Wayward Son (10 page)

Then it came to her.

“Neither
time
nor
death
can turn a
story
’s
truth
to
dust
.”

Where had she heard such a saying? She couldn’t think of the source. But it was compelling.

Taking a calming breath, she firmly pressed the symbols in sequence: hourglass, sword, papyrus roll, truth, and serpent. For a split second there was only silence.

Then she heard a click and a low rumble, and the massive doors parted in front of her.

Through her headset came Juan Carlos’s concerned voice. “What was that noise, Amanda? Are you okay?”

“I’m great, Johnny! I got the doors to open, and I’m going inside.”

“Fantastic,” chimed in Silvio. “Please be careful in there.”

Grabbing her backpack from the ground, Amanda stepped over a marble threshold into a cavernous chamber. She gasped at the scale as she shined her light around. The space was so large that her headlamp didn’t allow her to discern its overall dimensions from where she stood inside the doorway. Pyroclastic flow from Vesuvius impeded the swing of the doors and also enveloped some of the contents; other furnishings, though, stood free and clear.

“That’s odd,” she thought. She knew that every other dwelling in Herculaneum had been totally enveloped by the eruption. How could only a small amount of volcanic flow have made it inside this structure?

She had only an hour before she was due to leave. She remembered Silvio’s admonition about making an overall survey rather than a detailed inventory. She would have to hurry, now that she was inside.

She walked toward the middle of the space, which she could now make out as a circular room, yet she could not see the ceiling. As Amanda neared the center of the rotunda, she noticed what seemed to be a pair of human figures standing frozen in space and time. She decided to walk the perimeter of the chamber and return to the figures at the center as she was leaving.

There was a lot to see on her brief inspection. Silvio was not going to be disappointed. There were frescoes, marble statues, mosaics, maps, papyrus scrolls in metal tubes, and display cabinets with artifacts. The exhibits, like the inscriptions on the doors, seemed to cover huge arcs of history, from ancient Egypt and China to Greece and Rome. The Museo Archaeologico Nazionale will have to create a new wing, she thought, if they could raise the money.

But why had all these objects been assembled? Perhaps a wealthy citizen of ancient Herculaneum had conceived the idea of constructing his own private art gallery. But how could this patron of the arts have known such a diverse spectrum of cultures, even in the cosmopolitan early Roman Empire?

Amanda made another report to Silvio’s team, although there was increasing static the deeper she ventured into the buried chamber.

“I’m inside the chamber, and it’s magnificent! There are all kinds of spectacular artworks here. Like nothing we’ve seen in Herculaneum. I’m taking notes and pictures. There are what look to be two bodies standing upright covered in volcanic ash at the center of the room, next to a large telescope. My small headlamp is not bright enough to see the whole chamber. Will you guys just give me a bit more time? Say until ten thirty or eleven o’clock?”

Before Silvio answered, Amanda’s next footstep fell on an unstable portion of the floor, and she heard the rumbling noise again. She was now about fifteen yards from the bronze doors. She swung herself around so that her headlamp could pick them up in the narrow beam. She saw the doors slowly folding closed. Her exit was cut off.

And so was her wireless connection.

Alarmed, Amanda looked down at the floor. She was standing on a section that wobbled slightly and was shaped like a fish. It must have acted like a pressure pad, triggering the doors’ closure.

Panic was foreign to Amanda’s nature. Ingenuity had gotten her inside, she figured, and it would get her out okay, too. Turning again to the center of the room, she saw a glimmer of reflection from her lamp, so she slowly approached the central pair of figures, coated in volcanic ash.

Standing in a shallow, recessed area of the marble floor, they looked as if they were locked in combat, with a well-muscled wrestler on the left grappling with a smaller, leaner adversary on the right. Had they been mock wrestling at the moment of the volcanic eruption and then caught, like flies in amber, for all time? Or was this serious combat?

As she examined the bodies, Amanda noticed a peculiar detail. The figure on the left had what looked like a rectangular pendant dangling from a thick silver chain around his neck. The smaller figure’s left arm extended outward, with its fingers curled behind the object.

What was this strange pendant dangling from the neck of the more powerful-looking wrestler? Upon closer examination with her headlamp, it seemed to be some sort of small ceramic tile. With its colorful red and green markings, it looked rather like the mah-jongg game tiles she had seen in the Far East, only larger. For some strange reason, it was not covered by any of the volcanic flow. Knowing well, as a professional archaeologist, that she should be more circumspect, she still reached out and touched the tile.

Immediately, a painless jolt of energy shot up her arm. Amanda flinched and tried to let go of the tile, but her thumb and forefinger seemed glued to the object. She then became aware of the chamber slowly dissolving around her, replaced by the purple twilight of a clear evening sky. Now standing on a narrow trail, Amanda saw a gently rolling landscape with a dense forest in the distance. Looking up, she noted the Big Dipper in the heavens above. Where was she? What had happened to the chamber? Even the tile that she could not release moments ago had disappeared as well.

Amanda could now hear the footsteps of someone approaching from just over a gentle rise nearby. It sounded like he was running. She could actually hear his breathing! Wait—how did she know it was a man? Was she in danger? She tried to run and hide, but her legs would not move.

She looked down to see why her feet would not respond to her mind’s command, but she couldn’t see her own body! Instinctively, Amanda reached for her face, but her hands didn’t respond either. Yet her physical senses of sight, smell, and hearing were heightened. It seemed she could even taste the aroma of pine needles swirling in the night winds. How was this possible? Almost imperceptibly, she could read the thoughts and emotions of the man as he approached her location. She sensed the fear in him. In fact, he was being driven wild by terror.

Moving with feral grace, the man sprinted at full speed toward her and right past her. No—right
through
her! He was completely oblivious to her presence. As he passed, Amanda’s mind was dragged along silently in his wake, down the trail and toward the forest like a leaf down a fast flowing stream.

“Wake up, Amanda!” she yelled inwardly. She tried to bite her own tongue to jolt herself out of what she assumed must surely be a hallucination. But she had no teeth, no tongue, and no body.

Against her will, her thoughts became one with the runner’s.

That was how her vision began…

CHAPTER 8

East of Eden

ESCAPE.

He had to escape. To flee the terrifying scene. His parents had not taught him fear. Now he felt it full force. Panic gripped him hard, driving him farther and faster than ever before. Down the dirt path and toward the east. He had to reach the forest before dark. The trees would give him shelter. There were mountains to the north, he knew, and to the south lay the desert. He could not venture westward, for that was the direction of the fiery sword and the garden.

No, he must run east to the forest. He must lose himself.

Thorns riddled the man’s sinewed body. With each stride, they corkscrewed deeper into his flesh. He would have to get them out, but there was no question of stopping now. The pain was wrenching, but not as ghastly as the image that scalded his mind. He would run until he reached the forest.

Here, in the open fields, he was too vulnerable. He feared the gasps of his breathing and the drumbeat of his heart could be heard for miles. The noise of his bare feet slapping the ground would advertise his whereabouts. He would be followed. He would be found.

The tree line was near. The man looked backward over his shoulder. No one was in pursuit. He was alone. Steadily, relentlessly, he ran.

Now he was in the forest. Mixed pine, cedar, and juniper. The tree trunks soared to a blackening sky. He ran through the forest, colliding with branches in the dark. There was, he knew, a pond on this side. He would reach the pond before he stopped running. Silently, he embraced the trees for their protection.

Once at the bank, he plunged half-naked into the water. Despite his exhaustion, he swam to the other side with a vigorous stroke. The cool water was cleansing, perhaps even healing, he thought. It would wash away the blood; it would loosen the grip of the thorns. The pond would gain him some time if they were after him. It would take them a while to pick up his trail again.

On the other side, he listened hard. All he heard was the sound of wind in the trees. Looking upward, he saw the stars. A full moon had risen and shone through the forest. At the water’s edge, he leaned over to drink.

After the ripples calmed, he studied his moonlit reflection. Now in his late twenties, the man had dark brown hair. He was tall and physically fit. Years of farm work had broadened his chest and strengthened his shoulders. Dark stubble on his chin matched the hue of his brown eyes.

The urge to press on returned. Heading toward the moon, he began to run again. He had never explored the distant edge of the forest. He knew that the woods could not stretch on forever. But he had to try to reach the other side. There, perhaps, he would be safe from pursuit. There he might escape.

Two hours later, he could run no more. At the edge of a small clearing, he lay down exhausted, staring up at the sky. Thousands of stars returned his gaze. Silently, he cursed them. Their sharp rays, he thought, were a reproach.

The majority of the thorns had worked themselves loose during his swim. But some remained embedded in his flesh. “No matter,” he thought. He was too tired to tend to his body. Before he could form another thought, darkness closed over him.

***

On the restless border between sleeping and waking, the man heard a voice. Yet the doubt that he might not be alone failed to unnerve him. The voice seemed somehow disembodied.

“You are safe here,
Cain
.”

How did this voice know his name? Did it know what he had done?

“I will protect you. No one will follow you. No one will harm you.”
The voice spoke softly, reassuringly.

“Who are you?” the man asked faintly. “Are you a spirit?”

“I am the
master of spirits
,”
the voice replied.

“You know, then, of my crime?”

“Crime? He challenged you. The fault was your brother’s.”

“But why, then, am I punished?”

“He who cursed you has lied to you!
Abel
deserved his end.”

“But God has made me a homeless wanderer, and cursed the ground so the work I love has been taken from me. I have lived my life in vain.” Cain’s voice grew bitter.

“Your life doesn’t have to be that way, Cain. But do not expect forgiveness from him. He will never forgive you! You will only live in vain if you believe God. And then, in the afterlife, he will make you a slave. You will endure his torture for eternity.”

“What do you want of me?”

“I will give you my protection. I will ensure your future. All I ask in return is your loyalty. Who else will shelter you?”
The voice faded, as if the spirit was departing.

Cain fell silent. In his dream, he was looking again into the pool. He saw a face that was, and yet was not, his own. The water rippled slightly, the color of blood. Then, with a start, he awakened.

The sky was beginning to lighten. A brilliant morning star adorned the eastern horizon. Looking down at his hands, Cain saw with amazement that all the thorns embedded there had fallen out, and any puncture holes they had left behind were completely healed. The same miracle was true on his arms and chest. A gash on his right leg appeared to be much less pronounced than yesterday. Although his sleep had been disturbed by the conversation with the spirit, he felt vigorous and fresh. to

And so, with pain and fatigue at bay, and at least to some extent the guilt as well, he rose travel again. Stepping over a small pile of thorns next to his grassy bed, he walked rather than ran.

The spirit had said no one would follow him. Perhaps the spirit was right.

***

Cain became a wanderer. He had never traveled far from his parents’ settlement, but he learned to live off the land differently. Once a farmer, he now fashioned rough tools, including spears for hunting and fishing. He gathered nuts and whatever fruit he could find. He built temporary shelters but never stayed long in one place. He studied the animals’ behavior, and learned from it. Life became almost normal again. He could, he felt, become accustomed to almost anything.

Even loneliness.

Periodically, the master of spirits visited Cain in his sleep. The spirit’s voice was always reassuring, always consoling. The message was the same. Cain, the voice said, was a victim. He had been cursed by a tyrant, a being who created only to destroy. The master of spirits knew this tyrant well, he said. That knowledge had been the path to freedom for him. Cain, he suggested, was ready to follow this path as well.

Yet Cain was coming to identify freedom with self-reliance. Without parents, brother, or God, he depended now only on himself. His resources and survivor’s instinct kept him alive. He needed no protectors. He feared no one and nothing. Gradually, a steely confidence grew inside him—a trust that would see him through anything.