White Bird (A Mayan 2012 Thriller)

by Tom Rich

  Her people laughing again might bring time back.

  If only that bird with the black breast, rising from the grass, would cry her name. The two men would not hear it, so intent were they on getting answers.

  The rising sun filled the horizon so fully, so brightly, Ciriaca thought she must be mistaken about Thirteen Deity dining upon it. Was it possible for the eye to lie?

  The village sculptors would bring their cutting tools down on their wood so swiftly it was impossible for Ciriaca to believe they could never make a mistake. She once insisted on examining a statue after each cut. Her observation convinced her the piece was not fully conceived beforehand, that errant cuts actually guided the hand toward the finished product. The scraps she smuggled away would prove so. She took them to the boy none of the other children would play with. He had told her that if the cuts were perfect, the scraps could be arranged so that the shape of the statue would exist inside the nothingness around which the scraps formed. They spent hours working their puzzle, but could not find the shape of Seven Macaw. Ciriaca finally claimed she had been right all along, that it was a series of mistakes that led to the final product. The boy said that maybe the bird had flown from being let out of its cage. “No!” Ciriaca had said. “If there ever was a bird in there the scraps would prove so. They do not, so no bird!” The boy asked where she thought the bird might have gone. “No! No! No!” Ciriaca stomped her feet. “No bird! No wonder nobody wants to play with you. You never want to see how others see!” When the boy dropped his chin, Ciriaca wanted to hurt him more. Or she wanted to cry from making him sad. She ran from him, hating him for making her so confused.

  In the warmth of the morning sun, Ciriaca now felt the sweetness of sharing the anguish of another. She offered a silent apology to the red breasted bird rising from the grass. She would never know if its flight was part of a plan, or a thing borne of many mistakes.

  But what was in knowing?

  Ciriaca wanted for nothing now. The sun would find its arc for another day. The people would rise to work the fields and their efforts would bring food from the earth. Or their efforts would fail. But the wind would always be. And perhaps the wind’s shapeless currents were the only evidence of time running its course for those denied time.

  How long would a spirit have to wander those currents until collected and given shape for a second chance? How long until something in the wind cried out—

  It was Father Guerra who drew the sword.

  The priest had witnessed the cruel punishments handed out by this failed farmer standing next to him. He could not bear to see what the Inquisitor—one who was expert in creating punishments—would do to the girl. He swung Bustillo’s steel once around his head…then brought it down to pierce Ciriaca’s heart.

  The girl fell without a sound.

  Bustillo stood his ground, his hands wide. He had instinctively moved into a defensive position thinking Father Guerra intended to use the weapon on him.

  Father Guerra dropped to his knees. He began to weep. He cried out, “What have I done! What have I done!”

  Bustillo collected his wits. “It is a shame,” he said, lowering his hands. “I mean, of course, your thinking that neither world will accept her soul.”

  Father Guerra crawled from the body. He rose on his knees and lifted his eyes to the sky. He clasped his hands and spoke in the language of the Church.

  Bustillo said loudly, “We will be here too long if you intend to beg the forgiveness of her many gods.” He placed a foot on the body. “I now see the advantage of having only one. But, then again, if there is no one god to judge your crime,” and Bustillo withdrew his sword, “perhaps the crime would get lost among the many.”

  Father Guerra fell to his hands. He looked at Bustillo. “You think I could ever succumb to such reasoning?”

  Bustillo replied, “But Father Guerra, was it not the girl herself who said, ‘Where the soil is not right for wheat…?’”

  Father Guerra pulled a handful of grass from the ground. He sat quietly for a time, allowing the blades to fall from his hand, then said, “She also said her story would be carried on the wind.”

  Bustillo wiped blood from his sword. When finished, he examined the steel saying, “I cannot stop the wind. But I can make you appear as a patron of children. I could start work on an orphanage—built in your name, of course—so that when our friend from the North arrives, he will be impressed enough so as not to pay heed to rumors about your infatuation with a young heathen. Nor the death of another.”

  “What must I do?” asked Father Guerra.

  “I am not unaware that people refer to my efforts in this place as Bustillo’s Folly. I only need you to speak well of me to all you meet. Explain how I worked tirelessly to rid this place of an insurmountable evil. Perhaps use your Bible stories to make comparisons. And, of course, speak of my gift to the poor children.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” said Father Guerra.

  Bustillo sheathed his sword. “We cannot stop the wind, Father, but we can float upon it that which is favorable to our various causes.”

  The Inquisitor never arrived to Wuqub’ Kaqix. Instead there came emissaries representing both the Supreme Governor of Guatemala and the Archbishop of Mexico City. The two men arrived in separate coaches; each carried on the shoulders of men as if to demonstrate that they, of all the Spaniards, were the least beast-like. Their purpose was to put an end to the bold experiment of growing wheat in the region, and to reassign the principle Spaniards to places their talents were most suited. Felipé Bustillo was sent to oversee a cocoa plantation in the Yucatan. Father Guerra was escorted further south to continue his efforts to save heathen souls. The natives of Wuqub’ Kaqix were divided up and taken to various locations to work the land under Spanish employ. And the many sculptures of Seven Macaw were carried to Mexico City to be auctioned to wealthy Spaniards to pay the expenses of the emissaries traveling in comfort.

  Ciriaca did not give up the secret of Ukit Took to Governor Bustillo. This, her people knew because, every day before they departed their village, a lone, white bird flew from the direction Ciriaca was last seen walking, circled the village once, then soared away over the mountains.

  Upon being spread far and wide, the natives of Wuqub’ Kaqix knew the time would come when the white bird would draw them together and lead them to the site where Ukit Took entered the Underworld for his trials with the Lord of Death.

  And to witness the unfolding of the end of the Fourth Creation.

  ~ ~ ~

  The young storyteller stood. The older woman next to her struggled to rise. Aly nudged Tencho. He shook his head.

  The woman made it to her feet. She and the girl turned from the fire and walked into the trees.

  “Tencho,” said Aly quietly. “The reason these people don’t have tons of pots or pans or other crafts is because they’re bringing the stories to the party?” She shook his knee. “Tencho!”

  Tencho nodded

  Aly wanted to ask if the young girl was considered an incarnation of the white bird—of Ciriaca. But getting one answer from Tencho was a major accomplishment for the evening. Besides, whatever he told her might ruin the magic she felt in the air.

  21: “Sense of place.”

  The two men watched from the front seat of the limousine as the private jet met the runway without a skid or a bump.

  “Never see a more perfect landing than that,” said Kurtwood Franz. “But I guess anything looks good compared to midnight belly flops in the desert.”

  Jeffery Paxton smiled to himself. He wanted to ask Franz if his corporate pilot could touch down on a two lane blacktop, spot a swarm of Crown Vics swelling on the vanishing point, then pull up to turn a one-eighty and get back to altitude while under fire and without having to jettison a cargo with an estimated street value of eleven million dollars. Instead, “Precious cargo warrants a delicate hand.”

  Franz laughed. “Jeffery, Jeffery, Jeffery. Tell me, do I pay y
ou enough?”

  Paxton looked across the seat smiling at his boss. “I’m very happy with our arrangement, Kurty. But you know me. Always looking to improve.”

  “How about you just look the part for now,” said Franz. He reached out his right hand to the cap on the seat between them. “Put this on and button your tunic. Appearances…appearances are—”

  “I know who it is I’m dealing with,” said Paxton.

  The hand holding the hat froze. “Really. Sometimes I wonder what you do know.”

  “I know exactly what you want me to know,” said Paxton.

  “And I can count on you passing your knowledge to those people you told me about?” The hat stirred the space between them for emphasis.

  “You’ll never believe I’m grateful to you, will you? Not within your capacity.”

  Franz tossed the hat onto Paxton’s lap. He opened the door and slid from behind the wheel.

  The jet slowed to a crawl. It eased right toward the quickly striding Franz as if there was a planned meeting point. The plane turned slowly to once again offer its profile, then stopped.

  “Yeah. That looks about right,” Paxton said to himself. He imagined the “precious cargo” screaming at the pilot to position the plane to facilitate her grand exit.

  The door popped out and slid sideways. A uniformed shoulder was visible for a second, then the portable stairway folded out and down. Kenneth Fabritzi stepped out first. He descended the steps as routinely as if emerging from his domicile to collect the morning paper. He waited at the bottom.

  Several moments later Sylvie Averling presented herself to the city of Indianapolis. She paused on the top step, hand over brow turning side to side. She waved to her left, waved to her right. She looked straight ahead, taking a moment before acknowledging Franz. She put a finger to her chin and dipped at the knees, then turned a coy shoulder.

  Even from the distance Paxton could see the humor and irony in Sylvie’s gestures. “The girl is good at what she does,” he said to himself sliding behind the wheel.

  Sylvie descended the steps slowly, deliberately, like champagne in a fountain pooling in one glass before spilling to the next. Once she reached the bottom she put her hand into Breeze’s. Breeze raised her hand to present her to the now jogging Franz. Franz sprinted the final twenty yards, then lifted Sylvie in a bear hug.

  Paxton eased the limo toward the party of three. Three minutes later they were on their way to Franz World Headquarters.

  “Hackman would be great as the patriarch,” said Breeze, obviously picking up a conversation that had begun on the tarmac. “He’s always great. But, come on. You really don’t think just because—”

  “I’m only suggesting ways to give the picture a sense of place,” said Franz.

  Sylvie hadn’t said a word since getting into the limo. She kept up her fawning and vamping and waved through the window as if the route were lined with thousands who had turned out to greet her. Paxton watched her in the rearview mirror, the only one amused with her act.

  “Uh hum, I see,” said Breeze. “Then how’s this for a big finish. Sadie bursts from a crowd. She runs to the side of the road and very enticingly extends a bare ankle. But the cars keep whizzing past. They go by in a blur with that high pitched insect whine which is such a gripping sound on Dolby. But no one stops because it’s the big race, and it only comes round once a year, and there is ever so much at stake. Except, yes, it’s the man in the lead. He’s been going round and round all day, and victory is within his grasp and, of course, he’s never won the big race before, or any other race for that matter. Everything he’s ever had he will lose if he does not win this race. But there, gracing the side of the track—or brickyard, I believe you call it—is the brightest symbol of purity he’s ever encountered. He stops. Sadie jumps in. They race to the finish line. Alas, his attainment of purity has cost him the race. We cut away to an undeserving winner at the finish line greedily downing his milk from the bottle, then jump weeks ahead to Sadie squeezing the teats of a cow to offer her hero a truer, more lasting reward.”

  Paxton could have contained his laughter of Breeze’s treatment had Sylvie not been miming her part following each cue. The capper was her twisting up one teat to playfully squirt her hero.

  “One minor flaw in your logistics,” said Franz. “Those cars are practically painted onto the drivers. No way you get two in a cockpit. But there is a stool waiting out at the dairy farm for ruined filmmakers who can’t find their way home.”

  This got a terse, “Whoa ho!” from Paxton.

  Sylvie looked Paxton’s way. “What about you, Mr. Chauffeur?” she chirped. “Ever do any acting? Think you could find woom for wittle ol’ me in your cockpit?”

  “The pen’s work release program doesn’t include time out to make films,” said Breeze.

  A quizzical look spread over Franz’s face.

  “Oh, Woody, I told Breeze all about your programs. How you help people who…” Sylvie waved a limp hand around as if to idly brush animosity from the limousine. “And all of that.”

  “I figured as much when I recognized our pilot as a former hijacker,” said Breeze. “At least he was well enough trained to know his place.”

  Paxton’s eyes focused in the rearview mirror on Breeze’s.

  Sylvie bugged out her eyes and mimed holding a cigarette. “Fasten your seatbelts, we’re in for a bumpy evening.”

  Breeze stared hard into the reflection of Paxton’s eyes. “What we have here…is failure…to communicate!”

  Franz smiled broadly. “I could have him pull to the side of the road if you like,” he said to Breeze.

  Sylvie fanned her face. “Whew. All this testosterone.” She slid across the seat and opened a window. “Hey! Fellas! Who wants to see my Lassie?” She stuck out her head.

  Paxton laughed harder yet. He thought he might be falling in love.

  “Creepy,” said Sylvie as she ducked back into the car. “That’s the third school bus with, like, one kid in it.”

  Franz pulled her across the seat and held her tight. “Indianapolis is not a safe place for children right now.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Sylvie pointed out the window. “Look! There,” she said to Franz. “That’s the car I was telling you about. Isn’t it cute? It looks like a big cat about to pounce. Rrrowrr! Only I don’t want mine in black.”

  “Not now, babe. We’ll talk about it later.”

  The remainder of the ride passed in silence.

  22: “A. M. in the Apolis”

  “Oooookaaaaay, we are back. That’s right, ladies. We. Are. Back. Yes we are. WOO HOO! In case you didn’t know, in case you’ve been on a trip to Mars—yeah, uh huh. I cancelled my vacation to Pluto, too, baby. Yeah, Pluto is off the list. Ah ha ha, WOO! But in case you didn’t know, we are ‘A. M. In The Apolis,’ we are live and, that’s right, baby, we take no prisoners. Ooo, I like that. Take. No. Prisoners. WOO HOO!

  “What about you, sir? You feel us females have you in a hostage situation?

  “Ohhhh yeah, ladies, we have a gentleman in the audience this morning. One gentleman among fifty-nine ladies. Can we get the camera on him? T Bird? Show the folks at home Marva isn’t just about the female side. No? Maybe later? I see. You two’re poker buddies. Something like that.

  “Ohh-kay. Did I mention this is ‘A. M. In The Apolis?’ I did? What about, that’s ‘Apolis,’ as in Indy style! That’s right, baby. Nothing we do here is Minnie style. Uh uh. Nooo way.

  “What about you, sir? Ah ha ha. WOO! I’m not going to touch that one either.

  “You should see him back there. He got his head going up and down like a turtle. See? His head go up like this and he look all around. Then his head go back down. Down in its shell. See? Up like this. Back down. Ah ha ha! WOO HOO!

  “Ener-GEE! Yes. We have ener-GEE! And it. Is. Fresh. We know you like it fresh in the a. m. You like fresh coff-EEEE! You like yo
ur juice fresh. And now Marva is about to get fresh with you.

  “Yeah, see? His head just went back in the shell. See, it go down like this. Later on it pop back up and he look all around like this. Ah ha ha!

  “Oh my. What a good group we have here today. Ener-GEE! Good group. Good group. Now I know you’ve all heard me say that before. But special goodness deserves to be specially rewarded. Yeah? Yeah! You know what I’m talking about.

  “Look at that, T Bird. I haven’t even told them yet and they’re going crazy. YEAH! GIVE IT UP! GIVE! IT! UP!

  “No. No you did not! You did not tell them they’re all getting a bright and shiny new automobile. T Bird!

  “Hey, I’m just havin’ fun wit’ y’all. You know that. No new cars today. Not on this day, uhhh uh.

  “But we do have the next best thing, and that’s a little slice of Hollywood right here on ‘A. M. In The Apolis.’ So give it up, ladies. Oh, and gentle-man. Yeah, he’s looking around now. Ah ha. Give it up for the gal who’s here to tell us what’s new and how she’s leaving behind everything that’s old, Hollywood’s own, SYVIE AVERLING!

  “Yes. Yes. Oh my. Looking good. So fine. So fiiiiine. Twirl around one time, baby. Thass good. Thass reeee-al good. See, ladies, that’s what you call ‘back.’ Course ol’ Marva got so much back it’s coming ’round the front. Ah ha! Well, well, welcome. Welcome, Sylvie Averling. Welcome to ‘A. M. In The Apolis’ and take a seat right next to ol’ Marva. Yeah, thass good. Whew!”