Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries BoxSet

by Bill Thompson

  This time Jack Borland seemed more enthused about the quest than ever. During the week that he interviewed and hired three local men to accompany him into the jungle, rumors circulated that this time was different – Borland was on the verge of a major discovery. Everyone knew that for years Captain Jack had been searching for the legendary library of the Mayas, their version of the fabled Library of Alexandria, Egypt, a storehouse of written information about a civilization that had otherwise left very little in writing to allow understanding of them. Some scholars and historians believed that the ancient library had housed not just written records but also the richest artifacts of this once-great culture, including massive troves of gold objects hidden hundreds of years ago by Mayan kings.

  Others, including most archaeologists familiar with these people, believed that the Mayan library was a myth, that this civilization never had extensive written records of their history and never amassed a storehouse of treasure. Others thought if anything ever had existed, the Spaniards had appropriated or destroyed it much as they did in other so-called heathen societies, which they endeavored to “civilize”. The Spaniards believed they were the only civilized people in a strange land of barely human Indians. It was typical for them to scourge the area, kill the people, burn their “heathen” books and records and steal anything of value in the name of the King. Hernan Cortes and his band of Spanish conquerors dealt with the Maya in this fashion, almost totally obliterating any written records of the people and their past.

  Thankfully for history, a few records survived. Many citizens of San Ignacio thought Jack Borland had seen them. Rumor had it that when Jack had been Governor-General of the colony of British Honduras fifty years ago, he witnessed the opening of a cave containing books. The cave later disappeared.

  Some people said Borland had gone to the archives in Seville, Spain, looking at journals written by various scribes, the most literate members of the Spanish entourages that swept the Maya countryside in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Others mentioned rumors of an ancient map on parchment, covered in strange symbols – a map that roughly corresponded to the area of the jungle where they were headed this time. So the story went, it was a secret document Jack had located while he was Governor. He managed to keep it for himself once the country became independent.

  Not all the theories were as believable as these rumors. One of the weirdest was that the storehouse Borland was seeking was far, far older than the Maya themselves, maybe older than the pyramids of Egypt. No one knew anything for sure.

  For many days Jack worked to assemble his team and supplies. The evenings found him in one bar or another, buying rounds of drinks and regaling everyone with fantastic stories. Everyone loved him – although they enjoyed his company, no one got information out of him, even when he lapsed into one of his frequent drunken binges.

  This time when departure day came there was a noticeable air of excitement in the village. It was Saturday and the local market was underway. But on this day practically the entire town gathered not at the market but a block away by a small caravan of vehicles, to see off Captain Jack and his men. There were six in all – Jack and his team of three explorers plus two men who would drive the SUVs back when the others entered the rain forest on foot. The group had spent days assembling and packing equipment and provisions. A priest blessed the men, sprinkling holy water on each of them. It was a festive time as the team headed off, moving westward to the border, then across into the Guatemalan jungle.

  Every Saturday brought communication from the expedition by satellite phone. The solar powered phone was the way Borland kept in touch and he allowed his men to talk briefly to their families. On the first call Captain Jack advised they were ready to move into the jungle on foot. There were Jack, three Belizean natives and a load of equipment and provisions.

  The last call they’d received was from deep in the Guatemalan jungle. The team, following Captain Jack’s directions, was slowly climbing up a mountain. The men were following a crude trail that had seen little activity in months – they were frequently forced to cut swaths out of the dense jungle to make any progress. It was grueling work, made more difficult by oppressive heat, humidity and torrential downpours for ten or fifteen minutes every afternoon.

  Below the canopy of trees and plants, down on the jungle floor where the men trod, it was steamy and damp all the time. Clothes stuck to your body. Insects constantly buzzed around every exposed piece of skin. The native men were exhausted after only an hour or so of work and frequently they had to stop for water and insect repellent. But they were making progress uphill, according to Captain Jack’s optimistic report that day.

  Then one Saturday came and went with no phone call. Then another. A month passed with no contact, then a second and third. The team had vanished.

  Chapter Four

  The rain intensified as Brian sipped on his wine, captivated as Arthur continued the story.

  “Three months after they left I flew from London to Belize City, drove to San Ignacio and hired two men to help me locate Father’s expedition.” One of the guides whom Arthur hired spoke a few words of English and had a vested interest in finding the missing men. His brother was on Captain Jack’s expedition and was now missing. The other guide had driven Jack to the drop-off point in Guatemala and therefore he knew the exact place at which Borland had entered into the jungle on foot. He said the beginning was just off the highway, marked by a crude sign with an arrow pointing into the air, inscribed with a lighthearted message – Jaguar’s Call. Food and Lodging. 1000 meters straight up.

  “I’d never heard of Jaguar’s Call,” Arthur continued. The guides said it was a retreat high on the mountain run by a white man, a place to which many would-be treasure hunters found their ways. Perhaps Jack had made it there. If so, the proprietor could give them information.

  Arthur Borland and his two guides found the spot where Captain Jack’s expedition had entered the jungle. They walked over a mile – at times the trail was barely visible, obscured by vines and undergrowth. Soon one of the natives yelled, “Senor Arthur, come!” The man had found a campsite, long abandoned, and a rock into which was etched “Borland 2011.” An arrow pointed the direction in which the expedition started up the mountain.

  Until now they had been ascending slowly but suddenly things changed. The real climb was about to begin – over eight thousand feet of mountain, covered with almost impenetrable undergrowth, stood dauntingly before them.

  With little more to guide them than the knowledge that the group would have been moving upwards, the Belizeans pointed out a rough trail leading away from the rock they had found. The group moved into the forest using machetes to cut undergrowth from the makeshift trail they were on. In the months since Captain Jack was here it had become quickly overgrown but it was still a recognizable trail.

  They moved slowly upwards, every exhausting day ending with the setting up of camp and preparation of a meal. They set up a perimeter, kept a fire going and took turns guarding throughout the night while the others slept. They would be no match for the predators which inhabited this jungle if they were caught unawares.

  Arthur and his team had three thousand feet of climbing left before they’d find the Jaguar’s Call, a collection of shabby buildings its owner jokingly called a “jungle resort.” The truth was, no tourists ever ventured this far into the rain forest. You faced a grueling climb in a dangerous jungle to get to a ‘resort’ totally lacking in creature comforts. No one ever came here for fun. This was a stopping point for people with a mission.

  The Jaguar’s Call was a destination for travelers of a different kind – people who were seeking treasure or archaeologically significant artifacts. This particular mountain, one of the highest in the area at nearly nine thousand feet, was the subject of countless fables. Some said there were mines from which the Maya had retrieved tons of gold. Others wove tales of intricately carved temples merely waiting to be rescued from the undergrowth – buil
dings jutting from the trees like ancient skyscrapers, which would give their discoverers instant fame and recognition. Some thought these buildings contained wealth or the secrets of the Mayan civilization so many people yearned to know. Maybe there were clues as to why the entire culture suddenly abandoned everything they had created.

  Like Captain Jack, some who arrived at Jaguar’s Call had maps. The one Jack currently believed in indicated that this mountain was the site of the fabled Mayan library – a place that could reveal the secrets about this major civilization. Atop this mountain, above the tree line but still hidden in the jungle growth, lay a city hidden for hundreds, maybe thousands of years. At least Jack’s map said so. And Captain Jack Borland was convinced this time, just as he had been so many times before.

  The proprietor of Jaguar’s Call was Ralph Alvin Buncombe, a man who bore a striking resemblance to the actor Sean Connery. He’d come to Central America from the United States fifteen years ago. Like many other expatriates in remote places worldwide, he was running away from something. In Ralph’s particular case it was a little problem with the police in Laredo, Texas over a Mexican girl Ralph insisted had told him she was twenty years old. After Child Protective Services of Texas got involved it turned out she was fifteen, and although she was stunning, worldly and totally willing to be Ralph’s partner, Ralph was facing up to ten years in the state penitentiary. Out on bail prior to his trial, he chose one day to withdraw his nest egg and drive his Jeep to Belize, a place he’d always wanted to visit. He didn’t plan on coming back.

  Ralph ended up in San Ignacio, less than fifteen minutes from Belize’s western border and a long, long way from the authorities in Texas. One thing led to another and Ralph himself got caught up in the treasure frenzy. He heard stories in the local bars. He saw an “authentic” map with his own eyes. It looked very old and very worn. Just like they all did. Unfortunately Ralph didn’t know that it was just another of many available for sale to unsuspecting foreigners. He paid several hundred dollars for it, much to the delight of its previous owner.

  Long story short, Ralph himself made the same trip so many others had made. He crossed the border into Guatemala and headed for fame and fortune. There was no path up the mountain in those days so he and his men stopped where the map said to begin their ascent and they cut a swath through the jungle. It took weeks of grueling labor to get to the top, and after six more weeks of exploring he had nothing at all to show for it.

  As Ralph Buncombe’s small party headed down the mountain they encountered a group of Brits on the way up. These men also had a map – apparently a different one from Ralph’s – and they were secretive about it. Like all the others, they were certain they had the map that would lead them to the treasure, or the mine, or the city, or whatever it was they sought.

  That chance encounter gave Ralph an idea. He went back to San Ignacio, withdrew the rest of his cash and hired a crew to go back into the jungle, back to the same trail where he had earlier climbed the mountain. He went halfway up and built a camp to accommodate those feckless men who sought treasure on this mountain. Ralph’s men cut trees and created four buildings: a bunkhouse with some really basic plumbing for a toilet and shower, a dining hall and bar, a combination office, general store and owner’s quarters, and a secure storage structure. The latter would allow adventurers to leave cumbersome gear while they climbed the last five thousand feet to reach the summit.

  Ralph eventually acquired the nickname “Lucky” because he was the first to turn the mountain into something at least marginally profitable. So Lucky Buncombe became the proprietor of the Jaguar’s Call, a place about as far from the police in Laredo, Texas as Lucky could get. And that was fine with him. Every gringo in Central America who came and stayed had a past. Ralph Buncombe left his past and hoped for a lucky future free from prison.

  Over the years Lucky added amenities to the Jaguar’s Call. He bought an old generator so he could have electricity and he hauled an ancient refrigerator, kind of an icebox actually, up the hill so he could keep things reasonably cold. He and a couple of guys who sometimes worked for him made most of the furniture and he bought crude mattresses and linens in town, hauling them up the mountain. So the camp became a somewhat decent albeit really basic halfway point to regroup and prepare for the rest of the climb up the mountain.

  People walked into the camp at the Jaguar’s Call without prior notice. Word of mouth was Lucky’s marketing plan: most guides coming to this mountain knew it was there. Reservations would have been impossible anyway, since there was no communication other than an old satellite phone that he had stuck in a drawer. He kept it for emergencies only and in fifteen years he had never had occasion to use it. In the odd moment when he thought about it, he figured it didn’t work by now anyway. The technology had changed so much but Lucky had never switched to a cell phone, figuring he’d rather remain anonymous than start handing out his personal information to anybody who might use it to find him after all these years.

  Lucky was puttering around his office when he heard sounds in the jungle. “Someone’s coming,” he said out loud, standing up and glancing in a small mirror he’d picked up in town ages ago. “Glad I shaved yesterday.”

  Lucky hadn’t had a visitor in over a month. He wondered if this was another group of treasure hunters or maybe naturalists or archaeologists on a trek up the peak. Whoever they were, he was anxious to see them, hungry for conversation and word of what was going on in the outside world he had left so abruptly many years back. He also hoped they spoke English. His Spanish was good, his French passable, but he far preferred to converse in his native tongue when possible.

  As the group drew closer he could hear snippets of conversation and Lucky smiled as he heard someone say, “Senor, camp ahead.” If the guides were speaking even pidgin English, there must be at least one gringo in the group.

  In a few minutes three men emerged. Two were short and dark, clearly locals who undoubtedly were the guides. Lucky thought he recognized one of them, either from seeing him in Belize or maybe the man had guided a previous treasure hunter up the hill. A third man, tall and fair-skinned, walked behind them.

  “Good morning!” Lucky said in English, raising his hand. “Welcome to Jaguar’s Call.”

  “Good morning to you,” the white man said, his British accent unmistakable. “My name is Arthur Borland. I hope you have accommodations for three for a night or two.”

  The surprise at hearing Lord Borland’s name was unmistakable on Lucky’s face. “No problem whatsoever. You’re my only guests. And may I ask, are you the son of Captain Jack?”

  Arthur was thrilled! He quickly confirmed his identity. “I hope and pray that you know my father from having met him here, when he was on his way up this mountain.”

  “That’s exactly right. Where is the old bastard?”

  Arthur told Lucky that Jack had been missing for several months and that he hoped Lucky might have information to help in Arthur’s search.

  Lucky was genuinely concerned. “I had no idea that he hadn’t come back down. Lots of guys who go up this mountain one way figure out a different way to get back, and I wasn’t terribly surprised not to see him again after he came through here.” He looked at Arthur. “You probably know your dad better than anyone. He’s tough. I bet money he’s still alive up there somewhere.” Lucky pointed in the direction of the mountaintop that loomed thousands of feet above them. “Your dad is a brave man. He’s seen it all. If anyone could survive whatever’s up there, he could. I’ll tell you everything I know. Let’s get you situated with a bunk and a place to stash your gear.”

  Lucky motioned to a shady spot with a couple of chairs under a tree. He and Arthur sat as the guides took small pipes from their pockets, filled them with tobacco and smoked contentedly.

  “Care for a beer?” Arthur asked. “I brought a couple.”

  “That’d be great. I haven’t had a beer in awhile.”

  “They’re warm, I’m afraid.
You’ll have to drink it the British way.”

  “Tell me what you know about my father.”

  Chapter Five

  Lucky Buncombe told Arthur about the day over four months ago when Captain Jack and his group had walked into the campsite at Jaguar’s Call. “I’d known Jack for awhile. He came here once before and this last time we talked before he continued his trip up the hill. He only decided recently that this mountain was most likely the site he’s been searching for all these years. But you probably know all that.”

  Lucky smiled as he and Arthur talked about his father. Like everyone else, he had found Captain Jack extremely entertaining from the minute he laid eyes on him. When the entourage arrived, Jack had stepped into the clearing first. “My good man,” Jack had beamed at Lucky. “You’re a sight for sore eyes and that’s for sure. I feel as though I’ve been climbing this mountain for a month, and now we get to the famous Jaguar’s Call…our rest haven on the way to success!”

  “We sat in these same chairs under this very tree,” Lucky said. He recalled that Jack put his rucksack down and sat while his men set about dropping packs, unloading them, and heading to the bunkhouse without a word. Several of Jack’s men had accompanied him on a previous journey to this mountain and they knew the routine at Jaguar’s Call. Within a few minutes, they had unpacked, washed up and were sitting in the shade, exactly as Arthur Borland’s men today, talking among themselves as they smoked.

  In Spanish Jack spoke to his lead guide. “Open up that nasty stuff your men drink,” he said, “and let them have the rest of the day off. They’ve earned it.”

  The guide turned to his men, spoke briefly and they scurried off to the bunkhouse to retrieve a bottle of brownish liquid, some locally concocted drink from San Ignacio that looked like brackish pond water and smelled worse. The workers poured drinks into small cups they had brought and leaned against trees while they relaxed and drank.