“Indy!”
He turned at the sound of Brody’s voice coming from inside the passageway. “Marcus?” he yelled back.
“Indy, you’ve got to hurry.”
He leaned his head back against the rock wall and closed his eyes. He could turn around now and go back and watch his father die. Or he could jump, and hope . . . even though there was no hope. He suddenly remembered himself as a child of ten with his father and wondered how the hell his life could be flashing before his eyes when he hadn’t even jumped yet.
His father had given him a bow and arrow set for his tenth birthday and had put up a target in the backyard. “You stand behind this line, Junior, and practice, and when you get a bull’s-eye come and get me. But don’t cheat. Stay behind the line.”
“Yes, sir.” He was happy and excited and more than anything wanted to please his father. He practiced the rest of the afternoon, but didn’t hit a single bull’s-eye. Half of the time he missed the target completely and had to retrieve the arrows from the bushes at the far side of the yard.
The sun was low in the sky when his father came outside again. “Well, Junior?”
“I can’t do it, Dad.” His eyes were filled with tears. He was angry and frustrated. “I just can’t hit the bull’s-eye. I’m too far away.”
“No, you’re not, Junior. You’re not too far away. Your problem is, you don’t believe. When you believe you can do it, you will do it. Believe, Junior. Believe.”
He had scoffed that believing wasn’t going to make him any better. His father had pointed at him. “Don’t grow up to be cynical, Junior. The cynic is a fearful person who accomplishes nothing.”
He had lowered his bow and stared at the bull’s-eye, saying over and over that he believed he could hit it. He raised the bow, but he felt his doubts returning. He lowered it again.
I believe. I believe. I believe I can hit it. I’ll do it. I can hit the bull’s-eye. I believe. I’ll do it.
And he did.
Indy opened his eyes. The memory had been as clear as if he were still ten. He stared across the abyss again. When he grew up, he had relegated the experience to a coincidence. But now there was no time to question the power of faith. I’ve got to believe. That’s the only way. I can make it. I believe it.
He stuffed the diary in his pouch and focused on the rock wall on the far side, saying over and over again that he believed. If I don’t believe, I won’t jump. I’ll jump when I believe.
He brushed aside his doubts, concentrating, and repeating his belief until he felt the grooves of that faith etched inside him. His breathing was deep. It came faster and faster. I can do it. Dad. I can do it. I’ll make it.
He crouched down on the edge of the abyss. With every bit of his strength, he pushed off and sprang like a lion.
It was a strong leap, the best he could have done. But, of course, it was far too short. The gap was too wide.
He was going to die. Yet, he knew he wouldn’t. At that moment he landed and fell forward on his hands and knees.
He looked down and saw he was on a rock ledge a few feet below the passageway. But why hadn’t he seen it? It was obviously there all the time.
He leaned back slightly, trying to look at the ledge from the perspective of the opposite wall. Then he saw there was something unusual about the rocks. It was ingenious. The ledge was colored to blend exactly with the rocks one hundred feet below. From the sight line on the opposite wall, it appeared there was no ledge. It was a perfect camouflage until he leaped.
He laughed aloud. He had believed, and he had found the impossible. The Invisible Bridge. If he hadn’t believed he could survive, he would have never leaped and never found the bridge.
He stood, wobbled a moment, and looked back across the abyss. He saw Elsa and Donovan staring at him in astonishment. He chuckled, knowing that from their perspective, he looked as if he was standing in midair.
Gingerly he followed the ledge as it gradually rose, a gentle slope that ended beneath the lion’s head. He was now just below the lip of the aperture in the rock wall.
Then he remembered something else. The lion was one of the symbols in the search for the Grail—the fifth level of awareness. It stood for leadership, conquest, and the attainment of high goals.
He had overcome the three challenges; a high goal had been achieved. Now he was ready to move on and find the Grail Cup. He had the feeling, though, that the toughest challenge of them all was still ahead.
TWENTY-TWO
The Third Knight
INDY LOOKED BACK once before pressing on and saw Elsa throwing pebbles and dirt out over the abyss and onto the invisible bridge.
Bright woman. Bright and dangerous.
The passageway narrowed and the ceiling lowered as he continued forward. He banged his head on the ceiling and scraped his shoulders on the walls. He was forced to crawl, but it didn’t do much good: he still banged his head.
If this gets any tighter, I’ll have to start believing I’m a rabbit, for Christ’s sake.
Darkness wrapped around him like a thick overcoat. His fingers led the way, penetrating the darkness ahead. He worried that when he reached the end, it would be a rock wall. Then what? He hadn’t overcome the challenges just to find out there was no Grail, only a dead end. This was no time for cosmic jokes. His father was dying.
He banged his forehead and, fearing the worst, extended his arm and patted the wall with his hand, defining the contours of the tunnel. He realized it was curving, not ending. He moved slowly ahead and noticed the tunnel was now dimly lit.
He crawled another ten feet. He could see a light ahead and moved faster. The light grew stronger, brighter. He squinted as brilliant sunshine beamed into the tunnel. Then, forcing his way through a narrow opening, he tumbled out of the tunnel. Sweet, fragrant air swirled around him. His eyes quickly adjusted to the daylight.
He stood, brushed the dirt off his shoulders, and stretched his arms and legs. He was inside another temple, smaller than the other. His attention immediately focused on an altar in the center. It was draped in violet linen, and on it were dozens of chalices of various sizes. Some were gold, others were silver; some were festooned with precious jewels, others were less ornate. But all of them shone and glistened, and Indy was mesmerized by the spectacle.
He knew he had reached his destination.
He moved forward for a closer look, then saw another smaller altar off to one side—and something else. A figure in a tunic and a knit headdress knelt in front of the other altar with his back to him.
Indy walked closer. The man’s thin, bony hands were folded, and his head bent in prayer. The skin on his fingers was paper-thin, translucent, and outlined the bones. He moved forward and saw a shaft of light striking the emblem of a cross that was stitched on the man’s tunic.
Indy realized he was looking at the third Grail knight, the brother who had stayed behind to guard the cup.
He bent over and looked into the knight’s face. His eyes were closed; his parched lips were slightly parted as if he were about to say something. The face had heavy, white eyebrows and a prominent nose. The body was dried and brittle by time and the desert, yet remarkably preserved, in far better condition than the gruesome remains of the knight’s brother from the catacombs in Venice.
He leaned forward and frowned. For a moment, he thought he saw the knight blink. Then he smiled and shook his head. A candle was burning on the altar in front of the knight, and the flickering light was playing tricks with his eyes.
Indy raised his head. A candle. Who lit that?
He lifted his gaze and looked around the temple, wondering if he was being watched. “So who lit the candle, old fellow?”
The knight suddenly raised his head.
Indy drew back, astonished. “What the hell.”
He watched in stunned disbelief as the knight rose slowly to his feet, then lifted an enormous sword with both hands. Before Indy even realized what had happened, the sword flashed in
the air. The knight swung the weapon quickly, deftly, and the tip of it nicked the front of Indy’s shirt and sliced the strap of his pouch, which slipped to the ground.
Indy leaped back as the knight hefted the sword again and took another swipe at him. This time the weight of the sword was too much, and the knight lost his balance. He stumbled back against the altar; the sword clattered as it struck the rock floor.
Indy moved over to him and helped him up. He was old but possessed an unmistakable vitality that made his eyes gleam. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. It was as if he were uncertain how to speak. Finally, he uttered a low groan.
“I knew ye would come,” he said, looking Indy over, judging him against some image in his own mind. “But my strength has left me. I tire easily.”
“Who are you?” Indy answered slowly.
“Ye know who I be. The last of three brothers who swore an oath to find and protect the Grail.”
“That was more than eight hundred years ago.”
“A long time to wait.”
Indy smiled affably. The old guy was senile. “So when was the First Crusade?”
At first, Indy didn’t think the old man heard him. Then he answered: “In the year of Our Lord 1095 at the Council of Clermont. Proclaimed by Pope Urban II.”
“When did the Crusades end?”
The knight gave him a withering look that reminded Indy of his father. “They have not. The last crusader stands before ye eyes.”
Indy nodded. He didn’t have time to interrogate him, though. He needed to act. If this guy was the real thing, and still alive, then the Grail Cup could save his father.
He heard voices coming from the tunnel and started to turn, but the old knight tugged on the brim of his fedora. “Ye be strangely dressed . . . for a knight.” He ran his fingers over Indy’s bullwhip.
“Well, I’m not exactly . . . a knight.”
“I think ye be one.”
Indy shrugged.
“I was chosen as the bravest and the most worthy. The honor of guarding the Grail was made mine until another worthy knight arrived to challenge me in single combat.” He lifted the hilt of his sword. “I pass it to ye who vanquished me.”
“Look, let me explain. I need to borrow the Grail Cup from you. You see, my father . . .”
“Hold it, Jones.”
Indy whipped around to see Donovan squeezing through the tunnel, aiming his pistol at him.
“Stay right there.” Donovan glanced around, saw the altar of chalices, and moved over to it. Elsa emerged from the tunnel and quickly joined him.
Donovan glanced over at the knight, his gun still aimed at Indy. “Okay, which one is it?”
The knight took a step forward and rose to his full height as he stared at Donovan. “I no longer serve as guardian of the Grail.” He nodded toward Indy. “It is he who must answer the challenge. I will neither help nor hinder.”
Donovan grinned at Indy. “He’s not stopping me.”
“Then choose wisely,” the knight advised. “For just as the true Grail will bring ye life, the false Grail will take it away.”
Indy smiled wryly at Donovan. “Take your pick, Donovan. Good luck.”
Elsa moved closer to the altar. “Do you see it?” Donovan asked under his breath.
“Yes.”
“Which is it?”
Elsa removed her hat and carefully picked up a shiny cup encrusted with sparkling colored stones. Donovan instantly grabbed it from her and held it up to the light. “Oh, yes. It’s more beautiful than I had ever imagined. And it’s mine.”
Indy expected Elsa to protest, but she remained silent. The knight’s face was implacable, revealing nothing.
Donovan looked up toward a font and carried the cup over to it. Elsa followed him.
Indy knew that according to the legend, immortality was achieved by drinking water from the cup.
Donovan admired the cup again. “This certainly is the cup of a King of Kings. Now it’s mine.” He filled it with water and held it high in one hand. He gazed triumphantly at Indy and the knight. The gun was still in his other hand, but in his excitement, he no longer aimed it at Indy.
“Eternal life.” He drank long and deeply. Donovan lowered the cup to his chest. His eyes were closed, and a beatific smile spread across his face.
Indy could have tackled him at that moment and wrestled the cup from him. But something inside him told him to wait and watch. He didn’t have to wait long.
Suddenly Donovan’s eyes opened wide. The hand that held the cup started to shake. He turned away and bent over the font. His face skewed in pain. His body shuddered. He dropped the gun.
With a great effort he pushed away from the font and stumbled toward the altar. He stopped several feet short of it, unable to take another step. “What . . . is . . . happening . . . to . . . me?” he gasped.
His features contorted into a grisly mask. His cheekbones projected. His skin shriveled and wrinkled. He looked frail and already ancient when he turned to Elsa, the cup still clutched in his hand. His eyes seemed to have sunk into his cheeks and lay there like old stones in dry sockets.
He then hurled himself toward her, hands digging into her shoulder. “What . . . is . . . happening?”
She screamed and tried to push him away from her as he kept repeating his question, his voice growing fainter by the second, his body aging rapidly now. His hair was growing long and gray and crisp. His face was sinking, his skin peeling away.
“No. No. No. No. No. No,” he whispered. He shook his head and bits of skin flew away.
Elsa shrieked in terror.
Donovan’s fingernails curled back on themselves. Milky cataracts coated his eyes. What remained of his skin turned brown and leathery and stretched across his face until it split and hung in flaps.
Then he crumpled to the ground, an ancient skeleton blackened with age.
Indy moved quickly to Elsa’s side and pushed her away from the still-writhing remains. He kicked the pile of bones and cloth, and Donovan’s skeletal arms fluttered, collapsed, and turned to dust.
Elsa clung to Indy, her face pressed against his shirt, sobbing as a cold wind swirled through the temple and gradually died away. Indy peered over Elsa’s shoulder, looking at the pile of dust that had been Donovan. As she began to calm down, Indy let go of her and turned to the knight, an unspoken question on his face.
“He chose poorly,” the old knight said, and shrugged as if Donovan’s death was of no consequence to him. He had given him fair warning.
Indy glanced at Elsa and picked up the gun Donovan had dropped and tucked it in his belt. Then he hurried over to the altar. He was thinking of his father, of his father dying back there, of his father bleeding and in pain.
He stood in front of the chalices, took several deep breaths and let his eyes unfocus. A feeling of acute awareness overtook him. He felt light-headed. He closed his eyes a moment, concentrating, telling himself that he could do it, he could select the correct Grail, the one that would save his father.
He opened his eyes and cast a quick glance over the rows of glittering, bejeweled chalices. Then his eyes came to rest on one that was different. It was a simple cup, dull compared to the others. He didn’t know why, but it seemed right. He picked it up and looked it over carefully. He didn’t know what he expected to find. He knew there wouldn’t be any stamp of authenticity.
“Is that it?” Elsa asked.
“I guess there’s only one way to find out.”
Indy moved quickly to the font, scooped up some of the water. He breathed deeply, took a quick drink from the cup, and waited an instant, wondering if something was going to happen, if he was looking at the last few seconds of his own life. He didn’t feel any different, for better or worse.
Then suddenly his vision blurred. He felt dizzy; he blinked and squeezed his eyes shut. God, had he chosen wrong?
Oddly, he realized he could still see. But it was a different way of seeing. The cup in his ha
nds was growing and transforming. It grew wings, a head, a beak. It was an eagle, spreading its massive wings and taking flight. It was the eagle of his vision quest and the eagle that signaled the sixth and last level of awareness in the Grail search.
“Indy?”
At the sound of Elsa’s voice he blinked and shook his head. The cup was still in his hands. He glanced over at Elsa. From the questioning look on her face, he knew that she hadn’t shared his experience. He looked over at the knight, who smiled knowingly.
“You’ve chosen wisely.”
That was all the verification Indy needed. He didn’t wait a second longer. He headed directly for the tunnel and crawled through it. He moved as rapidly as he could, while still carefully balancing the water-filled Grail Cup. He worried about banging the cup into the ceiling or the walls, and he worried about going so slowly that his father might die before he reached him. But as the tunnel expanded in size, he stood up and ran, at first at a low crouch, gradually rising up to his full height.
He slowed as he came to the ledge above the abyss. It was now speckled with dirt and clearly visible. He realized that it wasn’t merely a protrusion, but actually was a bridge spanning the chasm between the two lion heads. Now it was easy. He walked quickly out onto the bridge, holding the Grail Cup in front of him.
He was hurrying, thinking about his father, and not paying enough attention. He was halfway across when his right foot slipped on the pebbles and dirt. His leg swung out, and he tottered back and forth, the Grail Cup wavering precariously over the abyss. Just as he almost regained his balance, his other foot slipped, and he fell unceremoniously onto his butt. Miraculously only a few drops had wet the sides of the Grail Cup. He carefully stood up and cautiously walked to the other side.
Brody stood at the top of the steps looking anxiously at Sallah and Henry and the dark passageway. There was still no sign of Indy, and he knew Henry wouldn’t last much longer.
“Marcus!”
He looked up, peered down the passageway, and saw Indy moving quickly toward him, clutching the Grail Cup in his hands. His eyes widened, and his face lit up. He stepped back as Indy rushed past him and down the steps.
The Adventures Of Indiana Jones Page 54