Mayan December (21 page)

She took a sip of water and cleared her throat. “I’ve told you how remarkable the Mayan astronomers were, and how much they meant to their society. We, for example, seldom plan a building based on its alignment to the stars. In most of our cities, we cannot even see them.” She paused, giving a beat of silence to her words. “Have any of you been anywhere so remote that no night lights chased the stars away? Not a ski resort in the mountains or even the America desert—total darkness no longer exists in either place. Perhaps the Arctic? Or the ocean, in a boat darkened for the sake of seeing stars?”

A few of the hangers-on, and Aditi Roy, nodded, and all of the rest were quiet. Alice turned to the Prime Minister. “How did the darkest night sky seem different to you?”

Madam Roy smiled. “I have been to the South Pole. It was like seeing the faces of the Hindu pantheon dancing on velvet.”

Very nice. “When there is no surface light to fight it, the sky is very bright. In almost any small space, small enough to circle with your forefinger and thumb, there are too many stars to count. The universe appears to go on forever, to be as deep as infinity. The brightest stars cast light and sometimes even shadows, the way that the full moon can cast your shadow faintly upon the ground.”

She stopped to wet her lips again, to check. They still paid attention. “The Milky Way is truly a river on a velvet night,” she nodded at the prime minister, “and in that river, there is a black hole, a dark space in which few stars shine. And tomorrow night, that black hole will be directly above you.” She paused, letting them all look up, checking to be sure that they did. She continued in a slightly softer voice. “Now, you know how when they teach you about the orbits of the planets in astronomy class, there’s almost always a mobile with the sun in the middle and the planets circling it in ever-bigger circles?”

Even though they all spoke English, a few translators had to work on that one. When the babble stopped, Alice continued. “The mobiles are true representations. If you turned the solar system on its side, the sun would be in the middle and all of the planets would spin around in front of each other, as if they got built in a nice neat line. In other words, they spin around the sun almost as if they had been placed on a flat plate and pushed like marbles. That plate is the ecliptic plane.” She waited again until it looked like everyone got it.

“So, back to the starless spot—the dark rift—in the Milky Way, which will be right above where we are standing. There will be a cross in the sky, centered on the dark rift. The arms of the cross are made by the Milky Way itself, and the ecliptic plane. This is a very rare alignment that only happens about every five thousand years.

“The Mayans thought of tomorrow as the ending of a great age and the beginning of a new one, a time of death and recreation. The Mayans saw this cross in the sky, this rare alignment, as the tree of life.”

Madam Roy whispered. “It is similar to the Hindu turns of the ages.”

The prime minister had spoken so softly that her words seemed to be meant for her own ears, so Alice simply nodded. “Much of this has been written about in popular New Age literature for some time. So has my next point, although less so. Right there, through the middle of the dark rift, we on Earth will be looking directly at the center of the galaxy. This is a rare and awe-inspiring astronomical event, and we will all be able to see it.”

She let silence fall, looking up at the blue sky. This was the last message she wanted to leave with them.

Marie’s voice was the next one she heard. “Thank you, Alice.”

There were things she could say—please help us save the world, please find solutions to the morass we have made—but she settled for “Good luck.”

Marie nodded.

People clapped.

The man in the white pants herded the group toward their next event.

Don Carlo nodded at her, a compliment.

Now that the dignitaries had left, more workers poured onto the floor of the Ball Court, carrying bunting and chairs and banners and sound equipment. “Look, we’re in these people’s way. I’m going to find something cold to drink.”

Don Carlo shook his head. Reluctantly, she thought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Please stay a moment. I want to ask about time.”

“What about time?”

Surely he remembered her asking at the Grand Caribe. “What did the old Mayans think about time? Or the people from today, for that matter? Do they think about it like we do?”

He looked at her for a long time, an American Mayan man standing on an ancient Mayan site in thoroughly modern clothes. “Time is . . . ” He sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he said, “I was talking to an old man who is one of my language research subjects. He told me that the breath of the galaxy is usually even, but at times it is less fixed. That was the word he used. Breath. He said that with enough innocence, or need, or ceremony, time bends. I don’t know what he meant, but the other Mayans in the room seemed to believe him.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“No.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded. “I don’t think I believed him.” He leaned in and kissed Alice on the cheek. “But you never know.” His gaze was soft. “I have to go.”

“Bye.” Maybe there was never going to be a clear answer to a breathing galaxy that bent time. She sighed, watching him leave, sensing he might be as confused as she was.

She called Nix, and heard they were back in the hotel and settling in for a nap. After she hung up, she rejected a brief stab of jealousy that threatened to make her angry.

Now there was just the dinner to survive, and then the long drive home. And maybe some contemplation about how to tell if anyone else was going back in time. Maybe Ian could help her there. If Ian ever came back.

Where the hell was Ian anyway? She could feel his lips against hers, his heartbeat against her cheek. He was a crazy man, an apprentice shaman, not right for her at all. She couldn’t stop herself from drifting off in thoughts of him whenever her brain had nothing else to chew on. There no real sense to what was happening to her, to them, to the world. She needed help to make sense of it. Where was he?

Was he safe?

CHAPTER 34

Ah Bahlam now wore only his own skin, and the afternoon sun licked it with heat. He wanted to go find Hun Kan, but it was his duty to stay with the other dancers. They had recovered from being overcome by their own totems, and were now just men, tired, sipping water, preparing to dance again, but as only men. Still, the mystery of the Dance of the Way sang inside Ah Bahlam, as if the sacred smoke and the jaguar both curled, nascent, inside his blood.

The women came through in their best finery and jewelry, stepping carefully in the spaces between the men. They gathered masks and pelts, belts and tails, everything except loincloths and sandals, and the staffs of the older dancers. They bent and touched and scooped and carried, but made no real sounds except the rustle of dresses and clatter of bone and antler, hoof and tooth. Ah Bahlam handed his heavy mask to his own mother. She brushed his hand with her cool fingertips before she moved on.

The high priest had retired to his temple to sleep before the evening rites. The crowd still existed, but its energy had shifted to the market, to drinks and abundant food. The spent dancers were of no immediate interest to them.

Ah K’in’ca sat across from Ah Bahlam, grinning, his eyes exhausted and elated at once, sweat drying in salty streaks down his face. “Good dance,” he mouthed.

“Yes.”

His father, beside him, looked over at the exchange, his eyes dark and clouded with worry. His father had been puma. Ah Bahlam had felt it, had walked beside him, the great son-cat beside the wise father-cat.

His father spoke directly. “I am worried for you. I remember when the dance took me as it took you, when the puma ran and I might as well have been a flea on its back.” He fell silent and looked at Ah Bahlam, his brows knit together.

The amount of silence his father let fill the air between them reeked of import.

His father’s continues, grave and serious. “Never did my Way challenge the Way of others who hold power. I would never have let it; that is not the road of our family.” He leaned in closer to Ah Bahlam. “We rise as far as we can, gain our power, hold our power, and return our power to the people. We do not take it with force except from our enemies.”

“I know this.” Ah Bahlam shifted so that he looked his father full in the face, struggling not to flinch at the obsidian of his father’s eyes. “It was not my choice. The jaguar that brought me home safely is not easy to control. He is a king in his prime.”

“But you are not,” his father snapped. “And you can be killed more easily than your Way. I am glad it helped you come home safe. But are you safe, now?”

“Are any of us? Times are changing.”

His father looked away, past Ah Bahlam, then stretched, ignoring his son.

Ah Bahlam waited.

“You need to learn control.”

Truth clung to his father’s words, even though he didn’t want to hear it. But he had done his best!

Before he could respond, his father pointed to people racing toward the gates. Their calls foretold who they rushed to greet.

Warriors.

His father, then he, then the others all rose to their feet. A wave of lords.

The warriors would go to the Wall of Skulls, a great stone platform adorned with carved and painted stone skulls modeled on the enemies of Chichén Itzá

The lords hurried to beat them there, their feet fueled by fear and possibilities. Had Chichén been attacked?

On the way, a tall man wearing the red-feathered uniform of the Warriors of K’uk’ulkan grabbed Ah Bahlam’s arm and pulled him aside. “Your Way challenged the Way of our high priest.”

Ah Bahlam waited for another rebuke.

“Some of us will try to see you live long enough to try harder.” The warrior clapped him on the shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.

Ah Bahlam nearly tripped over his own feet.

He returned to his father’s side by the time the lords reached the Wall of Skulls. The returning jungle warriors were visible as a few plumed headdresses buried in a crowd of celebrants. The crowd pushed them toward the Wall of Skulls.

Someone called out. “Stop!”

The leaders noticed the lords standing in front of them and turned, digging their heels in, slowing the momentum. They let the warriors pull free.

Five of them. Only five.

Ah Bahlam swallowed, reminded of the fight on the sacbe that only three had returned from.

The five walked with their heads up, blood streaming from surface wounds. One limped. Only three carried shields. Two had spears. No one had arrows. All five were damp with sweat.

None carried trophies to lay atop the Wall of Skulls.

The leader showed his teeth, part smile, part grimace.

When they reached the wall, the lords parted for them. The warriors turned and put their backs to the wall, facing the Lords, and behind them, the people of Chichén.

The crowd pressed in, heavy and sweaty and needy, nearly everyone who had been in the great plaza, celebrants and merchants, women clutching young children tightly to their breasts or herding knee-high offspring. Old men. Young women with faces desperate for news of brothers and husbands, worry painted across their squinting eyes. Warrior-age men like Ah Bahlam, who had other parts of their Ways to fulfill this day, this year, or this life, and had not been sent to battle. The sea of faces went back further than seemed possible: hopeful, worried, tense.

The oldest of the lords, their faces as impassive as the wall behind them, watched the warriors and the crowd, gauging the moment. Waiting.

Silence fell on the grounds of the great city.

“Tell us,” Ah Beh demanded.

The leader stopped showing his teeth. “We did not lose.” He paused. “We drove them away, and the celebration tomorrow will go on. But many enemies live to return. They ran, to fight again. Soon. They will return. Still, even now, our fastest runners hunt captives.”

“Who is
they
?” a different lord asked.

The warrior looked at the lord who had asked, disgust and anger on his face. “Some were people I have never seen, but some have danced with us before.”

The news rippled through the crowd, heading back toward the wall, moving from one mouth to another like the living thing it was.

Ah Bahlam remembered the boy who had given them water, and hoped he lived.

The crowd parted as the high priest came through it, striding quickly, purposefully. He glared at the Lords of Itzá, at the warriors, squinted at the Wall of Skulls. His eyes stopped at Ah Bahlam. They seemed to penetrate Ah Bahlam’s very being, taking his measure.

Ah Bahlam trembled. The nascent being that was his Way rose in him, demanding voice and substance. He refused it, standing his ground until the high priest’s gaze moved on.

With a mighty leap, an inhuman leap, the High Priest of K’uk’ulkan landed on top of the Wall of Skulls and paced its length once, then twice. He still wore his feathered armbands and leg bands, and his mask. He appeared ready to fly from the top of the wall. As he returned to the middle, he stopped and raised his arms. “You heard the news! We did not lose. We won. Our warriors were valiant and brave, and they are but part of our strength.”

The crowd watched. Low whispers carried from near the back, but everyone who could see the high priest appeared mesmerized by his movement, his words, his presence.

“We are to celebrate as if there will be no tomorrow, demand of the gods that they visit us. That is
our
strength. It
will be
our strength. We will offer fit sacrifice and fit energy, we will offer our blood and the blood of our enemies. We will dance here atop our enemies’ skulls years from now. We will dance here until time itself stops and the world turns to a new Way. Now, we will dance the rain back!”

The crowd began to stamp their feet. The lords stamped theirs. The high priest lowered his arms and raised them again, following and then leading the beat. He cried out; the crowd echoed him, drawn in the wake of his power like petals in the wind.

The sound of hundreds of feet stamping on stone surfaces rose, surely traveling all the way to the camps of their enemies.