Hun Kan stood beside him, also looking. She had cried at the idea of coming home, but had run beside him all the way. Sweat glistened on her forehead and shoulders, the back of her hands. They both breathed hard, the scent of exhaustion seeping from them. As one, they started running again.
Because of their news, they passed their homes and went on to the gates of the city, clogged by a crowd making their way in for the second festival day. People gave them room, perhaps seeing their disheveled state and reading the determination in their eyes.
Inside the gate, they pushed through merchants setting up stalls under a high thatched roof held up by great stone columns more than twice Ah Bahlam’s height. Colorful banners hung from the wooden roof supports. Artisans laid out pottery vessels made locally and carved jade brought in from far away by the salt trade. Some of the best booths held intricate mosaics, while others displayed simple clay figurines of various Ways: rabbit, peccary, macaw, jaguar, and deer. He and Hun Kan returned the greetings of merchants they had acquired goods from in years past.
Finally, they stood in front of the Temple of Warriors. The imposing roof held carved statues along the top and reliefs of K’uk’ulkan. He gave silent homage, his head raised. The power of the god stole the breath from his stomach. He waited, gazing fixedly and quietly, Hun Kan beside him, until he felt full of the god. With a strong shrug of his shoulder, he sent his bird off and used hand signs to tell it to wait.
His body wanted to collapse. But first, they must tell their stories.
Hun Kan turned to look up at him, apprehension showing in her eyes. This was not a place women normally entered, but she was part of the story they had to tell.
Inside, light poured through small windows and illuminated the center of the room. Murals of old battles looked down on four men who sat on small stone benches in the shadows.
The Chief of War, a small but very fast man who had proven himself in battle at the age of ten. Ah Beh, the man responsible for organizing all festivals. Beside him, the High Priest of the Feathered Serpent: the spiritual heart of the community.
It took a moment to decipher the familiar features of the fourth man, who sat mostly in shadow. His uncle, Hunapa.
The men were so wrapped in quiet conversation that they didn’t notice Hun Kan or Ah Bahlam for a few breaths. Hunapa looked up first, and cried out, racing to Ah Bahlam’s side and grabbing his arm, giving it a hard squeeze. He stalked around him, looking carefully, as if he hadn’t seen him just last spring. “You live!”
Ah Bahlam grinned, suddenly understanding. “Yes, uncle. We two live.”
“Ah K’in’ca said that all of you died, and your family mourns you.” He glanced at Hun Kan. “You, also.”
Ah Bahlam understood. Ah K’in’ca must have escaped also, and run back along the road. “We got away near the end of a battle. Many people-of-unrest attacked us. Four or five twenties at least. More than we could hold off. I saw most of us die, and then later, later we witnessed the heart of Nimah bless their cause.”
His uncle put a hand up. “Let me send a messenger to tell your father he is lucky.” He went to the door and called a small boy who had been squatting outside, giving him instructions. Then he stood, ushering Ah Bahlam and Hun Kan onto a spot on the benches and handing them his water skin. Grateful, they drank. Hunapa’s voice and facial expression were formal and serious, as if simply being in this place was a serious matter. Perhaps it was. Ah Bahlam had been here twice with his father as part of his education, but never during a meeting. Hunapa said, “I am pleased you live. Sit. We must hear your story, but quickly. There is more news than yours surrounding this day.”
Ah Bahlam licked his lips and looked around the small space. The War Priest was painted and masked, which should not happen until the ball game the day after tomorrow. The stiff air inside the room felt serious and heavy. He told of their journey, and of seeing the great crowd of warriors less than a day’s run from Chichén. Here, the War Priest stopped him and questioned both him and Hun Kan. His mask hid his eyes, but Ah Bahlam watched his mouth grow thinner and angrier, and the lines of concern around his cheeks grow deeper. All of them winced and moaned at the loss of Nimah, and the evil power that her death may have given to Chichén’s enemies.
When they finished, Ah Bahlam asked, “What other news?”
Hunapa answered him. “Three outlying towns refused to pay tribute in builders or goods, and three more have been attacked. We believe the towns that refused to pay tribute helped the people-of-unrest attack the three towns that stayed loyal.”
Ah Bahlam swallowed, but remained silent. This was outright revolt. The power of the Itzá was waning, more than his worst fears. “Perhaps this year’s celebration will bring rainfall, and a year of good crops,” he said, keeping his voice neutral.
The War Priest nodded. “You need rest.”
A dismissal. He glanced at Hun Kan, sure she read the question on his eyes. Her small face was resolute, as always. Fearless. She nodded, telling him yes, they should mention Ni-ixie, and then before he could speak, she did, her voice clear. “There is more to tell you. Before we left, at Zama, we were visited by . . . .” she hesitated, “by a spirit. I do not know if she was a goddess.” She glanced over at Ah Bahlam. “Cauac thinks so, but I do not.”
The War Priest glared at her as if she should not have any thoughts different than Cauac’s.
Hun Kan ignored him and continued. “She appeared as a young girl, with hair as yellow as K’inich A’haw’s, and skin as pale as the mist in the morning or as sand.”
The War Priest stood straighter. He glanced back at the High Priest of K’uk’ulkan, who nodded. “Tell us. Quickly.”
First Ah Bahlam and then Hun Kan told their stories of meeting Ni-ixie, and Hun Kan shared how she learned the girl’s name, and what Cauac had said. She recounted the bloodletting to nods of approval.
The High Priest of K’uk’ulkan moved in closer as they spoke. He also wore a mask, but his dark eyes were visible though the blue and green feathers that surrounded them. They grew hard and cold, and while Ah Bahlam did know the man well enough to read him well, he sensed distrust.
Hun Kan must have felt the same. She shrank a bit into the wall, as if needing some space between her energy and his.
As soon as Hun Kan finished, The High Priest stood up, intimidating in his finery, his legs and back straight. He smiled, the jade inlays in his teeth showing beneath his mask. His arms were folded across his chest. “This is a very difficult story to believe. If . . . if this person you saw is a goddess, why show herself to you and not to Cauac, Ah K’an, K’ahtum, or the other Priests or wise women of Zama? Why to some child?”
Hun Kan’s voice trembled but her chin and gaze remained firm. “We do not know. Nor do we know why we were saved and brought home and the others were not.”
Hunapa smiled. “Perhaps my nephew is a good warrior and a good man.”
Ah Bahlam warmed; he had received more admonishments than praise from his uncle as he was growing up. He spoke up. “Hun Kan was also brave and good in the jungle. We both contributed to the success of our journey.” They hadn’t mentioned the jaguar, since he knew his uncle had trouble calling his own Way, the peccary.
The High Priest glared at Ah Bahlam. “Can you produce this woman? Perhaps your Ni-ixie is simply one of those people born with no color, or came down from the north. I have heard rumors that some people in the north have light brown hair.”
Hun Kan’s hands moved in her lap, twisting at the leather on her wrist. Ah Bahlam understood, and fished for the pouch that held the strange leaves Ni-ixie had given him the day she blessed the cenote. Hun Kan beat him to it, and stood, holding her hand over her head so her wrist met a beam of light coming in one of the square windows. The band around it glowed a brilliant blue, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room.
The High Priest walked around her, stalking her wrist like a cat. He held a hand out and touched the band. A finger traced the strang
e round button with symbols on it. His face held puzzlement, and a little bit of anger, perhaps at proof positive that Ni-ixie must be something outside of the normal, that in fact, she had visited these two and not him. Ah Bahlam struggled not to see the look as petty. This man spoke to the gods better than he did.
Perhaps.
The last few years had not been good for Chichén. Ah Bahlam filed the thought away, shocked at any idea that the High Priest might not be capable. It was death to say such a thing, and perhaps death to think it.
The High Priest held out his hand. “Let me hold the gift.”
Hun Kan shook her head. “I cannot remove it. I have tried.” She laid her wrist in his hand, shaking, her eyes wide.
He licked his lips and shifted his weight, watching the priest turn the band in circles around her wrist. The priest looked puzzled, but curious. He tried pulling the band over the heel of Hun Kan’s palm. It did not go. It didn’t even stretch. Puzzlement gave way to frustration. He spoke words over the band. It didn’t budge. He hissed, “What did this Ni-ixie mean to say to us through this?” He glanced at the other men in the room, receiving a blank stare from Hunapa, and a hurry-up look from the War Priest. Ah Beh watched the High Priest and Hun Kan with a focused, curious gaze.
The priest’s lips were drawn tight with determination. He rubbed oil on Hun Kan’s wrist and tried once more to pull the band from her. He twisted each small section as if checking to see if the material would rip.
Hun Kan sat still and stoic, except for a slight extra rounding of her eyes and a tremble in her chin.
Ah Beh cleared his throat. “Perhaps it was truly given to her,” he said dryly, his tone so disparaging that Ah Bahlam jumped. The High Priest of K’uk’ulkan snarled under his breath, but stepped back.
He called out, and the two men guarding the doorway came in.
“Take her to my temple,” he said.
Hun Kan threw her hand over her mouth, covering up her instinctive call of “no,” so it sounded like a muffled cough. In the temple, she would be at the mercy of the High Priest, with no one watching over her.
Ah Bahlam glanced at his uncle for help. Hunapa’s eyes met his, containing understanding, but Hunapa shook his head in warning.
The men closed on Hun Kan, taking her arms gently.
She hung her head but didn’t fight. Before they turned her to take her out of the door, she raised her head and her eyes bored into Ah Bahlam, pleading.
He should obey Hunapa. But he could not. He stood up, looking the High Priest of K’uk’ulkan in the eyes, defying him. “Leave her free. She has fought hard and run hard to come home. Let her see her family.”
Behind him, his uncle gasped.
The priest snarled at him, and Ah Bahlam stepped back. He kept his gaze on the High Priest, feeling for his Way. The jaguar answered him, filling him until Ah Bahlam could feel it inside the room, a presence. He was sure the jaguar’s wildness shone from his eyes.
The High Priest took a step closer to him.
No words came. It was unthinkable to challenge the High Priest even though he wanted that more than breath. Without the ability to challenge, there were no words.
Deep inside the priest’s eyes a brightness glowed, gods or madness or both. Ah Bahlam trembled, fought for breath.
The priest moved toward him again.
Ah Bahlam dropped his gaze.
When he looked up, he saw the back of Hun Kan as she was led away, her head bowed. It took every bit of self-control he had not to scream.
CHAPTER 26
Nixie and Oriana had no specific instructions. Her mom had rushed off in a worried flurry, brushing her wet hair and throwing a quick, “I’ll call you,” over her shoulder as she flew out the door.
Bright sun shone on the paths outside their window, and even though it was still breakfast time, the cheerful sounds of children in the pool already wafted in the open window. Nixie grinned. “Let’s go eat by the beach. They have the best breakfast there, and then we can make sand castles and maybe swim.”
Oriana yawned. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Aren’t you hungry?” Nixie replied. She rushed to put on her bathing suit, pulling a gold sundress over the suit and sliding white sandals onto her feet. She returned to the main room and sat on her mom’s bed, holding Snake.
Oriana blinked at her, then went to the sink and splashed water on her face. “All right.”
Twenty minutes later, they stood in line by the thatch-covered buffet restaurant, waiting to be seated. Nixie asked the small dark-haired waitress for a table over the water, which earned them an additional wait, but as they sat down Oriana looked happier than she had so far this morning. The clear bay that served as a swimming beach washed gently against the pilings just below them. The deck chairs and umbrellas were already half full of visitors sitting in wooden Adirondack chairs and reading, or laying face down on chaise lounges, showing already-red skin to the sun. Unlike in the States, even the morning sun burned here, and Nixie felt in her pocket for her sunscreen.
Children played on the white sand or waded in the clear Caribbean-blue water.
They filled their plates with fruit and small Mexican cakes, and Oriana got herself two cups of coffee at once. Nixie laughed at her, and got two glasses of juice.
When they got to the table, Oriana took a big gulp of coffee and leaned in close to Nixie. “Are you okay?”
Nixie nodded. “Of course. This doesn’t scare me much.” Oriana had laughed with her before they went to sleep, giggling at the memory of Peter and his computer. She wrinkled her eyebrows. “You were having fun, weren’t you?”
Oriana gave a little half-smile that only partly touched her eyes. “I was. It just seems weird now. Like being here is suddenly—not certain.”
“I’ve felt the same way ever since the second time.”
“Not the first time?”
“Well, I didn’t know what was happening. But what about you? You look . . . tired.”
Oriana looked out over the water. “I didn’t sleep much. I kept thinking about how I love the sea and the wild and the jungle. How I love diving in the caves. Being out there. I’ve always thought I was a nature girl, you know?” She shook her head. “Maybe not. I’ve never been someplace I couldn’t see or hear anything that wasn’t modern before. I thought I had, but I’ve learned differently.”
“Yeah, I get that.” Nixie looked out over the sun-sparkled water. “But what about seeing the old places new? I mean, I guess you didn’t really, except the road. But you should have seen Tulum all painted and pretty. Like a new house, or something. Like it breathed then, but it doesn’t now. Or now it just breathes out old dreams.”
“Anybody ever tell you you’re really smart for a kid?”
Nixie laughed. “Sometimes.” She picked up one of her glasses of orange juice. “I’m hungry like one, too.” As she dug into her breakfast, she thought about the things that weren’t in the past. Hun Kan never got to eat at a restaurant or stay in a resort, or fly on an airplane. How weird was that?
The clear voice of a young girl called from the beach. “Look Mom! A turtle!”
Nixie craned her neck. A small girl, maybe five, and her slightly older brother stood knee-deep, looking down at the water where a smallish turtle swam toward them. Because they were above it, Nixie could see the turtle’s four legs and long-stretched-out neck. A woman who must be their mom came down to see, and held her hand over her mouth.
Cries of “Turtle!” and “Another one!” and “There!” began to rise up from all along the little cove. Nixie stood and leaned over the balcony. She could see at least seven of them, none much bigger than her foot.
“Wow.” Oriana shaded her eyes with her hand and stared at the turtles. “Green turtles. They’re not hatchlings, they’re too big. That’s really weird.”
Nixie leaned further out.
“Careful,” Oriana cautioned. “Don’t fall in.”
“You’re right!” Nixie aba
ndoned the rest of her breakfast and headed for the walkway to the beach, almost knocking the tray out of a thin blonde woman’s hand.
“Wait!” Oriana called.
Nixie didn’t stop. When she looked back, Oriana followed, a cup of coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other. They weren’t supposed to take food out of the restaurant, but Oriana was an adult. Besides, no one would notice. People who had been in line for tables were breaking away and walking down to the sand, craning their necks. Nixie slid quickly through the crowd. She kicked off her sandals and threw them on an empty wooden chair.
The warm water welcomed her. She stopped with both her feet in, surrounded by the cries of children and the savory scent of warm salt water. She settled into it all, absorbing it. Although she was clearly here, now, the air tasted like the past, clean and healthy.
Nixie lifted her chin and walked out past the littlest children. She stopped for the first turtle she saw, stroking its back with her forefinger. It was softer than the big one she’d swum with in Tulum, the way the top of a baby’s head is soft. She smiled at it. “Hello, little one,” she murmured.
She went on, walking out on the soft sand, small turtles swimming up to her, kissing her calves. The turtles bunched around her legs until the water was brown and green with them. She looked toward where the sea ran into the protected cove, hoping to find her bigger turtle, but it wasn’t there. Only small ones, maybe hundreds of small ones.
She didn’t look back until she got far enough out for the water to stick the tips of her hair together and weigh down her unruly curls. She still wore her dress, soaked past the waist now. She turned and floated, surrounded by turtles.
The lifeguard was calling to people, “Protect the turtles. You can see them from the beach. Come on out.”
Nixie ignored him. Turtles surrounded her, a song of beings. There were so many she couldn’t turn. She floated on turtles. It felt . . . peaceful. Easy.
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