The Anomaly(33)

“So we’re going to go have a look, right?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Pierre wandered off to sit next to Gemma.

I’d been firm about not trampling the site earlier, but so far there’d been nothing to disturb. I knew that what we’d seen and filmed was enough. But it didn’t feel like enough. And that wasn’t an ego thing. What we’d found was weird and interesting and would have a bunch of academics scratching their heads and muttering “Huh.” Maybe even the father of the woman running reception back at the hotel would be forced to consider the idea that amateurs without tenure knew stuff. Or sometimes accidentally turned out to be right, as Gemma would doubtless have phrased it. We were guaranteed a spread in Ancient American magazine, and maybe a mention in Obscure Academic Quarterly About Indigenous Peoples (circulation: 151 copies worldwide, hidden in college libraries where no one under the age of forty goes except to make out).

But that wasn’t getting it out there. That wasn’t jamming stuff in front of the eyes and into the minds of the people with a lock on the historical narrative, nor the millions content to regard what’s trending on Twitter as the burning issue de nos jours. And this wasn’t Chaco or Mesa Verde, somewhere tourists could come look, ferried in buses and wandering down nice, easy paths. It was some distance up a rock face in a minor and restricted back section of the Grand Canyon. Once the archeologists had done their thing, this place would be shut off and forgotten and nothing would have changed. That wasn’t enough. Not if there was more.

I checked the time. Twenty after two. I turned to Ken, who was sitting a few feet along the wall, gazing up at the ceiling and smoking.

“Ken,” I said.

“I agree.”

“With?”

“What you’re about to say.”

“We both argued to the contrary earlier.”

“We need more than this, Nolan. Okay, not ‘need.’ Want. Deserve. What we’ve found is great. But if there’s slam-dunk evidence we can get on film by taking a five-minute walk past that shaft, we’d be mental not to get it in the bag. Unless we’ve got the money shot in our grubby little hands, we can’t hope to own the story. You know that as well as I do. I was just sitting here waiting for you to realize it.”

“And if I hadn’t?”

“I would have found a way of gently pointing it out.”

“I see.”

“So what’s supposed to be down there?”

“A big round room. With a bunch of passages leading off, like the spokes of a wheel. That’s where Kincaid claimed they saw the really zany stuff—golden urns, mummies.”

“And there’s a statue in the main room?”

“So he claimed. Massive, lots of arms.”

“You don’t believe it, do you.”

“No. That whole section always read to me like he just started making shit up. It could be that he had the same experience we’ve had. He’d found something amazing. Something that should have been enough. But he knew it wouldn’t get the man on the street to raise his head from the trough. Kincaid was a guy who’d spent his whole life in the wilderness, back when America was genuinely wild. He wanted the folks back east to understand what an extraordinary country it is, how deep and unexpected its history might be. So he embellished. A lot.”

“So there’s a chance there’s nothing down there?”

“Such is the disappointing fate that oftentimes befalls impartial questers after truth.”

“Don’t I know it. All right—let’s have a look. Then we’ll piss off. There’s a cold bottle of Tovaritch on that boat with our names on it. And for once, you’ve earned it.”



Ten minutes later we set off, heading back up the main passage. We walked carefully around the hole down into the shaft, and then we were into new territory.

After another hundred feet or so the design of the passage abruptly changed. The walls—previously straight—became concave on both sides, more like a tunnel. The passage widened by a couple of feet. There was also a slight upward slope. The overall effect was far more finished and noticeably grander. It seemed clear that we were heading in the right direction, getting closer to the heart of a ceremonial structure.

Though Pierre filmed me heading onward, I didn’t say much. I pointed out the change in the design of the passage, and speculated that the slope might be part of a form of emotional architecture, signifying upward spiritual progress. I wasn’t sure if this made sense within local culture and frankly it could have been they simply messed up keeping it level, but saying this kind of thing is what I get (minimally) paid for.

Otherwise I kept quiet, until suddenly something changed. The air became noticeably cooler, and the walls on either side disappeared.

“Okay,” I said. “Everybody—lights on.”

One by one, the people behind me turned on their headlamps. There was a long moment of silence.

“Holy crap,” Gemma whispered.





Chapter

20



Slowly we spread out into the space.

The room was very large. Far bigger than anything we’d seen before, well over a hundred feet across. It was hard to be sure of the full extent because light struggled to penetrate the darkness, but as people walked out into the room the glow of their lamps seemed to reveal a perfect circle, rising up toward a dome.