Merrick - Anne Rice [98]
“They know our motives,” said Merrick, gazing at the giant upturned head and its withered flowers. “Let’s go into the cave.”
We used our large flashlights, and at once the silence from the waterfall descended upon us, along with the smell of dry earth and ash.
Immediately, I saw the paintings, or what I perceived to be paintings. They were well inside, and we walked upright and swiftly towards them, ignoring the spirits which had now produced a whistling sound near my ears.
To my utter shock, I saw that these splendidly colored wall coverings were in fact mosaics made with millions of tiny chips of semi-precious stones! The figures were far simpler than those of temple murals, which argued perhaps for a more ancient date.
The spirits had gone quiet.
“This is marvelous,” I whispered, because I had to say something. And again I tried to reach for my camera, but the pain in my arm was simply too sharp. “Merrick, we must take photographs,” I told her. “Look, darling, there’s writing. We must photograph it. I’m sure those are glyphs.”
She didn’t answer. She stared at the walls as I did. She seemed entranced.
I could not quite make out a procession, or indeed attribute any activity to the tall slender figures, except to say that they appeared to be in profile, to wear long garments, and to be carrying important objects in their hands. I did not see bloody victims struggling. I did not see clear figures of priests.
But as I struggled to make out the intermittent and glittering splendor, my foot struck something hollow. I looked down at a wealth of richly colored pottery gleaming before us as far as we could see.
“This isn’t a cave at all, is it?” Merrick said. “I remember Matthew saying it was a tunnel. It is a tunnel. It’s been carved out entirely by man.”
The stillness was shocking.
Stepping as carefully as she could, she went on, and I behind her, though I had to reach down several times to move some of the small vessels out of my way.
“This is a burial place, that’s what it is, and all these are offerings,” I said.
At that I felt a sharp blow to the back of my head. I spun around and shone my flashlight on nothing. The light from the cave entrance hurt my eyes.
Something pushed my left side and then my right shoulder. It was the spirits coming at me again. I saw that Merrick was jerking and moving to the side, as if something were striking her also.
I uttered a prayer to Oxalá again, and heard Merrick issuing her own refusals to back down.
“This is as far as we got last time,” said Merrick, turning to look at me, her face dark above her flashlight, which she politely directed to the ground. “We took everything we found here. Now I’m going on.”
I was right with her, but the assault of the spirits grew stronger. I saw her pushed to one side. But quickly she steadied herself. I heard the crunch of pottery beneath her feet.
“You’ve made us angry,” I said to the spirits. “Maybe we don’t have any right here. And maybe we do!”
At this I received a heavy silent blow to the stomach, but it was not sufficient to cause pain. I felt a sharp increase in my exhilaration suddenly.
“Go on, do your damndest,” I said. “Oxalá, who is buried here? Would he or she have it remain secret forever? Why did Oncle Vervain send us to this place?”
Merrick, who was several yards ahead of me, let out a gasp.
I caught up with her at once. The tunnel had opened into a great hollow round chamber where the mosaics ascended the low dome. Much had fallen away from age or dampness, I knew not which, but it was a glorious room nevertheless. Round both walls the figures proceeded, until there stood one individual whose facial features had long ago been broken away.
On the floor of the room, in its very center, surrounded by clear circles of pottery offerings and fine jade statues, lay a beautiful arrangement of ornaments in a nest of dust.
“Look, the mask,