Here lies Allison Declercq-Matthas, the Canadian too stupid to stay within the safe-path markers. The thought coursed through my mind, ricocheting back and forth. Tentatively lowering my foot toward the next narrow patch of packed earth I cursed my curiosity. Other tourists milled about at the bottom of the hill, a colony of colourful carefree ants marching from jar to jar. I pictured how, for a split second, they would collectively duck and snap their eyes in the direction of my explosive end, then scatter like frightened doves. They’d have an inkling of what happened, and perhaps know that they were safe, but they’d run away just the same.
Then, after they’d fled and their cries had bled away, peace would settle in. A silence—absent from the plain since the years following American planes littering the area with bombs—would blanket my grave.
And that’s when my nerve ran out. With an about-face that would have inspired even the strictest of sergeants I began to creep back to the embedded stones marking the main path at Site 1 of the Plain of Jars.
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