01 _ Xibalba Murders, The (24 page)

I found myself in a little town not far from Jonathan’s archaeological site. The town was marked with a bright pole light, and was made up of only a few buildings, including a general store, not open, and a little cafe.

I went into the cafe where the wife of the proprietor, who told me her name was Guadelupe, offered me a home-cooked meal of
panuchos
with a glass of cold beer. I showed her Don Hernan’s photograph, and she recognized him at once.

“He had a meal here, a week or so ago,” she said. “He was a very kind man. He gave Arturo—my little boy—a few pesos and was very nice to him. He sat out on the veranda for quite a long time. I did not see him leave.”

“I need a place to stay, Guadelupe. I’m tired, and I’m kind of desperate. Can you think of anywhere I could stay that is not expensive?”

She gestured toward the back, and I followed her through the kitchen. We crossed a little yard—I could smell oranges—and she showed me into a little
na,
or wood hut with a palapa roof. In it was a hammock, a washbasin, and some towels. Everything was scrupulously clean.

The price, she said, was twenty pesos, just a few dollars, which would include a light breakfast the next morning. The bathroom was across the yard in the main building, next to the kitchen. I nodded and she left me there with a candle or two and some matches.

I lay in the hammock staring up at the palapa roof. I felt that all the information there was to know, maybe I knew already. That somewhere in my mind I knew where the codex was, and that if only I thought hard enough, the idea would surface. Today being Caban, a very powerful day in the Maya calendar, one associated with earthquakes and thought, the idea should come to me soon.

I lay there waiting for inspiration, convinced that I would be unable to sleep in a hammock, but sleep—and dream—I did.

I am running through the forest chasing a giant rabbit once again. This time I see that he carries a codex with Smoking Frog’s glyph on the cover.

As I am about to catch him we come upon a portal marked with the sign of the Maw of Xibalba. It looks odd, a doorway in the middle of a path in the forest, but the rabbit and I step through it.

Then I am falling through utter darkness, a babble of voices I cannot understand around me. The wind whistles in my ears.

Watching me from way above are two hooded figures. One has the face and the bright tail feathers of a macaw, a bird often part of the headgear of the Lords of Xibalba.

The other has the face of an owl, a death bird, and one of the few creatures left to worship the dark Lords after their defeat.

I fall farther and farther into the darkness until this time I hit bottom. I am in inky darkness, barely able to tell which way is up.

I know there is another presence here, but for some reason I am not afraid. The smallest glimmer of light reveals a black jaguar watching me, and I realize that his eyes are providing the light by which I can see him.

The jaguar makes a gesture with his head that I take to mean “follow me,” and I step into the darkness.

I awoke and needed a moment to get my bearings. I had been awakened by the arrival of a pickup truck, its muffler in serious need of replacing.

I crept to the door of the little hut and looked back toward the cafe. It was closed now, only one light illuminating the back door.

Guadelupe had told me that her husband had taken a second job to help make ends meet and that she was expecting him very late. I saw a light in the cafe come on briefly, then go out, then another go on in the bathroom just off the restaurant. I assumed the proprietor was home for the night.

It was a while before I returned to my hammock and was able to sleep again. For a long time I sat in the doorway, looking up at the millions of stars of the southern sky, which seemed to me to be suspended only a few feet above my head.

I was not entirely sure what my dream meant, all those strange creatures, and the fall into darkness. But one thing it had made clear to me was that what I sought was right under my nose, and had been all the time.

ETZ’NAB

And how, and by whom, are the Lords of Darkness defeated? Is it by someone pure of heart and spirit who overcomes all temptations to win the day? Or by a great warrior who kills the monster and saves the world? Or someone who gives up his life so that the rest may be saved?

Not at all. The Lords of Darkness are defeated by a pair of ragtag dancers and magicians, through nothing more lofty than trickery.

The Xibalbans, convinced their enemies the Hero Twins have been utterly defeated, are interested to hear of two vagabonds who are said to perform amazing feats of magic.

Looking for some entertainment, the Xibalbans command the two to come and perform for them. The two vagabonds protest that they are not adequate enough entertainers to perform for the Lords, but they come anyway. They will not reveal their names.

So they appear before the Lords of Darkness. They dance the dance of the poorwill, the dance of the weasel, the dance of the armadillo.

They set fire to a house and restore it. They kill a dog and bring it back to life. The Xibalbans thirst for more and demand a human sacrifice. A man is chosen, his heart ripped out, and then he, too, is brought back to life. Needless to say, he is very happy to be alive.

Even that is not enough to satisfy the Lords, who demand that the vagabonds sacrifice themselves. So Xbalanque (because of course the vagabonds are the Hero Twins still—or is once again?—alive) sacrifices Hunahpu and brings him back to life as well.

The Lords of Darkness then ask to be part of the performance. They want to be sacrificed and brought back to life, too. One Death, head Lord of Xibalba, and Seven Death step forward.

One Death goes first. He is sacrificed. The vagabonds do not bring him back to life. Seven Death pleads for mercy, but he, too, is sacrificed. The rest of the Lords cower before the magicians, and the Hero Twins reveal themselves. The defeat of the Lords of Xibalba is complete.

i awoke to a very strange sensation. I felt as if the room were swaying, and I could feel hot breath on my face. It was a baffling experience, but when I opened my eyes, all became clear. There was little Arturo peering at me from very close up. He was also rocking the hammock. It was the first time I had felt like laughing in days, and I did, a hearty laugh that sent him scurrying for safety. Guadelupe was looking for him, and she was displeased to find her son bothering me. I told her it was okay, and that I would be over to the cafe shortly for a cup of coffee.

It didn’t take me long to get there. I’d slept in my clothes, of course. I had nothing else. I was counting on the general store for a lot of things.

I was too nervous about being seen to sit on the veranda, so I had my coffee and some biscuits in the bar area, then went out back to get the lay of the land.

The village was really tiny, but quite attractive. While the little houses were really only huts, they seemed well kept, and the colors were wonderful. The general store was painted an astonishingly bright purple with hot-pink trim. The cafe itself was a brilliant aqua, also with pink trim.

The rest of the houses were whitewashed, like my little hut out back of the cafe. Bougainvilleas climbed everywhere, and almost all the houses had window boxes filled with scarlet blooms.

Out back there was a communal well where the women of the village seemed to congregate. The object of their attention this morning was undoubtedly me.

There was also a play area. The older village boys were playing volleyball in a desultory way until I came along, and then with an audience, the game became rather more competitive.

One of the boys, Carlos by name, he told me, came over. Obviously the leader of the group, he was the logical one to inquire what the
gringa
was doing here.

I told him I was just a tourist, but that I really wanted to see the countryside. He looked suitably dubious.

I asked him about the name of the town—La Huaca de Chac.

“That’s a mixture of Spanish and Maya,” he said shyly.
“Huaca
in Spanish is a sacred place and Chac— well, Chac is the Maya rain god, a very powerful god.

“No one knew why our town was called that until very recently. Not very far from here, archaeologists have found a cave with huge carvings of Chacs. My father works there, and he’s told me about it.

“My father says that our people, the Maya, were a great civilization at one time, with huge cities and everything. He says the more we learn about them, the more proud of being Maya we can be.”

I told him I agreed with him, and I thought back to my earlier conversation with Esperanza about how Maya youth are turning their backs on their heritage.

But Carlos was right. The more we learned about Maya civilization, the more impressive it became. All the more reason to find Smoking Frog’s codex. But I wanted to hear more about the cave.

“What you are telling me about the cave, the sacred place, is amazing,” I said. “Is it possible for tourists to see this cave? Is it open to the public?”

“No, it isn’t. And maybe it never will be,” he said, lowering his voice. “My dad says the gods are angry that we are working there.”

“What makes him say that?” I asked.

“Things,” he replied. “Just things.” And with that, he turned back to his volleyball game.

Just about then the general store opened for business. I went in and was greeted by a woman by the name of Maria, who, like Guadelupe, was minding the family business while her husband worked elsewhere to add to the family’s meager earnings.

I spent a long time in the store. First I attended to personal necessities. The store had a small section in the back that sold toiletries, so I was able to get a toothbrush and toothpaste and shampoo.

Next I stocked up for the expedition I was planning to take. I found a couple of tarpaulins, an army camouflage color, some rope, and flashlight batteries. I also found a little compass, but it looked as if it had come from a cereal box, so I was hesitant to rely on it.

In a dusty old corner filled with various secondhand and broken things, I found an old pair of army binoculars in a brown leather case. One lens was scratched, and the covers for both lenses were missing. The strap for the case was long gone, too. But all things considered, it was perfect, particularly the price, which was about five dollars. I then found a backpack, also used, but still serviceable, to put everything in. I felt pleased with my purchases.

Next I went back to the cafe and asked Guadelupe if I could stay another night, and if she could make me up a sandwich, a
torta,
to go. She agreed.

Soon I was hiking into the forest in the general direction of the cave. I was not entirely sure how to reach it, and I certainly did not wish to blunder in, so I moved cautiously through the forest.

I smelled smoke before I actually heard the voices, and was able to take cover, then move forward very cautiously toward a small clearing in the forest.

Four men were sitting in a semicircle under an overhang of rock. One of the men, an older man, was tending to something, which, when I trained my binoculars on it, appeared to be an altar of some kind with some candles and a pottery brazier in which something, probably copal incense, was burning. The older man chanted quietly while the others spoke to each other.

Because of their position, I could see only three of the men, the old man who appeared to be functioning as a priest or shaman, a young man, and another older man. The fourth man had his back to me, and had a black windbreaker pulled up high, so that I could not see him.

They spoke in low voices, presumably so that they would not interrupt the ceremony, whatever it might be. The young man appeared agitated, and his voice carried better than the others.

“I don’t care what you say,” the young man said. “There is something really funny going on in that place. It gives me the creeps.”

If he was talking about the cave, that opinion was beginning to sound universal.

The older man made a dismissive gesture, and made some sort of joke at the expense of the younger man that I could not hear, but that made the other two laugh.

“It was blood,” the young man said. “Not water, not mud, not someone’s lunch. Blood!”

One of the men said something I couldn’t hear again.

“It was before Gustavo cut his hand, not after, so don’t give me that one!

“And anyway, how do you explain the moving crates?”

“The artifacts are still there. That’s all that counts.”

“Crates don’t move by themselves,” the young man said.

“And who do you think is moving them?” the older man asked. “The Lords of Darkness?”

All of them laughed at that.

“Maybe it’s the Children of the Talking Cross,” the older man went on. “Hiding out in the cave during the night when we’re not there, stealing artifacts to add to their growing collection.”

The group really found that hilarious. The older man was rocking with laughter.

“The Children of the Talking Cross are a figment of someone’s imagination,” the third man said. “Just like all this stuff about vanishing crates and pools of mystery blood are figments of yours,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the young man.

The young man looked sullen. “Maybe then the real guerrillas should do something.”

“Maybe they are,” the older man said.

Suddenly the fourth man, who up until this moment had said nothing, leaned forward and began to speak very softly. All three leaned forward to hear him. I could not.

After a few minutes the three nodded, and then got up and shook hands.

“I’ll take the watch tonight,” the third man said. “You are on duty tomorrow,” he said, gesturing toward the mystery man, who nodded.

I pulled back into the forest as the four left, walking away from my position. I kept my binoculars trained on the fourth man, who, obligingly, paused at the edge of the clearing and looked back.

Lucas May again! He appeared to be looking directly at me and I held my breath. But of course I was using binoculars and he was not. I wondered if he had caught a flash from the lens or something. But after a few seconds he turned back and followed the others.