A cool breeze blew through the open window of the trailer. The young man shivered.
Under the words cut into the stone, a strange marking of some sort. The young man studied the marking. It was very complicated, yet somehow familiar. Where had he seen it? He remembered. A medallion—yes, that was it! He had seen the markings on a medallion. But where had he seen it?
He took a magnifying glass, studying the markings more closely. A sensation of pure terror overcame him. He felt his lips pull back in revulsion. Under very close inspection, the marking was—horrible. Despicable. A man/creature, but yet, so much more, cut with such fine detail. A scene of debauchment, of total human depravity and ugly corruption.
The archaeologist covered the tablet with a piece of canvas. Just doing that made him feel better. But the scene cut into the stone haunted him. There had been people in that scene, humans, but they seemed more animal than human. He threw back the canvas to study the scene. Disgusting! He felt ill. The scene depicted an orgy, yet so much more than that. It went against everything the young man had been taught. Men with men; women with women; adults with children. He had never seen such detail cut into stone. In the very back of the cutting, a human sacrifice. Beyond that, a crucifixion.
He covered the stone tablet with the canvas, and, saying nothing to any of his fellow workers, drove into Whitfield. He'd been raised in the Christian church, but had not attended services in years. Today, though, he felt he needed to speak with a minister.
At the parsonage, he introduced himself to Sam Balon. He found himself liking the big, rough-looking minister with a rose tattooed on his left forearm.
Over coffee, the young man suddenly felt himself unable to speak of the tablet. Unable to speak because the minister's wife had entered the room, and the young man knew, then, where he had seen the medallion with the evil markings. Of course! It was worn by his fellow-workers—all of them, and by the project director, Dr. Wilder. Wilder, it was said, was humping a local woman. This woman. The minister's wife!
The woman looked at him with eyes that seemed to burn into his brain, silencing his tongue. The medallion around her neck seemed to glow with life. He could see the medallion and what it depicted—all the evil and debasement—why couldn't the minister?
Because he's not looking for anything evil in his wife, the young man answered his own question.
He was both fascinated and frightened by the power the woman seemed to hold over him. When he met her eyes, they seemed to control his thoughts, his tongue.
He chatted with the couple for a few minutes, then left. It was only while driving back to the Dig that he realized he did not know where he'd been, could recall nothing of his visit to the minister's home, or of seeing the man's wife. He did not recall the woman walking him to his car, he had no recognition of her kissing him on the mouth. He could not know he had been marked.
ONCE TOUCHED, FOREVER HIS. THE KISS OF LIFE AND DEATH.
The sun cast brilliant light through the open windows of the small trailer/lab at the Dig. The stone tablet, uncovered, seemed to glow with life, somehow mocking the young man.
'This is ridiculous!' he said aloud, rising from his stool. 'A rock is a rock. A stone cannot mock a living person.'
But mere words spoken aloud could not calm him.
Tim was not overly religious, but he did believe in God—and Satan. The young man felt a shiver of fear race through him, touching his spine, moving upward to settle in his brain. The lab seemed to become very stuffy. It was difficult for Tim to breathe. And his memory—something was wrong with his memory. He could remember finding the tablet . . . yesterday; yes, it had been yesterday. But what of yesterday afternoon? He could not remember.
Looking at the stone tablet and its markings, Tim suddenly felt he had opened the doors to Hell, and could hear the cries of the damned and smell the stink of burning flesh. He felt he could sense the agony of the forever condemned.
'Calm yourself,' he said. 'Control yourself. There is an explanation for everything, remember?' Well, almost, he thought ruefully. 'Don't forget, you're a scientist.'
His words did nothing to calm him.
He poured a glass of water from the pitcher in the small refrigerator, drank it, then sat down on the stool in front of his workbench. He glared at the tablet.
The tablet glared back at him.
Tim realized, although the day was cool, he was beginning to sweat. His face was damp with perspiration, his shirt sticking to him. He reached out to touch the tablet, jerking his hand back as his fingers touched the stone.
The tablet had burned him!
'Goddamn you!' he cursed the stone. He looked at his fingertips in numb shock. His fingertips were raw from blistering.
The stone was glowing, pulsing with life, almost as a heartbeat from within.
Tim was suddenly ill, fighting back sickness that threatened to erupt from his belly.
He looked at the stone. It had ceased its throbbing.
'Ugly,' Tim said. 'Profane. The stone is evil.
He glanced at a hammer on his workbench and somehow, as if spoken to by a voice from afar, what he must do—and do it quickly.
No! a voice screamed from inside his brain, stilling his hand as he reached for the hammer.
Do it! another voice cried, as if in great agony. The voice seemed to be speaking from a great distance. Destroy the stone, the voice screamed. You must destroy the tablet!
The voices battled within his head as Tim sat on the stool, listening to the utterances within him. One voice seemed to be almost pure in its vocalizing. The other voice was very evil.
The voices fought, long and hard and loudly. Tim found the strength to reach once more for the hammer. Something with great force knocked him from his stool. He clawed his way to his feet, his head ringing with sound. His hand closed around the handle of the hammer.
The voices ceased their battling as the trailer door opened. Sweat dripped from the young archaeologist, and his body was strangely exhausted. He looked toward the open door.
Black Wilder, the project director, stood looking at him, smiling. His shirt was open to the waist, the sunlight bouncing off a medallion hanging from a chain around his neck.
The stone tablet began its pulsing, seeming to draw life from the medallion. The pure voice in Tim's head screamed just once, then faded away into a silent void. A piece of a long-forgotten sermon entered Tim's mind: God rules the Heavens, but Satan rules the earth.
Tim tried to scream, but no sound came from his throat.
'What were you going to do with that hammer, Tim?'
Tim's voice returned with a gasp. 'I—ah—was going to chip away a piece of that stone, sir.'
'With a carpenter's hammer?' the older man laughed. If Tim had known just how old Wilder was, he would have died from fright. 'Now, Tim, really!' Wilder's eyes burned into Tim's. 'That's a very interesting tablet. Find it at this Dig?'
'Yes, sir. I—ah—was just about to call you.'
'Were you?' Wilder's tone was doubting.
Tim moved away from the workbench, away from Wilder and the glowing medallion. 'What is that thing, sir?' he glanced at the stone.
Wilder smiled. 'Why didn't you call me yesterday, Tim? When you found the tablet. Why did you visit that minister in Whitfield—Balon?'
Tim's memory came rushing back, flooding his brain with remembrances. He recalled the minister's wife, Michelle, and her burning eyes. He remembered his mixed emotions as her lips touched his mouth. 'Why are you answering a question with a question, sir?'
Doctor Wilder's smile was very unpleasant. 'You've never liked it here, have you, Tim?'
'I wouldn't say that.'
Wilder's smile was all-knowing. The medallion glowed. The stone tablet pulsed.
