CHAPTER
TWO
Marty followed Lowanna’s lead as she led the team along a narrow path in the darkness. He caught a glimpse of what looked like a weasel weaving through the grasses. Occasionally, it paused, poked its head above the undergrowth, and continued on its way.
After about a quarter-mile hike across lush grassland, Marty heard the sound of waves breaking on a beach before actually seeing them. A sliver of moon above the horizon provided enough light for him to see the first signs of a beach. Emerging from the shadows, he spotted a hut woven of slender branches nestled amidst the tall grasses. Gutted fish were laid over its roof, possibly to dry them out, and as the breeze shifted in their direction, the smell of rotting fish was unmistakable. A hunched-over figure emerged from the doorway.
With a grunt of effort, he straightened his posture, cupped his hands near his ears, and stared in their direction.
“Welcome, strangers,” the figure called, his voice weathered with age. He grabbed a nearby fishing spear and leaned on it. “I do not recognize your footfalls.”
Lowanna walked over to Marty and whispered, “The man is supposedly friendly. His name is Muwat.”
Marty grinned. “Did your weasel friend tell you that?”
She ignored the question and turned in the direction of the old man. “We mean you no harm.”
“A woman?” The old man’s eyes widened.
“And her companions,” Marty added. “We’re a bit lost and were looking for shelter for the night.”
The man leaned his spear against the hut. “I hear your voice and immediately know you are not from Nesha. I also hear the uncertainty in the pattern of your footsteps.” He motioned for them to approach. “I may not be able to see much anymore, but I’d rather not yell across the night to be heard. You and the four others, come. What I have, I will share.”
Marty motioned to the rest of the team, and they approached. The man’s eyes gleamed dull white in the moonlight, as if his eye sockets had round white stones embedded in them. “Sir, there are six of us, in total. I don’t want to be a burden.”
“Six, you say. Funny how I only hear the swish of five feet. Come, the fish I have remaining will only be good for fertilizer if not eaten soon.” The fisherman motioned for them to approach, his milky eyes scanning the group, then snapped his fingers. “Shush! Get me my flint.”
Marty’s eyes widened as the weasel, who’d been digging for something in the grasses, stopped, popped his head up above the grasses to look over at the old man, and rushed past the old man and into the hut.
Seconds later, the weasel emerged from the shelter with a stone tool in his mouth and dropped it at the man’s feet. Will you make a fire? the weasel asked.
“That’s one articulate weasel,” Marty murmured.
“I hear you, my friend.” The old man scooped up what turned out to be a large chunk of flint and crouched in front of a pile of dried grasses. It took only a few practiced strikes with another stone, and the first signs of a fire bloomed within the grasses.
Marty walked in the direction of the hut and asked, “Were you planning on cooking the fish that are drying on the roof?”
“Aye.” The old man gathered a few nearby sticks. “If you don’t mind, gather what you need, and I’ll prepare something that should fill your bellies.”
As Marty walked closer to the drying fish, the unmistakable smell of putrefaction enveloped him, and he winced at the thought of eating the rotting fish. He motioned to Gunther, and as the German approached, Marty gathered a few of the fish. The slimy texture coupled with the fishy odor turned his stomach. Maybe the people here were used to eating stuff like this, but this would really be a challenge for him and likely most of the team.
Gunther sniffed at the air as he studied what was in Marty’s hands. He leaned in and whispered, “I’m thinking those are not . . .”
“Agreed.” Marty nodded. “You and I are on the same page, but do you think you can do something?”
“Do something?” Gunther stared back at him with a confused expression. “François is the cook. What are you thinking?”
“You know, sort of like a blessing over the food. Maybe it’ll work? Like . . . heal the food?” Marty had personally witnessed Gunther’s ability to heal a person’s ailments, whether they were cuts, bruises, or even worse. It was an unexplainable ingredient in this crazy series of tests they were undergoing, not unlike his and Lowanna’s ability to communicate with animals or the entire team’s ability to understand and speak in an unfamiliar language.
Gunther hesitated as he put his hand over the bundle of fish Marty was carrying. “I don’t know about this.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
Gunther shrugged, and with his hand hovering just an inch above the pile of fish, he closed his eyes, his brows furrowed in concentration.
Marty held his breath as the faintest glimmer of light emanated from Gunther’s hand.
He nearly dropped the bundle of rotten fish as he felt the load shift, almost as if the animals were alive.
But they weren’t moving in that way.
Marty stared in awe as the partially desiccated filets plumped up with moisture right in front of his eyes.
In the glow of the growing campfire, the flesh of the fish shone brightly, almost as if they’d been sliced open only moments ago.
Gunther’s eyes opened, and he removed his hand. “That felt strange.”
Marty sniffed at the fish and smelled almost nothing. He looked up at Gunther and smiled. “My friend, you definitely did something.”
“Have you gathered your supper?” the old man called out. “The fire is ready.”
Marty walked over to the old man and crouched low with a pile of fish held in his arms.
Without even looking, the old man reached over, grabbed one of the fish, and skewered it on one of the sticks. As he continued preparing the fish, he looked in the direction of the others on the team and began barking orders. “One of you go into the hut and bring me my large bowl. I also need one of you to go into my bin and gather enough potatoes for us all. Also, I heard a woman’s voice. I would like you to help gather some gamagrass.”
Marty glanced at Lowanna, who had turned to survey the nearby grasses. He had no idea what gamagrass was, but she seemed to take the request in stride. “The others can also help gather the gamagrass.”
The old man shrugged as he continued skewering each fish in a zigzag pattern. “Yes, but a woman’s fingers are best suited in its preparation. Much more dexterous than a man’s.”
Marty looked over at Kareem, whose attention was focused on the fire, and said, “Kareem, go help Lowanna gather the grass.”
“It’s not really a grass,” Lowanna called out from the darkness. “It’s more like wild rice.”
Marty’s mind raced as he watched Kareem turn and walk in the direction of Lowanna’s voice, his silhouette melting into the dark backdrop of the night.
He hadn’t yet told the team about the vision he’d received ahead of their arriving in this place.
Marty wasn’t sure how the team would react, but the one thing he knew for certain was that someone or something was testing them.
And the stakes were certainly higher than just their getting back home.
He suspected that this thing they were involved in was much bigger than Marty or his five companions knew.
The evening air was alive with the crackle of the campfire and the sound of waves lapping against the nearby shore. As Gunther bit into the crispy-skinned fish, he was pleased that the mild white flesh held no off flavors. It was a bit salty, but that was easy to overlook as his belly filled with nourishment. A chorus of compliments filled the air, praising the old man’s cooking skills.
“Muwat, this fish is incredible!” Marty exclaimed between bites, savoring the delicate flavor.
“Top-notch, my good man. It’s excellent,” François chimed in as well.
Muwat chuckled modestly, his weathered face breaking into a toothless grin. “Glad you enjoy it, my friends. Not much else to offer, but I make do with what the sea provides.”
Using a flattened reed as a makeshift scoop, Gunther dug out a large helping of the wild rice from a hardened clay bowl, popped the steaming grains into his mouth, and began chewing. The rice had a strange, yet satisfying blend of vegetal and nutty flavors, complementing the fish perfectly.
Marty leaned in close to Gunther, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’re going to need more of your blessings over our food from here on in. This is the best rotten fish I’ve ever eaten.”
Gunther nodded, surprised at how his newfound ability had exposed a new facet of usefulness.
“Tell us more about the Sacred Grove, Muwat,” François prompted, his tone eager. “What do you know about it?”
Muwat’s expression turned somber as he shifted his gaze in the direction of the island. “The Sacred Grove . . . it’s a place of mystery and power,” he began, his voice tinged with reverence. “Legend has it that it is the source of the king’s ancestral power. But with each passing season, the waters have risen, and the attacks of the Hungry Dead have multiplied, because the king’s power over the elements was waning. Some say the king’s magic was leeched from him by the powers of the spirits that dwell within the Grove.”
“And was it the king who chose to confront the spirits?” Surjan asked as he worked on stripping the bark from a long branch he’d found on the beach.
Muwat shrugged. “I cannot be sure. I’m old, and do not live in the central village anymore. I just hear things on occasion, and all I really know is that recently the king traveled to the Sacred Grove to confront the spirits, trying to reclaim what was rightfully his.”
“With the hope that he could reclaim his magic and lower the waters?” Marty asked.
The old man nodded. “I believe so. It’s not just the waters, but the weather has been odd of late. Some argue it has been warmer than normal, yet others claim that the water has grown colder. These are confusing times. Also, I’m not one who would know the thoughts of our king. I’m just an old fisherman.”
“Do you know what is in the Sacred Grove, other than spirits?” Surjan asked.
Muwat paused, his wrinkled hands tracing invisible patterns in the sand. “No one knows what lies within the Sacred Grove, other than the king. I’ve heard rumors that there’s a dry well, and not much else. But these are from stories that have been passed down for many generations and originated long before my time.” The crackling fire cast flickering shadows across the sand as Muwat rose from his seat, stretching his arms above his head with a tired yawn. “I thank you for the conversation, but I need to sleep. The fish along the shoreline will be the most active in the early morning, and I cannot miss it. Can you please bank the fire once you are done?”
“We will make sure everything is taken care of,” Marty volunteered as the rest of the team wished the old man a good night’s rest.
As Muwat turned to make his way back to the hut, Gunther approached him, feeling a surge of sympathy for the old man’s situation. His existence had to be difficult, especially being blind and alone.
“Muwat,” Gunther began softly, “may I have a moment of your time?”
Muwat nodded, his milky eyes clouded with age turned toward Gunther. “Of course, my friend. What is it?”
Taking a deep breath, Gunther hesitated for a moment before broaching the delicate topic. “I couldn’t help but notice your eyes . . . Can you tell me what happened? I assume you were not born this way.”
A wistful smile touched Muwat’s lips as he spoke. “Ah, my eyes. They are not what they used to be, I’m afraid. The veil over them has grown thicker with each passing season. Now, I can only detect light and dark. That is it.”
“I assume that there is a village somewhere nearby where most people live—why not live closer to other people? It must be hard being out here by yourself.”
“You truly are newcomers to the island nation of Nesha.” The old man gave him a toothless grin. “Yes, there is a village not far from here. I moved closer to the shore while I still could see enough to make my way. This way, I can keep my life and be independent. I didn’t want to be a burden to others.”
Compassion welled up within Gunther as he listened to Muwat’s words. He reached out to the man with both hands and hesitated. “Let me give you a small blessing. I hope it can help in some way.”
Muwat nodded. “You have a kind heart, I can sense it. I have no need for such a blessing, but I appreciate the thought.”
“If you don’t mind, I would still like to give you this as a way for me to thank you for an excellent meal. It would make me happy if you would allow me to do this.”
The old man shrugged. “Very well. Do what you will, but I must get some rest.”
Gunther felt a tingle race up and down his spine as he reached out and gently placed his hands over the old man’s eyes. His palms began glowing with a soft, golden light. A surge of energy flowed from Gunther, and he sensed that whatever it was he was doing, it was being accepted by the man’s body.
The archaeologist knew almost nothing about his newfound “healing” ability, but the one thing he’d learned since undergoing the metamorphosis the entire team had gone through was that this ability would either be accepted or rejected by the target. And if rejected, it was almost like spraying a water hose at a wall—the water would splash back, soaking him—and this wasn’t what he was sensing.
“My friend, it’s a strange sensation I’m feeling.” Muwat frowned. “It’s almost as if my head has been relieved of a headache I didn’t realize I had.”
Gunther felt a sudden reverberation from the energy flow; whatever healing he was attempting was no longer flowing into the old man. “Okay, I’m done.” He stared at the old man, hoping to witness a miracle.
Muwat’s eyes opened and whatever glimmer of hope Gunther had felt vanished as the milky-white eyes stared back at him. “Thank you for the blessing. I appreciate the intent behind your act.” He reached out and awkwardly placed his hand on Gunther’s shoulder. “I must get some rest. The sunrise waits for no man.”
The old man turned and entered his hut.
“Gunther,” Marty called out from the campfire, “let’s gather for a team meeting.”
Gunther stared for a moment at the ramshackle building and felt a bit deflated. “It was worth a try.”
One of the larger chunks of wood shifted in the campfire, sending a handful of embers in all directions. Marty glanced at the fire and shrugged. “All I can tell you is that at the end, the voice coming out of the shadows announced that we had passed and we’d be able to move on. I couldn’t see who was behind the voices, and to be honest, I’m not even sure if they were voices in the sense that you could hear them. It was more like I was hearing thoughts. Anyway, what it was that they were expecting from us, I’m not exactly sure, but I got the impression that we’d just barely passed.”
“Hold on”—François flicked away the cricket that had landed on his knee—“let me see if I can summarize. As we got zapped from ancient Egypt to this place, you heard some voices debating the merits and faults of our activities as we tried to get back home. We were blamed for the death of one of our teammates . . .” The Frenchman paused, his chin quivering. Abdullah bin Rahman had been a close friend of his. “We were lauded for our help of the native villagers we encountered, and after much debate, we were deemed passable.”
“What would have happened if we didn’t pass?” Kareem asked with a wide-eyed expression. “Would we have gotten killed? Maybe not woken up?”
Marty shrugged. “I have no idea, but the one thing that’s in evidence is that someone or something is watching us. They’re putting us through our paces.”
“Could it be the Builders that Narmer talked about?” Lowanna asked.
“Maybe.” Marty struggled to remember exactly what he’d read on the original tablets back when all of this had first started. He could recall almost every moment since they’d begun this crazy adventure, but that picture-perfect memory didn’t extend before that time. “If I remember correctly, the tablets from Nabta Playa talked about finishing our foes and continuing, with the alternative being that we’d likely die if we failed. I’m thinking the wisest course of action is forward, and we need to just do the right thing as we encounter it.”
“Well, the first thing we need to do is figure out where we are,” François remarked.
Lowanna looked up at the expansive night sky. “Well, like last time, let the stars be our guide.”
François pointed into the cloudless sky and said, “That grouping of stars forms the shape of the Big Dipper.”
Lowanna followed his gaze, her expression thoughtful. “Agreed, and if you trace an imaginary line from the two outer stars of the Big Dipper’s bowl to the North Star—”
“And measure the angle between the horizon and the North Star,” François interjected, “we can estimate our latitude.”
Both Lowanna and François held up their hands, measuring the angle. “About thirty degrees north,” they said in unison.
“Except,” François continued, “that the north celestial pole moves over time. For all we know, the pole star now is Thuban or Vega. And the farther away from Polaris the pole is, the more dramatically Polaris can swing. Maybe we’re at twenty degrees and maybe we’re at forty.”
“Still, that narrows down our possible locations,” Marty said. “We’re in the northern hemisphere, in the middle latitudes. And there are palm trees, so we should err around the lower middle latitudes, I think. Anyone remember their world map well enough to remember what’s around thirty north? Give or take?”
Lowanna pursed her lips. “We’re in the subtropical zone, and Muwat mentioned that this place is an island. There are a couple of possibilities. The Ryukyu Islands would be at the right latitude, but these people don’t look anything like East Asians.”
“No,” François agreed. “And Hainan Island would be out as well, the Canary Islands off Spain might be okay, as would many islands in the Caribbean like Cuba, the Keys, and the Bahamas.”
“Climate changes over time, boys,” Lowanna said. “We’re making some big assumptions.”
“Isn’t Hawaii right around twenty-five north?” Marty asked.
“It is.” Lowanna nodded. “But these people don’t look Polynesian. I’d say we’re either in the Caribbean somewhere or maybe François is right and the Canary Islands would be possible, though I’m unfamiliar with the ancient demographics of that area. Based on the handmade clothing and rough weaving techniques, I’m assuming we’re sometime in the past. Wouldn’t the folks near Europe have a more Caucasian look? Mind you, people migrate.”
“Sort of like Viking explorers?” Gunther asked.
“Maybe.” Lowanna shrugged. “Like I said, Western European anthropology wasn’t my focus of study, especially prehistoric.”
“Folks, we need to get some rest,” Marty announced with a loud yawn. “Who wants to take first watch?”
“I’ll take first watch,” Gunther volunteered.
Marty turned to Surjan as he got up, wielding the results of an hour’s worth of stripping and sharpening a large branch. “You have some plans for that spear?”
The large, muscular Sikh shook his head. “I believe in being prepared, mate. I’m going to go scouting and see what else is around here. I’ll be back before dawn.”
“Be careful, Surjan,” Marty cautioned, “we don’t know what’s out there yet.”
“I’m out there, that should be scary enough.” The commando smiled, gave Marty a nod, and walked into the inky blackness of the night.
Lowanna lay on her side and said, “Gunther, wake me for the next watch.”
Marty pushed several mounds of sand around the edge of the campfire and looked over at Lowanna. “Wake me when you get up, I’ll join you.”
Lowanna grunted an acknowledgment, but in the flickering light of the campfire, he caught a flash of an uncharacteristic smile coming from her.
Marty lay on his side, his back against a bundle of kindling, and closed his eyes.
Before he could even think about counting sheep, the darkness of the night claimed him.
Surjan tightened his grip around the wrist-thick spear as he approached the ford to the Sacred Grove. The bonfires had burned low, and he noticed the two guards stationed there were slumped over, their snores echoing softly in the night air. With cautious steps, he moved past them and took his first tentative stride on the pathway hidden just beneath the surface of the water. The dim light of the moon overhead was just enough to keep his bearings as he crossed the flooded lowland onto the beach.
Something about this place had struck him the moment they’d first appeared in this world. The sound of a faint cry in the distance replayed in his mind. At first, he’d mistaken the bonfires across the flooded plain along with the flower petals floating on the water as a sign of a funeral, and the wailing having come from a group of mourners. But something had been eating at him ever since.
His initial instincts had failed him, and Surjan was sure that the wailing noise had not come from the men across the flooded plain but instead had come from within the pine forest. With his senses heightened, he walked across the beach and entered the tree line, heading for the mysterious heart of the Sacred Grove.
The air grew heavy in his lungs as Surjan ventured deeper into the forest, his eyes adjusting to the dim moonlight filtering through the thick canopy above. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and curiosity driving him forward. Ahead, the darkness of the dense forest gave way to the moonlight as he strode into a clearing.
Suddenly, a rustle caught Surjan’s attention. He froze, his muscles tensing as he scanned the darkness for any sign of movement. Ahead, he spotted what looked like a well. Its casing stood three feet tall and its lip rose and fell in crenellations, like a medieval castle.
In the shadows, something shifted.
Wielding his spear, Surjan’s grip tightened as his instincts screamed about an unseen threat looming in the shadows. At the same time, he sensed movement in the trees. Emerging from the shadows in the clearing, a figure stepped into the moonlight.
It was a man, his face contorted, the shadows rendering his visage an inhuman mask. The man’s eyes widened as he spotted Surjan.
Surjan took a step back as the other man advanced. The stranger was emaciated, that much he could tell even in the dark. He held a wild, feral look as he approached Surjan.
“Are you the king?” Surjan asked.
“Your voice is strange.” The man came on.
“Do you need help?”
The stranger’s breathing was ragged, his eyes wide with a manic expression. “Spirit!” He lunged toward Surjan.
Surjan reacted swiftly, dodging the king’s attack and grappling with him in the darkness. The man had strength born of desperation, and Surjan was knocked backward.
“Die!” The rabid man’s spittle-flecked beard shone in the moonlight. “You will not have what is mine!”
With a surge of strength, Surjan shoved the wild man from him and brought his spear to bear. He didn’t want to kill the man, but as the crazed stranger approached, Surjan knew that this wasn’t going to end well for one of them.
As Kareem silently trailed behind Surjan, he marveled at his own stealth, relishing the thrill of moving undetected through the shadows. Keeping his gaze fixed on Surjan, Kareem stayed focused on the unfolding scene ahead.
In the dim light of the Sacred Grove, Kareem spotted what certainly had to be the king approaching Surjan. His heart raced with excitement as he watched the tense confrontation, sensing that it was about to erupt into violence. Kareem felt conflicted about staying back in the shadows. After all, Surjan was a friend of sorts, but the larger man was better off without him possibly getting in the way. He weaved his way along the edge of the clearing, remaining in the safety of the shadows.
With a sudden burst of movement, the king launched himself at Surjan, knocking the giant Sikh back on his heels. The two figures collided in a flurry of blows, their struggle illuminated by the faint glow of moonlight.
As the fight raged on, Kareem’s attention was drawn to a golden bracelet atop what appeared to be an altar nearby. It gleamed dully. He chuckled.
Items made of gold could always be traded for something they’d need in the future. That was always the case where they’d come from, and it likely remained true in this world.
The king cursed the spirits as Surjan knocked the smaller opponent to the ground. With a quick glance around to ensure he remained unnoticed, Kareem darted from the shadows, snatched the item, and raced back into the safety of the forest.
With his prize in hand, Kareem slipped away from the chaos unfolding in the clearing, his footsteps silent as he melted back into the darkness of the Sacred Grove. He felt a pang of guilt at not helping Surjan with his confrontation with the king, but as he weaved his way back to camp, he was confident that things would work out for the large man.
Besides, if he intervened to help Surjan, Surjan would know Kareem had followed him, and he wouldn’t like that.
Surjan and the king circled each other warily, their breath coming in ragged gasps as they prepared for another clash. Surjan gripped his wooden spear tightly, its rough-hewn surface providing a sure grip on the weapon. Across from him, the king had managed to retrieve his own weapon—a spear crafted from what looked to be a long, straight animal horn of some kind. The gleaming surface of the king’s spear reflected in the pale moonlight, showing a twisted pattern to the bonelike weapon.
The image of a narwhal came to mind, a rarely seen whale with a long spearlike tooth protruding from its upper jaw.
“We don’t have to fight!” Surjan growled as he parried a blow from the six-foot-long weapon the king wielded with practiced ease.
“I reclaim my powers from you!” the king yelled as he advanced, swinging his weapon back and forth. The bone made a whistling sound as it cut through the air. “I will not die! The sacred spear shall be the end of you!”
Surjan dove to the side as the king lunged, his spear just barely missing the large Sikh.
“Thief!” With a roar, the king surged forward, his spear slicing through the air with deadly precision. Surjan parried the blow with practiced ease, his muscles straining against the force of the impact. With a swift counterattack, Surjan lashed out with his spear, aiming for the king’s exposed flank.
The king staggered, his grip on his weapon faltering for a moment.
Surjan pressed his advantage, driving forward with relentless ferocity.
Blow after blow rained down upon the king, each strike aiming to dislodge the weapon from the man’s grip.
Ignoring any semblance of defense, the king let out a roar, leaped forward, and impaled himself on Surjan’s weapon with such force that the wooden spear snapped in half.
Stunned, Surjan stepped back. The king let out a strangled cry, his strength failing him as he collapsed to the ground in a heap.
Kicking the spear from reach, Surjan crouched over the fallen king, a sense of dread washing over him.
With Surjan’s spear embedded in the man’s chest, the king coughed up blood and stared up at the stranger who’d defeated him.
Was there time for him to run back to get Gunther? Could the man hang on until—
“Beware . . .” The king grabbed a fistful of Surjan’s shirt and coughed up a disturbing amount of blood. “Beware the spider’s bite.”
The cryptic warning sent a shiver down Surjan’s spine. With a rattling wheeze, the king exhaled his last breath.
“I’m sorry for this . . . it was not my wish to see this come to pass. I pray that your next life is a blessed one. Waheguru, Waheguru, Waheguru.” Wonderful Lord.
The large man backed away from the corpse, gathered the spear, and was surprised at how warm the weapon felt. Almost as if something inside it was giving off heat.
Surjan’s attention was immediately claimed by a faint wailing sound echoing across the clearing. Were these spirits the natives talked about real? His gaze fell upon the well.
Surjan hesitated for a moment, his rational mind dismissing the notion of ghosts and specters. But as the eerie sound repeated itself, it seemed to be coming from the direction of the well. The sound sent a chill down his spine, and he knew it was time to leave the Sacred Grove behind.
With one last glance at the well, Surjan turned and made his way back into the night, the echoes of the king’s final words lingering in his ears.