F Paul Wilson - Novel 03 Read Free Page A

small rock fragments, a
thick layer of dust, and . . . something else.
                  The beam picked out an object with four short
straight legs and what appeared to be a seat.
                  Achmed said, "Is that—?
                  "A bench or a chair of some sort,"
Nabil said.
                  Achmed was shaking with excitement. He grabbed
Nabil's shoulder and found that his brother too was shaking.
                  "Let's go in," Nabil said.
                  Achmed's dry mouth would not allow him to
speak. He followed his brother's lead, climbing over the pile of broken and
fallen-away stone. They entered the cave in silence.
                  Dry, musty air within, laden with dust. Achmed
coughed and rubbed his nose. They approached the little bench, covered with a
thick coat of dust like everything else. Achmed reached out to brush the dust
away, to see what sort of wood it was made of. He touched it lightly. The bench
gave way, falling in on itself, crumbling, disintegrating into a lumpy pile of
rotted flakes. "Oaf!" Nabil hissed.
                  "May Allah be my witness, I barely
touched it!" Apparently Nabil believed him. "Then this cave must have
been sealed for a long time. This
place is old."
                  He flashed the beam around. To the
right—another bench and what looked like a low table; to the left— Nabil's gasp
echoed Achmed's.
                  Urns. Two of them: one lying on its side,
broken; the other upright, intact, its domed lid securely in place.
"That's what my stone must have hit!" Achmed said. Nabil was already
moving forward. He angled the beam into the broken urn.
                  "Achmed!" His older brother's voice
was hushed. "A scroll! There's a scroll in this one! It's torn and
crumbling . . . it's ancient!"
                  Achmed dropped quivering to his knees in the
dust. "Allah be praised! He has led us here!" Nabil lifted the lid of
the second urn and beamed the light into its mouth.
                  "More scrolls! Achmed, they will be
singing our names around the night fires for generations!"
                  "Allah be praised!" Achmed was too
overcome to think of anything else too say.
                  Nabil replaced the lid and swung the
flashlight beam back to the broken urn.
                  "You take that one. It's already broken
but be careful! We don't want to do
any more damage to that scroll. I'lltake
the unbroken one."
                  Achmed bent, slipped his sweating, trembling
palms under the broken urn, and gently lifted it into his arms as if it were a
cranky infant brother who had finally fallen asleep. He rose to his feet and
edged toward the mouth of the cave. He didn't need the flashlight beam to light
his exit—after the deep night of this tiny cave, the moonlit canyon outside
seemed noon bright.
He stepped carefully over the jumbled rocks outside the mouth, then waited on
level ground for Nabil.
                  This is wonderful, he thought. Our family will
be rich, and Nabil and I will be famous.
                He saw the hand of Allah in this,
rewarding him for his daily prayers, his fasting, and his strict observance of
Holy Days. He turned and faced south, toward Mecca , and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
Then he looked at the moon, thanking Allah for making it full tonight.
                But the prayer choked in his throat
and he nearly dropped the treasure in his arms when he noticed a figure
standing atop the far cliff they had skirted to reach this canyon. Silhouetted
against the moonlit sky, it seemed to be watching him. For a moment he was
transfixed with fear, then he heard Nabil behind him. He turned to see his
brother stepping over the rubble before the cave mouth.
                  "Nabil!"
                  His