by J; P Voelkel
“What do you speak at home?”
“Yucatec.”
“Is that the Mayan language?”
“One of them.”
“How many are there?”
“About thirty.”
Max gave a low whistle to show he was impressed. “Go on then, say something—”
“Kanaant awook!”
“What does that mean?”
“‘Watch out!’”
Too late. Max tripped over a large root and grabbed the nearest tree to steady himself. A searing pain shot through his hand. Several long needles were sticking into the fleshy part of his thumb.
“Let me see,” said Lola, inspecting the wound. She slashed the tree trunk with her machete as if, bizarrely, she was punishing the tree for hurting him.
“It’s called a give-and-take palm,” she explained. “The thorns give you pain, but”—she peeled off some bark to show him the pink fibrous underside—“the bark takes it away. It’s the only thing that works.”
Max winced as she pulled out the needles, one by one. “Where did you get that Ramones T-shirt?” he asked, to take his mind off the pain.
“A boy gave it to me.”
“What boy?”
“A student from New York.”
“Did you go to New York?”
“I will one day.”
“So where did you meet him?”
“At Itzamna. Archaeology students come from all over the world.”
“Are there students there now?”
“I don’t think so.”
She pressed the pink fiber onto his injured thumb. The pain stopped almost immediately. “Better?” she asked.
“So is this New Yorker your boyfriend?”
Lola laughed and jumped up. “We need to move,” she said.
“How old is he?”
“We’d go a lot faster if you stopped talking.”
She set a brisk pace, and Max soon fell behind. This was the opportunity Chulo had been waiting for. When Lola was too far ahead to see, the monkey pelted him with nuts, sticks, and bits of rotten fruit. Whenever a missile bounced off Max’s head, Chulo would screech with delight. Once he threw a small iguana, and instead of bouncing off, it dug its claws into Max’s scalp.
Lizard wars.
Lola saw none of this. But just as Max was wrenching the iguana off his head to hurl it back at Chulo, she happened to turn around. Her face was a picture of disbelief.
“I’m not even going to ask,” she said.
“He started it,” said Max, pointing at Chulo.
“You should be flattered,” said Lola. “He has the crazy idea that you’re a threat to his position as the dominant male.”
“Why’s it crazy?” asked Max, puffing out his chest and trying to look dominant.
A wild avocado, hard as a rock, hit the back of his neck.
“Did you see that?” he demanded, but Lola had already gone on ahead.
A ball of monkey dung whizzed past his ear.
Max sighed. It was going to be a long and vexing morning.
“Are we stopping for lunch?” he asked, when the sun was overhead.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” said Lola.
“But I’m starving,” protested Max.
“You’re always starving,” Lola pointed out. “But there’s usually something to eat around here if you know where to look.”
She inspected a fallen palm tree near the trail. “You’re in luck, Hoop,” she called, as she hacked into the trunk with her machete. The wood was rotten and splintered easily.
Max wondered what there could be to eat in a dead tree.
And then the answer was there, under his nose.
Three enormously fat white maggots writhed on Lola’s outstretched hand.
“They’re palm grubs,” she said. “Some people think they’re delicious.”
Strangely, Max wasn’t hungry anymore …
… until, late that afternoon, a waft of smoky fires and cooking smells told him they were close to Utsal.
Hot food and ice-cold soda were within reach.
He picked up his pace. All day long, he’d been imagining a busy town with whitewashed houses, clean bathrooms, and an air-conditioned pizza restaurant. As the hours went by, he’d added an Internet café, a gaming arcade, and an ice-cream parlor.
Now he was really salivating.
“Welcome to Utsal!” cried Lola happily.
All Max could see was a few shacks in a clearing on the riverbank.
“That’s it?” he said.
“What were you expecting?”
Max was too disappointed to answer.
There would be no pizza, no soda, no ice cream.
No home comforts of any kind.
At the end of a miserable day was another miserable night.
He hated this place already.
A pack of scrawny dogs trotted out to bark at them, closely followed by a herd of children and a rush of women in embroidered blouses and long skirts.
The women ran joyfully to Lola, arms open, black braids flying behind them. As they hugged her and poured out greetings in Mayan, the children clustered around Max. To his annoyance, the tallest ones yanked his hair to see if it was real. He was just about to ask Lola to have a word with them, when they bounded away like a herd of frightened deer.
Max squinted into the afternoon sun to see what had scared them.
It was a man. An old man. He looked a bit like a Maya version of Gandalf.
His hair flowed down in a thick gray mane. His huge hooked nose protruded out of a face so deeply wrinkled, it reminded Max of a pyramid rising out of the tangled jungle. He wore a long embroidered tunic and a necklace of jaguar teeth. He leaned on a carved wooden cane. His ancient, calloused feet were bare.
Lola pulled Max forward, but his only thought was to get away, to run and keep on running until he had escaped this stranger’s penetrating gaze. The closer the old man came, the more his eyes locked on to Max’s brain. They read his mind, they burned into his soul, they reflected his past and future in their watery orbs.
These eyes gave new meaning to the term farsighted.
Yet, clouded as they were with cataracts, the old man’s eyes were almost blind.
Chapter Twelve
THE FEAST
Holding his other hand up as if to stop traffic, the old man pointed at Max with his cane. He cleared his throat. Even the birds in the trees stopped singing as the world waited to hear his words of wisdom.
“Pepperoni Supreme with extra cheese,” he said.
Max gaped at him. That was exactly what he’d been thinking about before his mind went numb with terror. He started backing away uneasily.
The old man let out a booming laugh and turned to Lola.
“Your friend likes pizza, Ix Sak Lol,” he said.
“You’re right”—she smiled—“as always!”
She grabbed Max’s arm and pulled him forward. “Max Murphy, meet Chan Kan, village leader and wise man.”
“All blessings, Max Murphy, and welcome to Utsal,” said Chan Kan.
Max nodded and babbled something, too awestruck to form actual words.
Chan Kan, still chuckling, turned to Lola. “Biix abeel, chan aabil?” he said. “How are you, little granddaughter?”
“Ma’alob, tatich! Kux teech?” answered Lola. “I’m fine, Grandfather! And you?”
Soon they were jabbering away to each other in Mayan.
Max, still dizzy from Chan Kan’s scrutiny, sat down on the grass.
He looked at the village. It was just a few thatched huts on stilts, clustered around a large central square. All the huts had steps up to an open porch, and most of the porches were strung with brightly striped hammocks.
He looked at the river, the famous Monkey River. It was wide, green, and fast-flowing. There were a few dugout canoes on the bank and a rickety bamboo landing stage for bigger boats.
A long-necked white heron settled on a tree stump to
eat its catch.
Some women came down for water. Each one carried a large earthenware pot on her back, held by a woven strap over her forehead. As they walked back with their heavy loads, they chatted happily to each other and waved at the men who were building something with poles and palm fronds in the main square.
There was a sense of bustle in the air and a delicious smell of food.
Max’s stomach rumbled loudly.
And still Lola talked on.
He was planning how to drag her away without incurring the old man’s wrath, when she ran over and sat down next to him. “Sorry,” she said. “Chan Kan likes to talk.”
“He’s your grandfather?”
“No, his family kind of adopted me. But listen, Hoop, he said that Hermanjilio came through here a few days ago.”
“With my parents?”
“Alone.”
Max threw a stone at a passing iguana. He missed.
“Congratulations,” he said. “Your precious Hermanjilio is safe.”
“He’s waiting for us at Itzamna. He’ll be able to tell us what happened.” She laid her hand on Max’s arm. “I wish your parents had been with him. But I’m sure they’re fine.”
“How far is it to Itzamna?” said Max in a flat voice.
“Just a few hours upriver. We’ll hitch a lift most of the way.”
“Whatever.”
“Cheer up,” said Lola. “I’m sure we’ll find your parents soon. People get lost in the jungle all the time.”
“I hate the jungle.”
“It’s been a tough day. But the worst is over, I promise. We’ll have an easy boat ride tomorrow. And tonight you’ll be guest of honor at the feast.”
Max looked up. “A feast?” he said.
A small boy and a tiny boy ran over. The bigger one shyly took Max’s hand, trying to pull him to his feet. The little one peeped out from behind Lola.
“This is Och and his brother little Och,” she said.
“They have the same name?”
“It means ‘possum.’ We don’t use their real names until they’re older,” explained Lola. “We call all the children possums to trick the evil spirits of the forest who like to steal human babies. Och and little Och have come to show you around.”
Max nodded at the boys. Then he stood up and combed his hair with his fingers. Och did the same.
“You’ve got an admirer, Hoop,” whispered Lola. “Och’s copying everything you do.”
Max tried to hide his pleasure. He’d often daydreamed about having an adoring younger brother who would hang on his every word.
“Show Mister Max where to wash, and get him some clean clothes,” Lola was telling Och. “Then Chan Kan wants to speak with him.”
“What if I don’t want to speak with Chan Kan?”
“Don’t be a baby, Hoop. It’s a huge honor to receive a private audience with a Maya wise man. Movie stars would pay a fortune for it!”
“He freaks me out. It’s like he can read my mind.”
“He can,” she said. “See you at the feast.”
Dusk was falling as Max washed in the river. Dusk, otherwise known as Mosquito Happy Hour, was not a good time to be naked in the open air. Och and little Och kept guard for crocodiles, while Max swatted bugs and scrubbed away the accumulated grime of the last few days.
Since Och had given him what looked like a handful of potato shavings to use as soap, he’d been skeptical about his chances of getting clean. But as soon as he dunked his hands in the water and rubbed them together, the shavings frothed up into a sudsy lather. Quite luxurious, actually.
“This stuff works pretty good,” he called to Och. “What is it?”
“Soap root,” answered the boy. “Also good for glue and fish bait.”
“Right,” said Max dubiously. But he had to admit that his hair felt squeaky clean and, in between the insect bites, his suntanned skin was peachy soft. He seemed to have acquired some muscles in the last week. In fact, by his usual couch-potato standards, he was feeling positively hunky.
Och held out a clean T-shirt and jeans he’d borrowed from somewhere, and Max got dressed as slowly as he could, trying to put off the moment when Och would take him to Chan Kan. When he could delay no longer, he found himself standing on the porch of a large hut at the edge of the village. Och called out in Mayan and pushed open the door.
“Ko’oten!” called Chan Kan. “Come! I’ve been waiting for you, Max Murphy!”
Max went inside. The hut was dark and the air was thick with smoke and incense. At first, he couldn’t see anything. Then, at the far end of the hut, he made out a large chair, like a throne, draped in animal skins.
It was empty.
“Ko’oten waye!” came Chan Kan’s voice again. “Come here!”
Had he made himself invisible?
Max was halfway over to the empty chair when something caught his eye, low down on the other side of the room. It was Chan Kan’s hair shimmering in the candlelight.
“Kulen!” said Chan Kan, indicating a low stool like the one he himself was perched on. “Sit!”
Max sat.
For a while nothing was said.
Max looked around the room. Behind the old man was a long table covered by a thick striped cloth. Its surface, like every other surface in the hut, was laden with candles, statues, painted pots, and jars of unrecognizable dried-up things. There were no windows, and the walls were draped with animal skins. Masks, carvings, and animal skulls hung from the ceiling.
“It is time for the world to end and start again.”
In the dim light, it looked like a witch doctor’s lair.
The scent of incense was getting stronger.
The greasy wax candles flared and sizzled.
Max had the strangest sensation that this hut was no longer in Utsal, but spinning in space. If he ran out the door at this moment, he would plunge into empty blackness.
“Have you seen the yellow butterflies, Max Murphy?” asked Chan Kan.
Max nodded.
“Do you know what they are?”
Max shook his head. He hadn’t expected a nature quiz.
“I’ll tell you, Max Murphy. They are lost souls, trapped between worlds, waiting for the changing of baktuns.”
Chan Kan looked at Max expectantly.
Max tried to remember everything he knew about butterflies. “Are baktuns like cocoons?” he asked.
Chan Kan chuckled. “In the Maya calendar,” he explained, “a baktun is a period of time, like your century, but nearly four times as long.”
Max looked confused. “What’s that got to do with butterflies?”
“It has to do with every living thing. For this baktun has almost passed. It is time for the world to end and start again.”
“I see,” said Max, not sure what else to say.
“You see nothing,” said Chan Kan. “You are like a burrowing snake, confined in your own little world. It is time to take wing, Max Murphy, to soar far and wide like a hawk in the sky.”
Max wished he could take wing on a return flight to Boston.
The minutes ticked by, and the old man said nothing more.
Max began to suspect he’d fallen asleep. His grandfather in Italy did that all the time, often in midsentence. Max was just about to tiptoe out of the room when Chan Kan’s eyelids shot open.
“Let us see what is in store for you, Max Murphy.”
Chan Kan unwrapped a deerskin bundle and shook its contents in his hand like dice. Nuggets of crystal and dried corn kernels fell onto the rug.
Max had a sudden flashback to Boston: Zia kneeling on the floor with her back to him, bits of something on the carpet in front of her and the Maya figurines arranged around her. She’d said she was cleaning, but now Max wasn’t so sure. He was beginning to wonder about Zia. In fact, when he got back to Boston, he had quite a few questions for her. Like where did she get the Pyramid of Peril game? Who told her to buy his plane ticket to San Xavier? And how did she
know his parents needed him?
A groan from Chan Kan brought Max back to the smoky hut in Utsal. The old man was peering at the crystals and corn kernels and shaking his head violently. He rearranged the pieces in different combinations, all the time frowning and muttering to himself, but no matter what pattern he made, the results never pleased him. “Bahlamtuuno’ob,” he muttered crossly.
“The Jaguar Stones?” asked Max. “What about them?”
The old man spat on the ground and began to wail an incantation. His voice was high and unearthly, and it swooped and soared in the room like a trapped bird. Max could almost see it thrashing around and beating the air with exhausted wings.
Suddenly the voice was inside Max’s head, and he was the trapped bird. He was a hawk who longed for the wind and the sky and the wide-open spaces. He was looking down on himself from the smoky ceiling. He saw a boy with reddish-brown hair, small like a mouse, too scared to move.
Then the singing stopped and the hawk was gone and he was himself again.
Chan Kan poured out a cup of something, took a swig, and passed it to Max.
“Drink,” he said.
“What is it?”
“It is the sacred cup that we must share.”
With shaking hands, Max lifted the cup. It smelled innocuous, like coconut.
“Drink,” repeated Chan Kan.
Max took a sip. His head exploded. Suddenly, there were twice as many crystals and corn kernels on the rug. They danced a jig for him. He closed his eyes. He heard a voice from far away.
“You face great danger, Max Murphy.”
“Is Antonio de Landa coming for me?” he slurred.
“The legions of hell are coming for you.”
Max opened his eyes.
“Your path will be perilous and difficult,” said Chan Kan, “but it was not by chance you met Ix Sak Lol. Like the Hero Twins before you, you must work together to outwit the Lords of Death. The fate of this world hangs in the balance. For good or for evil, one way or the other, the new baktun is upon us, and destruction is all around. The omens are dread indeed.”
“But that’s your world,” protested Max. “It’s nothing to do with me.”
“There is but one world,” said Chan Kan. “And its fate is in your hands.”
“But I’m just looking for my parents, I’m not—”