2019-11-11 - The Serpent's Eye

It's not raining for a change, which means Tyrone can take his afternoon roll in relative comfort. A fresh, ocean-tinged breeze rolls in across the Boardwalk, which is sparsely populated but not entirely empty. Kettle corn and hot coffee smells compete for the attention of tourists who like their locales rainy and brisk.

As he's moving down the Boardwalk, something catches Tyron's eye. There, under a bench. It looks like someone's dropped their book. Somehow it's managed to stay dry, and a good thing too, since the cover's a lovely, hand-tooled leather piece in verdant green with silver filigree and silver-gilt edges to the pages. A fancy piece. He can't quite read the spine or cover from here due to the angle, but it's in easy enough reach. No one else seems to notice it.

Tyrone's--Sterling's--accent is British. He's still black, though; in the plane's co-pilot window he can see his reflection: he's tall, going a little gray, and robustly built, his hair buzzed short. His face is distinctly oval, with a proud nose and a neat beard.

The shouting woman has dusky, olive-toned skin, a proud, narrow face, dark eyes, and a sharp, British accent. She walks like a queen, and speaks like one too. "You'll be excused, after you do your job, Professor." She waves him at a nearby Jeep. 1940s vintage olive drab, except not vintage. A little banged up and dirtry but certainly not an antique. "We've just uncovered the last tablet. Translate it for us, and you can be on your way."

As all of this unfolds, a sense comes to Tyrone. He might be Sterling, but he's still sitting there, in his wheelchair, reading a book on the boardwalk. A gorgeous, green leather bound book with silver gilt pages, but...just a book.

Ms. Nagra rolls her eyes at Tyrone as he gets into the seat. "As if I'd let you drive in this jungle, professor. This isn't your ivory tower." She fires up the Jeep, and they're off, trundling down a track that's well worn, but only just enough for a vehicle this size. There's signs the jungle was recently cut back, as well, so perhaps this airstrip was re-opened for a specific purpose.

The ride is bumpy, and Ms. Nagra handles it with ease. "We've got just the last seal left to open. Collins is sure the secret's on this tablet. After that," she gives him a sidelong glance, "pay day," and bobs her eyebrows, chasing it with a cheeky grin.

She turns the Jeep sharp, and Tyrone finds them in front of an enormous temple embedded in a hillside. Vines and tree roots dangle over its stepped sides; sinnuous, serpentine shapes are carved all over the exposed rock. There's a small base camp to one side, and several archaeological dig operations underway. Most of the workers appear to be South East Asian--Indian, perhaps, as Ms. Nagra is. A few are dressed in formal, British attire.

The man who approaches Sterling isn't Indian, however. He's as British and white as can be, his florrid complexion emphasized by the heat, his pale blonde hair plastered to his balding head. "Sterling!" he says. Tyrone knows this is his old friend Rupert Collins, a businessman with a lust for adventure. He's funded this operation. "I know you hate the jungle, old man, but I can't make the discovery of a lifetime without you by my side."

A faint reminder trickles back to Tyrone: this is a book. He could close it. Maybe...

The heavy shake calms to a gentle tremor. "Not so light on your feet, are you?" Ms. Nagra says, hauling Tyrone to his feet and off Collins, then helping Collins up.

"Oh he never was," Collins says, laughing. Tyrone-Sterling's eyes land on the strange script--and another earthquake hits. The table collapses, sending the table to the ground, where it shatters.

"No!" Collins shouts.

The workers all being shouting. Most flee. As Tyrone hears them, Sterling understands their local language: She's coming! They've awoken her! And, most significantly: Run!

Collins curses. "What are they going on about?" he asks Tyrone.

The front of the temple shudders and crackes. Inside, Tyrone sees something bright and red, gleaming, and hears a low hisssssssssssssssss.

"I'd still put my money on you," the girl says, tone dry. The boy sticks his tongue out at her, and she rolls her eyes in response.

Pushing off the bench, the boy smiles brilliantly at Tyrone. "I will," he says, and resumes his uncertain way across the boardwalk, with his sister in reluctant tow.

And as Tyrone tucks the book back where it'll be safe, he feels that little rush in his hand once again, a tingle up his arm. For a second, he can see the gleam of the serpent's eye, on the cover, in the jungle.