He’d never really given much thought to a soil’s horizon before that article, but given his current situation, he wondered if digging away the dirt that had built up over centuries might mess up some crucial bit of information for a future soil archaeologist.
He swatted at a mosquito hovering in front of his face.
Did soil archaeologists have a special name? Or did that fall under Fernel’s field of study—geoarchaeology? If he remembered right, soil scientists were called agronomists. There was another name for them that started with a P, but he couldn’t recall it. Maybe if it wasn’t so damned hot …
He reached for his pack, stuffing away his canteen and grabbing his camera.
It probably wouldn’t hurt to take some pictures of this soil for Angélica, or others to check out back at INAH’s lab. If memory served, there was a color chart for soil classification, and it was important to establish if the soil color was viewed in direct sunlight or shade, and whether it was wet or dry. The color helped the classifiers figure out how the soil was formed. Weathering, farming, flooding—these past activities all told their stories through the soil.
Quint took a bunch of photos, some closeups of the dirt in the shade and then a handful of it in a ray of sunshine peeking through the trees. He shot several more of the soil horizon along the edges of the hole he was digging, noticing how the top layer was much darker due to the partially decomposed organic matter. Finally, he took a few shots of the sky through the trees to show what the lighting situation was like. The digital photos themselves would list the day and year, but he jotted everything down in his field notes anyway.
Before he returned to digging, he decided to take some pictures of the slab in situ for Angélica to see, since Juan and Fernel were insisting on moving it from its original location before she could get here.
As he clicked away on his camera, an orange butterfly flitted in front of him. He lowered his camera, watching as it landed on the top of the door slab.
“Hello, ancient dude. Or are you a dudette?”
The butterfly flexed its forewings slowly, showing off its darker orange, mottled markings around the edges. He couldn’t remember if orange was a good luck or bad luck color when it came to butterflies in the Maya world.
“Aren’t you a pretty one?” He snapped a few photos of it. “Where did you fly in from? How long is your layover?”
The butterfly lifted its wings, folding them up into a vertical ridge. It took several steps on black spindly legs along the top of the slab and then disappeared from sight.
“Where’d you go?” Quint stood, looking closer at the top of the door slab.
There was a crack between the slab and the rock wall it was leaning against. He watched for several seconds to see if the butterfly would come back out, but it remained hidden.
Oh, well. It was time to get back to digging before the taskmasters returned and ribbed him for dinking around.
He tucked away his camera, squatted, and continued shoveling dirt from the front of the slab.
Several minutes later, the sound of voices made him pause. He wiped the sweat dripping off his nose and stood, letting the blood return to his feet, which were starting to prickle with unhappiness at the circulation being cut off.
Juan and Fernel came around the side of the mound again, returning from the same direction they’d gone. While Juan was red-faced from the heat, his limp was no more pronounced than usual. Fernel, on the other hand, had dirt covering his knees and one shoulder, and a streak of blood down his neck.
“What happened?” Quint asked as they joined him, indicating the blood on the geoarchaeologist’s collar.
“Dr. Fernel lost his balance,” Juan explained. “The ground around there is uneven.”
“Do we need to go back to camp to patch him up?” Quint asked, offering them one last chance to delay moving forward without Angélica.
“No.” Fernel pointed at the door slab. “We need to see what treasures are hidden behind there.”
Quint stared at the geoarchaeologist, noticing his quick breathsand how soaked his collar was. Fernel licked his lips as he stared at the mound, the tablet visibly shaking in his hands. He appeared to be trembling. Was it from exhaustion? Or excitement?
Crossing his arms, Quint turned to Juan, who also looked extra sweaty. It was hot out for sure, but neither had been swinging machetes or digging in the dirt.
“What did you two find on the other side of this?” he thumbed toward the mound.
Maybe they’d been standing in a ray of sunshine. That would certainly make it hotter.
“The land to the north is concave,” Fernel said, swatting at a fly that seemed determined to land on his face. “It’s hard to see with the vegetation covering it, but we can tell the layout with this.” He held up his tablet.
“It’s clear there is something subterranean that must have caved in with time,” Juan said, pulling out his handkerchief. “I would say that behind this slab is definitely a stone-lined entrance, which is why we have this small VW bus–sized mound here. The entrance held up under the weight of time, but the chamber or tunnel beyond was likely supported by timbers that gave way long ago.”
“You want me to go take pictures of the concave area?” Quint offered.
Juan dabbed at his neck. “Not now. Let’s open this up and see what we’re looking at inside.”
