The Moche Warrior (25 page)

Dinner was a fairly raucous affair, and for a change Hilda stayed for most of it, helping to plan the next day’s work. “What makes everyone so sure they’ve found an important person’s tomb?” I asked Ralph.

“Because of where it is, and the type of tomb it is,” he replied. “First of all it’s right in the huaca. That says a lot. Also, the Moche appear to have had a range of burial procedures and rituals which depended, by and large, on the individual’s status, in much the same way we do. Some of us are buried in simple graves with wooden markers, others with elaborate headstones and the finest coffins,”‘ he said.

“For the Moche, the commonest form—the grave with a simple wooden cross, if you will—would be a pit burial, just a shallow grave really, with a few burial goods interred with them. The middle class, if we can use that term, would have had more elaborate burials. A shaft would have been constructed down several feet, then a chamber hollowed out, sometimes to one side, like the foot on a boot. The bodies were lowered down the shaft, either horizontally or vertically depending on the size of the shaft, and placed in the chamber. We know that much from Moche ceramics, my specialty.” Ralph smiled. “Burial scenes are depicted on several that we know of, and they show the bodies being lowered into the chambers by two ritual or perhaps mythological beings, Iguana, someone with the face of a lizard, and Wrinkle Face, a being with a very wrinkled face, as the names imply.

“For the higher status individuals, and this is what we’re hoping for here, large chambers were constructed, large enough to hold the individual, lots of grave goods, some very elaborate, and other sacrificed animals, like llamas or dogs, and individuals, perhaps their retainers in life. Sometimes there are even guardians, bodies placed in niches above the principal body. So these graves are much larger, they have been known to have adobe walls, and they are more likely to have timber roofs. The presence of these three things, a large chamber, the adobe walls, and the roofing, is what makes us pretty excited about what tomorrow may bring.”

“So what will this look like, if we get in?” I asked.

Steve jumped into the conversation with enthusiasm. “Moche dead are normally buried flat on their backs, arms at their sides, with the head usually facing more or less south and away from the shaft. They were wrapped in cloth, then enclosed in some kind of cane sleeve or tube, although there wouldn’t be much of the cloth or the cane left, probably. The head normally rests on a plate of some kind, its material related to the status of the individual, a gourd for the lowliest, a gold disc for the most powerful. The feet are often in sandals, silver ones for the big guys, much more humble ones for those of lower status. If we’re really lucky and it’s a warrior priest or something, he’ll be wearing the full regalia—ear spools, the headdress, back flaps, necklaces, everything. Actually, I don’t even want to think about this, in case it jinxes us.” Steve laughed.

“How do we think the
huaqueros
missed this one?” I asked. “If indeed they did.”

“
If
” is a good way to put it,“ Steve replied. ”Remember what I told you about Moche pyramids. They were built platform on top of platform. There could be individuals buried in the different levels. It’s possible that
huaqueros
found a tomb higher up in the structure and figured that was it.“

It was at this point that Hilda decided to retire for the night, this time without the scotch bottle, a development I considered real progress, and perhaps an indication of just how important she felt the next day’s work would be. The rest of us sat around for a while waiting to see Ines off. Tomas was a little later than usual, and I figured once Ines had left, everyone would start to head upstairs to get some rest for the big day ahead and I might have an opportunity to have a quiet word with Steve about Puma and Pachamama.

When Tomas came to pick up Ines, however, he brought with him bad news. Gonzalo Fernandez, the night guard at the site, had walked off the job. Just after dark, Fernandez had seen, according to Tomas, an apparition of an owl, a creature associated with death in this part of the world. This was not just any owl, apparently. This one was several feet tall. Furthermore, the Guerra family had paid him a visit after we’d left to go back to the hacienda and told Fernandez he’d be dead by morning if he stayed.

Steve slumped in his chair and sighed. “Well, I guess there’s nothing for it. I’m sleeping at the site tonight. Tracey, Rebecca, where’d you put the gun?”

“Caja Ocho,
in the lab,” Tracey replied. But there Was no gun in
Caja Ocho.

“That was the number, wasn’t it?” she asked me.

“Definitely,” I replied. We searched through several boxes. No gun.

“It must be Lucho,” Tracey said. “Where is he?”

But Lucho swore up and down he didn’t have it. He even invited us into his room to see, but the place was such a mess, it would have taken us hours to search it.

“Never mind,” Steve said. “It was only a precaution. Just thought I might bag me a seven-foot owl. Something for the record books.” He grinned as he headed out the door, loaded down with a couple of blankets and a pillow.

“I’ll take the second truck, Rebecca,” he called back. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind bringing me back here for breakfast and a shower after you drop off the students, so I can leave this truck at the site. Don’t use all the hot water in the morning, you guys,” he called from the cab of the truck as he pulled away.

But in the morning, Steve was gone.

14

Carlos Montero stood in his office, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow and upper lip. “Missing!” he exclaimed. “How can that be? I haven’t heard from him, no.” He looked nervous to me, the way he wiped his brow a couple of times with a large pink handkerchief. It was warm in there, but perhaps not that warm.

“I’ll make a couple of calls, why don’t I?” he said. You do that, I thought. I was rapidly reaching the conclusion that there was something terribly wrong in Campina Vieja, and that a single sinister thread had been snaking its way through all the events of the past several weeks, from the death of Lizard in my shop, Edmund Edwards in his, to the disappearance now of Steve, Puma, and Pachamama. And Montero, I was convinced, was part of it.

When I had first arrived at the site that morning, I’d thought Steve, while I could not find him, must be somewhere nearby. The bedding he’d taken with him was still there, the pillow still bearing the imprint of his head in a rather endearing sort of way, the blankets tossed aside as if he’d arisen in a hurry. There was certainly no sign of violence or an accident of any kind.

“He’s gone to pee in the woods,” Pablo said, pointing to faint footsteps in the sand that headed in that direction, and it seemed the obvious conclusion. I waited several minutes, but Steve didn’t return. “Maybe he got lost in the woods,” Pablo added.

Lost in these woods? “I don’t think so,” I replied. Where I come from there are woods to get lost in. These woods did not qualify. You’d have to reach either the highway or a side road in fifteen minutes max. And you’d see the mountains or the sea right away to get your bearings.

I drove back to the hacienda to get the rest of the team, watching for Steve as I went. There was a little concern about Steve but nothing serious. By about ten in the morning, however, I could feel a little buzz of anxiety in the group. Hilda sent me back to the hacienda to make sure he hadn’t walked back. I was tempted to point out that the easiest and fastest route between the site and the hacienda was the road, and I’d traveled on it three times already. Back I went again. No Steve.

Hilda then sent a small team into the woods, and I went with them. There were lots of footprints in the sandy soil: It was obvious these woods were well traveled, but any discernible footprints stopped at an adobe brick wall. There was evidence someone had had a sort of picnic lunch there recently, but that was all. It could have been one of the workers, or just a passerby. It wasn’t Steve: He’d only taken a bottle of water with him. Beyond that was a much-used trail with so many footprints it would be impossible to follow any one of them. We called Steve’s name time and time again, and listened carefully for a response, however faint. There was none.

About noon, Hilda pulled me aside. “I don’t want to create a panic here, so would you do me a favor? Drive over to Montero’s place, the Fabrica Paraiso, and tell him about this. Ask him what he thinks we should do. If I go, it’ll look as if I’m really concerned, which I am, incidentally, I will tell you. But you travel around all day, and it’s almost time for you to go and get Ines…” Her voice trailed off. She looked at me almost beseechingly.

I nodded. It was exactly where I was planning to go anyway. “Do you think we should call his family?” I whispered.

“Not yet,” she replied. “No need to worry them unnecessarily. Maybe tonight, if—‘’ Her voice caught for a second. Pablo and one of his team approached us.

“I’m off to get Ines,” I said loudly enough that those nearest us could hear. “I’ll take the long way and watch out for Steve as I go.” Hilda looked relieved.

Now Montero returned from his phone calls; two of them I’d strained to hear but couldn’t. “I don’t think we should call the police just yet,” he said. “I have contacts, you know, and I’ve spoken to them, and they’ll be on the lookout. They’ll make enquiries. Let’s wait until tomorrow before we go to the police. Come back and see me again if there’s no sign of him.”

On the surface, I suppose, that made sense. Steve had only been missing a few hours, and Montero’s advice would be considered rational under normal circumstances. But these weren’t normal circumstances, as I knew only too well. I fully intended to come back to Paraiso, but not perhaps when Montero was expecting me. I had two plans for the Montero family when everyone at the hacienda had retired for the night: I was going to search Lucho’s room, since lately he hadn’t been sleeping there, and I was going to take another look around the Paradise Crafts Factory.

Judging from his room, Lucho was a grown man developmentally stuck in his teens. The place was a mess, clothes tossed everywhere, particularly the floor. Posters covered every available spot on the walls, the only difference from the teenagers I knew being the content. Instead of rock or rap groups, Lucho’s tended to military recruitment posters with a somewhat fascist bent.

I began to systematically search the room, checking under the bed, lifting the pillows and bedding and then, nothing found, lifting the mattress as well. No gun.

Next I went through the closet and dresser. It’s unpleasant going through someone’s underwear drawer when they aren’t there, but perhaps it would be worse if they were. Still no gun.

I went through his desk, and even pulled the furniture away from the wall as quietly as I could to check behind it. I shook out the carpet, causing a bout of sneezing that I strained to muffle, but not much else.

Just as I was about to give up my search, I saw the edge of an envelope sticking out slightly from behind one of the posters on Lucho’s wall. It was not the gun I was looking for, obviously, but I wondered what someone would choose to store behind a poster. The envelope was addressed to me.
Rebeca,
the childish scrawl said.

I turned it over to find it sealed, but with the wrinkled look of an envelope that has been steamed open.

Dear Rebeca,
the letter began.
First of all you got to excuse my writing. I didn’t do very good at school. I was sick alot and got behind.
That was an understatement: The writer, whoever he or she was, was the worst speller I had ever encountered. After momentarily pondering the inadequacy of the education system, I read on.

I no my speling is bad. But please read all of this any way. Your my only hope.

What was this? I wondered.

I no I shoulda told you before, but for a couple years I grew very high grade marigana. Mainly I smoked it myself, altho from time to time I gave it for a small donation to freinds. The police dont no the diference between selling the stuff and acepting a donation, so you could say I am some times on the wrong side of the law. I am not proud of this. I only tell you so you no I am a person who tells the truth, so you ‘will beleive what I have to tell you.

I am not sure how to make you understand but here goes.

Up untill a while ago, I cant remember ecaxtly, I thought all this stuff about recarnation was bull shit, just like you do. But then one time when I was laying on my bed, trying out some of my own home growed product if you take my meaning, something realy ^mazing happen. I beleive what happen was I got in touch with my spirit self. A bright light arked through my mind like a comet and then I was able to go back and forth through all my lives. Realy.

It was the most amazing mind trip of all time. Do you no what I learnt? I will not keep you in sespense. In all ages I was the prophit. I could always tell what woud happen next. When I opened my mouth, words about the future woud roll off my tounge. It surprised me at first, but now I’m used to it.

First I was that lady
—
Casandra
—
who told the Tro-jins about the big wodden horse. How stupid can you get of course it was full of Greek soldiers. Then I stood on a street in Rome and told Julius Ceasar to beware the Eyes of March. He didnt listen and we no what happened to him. Also I told Napoleon not to go to Russia but he didnt listen either.

It is not a good job let me tell you being a prophit. Becuse they never listen. And if they do, usully they dont like what you say. If your lucky they only put you in a deep dark dundgeon. Maybe I am now thinking that is why I have spent time in jail, bad karma from another life or something. But it gets worse. Sometimes they put out your eyes with red hot pokers other times they burn you at the stake. Like it is not good.

Another nutbar. I sighed. Whatever had I done—in another life, of course—to deserve this? But I read on.

The person I was that was closest to what I am now I think was a freind of Atahualpa (speling?) the Inca king. This freind was called Wayna and my name now is Wayne. Dont you think that is amazing? I told Atahualpa that the Spanish were not gods, just bad guys looking for gold and treasure and in the end I think he beleived me but it was to late.