‘How?’
‘Graphology.’
‘What?’
‘It is the study of handwriting.’
‘I know that,’ grunted Otto. ‘I have a book on the subject.’
‘Had a book. And by the condition of its binding I deduced that you had not read that book.’
The Patient picked up Bilbo’s diary.
‘Have you read that diary?’ Otto asked.
‘I read everything I see. The diary’s handwriting is a classic example of the nineteenth century English script of a male in late middle age, conducive with the distorting effects of excessive alcohol in his body.’
‘Bilbo was an irresponsible amateur. He was not suited to serious archaeological investigation. His interference has caused a delay of over a century to what will, no doubt, be a great discovery.’
‘And you have read this diary yourself?’ asked the Patient.
Otto sighed, always uncomfortable when being quizzed. ‘How else could I have found the correct alignment of the stelae to which it refers?’
‘It is possible to fail in many ways. To succeed is possible in only one way.’
‘I aligned the stelae according to what I read in the diary.’
‘You have read it, but you have not looked at it.’
‘Of course I looked at it.’
‘The ink type was common in its day. Both the pigmentation and the cursive style are consistent throughout the diary with the exception of one page.’
He flicked through to the page in question and showed it to Otto.
‘It looks the same as all the other pages,’ Otto grumbled.
‘Now hold the page horizontal to your eye so that light bounces off it.’
Otto did as he was instructed. The majority of the ink on the page was flat and dull – light sank into its dry matt surface – but some words were shiny, and from this angle, dents in the paper beneath them were clearly visible. Although the colour and the shape of all the words were consistent, the writing implements that had made them were not. In a convenient space at the bottom of the page, someone had made an addition to Bilbo’s text using a modern steel-nibbed fountain pen rather than a quill.
Otto swiftly re-read the affected page. It was the most important part of the diary: an account of the inscriptions Bilbo had found in a cave that indicated how to align the stelae in order to find the location to which they pointed. Bilbo’s roguish intimacy with the natives had gained him a crucial advantage over the aloof Karl: they had opened up to him one evening after sharing a bottle of his finest gin. They had told him of the cave. He had drawn its inscriptions carefully in his diary and then chipped away on the cave wall until no trace of them remained for Karl to stumble across. Bilbo’s diary still displayed the hand-drawn copy perfectly clearly along with his contemporary notes about their meaning, but the final note on the page was not contemporaneous. It was simple. It was stupid. It just said that the legend was encoded.
‘The alignment of which the cave inscriptions speak is apparently a deliberate falsehood. The true alignment is to be found by turning the male stele clockwise by one more glyph marking than told of in the cave.’
Only an idiot would have made such a moronic alteration, thought Otto. Only an imbecile could expect to get away with it. He resolved never again to trust Lord Ballashiels.
* * *
The seat near the toilets at the back of the plane was nowhere near as bad as Ratty had expected. If it hadn’t been for the excessive length of his legs, it could almost have been regarded as comfortable. As soon as he was in the air he reached down for his satchel and pulled out his notes and maps, squeezing them onto the fold-down table. He wanted to go through his calculations and measurements of the places he had linked on the map, taking the original clues from the two parts of the stele which pointed to four locations in Guatemala and finding the point at which they intersected. And that point was precisely the location he had visited before, albeit he had only scratched the surface. Yet something made him uneasy about the steps that had led him to that conclusion; he had found the location too easily, and when he had been there previously it had seemed strangely featureless for such an important site.
The stewardess arrived with the drinks trolley and he treated himself to a gin and tonic, then sat back and watched the route to Miami unfold on the small television screen in front of him. When he grew bored of the slow progress on the animated map screen, he flicked channels to find something dull enough to help him sleep. A pre-recorded news report ought to do it. He plugged in his earphones. Trouble in Guatemala dominated. Something to do with the closure of its airports and a military build-up at its borders. He was going to have to be careful driving into the country from Belize. When politicians started commenting on the prickly political situation in Central America his eyes grew heavy.
Sleep came quickly. His head slumped limply to one side as the white noise of the airliner’s interior sent him deep into dreamland. Ruby was in his reverie, talking to him, her voice loud and confident, clear and purposeful. It was so real, as though her face was pressed against his ear. A jolt of turbulence forced his eyes wide open again, but Ruby’s voice continued in his ears. And there she was on the television. Looking good. Looking great, in fact. He wondered if he might be in love with her.
Sunday 2nd December 2012
A haze of dust fell to the floor of the van as the stone surfaces ground against each other. The Patient held one half while Otto turned the other. This time the reading of the alignment would not be distorted by the despicable trap Lord Ballashiels had set up in his uniquely shambolic way. The towers and the rubies were aligned, and the glyphs revealed their message: a fresh set of glyphs to be deciphered; the ancient forgotten place names to be cross-referenced with places on a modern map.
The first glyphs were the Mayan symbols for ‘Two Springs’ and ‘Devil’.
‘El Diablo at El Zotz,’ said the Patient without looking at any documentation. ‘It is in the Petén region, close to Tikal National Park.’
‘That’s incredible,’ conceded Otto.
‘You will find El Zotz on the map. The ruins were given that name in nineteen seventy-seven due to the presence of thousands of bats.’
Otto sighed. ‘You really are a walking Wikipedia, aren’t you?’
The Patient raised his eyebrows, uncomfortable at the first reference to a world he had yet to experience. With the exception of a collection of modern works on the subject of organ transplant, most of the books in Otto’s library had predated the Internet. Many even predated electricity.
‘I believe the next glyph refers to Islapag, which you will find on post nineteen o-four maps as Topoxté.’
Otto located El Zotz and Topoxté and drew a line on the map, noting that it cleanly bisected the Tikal National Park. The next glyph in the alignment symbolised birth in heaven. The Patient was on to it immediately.
‘Siaan K’aan,’ he said. ‘A Mayan site to the north of Tikal, known since nineteen sixteen as Uaxactún.’
A bony white finger traced it on the map. Otto was astonished by this man’s learning. But there was more to come.
‘The final glyph we need to identify,’ said the Patient, ‘is a reference to the settlement of Paxcamán, close to the southern shore of Lake Petén Itzá.’
‘Paxcamán?’ checked Otto, scanning the map.
‘Yes, known for the distinctive red ceramics of the Post-classic era.’
Otto was no longer listening. He was drawing the final line on the map, creating the cross and excitedly noting the grid references of the point of intersection. It was just inside the Tikal National Park, about ten kilometres to the south west of Tikal’s city. He held the map up to show the Patient.
‘That is the location,’ said Otto, standing up and folding away the map along its original creases. ‘We have to hurry.’
‘You wish to go there?’
‘Of course. Come on.’
‘I will come,’
said the Patient, ‘although I tell you now that you will not find that which you seek at that spot.’
‘Not this again,’ groaned Otto. ‘Just come with me and be silent.’
* * *
While the global media buzzed with reports of the film she had fronted for Orlando, Ruby remained isolated, witnessing nothing of the profound impact her revelations had made upon academia, Facebook postings, tweets, and even within the real world. She simply stared at the crocodiles from her hotel balcony, wondering if anyone out there was paying the Guatemalan discoveries any serious attention, and willing the afternoon temperature to cool. The shores of Laguna Petenchel would once have been home to ancient Mayans, she knew. Beneath the teeming foliage lay the untouched remnants of this lost world. Layer upon layer of clues, memories, skills, beliefs and practicalities. For a moment she was all archaeologist, all intellectual enquiry. She became briefly the Ruby she was meant to be – the Ruby she wanted to be, not the Ruby she was forced to be.
A breeze picked up and the air became comfortable to breathe. She yawned, fell onto the bed, cleared her mind and drifted in and out of sleep. Dreams erupted from nowhere, whole life cycles played out in milliseconds of real time, all the while dragging her deeper into the kaleidoscopic world of her subconscious. Somehow among the Brownian chaos of zapping synapses, however, she retained a critical awareness, as if she were an objective observer on a journey into uncharted lands. Were the lives she witnessed inherited memories, embedded in her DNA, stretching back hundreds of generations? After all, what is an instinct other than a hard-wired memory, passed down to protect progeny from the dangers experienced by the ancestors? She witnessed stone workers carving monuments that glistened in a subtropical sun. She saw herself tower over the people, venerated by them, adored and respected by them. She was colossal and she was abundant. She was healthy, yet the people were sick. Many faded before her caring eyes. Nothing made sense to her. She relaxed and went with the flow.
Then the breeze dropped and the temperature climbed, and she was pulled into the sweaty reality of a locked room and an isolation that had remained unbroken for more than twenty-four hours. She thumped her pillow, cursing Orlando for once again having lulled her into a false sense that she was important to him before treating her with complete disdain and disrespect. And how long would it be before his contempt for her welfare descended into indifference for her life? She started to wonder whether the toothy reptiles in the lagoon would be a safer choice of companions than the heavily-armed soldiers that filled the rest of the hotel.
Back on the balcony, Ruby leaned on the railing and gazed forlornly at the enchanting and deadly view. A crocodile glided into the water and began to swim. She followed its route, noticing that it landed on a well-worn patch of bank. She began to study the movements and behaviour of the ancient creatures, watching closely as they gathered in certain sectors of the bank, swam in parts of the lake according to their territorial instincts, rested for predictable periods of time after feeding. This was a form of history more alive than any she had studied. The habits of these beasts would have remained unchanged since the time of the dinosaurs. Observing them scientifically wasn’t simply zoology, it was paleozoology. She wished she had a greater understanding of reptilian behavioural characteristics, but her own deductions would have to suffice if she was going to take her chances out on the lake during one of the long nights ahead of her.
Monday 3rd December 2012
Matt was led by the Belizean officers once more to the interview room, where Baxter was waiting.
‘What’s the news?’ he asked his lawyer.
‘Not good. Except that it appears to vindicate part of your story. That ancient aeroplane is on all the front pages together with your friend Doctor Towers. It’s not going to be enough of a defence to justify your alleged crimes, but it might be a starting point. I’m going to have to think about in which direction we take your case. Things are starting to happen out here. Mexico is reported to be pleading for military aid from the United States to protect its southern borders. Commercial flights in and out of Guatemala stopped after an airliner was shot at. The country is now isolated, and there are reports of internal train movements, even though the country’s railways have been closed for years.’
‘Orlando sure is stirring up some shit,’ said Matt.
‘Your bail hearing is set for Wednesday. As you’re an illegal immigrant there’s no chance of bail being granted, of course. Then we’ll be looking at a trial date next year. Plenty of time to work on your defence before then.’
‘This is insane. Forget the defence bull crap. You gotta bust me outta here! There’s a war brewing. I gotta get Ruby.’
‘Bust you out? I have to confess that’s not a service that’s ever been requested of me before. I rather doubt that it’s something I am able to offer.’
‘You don’t realise how dangerous this Guatemalan president can be. He’s still got Ruby. He’s preparing for some serious sword swinging. I’ve seen the army he’s building. Soon he’ll have the world by its balls. I was there. I saw it. I have information that other governments need to be able to prepare themselves. This is serious, Baxter. None of the charges against me matter a goddamn hoot if World War III is about to break out.’
‘Perhaps your former regiment might want to assist you in the “busting out” department. I could put you in touch with them if you wish.’
Matt looked at the floor. ‘Yeah. Maybe. Probably not. I kinda worked solo. And that was all a long time ago. No one would remember me. There has to be another way.’
‘I fear that a war would have to commence in order for your value to increase sufficiently for a government to overlook your misdemeanours.’
* * *
The first glimpse of the border sent a shiver of fear running down Ratty’s back. He had left the main road and was bouncing along the dirt tracks that connected remote Belizean farms and hamlets north of San Ignacio. The track meandered left and right, but was mainly parallel to Guatemala’s flat, intimidating face, which lay just behind a narrow band of rainforest. The full strength of its menace revealed itself whenever Ratty’s track reached higher ground and he was able to see across the valley. Tanks. Missile launchers. Armoured personnel carriers. More tanks. Helicopters. And thousands of soldiers relaxing, smoking, drinking.
It was a force that Old Ratty would not have contemplated attempting to outwit. Old Ratty would have turned around, tail between his legs, but New Ratty kept going. The Guatemalans couldn’t possibly occupy the entire length of the border between the countries. There had to be a hole through which he could slip.
Where the border fence was visible from his track there were always soldiers present on the other side. Where the border was obscured he would have to park and hack his way on foot to get close enough to check it out. He tried this three times within the space of ten miles, bravely tackling unsavoury-looking furry spiders, deftly stepping away from snakes at his feet and not so deftly avoiding faecal deposits that were large enough for him to conclude that they were of dinosaur origin. And at the end of each mini-adventure he found Guatemalan forces lurking on the other side.
Finally, the track started to head eastwards, away from the border. He had come as far as he could on this route. He turned around, backing the rented Toyota Hilux pick-up onto a steep, grassy bank, then pointing it south back to San Ignacio. After negotiating the bustling small town once more, he followed a twisty route through the Mountain Pine Ridge Forest Reserve, a track consisting of Mars-red dirt lined with tall, noble Caribbean pines that passed through spectacular granite mountains with waterfalls a thousand feet high. He was miles from the border, with hours of strenuous driving ahead before the tracks started to get anywhere close to Guatemala, but, when they did, he knew that he would be at least forty miles due south of where he had last witnessed a soldier.
Douglas Da Silva Forest Station was the first hint of civilisation to appear inside the forest. It was a collecti
on of small dwellings on a hilltop, linked to the outside world by either a dusty road or a dusty airstrip. Ratty pulled over adjacent to a sign instructing all vehicles for Caracol to book in here. He checked his maps. The Mayan ruins of Caracol lay just twenty-two miles ahead. They would be his last stop before the next attempt at a border crossing.
He looked up again to find a soldier tapping abruptly on his window.
‘Caracol?’
Ratty pressed a button to open the window. The soldier wore Belizean fatigues, with a rifle slung over his back.
‘I think it’s straight ahead,’ answered Ratty, showing him the map. ‘Just stick to this road – you can’t miss it.’
‘I meant are you going to Caracol?’
‘Would you care for a lift, old boy?’
‘You must wait here for the next convoy. There will be an army escort leaving soon. We come with you to protect against bandits on the next stretch of road.’
‘Gosh. Jolly decent of you.’
Half an hour later, a brown sign on a rusty steel frame welcomed everyone to Caracol Archaeological Park. Ratty purchased a visitor’s permit and parked in the shade, away from the other vehicles. He unfolded a map across the steering wheel and located his position. Caracol covered thirty square miles of rainforest, extending all the way to the border. It could be the best place to attempt a crossing.
When the other members of the convoy started to explore on foot, Ratty self-consciously started his engine and drove slowly down a track heading deep into the site. No one appeared to take any notice, and once he was away from the main entrance it was possible to travel for miles without seeing anyone. A few students, a handful of full-time archaeologists and a gaggle of tourists were insufficient in number to populate this vast, abandoned Mayan city. He would hang out until sunset, he decided, and attempt the border crossing at night.
To his right was a large mound, fifty feet high, in otherwise flat land. Trees and shrubs protruded from it, but it was clearly not a natural feature: its sides and proportions were too perfect to have been formed by chance. Ratty knew he had encountered his first Mayan pyramid, and by the looks of it, this one was completely unexcavated, abandoned to nature and digested by the forest. He stopped the car, curious to see what his ground-penetrating radar equipment could reveal about what lay beneath the soil.
The Sphinx Scrolls Page 22