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Methuselah’s Pillar Chapter 1 |
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| Samantha Conway spit into her diving mask, smeared the saliva around with her fingers and then rinsed it out in an old wooden bucket full of cool well water so the glass wouldn’t fog. On-looking reporters made notes of every move she made, especially after she suited up. Photographers snapped away. They had positioned themselves to use the pyramids as background. Some secret mission, she thought sarcastically. She’d been recognized the moment she’d stepped off the plane in Cairo and, each day, her archaeological exploration had gathered more and more talking heads. She had to admit though; scuba diving down ancient wells near Egypt’s famous Valley of the Kings wasn’t the best way to avoid attention. “My mouth is so dry, Paki, I can hardly spit,” Sam said to her Egyptian assistant. Paki furrowed his thick connected eyebrow. “Don’t they make a spray for that?” Paki was a young man with big dark eyes, long eyelashes and a short but full jet-black beard. A sweetheart. He had headphones and a microphone growing out from a turban that seemed to be either screwed or glued on. Neither high winds nor gravity had any effect on it. “Yes, but nothing except raw potatoes works as well as spit. Did you have any raw potatoes, Paki?” “Potatoes?” Paki said. “No, Doctor Conway. I remember for next time.” Sam smiled and more cameras went off. The media loved her smile. “Yes, write that one down. Next time you’re assisting someone scuba diving in the Sahara Desert, make sure you bring raw potatoes in case their mouth is too dry.” Paki nodded and began feeling for a pen. “No, Paki, I was only kidding,” she said and rolled her eyes playfully. Sam was an ancient writing expert and well-respected among her peers. Her ability to translate the most difficult hieroglyphics, often reading through the characters and between the lines, had resulted in priceless finds for her employer, The New York Metropolitan Museum. With her inspiring archaeological insights, adventurous spirit and natural photogenic good looks, the media had painted Sam out to be a female combination of Indiana Jones and Sherlock Holmes. In fact, the History Channel had offered her a series, with a contract far in excess of what the museum was able to compete with. She slept on it and turned them down the next day. “Thanks, but I’m not ready to live in a fish bowl just yet,” she had told them. “Maybe some other time.” Fame and fortune weren’t enticing enough to buy the freedom she enjoyed following up her own research and intuition. The Valley of the Kings, or the official name used by the ancient Egyptians, “The great and majestic necropolis of Pharaoh’s millions of years of Life Strength Health in the West of Thebes,” enclosed sixty-two known tombs numbered chronologically in the order they were discovered. Ancient Egyptians were unreservedly obsessed with death, to put it mildly. Pharaohs would spend their entire lifetimes building their tombs. Nothing was more important. Whether you were an architect, priest, baker or a slave, your time and energy revolved around a tomb. Possibly one you’d been working on since childhood. And how you tended to this task had a lot to do with your life on the other side of eternity. Why? Because sooner or later you would be there with your Pharaoh who was now your god. In fact, the belief system and pressure were so great that some were actually known to commit suicide right after their Pharaoh died so as to be positioned favorably in the next world. Others, unwilling to make that ultimate sacrifice, would have to wait stressfully to see what would be waiting for them after death. Hopefully their king would be very understanding. Consequently, most worked diligently to please their Pharaoh. Tombs were decorated with beautiful hieroglyphics recounting events during the king’s life. From these artful writings, modern man has learned more about the Egyptians than any other civilization of the time. How they cut and drilled stone. How they conquered their enemies. Who their gods were. How they baked bread. And, sometimes, if one were brilliant enough to read between the lines, where treasures were hidden. Sam dreaded to think what the papers would say if she didn’t find what she was looking for, this being the ninth well in three days with the last eight being dead ends. But this one offered hope the others hadn’t. According to her research, which fortunately was kept much more private than her physical whereabouts, Senenmut, a master Egyptian architect during the eighteenth dynasty, about fourteen fifty BC, stashed away treasures for his queen and rumored intimate companion, Hatshepsut. Traditionally, entrances to most Egyptian tombs were displayed openly, to be easily guarded. Senenmut, correctly, didn’t trust that method, especially since the tomb would have to be shielded from his lover’s jealous step-son who would eventually replace her as Egypt’s ruler. In a recent find that Sam also spearheaded, she found an obscure clue that led her to explore nearby wells for a secret entrance to Senenmut’s hidden stash, intended for him and his queen in the next life. The Aqua Video she used to scout the ancient wells had revealed a small opening in this particular well’s wall sixty-four feet down. Now her heart was racing; she was anxious to get down there in person to test her theory. Sam made a few last minute checks. Spare flashlight worked, tank was full, wristwatch told her it was 12:02 and her knife was strapped securely to her leg. She tied back her thick, curly blond hair into a pony-tail, and pulled the mask over her entire face and breathed the cool compressed air. She had never used a full face mask regulator before, but being able to keep radio contact with Paki was something the museum insisted on when she proposed her unprecedented exploration. “Testing, testing,” Sam said, her own voice sounding strange through her earphone. She also had to remember to speak exactly what she meant if she cared to be interpreted correctly. Paki’s English was decent but, apparently, he had not yet learned American euphemisms, taking everything she said literally. Paki adjusted the microphone closer to his mouth. “I hear you loud and clear, Doctor Conway. Be safe,” Paki said, his statement sounded more like a prayer than a request. “Always. And call me Sam, Paki,” she said, for the tenth time. It was a joke by now. She took a final look below. The well opening was a mere six feet in diameter and ten feet down to the water’s shadowed surface. She moved and tiny pebbles plopped into the still water. She held the mask to her face with one hand and pushed off the stone edge to the clatter of cameras and braced for sharp. Nothing. The Aqua Video had already revealed adequate depth and no protruding objects but, there was always that unshakable thought of… something, beneath the water’s dark surface. Relieved, she came back to the surface and looked up to Paki, who was leaning over the well’s opening, his turban, of course, stuck to his head. “All good. Send it down,” she said. Paki nodded and lowered the underwater camera assembly with a rope and pulley. She took hold of the yellow housing, a little larger than a loaf of bread, and turned it on, along with its “Super Nova” lighting system. She unclipped the museum’s precious camera and pointed the brilliant light downward. Blackened stone walls that had been in dark shadows for thousands of years were suddenly exposed. Sam held the Aqua Video in both hands and swam down into the tight, black abyss. She soon found the water to be surprisingly cold for a blistering hot African country a stone throw from the equator. Cold and dark. The walls were so black and non-reflective that the high-lumen power lamps could only penetrate an eerie fifteen feet ahead. Sam tried to ignore the pressingly claustrophobic environment. A mischievous tomboy as a child, she’d explored local storm drains, using candles for light, with the manhole covers clanging overhead. In an oddly similar environment, she spotted a large hole in the wall about thirty feet lower and was anxious to look in. So much time and energy and money had been invested, or rather, gambled, at her recommendation. She aimed the lamp into the opening and, for the first time in millenniums, the cavity was filled with light. She paused, while bubbles massaged her cheeks and ears. In treasure hunting, things were not always as they appear. The entrance, if indeed it was an entrance, was about five feet in diameter and shallow. Dishearteningly shallow. Maybe seven or eight feet deep before it ended in a sheer wall. Possibly a door of some kind, she hoped. She moved forward into the hole until the lamps almost touched the rear wall. The side walls were also discouraging. Broken natural stone without evidence of human sculpturing. In other words, simple erosion. Another dead end. But maybe not. She unsnapped the knife from her right leg and reached to scrape the rear wall. Her leverage wasn’t good and multi-tasking with the camera and lamp soon became too difficult. She re-clipped her knife, turned around and put the Aqua Video near the entrance on the cavity floor, carefully aiming it at the rear wall. That was better. She quickly found her knife and went back to work on the wall. Sam poked and scraped off thousands of years of residue build-up in seconds. After a few minutes, she found nothing and was becoming impatient. She only had so much air before she would have to resurface, and she desperately wanted a reason to return. Something. Anything. “How are you, Doctor Conway?” “Wonderful.” “Have you found anything?” “Just manatee’s and leprechauns, Paki.” Paki didn’t reply. Sam figured him to be paging through an English/ Egyptian dictionary. Sam dug and gouged at the wall’s edges looking for a seam. She cursed. “Did you say something?” Paki said. “Duck, Paki. The leprechaun has a duck.” More silence. Sam backed away from the wall for a new point of view. The solid stone could be man hewn, but not necessarily. It could also be the side of a great flat boulder, like so many others in the famous valley. She reexamined the walls all around her and wondered how the cavity could exist if not by design. It occurred to her that the well’s water level could have changed throughout time. Could the treasure have been discovered by others at a time when the diving depth was reachable without modern diving gear? Could grave robbers or…. Suddenly, the cavity went dark. |
