The Secret of the Stones

by Ernest Dempsey

  Joe answered with a question, “How much do you know about the Golden Chambers?”

  “Not much. Just that it’s one of those non-mainstream legends. There are only a handful of people on the planet who have even heard of the story. Tommy knows more about it than anyone I’ve met.”

  A big, mischievous smile returned to Joe’s face. “Well,” he paused, “I‘m not so sure about that.”

  Allyson and Sean looked at each other in confirmation. They’d come to the right place.

  22

  Blue Ridge Mountains

  The pale glow of the laptop illuminated the corner of the kitchen where Tommy sat. Frustration and exhaustion were written all over him.

  He’d been working on the translation from Dr. Borringer for the last five hours with little success.

  Tommy had relentlessly searched the Internet for clues, cross-referencing all of the words in the translation, but had, thus far, come up with zilch. This riddle wasn’t something for which Google had an easy answer.

  The guards had been trading off every couple of hours, taking turns watching the computer screen to make sure that their captive didn’t try to send some kind of rescue email out. Their vigilance had proved to be without a crack, so he’d been forced to keep working, hoping that something would give.

  Glancing down at his watch, he couldn’t believe how late it was. He’d been awake so long. His legs were numb from sitting for such a long time. “Dude, I need to stretch for a second. Is that all right with you?”

  The neck-less guard nodded, standing at an angle behind the prisoner. Tommy stretched out his arms over his head and tried to lean over to touch his toes just to get the circulation back in his legs for a few brief moments. Break time over, he slipped back into the wooden nemesis he’d been trapped in for the better part of the evening. The guy with the flattop haircut remained standing.

  The nocturnal sound of a whippoorwill’s song resonated from the darkness in a tree outside the kitchen window. As the hours plodded on, every little noise had become a distraction. Thoughts of sleep entered Tommy’s mind and muddled his progress. His eyes kept begging to close as the drowsiness seeped into his brain. Again, the bird whistled its melody, communicating to another bird in some unseen tree in the woods. He let his eyes turn from the LCD screen to the glass and beyond. Outside, the night sky was clear, and the stars sparkled brightly against the black canvas. He found himself standing again, this time with his face pressed close against the smooth, clear surface. Flattop had a forlorn look on his face as the other security guy had come back for his shift. For the first time since arriving at this place, Tommy heard one of the men speak.

  “What is the meaning of this?” A thick accent sounding like Russian made the words sound sharp and accusing.

  The other guard didn’t say anything. He just stood sheepishly to the side, eyes averted.

  Looking back to the man who’d just spoken, Tommy said, “He was just letting me stretch my legs. I’ve been in here working all night.”

  “You sit down.” Blunt and to the point, this guy had a severe lack of social skills. He turned his angry gaze at the apparently submissive sentry who had not done his job properly. Whatever was said between the two was in another language. Tommy was certain it was Russian. The exchange was brief and ended with the previous guard nodding in agreement, a defeated look on his face.

  “Look, man. I’m not trying anything funny. My legs were going numb, and I just needed to stretch for a second.”

  “Get back to work, and be quiet. Mr. Ulrich will be returning soon, and if he finds you standing around not working, it will not be good.”

  For a second, Tommy contemplated the big man’s words. He looked out the window again at the sky then said, “Can we please just go outside for thirty seconds? I’m getting sleepy, and I need some fresh air. I can‘t work like this forever.”

  The sentinel looked at the one who’d been standing watch for the last few hours, still sheepish in the corner of the breakfast nook. Stubbornly, he shook his head again as he would to a child reaching for a forbidden cookie.

  “Listen, man,” Tommy pleaded, “I’m not trying to get away here. And if I was, where would I go? If you guys want me to figure this riddle out, you gotta give me a little leeway here. I will work much better if I can get the blood flowing again.”

  Contemplating the circumstances, the guard finally caved, apparently seeing no harm in letting their captive go outside for a minute or two. “We give you one minute outside. But if you try anything, I shoot you in the knee.” The humorless look on the man’s face told Schultz he would do it without even thinking.

  “Thank you,” Tommy said with a grateful half smile.

  The three of them left the laptop on the bistro table and made their way through a picture-laden hallway. All of them were photographs of places from around the world, some famous and some not: Saint Mark’s Cathedral in Venice, the façade at the temple of Edfu in Egypt, a Grecian temple whose name he could not recall but which certainly seemed familiar. Turning left out of the corridor, the group entered a large antechamber. Even in the dark, Tommy could tell the room was elaborately furnished. The tapestries descended from windows that reached almost ten feet. In the center of the room were two high-backed leather smoking chairs placed in such a way that the sitters could enjoy the view of the hills below while discussing the ups and downs of the global financial markets.

  The submissive guard stepped quickly to the French doors that led out onto a patio. The cool, autumn air felt refreshing as they strode across the threshold and into the night.

  “You stop here,” the larger guard crossed his arms forebodingly.

  Tommy did as he was told, stopping at the railing of the large wooden deck they’d come to. Again, he stretched his arms and legs, letting the circulation get back into his extremities. Taking several large breaths helped too, filling his lungs with the invigorating night air.

  The bird he’d heard before must have found a friend because now there were two of them chirping happily in the dark silhouettes of trees. Tommy’s eyes drifted higher, beyond the treetops, into the dark sky. Seeing so many stars always gave him a sort of odd peace. With such a huge universe out there, he couldn’t help but feel small, and yet in his heart he knew that the role he played in life was a significant part of some grander scheme.

  He considered where his friend might be at the moment, hoping that Sean was looking for him. They had been through so much together…of course Wyatt was searching. Tommy would do the same for his friend if the circumstances were reversed. All of these things played through his mind while he continued to scan the diamond-speckled canvas above.

  Suddenly, a shooting star crossed the face of the deep beyond, streaking quickly for only a second before disintegrating into invisibility. Turning to the two guards, Tommy said sarcastically, “Make a wish, boys.”

  They looked at each other with confusion, obviously not having seen the flashing meteor. The bigger guard simply said, “Time is up. You get back to work now.”

  Tommy started to turn around and follow the two hulking men back into the house when it hit him. He stopped in his steps and turned his head back to the sky. “I’ve got it!” His excitement surprised even himself.

  “What is it?” The smaller guard asked, again receiving a chastising look from his superior.

  “The chariots of Heaven! Did you guys see that shooting star?” Tommy’s exhilaration overpowered his fatigue, causing him to sound like a raving madman.

  This time, the larger man grabbed Tommy by the arm and yanked him back to the house. Even though the guy was a mountain, he’d underestimated the strength the guard possessed.

  As they forced the hostage back through the double doors, he took one last look up in the sky. Another space rock appeared, burning brightly as it soared through the blackness, then disappeared. Being dragged backward by his arms, Schultz didn’t struggle. Instead, he started laughing.

  The w
hole time that he had spent searching for the chambers, Tommy believed that the ancient rooms might be located somewhere else in the world, that he’d been wrong to hope the magnificent find was near. Sure, there were a few clues scattered throughout Georgia, but surely a treasure of such amazing significance couldn’t be there. Yet he and others, like de Soto and Ponce de León, were convinced that the entire chambers were located somewhere in the southern United States. Now, after searching for so many years, the riddle was starting to come together. And Tommy started thinking that maybe, just maybe, de Soto had been right all along.

  There was only one place that he could think of anywhere that could contain the description in the riddle. He just hoped that Sean would come to the same conclusion.

  23

  Cartersville

  After serving the coffee, Joe had left his guests alone in the living room for a few minutes, not explaining where he was going. When he returned, he had a somber look on his face and was gripping something in his worn fingers. He opened his hand, revealing something that astonished both of the visitors.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Sean couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  “It is.”

  “But how did you get it?”

  “I received a package from Frank earlier today. This stone was inside.” Joe carefully handed the disc to Sean.

  He continued while Sean inspected the medallion. “When you told me that Frank had been murdered, I was initially shocked. Frank and I have known each other a long time. But if Frank had figured out the code on this stone, it could be the first step toward finding the most incredible treasure in history. And if someone found out about this stone and that Frank was working on it, that certainly explains his murder and Tommy’s disappearance.”

  Sean and Allison were both still looking at the ancient medallion.

  “How much do you know about the chambers, Joe?” Sean looked up at his friend, trying to piece all the information together.

  Joe’s lively eyes lingered briefly in thought then darted up, perched above a wide grin. “I’d be glad to tell ya. But first, I want to know what you know about them.” He wagged his rough finger at the air in Sean’s direction in a playful gesture.

  “Well,” he replied, somewhat unsure of himself. He took a look at Allyson and then back at the curious face staring at him from a few feet away. “According to most of the mainstream legends, seven priests left their parishes in Spain when they came under attack by the Moors. No one is sure about the timeframe, but it could have been somewhere between 800-1000 CE. These priests sailed west and constructed a city of gold, El Dorado, Cibola, whatever you want to call it. Again, I’m not sure why. Down through the centuries from around 1150 CE to the present, explorers have searched for the lost city. Francisco Coronado was perhaps the most famous to try and find it. There were rumors that Cortez believed it to be Mexico. De Soto was relentless in his quest throughout the Southeastern United States. Ponce de León was also said to have been trying to locate it. Of course, Ponce de León’s more well-known search was for the fountain of youth, but some say that was only one of two reasons he came to the New World.”

  McElroy smiled at the last statement.

  “Anyway, the lost city was never found, so, throughout history it has simply been regarded as myth. To most historians, it still is.” He took a sip from his steaming cup of coffee as he finished.

  “As well it should be regarded that way,” McElroy chimed in. “Even though the legend was originally a European folktale, the Indians learned that by retelling the story and embellishing it, the invaders were pacified, at least temporarily, by the thought of finding a city of unimaginable wealth.”

  Joe took a gulp of coffee then went on, “There is another story that Tommy and a handful of others came across that bears a small resemblance but has different details.”

  Allyson sat quietly, completely out of her element. All she could do was listen, her eyes wide with curiosity.

  “Which is the story that I believe to be far more valid,” Joe added.

  Sean nodded and went on, “A few people, Tommy being one of them, believe the core part of the story about large quantities of gold in several places is correct. So, to them, the question isn’t whether or not the gold exists. It is where and in how many locations. These researchers do not believe the part of the legend that talks about seven golden cities. They also don’t give any merit to the seven priests sailing west to escape Islamic persecution or that Europeans even built these mystical places.”

  “But if the Europeans didn’t build them, who did?” Allyson found the topic spellbinding.

  “Native Americans,” Sean answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “But some of the facts became twisted and removed so that the white settlers would never find the true locations. There were never seven cities built from gold, but there was a number that Tommy kept coming across in many places all over the Southeast. Through the years of his research concerning the lost cities of gold, he kept coming across the number four. He found many clues in ancient Native locations that led him to there were four compartments or chambers. So, it was four golden rooms built by ancient Native peoples, not seven cities built by European settlers.”

  “What did they use these golden rooms for?” she had to ask.

  “That’s just it, no one really knows,” Sean answered. “There are some ideas, but nothing really adds up. They must have been used for ancient ceremonies or rituals. Native Americans did not put a great deal of import on the material value of gold. It was more of a sacred metal to them than anything else.”

  “Perhaps, this is where I may be able to shed some light on the story,” Joe interrupted.

  Sean set his cup down and listened intently, glad to be out of the spotlight in the conversation. He had a feeling Joe McElroy was about to enlighten them far more than he ever could on the current situation.

  The older man’s face looked like he was ready to explode. He started by saying, “There are several local legends that have been passed around for the last fifty or so years that revolve around a constant theme: Indian gold.” After pausing for a second, Joe went on, “Now, you won’t find these stories in any history books. In fact, they’re probably more like family tales than local legends.” His eyes moved dramatically from left to right as he spoke, peering at his audience.

  “Most of what I’ve heard came from my father, stories he’d heard from friends or relatives. The first legend supposedly took place not too far from here, up in the mountains where there is a small river that leads to a waterfall. This waterfall is probably around seventy feet high. One day about thirty years ago, some rock climber was scaling the wall behind the falling water. Not sure how you do that without slipping on the wet rocks, but this guy did it. When he got up near the top, he found himself at the lip of a shallow cave. After pulling himself up onto the ledge, he crawled back into the dark space. His eyes fell upon something quite peculiar sitting on the ground in the corner of the small room. What he had found was a stack of gold bars.”

  McElroy let what he believed to be a small climax set in with his audience. “The climber picked up one of the heavy bars and took it closer to the edge of the rock face so he could get a better look at what he’d found. Once in the light, he discovered odd characters carved into the shiny yellow bricks.”

  Allyson and Sean cast each other a surprised look. “What was it?” she asked, mesmerized.

  “An ancient Native form of writing that used a combination of symbols and pictures, much like hieroglyphics,” he replied. “Of course, the man who found the gold was not permitted to keep it since it was discovered on government land.” His tone had become cynical.

  Sean laughed, “Naturally.”

  “Indeed,” Joe chuckled. “Have to say the Natives were right not to trust our government.” Taking one last gulp of the coffee, he returned the empty mug to the wooden surface. “Now, legend number two spans about two hundred years and contains many fasc
inating implications.

  “Right around the end of the eighteenth century, in the 1790s, there was a wealthy Cherokee businessman named James Vann who lived in the area near Chatsworth, Georgia. He was a powerful leader in the Cherokee Nation and ran one of the most profitable plantations in the state. In 1804, he completed construction of an elegant brick home on his large estate. To this day, it is Georgia’s best preserved historical site.”

  Joe stood up and walked over to the fireplace. The flames that had been crackling vibrantly before had died down to just a flicker. He grabbed another log from the stack next to the hearth and placed it in the fire before stoking the coals with an iron poker. The two visitors looked like children sitting around a campfire, listening to ghost stories, so he went on, “James Vann had a charmed life for an Indian, right up until 1809 when he was mysteriously murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Allyson chimed in.

  “Yes. Murdered. They never found the killer, and no one knows why they did it. Oh, sure, there were suspects. Rival Cherokee leaders, jealous white settlers, even his son, Joseph, was a suspect.”

  “His son?” Sean asked.

  “Uh huh. In fact, his son stood to gain the most from the death of his father. When James died, Joseph inherited the entire estate. And over the next thirty years after the murder, Joseph became even more prosperous than his father. He owned more land and had accumulated more wealth than any other Cherokee tribesman in the state, and possibly in the nation.”

  Allyson had an inquisitive look on her face. “So, what does this have to do with our scenario?”

  Joe smiled. “I’m getting to that. In 1838, Andrew Jackson and the federal government ordered the relocation of all Cherokee Indians. They were forced to move to Oklahoma. The Creek Indians had already been removed ten years earlier to separate reservations in the West.”