He peered through the grey haze, trying to get his bearings. It was either dawn or dusk; he wasn't sure and it disturbed him that he didn't know. He could see that he was inside some sort of temple. It was immense and circular, roofless, with stone pillars arching toward the grey sky.
He didn't belong here; he was out of place. His head stuck out above everyone else's, and he was the only person who wasn't wearing a robe. He looked down at himself and saw that he wasn't wearing anything. Then he realized that he was standing on a flat rock and that was why his head protruded above everyone else's.
What was he doing here? How had he gotten here?
They were looking at him now. Every head was turned toward him. The droning grew louder. There was a rhythm to it, and it pounded against him. Why were they moving toward him? Why wouldn't his feet move?
Why did his body feel like lead?
Now they were rushing at him. They were a sea of black. Their robes flapped at their ankles. He looked around frantically for an escape route. His arms pumped at his sides, his feet blurred beneath him, but he didn't seem to be getting anywhere. They must have drugged him; but who were they?
His head snapped around. They were almost on top of him. Move. Move. Fast. Air exploded from his lungs. A
grinning face leered at him. The sky tilted. The pillars were toppling toward him. And suddenly he was awake, his arms twitching, his feet jerking, a scream poised at the edge of his tongue.
He sucked in his breath, looked around. But he could still hear the incessant chanting. He blinked his eyes, orienting himself. The train. Of course. The cars rumbled over the rails, the sound of the chanting, and someone was pounding on the door of his compartment. He sat forward, ran his hand across his perspiration-soaked brow.
"Who is it?"
The pounding stopped. The door opened and a slender, grey-haired Englishman wearing a conductor's uniform peered in at him. "Mr. Jones? Sorry if I disturbed you."
Indy rubbed his face. "What is it?"
The conductor held up a package. "It was waiting for you at the last stop."
"You sure it's for me?" Indy took the flat, rectangular box wrapped in white paper. On it was taped an envelope addressed: Indy Jones. "Yeah. Probably only one of us aboard." He thanked the conductor, who smiled thinly, nodded, and retreated.
Indy turned the package over in his hand. It looked like a candy box. It rattled when he shook it. He held it to his nose; it smelled faintly of chocolate. Who would send chocolates, he wondered as he slipped a card out of the envelope. The message was typewritten: Have an enjoya ble trip, and good luck on your new job. Henry Jones, Sr.
He blinked, re-read it. Now how the hell did his father know he would be on this train? And since when did he wire him boxes of candy? Hell, they hadn't spoken for more than two years, not since he'd informed him of his switch in studies from linguistics to archaeology.
Then his frown vanished, and a smile curled on his lips. It was Shannon; it had to be. Jack Shannon knew all about his relationship with his father. The package was a god damn joke, at least to someone with Shannon's jaded sense of humor. He shook his head, and set the card down on the box.
He stared out the window at the grey countryside drifting by. His thoughts turned back to his last night in
Paris. A cloud of blue haze hung in the air of the nightclub as the black woman on stage swayed and sang, her voice deep and sonorous, a perfect accompaniment to the soul ful sounds of the cornet being played in the shadows behind her. As the last notes of the song slowly faded away to the applause of the crowd, the tall, gangly cornet player with the goatee and unruly hair walked off the stage. He shook hands, nodded, smiled as he wove his way through the tables. Finally, he lowered himself into a chair in a table near the corner farthest from the stage.
"You're sounding real good, Jack. You and Louise," Indy said.
"Thanks. It's really come together in the last six months."
"I'll miss it."
Shannon studied Indy's face. "So you're really going to teach archaeology in London."
"At least for the summer. I'm leaving in the morning."
"I don't blame you for wanting to leave Paris. It's getting too hectic. The scene's changed." Shannon leaned forward and lit a cigarette from the burning candle on the table. "Sometimes, I look around and there's hardly a Parisian in the Jungle anymore. All tourists. Every night a new crowd. The regulars never show up until the last set, anymore. If they show up at all.'
"Sorry I couldn't make it earlier."
Shannon waved a hand. "I'm not talking about you. It's everything. I guess I'm getting restless as well."
Indy put on his hat. "You know you're welcome to come and visit anytime you like."
"I may take you up on that. I'd like to see London again."
The rural countryside had given way to sooty brick factories and spewing smokestacks, and Indy knew that he'd be in the city in a few minutes. After leaving Paris earlier in the week, he'd spent a couple of days in Brittany, where he'd examined some of the megalithic ruins in the region. Then this morning he'd taken a ferry across the channel and boarded the train.
He ripped the paper from the package. He smiled. French chocolates from Paris. "Nice going, Shannon."
He was about to remove the cover and sample a choco-
late when the train suddenly braked for another station and a book slid off the seat. He leaned over and picked up the book. The coyer had flopped open to an epigraph on the first page of the 18th century tome, which read: Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causes.
"Fortune is he who can know the inner meaning of things," he muttered.
He closed the cover. The book was called, Choir Gaur; The Grand Orrey of the Ancient Druids, Commonly Called Stonehenge. He laughed to himself. He didn't have to look any further for the meaning of his dream. He'd been reading the book before he'd fallen asleep. Why black robes, though, he wondered. He was sure Druids wore white. But who said dreams made sense.
The train started up again. He tapped his fingers on the package. Trains were so monotonous, always stopping. Everyone was saying that airplanes would soon make trains obsolete. It hadn't happened yet, but he was all for it.
He lifted the cover off the candy box, and reached inside for a chocolate. It took a moment before he compre hended what he was seeing and feeling. Something black and hairy was crawling up his fingers, and it wasn't made of chocolate. His jaw dropped; he shouted and shook his hand. Then he gaped at the box.
He saw a few chocolates, but the rest of the compartments were filled with walnut-sized spiders. At the same time, his knees kicked the box into the air. Chocolates and spiders spewed over him. He swept them off his legs, his arms. He leaped to his feet. He stomped on spiders, squashed chocolates, swept his arms and legs and body clean of the crawling creatures.
Finally, he examined his seat, then sat down again, but as he did felt one creeping inside his pants leg, and another on the inside of his collar. He nearly leaped out of his clothes. He shook his leg until the spider fell to the floor, and he squashed it. Then carefully he reached up to his collar and brushed at his neck.
He laughed nervously as a chocolate dropped to the floor. Relieved he sat down, exhaled. But now he felt a tingling on his calf, and pulled up his pant leg. Dozens of tiny, newly hatched spiders were crawling over his calf and behind his knee.
"AW. . . AW. . ." His teeth chattered; he shuddered.