Belmopan Read online

  BELMOPAN

  B J FRENCH

  Copyright © 2011 B J French

  All rights reserved. Available at amazon.com www.pillarsofthemoon-belmopan.com www.facebook.com/brianfrenchauthor

  Cover design by Melissa Roshini Book design by Xuanyun Malcho

  ISBN: 1482771578 ISBN-13: 978-1482771572

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS To my wife Susana, for the ongoing support and encouragement. Family and friends that have helped me through the tough, then picked me up when I was down, and threw me back in.

  DISCLAIMER ‘Belmopan’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction i

  1 One 1

  2 Two 18

  3 Three 42

  4 Four 67

  5 Five 88

  6 Six 107

  7 Seven 117

  8 Eight 137

  9 Nine 147

  10 Ten 167

  11 Eleven 187

  12 Twelve 206

  13 Thirteen 228

  14 Fourteen 234

  15 Fifteen 247

  16 Sixteen 284

  INTRODUCTION One has to consider how such a wonderful creature such as man, with grace and intellect, can soar to unparalleled heights, and yet when provoked and instigated, can slide to depths of perversity and degradation.

  Throughout our prolonged history, there have been discovered unchangeable truths: inflicted pain is unpleasant and a gentle caress incites pleasure and serenity. Hunger pangs are discomforting, while eating is satisfying. Making love feels delightful, while receiving a punch in the nose, hurts. We as sentient beings are drawn to pleasurable experience and should shun painful experience. You may say, “ah, how profound” but it is truly one of the basis of our existence and all other behavior; to suggest otherwise is unnatural, copied or learned behavior.

  I have often wondered why a human being can be incited to kill another and yet ignore the inevitable pangs of guilt and remorse, at least for the time required to fulfill the deed. With the aid of our own physiology, a concoction of hormones, we can be incited to rape, murder and engage in a few lessobtrusive acts against our friends and neighbors; and yet, if we refrain for a time from stimulant exposure and are not subjected to reconditioning from outside sources, we can revert back to a tolerable level of moral conduct, should we desire to do so. The key

  i B J FRENCH phrase here is “desire to do so”. We must believe that people truly would like to help one-another and coexist more closely than we do today. Through isolation, whether through self-infliction, media stimulation or geographic necessity, we grow apart and fearful of close relationship. We watch in fear while regimes and groups of people struggle to be heard and are driven or swallowed up by waves of misrepresented truth and seductive lies.

  We have seen a tide of destruction weaved throughout the fabric of our history since its first recording. Is there a force that has propelled this abhorrent, learned behavior throughout our midst, unrecognizable and therefore unable to harness. Has there been a small group of individuals or individual that has been at the center of this storm of violence, and if so why have they, or he, been unimpeded from their actions and allowed to perpetuate this dominion. But, there has also been a resounding, positive influence lurking almost un-noticed, a light, seemingly more powerful than existence itself, in the background, as if waiting for mankind to reach a certain level of maturity, or enlightenment.

  Throughout our recorded history, there are clues to this great mystery that has intrigued us all. The solution to the unbroken chain of destruction is simpler and easier than you think; it could it be as simple as an insignificant little jade bowl, engraved with the hieroglyph of the Maya.

  There are several ‘pillars of truth’ that stand firm for us, all we have to do is remain steadfast in our belief that we are more than just mere mortals driven by our uncontrollable passions, and rise to the heights we were originally intended.

  ii

  ONE

  Dia uno (day one) The small, clay figurine that emerged from the earth was a prize. Its small, extended belly and protruding breasts denoted a female ready to give birth. Approximately three-inches in height, she was stylized with a pointed head and enlarged hands that clasped her belly; her feet were tucked beneath her thighs and were slightly spread to expose enlarged genitalia. This was the first time in twelve-hundred plus years that this little lady had looked to the sun, and what a glorious sun it was. Buried beneath, where she had slept, were a little, clay dish and a bag filled with cutting utensils, flattened to look more like the rotting mulch that surrounded it than its original leather.

  The dig assistant waved over the site supervisor, who in turn radioed the project director. Within a short period of time, they were all scrutinizing the little figurine and taking photos of the immediate area of excavation. A crowd of onlookers and associate workers began to mill about just beyond the grid pattern anticipating what the ground had released into their custody.

  The heat of the day had reached its apex and with the excitement of the find, a call to break would be in the offering. Carefully collecting up the valuable pieces the director had released in a wooden box, Shawna walked gingerly from the grid; a small entourage of curious companions followed closely down the wooded path to the tented compound that housed the temporary lab and living quarters.

  “Great find Shawna!” came the cries of her colleagues as they gathered around the tables to eat and drink their refreshments.

  A little overwhelmed by the heat and the exhilaration of the discovery, she felt the need to be alone. Slipping inconspicuously from the crowd after returning her food tray, she left the small compound to find shade and cool in one of the numerous alcoves created by time’s assault on the limestone ruins. Close to the jungle, Shawna sat secluded, hidden in the base of one of the many temples that made up the unique core of the Mayan metropolis. She listened to the wind in the trees and the din of life that harbored itself within the dense, jungle wall of vines and foliage. The loud clicking of beetle’s wings attended her to the aerial barrage of assorted insects that she had become aware of and now accustomed to. The curt cry of an allusive, large-billed, Toucan bird reminded her of the fact that, as she did today, a thousand years ago, a Toucan would have cried to another as they sat and looked to the jungle just beyond the metropolis that this once was. The mystery of these ruins and their vacation that had happened all so suddenly, gave rise to much speculation but little in true substance. She rubbed the thighs of her up-bent legs in a pensive gesture and closed her eyes to absorb the force of life that surrounded her.

  Shawna’s mind drifted to a place in the north; a different land that had a history and culture far more immature than this, and yet whose roots began in this very place not so far distant. Her family had its early lineage in the pueblo district of the mid-west. Through rough times of invasion and famine, they chose to migrate along the Columbia River basin to finally settle on the Pacific Coast. She remembered her Aunt and Uncle who raised her and now reside near Neah Bay, at the tip of the Olympic Peninsula; she missed them. Her work over the last year had been very stressful and physically draining. Moving residence and changing jobs several times to position herself in such a way as to be useful in the acquisition and transportation of the infamous ‘Pillars of the Moon’, jade bowl, were culprit. There was the passionate, short relationship with a Canadian photographer she had regretted to leave behind, whose help in procuring that same relic had been invaluable; it left an emotional bruise. She recounted the reasons for her speedy disappearance from the North. Initially, before her birth, was the loss
of an Uncle Daniel, in the thirties, while he was in pursuit of this very sacred Jade Bowl; then more recently, the beatings of several colleagues who had made clandestine inquiries as to its local; and now, just months ago with the near death of her dear friend Peter by being shot in the alley behind the Royal Museum in Victoria, British Columbia. She could lose no others. There were only a select few who knew the whereabouts of the bowl now, and Shawna’s invaluable role in its repatriation; this circumstance was to remain unchanged.

  “Shawna,” echoed in her ears. “Are you OK?” She looked up to see a handsomely dark, young man with a boyish face, of Mayan decent looking down to her, his lean frame silhouetted against the brightness beyond the alcove.

  “Yeah,” she replied, shaking the sleep from her head. “I must have dozed off.”

  “It’s very beautiful here isn’t it,” Edmundo sighed turning back toward the jungle beyond the perimeter? “When you did not return after lunch, some of the people got a little concerned. The Mayan gods have not had their appetites satisfied for a number of years now, you know.”

  Shawna gave a chuckle. “And how many young maidens have you personally saved from the clutches of these gods?”

  “Not near enough,” he responded with a hearty laugh. “Come, we have to get back to the dig before the vultures descend and make a mess of things.”

  “Ok!” Shawna chimed, reaching for his outstretched hand. “I’ve grown weary of waiting upon the gods for the few, measly morsels they cast our way.”

  “Patience Shawna, they have waited over a thousand years for appeasement, let’s not tempt them any further.”

  Edmundo was an assistant to the site supervisor. His knowledge of local history, as well as being able to speak Mayan, was an asset to the operation in many ways. His youth and vitality were thankful in comparison to the often austerity and sobriety of the other residents at hand. Not only was he in a position to learn but often teach as well. He took pleasure in being able to hone his English, language skills as a dig assistant during the summers, and in the cooler season as a tour guide for the Belize Tourist Board. He would often unleash his flamboyant orations describing sacrificial mutilations with glee on the unsuspecting tourists that came to visit the many Mayan ruins.

  As they returned through the open plaza, the surroundings were deafly quiet as if a switch had been flicked. They stopped for a moment to search and listen to the adjacent jungle - total silence. Looking toward each other in quandary, they continued to walk toward the distant compound. A gust of wind shook the treetops while a Howler monkey began to expound his distress for infringement of its territory. Weary of the experience, they both grimaced, acknowledging the monkey’s concern and burst into a run. Clearing the plaza through the ball court, they followed along the path through the center passed the spectator compound; the resonance of the jungle began to increase and the silences dwindle.

  It was two in the afternoon and time enough to put several more hours in at the temple’s upper court. Great mounds of rubble lay either side of the cleared pathway leading to the excavation area sheltering the clearing from the encroaching jungle. A large, water reservoir lay off to the right nearly hidden by trees and vines that bathed in the open, sun light close to the ravine’s edge. Black ABS pipes ran along the length of the walkway, to and fro from the compound and the excavation area, delivering the much-needed water for the washing of soil and bodies alike. It was only a short distance between the two, but very secluded with the density of the jungle between. Radios were supplied to team leaders in case of emergency, but to date there had never been any call to use them apart from the usual chatter of ‘break time’, ‘more water please’, and ‘what’s for supper?’

  Shawna and Edmundo had become good friends over the last weeks. Her arrival from Belmopan with the Director of Antiquities for all of Belize, had left an impression with the other co-workers that had set her apart from the rest of them. Edmundo was impressed with no thing and found Shawna’s cool and mature demeanor a catalyst to his pranks and practicality. Frequently, they would banter back and forth in oneupmanship leaving the rest of the work team in flux as to their comrade status. Wherever Shawna was working, Edmundo was always a short distance away and helping her out whenever he could. Their warm friendship had developed with no contrivance, but Shawna had always remained slightly distant. He felt slighted by the chasm but understood, like the gods, that the best things usually come around of their own doing in the end.

  There were only a few others working closely beside them in the grid area. It was rewarding work but for the most part painstakingly slow; every spoonful of soil being scraped away from the carved, stone floors and walls was then immediately scrutinized should any abnormality be found in its consistency.

  An hour had passed with little success to crown the earlier achievement when the skies began to darken with rain clouds that crept along the mountain range, unimpeded from the sea. Within minutes, the wind began to pick up and surrounded the site as if a force of its own identity was making claim to the majesty and grandeur beneath the rubble.

  “Come on Shawna,” Edmundo cried. “We had better head back.”

  “I’ll be right with you. I have several more inches to clear. Don’t worry,” she said with a wave, “two minutes!”

  A phone call from his sister at the ministry a half hour earlier, concerned Edmundo; he wanted to return it before the reception completely collapsed with the approaching storm. A doctor, who said he had come all the way from Canada to find a Ms. Shawna Brook, working one of the sites, asked for information. Edmundo had told her to find out more information on this fellow and he would get back to her.

  Edmundo waved an ‘I give up’ at the sky and slowly descended down to the foot of the wide, stone stairway with the others. With an armful of picks, garden spades and brushes, he slowly followed down the path when all of a sudden, ‘Crackkk!’ He turned just in time to see a continuous bolt of lightning hit the pinnacle of the temple and what he thought to be the outline of a man just below the bold petroglyphs on the next tier.

  “What in the heck?” he objected out-loud. “What is he doing up there? All staff apart from…,” he stopped in mid thought.

  Fear gripped him. All he could think of was Shawna. Dropping the tools there on the path, he bolted back to the base of the stairs and started to scream after Shawna. With no reply through the increasing droplets of rain, he raced up the stairs to the plateau and the work area. Shawna was nowhere to be seen.

  “Shawna!” he screamed again and again, but no answer.

  Walking over to where she had last been, her tools lay scattered as if dropped, a Macaw feather lay floating in the water that had accumulated in the hollowed area. Down the slope away from the temple, the strings of the grid pattern stretched toward the jungle. In the increasing wash of the rain, the footprints and the scrapes in the loose soil by the edge of the dig began to melt away. Racing down the side of the elevated tell in the slippery mud, Edmundo slid feet first into the foliage and denseness that lay beyond. Stunned, he lay on his back, buried to his waist in tangled underbrush, looking up to the droplets that danced and eddied before his eyes, he began to lament. Defeated, he lay in terror, someone had taken Shawna.

  It seemed to take hours before the police came. With the cloud-cover of the ensuing storm and the quick setting of the sun, by six, it had been almost impossible to start a search. Several, small groups, headed by Edmundo and a few radioed lead men, made short forays into the jungle but were turned back by the swarms of mosquitoes in the newly damp undergrowth. Discouraged and distraught, they returned with only trace evidence of the escape route. By seven o’clock, several Gazelle helicopters from the British contingency doing maneuvers at the Corozal Training Area, aided in the search, but by eleven o’clock, ground operations were called off until the morning. The spotters in the Gazelles would continue with their night vision goggles. It would be doubtful, after the slow drizzle through the night, that there would
be any trace left by Shawna’s abductors. The British were able to set up a ten-mile perimeter around the site, with the ‘Jungle Jedi’ heading up the reconnaissance, but gave few guarantees of success. A small group of men, traveling light would be fast and almost impossible to trace along the ravines and dense foliage of this mountainous area. There was always a possibility of a chance sighting, and with that, hope.

  “But why would anyone wish to kidnap Shawna?” came the question at the meeting in the tented cafeteria.

  “At this time we can only guess and hope for the best,” replied the director of the camp, half sitting on the lead table at the front. “I have made a call to the Ministry in Belmopan, for direction and have had the Belize Defense Force called up. I have decided to suspend operations till we have some idea of what has happened.

  “When is the full moon?” questioned Edmundo, straining to look at the large display board outlining the daily proceedings.

  “Why do you ask?” petitioned an assistant sitting close by. The room became silent.

  “There was a feather at the abduction site; the same kind that adorned the ceremonial headdresses of the priests long ago.”

  “Are you insinuating she was abducted for some ritual to be held at the full moon?”

  “I certainly hope not. But the feather was placed there for a reason, a calling card.”

  “Thank you for your insight Edmund,” came the call from the director, “but I think we shall wait until we hear from the Ministry.”

  With that, the director left the for-front and went to sit with several of the British officers to one side.

  “By the time he gets answers to the questions that may or may not help, Shawna could be dead,” Edmundo whispered to several of his colleagues close by. “I’m outta here.”

  Grabbing his field radio and a few belongings from his quarters, he loaded his small, blue pickup truck and headed away from the compound. The question foremost on his mind, ‘who was this fellow from Canada and what did he want with Shawna’?