He kicked the pieces of the broken stool.
The fifteen, two-person tents were still up. A standing testament to the top notch site and team he had assembled.
Those ropes that was a constant staple of the monument to hold visitors back from being able to get too close to the Sphinx, had been moved back more than twenty yards to make room for the medical/internet tent, a mess hall, four generators, and an equipment storage tent. And up closer to the monument was pitched a gear tent, a science tent with the latest and most high-tech equipment available, and two more generators. It had been a dream come true. He had been able to quickly assemble the necessary select team of exceptional researchers with excavation experience and the unlikely skills required to reach and examine the inner chambers in no time at all. It seemed they were just as eager as he was. At least with the information they had. Everything had just seemed to fall in place.
He hadn’t exactly been honest with the scientists he recruited, made his reason for the dig more about the Sphinx than what was underneath it. There were still many questions about the Sphinx – its age and who built it were still debated. He’d let the team do study it while he looked underneath for the Hall of Records.
A brilliant plan. So he thought.
He had even given a rallying speech, and knew, as he looked down on his team, what high admiration and respect they must have for him. His intellect, his abilities and ingenuity was something to be coveted. But mostly he felt that they must be filled with praise and envy because of his ability to get the things that he wanted. To make things happen. Most everyone knew how many had tried unsuccessfully to excavate on the Plateau, especially in a time when there was an interim government whose first priority was peace in the upheaval of unrest.
And he knew that his team, as probably most people would after this find, would look at him as a driving force in a history altering task.
“Under the ground here.” He pointed down toward his feet the first time he spoke to the group as a whole. “Right where I stand.” He stomped his foot. “The answer to the questions that have plagued generations will be discovered! Right here.” He had stomped his foot again, that time with more force. “We will make history when we discover the true riddle of the Sphinx!” He raised his arms out in a welcoming gesture. “And you have been chosen to be a part of it.”
There were no cheers as he expected. No throwing caps in the air, but he knew, he knew that they felt as he did and were grateful that he had chosen them. A smiled beamed across his face. They’d be even happier, he had thought, when the real discovery had been made.
While his team worked on the outside, he had followed the trail from Khufu’s tomb where the two French archaeologists, using ground penetrating radar, had purported to have found the entrance. Taking into account the abrupt 90-degree angle that Jahoda and Dr. Schor documented some years after the French team, he recruited two student volunteers and they alone grabbed tools from the stockpile of mattocks, picks, brushes, and hand scoopers and set out to work.
It only took them two weeks to prepare, dig and located the tunnel previously determined to hide there.
He made sure he was the first one down the hole once they cracked the surface. He shimmied down fully expecting to find a functional tunnel system, and at some point, right around one of the expected corners, the rooms of the repository. The thoughts of the rooms filled with manuscripts was his motivation as he crawled and slithered his way through the dank tight spaces underneath the Sphinx.
The first day that he maneuvered his way through the veins of the catacombs he felt as if the tunnel didn’t open up soon he would run out of air. His legs were cramping, his chest and arms ached. He stopped, pushed back on his arms to stretch his back and took in gulps of air through his mouth.
The tunnel was dusty, hot and rudimentary. The supports for it were failing - deteriorating. For three days he tried to make some headway. Each trip down he’d search for a new vein, something that could lead to his precious Hall. And for three nights he coughed up dirt from, his legs aching from maneuvering through the narrow passage. He would lie in a pool of sweat worried what he would find the next day, and worried that he might not find anything.
He, a man who knew better to get wrapped up into the emotions of things, got hopelessly lost in an impossibility that turned out to be just that.
Aaron’s big discovery was that the promising man-made structures that the radar analysis picked on the ground beneath the Sphinx did exist, but they were nothing more.
He felt deflated. He had let his ego get the best of him.
Climbing out of his hole, with a basket and statue in hand, the sun beat down on him.
It was Sunday. A day off from excavating the site and mostly everyone had left the site and had gone to Cairo. And the few that were left was having lunch in the mess tent. Aaron was glad for it. He wanted to stay far away from anyone else.
He had stayed in his trailer most of the early morning and had gone to the Sphinx for one last look – but his anger had got the best of him. As he headed across the site toward his trailer he heard the purring of the generators. The sweltering rays of heat beamed down on his uncovered head. He took a tea towel that hung from his back pocket and wiped the sweat streaming down his face. Passing by the mess tent he heard laughter.
He recognized some of the voices. It was mostly college students. He could tell from their voices - the broken English and different accents - a hodgepodge of amateur archaeologist and fanatics who like to get in on digs. But the hushed tones that was being used made Aaron stop and listen
“I’m telling you it’s what I heard.”
.“I can’t believe that. I mean I’ve worked on many sites but never one based on myths.” It was an Arabic accent that spoke.
“I don’t think ‘myth’ is the right word for it.” A cagey British accent.
“Yeah. I think this is what they call fringe archaeology.”
Laughter followed that comment.
Aaron nearly gasped out loud. He covered his mouth with his hand and then slid it up to his forehead to support the weight of his suddenly heavy head.
What did he mean fringe?
“To take a chance in possibly destroying a monument thousands of years old to find something that every scientist knows doesn’t exist. Well, let’s just say that’s pretty bad.” That was a new voice joining the conversation.
“I’ll say it again.” This person spoke without restraint, his tone forceful. “I don’t believe it.”
“Next a team will be assembled to look for the Lost City of Atlantis off the coast of Bimini.”
Another outburst of laughter. Aaron wanted to burst in and break the jaw of each every person who was flapping it.
How could they have known? He hadn’t let on to anyone what it was he was actually trying to find.
His two volunteers he’d recruited to help.
They must have told.
One woman, an American whose voice he hadn’t heard before, said very quietly, as if it was a fact only certain erudite people were privy to, “Everyone knows that von Daniken actually found the Hall of Records in the underground tunnels of South America.”
That comment brought the house down. The laughter echoed throughout the mess tent, reverberated through his ears and seemed be caught up into the atmosphere. Everyone would soon be laughing at him.
A fire lit up in the pit of Aaron’s stomach. It flamed up into his throat and again bought a downpour of sweat over him.
He would show them that he was no one to laugh at.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tikal, Guatemala
“Follow the Corn.” It was about the third time I had repeated the phrase. Each time my voice got lower and lower. I looked at Logan and said it again. “Follow the Corn.”
“Can you stop saying it and tell me what it means.”
“How am I supposed to know what it means?” I sat down in the desk chair and turned sideways so I could
see Logan. “And for it to be written in English, someone must have been trying to tell someone something.”
“You think?”
I looked at my child and my eyes said watch your tone. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked.
“Nothing. I just thought you might know what it was supposed to mean.”
“I don’t know anything about what it could mean. How would I?”
“Didn’t you have to figure out stuff like that in what you found?”
“No.”
“Really, Mommy? That’s all you got?” She plopped down on the bed.
We had made it to my hotel room. Logan had booked me a suite in Tikal, Guatemala, about fifty miles from her dig site. I hadn’t even had a chance to settle in before I seemed to do what every mother does to her child – even when they’ve asked for help – upset her. Logan had called me and asked me to come and her words – “Please hurry.” Even with all that was going on at home, I couldn’t say no. But right now it didn’t seem like I was much help. But to be fair she wasn’t giving me much to go on.
“I’ll be honest, Logan, I don’t know how to do ‘clues.’ I can’t figure stuff like that out.”
“You figured out the Voynich Manuscript. So you say.” She rolled her eyes my way. “You figured out the – what do you call them? AHM Manuscripts. Why can’t you figure this out?”
“For one thing, I didn’t have to follow clues. I just had to translate manuscripts. Translations I can do. And to figure this out, and mind you, I’m not saying I can. I’d need more information.”
“Oh my goodness.” She fell back on the bed and spread out her arms.
“I’m sorry, little girl.”
Logan was far from a little girl anymore, even though she was the baby of my children. She was twenty-eight with a Ph.D. in anthropology and history. And she was beautiful, even if it’s me that was saying it, it was true. She had skin the color of honey, and just as smooth. She was toned - flat abs, muscle tone in her arms, with rounded hips and shapely legs. She certainly didn’t inherit that figure from me. Still when she dealt with me, she acted like a child – spoiled, inpatient and all.
She lifted up her head off the bed, twisting her neck she looked over at me. “Why aren’t you unpacking? Finish up here and we can go so I could show you the stone.”
“I’m not unpacking. I’m staying with you at the trailer. No need to take out all this stuff just to have to put back in my suitcase when I go over there with you.”
Logan popped up off the bed, eyes wide her voice went up an octave. “You can’t stay with me.” She held her hands as if pleading with me. “Ma!”
“What?”
“You can’t stay with me.”
“Why?”
“Because someone might see you.”
“Who?”
“Ma.” She stood up. She apparently was annoyed that I could even think such a thing. “I only told one person that you were coming and that’s the liaison between me and my benefactor. And I told him that you were coming to visit. Not to help. And I certainly didn’t tell my team members you were coming. And . . .”
“And what?” It seemed as if she wasn’t telling me something.
“And nothing,” she said.
I hunched my shoulders and held my hands up. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me coming to help you.”
“Mommy. I told you the letters that I got sounded like they knew all about you. What if they think you’re doing that alien theory stuff? What if they see you there?”
I wasn’t sure if that was the real reason she was having a problem with me staying with he at the site, but I didn’t have anything else to go on. “I don’t know,” I said. “What if they see me there? So what?”
“I don’t know why I thought you could ever help me figure out clues, you don’t have a clue about anything.” And with that she plopped back down on the bed. Letting out a sigh as she landed.
“Look, Logan. If you feel the need to hide me, that’s fine with me. You just need to let me know what you’re thinking. And I really don’t know how much of a help I can be, this isn’t my side of the world. I don’t speak the language and I don’t know the history. I’m a biblical archaeologist.”
“I know that. But I can’t figure this out by myself and I just thought . . .”
I put my hands up as to surrender. “Whatever you need me to do, I’ll try to do it. Okay? Just give me a heads up.” I stood up and grabbed my suitcase. I opened it up and started to put away my things.” So tell me. What have you figured out so far?”
“Nothing.” She got up and went and sat in the chair I’d just vacated. Watching me move around the room, she said, “I can’t make anything of it.”
“It might be just that, Logan. Nothing. Just something someone found and defaced.”
“That’s what was said about your AHM Manuscripts. A hoax. But I have a feeling about this. Haven’t you ever just had a feeling about something?”
“Yeah.” I nodded my head. I understood just how she felt. “Okay. So let’s think about this. Tell me about the Maya.”
“They first appeared in the Yucatan Peninsula around 2000 BC or so it had been thought until now. Recently relics have been found that are much older. They lived here in Guatemala. In fact Tikal is one of the largest, and most important Maya communities.”
“So why aren’t you digging here?”
“Caracol is important too, especially since it hasn’t been fully excavated. It’s so fascinating because it had lay hidden until 1938. Covered up by the jungle.
It’s got numerous pyramids, royal tombs, dwelling and a surprisingly large collection of Maya art. An archaeologist’s dream spot. But, more than that, this isn’t my show. I dig where I’m told.
“Now let’s see – more about the Maya.” She tilted her head and let her eyes roll up to the ceiling. “You probably know that the Maya developed a system of math, hieroglyphics, and as everyone now knows a pretty extensive calendar.” She looked at me and nodded. “Like the Egyptians they built elaborate cities and temples. At its peak, in around 100 BC to 250 AD, the Maya numbered somewhere between eight to ten million people.”
“Really? That large?”
“I know, right?” There was a gleam in her eye. “The population density of the Maya are one of the highest of any ancient culture.” She looked at me. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened to them?”
“I already know that.” She gave me an eye. “Whether it fits in with what I’ve been obsessed with for nearly the last two decades or not, it happened,” I said. “The Maya disappeared. Walked into the forest and were never seen again.”
“The Maya still exist today.”
“Like I say, I don’t know much about this part of the world, its people or culture. But I do know if the Maya still exist it is not the same ones that built those pyramids that you are excavating. They, like the Olmec and Incas, disappeared.” By the end of my spiel I could tell she didn’t want to have that conversation. So I changed the subject. “So, what is the significance of corn in Maya culture?”
“Mommy.” She shook her head as if taking pity on me. “You’re right saying you don’t know about the culture. This whole part of the world is about corn. They eat it every day. Breakfast, lunch and dinner in some form or another. They have corn festivals. Corn gods. One of the Maya myths is that man was created from corn. It’s everywhere. And every culture that ever inhabited these parts has worshiped the stuff.”
“Oh wow,” I said with sarcasm in my voice. “That really narrows down the meaning of your little inscription.”
She gave me a look.
“Okay.” I stood up. “Let’s do this the scientific way.” I found my satchel and dug out my laptop. Placing it on the desk, I connected it to the hotel’s Wi-Fi, opened up a browser and typed “corn + mayan.”
“You should type ‘Maya’ not ‘Mayan.’ She had walked over and stood behind me and was leaning over my shoulder watching me type.
<
br /> “Oh. Okay . . .” I backspaced, took off the “n” and hit Enter.
“You should only use ‘Mayan’ when you’re talking about the language. Even if you’re speaking of more than one, you still say ‘Maya’ and not ‘Mayas.’”
“Okay. Logan. I’ll remember that. Now let’s see what we’ve got.”
“That’s why I didn’t correct you before. You said ‘Mayan hieroglyphics.’ It was right because you were talking about the language.”
I chuckled. “Here’s something.” I said, trying to move past her correcting me. She evidently liked the idea that she knew something I didn’t. I read off the first entry of my search and clicked on the link. “The Maya based their calendar on the cycles of planting and harvesting corn.”
“Yeah. I know that. Do you think it might have to do with the Mayan Calendar?”
I glanced at her and back at the computer screen “I don’t know. Let’s look it up.” So I opened up a new tab and typed in ‘maya + calendar. No “n.”
“It can’t be any of that doomsday stuff, Mommy. The world didn’t end and I don’t think the Maya had any supernatural, clairvoyant abilities. They didn’t know when the end of the world was going to come about.”
“I didn’t say anything about that. I just said let’s see what the Internet has about it.”
“I’m just saying. No alien stuff.”
“Okay.” I took in a breath. “Jeesh!”
I’m sure she was alluding to me finding a similarity to the Maya disappearing and my theory. And I’m sure she knew that my theories included Indians. And the Maya were Indians. What I had translated from the AHM Manuscripts was that Indians were the first race of people that came here from Mars.
Difference breeds hatred.
Those were the first words I had learned about the manuscripts. And it took me months to find the source of those words, to translate it and understand what that meant.
Incarnate: Mars Origin I Series Book III Page 10