LITMIR.BIZ

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      “I come down,” Ahmed calls out, and I can hear him scuffling closer to the edge of the sinkhole.

      “No, it’s too dangerous!” I yell back. I don’t want him to panic when he doesn’t find the boy with me. “Get a rope. I’ll tie it around him and you can hoist him up.”

      When I find him, I finish silently, wishing I had my flashlight. The sun decides to be on my side after all, casting a sobering light onto the area. I see an amphora-shaped jar, unbroken and intact, lying less than a foot from me. My brain records it, yearns to grab it and examine it, but I have one thing on my mind. Find the boy. A chill races through me when I see a small opening I missed earlier. With new hope filling me up, I bend down and call out, “Mo Ahmed, are you in there?”

      “Mama!” I hear a feeble voice coming from somewhere beyond the small crawl-through space. I can’t stop the tears forming in my eyes.

      “Mama zamanha gaya,” I yell, getting on my hands and knees and making my way through the small opening, careful not to disturb the soft dirt overhead. “Mama is coming!”

      * * *

      Half an hour later, the little boy is gulping down cool sheep’s milk with his anxious mother holding him and mumbling how thankful she is to me for saving her baby. Ahmed hugs and kisses me on both cheeks over and over, something he’d never do under ordinary circumstances, then we go to work. With the help of my team, I bring up the amphora I found and, on closer inspection, identify the two-handled jar with a narrow neck and vertical handles that arches high above the mouth as twelfth, maybe thirteenth century. I can’t contain my excitement. According to my calculations, this entire area is believed to have been used for secret burials and human sacrifice long before the Crusades. The tombs unearthed in the area all date back more than two thousand years ago. If this is a buried tomb, and the size and shape of the vault indicates it is, then an interloper from a later time must have found the shaft and used it as a shelter.

      A knight from the Crusades? I question. The archaeologist in the photos found his sword and part of his shield near the site, didn’t he? I sense the dead live here, waiting for me to find them.

      Digging through the feet of soil filling in the rectangular shaft, we uncover a stone stairway consisting of sixteen steps leading to a tomb chamber roughly oval in shape. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I stop, my ears attuned to that distinct sound so familiar to my soul. I hear the whispers. When I come across another unbroken pot, my heart jumps. I’m a woman with a dream, focused, committed, not deterred by academic bickering or jealous rivalry among colleagues. I’m free to follow my gut. Legend says the lost Crusader knights headed toward Palmyra, located midway between the Mediterranean and the Euphrates. I believe the knights deviated from the route and were looking for a popular oasis in this area, an essential watering place for the many camel caravans that traversed the route in the time of the Roman Empire, when they were attacked by advancing Turks or a local desert tribe.

      Shining my flashlight, I channel my previous trepidation into unbelievable excitement when I see two statues of lions, winged and human-headed, forming a portal. Mouth open, eyes trying not to blink, I bend down to creep under them and make my way deeper into the moist vault. I see another winged figure, this time an eagle with a human head, and two alabaster slabs with bas-relief faded not only from time but the dripping water seeping down through the earth. I make my way in small, careful steps, arcing the beam of my flashlight on specific areas, revealing portions of the wall decor in increments so it seems the pictures keep changing, like a dazzling slide show. Figures of slaves bearing objects of tribute such as earrings, bracelets and monkeys are painted on the walls, though the once-brilliant colors have faded. Broken pottery, trash, all lie strewn about the chamber, along with lachrymatories, tear-bottles, so named because they hold the tears of the people burying the dead. I unearth an arm here, a finger there, broken skulls. Not unusual because grave robbers dismembered the bodies to yank the trinkets from the dead. I see distinct tracings where the bodies were buried in wooden coffins, long decayed but lined with bitumen and a whitish material that gives off an eerie glow.

      But no treasure lies hidden here. None.

      Voices of a different nature play over and over in my head, their rich timbre giving me a headache, ominous voices commanding attention, telling me I’m a fool. Robbers long ago ravished whatever artifacts were buried here, but it could have been a royal tomb. The elaborate wall drawings and statuary decorating the antechamber attest to my theory. I have to admit to a major disappointment taking up residence in my mental adobe, but that doesn’t stop me from continuing my search.

      Determined to validate the objects I’ve unearthed, my crew and I set to work, and within a few days, I’ve recovered several broken amphoras and gathered up the pieces of human bones scattered around the floor of the chamber and in a pile against a wall. I’ve found no jewelry fashioned of silver, gold or lapis lazuli, though I do recover a lump of iron, possibly from a meteorite, as well as ceramic vessels, some containing animal bones that may have been part of funerary animal offerings. Still, it’s a fascinating discovery, though disappointing not to have found any intact human remains or evidence the knights stopped here on their journey homeward. No doubt the tomb was plundered long before I tumbled down the sinkhole.

      Yet still I hear the voices.

      I’m a stubborn woman to the point of obsession when it comes to my work, treating every excavation like a crime scene, making certain my crew wears white hospital masks to keep the dust out of their lungs, plastic gloves to examine the pieces, and I never give up. Never. I go over every inch of that vault, the beam of my flashlight painting white streaks of sheer light from end to end, like a painter illuminating a celestial canvas, and somehow I miss it: a faint square about three feet in size outlined on the wall painting and nearly invisible to the naked eye. I would never have found it if I hadn’t been curious about the stones embedded in the faded mosaic of a beautiful woman in a swirling chemise, her hand outstretched and beckoning, as if calling out to me.

      “Ahmed!” I call out. “Come quickly!” My team leader leaves his work gathering up pottery and hurries over to where I shine the flashlight on the wall. “What do you think of her?”

      He nods. “Beautiful lady. Like you, Missy Breezy.”

      I smile at his compliment, then point to the faint square outlined with my flashlight. “Look closer. Do you think that could be a door?”

      He flicks on his flashlight and the double beams focusing on the spot confirm what I believe. “Yes. Another room?”

      “Let’s find out.”

      He calls for two men to help us, and, using a crowbar, we pry open the small door. It moves easily, which surprises me, as if it’s on a track. I train my flashlight beam through the wide fissure, Ahmed and his two workers peering over my shoulder and chatting with excitement. We all gasp at the same moment. The sight of a small side chamber or annex beyond makes me weak at my knees; the sight of two human skeletons lying side by side on the floor makes me lean closer, hoping to hear the whispers. Soft at first, then louder, the sounds lift me until I’m virtually beside myself with anticipation.

      “This may be what I’m looking for, Ahmed,” I say in a soft voice so as not to disturb the dead. “Follow me.”

      “I go anywhere with you, Missy Breezy,” he says with-out hesitation, then he adds with a catch in his voice, “You save my son.”

      I nod, smiling, then with Ahmed behind me, I crawl through the opening to the other side. I shine my flashlight on remnants of clothing, chain mail from armor and a helmet that completely covers the face with a faded heraldry inscribed on it that I can’t identify. Thirteenth-century Crusaders wore such helmets, I tell Ahmed. At the same time, a story I read when I was a teen races through my mind, bringing up the same excitement I knew when I’d sneak off to read stories of history and lore, mummies and queens. My sister, Peyton, would hide my books, then dare me to tag along with her and her friends. I couldn’t. She never understood I felt different from other girls and I wasn’t interested in gossip and shopping. I wanted to travel to exotic

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