by Al Halsey
Even though the view took his breath away, it was not without a heavy price. While they climbed up the mountain, the Assault Group had lost its translator and photographer. Not only would it complicate matters of communication when they took the monastery, it would mean that future generations would not witness their efforts. For Lukas, that was the most grievous hurt of all.
He looked up the mountain to an ancient wall of stones above them. His men observed his gaze, shoved biscuits in their mouths and put their packs back on. Submachine guns were slung, and the mess kit that made the tea was packed and stowed.
Lines were retied and ice axes were hefted. In the thin air, the group began the climb up the ancient steps to their destination. Sturmbannführer Eichmann took the lead. Here in the final stretch of the climb, he had insisted he would be the first to stand at the door of the monastery that held the prize they had been sent to claim.
The stairs led up the side of the man-made wall and deposited them on a large, smooth stone ledge. It was easily three meters wide and eight meters long. A solid barrier of stone barricaded the viewpoint, waist high. The mountain jutted out and formed a roof that covered the lookout. Smooth carved pillars of natural rock held the mountain in place, and a single lamp burned beside a massive wood door.
The entry was Lukas’ height, and two meters wide. A giant bronze ring was set into the right side of the portal, and on the left were massive hinges also made of bronze. A bronze bell attached to a ratty rope hung from the wall. It appeared to the Sturmbannführer that this had been a cave at one point, excavated and made into something more livable. Life at such an altitude did not appeal to him, however.
He sniffed at the frigid air. The scent of burnt wood was weak, but indicated activity behind the massive door. Lukas pulled his Walther and signaled to his troops.
One of his soldiers, Sturmann Hans Klien pointed at the bell with his MP 40 and smiled. The Sturmbannführer shook his head. It was just like Storm Trooper Klien to make a joke about ringing the bell before they assaulted the monastery.
Sturmann Klien pulled the bronze ring. The door silently opened, and to the surprise of Lukas seemed well balanced. Three of his soldiers entered the door, guns raised. Lukas followed, and his eyes adjusted to the dim chamber.
A row of sixteen pillars were carved from the mountain. The floor was dark wood, polished and stained to perfection. At far end of the chamber stood a large, gold figure. Wood rails surrounded the outside of the carved room, and behind them were small statues and tables. The tables held arrangements of dried flowers and plants. The aromatic fragrance of the scented oils soaked in the flowers mixed with burning incense.
Several tables held candles, and lamps hung from brass chains at intervals down the middle of the room. The light was uneven, and pockets of darkness and long shadows played.
Several dark, weathered men in red and yellow robes stared at the soldiers. The Sturmann advanced and ordered the men to their knees. They looked puzzled and spoke in a language that the Sturmbannführer recognized as Tibetan.
“Auf die Knie!” the soldiers shouted. Klien kicked at the back on one of the monk’s legs, and he dropped to his knees. Then he bent the monk’s hands behind his neck and put the barrel of his MP 40 against his neck.
This would have been easier if the translator had not fallen down the icy ravine, thought Lukas.
“Bleiben Sie noch!” one of the other soldiers shouted. The monks stayed still as ordered, even though it was likely they did understand the command.
“Hat jemand Deutsch sprechen? Deutsch sprechen?” Klien shouted. The monks looked confused: none of them acknowledged they spoke German.
“Hat jemand Englisch sprechen? Sprechen Sie Englisch?” The Sturmbannführer shouted. “Does someone speak English?”
One of the monks signaled and nodded agreement. “I speak the English.”
Lukas walked slowly to the monk and signaled for him to stand. “I don’t want to kill any of you. But we are going to search this monastery, and will do it with you alive or dead. Once we find what we want, we will leave you in peace.” He holstered the pistol and pulled back his parka to show the insignia on his collar. “Do you recognize this? This is the mark of the Waffen SS. I am Sturmbannführer Eichmann. Our mission is to find something special, lost to time. We have combed every record possible, and we know it’s here.”
“I doubt that. Your lightning bolts are nothing I know. What you seek is not here. This is The Temple to the Four Winds,” the holy man said, his English marginal. “The world outside holds no interest to us. Neither does your treasure hunt.”
“Interested or not, you are rumored to have something that holds interest to me, alte mann,” Lukas whispered, then corrected the mistake in German and resumed English. “Old man. A cup. A grail. The cup that caught the blood of Christ, the Holy Grail. It’s rumored to be here. Somewhere in these caves, there is a cup. Do you understand?”
“Let us kill one of them,” Sturmann Klien shouted.
“We will not kill them. Not yet,” Lukas said as he looked at the monks. “They know we are serious.”
“We have cup,” the monk said. “Take the cup and go.”
“Very good,” the Sturmbannführer said. “Take us to it.”
“I take you to cup, yes,” the holy man said.
The monk led Lukas and several of the Storm Troopers from the temple and down a rough corridor. The hall branched several times. In the dim light, he passed a large dormitory with bedrolls stacked against a wall, several storage rooms and a common room. The rooms were lit sparsely with oil lamps.
“What is your name?” the Sturmbannführer asked.
“Khadka,” the monk answered. “Khadka Thapa.”
“How long have you been here, Khadka?” Lukas asked.
Khadka looked puzzled. “As long as I remember. I was young when brought here.”
“This does not seem like much of a life,” one of the Sturmann whispered.
“What more life would one need?” the small man asked.
The group came to a small, smoky room. Two crude fire pits were in the center of the room, and dented metal pots held gruel that simmered on metal grates. The room was stacked with sacks and barrels, and a tiny crack of a window hewn in the rough stone let in cold air and vented smoke.
Khadka pointed to a crude wood shelf, stacked with equally crude featureless clay cups and wood bowls. “Cups. You take all the cups you want. Leave us in peace,” he said.
Lukas examined several of the clay vessels. “I don’t want these. I want the Grail.”
“The gruel will be hot.” Khadka pointed to the pots. “You like rice?”
The Sturmbannführer shook his head. “I don’t want rice gruel, I want the Grail. The Holy Grail, the cup of Christ.”
Khadka shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Verdammt. Search these caves,” he ordered. “Schnell! Schnell!”
The Sturmann escorted the monk back to the temple as his soldiers fanned out in the complex. As he passed the dormitory, he could see the Storm Troopers as they cut open the bedrolls.
Lukas held the monks at gunpoint with one of his Sturmann. The holy men were quiet and compliant. The soldiers searched every nook and potential hiding place with diligence. It took several hours for them to finish searching the caves, to no avail.
“Sturmbannführer, haben wir nichts gefunden,” one of the soldiers stated. News, even in German, that the soldiers had not found what they searched for did not please Lukas.
“Erneut suchen!” the Sturmbannführer ordered.
The Storm Trooper saluted stoically, obviously not pleased to have to search again.
Lukas sat against one of the stone pillars, and then yawned. This has taken far longer than it should have, he thought. How hard can it be to find an ornate cup in a monastery?
Khadka started to stand but the Sturmbannführer shook his head and pointed. The monk sat again as Lukas tightened the grip on his Wal
ther. “My soldiers cannot find what they search for. We will sit here until they do.”
“Take all the cups,” the old man said.
He surveyed the large room and studied the statues that surrounded the perimeter. They were tacky, gilded, and unsightly at best. His eyes wandered from one to another. The golden eyes of the statues stared back: unfocused and lifeless.
Lukas’ eyes finally settled on one of the statues. It was rough carved stone, oddly proportioned, cruder than the others. It looked older. He tilted his head and thought about the image.
The irregular figure was another carved Buddha, but somehow the parts were not right. The fingers were strangely out of proportion, the head elongated and vaguely simian, the facial features stretched. The more Lukas watched the statue, the more it seemed to stare back with hungry eyes.
He stood and cautiously approached the idol. The Sturmbannführer ran his fingers over the stone. It appeared that some original statue had been modified, carved repeatedly to disguise it. “Khadka, tell me about this statue,” Lukas ordered.
The small man sputtered. “Very old statue, the oldest. Was here when the Temple to the Four Winds was built.”
The statue rested on a stone pedestal. Lukas inspected the rock. He ran his hand around the pedestal and could feel a crack on the floor behind the dais. “There is a gap here. It looks worked.”
Khadka stood. “Please. Don’t. That is the entrance to the catacombs. Where the dead rest. Don’t disturb the dead.”
Lukas moved behind the statue, braced his back against the stone wall and pushed. It took all his effort, but when the figure toppled forward, the pedestal shifted. He pushed at the square stone, and eventually it slipped to reveal a stone block underneath.
The block measured a meter square, with a finger-width gap between the plug and the temple floor.
“Soldaten!” The Sturmbannführer shouted. His soldiers congregated after they heard the order. They gathered around the toppled statue and debated how to remove the heavy stone plug. After much discussion, one of the Storm Troopers remembered seeing a pry bar as the kitchen had been searched. It was behind some barrels and he did not think much of it at the time.
Lukas ordered the soldier to fetch the pry bar. The monks became agitated by the desecration of the temple and they complained in their native tongue. Although he could not understand it, the Sturmbannführer could tell that they grew angrier as they chattered.
“Tell your men to quiet themselves,” Lukas ordered.
“Do not disturb the dead. There is no cup in the catacombs. Only our dead. Our sacred dead,” Khadka said.
The soldiers used the pry bar to remove the slab from the hole. A concealed door was cut into the rock, and a tunnel descended. One of the soldiers shined an electric light into the shaft. The beam cut the darkness and revealed a natural passage cut with handholds.
Lukas tied a rope around his waist, took the light and descended into the cramped tunnel. After ten meters the tunnel leveled and expanded. He shined the light into the cavern. The stone was natural and dry but the passageway smelled cold and fetid. He cautiously moved forward. Behind him he could hear several of his soldiers as they descended down the tunnel.
Lukas continued to warily explore. Stalagmites jutted from the floor like teeth. As he walked, he could discern several shelves cut into the side of the cavern. Inside the compartments were the remains of bodies, skulls and bones jumbled together.
“Gott im Himmell!” one of the Sturmann exclaimed.
God in Heaven has nothing to do with this, Lukas thought. He ordered the soldiers to search the cavities, but nothing that resembled The Cup of Christ was found. After the bones were dumped to the cave floor, the Sturmbannführer pressed deeper into the mountain. Before he went far, he considered his travel into heart of the mountain. Multiple tunnels could leave them lost, or worse, treacherous drops could open up. He wanted a native guide and sent one of his Storm Troopers to fetch Khadka from the temple.
The air become fouler as the group traveled. Lukas shined his light down the passageway and something on the wall caught his eye. He stopped and inspected the crude carving of a fish. “Fisch,” he whispered in German, and then traced the rough relief. It seemed odd to him that here, in the bowels of a peak in Tibet some primitive would carve fish in a cave.
Farther down the corridor the soldiers found another door. It was out of place in this cavern.
The workmanship on the door was similar to the temple entrance. A huge bronze ring was set into the gate. It also hung on bronze hinges, and made him anxious. A door to conceal the Grail, no doubt, put in place the same time as the temple. He would be the toast of Berlin when he completed this mission. Lukas nodded and one of his men pulled the door open.
He could see that the cave continued, and then opened into a larger chamber. The floor was smooth. He noted that more and more crude carvings of fish were cut into the walls and ceiling. The reliefs became larger, yet more distorted as they moved further down the passageway. Some of the fish had multiple mouths, human hands, or extra eyes.
Lukas recognized screams that echoed down the corridor. Khadka was being dragged down the hallway, then through the door. The little man protested with all his might, but one of the Sturmann had twisted his arm upwards and his wrist back to gain compliance.
“This place is forbidden. Not the door, not the door,” Khadka’s shriek echoed in the room. “You must leave!”
Lukas grabbed him by his robes and shook him. “Is this where the Grail is hid? Tell me, damn you. The cup. Where is the cup?”
“Take the cups!” the old man wailed. “Take all the cups!”
“Verdammt idiot,” one of the solders whispered.
Yes, he is a damn idiot, Lukas thought. “Tell me where the Holy Grail is!”
“Take the cups. Leave this place. Forbidden!” The old man fell, and then began to twitch on the ground.
The Germans ignored him except for one who guarded him at gunpoint. The other five continued to follow the chamber. Their lights revealed more and more carvings of more seascapes. Yet the images were warped, the sea life more and more like some degenerate mutated cross between man and fish.
The scene became stranger, and Lukas felt something in the pit of his stomach. The images created some primal discomfort that he could not pinpoint. The angles of the reliefs felt wrong, alien, like the work of a demented possessed blind man.
The roof of the space began to slope, and a fall of stalactites cut off the end of the chamber. The lights of the soldiers illuminated the rock. The pale stone corpse-like as it reached from the ceiling to the floor with dead fingers. The carvings intensified by an altar. They became more warped, and the human-hybrid fish were interspersed with octopus-headed men. It was impossible to guess the age of the place. Thousands of years. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands.
One of the Storm Troopers vomited, obviously as disturbed by the scene as the Sturmbannführer was.
The altar was cut from some type of green and black stone with flecks of gold. It was over two meters in length, and one in width. Channels were cut in the stone for drainage, down both sides. The cuts were perfect, and showed no workmanship.
On top of the altar was a squat statue of the same greenish-black stone. The sight of the figure tugged at his consciousness, and disturbed him at some unconscious level. The seasoned soldier recoiled slightly and gritted his teeth. The demonic visage glowered evilly in the light, its carved eyes transfixed on the Sturmbannführer.
The figure was thirty centimeters tall, a scaled humanoid topped with the head of a multi-eyed octopus with too many tentacles. The humanoid’s hands and feet ended in curved claws. From its back, long wings were folded against the bloated, rubbery body. The tiny demon sat on a square base, carved from the same stone. The base of the statuette was marked with odd characters in no language Lukas recognized. Whatever malignant intelligence carved the figure, it was hard to think that a human could have dream
ed up something so sinister.
“Was is dast?” one of the Storm Troopers whispered. The Sturmbannführer wondered also.
Lukas ordered Khadka brought to the altar. The holy man protested mightily until one of the soldiers backhanded him several times and dumped him in front of the stone block. He wailed, and covered his eyes. The Sturmbannführer kneeled down and grabbed him by the throat.
“What is this place? Where is the Grail? You knew this was here all along,” he growled. “Talk, verdammt, or I will put the boots to you.”
Khadka shook. “This place is forbidden. Here long before the temple was built. The temple was built to conceal this place, hide it. No one knows who was here before us,” he said. “Before men.”
“Impossible,” Lukas whispered. “Nothing was before men.”
“Before men. Before Buddha. Before the Four Winds. Before everything!” Khadka shrieked.
“I want the Cup! The Grail!” Lukas shouted as he shook the monk. “The Cup!”
“Take the cups,” Khadka cried. “Take all the cups!”
Lukas slapped him repeatedly until the holy man lay on the floor of the cave. He whimpered weakly. The Sturmbannführer took the statuette in his hand. The stone was slick and cold, like dead flesh. Unnaturally so. Like all of Tibet and its chill was centered on the demon statue.
The Storm Troopers searched the cavern, but nothing else of value was found except for the squat demon statue. Khadka lay on the chill stone and sobbed hysterically in his native tongue. After the search was complete, the group returned to the temple and pushed the stone plug in place. Lukas carried the statue in a pouch, and for the small size, it weighted down his every step. It was not the physical weight of the idol: some spiritual weight, some unspeakable ancient evil pulled the statuette towards a cold hell.
The Sturmbannführer ordered another search of the temple to no avail. It was too late to climb down the mountain, so the soldiers bedded down for the night. Rations were warmed and canteens were filled with melted snow.