The Girl in the Glyphs Read online

  “What makes you think—?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll explain then.” He clomped away in his boots and went out the door.

  “Cojones,” said one of the soldiers. “The gringo has cojones.”

  “More like stupid,” said another. “He’s lucky the captain didn’t shoot him.”

  More candles and lamps appeared. Soldiers stood around in knots, conversing in low tones and glancing at me as if I were a suspect in a murder case. Prudencia held a bloody handkerchief to her nose. Captain Gonzales adjusted his pants, saluted the comandante, and said a Colonel So and So had ordered him to keep an eye on the hotel, and he’d been carrying out his duties in a diligent and efficient manner until the gringo attacked him.

  “That’s a lie,” I said, struggling to my feet. “You attacked him.”

  The comandante shot me a withering, shut-your-mouth kind of glare. Then he pulled the captain to the side and gave him a finger-jabbing lecture. His voice rose and fell, and I was trying to listen when one of the women soldiers—a medic I guessed from her arm patch—came over and handed me a bottle of water.

  “Are you injured?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing, just a broken nail and a few scratches.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  “I’m not used to being assaulted.”

  She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “You should go home. It’s not worth it.”

  “What’s not worth it?”

  “The cave, señorita.”

  Oh, great, I thought. Jennifer McMullen-Cruz, 007. I might as well put a sign on my back that read, Hi, I’m Jennifer, and I’m searching for Father Antonio’s cave.

  Prudencia snapped at her to get back to her station. I glared at her, defiance still glowing in my heart. The comandante, looking like an opera singer with his huge frame and beard, marched over with my passport. “Money’s inside,” he said, and handed it to me. “I’m sorry about this.”

  The captain formed up his troops and ordered them outside. At the door, he turned around and glowered at me one last time, still slapping his swagger stick into an open palm.

  “Puta,” he mouthed, and marched out the door.

  Chapter 4

  No sooner did the last soldier leave than the place burst into applause. Spectators who before had stood around in frozen compliance patted me on the back. Others shook my hand. The manager and/or owner apologized profusely and said my stay at the hotel would be gratis for one week. Then the woman with the baby hugged me and told me what a brave young woman I was.

  Brave? Only moments before I’d been ashamed of my cowardice. Even now I’d have headed for the airport except for fear Gonzales was waiting down the road.

  Sabio produced a flashlight with weak batteries and led me up the stairs, his light barely disturbing the darkness. On the second floor, he put down my bags and lit a wall lamp with a cigarette lighter. “Your room’s here,” he said, pointing to a door that looked like it came from a medieval castle. “But…”

  The way he said it, like a warning, carried even greater weight because of the gloom of the hall, the shadows surrounding us, and the moving beam of his light.

  “But what?” I asked.

  “Well, it used to be a prison cell.”

  I knew that. I’d done my research. I also knew that Father Antonio had been a prisoner in that very room, which is why I’d requested it. I stepped closer to the door, waiting for him to open it.

  “There’s something else you should know,” he said.

  “What?”

  “They also say it’s haunted.”

  My mom would have run out of the place screaming. I wasn’t my mom, but I had enough of her Indian blood to know it wasn’t a good idea to stay in a “haunted” room.

  “Why do you say it’s haunted?”

  “All I know is what they say…that you can hear chains rattling at night…and men praying, and moving about. There’s also the chicken clucking.”

  “Chicken clucking?”

  “There was this old Hebrew prisoner back in the time of the Inquisition. They were going to burn him at the stake. That’s what they did with Jews back then…if they refused to convert. But the night before the burning, he turned into a chicken and flew away.”

  “How do they know he turned into a chicken?”

  “When they came to fetch him, all they found was his clothing and chicken feathers.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Can you show me the room?”

  He put the key in the lock and turned it. “One more thing before we go in.”

  “What, Sabio?”

  “You heard about that other archaeologist, didn’t you, the one who went missing?”

  “Catherine Cohen?”

  “That’s the one. This was her room too.”

  He opened the door and motioned me into the darkness.

  Chapter 5

  A bouquet of old tobacco enveloped me, even before Sabio lit a candle. I imagined Catherine sitting on the bed, a Virginia Slims in the ashtray, smoke curling around her.

  “How well did you know her?” I asked.

  “Not very well. She’d leave early, return late. I saw her on television once, talking about Father Antonio’s cave. They say her mouth is what got her killed—talking too much.”

  “Did she have boyfriends?”

  “They say she and the gringo were friends.”

  “The one downstairs?”

  “The same, señorita.”

  I let my mind wander back to Catherine’s emails and faxes, but couldn’t remember any mention of an embassy man.

  “Did she bring him up here?”

  “I heard talk that she did.”

  I wanted to ask him more about Gonzales, but thought better of it. For all I knew, he could be on the payroll. He lit more candles and unlocked the balcony, and while he was putting away my things, I took in the plastered walls and dark wood on the floors. The high ceilings. The exposed beams and the spot where a hammock had hung. The fasteners were still on the wall: two hoops of forged iron, larger than Gypsy earrings. Was that where Father Antonio had slept?

  “How long will the power be out?”

  “Quien sabe, señorita? It could be midnight or tomorrow morning.”

  I stepped onto the balcony and stared into the blackness. A cool breeze blew down from the mountains. The fragrance of orange blossoms hung in the air, and from somewhere in the shadows, down beneath the palms and mango trees, there came the voice of a woman with a Spanish guitar, singing about the other Granada.

  “Granada, tierra soñada por mi…”

  My heart stirred. Father Antonio had stood here, on this very spot, and witnessed the burnings in the plaza. It was here that he’d sang Gulio Caccini’s Ave Maria to the hunchback. Here that he’d written the letter to Father Paolo. The same letter that was now in my shoulder bag.

  A chill came over me. Suppose he was here now?

  I retreated into the room and closed the balcony doors. By then Sabio had turned down the bedcover, hung my clothing bag, and laid out my suitcase.

  “There’s something else I should mention,” he said, standing in the shadows near the door.

  “What, Sabio? Tell me.”

  “That thing spiritual people do when they get together around a table. You know…when they light candles, hold hands…conjure up the dead.”

  “A séance?”

  “That’s it, una sesión de espiritistas. A group came here last week. Journalists. It was in the papers. Anyhow, they claimed they spoke with her. Asked her what happened.”

  “And?”

  “She said soldiers took her. They asked where she is now.”

  “And?”

  “She said bottom of the lake.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sabio?”

  “Señorita.”

  “I’m tired. I should go to bed.”

  I gave him a five-dollar tip for scaring me half to death, bolted the door, and sank into a chair. What a disaster: no lights
to take off my makeup, no water for a bath, an army captain who saw right through me, and a chicken-clucking room to sleep in.

  I took a folder out of my shoulder bag on the bed and shuffled through the contents.

  A newspaper account of Catherine’s disappearance.

  A report that listed Captain Gonzales as the prime suspect.

  An aerial photo of Isla Zapateras that marked the cave with an X.

  Father Antonio’s letter.

  How stupid to think I could come here clandestinely. Dream I was going to find the cave by myself. Solve Catherine’s disappearance.

  I ripped the first three items to pieces and flushed the shreds, and would have flushed Father Antonio’s letter too except I wanted to read it again. He had penned it in this very room more than two-hundred years ago. How creepy was that? I held it close to a candle. Although it was only a copy, the ink of his words spread like blood on the page.

  Esteemed brother in Christ. By these letters, I send you greetings and farewell. My time on earth is short, but before I go to my God, I must share with you what I found on the lake called Cocibolca by the natives, at a place the Chorotegas call the Island of Lizards…

  A blast of wind shook the balcony doors. I jumped at the sound and glanced around, taking in the dark wood and the iron hooks, letting my eyes settle on the spot where Father Antonio had likely written the letter. I imagined I could see him, a sad little padre with a shaved head, all pale and sickly, sitting at a crude wooden table with quill in hand.

  In the cave that I was led to, in the light of torches carried by my hosts, Chorotegans of the lake, I gazed upon the sight we had all dismissed as Indian lies, an entire wall of ancient writing…a wall of spirals and loops and insects and celestial bodies…

  A horse whinnied, followed by a clip-clop on the cobbles. Then the rattle of turning wheels.

  A horse? A coach? Those were the sounds of Father Antonio’s time.

  Another gust of wind shook the doors. The room grew cool.

  Every candle in the room flickered and went out.

  I bolted up, heart racing. A chill ran up my arms and down my back. Maybe I shouldn’t be stirring up things I didn’t understand. Suppose Father Antonio materialized in front of me?

  Or a clucking chicken?

  I flung the letter onto the bed as if it were contaminated.

  Then I heard approaching footsteps outside my room.

  Heavy footsteps, like a soldier’s boots.

  Chapter 6

  The footfalls stopped at the door. A glow of lamplight bled through the cracks.

  A knock.

  I froze, not daring to move. What if it was Gonzales? I reached for the candelabra that had been on my bed stand. It was brass, heavy enough to use as a weapon. Where was it?

  In my panic to find it, I knocked it to the floor.

  The clatter couldn’t have been louder if I’d thrown a brick against the wall.

  “Señorita?”

  My chest tightened. I could hardly breathe, and for a moment I imagined I was Father Antonio, waiting for my executioners. I strained my eyes to see the door. Was it bolted from the inside? I should have left this place with the embassy guy.

  The lights at the door vanished. Footfalls faded down the hall. A door slammed, and all was quiet except for my pounding heart.

  Damn this room. Damn this hotel. Damn Nicaragua.

  I relit the candles, tore Father Antonio’s letter to pieces and burned it in an ashtray.

  Later, after brushing my teeth and washing off makeup with water from the five-gallon jug that had been left in the bathroom for emergencies, I blew out all the candles except one.

  “For Catherine,” I said to myself, and climbed under the covers.

  Wind rattled the balcony doors. The candle flickered. I turned this way and that, my mind buzzing, trying to shut out images of Prudencia and the captain.

  Damn them. How did they know about me? Had Sabio alerted them?

  Ten o’clock came. Then eleven. A truck rumbled by, radio blaring. The odor of burnt paper lingered in the air. From outside the window, amid the whistle of wind, a night watchman was making his rounds, chanting his night song, dragging out the words.

  “Que tranquilo es la noche.”

  Yes, so peaceful is the night.

  The phone beside my bed jangled like a fire alarm.

  I bounded up, my heart in my throat. A ringing phone? How could that be? No water and no lights, but the damn phone worked. I grabbed the receiver and said hello.

  “It’s me,” said Stan from Virginia. “Did you get my fax?”

  I didn’t know whether to scream or rip the cord out of the wall.

  “Jen, are you there?”

  “It’s late, Stan. I’m trying to sleep. What do you want? “

  “Listen, Jen, please. I don’t know what came over me. Can we talk?”

  “Talk about what? A week ago you wanted a divorce. Now you want me back.”

  “Just give me another chance, please. I can fly down. We can have that second honeymoon.”

  “Are you out of your mind? I don’t want a second honeymoon.”

  “I’m flying down tomorrow anyway. We can work this out.”

  “Fly down if you want, but I won’t be here. I’m flying to Tampa to see my mom.”

  “But you just got there.”

  Somehow, I calmed down enough to tell him about the scene in the lobby. He listened and said he’d meet me in Tampa. I said, no, I didn’t want to see him. He choked up on the other end. Then I began crying, and I imagined him in his faded Duke sweatshirt, sitting on the sofa in his tiny efficiency. The conversation continued for another five or ten minutes, Stan pleading like the lawyer he was, me saying no like the dumped wife I was, and it didn’t end until the connection broke and the phone went dead.

  “Nicaragua,” I mumbled, and fell back into bed.

  It took a long time for me to fall asleep, and when I did, I heard chickens clucking and chains rattling and men moaning and praying. Then Father Antonio shook me awake.

  “Come, mija.”

  He floated me onto the balcony to see the burning of his hunchback friend. It was all there, recreated in full color from reports I’d read—the auto da fé, the chants and drums, the angry mob, the wails of the Chorotegan women, Father Antonio singing Ave Maria.

  Though I knew it was only a dream, the sight was so vivid I could feel the heat, smell the smoke, and hear the crackle of flames. Smoke swirled around the hunchback. Martial music played. Then the poor man’s head exploded—not with a pop, but with a boom so loud it rattled the balcony doors.

  I sat straight up in bed, heart thudding. People in the next room were also scrambling about. Was that explosion real or was it only in my dream?

  I crept to the balcony and stared into the plaza. In my dream, it had been daylight. Now it was dark, with the only light coming from stars, the spires of the cathedral, and a passing truck with a busted muffler. No screaming mob or burning hunchback either.

  The plaza flashed white. There was a pop. A light streaked up from the cathedral, arcing high above the palms toward the stars, higher and still higher until it exploded like a starburst on the Fourth of July, rattling the doors.

  Fireworks. Some moron was shooting off fireworks.

  “It’s that crazy old priest at the cathedral,” said a voice from the hallway. “He does this to wake the faithful.”

  I stumbled inside, plopped back on the bed, and was lying there, eyes open, Ave Maria playing in my head, when the power came back on, the room lights almost blinding me. Then, as if the world wasn’t mad enough, the city came to life with blaring horns, tolling bells, crowing roosters, and a street vendor hawking fresh chicken.

  “Pollo! Aqui tenemos pollo fresco!”

  Nicaragua, 5:15 in the morning. This trip was nothing but disaster.

  I showered, dried my hair, and agonized over what to do. Smithsonian was paying for this trip—not for me to search for Fath
er Antonio’s cave, not to investigate Catherine’s disappearance either—but to photographs glyphs for a native American exhibit.

  I took out their itinerary and read it.

  Take the 6:30 ferry to Isla Ometepe and hike to the crater of Volcán Maderas…plenty of glyphs to photograph, but a rugged climb. Your guide will be waiting at the Ometepe landing. Her name is Blanca Gaitán. She carries a pistol. Nicaragua can be a dangerous…

  “No joke,” I said aloud. I’d read the same itinerary a few days ago in my office. Back then it had reinforced my desire to get out of the office and be something other than a paper-shuffling archaeologist. But that was before I’d checked into this hotel and met a captain named Gonzales.

  I glanced at my watch. I paced the floor. And that was when I found a hotel envelope under the door. Was that what the knock was about last night?

  Feeling a little foolish, I picked it up and tore it open. Inside were two items: a fax from Victoria, my director at the Smithsonian, and a smaller envelope.

  Victoria’s message was short.

  By now, you will have received the invitation. It speaks for itself.

  Invitation? What invitation?

  It was in the other envelope, a card with embossed graphics from the Spanish Embassy in Managua, with flowery words that only a Spaniard could compose.

  Esteemed Señorita Jennifer Maria McMullen-Cruz: His Excellency, the distinguished ambassador of the Embassy of Spain, Don Anastacio Ocampo-Reyes y Montes, Plenipotentiary Extraordinaire, doctor of philosophy, emissary to the Republic of Nicaragua, has the great pleasure to invite you as his personal guest to attend a reception at the Embassy of Spain to celebrate the visit of His Royal Highness, the King of Spain…

  I stood there like Cinderella, trying to absorb the shock of a coach and fairy godmother.

  The King of Spain? An invitation for me?

  The reception was Saturday evening. Today was Thursday. I picked up the Smithsonian itinerary and read it again. A guide with a gun, a volcano to climb, glyphs to photograph. What kind of archaeologist was I if I went running home to my mom at the first hint of danger?