“Bird-watching,” I said evenly. “I’ll be camping out by Lake Acanonda, if I’m up to the hike.”
“Twenty miles,” he exclaimed, “a rugged march in this clime. Still, you look the sort of man who can take care of himself. It just so happens,” he added, “that we will be working the Zita ruins, hard by the shores of that lake. We may cross paths. Indeed, I can spare you the walk. I hired a man to drive down a Jeep for us, you see. Shortly we will commence shuttling our effects to the site. If I may be of service...”
I agreed, with feigned pleasure. Of course, I appreciated the lift, but it galled me to have company on this adventure. Vorchek and his crew might get in my way. That could be annoying for me, dangerous for them.
Okay, here’s the rest of the explanation. A man-- just a man-- hired me to take possession for him the fabled Idol of Zita, and in exchange for an enormous sum to transfer the item to him, no questions asked. I didn’t know why he wanted it; I guessed ownership, however undocumented, was worthwhile to him. The idol was an antique relic of the Aztecs, a solid gold and inlaid jade statuette of some goofy god with a single large ruby for an eye. This his information assured him. It was to be found, if it still existed, in the ruins of the city of Zita, the northernmost Aztec outpost in the shadow of the Sierra Madres. It had been abandoned following the conquest of Mexico by Cortez, never looted if history told true. Old time stories described the idol and its whereabouts. Then it dropped out of sight, pretty much forgotten until the previous year, when there was a big write-up in some professional journal dealing with the many legends. My employer (I learned this much concerning him) kept track of such reports, acted when he liked the odds. His studied calculation of those odds landed me in Laupo, poised for the last leg of my journey to Zita.
In addition, this professor shows up, not entirely by coincidence, I reckoned. Recent talk had stimulated interest in the site. Vorchek appointed himself the fellow to cast the gaze of science upon my chosen turf. That bugged me, but I could handle the situation. I’d dealt with tougher customers.
I rented for the night a storage closet at Pedro’s bar. The very next day, after they’d hauled their mountain of gear, the girl, Theresa Delaney, drove back to Laupo to fetch me. “The professor sent me,” she said with a frown that did nothing to mar her loveliness. I said, “Do they call you ‘Terry’?” She replied, “They call me Miss Delaney.” She lit a cigarette and didn’t say another word the rest of the drive. I thought to myself that I might find occasion to give her an uninvited squeeze before I was through. We bounced along the ghastly 4X4 road between stands of tall saguaros, up to the pass through the rocky hills where we caught sight of the distant Madre Mountains, then down a dicey incline to the Lake of Acanonda. It wasn’t much of a lake, although it may have been more impressive during the reign of Montezuma. It was actually more of a salt marsh, sprawling and winding among the barren buttes, with thick stands of reeds and scattered patches of short trees by the shore. The road, so far a stony obstacle course, transformed into a treacherous sandy track down there, but the girl handled it like a champ. Yeah, I thought, I could go for this dish, for a round or two.
We hit their camp. They had a flock of cheap little tents set up on a limestone ledge above the lake, right under a unique, dark-colored bluff with twin spires that appeared volcanic in origin. A bigger, fancier tent stood to one side, away from the rest. I noted all that, zeroed in on something else. Farther up that same slope were the ruins of Zita, mainly a jumble of toppled stones and mere foundations. From that stark wreckage rose the single point of genuine interest: a low, terribly weathered pyramid of limestone, rising in corroded steps to the shattered remains of what must once have been the Aztec temple. It was worth a look, maybe another, but it wasn’t spectacular. Despite Pedro’s claims, Zita didn’t rate next to the popular monuments of central Mexico and the Yucatan.
Professor Vorchek emerged from the large tent, greeted me jovially, invited me to lunch with his crew. I accepted. “Our bird-watcher arrives,” he cried. “Did not you say, Mr. Jones, that birds were the draw for you here?”
“I did say that.”
“Of course. You chose well. The foliage by the lake teems with exotic specimens. This is a breeding ground, as I recall, of the elegant trogon. Do I have that correct, Mr. Jones? They flock to Acanonda in season. A small body of water, I note, yet this twisting shoreline affords miles of tantalizing habitat.”
I seconded everything he said. With his clownish students babbling about me, I was served a variation on beef stew. Vorchek asked, “How long do you intend to stay?”
“As long as my feathered friends insist.” Terry snorted at that. I leered at her without disguise. Upon arrival she had ducked into Vorchek’s tent. Past the open flap I noticed some patently feminine odds and ends. So she and the old goat shared accommodations. Amidst aimless conversation I asked Vorchek of his intentions.
“We shall dig. Dirt and sand we will sift, boulders we will remove. We must clear the temple, explore for openings at the base of the pyramid. What we find exactly is moot, so long as we amass data. Who knows? We may uncover the legendary Idol of Zita.”
I started at that, not that anyone noticed. I shook my head as if straining memory, said, “Didn’t I hear something of that a while back?”
“Possibly. The tale crops up. It is surely nonsense. However, if the story possesses validity, then a unique artifact lies within the rubble of the Zita temple. What a wonder it would be to lay hands on it!”
Yes, indeed it would. Vorchek, with effusive graciousness, offered me a camping spot within their impromptu village. I declined, citing the necessity for solitude when binocular-stalking wildlife. Sweet Terry seemed to sneer at that, as at everything I said. I pitched my tent well away from them, out of sight around the stone ledge, by the lake at the edge of the reeds.
That night I mulled possibilities. My unwelcome neighbors were squatting right where I needed to operate. The pyramid was the scene of action, but my efforts, by daylight at least, must be circumspect. I could not wantonly step on their toes. One benefit stemming from their presence crossed my mind. I could let Vorchek do the hard work for me. So be it if he broke his back, or burned up his slaves, digging out that heap. I’d play it sneaky, slip in when they slept for my own search. Also-- this was a given-- if they struck gold, I’d be there like a shot to claim the prize.
I held off until the following afternoon. With a quick nap in the midday heat behind me I strolled into their camp, found Vorchek and Terry sitting on flat stones before their tent, with a beach umbrella erected to shield them from the sun. I expected to see ongoing work among the temple debris atop the pyramid, but his people appeared to be laboring with picks and shovels at the base. It seemed that they had dug out quite a hole.
Vorchek hailed me, at the same moment whispering to the girl and sending her off on some errand down towards the lake. “Join me,” he called. I did. “Sit, Mr. Jones. I take it that your endeavors, in their own way, are as wearying as our own.”
“I’d say you’re taking it pretty easy.”
“Paperwork, sir, paperwork; the bane of science.” He removed his thick-lensed spectacles.” I wish to do, at all times, yet I must read, record, collate. It, as they say, comes with the territory. Thankfully I have many hands to heave rock for me.”
“This is probably child’s play for an archeologist.”
“I would not know,” he admitted. “I am not one, not by training. An expert, I fear, would scoff at my methods.”
“You’re a professor?”
“Quite.” Vorchek swigged from a canteen, offered it to me. While I sipped he continued, “At this stage of my life and career I am more a jack of all trades. You see, I investigate mysteries, the more unusual the better. I have little use for the nuts and bolts aspects of the intellectual disciplines, although I honor those who undertake standard analyses. My interests tend toward the arcane and, I may say, the uncanny. Take for instance, these storie
s pertaining to the Idol of Zita.”
I perked up at that. “Oh yes, you mentioned it before. Is it valuable?”
“If it survives, I must estimate it as priceless on the open market. I, however, am not driven by dreams of financial reward. Accounts of the idol indicate properties that, to the questing mind, suggest boons infinitely beyond the garnering of common cash.”
“Something up your alley?”
“I believe so.” Vorchek leaned toward me, lowered his voice to a strong whisper. “Magical properties, Mr. Jones. The idol, according to legend, is imbued with mystic essences derived from the peculiar rituals of specialized Aztec priests.
“This very location hints at uniqueness. Zita, you see, was never a proper city like those far to the south of us. It was always a priestly complex, devoted to the worship of one of their gloomier gods, Hoachipectulli. Do you know of him? No, I dare say not. A formidable entity indeed, even if one judges by the laudatory statements of his chief acolytes on this earth. Regardless, this place was the center of his religion or cult, one steeped in grisly sacrifice. For reasons lost to history they chose to raise his temple here, by the shore of this spring-fed lake, in the shadow of the Island.”
“I don’t get that. What island?”
“The Island; it is the name given to that oddly obtrusive, black bluff above us. It appears igneous in nature, does not it? Appearances mislead. Geological studies indicate that it, and other features about the lake depression, are remnants of a prehistoric meteor strike. Long ago a visitor from space crashed here, gouging this rough hollow from the hills, blasting open the aquifer and forming Acanonda.”
I supposed Vorchek knew his stuff. He mixed in a lot of malarkey, though. The professor continued, “Aztec sources, diligently copied by Spanish chroniclers, assure us that strange forces reside here. I possess olden documents, the work of learned scribes, that hint at the amazing, if rather dire, powers bestowed by Hoachipectulli upon his followers at the place where he deigned to set foot in our material world. Do you see how that connects to the modern, scientific analyses of an extraterrestrial impact hereabouts?”
“Not really.”
“Oh, dear. Many of my colleagues would respond your way, and yet the linkage thrusts itself upon me. Imagine: something from beyond came here ages ago-- what I cannot fathom-- something remote from our experience, whether it be mere matter or a form of consciousness. That something still exists, or left traces of itself, or did so, at the very least, in Pre-Columbian times. This admittedly vague hypothesis appeals to me because it logically relates to the mystery of the Zita idol.”
“What of that?” I asked, cleverly suppressing my eagerness.
Vorchek shrugged. “It is probably nothing, really, of importance. The Aztec priests bragged that they had captured or been granted a fragment of Hoachipectulli’s soul, which they held inside a vessel cast from a rare alloy found only at the temple site. Knowledgeable believers could speak to the god through the vessel, ask of him cruel favors, seek fiendish benefits. The unwary who dared tamper with it, on the other hand, risked hideous death, perhaps worse. The vessel to which I refer, Mr. Jones, is surely none other than the infamous Idol of Zita.”
I rose, affectedly yawned. “It sounds like a crock to me. There are always such stories. Mexico is full of them. Besides, isn’t the idol supposed be pure gold, decorated with jade, with an outstanding jewel in its head?”
“My goodness, Mr. Jones, so much you have heard! I must take up bird watching; it obviously keeps one informed. A gold alloy I suspect, if tales tell true, and the eye gem is described as most remarkable. Oh, must you leave? Here comes Miss Delaney now. My duties press. Drop in on us as you like.”
I left him to whatever duties he shared with his sweetie, returned to my canvas quarters. Vorchek was beginning to grate. Glad I was to pump him, kook that he was, to have his lackeys do the work for me, but his presence, his manner, irked. I sensed a grinning bite in the way he talked to me. I longed for a bit of dash and grab, then a fast trip out of there, maybe in a borrowed Jeep. Thinking this, my thoughts took a fouler turn when I entered my tent. The signs were so slight, so subtle, but on the job training enhanced my awareness of these things. Someone had been in my tent, had probed through my belongings. I remembered the delectable Miss Delaney’s errand.
Okay, so I wasn’t kidding Vorchek. He’d seen through me, somehow, sufficiently to suspect subterfuge. I reckon I didn’t look the part of dopey bird-watcher. Well, he wasn’t kidding me, either. We were competing for the prize, just that and no more. We both wanted the idol. All his scientific chatter was intended for disarming nonsense. Once he found the idol he’d scoot. Too bad for me, unless I happened to be in on the discovery, prepared to act appropriately.
Given this new understanding, I chose to make myself a regular customer. Bird-watching hokum went out the window. I became Professor Anton Vorchek’s shadow. From that moment on, I was always around, never far away.
Three mornings later I accosted Terry, who was dragging by its handle a wheeled carry case up the debris-strewn slope to the pyramid. She sniffed, “Run out of birds already?”
“They’re taking the day off,” I said. Blandly I asked, “Did you find anything of interest lately?”
“What do you mean?”
“In your diggings, of course.” I smiled archly.
She tossed her lovely hair. “I dug up plenty.”
“The professor must be proud of you. Say, what’s going on here? Have you struck pay dirt?”
“We found the secret entrance into the pyramid.” They were all there, gathered about the wide hole that slanted into the foundations, picks and shovels scattered about. Vorchek had just descended as I and the girl approached.
One student, a shaggy punk, said to me, “We found the way, right where Vorchek’s old map showed it.” Another, a frumpy babe in too-tight jeans, cried, “It’s just like in a movie. I’m going to snap some pictures.” Another, a skinny, unshaven sap, said, “Maybe old Vorchek isn’t crazy after all.” They went on like that for a long, tedious while, until the professor popped up his head from a dark, regular gap in the masonry.
“My wits have not yet deserted me,” he announced. He emerged fully, standing at the bottom of the dig. “Why, Mr. Jones, you time your appearances well. We have scored our first victory over ignorance. The temple at the top proved a blind. I have gained entry here. Ladies and gentlemen, my sources are correct. There is a passage into the interior. It rises from the base into the body of the pyramid. While not designed with easy egress in mind, I see definite possibilities. Exploration is in order.”
“What about artifacts?” I called down.
“Anything special in mind?” Terry asked me.
“I find nothing as yet,” Vorchek said, also to me. He climbed up. “It is black as a cave in there. This flashlight is cumbersome, hindering more than it helps. Miss Delaney, further delving requires the helmet lamps. The next phase will take time. Mr. Jones, I fear we distract you from your pleasures.”
“History unfolds before me,” I said winningly. “I’d hate to miss what’s going on.”
Vorchek effetely dusted himself. “There is no need for that,” he drawled. “Quite the contrary, if it gives you joy, you can make yourself useful to me.”
“That’s intriguing.”
“You are a well-built gentleman, sir, fit and healthy by the look of you. This task takes muscles and determination. I believe you possess ample portions of both.”
“You got it.”
“Good. Perhaps, then, we can explore the inner secrets of the Zita pyramid together. Is that more than you bargained for?”
In this way I came to take part in the by-invitation-only entrance into that ancient pile. After a hurried meal the girl set us up. She looked daggers at me while she placed the heavy headgear on my cranium, switched on the powerful lamp in the forehead. I adjusted the chinstrap. Terry showed her boss a lot more care and concern. “You ought to let on
e of these college goofs of yours go,” she said.
Vorchek caressed her cheek in what was meant to pass, I reckon, for avuncular fondness. “Have no worries,” he said. “This close to the goal, I do not take chances. I will not get into any place from which I cannot get out.”
She started to mutter in a muted voice, “What about-- you know--”
Vorchek shook his helmeted head. “I touch nothing until the proper time. That will come with the saying of the words. By then I may know how to proceed safely. Believe me, child, that is for another day. This is a preliminary affair.”
“I’m ready, Professor,” I said impatiently. I suspected his Theresa was alluding to me. Vorchek, when the time came, wouldn’t master me with words. “Let’s get the show on the road. How do we go about this?”
He stared at me, his eyes twinkling from under the helmet. “I admire intelligent eagerness,” he said at last. “We may learn much today. Miss Delaney, while we are busy, please update my notes. Mr. Jones, I will lead so far as the first chamber.”
We climbed down into the narrow pit. I peered into the dark hole as Vorchek passed within. His lamp illuminated more bare masonry. I followed. I entered an empty, oblong room, uninteresting save for the extremely tight passage opening at the back. Above this was a series of cartouches, seemingly fresh, depicting a row of identical grinning skulls. Vorchek indicated this, said with a fey laugh, “That is intended to warn us away.”
“It’s failed,” I replied. He nodded, stood to one side, motioned with a grandiose sweep of his hand. He said, “Be my guest.” I said, “With pleasure.”
I crept through, on all fours, not altogether with pleasure. I felt funny leaving the professor behind me. Guessing at his suspicions of me, I doubted his obliging demeanor. Still, what could he do? He didn’t dare pull a fast one with all these witnesses around. He had too much to lose: his soft, comfortable life, his reputation, his girlfriend. Wild risk belonged in my line. He’d have to watch me pretty closely, and even then I was capable of a devastating surprise or two.
9 Tales Told in the Dark 20 Page 12