Good Luck

by Robert Drake

Time is a funny thing.  There is no concept of greater significance.  We try to measure it, but we cannot change it.  We can never get more and can never use less.  Time’s affect on the human psyche is more profound than the darkest horror or the brightest miracle.  I overestimated it. 

I laugh when I think back to my university days in Tulsa.  The school specialized in history, my study of choice.  I was not one of those students deluded with thoughts of gold and Egyptian tombs.  I never cared much about finding pottery or unearthing long lost temples.  My interests were much more morbid.  I studied history to learn about death.  Not human death.  I am not, yet, that deranged, but death nevertheless; the death of ideas.  Once upon a time people believed the sun revolved around the earth.  Geocentrism.  Then Galileo and Copernicus and Kepler came along and disproved it.  Scientific theories are not the only things that die.  Kingdoms, religions, and empires all fall, not to military might, but to a barbarous, genocidal being that slays without remorse and without justice.  I called that being time. 

It was at the university my life changed.  I was exploring the archives of former students in the library when I came upon the book that would send me hurtling away from classical scholarship.  The book was small, perhaps half an inch thick, made of a dark gray leather binding.  The title had faded out of existence and it lacked the sticker common to most library property.  I assumed it was a reference or rare piece the library did not allow to be removed.  I read the book for many hours.  When I returned the next day I could not find it again.  I have not been able to find it since.  The book is what I guess you would call a journal.  It gave away no secrets, but had a small crinkled map I luckily copied on my first visit.  The author seemed almost frightened of his explorations.  He told of a marvelous and fearsome find, but never explained it.   The man claimed to have found evidence of a conspiracy, a historical plot of amazing importance.  He had truly come upon a death greater than any other.  For all his lack of specifics the book made me believe and I endeavored to follow in his footsteps. 

 My journey began with a professor named Doctor Maratus.   I never much cared for him.  He always seemed angry at history like it had personally failed him.  He always said history was like a never-ending dream. You know everything, but can’t change anything.  I still wonder what he truly meant.   He assigned a capstone project my final year at the university.  I had always felt that the fall of Rome was the only history worth studying.  It is the history of how the world collapsed.  My library-inspired knowledge only enhanced my curiosity.  Others again delved into the familiar morass of World War One alliances or French politics during the Age of Enlightenment.  I was not alone in looking to Rome for my assignment but only I looked into its darkest shadows. 

The day after submitting my thesis for review I was called into Doctor Maratus’ office to discuss my topic.  He stood at his desk waving my proposal. 

“Is this a joke Thorington?”

“Not at all, Professor.” 

The doctor responded sharply, “Why would you want to research the affect of the occult on the fall of Rome?  Do you even think you can write an entire paper on that?” 

I used all my cunning to convince him while slowly convincing myself at the same time, “Yes, I do believe I can.  I found a book in the library.  The man found writings from some ancient cult in Rome.  It did not have any translations, but I did copy a map with their location.  The man believed they were important.  I believe they are important.  I am afraid I cannot seem to find the book again, but even so there is a myriad of information to delve into.  I don’t just mean the imperial cults.  Look at our society today.  We have medical quacks holding conventions, tarot card readers you can call, and fortunes hidden inside cookies.  Look at how people use special numbers to pick lottery tickets.  If mysticism affects our lives so deeply today it is foolishness to assume it did not affect the Romans.”

The professor’s face looked tired and worn, “And you believe this led to the fall of their empire?” 

“As it may well lead to the fall of ours.  I will change my thesis if I find anything to the contrary.”

Doctor Maratus dismissed me and only contacted me again a few days later.  By then word of my topic had spread beyond my small group of peers to the history students in general.  A few showed signs of interest.  Most just stared at me with curious, fearful eyes.  My isolated persona only enhanced my infamy.

It was mid afternoon when a young student ran up behind me, “Doctor Maratus wants to see you, sir.” 

I nodded my thanks and walked to the doctor’s office.  The Doctor greeted me with a strange look on his face.  He smiled, but it was not warm, but rather the smile of a man in intense pain. 

“Have you perhaps decided to change your thesis?”  The professor spoke almost pleadingly. 

“No.” 

“You are one of best students here at the university.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You will graduate with honors almost regardless of your capstone.  Why don’t you choose something easier?” 

“I am interested in my thesis.  I would like to explore it fully.  If it is an unacceptable project then I will research it later.” 

The doctor shook his head.  “No…no…We have always encouraged our students to explore their interests whenever they align with legitimate research.  It is so rare to see a student, especially one of your caliber, interested in field research.” 

“So you have accepted my project?” 

The doctor sank down into a chair.  “You are embarking on a study I am not sure you fully understand.  It is a path few take and fewer still succeed in.  It is a dangerous one, especially to any future career.”

I stared at the professor, confused. 

“The department has accepted your capstone and wishes to see a more detailed outline with any travel plans you may undertake.”

I thanked my teacher and left his office.  I walked to the small, old cottage I had rented in a lone area of the campus grounds. 

 

Within two weeks I was on a plane to Rome.  I am not sure Maratus even read over my plan.  He made no changes, gave no suggestions, and asked for no explanations.  I received, with great surprise and without any directives as to its use, a small stipend to cover the initial travel costs.  With it I purchased an airplane ticket and commenced my research.

When I arrived in Rome a man greeted me.  He spoke with a thick Italian accent, “Are you Jonathan Thorington?” 

“Yes.” 

“I was told to give you this.” 

The man handed me a sealed, brown envelope.  I stuck it in my pocket and hopped in a cab. 

 

Rome has truly fallen from its ancient glory.   It is a dirty, ugly city.  To see the marvelous ruins of the ancient empire and then walk into a ghetto of small flats is almost unbearable.   I took a room in some small local hotel that reeked of cigar smoke and unsealed the envelope.  A smell of mold and rot emanated from inside.  I gagged.  I pulled out an ancient parchment ripped from a larger scroll.  On it were symbols that were strange and oddly terrifying. 

It was when I read the accompanying note that I first realized the exceptional experience I was undertaking.  I felt that aura of doom that shadows all those bound to see a greater fate.  All it said was, “Good Luck.”   

The next day I hoped on a bus and left the bustling city of Rome to go to the caves indicated on my map.  The small, creaking vehicle wound along the old roads and cypress trees at a blinding speed for half the day.  I entertained myself looking over the gorgeous Mediterranean coast.  The bus finally pulled into my destination, the small town of Spada De Borgio.    

You will not find it on any map.  Do not ask for directions to it.   Spada De Borgio is nestled deep within a hive of generic seaside towns and hidden amongst the hundreds of small ridges of the coast.   My arrival was something of curiosity for the owner of the cafe.  He was a short man with pale skin, fine features, a prominent roman noses, and cautious, judging, angry eyes.

I, of course, am tall with dark hair, a round face, red polo shirt, and worn slacks.  I learned of Spada de Borgio via the journal in the library archives.  Further research on the internet revealed nothing.  Luckily a friend of mine at the university was Italian.  He asked his family.  A week later they sent me handwritten directions to the small, dirty bus stop I had used to get on the small, dirty bus.  They also scrawled something at the bottom, but my friend never translated it and I knew nothing of the language, which put me in a rather unique position.  I was far from any tourist destination in a foreign country that spoke a language I could not.  Luckily my skills at pantomiming are at the very least equal to those of any suitably desperate person.

I stretched my legs and walked to the café.  I managed to order unsalted bread and pig stuffed with pepper, rosemary, and garlic from the man with the angry eyes.  I must have eaten earlier than was customary.  The place was vacant. 

That first evening in Spada De Borgio I lodged above the café.  It took my best acting skills to convince the skeptical café owner to allow me to stay.  I left what I hoped was a suitable tip and walked up to my room on the second story.  The room was a quaint little thing with cracking plaster walls and well groomed plants on a balcony looking over the sea.  The bed was small with a dusty mattress on a creaky metal frame obviously not use to the weight of anyone. 

I slept peacefully and woke before dawn.  After quickly eating, I walked through the town.  It was an insignificant place.  The tavern was flanked by a small store and the bus stop.  Across the street were two or three more nondescript villas with ivy drooping down from tall balconies.  I left the town and traveled down a lonely old dirt path.  It led parallel to the coast and I was sure it would go to my destination; the caves on my map.  

I have been tight-lipped about what I read in the journal and shall remain so, but the map I had copied was very detailed.  It showed Spada De Borgio and the road and the caves.  The artist had drawn the caves with dark heavy strokes and written strange symbols above them.  I pulled the map out to orient myself and could not help but notice the chill that came over me when I stared at the crudely drawn symbols.

I found a small break in the ridge that at last let me climb down closer to the shore.  I followed it, ducking under tree branches and doing my best not to trample the wildflowers that covered the trail.  I worked myself down until I came to an ancient stone walkway.  By the carving of the stone it was obviously from the Roman era.  The stone walkway ran around the cliffs for another mile.  I followed it and tripped over loose stones. 

The shore was much too rocky for any ship to dock.  The pathway was not created by pirates.  I realized as I pushed aside an overgrown bush to continue my exploration that I had not the faintest clue who built this pathway. Ancient roman maps do not show or name any town near Spada De Borgio.  It is not surprising; no ports could be built here.

I almost walked right past the cave I was looking for.  From either direction it appeared as little more than a dark line of shadow on the sandy colored stone cliffs.  It was almost by chance that I stopped and leaned over the cliff perpendicular to the cave.  I nearly lost my footing staring down at the crashing waves and stumbled back in fright.  I tripped as I backed up and fell into the cave quite by accident.

A wave of panic spread over me.  I was lying on my back looking at a skull carved out of the stone ceiling.  In the eyes were bits of glass that gleamed and sparkled as sunlight barely managed to filter in and strike them.  I rolled over and jumped up quickly.  I instinctively looked around before walking back out onto the stone pathway to collect myself.         

I broke a branch off a tree, pulled a flask out of my pocket, drenched my new torch, and then used my lighter on it.  I had not really expected to find the cave my first day.  I had assumed it would take weeks of searching and was caught horribly unprepared.  I had no tools, no candles, no flashlights, and was not even mentally ready for what I was about to do.

I drank from the flask and rushed into the cave.  Then I screamed.  A smoky substance wafted about the sides of the cave obscuring the walls.  The gaseous substance sprung from the rocks and smelled sweet almost like…something.  Looking back I should have been more cautious.  It might have been flammable.  At the time that was not on my mind at all.  What was on my mind was the skeleton bound to the floor only inches from where I had fallen in.

On the ground near the entrance was a massive stone of a sickly green color that I have never seen before.  A skeleton was strapped to the stone with metal bindings.  I stared in horror at the ancient skeleton.  The bones themselves were nearly rotted out of existence, but enough remained to flood my mind with terror.

Collecting myself I went around the gruesome foyer and followed the long tunnel in deeper.  The strong mist still laced up the walls making the path seem even narrower than it actually was.  At the end of the tunnel I saw a strange light.  At first it I thought it was a trick of my eyes, but slowly it got larger and brighter.  The deeper I went the gloomier the place became.  There were no visual changes beside the light, but the smell…the smell grew stronger, a sweet, sickly smell, an unnatural smell.  It was not the perfumed aroma of a flower, but more like the sugary smell of a deadly poison.  

The light became overbearing.  I was no longer able to even see my torch, so I held onto it, tightening my grip until I nearly snapped the branch.  It seemed like hours before I finally walked into the light.  I covered my eyes and squinted hoping to get some idea as to what sort of structure I was in or some clue as to what was causing the light.  I received neither.  I was forced to turn my back to shield my eyes and looked down the path I had just walked.  I shook uncontrollably as I stared upon the wispy smoke snaking up the sides of the tunnel. 

Tears grew in my stinging eyes and my head grew foggy.  I wobbled on weak knees before falling.  The last thing I heard was the branch hitting the ground and slowly burning out.    

Then the dreams came; horrible, merciless, maddening dreams.  I saw a man with black eyes run out of a tall building.  A sandstorm whirled about, but through the clouds a tall building burned under a scorching sun.  Hundreds of the black eyed men ran from the building clutching scrolls and laughing. 

The scene changed, but always followed the black-eyed men.  Three hid behind a statue until a tall man wearing a purple robe descended down an ornate stairway.  As he turned the corner the men pulled out daggers and stabbed him before spitting on his corpse and running off into the next dream.

Darkness covered my eyes broken only by the flickering of fire.  A lyre played in the background as a man laughed.  Dark-eyed men ran from the burning city carrying torches.

Scarred men wearing nothing but loin clothes were chained together and thrown into a dusty field.  Another man with dark eyes calmly walked a lion out.  The dream faded just before he released the ravenous beast. 

In another dream a dark eyed man on a horse ran down a hill.  Following him were the horsemen called the scourges with their bows.  The dark-eyed man pointed to a small town.  The horsemen ravaged the city.  A thousand images of the dark eyed men burning, killing, sabotaging, and assassinating filled my nocturnal thoughts.  I saw the history of Rome in its greatest moments destroyed by the black eyed men. 

And then I understood.  This cave was their archive.  It was their history.  They mocked time.  The symbols were their secret writing.  It was their record of all the people they had killed, wars they had started, buildings they had burned.  The history of the world had been driven by these black-eyed demons.  The last image of my dream was of a man standing atop a crumbled building amidst a ruined city laughing.  He raised his arms and yelled.  A thousand voices joined him from the shadows.  Dark-eyed men raised their weapons and torches and left the burning city.  The last black-eyed man leaving the city shot an eagle from the air and stabbed it.  My last image was of death and time wasn’t the murderer.  It was man. 

When I woke the light was gone and my torch had long since gone out.  My stomach berated me almost as badly as the pungent smell of death.  The sweet smell was gone.  It took me a while before my dazed and battered mind came to its senses.  I stumbled along the tunnel.  The smoke curled around my fingers.  It was cold, but under my hands I could feel the engravings of thousands of small symbols carved into the rock.  Remembering my initial purpose I put a piece of paper over some and shaded with a pencil to get a copy.  I worked desperately.  My wounded mind was beginning to fear the darkness.

Finally I saw light from outside.  I ran toward it eager for fresh air and proof I was still alive.  I tripped over the skeleton bound on the green stone, but crawled on.  I made it into the sun and collapsed exhausted with fear and confusion. 

It was evening when I woke up.  When I finally managed to walk into town the café owner stared at me with shock.  No longer angry, a look of horror filled his eyes.   I begged him for food, which he quickly supplied.  He gave me the key to a small bathroom.  I looked in the mirror.  My hair was dirty and my beard was unshaven and rough.  My entire experience must have taken days. There were black circles of ash near my eyes.  I almost screamed.  I washed and washed and washed until I had removed the sickening substance.  I recovered my composure and walked to my small inn room on the second floor.  All my stuff was right where I had left it. 

I remained in that small room for almost every hour of the next month.  I alternated between eating with the innkeeper down in the café, writing my dreams down in a small journal, writing my thesis paper, and deciphering the runes I had managed to scratch.  I never went back to the tunnel.

I paid the café owner in full before I left the small town of Spada De Borgio.  I realized on the bus back I had never seen anyone there but the café owner.   Once I arrived in Rome I took the first flight home.

When I returned Doctor Maratus had gone on a sabbatical.   No one seemed to know when he was coming back.  I worked on my paper and exactly two months after leaving turned it in.  The doctor’s replacement skimmed it and gave it good marks seemingly without caring that it was little more than a summary of my dreams as best I could discern them.  He took my journal and the symbols I copied.  He said he would give it to the language professors, but I watched him one day and he put them in the library archives. 

For the next few months my dreams were filled with death.  I wracked my brain with disasters and catastrophes always with a dark eyed man watching and laughing.  Somehow I still managed to graduate with highest honors.  I smiled as I received my diploma and walked off the dais, but behind my face I saw dark eyes on everyone.  I can’t stand looking at anything any more.  It all reminds me of the dark-eyed men.  It all reminds me of death.

After graduating I walked into the library for the last time hoping to recover my journal and pencil engraved runes.  Both had disappeared.  Where they should have been was a note.  All it said was, “Good Luck”.

 

Copyright 2005-2008 Robert Drake