the twin ramps of the modest ball court, where much of the current work centered; the cluster of three small, collapsed buildings, little more than foundations now and unimaginatively dubbed the West Group by Howard Bennett.
The clump of knobby hummocks along the northern border of the plaza just inside the fence had also once been structures of some kind, but the jungle had long ago broken them up and engulfed them. To a casual eye they were no more than irregular humps of dirt and debris covered with soil and sprouting tangles of weeds and bushes. No one would even be able to guess at what they had been until they were cleared and excavated in the years to come.
And that was it, except for the archaeologists’ shed of limestone stucco, its thatched roof flaring to salmon as the slanting rays of sunlight struck it. Immediately beyond the square plaza, on all sides, the rain forest pressed in, a lumpy, scrubby mat, endless and impenetrable.
Or so it seemed. Invisible under the green canopy was the trail they had walked to get here. Decrepit now, collapsed and pulled apart by time and roots, it had once been part of the complex system of raised Mayan “highways” that had linked the great centers. This one cut arrow-straight through the jungle for three-quarters of a mile to Chichen Itza, conveniently passing within fifty yards of the Mayaland's grounds on the way.
But from here the Mayaland might have been on another continent. There was nothing to see beyond this silent, thousand-year-old place of ghosts but jungle, nothing to hear but the thickening drone of insects as the evening came on. It was an astonishing thought that they had been drinking iced beers in a posh hotel only twenty minutes before. Even the air was primeval, full of the sharp, burnt-straw smell of Yucatan. Here they still cleared their cornfields for next year's crop by setting them aflame, just as they had done when Tlaloc bustled with life.
"Come,” Abe said. “I want you to have a look inside the temple."
The entrances to Mayan temples are generally doorless, but this one had been sealed by the government with a thick plywood barrier, now warped and spongy. A clumsy arrangement of metal bars and a massive padlock held it in place.
Abe grasped the padlock. “Yesterday when they sent me the key, I came up to have a look around. And this," he said dramatically, “is what I found.” When he lifted the lock it slid apart in his hand.
"It was already open?” Julie said.
Not merely open, but sawn neatly through the hasp.
"Looters?” Gideon wondered.
"Ah, you tell me,” Abe said. “Let's go in."
When the wooden barrier was wrenched out of the way, they found a jumble of stones and dirt inside, some of it piled three feet high. The collapsed stairwell in the center, re-excavated down to the landing by the police in 1982, was now crudely dug out a further six or seven steps. A dusty pickax lay at the bottom of the shaft. There was a spade propped in a corner, and a yellow plastic bucket on one of the dirt piles.
Abe turned to Gideon. “So, did it get left like this in 1982?"
"No, of course not. The police cleaned up after themselves, and I was here when the government sealed it. There have been looters here, all right."
"Just what I figured,” Abe said with a sigh. Then, mildly, as an afterthought: "Vay is mir."
"Woe is me,” Gideon abstractedly translated for Julie. He had been through enough crises with Abe to know the expression well. He was kneeling, looking closely at the spade in the beam of his flashlight, using his fingers to break up some clods of earth that had been stuck to it.
"But do you mean the Mexican government hasn't been guarding the site?” Julie asked. “Anyone can see it would be attractive to looters. Where there was one codex they'd think there might be another one."
"Highly unlikely,” Gideon said. “Wildly unlikely."
"Sure, you'd know that, but would they?"
"It was guarded,” Abe said. “One of
The clump of knobby hummocks along the northern border of the plaza just inside the fence had also once been structures of some kind, but the jungle had long ago broken them up and engulfed them. To a casual eye they were no more than irregular humps of dirt and debris covered with soil and sprouting tangles of weeds and bushes. No one would even be able to guess at what they had been until they were cleared and excavated in the years to come.
And that was it, except for the archaeologists’ shed of limestone stucco, its thatched roof flaring to salmon as the slanting rays of sunlight struck it. Immediately beyond the square plaza, on all sides, the rain forest pressed in, a lumpy, scrubby mat, endless and impenetrable.
Or so it seemed. Invisible under the green canopy was the trail they had walked to get here. Decrepit now, collapsed and pulled apart by time and roots, it had once been part of the complex system of raised Mayan “highways” that had linked the great centers. This one cut arrow-straight through the jungle for three-quarters of a mile to Chichen Itza, conveniently passing within fifty yards of the Mayaland's grounds on the way.
But from here the Mayaland might have been on another continent. There was nothing to see beyond this silent, thousand-year-old place of ghosts but jungle, nothing to hear but the thickening drone of insects as the evening came on. It was an astonishing thought that they had been drinking iced beers in a posh hotel only twenty minutes before. Even the air was primeval, full of the sharp, burnt-straw smell of Yucatan. Here they still cleared their cornfields for next year's crop by setting them aflame, just as they had done when Tlaloc bustled with life.
"Come,” Abe said. “I want you to have a look inside the temple."
The entrances to Mayan temples are generally doorless, but this one had been sealed by the government with a thick plywood barrier, now warped and spongy. A clumsy arrangement of metal bars and a massive padlock held it in place.
Abe grasped the padlock. “Yesterday when they sent me the key, I came up to have a look around. And this," he said dramatically, “is what I found.” When he lifted the lock it slid apart in his hand.
"It was already open?” Julie said.
Not merely open, but sawn neatly through the hasp.
"Looters?” Gideon wondered.
"Ah, you tell me,” Abe said. “Let's go in."
When the wooden barrier was wrenched out of the way, they found a jumble of stones and dirt inside, some of it piled three feet high. The collapsed stairwell in the center, re-excavated down to the landing by the police in 1982, was now crudely dug out a further six or seven steps. A dusty pickax lay at the bottom of the shaft. There was a spade propped in a corner, and a yellow plastic bucket on one of the dirt piles.
Abe turned to Gideon. “So, did it get left like this in 1982?"
"No, of course not. The police cleaned up after themselves, and I was here when the government sealed it. There have been looters here, all right."
"Just what I figured,” Abe said with a sigh. Then, mildly, as an afterthought: "Vay is mir."
"Woe is me,” Gideon abstractedly translated for Julie. He had been through enough crises with Abe to know the expression well. He was kneeling, looking closely at the spade in the beam of his flashlight, using his fingers to break up some clods of earth that had been stuck to it.
"But do you mean the Mexican government hasn't been guarding the site?” Julie asked. “Anyone can see it would be attractive to looters. Where there was one codex they'd think there might be another one."
"Highly unlikely,” Gideon said. “Wildly unlikely."
"Sure, you'd know that, but would they?"
"It was guarded,” Abe said. “One of
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