The Mummies of Blogspace9 (4 page)

“So you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“You don’t know who you’ve gotten involved with.”

I asked him who he was.

“Negromonte,” he said, puffing on his cigarette. “My family has lived in this city for more than five hundred years. Metalworkers, we forged blades for Queen Isabella when she lay siege to the Alcazar. My people were rewarded handsomely after her victory. Metalworkers, we were, and we desired one metal more than any other. Do you know what metal that is, payo?”

I nodded. “Gold. But Isabella didn’t have any gold left. I’m a historian,” I reminded him.

“That’s right. She offered silver, but instead we waited. We waited nearly fifty years. And then we reminded the new king of his grandmother’s debt to us, a debt which had been running up interest for fifty years.”

“King Charles.” I nodded. As terrified as I was, I was fascinated. “He had already been crowned Holy Roman emperor.”

“Yes. And the Holy Roman emperor owed my family now more gold than was available in all of Spain. So we made a deal. We would go to the Americas ourselves. So we served as soldiers and grooms and valets, but we got what we wanted. We made it to the Viceroyalty. But there was no gold to be found. It had all been stolen. Hidden somewhere.”

“Wait a second.” I stepped out of the doorway but the two other guys moved in, so I jumped back onto my perch.

“Forgive them,” Negromonte said. “They don’t speak English. They don’t speak much of anything. Low-born, but they’re good thieves and they keep their mouths shut. And remember, they’d never touch you.”

I decided to test this. I took a bold step toward them and raised my right hand as if to shake hands. They nearly fell over themselves jumping away, but my success was short-lived. They pulled identical truncheons from inside their coats and came towards me. I pulled back to my perch in the doorway.

“Just a moment more and you’ll be on your way,” Negromonte told me. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”

“I think so,” I said. “You’re saying that five hundred years ago some of your gypsy ancestors traveled to Peru in search of gold that had been promised by Queen Isabella.”

“That’s right. We sailed in 1540.”

“Amazing. I’d love to interview you for my research,” I told him.

He spat on the ground. “I don’t think you’ll live long enough.”

If he saw the fear and confusion on my face, he did nothing to put me at ease. In fact, he did quite the opposite. “He’ll come for you now,” he said.

“Who?” I was getting frightened all over again. The other two sensed it and they started tapping their sticks against their legs.

Negromonte shook his head. “We’ll talk more, payo. Maybe I can yet save your life.” He brought a leather case from his jacket and took out a card. He extended it warily, careful not to touch my hand. Beneath a drawing of a green wagon wheel was the name ‘Melchor Negromonte’ along with an address. “You will come to this restaurant tomorrow night. Use the back door.”

“Why should I do that? You know, I’m not really enjoying this.”

“We never got the gold,” he continued. “Oh, we found it. We found more than we were owed. But we didn’t know about the creatures. Didn’t know what they were capable of. If your associates are still down there, they won’t be alive much longer. Neither will you. Now promise me you will come tomorrow night.”

My heart was racing.

“I’ll know if you’re lying,” he told me, and I had no doubt he was telling the truth.

“No.”

He shook his head sadly. “Then I am truly sorry.”

Remember, I had been crouching in this little doorway because it at least offered a vantage point to keep an eye on all three of these guys. But I had given scant thought to whose doorway it was, so I was unprepared when the door swung open and I fell back into the darkness. The room smelled like death itself, moldy and damp, and part of the floor had rotted out. There was an empty bookcase on the far wall with a lit candle resting on top. Were it not for the candle, I would have bet my life that nobody had been in the room for decades.

I scrambled for the doorway but the two gypsy thugs blocked it. When I turned around, I saw a figure standing in the shadows. He was stooped over and he came toward me slowly. This might sound strange, but I swear the room got colder. I think I nearly dropped dead with fright.

I couldn’t see his face until he got very close, until he put his hand on my arm. Then he looked up at me. Michelle, I’m no longer certain about anything in life. I’m not convinced the earth actually does revolve around the sun. Maybe science has it all wrong. But I’ll tell you one thing I know for certain. This guy was dead.

I jumped back and ran. I think those two gypsy guys weren’t expecting me to move so fast, or maybe they were just so afraid of touching me, but they scrambled out of the way and I ran. I ran down that alley and I kept running until I saw people, lots of people. I took a seat at an outdoor bar and I drank until the first rays of sunlight gave me some hope that the entire earth hadn’t just turned itself into some unanticipated kind of hell.

Archaeological research facility founded in 1976 adjacent to the Segovia archaeological zone and pyramid complex. Consists of library, lab space, dormitory accommodations for eight, cooking and dining facilities.

To inquire as to vacancies or research opportunities, please contact the Ministry of Antiquities, Calle Bolivar 9 at Avenida 24, Lima.

June 15, 2011
Segovia, Peru
Leon Samples

Hey Bruce, I hope this post finds you still amongst the living. Your last missive gave us something of a fright. Clearly you’ve come into contact with some gypsy grifters who are running a scam on you. That being said, I must question your sanity.

Let me fill you in on what’s going on here. Two days with no electricity has taken its toll. Cold showers are no fun. Our beer is warm, and Cyrus has us on lockdown. He tells us it’s because one of the cane cooperatives has moved another crew into the area, and the workers tend to cause trouble at night. But I’m not buying it.

I’ve seen a lot of cane crews at work; these guys look hungry and exhausted. I think they’re mostly convicts, because that has to be the worst job in the world - cutting sugarcane from dawn to dusk, eating nothing but rice and beans, all for $50 a month. And sure, maybe they do a little drinking now and again, but I can’t see why we should be cowering behind closed doors.

If you ask me, this has more to do with the howling ghosts out at the pyramid, or the night zombies outside the gate, but try talking to Cyrus or anyone else about that and they’ll just walk away. So we talk about the project, which seems to be the only neutral topic left.

Michelle is standing here and she’s anxious to say something. She wants to tell you she loves you or some such thing, but I got here first. I’m smarter and I’m better looking, so she’s going to have to wait. Also, I’m armed. I have two antique guns that came in the mail for me today. I feel safer already.

Anyway, it’s time to pull it together, Bruce. We’re working our tails off here, and you’re not keeping up your end of the bargain. So let us briefly review the nature of things:

When it comes to domains of research, there are archaeologists and then there are others. Those others are not in the same league as the archaeologists. Those others became others either due to bad breeding or due to a series of poor academic or vocational decisions. They elect instead to become historians, sociologists, or the lowest of the low, archival researchers.

We archaeologists do the backbreaking work of breaking new ground, both literally and figuratively. We use our finely-honed senses to locate material lost for millennia, to sniff at the wind, close our eyes, and sense what is beneath the ground. It’s alchemy as much an art as a science. We unearth secrets lost to the ages.

Once we’ve accomplished that, we rely on the little people, people such as you, Bruce, who take our hard-earned fruits and do the simple doltish work of searching for context. Our relationship is much like that of the shark and the little shrimp who picks bits of food from its teeth. At any moment, one of us could snap down and make a quick but unsatisfying meal of you.

And right now, the disturbing part is that you are not doing your job.
So sit your tail down in that Archive and find some goddamn context for our documents.
Also, stay away from gypsies.

Hi Bruce, it’s me
Michelle
. I just got Leon away from the computer. I’m worried about you, sweetie. I want to hear more about this dead person you met, but I have to say it sounds a little far-fetched. I know it’s customary in Spain to have a few beverages at lunch. Could that be part of it? Also, you did mention heat exhaustion. Sometimes…well, you know what I mean. Sometimes the mind can play tricks.

Things are strange here. Cyrus has us on lockdown again, only this time he wants everyone inside the house. He just went out back to bring Kim in from the pool, and when Leon saw her walk by wearing a bikini, he had to lumber after her. She doesn’t look too happy about it, especially since he’s got a gun in each pocket. He looks like Pancho Villa.

When we got home from the site today, we discovered a package had come in the mail. It was addressed to
Bolivar
, but was otherwise unmarked. Nobody knows who Bolivar is, so Leon took the liberty of opening the package. Inside were two antique revolvers. Bullets too, but Cyrus hid them so that Leon wouldn’t accidentally blow off one of his testicles. Not that the world would be any worse off if that actually happened.

At least our work is progressing. Cyrus and Kim have most of the town mapped out. And calling it a town now seems a bit of a stretch. I think we should keep calling it a hamlet. All we really have is the ruins of the church, which is about the size of a walk-in closet, and the baseline of a one-room adobe house behind the church. Cyrus has identified the outlines of sixteen (possibly seventeen) houses that would have been built from saplings, but that’s about it as far as our town goes. We dug trenches twenty yards in every direction, but there’s no more to it.

As I mentioned in my last post, it’s the church that has been the most interesting so far. The documents, the journal, this is fantastic stuff, Bruce. And it keeps coming. Every day we’re finding more fragments, bit of letters mostly. We’ve been working on them in the evenings, but it’s slow going.

OK, Bruce, the lights just went out. The generator just shut down. I’m not sure why, since we just got it rebuilt and refueled, but it’s down. The computer is good for another hour but we’ll lose the router in about thirty seconds along with the internet, so I guess that’s it for now, baby. Hold on, there’s someone banging at the door. We’re just about out of candles too, and now there’s someone banging at the door. Cane cutter? Drunk kid? Your guess is as good as mine. Leon is looking around for his ammunition. Hell, it’s as good a night as any to shoot off a testicle.

June 16, 2011
Seville, Spain
Bruce Wheeler

First things first: who was at the door?

Second things first: Leon, if memory serves, you do not hold an advanced degree, so calling yourself an archaeologist is misleading. You are merely an excavator, a mover of dirt. Like the trowel and the shovel, you are a tool used by archaeologists. You don’t even move dirt on your own accord. Rather, you do so only when directed to do so by others. Perhaps one day you might have something more to contribute. But for now, my colleagues and I shall employ you as best we see fit, digging ditches, heavy lifting perhaps, or more likely than not, for ballast or shade.

That being said, it’s 5:00 in the evening here, and I’m having a few drinks. Maybe after that, I’ll have a few more. I’m kind of freaked out here. Again. See if you can figure out why.

This morning, I went to the police station to file a report on my run-in with the gypsies. When I told them about the old dead guy in the house, they just stared. And I can kind of see how that might sound strange, but wouldn’t you at least want to follow up? I asked them that very question, and only then did they take out a notepad and ask for the address, which of course I didn’t have because I was lost. I thought about going back to see if I could retrace my steps, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

On my way out of the station, one of the cops caught up with me. He told me to stay away from Negromonte, the gypsy guy. Apparently he owns a dance club in the city center and he’s super-rich, but he still runs his own scams. One of his favorite scams, the cop told me, was prowling the Archive of the Indies. Why? Because the average researcher is a young student who has come alone to Seville for a short period of time. That makes them the perfect mark.

Last year, a student from Ecuador had a nervous breakdown after Negromonte scared the crap out of him with some ghost story. That was after the guy forked over more than $12, 000. No arrests, of course, because he went back to Ecuador before pressing charges. So I guess I’ve learned my lesson. From now on, I’m staying away from gypsies.