Empire of Ruins Read Free

old explorer was dead, and Kingwas gone, but not before having retrieved the map from Dr. Livingstone’s Bible.
    As King tramped eastward through the steaming jungle he read the map by moonlight. It became tattooed on his thoughts. He pushed his guide and the mule harder every day. He had to be the first to discover the God Face. He’d be on the cover of the
Illustrated London News
within six months! Every sacrifice would be worth it.
    It took King another week to reach the island of Nosy Boraha, just off the northeast coast of Madagascar. He rented a room at a storm-battered hotel built on stilts. The island had been home to pirates for years, and though their ships had long ago been sent to the bottom of the ocean by French and English warships, their kin and offspring still lived there. These men and women could navigate the waters without a compass; could fight like hardened marines. And they loved to gamble.
    It was this last vice that was most important to King. He’d long ago decided the only people he could trust were those who were
un
trustworthy. No sense trying to put together an expedition from London, or any other civilized city. He didn’t have the money or prestigious connections for that. But soon he’d win enough to assemble his own team of guides and workers.
    He spent his time at the card and wheel tables, ignoring the beer and whiskey they served. Someone with his mind could easily outsmart these half-breed pirate offspring and castoffs. And he did win, at first. He gathered up fistfuls of cash and howled at the dimwits. But he then began a downward spiral of lost bets. He turned to the whiskey, and what followed slowly became a blur. He might have climbedonto a table and hollered, “I’m Alexander King, the greatest explorer alive!” He might even have shouted out something about the God Face and made the laughing hyenas tremble before him.
    Then one night he awoke to hear a whirring of wings and a scratching at his door. There had been no footsteps, even though he had requested a room with the longest rickety staircase in order to hear anyone approaching. He heard a screeching noise—half animal, half banshee—and he knew Death was on the other side of that door. He drew his revolver and pointed it, hands shaking. He stayed in that position, rarely blinking, until the sun came through his tattered curtains.
    Sober now, he saw the paper that someone had slid under the door. Still holding his revolver, he went and picked it up.
    The letter had no address, only his name. And in the upper left-hand corner was a triangle over a clock. Three neat holes, as though pierced by talons, perforated the corner. He opened the envelope. Inside were eight thousand American dollars and a note that read:
For your expedition. We ask only to be kept informed of your findings. We will contact you when you have accomplished your task
.
    As he stared at the money he poured himself a whiskey and swigged it. With a smile, he smashed the shot glass on the floor.
    Within a week he was on a steamship to Penang, then New Guinea, and finally to the tiny port of St. James, Australia. It took another week to organize carts and hire a red-eyed guide named Fred Land. As he downed beers, the manswore that he knew the rain forest “like the back of me hand.” That night he disappeared with the map and several hundred dollars.
    It surprised King how little the theft bothered him. The map was burning in his mind, lighting up his thoughts. He would be the first white man to gaze upon the God Face. His photo would be in every newspaper in the world.
    This time he hired only Indian and Chinese porters from the poorest part of the port. They spoke little English; his Hindi and Cantonese would suffice. A guide would no longer be necessary. He was destined to find the temple.
    He led his expedition westward into the rain forest on foot, ponies and a mule carrying their gear. The cart wheels broke after the second day; the ponies grew