by Alten-Steve
She pulls her arm away. “I was raised in the States. I don’t believe in any of that Popol Vuh nonsense.”
“Just hear me out—”
“No!” She grabs him by the shoulders. “Mick, stop a second and listen to me—please. I care about you, you know that, don’t you? I think you’re an intelligent, sensitive, and extremely gifted person. If you allow me, if you trust me, I can help you through this.”
His face lights up. “Really? That’s great because I could really use your help. You know, we only have eleven days until—”
“No, you misunderstand.” Be maternal. “Mick, this is going to be very hard for you to hear, but I have to say it. You’re showing every sign of suffering from a severe case of paranoid schizophrenia. It’s got you so confused, you can’t see the forest for the trees. It could be congenital in nature, or it could just be the effects of eleven years in solitary. Whatever the case, you need help.”
“Dom, what I saw wasn’t any manifestation. What I saw was the interior of a very high-tech, very alien spacecraft.”
“A spacecraft?” Oh, God, I’m out of my league.
“Wake up, Dominique. The government knows it’s down there, too—”
Classic paranoid delusions …
“That nonsense they fed you aboard the Boone was just a cover-up story.”
Hot tears of frustration roll down her cheeks as she realizes the devastating error of her ways. Dr Owen had been right all along. By opening her heart to her patient, she had destroyed her objectivity. Everything that had come to pass was her fault. Iz was dead, Edie under arrest, and the man whom she had reached out to, the man who she had sacrificed everything for, was nothing more than a paranoid schizophrenic whose mind had finally snapped.
A sudden thought crosses her mind. The closer we get to the winter solstice, the more dangerous he’ll become.
“Mick, you need help. You’ve lost touch with reality.”
Mick stares at the perfectly cut limestone block beneath his feet. “Why are you here, Dominique?”
She takes his hand. “I’m here because I care. I’m here because I can help you.”
“Another lie.” He looks at her, his dark eyes glistening in the moonlight. “Borgia got to you, didn’t he? He’s consumed with hatred toward my family. The man will say or do anything to get me back. How did he threaten you?”
She looks away.
“What did he promise you? Tell me what he said.”
“You want to know what he said?” She turns and glares at him, the anger rising in her voice. “He arrested Edie. He said the two of us will spend a long time in prison for our part in releasing you.”
“Damn. I’m sorry—”
“Borgia promised he’d drop the charges against both of us if I found you. He gave me a week. If I fail, Edie and I both go to prison.”
“Bastard.”
“Mick, it’s not all bad. Dr Foletta agreed to place me in charge of your care.”
“Foletta, too? Oh, Christ—”
“You’ll be taken to the new facility in Tampa. No more isolation. From now on, a board certified team of psychiatrists and clinicians will work with you. They’ll get you the care you need. Before you know it, we’ll have you on a drug-therapy program that will put you back in control of your own thoughts. No more asylums, and no more living in Mexican jungles as a fugitive. Eventually you’ll be able to lead a normal, productive life.”
“Gee, you make it sound so wonderful,” he says sarcastically. “And Tampa’s so close to Sanibel Island, too. Did Foletta throw in full medical? How about your own parking spot?”
“I’m not doing this for me, Mick, I’m doing it for you. This might turn out to be the best thing that could’ve happened.”
He shakes his head sadly. “Dom, it’s you who can’t see the forest for the trees.” He reaches down and pulls her to her feet, pointing to the heavens. “Can you see that dark line paralleling the Great Ball Court? That’s the dark rift of the Milky Way, the equivalent of our Galactic Equator. Once every 25,800 years, the Sun moves into alignment at its center point. The exact date of that precise alignment comes in eleven days. Eleven days, Dominique. On that day, the day of the winter solstice, a cosmic portal will open, allowing a malevolent force access into our world. By the end of the day, you, me, Edie, Borgia, and every living soul on this planet will be dead—unless we can locate the hidden entrance into this pyramid.”
Mick looks into her eyes, his heart aching. “I—I love you, Dominique. I’ve loved you since the day we met, since the day you showed me a simple act of kindness. I’m also indebted to you and Edie. But right now, I have to see this thing through, even if it means losing you. Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is all just some grandiose schizophrenic delusion, passed on to me by my two psychotic parents. Maybe I’m so far over the edge that I can’t even see the playing field anymore. But don’t you see—whether it’s real or just a fabric of my imagination, I can’t stop now, I have to see this thing through.”
He picks up the ultrasonic inspectroscope, his eyes glistening with tears. “I swear to you, on my mother’s soul, that if I’m wrong, I’ll return to Miami on December 22 and turn myself in to the authorities. Until then, if you want to help me, if you really care, then stop being my psychiatrist.
“Be my friend.”
21
DECEMBER 10, 2012: UNITED NATIONS BUILDING, NEW YORK CITY
The packed auditorium grows quiet, the television cameras rolling as Viktor Ilyich Grozny walks to the podium to address the members of the United Nations Security Council and the rest of the world.
“Madame President, Mr Secretary-General, members of the Security Council, honored guests—this is a sad day. Despite mandates and warnings from the General Assembly and the Security Council, despite the exhaustive efforts of preventive diplomacy and peacemaking by the Secretary-General and his special envoys, one nation—one rogue, but very powerful nation, continues to threaten the rest of the world with the most dangerous weapon in the history of mankind.
“The Cold War is long over, or so we are told, the virtues of capitalism triumphing over the evils of communism. While the economies of the West continue to grow, the Russian Federation struggles to rebuild. Our people are destitute, starving by the thousands. Do we blame the West? No. Russia’s problems were created by Russians, and it is our responsibility to save ourselves.”
The angelic blue eyes project a childlike innocence into the camera. “I am a man of peace. Through the diplomacy of words I have convinced our Arab and Serbian and Korean brothers to lay down their guns against their sworn enemies, because I know and believe in my heart that violence solves nothing and that the wrongs of the past cannot be undone. Morality is a personal choice. Each of us shall be judged by the Creator when the time comes, yet no man has a God-given right to inflict pain and suffering on another in the name of morality.”
Grozny’s eyes grow harsh. “Let him without sin cast the first stone. The Cold War is dead, yet the United States, by virtue of strong economy and military might, continues to police the world, deciding whether the policies of another nation are morally sound. Like the school bully, America balls its fist, threatening violence, all in the name of peace. As the most powerful hypocrite in the world, the United States arms the oppressed, until they become the oppressors. Israel, South Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Bosnia, Kosovo, Taiwan—how many more must die before the United States realizes that the threat of violence only leads to more violence, that tyranny, disguised by the best of intentions, is still tyranny?”
The eyes soften. “And now the world bears witness to a new type of threat. Possessing the most sophisticated fighting force in history is not enough. The domination of space is not enough. The implementation of their Missile Defense Shield is not enough. Now, the capitalists have a new weapon, one that changes the rules of nuclear stalemate. Why does the United States continue to test these weapons and deny responsibility? Does the American president take us
all for fools? Do his excuses soothe the frail nerves of the Australian and Malaysian people? Where will the next detonation occur? China? The Russian Federation? Or perhaps the Middle East, where three American aircraft carriers and their fleets are poised to strike, all in the name of justice.
“The Russian Federation joins China and the rest of the world in condemning these new threats of violence. Today, we state this warning, and let me be perfectly clear, lest our own morality be judged. We will not live in fear. We will no longer buckle to the bully tactics of the West. The next pure-fusion detonation shall be the last, for we will interpret this as a declaration of nuclear war!”
The assembly erupts in pandemonium, the protests of the United States delegates going unheard as Victor Grozny’s security guards rush him out of the building.
Town of Pisté (2 km West of Chichén Itzá), Yucatán Peninsula
Dominique Vazquez opens her eyes to the sound of clucking chickens. Morning light filters in between rotting wooden slats above her head, revealing a ballet of airborne particles dancing in the air. She stretches in her sleeping bag, then rolls over.
Mick is already up, leaning against a haystack, studying his father’s journal. The sun’s rays illuminate the angular lines of his face. He looks up, the black eyes twinkling at her.
“Good morning.”
She slides out of the sleeping bag. “What time is it?”
“About eleven. Are you hungry? The Formas left breakfast for you in the kitchen.” He points outside the open barn door to the pink stucco house. “Go ahead, help yourself. I ate earlier.”
Barefoot, she walks across the straw and soil-infested floor and sits down next to him. “What are you working on?”
He points to the drawing of the Nazca pyramid. “This symbol is the key to finding the hidden entrance into the Kukulcán pyramid. The animal is a jaguar, the symbol inverted to indicate descent. The ancient Maya considered the jaguar’s open mouth to be linked to both terrestrial caves and the Underworld. The closest caves around here are in Balancanché. My parents and I spent years searching them, but found nothing.”
“What about this pattern of concentric circles?”
“That’s the part of the equation I’m still struggling with. At first, I thought the pattern might symbolize a subterranean chamber. Identical circles can be found carved in all of the ancient sites my parents explored. I even went back to the Balancanché caves when I first arrived, but found nothing.”
Dominique removes the map of Chichén Itzá from her back pocket. She stares at the layout of the ruins, the photographs taken from high above the ancient city. “Tell me more about this Mayan Underworld. What did you call it?”
“Xibalba. According to the Mayan creation myth, the dark rift in the Milky Way was Xibalba Be, the Black Road to the Underworld. It’s written in the Popol Vuh that Xibalba is where birth, death, and resurrection take place. Unfortunately, the words of the Popol Vuh require a bit of interpretation. I’m sure most of the original meaning has been lost over the centuries.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The Popol Vuh was written around the sixteenth century, long after the rise and fall of the Mayan civilization and the disappearance of Kukulcán. As a result, the stories tend to lean more toward mythology than fact. Then again, after what I saw in the Gulf, I’m no longer sure.” He looks at her, uncertain as to whether he should continue.
“Go on, I’m listening.”
“With an open mind, or is this just part of my therapy?”
“You said you needed a friend, well here I am.” She squeezes his hand. “Mick, this alien you claim communicated with you—you say it spoke to you in your father’s voice?”
“Yes. It deceived me, baited me into moving closer.”
“Now, don’t get upset, but in the Popol Vuh ’s creation story, didn’t you tell me the same thing happened to, uh, what was his name?”
“One Hunahpu.” His eyes widen.
Excellent, he’s recognizing the origins of his own dementia.
“You still think I imagined this whole thing, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say that, but you have to admit, it certainly is a strange parallel. What happened to One Hunahpu after the Underworld gods deceived him?”
“He and his brother were tortured and put to death. But his defeat was part of a greater plan. After the Under Lords decapitated him, they left his head in the crook of a calabash tree to keep trespassers away from Xibalba. But one day, a beautiful woman, Blood Moon, decided to defy the gods and visit the skull tree. She reached out to One Hunahpu’s skull, which magically spat on her hand, impregnating her. Blood Moon escaped, returning to the Middleworld—to Earth—to give birth to the Hero Twins— Hunahpu and Xbalanque.”
“Hunahpu and Xbalanque?”
“Twin sons—the Hero Twins. The boys would grow up to become great warriors. Upon reaching adulthood, they returned to Xibalba to challenge the Lords of the Underworld. Once more, the evil gods attempted to win by using trickery, but this time the Hero Twins prevailed, defeating their enemy, vanquishing evil, and resurrecting their father. One Hunahpu’s resurrection leads to the celestial conception and rebirth of the Mayan nation.”
“Tell me again about this Black Road speaking to One Hunahpu. How can a road speak?”
“I don’t know. According to the Popol Vuh, the entrance to the Black Road was symbolized as being the mouth of a great serpent. The dark rift was also considered to be a celestial serpent.”
Go for it. Push him. “Mick, just hear me out for a second. You’ve spent your entire life chasing Mayan ghosts, absorbing yourself in the legends of the Popol Vuh. Isn’t it remotely possible that you—”
“That I what? That I imagined my father’s voice?”
“Don’t get angry. I’m only asking because the story of One Hunahpu’s journey seems to parallel everything you’ve told me about this subterranean chamber. I also think you have some unresolved issues with your father.”
“Maybe I do, but I didn’t imagine that alien being. I didn’t imagine my father’s voice. It was real.”
“Or maybe it only seemed real.”
“You’re playing psychiatrist again.”
“I’m only trying to be a friend. Paranoid delusions are very powerful things. The first step in helping yourself is to accept the fact that you need help.”
“Dominique, stop—”
“If you let me, I can help you—”
“No!” Mick pushes past her and out the barn door. He closes his eyes, taking deep breaths, warming his face in the midday sun as he struggles to regain control.
That’s far enough. I planted the seed, now I have to regain his confidence. She turns her attention back to the map of Chichén Itzá. For some reason, the aerial image of the cenote catches her eye. She thinks back to the previous night, her walk through the jungle.
The cenote walls … glistening in the moonlight. The grooves in the limestone …
“What is it?”
Startled, she looks up, surprised to find him hovering over her. “Uh, nothing, it’s probably nothing.”
“Tell me.” The ebony eyes are too intense to fool.
“Here, see this map. The aerial image of the cenote resembles the pattern of concentric circles found within the Nazca pyramid drawing.”
“My parents came to the same conclusion. They spent months scuba-diving inside every cenote, exploring every sinkhole and subterranean cave in the area. The only thing they found were a few skeletons, the sacrificial remains of the dead, but nothing even resembling a passage.”
“Have you checked the cenote since the earthquake?” She cringes as the words escape her mouth.
“Earthquake?” Mick’s face lights up. “The earthquake on the fall equinox struck Chichén Itzá? Jesus, Dominique, why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I don’t know—I guess I didn’t realize it was that important. By the time I found out, Foletta had doped you into a veget
able.”
“Tell me about the earthquake. How did it affect the cenote?”
“It was just a blurb in the news. A bunch of tourists claimed they witnessed the well’s waters churning during the seismic disturbance.”
Mick takes off running.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“We’ll need a car. We’ll probably have to spend a day or two in Merida picking up supplies. Eat something. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.”
“Mick, wait—what supplies? What are you talking about?”
“Scuba gear. We need to check out the cenote.”
She watches him jog down the road, heading into town.
Way to go, Sigmund. You weren’t supposed to encourage him.
Annoyed at herself, she leaves the barn and enters the Formas’ home, a five-room stucco dwelling brightly decorated in Mexican motif. She finds a plate of fried bananas and corn bread on the kitchen table and sits down to eat.
Then she notices the telephone.
JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL
It was the summer of 1985, and we were back in Nazca.
For the first six months, the three of us commuted daily from a small apartment in Ica, a bustling little city located 90 miles to the north of Nazca. But our dwindling budget soon forced us to relocate, and I moved my family into a sparse, two-room dwelling in the farming village of Ingenio.
Having sold our camper, I was able to purchase a small hot-air balloon. Each Monday morning at sunrise, Maria, Michael, and I would soar a thousand feet over the desert pampa, photographing the myriad lines and magnificent animals etched upon the plateau. The remainder of the week would be dedicated to a thorough analysis of the photos, which we hoped would reveal the message that might guide our entrance into the Kukulcán pyramid.
The overwhelming challenge of translating the Nazca drawings is that there are far more false clues than real ones. Hundreds of animal figures and thousands of shapes proliferate the desert canvas like prehistoric graffiti, the majority of which were not created by the original artist of Nazca. Rectangles, triangles, trapezoids, clusters, and impossibly straight lines, some over 25 miles in length, are spread over 200 square miles of dun-colored flats. Add to these the humanlike figures carved into the surrounding hillsides, and you can see how daunting our task was. Nevertheless, our efforts eventually helped segregate what we deemed to be the more vital etchings from the rest of the Peruvian epigraph.