Wendy Webb has published more than a dozen short stories and has co-edited three anthologies, including Gothic Ghosts with Charles Grant for Tor Books. Much of her time of late has been spent in theatres as a playwright and director .
'I found myself standing in Beijing's Tiananmen Square a few months after the conflict witnessed around the world' reveals the author. 'Activity in the square had returned to the honourable duty of jobs, family, and order and tradition all under what seemed watchful eyes.
'During that trip there seemed a consistency among the people in something unspoken and elusive, even though they were always kind to me. An outsider who does not belong and never will might speculate that such behaviour was rooted in culture or genetics, or perhaps directed by those watchful eyes. I don't know.
'In 'Sleeping Cities' I wondered what would happen to an otherwise honourable man who chose to be different from the vast population above ground, as well as those interred below.'
With shovels and picks they attacked the hard earth, breaking it into jagged pieces to exhume what lay below.
Men and women, working shoulder to shoulder, sweated with the effort, but continued without complaint, without a spoken word to break the cadence. Last week their priority was the land and growing food for the masses, an honourable duty. It was necessary work for survival.
This week it was different. This week what lay below the land was more important in this time-honouring and slow-paced society.
Delicate instruments replaced destructive equipment. With tiny probes they scraped dirt away from row after row of heads that erupted from the floor of the earthen pit. By removing soil with soft brushes they revealed tiny scraps of silk, red lacquered boxes bound with metal belts, and splinters of wood that once had been limbs.
These were more than mere artefacts, Liu knew. Much more.
He walked the site as an archaeologist in these times. In times past he had been many other things. As a member of a special group, he, too, had chosen to hide in plain sight. His goal, and that of other respected elders, was the same: freedom, finally, from vast darkness.
But, unlike the others, those goals weren't enough for him any more.
This then, was the beginning of a new time. The cycle would once again be renewed.
A small, old man silently appeared at Liu's side. As was his duty, he wore the common man's black pants, thin sweater and sandals, and pressed a tall mug of warm green tea in his boss's hands. Liu accepted the assistant's offering without comment or thanks. As everyone else on these sites, Hsu had a job to do. His compensation came from pride in working with someone as notable and important as the archaeologist. That was more than ample to meet an assistant's minimal needs.
Liu dismissed his assistant with a short wave of his hand, then stroked the surface of the medallion that clung to his chest. He looked around at the black-haired workers, his fellow scientists, and to the rudimentary scaffolding and hand-made ladders that dipped into the newly excavated pits. His own dark eyes rose to scan the rural landscape that stretched out all around him. Prepared for planting, the topography was broken up in its monotony only by the occasional hills that would be ruthlessly farmed for what they could bear, barely concealing the tombs that lay below.
He added another stroke to the piece that hung from his neck and touched his chest. Here, in this place of all places, in this country, the dragon etched clockwise from its fire-breathing head to its curled tail on the medallion was more than just a symbol. It signified good fortune.
But the medallion was only part of what had come to him in recognition of his work and sacrifice. It was Liu's scientific skill, his honed abilities and intuitive gifts that brought him to stand on this hallowed ground in anticipation of that which lay below. These same virtues would prove him a great leader. Contrary to the respected elders, he deserved the ultimate honour. He was owed it.
Liu tapped his watch and looked with some concern to the afternoon sun. Now darkness was the new enemy. But much as he would like, Liu could not push the calendar. It was not the way of his people. Destiny could be controlled, but it could not be rushed.
They had waited, after all, for over 2,000 years for this moment. He could wait a little longer. The time for complete exhumation would come at its own pace.
The first discovery took place in March of 1974. A work brigade of farmers drilling a well accidentally found a subterranean chamber. It had been the first.
There would be many more.
In 1974 Liu had watched from a distance for this finding. His calculations, countless hours of research, and intuition in the form of dreams had led him to this place. The call had been sounded and he had waited patiently for his colleagues to converge on this site near the now modern Chinese city of Xi'an.
They came. And they had worked. Hours turned to days, to months, then years, in the careful and painstaking exhumation of Qin Shi Huang Di's terracotta army. The funerary compound had revealed archaeological treasures that cheered the country and sent ripples of excitement around the world.
For Liu it had been much more than that. The past had now become the future. His future. And he was more than willing to accept the honour this find bestowed upon him. He was owed it after all. It was his right, if not his honour-bound duty, to see it through.
Walking the underground chambers, he had considered his choice carefully. The moment he had waited for would not be until all the armies were fully exhumed. But enough had been carefully dusted and touched with delicate instruments that he would know if his intuition had guided him correctly.
The pottery bodyguard faced east and was poised for battle. Life-sized figures, once brightly painted with mineral colours, were grouped into specific military formation.
He had paused, considered, then made his selection. The chamber of 1,400 figures held a sixty-eight-member elite command unit. They would be the first. Staring into the individual faces, no two of which were alike, he knew the theory was true. These figures, all of them, had been created from life. And somewhere deep in the terracotta, life was ready to resume itself. Liu would be the catalyst in this resurrection, then their leader.
