Chapter Twelve
Worried Thoughts from a Good Demon
The vultures have returned.
This time there are nine riding the air currents overhead.
Nine!
The same number as levels in the Maya Underworld.
Does that number of birds have any significance? Or is it just a coincidence?
I’d like to lean toward a coincidence, but I ran into an owl feather this morning on my way to the latrine. Or, rather, it ran into me. The damned thing hit me in the shoulder. I couldn’t see any owls in the trees, though.
At least I think it was an owl feather based on size and color. When I showed it to Pedro, he thought it might have come from a Great Horned Owl, which Raul said are common here.
Pedro joked about the god of death sending me a message.
I didn’t laugh.
He suggested I ask Teodoro to be certain about the feather’s originator, but then word would get back to Angélica, and she was busy trying to coordinate today’s tasks and line up manpower accordingly.
Is it manpower if there are women working, too?
Maybe it’s just human-power.
Anyway, the boss lady told me over breakfast that she couldn’t sleep much last night between her father’s snoring and her mind spinning about what in the hell had happened at this site centuries ago.
My bet is it was some kind of a prison, like Bronko said, even though the Maya supposedly didn’t have them.
A prison makes sense with the wall, especially if that tunnel at the bottom of the stairwell leads to Structure I on the outside.
A prison would also explain why there are no gates in the wall, a typical weak point in fortifications. Structures I and II would then act as the equivalent of flanking towers at a medieval castle with sentries positioned next to the gate, watching for any escape attempts.
The spearpoints and arrowheads we found in the caches next to both structures fit with the prison theory, too.
The sentries would need weapons at the ready in the event of an attempted escape.
Anyone situated high on each platform would be in good defensive positions to throw spears and shoot arrows down at the prisoners.
And if wannabe escapees made it past the prison guards at Structure II on the inside, that exit tunnel under the wall would act as a barbican of sorts.
The prisoners would be funneled into the narrow, neck-like passage, making them easy targets for the archers and spear throwers waiting outside the wall at Structure I.
This place is basically a castle in reverse, keeping the enemy inside rather than …
HONNNNN!
Quint jerked in surprise at the loud, piercing horn sound blaring from overhead.
What the fuck?
He came off the prison wall he’d been leaning against while taking a break after hours of swinging a machete.
The surrounding jungle seemed to hold its breath for several seconds, along with him. Then a racket of howls and yips and barks came from the other side of the wall. The monkeys were responding in kind to the blast of noise.
Where were Pedro and Daisy? They’d headed off to check out the area, looking for signs of more caches, leaving him on his own with his pencil and field notes.
Pocketing his notebook, Quint stepped out from under the shade of the large ceiba tree that neighbored the crumbled remains of a multi-story structure built into the junction where the western and northern sections of the prison wall came together.
A “turret” was what Pedro had called the dilapidated stone ruins they’d come upon while slashing their way up a slope through the thorny scrub brush, yucca plants, and shitload of saplings struggling to grow among their larger ancestors.
Daisy, who’d been a last-minute addition to their small group after scaling the wall, had explained to Pedro that typically turrets were on the outside of a fortification and didn’t extend to the ground, so this was more like a square lookout tower.
Quint agreed with Daisy, especially since the ruins sat at the top of a slope. He’d bet if they cut the trees down, they’d have a clear view of the whole site. Also, the narrow slits for windows in what remained of the structure’s three levels reminded him of arrow loops in a castle tower.
He shielded his eyes, peering up at the ruins from where the sound seemed to have come. “What the hell was that?” he called out.
Was it some kind of alarm function on the walkie-talkie Bronko had handed off before they all separated into smaller groups? If so, why was it coming from up high?
Pedro poked his head over what was left of the third-story south-facing wall. He smiled wide and held out something that looked like some kind of gourd.
Quint winced. What was Pedro thinking, leaning over what appeared to be a crumbling section of the ruin? Jesus, the remaining building looked ready to crash to the ground at any second, and there were no king’s horses or king’s men to come rescue the big egghead grinning down from the third level.
“Did you forget you’re the only pilot here?” Quint crossed his arms. “Who flies you out if you get hurt?”
“Nobody. I’m special.”
“You’re loco, not special.”
Pedro laughed and then thumbed over his shoulder. “Daisy found some conch-shell trumpets.”
“She’s with you?” Criminy, what were those two doing, clambering around up there? Did they have a death wish? If Juan were here, he’d be threatening them with his cane.
“Sí, Parker. Several conch shells were broken, but not this one.”
Pedro lifted the conch shell to his mouth and blew into it, sending another foghorn blare into the air.
Quint winced again—not just due to the racket, but also because Angélica had told everyone to look, not touch, if they came across any artifacts.
The monkeys hollered back from the other side of the wall once more, even louder this time, throwing in some high-pitched shrieks. Clearly, he wasn’t the only primate unsettled by the sound.
Pedro lowered the shell. “This one is unmarked,” he explained. “But there are two others that have glyphs etched onto them. Angélica is going to be over the sun.”
And the moon, too.
“Actual glyphs?” At Pedro’s nod, Quint chuckled.
Of course Daisy had stumbled into another “find” in the rubble.
When she’d requested to switch places with Bronko after they’d arrived onsite, joining him and Pedro instead of following Juan and Fernel around, he’d wondered if good ol’ magic Daisy 8-Ball was back in the saddle with a premonition about where to sniff out more treasures.
“Conch-shell trumpets?” Quint took a couple of steps closer to the ruins. “You’re talking about those big seashells, right?” Not a gourd, as he’d first thought.
Daisy’s head appeared over the side of the crumbling structure next to Humpty Dumpty’s. “They’re Florida horse conch shells,” she clarified. “The Maya used them as trumpets in ceremonies, rituals, and pre-battle pep rallies. Plus, probably just for fun.”
Why were the shell trumpets here, though? Was it part of the prison alarm system?
“Should Pedro be blowing on that thing?” he asked her.
Let alone touching it. Quint wasn’t one for always following the rules, but Angélica had made clear the importance of not messing with relics until copious notes and pictures had been taken.
“Aren’t we supposed to leave artifacts in situ for recording purposes? ”
“We left the other two shells be,” Daisy called down. “But this one had rolled away from the others. It was just sitting out there in the middle of the floor, exposed to the elements and sun bleached.”
“Centuries of exposure to the elements explains why there are no glyphs or carvings visible on it,” Pedro told Quint. “The other two were protected.”
That was just hunky-dory, but Quint had a feeling Angélica would still get those two deep lines at the bridge of her nose when she found out that they had not only moved the conch shell, but also blown through it—twice now.
“I sketched its location before Pedro showed his expertise at conch-shell trumpet blowing,” Daisy said, apparently reading Quint’s mind. “And I took measurements while Pedro tried to get Dr. García on the walkie-talkie.”
“Angél isn’t answering.” Pedro pointed toward the dense cluster of trees they’d had to squeeze and chop their way through to reach their lookout location. “With all these damned trees in the way, this site is one big dead zone.”
That was exactly what Quint feared, especially after the owl feather business.
On top of that, he’d been visited by several more butterflies throughout his morning machete workout.
Orange, black, yellow. He’d seen several different species up close as they performed flutter-bys, and one even landed on the blade of his machete for a few wing flexes.
“Do you think she heard that second conch trumpeting?” Daisy asked Pedro.
Quint scoffed. “How could she not have? I bet even Teodoro and María heard it back at camp.”
“Good!” Daisy waved for him to join them. “We need your fancy camera up here. The etchings on these other conch-shell trumpets need to be recorded, and you’ll make my job easier if I can use your pictures later to make more detailed drawings of each glyph in my field work notes.”
He squinted in the bright sun toward the trees, debating if he should wait for Angélica before joining the other two up where the three of them probably shouldn’t be for safety reasons.
How long would it take her to hike here from the other end of the site?
Had she found anything around the ruins abutting the southern wall with Esteban and KuTu?
Quint turned back to the structure, wondering if his sorry ass would be the straw that broke the building’s back.
A yellow butterfly fluttered across the scene, passing by on its way to the ceiba tree, where it landed on a branch and paused for a spell.
“What do you think?” he asked the butterfly. “Any advice from the ancestor busybodies?”
“Who are you talking to down there, hombre?”
Aw, screw it. The sooner he took pictures for Daisy, the quicker they could head back to join the others.