Solomon Key

Chapter 8

Isla found herself staring down a long, sloping stone passageway. Crumbling stonework lined the walls and ceiling. Dust covered the flagstone floor. The corridor was coated in enough cobwebs to decorate a haunted house. This place had been here for a long time.

She immediately noticed that there was something odd about the path that lay in front of her. The layer of dust was noticeably thinner in the center, as if someone had passed this way before. Not too long ago, but long enough that a new layer had begun to form. But why was it so uniform? Footsteps wouldn’t do that. It was as if something heavy had been dragged across the floor. Then she remembered what Agnes had said.

When he came home there was something different about him. Died in his sleep that very night.

She had visions of Charles Baxter, dying from whatever the Sword Bridge had done to him, dragging himself up the gentle slope toward the door. She’d had her doubts when Agnes had shared that particular story, but now she wasn’t so certain.

Intent on exercising caution, she dug into her drawstring bag and took out gloves and a dust mask. It was entirely possible that in an ancient tunnel like this one, Baxter had been exposed to some sort of deadly spores. No telling what kinds of mold grew down here. Next, she pocketed her flashlight and strapped on a headlamp. Best to have both hands free. Finally ready, she clambered into the passageway. She debated closing the door behind her, but if anyone followed her into the cellar, they’d see the boxes she’d moved and know exactly where she’d gone. No sense risking it locking behind her. She propped it open with one of the old boxes and descended into the darkness.

The passage leveled out and soon branched off in three directions. She took a moment to inspect them. Nothing seemed amiss about any of them — no obvious traps or pitfalls. The only obvious difference was the floor. The branch to the left had a dirt floor, the one straight ahead was of crumbling brick, the path to the right the same stone as that on which she stood.

It’s too easy, she thought. One’s natural inclination would be to stay on the flagstones and ignore these other two passages. But what was the clue Agnes had passed along?

Follow the stony path. The bridge is real; the lions are not.

“Charles Baxter, you’d better not have been lying,” she said to the darkness as she turned and followed the way to her right. She proceeded with caution, testing the ground with each step before putting her weight forward, looking for anything that might be a booby trap. After a few minutes of this, she allowed herself to relax. After all, Baxter hadn’t said anything to his wife about any traps. Or, if he had, Agnes hadn’t passed it along. She hoped it was the former.

She turned a corner and found herself face-to-face with a lion. She let out a high-pitched yelp and sprang back, banging her head against the wall behind her. She held out her hands in a futile defensive gesture, but the lion didn’t move.

“It’s a statue, you eejit,” she scolded herself. “Baxter said it. The lions are not real.”

But it certainly looked real enough. The creature was sculpted in remarkable detail and painted to add to the realism. For some reason, it wasn’t covered in dust. As she looked around, she realized the same was true of the entire chamber in which she stood. Up ahead, she heard a whispering sound, like the rush of water, and felt a hint of a breeze.

She skirted the lion, eyeing it suspiciously, as if it might spring to life at any moment. On the other side an arched doorway led to a steep path that wound down to a dark crevasse. She descended the damp, slippery rocks with caution, not relishing the idea of a tumble through the darkness. A few meters from the bottom her footing slipped. Her feet shot out from under her and she hit the ground with a jarring thud. She half-rolled, half-slid, the rest of the way down, the beam of her headlamp playing crazily about.

Strobelike images flashed in front of her as she rolled, and then the dark chasm loomed before her, coming closer as she slid across the slick ground. She dug her fingers into the stone floor and felt the sharp stab of pain as fingernails tore free as she tried desperately to gain purchase on the slick surface. She dug in with her toes, braking her slide. She let out a cry that was half fear, half defiance, and skidded to a halt with her head hanging over the side of the ledge. The beam of her lamp pierced the darkness, its light dancing on the water far below.

“Oh my God, that was too close.” She took a moment to catch her breath before carefully scooting back away from the edge and regaining her feet. The cavern in which she stood was no more than twenty meters wide and about the same distance across. Filling most of that space was the deep defile into which she’d nearly fallen. Two bridges stood before her. The one to the left appeared to be hewn from the native stone in the shape of a massive lion in mid-leap. A narrow set of steps ran up its hind legs, along its back, over its head, and down to a ledge on the far side.

To her right lay a much less solid looking structure. It was a long, tapered, glassy-looking path. A groove ran down the center and its edges were razor sharp, like the blade of a sword.

“The Sword Bridge,” she whispered. “It’s real.”

Though it sparkled crystalline beneath the glow of her headlamp, it absolutely did not look like something she wanted to put her full weight on, much less try to walk across. Aside from the fact it was barely wide enough for her to walk on and coated in condensation, it was thin, much too thin to bear weight. The surface was cracked and pitted.

“I can’t possibly walk across that thing.”

She moved to the lion bridge. It appeared solid enough. But she couldn’t forget Baxter’s warning.

The bridge is real; the lions are not.

“Lions” plural. He wasn’t only speaking of the life-like statue that guarded the way and this was the only other lion she had seen. Was this a trick to trip up the unwary? Was the Sword Bridge sturdier than it looked? Would the lion crumble beneath her feet? Kneeling to inspect it, she immediately saw cracks like spider webs covering every inch of its surface. She knocked and was rewarded with a hollow echo. She grimaced. Despite outward appearances, this bridge was not solid. She imagined it would shatter within a few steps.

“The Sword Bridge it is.” Saying the words aloud did nothing to assuage her fears. The thing didn’t look sturdy. But it had supported Baxter’s weight, hadn’t it? Indiana Jones had faced something like this — a transparent bridge, invisible in his case. He’d concluded it was a leap of faith, and stepped out into the chasm.

“Screw that.” She took a rope out of her pack, secured one end to the largest boulder she could find, and tied the other end around her waist. It might just save her life if she should fall. Assuming, of course, the razor-sharp edge of the Sword Bridge didn’t slice it in two. “Such happy thoughts.”

As a last measure, she found a heavy stone and pushed it out on to the bridge. Everything held firm. Nothing shattered or even cracked.

“That thing doesn’t weigh as much as you,” she reminded herself. But what else could she do except give it a go and see what happened? She could turn back, she supposed. “No way. Maddock wouldn’t turn back.”

This time she felt no sadness at the thought of Maddock. Only anger. Here she was, standing in front of the Sword Bridge, something every bit as legendary as Nessie or the treasures of the Tuatha de Danaan, and she was thinking about a man. No more foolishness. It was time to move.

She took a step out onto the bridge and gingerly shifted her weight forward.

It held.

Another step, then a big step up and over the boulder she’d pushed out onto the bridge. That decision now seemed foolish as she overbalanced and fell forward with a scream. She landed flat on her stomach, the breath leaving her in a huff.

Up ahead, a dull popping sound, and then something whizzed through the air, zipping past her and vanishing into the darkness. Some sort of dart, if she didn’t miss her guess, and if she’d been standing, it would have struck her full-on.

“Found the booby trap,” she wheezed. She lay there until she managed to catch her breath, and then continued on. Discretion being the better part of valor, she continued to scoot forward on her belly, snakelike, in case there were more darts in the offing, but none came.

She reached the other side without incident, freed herself from her safety rope, and stood. To her left, the ledge came to a dead end, but to her right, a narrow cleft in the rock led into the darkness. She chose this path, hoping no more traps lay in her path.

She squeezed through the narrow passageway and came out in a tiny cave, barely larger than her first flat in New York City. The space was dominated by two massive stone coffins. Taking out her camera and her torch, she crept closer.

Agnes had warned her what to expect, but seeing it for herself sent a shiver of excitement down her spine. Two skeletons, each taller and broader of hip and shoulder, lay in silent repose. Their oversized eye sockets stared up at the ceiling. She began snapping photographs from every angle. She had no idea what she’d do with them. The Sisterhood wanted certain artifacts, but seemed not to care about any other aspect of history. Would her magazine print them? Would Nineve even permit her to share this part of the story, or would she insist that this mysterious tomb be kept a secret?

“What are you?” she whispered to the larger skeleton. “Alien? Nephilim? Anunnaki? You’re not King Arthur, that’s for bloody certain. No wonder the church wanted you hidden. You don’t fit the narrative.”

Satisfied she’d gotten more than enough photos, she put her camera away.

“Now, where did Baxter put that ring?”

There it was, around the fourth finger of the giant’s left hand. She slipped it off of the bony finger and held it up to the light. It was unremarkable, really. A simple golden signet ring featuring an engraved cross. No, not a cross; an Ankh — the Egyptian symbol for eternal life.

“I doubt the Lady of the Lake gave you to Launcelot, but you just might be Middle Eastern.” Smiling, she sealed the ring into a bag, put it in her backpack, and headed for the bridge.

“To hell with you, Dane Maddock,” she muttered. “I can solve ancient mysteries without you.”