Effigy Read online

  EFFIGY

  by

  Theresa Danley

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Published by

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  Whiskey Creek Press

  PO Box 51052

  Casper, WY82605-1052

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Copyright Ó 2010 by Theresa Danley

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-60313-785-0

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Nancy Donahue

  Editor: Dave Field

  Printed in the United States of America

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to give thanks first and foremost to God for giving me the courage to undertake the challenging journeys of writing. Second only to Him, I extend my endless gratitude toward the work and research of John Major Jenkins. Without his book, Maya Cosmogenesis 2012, and his supplemental guidance, this story could not have been possible. A big heartfelt thanks to my husband, Bryan, and all my family, friends, and neighbors who have supported me in this endeavor. To Kathi, Jennifer, and Carole, a special thank you for cheering me on through all your red ink, and to Dave and Marsha for all your patience and hard work. Finally, a hearty thanks to Juan Carlos and Teresa, my “eyes and ears in Mexico.”

  Historical Note

  In AD 968, the fair-skinned Toltec high priest, Ce Acatl Topiltzin—Our Lord, One Reed—settled in the Valley of Mexico and founded the city of Tula—Place of Reeds. There, he practiced religious reform and adopted the name of his god, Quetzalcoatl.

  Twenty years later, there was a revolt. Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl was overthrown, led to the coast of Veracruz and, according to one legend, was cast away on a raft of snakes. As the current pulled him out to sea, Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl prophesied, “I will return from the east in the year One Reed!”

  AD 1519 happened to be a One Reed year. That was also the year the fair-skinned Hernán Cortés arrived from the east and encountered the Aztec emperor, Moctezuma II. According to early Franciscan reports of the time, the Aztecs mistook Cortés’ arrival for the long awaited return of Quetzalcoatl. By the time Moctezuma realized their error, the Spanish were well on their way to conquering them.

  Quetzalcoalt, the deity, and Quetzalcoatl, the man, have long been entangled within a myriad of myth and legend. At times it’s hard to differentiate one from the other, let alone separate fact from fiction. Historical accuracy is hopelessly lost, or miraculously found, depending on the source at hand, which often leaves some to wonder who or what Quetzalcoatl really was.

  And in the midst of it all, there are those still anticipating his return.

  Prologue: The Enemy On Both Sides

  Wednesday, March 21, 2012

  Tula Ruins, Hidalgo, Mexico

  She stepped away from her car with the chill of death rippling her skin. She tugged at her park service jacket, pulling it tighter against the pre-dawn darkness. Perhaps it was the cool air or the bank of clouds delaying the cheery radiance of morning that ordinarily sensitized her dormant clairvoyance. It could be the way the crimson dawn appeared as a slivered artery just beneath the clouds, spilling a bloody caress down the cold, chiseled faces of the rigid Atlanteans.

  Whatever hung in the air, it discomforted Maria Delarosa.

  Early morning hours were usually what Maria lived for—that silent time before the tours started rolling in, when the weary ruins slowly shed their one-dimensional silhouettes and emerged as glowing Toltec temples. It was only then that the Atlanteans stood boldest against the skyline like basalt sentries standing guard against some oncoming apocalypse. This morning, however, they appeared less like the defenders of a lost city and more like gory savages returning from the carnage left in the clouds.

  Maria decided to walk off her jitters in the open courtyard of the ruins. She avoided the warriors crowning Pyramid B though she couldn’t quite shake the chill creeping beneath her skin, which only seemed to intensify as she passed the large central altar of the courtyard. She continued to the edge of the precipice overlooking Tula de Allende, comforted somewhat by the soft sprawling lights, and the refinery glowing in the distance.

  She paused in the serenity and thought about waiting there, watching the town awaken with the morning. She may have done just that had not the faint odor of death drifted over the breeze. It seemed to be coming from the Jaguar Chacmool.

  Of all the things in Tula, the chacmools mystified Maria most—those oversized figures of men reclining on their backs, knees up, heads up, and always holding a round plate on their chest. The chacmool near Pyramid C had long lost its head but the Jaguar Chacmool was intact, unblemished in fact, and just beginning to appear from the shadows as she approached.

  The Jaguar Chacmool’s immaculate condition made it exceptional compared to the others. The beautiful polychrome statue emerging from the shadows drew her eye from the subterranean ball court just beyond. Soon the sun would find it, releasing its colorful contrast to the surrounding ruins, and Maria hated it for that.

  The Jaguar Chacmool was a replica, brought to the site seven years ago in celebration of one hundred and twenty-five years of archaeology in Tula. Though it was undeniably beautiful, Maria loathed it, fearing its presence distracted from the authenticity of Tula’s ruins. Admittedly, it was structurally accurate, but the artist who donated the brilliantly-colored statue had taken liberties with its painting by including the figure of a jaguar on the breastplate, thus giving it its deplorable name.

  This morning, however, it was the smell rather than the sight of the chacmool that caught Maria’s attention, and she noticed something lying behind it.

  The chill returned to the very hairs of her jacket-insulated arms. With quivering fingers she dug into her pocket and withdrew a pen light. She clicked it on, but the small beam didn’t offer much in the pre-dawn glow. Gingerly stepping closer, Maria focused on the feet of the chacmool where her light dimmed upon the soles of a pair of hiking boots.

  “Quién es?”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d come across a drunk who’d wandered too far from the cantinas, but given the fetid odor now ravaging her nose, she’d be satisfied stumbling upon a sweaty, inebriated boozer needing a ride back to town. Suddenly, a car reeking of tequila and urine didn’t compare to what she feared lay behind the Jaguar Chacmool.

  This drunk didn’t move.

  Maria cleared her throat to call again, but stopped. Hiking boots weren’t the typical footwear for cantina regulars, and by the looks of the thick, unbeaten treads, these boots hadn’t hiked very far.

  “Señor?”

  She inched closer, suddenly aware of her pulse as she held her breath. She strained to peer around the chacmool, bracing herself with a hand upon the statue. There was a cold, clammy feel to the stone, the feel of death upon her skin. She turned the light to her hand and found it tacky with blood.

  With a gasp, she stumbled around the statue but stopped short. The beam from her pen light landed on the face of a gaping young man, staring
wide-eyed and pale-faced toward the bruising sky.

  Gulping back a gag, she let the light beam trail down to the man’s naked torso. His arms were flailed about as though he’d been tossed to the ground and a dark smear of blood coated his chest. His body was twisted awkwardly, but effectively enough to stretch open a deep gouge just beneath the rib cage.

  Maria panicked, slamming into the chacmool. She braced herself against the smooth stone but her hand bumped something fleshy lying atop the chacmool’s chest plate. Bile rose to the back of her throat as she turned her pen light back to the statue. There, the tiny beam shimmered off the congealed blood pooled beneath the fleshy bulb of the man’s heart.

  “Oh God!” she gasped. “Not again!”

  PART I

  Wednesday, May 16, 2012

  “You have graciously arrived...may our lords come on earth.”

  Moctezuma II

  Moab

  Shaman Juan Joaquin Gaspar’s arthritic fingers trembled as he dialed the phone. The line was slow to connect. He found himself anxiously pacing to the end of the old knotted cord.

  The line rang once. Twice. His heart felt like a jackhammer pounding in his chest. Finally, someone at the other end picked up.

  “Yeah.”

  Gaspar stopped. “Acatzalan?”

  A groggy yawn replied across the line. “Christ, old man. It’s two in the morning.”

  “Have you seen the magazine?”

  There was a pause. Shaman Gaspar pictured him sitting up in bed, clearing his head.

  “What magazine?”

  Gaspar sighed impatiently. He didn’t have time for Acatzalan’s arrogance. The boy knew exactly what magazine he was talking about, but he reminded him anyway.

  “Modern Archaeology. What else?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “The cover,” Gaspar said irritably. “Did you see what’s on the cover?”

  “Let me guess. It’s that Quetzalcoatl artifact, isn’t it.”

  Shaman Gaspar felt his face heat with anger as he glanced at his fresh copy of Modern Archaeology. The main headline blazed in bold white lettering against a dark background to make its explicit announcement: “MESOAMERICAN ARTIFACT DISCOVERED IN UTAH!”

  Gaspar didn’t need the headline to know what he was looking at. There was no mistaking the artifact displayed in the photo. The blocky, dragon-shaped head carved out of jade, the bared teeth snarling at the camera lens, the penetrating depths of polished obsidian pupils centering mother-of-pearl eyes.

  The very simplicity of the effigy’s shape was captivating but its appeal didn’t end there. A collar of mosaic turquoise petals bloomed from the back of the head. The photographer’s light glazed the artifact in a dazzling glow, flowing over emerald edges as smooth and rounded as polished river stone. The contrast of blue and green reminded Gaspar of a clear sky reflecting off the waters of a reed pond.

  He’d never seen anything so magnificent.

  “Of course it’s Quetzalcoatl,” he snapped into the phone. “Why else would I be asking about it?”

  “I don’t know. You called me.”

  “How long have you known about this?”

  Acatzalan released a sarcastic snort. “The local papers have been publishing articles about it for weeks now.”

  “You should have informed me about this. Quetzalcoatl is central to my teachings.”

  It was Acatzalan’s turn to sound impatient. “So I’ve noticed.”

  Gaspar sighed, mentally regrouping. Acatzalan was known to be infuriating at times, but to casually brush off a major archaeological find like this was downright insubordinate.

  “You don’t understand,” Gaspar insisted. “That artifact could be very important to the new age. I must see it.”

  Acatzalan’s voice turned sour. “If you’d watched the news you’d know the university’s still studying it.”

  “I need to study it myself. It could take days.”

  There was a long pause at the other end. Gaspar was growing anxious. The trembling in his hands expanded to a general quaking throughout his body.

  “What are you driving at, old man?”

  Gaspar cleared his throat. His words had never been clearer.

  “I need you to bring it to me.”

  University of Utah

  Dr. Terence Snead sat expectantly at his polished cherry desk as Lori stepped into the sterile domain of his office. The department dean looked small and smug behind the large expanse of his gleaming barren desktop. Two Chinese vases with their charming blue and white enamel glaze were perched on the shelf behind him like bookends to his bony head, and he gave a big toothy grin when Lori approached his desk.

  “Welcome, Miss Dewson,” he said, turning in his barrel-backed leather chair to admire the vases himself. “I see you’ve noticed my collection.”

  It would be hard to miss, Lori thought. The impressive length of an elegantly tempered Samurai sword stretched high across the wall. Together with the delicate vases and an ivory Buddha centering the shelf, the cultural mix of Asian artifacts offered the only color to the room.

  “Those vases come from the fifteenth century,” Snead continued. “Early Ching dynasty.” He spun his chair back around. “I don’t believe there’s another culture in the world that can match the artistry of the Chinese. Don’t you agree?”

  Lori nodded stiffly. The ceramic designs were unarguably beautiful. “The vases must have been important to the culture,” she said.

  Snead smiled. The brightness of his teeth nearly resembled the florescent lights glowing off the pale skin of his expanding brow.

  “Indeed. They cost me a fortune at auction.”

  “I imagine the cost is greater to the Chinese.”

  Snead’s smile faded as though he was questioning an insult to his decorum. Lori instantly regretted her observation. Having moved on to acquire her Doctorate degree, she’d left behind all those haughty, know-it-all professors of self-glorified wisdom. She’d reached a peculiar stage in her academic career where she’d bloomed into an equal among her instructors who now seemed more willing to aid her research than inflict their endless knowledge. But here, sitting in the dean’s office, she felt that old submissive shell of inferiority returning. Among the ranks of higher education, she wasn’t in the company of a knowledgeable colleague, but complying with the summons of a man accustomed to supervising those accustomed to knowing it all.

  Snead abruptly cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his roman nose. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  Lori eased herself onto the edge of a tasteful leather chair angling into the ominous span of cherry wood. The tidiness of Snead’s office had the intimidating feel of a lavish art gallery and for an awkward moment she wasn’t sure if she was sitting in part of the exhibit.

  Her book bag slipped to her feet.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Snead folded his hands neatly upon the flawless desktop. He cleared his throat, the skin around his pencil-thin jugular tightening and then falling loose like a rooster’s wattle.

  “I wanted to speak with you regarding the effigy.”

  Lori brightened. “Is it back from ArizonaState?”

  “It arrived yesterday.”

  “That’s great! I’ve been waiting for my chance to work with it ever since Dr. Friedman took over the study.”

  Actually, Lori had been waiting ever since she and Dr. Peet retrieved it from her father’s San JuanCounty ranch. Even then she’d anticipated the opportunity to sit down with her find in the lab, but the moment the effigy reached the university it had been whisked away for meticulous cleaning and restoration. Word of its discovery spread quickly and caught the attention of archaeologists across the country. It had even brought Dr. John Friedman, renowned archaeo-astronomer and Mesoamerican expert, momentarily out of retirement. Within weeks he confirmed what Dr. Peet had suspected all along—they’d found a Mesoamerican artifact in Utah.

  “What more is t
here to study?” Snead asked. “All of the experts agree that the effigy was traded from ancient Mexico. How else could it have been interred into an Anasazi grave?”

  “That’s why I want to study it,” Lori said. “Exploring southern trade routes could benefit my dissertation.”

  Trade relations had inadvertently become the focus of Lori’s study in Anasazi ceramics. She’d been absorbed with the culture ever since she was a little girl, when she first saw the ghostly ruins of a cliff dwelling. Throw in a few potsherds and the seven hundred year old mystery of the civilization’s disappearance from the southwest, and Lori was hooked. She wanted in on the research and her dissertation on ceramics was a mere stepping stone into the debate.

  By tracking the dispersion of Anasazi pottery across the southwest, Lori hoped to discover trade lines or migration routes that might reveal the culture’s movements. Not only did she want to see how the Anasazi people interacted with each other, she hoped to discover where they went after abandoning their great pueblos and cliff dwellings.

  Ultimately, she realized, she might simply confirm a widely accepted theory that the Anasazi were mere ancestors of the modern Hopi. No matter the result, she found herself immersed into a complicated study that involved locating each pot’s place of origin through analyses of construction and design styles. It required knowledge of area soils and the composition of organic materials, and accounting for firing methods that had evolved over time.

  Now, with her discovery of a Mesoamerican effigy buried within Anasazi territory, a new element had been added to the equation. Just as a granule of sand might contain information about a pot, Lori hoped the effigy might offer similar insight into the Anasazi trade.