Moon Mask

by James Richardson

  After forty minutes, he spotted the river and swung the Huey across the treetops, dropping down even lower into the narrow chasm the churning brown water had cut through the trees. The rain continued to pound down, rippling in the water and swelling the river so that it burst its banks and flooded the surrounding jungle.

  He raced along the river’s course, following its sinuous twists and turns, banking left and then right until he saw it branch ahead into an obvious V-shape.

  He pulled up hard on the Huey’s control stick and the helicopter responded in kind, arching back and shooting, nose first, almost vertically up the side of an immense wall of rock. The river broke into two, forming a natural moat around the base of the cliff. He knew that over three hundred miles away, on the other side of the immense topographical anomaly, the two stunted rivers eventually reformed and continued their combined journey.

  The Huey barrelled its way into the clouds and inky blackness roiled over Raine. He continued powering up the vertical northern face of the table-top mountain until, with an almost triumphant flourish, he burst out above the storm clouds.

  Bright sunlight glared down at him and he pulled on his mirrored aviator sunglasses as he continued the Huey’s climb, eventually flying up past the mountain’s summit.

  At last, he dropped the helicopter level and eased back on the engines, slowing almost to a stationary hover as he got his bearings and took a moment to admire the view.

  Wreathed amidst a halo of cloud, the summit of Sarisariñama looked like an emerald island floating above the earth.

  With an area of almost three hundred and fifty square miles, the topography of the table mountain’s summit was startlingly flat, affording Raine with a stunning view of the entire site.

  Meaning ‘House of the Gods’, there were one hundred and fifteen ‘tepuis’ scattered across La Gran Sabana, the vast area of southern Venezuela bordering Brazil and Guyana. The remnants of a great sandstone plateau that had been eroded in distant pre-history, the isolated monadnocks now gave the illusion of jutting out of the earth. They were some of the most ancient and unspoiled places on earth, giving rise to legends among the Indian tribes who lived far below, and inspiring Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous novel ‘The Lost World.’

  Yet, beyond their antiquity and the process of their formation, there was little uniformity to the vast islands of the rainforest. Each was home to an endemic, unique eco-system as far removed from one another as from the rainforest far below.

  Auyantepui was the largest, with a surface area of almost five hundred miles and was home to Angel Falls, the highest waterfall in the world. Mount Roraima formed the border between Venezuela, Brazil and Guyana. Matawi was also known as Kukenán, the Place of the Dead, and a cave ran the entire way through the heart of Autana, from one side to the other.

  But there were numerous features which set Sarisariñama apart from all the others.

  Its four almost perfectly circular sinkholes, one of which was over a thousand feet wide, harboured an eco-system unique even from its own summit. Raine’s position high above the mountain gave him a view of the huge dark holes which burrowed almost a thousand feet down into the isolated island of rock.

  Other than the recent discovery of artificial tunnels burrowing through the mountain, Sarisariñama was unique in that its summit was choked by thick jungle with trees climbing almost eighty feet into the oxygen thin sky. This jungle environment gave birth to a far richer diversity of life, much of it endemic, than the sparsely vegetated summits of its neighbours. It also gave it a startlingly emerald green colour set against the azure blue sky. Cut off, hundreds of miles from civilisation, Sarisariñama hung below Raine like the Garden of Eden.

  Pinpointing the clearing in the canopy that had become the expedition’s unofficial landing site, Raine nudged the Huey into a hover above it. Three hundred feet from the landing site, near to the edge of the largest sinkhole, or sima, Humboldt, the heavy-duty canvass tents of the expedition’s base camp fluttered in the downdraft as he began his descent.

  UNESCO Base Camp,

  Sarisariñama Tepui,

  Venezuela

  Benjamin King watched the helicopter vanish amidst the trees surrounding the landing site and heard the whine as the roaring engines powered down. Nathan Raine’s usual ‘greeting party’, upon seeing the chopper’s approach, hurriedly swept down the trampled path from the camp to the landing site. The vast swarm of imbeciles would be urgently enquiring after post from home, seeking eagerly awaited supplies of coffee or chocolate, and some, a garish cult of the expedition’s young ladies, interns mostly, would simply be swooning over the ‘boy wonder’.

  “Morons,” he muttered, returning his attention to the mask on the examination table.

  It had been four hours since his literal escape from the jaws of death and he had spent much of that time being reprimanded in Doctor McKinney’s ‘command’ tent.

  As expedition leader it was the Scot’s job to ensure the smooth running, and indeed the safety, of the entire expedition. By breeching established protocol in not reporting the discovery of the hidden, skull-lined tunnel, King and his team, the bad tempered bitch had snarled at him, had endangered their lives, and the lives of the rescue team she would have had to send if all three of them had fallen into the crocodile infested chamber.

  Reprimand issued, as expected, she had then proceeded to actually laugh in his face as he laid his Moon Mask theory on the table.

  His father had always been controversial, even before his often described ‘insane theories’ were made public. He had enrolled at Oxford in a time when black prejudice was still simmering near the surface and his research into the origins of West African cultures was often hindered by the prejudices of his professors. Nevertheless, he carved a name for himself in academia, becoming a well-respected authority on world mythology. His personal and professional interests intersected, however. Reginald’s own father had been granted citizenship in Great Britain following his heroic efforts against the Nazis in World War Two, but he had ensured that his son retained knowledge of his ancestral home.

  The legend about the Bouda had been passed down from father to son for generations. It was a continental myth, shared by cultures all across Africa, even among tribes not known to have ever been in contact with one another. Shape shifters with the gift of foresight, the were-hyenas were known to the peoples of Morocco in the north to the Mali Empire in the west, from the Maasai in the east and the Zulus in the south. The legends varied in exact detail, yet all bore an unusual similarity to one another.

  Examining this similarity, studying the legends, depicted through both oral traditions and drawn or painted in caves or on monuments, Reginald King had begun to formulate his theory. That the Bouda were known across Africa because they had once been the predominant culture. A civilising race. Some great cataclysm had stunted the empire, however, drawing them back to their capital city, but not before spreading the knowledge of civilisation across the continent. Their fingerprints could be found everywhere, from the ruins of Great Zimbabwe to the stone circles of Gambia; from the astronomy of the Dogon to the knowledge of the San Bushmen.

  His theory had been met with ridicule. His white peers at the time had difficulty accepting the idea that the Dark Continent had been home to a vast continental empire long before the days when the Ancient Britons were little more than savage tribes bashing each other over the head with wooden clubs.

  The legend of the Moon Mask, the Bouda’s ability to see the future and wield their knowledge of it to create their civilisation, had been described as preposterous.

  Driven by his reaction to the murder of his wife and daughter, and later laughed out of the halls of learning, he had nevertheless expanded his theory, examining the similarity of world myths which described some great and godly race which had brought civilisation to mankind. This race he described as the Progenitors had probably passed on their own knowledge, and possibly even
the Moon Mask itself, to the Bouda. But he also came to believe that they had passed their knowledge onto the Ancient Egyptians, the Olmecs and Maya of Central America, the inhabitants of Tiwanaku on the shores of Lake Titicaca and numerous other ancient races across the globe.

  Finding a piece of the Moon Mask in a hidden labyrinth in the South American rainforest, King had told McKinney, proved that at least part of his father’s theory was correct. Not to mention his own investigations into the fate of the mask after it had been stolen from Africa.

  But McKinney was having none of it. She had looked at the mask he had recovered with interest but rejected his theory that it was part of the Moon Mask, a complete mask broken and scattered by ancient gods across the world.

  King vowed to prove her wrong.

  Sid smirked at his comment about Raine and his flock of swooning ‘morons’. “Don’t start all that again,” she lectured softly. “Nate’s alright.”

  “Nate?” King glanced at her, a shot of jealousy shooting through him. “What happened to Mister Raine?”

  “Nathan Raine,” she told him, “is as much part of this expedition as any of us. He’s helped us out no end of times. If it wasn’t for him getting Karen out so quickly, I dread to think what state she’d be in now.”

  “He’s not part of this expedition,” King grumbled, pretending to immerse himself in his examination of the mask.

  Sure, Raine came across as the brash yanky hero with his untamed black hair and his big aviator sunglasses and his wiry wit and womanising charm, but King had seen his façade slip. He had seen him on his stopovers sitting in the mess tent, alone in the shadows, nursing a bourbon - hadn’t he even heard of Scotch? - while his eyes stared off into some faraway place.

  The pilot had secrets, King was sure of it. Why else would a man like him be holed up in a place like Caracas, dealing no-doubt with drug smugglers and gun runners? He was hiding behind a mask as real as the one in King’s hands.

  “Well if you think he’s so great, why don’t you go over and drag your tongue across the floor in his wake along with all the others? Oh, great,” he added upon seeing McKinney heading in Raine’s direction as the pilot was led like some conquering hero out of the trees and into the camp. Even the older Scott, a married professional, seemed to swoon in the yank’s presence.

  “Now the old battle-axe is going to ask the all-American hero to swing down into our underground chamber, wrestle half a dozen crocs and rescue our skeleton and then all the girls will fall at his feet even more.”

  Sid tried to hide the slightly amused expression from her face. “Are all British men like this?” she asked, stepping closer to him.

  “Like what?”

  “Overly jealous of Americans. Needy. Whingey. Whiney. Look,” she laughed, placing the palms of both her hands on his chest. “I think your view of him is somewhat warped. From what I hear he’s got some sort of military background. That’s why McKinney wants him to go back down into the chamber. And as for his swooning band of followers . . . so what? A few young interns, stuck in the middle of the jungle, have a crush on an exciting older man. I seem to remember you having your fair share of followers back at Oxford. Still do. If I wasn’t on this dig with you, you’d have them queuing outside your tent.”

  At six foot two, Benjamin King was a big man with broad shoulders. His black skin glistened in the humidity of the examination tent and, suddenly conscious of his girlfriend’s interest, he ran a hand through his short hair, subconsciously hiding the circular scar that had been seared into his forehead as a child. When he smiled, revealing a perfect row of white teeth, she always felt herself grow weak at the knees. And when he made love to her, she always felt as though her world, her life, was complete. He was a British gentleman through and through, the sort of man that would help an old lady cross the road or save a cat stuck in a tree.

  She laughed at her own clichéd idea about him. He had his faults for sure. He easily grew obsessed with his work, often to the neglect of her and his own health. But she couldn’t picture herself with any other man.

  She ran a hand gently over his cheek. “Besides,” she told him. “I’d much rather have the all-American hero get eaten by crocs than the man I love.” She reached up and planted her lips against his and he felt the twisted knot of anger and jealousy temporarily evaporate.

  It was an hour before sunset by the time Raine, McKinney and the party that had gone down to the secret passageway and the sunken chamber reappeared out of the sima. With them, suspended from a series of chains attached to winches, came the carefully packaged remains of the skeleton.

  A crowd had assembled around the party, all eager to see the human remains that King and his team had found. King kept back, staring with something akin to reverence at the bagged remains. He knew what they represented- confirmation of an unorthodox view that people like McKinney would fight to keep hidden.

  As it was their find, the Scotswoman had nevertheless reluctantly agreed to allow King and Sid to take charge of the examination of the mask and Nadia the study of the human remains but King knew she would resist any findings that didn’t conform to orthodoxy.

  He had just been about to return to the examination tent when a voice called to him. “Hey, Benny!”

  King rolled his eyes and slowly began to turn around.

  “Be nice,” Sid warned him. “Nate likes you. He’s only trying to be your friend.”

  “I don’t want any friends,” he grumbled to himself. Sid shot him an angry look.

  “Hey,” Raine greeted as he walked up to them. The crowd parted to allow the human remains to be carried to the examination tent. Ben noticed the Yank shooting a winning grin at Sid. “How’s my favourite archaeologist?”

  King ground his teeth.

  “Hi Nate,” Sid swooned, following Raine and McKinney, along with four interns carrying the stretcher with the remains.

  King felt his face flush hot as he followed them into the examination tent. His eyes drifted to a large handgun tucked into Raine’s waistband.

  Nadia moved to one side of the examination table and began to unwrap the remains when sudden commotion caught her attention.

  Raphael del Vega burst through the tent flap, his olive skin glistening with sweat. His khaki Bolivarian Militia uniform was dirty with wet patches under the armpits and across the chest but he insisted on wearing it as a reminder of who he represented. President Chavez and the Venezuelan government. His presence had been one of the conditions UNESCO had needed to agree to in order to get the permit to explore the mountain.

  Behind him came seven other men; local workers employed from the scattered settlements throughout the region, their angular features betraying their mixed Spanish/Indian descent. They were all big men with large muscles and were currently covered with dirt. Five of them had been down in the tunnels all day, but the other two had been preparing the expedition’s evening meal in the mess tent.

  Irate about something, del Vega began talking quickly and loudly in Spanish to McKinney, his heavily accented words supportively repeated by his followers.

  “Raphael,” McKinney held up her hands, trying to calm him. “Please slow down, I can’t understand you-”

  But there was no stopping him. His foreign words spewed out at a speed which King struggled to translate-

  “He says he has heard that you’ve found a mask,” Raine translated smoothly. He leaned casually back against the thick central tent pole, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses. “It is an Evil Spirit which will devour us all. You must return it now. Return it to where you found it.”

  King was irritated by Raine’s ability to translate so easily. He considered himself fluent in Spanish but found the local accents he had encountered difficult to understand. Then again, he often found McKinney’s Glaswegian accent even more difficult.

  “Raphael,” McKinney said smoothly in her usual, condescending tone. She had a habit
of talking to everyone as though they were infants. “I know all about the Ye’kuana legend. I assure you, there are no evil spirits living in the tunnels.”

  Indeed, most people on the expedition knew about the Ye’kuana Indian legend; in fact, it was how the tepui had earned its name. Supposedly an Evil Spirit lived on the summit, devouring human flesh and making the sound ‘sari . . . sari . . .’ To this day, the Ye’kuana feared the mountain and warned any who trespassed there about the evil it contained.

  McKinney’s flip dismissal further agitated del Vega and the other men. He gestured at one of the men, the youngest of the group.

  “He says this man worked on a Sanumá reservation. He was told a story,” Raine continued his translation, “a story passed down through many generations.” He frowned as he struggled to translate one of the words and King felt a twang on smug satisfaction. “Eons?” del Vega nodded.

  “Eons ago, the Evil Spirit, without form, grew hungry. To satisfy its hunger it manifested itself into a face so that its mouth could devour the humans who lived on the mountain.” He paused to catch up. “Many died. Whole villages. Many hundreds-”

  “Thousands,” King corrected the obvious mistake, trying not to gloat. “He said ‘many thousands’.” Then he turned his attention to the militiaman, suddenly very interested in this legend but McKinney cut him off.

  “Enough of this superstition and speculation,” she snapped. A crowd had gathered outside the tent and she had noticed the documentary crew’s cameras pushing their way to the front.

  “Doctor King, you have your find to be getting on with studying and I want an impartial and unbiased initial report as to the mask’s origins and identification by morning. Doctor Yashina,” she looked at Nadia, the beautiful woman now kitted up in medical examination garments. “I can trust you to give me nothing but solid facts relating to these remains. I want to know this person’s statistics; its height, sex, age, race and cause of death. I appreciate these things take time but again I want an initial idea by morning so that we can make a-” she fixed her gaze solidly on King- “professional decision as to how to proceed with this investigation.”