The Serpent and the Eagle

Prologue

THE SAD NIGHT

July 20 1520; Cactus Rock (Tenochtitlan) Mexico

The powerfully built dark bearded man barked out orders in a rapid fire staccato, his face a mass of sweat mixed with rain. His voice was scarcely heard over the din of charging horses and blasting harquebuses. Soldiers were yelling, screaming and dying. Through the darkness and drizzle he saw a host of Indian warriors in canoes closing on his position. His men were now trapped on the narrow causeway. The Indians had torn down the Acali, the canoe passage which separated the last section of causeway from the mainland. Two large wooden barges teetered at the edge of the break in the causeway. The four horses which had been pulling the barges were cut loose; they thrashed disconnectedly, trying to make their way to shore; panic stricken soldiers were clinging to saddle straps and horses’ manes. The remainder of the contingent on the causeway stuffed their pockets and even the wide tops of their jackboots with whatever gold artifacts they could snatch from the barges - Cups, plates, jugs, medallions. Many soldiers jumped frantically into the breach only to sink beneath the swirling, murky waters, laden down with steel armour and gold. 

In the centre of the City fires began to burn atop the Great Pyramid. The beleaguered men on the causeway heard the dull thud of drums signifying that their comrades left behind had been captured alive and would soon be bent backwards over the altar stone atop the Great Pyramid. Their pulsating hearts would be torn from their living bodies. There was no time to think about their fate or to attempt a rescue. The Indian warriors had disembarked from their canoes and were charging along the rain slicked marble stones of the causeway toward the survivors. The two men nearest the leader went down. One had taken an arrow frontally through the neck, splitting his adam’s apple. The second soldier groped in front of his face, madly yanking at the arrow shaft which was protruding from his eye. He pulled at the arrow with inhuman strength. It dislodged. He fell, the shaft still clutched in his hand as brain tissue oozed from the vacant socket. Their leader gave the order one last time. The surviving soldiers heaved as one man. The barges swayed momentarily, and finally, still heavily loaded with gold, plunged into the lake, filling most of the gap in the causeway. Men scrambled over the barges as they sank. But, a dozen yards of open water still remained before the safety of the mainland. The water was too deep to wade across. There seemed to be no escape. Yet the greed of the dead was to be the salvation of the living. For the last thing the pursuing Indians saw through the pervading drizzle were the figures of their arch enemies, the short dark bearded leader and his tall red bearded lieutenant running over and stomping under the partially submerged bodies of their comrades which had piled up one on top of the other. 

As ‘The Sad Night’ ended, the lifeless forms of many conquistadors, their doublets bulging with gold, continued to sink to the bottom of the lake, their bones to be swallowed up with the precious metal for which they had forfeited their lives. 

August 07, 1995 Teotihuacan (the place where the Gods gathered) forty miles north - east of Mexico City.

The temperature had soared past 100 degrees F. Professor Jeremy Lake’s skin was a red pin cushion of insect bites. It is worth all the discomfort, he thought. 

Professor Lake had been doing field work for twenty-five years. His Digs were habitually underfunded. But this time, the funding was lavish. In addition, the Mexican authorities had authorized his group to excavate anywhere along the ‘Way Of The Dead’. Even the great Pyramid of the Sun was not off limits to him. Whoever headed the foundation for which he worked must have friends in very high places. 

The initial site that professor Lake had chosen yielded artefacts spanning seven thousand years of Indian civilization. Several well differentiated strata had been identified. Over the millennia, the periodic lava flows from nearby Mount Xitle had done much to seal in the history of long vanished cultures. As they dug deeper, they went back in time, from Azteca/Tolteca, classic Mayan, and pre -classic Omak, straight through to paleo- American. 

Unfortunately, this particular ‘tell’ yielded nothing of significance: a few ‘coo’ (digging sticks), clay pellets for blow guns, and pot shards of clay and obsidian. Mundane artifacts, which had been duplicated at hundreds of earlier digs. 

Professor Lake moved his crew to a secondary site. He chose a mound just beyond the walls of the Citadel of Teotihuacan, a little to the east of the Pyramid of the Moon. Within the walls of the Citadel, there stood an ancient temple. The balustrade of the temple displayed a huge sculpted head of the Aztec God, Quetzalcoatl. The visage was in the likeness of a serpent, a plumbed serpent. 

It didn’t take long for the student diggers to figure out that they had stumbled onto something unusual. Within a foot of the top of this secondary mound, their shovels struck a solid object. As they removed the surrounding earth, taking great care so as not to damage the object, they realized that whatever was buried under the mound was huge. Furthermore, it had form and design. This was not simply an oversized boulder. They continued to dig, painstakingly. The encased object began to take shape. It required the better part of a week to fully unearth it. 

When the monolith was finally exposed, Professor Lake, his associates and students looked upon a wonder: a gigantic stone figure; a reclining man; fully twenty feet from toe to head. The head was twisted. The socketless eyes faced west, to the setting sun. In its lap was a large bowl; it was the size of a bushel basket. 

Extensive skeletal remains were unearthed around the huge frame. Five individual skeletons were pieced together. Detailed examination of the remains that each had been beheaded. Additionally, the skeletal evidence suggested that extensive trauma had been inflicted in the chest area. The conclusion- their hearts had been cut out. 

One other thing of note was found. The oversized concave receptacle perched on the stomach of the reclining figure contained a rolled up document. It had been remarkably well preserved. 

Chapter 1

He observed Dean Tichborne’s pudgy face, as the Dean peered surreptitiously into the lecture hall. The thought that crossed his mind was that the old turd was checking up on him, and that was understandable. After all, it was Jonathon Bourque’s wont to manufacture any excuse to avoid delivering these obligatory homiletics to disinterested Freshmen who, for the most part, had elected for Anthropology 101 because they figured it to be a snap course, which indeed it was. For Bourque didn’t bother to read any of their papers in any detail. He graded the aspiring scholars indiscriminately from C- to B+ so that all passed, but none excelled. Thus for Jonathon Bourque the tedium of having to treat with dull minds was maintained at a tolerable level.

On this occasion, however, Dean Tichborne was about to interrupt a rather lively discussion. Bourque had posed a question to his class. In fact, it was a two part question: Was the primate sub-species Australopithecus Africans a true hominid from whom Man ultimately descended? Secondly, and hypothetically, If an Australopithecus were to appear among us today, could such a creature be bred with a modern man to produce a viable offspring?

Bourque supposed that the unusually animated responses from his students stemmed not from any deep-seated concern over our human origins, but rather from the somewhat bizarre sexual overtones of his second question - a new twist to the Beauty and the Beast fantasy it was clear that further probing of the subject would have to wait. Dean Tickborne, through a series of furiously spastic hand movements, was summoning Bourque to meet with him outside the lecture theatre. Bourque shuffled reluctantly toward the hallway. 

You’re actually giving your lecture and on time too, the Dean said. 

Where else would I be during a scheduled lecture hour.

Well, of course, Dean Ticborne stammered. I do apologize for taking you away from your students. But there is someone waiting in my office for you - a very distinguished gentleman I might add.

That seems highly improbable, Bourque replied disinterestedly. 

You can imagine my own surprise. He showed up unannounced.

I’m sure you handled the situation with aplomb.

Dean Tickborne hurried on. You can appreciate Jonathon that we must not keep our distinguished friend waiting. He charged me not to reveal his identity. He wishes to see you privately, and in the strictest of confidence. So let us not tarry.

‘I wonder what Ticborne thinks. That by telling me the name of our distinguished visitor, I’m going to start running through the hallowed halls

of Trinity College shouting it at the top of my lungs.’

Bourque despised Dean Tichborne. Perhaps despised is too strong a term, since it implies that one ascribes to that person a certain status, albeit a negative one. Bourque saw Dean Tichborne for what he was; a bumptious, fawning toady. 

Tichborne’s present eminence had much more to do with that seemingly inbred capacity of the mediocre to excel at back room camaraderie than with scholarly achievements. 

As they walked along the ancient corridors towards the Dean’s office, Bourque smiled to himself, recalling the first occasion on which he had met Dean Ridley Tichborne. It was a faculty cocktail party, one of those noxious meet the new staff get togethers. 

Tichborne was the presiding Pooh Bah. He waddled from group to group, interjecting himself, and expecting, as always, to be received with the deference befitting his exalted position. 

No sooner had Tichborne introduced himself to Bourque, then, from left field, he asked rhetorically, Are you aware of the provenance of the surname Tichborne, Dr. Bourque? as if possession of such an odd name were a National Treasure. 

To his surprise, Bourque replied, As a matter of fact, I am.

Oh! How so?

Obscurities are a passion of mine. Following a well calculated pause, he continued, "If my memory serves me correctly, the Tichbornes were of the minor gentry residing in Southampton during the Tudor period. They traced their descent to one Roger de Tichborne, a Knight of dubious distinction, who served under Henry II. The one notable thing that I can recall concerning the Tichborne family is that a certain Chitiock Tichborne, a Catholic conspirator and poet of the Elizabethan period was convicted of attempting to assassinate the Queen. He was hanged, drawn and quartered. The year was 1586, I believe. Before he was disembowelled, he wrote a three stanza elegy, quite poignant. It goes something like this: (Bourque proceeded to quote word for word)

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,

The day is past and yet I saw no sun,

My glass is full and now my glass is run,

And now I live and now my life is done.

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green,

My youth is gone,and yet I am but young,

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen,

My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,

I looked for life, and saw it was a shade,

I trod the earth, and new it was my tomb,

And now I die, and now I was but made,

My glass is full, and now my glass is run,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

To my knowledge, nothing of note has come from the Tichborne family since that day. Now, if you will excuse me, Dean Tichborne, my own glass which once was ‘full’ and now ‘is run’ must, perforce, be refilled."

Bourque was quite convinced that from that moment on, Dean Ridley Tichborne bore him the illest of will. 

As soon as Dean Tichborne opened the door to his inner sanctum, Bourque knew why Dean Tichborne had been so agitated. The smell of money always agitated Tichborne. The huge man sitting in the Dean’s big leather chair was known in all the capitals of the world. The question that flashed through his mind was why Joseph Brown, arguably the world’s wealthiest individual would want to meet him for any reason. For Jonathon Bourque, ‘enfant terrible’ of the academic community, Anthropologist ‘extraordinaire’, master of a host of arcane and abstruse subjects would have nothing of practical value to offer a latter day Midas such as Joseph Brown. ‘Hell,’ he thought, ‘I’m having trouble coming up with next month’s rent.’

Good morning Dr. Bourque. I’m Joseph Brown. Brown got up from Dean Tichborne’s high backed leather chair. Bourque was 6’3 tall; yet, he felt dwarfed. He was standing in front of a monolith, at least 6’7 and 280 to 300 pounds; heavy bovine features were set within puffy, pocked marked cheeks, and bulbous nose. Brown was mid fifties, he guessed, with more than a suggestion of a mid-life corporation around his stomach. He suspected though, that beneath the gut and love handles was a rim of steel. 

As if picking off his thought Brown offered, Three hundred and twenty, give or take ten pounds; and this? gripping his belly. Mere window dressing. I stay in shape.

I believe you, Bourque replied. His right hand continued to feel prickly from Brown’s cursory hand shake, the force of which was merely implied. 

Joseph Brown’s attire reeked of conspicuous consumption.

A custom tailored, saville row suit,double breasted, with matching silk, Diponi tie, handmade white linen dress shirt, featuring an high Edwardian collar. He was proud to flaunt a $ 40,000 pair of crocodile shoes. It pleased Joseph Brown to know that his feet were clad in the skin of an endangered species. 

Bourque looked shabby by comparison: ill fitting cords,and baggy sweater, purchased from the LL Bean mail order catalogue; a picked over polyester jacket, procured at a bargain basement price from Marks and Spenser, was complemented by scuffed slip ons, that had rarely,if ever seen shoe polish.

Dean Tichborne, who had been rehearsing the introductions in his mind, was distinctly annoyed that Brown had pre-empted him. And when he began to stammer an interlocution, Brown deftly and swiftly ushered him to the door, thanked him for his assistance, and shut the door in his face.

Take a seat, Dr. Bourque.Joseph Brown picked up his gold embossed attaché case. 

Brown strode back to the Dean’s ornate Tudor style desk; the elegant casket was secured by a combo-cam electronic lock. Brown keyed in the current code. He snatched up a file folder, opened it, pretending to study the contents for an achingly long time. 

The big man then sneezed, pulled out a monogrammed silk handkerchief from his vest pocket and blew noisily. Dust and mould, he grunted. That’s England. An interesting country don’t y’ know. Weird people. Sort of an anachronism-livin’ in the past; lost Empire; lost glory and all that shit. Hell, I could buy and sell this piss-assed little island ten times over. But, y’eh still got one thing goin’ for y’eh; y’eh got real bright mouldy academics, who know their stuff, particularly when it comes to obscure research, that no practical person would give a rat’s ass about, which is where you come in Dr. Bourque. I got something that’s right up your alley; fits your peculiar talents to a tee. I’m launching a new project. You are to head it up Dr. Bourque. It has already been cleared with the Dean and the Faculty. I may require your services for an extended period of time. Money will not be a problem. Your salary will be $120,000 a year, plus all expenses, of course. That’s about four times what you are earning currently."

I’m not interested,

Is that so, Brown replied bemusedly. But of course you’ll join me. Brown pretended to consult his files for a few moments. You actually detest your lecture duties here. Correct? You want more than anything else to do original research. Right so far? and you are flat broke. Okay?

I don’t even bother to read the business pages Mr. Brown; but your activities always seem to make the front pages. So I’ve read about you. Let me see if I’ve got this right: drilling for dirty oil,hacking down great tracks of rain forest, selling asbestos to unsuspecting third world countries or is it fourth world failed states who don’t give a shit if their masses develop lung cancer.

You flatter me.

Hardly. I believe that you have been quoted as advocating cutting off all aid to developing countries- food, medicines, investment initiatives. In short, anything that would alleviate the suffering of their people. Winnowing the crop was how you phrased it. How very Malthusian of you. Tell me, do you keep a copy of Mein Kamp by your bedside?

"Jonathon, you got to understand that there are too many diseased, and genetically denuded people on this planet. I simply believe in letting nature take its course. 

Let me enlighten you Dr. Bourque as to what I do for you and your fellow bleeding heart academics, safely hidden away in your ivory towers where nobody farts or shits. The Joseph Brown Foundation For The Preservation Of Antiquities has made possible the excavation of ancient sites from Tulun and Chichenitza in the Yucatan to the lost city of the Incas, Machu Piccho, eight thousand fucking feet up in the Andes. And Pompeii would still be buried under a million tons of ash. Without my largess your precious digs would wizen up like an old maid’s twat.

Goodbye Mr. Brown Bourque turned to leave

Brown shook his massive Pit Bull-like head. No, no, no. You’ve been seconded to me. Dean Tichborne is glad to be rid of you for awhile. It seems that you’re a bit of a shit disturber. I’ve bought your contract from the University. You’re booked to fly into Mexico City tomorrow.

This final presumption caused Bourque to laugh out loud, a rude and raucous belly laugh. He moved back into the big man’s air space. Mr. Brown, to suggest that I would get on a plane at any time, for any reason tells me that you know fuck all about Jonathon Bourque. I am absolutely terrified of flying. I don’t mean nervous or edgy. I mean ‘shit my pants’ petrified. Nothing could entice me into an airplane, not even the chance to dig for the bones of Christ. It was Brown’s turn to laugh. 

Jonathon. Please give me a moment. Take a look at this document. He extracted a single rolled up leather bound document from a hermetically sealed container, and handed it to Bourque. It will only take a few minutes of your time. His tone was placatory. 

Bourque shrugged, but spread out the document and began to read. 

The whining rev of the engines signalled the take-off. His bowels loosened. He was working on his fourth gin and tonic. His palms were so sweaty, and his hands so shaky that he put his face down to the glass so as not to spill the precious balm. The terror. The moment of lift off. The point of no return. He looked quickly out the window. ‘The huge roaring engine seems to be attached to the underside of a long, thin oh so exposed wing by what? A couple of bolts, maybe only crazy glue, or silly putty. Don’t think! Oh my God. If the engine falls off, the wing will snap like a twig.’ The double gin and tonic disappeared in one gulp. ‘How long will it take to die? Ten seconds, thirty seconds, a minute. All dreams, hopes, pleasures disconnected; eternal oblivion, not a peaceful dignified exit from a comfortable, drug sated death bed, but a plunging coffin from 30,000 feet, a disintegrating tangle of white hot metal. If my body is recovered, everyone will know that I died of terror not the crash, for they will discover that I had shit my new flannel pants. 

If only I hadn’t opened Brown’s bloody document.’

Tzitzlini begat Mixtli in the first days of ‘The Weed People.’¹ It was the time of their tribulation when the Azteca huddled in the swamps by the shores of Lake Texcoco. 

Mixtli became a mighty warrior and priest-servant to the Lord God Huitzilopochtli. 

Mixtli begat Nimztol

Nimztol begat Kurikauri

Kurikauri begat Zyana who became the first High Priest of the Azteca people. 

Zyana begat Xzimtzicha. 

Xzimtzicha begat Uaxyacac. 

Uaxyacac begat Canautli. 

Canautli begat he who was named ‘Zpitl’ the ‘Expected One."

It had been foretold from ‘the before time’ and set down in the sacred lists of ‘The Weed People,’ and it was written: Quetzalcoatl, the plumbed serpent, will return in judgement in ‘The Year of One Reed.’ He will take upon His sacred person, Human form. His countenance will be of unearthly white, many shades paler than ordinary men.

Canautli died. His age was one hundred and twenty years. He died in the year of Lord 1519 - The Year of One Reed. Zpitl became the new High Priest of the Azteca People - He was the perfect, galvanized instrument of the Lord god Huitzilopochtli. The Transcendent One; a man among men; high above all other man.

¹ Mexixin was the only edible plant which grew in the miserable swamp by the shores of Lake Texcoco where the Azteca were forced to live in the early years. It was a bitter tasting weed - A scraggly kind of crabgrass. Therefore, the lowly Azteca became known as Mexica, ‘The Weed People’; this became the name of the great empire which the Azteca established.

Chapter 2

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