could move our research forward considerably. You are aware, are you not, of the principle of cold fusion?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m familiar with cold fusion. The theory, that is. No one’s been able to crack it so far.’

  ‘And you are aware, no doubt, of the low levels of radiation emitted from this craft. They are nothing to worry about, but there are clear signs of a weak source of radiation at the heart of the structure. This aircraft had as its power source – as I expect to be able to prove very shortly – a cold fusion engine. A lightweight form of nuclear power.’ He trailed off briefly to let his words sink in, but Ruby simply continued looking at him, mouth slightly open in a less than dignified way. Inside her head, a desperation to believe was battling with the hard-headed scepticism of the professional archaeologist. Her face showed the maelstrom within.

  ‘Such an engine is capable of producing almost limitless power without the risk of overheating and without the subsequent problem of disposing of radioactive water used in the cooling process,’ continued Michel. ‘It was safe and incredibly efficient. I have been privileged to examine fragments of such power sources before, but I have never had the opportunity to dismantle and catalogue an entire self-contained system. I think that is what I will find when we dig further into this vehicle.’

  ‘How come we never managed to crack the problem at Cambridge – er – or any of the world’s top universities?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Michel. ‘My guess would be that our thinking has evolved along different lines to that of the ancient people. They simply tackled the problem from a perspective that we haven’t thought of. It is that perspective I hope to discover. Who knows what other problems it may solve for us?’

  Ruby’s science head returned.

  ‘When I checked the aircraft over with the Geiger counter, I got two different types of readings. There was one specific source, but also a much weaker reading everywhere else, and a different sort of radioactivity.’

  This was Philipe’s speciality, and he was visibly chagrined at the revelation that Ruby had carried out her own investigations.

  ‘You are correct in your observations. I need to do more tests before I can hypothesise in an informed way,’ he told her coldly.

  ‘What do you expect to find in other parts of the, er, aircraft?’ she asked the team in general, scarcely believing she had actually said it.

  ‘There are many systems involved in a machine like this one,’ replied Michel. ‘We don’t know for sure yet, but I expect to find engine management systems, radio systems, possibly some kind of radar since there’s no evidence of a human pilot. There should be a life support system for the passengers, some kind of landing gear if it landed in the normal way, which we have yet to ascertain. The dissimilarities are a matter of evolution. The ancients evolved a technology that could do the same as ours, but in different ways. Their science didn’t evolve through Copernicus, Newton, Galileo, Einstein, like ours did. They would have had their own scientific forefathers, their own constrictive religions, their own day to day problems that needed solving and their own military requirements.’

  ‘The discovery of all this ancient technology did not surprise me,’ said Professor Lantier. ‘I was in Baghdad, before the first Gulf War, on an invitation to examine some clay pots that dated back about two thousand years. Each one was about six inches high and contained a copper cylinder. The cylinders had been soldered with a lead-tin alloy, and their bottoms were capped with copper discs and sealed with bitumen. A further bitumen layer was used to seal the top of the pot and to hold in place iron rods suspended in the centre of the copper cylinders. The rods showed evidence of having been corroded by acid. What I held in my hand, in effect, was an electric cell, capable of discharging a current of one or two volts, and it was contemporaneous with the time of Christ.’

  If he expected his words to be received in stunned silence, he was disappointed. The Baghdad batteries were well known curiosities, and everyone present had read or heard something about them.

  ‘They found jewellery that had been electroplated, didn’t they?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘I suspect that was the main use,’ Lantier replied. ‘One cell was found at a house that had belonged to a magician, so again, we have a clue there. Perhaps he created whizz-bang effects to impress an audience. What is also likely is that they were used to provide electric lighting.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Michel, jumping in enthusiastically. ‘There is much evidence in history and in the Bible that the ancients possessed electric lighting. The book of Genesis, for instance, translates the word tsohar as window in reference to the source of light within Noah’s Ark, and yet in other parts of the Old Testament it is translated as brilliance or a brightness. What the mediaeval translators cannot have realised is that it most probably refers to electric lighting.’

  ‘What always impressed me,’ said Ruby, eager to show off at least a little first-hand knowledge, ‘is that in many Egyptian monuments and ruins there are no signs on the walls of any burn marks or soot from lanterns or torches. I hadn’t given it much thought before, but if they could electroplate jewellery, they could certainly produce smokeless light from their electric power.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Michel. ‘I understand that there are examples of Egyptian hieroglyphs that suggest the use of a sort of electric light bulb, with a cord running from it. Again, this is something that I believe is not an Egyptian discovery, but rather the faded memory of a past knowledge, kept alive by a small number of people for a short period.’

  Ever since her misguided involvement in the Antarctic project, Ruby had sought to rebuild her reputation by avoiding the world of esoteric pseudo-science like the plague. Now she had to come to terms with the horrible, embarrassing realisation that they were on to something after all. Years of trying to disassociate herself with the likes of those who dared to question the tenets of a monolithic archaeological establishment had come to an abrupt halt. On the plus side, assuming there was no fakery involved and everyone eventually accepted humanity’s new historical timeline, she would reach a superstar status in her career. It gave her a splitting headache.

  She walked to a cupboard to look for painkillers. As she opened the door, a stranger clipped her peripheral vision. She swung round to see a mountainous young man in gaudy bright clothes, T-shirt riding up over rolls of pasty flesh. He looked around the hangar in an unfazed, almost leisurely fashion, seeming to find the ancient aircraft insufficiently fascinating to merit more than a glance.

  He then waddled into full view, saying, ‘Hey! You guys wanna doughnut?’

  Ruby shook her head as if to dislodge yet another surreal situation from her mind. How could there be an American doughnut delivery boy in the middle of the rainforest? Even more curiously, despite their overly grand gastronomic philosophising, all four Frenchmen couldn’t wait to tuck into the young man’s stale doughnuts.

  ‘The door was open,’ the visitor said with what he hoped wa
s an innocent smile. ‘Hey, you guys archaeologists?’

  Paulo took him by the arm and led him to one side.

  ‘You should not be here. This is government property.’

  ‘Jeez, man. I only wanted to offer everyone a doughnut.’

  ‘How did you get past the soldier at the gate?’

  The American shrugged indifferently.

  ‘Is Rula Towers here?’

  Visibly startled, Paulo pulled himself together.

  ‘Nobody of that name here. I suggest you find some tourist to sell your doughnuts to.’

  ‘Look, there she is!’ he cried, looking over Paulo’s shoulder into the hangar. ‘I’m a big fan. Would she like a doughnut?’

  ‘You can’t possibly have known she was here.’ Paulo seemed to hesitate, and instantly the fan powered into the hangar, hand outstretched.

  ‘Wow! I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you! This is amazing. Can I, like, shake your hand?’

  He held out his sweaty, sugar-encrusted palm. Delicately, Ruby shook it, then subtly wiped her hand on the seat of her shorts. Gross though he was, she was quaintly flattered to have a fan. Archaeologists tended not to have too many groupies.

  ‘I saw your Egypt series. Bummer about the scrolls. I’m Charlie.’

  Paulo now enlisted help from Michel to deal with the Charlie problem. Each man grabbed one of Charlie’s arms.

  ‘Wait,’ said Ruby. ‘What are you doing at Tikal, Charlie?’

  ‘Oh, we’re working on a dig.’ He waved one pudgy hand as if to take in the whole of the surrounding jungle.

  Charlie was staring unblinkingly at her and had even started to dribble. Not the best sort of fan to start off with, she mused.

  ‘Well, Charlie, it’s been great meeting you.’

  Paulo and Michel escorted an unresisting Charlie to the exit.

  * * *

  The stone seat was concave, worn down by backsides that for five centuries had sought rest in this public place in the centre of Chichester. It was also draughty, but the octagonal Market Cross of which it was part made Ratty feel at home. ‘Draughty’ was, after all, the most common word used by visitors to his house when later asked about their experience by inquisitive friends. The architectural style of the Cross was also familiar to him: vaulted stone arches that framed a perfect view. In this case, the view was of West Street, with a hint of cathedral to the side and a large dollop of bell tower dead ahead, and framed by rows of Georgian townhouses converted for modern use by solicitors, dentists and publishers. At Ratty’s home, the mediaeval wing was connected to the Georgian section by a vaulted hallway that was partially open to the elements and frequently provided a view, to anyone of sufficiently sturdy disposition to want to enjoy such a thing, of storm clouds rolling menacingly across the hills. So this truly was a perfect environment for Ratty to ponder what ‘The stone fidelity They hardly meant’ could mean. He could have done this from the comfort of his hotel room at the top of North Street, but here he felt connected to his home and to a long, complex sense of history.

  History, thought Ratty. The telling or writing of a series of events. The human story. It was not complete. Not reliable. History was the story presented by the winning side – a distorted tale, skewed and spun to give a desired context to carefully selected facts. Past reality was made unreliable by the agendas of those who chose to recount them. An historian could make a reader think Winston Churchill was either a hero or a war criminal depending on how words were chosen and arguments structured.

  Things done in the past were done for a reason, and that reason was not always correctly interpreted by people living centuries later. Was that what Ruby was trying to tell him? Was the Larkin poem saying that the effigies in the cathedral were originally intended to mean something other than how they were interpreted today? Was the knight not designed to lie hand-in-hand with the damsel? Was this arrangement merely a schmaltzy flourish on the part of a Victorian stonemason charged with repairing two damaged, armless, separate effigies of unknown origin? Had history been rewritten by those actions, obscuring the truth behind incorrect interpretations? He was close to understanding the poetic weapon that Ruby had used upon him. Very close.

  The phone in his pocket started to vibrate. He withdrew it and glanced at the screen – a debt collector trying to contact him for the fifth time today. Each time he saw that number he turned into a nervous wreck, shaking almost as much as the phone. He rejected the call and stood up, remembering the plan he had devised to help him cope with the challenges that lay ahead. He needed to toughen up. Building physical and mental strength required daily exposure to situations that would test him and push his boundaries outwards, little by little. For that reason, he had blown yet more of other people’s money in the hurried purchase of gym equipment and had made enquiries regarding martial arts tuition in his home. Bruises and aches would fade into muscle. Nervous exhaustion would fade into confidence. Lacklustre underachievement would fade into success. Old Ratty would permanently fade into New Ratty. And it was New Ratty who was destined to fulfil the work begun by his alcoholic ancestor.

  To this end, he had already made call after call in an effort to hire the finest tutors in Shropshire – well, the finest of those who were prepared to accept post-dated cheques – to provide private tuition in practical archaeology, Mayan history, Mayan language, Spanish language, self-confidence and flirting skills. The idea of taking self-confidence lessons filled him with fear, but he guessed that was the whole point. And the flirting tuition was just as important to Ratty as any of the other subjects. Without flirtation there would be no wife, and with no wife there would be no successors to admire his forthcoming greatness. Each cog was a vital part of the machine.

  Tomorrow he would receive delivery of the best ground-penetrating radar system illicitly borrowed money could buy. He needed to learn how to use it efficiently, quickly, quietly – like it was an extension of himself. The tool would help him find the greatest treasure on Earth, not to mention a key that had been missing in the grounds for generations and which meant there was a room in his home that he had never entered.

  * * *

  Back with his companions, hiding in the deep shadow of the outer wall of the hangar, Charlie related his experiences, with a little embellishment.

  ‘I took out these goons single-handed – ker-pow! Rudi was in this cell, naked and in chains. I had to bite through them ...’

  ‘Shut up, Charlie,’ whispered Matt. ‘And it’s Ruby, not Rudi. What really happened?’

  Relinquishing his fantasy with unconcealed reluctance, Charlie reverted to a normal voice.

  ‘She’s in the hangar. You can go on in, but there are guards, up the track. We can’t let them see us.’

  Matt was unnerved. This had all been too easy. Charlie showed no sign of concern on his chubby face, but his square-jawed Kennedy-hairstyled companion, Brad, was clearly ill-at-ease. The two students were already jeopardising the completion of their PhD research, and the help that Matt had so far received from them had gone way beyond the initial generosity of a ride to Tikal in their kombi van. He couldn’t expect any more of them. This next part of Ruby’s rescue mission would have to be carried out by him alone.

  He crept closer and cautiously observed the movements of the guards. When he was certain their attention was elsewhere he signalled to Charlie and Brad to wait just outside the main door while he edged silently into the hangar.

  It was impossible for Charlie to follow any kind of order, however. He tried to imagine himself in a James Bond tux, gun in hand, ready to go back into the danger zone. Fantasy took over and he sidled his corpulence into the hangar behind Matt. Brad sighed and followed his friend into the incongruous concrete edifice in the heart of pyramid country. The two students stood just inside the hangar entrance, almost invisible to those working under the dazzling spotlights in the centre of the building, and watched as Matt walked on, so far unseen, towards the light.

  Charlie’s n
ose twitched. He threw his hand towards it, but it was too late. He sneezed. The whole place seemed to shake. Matt froze in angry terror.

  Paulo glanced up from his work, shocked at this second interruption.

  ‘This is making me very nervous,’ he told Ruby. ‘It makes no difference to me if your fan club follows you everywhere, and these French guys don’t give a damn so long as they can do their job, but I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes if the President found out.’

  Ruby didn’t bother to look up from her computer. Her work was her only release from thinking about Matt’s death, and she needed to concentrate.

  ‘Hey, Ruby!’ called Matt in an ear-splitting whisper.

  This was starting to annoy her. It was the voice of another fan, she decided, still not looking up from the screen. Also American. Probably a New Yorker, since the accent reminded her of Matt.

  Matt took a frustrated breath and marched right up behind her, placing his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Ruby, it’s me,’ he said, but this time he didn’t need to. There was something about his body odour that had connected with her. She breathed in the miasma that enveloped her, turned around and saw.

  He had risen. Orlando had been right about life after the gallows. She scrambled to her feet and staggered away from this reanimated corpse, this zombie, this abomination of nature. Her mouth opened but no words came. Instead, her confused mind spun with questions.

  What had Orlando done? Was this a pastiche of Matt, an animatronic talking waxwork? And if he was the real Matt, how could his neck not be broken? And how could he have come back here?

  She put her hands over her eyes in denial. Matt approached her again.

  ‘It is you,’ she whispered, once more overcome by his sweaty odour. She lowered her hands and finally allowed her heart to fill with joy and relief. ‘I’d recognise that stench a mile away.’ They smiled and embraced. ‘So, what’s it like?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Being dead.’

  ‘The hangings were faked,’ replied Matt, refusing to indulge her sick humour. ‘The Doc clipped the noose to a strap round my chest to take the strain, but he knocked me out so I couldn’t tell you.’