The Falling Woman (2 page)

"Why not?" he said. "I think it's a good idea."

We sat in the growing darkness and talked about the possibilities of the site. Tony, as always, was optimistic despite our limited success to date.

From 1960 to 1966 a research group from Tulane University surveyed just over half of the ceremonial center at Dzibilchaltún, completed extensive excavations in a number of structures, and dug test pits to sample some six hundred other structures. Unlike the Tulane group, we were concentrating on outlying areas rather than on the ceremonial center, expanding the surveyed and sampled area.

By the time the sun was completely down and the moon was rising, Tony and I were well into planning the third year of excavations. Salvador had wandered off, impatient with us for being more interested in next year's plans than tomorrow's work. We quit with the third year, and Tony wandered over to join the students for a time.

Tony always got along well with the students, drinking with them, sharing their troubles and laughing at their jokes. By the end of the summer, they would call him Tony and treat him with affection. Even at the end of the summer, I would be a stranger to them. I preferred it that way.

In the moonlight, I went for a stroll down to the sacred cenote, the ancient well that had once supplied water to the city. Along the way, I passed a woman returning from the well. She walked gracefully, one hand lifted to steady the water jug on her head. From the black and white pattern that decorated the rim of her jug, I guessed that she had lived during the Classic Period, around about a.d. 800.

I do not live entirely in the present. Sometimes, I think that the ghosts of the past haunt me. Sometimes, I think that I haunt them. We come together in the uncertain hours of dawn and dusk, when the world is on the edge between day and night.

When I wander through the Berkeley campus at dawn I smell the thin smoke of cooking fires that flared and died a thousand years ago. A shadow flits across the path before me—no, two shadows—little girls playing a game involving a ball, a hoop, a stick, and much laughter. For a moment, I hear them laughing, shrill as birds, and then the laughter fades.

A tall awkward young man in a dark green windbreaker, a student in my graduate seminar, hails me. We stand and talk—something about the coming midterm exam, something about the due date for a paper. I am distracted—an old Indian woman walks past, carrying a basket of herbs. The design of the basket is unfamiliar to me, and I study it as she trudges by.

"So, you think that would work?" the earnest young man is saying. He has been talking about the topic he has chosen for his final paper, but I have not been listening.

"Let's talk about it during my office hours this afternoon," I say. Students sometimes find me brusque, abrupt. I try to show interest in their concerns, but my attention is continually drawn away from them by apparitions of the past.

I have grown used to my ghosts. It's no worse, I suppose, than other disabilities: some people are nearsighted, some are hard-of-hearing. I see and hear too much and that distracts me from the business at hand.

Generally, the phantoms ignore me, busy with their own affairs. For these shadows, as for my students, the times are separate. The Indian village that I see is gone: past tense. The campus through which I walk is now: present tense. For others, there is no overlap between the two. I live on the border and see both sides.

The water of the cenote was cold and clear. The air beside the pool carried the scent of water lilies and wet mud. I stopped at the edge of the pool, sat down, and leaned back against a squared-off stone that had once been part of a structure.

Here and there, other stone temple blocks showed through the soil. Three thousand years ago, the Maya had built a temple here. One thousand years ago, they had abandoned the temple and retreated into the forest. No archaeologist knew why, and the ancient Maya were not saying. Not yet.

The heavy rains of a thousand springs had eroded the stones; the winds had blown dust over them.

Grasses had grown in the dust, covering the rocks and hiding their secrets. Trees had grown on the crest of the mound, and their twisted roots had tumbled and broken the stones. The jungle had reclaimed the land.

I liked this place. By day, I could watch the shadows of women draw water from the pool, slaves and peasants stooping to fill rounded jars with clear water, hoisting the full vessels to their heads, and moving away with the stately grace required to balance the heavy jars. They talked and laughed and joked among themselves and I liked to listen.

The wind rippled the water, and the moonlight laid a pale silver ribbon on the shining surface. Bats swooped low to catch insects that hovered just above the pool. I saw a movement on the path that led to the cenote and waited. Perhaps a slave sent to fetch water. Perhaps a young woman meeting a lover.

I heard the soft slapping of sandals against rock as a shadow crossed between me and the pool. The figure walked with a slight limp. There was a bulkiness about the head that suggested braided hair, a hint of feminine grace when the figure stooped to touch the water. She turned, as if to continue along the path, then stopped, staring in my direction.

I waited. Crickets trilled all around me. A frog croaked, but no frog answered. For a moment, I thought I had mistaken a woman of my own time for a shadow of the past. I greeted her in Maya, a language I speak tolerably well after ten long years of stammering and mispronunciation. My accent is not good—I struggle with subtleties of tone and miss the point of puns and jokes—but I can usually understand and make myself understood.

The person standing motionless by the edge of the pool did not speak for a moment. Then she said, "I see a living shadow. Why are you here?" By the sound of her voice, I guessed her to be a woman about my age. She spoke Maya with an ancient accent.

Shadows do not speak to me. For a moment, I sat silent. Shadows come and go and I watch them, but they do not speak, they do not watch me.

"Speak to me, shadow," said the woman. "I have been alone so long. Why are you here?"

The crickets filled the silence with shrill cries. I did not know what to say. Shadows do not talk to me.

"I stopped to rest," I said carefully. "It's peaceful here."

She was a shape in the darkness, no more than that. I could make out no details. She laughed, a soft low sound like water pouring from a jug, "Peace is not so easy to find. You do not know this place if you find it peaceful."

"I know this place," I said sharply, resenting this shadow for claiming I did not know a place that I considered my own. "For me, it is peaceful."

She stood motionless for a moment, her head cocked a little to one side. "So you think you belong here, shadow? Who are you?"

"They call me Ix Zacbeliz." When I was overseeing a dig at Ikil;
the workmen had called me that; it meant "woman who walks the white road." The nickname was as close as I came to a Mayan name.

"You speak Maya," the woman said softly, "but do you speak the language of the Zuyua?" Her voice held a challenge.

The language of the Zuyua was an ancient riddling game. I had read the questions and answers in the
Books of Chilam Balam,
Mayan holy books that had been transcribed into European script and preserved when the original hieroglyphic books were destroyed. The text surrounding the questions suggested that the riddles were used to separate the true Maya from invaders, the nobility from the peasants. If I spoke the language of the Zuyua, I belonged. If not, I was an outsider.

The woman at the well spoke again, not waiting for my answer. "What holes does the sugarcane sing through?"

That was easy. "The holes in the flute."

"Who is the girl with many teeth? Her hair is twisted in a tuft and she smells sweet."

I leaned back against the temple stone, remembering the text from the ancient book. As I recalled, many of the riddles dealt with food. "The girl is an ear of corn, baked in a pit."

"If I tell you to bring me the flower of the night, what will you do?"

That one, I did not remember. I stared over her head and saw the first dim stars of evening. "There is the flower of the night. A star in the sky."

"And what if I ask you for the firefly of the night? Bring it to me with the beckoning tongue of a jaguar."

That one was not in the book. I considered the question, tapping a cigarette from my pack and lighting it with a match. The woman laughed. "Ah, yes—you speak the language of the Zuyua. The firefly is the smoking stick and the tongue of the jaguar is the flame. We shall be friends. I have been lonely too long."

She cocked her head to one side but I could not see her expression in the darkness. "You are looking for secrets and I will help you find them. Yes. The time has come."

She turned away, stepping toward the path that led to the southeast, away from the cenote.

"Wait," I said. "What's your name? Who are you?"

"They call me Zuhuy-kak," she said.

I had heard the name before, though it took me a moment to place it. Zuhuy-kak meant "fire virgin." A few books referred to her; she was said to be the deified daughter of a Mayan nobleman. So they said. I have found books to be completely unreliable when it comes to identifying the shadows that I meet in the ruins.

With half-closed eyes, I leaned my head against the stone behind me and watched her go.

A modem psychiatrist—that shaman sans rattle and incense— would say that Zuhuy-kak was wish fulfillment and hallucination, brought on by stress, spicy food, aguardiente. If pressed, he might say, with waving of hands, that Zuhuy-kak— and the less talkative shadows that haunt me—are aspects of myself.

My subconscious mind speaks to me through visions of dead Indians.

Or he might just say I'm mad.

In any case, I have never made the test. I have never mentioned my shadows to anyone. I prefer my shamans with all the window dressing. Give them rattles and incense and bones to throw; take away their books. Let the white-coated shamans of the modem world chase shadows in the darkness. I know my phantoms.

Generally. But my phantoms do not speak to me and call me friend. My phantoms keep their distance, going about their lives while I observe. This ancient Mayan woman named Zuhuy-kak did not follow the rules that I knew. I wondered, in the lily-scented night, if the rules were changing.

Back in the hut that served as my home for the field season, I lay in my hammock and listened to the steady beat of my own heart. The palm thatch rustled in the evening breeze.

The hammock rocked me to sleep and the sounds changed. The steady beat was a
tunkul,
a hollow wooden gong that was beaten with a stick. The cricket's song grew harsh and loud, like the buzzing of stones shaken in a gourd rattle. The whisper of the palm thatch became the murmuring of voices: a crowd surrounded me and pressed close on all sides. I felt the weight of braids on my head, a cumbersome robe around me. When a hand on my arm tugged me forward, I opened my eyes.

A precipice before me, jade-green water far below, a drumbeat that quickened with my heart, and suddenly I was falling.

I woke with a start, my hands clutching the cotton threads of the hammock. The rising wind stirred the palm thatch and sent a few thin leaves scurrying across the hard-packed dirt floor of my hut.

In my brief glance over the edge, I had recognized the steep limestone walls and green waters of the sacred cenote at Chichén Itzá. The scent, I thought, had been copal incense. The music—rattle and drum—was processional music.

I closed my eyes and slept again, but my dreams were of more modern pasts: I dreamed of the long ago time when I had been a wife and mother. I did not like such dreams and I woke at dawn.

Dawn and dusk are the best times for exploring ruins. When the sun is low, the shadows reveal the faint images of ancient carvings on temple stones; they betray irregularities that may hide the remains of stairways, plazas, walls, and roads. Shadows lend an air of mystery to the tumble of rocks that was once a city, and they reveal as many secrets as they hide.

I left my hut to go walking through the ruins. It was Saturday and breakfast would be late. Alone, I strolled through the sleeping camp. Chickens searched for insects among the weeds. A lizard, catching early-morning sunlight on a rock, glanced at me and ran for cover in the crack of a wall. In the monte, a bird called on two notes—one high, one low, one high, one low—as repetitive as a small boy who had only recently learned to whistle. The sun was just up and the air was still relatively cool.

As I walked, 1 fingered the lucky piece that I carried in my pocket, a silver coin that Tony had given me when we were both graduate students. The design was that of an ancient Roman coin. Tony cast the silver himself in a jewelry-making workshop, and gave the coin to me on the anniversary of the day my divorce was final. I always carried it with me, and I knew I was nervous when I caught myself running my finger along the milled edge.

I was nervous now, restless, bothered by my dreams and my memory of the old woman named Zuhuy-kak. I started when four small birds took flight from a nearby bush, jumped when a lizard ran across my path. My encounter with Zuhuy-kak had left me feeling more unsettled than I liked to admit, even to myself.

I followed the dirt track to the cenote. On the horizon, I could see the remains of the old Spanish church.

In 1568, the Spanish had quarried stones from the old Mayan temples and used them in a new church, building for the new gods on the bones of the old. Their church had fared no better than the Mayan temples. All that remained of it now was a broad archway and the crumbling fragment of a wall.

Each time I left California arid returned to the ruins, I found them more disconcerting. In Berkeley, buildings were set lightly on the land, a temporary addition—nothing more. Here, history built upon history.

Conquering Spaniards had taken the land from the Toltec invaders who had taken the land from the Maya.

With each conquest, the faces of old gods were transformed to become the faces of gods more acceptable to the new regime. Words of the Spanish Mass blended with the words of ancient ritual: in one and the same prayer, the peasants called upon the Virgin Mary and the Chaacob. Here, it was common to build structures upon structures, pyramids over pyramids. Layers upon layers, secrets hiding secrets.