Scroll down to read the first episode of The Crystal Skulls

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It was close to midnight when Koomba left his house. He paused on his doorstep and glanced into the narrow street, his hands clutching a wooden bowl. The air around him filled with the salty aroma of freshly cooked seal meat.
    Koomba’s honeybrown eyes looked up at the cloudless sky, and he shivered—from fear as much as from the cold. It wasn't nearly as dark as he had hoped. The moon was almost full, its pale light transforming the tiny island Arrannak into an eerie world of ghostly shadows. His heart raced. Although he had made the journey countless times the past couple of years, he had never gotten used to sneaking through the village like a criminal.
    Inhaling deeply, Koomba glanced around once more, and with a look of determination he wrapped his sealskin cloak around his shoulders. His body rose up, his feet losing contact with the ground. Slowly, he started to hover in the direction of the graveyard.
    Koomba glided through the shadows without a sound, floating above the cobblestones like a cloud of black smoke. Routinely, he checked the streets and alleys for signs of life, but the village looked as if it was deserted. He moved quickly until a noise startled him. Reflexively, he dropped to his knees. Crouching under his cloak, he appeared little more than a crumpled piece of cloth.
    Despite the cold, sweat formed on his face as he waited, listening intently. A whisper came from his left. He tried to distinguish the words, but the voices were distant and faint. As he realized they didn't come any closer, he opened his cloak shelter to look around. The sound came from his left, from behind the stone brick wall surrounding Boolba's house.
    He crept toward the wall and pushed himself up until his nose was level with the top layer of bricks, but he dropped back immediately, cursing through gritted teeth. Boolba and his wife, Aila, stood in their garden, less than twenty feet from where he crouched. And he was sure Boolba had been looking straight at him! Trembling, Koomba rested his forehead against the stones. For a while, he was almost too afraid to breathe. It would be disastrous if someone spotted him tonight.
    He heard footsteps, fading away. A door was opened and closed. Pushing himself up, he peered over the wall again. Aila now sat on a stone bench facing away from him, talking to herself as she looked up at the stars. Boolba, he realized, was gone.
    Koomba clenched his teeth. “Go inside, you stupid sea cow!” he muttered under his breath. He waited impatiently, but Aila didn’t move.
    The cold already started to bite its way into his flesh. The thought of strangling the woman popped up in his mind, and he imagined her face turning blue under the grip of his long, thin fingers. Breathing heavily, he peered into the street. It was about fifteen paces to the mortuary; a large building that dominated the west side of the graveyard. If he reached it, he would be out of sight. Nobody had the nerve to go there after sunset.
    Koomba swallowed. He would have to run for it. He needed to stay low. Pressing the bowl against his chest, he pushed himself up, moaning softly from the effort. Then he started to sprint, his knees bent awkwardly and his body hunched in an attempt to stay as close to the ground as possible. But halfway he tripped on the seam of his mantle. He fell flat on his face, arms stretched forward to break the fall. The wooden bowl flew through the air and landed with a series of thumps.
    Koomba looked up, wincing with pain. Pieces of meat lay scattered on the street. He crawled forward and quickly tossed them back into the bowl, his fingers trembling uncontrollably. Pulling the seam of his cloak up to his shins, he ran as fast as his weak legs could carry him, collapsing in the safety of the shadows.
    Aila’s puffy face appeared above the stone brick wall, her startled eyes peering left and right. “Is anybody there?”
    Koomba held his breath. Cold sweat poured down his face and in his eyes, and he pulled the hood of his cloak back to wipe it away. He saw Aila move back into the dark and a moment later he heard a door close. Peering at the wall, he waited until he was convinced the woman was gone. Then he pulled the hood back over his head. Silently, he rose up from the ground.
    Moving like a shadow, he hurried through the graveyard, halting in front of a large, flat boulder. He stared down, suddenly hesitant, as he had been so often lately. His chest heaved violently. The limestone boulder measured about four feet in diameter, its average thickness being at least a foot. It could only be lifted by those who wielded the power. And they . . . they had chosen to forget. Koomba was quite certain that besides himself nobody had been down there in years.
    He swallowed. The stone looked so insignificant, just another flat rock, covering another grave. Its surface was lined with cracks, some of which were covered with moss. The only thing that distinguished it from the other boulders that scattered the graveyard was that it had no inscription.
    With a final glance over his shoulder, Koomba waved his right hand. There was a rasping sound as the boulder started to slide sideways, uncovering a circular opening in the rock underneath.
    He quickly jumped down, cupping the wooden bowl tightly to his chest. The jagged rock scraped his back, and he fell to his side, suppressing a scream, gasping for breath as he lay awkwardly on the cold rock floor. Moaning softly, he waved his hand again, and a cloud of dust came down as the stone moved back in place.
    He was surrounded by darkness.
    He rubbed his aching back and sighed. This day was cursed! Nothing seemed to go right. What was he doing here anyway? He knew he should stop coming to this damned place. This whole thing was turning into a nightmare. Here he was, one of the seven elders of Arrannak, one of the most powerful men on the island, behaving like a second-rate burglar! How could it have come to this? He shook his head. Placing the bowl between his legs, he stared into the dark, and a sudden feeling of intense fatigue came over him. He should stop coming to this damned place . . . .
    Small rocks fell down to his left. A sliver of moonlight entered through a crack overhead, forming a tiny white slit on his foot. In front of him the outline of the tunnel took shape.
    With a sigh, Koomba rubbed his back once more, but the pain was already gone. He picked up the bowl and walked into the narrow cave, counting his paces, wincing at the disgusting smell of urine and defecation that attacked his senses. The smell made his eyes itch. It became increasingly intense, and he covered his face with his cloak.
    After a hundred and twenty five paces Koomba halted. For a moment he stood motionless, staring into utter darkness. The silence was overwhelming. He crouched down on his heels and put down the bowl, and his right hand fingered the floor until he found the edge of the pit.
    “Orgol!” he called. “Wake up. I brought you some meat.”
    Out of the deep came a weak voice, hoarse and hardly audible. “I missed you, father. Where were you yesterday?”
    Koomba frowned. “Ah, I was kept by the council,” he replied, his voice dripping with frustration. “They found out about the missing crystal. And of course, Olbo, the rat, accused me again.” He paused, rubbing his itching eyes. The air seemed to prick his membranes like minuscule needles. The stench was almost unbearable. “They forced me to swear on the grave of Mother Arran Nak,” he continued, speaking softly. “Swear that I had nothing to do with it. Only then did they let me go.” He sighed. “But I'm worried. This may well be the last time I’ve been able to appease them. I hope you realize the risks I'm taking.”
    There was no reply. Koomba leaned forward, trying to ignore the stench, and peered into the pitch-black hole. “What more can I do?” he muttered to himself.
    A soft coughing rose up from the deep. “The crystals you bring are weak,” the voice rasped. “I don't think I can survive another night, father.”
    Koomba shrank back. The softly spoken words tore at his insides, and a sudden panic crept upon him. He had never accepted the possibility that his son would actually die. He had simply forced the thought out of his mind. But after three years in this filthy, stinking pit, it was a miracle Orgol was still alive.
    He ran his fingers through the patch of gray hair on top of his head. “What do you expect from me?” he asked, his voice breaking with emotion. “You can't expect me to bring you another healing crystal. They will find out. They will put me in there with you! And who will feed you, hmm? Who will feed you when I can't?” He got up and started to pace around in the dark. “Well?” he asked.
    There was a rattling breath, followed by more coughing. Koomba continued to walk back and forth at the edge of the pit, stopping every now and then to listen. The coughing weakened, and then there was silence.
    “Orgol? Orgol!”
    Koomba leaned forward and peered into the pit again. Drops of sweat appeared on his forehead. He always felt watched in the presence of his son, as if someone stared at him intensely from behind. He fought a sudden urge to turn around and leave. Leave and never come back. Maybe it was for the best. But . . . no . . . the boy was still his son, despite what he had done. And the boy was dying. Koomba's mind raced. What could he do? He had to do something. He started to pace back and forth again, then stopped. Facing away from the pit he opened his cloak, and his right hand went to the sealskin pouch tied to his belt. He hesitated.
    A soft, rasping sound rose up from the deep.
    “Orgol?”
    “Give me the skull, father,” the hoarse voice said.
    Koomba took a startled step back. It was as if Orgol had read his mind. Frowning, he opened the pouch and touched the cool crystal of the skull inside. He ran his fingers over the brows, then gently stroked the row of teeth, polished to perfection. It was the purest crystal of all seven. So much power . . . so much energy! Carefully, he lifted the skull from the tightly fitting pouch.
    “Give it to me, father,” the voice insisted. “You know I’m dying.”
    The frown on Koomba's forehead deepened. Tears welled up in his eyes as he listened to his son's weakening voice.
    “Please, father. I'm your son.”
    Koomba pressed the skull to his chest. A wave of energy spread through his body, the energy, he realized, that could save his son's life. He swallowed, fighting his emotions, but tears flowed down his cheeks. Yes, the skull’s energy could save his son's life, but by giving it to him he would endanger the lives of everyone else. He pressed his lips together in determination. No! Whatever happened, the skulls should never fall into Orgol's hands again. Never! With a sob he opened the sealskin pouch and started to fumble at the edges of the leather, forcing the crystal back in.
    “I can't, Orgol,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I just can't.”
    But all of a sudden his body became rigid. His hands refused to obey his will, and his arms started to move as if they had a mind of their own. Holding the skull, they moved forward until they had reached the edge of the pit.
    “The skull, father,” the voice whispered.
    Horrified, Koomba looked at his hands, which were cupped around the crystal now, shrouded by an orb of blue light. He desperately tried to pull them back, but it was as if they were no longer part of his body.
    “No!” he cried.
    His hands parted. He took a sharp breath as he saw the skull fall into the pit, the blue glow fading until it was swallowed by darkness. From the deep came a short cry of excitement.
    Petrified, Koomba stared down into the dark. Panic took hold of him. This was a disaster! He had to warn the council at once. He struggled to regain control over his body, trying to get away from the pit, when he heard the soft rustle of movement. He held his breath, staring down in terror. For a moment it was dead quiet in the cave, then a terrible roar rose up from the deep. Blue flashes shot up against the ceiling. The blue light reappeared, slowly rising up until Koomba could distinguish the shadow of a figure in the glow. He watched, speechless, as the hideous creature floated past him and stopped at his left. Feverish eyes, their color a light shade of honey, stared at him, their gaze rooting him to the floor. He forced himself to look back, and his breathing stopped when he recognized the facial features of his son.
    “Orgol,” he managed to whisper.
    “Father,” the creature said, the voice now clear and strong. “Again, you let me down.”
    “You tricked me,” Koomba said. “I thought you were weak. I . . . I thought you were dying.”
    Orgol’s lips curled in a wry smile.
    “Why?” Koomba cried. “After everything I've done for you.”
    Orgol’s eyes flashed. His shape rose up from the floor. “Everything you’ve done for me?” he roared. “You are the reason they put me here! You! Don’t you understand?”
    “No,” Koomba whispered, frantically shaking his head. “No.”
    “Why?” Orgol cried, his face now twisted with rage. “Why, father?”
    Koomba struggled to get away, but it was as if his feet were nailed to the floor. He desperately tried to move. Suddenly, his left foot sprang loose. He started to fall toward the pit, flailing his arms to regain his balance. Then his right foot came loose as well. Screaming, he fell into the abyss. The scream ended abruptly with a dull thud, but the piercing sound seemed to echo for an eternity.
    Finally, silence reigned again.
    “Father?”
    There was no reply.
    “Father . . . .”
    With a sob, Orgol fell to his knees. He started to moan, the sound growing louder with every breath until it turned into an unnatural, ear-splitting cry that sent a shiver through the cave. Then he fell silent. The cry ebbed away, leaving only the sound of small pieces of rock loosened by the vibrations. Slowly, Orgol rose. The blue glow faded, casting a final, formless shadow as he hovered toward the entrance of the cave.