9 Tales Told in the Dark 20

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  Past the gap I could stand up stooped over, and within a few yards the passage led us beyond masonry, into a uniform, hard rock that looked inky in the glare of my lamp. The tunnel immediately slanted upward at a steep angle. “What’s this stuff?” I called back.

  He said, “Bedrock, an upwelling of the same unique material that forms the Island. I deduce that its properties are associated with the theorized primordial impact. The pyramid was erected around it, and this passage hacked through it. Curious, would not you say?”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” I climbed. There was a little dust, but the footing was firm, and I mounted steadily. The walls of the passage inched nearer my shoulders. Sweat stung my eyes. I blinked, rubbed away the pain. I asked, “How far did you go on your own?”

  “The climb concerned me,” he said. “I desired a younger, fitter man to lead.” I’d have thought he was fit enough for this; taxing, yes, not dangerous, unless claustrophobia was an issue. All men have their hidden weaknesses.

  That wasn’t one of mine, which was reassuring, for I’d attained a point at which my wide shoulders were scraping the smooth walls. Now I heaved myself upward. I slid into a new position with much trouble, confronted a ghastly sight. From a ledge just above my head stared two perfect, polished white skulls; the real articles, not pictures these. One sat next to each wall. My head lamp played odd tricks of illusion with them. It must have been reflection from the black stone, which possessed a glossy quality, but the harsh light appeared to beam from the vacant eye sockets, casting evil radiance back at me. I admit, it gave me the creeps. I could see ceiling beyond them. Either the passage ended there, or it turned horizontal again. Through my ruminations I heard Vorchek query, “What is the hold-up?”

  I squeezed a few inches farther, gazed over the plane of the ledge. I called down, with a manfully steadied voice, “We’ve hit a snag. The passage narrows too much here. No man, boy, or girl can push through this.” I sounded so natural. The beat of my heart thudded in my ears. Straight ahead, in a niche in the wall where the tunnel abruptly stopped, squatted the Idol of Zita.

  I couldn’t mistake it. The historical descriptions nailed the basics fairly well. About eight inches tall, a blaze of lovely gold and soft green jade, with that mouth-watering ruby glowing like a small red sun. That was it. I wasn’t prepared, however, for the hideous aspect of the thing. It was meant to represent, apparently, the god fellow-- Hoachipectulli-- that Vorchek spoke of. Well, he must have been a rough customer in his day, not someone to mess around with. Fat like a toad, with too many stubby legs, a tangle of arms that were more feelers or tentacles, and a bloated head mainly consisting of sharp teeth and that single lidless eye. The fanged mouth stretched all the way across the head, making it appear as if the upper jaw opened like a lid.

  Vorchek cried, “Mr. Jones, what are you doing?”

  Panting, I reached for it. I have long arms. I extended my strong right to its limit. My fingers barely closed upon its knobby shape. It felt weirdly warm, that idol, as if its substance sucked up the heat. I almost thought my fingers went numb. The eye ruby seemed to glare through me. For a second more I held onto it. So, I could have it, when the moment was mine. I released it with regret, pulled back my arm between the two guardian skulls, slithered slowly down to where I could turn my head and face my companion.

  “I tried to force my way through,” I lied. “It won’t do. It will take tools, much time and effort, to widen the passage. Your people may have weeks of labor ahead of them.”

  Vorchek said, “That is a pity. We must descend. Are you well, Mr. Jones?”

  “Of course I am. I thank you for this taste of adventure, Professor. Let us go.”

  It wasn’t long before we stood together under the hostile sun, surrounded by adoring fans, plagued by their insipid questions. Vorchek hurried to relate my version of the truth to his people. The idea of great travails to come seemed to sour them on the business. Terry, especially, came off as perturbed by what she heard, the story which I keenly seconded. The professor actually admonished her against uttering statements that “might cool our zeal”, and quickly cut off her next expostulation. After he took her in charge we trooped back to their camp for lunch, where the crew bandied about hopes for the future. I pointedly avowed that I’d gotten my fill of archeology; while appreciative of the opportunity, my interests, I claimed, were already tugging me back to the birds. Most of them laughed at that, none more so than Professor Vorchek. He said, “Not all feel the same calling as we. The cravings of life make different demands upon us.”

  Boy, he had that right. Vorchek might be wise in his own way, but I had a secret of my own, just one, but the only one that counted. I knew the location of the idol; I knew how to get to it, and I knew I could do it, alone, in the dead of night. Vorchek didn’t know it, but his mission was rapidly drawing to a close. Within twenty-four hours I’d have the treasure and be on my way to a rendezvous with nearly unlimited wealth.

  A little later, sitting alone inside my warm, stuffy tent, I noted that I didn’t feel as cheery about developments as my nature would have predicted. Necessarily I was hot and bothered-- the remorseless sun, and the wretched landscape, scrubby and craggy, and that bleak, steaming lake got me down, and that blasted croaking and warbling of those idiotic birds nagged my mind-- but despite everything of importance going my way, I felt down in the dumps. The fingers of my right hand itched and burned. Probably I’d brushed them against a cactus. A morbid oppression hung heavy on my mind. I dreaded coming down with something in that backward land.

  Regardless, I had no time to waste on moaning. I needed sleep-- plenty of it-- for that night would demand of me heroics and all my cleverness. All would go well with me, if there were no hitches.

  Sleep came eventually that sweltering afternoon, yet it did not provide the degree of rest I sought. I am not a dreaming man. I never dream. This time I dreamed. It came on me like an awakening. Suddenly I was aware, amidst absolute darkness. This was not my tent. This was no place I knew nor, perhaps, any place at all. My consciousness hovered in nothingness blacker than night, and then from without the impenetrable murk painful light assailed. Two white skulls, toothy jaws agape, appeared in the gloom, brightly shining with light of their own, no shadows there; every feature, crevice and angle glowing incandescently. I heard no sound, but I thought they laughed. Then they suddenly drew aside, and from between them appeared the Idol of Zita, or something akin to it, bathed in their nasty glare. Only this thing was big, impossibly large, a great statue, the giant brother of the little idol. Correction: in that brief, initial instant I mistook it for a statue, assumed what another moment showed false. It was the guy himself, Hoachipectulli in the flesh, or what passes for flesh with a god. This thing, repellent beyond imagination, was sluggishly, horrifyingly alive. It sagged forward, its stumpy legs and flat, elephantine feet waddling, the tentacles writhing in a manner vilely reminiscent of a mass of fishing worms in a can. The face was indescribably loathsome. I’d thought the idol ugly, but it was dead metal and stone. This shape, that face, was oily, mobile, squirming with impossible animation. I hadn’t groped for the reality behind the image; why should I, when there wasn’t one? Now that bulging, veined red eye gazed greedily. Now the wide mouth worked, the awesome fangs champing hungrily, grease leaking over the lower lip. Now the terrible monstrosity spoke to me.

  Of course I don’t know what it said. The words were meaningless, each spewed syllable a riot of agonizing confusion. My ears told me nothing, but somewhere deep inside me knowledge festered, meaning transmitted from that terrible entity to my tissues rather than my brain. My muscles received the words, my nerves, my glands and arteries. They heard, they knew, and they shrieked at that torture. It told me what it would do to me, bluntly explained the hopelessness of my fate, now and for all the eternities to come. I cried out, “It can’t be, it can’t be, it can’t be...”

  I awoke from that dream with a scream. I struggled up and out of
the tent, squandered water from my collapsible five-gallon jug splashing my face. My hand tingled atrociously, my brain whirled. I forced even breaths until I calmed. I cursed myself for a fool, dove deep within to bring up a laugh. Even in my case, while in slumber, the strange setting and Vorchek’s oddball ideas took root. Well, that was over. The time was after seven, the last trace of dusk departing, a sliver of moon descending in the west. I got organized, made ready for the nocturnal activities to come. I had arrived at Zita prepared to do all the work myself. I had my own miner’s helmet, which would serve, and copious tools, no longer needed thanks to Vorchek. When all was done I had plenty of time on my hands. I decided to pay one final call on my neighbors, make sure of their routine.

  All was much as I expected with them. The graduate students caroused moronically about a campfire, which was becoming helpful, for the night desert air rapidly cooled. The professor wasn’t in sight, but his cutie continued her note-taking by flashlight, sitting before the big tent. I hailed her with all my charm.

  Terry said this, simply, brusquely: “You’re a phony. I knew it from the get-go. Why don’t you shove off like a good boy, go back where you came from. If that’s asking too much, then just leave us alone. You don’t do anything for me.”

  “And a fine evening to you too, sweetheart.” It bugged me that I wouldn’t, after all, have time to take her down properly. So it goes; life isn’t always fair. It spooked me that fruits of their suspicions might entail defensive measures. Where was Vorchek? Did he guard the tunnel entrance? That would go hard on him. I said, “You got me wrong. You have nothing I want. I got a kick from joining up with your boss today, that’s all. I wanted to hear more of his high-falutin’ talk. With your permission, of course.”

  “That can be arranged,” said his voice. Vorchek thrust his head from out the tent opening. He wore a thin robe, looked groggy. “This day’s endeavors fatigued me. Miss Delaney never stops, but I chose to sleep the night through.” He fully emerged, grimaced as he stood up. I heard his joints creak. I suppressed a grin. He added, “However, if the technicalities of my work interest you--”

  “No, no, Professor, far be it from me to disturb your rest. Tomorrow is just as well.”

  “I dare say. Given time and your attention, I could tell you of many things. I could describe, in greater detail, the mythic qualities that abound in the tales of the idol, which is the eidolon of Hoachipectulli, the god who mocks mortal life with a hate and rage so intense that his very devotees were forced to bizarre means of protection against his baleful powers. I could tell you of the spell they conceived and formulated to shield their souls from his mystical clutches, the spell handed down intact from the ancient writings, a copy of which came into my hands and which led me to Zita for its supreme testing. It is my theory that the mere idol, imbued with his essence, is too dangerous to handle without that spell. Only the saying of the words in the olden way would safeguard life and sanity, nor does the dilemma end there, for there are direr perils beyond the material and the psychological. These fundamentals weigh on my mind. All of my actions here are founded on the acceptance of these data, the utter certainty that the Aztec magic and the menace that it screens are true. Sit down, Mr. Jones, and I will gladly tell you more.”

  “I get the gist of it.” There was that stuff about saying the words again. I should have guessed it was such tripe. “Tomorrow will do for the rest. You’d better have your rest. You don’t look so good. I’ll see you at lunchtime. A good night to you, Professor. Don’t keep him up too long, Terry.”

  She snapped as I strolled away, “You aren’t looking so hot yourself.”

  I chortled a reply to myself, but in fact I felt out of sorts. The professor’s glib maunderings irritated me. For some reason I didn’t enjoy hearing that. I was being strangled by an ugly mood. I felt icy cold and feverishly hot by turns, and wires of pain pulsed in my hand. When all was over I’d hunt up a doctor for that. Cactus spines and exotic insect bites-- either of the two-- might contain creeping poisons requiring medicine. The effects were sufficiently distressing that it took all my stamina to focus on the great deed in the offing.

  The hours passed. Midnight slipped behind. I was jumping out of my skin... with anticipation. Then I stood in the chill air before my camp by the Acanonda, on the verge of abandoning it-- all evidence of identity burned-- under a moonless sky, with only the thousands of stars to watch me, my helmet clamped down, a modest case in my left hand, my faithful Luger at my hip. I didn’t wish to use that, nor did I particularly care, except that I preferred a quiet, uneventful job prior to hot-wiring the Jeep and making a beeline for civilization. I thought of the stakes. Yes, I’d kill if I had no choice. I’d faced that minor conundrum before, without losing a wink after.

  I pictured the Idol of Zita. I imagined it in my hands. I quailed from the image. It moved in my hands, groped at my wrists with its feelers, sought to sink in its fangs. Enough; I marched silently, coldly considering each footfall as I paced expertly up the slope, circumventing by a generous margin the quiescent excavation camp. I heard nothing there, nothing moved. I patted the chunky pistol in my belt. It comforted. I approached the dimly perceived pyramid. Here my caution grew intense. Behind the remnants of a pueblo foundation, I crouched, scouting the broken landscape for the quarter of an hour before I took another step. I made quickly for the pit at the base. No one appeared, nothing stirred. The silence thundered. I slid down to the tunnel entrance.

  Inside I flicked on my lamp. My way was clear. Across the chamber with its silly skull depictions, into and along the passage, up the tunnel to the real skulls, and then... there was that idol again, no, Hoachipectulli, looming before the eyes of my mind, titanic, in sinister motion, heaving toward me. So unsettling was the image that I landed flat against the wall, gasping. I snarled angrily, an inarticulate growl. I stormed across the chamber, rubbed the now dark walls with my knuckles as I advanced. My right hand hurt so, and my arm throbbed. This weakness fired my anger, stoked my determination. Just let anyone try to stop me!

  The climb was terrible. I felt near to crippled-- I left the case on the floor at the beginning of the steep incline-- and sight troubled me. Light, seemingly not of my lamp, ghostly light flickered at the edge of vision. Shadowy hints of movement, a swelling, oily bulk crowded against me in that fearfully narrow passage. I was mere feet from the ledge, no time to be losing my mind. I stood to gain so much!

  I felt myself going limp. Oh God, I was sick. To what god did I cry? Was that Hoachipectulli in there with me? Did I inhale into my rasping nostrils the hot reek emanating from his hungry maw? Another lunge, and I saw the ledge. The skulls didn’t stare back at me. They weren’t there. Desperately I dragged myself over the rim. Vacancy occupied the niche of the idol. It was gone. The Idol of Zita was gone!

  I went limp. I let go. I slid in long jerks, banging elbows and knees until I hit bottom. Something happened; my lamp extinguished, the darkness flowed over me. In the dark I painfully crouched, in the dark, but not alone. He was in there, crammed into the tunnel with me, yet big as the universe: Hoachipectulli, grinning, gaping. I saw him as I had never seen any aspect of the regular world. That monstrous mouth worked sloppily, spoke to me. He had come for me, was coming, wanted to take me into his being for all time.

  Unable to rise, I crawled on skinned hands and bloody knees to the main chamber, feeling my way, threw myself onto the gritty soil of the pit. There I barely comprehended some view of my dark surroundings, overlaid though it was by that well-defined vision of the slobbering colossus. An intense ray from above knifed through the murk. A familiar voice evenly called, “Come up, Mr. Jones, and join us.”

  They stood there at the top, Professor Anton Vorchek and that Theresa Delaney. He held the flashlight, she a dinky revolver, the sort women carry in their purses, a cheap toy, but effective at close range. I didn’t care about that. I said (and the sound of my strangled voice disgusted me), “He wants me.”

  Vorchek l
ent me a hand getting out of there. “I dare say he does,” replied the professor. “So you did handle the idol, did not you, Mr. Jones? I did not count on it, sir, but I wondered. I hoped.”

  “I didn’t really believe it,” Theresa said. “It sounded crazy, that the mere touching of the idol could lead to harmful consequences. One look at you, pal, makes the case.”

  “Hoped?” I cried. “What do you mean, Vorchek: hoped?”

  “I did explain,” he said, “would have explained further, had you paid heed. Of course I deduced early on the nature of your mission. Bird watching, sir? No self-respecting elegant trogon would set foot within five hundred miles of this territory. You wished to steal the artifact, sell it for what you could get. I knew you would make the attempt. I had to guarantee you that opportunity, that I might study the effects.”

  “That creature, Vorchek, that evil thing, it’s killing me.”

  “I doubt that. A harder fate awaits you, I fear. When you entered the pyramid tunnel an unearthly green glow illuminated the monument; from above, I may add. I knew then, for certain, that you had unleashed the ancient magic.

  “Once, and a dozen times, I asked myself how to test the olden legends. I possessed a copy of the sacred words of protection, but if I recited them, touched the idol, and nothing occurred, what had I proved? I required a willing guinea pig. Mr. Jones, you volunteered.”

  “Things like that don’t really happen,” I said foolishly.

  Vorchek said, “Not in your crass, unimaginative corner of the world. In other times and places, they do. I discovered the warning skulls and the idol on my initial, solo venture inside the pyramid. Naturally I touched nothing. Then I went back in, accompanied by you, allowing you to lead. I let you find it for yourself.”

  Theresa mocked, “Honesty is the best policy.”