The Lost Ark

by J. R. Rain

  “To be fair,” she added, “there’s substantial evidence of a massive flood occurring in the Black Sea basin about seventy-five hundred years ago. Two colleagues of mine, both noted oceanographers, have proven this event to be the largest in recent history, geologically speaking. Many lives were lost, including whole communities. The evidence even suggests that this disaster helped spread farming into central Europe, and could be the basis of the Noah’s ark story, along with the Babylonian epic of Gilgamesh.”

  “Should I make copious notes for the quiz later?”

  “Are you ever serious, Sam?”

  “Look,” I said. “You scientists have all the proof you need to denounce it, the believers have all the faith they need to believe, so who the hell cares what I think?”

  “But you make a living endorsing that myth.”

  “Correction, I make a living safely guiding people onto a very dangerous mountain. What they do on the mountain is their business.”

  “Have you ever seen any evidence of the ark?”

  “No.”

  She sat back, satisfied. “As I said, it’s a myth. Bedtime stories. A classic hero tale, one man conquering nature and all that.”

  “Now that you’ve got it all figured out,” I said. “Perhaps we should get going.”

  And that’s when Faye screamed, and not because of a field mouse.

  * * *

  The creature was long and beautiful and as deadly as they come. Relative to the North American cottonmouth, the puff adder, with its patch-work pattern, was perfectly camouflaged for its surroundings. It moved languidly through the dry grass a foot away from Faye’s out-stretched leg.

  “Sam!”

  Puff adders were deaf; or, more accurately, lacked hearing. Good thing.

  “Christ, Sam, do something!”

  “Just be still.”

  Its forked tongue, covered in sense organs, flicked in and out, testing its surroundings. The adder was long, perhaps the longest I’ve seen on the mountain. And it was shedding. Seen in a different light, the snake could look ghastly, which was probably the light in which Faye was seeing it.

  “I’m going to faint, Sam.”

  “Not a good idea,” I said.

  “I-I can’t breathe.”

  I moved forward, crouched low to the ground. The adder paid little attention to me, or even to Faye, for that matter. It seemed intent on the bubbling stream, and suddenly made a turn for the worse…slithering over Faye’s ankle.

  “Sam!”

  “Sit still.”

  “I can’t breathe.”

  The snake’s tongue flicked out rapidly, wiggling like a worm on a hook. Faye’s eyes suddenly rolled up into her head and her elbows slipped from under her. She fell silently back into the soft grass. It was just as well, and a whole lot quieter.

  I grabbed the snake’s tail and pulled it away from Faye. True to its name, the creature puffed out extraordinarily and swung its jaws, bubbling with venom, at me, but they fell just short. Thirty feet away, I set the creature free in the wet grass.

  Chapter Seventeen

  We followed a series of sheep trails along a rocky slope as the wind hit us first from one direction, then another. Sparring like a boxer. The effect was complete instability.

  I checked on Faye. She appeared to be doing fine. Her face was set in grim determination. Grim determination was an asset on this mountain. We stopped under a rock overhang and drank from our water bottles. I watched a dust devil move up the slope, then lose its steam and dissipate into nothing. Faye said, “I’ve never fainted before.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I said.

  “But nothing to be proud of either.”

  “Then I promise not to tell,” I said, “no matter how much the tabloids offer.”

  The wind tousled her hair. Her hair looked good tousled. She removed her sunglasses and looked at me. “You can be very sweet behind the jokes and tough-guy attitude.”

  “Sweet, tough and funny,” I said. “A hell of a combination.”

  “Notice I didn’t say modest?”

  “I noticed.”

  Her eyes followed the slope all the way to the snow-capped peak thousands of feet above. “Do you think we’re wasting our time?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe Emir Omar Ali has some answers to your father’s disappearance.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I said, “The shepherd established that your father and his student were above the Ahora Gorge, which may be near Omar’s camp. If your father did come across Omar, he would have stumbled upon a whole hornet’s nest of trouble—just look at what happened to the shepherd.”

  “Do you think Omar killed them?”

  I shrugged.

  “So what do we do?” she asked.

  “Maybe we should have a look at Omar’s camp,” I said.

  Faye chewed her lower lip, alternately moistening it with the tip of her pink tongue. I didn’t chew my lip; instead, I watched her. Same effect, less chewing. “But how do we get in?” she asked finally.

  “We’ll cross that ice bridge when we get there,” I said.

  “I suppose we can’t just say we were in the neighborhood,” Faye said.

  “No,” I said.

  “And selling Girl Scout cookies is out of the question.”

  “That was funny.”

  “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”

  “Just take a hot shower and you’ll be fine.”

  She laughed. The wind abruptly died down, and all was silent. Not even the chattering chirp of a krupers nuthatch. She suddenly turned to me, eyes flashing. “If Omar had anything to do with my father’s disappearance, I’ll want justice.”

  I detected something hard in her voice. “Justice, or revenge?”

  She set her jaw. “Both.”

  “On Ararat, there is no justice. And revenge will cost you extra.”

  * * *

  We followed a shallow gully, its rock-strewn floor uneven and difficult to traverse. Like witch’s hair, patches of dry grass grew futilely among the rocks. The sun continued to set, slowly disappearing behind the distant foothills, casting the sky into a brilliant orange glow. A male caspian snowcock, its little white chest puffed out, watched us from the branch of a scraggly bush.

  From the gully we followed a winding sheep trail until we reached a jagged ridge. Here, the wind hammered us like batting practice. My chapped lips hummed with pain. Rarely was there a time when my lips weren’t chapped. Faye’s dark hair blew behind her like a tattered battlefield flag. She held onto the sleeve of my jacket. Unfortunately, there was nothing for me to hold onto. We had a perfect view of the Bayazit plain below which shimmered in patches of browns and tans and greens. I could see the town of Dogubayazit on the western horizon as a finger of black smoke rose from it. I hoped Pascal hadn’t burned down my bar. Again.

  We continued along the crest of the ridge. Almost immediately I spotted a lithe creature darting expertly from rock to rock, pausing every few feet to test the air. Suddenly it stopped, ears twitching. It must have caught wind of us. The white ghost, as the local shepherds call him. The snow leopard turned slowly and displayed its long white teeth and black gums, and in a blink of an eye the big cat was gone, disappearing among the huge granite boulders.

  We moved forward into the sunset, the horizon a fiery canvass, painted orange and red and violet with the rays of the setting sun. And as we wound our way up a narrow path, sprinkled liberally with loose rock, Faye Roberts cried out behind me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I turned in time to see Faye crumple to the ground in a heap. I dashed to her side, sliding down the loose rock. I saw that her right leg was sticking out at an awkward angle.

  “Can you stand?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is it your knee?” If it was her knee, we were heading down the next morning.

  She shook her head. “Ankle.”

  I helpe
d her into a sitting position. She unlaced her right boot and massaged her ankle, wincing. “I don’t think it’s bad. I’ve twisted it before in racquetball. Just give me a minute.”

  “You need ice,” I said.

  She looked around the rocky slope. “If you see some, tell me.”

  “The streams here are at near freezing temperatures,” I said.

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m going to carry you to the nearest stream.”

  “No thank you. I’d prefer to wait.”

  “No waiting. As it is, we have precious little light to negotiate the trail.”

  She continued to protest even as I lifted her into my arms. I moved forward, carrying two backpacks and a full grown woman. Once, my own foot rolled over a loose rock, but I managed to keep my balance. My legs burned and my arms shook and I did my best not to pass out from exhaustion.

  Not soon enough, the rocky trail gave way to plush grass. Here, a trickling stream cut through the plateau. Near the stream’s grassy bank, I set her down. She removed her boot and sock and put her foot in the water and promptly yelped.

  “Jesus, it’s cold.”

  I grinned and stretched my aching back. “It’s glacial run-off. With any luck, it should stop the swelling.”

  “And with any luck I’ll feel my toes again.”

  * * *

  I staked our tents side by side. As I worked, Faye watched me from her perch near the brook. “That was a very nice thing you did, Sam.”

  I shrugged. “It’s all part of the service. You know, helping damsels in distress and all that. How’s the ankle?”

  She pulled her foot out of the water. Her foot glowed palely under the moonlight. In a dazzling feat of dexterity, she pulled her ankle to approximately three inches from her face, and examined it up close and personal. Then she put her foot back in the water. The water rippled and glistened like black lava under the moon.

  “It’ll turn purple, but the swelling appears to have stopped.”

  “Good.”

  I dug a fire pit within the rocks, and fueled it with dry grass and a match. The sky above shone with a million and one stars. The pot of tea came to a boil over the small butane stove, and I poured a cup for each, and handed out beef jerky and trail mix. The trail mix was tilted more toward dried cranberries than anything else, which was fine by me. Faye drank and ate alone by the brook’s edge. When I finished the trail mix, I sat next to her and sipped my tea.

  “Feeling sociable?” she said.

  “You looked lonesome.”

  “Can I take my foot out now?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Who died and made you Dr. Quincy?” she said.

  “Dr. Quincy?”

  “It’s the first doctor that came to mind,” she said sheepishly.

  “But he was a medical examiner,” I said. “You know, autopsies.”

  “He probably knew a thing or two about swollen ankles.”

  “Then again he was a fictional character. The extent of Jack Klugman’s medical knowledge is in the script.”

  “But he played the part well.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “So can I take my foot out?”

  “If you promise to leave Dr. Quincy out of any future arguments.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Fine,” I said, and handed her a hand towel with the embroidered symbol of the Gule Gule.

  Faye wiped her foot and examined the towel. “Does Camilla know you have this?”

  I grabbed the towel from her. “No. And neither does she know of the others.” I rummaged through my backpack and produced two crumpled cigarettes that had seen better days. I lit both and handed her one. I lay back in the dry grass and watched the clouds congeal into something much larger.

  Faye exhaled a steady stream of blue-gray smoke. “You’re a bad influence on me, Sam Ward.”

  “I’ve been known to have that effect.”

  “But it is relaxing,” she said. “And if ever there was a day that I needed a cigarette, it’s today.”

  “When you’re quitting, every day is that day.”

  The wind picked up, forcing Faye to wipe her long hair away from her forehead. As she inhaled, the tip of the cigarette flared brightly. “Have you ever been married, Sam?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been close to marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at me, letting her unvoiced question hang in the air. So did I. The tents made flapping noises. More clouds accumulated above. “Let’s take another route,” she said, rolling to her side, eyes both mischievous and curious. “How does an American end up living in Eastern Turkey?”

  I flicked my unfinished cigarette in the fire. I needed something stronger. I produced a metal flask from the backpack. I undid the cap, and took a drink. “Single malt Turkish whiskey. Not the best stuff in the world, but good enough.” I held the bottle out to Faye, but she declined.

  “Three years ago,” I said, “my fiancé was killed on this mountain.”

  Faye brought the cigarette to her lips and inhaled slowly, blowing the smoke out through her nostrils. “Father always said I was too nosy.”

  A snowflake touched her lower lip and melted. I could smell Faye’s shampooed hair, a mixture of berries and roses. I shook my head in wonder: we elude the Turkish military and spend a day climbing and she still comes up smelling like roses. Women are amazing.

  “She was killed in a rockslide,” I said. “I found her face-down in a ravine, the back of her head smashed in, partially covered in loose rocks.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  “I buried her in a cave above the Abich Glacier.” We were silent. I had brought the morale down a notch or two. “And I’m the only one who knows where she’s buried.”

  “Which is why you’re still here in Eastern Turkey,” she said with surprising insight.

  I nodded. “If I leave, she will be forgotten. Who else will visit her grave?”

  The snow continued to fall, and shortly we retired to our separate tents. I left the fire smoldering in the pit.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning we were sipping coffee in front of the campfire. The snow had stopped during the night, leaving behind a thin blanket of ice over everything. I held the warm coffee mug in my cold hands, which made for a good combination.

  Faye’s hair was in a ponytail, held in place by a blue rubberband. She was dressed in dark blue insulated wool pants, wind- and rain-proof synthetic parka and a thick sweater. The rubber soles of her hiking boots were crusted with pale brown dirt. I was dressed similarly, save my parka was red and the soles of my boots were permanently encrusted with dirt. And no blue rubberband.

  A flock of alpine swifts, white shadows against the dark morning sky, swept silently overhead. When we had finished our coffee, I helped Faye into her backpack and noticed she was putting more weight on her left foot.

  “How’s the ankle?” I asked.

  “Serviceable.”

  “That doesn’t sound encouraging.”

  “It will have to do.”

  I led the way up the snow-covered slope, which was bordered by short cliffs layered with quartz and calcite. The faint skyline of distant rolling foothills came gradually into view as the sun made its morning appearance. We passed a large sandstone boulder. A small monitor lizard, its green spiny back dotted with yellow specks, was perched on top, thermo-regulating. It never even moved.

  At noon, we paused next to another stream and filled our bottles and watched a red squirrel work precariously among the roots and weeds jutting from the cliff face. It paused just long enough to look at us sideways.

  “Busy little fellow,” Faye said.

  “Hunger does that to you.”

  As we drank, water ran down Faye’s slender neck. Actually, most ran down her neck. “It’s heavenly,” she said when she had pulled away from the bottle.

  I said, “Could be a slogan for a water bottli
ng company.”

  “We could make a lot of money,” she said.

  “We? It was my idea,” I said.

  “But my slogan,” she said.

  “Noah’s Water?” I suggested.

  She made a face. “It’s gotta sound clean, Sam. A nine hundred and fifty year old prophet who spent the better part of his time with a boatload of dirty animals doesn’t sound clean. How about Ararat Glacial?”

  I said, “Ararat Agua?”

  “Maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

  We moved on, making good progress. And as evening came, the sun a massive ball of orange fire sitting on the western horizon, we had climbed a total of four thousand feet. Together, we stood on a rocky cornice overlooking a vast and empty Bayazit plain. The wind blew with gale-like force, carrying with it the sweet scent of wild poppies and cloves.

  “It’s breathtaking,” she said.

  I agreed in silence and closed my eyes and felt the sun on my skin, the wind in my hair. The hood of my parka flapped on my shoulders like something trapped. My hair, cut militarily short, didn’t do much flapping. Faye held onto my sleeve.

  “There’s nothing for me to hold onto,” I said.

  “Quit complaining and hold onto me.”

  I grinned. And did. We stood like that for some time. I think I could have stood like that for quite a long time.

  “When will we reach Omar’s camp?”

  “Two days.”

  She nodded. We stood quietly. The wind tugged at us like a child looking for attention. “Have you ever been afraid of heights, Sam?”

  “I used to be.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “Rarely. Why?”

  “Because I think I’m getting sick.”

  “That’s our cue,” I said, and led the way down from the cornice.

  Chapter Twenty

  We were in a favorite cave of mine eating dehydrated vegetable soup, which I had expertly hydrated with boiling water. Afterward, we sipped tea and watched the snow blow across the cave’s entrance. It could have been static on a TV set.