Incarnate: Mars Origin "I" Series Book III (14 page)

And it was said to the Bacabs by Itzamna, their
creator,

When the sky should descend

And fall down upon the earth.

All would be carried away.

Then you shall rise up from the interior of the earth,

And from the waterway.

Follow the path of the fruit of Maize Mountain.

Save your people, Itzamna said to Bacabs.

Bring to destruction those that seek to destroy your
world.

That’s what
Logan’s stone slab read.

More or less.

It was one
o’clock in the morning. Really two a.m. for me because I had changed time zones
when I arrived. It seemed like I had been there for a week instead of just two
days. I spent all day in the jungle then I’d done a crash course in Mayan
hieroglyphics. I’d spent the last three or so hours working with Logan and
Jairo deciphering the glyphs of her stone slab. Well, all we could make out
from the pictures. I wasn’t even sure if we had got most of it right. We ended
up laying all the photos on the table like a jigsaw puzzle and those nine lines
was what we got. There were a few symbols left to decipher but I was too pooped
to pop.

“What’s Maize
Mountain?” I asked yawning.

 Logan had just
read the translation out loud again for the hundredth time. She’d been reciting
it every time we
figured out something new. It
didn’t matter how many times she read it, none of it meant anything to me.

“It’s
where the ancient Maya stored the corn seeds,” Jairo said. “Corn can’t grow
wild. It has to be planted.”

“I
read about that,” I said. “That’s really interesting. So the ‘fruit’ of Maize
Mountain is corn.” I looked at Jairo and he hunched one shoulder insinuating
that was a given. “So then, Logan,” I said yawning, “Mommy hates to be an
I-told-you-so kind of mommy – but, I told you so.”

“What,
Ma? What did you tell me?”

“Your
slab says ‘Follow the Corn,’ in English.” My words came out with a yawn.
“Wouldn’t have known the stone slab said it too, in Mayan no less, if we hadn’t
of translated the rest of it.”

“Follow
the corn?” questioned Jairo.

“Yeah,”
I said. “It’s kind of the reason that I’m here.”

I saw
her slump in the chair out the corner of my eye. I grabbed the last book in my
pile, the one on the Bacabs and flipped through it.

I was
so sleepy my eyes were starting to water and I was having trouble keeping them
opened. I swiped away the tears so I could see the book. “So it seems your
Bacabs were supposed to ‘follow the corn’ and ‘save their people’ not that that
helps us figure anything out,” I said turning the pages of the book.

 “Hey,
listen to this,” I said. “There’s a mural that depicts a
scene showing four babies,” I glanced up
at Logan and Jairo. “I’m guessing Bacabs - with their umbilical cords still
attached, surrounding a fifth figure. The fifth figure is-” I looked at Logan.
“The
 
Maya maize god – that’s Itzamna, right?” I didn’t wait
for answer.
 “The
Maize god is depicted as rising from Maize Mountain.”

Logon
held the notebook where she had written the translation up close up to her face
and was reading over the words again, her lips moving, her voice barely
audible.

“Look,
Logan. The Bacabs, their daddy Itzamna, and Maize Mountain. All the stuff
contained on your stone slab,” I said and poked her. “All the stuff we just
translated. Look.”

Logan
slowly turned from her gaze at the paper in her hand and looked at the book I
held out. When her eyes finally met the picture of the mural, she said, “Give
me that.” She took the book from me. “I’ve seen that before.”

Jairo
got up, walked around the table and looked over her shoulder. “In the
astronomical observatory at your site.”

Logan
craned her neck back so she could see him standing over her. “You’ve seen it
too?” He nodded. “Mom, where is this?”

“Uhm .
. .” I recalled from memory, “
San Bartolo”

“In San Bartolo? Really?”

I stifled a yawn. “It’s a small
archaeological site
 located
in
the
 
Department of Petén
 
in
northern
 
Guatemala
.” I saw the description under the picture in my mind.
“It is roughly fifty miles northeast of
 
Tikal
.”
I quoted verbatim. “So what, that’s about a hundred miles from here?”

“I’d have to
check. But we need to go there.”

“I thought you
saw this on a wall at your excavation site?”

“I did. But I want
to find out about this one. Mine isn’t this big or colorful. I’m not
overlooking anything else anymore. There may be a link I should know about.”
She looked at the both of us. “Who’s up for a road trip?”

Me and Jairo
raised our hands.

Tikal, Guatemala

I needed rest
like a junkie needed a fix.

But I couldn’t
fall asleep. I tossed and turned, wrapped up in the sheets, I popped upright in
the bed.

Sheesh
.

I looked over
at the clock. Nine a.m.

Logan had
decided we’d wait until the weekend to go to San Bartolo. She didn’t want to
take any more time away from being at the site. I was thinking I should go back
home, but she insisted she needed me. I couldn’t stay here forever, though. I
had work to do at home. Plus, I owed Senator Cook some information. I couldn’t
wait to hand it over to him and take the burden off my shoulder.

I hadn’t even
contemplated long or hard on whether I should give it to him. Finding out that
part of mankind’s history had caused me enough grief. I spent years hiding it,
and hiding from it. I was ready to give it up.

I looked toward
the window. Sunlight was peeping through a slit in the drapes.

I decided to
stay a few more days.
How often do children admit to needing their parents?

Logan had gone
back out to the stone slab and taken more pictures. She had wanted to get a
better shot of a few glyphs we couldn’t make out. She had brought them to me.

I plopped back
down on the pillow and saw the new pictures laying on the desk.

I guess I
could take a look at those . . .

I
threw back the covers, and swung my legs over the side. “What the heck. I can’t
sleep anyway.” I stumbled into the bathroom, threw some water on my face and
brushed my teeth. Running my wet fingers through my frizzled hair, it dried my
hands. I walked back and sat at the desk and took the magnifying glass Jairo
had lent us and stared at one of the pictures. Then I cracked open the book on
Maya hieroglyphics.

I
sat in the chair for an hour and had figured out all but two of the remaining
few symbols we’d had trouble with. The new pictures made a world of difference.
I jotted down the new words. It was the last line of the inscription. Actually
I’d thought I’d figured out the other two, but it just didn’t make sense.

Maybe
my mind is just too foggy
.

Yawning,
I stretched and decided to take the pictures, notes and book back to bed with
me. I crawled in and got under the sheet and tried to get comfortable – folding
the pillows, flipping them, stacking two under my head. Finally I found the
perfect position.

Oh
shoot.

I
looked over at the desk. The magnifying glass.

I’m
not getting back up.

I
stared at the picture and then stared at the wall. I focused again on the
picture. I picked up another picture to see the symbol from a different angle,
squinted my eyes and then closed them. I saw all the symbols floating around in
the black of my closed eyelids. I opened my eyes, and exhaled noisily.

I
can’t figure this out. I’m too tired.

 I
picked up the paper and stared at the words I’d written.
What words would
make this into a coherent sentence?
It couldn’t be what I think it is. That
doesn’t make sense.

I
picked up the book again. I flipped through the pages of the book and thought
maybe a dedicated read would help so I flipped to the first page of the book
and started reading from there. That lasted about twenty minutes and I was back
to flipping through.

I
threw the covers off and went and got the magnifying glass, climbed back into
bed and stared at one of the symbols. Nothing. So I stared some more.

Nothing.

I
closed my eyes and felt myself drifting off. The magnifying glass dropped out
of my hand.

Forget
this.

I
pushed everything over to one side of the bed.

“I’m
taking a nap.” I dragged myself out of the bed to go to the bathroom first.

What
in the world was I doing trying to translate Mayan hieroglyphics, anyway?

I
sat on the toilet, held my head in my hand, closed my eyes and sighed.

Then
my eyes popped opened.

“Oh
my, God.” I shouted. “I know what it says.”

Caracol, Belize

Her
mother, Justin Dickerson, wasn’t a well-renowned archaeologist, but she was
smart. She asked the right questions, and knew where to go to find out the
answers. Justin spoke seven languages and according to her had decoded the
Voynich Manuscript, which no one had been able to do in over six hundred years.

Her
mother was Logan’s first thought when she found the slab. This might be
something big she remembered thinking. Something significant. She had hated to
ask for help. But it turned out a good thing she did.

Her
mother had just called and said she had figured out the remaining
hieroglyphics. Logan was elated that her mother was able to do it. She wasn’t
quite sure how she felt about what it said, though.

But
she couldn’t linger on those thoughts right then. She was expecting a visitor
and from his demeanor on the phone he sounded unhappy. And, Logan thought,
slightly intoxicated.

Jairo
had assured her that it was the Belize government that instigated this meeting,
not her benefactor. From the brief exchange over the phone to set up the
meeting, it appeared that they didn’t think too highly of her, or at the very
least didn’t trust her. Logan thought that that belief may stem from them not
being too keen on her - being young and inexperienced - leading the dig.

Or
maybe they thought she had found something and was keeping it from them.

Maybe they knew that she had.

She
didn’t know exactly what it was that they wanted from her – she shook off the
thought that they knew about the stone slab. She wasn’t trying to keep it for
herself. She didn’t even know why she kept it secret – well other than her gut
feeling.

Am I even experienced enough to have those kinds of feelings and they
really mean something?
She drew in a deep breath.
Probably
not.

There
wasn’t any history of unusual finds in Belize – just yet undiscovered ones.
Each dig had uncovered the usual suspects – pyramids, temples, stelae. So what
could be the problem?

Yes.
Jairo was right. She felt confident that it wasn’t her benefactor that was the
reason for the visit. Whomever he was, her benefactor, she thought, must be a
kind person. Rich. Scientific. Philanthropic. And an up close, personal friends
with the federal government.

The
Assistant Director of the Belize Institute of Archaeology, on the other hand,
appeared to be an “a” hole.

And
unable to tell time.

The
Assistant Director arrived an hour early. His car came careening into the site
and practically rammed into the mess tent sending the people milling around
outside of it scattering. His car knocked over a table and a few collapsible
chairs. People hopped over tables, fell over equipment, shrieking as they
pushed at each other trying to scramble out of the way of the brown Toyota
Corolla.

The
occupant piled out of the car, pushing his stomach out first, followed by short
stubby legs and arms. He was a greasy little man, Logan thought as she peered
out the window of her trailer. He started shouting as soon as he emerged.

“Dr.
Dickerson.” He spoke with a creole accent, his voice gravely and his words came
out with a snort. Once he found her, the caution and admitted fear she felt
from him possibly knowing about the stone slab and what she had been doing was
evident on her face. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Logan
went and sat on the other side of a table, facing the door as he came in. She
kept her trembling hands hidden in her lap. Maps were spread out in front of
her.  

“Logan.
May I call you, Logan?” He spoke loudly, pushing his straw hat back on his head
and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

“I wanted to
come by and enforce on you Belize’s stance on protecting our country’s cultural
heritage. I should have visited long ago but I’ve been very busy.” He cleared
his throat. “My country has an agreement with yours. We don’t want anything
like what recently happened at the El Pilar Archaeological site.” He pointed
his thick, short finger at her. “No stealing of our national treasures.”

’I can assure
you our people have been thoroughly vetted and no strangers are allowed on the
site,” she said. “Whatever we find is safe.” She tried to force a smile. “I
know the agreement between our governments.”

“You have
security?”

“Yes we do. I’m
surprised no one detained you, the way you stormed onto the site.” Logan said.

“I am very
important. And you know why?”

“Uhmm,” her
voice faltered, a hint of nervousness edging out. “No. I don’t.”

“Because I
protect Belize’s cultural and historical artifacts. I keep people from looting,
pillaging and dealing in illegal trade of our antiquity. Some people like you
are even afraid of me.” He glanced around the room “I hope you are not that
type of person. One that tries to rob our people of their history. Because I
have my own way of dealing with those kinds of people.” He stared at her. “What
have you found so far?”

“Some pottery.
Some religious artifacts. Nothing significant or definitive.”

At least
nothing I’m going to tell you about,
she thought. She might be afraid, but
she wasn’t ready to give up what she had. Not yet.

He put his
hands around his back. His arms short and stubby, his fingers barely able to
meet. He wiggled them to get them close enough to clasp together. He put his
nose in the air and walked around surveying the small trailer.

“So you’ve
found nothing big? Nothing important?”

“No.” Logan
tried to speak as few words as possible to hide the trembling in her voice.
“Nothing significant.”

His
eyes scanned the room intently. Then he glared at Logan for what seemed an
eternity. Finally he left with a huff and she followed him out.

“What’s
going on?” Logan spoke to the group at the mess tent, but kept her eye on the
Assistant Director as he wriggled his way back into his car. The botanist
sitting in one of the chairs had her leg propped up, and was bent forward
holding her knee. Sweat mixed with tears was running down her face.

“We
think her leg is broken,” one of the volunteers spoke.

“Did
the car hit her?”

“No,”
the botanist said. “But if it’s broken, that’s the reason,” she nodded her head
toward the brown Toyota. “I was running to get out of the way and my leg got tangled
up with the leg of the table.”

The
fear Logan had felt when the Assistant Director entered the trailer was not one
grounded in apprehension of physical harm, although she was sure he was capable
of that. But it was because she wasn’t sure how well she’d be able to hide
behind her façade. She didn’t dare tell him about the stone slab. Especially
now . . .

She
bit her bottom lip and tried to stop her hands from shaking.

Especially
now that her mother had translated the last line on the face of the stone. Her
mother thought it was a message.

It
read:
For they will come again.