In one hand, she held the lantern, gripping the wire handle. In the other, she held an obsidian blade. Her right wrist was bleeding. "You cut yourself," I said.
"Why did you come back?" she asked. Her voice was rough, hoarse.
"There didn't seem to be any reason to stay in Mérida," I said.
She was shaking her head. "What brings you hiking through a downpour in sandals and a dress?"
I looked down at myself. My shins were marked with mud and a line of dark droplets oozed from a scratch where a thorny branch had raked across my skin. My dress was soaked despite the poncho. "I guess I should have stopped to change."
"You shouldn't be here. You should have stayed in Mérida." She sounded on the verge of tears.
"I'm sorry. I ..." I didn't know what to say. I held out my hands in a gesture of resignation and tried to smile. "What can I do? Can you tell me what's wrong?"
She took a step back as if I had threatened her and stopped beside the stone platform. She shivered like a wet dog. She looked thin and tired. "Go away," she said. "Please. Get out of here."
"It's raining," I said, trying to sound reasonable. "I'll stay out of the way. I just—"
"Get out!" Her words echoed from the stone walls, and I stepped back, the smile dying on my face. She straightened her shoulders and stepped forward. Her face was suddenly hard. "Go away from here! Now!"
I backed away. "I'm sorry. I just—"
"Get out!" Her face was a mask, washed from below with lantern light. Her eyes were wild, touched with red and too large for her face. She threw back her head and cried out again, not a word, but a groan, a wail of desperation. The muscles of her neck stood out in ridges and her breath came in great gasps. I took a step toward her and she glared at me, shaking her head like an animal tormented by flies. She lifted one hand in a fist, and as I stepped back, she struck herself in the leg, once, twice, three times, each blow hard enough to make me wince. "Go!" she said. "Go! Go away." The last words were not shouted. The blow did not have the force of the ones preceding it.
I stood by the opening. I could hear the soft trickle of water flowing down the steps, but the pounding of the rain had ceased. "The rain has stopped," I said to her, as calmly as I could. "I can head back to camp.
Why don't you come back with me?"
Her hand was clenched in a fist, resting against her thigh. "You have to go."
"I'll go if you come with me."
The breath left her in a sigh and she seemed to shrink, her shoulders relaxing, her grip on the lantern easing. "All right," she said. "You go out."
I slipped through the opening and stayed right on the other side, where I could look through the wall.
Newly washed light shone down the stone stairs and made a faint rectangle on the floor. The puddle was already lower. Water had drained away into the earth. "I'm right here," I said. "Why don't you hand me the lantern and then come on through?"
"Yes," she said and handed me the lantern. I stepped back and let her come through after me.
"That's good," I said.
She stopped in the center of the passage and turned to look at me, frowning though her face was still wet with tears. "No need to talk to me as if I were a fool. You may think I'm crazy, but don't think I'm stupid."
She took the lantern from my hands, extinguished the light, and led the way up the stone steps into the steaming afternoon. She did not look back.
Chapter Twenty-three: Elizabeth
Sunday was Chicchan, the day of the celestial serpent. Carlos, Maggie, John, and Robin returned to the dig for dinner in the late afternoon, clean and well rested. With a tomb to excavate, a cave to explore, and only two weeks of field school to go, they were cheerful. Over dinner, they chattered about what they planned to do before returning to school. Carlos and Maggie were planning to spend a week on Isla Mujeres. John and Robin were heading south; they planned to travel through Belize and visit Mayan ruins at Altun Ha and Xunantunich. They all seemed so light-hearted, like sparrows that land for a moment on a garden path, squabble over