The Falling Woman (13 page)

Flies hovered just in front of my eyes, dancing and buzzing, a constant irritation. I trudged through the heat, listening to the shrill cries of insects, the rustling of small animals and birds, the sound of footsteps, the occasional crash when someone blundered into a low-slung branch and the curses that followed. At regular intervals, the sounds of the monte were punctuated by the solid impact of Carlos's machete against the innocent trees. I stabbed myself several times before I learned to watch for thorns. It took a great deal of effort to keep looking for the lines of rocks that Barbara said marked where walls had once been, the overgrown low mounds that had once been huts or temples.

Conversations grew shorter as the day grew hotter. Even when we were waiting for Barbara to complete corrections on her map, we maintained our positions in line, unwilling to move together just to move apart again. Early morning was hot; midmorning was hotter. At about eleven, beside the largest mound we had yet encountered, Barbara called a lunch break.

We sat in the thin shade of a ceiba tree, saying little, drinking water, and eating the tortillas and cheese that Maria had packed. Maggie was still pissed off at Carlos, I think. She and Robin sat a little way apart from us, sharing food and laughing at private jokes. Carlos tried to start up a conversation with me and Barbara, but Barbara ignored him and I was too tired to be drawn into talk.

I leaned back against the solid trunk of a tree and, drowsy from the heat, let my eyes droop closed. Such a peaceful place, I thought. I was still tired from my sleepless nights in Los Angeles, and I was at peace for the first time in weeks. I relaxed.

The bark of the tree at my back had a strong sweet aroma, like the smoke of incense carried on the breeze. In the distance, a bird called with a long low breathy note, like the sound of a child blowing across the top of a bottle. The call ended, then came again, a hollow tone that rose in pitch. The buzz of the insects seemed to grow louder and harsher, as if in response to the bird's call. A warm breeze fanned my face, and the sweet smell was stronger.

I dreamed that I heard voices, unfamiliar voices. In the private darkness behind my closed eyes, I listened, but I could not understand the language that the voices spoke.

I opened my eyes, but I was still dreaming. Across from me, a temple built of carved limestone blocks glistened in the afternoon sun. I squinted against the reflected light.

The voices continued, muttering softly in a foreign tongue. I could see two men, standing in the bright sunlight and looking down at a carved slab of stone. They were dressed in white loincloths and their bare chests were decorated with intricate tattoos in great swirling patterns, like the waves of a turbulent sea. At their feet was an incense burner in the shape of a crouching cat. Smoke escaped from the cat's mouth, white tendrils curling past sharp teeth and dissipating in the breeze.

I knew somehow, with the certainty of a dreamer, that the men were a threat to me. I did not like them.

There was something cruel about their faces. They did not smile and their voices were harsh, hard-edged.

I sat very still, not even moving to wipe away the sweat from my forehead. If I did not move, perhaps they would not notice me, perhaps I could get away. I felt the same panic that had touched me on my father's balcony.

A drop of sweat trickled down my forehead and dripped into my eyes. I blinked and the men were gone.

The voices were gone. The temple was gone. I sat alone beneath a tree, staring out at the sunlight that filtered through the thin leaves. A twisted tree grew where the men had been standing. At its base was a fallen log, overgrown by creeping vines and thornbushes.

Disoriented, I stood and went to where the men had been standing. The air was as warm and stuffy as the air in an attic. The flies droned, flickering like spots before my eyes. Sweat trickled down my back, making my shirt cling to my skin. A vagrant branch, lined with thorns and eager to make mischief, grabbed at my shirt as I squatted beside the fallen shape beneath the tree.

It was not a fallen log. Thorny creepers had overrun a large block of limestone, covering the surface completely. I gingerly pulled one aside and caught a glimpse of the carved surface underneath. I looked around and saw Barbara, poking in the bushes on one side of the mound. "I've found something here," I called to her.

She picked her way slowly through the brush to reach my side. She knelt beside the limestone block and used the trowel that she carried at her belt to scrape away more vines. She cut away the branch of one bush with the edge of her trowel and held back another, careless of the thorns and of the black bugs that ran away from the sudden light. I could see the weathered surface of a carved slab of stone, half buried in dirt and debris.

"It's a stelae," she said. I must have looked at her blankly. "A monument," she said. "They put them up to commemorate certain dates: religious festivals, historic events, astronomical happenings. Usually, they're carved with glyphs. Some sites—like
Chichén Itzá or Copán—had dozens of them. They've only found a few around here."

The stone was worn by centuries of rain. I could make out the profile of a face, outlined by dark fragments of decayed leaves. Here and there, I could see the remnants of other carvings.

"We'll get a crew to raise it," Barbara said. "Maybe the other side is better preserved." She was grinning.

"Good work. I was hoping to find something that can help date the outlying sites so I'd know whether they were inhabited at the same time as the main area. That'd help us get an idea of the population that this center supported." She stood up and looked around as if she expected to find more. "You're as lucky as Liz at this game."

We searched the rest of the area and found no more monuments. Maggie discovered a tree filled with stinging ants. I found a tree loaded with thorns and managed to forget about the two men in the dream.

Nothing else of note. On our way back, we laid a transect line adjacent to the line we had laid going in.

Chapter Nine: Elizabeth

A
t dinner that night, Maggie sat beside John and kept up an animated conversation over the chicken and stewed tomatoes. I assumed that she had quarreled with Carlos and wondered how long it would take for them to make up. Diane and Barbara were talking quietly about the book that Diane was reading.

"I read about the Mayan calendar today," Diane said to me. "It seems confusing: twenty days to a month, eighteen months to a year, twenty years to a ..." She stopped. "I've forgotten."

"A katun," I said. "It gets worse. From the sound of it, you were reading about the Long Count. There's also the haab, a cycle of three hundred and sixty-five days divided into eighteen months, with five days at the end for bad luck. There's the tzolkin, a cycle of two hundred and sixty days divided into thirteen months.

And then there's the cycle of the katuns, which repeats every two hundred and fifty-six years. But you don't have to worry about the names and numbers. You just need to understand the intent. The calendar let the Maya follow the cycles of time and predict the future by knowing the past. Whatever happens at a particular time will recur when that time returns. If the last Katun 8 was a katun of upheaval and discord, this one will be too. A
h'men,
a Mayan priest, can determine which gods influence a certain day—and because he knows the gods, he can predict what will happen at that time. He can advise you on whether you should expect a particular day to be lucky or unlucky, good for planting corn or for hunting or for burning incense. The Maya looked for patterns."

Diane nodded and smiled in a strange sort of way. We were in a little island of quiet: Tony was talking with Robin; Carlos was watching Maggie flirt, his face expressionless; Barbara was listening without comment. "It makes a sort of sense," Diane said. "They believed you must know and understand your past to understand your future."

"Yes," I said slowly. "I suppose so."

She nodded again and said no more about it.

I stayed in the plaza to drink coffee after dinner. Barbara was discussing her survey plans with Tony.

Tony nodded sagely and smoked his pipe. Diane had moved to the edge of the plaza. She sat in a folding chair in the fading light of the setting sun. She was reading a hardcover book—one of Barbara's texts on the Maya.

I found myself watching my daughter. She had been swimming in the cenote before dinner and she had combed her hair out to dry. It flowed down around her shoulders. Her hands, holding the book open before her, were soft and slender, each nail perfectly shaped. She was leaning forward, and the collar of her loose shirt had fallen open to show the strong muscles of her neck. She lifted one hand to her head to push back the tide of hair, and I watched the muscles of her arm flex and shift.

She glanced in my direction and caught me watching her. Her eyes widened and a look of doubt crossed her face, but she smiled. I believe that she smiled in self-defense, using the open vulnerability of her smile as a shield, the way a puppy bares its neck to a stronger dog. The smile was a peace offering, made before the conflict began.

The inevitable card game had begun at the other table. Maggie, Robin, and John were playing. Carlos had not joined them. He was still at the dinner table, smoking a cigarette and looking pensive. A calculated pose, I was sure. He held the cigarette loosely in one hand and leaned back in his chair, his white shirt open at the collar and his head back to look at the sky.

I listened to the slap of the cards on the table, the soft mutter of conversation, and I watched as Carlos strolled across the plaza to where Diane was sitting. He stopped beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder.

I could not hear what he said. Diane tilted her head a little to one side and leaned back in her chair. I did not like the way Carlos smiled at my daughter. I had never liked Carlos much.

"Tony," I said quietly across the table. He had been listening to Barbara, but now he looked to me. "What would you think of shifting a few assignments? John could use Carlos's help on the southeast site for a few days. The house mounds are a bit far from the other excavation. And I'd imagine that with Diane on survey, Barbara has enough help."

Barbara gave me a considering look, then nodded. "I wouldn't miss him."

Tony followed my gaze to Diane and Carlos. "You want to keep Diane on survey?"

I nodded.

He rattled the ice in his glass and nodded. "I'm surprised I didn't notice the need myself."

Carlos laughed and touched Diane's shoulder again. Tony stood, taking his drink with him. "I'll mention it to Carlos," he said, and headed toward the couple. I watched him join them, pulling up a chair and settling down as if he planned to stay a while. Tony would handle it well. He was very good with people. I watched for a moment as Tony spoke to Carlos. Carlos frowned, but nodded. I could not see Diane's face.

That evening, I worked on notes for my next book. My hut was oppressively hot even though I had opened the door wide to let the evening breeze blow through. I worked by the light of a small candle lantern that was too dim to draw many moths. As I typed on my travel typewriter, a compact Olivetti that had served me well for the past five years, the wooden table wobbled and the candle wavered. I had completed a description of Zuhuy-kak when I noticed the figure that stood in the shadows just beyond the lantern light.

I turned in my chair to face her. In the darkness, I could see the white shells on her belt and in her hair. I lit a cigarette from the stub of the one I had just finished and greeted her softly in Maya. She did not speak.

She remained in the shadows. I could smell incense, a warm resinous smell like burning pitch.

"I dreamed of you," I said. "I dreamed of the day that they threw you into the cenote at Chichén Itzá."

"I did not know that shadows dreamed," she said. She took a step toward me and stopped at the edge of the lantern light. Though she stared in my direction, I do not think she saw me clearly. She lifted one hand, as if to shade her eyes.

"I dream," I said.

She shook her head, as if to clear it. "I had enemies," she said in a soft voice, like a woman who is muttering to herself. "After the ah-nunob came, I had many enemies. I knew too much, you understand. I was too strong. The h'menob of the new religion did not approve of a woman who knew too much." Her hands fingered the conch shell at her belt, as if for comfort.

That dated her: I recognized the word "ah-nunob" from the
Books of Chilam Balam.
It meant "those who speak our language brokenly" and referred to the Toltecs from northern Mexico, who had invaded the Yucatan in about a.d. 900. As near as we could tell from the archaeological record, the invaders had displaced the Mayan nobility and modified the religion by adding Kukulcán, the feathered serpent, and other gods to the Mayan pantheon. The invaders had taken Chichén Itzá as their stronghold.

"I served Ix Chebel Yax, goddess of the moon and the sea, the protector of women in labor and madmen, she who weaves the rainbow and brings the floods." One of Zuhuy-kak's hands stroked the smooth inner surface of the conch shell. "When the ah-nunob came, they took my temple. They tore down the facades that honored the goddess and replaced them with serpents that twisted and curled around the arches." One hand gripped the conch shell as if to use it as a club. She remained silent for so long that I thought she might be fading into darkness again.

"How did you come to be given to the gods?" I asked, trying to catch her attention, to keep her talking.

She held her head proudly and straightened her shoulders like an aged general reminded of past battles.

"The h'menob could not kill me. They feared bad luck. But they said I was one of the chosen messengers to the gods. Twelve were chosen by the gods to visit the well; one would survive. One would return with the prophecy for the coming katun, Katun 10."

She was gazing into the distance as if unaware of my presence. "It was a long journey, seven days on foot to Chichén Itzá. On the day named Cimi, the women prepared me: anointing my skin with blue paint, dressing me in a feather robe, lacing quetzal feathers in my hair.