The Fifth Element

1

IT WAS 1913 AND “THE WAR TO END ALL WARS,” WORLD WAR I, had not yet begun.

Other wars were raging, though.

The War of the Desert Against the Nile was continuing its eons-old pitched battle here at the desert’s edge where the village fields met the dunes; the battle yielding up a little more sand one year, a little more cultivated ground the next.

The War of Animal Against Man was being fought out by a mule with a boy on its back, slowly plodding along a track leading into the desert, away from the village fields. The mule went slower and slower, until the boy hit him with a stick between the ears, gaining a temporary advantage in the war.

“Go,” said Omar in a native dialect as ancient as the tombs that dotted the landscape. “But not too fast,” he added.

The boy was fighting his own war―the eternal War of Youth Against Age. He had been sent to

fetch water, and he was in no hurry to get back so that the grown-ups could boss him around some more.

Meanwhile other, deeper wars were gathering, wars of which boys and mules knew not.

The track wound between the dunes, into the desert. The sun burned down on scattered ruins. None of them had names.

Over the years the ancient tombs and temples came and went, like clouds, uncovered and then covered again by the shifting sands. It. sometimes seemed to Omar that it was the ruins that moved and not the dunes; for indeed, the eternal desert seemed far more substantial than the tombs and temples that appeared and disappeared at the whim of the elements.

Omar passed the professor’s Model T, buried in sand up to the tops of its wheels. Later today his uncle would come with a camel to pull it out. For a price.

Omar and his mule plodded along the bottom of the wadi, and up the rise that led to the new tomb. Even from a distance it was impressive.

It was one Omar hadn’t seen before. His uncle had told him that it had appeared several times in the past, but had been ignored by the grave robbers, since it held no treasure.

“It is not for us,” he said.

Omar’s uncle was a tomb robber. The locals

robbed tombs and temples for greed. The Europeans came and robbed them for something called science.

The Europeans intrigued Omar. They were more like boys than men. They were as cruel as boys, but as quick to laugh. Like boys, they didn’t seem to care for gold or silver. The Italian professor was as excited by the graffiti he had found as a “real” robber would have been by circles of gold or baskets of precious stones.

Even half buried in the sand, the temple was impressive. Its huge pillared entrance dwarfed the two boys who stood on the sand outside, holding mirrors to reflect light into the temple (a grave robber’s trick).

The boys waved at Omar as he passed. “Water!” they cried, and Omar stopped to share a few drops from the goatskin bags.

“You’re not thirsty!” he said. “Just bored. Be thankful you’ve got a job.”

“Quit playing the sahib,” said Mahmoud, who held the largest mirror. “You’re just a water boy.”

Omar decided to ignore him.

He left the mule in the shade and hurried inside. Omar knew that the professor and his American helper Billy, would be thirsty. The Europeans drank a lot of water

The mirrors at the door shone down a long corridor. Omar walked close to the wall so that he wouldn’t block the light.

Another boy held another mirror at the end. His job was to direct the beam inside, and make sure the light followed the professor and his young American around the big chamber.

But the boy was already messing up. His head dropped as be dozed off, made drowsy by the dim light, the bad air, or perhaps by the droning of the Italian archeologist as he explained the hieroglyphics that covered the far wall of the great chamber.

“Hey, Aziz!”

The professor’s voice resounded through the chamber.

The boy sat up, his light flashing around the inside of the chamber like silver lightning.

“You must pay attention!” said Professor Pacoli.

“Yeah, Aziz!” Omar whispered. He paused in the doorway, savoring the last moment of freedom before the grown-ups saw him. He was enchanted by the sight of the chamber with its far wall covered with scratchings. In the darkness they looked like graffiti; yet when the light struck them they seemed to glow with magic, with promise, with power.

The professor stood on a rickety ladder pointing out the ideographs, while the young American, Billy, drew them in his sketchbook.

Omar liked Billy. He liked to watch him work. Billy drew without even looking down at the sketchbook in his hand, and yet; his drawings were

almost as perfect as the new “photographs” Omar had seen in a “magazine” from Cairo.

Omar figured the scientists (who loved the new) would have used photographs, but the light was too dim in the temple.

Omar picked up his goatskins again, and started to cross the room when he felt a bony hand on his shoulder.

He started and jumped―then looked back and saw a slight, stooped familiar figure.

Omar knew the old priest. He had been around for years, living at the edge of the desert, He wasn’t quite European, but not quite Egyptian either.

The priest gently lifted the goatskin bag off Omar’s shoulder.

“I will take it to them, my son.”

Omar nodded and handed over the water bag. The old priest made him nervous, though he didn’t know why.

“Go with God,” said the priest, making the sign of the cross on the boy’s forehead.

He left him in the shadows and crossed with the goatskin, toward the ladder where the Italian was going through the script, character by character

“…when the three planets are in eclipse,” the professor said, his fingers traveling lightly across the strange characters, almost as if he were reading braille. “The black hole, like a door, is open. Evil comes… sowing terror and chaos!”

He reached up and pointed to ah ideograph of a snake slithering between three planets. The ladder rocked and almost fell.

“See, Billy?” he said to the young man with the sketchbook. “The snake, Billy. Make sure you get the snake! The Ultimate Evil. Make sure you get the snake!”

Billy sketched without looking down, his hand swift and his strokes sure.

“And just when is this snake act supposed to occur?” lie asked dryly.

The professor ignored his sarcasm. He turned back toward the wall and ran his fingers along the script.

“If this is the five, and this is the thousand… every five thousand years!”

“So we have time,” Billy said.

The old priest paused, halfway across the chamber. He winced when he heard the sarcasm in the young American’s voice.

If only he knew! For a moment, the priest wavered in what he was about to do. The young man was ignorant, after all. And ignorance was a kind of innocence. He knew nothing.

Then the old priest heard the professor’s words, droning on as he followed the script:

“So here we have these different peoples or symbols of people, gathering together these four elements of life: water, fire, earth, air…

The professor’s fingers paused on the one ideogram that had a human shape.

“Around a fifth one, a Fifth Element.”

And the priest knew that he had to do what he was about to do.

He pulled the ancient vial out of the pocket of his rough black cassock. He opened it, and winced at the sharp smell that emerged from the dry powder.

He opened the goatskin water bag as the professor droned on:

“It’s like all these people gave something from themselves to make this being…”

“Lord forgive me,” whispered the priest as he shook the powder from the vial into the waterbag. “They already know too much. Far, far too much!” The professor was still talking excitedly, his fingers paused on the ideograph.

“…this being in which all the history of the Universe resides. All the strength, all the hope… to protect us from Evil…”

“Amen,” said the old priest, filling a tin cup from the goatskin.

The professor looked down from the ladder and noticed him for die first time.

“Father!” he said. “It’s the most extraordinary thing! The greatest find in history! I mean, look…”

The priest nodded gravely.

Excited by his own words, the professor dropped his voice, and slowed his speech to the

cadence of a prayer: “Here the Good, here the Evil, and here―”

He pointed to the symbols of the four elements, arrayed around the central figure.

“A weapon against Evil! Amazing! I am going to be famous!”

“Then let us toast your fame!” the priest said. “Here Billy…” He handed the young artist the cup, and poured another for the professor.

Billy began to drink as the professor climbed down the ladder.

“Drink!” said the priest, handing the professor the other cup.

The professor raised it. “To fame! Salud…” But then—

He lowered the cup without tasting it.

“We cannot toast with water. Billy! In my knapsack―the grappa!”

The priest watched, horrified, as the professor threw his water onto the floor of the temple. Billy drained his cup and ran off into the Corridor.

A fitting beginning, thought the priest, disconsolate. I have killed the innocent one!

Not bad, thought Billy. Usually the water from the goatskin tasted too much of, well, of goat, to please his palate.

But this was sweeter.

Perhaps the waterboy, Omar, had drawn it from a better well. Or perhaps this goatskin was less foul than usual.

Whatever, Billy thought, as he scurried through the long corridor that led out toward the brilliant light of the desert sun. He shielded his eyes to avoid the mirrors’ glare.

Halfway down the corridor, he found the professor’s bag. He was bending down to open it when he heard a muffled sound, and the light changed.

Something was happening outside the temple. A sudden storm? Impossible, Billy thought. There were no sudden storms here. Egypt was not like Indiana, where a thunderstorm could blow up and blow over in minutes.

Here the heat was relentless, and the few clouds that appeared stayed high, as if fearing that if they came too low the people would pluck them from the sky and squeeze out whatever little moisture they held.

Billy was feeling dizzy. Was that lightning? Was that thunder? The muffled sounds were getting louder.

Billy unzipped the bag and found the machine gun the consulate had asked the professor to carry. The professor, who hated guns, had loaded it but left it in the bag.

It was a Sten―the latest model.

Underneath the Sten gun was the grappa. The bottle had lost over an inch and a half since morning. Billy had often suspected the professor used it to “facilitate” his translations of the hieroglyphics.

Doesn’t matter to me, thought Billy. He would be back home i Indiana in a few months, unless―

But why was he feeling so dizzy?

The entrance to the temple was darkened now, and the “thunder” grew louder and louder.

Then stopped.

Billy crept closer to the door. The boys who had been holding the mirrors were staring up, dumb-founded.

Billy looked up and saw an immense metal ship, sitting on its end.

A doorway in the side of the ship was opening.

What came out was―not human.

“This perfect person,” the professor read. “This perfect being…”

He turned toward the old priest, who stood with his eyes closed and his fingertips touching, arched in an image of a steeple.

“I know this is the key,” the professor said. “But I do not understand it. Perfect?”

“Perfect means perfect,” offered the priest.

The boys ran off into the dunes, screaming.

Billy ran back into the shadows of the temple. He didn’t know what he was running for―his life, his sanity, or his sketchpad, which he had set down by the professor’s bag.

He was beading over to pick it up when he heard footsteps behind him in the corridor.

Whatever they were, they were coming in!

Pressing against the wall, Billy hid in the shadows as a line of huge figures moved swiftly past. They seemed to be moving slowly, yet they passed in an instant, as if they occupied a different Time.

Arrayed in glowing metallic armor, they were as massive as eight-foot turtles walking upright, though they moved with surprising speed and grace. They seemed headless―until Billy saw the small, bird-like heads that grew from the centers of their massive chests.

Billy reached into the professor’s bag. His fingertips were tingling. He was dizzy.

Could it be that all this was a nightmare?

The dream turned to cold reality as his fingers closed on the steel of the Sten.

“And this divine light the hieroglyphics talk about,” the professor said. “What is divine light?”

At that moment, as if on cue, the chamber fell dark. A vast rumbling filled the air. The walls of the temple shook.

“Aziz!” called out the professor, without turning. “Light!”

Suddenly the chamber was filled with light.

“Much better!” said the; professor from his ladder. “Thank you, Aziz.”

The professor continued to read the markings on the wall. The light was stronger than ever, revealing even more subtlety in the inscription.

“Father, this is the most unbelievable thing I have ever seen,” said the professor. “Don’t you…”

The professor turned and saw why the priest wasn’t answering. He was kneeling in front of a large thing that looked almost like a man.

Almost, but not quite.

It was eight feet tall and as massive as a grizzly―in armor.

“…think?” the professor finished, as two strong hands (well, almost hands) grabbed him under his arms and lifted him off the ladder.

“Are you German?” demanded the professor, his legs kicking futilely in the air.

No answer.

“Sprechen sie Deutsck?” the professor gasped.

No answer.

Where was Billy? Panicked, the professor looked around. A dozen more things stood around the walls, holding glowing globes that lighted the chamber.

The old priest was lying flat on the floor. The professor had always figured he was Christian—Coptic, maybe, or one of those weird desert sects.

But he seemed to be worshipping the leader of the things, who was standing over him. He was talking to it…

“Lord,” said the priest. “He was about to discover everything. But I had the situation under control.”

He lay on the cold stone floor; looking up at the Mondoshawan commander.

The Mondoshawan held out his hand and helped the old priest to his feet.

His voice was deep but surprisingly gentle.

“Servant,” he said, “you and the thousand guards before you have done your work well. But war is coming.”

“War?” The priest shivered.

A tiny distant nod.

“We must keep them safe…”

“Keep who safe? Keep what safe?” asked the professor, trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice from squeaking.

It was surprising how little dignity one had when one’s feet couldn’t touch the floor.

The thing leader didn’t answer. Instead it walked to the wall covered with hieroglyphics, and slid its hand along the smooth surface as if looking for an opening.

An opening that was not―could not―be there.

But there it was.

“Unbelievable!” breathed the professor as the thing slid a metallic finder into the opening. The wall groaned and slid open, with a grating sound of stone on sand.

The two things set the professor down. While

he was still struggling to find his balance, their leader stepped through the door and motioned for the rest to come with him.

The old priest hesitated for a moment, then followed them through the door.

The professor was just about to follow when one of the things that had stayed behind waved its great metallic hand over his head.

Gently, like a prayer or a spell.

And he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

The old priest had never been in this inner room before.

It was made of a different material from the heavy, reddish stone that formed the outer chamber of the temple.

The walls were smooth and bright, like luminous marble. They rose to form a steep pyramid, with four sides.

In each corner of the room was a rectangular, twelve-inch stone. Each stone glowed with a different color: red, green, blue and yellow.

In the center of the room was a luminous sarcophagus, resting on a low altar.

The Mondoshawan leader stopped at the altar and gazed down at the sarcophagus reverenty, as if to confirm that even the gods have gods.

The old priest stood at his side.

“The Fifth Element,” whispered the priest, his words as soft as a prayer.

The Mondoshawan leader nodded, showing what might have been a smile.

He took a case from one of his followers—st simple metal briefcase made out of what seemed to be aluminum, except that it looked warm.

He opened the case and held it out.

Four Mondoshawans went to the four corners of the room, and brought their leader the four glowing stones, one by one.

The stones fit into the case perfectly.

“Kommander—”

The leader closed the case and looked at the priest wordlessly.

“If you take the weapon, we will be defenseless if the Evil returns,” said the priest.

The Mondoshawan nodded. “If Evil returns, so will we.”

The priest nodded and lowered his eyes.

“Hands up!”

The voice came from the doorway.

The old priest turned and saw the professor’s young assistant Billy. The artist. But instead of holding a sketchpad and pencil, he was brandishing an evil-looking weapon.

“Nobody move!” Billy said.

He staggered into the room as if drunk. Only the old priest knew that he was reeling from the effects of the poison in his water.

“Nobody move!” Billy shouted. “I’m warning you. I have a gun. And I know how to use it. Let the priest go!”

He thinks he’s saving me, the priest thought, amazed. And it is I who doomed him!

He ran across the room toward the young man. “No, my son!” he shouted. “The Mondoshawans are our friends. They come in peace. Put the gun down!”

“Friends!?” said Billy. He pointed behind him, to the professor’s body on the floor of the outer chamber. “They killed the professor. They’re monsters!”

“No, Billy.”

The priest slowed to a walk. The young man was swaying from side to side. The gun was waving dangerously.

The priest held out his hand.

“Trust me!” he said in his most authoritative voice. “Put the gun down!”

But the old priest’s slow movements seemed to terrify rather than reassure Billy.

He backed up: “No. You’re one of them! You’re…”

He tripped, stumbled, fell―and as he fell the Sten gun clutched in his hands sprayed the ceiling and the walls of the inner room with a wild rain of bullets:

Bratabratabratabrati.

“No!” shouted the priest. “Don’t!” Bratabratabratabrat!

Stinging sprays of rock and sand, thrown up by the bullets, stung the old priest’s cheeks. Behind him, he saw the Mondashawan leader take a bullet and fall. The others dosed in around him.

Billy fell backward through the door, into the outer chamber. His head hit the stone floor with a crack.

It was over almost as soon as it had begun. Billy lay on the floor of the outer chamber unconscious.

The priest made the sign of the cross, then looked up.

The door was closing.

“Hurry!” the priest said. He ran to the side of the Mondoshawan leader, who had taken several hits from the Sten gun. Although there was no blood, the priest could hear the slow hissing as the alien’s vital gases sublimated into the dry desert air.

The priest tried to pull the Mondoshawan leader to his feet, but it was like trying to move a piano.

The leader handed the metal case to one of his followers. Another was already carrying the sarcophagus from the altar out through the closing door

“Hurry!” the priest repeated.

The Mondoshawan leader shook his tiny head, slowly and yet firmly.

“Servant,” he said, “here is your mission now.

Keep the temple ready. Pass on the knowledge as it was passed to you.”

“I will do as you command,” the priest answered. “But please hurry! You still have time.” The Mondoshawan rose off the stone floor, and pushed the priest through the rapidly closing door. “Time is of no importance,” he said. “Only life is important.”

“But…”

The door closed on the Mondoshawan leader’s hand. The finger that was also a key snapped off. It rang like a bell when it hit the floor at the priest’s feet.

Billy looked dead, but he was breathing, too.

The old priest was kneeling in front of the scratchings on the wall. His hands were held upward in prayer―or triumph, maybe. Or despair.

He held up a crooked metallic finger. Or maybe it was a key.

“I will be ready, my lord,” he said. “If the Evil returns.”

He pointed toward three suns on the sandstone wall.

The mule was braying frantically, terrified.

Omar tried to quiet him, then backed up to get a better look at the gigantic ship. It was three times longer than any of the ships of the Europeans, and it stood straight up on the sand.

Then with a roar, it was gone. Very slowly… and yet all at once.

Dazed, Omar followed Aziz into the temple. The corridor was dark. The door that had opened was closed, and the chamber was as it had been.

The mirror still lay where Aziz had dropped it, reflecting the light from the setting sun.

One of the Mondoshawans’ globes was in the corner its light slowly fading. It popped like a soap bubble, and was gone.

The professor was crumpled on the floor, snoring noisily.