Curses!

Worthy was unamused. “I don't see anything funny in that. Could it possibly be true, Gideon?'

'Hee-hee-hee-heee,” Leo rasped. “Hoo-hoo-h—'

Worthy silenced him with a haughty scowl. “I don't mean, is the curse true,” he snapped. “I mean, do you think it—he—was left there, you know, as a warning not to disturb the site?'

'That's just what I do think,” Gideon said. “I don't remember the words of the curse, exactly, but somewhere in there—'

'I do,” Emma Byers said. “Last night I focused my interpolarity flow on it during my amethyst meditation interval.” She flushed and looked defensively at the others, expecting to be challenged. “I have it multidimensionally internalized now,” she announced.

'I think that means,” grumped Worthy to no one, “that she's learned the curse by heart. God forbid.'

Gideon wasn't overjoyed with the idea either. “Well, I don't think it's too important to—'

Emma closed her eyes, ignoring them both. “'The Lords of Xibalba will come and gouge out their eyes,'” she intoned in a fair imitation of Dr. Garrison, sans accent.

'Right,” Gideon said. “Anyway—'

''...and cut off their heads,'” Emma droned on, her eyes still pressed shut, “'and grind and crumble their nerves and their bones, and torment them until they die and are no more. Only thus—’”

'Thanks, Emma,” Gideon cut in. “That's fine. Well, it looks as if somebody did all those things to the poor guy in the doorway.'

'Huh?” Harvey said. “How can you tell that his nerves were crumbled? I mean, if all you have to go on are bones—'

Gideon bowed his head to hide a smile. Some things never changed. Trust Harvey to inject some welcome literal-mindedness into things.

'You're absolutely right, Harvey. That was an overstatement. I don't know about the nerves. But everything else holds. The head was cut off—sawed off, rather—with some kind of blade that wasn't very sharp; a flint knife, probably. And a lot of the bones were crushed with something heavy. The hand and foot bones were practically pounded to pulp, as if they laid his hands and feet on a flat stone and—'

'Gideon, enough, you don't have to draw a picture,” Abe said, making a face.

'This is sure fun,” Julie chipped in. “I'm certainly enjoying my lunch.'

Gideon subsided. He didn't much like thinking about it either.

For a few moments the only sounds were the rustling and hiccupping of birds in the shadowed forest a few yards off; people ate their sandwiches or peeled their fruit in thoughtful silence.

'Dr. Oliver,” Emma Byers said abruptly, “have you had a chance to read the winter issue of Holy Anthro yet?'

'Uh...Holy Anthro?' What the hell was Holy Anthro? Did he really want to know?

She looked at him, surprised. 'The Journal of Holistic Anthropology and Shamanistic Enlightenment,' she explained. “There was an article in it that speaks to us very directly.'

'Uh, no, I must have missed it,” he said cravenly. “What about you, Dr. Goldstein? I'm sure you saw it.

'No, I'm afraid not,” Abe said with a sweet smile. “Unfortunately, I left for Yucatan before my copy came in the mail.'

Gideon eyed him doubtfully. With Abe you never knew.

Emma blinked, apparently expressing her own stolid form of astonishment at the slovenly scholarship of two supposedly professional anthropologists. “There was an article on prophecies by the ancient Maya.'

'Oh, my God.” Worthy bit gloomily into an orange segment and raised his eyes heavenward.

Emma Byers was an ungainly woman given to spotty blushing and a halting, blurting style of speech. But she was not easily put off. “This was a scientifically controlled study,” she maintained, her eyes on the ground, “by the Institute of Transformative Consciousness—'

'Ah,” said Abe.

'Sheesh,” said Worthy.

'—that proves beyond a doubt that all twelve major changes in the Dow Jones average in the first half of last year were predicted in the Popol Vuh to within two points—and the Popol Vuh was written by the Quiche Maya in 1550.” She flushed and bit tightly into her soy cake.

The only response came from Leo. “Now if it told me about next year's Dow Jones, I might be interested.'

'Preston,” Emma said, “you remember, don't you?'

'What?” Her startled husband almost dropped his banana. He looked about him as if for help. Gideon wondered, not for the first time, just how much say he'd had in the Byers’ decision to trade their hamburger empire for the meatless, fatless glories of the New Age.

But of course Preston was infinitely malleable, and unfailingly agreeable. “Why, yes,” he said at last. ‘Yes, I think I do. I believe it pointed out that a thousand dollars invested and reinvested according to the, er, Popol Vuh would have brought, er, five thousand dollars in the end.” He looked at her hopefully. “Was that the one?'

'Twenty-five thousand dollars,” Emma said. “Now listen to this!' She closed her eyes again, frowning deeply. “This is from the curse. I've been