The Mayan Secrets

by Clive Cussler

  Remi twisted the neck of her flashlight to make the beam wider. “I’ve got to take some pictures before we get any closer.”

  “Or before there’s another aftershock and the roof falls in.”

  Remi handed Sam her flashlight, then took flash pictures with her phone. She circled the dead man, taking every angle. She shot the four walls, the ceiling, the floor, and then the pot by the man. “He’s mummified. He looks a bit like the Inca mountain burials and the Moche and Chimú on the Chilean coast.”

  “He does,” said Sam. “But this isn’t a burial.”

  “No,” Remi agreed. “It looks as though he was sheltering here, at least temporarily, and died. He’s got carved-out wooden vessels over here with some seeds in them. Probably the fruit just rotted away. There’s another one that could have been a rain catcher.”

  “He’s got an obsidian knife in his belt, and a few flaked pieces he used for carving over by the wooden trough.”

  Remi was photographing the pot, which was painted with Mayan scenes that seemed to be about one man—eating, wielding a shield and a war club, kneeling to a fearsome-looking deity that seemed part feline and part troll.

  Sam said, “I wonder what was inside.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s probably still there. The lid seems to be stuck on it with some kind of seal—like glue. We’d better not try to open it or we’ll damage it. Get out of the frame. I want to send these pictures to Selma before my battery dies.”

  “Good idea.” Sam stepped out through the hole in the lava curtain, used his phone to take pictures of the entryway and the mountainside above and below him. As he shot downward toward the trail and the chunk of worked stone that blocked it, he saw the rest of the volunteers coming along. “Hey!” he shouted. “Up here!”

  The column of people stopped and looked up, and he waved his arms so they would spot him two hundred feet above them. They hesitated for a moment and then began to climb toward him.

  While Sam was waiting for the others to arrive, Remi came out of the shrine’s entrance onto the surface where he stood. “What are you doing?”

  He pointed down at the others. “I asked them to come up to take a look.”

  “I suppose we couldn’t keep this to ourselves.”

  “Not even for a day. Not with that carved doorpost lying on the trail down there. We’re going to need their help to keep this place safe until we can turn it over to the authorities.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “This could be an important find. I’m not aware of any other mummified Mayans.”

  In a few minutes, Christina and Maria, the Mendoza brothers, and José Sánchez joined them. Christina looked around her. “What is this place?”

  “We’re not sure,” said Remi. “It’s a Mayan ruin, and it seems to have been buried in a lava flow. We think it’s a shrine or holy place, probably dedicated to the mountain. The Mayans also had lots of gods that lived in the sky or the interior of the Earth. On a volcano, I suppose it could be either. I remember one called Bacab who did both.”

  Maria looked at the entrance. “Can we go inside without damaging it?”

  “We’ve been inside,” Sam said. “It should be okay as long as you don’t touch anything. There are the remains of a man in there. He’s been mummified—not intentionally but by the conditions. The altitude and the dry air up here probably preserved him the way it preserved the mummies in Peru and Chile. At some point, a lava flow sealed the entrance, and that probably made a big difference.”

  The volunteers all took their flashlights and went in one at a time. As each one came out, another entered. When they had all been inside, they stood on the flat entry, hushed and looking awed.

  “What do we do about him?” asked Paul Mendoza.

  José Sánchez said, “We get the news out. Then people will pay to come up here.”

  “No,” said Maria. “We’ve got to get the authorities up here. The archaeologists—”

  “The archaeologists can’t do much right now,” said Christina. “The roads are closed, and, when they’re reopened, it would be wrong to evacuate a corpse first when there are people down there waiting to be transported to hospitals.”

  “He’s not just a corpse,” said Sánchez. “He’s a national treasure.”

  “Whether he died yesterday or in 900 A.D., the point is that he’s dead,” said Maria. “He’s not in danger, like a patient who needs a transplant. If we make sure he’s preserved, that’s all we can do for him.”

  Sam held up a hand. “Please, everyone. It never came up before, but Remi and I have some experience with this kind of find. We’ve been on archaeological expeditions in different parts of the world. We don’t know when this man came to the shrine yet. But he has an obsidian knife and nothing that’s made of iron or steel. The site looks like the classic Mayan period, which means it’s probably from between 300 and 900 A.D. You saw he has jade jewelry, which places him in the highest social class. He was probably either a priest or nobleman. Scientists can learn from him. We’re not aware of any classic Mayan remains that are so well preserved.”

  “What do you think we should do?” asked Paul Mendoza.

  “Normally, we’d say to seal the entrance up again and call in archaeologists,” said Remi. “But we’re in the middle of a disaster area. It will be a while before they’re able to get here. And there’s no way to hide the site with that carved pillar on the trail.”

  Sam said, “I think we’ve got to try to stand watch over the site for the night. Then, we can get the mayor of the last village to understand the importance of this site to the people so he can persuade his neighbors to help. Other parts of Mexico and Central America have benefited economically from archaeological sites. People will want to come and study this one and possibly do some excavating. But if we tell outsiders about it now, advertise it widely before the scientists can study it, then it will be destroyed. Looters and pot hunters will come and dig everything up in all directions before scholars can get here.”

  “You’re pretty sure of everything, aren’t you?” said Sánchez. He was angry.

  “Of that much anyway,” said Sam. “We’ve seen it happen. Priceless artifacts were taken before they could be indentified, walls undermined and broken, human remains thrown aside and exposed to the elements.”

  “And what if it did happen? We own it, not you. Anything from the old days belongs to the people of Mexico. It’s ours by law and by moral right. These people were our ancestors.”

  “You’re absolutely correct,” Sam said. “Every Mexican citizen owns one hundred thirteen millionth of what we found. We’d like to see those citizens all get their share, and that means turning him over to the Mexican authorities.”

  Christina said, “José, don’t be a donkey. This is a piece of Mexican history. Of course we’ll preserve it.”

  “You’re awfully friendly with Sam Fargo, aren’t you? That ride on the yacht must have been very pleasant.”

  Sam said, “The doctors came with us because the roads were out and they needed to get here to help the injured. Please don’t insult them by implying it was anything else.”

  Maria said something very rapidly in Spanish through clenched teeth.

  José Sánchez looked shocked and a bit ashamed. “I’m very sorry I said that. Please accept my apologies, all of you. I’ll go along with everyone else and do my part to preserve what’s here.”

  “Thank you, José,” said Remi. “What we need to do now is set up a camp for the night. It should be a bit away from this site so nobody sees it and gets curious.”

  “I’ll look for a spot,” said José. He walked off alone, exploring the plateau. After a minute, he disappeared around the curve of the mountain.

  The Mendoza brothers looked after him, seemingly tempted to follow and have a say in choosing the site.

  “I’d leave him alo
ne for a while,” said Sam. “He’ll be back when he’s gotten over it.”

  “All right,” said Raul.

  Sam turned to the doctors. “Christina and Maria, I think Remi and I may have caused a problem by opening the lava seal on the entrance to the shrine. The man who’s lying on the floor in there was probably preserved by his airless environment, and now we’ve changed it. He’s exposed to the atmosphere. Do you have any advice?”

  “The best thing would be to freeze him, which we can’t do,” said Christina.

  Maria said, “I think you were right about the conditions up here on the mountain preserving him. The dry, cool days and cold nights above ten thousand feet are ideal. So, for the moment, he’ll probably be fine. It’s taking him down to sea level to a tropical forest that is the risk.”

  Sam said, “Maybe we can improvise a container that’s cold and airtight and carry him down.”

  “That’s our best hope,” said Maria.

  “Where’s the nearest ice?” asked Christina.

  “Above us,” said Sam. “There seem to be ice fields up above twelve thousand feet. I could see them yesterday. Maybe I can climb up and reach the lowest one.”

  “The body bags,” said Christina.

  “Body bags?”

  Maria said, “When medical teams go into disaster areas, sometimes there are fatalities that need to be bagged to prevent the spread of disease. So we carry a few bags. We can use three or four at once to keep the body’s temperature even. They’re airtight and strong. If we put him inside one and then pack ice around him and put a bag or two over that, he should stay fresh.”

  “I’m going with you,” Remi said, just beside Sam’s ear.

  He shook his head. “Risking both of us doesn’t seem like the best idea.”

  “Climbing up to an ice field alone is a worse idea.”

  “Not necessarily,” he said. “It could save a valuable specimen.”

  “You’re a pretty valuable specimen yourself, and two of us can bring twice as much ice,” she said. “Argue with that.”

  “Do you get the impression I argue with you just to get my own way?”

  “Never,” she lied.

  “All right, then,” he said. “We’ll both go.”

  She said, “At least we’ll have those nice body bags if anything goes wrong.”

  Remi and Sam emptied their packs of almost everything but a body bag each, a hatchet for her, a shovel for him, water, and their fleeces and jackets. Then they set off to climb.

  It was still midday when they began, but the climb was steep. They were able to accomplish the necessary progress without climbing gear because the irregular surface of the mountain offered footholds. After a time, they were on a windswept slope above the tree line on bare ground and felt tired and winded.

  “I’m glad we spent a few days above ten thousand feet before we tried this,” Remi said.

  “Me too. I just hope this works. I’d like to get up there and be well on our way back before dark.”

  “If we keep up this pace, we should be able to do it.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Anybody could do it if they could keep up this pace.”

  They laughed, and found themselves going even faster. Soon they were climbing in silence, too winded to feel comfortable talking. Once in a while, Sam would turn and say, “You all right?” and Remi would reply, “So far.”

  In late afternoon, they reached the snow-covered part of the mountain and stopped to look ahead. There was a big caldera at the top and three smaller ones along a ridge. Sam pointed to the white streaks. “See? The snow is only on the crests of ridges radiating out from the caldera.”

  “The caldera must be hot,” Remi said.

  “Well, let’s see if we can grab some ice and get down quickly.”

  They walked along the rocky badlands between the calderas to reach the streaks of ice. When they got there, they dug down below the snow and found solid ice. They chipped at it with Sam’s shovel and Remi’s hatchet to free chunks they could break out. They gathered ice until they had as much as they could carry. They put it in the body bags, then wrapped the bags in their fleeces and jackets, put them in their backpacks, and began to walk back toward the top of the trail.

  As they were hurrying toward the trail, there was a deep rumbling sound, and the rocky ground below them began to shake. They knew they wouldn’t be able to retain their balance. They each bent their knees, sat, and slipped the backpack straps from their shoulders while they waited out the earthquake. The shaking and rumbling continued for a minute, then another minute.

  “Are you scared?” Remi asked.

  “Of course I’m scared,” said Sam. “I have no idea whether this is just an aftershock or we’re about to have the mountaintop blow off and hurl us into the stratosphere.”

  “Just testing your sanity,” she said.

  As the rumbling abated, they became aware of a new sound, a hiss that was almost a whistle. It grew to a rushing sound, and then a roar that reminded them of an airplane’s engine. As they looked around for the source, a cloud of steam rose into their line of sight across the snowfield. It was white, spewing out of the mountain at high pressure from somewhere below them.

  As soon as they had shouldered their packs again and shifted them to balance the weight of the ice they were carrying, they set off. They walked quickly, sometimes approaching a trot in places where the volcanic rock was clear and solid.

  When they reached the beginning of the trail they had taken upward, the sun was low, its rays already horizontal and glaring in their eyes from Mexico on the west side and casting an enormous shadow on the green forests of Guatemala on the east. They moved downward without delay, passing spots they remembered. This time, they had to guard against letting their momentum propel them past a foothold into open air.

  Now they could see the source of the noise and the steam cloud. It was a rift in the rocky mountainside where a plume of hot air and water was shooting out under immense pressure. They edged away from the steam, but they couldn’t stray too far without losing their way. Once they were below it, they felt a tentative relief. But an hour later, as they were descending a rock formation that looked like a series of frozen waterfalls, the rumbling in the earth began again.

  “Better hold on,” said Sam, and they both found handholds and sat, Remi’s head on Sam’s shoulder. They kept their places while the rumbling increased and the mountain shook. The shaking seemed more violent, and it dislodged two showers of rocks a few dozen feet to their left that rolled down, hit other rocks, and caromed off into the air, then hit far below with audible impact.

  The silence returned, and they began to descend again. They had to go more slowly now because, in places, new rockslides had fallen across their path, covering their old footholds and making them tread on untested spots. When darkness came, they used flashlights to choose every step. The shaking returned once more, but they were in an open, unprotected area, where they were extremely vulnerable to falling rocks, so they could only push on.

  It was not until about one a.m. that Sam and Remi reached their starting point. They walked back above the main trail until they reached the site of the ruined shrine. As they approached the little plateau, they could see the artificial glow of a cell phone. “Somebody else must have a satellite phone,” Remi said. “I think José does,” Sam said. She called out, “Hello, down there. It’s us.”

  The glow of the phone disappeared and a human shape moved along the patio. “This way!” It was José’s voice. He turned on a flashlight and lit the way for them to reach the shrine. “You must be tired,” he said. “I’ll show you the way to the camp.”

  “First, we’ve got to get our friend on ice,” Sam said.

  Sam, Remi, and José went into the shrine. They laid out a fresh body bag and carefully lifted the man into it, then zipped it shut.


  “He seems so light,” José said.

  “He’s mostly skeleton now,” Remi said. “The bones are only about fifteen percent of our living weight, which is mostly water.” They packed ice around the bag, slipped another bag over it, and then a third.

  They heard footsteps approaching outside. Raul Mendoza called, “It’s my turn to stand guard,” then stuck his head into the entrance. “Oh, Fargos. It’s good to see you. When the mountain was shaking, we all got worried.”

  “We’re fine,” said Remi. “After some sleep, we’ll be even better.”

  The Fargos followed José on what must have been the remnant of an ancient trail on the mountainside to another flat space, where all the tents had been pitched. Sam played his flashlight’s beam up the mountain. “What’s above us?”

  “No overhangs or big rocks. Nothing came down today during the shaking.”

  “Thanks, José. And thanks for your help with the mummy.”

  “Good night,” he said, and the Fargos crawled into their tent and closed the flap to ward off the morning sun that would come up too soon.

  VOLCÁN TACANÁ

  Sam woke to the buzz of Remi’s satellite phone and realized that the sun was up already. He patted the floor of the little tent and found the phone. “Hello.”

  “Sam?” said Selma Wondrash. “Where are you two?”

  “About ten thousand feet up an active volcano called Tacaná. We’re coming down today. Is something wrong?”

  “I’ll let you be the judge,” she said. “I just sent you an article that appeared this morning in a Mexico City paper.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you back when we’ve seen it.”

  He terminated the call, went online, and found the e-mail with the attachment. He clicked on the article and was greeted by a color photograph of the interior of the Mayan shrine, the body, and the painted pot. “Uh-oh,” he said.

  Remi opened her eyes and sat up. “What?”

  He turned the little screen toward her and she gasped. “How did that happen?”

  Sam thumbed through the article, looking at the photographs. There was a picture of the whole group in the last mountain village. He showed Remi. “Remember when this picture was taken?”