The isolation lifted when the others came.
Ship after ship – some large fishing boats like their own, some nothing more than rafts – drifted in from every direction, lured to Eden by the same unseen Star of Bethlehem that guided her own people.
A hundred different factions with almost as many different languages, they were still greeted with the love of lost siblings.
Soon their society on this lush little island numbered in the thousands.
The early struggles with communication were enormous (
At times I wish we had a
Mandarax
, Teacher had told her once, and of course made her explore the meaning of such an odd statement for herself)
but again, they managed, just as they had in the years leading up to their departure from their once and future homelands.
Nothing as trivial as language could stop the forward momentum of survival and expansion.
Teacher is full of such wisdom-filled nuggets.
The young girl licks her lips and turns toward the docks at the far end of the beach, nestled in a rocky inlet.
Vast arrays of seafaring vessels are anchored there, bobbing up and down with the waves, just as they have for thirteen years.
People hustle about on the rickety boards, loading the ships with crates of supplies.
She sighs, knowing they won’t aimlessly drift for much longer.
She is going to miss this place.
A pair of heavy, comforting hands fall on her shoulders and she turns around.
The two most important people in her life stand before her, gazing down with loving adoration.
“Hi Mom, hi Dad,” she says.
“Hey there,
Izzy
,” her father replies.
Then he bends down and embraces her.
His hold is tight, but it is comforting.
It tells her she doesn’t need to be alone, that she can concede to her doubts and let someone else be strong for her.
She can’t help but think this will be the last time she’ll feel this way.
Her mother takes her left hand, her father the right, and they lead her along the sandy path down the slope of the cliff.
At the base the land flattens out.
They wander through a valley where domiciles constructed from palm trees and tropical pines form the foundation of what had become their town – one of fifteen such settlements that pepper the island’s surface.
This, too, she will miss.
Her mother squeezes her hand.
The girl can sense she is nervous, and with good reason.
This is her daughter’s moment of truth; the time to shine or die trying.
No one can blame her for this, for the girl, herself, is petrified.
She knows what will happen next – or at least has a vague notion.
She has been trained since birth for the coming events.
She knows her place and what she must do.
But an empty feeling eats away at her gut just the same; a basin of loneliness and distrust that begs to be satisfied.
The looks on the faces of those they pass by don’t help.
Though she loves her people, she can’t help but feel disdain, as well.
They stare at her with equal parts awe and fear, as if she is some odd and frightening creature that only just now landed in their midst.
She feels alone and vulnerable, distant from their lives and futures, even though, as Teacher and Mother have told her, their future lies solely with her.
It is a tedious incongruity she has to bear.
But she doesn’t have to like it.
The family reaches the town’s boundary and they head across the dock.
On either side of the wooden planks, people are busy readying the ships which rest there for launch.
At the pier’s end her father stops and nods to the large, gruff man who stands at the helm of the lead vessel.
The man’s own daughter stands next to him, four years the girl’s elder and her friend for as long as she can remember.
Her hair is short, curly, and brown.
The girl on the boat sighs and waves, trying to stretch her mouth into a smile, and this causes the other girl’s spirits to lift.
There is no apprehension in her face as she clings to her father’s large arm, only hope and fear for her friend’s safety.
The big man turns to her father then raises his hand to those standing on the deck.
Ropes are cast aside and sails lifted.
The large man, the father of her best friend, offers her own father a salute with two fingers, which her father returns.
He and his daughter begin to move away from them, flowing towards the mouth of the inlet.
One after another, the boats drift into the open water in a sluggish procession of faith.
The girl with the red hair –
Izzy
, as her father calls her – stands with her parents and watches the people, their friends and neighbors and family, edge out of the bay.
Her mother touches her arm lightly and leads her to the large cabin at the head of the pier.
They enter and the girl spots Teacher, surrounded by a group of very nervous-looking men.
She tries to grin at him, but the intensity on his face says this is not the time for niceties.
Instead he touches his forehead with a single finger, a gesture her father returns, and barks at those within the cabin to disperse; which they do, and quickly, leaving behind a wake of dust and the echo of their footfalls.
Teacher is the last to leave.
He bites his lip as his eyes make contact with hers.
She has never seen Teacher scared.
It isn’t a pretty sight.
They are finally alone.
“Are you ready,
Izzy
?” her father asks her.
She gazes at him and nods.
He looks pained, frightened, and yet the compassion he gives her is palpable.
She knows he loves her more than anything in the world, even Mother.
All of which makes what he now has to sacrifice all the more disheartening.
“The lookout gave the signal,” he says.
“There’re ships approaching from the other side of the island.
Big ones.
We have to go.
It’s time.”
She leans forward and kisses him on the lips.
When she pulls back she sees tears flooding his eyes.
She wants to tell him not to worry, that all will be fine, but can’t.
There are no guarantees for them any longer.
This, she understands completely.
They exit the hut, this tight-knit family of three, and allow the rising sun to bathe them for what might be the last time.
The girl closes her eyes and steps ahead of her parents, allowing the brisk wind to make puppet strings of her hair.
She doesn’t know what the conclusion of all this will be, but she takes solace in the fact that, no matter the outcome, the nightmares will stop.
The empty feeling in her gullet will disappear and the voices in her head will cease their chatter.
In the end, she will be whole for the first time, or she will be dust.
Either way, this translates to peace.
Chapter 1
The Discovery
“What do you mean you’re not coming, James?”
“Sorry, Ken,” the man on the other end of the phone said.
“Cynthia’s having contractions.”
Ken grunted.
“Contractions?
She’s not due for another month.
It’s most likely false.
Don’t go.”
“Sorry, bloke, but she wants me home, so our plan’s taken a bit of a diversion.”
“That’s just fantastic.”
“Again, I apologize, Ken.
Listen, I’m at the airport right now.
Flight’s getting ready to take off.
I have to go.”
“Fine.
Call me when you land.
What’s that, nine hours from now?”
“I think.”
“So I should be done with the inspection by then.”
“You’re going ahead with it anyway?”
“Of course.
I’m
not going to miss the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“Very well.
Be careful.
And wish me luck.”
“Why?”
“The only flights to London I could get at such short notice land in Gatwick.”
Ken snapped his cell phone shut without laughing, wiped sweat from his forehead, and checked his watch.
Nine o’clock in the morning and it had to be close to a hundred degrees already.
Steam rose from the adobe buildings lining the dirt road.
There were no adults to be found, but a great many children had gathered, playing stickball and eyeing him with suspicion.
He definitely stood out in this impoverished sea of brown flesh, what with his lily-white skin, sandy blonde hair, and sweat-covered khaki shorts.
He puffed out his cheeks and checked his watch again.
Raul, the guide hired to bring he and James to the excavation site, was ten minutes late.
The way people seemed to lack any respect for punctuality and the plans of others annoyed him more than anything, and that included associates who backed out of once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.
An archeologist by trade and cultural anthropologist by passion, Doctor Ken Trudeau funded his travels through the backing of Oxford and London’s Natural History Museum.
He’d spent much of the past twenty-five years traversing the globe, hoping to further his understanding of cultures long lost to the rest of the civilized world.
He scoured most every corner of Europe and Asia, and even spent a few years residing among the aboriginal tribes of New Guinea; living as one with them, drinking up their wealth of primal knowledge, and treating them not as subjects, but as brothers.
Yet despite all he’d seen, all he’d experienced, what lay ahead of him now was the culmination of a dream.
The ancient Mayans were Ken’s obsession, and had been for the majority of his fifty-one years.
The sudden disappearance of their culture became the study that intrigued him most.
With their virtually preternatural understanding of astronomy and the passage of time, which far exceeded the erudition of their contemporaries, it seemed unparalleled that they would suddenly up and vanish.
What happened?
Did famine overtake them?
Disease?
Did the rivers overrun and flood the land, leaving them no other choice but to scatter and integrate with surrounding cultures?
To these queries Ken still found himself in the dark, waiting for someone to shine a beacon and draw him forward.
That beacon now shone with news of the excavation.
In an archetypal flash of irony, an underground fissure had been uncovered while the Honduran government blasted through the rainforest, their effort being to construct a new freeway that would lead to a soon-to-be-completed eastern waterway.
After local scientists poked their noses around, it was discovered the chasm led to the interior of an ancient Mayan temple.
A priceless piece of history, found during Man’s attempt to wipe the past from the face of the earth in the name of expansion.
The popular theory was that the temple had been swallowed by the earth in the aftermath of some great earthquake, but Ken didn’t care about the reasons for its existence.
That it existed at all was all that mattered to him.
It served as the possible answer to his dreams.
He smiled at the thought.
A tan Jeep tore around the corner, almost striking the stickball-playing children.
It careened into a fruit seller’s cart.
Mangoes and oranges flew through the air, creating a barrage of juicy, round missiles that splattered upon impact.
The man behind the wheel of the Jeep, apparently unconscious of his driving, wore an expression on his face that reeked of youthful ineptitude.
He waved at Ken with one hand and spun the wheel with the other.
The automobile screeched to a halt at curbside, fifteen feet away.
“
Hola
, doctor,” the man, Raul, slurred when the vehicle stopped rocking.
Ken approached it.
Raul’s body odor stunk of liquor.
“Where’s the other one?”
“You’re late,” Ken snapped, then said, “and it’s only me today.”
He threw his bags over the headrest and climbed into the passenger seat.
Raul started to ramble, offering an endless succession of excuses, but Ken stopped him with a wave of his hand.