The Medusa Stone (Order of the Black Sun Book 12)

by P. W. Child

  After locking onto her for a long moment, suspending her in intimidated anticipation, he continued scanning his audience as before while he spoke. By his tone of voice, his listeners could quickly tell that the esteemed Professor Costa Megalos was no fan of the famous deities. His words were arched in disdain and twisted in contempt as if he had personally been cheated by them.

  “Many of you have never considered that these well-known, apparently benevolent and powerful gods could have been something entirely different than what their sycophants and worshippers wanted them to be. My point, ladies and gentlemen, is that these revered gods had the image of monsters,” he roared as he pointed at the painting of Zeus in command of Mount Olympus. “Gods are…” he stopped to rephrase, “…were never humanoid. In fact, they were merely given human names and form to justify their callous and hideous intentions with which they imposed their powers on mankind. They were formless, deliberate aspects of human emotion. Within us they hid, using our God-given faces to soothe their hideousness, controlling our moods, our choices, and destinies. Ladies and gentlemen, gods are not people, they are things.”

  Costa took a drink of water while the audience reacted very barely, some shifting in their seats, others looking at one another. The professor saw this and thought to pacify his own passions for the sake of the gathering. He chuckled, “You have to excuse my seriousness, my friends. I have a fervent need to correct misunderstandings. You should see me at a wedding!”

  The audience responded with a resounding bout of laughter, much to their relief. But Costa was only getting started. Now that he had given them some respite he carried on with his baring of truths.

  “Right, where was I? Oh yes, that gods were things,” he stated, making a conscious decision to use past tense for those who found the thought of their existence a tad too much. “Gods were forces, relentless entities of energy that could warp the logical mind and steer the meek of will to do what they needed for their particular charge. Let’s take Aphrodite. Aphrodite was depicted as a beautiful young woman with an innocent appearance, when in fact that image was just a representation of the lust and vanity she instilled in mortals,” he explained, not once looking at the two students in the front area, spellbound by his words.

  “Let’s take Ares, god of war. He was not some suave warrior with an impeccable six-pack,” Costa explicated eloquently in a boisterous revelation as a mild muttering of mirth hovered over the amused audience. “No, you see, Ares was just a name given to a terrible emotion or urge in mankind, a malevolent need for destruction, subjugation, and murder! There was nothing beautiful about him! Aphrodite and Ares, among others, were simply the monsters of mankind, representing our sins and urges to corrupt, ladies and gentlemen,” he calmed his vehement accosting somewhat.

  After another gulp of water, he started mildly again. “We need to understand that mythology’s monsters like the Minotaur, the Sphinx, and the Cyclops were the victims of the gods’ cruelty, yet history gave them faces of abhorrence and to the gods were given glory and beauty.”

  And after an hour of heated delivery regarding the ruse of exalted gods’ appeal and the suffering of those who saw them for the reprehensible forces they were, Costa came to the end of his lecture.

  “Look at the atrocities mankind committed throughout history, doing the bidding of their gods, and tell me what is fair, what is beautiful about these evil properties. Look at the Huns, the Roman Empire, the Nazi’s, and tell me what their gods made of them,” he challenged the gathering of scholars and laymen. Costa took another swig of water.

  “Thus, ladies and gentlemen, I urge you to think about the role gods play in your life that turns you into a monster. And when you look at the so-called beauty of these powers and forces, remember that the only beauty they exhibit is that of the mortals they wear,” he said, looking at Sarah and Abbie once more, reveling in Abbie squirming under his eyes.

  “I thank you for attending tonight,” he concluded, “and thank you so much to the Edinburgh University for having me. Good night!”

  The audience gave a standing ovation, completely taken by the charming and passionate dark horse who disappeared into the dark exit as quickly as he had appeared.

  Chapter 6

  Professor Helen Barry spent the night cataloguing a new shipment of relics that had just arrived from the Hebrides, by way of Sweden and Orkney. The museum had closed for the evening, but she was still hard at work in the storage rooms. Her assistant, Gail, and two maintenance men were helping her move the new inventory and label the pieces.

  “It is almost post-Apocalyptic, isn’t it, Professor?” Gail remarked with an unsettled look on her face.

  “What is, dear?” Helen asked.

  “The museum. After hours, when it is all lonely and empty. Without people here it is almost as if the artifacts are still in their tombs as if the whole place is a portal to an ancient time and we are trapped here,” Gail recited dramatically to entertain the nerves of the two workmen who unsuccessfully tried very hard to ignore her.

  Helen laughed. “That is quite true, you know! It does feel like the end of the world… or the beginning, actually.”

  “Have you worked late before? Alone?” Gail asked as she prepared four cups of tea for them all while the men quietly unpacked a crate onto the large table in the center of the store room.

  “Oh no! And I don’t think I ever would,” Helen shrieked. “No, I always have a few people working with me. That way the work gets done much faster than if one person had to do it all. Besides, I could never lug those big pieces like the granite griffins or the marble columns by myself.”

  “And you don’t want to be alone when one of these things start walking the halls, hey Professor?” one of the men said.

  “Damn right about that, Burt,” Helen sighed anxiously, looking about the store room and its vast collection of disquieting items. The others chuckled at her admittance, but inside she knew it to be true. She could not imagine being stuck in the museum for an entire night.

  While they took a break shortly before 9 pm, a faint hum could be heard from nowhere in particular. The four of them perked up and listened, passing uncertain glances among them to ascertain if they all heard the same thing. It was undeniable. A low roar emanated from all sides, prompting them all to jump to their feet, ready to run. Gail stood against Helen while the men put their cups down.

  “Feel it under your feet?” Burt asked.

  “Aye,” said his colleague, a quiet young man called Manfred. “Under us. It is under us, whatever it is.”

  “But there is only a basement floor, so what could make that noise?” Gail scowled. Her hands slowly curled around Helen’s arm as she sought support for whatever was coming.

  The entire building seemed to shudder as the ever-present growl grew louder among the clinking and clattering of glass and pottery on the shelves. Suddenly the lights flickered everywhere on their floor, sporadically failing altogether. Gail yelped in fear as darkness enveloped them in the loud bellow of the quake.

  “Burt! Manfred! Please don’t go out there! We are safer in here, together!” Helen shouted above the ruckus.

  “I just want to see if it is localized, Professor. In case we can move to another part of the museum,” Manfred told Helen as he glanced back at her.

  “For Christ’s sake, man, does this sound localized to you?” she shrieked as several items plummeted from their stations and smashed on the floor. Gail had sunk to her haunches now, terrified and panic-stricken, clawing at Helen’s pants. “It is everywhere! We are not going to outrun it, so get your ass back in here and wait until it’s over!”

  “Yes, Madam,” the men yielded. They had to obey the curator, but they still thought it a bad idea to remain in the storage area.

  “It’s only getting worse, Professor!” Gail cried. “I told you we had an earthquake on the way.”

  “Yes, Gail,” Helen snarled, “but knowing about its imminent arrival could not make me stop it,
could it? There is nothing we can do, but wait and hope for the best. Now quit being hysterical and keep your head down.”

  Gradually, the quake grew worse and threatened to pull apart the massive structure under the force of its violence until the lights flickered their last. Darkness was no longer temporary.

  “Don’t worry,” Burt’s reassurance came through the din, “I have a flashlight.”

  “Me too, hang on,” Manfred chimed in.

  Two beams of dusty white light emanated from where they were, illuminating the ensuing chaos around them. The workmen crept closer to Helen and Gail to huddle with them, all in the solace of the meager torch light.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, we’re going to die,” Gail squealed into her cupped hands.

  “Listen,” Manfred said. “Something is peeling loose. Oh Christ, Gail is right. We are done for…”

  “Would you stop that shit? I don't want you to seal our fate!” Helen screamed at him, but in fact, she had heard the peeling he spoke of clearly. It was the slow, impending collapse of an entire wall, which would no doubt bring down an entire slab of the roof with it.

  The rumble stayed its course, unrelenting in its destruction, but on the bright side, it did not grow any worse. With the falling debris everywhere and the sparks shooting from tearing wall sockets, the four people ducked down and covered their mouths and noses. Even their hair became powdered and grey from the overwhelming dust fall. The precious light from the torches profited them nothing since they had to keep their eyes shut for fear of being blinded by the dirt particles and propelling concrete fragments.

  All over central London, from Battersea clean across to the far ends of Enfield, electricity abandoned the city, and car alarms challenged the chaos of splitting earth and collapsing road signs. Gratefully, the quake was not strong enough to topple buildings, but it decimated smaller masonry and ruptured water pipes in several neighborhoods. In the British Museum the seismic nightmare was wreaking havoc on a devastating scale.

  No part of the museum was spared. By the time the tremors subsided and eventually ceased, the damage was crippling. In the store room, the professor, her assistant, and the two workmen hunched together even as the rumble became milder, waiting for any dangerous after hocks that could surprise them.

  Outside on Great Russell Street, sirens wailed like banshees, portending the devastation exacted by the rapid, but powerful quake. Helen and her colleagues finally dared to rise to their feet and remove their makeshift masks to breathe the clearing air.

  “I am too scared to step out of here. I don’t want to see the damage to these priceless relics,” Helen lamented, dusting off her clothing.

  “The power won’t be on for quite some time, I reckon,” Burt remarked. “We will have to see if we can get the generator running for the wiring that is still connected.”

  “Yep. You never know, we could get lucky,” Manfred agreed. “Ladies, are you ready?”

  The women nodded, and with Gail’s grasp still firmly in place on Helen’s arm, they started into the pitch darkness, trailing slightly behind the men who lit the way.

  “Watch your step,” Burt warned as they crossed a crumbled pillar that obstructed their way with scattered rocks of cement.

  “Oh my God,” Helen gasped as the torch beams fell on shattered vases, smashed statues and porcelain shards strewn underfoot from delicate antiquities now destroyed. “You know, there are things insurance cannot make up for. Unfortunately, I am in such a business where everything is unique and priceless. I tell you, my heart is broken. My heart is like these shattered urns.” Professor Helen Barry was not pretentious. Her eyes glinted with tears in the occasional flare of the flashlights as she surveyed the brisk and brutal end of so many precious calling cards from history. For some of the obliterated displays, she imagined the last voices from thousands of years ago, now stilled forever. Not a shred of evidence from forgotten centuries had survived to bear witness to what those eras had been like.

  “Don’t cry, Professor,” Gail comforted Helen as she sobbed softly in the overwhelming darkness where all that was left active was the sound of their shuffling feet and the creaking threat of loose brickwork and severed steel beams.

  “Move carefully, ladies,” Burt reminded them. “Watch your surroundings. We should keep in mind that the roof could still cave in on us.”

  “How far still?” Gail asked.

  Manfred took a look ahead into the dark stuffiness and reported, “Just a few more steps forward and then we turn left to get to the stairs. The generator is in the control room.”

  “You can go, Manny,” Burt suggested. “I’ll wait up here with the professor and Gail. There is no need for them to have to go all the way there and back again, hey?”

  Manfred nodded. “Too right, mate. I’ll be quick. Just make sure you all stay away from electrical wires or wall sockets, switches and things like that, alright?”

  They all nodded and murmured, slowly scuffling toward the display chamber Helen most dreaded. However, she had no choice now. There was no time to be spooked when one had to survive the wrath of nature.

  “Where are we?” Gail asked.

  “Dr. Heidmann’s Greek Art exhibition room,” Helen answered. She pointed to the large crooked etching, designed to look like Greek lettering.

  ‘The Mythos Paradigm’

  Gail’s wary eyes combed the ill-lit interior of the room for the grotesque sculptures that were impressive even in full light. Now they loomed from the darkness, obscured and deformed.

  “Dr. Heidmann’s sculptures are ruined!” Gail exclaimed. “Look, Professor; the one is broken completely in half. He is going to be pissed.”

  “Well, I sympathize, but we could do nothing to avoid it. Never mind the doctor. I am dreading Soula’s response about her pieces!” Helen bemoaned the imminent conversation she would have to have with the wealthy collector who had loaned her personal collection to Helen’s museum. “God, she is going to have a fit!”

  “Most of her pieces are intact, Professor,” Burt mentioned, running his torch briskly over Soula’s relics.

  “Lucky thing most of her sculptures are solid marble or bronze casts, otherwise the quake would have shattered them too,” Gail remarked.

  “That is true. That is a relief,” Helen concurred with an audible tone of gratitude. “But look at this sculpture of Heidmann’s. It is completely destroyed. Even if we could somehow mend the torso and the legs, it would have lost all its value.”

  Gail used her cell phone for light, scrutinizing the broken statue. “The thin marble exterior was too weak to support the limestone it consisted of…” she described smoothly at first, but she stopped in mid-sentence. She was sure the lack of light betrayed her eyes, but on closer inspection she was horrified to confirm what she hoped was a trick of the light on crumbled stone.

  “Holy shit! This is impossible,” she gasped in shock. “Oh my God, Professor!”

  “What is it?” Helen asked, reluctantly making her way to where Gail was examining the broken statue. Gail’s face was ashen and her lost eyes wide with dubiousness.

  Burt rushed over to shine his flashlight on the fallen sculpture, illuminating the grey stone that encapsulated calcified internal organs so perfectly shaped and abundant that it could only be genuine. He caught his breath at the sight, “Look. Skeletal structure too.”

  Gail hyperventilated at the ghastly discovery that her reason refused to process, no matter how she rationalized it. She looked up at Helen and voiced her disbelief.

  “This is no statue, Professor. It was a man, an actual human being!”

  Chapter 7

  Dave Purdue rushed to the British Museum after his jet touched down in a private Docklands airfield he owned. Early in the dark hours of the morning, while he was working on a prototype geo-explorer device, he got a frantic phone call from an unknown number. Professor Helen Barry was calling from her assistant’s cell phone to notify him of the catastrophe that took place during
the evening. Purdue had switched on his television in the kitchen and found full coverage of the London earthquake on just about every channel.

  Being one of the main benefactors of the prestigious museum, he was naturally very concerned about the scale of damage incurred during the natural disaster. As a shareholder, he had to see the condition of the place himself to ascertain the extent of the devastation suffered so that he could proceed with the facilitation of repairs, renovations, and insurance claims. From the airstrip, he summoned a driver from one of the shuttle services in London he owned.

  First, Purdue joined the assessors and other shareholders of the British Museum to survey the damage and determine the costs involved. Most of the shattered pottery had to be written off, which was a substantial loss. Helen Barry was home to recuperate from the minor cuts and bruises caused by the ordeal, but she had informed Purdue of the grisly and bizarre discovery Gail had made in the aftermath of the disaster. Gail and Helen had draped a tarp over the broken sculpture that was named ‘Son of Zyklon-B’ so that Purdue would know which artifact to investigate when he arrived.

  “Good afternoon, may I speak to Donovan Graham, please,” Purdue said on his phone as his colleagues rummaged through the debris. He moved away a distance so that the contractors, sponsors, and assessors would not be within earshot of his conversation.

  Donovan Graham was an anthropologist based in Dundee, who had advised Purdue on numerous occasions before on some smaller excursions the billionaire had completed in Scotland and Scandinavia. In short, Don was the type of academic who would venture across the lines of propriety and law to pursue the truth, the fascinating and the unorthodox. He was the man who first introduced Purdue to Russian guide Alexandr Arichenkov on the Wolfenstein expedition a few years ago.