The Codex

66

Seven weeks had passed since Tom and his two brothers had gathered at the gates to their father’s estate — but it felt like a lifetime. They had finally made it. They had reached the tomb.

“Do you know how to open it?” asked Philip.

“No.”

“Father must have figured it out, because he robbed the tomb once,” said Vernon.

Borabay set some burning torches in niches in the rock walls, and together they made a minute inspection of the tomb door. It was solid stone, set into a doorway squared out of the white limestone of the cliffs. There was no keyhole, no buttons or panels or hidden levers. Surrounding the tomb, the rest of the rock had been left in its natural state, with the exception of a number of holes drilled into the rock on either side of the door. Tom held his hand over one and felt a cool flow of air — evidently airholes to the tomb.

The eastern sky brightened with a predawn light as they examined the area around the tomb. They rapped on the door, called, hammered and pressed and tried everything to open it. Nothing worked. An hour passed and the door remained immovable.

Finally Tom said, “This isn’t working. We need a new approach.”

They retired to a nearby ledge. The stars had disappeared, and the sky was brightening behind the mountains. It was a stupendous view across a fantastical wilderness of jagged white peaks, like teeth rising from the soft green palate of the jungle. “If we take a look at one of those broken tomb doors,” said Tom, “maybe we can figure out how it works.”

They retraced their steps and, four or five tombs back, came to a broken door. It had cracked down the middle, and one part had fallen outward. Borabay lit another brand, then hesitated at the door.

He turned to Philip. “I coward,” he said, handing him the brand. “You braver than me, little brother. You go.”

Philip gave Borabay a squeeze on the shoulder and took the brand. He went into the tomb. Tom and Vernon followed.

It was not a large space, perhaps eight by ten feet. In the center was a raised stone platform. On the platform sat a mummy bundle, still upright, its legs drawn up to its chin, its arms folded in its lap. Its long black hair was braided down its back, and the dried lips were drawn back from its teeth. The mouth had fallen open, and an object had dropped out. When Tom looked more closely he saw it was a piece of jade carved in the shape of a chrysalis. One hand of the mummy held a polished cylinder of wood about eighteen inches long, decorated with glyphs. Ranged around were a small selection of grave goods: terracotta figurines, broken pots, some carved stone tablets.

Tom knelt down and examined how the door worked. There was a groove in the stone floor; set into the groove were polished stone rollers on which the door rested. They were loose, and Tom picked one out and handed it to Philip. He turned it over in his hand.

“It’s a simple mechanism,” he said. “You get the door rolling and it opens by itself. The trick is, how do you start the door rolling?”

They examined it all around, but there was no obvious answer. When they emerged from the tomb Borabay was waiting for them, an anxious expression on his face.

“What find?”

“Nothing,” said Philip.

Vernon emerged from the tomb holding the cylinder of wood that the mummy had been clutching. “What’s this, Borabay?”

“Key to underworld.”

Vernon smiled. “Interesting.” He carried it back along the passageway to their father’s tomb. “Funny that the stick should fit so perfectly into these airholes,” said Vernon, shoving the stick in several holes, almost losing it in one. “You can feel the air coming out of these holes. See?” He went from hole to hole, testing with his hand the flow of air from each one. Finally he stopped. “Here’s an airhole with no breeze coming out of it.”

He inserted the stick. It went in about fourteen inches and stopped, leaving four inches exposed. Vernon picked up a heavy, smooth rock. He handed it to Philip.

“You do the honors. Whack the end of the stick.”

Philip took the rock. “What makes you think this’ll work?”

“A wild guess, that’s all.”

Philip hefted the rock, braced himself, drew back his arm, and brought the rock down hard against the protruding end of the stick. There was a chunk as he drove the stick into the hole, and then silence.

Nothing happened. Philip examined the hole. The wooden dowel had gone all the way in and stuck.

“Damn it!” Philip cried, losing his temper. He rushed at the tomb door and gave it a savage kick. “Open up, damn you!”

A sudden grinding noise filled the air, the ground vibrated, and the stone door began to slide open. A dark crack appeared and gradually widened as the door moved in the groove along its stone rollers. In a moment, with a clunk, it came to a halt.

The tomb was open.

They all waited, staring into the yawning black rectangle. The sun was just breaking over the distant mountains, pouring golden light across the rocks, at an angle too oblique to penetrate into the tomb itself, which remained in utter blackness. They stood without moving, paralyzed, too afraid to speak or call out. A pestilential cloud of corruption — the stench of death — came drifting out of the tomb.