Sinkhole

by Deborah Jackson

  “Why are we stopping?” asked Mark. “I thought you wanted to get down quickly.”

  “Rope’s not long enough,” said Jorge, plucking the end of Mark’s rope and waving it in his face. “Or would you like to jump the rest of the way?”

  Mark scowled. “You didn’t tell me . . . What if I’d kept going?”

  Jorge shrugged. “I told you to stop. And you listened. I think you’re learning how this works.” He winked, crouched down, and began to pound a new stake into the rock.

  Mark curled and uncurled his fists. How much longer would he survive with this man dangling him, quite literally, by a thread?

  “I hate you,” he muttered.

  “The feeling is mutual,” said Jorge. “ Now.” He stood and handed Mark a new rope to clip onto. “Just another short drop. Don’t let down your guard.”

  Mark slid him a sideways glance. “Not for a minute.”

  Jorge waited patiently with a blank look on his face while Mark pushed off from the ledge. He dropped down again, vigilantly, painstakingly, only once getting snagged on a sharp rock above his head. He couldn’t extend the rope outward to continue rappelling down, and simply dangled like a spider until his training took over. He dug his fingers and toes into the crags and climbed upward, adroitly finessing the rope from its snare. Then he slipped down once more, toward spears of limestone and glittering crystals that reflected the strange illumination from his flashlight. He’d left behind the bitter blackness of the pit and entered a lattice-worked gallery of exquisite beauty. The stunning purity of the wintry-white rock and the translucent butterfly crystals left him gaping as his feet finally touched the smooth stone of the cavern.

  Jorge came down beside him with a snap, breaking the mesmeric effect of the chamber. “This is where it gets interesting,” he said.

  Mark fumbled for his clip and detached it from the rope. He stepped free and aimed his helmet at the glistering cathedral, blinking. “So this is what Kat was talking about.”

  “There’s nothing like it,” said Jorge. “Man may attempt, but can never recreate.”

  “I couldn’t get down,” he said, more to himself. “I couldn’t share this with her. She hated me for it.”

  He stepped forward with his hand outstretched, wanting to feel the smooth or the feathered texture of the sculptures, but Jorge leaped in front of him, shaking his head. “Don’t touch it. The perspiration will begin to disintegrate the limestone. You’ll destroy it. Arrogant man destroys everything he touches.”

  Mark retracted his hand. “Was that another dig? Don’t you understand that I’m a healer, not a killer?”

  Jorge looked deep into his eyes for a second before he turned and moved away. But that was enough. The look burned. “You have killed one man,” he said, from the far side of the cavern. “Through your ignorance you have killed many more. I have yet to see you heal.”

  Mark sank down to the floor of the cavern and hung his head. He reached around and touched the syringe in his pack—all that was left of eight years of research and long hours of trials. Maybe Jorge was right. Maybe he wasn’t a healer at all.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Kat waited as Megan gazed at the hieroglyphs, her brow etched and furrowed with creases and lines.

  “What? What is it, Megan?”

  “Nothing. Just trying to read this.”

  Megan wouldn’t meet her gaze. What had she found? What could be worse than the situation they were already in? Or the confessions they’d just made?

  “I don’t care how bad it is, you have to tell me.”

  Megan fumbled a hand through her hair, as if she was still considering, then with a whispered sigh turned to Kat. “It might not be anything. This hieroglyph has only recently been translated. And my colleague could very well be wrong about the translation.” She pointed at the strange falling figure, oddly like a man parachuting from an airplane.

  “Tell me what it might be then.”

  “She thought it might refer to a catastrophe. An earthquake, a hurricane—anything that wipes out a population. A cataclysm.”

  Kat took the flashlight from Megan’s hand and directed it toward the field of human skeletons beyond the nearest pillar. “Something devastating wiped them out? It must have been gas. Maybe there was volcanic activity on the surface during their burial rituals. But how did they write about it, then, if they’d all been asphyxiated?”

  “That’s just it. I think someone wrote this while he was dying. The glyph is shaky, not as precise as the others in the text. It’s almost like he was trying to leave a warning.”

  “But,” said Kat, “it’s doubtful he could do that if he were dying from volcanic gas. It works quickly. He wouldn’t have had time to carve a glyph.”

  “You wouldn’t think so,” said Megan.

  “Well, I don’t think we need to worry about a catastrophe. Whatever happened here happened a long time ago. We still have enough oxygen to protect us from a gas leak. The only thing we should concern ourselves with is getting back to the surface.”

  Megan nodded. “And perhaps bringing some of these artifacts with us.”

  Kat flicked the flashlight back toward Megan. “If we find an exit, we’re not going to burden ourselves with relics. That would be something for another time.”

  “Of course,” Megan said instantaneously, shielding her face from the light. “It’s just, this is such an amazing discovery. I feel like Howard Carter or Lord Carnarvon.”

  “Yes,” said Kat. “You probably do. But remember, Lord Carnarvon died. And I’m not going to let that happen to you.” She reached out and gave Megan’s hand a squeeze.

  Megan smiled and returned the gesture. It seemed she’d conquered her fear of human contact, at least with Kat.

  “We’re back,” said a gruffly familiar voice behind them. “Did you miss us?”

  “Every minute,” said Kat, releasing Megan’s hand and turning toward the breakdown hill. Ray was staggering under the weight of two packs and three rebreathers. Pete had had the good grace to carry one extra pack along with his own rebreather. The increased illumination from his helmet light was an added comfort.

  “So what did you find?” he asked. “Has Megan uncovered the secret of the hidden stash?”

  Megan had returned to her study of the glyphs, appearing utterly absorbed in them and leaving Kat with the task of telling or not. “Nothing spectacular. Just a little story about a brave king and his burial—right here in this very cavern. There’s a sketched map too. Where is the mummy, Megan?”

  “On the other side of those bodies,” she said, waving vaguely. “By the sacred pond.”

  “Sacred pond?” said Pete.

  “That’s what it looks like—some sort of divine body of water. On the opposite side of the cavern from the lake. There should be a sarcophagus.”

  “All right,” said Ray. “Let’s take a look.” He plunked his load on the ground in a space that was bald of artifacts. “Will the mummy have a golden death mask?”

  “Maybe jade,” said Megan, getting up from her knees and wiping the grime from her coveralls. “There seem to be a few golden trinkets here, but the Maya didn’t prize gold like the Egyptians—or the Spanish, for that matter.”

  “Are you referring to Cortés?” asked Pete, “and his appetite for Aztec gold?” He tossed his packs and rebreather beside Ray’s, but not with the same care in avoiding artifacts. A distinct crunch made Megan’s knees buckle.

  “You idiot!” she hissed. She dashed to the pack and gently lifted it up, her brows arching into her forehead. A delicate Mayan bowl was crushed beyond repair. “Do you have any idea of the value of this?”

  Pete shrugged. “You’re the expert. But look around. What’s one stupid bowl? There are hundreds here.”

  Megan shuddered and her hand, for some reason, wandered up to her belt. Maybe her knife was there. What was she thinking? Didn’t she remember Pete’s reaction when they’d woken him? The last thing they needed was a w
ar with this potentially unstable man. Kat leaped between the two and held up her hands. “Okay. It’s over. Pete knows to be more careful. Megan, we really have to concentrate on getting out of here. There’s no reason to start a fight over an accident.”

  “Accident?”

  Kat drilled a look at Megan. Hopefully she’d get the hint. She seemed to be in a rage, but she steadied her breathing and nodded.

  “Good.” Kat lowered her arms and began to walk toward the supposed location of the sarcophagus. Maybe if they went to ogle the king things would settle down. “Man, I wish we’d never found this hoard,” she muttered.

  A chorus of “whys” sounded at her back.

  She swung around and faced them. “Why? Because treasure is the one thing that brings out the worst in human beings.”

  She pivoted and moved on, caring little for the murmured protests. When she reached the graveyard, she turned to find the entire group trailing her, looking decidedly sheepish.

  “I’m sorry,” said Pete, surprising her even more. “I should have been more careful. I don’t seem to have the same values as some other people. But I know that this has more value to Megan than just a treasure trove.”

  “You’re right,” said Kat. “To more than just Megan. To the Mexicans—the Maya—too. So does the fragile beauty of this cave. But nothing is more valuable than our lives. I hope none of you forget that.”

  Ray winced and planted puppy dog eyes on her. He was begging her forgiveness. Caught in his own greed, he’d probably forgotten that her life was slipping away. Jagged teeth of pain crunched through her chest at that moment just to remind her. She staggered and clutched a limestone pillar for support.

  “Are you all right?” asked Ray, leaping around the others to slip his arm behind her and hold her up.

  “Fine,” she whispered, grinding her teeth and absorbing the new onslaught. As it faded she became more aware of Ray’s arm around her shoulders, and his warm breath on the nape of her neck. Part of her wanted to fade right into him—forget their situation and her impending doom, forget about Mark. She rested her head against his shoulder. His arm tightened.

  “I think I see it.” Megan’s voice broke into her moment of weakness. “A stone sarcophagus, just like the one at the bottom of the pyramid in Palenque.” She pointed to the right, to a rectangular block of limestone that couldn’t be natural. Ray turned his headlight on the scene and gasped.

  Skeletons were scattered around the central stone, bones ragged and clothes disintegrating, but the stone block gleamed like polished marble. Glyphs and carvings of a gracefully twisted serpent were etched into it with gold and jade. It was like they’d just stumbled onto the Ark of the Covenant, and somehow even trembling in pain, Kat felt its power. It swayed her as much as did the thrill of discovery.

  Pete broke the spell first. “All right, then. Looks like we’ve found it. Pretty piece of stone. Are we going to stand around gawking all day, or are we going to have a look?”

  “Let’s,” breathed Megan.

  Pete held out his hand to offer her first dibs. She broke her frozen posture and walked toward the sarcophagus. Kat gently pried Ray’s hands from her arms and followed. She accidentally stepped on a bone, producing a loud snap, but the sound hardly registered. There was only the soft moon glow of the stone and the mystery of the Serpent King.

  Megan didn’t walk directly to the coffin, but knelt before it, examining objects that were undoubtedly ceremonial. Three ceramic dishes, two shells filled with reddish dust, a tear-shaped pearl, and some jade jewelry and beads. But these were only of mild interest to Megan. She seemed more fascinated by the four bodies curled up next to the sarcophagus.

  “Sacrificial,” she whispered.

  “I thought these bodies weren’t the victims of ritual sacrifice,” said Kat.

  “All these bodies weren’t,” said Megan. “These four were. There are tool marks on the ribs—like from a knife—and they’re positioned. They don’t look like the others at all.”

  Kat was not quite sure what to make of this. So they’d buried the king and sacrificed some of their people. There had been time for rituals and ceremonies. But then something must have gone wrong quite suddenly to kill all the others before they could escape to the surface.

  Megan stepped up to the coffin and peered at the inscriptions on top. “Just like Pacal,” she said. “The most famous king of Palenque.”

  She pointed to the relief carving on the stone lid. Pete moved to her side and stood scrutinizing, oddly sensitive, for once, and finally Kat stepped up beside him, with Ray looking over her shoulder. The carved scene portrayed the ruler, falling into what appeared to be a creature’s snout. Behind him a totem or trunk rose into the sky.

  “It depicts the moment of his death,” said Megan. “He tumbles into the Underworld, and is being dragged downward by dragons. The world tree is rising behind him, crowned by the heavenly bird.”

  “Interesting,” drawled Pete. “But what’s more interesting is that they didn’t place the lid correctly.”

  Kat tilted her head and peered in Pete’s direction. True enough, the lid was aslant and didn’t seal the top. There was a noticeable gap at the corner, a dark hole that led right into the coffin. Megan took the flashlight from Kat and pierced the darkness, evoking a greenish glow within.

  “Jade mask?” asked Ray.

  Megan hesitated, then flicked off her flashlight. She turned back to Ray and snapped off his helmet light too. A blanket of darkness covered the tomb, except for the eerie phosphorescence from inside the coffin.

  “I don’t think so,” said Megan.

  Chapter Thirty

  Jorge slid the pack from his shoulder and sank to the ground in the middle of the cathedral of stone and crystal chandeliers. “We should stop here,” he said. “Take a short nap. Replenish our strength.”

  Mark was still gawking at the scenery. “This is just . . . awesome.” Seemingly reluctant to turn away, he aimed a sideways glance at Jorge. “You want to rest? I thought we were in a hurry.”

  “We are,” said Jorge, surprised that Mark would even protest. “But we won’t make it to the bottom without some breaks. Even I won’t make it. And this is the . . . safest place to stop.”

  The doctor knitted his brows, no doubt wondering how many more dangers he was going to have to face. There weren’t enough, in Jorge’s opinion. But spiders, bats, acidic slime, and toxic air weren’t sufficient revenge for the man’s past sins. Jorge thought he would prefer to watch this man suffer like his own people, succumbing to disease without medicine, or being displaced to a site so rocky that it couldn’t be farmed. He’d probably never even heard of the relocation of Mayan people from the Lacandon rainforest. It had been done in the name of ecology, or so they said. However, the area was not being protected for the indigenous people, but for the biotech corporations that hoped to profit from the region’s vast genetic wealth. If only this doctor could share in the misery of the Maya.

  “I guess you’re not going to tell me what comes next,” said Mark.

  Jorge blinked—that should suffice for an answer—pulled out a thin woolen blanket, and curled up on the pearl-white ground.

  “Fine,” said Mark, following his example. The blanket in Mark’s pack wasn’t the caver’s usual space-age foil. Jorge had replaced it with threadbare wool just like what he slept under. He’d decided right from the start that the man from the homeland of human gluttony wasn’t going to experience any creature comforts on this trek. He was going to live like Jorge’s people. He would be limited to the bare essentials, except for the rebreather and climbing gear, which were necessary to descend into the cave.

  The doctor bedded down beside Jorge, placing his head on his pack and pulling the blanket tightly around his body. It wasn’t long before his eyes drifted downward. The only sound around them was the steady drip of condensation, ever draining through pockets in the rock, ever creating new luster in the cave.

  Jorge felt h
is own tension ebb. He snapped off his helmet light and plunged the ghostly world into black. He could still feel it, though. The presence of something greater than himself. He could feel the memories rise from his tortured past as he sank deeper into sleep.

  First he saw Elena, ebony-eyed and deeply serious, the woman he had shared his dreams with and the one he intended to marry. And beside her, Isabel, his regal-nosed sister, as sunny in nature as her face was dark. They were barefoot in white dresses stitched with colorful embroidery. They chattered in the village square, the cobblestoned center that was traditional as far back as the ancient Mayan villages and cities. Scattered alongside a mountain stream were the thatched huts of his village. He knew this day as if it were just yesterday, even though twelve years had passed.

  “Isabel, I thought Father told you to gather wood,” he said, displeased as always when his sister dawdled and he was forced to pick up her chores.

  “I will,” she said, “when I get back.” A gleam in her eye told him she was up to no good.

  “Back from where?” he asked. “You have work to do.”

  “There’s always work to do,” said Isabel defiantly. “With Mama sick, I have to do everything. But today I’m going to Lachula. It’s almost Christmas and I want to visit our cousin Maria. I haven’t seen her in months.”

  “No.” Jorge shook his head vehemently. “It’s too dangerous on the road. Just the other day Juan disappeared while going to Lachula. The paramilitaries haunt that stretch of road.”

  Isabel stuck out her chin. “It’s easy for you to tell me to stay. You will be going to school in a few months—to Mexico City, no less. You will see the world, while I am stuck in this tiny village, and I can’t even visit my friends.”

  “You can visit your friends when I’ve finally won some rights for our people. I can’t allow—”

  A gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  “It’ll be all right, Jorge,” said Elena. “I know how to avoid the patrols. I’ll watch out for your sister.” She smiled reassurance.