The Black Seas of Infinity (30 page)

The hole looks a little too neat to be a
product of nature. Just beyond the pit is a giant tree trunk,
fallen sideways across my path. I scale the crumbling white bark,
huge pieces tearing away in my hands as I fight for a solid grip,
and manage to crest the top in an unsteady upswing. I teeter over
the brink, falling into the thick underbrush below. Wrenching
myself free, I scrabble up the remaining hill, pausing in wonder as
I crest the top.

The remnants of a crumbling city stretch out
before me. The shell of boxlike structures, most of them outlined
by a foot or two of broken stone, are everywhere. Underbrush snakes
through the ruins. Just beyond the small cluster, what appears to
be a step pyramid squats in the midst of a wide-open terrace. Fog
creeps up the sides, obscuring the foundations. It almost appears
to be floating, the upper reaches looming out of the mist. A milky
cluster of smaller buildings with low, flat roofs encircles it,
winding out in a declining series of hovels. Looters probably made
it here at some point, but I doubt any serious archaeological
inquiry has followed. There are probably a multitude of sites like
this, places the natives whisper about. Buried in the local
folklore but lost to professional explorers.

Ripping through the constricting brush, I
stumble out onto the grassy plateau fronting the site. Mounds of
weather-stained rock wind through the fog, their crumpling edges
jutting up through the opaque mist. I cautiously weave through,
heading toward the center. Random buildings surface out of the fog
on my sides. They are only a few feet tall. I’m curious as to what
purpose they served. As I navigate around a tall stone pillar, a
wide corridor opens up, stretching out into a central plaza
harboring the huge pyramid I saw from the hill. The sun-bleached
mist around its base rolls and drifts in a pirouetting display. I
walk forward with the strange sensation that I’m setting foot in
some primordial antechamber.

The ground around the pyramid seems oddly
luminous, the smog losing none of its substance as I draw closer.
Mammoth double staircases ascend, rising up in tandem toward the
peak. Ensconced within the shadows between is a gaping hole. Its
ragged edges don’t look natural. It was probably an improvised
portal created by looters. Scanning the premises, I run my fingers
along the ground in search of wood. A fallen branch, some sticks
and leaves, anything to make a torch. Most of the scraps I unearth
are rotten or moist, buried in the hazy soup and crumbling as I
uproot them. I’ll have better luck outside.

Wandering back out, I feel lighter, like a
weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Strange, I didn’t feel
anything going in. I was so intent on the pyramid, I might not have
noticed. It’s probably just superstition, some fleeting trace of my
old body.

The mist isn’t so thick at the edge of the
hill, and the overhanging trees host plenty of flammable debris.
Making a small pile of twigs and leaves, I start a fire. I let it
burn for a few minutes, building up in intensity, then sink the
edge of a branch into the embers. Giving the wood a minute to
catch, I pull out my makeshift torch and head back.

I keep my senses more focused this time,
trained on any foreign sensation. As I walk through the stone
walls, I feel a definite pressure, a slowly accumulating weight on
my shoulders. Reaching the pyramid, I venture into the inky
blackness with torch outstretched. Its helps that I have virtual
night vision. Stooping slightly as I enter, a nest of cobwebs paws
at my face, the gossamer strands constricting into a silky net.
Something crawls on my arm, and I shake it violently. A giant,
yellow and black spider flies off, breaking the plunge with a twist
of its feet and scampering away.

I venture farther in, a damp humidity
clinging to my skin. The yellow torchlight flickers off the
rough-hewn stone walls, illuminating very little. The passage
narrows, the stacked rock curving inward until it dead ends in a
collapsed pile of boulders and sand. Jamming the end of my torch
into a small crevice on the wall, I fall to my knees and begin
scooping away rock. I feel like a mole on autopilot, streams of
rock and dirt flying backwards in synchronized motion. A break in
the blockade, and cool air wafts through a small hole. Delving my
hand into the aperture, I grip the other side and pull, a large
cluster of rock and sand flying free. Clawing violently, I widen
the hole into a small portal. Edging out and standing upright, I
pull the torch out of the wall and hold it up. Beyond the frame of
rock a stunted corridor extends into the shadow, its ultimate
destination lost in the blackness. My favorite: small spaces with
no light. Even my new apparent invincibility doesn’t negate my
claustrophobia.

Ducking low, I venture into the tunnel.
Crawling on my hands and knees, the torch extended in front of me,
I inch forward. This reminds me of exploring sewage pipes as a kid,
rolling forward with my belly on my skateboard, barely able to
turn. Only I’m not in my backyard, I’m in some ancient ruin in a
foreign country, buried under tons of rock, and with only a
makeshift torch. The fit is tighter with my adult size, my
shoulders and back constantly brushing against the ceiling, and the
feeling of confinement is overpowering. I can’t even turn around
and would have to wriggle backwards. I don’t even want to think
about a collapse. I don’t know if I could tunnel out of here under
that much weight, and few things are as terrifying as being stuck
for an eternity in the dark.

The walls and ceilings are composed of yellow
brick—strange in that I didn’t think the Mayans had developed
brick—and the ground is hard-packed dirt. So hard packed, in fact,
that my movement seems to kick up almost no dust. I have a bad
feeling about this.

I crawl for what might be an hour, or might
be ten minutes, when the path ahead of me disappears, dropping down
into a deep hole. The passage continues beyond it, but the hole is
too wide to cross. Something must lie below, as a cool draft wafts
out. I snake to the edge and peer down, holding my torch as high as
the low ceiling will allow. Nothing... just the void as far as I
can see. My twisting about creates a slight echo. It’s practically
inaudible, but my keen hearing picks it up. The space must be huge.
Then I notice something strange. The dirt floor I’m on extends only
an inch or so down the pit before the sides become buttressed by
rock. Manmade rock, cut like large bricks, and not unlike the
stones that compose this tunnel. The edges aren’t uniform. This is
probably a breach and my floor tops an underground chamber. I reach
over to my left, dig my fingers in between bricks, and pry out a
chunk of stone. I turn and drop it into the hole. A low whistling
is followed by a loud clatter. The chamber probably isn’t that
deep, but I don’t want to simply drop down into the unknown. It’s a
pain in the ass, but I should inch out backwards and find a thick
vine or something to act as a rope.

A discomforting creak is followed by a
deepening grumble, and the floor beneath me collapses. I try to
spin in midair, but the fall is too short, and I crash shoulder
first into the ground. As I start to raise my head I’m bombarded by
an avalanche of falling brick. Were I human, my skull would have
been crushed.

Dusting aside the debris, I scan the
premises. There’s dim illumination. I look down and notice a
failing glow emanating from my fallen torch. Gently picking it up,
I fan it softly with my hand. The currents bite in, and the flame
grows. In the amplified light, I can see that I’m in a small
chamber. A low ceiling stretches out in a mass of molded blocks
overhead. The room is spherical, and rising in the center is a
squat platform. The dark gash of a doorway is on the left. To my
right are small, decorated countertops, jutting out from the wall
in foot-and-a-half intervals.

Each counter is maybe three feet up from the
floor, grounded by a round base, the shadows of the overhanging top
obscuring most of the crude art encircling the foundation.

The remains of something organic lie amid a
pile of ashes on each tabletop. A small, indented, box-like
container protrudes on the right side, attached to the wall but
missing the counter by an inch. Each table has a small statue,
adorned with a crude face, perched a few inches above. My guess
would be that the containers held water, and the plates held food.
Probably offerings to some god. The small statues look strange,
man-like, but not exactly human. I’ve read of evidence of visits by
the Phoenicians or Chinese in ancient times, long before the
arrival of the Spanish. Only the statue doesn’t look Asian
either.

A chill goes down my spine as I realize they
resemble some of the alien specimens we recovered. The carving is
rough, the art baroque, but the implications are there. The idea
that alien races visited the Earth in prehistoric times is nothing
new, even if it’s on the edge of what is considered real science.
Of course, it’s also the domain of a great number of crackpots and
frauds. Then again, current circumstances make the possibility far
more likely, and I know firsthand how hard the government works to
cover up its secrets. I’ve personally witnessed more than one good
man brought low by lies and deceit. The “ancient astronauts” theory
would explain some mysteries, like the Easter Island statues. Or
the fact that the Great Pyramid of Egypt was built first, although
the craftsmanship far exceeds the doppelgangers that followed.

I raise the torch and approach the wall. In
the flickering light I can make out what appear to be
hieroglyphics. The wall is covered, floor to ceiling, as far as the
dim illumination will reveal, in crude carvings. There are some
marks that look like the Mayan hieroglyphics I’ve seen in books,
some crude illustrations that look like mini cartoons, and some
weird, almost cuneiform lines. The illustrations reveal figures
that I assume are meant to represent the natives, and figures that
more closely resemble the statue.

I walk back to the central platform. A large,
circular stand about a foot tall, it’s constructed of skillfully
chiseled stones. Each block perfectly mates with the next in a
smooth continuum. The veneer, although crisscrossed by a pattern of
rectangular blocks, is uniformly smooth and level. The only thing
marring the level plane is a three-foot-wide circular stump of
stone crested by a jagged top. It looks like something much longer
existed there at one time, but was torn off. Dust and a smattering
of pebbles encircle the ragged pier, but nothing else.

The only exit is the doorway. Wooden beams
fringe its blackened portal, a cool draft emanating from the
depths. I wander forward. Crossing the threshold and stooping under
the frame, I set off.

Every few feet I flick a chunk out of the
rock walls with my fingers, leaving a trail I can backtrack. The
hall is barren, a diminutive passageway immured by stone blocks.
Everything is deathly quiet. There are no insects, no scurrying
rodents, nothing.

I pass a few small chambers, all of them
identical to the first I encountered, only in better shape. Small
oval enclaves, the walls heavily marked with the same bizarre
pictographs. A raised central platform harbors a waist-high
pedestal that vaguely resembles an altar.

After passing a few more chambers the passage
ends, a steep staircase taking over as it plunges into the dark
abyss below. I start to descend. I hear a whistling sound, and I’m
pelted by something.

My head, chest, and legs are all hit in one
lightning blast. Looking down, I see a scattered cluster of
six-inch spikes, the wooden shafts capped with metal skewers. There
are about ten, and they hit with such force that the tips are bent.
Nice. I keep walking down the steps, the flickering blaze casting
long shadows down the walls.

The staircase continues at a steep decline,
far below any presumed foundation. Are there caves down here? Some
hollowed out chamber in the Earth? The glow of my torch catches on
something below. It looks like yet another passage, one than slopes
farther down, no less.

As I draw closer my flame penetrates farther
into the approaching tunnel. Walls of solid rock resemble a cave
more than anything manmade. The sloping floor is a sparse trail of
stone garnished by a trickle of sand. No weeds or watery cracks mar
the sidewalls. It’s almost too uniform to be natural.

After about fifteen minutes, the passage dead
ends at a wall. It’s obviously manmade, a flat barrier of fitted
blocks, the seams so shallow they’re almost invisible. Curious. All
this then nothing?

I gently press on a few stones. Nothing. I go
in order, from highest to lowest, pressing every block. I start in
on the walls bordering the barrier. After a few minutes, I hit a
low corner and, with a grating noise, a central brick on the wall
slides out and drops with a loud crash.