The Measure of Man

Chapter 1

The ax bit into the soft rock of the cave wall. It crumbled and gave way to reveal more rock underneath. “Dammit!” muttered Falston. “How deep is the damn thing supposed to be?” He raised the pickaxe over his head and brought it down on the wall, carefully aiming to be sure he didn't strike any place that could cause the tunnel to collapse. Again the rock crumbled away only to leave still more rock. With an exasperated sigh, he threw aside the pickaxe. He adjusted his headlamp, and fumbled around in his pack to find his journal. He pulled it out and flipped through its pages, scanning the diagrams, rough maps and cramped notes for any clue. He double-checked all his references. Yes, it definitely should have been here, but how deep? He'd already excavated a good ten feet into the rock wall. He put his journal back in his pack, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He stood staring at the chunk of cave wall he'd already excavated, thoughtfully rubbing his upper lip. “May as well keep at it, I suppose.” He sighed, then once again hefted the pickaxe. He brought it down against the wall, and it sunk into the rock with a satisfying thunk. He wiggled the ax and carefully pulled it out. As bits of rock fell away, he noticed that he had finally broken through to the other side, but the other side of what? There was clearly an opening here.

He pressed his face close, shedding the weak light of his head lamp through the hole. A new cavern opened up before him, but it appeared to be man made. It was regular and smooth, a symmetrical arch under the earth. With trembling hands, he continued to carve out a passage until it was just large enough for him to fit through. He shimmied his way into the new cavern, then took a moment to dust himself off. He searched his bag for his lantern, and switched it on. The weak beam of the lantern spread out before him, revealing what looked like two columns at the far end of the cavern. He walked slowly towards them, trembling with anticipation. Had he actually found it? He had spent so much time in dusty libraries, pouring over old tomes. So much time questioning the locals about their legends and myths. He had become the laughing stock among the other graduate students, but now his work seemed to be paying off. As he reached the columns, he saw that one supported a small torch. He searched his bag for something to light it, and found a packet of matches. He struck one and lit it, illuminating the area. Between the two columns, huge doors had been hewn into the rock. The doors were covered in intricately carved runes. He took a moment to admire the craftsmanship of the doors, and pulled out his journal to make a quick sketch. His sense of curiosity was urging him on, but his inner scholar forced him to stop. He knew the importance of recording these runes. He couldn't make quite make them out, but they looked vaguely familiar. He would worry about translating them later. Recording them was the important thing right now. That and pressing onwards. He finished sketching the last of the runes, and carefully tucked his journal back in pack. He gently placed both hands on the doors, tracing the runes with his fingertips as though trying to read them by touch. He took a deep breath, and pushed.

The doors gave way rather easily considering their size. They swung slowly open into the blackness beyond, grinding and scraping as they went. It had clearly been quite some time since they'd been opened, and they did it rather begrudgingly. The dim light of his headlamp did little to illuminate the room beyond. With the doors opened, he stepped back to retrieve the torch from the column. It seemed to illuminate the room far better than his lantern. He swung slowly around, surveying the new room. It appeared to be a catacomb of sorts. There were recesses dug into the walls, containing urns and canopic jars. A few held dusty mummies. He paused, examining each of them. They hadn't been terribly important in life. They had been hastily wrapped and prepared, and seemed to have been tossed into the catacombs with very little care or concern. He noticed that many of the sconces on the walls still held torches. He lit them as he went, slowly illuminating his surroundings. The passage seemed as though it stretched out forever, and he continued slowly on as it slowly wound down, further into the earth. The tunnel wound into the darkness. It was inviting, and yet sinister as though the very belly of the earth were calling to him to relinquish his very life to it's vast depths.

The further he ventured, the more he noticed that the dead had been preserved and interred with greater and greater care. Some of the corpses had even been adorned with linens and jewels. Clearly the wealthier dead had been interred further down in the catacombs. It seemed more and more that this was the lost burial site that the local elders had reluctantly told him about. They were not very trusting of visitors, and the local colonists did nothing to help matters. Yet Falston was nothing if not persistent, and they eventually yielded their stories. The memory of the place had been all but lost to the culture. It was barely a whisper, a vague recollection of near-forgotten bedtime stories told them by their parents and grandparents when they were small children. The stories had been passed on for so many generations now that no one had known its whereabouts for centuries, possibly more. But if this was indeed the legendary burial site, then that meant...no. He didn't dare to hope. He was a scientist, and he was going to proceed calmly and rationally. It wouldn't do him any good to let his own eagerness and anticipation cloud his judgment. He pressed on, occasionally stopping to jot down some notes and sketches in his journal.

He reached a short, narrow passageway. There were no bodies here. The wall was smooth, but for the runes covering it. It appeared almost wet, and the torchlight danced and shimmered off the rock, making it appear as though the rock itself were liquid, undulating downward in waves. He crept slowly down the tunnel, stopping to jot down the new runes as he passed. After what seemed like miles, the tunnel came to an end. There was a small circular door carved into the rock. Falston pushed, but the door wouldn't budge. He examined the door, and noticed what appeared to be hand holds carved into it. He set aside the torch, and placed his hands into position. He began to rock the door, and noticed there was some give as he rocked the door towards the east side of the tunnel. He gave a mighty heave, and the door rolled up into the wall. He took a minute to catch his breath, then proceeded into the next room. It was a rather large room, with a dais in the middle. On top of the dais there was what appeared to be a large stone coffin . He approached slowly, carefully surveying the room as he went. Apart from the dais and coffin, the room appeared to be empty. He examined the coffin, which bore the image of a young man, likely some sort of ruler in the lost city whose dead resided here. He set the torch in a nearby sconce, and took a moment to sketch the man's image in his journal, then placed both hands on the stone slab sealing the coffin and pushed. It moved slowly, grinding and scraping reluctantly. It had had known no touch for centuries. It protested loudly, its ancient, rasping voice reverberating deep within the hollow chamber. Falston retrieved his torch, and peered into the coffin. He gasped in surprise, for the coffin did not contain the mummified remains of a stately ruler as he had expected, but instead a staircase. He hoisted himself up and over the lip of the coffin, and took his first hesitant step. The wall of the staircase was bare, completely devoid of the runes that had been so abundant elsewhere. There wasn't even a sconce to be found to help illuminate the darkness. The feeble torchlight was little help, illuminating only the steps before him. He took step after step, plunging him further and further into the unknown void. He counted his steps as he went. He counted nearly one hundred before he finally reached a landing with a small opening carved into the rock.

The room beyond was bare, but for a podium in the center which held two large stone slabs. He reached out to take the one on the left, and scrutinized the marks that covered it. The tablet was covered in runes like the ones he'd seen covering the walls of the catacombs and the immense doors at the entrance. The second tablet contained similar runes, but also some marks he was more familiar with – cuneiform. Falston laughed out loud. “I can use this to translate the runes!” he shouted. He sat on the dusty floor, and placed the two tablets on the ground before him. Working slowly using the cuneiform to translate the runes, he realized that the tablets appeared to be telling a story, the legend of an artifact referred to simply as “The One”. “But why cuneiform? How on earth would that sort of writing have ended up here, half way around the world?” There had to be a reason it was here. The mere fact of its existence here on its own was more than enough to provide him a lifetime's worth of mystery and scholarly respect for its discovery. Ancient middle-eastern merchants were well known travelers, but there had never been any evidence they'd made it this far West, so what was the purpose of a translating the story into a language no one in the could have read? And how was the author able to translate it in the first place? “It must be some sort of hoax” he muttered. He turned the tablets over and over in his hand. Falston shook with excitement. If these tablets were authentic, then here was his thesis, unfolding before him, the discovery of a lifetime. He took a deep breath to calm himself. There was translating to be done! If he could finish translating the tablet, then it would make the work of translating the other runes a lot less difficult. Translating was difficult work, and the more he could do now, the better. However, his neck was stiff and aching. He got to his feet and stretched, and brushed the dust off his clothing. He picked up the tablets to put them in his bag when the last line on the tablet caught his eye. He took a second to look at it but could only make out a few words: “Weighed...Balanced...Judgment...”



Chapter 2

In a crowded ivy league lecture hall, there sat a very bored young man. To be sure, there were many bored young men; it was a college lecture hall, after all. They are always a particularly good source of bored young men, but this young man was filled with the sort of extreme boredom that borders on anxiety. He sprawled in the uncomfortable auditorium seating, staring at the ceiling as though seeking the answers to the universe in the plaster tiles. At first glance he appeared lethargic, the sort of slacker who arrives in class on test days, or when there’s a brief lull in his social calendar and he has nothing better to do. On closer inspection, one could see that his slumping form was less sloth-like and more like a bundle of potential energy, a spring waiting to bounce into action at any moment. He needed to be in motion. He tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for the lecture to finally come to a close. At last, the professor dismissed the class, hastily reminding them all to do the reading before the room disrupted into the noise and chaos of a hundred students bustling and shuffling about. He shot from his seat and bolted out of the hall into the crisp autumn afternoon. He was free! Well, nearly free. There was still that meeting with his advisor. He sprinted across campus, leaves crunching under his feet as he pulled in lungfuls of the fresh chill air. He loved to run, loved the freedom in it. He loved the feel of the air on his skin as he ripped through space, tearing past the elegant brick lecture halls, undergrads lounging on the grass, harried graduate students fretfully toting armfuls of gigantic tomes. Finally, he arrived at the offices of the Archeology and Anthropology department. The immense building towered before him, all pillars and friezes. He swept through the doors, and up the great marble staircases towards his advisor’s office. He strode confidently down the hallway, and gave a bold knock at the first door. He entered without waiting for an answer, and plopped himself down in a small chair facing the Professor’s large desk. Professor Mermian looked up from the open file on his desk. “Howard, wonderful to see you. Thank you for meeting me.” He folded his hands on the desk in front of him, and peered over his reading glasses at Howard, as though sizing him up. “A bit out of breath are we?” Howard grinned, and pushed a lock of his curly brown hair out of his eyes “I ran all the way here from Mercer Hall”. He stretched out in the small chair resting his arms behind his head. “So what can I do for you Doc?” Mermian cleared his throat. “Well son, as you know, the deadline to submit your topic for your Master’s Thesis is fast approaching. Have you given any thought to the sort of work you’d like to do? Keep in mind your choice could set the tone for your entire career”

“But no pressure or anything like that right?”

Mermian fixed him with a stern gaze, and leaned over his desk menacingly “I suggest you take this a little more seriously Mr. Davis. We’re not just talking about your career here. When a professor agrees to take on a candidate, we are in essence vouching for that candidate. Despite your attitude, I see a certain potential in you. I am putting my reputation at stake here, and I would appreciate it if you would at least make an attempt to see the gravity of the situation.”

“Believe me sir, I am grateful for the opportunity, and I have given some thought to my topic.”

Mermian sat back in his chair. “Wonderful! What are you thinking of?”

“Oh, something like the juxtapositions of Mesopotamian and Mayan Culture.”

Mermian raised an eyebrow. “You can’t be serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“Might I suggest something a litttle safer? Native American cultures perhaps? There is a dig going on in Arizona in a couple of months. The deadline to sign up for the trip has already passed, but as the Dean I do have a bit of sway here. I’m sure I can arrange something for you.” As Mermian reached for the phone, Howard placed his hand over Mermian’s. “With all due respect sir, I have absolutely no interest in Native American culture. I feel my skills would be much better utilized doing something I enjoy”

“Let me tell you something about the academic world, my boy. We all need to do things we don’t like at times. It’s a bureaucracy, and that means sucking up, so to speak, until you’ve got some clout. Get some serious research under your belt first, make some contributions to the field. If you’re absolutely serious about making this your career, then you need to garner some respect first. Perhaps someday if you find yourself with tenure then you can galavant off and explore any silly little thing your heart desires.”

“Fine. I’ll do the dig in Arizona.”

Mermian smiled a tight lipped smile. “Very good, I’ll make the necessary arrangements and email you all the details.” Mermian reached out to shake his hand. “I know it doesn’t seem it now, but you really are making the best decision for yourself. Trust me, play it safe. Going to this dig will pay off in the end.” They shook hands, and Howard turned and headed out the door.

His energy and excitement of earlier had faded. He strolled slowly through the hall and down the stairs. He paused at the double doors, and stared morosely at the floor. He took a deep breath, and plunged through the doors out into the chilly fall air.

Howard shuffled along the sidewalk dejectedly, hands in his pockets and his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. He knew Mermian was right, and he hated him for it. Bitter tears sprung to his eyes. Despite the lackadaisical attitude he projected, he had worked hard to get to this point. All the studying, all the hours in cramped lecture halls. He had hoped by this point he would finally been able to dive into the work that interested him, the reason he’d chosen archaeology in the first place. He hated academia, hated that he still had to jump through hoops to please the powers that be. He hated that he couldn’t just strike out on his own. There was no way he could possibly fund his own expedition. To do that he needed grant money, and there was no way he’d be able to procure that grant money without a solid academic reputation. Almost without noticing, he arrived at his campus apartment. He dug in his pocket for his keys. They jangled in his hand, and he slowly slid his key into the lock and opened the door. He dropped his keys and phone and the small table beside the door. He crossed the small foyer into his living room. The rubber soles of his shoes padded softly across the worn hardwood floors. He crossed the room, and flopped into the large green armchair in the center of the living room. He took a deep breath and let himself sink into the soft upholstery. He closed his eyes and stretched, then reached out for the well-worn book on the small table beside the chair. The spine was cracked nearly in half; it was clear the book had been opened and closed many times over the years. The pages were yellowed at the edges, and several bore coffee stains. The margins were covered with notes in Howard’s tight, precise handwriting. As he flipped through the pages, his weariness overwhelmed him. His head began to droop lower and lower, and he struggled to keep his eyelids open. It wasn’t long before he began to snore softly.

He dreamt of a young boy, sick in bed. The boy was lying quietly. He yearned to be outside, in motion, but his body wouldn’t allow it. The flu had drained him of all his energy. The cartoonish sounds of children’s television emanated from the television in the corner, but it did nothing to hold the boy’s interest. He tossed a yellow tennis ball up and down, bouncing it off the ceiling and catching it again. Up and down the little yellow ball bounced until the boy threw it a bit too hard. It ricocheted off the ceiling and bounced into the hallway. “Mom!” yelled the boy. “Mom! I need my ball! Will you come bring me my ball?” An old man walked in from the hallway. He was wearing a large grey overcoat and a floppy grey cabby hat. Shocks of curly white hair stuck out from under the hat at all angles. In one hand, he was holding the ball. In his other arm he carried so many books that they threatened to tumble to the floor with one wrong move. He looked sternly at the young boy. “Don’t you mean mom can you get my ball please?”. The boy looked sheepish. “Yeah, I guess I forgot. Can I have my ball please?” The old man tossed the boy the ball, then sat down in the rocking chair across from the bed. He piled the books neatly on his lap, then took a minute to look the boy over. “How are you feeling? Your mother said you’re bored out of your mind. You’re driving her nuts you know.”

“I know, but I just hate being sick. I hate laying here. I just want to go outside and play. There’s nothing to do in here!”

“That’s why I’m here. I’ve brought you some books to read. If you like, I can stay for awhile and read to you”

The boy looked skeptically at the pile of books in the man’s lap. “Grampa, books are boring. I think I’d rather take my chances with daytime tv. I hate books”

“Boring? Have you ever read a book that wasn’t for school? Something with a little adventure in it? Here, you’ll like this one. There’s mystery and adventure” The boy’s grandfather took a small green hardback. The boy caught it and examined it skeptically. “Give it a try,” prodded his grandfather. “Tell you what, read the whole thing and if you still don’t like it, I promise I’ll take you on an extra long hiking trip just as soon as you get better.” This got the boy’s attention. He loved to hike. He loved any activity that involved being outside and moving, but hiking with his grandfather was his favorite. His grandfather knew the woods in the area well, so they seldom stuck to a trail. His grandfather would lecture him about the local flora and fauna, and as long as he listened patiently and waited for his grandfather to finish, he was given time afterwards to explore as pleased. As long as he stayed within shouting distance of his grandfather, he could wander and roam about the woods to his heart’s content. He was sure he would hate this book, so it seemed to be a pretty easy bet. “Alright Grandpa, I’ll give it a try.” The old man rose slowly from the rocking chair, stretching, and set the rest of the books on the floor. “I’m going to go help your mother with dinner. I’ll let you get started, and I’ll come check in on you in a little bit.” The boy cracked open the book, and began to read.

Howard jerked forward, and his eyes snapped open. The book he’d been holding clattered to the floor. He yawned, stretched, then reached down to pick up the book. He took a moment to examine it. It was a small green hardback, clearly worn from decades’ of being read over and over again. He smiled, and patted the cover of the book. He didn’t want to go on the dig, but he had to keep his priorities in order. Right now it was time to jump through the hoops of academia, listen to a few more lectures. If he was patient, and did what he had to do, the time would come when he could explore whatever his heart desired.





Chapter 3

He sat slumped in his dirty chair, muttering to himself. His bone thin fingers scratched restlessly, as though he were trying to dig the answers he sought out of the upholstery. He was mad, but it was a quiet madness, one that had crept upon him slowly over time. He wasn't the sort of man who raged in public or made grandiose claims to the throne of England, yet he was mad nonetheless. His was a disturbing sort of madness. He would rave occasionally, yelling incoherently, spittle flying from his mouth. He would attempt to throw furniture, but was too small and feeble. When his rages struck, the staff just locked him in whatever room he was in, and leave him in there till he was through. They could deal with this, they were used to this. It was the trances they found disturbing. They came sometimes after his fits, when he laid on the floor in the fetal position sobbing. Suddenly, his sobbing would cease. His body would unfold, and he would stand slowly. He would then begin to pace the room, chanting in a strange dialect. This could continue for hours. When he was finished, he would completely shut down, crumpling into himself as though an inner black hole was drawing him further and further into the core of his own being. It was as though he were paralyzed in terror, and no one could get a word out of him other than a few whispered syllables of nonsense and gibberish. He could not be soothed. Times like this, the best they could do for him was help him to his chair, and wait it out.

When he first came to the home, he’d been more or less lucid, almost enough to convince you that perhaps he wasn't so crazy after all. At first, he’d been quite capable of carrying on a conversation, and often a very pleasant one at that. He was an expert in many subjects, and always had an interesting fact or tidbit. Over the years his lucid moments had become fewer and fewer, and the stretches of madness were becoming longer. Dr. Lawrence had questioned him about it a few times, but it had set him off and he'd been nearly catatonic for days. The doctor had learned, he knew better than to ask those sort of questions now. He had cared once, but too many years working with mad men had left him a tired and cynical man. The old man was supposed to have therapy during his snatches of clarity, but the doctor didn't have it in him anymore. It wasn't that the old man was difficult; He was a perfectly polite, respectable gentleman when he wasn't shaking and raving. During these times, the only thing that could tip you off that he wasn't just your average old man was the haunting look of sadness that you could see if you looked into his eyes and held his gaze. The doctor had once, and something in the old man's eyes had disturbed him, as though gnawing away slowly at his soul. It was for this reason that he now stuck to pleasantries like the weather and the result of the game.

Lately, the frequency of the old man's trances seemed to be steadily increasing. There didn't seem to be a discernible reason why. His last fit had been incredibly violent. He’d screamed for hours, scratching at his skin and tearing at his hair. He pounded on the walls, shrieking and wailing as though he were being attacked. Then came the chanting. It had lasted for nearly seven hours this time. Just as the staff was readying a sedative, the old man collapsed into a catatonic state, and he’d remained that way since. He hadn’t spoken a word in days. He’d been sitting in the same chair, moving for nothing. A younger version of the good doctor would have been intrigued. He would have worked tirelessly, pondering different treatment possibilities. The years had worn on him, and he was much more inclined to attribute the old man’s deteriorating condition to his age. His greatest concern at the moment was getting the old man's therapy session out of the way so he could get out to his weekly golf game. Golf was one of the few things he still enjoyed. When he was out on the green, with the soft grass beneath his feet, the sunshine warming his shoulders, breathing the crisp New England air, it let him forget all the years he felt he'd wasted treating the untreatable, attempting to fix minds so broken that all the pieces could never be found to be patched together.

He bustled into the therapy room, and cursed silently under his breath. The old man appeared to be catatonic again. He was slumped over in the chair with a blank expression on his face, picking at the faded upholstery of a chair that had seen far too many patients. Dr. Lawrence crossed the room, and took a seat in the big leather armchair facing the old man. He plastered on a smile. “Good afternoon, Leonard. How are we feeling today?” The old man didn’t respond, in fact he didn’t seem aware that there was anyone in the room with him at all. “Not feeling very chatty today? I can’t even get a hello?”. Leonard remained silent. “You know Leonard, it’s rather rude not to acknowledge someone who’s speaking to you. Perhaps we should work on that.” Leonard sneezed, but remained otherwise unresponsive. Dr. Lawrence was growing frustrated and impatient. He could be outside right now, enjoying the day. He could be playing golf, but instead he was wasting time with this old coot. He threw his hands into the air in exasperation. “You know Leonard, perhaps if you would respond to people when they spoke to you, things would be easier on you. Perhaps someone would actually come to visit you once in awhile.” At this, the old man looked up. He looked Dr Lawrence dead in the eye, and held his gaze. “Oh, I do expect I shall be getting a visitor quite soon, doctor. Any day now.” He held the doctor’s gaze for a minute his piercing green eyes ablaze, as though lit by some demonic fire within. Dr. Lawrence shrunk away from the old man’s gaze. “Is th-that so?” He stuttered. “That’s wonderful Leonard. Well, I suppose that’s all for today, same time next week?” and with that he rushed from the room without waiting for Leonard’s response, and hastily shut the door behind him. He took a second to gain his composure, closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths to calm himself. Leonard had never seemed threatening before, but something about the look in his eyes had shaken Dr. Lawrence. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and strolled down the hall to his office where his golf clubs were ready and waiting for him.

Chapter 4

Falston stood at the bottom of the huge stone stairs leading up to the doors of the museum. He held a folder which he clutched tightly to his chest, as though dropping the folder would be the end of him. He fidgeted, his fingers absently scratching at the thin cardboard of the folder. He was nervous, and that made him restless. He opened the folder, and glanced quickly through his notes. Everything seemed to be in order. He’d given presentations like this before, but never of this magnitude. He felt as though his entire future was hinged on this moment. The implications of his discovery were huge. If his tablets could be verified, it would change everything they knew about early Middle Eastern and Mayan culture. he took a deep breath, and slowly climbed the stairs. He pushed open the huge doors of the museum, and strode down into the giant entryway. He took a second to look around. He loved it here, and he took comfort in the familiar artifacts displayed in the large lobby. Perhaps someday his artifacts could be displayed here. The thought gave him comfort, and he headed down into the lecture hall.

The room was already packed. Nearly a hundred people, mostly scholars, had turned up to hear his presentation. He wasn’t sure if they were here to applaud him or rip him to shreds, but he would find out very soon when the time came for questions. He stepped up to the podium, arranged his notes, and cleared his throat.

“Thank you all for being here. Several months ago, I was on an expedition to Guatemala when I made a rather unique and unusual discovery. I was following up on stories I’d heard - local legends really - about lost burial grounds of the local indigenous people. They are a small tribe, descended from the Maya, but they broke off from the Maya civilization ages ago. The reasons for this break have been lost to time. All that is known currently is that they settled the southern coast of Guatemala.” Falston paused, and looked around the room. So far, so good. This was a very sensitive discovery, and he had to present it correctly. He cleared his throat, and continued. “After hearing many stories from local elders and piecing together where the burial grounds might be, I found several promising locations, among them the caves of the region currently known as Champerico. It was within these caves that I located the burial ground the elders had spoken of.” Falston quickly looked up and surveyed the room. This was not typical of Mayan burial practices, but compared to the news of the tablet he had found, this would be nothing. He continued, “As I’m sure many of you are aware, underground catacombs are not typical of Maya burial practices. As I’ve said, I believe that this culture broke off from Maya civilization early on in it’s development, and developed their own culture surrounding burial practices and preservation of the dead. It is interesting to note that the dead were laid to rest in niches carved into the cavern. It is also interesting to note that they appeared to be preserved in a style similar to that of the Egyptians of the time.”