by Freda, Paula
CHAPTER THREE
Luggage in hand, Lord and Lady Hayden stepped off the bus in front of a small hotel. It was early summer in South Africa, hot, steamy, and rainy. Fortunately, today, the weather was clear. The warm climate suited their safari outfits. Elizabeth’s red-gold hair was tucked under her hat, a wide veiled canvas affair. The trip had taken three days, due to stopovers in London and Egypt. They had promised the Dean to expect, upon their return from winter recess, a very special artifact and a joint thesis presenting an unprecedented revelation about certain African ruins; in addition, an article for submission to National Geographic who had already published several of Elizabeth’s works under her pseudonym of Grace Quinlan. The articles and their references to the College brought the learning institution added revenue from philanthropists, and interested students along with their tuition.
The hotel clerk, a thin, tall, dark-skinned man attired in a brown suit and tan shirt, greeted them pleasantly as they entered the hotel and introduced themselves, mentioning their reservation. He spoke with a slight accent, "Ah, yes, we have your room ready. Dr. Moore asked me to give you this note." He handed Lord Hayden a small envelope."
"He’s not here?" Elizabeth asked.
"No, he said he would be gone for a few days, but to make sure to give you his message."
Lord Hayden sliced through the envelope with his thumb, read it quickly and handed it to Elizabeth.
Meet me at the site of the Temple ruins as soon as you arrive.
The pair did not waste time. Their room was small with nothing more than a bed, a nightstand, and a chair. The share-bathroom was in the hallway. Lord Hayden and Elizabeth hoarded a few necessities into their duffel bags, tucked the rest of their luggage under the bed, and hurriedly left. They signed on and boarded a sightseeing vehicle that stopped at several sites, among them the Acropolis and the Valley of Ruins, and finally the Temple with its thirty-foot high over-walled enclosure and the Conical Tower, where Dr. Moore was supposedly camped.
The bus moved slowly, the ride bumpy, but the savannah landscape, the hills, and blue mountains absorbed the passengers’ interest and brought back descriptions by Rudyard Kipling: opal and ash of roses, cinnamon, umber and dun. Elizabeth loved poetry, and recited to Lord Hayden, Kipling's verses that she had memorized about this country. "Zebras wantonly tossing their manes, and their wild hoofs scouring the plain. Fawns’ plaintive sounds, karroo’s bleating cries. Fleet-footed ostriches, the burning sky, and the elephant’s shrill reveille. The baboons’ jabbering cries, the wind sobbing, the snake and the lizard, and the poisonous thorns that pierce the foot. And the daisies." Lord Hayden could not resist kissing her despite their proximity to the other passengers, mainly tourists.
On its way the bus stopped at a Hottentot village sheltering a herd of cattle and sheep. The guide, a dark-skinned man with a good command of English and French, led the passengers into the village, explaining as they walked that livestock were prized as a form of wealth more than as a source of food. He, himself, originally hailed from this village. "We love to fill our eyes with cattle," he explained enthusiastically. "Legal marriage is contracted by the transfer of cattle from the bridegroom’s family to that of the bride’s. Wealth and social status are determined by the possession of cattle. With all due respect to the ladies," he added apologetically, "women do not tend the cattle. That is the men’s prerogative. Except for the milking, women are considered a menace to the cattle."
Despite his apology, he seemed to enjoy telling this to the tourists. Elizabeth sneered under her breath, "Men!"
The guide continued to explain that among his people, cattle were a means of staying in good terms with the ancestral spirits, by making ritual killings of cattle at the proper times, during sickness, for instance.
Still Smarting from the guide’s sexist remarks, Elizabeth found some consolation in listening to a one hundred year old woman who sat on a wood chair of similar age. Children squatted before her thin spindly knees and listened amazed as she regaled them with tales, some funny, some sad, of daily village life told to her by her own great-grandparents. Shortly after, the villagers served the passengers a repast of three of their staple foods, white yams, rice, and goat’s milk that did not taste as bad as Elizabeth expected.
By late afternoon, the bus party had toured the Acropolis and the Valley of Ruins, and disembarked in front of the Temple. An irregularly elliptical enclosure of over eight hundred feet, it masked a web of inner walls that originally divided the temple into several distinct enclosures. Each concentric circle had held its own group of mud huts. Of the interior wall, only some of the bases and crumbling walls remained, a labyrinth of passages and dead ends. Yet once, this Temple had housed a powerful medieval black race.
Though at first impression, a fortress came to mind, over the years, archaeologists deduced that the square-stoned walls, without openings or a means of being scaled, probably were home to an emperor, his harem, his banquets and courts, all well hidden from public view. Elizabeth understood how an Emperor during the heyday of this structure would find this location an appropriate abode. Southeasterly winds from the Indian Ocean kept the valley’s hills verdant. On the horizon, serrated by numerous granite outcrops, kopjes (small hills) appeared from a distance to rise like relics of castles long deserted.
The walls of the temple were a marvel in themselves. Gray-granite blocks, some in their natural state, others dressed, were all set together without mortar, save for the daga, a mixture of gravel and clay that formed the walls’ rounded caps.
Overwhelmed by the influx of information the ruins suggested, Elizabeth chided herself that she must not let her imagination run away with her. Facts and proof must be considered above all speculations. The part of her that loved to imagine must be controlled by logic and visual proof. With all her heart she delighted in discussing everything she had seen on the tour with Lord Hayden, and he, equally enthused, treasured their conversations.
True to his message, if late, Dr. Moore, a slim Caucasian man of Lord Hayden’s height, late twenties, light brown hair, and dressed similarly in a Khaki outfit, showed just as the bus was reloading for its return trip. Elizabeth recognized him immediately and held out her hand to shake his. "Dr. Moore," she greeted. The man’s intense brown gaze shifted from one to the other. Lord Hayden felt an instant, as yet inexplicable, wariness of the approaching stranger.
Dr. Moore accepted Elizabeth’s handshake. Noting the lack of recognition in Lord Hayden’s eyes, he inquired, "You don’t remember me?"
Lord Hayden shook his head. "Not in the least."
"Not surprising," Moore replied. In my time at Layton I made very little or no impression on most." He shrugged as though dismissing a trivial memory. "I’m camped just behind the ruins. Come, join me for supper. There’s no need to return to the hotel tonight. I’ve prepared a tent for you both."
CHAPTER FOUR
Dr. Moore led Elizabeth and Lord Hayden to his camp about half a mile from the Temple ruins. A separate tent with two cots and some toiletry items awaited the two archaeologists. A hired man whom Moore introduced as Shawn Thomas, his personal valet, and on expeditions, his cook as well, set about preparing a fresh salad with salted meat strips, and brewed a pot of coffee over an open fire. He opened a folding card table and chairs, and set four placings. In the center of the table he set a bowl of fresh fruit, nuts and packets of crackers and raisins. The light repast was meant to avoid cooking odors that would attract wildlife, while they ate and discussed the Tower and the Temple.
"What about this ‘revelation’ you mentioned in your cablegram?" Lord Hayden asked over coffee. Both he and Elizabeth, adhering to good manners, had waited patiently for Dr. Moore to explain his urgent summons.
"Yes, of course, you must both be eager for me to explain. But unfortunately, it is not something I can explain with words; I must show it to you. And I will, in the morning. I promise."
"Have you discovered an artifact, or-or perhaps a
portent inscription?" Elizabeth asked.
"All of that and more," Dr. Moore replied. "But you will have to wait until morning. It will be dark soon, and I will need the sunlight to show you."
"We have flashlights—" Elizabeth began, but Lord Hayden placed a hand gently on her arm to stay her persistence. "I doubt we can convince him," he told Elizabeth. "It’s been a long day, and a good night’s rest will render us alert and ready for whatever Dr. Moore wishes to show us." He was right of course, Elizabeth thought. They were tired, and Dr. Moore certainly had the right to present his discovery at its best. Morning would come soon enough. Elizabeth smiled and nodded.
"How about a game of cards, and some wine?" Dr. Moore motioned to Shawn Thomas.
Elizabeth and Lord Hayden exchanged resigned glances.
* * *
The following morning, Shawn Thomas served a breakfast of dry cereal moistened with canned blueberry fruit juice, accompanied by muffins and coffee. All through the meal, Dr. Moore again refrained from any explanation about his portentous discovery. But as soon as the table had been cleared, he stood up, and grinning, rather wickedly, he said, "Follow me." The two archaeologists needed no further prompting. Silently, Moore led them back to the Temple. The moment they reached the Conical Tower, he snapped his fingers and two dark-skinned soldiers in fatigues with rifles strapped to their shoulders stepped out from behind the Tower. "These guards are for your protection, as well as mine," Moore said. The air of conviviality was suddenly gone, replaced by an autocratic stance that alarmed Lord Hayden. He turned to Elizabeth and noted the same wariness in the startled look she gave him.
"Dr. Moore, let my wife return to the hotel. I sense danger and prefer she not be exposed to it."
"But I need her assistance as well," Moore insisted. "No one will harm either of you, as long as you follow my orders." He said something to his men in Khoisan, the language of the Bushmen and Hottentots of South Africa. Although Elizabeth and Lord Hayden did not understand the meaning of the words, they recognized the language because of its clicking sounds that Moore delivered proficiently. The two soldiers immediately pointed their rifles at Lady and Lord Hayden.
"Are we prisoners?" Lord Hayden asked wryly, containing his anger for the moment.
"From my perspective, reluctant guests," Moore replied, his smile nothing less than sinister.
Lord Hayden acted. Mustering his strength, in one fluid motion he bent to avoid the line of fire and shoved his elbow into the stomach of the guard behind him. As the guard doubled over, Lord Hayden shoved him into the path of the other soldier, causing the first to drop his rifle. Used to Lord Hayden’s fighting techniques, Elizabeth went for the dropped rifle. She made the mistake of turning her back to Moore.
Drawing a handgun from inside his jacket, he grabbed Elizabeth, pinioning her by the neck and pointing his weapon at her head. "Lord Hayden," he summoned arrogantly.
The slithery warning in his voice froze the archaeologist in mid-punch. He turned to check on Elizabeth and riddled Moore with a venomous expression. Moore held the trump card, for the moment. "Lord Hayden, her life is in your hands. I suggest you allow my men to restrain you."
Concerned for his beloved, Lord Hayden did as he was told. Moore clicked an order in Khosian, and the guard nursing his stomach, straightened and pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and rudely shackled Lord Hayden’s wrists.
CHAPTER FIVE
With Moore in the lead, the soldiers prodded Lord Hayden and Elizabeth behind the Conical Tower and up a hemp ladder that hung from its top. At the summit, to the archaeologists’ amazement, Moore removed from his pocket a fist-sized solid gold disk bearing special markings and aligned it and pressed it on similar markings cut deeply into a particular slab. The slab moved, creaking, and revealed a shaft that dropped downward.
For the moment, both archaeologists forgot they were prisoners. "Where does it lead?" Elizabeth asked.
"I will have to show you," Jonathan Moore said. "Come." Gathering the same hemp ladder that was attached at the top of the tower by large iron hooks screwed deep into the stone itself, he flipped it over to the inside of the shaft, and with the aid of a powerful flashlight carried by Shawn Thomas, led them down the shaft into a narrow underground tunnel carved into the stone. The soldiers followed behind.
The first incongruous sound the two archaeologists recognized was the chiming of church bells. Farther on, the hum of motors replaced the church bells. The tunnel widened, and finally opened into the mouth of a cavern. Bright daylight flooded the group’s path; Shawn Thomas switched off the flashlight.
"Where’s the light coming from?" Elizabeth asked.
"From above us," Moore said.
"It’s beautiful!" Elizabeth exclaimed.
"The sun?" Lord Hayden said, non-plussed. The orb above them, though it radiated heat and glowed, was muted, not clear, as though a sheer veil covered it.
"But we’re underground," Elizabeth declared.
Moore had their undivided attention and knew it—and he needed it—for the task he had in mind for them would daunt lesser men, or women. "Yes, we are underground. The sun and the sky overhead are reflections. What you see is a wonder of nature."
"Look at the walls of the cavern," Lord Hayden murmured. "Look how they glow."
"Gold," Elizabeth remarked.
"And iron," Moore added. "The moisture from the gold and iron that abound in the rock when combined with certain gaps and openings from above form a mirror effect, giving us what your fiction writers love to create mystiques about: a middle world."
"And at night," Elizabeth said, "you have the moon and the stars as well."
Jonathan Moore smiled. "Ahead, you can just make out the steeples and turrets and the concave tops of my people’s homes." He motioned them to move forward. The steeples grew into an ornately sculptured cathedral, and the stone turrets into stone mansions, and finally the city itself, extending for miles around.
"Look at the borders on the shutters and the door lintels," Elizabeth noted. They shone brightly.
"Gold," Lord Hayden observed.
"Yes," Moore confirmed. "Welcome to the legendary city of Golden Sofala, once situated above ground until besieged by fortune hunters."
The group treading the cobbled streets of the city began drawing attention. Upon recognizing Moore, the inhabitants bowed in obeisance.
Lord Hayden and Elizabeth speculated on the inhabitants’ origin. For the most part, their cultures appeared distinct, but occasional inter-marriage was clearly discernible. What was more, their nationalities varied. Along with the descendants of the African World, replete with native garbs, were the offspring of Europeans and Asians. Elizabeth spotted a family looking out a window; she could swear their ancestors had hailed from New England. She wondered how many of these people or their forebears had stumbled upon the hidden city, or had been brought here like herself and Lord Hayden.
Moore finally brought them to a stop in front of a large square one-story white stone building. He bid them enter, explaining that he would join them later. Again, he spoke to the soldiers, two of whom posted themselves at the heavy iron double doors gilded in gold, as were most of the doors in the city proper. Inside, the building was empty, save for several mats placed in a circle in the center, and a lit fireplace under an ornately carved and gold-faced mantle. "They use gold like we use wood and marble," Lord Hayden remarked.
The sun, or rather its reflection, had set by the time Moore returned. The temperature had dropped and Lord Hayden saw Elizabeth shiver. He drew her close to him, warming her with his arms.
"Dr. Moore will never let us go back. They’ll kill us first." Elizabeth said, leaning into Lord Hayden’s embrace.
"Let’s not say never," Lord Hayden replied. "And as for killing us, Moore needs us alive and well, at least for the present."
"Yes, Lord Hayden," Moore said as he entered. "You are correct, I need you both alive and well. And I believe when I explain my reason for b
ringing you here, you will forgive my unorthodox method." He crossed to the fireplace and stoked the logs. "This room is a meeting place for the elders, a cross between the old and the new." He pointed to the mats strewn about the room. "You must have wondered why this room is devoid of furniture."
The thought had crossed the minds of the two archaeologists, but they had already surmised from their walk through the city to expect the unexpected. "Why don’t we cut out the small talk," Lord Hayden said, "and just tell us what exactly you want from us."
Moore hesitated, the softening speech he had prepared abruptly terminated. "Very well," he nodded. "But first, I must tell you that, like you, I hold a deep and sincere respect for the relics of the past. And it is because of this respect that I need your services. If you are amazed at what you have seen thus far—"
"Very little amazes me," Lord Hayden interjected. It was not his habit to interrupt rudely, but at the moment he was not feeling quite the gentleman. They were prisoners here, well treated, but nonetheless, prisoners, held against their will.
"Then what is the word I should use?" Moore remarked.
Elizabeth supplied it. "Interest. If my husband and I are interested, we will go to impossible lengths to satisfy that interest."
Moore inclined his head. "Yes, interest. This is what I am hoping from the two of you." He straightened, replacing the poker. Very well, then, let me start at the beginning. Pray accommodate yourselves". He pointed again to the mats.
When they were seated, like children at a campsite in front of their guide, he began.
"Several years ago I came upon an intriguing passage in a Fourteenth Century manuscript written by a hermit. He probably never dreamed anyone would read his work, let alone preserve it in a museum. The passage concerned Zimbabwe, The Temple and the Conical Tower, and the mystery that lay beneath its roof. Ever since that moment, the contents of that passage have dominated my life. The hermit placed a symbol beside his description and myths surrounding the tower. He wrote of disc-shaped medallions of gold, each bearing a carving of a highly ornate cross, with a ruler’s staff placed diagonally across a jeweled crown at the feet of the cross. The hermit referred to this as a charm with magical powers. A Latin inscription circled the medallion. Translation posed no problem for me. I read it slowly, deciphering the words and their meaning—The Way is clear for he who owns the key.