by Lynn Sholes
Lester put the contact on the tip of his finger again. He swept back his dirty blond hair and watched in the mirror as he brought the lens closer and closer. He thought of the contact as a Lilliputian goldfish bowl. Without the goldfish, of course. Having the lens a half inch from its target, both eyes stung and his nose ran. Lester pressed his thick lips together, drawing his fleshy cheeks tighter to the bone, and stretched open his pale blue eyes. At the first touch, finally, the contact sucked onto his eyeball. He blinked again, then dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief, which he had draped over the side of the sink. Lester squinted, scrunching up his nose. At least he could see. His left eye had 20/20 vision, but the right one had 20/200. The defective vision in the one eye had not been caused by an accident or injury; it had always been that way. His entire life, he’d been off-balance, stumbling and bumbling, the perfect target for bullies when he was a kid. At first, eyeglasses had improved his vision, but glasses added another layer of geekiness for kids to pick on. His father had wanted the kid to toughen up, fight back, not be such a baby. But his mother understood, so she hid away some money, then forked it over to get him a contact lens for his eleventh birthday.
“Don’t tell your father,” she had warned.
That had been seventeen years ago, and he still hadn’t gotten used to the damn thing. Queerer still, his father had never noticed.
Lester checked his watch. He was early. It was two o’clock and his interview was scheduled for two forty-five. That was all right. He needed the extra time. It gave him a sense of security. After all, the city bus could have been late. There could have been an accident along the roadway. He could have had an attack of diarrhea or hives or hay fever, and then he would have needed time for the Imodium or the Benadryl or the Claritin to work. Lots of things could have gone wrong, and then he would have been late. Can’t get a job starting off that way.
Lester folded the handkerchief in quarters. He set it on the edge of the sink and patted it three times, then turned it over and patted again, counting aloud, “One, two, three.” Then he tucked it in the left hip pocket of his trousers.
Next he washed his hands, tapping the soap dispenser three times, then lathering. He rinsed, dipping his hands under the faucet. “One, two, three.” He air-dried them, shaking and flapping his hands above his head, with a final swipe down the sides of his pants.
Lester Ripple picked up his tote bag—he was ready.
Down the hall, he found the room where he’d been told to report. The building was old, the wood floors the rich color of Colombian coffee and the plastered walls pitted and flaking in spots. The wood door to the room was nearly as dark as the floor. Light shone through the frosted glass insert and also through the transom above.
Lester paused in front of the door and wondered if he should knock or if he was expected to go inside without formal announcement.
He knocked.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice responded.
Lester turned the knob and opened the door.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “My name is Lester Ripple. I have an appointment with Dr. Osborne.”
The secretary never looked up. “Have a seat,” she said. “You’re early.”
“I know,” Lester said, sitting in the vinyl chair by the opposite wall. He reached inside his tote and sorted through several magazines and books. He settled on the magazine Physics Review, put it in his lap, and flipped it open to the article “Gravitational Waves in Open de Sitter Space,” one he’d read at least a dozen times. But he liked it. It was written by Stephen Hawking with Thomas Hertog and Neil Turok. God, he could read Hawking all day. Stephen Hawking was Lester’s idol, and whether Hawking knew it or not, he was Lester’s mentor. How many times did Lester ask himself “WWHD”—“What would Hawking do?” They had so much in common, it was uncanny. Both had January 8 birthdays. Both had the middle name William. Both of their fathers had wanted them to go into medicine, but Lester and Stephen preferred mathematics and eventually physics, and more specifically theoretical physics. Both had disabilities—Hawking’s ALS more dramatic than Lester’s screwed-up eye.
He read the article with as much vigor as he had the first time. When he finished, Lester checked his watch, then glanced at the closed office door behind the secretary and wondered what Osborne was doing in there. His eyes roamed the room for a moment before he decided to read something else. Lester chose Green Lantern: Rebirth, a DC comic from his collection. He found reading Catwoman, Superman, and Green Lantern just as entertaining as reading Hawking, Bohr, and Einstein.
“Dr. Ripple?” The voice came from the man who had opened the office door.
“Dr. Osborne?” Lester said, standing, the comic book fluttering to the ground.
Osborne stared down at the front cover. In a creepy, dripping font, the title declared: “UNHOLY TRINITY.”
Lester knew he wasn’t going to get the job.
Discovery
Chami, a native Inca, was the guide’s Quechua name, which translated into “little” or “small.” And that he was. About five foot three, Cotten guessed—skinny with deep brownish-red skin that fit snugly against the underlying muscles. He was quick to tell them he spoke three languages and preferred to be called José. Cotten supposed it simplified things. Almost everyone in Peru spoke Spanish; the Inca spoke Quechua and often both Quechua and Spanish.
José brought with him another man of greater stature who helped with the baggage, but he apparently spoke no English.
A footpath that had been hacked out of the jungle led them through the mountain terrain. Sometimes the density of the foliage was suffocating.
Not far from their final destination, they took a side trail that was marked by a red-painted block of wood nailed to a tree. About forty feet down the uneven, partially overgrown trail, they stopped.
“Rimancu,” José said. He explained that this site had undergone only preliminary investigation, but Dr. Carl Edelman, the excavation leader, wanted Cotten and her crew to at least see a bit of it as they passed by.
“What does ‘Rimancu’ mean?” Cotten asked.
“It means ‘they speak,’ ” José answered.
After a short rest and some exploration, the group continued toward the main campsite, finally arriving in the late afternoon. The light was already fading as the sun dropped below the mountains. Cotten, Paul, and Nick were tired and fighting for breath in the high altitude.
“No wonder this place went undetected for so long,” Nick said, dropping his backpack and gasping for air. “I think I’ve climbed all the way to freakin’ heaven. It even looks like heaven—the clouds are so low and thick.”
José waved them on and led them to Dr. Edelman.
Standing beside a fold-up table outside his tent, Edelman shook hands with the newcomers.
“A pleasure to meet you,” he said to each.
He seemed a bit smug or standoffish to Cotten, but perhaps it was just the Brit in him. Or maybe he was simply more comfortable with books and rocks and dirt than with people.
Edelman fit the stereotypical image of an academic archaeologist, not the adventurous type in the movies. He was tall, lank, and pale-skinned, his dark hair needing to be cut, as a swatch of it hung over the left side of his forehead—Errol Flynn but without the good looks, she thought. The British accent topped it off.
After introductions and casual small talk, Edelman had José show Cotten and her team their quarters—small tan tents with flaps for doors. Inside was a canvas cot, a Coleman lantern, a small, firm foam pillow, a roll of toilet paper, and a white plastic bucket with some water in it.
“Latrine is that way,” José said, pointing to the other side of the camp. “You want private, use bucket,” he said, pointing.
“All righty then,” Cotten said, slinging one of her bags into the corner of the tent. So you’ll do anything for a job, Cotten Stone, she m
used. It’s going to be an experience.
As dusk settled over the mountains, Cotten explored the camp. Edelman had a tent of his own, a tad larger than the rest. The chief, she thought, among his Indians. There was an empty tent next to Edelman’s that José explained belonged to Richard and Mariah Hapsburg, the American portion of the expedition, who had recently returned to the States to solicit grant money for more exploration and excavation of this site and Rimancu. Nick and Paul had separate tents close to hers. There was a mess tent in the center of the camp and another in the dig crew’s quarters, which was separated from the main camp by a wall of trees. At the opposite end of the encampment was the trail that led to the actual site. She followed the path, a narrow swath chopped and slashed out of the forest. Soon, the first of the ruins came into view. Thick roots, like the tentacles of some ancient sea monster, snaked among the crumbling walls and heavily weathered carvings of the Incan artisans.
Cotten stared in fascination, trying to imagine what it must have been like 550 years ago when the Incan royalty walked along this same path. Sitting on an outcrop of rock, she studied the magnificent sight until it became part of the night.
* * *
Over the next few days, Cotten learned how the American-British archaeological team had uncovered the remains of the royal city, a jewel of the lost Incan civilization, long hidden by the nearly impenetrable vegetation high up in the Peruvian cloud forest. Since the dig had begun, the team had unearthed a remarkable complex of temples, astronomical observatories, residential structures, and preserved textiles.
Fighting altitude sickness and the constant, penetrating dampness and chill of the air, Cotten, Paul, and Nick worked at snapping pictures and recording videotape of the dig team, including interviewing Edelman, José, and some of the other natives. Hours of cover footage was shot of the portions of the city revealed by the expedition.
Once she had completed the shoot list and interviews needed for the story, she told Paul and Nick that they had enough to bring back to Lima and turn over to the Peruvian television network. There was no need to stay any longer. They agreed with her that they were ready for real food, real beds, and real air—at least air with a lot more oxygen content.
On the afternoon of the day before their departure, Cotten took a stroll away from the campsite to think and evaluate. This assignment was small and cheap. Nothing to brag about or enhance her résumé. She would not even get to edit the piece, just shoot the footage and go home.
Cotten found a hammock strung between two trees on the edge of the campsite and stretched out in it. What was she going to do once she got home? All she seemed to get was one shitty job after another. And even those were rare.
Cotten stared at the sky. “Just what do you want from me?” It wasn’t praying—she didn’t believe in prayer. But in her own way, she needed answers from something—someone—greater than herself. “Just tell me what you want.” The clouds seemed to grow darker. “How about a sign? Anything will do.” She closed her eyes, thinking she might allow herself to doze off.
“Come quickly!” came a shout from across the campsite. “We have found something. Haku! Haku!”
It shook Cotten Stone from her thoughts as she sat up and swung her feet to the ground.
A few yards away, Dr. Carl Edelman rose, placing the artifact he was examining onto the folding table. “What is it, José?” he said.
Cotten watched José burst into the camp clearing. She had learned that the Indian was not only a guide, but also the dig team’s foreman, supervising the laborers.
“Utqhay. Hurry. You have to see this. Come. Haku.” José lapsed again into his native Quechua so that everyone within earshot would understand. Waving his hands, he called out, “Mana ininan kay. It’s incredible. I have ordered no one touch it until you arrive, Dr. Edelman.”
As José spun around and sprinted off, Edelman followed. Cotten, along with Paul and Nick, who had just joined her, trailed behind them. Whatever had José so ecstatic might be the break she needed to enhance the footage and impress the Peruvian network into giving her another assignment.
Cotten smelled the pungent aroma of decaying foliage along the now well-defined path. At this altitude, the mountain clouds kept everything perpetually damp.
Soon, the first of the ruins loomed out of the mist. Over the last few days, what Edelman thought was a small ceremonial structure had been uncovered. José entered the site jogging backward, still babbling, and headed for the new location.
When Edelman stepped into view, the group of workers grew quiet.
“There,” José said, gesturing toward the circle of coppery-skinned men standing around a trench. “Back up,” he shouted. “Kutiriy. Give Dr. Edelman room.”
Edelman knelt beside the trench. “Brush,” he ordered, holding out his hand.
Like a medical assistant, José handed him a four-inch paintbrush.
Delicately, Carl Edelman swept away a thin layer of reddish dirt.
Cotten stood behind him, leaning forward to see what lay at the bottom of the trench. She heard Edelman draw in his breath as he sat back on his haunches.
“What is it?” Cotten asked. Over her shoulder to Paul, she said, “Are you getting this?”
Paul gave a thumbs-up, then flipped on the high-intensity flood atop the Sony digital camcorder. The soft hum of the tape drive blended with the wind sliding across the treetops.
As Cotten turned back toward Edelman, a radiant spectrum of light caught her eyes. Even through the caked-on soil, she saw something out of place—something that didn’t seem to belong in this ancient place. It captured the sunlight through a break in the thick clouds and sent it back in splinters of dazzling colors.
Edelman pulled a trowel from his pocket and gingerly dug around the edges of the object.
Glass? Cotten thought.
When Edelman had worked the dirt loose, he probed beneath the object and freed it from the earth. “Get me something to wrap it in.”
José translated the command, and one of the workers tossed the archaeologist a towel.
With the dexterity that comes from years of experience, Edelman extracted the object, wrapping it with the cloth. “Amazing,” he whispered. “When Richard and Mariah get back, they are going to—”
“What is it?” Cotten asked.
Edelman stood, cradling the artifact like a babe in swaddling clothes. “In my entire career, I have never seen anything like this.”
The Crystal Tablet
The temperature dropped as darkness engulfed the ridge. During the days the sun was brilliant and the air warm, but at night the temperatures fell to fifty degrees or below. Chilled, Cotten pulled her parka tightly around her. On evenings like this, the cloud forest of Peru shrouded itself in mist and mystery. José had said some locals believed that within the clouds was a gateway to another world.
Cotten heard the muffled voices of the native dig team from across the campsite as she, Paul, and Nick gathered with Edelman under the light outside his tent. A generator thrummed in the darkness.
Edelman pointed to two large, soil-encrusted shells with holes in them sitting on the table. “Musical instruments—horns—used by the Chavín,” Edelman explained. “The Chavín are known as the earliest Peruvians.” From next to the shells, Edelman lifted a small stone that was concave in the center. “A mortar. Probably used to grind vilca seeds.”
“What’s vilca?” Cotten asked.
“It is a tree. They roasted the hallucinogenic seeds, then ground them into a powder. They used small bone tubes like straws and either sniffed it up or someone blew it up another’s nostrils.”
“What did I tell you about them sneaking a coca leaf?” Nick said. “These guys have been into getting high for thousands of years.”
Edelman ignored Nick’s comment. “We found nothing truly extraordinary at this site until today,” th
e archaeologist said. “I examined the object recovered from the trench before inviting you to come have a look.”
Paul turned on the camera flood and started taping while Nick adjusted the audio levels on his portable R-DAT. He held a short boom mic over Edelman’s head. Cotten tried to finagle a better look, walking around the table, but Edelman had the object covered with a buffing cloth.
“We have had other insights and evidence that something is different about this place,” Edelman said, sipping his Glenfiddich—neat. He had the only real glass in the encampment, having declared that because of his conservative British upbringing, he couldn’t abide drinking fine whiskey from a plastic cup. It wasn’t fitting.
“What evidence?” Cotten asked.
“The most obvious, and the first striking fact we noticed, was that there was a large gap in time between early Incan habitations of this site. The first Incan habitation appears to have abruptly left the site. Vanished. And the strata remain sterile between that habitation and the most recent.”
“Why would they leave like that?” Cotten asked.
“Good question.”
“Maybe they were wiped out by another tribe,” Paul said.
Edelman shrugged. “Possibly, but there are no graves, no tombs, no human remains—at least none that we have found other than those who recently inhabited the site.”
“Isn’t that a bit strange for a city this big?” Cotten asked.
“To have no graves, yes. But to disappear is odd, but not unheard of. It has happened a number of times down through history. A great culture or civilization just vanishes overnight. We may never know for sure what caused these people to abandon this city. A good example that you might be familiar with is your American Southwest Indians, the Anasazi.”
