Curses!

by Aaron Elkins

  He unscrewed the clamp on the lamp tripod and brought the bulb as far down as it would come, shifting it to throw its light laterally across the skull. All the little bumps and grooves were thrown into sharp, shadowed relief, and he leaned closer to see what there was to see. He blinked, surprised, then used his sensitive fingertips to explore further, particularly around the eye sockets. Odd, the individual bones of the orbit hadn't been pulled apart over the years at all. They'd been shattered. And most of the cracked shards of bone had been forced inward, not outward, which was not at all the way you'd expect roots thrusting out from the braincase to do it.

  It was almost as if...

  Again he sat back on his heels, frowning.

  It was almost certainly as if...

  * * * *

  ...almost certainly as if the eyes had been gouged out,” Gideon said, looking from Abe to the others. “In fact,” he added, “there's no ‘almost’ about it."

  The crew was gathered in the lacy shade of a few drowsing acacias, sitting among the masonry blocks of the West Group. It was the only sizeable shaded area in the plaza; the rest was scrubby lawn, open to the sun. As a result it was a favorite place for lunch and early-afternoon snoozing. Most lunches, like today's, were relaxed show-and-tells at which the staff chatted about the morning's progress.

  Everyone except Emma and Preston Byers was eating boxed sandwich lunches from the hotel. The Byerses, having forsaken meat some time before, were making an abstemious meal of soy cakes packed in plastic envelopes, mung bean sprouts they claimed to have grown on the windowsill of their room, and bananas.

  They had, it seemed, sold their fast-food empire and now ran Wellbeing, a mail-order supplier of New Age essentials for living. Like Leo, they had brought with them an ample supply of brochures, one of which Gideon had been unable to avoid.

  "The Midwest's gourmet holistic-macrobiotic supermarket,” it said. “Bulk organic grains (whole-milled), rice koji, masa delight, chewable bee-pollen tablets (a proven skin rejuvenator), dandelion thunder, tofu cream cheese, 30 varieties of kelp (unsurpassed for cleansing the colon), nori, fucus tips, 120 varieties of natural nut butter. Books on therapeutic drumming, Tibetan stress reduction, other life-enhancing studies. Wide range of energy-balancing crystals."

  At Gideon's words Emma had looked significantly at Preston, who continued to chew, smiling absently at her. Worthy Partridge stopped munching his turkey sandwich and looked up uneasily, as if, whatever this meant, it couldn't be good news. But this was his standard reaction to new things.

  Leo Rose also responded in his characteristic way, with his honk of a laugh. “The curse of Tlaloc lives," he whispered.

  Worthy was unamused. “I don't see anything funny in that. Could it possibly be true, Gideon?"

  "Hee-hee-hee-heee,” Leo rasped. “Hoo-hoo-h—"

  Worthy silenced him with a haughty scowl. “I don't mean, is the curse true,” he snapped. “I mean, do you think it—he—was left there, you know, as a warning not to disturb the site?"

  "That's just what I do think,” Gideon said. “I don't remember the words of the curse, exactly, but somewhere in there—"

  "I do,” Emma Byers said. “Last night I focused my interpolarity flow on it during my amethyst meditation interval.” She flushed and looked defensively at the others, expecting to be challenged. “I have it multidimensionally internalized now,” she announced.

  "I think that means,” grumped Worthy to no one, “that she's learned the curse by heart. God forbid."

  Gideon wasn't overjoyed with the idea either. “Well, I don't think it's too important to—"

  Emma closed her eyes, ignoring them both. “'The Lords of Xibalba will come and gouge out their eyes,'” she intoned in a fair imitation of Dr. Garrison, sans accent.

  "Right,” Gideon said. “Anyway—"

  "'...and cut off their heads,'” Emma droned on, her eyes still pressed shut, “'and grind and crumble their nerves and their bones, and torment them until they die and are no more. Only thus—’”

  "Thanks, Emma,” Gideon cut in. “That's fine. Well, it looks as if somebody did all those things to the poor guy in the doorway."

  "Huh?” Harvey said. “How can you tell that his nerves were crumbled? I mean, if all you have to go on are bones—"

  Gideon bowed his head to hide a smile. Some things never changed. Trust Harvey to inject some welcome literal-mindedness into things.

  "You're absolutely right, Harvey. That was an overstatement. I don't know about the nerves. But everything else holds. The head was cut off—sawed off, rather—with some kind of blade that wasn't very sharp; a flint knife, probably. And a lot of the bones were crushed with something heavy. The hand and foot bones were practically pounded to pulp, as if they laid his hands and feet on a flat stone and—"

  "Gideon, enough, you don't have to draw a picture,” Abe said, making a face.

  "This is sure fun,” Julie chipped in. “I'm certainly enjoying my lunch."

  Gideon subsided. He didn't much like thinking about it either.

  For a few moments the only sounds were the rustling and hiccupping of birds in the shadowed forest a few yards off; people ate their sandwiches or peeled their fruit in thoughtful silence.

  "Dr. Oliver,” Emma Byers said abruptly, “have you had a chance to read the winter issue of Holy Anthro yet?"

  "Uh...Holy Anthro?" What the hell was Holy Anthro? Did he really want to know?

  She looked at him, surprised. "The Journal of Holistic Anthropology and Shamanistic Enlightenment," she explained. “There was an article in it that speaks to us very directly."

  "Uh, no, I must have missed it,” he said cravenly. “What about you, Dr. Goldstein? I'm sure you saw it.

  "No, I'm afraid not,” Abe said with a sweet smile. “Unfortunately, I left for Yucatan before my copy came in the mail."

  Gideon eyed him doubtfully. With Abe you never knew.

  Emma blinked, apparently expressing her own stolid form of astonishment at the slovenly scholarship of two supposedly professional anthropologists. “There was an article on prophecies by the ancient Maya."

  "Oh, my God.” Worthy bit gloomily into an orange segment and raised his eyes heavenward.

  Emma Byers was an ungainly woman given to spotty blushing and a halting, blurting style of speech. But she was not easily put off. “This was a scientifically controlled study,” she maintained, her eyes on the ground, “by the Institute of Transformative Consciousness—"

  "Ah,” said Abe.

  "Sheesh,” said Worthy.

  "—that proves beyond a doubt that all twelve major changes in the Dow Jones average in the first half of last year were predicted in the Popol Vuh to within two points—and the Popol Vuh was written by the Quiche Maya in 1550.” She flushed and bit tightly into her soy cake.

  The only response came from Leo. “Now if it told me about next year's Dow Jones, I might be interested."

  "Preston,” Emma said, “you remember, don't you?"

  "What?” Her startled husband almost dropped his banana. He looked about him as if for help. Gideon wondered, not for the first time, just how much say he'd had in the Byers’ decision to trade their hamburger empire for the meatless, fatless glories of the New Age.

  But of course Preston was infinitely malleable, and unfailingly agreeable. “Why, yes,” he said at last. ‘Yes, I think I do. I believe it pointed out that a thousand dollars invested and reinvested according to the, er, Popol Vuh would have brought, er, five thousand dollars in the end.” He looked at her hopefully. “Was that the one?"

  "Twenty-five thousand dollars,” Emma said. “Now listen to this!" She closed her eyes again, frowning deeply. “This is from the curse. I've been thinking a lot about this. ‘Their treasures will be lost, and their batabobs and ahlelobs will desert them—’”

  "Hey, I know that song,” Leo said, laughing. “Oh, batabobs and ahlelobs and little lambs eat ivy—"

  "Oh, damn it, Leo!” Emma said with surpr
ising heat. “Doesn't anyone see what it means?” She opened her eyes to gaze intensely at them.

  No one did; not even Preston, who was searching hard for its significance, his classic brow furrowed.

  Gideon thought he had a glimmer but kept it to himself.

  "It predicts exactly what happened here,” Emma said. “The curse is being fulfilled. We didn't know it at the time, but it was already coming to pass in 1982."

  "The Curse...of Tlaloc,” Leo intoned metallically into his empty Coca-Cola can, then flinched under Emma's glare. “I think I better shut up."

  "Do you really mean you don't see it?” Emma said, addressing them all. Her patchy flush spread and darkened, possibly from the pain of dealing with a crowd of closed-minded dunces. “Howard Bennett was our batabob, our leader, and he deserted us. What could be more clear?"

  Just what Gideon had been afraid of. This wasn't good. What little he knew about curses on archaeological expeditions he'd learned from the movies, and they usually made the point that it was a mistake to start taking them too seriously.

  "This is totally ridiculous,” Worthy said bluntly. He dabbed querulously at his small beard with a paper napkin. “I can't believe this. We're in the 1980s. This is a scientific expedition. How can we even be discussing this New Age twaddle?” He pronounced “New Age” as a single word, “newage,” rhyming with “sewage."

  "Besides,” Harvey said reasonably, “you're getting things out of order. Batabobs and ahlelobs, that was part two of the curse, wasn't it? Well, we haven't even had our part one yet."

  "Absolutely correct,” Worthy said scornfully. “Or has anyone seen a bloodsucking kinkajou?"

  Leo didn't go along with them. “But you know, it's true, what Emma says,” he said, seemingly taken with the idea. Or perhaps he thought it would be more fun to change sides. “Howard did desert us, didn't he? And the codex, that was our treasure, and it's sure lost, right?” He had finished his lunch and was slumped back against the stone platform of one of the ruined buildings, hands clasped contentedly on his ample abdomen. “Maybe the things in the curse don't have to come true in order."

  Emma's glance at him was hopeful but guarded. It was hard to tell whether he was serious. If he was ever serious. Leo smiled back at her, Buddha-like. They were dressed almost the same, Gideon noted bemusedly, in trendy, undyed linen shirts and knee-length beige shorts that were fashionably wrinkled and oversized. But Emma managed to look like a Banana Republic advertisement, as long as you didn't get too close; Leo just looked like someone who'd slept in his clothes.

  "Leo's right,” Emma said. “Who are we to impose our Western construct of time as a linear continuum on other culture planes?"

  Worthy made an irritated sound and addressed the sky. “Do you know what this demonstrates? The abysmal failure of our educational system. Anyone who is gullible enough to be duped by the newage claptrap put out

  "Oh, is that so?” Emma said thickly. Her feelings were hurt. “And you think that you're in a position to judge three thousand years of—"

  "Kinder, kinder," Abe said. “Children, let's not get carried away. I'm sure nobody really means—"

  But Worthy had been stung and overrode him. “This is absurd! If this is all we can find to talk about we'd be better off holding our tongues entirely."

  "Well, yes, I agree with that,” Preston said, then added amicably: “There are some things we're better off not knowing.” He was fortunate to be seated a foot or two in front of Emma; her glower of annoyance spattered harmlessly on the handsome gray wavelet of hair on his collar.

  "That,” Worthy said icily, “is not at all what I meant."

  When Abe had been a professor, Gideon remembered, he had usually stayed out of classroom arguments and let Gideon and his other students fight things out among themselves. Usually. But there was often a point at which the democratic approach was unceremoniously scotched in favor of a firm, fatherly, unqualified opinion from the expert. That point had now been reached.

  "I agree with Worthy one hundred percent,” he said, looking soberly from one member of the crew to another. “The curse, the skeleton in the doorway, these are very interesting. As archaeological data they're worth talking about.” He held up a spidery finger. “But as supernatural occurrences they ain't.” He fixed his gaze on Emma, kindly but firmly. “I'll tell you the truth; I'm a little surprised anybody here would take this seriously."

  Emma's puffy face tightened. She flushed yet again but said nothing.

  "Oh, I don't know,” Leo said, not disrespectfully. “You have to admit it's something to think about."

  "Look,” Julie said gently, “I wasn't here in 1982, so I don't really know what I'm talking about, but it seems to me that we're confusing things. The codex was never our treasure in the first place. And it wasn't lost; Dr. Bennett took it. And of course he ran off afterward. You don't need a curse to explain any of that."

  "Absolutely right,” Abe said warmly. “The law of parsimony in a nutshell. So let's not hear any more about the curse. Case closed. End of cigar. Time to go back to work."

  He stood up, a little creaky after sitting on the ground for so long, and brushed dust from his trousers. “On the other hand,” he said with his tiniest smile, “if someone runs into any bloodsucking kinkajous hanging around, be sure and let me know."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 9

  * * * *

  He didn't have long to wait. The next day, on a humid morning under a sullen gray sky, the Curse of Tlaloc struck again. Lurking in the supposedly deserted work shed was a bloodsucking kinkajou.

  Or near enough.

  Julie, Gideon, and Abe had walked to the site after an early breakfast at the Mayaland, planning to put in an hour of organizing and sorting before the crew arrived. Gideon had unlocked and opened the door, then quickly put out his arm to block the others as the smell of something rank and wild seeped from the stuffy interior.

  "What's wrong?” Julie asked. Then she smelled it too, and stood very still and stiff, peering past him into the dim interior.

  Something grunted thickly in the darkness, like a pig rooting, and there was a scrabbling sound, as of clawed feet moving over the limestone mortar floor toward them. The hairs rose at the back of Gideon's neck. All three people stepped instinctively back from the threshold.

  From the shadows a furry brown animal emerged tentatively, then stopped and backed away again. About the size of a raccoon, with a ring-striped tail balanced daintily above it, it had a face that looked something like a fox and something like an old basketball sneaker. It looked warily up at them.

  "Good morning,” the neatly lettered placard hanging from its neck said. “I am a bloodsucking kinkajou."

  "Good morning to you,” said Abe. “I am a broken-down old professor."

  Julie laughed. “It's a coati, a coatimundi. And it doesn't suck blood, it eats fruits and berries."

  She knelt to coax it near with a fig from her box lunch, and after some indecision the animal approached with rubbery-nosed interest. But as soon as it saw its chance it darted between her and Abe and made for the fence with a rolling, flatfooted gait. In two seconds it was through the opening, and in one more it burst through the jungle's green wall and disappeared.

  Opinion as to the perpetrator varied. Julie was sure it was Leo, Gideon thought it just might be a sarcastic comment from Worthy, and Abe wondered wryly if Dr. Gideon Oliver might not be behind it.

  Julie stood up for him. “He hasn't been out of my sight since we quit work yesterday,” she declared staunchly.

  "Oh, yeah, what about when you took a shower?” Abe wanted to know.

  "We took it together,” Gideon told him. “Abe, on my honor as a serious and responsible scientist, I didn't do it.

  "Ha,” said Abe, but he switched his vote to Leo.

  When the others arrived at eight-thirty and were told about it, Leo was everyone else's favorite suspect too, and was roundly accused, but he swore wi
th his hand on his heart that he'd had nothing to do with it.

  "It was the work of the gods,” he said darkly. “An omen.” He cut his voice to a melodramatic whisper and wiggled his eyebrows at Preston. “There are some things we aren't meant to know."

  "Absolutely,” said Preston, for whom this seemed to be a guiding philosophy.

  * * * *

  "A coatimundi, I love it. Out of sight!” Chuckling heavily, Stan Ard slowly wrote something in a spiral- bound notebook. “Coatimundi, what is that, some kind of lizard?"

  Regretting that he had brought it up at all, Gideon told him about the raccoonlike mammal. It was 5:00 p.m. and they were sitting in basket chairs on the shaded, tiled veranda of the hotel, where Gideon had promised Ard an hour-long interview. Earlier, during the lunch break, Abe had told the crew about the free-lance reporter's arrival. He had suggested that they cooperate with him but keep to the facts and try not to say anything sensational; the ever-alert Dr. Villanueva was no doubt on the lookout for lapses of good taste that might appear in print.

  Privately, Abe had confided to Gideon that he was worried. A brief talk with Ard had made him wonder about the reporter's judgment, and the man had hedged on what publication would print his article. Abe had considered asking the crew to refuse to talk with him. But he had decided on second thought that Ard was the kind of journalist who wouldn't quit, and might make up his own story if he had to—which was the most worrisome possibility of all.

  After five minutes of conversation, Gideon's impression of the reporter was equally unfavorable. Stan Ard was a coarse, blowsy man who gobbled unfiltered cigarettes like someone bent on killing himself as quickly as possible, and who coughed like someone who was succeeding. He had spent the first few minutes of the interview hacking, pounding his chest, and talking about himself, hinting broadly at a shadowy past full of vague and undisclosable associations with the CIA and Soldier of Fortune.