Speaking of Hell, Angélica told me that the Maya Underworld shouldn’t be equated to the conventional perception that Christianity has of the Devil’s fiery man-cave.
That the Maya believe Xibalba is an actual place where the dead had to go after a non-violent death, no matter if they were good or bad, rich or poor, or somewhere in between. Those who died in battle, or in some other violent way, won a get-out-of-Xibalba-free pass and could head straight to the thirteen heavens.
Teodoro once talked about Xibalba being “telluric energy,” which I read means energy relating to Earth itself. It has to do with thelow-frequency electric currents that naturally travel through the ocean and under the ground—basically, anywhere near the planet’s surface.
Where was I going with this?
Oh, yeah. It’s fucking hot.
Everyone is getting cranky.
Dr. Fernel’s obsessive tendencies seem to be spreading. Or maybe it’s just a compulsion to hurry up and find the pot of gold here so we can all return to air-conditioned civilization and cold drinks.
On another note, there are a dozen vultures circling overhead today. I’m afraid to ask Angélica if the number twelve has special meaning to the Maya, as in yet another sign of impending doom.
Or death.
Maybe I’m dead and just don’t know it yet. My heart probably gave out from the heat and humidity.
Maybe I’m Kimi, the death god sidekick, and I keep hanging around someone here at the dig site because I’m their spirit pal.
Or maybe we’re all dead and trapped here at this damned dig site for eternity. Our skulls will be added to the pile outside of the wall as a forewarning for future …
“Mr. Parker?” Fernel called through the trees, his voice instantly stopping the happy chatter of the birds in the tree canopies. “Mr. Parker, Dr. García needs your help.”
Jesus, how many times today had he told Fernel to drop the formalities and call him by his first name?
“Coming!” Quint hollered back, closing his field notebook andstuffing it in his backpack next to his camera.
He rose from the long-ago fallen tree he’d been using for a bench seat during his break, swatting at a cloud of gnats hovering mid-air. Keeping an eye out for slithering troublemakers, he trekked back along the path through the slashed vegetation he’d mowed down with his machete to the location where he’d left Juan with Fernel and his LIDAR map.
Only they weren’t there.
He backtracked a little farther and then paused to listen for the two men.
The bramble of scrub bushes rustled off to his right, and the sound of twigs and leaves crunching underfoot followed.
What were they doing over there?
Quint checked around for a path through the tangle of thorny branches and pokey yucca leaves, finding none. Maybe they’d veered off course somewhere else and were moving parallel to his route.
He took several steps off the cut path, attempting to thread his way through the bramble without getting scratched or stabbed, only to run into what looked like a hedgerow of gnarled and spine-covered vegetation.
Damn it! It was too hot for this shit.
Why had they gone off trail?
He stopped and wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. Trying to peer through Mother Nature’s blockade, he listened again for sounds from Juan and Fernel.
Why were the birds still silent?
He looked up through the trees, catching sight of a couple of vultures circling in the patches of blue sky visible through the leaves.
Branches rattled and snapped on the other side of the brambly barricade. Whoever was over there was close.
Quint eased forward, stepping lightly, trying again to see in between the brambles.
He heard the sound of a whispering voice. Or was it voices? It was hard to tell for sure.
