The Golden Obelisk of Mu

James Abraham Carter

The saltiness of the ocean was strong in my nostrils as I stood on the palm-fringed beach, squinting at the horizon in anticipation of the lugger’s arrival. The long days had merged into lonely months on Tongana, a little-known island in the Fiji archipelago, and the necessary but tedious nature of scientific observation and documentation was starting to weigh heavily on me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m an anthropologist, and I love my profession, but even the best jobs have their moments, and I was experiencing one of them. Just when I thought I'd start painting faces on coconuts for company, the familiar silhouette of a sleek hull rounded the island’s jungle-clad headland. Relief washed over me, but as the craft drew near, it was quickly replaced by curiosity when I saw two figures who, by their attire, were obviously not crew members, standing on the deck.

The lugger’s anchor was dropped, and her rowboat was lowered. As the smaller craft, loaded with supplies, neared the shore, I recognized one of the passengers. The rowboat’s keel grated on the sand, and Professor Eric Svenson, a man I only knew from obscure academic journals and whispered rumors of unorthodox theories, stepped onto the beach, followed by a girl who couldn’t have been older than eighteen. Her hair was a rich brunette color, her skin was tan in hue, and her dark eyes were slightly almond-shaped. I suspected she was of mixed race, and being unprejudiced, I thought that she was absolutely stunning. 

Our eyes met for a moment, and in that brief instant, a connection was formed. It seemed that a jolt of electricity passed through my entire body, and I saw my startled expression reflected in her own gaze.

"James Brown, I presume?" Svenson's voice was as gruff as his railing against what he considered the stultifying orthodoxy of conventional academia. "And this is my daughter, Inga. She’s my research assistant."

"Welcome to Tongana," I said, trying not to stare at Inga as the sailors began to unload the supplies. "I wasn't expecting visitors."

"Ah, yes, well,” Svenson replied a little awkwardly. “I apologize for my unannounced arrival. I came across something rather fascinating, you see: a journal I purchased in an antique bookshop detailing the discovery of… the Golden Obelisk of Mu as I have christened it."

He withdrew a weathered book from his satchel, its spine cracked and pages yellowed. I recognized the telltale signs of pseudoscience. "Mu?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. The lost continent? The stuff of legend?

"Precisely,” he replied, excitedly waving the book in the air. “This journal belonged to a sailor shipwrecked here on this island in the mid 19th century. He claimed to have stumbled upon the remnants of a lost civilization, their most prized possession being this magnificent gold obelisk."

He opened the book to a dog-eared page with a crude map, an X scrawled in faded ink on a point deep within the island's unexplored interior, along with a rough sketch of what looked like an obelisk. My skepticism deepened. The Tongana natives were a Stone Age people. Metallurgy was as foreign to them as algebra.

“Look at the shape of the column,” enthused Svenson, jabbing the drawing with his finger. “This is proof of a link between Mu and other ancient cultures that created similar artifacts.”

"Professor," I began, trying to choose my words carefully, "with all due respect, these sailors' journals are often… embellished. The natives here have no knowledge of metalworking."

"Nonsense!" Svenson boomed, his face flushing red. "This book is a genuine account! The obelisk is a testament to a forgotten age! It can’t be a coincidence that I found this book. It’s destiny."

I suppressed a sigh. I didn't want to offend the man, especially while Inga was watching with such intense interest. "Let's discuss this at my place," I offered, gesturing toward my modest hut nestled among the palms. "It's more comfortable than the beach."

My hut was spartan, furnished with a hammock, a rickety folding table, and shelves crammed with anthropological texts. Svenson placed the journal on the table, the book open at the map, and traced the route with a thick finger, while Inga watched me with her dark eyes, keenly aware of my skepticism and ready to defend her father.

It soon became clear that the professor was a follower of Augustus Le Plongeon, a British-American antiquarian who had outlined his hypothesis of the lost continent of Mu in his writings. According to Le Plongeon, the civilization of ancient Egypt was established by Queen Moo, a refugee from the land's demise when it sank beneath the waves. Other refugees supposedly fled to North America, Central America, and South America and became the Maya. It was crackpot science, but Svenson had a bee in his bonnet about the subject. The Golden Obelisk, he believed, was a relic of this mythical culture, a source of untold riches and historical significance.

I listened politely, but inside, I was rolling my eyes. This was the kind of stuff you found in pulp adventure magazines, not in serious academic journals. I liked Inga and didn’t want to risk offending her by criticizing her father’s beliefs. But the truth mattered, and at the same time, I wasn’t prepared to nod my head to ideas that were unsupported by sound evidence.

"Professor, this is… a very interesting theory," I said diplomatically, choosing what I thought was the middle ground, "but the evidence is, shall we say, circumstantial?"

Inga stiffened, reading my true feelings. "You think he's an eccentric crank, don't you?" she challenged, her voice sharp. "You’re just another stuffy academic, trapped in your own little ivory tower."

My irritation, already roused by having to listen to nonsense, broke free from polite restraint. "I'm just being factual," I retorted more hotly than I had intended. "Besides, the natives here are barely tolerant of my presence. They're not going to welcome a treasure hunt with open arms."

"A treasure hunt?" she snapped. "Do you take us for tomb robbers? My father is an honorable man who has dedicated his life to this research. You, on the other hand, are an intellectual midget by comparison."

"I don’t claim to know everything. But I know enough to realize that bringing your teenage daughter into a potentially dangerous situation is irresponsible," I shot back, instantly regretting it.

Inga's eyes flashed with anger. "I'm not some damsel in distress! This is the year 1910 AD, not BC. I'm just as capable as any man! Your attitude is archaic and, quite frankly, insulting. And to think that I was starting to like you." She stormed out of the hut, her footsteps crunching on the gravel pathway.

Svenson looked at me, his face hard with disapproval. “I see now that you, like the others, are trapped by rigid academic orthodoxy. I had hoped for your assistance, but it's obvious that your close-minded attitude will be more of a hindrance than a help. Good day, sir." He turned, his body stiff with anger, and followed Inga, leaving me standing alone in my hut, kicking myself for my ill-chosen words.

An hour later, after I had put away the supplies the lugger had delivered, I decided to try to smooth things over. I admit I was lonely and wanted to see Inga again, despite her harsh words. I headed down the beach toward the camp that Svenson and Inga had set up, intending to apologize and also to try to prevent her and her father from doing something rash. But the camp was deserted, and a trail of broken foliage marked their passage into the jungle. Panic seized me. I was too late. They were headed into the heart of the island, unprepared and, in their overconfidence, oblivious to the dangers that awaited them.

The lugger and her crew had departed. I was the only one who could help them if they got into trouble. Fearing for their safety, I raced back to my hut, grabbed my rifle and machete, and plunged into the jungle, following the trail they had left behind. The undergrowth was thick, the air heavy with humidity, and the silence was broken only by the screech of unseen birds. Hours passed, and the trail led me deeper into the island's rugged interior, up steep ravines and across swiftly flowing streams.

Then, I heard it. The steady, rhythmic beat of drums. Fear coiled in my gut. I knew that sound. It was the sound of a tribal ceremony, a ceremony I'd been warned never to witness on pain of a brutal death.

I crept forward, every muscle tense, and cautiously parted the leaves. The scene that unfolded before me sent a jolt of pure horror through my nerves.

In a small clearing, bathed in a shaft of sunlight that pierced the jungle canopy, stood a golden column about six feet tall and in the shape of a carved obelisk. Incredibly, the sailor’s story has some truth to it. But the gold was not the gold of ancient kings. Rather, it had the dull luster of iron pyrite - fools gold. And kneeling against the obelisk, her hands tied above her head and struggling against her bonds, was Inga. Her clothes had been brutally torn from her body leaving her completely nude. Her face was streaked with tears, and her eyes were wide with terror.

Standing before her was the tribe’s witch doctor, his body muscular and his face hidden by a grotesque crimson mask of satanic aspect. He held a huge knife in one meaty hand, its polished surface gleaming in the sunlight - one of the items of trade goods I’d used when bartering with the islanders. Three other masked figures stood beside him, pounding on their drums, their eyes glinting with the savage anticipation of bloodlust.

They were going to sacrifice her and with the very knife I’d given them.

With a wild shout the witch doctor raised his knife in preparation to plunge the blade between Inga’s heaving breasts. The native was fast, but I was faster. I swiftly raised my rifle and fired. The shot echoed through the jungle, shattering the stillness. The witch doctor crumpled to the ground, the knife clattering against a stone.

The three remaining natives turned toward me, their frightful masks expressing the rage that infused them. The bolt action jammed. I cursed, threw the rifle aside, and drew my machete as the trio charged toward me, hardwood clubs poised to crush my skull.

I ducked the first native’s wild swing and disemboweled him with a slashing cut; then the rest were on me like a pack of wild dogs. The battle was brutal and swift. I fought with a desperate ferocity, fueled by adrenaline and the primal urge to protect Inga. The machete flashed and danced. Men screamed. Blood spurted in gory streams, and soon, the clearing was silent, save for my ragged breathing and Inga's choked sobs. 

I looked at the carnage, sickened by what I’d had to do. The blood of four men stained my shaking hands, but this was not the time to fall apart. I pulled myself together and rushed to Inga’s side, hacking at the ropes that bound her to the obelisk. She collapsed into my arms, trembling uncontrollably. "My father…" she whispered, her voice broken. "They… they killed him."

I knew we couldn't stay. The rest of the tribe would be coming, attracted by the gunshot, and I didn't want to imagine what they would do to us. "We have to leave," I said urgently. "Now. There's nothing we can do for your father. The authorities in Suva will have to organize the retrieval of his body."

Inga nodded, her eyes wide with fear. "What about the obelisk?" she asked, gesturing towards the dull gleam of the fools gold. “It was his life’s work.”

"I’m sorry, Inga, I really am.” I replied heavily. “It isn’t the groundbreaking discovery that your father was dreaming of. It's iron pyrites - worthless. The carvings on it are all native motifs, not the work of a lost civilization. Forget the obelisk. Our lives are what matter now."

“Then he died for nothing,” she bitterly sobbed as I doffed my shirt and wrapped it around her.

We fled the clearing, stumbling through the jungle, expecting at any moment to be set upon by enraged tribesmen. By a miracle, we reached my hut unharmed, a haven of familiarity in the face of overwhelming terror. I grabbed some supplies as Inga scrambled into my spare trousers, and then we dashed to my small sailing vessel, a native outrigger I had bought for just such a contingency: the possibility of the need to escape. Inga and I put our shoulders to the prow and shoved the boat toward the water.

As we launched the craft, a horde of spear-wielding natives burst from the jungle, their faces adorned with war paint and screaming wildly. Spears flew, whistling past our heads as we scrambled aboard. I raised the sail, catching the wind, and we surged out to sea, leaving the island and its savage horrors behind us.

As the coastline receded into the distance, I wrapped my arms around Inga, trying to offer her some comfort. She broke down, her sobs wracking her body. "I have no one," she despairingly cried. "My mother, a Siamese lady, died several years ago. My relatives disowned Dad because he married her. They want nothing to do with me either because I’m mixed-race. Dad, stricken with grief at her passing, threw himself into his work… he spent all his money on this… this foolish, fatal quest."

She looked at me, her eyes filled with despair. "I don't know how I'm going to survive without him."

"I'll help you," I said, my voice firm. "I'll take care of you."

I had fallen in love with her somewhere between the beach where we first met and my rescuing her from the witch doctor. I knew it was crazy, that we were both traumatized and vulnerable, but the feeling was undeniable.

Inga looked up at me, her eyes searching mine, sensing my unspoken emotions, emotions I felt it was inappropriate to fully express given the recent death of her father. "I… I'm attracted to you, too, James," she whispered, breaking with convention. "I was awful back there. I'm sorry for the things I said."

I pulled her closer, holding her tight. "It doesn't matter," I replied. "We're together now. We'll figure things out."

We sat in silence, the wind carrying us further and further away from Tongana as I set a course for Suva and safety. As the sun began to set, casting a trail of light on the ocean, a small hope flickered within me. A hope that, from the ashes of tragedy, something beautiful could emerge. A second chance, a new beginning, forged in adversity and bound by love.

The End