Mayan December (14 page)

CHAPTER 25

Ah K’in’ca spilled color slowly into the jungle. Ah Bahlam’s legs burned, his lungs burned. The cut on his calf had split open again partway through the run. Not as badly as the first night, but warm runnels of blood dripped down his ankle. They had sprinted all night, the jaguar’s footsteps soft behind them, pacing them. He felt its great energy, its body, its potency, and the power of its yellow eyes, all lending him strength and surefootedness.

Hun Kan ran ahead of him, shifting from dark ghost to girl in the growing light. They followed the bare footsteps of herders and herds down a well-used trail. From time to time, a breeze blew in the fire-scent of town and the faint, welcome aroma of goats.

The jaguar’s steps faded from his hearing and then the morning sky was split by a single, chilling, full-throated roar. Ah Bahlam caught Hun Kan and whispered with broken breath. “It is no longer needed. We are nearly home.”

She smiled, but did not reply.

“It will guard our path.” His legs faltered, and he began to lurch as much as run.

Hun Kan pulled ahead again, called to him. “Follow me!”

They ran up over a low rise. Animal pens and fields stretched out in a large cleared area. One of the roving villages that ringed Chichén, people who cut swathes through the jungle, farmed a spot for two years, and moved on, but stayed close. The people he saw now all lived inside the circle of safety promised by the Lords of Itzá.

Home.

He had not been so close since the day after the last winter solstice. He hadn’t missed it, but now he ached to see his parents, his brother and sisters, his teachers, even the family servants.

A small boy out with five goats turned toward them and held up his short spear as they approached. Ah Bahlam laughed. They must be a strange sight. Hun Kan’s hair was loose and awry, her ceremonial travel dress rumpled, stained, and ripped. He was dressed like a warrior who had been fighting, and bloody to boot. They both breathed hard from their long run.

He patted his shoulder and Julu flew down, landing with a thunk. He reached a hand up and the bird gently took his fingers in his beak, giving him a greeting.

The boy stared at them, assessing.

Ah Bahlam thought he might run, but instead he handed his water-skin over to them solemnly, as if this were the most serious moment of his short life. Good for the boy. He recognized them as belonging here, seeing through the outside disorder to the cut of their clothes and the slope of their foreheads. Julu, of course, might also have impressed the boy. Quetzals came from higher and wetter jungles far away from Chichén, and only families with power and wealth could trade for them.

Hun Kan took the water skin from the boy’s outstretched and shaking hand, and drank. He noted the way her jaw moved, the aristocratic tilt of her slender neck. He and his Way had helped bring her home, helped keep her safe.
Thank you, Feathered Serpent and Jaguar God for bringing her home safely.

She noticed his gaze and passed him the skin. He drank deeply, handing it back to the boy with a sip of water left in it. “Thank you,” he said as the boy’s small hand closed around the mouth of the vessel.

The boy nodded. “Is there going to be a war?”

Ah Bahlam thought about the hundreds of men he had seen in the jungle. Not enough to take Chichén, not even close. But they must have some kind of plan, and he had not learned anything about what it was. “Perhaps. Run and tell your village to post watches, and to keep their spears near them.”

The boy started to turn, but Hun Kan placed a hand on his shoulder. “First, which is the fastest way to Chichén?”

He pointed at an angle from the path they were on. “That way. Go up here and turn onto the wide path and then don’t leave it until you cross the sacbe.”

Hun Kan smiled at him. “Go.”

He went, opposite the way he had sent them.

Refreshed by the water, Ah Bahlam and Hun Kan ran on. They came upon three small huts that looked deserted for the day, but generally lived in.

Hun Kan made use of their well, drinking, cleaning her face and hands and then washing Ah Bahlam’s leg and opened cut. She tore a strip from her dress to bind it with. “Will you tell them about Ni-ixie?”

Of course he would. “Why do you ask?”

She pressed leaves against his cut. “They will barely believe we saw so many people-of-unrest in one place. Who will believe in a girl with skin the color of sand and hair the color of the sun? One who is and is not a goddess?”

“Perhaps that part is a story for the priests. They’ll know if she is a goddess or not.” He raked his hand gently through her tangled hair. “I don’t understand how Ni-ixie fits in with the bandits and the people we saw, but there were enough warriors to hurt Chichén. They are the most important story we bring. That part must be told first.”

“We should hurry. The ball game is the day after tomorrow. And we are a day late.”

The festival would already be starting. The huts around them were probably empty for that very reason. During festivals, people took their harvests and tribute in, trading goods for goods, playing music, praying. Dancing. Only the elite would actually see the game itself, but Chichén would overflow with people for the next four days. “We must get there soon so they can increase the guards before they all start drinking too much balché.”

She laughed softly. “They will protect us even if they do drink balche.”

As soon as they reached even the outskirts, he might be separated from Hun Kan. They came from different families, and would have duties. Perhaps they could stay together long enough to report on what they had seen, but no matter what happened, this might be his last quiet moment with her.

She finished tying the binding around his leg and, still kneeling, looked up at him. Her eyes were warm and brown, tender. “Thank you,” she said simply.

He reached down and touched her face again, like when he had brushed away her tears after Nimah’s sacrifice. She leaned in, her warm cheek pressed against his palm. He inclined his head and swallowed hard, wanting long moments with her. “We came home together,” he said. “You helped me.”

“And you me.” Julu chattered at him from above. A rabbit stirred the underbrush. Hun Kan’s hand was warm and small in his.

Their duty mattered.

He pulled his hand away gently and offered it to her, helping her stand. “We must go.”

She nodded. He sensed she wanted to delay their homecoming as much as he, to stop and freeze time and be together. But that was a path with no honor, and they had not lost that in the year they studied at Zama. So they continued toward Chichén, finding the sacbe only a few hundred steps past the huts. They bowed their heads as they came onto the sacred white road again, and reached for each other’s hands, squeezing them together.

He spoke in the voice he reserved for addressing the gods. “Thank you for keeping us safe. May we speak with your voices to the people of Chichén so that we may join with you and bring good luck.”

Hun Kan squeezed his hand one more time, hard, and released it, separating a little from him. They broke into the ground-eating jog of warriors. They ran easily on the even road, passing the scattered homes of healers, artists, pottery-makers, and then small animal farmers, serving both the wandering villages and the city. And finally, they neared the city itself: the minor lords, the leaders of warriors, the builders, the merchants who traded for feathers and jade and amber and fine art from afar, and the weavers of fine clothes.

They began to see other people from time to time on the white road, but the urge to get home drove them past.

At the point where the great walls and the tops of the temples rose from the jungle, bright and full of power, Ah Bahlam stopped. He had been glad to leave. The simplicity of the months in Zama, the simple hard study, the nights talking with Cauac or the other teachers, or sitting with his now-dead friends were behind him. The power and complexity of the city called to him. All that mattered in the world was decided here.

Hun Kan stood beside him, also looking. She had cried at the idea of coming home, but had run beside him all the way. Sweat glistened on her forehead and shoulders, the back of her hands. They both breathed hard, the scent of exhaustion seeping from them. As one, they started running again.

Because of their news, they passed their homes and went on to the gates of the city, clogged by a crowd making their way in for the second festival day. People gave them room, perhaps seeing their disheveled state and reading the determination in their eyes.

Inside the gate, they pushed through merchants setting up stalls under a high thatched roof held up by great stone columns more than twice Ah Bahlam’s height. Colorful banners hung from the wooden roof supports. Artisans laid out pottery vessels made locally and carved jade brought in from far away by the salt trade. Some of the best booths held intricate mosaics, while others displayed simple clay figurines of various Ways: rabbit, peccary, macaw, jaguar, and deer. He and Hun Kan returned the greetings of merchants they had acquired goods from in years past.

Finally, they stood in front of the Temple of Warriors. The imposing roof held carved statues along the top and reliefs of K’uk’ulkan. He gave silent homage, his head raised. The power of the god stole the breath from his stomach. He waited, gazing fixedly and quietly, Hun Kan beside him, until he felt full of the god. With a strong shrug of his shoulder, he sent his bird off and used hand signs to tell it to wait.

His body wanted to collapse. But first, they must tell their stories.

Hun Kan turned to look up at him, apprehension showing in her eyes. This was not a place women normally entered, but she was part of the story they had to tell.

Inside, light poured through small windows and illuminated the center of the room. Murals of old battles looked down on four men who sat on small stone benches in the shadows.

The Chief of War, a small but very fast man who had proven himself in battle at the age of ten. Ah Beh, the man responsible for organizing all festivals. Beside him, the High Priest of the Feathered Serpent: the spiritual heart of the community.

It took a moment to decipher the familiar features of the fourth man, who sat mostly in shadow. His uncle, Hunapa.

The men were so wrapped in quiet conversation that they didn’t notice Hun Kan or Ah Bahlam for a few breaths. Hunapa looked up first, and cried out, racing to Ah Bahlam’s side and grabbing his arm, giving it a hard squeeze. He stalked around him, looking carefully, as if he hadn’t seen him just last spring. “You live!”

Ah Bahlam grinned, suddenly understanding. “Yes, uncle. We two live.”

“Ah K’in’ca said that all of you died, and your family mourns you.” He glanced at Hun Kan. “You, also.”

Ah Bahlam understood. Ah K’in’ca must have escaped also, and run back along the road. “We got away near the end of a battle. Many people-of-unrest attacked us. Four or five twenties at least. More than we could hold off. I saw most of us die, and then later, later we witnessed the heart of Nimah bless their cause.”

His uncle put a hand up. “Let me send a messenger to tell your father he is lucky.” He went to the door and called a small boy who had been squatting outside, giving him instructions. Then he stood, ushering Ah Bahlam and Hun Kan onto a spot on the benches and handing them his water skin. Grateful, they drank. Hunapa’s voice and facial expression were formal and serious, as if simply being in this place was a serious matter. Perhaps it was. Ah Bahlam had been here twice with his father as part of his education, but never during a meeting. Hunapa said, “I am pleased you live. Sit. We must hear your story, but quickly. There is more news than yours surrounding this day.”

Ah Bahlam licked his lips and looked around the small space. The War Priest was painted and masked, which should not happen until the ball game the day after tomorrow. The stiff air inside the room felt serious and heavy. He told of their journey, and of seeing the great crowd of warriors less than a day’s run from Chichén. Here, the War Priest stopped him and questioned both him and Hun Kan. His mask hid his eyes, but Ah Bahlam watched his mouth grow thinner and angrier, and the lines of concern around his cheeks grow deeper. All of them winced and moaned at the loss of Nimah, and the evil power that her death may have given to Chichén’s enemies.

When they finished, Ah Bahlam asked, “What other news?”

Hunapa answered him. “Three outlying towns refused to pay tribute in builders or goods, and three more have been attacked. We believe the towns that refused to pay tribute helped the people-of-unrest attack the three towns that stayed loyal.”

Ah Bahlam swallowed, but remained silent. This was outright revolt. The power of the Itzá was waning, more than his worst fears. “Perhaps this year’s celebration will bring rainfall, and a year of good crops,” he said, keeping his voice neutral.

The War Priest nodded. “You need rest.”

A dismissal. He glanced at Hun Kan, sure she read the question on his eyes. Her small face was resolute, as always. Fearless. She nodded, telling him yes, they should mention Ni-ixie, and then before he could speak, she did, her voice clear. “There is more to tell you. Before we left, at Zama, we were visited by . . . .” she hesitated, “by a spirit. I do not know if she was a goddess.” She glanced over at Ah Bahlam. “Cauac thinks so, but I do not.”

The War Priest glared at her as if she should not have any thoughts different than Cauac’s.

Hun Kan ignored him and continued. “She appeared as a young girl, with hair as yellow as K’inich A’haw’s, and skin as pale as the mist in the morning or as sand.”

The War Priest stood straighter. He glanced back at the High Priest of K’uk’ulkan, who nodded. “Tell us. Quickly.”

First Ah Bahlam and then Hun Kan told their stories of meeting Ni-ixie, and Hun Kan shared how she learned the girl’s name, and what Cauac had said. She recounted the bloodletting to nods of approval.

The High Priest of K’uk’ulkan moved in closer as they spoke. He also wore a mask, but his dark eyes were visible though the blue and green feathers that surrounded them. They grew hard and cold, and while Ah Bahlam did know the man well enough to read him well, he sensed distrust.