Ruins (17 page)

"Sort of like failing a supernatural IQ test," Mulder muttered.

Aguilar rummaged around in his pocket for paper and tobacco to fashion himself another cigarette. A beautiful green-feathered bird flitted across the plaza from one tall tree to another, singing out a thin musical call. The Indians stopped their work, pointing up and chattering to each other in amazement.

"Look, the quetzal bird," Aguilar said, nodding. He took off his ocelot-skin hat to shade his eyes in the slanted morning light. "Very precious. The Maya used quetzal feathers for many of their ceremonial dresses."

Rubicon frowned and looked around as if he might see some sign of his daughter, while Mulder turned back to Aguilar, exasperated. "Do they know what happened to Cassandra, or not?"

Aguilar shrugged. "All I know is that Senorita Rubicon was safe and quite happy with the work await-ing her when I left her to return to Cancun."

"Let's get busy looking for her, then," Scully said.

"These ruins may extend for a mile or so," Rubicon said, stretching out his arm, "with separate sites or tem-ple buildings blocked off from each other by the dense trees and vegetation."

"Tell the locals what we're searching for," Scully sug-gested. "Maybe they can help us comb the site."

Aguilar passed on the information, and the Indians dispersed to the jungle, diligently scouring the fallen ruins, talking excitedly with each other. Some looked uneasy, some confused, others eager, as they undertook the exploration.

Scully, Mulder, and Rubicon wandered around Xitaclan, walking the length of the overgrown ball court, poking in alcoves and niches, searching for clues, bod-ies—or even a note explaining that Cassandra and her companions had gone off to get groceries.

Scully said, "Their team consisted of an engineer, two archaeologists, a hieroglyphics expert, and a pho-tographer. No real survival expert in the bunch." She scanned the clotted trees, low palms, the dense vegeta-tion hanging from the branches. The sun lit everything like a spotlight.

"Even if all the helpers ran off, like they did last night, I still can't imagine Cassandra's team trying to make their own way through the jungle. We just com-pleted our own hike to get here," she said. "I wouldn't want to do that without a guide."

"Cassandra was good at survival," Rubicon said. "She had topographical maps and plenty of common sense."

Scully lowered her voice. "I studied the maps myself last night, and I'm not certain our friend Aguilar brought us on the most straightforward path. I think he might have been delaying us for some reason."

"I don't trust him either," Mulder said, "but he seems more like an obnoxious used-car salesman than an out-right criminal."

"Remember, this is a rough country, Agent Mulder," Rubicon said. "However, if the Maya helpers had indeed abandoned Cassandra and her friends, it would be only a matter of time before she was forced to take some drastic action.

They'd have to find their way back to civilization somehow."

"So Aguilar dropped them off, leaving his Indian helpers here ... and then the Indians could have aban-doned the team," Scully said. "Maybe another ground tremor?"

Rubicon nodded, blinking repeatedly in the bright sunlight. "I hope that's what happened."

"With no more supplies," Scully pointed out, "Cassandra would have had no choice but to fight her way through the jungles."

"But would they all have gone together?" Mulder asked. He ran his fingers along the glyph-carved wall blocks of the ball court. Something small and fast skit-tered into a shadowy crack. "It would make sense that, say, two of the team members would go to get help while the rest remained here."

"You saw how difficult the jungles were, Mulder," Scully said. "Maybe she thought it was their best bet not to separate."

"It still doesn't sound right," Mulder said.

Rubicon shook his head. His white-blond hair clung to his skull, cemented by perspiration. "For myself, I hope that story is true, because then there's still hope for my little girl."

From not far off in the jungle, they heard a shout of excitement. One of the Indians called over and over. "Let's go," Mulder said, running. "They've found some-thing."

Vladimir Rubicon puffed and wheezed, keeping up with them as they stepped over fallen trees, climbed rocks, splashed through streams. Once Mulder startled a large animal that bounded off into the ferns and shrubs. He couldn't see what it was, but he felt a sud-den cold sensation, a lump in his throat. Perhaps he would get a better look at one of those slithering crea-tures he had half-imagined in the moonlight the night before. Could it be the basis for certain Maya myths, monstrous predators responsible for the numerous dis-appearances over the years . . . including Cassandra Rubicon's?

Before long, they came upon a small temple barely the size of a tool shed.

Though ancient and overgrown, it seemed sturdy enough. Much of the underbrush had been cleared away, the creepers pulled down to expose stone walls, a low-ceilinged interior.

Near the opening, one of the Maya helpers stood looking cowed while Fernando Aguilar snapped at him, his face stormy and livid—but the moment Aguilar saw the approaching Americans, his expression transformed miraculously. He swept off his spotted hat. "Look what we have found, amigos!" he said. "Equipment stored by Senorita Rubicon's team!"

In the temple shadows, a pile of crates huddled under a tarp. Like a matador taunting a bull, Aguilar grabbed the corner of the tarp and yanked it off to reveal the cache of supplies.

"Senorita Rubicon's team must have left these crates here protected from wild animals. Though the other equipment has vanished, these items appear to have been untouched. What a lucky find for us."

"But why would she leave all this here?" Scully said quietly.

"Look, food supplies and the radio transmitter," Aguilar said. "This large box has something else inside it." Aguilar bent down to scrutinize the crate. He ges-tured for one of the Indians to help him pry open the top.

"Mulder," Scully kept her voice low, "do you know what this means? Cassandra couldn't have gone off in search of supplies. There's enough food here for weeks, and the team could have used the transmitter to call for help any time."

Vladimir Rubicon eagerly bent forward to inspect the large crate, shouldering aside the Indian and using his big-knuckled fingers to pull open the top of the crate while Aguilar stepped back to observe.

Scully watched, surprised to see the contents. "It's an underwater suit and air hoses," she said, puzzled. "Was Cassandra intending to explore the cenote?"

"That makes good archaeological sense," Rubicon said, nodding vigorously. "In those deep wells artifacts are preserved for centuries and centuries. Yes, she would have wanted to go down there, my Cassandra—just like Thompson."

Scully swatted away a stinging fly. "Who was Thompson? I don't recall any member of their team with that name."

Startled from his concentration, Rubicon looked up from the weather-stained crates. "Who? Oh, Thompson— no, I meant Edward Thompson, the last of the great ama-teur archaeologists here in the Yucatan. He spent years studying the cenote at Chichen Itza, where he found the single greatest treasure trove of Maya artifacts ever recovered."

Skeptically, Mulder held up the diving suit's limp sleeve of rubberized canvas fabric. "He dove down into a deep sacrificial well like the one out there?" He gestured back toward the main plaza and the tall pyramid.

Rubicon shook his head. "Uh, not at first. He spent years dredging, dropping a cast-iron bucket down to the bottom, scooping up loads of muck, and sifting through it by hand. He recovered bones and cloth and jade, several intact skulls—one of which had been used as a ceremo-nial censer and still smelled of perfume.

"But after a while, Thompson decided that the clumsy dredge couldn't do as good a job as a diver working hands-on. He had planned for that possibility when he launched his original expedition, buying the equipment, acquiring training. He taught his four Indian helpers how to operate the air pumps, the winches."

Rubicon looked down at the diving suit his daughter had intended to wear, and seemed to suppress a shudder. "When Thompson went under the cenote, the solemn Indians waved goodbye to him, confident they'd never see him again. In his own words, he sank 'like a bag of lead,' thirty feet down into water so dark that even his flashlight couldn't penetrate it. At the bottom he felt around in the mud to find artifacts—coins, jade, sculp-tures, rubber objects.

"But despite his armored diving suit, Thompson sus-tained severe ear damage from his dives. The locals looked on him with awe from that point on—he was the only living person ever to have gone into the sacred cenote and survive."

Scully nodded. "And you think your daughter intended to follow in his footsteps, exploring the Xitaclan cenote."

Mulder pawed around the equipment packed into the crates. "Doesn't look like she had a chance to use the suit, though," he said. "The manufacturer's warranty sticker is still on it."

"She was interrupted before she could complete her investigations," Rubicon said.

Mulder saw Fernando Aguilar flash a final angry glance at the Indian, who turned away, his shoulders slumped.

"Yes, but interrupted by what?" Mulder said.

*******

Together, they climbed the steps of the central Pyramid of Kukulkan. Panting in the humid air, they exerted themselves up the steep incline and the narrow and uneven limestone stairs.

"Careful," Mulder said seriously. "It's not very sta-ble."

Rubicon bent to inspect the weathered stairs them-selves, pointing out carvings that had been picked clean, the moss removed, the dirt and limestone pow-der brushed away from the cracks.

"See, Cassandra's team has cleaned the first twelve steps. If I could read these glyphs, we could learn why the Maya built Xitaclan, what made this place such a sacred site." He stood up, pressing a hand against his lower back. "But I'm not an expert in this form. Few peo-ple are. Maya glyphs are among the most difficult of all mankind's written languages to decipher. That's why Cassandra brought her own special epigrapher with her team."

"Yes," Scully said, "Christopher Porte."

Rubicon shrugged. "I understand he was quite skilled."

"Let's see what's on the top of the pyramid," Mulder said, and trudged higher up the steep incline.

"Probably an open-air temple," Rubicon answered. "The high priest would stand on the platform and face the rising sun before he made his sacrifices."

At the top, Mulder stopped, placed his hands on his hips, and drew a deep breath as he took in the spectacu-lar view.

The Central American jungle spread out like a flat carpet as far as he could see, trees laden with vines, everything a lush, lush green. Stone temple ruins in the distance poked up through the foliage like giant tomb-stones.

"The past is strong in this place," Rubicon muttered.

Mulder could imagine the Maya priests feeling god-like, standing so close to heaven under the pounding morning sun. The crowds would have waited in the plaza below, congregating after their labors out in the forest where they slashed and burned to plant crops of maize and beans and peppers. The priest stood here at the top, perhaps with his drugged or bound sacrificial victim, ready to shed blood to honor the gods.

Mulder's runaway imagination was jarred when old Vladimir Rubicon cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted "Cassandra!" into the jungle. His words echoed across the landscape, startling birds from the treetops. "Cassandra!"

he bellowed again.

Rubicon looked around, listening, waiting. Mulder and Scully stood next to the archaeologist, holding their breath. The old man had tears in his eyes. "I had to try," he said, shrugging his bony shoulders.

Then, looking embarrassed, Rubicon turned to the tall temple pillars and the flat platform. Mulder saw elabo-rate stone designs chiseled into the limestone, flecks of paint still visible in the protected crevices and crannies.

The builders of Xitaclan had repeated the feathered serpent motif again and again, creating conflicting impressions of fear and protection, power and sub-servience. Other drawings showed a tall man, faceless, with some strange body armor or a suit, flames flowing from behind him. A rounded covering on his head that looked unmistakably like a ...

"Doesn't that figure remind you of something, Scully?" he asked.

She crossed her arms over her chest, then shook her head. "You're not going to connect ancient astronauts with a missing-persons case, are you, Mulder?"

"Just looking at the evidence with my own eyes," he said quietly. "Maybe Cassandra found some information that others wanted to keep hidden."

"That is Kukulkan," Rubicon said, not hearing Mulder as he pointed to other images that showed a strangely shaped ship, coiled designs that may well have been pieces of machinery or equipment. "Very powerful and very wise, he brought knowledge down from the sky. He stole fire from the gods and delivered it to the people."

Mulder looked at Scully, raising his eyebrows. "Just a myth," she said.

Rubicon put his half-glasses on his nose; then, realiz-ing how useless the gesture was, slipped them back off again to let them dangle at his throat.

"God of wind, the master of life, Kukulkan brought civilization to the Maya people at the beginning of time. He invented metallurgy. He was the patron of every art."

"A Renaissance kind of guy," Mulder said.

"Kukulkan ruled for many centuries until eventually his enemy Tezcatlipoca drove him out—uh, the guy whose corpse gave off such a smell. Kukulkan had to return to his homeland, so he burned his own houses, which were built of silver and shells, and then set sail to the east on the sea. Kukulkan disappeared, promising he would return to the people one day."

Mulder felt the excitement beating in his heart. "Houses built of silver and shells" could have meant metal and glass; adding all the fire imagery, he pictured a rocket or a spaceship.

"The Maya people were so convinced by their leg-end," Rubicon continued, shading his eyes to look toward the horizon, "that they stationed sentries to watch the east coast, uh, waiting for Kukulkan. When the Spaniards came in their tall galleons, wearing bright metal breastplates, the Maya were convinced Kukulkan had returned."