Ancient Echoes

by Joanne Pence

  “I've tried to fill my days with people, possessions, places to go and things to do,” he whispered, “but...I don't know. It hasn’t worked out the way I expected…or, I expected too much.”

  “You never talk about your home, or your family,” she said.

  He thought about his life outside, back “home.” But where was home? He had a house in California he never visited. It was a storage dump and mail drop, not a home at all. He filled it with valuable possessions from his trips, and paid a housekeeper, gardener, security experts, and a bookkeeper to assure everything ran smoothly in his life. And for what? “There’s not much to talk about.”

  “What's odd,” she said softly, “is being here…this place is filled with ghosts. It has a sense of the Other. I suspect that appeals to you, Michael.”

  “The spiritual?” He scoffed. “I don't believe in ‘the spiritual,’ whatever that is.” Thoughts came to him of Lady Hsieh. Or, I didn't, he thought.

  The expression on her face told him she wasn't convinced. “Sleep, Michael,” she whispered. “It will help.”

  “I may be able to now.” He got out of the sleeping bag. “I’ll give you back your bed.”

  She stepped out of the tent with him.

  “You’re a good person, Charlotte,” he said. “Thank you.”

  He turned to leave. “Michael,” she whispered. He turned and she put her arms around him in a quick hug, then eased back and brushed her hand against his face in a gentle stroke. “Anytime you want to talk, Michael, I’m here.”

  “I know,” he whispered.

  With that she nodded, and went back into her tent.

  To his surprise, he found himself oddly comforted by the somber but understanding woman. He got into his sleeping bag and fell into a fitful sleep dreaming of the sound of a sanxian.

  Chapter 29

  DEREK HAMMILL AND his men camped near the pillars. He kept someone on guard the entire night so that if and when the four searchers reappeared he could follow them. But they didn’t reappear.

  It was morning. Decision time.

  They could stay here and fail in their mission, or continue on.

  Hammill was no fool. He and his men had seen the students’ tracks as well as the searchers’. They saw that all the tracks went up the mound to the pillars, and none came back down. What the hell was up there? Where did they all go?

  His men were spooked. It had been simple to get someone to stand guard. No one could sleep. He heard them talking among themselves about the pillars, the lightning and thunder around them and nowhere else, the strangeness of the area.

  He had tried to make outside contact, to request direction. Should they follow or not? But his sat phone had crapped out. He believed the same static or electricity or whatever in the hell caused the damned pillars to vibrate and make noise had also knocked out communications.

  He could walk back until the phone worked again, but who knew how many miles that would be? He suspected they would have to climb the mountain, get out of this valley. That would take hours.

  If, after all that, he received an order to continue on between the pillars, the searchers would be so far ahead they might be difficult to track. Following fresh tracks was one thing; following those more than a day old required a lot more skill. Even now, it would take a while to catch up.

  No, Hammill reasoned, he didn’t have time to go back for instructions. He had to make his own decision.

  People didn’t disappear into thin air. Something up there simply couldn’t be seen from ground level. The men were nervous, but they were seasoned fighters, and had done enough wet work for PLP that they couldn’t stop now.

  He stood. “We’re climbing up there, and we’re going through. We will not abandon the mission.”

  Chapter 30

  MELISSE AND DEVLIN inspected the area where Vince had gone to sulk the night before. He had run back to camp howling, screaming, and blithering that human-looking monsters had stared at him and wanted to kill him. Or eat him. Or tear him limb from limb.

  The two found no tracks or signs that anyone or anything had been out there.

  The group broke camp and hiked for two hours before they spotted a creek. They stopped. Hunger made them weak. They had little hope of catching fish with their wooden hooks and grassy lines, but they needed to try.

  Rachel and Brandi searched for nuts, roots, and berries. Rempart and Vince found firewood. Devlin and Melisse fished.

  Devlin had fished many times with his father. Now, slack-jawed, he looked down into the creek. Suppressing a whoop of joy so he didn’t scare the fish away, he cast his line.

  Salmon and steelhead trout were anadromous fish. Born as freshwater fish in the headwaters and tributaries of the Salmon River, they made an eight hundred mile journey down the Salmon to the Snake River, the Columbia, and the Pacific Ocean. After living as ocean-faring fish for one to three years, depending on the species, they found the mouth of the Columbia River for the reverse journey upstream, climbing more than 7,000 vertical feet in altitude, to arrive back at their spawning grounds as freshwater fish once more.

  With the introduction of dams on the Snake and Columbia, the fish faced eight dams over the course of their journey. It took phenomenal strength to make it past the dams and then leap against the current, far more than any human could manage. Before the dams were built, salmon nearly choked the Pacific Northwest streams. Despite “fish ladders” and other aids to migration, few fish now survived the journey.

  Wild salmon and steelhead had disappeared altogether from many waterways.

  Or so everyone thought.

  Here, the fish were plentiful enough that even without decent hooks, lines, or bait they were biting. A stack of fish quickly formed.

  “Any thoughts on what this place is?” Devlin asked after a while.

  “Not really,” Melisse replied.

  “I think it’s some sort of glitch in time and space. Like the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “That’s original,” she said sarcastically.

  “You got a better idea?”

  “Yes. Stop scaring the fish.”

  He concentrated on his line and soon had his eye on a big steelhead circling near. Thoughts of grilling it over an open fire made him salivate. He sat still, hoping it would go after his bait, when he noticed something shimmer downstream, on his side of the bank. He stared a moment. “What the hell? It looks as if the ground is moving.”

  “You’re dreaming.” Melisse concentrated on snaring one of the largest trout she had seen that day. The wooden hooks required a well-timed sharp snap of the wrist. “Got it!”

  Devlin stood. “Whatever it is, it’s coming this way. Fast!”

  Melisse glanced where he stared as she pulled in the fish. She stood. The very earth seemed to ooze toward them. Her eye followed the hump in the ground from off in the distance, forward, toward her and Devlin just as she saw something jump at her.

  A large black bug landed on the leg of her cargo pants. Another on her boot. Then two. Three. A dozen. She swatted at them, trying to get them off her.

  Devlin jumped back. “What the fuck!”

  Melisse smacked the bugs from her boots in an effort to keep them from crawling up under her pants legs. “They’re like some kind of giant beetle.” At that moment, the line she continued to hold went lax. Where a long, plump trout had dangled moments before, she now saw a skeleton covered with bugs.

  “The fish!” Devlin yelled. As he spoke, the beetles covered their food supply, devouring the fish in seconds, and continued toward them.

  “They’re flesh eaters!” Melisse cried. “Run!”

  They ran, yelling, toward the camp. At first the others thought they were making some kind of unfunny joke. But then, they watched the earth become a gelatinous, oozing mass that seeped toward them.

  Rempart stared as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. “Impossible! Dermestidae, or flesh-eating beetles, are small and slow and like damp, moist environments. Thi
s isn’t the climate they live in.”

  “Whatever they are, you’d better not let them swarm you!” Melisse shouted.

  Everyone ran, swatting at the biting, stinging creatures.

  “We can’t outrun them,” Devlin shouted, “but the creek curves up ahead. We’ve got to jump in. Don’t stop!”

  The creek water moved rapidly, and they couldn’t tell its depth. They had no choice but to get in. The ice cold water reached their waists and the strong current knocked them off their feet. They tried to go straight across, but found the current pulled them downstream. They clutched any large rocks or boulders they could find to prevent being swept away. Devlin grabbed hold of Rachel, the lightest, who had the most difficulty fighting the water’s strong draw.

  From the opposite bank, someone threw a rope at them. “Grab hold, lads,” a voice said. “And ladies.” Despite their shock, they gratefully followed the order.

  One by one they were towed from the water by two men wearing faded camouflage clothing. The men had neatly trimmed beards and hair, and looked to be no more than thirty years old. Strangely, each carried a long bow and a quiver of arrows.

  The men hustled the university group away from the banks, then scoured the water. The beetles had stopped at the creek’s edge and faded back into the land. “Water is too fast for them,” the second man said. “Fine and clever thinking to hurl yourselves into the flow.” He smiled pleasantly. His accent, like the first man’s, sounded odd and unrecognizable.

  Rempart and the students stared at the strangers, scarcely able to believe what they saw, even as they shivered from cold, exhaustion and fright.

  “Come along now,” one of the strangers said, looking back into the trees. “We must hurry. This is not a safe area come nightfall.”

  “Who are you?” Rempart asked.

  “The name is Sam Black, and this is my cousin, Arnie Tieg. The village is not far.”

  “Village?” Rempart asked, looking from one to the other and then at Melisse. “Are you saying there’s some sort of town out here?”

  “Let’s go,” Sam Black said.

  “Wait!” Rachel cried. “Where’s Devlin!”

  Chapter 31

  Alexandria, Virginia

  JIANJUN GOT OUT of the taxi he’d taken from the Van Dorn Metro station. A small white and yellow house, complete with manicured lawn and flower beds, stood before him.

  Michael had never contacted him, despite the quantities of information he had sent about the pillars and their history, PLP, and Jennifer Vandenburg. Jianjun was tempted to pursue the PLP angle by going to New York City to talk with Vandenburg and Calvin Phaylor, but he hesitated to do that without checking with Michael first. Also, the line of inquiry near Washington D.C. needed to be followed before he left the area.

  Anthropology Professor Emeritus Thurmon Teasdale had created the map Jianjun sent to Michael. Obviously, Lionel Rempart considered it of great value, but Jianjun could not figure out why, nor exactly what area it covered. He needed more information.

  He tracked down Professor Teasdale’s widow. He took a deep breath, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell.

  Lurline Teasdale was an elderly woman who readily spoke with Jianjun, and didn’t ask him for credentials or anything else to prove who he was. Instead, she warned him against looking into the “secret expedition” that had followed Lewis and Clark. She was convinced that her husband’s interest in their story had somehow brought on his death.

  “That discovery excited Thurmon beyond anything I can remember,” she explained over cups of tea and a platter of sugar cookies as they sat in her cozy living room. “He gained access to an old journal in the Smithsonian. There had been rumors about such an expedition, but never before any proof.”

  “So he believed it was real,” Jianjun probed.

  “Absolutely! “

  “And this all happened about fifteen years ago?” Jianjun asked.

  “Good gracious no. It happened over thirty years ago, back when Thurmon was a young professor. A couple of his anthropology students found the journal. They were foreign students, I believe, and quite interested in the Mormon culture, which foreigners tend to find rather exotic. In any case, the students thought the journal was fiction, but Thurmon believed it all quite true. There were too many details that corresponded to other information Thurmon had. For example, the journal writer spoke of the woman he loved. A young woman spent her entire life sending letters to Thomas Jefferson asking him what had happened to her fiancé. When Thurmon told me that I found the story so very touching and sad, I’ll admit it made me cry for her, poor dear.”

  Jianjun nodded and said nothing. The thought of a woman’s tears—any woman’s—made him nervous.

  Mrs. Teasdale also told him that Thurmon had spent several summers in Idaho back in those days, seeking the pillars described in the journal, and any signs of the lost Mormon settlement. He had no success, and eventually he ran out of money to pursue that particular project. He gave up his dream until about fifteen years ago when a wealthy individual contacted him about his early studies. That person convinced him to create a map of the area he had explored.

  Thurmon did so, but where that area was, Lurline had no idea.

  Thurmon had been quite excited about getting back into that line of study, but one day after completing and delivering the map, he had a heart attack and died.

  Men often have such heart attacks, she had to admit, yet Thurmon never had any hint of illness.

  “Tell me, Mr. Li,” she said, her gaze clear and sharply intelligent, “what really brings you here? I haven’t spoken to anyone about Thurmon’s map since Professor Lionel Rempart came here last year to ask for a copy. Now, I learn on the news that he and his students are lost in Central Idaho.”

  “We’re trying to find them,” Jianjun admitted. “I had hoped you could help.”

  She apologized that she had no further information, and soon after, he thanked her for her hospitality and left.

  He felt like someone who had been handed pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. All the pieces might be there, but he couldn’t yet fit them together, and had no idea of what it would look like when finished.

  Chapter 32

  “FUCK!” FISH SAID, his one expression for all situations. He kept an AR-15 on his shoulder. “We didn't sign up for this.”

  Having led his team between the pillars, Hammill kept his expression neutral. But Fish had it right. The military had a term for it—FUBAR—fucked up beyond all recognition. He refused to admit it to his team, though. Not to anyone. Not yet, anyway.

  At least he didn't have to worry about admitting it to his boss since every piece of electronic equipment they had was DOA. PLP’s piss-poor intel had put his team at risk. When he saw the four searchers disappear between those pillars, Hammill should have turned around and headed back to Salmon City. Back to broads, booze, and a back rub. Instead, the whole team followed, and now they were in trouble. Him included.

  PLP had sworn nothing was dangerous here. Nothing “weird.”

  Weird, his ass. This was fucking unbelievable.

  By habit he kept checking the sat phone, but it had crapped out even before they went through the damned pillars.

  Maybe this was the long lost redneck version of Atlantis.

  “Fish, I need a perimeter,” Hammill ordered as soon as they had descended the mound on which the pillars stood. “I want to know what the hell this is.”

  The PTT didn't work either, and they had no idea why not.

  “Fuck,” Fish said, which meant, “I don't know either.”

  Hammill found footprints heading east, back to the area they'd come from. If they belonged to the students, they might manage to save themselves.

  It wouldn’t be bad, he thought nervously, if he and his men ended up at Telichpah Flat to discover that this mission was over. They'd have made a hell of a lot of money for a few days out in the bush. Damn good for a bunch of bullet sponges.

 
Soon, though, he and his men noticed something was wrong, although they couldn’t quite put a finger on it. They told themselves that they must be a little off their direction. Hammill tried to use his compass, but the needle went around in circles. And the GPS had bellied up along with their sat phone.

  FUBAR.

  Chapter 33

  DUSK FELL AS THE university group reached what Sam Black had called “the village.” Upon first hearing the word, Melisse's heart leaped. People and civilization. Electronics. Means of communication. But then, as the group stepped out of the forest, and she caught her first glimpse of it, her excitement died.

  The land directly in front of them had been cleared for the distance of a football field before reaching a ten-foot high wooden fence with stakes at the top. Visible above the fence were only a single large building and what looked like a guard tower.

  Melisse hoped this wasn’t a trap. Rempart and the other students had immediately trusted Black and Tieg, and treated them like saviors. Melisse wasn’t so sure. Her thoughts turned back to Devlin. Rachel swore he had helped her grab the rope to be pulled to safety, but then she lost sight of him. The rocky creek bank offered no tracks or other solutions. Black and Tieg seemed to think they had pulled him out of the water, and then he purposefully hid. If so, their looks implied, he would be sorry. They had refused to spend more than twenty minutes searching for him for fear of being caught outside the village at night. To do so, they claimed, was a death sentence.

  As they entered the village, Melisse saw how small it was. The two-story building and guard tower were in the center. Located around them like numbers on the face of a clock stood six small log huts at the 2, 3, 4 and 8, 9, 10 o’clock points. At 12 o’clock were animal pens and a stable, and at 6 o’clock were a large storage shed and a couple of outhouses. All the structures were made of logs. They had no glass windows, only shuddered openings and doors. The walkways were not paved or cobbled, but what appeared to be hard-packed gravel.