The Controversial Mayan Queen: Sak K'uk of Palenque (The Mists of Palenque) (30 page)

It was clear to Ruz that the tomb was constructed before the pyramid and summit Temple, because the 15-ton sarcophagus and its five-ton lid could not have been carried down the narrow stairs. The foundation for the pyramid was dug out slightly below plaza level, floored with flagstones and the sarcophagus was dragged into position. After that the crypt walls and vaults were built, along with the stairs and bulk of the pyramid. The structure was built from ground up, slowly rising to be crowned by the Temple as the final touch.

The discovery of Pakal’s tomb revolutionized Maya archeology and caught the imagination of the public. It proved that stepped pyramids did not serve solely as platforms to support their summit buildings. The sarcophagus with portraits and texts set in the burial context of a ruler gave strong clues that glyphs expressed names and histories of real people. Other findings stimulated new research interests, such as the psychoduct that was an expression of spiritual beliefs. The sacrificial bodies suggested that in royal burial practices, companions were chosen to accompany their ruler in the afterlife. Veneration of ancestors was shown by evidence that the stairs were worn by repeated trips down to the tomb.

But Alberto Ruz was not the one to discover who was interred in the splendid sarcophagus. That fell to a group of foreigners who gathered in the first Mesa Redonda at Palenque in 1973. Ruz called the interred ruler “8 Ahau” from what he thought was a birth date. Later when Pakal’s name was deciphered, archeologists realized this date referred to the beginning of the current Sun or Great Cycle. Ruz was invited to attend the first Mesa Redonda, but declined. The same year INAH published his report on the Temple of the Inscriptions, which Ruz thought would be the definitive study on this rich burial. The next year, however, two papers came out from the Mesa Redonda proceedings that directly contradicted his conclusions about name and age of the ruler. Ruz continued to disagree with the North American group.

Ruz requested that when he died, his remains be interred at Palenque. The foremost figure of Mexican archeology died suddenly in 1979. Now a small shrine with his plaque facing the Temple of the Inscriptions fulfills this wish.

We know so much about Pakal, and yet so little. What was his life like between 615 CE when he became ruler and 647 CE when he dedicated the renovated Templo Olvidado? There is very little epigraphic data about this time period. We know he married a woman “of Toktan” and had three or four sons. What was their relationship? His mother Sak K’uk appears on several monuments, it seems they had a special bond. How did that play out over their lives? If only I could time travel and become part of their world in ancient Lakam Ha.

August 29, 1994

Romano is arriving in just over a week to examine the skeleton in Temple XIII. Only a couple of weeks later, our archeological season ends and everyone will be leaving the camp at Palenque. This saddens me, for I’ve become attached to our enthusiastic young group, to Arnoldo our leader, Fanny who is still ecstatic over her discovery, and my dear roommate Sonia. But most of all I’m attached to this incredible ancient city on a mountainside in the jungle. I’m in love with Palenque.

The irony of this does not escape me. I’m in love, but not with a nice young man who would make a good husband and give me a home and family. That is the dream of my mother and grandmother. No, I’m in love with a place, but more than simply a location. Palenque is another world, a state of mind that transports me into the ancient Mayan culture and connects me deeply with its people and traditions. I yearn to know them better and feel their presence and share their desires. I want to get inside the skin of an ancient Mayan woman and have all her experiences. Especially I want to know the queens of Lakam Ha and their lives.

Looking recently at the ancestors carved on the side of Pakal’s sarcophagus, and those remarkable figures on the chamber walls, triggered reflections about lineage. It seems that emphasizing a pure lineage back to the founding rulers and even to the Creator Deities was ultimately important to Pakal. His artists’ portrayals of these ancestors and nobles, male and female, are stunning in their realism. The portrait style at Palenque stands apart from all other cities. Depicted in natural poses with minimal costumes, these graceful figures contrast with the rigid, stylized and ornately costumed people carved on most Maya stelae and panels. Palenque portraits capture the unique faces of individual rulers. The other cities’ carvings have standard faces and set expressions where every ruler looks the same. The difference is huge and striking.

While I’m scraping encrustations off jewelry, applying solvent to ceramics to dissolve clay deposits, polishing obsidian knives, coating figurines with protective pigment to stabilize them, I daydream about the Palenque queens and their people. Though my reverie creates its fantasy, my scientific brain demands data. It’s a strange mind to inhabit, half imaginative and half materialistic. No wonder I find it hard relating to villagers, including most of my family members.

My mind jumped to my last interaction with Abuelita Juanita. Because I’m returning soon to Mexico City to continue university studies, I felt obligated to visit my family often. I spent last Sunday afternoon with my family in Palenque town. My parents left after lunch for a social engagement, and Abuelita and I settled into wicker chairs on the patio to enjoy the sunshine and plants. Since the afternoon was quite warm, we sought shade under the table umbrella.

Abuelita Juanita had that faraway look in her eyes, making me wonder where her thoughts had taken her. More and more she seems lost in distant memories. I suppose that is usual for aged people, whose early realities are more vivid than the present. Birds twittered, bees buzzed and I waited.

She fixed her sky-blue eyes upon me with an unfathomable expression. I marveled yet again at how much her features matched those ancient Maya faces that mutely gazed back at me when I visited the tomb. Juanita’s almond shaped eyes are set above high cheekbones in a narrow face. Her nose is large and straight leading to a high forehead. But her nose takes a dip at the bridge, and that distinguishes her from her ancient ancestors. Their nose bridges were completely flat and created a straight line from nose tip to elongated crown, the cranial oblique deformity favored by royals and nobles.

Of course, no Mayas have used headboards to compress and shape the skulls of infants for centuries. Even so, Juanita’s cranium is higher and more pointed than most people. Interesting, it makes me wonder about a genetic factor in these elongated Mayan skulls.

Her lips are still full and well modeled, with that sensuous curvature repeated so often in ancient Mayan art. No doubt her false teeth help her lips keep their shape. Marvels of modern dentistry! With the addition of feather headdress, jade jewelry and regal costume, my grandmother could have stepped off the sides of Pakal’s tomb.

“You must always remember the importance of family.”

Juanita’s soft voice startled me back into the sunny patio at my parent’s house.

“Family is your anchor, your foundation in this world. It defines what you are and can be. It is more than your roots, it is your destiny. Do you understand?”

I wasn’t sure that I did, so I shook my head. Her eyes became fierce.

“Francesca, you are the continuation. Your brother and sister do not carry enough of the ancient blood. For some reason known only to the Gods, you are the chosen one in the family. Maybe that is why you are an archeologist.”

“I’m sorry, Abuelita,” I said. “I don’t understand what you are saying.”

“Look at you. You are different than all the rest. Always adventuresome, always curious. You followed your own ambitions to get a university education, the first in our family. You became an archeologist devoted to studying the ancient Mayas, your ancestors. What called you to do all this? You listened to the lightning in your blood, the blood of your people, your lineage.”

I knew what she meant by “lightning in the blood,” a particular electrifying vibration that revealed truths to visionaries. I couldn’t recall ever experiencing anything like that.

“Abuelita, you give me too much credit. I am no Mayan visionary. I just followed my interests in a professional career. And technically I’m a specialist in restoration, not an archeologist.”

She regarded me with disdain. Using a dismissing hand wave, she flicked away doubts.

“I know who you are, Francesca. Do not quibble about small details. You study the ancient cities and customs of our people, you do archeology. You have the ancient blood and it will speak to you.”

Unclear what to reply, I just nodded. Juanita alarmed me, speaking with the certainty of prophecy. What did she know but would not say directly? I wondered if it was connected to the tale she always held out to tantalize me, the story of how I got my blue eyes. But she refused to tell me until I get married, and there is no sign of that on my horizon.

My grandmother sat back and closed her eyes. She appeared to be dozing, and indeed the moments of quiet began to lull me into somnolence. She shifted position and coughed, bringing me into strangely heightened awareness.

“When are you returning to Mexico City?” she asked.

“The middle of next month. Our project is ending, and there is no more funding to continue this research. So I don’t expect to be back for the season next year.”

“You must come more often, even if you don’t have an archeological project nearby.”

“Yes.” There was no point saying how busy I would be finishing my degree. An inspiration popped up to use my departure as an excuse to pull information out of her.

“Since I am leaving soon, and it may be some time before I return, why not tell me the story about my blue eyes? If you keep waiting, it may be – uh – too late.” I was a little abashed at myself for using this tactic, but she was getting very old.

Her sharp glance conveyed more than words.

“You have much to learn, querida.” She softened her disapproval with a term of endearment. “That is why I cannot tell you the story now, you are not ready. I thought taking the responsibility of marriage and family would cause your heart to embrace the importance of continuing the lineage. When you understand this with your mind and take it deeply into your heart, then you will be ready to know everything about your heritage. There are things that the unprepared soul cannot handle. There are things for which you must be initiated. In these times, with much loss of our traditions, initiations take unexpected paths. I cannot prescribe it. I can only recognize it once it happens.”

She had never talked to me in this way before. She was sounding like a village shaman, not a simple old grandmother. Now I was really alert and disconcerted.

“What are you saying, Abuelita? I am totally lost about this initiation.”

“That is why I cannot speak more of it presently,” she sighed. “And why I cannot tell you the story. But this you must remember: Watch for the lightning in the blood.”

We had little more conversation after that. She seemed sad when I left, her face creased with the handiwork of the Lords of Time. Walking toward the main plaza to find a combi, I stopped dead in my tracks with a sudden revelation.

I
had
experienced the lightning in the blood. It happened just last week, when I was standing at the entrance into Pakal’s tomb saying my goodbyes to him. The memory of those sensations clicked with what I’d read about this shamanic phenomenon. Badly shaken, I stood trembling in the hot afternoon sun.

Across the street was the small Catholic Church that my family always attended. I’m no devout Catholic, mostly it’s a social activity for me, but I felt drawn to enter the church. Dodging cars that refused to slow down, I maneuvered the street and entered the dim vestibule, breathing faint whiffs of incense and candles. Dipping fingers into the holy water and making the Sign of the Cross, I sat in a rear pew. I did not pray. I did not know what, if anything, to pray for. My mind went blank and I sat in silence, somehow comforted just by being in a sanctuary.

A door creaked to one side and I glanced around as the parish priest came in. I knew him well from years of church events while growing up. Father Julio Mendez was a kind man and more tolerant than most priests. I waved at him to join me in the pew.

“Hello, Francesca, it’s good to see you. You don’t visit here much since you moved away, just an occasional mass with your family.”

“That’s true, but it’s nice to be here now.”

He sat beside me and we embraced lightly.

“What brings you to church at this unusual hour?”

“Father Julio, I am disturbed by things my grandmother said to me today.” I’ve no idea why I was so candid and to the point with him. Maybe years of making confession, or the crack into my awareness that was happening.

“Ah, Juanita Nokom, she is quite a person. What did she say that upset you?”

I recounted our conversation, even sharing about my strange sensations inside the pyramid. He listened with wise and compassionate eyes.

“Sometimes I think your grandmother still follows the ancient religion, even though she does everything expected of a Catholic,” he offered. “There are things about her that I have never understood. An undercurrent of wildness, perhaps. A nobility in bearing that is subtle but compelling. I do believe she keeps secrets, even as she implies to you.”

“Do you have any idea what these secrets are?”

“Not precisely. I have heard rumors over the years from the village priests that served Tumbala. They said there was some scandal about her family, something very big and very significant. None had any details about it. Apparently the village still gossips and holds her family suspect. They keep some distance; that may be one reason why Juanita married outside the village.”

“Would someone in the village know?”

“Maybe the shaman, for I am certain they still have one. Not that I recommend pursuing that route. Let us hope that your grandmother will come around to telling you. But for now, how can I be helpful to you?”

“You have been helpful simply by listening. I’ve got a lot to reflect on and pray about. Guidance will come, I’m sure.”

I sounded more confident than I really felt. The part about praying was mostly for the priest’s benefit, though later I thought it wasn’t such a bad idea. I didn’t need to say in which religion and to what gods I would be praying.