by Max McCoy
"Faye," Indy shouted as a flaming hailstone thumped him on the back. "This is bad."
Faye nodded. She turned her face skyward and announced, "Blood!"
The rain turned dark.
"Oh, my God," Mystery said as she touched her fingers to her mouth. "It's real."
The soldiers abandoned their weapons and ran, leaving Jadoo behind.
"Faye, end this," Indy pleaded.
Faye glared at Jadoo.
"A curse," she said.
"No," he pleaded and fell to his knees, his hands together. "I beg you for mercy."
"Did you show mercy to my husband?"
"I didn't kill him," Jadoo lied. "You don't understand the circumstances. It wasn't my fault."
"Death," Faye pronounced, "to the seventh born, of the seventh born—"
"No!" Indy shouted. "That includes Sallah!"
"—of the seventh born."
"Okay," Indy said and shrugged.
Jadoo's eyes became wild. He got to his feet and backed away from Faye, then began to run. Then he fell gasping to the ground, holding his chest. He died of a massive coronary, with his eyes open and his heels digging into the sand.
Faye looked at the carnage around her.
She hoisted the Staff like a javelin and threw it. It sailed in a great arc for two hundred yards and buried itself in the sand, not far from the Nile.
"It is finished," Sallah said.
"Almost," Indy said.
"The scavengers will finish what is left of these villians before the day becomes hot," Sallah said. "They deserve nothing better."
"No," Indy said, holding his side. "We must bury them. But there is one other thing we must do—we've got to seal this entrance. Come help me push the stone into place. Then we will fill the hole with sand, and it will be safe for many more years."
"But the book," Sallah said. "You found it, no?"
"We found it, yes," Indy said.
"The world isn't ready for it," Mystery added.
"She's right," Indy said. "She's always been right. And the prophecies about the Hall of Records are true as well: that the world will not learn of their discovery until years after they have been located."
"But Indy," Sallah said. "If not now, when?"
"When it's time, my friend," Indy said. "When it's time."
12
The Crystal Skull
The taxi pulled to a stop in front of the apartment building and honked. Indy emerged, wearing a new suit, but with his favorite fedora on his head. He was followed by Sallah and his pack of children. Indy and Sallah shook hands, and then Sallah pulled him to his chest and engulfed him in a bear hug.
"I need to ask a favor," Indy said when he could breathe again.
"Anything."
"The next time we meet," Indy said, "let's not speak of what occurred here beneath the Giza plateau, or mention this to Marcus Brody. Let's not tempt ourselves to reveal this before the world is ready, or time will be out of joint. I can't explain it, just trust me."
"As you wish, my friend," Sallah said.
"Where are Faye and Mystery?" Indy asked. "I thought they would be here."
"They left early this morning," Sallah said. "They are on their way back to the United States. But they left this for you."
Sallah handed Indy a letter.
"Thanks," Indy said.
"Farewell, my friend," Sallah said. "It was a grand adventure. But the next time, let's choose something a little less dangerous."
Indy grinned, but said nothing.
He got in the taxi, then touched his finger to the brim of his hat as it pulled away.
"Where to?"
"The airport," Indy said.
As the taxi bounced along, he opened the letter and read it.
Dear Indy,
Sorry Mother and I aren't there to see you off, hut we are superstitious about good-byes. Thanks for all of your help in finding out what happened to Father. I was devastated to learn he was dead, but glad to know the truth.
Mother says that even though magic works, it operates by its own quirky set of rules, and is no substitute for reality; it cannot, for example, bring back the ones we love. I think, however, that all real magic comes from God, whose rules make us work for the things we want so we don't get spoiled.
We're going home to Oklahoma, where mother expects me to finish up high school. Ugh! How can I go back to school when I've stood on the Sphinx, survived two shipwrecks, nearly been turned into a mummy, and witnessed real miracles? The worst part is that nobody will ever believe me about the Omega Book and the frogs and the blood and stuff. Oh, well. At least we know it's true, right?
Take care of yourself. I don't know what our address will be, but if I send it to you in care of Princeton University, will you please write?
Your friend,
Mysti
P.S. I had a crush on you, but I got over it.
Indy arrived at Princeton a week later.
It was a drowsy Saturday afternoon, and the university seemed deserted. On the fourth floor of McCormick Hall, in the Department of Art and Archaeology, he stood for a moment in front of the door to his office, startled for a moment by his reflection in the windowpane. He had been without the company of his reflection for most of the spontaneous Omega Book expedition, because few of the places he had been in the last few weeks were stocked with mirrors. Now that he had a chance to get a good look at himself again, it seemed as if a stranger stared back: thinner than he remembered, badly in need of a shave and a haircut, and with lines in his face that were more than just products of wind and sun.
Indy shook his head and tried the doorknob. It was, of course, locked. He absently patted his suit pockets while trying to remember where he had left his keys for safekeeping. At home? Or with Marcus Brody? He was about to smash the windowpane with his elbow—partly out of frustration, and partly out of discomfort with the image of himself he'd just seen—when he noticed a janitor at the end of the hall.
"Pardon me," Indy said, "but I'm a pro—"
"Dr. Jones," the man said. "I know who you are."
"Your name is—"
"Arthur."
"Right," Indy said with a smile. "The trouble is, I've locked myself out of my office. I wonder if you would mind opening the door for me?"
"Dr. Jones," Arthur said. "You never leave your keys at home. I'm surprised."
"Yeah," Indy said and smiled. "I'm just not myself today."
"You look a little tired," Arthur agreed.
The janitor opened the door with a key from the ring at his belt, and Indy stepped inside. "Thanks," he said as he closed the door.
There was the usual pile of mail on his desk—alongside a stack of papers to be graded—and on the top of the pile was a first-class letter postmarked from Claremore, Oklahoma. He slipped the letter into his jacket pocket.
Beneath the letter from Mystery was an official-looking one from Barnett College, which he knew had to be a job offer. He considered opening it, but returned it to the stack. Then he turned to the shelves and found, behind some books, a three-gallon glass specimen jar filled with denatured alcohol.
He took the jar down, placed it on the desk, and removed the lid. Then he took off his jacket and rolled up a shirtsleeve. The jar appeared to be empty except for the alcohol.
He reached inside the jar, felt around, hooked two fingers in the eye sockets of the Crystal Skull, and drew it out. The jaw hung open, giving the impression that the skull was screaming, and rainbows of light danced in the orbital sockets. It was still as frightening as the day years ago that he'd found it in the Temple of the Serpent, beneath the lost city of Cozan, in British Honduras.
The skull had been the occult prize in a deadly game of cat-and-mouse over the years, and Indy had alternately won and lost it several times. The skull had traveled across Europe, sunk to the bottom of the sea, and been recovered in the Arctic. And, as with most great treasures, it came with a curse: that whoever removed it from the alta
r in the Temple of the Serpent would kill what he loved best. And although Indy did not believe in curses, he had watched Alecia Dunstin die, under circumstances for which he felt responsible. Their relationship had been fated since the day they'd met in the library of the British Museum. If they hadn't met, Indy believed, the beautiful and clairvoyant Englishwoman would still be alive. Sometimes, when Indy closed his eyes for sleep, the image of her face would come to him.
Indy looked at a generic bank calendar that hung on the wall, its big red letters marking a row of Sundays. Every day should be marked in red, Indy thought, to remind us that each day is precious, and to warn against wasting a single one.
Indy held the skull in both hands, elevated it to eye level, and turned its vacant sockets toward him.
"I've lost enough because of you," Indy told the skull.
A bluish shimmer danced across its teeth, while a sudden chill shot through Indy's palms. He optimistically attributed both effects to the rapidly evaporating alcohol. Indy usually avoided touching the skull with his bare hands, but for some reason he had a need for direct contact with the cold quartz; perhaps, he told himself, he simply wanted to let it know that he was finally prepared to deal with it—come what might.
He would return the skull to the temple in the lost city where it had been discovered. And although that had been Indy's aim since recovering the skull in the Arctic, something had always seemed to intervene, and Indy had hidden the skull in the jar of alcohol on his office shelf. The specific gravity of the alcohol was nearly the same as quartz crystal, and rendered the skull invisible. Although his office had been rifled several times, the skull had not been found.
He placed the skull on his desk.
The phone rang.
Indy stared at it for a moment, debating whether to answer it. Finally, acting on a feeling he could not explain, he picked up the receiver.
"Hello, Indy?" a familiar voice asked. "Is that you?"
"Marcus?" Indy asked.
"Yes, of course. I'm glad I caught you. I tried earlier calling at your home."
"Haven't been back there yet," Indy said and sat down.
"Just got back and had to check into work, eh?" Brody asked.
"Just tying up some loose ends."
"Say, the strangest thing happened while you've been gone. Some chap claiming to be you wired the museum from India asking for a thousand U.S. dollars. I knew you were in China, but I wired the money anyway, on the remote chance it really was you and you were truly in need. Anyway, the bloke got away with the cash, it seems."
"That bloke was me," Indy asked.
"Really?" Brody asked. "What were you up to in Calcutta?"
"The usual," Indy replied. "On my way to someplace else. Wound up at Giza digging—"
"No, don't tell me," Brody interrupted. "I'm sure your actions were strictly professional and in accordance with international law and the guidelines of the Service des Antiquites."
"You might say my authorization came from the highest authority."
"Splendid. By the way, a package came to the museum today from Cairo. It's addressed to you, and the return address—if I can decipher the scrawl—seems to be from your friend Sallah. Could this be spoils of your adventure? May I open it?"
Before Indy could reply, he could hear the sound of tearing paper on tbe other end.
"It's a box of almonds," Brody said with more than a little disappointment. "There's a note attached. It says: Not breaking any promises, but thought you would like to know that where the stick landed, an almond tree now blooms. Until we meet again, my friend."
Indy laughed.
"There must be a story behind that," Brody said.
"There is," Indy said.
"And I'm sure someday you'll tell me," Brody said. "Oh, one last thing, and the real reason I called. Have you ever heard of something called the ashes of Nurhachi?"
"Yes," Indy said, "but I'd like to rest before I go to Shanghai chasing after them. Also, I've got a job offer that I need to consider. I may be changing colleges soon."
"Excellent," Brody said. "Oh, to be a young man again. You rest up, and give me a ring when you've decided."
"I will," Indy said. "Marcus?"
"What is it?"
For a moment Indy's throat was so dry he could not speak. Finally, he said:
"It's good to hear your voice again, Marcus."
"Are you all right?" Brody asked. "Nothing is wrong, is it?"
"No," Indy said. "I'm fine. Or, at least I will be."
13
Time out of Joint
Indy planted the torch in the mud in front of the empty altar and took a pair of leather gloves from his pocket. His face was covered in mud and sweat, and his bruised hands ached as he snugged the gloves over them. The descent into the cavern beneath the Temple of the Serpent had been as difficult and as dangerous as he remembered it, but with an important exception: There was no giant snake this time. Shattered bones from the thirty-foot anaconda Indy had killed years earlier littered the banks of the subterranean pool.
Indy retrieved the bulky velvet bag from the satchel slung over his shoulder, and from the bag he removed the Crystal Skull. The light of the torch was refracted and magnified in the depths of the skull, and danced across the floor and walls of the cavern. For a moment Indy was mesmerized by the display, and he considered keeping the skull.
"No," he said aloud. "I don't know who you were—or are—but this is where you belong."
The altar was cut into an alcove in the wall of the cavern. Indy planted his feet firmly on the ground, made sure he had his balance, and carefully placed the skull atop the altar. Then he stepped back, half expecting some trap to spring out of the base of the altar or to fall from above.
"Good," Indy said.
He smiled, took off his gloves, and touched the brim of his hat in farewell. Then, when he picked up his torch and turned to leave, he heard it: a swirl of water, a slithering noise from the mud bank, and the awful hissing sound of a very large snake breathing. At the far end of the torch's circle of light he saw an amber, slitted eye the size of a cantaloupe moving toward him.
The snake he had killed in this cavern before had been the largest one he had ever seen, and when he'd returned to Princeton he had asked a herpetologist if anacondas of thirty feet in length were unheard of. No, the expert had said, there were tales of them growing even bigger in the depths of the rain forest.
This snake made the other one seem small.
"Not again," Indy moaned.
The snake slithered toward him.
Indy drew the revolver.
There was no place to run; the snake was so long that it completely cut off the route back to the entrance to the subterranean pool, and to try to swim would be surrendering an even greater advantage to the snake.
Indy stumbled backward and fired three rounds at the snake's eye. If it had any effect, the snake did not show it. The snake opened its hinged jaw—showing fangs that were as big as sabers—and flicked its spongy pink tongue toward Indy. Like all snakes, its eyesight was bad, but its senses of smell and taste were keen.
Indy squeezed into the alcove beside the altar and fired twice more. The snake struck, but its open mouth was larger than the alcove, and the fangs grated against rock.
Flinching from the strike, Indy threw himself backward and hit his head on the lintel of a stone portal in the back of the alcove. Because the portal was small—less than five feet high—and in the shadows behind the altar, he had not noticed it before. More important, the portal was too small for the snake to come through.
It was a moment, however, before Indy realized this. The blow to the back of the head had nearly rendered him unconscious, and for a few minutes he sat on the floor of this new passage while his stomach churned and pinwheels of light danced in front of his eyes. When he felt the back of his head, there was blood on his hand.
Still, Indy smiled at his good fortune.
He picked up the torch
and struggled to his feet to explore this new passage and get away from the angry hissing on the other side of the portal. The ceiling was low, and he had to stoop as he inched along.
Then the passage ended.
It ended not in a doorway, or a wall, or even the rubble of a collapse. It ended in a kind of cloud filled with darkness that was beyond darkness, a malevolent void that refused to be dispelled by torchlight. Instead, it seemed to soak up the light and yield nothing in return. And, it was growing—or simply coming toward him.
Indy searched the corridor for a recognizable doorway, or a crawl space, or some exit that was an alternative to whatever was in front of him and the angry and very large snake behind.
There was none.
Indy switched the torch to his left hand, then extended the fingers of his right. Carefully, he touched the cloud. His hand disappeared in the void, but there was no sensation of feeling—not even the feel of his fingers tucking into his palm as he made a fist.
He quickly drew back his arm, and was relieved to find that his hand was still attached.
Indy glanced behind him, then looked around at the barren corridor again. Of the three choices open to him, two offered certain death: starving to death in the bowels of the temple, or being crushed in the coils of a giant anaconda. Although the third choice seemed only to suggest disaster instead of promising it, he was hesitant to take it. But as the cloud began to envelop him in wispy hollow tendrils, his torch began to dim and then sputter. Afraid that he would be suffocated like the flame if he did not push on through the cloud to the other side, he held his breath and plunged into it.
He found himself in sunshine.
I must have hit my head harder than I realized, Indy said to himself, rubbing his neck and blinking against the brilliance of daylight. Then he closed his eyes and opened them again.
As his eyes slowly adjusted, the outlines of the city of Cozan rose around him. Indy was kneeling on the bottom step of the Temple of the Serpent. Birds and monkeys were thick in the nearby trees, and somewhere a jaguar growled.