The Ruins by Scott Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

curved to the right, then to
the left, then became straight again, a long corridor of shade, at the
end of which appeared to be another clearing, a circle of sunlight
awaiting their approach, so bright, it felt audible to Eric, like a
horn, blowing. It hurt to look at it—hurt his eyes, his head.
He put his sunglasses back on. Only then did he notice the others
clustered together there—Jeff and Mathias and Stacy and
Amy—crouching in a loose circle just short of the clearing,
passing a water bottle back and forth among themselves, and turning now
to watch as he and Pablo went slowly toward them.
       
    T he map said that if they
reached the Mayan village, they'd gone too far, and there it
was, down the slope from where they crouched. Jeff and Mathias had been
watching for their turnoff as they walked, but somehow they
must've missed it. They'd have to double back along
the trail now, moving more slowly this time, looking more closely. The
question they were debating was whether or not they should investigate
the village first, perhaps even see if there might be someone there
who'd be willing to guide them to the ruins. Not that the
village appeared very promising. It consisted of perhaps thirty
flimsy-looking buildings, nearly identical in size and appearance. One-
and two-room shacks, most with thatch roofs, though there were several
of tin, too. Dirt-floored, Jeff guessed. There were no overhead wires
visible, so he assumed there was no electricity. Nor running water, for
that matter: there was a well in the center of the village, with a
bucket attached to a rope. As they crouched there, waiting for Eric and
Pablo to reach them, he saw an old woman fill a pitcher at the well,
turning a wheel to lower the bucket into its depths. The wheel needed
oiling; he could hear it squeaking even from this distance as the
bucket dropped and dropped, then paused, filling, before its equally
clamorous ascent. Jeff watched the woman balance the pitcher on her
shoulder and move slowly back down the dusty street to her shack.
     The
Mayans had cleared a circular swath of jungle around their village,
planting what appeared to be corn and beans in the open space. Men and
women and even children were scattered across the fields, bent over,
weeding. There were goats about, chickens and some donkeys and a trio
of horses in a fenced corral, but no sign of any mechanical equipment:
no tractors or tillers, no cars or trucks. When Jeff and Mathias first
appeared at the mouth of the trail, a tall, narrow- chested mutt had come trotting
quickly toward them, tail aggressively raised. It stopped just short of
stone-throwing range and paced back and forth for a few minutes,
barking and growling. The sun was too hot for this sort of behavior,
though, and eventually it fell quiet, then lost interest altogether and
drifted back toward the village, collapsing into the shade beside one
of the shacks.
     Jeff
assumed that the dog must've alerted the villagers to their
presence, but there was no overt acknowledgment of this. No one paused
in his work to stare; no one nudged his neighbor and pointed. The men
and women and children remained bent low over their weeding, moving
slowly down the rows of plants. Most of the men were dressed in white,
with straw hats on their heads. The women wore dark dresses, shawls
covering their hair. The children were barefoot, feral-looking; many of
the boys were shirtless, dark from the sun, so that they seemed to
blend into the earth they were working, to vanish and reappear from one
moment to the next.
     Stacy
wanted to push forward into the village, to see if they might find
someplace cool to sit and rest—perhaps they could even buy a
cold soda somewhere—but Jeff hesitated. The lack of greeting,
the sense that the village was collectively willing away their
appearance, filled him with a feeling of caution. He pointed out the
absence of overhead wires, and how this would lead to a lack of
refrigerators and air