The afternoon sun was already approaching the peaks to the west. Philippe sat in silence, feeling the brandy wind its way to his stomach. The wind had finally died down to an occasional breeze, allowing the sound of water finding its way over some obstacle in the Chixoy River to be heard from somewhere behind him. The breeze carried with it the sweet smell of wood smoke – all that was needed to sensitize his taste buds to the expectation of a dinner of roast duck from his grandmother’s farm. Hunger overtook him. But the thought of breaking into another army ration kit food manufactured to preserve for months in hot climates overtook his vision of Christmas dinner. He finished his third cup of brandy.

Philippe climbed the side of the pyramid and gazed down at the pit. It was only a couple arm’s lengths wide at the top. Three tall men standing on each other’s heads could almost reach the top from the visible floor. But climbing down, it felt like he was in an old, silent cathedral in the south of France. The parallel strings, evenly spaced one from the other, descended along the perfectly vertical dirt walls. He viewed the concentric platform layers of stone and dirt rimming the sides of the pit, effectively forming squared shelves that doubled as steps into the depths of the pit. With the backpack on his shoulders and carrying the cognac bottle, he descended, allowing the still air to envelop his body as if he was underwater but still able to breathe. With each step, the sounds of his own bodily movements reflected off the walls in muffled tones which could be felt but not heard. To the north, the pit widened to reveal two burial chambers, the ceilings having been removed. He stopped before one of the skeletons. For centuries, this body laid in darkness, surrounded by treasured items that would insure a bountiful afterlife. Now this person of communal status lay before Philippe, exposed to the light, vulnerable, conveying none of the wealth and nobility that accompanied him, or her, in life. Dark and empty eye sockets stared at him — communicating the horror of having been disturbed from an eternal state of life, unknown to this world, pleading for a return to stillness, darkness, protection from winds and rains — and from archaeologists wearing hats and backpacks, and carrying instruments that pick like crows at his or her bones.

Philippe approached in quiet reverence. Like many others, this body had been surrounded with pottery and adorned in fine jewelry. Philippe had spent countless hours brushing away dirt from the artifacts and bones. He uncorked the bottle and held it up. “A toast. May you find your eternal path through the stars.” He took a swig and re-capped the bottle. Then he pulled the cork again. “And may you never have to eat army rations.” He took another swig and sat down, cross-legged, on the ground. He brushed the clay with his hands. He had a particular fascination with the silt found at this level in the ground – far enough above the Chixoy to avoid the floods of the rainy season, there was still a dampness that could be detected. He could feel the humidity in his nostrils. Yet, the ground was dry. On his hands and knees, he crawled to the skeleton and felt the dirt. The silt around the bones and jewelry was light and loose. Maybe because the grave was now exposed to the air. But the underlying clay was packed. Was it from the weight of the pyramid compacting humid soil? Or from the weight of centuries-old humanity, hundreds of workers having made thousands of footsteps in this very location, digging, carving away rocks, hauling away soil and stone? Workers not unlike those helping the archaeologists. But the ancient workers were slaves or vanquished warriors – their final fate, sacrifice or servitude having been determined on the ball court…