The Kukulkan Manuscript

by James Steimle

  Porter smiled again and sighed. “It’s who you know in the world that counts, they say.”

  “Yes, but who is they?”

  “The cause of all good and bad; the blamed in every society,” Porter said as she smiled. He stood and gave her his hand. “John D. Porter.”

  She took his hand without getting up. “What does the D stand for?”

  “Desirable,” he said, sitting down.

  “I guess you…already know who I am.”

  “Erma Alred. No middle name. Been with us at Stratford for…five semesters now? And you’re in the same position I am in.”

  “What position would that be?” said Alred.

  “The desperate need for a dissertation, of course,” his smile faded slightly.

  “If I understand things correctly, the D in your name deserves the word desperate far more than I do.”

  He scratched his head with one abrupt movement, focusing his eyes on his desk. John Desperate Porter. Why did that have such a natural ring to it?

  “Why aren’t you married?” she asked suddenly.

  “Why do I get the feeling everyone’s asking me that?”

  “I thought Mormons were supposed to wed and have lots of little kiddies like the Catholics,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “You know I’m Mormon.”

  “It sounds like we know a lot about each other.”

  He smiled at her. “And still so very little.” She watched him examine her medium-length auburn hair, green eyes, and fair, unfreckled skin.

  “Just enough to get the job done,” she said.

  “What?”

  She tilted her head. “Mind wandering, Mr. Porter?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You have green eyes.”

  “You always this perceptive?”

  “Lived in Japan for a few years. Green eyes are highly praised there. If you were half Japanese and kept the eyes, you could make it big in the Nippon entertainment industry.”

  “That’s good to know in case this dissertation ruins me.”

  “You don’t want to do this?” Porter questioned as her eyes wandered down and over the papers throttling her chair.

  From the floor, she lifted a thick pad of pages bound by one heavy paper clip and said, “Frankly, I was hoping to do a dissertation on early Athapaskin settlements.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The Athapaskins?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide and wondering if he was joking. “The ancestors of…many North American Indian tribes. Tell me, how is it that you are leading a study on an ancient Mesoamerican find without knowing the rudiments of American archaeology?”

  “Just lucky I guess,” he said. “You already know I have religious interest in Mesoamerican history.”

  “Yes, but I hardly believe someone’s religion validates a worthy academic assessment of an area outside one’s expertise.” She looked down and dragged her eyes over the paper in her hands. “This is written in Spanish. What is it?”

  “Nothing you’d be interested in. Solid evidence of the authenticity of the Book of Mormon. It’s an ancient Indian history compiled by a Aztec prince.”

  “Ixtlilxochitl?” she said, trying to find the first page—an impossible task.

  Porter waved his head in what might have been a nod. “Seems his curiosity about the white, bearded god revealed some finds so disturbing that after the book was shipped to Spain, it got buried in the archives of a church until only recently. Of course, now that it has been so long since the original writing, scholars can say the man made the entire thing up based on his own religious system. But it does back up facts already in our grasp.”

  “The white, bearded god,” Alred said. “And who would that be?”

  “Don’t you know?” Porter said, glowing with his quirky smile.

  She waited a few seconds before answering, her eyes examining the titles of stapled articles and worn books ganging up on her chair. She saw the words, “The Canaanite Text from Brazil” by Cyrus H. Gordon and “Who Discovered America First” by William F. Dankenbring. Some of the words leapt at her in Germanic, Arabic, and other languages that left her feeling like she didn’t belong in this office.

  Looking again at Porter, she said, “Mormons believe Quetzalcoatl, Kukalkan, Tohil, or whatever one might call him…is none other than Jesus Christ, don’t they?”

  Porter’s face didn’t change. “Some do.”

  “Don’t you know Quetzalquatl was represented by a feathered serpent? The serpent in Bible stories represents the Devil, if I understand the symbolism correctly. How do you get Jesus in there.” She put the document back from where she’d snatched it, sorry she’d picked it up.

  “You’re forgetting the caduceus,” Porter said, leaning back in his small chair. He crossed his arms and looked completely at ease.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The symbol of the medical profession?” he said. “Two serpents wrapping around a pole with wings? It was the staff of the Greek god Hermes.”

  “I know what you’re talking about, but I don’t see how that has anything to do with Quetzalquatl or the Devil.”

  “It is quite arguable that the caduceus is also based on an often forgotten Biblical story found in the book of Numbers,” said Porter.

  Alred pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows.

  “While the Hebrews wandered in the wilderness after Moses freed them from Egypt, the Torah states that they encountered ha-nechashim ha-seraphim, fiery or poisonous snakes.”

  “Torah,” said Alred, “I thought you said this was in the book of Numbers.”

  Porter nodded, shutting his eyes momentarily at her biblical ignorance. “Many were bitten by the serpents and needed serious medical attention, death being the alternative. Moses constructed a pole with a serpent made of brass on the top of it. He told the dying all they needed to do was look at the brass serpent, and they’d be healed.”

  “That’s it?” Alred said, disappointed.

  Shaking his head, Porter said, “But too many of the afflicted children of Israel wouldn’t believe they could be healed that easily…even after all the miracles preceding the experience. Some looked up, following the admonition, and were healed.

  “Now the snake Moses made obviously didn’t represent the Devil. On the contrary, both 2 Kings and 2 Chronicles recount the sins of the children of Israel in worshipping the pole with the bronze serpent, many years latter.

  “Now, Christians compare the brass serpent, which was ‘lifted up,’ to Jesus Christ, who was put up in like manner, and forever after all followers of Jesus have professed to the world that all anyone need do is look to the man on the cross…and live.”

  Alred squinted her eyes. “So you’re saying the serpent on the pole of Moses was Jesus, who is also Quetzalcoatl.” Doubt laced her tone.

  “Can’t you see why some people would make the connection?” said Porter.

  After swabbing the inside of her dry mouth with her tongue, Alred said, “I once had a grammar school teacher who played a game with us wherein we compared different kitchen utensils to aspects of learning. I remember a spoon related to a teacher in detail, a piece of paper to our brain, and a knife to our principal. But I—I don’t think abstract or arbitrary connections should be taken seriously. Rhetorics can show how any two unrelated things are connected.”

  Porter wiped his eyes. “Yet wouldn’t you agree that finding logical connection is the center of scholarship? What else is a dissertation?”

  She chewed on the inside of her lip. “As scholars we can only do our best.”

  Leaning suddenly forward in his chair, Porter said, “I wish other scholars were as honest as you! You’re right, of course. None of us are as enlightened as we’d like to believe. The problem with the Enlightened thinkers of Rousseau’s day was that they thought they saw the truth. Not just reality, but absolute truth! They chose to believe that there was nothing more than what they were seeing. It’s…a problem we all have…to som
e degree or another. We focus on paradigms we’ve collected over the years, without acknowledging the existence of paradigms. You and I might know what paradigms are—a pattern or model of reality defined by our own thoughts and observations—but we go on living with them, without consideration of the other paradigms in the world. So who’s right? No one. Who thinks they’re right? Everyone. What’s right? Will we ever really know—that is what we should ask ourselves.”

  “But that’s a philosophical question, not a historical one,” Alred said.

  “Right. And I’m not implying we should do away with historians…I’d be out of a job!” Porter said, throwing up his hands. “What we are forced to deal with are…possible…truths based on all the finds in our possession.”

  “Possible is the key word,” Alred noted. “Scholars don’t want to deal with possibilities that are so improbable as to be defined as near impossibilities.”

  “Of course,” Porter said, his chair squeaking again as he leaned back. “The only thing that has greatly bothered me is that most scholars only acknowledge possibilities they like. Some possibilities grind against their feelings.

  “You can’t mix business and emotions, they rarely work well together, no matter your office or profession. If you and the rest of the planet are inclined to believe that the world is flat, for example, and you worry about what your friends and associates will feel if you were to acknowledge the possibility that you might think the world is round, you’ll be wise to keep your mouth shut until everyone believes the same thing.”

  “Of course, there’s always someone who likes to stand out,” said Alred.

  Porter agreed with a raised hand. “Shouting their beliefs even if they know few will receive them kindly. The majority is always slow to change opinions, and only does so when the populous of scientists begins to move toward the idea that the world might actually be round. At that point, you wouldn’t have as large a problem in telling everyone that you might believe the world round as well. But you see, emotions—worry in this case—really get in the way.” Porter folded his arms.

  With one eyebrow rising, Alred said, “That’s why most conservative religious people refuse to recognize archaeological discoveries which say their Bible might not have been the original source they thought it was.”

  “Exactly!” Porter sat up like a startled cobra. “Most old-fashioned religious folk have mastered the doctrine of believing and having faith in place of facts. When new artifacts turn up…they flat out don’t want to see them, because they fear what they might see.”

  “I agree with you there,” said Alred.

  “Truth is, they often don’t recognize how the new finds do correspond to their old pious ideas. The problem lies with their belief systems. A lot of religious people believe things that have been passed down from person to person, but have no valid backing in their scriptures.”

  “Really,” said Alred.

  “Someone once told me the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the Tower of Babel were one and the same.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Porter shrugged. “He was a nice guy…but obviously no scholar. Someone a little more respectable probably told him that—it may even have been a joke!—but the guy believed it and related it as fact.”

  “Did he know what specific area you study?” she said, wondering who could be so naive, so presumptuous.

  “Well, it was a long time ago. I don’t remember. But he was sincere. I just nodded, and let his delusion continue. Arguing with a fool is like wrestling with a pig, they say. You both get dirty and the pig likes it.”

  “That’s an oldie—” Alred said, pulling her red jacket around her.

  “—but a nice one!” Porter finished with a smile. “As far as scholars go, the biggest hang-up can be found in their general lack of interest in things that would be embarrassing to believe.”

  Pause. “Like the idea that what the Mormons profess is real?” Alred said carefully, no malice in her voice. Of course she needed to validate Masterson’s warning of a Mormon bias in the project.

  Porter nodded without a word. He sat forward, slowly this time, and rested his arms on the table. “I like you, Erma. You’re all right. The number one concern I have with most scholars in your field of Mesoamerican Archaeology is…they choose not to acknowledge the possibility of a possibility that what the Mormons say about the ancient Americas is true. I’m not talking about dealing with truths here…but possibilities. You said yourself it’s short-sighted for religious scholars to conclude that secular scholars are automatically wrong when their papers contradict biblical themes.”

  Alred nodded, but kept her face and all emotions hidden behind tight skin.

  “Why then would secular scholars automatically assume papers written by religious scholars…unworthy of a thorough reading based on the premise that religious academics are ‘Old School?’ To tell you the truth, I know a good number of very talented Mormon scholars who have published numerous books and papers in the secular realm. But few in that society recognize their existence. Is anyone reading their papers, or do they see the name, the title, the thesis, and quickly turn to the next essay.”

  Alred closed her green eyes and opened them again. “I can see why you are praised for your work. You’ve obviously thought out your arguments.”

  Nodding, Porter added in a soft voice, “I look forward to working with you, Erma…though I admit I was steamed when I found out I had to share Dr. Ulman’s codex. I know it will be a challenge—it is whenever I work with someone else. My ideas are often extreme, but I’m sure you’ll keep me in line,” he said in a sarcastic tone.

  “Count on it,” she said with the same voice.

  “But, Erma, let me say one more thing.” He licked his lips and said slowly, “I will have a great deal more respect for you as a scholar if you admit the possibility…that there is a possibility…that what I present is true. I’m not asking you to believe me. Everyone follows their own paths, and no outside individual has a right to change another person. You are in charge of you. I am only asking you to not be an enlightened scholar who presumes to already have the answers. After all, we’re moving into new territory—case closed. I’m asking you…as a scholar…to keep an open mind. Come to your own conclusions, but don’t shrug off others because you’re worried about what reviews your dissertation will receive.”

  She nodded and stood. “We’ll see.” Her voice was hard. Turning to the door, as Porter leaned back in his chair and scratched his head with a clawed hand, Alred said, “Oh…Porter?”

  “Yeah.”

  She pushed the door open and faced him. “Don’t ever call me Erma again. That’s my aunt’s name, and I’d prefer not to think about her right now. I hate the name, but out of respect for my parents I will not change it. Understand?”

  * * *

  April 10

  6:18 p.m. PST

  He was late, and he knew it. But there wouldn’t be a problem.

  Checking his $4,000 watch, snug on his wrist, he waited as the elevator flew another fifty stories. He brushed away a white spec that had landed on his thousand dollar, dark navy suit. With a flash of his eyes, he made sure the white cuffs of his shirt protruded exactly one quarter inch from his jacket. One glance at his Italian shoes made of black leather, and he knew the tone and the shine couldn’t be more perfect.

  He never once let go of the briefcase, even though it was much heavier than usual. Standing in the rear of the elevator, he let his muscles relax as he examined the heads of all those standing with him.

  Two red heads.

  Partly bald man, who smelled of spent cigarette cinders.

  Purple old woman.

  He listened to the music, a cheap rendition of Vivaldi’s “L’inverno”, saw the digital number soar quickly upward, skipping ten floors at a time, and glanced at the three lightly gossiping secretaries with brown curls in the right corner.

  Everything was fine.

  He sighed silently at peac
e.

  He looked down at his hands again. They weren’t shaking, which was good. He moved his mouth, licking his lips. No stuttering motions. Excellent.

  Holding his breath, he peered at the black leather briefcase in his right hand, held slightly away from his pant leg as if it carried the Ebola virus.

  He imagined the elevator cable snapping.

  He pictured the car rushing at the ground.

  He saw himself in an ambulance, just about to die, realizing the whole world as everyone knew it would shake and perish if he passed away.

  He’d never been so important….

  Closing his eyes slowly, and opening them just as slow, he was back in the elevator car. And all was well.

  Bong!

  The door split in two and disappeared into the walls.

  “Excuse me,” he said with the voice of a shadow as he pushed his way through the small crowd.

  He walked down two halls and opened a door.

  The secretary looked up, but he didn’t hear her if she spoke.

  He went straight into the conference room as if he owned the place, though he’d only been there one other time.

  He fought the urge to check the hour, the minutes, the seconds….

  The room was long with florescent lights recessed into the ceiling. Portraits of important people lined the room in expensive frames. Large windows covered one of the two long walls, but hid behind thin white drapes. The oblong oval table seated at least fourteen people, but he chose to remain standing.

  From the high-backed chairs, the faces turned to greet him. No smiles. Only gray eyes. Fine leather portfolios and expensive computer notebooks were open in front of them all, and papers filled many of their wrinkled hands. Each wore a tie that could have fed an Ethiopian child for ten years.

  The talking stopped like a sudden cold current.

  “Good of you to join us,” one of the old gentlemen said.

  Putting his Ebola-virus briefcase on the table without a word, he inserted a small key. The case popped open. Then, round the table he went, passing out one manila envelope to each person in the conference room. He was the youngest man present, but didn’t want anyone to notice it. His face remained as stern as everyone else’s. As he lifted each envelope, he made sure it did not quiver in the air. Not once did he breathe through his mouth.