Sinbad and The Eye of the Tiger (23 page)

“I’ve heard that those red fruit . . . tomatoes?—are useful.”

“Aye, and thyme, herring fish, curry from the Indies, even apples. I’ve heard Roman matrons speak highly of trout, and they said that Venus was fond of salt.”

“Truffles, laurel leaves, and the cardoon—I’ve heard those mentioned. The Hebrews speak well of the caper berry in their writings, I’ve been told, and, of course, the Arabs speak highly of carrots.”

Maroof laughed loudly. “Anything, anything at all, when you come right down to it!” He slapped his friend on the back. “What I said earlier is
still
best. With four wives you’d have that variety.”

“And better still with six,” he leered.

“Come on, you two,” Sinbad called down to them. “You are falling behind!”

“But we speak of important subjects!” Hassan shouted back. “Do you favor four or six wives, Sinbad?”

“I’ll count none until this is over,” their captain retorted. “Now catch up!”

The two sailors began to climb. “Six,” muttered Hassan.

“Four to start,” replied Maroof, under his breath. “See first if you are man enough for four.”

The last of the mummified corpses was behind them. The ice walls of the tunnel had given way to jagged rock. The sides of the tunnel narrowed and widened erratically, and sometimes the metal tip of Zenobia’s mast scraped along over the raw stone. Other times they drifted with still waters on either side, the torchlight barely illuminating the rock walls.

It got warmer. Zenobia let her coat of tiger and panther skins slip from her shoulders and left it lying on the glistening metal desk. She squinted through the smoke from the torches, staring ahead with a fierce concentration that shut her son out completely.

Rafi’s face was running with sweat, both from the increasing heat and from increasing fear. He kept looking behind him, turning around suddenly, eyes wide, as if he expected the ghostly bodies of the ice-buried dead to be after them.

But his eyes were also on what was ahead, on the next turning of the raw tunnel of rock or upon the next lagoonlike underground lake. Each moment, each drifting second brought them closer to . . . to something. Rafi was not certain what, but he didn’t think he would like it. If it hadn’t been for the hideous clawed foot of his mother, a constant reminder that they must be successful, he would have been on his knees, begging her to order the Minaton to turn back at the next widening of the tunnel.

But the scraping of the sharp claws on the metal deck kept him from speaking. His mother
had
to regain her foot. And Rafi did not care who had to die for that to come to pass.

They started to descend into a narrow gorge when Trog stopped and pointed ahead with a ponderous arm. Ahead and down was the Gate to the Lost Valley of Hyperborea. The old man breathed the name aloud and the sailors stirred restlessly.

The gorge deepened ahead, falling steeply down through a protecting ring of cliffs, rocky and forbidding. Across the gorge, like a colossal dam, was the Gate, an immense masonry wall of monumental stones, framing a grotesque, gorgonlike face carved out of solid rock. The Gate itself was the mouth of this fantastic creature.

“Well, come on,” Sinbad said, and led the way. His men followed, then Farah and Dione and her father, with the great Trog plodding along behind now that he had led them to the formidable Gate.

They scrambled over the rocks down to the floor of the narrow canyon, then paused briefly to look at the gigantic wonder before them. Frowning, Maroof pointed up at the surrounding cliffs. “Are those caves?”

“Aye,” Sinbad muttered absently, his attention upon the grotesque Gate face. But behind him Trog had come down and stood looking around. The baboon jumped down from his arms, where he had been riding, and peered around curiously. Then, as Trog began to walk away, the baboon began a loud cluttering, jumping and waving to the humans.

Sinbad looked around and stopped. From the caves came one, then two, then several of the huge troglodytes like Trog. From caves high and low several of the massive, hairy creatures peered down, or ambled slowly out toward the expedition.

“By the gods!” muttered Hassan. “More of them!”

“Hold!” Sinbad said as he heard swords slither from their scabbards. “Watch Trog.”

The great beast-man was walking slowly toward the others like himself. More creatures stuck their heads over high ledges, but no one appeared hostile, only wary and watchful.

Trog joined two of the great hairy men, and they grunted and gestured at each other. The baboon trotted over, but stayed at a safe distance, his head tilted in a watchful look, his ugly face alert.

The inhabitants of the caves listened, but seemed dubious, as Trog grunted at them. Their deep-set eyes flickered over the smaller humans and Sinbad thought they were becoming more nervous, if not actually frightened. But Trog continued to talk and their nervousness seemed to lessen. Melanthius edged closer, his face in rapt attention to their grunts and squeals, and Sinbad followed to be of help if needed.

But whenever Trog looked at the Gate he seemed afraid. Farah joined Sinbad and she noticed it at once. “Trog seems afraid of the Gate . . .”

Melanthius nodded. “Afraid of what lies beyond, perhaps . . .”

The baboon was trying to coax Trog back to the group, which was drifting toward the Gate, but was having little success. Sinbad scratched his chin. “Why should he be afraid?”

“Like all primitives,” Melanthius said, “he is afraid of the unknown, afraid of anything he cannot understand . . .”

At last the baboon got Trog moving toward the gate. The baboon trotted along with him, his shorter legs making many more steps than the troglodyte’s great tree-trunk limbs. Sinbad watched the giant troglodytes drift back into their caves.

The party of explorers went up the steps to the massive Gate. The huge face in the Gate had two eyes that seemed to glare at them. Melanthius bent to examine the lock and Sinbad joined him. The sea captain gave a sigh of resignation.

“No use,” he said, pointing at the great sliding metal lock. “We will never be able to move the bar without blocks and ropes . . . which we do not have!”

Dione looked over his shoulder, then turned toward Trog. “Trog will help. He must help. Kassim!” she called. “Make your friend help us! We must open the Gate!”

Trog hesitated and the baboon chittered at him. Reluctantly, the giant man thing lumbered up the steps. He took the lock in his hands and shook it, and the baboon made more gibberings. Then the huge hands of the troglodyte gripped the sliding bar and began to pull. Muscles bulged and rippled beneath his hairy hide and he made a surprisingly high-pitched grunt.

Then, with a rusty, ripping, grating sound, the locking bar moved. It slammed back the last few inches with a booming sound and Sinbad and his men cheered. Dione went to the hairy Trog and patted his arm, looking up at him with a wide smile.

Sinbad gestured and everyone put their weight against the great doors. “Ugh!” Hassan exploded with effort. “They’re locked from the other side as well!”

“No, push harder,” Melanthius said. “They haven’t been opened in years . . . perhaps centuries!”

They tried again. The doors squeaked slightly but they were getting nowhere when Trog leaned forward and added his pressure to the right-hand door. With a crunching snap it began to open. Heads down, the men put their might into the door and shoved it open the length of an arm, then stopped to blow their breath out.

“Look . . .” Farah said, pointing through.

The gorge wound away into the distance, dropping and twisting. Ahead, some miles off, was a snowcapped range of mountains which formed a valley. Even at that distance they could see the enormous pyramid in the center of the valley. Over the pyramid was a magnificent display of the Aurora Borealis.

“Look!” Farah said, pointing. “The pyramid is tipped with a metal cone!”

Melanthius was almost in a state of trance as he gazed at the sight before him. Almost in a whisper he said, “The Shrine . . . the Shrine of the Four Elements!”

Sinbad broke the spell by starting forward. He went a few feet and called over his shoulder, “All right—this is what we came for, isn’t it? Let’s go!”

The sailors started down the gorge. One helped Farah and another assisted the old Greek. Farah looked around, suddenly fearful. “Wait! Where’s Kassim?”

She looked back. The baboon was by the Gate, watching them descend. Trog stood over him as the baboon hopped around the beast-man’s thick leg with excitement.

“Kassim!” Farah called.

The baboon grabbed Trog’s thick finger and tugged. Reluctantly Trog leaned down and picked up his anthropoid friend and started down after Sinbad and the others. Two of the giant beast-men moved out of the shadows and stood in the open Gate watching the others descend.

After a few moments the two huge figures turned and began closing the heavy gate. It shut with a booming clang and then the rustling sound of putting the great log in place was heard.

The Gate was closed. And locked. And guarded.

T
he metal ship slid silently through the rock tunnel. The bronze Minaton was motionless. Rafi and his mother saw that the jagged tunnel walls of raw rock had given way to roughly hewn but still recognizable stonework.

The tunnel went on, the only noise the fizzle of the torches and the lap of water against the brass hull. Then Zenobia pointed ahead with a trembling finger. “Look, Rafi!”

The torchlight revealed a darkness on the side of the rock wall, and as they glided closer Zenobia saw that it was a dry, side tunnel. The framing of the tunnel mouth was decorated in strange figures hewn in the rock.

“Stop us here,” Zenobia ordered as she pulled out her copy of Melanthius’s chart. Rafi caught at the edge of the tunnel and the ship came slowly to a stop, bobbing slightly.

“Yes,” Zenobia said softly. “Yes.” She traced a line on the map, then spoke sharply to Rafi. “Put a plank across. We will
all
go!”

Rafi tied off the ship to one of the roughly hewn figures, then found a metal plank and put it from railing to quay. He held it steady as his mother climbed up and crossed over. Then he, himself, jumped up and raced across, carrying several torches, afraid to look down into the black waters.

“Come, Minaton!” Zenobia ordered, and the bronze giant climbed ponderously up, carrying a long, pointed iron bar and a dark, round metal cauldron with a sealed top.

The metal plank bent dangerously under the weight of the Minaton, but soon they were assembled in the tunnel mouth. Zenobia consulted her chart copy again, then gestured for them to proceed.

Rafi stuck the unlit torches under his arm and held aloft a lighted one, and they started down the stone-lined tunnel. Minaton moved stiffly behind them, his bull head almost brushing the roof of the tunnel.

They walked through the darkness in their pool of torchlight, their footsteps lost in the noise made by the Minaton’s metal feet scraping over the stones. Rafi shivered again, but he was still sweating.

Suddenly his head came up and he stopped. His mother urged him forward, and the light from the torch fell upon the things that had stopped him. The stone tunnel divided. There were two triangular-shaped arches, thick and solid. Through one they could see stone steps that led upward to what appeared to be daylight. The other had steps that led down into Stygian darkness and an unknown fate.

“Daylight!” Rafi said happily. “The sun!”

Zenobia frowned and pointed at the darkened arch. “But this must be our way.” She shoved at Rafi. “Go and see.”

He looked around at her with wide, frightened eyes. “Down into the dark?”

Exasperated with his fears, Zenobia slapped him. The sound of the slap echoed in the cavern.
“Go!”
she commanded. Reluctantly Rafi obeyed, cringing under his mother’s wrath. He moved toward the arch, then looked back at her with a pleading expression. But she was right behind him and only shoved him on.

Rafi went through the arch and stopped, holding his torch high. He took another torch, lit it, and handed it to his mother. Then, reluctantly and fearfully, he started to descend. The steps turned and as soon as he was out of sight of his mother he saw a stone door, carved with a grotesque face that seemed familar to him. With a start Rafi recognized it as the face drawn on the chart his mother had copied. He bent and lowered the torch, for in the mouth of the weird face were carved various symbols. Four he recognized immediately as alchemical symbols for Earth, Fire, Air, and Water—the Four Elements which everyone believed composed everything. And there was a pyramidal shape, a delta triangle, also carved.

“What is it?” Zenobia called down to him.

“Only a closed door,” Rafi answered. “And a strange face carved on it. No sign of a bolt or a lock.” Rafi moved back up the stone staircase and looked up at his mother questioningly.

“But this
must
be the underground entrance to the Shrine,” she protested.

Rafi shrugged. “There is no other way through. The steps stop at the door . . .”

Zenobia motioned for him to come up. “Then try the other archway.” She shrugged. “The stairs that lead up to the sunlight.”

She looked at her chart again and Rafi came gratefully trotting up the steps. She continued to study the chart, with the Minaton waiting patiently nearby, while Rafi went through the other arch and up into the sunlight.

He emerged, blinking and squinting, into the bright sunlight. Then he turned and ran down a few steps to shout to his mother. “Come! You must see this! It’s . . . it’s . . . Come, Mother!”

She came up the steps, rolling the chart into its original roll and tucking it away. She, too, blinked at the unaccustomed sunlight, and looked around her.

The steps she ascended came out into the remains of an Egyptian temple, or at least a temple in a style heavily influenced by the structures along the Nile. It was in ruins, its stones tumbled and cracked, with grass and vines climbing over the ruins.

But Zenobia’s eyes gleamed, for a half-mile away was the great pyramid, its metallic cone shining brightly in the warm sun. The witch-woman stepped forward eagerly, dragging her awkward clawed foot, wending her way past the chipped remains of fallen columns and sand drifts. She paused and looked around in wonder. Behind them the tropical valley extended to hills, then mountains capped with Arctic snow.