Deity (27 page)

WHOOSH!

A
cloud of dust shot into the air as the pillar suddenly dropped two feet into
the ground, no longer mobile in any direction.

“Like
a key in a lock,” John gasped.

With
the ball resting waist high, Peet stepped away. The Calendar Deity now faced
the northeast, twenty-three degrees from north, to be exact.

“That’s
the direction we need to go,” Matt said.

KC
took one hopeless look to the northeast where there was nothing to see but the
trees hemming them in. “I think I liked the ocean prospect better,” she
mumbled.

Matt
took Peet’s place behind the pillar and rested his hands directly over the
Deity’s hands. He looked straight forward into the trees.

“Clear
some of those limbs,” he said. “Give me a clear view.”

Peet
grabbed a nearby machete and, with Father Ruiz and KC waiting to clear the
debris, he hacked away at the trees and brush growing directly in front of the
pillar. John took the less tiresome option. Reassuming his position on the
throne,
and with a map and compass in hand, he quickly
sketched a path straight from the pillar to—

“Tacana.”

Peet
could see it too. The volcano peeked through a thin veil of limbs, rising above
the beanfields and coffee groves that held the jungle at bay.

A
large, anxious grin captured Matt’s boyish face. “The calendar has to be on
Tacana.”

“May
I make one observation here,” KC interrupted. “That volcano is pretty damn big.
Where do you suggest we start looking? We don’t even know what this calendar
looks like.”

Matt
stammered in his excitement. “I expect we’re looking for a stela. Or perhaps
some cliff face with the very first Long Count calculations recorded on it.”

“Or
the first calendar could have been recorded on a fiber codex that perished
hundreds of years ago,” Peet speculated.

Matt
was undeterred. “We’ll never know until we follow the crumb trail,” he said. “The
Calendar Deity has led us this far. The calendar could be waiting for us in
some significant crevice in the mountain, or within an embankment of lava flow,
or maybe even—”

“The
cleft,” John suggested. They all turned to him and when nobody said anything
more, John rose to his feet. “See for
yourself
,” he
said, vacating the throne.

Peet accepted the invitation and took a seat. The purpose
wasn’t immediately clear. Through the vegetation he had just cleared behind the
pillar, he caught just a peek of the coffee plantations woven into the hilly
Soconusco jungle. Just beyond
was
the lofty Sierra Madre
de Chiapas and its misty cloak. However, through the mist Peet could just make
out the outline of a volcanic peak rising severely in the distance directly
behind the pillar, and it was then that he finally realized what John was
talking about. From his position on the throne it was suddenly clear why the
pillar dropped when he’d turned the ball. The clue lay in the thronesman’s
point of view. From where Peet sat, the pillar had dropped the pillar ball
precisely in line with a significant cleft in the side of the volcano.

“I
believe Matt is on to something,” John admitted. “Calendar or not, the pillar
is pointing us to Tacana.”

Izapa

The
Aspirin did little to ease Lori’s headache. In fact, it may have only agitated
her condition for the pain in her head had transpired into an upset stomach by
the time Abe procured a Toyota 4-Runner at the Tapachula Airport. Thirty minutes later they
arrived at the ruins of Izapa.

The
place had the feel of time and abandonment. Unlike Chichen Itza, where the flurry of visitors
and souvenir
vendors
resuscitated life back into the
city each day, Izapa was empty—not quite dead but certainly sleeping. There was
a reverent
ora
to the ancient city that could only be
produced by sacred places.
Or a cemetery.
Skeletal
stone temples basked beneath the tropical sun while stone pillars dotted the
grounds like grave markers without a soul to appreciate them. There was nobody
around except Lori and her companions standing tentatively at the edge,
debating their next move.

“I’d
say we’d have a better chance of finding your Zapatista stronghold back in
Tapachula,” Lori said, gazing across the hallowed grounds.

Izapa
may have been deserted, but it wasn’t entirely forgotten. After all, the ruins
had been excavated from their death beds and the fact that it was clear of
brush and other intruding vegetation offered proof that the site was at least
tended to on occasion. There were even little lean-to shelters erected over
some of the more delicate features, Lori noted, to protect the carvings and
glyph writing from the corrosive weather.

“Isn’t
there supposed to be a park ranger or something like that?” Tarah asked,
shielding her designer sunglasses with one hand, the other planted firmly on a
hip.

“I
doubt this place draws enough attention to warrant one,” Abe said.

It
was about that time that Lori spotted a young boy, possibly ten or eleven years
old, walking along the highway with a market bolsa slung over his shoulder. The
boy never took his eyes off of them as he reached into the bag and withdrew a
bottle of water. He held it into the air and called after them. Lori couldn’t
understand his words, but she got the gist of his message.

“I
think we’re being solicited by the closest thing we’ll find to a park ranger,”
she said.

“We
don’t have time to boost the local economy,” Tarah groaned—a comment that
caught Lori off guard considering they’d just flown in from Tunkuruchu.

“We
can ask him if he’d seen Dr. Webb,” Lori suggested. “I’m sure strangers stand
out in a place like this.”

Abe
took her up on the idea. “Let me handle this,” he said as he stepped toward the
boy. Lori tagged right behind.

The
boy brightened as they approached, his face gleaming with expectation. He
retrieved a second bottle of water from his bag. Abe, however, didn’t acknowledge
his wares and cut straight to the chase, asking about the Zapatistas.

The
boy nodded enthusiastically, chattering back to Abe and pointing to the
northwest.

“There’s
been Zapatista activity around here,” Abe translated. “In fact, there’s a rumor
that they shot down a private plane just this morning, about ten kilometers
from here.”

“They
haven’t done anything that bold in years,” Tarah remarked.

“Back
when they thought they were close to finding the Talking Cross,” Abe added.

“Do
you think they have the cross?” Lori asked.

“If
they don’t, they must be close. They must be using Matt to lead the way.”

Abe
turned back to the boy and asked him another question about American
archaeologists.

The
boy shrugged, shaking his head slowly.

“There
have been a few archaeologists,” Abe interpreted. “But the last working project
wrapped up in September.”

“What
about a Mormon archaeologist,” Lori suggested. “Maybe that will jog his
memory.”

Again,
Abe asked and again the boy shook his head.

“Izapa
must not hold any clues about the Talking Cross,” Tarah concluded.

But
before she could finish, the boy was chattering again, this time pointing in
another direction. He started backing away, beckoning them to follow him
shouting, “Americano!” as he climbed onto a rusty bicycle.

“Apparently
there’s an American that lives not far from here,” Abe said.

“What
do you suggest we do?” Tarah asked.

“I
guess we follow him.”

* * * *

They
followed the boy and his bicycle another two kilometers down the highway to an
Okanagan trailer parked just off the shoulder of a farm road that branched off
into a cornfield. To Lori’s surprise a Robinson twin-turbine helicopter rested
in a harvested corner of the field, just behind the trailer.

“Americano,”
the boy announced, straddling his bicycle as Abe killed the engine of the
4-Runner.

“The
man sure likes his TV,” Tarah said wryly.

Lori
knew exactly what she was referring to. Besides the helicopter sitting in the
backyard, the
trailer’s
only other eye-catching
features were the two large antennas perched like antlers atop the roof. The
trailer reminded Lori of a redneck lot—of the science fiction kind.

“Those
aren’t your typical rabbit-ears,” Abe said, reaching down the inner panel of
his door. Just below the door’s lever he peeled away the fabric from the door
panel and reached down into a hidden compartment. He withdrew a small wad of
money and tossed it out the window to the waiting boy.

The
boy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when we realized what had quite
literally landed in his lap. Lori didn’t see just how much Abe had thrown him,
but judging by the kid’s reaction, it was far more than he’d ever seen at one
time.

Lori
herself was just as shocked.
Hidden compartments.
Piles of money.
Clearly the 4 Runner wasn’t just a rental
which left her wondering if Abe possessed some mode of transportation in every
city across Mexico.

With
the hidden compartment concealed once again, Abe finally got out of the
vehicle. He waved a dismissive hand at the boy who peddled away shouting a
chorus of “Gracias, señor!
Gracias, gracias!”

Lori
climbed out of the 4 Runner behind Tarah. Abe’s attention was already drawn
back to the trailer where a man now stood holding the screen door open at the
top of the aluminum steps, curiously watching them while his jaw worked over a
wad of gum.

“Hola,”
he greeted rather cheerily.

“Buenas
tardes,” Abe said, strolling up to the trailer and extending an arm out to
shake the lanky man’s hand. “We’ve been told you’re the only American in town.”

The
man smiled. He had a simple smile but it brightened his entire face with such
friendliness that Lori immediately felt at ease. He had yet to say two words
but she already knew she liked him.

“I’m
Canadian, actually,” he said, running a hand over his receding hairline. “But I
live close enough to know the American National Anthem.” He laughed in the
hearty French-Canadian style. His accent had already given away his Quebecian
roots.
“Name’s Remi Lafyette.
Most folks call me
Laffy.”

His
eyes sparkled with laughter, proving just how suitable his nickname was.

Laffy
invited them into his trailer which, despite its modest exterior, made for a
tight fit for four people. The problem wasn’t the trailer itself, but all the
stuff that filled it. Seismographic equipment accounted for much of the space. The
countertops were burdened with GPS monitors, a satellite phone, even a laptop
plugged into a larger computer. There wasn’t even room for an electronic coffee
maker, Lori noted, as she spied the French press sitting near the sink.

“You a seismologist?”
Lori asked as they all
vied for position within the camper.

“A
volcanologist, actually,” Laffy corrected, shoving a computer printer aside to
give him a leaning post along the counter’s edge. “I’m the neighborhood
watchdog, monitoring the local delinquent.”

He
slid open a thin curtain to what could be considered the trailer’s main picture
window. It wasn’t hard to figure out why Laffy had chosen his location. The
cornfield opened the jungle and trees in the immediate area, giving a clear
view of the misty cone-shaped volcano beyond.

“Are
you expecting an eruption?” Tarah asked.

“Not
likely,” Laffy admitted. “But she has been stirring these past few weeks. Nothing
threatening, but I monitor her just the same. It’s been rather boring to be
quite honest, even for a volcanologist.”

Laffy
chuckled and settled himself back against the counter’s edge. “But enough about
me, eh,” he said. “What brings you fine folks to my humble abode?”

“We’re
looking for a man,” Abe cut in. “An American archaeologist. We believe he’s
been working in this area, perhaps with some Mexican escorts.”

Laffy
grinned. “Well, I don’t know if I saw the man you’re looking for, but I did
come across an American working only a few kilometers from here. I’ll be happy
to show you, if you like.”

“Was
he a Mormon, from BYU?” Lori asked.

“I
don’t recall him ever saying. Friendly gentleman though. Said he come from Utah.”

“That’s
got to be Matt,” Tarah said excitedly. She turned back Laffy. “Was his name
Webb?”

Laffy
shook his head. “No, but as I recall, he mentioned a partner named Webb. It was
just the two of them as far as I could tell.”