Mayan December

by Brenda Cooper

  DECEMBER 19, 2012

  CHAPTER 24

  Birds sang the dawn home in time for Alice to open her eyes and see the ancient stars fade into a softening sky. She lay rooted to the stone, amazed at the variety of bird calls, the soft touch of the cool breeze, the rustle of animals in the dry trees and bushes. The weight of Nixie’s head no longer pinned her shoulder to the hard rock beneath her. She jerked up to a full sitting position, her eyes tracking to whispers across the white road.

  Nixie and Oriana stood on the far said of the sacbe, using the first blush of dawn-light to take pictures of each other, of Ian sitting silhouetted against the red-orange sunrise, of Peter sleeping with a skinny arm over his long face, and of Alice herself stretching out the pain of sleeping on rocks.

  Daylight made them visible. They couldn’t be caught here, not by old Mayans. The Secret Service! Adrenaline juiced her into sitting up, then standing and stretching. “Come on, we should get breakfast and go.”

  Ian stood, stretching, a dark silhouette against the dawn, a wild man who could belong in this time. Then he turned and the light fell on his face and he looked like himself again, grinning at her.

  She made a hurry-up motion with her hands, but couldn’t help smiling back.

  By the time the sun painted brighter greens into the canopy, they were walking down the white road. The ants were gone, the road so clear that except for a few dark stains, the fight might never have occurred. Efficient little beasts.

  Alice took the lead, making sure Nixie was close to her, driving the group quickly.

  The sun and walk warmed Alice during the hour it took to reach the point where they had switched time, where the railroad ended. It did not appear under their feet and trip them. The road remained clear and open, new, the stones in neat rows, the spaces between filled with plaster made of white limestone dust and water.

  Alice licked her lips, but stopped herself from stopping, made her feet go one in front of the other.

  Ian must have sensed her unease; he came up beside Alice and said, “It will be okay.”

  Absurdly, she wanted to call her Secret Service contact and warn her she might be a few minutes late. But of course, her phone would not work here. She looked up at Ian. “If you see a water source, stop.”

  “Sure.” He skipped a few steps on the path, looking happy. He didn’t seem manic, or even silly, but just at peace with the situation. Kind of like a little boy.

  But maybe cheerfulness was how he reassured himself. In spite of his clowning, he remained watchful and alert.

  He took a few more dance-like steps and reached for her hand, encouraging her to join him.

  She swallowed hard and took his hand, which was almost big enough to fold hers entirely inside it. She managed a few dance steps for Nixie, and then a few for herself.

  It was okay.

  Alice danced another few hundred feet, feeling silly and mystical all at once, before she blushed and fell back, letting Ian take the lead. She walked in the middle beside Nixie and listened to Peter and Oriana chatter about artificial intelligences and alternate universes and communication between stars.

  Ian kept dancing.

  She watched the side of the road, hoping to see something familiar even though it was surely madness or blind faith to even look, what with the clean, white stones underfoot. Still, they must be getting near the path back to their car. What if they passed it?

  A dark-skinned man dropped down from a tree onto the road, directly in front of Ian.

  Oriana screamed. Alice tensed, ready to run. Nixie gripped her arm. “He’s us,” she hissed with all the righteous indignation of an eleven-year-old who knew something her mom didn’t.

  Alice blinked. The man could have been Mayan. Probably was Mayan. Now Mayan. He wore Nike sandals and a Hawaiian shirt over cut-off blue jeans, his dark, bare legs thin under a broad torso. The man reached for Ian and clucked him under the chin. “I thought I’d find you out here.”

  Ian laughed, and hugged the man. He turned toward the others. “This is my Mayan benefactor, my teacher, my friend, Don Thomas Arulo.” Ian was grinning ear to ear, as happy as if he’d just won some great award. Ian introduced everyone around, leaving time for each of them to say something personal and welcoming to Don Thomas.

  He saved her and Nixie for last. Don Thomas bent down to meet Nixie, taking a few extra minutes to gaze at her. “You,” he said, his English slow, “You did this.” His hand swept across the group of them. “Brought these people.”

  Nixie was solemn as she gazed back at him, then she winked. “I brought Ian, too.”

  Ian spluttered but didn’t deny it, laughing.

  Don Thomas reached a hand out to Nixie. “Congratulations.”

  She blushed, but shook his hand before turning to Alice. “This is my mom, Alice Cameron.”

  Don Thomas’ dark eyes reminded her of an older version of Don Carlo, sure and regal but yet still full of warmth and humor. Maybe it was an indigenous Mayan trait that Ian had picked up, too. Alice saw the sea and the sky in Don Thomas’ eyes, even though they were brown rather than blue. It made her dizzy to be near him, and she breathed easier when he gave her a curt nod and turned his attention back to Ian.

  The old shaman took Ian aside and spoke to him in low tones. Alice watched closely, interested, but still tapping her foot as time passed. Ever since he’d dropped down and startled them, she’d felt lighter, more split. As if his very presence made them no longer heavy in this world.

  When Ian and Don Thomas stepped back toward the group, Ian looked at Alice. “I’m going to Tulum with him. He says time is so thin we can see it like it was.”

  Of course they could. Nixie had done it just yesterday. Alice frowned, suddenly feeling alone. “We need to get back.”

  Nixie bit her lip. “I can do it. I can get us back. You go on.”

  Ian laughed. “We will go back together. Don Thomas and I will drive to Tulum. After all, it’s a full day’s walk from here.”

  Alice blinked. “So you’re going back to the cars with us?”

  Don Thomas shook his head but said, “Yes.”

  She felt tension leak from tight muscles in her back and shoulders as he took off for the side of the road, the sun finally hot enough to make heat-shimmers on the road behind him. He turned around. “Come on.”

  Not heat-shimmers. The branch with Nixie’s yellow hair-band wrapped around the end nearly brushed Don Thomas’ head. Alice walked, certain this time that it was Don Thomas she followed through time rather than her daughter. The thought didn’t bring as much comfort as she might have expected. Now that the adventure—this part of the adventure—was over, the strangeness of the whole thing hit her and she clutched Nixie’s hand as they walked, her senses searching for any shift as they moved from now to now.

  She turned around after they went through, looking back for Peter and Oriana. They seemed caught in a tunnel, the white road behind them, first clear, then fuzzy. As they passed the hair-band, the jungle was simply there, the broken stones and rusted railroad testament to when they all were.

  In spite of her need to hurry, Alice called, “Wait!” and raced back by the yellow marker, passing it, moving fast. She only stopped when she nearly tripped on the old broken road. She looked up and down. Everything here was from now. She wanted to scream for joy, but settled for doing a few more dance steps like the ones she and Ian had done on the old sacbe.

  Nixie retrieved her hair band and shoved it in her pocket.

  It seemed to take only moments to get back to the tourist village and Ian’s jeep. A beat-up rusty brown VW bug with Mexican plates was tucked beside the jeep.

  No one came to greet them. Maybe they still slept, or were out. Alice glanced down at her phone, now ringed with icons for news and weather and GPS satellites.

  It was 7:00 am or AM. She had promised to be in Cancun at 8:30, which meant she’d be late. Her brain was filling itself with the comforting logistics of clear tasks. Shower. Ge
t her car. A meeting with the Secret Service goons to prepare for Marie and a talk at another conference. She had been nervous about it, and now it seemed normal, small, and comforting. She laughed.

  Ian stepped over near her, really quite close. “Take the jeep. You can leave it in the lot at your complex. Oriana can stay there with Nixie.”

  She didn’t want him to leave; maybe she’d worry. But there was no place for him in her day, either. “You’re really going back?”

  He nodded. “How could I not? We need to figure out what’s happening, right?”

  She nodded. It wasn’t as if it were her choice.

  He leaned down so close she felt the soft brush of his hair against her ear. “You’ll be all right?”

  “How do I know? Is anything going to be all right? Are you going to be all right?” She glanced over at Don Thomas. “Can he get you there and back? And when will I see you again?”

  Ian grinned and leaned even closer, pulling her into him, covering her lips with his. She stiffened, and then his hands caressed her back and she gave in, too off balance to resist. His lips were warm and she was suddenly hungry for him, returning the kiss. It felt like fire and heat and food, like losing herself. She hadn’t kissed, not like this, not in years.

  When he pushed gently away a few moments later, her eyes felt damp and her center warm. As he gazed at her, she laughed at the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. “Take care of yourself.”

  He turned away from her, toward Don Thomas.

  She glanced over to find Nix had her camera up to her face, laughing and blushing. She looked pleased. Alice frowned, her cheeks suddenly hot.

  Behind her, Ian said, “Peter? You coming with me?”

  And then Don Thomas, Peter and Ian were folding themselves into the tiny old beetle, Ian in the driver’s seat, Don Thomas beside him, and Peter in the back with his head bowed a little so he would fit. The car started up with a chugging rattle.

  Ian held a hand out the window, signaling, “After you,” and she scrambled into the jeep, noting that Oriana and Nixie were both in the back seats, seatbelts on, ready.

  She pulled out and preceded Don Thomas down the bumpy road toward the Real Mayans Here sign. She felt like singing.

  CHAPTER 25

  Ah K’in’ca spilled color slowly into the jungle. Ah Bahlam’s legs burned, his lungs burned. The cut on his calf had split open again partway through the run. Not as badly as the first night, but warm runnels of blood dripped down his ankle. They had sprinted all night, the jaguar’s footsteps soft behind them, pacing them. He felt its great energy, its body, its potency, and the power of its yellow eyes, all lending him strength and surefootedness.

  Hun Kan ran ahead of him, shifting from dark ghost to girl in the growing light. They followed the bare footsteps of herders and herds down a well-used trail. From time to time, a breeze blew in the fire-scent of town and the faint, welcome aroma of goats.

  The jaguar’s steps faded from his hearing and then the morning sky was split by a single, chilling, full-throated roar. Ah Bahlam caught Hun Kan and whispered with broken breath. “It is no longer needed. We are nearly home.”

  She smiled, but did not reply.

  “It will guard our path.” His legs faltered, and he began to lurch as much as run.

  Hun Kan pulled ahead again, called to him. “Follow me!”

  They ran up over a low rise. Animal pens and fields stretched out in a large cleared area. One of the roving villages that ringed Chichén, people who cut swathes through the jungle, farmed a spot for two years, and moved on, but stayed close. The people he saw now all lived inside the circle of safety promised by the Lords of Itzá.

  Home.

  He had not been so close since the day after the last winter solstice. He hadn’t missed it, but now he ached to see his parents, his brother and sisters, his teachers, even the family servants.

  A small boy out with five goats turned toward them and held up his short spear as they approached. Ah Bahlam laughed. They must be a strange sight. Hun Kan’s hair was loose and awry, her ceremonial travel dress rumpled, stained, and ripped. He was dressed like a warrior who had been fighting, and bloody to boot. They both breathed hard from their long run.

  He patted his shoulder and Julu flew down, landing with a thunk. He reached a hand up and the bird gently took his fingers in his beak, giving him a greeting.

  The boy stared at them, assessing.

  Ah Bahlam thought he might run, but instead he handed his water-skin over to them solemnly, as if this were the most serious moment of his short life. Good for the boy. He recognized them as belonging here, seeing through the outside disorder to the cut of their clothes and the slope of their foreheads. Julu, of course, might also have impressed the boy. Quetzals came from higher and wetter jungles far away from Chichén, and only families with power and wealth could trade for them.

  Hun Kan took the water skin from the boy’s outstretched and shaking hand, and drank. He noted the way her jaw moved, the aristocratic tilt of her slender neck. He and his Way had helped bring her home, helped keep her safe. Thank you, Feathered Serpent and Jaguar God for bringing her home safely.

  She noticed his gaze and passed him the skin. He drank deeply, handing it back to the boy with a sip of water left in it. “Thank you,” he said as the boy’s small hand closed around the mouth of the vessel.

  The boy nodded. “Is there going to be a war?”

  Ah Bahlam thought about the hundreds of men he had seen in the jungle. Not enough to take Chichén, not even close. But they must have some kind of plan, and he had not learned anything about what it was. “Perhaps. Run and tell your village to post watches, and to keep their spears near them.”

  The boy started to turn, but Hun Kan placed a hand on his shoulder. “First, which is the fastest way to Chichén?”

  He pointed at an angle from the path they were on. “That way. Go up here and turn onto the wide path and then don’t leave it until you cross the sacbe.”

  Hun Kan smiled at him. “Go.”

  He went, opposite the way he had sent them.

  Refreshed by the water, Ah Bahlam and Hun Kan ran on. They came upon three small huts that looked deserted for the day, but generally lived in.

  Hun Kan made use of their well, drinking, cleaning her face and hands and then washing Ah Bahlam’s leg and opened cut. She tore a strip from her dress to bind it with. “Will you tell them about Ni-ixie?”

  Of course he would. “Why do you ask?”

  She pressed leaves against his cut. “They will barely believe we saw so many people-of-unrest in one place. Who will believe in a girl with skin the color of sand and hair the color of the sun? One who is and is not a goddess?”

  “Perhaps that part is a story for the priests. They’ll know if she is a goddess or not.” He raked his hand gently through her tangled hair. “I don’t understand how Ni-ixie fits in with the bandits and the people we saw, but there were enough warriors to hurt Chichén. They are the most important story we bring. That part must be told first.”

  “We should hurry. The ball game is the day after tomorrow. And we are a day late.”

  The festival would already be starting. The huts around them were probably empty for that very reason. During festivals, people took their harvests and tribute in, trading goods for goods, playing music, praying. Dancing. Only the elite would actually see the game itself, but Chichén would overflow with people for the next four days. “We must get there soon so they can increase the guards before they all start drinking too much balché.”

  She laughed softly. “They will protect us even if they do drink balche.”

  As soon as they reached even the outskirts, he might be separated from Hun Kan. They came from different families, and would have duties. Perhaps they could stay together long enough to report on what they had seen, but no matter what happened, this might be his last quiet moment with her.

  She finished tying the binding around his leg and, still kneelin
g, looked up at him. Her eyes were warm and brown, tender. “Thank you,” she said simply.

  He reached down and touched her face again, like when he had brushed away her tears after Nimah’s sacrifice. She leaned in, her warm cheek pressed against his palm. He inclined his head and swallowed hard, wanting long moments with her. “We came home together,” he said. “You helped me.”

  “And you me.” Julu chattered at him from above. A rabbit stirred the underbrush. Hun Kan’s hand was warm and small in his.

  Their duty mattered.

  He pulled his hand away gently and offered it to her, helping her stand. “We must go.”

  She nodded. He sensed she wanted to delay their homecoming as much as he, to stop and freeze time and be together. But that was a path with no honor, and they had not lost that in the year they studied at Zama. So they continued toward Chichén, finding the sacbe only a few hundred steps past the huts. They bowed their heads as they came onto the sacred white road again, and reached for each other’s hands, squeezing them together.

  He spoke in the voice he reserved for addressing the gods. “Thank you for keeping us safe. May we speak with your voices to the people of Chichén so that we may join with you and bring good luck.”

  Hun Kan squeezed his hand one more time, hard, and released it, separating a little from him. They broke into the ground-eating jog of warriors. They ran easily on the even road, passing the scattered homes of healers, artists, pottery-makers, and then small animal farmers, serving both the wandering villages and the city. And finally, they neared the city itself: the minor lords, the leaders of warriors, the builders, the merchants who traded for feathers and jade and amber and fine art from afar, and the weavers of fine clothes.

  They began to see other people from time to time on the white road, but the urge to get home drove them past.

  At the point where the great walls and the tops of the temples rose from the jungle, bright and full of power, Ah Bahlam stopped. He had been glad to leave. The simplicity of the months in Zama, the simple hard study, the nights talking with Cauac or the other teachers, or sitting with his now-dead friends were behind him. The power and complexity of the city called to him. All that mattered in the world was decided here.