by J A Kellman
~ * ~
As soon as we finished our coffee, Pat and I went back to our room to prepare for Operation Hormigas, as we called it. We had to change for our parts in the action—Pat into a touristy outfit that Esperanza provided to avoid being recognized as she bought tickets, and me into something sturdy for caving that Ochoa had dug up—boots, jeans, long sleeved shirt. I packed the Forest Service backpack with caving essentials—flashlight, cereal bars, plastic bags, and the spare batteries Bill had handed out at breakfast.
“I don’t know about this caving business,” I said as I stuffed a handful of Ziploc bags into my pack. “I’m so claustrophobic I can hardly stand a crowded elevator, never mind a cave with who knows what inside.”
Pat nodded in sympathy. “You’ll do all right. With everything on your mind—transporting Luis, delivering the pectoral where it needs to go—”
“And that’s another thing. All my life I’ve tried to preserve the past—save documents, conserve photos, protect historical objects—and now I’m supposed to help Luis toss a priceless piece of ancient Mayan heritage into a presumably bottomless hole somewhere under Tikal. If the Guatemalan government knew, they’d go nuts; the archaeologists would kill us.”
Pat grunted as she pulled on elastic waist white pants under a bright flowered shirt.
“How do I look? Do you think the bad guys will recognize me?” she asked, clipping on a large pair of gold hoop earrings and slipping a white plastic bracelet over her wrist. “Do I look like an ordinary tourist buying tickets to the States?” She struck a pose.
“Perfect. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were the real thing.”
“Thanks, I guess,” Pat said. “At least it’s a compliment for Esperanza’s costuming abilities.”
~ * ~
Later that morning, when the sun had become hot iron on bare skin, inside the open gate of her mother’s yard, Esperanza and her older brother helped Pat into the brother’s pickup. Heading for the airport, the truck turned toward Santa Elena when they reached the main road. Half an hour later Zoila, dressed in traje, traditional dress, and Luis, wearing a baseball cap pulled over his eyes and a poncho that reached his ankles, left the farmyard in a truck driven by Esperanza’s youngest brother.
An hour after the second truck’s departure, Ochoa pulled into the farmyard. He carried a box labeled sopa to the kitchen and deposited it on the shelves to the right of the hearth. When he left a few minutes later, Bill and I, dressed as backpackers, had crawled under a tarp in the back of his Land Cruiser on top of the heaps of gear that Ochoa had loaded from the ranger supply closet earlier that morning—coiled ropes, climbing harnesses, helmets with head lamps, flashlights, coveralls, underwear, knee pads, gloves, water bottles, a carefully packed plastic sled, the kind EMTs use to extract the injured from rough places, and a collapsible barebones wheelchair, just in case. I squirmed into the heap, trying to make myself comfortable.
We turned toward Tikal on the main road, following the route Zoila and Luis had taken earlier.
~ * ~
When Ochoa drove into the parking lot behind park headquarters, Jaime, talking with a guard at the rear of the museum next door, waved him over. Ochoa parked as close as possible to the men, leaving the door open as he slid out of SUV.
“Buenos días,” Ochoa said as he rounded the rear of the Toyota.
“Buenos,” Jaime said as Ochoa reached him. “Listen to this—”
The men talked for several minutes, Jaime waving his arms for emphasis, the guard adding comments at intervals, Ochoa listening quietly.
Thunder growled in the distance, startling parrots in the nearby trees into squawking flight, and spider monkeys into flurries of complaints as Ochoa and Jaime finally turned toward headquarters, stopping first to straighten the tarp in the back of the Land Cruiser, talking as they did so. Satisfied, the two men turned toward the park office.
Ten minutes later, Bill and I slipped from under the tarp, exited the SUV, and headed for the museum, our baseball caps pulled low. The waiting museum guard opened the rear door as soon as we reached it, locking it behind us.
The museum’s air was musty, smelling of ancient objects and long dead dreams, as if the spirits of Tikal rose with the motes drifting from the display cases. Its tomb-like atmosphere was increased by its darkness; the shadows dispelled only under two small skylights.
Bill was behind me scanning the blackness for movement, for anything out of place, as I headed for the case where I’d hidden the pectoral. The display shelves where I’d put the vulture seemed especially murky, the orange and cream pots with delicate painted images of Mayan royalty mere dim shapes in the gloom.
I switched on my Maglite, sweeping its thin beam across the vessels on the bottom shelf to make certain nothing had changed, and then I aimed it under a cylindrical tripod vessel near the middle of the case. The vulture pectoral glowed bright green in the slender shaft of light, like a slice of avocado between the pot’s flat rectangular legs.
By the time we left the museum a few minutes later, as an afternoon storm blew in over Tikal, the pectoral was safely tucked in a woven purse pinned inside my bra.
Twenty-eight
Tikal National Park, Guatemala
Late afternoon, as the storm raced over the tops of the ancient temples, Kan’s luck changed. One of the men watching park headquarters returned with news.
“It was like a fiesta. First, two older Maya and a little boy and a pony showed up behind the museum and stopped under that big ceiba tree. The couple sat down on that beat up old bench that’s been there forever like they were waiting for a bus; the boy and pony left.
“Then Ochoa pulled into the lot. He parked next to the museum’s back door where Jaime and the guard were smoking. The three of them talked for five minutes or so; then Jaime and Ochoa headed toward the Tikal Park Rangers’ office, and the guard finished his cigarette.”
Kan waved a hand as if to hurry him along. “Skip the details, get to the good part.”
“This is the good part, as soon as Ochoa and Jaime went into headquarters, two gringos got out of the Land Cruiser. I didn’t see them when Ochoa pulled in; they must have been hiding in the cargo area. They headed straight for the rear of the museum; the guard knew they were coming…he had the door open before they reached it.
“Ten, maybe fifteen, minutes later the gringos came out, joined the folks under the tree. Then Ochoa and Jaime showed up again.”
“Did they have the jade?”
“I didn’t see it, but it is small, isn’t it? Ochoa helped the old couple into his SUV; Jaime took charge of the rest of the party. It looks like they’re all going toward the Central Plaza. Ochoa’s in the lead. A second Land Cruiser followed right behind them.”
“Jesús! What the hell is happening and where are they headed with a storm coming? And what’s the story with the pony?” Kan paced for a moment, making a decision. “Take some guys; follow them. I’ll be behind you.”
Twenty-nine
Tikal National Park, Guatemala
It was Hurakan again, no doubt of it. The ground shook with each bolt of lightning and the peal of thunder that followed, chasing the last parrots out of the trees near the Central Plaza and deep into the jungle for shelter. It was as if Hurakan was declaring his displeasure with what was going on in Tikal.
There were ponchos in the back of the SUV, and as the storm drew closer, we put them on. No sense in being drenched before we even began our descent into the reservoir behind Temple I.
When we reached the basin—the same one Luis and I had fallen into a few days earlier—it had begun to sprinkle. It became clear that not only had the previous rains left additional water in the bottom, but the torrent had also caused the bank to fall away in several places, turning the depression’s sides into viscous mud that slumped toward the water. On the far side of the reservoir, under a collapsed portion of rim, a recently exposed heap of large boulders had tumbled into the water below.
>
“One of the rangers checked that pile yesterday,” Ochoa said clipping on his headlamp and slipping a lanyard with an extra flashlight around his neck. “There is an opening behind it. He didn’t go very far, just flashed a light around, but it looks like there might be a passage that leads toward the Central Plaza. According to Luis, that’s where we are headed.”
Luis nodded.
“I’ll go first,” Ochoa said as he tucked his sidearm and holster in his pack and headed for the basin’s edge. “I’ll check for a path to the cave. We need something that Luis can use and that doesn’t involve landing on the pile of boulders.”
He rappelled down the west side of the reservoir, landing on a shelf of limestone protruding from the wall twenty feet below; then he inched his way toward the cave just as it began to pour.
~ * ~
By the time Ochoa returned to the outcrop below, the deluge had lessened, and Bill and Jaime had outfitted and harnessed the rest of us in preparation for our descent.
“It looks like this ledge will work,” Ochoa called up. “It’s wide enough for Luis’s walker if we’re careful.”
Transporting Luis had required planning. His walker made sense on the outcrop, but inside the cave, who knew? He couldn’t get far with his paralyzed leg, walker or no walker. Ochoa had a rescue sled from the emergency supply closet at headquarters. The two rangers in the second vehicle would be able to carry Luis without trouble once we entered the cave.
It had been weird getting into the caving gear in a jungle in the rain. It was hard to squirm into a jumpsuit under a poncho, and for another thing, it fit like diving gear. The garment was clearly meant for a smaller person; the arms and legs were six inches too short, and I could barely pull up the front zipper. My only consolation was Bill, who’d ditched his poncho, looked as funny as I felt, bulging out of his too tight garment as if it were something he’d borrowed from a child.
Dressing Luis in his outfit had taken two of us: me to hold the clothes as his limbs were slipped in and Zoila to work his paralyzed leg and arm first into long underwear—Luis was always cold—then coveralls. We added a polypropylene poncho as the final layer for added warmth. “At least your outfit is the right size,” I said as I settled the poncho around his legs. “It could be worse; it could fit like mine.”
“Bill, you come next, then Ann, then Luis. The three of us can grab Luis when he lands,” Ochoa shouted from below.
Bill began to lower himself.
“Another day in Special Forces training,” I muttered under my breath as I slipped my flashlight’s cord around my neck. “I can hardly wait.”
I clipped onto the rope and followed Bill over the edge. I could feel the vulture pectoral pressing against my chest as I began my descent. I still ache from our escape from the Nuevo, I thought as I was lowered down. When I get home, nothing is going to lure me into anything more strenuous then my daily walk. Nothing.
I dropped down the wall to the rim of limestone, trying not to think of Ruston, or Kan, or the water and snakes below as I swung out from the reservoir’s face and pawed at the narrow ledge to gain footing.
Jaime lowered Luis next. We grabbed him when he landed and pushed him into his walker to keep him upright. I gripped Luis’s belt from behind; Bill stood in front of him keeping the aluminum frame steady. Then Bill walked backward as Luis inched along the ledge’s rough surface toward the rocks while Ochoa led the way. Zoila and Jaime followed Luis down the side, and the other two rangers brought up the rear: Esteban with the sled in its yellow carrier bag, and Francisco with a backpack of extra supplies.
The cave opening was big enough for us to stand; it breathed out that cold cave smell of mold, water, guano, and air trapped underground for years.
“This is it,” Ochoa said as he flashed his light around so we could get our bearings. “Not much room here, but it may open up further along. Let’s get Luis onto the sled. Esteban and Francisco follow me with Luis. Then Ann and Zoila. Bill, you follow the women. Jaime, come with me.”
We loaded Luis into his rescue sled, strapped him in under a blanket, and settled him into the foam lining of the hard yellow shell. Esteban and Francisco took the straps at either end.
Then Ochoa stepped off. “If you need anything or see something of interest, let the rest of us know.”
The inky darkness and the crushing weight of the tons of earth above my head made it hard to breathe, as if the ceiling were pressing down, flattening me with its awful weight. The only thing that kept me from bolting was Bill blocking the tunnel behind me.
We switched on our headlamps as we followed Ochoa, our lights thin sabers of illumination in the thick dark.
~ * ~
Half an hour into our hike, the downward slanting passage suddenly opened into a gallery that must have been seventy meters in diameter; its soaring ceiling disappeared into the damp gloom. Curtains of brown stained minerals undulated down the cave walls and across the floor on the far side of the chamber; crystals twinkled like tiny stars on the stalagmites and stalactites that covered the floor and ceiling. On the far side of the space, a dark opening was barely visible between sheets of ocher drapery flowstone.
Ochoa’s sweeping flashlight stopped at the gap. A man-made partition partially blocked its lower half from view.
“A wall! And this chamber probably hasn’t been visited by people for a thousand years,” Ochoa whispered in awe. He fumbled in his pack for his camera. “That means the partition has been here for a millennium at least! Amazing!” He shook his head in disbelief and moved toward the construction for a closer view.
I gasped. Suddenly Luis’s ancestors felt close, as if they were waiting for us somewhere further into the cave just as they had waited for worshipers since Tikal had begun.
“This has to be it,” Luis said. He squirmed on the sled for a better view. “The portal has to be somewhere beyond. I mean, look at it! The wall was clearly meant to limit access to what lay beyond, to indicate a boundary, or maybe to serve as an entrance to an inner sanctum where water and fertility can enter our world, where men and gods can mingle.”
For the first time since we’d begun the Ruston–vulture pectoral adventure, Luis looked happy.
~ * ~
The pause in the gallery was a welcome break from creeping like a beetle in the entry tunnel. I could stand upright without worrying about hitting my head, and the level floor made it easier to keep my balance. The chance to be in an open space and the sense we were on the right track also lightened my mood.
“How are you doing?” I asked Luis as I stretched my tired muscles.
“Okay,” he said. “But I hate being carried.”
I nodded in sympathy. “It must be rough. Have some water. No way are you going to be able to drink when we start up again.”
“Good idea,” Ochoa said. He put his camera into its waterproof bag and pulled out a water bottle. “Everyone, have water or snacks. We’re going to push on for another hour or until we see what Luis’s ancestors have in mind.”
We began moving again a few minutes later and headed around what proved to be a half wall that partially covered the opening on the far side of the gallery. Luis swayed like a baby camel in a sling between the rangers; Zoila and I followed behind them.
By the time Ochoa called the next halt, I’d begun to feel like time was repeating itself, or maybe it was just unspooling like thread as we crept through the tunnel behind the first chamber’s opening. The passage was clear except for a few breakdowns or heaps of fallen ceilings, but it was smaller than the first one, forcing me to remain partially crouched most of the time and to duck repeatedly to avoid low protruding rocks.
Not only was my back killing me, but forty-five minutes in the narrow walkway had just about made me nuts. I’d had an MRI years ago that had left me crazy with nerves by the time I was through; it was nothing compared to the claustrophobia that had gripped me by the throat ever since we left the first gallery.
You are al
l right, I repeated over and over as I trudged behind Esteban’s muscular back. Breathe slowly through your mouth and unclench your hands. If relaxation techniques work in the dentist’s office, they should work here.
“I hear water dripping up ahead,” Ochoa called from the front of our party. “Let’s break a minute. Get ready for the final push. I think we’re almost there.”
A small scrabbling noise somewhere in the dark tunnel caught my attention, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Bill, do you hear that?” I whispered before we began moving again. “Someone’s fooling around behind us. It can’t be rats this far underground. Bats? And I swear I heard someone sneeze.”
Bill turned his head the way we had come. Another sneeze. This time muffled.
“Jesus! Someone is there—someone with mold allergies, I’ll bet. I gotta tell Ochoa,” Bill said as he began working his way toward the front of the group.
Bill was back in a few minutes. “Ochoa said just keep going. Nothing we can do about being followed now. The passage is too narrow. Once we leave the tunnel, we can figure something out. Jaime and I will ride shotgun, though,” he added just as Jaime passed us on the way to the rear. “You and Zoila stay behind Luis and the guys.”
~ * ~
The next gallery appeared as if conjured. Our headlamps’ slender beams probed the darkness, illuminating minerals that glittered on the walls; stalagmites and stalactites, luminous as alabaster, glowing as if lit from within.
We clustered together a few feet beyond the passage, stunned; the sacred space opened before us like a vast stone flower.
“My God!” I took a shuddering breath and stood in awe.
A circular raised platform with six-foot high walls of fitted blocks stood in the middle of the splendor. Its stairway faced the passageway from which we’d come. A spillway ran down an incline next to the steps, directing a stream of water toward a small lined course that rounded the base of the structure and then turned toward the back of the gallery, where it disappeared into a carefully constructed opening in the wall.
