His gaze darted from one child to the next.
Unacceptable as the emotion was, he could no longer fight the impatience that grew deep within him. And then he saw it.
The fighter, of course. It pleased Liu the fighter would be the first.
Orange-brown hues in the small terracotta face lightened to grey, then to warmer shades. A hint of blue surrounded the set mouth. The direct eyes turned dark and clear.
Liu touched the young face and felt cold, hard clay begin to warm. The start of a renewed life burned deep within this one.
The compassionate child figure's eyes twinkled with a suggestion of light. New colour touched the upturned smile and spoke of animation as well.
The archaeologist clasped his hands together in reserved delight. The calculations were correct. His dreams, this time, had been accurate and unflinching. The children were awakening from the dark to see the light of his authority. He would lead them to greatness as he deserved. As it was owed to him.
A faint movement in the shadow. Quick. Decided.
The brick crashed down on his head. He crumpled and fell into a tight defensive posture, face to the wall, then looked up at his attacker.
Hsu, the assistant, held the brick high for a second assault if one were needed, then slowly lowered the old weapon. Reaching under his sweater, he pulled out a medallion of a dragon. This one was etched counter- clockwise. He spoke in quiet tones. 'It is too soon. The exhumation is not complete.'
Liu tried to move, to protest, but his body was unwilling. He stared horrified as Hsu pulled candles out of a satchel, placed them in a single line, then set them ablaze.
The assistant beckoned something unseen, then, palms out, held it back by offering Liu as a companion on its travels.
Liu mouthed the word 'no', but the wind had already started. Soon it would touch him. And when the dark came it would take his soul. He would not be the leader of these children as he deserved, as he was owed. The small ceremony performed by the assistant had reduced him to the vulnerabilities of nothing more than a common man among far too many.
'It is finished.' Hsu blew out the candles and looked at Liu with pity. 'Maybe an accident. Maybe it is not. You wished for more than you should have. It was not the way.' The small, old man in black pants, thin sweater and sandals bowed slightly, then kicked dust over the new intruder. He turned and walked from the pit.
The sun dipped behind a hill. Colours on the horizon brightened, then turned dull. Dusk had settled and brought the end of day and a temporary halt to the subterranean work in progress. It was necessary. It was honourable. But it would have to wait.
Growing food for the masses was, for now, more important.
Liu watched through foggy eyes as the little light waned, disappeared, then turned to inky black. Walled in by culture and necessity, he took a final breath.
The calendar could not be pushed. But soon enough, there would be freedom from the darkness. Then, with another more worthy, his child army would awaken.
The trenches were quickly filled in. The pit was covered by sod.
On the surface farmers had begun to sow seed.
The Haunted House
E. Nesbit
Edith Nesbit (1858-1924) is today best remembered for her children's classics The Phoenix and the Carpet (1904) and The Railway Children (1906). However, she also wrote a number of short horror stories, often hiding her gender beneath the byline E. Nesbit or, following her marriage in 1880, E. Bland or Mrs Hubert Bland .
The best of these stories are collected in Grim Tales (1893) , Something Wrong (1893) , Fear (1910) and In the Dark: Tales of Terror by E. Nesbit (1988), the latter selected and introduced by Hugh Lamb and expanded by a further seven stories for Ash-Tree Press in 2000 .
Her other books include the fantasies The Story of the Amulet (1906) , The Enchanted Castle (1907) , The House of Arden (1908) , Harding's Luck (1909) , The Magic City (1910) and Dormant (1911), plus the collections The Book of Dragons (1899) and Nine Unlikely Tales for Children (1901) .
The following story was originally published in The Strand Magazine for December 1913 under the author's E. Bland pseudonym
It was by the merest accident that Desmond ever went to the Haunted House. He had been away from England for six years, and the nine months' leave taught him how easily one drops out of one's place.
He had taken rooms at the Greyhound before he found that there was no reason why he should stay in Elmstead rather than in any other of London's dismal outposts. He wrote to all the friends whose addresses he could remember, and settled himself to await their answers.
He wanted someone to talk to, and there was no one. Meantime he lounged on the horsehair sofa with the advertisements, and his pleasant grey eyes followed line after line with intolerable boredom. Then, suddenly, 'Halloa!' he said, and sat up. This is what he read:
A HAUNTED HOUSE. Advertiser is anxious to have phenomena investigated. Any properly accredited investigator will be given full facilities. Address, by letter only, Wildon Prior, 237 Museum Street, London.
'That's rum!' he said. Wildon Prior had been the best wicket-keeper in his club. It wasn't a common name. Anyway, it was worth trying, so he sent off a telegram.
WILDON PRIOR, 237 MUSEUM STREET, LONDON. MAY I COME TO YOU FOR A DAY OR TWO AND SEE THE GHOST — WILLIAM DESMOND
