My story,
THUNDER OF THE GODS
, is a product of my imagination, although knowledge of certain aspects of the tale come from my experiences. In its entirety, it is ~ 45,000 words long, so I have chosen to release it in several parts, constituting a total of 19 chapters. This first part, Chapters 1& 2 , sets up the entire story, as does the increasing eroticism. The story's evolving sexual situations build towards a bizarre denouement at the end.
Prologue
It was two years ago that I first met him, while on an expedition to the lower Rio Oscuro in western Belize to study crocodiles in the area. Early one morning, as I paddled my canoe around a bend in the river, I came upon the strange apparition of a muscular and tanned man spearing fish from the bow of his dugout. As my craft drew abreast of his, he greeted me with a, "good morning, sir, and how are you enjoying our river?"
Although he appeared as a very tanned white man, his accent was similar to one of the local Maya, speaking English as a second language. He introduced himself as "Balam", which I knew to be a Maya equivalent of "jaguar", and after hearing of my research invited me to his camp on the nearby bank of the river.
I had been searching for a good campsite, as I planned to remain in the area for two months, and it was reassuring to have a fellow camper in this still remote part of the country. Balam said that he planned to remain in this spot for about a month, catching and drying fish for "his people", whom he said lived about a two-day journey upriver. He further explained that this was just about the best spot on the river for fishing, probably accounting for the large population of crocodiles. As the month progressed, Balam and I became well-acquainted, although it seemed that he was learning much more about me than I was about him. He was obviously a well-educated man, in itself an enigma considering his current occupation, but try as I might I could learn nothing about his background or about those he called "his people".
As the end of his stay drew near, Balam asked if I was going to return to this spot the following year. I answered in the affirmative, as I planned to study the crocodile population for at least five years. He seemed pleased, and indicated that he would be returning to fish and would bring something that he wished to entrust to me. We parted on friendly terms, and I remained in the area for additional month continuing my studies. I gradually forgot about Balam, although from time to time his peculiar visage would come to me in my dreams.
The following year I returned to the Rio Oscuro at the same time as the year before, only half-heartedly expecting to see Balam again. For almost six weeks there was no sign of him, and then one morning as the mist rose languidly off of the river, he appeared in his dugout as if from a dream. We embraced warmly, and he apologized for being so late for our rendezvous, stating that there had been a great sickness among his people. He told me that he was very worried about their future, and that it had made his decision to entrust me with what he had brought even more important. We sat around our campfire talking late into the night, the dancing firelight casting occult shadows across his somber face.
"Take this package with you when you leave tomorrow, my friend", he said, "but promise me that you won't open it until you return to your country. I know that you plan to return here next year, but I ask that you not to try to seek out me or my people", he continued. I agreed to his terms, wondering what he could be presenting to me that was so mysterious.
I kept my word to Balam and did not open his package until I arrived back at my home in the States. It was with deep fascination that I delved into his gift, which proved to be a journal of hundreds of pages of hand-written notes of the strangest nature. As I worked my way through them, it became clear that what I had received was either the work of a madman or a god. I knew that it was my duty to make his story known to the world, for this must have been why he had gone out of his way to entrust me with his laborious work. It is with some trepidation that I transformed his notes into the story that follows, as the tale told is so fantastic as to be unbelievable. Some may be offended by its erotic nature, but in this matter I have not embellished upon Balam's descriptions.
My part has been to render his notes into flowing prose, but nothing contained within is of my manufacture. I trust that the reader will view the work in its entirety, judging it as either the musings of a madman or an incredible tale of the occult. Either way I have taken pains to protect Balam's privacy, having changed the names of people and places where necessary to prevent readers from searching him out. The Rio Oscuro does not exist as a name, and my crocodile study has been terminated to prevent the publication of even that location. All I ask is that the reader take this literary journey with an open mind, reserving judgment until reaching the incredulous end.
FarmerSean
Roswell, New Mexico
Chapter 1
Philip Thorson carefully replaced the phone receiver as his mind raced in a hundred directions. Unfortunately for the immediate future, none of these directions included the class in Archeological Symbolism that he was due to teach in twenty minutes. He gazed out the window into the darkened skies that seemed to characterize Northbury in late January. Snow flurries churned about the building corners, threatening to add a few more inches to the two feet already on the ground, and adding an even greater aura of unreality to the news he had just received. Not only had his request for a sabbatical for next year been approved, but the college was going to finance his entire field season, including an assistant. This morning, the jungles of Belize and the unknown Maya ruins that he had discovered last summer seemed as far away as the moon. Today's news meant that within six months he would back at Akbalcab.
He had unofficially given the name Akbalcab, literally translated as darkness-honey in modern Maya, to what he felt would prove to be a major new site located in the foothills of the Maya Mountains in Belize. At this point he had no idea what the ancient center's original inhabitants called it, but his name was based on the prominent glyphs, located in what appeared to be the main temple, that could be translated as darkness-honey. This seemed to be a strange combination of words or ideas, and he hoped his year in the field would shed light on this name, the temple, and the intriguing tomb that he had located inside of it. His heart raced when he remembered the vibrant colors of the bizarre wall murals and accompanying glyphic messages, and he couldn't help comparing them to the incredible murals of Mexico's Bonampak. Akbalcab's combination of murals and messages promised to rival the famous Dresden Codex if he was right in his brief glimpse of the tomb that ill-fated night.
They should never have remained in the field as long as they did last August, but just as they were about to call it quits, Ismael had called him over to look at a dark hole they had overlooked earlier. Shining his light through the jumble of stone blocks, he could make out what appeared to be a set of stairs leading downward. They could hear the roar of distant rain approaching through the forest, and Philip knew that much more heavy rain would make the Rio Oscuro practically impassable. He looked in consternation at Ismael, who shrugged his shoulders and began to pick his way through the fallen rubble. Although he would later regret it, Philip followed eagerly and together they descended through the chaotic jumble. After what seemed like hours, they reached what appeared to be the bottom of the stairs. It almost looked like they had reached a dead end, but just beyond a fallen slab to the left Ismael pointed to an opening large enough to accommodate a head and arm. Philip carefully put his flashlight through and brought his face to the opening just as a piercing wailing assaulted their ears. It was coming from above, and proved to be the voice of their boatman Franco, who was screaming that in another half hour their boat would be gone and with it their chances of leaving the jungle. There was nothing to do but scramble back up the jumbled stairway, but what Philip saw in that instant at the bottom was etched in his brain.
The knock on his office door returned Philip from Belize to Northbury.
"It's almost time for you to take Dr. Lorenzo's class, Philip," his secretary reminded him.
"Thanks Emily," he chuckled, "without you to keep me on track I might have daydreamed all morning about Belize."
Philip decided that he might as well take this opportunity to announce the position vacancy for an assistant for his upcoming year of field work at Akbalcab. He would later make a general announcement to the Archeology Department and his other classes, but he was too excited about the impending project to wait to talk about it. Philip knew little about the graduate students in the current Archeological Symbolism class, since they were all first year students and the class was taught by Dave Lorenzo. As he entered the classroom, Philip noted that there were about a dozen students, which certainly meant that there were potentially one or two prospects for the position as his field assistant.
