The Mayan Priest (23 page)

The sun burst through the fine cotton curtains the following morning, bringing light to my eyes. I awoke with a start. The previous evening, the King ‘Spearthrower Jaguar’, named after his esteemed forefather Spearthrower Owl, had accepted me with great regard into his palace. He was a fine-looking man with glorious, long black hair, flashing eyes and features almost too dainty for a male. Despite his refined exterior, he was also very tall and carried himself with a dignity that was very commanding and quite frightening. Everyone fell to the floor in complete respect as he ordered a lavish banquet served immediately by slaves outfitted in highly coloured costumes. The banquet consisted of corn, squash, turkey and fish finished with a sauce made of sugared cherry and a cup of pulque.

This was followed by a ceremony to mark my arrival and the impending marriage of the Princess ‘Lady K’in’ to Bahlum Paw Skull. The ceremony which involved smoking K’aizalah Okox (psychoactive mushroom) also included the sacrifice of a pure girl child of six cycles of the haab. She had her hands and feet tied to her back before being clubbed on the back of her head. The skull fractured and she died shortly after.

I understand that most sacrifices were to honour the gods and to commit a child is the greatest offering of all, but I was never comfortable with the loss of a life so young. I know that it goes against the greater requests of the gods and our teaching dating back to the beginnings of civilisation, but the look of sadness and pain troubled me greatly. Kukulcan (Quetzalcoatl) also opposed these offerings and as a creation god, I could not believe him to be wrong. I decided that I must study further on this topic and Yok Chac agreed to assist me, knowing my position on this matter.

Today was an important day. I had duly advised that we would be leaving at sunrise tomorrow, so the King promised to allow me access to the most learned men in this city in a bid to preserve some of this great city’s secrets. He too was well aware of the discontent in his home but was at a loss as to how to fix it. People were migrating to the city in droves every day and the food supply simply could not sustain them all. He had attempted to increase trade by growing the amount of goods produced in the city, but this in turn placed a heavy burden on the farmers who had run out of sustainable land.

Spearthrower Jaguar had also begun to rely heavily on appeasing the gods and as a result had tripled the amount of sacrifices and mural dedications around the city. Whilst it was not for me to judge one so wise, I would have thought the imbalance of the life cycle made it plainly obvious that this city was just too big and the only solution was to relocate some of the population. Spearthrower Jaguar would not listen to any of my suggestions.

Yok Chac came for me not long after I had dressed and prepared myself for the day ahead. Our first stop was to the head priest who, along with his advisor, controlled the most sacred documents of the city. Unlike Tikal where a number of people could read and write, only a couple of the priests and the King had this ability.

I was accompanied from the King’s palace to an underground tunnel that ran beneath the royal palace to the Temple of the Sun. We met with a large grate that opened upwards after the King pressed three finger-sized blocks in the wall. He then gestured for us to move into the room but did not follow us. He said his farewell and returned to his duties.

Yoc Chak and I waited impatiently in the surprisingly large pillared room complete with enormous, predominately red murals representing the blood of life and depicting scenes of creation. I was fascinated and noted that their version of our foundation was strikingly similar.

Unbeknown to myself, the priest had been observing me whilst I studied the detailed murals. He approached from behind, leaving me in a state of shock as his voice unexpectedly echoed around the room.

‘Welcome,’ he uttered in a tone that was too large for his minute stature. I pride myself in my acceptance of all men, but even I was aghast at his short and disproportionate stature. I tried desperately not to stare, but this fully formed man barely reached my chest. He smiled in reply, clearly used to the type of reaction I had just displayed.

He gestured for us to follow him. Within a few strides, we had passed through another tunnel into what appeared to be a workshop and storage facility. The room, whilst still underground, had good natural light flowing in from four small holes in the roof and was full of artefacts, figures, jars and many other objects of significant religious and historical value. Once again I was faced with an unusual and surprising prospect when another man approached us.

The priest introduced him as ‘one not from our land’, an adept description considering he did not look like us at all. His skin colour was a light tan, he had large eyes outlined in black and a strange cloth and plain circular band over his glossy black hair. He displayed an air of extreme confidence and greeted us in a perfect representation of our language.

‘His name is Mshai,’ offered the priest as I looked at the strange man with curiosity. He could see in my eyes that I was longing for an explanation as to his origin and he answered without prompting.

‘I have come from a land that has many large pyramids like yours called Mizraim (Egypt). I am following the family tradition of travel and to seek new information which I can take home to my king.’

I nodded. I had never heard of this country, but the thought of two places having the same buildings was incomprehensible.

‘This is not the first time our people have visited your country; in fact, it is the meeting of our forefathers who collaborated and designed these great buildings that built a loyalty between us,’ he said.

I was fascinated and we spoke about the differences in our countries, his long journeys across the seas and what discoveries he had made. He even offered to teach me a language he had learnt in a country called Greece. I agreed with enthusiasm, knowing that this would undoubtedly extend our stay. Yok Chac simply sighed rather obtrusively in the background.

It was ten kin later before we were ready to leave. I had taken advantage of Mshai’s generous nature and indelible pit of knowledge to learn as much about his new language as possible. He was also nice enough to give me his two detailed scrolls, so I could continue to study the language in the privacy of my home, and a gold scarab beetle which I had learnt was their symbol of good luck.

I thanked him for his assistance and handed him my fine obsidian and jade necklace in appreciation. He smiled happily, leaving me to realise that I had developed a genuine relationship with this man, older than me by ten cycles of the haab. I was sincerely sad to say goodbye to him.

Up until now I had rarely seen ‘Lady K’in’ except during the evening meals. She was very attractive but did not have the flattened head typical of the Mayan royalty. The people of the ’City of the Gods’ did not like the practice of placing boards against the heads of newborns to flatten their skulls, believing that it was unnatural to alter what the gods had intended. The rest of her gentle face was unadorned, but she wore a free-flowing, red and gold huipil, glorious jewellery and an unusual cotton headpiece to protect the glossy, waist length hair.

She was very quiet, but when she did speak, it was polite and well informed. She was obviously educated and clearly loved by the five slaves that accompanied her. As she was only seventeen cycles of the haab, I had expected her departure from her mother and two younger sisters to be emotional, but to my surprise, she was unaffected and led Yok Chac and myself out of the city amongst great fanfare and hope for a future blessed by the gods.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Dale hurried to the back of the church. He had entered through the front but was not ignorant to the potential danger of assassins awaiting his exit. He knew it was likely that they had found him, his fears confirmed the instant he opened the door. Bullets pounded the oak indiscriminately, causing Peter to rush to the relative safety of the small underground crypt to the rear of the altar. Dale reacted instinctively and dropped to the dirt. He forced himself into a roll, directly aiming for the cover of an old tombstone, and pulled out his automatic pistol on the way. The stone-filled grass dug into his side but his fit and taut frame barely noticed the pressure as he fired a round of bullets over the top of the grave.

Dale lay silent and the shots ceased momentarily.

A sudden flutter of birds beyond a row of rust-filled metal fencing revealed the location of his adversaries, so Dale lifted and dived, allowing himself direct aim at the long thick grass. He fired and was rewarded with a squeal of pain.

With his mind running at full speed, Dale quickly scanned the area for options. His own car was too far away and he had never seen Peter drive although the remote location of the church would necessitate transportation, but where? The church was not large and neither was the ground surrounding it. It consisted of a small vegetable patch, a chicken run, a fenced cemetery that had not seen a fresh body for a hundred years and two small sheds. It had to be one of the sheds. Dale fancied the slightly larger one with the white barn doors.

He lifted himself to his feet and ran for his life. There were at least three gunmen at large, one which Dale could sense was closing in on him from the rear. Once again he ducked and swivelled on his haunches, firing directly into the face of a man in a black suit and ski mask. He fell to the ground in a bloodied mess. Dale grimaced but did not delay, ducking and weaving between the trees and yanking at the side door. He paused momentarily as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His uncle owned an old Volkswagen Beetle and a motorbike that both looked as immaculate as the day they were driven from the showroom floor.

He decided to take his chances with the much faster bike and was not surprised to find the keys in the ignition. Peter always told Dale that you needed to trust a person as much as you would like to be trusted yourself. Dale in return thought he was a foolish but loveable old man. His sensitive and well-adjusted hearing detected a slight crunch of unrestrained gravel followed by the blinding light as the side door was flung open. Bullets rained into the barn, but the assassins had been foolhardy and abrupt. Dale had been prepared and whilst they were busy moving around the side of the barn he had opened the front doors and pushed the bike out. The assassins were met with an empty interior as Dale started the ignition, fled down the old dirt driveway and out onto the road. He could not resist a chuckle at his small win but knew that they would be only minutes behind.

As he sped along the road on the old but still powerful 1973 Kawasaki H1 motorbike, Dale was suddenly filled with a burning determination to fulfill his mission with a fervour he had never experienced before. At risk was not only the lives of those trapped by Arun’s cult and the people he supplied cocaine to but also vindication for Reynata whom he had come to greatly care for. His mission was personal with the added gratuity of helping his daughter. He had many reasons to not fail.

With the surprise find of this beautiful old bike, Dale had been astonished to discover his Uncle had a hidden wild side. The bike was well used, polished to perfection and clearly loved. Why lime green though … Dale did not know.

The machine rumbled pleasantly as the well-oiled engine easily accelerated alongside the large Wal-Mart semitrailer. Dale’s only concern was the expectant backdraft as a second semitrailer carting livestock thundered alongside on the three lane freeway. It was at this moment that the phone rang indicating Georgio’s mobile. Dale was desperate for the call and thankful that he had connected the blue-tooth on his phone, but a slight lack of concentration and increased turbulence caused him to sway. He was the first to admit that he was not an expert on a bike and fear coursed through his body as the front tyre came dangerously close to the wheels of the right truck. He truly felt like the meat in a sandwich.

‘Don’t hang up, Georgio!’ he screamed as he placed his foot on the brake and slowed the bike enough to allow him to regain control.

‘It seems I’ve got a big red target on my back and its getting larger all the time. I couldn’t get to the car with all of the assassins trying to gun me down.’

‘Looks like you will need to have your wits about you. Ferrero Santiano lives in a small community called Bee Cave almost twelve miles west of Austin Central. You need to continue along route 360 until you reach Oakhill. Turn right down Route 71. He lives on a large secure ranch on High Canyon Pass. Word is that despite the seemingly open space, security is high and the place is wired to the extreme.

‘Good as gold. Has her head in the second part of that manuscri –’ was all Georgio could say before Dale was shoved forward with such severity that he struggled to gain control of the bike.

He was furious, partially at their brazen attempt to force him off the road but mostly at his own stupidly. He had been so caught in his conversation with Georgio that he had failed to hear the approaching vehicle. The Mustang with a top speed of 175 miles per hour was far superior to the old Kawasaki, leaving Georgio clearly at a disadvantage. It did not take much intelligence for him to realise that he needed to outwit them and fast. Dale quickly sized up his options.