Читать книгу The Serpent and the Eagle - Bruce Dow - Страница 4

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 handed the baby animal to the tribal chief who had had the temerity to stand his ground against this unexpected intrusion of twentieth century technology. She rushed to the helicopter like someone ready to do battle - A lithe, well co-ordinated warrior about to spring into action - Hips pumping in a powerful, sensuous rhythm; fists clenched tightly.

A large, middle aged man had deplaned. He was standing directly in front of her, a foot taller and two-hundred pounds heavier than she.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Megan yelled.

"I'm here to see you Dr. McPhee," he replied evenly.

"Not without permission! And I'm damned sure nobody gave you authorization to barge in with that thing." Megan pointed to the chopper as if it were an evil genie. "You've terrified my children. You outsiders are so bloody ignorant."

"Hold on a minute," the huge one interrupted good-naturedly. "Read, please." He handed her an official looking document. Megan read attentively.

"Satisfied?"

"Not bloody likely. You've wrangled an authorization. So what? You haven't got my permission, and that's all that counts." She studied the big man; he looked familiar somehow. "These people are probably the last stone age men left on earth," she continued heatedly. "They’re very fragile."

"I'm not going to bother your little savages."

"You've more than bothered them already; and who are you to call them savages! You, that machine, those men with their arsenal," pointing to the big man's bodyguards, "violate everything I'm trying to do. I'd like to know how you got permission from the Royal Geographic to fly in here?"

"It's not so difficult when your name is Joseph Brown."

The pudding face; The accent - crude, grating - definitely "New Yaurk" and not the least bit refined.

"I knew I'd seen you before; I do get newspapers occasionally, even here. Joseph Brown; industrialist, philanthropist, amateur anthropologist and archaeologist, self-made billionaire - mover and shaker to the world. Okay Mr. Brown. So you're a big shot. But you could have paddled up river like any other tourist if you were so bloody anxious to observe the Kenyah. And you could have arranged it through me. I'd have made damned sure you wouldn't have upset my people"

"In the first place my dear young lady, I didn't come to see your aborigines. I came to see you. And secondly, I don't have a whole lot of time for red tape. Besides, can you really picture this body surviving a three hundred mile trek up crocodile-infested rivers in a dugout canoe?"

In spite of herself Megan McPhee cracked a smile. Images of a plump, overfed missionary being boiled in a large pot flashed through her mind.

"You have a point," she conceded.

"Where can we talk. This sun is killing me." Joseph Brown smiled benignly.

"Come along, then," she replied resignedly.

All of a sudden they were surrounded by Kenyahn warriors. They had summoned up the courage to confront the strangers who had dropped from the sky. In the event that the interlopers intended harm to Megan, the tribesmen were armed with stone-tipped spears, and machetes made from ragged shards of volcanic glass. These were smallish men. The tallest being no more than five feet in height. A singular distinguishing characteristic was a grotesquely distended lower lip. At birth, each male baby had a hole cut in his lower lip which was then stretched so as to accommodate eventually a wooden disk up to four inches in diameter.

The creeping influence of civilization was evidenced however by the fact that a few of the younger warriors had insisted that the tribal witch doctor sew the opening shut. The surgery was crudely done. As a result saliva dripped constantly from their partially closed lip holes.

The Kenyahn warriors were naked except for a "G" string made from snake skin which covered their privates. The women of the tribe took great pride in their own nakedness which they emphasized and highlighted by plucking out their pubic hairs. The Kenyahns had a well developed sense of modesty however. Their peculiar form of propriety demanded that women stand up to urinate while men peed in a squatting position.

The Kenyahn warriors were beginning to make threatening gestures towards Joseph Brown and his bodyguards. Megan spoke a few short words of what, to Brown, sounded like gibberish. The little men seemed to relax a bit, but they still held their machetes chest high. Megan turned to Joseph Brown. "I told them you were a friend of mine. They're not entirely convinced. So I'd strongly suggest that your men go back to the helicopter and stay put. The Kenyahns, until very recently, ate their enemies. I don't think you want to provoke any kind of confrontation." This was not said with tongue in cheek; she was dead serious.

Megan led Brown towards an elongated thatched hut at the jungle's edge. The structure was about thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide. It was the largest dwelling in the village. A spacious single room, not doors; no windows, with a high vaulted ceiling.

"City Hall," Brown observed.

"In a manner of speaking - yes. It's the tribe's Community Centre. A place for council meetings, festive celebrations; that sort of thing. The Kenyahns would have taken great offence if I had let you into my hut. Such a thing would be improper for an unmarried female."

"Yet it's Okay to eat people."

"Isn't that what makes the study of anthropology so interesting Mr. Brown?"

He smiled broadly.

The smoke filled air inside the "Long Hut" made Brown's eyes water. There were piles of ashes on the mud floor of the hut. These were residues from ceremonial tribal feasts; the ashes were alive with fleas.

Brown observed a number of sitting platforms scattered around the room. The furnishings were constructed from cypress boughs and covered with straw mats. They had been built just high enough off the ground to be out of jumping range of the fleas.

Bunches of ripening green bananas hung from the ceiling along with baskets of cassava roots which would be grated into manioc flour, a staple foodstuff in the Kenyahn diet.

Before sitting down, Megan picked up a long pole and began poking at the ceiling. She worked methodically, pushing back the grassy fronds, and scraping the pole along the ceiling beams. Anticipating Joseph Brown's question, she said matter-of-factly, "Tarantulas and scorpions like to nest in the ceiling. Snakes come in looking for mice." She shrugged. "Sometimes, they fall out of the ceiling."

Maybe she was trying to psyche him out. Brown couldn't be sure. In any case, he had no intention of rising to the bait.

"Not a problem. Where I grew up, this place would be considered first rate."

"Sit down Mr. Brown. What's on your mind?"

Brown opened a dossier, and began to read.

"Your sister; Maureen McPhee; born June 2, 1986; like yourself a bit of a child prodigy; completed public school at age eleven, graduated high school at age fifteen, after a five year enriched programme; top 1% of her class too; presently enrolled at Ohio State University, a third year undergraduate programme, majoring in Ancient New World Civilizations; she intended to follow in your footsteps Dr. McPhee - post graduate work leading to a Doctorate; her chosen field of study, she hoped, would be in the area of pre-Incan and Mayan cultures of Central and South America. Bad luck; the car crash; not her fault; black ice; not her fault at all; paralyzed from the waist down. A real shame. Not likely she’ll be going on digs any time soon.”

Megan stormed, “ What gives you the right to mock my grief; it was a cruel thing to say; now, get out.”

“Hold on, please. I’m deeply sorry if I upset you. it wasn’t my intent. I’m here to give you some good news. At least hear me out.”

"You have nothing I care to hear about; goodbye, Mr. Brown.”

“What if I was t’ tell you that that I had the means to fix your little sister; allow her to walk just like you and me.”

“I’d say you were a charlatan and a liar. My sister’s paralysis is irreversible.”

“What do you know about stem cell research, Dr. McPhee?”

“Enough to know that that dumb assed Texan, and his neo-con religious familiars have set back stem cell research by twenty years, at least.”

“Quite true. In the USA, but not in China. I own a laboratory and research facility in the little town of Daxing, not far from Bejing. It’s dedicated exclusively to stem cell research. The results have been extraordinary. My “chinkie” doctors are real smart. I expect to live to 150, at least. My own “home grown” replacement organs are waiting transplant when needed.Y’eh see, my researchers have isolated my own adult stem cells, and morphed them into any type of tissue that might be required, and no concern about rejection. They call it pluripotentiality. I can grow a replacement kidney,, or liver; even a new heart.”

“Your own personal fountain of youth.”

“Naturally. "But, a select few also have access to my 'fountain of youth', as you say.”

“For a price.”

“Of course; a very hefty price. But, tell me. What price can be put on reversing paralysis? Making a person whole again?’

‘That cannot be done. Once the spinal column is severed, it can never regenerate.”

“Ah, but I have done just that.” He let his words hang.

Megan was lost for a reply. Joseph Brown rushed on, sensing that his prey was letting her guard down.

“I’ve arranged for your sister to fly to Daxing. All expenses have been covered off.

She’ll be there a minimum of six months. By the end of her treatment, she’ll walk out on her own two legs. As a further sign of my sincerity, I’ve taken the liberty of depositing $ 50,000 in your USA account.”Joseph Brown beamed broadly.

“Well, you can “un-deposit it. I don’t know what you want from me. I suspect that it has something to do with running my Kenyans off their ancestral lands; turning their rain forest into a wasteland. What is it? Gold, oil, timber, or all of the above?”

Joseph Brown smiled; a puffy-eyed cheshire cat smile without warmth. "Well, as a matter of fact, I do have a proposition, but it has nothing to do with your little savages or this god forsaken cesspool of a rain forest.”

“No, Mr. Brown, the price is too high; and I’m not about to give my baby sister false hope.”

“If I can grow, say, a new kidney, your sister can grow a new spiral column, and no rejection; we use her own stem cells.

"All I ask is that you give me a few minutes of your time, and that you listen to what I have to say with an open mind. Now, that's not asking too much is it? After all, I have come a long way to talk to you."

"Okay Mr. Brown. I'm listening."

Brown smiled. Things were going according to plan.

Joseph Brown looked almost comical; a giant of a man in a safari suit that was a couple of sizes too small to accommodate his bulbous frame; crouched on a flimsy wicker platform just out of reach of the jumping flies.

Megan McPhee squatted down opposite him; supple, muscular; tight. Joseph Brown reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a metal tube. He pulled from the container a scroll of cowhide and unfolded it, and placed it in front of Megan.

Above them a scorpion, about five inches long, slithered across a beam sounding its peculiar "squeak, squeak" as it routinely went about building its nest in the sopping roof foliage.

Megan was troubled.

Joseph Brown’s data and case studies bore irrefutable evidence of the efficacy of his regenerative stem cell therapies. Her beloved sister would walk again! The Moctozoma project represented a once in a lifetime opportunity; and, guiltily she had to admit that having a fat bank account was heady stuff.

Yet she was torn. Leaving the Kenyahn tribe and having to abandon the baby Orangatan, whom she had named Emily, and had come to love like a human baby, was torture. That her two bright young assistants would carry on her work did nothing to assuage her guilt.

Further, she did not trust Joseph Brown. Behind his Dough- Boy smile, Megan sensed a stygian darkness; an abyss of unrelieved evil into which inexorably, she was being sucked.

But above all, Megan would walk out of the Daxing clinic, whole.

She made her decision. She would not sleep that night.

There was no breeze to relieve the cloying fetid air. The encircling jungle though was anything but quiet.

Myriad insects chirped a staccato commentary.The rustling of any number of the eighty species of venomous snakes that inhabited the jungles of Papua New Guinea added an obligato accompaniment to the nighttime symphony of jungle sound. The stomping timpani of a Cassawary offered a sonorous bass support. The Cassawary was an indigenous 130 pound flightless bird, whose dagger-like six inch claws could rip out a person’s guts in seconds. Before the night was over, one might hear the roar of the mighty Tasmanian tiger, thought to be extinct, but thriving in this primodial land.

Megan had put Emily in her bamboo bed for the night. She had fashioned the bed herself for the little primate, and filled it with soft purple orchids for Emily’s comfort.

Emily wouldn’t settle; she was restless and a little scared. Joseph Brown’s rude intrusion and the ominous jungle clatter had unnerved the little ape.

She began to whimper. Megan tried to ignore her hoping she would eventually settle down. She did not. At last, contrary to scientific logic, and a hand-book on child rearing for baby Orangatans, if such a book ever existed, Megan threw off her bed sheet, and exclaimed, ‘ What the hell.’

“Come to Mamma, little girl.” Emily bounced into Megan’s bed, gave her a slurpy kiss, snuggled into her and promptly fell asleep. Megan did too.

Bourque unfolded the weathered parchment.

"Be careful," Brown thundered.

Instinctively, Bourque moved his hands gently over the folio. He was accustomed to handling documents of antique origin. Perhaps Brown's folio was a Biblical codex or Classical manuscript of some kind. In any case, until he knew what it was, he would treat it with deference.

The document was a single piece of cowhide, approximately 3' X 2'. Bourque laid it on top of Dean Tichborne's baroque Louis XIV desk. He secured the corners with the Dean's "objects d'art" which graced his desk. These included a diamond studded letter opener and an oversized 18K gold ashtray which had been bequeathed to the Dean by a misguided patron who divined that Tichborne was the intellectual and spiritual inspiration behind the department's internationally acclaimed reputation. Bourque had always thought the gifts to be singularly appropriate in that the endower had made his fortune in the waste management and sewage treatment business, and was reputed to have picked up the expensive "nick knacks" from the receivers for a bankrupt porno distributor.

Bourque scanned the flattened document cursorily, at first, then with increasing concentration. At last, he seemed to be studying it as one who had become totally absorbed. Bourque sat down on a hard backed chair, one of four utility chairs which Dean Tichborne conveniently provided for the peons to whom, from time to time, he gave audience.

The silence seemed interminable. Joseph Brown ran his meaty fingers along the edge of the Dean's desk. Impatiently he burst out, "So Bourque, what have I got here?"

Bourque looked up. His face had taken on a kind of gravity. Gone was the facade of the cynical gadfly. Very slowly and deliberately Bourque replied, "Your document tells one hell of a story.” Bourque closed his eyes, letting the images on the cowhide impinge on his mind. In the bottom lefty hand corner of the document there was a drawing. It was the picture of an eagle. The talons of one leg gripped the top of a cactus plant which itself appeared to be growing out of the rock. The eagle held a serpent. The serpent's neck was clasped in the bird's mouth, its writhing tail was impaled on the talons of the eagle's raised leg. Across the whole top of the document were a series of drawings depicting the phases of the moon, darker blue to indicate shadow; lighter blue to show the visible portions as the moon waxed and waned. The body of the cowhide was taken up with individual frames depicting battles and what appeared to be ceremonials held at the tops of huge pyramids. The actors in the pictograms were evidently Indians. This he deduced from their bronze skins and feathered head dresses as well as by the late stone age weaponry, wooden shields and stone tipped spears and arrows.

The bottom right hand panel depicted a picture of ocean going ships of 16th or 17th century vintage. Soldiers with fair complexions in full armour were disembarking. They were carrying harquebuses and cross bows. A final frame, a part of which was indistinct where the edging of the cowhide had become frayed, evidently depicted another battle scene. The same armour clad soldiers with the whitish skins were retreating across a causeway away from a large city. The soldiers were being chased by Indian warriors wielding swords and javelins. There appeared to be a break in the causeway which was surrounded by a large body of water. The white soldiers were attempting to push two huge containers into the breach.

Bourque became aware of the acute silence his absorption with the document had occasioned. Therefore he hastened on with his reply to Joseph Brown. "The ideographic writing as well as the imagery and style is either of Aztec origin or a convincing forgery thereof. See here!" He sprung from his chair, warming to the challenge of explaining the papyrus.

"The pyramid depicted in these several scenes would have to be the Great Temple of Tenochtitlan. You'll notice four separate tiers topped by twin oratories. According to our best historical data, the one chapel was dedicated to the Aztec Sun God, the God of War, Huitzilopochtli, which translates as "Humming bird of the left"; you see, the Humming bird was his animal guise. Out of respect for this fearsome deity, the Aztecs customarily cut off the left ear of their vanquished enemies. The second chapel was dedicated to Tlaloc, the God the Rain. There was a peculiar logic at work here. Sun and rain, fire and water, exact opposites but both essential to the survival of the Aztec people. A duality of opposites. The clash of contending, warring natures - ergo perpetual warfare brings prosperity. This duality was the essence of their religion. Aztecs were a perpetual war machine."

Joseph Brown was getting the distinct feeling that this upstart academic was patronizing him and he didn't like it in the least. But, for now, he figured he should maintain an affable posture.

"The twin chapels, by the way," continued Bourque, "were the seat of that peculiarly sanguinary Aztec custom of human sacrifice. According to the Spaniards' account of their first visit to the Temple of Huitzilopochtli, the insides of the chapels were so caked with coagulated blood and viscera that the stench alone induced violent and persistent retching." Pointing to the Indian warriors depicted in the drawings Bourque said, "Each warrior is wearing a pair of grey feathers on his head. Undoubtedly these are Crane feathers, the traditional symbol of Aztec men-at-arms who were known as "The Warriors of the Grey Crane Feathers" among other things.

The armour clad soldiers in the other frames are Spanish Conquistadors. Clearly, the papyrus is a rather clever facsimile of what an Aztec account of the Spanish conquest might have looked like, had any such account survived the conquest.

Where did you get it?"

Joseph Brown smiled guardedly. "It doesn't matter. Let me assure you that it is not a 'facsimile.' It's the genuine article."

Bourque slouched down in his hard backed chair. He simultaneously began to suck air between his teeth as he furiously tapped his thumb nail on front teeth. Joseph Brown found the effect distinctly annoying.

"Did you carbon date the cowhide?" Bourque queried.

"It dates from 1520, give or take five years."

"Who did the analysis?"

"We chose Dr. Francis De Tocville, the Director of the Radio Carbon Dating Department of the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique in Paris - the best there is, right?"

Still tapping his teeth, Bourque nodded his affirmation. Joseph Brown pushed on. "Just to be sure, we verified De Tocville's conclusions with Dr. George Mathias of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Satisfied!" Brown smiled evenly, leaning his huge presence forward.

"All right," replied Bourque cautiously. "The papyrus is within the requisite time frame, but not necessarily the pictograms painted on the papyrus. If the writings are of Aztec origin, the basic pigment would have been an oxide of iron and clay; it's inorganic, so we can't really date it." Bourque began to pace, thinking aloud. "However, the reddish hue in the pictograms, would have come from a paste made by drying and pulverizing the bodies of a particular species of indigenous insect, "Dactylopius Coccus." So we can date the time that the insects were killed. By the way Mr. Brown, were you aware that only the female of the species could yield the red dye. Interesting eh."

'Pompous asshole,' Brown thought.

"Other tones in the papyrus undoubtedly were made from the local tropical flora. These can similarly be dated, but it's a damned difficult extraction."

"Yes it was difficult. But I arranged for it to be done. Your insects Jonathon ceased their life in 1520."

Since Joseph Brown did not volunteer any further information, Bourque decided they had piss-assed around the bush long enough.

"Okay Mr. Brown, no doubt, you are in possession of an authentic Aztec codex. That in and of itself is tremendously exciting. But I fail to see how that concerns me."

“I have my reasons. I know how fucking bright you are Jonathon,now let’s see if you can figure out what this old parchment is all about.

Bourque smiled wanly. ”OK, I'll try to work my way through the text." He leaned over the document again, scrutinizing it for several minutes.

"There are certain peculiarities with the codex," he offered tentatively. "If it were strictly a narrative, why would the scrivener have drawn the moon in its phases; and, see here, these astrological tracings superimposed onto the body of the story for no apparent reason. It's as if the number of stars or the time frame represented by the stars and planets in their seasons or the moon in its phases had some meaning with reference to the text. Perhaps," he shrugged, "you need a cryptographer not an anthropologist."

Brown smiled inwardly. He knew he had chosen the right man. He'd hooked him. It was now time to close the deal.

"Okay Jonathon, I'll save you some time. Let's suppose that the manuscript is a map. What does it tell us?"

Bourque resumed sucking in his breath, while tapping his teeth. Brown figured this most irritating habit was a form of mental concentration. He decided to put up with it for now.

"In the extreme right hand corner, where the edged is frayed, see here, there's a final image. I can't make it out. Shit, I wish I had my scopes."

"No problem," Brown enthused, enjoying his scenario immensely. "Over there; I took the liberty of having Dean Tichborne order in the equipment. We can even take infrared pictures if you wish."

"Not necessary. I only need a little magnification. Thank God for dry climates. Ideal for preserving the integrity of ancient documents."

Bourque placed the document under the scope with an almost sacerdotal delicacy as if it were the sacred host. "You know, Mr. Brown, you should not expose an original document, particularly one of frail condition - it can be defaced so easily: Dust, humidity, careless handling, a breeze from an open window..."

"If I'd brought you a copy," Brown answered, "would y’ have treated this exercise seriousy.”

Bourque nodded his agreement.

When Bourque finally looked up after scrutinizing the pictogram for several minutes under the scope, he was shaking from excitement. "Jesus fucking Christ, I can't believe it."