Ancient Echoes

CHAPTER 6



Mongolia

MICHAEL COULD SCARCELY believe he had found Lord Hsieh’s tomb. The exploration had been beset with trouble from the outset.

Even the way it started was strange.

Michael and his older brother, Lionel, weren’t at all close, which wasn't surprising given their family and upbringing, so Michael found it curious when, over a year earlier, Lionel contacted him for help.

Lionel told him a strange story. Many years earlier, a Chinese foreign exchange student found materials indicating that a medieval French book on alchemy had been brought to the northwestern United States and ended up in what is now Idaho. After returning home to China, the exchange student had apparently become a geneticist, but Lionel could find nothing more about him.

Since Michael was in Beijing attending a symposium on archeological discoveries from the Shang dynasty, Lionel asked him to contact the scientist for more information. The idea that a Chinese scientist might know anything about an ancient alchemy book in the U.S. sounded far-fetched, but Michael asked Jianjun to attempt to find the man.

Jianjun succeeded, in a sense.

Dr. Chou An-ming was dead.

“I appreciate your agreeing to talk with me,” Michael said with a slight bow as he met Dr. Chou’s daughter, who introduced herself only as Mrs. Yang. She was a plain woman, her clothes as boxy as her build. Michael and Jianjun met her at her small apartment.

Michael felt awkward about being there, about having to ask personal questions, and wondered why he had agreed to Lionel's request. “I understand your father studied in the United States.”

“He was quite proud of his time there,” the daughter said. “He studied at George Washington University in Washington D.C. He was a good man, who died much too young.”

“I'm sorry.”

Mrs. Yang nodded. “He went to New York City for a symposium put on by a big American company, Phaylor-Laine Pharmaceuticals. And also he planned to meet with his best friend in college, a Danish scientist. Meeting the Dane, I've heard, truly excited him. Unfortunately, as he crossed a street, a truck hit him. He died instantly. It was fifteen years ago.”

“He died in the United States?” Michael asked, surprised.

“Yes. In New York City, near the United Nations building. He never got to meet his Danish friend.”

After words of condolence, Michael got to the point of his visit. “Did your father ever speak about alchemy, or about an ancient text on alchemy being in the U.S.?”

At the word “alchemy,” the daughter turned to Jianjun, who stood quietly in the background, for a translation. She looked quite bemused when she got it.

“My father's work involved genetic engineering. He did botanical and genetic analysis of early Chinese herbal medicine, concentrating on herbs used in far-flung regions. It certainly had nothing to do with anything so silly as alchemy.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” Michael said with a smile. “But did he ever mention alchemy at all?”

She thought for a moment. “Now that you mention it, he told me one story, both interesting and sad. I think that's why I remember it. It obviously moved him deeply.”

She sat stiff and upright as she relayed the story. “During the Han dynasty, from 206 BC to 220 AD, when the Chinese empire expanded into Central Asia its major problem soon became control of the newly conquered population. A wealthy man, Lord Hsieh Ch'en-yu, was named governor of the northern outskirts of what is now the Xinjiang province. His wife refused to accompany him to such a barbaric region. One day, as he rode through a village, he saw a beautiful young woman. He demanded she become his concubine. She had no choice—if she refused, she and her family would have been killed.

“He forced the concubine to accompany him to the desolate outpost. She was very much afraid, and for protection brought with her many ancient herbs and potions to perform her magical arts, namely alchemy. She had been taught how to use them by her grandmother.”

She paused to see if this was the sort of story Michael sought. As an archeologist, anything going back two thousand years fascinated him. He nodded.

She continued. “In Central Asia, Lord Hsieh soon discovered that he could not hold back the freedom-loving nomads. Swords drawn, they swarmed over the Chinese. The new governor was among the first killed. As the Han Chinese soldiers continued to fight, the concubine urged them to flee into the mountains of what is now Mongolia, to a more desolate area where they might live. She took Lord Hsieh’s body with her. There, her retainers built an underground tomb for Lord Hsieh. Stories traveled back to the eastern capital of the magnificent woman who led her people, trying to find a safe haven for them. The young woman’s bravery so humbled and impressed the soldiers that—although a lowly concubine from a poor family—they honored her with the title ‘Lady.’ But soon after her people completed the tomb, nomadic tribes found them and attacked once more. Lady Hsieh knew there was no hope.

“She told the soldiers they were free to leave, to escape back to their homes if possible. She also set free all Lord Hsieh’s slaves and retainers, and then, in the dead of night, she disappeared. Everyone knew she desperately wanted to live, and many believed she used her magical arts to that end. To this day, however, no one knows what happened to her or to her husband's gold and possessions.”

For reasons he did not understand, Michael could feel the young woman’s terror at facing death far from everything she held dear.

“Over the centuries, the tale of Lady Hsieh slipped into the mists of time except in Bayan Ölgiy where she escaped. In Bayan Ölgiy it is believed that whoever finds Lord Hsieh’s tomb will possess untold riches.” Mrs. Yang folded her hands, her story ended.

Michael soon thanked Mrs. Yang for her time and left.

He reported on Dr. Chou's death to his brother. But the story of Lady Hsieh haunted him. One of his earliest lessons as an archeologist was to learn to listen to local legends. Before long he decided to search for Lord Hsieh's tomb.

Michael first sent Jianjun to the western Bayan Ölgiy area to see if anyone there could confirm the history behind the tale. The story was corroborated, and the areas where the tomb might have been located were narrowed to a manageable degree.

Many difficulties, political as well as geographic, hampered his plans. Mongolia wasn’t quite as paranoid about strangers as China, but almost. And, although Mongolia was an independent country, China maintained a high degree of influence over its government.

By this time, the dig had become an obsession to Michael. He never considered giving it up and forged ahead with his plans. While Jianjun located men and heavy equipment, he dealt with the government. Officials told him “No” for months, then out of the blue, like a drain unplugged, everything opened up. It seemed nothing short of miraculous, but he took it gladly.

He wasted no time making a site surface survey using resistivity meters and ground penetrating radar. Echoes from radio pulses reflected back changes in soil and sediment, and the depth of those changes. Scans revealed the location of a cavity some twenty-three feet below the surface with a diameter of ten feet or so.

The size fit that of a tomb.

In China, archeologists already had excavated more than forty Han dynasty tombs, all made of brick or stone and placed deep in the earth for preservation. This was the first, as far as Michael knew, found outside of China.

Michael opened the small crates. Inside he found pottery and jewelry of jade, gold and semi-precious stones. The quality and value, however, were minimal. They weren’t anything to give rise to the reputation the tomb had for riches. It didn’t worry Michael, however. The most valuable treasure was usually buried with the body.

Michael and Acemgul turned to the coffin. With surprisingly little effort, they lifted off the lid.

Inside, a skeleton stared up at them. The flesh was gone, its garments worn away to nothing but a gray gauzy film. The rest of the coffin was empty.

“So it comes to this,” Michael murmured, his disappointment palpable.

“Air clear. Ground stable. Storm is six miles across and will be here in less than thirty minutes!” Batbaatar called down.

Just then, dirt fell from the ceiling. A cloud of dust burned Michael’s eyes and nostrils. “Watch it up there,” he yelled, needing to keep Batbaatar and Jianjun away before they caused the whole roof to collapse, smothering him and Acemgul along with the worthless corpse they'd found.

Michael perused the tomb with dismay. “I don’t get it. Why set up such an elaborate site to bury the old governor and a few items with little value?”

Acemgul turned toward the ladder when a loud crack! filled the chamber. The floor opened up beneath him, and he dropped.

Michael dove toward him. He landed on his stomach and grabbed Acemgul's arms as the assistant tried to hold on to something, anything, to prevent himself from falling into the unknown.

The rotted floor under Michael's chest began to sag. His body slipped forward. “Batbaatar! Get down here! Help us,” he yelled.

Acemgul held onto him, his eyes wide with fear as he squirmed, his legs flailing to find support for his feet. “There's nothing under me,” he said, his voice tight, quavering. “I don't know how far down...”

“I know,” Michael said. “Move your hands. Grip my arms.”

Heavy footsteps sounded on the ladder. “Not too close,” Michael warned as Batbaatar reached the floor.

Batbaatar knelt on the ground, and looped thick arms and hands around Michael's waist, pulling him back. The muscles along Michael's arms and shoulders felt ready to tear from Acemgul's weight as the men attempted to lift and drag him from the crater. Acemgul wasn't very tall, but he was solid and muscular.

The small Mongolian shifted forward, stretched, and grabbed Acemgul's jacket, and used it as a winch to pull the Kazakh from the hole as if he weighed no more than a child.

Michael and Acemgul sat on what they hoped was solid floor and waited for the tremors to cease in their quivering muscles.

Jianjun joined them and quickly noticed a musky yet sweet smell in the air. It wafted up from below. He checked the air meter, but it gave no indication of a problem gas.

“Flowers,” Michael murmured as he struggled to stand. “It smells like flowers.” He repressed a visceral reaction to the strong floral scent in the enclosed space. It brought back terrible memories of his mother’s death. He was only ten-years old, but he would never forget the overwhelming smell of the flowers that surrounded her casket, or how it had nauseated him.

“Peonies,” Jianjun murmured. “Much loved in China.”

A sudden loud whistling of the wind through the main burial chamber paused any further conversation.

“The storm is like a mountain filling the entire western sky.” Batbaatar’s voice shook with worry. “Truly, we must go.”

“The demons tried to swallow me up.” Acemgul stood, his back, shoulders and neck aching. “The sandstorm is a curse cast upon us for desecrating the grave.”

Such superstitions outraged Michael. “Go, if you feel that way!”

Acemgul's expression remained rigid. “I gave my word to help you. I will stay until you say otherwise.”

Michael nodded, sorry for his harsh tone. He moved toward the new hole in the floor, and shined his flashlight into it. “Another chamber, a little smaller. The ground is eight or nine feet down. It explains why the radar reads indicated a deeper tomb than the one we found. I'm going to check it out.”

“The storm is visible.” Batbaatar sounded firm yet resigned. “It will be here in a matter of minutes.”

“Wait. I'll get you another ladder,” Jianjun told Michael as he headed up to ground level. “If you insist on going down there, I won't stop you. But I'm not going down! No way. One ladder, coming up!”

“I'll go with you, Michael,” Acemgul said defiantly, his dark eyes boring into Batbaatar as if challenging the Mongol to dare to argue against their boss' wishes.

It was reckless, Michael knew, given the storm and that there were only four of them. But then, his whole life had been reckless.

He and Acemgul chipped away at the decayed wooden floor until they reached a solid section. When Jianjun brought down the light aluminum extension ladder, they rested it there. Michael felt a surge of excitement, the kind he had felt in the past before making an important discovery.

“Wait here,” he said to the others. “I'll take a quick look.”

He descended the ladder to a second chamber. The floor seemed to have solid ground beneath it. But the scene puzzled him.

Nothing but a large, rectangular wooden box was in the space.

Before he knew it, Acemgul and Jianjun joined him.

“You?” Michael said, bemused, to Jianjun.

The strong light of the Petzl headlamp showed Jianjun’s pale face. The worry in Jianjun's eyes bothered Michael. His assistant loved to talk and complain, but he rarely showed any sign of fear. Usually, he took command of a given situation with the technical knowledge and equipment to handle just about anything that came up. And anything he didn’t know, he knew someone who did. Michael might be his boss, but Jianjun tended to mother-hen him, and more than once his cautious worry saved Michael’s life. At the same time on a few other occasions, Michael's selfless courage returned the favor.

“Don't ask, Michael. Just don't ask. Let's get this show on the road so we can all get out of here.”

Some kind of resin sealed the lid. They pried it off with knives.

Saffron-colored silk, faded and dry, covered the inside. Michael attempted to lift it, but it turned to dust in his hands.

Underneath he found a second large chest surrounded by lacquered bowls and porcelain figurines of tigers and bears. Old, but crude and not remarkable by any means.

In the early Han period, wealthy Chinese often used a two-layered coffin system with an inner and outer receptacle. The inner container would be painted and lacquered with scenes of heaven including spirits and strange animals.

Batbaatar lowered himself half way down the ladder. “You must come now,” he shouted excitedly. “Sand is already falling into the first chamber. It will be all we can do to get back to the gers.”

“Two more minutes,” Michael said, as he and Acemgul studied the second box. Made of teak, floral designs were carved into it. They decided against attempting to lift it out and instead pried off the lid. Inside, they found yet a third chest, also teak, about five feet long and two and a half feet wide.

“Is this a joke?” Michael muttered.

Batbaatar climbed down the rest of the way. “What's keeping you?”

“This might be like one of those Russian nesting dolls.” Michael waved his hand dismissively at the find. “One chest inside the other until you get to the last one which doesn't open or is empty.”

The wind whistled ominously.

“Empty? You're risking your life, and ours, for an empty crate?” Batbaatar gazed longingly back at the ladder, but didn't go toward it.

“We don't know for sure it's empty,” Jianjun said, defending his boss and friend. “That's why we've got to see what's here. The storm will bury all this. If it’s as worthless as the first coffin, we can let it stay buried and go home.”

“Someone or something doesn't want us here,” Acemgul murmured. His eyes lifted to the ceiling, to the opening that could lead them out of this tomb.

Michael peered closer. “There's a design on the chest.”

The design had faded over the years, but they could make out two overlapping triangles with two veed lines and a circle in the center. It wasn't carved, but appeared to have been painted in red dye:



“What does it mean?” Jianjun asked.

“It’s not a symbol I recognize,” Michael replied. Batbaatar and Acemgul were similarly mystified.

Michael attempted to force open the third chest the way he had the earlier two. It didn't work. Some kind of wax or substance that hardened to a granite-like consistency hermetically sealed it.

The howl of the wind grew loud and commanding.

Opening the last chest was taking too long. Batbaatar and Jianjun grew more nervous. Acemgul prepared to take a crowbar to it when Michael raised a hand to stop him. “I've got it.”

It took all four of them to lift off the surprisingly heavy lid.

They gasped in astonishment at the silk banner inside, as bright and soft as the day it was created. Silk paintings often served as burial objects during the Han period.

Against a vermilion background, the scene depicted heaven at the top protected by a dragon, with the sun and a crow on the right, and the moon with a toad and rabbit on the left. In the center, a beautiful woman leaned on a walking stick while three female attendants helped her on her journey upward. Below them, the underworld swirled in darker hues of blue and purple.

On one side near the end of the box lay a piece of paper with a map. They all bent low to study it.

“I am familiar with this,” Batbaatar said with awe on his face. “Our Buddhism comes from Tibet. This type of map gives the dead a means to find their way in the bardo.” He gazed with superiority at Acemgul and explained. “As described in The Book of the Dead, the bardo is the transition period in the afterlife.”

His words confirmed that the chest was a coffin. Acemgul stepped back as he realized what it must contain.

A chill crept along Michael's spine as he proceeded to peel back the silk. Under the banner he found more silk as sheer, fine and soft as if freshly spun.

As he peeled the layers back, a shape began to appear. “It's a woman,” he whispered. “Lady Hsieh. It has to be her. So, she died after all, and her servants hid her body before they fled so her corpse wouldn't be desecrated.”

The sudden pulsating shriek of the wind all but stole his words.

He slowly lowered the last layer. First he saw her hair, as black, shiny and thick as it had been in life, arranged in a high, fashionable style with coils held with combs of gold and rubies.

Next, he saw her face.

She was beautiful with flawless skin, the color of pale ivory, her cheeks lightly rouged as were her lips. A small stone, a deep but brilliant blood red color, lay against those lips, as if she were kissing it.

She wore a dress of pure white silk, delicately embroidered in shades of blue. It skimmed her body showing a slim, youthful figure.

A jade medallion with a gold design in its center of the same interlocking triangles seen on the coffin, had been placed on her chest. His gaze rose again to her face. To see her so perfectly preserved startled him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“It's impossible,” Jianjun said. “No way. No way at all.” He had been standing close to the body, but now he eased back.

A sharp metallic clang! made them all jump. The storm, now gathered to an ear-splitting force, had slammed the aluminum ladder from the wall it leaned against onto the opposite side. The noise resounded in the narrow chamber.

Michael ignored the storm. “What process did they use?” he whispered, as much to himself as to Jianjun. “A modern taxidermist can't keep a body so lifelike. No culture has been known to mummify a body so perfectly or so completely.” He turned to Acemgul and Batbaatar. “How can this be, here in the Mongolian desert?”

Just then, the first grains of sand whipped down upon them.

Her face looked bloodless, yet the skin appeared as fresh and natural as if she simply slept. A stray lock of hair touched her cheek—a stubborn lock as if with a will all its own.

Batbaatar ran to the ladder and began to climb up. “We've got to get out! We'll be buried alive!”

Michael stared at the woman. He knew better, but couldn't help himself, and reached out to brush back the lock of hair, his fingers delicately traveling along her face.

Where he touched, the skin felt soft. Warm. His breathing quickened. He lightly pressed down, and when he lifted his fingertips, her skin reformed with the elasticity of living flesh.

Jianjun saw, and Michael heard his sharp intake of breath.

How could she have been preserved this way?

And what...

He bent low and studied the strange red stone over her lips. He had never seen or heard of a stone that particular color in nature, and wondered if it wasn't an alloy of some sort.

More sand fell. The storm had arrived in full, violent fury.

“We can wait no longer,” Acemgul cried. He began to follow Batbaatar out of the pit. “This will be your own tomb if you don't hurry!”

Ignoring the sand and chaos behind him, Michael glanced at Jianjun. Jianjun understood; his shoulders slumped, everything about this felt wrong to him, yet he nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course. You must.”

As the air of the chamber grew thick with sand and dust, Michael kept his hand steady and used only his forefinger and thumb to grip the red stone. He slowly lifted it from the body's mouth.

Then, unable to believe what he saw, he stood mute and frozen in place.

The woman's eyes opened and she looked straight at him.