The room is cool, but comfortingly cool, like a shady glen on a hot summer day. It is enormous, the size of a palace ballroom or airplane hangar, but it is unlike either of those places. The walls and floor are stone, a dark hard stone with ornate figures carved in bas relief, the ceiling, however, is lost in the dark heights, as if there is no ceiling at all. There is no furniture and, except for the carvings, no decorations or ornamentation. Light filters through a large, fogged window on one side of the room which overlooks a vast desert which possesses no trace of life or civilization.
The forest is thick with tall, old-growth trees but no underbrush. Light barely squeezes through the canopy of foliage high above me.
The wide, gravel strewn path is easily navigated as there is hardly any vegetation on the ground. It meanders among the trees and disappears into the forest.
The forest breaks onto a gorge several yards deep, carved by a tumultuous flow of water which roars and crashes through the rocks. White foam crests on a blue-green river.
The vessel is a plain, old-fashioned Coca-Cola bottle. The trademark writing is still visible on the glass.
It's a rusty old keyed, dropped long ago by some long since departed traveler. It's small and has very few teeth and is probably an ornament more than a security device. It unlocks a diary or small cherished box, something of great sentimental value but of little "real" value.