Operation: Mongolia

- 4 -

Donnie had never driven out in this direction from their dig but he knew where they were; they’d had visitors over the summer who’d come across the desert and those herdsmen had spoken of a temple on the plains, a place of silence and ritual, closed to outsiders. Donnie thought of alerting Captain Banks to the fact, but the professor hadn’t said anything at the captain’s suggestion, so he let it ride. Besides, he wasn’t about to turn down a chance to get a glimpse of what was surely a place full of history and artifacts.

They arrived at the foot of the outcrop ten minutes later then made their slow way up towards the buildings on the top. The pathway to the monastery wound in a tight spiral around the tall outcrop. Almost at the peak it came to a halt at an ancient wooden gateway flanked by twin pillars, polished tree trunks that had to have come from a very long way away from this arid desert. The large double door, closed against them, was intricately carved and polished smooth as if by the touch of many pilgrims’ hands. It rang, almost like a bell, when Captain Banks rapped twice on it with his knuckles.

For long seconds, Donnie thought there would be no answer and they’d be left on the doorstep like Bible salesmen but finally, with a creak that echoed across the plain, the double door opened inwards and a small bald man in a purple silk robe stood in the entrance. He smiled, eyes twinkling but put a hand across his mouth when Banks looked as if he might speak. Only when he saw that silence would be observed did he allow them to pass through. The small man seemed anxious despite his smile and hurried them all, camel included, through the doorway, closing it firmly behind them. He belied his stature by lifting a huge latch of wood into place to bar the entrance. Indicating that they should follow, he scurried away up a narrow path between dark, tightly clustered buildings. The only sign of other movement was the flutter of long red and yellow silk pennants high above, held by a forest of tall poles above the clay-tiled rooftops.

The wood from which the whole place had been built looked almost black down here in the alleyway and it had been polished to a sheen that shone almost high enough to reflect their faces back at them. They ascended a long set of stone steps worn smooth by time and the feet of many celebrants and were led, finally, to the very top of the outcrop.

They found what appeared to be the total populace of the monastery gathered in the tallest building, a high-sided temple, almost a pagoda, rising in three distinct floors above the outcrop. The monks, some thirty of them, were gathered together on the lowest floor area, a cubic space with a deep circular eight-foot diameter well sunk perfectly in the center of the floor. All of the gathered monks proved to be as equally bald and diminutive as the one they’d already seen and although all were smiling, Donnie sensed the same nervous tension in them all.

Everything proceeded in strict silence. Donnie saw Corporal Wiggins champing at the bit to say something but the captain kept him in check with a stern gaze. They were served, almost ceremoniously, with bowls of saffron-scented rice topped with dark succulent berries and drank from high-polished wooden cups filled to the brim with crisp, clear—and almost icy cold—water that seemed to fill all the dry places inside Donnie at once. Even the camel seemed pleased with the offerings. It let out a loud bray of happiness that had the monks smiling again even as the sound echoed and rang around their silent temple.

They left the beast in the care of a red-robed monk while they were given a tour—a silent tour—of the temple itself. It was mostly empty; the two huge upper rooms built from more of the dark polished wood with panoramic views over the desert were obviously sleeping quarters but seemed to have no other purpose. There was no lighting apart from what daylight made its way inside, but it was enough for Donnie to see that the interior walls, every part of them, were intricately carved. He stepped over for a closer look.

In the main, it was a telling of the life of Gautama Buddha —Donnie had seen the likes of these in other temples on his travels in this country but where this differed was in the added depictions of what he could only describe as some kind of monstrous apocalypse.

The story ran along the wall opposite the main window on the uppermost floor. Both Donnie and Gillings traced the carvings with their fingers. The soldiers meanwhile stood by the window, looking out over the view.

Donnie was captivated, although he couldn’t make too much sense of what the carvings were trying to convey; there was obviously meant to be some kind of disaster besetting the monastery on the outcrop—perfectly depicted in miniature in the wood but the nature of the attacking force was confusing. It looked to be a combination of some kind of stylized dragon and great worms, scores, hundreds of them. Donnie heard the professor whisper beside him, a question, speaking to himself, repeating words Donnie had heard him speak earlier.

“Olgoi-khorkhoi?”

The room seemed to pick up and amplify the words, echoing them around and back on themselves. Donnie saw, too late, the dismay on the faces of the monks accompanying them in this chamber. The purple-robed monk—Donnie assumed him to be the elder—came over at a run, put a hand to his mouth, and then pointed at the professor, who had the good grace to look ashamed of himself. Gillings managed to indicate that he was sorry and that, and a conciliatory bow, seemed to placate the monk.

But it looked like the tour was over. Captain Banks pointed at his watch and the door, his intent clear. They descended the stairs to the main hallway of the temple below them—only to find the doors being closed to prevent their exit. Donnie wondered whether they might have given some kind of offence with the professor’s whispering upstairs but the monks continued to smile, although when Banks made for the door, six of them stood in his path, palms up in front of them, their intent also clear.

The purple robed monk took charge of what seemed to be a request—a polite request—for them to stay and see something of great importance. Donnie saw Captain Banks struggle to contain a growing frustration but he allowed the squad, the professor, and Donnie to be led back into the center of the room. One of the monks took charge of the camel again, keeping it quiet near the door while the purple-robed monk gathered them around the well.

Half a dozen monks arrived, each carrying a pottery vase. The pots looked to be uniform in size, terracotta clay in an oval shape around a foot high, their lids sealed with wax, each trailing a metallic cord. The monks arranged the pots equidistant around the outer edge of the well and spliced the cords together so that the pots were linked in a chain.

The purple-robed monk took a wooden pail of water from alongside one of the walls, returned to the well, and with a flourish poured the whole contents down into the dark.

The monks went still, their posture telling Donnie that they expected something to happen but for several seconds, there was only more of the heavy silence. Donnie looked to Banks and saw an irritated expression cross the captain’s face. Then the hairs on the back of Donnie’s hands rose upright as did those at the nape of his neck and he felt his fingertips tingle.

Something crackled and sparked down in the depths of the well and blue flashes lit up the wall like strobe lights. The crackles got louder, the lights flashed faster. The chain that linked the vases glowed, faintly at first then ever brighter, a soft, almost golden glow in counterpoint to the blue lightning flashes coming up the well. A humming vibration—Donnie thought it was coming from the now golden chain—filled the room, setting his teeth tingling, rising through him from feet to skull.

One particularly bright flash caused Donnie to close his eyes against the flare and when he opened them again, he looked into the well to see that it was filling up, not with darkness but with a writhing mass of what looked at first glance to be giant earthworms.

Blue static charge sparked and flashed around the squirming bodies that were far thicker in the body than garden worms, barrel-shaped and ridged, varying in size from a foot long to monsters of at least six feet. Their skins were moist and blood-red, almost crimson. When a large one opened its mouth, Donnie realized his comparison to earthworms wouldn’t hold up. These things were fanged, their circular mouths full of twin rows of ivory-white, pencil-thin teeth.

The creatures seethed and roiled in the well, filling it to the brim but not advancing past the golden glow from the chain of vases. The blue flashing continued to spark and clash around the chamber but only seemed to intensify the yellow glow from the vases, the gold battling the blue as the humming vibration set the walls to thrumming in sympathetic vibration.

The worms tossed themselves against the rim of the well but each time were repelled by whatever thing it was that the circle of vases had created. The gold was winning. The surging, squirming mass of worms slowly subsided back into the deep, the gold glow filled the room in one final flare then it too faded away as slowly as an autumn sunset. The hum receded, lost in some far distance, and the temple fell as quiet as it had been before the performance.

The purple-robed monk clapped his hands once and gave them a wide smile.

This time when Captain Banks decided to go, the monks made no move to prevent their departure. Using just hand gestures, Banks got them all moving, having to wait only for the monks to open the doors. The purple-robed monk accompanied them down the alley of dark houses, out of the gateway, and off the outcrop as far as the point where it met the desert floor. He bowed, smiled, and somehow managed to convey the fact that he wished them a safe journey. He also had one more thing to show them. He jumped up and down on a rock and pointed at the squad. Then he jumped down onto a piece of softer sand and jumped again before speaking the only words they would hear him say. He pointed at the sand to emphasize it.

“Olgoi-khorkhoi.”

He wasn’t smiling now and with that he turned away and scuttled back up the pathway, as if in a hurry.

“What the hell was that all about?” Wiggins said, lighting up a cigarette.

Banks said what Donnie was thinking.

“I think it was a public service announcement of a kind,” he said. “If I had to guess, I’d say we’ve seen a demonstration and a warning for strangers to the area.”

“What, stay on the path, keep off the moors kind of thing?” Wiggins replied.

“Exactly,” Banks replied. “And I think we know now what happened to the poor camel.”