Shaman (27 page)

Yoshi doubted Rhys even heard him. He was turning in a slow, unsteady circle, an expression of complete rapture on his face, his eyes drinking in the ruins that now surrounded them.

The tower was the most outstanding feature in the group. It sat at the locus of the cluster of buildings, its spiral rising, vine-draped and majestic, out of a hill of detritus which was still being cleared away by a team of grimy diggers. Though the top several tiers had crumbled, it stood high above the surrounding walls, a veil of steamy mist cloaking its highest levels. A huge tree had grown up right through the middle of it, and spread its branches out over the mountain of masonry like a fantastic parasol. To Yoshi it looked like a many tiered cake with green and burgundy icing and a giant floret ornament. She grimaced at the lack of professionalism in that comparison—her anthropology professor father would despair of her.

Flanking the tower on either side were two low, massive structures—two, maybe three stories tall. They were windowless, but had several huge doors apiece set at regular intervals along the facades. They appeared to be identical. A glance back toward the gate showed the one apparent difference; the building to the east had a square annex at its northern end that had tall, rectangular windows and a door of normal proportions. Only now did Yoshi notice the accouterments of archaeology—the ranging pegs, the spades, the finds trays and canisters that she suspected would always clutter a dig, no matter how much technology evolved.

“This is incredible!” Rhys's voice oozed out in hushed awe.

Burton was nodding, smiling. “Isn't it, though? Reminds one a bit of Caracol. Except, of course, for the burgundy foliage. We call it Sper-ets—that's Temple of the Moon, in the local parlance.”

o0o

They took a whirlwind tour of the major features of Sper-ets—whirlwind, because the sun was sinking toward the horizon of its fourth planet, and night, according to their host, was not a safe time to be poking about among the stones.

“Nocturnal nasties,” he explained. “Leguin 4 is home to a lovely assortment of poisonous creepy-crawlies. An entomologist's paradise.”

“So, everything just closes up around here at night?” Rick asked.

“Around here, yes. Rural Leguini wear ‘night suits'—hip-waders made of some tough but flexible synthetic; a cowling that reaches almost to the waist. Of course, we've taken the precaution of connecting all the tents and cabins in our camp complex with slatex tubing.” He glanced at Rhys. “I hear you're partially responsible for the increased availability of that commodity.”

Rhys smiled, pleased that Burton knew of his previous year's coup in the slatex market. His pleasure was immediately dampened by the regret that the coup hadn't been archaeological instead of commercial.

“I don't suppose you've heard of the recent developments on Tson?” he asked hopefully.

“No, sorry, I haven't. But you can catch me up over supper.”

They dined in the camp commons, a large portable cabin that would, Dr. Burton assured them be proof to the local fauna. There they sat at table with Burton's associate, Nyami Deer-Walks-Here; his dig master, Scott Buchanan; his apprentice, Wayne Bell; and a Xthni named Tzia of Qltrel, a specialist in restoration who also served as Finds Assistant.

There were others, as well, diggers and apprentices (mostly students from Collective universities), scientific specialists from a variety of disciplines. But Sir Drew Burton was undisputedly the crowned head of the gathering, and Rhys felt rather like the starry-eyed traveler who finds himself assigned to the captain's table for a galactic cruise.

The only sour note of the evening played when Yoshi stopped Wayne Bell in the middle of a joke to say, “I notice you keep referring to the aboriginal population as the ‘Linguine.' Why is that?”

Bell shrugged and smiled, eyes kindling in a manner that made Rhys suspect Yoshi was the only person at table he'd not resent for interrupting a punch line. “Leguini—linguine. You can see how it sort of lends itself to the word play.”

Yoshi, missing both the humor and the humorist's intent expression, shook her head. “Leguin is what we called the star before we realized there was anybody here. They call it Etsa, which means ‘light-giver.' And they call their planet Etsat, meaning ‘child of Etsa', and themselves Etsatat, ‘meaning children of the child of Etsa.'”

Bell's brows raised. “You've certainly done your homework.”

Yoshi toyed with her braid. “I find the Etsatat culture interesting. It has striking parallels to nineteenth century Earth. Of course, on Etsat, there are no significant subcultures to compare with Earth's aboriginal groups. In some ways, that makes it all the more fascinating. A singularly unfragmented global society.”

“Yes, well, I fail to find them the least bit engaging,” interjected Burton. “They've lost touch with their past. So much so that they're absolutely useless as guides. They've no knowledge of the way their ancestors lived, how they thought, what they loved.” He shook his head, obviously finding that a difficult thing to grasp.

Nyami Deer-Walks-Here nodded in agreement. “Drew's right. The Etsatat are a singularly future-oriented people. What's past is past, what's buried might as well stay that way. I have to admit, I found that very disconcerting when we first arrived.” She chuckled. “When we told the regional governor what we wanted to do out here in the wildy woods, he thought we were insane. Just a bunch of rusticating lovers of antiquity, eh, Drew? I sometimes think we'd be content to live life backwards.”

Burton harrumphed. “Well, there's to be a balance, I'm sure, but dammit, Nyami, these people have been so bloody unhelpful. Can't tell us anything, because they've never bothered to explore.” He leaned toward Rhys across the table. “Do you know, we've never found the slightest evidence of latter-day looting? No one has been in these buildings since they were abandoned.”

“Except for the vermin,” amended Bell.

“Except for that. And this is by no means the only site we've been working. There's a village about five klicks from here, and temple complexes like this one —” He thumbed toward the dig. “— are all over the map. But the Leguini have absolutely no record of any of them.” His eyes wandered to the dark outside the cabin windows—a dark lit by plasma torches on tall poles. “The treasures that have lain buried here for countless centuries...”

“Are still here for you to find,” Rhys finished, grinning.

Burton returned the grin. “You count my blessings for me. And tomorrow, you'll get to join in the finding. Now, before we all turn in, I want to give you a preview of what's in store for you.”

He rose from the table and disappeared into the connecting tube that led to the Finds tent. When he reappeared two minutes later, he carried a wrapped object in his hands. Setting it on the table, he carefully peeled away the soft swaddling. Inside was a statuette approximately thirty centimeters in height. That the person portrayed was Etsatat was obvious, though the statue was somewhat stylized. Vaguely humanoid, it had the characteristic wide face with the tiny, pointed chin, low set, over-sized eyes and wide thin-lipped mouth. One long-fingered hand clutched a staff of some dull metal, the other was raised to a necklace of large rectangular bangles that hung around the effigy's neck. Atop the staff was a vaguely crescent- or fan-shaped cap. Whether it was a scepter or weapon wasn't readily apparent.

The Etsatat's oddly jointed legs seemed to be encased in boots of a different material than the body and, on second glance, Rhys realized the hands and forearms were also sheathed in the same stuff. A long, flat apron hung from beneath the necklace and seemed, on closer inspection, to be part of a stole that covered the figure's shoulders completely. Taken all together it looked to be protective gear—armor perhaps, or protection from Etsat's “nocturnal nasties,” or yet again, ceremonial garb or uniform.

By far the most outstanding bit of apparel was the figure's elaborate headdress. Fitted to the wide, shallow skull was a helmet of the same metal as the staff. Atop it was a flat, gleaming silver crest that was a larger twin of the one mounted atop the staff. It reminded Rhys much of a figure found on Earth at Teotihuacan in the late twentieth century.

“Meet the Moon God, whose temple this appears to be. We call him Ets-eket, which is Etsatat for Moon God, naturally. As you can see, he's a warrior deity of some sort. Or the priest-surrogate for same. We haven't found out quite as much about him as we'd like, but this entire complex, as I said, appears to be dedicated to him. We're not quite certain of the purpose of the buildings on site—although they seem to be depositories for treasure, tribute, perhaps burial goods. The tower... well, there's a mystery. The hole in the roof is the only obvious access point—though that giant conifer's clogged that up pretty effectively. We're fairly certain there's an entrance hidden in that mound of spoil around the base. Scott and I are all for cutting the tree out chunk by chunk, but Nyami here will have none of it.” He afforded her an indulgent glance to which she replied with a shrug. “So, it's dig we do.”

“There's an accretion of ash on one side of some of the bricks we've collected at the top of the tower,” Scott Buchanan offered. “It's possible the apex of the tower served as a sacrificial altar.”

“We suspect it might be the tomb of this fellow.” Burton patted Ets-eket on the headdress.

“Of course, we've not found any humanoid remains yet,” said Tzia, entering the conversation for the first time. “Just small animal bones.”

Burton cleared his throat. “The sheer volume of animal sacrifices we've found in the pits at the southern end of the complex is astounding. I've never seen anything to compare with it.”

“Of course,” said Tzia, “you have to sort the newer leavings—dead vermin and the like—out, or the data become skewed.”

“The data,” said Burton, voice sharp with irritation, “are as accurate as they can be.”

Rhys barely heard the exchange, so intent was he on the figurine. Drinking in every detail, he lifted tentative hands to it, then glanced at Burton. “May I, sir?”

“What? Oh, of course.” The older man made a sweeping gesture of welcome.

Rhys explored the figure with hands and eyes, memorizing every texture and nuance. “Marvelous! How old?”

“At least five thousand years, yet even the softer metal is intact.”

“Where did you find him?”

“In the Chapel. That's what we call that small annex to Temple One. He was still in his little carved niche beside the door. Wish we knew the Etsatat name for him, but well, they haven't got one.”

Rhys opened his mouth to ask more, but Burton forestalled him. “Keep your questions for tomorrow. Time to turn in. The day starts very early around here, Professor Llewellyn.” He rose and extended his hand to the younger man. “Wayne will show you to your cabin.”

o0o

“I am completely and utterly happy.”

Alone with Rick and Yoshi in the cabin they'd been assigned, Rhys stretched full length on his sleep mat, luxuriating in the fine, rare sensations that rolled over and around him. The bleat of a night avian, the muted whistles and twitters of insects, the humid, warm air against his skin, the velvet quality of the darkness beyond the large windows. It was magic; it was medicine.

He could feel the site out there waiting for him like a new friend, well met. The buzz of excitement he'd felt since setting foot on Etsat—no, since receiving Drew Burton's invitation to do so—faded pleasantly to a balmy whisper of contentment.

Rick shot Yoshi a wry grin and saw an answering flash in her eyes, even in the unreliable light of the single large moon filtered through copious foliage. “It is nice and peaceful here,” he acknowledged.

Rhys snorted. “Peaceful? Is that all you can manage, Roddy? Peaceful? You're in the presence of a legend, I'll have you know. Professor Drew Burton has done more to advance xenoarchaeology than any other single researcher, just by moving into the arena. Since he's been involved in extra-terrestrial research, he's brought more attention to it, more sponsors, than ever it's had. I expect his published works in the field will soon define it.”

“I thought his paper on the aboriginal cultures of Mandrorin was good,” Yoshi said, paused and added, “but I found some of his views a little biased.”

“Nonsense, Yoshi. Dr. Burton is a brilliant researcher. Look how much he's done here already. Do you realize they've been at this dig for only four months?”

After a moment of silence, Yoshi murmured, “I didn't like the way they called the Etsatat the ‘Linguine.'”

Rick sighed. “You take things too seriously, Yosh. It was a play on words. Human words. Burton's just pinched because the Etsatat aren't as agog at his discoveries as we are. I kind of think he imported us because he wanted to impress Rhys.”

Rhys frowned into the dark. “Why in heaven's name should he care to impress me?”

“Because he respects you?” countered Rick.

Rhys felt the heat of embarrassment warm his cheeks. “Good Lord, Roddy! Why should he respect —?”

“Maybe because you're the man who brought the White Temple of Tson to light after it'd been buried for two millennia. Oh, not to mention that you were the first human to establish meaningful communication with the Tsong Zee.”

“I didn't do anything that important. The Tsong Zee found their Shrine, and they established contact with us.”

“He said ‘communication,' not contact,'” argued Yoshi. “You were their Key Master. You were their eyes. They couldn't have found the Temple without you.”

“Arguable. And irrelevant. Drew hadn't even heard of Tson.”

“Then I guess he doesn't use his own camp library. It contains a number of major articles covering your discoveries there, and someone's been accessing them.”