bother to read the business pages Mr. Brown; but your activities always seem to make the front pages. So I’ve read about you. Let me see if I’ve got this right: drilling for dirty oil, hacking down great tracks of rain forest, selling asbestos to unsuspecting third world countries or is it fourth world failed states who don’t give a shit if their masses develop lung cancer.”
“You flatter me.”
“Hardly. I believe that you have been quoted as advocating cutting off all aid to developing countries- food, medicines, investment initiatives. In short, anything that would alleviate the suffering of their people. Winnowing the crop was how you phrased it. How very Malthusian of you. Tell me, do you keep a copy of Mein Kamp by your bedside?”
“Jonathon, you got to understand that there are too many diseased, and genetically denuded people on this planet. I simply believe in letting nature take its course.
“Let me enlighten you Dr. Bourque as to what I do for you and your fellow bleeding heart academics, safely hidden away in your ivory towers where nobody farts or shits. The Joseph Brown Foundation For The Preservation Of Antiquities has made possible the excavation of ancient sites from Tulun and Chichenitza in the Yucatan to the lost city of the Incas, Machu Piccho, eight thousand fucking feet up in the Andes. And Pompeii would still be buried under a million tons of ash. Without my largess your precious digs would wizen up like an old maid’s twat.”
“Goodbye Mr. Brown,” Bourque turned to leave.
Brown shook his massive Pit Bull-like head. “No, no, no. You’ve been seconded to me. Dean Tichborne is glad to be rid of you for awhile. It seems that you’re a bit of a shit disturber. I’ve bought your contract from the University. You’re booked to fly into Mexico City tomorrow.”
This final presumption caused Bourque to laugh out loud, a rude and raucous belly laugh. He moved back into the big man’s air space. "Mr. Brown, to suggest that I would get on a plane at any time, for any reason tells me that you know fuck all about Jonathon Bourque. I am absolutely terrified of flying. I don't mean nervous or edgy. I mean 'shit my pants' petrified. Nothing could entice me into an airplane, not even the chance to dig for the bones of Christ." It was Brown's turn to laugh.
"Jonathon." Please give me a moment. "Take a look at this document." He extracted a single rolled up leather bound document from a hermetically sealed container, and handed it to Bourque. "It will only take a few minutes of your time." His tone was placatory.
Bourque shrugged, but spread out the document and began to read.
The whining rev of the engines signalled the take-off. His bowels loosened. He was working on his fourth gin and tonic. His palms were so sweaty, and his hands so shaky that he put his face down to the glass so as not to spill the precious balm. The terror. The moment of lift off. The point of no return. He looked quickly out the window. 'The huge roaring engine seems to be attached to the underside of a long, thin oh so exposed wing by what? A couple of bolts, maybe only crazy glue, or silly putty. Don't think! Oh my God. If the engine falls off, the wing will snap like a twig.' The double gin and tonic disappeared in one gulp. 'How long will it take to die? Ten seconds, thirty seconds, a minute. All dreams, hopes, pleasures disconnected; eternal oblivion, not a peaceful dignified exit from a comfortable, drug sated death bed, but a plunging coffin from 30,000 feet, a disintegrating tangle of white hot metal. If my body is recovered, everyone will know that I died of terror not the crash, for they will discover that I had shit my new flannel pants.'
If only I hadn't opened Brown's bloody document.
Tzitzlini begat Mixtli in the first days of 'The Weed People.'1 It was the time of their tribulation when the Azteca huddled in the swamps by the shores of Lake Texcoco.
Mixtli became a mighty warrior and priest-servant to the Lord God
Huitzilopochtli.
Mixtli begat Nimztol
Nimztol begat Kurikauri
Kurikauri begat Zyana who became the first High Priest of the
Azteca people.
Zyana begat Xzimtzicha.
Xzimtzicha begat Uaxyacac.
Uaxyacac begat Canautli.
Canautli begat he who was named 'Zpitl' the 'Expected One."
It had been foretold from 'the before time' and set down in the sacred lists of 'The Weed People,' and it was written: "Quetzalcoatl, the plumbed serpent, will return in judgement in 'The Year of One Reed.' He will take upon His sacred person, Human form. His countenance will be of unearthly white, many shades paler than ordinary men."
Canautli died. His age was one hundred and twenty years. He died in the year of Lord 1519 - "The Year of One Reed." Zpitl became the new High Priest of the Azteca People - He was the perfect, galvanized instrument of the Lord god Huitzilopochtli. The Transcendent One; a man among men; high above all other man.
1 Mexixin was the only edible plant which grew in the miserable swamp by the shores of Lake Texcoco where the Azteca were forced to live in the early years. It was a bitter tasting weed - A scraggly kind of crabgrass. Therefore, the lowly Azteca became known as Mexica, 'The Weed People'; this became the name of the great empire which the Azteca established.
Chapter 2
The Helicopter skims low over an unbroken canopy of green. The rain forests of Papua New Guinea are among the most inaccessible places on earth.
A river appears - An endless, twisting string of coffee coloured water worming its way to the sea. The river is walled in by an immensity of sodden, tightly- woven foliage. Huge trees hang over it. An army of sinewy climbing vines and liana snake down from the extended branches. They trail into the muddy flow. The waters at the river's edge ripple constantly as the current grabs at the tendrils.
Following millions upon millions of years run-off and flooding, the river, laden with top soil and soluble minerals, has left the land barren - Starved of nutrients; a cruel paradox; luxuriant growth; yet a thin, hollow, impoverished soil.
In this remote tropical jungle, the native peoples remain among the most primitive of men on earth.
The chopper hovers over a small clearing cut from the jungle. This sliver of open space is dwarfed by the endless expanse of mountainous greenery. Day and night the jungle presses inward. Without the incessant toil - Slashing and burning the encroaching underbrush, the home of the Kenyah tribe would have been swallowed up by the malignant onslaught of the rain forest.
The helicopter begins its noisy, swirling descent.
Dr. Megan McPhee was playing with the village children. Their pet orangutan was the centre of attention. A few weeks earlier, a hunting party had come across the baby orangutan at the river's edge. Its mother had drowned, presumably while trying to scoop up water to quench its thirst. Orangutans do not know how to swim. Or, perhaps it had been pulled under the water by a river crocodile. Fresh water "Crocs" were reputed to grow to a length of twenty-five feet or more and weigh upwards of three thousand pounds in this part of the world.
The baby orangutan adapted quickly to human care. Like most youngsters, it was playful and noisy. It seemed to roll rather than walk, turning somersaults over and over again, like a furry ball. It would kick its chin furiously with its back legs as if it were showing off for its human keepers. If it detected that Megan and the children weren't paying enough attention, it would stand upright, wave its elongated arms about in furious motion and wail at the top of its lungs. The children gleefully mimicked the baby ape's antics - Shouting, waving arms about, somersaulting, yelling some more - A great game - A wonderful human/animal bonding.
The helicopter materialized above the camp. The terrified children ran, screaming to their mothers. Their beautiful carefree play time had been ripped away from them. The little orangutan jumped up on Megan; threw its arms around her neck. It clasped its large flesh-toned hands tightly together and buried its head into her shoulder.
When the helicopter's blades finally stopped rotating, Megan