“There are still the men on patrol,” Denzel reminded them. “We should pull all of them into a meeting, as soon as they're relieved.”
“What about the men who were injured?” Graham asked.
Sarge turned on him, and Kotler saw a flash of fury in the man's eyes. To his credit, though, he tamped it down, and when he spoke it was tight, but not belligerent. “I'm gonna assume that the men who were shot while protecting this site and your ass …” he punctuated this by jabbing a finger in the air, aimed at Graham's chest … “didn't set us up for an ambush,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, his jaw tight-set and his brows furrowed into a stern expression.
Graham swallowed, and nodded.
Kotler knew, however, that it was unwise to make the assumption Sarge was making. Some of the wounds his men took were superficial, or at least far from life threatening. For the right price, some men would take a well-placed bullet or some other injury, to use as a smoke screen. Kotler knew that Denzel, at least, wasn't going to simply trust them and count them as above suspicion. Denzel very much lived by the axiom of “trust but verify.”
It was early morning now, and they'd had very little sleep, but the sun was starting to peek over the treetops. The men were gathering around the galley, lining up for coffee and breakfast. Kotler, Denzel, and Graham waited in line with the rest, got their meals, and settled onto a couple of felled tree trunks, which served as seating around the campfire.
Kotler sipped his coffee with relish, and dove into the pile of scrambled eggs and cured ham. The eggs were powdered, and the ham was a bit salty, but at that moment it tasted like five-star dining. Kotler always had a bigger appetite while traveling, particularly in climates like this one. Something about rough terrain and sleepless nights made him want to fuel up, every chance he got.
“I made a call this morning, on the satellite phone,” Denzel said, sipping coffee and munching on a piece of toast. “Calling in a few reinforcements.”
“Why?” Kotler asked.
“I can't clear Sarge's men entirely, based on what we have. And I'm going to need some personnel.”
“You're going after the guerrillas?” Kotler asked.
Denzel nodded. “If they have Ah-Puch, I don't see as we have a choice. We have to recover that statue and make sure it isn't a threat.”
Kotler thought about this. “You'll need someone familiar with biological weapons,” he said.
“There's an expert on standby. She was due to come here anyway, after we checked and verified a few things and took stock of the place.”
“Anyone I know?” Kotler asked.
“Dr. Emily Dawson,” Denzel replied. “She's an Epidemiologist with the Division of Biological Terrorism, at the CDC.”
Kotler shook his head. “I don't know her.”
Denzel made an expression of mock surprise. “What, you? There's someone in the scientific community you don't know personally? Won't they take away your club card and secret decoder ring, if they ever find out?”
Kotler rolled his eyes. “We likely know someone in common,” he grumbled.
Denzel, smiling, replied, “I'm sure she's never heard of you.”
Kotler chuckled and ate another forkful of eggs and salsa.
“We should prepare and get into the temple within the hour,” Graham said. “If we're going to venture into any of the unexplored parts of the temple, we'll need time to look for traps or other dangers. It'll be slow moving.”
Kotler nodded, sipping his coffee. “We'll want to explore that antechamber pretty thoroughly,” he said. “And then see if we can get into the tomb itself.”
“Why?” Denzel asked.
“We've been assuming that Maggie was trying to get through that door because she was looking for a way out, and that may be true. But we can't discount the fact that she may have known something about the tomb that we don't know.”
“And you're sure this isn't just you and Dr. Graham trying to get a peek at that tomb out of personal interest?”
“Roland!” Kotler said in mock protest. “That is merely 70-percent of our reason for wanting to get in there!”
“85-percent, at best,” Graham added, surprising Kotler to the point of barking laughter.
“Just remember …” Denzel started.
Kotler held up a hand, interrupting him, “We remember, don't worry. But yes, we need to get in there. First, however,” he looked to Graham. “We need to take a look at where you found the statue of Ah-Puch.”
Graham arched his eyebrows. “Do we? It was essentially found on the ground, out in the open. No markers, no stele, nothing to indicate that the site was notable in any way. I'm not even certain I could remember exactly where it was.”
“Get us in the general area, then,” Kotler said.
Graham studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Shall we go there now? It's within the confines of the camp. We won't even need an escort.”
They quickly finished their breakfast, and placed their small trays and utensils in the wash bin. Each of them checked their weapon, making sure they were loaded and ready for any potential threats. Even within the boundaries of the camp, safety wasn't a guarantee, as last night had proven.
Though Kotler suspected that now that the Campesinos had what they were after, they were unlikely to return. That was just a hunch, however. Not something to be counted on.
They pulled on their packs for the expedition. They weren't going far from camp, but the plan was to enter the temple after investigating where the statue was found. They each had equipment and provisions, and enough water to see them through the day. It was better to go in prepared for a long journey than to get inside and find they were missing something important.
They walked outside the ring of tents, with the motor pool to one side of them and the ancient stone of the temple to the other. The grounds here had been cleared, as Graham's team had made its way in, but even in the short time since that first arrival, the jungle was already working to reclaim its turf. Tendrils of vines had inched out into the clearing. In a month or two, this could all be invisible again, buried in a sea of foliage that was coming in like a slow tsunami. Only the areas that saw heavy traffic would remain clear.
Graham led them to a spot not far from the temple's Eastern-most face. As he had described, there were a few signs of a past camp here, much cruder than what Sarge had set up. A ring of stones circling a few charred bits of wood were the last remains of a campfire. There was no sign of trash—no beer bottles, no candy wrappers—none of the detritus of the modern camper. It was a testament to the respect the guerrillas had for this place, at least.
“Where did you find the statue?” Kotler asked.
Graham put his hands on his hips, and slowly turned, taking in the area. He pointed. “Right over there,” he said.
They moved toward the spot. The vines hadn't quite reached this area yet, but there were stubs of shredded foliage mingled with the fresh, green sprouts of new growth. Graham's team had hacked their way through this with machetes and other tools, claiming the jungle floor through sweat and effort, and the jungle was reclaiming it all with seemingly no effort whatsoever.
Among the tattered stalks of undergrowth, Kotler spotted a black mass, loose but clumped together like fine sand that had once been sodden. He knelt, and examined the ash.
“How is it still here?” Denzel asked. “It has to have rained since the guerrillas lit out, five years ago.”
“The canopy of the jungle provides fairly decent cover from direct rain,” Graham said. “And the pile seems to have once been much deeper and denser at one point. There's been at least some erosion.”
“But why here?” Kotler asked.
“Pardon?” Graham replied.
“Why is there a pile of ash here? And you found more?”
Graham nodded. “Several, scattered all throughout this spot. Their placement seems random.”
Kotler stooped to look closer at the ash, then stood
and stepped back, getting a look at the entire gestalt mass from a raised perspective.
Something was strangely familiar about it. He felt the tickle of recognition, but couldn't quite make the mental leap to figuring out what he was looking at.
“Where are the other mounds?” Kotler asked.
Graham took them to a few that he could recall. It wasn't difficult, really. There were numerous ash mounds all over the clearing. Graham had been right that their placement did seem random.
Each mound was slightly oval shaped, typically with a couple of brief and stubby tendrils radiating out from the main bulk. These were thin, compared to the main mass, but Kotler couldn't tell if this was a result of perhaps the wind blowing, picking at the pile over a half a decade and spreading it out a bit, or maybe disintegration from rainfall or another natural occurrence.
“Roland, you have a forensic kit in your pack,” Kotler said.
Denzel gave him a strange look. “How did you know?”
“Because you always have a forensic kit,” Kotler smiled. “Can I have something to take a sample of this ash?”
Denzel shrugged off his pack, opened it, and produced a plastic bag that contained several small, clear plastic vials.
“Perfect,” Kotler said. He took one of the vials, and then used the blade of a pocket knife to scoop a bit of the ash up and tump it inside. He tightened the little black plastic lid, pulled the adhesive tag from the label, and smoothed it over the seam between the lid and the vial. Denzel handed him his pen, and Kotler wrote the pertinent details on the tag, along with the date.
“You think this is significant?” Denzel asked.
“It doesn't seem like campfire ash,” Kotler said. “And the fact that Ah-Puch was half buried in the stuff makes me curious.”
Denzel nodded, accepted the vial, and carefully placed it back in his pack, along with its empty brethren. “There's supposed to be a forensics specialist coming in with Dr. Dawson,” Denzel said.
Kotler nodded. “Hopefully they'll bring equipment they can use for analysis in the field. I'd like to know what this is as soon as possible, and why there are so many piles of it floating around.”
Graham was standing by, arms folded over his chest. “If we're done here, can we get started on the temple?”
Kotler looked up, smiled, and nodded. “Lead the way, Doctor. Let's go greet a god.”
Chapter 12
There were fluttering strips of construction tape running down the length of the corridor, hanging from thin, wire stakes that had been wedged between paving stones. Above them, strings of LED work lights hung from posts driven into the stone walls. These were powered from a bank of deep cycle marine batteries connected to an inverter, and charged by solar panels during the day. A generator sat idle by the entrance.
“How long will the lights last?” Denzel asked, and Kotler heard the telltale note of worry in his voice. The agent suffered from mild claustrophobia—mild, in that Kotler had seen him push through it numerous times, but he could tell it was always stressful.
“There are six batteries in that bank, and the lights have a very low draw,” Graham replied, leading them through the corridor with the confidence and air of a tour guide. “They will run for a full day on a charge, even without direct sunlight on the panels. The generator is there for backup, and for night work.”
Denzel didn't reply, instead setting his jaw and moving along behind Graham at a determined pace.
Kotler always worried for his friend in these scenarios—which seemed to come frequently, these days. He wasn't sure about Denzel's life prior to Pueblo, but since Kotler had worked with the man, they'd found themselves in more than one underground cavern or narrow tunnel or hidden chamber. It helped, Kotler found, if he started a conversation, to keep Denzel distracted.
“If this really is the tomb of Viracocha, it will be an explosive discovery,” Kotler said, directing the conversation to no one in particular. “There's a great deal of mystery surrounding the legend. Most of the historic record concerning him was destroyed by the Conquistadors, at the bidding of the Catholic church.”
“Why would the Catholic church want to destroy Mayan artifacts?” Denzel asked.
“Fear,” Graham said, interjecting. “The stories emerging from the New World were strange and frightening to the people in power—the Catholic Church, at that time. The legends and mythology of the Mayans hinted at alternative histories—contradictions to the Christian model of the creation of Earth, and of the one true God.” Graham paused for a moment, took off his hat, and swiped at his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He replaced his hat and continued.
“Christianity has been a bit of a riled bear, when it encounters other theologies,” Graham said. “Over the centuries, the Church developed what is considered a remarkable and strategic defense against any ideology that might threaten its supremacy. Commonly, the Church tends to absorb other cultures, coopting their traditions and mythos and making it a part of Christian practice. Often, these traditions would be folded into Christianity with everyone pretending as if they had always been there, existing alongside traditions such as the Eucharist. Many of the most familiar Christian traditions are actually Pagan, for example. Or otherwise lifted from other faiths and cultures.”
“Like Christmas,” Denzel said.
“Exactly,” Kotler replied, grinning. It was a good sign, that Denzel was actively participating in the conversation. Kotler could see his breathing becoming even, the color creeping back into his face. “Christmas was initially a Pagan celebration, actually the observance of a week of lawlessness.” At this, Denzel eyed him, surprised. “Long story,” Kotler said. “But it's just one small piece of a much larger Yuletide puzzle. There's a plethora of Christmas traditions that have nothing to do with Christianity. Even the Christmas tree was borrowed from another culture—principally Vikings, who believed evergreen trees were a representation of the god, Balder."
"Great," Denzel said, "Vikings. Again."
Kotler laughed. "Well, the Germans are most responsible for introducing the concept of the Christmas tree, as we now know it." He spared a glance at Denzel. He wasn't quite relaxed, but he was calmer, and there were fewer signs of stress in his body language.
“The Church leadership was pretty brilliant, actually,” Kotler continued. “Whenever they encountered a pervasive ideology, among people they were attempting to bring into the fold, they found the most expedient method was to shift local perspective, to skew things just enough to be able to incorporate a culture's customs into Christian tradition. Basically, Christianity had few if any traditions of its own anyway, and so it was a simple thing to add the traditions of other cultures, and just change their meaning slightly.
“The usual trick was for evangelists to come in and start connecting ideas together like dots in a child's coloring book. Connecting non-Christian deities and legends with purely Christian dogma became routine. It was typically the Catholics who did it most often, throughout European history. If you can make people believe that they've been worshiping the same God you worship, all along, and that all of their customs are really Christian customs, it's much easier to find common ground. It's that much easier for everyone to unite under one ideology, if it incorporates everything you already believe.”
“Which is precisely what eventually happened among the Maya,” Graham interjected. “Catholic leadership immediately saw the dangers of allowing the Mayans to keep their mythology and beliefs intact, and began systematically scrubbing any reference to Mayan gods and folklore from existence. For years, the Conquistadors engaged in a veritable orgy of destruction, nearly erasing all Mesoamerican culture from existence.”
He paused, took a breath, shook his head and continued. “Thankfully, someone in the Catholic church had a change of heart about obliterating Mayan culture entirely. They ordered that any documentation or historic records recovered should be preserved, to the great relief of future generations of archaeologists. Much
of the damage had already been done, however. Many artifacts and examples of architecture had already been destroyed, looted for gold or for building materials. Most of the oldest Christian cathedrals in Mesoamerica have Mayan stones in their walls and foundations.”
“And the Maya were converted to Catholicism,” Denzel said.
“Largely, yes,” Graham replied, nodding. “There is a unique and interesting blending of customs and faiths here, and it is pervasive through all of Central and South America. But it is a tainted culture, in many respects. Filtered through a European cultural sieve. We lost a great opportunity to study a unique and vibrant culture, because of the intrusion of Western ideology.”
Just ahead of them, the walls of the corridor opened into an expansive room of stone—the antechamber of the tomb. The three of them moved into this cautiously, with Graham remaining in the lead. The yellow tape also fanned outward from here, forming a large circle around the middle of the room, with a gap on either side of a large, stone rectangle adorned with intricate carvings.
The entrance to the tomb itself.
“The tape marks the known safe zone,” Graham said, indicating the space with his hands. “You can move freely within that space, but be cautious if you step out of it.”
“Got it,” Denzel said, and Kotler watched him move subconsciously toward the center of the room, maximizing the space around him. He did seem relieved to be out in the open, as it were.
“You said that eventually, the Catholic church coopted the Mayan culture?” Denzel asked.
Graham nodded. “In much the same way, it folded in customs from conquered European cultures, the Church managed to plant the seed of Christianity among the Maya, and shift the meaning of local customs to fit the Christian narrative. Certain celebrations, such as Dìa de Muertos—the Day of the Dead—became part of a Christian faith expression, here in the Americas. Unlike European cultures, however, the Mayans are fairly isolated here. Without the steady press of cultural influence, they were able to form a unique, hybrid culture of their own. In its way, it's as fascinating as the original Mayan culture. A consolation prize, of sorts, for anthropologists.”
The Girl in the Mayan Tomb Page 11