Curses! (12 page)

"That's too bad,” Julie said.

"That's okay, I don't mind,” he said tolerantly. “Did you ever see this show before? We saw it last night. It's awesome. It freaked my mother out of her pants."

"That's nice,” Julie said after a brief pause.

"Especially the part about the sacrifices. That's really gross. I'll tell you when they're gonna do that part."

"That's all right,” Gideon said. “You don't have to bother."

"Oh, that's okay. I'll tell you when to hold your ears too. The music gets pretty loud."

Gideon glanced around, hoping that there might after all be another pair of empty seats they'd missed, but they were all filled now.

"You know what a man in our hotel calls this place?” the boy said, giggling. “Chicken Pizza.” He wriggled with amusement.

The woman came back with a bottle of Coca-Cola and a candy bar. The bottle was accepted without comment, but not the bar.

"Snickers?” he said with outraged disbelief. “You brought me a
Snickers?"

"Jared,” she said tiredly, “this is Mexico. They don't have all the same candy here. What's wrong with Snickers? Snickers are good. I like Snickers."

"I do too,” Gideon said, rooting for the underdog.

The single light behind them went out. From a loudspeaker a horn began to wail a weird, lonely melody. The crowd hushed, except for Jared, who was not finished with his mother.

"You know I hate Snickers."

"This,” Gideon muttered to Julie, “is what comes of naming a kid ‘Jared.’”

"Jared,” his mother said, “it's made by the same company that makes Mars Bars. Look at the wrapper."

Jared did not find this logic persuasive. “I hate them."

"Jared, how can we work this out?"

"We can't,” he said,

"Jared—"

Gideon grabbed Julie's hand and together they ran off through the darkness toward the ball court a hundred feet away. “We can sit on the steps,” he whispered. “The view will be better anyway."

The
tlachtli
of Chichen Itza is the most impressive ball court of ancient Mexico, consisting of an enormous open space 545 feet long ("almost the length of two football fields,” as American guidebooks endlessly point out) and 225 feet across, enclosed by two thick, high, parallel ramparts, each one with a stone ring set about 25 feet above the ground. Here the Maya had played their ceremonial game of
pok-a-tok,
in which competing teams tried to heave a hard rubber ball through one of the rings. Depending on whom you believed, the successful competitors either got to keep their heads or they cheerfully gave them up and went as heroes to live forever with the gods.

At the south end of one of these walls—the one nearest the folding chairs—is a flight of stone steps to the top. Julie and Gideon made for them and sat down on the lowest one as the plaintive melody died lingeringly away.

"Welcome,” boomed an accented, echoing voice, “to the lost and mysterious world of the ancient Maya. Tonight you will learn of the early days of our fathers and forefathers, the days before the foreigners came, the days of the sacred places: of Zubinche and Timozon, of Zizal and Cumcanul, and of the great city known as the Mouth of the Well of the Itzas...CHICHEN ITZA!"

The slow, cadenced words slid away into the jungle on the moist breeze, and they were left in black silence.

Then, louder, the voice echoed once more.
"Behold,"
it boomed,
"behold the wonders of our ancestors!"

A crash of drums, and the Castillo leaped abruptly out at them like a colossal faceted crystal, drenched in flaming light, seemingly glowing from within. The grand stone staircase was a deep sapphire blue, the massive bulk of the pyramid a paler, under-the-sea turquoise. The Temple of Kukulcan on top was parrot green, its interior—seen through the rectangular entryway—a boiling, riveting crimson. The stars, the jungle, the rest of the structures vanished against this brilliance, as if a huge backdrop of black velvet had been rung down.

At the sight there was a distant, collective gasp from the rows of spectators, and Julie impulsively clutched Gideon's hand.

"I'm not sure,” she said, “but I think this may be freaking me out of my pants."

Gideon laughed. He himself had felt another slow chill riffle up between his shoulders and stir the hairs at the back of his neck. This was accompanied by a mild sense of guilt. Professional anthropologists were not supposed to get goose bumps from hokey, overloud extravaganzas consisting of bogus music, sham history, and meaningless colored lights.

"I'm going to watch the rest from the top of the steps,” he told Julie. “Want to come?"

She looked behind her at the narrow, rail-less flight of stone steps, steep even by Mayan standards. “Up those? In the dark? Are you kidding?"

"Well, I think I'll go. The view should be terrific."

"Be careful, will you?"

He was, mounting gingerly on all fours and leaning his right side into the wall, as most visitors did even in the daytime. The staircase was at the very edge of the wall; on his left was a murderously sheer drop down to a broad stone platform. The scene from the top was everything he'd hoped, giving him a view of every building in the plaza as the show continued, the lights moving from one ruined structure to another. He settled down on the top step to watch, leaning back on his elbow, only half listening to the windy monologue.

"...the terrible god Chac Mool, who received the dripping hearts freshly torn from the sacrificial victims..."

The sonorous voice vibrated and soared as the lights picked out the expressionless face of the reclining Chac Mool figure atop the Temple of the Warriors and then moved to the grim Platform of the Skulls. “...whose heads were then impaled on this, the tzompantli, for the glory of the ancient gods."

Gideon himself was sprawled at the side of one of the more famous structures of Chichen Itza: the Temple of the Jaguars, which the conquering Toltecs had superimposed on top of the existing rampart of the old ball court as a shrine to themselves. Inside, wall paintings showed their subjugation of the city. The entrance was a small portico facing into the ball court and away from the other structures, its heavy lintel supported in the dramatic Toltec manner by two snake-columns—thick stone pillars in the form of feathered serpents, with their fanged, three-foot-high heads as the bases and their upraised tails supporting the roof.

At the edge of his sight Gideon could see the reflected lights playing over the fantastic heads of the snakes only a few feet away as the show progressed, so that they seemed to writhe and strain—a further agreeable titillation of his highly unprofessional goose bumps. All in all, he was enjoying the show a great deal.

"And so at last we say farewell to these lost days of grandeur,” the voice intoned in its measured singsong. “Farewell to the Toltec and the Maya. to Quetzalcoatl and Kukulcan. Farewell to...CHICHEN ITZA!"

The brazen din of horns and drums swelled to an earsplitting finale and the entire western half of the complex jumped into eye-searing relief; blue, green, orange, red, gold, violet. A few feet from Gideon, half-seen, the great feathered serpents surged realistically from the shadows.

He turned his head sharply. Had there been something else? Behind the columns, hadn't there just been some sort of movement, a...

The music and floodlights went off abruptly, plunging everything into blackness and silence. He could see nothing. But someone was there, standing in the portico. Gideon tensed, straining to listen.

"Who's there?” he said.
"Quien es?"

Nothing. Only the pulsating afterimages of the lights, the echoes of the horns. He stood perfectly still, waiting; blind and deaf.

And then a chilling, smooth, chinking sound, metal against metal, soft and sinister. A chain? Someone shifting a heavy chain in his hand? There was a furtive scrape of shoe on pavement.

Gideon had not yet stood up, but now he spun instinctively away from the intruder, rolling onto his right side, toward the edge of the wall. Something rammed heavily into his shoulder, the impact muffled by his own rolling movement. A foot—he thought it was a foot—caught him painfully behind the ear, then kicked again at his head.

He twisted farther away, but he knew he was frighteningly close to the end of the wall. Sightless, he grabbed at the pavement with his left hand to steady himself, but it wasn't there; his arm dropped sickeningly down into nothing. He was at the very edge, sprawled on his belly, hanging over a sheer forty-foot drop to a ledge of stone. His fingers scrabbled down over the vertical surface, managing to find a rough outcropping to brace himself against. His other hand, the right, was jammed under his body. A foot dug into him again, this time over the kidneys, with nauseating force, and then yet again, thumping against his ribs, thrusting him onto his belly, urging him over the edge and onto the rocky terrace below.

Gideon pressed himself into the stone pavement with all his strength, trying to keep from going over. He pushed down against the outcropping, jerked his right arm out from under him, and twisted onto his left side, facing the figure he still couldn't see.

At the same moment he heard the chainlike sound again, and a whirr and then a leaden
chink
as something smashed into the pavement two inches from his eyes, where his head had been an instant before. His forehead was spattered with tiny chips of stone. A hand grabbed roughly at his collar, twisting the cloth. Gideon lashed blindly up and caught his assailant across the hip with his forearm. It was a frantic, backhanded swipe, delivered without much force, but it told him just where the figure was, and his next blow was struck at the middle of the chest, or where he hoped the middle of the chest was. This one had the full power of his bunched shoulder muscles behind it. He felt the semi-rigid sternum under his fist, heard the resonant, solid thump of the impact.

"Ow!” With the shocked gasp there was an outrush of warm, winey breath on Gideon's face. The clutching hand let go of his collar and the figure staggered back—a couple of steps, from the sound of it.

Gideon pushed himself quickly to his feet, crouching, fists still clenched, ready for the next rush. He still couldn't see, and all he could hear was the throbbing of blood in his ears. He was nauseated and unsteady, not sure how far away he was from the edge. He licked his lips. His throat was parched.

"Gideon!” It was Julie's voice, alarmed, from the front of the steps. He realized it was the second time she'd called. “What's going on up there? Are you all right?"

And now he heard his attacker stumbling away from him along the length of the long wall, footsteps quickly receding. Gideon started blindly after him, but with his second step he tripped over one of the serpent heads and had to grab it to keep from tumbling to the stony ledge below. He held on, panting and queasy. But his vision was beginning to return. In the distance, halfway along the wall, he could see someone fleeing over the ancient stones, hunched and apelike under the misty, flat ribbon of the Milky Way. Hunched with pain, he hoped.

"Yes,” he called to Julie. “I'm all right. I'll be right down.” But she was already on her way up, and by the time he was steady enough to let go of the sculpture and ease away from the edge she was there.

"Gideon—my God, what—"

"It's okay, Julie, I'm all right. The guy just scared the hell out of me, that's all. He's gone now."

She scanned his face anxiously. “You're sure you're all right?"

He nodded. “Other than a sore spot where I got kicked in the head, an ache or two where I got kicked in the ribs, and a few bruises here and there, I'm fine.” He grinned, but it didn't feel very convincing. “Aside from feeling generally like hell, that is."

"Sit down,” she told him, firmly taking his arm in both hands to guide him to a seat on the temple portico.

"Now,” she said, still holding his arm while she sat beside him, “what happened?"

He told her.

"And you're sure you're not hurt?"

"Absolutely. Just a few bruises."

"Thank goodness. Did he get your wallet?"

"No, I don't think that's what he was interested in."

She frowned at him. “What then?"

"I had the impression he was trying to kill me."

She continued to stare at him, then decided not to pursue it. “You couldn't see him at all?"

"No, I couldn't see anything. He jumped me just when the lights went out. It was pitch black.” Tentatively, he tried standing up and found that he felt better; the queasiness was receding. “I'm okay now."

She stood too, and for a moment they looked at each other, then embraced without speaking. Beside them the pitted serpent columns gleamed in the starlight.

"I got scared,” she murmured into his shoulder.

"Well, no wonder. I was a little on edge myself."

She didn't respond except to burrow a little deeper into his shoulder.

"That was a pun,” he pointed out. “On edge?"

"Not funny."

"No, it wasn't,” he said softly. “Sorry.” He stroked her smooth, fragrant hair and held her a while longer. “Feeling better?"

He felt her head nod against his chest. “Come on,” he said, “let's head back."

On Julie's insistence they stopped to report it to the khaki-clad official who seemed to be the Chichen Itza security force and custodial squad in one. At the moment he was busy stacking the chairs and trying to shoo off a knot of people standing around enjoying a smoke after the performance. The brief interview was not highly successful from Gideon's point of view, partly because his rudimentary Spanish was barely up to its demands, and partly because the official's priorities differed from his own; most of the time was taken up with an admonitory lecture about watching the show from unapproved areas. He took their Mayaland address, however, and promised to file a report with the proper authorities. Gideon would no doubt hear from them in due course.

"About trying to kill you,” Julie said on the walk back to the hotel, “are you really sure that's what he was trying to do?"