Mayan December

by Brenda Cooper

  Nixie shook her head. “It belongs here.”

  Alice swallowed, suddenly in awe of her own daughter. “Set it on the stone.” Nixie jumped down a level in the stone pile. “I need to hide it.” She climbed all the way down, carefully not looking at the bodies and the road.

  Birds chattered again, and the incessant drone of insects filled the white space between their conversations. Wind sang in the trees above her. Alice looked up for the quetzal, but it was gone. She climbed down beside Nixie, staying close enough to reach for her. The chalky, iron scent of blood wafted toward them on a soft breeze.

  She forced her focus back to Nixie, who had picked up a stick and broken it so the ends were sharp. Nixie dug a hole in the ground underneath an egg-shaped rock, poked the bead and cord into the hole, and covered it up. When she stood up, sweat shone on her forehead, and one cheek was streaked with dirt. “We have to go,” she whispered.

  Macaws called, and monkeys. Real ones, not the calls the attackers had thrown into the sky before their ambush.

  Nixie took her hand and led her back to the sacbe. While Alice gave a last glance at the plundered bodies, Nixie did not. She screwed her face up in concentration and kept Alice’s hand in a tight grip, and ten steps later the orange walls of the hotel greeted Alice’s eyes. She gasped, feeling for the soft covers on the bed, gripping them in her free hand like an anchor.

  Beside her, Nixie trembled and blinked, disoriented. She gulped in the dry conditioned air like a drowning person. Alice’s stomach flamed and she bent double, then raced for the bathroom, retching and retching, Nixie’s hand on her back.

  When she could finally push herself up to crawl to the door and collapse against the wall, Nixie sat beside her, clutching her hand. Alice took Nixie’s face in her hands. The smear of dream-dirt crunched beneath her fingertips. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “The . . . the jaguar roared and they got away. I buried the stone.”

  Alice sank to the floor, pulling Nixie down next to her and stroking her hair.

  Nixie’s face was buried in Alice’s side, but Alice heard her whisper, “At least they got away.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The jaguar led Ah Bahlam and Hun Kan along nearly invisible paths, and they often had to duck to keep from being trapped by thickly entangled lianas. The cat ran easily, outpacing Ah Bahlam’s breath so every step knifed through his lungs. His calves stung, particularly the right one that had been spear-struck. It still bled slowly, a thick trickle of blood oozing down his leg when he extended it to leap over roots or downed trees. All he could do was keep his focus on the black cat, call on the cat inside himself that answered to his totem, and move without stopping.

  Turning, they climbed shallow hills and descended again, twisting in so many directions through the jungle that he’d have to wait for the stars to brighten the night sky to fully orient himself.

  His training would let him run for days, but this was a sprint. His lungs screamed at him. The cat in front of them didn’t slow. A dark shadow spinning its shadow under the shadows of trees, hard to follow. He often reached back for Hun Kan’s hand to help her negotiate roots and short, steep drops. She began to wheeze and make small moaning sounds. He looked over his shoulder to see her miss her footing and fall to her knees.

  Almost despairing, he reached for the jaguar in his mind as he stopped. We’re stopping. Stop. Stop! He knelt beside Hun Kan, unable to tell if the cat responded. His body demanded attention. They needed water. To drink, to clean up with. They’d escaped with nothing but what they carried, and here he did not know where to find a cenote. Water ran everywhere under the jungle floor, but only breathed air periodically.

  As her breath slowed to a rasp she could talk through, Hun Kan looked up at him. The anger in her eyes barely touched her voice as she simply said, “Thank you,” and then, “Do you know where your Way is leading us?”

  He shook his head, admiring her pluck and control. “We must keep going. If the jaguar waits for us, it will not wait forever.”

  “It waits.”

  He licked the stinging salt of his sweat from his dry, cracking lips, and looked down the path. Sure enough, he spotted the jaguar, a black shadow sitting in shadow, with only the slight movement of its breathing giving away its presence.

  Cauac would be proud.

  Ah Bahlam looked up at the sky, verifying west by the now-steep slant of the sun angling down through the canopy and making small spots of brightness in the dark jungle.

  He took Hun Kan’s extended hand and helped her stand up, balancing her while she tested her limbs. She didn’t limp from her fall, but she refused to run, shaking her head and walking close behind him, quickly, but walking nonetheless. The jaguar again led them, slower, its pace fallen to match Hun Kan’s walk. A hundred steps past where it had lain in the shadow, the jaguar turned down an even slimmer path, perhaps the way peccaries and tapirs took, and stopped in front of a pool of shaded water.

  A small cenote.

  Two gray-green iguanas sunning on rock in the only shaft of direct light in the small clearing eyed them and then wandered off into the jungle as if they had simply been out for a walk. The jaguar drank, then faded into the trees and stretched out on the ground, its great head resting on its forepaws, clearly signaling a stop.

  He helped Hun Kan lever herself down to sit on a moss-covered rock, making sure she was comfortable before he gazed at the cat. Thank you. We will rest here awhile. Stay, or hunt and return. But continue to lead us.

  The cat licked its jaws. It did not appear even a little tired. For a moment, its eyes met his, and he imagined it saying, “If you just ask for what you want, I can give it to you.”

  Ah Bahlam smelled the water, suddenly beyond thirsty. K’uk’ulkan, gods of the jungle, thank you. May our presence bless this water, may this water bless us. He had seen Cauac honor strange cenotes in this way, using his blessing and respect to appease or temporarily drive away any spirits that inhabited the area.

  He found a large leaf and bent it to carry water, bringing Hun Kan a sip.

  She leaned toward him and held out her small, pink tongue against the bright green leaf, sipping like a baby bird. “You saved me,” she said.

  “The jaguar saved us both.” She was alive. Nimah and Kisa might be dead by now, or saved for ransom. He suspected not. Their captors had looked too desperate for patience. I will protect you! he thought.

  The people-of-unrest lived in many small villages in the jungle, often moving every year or two, building no permanent structures. When the time came for their young men to serve at Chichén, they hid. According to rumors brought by the traders who put in at Zama, this defiance grew across the peninsula. For three years, the summer rains had come thin and seldom; the maize crops had yielded less harvest than the people needed.

  People blamed the Itzá for their empty bellies.

  If their rulers communed well with the gods, no such damage would befall their people and the rainfall and crops would be good. Chichén had fallen ill.

  The Itzá had to change, and Ah Bahlam and his friends meant to help, to communicate clearly with the gods so they’d bring water and plentiful food again. They would build strong armies in case the Toltecs came in greater numbers. And to lead, they must be strong and sure of themselves. He must be. “The jaguar is helping us return to Chichén in time for the ceremonies.”

  “Good.” Hun Kan stood and went to the pool, dipping the leaf he had used into the water and bringing a small flood of cool sacred liquid to his lips. After she brought him three leaves of water, she returned to filling herself, dipping the leaf over and over again in the cenote, drinking some, pouring some over her body. She dipped it in the water one more time and stood. “Come here,” she said softly, and when he stepped near enough to smell her, she washed his cut, scrubbing so hard he nearly cried out. After she finished, she looked up at the fading light in the sky. “I’ll find dinner.”

  “Stay close to the pool.” He gla
nced at the jaguar, which still watched them. “Maybe it will hunt with me.” He had lost his spear and spent two of his arrows, but he still had two.

  “We could fish.”

  He eyed the cenote. No ceremonial marking showed, only the worn thin paths of animals. “Very well,” he replied, watching her gather her hair back and begin to search the area for edible plants.

  Tired and footsore as he was, this moment of building a meal and a place to sleep together tugged at him. He turned away from her to hide the yearning in his heart. If they chose on their own, they would not be welcome at home. The High Priest of K’uk’ulkan had to bless noble marriages. To live like the men who attacked them would give them both sickness and anger.

  As Hun Kan became totally immersed in her task, he watched the jaguar. It was entirely still, except for the tip of its great tail. Ah Bahlam crouched on a rock, hoping to get his Way to meet his gaze. It had stopped for them, but that did not mean it would do his bidding for small things.

  As if it heard his thoughts, the jaguar stood and stretched as he approached. It walked off sedately into the jungle, ignoring him completely.

  He watched it go, suddenly ashamed of himself for thinking it might feed them. It had brought them to water and food. Should it feed them, too?

  He tried five times before he finally scooped four small wiggling fish from the cenote, and started a fire in a rock ring using the flints he carried in a pouch on his waistband. As he cleaned the fish he remembered to be grateful that at least he had not lost his small knife.

  Hun Kan returned with an armload of roots and herbs, and a flattish stone that would be adequate for cooking on. She, too, had kept her knife and used it to cut the plants. “Where is the jaguar?” she asked.

  “Hunting,” he said.

  By the time they were done eating, drinking, and gathering enough wood to keep the fire going, it was full dark. Hun Kan had curled up under some branches, and lay sleeping, her open mouth and small snores telling him she dreamt. Stars shone through the thin jungle canopy, but the fire kept Ah Bahlam’s eyes from seeing as clearly as he wished. He turned his back to it and stared out at the jungle, watching for predators and all the while praying the cat would come back to them. With no other warriors to help protect them, they couldn’t return to the sacbe. He could get them to Chichén but it would be far easier if the cat led them.

  The wheel of the sky had turned more than halfway before he woke her to watch.

  She came straight up to a sitting position when he touched her shoulder, looking around for danger.

  “All is well,” he said. “Just time for me to sleep.”

  She smiled at him and touched his cheek briefly, then went to care for her body before coming back to sit a bit away from him. “So sleep,” she said.

  He lay down. He drifted, deep tiredness making sleep hide. His cut throbbed in spite of the herb salve Hun Kan had made for it, and every nerve seemed to feel the jungle and to listen for the cat all at once.

  Maybe Ni-ixie would return. Maybe if the cat did not return, she would. Was she Hun Kan’s Way like the jaguar was his?

  Hun Kan began to hum, drumming her fingers softly on her knees, and the sweet sound carried him into the dreaming world.

  DECEMBER 18, 2012

  CHAPTER 19

  Alice sat on the edge of Nixie’s bed, rubbing soft circles on her back, as much to calm her own shaking hands as to comfort her daughter. Nix was so small, so precious. Her eyes were closed now, her breath rising and falling in the even rhythm of sleep, Snake clutched close to her chest.

  Alice pushed herself up and wiped a shaking hand across her dry, nasty mouth. She changed into the oldest shorts she had with her, a yellow T-shirt, and bright blue socks. She brushed her teeth and hair, wishing for a way to brush the circles from under her eyes. She went to the kitchen and poured a small glass of white wine, staring out the window into darkness. The wine hit her stomach like ice, and she poured it out and made hot tea, letting it sit untouched to cool.

  She paced back and forth—only three steps in the tiny kitchen—then started circling the floor.

  Her battered olive suitcase and Nixie’s newer rose-colored one were stacked in the hall closet. She lifted them out, scraping their wheels against the door jamb. Starting with the living room, which served as her own bedroom, she pulled open the drawers of the chest that doubled as a TV stand and began removing clothing. She layered her shoes, underwear and socks carefully in the bottom of the case, adding neatly folded shirts and her one light sweater. She pulled her now-dry bathing suit from the bathroom.

  She closed her case and opened Nixie’s, tiptoeing in and emptying Nixie’s dresser as silently as possible. She packed Nixie’s flip-flops, her bathing suit, and her book, which had fallen to the floor.

  She slid the drawer by the bed open, holding it up a little so it wouldn’t creak, and peered at the necklace. Her hand reached for it, hesitating. Nixie should pack it. She hated it when Alice touched her things. Besides, Nix had bundled it in so carefully with the towel, doing exactly what she’d been asked to. An unexpected tear splashed onto Alice’s hand and a sob rose in her throat.

  She closed the drawer as carefully as she’d opened it, walking fast from the room, her hands on her face. She stood staring down at the suitcases, tears spilling from her eyes and blurring her vision. She sank down to the floor, her back leaning against the bed, the ceiling fan blowing loose ends of her hair softly against her cheek until they got wet and stuck.

  It was two AM and she was crying in a hotel room. She should get up and pack their shampoo and jewelry from the bathroom, but her legs seemed glued to the floor.

  Moments passed. Long, silent moments, filled with the sound of the fan and her uneven, shaky breath.

  Was she planning to run out on Marie, who might still be her friend? Who might give her more work, pay for more of her research, and provide a living for Nixie and her? Was Nixie safer anyplace else?

  How could she leave here now? December, 2012?

  She went and stared at Nix’s sleeping face, listened to her soft breath.

  She found a handful of kid’s cereal at the bottom of a box on a kitchen shelf, and ate it slowly, one piece at a time. It calmed her stomach.

  Her voice shook as she told her phone to call Ian.

  She had a pot of coffee brewed and was nursing her second cup by the time he knocked at the door. The suitcases were still full, but shoved behind the bed on the far side so she didn’t have to look at them. She poured him a cup of coffee as he sank into a chair in the tiny seating area by the front door. “Where’s Nixie?” he asked. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s asleep.” Alice sat on the narrow couch and tucked her feet up under her. “I don’t think I’m ever going back to sleep.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”

  She started at the very beginning, skimming through her interviews, her lunch, her meetings after lunch, but withholding Marie’s call. She slowed down as she described their homecoming, telling him everything she could remember about the dream. When she was done, he sat quietly for a moment, and she swore she could hear him thinking.

  “So you couldn’t touch the necklace, but Nixie could?”

  She nodded.

  “But you could feel the rocks and the leaves?”

  She nodded again. “Not . . . quite right. I mean, it wasn’t the real world. Almost. I could smell the jungle.” She shivered. “And the cat and the blood.”

  “That’s really weird.” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “But the Mayans didn’t see either of you?”

  “No.” She sipped at the cold dregs of her third cup of coffee, no longer sure if her hands trembled from the dream, from telling the dream, or from too much caffeine. “But I swear the jaguar saw her. It looked right at us.”

  “Did it see you, too?” Ian probed.

  “I don’t know. She was in my lap, but it really looked like it was watching her. The other weird thing was
Nixie’s always gone at the same time of day. I mean sunset here and sunset there, or afternoon here and afternoon there.” The words almost stuck in her mouth. “Just in a different year. But this time, it was night for us—we were fast asleep—but day where we went. And it wasn’t even the same place, like Tulum.”

  “But you don’t know where you were.” A statement more than a question. “A lot of the old sacbeob have been mapped. The abandoned chicle industry railroad runs along one for a while and bisects it later.”

  All the energy had left her when she called Ian. Her nerves, her nausea, her fear. She was wiped clean and too tired to know what to do next. And she had to go see the damned Secret Service again in just a few hours.

  She brushed the hair back from her face and sat up straight, struggling for some clarity. Did she really have to go? Nixie mattered more than a tour. Maybe finding out if the dream was real mattered more, too. “Do you think we can find the place we were? Only now?”

  He grinned at her and leaned a little forward, smelling of coffee. “We can try.”

  She needed to do this. But why? “What will it tell us? What do you think is happening?”

  His knee almost touched hers. He spoke carefully, a serious Ian instead of the funny or the beaming Ian. “I can only guess. I first saw the old world in June, and that was on a guided shamanic journey. That means I was in a trance, and I saw the ruins of Tulum when they weren’t—when they were new, when men were even still building them, so many Mayans . . . .” His voice trailed off. “I didn’t know what to make of it, but my guide, Don Thomas Arulo, said it happened to him at Palenque, almost a year ago. He was just sitting in the jungle, minding his own business behind the Temple of Inscriptions, and it all came alive in front of him. People and colors and the jungle taller and thicker. He had done a journey that week, but not that day. So it happened with no sacred plants in his system at all. Don Thomas attributed it to leftovers, though. He told me it happened two other times, with toad venom. Strong stuff.” He grinned. “Even Don Thomas admitted he couldn’t tell how real that was.”