Raiders Of the Lost Ark

by Campbell Black

  Indy began to move toward Marion, who was strug­gling with her bonds.

  "You look fine in a German outfit, Jones," Belloq said.

  "You look pretty good in your robes too." But somebody else was moving now, approaching Indy from behind. And even as the girl began to scream in warning, Belloq recognized Mohler. The captain threw himself at Indy, knocking the weapon from his hand and bringing him to the ground. Jones -a gallant heart, Belloq thought, a reckless courage -lashed out at the soldier with his fist, then drove his knee upward in Mohler's groin. The captain groaned and rolled away, but Indy was already surrounded by soldiers, and although he fought them, although he fell kicking amid a bunch of helmets and jackboots, he was overpowered by numbers. Belloq shook his head and smiled in a pale way. He looked at Indy, who was being pinned by soldiers. "A good try, Jones. A good effort." And then Dietrich was coming through the ranks. "Foolish, very foolish," he said. "I cannot believe your recklessness."

  "I'm trying to give it up," Indy said. He struggled with the soldiers who held him: useless.

  "I have the cure for it," Dietrich said. He took his pistol from its holster, smiling.

  Indy stared at the gun, then glanced at Marion, who had her eyes shut tight and was sobbing in a broken way.

  Dietrich raised the pistol, aimed. "Wait!"

  Belloq's voice was thunderous, awesome, and his face looked malign in the intense light of the klieg lamps. The gun in Dietrich's hand was lowered.

  Belloq said, "This man has been an irritation to me for years, Colonel Dietrich. Sometimes, I admit, he has amused me. And although I would also like to witness his end, I would like him to suffer one last defeat. Let him live until I have opened the Ark. Let him live that long. Whatever treasures may lie in the Ark will be denied him. The contents will be hidden from his view. I enjoy the idea. This is a prize he has dreamed of for years-and now he will never get any closer to it. When I have opened the Ark, you can dispose of him. For now, I suggest you tie him up be­side the girl." And Belloq laughed, a hollow laugh that echoed in the darkness.

  Indy was dragged to the statue and bound against it, his shoulder to Marion's.

  "I'm afraid, Indy," she said.

  "There's never been a better time for it."

  The Ark began to hum, and Indy turned to watch Belloq climb the steps to the altar. It galled him to think of Belloq's hands on the Ark, Belloq opening it. The prize. And he would see none of it. You live a lifetime with the constant ambition of reaching a goal, and then, when it's there, when it's in front of you, wham-all you have left is the bitter taste of defeat. How could he watch the insane Frenchman, dressed like some medieval rabbi, go up the steps to the Ark?

  How could he not watch?

  "I think we're going to die, Indy," Marion said. "Unless you've figured something out."

  Indy, barely hearing her, said nothing: there was something else now, something that was beginning to intrude on his mind-the sound of humming, low and constant, that seemed to be emerging from the Ark. How could that be? He stared at Belloq as the robed figure climbed to the slab.

  "So how do we get out of this?" Marion asked again.

  "God knows."

  "Is that a play on words?" she said.

  "Maybe."

  "It's a hell of a time to be making bad jokes, Jones." She turned to him; there were circles of fa­tigue under her eyes. "Still. I love you for it."

  "Do you?"

  "Love you? Sure."

  "I think it's reciprocal," Indy said, a little surprised at himself.

  "It's also somewhat doomed," Marion said.

  "We'll see."

  Belloq, remembering the words of an old Hebraic chant, words he'd remembered from the parchment that had had the picture of the headpiece, started to sing in a low, monotonous way. He chanted as he climbed the steps, hearing the sound of the Ark ac­company his voice, the sound of humming. It was growing in intensity, rumbling, filling the darkness. The Ark's power, the Ark's intense power. It moved in Belloq's blood, bewildering, demanding to be un­derstood. The power. The knowledge. He paused near the top of the steps, chanting still but unable to hear his own voice now. The humming, the humming -it was growing, slicing through the night, filling all the silences. Then he climbed more, reached the top, stared at the Ark. Despite the dust of centuries, de­spite neglect, it was the most beautiful thing Belloq had ever seen. And it glowed, it glowed, feebly at first and then more brightly, as he looked at it. He was filled with wonder, watching the angers, the shin­ing gold, the inner glow. The noise, too, rumbled through him, shook and surprised him. He felt him­self begin to vibrate, as if the tremor might cause him to disintegrate and go spinning out into space. But there wasn't space, there wasn't time: his entire being was defined by the Ark, delineated by this relic of man's communication with God.

  Speak to me.

  Tell me what you know, tell me what the secrets of existence are.

  His own voice seemed to be issuing from every part of his body now, through mouth, pores, blood cells. And he was rising, floating, distinct from the rigid world of logic all around him, defying the laws of the universe. Speak to me. Tell me. He raised the ivory rod, placing it under the lid, then labored to pry the lid open. The humming was louder now, all-consuming. He didn't hear the klieg lights explode below, the showers of broken glass that fell like worthless diamonds into the darkness. The humming -the voice of God, he thought. Speak to me. Speak to me. And then, as he worked with the rod, he felt suddenly blank, as if he hadn't existed until this mo­ment, as if all memories had been erased, blank and strangely calm, at peace, undergoing a sense of one­ness with the night around him, linked by all kinds of connections to the universe. Bound to the cosmos, to all matter that floated and expanded and shrank in the farthest estuaries of space, to exploding stars, spinning planets, and even to the unknowable dark of infinity. He ceased to exist. Whoever Belloq had been, he was no longer. He was nothing now: he ex­isted only as the sound that came from the Ark. The sound of God.

  "He's going to open it," Indy said.

  "The noise," Marion said. "I wish I could put my hands to my ears. What is that noise?"

  "The Ark."

  "The Ark?"

  Indy was thinking about something, an eclipsed memory, something that shifted loosely in his mind. What? What was it? Something he'd heard recently. What? The Ark. Something to do with the Ark. What what what?

  The Ark, the Ark-try to remember!

  Up on the slab, at the top of the crude steps, Belloq was trying to open the lid. Lamps were exploding in violent showers of sharded glass. Even the moon, vis­ible now in the night sky, seemed like an orb about to erupt and shatter. The night, the whole night, was like a great bomb attached to the end of a short fuse -a lit fuse, Indy thought. What is it? What am I try­ing to remember?

  The lid was opening.

  Belloq, sweating, perspiring in the heavy robes, ap­plied the ivory rod while he kept up the chant that was inaudible now under the noise of the Ark. The mo­ment. The moment of truth. Revelation. The mysteri­ous networks of the divine. He groaned and raised the lid. It sprung open all at once and the light that emanated from within blinded him. But he didn't step away, didn't step back, didn't move. The light hypno­tized him as surely as the sound mesmerized him. He was devoid of the capacity to move. Muscles froze. His body ceased to work. The lid.

  It was the last thing he saw.

  Because then the night was filled with fire rockets that screamed out of the Ark, pillars of flame that stunned the darkness, outreaches of fire searing the heavens. A white circle of light made a flashing ring around the island, a light that made the ocean glow and whipped up currents of spray, forcing a broken tide to rise upward in the dark. The light, it was the light of the first day of the universe, the light of new­ness, of things freshly born, it was the light that God made: the light of creation. And it pierced Belloq with the hard brightness of an inconceivable diamond, a light beyond the sorrowful limitatio
ns of any precious stone. It carved at his heart, shattered him. And it was more than a light-it was a weapon, a force, that drove through Belloq and lit him with the power of a billion candles: he was white, orange, blue, savaged by this electricity that stormed from the Ark.

  And he smiled.

  He smiled because, for a moment, he was the power. The power absorbed him. There was no distinction between the man and the force. Then the moment passed. Then his eyes disintegrated in the sockets, leaving black sightless holes, and his skin began to peel from the bone, curling back as if seized by a sud­den leprosy, rotting, burning, scorched, blackened. And still he smiled. He smiled even as he began to change from something human to something touched by God, touched by God's rage, something that turned, silently, to a layer of dust.

  When the lights began to shaft the dark, when the en­tire sky was filling with the force of the Ark, Indy had involuntarily shut his eyes-blinded by the power. And then all at once he remembered, he remembered what had eluded him before, the night he'd spent in the bouse of Imam: Those who would open the Ark and release its force will die if they look upon it . . . And through the noise, the blinding white pil­lars that had made the stars fade, he'd called to Mar­ion: Don't look!

  Keep your eyes closed!

  She had twisted her face away from the first flare, the eruption of fire, and then, even if what he said puzzled her, she shut her eyes tight. She was afraid, afraid and overawed. And still she wanted to look. Still she was drawn to the great celestial flare» to the insane destruction of the night.

  Don't look-he kept saying that even as she felt herself weaken.

  He kept repeating it. Screaming it.

  The night, like a dynamo, hummed, groaned, roared; the lights that seared the night seemed to howl.

  Don't look don't look don't look!

  The upraised tower of flame devastated. It hung in the sky like the shadow of a deity, a burning, shifting shadow composed not of darkness but of light, pure light. It hung there, both beautiful and monstrous, and it blinded those who looked upon it. It ripped eyes from the faces of the soldiers. It turned them from men into uniformed skeletons, covering the ground with bones, the black marks of scorches, covering every­thing with human debris. It burned the island, flattened trees, overturned boats, smashed the dock itself. It changed everything. Fire and light. It destroyed as though it were an anger that might never be appeased.

  It broke the statue to which Indy and Marion were tied: the statue crumbled until it ceased to exist. And then the lid of the Ark slammed shut on the slab and the night became dark again and the ocean was silent. Indy waited for a long time before he looked.

  The Ark was shining up there.

  Shining with an intensity that suggested a contented silence; and a warning, a warning filled with menace.

  Indy stared at Marion.

  She was looking around speechlessly, staring at what the Ark had created. Wreckage, ruin, death. She opened her mouth, but she didn't speak.

  There was nothing to say.

  Nothing.

  The earth around them hadn't been scorched. It was untouched.

  She raised her face to the Ark.

  She reached very slowly for Indy's hand and held it tight.

  13: Epilogue: Washington, D.C.

  Sun streamed through the windows of Colonel Mus-grove's office. Outside, across a thick lawn, was a stand of cherry trees, and the morning sky was clear, a pale blue. Musgrove was seated behind his desk. Eaton had a chair to the side of the desk. There was an­other man, a man who stood leaning against the wall and who hadn't uttered a word; he had the sinister an­onymity of a bureaucrat. He might have been rubber-stamped himself, Indy thought, Powerful Civil Servant in thick black letters on his brow.

  "We appreciate your service," Musgrove said. "And the cash reimbursement-we assume it was satisfac­tory?"

  Indy nodded and glanced first at Marion, then at Marcus Brody.

  Brody said, "I don't understand yet why the mu­seum can't have the Ark."

  "It's someplace very safe," Eaton said evasively.

  "That's a powerful force," Indy told him. "It has to be understood. Analyzed. It isn't some game, you know."

  Musgrove nodded. "We have our top men working on it right now."

  "Name them," Indy said.

  "For security reasons I can't."

  "The Ark was slated for the museum. You agreed to that. Now you give us some crap about top men. Brody there-he's one of the best men in this whole field. Why doesn't he get a chance to work with your top men?"

  "Indy," Brody said. "Leave it. Drop it."

  "I won't," Indy said. "This whole affair cost me my favorite hat, for openers."

  "I assure you, Jones, that the Ark is well protected. And its power-if we can accept your description of it-will be analyzed in due course."

  "Due course," Indy said. "You remind me of letters I get from my lawyers."

  "Look," Brody said, sounding strained, "all we want is the Ark for the museum. We want some reas­surances, too, that no lasting damage will be done to it while in your possession-"

  "You have them," Eaton said. "As for the Ark go­ing to your museum, I'm afraid we will have to re­think our position."

  A silence. A clock ticking. The faceless bureaucrat fiddled with his cuff links.

  Indy said quietly, finally, "You don't know what you're sitting on, do you?"

  He rose and helped Marion out of her chair.

  "We'll be in touch, of course," Eaton said. "It was good of you to come. Your services are appreciated."

  Outside in the warm sunlight, Marion took Indy's arm. Brody shuffled along beside them. Marion said, "Well, they aren't going to tell you anything, so maybe you should forget all about the Ark and get on with your life, Jones."

  Indy glanced at Brody. He knew he had been tricked out of something that should have been his.

  Brody said, "I guess they have their own good rea­sons for holding on to the Ark. It's a bitter disappoint­ment, though."

  Marion stopped, raised her leg and scratched her heel a moment. She said to Indy, "Put your mind on something else for a change."

  "Like what?"

  "Like this," she said, and kissed him.

  "It's not the Ark," he said and smiled. "But it'll have to do."

  The wooden crate was stenciled on the side: top se­cret, ARMY INTELL, 9906753, DO NOT OPEN. It Sat

  on a dolly, which the warehouseman pushed in front of him. He hardly paid any attention to the crate. His was a world filled with such crates, all of them mean-inglessly stenciled. Numbers, numbers, secret codes. He had become more than immune to these hiero­glyphics. He looked forward only to his weekly check. He was old, stooped, and very few things in life en­grossed him. Certainly none of these crates did. There were hundreds of them filling the warehouse and he had no curiosity about any of them. Nobody did, it seemed. As far as he could tell nobody ever bothered to open any of them anyhow. They were stacked and left to pile up, rising from floor to ceiling. Crates and crates, hundreds and hundreds of the things. Gather­ing dust, getting cobwebbed. The man pushed his dolly and sighed. What difference did another crate make now? He found a space for it, slipped it in place, then he paused and stuck a finger in his ear, shaking the finger vigorously. Damn, he thought. He'd have to get his hearing checked.

  He was convinced he'd heard a low humming noise.

  FB2 document info

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  Document creation date: 24.6.2012

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  Document authors :

  Campbell Black

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