James Steimle - The Kukulkan Manuscript

With one eyebrow rising, Alred said, “That’s why most conservative religious people refuse to recognize archaeological discoveries which say their Bible might not have been the original source they thought it was.”

“Exactly!” Porter sat up like a startled cobra. “Most old-fashioned religious folk have mastered the doctrine of believing and having faith in place of facts. When new artifacts turn up…they flat out don’t want to see them, because they fear what they might see.”

“I agree with you there,” said Alred.

“Truth is, they often don’t recognize how the new finds do correspond to their old pious ideas. The problem lies with their belief systems. A lot of religious people believe things that have been passed down from person to person, but have no valid backing in their scriptures.”

“Really,” said Alred.

“Someone once told me the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the Tower of Babel were one and the same.”

“Are you serious?”

Porter shrugged. “He was a nice guy…but obviously no scholar. Someone a little more respectable probably told him that-it may even have been a joke! — but the guy believed it and related it as fact.”

“Did he know what specific area you study?” she said, wondering who could be so naive, so presumptuous.

“Well, it was a long time ago. I don’t remember. But he was sincere. I just nodded, and let his delusion continue. Arguing with a fool is like wrestling with a pig, they say. You both get dirty and the pig likes it.”

“That’s an oldie-” Alred said, pulling her red jacket around her.

“-but a nice one!” Porter finished with a smile. “As far as scholars go, the biggest hang-up can be found in their general lack of interest in things that would be embarrassing to believe.”

Pause. “Like the idea that what the Mormons profess is real?” Alred said carefully, no malice in her voice. Of course she needed to validate Masterson’s warning of a Mormon bias in the project.

Porter nodded without a word. He sat forward, slowly this time, and rested his arms on the table. “I like you, Erma. You’re all right. The number one concern I have with most scholars in your field of Mesoamerican Archaeology is…they choose not to acknowledge the possibility of a possibility that what the Mormons say about the ancient Americas is true. I’m not talking about dealing with truths here…but possibilities. You said yourself it’s short-sighted for religious scholars to conclude that secular scholars are automatically wrong when their papers contradict biblical themes.”

Alred nodded, but kept her face and all emotions hidden behind tight skin.

“Why then would secular scholars automatically assume papers written by religious scholars…unworthy of a thorough reading based on the premise that religious academics are ‘Old School?’ To tell you the truth, I know a good number of very talented Mormon scholars who have published numerous books and papers in the secular realm. But few in that society recognize their existence. Is anyone reading their papers, or do they see the name, the title, the thesis, and quickly turn to the next essay.”

Alred closed her green eyes and opened them again. “I can see why you are praised for your work. You’ve obviously thought out your arguments.”

Nodding, Porter added in a soft voice, “I look forward to working with you, Erma…though I admit I was steamed when I found out I had to share Dr. Ulman’s codex. I know it will be a challenge-it is whenever I work with someone else. My ideas are often extreme, but I’m sure you’ll keep me in line,” he said in a sarcastic tone.

“Count on it,” she said with the same voice.

“But, Erma, let me say one more thing.” He licked his lips and said slowly, “I will have a great deal more respect for you as a scholar if you admit the possibility…that there is a possibility…that what I present is true. I’m not asking you to believe me. Everyone follows their own paths, and no outside individual has a right to change another person. You are in charge of you. I am only asking you to not be an enlightened scholar who presumes to already have the answers. After all, we’re moving into new territory-case closed. I’m asking you…as a scholar…to keep an open mind. Come to your own conclusions, but don’t shrug off others because you’re worried about what reviews your dissertation will receive.”

She nodded and stood. “We’ll see.” Her voice was hard. Turning to the door, as Porter leaned back in his chair and scratched his head with a clawed hand, Alred said, “Oh…Porter?”

“Yeah.”

She pushed the door open and faced him. “Don’t ever call me Erma again. That’s my aunt’s name, and I’d prefer not to think about her right now. I hate the name, but out of respect for my parents I will not change it. Understand?”

April 10

6:18 p.m. PST

He was late, and he knew it. But there wouldn’t be a problem.

Checking his $4,000 watch, snug on his wrist, he waited as the elevator flew another fifty stories. He brushed away a white spec that had landed on his thousand dollar, dark navy suit. With a flash of his eyes, he made sure the white cuffs of his shirt protruded exactly one quarter inch from his jacket. One glance at his Italian shoes made of black leather, and he knew the tone and the shine couldn’t be more perfect.

He never once let go of the briefcase, even though it was much heavier than usual. Standing in the rear of the elevator, he let his muscles relax as he examined the heads of all those standing with him.

Two red heads.

Partly bald man, who smelled of spent cigarette cinders.

Purple old woman.

He listened to the music, a cheap rendition of Vivaldi’s “L’inverno”, saw the digital number soar quickly upward, skipping ten floors at a time, and glanced at the three lightly gossiping secretaries with brown curls in the right corner.

Everything was fine.

He sighed silently at peace.

He looked down at his hands again. They weren’t shaking, which was good. He moved his mouth, licking his lips. No stuttering motions. Excellent.

Holding his breath, he peered at the black leather briefcase in his right hand, held slightly away from his pant leg as if it carried the Ebola virus.

He imagined the elevator cable snapping.

He pictured the car rushing at the ground.

He saw himself in an ambulance, just about to die, realizing the whole world as everyone knew it would shake and perish if he passed away.

He’d never been so important…

Closing his eyes slowly, and opening them just as slow, he was back in the elevator car. And all was well.

Bong!

The door split in two and disappeared into the walls.

“Excuse me,” he said with the voice of a shadow as he pushed his way through the small crowd.

He walked down two halls and opened a door.

The secretary looked up, but he didn’t hear her if she spoke.

He went straight into the conference room as if he owned the place, though he’d only been there one other time.

He fought the urge to check the hour, the minutes, the seconds…

The room was long with florescent lights recessed into the ceiling. Portraits of important people lined the room in expensive frames. Large windows covered one of the two long walls, but hid behind thin white drapes. The oblong oval table seated at least fourteen people, but he chose to remain standing.

From the high-backed chairs, the faces turned to greet him. No smiles. Only gray eyes. Fine leather portfolios and expensive computer notebooks were open in front of them all, and papers filled many of their wrinkled hands. Each wore a tie that could have fed an Ethiopian child for ten years.

The talking stopped like a sudden cold current.