Subterranean by James Rollins Page A

couldn’t help it. And couldn’t stop it. “I mean it . . .” she said between laughs. “Get off!”
    Looking at her oddly, he crawled off her. “It’s good to hear you laugh.”
    She wiped a tear from her eye, still wracked with occasional bursts of laughter. She dropped her head back on the floor, trying to catch her breath. She stared at the ceiling. And saw it. Up there on the ceiling, behind the lip of the entrance. “Goddamn!”
    She squinted again at the ceiling. It wasn’t her imagination. “Goddamn it!”
    She sat up.
    â€œWhat is it?” Ben asked, a concerned look on his face.
    â€œThose amateurs said they had searched every square inch of this site. No artwork. No cave drawings.” She pointed to the ceiling. “Then what the hell is that?”
    Ben leaned over and twisted his head around. “What is what?”
    â€œYou have to lay down. I think that’s why no one’s found it.” She moved to the side so he could lay down beside her. She pointed with the light of her headlamp. “Right there! Look!”
    The crude carving stood in the circle of her light. Only a hand span wide, an oval was chiseled into the ceiling, bisected by a jagged line, like a lightning bolt.
    Ben reached up and, with a long whistle, traced it with his finger. His next words were a whisper. “You know, this sort of looks familiar.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” She expected some wisecrack.
    â€œI’ve seen something like this. My granddaddy showed it to me.”
    â€œYou’re kidding.”
    â€œNo, I’m serious.” His voice sounded genuine. Almost amazed. “My great-grandmother was full Gagudja, an Aboriginal tribe in the Djuwarr region. Did I ever tell you that?”
    â€œNo.”
    He smiled an inch from her nose. “God’s truth, my lady.”
    The man seemed to have more sides than the Pentagon. Either that or he was spinning a wild tale. She studied him and noted that his blue eyes were coldly serious. She swallowed and turned back to the design on the ceiling. “Does it remind you of anything specific?”
    He shrugged, bumping her shoulder. “It’s not exactly the same. But it looks sort of like the Gagudja symbol for one of their spirit peoples. One of their oldest, named Mimi.”
    She considered this information. Could there be some connection? Perhaps a lost Aboriginal tribe? But these dwellings were dated five million years ago. Aeons before the appearance of Aborigines on the Australian continent.
    She frowned at the oval drawing. It was probably just a coincidence. She had seen the universality of some symbols across other cultures. Could this be the same case here? Hell, the symbol was rather basic. “This Mimi spirit,” she began. “What type of spirit was it?”
    â€œIt’s just nonsense. Stories.”
    â€œNo, go on. Myths often have a kernel of truth. Tell me.”
    He patted the walls of the cave. “Mimis were spirits that lived in rocks.”
    She felt a chill crawl down her spine, noticing their stone enclosure.
    â€œThe Mimis taught the first Bushman to hunt and paint. They were greatly revered. And fear—”
    Just then, Dr. Symski returned, standing at their feet. “What are you all doing?” His voice was both accusatory and embarrassed.
    Conscious of their odd position, Ashley scrambled out. “I thought you searched this area.”
    â€œWe did. Why?”
    She pointed to the spot next to Ben. “Go look. Up on the roof.”
    The doctor crawled next to the Aussie. “My god!” he said when he looked where Ben pointed. “It’s amazing. Jesus, what do you think it means?”
    â€œI don’t have a clue,” she said, her hands on her hips, “but I mean to find out.”
    Linda, seated on a blanket, watched the crystal lake lap at the rocks along the shore a yard away. The water, clear as a