by Tom Rich
But Fishhook didn’t offer Aly to look where he looked. He held his hand toward the opening that led into the temple; an unadorned hole carved round where four limestone blocks came together.
Aly’s shoulders slumped. She went to the opening and lowered herself inside.
She stood motionless on the first step. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. The obsidian blades, the jewelry, pottery and small sculptures that had crowded the interior ledges were all gone! And that thing—that ancient guillotine with its blade up and waiting for centuries to do its job—was no longer standing over the ol at the bottom of the thirteen steps. There were only the dozens of glyphs carved into the limestone walls. And Arby’s smashed lantern. Smashed recently, because even in the rapidly fading light, the dampness of the lantern’s fuel stood out as it soaked into the temple’s earthen floor.
Aly felt Fishhook standing close behind. She sat, dangled her feet to the next step down. She scooted off then turned to look up. Fishhook took his hand from the hilt of the sheathed machete and gestured for her to continue. Aly sat, pushed herself off to lower onto the step below. She looked back. Fishhook showed no impatience as they repeated the procedure. The air, cool and dank upon entering, grew even more so each step down.
Aly reached the ground.
Fishhook bent to drop to the bottom step. Light filled the opening at the top of the temple. He straightened, blocking the light entirely. He placed his hands on his hips, jutted his chin forward. He slowly scanned the interior of the temple—the empty temple! His eyes finally rested on the ol at Aly’s feet; the hole burrowed deep into the Mayan Underworld.
Dr. Arbanian had told her that only the opening of the ol was narrow: “Imagine a staircase down there made of nine steps, each step larger than the entirety of all the grand pyramids stacked atop one another. The Mayans kept their Underworld gods at a much greater distance than their Celestial gods.”
Aly had no idea what Fishhook wanted. She couldn’t tell him where the guillotine and stela were because she didn’t know. How could she tell him if she did know? She could say, “Tikal,” because maybe Arby had sent everything up there for his colleagues to examine. He might understand that.
They looked at each other. The only light in the chamber was a halo rapidly disappearing into the thin penumbra cast by the head and shoulders of the man standing above Aly. They stared at each other so long the rest of the chamber went away. Aly felt her body dissipating. The thin, arcing light before her diminished, minute parts of it pulling away and rising into nothingness, her own cells carried along. Only fear remained to prove she was an entity.
Then, from the darkness into the nowhere in which she was becoming a no-thing, “Do you believe in the Word?”
Aly blinked. Was that her mind’s parting thought; some Sunday school blurb mocking her de-creation with a reminder of how easy it all began? “What?” Her own voice sounded thick and remote, as if her spoken word had been left in this place centuries ago to be covered with dust and mold like the glyphs covering the walls.
A long silence followed.
Fishhook’s voice came to Aly in just above a whisper, mysteriously resonant in the sound-dampening chamber, and unreal as his face, which had no mouth in the dark. “First…there was Nothing.” His nose was a slanting shadow cast beneath the dim light of his eyes.
Aly turned her back.
“Nothing,” he said.
She felt his breath on her neck. He’d come down the last step without a sound. He spoke slowly into one ear. “There was not yet one person. Not one forest. Not yet a tree nor even a bird.”
He was inside her mind. He could have picked anything out of the universe to express nothingness. But he’d recited the itinerary of her day. She kept her back to him.
“Only…nothing.” Now each word came from a different place, as if several of the glyphs were speaking: “Nothing…until…the Word.”
A full minute later, “Do you believe in the Word, Miss Roarke?”
“I…it’s not my religion. I mean, it’s part of my culture, but I don’t… I don’t—”
“My people.”
“What?” The word shot out between rapid breaths.
“My people…my people believe in the Word of Creation. Did you not know that? We have the Word, which gave to us the sky, we have the making of the firmament from the water.”
She was afraid to turn and look. A glyph might be speaking to her.
“And, yes, we have the flood. You see, your ancient scholars were kind enough to preserve our mythology in their books.”
“I know a-a little. Dr. Arbanian told me some of the Spanish priests were good men. Some of them tried to stop the slaughter. Some of them even tried to keep the culture from being wiped out.”
“Good men.”
“Men who tried to learn so they could—”
“In 1555, Father Domingo de Vico, a Dominican friar, began writing our histories and fables in Latin. His work was compared to the poetry of Saint Thomas, so eloquent were his words.” He sounded as if recalling a particularly wonderful passage.
“Yeah, see—”
“Father de Vico recorded our works so he could more effectively refute them.”
“Oh.” Aly turned her head halfway. “But, I mean, at least you have them.”
“At the beginning of the eighteenth century, Father Francisco Ximénez of the Franciscan Order, a man who had come to convert the natives to the Christian faith, adapted these works into what became the Popul Vuh, the story of my peoples’ Creation.”
“Yeah. That sounds right. I mean, I don’t—”
“We also have the snake, Miss Roarke.”
Aly looked back to her feet. “Oh.”
“But our snake is clad in fine, green feathers.”
“The Quetzal Serpent, right?”
There was a long silence. Aly took that as an indication she was meant only to listen.
Finally, “Green is the color of envy in your culture, is it not?”
Aly didn’t know what to do, what to say or not say to not further incriminate herself. She remained silent.
The tip of the machete appeared next to her right hand, pointing to the ground.
“It stood there, am I correct?” The blade moved slightly forward. “Its base was just before where your feet are planted.”
He was asking about the guillotine; the thing Arby had called the ch’ak: the Ch’ak of Somebody Something or Other, and that was what Fishhook had come for. The other pyramids had been filled with obsidian blades, figurines, pottery, and jewelry of jade, silver and gold. But Arby said there was only one ch’ak in all of Maya. She felt the cold of the machete’s steel against her wrist.
“Place your knees where your feet are.”
“What? I don’t—”
“Kneel down where you stand and look into the ol.” This was now the tone of the man who had smashed Arby’s lantern.
Aly did as he said.
“Put your face closer.”
“I c-can’t.” But she put out her hands and lowered her face to within inches of the opening. She caught the faint whiff of asphalt pouring like hot lava from a road building machine. Someone paving the road to hell down there? The temple chamber was almost completely dark. But the ol was darker. So black it shined.
“What you see is Nothing. Nothing is what comes before the Word. Father Ximenez, all your good priests and all your learned scholars have given us the Word, and their Word is the Creation of my people, of our existence.” The voice softened. “And they gave it to us in poetry beautiful enough to be worthy of their saints.”
A tear rolled down Aly’s cheek and fell into the ol. She wanted it back. She would gladly trade the tear for an eternity of roasting in the hell of her own culture. She would start believing in that hell right this very minute and turn herself in, if only she could have that tear back.
“But what of my poetry?” continued Fishhook.
Aly felt the blade against the s
ide of her neck.
“The Word,” he said disgustingly. “A word is a tool.” He pressed the blade slightly. “Do you think it possible I could remove your voice from your throat without doing further damage to you?”
“No.” Hearing her own voice choked with tears made it difficult not to tremble. Trembling would cause the blade to cut her.
“Your good priests. Your good Christians. Yes, they believed they were doing good by learning our language and putting it into books to preserve the ways from those Spaniards who were not good men. And those books were translated into other languages. And translated through the centuries. But always were the priests and the scholars careful to make certain the words sounded worthy enough to be poetry for their saints!”
Aly wished she’d climbed over the Ludlow Viaduct and jumped into the Millcreek that night in Cincinnati when she’d made the decision to come to this place. She would promise to do so now, throw herself into that slimy, stinking water if only she could see home one more time.
“But my poetry, Miss Roarke. What of my poetry?”
The blade lifted from her neck.
“The Word,” he said.
The blade pressed gently against the other side of her neck.
“The Word is a tool. It exists in the realm of the mind and minds are weak.” He pressed the blade. “The Word has no poetry. The only true poetry is poetry that exists in the blood. That is where you’ll find my poetry, Miss Roarke. In the blood of my people.”
The darkness in the temple no longer deepened from the sun’s descent; darkness came from the black rising like smoke from the ol.
“It has grown late. Thus concludes my comparative lecture on Mayan poetry and the poetry of the People of the Maize. Do you not think I make a fine scholar?”
“Yes.”
“I did not hear you.”
“No. I think you don’t like scholars.”
“Because there is one last thing I would like to discuss. Another matter of poetry. A bit of poetry all the tourists and scholars recite as tribute to my people. It concerns the obsidian blade; an artifact I believe this room would have been filled with before my arrival. Do you not think that correct?”
“I…”
“That is of no matter now. Only poetry matters.”
“I guess.”
“Good. Have you noticed that whenever the obsidian blade of my people is mentioned, it is always qualified by the words, ‘sharper than surgical steel.’”
Aly knew what he meant. She had noticed that whenever Arby or one of the other archeologists mentioned obsidian blades they invariably added “sharper than surgical steel” as if that had become as required as following “knock, knock” with “who’s there?”
Fishhook said, “Is that poetry you yourself appreciate?”
Was she supposed to laugh? Would that buy her a pass? She thought not. But she desperately wanted to lash out with one final smartass comment just so she could feel herself one last time. The self that was draining away in the dark and channeling into the hole beneath her chin. She wouldn’t care if Fishhook grinned or spit on her or if that scar opened up like a second mouth and a broad, scarlet, thousand-year-old tongue stuck out and drenched her with slime. She only trembled.
“‘The obsidian blade of the ancient Mayan is sharper than surgical steel,’ is how the tribute goes. Yet your doctors do not use it for surgery. Do you know why? There is plenty of obsidian available. Of course, I mean there is ample obsidian lying about that is not in museums and the closets of scholars.”
“No.”
“It is because the technology to make the blade so sharp is not available to them.”
Aly suddenly realized the blade against her neck felt sharp from having been used to hack away the jungle all afternoon. It drew away.
She was looking up at him, she didn’t know why or for how long. He’d made a sound or something, like he wanted her to look up. She could no longer see the glyphs in the dark, but they all had human shape now, squatting or standing or resting prone with their chins in their hands, their wide eyes on her.
Her head was tilted, as if merely curious about the motion above her, a partially upward, partially sideways glance at the shadow figure with the shadow face. The figure drew the machete high over its head with both hands. It all moved so slowly, like she’d heard how slow a car wreck unfolds when happening at high speed. She watched the shadow figure draw up its machete to deliver her to the shadow world and was aware of thinking about how slowly it all moved. Her thoughts felt hot, an actual physical burning traveling the passageways of her brain like molten lead oozing through channels too narrow to pass freely, that’s how slow the rearing back of the machete.
The last thing she would ever see.
Then there was a light on the blade, as if her mind had made a flash to take a photo of the machete in the instant before it came down. Her last sight for all eternity.
It had to be a flash from her mind.
The sun was gone.
And there was no moon.
Only the flash on the blade. The brilliant flash.
Time resumed its normal speed when Aly heard the crack and saw the flash and felt something wet on her face all in the same instant.
The blade started down slowly, towards her head, then twisted away as Fishhook himself started down slowly, then all at once was lying next to her.
Fishhook was lying next to her, yet he was standing on the step above her. Only now he held a pistol in both hands, but the gun wasn’t held high over his head, it was pointed at the body lying next to her.
Tencho had fired the gun once, and now he kept it pointed on Fishhook.
11: Waterworks
Tencho stood above Aly on the bottom step, holding the gun. Fishhook lay on the ground next to her. There had been Fishhook talking, him raising the machete, a flash and a sharp crack, and that was everything Aly knew. Plus Tencho holding the gun and Fishhook on the ground next to her. She could smell the last of Fishhook’s stale breath escaping.
The world flooded back to Aly. She scooted backwards. “Is he dead?”
Tencho lowered the gun. His eyes remained on the man he’d shot. “Did he draw blood from you?”
“What?”
Tencho jumped down. “Blood. Did he draw your blood?”
Of course, thought Aly. He was concerned. That’s why he was checking Fishhook, to see if he had any life left, any fight left. That’s why he was taking the machete from the man’s hand. So if he jumped up from the dead he would have nothing to swing. “I don’t think so.” She felt around her throat. “No.”
Tencho examined the blade. He placed the machete on the step then knelt next to Aly. He pulled her hands from her throat.
Aly hadn’t started to cry, but she felt it coming. “I had all the inoculations before I left.” Her voice was shaking. “So I think I’ll be all right. Even if…even if he…”
Tencho looked at his hands. He’d touched her throat and now he was looking to see if there was blood, but it was too dark to tell. He offered his hand to help her up.
There’s no time to cry, Aly thought. There just is no time to cry. She took his hand.
A minute later they stood outside on top of the pyramid. Hernandez lay face down at the bottom. Aly had forgotten about him. She’d have to step on him since there was only the narrow path down the steps and very little clearing at the bottom.
Tencho dropped down the first step. He turned and offered his hand.
“Are you sure?” said Aly. “Are you sure he’s…?”
“Come,” said Tencho. “He cannot harm you now.”
Hernandez looked like a dark shadow pooling on the ground. Then Aly remembered; in the sequence of Fishhook talking, Fishhook raising the machete, the flash and the sharp crack, she’d felt something wet on her face. She pulled up the bottom of her shirt and rubbed it hard against her forehead and across her eyelids. She looked below to see if her cleansing had made the body disappear, then ru
bbed her cheeks and chin and all around her mouth.
“Alyssa, I promise you.” Tencho’s upraised hand motioned it was time to go.
There’s no time to cry and Tencho has been patient and now it’s time to go. Aly took Tencho’s hand and eased herself off the top step. Twelve to go. On the next step she said, “Tencho! What if they weren’t going to kill me?” Tencho looked up and offered his hand. “I mean, what if all that was just to scare me?” The next step down Aly said, “Scare me into telling them where that thing is.”
Tencho offered his hand each step down. He jumped from the last step and landed straddling the body. He looked around the small clearing. He picked a spot and grabbed Hernandez’s feet and jerked him into the trees. Aly couldn’t watch. There was little space because the undergrowth and the trees were so close together. She could tell it wasn’t going well because of the leaves rustling and Tencho’s grunting. She wanted to help, but was too disgusted. Still, she should help, because… “Tencho! What have I gotten you into?”
The rustling stopped. “Do you know what that thing is?” he said.
“No. Well, yes.”
“If you tell me you do not know where it is, where it has been taken, I will believe you. But do you know what it is?”
Aly dropped to the ground. “I don’t know where it is. You mean that…that guillotine, right? Yeah, it was in there. I saw it a week ago. And now it’s gone.”
“We must leave this place.” He turned from her.
Aly grabbed Tencho’s shoulder. “Look. If Dr. Arbanian took that thing it’s probably up at Tikal. Arby probably had it sent to Tikal so his colleagues could examine it. So it hasn’t been smuggled out of the country.”
Tencho turned to face her. “And the blank stela?”
“Yeah. It was right where we’re standing.”
“Completely blank?”
Their eyes locked. “I got you into this, Tencho. I didn’t know these things were being taken. But I got you into this because you came to get—”