by Freda, Paula
Much later, when they had savored and memorized the aura of the past, jotted it down in little notebooks, and safely tucked those notebooks into pockets, Lord Hayden said, "Our friend, the official, will dance the tarantella when we tell him what we’ve discovered here." Elizabeth made no rejoinder. Her gaze was fixed on the mural at the far end of the chamber behind the dais and the throne. The woman in her dream, in white flowing garments, the same woman the ancient sculptor had captured in the statuette that Lord Hayden had tried to purchase for the Museum, stared back at her from the wall mural. In her hands, outstretched and cupped, the opal levitated, prisms of light shooting from its center.
At the woman’s left stood Horus, the son of Isis and Osiris, pictured as a man with a falcon’s head, worshipped as a solar deity, and patron of every pharaoh. To the woman’s right—Maat, the goddess of truth and justice, wearing an upright ostrich plume in her hair, and holding in her right hand, a papyrus staff, and in her left hand, the ankh, a cross with a looped top. The staff and ankh were symbols of life, of truth, and of justice.
The opal held the gazes of Horus and Maat, as it did Elizabeth’s. The dream was repeating itself, and Elizabeth—
"Eros, you came to me from a rock midst the stars. You loved me, and gave to me the opal of truth. Yet you asked that I never look upon your face with the knowledge bestowed me by the opal, for then I would see you in your true form. I dared, and when I saw, I could not bare to look. You could not stand to feel my revulsion and so you left in your golden chariot of fire. But with that same knowledge bestowed me by the opal, I saw also into my soul. Too late, my love, for it is the soul that loves. And I will love you for all eternity, in whatever form you be, in whatever life you live, I will search for you."
"Grace, what are you talking about?" Lord Hayden asked from behind, clasping her shoulders.
"Seek the opal in the Valley of the Queens," Elizabeth said, turning and lifting her gaze to Lord Hayden. "Behold its light. Behold my soul, Eros, my beloved."
"Grace!" Lord Hayden cried, as she slumped into his arms. It was this room bewitching her, he reasoned. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her out of the chamber, and as far away from it as the strength in his arms would allow. When he finally set her down gently on the ground, he cradled her in his arms, calling her name several times before she opened her eyes and he was able to breathe a sigh of relief. "Welcome back, Miss Grace Quinlan."
Elizabeth regarded him speculatively, then her eyes widened as full memory returned and she sat upright. "What happened?" The last thing she remembered was studying the mural of the queen levitating the magic opal.
"I’m not sure," Lord Hayden admitted. "You entered a trance and spoke with someone else’s voice."
Elizabeth whispered, "I dreamt about her last night, just as she is pictured in the mural. William, I believe the legend of Eros and Psyche is true." Accepting Lord Hayden’s hand to steady her, she climbed to her feet. Excitement feeding adrenalin, she went on saying, "Though considered a Greek and Roman myth, the clues we have encountered thus far—Psyche’s Temple, the Egyptian Audience Chamber, and the mural, all these point to the legend’s origin as Egyptian, absorbed into the Greco/Roman cultures."
Lord Hayden listened to her every word, but over and beyond her comments, was the effect of his first name on her lips. She had called him "William." He felt a pleasant tremor between his shoulder blades. The gentle pitch of her voice, the way his name had rolled from her lips, an almost physical, tangible caress.
Unaware of his heightened sensitivity to her closeness, Elizabeth continued, "Egypt’s early influence over the Mediterranean cities is a recorded fact. Truly pure cultures are few, if any at all. Most are derived from or mixtures of others. It is the same with mythology. You know that."
Lord Hayden nodded, smiling. Beauty and brains, a rarity. Indeed the clues thus far affirmed Professor Elizabeth Eldridge’s theories. "What about the drawing of the circle, ragged and pitted, with strange lines running across it?" he asked. "And below it, that of the man with the garb neither of us recognized?" He had already drawn some conclusions, but he was curious to hear hers.
She replied promptly, "We didn’t recognize the garb or the man wearing it, because it was no earthly garb, and the man wearing, no earthly man, but a being from another world. The circle, ragged and pitted with the odd lines running across it— a rock, a planet, or an asteroid, perhaps the planetoid, Eros." Elizabeth continued to postulate, absently dusting off her skirt. "Eros’ orbit comes closest to earth than any other large body we know of to date, except the moon. William—"
Again the pleasant tremor. Hayden shifted slightly, a bit unnerved. "William, I’ve concluded that many thousands of years ago this alien being visited earth and fell in love with a beautiful Egyptian queen. He was a being of superior intelligence, with abilities and technology far in advance of ours. Capable of projecting images, he camouflaged his appearance and forbade Psyche to see him in his true form, afraid she would find him unappealing. I suspect the opal was a visual aid, an instrument that permitted one to see more than the apparent." Elizabeth paused, wondering if Lord Hayden, who stood listening with a peculiar look on his face, believed she was expounding nonsense. "Is that what I... spoke of during the trance?" she asked modestly.
Lord Hayden nodded.
"Then it follows," Elizabeth continued, gathering confidence, "that Psyche used the opal to look upon her lover in his true form. And when she did so, Eros left her and returned to his world, the planetoid, though in the end they found each other once more."
"No, that’s not exactly what you said during your trance. I’ll tell you precisely what you said while we head back to the surface. Let’s go."
He told her everything except that she had called him Eros, partly because he did not believe the voice was actually addressing him, and partly because he was a little afraid it had been doing just that.
"I’m going to the Valley of the Queens," Elizabeth said with determination, when they were back on the sun-bleached surface.
"Miss Quinlan, you are a writer, not an archaeologist."
Both stopped walking and faced each other. Elizabeth lowered her gaze, reflecting a moment. Then her chin rising to the point of straining, she said, "Lord William Hayden, in the interests of Professor Elizabeth Eldridge, your peer and colleague, will you come with me?"
Laughter suffused his clean-shaven jaw and wide-set eyes. Elizabeth waited for a sneer to follow the laughter, and finally a rejection dipped in mockery. His laughter suffered a quick death as he eyed her skeptically. Her chin did not budge from its height; the emerald gaze remained fixed on his, ready for whatever reply he chose to give. Her lips pursed, and again Lord Hayden caught that hint of familiarity that continued to elude him. All at once the idea struck him. They had to be related! Her mannerisms, especially the way her lips pursed when she grew anxious. Elizabeth Eldridge had a similar habit. She was headstrong, this writer, like Eldridge. "I’ll need at least a week to complete my work here," he said, "but then I’ll accompany you." Even if only one tenth of what Elizabeth had theorized about the tomb and the opal was true, the archaeologist in him would give him no choice but to follow her lead to its conclusion.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nature, oblivious to the archaeological importance of the Valley of the Queens, had done nothing over the centuries to alleviate the valley’s desolation, rendering it drier and less frequented by tourists than its mate, the Valley of the Kings, less than two miles to the north. Lord Hayden marveled that his partner did not appear to mind the landscape’s harshness, her slim, lithe frame drawn to this face of rock or another, seeing in each a signpost few untrained laymen would recognize. But then, his partner was Grace Quinlan, the most intriguing woman he had ever met. Her slender fingers traced each stone in the sand, seeking carvings that might, to the ordinary layman, appear mere scratches on the stone’s surface, when in reality they might be symbols, drawings, clues identifying the path to Psyche�
��s tomb, or actual fragments of the tomb’s outside walls.
Lord Hayden pushed back his hat and sand scooted off its wide brim and landed on his broad back. The fine granules stuck to his sweat-drenched shirt as he wiped his brow. His khaki jacket lay folded neatly inside his backpack hooked to the saddle of his rented camel. Tonight he would need it when the desert heat plummeted into the desert cold. The Sahara was like that.
As a young boy in an exclusive English boarding school, he had not understood at first why the inhabitants of the Sahara wore long wool robes in such a hot, dry climate. In the third grade he had learned that the wool clothing kept the heat out during the day and the cold out during the night, another bit of information that assuaged his ongoing curiosity. From earliest childhood that imposing, never-ending curiosity had always dictated his actions, causing him to dismantle objects that he was not always able to reassemble. But it had been that same imposing curiosity that had prompted him to continue his education when many of his classmates had returned home to enter less demanding careers. His passion could be likened to a physical, full body ache, for knowing what things were made of, their beginnings, their purpose, their conclusion—their past, present and future. The present was changeable, and the future either predictable or unknown. But the past fascinated him the most. The past was stationary, filled with mysteries that waited to be solved. The solutions were there. They only needed discovering.
He reasoned that Grace must also have been overly curious as a child. She would have made an excellent archaeologist. She possessed all the right qualities and abilities. At sometime during her life she had to have studied the subject extensively. She might be a writer by profession, but everything about her cried archaeologist.
Elizabeth turned. "It has to be here, William. A clue, a marker, anything that will tell us where to start digging. Psyche is here, buried somewhere near, I know it. And the opal is here. She wants us to find her, and the opal."
"What you claim to have seen may be no more than a dream... a delusion," Lord Hayden said. Sometimes when we want results bad enough... " He noted her frown and regretted sounding discouraging, and began to apologize, in the process leaning against the protruding rock nearest him. He stopped short as it tilted. Rocks this size did not tilt so easily. Elizabeth closed the gap between them. Together they knelt to examine the bottom part that had come exposed. Several symbols were etched into the stone. The figure of the Goddess Maat holding in one hand the ankh and in the other—to their edification—not a papyrus staff, but an oval object. Furthermore, the Goddess was not exactly holding the object; rather it hovered above her palm. Using a small brush, Lord Hayden dislodged the sand that filled the carvings and studied them carefully. Elizabeth had seen that semblance of excitement on his face before. It made him seem a bit mad as he confirmed, "She is buried in this valley. We dig here."
Emerald eyes sparkled. "I’ll get the shovels." She hurried toward the camels.
* * *
No fragile complaining little woman, this one, Lord Hayden mused, watching her sink her shovel a few feet from his and scoop up the sand and throw it over the rim of the trench they were creating. His respect for her increased further as she scraped stone. It was a magnificent sound to their ears. First one stone tread, then another was uncovered, until an entire staircase had been swept clean. At the right of the bottom landing was a door, unopened perhaps for millenniums. The two antiquarians looked at each other hesitantly, both anxious to pry the door open, and yet somewhat afraid. More than artifacts, old and precious, might await them behind that door.
Elizabeth felt strongly that she was somehow connected with Psyche. She never discounted her hunches, quite adept at differentiating from logical assumptions and fantasy guesswork. And she felt certain that she had loved Lord Hayden long before setting eyes upon him at the University.
Lord Hayden investigated the door’s edges. "It’s not sealed," he said, surprised. "That could mean a trap."
Elizabeth shook her head. "Professor Eldridge assured me she found no mention of curses, no references to, or allusions regarding deterrents to entry. Psyche may have been above these. The opal rendered her not unlike Solomon in wisdom."
Lord Hayden partly concurred, but he added, "She was still Egyptian by birth and training. We cannot altogether rule out booby traps. I’ll get the crowbar." The door pried uneasily. Behind it was an antechamber. Anxious for the main course, they decided they would study the chamber’s precious contents on their way out.
The antechamber led to a corridor. Lord Hayden and Elizabeth switched on their lanterns. The paintings on the walls were familiar, similar to others found in neighboring tombs already excavated. Unlike that found in the Valley of the Kings, the limestone in the Queen’s Valley was of a poorer quality. Incised inscriptions and reliefs were few. Instead, plaster and exquisitely painted murals in pastel hues overlaid the walls. So lovely, Elizabeth thought. What a pity that these would not last as long as the carvings in the Kings’ Valley, for plaster eventually turns to dust. She pointed to one of many scenes portraying moments in the life of Psyche. "Look, William. Psyche communicating with the Gods."
"And Eros," Hayden added, indicating another mural, "the man in the garb neither of us could identify."
"The paintings recount the lovers’ story," Elizabeth said. "Eros descending from the heavens in a chariot drawn by winged horses. Eros and Psyche meeting in a field of grain. Psyche kneeling before her lover as he hands her the opal of justice and truth, while the Deities Maat and Horus observe."
Lord Hayden pointed to a scene close to the end of the passage. "This must be what he actually looked like."
"Grotesque," Elizabeth uttered.
"To us, perhaps. He might have been a knockout on his world," Hayden said, chuckling.
Elizabeth shuddered. "I don’t blame her for experiencing revulsion. Tentacles don’t appeal to me, either."
They continued onward, stopping only to make brief sketches and observations in their notepads, sure they were nearing the actual tomb until Lord Hayden asked, "Do you feel lightheaded?
"No, why should I?"
"In case you haven’t noticed, the air is thinning."
"I’m fine," she assured him, "and we’re too close to finding her sarcophagus to turn back now."
Lord Hayden could not quite explain it, but he had this feeling... too easy, no obstacles whatsoever thus far... not like the Egyptian architect to––
Elizabeth insisted, "Let’s keep going," and froze as her voice resounded through the corridor. Stone grated on stone, followed by a clang that heralded disaster.
"Sound waves!" Hayden groaned as the ground rumbled and moved. Elizabeth’s reply was part gasp, part scream. Lord Hayden clamped his hand over her mouth and shook his head in a warning, but not quickly enough. Again stone grated on stone followed by another clang. Hayden pulled Elizabeth down with him. She went reluctantly, not fully understanding, but suspecting he was trying to save their lives. Kneeling, he began writing in the sand with his finger: Booby trap - sound waves.
Elizabeth nodded. She wrote back: Where? Hayden pointed to the walls and the ceiling.
Elizabeth uttered, "Are you sure?" Again stone grated on stone, followed by the clang. Lord Hayden scowled at her through his teeth. "I’m sor—. " Elizabeth stopped, grimacing, as again the ground rumbled. Lord Hayden wrote again. Elizabeth read, "SHUT UP!" She glared at Hayden, then stood up and started forward. Hayden uttered a startled gasp and again the ground rumbled. With a hostile glare, he climbed to his feet and headed after her.
If he had been alone, he would feel no hesitation about going on. He had faced greater obstacles. As he reached her, he seized her arm, turning her toward him, shaking his head adamantly. She shirked free of his hold. Her chin rose defiantly. Her emerald eyes told him she intended going forward—quietly.
Quietly, they reached the end of the corridor and what they believed to be the Tomb Chamber. If the ancient architect had followed prev
ious patterns, the sarcophagus of the Queen would not be in the Chamber itself, but in one of the smaller side rooms that flanked it. Elizabeth silently mouthed the words, "Can we talk now?" Lord Hayden shook his head. "William, the danger is over," she said, plainly annoyed. He was being overcautious.
All hell broke loose!
The walls crumbled. The ground gave way. Elizabeth sank into a hole. Hayden caught her and pulled her out. His expression begged her to be quiet. As suddenly as it had begun, the corridor’s trauma ended. Slowly, and noiselessly as possible, Lord Hayden pried open the door to the Tomb Chamber. However, a certain amount of grating and squeaking was unavoidable. The two flattened themselves against the sides of the door while the walls spilled plaster and the ground developed gulping potholes. When the ground and the walls had ceased quaking, Elizabeth and Lord Hayden entered the chamber.
In the center of the room gleamed a golden altar illumined by sunbeams that cascaded from an opening far above and filled the room with an aura of magic. "The Temple Chamber," Lord Hayden whispered, at last deeming it safe to speak. Entranced, Elizabeth stared at the altar. Lord Hayden asked, "Familiar?" wondering if indeed she was the reincarnation of Psyche.
Elizabeth did not answer. She said instead, pointing to the wall behind the altar, "A mural identical to the one we found in the Sicilian dig."
Lord Hayden moved closer to the mural and examined it. He turned to the altar and climbed the dais supporting it. "This is interesting," he remarked. Elizabeth joined him as he studied the carvings on the altar top. They were carved unevenly, not in a straight line. He pointed, "almost..."
"...like musical notes," Elizabeth finished for him. She fingered the carvings, and in a lilting voice she sang the hieroglyphics. Stone grated on stone and the altar moved, slowly, to the left, exposing a gaping hole with steps leading down to another corridor. Eager to learn what lay below, Hayden forgot to ask her where she had learned to decipher hieroglyphics so well. The sunbeams spilling from the opening at least a mile above, lit the steps. The two archaeologists, in readiness for the darkness that would overtake them once they entered the second corridor, poised their lanterns. "No talking," Lord Hayden warned. Elizabeth agreed. Dark and cold, but not lacking oxygen, the corridor wound deeply into the earth. As he took the lead, Lord Hayden surmised that there had to be vents, similar to the opening in the Temple Chamber’s ceiling far above.