Legends, Shrouds and Death Worms The guide said they were almost 200 miles south of Dalandzadgad, close to the Mongolia-China border. Not that Corbett could tell – all he saw as the Jeep careened along the desert was an endless blanket of sand. The landscape was completely flat and a reddish-brown, stretching as far as the Watcher could see. The only thing breaking the visual monotony was the dust being kicked up by the tires, which made Corbett squint more than the blazing sun.
How the people working on this dig could tell where they were going, he’d never know.
“We’ve been searching for this shroud for almost three years,” an elderly man sitting in the back seat said, clutching the knob of his redwood cane. Corbett knew him as Roger Collinsworth, a curator with the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C. Roger also had contacts with the Council of Watchers, and he’d asked a Watcher to come out to Mongolia to oversee the removal of an ancient shroud that had just been discovered.
Corbett, with his background in translation and ancient religions, drew the proverbial lucky straw, though the Watcher wondered just how lucky he was as he took another swig from his canteen. Sweat rolled down his left temple; that the Gobi Desert was hot in August didn’t surprise Corbett, but it didn’t make the heat any less oppressive.
“The terrain being what it is,” Corbett’s translator, a young man named Xianbei, added, “simply finding the dig site was a challenge. Our GPS technology was relatively primitive until almost two years ago.”
Glancing over his left shoulder, Corbett noted Roger’s black-rim glasses and the small grey soul patch under his lips. “This shroud,” the Watcher called out over the hum of the jeep’s engine, “why does the Smithsonian want it?”
“The National Museum of Natural History is planning an exhibit on China and Mongolia next year,” Roger explained. “History suggests the Shroud of Kublai played an important environmental role in the establishment of the Yuan Dynasty in the 13th century.”
Corbett frowned. What little he knew of the Yuan Dynasty said nothing of a shroud or any mystical connections. The Watcher didn’t doubt such things existed – he knew well enough to know that history often covered up that sort of thing – but he found it hard to believe an American museum was showing such interest in an artifact half a world away that may or may not have mystical properties.
The guide, staring straight ahead as he drove through the desert, spoke. Corbett didn’t recognize the dialect, deciding to let Xianbei translate before replying. Conversing through a translator was tiresome, but it beat being clueless in the face of a foreign tongue.
“He said, ‘Do not worry – we will protect you from the olgoi-khorkhoi,’” the translator said.
Corbett chuckled, shaking his head. He knew of the legend of the Mongolian Death Worm, thanks to the 1926 book On the Trail of Ancient Man. Those who told Roy Chapman Andrews of the worm, a red creature anywhere from two to five feet long said to spew deadly sulfuric acid, back in those days admitted to never having seen the creature, which made the professor doubt its existence.
The Watcher didn’t have the luxury of such cynicism. Though the driver obviously considered the Mongolian Death Worm to be a joke, since he was laughing, Corbett knew better. He couldn’t prove the monster’s existence, but he wasn’t going to rule it out, either.
The vehicle slowed as it finally approached the dig site, which comprised of three white tents and a small trailer hooked up to a generator. Two men were huddles under the nearest tent, staring at laptop screens and fanning themselves. The generator hummed over the sound of the engine, undoubtedly powering an air conditioner.
Corbett hoped he’d be briefed indoors.
Emerging from the jeep, Corbett smiled when one of the men from the tent, a tall and thin man with a handle-bar moustache, extended his hand and spoke. “Mr. Renfroe,” he said. “Glad you could make it. I’m Dr. Hubert Wilson, the leader of this dig.”
Good, he speaks English. “Please tell me you have water,” the Watcher replied. “Or an igloo would suffice.”
Dr. Wilson laughed, motioning for Corbett to follow him before heading toward the trailer. The Watcher followed, sighing in relief when he stepped into the trailer and felt the cold blast of air. Nothing made a man appreciate air conditioning more than being without it in the desert for a few hours.
“I trust you’ve been told about the shroud?” Dr. Wilson asked, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to Corbett.
Corbett twisted off the cap and took a long first swig, shaking his head. “Just minor details. Name, date of potential origin. Something to do with the Yuan Dynasty?”
Dr. Wilson nodded. “One of the dynasty’s rulers was a man named Kublai Khan. Usually, you think of dynasty rulers, you think of plundering and growing your empire through violence and coercion. But Kublai was a reformer of sorts, seeking to gain support amongst his people.”
“I’m guessing this shroud was his?”
“It would appear so.” Dr. Wilson leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter in what passed for the kitchen. The trailer wasn’t all that big, but it was cool. “A few years ago, Chinese archaeologists discovered that Kublai was a heavily spiritual man – which in itself is not that much of a shock. But Kublai was also apparently a mystical man; he practiced nature-based magicks.”
Corbett nodded. “Hence the shroud.”
“We’re not sure if the shroud was part of his rituals, or if it was merely a totem for him. Details are still remarkably sketchy. A lot of the people we have working on this dig don’t know about the supernatural component, which is why we asked the Council to send someone.”
Taking another drink of water, Corbett cocked his head to the side. He just realized he was still wearing his sunglasses. Removing them, he squinted. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know a whole lot about Chinese dynasties.”
“We don’t need help with that,” Dr. Wilson said. “We know that after Kublai’s death, his grandson, Temur Khan, ruled before Kulug Khan took over and practically undid everything Kublai worked for. A few more leaders and the dynasty fell in an environment of struggle, famine and bitterness.
“What we need you to do is look at the shroud itself, see if there’s anything to suggest the legends of the time might be true.”
Corbett paused mid-sip, frowning. “Legends?” he asked after swallowing.
“Until recently, historians thought Kublai had a peaceful reign, which was why the transition of power was so seamless to his grandson. But now we’re thinking there might have been a power struggle between Kublai and some of his advisers, who were none too pleased with the changes he’d made.”
Corbett gave a nod of understanding. “Reformers are rarely appreciated in the immediacy of their work.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Wilson offered, coughing twice before producing a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and lighting up. After taking a short first drag, the bearded man spoke again. “Maybe one of his advisors tried to have him removed, or they tried to corrupt the process of succession.”
Corbett picked up the train of thought. “Or perhaps Kublai was killed by an insider.”
“And if that’s the case,” Dr. Wilson continued, “then maybe there’s some mystical property to the shroud. Maybe it’s cursed, or Kublai enchanted it somehow to protect himself.”
“Was the shroud buried with Kublai?”
Dr. Wilson shook his head. “We thought it might be, but we’ve found the shroud and no sign of a grave.”
A low rumble outside interrupted the conversation, the trailer shaking as if there was a small earthquake. Corbett grabbed the back of the couch he’d been leaning on, while Dr. Wilson gripped the edge of the counter until the rumbling stopped. Voices screamed outside until footsteps approached the trailer and the front door swung open, hitting the inside wall.
Xianbei stood in the doorway, panting and sweating profusely. His black eyes were wide and his hands were shaking.
“Xianbei,” Dr. Wilson said as he emerged from behind the counter. “What’s wrong?”
The young man’s eyes darted back and forth between Dr. Wilson and Corbett, his breathing still labored. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes in an effort to steel himself, but there was no use. Xianbei was scared.
“Was it an earthquake?” Corbett asked, realizing he was unaware of the area’s topographical characteristics.
Xianbei shook his head.
“Then what?” Dr. Wilson asked. His voice was still calm, but it had a little more urgency than before. The screams and shouts from outside died down, leaving an eerie quiet in the air.
Xianbei looked up at Dr. Wilson, swallowing hard again. “It,” he began in a low, shaking voice, closing his eyes. “It was the olgoi-khorkhoi. It came up out of the sand, wrecked our tents. It ate Mr. Collinsworth.”
Dr. Wilson went pale, leaning back against the counter and closing his eyes. “Good God,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“It’s worse,” the young man added, looking directly at Corbett. “The shroud’s gone.”