Mayan December (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Ah Bahlam sat so still that only his heart and lungs moved. He called to his Way, his totem.
Show yourself. Feel the part of me that is you and heed my call.

His back rested against the large buttressing root of a ceiba. The jungle crawled and skittered, and sang around him, alive to his long silence. A tapir rooted in the underbrush to his left and a green iguana moved listlessly in the winter heat. His pet quetzal, Julu, fluffed its feathers above him. Fish jumped in the sacred cenote below, flashing in the bit of light that directly reached the yellow-green waters of the underground cave.

The jaguar did not come.

He resisted the urge to shift with restlessness, knowing that any movement would return the jungle around him to silence. He needed success; tomorrow he would leave for home. If he returned to Chichén Itzá without the energy of Jaguar, he would be nothing. He would not be able to dance the dance of the Way, or play in the ball game.

Worrying would not help.

He exhaled slowly to drain all expectation from his center. He needed to become empty.

Howler monkeys chattered high in the trees as white doves called quietly back and forth to each other. The tapir grazed so close by that he could have reached out and touched its coarse fur.

He closed his eyes, feeling the growth of lianas, knowing which way the snake turned. Birds became his voice, trees his limbs, the rich soil the root of his energy.

Footsteps. Small ones, but loud in the way they silenced the world.

The jaguar? Shouldn’t it be quieter?

He opened his eyes to an apparition bending down gently by the waters of the cenote. She couldn’t be more than a girl, but no human looked like this. Golden hair surrounded her face and fell in light waves down her shoulders. The one eye he could see held the blue of a summer sky, and her skin was nearly the white of bones. Her legs and arms were bare, and she wore clothes that fit close to her body and were brightly colored like sacred buildings. Her clothes were so carefully made, so fine, they must have been spun by gods.

She bent down before the cenote, reaching a finger out and touching the almost still pool. Water rippled away from her finger in tiny waves, and she laughed.

What did this mean? The girl cast a reflection in the water. So she could not be a spirit or a god. Had she been sent as a sacrifice? She looked too young. Her chest was flat and her waist still slightly thick with childhood even though she had wider hips than any woman he knew.

He remained totally still, entranced. As if he had become part of the great root at his back, he could not have moved or changed the scene in front of him if he wanted to.

She slid her sandals off, put down a small bag she was carrying, and sat with her feet in the pool. The world did not shift as she did it. Rather, the sacred waters accepted her into a place no one should touch except in ceremony. She began to hum a tune he had never heard, high and light like her laughter, and then stood, stretching her arms up to the sun. She stepped into the cenote, first one step, and then another.

The water rippled away and back to her, lapping against her pale calves. Directly in front of her, the walls of the earth closed over black water.

Rumor had it that the current in this cenote flowed underground to the village just outside of Zama, a quarter turn of the sun from here by foot.

He had spent many days in ceremony here this summer, and he knew she could not go much further.

Apparently, she did not.

With a little cry, she plunged into the deep waters and they closed over her head.

CHAPTER 3

Alice sat with her fingers curled around a glass of Syrah. Late afternoon sun slanted onto the narrow strip of bar tables surrounded by running water and art deco bridges. Across from her, a small dark-haired woman sat with her hands folded under her chin.

Oriana Russo sipped her white wine. “You are? What did you say? An archastronomer?”

“Archeoastronomer,” Alice corrected. “Archeoastronomy is like the anthropology of astronomy. In my case, I study how the Mayans looked at the stars.”

“Which is . . . ?” Oriana asked, her bobbed hair falling forward across her face as she leaned over the table and took a small handful of over-salted peanuts.

How to explain simply? Alice knew from Oriana’s resume that she had dropped out of college and spent most of her time down here diving. “The stars guided their mythology. The Mayan calendar was devised by knowing the stars and many of the ruins were built to both study and showcase celestial events.”

“You sound like a textbook.”

At least Oriana smiled as she said that. It stung, but she was probably right.

Oriana leaned forward. “But how did the ancient Mayans
feel
about the stars?”

“Well, they revered them. After all, the story of their gods is written in stars.”

Oriana’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. “I spend time in Mayan villages, and they still see gods and the future in the stars. They’re afraid and excited. They can feel the great tree of life growing in the sky as we speak. They’re living in the time of their myths.” Oriana leaned even closer, disturbing Alice’s sense of personal space. “How do
you
feel about the stars and the coming line-up?”

Alice opened her mouth, then closed it again and took a sip of wine. “I’m a scientist. I like to watch the stars on dark nights and imagine the stories they would tell me if I didn’t know the science. But I do, and so I don’t
feel
about them as much as
think
about them.”

A soft sigh escaped Oriana’s lips, almost disappointment. But she shifted the conversation. “Tell me about Nixie.”

“She’s eleven. She’s . . . she’s a good girl. Bounces between wanting to be a little girl and a teenager.” Best to forestall the question about a father. “She and I live alone. Her father died when Nix was five.”

“Is that hard?” Oriana asked.

She hated that question. “Not so much, not any more. She comes with me most of the time when I travel—she gets her school online. But as she’s getting older, I worry more.”

Oriana smiled sympathetically. “There’s no place safe any more. Not even my home, Italy. Thirty people were killed by a pregnant suicide bomber in Rome yesterday. Can you imagine blowing up your own unborn baby?”

Alice scooted her chair in closer to the table to let a waiter pass, its metal feet screeching on the tile. “That’s not what I mean. I do worry about her safety.” Of course she did. “But she doesn’t have many friends her age; we don’t stay anywhere long. Maybe after this year, when the world goes on and the end of the Mayan calendar is just the beginning of a new year, I’ll take a teaching job and stay in the states for a few years.”

Oriana’s smile was free of judgment. “None of us can read the next year yet. Shall we go and I can meet your Nixie?”

Alice had developed a skill for reading people after so many years finding guides to take her deep into dangerous jungles. Oriana seemed honest, felt honest. “Let’s introduce you to Nixie.”

Oriana looked pleased. “Thank you.”

“Follow me.” Just over the little bridge, they passed two bright red parrots chained contentedly to large perches. Faux eco-tourism—the jungle chained for visitor’s eyes to feast on—no work required. But she’d chosen this place for Nixie, not herself.

They had to thread through five buildings, past a pool, and up one flight of stairs to reach Alice and Nixie’s room.

Alice opened the door, holding it for Oriana, calling out, “Nixie.”

No answer.

Snake, Nixie’s favorite stuffed toy and traveling companion, lay across the tropical orange bedcover with its green plush head lolling sideways. No sign of Nix. Alice called again, louder. “Nixie. Nix?”

No answer.

“Maybe she went swimming.” Alice led Oriana to the closest pool, and stood with her back to the falling sun, watching herds of children leap into the sparkling chlorine blue water while parents sat and sipped free drinks from the poolside bar. She squinted as each small swimming form emerged from the water.

Nixie wasn’t there.

“How can I recognize her?” Oriana asked.

“A mane of blonde hair, tall for her age, thin, but strong.” She glanced down at her phone and touched the tracking app to bring up Nixie’s GPS signal. It didn’t show. Dammit. She speed dialed Nixie’s cell phone. No answer; straight to voicemail. “Come on, I can find her. She’s chipped.”

“Really?” Oriana blurted out. “Like a dog?”

“Like a kid who travels with me into the bush. I intend to find her if the drug cartels get her.”

Back in the room, Alice tapped her feet as the laptop booted up. At home, she could always follow Nixie with her phone, but here the wireless cloud was damned unreliable. The screen brightened, throwing light across the cluttered desk. Alice tapped to get Nixie’s location.

No response.

She imagined her daughter kidnapped, in a taxi or broken-down bus heading down the highway, and forced herself to picture something simpler. Nixie had just come to look for her, and something in one of the little resort shops caught her eye. Or Nixie had gotten hungry. The resort was all-inclusive. Food ran free for the taking everywhere. Maybe she went to build a sandcastle at the tiny beach.

The map began to fill in on the screen, starting with their current location and fanning out. Alice’s blinking golden light took the center of the screen.

Still no blinking blue location light for Nixie.

Alice’s heart sped up as the map began to redraw, searching further a field for the girl’s locator. “That can’t be.”

The screen redrew again, its edges too far now for Nixie to have gone in anything except an airplane.

“Could her chip be broken?” Oriana asked. “Or the software?”

Alice shook her head. “We just had it checked last week when we got our shots updated at home.”

“Well, it must be broken or you would see it, right? Even if—something happened to her—the chip would still work.”

“Unless someone destroyed it.” There hadn’t been any time. She’d only been gone an hour.

Her own location light– a bright dot that looked three-dimensional - blinked insistently at her as she searched again for Nixie’s beacon.

It wasn’t there.

She’d let the apparent safety of the resort lull her into a sense of security.

She pushed the reboot button and glared at the screen as it crawled to sleep and then clawed back to life.

“She didn’t leave a note?”

“Probably not.” Alice looked around anyway, her hand shaking. Nixie almost never left, but if she did, well, she knew Alice could find her. Why leave a note when she was chipped?

The locator finished coming back up and showed exactly the same results, scanning ever wider until the whole world filled the screen and Nixie wasn’t in it.

Oriana spoke into Alice’s stunned silence. “What does she like to do?”

“There’s ruins on the grounds. She’s interested in those.”

“Should we look?” Oriana prodded.

Alice bit her lip. She’d become too damned dependent on the chip. “Of course.”

They sped down the steps and crossed the expanse of white concrete lining the pool, Alice still squinting at swimmers, hoping Nix would materialize.

Oriana asked, “Does she run away often?”

“No. Never.” Alice shook her head. Run away? “She goes places. I mean, I work. So sometimes she goes to the community park or over to a neighbor’s house. At home, she can text or call me or I can see her leave on my phone or computer, track her.”

“Is it legal to chip a person?”

“Sure. It’s not usual, but I have a friend in the industry. With the world the way it is and me bringing Nix here, it made sense. We’ve gotten used to it. It’s so . . . strange not to see her beacon.” Naked. It felt naked. “So she leaves, but I’m sure she didn’t
run away
.”

They reached the end of the pool patio and started down a manicured path toward the closest ruin. A small temple: two stories with tall, narrow steps and a compact top just a few feet across, with a stone doorway right at the crown. Dusk bathed the gray cobblestones under their feet with orange light. It hurried Alice even more, pushing her like weight instead of light. What if Nix had fallen and it got dark and they couldn’t find her?

She called, “Nixie! Ni-ixie!” She raced up the steps, looking down for a small body, fallen on the other side. Nothing. Oriana raced around the outside, bending down to look under bushes.

They shook their heads at each other, jogging side by side. The path forked and Alice pointed right, words tumbling out fast. “I’ll go this way. Go left, call her name. She won’t come to you; she’s not supposed to go to strangers. She’s got golden hair and a red top. If you think you see her, tell her that her mom needs her. Tell her to go toward the pool.”

Alice’s breath sped up and her blood raced through her veins, hot and worried.

CHAPTER 4

Nixie started to scream. Water closed over her head and filled her mouth. Cold. A small fish brushed its scales across her ankle. She kicked upward, seeking the surface, the cold a drag on her arms and legs. Her fingers broke into warm air and she kicked again, surging upward, gasping. She could hardly see. She couldn’t have gone that far!

A thick root pierced the dark earth above her and drank the dark water. She grabbed the root, holding tight. Water streamed past her, not enough to pull her from the root, but enough to explain how she had gone all the way into the cave, and a reminder that cenotes were sinkholes formed by underground rivers. The water felt warm where it lapped her chin, but cold at her feet.

She kicked lightly to stay in place. She had swum in cenotes before, with her mom, and there hadn’t been nearly so much current. She had to be close to where she fell. She turned into the water until she saw brightness in one direction. She stretched out, like in a pool, doing a swimmer’s crawl toward the half-circle of brightness.

The water dragged at her, trying to force her away from the light.

She swam harder, kicked faster. When she stopped for a breath, the root appeared again.

After she calmed, she started over, not stopping, her breath hard in her throat by the time she emerged into the sunshine.

A figure stood on the bank. At first, in the quick glance between strokes, it might have been a monkey. The current let go of Nixie as she came near the edge and she stopped, treading water, just outside the light.

A boy?

No, a small man, slender, and brown like the wide tree-trunks behind him. Brown-skinned and brown-eyed, with long brown hair that curled around his heart. He reached a hand toward her, palm up.

She considered. Strangers were dangerous, particularly strange men. But her legs felt like stones trying to sink her, cold and tired. The only other place to go was back further into the dark, under the earth. She kicked forward, extending her hand so he could take it.

He was strong for his size, and pulled her up easily, his eyes rounding the moment he grasped her hand as if she’d given him an electric shock. As soon as she had her footing, he stepped back five paces, regarding her with no expression at all.

She slipped her wet feet back into her flip flops. “Thanks.” Her voice sounded loud in the silent jungle. “I . . . I didn’t mean to fall in.”

His reply was cadenced, thick with vowels. His voice sounded like the jungle, and bits of the sounds nagged at her. She
almost
knew the language.

She was tall for eleven, but this man was only a few inches taller than she was. He wasn’t old, but his eyes were like her grandfather’s; too wise for a human. Like a monkey’s eyes, or an old dog’s eyes. He was naked, except for a rough cloth wound around his waist and hips. Another piece covered his wrist like a bandage.

Could he be part of the resort staff? Part of one of the shows they did? She and her mom had watched one just last night, homage to ancient Mayans, a swirl of color and dancing, and a scripted slow version of a ball game the Mayans used to play.

That was it. She’d heard a few words last night.
Mayan
. In fact, her mother sometimes struggled with Mayan words, sounding them out when she read other people’s research. Clearly she hadn’t gotten them right.

The man sat down nearly five feet from her, watching.

Two could play that game. Surely mom would be interviewing the babysitter for at least an hour. Nixie sat on a root tall enough to be a kitchen chair, and the two of them regarded each other. She pointed to herself. “Nixie.”

He tried. “Ni-iki.”

Close. She pointed to him.

He stayed silent.

She tried again, pointing to herself and repeating, “Nixie.”

“Ni-ixi.”

That was better. She pointed to him again.

He shook his head.

Maybe they didn’t give out their names. She’d read about people like that in school. She picked her purse up—carefully, so she wouldn’t spook him—and rummaged inside for her phone. It showed the time (5:02 PM) and her current background (a picture of a flower she had taken herself on her real camera instead of the stupid phone cam, and then added affects), but half the apps were blinking. She shook it and tried again. Must be a dead spot. She glanced at her wrist. Her new watch was supposed to show the time and the weather. No weather. She looked up. How had so much jungle gotten here anyway? The trees were taller and thicker than she remembered. She closed her eyes, listening for people. Resort carts, sandals slapping . . . anything.

All she heard was birds, and the soft sounds of fish in the cenote. A breeze smelled like dirt and salt and flowers, but nothing like people.

She hadn’t gone far. Just to the closest ruin and through its small stone doorway, so small even she had to duck. She had climbed down the tall thin steps and walked down a short path, thick with big-leafed plants. The cenote had drawn all her attention, its smooth surface bright with afternoon sun. It had seemed to call her, like the feather had yesterday.

Nixie drew in a deep breath, adrift without the background noise of cars and televisions and radios and music, without the weather and news on her phone, without the scents of tanning oil and diesel and cooking food on the air.

The man unwound the cloth from around his wrist and set it across his shoulder. Leaves in a tree above them rustled, and a colorful bird fell gracefully to the man’s shoulder, fluffing bright green wings as it landed. Its tail feathers nearly touched his waist.

Now she felt even more lost, dizzy. Good thing she was sitting down or she would have fallen.

A quetzal.

Was she dreaming? A hot afternoon nap dream after wanting the feather in Playa so badly?

She didn’t hesitate. One foot in front of the other, slowly, she approached the man, praying the bird wouldn’t get scared and fly away.

He put a hand up, like a signal to the bird. It stayed put, fluffing its feathers over and over and cocking its head at her. She looked the dream bird in the eye.

Could a dream bird talk? She extended her hand slowly and whispered, “You are beautiful. My name in Nixie. Can you talk?”

It cocked its head just a bit, and she waited, but it merely watched her. She walked around the man, looking at the bird from all angles, memorizing the color and length of its feathers.

The man watched her, as silent and curious as the quetzal.

The light had changed, falling sideways through the too-tall trees. Surely she had to wake up, or go back, or whatever she needed to do. Her mom would worry.

She backed slowly away, but the man held up his hand in the same gesture he had given the bird. He wanted her to wait.

He held his hand out, flat and close to his body, turned his palm up, and thrust it six inches higher in a quick motion. The bird launched gracefully upward. It flew in a circle around his head and then circled again just a few feet above Nixie, so near she felt the wind of its beating wings. She let out a huge “O” of surprise at the sheer beauty of it in the dusky light. It flew through a ray of direct sun, sparkling, before disappearing into thicker foliage and landing on a branch with a soft, graceful rustle of leaves.

The man made the stay gesture to her again. She stood, entranced, while he reached behind a root and took out a long strip of folded leather tied with green string. He slid the knot loose easily and opened the leather to reveal two perfect quetzal feathers as long as her arm. He picked one up, gently, and with two hands; like the woman at the booth. Nixie opened her palms to accept the feather.

It was brighter and cleaner than the one in the glass case had been, perfect. It felt right to hold it, as if the feather belonged to her, like it wanted her.

She should give him something in return. She balanced the feather carefully, fished in her shorts pocket, and handed him the wad of money.

She held her breath as he took it in his brown hand, looked curiously at it, then brought it to his face and touched it with his tongue. He nodded, and glanced at the sky, as if he, too, knew dark was coming. He didn’t say her money wasn’t enough, didn’t take the feather back from her.

She bent down with a little flourish, a sort of a curtsy like people did in old movies. She turned to glance up the trail and then looked back at him. Was it okay for her to go? She really needed to.

He lifted his palm up to her, the way he had for the bird, his thumb holding the bills.

“Thank you.”

As if her words broke a spell, he said something she didn’t understand and began wrapping the bills and the remaining feather back in the leather covering.

She turned and raced back the way she’d come, holding the feather as carefully as she always held Snake.

Nothing looked familiar. She and her electronics made the only human sounds.