by Freda, Paula
The walls of this corridor bore no plaster or paintings, or carvings of any sort, as though they were not a part of the whole. He wondered if perhaps this second hallway was meant to confuse and mislead intruders. He was simultaneously apprehensive and relieved when they came to its end and to a small, arched opening. He caught his companion’s arm just as she was about to enter this next room. "Wait a minute," he warned. He picked up a loose stone and flung it through the entrance. The stone imploded and disappeared. The two gazed at the phenomena, astonished. "Thanks," Elizabeth said.
"Anytime," Hayden replied, bowing his head slightly and tipping his hat. The problem, however, remained how to enter the room. "My bet is that sound is the key. You search that side of the wall; I’ll search this side." As Hayden suspected, once more the hieroglyphs that had been carved into the walls on either side of the opening formed musical notes. "Elizabeth, don’t sing any—" The sound of her voice, melodious and sweet, filled the space. Lord Hayden stretched out his hand, an extension of his desire to stop her. He followed by moving quickly to her side, but she had already completed the chant, and its pattern had registered on whatever technology governed the tomb. He noticed first his hand. It glowed. Then Grace. She appeared stunned, enveloped in radiance. He was standing in whatever field her chant had animated. He was tempted to move back, but the woman beside him was his companion, his friend, and he had been reared to accept responsibility, and to finish what he started. Without further hesitation, he placed his arms about her protectively. Her gaze lifted to his and she called his name, but the light somehow silenced the sound of her voice. The brightness permeating their bodies grew fierce, eradicating the corridor and the dirt beneath their feet. Seconds felt like minutes and minutes like hours, but finally the glow dimmed, dissipating completely. The corridor disappeared and they stood on solid ground again. It was night and a multitude of stars rode the sky.
"Where are we?" Elizabeth asked, clinging to Lord Hayden.
He swallowed. Damned if he knew! "Am I going color-blind, or is the sky ... green?"
"If you are, then I must be seeing double. Are there two moons overhead?"
"Look over there," Lord Hayden pointed to a short, squat building; oddly similar to an Indian Community House he had once visited in Alaska. Three wood totems formed columns spaced evenly on the building’s front. The largest and most figurative of these was in the center. An oval carved into its base served equally as the mouth of the chiseled face and the entrance leading into the building. The color of the sky and the presence of two moons were oddly familiar, although he was certain that never in his life had he stood in this spot. His lungs hurt and like his companion’s, his breath had become labored. The air on this planet was not conducive to human life. Grasping at straws, he said, "Grace, try the chant backwards."
Nodding, she thought a moment, composing her mind, recalling the notes. Accuracy was imperative. The wrong sounds might transport them even further, or set them down in limbo.
"Hurry, Grace." He was growing lightheaded.
Elizabeth moistened her lips. Her eyelids felt heavy. "Okay, here goes." She sang the chant backwards, a note at a time, forcing out the sounds. Her voice box felt clogged. Holding her in his arms, Lord Hayden closed his eyes. He did not really expect the chant to work. But it did. As before, their bodies glowed. The alien world about them dissolved, and in a few moments they were deposited inside the tomb chamber. His partner’s arms were wrapped about his waist; her eyes were shut and her cheek pressed warmly to his chin. An utter dependence, a tenderness, a joining of inner warmth, a nonphysical union. Lord Hayden could not remember ever feeling these sensations to the degree he was experiencing them at this instant. For all her intelligence, independence and sophistication, she clung to him like a child needing protection and reassurance. Lord Hayden held her, stroking her shoulders and caressing her hair. He held her until she lifted her eyes to look at him and then at her surroundings.
Elizabeth withdrew her arms first. "We’re inside the burial room. William, the sarcophagus!" The gold-inlaid sculpture gracing the coffin’s lid was decidedly the image of Psyche.
The room was small compared to the tomb chamber above, but equally filled with treasures and irreplaceable mementos of the past. It contained all the riches and comforts necessary to a queen in the afterlife. A boat, complete with oars, waited on one side. The sarcophagus itself rested on a solid gold pedestal in the center of the room. Lord Hayden and Elizabeth examined the coffin. The sculptured head on the lid wore a long, jeweled headpiece. The golden face was flawless. The eyes reflected knowledge and wisdom. The lips were full, with a barely perceptible pout. The chin was stern and reflected a sensuous strong-willed woman.
"Let’s open it," Elizabeth suggested. "We have to be sure it contains her remains. And the opal, it may be inside."
"All right." Considering the circumstances and the fact he did not have the slightest idea as to how they would get back out past the entrance without imploding, they might as well see all there was to see and die content.
Lord Hayden searched the room for something to pry loose the coffin’s lid. The earlier quakes and potholes had swallowed his crowbar. He found an ancient toolbox, replete with hammer and chisel. "All the comforts of home," he chuckled as he set to work.
Elizabeth waited, handing Lord Hayden the tools he requested, although she would gladly take on the task of removing the lid herself. Along with Lord Hayden, she found one thought comforting: the walls and the bases of the statues of the Deities Maat and Horas that occupied the opposite corners of the room bore no curses or warnings.
Few archaeologists had not read of Howard Carter’s discovery of King Tutankhamen’s tomb, years prior. Thirteen of the twenty of Carter’s party had died within months after opening the King’s coffin. The Mummy Curse, inscribed on a statue in Tutankhamen’s tomb, read, "It is I who drive back the robbers of the tomb with the flames of the desert. I am the protector of Tutankhamen’s grave."
At last the lid was ready to be moved. "I’ll need your help," Lord Hayden said.
The two archaeologists positioned themselves at the head and foot of the coffin. Adrenalin flowed in their veins, and only the duo’s careful natures tempered their eagerness and curiosity. Thick sheets of gold plated the wood sarcophagus. Lord Hayden took the brunt of the weight. Elizabeth utilized more leverage than physical strength. They lifted the lid slightly, and then turned it crosswise. Inside the sarcophagus, attired in time-blackened and shredded flowing robes that once had been snowy white, Psyche reposed. No cloth wrappings bound her. Her flesh once soft and vibrant had shrunk to dry compacted powder. The skin was dark and wrinkled, in some places transparent and showing the skeleton clearly. But she was intact, her arms crossed on her chest, skeletal fingers holding the ankh and flail, symbols of truth, justice and power with which she had governed her people.
"She was never mummified," Elizabeth said, "and yet... "
"The opal, it’s not here," Lord Hayden said, then, "Wait a minute." He carefully inspected the interior of the coffin. He grinned as he drew an object from under the shreds that were left of the silk pillow cradling Psyche’s head. The opal, milky white and honey smooth, the size of a slender fist, caught the dim light inside the room, enhancing it, and reflecting the soft pastels on the wall murals and the gold inlays adorning the coffin. The room, the artifacts, Psyche herself, seemed to fade as Elizabeth and Lord Hayden beheld the jewel. In the months to come they would often wonder if perhaps the burial room had lacked oxygen causing them to hallucinate. Yet the voice had been clear, or had it been a shared thought.
Lord Hayden was never quite sure who spoke, for the opal had held his gaze riveted. The words, however, would be forever inscribed in his memory—
Eros, my beloved, behold my soul. It follows you to the ends of the universe, even to beyond the borders of time.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cameras flashed and Lord Hayden blinked and squinted. The lights hurt his
eyes. For the hundredth time since his return from Egypt, someone asked, "Is it true a Miss Grace Quinlan, a freelance writer, helped you locate Psyche’s tomb? And the opal," the reporter went on relentlessly, "Is it really an artifact of alien technology?" Everyone eyed the jewel in question. It rested on a satin cushion inside a glass case protected by a security alarm. Lord Hayden nodded, but the press noticed that he frowned. "Why isn’t Miss Quinlan present to share the honors?" a female reporter asked.
Lord Hayden replied, "She had to leave on another assignment."
"To where?" the reporter asked.
"I don’t know."
Before the newspaperwoman could ask how it was possible Lord Hayden did not know, another reporter queried, "How much did the museum pay to obtain ownership of the opal?"
"I’m not a liberty to say," Hayden responded. "The Board of Directors dealt with the Egyptian officials privately. The dig is now under sole supervision of the resident government."
Hayden moved out of the limelight to stare out an open window and draw breath. Where had Grace Quinlan gone? The last time he had seen her was at the hotel in the city of Luxor on the west bank of the Nile. She had said nothing about a new assignment during their entire trip back from Psyche’s tomb.
He had placed the opal in his backpack. Leaving the burial room had not proved as difficult as they had expected. The instructions were etched on the wall near the entrance. Elizabeth sang the notes and the magnetic field, or whatever it was, turned off. Observing silence thereafter to avoid setting off the sound wave booby traps, they had made their way back to the desert overhead.
He had fully expected Grace to remain with him up to and including their flight back to the States. He had even called Layton Hall and the Museum and left word for Professor Elizabeth Eldridge that he and Grace would soon be congratulating her in person. Her theories regarding Psyche and Eros and the opal were close to documentation. As he went about planning a quiet dinner for two in his room at the hotel, he felt certain that this time Grace would not be afraid of him. They had grown close, for weeks totally dependent upon each other. What more natural than they should consummate their relationship, and spend the remaining time together before resuming their separate lives and their work.
"Damnation!" Lord Hayden swore under his breath. He had wanted Grace because she was more woman than any he had ever known, with an intellect equal to his.
"Professor Eldridge—Professor Elizabeth Eldridge?" a newsman who had interviewed Lord Hayden, addressed the stiffly erect, bespectacled Professor of archeology who stood on the other side of the room.
Lord Hayden glanced at Elizabeth. He saw her lift her chin and purse her lips. So like Grace. Not for the first time he thought, they must be related. Elizabeth had been answering questions since early that afternoon. Lord Hayden admired her patience and stamina, but everyone has their breaking point, and she appeared to have reached hers. She swayed and her hand went to her temple. Hayden forced his way through the score of reporters. "Gentlemen, I think that’s enough for this afternoon." He cupped Elizabeth’s elbow and spirited her through a side door, closing it and firmly turning the key, locking the door.
"Thank you, Lord Hayden," Elizabeth said in a tired voice. She nudged her glasses higher to the bridge of her short nose, and sank into a chair beside a mahogany end table.
Lord Hayden waited for her to regain her composure. Then he demanded, "Where is she?"
Professor Eldridge gazed at him, puzzled. "Where is who?"
"Grace Quinlan, your sister." He remembered hearing somewhere that Elizabeth was an ‘only child, "Or cousin likely, from the strong resemblance."
"I remind you of her?" Elizabeth said, smiling.
"Yes, very much."
"You’re right, she is my cousin."
"Well, where is she?"
"I don’t know. Somewhere in Asia, from what I gathered when she called a few days ago."
Lord Hayden paced nervously to an unlit fireplace on the opposite side of the room. With an air of absentminded chagrin, he pushed aside the sides of his tailored jacket and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. He wore a vest, a shade lighter than his pin striped suit and tie. Elizabeth’s heartbeat quickened and she felt herself flushing. Quickly she looked elsewhere. "I’m sure I’ll be hearing from her again before Christmas," she remarked. Lord Hayden frowned. Elizabeth continued, "I can see by your face that she made quite an impression."
His mouth twisted slightly.
"In any event," Elizabeth continued, "she will certainly send me a postcard or two, if I know my cousin. In the meantime, we have plenty to keep us busy. The Dean has asked our collaboration on a report detailing my theories and your findings. Grace’s article will be appearing in The National Geographic sometime in the late fall."
"If she calls, tell her‒‒" Lord Hayden’s back stiffened, then his shoulders sagged and he sighed as if accepting the inevitable. "Never mind. I wonder if those bloodhounds are still out there?" He walked to the door, unlocked it and opened it a crack. "They’re gone," he said, reentering the exhibition hall and approaching the marble pedestal displaying the opal.
Elizabeth followed him. "It’s magnificent," she said.
Lord Hayden glanced at her. For a second he thought it had been Grace speaking. When would he ever get used to the resemblance. The late afternoon sun low in the sky streamed through a window and whitewashed the glass case and the jewel within. The opal glowed.
"They won’t let you go back, will they?" Elizabeth said.
Lord Hayden shook his head. "No, the resident government flatly refused."
"Who knows where the other chants would have taken you," Elizabeth speculated.
"Perhaps to other worlds, other civilizations far advanced than ours."
"They’ve closed the tomb," Lord Hayden told her.
"Why?"
"They’ve declared it unsafe."
"They’re afraid," Elizabeth said. "But at least we have the opal."
"It’s a valuable, precious artifact, but it is useless without the chants," Lord Hayden said. "Only Psyche’s tomb holds its secret. The officials did not believe our story about the secret chamber and the musical notes. They accused us of attempting to capitalize on our find. The opal was nothing more than a bauble to them. That’s why they allowed the Museum to purchase it."
The grandfather clock in a corner of the exhibition room announced the fifth hour. The sun was level with the windowsill. Its rays bathed the room. For a moment the light was blinding. Lord Hayden squinted as the opal reflected the sun’s beams. A rainbow of pastels shot forth, but neither of the two archaeologists was aware of the phenomena. Lord Hayden blinked. That silly bun on top of her head that Professor Eldridge pulled her hair into was glowing red-gold. Her glasses, fused with the sun’s glare, showed eyes that sparkled emerald green. The grey of her suit and stockings turned to silver. Lord Hayden rubbed his eyes. "We’ll have to work on the report as soon as possible. I’m joining an expedition to South America in three weeks." What he really needed was some rest, or an eye checkup, he told himself.
The sun had descended into the horizon, leaving the room in half-light. Lord Hayden walked to the door and flipped on the light switch beside it. Elizabeth remarked, "Three weeks is not an overlong time to compile a thesis."
"Well, then, I guess we’d better get started," Hayden said. "My place, or yours?" He was teasing her. The library was far more adequate. The expression in her eyes sobered him; the sadness in her spinsterish features alarmed him. Resignation that was it. She was fully aware of her plainness and of her feeble chances to stir his emotions. He felt ashamed. "My place," he said decisively.
It was very late when he escorted Professor Eldridge to his vestibule and they said their good-nights. He watched her cross the road to her home and unlock her entrance. She paused before going in, and turned and waved to him. He waved back. Poor lonely woman, he thought, beginning to close his door. He glimpsed a postcard wedged under the
lid of his mailbox. The card was postmarked a few days earlier from a town whose name he had never heard, although it sounded Asian. There was no return address. Lord Hayden turned it over. It read:
Au revoir, mon ami. Until next we meet. You are ever in my thoughts.
It was signed, Grace Quinlan.
Lord Hayden muttered an oath. He locked his door and walked across the vestibule to his study. He went directly to his desk and opened a small, dark, ornately carved wood box. He read the postcard once more. His eyes, the color of dark brown amber in the light cast by the desk lamp, acquired a subtle tenderness and he smiled. He placed the postcard into the box. "Until next we meet..." he whispered.
* * * * * *
(Elizabeth/Grace and Lord William
share many adventures in time - past, present and future)
Their story continues in:
Volume 2
The Adventures of Grace Quinlan and Lord William Hayden
(Outside of Time)
Volume 3
The Adventures of Grace Quinlan and Lord William Hayden
in the Lost City of the Incas
(Psyche and Eros Reborn)
Volume 4
The Adventures of Grace Quinlan and Lord William Hayden
on the Isles of Polynesia
(Tale of the Birdmen)
Volume 5