Elisha’s Bones (12 page)
“I’m hungry,” I say, and then I start down the steps.
C
areful now.”
I’ve got the crowbar wedged beneath the thick limestone slab, and Antonio and Ruben are in similar positions.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone glued this thing shut.”
I’m putting my back into it, which I will regret later. But after a few very long seconds, we’re rewarded with a satisfying pop and the slab lifts. Two others place metal shims in the gap in case we lose our grip. We wriggle the stone to the side with a combination of pulling and pushing until we’ve cleared a space large enough to slip past. When I feel the slab is in a good spot— that it won’t find some strange angle and topple into the hole—I release my hold and collapse onto the ground.
“You’re out of shape,” Esperanza says, then points to my fellow workers. While they’re all breathing heavy, they appear to have emerged from the strenuous activity in much better form.
“I’m a college professor, not an athlete,” I say, but her chiding gets me off my backside. I reach for my flashlight and direct its beam down into the hole. Cool, stale air wafts up, along with a smell I remember from the last time: mold. There’s a lot of it here, because the rocks that make up the pyramid structure were not mortared, nor do they fit together as snugly as they do at other Mayan sites, so water has seeped in over the centuries.
The two-by-three-foot hole goes down three meters and ends in a narrow passage. At the end of this corridor, which runs the length of the second tier of steps, is a staircase that cuts down toward the bottom center of the pyramid and the burial chamber. Or what would have been a burial chamber at Palenque and other similar sites. Here we find an empty room—save for three dead rats, possibly killed by the dark mold covering the walls and a good portion of the floor, and the skeletal remains of a bird.
“It stinks,” Esperanza says. She’s knelt down next to me to peer into the hole.
“It’s their ventilation system. They’re still using the original contractor grade.”
She hits me on the shoulder and I almost drop the flashlight.
“You would have been the one going back down the steps to get me another one,” I say.
I straighten and look around. Our five intrepid workers are standing farther away from the rectangular opening than is warranted. And I think I caught Antonio at the tail end of crossing himself. I chuckle. They imagine some mysterious chamber of horrors beneath our feet, one full of traps and skeletons lifted straight from the movies. I don’t correct them. Sometimes fear can be a good thing. It releases a whole set of interesting chemicals into the blood that heighten awareness and improve performance. I won’t take that away from them. Besides, they’ll only be disappointed when they discover what it’s really like down there. Just to test my theory, I give them the choice.
“Anyone who wants to stay up here can, but you’re all welcome to come down.”
They share looks that speak of genuine nervousness, but then, almost as a single unit, they step forward.
I fetch a coiled rope ladder from near the doorway and secure the ties around the ceremonial table, tugging the knot hard to make sure it stays. I toss the ladder through the opening and it disappears into the darkness. The five Venezuelan men watch with wide eyes as it disappears.
I’m not as young as I once was and what I told Esperanza is true: I’m no athlete. So it is with some trepidation that I slide into the hole, my feet searching for a rung, and try to keep the sway of the ladder from upending me. After the swinging of the ladder becomes less pronounced, I lean back, smile at the others, and lower myself into the darkness.
I’m seven rungs down when a train hits me.
My chest seizes, and my breath comes in ragged gasps, as if I’m sucking oxygen through a clogged filter. The darkness surrounding me is now a physical thing—an insidious creature running cold hands over my naked skin. It is only two meters to the bottom but I cling to the ladder, even as the coarse rope burns my hands. I can’t move.
I hear something above me that I recognize as a voice but I can’t make sense of the words. There’s a pounding in my ears that sounds like roaring surf beating against rocks. That louder sound, blocking out all else, is fear speaking to me, and I’ve never before heard its full voice.
It seems like hours that I hang there, my mind caught in a dark place, before I can will a rational thought to find any purchase. I know I need to regulate my breathing so I can organize my thoughts. I try breathing through my mouth, exhaling slowly. I repeat the process several times until a portion of the oppressive darkness lifts and I can make out the vague shape of the smooth rock surface before me.
I’m beginning to feel intense pain in my hands and it forces me to move down the ladder. In just a few seconds I reach solid ground and I fumble to pull out and turn on the flashlight. The beam that spills out over the corridor walls is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I release a small sob of gratitude even as I wonder what just happened to me.
Esperanza is soon by my side, up close and pulling me away from the rope ladder that has started to dance as one of the others begins to descend.
“What was that?” she asks me in a harsh whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“You hung there for almost a minute, and you wouldn’t answer me.” She grabs my arm and leans closer, but with the flashlight trained down the tunnel she can’t see my face. “Are you all right?”
Did she say I hung there for only a minute? It seemed much longer—as if half my life had passed by.
“I’m fine,” I answer, hoping my voice sounds steady. “It’s just been a long time since I’ve climbed down a rope ladder. My knee’s acting up.”
She probably would have said more, but now the others are behind us and it’s getting crowded in here.
“Let’s go,” I say. I start down the passage, the light revealing nothing but bare stone. I’m embarrassed by whatever it was that happened to me back there. At least it wasn’t as obvious as it could have been. Claustrophobia comes to mind, because whatever it was only took hold of me once I’d entered the hole. Yet I’ve never experienced something like that, and I’ve spent a good portion of my adult life in cramped places beneath the earth. Of course, it’s been five years. I start to feel the cold fingers of fear touching my elbow and I push those thoughts away.
We’ve reached the end of the passage, and a narrow set of stairs follows the wall line to the left before turning and angling back toward the pyramid’s center. I turn and review the crew, who are huddled close together, drawn by the light. I realize I’m not up to my pre-professorship form because I’m the only one with a light. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have outfitted everyone with lights, rope, and water. I console myself that I could find my way out of here in complete darkness. There is, after all, only one path you can take.
“Everyone all right back there?” I ask.
Heads nod all around, except Antonio who crosses himself again.
“Está bien, Antonio. Es como bajar a tu sótano para cambiar un fusible.”
It’s all right, Antonio. Just like going down into your
basement to change a fuse.
This gets nervous laughter from the others. I turn and start down the stairs—which are even narrower than the corridor— with the light aimed near my feet so I don’t miss a step. The others will have to keep their hands on the walls and feel their way down. In six steps we’re moving to the left and descending at a steeper angle. At the bottom, I see the entrance into the burial chamber and I’m thrilled that we didn’t reseal it after leaving last time.
As we enter the large room, there’s a bit of ambient lighting that comes through small gaps between the stones. It’s not enough to see by but it supplements the illumination from the flashlight. The mold is worse than it was when we first broke through all those years ago. Then, we were meticulous in clearing it away, mindful of what might exist beneath it. And we’d been rewarded with strange carvings in the limestone as well as etchings in the lintel above the entrance.
I pull a pair of gloves from the pack hanging at my waist and I start to wipe the mold away. It takes a few minutes before I’ve cleared off a small center portion of a carving—the image of an antlered animal. There are three circles above its hindquarters, with two straight lines beneath its primitive hooves. There’s no resemblance to what would become the Mayan written language. Neither is there anything that marks it as a precursor to the Epi-Olmec script that might have taken root in this region.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Esperanza says.
That’s not what I want to hear. She’s my subject-matter expert. If anyone can help me make sense of these things, it will be her.
“We’ll have to clear away the rest of the mold before we do anything else.” With one last look around, I start back up toward the open air, trying to keep my mood from souring.
We’ve been working for two days, and the guys need a break.
When we pull into town, it’s seven-thirty at night and Rubio is winding down from work and settling into the serious business of relaxation. I debate a few places in my head but choose to stay with a known quantity. That way, if the crew wanders off, they stand a better chance of finding their way back to the trucks. I pull up to The Sleeping Bear, the other SUV following suit, and all but Esperanza and I are out of the trucks and dispersing before I can say anything to them about when to meet back here.
It’s busier inside than it was when we first arrived in town, and I get a nicer greeting from the bartender. His lip curls into something resembling a smile, rather than fixing me with that blank look that leaves you wondering if he’s going to serve you or eat you.
Espy and I select a table, and a young woman in a white ruffled skirt takes our order. There’s music playing from a jukebox in the corner, and several people are already dancing even though the night is young. I watch Esperanza as her eyes move over the crowd and I can see that she’s enjoying herself. While she pays homage to books and academic research, she would never look askance on the dynamic social qualities of her people. She can dance with the best of them.
By the time our food arrives, I’m feeling more relaxed, the stress leached away. I even nod to Henry, whom I see up at the bar. It’s not until I am several bites into my meal that my dinner date says a word, and it’s not at all what I’m expecting. She utters a curse as she looks over my shoulder.
I hear scuffling near the door and I turn just in time to see three men in green uniforms push their way into the busy tavern. One of them delivers a shove to an inebriated patron and it sends the man sprawling over a chair. After a quick canvass of the room, all three sets of eyes train on me.
Two of them are armed with AK-47s, which they raise as the men approach our table. I take exception to the fact that both are pointed at me and that Esperanza is presumed innocent.
“You are conducting an illegal operation in the government-protected ruins,” a man with the stripes of a colonel says.
There is an army base to the west of Rubio just a few miles away. When we were here last time, we would often see off-duty soldiers frequenting the businesses here. They didn’t bother us, and they seemed to get along well with the townsfolk. Rubio is almost an army town; their commerce depends on the soldiers.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Colonel,” I say, leaving my hands in plain sight on the table. It’s not that I think the young men in the uniforms are trigger-happy, but misunderstandings are best avoided. “I’m authorized to work in the area. I have the necessary papers from Central University of Venezuela’s School of Anthropology.”
The colonel frowns. He had obviously not been prepared for a rebuttal.
“If you were cleared to work here, why wasn’t I informed?” the man snaps. “Where are your papers?”
“Let me get them.” I raise my left hand from the table and, while maintaining eye contact with the colonel, slip it into my pack. I pull out my passport, a dated authorization form from the university, and an addendum extending the duration of the dig from the dates on the original form. That last is a nice touch, and I’d complimented Romero. It keeps things from looking too clean. Something like an addendum adds legitimacy to the enterprise.
The colonel takes these from me and looks them over with a sharp eye, but everything is in order. The people Romero works with are the best at what they do. In fact, the first time I met Romero, when Espy introduced us, it was to have him forge documents to allow me to take antiquities out of the country. He’s only gotten better at his craft.
“I still wasn’t notified that you would be here, Dr. Hawthorne,” the man says.
The other two, sensing the change in circumstances, and acting on Espy’s smile, lower their weapons. And now they’re paying more attention to the lovely woman at the table than they are to me.
“I’m sorry no one told you, Colonel. I would have stopped by and introduced myself but, as you can see, we’re not authorized for an extended stay and I’d like to get as much done as I can.”
This appeases him, although he still seems troubled about being kept in the dark.
“Colonel, how about I buy you and your men a drink? That way your trip into town won’t be wasted.” It’s as these words escape my lips that I see a ghost. Beyond the colonel, in a seat near the door, is a man in jeans and an off-white shirt. He wears a hat, pulled down low so as to almost cover his eyes. Before I can get a better look, or jump out of my chair, the colonel leans in, obstructing my view.
“That’s very generous of you, Dr. Hawthorne,” he says. And by the time he leans back, the other man is gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
Later, after I’ve put a few drinks for the colonel and his men on my card and have resumed eating my dinner, Esperanza says, “You know he’s going to call Caracas when he gets back to the base, right?”
“I wouldn’t think much of him if he didn’t.”
She raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t worry you?”
