The high priest had retired to his temple to sleep before the evening rites. The crowd still existed, but its energy had shifted to the market, to drinks and abundant food. The spent dancers were of no immediate interest to them.
Ah K’in’ca sat across from Ah Bahlam, grinning, his eyes exhausted and elated at once, sweat drying in salty streaks down his face. “Good dance,” he mouthed.
“Yes.”
His father, beside him, looked over at the exchange, his eyes dark and clouded with worry. His father had been puma. Ah Bahlam had felt it, had walked beside him, the great son-cat beside the wise father-cat.
His father spoke directly. “I am worried for you. I remember when the dance took me as it took you, when the puma ran and I might as well have been a flea on its back.” He fell silent and looked at Ah Bahlam, his brows knit together.
The amount of silence his father let fill the air between them reeked of import.
His father’s continues, grave and serious. “Never did my Way challenge the Way of others who hold power. I would never have let it; that is not the road of our family.” He leaned in closer to Ah Bahlam. “We rise as far as we can, gain our power, hold our power, and return our power to the people. We do not take it with force except from our enemies.”
“I know this.” Ah Bahlam shifted so that he looked his father full in the face, struggling not to flinch at the obsidian of his father’s eyes. “It was not my choice. The jaguar that brought me home safely is not easy to control. He is a king in his prime.”
“But you are not,” his father snapped. “And you can be killed more easily than your Way. I am glad it helped you come home safe. But are you safe, now?”
“Are any of us? Times are changing.”
His father looked away, past Ah Bahlam, then stretched, ignoring his son.
Ah Bahlam waited.
“You need to learn control.”
Truth clung to his father’s words, even though he didn’t want to hear it. But he had done his best!
Before he could respond, his father pointed to people racing toward the gates. Their calls foretold who they rushed to greet.
Warriors.
His father, then he, then the others all rose to their feet. A wave of lords.
The warriors would go to the Wall of Skulls, a great stone platform adorned with carved and painted stone skulls modeled on the enemies of Chichén Itzá
The lords hurried to beat them there, their feet fueled by fear and possibilities. Had Chichén been attacked?
On the way, a tall man wearing the red-feathered uniform of the Warriors of K’uk’ulkan grabbed Ah Bahlam’s arm and pulled him aside. “Your Way challenged the Way of our high priest.”
Ah Bahlam waited for another rebuke.
“Some of us will try to see you live long enough to try harder.” The warrior clapped him on the shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.
Ah Bahlam nearly tripped over his own feet.
He returned to his father’s side by the time the lords reached the Wall of Skulls. The returning jungle warriors were visible as a few plumed headdresses buried in a crowd of celebrants. The crowd pushed them toward the Wall of Skulls.
Someone called out. “Stop!”
The leaders noticed the lords standing in front of them and turned, digging their heels in, slowing the momentum. They let the warriors pull free.
Five of them. Only five.
Ah Bahlam swallowed, reminded of the fight on the sacbe that only three had returned from.
The five walked with their heads up, blood streaming from surface wounds. One limped. Only three carried shields. Two had spears. No one had arrows. All five were damp with sweat.
None carried trophies to lay atop the Wall of Skulls.
The leader showed his teeth, part smile, part grimace.
When they reached the wall, the lords parted for them. The warriors turned and put their backs to the wall, facing the Lords, and behind them, the people of Chichén.
The crowd pressed in, heavy and sweaty and needy, nearly everyone who had been in the great plaza, celebrants and merchants, women clutching young children tightly to their breasts or herding knee-high offspring. Old men. Young women with faces desperate for news of brothers and husbands, worry painted across their squinting eyes. Warrior-age men like Ah Bahlam, who had other parts of their Ways to fulfill this day, this year, or this life, and had not been sent to battle. The sea of faces went back further than seemed possible: hopeful, worried, tense.
The oldest of the lords, their faces as impassive as the wall behind them, watched the warriors and the crowd, gauging the moment. Waiting.
Silence fell on the grounds of the great city.
“Tell us,” Ah Beh demanded.
The leader stopped showing his teeth. “We did not lose.” He paused. “We drove them away, and the celebration tomorrow will go on. But many enemies live to return. They ran, to fight again. Soon. They will return. Still, even now, our fastest runners hunt captives.”
“Who is they?” a different lord asked.
The warrior looked at the lord who had asked, disgust and anger on his face. “Some were people I have never seen, but some have danced with us before.”
The news rippled through the crowd, heading back toward the wall, moving from one mouth to another like the living thing it was.
Ah Bahlam remembered the boy who had given them water, and hoped he lived.
The crowd parted as the high priest came through it, striding quickly, purposefully. He glared at the Lords of Itzá, at the warriors, squinted at the Wall of Skulls. His eyes stopped at Ah Bahlam. They seemed to penetrate Ah Bahlam’s very being, taking his measure.
Ah Bahlam trembled. The nascent being that was his Way rose in him, demanding voice and substance. He refused it, standing his ground until the high priest’s gaze moved on.
With a mighty leap, an inhuman leap, the High Priest of K’uk’ulkan landed on top of the Wall of Skulls and paced its length once, then twice. He still wore his feathered armbands and leg bands, and his mask. He appeared ready to fly from the top of the wall. As he returned to the middle, he stopped and raised his arms. “You heard the news! We did not lose. We won. Our warriors were valiant and brave, and they are but part of our strength.”
The crowd watched. Low whispers carried from near the back, but everyone who could see the high priest appeared mesmerized by his movement, his words, his presence.
“We are to celebrate as if there will be no tomorrow, demand of the gods that they visit us. That is our strength. It will be our strength. We will offer fit sacrifice and fit energy, we will offer our blood and the blood of our enemies. We will dance here atop our enemies’ skulls years from now. We will dance here until time itself stops and the world turns to a new Way. Now, we will dance the rain back!”
The crowd began to stamp their feet. The lords stamped theirs. The high priest lowered his arms and raised them again, following and then leading the beat. He cried out; the crowd echoed him, drawn in the wake of his power like petals in the wind.
The sound of hundreds of feet stamping on stone surfaces rose, surely traveling all the way to the camps of their enemies.
CHAPTER 35
Alice approached a huge white canvas tent, with the flags of at least thirty countries flapping on poles outside. Layers of gauzy mosquito netting completed the circus-like effect. To reach the door, she had to walk between four black-clad men with rifles held close to their chests, and two big dark dogs that didn’t so much as wag a tail at her. She could have pretended they were statues if their ears had stood still or they had no scent.
The gossamer nets parted for her and a hand took her invitation and ushered her into another world. Costumed waiters dressed like the Xcaret resort version of Mayans wandered about in body paint, feathers, and perfect tanned physiques. They looked thoroughly ridiculous carrying dainty trays with slender drinks or finger-food appetizers. Their female counterparts pulled the mix off a littl
e better. While they were also perfectly built and ridiculously thin, they wore simple white dresses with flowers in their hair.
At least seventy people of various nationalities wandered about the crowd.
Alice had changed into a lacy sky-blue shirt and donned her best silver and turquoise jewelry, which meant she was only a little underdressed.
The tables were laid with white linen and each had a crystal vase with a different orchid in it. Bromeliads in full flower had been fastened to the tent poles. Alice found her hand-lettered name card on a table in the far corner.
As she was about to begin her second attempt at a casual slow circle through the crowd, she felt a light hand on her shoulder and turned to find Madam Roy, regal in a gold sari lined with a rainbow of colors. Her dark eyes sparkled warmly in her round, brown face. “Alice,” she said. “I enjoyed your tour.”
“Thank you, ma’am. It was my honor.”
“Would you be willing to sit with me for a few moments?” the prime minister asked, walking over to a row of white chairs lining the side of the tent. “And, please, call me Aditi.”
After they took their seats, Aditi turned serious eyes on her. “You know more than you told us today. I can feel it.” She held up a slender hand decorated with silver rings. “Oh, not about politics. But about this place. You know something is happening. I’ve felt it, too. In India, many people are turning to the old ways. Rich old people have started wondering the streets as beggars. Many speak of the return of Buddha. The legislature is busy being modern, and doing a good job of it, and we are building and expanding our schools and industries. But there is a counter-movement. Is this also happening in the United States?”
Surely someone in Aditi’s place would know. So was she testing Alice? “Some of our conservatives are becoming more rigid, but that isn’t new. Mostly, people are scared by so much change. The weather seems to be turning on us and global economics is tougher than climate change. But America also has a strong core.” She looked over and spotted the president next to Marie, pointing to him. “We have a good leader.”
Aditi’s voice was soft. “I am not questioning your loyalty. But the small stories often fall through the news like water through a sieve. Interesting things are hidden by the kinds of news that interest many people, like your daughter swimming with turtles.”
Alice glanced at Marie, deep in conversation. Her protocol cram-session had said, don’t offer unless asked. Aditi was asking. She took a deep breath and looked again at Aditi’s brown, crinkly face with the warm eyes. Was she more likely to create a diplomatic incident by answering or not answering?
Aditi patted Alice’s shoulder. “I’m asking as a woman, a mother. And as me.”
All right. “I don’t know why the turtles came to Nix,” Alice said. “I’m a scientist, and not religious. I’m confused myself about some of the things that I see happening. That are happening to my family.”
“Is your daughter confused?”
“I wish. Or at least scared.”
Aditi blew out a short breath and put her hand over Alice’s. “Healthy children are magical beings, and not easily frightened. The world is a strange place now. Do you think tomorrow will be stranger than today?”
Alice laughed, unable to ignore the surreal feeling of sitting beside the Indian Prime Minister and holding hands. “The question is what will the day after tomorrow be like? For a long time, I did not think it would be any different. But now I’m not so sure.”
“I dreamed,” Aditi said. “The night before last. You were in the dream, and you were here, but it was different than it looks today. When I woke up, I thought Chichén Itzá would look like my dream, but the place in my dream was much brighter. I am sure you are the woman who was in my dream.”
“Was my daughter there, too?”
Aditi shook her head. “There was a man with a computer.”
Peter? Alice held her tongue.
“And a young woman, but she had dark hair. I saw your daughter in the turtle picture and it wasn’t her.” She hesitated. “I just wanted to tell you about it. I don’t know why. But I’ve learned to follow my instincts.”
A bell rang, and the man in white who had been chief herd-dog on the tour stood at a podium. “Please take your seats,” he called. Aditi squeezed Alice’s hand before letting it go.
Alice said, “Thank you,” and went to find her seat. Was Aditi’s dark-haired woman Oriana or Hun Kan?
It turned out that no one at her table spoke English as a first language, and she and a French Canadian woman next to her managed to get through an awkward conversation in a mix of poor Spanish (Alice’s was better), medium English, and poor French (Alice’s was far worse).
The food was better than the sound system. The speeches and translations were hard to hear so far from the podium, and by the time dinner was over and the waiters picked up the empty banana sherbet bowls, she had smiled and nodded so many times that her cheeks hurt.
People began filing out. Alice hadn’t managed more than a few long-distance smiles in Marie’s direction, so she waited at her table until Marie came over and sat down in the same chair the French Canadian had been in. She had a glass of red wine in her hand. “Sorry for the lousy seating,” she said. “Nice tour. Thanks.”
Alice smiled and reached for her water glass.
“No wine?”
“Earlier. I have to drive home.”
Marie raised her glass. “This is the first I’ve had. It’s not bright to drink and save the world.”
“Did you? Save the world?”
Marie shook her head and drank some more wine. “It’s more like a never-ending process of small talk and big deal making. China is still refusing to talk about anything that matters. Mexico is too poor and there is too little governmental control. But the current administrations gets kudos for taking big bribes from us instead of a million small ones from their own dirty industries. I think. If I can trust my sources.”
“And India?”
Marie glanced over at her. “I saw you talking to Aditi.”
“She’s had dreams. Dreams like ours. She said she saw me in one.”
Marie nodded. “She is very earthy. Spiritual even. And she’s convinced a lot of her country to use solar power. They’re a nuclear power, and becoming a space power. They know it and use the strength that gives them—Aditi included. But in some ways they are still a beggar country. The double monsoon season almost killed them.”
Alice knew. Hundreds of thousands dead. But that was out of her control, and her league. Marie’s territory. “What do you think of her dreams?”
“I think she’s honest. I’m glad more world leaders are women than at any other time. I have no idea what Emilio or Huo Jiang dream.” She lowered her voice. “I hope they dream of something besides themselves and power.”
The colorfully dressed waitstaff had been replaced by smaller, rounder busboys who moved quietly, only occasionally clanking dishes or forks as they filled blue plastic tubs.
“Will everyone who was here today be here tomorrow?”
Marie put down her empty glass and sighed. “Mostly. We have work sessions all day, so we won’t get to the Ball Court until just before the game starts.”
“I hope I see you again,” Alice said, meaning it.
“Join me,” Marie said. “I’ll make sure there’s room. I’d like to meet your daughter. That is, unless you have other plans?”
Ian. Damn him. “We’d love to. We have tickets for seats, and we’ll be there early.”
“Watch for me on my way in, and then I’ll seat you with us. We have a great view.”
She looked so earnest that Alice couldn’t imagine turning her down. Maybe Ian would show up before the game. “Thanks.” Her face flushed even though she’d been going easy on the wine. Hard to decide whether to be Marie’s college friend or her citizen. Hard to be both. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”
“Me, too,” Marie said, “Me too.” She stood
up and offered Alice a hand. “Now go on. Get home to your daughter. If I don’t sleep, I won’t be awake to see your stars align.”
Alice laughed. “Me either. May you have good dreams.”
Marie stopped and looked at her, suddenly serious. “I hope so. I hope the whole damned world has good dreams.”
On impulse, Alice leaned in and hugged Marie. Marie returned the hug, tight and quick, and plucked a vase with a bright purple orchid from the table. “Take this.”
Alice smiled. “Thank you.”
Marie was as mercurial as ever, and as strong as ever. Good thing.
CHAPTER 36
Drums sounded in the dark, coming toward Chichén from the jungle. Ah Bahlam tensed and sat up straighter, listening carefully. Not what he had feared. Not war drums. The drums of warriors coming in from the jungle, telling the people of Chichén that they returned with captives.
He stood, and his father and mother, who had been sitting with him, stood also. There would be news. They walked quickly, joining a steady stream of other aristocratic families heading across the great plaza they had all just left after a night of dancing, drinking balché, and praying.
The festivities had been fine: bright events to face down trouble and call the gods to their side. So what if an edginess hid just under the twirling women and the chattering men? Except it did matter. He hated the way people kept their children close and stayed in groups
The news could be good.
Ah Bahlam himself had danced to the memory of two young men who had been his classmates, had felt the double edge of despair and strength, had held his place, his Way, his role as a young Lord of Itzá. It had been hard. Perhaps this would be their reward.
Ah Bahlam’s father carried a torch, and at least one torch drove the blackness away from each group. A convergence of lights in the dark, like heartbeats, all seeking good news.
They got near enough to the front of the crowd to see the drums and warriors and captives pour through the gate. Seven of the enemy had been caught, and all lived. A few of the warriors who returned with them had been counted among the missing, and cries of joy greeted them.
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