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 |  All the GoT stuff, 2024. |
| Apparently this is going to be a load of writing of various types - stories, poems, reviews and, no doubt, just about anything else you can think of. I'll probably update this when I know more. |
| The Other Tomb Yes, this was the Valley of the Kings, but everyone was agreed that all the tombs had been found now. So Egyptologist, Henry Gardner, was there merely to pay a measure of respect to the great ones who had gone before him. Meaning the archaeologists, of course, not the kings themselves. It was a bit too late for any gesture of honour toward them. So when Henry’s toe stubbed a stone as he plodded across the floor of the valley in the oppressive heat, he thought little of it. But it was just enough to make him turn in curiosity to see what had nearly sent him sprawling from his reverie. It was a sharp edge of stone, ruler straight, that emerged from the sand for a few inches, before disappearing under the surface again. That straightness did not look natural. Henry turned back for a closer look. He brushed more of the sand away with his foot. The straight edge continued for several more inches. Henry bent down and began to dig with his fingers into the sand, deepening the dip before the vertical face of the stone. At the same time, he worked on the edges, widening the exposed area to prevent sand falling in from the sides. The vertical section continued downward and then stopped abruptly at a horizontal surface of rock. Henry was working quickly now, shoving great handfuls of sand out of the hole as he followed the stone’s profile. He had not gone much further when he came upon another sharp edge, this time pointing downward again. He knew now what he had found. It was a flight of stone steps leading down into the ground. To where? he thought. Or what? It couldn’t be a tomb, surely, not out here in the open on the valley floor. All the tombs were in the cliffs that ringed this depression in the desert. As he continued deeper, it became a matter indisputable. These were steps leading down into the ground, presumably to an underground chamber of some sort. If not a tomb, it must surely have some connection to the other tombs in the valley. He stopped and considered what to do. Strictly speaking, he should inform the authorities and then try to get permission to arrange a dig for the site. But he did not know yet what he had found. It might just be a storage room of some kind or even a practice tunnel for the stonemasons to learn their trade. Before he entered the web of bureaucracy that surrounded archaeology these days, he needed to know it was going to be worth it. He hurried back to his camp, grabbed a shovel and called his cook and bearer to assist him. Back at the site, the work progressed at great speed as the afternoon wore on toward night. As the last light crept into the tunnel they had exposed, they reached the end. They stood at a flat stone preventing further progress. The typical caulking around the edges showed where the stone fitted into the space prepared for it. The original stonemason’s emblems were pressed into the now hardened seal. It looked as though the tomb was untouched by robbers. Henry was now convinced that it had to be a tomb. Why seal anything else with an official seal? Dreams of spectacular finds within swept through Henry’s mind and he cast aside all caution. Grabbing a shovel, he began to work away at the seal, digging it out of the crevice to loosen the stone. When he’d finished breaking the seal, he inserted the shovel into the crack and levered at the stone to turn it. Incredibly, it moved and, with the other two helping him, Henry began to walk it slowly back, rocking it from side to side, millimetre by millimetre, until there was a gap between stone and wall at one side. Then they pulled at it with brute force and it moved just enough to create an opening large enough to squeeze inside. Henry forced his way in and then, with trembling hand, switched on his flashlight. The tomb contained nothing but a small box, hardly bigger than a shoebox, on a low pedestal in the middle of an empty room. The box was wooden and Henry knew better than to touch it. Most likely it would crumble into dust with the slightest disturbance. With disappointment yawning in his belly, Henry turned the flashlight to the walls. On the back wall there were some hieroglyphs. He went closer and tried to remember all the symbols. It read, as closely as Henry could decipher it: Here lies Tiddles, the honoured and most heavenly cat of the pharaoh Imhotep, on whom be praise and glory. --ooOoo-- House Martell Word count: 795 For "Game of Thrones"  Stolen Artifacts Prompt 9Prompt: A treasure hunter finds a tomb buried beneath the dirt. |
| Raiding History “Why do I have to wear the silly clothes?” asked Hubert. Professor Mannerly continued to make adjustments to the controls to the machine standing in the corner of the laboratory. Without looking up at his assistant, he answered, “To fit in with the period. They’re the normal sort of things worn by an Anglo Saxon freeman in the ninth century. Anything else would make you stand out like a sore thumb. “Fade into the background, that’s what you’ll need to do. And, for pete’s sake, stay away from any chance of being spoken to. I don’t suppose you’ve been keeping up with your lessons on the language, have you, Hubert?” “Well, no. I…” But the Professor was still talking while he fiddled with the fine tuning of some arcane dial on the control panel. “I can only give you twenty-four hours there so you’ll have to work quickly. Don’t take any risks, however. I’d rather you got back safe and sound than to have to wonder forever what happened to you. There’ll be plenty more expeditions after this one. If it’s too difficult to pick something up, just leave it.” “I’ll do me best, Professor,” said Hubert. “I do know a few words of Anglo Saxon, like hello and goodbye, yes and no, so I should be able to get by if I’m asked a question.” “I doubt they’d do anything drastic anyway, even if they did think you a bit strange. Most likely dismiss you as a madman and give you a wide berth. Just be careful, that’s what I’m saying.” “Will do, Professor. These clothes don’t half itch, however. Why do they have to be so scratchy and all?” The Professor seemed to have completed his preparations for he looked up at the assistant. “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. It’s the materials that they wore at the time and I know they’re a bit coarse. But the artefacts, Hubert, they’re different. It was the golden age of English art and their jewellery and weapons and the like were really exquisite. Pick a few of those up and we’ll be rich. But even the common stuff is fetching a good price these days. The Dark Ages are becoming popular, Hubert.” “Well, maybe with them that hasn’t gotta go there,” grumbled Hubert. Mannerly shook his head. “Now, Hubert, don’t start that again. We’ve been through it all before and it’s what I pay you for, after all.” Hubert looked at the floor. “Not much, you don’t,” he muttered. “All in good time," said the Professor cheerily. “I’ve promised you a raise if we’re successful.” So Hubert was strapped into the machine, the Professor pressed and pulled all the necessary handles and levers, and his assistant dematerialised from the machine. Mannerly allowed himself a cigar and a rest in his armchair before starting to work on the settings to pull Hubert back in twenty-four hour’s time. He could, of course, have done it immediately, but preferred to experience the real time involved along with Hubert. The man deserved that, at least, since he was the one taking all the physical risk. And Hubert arrived in a place he recognised as England’s green and pleasant land, not far from a little village that, if his calculations of the Professor’s house address and positioning were correct, would be the centre of Orpington in Hubert’s time. He began the walk through the fields toward it. The houses, quaint affairs of wattle and daub on timber frames under thatched roofs, were clustered rather haphazardly round an open space with a tavern and a mill pond. On the green, a market was in progress, buzzing with activity, animal noises, and the chatter of conversation in a language that sounded very unfamiliar to Hubert. The place was packed with people dressed very much as Hubert was. He decided to mingle but say nothing, whatever happened. In the event, he need not have worried. Everyone was far too involved with their own concerns and Hubert was able to wander through, looking at the wares available in various stalls and tables. There was plenty that could sell for a decent amount in Hubert’s world, but no chance at all of “borrowing” any of it. There were too many people about for that. At the far end of the market, Hubert saw a little stone church standing a way off on its own. Now there, he realised, was a potential source of some pretty valuable things. If he waited until nightfall, he could be in and out of the place very quickly, and then it would heigh-ho for the nineteenth century. He found a suitably hidden spot under a hedge and waited for the sun to go down. As the shadows lengthened, an idea came to him. Instead of taking things back with him, he could bury them here and then return to the place in his own time. Then time would have worked its magic and the process of ageing the items done for him. So it was that midnight found him digging a hole in a carefully chosen and calculated spot in the churchyard. The church would be rebuilt, he knew that, but its position would remain the same. The jewelled cross and several precious receptacles were buried in the satchel he had brought to hold his findings and then Hubert set off across the fields to the interception point. All went well and he arrived back in the professor’s laboratory as expected. Mannerly was there, rubbing his hands with glee and demanding to see what Hubert had brought. And Hubert explained. Mannerley’s face went white as he listened. There was silence when Hubert had finished. Then the professor spoke in a hoarse and high-pitched voice. “I was reading the paper over breakfast this morning. It seems that the grave digger at Orpington church dug up an Anglo Saxon hoard near the church yesterday. Right there in the graveyard. “They say it’s worth millions.” House Martell Word count: 997 For "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers, Stolen Artifacts Prompt 8Prompt: In the nineteenth century, there’s a thriving trade in stolen archeological artifacts. Write a story from the perspective of an annoyed, minimum-wage employee whose job is travelling back in time to obtain otherwise unobtainable artifacts, then has to bring them back to the present (the 1800s, that is) and artificially age them before they will sell. |
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