by M. G. Harris
“Where’s Fish Face?” one of them shouts, irritated. “I told him to bring that light, the stupid. . .”
The rest of the sentence, I don’t understand, but it must be a rude insult because all three of our captors break out in merry chuckling. Montoyo was right – Classic Maya is quite a bit like Yucatec.
Ixchel is an expert in lots of languages – probably understands every word they’re saying. Yet – she’s saying absolutely nothing. Probably wise.
“What were you kids doing out here?” All three snigger. “Sacrificial runaways, I bet.” This time they make thoughtful sounds of agreement. There’s a long silence. Then, “Where is idiot Fish Face with that light?!”
Our captors sound young, probably not much older than us. I still can’t believe how silently they stalked us. I hadn’t heard the slightest unusual sound. Behind my back, I move my hands, trying with my right hand to reach the Bracelet on my left forearm. It’s useless. Even if I could reach, I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to leave without Ixchel. I don’t even have to think about that one. If I couldn’t leave her in Brazil with those kidnappers, I won’t be able to live with abandoning her to these Mayan warriors.
Ixchel, I can hear, is shaking again – I can hear her teeth chattering. The sound of her fear only adds to my own sense of creeping doom. Our captors just ignore us now, talking amongst themselves so rapidly, using so many words I don’t know, that it’s impossible to follow their conversation.
I take a few deep breaths, force myself to be still and not panic. I try not to let myself think through the terrifying things that might lie ahead, but it’s almost impossible. Ending up as a sacrificial victim is my biggest worry. It’s conceivable that some pretty nasty things might also happen to us before that.
What a day this has turned out to be – more like a nightmare with every minute.
Yet deep down I can’t find it in me to be angry with Montoyo. The job of repairing the Ix Codex is mine. There’s no point protesting. Anyone else just can’t risk getting close to that book – the bio-defence toxin will kill them.
He tricked me into doing my duty. There are higher duties that bind me, he said. Ultimately, I’m a servant of this city and our mission.
He was talking about me. My duty, my mission. Montoyo might have seemed overprotective in the past, preventing me from handing myself over to the kidnappers in Brazil. It wasn’t because he cared about me getting hurt.
The darkness seems to close in around us. With a sickening heart I face up to the harsh truth.
Montoyo was saving me for tasks like this.
Through the trees, probably twenty metres away or so, there’s a burst of orange light. Dancing behind slender black shadows of countless tree trunks, it approaches. Our captors let out a sarcastic-sounding cheer.
“Here he comes.”
“Fish Face!”
“Where’ve you been? We missed you!”
The flaming torch continues on its path, bobbing through the woods. Eventually Fish Face steps out from the thicket. He’s short and walks with an awkward shuffle, looking embarrassed but also annoyed. He holds up the fiery torch, and for the first time, I can see Ixchel and our captors.
They can see us too – and they react with loud exclamations and gasps of disbelief.
I was right – they’re aged somewhere between sixteen and eighteen. All look shorter than I am and are dressed in suede loincloths decorated with shells and beads. Their chests, shoulders and faces are marked with black and red body paint: horizontal stripes across the chest and eyes, lips painted black, vertical lines all the way across their foreheads. Their long, straight black hair is pulled into a topknot and then either loose or tied up into a twisted plait. Each warrior, I notice, has an armband made of what looks like the mottled skin of a jaguar. Just above their knees they wear bands encrusted with sharpened beads and shells. All wear leather sandals and have chunky necklaces of seashells.
It seems hard to believe that we could appear frightening to them, given how scary they look with all that war paint and blades made of black volcanic glass in their hands. Yet scared is exactly what they are, at least at first. They stand up slowly, poking our skin and clothes with their knives, then their fingers, muttering in amazement.
The guy nearest to me drops slowly to his haunches and stares at me for what seems like ages. I’m suddenly aware of how strongly he smells, because there’s an abrupt change in the wind. He absolutely reeks – they all do. I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to such a strong-smelling human. It’s a harsh, almost metallic smell.
He’s as fascinated with me as I am with him. He beckons Fish Face closer with the torch. When Fish Face doesn’t react, he leaps to his feet yelling and grabs the torch, shoving the shorter warrior so hard that he crashes into a tree.
Then he crouches down again, holding the flame so close to my face that I flinch from the heat.
“Are you blind?”
I stare back at him, shrugging. Involuntarily I glance at Ixchel. The warrior boy touches a finger to my right eye. Awestruck, he asks, “You can see out of this?”
They’ve never seen blue eyes before.
“Don’t answer, Josh,” Ixchel warns, speaking English. Another warrior boy pushes a knife against her throat.
“Shut up, beautiful,” he says in a playful voice. “We don’t take orders from women. Even when they smell as sweet as you.”
The third snorts, “What a liar! He does nothing but takes orders from a woman.”
“I take orders from a princess,” replies the guy with a knife on Ixchel. He’s annoyed.
“Why don’t you want to talk to them?” I say, looking right at Ixchel.
The minute I speak, Warrior Boy Number One shoves me hard. This time I’m ready – he hardly shifts me. I can see the surprise in his eyes, as well as a flash of respect.
“Don’t talk to her,” he yells at me, in Mayan.
“I don’t take orders from you, mate,” I reply, in English.
“What’s he saying?” he asks. The other three guys make various noises of puzzlement.
“Who are you?” says Warrior Boy Number One. I notice that he’s slowed down his words now, speaking very clearly. “Not from the Snake Kingdom. So, where?”
I couldn’t reply even if I wanted to. I can understand fairly well now that he’s taking care with his speech, but I can still hardly string together a decent spoken sentence. All the same, I’m amazed at how much of what he’s saying I can actually follow.
“I’m Rain Son,” he says, pointing at his own chest. Without taking his eyes from mine, he points at the guy who’s still holding a knife to Ixchel, although less fiercely now. “He’s Mountain Jaguar.” With a nod he indicates the third warrior boy. “Tree Frog.”
My eyes go to the guy with the torch. “Fish Face,” I say slowly, in Yucatec.
All three burst out laughing. Ixchel, I notice, is still frozen, crouched on the ground.
“Fish Face, that’s him. And you?” Rain Son jabs his knife against my T-shirt.
“Josh,” I say, leaning on the “J” sound.
Rain Son repeats the word slowly a couple of times, nodding.
All four guys are focused on me now. Rain Son is still pointing a knife at me but for the moment he doesn’t look too threatening. It’s clear that they’re taken aback by everything about us. They prod and tug at our clothes and hair; they sniff the air around us. I guess it’s the smell of all the various soaps and perfumed products we’ve used in the last few hours.
“Josh,” Rain Son says reasonably, gazing at the multifaceted blade of his knife, “I think you’re lying.” Slowly, his eyes move to mine. He lifts the blade to a point just under my eye. With great deliberation, he adjusts the angle, then presses it against my skin. The blade hardly touching me, he slices across my face with utmost care. There’s almost no pain. A trickle of blood makes its way down my cheek.
“Look at those eyes,” Rain Son says with a chilling smile. “They’re lik
e something on a demon.”
“Get away from him!”
Everyone jumps slightly, startling at the sound of Ixchel’s voice. Her voice trembles with fear and rage. We’re riveted.
She speaks the same language as them, a kind of Yucatec. With a slightly strange accent and words I don’t understand. My best understanding is that she’s saying something like, “Yes, he is a demon; he’s not from this world, can’t you see? He’s dragged me straight out of Xibalba. You’d better take us both to your lord. Or he’ll take you back to Xibalba with him!”
At first, they seem completely thrown at hearing Ixchel speak. Only a second or two later, though, they go back to ignoring her. It’s though they aren’t even sure all those words came out of Ixchel. As though she were some helpless, mute creature that couldn’t possibly have spoken.
Rain Son puts his finger to my eye socket and touches the cut he’s just made on my face. Then without taking his eyes off mine, he tastes my blood on his finger.
“Hmmm. Looks like blood. Tastes like blood. Strange demon.”
“The Hero Twins were in Xibalba too,” Tree Frog says, frowning. “They were cut into pieces and they bled.”
“The Hero Twins are just a story,” Rain Son says, sounding haughty. “Any child knows that. This ‘Josh’ is no demon.” He sniffs deeply. “Who ever heard of a demon that smelled of firewater and herbs?” His voice drops to a low, icy whisper. “And he understands me. Don’t you, ‘Josh’?”
Mountain Jaguar seems to have noticed Ixchel again. Hesitantly he stretches out a hand to her hair, touches it gently, then starts to stroke it. I react immediately with a dive in his direction, yelling at him to get away from Ixchel. Rain Son grabs me around the shoulders and wrestles me to the ground. He’s incredibly strong. The second he puts the blade to my throat again, I freeze.
In the flickering light of the flames, I see Rain Son’s eyes glitter with menace. He barks out orders to Tree Frog and Mountain Jaguar. They drag Ixchel into position behind me and fasten wooden collars around our necks, looping the collars together so that we’re linked. We’re both forced to our feet.
Mountain Jaguar’s eyes are still fixed on to Ixchel. He walks around her, murmuring with appreciation. Then he approaches me. His mouth falls open as he stands in front of me, gazing intently into my eyes. For a few seconds we stare at each other. I’m determined not to let these guys – or Ixchel – see how terrified I am.
“Touch her and I’ll end you,” I hiss.
It earns me a punch to the ribs. I double over, badly winded, trying to catch my breath. From behind me I hear Ixchel sighing. “Josh, stop talking. Please.”
When I straighten up, Mountain Jaguar notices the Bracelet of Itzamna. He gasps, impressed. He’s about to touch it when Rain God’s hand snaps out, grabs his wrist and twists it until Mountain Jaguar cries out.
“But look, it’s. . .”
Rain Son interrupts, “I know, I’ve seen it.”
“It’s. . .” Mountain Jaguar seems desperate to share his revelation. Rain Son, however, is just as sure he won’t let his friend do that.
“Quiet! I said, I’ve seen. I know what we have to do.”
The two warriors glance at each other and reluctantly, Mountain Jaguar nods. He takes two steps backwards, once again rests his eyes on Ixchel.
Rain Son checks all the bindings and the collars, and then tightens the cord around my wrists. With a swift kick to my calf, he mutters, “Move. Now.”
Tied up as we are one in front of the other, both with our hands trussed up behind our backs, it’s impossible for Ixchel and me to look at each other or even to touch. I’ve been running on adrenaline since we arrived in the forest; my head is all over the place.
I have to risk checking on Ixchel. “Are you OK?”
“I’m OK,” comes her hissed reply. She doesn’t sound OK. She sounds as petrified as I am.
“Enough of your demon talk,” Rain Son warns, aiming another kick, this time to my thigh. All his roughing up is really getting on my nerves. At this point I’d love to take a swing at him. The truth is I daren’t risk any kind of resistance. Alone, maybe I could bring one of them down with my legs; just maybe I could get hold of a blade, maybe cut myself out. . .
It would still leave me with three guys to beat and Ixchel to rescue. The odds aren’t great. But I reckon I do have a chance . . . if we can just stop moving for a bit. The forced march through the jungle keeps Ixchel and me busy enough just staying upright. Every time we slow down, one of us gets a kick.
Fish Face pipes up, “What are we going to do with them?” His voice sounds high, as though it’s only recently broken. Rain Son ignores him. Fish Face starts up again, whining, “Well?”
“Quiet! No more words!”
We all trudge along in silence, apart from the rustle of low branches and undergrowth as they whip against our legs. Ixchel and I are wearing jeans at least, and good trainers. I wouldn’t want to be doing this bare-legged like the Mayans.
My thoughts go to Mountain Jaguar’s reaction to seeing the Bracelet of Itzamna. Rain Son’s reaction was even stranger.
Was it the metal? I know the Mayans of this time don’t use metal for weapons or tools, but I’m pretty sure they have gold, copper and silver jewellery. The Bracelet is made of something else – I don’t even know what. But it looks slightly coppery, especially in some lights.
Or perhaps it’s something specific about the Bracelet?
We walk for almost an hour. Eventually, the forest gives way to fields of maize. We march between two fields, green stalks of leafy maize blocking out the moonlight that’s begun to light up the horizon. Beyond the maize fields are other crops, low-lying vegetables – maybe squash? Even with moonlight, I can’t tell for sure.
The land seems highly organized. Not much different to the plantations on the surface of Ek Naab. Nothing, in fact, to suggest that we’re walking around in AD 653.
Then the moon appears behind what I’d taken for a hill in the distance, throwing the outline into silvery-white relief. That’s when I realize that the “hill” is actually a gigantic, monumental pyramid.
Ixchel spots it too. She stops in her tracks. My collar yanks me backwards as she stalls.
“Holy mother of God,” she breathes. “The Snake Kingdom.”
Hearing this, Rain Son chuckles. “Even demons like these are impressed by the Snake Kingdom.” Then he shoves Ixchel so hard that she crashes into my back. “Come on, demons. Move.”
As we get closer, we round a curve that takes us on to a path which leads directly into the plaza in front of the main pyramid. It’s just staggeringly massive – the largest pyramid I’ve ever seen in the Mayan world. The closer we get, the more ominous its presence. An enormous, hulking monument, seemingly as wide as it is tall; a looming shadow that seems to swallow you up as you approach.
The moon has risen clear of all the temples now, shining down in roughly three-quarter glory. There’s enough light to see the scattered groups of warriors posted around the main palace structures. Each group of two or three warriors holds at least one fire torch.
In front of the giant pyramid is an open plaza lined with temples, a broad avenue. We’re led to a smaller structure that’s closest to the main temple. As we approach the three-strong guard at the temple, Mountain Jaguar, Tree Frog and Fish Face begin to get fidgety, chattering in quiet voices. They sound nervous and excited. Rain Son alone stays calm, almost solemn, puffing his chest out as he walks.
In a gruff voice, one of the temple guards shouts, “Rain Son! What have you dragged out of the forest now?”
Rain Son is practically bursting with pride. He struggles to keep his voice even as he replies, “Two strangers. Found them alone, unarmed.” Rain Son tugs at the wooden collar around my throat, pulling Ixchel and me towards the temple guards. The rest of our captors hang back.
When I’m face to face with the main temple guard, he lifts a torch and stares at me for ages, grimacing. I wa
nt to grimace back but I’m way too scared. Rain Son himself, he’s pretty fierce-looking, with his black-and-red face paint. But the temple guard is much older, with stern, grizzled eyes, his cheeks covered in rows of ornamental scars, nose pierced, lip pierced, as well as black paint lining his eyes and lips. Even his jewellery looks fierce – a necklace made of animal teeth, arm bands embellished with vicious-looking thorns. He looks and smells like a hard-as-nails Hell’s Angel.
I practically quake under his gaze.
“What’s this. . .?”
Rain Son says, “The others think he’s a demon, Crunching Jaguar. I think he’s just a foreigner. Calls himself ‘Josh’.”
Crunching Jaguar’s eyes flash. He stares at me again, prods my face and eyes with a horny fingernail. “‘Josh’,” he repeats, rolling the word around a couple of times. “This ‘Josh’ – is he blind?”