The Hieroglyphic Staircase
Second Novel in the Mystery-in-Exotic-Places Series
by
Marjorie Thelen
To my writer and reader friends everywhere, thank you again.
To Kate Marsh, poet, editor, and friend extraordinaire; to Ron Copland, the bellwether; to Gail Barrett, long time writer friend, who gives superb writing advice; and especially to Luty and Jorge Dickerman, our Honduran friends who introduced us to Copan. Un million de gracias, amigos.
One
Another carved stone was missing.
Elena ran her finger over the cool, lifeless limestone and checked the pattern against the computer drawing she had made of the Hieroglyphic Staircase. She was not mistaken. A gap separated a frowning face from a stylized flower. This was the third stone gone missing since she started the project three weeks ago. The Mayan gods definitely had it in for her. They must not like her poking into their secrets.
She perched on the narrow step of the steep stone staircase that led to the top of the pyramid and stared at the space where yesterday a finely etched head with bulbous Mayan lips had resided. A crowd of vacant eyes stared back at her along the facing of the step, refusing to share their knowledge of who had stolen another stone.
This theft could tarnish the name she was trying to build in the world of Mayan epigraphy, the study of ancient inscriptions. The disappearance of valuable pieces of an intricate puzzle did not bode well for her career. How could someone steal the stone carvings right out from under her?
Two fieldworkers in battered straw hats imitated her posture and sat on the narrow steps below her, looking at the empty space and muttering to each other. But their conversation in Spanish had to do with Raul’s eldest daughter who was to be married the coming weekend. They didn’t seem to share her concern.
“Do you know anything about these missing hieroglyphs?” she asked them in Spanish. Her question came out with a suspicious edge. The two men flinched, as if the words were knives.
“We do not know, doctora Palomares,” said Raul, throwing up his hands, straight black eyebrows moving skyward with his hands. “Only the tourists come during the day, and we have kept careful watch.”
The younger worker, Francisco, new to the project, mimicked Raul’s gestures.
“Maybe not during the day,” said Elena, softening her tone, “but someone could slip by the guard at the entrance during night.”
Calm down, she thought. She had to maintain her professional attitude and not take her frustration out on these poor workers. She stood and brushed the seat of her khaki shorts.
“I’m going to notify the Museum director. Please watch the site while I’m gone. I shouldn’t be long.”
“Sí, doctora. Cómo no?” Raul tipped his hat and continued his conversation with Francisco about the wedding, the theft forgotten.
Folding the computer drawing, she stuffed it in one of the many pockets of her field vest. She picked her way crab fashion down stairs so narrow her work boots would only fit sideways on the uneven steps. Summer sizzled at Copan in western Honduras, and Elena had risen before dawn to work the site before the heat became unbearable. Not that heat bothered her much. Nothing could be as bad as a hot, humid Houston summer day, where she grew up.
Near the bottom of the Staircase, she peered at the point halfway up the steep incline of stairs where she had discovered the missing stone. She hoped the thieves were not her field worker assistants. Surely, they wouldn’t be tempted to supplement their meager incomes with contraband from Copan, the Florence of the Mayan world. Surely, they wouldn’t, though Raul had been complaining about the expense of the wedding. A small stone Mayan head would bring an enormous price on the black market. He could pay for the wedding and retire on the money he’d make on the sale.
The Sculpture Museum was a good hike across the courtyard, past the Temple of Inscriptions which was for the most part clear of stone-crumbling vegetation. One large, insistent tree remained that was so entangled in the slope of the pyramid-shaped Temple that to remove it would have destroyed the structure. There the tree defiantly grew, its roots serving to hold the ruins together.
That’s what she felt like — a lone figure trying to hold a crumbling situation together.
She strode across the clearing toward the exit of the site. The Sculpture Museum housed many of the original stellae and carvings from the site. It stood near the tourist information center and restaurant. The Museum director would not be happy. He never was. His thin, pinched face reflected his sour disposition. Never a kind word for any of the other professionals in the field and certainly not for her. Especially not for her.
A small, neat workman in worn pants and shabby but clean white shirt was sweeping the walk to the Museum free of leaves and trash from yesterday’s tourists. He had a wife and four small children, and they lived in a poor neighborhood in town. He was desperate to go to the United States to earn money so his family could dig out of the hole of poverty. Was he so desperate he would steal hieroglyphs from the ruins to get money to make the trip? Was she getting so paranoid that she was suspicious of everyone?
“Hola, Armando, cómo le va?” she said as she waved and walked by.
He stopped sweeping to greet her. “Bien. Y usted?”
Today she didn’t stop to chat. She waved and walked on, her mind worrying the problem of the missing hieroglyphs and the director’s reaction. A trip to the dentist would be preferable to this visit with the director.
The Sculpture Museum was built into a hillside and illuminated by a massive open-air skylight. An airy courtyard formed the center of the square-shaped building which inside was dominated by a full-scale replica of the Rosalila Temple, found under the Copan acropolis in 1989. She loved the Rosalila Temple with its bright colors — rosy red, mint green, flaming yellow. Its intricately carved Mayan heads and scroll work lay open to the sky. Sculpture galleries framed the replica centerpiece on two levels.
Taking off her wide brim hat, she dusted it against her leg and with determined steps strode to the director’s office located in one corner of the Museum. Carved stellae of Mayan kings, the kuhul ajaw or holy lords, with characteristic big, hooked noses, staring stone eyes, and round ear plugs lined the walls. She had studied every one and knew them like family. They were some of the finest examples of Mayan sculpture found anywhere.
The director’s door was open. He bent over a large volume, intent on what he was reading.
She tapped on the door. “Permiso, director.”
He looked up from the volume, unsmiling. “Doctora,” he said by way of acknowledgement. No greeting, no inquiring after her health.
The disdain with which he said the word annoyed her, so she gave up on social pleasantries and launched right into the bad news. “I’ve found another stone missing from the Staircase.”
“Are you sure, doctora Palomares?” His hawkish features pinched into a frown and were in stark opposition to the broad Mayan features of the local people. Not a smile line existed on his face.
Maybe he thought she needed glasses.
“Yes, director, I am very sure. It was there yesterday. Today it’s gone. I can show you.”
She unfolded the drawing from her vest pocket and pointed to the location of the missing piece.
He studied the drawing and the places she had marked where the three stones had been.
“They are all head hieroglyphs,” he said.