Mayan December

by Brenda Cooper

  Huo Jiang, the Minister of Environmental Protection of the People’s Republic of China, came next. His formal suit matched the President of Mexico’s. As the two men shook hands, they looked like penguins ready for a formal ice ball in the middle of the tropics.

  Huo Jiang was accompanied by three equally formally dressed men, and a young woman with black hair pulled into a severe bun.

  Even before the formalized greetings between Huo Jiang and the presidents finished, the Indian prime minister, Aditi Roy, drove up in a new Toyota hybrid car. When she climbed out, only two people accompanied her, one woman and one man, each in light flowing clothes that looked perfect for the heat. Because of her briefings, Alice identified them as a prominent climate change scientist and a bodyguard. Alice liked seeing the prime minister here, like the presidents.

  Following on their heels, Emelio Pella, the European Union’s Commissioner for the Environment, emerged from a big blue bus in the parking lot, followed by seven others, the largest contingent of all.

  Alice watched the dance of official greeting solemnly, reviewing the right honorifics for everyone in her head.

  Did they have dreams of old Maya?

  What if she led these people to the old world?

  Maybe if she just thought about modern things like cars and climate change and the European Union. While touring an ancient ruin. Right. Alice shifted on her feet. Sweat poured down her temples. There was nothing for it, not now, but to be her best.

  Marie finally brought the heads of state over to meet her and Don Carlo, allowing each of the dignitaries to introduce their entourages.

  It took a wry look from Marie to shock Alice into acting. “Please follow me.” She led the group toward the Caracol.

  The first part of the tour was normal, unless you counted the extra company of security-types with the tense demeanor of herding dogs.

  Between locations, whispers spun behind her back. When she started talking tour-talk, the conversations stopped. Her audience asked informed we’ve-just-been-briefed questions, but with the exception of Aditi Roy, they were far more interested in each other than in Alice’s presentation. Prime Minster Roy walked next to Alice, smiling, her bright blue and yellow sari adding cheer to the late morning. She felt like good company, almost like a generic version of an old friend or a grandmother. Madam Roy was rumored to have diplomatic teeth. If so, she didn’t show them now.

  Don Carlo’s official job was to tour the hangers-on and aides, ostensibly so that each group was small enough, although Alice suspected it was to allow the whispers she heard behind her to go on unencumbered by minions. Her friend seemed to be doing well. Bursts of laughter floated over to her group.

  The tour was paced by a tall black man in a white shirt and loose white karate-style pants who had appeared as soon as they started to move, and who gestured Alice onward from time to time. The man in white, the more congenial counterpart of the woman in black from this morning.

  And of course, guards waited, watching. Not following—simply standing. Some with dogs. Close enough together that Alice never really felt like she could breath easily.

  They started down the white road toward the cenote of sacrifice.

  The old sacbe had nearly glowed with perfection. The surface of this re-creation was rougher, as if the archeologists couldn’t quite imagine the Mayans had done a true, finely finished job.

  She gave them time to gather at the edge of the viewing platform for the cenote. It rested on top of a cliff, and the deep well of water glittered nearly twenty feet below, a perfect circle of azure surrounded by pale green and white limestone, and a multitude of healthy jungle greens. The scent of hot water and rotting vegetation rose faintly under the sweeter smells of flowers that lined the cliff. Alice said, “This is why they built Chichén Itzá here. Places had power to the Mayans, and by their actions they could augment the power of places. Water always had power.

  “There is another cenote on the grounds which was used for daily access to water. This one served as a sacred place of power. People traveled here from far away, a little like pilgrimages to Mecca today. Rulers controlled important trade routes and resources, and water was the most precious of all.”

  Commissioner Pella, the Italian, stared down into the water as if it both fascinated and horrified him. “Didn’t they perform sacrifices here?”

  Alice frowned at his condescending tone. “There were skeletons found when this cenote was dredged, but many more other artifacts. Blood sacrifice was for wars, for major ceremonies, and for hard times. Daily wishes were simpler and less costly.”

  Marie stared down at the pool. “Still, imagine being thrown into such deep water, trussed up so that you couldn’t move. Imagine drowning in such a pretty place.”

  Emilio Pella laughed, condescending. “Your heart would have been cut from you first.”

  Marie glanced over at Alice. “Would that have been true?”

  Alice nodded. “There are many legends and some glyphs that suggest that people chose to sacrifice themselves for the sake of their people. Kings are depicted decapitating themselves in some Mayan centers.”

  Marie looked away for a moment, then back. “Dying for your country is not new. Kamikazes. Suicide bombers.”

  “No,” Pella said, “But surely most sacrifices didn’t choose to die; they were simply murdered.” He glared at Alice, a subtle dare in his eyes. “This culture was no better than yours, or mine. History was bloody. We must rise above it.”

  “History has lessons for us,” she said, trying to keep her patience. “But you’re right, perhaps many sacrifices were just brutal killings by our standards.” She paused. “We’re still learning about the culture that lived here.”

  Emilio seemed to lose interest, shifting and looking at his watch.

  Alice turned to Marie and then Madam Roy. “There is a legend that the offering of a prayer at the sacred cenote of Chichén Itzá has special power. In light of your work to broker understanding between nations—peace and a healthy climate—we obtained permission for each of you to toss in a coin from your own country.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out a dollar, a yuan, a euro, and a rupee. They glittered in the sunshine.

  Huo Jiang came forward and took the yuan, tossing into the cenote with an air of disdain. He said nothing.

  Alice bit her lip. This had been her suggestion.

  Aditi Roy glared at Huo Jiang and took the Indian coin. She held the rupee to her heart and murmured silently, then tossed it in a graceful arc into the still water.

  The President of the United States took the dollar coin from Alice’s outstretched hand, and spoke out loud. “I wish for a better world and a healthy land, for all of our children.” He tossed the silver dollar, which turned over and over in the air before falling into the deep pool. When he rose, he smiled.

  Pella licked his lips and looked at Alice and the last coin she held in her hand as if he were watching a snake. He glanced at Huo Jiang and back at Alice. Then he laughed. “A good tourist trick. I will play.” He took the euro and tossed it high into the air almost immediately, watching it fall. When it splashed into the water he spoke a single word. “Peace.”

  Next, they climbed K’uk’ulkan, the long line of dignitaries trying to keep their dignity while coping with the steep, narrow steps. At the top, photographers lay in wait, vultures snapping picture after picture. The tour group was clearly used to this; they posed for a few minutes and then ignored the journalists. They answered no questions.

  Alice got included in a few shots before she was politely elbowed out of the way. She took the opportunity to look down from near where she and Marie had stood this morning, her heart catching for a moment at the dark faces and hair below her. But it was only local people bustling about with decorations and testing thoroughly modern sound systems.

  After the photographers finally backed off, the whole group rested at the top for a few long and surprisingly easy minutes, the view across the multi-greened
wave of jungle canopy enough to shock almost all of them to silence.

  For the first time since early this morning, Marie stood close enough to Alice for a private conversation. She leaned down, pointing at something imaginary off in the distance. “This morning. How many other people is this happening to?” she whispered.

  Alice answered as softly. “Everyone that was with me the day before yesterday, and yes, we were in the past, then.” She grimaced. “In a place I dreamed of before I went there. But I don’t know of anyone else. Until you. Can you investigate?”

  Marie raised an eyebrow. “Can’t you see the headlines now? PRESIDENTIAL SCIENCE ADVISOR INVESTIGATES MAGIC?” She laughed. “I can’t do this. Can you?”

  “I’ve been trying.” There wasn’t much time. “If I learn anything, how do I reach you?”

  Marie handed her a piece of paper. “This phone number is direct. It’s good all week.”

  Alice slid the paper into her pocket.

  Marie’s smile was tinged with mischief. “I’ll try to catch up with you during dinner.”

  Alice felt immediately forgiven and trusted. Before she had a chance to reply, Marie turned back to Huo Jiang, her formal face forward.

  Alice swallowed and signaled to the guy in white pants that it was time to gather the group for the climb down. It always took longer to go down than people expected.

  She had told them the Caracol was built to align with the solstice axis, to allow the Pleiades to be viewed from a high window, and to let astronomers inside see the extremes of the rise and set of Venus. They had already known about the fabulous snake of light and shadow that cavorted along the steps of the temple of K’uk’ulkan every equinox.

  She’d kept the Ball Court for last.

  When Alice and her string of important ducklings arrived, the huge space was already being prepared. Barriers had been erected so that only those with special tickets or dispensation could get in. Bleachers stained the space at either end—an evil sacrifice for the god money, even though she and Nix had seats there for tomorrow. A small army of volunteers carefully hung colorful banners along the walls.

  She raised her voice over the background of workers. “Gather in please. I’d like everyone to hear this.” Alice centered the group in the middle of the Ball Court. She stood just behind a stone disk with a relief carving of the sun passing through a circle on it. They obediently gathered around her, Marie standing closest to Alice, then Emilio, Huo Jiang, and tiny Aditi Roy, with all of their hangers-on behind, but near.

  Don Carlo stood beside Alice. The sun struck her almost full-face, summoning beads of sweat onto her forehead.

  She pointed down at the stone. “This replica was made by a contemporary Mayan shaman, to replace one that is now in a museum. This marker identifies the center of the sacred space that the Ball Court represents. The symbol here represents the ball passing through the ring,” she pointed at a great stone ring suspended from the Ball Court wall, “which in turn represents the sun passing through a number of centers. The rebirth of the sun, if you will.”

  She took a sip of water and cleared her throat. “I’ve told you how remarkable the Mayan astronomers were, and how much they meant to their society. We, for example, seldom plan a building based on its alignment to the stars. In most of our cities, we cannot even see them.” She paused, giving a beat of silence to her words. “Have any of you been anywhere so remote that no night lights chased the stars away? Not a ski resort in the mountains or even the America desert—total darkness no longer exists in either place. Perhaps the Arctic? Or the ocean, in a boat darkened for the sake of seeing stars?”

  A few of the hangers-on, and Aditi Roy, nodded, and all of the rest were quiet. Alice turned to the Prime Minister. “How did the darkest night sky seem different to you?”

  Madam Roy smiled. “I have been to the South Pole. It was like seeing the faces of the Hindu pantheon dancing on velvet.”

  Very nice. “When there is no surface light to fight it, the sky is very bright. In almost any small space, small enough to circle with your forefinger and thumb, there are too many stars to count. The universe appears to go on forever, to be as deep as infinity. The brightest stars cast light and sometimes even shadows, the way that the full moon can cast your shadow faintly upon the ground.”

  She stopped to wet her lips again, to check. They still paid attention. “The Milky Way is truly a river on a velvet night,” she nodded at the prime minister, “and in that river, there is a black hole, a dark space in which few stars shine. And tomorrow night, that black hole will be directly above you.” She paused, letting them all look up, checking to be sure that they did. She continued in a slightly softer voice. “Now, you know how when they teach you about the orbits of the planets in astronomy class, there’s almost always a mobile with the sun in the middle and the planets circling it in ever-bigger circles?”

  Even though they all spoke English, a few translators had to work on that one. When the babble stopped, Alice continued. “The mobiles are true representations. If you turned the solar system on its side, the sun would be in the middle and all of the planets would spin around in front of each other, as if they got built in a nice neat line. In other words, they spin around the sun almost as if they had been placed on a flat plate and pushed like marbles. That plate is the ecliptic plane.” She waited again until it looked like everyone got it.

  “So, back to the starless spot—the dark rift—in the Milky Way, which will be right above where we are standing. There will be a cross in the sky, centered on the dark rift. The arms of the cross are made by the Milky Way itself, and the ecliptic plane. This is a very rare alignment that only happens about every five thousand years.

  “The Mayans thought of tomorrow as the ending of a great age and the beginning of a new one, a time of death and recreation. The Mayans saw this cross in the sky, this rare alignment, as the tree of life.”

  Madam Roy whispered. “It is similar to the Hindu turns of the ages.”

  The prime minister had spoken so softly that her words seemed to be meant for her own ears, so Alice simply nodded. “Much of this has been written about in popular New Age literature for some time. So has my next point, although less so. Right there, through the middle of the dark rift, we on Earth will be looking directly at the center of the galaxy. This is a rare and awe-inspiring astronomical event, and we will all be able to see it.”

  She let silence fall, looking up at the blue sky. This was the last message she wanted to leave with them.

  Marie’s voice was the next one she heard. “Thank you, Alice.”

  There were things she could say—please help us save the world, please find solutions to the morass we have made—but she settled for “Good luck.”

  Marie nodded.

  People clapped.

  The man in the white pants herded the group toward their next event.

  Don Carlo nodded at her, a compliment.

  Now that the dignitaries had left, more workers poured onto the floor of the Ball Court, carrying bunting and chairs and banners and sound equipment. “Look, we’re in these people’s way. I’m going to find something cold to drink.”

  Don Carlo shook his head. Reluctantly, she thought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Please stay a moment. I want to ask about time.”

  “What about time?”

  Surely he remembered her asking at the Grand Caribe. “What did the old Mayans think about time? Or the people from today, for that matter? Do they think about it like we do?”

  He looked at her for a long time, an American Mayan man standing on an ancient Mayan site in thoroughly modern clothes. “Time is . . . ” He sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he said, “I was talking to an old man who is one of my language research subjects. He told me that the breath of the galaxy is usually even, but at times it is less fixed. That was the word he used. Breath. He said that with enough innocence, or need, or ceremony, time bends. I don’
t know what he meant, but the other Mayans in the room seemed to believe him.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded. “I don’t think I believed him.” He leaned in and kissed Alice on the cheek. “But you never know.” His gaze was soft. “I have to go.”

  “Bye.” Maybe there was never going to be a clear answer to a breathing galaxy that bent time. She sighed, watching him leave, sensing he might be as confused as she was.

  She called Nix, and heard they were back in the hotel and settling in for a nap. After she hung up, she rejected a brief stab of jealousy that threatened to make her angry.

  Now there was just the dinner to survive, and then the long drive home. And maybe some contemplation about how to tell if anyone else was going back in time. Maybe Ian could help her there. If Ian ever came back.

  Where the hell was Ian anyway? She could feel his lips against hers, his heartbeat against her cheek. He was a crazy man, an apprentice shaman, not right for her at all. She couldn’t stop herself from drifting off in thoughts of him whenever her brain had nothing else to chew on. There no real sense to what was happening to her, to them, to the world. She needed help to make sense of it. Where was he?

  Was he safe?

  CHAPTER 34

  Ah Bahlam now wore only his own skin, and the afternoon sun licked it with heat. He wanted to go find Hun Kan, but it was his duty to stay with the other dancers. They had recovered from being overcome by their own totems, and were now just men, tired, sipping water, preparing to dance again, but as only men. Still, the mystery of the Dance of the Way sang inside Ah Bahlam, as if the sacred smoke and the jaguar both curled, nascent, inside his blood.

  The women came through in their best finery and jewelry, stepping carefully in the spaces between the men. They gathered masks and pelts, belts and tails, everything except loincloths and sandals, and the staffs of the older dancers. They bent and touched and scooped and carried, but made no real sounds except the rustle of dresses and clatter of bone and antler, hoof and tooth. Ah Bahlam handed his heavy mask to his own mother. She brushed his hand with her cool fingertips before she moved on.