Apex Project

By Gale Peterson

Ellen Richards, a young photographer and archeologist, comes to Bam, Iran to photograph the ancient city. When she helps save a worker from a water tunnel collapse, they discover an object that does not belong—an oopart. From that moment, her life changes forever. Ellen and her friends and co-workers must face the reality of reincarnation and a past life commitment. What was the connection between modern Iran and Egypt in the time of Akhenaton? Had time returned?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312970243

Book preview

Apex Project

APEX PROJECT

An Octad of souls protect the capstone

of the Great Pyramid of Giza

Lulu Press, Inc.

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2015 by Gale F. Peterson

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

ISBN 978-1-312-97024-3

Lulu Press, Inc.

[e-mail]

This is a work of fiction, and the characters in it are solely the creation of the author, Any resemblance to actual persons --- with the exception of the historical figures --- is entirely coincidental. When historical figures consort with fictional characters, the results are necessarily fiction. Similarly, some events and some geographies have been created to serve fictional purposes.

BOOKS  BY  GALE F. PETERSON

Tears of the Willow

Box of Seven Faces

The Sugarplum Dragon

The Author, Gale F. Peterson

Writer (Novelist, playwright, Artist, Designer, Photographer) When you have lived and worked as long as I have you will experience many jobs-careers, decade by decade: Stage to Film to Digital to Internet and beyond? I am still learning and exploring. From writers I look for logic, motivation, justification and a flow that captures my imagination. I love that words create images.

Many years performing, directing, designing in Wyoming, Denver, San Francisco,Hawaii. Regional theater in Carmel Valley, CA.Production in the movies in Hollywood. Film and National Theater in Iran.Then Ad agencies in US,Canada,TV prod.and admin.Producing Children's plays and musicals. Left US in 2004 to live in Belize, Europe, Iran and back to Belize.

As an old geezer who's still healthy, I love writing and the challenge it brings. Currently living on a yacht in a marina at Old Belize.

-----Acknowledgments-----

Farsi language and Iranian culture: Ali Shandiz

Initial Story Editing: Tonia Brandt

Final reviewing and editing:

WYRM Group of Writing Dot Com

Chy Burch

Anthony Zentner

Arwee

Day Dreamer

Steven Lugo

Writing alone is part of the creative process, but producing a novel beyond the first draft requires much attention to detail. I have extreme appreciation for the members of the writing.com group, WYRM, that helped shape and steer this book into a readable form and narrative.

Many thanks to Ali Shandiz who supplied the Farsi language and guidance for the cultural elements in the story.

~~~>^<~~~

To all the writers of speculative fiction that brighten and color our world with new ideas and dreams of the future.

This book is dedicated to the people of Iran

for their friendships and hospitality.

FORWARD

APEX PROJECT

The locations are Iran, United States, and ancient Egypt. The near-future is very speculative and does not represent real persons, places or government agencies. I hope this stimulates some interesting discussions. The primary subject is one of reincarnation. In this case, an Octad---Eight souls from a moment in time in ancient Egypt who are involved with the apex of the great pyramid of Giza and what happened to it.

BC 1368, Akenaton is Pharaoh and changes the religion to the worship one god. My characters interact with this enormous change in culture.  The city he built was called Akhentaton. Don't be confused, the BC years get younger as time passes. (It's a Christian thing)

The story is how these diverse individuals come together and realize their common roots from the past and eventually find the purpose of this new reincarnation. The memories are sometimes frightening and disturbing as they discover their past lives.

I began this novel after leaving Iran just before the Revolution in 1978-79. Early chapters were written in the 1980's and 90's. Since then I've been back to Bam and the desert several times. Earthquakes, wars, politics keep changing the future. When I started, the future was 2004. I've rewritten it up to the present and we'll work it forward from 2017. The Egyptian past is real and close to the historical record.

Ancient city of Bam called Arg e-Bam

PRELUDE... B.C. 1367

SOMEDAY TO BECOME BAM, IRAN

Far in the distance, the great firestone blinks and slices across the sky, purple with the last glow of the setting sun. We stove upward on the invisible beam. Night closes in and we can see the stars. River and sea, mountains, forests and desert are below, but in the fading light all become a consuming shadow and I know, not safe. Not safe! Body rigid, hands white-knuckled, breath frozen, my fear rises, clutching my throat, blurring my eyes. Suddenly the god machine stops climbing and levels---like the hawk; wings spread, body motionless to the lift of the air from below. Everything becomes calm and serene, the silent stars shift and sparkle. I begin to breathe and the fear eases into caution. It is a god's world so high above the night-shadowed Earth.

Hours pass, I sleep in the protecting arms of the goddess, my secret protector. I wake, stiff and a little cold. Outside, ahead of the machine, I see the edge of the world in the first light of dawn, golden red against blue-black mountains and rose-pink streaks of clouds to the south.

Suddenly the calm is shattered; my heart seizes and beats frantically as we sweep down toward the earth. Falling so fast, the sound of air, whistle-rising, roars around us. So fast! I close my eyes, giving my life to the gods, to the goddess. I fear to see the end. Then like a giant swan upon the water, we land on the desert plain, gentle and soundless.

I can see the great rock rising above us like a lone sentinel in the flatness of the plain, the top glowing gold in the first rays of the morning sun. I can smell the earthy tang of vegetation and riverbank mud. There is life here in this wild, lonely place that is to be my home. The machine stirs and my lord and master climbs out of the front compartment, his long robes gathered over one arm and the still glowing power stone in the other. Now I am impatient for this life to begin.

CHAPTER 1 - ARRIVAL IN BAM

March 12, 2017

ELLEN RICHARDS

Kerman customs officers were polite, but firmly told her that her checked bags wouldn't be ready for several days and that she should come back the next day to see about her passport. Frustrated, Ellen showed the man the papers she carried with authorization for her project from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, a letter from the Ministry of Cultural Heritage, and a stack of documents from the United States Department of State. The man immediately stamped and returned her passport, and after several phone calls and a forty-five minute wait, he returned to say her bags would be ready in one hour. It was a minor victory.

The last straw dropped when they told her the airline flight was canceled until tomorrow, Ellen quickly opted for the bus that was leaving every hour for Kerman. The taxi driver helped her with the extra baggage, lifting it up on the check-in platform.  The trip was longer than she anticipated, made more uneasy by the closeness of the many gigantic trucks the bus driver insisted on passing at excessive speeds. She resigned herself to staring out the bus window at the hundreds of miles---now calculated as kilometers---of rugged, treeless mountains thrusting sharply from the level nothingness.

The six-lane, divided highway ran south, named the Road of Bam according to the driver. He pointed out the signal towers rising out of the flatness, black stones hard against the centuries of blowing sand, standing like sentinels beside the road. Once the signals and messages of an empire flashed from tower to tower.

The hotel, built after the quake, was a disappointment. Quickly booked from an Internet listing when the Museum discovered the impending Persian New Year had filled all the rooms in the city. Just off the tiled lobby, large plate glass windows fronted the street, letting the desert glare onto red, Formica-topped tables forming the combination tea shop and dining room. The portraits of the President and the Ayatollah hung prominently on the far wall along with the national flag of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Water hungry potted palms softened the corners.

Ellen went back outside to make sure the driver unloaded all her cases and the two large canvas bags that held the tents and awnings. The store owner in San Francisco had insisted she would need them if she were to stay beyond the end of April. You do not know about hot sun and the heat until you have been in Bam in the spring. But even my canvas will not save you in the summer. No one goes outside in the summer, he had warned her while his hands were busy on a calculator screen adding up her bill.

Now it seemed an unnecessary expense, an extra five-hundred US dollars, but maybe the man was right. She had felt defenseless being the foreigner from America and with no time for serious advance research about Iran. The job had come up so suddenly, and with the pressure of the State Department, eager to get the photos and commentary done and ready for publication before Christmas, she had to move quickly and without her usual, careful preparation for an assignment.

With the help of a clerk from the hotel, the driver placed everything just inside the door. She collected her personal bags, the bulky camera bag and her QPN-tablet, digging in her travel purse for a ten-dollar bill for the bus driver.

Turning to the clerk, she said, I have a rental car coming. Can I leave the rest of these bags here until it arrives? The stack included the large tripod and the ultra-expensive travel case for the CTL-unit, power box and printer, piled on top of the two large canvas bags.

The clerk obviously didn't mind, happy that she didn't want him to carry everything up to her room.

The steep stairs led up to the narrow hall where the clerk pointed out the door to the shower and toilet. Enameled, dark green lower walls gave way to white plaster below a white ceiling illuminated by a line of glaring florescent tubes running the length to the single, small window at the end of the hall.

The room felt very small; a cramped space for a twin-sized bed, a chrome chair with a molded orange seat, and a little table featuring a heavy glass ashtray and a lamp. Thank you, this will be...fine. She gave the man a five-dollar bill, making a mental note that she had to learn about the currency.

He gave her a key, smiling broadly and said the few English words he probably knew, Thank you. Good day to you.

A few minutes later she went down the hall and confronted the dark corners of the women's restroom. At least there were both American style and squat-down type of toilets. She wasn't ready for the reality of true squat and pee---not just yet. Everything looked clean and smelled of disinfectant. It reminded her of similar hotels in the heart of Paris near the Louvre. Another time, another photography job with a bigger budget. I'm just glad Millie isn't here. She'd freak.

She changed her clothes and brushed her longish, dark red hair free of snarls after having it tied back since Kerman, then retied her hair. She wondered for a moment if she should cover her head like most of the women on the bus. Indoors, I’ll feel foolish; maybe later, she thought. Stepping back out into the hall and locking the door, Ellen suddenly felt very far from home. Now everything around her was foreign. I can cope, she told herself, trying not to see the deep scrapes and stains on the white plaster. I know they have five-star hotels. The museum could have done better.

As she made her way carefully back down the uncomfortably steep stairs, two young men, sitting at one of the far tables next to the plate glass in the last light of the setting sun, jumped to their feet with slightly apprehensive smiles.

Quickly checking the note in her jacket pocket, she confirmed the names of the assistants hired for her several days before she left San Francisco through the Iranian Embassy website and their Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Jamshid? she asked of the first young man. He was the shorter of the two, with very close-cropped hair.

He murmured something in Farsi that she didn't understand, indicating that the other man was Jamshid. "Man Iraj e-Duruh hastam," he said.

The Iraj she recognized, it being the other name on her note. Oh, I'm sorry. Iraj, I'm Ellen Richards. I was told that you would speak some English?

The other man, a few years older wearing American jeans and a leather jacket, stepped forward. I speak very good English, Miss Richards. I am Jamshid Fatahi.

Oh, thank goodness, I'm afraid I'm totally lost when it comes to modern languages.

Farsi is an old language, older than Arabic.

Iraj pulled out a chair for her. Sitting, Ellen said, I know, but my languages are ancient Egyptian, Mesopotamian, and Assyrian; and those I can only read. Nothing after about 2,000 years ago, I'm afraid.

Iraj nudged Jamshid, wanting to know what Ellen just said.

Listening to Jamshid's smooth, cultured Farsi as he translated, she thought, We're all going to learn a lot from each other.

The hotel only had one main dish for dinner with drinks or tea. The boy served flatbread and salad, which Ellen refused, having been warned not to eat fresh produce unless it came out of a skin or peel and no dairy products that hadn't been cooked. The man at the Embassy had been very explicit, having experienced a recent return to his home country after many years in the United States.

American diet, he had explained, has little or no enzymes, so our natural defense against food from the ground in other countries where they do have lots of enzymes, is nonexistent. You must be very careful, especially the first months you are there.

The tables filled as the solitary waiter rushed, serving steaming plates of fluffy rice, a kind of broiled ground meat sticks, plain white yogurt, relish and lemon juice. Ellen ate a little, tasting everything and then offering the rest to Iraj who had already finished his own food and eagerly devoured hers as well. Soft drinks were offered. She chose bottled water.

During the meal, Ellen kept Jamshid busy translating his and her English conversation for Iraj, not wanting to exclude him.

You are a student at the University? she asked of Jamshid.

Yes, I go to the University of Tehran, but I return to Bam to take care of my mother and sisters. My father died last year and now I must work to take care of them.

I'm sorry. I know it’s difficult. I lost both my parents several years ago in an automobile accident.

Iraj’s face became very serious as he listened to the translation, then spoke directly to Ellen.

He says he also lost a mother last year and now only has a father. He says you can meet his father sometime soon and he will be a father for all of us.

That's very kind of you, Iraj. I will look forward to meeting your father. Ellen looked directly into Iraj's dark brown eyes as she spoke. He was young, but the hardness of his life showed around his eyes.

Iraj beamed, flashing white teeth, and began speaking again. Jamshid slowed him down, translating to Ellen.Iraj has been driving a truck from Kerman to the coast at Bander Abbas and back again, many, many times, he says. Now he can work for you, do maybe some important work, and learn English. And thank you very much for coming to Bam!

At that moment, Ellen looked up toward the front windows. The daylight had faded and the interior fluorescent reflected harshly in the glass. She was startled to see perhaps fifteen people, mostly young boys, pressed up against the glass, peering in, all looking at her.

Jamshid, also suddenly aware of their unexpected audience, jumped up embarrassed and rushed to the front door of the hotel. The people saw him coming and most quickly dispersed, a few waving good-bye.

Jamshid stopped to talk to the hotel manager before returning to the table, and the man followed him back to their table.  This is Mr. Ali Amini, the manager. He say to please excuse the people. They are only curious.

Mr. Amini spoke briefly and Jamshid translated. He say very few foreign women with such red hair ever come to Bam. You are very much a...what is the word? A celebrity.

After the man had left, Jamshid said, hesitantly, It's your hair, I think, plus there was a story in the newspaper yesterday about your coming to photograph the old city. To see you is interesting for them, but perhaps not so good for you.

I'm sorry. It was very thoughtless of me. I should have worn a scarf. I guess I thought everything had relaxed a lot more than it has.

The uptown people in Tehran don't mind as much, and lots of the younger girls go without chador or scarf, but not here in Bam.

As she finished her water, her sister Millie's last words a week ago over the phone in San Francisco rang in her ears. You really shouldn't take off like this by yourself on these spur-of-the-moment job assignments. You don't speak the language. I mean, a lone woman in the midst of all those depraved men? Ellen, they're Muslims, they keep their wives locked and covered up! I know, I spent a week in Saudi Arabia two years ago. You remember?

Ellen had shushed her and assured her that the government was behind her every step of the way. It was a great opportunity. Millie was not convinced. At least her sister had not been here to look up and see the window full of oglers.

The vehicle ordered through the travel agency still had not arrived and the men were not comfortable with leaving the gear sitting in the lobby all night. After a seemingly long and emotional discussion in Farsi, Jamshid announced that he would stay in the lobby as long as necessary and Iraj would go and find the truck.

Oh I hope it’s not a truck. The camera and computer gear are so sensitive to dust. I had asked for some kind of enclosed vehicle like a RV or a station wagon.

Upon understanding this, Iraj brightened, saying in very accented English, OK! OK, I fix! and he was out the front door and into the dark street roaring away on his motorcycle.

Exhausted, Ellen went up to sleep, leaving the disposition of all the gear in the hands of her new, eager assistants.

March 13, 2017 

Breakfast with the Boys

ELLEN RICHARDS

The morning brought a soft knock on her door in what seemed only a few moments after she had closed her eyes.

Miss Richards? Miss Richards?

Her eyes opened to green enamel and up to the single stain on the white ceiling. Daylight flooded around the blind.  She had slept through the night.

Just a moment. She put on her jacket and cracked the door to see a rather bleary-eyed Jamshid. By his clothes and beard shadow she could tell he had been there all night.

Miss Richards, the car is here. Iraj just arrived. He and his father had to go all the way to his mother's brother who lives close to Kerman and then drive back. But the car is very good. I hope you will be pleased.

OK, yes. I'll be down in a few minutes. Give me a chance to get dressed.

I'm sorry I wake you.

No, it’s all right. I guess jet lag got me more than I thought. You know, I'd kill for a cup of coffee.

You want coffee? I will say to the cook, make coffee!

Thank you Jamshid. It’s not a great start for your job. I'm sorry.

No, no. I am proud to assist you. This is life in Iran. You will see. We make everything work correct for your project.

His sincerity and enthusiasm was almost too good. She wasn't sure. It certainly wasn't like the workers she had in North Carolina or in California, but then the work ethic was different in Iran and, besides, opportunity didn't come as often. And there was the younger one, Iraj, driving all night to bring a car. She'd have to do something extra for them.

Faced with having to dress and go down the hall to the bathroom, Ellen realized she really needed a big terrycloth bathrobe for such occasions...with a hood! Wishing she'd brought more, she dug out another scarf from her suitcase thinking, I've got to buy enough for every day? A bungee held the thick hair back and a tortoise comb clamped the roll. The light green print of the scarf looked ok tied back. She told herself, When in a new culture...adapt!

Jamshid met her on the narrow stairs to take the two cases.

I'm afraid to leave them in the room. It’s the cameras and my computer.

You're right. There are maybe bad people here or people from the hotel who might want to see what you have. He led the way to a table as a very tired, but smiling, Iraj came from the kitchen that was off under the stairs. He carried a cup of coffee on a small tray with a small container of sugar cubes.

Nescafe Instant, he said proudly. Then pointing out the plate glass windows, Nissan...Sta-tion Wa-gon, very good!

It was a huge, old model, high, long, boxy Nissan station wagon. The color was metallic blue. Iraj explained through Jamshid that it belonged to his uncle and was on loan for $100 US dollars. The engine was in very good condition and it would take them anywhere they wanted to go.

Iraj said proudly, Come Tehran.

He means it came from Tehran.

Oh, his Uncle got it in Tehran?

Jamshid laughed, No, his Uncle is Baluchi. They would never go near Tehran. He just bought it from someone passing through about five years ago. It is too ugly for Tehranis.

You don't seem to care much for people in Tehran, Ellen observed, savoring the coffee.

Jamshid's face was very serious. They are too important... in their minds. They think everything is better in Tehran.

But you were in the city at the University, weren't you?

Yes, but they treat me like a country boy and make fun of my speaking. He had to stop to translate everything they had said for Iraj who nodded vehemently in agreement.

Personally, Ellen said as the boy from the kitchen brought bread, cheese, hot tea and jam, I think Tehran is way too big. Twelve million people is too many. I'm glad I didn't have to go outside the airport.

Jamshid laughed, You must go ride in a taxi some day in Tehran. Everyone drive like, how you say? A bat in hell.

Smiling, Ellen said, Something like that.

She only had to deal with taxis in Kerman, which was provincial by comparison to the cacophony she experienced even inside the International Airport of the capital city.

The flat bread was still warm and crusty. Ellen found the cheese very salty, so she covered it with jam from the little packets. She glanced up to see two weary-eyed young men watching the jam on cheese operation with disbelief.

I'm sorry; I guess American taste is different.

Jamshid, embarrassed, said, No, no it is good... I am sure..

Listen, you two are both exhausted. How about I go out to the old ruins and just look around. We can start the real work tomorrow.

Iraj quickly said, "Chi goft?"

Jamshid held his hand up to Iraj, "Sabrkon. To Ellen he said, No, is not good for you to go alone out there." His eyes were direct.

I just want to get an idea of what the site looks like. Her smile faded, seeing the concerned look on Jamshid's face.

No, Miss Richards. You are woman and a foreigner. You are maybe not safe alone. For example, it is a very big place and it is easy to get lost. He smiled. We would have to call the thieves to find you.

All right, you win, but you have to call me Ellen. Miss Richards is for school teachers. We'll all go together, but just for half a day. Then you can go home and get some sleep. OK?

OK, Miss...Ellen. With a grin, he explained what had transpired to Iraj, who also expressed his relief for only half a day.

OK, Miss Ellen... OK!    

CHAPTER 2: ARG-E-BAM, THE OLD CITADEL

Tuesday, March 13, 2017

ELLEN RICHARDS

The morning air was still cool and pleasant. The night's rain, one of the last of the season, had dampened the dust. The cloudless sky was a brilliant, intense blue. The men loaded the gear from the lobby into the back of the Nissan 4X4 Station Wagon. Iraj closed the rear door with a satisfied, slam. OK, he said.

With Iraj driving, the machine roared to life and they headed southeast through the suburbs along the four-lane boulevard. Over the roar of the engine, Ellen asked, If there are really thieves out here, what do we do about this car and the gear in it? She had to lean back toward the rear seat as Jamshid leaned forward. He was protectively holding the camera bag in his lap.

He shouted the translation several times to Iraj who nodded and grinned as he answered. The exchange lasted several minutes.Finally, Ellen asked, What did you decide?

Not totally convinced, Jamshid said, He says we have to hire a thief.

A thief?

I think it is his cousin.

Mohsen very good! Iraj interjected.

So, Ellen said, like you said this morning, this is life in Iran.

Driving around the curve, Jamshid said, "Here it is, Arg-e-Bam.

Arrg, Ellen said trying to get her mouth around the word.

The outer walls of the Arg, as Jamshid explained, means old city. The walls loomed up tall and imposing, framing the entrance---a rounded archway, easily three stories high, dark in the interior because of the depth of the passage. Narrow defensive slots along the inner walls would make it very dangerous for an enemy to approach the tall gate that blocked the far end. Heavy pipe frameworks, painted yellow, installed around and above the structure, presented evidence of the on-going restoration.

Standing back by the Nissan, Ellen tried to visualize it as it must have been. The walls and the ground were all the same color. The sandy dirt being the primary construction material for all of this ancient city, either made into sun-dried bricks or built up with handfuls of sticky wet mud reinforced with straw.

Jamshid explained that almost all of it had been restored and rebuilt many times. The most recent followed the devastating earthquake in January of 2004. They have worked very hard to rebuild everything as it was before, but you will see, there is much more to do.

There were no other vehicles in the parking lot and the inner gate still remained closed. The sign, Jamshid read, advertised daily hours from nine A.M. to five-thirty P.M., unless it rained.

Moments later a woman arrived in an old BMW. She wrapped her dark blue chador tightly about her head and pulled out a large, important-looking ring of keys. Without a glance at Ellen and the men, she walked to the inner gate.

Iraj announced that he would stay with the car and watch for Mohsen.

Ellen and Jamshid walked up just as the woman was settling herself behind the ticket window beside the imposing gate. She unlocked her metal change box, produced a roll of tickets from her bag and a sign with entrance prices and rules that she proceeded to tape to the window of the little office.

Oh, we need money. Ellen gave Jamshid several Iranian bills, saying, Here. This is something I have to learn about. In the meantime can you handle the money?

He pushed all but one of the bills back to her. Too much. I must get you some small money.

The rest of the transaction Ellen did not see. Her attention was drawn to the city of mud-adobe buildings that stretched as far as she could see. The museum claimed it to be the greatest mud-brick complex of the ancient world. Many small narrow streets with buildings eroded from the rain and wind still featured archways lifting over second floors, and whole walls with partial roofs still standing strong and straight. Everything, all of it, built from the earth, reformed into a silent, enduring testament of the thousands upon thousand of people who had lived their lives here so long ago.

She could see no wood visible anywhere. Perhaps once there were doors and window shutters, but now, long gone for firewood or maybe still functioning on a house in the new town. This was a land where trees and wood were very rare. Dominating were the tall date palms out across the fields where water flowed to irrigate trees and crops in this new age of Islamic Iran.

As they started to walk, Ellen spotted tiny accents beyond the beige-brown of the stucco and underlying bricks where part of an interior wall still carried its white plaster and a fleck of blue where the paint still endured, safe up under a protecting arch. The overheads were all made of arches because flat roofs would require wooden beams. The impressive skill of the builders had constructed strong arches out of mud bricks that endured for centuries.

Jamshid led her on the asphalt walkway past the maze of disorganized streets and alleyways. They walked through the partially restored market place, the bazaar. The restored little booths already showed the weathering of rain while the few original walls were still standing after hundreds of years.

Ellen used both hands to feel the hardness and warmth of an original wall in a stall that still stood. What did they know to do that would make the material last so long?

She had seen on the bus trip from Kerman, people out repairing the rain damage. Their village houses unable to withstand even one season of downpours. Maybe it was camel urine or a special plant juice that made even the stucco so impervious to the erosion of years and years within the old city.

Because of the monochrome color of the ruins, Ellen quickly decided she would need either early morning light or the hour before sunset, the golden hour, as they called it in the movies, to do her photographs. The three dimensional quality of the buildings would not show unless they had the contrasting light and shadow.

I don't suppose there is a detailed map of all this? They had reached the far western wall, the houses built right up to the wall.

Yes, they should have one at the entrance. Jamshid was thoughtful.

You're right about getting lost. I can see we could miss something very easily.

Maybe you could take a picture from very high, he said pointing up to the white tower that rose above fortified bluff that dominated the entire northern side of the city.

It was the first time she had really looked up. The narrow streets had blocked the view of the fortress. The buildings around her suddenly were very small compared to the mass of crenellated walls and defensive towers. Good idea. Then maybe we can divide this maze into sections and work a different section each day.

Do you want to go up there now? He asked with an eagerness that belied his lack of sleep.

No, Ellen replied quickly, having  a sudden anxiety about going up near the white tower. Plus the time to get a camera and then the walk back across the entire city to the base of the long, winding road and archways that she could see led up to the summit. I think tomorrow morning is soon enough.

Smiling agreement, Jamshid shed his leather jacket. The morning sun was feeling more intense and the earthen buildings were already beginning to radiate heat.

Besides, she started walking back toward the center of the city, I have another important mission for you.

What, Miss Ellen? he said catching up, the jacket slung casually over his shoulder.

So cool, she thought, like a GQ model, the white teeth, the curly dark hair. No, no stop thinking like that. Persian men just look like models. I want to shoot my photographs both early in the morning, right after the sun rises and in the late afternoon during the hour just before sunset. I think the light will be best for all these same-colored buildings.

Yes, he said, thinking hard.

Now, your job is to convince that lady at the gate to call her boss and get permission for us to be in here during those hours. They could just give us a key or send someone to open and close for us.

I understand. I think a key would be better. That girl would be very unhappy to come so early. He walked backwards for a moment, squinting at the angle of the sun.

And have to stay so late, added Ellen. They rounded a corner to a new street and headed back to the south and the entrance. Oh...I have a letter in my bag in the car from the Ministry of Cultural Heritage. This is an international undertaking you know. It's sponsored by both the Museum and Iranian government.

Jamshid laughed. That is the boss of the boss. Give me the letter and I will make the arrangements, unhappy girl or not.

When they arrived back at the Nissan-4X4, there was a boy, possibly ten or eleven years old, wearing a worn, leather cowboy hat, sitting jauntily on the hood of the car.

Hallo! How are you? he said in overly enunciated syllables, his dark eyes sparkling.

Jamshid said several things sharply in Farsi and the boy jumped down and stood respectfully facing Ellen. This is Iraj's cousin, Mohsen e-Ghurian.

Ellen offered her hand. Hello Mohsen. I'm happy to meet you.

He hesitated a moment before taking her hand. Carefully, he said, I am fine, how are you? Then produced a heartbreaking smile that melted any objections that Ellen might have had about this young ruffian.

Just then Iraj returned with several bottles of orange soda pop and seeing that Ellen had already met his cousin, said, Mohsen very good.

Ellen gratefully accepted the bottle of cold orange and sent Jamshid back to negotiate with the Ministry letter in hand. Then, since she really couldn't converse with the other two, she broke out the QPN tablet and proceeded to power up, activate her satellite connection and check her e-mail.

The satellite link took several minutes for the locator function to sort through the files and produce an updated version of her mail center with messages waiting. One was from the museum in San Francisco, confirming that the publication rights for her project would be respected by the Iranian government. They had agreed to not allow illegal duplication. This was a point the State Department had been sticking on for a number of years.

There was a message from her apartment manager, wanting to know what to do with her mail. She had forgotten in the rush of leaving to even notify him that she would be gone.

The last message was from Ellen's older sister.

ELLEN RICHARDS. SAN FRANCISCO MUSEUM CENTER.NET

Ellen dear,

Still haven't heard from you. What's going on? I'm worried sick, etc., etc.

PLEASE RESPOND IMMEDIATELY!

Now most important: The new complex, SILENTIUM, is having a Grand Opening on March 27. I expect you to be here. This has been my first big project for MTC. This is very important to me. You are all the family I have left and I need you here! Is that enough guilt?

Two days at the most. I have a room reserved for you at the Silentium Hotel on the 26, 27 and 28. Please answer immediately and let me know you are all right out there in that wilderness with all those men.

I love you little sister. \\

Millie

Ellen opened New and typed:

MILLIE SAPIR @ MTC HQ.NET

Dear Big Sis,

My work here is just starting and I have employees to think about, plus a publisher's deadline. Thanks for the invite. I know it will be fabulous, but don't count on me this time. I'll come see it the moment I finish here. I'm fine, the project is very interesting, and the men are beautiful. I'll keep you posted. Love. \\

Ellen

She clicked 'send' and remembered that she had a translation module installed before Christmas and there were language blocks in her memory storage at the museum. She accessed the San Francisco Museum of Art and found her way into Staff Personal, Research Department/Richards. A few minutes later, the download was underway with a Middle East Language App.

Jamshid returned minutes before the download was complete with a satisfied grin. The unhappy lady will be here tomorrow morning at five a.m. to let us in. She has to be here for us every day until they decide about a key. He then translated the news for Iraj and Mohsen who also wanted to know about the tablet computer.

Ellen explained as the download complete frame popped up, that the satellite net connected to her home office in San Francisco and she had storage space within the Museum's permanent storage cloud. And I've just downloaded a Farsi language block for my translator, which, if I can figure out how to get us all voice-registered with the program, it will translate English to Farsi and Farsi to English. Plus, I think it will include Farsi in the camera menus so you guys can operate as well.

This information created much excitement and conversation. Iraj seemed to be very intimidated about computers and afraid he would not be able to do anything. From his body language and expression listening to Jamshid translate, Ellen realized the anxiety, Tell them the only rule is that the machines are not to be turned on unless it's part of work and I'm there to supervise. At least while everyone is learning. OK?

ANCIENT STONES

Wednesday, March 14, 2017

ELLEN RICHARDS

The first light of dawn had already happened before Ellen, in fresh khakis, her hair tied back under a gold print scarf, stepped through the front door of the hotel and into the waiting Nissan-4X4. The first steady beams of bright morning light were cutting across the high mud walls when they pulled into the parking lot. The unhappy girl, as they all were calling her now, was very prompt, arriving at four-fifty-five a.m. with her own flashlight and an expression of great suffering. However this time, the big gate was opened and the Nissan roared through the high arched entrance. Jamshid jumped out to help pull the big barrier closed again and, as Ellen had instructed, told the girl that they would pay for all the extra hours even if the Ministry paid her as well.

She probably has a family to take care of and other responsibilities. It's the least we can do.

This news did seem to soften the attitude a little and the girl murmured her thanks as she replaced the large padlock. She would return at the usual opening time and they must take the vehicle outside at that time.

Ellen was anxious to take advantage of the sharp, low-angle light cutting across the buildings, casting long shadows along the streets. Drive as close as we can get to the fort or castle, whatever that is up there. We'll get our map shot first.

I think it is a king's house, Jamshid said as he rummaged in the back for the two thermos bottles that he had brought.

After one wrong turn on the service road and backing up, Iraj found the right street with Mohsen's expert navigating. They reached the base of the high, imposing walls. Iraj parked right at the entrance which was blocked by a permanent barrier with only a small pedestrian opening.

Ellen thought the crisp morning air smelled delicious; almost as good as the paper cup of coffee that Jamshid handed up to the front seat. He passed out cups of hot tea for Iraj and Mohsen and poured a coffee for himself. He was going to drink the bitter, unsweetened brew if that's what professionals drank.

I didn't know you drank coffee, Ellen said, noticing how carefully he was sipping.

Oh, yes. It is the drink that all the Baluchi camel drivers drink.

As they got the necessary gear out of the car, Mohsen climbed up front and settled into the driver's seat, his cowboy hat pulled down low, arm casually draped over the steering wheel. He looked more like a western gangster than a vehicle guard. Ellen could see he was taking his new responsibility very seriously and the studied poses were part of his total image.

Let's bring the large tripod so I can get the camera as high as possible. She took the CTL-unit case, slipping the wide padded strap over her shoulder, and let Jamshid take the heavier camera bag with all its handles, straps, and bulging outside pockets. I really must clean that out one of these days, she thought. There's probably an extra 10 pounds of stuff that's not needed.

Iraj cheerfully shouldered the long, bulky tripod in its soft vinyl bag.

Once inside the small entrance, the lowest part of the fortress was spacious and wide.

Wow, this must have housed a huge army, Ellen noted, seeing the rows of living quarters and even larger area devoted to stables, much of which had been restored. The space narrowed to a road leading up at an angle across the face of the inner hill, perhaps a natural rise before all the years of construction. The roadway was blocked by several other wall barriers and narrow arched entries. An invading army would have had a very difficult time trying to overpower this place.

At the top of the first rise they stopped at the arched barrier, looking down inside the lower fortress walls. The wall was divided every 100 yards or so with a large round tower that extended out beyond the walls giving the defenders a clear line of fire to the base of the wall. There were wide walkways behind the waist-high crenelated wall crest, supported by the same mud-brick construction of arches, only this time soaring high, maybe three or four stories. Inside, the next inner wall rising up perhaps three times taller than the outer walls and above that, the walls of the actual castle, rising even higher with small, vertical windows near the top.

Look at this, she amazed. Tall graceful arch structures, built without benefit of wood or stone, marched up the slopes side by side giving the inside of the massive fortress an open, airy feeling. They were truly masters of their skill of building. Later I want to cover all this in detail, but not today. Let's find the top.

As she walked up the smooth roadway inside the second barrier, feeling early sun on her back, she could imagine the thunder of hooves as the defenders of the castle hurried down to lead their troops out to defend the city, and if the city fell, they could fall back behind all their defenses inside the fortress. She had a second image of the thousands of frightened people from the city, panicked, running to the fortress, desperate to get inside for protection, and the great gate being closed and barred---cruelty and selfishness beyond imagination.

Iraj gave up on the long shoulder straps attached to the tripod and hoisted the bag up on his shoulder. The heat of the sun had him already sweating.

Ellen began to have a disquieting sense of familiarity as they progressed up the road, stopping several times to point out different areas they should investigate down in the city later. She felt as if she should know what was around the next turn. Of course, she had studied these kinds of structures before with their very logical layout. But usually her job was in the museum working from someone else's photos and notes. She photographed artifacts for publication constantly, but usually in the museum photo studio. This assignment came as a favor and a big career opportunity. That's why she jumped at the chance, begging Percy to let her have a go at it. Otherwise they'll give it to the same old boring men who shoot everything the same. I know I can do a great job! He had finally given in, insisting she be on her way to the Middle East in less than ten days.

Jamshid led the way as they reached the main upper level. This is where the king met all his people and they ate here and the food was prepared back over there.

Ellen laughed. You should be a tour guide.

He smiled. My father brought me here when I was a boy like his father did before that. The Arg is part of our past. He showed her the courtyard that faced the large square tower, and the stairway that led up into the final level. Up there, the private rooms for the king and his wives, he said. The people from down here were not allowed to go up there. He started up.

At the base of the stairs, Ellen without thinking, said, That's funny. There should have been a large arch and tiles over this.

Why do you say that? Jamshid asked, stopping on the thick stone steps, halfway up.

Momentarily puzzled, Ellen said softly, I don't know. It just feels wrong. They continued out onto the upper terrace, which included the towert

Miss Ellen! Iraj called. He was standing beside the entrance to the tower. He called in Farsi to Jamshid who came back down to translate.

He wants to know if you want to put the camera up on top of the tower?

Let's take a look. She went out to the tower which rose up above everything else by several stories. It was white in color; more than whitewash, it was a different material, reflecting bright in the sunlight. Ellen took one look inside the small access door at the twisting narrow steps that led up. No, that's too cramped for the tripod. She could see up at the top there was only a narrow ledge, just wide enough for a person to walk. Let's set up out on the terrace to the front. We can get a perfect view of the city from there. She backed out of the opening and headed back to the stairs leaving the boys looking a little startled at her positive decision without seeing the location. While you're doing that I'll take a look up stairs.

She started up the stairs that led to the final level of the structure behind the tower. For the first time she really noticed that some of the original steps were built of thick stones, worn very smooth, with a slight depression where centuries of footsteps had passed. Looking down, Ellen could sense the age of the stone, but at the same time she could see clearly the stone steps being new and highly polished. With each step the sensation increased. She felt pride and a kind of safe solidness from the beautiful assembly of risers and treads. It made her light-headed and disconnected for a moment.

At the top, when she stepped back onto the hard concrete floor that served the rest of the restored structure, the feelings quickly faded, leaving a clinging film of déja vu floating in the back of her mind.

The apartments at the top were light and airy. Many walls stood open to the outside to let the breeze keep the occupants cool. She was drawn to the back, to the north side. This was her private terrace out here, she whispered to her self. The walls were gone but the base and the deep square bathing pool was still there with a delicate step down into where the water lines were etched into the dry stone. Looking up she could see the river gleaming in the early light with the band of dark green bushes and grass that grew along both banks. The water was muddy and turgid. Beyond the river, the flat, arid desert stretched to another range of hazy lavender mountains. Turning back she thought, There were gardens up here...and little trees. She suddenly felt very hot at the back of her head where her hair was so tightly tied up. Reaching up she pulled the scarf loose and let her hair out, shaking her head to free it.

The cool was delicious. She took several steps back toward the pool imagining herself as a queen or high-born princess approaching her morning bath, her scarf floating from one hand. The girl had just finished pouring scalding hot water into the deep blue water to warm it.

Ellen stood for a moment staring down, then realized she was looking at a dry, dirt drifted, empty square. Of course, the well has dried up; the water table has to be much lower now.

Jamshid was saying, Miss Ellen, did you say something?

What?

I thought you said something. He was standing at the edge of the terrace.

Oh...No, I was just pondering about the water.

There used to be tunnels.

She looked at him, questioning.

Going down, deep inside this mountain. My grandfather heard about them, but the story goes that several children were killed down there when the hole collapsed, and the men filled it in and bricked over it. Now they don't even know where it was.

She looked back out over the slow-moving river and the green, trying to collect her thoughts. I thought as much.

We have the tripod set up, he gestured, out on the front side. You have to show us where you want it.

Right. Let's get to work. She broke her mood and forced the energy into her step as she walked through the apartments. She reached the top of the stone stairs, feeling that uncomfortable feeling of being here before, of knowing about this place. She took a deep breath and hurried down the steps and out into the bright sunlight of the larger front terrace.

She tied the scarf loosely around her neck. I'm sorry. I just got too hot. I'll put it back before we go back outside the front.

I think you look beautiful, Jamshid said quietly.

Quick thoughts of don't get involved. Don't let this get out of hand. She laughed, making a joke. Thanks, a lady always likes to get a compliment. Her hands kept busy opening the camera case.

She showed them the camera body and how to mount the Hasselblad DSLR camera onto the tripod. We'll let Iraj do the tripod setup. Jamshid, I will have you do the lenses and set the camera readings. Then you can both learn about the computer as we go along.

With Ellens guidance, a very nervous Iraj actually touched the computer and carefully removed the CTL-unit from the carrying case. He learned to fold up the large-screen monitor from the top and lower the keyboard behind the front panel cover.

Just switch on the main power like this, Ellen said, placing the case, and we're in business.

Iraj asked, and then Jamshid had to ask, What...In business?

I'm sorry. If you translate it literally it means something else. I just meant we are ready to go to work.

She lifted out