I'm impressed by your wisdom and courage, Dad.
No. Not at all. I'm not even sure it was worth saving me, Ricky. But you're here and we'll beat those Santos Muertos, don't you worry.
I don't know, Dad. They’ve got the tablet and they're building some kind of machine that's going to set off the end of the world.
But they’d have to destroy the entire human race, Ricky. As long as there is one ray of human freedom shining in the darkness, they're beaten.
But if they can control time and space and matter, they've got a lock on the universe.
Not on love, not on friendship, not on courage. Nobody has a lock on those. They are gifts, open source. Nobody controls them.
It was getting colder. Our breath was showing in the light beam. From the ledge, Ricky seemed to be confused about which direction to go. The slight bends in the rock formations ahead seemed all the same, hard to tell apart. Also, the light from the headlamp was a little dimmer than it had been just a few minutes earlier. Unable to decide, Ricky asked us to stay behind while he scouted ahead.
No, Ricky. Let's stick together.
Which way do you think it is, then? Muscowequan said to memorize the way with mental images. They’re not coming back.
I think that way, I said, pointing toward a curve in the rock wall.
Ricky shone the lamp on a gap in the rock that was barely more than two feet across and almost directly overhead.
I think it's there.
You would have had to jump from there. Do you remember that?
I. . . I think so.
Let's try it, then.
We lifted Sabine up and she pulled herself through. Then Ricky got me up on his shoulders and positioned me below the gap. While Sabine held my forearms, I pulled myself up with all my strength, but it wasn't enough to boost me higher.
Come on, Dad! Ricky yelled. Then he placed his hands below my feet and pushed up with a shout. I locked my knees and Sabine pulled me by the armpits; and, with all of us putting our entire strength into it, I managed to get up through the gap. Then Ricky somehow leveraged himself against the wall of the cave and scooted through.
You're a natural. I always said so.
Ricky didn't even answer. He was busy observing, tasting the water dripping on all of us.
Yes. This is right, he said.
He looked around with the beam, and there in the dark, barely visible, was the end of a rope dangling about twenty feet over our heads.
There it is, said Ricky. That's Muscowequan's rope. We're almost out.
How do we get up to it? asked Sabine.
We'll have to climb along the crack there, said Ricky, flashing the light along the wall next to us. Icicles formed from the crack and water dripped from the end of them. It looked impossible to me, but I kept quiet.
Ricky went first, followed by Sabine. They managed to hold themselves up on the wall of the cave and climb upward by jamming their hands and feet into the crack that ran straight up the side. Both reached the rope.
The crack was easy, they both yelled down, but I didn't believe it. Their voices echoed and then there was nothing but silence and the beam of Ricky's headlamp pointing the way for me. I swallowed hard. This was it. I wouldn't have a second chance. The first foothold or two were easy, but I soon found my legs barely able to hold me as I pushed and strained to get up higher. My feet were slipping on the rock face. Ricky climbed down and steadied me, bracing himself with his legs and one arm and wrapping his other arm around my back.
Give me a second, Ricky, I said.
You can do it, Dad. I've got faith in you. Just a couple more steps. Just put your feet where I do. I'll try to pull you up.
In this way, placing my feet in the footholds Ricky had used and him pulling me, one level at a time, we made it. Now the three of us were wedged into the rock within reach of the rope, and Ricky climbed up it like a fireman while we waited. When he had disappeared, in the total blackness of the cave, Sabine helped me tie the end of the rope around my waist. We worked the rope together without a problem. Our hands were coordinated as if we were one body. Then I heard a shout from above.
Go ahead, said Sabine. Let go.
I let go of the rock and dangled in the darkness. I felt the first tug. I was going up and I couldn't help shouting with joy. We were getting out.
Higher and higher the rope pulled me up, swaying back and forth. I had to hold myself against the rock face occasionally, and the rope twisted me around in the darkness. Then I felt hands grabbing me under the arms and pulling me up and over a ledge and light hitting me in the eyes so that I couldn't see anything except silhouettes. I shouted for Ricky, but there was no answer, just strange voices and bodies pushing me down and tying my hands behind my back. When I could see again after several minutes, what I saw I wanted to never see again. My hopes were dashed like frail wisps at the sight of the men in black bodysuits. The language they were speaking was the guttural, crude lingua franca of the Santos Muertos. I saw Ricky, his hands also tied behind his back and eyes tearing with frustration. Bound hand and foot, was another man I assumed was Muscowequan. Then they pulled Sabine out, and their voices got even more excited as they vied for the pleasure of tying her up.
Any more? asked a Santos Muertos man, kicking at Ricky.
Ricky did not answer.
The men took turns firing with their guns down into the darkness. We had been snapped up like fish in a barrel, and it made it no better that we were four together. They hustled us out of the cave with little decorum and pushed us onboard a helicopter that took off in a dim, Arctic light.
Twenty—The New Historical Period
On the helicopter flight, Ricky watched his father, wanting to lift his spirits. When Al looked up, Ricky smiled at him, trying to communicate a sense of hope, and Al responded with a smile; and then Muscowequan picked up on it and Sabine seemed all along to have had her head raised and was defiantly looking around her at the Santos Muertos men. The flight lasted no more than fifteen minutes, and the chopper touched down in the complex of low, squat buildings of the Harken oil refinery. Guards in black uniforms rushed out of the building. The men in the helicopter shoved the prisoners out the hatch and into the waiting grip of the guards on the ground as the chopper blades slowed to a stop in the frigid wind.
Inside the building, a platform of latticed iron beams arched above a massive pit. In the depths of the pit a shell-like structure with a dome top glowed green and blue. Men, in the black uniform that was the standard issue of the Santos Muertos rank and file, lined the platform and glared at the prisoners as they were walked out to the middle of it. From the other direction approached a phalanx of men, visiting dignitaries and higher ups from organizations from around the world allied to the Santos Muertos. Out in front of them strode Samael Chagnon, black motorcycle boots and a black leather coat gleaming in the artificial light. Over his shoulder swung the automatic rifle that he'd carried on board the Night Horse, and on his hips a Brazilian bush machete, honed and oiled, bounced as he walked out to the prisoners in a bow-legged, disjointed gait. Behind Chagnon and the other men followed a television crew with cameras rolling and lights and soundmen and a newscaster in an improbable white suit, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief under the glare of the lights. Chagnon stopped in front of the prisoners.
I see you again, Mr. Lyons. It is some time since we last spoke.
Chagnon's voice was magnified, speaking on a public address system. Ricky noticed the television crews filming and the silence that had come over the building, except for the hum, like a low-level electricity generator, of the machine below.
Al did not respond. He didn't even look up.
And this is your son?
Still no response from Al.
And I see you have other friends also. All this is good. You see we have the Chocomal for some time, thanks to your son and his fortune; and now we are prepared to begin the new heroic age we have longed for, all of us, including you, Mr.
Lyons. Thanks to the Chocomal and the higher mathematics of the Mayan priests that our scholars have interpreted and distilled to the resonances and ratios of Universal forms, we have now in our power to destroy the life of this world and begin new with a fresh, heroic consciousness and people.
What's your plan? asked Al.
My plan, Mr. Lyons, with your help, is to usher in a new time, the time of an order founded on the law of the Santa Muerte in which the material world will provide without cease for our well-being. The destruction of the old order has already been initiated and world governments have been contacted. We will, of course, symbolically enrich the experience by having simultaneous sacrifices to mark the end of the dark age of Quetzalcoatl. You see the new Queen of Death behind you.
Chagnon pointed with a flourish to the banners hanging on the wall of the warehouse, black flags of Santa Muerte, a grotesque skeleton topped with blood red serpents for hair and a red rose in her teeth dripping tears of blood. In her hands were a knife and a rifle.
Ricky watched intently as his father stepped forward from their group.
Yes, he said.
Good. As an initiate of the Santa Muerte you are well placed to sever the old from the new and preserve your life and the life of your fellow prisoners. But there must be sacrifice, always a sacrifice at the launch of the new way, a show of allegiance to a higher order, a spiritual order. The new morality of the Santa Muerte.
At this a cheer went up from the soldiers and there were even a few who shot off rounds from their rifles into the air. Ricky and Muscowequan ducked, and the soldiers jabbed at them with their boots to get them to stand up.
I order you, Mr. Lyons, to cut off the head of the son you once spawned in the hell of America.
Chagnon approached Al and took the machete off his hip. Al received it into his two hands and stood there. The camera crew approached and the man in the white suit exchanged words with one of Chagnon's aides. The crew lined up and rolled film while the announcer spoke into the lens. Then Al spoke with Chagnon. The words were muted and hard to hear. Something about the prisoners needing to have their hands unbound to signify acceptance of the true way of Santa Muerte, for the world to know that compulsion was not necessarily the means of the Santa, but instead the compelling weight of her cult's purpose and underlying truth. It was a long speech that Al made to Chagnon. He stood with the machete at the ready, and several of the guards lining the platform had raised rifles pointed in his direction.
Chagnon at last concurred. This was the proper way. He ordered the guards to untie the prisoners but keep them together. While the guards undid their hands, Ricky could hear Al asking Chagnon in a chatty sort of way about the machine.
How do you transfer the sound energy into a propulsive force? I would love to have a chance to get aboard and see how it works.
Yes, you will get to ride, Al. I promise with my word of honor. There are two modes, and the one that is interesting is not really flight, but instead a condensing of the Higgs field via a negative energy pulse so that one can say it moves faster than light, but not really seem to move in our meager dimensional orientation. It may be difficult to comprehend and may remain a theoretical capability for the time being. Ah, here he is. The boy who will be offered up. I see he is a good muchacho. You will be proud of his behavior, I am sure.
One more thing, so my son can comprehend the meaning of this. It’s not in vain, Ricky. I mean, this machine, if I understand it, can take the entire planet with it in this way and move through the space-time field.
Well, I see that you are curious. But as I said, it is a theoretical possibility.
But if you are moving faster than light, you could jump back in time.
Theoretically, Mr. Lyons. We are still living in the three dimensions of history and now must begin our birth of the new historical period, washing with the blood of the appropriate sacrifices.
Yes. I understand. Ricky, I love you. You carry the world on your shoulders. Al looked deeply at Ricky as he spoke.
The cameras rolled. Ricky, looking at Al intently, understanding both his father's words and the true meaning behind them, got to his knees before him. Al raised the machete over Ricky. And then, with a swift movement, so fast that it could barely be seen, he dropped the machete and rushed Chagnon from a low crouch. A tackle around the waist took both men to the edge of the platform. Chagnon reached out with both hands and fell screaming. The momentum carried Al over the edge a split second later, a period of time that seemed frozen in horror to Ricky. He could hear the distant thuds of the bodies landing on the machine below.
Ricky picked up the machete. The newsman in the white suit looked at him, eyes wide with fear and surprise. Ricky locked his arm with the machete blade against the sweaty, wet throat of the broadcaster.
Don't move, he said.
The soldiers raised their rifles and rushed in, but not before Muscowequan and Sabine had lined up with Ricky. Ricky held the newsman in front of him.
The rest of the warehouse was in a state of pandemonium, soldiers rushing in all directions. The machine below was humming loudly and the noise was beginning to reach a decibel pitch that was painful to the ear.
Clear out. We're getting on, said Ricky. He shoved the newsman before him. The Santos Muertos men, in a state of disorganized indecision, lowered their weapons and let them through. At the end of the platform was a lift. The four crowded on and Muscowequan worked the controls to drop them swiftly down to the level of the ship's bridge.
Ricky. Why don't we just get out of here instead of going on this thing? Muscowequan asked.
It's already started up. If we don't want volcanoes erupting and boiling the oceans into steam, we need to get it up to speed and reverse back in time.
Do you know how to do that?
I'll figure it out.
At the bottom of the lift, the gate opened, and inside the bridge of the ship sat a couple of men with facial tattoos and white lab coats. Behind them rows of consoles carried displays and controls. They stepped on board and Ricky pushed the newsman aside. He walked up to the technicians at their consoles and looked at a display on one of the screens. It showed the hieroglyphs of the Chocomal.
I'm in charge of this now, he announced.
Who are you? asked one of the technicians.
I'm the one the Old Woman was waiting for. You get this thing up to max speed immediately.
Ultimate frequency? asked the technician.
That's what we want. Do you think we can do it?
We will see. The Santa is looking out for you, no?
She better be.
The technicians nodded, then turned back again to their instruments, whispering excitedly to each other in front of the displays. The gate of the bridge hummed while it shut, and then there was no noise at all. The technicians typed just a couple of commands on their keypads, which initiated a high-pitched whine that settled down instantly. Lights flashed and there was a sensation of spinning. Ricky grabbed Sabine and Muscowequan’s hands and pulled.
Quick. Sit down.
They sat facing each other and mimicked Ricky's cross-legged pose, almost touching each other's knees.
Where are we going, Ricky? asked Sabine.
We need to think. We're going back in time, and we need to carry everyone on our shoulders. Think of everything good you ever saw. Think of the most fun you ever had. Think of your grandparents, brothers and sisters, parents, uncles and cousins. Think of everyone: Jesus and Buddha and Moses. Joan of Arc, Martin Luther King, Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Mandela, Einstein, Tracy Chapman, Coldplay. Think of the best painting, the nicest music. We need to concentrate on all of it at the same time. Okay? Do it now.
Can we think of anything we want? asked Sabine.
Ricky looked at her.
The highest good contains everything and anything in it, said Muscowequan. How could it be any other way?
Okay. Answer your own questions from now on, said Ricky.
Can I
join you? The newsman was trying to sit down.
Sure, said Muscowequan. He moved over to make some room. The newsman sat down. His face had a beatific look as if he were in on the secrets of the Old Woman. Ricky even thought maybe he was the Old Woman in disguise and had known everything that was going to happen. Then the world elongated and grew flat and was no more. They had traveled beyond infinity to a new day. It was a better day.
Twenty-One—Beyond Infinity to the New Day
It was morning, and sunlight was beginning to burnish the pale blue dawn of a February sky with its vitamin-fortified, Florida orange juice hues. Silence. Then at once the morning sounds of cars and trucks on the nearby Indian River Boulevard. Al rose from bed and walked into the bathroom and examined his face in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot; but he felt deeply rested, as if he'd slept for many hours. He wandered downstairs and turned on the computer in his study and looked at the news. It was February 23, 2010. Nothing about any crack in the sky.
Ricky was in the kitchen. He was drinking a glass of chocolate milk and looking like he was getting ready to go out.
Where are you going? asked Al.
Surfing, said Ricky.
Do you know what day it is today?
No.
Where were you yesterday?
Dad, don't try to make inane conversation. Look at this.
Ricky held up the tablet, the Chocomal.
Where'd you get that?
I don't know. I found it. Mom would have loved it, don't you think.
Yes. She would have.
It has all that Mayan stuff that she loved. Are we still going to Guatemala? Didn't you say something about that?
I don't know. I'm thinking about it.
Al started up the coffee maker and, while he waited for it to brew, he went back to the computer and put in a name in the search bar. Sabine DeVries. He thought about hitting enter but thought again, decided to wait, and finally hit the button. Up came a list of items including a web page for a counseling service in Antwerp. There was a photograph, a tiny mugshot of a woman. It was her.
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