Nicholas crept up the tiles to the crest of the roof. From there he could make out the shape of Mount Taurus in the moonlight. He set off tip-toeing in that direction. As he went, he found the homes so close to each other, he could skip from one roof to the other so that he traveled a whole block before he needed to climb down.
Safely on the ground, Nicholas made a beeline for Mount Taurus and left the streets of Myra behind. A steep trail soon took him to his destination, the cliff where the tombs lay. He felt a shiver down his back as he thought of entering a place of the dead at night. As a young child he had heard the Lycaonian myths of winged harpies that carried the dead to their final resting place, and who might steal away the living who ventured there after dark. But they were just stories, and these very stories would make this the perfect place, free from prying eyes.
The tombs looked built of crisscrossing wooden beams, only the beams were carved out of the solid rock of the cliff. Most were kept painted by the local grave-site committee who sold protection and care for the sites. A few ancient tombs had fallen into disrepair. He gazed up at one small tomb that had long since been looted and abandoned. Its bare stone beams hadn’t been painted in centuries. The main entrance lay gaping black in the moonlight. The only way to access it was to walk along the narrow stone beam of a tomb below. He climbed some nearby crags and shuffled along the eight-inch ledge until he came to the opening. He perched there and peered in. He could find no sign that anyone had set foot there in years. “This one,” he whispered to himself.
Safely on the ground, Nicholas made a beeline for Mount Taurus and left the streets of Myra behind. A steep trail soon took him to his destination, the cliff where the tombs lay. He felt a shiver down his back as he thought of entering a place of the dead at night. As a young child he had heard the Lycaonian myths of winged harpies that carried the dead to their final resting place, and who might steal away the living who ventured there after dark. But they were just stories, and these very stories would make this the perfect place, free from prying eyes.
The tombs looked built of crisscrossing wooden beams, only the beams were carved out of the solid rock of the cliff. Most were kept painted by the local grave-site committee who sold protection and care for the sites. A few ancient tombs had fallen into disrepair. He gazed up at one small tomb that had long since been looted and abandoned. Its bare stone beams hadn’t been painted in centuries. The main entrance lay gaping black in the moonlight. The only way to access it was to walk along the narrow stone beam of a tomb below. He climbed some nearby crags and shuffled along the eight-inch ledge until he came to the opening. He perched there and peered in. He could find no sign that anyone had set foot there in years. “This one,” he whispered to himself.
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