Terry Bisson: The Fifth Element

“Lord forgive me,” whispered the priest as he shook the powder from the vial into the waterbag. “They already know too much. Far, far too much!” The professor was still talking excitedly, his fingers paused on the ideograph.

“…this being in which all the history of the Universe resides. All the strength, all the hope… to protect us from Evil…”

“Amen,” said the old priest, filling a tin cup from the goatskin.

The professor looked down from the ladder and noticed him for die first time.

“Father!” he said. “It’s the most extraordinary thing! The greatest find in history! I mean, look…”

The priest nodded gravely.

Excited by his own words, the professor dropped his voice, and slowed his speech to the

cadence of a prayer: “Here the Good, here the Evil, and here―”

He pointed to the symbols of the four elements, arrayed around the central figure.

“A weapon against Evil! Amazing! I am going to be famous!”

“Then let us toast your fame!” the priest said. “Here Billy…” He handed the young artist the cup, and poured another for the professor.

Billy began to drink as the professor climbed down the ladder.

“Drink!” said the priest, handing the professor the other cup.

The professor raised it. “To fame! Salud…” But then—

He lowered the cup without tasting it.

“We cannot toast with water. Billy! In my knapsack―the grappa!”

The priest watched, horrified, as the professor threw his water onto the floor of the temple. Billy drained his cup and ran off into the Corridor.

A fitting beginning, thought the priest, disconsolate. I have killed the innocent one!

Not bad, thought Billy. Usually the water from the goatskin tasted too much of, well, of goat, to please his palate.

But this was sweeter.

Perhaps the waterboy, Omar, had drawn it from a better well. Or perhaps this goatskin was less foul than usual.

Whatever, Billy thought, as he scurried through the long corridor that led out toward the brilliant light of the desert sun. He shielded his eyes to avoid the mirrors’ glare.

Halfway down the corridor, he found the professor’s bag. He was bending down to open it when he heard a muffled sound, and the light changed.

Something was happening outside the temple. A sudden storm? Impossible, Billy thought. There were no sudden storms here. Egypt was not like Indiana, where a thunderstorm could blow up and blow over in minutes.

Here the heat was relentless, and the few clouds that appeared stayed high, as if fearing that if they came too low the people would pluck them from the sky and squeeze out whatever little moisture they held.

Billy was feeling dizzy. Was that lightning? Was that thunder? The muffled sounds were getting louder.

Billy unzipped the bag and found the machine gun the consulate had asked the professor to carry. The professor, who hated guns, had loaded it but left it in the bag.

It was a Sten―the latest model.

Underneath the Sten gun was the grappa. The bottle had lost over an inch and a half since morning. Billy had often suspected the professor used it to “facilitate” his translations of the hieroglyphics.

Doesn’t matter to me, thought Billy. He would be back home i Indiana in a few months, unless―

But why was he feeling so dizzy?

The entrance to the temple was darkened now, and the “thunder” grew louder and louder.

Then stopped.

Billy crept closer to the door. The boys who had been holding the mirrors were staring up, dumb-founded.

Billy looked up and saw an immense metal ship, sitting on its end.

A doorway in the side of the ship was opening.

What came out was―not human.

“This perfect person,” the professor read. “This perfect being…”

He turned toward the old priest, who stood with his eyes closed and his fingertips touching, arched in an image of a steeple.

“I know this is the key,” the professor said. “But I do not understand it. Perfect?”

“Perfect means perfect,” offered the priest.

The boys ran off into the dunes, screaming.

Billy ran back into the shadows of the temple. He didn’t know what he was running for―his life, his sanity, or his sketchpad, which he had set down by the professor’s bag.

He was beading over to pick it up when he heard footsteps behind him in the corridor.

Whatever they were, they were coming in!

Pressing against the wall, Billy hid in the shadows as a line of huge figures moved swiftly past. They seemed to be moving slowly, yet they passed in an instant, as if they occupied a different Time.

Arrayed in glowing metallic armor, they were as massive as eight-foot turtles walking upright, though they moved with surprising speed and grace. They seemed headless―until Billy saw the small, bird-like heads that grew from the centers of their massive chests.

Billy reached into the professor’s bag. His fingertips were tingling. He was dizzy.

Could it be that all this was a nightmare?

The dream turned to cold reality as his fingers closed on the steel of the Sten.

“And this divine light the hieroglyphics talk about,” the professor said. “What is divine light?”

At that moment, as if on cue, the chamber fell dark. A vast rumbling filled the air. The walls of the temple shook.

“Aziz!” called out the professor, without turning. “Light!”

Suddenly the chamber was filled with light.

“Much better!” said the; professor from his ladder. “Thank you, Aziz.”

The professor continued to read the markings on the wall. The light was stronger than ever, revealing even more subtlety in the inscription.

“Father, this is the most unbelievable thing I have ever seen,” said the professor. “Don’t you…”

The professor turned and saw why the priest wasn’t answering. He was kneeling in front of a large thing that looked almost like a man.

Almost, but not quite.

It was eight feet tall and as massive as a grizzly―in armor.

“…think?” the professor finished, as two strong hands (well, almost hands) grabbed him under his arms and lifted him off the ladder.

“Are you German?” demanded the professor, his legs kicking futilely in the air.

No answer.

“Sprechen sie Deutsck?” the professor gasped.

No answer.

Where was Billy? Panicked, the professor looked around. A dozen more things stood around the walls, holding glowing globes that lighted the chamber.

The old priest was lying flat on the floor. The professor had always figured he was Christian—Coptic, maybe, or one of those weird desert sects.

But he seemed to be worshipping the leader of the things, who was standing over him. He was talking to it…

“Lord,” said the priest. “He was about to discover everything. But I had the situation under control.”

He lay on the cold stone floor; looking up at the Mondoshawan commander.

The Mondoshawan held out his hand and helped the old priest to his feet.

His voice was deep but surprisingly gentle.

“Servant,” he said, “you and the thousand guards before you have done your work well. But war is coming.”

“War?” The priest shivered.

A tiny distant nod.

“We must keep them safe…”

“Keep who safe? Keep what safe?” asked the professor, trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice from squeaking.

It was surprising how little dignity one had when one’s feet couldn’t touch the floor.

The thing leader didn’t answer. Instead it walked to the wall covered with hieroglyphics, and slid its hand along the smooth surface as if looking for an opening.