Domain (42 page)

According to the Mayan calendar, the name One Hunahpu equates with 1
Ahau
, the first day of the fifth cycle—and its last—the prophesied day of doom. Using a sophisticated astronomy program, I have charted the heavens as they will appear in the year 2012. The Great Ball Court will once again align itself with the dark rift, only this time on the day of the
winter
solstice—4
Ahau
, 3
Kankin
—humanity’s day of doom.

It was on a cool fall day in 1983 that a team of Mexican archaeologists arrived in Chichén Itza. Armed with picks and shovels, the men proceeded to the Great Ball Court in search of an artifact known as the center marker—an ornamental stone found buried at the center point of many other ball-court fields in Mesoamerica.

Maria and I stood by and watched as the archaeologists unearthed the ancient artifact. The vessel was like none any of us had ever seen—jade instead of rock, hollow, the size of a coffee can, with the handle of an obsidian blade protruding from one end of the object as if it were some Mayan “sword in the stone.” Despite many attempts to remove it, the weapon remained wedged in tight.

Adorning the sides of the jade object were symbolic images of the ecliptic and the dark rift. Painted on the bottom of the piece was the detailed face of a great Mayan warrior.

Maria and I stared at this last image in absolute shock, for there was no mistaking the man’s facial features. Reluctantly, we handed the center marker back to the expedition’s leader, then returned to our trailer, overwhelmed by the potential implications of the object we had just held within our hands.

Maria had been the one to finally break the silence between us. “Julius, somehow—somehow our own destiny has become directly entwined in the very salvation of our species. The image upon the marker—it’s a sign that we must continue our journey, that we must find a way into Kukulcan’s pyramid.”

I knew my wife was right. With renewed vigor, forged from feelings of trepidation, we continued our search, spending the next three years turning over every rock, exploring every ruin, uncovering every jungle leaf, investigating every cave in the region.

Still—we found nothing.

By the summer of ‘85, our frustrations had mounted to the point where we knew a change of venue was necessary simply to preserve what little sanity remained. Our original plan had been to travel to Cambodia to explore the magnificent ruins of Angkor, a doomsday site we believed was linked to both Giza and Teotihuacan. Unfortunately, access into the area was still being denied to all outsiders by the ruling Khmer Rouge.

Maria had other ideas. Surmising our extraterrestrial elders would never have fashioned an entrance into the Kukulcan that could have been stumbled upon by looters, she believed it in our best interests to return to Nazca and attempt to decipher the rest of the ancient message.

As much as I despised the thought of returning to that Peruvian landscape, I could not argue with my wife’s logic. We were clearly getting nowhere in Chichén Itza, despite the fact that we were both convinced the city was destined to be the site of the final battlefield.

Before leaving, there was one final endeavor I had to complete before we embarked on what would prove to be our last, fateful journey together.

Armed with crowbar and mask, I broke into the archaeologist’s trailer late one night—and rescued Kukulcan’s center ball-court marker from its kidnappers.

—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,

Ref. Catalogue 1981-84 pages 08-154.

Photo Journal Floppy Disk 7 & 8: File name: MESO, Photos 223, 328, 344.

Chapter 20

DECEMBER 9, 2012
CHICHÉN ITZA, MEXICO

1:48 P.M.

T
he commuter plane bounces twice along the weathered tarmac, taxis briefly, then skids to a halt just before the runway ends in an overgrown field.

The blast of heat hits Dominique square in the face as she steps off the Cessna, plastering the already sweat-soaked tee shirt against her chest. She slings her backpack over one shoulder and follows the other seven passengers through the small terminal, then out to the main road. A sign pointing to the left reads, “Hotel Mayaland,” the one to the right, “Chichén Itza.”

“Taxi,
señorita
?”

The driver, a slight man in his early fifties, is leaning against a battered, white Volkswagen Beetle. Dominique can see the Mayan lineage in his dark facial features.

“How far to Chichén Itza?”

“Ten minutes.” The driver opens the passenger door.

Dominique climbs in, the exposed foam cushion of the worn vinyl seat giving beneath her weight.

“Have you been to Chichén Itza before,
señorita
?”

“Not since I was a child.”

“Don’t worry. Not much has changed over the last thousand years.”

They travel through an impoverished village, then onto a freshly paved two-lane toll road. Minutes later, the taxi pulls up to a modernized visitors’ entrance, the parking lot crammed with rental cars and chartered tour buses. Dominique pays the driver, purchases a ticket, and enters the park.

She passes a series of gift shops, then follows several tourists down a wide dirt road that cuts through the Mexican jungle. After a five-minute walk, the path opens to an incredibly vast, flat, green expanse, surrounded by dense foliage.

Dominique’s eyes widen as she takes in her surroundings. She has traveled back in time.

Dotting the landscape are massive gray-and-white limestone ruins. To her left is the Great Mayan Ball Court, the largest in all of Mesoamerica. Built in the shape of a giant “I” the arena is more than 550 feet long and 230 feet wide, enclosed on all sides, including its two central boundary walls, which rise three stories. Just to the north of the structure stands the Tzompantli, a large platform engraved with rows of enormous skulls, the bodies of serpents crowning the structure. In the distance on her right is a vast quadrangle—the Warrior’s Complex—the remains of what had been a palace and marketplace, its borders partially enclosed by hundreds of freestanding columns.

But it is the main attraction that dwarfs every ruin to capture Dominique’s attention—an incredibly precise, towering ziggurat of limestone, located in the middle of the ancient city.

“Magnificent, isn’t it,
señorita
?”

Dominique turns to face a small man wearing a sweat-stained, orange park tee shirt and baseball cap. She notices the guide’s high, sloping forehead and strong Mayan facial features.

“The Kukulcan pyramid is the most magnificent structure in all of Central America. Perhaps you would like a private tour? Only thirty-five pesos.”

“Actually, I’m looking for someone. He’s an American, tall, well-built, with brown hair and very dark eyes. His name’s Michael Gabriel.”

The guide’s smile disappears.

“You know Mick?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Have a pleasant visit.” The small man turns and walks away.

“Wait—” Dominique catches up to him. “You know where he is, don’t you? Take me to him, and I’ll make it worth your while.” She shoves a wad of bills in his hand.

“I’m sorry, señorita, I don’t know the person you are looking for.” He pushes the cash back into her palm.

She peels off several bills. “Here, take this—”

“No, señorita—”

“Please. If you happen to run into him, or if you know someone who might know how to get word to him, tell him that Dominique needs to see him. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.”

The Mayan guide sees the desperation in her eyes. “The person you seek—is he your boyfriend?”

“A close friend.”

The guide stares off in the distance for several moments, contemplating. “Take the day and enjoy Chichén Itza. Treat yourself to a hot meal, then wait until dark. The park closes at ten. Hide out in the jungle just before security makes its final rounds. When the last person leaves and the gates are locked, ascend the Kukulcan pyramid and wait.”

“Mick will be there?”

“It’s possible.”

He hands her back the money. “At the front entrance are tourist shops. Buy yourself a wool poncho, you’ll need it for tonight.”

“I want you to keep the money.”

“No. The Gabriels have been friends of my family for a very long time.” He smiles. “When Mick finds you, tell him that Elias Forma says you are far too beautiful to be left alone in the land of green lightning.”

The incessant buzzing of a thousand mosquitoes fills Dominique’s ears. She pulls the hood of her poncho over her head and huddles in the envelope of darkness, the jungle awakening around her.

What the hell am I doing here
? She scratches at imaginary insects crawling on her arms.
I should be finishing my internship. I should be getting ready to graduate
.

The forest rustles around her. A flutter of wings disturbs the canopy of leaves above her head. Somewhere in the distance, a howler monkey screeches into the night. She checks her watch—10:23—then pulls her wool poncho back over her head and shifts her weight on the rock.

Give it another ten minutes
.

She closes her eyes, allowing the jungle to wrap its arms around her, just as it had when she was a child. The heavy scent of moss, the sound of palm fronds dancing in the breeze—and she is back in Guatemala, only four, standing by the stucco wall outside her mother’s bedroom window, listening to her grandmother crying within. She waits until her aunt escorts the old woman out before entering through the window.

Dominique stares at the lifeless figure stretched out across the bed. Fingers that had stroked her long hair only hours earlier have turned blue at the tips. The mouth is open, the brown eyes half-closed, fixated at the ceiling. She touches the high cheekbones, feeling the cold, clammy skin.

This was not her
madre
. This was something else, a frame of inanimate flesh that her mother had worn while part of her world.

Her grandmother enters.
She’s with the angels now, Dominique
…

The night sky explodes above her head with the chaotic sounds of a thousand vampire bats flapping their wings. Dominique jumps to her feet, her pulse pounding as she tries to blink away the mosquitoes and the memories.

“No! This is not my home. This is not my life!”

She shoves her childhood back into the attic and seals the door shut, then climbs down from the rock and pushes her way through the thicket until she emerges at the mouth of the sacred cenote.

Dominique gazes at the sheer, vertical walls of the sinkhole, which plunge straight down to the surface of its inky, algae-infested waters. The lunar light from the three-quarter moon highlights layers of geological grooves sculpted along the interior of the chalky white limestone pit. She looks up, focusing on an enclosed stone structure suspended over the southern edge of the cenote. One thousand years ago, the Maya, desperate after the sudden departure of their god-king, Kukulcan, had turned to human sacrifice in an effort to forestall the end of humanity. Virgin women had been locked in this primordial steam bath for purification, then led out to its rooftop platform by ceremonial priests. Stripping the young maidens naked, they would stretch them out upon the stone structure, then use their obsidian blades to cut out their hearts or slice their throats. The virgins’ bodies, laden with jewelry, would then be ceremoniously tossed into the sacred well.

The thought causes Dominique to shudder. She circles the pit and hustles down the
Sacbe
, a wide, elevated footpath of soil and stone which cuts through the dense jungle until it reaches the northern border of the ancient city.

Fifteen minutes and a half dozen stumbles later, Dominique emerges from the path. Standing before her is the northern face of the Kukulcan pyramid, its jagged, dark outline rising nine stories against the star-drenched sky. She approaches the base, which is guarded on either side by the sculpted heads of two enormous serpents.

Dominique looks around. The ancient city is dark and deserted. A cold shiver runs down her spine. She begins climbing.

Midway up, she finds herself gasping for breath. The steps of the Kukulcan are quite narrow, the rise steep, and there is nothing to hold on to. She turns and looks down. A fall from this height would be her last.

“Mick?” Her voice seems to echo across the valley. She waits for a response, then, hearing nothing, continues climbing.

It takes her another five minutes to reach the summit, a flat platform supporting a square two story stone temple. Feeling dizzy, she leans against the northern wall of the structure to catch her breath, her quadriceps muscles still burning from the climb.

The view is spectacular, with no safety rails. The moonlight reveals shadowed details of every structure in the northern section of the city. Along the outskirts, the jungle canopy spreads out across the horizon like the dark borders of a canvas.