Savannah found the Sahara a very harsh mistress.
She’d been on archeological digs in dry regions before, but this desert was the grandmother of them all. A super-arid desolate place, plagued with fierce winds, sizzling heat, and wide temperature swings. After four months, she’d lost six pounds, her arms were burnt brown, and the ends of her hair bleached to a dirty blond.
This morning, as she walked from the camp, she glanced around uneasily. Everything seemed off. The air was unnaturally heavy, the sky a leaden gray, and there were no signs of the little horned lizards scurrying amongst the rocks, or the brown-necked ravens that hunted in the stony outcrop above the dig. She looked over at the dunes in the distance that were the beginning of the deep desert. They were a ghostly white, as if all the color had been leached out of the sand. Shrugging off her disquiet, Savannah climbed down into the trench. She was working alone this morning, her partner having been laid low with a stomach bug, a common hazard in foreign lands.
With her favorite tool, a small flat-bladed trowel that had seen her through many digs, she knelt to continue the delicate excavation. And as usual, once she started, she completely forgot about time and the outside elements. Three hours later, still totally focused on her work and with loud music pumping through her earbuds, she missed the first warning : the whistling wind that sent little dust swirls dancing angrily across the barren ground. Nor did she hear the frantic voice echoing from the two-way radio.
Completely absorbed, she gently edged away the clay clinging to the ceramic bowl in the ground. When the last crumb was brushed away, she carefully lifted it free. She studied the ancient artifact in awe. It was a beautiful piece of pottery, featuring three blue doves painted on a white background, with gold leaf edges and a transparent glaze coat. Centuries-old, the bowl was completely intact, a perfectly preserved piece of Byzantine history.
A brilliant find.
After she’d placed it into a cocoon of bubble wrap in the wooden box, she removed her earbuds. The shriek of the emergency siren immediately filled the air. Her boss’s voice crackled from the hand-held two-way radio attached to her belt, “Where the hell are you, Savannah?”
She quickly shouted into the receiver, “I’m still in the dig, Wayne. Where are you?”
“Damnit. What are you still doing there? I thought you were nearly at the truck. Get out now! You…to….place…” The voice trailed off into static.
She climbed to her feet to look over the arid landscape.
Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod!
Her stomach clenched as her heart drilled through her ribs. Armageddon was coming.
A huge wall of roiling brown sand filled the eastern sky and was bearing down on the dig. She’d never seen anything so terrifying. The billowing dark cloud had engulfed the cluster of palm trees in the distance and was about to swamp the company truck parked across the flat at their camp. She swallowed back her shock, aware she’d acted like a rookie. If she’d followed protocol and checked in every half hour, she would have been safe in the vehicle with the rest of the crew. The state-of-the-art truck was designed to handle very high winds and had an air-conditioning unit pressurized to manage sand and dust.
Fear replaced shock.
To curb her panic, she pressed her hands hard into the dirt. Five minutes max to get to shelter or she was screwed. The truck was no longer an option—it had disappeared into the ferocious haboob. Frantically, she scanned the line of hills to the west. The only structure in sight was the old abandoned Chaoui house built into the side of a slope. Once used as a Berber outpost, it was a rectangular flat-roofed brick building with a solid stone foundation.
As was the customary style of these Algerian dwellings, it had only two rooms. She’d looked through it earlier in her dig. Though she’d seen some gaps in the back room, the larger front one had seemed intact. If she hurried, she could make it. It was not as if she had any other choice in this desolate godforsaken place. Hastily stuffing her tools into her backpack, she shrugged it over her shoulders, pulled down her sunglasses and arranged the bandanna to mask her face. She scrambled up the three steps to the surface, tucked the box firmly under her arm and ran.
In headlong flight, she reached the narrow track leading up the hill. Somewhere in the thick swirling clouds behind, a camel bellowed in terror. Savannah took a fleeting moment to sympathize with the animal before concentrating again on her footing. The pathway was rough, uneven, and littered with stones. Though she stumbled occasionally, she managed to remain upright. The bulky box was making her progress difficult, but she had no intention of leaving it behind.
The sky glowed a dim orange, and then darkened until there was little difference between day and night.
For the last yards, adrenaline kept her going. Her breathing became labored. By the time she reached the house, the bandanna was clogged, her lungs on fire, and her eyes gritty with sand. The old wooden door opened at the first push. But trying to close it against the wind was nearly impossible. The storm was roaring, sand stinging every part of her exposed body as the wind rose to tornedo-like velocity. Nothing she’d ever experienced or read prepared her for this terrifying force of nature. Her brain screamed for her to hurry. If she didn’t shut the door soon, she was going to die—she could barely stand upright in the gale.
Desperation gave her the strength needed. With a superhuman effort, she shouldered her full weight against the wood. When it clicked shut, had there been any moisture left inside her, she would have wept with relief. After a moment to get back her breath, Savannah dug in the front pocket of her cargo shorts for her small flashlight. The room had just two wooden chairs and a table in front of the hearth. She sank onto a chair and wrestled with her dilemma. The only option was to sit quietly to wait out the storm—if the room was airtight, she should be fine. She learned soon enough it wasn’t.
Dust drifted down through holes in the roof when a few tiles flew off. The wind was howling louder, which dashed any hope of it abating in the near future. If it continued for much longer, she’d probably suffocate. After adjusting the bandanna over her face, Savannah rested her head on the table to avoid sucking in the swirling sand. Her eyes closed, her thoughts wandered back.
*†*
Though she loved the hands-on aspect of archeology, the dig had been mainly to collect material for her book on historical warrior women. A subject that had her enthralled. She’d been on two prior excavation sites for the project: Hampstead Heath, the supposed burial place of the Celtic Queen, Boadicea; and Themiscyra near the Black Sea, the home of the Amazons. Algeria was the last on the list. Numida, as it was called in the seventh century, was ruled by the legendary Berber Queen Dihya, a fierce military leader who united the Berber tribes to drive out the Islam invaders.
When Savannah heard there was a privately funded dig to find Dihya’s burial place, she’d applied to join it immediately. Algeria had many archaeological sites, for human occupation in the country dated back to the Paleolithic and Neolithic eras, but it was a restricted and untouched area where they were going. Though she had a sound research track record and was well respected in her field, it had taken a personal reference from the Director of the British Museum to get her on the small elite team.
Before they’d left London for the dig, the bearded Algerian advisor had lectured them on the Sahara, “Where you’re going is a hostile environment, so take care. Sandstorms, or haboobs as they’re called out there, will periodically rip in from the desert. If you’re caught in the open, you could die.”
As he went on to describe the female dress code, the frowns he shot her way made it plain he thought the site was no place for her. He’d got her back up with his patronizing attitude. Just because she was young and feminine didn’t mean she couldn’t hold her own in what was predominantly a man’s world. She’d made many sacrifices, monetary and personal, to get recognition in the profession, and she wasn’t going to be intimidated by this condescending prig. She’d earned the right to be here. Her mother always said she was born stubborn, but she preferred to think she was resilient. And she’d learnt early in life that persistence paid off.
From fifty-eight applicants, seven had been chosen, two women and five men, and Savannah found them a good bunch of people. Dr. Wayne McLaren, a tall, thin Scotsman in his early forties, and a veteran of many digs, headed the working party. The second-last leg of their journey from Heathrow Airport was Ghadaia, a city in the north-central region of the Sahara Desert. The excavation site being a day’s journey east, they’d spent three days sightseeing through the city while they waited for the truck and equipment to arrive by road.
It was to be their last taste of civilization for six months. A city of ninety thousand, Ghadaia still had its original well-preserved medieval architecture. A historian’s dream, with its sandy golden buildings, narrow cobblestoned streets, and bazaars offering colorful silks, rugs, woven baskets, exotic spices, and vendors selling a myriad of dates. Savannah had even drunk water out of a dried goat carcass.
But on their last night in town, something downright spooky had occurred. As they’d walked home from the Grand Market to their guest house, the city felt different. As if it were brooding. The shadows seemed darker, the streets narrower, and an odd spicy odor hung heavily in the air. Her companions didn’t appear to notice, chatting and laughing on their way through the night streets.
As they passed by an old woman seated in a dim doorway, the hairs on the back of Savannah’s neck twitched upright. When she turned to gaze directly at her, the air appeared to shudder and shift. It seemed charged with a hint of something not quite of this world. When Savannah looked around, the others were nowhere in sight. Vaguely aware that time had somehow stopped, she turned back to the old lady in the dark alcove. Tiny necklaces of light smudged the edges of the recess and all was silent in the hollow stillness.
“Give me your hand, girl,” the aged voice crackled from the gloom.
Savannah stepped closer to peer at her, taking in a big breath when she saw the completely white eyes. The old woman was blind. With no hesitation, she put out her hand. Later in the safety of her room, she wondered why she’d agreed so readily, but it had just felt the right thing to do at the time. Claw-like fingers stroked her palm, crisscrossing back and forth, tracing every line. When her fingers ceased wandering, the old woman tilted her head and croaked, “What’s your name, girl?”
“Savannah.”
“Ah… a strong name. You are the chosen one, Savannah.”
Savannah stared at her. “What?”
“The link is here.”
“Link?” Savannah echoed, bewildered.
“Go now. Remember, when all seems lost, the way is down.”
Savannah felt a flush of annoyance. This was one crazy old woman. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she huffed out.
The voice became softer, more distant. “One day, you’ll find the happiness you seek. Your love waits for you.”
The air shimmered again and she was gone. Savannah trembled as she briskly hurried to catch the others. What had just happened? Had someone slipped a magic mushroom into her fattoush? Subdued, she trailed the crew into the guest house. She vowed to put it out of her mind. Fortune telling had no scientific basis and certainly didn’t belong in her fact-finding world.
*†*
Savannah was brought back to her plight by her ever-increasing difficulty in breathing. The dust had sucked every bit of light out of the room, and outside, the wind howled even louder. Icy fingers ran down her spine, curdling her blood. It sounded like the wail of a Banshee heralding death. She took a desperate breath, trying to ignore it. Her lips were so dry she had trouble separating them, and the heat oppressive. She dug out her water bottle and took a long swig. A wave of hopelessness enveloped her. If she didn’t smother, she’d die of dehydration. The intense heat wouldn’t take long to draw every drop of moisture from her body. Only a miracle would get her out of this one.
Suddenly, out of nowhere the old woman’s voice jumped into her mind. When all seems lost, the way is down. Savannah sat up straight. A long shot, but could there be a room under the building somewhere? A cellar? She shone her flashlight around. The large stone slabs on the floor would need more than one person to shift. She turned her attention to the hearth. She couldn’t even hazard a guess when it had been used last. The ash and charcoal had been there so long they’d solidified. Cobwebs clung over the enclosure in grey veils. The iron rake hanging on a nail at the side was pocked with rust.
Savannah brushed away the webs and shone in the light. Gingerly, she used the rake to pull out the debris from the fireplace, careful to keep an eye out for any lurking scorpions. The Sahara Deathstalker was the most venomous in the world. Her luck would have definitely run out if she was bitten by one of those little horrors. She heaved a sigh of relief when she only unearthed a few scarab beetles and a cluster of ants. Once she’d cleared the area, she studied the hearth floor through the dust. It too was made of stone, though the slabs were much smaller. She dropped to her knees to run her fingers over the surface. After a thorough examination, she choked back her disappointment. Nothing. But as she continued to stare despondently, something bizarre happened. The air above the floor turned a hazy blue and a glint of metal winked into focus.
When the mist cleared, she saw a bronze ring slotted into the middle slab. After some fiddling, she managed to lift one end upright out of its groove. The other end was attached to the stone. She wrapped her fingers around it and yanked hard. When it didn’t budge, she tried again. After four attempts, the stone budged and she slid the slab to the side. Gasping for breath now, she shone the light down to a vertical shaft the size of a manhole, with an iron ladder attached to a wall. With the little energy she had left, she backed down onto the ladder. A four-meter descent led the shaft to a tunnel.
Much to Savannah’s immense relief, the air though stale, was dust-free and much cooler. Her first big gulps of air produced a coughing fit, but once the spasms subsided, she was able to get precious oxygen into her lungs. She wondered whether she should just wait out the storm where she was, but her scientific curiosity rebelled at the idea. Whoever built this tunnel had made it wide enough for a person to walk through, so it must lead to something. After a brief rest, she continued on, swatting away cobwebs as she went. Judging how thick they were, she guessed the tunnel had been long forgotten by the Berbers.
Some twenty meters further, the passageway widened into a cavern. It was a large room with a domed ceiling that curved up well out of hand reach. At the back wall was a small pool of water. The underground spring made it a perfect hiding place from invaders. Because it wasn’t as stuffy as the tunnel, Savannah figured there must be an air vent to the outside somewhere. It made sense if this had been a refuge. She sipped the water tentatively. It was cold—nectar on her chapped lips. Throwing caution aside, she drank greedily.
Once revived, she wondered how the Berbers had lit the cavern. The light from her torch picked out oil lamps strategically placed on the walls. To conserve the flashlight batteries, Savannah used the lighter from her pocket and lit three wicks. She didn’t dare risk anymore—oxygen was more important than light. A soft glow spread over the cavern. In one section, there were some wooden tables and long benches. Evidence of human habitation lay everywhere: skins, water carriers, bowls and cups, and a variety of weapons. From the condition of the objects, no one had been here for a very, very long time. She could barely contain her excitement. If this place could be traced back centuries, it was going to be an important archaeological find. She cut Silvia off a small piece of the dried hide and slipped it into her pocket for carbon dating later.
It was only when she walked past the pool, did she see the skeleton stretched out on a slab in a recess in the far corner of the cavern. From the breastplate, it was obvious the soldier was a woman. She was arranged in a warrior’s death, in full battle regalia, her hands crossed over her chest and her sword in her arms. A shield lay at her feet. Savannah’s pulse pounded. Could this be the legendary Dihya? She shone the torchlight over the skeleton. This woman had been tall, seemingly well over six feet, which the queen was reported to have been. But the armor was all wrong for a seventh-century Berber.
With the tip of her finger, Savannah rubbed a little dust off the shield. It gleamed in the beam of light. This soldier’s armor was made of a shiny substance similar to titanium, and whatever metal or alloy it was, it hadn’t eroded with time. Curiously, she lightly brushed the rest of the dust off the shield. There were markings on the surface, a script she didn’t recognize. Certainly not Arabic or Libyco-Berber.
She flicked the flashlight back up to the sword. The same markings were on the handle. She was photographing the inscriptions when she noticed the medallion hanging around the neck of the warrior. When she reached over and gently cradled it in her palm to examine it, a warm tingle spread through her body. At that moment, Savannah just knew it was the link the old crone had mentioned. And though she couldn’t explain why, she was also sure she was meant to put it on.
Despite knowing it was strange, she accepted it all—odd things had happened to her before. There had been some unexplained happenings in her childhood that had defied logic, things she’d pushed firmly from her mind. She didn’t want to be different. But as much as she tried to ignore what was happening here, she knew in her heart that the stone slab had been under some sort of spell. When she’d first examined the floor of the hearth, there’d been no brass ring. As outlandish as it seemed, she finally reached the conclusion she was meant to find this place. It had been waiting for her to arrive, otherwise someone would have found it long before this. Over time, being so close to a drinking well, many travelers would have camped inside the old house. It would have been well documented.
Savannah was aware that any artifacts she found weren’t hers to keep, for the goal of an archeologist was simply to record history. Discoveries were the property of the country of their origin, their heritage. But she went ahead anyhow and ignored her ethics, powerless to defy the silent commands. She eased the chain up over the helmet and slipped it over her head. As soon as it nestled between her breasts, she knew what she had to do. The warrior was to remain undisturbed in her last resting place, and when Savannah went back up to the house, she was to slide the stone back and leave.
An hour later, she made her way up the tunnel, listening for sound of the wind before she climbed back up into the hearth. The storm had passed, though the room was heavily coated with dust. After she scraped the debris back over the fireplace floor, she made sure that all footprints around the hearth were cleaned away. Satisfied that no trace of her visit remained, she gathered up the box and opened the door to the outside. At least she had the marvelous ceramic bowl to show the world.
