Belmopan Page 8

  “What are you doing?” Brian screamed.

  “I’m not sure.” he replied.

  “What are you looking for?”

  ‘I don’t know,”

  “Then get outta there.”

  He continued to look about the paper-laden desks spotted throughout the office till hurried footsteps were heard coming down the stairs from the next floor up.

  “Steve!” Brian shouted, alerting him to the possible intrusion.

  Without enough time to clear the countertop, he tucked himself beside a filing cabinet just out of sight.

  The door opened, “Hello, can I help you?” came the question from an elderly, graying clerk.

  “Ah, well yes, ah, I would like to get permission to take some pictures and film one of the archaeological sites.”

  “Which one, the number in your party; what equipment will you be taking? Do you need guides, or will you be supplying your own?” He looked down at the dumb expression on Brian’s face. “You will have to fill out a form and submit it tomorrow; we are just about to close. I will have to get it for you.”

  He exited the office door and then out through the front, foyer doors. At that moment, Steve bolted from behind the cabinet and jumped the counter without so much as moving one paper out of place. The clerk entered from another door beyond the counter and came to face them from behind the counter; with a form in his out-stretched hand, he looked at Steve, then to Brian and then back to Steve. He began to say something, but shook his head and continued with his instructions to Brian.

  “You need to fill this out and bring it back to me. You will also need police clearance and approval from the Park Warden of the site you wish to visit. I can arrange that for you.”

  As they left the building, from the distance they heard the sound of thunder. It sounded quite odd and within minutes saw an army helicopter skimming the trees. Approaching from the west, it began to make a landing in the clearing just beyond the building. Both the Canadians leaned on the car and watched as the helicopter slowly touched down. With its radials slowing down, the side-door slid open and its passengers exited from below the drooping blades. As they walked closer, in single file, their faces became more visible, and to Brian’s surprise recognition of one of the individuals. Amalia’s American husband, or boyfriend, whoever he was, was walking with his secretary close behind a military official of high rank. They talked intensely taking no notice of anyone, or thing, around them and did not observe the waiting two.

  Dia quatro (day 4)

  The next morning brought little encouragement when the proceedings of the day started at the Police station. A fax from Interpol, to complete their clearance-application for the permit to film the ruins, seemed to take forever. Hind-sight is always 20/20, and if Brian had kept his intentions quiet, entering the sites as a tourist, camera bag in tow, Steve and he could have shot film and investigated to their hearts content without a second glance or hindrance. But, fate always has a way of bringing all of us onto a path, or occurrence, that staggers our intellect as to whether life is truly random, or predestined (they both sat callously regurgitating the experience of six years ago).

  On their way back to the Archaeology Building from the station, they passed an expensive, but beat-up SUV, with a familiar face behind the wheel, ‘Magnus!’ Both their heads turned at the same time and watched intently as he pulled into the gas station they had just passed.

  Awestruck and elated, Steve accidently drove off the shoulder and into a stand of bushes. Just out of sight, they eased themselves from the car to view the damage. Keeping one eye on Magnus only a few hundred yards away, they got on all fours to view the undercarriage. Luckily, there was no visible damage to the car and only broken branches to the bushes. Able to back out almost as easily as they had gone in, Brian reversed the car to the other side of the road and waited till Magnus had finished his transaction. Pulling out and following him at a fair distance, they watched as he circled the round-a-bout heading for the Western Highway and San Ignacio, a small town near the border of Guatemala.

  “What shall we do?” Brian screamed at Steve.

  “Brainwave, we have to go back to the ministry. Our names are on an application we are about to submit, remember.”

  “Oh, yeah!”

  In silence, Brian drove the round-a-bout several times considering the next plan of action until Steve elbowed him and pointed in the direction of town.

  The parking lot at the ministry was full of police and army personnel-carriers. Entering slowly, they found a parking spot sheltered between two large vehicles.

  Recollecting, once again, the incident of six years ago with concern, they came to the frightful conclusion the police were here to arrest them. “What do we do, run for it?”

  “And go where.” Steve asserted. “Interpol came up with our names from the diving we did before in Mexico.”

  “Then I suppose there is no reason for running?”

  “No, I guess not.” Steve replied.

  They both got out of the car and headed for the office.

  ‘In Her Majesty’s Service’ royal emblem, gracing the sides of the vehicle’s doors, a number of British soldiers waited on the grass, and side-glanced the two as they proceeded up the walkway to the rear door. With dry mouths and beads of sweat on their brows, they entered the office now crammed with a variety of people and one reporter.

  They were met with the glance from the clerk of the previous day, waving them over to a vacant corner of the counter. He gestured Brian to give him the application.

  “Thanks, you will have to go now,” he asserted. “As you can see we are very busy. Just go ahead and if there is a problem, we will let you know.”

  “Let’s go!” whispered Steve, elbowing Brian once again.

  “Waite! Let’s see what is going on.”

  Once outside, the comparatively cool air eased the tension from their imaginary plight.

  “If they’re not after us, then who?”

  “Or what?” Steve replied.

  Just then, the news reporter came out and tucked himself by the wall to light up a smoke. Slightly greying with age, and a little frumpy from too much desk work, he searched all his pockets. Not having a lighter or match, he came over to where they were. Steve reached in his pocket and produced the necessary lighter.

  “Thanks,” he sighed, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. “May I offer you one?”

  Steve reaching for one, smiled; Brian, with the wave of his hand, declined.

  “Boy, this is mayhem, huh.”

  “Yeah,” the reporter replied, shaking his head in disapproval. “I didn’t introduce myself,” taking Steve’s hand. “Owen, James Owen, from the Provincial News.”

  “I’m Steve, and this is Brian.

  “Look at these troops,” Steve attested taking a drag on his smoke, scanning the army personnel and trucks filling the parking area. “British-to-boot.”

  “There has been nothing like this since a huge shipment of cocaine was intercepted several years back.” James cited.

  “Another one?” Brian interjected.”

  “No,” Owen responded, “search and rescue. Or should I say recovery. A woman archaeologist was abducted from one of the sites just this side of the Guatemalan border. She won’t make it though. They never do. They’ll never find her.”

  A bad feeling began to well up inside Brian. Steve took a noticeably, deep drag from his cigarette.

  “Oddly enough, yesterday there was an attempted abduction from the oddest place,” Owen continued, “the Museum of Natural History, in Belize City.”

  The blood drained from Brian’s face. Maria wasn’t robbed, she was almost kidnapped.

  Steve took a last drag and flicked the stub against the brick wall, sending sparks in all directions.

  “Thanks for the smoke. We have to go.”

  Steve grabbed Brian’s arm and directed him to the passenger’s seat. “Let’s go. We have one chance to get a go at this, and
he’s left already.”

  Startled by their quick retreat, Owen intuitively decided these two knew something, and he was going to find out, ‘a morsel of truth could feed a feast of speculation’; the game was a-foot.

  FIVE

  Dia tres, temprano (day 3, early) Dr. Magnus The candlelight highlighted the dark, moist skin as Magnus caressed the thigh and hip of his young, sleeping companion. Covering her nakedness with the bed-sheet, he silently crept over to the desk that housed his personal belongings and paper work. He had not been all that comfortable with his meeting earlier with his Canadian acquaintances and wondered at their true purpose. His instincts told him that they were not being entirely honest; but then again, who was? For that reason, and that reason alone, Magnus had been able to remain active in his pursuits and a step in front of the ‘functioning’ law enforcement. He didn’t consider the Canadians a threat, but understood the nature of these two men, as haphazard as it may have been. Then, there was an urgent call on the message machine the day before from San Ignacio, a student he had befriended a number of years back, needed information and would call again.

  Looking through his journal of past meetings and events, nothing stuck out that could refresh his memory as to the true purpose of their being in Belize. Concerned, but not overly troubled, he got up from the desk, looked over to his beautiful friend and preceded down the stairs to the gated courtyard that led to his workshop. Several dogs barked ominously in the distant, but that was all that this sleepy hour aroused.

  Freeing several locks and loosening the bolts of the door to his lower warehouse, he swung it open exposing a room full of artifacts. Miniature, stone stelae welcomed him from their precarious perches above cupboards full of other clay figurines. Colored etchings of popular Mayan cave paintings and glyphs adorned its walls, while others lay strewn across a large worktable. Shards and chips of clay lay on the floor beneath a small, round work-stand; a chisel and hammer lay across its table as if ready for use.

  Magnus crossed the littered expanse to a potter’s wheel in the corner and sat down to scrape the hardened clay from its table. Surrounding him on either side where low shelves cluttered with small bowels and vases in the likeness and period of the classical Maya. Uncovering a pail, he reached in and pulled a fresh clump of clay and began to work it to the wheel until it formed the smooth likeness of a bowl. Placing his slippery, wet hands on his knees, he stared down and watched as the kicking-stone slowed the piece to near standstill. Sitting motionless for some time, he stared blankly as the piece became lob-sided and slid out-ofshape with the slowing momentum; he had a clue. Without washing his hands, he turned off the lights and re-secured the doors to the room. He silently walked upstairs.

  The half empty bottle of rum attested to the condition of Magnus as he slept, His head propped back on the shoulder of the armchair, his closed eyes staring blindly at the fifty dollars BZ that lay on the coffee table under his feet. The young woman now awake, got dressed, gathered her few things and left down the narrow stairs into the fresh, morning air.

  Magnus’ sleep had been fitful. He dreamed of a dark presence, an entity that haunted him and would often return to him during times of trouble and uncertainty. In his dream, the day was bright and colorful. A stunningly beautiful woman and a young child ran frightened, aimlessly through the large courtyard of a familiar ruin. He was of younger age then, and watched from a distance as the woman, his wife, fell and reached toward the young girl who continued to run towards him. Kneeling in close embrace, the two of them watched helplessly as the earth opened up and swallowed his prone wife. Turning to run away with the girl in his arms, the psychic force of the gaping earth followed them as they tried to escape through the maze of the ruins. He usually awoke at this point in a cold sweat, heart racing, but this morning, he was still too drunk to get out of the chair.

  In early-life, Magnus’ studies had taken him to the ruins in the northern, Yucatan forest, just north of Chichen-Itza. Ek Balaam was still an obscure, isolated ruin that had remained unnoticed and out of the scrutiny of foreign archaeologists. It offered an excellent chance for local teachers and students alike to dig and study without the bothersome intrusions and interruptions that notoriety would bring. Treasure hunters and site-seers, oft-times would descend on these unsuspecting delights and unknowingly remove or destroy valuable threads to the woven fabric of the early Mayan history. It was close to here that Steve and I paid our dues to Magnus for orchestrating our liberation from the local Policia all those years ago.’ His wife Angelina, had been helping him with his studies and had accompanied him on many of his outings to the ruins. They were very much in love and had a daughter, who although quite young, accompanied them on their excursions.

  The Ek-Balaam ruins were similar to most of the others in the area apart from the many alcoves and stalls and what some would consider for horses and mules. The great pyramid was a grand edifice that had at its crown, a small-courted area for a lookout. From its heights you could span the peninsula to the other sites in the area, Chichen-Itza being the most prominent.

  Magnus had spent many of his scholarly years gleaning through the ruins and ancient texts to determine the true nature of ‘Lord Balaam’. For most intents and purposes, the lord of Ek Balaam was not unusual and was, in folklore, considered one of the original four sons made by the Creator. There were several facts that intrigued Magnus, one of which was this individual never married as the others did, and also had the ability to command ‘nature’ at will (directing a gourd to bring forth bees that debilitated a throng of disgruntled subjects). Iqui-Balaam had traveled through the Quiche-Maya relatively unambiguously, remaining close to the other prolific brothers, who began to father nations, but in obscurity. The ancient text of the ‘Popol Vuh’ (not complete) records the lineage of the other three brothers, but not of IquiBalaam.

  Magnus’ studies took him worldwide to Ethiopia, the Middle East, Bosnia and other countries. He spent years trying to locate the sources of related folklore, along with the sources of foreign coins found in the Maya-ruins. He studied the texts of these civilizations in regard to the sacrificial ceremonies and the origins of the Canaanite god Baal. The evidence he gleaned began to point to a small group of individuals, or perhaps even one, who traveled from place to place throughout the world, bringing their sordid beliefs and ceremonies to an unsuspecting populace. These beings, through civil rebellion of their subjects, would eventually be routed and forced to relocate to another unsuspecting community hundreds, or thousands, of miles away. To an ignorant, subservient people, these individuals would appear as gods, perpetuating their awesome and grievous acts on naive people; if these were, as the Scriptures suggest ‘fallen angels”, then these would be immortal beings, having a wealth of knowledge that would far exceed anything known on earth. Only after the coming of individuals like Quetzacoatl (feathered serpent) from ancient Mexico, and the mysterious enlightened Cuculcan, often regarded as one and the same, was there any relief or teaching away from idol worship and sacrifice. It was through Magnus’ inquisitiveness and initial publication of his findings, that he began to receive the threats to his life and that of his family. Unrelenting, he continued with his work and publications which unfortunately brought about the disappearance and eventual death of his wife. His daughter, who is now a physician, remained safe and the two of them, out of the country, pursued careers at a northern university only later to return to Central America, and for Magnus, to continue in the search for his wife’s murderers.

  Reaching forward to the front-edge of the chairs’ arm, Magnus pulled himself forward to sit spreadkneed before the coffee table. His red-eyes scanned the surface noting the ashtray, half-empty rum bottle, and the now absent fifty dollars. Rubbing his eyes and running his fingers through his graying, thin hair, Magnus staggered to the small washroom that housed nothing more than a stained sink and a soiled toilet. The dripping tap spurted a few streams of brownish water before it released a clean, clear, usable flow.
A wet towel hanging from a wall-hook attested to its use earlier that morning and was discarded to a pile of soiled linens in the corner. Water dripping from his face, Magnus re-entered the living room only to discover the remains of his wallet scattered over the bed where she had left them. A yellow, happy-face button and a ceramic-clay dildo were all that were left in the indentation where his companion had lain. A smile came to his face. He had enjoyed the company last night but not as much as meeting his daughter earlier after supper. The meeting with the Canadians, and then several hours with his daughter, had stirred emotions and concerns he had not felt for a while. His young friend of later that evening was nothing more than an attempt to return to a younger and perhaps more happier time; at least that was what the rum helped to convince him of.

  The joyful shrill of a morning-bird brought him from his self-induced stupor and focused him on the task at hand, Belmopan.

  Loading the few tools and papers he had hastily prepared into his vehicle, he turned to take a quick scan of the property to ensure he had forgotten nothing. The elderly lady from the house next-door peeked through the bars of his courtyard to bid him farewell. There were few people he could trust with his belongings; not that he would expect her to foil an intrusion to his property, but trusted her to do the right thing should there be an occurrence. Besides, Magnus was a bit of an oddity and an enigma to the people in the neighborhood. Some thought of him as an eccentric, old professor, others a crazy, old pervert, but regardless, he had the respect of the majority for his work with the local community.

  The inclement weather of the night before had missed the area and had passed further west along the mountain range running from the south. Reports of downed trees and flooding in the low-lying, reclaimed areas would not affect the traveling to the capital. The roads leading from the southern suburbs were dry and Magnus left billowing clouds of dust in his wake as he drove hastily from their outskirts. The road to Belmopan was bumpy, but well paved, and the quickest. Magnus had thought of taking the back route, but this would have added several hours and he needed to get to his old friend Henry, at the office in Belmopan. There was an uncertainty he had felt when he considered a bowl that had been recovered in the northwest some months previous, and wondered whether there were a connection with the Canadians. The bowl, he knew was of Olmec origin and had read the brief article in a scientific journal published only weeks previous, about its discovery at Ossette and its known history to date. The brief mention of a ‘foreign group’ lobbying for its release gave Magnus metered concern for the circumstances surrounding the artifacts repatriation, so obviously native to the area. He would run it by Henry.