The Belize Souvenir
“He led her down further into the pit of the abandoned Mayan structure until they came to an antechamber with a large stone slab rising from the floor.”
“A foreigner and a park ranger?” The girl, Ms. Dorothy Grace, said in a voice that could stoke the temptations of any man, “It might as well be summer for you all the time...”
“Certainly, Ms. Grace,” her guide, Mr. Robert Morrow, replied. He led her into the motorboat, taking her small and delicate hand; her skin was soft and lacking any discernible texture compared to his meaty, calloused paw. He pulled the starter cord of the outboard motor, and it cranked and sputtered to life, expelling a thin cloud of black smoke from the exhaust.
They moved down the Belize River, weaving their way through the jungle and the exotic trees that lined the banks, accompanied by the calls of birds and other creatures from somewhere in the greenery.
“My,” Ms. Grace said, “How lovely is their song. What are those birds called?”
“That’s a yellow-headed amazon, Ms. Grace. They fetch a high price on the market back in Belize City. You’d love them—they make great pets.”
“I think I shall get one... only if Father approves,” she said, hanging her head in contemplation. “Do you think Father would approve?”
“I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t. Even then, a yellow-headed amazon could fetch a high price elsewhere; it would be a return on his investment if he decided to part with it.”
Ms. Grace nodded and played with the strings of her pith helmet. “You must convince Father to let me buy one of those birds, Mr. Morrow. I can’t leave Belize without a souvenir, after all.”
“A souvenir, you say?” Morrow exclaimed with a big, toothy smile. “Well, if it’s a souvenir you want, it’s a souvenir you’ll get.”
They rounded a cut bank and came to a shallow point bar on the opposite side of the meander, where they moored the boat. There was a clearing that led somewhere into the jungle.
“Watch your step, Ms. Grace, and keep an eye out for snakes!”
“Snakes!” Ms. Grace gasped. “Where are you taking me, Mr. Morrow?”
Morrow grinned and took her by the shoulder. “You said you wanted a souvenir, didn’t you?” he said, motioning with his other hand. Together, they walked the narrow path through the jungle, the leaves and vines reaching out and grazing them as they walked. Ms. Grace felt the uneasy displeasure of constantly checking herself for spiders in her long locks, which came down just beneath the breast of her button-down blouse, and for snakes at her exposed ankles.
“Surely, you must know how to treat a spider or snake bite, given your experience, Mr. Morrow?”
“Ms. Grace,” Mr. Morrow said flatly, “Do you take me for a fool? Of course I can! It’s real simple, as a matter of fact. You just suck the venom out,” he said, leaning in a little too close for comfort.
They walked a little further, and the path began to widen and straighten before they finally came to their destination: a large stone structure, something like a mausoleum, stood at the end of the path. The masonry was impressive, with a series of bas-reliefs adorning the facade.
“Is it marvelous, Ms. Grace?”
“It’s... beautiful,” she said with an exhalation. “What is it, exactly?”
“It’s an old native structure, supposedly a temple for sacrifice back in those days when that was the accepted norm. It’s been lost to time ever since, but I scouted it out and brought my men out here to clear a path for tourism.”
“Oh my...” Ms. Grace said, stepping forward and feeling the relief. She stepped into the threshold and peered inside; only blackness lay ahead.
“Don’t go inside!” Morrow snapped, seizing Ms. Grace by the wrist. “I—I don’t want you to get hurt, is all.”
“Well?” she said, waiting rather impatiently to see the inside.
“We can’t go in just yet,” Mr. Morrow said. “It’s too dark, and I don’t have a flashlight on me. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. Wait here, and I’ll run back to the boat and fetch us some materials—I’ll make us a torch!”
Morrow ran back to the boat, wrapping the end of a sturdy stick with some loose, oiled rags he had lying around. He poured a little gasoline on the rag and lit it, creating a torch. The fire blazed bright and orange, and he smiled in its glow. He stuck the torch down into the ground and reached back into the boat, retrieving his revolver, tucking the weapon in his waistband. In the distance, opposite the point bar at the cut bank, a man peered through the vines and watched Mr. Morrow through a pair of binoculars.
“You’re back—what took you so long?” Ms. Grace said. “I was getting nervous.”
“No need to be nervous, Ms. Grace. Come,” he said, reaching out his hand. “Let’s us take a gander together, shall we?” She eyed his hand and hesitated a moment before taking it.
“These reliefs chronicle critical events in the culture of the Mayan civilization,” Mr. Morrow said, commenting on the specifics of each carving. “Not a single element has eroded this work for centuries. The dry, cool air beneath all this masonry has kept this work preserved for ages.”
“It’s wonderful,” Ms. Grace said, staring back at the curious Mayan faces and little figures.
He led her down further into the pit of the abandoned Mayan structure until they came to an antechamber with a large stone slab rising from the floor.
“This, Ms. Grace, is where the sacrifices were made,” Morrow said, a slight tinge of excitement dripping from his words.
“My... goodness... I—I think I might faint!” Ms. Grace said, breathing heavily and sniffling at the thought of all those sacrifices thousands of years ago.
“No, come now, Ms. Grace. It was a customary practice of the Mayans all those centuries ago. It’s over, I assure you.”
“I think... I ought to lie down...” Ms. Grace said.
“Of course, Ms. Grace, here,” he said, leading her toward the stone slab.
“You honestly expect me to lie on that... that... sacrificial altar!”
“It’s harmless, Ms. Grace. It’s part of the experience—imagine; you’ll get to tell all your friends back at school that you rested on an ancient Mayan sacrificial altar.”
“No she won’t.” A deep, disembodied voice echoed throughout the antechamber.
“Who was that?” Ms. Grace said, clutching Morrow closely. “Robert!”
“Who goes there?” Morrow said, holding his torch higher. “Show your face! This is Belizian state property!”
“Is it?” The voice now had a face. A tall man in a plantation-style hat, an army green vest, and white shirt and pants stepped forward. He carried a machete at his side.
“Drop your weapon!” Morrow said.
“Please...” The man tossed him a coin.
“I know to pay the fare, being that this is a tourist attraction and all,” the man said, his back turned to them as he curiously observed the reliefs on the wall.
“W-what about the trespassing fee? You trespassed on Belizean state property!”
The man turned, produced a money clip, and removed two hundred Belizean dollars, shoving the money into Mr. Morrow’s hand.
“Now then,” the man said, “tell me, what is it I’m exactly looking at?”
Morrow cleared his throat, “Well, these here depict the great Mayan kings receiving offerings from conquered tribes. You can see the bound prisoners, the priests, the gifts. It’s a very common scene in Mayan culture.”
The man studied the reliefs in silence for a moment, caressing his chin, “Is that what you tell the tourists?”
He stepped closer to the wall, running his fingers lightly along the carved stone. “What you’re actually looking at is a depiction of the Maya creation myth, specifically the actions of the Hero Twins, Hunahpu and Xbalanque. This panel here,” he said, pointing to a figure with what appeared to be fish-like features, “isn’t a conquered king. It’s one of the twins transforming into a catfish to retrieve the bones of their father from the underworld, Xibalba.”
Morrow’s torch flickered, casting dancing shadows across the stone.
“And this sequence,” the man continued, moving along the wall, “shows the ball game played against the lords of Xibalba. See the detail on the ball court markers and the death gods observing from above? The Maya didn’t carve random sacrificial scenes. All their reliefs told a specific story, usually tied to their cosmology, astronomy, or dynastic history.”
Ms. Grace’s eyes widened as she looked at the carvings with new understanding. “Then the altar... it’s not for sacrifices?”
“Oh, it might well be,” the man said, turning to face them. “But not in the way your guide might imagine. Bloodletting rituals were performed by royalty. Kings and queens drew blood from their tongues or genitals to commune with their ancestors and gods. They believed it sustained the cosmic order. The ‘victims’ on this altar,” he said, slapping the surface, “would have been the rulers themselves, offering their own blood.”
Morrow shifted uncomfortably, his torch lowering slightly. “And how would you know all this?”
The man smiled, chuckling a little, touching the brim of his hat, and stepped forward. “Let’s just say I’ve spent more time with people who know these stones than you’ve spent rehearsing your tour script, Mr. Morrow.” He flashed his Interpol badge—Thomas Harding, detective inspector. “You’re under arrest for the illicit excavation and theft of Mayan artifacts.”
They exited the stone structure to find the sky a dark gray. It looked like it would rain at any second.
“I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Morrow,” Inspector Harding said. “You certainly make my job a whole lot—”
But before Harding could apprehend his wrists, Morrow pushed away from the inspector and seized Ms. Grace by the throat, pressing the barrel of his revolver against her head. She screamed and tried to free herself, but Morrow’s strength was too great for her to put up a fight.
“I won’t hurt the girl—I won’t, I tell you! As long as you let us leave, nobody has to get hurt!”
Inspector Harding turned and spat. “I’ve chased you from the banks of the Danube to the banks of the Belize River, Morrow. Are you forgetting that there’s an entire ocean between them? Do I need to teach you geography now, too? I can’t just let you go.”
“I’ve got no time for your lessons, Harding! You let me go and the girl lives!”
Harding hesitated, but finally drew his machete and pierced it into the ground. The blade swayed back and forth like a metronome.
Morrow pushed the girl away from him, his gun and eyes still fixed on Inspector Harding as he went to retrieve the machete.
A bad mistake, leaving your hostage free.
Harding lunged forward and delivered a square kick across Morrow’s jaw, the force of it knocking him backward and away from the machete. Inspector Harding quickly seized the weapon as Morrow scrambled back to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth.
“You bastard!” Morrow roared, squeezing off two hasty shots.
It all happened so fast. There was a blood-curdling scream as the machete made its silver arc. Morrow’s head soared through the air and landed at Ms. Grace’s feet. Then, only blackness.
Back in Belize City at the hotel, Ms. Grace slept next to a birdcage with a beautiful yellow-headed amazon that lulled her with its singing. Mr. Wylie Grace, her father, and Inspector Harding peered in on her through the door.
“I sincerely thank you for bringing my daughter to safety, Inspector Harding. If I knew she was running around with a reprobate in the city, I would’ve done what you did myself.”
Inspector Harding chuckled and lit a cigarette. “It’s just a shame I couldn’t get him booked alive. There are plenty more like him roaming the world; they’re all connected, all caught in the same web that leads back to someone bigger.” He let out a puff of smoke. “There’s always someone bigger...”
“I should think so,” Mr. Grace said, pouring from a decanter of wine into two glasses.
“You said you were a doctor by profession, Mr. Grace?” Inspector Harding asked.
“Yes, I am. I practiced medicine at the University of Virginia and work at the Walter Reed General Hospital in Washington, D.C.”
“A comfortable job, I’d reckon?”
“Why, yes—it’s paid for this vacation.”
Inspector Harding nodded and finished the last of his wine. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you any longer. I’ve work to return to.”
“Oh, but you must come back for dinner, sir. Please, I will treat you!” Mr. Grace insisted.
Inspector Harding smiled. “I thank you, Mr. Grace, but I’m to be posted in Mexico City by tomorrow. I’ll visit you the next time I find myself in Washington.”
“Please do,” Mr. Grace said, smiling. “And I thank you again, sir.”
Just as Inspector Harding donned his hat and proceeded to leave their room, he returned and placed a small wooden box on the table. “It’s a souvenir for your daughter. The Maya wore the bones of their defeated enemies as belt ornaments.”
Mr. Grace looked up, surprised, at Inspector Harding.
“Don’t worry. You have a medical license. You can keep it.”
The inspector exited. Mr. Grace sat alone, looking rather confused, before slowly opening the box: inside lay a perfectly cleaned mandible bone.