BENE-HA-ELOHIM (THE CHILDREN OF GOD) An Elena Duran-Corazon Negro Story 2/15 by Julio Cesar divad72@prodigy.net.mx Great Desert of Australia March 20, 2013 "I'm sure this moment will live in our minds forever," declared John Patrick, his voice thick with emotion. Anxiously, he stood with his three companions and watched as Paul Smith, the explosives expert of their party, set the proper charges. Paul worked in a shallow gully a dozen yards away. In a few minutes, the massive stone door that blocked the entrance to the ancient temple they had uncovered would be gone. And they could claim the treasures inside. John felt certain than he and his fellow renegade Watchers were about to become famous beyond their wildest dreams. These ruins were ancient. Sealed nearly eight thousand years ago, before the Bronze Age, this structure had remained undisturbed ever since. It was the lifelong fantasy of every Hunter-Watcher, a temple filled with relics before the Biblical times. The objects that were within had to be worth millions, perhaps tens of millions. And even when that was their main inspiration, there was a bonus. Maybe if they succeeded, possibly they would be able to learn more about the Immortals in order to destroy them. They needed the money. Twenty years ago, a man named James Horton had started a new crusade. St. Horton-as they called him-was a legend among the novices by the time they joined the brotherhood. They were determined to follow St. Horton's teachings. "Are you sure you want me to use this much dynamite?" Paul asked as he completed his preparations. "The blast will completely destroy the barrier. The carving on the stone is remarkably preserved. The writing is gone, but the image of the winged-woman remains intact. It would bring a handsome price for our personal Watcher's museum." "Fuck them. Smash it," Mark Gibson, the leader of their party, said. "It blocks the only known entrance to the temple. The rocks weigh tons. It would take days to move if we could even move it at all. We have no time. We have spent too many days here already. Our supplies are growing short." "How would we carry it home, Paul?" John asked, anxious to explore the temple itself. Poor his entire life, he was thinking about the wealth that waited. "On your back? It won't fit in either jeep." Paul shrugged. "It's not my business to worry about such details. Still, I hate demolishing anything that might be worth hard cash." "Finish your work," Mark said. "John's right. The rock doesn't matter. On this first trip we need to take only the very finest items. Strike fast and take as much as possible: that's the way to handle such finds. Once the superiors inside the Watcher's brotherhood learn of this place, they'll close the site to hard-working businessmen like ourselves." "And stash the loot for themselves in a Swiss bank account," John said. "The thieving motherfucker dogs." "Enough jabbering," said Ivan Burroughs, the only non-Watcher in their party. A German geologist and engineer, it was Burroughs, who, while doing survey work for a major oil company, had stumbled upon the ruins two years before. It had taken him long months to find a band of diggers who were desperate enough to risk their lives and their membership in that crazy Watches' brotherhood to accompany him. He didn't care about such organizations. In his practical mind, it was a waste of time. A big, burly thug of a man, with shaven head and beady, pig-like eyes, Burroughs was always in a hurry. "I've waited a thousand days to see what's inside this dammed hole. The night is half over already and we still haven't gotten in. Blow up the damn stone." Mark scowled. A strict Catholic, he disliked profanity; the followers of his religion forbade it. In Borroughs' case, however, he made an exception, and did not complain-at least for the present. The ruins were located in the southern corner of the Great Desert of Australia, the 'Empty Wastes' as the aborigines called it. One of the most inhospitable regions on the entire planet, the Great Desert of Australia was a vast sandy wasteland, utterly devoid of life. Temperatures soared to over 130 degrees Fahrenheit during the day, and night offered little relief from the heat's intensity. There was no water for hundreds of miles. In truth, only madmen or geologists dared challenge the silence of the 'Empty Wastes', and much of the desert had remained unexplored. Located in the most barren region of the wasteland, where not even scorpions could survive, the ruins had been buried beneath mounds of shifting sands, and essentially ignored or forgotten for a millennium. Forgotten, that is, until Burroughs, driving across the desert in search of mineral deposits, noticed a small finger of stone projecting from the dunes, and soon realized he had found a lost outpost of the fabled temple. "It is ready," John cried, scrambling out of the shallow gully as fast as he could. "Ten seconds. Get down." The blast shook the earth. For an instant, darkness turned into bright daylight; and then the night, lit only by the moonlight and the glare of their electric torches, returned. They worked at night to escape the sun's scathing rays. "I'll be dammed!" John cried. "The fucking stone is gone!" The explosives had done the job. The huge rock blocking the way into the underground temple was shattered into thousands of stone fragments. Where it stood gaped a black corridor leading at a sharp angle down into darkness. "Gut," Burroughs said, grinning. "We go inside now, aren't we?" he asked, his German accent stronger due to his excitement. "Sure," answered Mark. "Immediately." He pointed to the heavy cloth sacks they had brought from their camp. "Take the sacks. Fill them with everything you find. Even the smallest statue is worth thousands. Leave nothing behind for the Watcher jackals." John marched third into the tunnel, behind Mark and Burroughs. Following him came Paul. Tough, wiry individuals, veterans of a hundred of illegal enterprises, they were gifted with a complete lack of consciousness. Or fear. The air in the corridor was dry and stagnant with age. All of them wore wet cloths over their mouth and nostrils to help moisten the air they breathed. Ancient buildings were like leeches, sucking liquid from their bodies and absorbing it into the parched air like water to a dry sponge. "There is something very strange about this place," Mark declared after they had been walking for a few minutes. "It is not an ordinary temple. Such buildings never had long entrances. Even those located beneath the ground have only short foyers. And there are no pictures or sacred writings on these walls. There should be carvings everywhere. It is not right. We are in Australia, the lack of writing is strange." "Yes, I agree," said Burroughs. "I, too, find it very unusual here. This tunnel goes too far down into the earth. We are already fifty meters beneath the desert floor. I think this temple is no temple. It is a tomb." "A tomb?" Paul asked with a shake of his head. "Never. Why anyone would build a mausoleum in the middle of the desert? There is no record anyway about such constructions in this continent. More likely, we are descending into an ancient storehouse. The aboveground ruins looked like a garrison. Perhaps those buildings served as headquarters for guards watching the goods collected around here." "Ancient treasure house!" John said excitedly. "Don't legends inside the Watchers talk about it?" "Fairly tales for children," declared Mark skeptically. "Most probable, there was an oasis here thousands of years ago. And this location served as an outpost along a trade route. That would make more sense." "We will know the correct answer in a moment," Paul declared. "The tunnel widens into a room just ahead." He was fascinated by their discovery. Whatever the ruin was, it was too advanced for ancient Australia. It was very unusual and exciting. They emerged into a huge chamber, so vast that their flashlights barely touched its far walls. The room was circular, about forty feet in diameter. The solid rock ceiling was twenty feet high, and covered with strange writings, still bright after millennia. Similar symbols decorated the walls and floor of the room as well. Marks began to feel uncomfortable as he stared at the glyphs. They made his eyes hurt. Something about them was wrong. They were not meant to be read-or seen. "These words are cursed," declared Paul, shielding his eyes with one hand. "Even though I don't know what they mean, they make my head spin." "They are in no language I recognize," Mark said. "Who cares about the damn scribbling?" Ivan Burroughs said angrily. He raised a beefy arm and pointed to the center of the chamber. "What is that?" The focus of Burroughs' curiosity stood six feet high, fifteen feet long, and six feet wide: a gigantic altar. It was made from the same unyielding stone as the door they had destroyed to gain entrance into the hallway. The altar was the only object in the entire room. "Perhaps the treasure is inside the altar," Mark said, expressing hope he no longer felt. "It looks like a chest." "Perhaps," Paul said, his voice betraying his doubts. "We will need more dynamite to remove the top. It must weigh a ton." "I do not like this spot," John said. A practical, soft-spoken man with a degree in history, he was ordinarily cold and emotionless during their expeditions. "I think we should get out of here immediately. I agree with Paul-this place is cursed." "The winged-woman's seal on the door," Burroughs said, muttering to himself. "I read about her. I remember now-she was the Mother of the Demons." "But the treasure," John began, sensing that a fortune was slipping from his grasp. "The treasure is not here," Ivan Burroughs bellowed suddenly. The big German 's face had turned beet red. "Don't you understand? That thing there isn't a treasure chest. Nor an altar. It's a fucking coffin. A stone coffin!" "A coffin?" John said. "You are crazy." He laughed at Burroughs, who was showing his beliefs in ancient curses. "Who could.?" He never finished his question. A granting noise filled the chamber as the stone lid on the altar shifted a few inches. Something inside was sliding the top off the tomb. "Gott in Himmel," whispered Burroughs, the color draining from his face. "What thing could live thousands of years trapped inside a sealed stone box?" "An Immortal, obviously, but I don't want to find out which one," Mark declared, stepping backward toward the tunnel that had brought them to the chamber. "Paul, do you have any dynamite?" "I left it with our supplies and the weapons," Paul answered. "Outside, by the jeeps." "When we get to the surface, use it to seal the tunnel entrance!" Mark yelled. "Immediately!" Stone shrieked in protest as the lid shifted another few inches. A claw-like hand, the color of old bone, its five fingers capped with inches-long nails, emerged from the altar and grasped the edge of the cover. Fragments of rock exploded as the digits curled into the stone. "Fucking shit! God protect us!" Paul feverishly said. "Run! Run for your lives!" A cloud of dust rose from the tomb, filling the chamber. Paul howled with fright and bolted for the exit, followed by Mark. John, still bewildered by what was taking place, remained where he was. Next to him, Ivan Burroughs stood frozen, as if hypnotized. "Wir los ein Teufel von Holle!" yelled the German. "When we destroyed the seal in the entrance we broke some kind of spell!" "Demon?" John said with nervous laugh. "Only children believe in such nonsense!" "God almighty," Burroughs whispered. A figure moved in the dust cloud that obscured the tomb from a view. A woman's shape stepped ponderously forward. "Lilitu," said the German. "It is Li." Lilitu's hand whipped out of the darkness. Her fingers wrapped around Burroughs' neck. The German shrieked as nails the size of spines sank into his flesh. Effortlessly, Lilitu lifted him into the air. Horrified, John stumbled backward. His feet tangled, and he sprawled to the ground. The fall jarred the flashlight from his grip, and it rolled across the floor; its beam, flipping over and over, produced a shifting kaleidoscope of flashes of light and dark. For an instant, Lilitu was illuminated. It was the shape of a beautiful woman. The red hair drooped gently to her waist, and her green eyes shone majestically. She was naked and John could see her red pubis. And clasped in her hand was the limp body of Ivan Burroughs, blood dripping from the wounds in his neck. John screamed. The lamp landed face down on the floor and the chamber was enveloped in darkness. He curled himself into a ball, shuddering, as Lilitu roared words in a language he didn't recognize. Her voice echoed through the giant room like the beating of a huge gong. John felt certain the woman was trying to question Burroughs. But no response came from the German. He was either badly hurt or dead. Again, Lilitu howled her queries and again Burroughs did not answer. Desperately, John searched the blackness for his flashlight. He couldn't find it, nor was he sure he wanted to see what was happening. Lilitu was no longer speaking. Instead, the room was filled with a terrible hissing, almost a laugh sound. And a gruesome crunching that made John bite his lower lip in terror. Then, her feet thumping like trip hammers, Lilitu stomped across the floor of the cavern to the tunnel that led to the surface. John swallowed, not sure what to do next. Astonishingly enough, he was still alive and unharmed; he had no idea, however, how long he would stay that way. He didn't want to know whether Lilitu was gone or if she plotted to return. Following her to the surface did not seem like a good idea, but remaining in her lair was an equally unappealing alternative. After two minutes of carefully running his hands across the ground, he recovered his flashlight. Miraculously, it still worked. With a sigh of relief, he swung the beam around the room. It came to rest on a smashed pile of flesh and bones that had been Ivan Burroughs. Cautiously, John approached the corpse. He gulped, fighting down the bile that churned in his stomach, when he saw the condition of the German's neck and chest. A huge chunk had been ripped right out of Burroughs' body. With a moan of terror, John saw that Lilitu had taken the flesh with her own hands. Gasping for breath, John rushed for the tunnel. Better to be caught in the passageway and die fighting than await the woman's return. John might be a thief, but he was not a coward. Halfway up the tunnel, he felt the floor suddenly begin to shake. Dynamite! John remembered Mark's instructions to Paul. Cursing, he prayed that the blast hadn't sealed the entrance to the underground corridor, trapping him inside with the demon. Desperately, he quickened his pace. Until he heard the rattle of gunfire. And the screaming of men in agony. Moonlight gleaming into the tunnel convinced him that the opening remained clear. But the horrible shrieks of his companions slowed John's ascent to a crawl. The silence that followed was equally unnerving. A dozen feet from the entrance, he dropped to his belly and wiggled the rest of the way forward. Cautiously, he peered outside. Nothing moved in the moonlight. Though it felt like hours, he had been underground for less than twenty minutes. Anxiously, he scanned the area with his eyes; but as he was at the bottom of a gully, he could see nothing unusual. Consigning his soul to God, John raised himself up to a standing position. He remained motionless, waiting for Lilitu to appear. After counting to a hundred, he decided Lilitu was no longer in the area. Nervously, he climbed out of the gully and went searching for his companions. They weren't hard to find. Their bodies, in much the same condition as the German's, were scattered around their two jeeps. Both of them were dead, expressions of incredible shock etched across their features. Gaping wounds bore mute testament to the fury of her attack, and their blood flowed around their bodies. Bullets and dynamite had failed to stop Lilitu or even slow her down. Shaking his head in dismay, John wondered if any weapon on earth could destroy her, although he had no intention of learning the answer. After killing Paul and Mark, Lilitu had stalked off into the desert. Her footprints, impressed into the sands, pointed north. John turned the jeep south. Upon reflection, he realized that his words of earlier that evening had been correct. The memory of this night would live in his thoughts forever.