Fallen Idols

by J. F. Freedman

  He felt the jaguar's presence before he saw it. He didn't know what it was, precisely, that he was sensing, but he knew it was something extraordinary. It was as if one of the ancient kings of this city-state had suddenly materialized here; that's how powerful the jaguar's proximity felt to him. The rest of the jungle knew it, too—the sounds had died away, almost as a homage.

  Slowly, he looked up. And there it was, lying on a thick tree branch twenty feet above him, right over him, its head between its big paws, looking down at him. The great cat, the lord of the new world.

  It was a male—he could tell from the size. Jaguars in this region rarely weighed much more than one hundred pounds, but this one looked like it weighed close to two hundred: a mighty specimen.

  It didn't seem afraid of him, like big cats usually are of humans, especially jaguars, which are elusive, shy creatures. This one seemed to be sending out a telepathic message: I'm the king here. You and the others are merely passing through, handfuls of dust in the wind, and long after you've gone to dirt and the jungle has once again reclaimed all of this, I will still be here. My spirit will always be here.

  Walt felt this, strongly. The jaguar was the defining animal symbol of the ancient Maya. And here, against the greatest of odds, was one in the flesh. In all the years Walt had been traveling throughout Central America, to this site and others, he had never seen a jaguar up close like this; the few times he'd spotted one the animal had been a flash, running away in the undergrowth.

  He stared at the jaguar. To his astonishment, the jaguar stared back. Fleetingly, he wished he'd brought his camera with him; but then he thought, no, it's better to be here with this as it is, in the moment. To live it, but not to capture it. Because you can't—no photograph could do justice to what he was feeling.

  Slowly, as Walt watched, frozen in place, the jaguar stood on the thick branch. Then it leapt from the tree and was gone, a flash of mottled fur disappearing into the jungle.

  For how long Walt stood there he didn't know; maybe a minute, probably less. He didn't believe in God, not in any traditional, Western fashion, but this brief but spectacular encounter had been a truly religious experience. Maybe this was a portent that something special was going to happen. What that might be, he didn't know. But this was so unique a sighting that it had to have an incredible meaning to match its specialness.

  He realized, too, that he wasn't breathing—he might not have drawn a single breath since he'd seen the jaguar. Now he sucked in air greedily. He was shaking. What a way to end this journey! And the phenomenon was his, his alone. He owned this moment, he wasn't sharing it with anyone, not even his wife, with whom he shared almost everything. Almost everything; a few situations, he had learned from the hard-gained wisdom of hindsight and painful revelation, are best kept secret.

  Gathering himself with one more deep, cleansing breath, Walt entered the Central Plaza. Several structures were clustered around the courtyard: a large acropolis, two massive temples, each over forty meters high, that faced each other, east and west, so that the sun could be worshipped when it rose and when it set, a palace in which the nobility would have dwelled, two pyramids as big as the temples, and a ball court.

  This area was the only section of the ancient kingdom that had undergone excavation. At other parts of the vast site there had been some minor digging, but most of it was still overgrown by jungle. That wasn't going to change, certainly not in Walt's lifetime. It took years to unearth one sector, and incredible amounts of money. Over the course of the past three years, since those first chicleros stumbled on to the site, over five thousand mounds, each covering a building of some kind beneath them, had been located. Perhaps as many as a hundred thousand people had lived here at the height of its prominence.

  Walt walked until he was in the center of the plaza. He could feel the pulse of the place surging, a psychic feeling signifying the turbulent life that had existed here for almost two millennia. In some unknowable but very palpable way, the ghosts of the ancients still dwelt among these stones. This was hallowed ground, a place upon which one should tread lightly, with reverence.

  He stood still, taking everything in. There was an elegant grandeur to this reaching back into the past, digging up ancient burial grounds, unearthing old secrets. As some men dream of reaching for the stars, traveling to distant planets and pushing forward into the future, others, like him, look back to ancient worlds of mystery and desire. He had thought at times, over the years, about what his life's work said about him. Why was the past more important to him than the present or the future?

  He had never come up with an exact answer; he wasn't sure he wanted one. What he did know was that the discovery of a new site, a new branch of an old civilization, seemed as fresh and real to him as flying through the heavens must feel to an astronaut. When he was at an ancient site, as he was now, those who had occupied this space came alive, and were here with him.

  Crossing the plaza to the far end, he went into the ball court and climbed the steep limestone steps that had been cut into one of the walls. Only a small section of this area had been reclaimed from the jungle; most of it was still under a fifteen-meter-high mound of dirt and trees. Plopping himself down on the top step, his back against the wall, he looked to the floor below.

  Ball courts were Walt's favorite locations—he was an old ex-jock, he loved those areas where physical action had taken place. And this was definitely where the action had been; the ball game was the Maya's version of the seventh game of the World Series, the Kentucky Derby, the Super Bowl.

  This was a particularly impressive ball court. Seventy meters long, it wasn't as large as the famous one at Chichén Itzé, but it was still impressive—grander than those at Tikal, Caracól, or Palenque. And like the great Yucatan ball court—the largest in the Maya world, measuring a hundred and forty meters, longer than a football field and a half—the acoustics were startling. A person standing at one end, talking in a normal voice, could be heard clearly all the way at the other end, almost an eighth of a mile away. This unique feature reminded Walt of the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol building, which also had this wonderful, eerie quality. Walt had visited the House and Senate numerous times as an archaeological expert witness. He was very persuasive in those committee meetings—senators and representatives ate out of his hand.

  The cleared-away section of the wall that Walt was using as a backrest was adorned with elaborate hieroglyphics, which told of a fierce battle between La Chimenea and a nearby rival that had taken place during the Late Classic Period, around A.D. 800. La Chimenea, whose ruler was named Smoke-Jaguar—and a mighty ruler he was, so it was carved in stone—had crushed its rival, burned the other city to the ground, and had captured many of the losers’ nobles and brought them back here. And then, in homage to the Maya gods, the losers played a ball game, a prelude to sacrificing one of them to the gods.

  The ball game and its attendant rituals were highly structured, beginning with the king's preparations. On the morning of the day the game began Smoke-Jaguar would undergo a bloodletting ceremony. Hidden away in the sanctum sanctorum of the holy temple, he would pierce his penis with a sharp nettle, and, spinning like a dervish, would bring forth his own offering of blood, that he and his people might be blessed with victory, as they had been in this battle. After he was finished his bloodletting a priest would bind his wound, and he would join the other high-ranking members of the kingdom in watching the ball game, right where Walt was sitting now.

  Ball games, although violent and physical, were not sporting contests. They were solemn religious events, homages to the gods. The object of the ball game was for a player to get the ball through one of the rings, which were slightly larger than the ball. The ball was solid rubber, and heavy—it weighed thirty or forty pounds. The rings, carved out of stone, were suspended from the sides of the walls that surrounded the court. The game was similar to soccer, except that players not only couldn't use their hands, they also couldn't use their feet.
They had to advance the heavy ball by use of wrists, elbows, shoulders, rear ends, knees, hips, and their heads.

  The game could go on for a long time—it wasn't easy knocking a thirty-pound ball into a hoop without the use of your hands or feet. If a player managed to put the ball through a hoop, the game was over. The winners were awarded the losers’ clothing and jewelry, as well as clothing and jewels from some of the spectators, who would make bets on the outcome.

  Then would come the sacrifice. One of the losers, generally the highest-ranking of the captured nobles, sometimes even their king, would be killed, usually by beheading. Even if no one from either team got the ball through a ring, there would still be a sacrifice.

  Walt closed his eyes and entered into the past.

  Perched on his royal chair, which was adorned with pieces of jade, lapis lazuli, and other semiprecious stones, jaguar pelts, and feathers from parrots of every color in the rainbow, and surrounded on all sides by his warriors and subjects, the great ruler watched as the ball game was played on the court below him. It had been going on for a long time. The participants were ragged, tired. But they had to keep playing.

  The game flowed back and forth, like the sun crossing the sky on his journey throughout the day. The spectators cheered on the participants. Smoke-Jaguar watched intently. Below him, his rival, the ruler he had defeated in battle, captured alive, and brought here, was almost spent. Still a young man, strong and in his prime, he was moving more and more slowly around the court. He knew his destiny, and he had lost the will to change it.

  The ruler watched all this with great satisfaction and entitlement. When this game was over, his victory, here and on the battlefield, would be written on the walls of the court for all to see, those who followed in the days and years to come. He was going to have a long dynasty, his blood was strong.

  Finally, just as the sun was disappearing behind the jungle in the west, one of Smoke-Jaguar's warriors knocked the heavy ball through one of the rings. Pandemonium broke out. The crowd rose as a mob, screaming and cheering.

  Smoke-Jaguar, too, stood up. He was flush with the fruits of victory. As he turned to receive the accolades of his people—

  “God, it's so incredible here. I'm really going to miss this place.”

  Walt jerked with a start. He turned to the woman, who was standing a few feet to his right.

  “You snuck up on me, Diane,” he chided her. He hadn't heard her approaching; he'd been too deep into the past. “You should be sleeping. We have a long, hard day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  She shook her head. “I can't sleep. Not our last night here.”

  The tall, slender woman was wearing a simple native cotton shift she'd bought in a local market, and expensive sandals. She was without makeup; her dark blond hair was worn in a single braid that went halfway down her back. Even unadorned, however, she was very attractive, in a classy, understated way.

  Diane Montrose was distinctive among this group of volunteers. She was in her early thirties, while the rest of his team were younger, some by more than a decade. And although she was a good worker, competent, helpful, and uncomplaining, there was an air of reserve about her. All the others had morphed into a big, messy family, like summer campers. She stood apart, friendly with everyone, but close to no one.

  She took a couple steps toward him; they were almost touching. He could smell her. This was the jungle—bodily odors were stronger here than at home, even those of refined ladies who showered and used deodorant daily.

  She smelled like sex.

  “I hate it that we're leaving,” she said. She seemed at ease standing close to him; as if being alone with him, late at night, in this exotic setting, was the most natural thing in the world. “It feels like we're leaving paradise. The original fall.”

  Her analogy was too close to the bone for comfort. “You can always come back,” he replied. “The work here will be going on for decades.”

  “I know I can come back, but whether I will or not, who's to say?”

  That was another difference between her and the rest of them: she wasn't an archaeology student, nor did she have any practical experience in the field. Under normal circumstances her application wouldn't have been considered, let alone accepted.

  She'd gotten in on a fluke. Before the trip began she had sent him an e-mail, asking to be allowed to join his summer tour. He had explained via return e-mail that, unfortunately, he couldn't accommodate her—the trip was full, he was turning down worthy candidates, and he was opposed to including anyone who wasn't academically qualified.

  A week before they were scheduled to depart, however, one of the accepted applicants, another woman, had e-mailed the unfortunate news that she had to drop out, which left an open space that needed to be filled—the plane fares and other bookings had already been made, and he was financially responsible for them.

  He started digging through his files, scrounging for a replacement, which wasn't going to be easy—most of those he'd rejected had already made other plans. And then, while he was sitting in front of his computer, another e-mail from Diane, as if conjured by a genie, popped up on his computer screen. It was one last, eleventh-hour, impassioned plea that he reconsider her application. She wasn't an archaeologist, true, but she was an ardent student of cultures, ancient, modern, everything, she loved off-the-beaten-path experiences, she'd traveled all over, under every kind of adverse condition, she'd take on whatever lousy job no one else wanted to do. She'd scour the pots and pans every night if that was what was needed, she'd clean the latrines. Whatever it look. She really, really, really wanted him to let her be part of this.

  Who could resist such an entreaty? Especially when you're holding the bag for more than three thousand dollars and you need a body to fill the space—a female body, for room-sharing in some of the locations.

  He ran it by Jocelyn, who agreed that given the time constraints, this woman was the easiest answer to their problem. He had e-mailed back to Diane, advising her of her acceptance, along with instructions; three days later she met him at the airport with Jocelyn and the others, and off they all went.

  She had worked out fine. No shirking—she pitched in as hard as anyone. She was always a lady, even when she was doing a scummy detail, but she'd never been a prima donna, or caused any trouble. And she had an adventurous spirit. He could understood that, because his was, too. It was why he'd become who he was.

  Diane looked at him, her eyes steady, unblinking. “It's wonderful here, but you're the real attraction.”

  She raised her arms above her head and loosened the tie that held her ponytail in place. Unlike most of the other women, who'd given up caring about how they looked, her armpits were cleanly shaven. Dropping her arms, she shook her hair loose.

  “Was there a game?” she asked, turning away from him and staring down to the court. “You looked like you were here, but not here.”

  He had lectured extensively on the ball games. The students knew about the games and his passion for them. Nodding in response to her question, he managed to work up some saliva.

  “Yes.”

  “Was there a winner?”

  “Yes,” he answered again.

  “You?”

  He smiled in spite of himself.

  “To the victors go the spoils,” she declared. In one quick, clean motion, her dress was over her head, off. A second movement, as fast and economical as the first, and her bra was no longer on her body. It was dangling in her hand with the dress.

  Her breasts were firm, the dark pink nipples puckering, rising. And while he stood there, rooted in his tracks, her cotton underpants were down her legs and off. Dress, bra, underwear—a heap at her feet.

  “The spectators who lost their bets gave up their clothing to the victor, did they not?” She knew they did—he had lectured on what was known of the betting aspects of the ball game a few days earlier.

  “Yes. That's true.”

  “And their jewels. The losers gave the
ir jewels to the victors, didn't they, Walt?”

  She took his hand and brought it to her vagina. She was sticky.

  “Would you like my jewels, Walt? They're yours, if yon want them.”

  He showered her smell off and put his clothes back on. He was having a hard time standing: his legs were rubber.

  Aside from the moral implications, having sex with her out there in the open had not been a smart move. What if someone else had also been restless and come upon them? Not that anyone would come out here at this late hour, but still … He felt he had dodged a bullet.

  Time to move on. In a few hours the group would be tip and on their way. A day later, they'd be back in the States. After the hurried good-byes and the I'll-e-mail-yous at the airport, everyone would scatter to the four winds. He had to put Diane out of his mind—he had more important issues to deal with.

  They had to leave at first light: that was imperative. Even then, they would be racing the clock to get out of the jungle before dark—the narrow scar of a road was terrible, in some places almost impassable. And they were going to be traveling without the military escort they'd been promised.

  He had received that distressing piece of news the day before yesterday. Citing growing disorder in the north, where they claimed their troops were more immediately needed, the government had pulled the four-man squad of army regulars that had come here three days ago to guide him and his party to safe harbor.

  Walt had been blistering in expressing his anger at what he described to the bearer of this distressing information as “an extremely ill-advised, stupid, and dangerous decision.” Over the scratchy wireless telephone, he had reminded the Minister of Archaeology and Culture, a man with whom he'd had a working friendship for years (who, in deference to Walt's international stature, had personally called to deliver the bad news), of the many contributions he had made to this country's archaeological discoveries, especially La Chimenea. Hadn't he slogged through the godforsaken jungles year after year, leading the efforts to unearth invaluable treasures? Wasn't he doing that right now at this magnificent site, which almost certainly, even in this early stage of excavation, was going to turn out to be the most important discovery of ancient Maya civilization since Tikal and El Mirador, potentially even more glorious than Chichén Itzé or Copén? A site, he reminded the minister forcefully, that was not only going to be important for further understanding and appreciation of Maya culture, but would also, when it was more fully developed, bring a windfall of tourist money into this impoverished country.