The Venus Disc

By Christopher Hunt

The Venus Disc
The magic of the ancient Maya comes to life in a modern world. Consider the consequences!

The ancestor spirits of the Maya underworld, Xibalba, crafted a golden disc to honor Venus, their goddess of death. As powerful as it is mysterious, the disc with its golden chain, not only cures sickness throughout the village, but heals injury and prevents aging in its lord. Manipulating the disc triggers transference to Xibalba, and thus, a vanishing: invisibility in the earthly world.
Needing a ruler for their Yucatan village of Witz Balam, the ancestors attract a worthy wanderer who is on a vision quest. Drawing him into their cave—the entrance to Xibalba—they select him as first Lord of the Disc and name him King Smoke Jaguar. Virtually immortal, the king rules for centuries until disaster strikes, leaving him and his priests and nobles, crushed, trapped, buried at the foot of the temple pyramid.
After a millennium, an illegal drug processing operation takes over the site. With the only access by small plane, pilots are hired. Carter Boyle is one of them. Boyle is a likable rogue of dubious values, but he gets caught in a betrayal and is locked up at the ruins. Though wounded and miserable, he gets lucky. In an escape attempt, he uncovers a subterranean passage under the floor of his cell. Exploring the passage, he stumbles onto the ancient—yet still living—King Smoke Jaguar. Spotting the Venus Disc and seeing only gold, Boyle rips it free and throws it around his neck. Then, after a vicious fall down the passage's damp steps, the disc's healing magic saves him. He soon learns its invisibility trick along with the often horrifying consequences of manipulating it. Boyle manages to escape with the disc, though only just before a rival cartel attacks and destroys the operation.
Reluctantly, the spirits of Xibalba accept and worship Boyle as the new Lord of the Disc, but submit him to their trials in the Maya houses of Fire, Knives, and Ice. He succeeds, though not with the result he imagines. The disc wards off death, but it also enhances the traits of its lord. In an enlightened king, that can be extraordinary. Not so with Boyle. He becomes a silent, unseen killer bent on revenge.
Without the disc's protection, Smoke Jaguar disintegrates. His spirit, however, appears in a ritual to high school teacher Hector Perez. Hector receives visions of Witz Balam and the Venus Disc and learns he is Smoke Jaguar's 24-times great grandson. As such, he is now rightful owner of the disc and heir to the Witz Balam throne.
Eventually, Boyle faces off against Hector, who must fight to claim the disc and—at Smoke Jaguar's command—rebuild Witz Balam; which, because of the disc's magic, has since become the archeological dig of the century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098371494

Book preview

1

The Tunnel Landing

Wednesday, November 16, 1994

The Maya Mountains, Southern Belize, Yucatan Peninsula

After kicking Holt’s ass when he asked for directions, Carter Boyle stuck to monitoring the flight from the right-hand seat. He watched for air traffic, as neither man wanted detection—despite the fact they carried only supplies on this trip. Forty-five minutes into the flight, flying low over tropical terrain, carefully banking around mountain ridges, and watching for landmarks, they reached their destination.

As they skimmed a plateau, the earth suddenly dropped away to reveal a 500-foot-wide canyon. This was Holt’s first time at the controls; he was fighting a cold and was slow to react.

"You got to begin the descent—now! shouted Boyle over the engine’s drone. We talked about this. If you don’t get the nose down, you’re going to land in the trees instead of under them!"

Jesus! Holt yelled in frustration. This is nuts—landing in a damn tunnel.

Oh, come on, Holt, you can land this old workhorse anywhere.

All right, get off my back. I feel like a fuckin’ kamikaze.

Wes Holt’s face froze in concentration. He was to land the Cessna 185 Skywagon onto the primitive runway that tunneled under the concealing treetops. This involved first clearing the canyon, then compensating for the 200-foot drop in height to its east rim. His final landmark was the waterfall. As serene as the landing was difficult, the falls sprang forth twenty feet below the rim, creating a rainbow of stunning beauty that he had no time to appreciate.

Just south of the falls lay his target, a clearing at the edge of the cliff. Large enough for a chopper, it marked the beginning of the roughhewn landing strip before it disappeared into the tunnel. There was 950 feet for a ground-roll before the runway ended at the foot of an ancient Maya pyramid.

Yeah, that’s it, said Boyle. Now level it off. Yeah, good. You get ten feet on either side before your wings get clipped. The 185 bounced twice before settling in and rumbling down the length of the strip.

Holt was white as a sheet, his hands still locked in place. Hey, Holt, breathe. It’s over. You made it. Nice work. Recognizing the rite of passage, Boyle clapped him on the back.

OK, sure, mumbled Holt. After catching his breath, he added, rolling his eyes, A tunnel for chrissakes! The former commercial pilot preferred jetliners and paved runways.

I can’t believe I found this place—no thanks to you.

Ah, quit your whining. Brighten won’t keep you around if I have to cover for you. Pull over to the hangar. We need to unload and get a shipment out. The hangar was an old pole structure to the side of the runway’s end. Its rusty metal roof wouldn’t raise suspicions if glimpsed from the air. There was space for two 185s.

Carter…uh, thanks, said Holt, as he brought the 185 to rest in front of the hangar. He was calm now, feeling proud of what he’d done. But answer me this. How can you be sure there won’t ever be anything on the runway? I mean, anything left in the wrong place at the wrong time means we’re dead, right?

There’s never anything left on the runway.

How can you be so sure?

Leave anything, and you get locked up in our honest-to-God dungeon and left for the rats to pick at your flesh.

Holt opened his mouth to question further, but they were interrupted by a voice from the end of the strip. You boys is right on time, it said.

What did you expect, Tex? shouted Holt back.

Big Tex Olson offered Holt his right hand. A cigarette dangled between the fingers of his left. So how you feelin’? You look a little pasty.

Holt chuckled at the irreverent honesty. Gee, thanks, Tex. I’m feeling better.

Well, y’ did fine, said Tex, grinning that Holt took him in stride. The pilots here, they all gets a case a nerves at first.

Yeah, it was rough, but I’m OK. I’m just trying to shake a cold.

A cold? Hell, nobody gets sick here, and if they comes here sick, they gets over it, Tex snapped his fingers, just like that. Ain’t that right, Mister Boyle?

Can’t deny it, Holt. Must be the air. I’ve got a hundred bucks says you’re almost over whatever you had.

Holt sniffed a few times. God, you’re right, he said. "Landing must have scared the cold and the shit outta me."

See? There ya go, said Tex. Then gesturing with his thumb at Boyle, he added, Too bad the air don’t do nothin’ for his looks. Boyle didn’t much care what he looked like. Though he never bothered to work out, he wasn’t in bad shape, and his dark eyes and complexion gave him an interesting rugged look.

Asshole, said Boyle, smiling, while they had a good laugh.

OK, fun’s over, said Tex once the laughter died down. Back t’ business. We got a shipment t’ get out.

That’s right, Mr. Tex, said Boyle, turning back toward the plane. Where’s French? A little help would be nice.

He’ll be here. Don’t get yer tail feathers in a ruffle. It don’t matter, anyway. Arty and his guys can help, said Tex, waving off to the side, toward several Belizeans and Guatemalans who guarded the strip. For most of them, the assault weapons they carried were the first of any kind they’d held, and the boots Brighten supplied were their first decent pair of shoes. As a result, they were fiercely loyal. Their families—those who had them—knew little of their work. They only knew that money was coming in. Many wives, though, guessed their husbands must be mercenaries.

Changing the subject, Tex asked, You see any traffic up there? This was a part of every landing. The location was secret; the idea was to keep it that way.

Nothing, answered Boyle. Never seems to be. The way we’re nestled in here, the place is almost an illusion. Tex Olson acknowledged the comment with a nod as an ugly green pickup truck drove up and angled back toward the plane.

Looks like I timed that right, said Leonard French as he jumped down from the cab. He was in his mid-40s, strong as an ox, into guns, and always over-armed for any situation.

Why, yes, you did, said Tex. You can help unload, but first show the boys a sample—that stuff y’all got there. The street value’s mighty impressive.

Following Boyle around to the pickup bed, Holt couldn’t contain his curiosity. How in the hell’d that truck get up here? he asked Boyle.

Nobody knows. I mean, there’s game trails, and at some point there must have been ways in and out for trading. Word is, Brighten bribed some guys in the military to drop it in. He hesitated, then added, Maybe you can guess what he did later to keep their mouths shut.

****

Holt’s concern that he might not be able to find The Mountain was justified. Located in southern Belize, off local flight patterns, it was on the way to nowhere. Only the west end of the valley was open, its flat floor forming a shelf above the main canyon.

A thousand years ago, a temple and giant roof comb stood atop the main pyramid, and the landing strip had been an active Maya causeway. The village here, though small, had been notorious due to the powers of its ruler. Even so, nature eventually consumed the site just as it had the hundreds of others in the Yucatan. Trees reaching 150 feet now covered the ancient structures, but the trees did not thrive on the causeway. The Maya built it deep, on a bed of boulders overlain with mortared-in stones and stucco. It took most of a year for Brighten’s crews to set up the operation. They made a usable runway, threw up some cabins, established a primitive infrastructure, and then cleaned up the structures the Spanish built during the era of conquest.

Drinking water came from a substantial creek that ran by the pyramid and alongside the causeway until it curved off and poured into a cenote hidden in the forest—an ancient sinkhole caused by the collapse of the limestone beneath it. A fissure near its bottom fed the underground stream that produced the falls.

Discovered only by chance, the site was well suited to its purpose. Years ago, Thomas Brighten, owner of Primero Travel, along with its illegal side business, took a tour group into Belize City. While his clients were diving the Cays, he hired a chopper and flew down the coast to Punta Gorda where he met with business associates. A local cannabis grower who called himself Rocky was there too.

Brighten could see that the grower had something private to say, so they met the next morning. Turned out Rocky headed up a team that looted Maya ruins. Telling the story of a site he’d recently found, he suggested Brighten fund an expedition to pick the place over in return for a percentage of the profits. After determining that none of the other looters knew about the site, Brighten had the chopper fly him and Rocky there. The place was so well hidden it took Rocky several passes to finally locate it. This made it perfect for the secluded place Brighten dreamed of. An unfamiliar pilot, dropping into the valley, would see nowhere to land, circle, and move on. After they returned, Brighten asked Rocky to join him in calling on a client who might help fund the effort. He drove Rocky just out of town, killed him there, and dumped the body in the jungle.

Chapter 2

Pondering Bullet Holes

Friday, March 10, 1995

Maya Mountains

Nearly four months later, Charles Apperton sat at his desk attempting to journal the day’s thoughts, although as evening approached, his mind went blank. Tapping the pen, he pondered the bullet holes in the door and front wall just a few feet from where he sat in the largest of the six thatched roof cabins.

It was eerie thinking about the deaths, about the horror. It didn’t matter that the men slain were criminals—a part of the drug culture undoing American society. They were human beings who died right here. He wondered what it felt like to die such a violent death. Then he had another thought: What would it be like to know you might never die? That did it. Thoughts flowed freely until he heard Jo outside calling for their children.

Michaellll… Janeeeyy… He loved the sound of her voice when she called for them. It was full of love yet offered no bargain for disobedience. The Appertons had two children—Janey, 10, and Michael, 9. As with any, they could be challenging, but they were good kids. The family arrived a few days ago at these ancient ruins—Las Momias ("Mo-mee-ahs"), as they came to be called. Washington State University, where they were professors of archaeology, was pleased and proud to grant the necessary sabbaticals.

The discovery at Las Momias was stunning: The bodies of the ancient Maya noblemen uncovered at the foot of the temple pyramid were so well-preserved they inspired the site name The Mummies. In rich, full regalia, they appeared to have been buried alive—probably in an earthquake. Neither bodies nor clothing had decomposed significantly—that is, until now. The modern Maya living nearby saw this as supernatural. Others considered it a mystery begging for explanation.

****

Jo walked to the open cabin door. Appy, she said, using his high school nickname. I haven’t seen the kids, I’m worried.

I’m sure Hector has them spellbound with another tale of his forefathers. Hired to watch over and tutor the children, Hector’s ancestry was Maya. The H in his name was silent, the e sounded like the e in hey.

It’s already five o’clock! I knew I should have made you get those walkie-talkies. They sometimes used these at spreadout excavations, but this site was small and focused mainly at the base of the temple pyramid.

They’re smart kids and they’re in good hands. Let’s give it an hour. Growing up around excavations, the children knew about the dangers. Regardless, Jo worried. People were killed here! In spite of the assurances of safety their research provided, she was right to fret, for soon their lives would be threatened.

She stood at the door, watching for the kids. Turning toward her husband now, their eyes met. Though she was successful in her own right, his confidence inspired her. She came up behind him and put her arms around him. He was fit and trim, and she liked the feel of him. Bending down, she kissed him on the cheek, saying, OK, one hour. I’ll go spend more time with the good professors. We need to figure out what to do about those bodies. None of this makes sense.

It’s got me stumped, he said. I’ve never seen decay set in like this. They looked like they’d be fine with no protection at all. Then he added, Hey, someone’ll get creative sooner or later, so don’t be too rough on them.

Are you suggesting I be patient? she said, smiling. Not my strong point.

Well, you said it. Why don’t you try charming them? She grinned, rolled her eyes, and blew him a kiss.

****

Joanne Apperton grew up in Seattle at the end of the hippie era. Her parents operated a butcher shop, and she assisted customers while keeping the shop clean. Her three older brothers enjoyed the work—meat with lots of blood; she detested it.

Jo’s fondest memories were of family camping trips. It was on one of those that she became hooked on archaeology. Her father liked roadside attractions, couldn't pass them by. Once in New Mexico, they visited cliff dwellings and pueblo ruins, and there it was: a lifetime’s fascination. She had walked where ancients walked and felt their presence.

****

With Jo off to torment the professors, Appy returned to his journal. At times he wished he’d been the one to discover Las Momias. That honor went to a reporter from The Spokesman Review out of Spokane, Washington. The reporter was a friend, so Appy and Jo were the first scientists at the site. They spotted the preserved remains, made the find known, then organized the excavation. In his journal, Appy described their progress and his hopes for the world to learn about the Maya. While Europe was in the Dark Ages, these people studied the skies, put mathematics to work, developed writing, and made parchment from fig tree bark. There were a number of stelae—monuments—and altars scattered about, which covered the news of the day, their history in hieroglyphics. One could count on discovering such things, but it was the delicate finds Appy dreamed of: ancient books, painted glyphs or images, and human remains.

Loud cheers interrupted him. The locals on the dig staff often played soccer. That, and a group of them competed in knife throwing or tossing rock hammers at trees, attempting to sink the pick-end into the bark. Though cheers of Gollllllll! Golllll! were definitely about futbol. Someone scored. Soccer wasn’t his game, but to those here it seemed to sustain life.

When he first visited the site, the cabins were hidden under the forest canopy. The drug operation required invisibility from the air. Now, with the runway wide enough for safe landings and takeoffs, he stood on the edge of the clearing. The workers—almost all twenty descended from the Maya—made room for futbol on the strip. They helped in the kitchen—handling the cleaning, clearing, and building—and assisted in the digging. For now, they slept in tents or under tarps, but Appy wanted them up off the ground and into hammocks. His greatest concern was the wildlife that slinked along at ground level. To solve that, they would build simple huts—thatched roof pole structures with walls stitched together from tree branches, much like those of the ancients.

Needing a break, Appy watched the game until it was time to deal with the children. Walking across the strip, he gazed at the old hangar. There were now three walls with shelves for equipment and artifacts. It was behind here that his workers camped in front of the line of four smaller unexcavated pyramids that formed a backdrop for what they called the village. He soon found himself thinking of the raid again, and of the rocket launcher that destroyed one of the attacking choppers. But he caught himself. He didn’t want to think of death, though there would be plenty of that in the weeks to come.

When the raid on the drug operation hit the media, it made for a great story that could have ended there. Normally a dig takes time to come together, but through a trick of fate, Appy actually saw the raid take place and saw evidence of the ruins. While the story about the location was hot, he reached out to the scientific community, and the Belizean Department of Archaeology reached out to him. From an architectural standpoint, there was nothing spectacular about Las Momias. Most of the structures made it through the ages, but earthquakes—not normally a concern in the Yucatan—took their toll. To the untrained eye, many of the ruins looked like natural hillocks. Closer examination, however, revealed the mounds were of human hands. Preserved human remains—mummies, as the public called them—were something else altogether.

Needing to focus on fundraising, logistics, and other support, Appy and Jo set out to hire an excavation director who could start right away. Fortunately they found Sir Winston Marshall from Vanderbilt University. Miguel Estrada was to assist him. Estrada was a promising young professor at the University of Pennsylvania who previously worked for the Guatemala Institute of Anthropology and History. He and Marshall had been organizing a nearby dig that fell through, so they came to Las Momias, bringing most of their staff.

Estrada quickly assembled the men and materials to repurpose the hangar. He acquired two military tents, one for the kitchen and dining area, the other for a combination field lab and headquarters. An anonymous donor provided a solar panel set-up, with the stipulation that the power generated must first go to the kitchen. Since the cook used an old wood-fired stove, only the lights and a few minor appliances needed electricity. The excess went to the HQ tent.

As Appy walked toward the nearby footbridge across the creek, the aroma of rice and beans wafted from the dining tent. Pausing, he looked up in wonder at the ridges surrounding the valley. He wondered what attracted the Maya here. What were their secrets? The place was beautiful, but remote with limited space. There must be more to it. He felt confident his team would learn the answers and also work out the reasons the bodies were in such good condition in an environment that promotes decay.

His wife calling for him from HQ shattered his concentration, and in a matter of seconds she caught up to him. It’s 6 o’clock, Appy, she said, a little out of breath.

****

Charles Apperton also grew up in the Seattle area on the east side of Lake Washington. The upscale communities of Bellevue, Kirkland, Redmond, and Woodinville were his stomping grounds. His father worked at Microsoft, his mother part time at a bank. When his family vacationed, they didn’t camp.

Appy—never Chuck, seldom Charles—and his friends were from wealthy families. After high school, he attended Washington State University. Had he gone elsewhere, he wouldn’t have met Jo, or Ken Madden from the Spokesman Review, and thus, would not be managing the excavation of the century.

Appy met Jo in Anthropology 101. She attended WSU because she received a scholarship from a foundation supporting women who could prove a devotion to anthropology. She was following her dream. Appy took the class to fill a university requirement. Of the 300-plus in the room, he picked Jo to sit next to. It was partly because of her looks, but mostly because there were only a few seats left.

Appy was good-looking too, and that attracted Jo. She liked his buns. During that first lecture they exchanged glances and made faces mocking the instructor’s boring presentation. As they left together, she noticed his physique. To his embarrassment, she complimented him on it. A friendship was born.

They graduated together four years later. She earned her degree in anthropology, specialty in archaeology, while his was in English—with nearly enough credits for another in anthropology. Both went on to earn doctorates in the WSU Anthropology Department and eventually became professors.

****

Hector and the kids were out exploring. The stocky and perpetually tan Hector was a contrast to the two thin fair-haired children who so admired him. He was just slightly taller than Janey. Following the creek up the canyon in the northeast of the valley, Hector looked for signs of how far the ancient village might have extended. Above all, he hoped to find a cave. It was Michael who spotted it, partially concealed by trees and undergrowth about twenty feet up a slope from the creek trail. The mouth was only three feet high and wide, though inside, the cavern opened up enough for them to stand.

****

Hector was a high school Spanish teacher, not an archaeologist—although scientists at the dig applauded his interest in what was going on. Upon hearing of the Las Momias excavation, Hector sought out Kenneth Madden, the name most often connected with the story. Hector explained he was completely fluent in Spanish but also knew the Yucatec Mayan dialect, which he learned at home from his parents. It was the most widely spoken native language of the Maya descendants and the closest to the original ancient language. He could assist in communications between workers, locals, and scientists. Thus Madden made a recommendation to his friend, Charles Apperton, and Hector made the trek to Pullman to win a job.

The Appertons nearly always took their children on expedition, hiring someone to provide care and tutoring. The first candidate for the Las Momias project backed out, which cleared the way for Hector. He had not been concerned about what he did at Las Momias—he simply had to be there—though he was pleased it involved caring for children.

****

Janey, not wanting to show she was frightened, stood close beside Hector. Why are you so interested in this old cave? she asked cautiously. Before he could answer, she went on. Is it safe? How do you know there aren’t wild animals in here?

You’re right to ask. Since I can’t say for sure we’re safe, we should leave. We can bring some of the scientists later to take a look.

At this, Janey was on her way out with Michael close behind. Hector wanted desperately to explore further but couldn’t risk involving the children, so they sat on a row of shaped stones just outside the entrance to talk things over.

Janey, you asked why I was interested in the cave. To the Maya, a cave was the entrance to their underworld where the gods and the ancient ancestors lived. The underworld is one of the three worlds of the Maya. The heavens, and the Earth where we live, are the others. So this cave was very important to my ancestors. In fact, if you ever can’t find me, this is where to look.

Hector had Michael’s attention now. Did the priests…your ancestors…did they come here for ceremonies? he asked.

That’s highly likely, Michael. We’ll have to get your mother up here to check it out, won’t we?

"Yeah, she knows all about that, answered Michael, proud his mom was mentioned. Hector, have you ever been to Tikal?"

Can’t say I have. This is my first Maya ruin.

Tikal’s lots cooler. This place is mostly piles of rocks and boulders covered with dirt, bushes, and trees.

You’re exaggerating. It’s not all like that, said Janey. What about where the Spanish buildings are? And not everything is covered up.

That’s true, Janey. Hector interjected. But Michael is correct as well. The ruins here aren’t in very good condition. Then turning to Michael, he said, "Michael, do you know why Las Momias is like that?"

Not really. Didn’t they know how to build as good as Tikal?

They sure did—it was the same process. They used limestone—probably from this very canyon—and stone tools to shape it into building blocks. Earthquakes over the years have caused a lot of damage.

I thought earthquakes aren’t very common in the Yucatan, said Janey, drawing from the lessons of other Maya sites.

That may be true, said Hector, but they do happen. He paused and changed the subject. "If you like, I can tell you a story of one very important earthquake that happened here at Las Momias more than a thousand years ago. Interested?"

Chapter 3

The Great Smoke Jaguar

Friday, March 10, 1995

Las Momias, Maya Mountains

It was twelve hundred years ago, said Hector, "during the reign of the Great Smoke Jaguar. All of Las Momias was preparing to celebrate the hotun."

The what? asked Michael.

"The hotun, Janey said before Hector could answer. It’s from their calendar, about the same as five years. A tun is a year, five tuns is a hotun, twenty tuns is a katun."

That’s right, said Hector. "Time had religious significance. At the beginning of a new hotun there was a big ceremony. To help them think more about the gods, everybody fasted during the week before. This meant no venison, turkey, iguanas, doves, or—"

They ate doves and iguanas? Lizards? cried Janey. How could they? I mean…yuk. She wrinkled her nose and made a face.

Well, yes, they did—except not before holy days, when they ate just corn, vegetables, fruit—things like that.

I wouldn’t think about gods, I’d think about starving. said Michael. Heck, they probably ate monkeys too. There’re all over the place.

Well, as a matter of fact… said Hector, grinning at their disgusted looks. Anyway, they didn’t want to eat big meals or do anything else that might distract them. They just focused on the ceremonies, the prayers, the dances, the sacrifices, and the ball games.

They played ball? What kind of ball? Michael was imagining bats and balls.

Geez, Michael, be quiet, OK? I want to hear the story, said Janey.

Hector went on. "The Maya knew if plants and animals did not flourish, their civilization would die. Problem was, they never knew when rains, floods, earthquakes, or volcanic eruptions might ruin everything. They believed that priests or kings—Smoke Jaguar was both—could foretell the future, so on the day of the hotun the Jaguar King would stand at the top of the temple pyramid, chant prayers, and make his predictions. The people hoped he’d reassure them with news about how the heavens and Earth would behave themselves—that Venus would not position herself in such a way that would lead to doom."

Venus? asked Michael.

Yes, their goddess of death.

Ohhh, said Michael, pausing, so did they sacrifice people?

Good question, said Hector. Sometimes they did, though usually it was enemies they captured. Hector paused a moment, smiling playfully at Michael. Speaking of sacrifice, you’ll be interested in the ball game. They often played to the death, you know.

Whoa… said Michael. Really? Did they kill the loser?

Yes, but sometimes they sacrificed the winner instead. Hector raised his hand to fend off the questions. Listen, he said, "I’ll show you the ruins of the ball court later, by the great temple pyramid. Then I’ll tell you more about the game. No two courts are alike, and for a small village, Witz Balam was grand in those days before it was overgrown."

"Witz Balam?" asked Janey. I thought this was Las Momias."

"Oh, right. I’m sorry, Las Momias, said Hector, because of the remains found at the foot of the pyramid. Anyway, he added quickly, this place wasn’t like Tikal. It was very small; the King welcomed visitors, but he didn’t want them sticking around."

Why not? asked Michael.

Well, first, there wasn’t room for more people, but there was something special about the village—something I can’t explain. He paused, thinking a moment. Do you know that people hardly ever got sick here? The only way people died was from accidents, or being killed by wild animals or snakes, or by other people, or from very old age. Outsiders were curious, I guess. They wanted to see what made the village what it was. Noblemen from neighboring cities came to pay respects to Smoke Jaguar and to look around. Traders came too, selling fancy plates, vases, sandals, incense, spices, really hot chili peppers, and things from the coast like shells, stingrays, turtles, and dried fish.

How did they pay for stuff? Did they use money? asked Janey.

They used things like cacao beans, copper bells, jade, obsidian, or flint like we use money. Janey appeared satisfied, so Hector continued. As the hour of the celebration drew near, the King was taken toward the temple pyramid on a giant litter decorated in feather plumes. Seeing questioning looks, Hector explained. "A litter—that’s a big chair with poles tied to it for carrying people who are too important to walk. Anyway, the King was covered in brilliant blue-green, bright red, and yellow feathers that rose high above his head and spread out behind him. He wore a vest and loincloth made of jaguar skins, and beautiful leather sandals. Musicians marched before him, singing, beating drums, and playing wooden trumpets, whistles, and flutes. Dressed-up dancers gathered in front of the pyramid. They held banners, moving in big circles while everyone else watched.

"The ceremonies began at dawn. Smoke Jaguar and his priests and nobles made offerings at the top of the great pyramid in the temple building, beneath a giant jaguar glyph on the roof comb. That’s all ruins now, but back then, Smoke Jaguar—now dressed in a flowing white robe—looked down at his subjects in the plaza below. To his right, he saw our creek flowing down into the valley in front of his palace and administrative center. To his left were the four smaller pyramids. Then stretching out before him was the great causeway—now an airstrip.

As the rest of the priests gathered behind him, Smoke Jaguar announced to the crowd what the gods revealed to him. There would be many blessings—Chaac, the god of rain and storms, would deliver plenty of rain for a great harvest, and there would be no floods or earthquakes. The planets would move along as they are supposed to; Caracol—the big city to the north—would attack but would be turned back.

Hector held up his hand to stop Michael from interrupting. There were more speeches and prayers, more offerings, and hundreds of dancers with flowing headdresses, feather capes, and bells on their wrists and ankles. The dancing would last until nighttime. Everyone feasted until dawn when the ball game would begin. All this would have gone on if it hadn’t been for that attack.

What happened? Both kids asked at once, enthralled by the change of events.

"Well, the predictions came true! Even though Las Momias was hard to get to, Caracol decided to start a war."

Caracol. That’s not far from here. Why did they do that? asked Janey.

The people were envious of Smoke Jaguar. They wanted him dead. Even though he was a peaceful king, they were suspicious—afraid of him, saying he had special powers and that he had been alive for hundreds of years.

No way, broke in Michael.

Yeah, how do you know all this? asked Janey.

One day I’ll tell you, just not yet.

Tell us about the attack! said Michael, dying to find out what happened.

Both of you have been around jungles. They’re not exactly quiet, but they seem quiet when all you hear are things in nature, like birds or monkeys. When there’s a sound that’s not from nature, it sounds noisy. That's why the sentries—

Sentries?

Michael, quit interrupting! It was Janey again.

Hector continued, hardly missing a beat. "Smoke Jaguar always held a private audience with the priests so he could tell them what he was going to say to his people. When he said they would be attacked, they decided to post sentries around the village. It was those guards who picked out the sounds of human screaming over the sounds of nature. A small trading party—ten warriors from Las Momias—were journeying back home when they were ambushed. All but one were killed.

An entire army was in full attack. They carried spears, lances, bows and arrows, slings, blowguns, axes, clubs, obsidian knives, and the dreaded wasp bombs.

Wasp bombs? asked Michael, unsure what Hector meant.

"Yes, wasp bombs. Can you imagine a swarm of really angry wasps trapped in a gourd that would break open if it hit anything? A wasp bomb was easy to carry and could be thrown a long way—right in the faces of the enemy.

"In spite of the sentries, the attack caught the people of Las Momias completely off guard. Hundreds were killed. In fact, the attackers would have wiped out everyone if it hadn’t been for the earthquake, and if the skies hadn’t poured down rain."

But the King said there wouldn’t be any earthquakes or floods, said Janey.

"That’s right. Smoke Jaguar was wrong about that. The ground turned into muck, while the pyramids shook in the earthquake. Stone blocks came crashing down, crushing the villagers, the visitors, and the attackers. Everybody—children too—ran screaming in the deep mud. People were trampled to death or buried by the giant stones. Very few escaped. From that day on, Las Momias just ceased to exist. The survivors, including Smoke Jaguar’s son—the one man left from that trading party—abandoned the village for good. We aren’t sure exactly where they went."

What happened to the King—to Smoke Jaguar? asked Michael.

That’s the most important part. Before all this happened, he sat in his wooden throne at the top of the pyramid in front of the temple. When the attack began, he stepped out to the front of the pyramid to see what was going on. Then the ground shook, and rocks from the roof comb fell around him. One of the stones knocked him off the edge. Then most of the roof comb tumbled down after him, taking his priests and nobles with it. Now this is the interesting part. According to survivors, partway through Smoke Jaguar’s fall, he vanished.

"What do you mean? He disappeared?" asked Michael.

"Precisely. He disappeared into thin air about halfway down. But he wore a golden disc—about the size of a Mason jar lid—with a golden chain that held it around his neck. The disc and chain did not disappear. They bounced down the pyramid just like they were still around his neck—you just couldn’t see him."

What happened to him? asked Janey.

"No one knows. No one could see anything except for the disc, before it disappeared along with the chain. The ground opened up—swallowed them."

Wow, whispered Michael hoarsely. Cool story.

Things don’t just disappear! said Janey, raising her voice, trying hard not to believe in fantasy. She wanted to be logical like her mom.

Well, no, not normally, but that’s how the story goes. It was passed down through the generations of my people.

"You’re from Las Momias?" asked Michael in wonder.

No, not me, just my ancestors. At least one of my ancestors survived the disaster. He carefully told the story to his children, their children told it to their kids, and so on. My grandmother told it to me when I was about your age.

Michael checked his watch. Isn’t it time to go back? He sounded worried.

Oh, no, we should have started back an hour ago. Your parents will be angry at me. My wife will be too. Michael, lead the way.

OK, said Michael as he got started, but I don’t think you need to worry about your wife. The way she makes goo-goo eyes at you, she’d forgive you for anything. Hector blushed, shaking his head in wonder at the wisdom of youth. Before he could comment, Janey jumped in.

Yeah, it’ll be OK with Mom and Dad too, she said. They might get upset at first, but they always get over stuff like this really fast. Loving Hector as they did, they didn’t want him to feel bad.

"Well, it’s not OK. They trusted you to me. I should have had you back at the village with time to spare."

Michael, listening from his place in the front of the line, added, We’ve been later than this. One time at Tikal, it was almost sundown before we got back.

Yeah, we got in trouble too, said Janey.

Knowing she was right, Michael hurried on. He couldn’t get his mind off the story, though, and shouted back to Hector, I hope we don’t have an earthquake.

One thing for sure, Michael, said Hector, if we don’t walk faster, there will be a quake when we get back to the village.

Michael knew what Hector meant. "Yeah, it’ll be a mom-quake."

****

Where have you been? Appy was relieved but angry. Do you know how worried we’ve been? You know better. We were organizing a search party.

Hector spoke up immediately. This is all my fault, Dr. Apperton. After we went exploring, I agreed to tell them a story. It just went on too long. I am very sorry. It won’t happen again—I assure you.

Now it was Jo’s turn. Hector, you’ve been so good with the children, but we… Look, the environment at these digs is dangerous. We need to know where our kids are—even if they’re with someone we trust. When they’re overdue, I tend to just lose it. I’m pretty angry at you. I’m not really sure—

Don’t be mad at Hector, interrupted Janey. We’re just as much to blame. We’ve been on a lot of digs, and…well, it was just so—

Mom, Dad, you have to hear this! interrupted Michael. We found a cave! Hector told us this great story. He knows all about this place. His ancestors—

This time Hector cut in. I told them a story about what I think happened here. Please forgive me. At this, he patted Michael on the shoulder. He’s the one who saw we were late. Neither of the children is to blame.

We’ll get over it—right after you tell us about that cave, said Appy.

Thank you, Appy. We can do that over dinner. Then he turned to Janey and Michael. Come on, he said. Let’s go find Mrs. Perez in the kitchen."

Indeed, said Jo, shaking her head, amazed at how Hector diffused the anger so quickly. Internally, however, she thought about her family—her cherished children—the thin line between life and death in a place like Las Momias.

Chapter 4

The Campfire

Friday, March 10, 1995

Las Momias

As dusk arrived, Hank Wishram, National Geographic photographer, started a fire at the campfire shelter. Every night almost everyone gathered to unwind. They discussed the dig, talked about their families, told stories, and sometimes sang songs. The Appertons had never seen anything like it.

There wasn’t a strict rotation for campfire duty, so Wishram figured he could take a turn. Now, three months after the discovery, Las Momias was at full habitation. Tonight’s fire would see a good turnout. Appy and Win Marshall walked over from the field lab tent, which doubled as excavation headquarters. One thing we should cover tonight, said Marshall, is the name of this place.

"Don’t like Las Momias?" asked Appy, looking up at the slightly taller man.

I’ll grant it’s clever, except we deciphered the real name.

Oh? Using the wisdom of your old age?

Don’t let the gray hair fool you. I’m younger than I look. But, yes, I came to tell you earlier, though you and Jo looked preoccupied.

Yeah, Hector and the kids. So what did you find?

"A stela lying in the rocks at the focus area. I’ll show you in the morning. It says this was originally called Witz Balam."

Apperton went cold, hiding that he’d heard the name before. Mountain Jaguar, he said. Yet that could refer to a kind of jaguar, so ‘Jaguar Mountain.’

Well done, said Marshall. "I dare say we’ll find more evidence. It certainly wasn’t called Las Momias. After a pause, he went on. So what about this cave you found?"

Ah, the grapevine works well, said Appy, while Marshall chuckled, proud of himself. Hector and the kids found it.

Yes. Nice development, I should say. Have you seen it?

No, we just heard about it from the kids.

We shall have to go there.

No doubt, said Appy. Think about a crew to take along.

I’ll talk to Asterio. He’s been pretty insistent about the focus area. Asterio Pacheco was the representative from the Belizean Department of Archaeology. Since the department’s primary motivation for providing funding was linked to the discovery of the remains, his responsibility was to maintain a concentration at the focus area. Uncovering more about the site could come later.

That shouldn’t be a problem, said Appy. It’s a cave—he’ll be curious.

"National Geographic will want to come along, said Marshall. And speaking of them, that pushy Stephens woman asked if she and Wishram could collect background for their story at the campfire tonight. I reluctantly approved." Patricia Stephens was the writer accompanying Hank Wishram.

"Easy on her, Win. They’ll only be here through the end of the month. Nat Geo’s an important sponsor; she’s putting us on the map."

It’s all good. Anyway, you know how I feel about the bloody press.

It could be worse.

Yes, quite.

Once everyone was seated at the fire, Appy recounted his conversation with Win Marshall about the village’s ancient name. He thanked those who spotted the stela and announced that henceforth they would call the site Witz Balam. After fielding a few questions, he asked Marshall to introduce Patty Stephens.

Thank you, Dr. Marshall, began Stephens. You know how important background is to the articles we write, so I’d like to hear how this all came to be. I’ve talked to a few of you already. Then she turned to Marshall. First I need the ‘founding’ perspective.

Appy should address the founding, said Marshall. He’s responsible for us being here.

As Stephens tried to get the conversation rolling, Jo and Linda appeared at the shelter. Appy waved to them, and folks moved to make space next to him. So the kids settled down? he asked her.

Yes, Hector's reading to them. I’ll just sit for a while before I go rescue him. Then Jo turned to the group. By now, most of you have met Linda Perez—just newly married. Cheers of congratulations greeted the remark, then finally, all eyes went back to Stephens—who was sitting tall on the bench, showing some impatience. OK, so Appy, the founding?

Really, I just got lucky, said Appy, with a shrug. Then he turned to the staff. But before I begin, I want to thank the National Geographic Society for their funding, and for their advice and counsel. We wouldn’t be here without it.

There was a round of applause, after which Stephens said in fun, I’ll bet he says that to all the girls. This got a laugh, then she tried again. So, the background—

OK, yes, said Appy. I’ve worked at plenty of sites, made some important discoveries, but there are several people here who’ve accomplished a lot more.

All right, I get it: good luck. Is it OK if I don’t bring you across as so humble? She went on before he could answer, What it comes down to is that our readers need to know what happened.

Appy, pausing to consider how to handle her approach, said, It’s been a whirlwind, all starting with a friend of mine from college, Ken Madden—

The reporter from Spokane, clarified Stephens.

"Yeah, the Spokesman Review. The paper wanted a story on vacations where tourists go to work at excavations. You know, camp out, get dirty, play archaeologist."

Archaeologist wannabes, interjected Stephens.

Exactly. Sometimes it works—if they can tough it out. They pay, of course, so digs get funding.

Are there any wannabes on this dig? asked Stephens.

These excavations are far too sensitive, said Marshall with his nose in the air.

So, said Appy, the paper sent Ken to the Yucatan and allowed him to bring me along for consulting. He paused, then continued. First we hired a plane so we could get the lay of the land. Did I mention Ken was a pilot? Anyway, one day as we headed toward the excavations at Caracol, I remembered the new discoveries around here, so we detoured. We were flying zigzag patterns, eyes glued to the topography, when we saw this incredible explosion in that clearing at the edge of our cliff.

The drug raid, right?

"Right. A helicopter blowing up. Spectacular. Scared us half to death. Ken almost lost control of the plane. Later, on the way out, we saw two big choppers in the same area. We figured they must have been involved. Ken circled around to buzz the site. I yelled at him to get the hell out of there, but noooo, he swooped in and yelled at me to grab his camera! The chopper was on fire, and we could see men shooting toward it, but behind them, there were men in camouflage mowing them down. Ken made a second pass, and I managed to take a few pictures. That’s when somebody sent bullets up our way and hit one of the wingtips."

You were hit? exclaimed Marshall,