“That means Parvati must have predated Hinduism,” Cassie observed.
“Yes,” the scrivener agreed. “Though Hinduism is primarily an overlord religion, it was certainly influenced by indigenous beliefs which preceded it. I suspect Parvati is a vestige of that much older faith. In fact, Hinduism is unique among the existing overlord religions in that one of its branches worships female energy as the ultimate source of creation. Shakti, in Sanskrit, means “power.” Devotees of Shakti believe that she is the supreme Brahman or primordial cosmic energy. While this worship of the feminine principal might encompass all the Hindu goddesses, adherents of this cult principally focus on the worship of Shiva’s consort Parvati. They see Shiva as incapable of acting without the power supplied by his better half. He is only potential energy which she actuates. Shaktism has a very large following in India.”
“Sounds like something matristic survived right in the middle of Overlord Central,” Erik observed.
“Yes, and to a much greater degree than we see evidenced in other overlord cultures,” Griffin added.
The trio contemplated the androgynous figure in silence for several moments until Erik interrupted their thoughts. “That was a great crash course in Hindu religion, but it’s not why we’re here. I don’t know about you two, but I didn’t see any lily symbols while we were looking around.” He gave Cassie a quizzical glance. “You get any hits, toots?”
The pythia shook her head regretfully. “Not a one.”
“Oh dear,” Griffin frowned. “I was so hopeful. Of course, there are four other Hindu caves on the island and two Buddhist caves. None of them are carved as elaborately as this one, but we may find something. Failing that, there’s Cannon Hill. It’s situated at the top of the island and might be the tower referenced in the riddle.”
He glanced hopefully from one of his teammates to the other.
“I don’t know.” Cassie hesitated. “Ever since we set foot on the island, I’ve gotten the feeling that there isn’t anything here for us.”
“We might as well check out the rest of the caves and the hill just to be sure,” Erik urged.
“That’s fine by me,” the pythia agreed uncertainly. Turning to Griffin, she asked, “But if we don’t find anything here, what’s our next move?”
The scrivener hesitated. “Well, it’s a bit off our line of latitude, but Mohenjo-Daro may be our best hope.”
“I don’t know much about Indian history, but even I’ve heard of Mohenjo-Daro.” Erik nodded approvingly. “Good call.”
The two men turned to walk back toward the north courtyard.
Cassie trailed behind. “What’s Mohenjo-Daro?”
“It’s what this part of the world was like before the overlords arrived,” Erik replied.
Chapter 11—A Moving Site
It was late afternoon when Leroy Hunt found himself on the doorstep of Miz Sybil’s antique shop having a bad case of “been there, done that.” This place had thrown a monkey wrench into his plans one too many times. First off, its original owner, Miz Sybil, had stopped him from nicking the preacher’s granite key. Then its new proprietor, Miz Rhonda, had set up a smokescreen to keep him from drawing a bead on little Hannah. When he doubled back to pummel some proper intel out of Miz Rhonda, she vanished herself right out from under the watchful eye of his surveillance cameras. Her disappearance had cost Leroy his last living link to the preacher’s runaway bride. He disliked this shop, and everybody connected with it. It was surely jinxed.
Today as he stood peering through the plate glass window with a disgruntled expression on his face, nothing had changed in the two months he’d been away. The place mocked him with its emptiness. Everything gone. Lock, stock, and barrel. No new tenant. Still no “For Sale” or “For Rent” sign in the window.
Hunt swore under his breath and turned down the alley. He made his way to the store’s loading dock, intending to pick the lock and take one more futile look around inside. As he approached the rear entrance, he was startled to realize he wasn’t alone. An old man was curled up in a corner of the bay, cradling an empty wine bottle and snoring loudly.
Leroy walked over for a closer look. The bum was dressed in a stained army fatigue jacket, ripped blue jeans and canvas sneakers so badly frayed that his toes were poking out the sides. His long gray hair was as straggly and greasy as his beard. The old wino’s nap came to an abrupt end when he choked on a snore and jerked upright, coughing and spluttering.
“Whoa, there friend.” Leroy put a hand on the bum’s shoulder to steady him.
“Get your hands off me, you filthy cop!” The old man swatted at him petulantly. “I got a right to be here!”
“I ain’t no copper,” Leroy protested in an injured tone. “Just a Good Samaritan tryin’ to keep you from tumblin’ over and crackin’ your skull. That’s the thanks I get?”
The old man squinted at him through bloodshot eyes. “You’re not a cop?”
“No sir, I ain’t.” Leroy climbed up and took a seat next to him on the loading dock.
The old man straightened up and brushed off his jacket with an air of dignity. “Sorry,” he said grudgingly. “You shouldn’t wake somebody up like that. You startled me.”
Leroy decided to ignore the comment. “You live around here?” he asked casually.
“This is my turf.” The bum swept his arm around grandly. “Far as the eye can see. Everybody knows that.” He looked down at the empty bottle still cradled in one arm then turned it over and shook it with a disappointed “Damn!”
Leroy reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small flask. Handing it to
