"No,” Gideon said truthfully. “But he almost brained me with some kind of heavy chain. And he was trying like hell to kick me over the edge. At least that's the way it felt."
"But why? What possible reason could he have? You don't suppose...” She stopped walking. “That threat? The one you said couldn't mean anything, that was just so much bluster?"
He shrugged. “Maybe I was wrong."
"Did you get a look at him at all? Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"
"No, I couldn't see, I couldn't hear. The whole thing caught me by surprise, and it couldn't have lasted more than five seconds. Most of which I spent trying not to roll over the edge."
"But you must have been able to tell something. Was he big? Small? Skinny? Fat?"
"I just don't know; he seemed pretty strong, but there really wasn't any way to tell. I never got my hands on him."
They began to walk again, preferring not to fall too far behind the group of people that had been ousted by the guard. Gideon's ear was beginning to ache, his ribs to pulse with pain. The adrenaline-generated anesthesia of danger was starting to wear off.
"I know what you're thinking,” she said. “You're thinking it was somebody from the dig."
That's what he was thinking, all right.
Julie jerked her head. “Gideon, I just can't make myself believe it was any of those people. The threat—all right, maybe. But to actually attack you...with a
chain
—anyway, how could they even know we were going to the sound-and-light show? We didn't tell anybody."
"No, but any of them could easily have been following us. They could have trailed us to the show, and then when I went up the stairs they might have sneaked around to the far side of the wall, climbed up, and edged their way along it during the performance. And the whole crew went to the show last week. They'd know just the moment when I'd be blinded—"
He sighed. “Would you say this lacks a certain plausibility?"
"Just a little.” She turned her head to look up at him. “Gideon, don't get angry, but isn't this beginning to sound just the tiniest bit paranoid to you? You can't even be sure it was an American. Maybe it was someone who never saw you before. Somebody nutty, or a wino or dope addict who was spending the night up there."
Gideon thought it over. “I suppose it could have been."
"Isn't that a more reasonable explanation?"
Gideon put a hand on either side of her waist. “Yes,” he said with a smile, “it is."
"After all, you said you smelled wine, didn't you?"
"Yes, that's true."
"And if it only lasted a few seconds before you scared him off, and it was dark, and you were scuffling, how can you be positive he wasn't just trying to rob you?"
"You're right, I can't."
"And do you really believe all this, or are you just humoring me?"
"I'm just humoring you,” Gideon said. “Somebody was trying to kill me."
When Gideon awakened the next morning he stretched before thinking, then followed it with an immediate and heartfelt groan.
"Feeling a little achy?” Julie murmured beside him.
"If you call an inability to move without excruciating pain a little achy, then I suppose you could say I'm a little achy. God, I feel like the Tin Man after a year in the rain."
Julie kissed him sleepily somewhere near the left eyebrow and rolled out of bed, yawning. “I'll get you some aspirin."
"Thanks. About forty should do it."
While she rummaged in the toiletry kit that had been placed on the bathroom windowsill but not yet unpacked, Gideon lay on his back, careful not to move. Although he rarely fell back asleep once awake, this time he drowsed, slipping into a troubling dream, perhaps the continuation of a dream he'd been having when he woke up.
He was a child again, lying on an operating table, alone in an immense, cold room. He was frightened, his heart in his mouth. Something awful was going to happen to him. There was an ominous grinding noise, and the table, which had wheels, began to slide over the linoleum floor, slowly at first, gradually building up to a blurred speed, then coming to halt in another huge room. There, silent, elongated figures in white surgical gowns and masks glided as if on skates. The smell of ether was strong in Gideon's nostrils.
Terrified, he held himself perfectly still. He stopped breathing. He shut his eyes.
But they saw him all the same. One of the tall, slender figures approached, holding a scalpel in a rubber-gloved hand. The figure mumbled something. As he spoke the mask fell away and Gideon could see that there was no human mouth beneath it; no human flesh at all, but the curved, bony jaws of a fish.
The figure towered over him. The scalpel had changed to a flint knife. He lay the point against Gideon's collarbone and pressed. Screaming, Gideon kicked out at him.
"Ow!” the monster cried.
Ow?
His eyes flipped open. Julie was sitting on the side of the bed, her hand gently touching his shoulder, fingertips on his collarbone. “Are you okay? I think you were dreaming. Here's your aspirin."
He took the two tablets, swallowed some water, and fell back onto the bed, trying to hold onto the dream's fragmenting images.
"Julie,” he said slowly, “it was an American."
"You were having a dream, Gideon,” she said soothingly.
"No, last night. The guy that jumped me. He was an American."
"Last night? But how could you tell? I thought he didn't say anything."
"He grunted. He said ‘ow.’ I just remembered. Damn, how could I be so stupid?"
There was a brief pause while she frowned down at him. “And Mexicans don't say ‘ow'?"
"No, they don't."
"What do they say?"
"I'm not sure, but even if they said it, it wouldn't come out the same. The initial vowel—the ah sound—would be farther back in the palate, and the glide to the second one wouldn't be as marked. It would sound more like two separate vowels, not our kind of diphthong."
"It would?"
"Sure.” He demonstrated.
"Come again? They wouldn't say ‘ow,’ they'd say ‘ow'?” She was far from convinced.
"They'd say ‘ah-oo,'” he repeated patiently, “if they said it at all. But they don't."
"I don't know about this, Gideon,” she said doubtfully. “It sounds pretty subtle to me. He was grunting from a punch in the stomach, after all, not reciting a speech, and I doubt if you were listening too carefully to his diphthongs at the time. Besides, are you sure your Spanish is that good?"
"My Spanish is pitiful, but that doesn't have anything to do with it. I'm talking about the general tendency of Romance-language speakers to—” He laughed. “The hell with it. Just trust me."
Tentatively, he rotated his upper arms. “I think the aspirin's beginning to work. How about some breakfast?"
Gideon had continued to improve through a breakfast of
huevos rancheros
with Abe and Julie, but he knew it would be a mistake to try to work on the skeleton just yet; not in the cramped, kneeling position that was required. Instead, he sent a reluctant Julie off to the site with a concerned Abe and decided to spend the day working on his monograph. But it was hard getting his mind off that “ow” and what it meant. Because if it had been an American who had attacked him, it was just about settled: It had to be one of the crew. There just wasn't anybody else. Well, there was Stan Ard, but that was it.
Or was he imagining that “ow,” inventing it after the fact as a result of a garbled, childish nightmare? The episode on the wall seemed as if it had been a long time ago. He sighed, forcing himself back to work. The much-amended monograph was on the writing table in front of him, a nearly depleted pot of coffee at his elbow, and a welter of notes and references scattered over the table, the bed, and the carved bureau. And a few piles of paper were on the floor in a semicircle around his feet. Just like home. It was as good as being in his office.
But things were not going well. He stared dejectedly at the depressing sentence in front of him:
Albeit the precocious sapience of
H. sapiens swanscombensis
is now considered discredited by most scholars as a result of recent distance function analysis, the question of this interesting population's origin is yet to be resolved, as is its taxonomic niche, particularly vis-a-vis the Quinzano and Ehringsdorf populations, which are, of course, generally classified as proto—Western-Neanderthal.
He drained his cup, shook his head, and sighed. Why did his academic papers always come out like this? Christ. “albeit"! And “vis-a-vis” in the same sentence. And three passive constructions—no, four. Was that a single-sentence record? Was this what fifteen years of immersion in the professional journals had brought him to? If he didn't watch out he would start talking this way.
He substituted an “although” for the “albeit” and an “as compared to” for the “vis-a-vis,” but it didn't help much. He poured himself the last of the coffee and mused. Now, how would Stan Ard write this up for
Flak?
“From what misty, savage dawn of antiquity did these robust, heavy-browed humans, the first of their kind, come stumbling...” He smiled. If you asked him, it had something going for it, but he'd never get it by the editorial board of
Pleistocene Anthropology.
He stretched gingerly and pushed his tepid coffee away. The weather had turned sultry as the morning wore on, with the threat of rain now hanging heavily in the air, and the humidity had pasted his shirt to his back. No matter how often he washed his hands his palms stayed gummy. Even the sheets of paper he was working with were limp with moisture. He had turned off the languorous ceiling fan. Looking at it had made him feel hotter, not cooler. For the first time since he'd come, he was starting to think with longing of the cool, gray, cleansing rains of Washington.
At eleven-thirty someone knocked at his door. Grateful for the interruption, he shoved the paper aside and went to answer it.
"Emma,” he said, surprised. “I thought you were at the site."
"I was. I took my lunch hour early. There's something I have to share with you. It explains everything."
She was already flushing, which in Emma was usually a sign of dogged resolution. That did not bode well. Gideon steeled himself.
"I know you're just going to laugh, Dr. Oliver, but I felt I had an obligation to tell you. I understand the significance of what happened to you last night."
"How do you know what happened to me last night?"
"Everybody knows,” she said carelessly. “The whole hotel's talking about it. But I understand why it happened. I centered on it during my amethyst meditation.” She hesitated and stuck out her broad chin. “I've established a first-level interface with a personage who calls himself Huluc-Canab."
There was no escape. She was standing in the doorway, blocking the only route to freedom unless he wanted to jump from the balcony. He managed a smile, “Would you like to come in?"
She shook her head brusquely. Social amenities were not Emma's forte. “Huluc-Canab explained it to me. Do you remember what the curse said? ‘Second, the darkness will be sundered and the terrible voices of the gods will be heard in the air, and there will be a mighty pounding of the soul so that the—’”
"Pummeling,” said Gideon.
"'—a mighty pummeling of the soul,'” Emma continued, unfazed, “'so that the spirit languishes and faints.'” She looked meaningfully at him.
"Ah,” he said.
"You don't see what it means?"
"No.” He knew that he was eroding her already slipping estimation of him.
"Darkness turning to light? Voices of the gods? It means the sound-and-light show! and the ‘pummeling'—it's talking about what happened to
you.
How could it be any more specific than that?"
Many years before, when he had nervously turned in the first draft of his dissertation to his doctoral committee members, Abe had penciled in some comments across the title page: “Very inventive. Considering the lack of data, the inconclusive results, and the ambiguous statistical analysis, you did a wonderful job. Not everyone can make two hundred pages from nothing. I predict you'll go far."
Emma, Gideon was ready to admit, did not lack for inventiveness either. “Well, I don't know,” he said, choosing, as Abe had, to try humor. “If that was my soul they meant to pummel, they sure left some bruises on the surface."
"Oh, come on, Dr. Oliver,” she said sharply, “you know I'm right. ‘Darkness turning to—’”
"Emma, there's a sound-and-light show every night of the year."
"Yes, but this was the first one
you
were at."
"Look, Emma,” he said reasonably, “why should it matter that it was my first light show? Why should the gods have it in for me in particular? Why put out my cigar and no one else's?"
"Because,” she said, and gestured at him, almost jabbing him in the chest, “you're the one who's disturbing their privacy."
"Me? Emma, what do you think we're all doing? What do you think archaeology is about? How can we learn anything about the Maya if we don't disturb their privacy?"
"Yes, yes, but
you're
the only one who's disturbing their bones and the dust of their bodies, and the curse specifically mentions—"
"I remember the curse,” Gideon said with a sigh. The conversation was showing no signs of improving. “But whoever jumped me last night was a human being with a snootful of wine. And he grunted like anyone else when he got hit, and then scuttled off in a highly corporeal way."
Her splotchy face had set while he spoke. She was, he saw, giving up on him. And not a moment too soon, as far as he was concerned.
She nodded sadly at him before turning away. “All right, Dr. Oliver, but don't say I didn't try to tell you. The second phase of the curse has come to pass. You know what's in store next. The—"
"Wait,” he said, holding up his hand like a traffic policeman. “I don't think I want to know."
When she left he found that his headache was back. He swallowed a second dose of aspirin and walked out on the balcony to take advantage of the nonexistent breeze. He stood quietly at the railing, looking absently down at the foliage. Surely there couldn't be anything in what Emma had said? Not in the way she meant, of course—but was it conceivable that there was a connection between the attack and the curse? That someone might actually be trying to make it look as if—