The Mayan Resurrection

by Steve Alten

  Refusing to play, Pepper backs his considerable bulk in front of the open doorway. ‘Game over, Jake.’

  Without pause, the boy takes a running leap, his legs churning air like a triple-jumper until his right foot connects with the African-American’s massive bare chest. The blow knocks the bodyguard backward through the doorway.

  Jacob completes a forward somersault dismount and lands running, sprinting down the hallway into the kitchen and out the back door. ‘Superman … da-da-tada—’

  Pepper sits up, massaging his bruised sternum. ‘Damn. How’d he do that?’

  Dominique is livid. ‘I swear to Christ, that child will be the death of me. Come on, Manny, let’s get some ice for your nose.’ She helps him to his feet, leading him out of the bedroom.

  Mitchell Kurtz looks down at his larger comrade. ‘Now you know why Karla and I never had kids.’

  Belle Glade, Florida 6:17 a.m.

  Dawn’s rays reflect off the surface waters of Lake Okeechobee, planting a fiery orange kiss against the glistening white hulls of the gambling ferries and yachts, docked in rows of newly dredged slips. Hotels and casinos, restaurants and shops remain silent after another extended night of tourism, the pelicans and sandpipers picking at a bounty of refuse.

  Follow the golden-lit streets south, past the renovated Town Hall and new Civic Center, to the west end of the resort town. A road sign at the canal bridge warns that you are leaving the tourist area, the ensuing sign across the bridge welcoming you to Belle Glade proper.

  The bars on homes and storefront windows send another kind of warning.

  Gambling dollars have not had much impact on this enclave of the poor, unless you consider the expanded police force and new wing of the local jail to be civic improvements. The elementary school is still grimy, the windows of its overloaded portables still supporting air-conditioning units that purge waves of lukewarm air reeking of mildew. Travel two more blocks, and you’ll reach the Reverend Morehead’s church, still in desperate need of a coat of paint. Cross the dirt parking lot where the rats feast at night, and you’ll find a four-room stucco home, its fading yellowed walls trimmed in peeling black paint.

  Seven-year-old Lilith Eve Robinson awakens on her birthday with a start. Stares at the ceiling fan. Concentrates.

  ‘Six-seventeen.’

  She rolls over and glances at the alarm clock—6:17.

  Lilith climbs out of the sofa bed. Folds the sheet and quilt. Replaces the cushions and enters the kitchen. Removes two eggs from the refrigerator. Scrambles them in a bowl, then pours the contents into a pan and lights the burner.

  She heads for the powder room. Urinates. Washes her hands and face. Forces the last bit of toothpaste onto the worn bristles of her toothbrush, knowing the container must last at least another week. Rinses her mouth. Slips on the dress hanging behind the door, then stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  Cocoa skin. High cheekbones. Startling azure-blue eyes framed by ebony hair, long and wavy. The daughter of the late Madelina Aurelia-Robinson is a beauty in the making, even if her classmates despise her.

  ‘Lilith Eve!’ The door is yanked open, the girl dragged out by her arm. ‘You see this?’ Quenton Morehead shoves the frying pan of burned eggs under his foster granddaughter’s nose. ‘That’s the third time this week. What on God’s green earth is wrong with you, child?’

  Lilith says nothing. To say something would invite the Baptist minister’s physical wrath.

  ‘I’m talkin’ to you, you little heathen. Answer me!’

  Silence.

  ‘Damn you, child. Just like your mama. You got six lashes comin’, and I don’t wanna hear no whimperin’ outta you this time.’ She sees the knotted electrical cord in his right hand as he braces her with his left. ‘Why (whip) the good Lord (whip) stuck me (whip) with the likes of you (whip) is beyond me.’

  She looks up at him through teary eyes, his breath painful to breathe. ‘Sorry, Grandpa.’

  ‘Sorry my ass. Now go on and get to school. Breakfast is over.’

  She limps past him, grabs her school bag, and heads out the front door.

  Brandy Townson is waiting for her outside. They walk together in silence.

  ‘You hate him, don’t you?’

  ‘It was my fault,’ Lilith says.

  ‘He doesn’t love you, Lilith. Nobody loves you.’

  ‘Do you love me, Brandy?’

  ‘Who you talking to, freak?’

  Lilith looks up. Sees Daunte and his fourth grade pals. Feels the warm urine dribbling down her panties.

  ‘Run,’ whispers Brandy.

  Lilith takes off, sprinting across two front lawns toward the church parking lot.

  The boys chase her for a block, then give up.

  Lilith Eve Robinson is a freak, but she is a fast freak. No one in school can catch her.

  Gabriel Compound, Longboat Key, Florida

  The Sikorsky Surveillance-3000 UAV (Unmanned Aero Vehicle) slows to hover twenty feet above the beach, its shadow dancing along the wet sand. Three feet in diameter, the donut-shaped flying saucer houses a series of short blades in its center hole that rotate horizontally like a helicopter’s rotors. Designed for low-speed surveillance, the SS-3000 is powered by fuel cells and can fly up to seventeen hours on a single charge.

  Sealed within the UAV’s aluminum frame are three cameras, providing the viewer 360 degrees of video coverage.

  Its aft camera focuses on two subjects jogging along the shoreline.

  Jacob Gabriel steals a quick glance at the drone as his legs plow through the relentless surf. Jogging in ankle to knee-deep water is exhausting work, especially when breathing through a scuba mouthpiece, part of his combat swimmer’s training. The cadence of the incoming waves is erratic today, forcing the boy out of his pace. Lactic acid burns in his muscles, weighing his lithe form down.

  It is the lactic acid that Jacob seeks. Tolerance of the oxygen-depriving chemical must be raised if he has any hope of survival on Xibalba. He looks up again at the drone, focusing his eyes upon its digital timer.

  19:07 … 19:08 … 19:09 …

  Another eleven minutes. Push it …

  The white-haired twin turns to his left. Manny is jogging in the wet sand, exhausted and red-faced but still keeping pace. Jacob bears down, increasing his speed.

  Immanuel sees his brother pull ahead. His feet are aching, his calves in knots, but pride, long wounded by his brother’s accomplishments, refuses to allow him to quit.

  Wheezing the salty air into the back of his parched throat, he digs deeper, matching Jacob’s pace.

  The UAV images are beamed a half mile away to a closed-circuit flat-screen digital television monitor in Dominique’s oak-paneled family room. Seated on an olive green wraparound leather sofa, watching the scene, are Rabbi Steinberg and his wife, Mindy.

  Dominique enters from the kitchen. She hands them each a glass of peach iced tea, its contents laced with the latest bioelixir designed to lower blood pressure and cholesterol, then sits back in her recliner.

  Registering her presence, the recliner’s electromagnets instantly activate, the pulsating field invigorating the tight muscles in her back and neck.

  ‘Look at them,’ she says, pointing to the screen. ‘Jacob always pushing, Manny always lagging behind. I worry about him. I really have to push him to work out more in the Dojo.’

  The rabbi shakes his head. ‘I don’t understand? What are you training these kids for? The Olympics?’

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ Dominique says. ‘What God has planned for these boys requires preparation.’

  ‘Really? God has spoken to you?’

  ‘Rabbi, please.’

  ‘This has to do with that Mayan Popol Vuh nonsense.’

  ‘Nonsense?’ She turns on him. ‘Were you there when those drones started landing, or when that alien ship rose out of the Gulf? Were you there when my Mick disappeared?’

  Mindy attempts to put an arm aro
und her. ‘Stay calm, dear. You’re doing a terrific job raising these boys. No one’s doubting you, right, Richard?’

  The rabbi shrugs. ‘I’m not trying to upset you. They’re both such well developed athletes. At least reconsider and let them play Little League.’

  ‘Out of the question. Do you have any idea what would happen if they competed in public?’

  ‘My guess is they’d meet some friends their age and make a few coaches very happy.’

  ‘Please. There’d be a riot at every practice.’

  ‘Still, it might be good for them, especially for Manny,’ Mindy suggests. ‘They need friends their own age. Today’s their birthday, and there are no children here. It’s not right. Manny’s such a loving child, but he always seems so sad.’

  ‘He hates it here,’ Dominique admits. ‘Then again, maybe he just hates his brother. Anyway, I’m still too afraid to let them leave the compound.’

  ‘Aren’t you being just a tad overprotective?’

  ‘Overprotective? There are lunatics out there, Mindy, thousands of them. Some want to worship my boys, others want to kill them. Security receives hundreds of letters a week, some of them quite graphic. It’s sick.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘We’re prisoners in a luxurious cage. Jake could care less, but poor Manny—all he ever talks about is playing football and basketball when he grows up. Breaks my heart.’

  ‘What about Jake?’ Mindy asks. ‘What does he want to do when he gets older?’

  ‘Jake wants to train. I never have to push him, he knows intuitively what lies ahead. Up before dawn swimming laps, then two hours on the computer, memorizing God-knows-what. After breakfast he’s in the gym, studying with his Tibetan monk until lunch—’

  ‘He’s seven years old,’ the rabbi says. ‘He should be reading comics and … and taking naps.’

  ‘Don’t you get it? He’s not like other kids. Jake’s naps consist of transcendental meditation sessions. Sometimes he “naps” hanging upside down from inversion boots, other times, he immerses himself in a tub of cold water.’

  ‘Cold water?’

  ‘The monk taught him that. Says it forces the mind to redirect the blood to the internal organs. At first Jake could only stay in the tub for thirty seconds. Now he’s up to fifteen minutes. One time I checked his pulse, and I swear, I couldn’t find it.’

  ‘So what can we do to help?’ Mindy asks.

  ‘I’m worried about raising the boys without a father figure in their lives. Salt and Pepper help, but they’re more like big brothers.’ She looks at the rabbi.

  ‘Okay, okay, I’ll talk to them. Maybe I can even suggest a way for Jacob to refocus some of that energy of his.’

  Jacob enters the study. ‘Yes, sir, you wanted to see me?’

  The rabbi looks up from the computer. ‘What? No hug?’

  Jacob gives the man a cold embrace. ‘Was that all, sir, because I have a jujitsu lesson in half an hour, and I really should—’

  ‘Jujitsu can wait. I want to talk to you about Ju—daism.’ A nerdy smile.

  No reaction.

  ‘You know, your paternal grandmother was Jewish, so were your mother’s parents.’

  ‘Actually, sir, my mother was adopted. Her real mother was Quiche Mayan. Her father was—’

  ‘Never mind. What’s important is history. Your mother tells me you’re interested in the Mayan Popol Vuh.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s a sacred parchment.’

  ‘Yes, sir, yes, sir … call me Rabbi or Uncle Rich, okay, tattala? Anyway, yes, I suppose the Popol Vuh is a sacred parchment, but it only dates back what … about five hundred years? The Bible, on the other hand, dates back thousands of years.’ He swivels in his chair to face the computer’s microphone. ‘Computer, access Torah, Hebrew text.’

  The screen fills with Hebrew characters.

  ‘Your mother says you can read and speak several languages. Can you read Hebrew?’

  ‘No, sir … er, Rabbi.’ Blue eyes dart to the holographic display clock above the computer monitor. ‘I’m not really interested in—’

  ‘Not interested? I’m surprised at you. Here I thought you were someone who sought knowledge, who sought the truth.’

  ‘The Popol Vuh is—’

  ‘The Popol Vuh isn’t accurate, Jacob, it was written long after that Koo koo fella—’

  ‘Kukulcán.’

  ‘Uh, right … after Kukulcán’s passing. Now the five books of Moses … they were written more than three thousand years ago by Moses himself.’

  A whisper of thought teases Jacob’s brain. ‘Moses wrote the Bible?’

  ‘Most of it. And did you know that every single Hebrew Bible that exists or has ever existed was transcribed in exactly the same way, word for word, letter by letter. If even one letter is out of place, the Bible can’t be used. Did you know that?’

  ‘No … Rabbi.’ Jacob touches his temple and closes his eyes.

  ‘Tatt-ala, you okay?’

  The boy nods. ‘I just had a strong déjà vu. I’ve lived this moment before.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘This moment. I’ve lived it before. We both have.’

  The rabbi looks startled. ‘Now who taught you that?’

  ‘No one. It’s just the way things are.’ The boy climbs onto the rabbi’s lap and peers at the screen.

  Jacob Gabriel cannot read Hebrew, yet he stares at the words, transfixed. ‘Something’s here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Letters are jumping out. But it’s hard to see.’

  Steinberg leans closer to the screen. Reads a passage. ‘It seems fine to me. How about if we set up a time to study together. I can teach you the Hebrew alphabet and—’

  ‘It’s the spaces between the words. It’s screwing everything up, scrambling things, making it harder to see the patterns. Computer, close all spaces between words and sentences.’

  The text on the screen recycles.

  ‘Whoa …’ Jacob’s brilliant azure eyes widen as three-dimensional patterns form among the letters in the text. ‘See! Things jump out better now!’

  Steinberg’s heart races. ‘What things?’

  The boy points to a line. ‘Like these letters. Does this say anything?’

  ‘.’ The Rabbi looks at him, slightly pale. ‘It means, “End of Days.” How did you manage to select—’

  ‘Now these letters.’ Jacob points his index finger at a letter, then skips down three lines and one to the left, then continues the pattern until he forms a word.

  . Atomic holocaust. Jacob, how did you—’

  ‘And these letters here.’

  ‘I get it, you’re playing one of your famous mind games on me. Very clever.’

  ‘Just tell me what these four letters mean!’

  The rabbi looks at him, unsure. He squints at the screen. . It’s a year: 5772.’

  ‘In the future?’

  ‘No, in the Hebrew calendar. The date equates to the year … 2012.’

  Jacob closes his eyes, reciting, ‘End of Days. Atomic holocaust. 2012. It’s all here …’

  ‘Okay, Jacob Gabriel, fun time’s over. Who put you up to this?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘You read about the Bible Code in class, didn’t you?’

  ‘The Bible has a code?’

  ‘That’s enough, I’m not falling for this nonsense.’

  Jacob jumps off his lap. ‘Tell me!’

  The rabbi sees desperation in the boy’s eyes. He’s serious …

  ‘Hidden within the original Hebrew text of the Torah is a cryptogram—encoded messages that pertain to man’s history. Isaac Newton was the first one to suspect it, but it wasn’t until the late nineties and the advent of the computer that an Israeli mathematician was able to figure it out.’

  ‘Then the Bible Code’s real?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re lying. Tell me the truth.’

  ‘I don’t lie. Accordi
ng to code breakers—yes, it’s real. According to religious scholars, it’s all nonsense.’ Steinberg searches the boy’s face. ‘You really didn’t know, did you?’

  ‘But if it predicts the future, then why don’t—’

  ‘It doesn’t predict the future. According to the Talmud, “everything is foreseen, but freedom of action is given.” In other words, what has been encoded within the Bible’s text may be a warning about a possible future. What we do, what action we take is what determines the outcome.’