City of the Yeti Read online

  A good choice for what? I wondered.

  We rode off in a northerly direction on a dirt road overgrown with weeds and small shrubs. The landscape ahead looked relatively flat for about a mile, until it reached a majestic cliff, which I’d always viewed as merely a natural barrier at the north end of the mesa. The base of the cliff was immersed in a thick forest, which didn’t seem natural, but rather deliberately planted long ago. This was the forest that Lothal had mentioned.

  In the woods, tall pine, spruce, and fir trees formed a natural canopy that protected the twisting road from snow, and provided rich, aromatic scents. Here, the soldiers broke into a gallop, as if there was no time to waste. Through the treetops, I caught glimpses of the approaching bluff, but still couldn’t see the end of the road.

  Bursting out of the forest into a large clearing, we gasped at the sight. A huge temple had been carved directly into the base of the cliff. It consisted of several thick pillars, each three feet wide and two stories tall. Behind the pillars lay an enormous chamber scooped out of the mountain. The place reminded me of famous temples in India that were also cut into cliffs.

  Two new soldiers approached from a nearby stone cabin, which housed round-the-clock guards. With all the soldiers lined up outside, Nineveh and Malidiya motioned for us to enter the temple chamber. Here we found Hindu and Buddhist images chiseled into the rock walls. At the rear, sheltered from the elements, loomed a massive set of double doors, made of thick wood and reinforced with metal crossbars.

  I turned to Rachel and said, “The city needs gates like this!”

  The elders walked up to the doors, placed their palms on the polished wood, and bowed slightly.

  Rachel whispered, “Some kind of ritual?”

  “Maybe it’s a sacred shrine,” I whispered back.

  From her coat pocket, Malidiya pulled out a large, iron, skeleton key, and inserted it into a bronze lock where the two doors met. The elders turned the key together in a formal gesture, and then each pushed a large door inward. The hinges creaked in the cold, dry air, and the sound echoed into the blackness beyond. We felt an outward rush of relatively warm air.

  The elders took one large step inside and stopped – it was dark, of course. The soldiers rushed up to provide oil lamps for everyone, and then stood guard at the doors, which were left partially open to supply fresh air. Each lamp had a glass covering so that our hands wouldn’t touch the flame.

  Again, the elders waved for us to follow. After a few steps, they had moved far inside. As I passed one of the large entry doors, I pushed on it, but couldn’t budge it more than an inch. The elders clearly retained great strength.

  Rachel and I hesitated at the threshold, staring at one another. I assumed that whatever lay inside would change our lives forever, even more so than living in a Yeti city for the past five months.

  “I don’t know if we should go in,” she said, her eyes darting all about.

  “Let’s pretend it’s the cave from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,” I said, trying to conceal my own anxiety. I took her hand and we marched onward.

  Once my eyes adjusted to the low light, I could make out a seemingly endless, unswerving tunnel ahead – a rock hallway cut straight into the heart of the mountain. It was twice the height of Nineveh, and almost twenty feet wide. Countless overlapping scrape marks covered the walls, floor, and ceiling. An enormous effort had been required to dig out so much material. But by whom? And over how long?

  The color of the surrounding rock was familiar. “Were the stones cut from here used to build your city?” I asked.

  Nineveh turned his head and nodded.

  “How far does the tunnel go?” Rachel asked.

  “About a mile,” he said. “It took a hundred years to complete, with contributions from both human and Sramana workers – but volunteer labor, never slaves.”

  It was difficult to comprehend the scale of everything. “What’s at the other end?” I asked.

  “The tunnel opens into a hidden valley,” Malidiya said, “which I doubt any human has ever seen. From there, ancient roads lead to other Deshret villages in Tibet.”

  Then it dawned on me, and I nearly dropped my lamp in excitement. “An escape route! For those living in the city!”

  “Exactly,” Nineveh replied. “As you know, our mesa offers good protection, but its single approach from below means that residents could be trapped during a siege. This way, they can flee directly through the mountain.”

  “When was the tunnel started?” Rachel asked, as she casually sidestepped an enormous cobweb extending halfway across the hall.

  “Over two thousand years ago,” Malidiya answered.

  I craned my neck all around. “It’s amazing!”

  “Yes. And we had special help,” Nineveh said. “The Greek engineer Eupalinos was invited here to oversee the work. Shortly before that, on the island of Samos, he had designed and built an underground aqueduct almost a mile long, going straight through a limestone mountain. On both projects, he used principles of geometry – new at the time – to insure that diggers starting at both ends would meet in the middle.”

  Malidiya continued, “A large number of human scholars, artists, and royalty have journeyed to see our city, to confirm the legend of an extraordinary race. For example, while Eupalinos lived here, we hosted two other distinguished guests. One was Siddhartha Gautama, whom you know as Buddha, and who traveled extensively throughout Nepal. The other was the philosopher Confucius, who supposedly never left China, but in fact made several secret trips here.”

  I wasn’t surprised. “So their ideas came from the Sramana?”

  The elders stopped walking and turned around to answer.

  “We would never make such a claim,” Nineveh said. “But many of their teachings were inspired by longtime interactions with the Sramana.”

  “Did they give credit to the Sramana?” I asked.

  “No. And we wouldn’t want that,” Nineveh replied. “We’ve always asked human guests to keep our existence a secret.” He maintained eye contact, as if to remind us that we were under the same obligation.

  I was going to ask about other famous visitors, when new distractions arose. Every few yards, along both sides of the hallway, I saw large stone sculptures. It was almost like my picture book of the British Museum. I recognized an Egyptian sphinx, with a human head on a lion’s body, and a Greek Griffin, with an eagle’s head and winged lion’s body. I also saw a Chinese Qilin with a dragon’s head, horse’s body, and fish scales, and an Assyrian Lamassu with a human head and winged bull’s body. My favorite was the Persian three-headed dragon, which looked especially creepy in the low light.

  “These were all donated by past civilizations,” Nineveh said, “as gifts for beings that, to ancient human eyes, must have looked like gods.”

  The displays were so interesting that I nearly overlooked another feature of the hallway: a series of wooden doors, spaced about fifty feet apart, on both sides.

  Malidiya explained, “Behind each of these doors lies a room filled with artifacts from different periods of history, mainly human history. There are forty rooms in total.”

  The number seemed incredible, but not impossible, as I gazed down the vast corridor. Glancing at Rachel, I silently mouthed the word forty. Was it just a coincidence that this matched the number of thieves in the fable? Where had the story of Ali Baba originated?

  “Do the Hedjet know about this place?” I asked.

  “It is mentioned in ancient Sramana texts,” Malidiya said, “which of course belong to both Hedjet and Deshret cultures. But the documents don’t specify an exact location. For the Hedjet, this place exists only as legend.”

  “Even if they found it,” Nineveh said, “they would probably show little interest, given its emphasis on human relics.”

  “It
would be different with us,” I said. “So many ancient treasures are robbed or destroyed, long before archeologists can move them to museums.”

  “That is one of my concerns,” Nineveh said. “In an emergency, there’s a way to protect all this from looters. I’ll show you later, if necessary.”

  Next came the request from Nineveh I’d been expecting. “We’d like you two to learn the content of these rooms, and also the coding system that opens each door. You will have help from our current, and quite human, curator.”

  “You mean there’s another human here, right now?” Rachel asked.

  “Yes. He arrived in the city a month before you, escorted by nomadic Hedjet merchants. Incredibly, he claimed to have lived among the Hedjet. We found him so interesting that we gave him an opportunity to see the tunnel. He was very excited, and volunteered to live at the temple indefinitely, to analyze all the relics.”

  I felt numb. “Is he an older man? Tall and thin, with a white beard?”

  “Why, yes. How did you know?” Nineveh asked.

  I looked at Rachel; she didn’t understand yet. “I think your curator is my grandfather,” I said. “My dad’s father, who went missing last summer in the mountains.”

  It was rare for Nineveh or Malidiya to look surprised, but this was one such occasion. I explained how my grandfather could very well have ended up in a Hedjet community, since he loved adventure and was curious about new cultures.

  “That would be remarkable if true,” Malidiya said. “Let’s find out. We were going to introduce him today, anyway.”

  They showed us an opening at one side of the tunnel, just inside the double doors. A spiral staircase had been cut into the solid rock. We climbed up, round and round, before finally entering a small room located directly above the temple chamber. At the moment, no one was present.

  The elders called this the lookout room, and the name was fitting. A square cutout in the rock wall created a window on the cliff face, and a view to the outdoors. A shiny brass telescope five feet long, mounted in the center of the room, was aimed at the window. Using this device, an observer could see over the forest and examine the north side of the city, one mile away as the crow flies.

  The rest of the room was unremarkable: a few simple beds – wood planks and blankets – along with a wooden table and chairs in one corner. At the rear, I saw a closed door, which I assumed was a storage closet.

  I walked over and inspected the telescope. “Where did this come from?” I asked.

  A deep English voice boomed behind me. “From Joseph Hooker, the great British botanist.” Our heads whipped around. A tall, gray-haired man had just ascended the staircase and stood smiling. I recognized Grandpa immediately, but Rachel seemed uncertain; she was only six when she’d last seen him. I ran over and hugged him.

  “I must be dreaming,” Grandpa said, “not only to find you here, but to see you two so grown up.”

  “How did you know it was us?” Rachel asked.

  He laughed. “I’d never forget my grandchildren! And it didn’t hurt that your parents mailed lots of pictures over the years.”

  With some hesitation, Rachel walked over and embraced him.

  “My hosts have been wonderful,” he said, glancing at the elders. “They’ve helped me a lot. I love the way they talk, don’t you?” He hobbled over to sit in a chair beside the telescope. “My health got worse during my travels through Nepal, so I decided to stay here and recuperate. Also, after seeing that tunnel, how could I leave?” He gestured toward Nineveh. “Go ahead, my friend, tell them the story behind this device.”

  Nineveh spoke to everyone using his thoughts. “Joseph Hooker was exploring Nepal and India around 1850 to collect rare plants, and happened upon our mesa. But he wasn’t scared. He wanted to learn more about us, and help in any way he could – just like Philip here. Joseph respected our wish for privacy, and didn’t publish his discovery of the Sramana after returning to Europe. But he did arrange for a telescope to be delivered.”

  “Now, let’s get a snack,” Grandpa said, appearing more rested.

  We descended the staircase, with Grandpa taking extra time due to the uneven steps. In a small room near the entrance, soldiers had placed food and water for us. Other rooms nearby functioned as kitchens and restrooms, making use of sophisticated aqueduct piping built by ancient engineers.

  We gathered around a rock table and sat on stone benches, nibbling samples of bread, dried fruits, and nuts. It felt like a picnic, though one held inside a cave. We spent an hour filling in Grandpa on all our adventures since arriving, and he told us about his time with the Hedjet. As I suspected, he had asked to see the Deshret capital after learning of its existence.

  When the elders stood up to stretch their legs, they bumped their heads on the rock ceiling. Apparently this room had been designed with only humans in mind. We giggled, and the elders managed a slight grin.

  We wandered back into the great hallway, and up to the first wooden door. Grandpa had a playful expression on his face. “Danny, I think this chamber will be one of your favorites. Let’s determine the door number.”

  “It’s not number one?” I asked.

  “No. There are nine small utility rooms near the entrance, like the one we snacked in, so the relic chambers start from number ten. However, the assignment of numbers here is random.”

  “Then how can you remember?” I asked.

  Grandpa pointed to a bronze hinge near the bottom of the doorframe. I knelt down and held up my lamp to see. Scratched into the metal were tiny letters: XXIX. “Roman numerals?”

  “Right. Do you know that number?”

  “Twenty-nine,” I replied.

  “Yes, indeed. Now, take a look at the lock mechanism.”

  Encased in the door slab were four parallel stone cylinders. Each was a few inches long and maybe two inches in diameter. Small characters were engraved on the curved surface. The cylinders reminded me of Mesopotamian seals, once used to roll across wet clay and print images. Each cylinder rotated on its axis, so that only a single character was visible at a time. Thus, the set of four cylinders displayed a row of four characters, presumably the code to open the door.

  “This serves as a combination lock,” Grandpa said. “It was created by Eupalinos.”

  Rachel leaned forward and studied the characters on each cylinder. “Capital Greek letters?”

  “Good!” he said. “Characters of the ancient Greek alphabet can be used to represent numbers. For example, the first three letters – alpha, beta, and gamma – stand for the numbers one, two, and three. The left pair of cylinders must be rotated until the room number is displayed in Greek. Give it a try.”

  Rachel worked as he provided instructions. “Turn the first cylinder until you see the symbol ‘Κ’ – or kappa – representing twenty. Then, turn the second cylinder to get the symbol ‘Θ’ – or theta – representing nine. Twenty plus nine equals twenty-nine. Do you see how this works?”

  “Yes,” she said, “but we don’t know what all the symbols mean.”

  “There are simple rules you can memorize later. More important now is learning the general principles of the lock. By the way, there are blank spaces on the cylinders to represent the number zero.”

  “What about the other two cylinders?” I asked.

  “Those provide extra security,” he said. “Knowing the room number is not enough. The secret here is that you must add the two digits of the room number to get a second number, which is then entered on the last two cylinders. Danny, you try now.”

  I placed my hand on the stones, and he guided me. “For this door, two plus nine equals eleven. Turn the third cylinder until you see ‘I’ – or iota – representing ten. Finally, turn the fourth cylinder to ‘A’ – or alpha – for number one. Ten plus one gives eleven. There, you’re done.”
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br />   With the correct string of Greek characters displayed, Rachel and I pushed down on the handle together. The door swung open into the room, releasing a cloud of dust. We stepped back, coughing, and then plunged through into another world.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The elders walked to opposite sides of an enormous room and lit several lamps, using flint-based tools that resembled antique cigarette lighters. The exact dimensions of the place were hard to estimate, but it was hollowed out of solid rock, and filled with case after case of wooden bookshelves, like some long-forgotten library. It smelled like a dusty attic, and I started sneezing.

  On every shelf I saw wrinkled, yellow documents, either rolled up or stacked in piles, but no bound books. Grandpa explained, “These are papyrus scrolls, along with sheets of parchment made from animal skin, both ancient writing tools. I’ve spent a lot of time looking through this wonderful collection.”

  Rachel touched the edge of one scroll, and it cracked slightly.

  “Rachel!” I said harshly. “This stuff is priceless!”

  “Don’t worry,” Grandpa said with a laugh. “The rarest items are stored in boxes. That particular scroll is just a list of cargo once carried on a trade ship. Now, have you heard of the Royal Library of Alexandria, in ancient Egypt?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s where the Greeks stored important documents. But it was destroyed by fire, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, the library did suffer fires and acts of destruction over the centuries,” Grandpa said. “But before any of that happened, all of the originals – or at least first copies – were transferred here.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “The original library was created by Ptolemy, one of Alexander’s generals, and ruler of Egypt after Alexander’s death in 323 BC. The library was where famous thinkers gathered and studied. It held not only Greek literature but also translations into Greek, using documents from the Mediterranean, Middle East, and India. At one point the library contained half a million scrolls. Ptolemy left clear instructions for his successors: gradually move the library’s contents to a safe location – in Nepal.”