“Seems odd that she wouldn’t tell me over the phone,” Turner said, trying to imagine what could be important enough to get him out here on the dig team’s day off.
His mind drifted back to all of the digs he had been part of during his father’s long tenure as an archaeologist. I’ve spent so many years with Dad, digging in the dirt in places such as Mexico, Peru, Belize, the Dead Sea region, and countless other locations. Had it been that long?
He pulled his father’s gift, a new Jansen pipe, from his vest pocket and placed it in a bag with a pouch of fresh Virginia Cavendish tobacco. He knew it was his father’s favorite, so Turner had picked up some for him a few day ago before flying back to Tenerife. As the Land Rover started up the series of steep switchbacks, Turner reminisced how much his life had changed over the years.
After losing his mother in a car accident when he was only five, Turner had traveled the world with his father, constantly moving from one archeology site to another. Never having any semblance of a normal home, he had lived and been tutored throughout his adolescent years in some of the harshest regions of the world.
He learned the skills of an archaeologist from his renowned father, and, over the years living abroad, had mastered the languages of Spanish, Hebrew, and Aramaic.
At the age of eighteen, Turner had left his father and entered college, graduating from Texas A&M with degrees in both archeology and anthropology. He had then moved to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, after receiving a job offer as director of field research with the National Parks Service, much to his father’s disapproval.
“Son, you’re wasting your talent there and you know it,” a disgruntled Dr. Elias Turner said to him at the time.
Turner remembered the sarcastic response he had made to his father that day. “Dad, they might dig up an old Aramaic papyrus where they fought the battle of the Wheat Field, and I may come in handy being able to translate it for them.”
He remembered how his father had just shaken his head and said, “Whatever makes you happy, Josh. That’s all I care about, but with your training—”
“Dad,” Turner had interrupted angrily, “just because you don’t feel that it’s valid work, doesn’t mean that it’s not to me. Why can’t you let me make my own life? I’m not you!” Turner had regretted the remark, remembering the hurt he saw in his father’s eyes.
Now at the age of twenty-eight, Josh Turner found himself one of the three field archeology directors of the International Consortium for Artifact Preservation.
ICAP began as the brainchild of his father and longtime collaborator, Professor Carlos Santiago, who at the time was director of antiquities at the University of Tenerife in the Canary Islands. The two esteemed archaeologists conceived the idea of an independent, international organization serving to help countries discover their ancient artifacts, and help fight the growing loss of national treasures by way of the antiquities black market.
He recalled how after only two years with the National Parks Service, major funding cuts had led to him being let go. Not long after, his father offered the position of ICAP field director to him without comment or judgment, which had infuriated him. Turner begrudgingly said yes to the offer, knowing he had little choice at the time. In his mind he knew his father was thinking, I told you so. You should have listened to me.
Josh promised himself that he would commit to this position temporarily until he found something else. Swallowing his pride, he set out to prove that he was as good as his father; always pushing himself to the limits on each assignment. But now, he was tired; tired of trying to meet his father’s high standards.
He admitted to himself it was not all a bad experience. Through ICAP, he’d made some good friendships. Notably, his two field director counterparts, Dr. Hiram Rabib, director of antiquities at the University of Jerusalem, and Dr. Kim Liao, director of research of the Yangtze River project in Hubei Province, China. Both countries became charter members when ICAP was formally announced to the world five years ago.
Reaching the summit of the last rocky switchback, the dust covered Land Rover followed a small dirt road to the top of the plateau where Turner saw the weathered pyramids come into view. He marveled at the ancient structures and wondered who the builders were, and what had become of their culture.
Turner learned during his time spent on Tenerife that the pyramids had been totally ignored by the local inhabitants. Long thought to be piles of earthen rubble, the ancient structures finally came to light when Norwegian explorer, Thor Heyerdahl, did a study on the ruins. Heyerdahl found them similar in design to the pyramids he had been researching halfway across the world in Tucume, Peru.
The Tenerife structures were step pyramids with facings of black volcanic stone rising to a height of about thirty-nine feet. They were all astronomically aligned with the sunset of the summer solstice. Not exactly the Great Pyramids of Egypt, but enough to convince Thor Heyerdahl to have the area purchased by a Norwegian businessman and researched at length.
The new dig site had been a beehive of activity by numerous archeology students and workers. Today, however, Turner could see it was strangely quiet. Everyone had gone back to Santa Cruz to prepare for the Dia de Santiago Apostol, the annual festival and carnival.
The Land Rover headed over to the small wood-framed hut located at the far end of the site. It had been built to act as the command center and dubbed ‘the dust bowl’ by the American students working the dig. It housed the portable generators, food, and water plus served as the dining hall, meeting room, and communications shack for the teams.
Turner smiled when he saw Maria waving at him from the steps of the makeshift office as the Land Rover pulled across the compound, coming to a stop beside the generator shed.
Maria Santiago, daughter of Professor Carlos Santiago of the university, was a stunningly beautiful woman. Of Spanish descent, she was tall and slender with long, flowing black hair and bright blue eyes, which she attributed to a recessive gene indicative of her Guanche descent. That knowledge had given her the desire early on in life to learn all she could about the Guanche people. Over the past few years, Turner came to regard her passion as an obsession; Maria made little room in her life for other things, including him.
“Hello, Josh,” she yelled, running over to greet him as Turner stepped out of the Rover. He was surprised by her sudden warm embrace.
“Hey, uh, Maria,” was all he could muster as he felt her body against his. He wanted to be with her; be a part of her life, but sadly, he had learned long ago that her work was her only love. “Good to see you again,” he managed, regaining his composure.
“How was your trip to the United States?” she asked as the two began walking toward the doors to the operations building.
“It was boring as usual, Maria. Meeting with representatives of countries interested in joining ICAP is not what I would call interesting, but you know my dad. He wants things done his way, with personal visits and such. Why are you still here with the festival gearing up in Santa Cruz?” he asked, changing the subject.
“You know me, Josh. All work and no play,” she said as they entered the building. “Now that you’re back, I wanted to show you something before I approached your father about it at our weekly meeting tonight in Santa Cruz. You know how ole’ Dr. Grant gets when he’s not the one making the discovery,” she said with a laugh.
“Okay, here we go again. Maria, you and the others have got to stop calling my father that,” Turner said in mock disdain. “It’s really starting to bug him.”