The Lost City
“ All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.”
T. E. Lawrence
Chapter 1: The Letter
Two years ago I received a letter. I was halfheartedly sifting through my mail one morning when I came upon a small faded letter with two names on the heading…“From Niemann Efforton and Benny Holland” it said. In the letter these two men told me they had been working for a construction crew deep in the Amazon and had come upon something rather unusual. They had a bit of black rock that had washed up one night at their site, this peculiar black rock had been carved into an odd shape, a skull I think is what they said. This black rock was about as big as a girthy man’s fist they told me. With the letter came a small faded photograph folded between the leaves, I picked it up and inspected it intently. There the two men where, standing in the jungle. The man on the left had the skull in hand and I could tell from the odd expression on his face he was having trouble palming this rock with just one hand. It was as black as a raven’s beak and had an odd sheen to it. It stuck out like a sore thumb, almost jumped out at you as soon as you laid eyes on it. This skull had apparently became quite popular among their crew and had been sent round and round between the crewmen until eventually it ended up on the Foreman’s desk being used as an ancient Aztec paper weight. The two men writing me had decided the skull needed to be professionally examined to determine if it held any “intrinsic” value so to say. Unfortunately for them the Foreman had become quite fond of the skull and started to keep it locked away in his office. In their letter they told me that the two of them swiped it out of the Foreman’s locked office one night (the way they recounted their little rock heist told me they were quite proud of the little escapade and If I had time to tell you the details I would because it is an unequivocally good story and involves a deck of cards, a bottle of mulled wine and a pickax but alas, another time perhaps). They put it in a suitcase and hastily sent me this letter. Immediately I wrote them back, imploring them to bring the artifact to my apartment so that I could examine it. They promptly jumped on the next boat.
Oh! I beg your pardon! I have completely forgotten my manners! My name is Professor Napoleon Dennathor Brinkley. My students call me Professor Brinkley, my friends call me Napoleon or just “Brinkles” for short. I can’t say that I’m particularly fond of the “Brinkles” bit but ah well. I am a professor at Oxford University where I teach History and Archaeology. I specialize in ancient artifacts and exotic remnants of civilizations that have long since been wiped off of even Father Time’s history books. Mostly because old things have been my obsession since I was a young. As a young boy I could always be found in museums and history books to get a closer look at these parts of history that allowed me to walk through time’s doorway in my imagination, doorways that led to different ages, different civilizations, whole worlds that have been blown away by the sands of time. I am currently living in a stuffy little apartment in Oxford with my books, the many odd things I have collected through my years, an old tabby cat that adopted me when I moved into the place and the love of my life, sweet Ethel my tobacco pipe. Now that is enough about me, let’s get back to the start of my story!
I was gleefully packing my first pipe of the evening, sitting in my favorite chair in my study. Just as soon as I had taken my first puff Ding dong! My doorbell sang out giving me quite a start! Coughing and sputtering from the excess of smoke that had inadvertently found it’s way into my throat. “Who the devil could be calling at this hour” I muttered under my breathe. I quickly took a sip of my tea, got up and opened the door. It was a peculiar night in Oxford, a murky fog had descended upon us and made everything look very mysterious. Two men stood on my doorstep, I immediately recognized them both from the photograph. “Mr. Efforton and Mr. Holland I presume, how good of you to come! I had no idea you two would make it in tonight. Come in, come in!” The two men shambled in and I quickly closed the door, shutting out the gloom that was drifting through the streets outside. “Excuse me for getting right to the point but where did you find this brilliantly odd bit of rock?” I asked Mr. Efforton as I ran into the kitchen to put on another pot of tea. Mr. Holland took a seat on my couch and Mr. Efforton stood awkwardly holding a black leather suitcase in the middle of my living room. “It just kinda warshed up with the river!“ He said. He was an American with a harsh country accent and a gruff, yet awkward demeanor. “We get them floods about once….ehhh once erry’ couple months. That skull we was tellin’ you ’bout was staring me right in the eye one mornin’. Our river happin’ to washed it up in mah’ tent!” He kind of chuckled as he said this. “In your tent?!” I remarked. “If you don’t mind me asking, why the devil did you put your tent up so close to river?” At this question he got rather serious “Well them floods can bring the river rushin’ up through our tents pretty fast. We lose bout’ four or five men a year on average down there.” He said this and then looked solemnly at his boots, not for long though and quickly looked back up at me. “That there skull jest happen to find it’s way in’ta my tent! Kind’er gave me a start when I woke up to stone face gazing into m’soul!” His long beard wagging back and forth as he said this. “I’m sure it did!” I quickly replied. “Also, I am so very sorry for your loss! I can’t imagine losing that many chaps in a year, what an absolutely awful way to go.” Quickly changing the subject I focused my next question on Benny who had been quiet up until now. Benny was a smaller man then Niemann, clean shaven and wore a large black jacket. He had a calmer, quieter disposition and looked as if there was much more going on behind those dark brown eyes of his then he let on. “Mr. Holland, in your letter you mentioned that you get a number of ancient looking rocks that find themselves at your construction sites. Do you happen to know where all these artifacts come from?” Benny brought his gaze up to mine and sat up a bit in my couch where he had just now planted himself. “Actually, yes I do…” He took a couple seconds before he finished his sentence. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but he almost seemed…nervous. “I’m sorry” he said. His hands anxiously pulling at the buttons on his jacket. “As a rule, nobody likes to talk about it”. “What does that mean?” I asked, confused and quite frankly very intrigued. “What is it that makes people so–” He looked at me with such intensity that I cut my sentence short and simply waited for him to answer. He looked at his friend and then back at me. Slowly, he said one word… “Azadull”.
Chapter 2
“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities. Truth isn’t.”
Mark T
