3
Rats
The return of the darkness brought also the return of claustrophobic fear for Indiana Jones. He could almost feel the inky blackness closing in on him like a suffocating cloak; a palpable, smothering presence. The very real fear that this Inca death chamber that had coldly claimed the lives of past tomb robbers would also be his final resting place gave him not only a sad sense of doom, but also a moment of reflection.
Was that all that he was? ...Just another tomb robber? Did he maybe, after all, deserve such a fate as this? Had he not asked for this, and indeed barely escaped it, many, many times already?
It wasn't the first time Indiana Jones had questioned his motives, morals, and chosen line of work. But usually it was in the comfortably cramped confines of his office on the campus of Barnett College, surrounded by the many artifacts and oddities that cluttered its minimal shelf space; artifacts, oddities, and treasures gathered from beneath the four corners of the earth. Often times Dr. Henry Jones jr., Professor of Archaeology, a.k.a. Indiana Jones, Procurer of Rare Antiquities, had questioned the morality of violating the graves and sacred places from which so many of his finds and treasures had been taken.
So what madness was it that drove him to seek out such places as this? Would it not be better to just leave the Death Mask of Payahuatac where it was; placed carefully atop his sarcophagus so many centuries ago by the slaves who were buried alive within the tomb along with their master?
They hadn't a choice......he had. And yet here he was about to share their same fate. Jones had no doubt that some of the bones around him probably belonged to some of those unfortunate slaves who had fallen into the tunnels of death in their frantic search for a way out, after the tomb was sealed by the High Priests.
But Indiana Jones already knew the answer to all of the questions that raced through his mind. He'd answered them all many times before. Besides, the darkness that flooded his eyes now choked even his thoughts, projecting only the deeply rooted urge to survive to the forefront of his consciousness.
As he carefully folded and placed the Spaniard's map into his leather satchel, the archaeologist instinctively groped for another of his two remaining flares. His hand fumbled around for a few moments before locating the slender magnesium flare by sense of touch. He quickly withdrew it, felt for the strike side, and once again drew his Webley from its holster. However, before he could strike the light giving rod on the hand gun's magazine he abruptly stopped.
Two flares left.
The thought was sobering, and caused him to realize that if he were going to find some way out of his current predicament he would need to make the wisest possible use of his meager supply of the suddenly precious commodity of light. It could not be wasted. He silently cursed himself for having dropped his torch above in the main passage. He needed to think before he acted. He needed some kind of plan
But there was none, and all that came to his thoughts was the hopeless impossibility of his situation.
There was no way out.
Sealed inside.
Two flares left.
No way out.
The thoughts went round and round in his head like some kind of mental merry-go-round of hopelessness . He dropped down low to the ground and edged over towards the two rat holes at the bottom of the stone wall. The trickling sound of running water could be heard. Instinctively he moved his face closer, trying hard to inhale the air from the other side, as if the act of simply breathing air from outside of this death chamber would set him free from it. But the vision of the prone skeleton of the Spaniard, in the same position as he was now, suddenly interrupted his thoughts and Jones quickly stood back up with a shudder
He took a moment to compose himself there in the pitch blackness. If there was a way out, he would find it. But he needed to keep his cool and think with the rational part of his brain, not the part ruled by fear.
After several deep breaths he ran his hands down along the surface of the wall. At the bottom he again found the small rat holes and felt along them. He felt carefully along the arch stones, grasping and groping for any signs of looseness. But the elongated lintels were as tightly in place as the day the Inca builders had set them; maybe even tighter due to the years of settling. Jones did find a small fissure in the left hand side lintel stone. It was a small crack due to age and pressure, but it was barely wide enough to allow a piece of paper, and certainly nothing that would weaken it significantly.
Inadvertently his hand went to the skull of the Spaniard. He felt along its bony surface, his fingers scraping past the shallow impression burned by his flare.
His hands probed around until they located the old rusted sword of the conquistador, and his helmet. These he picked up and placed next to himself, not knowing why, since they certainly could be of no use to him in his present predicament.
A rat scurried closely by and brushed up against his hand. Jones struck out at it instinctively. The creature answered back with a defiant, raspy, squeal. The wet little footsteps began to multiply again, and another of the disgusting vermin brushed up against his pants leg.
He took another deep breath and thought hard, racking his brain for some idea, some way out of this pit of despair and death into which his quest for the golden Mask of Payahuatac had deposited him.
There were only two ways out as far as the archaeologist could see. The first was back up through the lava tubes above. But that seemed impossible since there was no way to reach them. His hand felt along his belt for the handle of his leather bullwhip. The trusted old friend, coiled and hitched to his belt, had gotten him out of jams before, but not here. There was no way it could reach that far, and besides, even if it could, there was nothing on the smooth volcanic stone above for its leather tip to grasp on to. Jones had a twenty-five foot length of good hemp rope coiled inside his pack also, but unless he could suddenly master the old 'Indian rope trick' it didn't appear that it would be of any use either.
He nervously fingered the magnesium flare in his satchel, resisting the temptation to strike it; if only just to drive the rats away. Their squeaks and squeals, and the patter of their little paws on the muddy floor were beginning to unnerve him again; not to mention the fact that they probably looked upon him as a fine delicacy that they couldn't wait to sink their filthy, rodent incisors into.
The only other possible way out would be through the stone wall. But how? The only openings were the small rat holes. The wall was of the finest Inca stone work, its edges melded into the natural volcanic walls of the chamber with seamless precision. Actually it was more a door than a wall. The stonework measured roughly five feet in width by five feet in height. Despite pushing and probing along the entire surface, Jones could find no weaknesses or loose stones.
He felt his hands around and picked up the conquistador's rust-eaten old broadsword again. In frustration he swung it blindly at the wall's stony face. A bright spark threw a brilliant flash of light for the smallest fraction of a second as the metal of the blade struck the cold, heartless stone. Jones was surprised at the strength still left in the old blade. He would have expected it to shatter. But it was a futile gesture. Dejectedly, he threw the useless weapon to the ground. A shrill, rodential, shriek attested to a lucky shot. Or was it luck? Just how many vermin now surrounded him, licking their vile little chops? He once again fingered the magnesium flare.
After a few more moments standing there in total darkness and dejection, listening to the increasing patter of little footsteps accompanied by the squeaks and squeals of their owners, a light bulb lit; .....Not literally, but rather of the mental variety.
With sudden clarity, an idea sprang forth in the mind of Indiana Jones, and it re-energized him.
Sure, why not? Jones had seen it done many times. What else could he do anyway? To sit in cold darkness and despair, waiting to die and be eaten by rats was not in Indiana Jones' playbook.
He would make it work. He would have to, because he knew in his heart that it was probably the ONLY way out of this hellish, vermin infested death pit.
But he couldn't do it alone. He would need help.
He would need the help of the dead.
Those unfortunate souls from times long past, whose bones littered the ground around him would now need to come to the aid of this archaeologist who didn't want to join them in their final resting place.
Indiana Jones hoped they wouldn't mind.
Rats
The return of the darkness brought also the return of claustrophobic fear for Indiana Jones. He could almost feel the inky blackness closing in on him like a suffocating cloak; a palpable, smothering presence. The very real fear that this Inca death chamber that had coldly claimed the lives of past tomb robbers would also be his final resting place gave him not only a sad sense of doom, but also a moment of reflection.
Was that all that he was? ...Just another tomb robber? Did he maybe, after all, deserve such a fate as this? Had he not asked for this, and indeed barely escaped it, many, many times already?
It wasn't the first time Indiana Jones had questioned his motives, morals, and chosen line of work. But usually it was in the comfortably cramped confines of his office on the campus of Barnett College, surrounded by the many artifacts and oddities that cluttered its minimal shelf space; artifacts, oddities, and treasures gathered from beneath the four corners of the earth. Often times Dr. Henry Jones jr., Professor of Archaeology, a.k.a. Indiana Jones, Procurer of Rare Antiquities, had questioned the morality of violating the graves and sacred places from which so many of his finds and treasures had been taken.
So what madness was it that drove him to seek out such places as this? Would it not be better to just leave the Death Mask of Payahuatac where it was; placed carefully atop his sarcophagus so many centuries ago by the slaves who were buried alive within the tomb along with their master?
They hadn't a choice......he had. And yet here he was about to share their same fate. Jones had no doubt that some of the bones around him probably belonged to some of those unfortunate slaves who had fallen into the tunnels of death in their frantic search for a way out, after the tomb was sealed by the High Priests.
But Indiana Jones already knew the answer to all of the questions that raced through his mind. He'd answered them all many times before. Besides, the darkness that flooded his eyes now choked even his thoughts, projecting only the deeply rooted urge to survive to the forefront of his consciousness.
As he carefully folded and placed the Spaniard's map into his leather satchel, the archaeologist instinctively groped for another of his two remaining flares. His hand fumbled around for a few moments before locating the slender magnesium flare by sense of touch. He quickly withdrew it, felt for the strike side, and once again drew his Webley from its holster. However, before he could strike the light giving rod on the hand gun's magazine he abruptly stopped.
Two flares left.
The thought was sobering, and caused him to realize that if he were going to find some way out of his current predicament he would need to make the wisest possible use of his meager supply of the suddenly precious commodity of light. It could not be wasted. He silently cursed himself for having dropped his torch above in the main passage. He needed to think before he acted. He needed some kind of plan
But there was none, and all that came to his thoughts was the hopeless impossibility of his situation.
There was no way out.
Sealed inside.
Two flares left.
No way out.
The thoughts went round and round in his head like some kind of mental merry-go-round of hopelessness . He dropped down low to the ground and edged over towards the two rat holes at the bottom of the stone wall. The trickling sound of running water could be heard. Instinctively he moved his face closer, trying hard to inhale the air from the other side, as if the act of simply breathing air from outside of this death chamber would set him free from it. But the vision of the prone skeleton of the Spaniard, in the same position as he was now, suddenly interrupted his thoughts and Jones quickly stood back up with a shudder
He took a moment to compose himself there in the pitch blackness. If there was a way out, he would find it. But he needed to keep his cool and think with the rational part of his brain, not the part ruled by fear.
After several deep breaths he ran his hands down along the surface of the wall. At the bottom he again found the small rat holes and felt along them. He felt carefully along the arch stones, grasping and groping for any signs of looseness. But the elongated lintels were as tightly in place as the day the Inca builders had set them; maybe even tighter due to the years of settling. Jones did find a small fissure in the left hand side lintel stone. It was a small crack due to age and pressure, but it was barely wide enough to allow a piece of paper, and certainly nothing that would weaken it significantly.
Inadvertently his hand went to the skull of the Spaniard. He felt along its bony surface, his fingers scraping past the shallow impression burned by his flare.
His hands probed around until they located the old rusted sword of the conquistador, and his helmet. These he picked up and placed next to himself, not knowing why, since they certainly could be of no use to him in his present predicament.
A rat scurried closely by and brushed up against his hand. Jones struck out at it instinctively. The creature answered back with a defiant, raspy, squeal. The wet little footsteps began to multiply again, and another of the disgusting vermin brushed up against his pants leg.
He took another deep breath and thought hard, racking his brain for some idea, some way out of this pit of despair and death into which his quest for the golden Mask of Payahuatac had deposited him.
There were only two ways out as far as the archaeologist could see. The first was back up through the lava tubes above. But that seemed impossible since there was no way to reach them. His hand felt along his belt for the handle of his leather bullwhip. The trusted old friend, coiled and hitched to his belt, had gotten him out of jams before, but not here. There was no way it could reach that far, and besides, even if it could, there was nothing on the smooth volcanic stone above for its leather tip to grasp on to. Jones had a twenty-five foot length of good hemp rope coiled inside his pack also, but unless he could suddenly master the old 'Indian rope trick' it didn't appear that it would be of any use either.
He nervously fingered the magnesium flare in his satchel, resisting the temptation to strike it; if only just to drive the rats away. Their squeaks and squeals, and the patter of their little paws on the muddy floor were beginning to unnerve him again; not to mention the fact that they probably looked upon him as a fine delicacy that they couldn't wait to sink their filthy, rodent incisors into.
The only other possible way out would be through the stone wall. But how? The only openings were the small rat holes. The wall was of the finest Inca stone work, its edges melded into the natural volcanic walls of the chamber with seamless precision. Actually it was more a door than a wall. The stonework measured roughly five feet in width by five feet in height. Despite pushing and probing along the entire surface, Jones could find no weaknesses or loose stones.
He felt his hands around and picked up the conquistador's rust-eaten old broadsword again. In frustration he swung it blindly at the wall's stony face. A bright spark threw a brilliant flash of light for the smallest fraction of a second as the metal of the blade struck the cold, heartless stone. Jones was surprised at the strength still left in the old blade. He would have expected it to shatter. But it was a futile gesture. Dejectedly, he threw the useless weapon to the ground. A shrill, rodential, shriek attested to a lucky shot. Or was it luck? Just how many vermin now surrounded him, licking their vile little chops? He once again fingered the magnesium flare.
After a few more moments standing there in total darkness and dejection, listening to the increasing patter of little footsteps accompanied by the squeaks and squeals of their owners, a light bulb lit; .....Not literally, but rather of the mental variety.
With sudden clarity, an idea sprang forth in the mind of Indiana Jones, and it re-energized him.
Sure, why not? Jones had seen it done many times. What else could he do anyway? To sit in cold darkness and despair, waiting to die and be eaten by rats was not in Indiana Jones' playbook.
He would make it work. He would have to, because he knew in his heart that it was probably the ONLY way out of this hellish, vermin infested death pit.
But he couldn't do it alone. He would need help.
He would need the help of the dead.
Those unfortunate souls from times long past, whose bones littered the ground around him would now need to come to the aid of this archaeologist who didn't want to join them in their final resting place.
Indiana Jones hoped they wouldn't mind.