by Ann Charles
Start Reading Dear Reader Author’s Note Site Map Also by Ann Charles Acknowledgments About the Author Contact Information Copyright
Chapters
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26
Dear Reader,
If I were to sum up this book—heck, this series—in one word from my point of view, it’d be: RESEARCH.
With every chapter, I had my nose buried in books about the Maya, their language, their religion, their hieroglyphs, their food and drink, etc. The more I learned about this amazing civilization, the more enthralled I was. Ideas filled my head for future possibilities with this series, curiosity kept me seeking out more to read and soak up about their gods, practices, daily life, and superstitions.
When I wasn’t learning more about the Maya, I was digging through books and articles about the Yucatán Peninsula’s flora and fauna, geology, physical geography, and history. Several times I priced the cost of flying my family down there to immerse myself even more. I’d like to say this appealed for research alone, but to be honest, the idea of cold Coronas and warm Mexican beaches were a big part of the draw.
I also spent a fair amount of time learning more about the Olmec and Toltec civilizations, as well as the Aztec. The differences and similarities between all of these great civilizations from our past, along with their achievements in science and cosmology, were humbling.
I immersed myself in the world of archaeology as much as possible, reading articles and books on the behind-the-scenes lives of archaeologists. For motivation, the Indiana Jones and The Mummy movies played in the background. For mini-rewards after hitting a certain milestone, I would sit down with my kids and play Indiana Jones video games.
When I finished the first draft of this book, I was exhausted. All three of my current series challenge me as an author in different ways, but the Dig Site series really forces me to stretch my writing wings. Not only is my goal to entertain you, but I also want to enlighten you about the Maya people (both the ancient and current Maya). I want to share with you an understanding of this civilization’s amazing accomplishments and incredible feats in a time before electricity, computers, and all of the other technology that makes our daily modern lives so much easier.
I hope you enjoy another steamy trip to the jungle with Quint, Angélica, Juan, Pedro, Rover, and the rest of the Dig Site series crew!
… Now where did I put that six-pack of Corona?
Ann Charles
www.anncharles.com
For Susy Munk.
You were an amazing, kickass heroine through it all!
Author’s Note and Glossary
The adjective “Mayan” is used in reference to the language (or languages) and words; “Maya” is used as a noun or adjective when referring to people, places, culture, etc., whether singular or plural.
(http://archaeology.about.com/od/mameterms/a/Maya-or-Mayan.htm)
To learn more about the Maya civilization and their language, I recommend browsing the internet. There are many wonderful Maya-related resources out there to explore.
GLOSSARY
Following are some words used often throughout this book:
Baatz’: (baahtz’) A monkey (howler).
Cenote: (suh-noh-tee) A natural pit, or sinkhole, resulting from the collapse of limestone bedrock that exposes groundwater underneath. Especially associated with the Yucatán Peninsula of Mexico, cenotes were sometimes used by the ancient Maya for sacrificial offerings.
Chakmo’ol: (chahk-MOH’-OHL) A jaguar.
Glottal Stops: A glottal stop is represented by the ’ in Mayan words, such as in Chakmo’ol. The ’ signifies the use of a “pop” sound, which is made by stopping the breath. It’s similar to when English speakers say words like uh-oh or button (when said quickly).
Glyph: (glif) Maya glyphs (or Maya hieroglyphs), are the writing system of the Maya civilization of Mesoamerica, currently the only Mesoamerican writing system that has been substantially deciphered.
INAH: (The acronym for Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia, which translated means the National Institute of Anthropology and History) A Mexican federal government bureau established in 1939 to guarantee the research, preservation, protection, and promotion of the prehistoric, archaeological, anthropological, historical, and paleontological heritage of Mexico.
Pik: (peek) A bedbug.
Sacbe/Sacbeob (singular/plural): A sacbe (sakbej, sakbejo'ob), is a raised paved road built by the Maya civilization of pre-Columbian Mesoamerica. Most connect temples, plazas, and groups of structures within ceremonial centers or cities, but some longer roads between cities are also known. The term “sacbe” is Yucatec Maya for “white road”; white because they were originally coated with limestone stucco, which was over stone and rubble fill.
Stela/Stelae (singular/plural): (stee-luh, stee-lee) Maya stelae are monuments that were fashioned by the Maya civilization of ancient Mesoamerica. They consist of tall, sculpted stone shafts and are often associated with low circular stones referred to as altars, although their actual function is uncertain.
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A Final Note: There are many different branches of the Mayan language depending on the location within the Maya empire. For the most part, I tried to use Yucatec Mayan in this book.
(Source for Glossary definitions: www.Wikipedia.org and Maya (Yucatec) Dictionary & Phrasebook)
Chapter One
Machete: A broad-bladed, long, heavy knife used for cutting through underbrush by the Maya.
The Mexican jungle had devoured the remains of the dead, bones and all.
Through the thick shroud of vines, bushes, and trees, Angélica García could see only traces of evidence left over from those who’d lived here long, long ago. But in her mind’s eye, fueled by her imagination and decades of study, the dig site before her teemed with mounds hiding Maya secrets waiting to be uncovered, explored, and shared.
A twig snapped behind her, followed by the rustling of branches and leaves. She was no longer alone.
“Gatita,” her father wheezed her childhood nickname in between heavy breaths. Juan García hobbled up beside her, leaning on his crutches when he paused at her side. The citrusy scent of bug spray hovered in the soupy humidity, mixing with the damp musty smell wafting up from the forest floor. “This is a bad idea.”
“I agree. If you’ll remember, I strongly suggested that you wait for me back at the helicopter.”
A howler monkey let out a loud, guttural growl from high above them in the trees, probably annoyed with them for talking during its naptime.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Her father frowned at the untamed tangle of trees, branches, and bushes surrounding them. “Ay chihuahua. This dig site hasn’t been worked in a long time.”
“Five years and two months, to be exact.” The length of human absence explained why the jungle had regained the upper hand on hiding some of the ruins in the satellite images Angélica had spent the last week studying back in her home office in Cancun.
“Look,” he said, pointing at a stand of trees. “Those sapodilla trees have no scars from chicle harvesting.”
She’d noticed the lack of diagonal cuts marking the tree trunks as well. For centuries, the Maya had been slicing into the bark of the sapodilla trees, tapping them like maple trees for sap. The chicle resin that drained from the trunks was strained and boiled into chicle bricks that were shipped all over the world to make chewing gum. Apparently, not even the local Maya population had bothered this site for decades, if not centuries.
�
��I was checking out that temple up ahead through my binoculars.” She aimed her machete at the structure she’d come here to see specifically. “Strangler fig roots cover the northeast corner. There will likely be some structural damage we’ll need to address.”
Juan shook his head. “It’s going to take too much.”
“Too much what?”
“Time and work.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Not to mention the heartache. You are biting off more than you can chew—than we can chew.”
She frowned up at him. “Heartache?”
“Being here won’t bring her back, gatita.”
“I know that.” She swung her machete at some of the spindly branches blocking what she guessed to be a deer trail, plowing forward again. “This isn’t about resurrecting the dead.”
“Are you sure about that?” His crutches creaked behind her as he limped along the uneven ground.
“Positive.” She swung again and again, making slow but steady progress.
“Because,” he continued, speaking to her back, “I’m having trouble understanding why you feel so strongly about spending time at the site that killed your mother.”
She lowered the machete and turned around, her breath coming in huffs. Taking off her straw sun hat, she wiped the sweat running down her cheek with her damp camp shirt. “I could swear we’ve gone over this before, Dad.” In fact, they’d discussed it many, many groan-filled times since she’d made the decision to come here. “This place didn’t kill her. The crash did.”
Juan swatted at a fly buzzing around his head. “A crash that was caused by a curse she found here on this site.”
Concrete dams gave way more easily than her father when it came to superstitious shit. “It’s not a curse this time. It’s a warning.”
“I know what Marianne’s notes say.” He smacked her in the middle of her forehead.
“Ouch!” She drew back. “What was that for?”
“The fly.” Pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket, he grimaced and held it out. “You might want to wipe that off. It was a juicy one.”
She snatched the handkerchief from him, cleaning off the bug remains before jamming her hat back on. “If you know what Mom wrote, why do you insist on arguing with me about those damned glyphs she found?”
“Your mother was one of the brightest, smartest, most amazing women I’ve ever met in my almost forty years in the archaeology field. But I’m telling you here and now.” He pounded the leaf-littered ground with one crutch for emphasis. “She was wrong on this particular theory.” He pointed toward the three-story-high structure visible between the breaks in the trees. “What she found at that temple was more than a warning. This place has a history of death.”
Angélica’s guffaw incited another deep howl from overhead, followed by a bark from a nearby spider monkey.
“Dad, every single Maya dig site on the list sent to me by INAH has a history of death.” Mexico’s federally funded National Institute of Anthropology and History, known as INAH for short, had hired Angélica to clean up and prepare derelict dig sites, hoping to reel in more archaeotourism income to help support their programs. “You and I are in the business of archaeology, remember? We study the relics of the dead, not those who are still living happily ever after.”
“Of course I remember that, gatita. I’m not senile.”
“Not yet, anyway,” she teased.
He poked her calf with a crutch, making her yip. His brown eyes sparkled as she dodged additional jabs.
“Okay,” she said, laughing. “I take it back. Stop. Stop!”
He lowered his weapon. His focus shifted to the temple in the distance. “Of all the sites on your list, this one stole my beautiful wife from me.” He looked down at her, his face lined with pain. “If we stay, I fear it will rob me of my hard-headed daughter, too.”
Her eyes watered. She turned away before he could see any tears. She sniffed, checking her emotions before she told him, “You’re too superstitious, Dad.”
“And you’re too logical, Marianne Jr.”
“I take that as a compliment.” Returning to the narrow trail and the task at hand, Angélica chopped at a tangle of vines and palm fronds blocking their way. One of the vines thudded harder than the others when it hit the ground, coming to life with a rattle and hiss.
“¡Dios mío!” Juan’s voice was a notch higher than normal. “What’s the Mayan word for ‘rattlesnake’?”
She inched backward, not taking her eyes off the snake. “I fail to see why that matters at this moment.”
“Oh, I remember. A tzabcan.”
The rattling grew louder.
“Would you please shush,” she whispered. Raising her machete slowly in case it lunged, she held steady as the snake stuck its forked tongue out several more times. Finally, it stopped rattling and slithered into the undergrowth.
Juan blew out a breath. “That was close. The curse almost bit you.”
“A warning, Dad.” She wiped a drip of sweat from her chin. “The snake wasn’t interested in biting me; only warning me that he was there and wanted to be left alone.”
“A warning of the curse then.”
Angélica wasn’t going to have this argument with him today. It was too damned hot and humid. “I should have chopped off its head and taken the body back to Teodoro.”
Her favorite Maya shaman was always on the lookout for dead rattlesnakes.
“Please don’t tell me María uses them in her panuchos.”
Teodoro’s wife, María, was the site’s cook. Her tortillas, stuffed with black beans, chicken, and a spicy, delicious orange-colored sauce, always inspired much drooling from Juan and the rest of Angélica’s field crew. “No, Teodoro likes to dry rattlesnakes and then roast them.”
“Why?”
“He grinds them into some kind of medicinal powder.”
“Medicine for what?”
“Probably toothaches,” she said, holding back a grin. Her father had suffered from a toothache at the last dig site. Not even Teodoro’s homemade numbing ointment could stop the pain that ended up requiring an emergency trip to a dentist in Cancun.
Her father wrinkled his nose. “That cruel sense of humor comes from your mother’s side of the family.”
A loud plee from a crested guan hanging out high up in a nearby ceiba tree urged Angélica back to swinging her machete.
Thirty minutes later, they stood at the base of the gray-stoned, crumbling Maya version of a pyramid. According to the paperwork she’d read on the location, one of the first archaeologists who’d worked the site had named it the Baatz’ Temple, incorporating the Yucatec Mayan word for “howler monkey.” On paper it was just another Mayan name for a large structure, but this particular temple had haunted her dreams and nightmares since she’d read her mother’s notebook after the crash.
Angélica uncapped her water bottle and took a swig, staring up at the stone exterior.
The forest hadn’t completed its camouflage work on this temple yet, unlike several of the other structures that were painted various shades of green with lichens and wrapped in vines, or those hidden under mounds of dead leaves, verdant shrubs, and palm fronds. The Baatz’ Temple poked up through the surrounding canopy, reaching for the sky gods. In contrast to the more elegant temples of Chichen Itza and Tikal, the handful of exposed structures at this site were unpolished, ravaged by time’s destructive weathering picks and hammers.
A purple butterfly as big as her hand fluttered past, landing high out of reach on the side of the temple wall.
“Your boyfriend is going to hate this place,” her dad told her, taking the bottle of water she held out to him.
“Quint Parker’s opinion of where I choose to work doesn’t matter.” She plucked a tick from her father’s shirt and flicked it into the weeds, checking the rest of his shirt and hat brim for more. “He’ll probably be here only a short time before he has to fly out again anyway.” She tried to keep frustration with their whole long-dis
tance relationship folly out of her voice, aiming for a light and carefree tone.
“Uh-oh.” Juan handed back her water bottle, his face lined with dirt, sweat, and a frown. “That sounds like a rumble of thunder in paradise.”
She should have known better than to say anything at all about Quint. There was no fooling her father, especially as they spent pretty much every day working together since his leave of absence from his tenured professor position at the University of Arizona.
“How can the honeymoon be over already? You two have barely started. What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” Nothing besides one static-filled message from him on her voicemail the day after he left. Otherwise, since Quint had kissed her good-bye and climbed onto that plane, she hadn’t heard a peep from him. No additional phone calls, no texts, no emails, nada. Hell, even a postcard would have been something. “I just don’t like the idea that a temporary visitor has a say in where I work day after day.”
“A temporary visitor?” Juan sucked air through his teeth. “Is it that bad already?” Leaning against the side of the temple, he fanned himself with his hat.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Dad.” She turned away from him, hacking at some of the morning-glory vines climbing the side of the temple.
“Come on. Tell dear ol’ dad what’s got you huffing and puffing.”
“I’m not huffing.” She swung the machete too wide. It hit the old stone structure with a clang that scared several chattering green parrots out of the tree canopy. The blade left a fresh silver scar on the structure.
“Your nostrils are flaring, gatita.”
“You can’t see my nose from there.”
“Your neck is bristling.”
“I’m too sweaty to bristle.” Angélica swung her machete at a small Jabin tree half-strangled with more vines, releasing her frustrations about Quint’s lack of contact since he’d left.
After receiving his short, static-filled message, she’d attempted to get through to Quint many times a day for a week. Unfortunately, she received a message that his voicemail box was full every damned time.