Ancient Power

Bill Johnson wiped the sweat from his brow and crouched low over the loamy jungle soil, his trowel scraping gently at the edge of the pottery sherd half-buried by centuries of neglect. The steamy Mexican air hummed with the drone of insects, the oppressive heat making his shirt stick to him like a second skin. Behind him, the mighty pyramid loomed, a silent guardian of memories lost to time. All around the base, tangled vines and broad-leafed ferns reached out like eager fingers, eager to reclaim what humanity had left behind.

For months now, Bill had worked with the excavation team, combing the site for clues about the vanished city that once thrummed with life. He'd found plenty of broken pots, beadwork, and the occasional jade trinket, yet nothing to justify the expense or the aggravation of keeping sponsors happy. To call himself an "archaeologist" was generous; Bill's official training extended only as far as the evening classes and summer digs he'd funded himself after his uncle's modest inheritance.

Decades spent as a desk-bound accountant had taught him how to catalog and sort, but none of that prepared him for the thrill of real discovery, nor the ache in his knees and lower back that came with it.

Today, though, a glimmer of something extraordinary had caught his eye. Just beneath a slab of limestone, an intact clay jar protruded at an odd angle, its surface etched with symbols he'd learned to recognize as Mayan numbers. He bit his lip, careful not to let his excitement jinx the moment. Gently, painstakingly, he scraped away the last of the soil and lifted the vessel free.